At Bonn young Beethoven devoted himself almost wholly to the organ.
The memories of the Rhine filled his life, which ended so sadly on the Danube. Bonn and Beethoven are as one name to the English or American tourist.
THE FATHER OF ORGAN MUSIC.
Bach, the greatest organist and composer of organ music of the last century, was born at Eisenach, 1685, and had truly a remarkable history. His art was born in him. He wrote because he must write, and sung because he must sing.
His father was a court musician, and had a twin brother who occupied the same situation, and so much resembled him that their wives could not tell them apart. These twin brothers produced music nearly alike; their dispositions were identical; when one was ill, the other was so likewise, and both died at the same time.
John Sebastian Bach was the brightest ornament of this music-loving family. His parents died in his boyhood, and his musical education was undertaken by his eldest brother, a distinguished organist. He fed on music as food.
An incident will show his spirit. He was eager to play more difficult music than his brother assigned. He noticed that his brother had a book of especially difficult pieces; and he begged to be allowed to use it, but was denied. This book was kept locked in a cupboard, which had an opening just wide enough to admit the boy's thin hand. He was able to reach it, and, by rolling it in a certain way, to bring it out and replace it without unlocking the door. He began to copy it by moonlight, as no candle was allowed him in the evening, and in six months had reproduced in this manner the whole of the music. About this time his brother died, and the friendless lad engaged himself as a choir-singer, which gave him a temporary support.
Organ-music became a passion with him. He determined, at whatever sacrifice, to make himself the master of the instrument. He might go hungry, lose the delights of society; but the first organist in Germany he would be: nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of this purpose in life. He studied all masters. He made a long journey on foot to Lubeck to hear a great German master play the organ; and when he heard him, he remained three months an unknown and secret auditor in the church.
A youth in which a single aim governs life early arrives at the harvest. Young manhood found Bach court organist in that Athens of Germany, Weimar. His fame grew until it reached the ears of Frederick the Great.
"Old Bach has come," joyfully said the King to his musicians, on learning that the great organist arrived in town.
He became blind in his last years, as did Handel. Ten days before his death his sight was suddenly restored, and he rejoiced at seeing the sunshine and the green earth again. A few hours after this strange occurrence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit. He died at the age of sixty-eight.
His organ-playing was held to be one of the marvels of Germany. He made the organ as it were a part of his own soul; it expressed his thoughts like an interpreter, and swayed other hearts with the emotions of his own. His oratorios and cantatas were numbered by the hundred, many of which were produced only on a single occasion. His most enduring work is the Passion Music.
In 1850 a Bach Society was formed in London, and a revival of the works of the master followed. Bach wrote five passions, but only one for two choirs.
To the general audience much of the Passion music, as arranged for English choral societies, seems too difficult for appreciation; but the over-choir at the beginning, the expression of suffering and darkness, and the so-called earthquake choruses, with its sudden and stupendous effects, impress even the uneducated ear.
The beauty and power of the oratorio as a work of art are felt in proportion to one's musical training; but as a sublime tone-sermon, all may feel its force, and dream that the awful tragedy it represents is passing before them.
[Illustration: A CITY OF THE RHINE.]
THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.
We came to fair Lucerne at even,-- How beauteous was the scene!
The snowy Alps like walls of heaven Rose o'er the Alps of green; The damask sky a roseate light Flashed on the Lake, and low Above Mt. Pilate's shadowy height Night bent her silver bow.
We turned towards the faded fane, How many centuries old!
And entered as the organ's strain Along the arches rolled; Such as when guardian spirits bear A soul to realms of light, And melts in the immortal air The anthem of their flight; Then followed strains so sweet, So sadly sweet and low, That they seemed like memory's music, And the chords of long ago.
A light wind seemed to rise; A deep gust followed soon, As when a dark cloud flies Across the sun, at noon.
It filled the aisles,--each drew His garments round his form; We could not feel the wind that blew, We could only hear the storm.
Then we cast a curious eye Towards the window's lights, And saw the lake serenely lie Beneath the crystal heights.
Fair rose the Alps of white Above the Alps of green, The slopes lay bright in the sun of night, And the peaks in the sun unseen.
