incidents of interest wherewith to prelude it. And first, the organ
itself is a noteworthy feature here, for it is the back-bone of the
music, which holds the ribs and small bones of the Jubilee, keeps
them in place, and prevents fracture. The organ was manufactured
by the Messrs. Hook, expressly for the occasion, in the short
space of four weeks, and was built with the design in view of
combining strength and volume of tone with the least possible space
in occupancy. The instrument has a very novel appearance, for the
reason that it stands without a case. Above a very slight casing
of chestnut and walnut, all the pipes of the "flute a Pavilion"
are displayed--a stop which answers to the "Open Diapason." Behind
these and others are the pipes of the "Bombarde," a sixteen-feet reed
stop, and, still behind these, the vast wooden pipes of the "Grand
Sub Bass," which form a double wall across the rear of the organ.
On each side are the pipes of the "Pedale Posanne." The grouping of
the pipes is very symmetrical, and presents quite as imposing, if
not so beautiful an appearance as an elaborate case. The width of
the organ across the front is twenty-two feet, and the height thirty
feet. The wind-pressure used is at least four times that of ordinary
organs, requiring four thousand pounds weight upon the bellows.
Notwithstanding its great power, the tone is by no means harsh,
but very agreeably rich and pleasant, and combines great intensity
and solidity with the most brilliant seriousness conceivable. Its
marvelous power and volume were specially manifested yesterday, when
the orchestra began to break in the "Star-Spangled Banner." Mr.
Wilcox, for a moment, seemed to be gathering up the resources of the
organ in his hands, and then let it out in a manner which resembled
the rushing of a storm more than anything else; but it had the effect
to bring order out of chaos, and when once more he gathered back and
restrained its powers, the instruments were playing like a charm.
Individuals count but little in this vast assemblage of singers and
players, and yet there are notable people there whose superb solo
singing and playing have been familiar to the public in concert
rooms and opera for years. Look among the first violinists and you
will see Ole Bull, prince of them all, fired with the spirit of the
occasion. In the aggregate of sound you cannot hear a tone from his
violin, and yet you know from his manner that the old Scandinavian is
playing as he never played before. There is Carl Rosa, the _petite_
Hamburger, a boy among them in appearance, wielding his bow with the
general enthusiasm of the occasion. There is Schultze, who, years
ago--how many leaves have fallen since then--stood at the head of
the first violinists in the old Germania Orchestra, and distracted
the ladies with the fine tinge of his cheeks and his "Sounds from
Home;" and Zerrahn, who stood opposite him in that same organization,
playing the flute, is now wielding the baton for his old compatriot.
There is Julius Eichberg, who wrote the charming "Doctor of
Alcantara" and the "Two Cadis," a most accomplished musician; and
there are Grill and Mollenhauer, Besig and Moll, of New York. In
the second violins you will find Carl Meisel, of the Mendelssohn
Quintette; Eichler, of Boston; Reichardt, Ritter, Conrad and others,
of New York. Thomas Ryan has dropped his clarionet and Heindl has
dropped his flute, and both have taken violas in the grand orchestra.
Wulf Fries and Suck and Henry Mollenhauer have their violoncellos
before them, and Muller and Stein their double basses. Koppitz,
Zohler and Carlo are blowing their flutes. Among the oboes you will
find De Ribas, Mente and Taulwasser. And glorious Arbuckle sends the
clarion blasts of his cornet shivering through the music as a flash
of lightning cuts through a cloud.
Among the singers also, you will find notable names. Among the
sopranos are the matchless Parepa, Mrs. H. M. Smith, Mrs. Sophia
Mozart, Miss Gates, Miss Annie Granger, Miss Graziella Ridgway, Mrs.
D. C. Hall, Miss S. W. Barton and Mrs. J. W. Weston. Among the altos
are Adelaide Phillipps, Mrs. Drake, Miss Addie S. Ryan, Mrs. C. A.
Barry, and Mrs. Guilmette. Among the tenors are the two Whitneys,
L. W. Wheeler and James P. Draper. There are prominent singers
also among the bassos, such names as Rudolphsen, Powers, McLellan,
Ardavani, Perkins, Kimball, M. W. Whitney and Dr. Guilmette.
