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and relentless gripe scares back the messenger he would send forth. But there is compensation for all things. Beethoven, disappointed, poor, and unrecognized, wrote "Es ist so schön das Leben tausend mal zu leben." Aye, it is indeed beautiful to live a thousandfold life. Blessed is he who is gifted with a palate capable of appreciating all the rich and delicate essences of existence. Many a fellow-creature, the pet of fortune, might envy me the fine pleasure of those five minutes this afternoon in the parlor in G square. Born to music, and initiated by that birth into the sacred mysteries of her high altar, the gates of Paradise are open to me, and beyond, I taste the joys of disembodied spirits while yet in finite chains. The celestial vision comes to most of us in some form, perhaps, but only to those initiated by birth is the blessed privilege through music vouchsafed. That voice brings a nectar memory. When shall I hear it again?


The features are irregular, but the smile transfigures them with a living light which vanishes before you can seize it. The impression I received through the physique of the soul was that of color. Force and richness of nature seemed to me to speak from the brow and eye and in the smile and voice. The young lady is certainly not pretty, however, but possibly beautiful at times. I brought her, to-day, a nocturne of Chopin as a good text to the delicacy of her ear and sentiment. She read it slowly at first, for her eyes are unpractised, but she seized the melody and modulation with a surprising quickness. The execution was often deficient, but in spite of the imperfect mechanism, she conveyed something of the fire and longing that breathed from the notes, and gave the delicate touches, where the soul in its impassioned confession bases its tenderest pulses, with a rare sensibility. I recognized her, in all this, to be a true musik-kind; but her musical education has been loose and insufficient. It will require hard study to perfect, but I feel a certain keen pleasure in the anticipation of moulding such rare material. How the nocturne delighted her. Never having heard it before, she felt in it all the excitement of a fresh revelation." It is said that no piece can be appreciated upon first hearing. True in one sense. There is in all true greatness a noble reserve which yields only to the clearer vision of the reverent seeker; but the born musician holds in his own peculiar organization the responsive pulses of all harmony, and through his fine sense flashes instantaneous recognition, though the fuller appreciation of the detail comes with subsequent study. In the course of the lesson, this afternoon, I asked my young pupil if she really cared for music. She gave me a quick, searching glance, then said quite simply, "I love it above all else. You will not misunderstand me, and think me affected." "Do others think so?" I asked. "Why do you ask me?" she replied; "you must know that music is at best but a worldly ambition, or a

October 30th.-The lesson is over. is an event to record, and events are rare things with me. I have always ridiculed journal-keeping as a merely sentimental pastime, and now, behold! forced by my promise to L-, I have begun the practice myself. Is it profitable though, this constant self-analysis on paper this maintaining in daily numbers, forever "to be continued," a chronic history, of which one's self is the perpetual hero, the pivot on which life itself turns? It is very possible that the occupation is a selfish one, but Heaven knows few such are granted me. To begin with my "event," the lesson in G square. Firstly, I have seen the poet-songstress face to face, and shall proceed to give a descriptive outline of her, to which I may refer hereafter to quicken memory. The head is massive, but noble in form. The hair is gathered loosely back from the brow (not hauled and tortured by Fashion's hand), and has that combination of rich color and fineness of texture which belangs to a vital and refined organization; it has, too, the natural wave which denotes obstinacy and warmth.

pleasing entertainment in the ice-cream line, to most people. I have never before met any one, to whom I could express my real feeling about it." I had suffered myself in the unsatisfied need of musical sympathy, and knew how to answer her. "It is true," I said; "there is no reverence for music nowadays; but guard your own worship sacredly. You may yet become a priestess, perhaps, if you only keep pure your faith." Her face kindled, and her eyes filled with tears. Ah, what a revelation those tears brought! I comprehended it, and was deeply touched. Well, these lessons are goi g to be a true enjoyment to me. I find in my new pupil a satisfaction seldom vouchsafed to me-that of a positive musical affinity. But she will find me an exacting teacher. I shall put her through many a tedious exercise, till the mechanical is no longer a hinderance, as at present, but a medium. I wish I knew something more of her history. She does not suit the gaudy house and her fashionable worldly relatives. There is a fresh fragrance about her as of new-mown hay and clover. I wanted to hear her sing again, but hesitated to ask her. I shall gain courage some day, however, for hear her I must.

