Part 1

Produced by Annie R. McGuire

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VOL. III.--NO. 152. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR CENTS.

Tuesday, September 26, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

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"PAPA HAYDN."

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

One day nearly a hundred and fifty years ago two elderly gentlemen were dining together in an old house in Hamburg, Germany. They were music-masters of great note in those days. Herr Franck was the host; the guest was Herr Reuter, Capellmeister at Vienna. Their conversation very naturally was on music, and the new and old musicians, singers, and conductors. Suddenly Franck declared he had in his house a prodigy, a boy of nine, whom he had brought from the country. Reuter was delighted. The boy was summoned from the kitchen, where he was dining with the cook, and no doubt enjoying his Sunday pudding with great relish, for he worked hard and did not fare too well.

I like to think of that picture: the old wainscoted dining-room, the grave musicians looking up from their dinner as the door opened on a small dark-haired, brown-skinned boy, a dainty, delicately modelled child, who came in shyly, and stood at a distance from the table, with his hands behind him, and his head bent down, until his teacher, Herr Franck, bade him sing. And then the boy's voice broke all the bonds of restraint. He threw back his little head and sang. It was an irrepressible burst of melody, and Reuter, the old master, sprang up, exclaiming, "He shall come to my choir; he is just what I want."

It was a wonderful step onward for the child; but Reuter little knew the future of the boy whom he took that day, and never dreamed that his name, Francis Joseph Haydn, would be famous in every civilized country of the world.

Reuter carried young Haydn off to Vienna, where he was placed in the cathedral choir, and where his sweet young voice, a marvellous soprano, filled all the town with delight. His parents gave him freely in charge to old Reuter; but the master was selfish and exacting. The boy longed to compose, but Reuter refused to allow him to take lessons in composition, and made him give his whole time to choir practice. Haydn had very little money, but he hoarded every penny for a long time, and when he was thirteen years old he purchased two treatises on music, and having studied them diligently, actually composed a mass.

I don't suppose it was very fine music, but at all events it showed a great desire for work, and it was too bad that Reuter should have roared with laughter over it, and given the eager boy no encouragement. It seems as though from that time the old master was determined to thwart and annoy his pupil. The lad found choir work a slavery, but did not know how to free himself. A piece of idle mischief led to his escape. One day in a frolic he cut off the tail of the wig of a singer in the choir. Reuter flew into a rage, turned Haydn out then and there, actually expelling him from choir, board, and lodging. It was a cruel winter's night. The lad wandered about the streets of Vienna, until he remembered the one person who had ever encouraged him. This was a barber named Keller, and to his humble abode Haydn directed his steps. Keller gave him a cordial welcome, though he had but little to offer: a loft--in which, however, stood an old harpsichord--and a seat at his simple table. In the wig-maker's family Haydn went joyfully to work. He had some sonatas of Bach's, he picked up odd bits of music here and there, mastered the science of those who had gone before him, and though often cold and hungry, was never cheerless. Now and then he went into the shop, where Keller and his daughter Anne were at work on wigs, and where Haydn's assistance was quite acceptable. Anne Keller was a plain dull girl, who knew nothing of the great art of her father's lodger, yet Haydn was grateful for her rough sort of kindness to him. He became engaged to her, and later, when he was more prosperous, married her.

It was not long before the young musician had made a circle of friends. He played on the violin and the organ, sometimes in the churches, and occasionally in the salons of some great ladies, but his chief enjoyment was a little club of wandering minstrels. They were a band of enthusiastic youths who wandered about Vienna on moon-light nights to serenade famous musicians.

One night they directed their steps to the house of Herr Curtz, the leader of the opera. Under his windows they began one of Haydn's compositions, the young musician's violin slowly filling the moon-lit garden with melody. No demonstration from old Curtz was expected, but suddenly a window was flung open, out came Curtz's head, and his voice screamed to know who was playing.

Back came the answer. "Joseph Haydn."

"Whose music is it?"

"Mine."

Down came Curtz, collared the astonished young man, and brought him upstairs to a big candle-lit room, where stood a fine piano littered with music. There, when the two had regained their breath, Curtz explained that he wanted Haydn to compose some music for a new libretto he had written. Now this was certainly an important moment. Haydn sat down to the piano, banged away, tried various ideas, and at last hit upon the right thing. Before daylight he had arranged with Curtz for the music, for which he was promised one hundred and thirty florins.

It was his first real success, and from that moment prosperity attended him. He wrote his first symphony when he was twenty-eight, in the year 1759. Soon after he received an appointment in the household of Prince Esterhazy, where his duty was a curious one. He was obliged to have a piece of music ready to lay on his patron's breakfast table every morning. This may seem drudgery, but in reality these years were among the happiest of Haydn's life, marred only by his marriage with the barber's daughter, Anne Keller, whose wretched temper at last forced him to separate from her. He cared for her tenderly, however, and she was well content with her lot in life.