The telegraph will have anticipated me concerning the movements
of General Grant. His arrival, and the fact that he would be
present at the Coliseum, swelled the crowd about that building
and in the vicinity to enormous proportions. The streets were one
swaying, surging mass of humanity. Vehicles were jammed together
in inextricable confusion. The horse-cars found it impossible to
proceed, and, being piled together in long lines, sometimes a mile in
length, added to the general distraction. The Hub was in a hubbub.
I made the journey from the Coliseum to the State House, ordinarily
a five minutes' walk, in exactly one hour by the Park Street Church
clock, which never lies. As the time approached for the opening
of the concert, the rush was fearful. At every one of the twelve
entrances to the Coliseum, thousands of people were jammed together,
pushing and fairly trampling upon one another. The efforts of the
police, efficient as they have been, were of no avail. Hundreds and
hundreds of people who had tickets turned and went away, rather than
face that crowd. Women became timid and shrank from it. There were
some, however, who resolutely went in, and some of them came out
squeezed. Some fainted and were, with difficulty, extricated. Not
one of them but had rumpled feathers, smashed _paniers_, dishevelled
hair and flushed, perspiring faces, when they had fairly effected
an entrance. For an hour at least this terrible crush continued. It
was such a crowd as Boston has never seen before. It is doubtful
whether any city has ever witnessed the like. And all this while all
the streets, even the spacious Common, were densely packed, so that
walking was impossible. The trees bore human fruit in black clusters.
The fences were selvedged with humanity. All the doorsteps of the
palatial stone fronts stood disgusted with the loads of country
cousins they were compelled to bear.
The audience inside the Coliseum was a scene for a lifetime. It gave
you an idea of the sublimity of humanity such as is rarely afforded.
There must have been, including the performers, 50,000 people inside
that building. Far as you could see, and you can see a great way in
that building, was one vast sea of human faces. It was a sublime
sight, and it was a beautiful sight as well, for the blues and
purples of the ladies' apparel catching the sunlight which streamed
in through the windows, made it seem like a garden of gorgeous
flowers, and shine in splendid contrast with the reds and yellows of
the flags and streamers, and when, in a moment of sudden applause,
the waving of handkerchiefs fluttered over this vast crowd, it was
hard to convince yourself that they were not white-winged birds,
flying over the throng. For a time, the rush inside the Coliseum was
almost as terrific as that outside.
Some delay was experienced in waiting for the President and his
staff, and when they did enter, the whole audience had become seated.
Their appearance was the signal for a general uprising. The great
organ pealed out above the multitudinous din, "See the Conquering
Hero Comes." He advanced to his seat, in the centre of the house,
amid a perfect storm of applause, waving of handkerchiefs, bravos and
cheers, and standing upon his sofa acknowledged them.
When the President had taken his seat and order was restored, Carl
Zerrahn took the conductor's stand to lead the festival overture,
based upon the Luther Choral, _Ein Feste Berg ist unser Gott_, the
simple theme of which had been sung the day before. The arrangement
is by Nicolai, and is in fugue treatment, opening with the theme for
all parts. The fugue is then taken by the orchestra and superbly
worked up. The chorus anon takes the same fugue, and closes by
returning to the original theme, which was given with immense power
and effect. The programme was mainly of an oratorio character, and
this school of music probably never before had such a magnificent
illustration. The dignity, grandeur and sublimity, and the solemn
power of the great oratorio master-pieces could never before have
been fully felt. The first selections were the "Glory to God in
the Highest," and the chorus, "And the Glory of the Lord shall be
Revealed," from the "Messiah," which were given with admirable effect
and with better singing than characterized the first day's concert.
