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scgngs.
Tfy Judge Augustus 'Baldlvin Longstreet.
THE SONG.
It is not to avoid the malediction of
Shakespeare upon such “as have
not music in themselves, and
are not charmed with the
concord of sweet sounds,” that
I profess to be fond of music; but
because I am, in truth, extravagantly
fond of it. But I am not fond of
French music; and as for the Italian,
I think that any one who will dare
to inflict it upon an American ear,
ought to be sent to the penitentiary
without a trial. It is true that some
of the simple, national French airs are
very fine; but there is not one in a
thousand Italian tunes, simple or com-
The German compositions are decid
edly the best from the continent of
pound, which is not manslaughter.
Europe; but even these are, of late,
partaking so much of the vices of
France and Italy, that they have be
come scarcely sufferable. As yet,
however, they may be safely admitted
into a land of liberty and sense.
Scotland has escaped the corrup
tions which have crept into the empire
of music, and, consequently, her mu
sic recommends itself, with irresist
ible charms, to every ear which is not
vitiated by the senseless rattle of the
continent. Ireland is a little more
contaminated; but still her composi
tions retain enough of their primitive
simplicity and sweetness to entitle them
to the patronage of all who would culti
vate a correct taste in this interest
ing department of fine arts. I would
not be understood as speaking here
without any limitations or restric
tions; but I do maintain that, with
some few r exceptions, all of the soul
of music which is now left in the world
is to be found in Scotland or Ireland.
But Germans, Frenchmen, and Ital
ians are decidedly the best, that is, the
most expert, performers in the world.
They perform all over the world, and,
In order to exhibit themselves to the
best advantage, they select the most
difficult and complicated pieces. The
people at large presume that the best
performers must be the best judges
of music, and must take the best se
lections; they therefore forego the
trouble of forming an opinion of their
own, and pin their faith upon the de
cisions, or, rather, the practice of the
amateurs. It was somehow in this
way, I presume, that the fashionable
music of the day first obtained cur
rency. Having become prevalent, it
has become tolerable; just as has
the use of tobacco or ardent spirits.
And. while upon this bead. 1 would
earnestly recommend to the friends
of reform in our favored country to es
tablish an “Anti-mad-music Society,”
in order to suppress, if possible, the
cruelties of our modern musical en
tertainments.
If the instrumental music of France
and Italy be bad, their vocal music
is, if possible, a thousand times worse.
Neither the English nor the Georgia
language furnishes me with a term ex
pressive of the horrors of a French
or Italian song, as it is agonized forth
by one of their professed singers. The
law should make it justifiable homi
cide in any man to kill an Italian in
the very act of inflicting an il pensero
so upon a refined American ear.
And yet, with all the other Euro
pean abominations which have crept
into our highly-favored country, the
French and Italian style of singing
and playing has made its way hither;
and it is not uncommon to hear our
boarding-school misses piping away,
not merely in the style, but in the very
language of these nations. This I
can bear very well if there happen to
be a Frenchman or an Italian present,
THE WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN
because I know that he.suffers more
from the words than I do from the
music; for I confess that upon such
occasions I feel something of the sav
age malignity which visits the sins
of a nation upon any of its citizens.
But it most frequently happens that
I am put to the fortunes of which
I have been speaking without this miti
gation. It was thus with me a few
evenings ago, at Mrs. B —’s party.
Tea had been disposed of, and the
nonsensical chitchat of such occasions
had begun to flag, when I invited Miss
Mary Williams to the piano. She rose
promptly at my request, without any
affected airs, and with no other apol
ogy than that “she felt some diffidence
at playing in the presence of Miss
Crump.” The piano was an admirable
one, and its tones were exquisitely
fine. Mary seated herself at it, and,
after a short but beautiful prelude,
she commenced one of Burns’ plaint
ive songs, to a tune w’hich was new to
me, but which was obviously from
the poet’s own land, and by one who
felt the inspiration of his verse. The
honored by the performer. Mary’s
voice was inimitably fine. Her enun
composer and the poet were both
ciation was clear and distinct, with
just emphasis enough to give the verse
its appropriate expression, without in
terrupting the melody of the music;
and her modulations were perfect.