A deep sound shook the air, As when the tempest breaks Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair Is dreaming in the lakes.
The birds shrieked on their wing; When rose a wind so drear, Its troubled spirit seemed to bring The shades of darkness near.
We looked towards the windows old, Calm was the eve of June, On the summits shone the twilight's gold, And on Pilate shone the moon.
A sharp note's lightning flash Upturned the startled face; When a mighty thunder-crash With horror filled the place!
From arch to arch the peal Was echoed loud and long; Then o'er the pathway seemed to steal Another seraph's song; And 'mid the thunder's crash And the song's enraptured flow, We still could hear, with charmed ear, The organ playing low.
[Illustration: THE RIVER OF SONG.]
As passed the thunder-peal, Came raindrops, falling near, A rain one could not feel, A rain that smote the ear.
And we turned to look again Towards the mountain wall, When a deep tone shook the fane, Like the avalanche's fall.
Loud piped the wind, fast poured the rain, The very earth seemed riven, And wildly flashed, and yet again, The smiting fires of heaven.
And cheeks that wore the light of smiles When slowly rose the gale, Like pulseless statues lined the aisles And, as forms of marble, pale.
The organ's undertones Still sounded sweet and low, And the calm of a more than mortal trust With the rhythms seemed to flow.
The Master's mirrored face Was lifted from the keys, As if more holy was the place As he touched the notes of peace.
Then the sympathetic reeds His chastened spirit caught, As the senses met the needs And the touch of human thought.
The organ whispered sweet, The organ whispered low, "Fear not, God's love is with thee, Though tempests round thee blow!"
And the soul's grand power 'twas ours to trace, And its deathless hopes discern, As we gazed that night on the living face Of the Organ of Lucerne.
Then from the church it passed, That strange and ghostly storm, And a parting beam the twilight cast Through the windows, bright and warm.
The music grew more clear, Our gladdened pulses swaying, When Alpine horns we seemed to hear On all the hillsides playing.
We left the church--how fair Stole on the eve of June!
Cool Righi in the dusky air, The low-descending moon!
No breath the lake cerulean stirred, No cloud could eye discern; The Alps were silent,--we had heard The Organ of Lucerne.
Soon passed the night,--the high peaks shone A wall of glass and fire, And Morning, from her summer zone, Illumined tower and spire; I walked beside the lake again, Along the Alpine meadows, Then sought the old melodious fane Beneath the Righi's shadows.
The organ, spanned by arches quaint, Rose silent, cold, and bare, Like the pulseless tomb of a vanished saint:-- The Master was not there!
But the soul's grand power 'twas mine to trace And its deathless hopes discern, As I gazed that morn on the still, dead face Of the Organ of Lucerne.
CHAPTER XV.
COPENHAGEN.
COPENHAGEN.--THE STORY OF ANCIENT DENMARK.--THE ROYAL FAMILY.--STORY OF A KING WHO WAS OUT INTO A BAG.
On the Denmark Night Mr. Beal gave a short introductory talk on Copenhagen, and several of the boys related stories by Hans Christian Andersen. Master Lewis gave some account of the early history of Denmark and of the present Royal Family; and Herman Reed related an odd story of one of the early kings of Denmark.
"Copenhagen, or the Merchants' Haven, the capital of the island kingdom of Denmark, rises out of the coast of Zealand, and breaks the loneliness and monotony of a long coast line. It was a beautiful vision as we approached it in the summer evening hours of the high latitude,--evening only to us, for the sun was still high above the horizon. The spire of the Church of Our Saviour--three hundred feet high--appeared to stand against the sky. Palaces seemed to lift themselves above the sea as we steamed slowly towards the great historic city of the North.
"The entrance to the harbor is narrow but deep. The harbor itself is full of ships; Copenhagen is the station of the Danish navy.
"We passed very slowly through the water streets among the ships of the harbor,--for water streets they seemed,--and after a tedious landing, were driven through the crooked streets of a strange old town to a quiet hotel where some English friends we had met on the Continent were stopping.
"The city is little larger than Providence, Rhode Island. Its public buildings are superb. It is an intellectual city, and its libraries are the finest of Europe.
[Illustration: THE PALACE OF ROSENBORG.]