The next number on the programme was the recitative and aria,
"_Non piu di fiori_," from Mozart's "La Clemenza di Tito," for
Miss Adelaide Phillipps, and as that lady came forward she was
received with very hearty applause, but not with that cordiality
of greeting I had expected to witness from a Boston audience to a
Boston singer. Her selection was a most unfortunate one. It was too
florid in character and marred the unity of the oratorio nature of
the performance. It would have been in much better taste also to
have selected something in English than in Italian. It is but simple
truth also to say that her singing was no better than her taste
in selection. She was not able to cope with the obstacles of the
house and the audience. But one tone of her voice was thoroughly
distinct at the rear of the hall. Her singing, at a distance, was
so very expressionless that it fell utterly cold and flat, and
people talked and turned uneasily in their seats. And perhaps it was
worse than all else that she did not sing true, and at one time was
almost hopelessly floating along upon a discord. Every advantage was
afforded her, for only a handful of instruments accompanied her, and
these were toned down to _pianissimo_. Her fine chest voice, which
is so effective on the operatic stage, was almost inaudible beyond
the centre of the hall. A flutter of applause ran over the audience
when she had finished, and then came Mendelssohn's magnificent
chorus from "Elijah"--"He watching over Israel." Zerrahn leaves the
orchestra in the hand of another conductor, and takes his place in
the centre of the vast chorus with baton in hand. There must be no
mistake made in Felix Mendelssohn's music. Its ineffable beauty
must not be marred by a single spot or flaw. And it was not. The
two conductors' batons moved as if they were in the hands of one,
and, from first to last, the chorus and orchestra were together in
perfect time and with the most tender regard for light and shade. I
could not help wishing that Felix Mendelssohn himself could have been
there. How small and feeble would the 500 Birmingham performers have
seemed to him in the presence of this vast multitude! How his great
heart would have rejoiced within him to have heard this chorus, so
full of dignity, and piety, and beauty, sung by such a massing of
voices and instruments! What letters he would have written to his
sister! To have heard that performance was the event of a lifetime,
for it may never be done again. Had I been Carl Zerrahn, it seems
to me, I should have been the happiest man in the world. If spirits
are allowed to visit this lower world, then certainly the spirit of
Mendelssohn must have been in that hall, and must have guided and
inspired that baton, for it held the singers, organ and instruments
together like magic, and when it had made its last beat, the audience
broke out into loud and long continued applause.
Parepa came upon the platform for the next number, "Let the Bright
Seraphim," from Handel, and received an ovation which even eclipsed
that given to the President. Arbuckle took his place beside her, to
play the trumpet _obligato_, using the cornet as players invariably
do. The instrument and voice were twins in time and tone, and the
responses of the singer to the trumpet came every time, as truthful
as an echo. I have never heard a more marvelously beautiful piece of
singing with an instrument, and, when it was finished, the applause
was almost deafening in every part of the vast building, the chorus
joining in with the audience. The cheers and bravos, which compelled
an _encore_, fairly shook the building.
In the interim, between the two parts, the Star-Spangled Banner
and the Anvil Chorus were repeated, for the gratification of the
President. In the second part, the C major symphony of Schubert was
given. The hour was growing late, and only the Andante and Finale
were played. "The Heavens are Telling," sung with immense effect,
closed the concert.
* * * * *
June 17, 1869.
The sudden death of Mrs. George L. Dunlap, of Chicago, during the
concert yesterday, has caused a widespread feeling of sadness here,
even among those who were not acquainted with her; while those who
did know her, and were familiar with her many lovely traits of
character, deeply feel this sudden bereavement. She passed away in
the twinkling of an eye, literally without warning, and expired in
the arms of one of her dearest friends, Mrs. Ellis, of Chicago. It
was a startling fact in the midst of so much life! Fifty thousand
hearts pulsating to the sublime music from the great chorus, and one
is suddenly stilled forever! No one among the many thousands who were
present yesterday entered with lighter heart, more buoyant spirits,
or apparently better health; and if you had been asked to select the
one in that great throng whom Death would strike first, she would
have been the last you would have selected. I saw her on Tuesday as
she sat in her place, her face beaming with delight as she listened
to the music, and I saw her again on yesterday, as she suddenly fell
into the arms of her brother like a rose snapped from its stem; and
I can scarcely yet comprehend that she is dead. She breathed her
last breath as Parepa was singing the angelic song, "Let the Bright
Seraphim," and she passed from among us and joined those seraphim
and continued the song. And it seems to me, if I had been permitted
to look into that far country, that I should have seen her sitting
by the side of the angelic old master, Handel, telling him of the
celestial song which so suddenly died upon her ears in the presence
of the vast multitude, whose song was as the voice of many waters,
and that I should have seen him bending forward, with a thoughtful
look, and listening to her as she told him of the "Messiah," which
she had heard on the day before she died. I know that she and the
master will be friends through all eternity, and thus the majesty of
genius and the beauty of loveliness will be joined together forever.
And to him who sits in bereavement to-day, may there come consolation
and the gift of the tender pity of the Great Father, and may the
darkened homes in Boston and Chicago be made holy for all his and
their coming days, with the recollections of her loveliness and true
womanly character.