She had closed, and was in the act
of rising, before I awoke from the
delightful revery into which she had
lulled me. I arrested, her however, and
insisted upon her proceding; when she
gave me one of Allan Ramsay’s best,
to measure equally appropriate. This
she followed with Tannahill’s “Gloomy
Winter’s Now Awa,” and was again
retiring, when my friend Hall observ
ed, “See, Miss Mary, you’ve brought
a tear to Mr. Baldwin’s eye, and you
must not cease until you chase it away
with some lively air.” My friend was
right. The touching pathos of Mary’s
voice, conspiring with a train of re
flections which the song inspired, had
really brought me to tears. I thought
of poor Tannahill’s fate. He was the
victim of a bookseller’s stupidity.
With men of taste and letters, his fu
gitive pieces, particularly his lyrics,
had gained him a well-deserved reputa
tion; but he was not exempt from
the common lot of authors. He was
attacked by the ignorant and the invid
ious; and, with the hopeless design of
silencing these, he prepared a volume
or more of his poems with great care,
and sent them to a bookseller for pub
lication. After the lapse of several
weeks, they were returned without a
compliment or an order for them. The
mortification and disappointment were
too severe for his reason. It deserted
him, and soon after he was found dead
in a tunnel of the burn which had been
the scene of one of his earliest songs.
Unfortunately, in his madness he de
stroyed his favorite works.
Such was the train of reflection
from which Mary was kind enough, at
the request of my friend, to relieve
me by a lively Irish air.. Had it not
been admirably selected, I could hardly
have borne the transition. But there
was enough of softening melody, min
gled with the sprightliness of the air,
to lead me gently to a gayer mood, in
which she left me.
Tn the meantime, most of the young
ladies and gentlemen had formed a
circle round Miss Aurelia Emma The
odosia Augusta Crump, and were ear
nestly engaged in pressing her to play.
One young lady even went so far as to
drop on her knees before her, and in
this posture to beseech “her dear Au
gusta just to play the delightful over-
ture of ,” something that sounded
to me like “Blaze in the frets.” This
petition was urged with such a melting
sweetness of voice, such a bewitching
leer at the gentlemen, and such a the
atric heave of the bosom, that it
threw the young gentlemen into
transports. Hall was rude enough to
whisper in mine ear, “That he thought
it indelicate to expose an unmantled
bosom to a perpendicular view of a
large company;” and he muttered
something about “republican simpic
ity,” I knew'not exactly what. But I
assured him the fair petitioner was so
overcome by her solicitude for the
overture, that "she thought of nothing
else, and was wholly unconscious that
there was a gentleman in the room.
As to his insinuation about “points of
view,” I convinced him by an easy
argument that it was wholly unfound
ed; for that this was the very point
of view in which an exposed neck
must always be seen, while men con
tinue taller than women; and that, as
the young lady must have been ap
prized of this, she would hardly take
so much trouble for nothing. But to
return.
Miss Crump was inexorable. She
declared that she was entirely out of
practice. “She scarcely ever touched
the piano;” mamma was always scold
ing her for giving so much of her
time to French and Italian, and neg
lecting her music and painting; hut
she told mamma the other day that it
really was so irksome to her quit Ra
cine and Dante, and go to thrumming
upon the piano, that, but for the obli
gations of filial obedience, she did not
think she should ever touch it again.”
Here Mrs. Crump was kind enough,
by the merest accident in the world,
to interpose, and to relieve the com
pany from further anxiety.
“Augusta, my dear,” said she, “go
and play a tune or two; the company
will excuse your hoarseness.”
Miss Crump rose immediately at
her mother’s bidding, and moved to
the piano, accompanied by a large
group of smiling faces.
“Poor child,” said Mrs. Crump, as
she went forward, “she is frightened
to death. 1 wish Augusta could over
come her diffidence.”
Miss Crump was educated at Phila
delphia; she had been taught to sing
by Madam Piggisqueaki, who was a
pupil of Ma’m’selle Crolcifroggietta,
who had sung with Madam Catalan!;
and she had taken lessons on the
piano from Signor Buzzifussi, who had
played with Paganini.