January 6th.—I moved, to-day, into a pleasanter quarter of the city. Through the kind recommendations of Dr. A

and the Irvings, I am constantly gaining pupils, and find myself in a most hopeful frame of mind. Truly the mission of a music-teacher may be a noble one. If he is faithful to his trust, he holds an important service in the work of a higher civilization. But here, in America, music is a business held in no very high repute. "He is only a poor Dutch musician," is a phrase which throws us beyond the pale of society into ignominy. Society is not entirely to blame, however, that she is shy of accepting musical artists as companions to the young people of either sex. When the artist forgets the noble laws of the higher life, and descends into the poisonous atmosphere of the lower arena, he deserves to be an outcast. It

sickens me to see men gifted with noble powers, who might be the pure apostles of a divine art, corrupting themselves with low habits, getting down on their knees to crawl through the loop-holes of humbug to success, and sacrificing their artistic conscience to gain a hasty popularity. Out with them! They may win applause to tickle their vanity, and gold to fill their pockets; but they are no true artists, because no true men. Not until the artist's only narcotic be the divine intoxication of the ever-living waters, will there be the purest inEpiration and the grandest work. For Art must serve the Infinite. Only through those laws which gravitate to the Divine shall her servant be worthy to interpret her higher meaning. In the past, Art, to succeed, must be the slave of Royalty; and Apollo was represented en perruque, à la Louis Qua


The artist of the nineteenth century would make her serve his own private monarchy, but her contempt of his trick shames and confuses him. Not until he go for magnetism, not needles, will she flash her prophetic messages through from pole to pole. For Beauty has no respect for private telegraphwires. She will only serve the highest spiritual liberty. But all talk about art is mere prattle, and we are but at the crowing of the cock in any real knowledge. My favorite pupil, Miss Estelle Irving, is making fair progress. The two hours of the week spent with her are a pleasure, not a labor, and make me forget the drudgery of the other days. The lesson, however, is by no means all smoothness; it opens generally with many a dry exercise. "How I hate them!" the young lady exclaims, and tries to hurry them on; but I permit her no such indulgence, and, turning back to the first page, require a careful repetition. Sometimes she bears the ordeal with heroic patience; again, she looks like a naughty child that deserves the dark closet. This afternoon she was in a sensitively musical mood, and fluttered restively under the mechanism of the noble art. For her inattention I inflicted the punishment of a few satiri

cal remarks delivered in my most chilling tone. I watch the effect with infinite amusement. With her sensitive, warm organization, the quickened pulse throbs to the surface, and she has not, like me, the phlegm to hide its quiver. So I have the advantage of her. If I reprove her kindly, she softens, puts on the sheepskin, and promises with a child's impulsiveness to do better. If I am cold and critical, the nostril quivers proudly, and the lips assume a pretty moquerie. Sometimes she throws a direct glance at me, that says, "Do you think I'm afraid of you?" again she turns my words to her own advantage. As often she says nothing, but the attitude and expression affirm that, though somewhat excited, she is fearless. I like her in her little bristling moods, and, if I had the right, would treat her as a naughty child should be treated-would take her in my arms, tease her, laugh at her, and possibly mingle kisses with the taunts. But having no such pleasant right, I try to make my professorial dignity as impressive and becoming as possible. The cloud is dispelled, however, when the music begins. Ah, what a subtle language music is a freemasonry in itself. Its sacred secrets are forever concealed from the uninitiated, but its children under all skies recognize its sign, and through the unmistakable revelation claim each other.

