The Mask of the Red Death - Graham's Magazine, May 1842 — reading text

of harmony to the silent beauties of nature. tered, and bares her bosom to the force of thought, The pealing organ with its various tones, breathes and stands revealed to the world, yea, even to her out religious strains, and moves the heart to penitence innermost core, by the power of language. To aid and prayer. This instrument is suited above all him in the task, the poet hath a million adjuncts. He others, to display the imagination of a master hand, moves amidst the human world, and gathers from its from the vast extent of its compass, and the almost denizens, unending food for thought and observation. endless variety of its powers by combinations. It —their joys and their sorrows; their pursuits and affects the imagination more than any individual their ends; their passions and their vices, their vit- instrument, or any combination of instruments. How tues and their charities. The life of a single being deep and varied the emotions of the heart of him, in that living mass, would form a subject of varied whose ‘‘ spirit is attentive,’ while listening to one and startling interest, and leave but little for the im- of the sublime masses of Mozart, Haydn or Beetho- agination to fill up, or to heighten. He looks up into ven. With what a thrilling and awful feeling, the the heavens, and finds a space of boundless immen- dark, mysterious and wailing miserere falls upon the sity, in which his restless speculation may run riot. soul; and with what a happy contrast, does. the He looks abroad upon the face of nature, and there beautiful and comforting benedictus, pour “ oil upon are endless stores of bright and beautiful things, to the bruised spirit.” feed his fancy, to stimulate his imagination and re- The shrill fife, the hollow drum and the clangour- fresh his thoughts. ous trumpet, speak to other and wilder passions of How few of these fruitful themes, are available to our hearts. They breathe an inspiration into the the musician ! 286 GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. The painter in all his beautiful creations, pourtrays total want of public appreciation, he became morose, his subjects by the means of the actual. From the distrustful and dissatisfied. These feelings were living loveliness which he daily sees, he hoards up rendered morbid in the highest degree, by the rich stores of beauty, for some happy thought. But melancholy affliction that assailed him in his later to aid him in his labors, he has the actual, form and years. He became nearly deaf, and was conse- color, light and shade. The forms of beauty that quently deprived of the dearest enjoyment of a glow and breathe upon the canvass ; the quiet land- musician’s life. These feelings were developed, ina scape, so full of harmony and peacefulness ; the roll- marked degree, in all his purely ideal compositions. ing ocean, the strife of the elements, the wild com- Dark and mysterious strains of harmony would be mingling of warring men, are but the transcripts of succeeded by a burst of wild and melancholy fancy. the actual things. Anon a tender, but broad and flowing melody, would The seulptor as he hews from the rough block, melt the soul by its passionate pathos, but only of some form of exquisite loveliness, whose charms sufficient duration to render the cadence of heart- shall throw a spell over men’s souls for ages, does rending despair, which succeeds it, the more striking. but compress into one fair creation, the beauties of a Rapid and abrupt modulations, strange and startling thousand livings models. combinations, bore evidence of his wild imagination, But the resources of the musician are in his own and the uncontrolable impulse of his feelings. The soul. From that alone can he forge the chain of opera of Fidelio, the only dramatic work that he melody, that shall bind the senses in a wordless ec- ever wrote, ranks only second to Don Giovanni. In stasy. Tangibilities to him are useless. Comparisons Fidelio each person has a distinct musical character, are of no avail. He individualises, but does not re- so clearly and forcibly marked, that the aid of words flect. He feels but does not think. He deals with is not necessary to distinguish them. It would be action and emotion, but form and substance are impossible to transpose them without losing their beyond his imitation. He is a metaphysician, but identity, and destroying the sense of the music. Mo- not a philosopher. But the depth of the music, will zart’s genius was tender yet sublime: Beethoven’s depend entirely upon the man. From a close study was melancholy, mysterious, yet gigantic. Each of the works of Mozart and Beethoven, a correct and painted himself; each drew from his own bosom all metaphysical analysis of their characters can be ob- the inspiration his works exhibited» They required tained. In the early works of Mozart will be found | no outward influence; they needed no adventitious a continuous chain of tender and impassioned senti- circumstances to rouse their imagination, or to cause ment; an overflowing of soul, an exuberance of their thoughts to flow, for in their own souls was an love, and his early life will be found to be a counter- ever gushing spring of divine melody, that could not part of these emotions. In him the passions were be controlled. They thought music, and, as light developed at an age, when in ordinary