Around Haydn in England, France, and Germany gathered a band of younger musicians, eager to watch his developments in music, and to whom he was familiarly known as "Papa Haydn." It was Mozart, the then youthful composer, that gave him the endearing title. Between them existed the most touching friendship, broken only by Mozart's early death.

I can not tell you of all of Haydn's works. His greatest were his Symphonies. In these he developed instrumental music until he made it something far greater than it had ever been before; and for this all generations will owe him thanks and praise.

His oratorio, _The Creation_, was composed in 1799, and with its performance, nine years later, is associated one of the last scenes in Haydn's life.

The public of Vienna wished to pay their honored musician a tribute, and so the oratorio was given with every possible brilliancy of effect and performance. Haydn was an old man, and very feeble, and he was obliged to be carried into the theatre; but there he sat near his dear friend Princess Esterhazy, while all eyes turned lovingly and reverently toward him.

When the music reached that part in which the words "Let there be light" occur, Haydn rose, and pointing heavenward, said, aloud. "It comes from thence"; and indeed all knew that the master's work was always a subject of prayer and humble supplication that he might be able to do the best for the good of all.

After that evening Haydn never left his house. He grew feebler daily, but suffered little pain. One day, when he was thought to be past consciousness, he suddenly rose from his couch, and by a superhuman effort reached the piano.

There, in a voice which yet held the cadences of the boy chorister of long ago, he sang the national hymn, and so, his hands drooping on the keys, he was carried gently to his bed and to his peaceful death. This was in May, 1809. Francis Joseph Haydn, born in 1732, died in his seventy-eighth year.

As I told you, his great work was to reform and partially reconstruct instrumental music. He followed in the wake of Bach. To him we owe the symphony as we have it to-day, and with this little sketch of the dear master I want to tell you what a symphony is.

Properly speaking, a _symphony_ is a long and elaborate composition for a full orchestra. It contains various movements,[1] and any number of instruments may be employed in its execution. Voices are also occasionally added. The movements of a symphony are the _allegro_, the _andante_ or _adagio_, _minuet_ or _scherzo_, and the _allegro_ or _presto_. To the first movement are two themes or subjects (we might say ideas), and these are given in two different keys. The andante movement is usually in some key related to the original key. When you study thorough-bass, you will find what beautiful effects this arrangement can produce. It would be an excellent little study to take one of the simplest symphonies of "Papa Haydn," and read it carefully--four hands are better than two. Study the first movement. See how the theme is worked out, back and forth, up and down; find out when and how it all returns to the original key, and then observe how the theme is carried on throughout the whole work. Above all, remember that the perfection to which the symphony has been brought we owe first to Haydn, then to Mozart, and finally to Beethoven.

[1] A movement is one definite part of any composition.

THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL.

BY MARY A. BARR.

All July and August, so glad and so gay, The Butterfly's feasts they were crowded each day; But alas for all pleasures, the summer's at end, And the guests of the banquets now mourn for their friend. Poor Butterfly's dead.

The Emmets and Flies will no longer advance To join with their wings in the Grasshopper's dance, For see his fine form o'er the favorite bend, The Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend. Poor Butterfly's dead.

And hark to the funeral song of the Bee, And the Beetle who follows as solemn as he; And see where so mournful the green rushes wave, The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave. Poor Butterfly's dead.

The Dormouse he came and stood cold and forlorn, And the Gnat he wound slowly his shrill little horn, And the Moth, being grieved at the loss of a sister, Bent over her body and silently kissed her. Poor Butterfly's dead.

The corpse was embalmed at the set of the sun, And inclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun; By the help of the Hornet the coffin was laid On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made. Poor Butterfly's dead.

In dozens and scores came the Grasshoppers all, And six of their number supported the pall; And the Spider came too, in his mourning so black, But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back From Butterfly dead.

The Grub left his nutshell to join in the throng, And solemnly led the sad Book-worm along, Who wept his poor neighbor's unfortunate doom, And wrote these few lines to be placed on the tomb Of Butterfly dead:

"TO THE BUTTERFLY MAID.

"At this solemn spot where the green rushes wave Is buried fair Butterfly deep in the grave; A friend unto all, she has run her short race: Like a flower on wings with its beauty and grace Was this Butterfly Maid."

WHY DICK DROVE THE CAR.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

"I wonder what I _am_ good for, anyway?" muttered Dick Winworth to himself as he sucked the finger he had caught in the gate, and gazed ruefully at the butter stain on his sleeve.

