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but met with no success. Luck does not seem to follow me. Later I repaired to Mrs. B's, whose daughter is my only pupil-a young lady of average capacity. Wishing to be in the fashion, she requested me to give her some German music. I brought her one of Mendelssohn's "Lieder ohne Worte." She has learned to play the notes correctly, but they have no significance to her. She is very pretty, however, has liquid dark eyes and a rich bloom. I watched her, this afternoon, as she fingered the exquisite Tone-poem. The pretty features never quivered, the eyes neither quickened nor softened. She sat in statuesque passivity, quite unconscious of the tender yearning and melancholy that throbbed in fitful pulses among the notes. Pretty doll! Nature made you very neatly-only forgot to put a soul into you. Perhaps you are none the less happy. Heigh ho! my purse is getting sadly thin, but I shall not ask Mrs. B- to advance my pay. I ate my scanty meal with relish this evening, for the keen air had sharpened my appetite, and my body is still so young and strong. My evenings are certainly solitary, but it is then that I have my happiest hours-then that my tone-wings raise themselves from the clogging mire, and soar and bear me to blessed regions where I hear primeval warblings and catch the perfumes of heavenly gardens. To-night I was bitter, almost despairing. Was it unnatural that my mood should have dissolved into the prelude No. 4 of Chopin? I repeated it again and again with a lingering, torturing satisfaction, and in that smothered cry for hope and help I plead for love, for free air, for sunshine, for some way out of this hateful imprisonment. No human being was ever more entirely a victim to dyspepsia than Chopin-a dyspepsia that disordered soul and stomach, and

had its whine somewhere in nearly all his creations. In a number of noble instances he left the narrow circle of the meum, and, fired by a great idea or a fine enthusiasm-forgot his own personality; but these are the exceptions. Exquisitely keen to joy and pain, and hungry for happiness, with all an artist's passion, he revelled in the outpouring of his glowing, quivering sensibilities through Tone, whose dictionary his marvellous genius commanded and enlarged at will. The egotism of a selfcentred, morbid being was never before hidden under such bewildering modulations; the complaints of a sick brain and body never before clothed themselves in so seductive a garb; the pas sion of personal joys, pangs, and longings was never before told in so eloquent and fascinating a language. But, though his music flatters, bewilders, intoxicates, there are in it no outlets into celestial space. This evening I enjoyed it with a peculiar keenness-made many a morbid, melancholy romance of which I was myself of course, the hero, and rose from the piano a more bitter and selfish man. Awaking suddenly from the absorbing dream, the close walls stifled me, and I went to the window for air. The city below looked cold and spectral; its inhabitants were stupid grubs, and I, fancying myself one of the great élite, looked down from my garret-window upon their fine dwellings and despised them. Misérable homme incompris ! What cares the busy world, with mighty questions on its big brain, for thy private gnarlings? But I am weary, and must seek rest. I will be true to my best self through every counter wind and tide. Knowing that my art is divine, and meant to serve the highest purposes of the soul, I shall not sacrifice my artistic conscience to a threadbare coat, but will guard my ideal as the sacred host in the purest tabernacle of my inmost soul. Ah! beloved mother, far in the fatherland, fold thine arms again about thy boy, and soothe him to rest. Thou shalt never know of the scanty meal and desolate hours. I forget them all now,

Mütterchen; thy soft touch lingers tenderly on my brow; thy loving eyes bend over me! I am not ashamed of these tears before thee, mother. God bless thee! God bless thee, and keep thy son as worthy of thee as in the pure, blessed days gone by.

October 29th.-A note came to me from Dr. A to-day, enclosing the address of a friend of his, a Mrs. Irving, who is looking for a music-teacher for her niece. The Doctor said a good word for me, and the lady expressed a desire to see me. Towards evening I repaired to her residence. When I entered the parlor, the gas was not yet lit, and the atmosphere of the room was subdued and mystical. I slid abstractedly into the nearest seat, for I was surprised and awed by the opening strains of a song of Robert Franz-a song little known, and knowable only to the few. It begins with the following stanza, the words of which were enunciated with a wonderfully pure accent:

"Nun die Schatten dunkeln,

Stern an Stern erwacht,
Welch' ein Hauch der Sehnsucht
Flutet durch die Nacht!"

The song tells the story of the twilight hour. We wander out into Nature, and at the first step stop in awe, for we find ourselves on the threshold of a land so mysterious and holy that we feel we need baptism before we pass the sacred portal. The first vivid glow of the sunset has gone; we pass into a realm of delicate, intangible beauty, where every atom of atmosphere floats on ethereal, golden wings. The opalesque sky bends tenderly towards the yearning earth; the purple shadows descend softly in the dreamy air, and mystical depths of lustre melt away in the violet light. The first notes of this matchless song breathe the very awe we feel as we enter the mysterious sunset realm, and at last, through ever-quickening modulations, the impassioned soul soars and floats away beyond the veil! And here is the peculiar province of the German "Lied." Its best mission is to translate into Tone, not so much a nameable sentiment, or emotion, as the vague, inquir

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ing bliss, or melancholy, of a mood. It demands not so much a framework, as an atmosphere-outline, as color. one of the prophetic messengers that Beauty has at her will, and expresses not so much what is said as suggested, possessed as perceived. I had heard this song before, given with a mere sensuous enthusiasm (how often mistaken for an intelligent conception!) that a pleasing melody produces on a discriminating ear; but now for the first time I listened to it from the lips of a poetess, who entered into the very spirit of its inspiration. And that delicious voice! The tone was aromatic, and held its peculiar quality as purely as a flower its perfume, —a quality rich, searching, and lazy,-the luscious indolence of tropical skies, hammocks, and pomegranates, in whose dream and languor slumber fire and color. As I listened, my sympathy with the song and singer became so intimate, that I moved unconsciously nearer; but the last strain was hardly finished, when the hands fell in broken, startled chords upon the keys (had I spoken ?), and the figure vanished through the open door beyond. I had hardly regained my seat, when the ser vant entered and lit the gas. Every thing in the room took now a positive outline, and that moment of free joy seemed already like a dream. Before I left the house, satisfactory arrangements were made, and to-morrow I give the first lesson. I discovered, too, that my future pupil and the poet-songstress are identical. A pleasant prospect is in view for me. Once in the street and alone, imagination filled her framework with many a pleasing picture. I saw a delicious landscape to-day, and longed to buy it. It would have been like hanging perpetual summer on my walls; but, alas! one must have banknotes to exchange for summer. Ah, poverty is a wretched companion! A philosopher can endure it, perhaps, and moralize over it; but to the luxuriant nature of the artist it is sickening. It lays an icy finger on his warm, free pulses-stands ugly and gaunt at every door of his soul, and with sour visage

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?

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October 30th.-The lesson is over. It 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 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 belongs to a vital and refined organization; it has, too, the natural wave which denotes obstinacy and warmth.

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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. 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

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 going 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 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 inspiration 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 Quatorze. 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

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, if 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 hernot 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."

"Certainly not," I replied. "In the 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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