June 28th.-Since my last date, Miss Irving has dismissed her Italian singingteacher, and taken me in his stead-a change which I certainly approve of. This afternoon I brought her that exquisite tone-wreath, Schumann's Opus No. 48. I was completely charmed with her interpretation. She forms, with the quick insight of a poet, a distinct conception of the peculiar significance of each individual song, and embodies that meaning into a living and eloquent message. It is a dangerous business, however, this. duett performance. We cannot enjoy what is dearest to us with another in so subtle a sympathy, and not be stirred to the quick. When playing her accompaniments, I

come into the most intimate musical communion with her, and the fire that flows through my veins out to my finger-tips sends a kindred glow into her eyes and tones. In certain excited moments I feel that a man might gladly die, and give up, iť necessary, the promised white robe and harp of Paradise, to gain the love of a woman with such a soul. She is so beautiful, too, when she sings. Her dark gray eye burns or softens with the passing emotion, and the whole face glows with the pure light of passion.

"Ah! to hear or see her singing,

Scarce I know which is divinest."

I could have fallen on my knees and wept tears of sweet delight, but it would have been homage, not to her— not to her-but to the holy Muse that speaks through her. "Oh, what a pleasure it is to sing to your accompaniments!" she exclaimed this afternoon; "and how enchanting these songs are! The idea of translating them! The words and music of a people should never be separated."


"In the

"Certainly not," I replied. true German Lieder,' the poetry and music are a unique inspiration. Heine used to go to Franz with his fresh poem, and exclaim, 'Ah, Robert, here is a child of mine that must be married.' And Franz comprehended the soul of the child, and, touched and enkindled, married her to Tone. Often the very inspiration of the music is born of the poetic glow that burns in the poem. The light and shade, the flash, the tint, are modulated to the words; the very temperature is the same. Franz's songs are neither descriptive nor dramatic. They are mostly moods, enwrapped in themselves. When listening to his music, you float away with a dreamy, swaying tide, where no positive outline is visible, no destined haven in sight. On and on you are borne through an atmosphere whose color and perfume permeate your very being, filling you with a vague hope and misgiving which is half delight, half pain." "And that divided pain and pleasure

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you Germans call Wehmuth do you not?" she asked; but before I could reply, she said, with a sudden way peculiar to her, "Do you like ballads?" "Certainly," I replied; "they are the domestic tone-poetry of a nation. Indeed, I like good music wherever I find it. The history of a people's life-experiences is written in its music." "It is so refreshing," she exclaimed, "to find a musician who is not bigoted in his art. Most of them affect an exclusiveness which is as narrow as the sectarianism of the churches. And yet it seems to me that the artist, above all others, should have the power to perceive Beauty where the duller sense finds only a fog of commonplaces.” "Yes," I answered, "the true artist should be a true democrat. But it is getting late," I added, looking at my watch. I turned from the eager face, and the following moment found me on the pavement. Here, at last, is a true woman in the larger sense. We men tire of the eternal sweet woman who smiles forever at our elbow. We want in woman a touch of grandeur and fire to rouse, mingled with the tender that softens. The maiden of G- square has a rare scope of nature. With the brain to grasp great ideas, she unites the glow of genius and a fine delicacy of intuition. She possesses, too, that rarest of charms among the modern editions of young ladyhood-perfect health. Ye gods! what a privilege is the acquaintanceship of a woman who is never afflicted with indigestion! To come in contact with a clean soul acting through a clean body. Migraine, with its inevitable languors; the constant weariness which assumes constantly reclining attitudes; the capability of fainting at any required moment, are qualifications apparently quite unknown to this nineteenth-century Hebe. Why do the artistic heroes and heroines of to-day claim morbidity as the prerogative of genius? Why are the disciples of the arts, who have continual gastric complaint, considered more gifted and poetical than those who are so unfortunate as to have sound stomachs ? A vital question,

