There seems to be an increasing disposition among us to regard music
as an agent of civilisation, and therefore an increasing anxiety to
diffuse a taste for the art throughout all classes of the people.
The simple songs that are found in countries in an early stage of
progress cannot constitute the music of a refined nation, any more than
their rude ballads can be the staple, instead of the mere germ, of
their poetry. Both, however, serve as an excellent foundation for the
superstructures of taste; and to both we return occasionally from amid
the complications of art, to snatch from them a healthy inspiration.
It is not in mere refinement that the operation of music is obvious
and powerful: it humanises, and 'makes the whole world kin.' 'There is
no free-masonry so intimate and immediate, I believe,' says a recent
author when relating a conversation with Mrs Hemans, 'as that which
exists among the lovers of music; and although, when we parted, I could
not tell the colour of her eyes and hair, I felt that a confidence and
a good understanding had arisen between us, which the discussion of
no subject less fascinating could have excited.' It is in this point
of view that music should be regarded by philanthropists: the science
should be given to the masses of the people as a bond of sympathy
between them and the upper stratum of society. But while many efforts
are making in this direction, there is still great sluggishness in
one important branch of the business: the lower classes have no good
instruments, and have no great artists; the inspiration derived from
a Jenny Lind or a Sontag never descends beneath a certain line in
the social scale; and the pianoforte, the most useful of all musical
instruments, has never served for a rallying-point in the domestic
circles of the poor.
To deal with the former of these two difficulties is arduous--perhaps
impossible. Even in this country, where everything bears a money value,
including even the light that enters our houses, there are _some_
galleries where the works of great painters are patent to the public.
But the sister art is a monopoly of the rich, because the efforts of
performers produce no permanent creations, but merely an evanescent
sound, which may elevate the mind and linger on the memory, but can
never be reproduced by the listener. A painter lives by the sale of
works which survive even himself perhaps for hundreds of years; but a
musician retails performances that are not prolonged even by an echo.
The great singer, however, demands a higher reward than the great
poet; and the great actor grows rich while the great dramatist barely
lives. Who can help it? We give willingly what they demand: there is no
compulsion in the case, and the day of sumptuary laws is gone by.
But this deprivation does not press so much upon the poor as upon a
great portion of the middle-classes. We cannot find fault with musical
artists for demanding half a guinea or a guinea from every one who
chooses to listen to a few songs; because such sums are voluntarily
paid, and all dealers, even those who deal in harmonious sounds, have
the same right to sell them in the dearest market that they have to buy
their wines and jewels in the cheapest. But unluckily the deprivation
is felt by the very class which would benefit the most, and confer
the most benefit, by being admitted on reasonable terms to such
exhibitions of high art. It is neither from among the poor nor the rich
that great artists usually spring, but from that large middle-class
in which the genius of individuals receives an impulse from pecuniary
necessity. In that rank large sums cannot be paid for a song, and their
claims to gentility will not permit them to class themselves even at a
concert with the grade beneath them, permitted to listen for a lower
price in organ lofts and at the back of galleries. We do not say that
there is no remedy even for this evil. The genius of the present age
is fertile in expedients, and perhaps some plan may be hit upon to
satisfy the exorbitant expectations of musical artists, by providing a
larger and more frequent audience at prices better adapted to ordinary
means. So long as the present system, however, continues, music cannot
be expected to make any rapid progress among us; for the effect of the
system is to degrade art to the level of fashion, and thus repress the
noble and generous aspirations of genius.
But the difficulty arising from the enormous expense of such musical
instruments as the piano is less complicated; and indeed it would
appear at first sight to be very extraordinary that in an age of almost
unbounded speculation and competition it should exist at all. There is
nothing in the construction of the machinery of a piano which ought
to prevent it from being found in tens of thousands of houses in this
country from which it is at present entirely excluded. The existing
piano, however, is a traditional instrument--an heir-loom of the
wealthy; and for them alone it must be manufactured. Its case must be
of expensive foreign woods, and its keys of ivory; its legs must be
elegantly turned; its handsome feet must roll on brazen wheels adapted
for the rich carpet; and generally it must be decorated with carvings
in wood, such as of themselves, entirely superfluous as they are, add
several pounds to the expense. The manufacturers say that all this is
so because the instruments _must_ be made exclusively for the rich, who
would not purchase them if they were not elegant in form, and costly
in material and workmanship. But this, we strongly suspect, is no
longer true. Music has now descended lower in the social scale than it
did in the last generation, and thousands of hearts are beating with
the feeling of art and its aspirations, which were formerly cold and
silent. The comparatively poor and the really economical do not buy
pianos, simply because they are far beyond their means; and in England
the cause of musical science and kindly feeling is deprived of the aid
of a family instrument, which in Germany is found even in the parlour
of the village public-houses.
Tables and chairs, bedsteads, and other articles of furniture, are
manufactured on purpose to suit the means of the various classes of
purchasers. Bedsteads may be had in London, and we presume elsewhere
with equal ease, at 18s. and at L.50 a piece; and chairs which, in one
form, cost L.2 or L.3 each, in another--of stained wood, with cane
seats, extremely pretty and lasting--sell for 15s. the half-dozen. Why
should not the less wealthy families have their own piano as well as
their own chair or bedstead? And the humbleness of the materials, it
should be remarked, would not necessarily involve any want of elegance
in shape. The cheap chairs alluded to are sometimes very passable
imitations of rosewood chairs--and they answer the purpose as well!
Let us add, that the introduction of the new process of desiccation
applied to timber would seem to render the present a very favourable
juncture for such speculations as we hint at. Formerly, many years'
warehousing would have been required to divest the wood of those juices
which interrupt sound, and the trade in the material would thus be a
monopoly of wealthy capitalists; but now, thanks to the science of the
day, timber may be thoroughly dried in hours instead of years, and thus
a ruinous interest on invested money saved.
Should this new manufacture, however, be commenced, the speculators
must please to bear in mind that we do not ask for inferior
instruments, but for cheap materials and plain workmanship. Some time
ago an attempt was made to introduce watches with imitative gold
cases: but the works were spurious imitations likewise; and these
out-of-time-pieces, brought forward, if we recollect rightly, at 15s.,
sank speedily to 5s., and are now rarely seen at all. This should be a
lesson to piano-makers for the million. They should further recollect,
however, that an instrument, hitherto the prescriptive property of the
rich and refined, must, however humble its materials, retain a certain
elegance of form. A plain deal piano, for instance, even if the wood
were suitable, would not be bought; but one made of birch, and French
polished, with cheap keys, &c. would not disgrace a drawing-room. We
remember seeing furniture of this timber in some of the small country
inns in Russia; and it struck us as having an enormously-extravagant
look, having all the appearance of satin-wood. This, however, we give
merely as an illustration of our meaning. We put forth these paragraphs
as nothing more than a hint to set thinking on the subject persons who
possess the mechanical knowledge we cannot pretend to; and having so
done, we take leave of the subject.