So endeth my New York correspondence.
Yours truly and ever,
G.W. CURTIS.
We know little of the art of music; though our concerts
are crowded, and the names of the composers familiar.
But our reverence to the Masters in art is like the
reverence for the Bible, not a hearty one. A late
musical reviewer well says, that the admiration of
the Parisians for Beethoven is a conceit. That
calculation answers for our meridian. Slight Italian
scholars are eloquent in their admiration of Dante,
but the depths and majesty of his poem are explored
by few. The dullest may recognize the beauty
of feature, but the soul which inspires quite eludes
them. During the performance of a symphony the
audience smile and shake when the airs float out of
the orchestra, not observing that they are the breathing-places,
the relaxation of the composer. Every one who
can play can compose tunes, but to the lover of the
art they yield no greater pleasure than the rhymes
of a poem. Often the grandest passages are most
melodious, as in poems the greatest thought suggests
the happiest expression. Tune and song occupy
a distinct portion of the realm of music. They
are attaches to the royal court. Perhaps
the finest music is allied to verse, but if it be
a true marriage, the music comprehends the whole.
No artist would hear the words of one of Handel’s
or Haydn’s choral hosannas. The words are
the translation, but the scholar will not accept that.
Music is an art distinct and self-sufficient.
It represents the harmony of that interior truth which
all art seeks to reveal, and whose beauty and grace
appear in painting and sculpture. The interpreters
of that harmony are sounds, which are related to music
as colors to painting, and the fullest expression
is given to them by instrumental combination.
The human voice in respect of the art is valuable
as an instrument, and in suppleness may exceed mechanical
contrivances; wherefore one readily understands why
a mighty chorus is introduced in the finale of the
grandest symphony, that the whole effect may be duly
crowned, and the appeal to the heart be assured by
the union of human sounds. But with such an effect
words have nothing to do. The charm of the foreign
opera to us Americans is, that the full music of the
Masters is received with syllables meaning to us no
more than the fa-sol-la of the gamut. The reason
of this is very evident. If the poetry be good
it has a rhythm and cadence of its own which resembles
music, but in respect of art belongs to poetry and
not to music. Arbitrarily united with melody the
words obtrude a meaning which the music may not suggest,
though the capacity of fine music is equal to any
words. The beauty of Schubert’s songs is
their completeness. They are lyrics, and the
words are only an addition. Those who heard Rakemann
play the translated serenade will remember that the