this. Dear Journal! I see that my favor ite pupil is the almost constant topic of these pages. I return from her luxurious home to my naked room, and make a minute record of the hour spent in her presence, to gain a double experience of it. I admire her; yes, there is no denying it. She appeals to my tastes and gratifies my artistic instincts. She has, too, a fine breadth and independence, which stimulates like the keen breath of mountain-air. She has grown up like a wild plant, with no wise hand to prune and direct; but the plant has a rich juice in its veins, and bears no puny blossom. The man who takes this woman to his heart must be vastly strong, patient, and tender. She will inspire, enlarge, and refine him, and give him divine emotions. She will also sting, torment, and contradict him. He may be charmed with the friskiness of the wild merlin, but he will find her hard of management. The task would give full play to his powers. An attractive, challenging task! It makes the blood flow swifter to dwell on it. Heavens! am I mad? Come with me, my Journal, to the mirror. What do you see there? Is that grave, colorless, commonplace face likely to charm an artistic maiden? Now turn from the contemplation of the person, to the surroundings of this lord of creation. And this is the home he would offer the Peri of his choice! Now, if I were fortunate and well favored but I am a fool, even in thought to couple our destinies. It is well that an inexorable Fate divides us. She stands over my shoulder now as I write, a smile of ineffable scorn on her grim visage.

February 24th.-To-day I brought Miss Estelle some of Bach's music. She was quite unacquainted with it. I placed before her the "Alemande" of Suite No. 2 in C minor, worthy to be the ancestress of all pure sonatas. She caught its spirit with her usual insight, and accented the rhythm, which in Bach marks the ebb and flow of emo tion, with a marvellous nicety. Intui tion taught her what study reveals to

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I owe the honor of this attention to the recent discovery made by this worldly lady, viz., that our family-name bore originally the prefix of a "Von?"

March 2d.-The soirée is over, and was considered a success, I believe. There were various musical performances, many of which were unmeaning, but all were followed by lively plaudits, and ecstatic murmurs of "How sweet!" "How delightful!" Vocalists and instrumentalists proceeded to their performance with an air that evinced they considered they were gracing music, and not vice versa-a troupe of modern Jack Horners, each with his especial plum, and each in his own especial style heralding forth his own dimensions. The hero of the evening was a young American who has lately discovered himself a genius. When called upon to perform, he took his seat at the piano with an air worthy of Gottschalk, and sent beaming smiles into his audience in the lingering process of divesting his hands of their kid coverings. Of course, he first attacked the instrument in a series of dashing original (?) chords-(why must we always have this preliminary splurge?)-and then proceeded to his piece. He played his own compositions in preference to those of his brother masters; and his choice seemed to gain him an almost reverent admiration. He has faculty, but lacks that surest sign of real worth, modesty. He will be popular, however, for he will descend to Humbug, and I will live by, not for, Art. I watched him as the specimen of a type, and lost myself in thoughts of the departed great ones, who went about among men unknown, unsought, bearing in their souls the consciousness of a holy power, but humbly acknowledging themselves VOL. II.--5

only the imperfect instruments of the Divine purpose. Among the instrumental performances was Beethoven's duett in F for violin and piano. The performers executed it neatly, but its inner meaning was Chaldaic to them. My God! when will revelation come? When will men and women be pure and great enough to interpret the glorious gospel of this divine tone-prophet? His works are becoming fashionable now; but how seldom we hear a virtuoso who reproduces his music in its real simplicity and grandeur, without paralyzing its nerve, without extinguishing the celestial fire that burned in the Titan-master's soul. The prima donna of the evening was a young lady with a clear, powerful voice, who certainly deserved credit for the dexterity of her roulades and the purity of her trills. This tight-rope dancing of an agile larynx gains for the performer a decided popularity; but does the heart beat quicker at the perfect mechanism? A brilliant execution is certainly a most admirable thing, but one would be willing to forego it somewhat for a little more poetry and originality of conception. Most singers learn their song by rote, commit to memory the spots where they must scream, gasp, sigh, or smile, and the thick-skinned public accepts the sham sensibility for a reality. And yet, how wretched the semblance. We do not realize it till some genuine touch of Nature rouses the real heart of humanity. Thank God, the modern Prometheus, though somewhat tamed by civilization, is not yet in chains. Miss Estelle sang an Italian aria this evening; for she knew that a simple song of Franz or Schumann was too pure and significant for the comprehension of a stylish American audience. How charmingly she looked. She was dressed in a simple white muslin, her only ornament a damask rose gleaming in her hair; but the glow of its tint was not warmer than the light in her eye, or brighter than her smile. Yes, she is beautiful-with a beauty that torments while it fascinates; for you can neither scize nor explain it. My

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