It is a clear, cloudless day, and had that man Gilmore, with the
steam engine inside of him, made special arrangements with the
weather-clerk, he could not have secured a more auspicious day. The
crowd yesterday was great, but the crowd to-day is greater.
The programme to-day is purely a popular one. There are the overture
to Fra Diavolo, a Peace March composed for the occasion by Janotta,
whoever he is, which is not original and very tiresome; the
inevitable Anvil Chorus, with the artillery and bells; a sensational
and rather commonplace overture, built up by C. C. Converse, on
"Hail Columbia;" and national airs, which the orchestra flounder
through rather than play. Indeed, if you watch Wulf Fries, Rosa,
Schultze, or any of the leading players, you see their faces all
scowled up as they wade through so much musical swash, so unworthy
of the great orchestra. In fact, there is no atmosphere of art here
to-day. The only feature of interest in the Fra Diavolo overture is
the trumpet solo, which is taken by fifty instruments instead of
one, and gives out a clarion blast which might wake the dead. The
rest of the overture, however does not go well. The second violins
are shocking. Gilmore has not got them well in hand. In the Grand
March, done by Janotta for the occasion, there are reminiscences
all the way through, of Tannhauser, the Coronation and the Wedding
March, and the connecting links are very weak, sometimes almost
stupid. The man who writes marches for such an orchestra should
be inspired. He should feel the electricity of the great audience
tingling through his veins. Heavens! If only Beethoven, Mendelssohn,
Handel, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Rossini, anybody, were living to write for
this organ and orchestra. We want columbiads and have got pop-guns--a
mountain thunder-storm, and we have a silly April rain--a Jeremiah,
and we have nothing better than Daniel Pratt. Converse's trivial
arrangement of "Hail Columbia" is no better, perhaps not so good. It
is profanation to devote a thousand instruments and an organ four
times the power of that in the Music Hall to such commonplaces. The
old masters would have died contented once to have got the _baton_
in their hands with such a massing of instruments and voices for the
production of their works. Then, again, we are treated to Bilse's
"_Marche Militaire_," to the "Star Spangled Banner," the "Harp that
Once thro' Tara's Halls," and the overture to "Stradella," all
good enough in their way and in their place. But how feeble, how
purposeless, how silly they all are in this place! What does Hercules
want of a wax doll? Or Samson of a child's grasp to carry off the
gates of Gaza?
We have again the "Anvil Chorus." To be sure, it goes well. The
artillery is fired with strict precision, because it can't be fired
any other way. It emphasizes the initial notes of the bars very
grandly and very effectively, but then what is the use of emphasizing
such stuff at all? The firemen pound their anvils very precisely, and
on the very second of time, and make a very hearty cling-clang; but
it would be to more purpose were a hundred horses waiting to be shod.
There is no music in all this. It is noisy; it is sensational; it is
humbug; it is anything you please--but music. And yet the audience
is hugely delighted and they demand the _bis_ each day; and this,
too, in Boston, where the purists live--where art is supposed to have
its home and flourish like the green bay tree. Tell it not in Gath
that a Boston audience has _encored_ Verdi's Anvil Chorus, performed
by red-shirted firemen, batteries of artillery, etc., and allowed
the grand chorals of Luther and "He Watching Over Israel," which
were done as they have never been done before--which were so full of
sublimity and majesty and dignity, and so musically excellent in
their treatment that it made one's heart fairly stop beating--to go
by almost without recognition. It seemed to me that all possibilities
of life and all conditions of the hereafter were bound up in that
performance of Mendelssohn's chorus. Zerrahn himself approached it
with fear and trembling. The organ was silenced. The instruments were
toned down. He would not even trust himself upon the conductor's
stand, but took his place right in the heart of the vast chorus. How
sweetly the sopranos take the opening of the theme, and then come
the tenors alone--"Shouldst thou walking in grief." How sublimely
that prayer is delivered? Then how part after part rises in splendid
climax and finally dies away in a soft _piano_, with just the
faintest ripple of sounding, like the plashing of waves on a beach,
stealing across the orchestra! There is a slapping of hands among the
audience as if the music had been tolerated, but they will go crazy
when the Anvil Chorus comes.
