terrible grotesque only at rare intervals, when they felt equal only to the lighter and more superficial view of things. And conversely, we often see men who profess to be no more than caricaturists, or chroniclers of every-day life and habit, rise into the sublime or terrible; as Cruikshank very frequently, or as Leech in the wellknown woodcut of "General Février." We have seen, too, how the highest efforts of men's genius involve them in the symbolic grotesque, where their brain vividly sets before them pictures which their hands can scarce record, so that, as Mr.. Ruskin points out, all representations of the visions or parables of the Old Testament must be grotesque in art,-as the fat and lean kine of Joseph, the parables of Abimelech and Joash, and many of the prophetic visions of Daniel and Ezekiel. Perhaps the best example which we can choose may be one of the most familiar. All know how the four beasts of the Apocalypse have always been held as symbols of the four Evangelists, and almost all will have seen representations of them. Many perhaps have made the attempt, and felt the difficulty, of picturing on their own brain what manner of vision that was which revealed those indescribable forms to the inner eye of the beloved disciple. It will be seen and felt that all such attempts issue in grotesque, sometimes of the wildest character: and of this Albert Dürer's woodcuts of the Apocalypse are perhaps the best and readiest examples. The name of Dürer brings us nearer to the grotesque of our own day, which his genius has so strongly affected. His works and his character of mind present strangely marked points of contrast with those of William Blake. Perhaps a comparison might be sustained between Dürer and Blake, analogous to that which is drawn out between him and Salvator in the fifth volume of "Modern Painters." Living almost without sight of any great natural beauty, Blake had to fall back on school instruction on the antique, and to appeal too exclusively to the human figure, for that beauty which was the very desire of his soul; and so he came, as he said, to find Nature rather in his way. The citizen of Nuremberg had much natural beauty always within his reach in the Franconian Switzerland and elsewhere. The life he saw round him was not too painful or unsightly, nor were the inconsistencies of other men's conduct and faith too much for him. He felt that he had faith, and hope in death, in common with other men, instead of living in mournful sectarian independence,-naturally suspected as a "freethinker" in days when to think correctly and to think earnestly seem to have been things irreconcileable. The effect of Dürer's labours on modern art and thought must be very great it is difficult to form an estimate of the suggestive power of such works as the "Melancholia," or the "Knight and Death." He is one of those late workmen of great name, whose influence over men depends rather on their engravings than their paintings. This may be said confidently of Dürer and Blake, and, with some truth at least, of Rembrandt, Turner, and Hogarth. We do not know if the question has been fairly entered into, how far painful or ordinary subjects are unfit for colour-treatment. Perhaps one may rightly feel that there are many "motives" for pictorial illustration, which are so distressing in their nature, that no man ought to be capable of treating them with that cool elaboration which is really necessary for good colour. Such are many of Dürer's subjects, and especially the two great modern woodcuts by Alfred Rethel, called "Death the Avenger" and "Death the Friend." However this may be, "immensum confecimus æquor," and we have reached our limits,-that is to say, we have arrived at the threshold of the schools of Modern Realist art. As yet, we seem to have got no farther than to point to the two beginnings of Christian art; to notice how the early and artless Realism of the Catacombs, driven into convents for protection, left later ages only the faint traditions of Byzantine art, which sufficed, however, to impress Cimabue, and Angelico, and Francia, and Perugino, and so, through Rafael's works, formed the traditional feeling of the Purist schools. We have seen also, that among the first Teutonic workers were men who desired to paint or carve all things and all thoughts; yet that many and the best of them have been men earnest in the Christian faith, and have desired and rejoiced to think that they and their labours form a part of Christian teaching. Such men have lived in all times; and Giotto is perhaps their first great representative. Then we tried to show how symbolism began necessarily with the attempts of zealous workmen to realize difficult -nay, impossible-conceptions, and, in short, to express the ineffable; and how the very first Teutonic workers introduced their spirit of surprise and laughter into their symbolisms, and appealed to the spirit of strangeness, sometimes in sport, sometimes for terror; and we glanced at the many and wonderfully various forms which the consequent grotesques assumed; and pointed to the analogy between Egyptian forms of asp and hawk, and Ninevite bulls and eagles, and Veronese griffins, and the endless imaginations of Gothic carvings, illuminations, and heraldry. And we have tried to show the two sides of Teutonic grotesque,-its seriousness because of the shadow of coming death, and its humour which defied death, because of the strangeness, and eagerness, and intensity of life,-the double work in man of God's gift of strength and his greater gift of faith. We hope to trace this farther, and to illustrate all from modern work, especially from the labours of workmen of our own mixed and manysided race, which perhaps of all others best bears out the old Homeric epithet of ἀλφήστης ἀνὴρ, Man the Seeker. R. ST. JOHN TYRWHITT. SCHUBERT AND CHOPIN. IN Franz Schubert. One Volume. Wien: H. Kreiszle. London: W. H. Lucrezia Floriani. One Volume. Bruxelles: George Sand. 1846. passing from the great gods of music, like MOZART and BEETHOVEN, to those delightful tone-poets and singers with which Germany has of late abounded, we could scarcely find any names more dear to the heart of the true musician than those of FRANZ SCHUBERT and FREDERIC CHOPIN. Schubert, the prince of lyrists-Chopin, the most romantic of pianoforte writers, Schubert rich with an inexhaustible fancy-Chopin perfect with an exquisite finish, each reaching a supreme excellence in his own department, whilst one narrowly escaped being greatest in all-both occupied intensely with