It was just after dinner on a warm summer's day, and at the table Dick had displayed more than usual awkwardness, for he had upset the salt in taking his seat, trod on his aunt Phoebe's tenderest foot in getting up, scalded his tongue with hot soup, and broken a decorated plate belonging to an old set, which his sister appeared to value more highly than if it were new. It was in a fit of despair over the latter catastrophe that the usually gentle maiden had uttered an exclamation or two, which led her brother to ask the above mournful mental question.

The first delicious freshness of vacation had worn off, and now that Town Bergen, Dick's great "chum," was away on a visit, young Winworth had begun to find time hang rather heavy on his hands, especially as he had just finished a very interesting book, and was quite sure he couldn't find another as good.

Pondering in his mind as to whether long holidays were such desirable things after all, Dick strolled on through the quiet village street, which had been lately dignified by being chosen as the thoroughfare of the only horse-railroad in the place.

The terminus of the route was not far from the Winworths', at the entrance to the little park, and as Dick in his walk came in sight of the latter, he suddenly resolved to take a trip into town and back.

"That'll keep me out of mischief for an hour at least, and besides, I've been meaning to ride in on the cars all the week," and the boy quickened his steps in order to catch the "bobtail" he saw standing there.

However, he need have been in no sort of hurry, as he soon discovered that the horse appeared to be asleep, with the lines wound around the brake, while there were no signs of the driver anywhere.

There were not more than a dozen cars on the road, and these ran at intervals of several minutes, and as here at the outskirts of the village there were as yet very few houses, it was not considered necessary to have a waiting-room, nor even a starter's box.

"But where can that driver be?" mused Dick, as he gazed admiringly up, down, and across the neatly painted vehicle, for the cars were all new and of the latest patent. "However, I seem to be the only passenger; but no, I guess here's another," as his attention was attracted toward a very stout old lady, all decked out in holiday attire, with artificial flowers in her bonnet, fresh roses in her belt, and a huge bouquet in her hand, who came panting across from the Park gate.

"Hi! hi! wait a minute!" she cried, frantically waving her parasol, and evidently under the impression that the car had already started off at a gallop.

Dick moved away from the step to allow her plenty of room to get in, when she exclaimed, "Oh, boy, can you tell me how long it will be before this car leaves?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, much gratified because she had not called him "_little_ boy," for he had just entered his teens.

"Oh deary me, I'm in such a hurry! I think I'll speak to the driver. But I don't see any--why, where is he?" and the old lady bustled about from one side of the car to the other so impatiently that it danced upon its springs again.

Then she sat down for a minute, wiped her face with a perfumed handkerchief, took a sniff from her smelling-bottle, and began fanning herself with a fan which Dick thought she'd never finish opening out.

"I know I shall be too late, after all my promises, too!" and now there was more of regret than impatience in the old lady's tones.

Meantime Dick had gone on an exploring expedition, and presently came running back with the news that the driver had "a fit or something," and was lying on the kitchen floor of a farm-house around the corner.

"How did he get there?" asked the old lady, in her short way.

"He must have felt it coming on and started for the house, for they found him just outside the gate," replied Dick. "I didn't see him, but a boy who was running for the doctor told me about it."

The lady looked serious for a minute, took another sniff from her bottle, and then began: "Look here, boy, if you'll drive this car for me down to Clayton Street, I'll give you a crisp, new one-dollar bill, and a great many thanks besides. A friend of mine, whom I haven't seen since she was a little girl, is going to be married at three o'clock, and I've always promised I'd come to her wedding, even if I were three thousand miles away, and here I am, less than three, and likely to miss it after all!"

"I should think she'd wait till you come, ma'am," Dick ventured to suggest, consolingly.

"Oh, bless you," continued the old lady, "she thinks I'm in California. She sent the invitation to me out there, and it arrived just as I was unexpectedly called back to New York, so I determined not to let them know a word about it, but just walk in on them at the wedding. And now, if you'll only drive me down to Clayton Street, I think I can do it yet. I'm not afraid."

That last sentence nearly spoiled the effect of all the others, for Dick didn't like to have anybody think he couldn't drive a car-horse if he wanted to; but he graciously overlooked the blunder, promised to do the driving if his passenger would be responsible to the company, and then stepped out upon the front platform, feeling as if he had been asked to ascend the throne of an empire.

As for the old lady, she settled herself comfortably back in a corner, and began to button her white kid gloves.

Much impressed by this proof of the confidence reposed in his horsemanship, Dick untied the lines, gave the brake a twirl, chirped to the lazy nag, and, presto! the bell on the latter's neck commenced to jingle as loudly as when the regular official held the ribbons.

What fun it was, to be sure! No steering out of ruts and around puddles, the sole duties of the post being to slap the reins on the horse's back now and then, and keep a hand on that fascinating brake. Dick's only regret was that he had lost the opportunity of using the turn-table, but having found the car headed in the right direction, there was no help for it.

