THE FINE ARTS.

Amateur Concerts—Difference between Stage Singing and Chamber Singing—Effect produced by Stage Acting on the Manners and Conversation in Private—Origin of the modern florid style of singing—Conclusion.

Concerts are popular all over the Union, but in no other town are they so successful and popular as in Philadelphia. We have here all kinds of these entertainments, Ethiopian Concerts—Donation Concerts—Society Concerts, such as the Musical Fund and Philharmonic—and pre-eminent above all others, in point of fashion, Amateur Concerts.

A small, good Opera Troupe, it is true, would be of more service to our musical taste; for this hearing the works of great masters by bits, as it were, is not of much benefit; however, so that we have music in some manner is better than not to have it at all.

The concerts of the past winter were all well attended; but the Amateur Concerts were the favorites, and were, indeed, very successful. The amateurs, both ladies and gentlemen, surprised their audiences; and great praise is due to “Maestro Perelli.” We have heard some of them execute pieces in a manner that would have done credit to a professional singer. But while we admired, we felt a little disposed to remonstrate, for one or two old-fashioned reasons.

If they are really amateurs, and are training their voices for private singing, are they not running a risk of injuring their style by singing in public?

In the olden times of vocal training, there was always a marked difference made between public and private singing. So particular were the old masters that they divided singing into three classes—church singing, stage singing, and chamber singing.

Church singing required a more simple manner, a more pure and severe style, than stage singing; but the voice like that intended for the stage, had to be strong and full, with great volume and power, and the intonation clear and correct. There was not much difference between the voices of the church and stage singer; that is, it was not thought that either style injured the voice for the other, on the contrary, some of the finest voices the Italian school has produced, have been trained in church choirs, under the old chapel-masters.

But there was always a marked and decided difference made between stage singing and chamber singing. For the latter, it is necessary to have a plain, simple manner, a clear, pure intonation, good articulation, and great polish. The cadenzas and ornaments should be few, but of the most exquisite style and finish. Strength and volume of voice are not so much needed for the chamber singer, as delicacy of articulation and purity of tone.

Tone, in music as in painting, is mellowed by distance, and the singer who wishes to produce a pleasing effect in the drawing-room, should bear this in mind. It is as absurd to present in private a piece of music executed in the ornamented, operatic style, as it would be to hang in a cabinet or drawing-room, a large painting fitted for a church, a gallery, or a theatre; or, to make another comparison, for an orator, a public speaker, to entertain the guests of his drawing-room, with the same loud tone, earnest rhetorical manner, and volume of voice, that he used in the public assembly or town-meeting.

The habit of singing in public will give to the private singer, a manner and style which may sound very well in the concert-room, or on the stage where they are mellowed by distance, and softened by an orchestra, but this same manner and style will appear in private, coarse, violent, and theatrical. There should be a difference between public and private singing; both styles are beautiful, and equally effective in their way, but they should be kept separate.

It is well known that actors and actresses, in dressing for the stage, are apt to lose that nice, delicate eye for color, which is required to render a private costume pleasing; they become fond of strong contrasts, bright colors, and ornaments which appear glaring and wanting in harmony off the stage. Stage acting also affects the conversation, the tone of voice, and manner of expression. We were much amused once with the witty reply of a clever person, when asked why he did not admire a distinguished actress he had met with in private.

“She is too theatrical,” he said. “First she gives us a dash of tragedy à la Lady Macbeth, then comes a touch of genteel comedy à la Lady Teazle, which is very tiresome. One likes such exhibitions well enough on the stage, but they are quite out of place in one’s drawing-room.”

And thus it is with vocal music, to make it pleasing in society, or what is better, in one’s home circle, it should be like drawing-room, or home costume, home manner, conversation, reading—simple, pure, with few ornaments, and those well chosen.

Though these rules seem severe, they are not confining, for the chamber-singer is not limited. The music of the great masters can be produced in private, with great effect, in the same manner as all of us have, doubtless, heard a good reader give in private circles, scenes from Shakspeare and other dramatic poets. If the reader should present to us in his reading, all the starts, the loud tones and energetic manner required on the stage to produce an illusion, his reading would create disgust in us, and we would listen unwillingly; but if, on the contrary, he should read in a quiet manner, but with clear enunciation, and good emphasis, leaving our imaginations and recollections to make up the stage illusion, then, his reading would prove effective and pleasing.

Every vocalist knows that the graces and ornaments of a piece are entirely independent of the melody. The musical student who has studied the works of the old composers, will understand this better than the amateur who has been confined to modern compositions.

In the olden times more stress was laid upon the simple melody. Haydn used to say,

“Let your air be good, and your composition will be so likewise, and will assuredly please.”

But in the present day, the air is almost forgotten in the rich rifioramenti, and bewitching capricci of the Italian singer, the surprising vocalization of the French, and the graces, shakes, and turns of the English vocalist.

We do not object to these adornments; when properly used, they produce a pleasing effect—they break up the monotony of the melody; but any one will see how necessary it is to have these adornments different in different places. The graces, cadenzas, etc., which would be added to a piece sung on the stage, should not be used in the drawing-room or in the church, although the simple melody itself, may from its character do very well for either place, if sung with appropriate ornaments.

These elaborate, ornamental, vocal passages, which appear in modern compositions, are not to be found in the old writers. They would have considered it derogatory to the dignity of their melodies, to have written out in them the rifioramenti of the singer.