To-day, I have sat within three rows of the conductor's stand. The
effect is very grand, but it is more noise than music, and you
can put nothing together. If you go to the rear of the hall, you
get a better harmonic blending and less noise. Indeed, a thousand
performers in Farwell Hall would make just as much noise as the
ten thousand performers do in the Coliseum, or, rather, the effect
would strike you with equal power. It is probable that no amount
of technical skill upon the part of the conductor, or of force and
fidelity upon the part of the singers, could change this. It is
impossible for such a great body of sound, occupying such a vast
space, to reach a single ear with anything like its full force, or
even with any degree of regularity; and if you watch the conductor,
you will be still more confused, for, apparently, he is beating
ahead of time--such is the discrepancy of time between the blow of
the baton and the speed with which time travels. The chorus may, and
with trivial exceptions does, follow the beat of the conductor with
great precision, but the confusion is always noticeable. Again, the
distance from those in the rear of the chorus to the front ranks is
very large, and, although all may start upon the beat, by the time
the sounds reach you, there is a difference, very slight, it is true,
but nevertheless perceptible, especially in words ending with "s,"
"t," or any harsh letter. In the long notes of the chorals which are
decidedly _the_ features of the concert, you do not notice it so
much, but, in many of the quick choruses, sometimes everything seems
at sea to you, when, in reality, it is going very smoothly. With so
vast a chorus, also, it is very difficult to preserve the delicate
transitions. You can get a _fortissimo_ or a _pianissimo_, but it is
extremely difficult to get the _forte_ and _piano_. The tendency of
this multitude is either to sing too loud or too soft, and there is
the same fact noticeable upon the part of the orchestra. With the
organ it is different. Mr. Wilcox, at any moment he pleases, has
the power in his hands to drown chorus and orchestra both, with its
thunder. Its tones fairly pierce through and through the aggregate of
sound at times with almost startling effect, and, wherever there is a
weak spot, it can be covered up without difficulty. In the chorals,
the power is specially manifested. In the hands of a skillful person,
one beat of a baton would be all that was necessary to keep the
chorus to its work. It could not get away from that organ if it
tried--the pedal bass is so immense, so uplifting and so sustaining.
I think there is a universal disappointment in regard to the volume
of sound to be produced by this chorus. People have imagined that
the sound of ten thousand voices in the Coliseum, for instance,
would be ten times as loud as one thousand voices in the Music Hall;
but in reality it is no louder. They did not make calculations for
the increased size of the building and the obstacles placed in the
way of the traveling of sound and grasping it with the ear. My own
disappointment has been a happy one. I had thought the noise would
be simply noise, but the noise has been music. It has now been
thoroughly proved that a chorus and orchestra of this size can be
manipulated and not only be made to sing and play together, but to
sing and play with expression and even approximate to a certain
degree of light and shade. But yet, apart from the magnetism, there
is in such a vast human presence, I do not see that the increase in
numbers is really an advantage in making effects. It was a splendid
experiment to try, however, and it speaks volumes for the skill of
Mr. Gilmore, who conceived and organized it, and for Mr. Zerrahn, who
has conducted the oratorio and classical parts of the programme.
* * * * *
June 18, 1869.
The crowd is not quite so large as that of yesterday, and yet the
building is well filled. The programme was almost exclusively
classical, and was opened with Weber's brilliant "Jubilee Overture,"
with the baton in Eichberg's hands. It was not given very effectively
until the national theme in the _finale_ was reached. This was played
superbly by the brasses. The Fifth Symphony of Beethoven was only
given in part, the _Andante_ and last half of the _Finale_ being
played. It was something to be grateful for, to get even a fraction
of the symphony, but it seemed almost cruel to cut the work or
mar its unity in the least. It is the first time I have seen the
orchestra really get down to its work as if they loved it. There was
no talking among them, no listlessness. Every man sat in his place
as eager for the start as a hound to slip from his leash, one eye
upon Zerrahn, and the other upon his score. Two policemen standing
in the aisle near the first violinists are talking together, and
Carl Rosa and a half dozen others snap at them to stop their gossip.
_Apropos_ of Carl Rosa, he has proved himself an artist through this
jubilee. He has been in his place every day promptly at the hour, and
has played through every note of every programme. I regret that Ole
Bull, who has been in the city during the whole week, only appeared
on the opening day. It will be a matter of surprise to his admirers
that he should so far have lacked enthusiasm as to absent himself
upon such an occasion. The two movements of the symphony were played
conscientiously and _con amore_, and there was little to ask for
which was not given in its production.