The street, as has been said, was a quiet one, especially so at that time of day, and thus no one saw and wondered at the sight of Dick Winworth, only son of the prominent lawyer, driving a "bobtail" car. As for Dick himself, he had never imagined so much enjoyment could be had by such simple means. The tinkle of the bell and the grating of the wheels on the track were as music in his ears, while the task of keeping the vehicle from running on to the horse's heels at down grades furnished most enchanting occupation for hand and eye.

On a sudden the latter chanced to light on the green tin box fastened to the dash-board, and he recollected that his passenger had not yet paid her fare. So, with a very broad smile, he rang the "reminder" bell, which caused the old lady to look up and smile too, as she handed him a dime. Dick having shut the door that he might have the fun of giving change through the "flap."

It was while he was thus engaged that he drove past a switch without noticing it, and at the next corner a young lady held up her finger as a sign for him to stop.

"What shall I do?" he called through the open window; for he felt that in a sense the old lady had hired the whole car, and ought therefore to be consulted before he admitted anybody else.

"Oh, let her get in, by all means," was his passenger's hospitable response; and to Dick's infinite delight, she pulled the bell.

However, when the young lady had taken her seat, and begun gravely fishing in her long knit purse for five cents, the serious side of his situation rather troubled the boy, and for a while he kept his eyes fixed steadily between the horse's ears, as if trying to see how this queer sort of an adventure was going to end, when the sharp ring of the bell over his head caused him to give a very undriver-like jump as he turned to find out what was wanted.

"Here," whispered the old lady, as she slipped the promised crisp bill through the flap, "this is Clayton Street. I'm ever so much obliged, and please stop just as short as you can, for I've only five minutes to walk to the house."

Then she hastened to the rear platform, and almost before the car came to a stand-still she had stepped off, and was hurrying up a side street, the white ribbons of her flowery bonnet streaming out behind.

And what was Dick to do now? He had completed the task intrusted to him, and been paid for it, but he could not very well walk off and leave the car standing there.

But if he should keep on, what would they say to him at the dépôt? and how could he refer to the old lady, when she had forgotten to give him her address? And there was the young lady patiently waiting inside.

Concluding that the finger of duty pointed onward, Dick was about to start the horse, when he heard the jingling of a bell down the street ahead of him. And then it flashed through his mind about the switch, and he realized that here was another car coming on the same track in an opposite direction.

What was to be done? For an instant the boy felt a strong inclination to jump off and run away, but then that would be cowardly; besides, there was the passenger. So he stuck to his post and the brake, and calmly awaited the crisis.

It arrived in due course, and came near being a collision as well, for the other driver, who was behind time, had whipped up. There was a curve in the street just there, and as Dick's car was standing still, there was no sound of bell to give warning.

However, no harm was done; but how that driver did scold when he saw the state of affairs!

Dick's young lady passenger fled in terror at the outbreak of the storm, while Dick himself stood up as if under a shower-bath of cold water.

And now, to make matters worse, two more cars arrived from down town, where it seemed there had been a blockade.

"The driver had a fit up at the Park," cried Dick, when he could make himself heard; and then he told his story of the old lady and the wedding, exhibiting the new dollar bill as proof of its truth. The three drivers shook their heads over the story, but looked more respectfully at the bill, which gave Dick an idea.

"Here," he cried, waving the dollar above his head, "you can divide this amongst you to pay for any trouble I've made. Will that do?"

They all exclaimed at once that it would. Then a passenger appeared, who knew Mr. Winworth, and who promised to explain matters to his neighbor, the superintendent of the road.

Then they-- But Dick didn't wait to see how they got the cars straightened out. He walked back home as fast as he could, wondering if that dollar wouldn't have bought a pretty plate to replace the one he had broken. However, he consoled himself with the thought that it was easier to keep from breaking them in future than it was to earn whatever they might cost by driving a car.

THE GEESE AND THE CAPITOL.

Geese are not remarkable for bravery or for thoughtful care of the interests of their owners, yet the Romans firmly believed that geese once saved their Capitol from capture.

The Gauls, a savage people coming from the North, once captured the city of Rome, and burned it. Some of the Romans fled to Veii, a town not very far distant, and others shut themselves up in the Capitol, which was a strong building on the top of a steep and rocky hill. The Gauls encamped at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and resolved to wait until the Roman garrison should be forced to surrender through hunger. One night a young Roman came from Veii, and climbed up to the Capitol to encourage his countrymen to resist the Gauls until help should come. In the morning the Gauls saw the foot-prints of the young man, and said to themselves that they could climb wherever he could. So the next night a strong party of Gauls tried to capture the Capitol by climbing up the rocks.