We remember seeing, several years ago, some Italian copies and manuscripts of compositions by Durante, Trajetta, Paisiello, and other old Italian masters. They belonged to a singular, remarkable person, then living in this country, Signor Trajetta, the son of the old Maestro Trajetta, the master and companion of Sacchini. These compositions were for the voice, and in looking over them, we were struck with their bareness and severity. The airs were, many of them, pure, and full of beautiful melody, but we could readily imagine that it would require a very severe taste to listen to them without finding them monotonous, and so we said.

“Ah!” replied Trajetta’s pupil, as wild an enthusiast as his master, “your taste has been spoiled and vitiated by modern music.”

The present taste for florid execution was caused, it is said, by the desire of the vocalists to rival the instrumental passages of the Opera. During the time of Metastasio, the musicians, especially those of the German school, so famous for instrumentation, overpowered the singers. The struggle of the singers for the lead, caused Metastasio to make a remark which would apply very well in this day—that the singers in an Opera made vocal concertos of their passages.

Agujari turned her voice into a flute, and the capricious, bewitching Gabrielli, the pet pupil of Porpora, astonished every one by her wonderful capricci and delicate chromatic passages.

A love for the wonderful displays itself constantly in mixed audiences, and they are more likely to applaud that which is surprising, rather than that which is strictly good. This approbation is apt to dull the taste of the singer who will forget or neglect good old rules, when by outraging them, they secure applause.

The taste for vocal gracing and adornment has increased to such a degree that it would be almost impossible to present a composition of an old master, or even of composers so late as Mozart, without adding to the adornments of the original composition. Rossini, whose vocal compositions in some places appear to consist only of connected phrases of ornaments and gracings, so completely is the melody hidden by the cadenzas, had two styles. His early style was chaste and simple; his greatest opera, Tancredi, was written in this style, and the reader, if familiar with Rossini’s works, has only to compare this beautiful opera with one of his last compositions, Semiramide, to see the strong contrast between the two styles of composition. His L’Italiani in Algeri and Il Turco in Italia, operas which contain some of his most exquisite melodies, belong also to this simple style; but his more popular operas, Il Barbiere, La Cenerentola, Otello, La Gazza Ladra, etc., are in his later style, which is florid, not only in the vocal parts, but also in the orchestral accompaniments; indeed, he seemed to have attained the extreme of this florid style, but the composers of the present time have gone far beyond him; for instance, Verdi, whose compositions appear to be entirely made up of rifioramenti, and while listening with amazement to the vocal feats his singers perform, in executing his compositions, a good old-fashioned lover of music is very apt to wonder if a melody really exists under all these embellishments.

There is an interesting account given in Stendhal’s Life of Rossini, relative to his adoption of the florid style in composition. In 1814 he went to Milan, to superintend the bringing out of his opera, L’Aureliano in Palmiro. The principal tenore, Velluti, a very handsome man, had a voice of great flexibility. At the first rehearsal, Velluti sung his part in a manner that delighted the composer; at the second rehearsal, the singer added some cadenzas, which Rossini applauded even rapturously; at the third rehearsal, the original melodies of some of the cavatinas seemed lost amid the luxurious profusion of vocal ornaments; but at the first public representation of the opera the singer added so many fiorituri, that Rossini exclaimed, “Non conosco più la mia musica!”^[7]; however, Velluti’s singing was well received by the audience, and every vocal feat brought down thunders of applause. The hint was not lost on Rossini. He observed that his opera had but little success without Velluti, and he resolved in future to compose in a different style. He would no longer remain at the mercy of the singer, but write down in his score a sufficient number of embellishments, not leaving room for the addition of a single appogiatura by the singer.

We have digressed from the original subject, dear reader, in order to show that the rifioramenti of a piece are mere additions, and also to point out to the amateur the propriety of omitting startling and surprising stage points, when presenting in private fine operatic passages, and the nice, delicate taste that would be displayed in giving more of the original melody, avoiding embellishments, using them only where they seem absolutely necessary to break up the monotony of a continuous strain, and render it more effective.

We could give our other objection to this public singing of amateurs, which objection applies more particularly to lady amateurs; but we have chatted long enough already, and, moreover, our objection is decidedly too old-fashioned to be talked about in these days, “of rights of men, women and children;” therefore, we will suffer it to pass unmentioned, trusting to the force of the one already given to convince you, at least good reader.

Old ’76 and Young ’48.—This is the title of a new picture by Woodville, received from Dusseldorf for the New York Art Union, which is to be engraved for one of the future distributions of that association. The Mirror describes the picture as fully justifying the high opinion formed of the young artist’s genius, and as placing his name in the front rank of our American artists. The picture represents a young soldier just returned from Mexico, travel-stained and wounded; he sits at a table relating his adventures to his grandfather, “Old ’76,” while his father and mother, and a group of colored servants, peeping in at the door, are eagerly listening to the soldier’s rehearsal of his battles. All the accessories of the picture are purely American, and help to carry out the story; the portrait of the old man, painted in all his rosy prime, the bust of Washington, the ornaments on the mantle, all are in strict keeping; but it is in the individualities of character as delineated in the countenances and actions of the different personages that the genius of the artist is displayed; the old man, leaning on his crutch, shaking his head with a mixed feeling of pride in his grandson’s achievements, and a recollection of his own acts in the times that tried men’s souls, is a triumph of the artist; the old fellow seems to be just at the point of saying “O yes, my boy, all that is very well; you fought bravely, no doubt, and General Taylor was a good soldier; but it’s nothing to old ’76, and General Taylor ain’t Washington.” It is a most successful effort.

Monument to Peel.—The proposal to erect a national monument to Sir Robert Peel, by subscriptions limited to one penny each person, will be entirely successful.