their own meditations, and admitting into them little of the outer world-both too indifferent to the public taste to become immediately popular, but too remarkable to remain long unknown-both exhibiting in their lives and in their music striking resemblances and still more forcible contrasts -both now so widely admired and beloved in this country-so advanced and novel, that although Schubert has been in his grave for thirty-eight years and Chopin for seventeen, yet to us they seem to have died but yesterday-these men, partners in the common sufferings of genius, and together crowned with immortality in death, may well claim from us the tribute of memory to their lives, and of homage to their inspiration. In the parish of Lichtenthal, Vienna, the inhabitants are fond of pointing out a house commonly known by the sign of the "Red Crab," which, in addition to the above intelligent and interesting symbol, bears the decoration of a small grey marble tablet, with the inscription "Franz Schubert's Geburtshaus." On the right hand is a sculptured lyre, on the left, a wreath, with the date of the composer's birth, January 31, 1797. Franz Schubert was the youngest son of Franz and Elizabeth Schubert; he had eighteen brothers and sisters, few of whom lived very long. His father was a poor schoolmaster, who, having little else to bestow upon his children, took care to give them a good education. "When he was five years old," his father writes, "I prepared him for elementary instruction, and at six I sent him to school; he was always one of the first amongst his fellow-scholars." As in the case of Mozart and Mendelssohn, the ruling passion was early manifested, and nature seemed to feel that a career so soon to be closed by untimely death must be begun with the tottering steps and early lisp of childhood. From the first, Schubert entered upon music as a prince enters upon his own dominions. What others toiled for he won almost without an effort. Melody flowed from him like perfume from a rose, harmony was the native atmosphere he breathed. Like Händel and Beethoven, he retained no master for long, and soon learned to do without the assistance of any. His father began to teach him music, but found that he had somehow mastered the rudiments for himself. Holzer, the Lichtenthal choir master, took him in hand, but observed that "whenever he wanted to teach him anything, he knew it already;" and some years afterwards, Salieri, who considered himself superior to Mozart, admitted that his pupil Schubert was a born genius, and could. do whatever he chose. At the age of eleven, Schubert was a good. singer, and also an accomplished violinist; the composing mania soonafterwards set in, and at thirteen his consumption of music paper was. something enormous. Overtures, symphonies, quartetts, and vocal pieces, were always forthcoming, and enjoyed the advantage of being performed every evening at the concerts of the "Convict "+ school,.. where he was now being educated-Schubert regarding this as by far the most important part of the day's work. At times music had to be pursued under difficulties, Adagios had to be written between the pauses of grammar and mathematics, and Prestos finished off when the master's back was turned. Movements had to be practised, under some discouragements, during the hours of relaxation. "On one occasion," writes a friend, "I represented the audience: there was no fire, and the room was frightfully cold!" At the age of eleven, he * Salieri, born 1750, died 1825, now chiefly remembered as the person to whom Beethoven dedicated three sonatas. † A sort of free grammar school, where poor students were boarded gratuitously. had been admitted as chorister into the Imperial choir, then under the direction of Salieri, where he remained until 1813, when his voice broke. There can be no doubt that Salieri, the avowed rival of Mozart, and as narrow and jealous a man as ever lived, was very fond of Schubert, and exercised an important influence over his studies; and yet it would be impossible to conceive of two minds musically less congenial. Salieri was devoted to Italian tradition, and was never even familiar with the German language, although he had lived in Germany for fifty years. Schubert was the apostle of German romanticism, and almost the founder of the German ballad, as distinct from the French and Italian Romance. Schubert thought Beethoven a great composer Salieri considered him a very much overrated man; Schubert worshipped Mozart, Salieri was inexorable for him. It was evident that persons holding such dissimilar views would not long remain in the relation of master and pupil, and one day, after a bitter dispute over a Mass of Schubert's, out of which Salieri had struck all the passages which savoured of Haydn or Mozart, the recalcitrant pupil refused to have anything more to do with such a man as a teacher. It is pleasing, however, to find that this difference of opinion was not followed by any personal estrangement; and whilst Schubert always remained grateful to Salieri, Salieri watched with affectionate interest the rapid progress of his favourite pupil. The boyish life of Schubert was not marked by any peculiarities apart from his devotion to music. He was light-hearted, disposed to make the best of his scanty income, a dutiful and obedient son, fond of society, and of all kinds of amusement. We find nothing to account for the lugubrious titles which belong to so many of his early works, and which seem to fall across the spring-time of his life like the prophetic shadows of coming sorrow and disappointment. Between the ages of eleven and sixteen his compositions were "A Complaint," "Hagar's Lament," "The Parricide," and "A Corpse Fantasia!" He left the "Convict Academy" in his seventeenth year (1813), and returning to his father's house engaged himself vigorously in the tuition of little boys. The next three years were passed in this delightful occupation, but the continuous stream of his music never ceased, and 1815 is marked as the most prolific year of his life. It witnessed the production of more than a hundred songs, half-a-dozen operas and operettas, several symphonic pieces, church music, chamber music, &c., &c. It is remarkable that at this early period he wrote some of his finest songs, and that whilst many of his larger works at that time, and for some years afterwards, continued to bear a strong resemblance to Mozart, some of these ballads are like no one but himself at his very best. Such are the "Mignon Songs," 1815, and the "Songs from Ossian." |