children their flows from the sun, gladdening the creation, so their germ would be scarcely observed. Loved almost to music came from them, irradiating the hearts of men, idolatry by his family, and loving them as fondly in and throwing over them a delicious spell, whose return, his life was passed in one unceasing round of charm is everlasting. the tenderest endearments. All that was beautiful Music is so ethereal, and deals so little in realities, in his nature was brought into action, and gave that that its followers, partaking of its characteristics, are tone of exquisite tenderness, that pervades all his in most instances, impulsive, impassioned and un- imperishable works. But as the passing years brought worldly. Careless of the excitements and mutations with them an increase of thought and reflection, a of the times; unambitious of place or power; indif- change is to be found equally in the character of the ferent to the struggles and heart-burnings of party music andthe man. This change can be traced in politicians, from the utter uncongeniality of the feel- his later operas, Le Nozze de Figaro, Don Giovanni, ings and emotions they engender, with their own, Cosi Fan Tutti, La Clemenza di Tito, Die Zauber- they live secluded, shut up within their own hearts, fliite, and Die Entfiihrung aus dem Serail. In these and seldom appear to the world in their true colors, works there is the evidence of deeper and more com- from the utter impossibility of making it comprehend prehensive thought; the metaphysical identity of or sympathise with their refined and mysterious character is as strictly maintained, and as closely feelings. The world has no conception of the ex- developed, as it could be pourtrayed by words. His quisite delight that music confers upon musicians. It Il Don Giovanni, stands now, and will forever stand, is not mere pleasure; it is not a mere gratification an unapproachable model of musical perfection. that can be experienced and forgotten! Oh, no! It The character of Beethoven exhibits no decided is a blending of the physical with the intellectual; it change through life, excepting, that in his later years softens the nature; it heightens the imagination; it the characteristics of his youth and manhood, in- throws a delicious languor over the whole organiza- creased to a degree of morbid acuteness. From his tion; it isolates the thoughts, concentrating them earliest childhood he was of a retiring, studious, and only to listen and receive ; it elevates the soul to a reflective nature. The conscious possession of great region of its own, until it is faint with breathing the genius, made him wilful and unyielding in his melodious atmosphere. opinions. Too high minded to court favours, he at Music is the offspring of these feelings. The in- various times suffered the severest privations that spiration is the gift-of God alone, and cannot be poverty could inflict ; and, taking deeply to heart the added to or diminished.  EUROCLYDON. BY CHARLES LANMAN, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURs.”* At one stride came the dark, and it is now night. three score years and ten, was ascending a road Cold and loud is the raging storm. Rain enow and heavily and slow. I chilled the crimson current in sleet are dashing most furiously against the windows, his veins, and the pure white snow became his —actually dampening the curtains within. There— winding sheet. What matter! It was his time to there goes a shutter, torn from its hinges by the die. wind! Another gust,—and how desolate its moan! ‘On yonder rock-bound coast, a fisherman was It is the voice of the Winter Storm Spirit, who comes startled from his fireside by a signal of distress. He from beyond the ice-plains of the North. I can looked through the darkness and discovered a noble interpret his cry, which is dismal as the howl of ship hastening toward a dangerous reef. I brought wolves. her there, regardless of the costly merchandize and ** Mortal crouch—crouch like a worm beside thy freight of human life. She struck,—and three hun- hearth-stone and acknowledge thy insignificance. dred hardy men went down into that black roar- When the skies are bright, and thou art surrounded ing element which gives not back its dead. The by the comforts of life, thou goest forth among thy morrow will dawn, and the child at home will lisp fellows boasting of thine intellect and greatness. its father’s name, unconscious of his fate, and the But when the elements arise, shaking the very earth wife will smile and press her infant to her bosom, to its foundation, thou dost tremble with fear, and thy not doubting but that her husband will soon return to boasting is forgotten. Approach the window, and as bless her with his love. I have no sympathy with thou lookest upon the gloom of this stormy night, learn the widow and the fatherless. a lesson of humility. Thou art in thyself as frail and *‘Hark! did you not hear it?—that dismal shout! helpless as the icicle depending from yonder bough. Alas! the deed is done,—the touch of the incendiary “QO, this is a glorious night for me! I have broken hath kindled a fire such as this city has never be- the chains which have bound me in the Arctic Sea, held. What rich and glowing color in those clouds and fearful elements follow in my path to execute of smoke rising so heavily from yonder turrets! my bidding. Listen, while I picture to your mind a Already