She seated herself at the piano,
rocked to the right, then to the left,
leaned forward, then backward, and
began. She placed her right hand
about midway the keys, and her left
about two octaves below it. She now
put off to the right in a brisk canter
up to the treble notes, and the left
after it. The left then led the way
back, and the right pursued it in like
manner. The right turned, and re
peated its first movement; but the
left outran it this time, hopped over
it, and flung it entirely off the track.
It came in again, however, behind the
left on its return, and passed it in
the same style. They now became
highly incensed at each other, and
met furiously on the middle ground.
Here a most awful conflict ensued
for about the space of ten seconds,
when the right whipped off all of a
sudden, as I thought, fairly vanquish
ed. But I was in the error against
which Jack Randolph cautions us:
“It had only fallen back to a stronger
position.” It mounted upon two black
keys, and commenced the note of a
rattlesnake. This had a wonderful ef
fect upon the left, and placed the doc
trine of “snake charming” beyond dis
pute. The left rushed furiously to
wards it repeatedly, but seemed in
variably panic-struck when it came
within six keys of It, and as invaria
bly retired with a tremendous roaring
down the bass keys. It continued its
assaults, sometimes by the way of the
naturals, sometimes by the way of
the sharps, and sometimes by a zigzag
through both; but all its attempts to
dislodge the right from its stronghold
proving ineffectual, it came close up
to its adversary and expired.
Any one, or rather no one, can
imagine what kind of noises the piano
gave forth during the conflict. Cer
tain it is, no one can describe them,
and, therefore, I shall not attempt it.
The battle ended, Miss Augusta
moved as though she would have
arisen, but this was protested against
by a number of voices at once: “One
song, my dear Aurelia,” said Miss
Small; “you must sing that sweet lit
tle French air you used to sing in
Philadelphia, and which Madam Piggi
squeaki was so fond of.”
Miss Augusta looked pitifully at her
mamma, and her mamma looked
“sing” at Miss Augusta; accordingly,
she squared herself for a song.
She brought her hands to the cam
pus this time in fine style, and they
seemed now to be perfectly reconciled
to each other. They commenced a
kind of colloquy; the right whisper
ing treble very softly, and the left re
sponding bass very loudly. The con
ference had been kept up until I be
gan to desire a change of the subject,
when my ear caught, indistinctly,
some very curious sounds, which ap
peared to proceed from the lips of
Miss Augusta; they seemed to be
compounded of a dry cough, a grunt,
a hiccough, and a whisper; and they
were introduced, it appeared to me,
as interpreters between the right and
left. Things progressed in this way
for about the space of fifteen seconds,
when I happened to direct my atten
tion to Mr. Jenkins, from Philadelphia.
His eyes were closed, his head rolled
gracefully from side to side; a beam
of heavenly complacency rested upon
his countenance, and his whole man
gave irresistible demonstration that
Miss Crump’s music made "him feel
good all over. I had just turned from
the contemplation of Mr. Jenkins’
transports, to see whether I could ex
tract from the performance anything
intelligible, when Miss Crump made a
fly-catching grab at half a dozen keys
in a row, and at the same instant she
fetched a long, dunghill-cock crow, at
the conclusion of which she grabbed
as many keys with the left. This came
over Jenkins like a warm bath, and
over me like a rake of bamboo briers.
My nerves had not recovered from
this shock before 'Miss Augusta re
peated the movement, and accompa
nied it with a squall of a pinched cat.
This threw me into an ague fit; but,
from respect to the performer, I main
tained my position. She now made a
third grasp with the right, boxed the
faces of six keys in a row with the
left, and at the same time raised one
of the most unearthly howls that ever
issued from the throat of a human
being. This seemed the signal for
universal uproar and destruction. She
now threw away ’all reserve, and
charged the piano with her whole
force. She boxed it, she clawed it,
she raked it, she scraped it. Her neck
vein swelled, her chin flew up, her
face flushed, her eye blared, her bosom
heaved; she screamed, she howled,
she yelled, cackled, and was in the
act of dwelling upon the note of a
screech owl, when I took the St. Vitus
dance and rushed out of the room.
“Good Lord,” said a by-stander, “if
this be her singing, what must her
crying be!” As I reached the door, I
heard a voice exchaim, “By heavens!
she’s the most enchanting performer
I ever heard in my life!” I turned to
see who was the author of thia ill
timed compliment, and who should It
be but Nick Truck, from Lincoln, who