Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), January 3, 1846, vol. 2, no. 26, p. ???-???

[page 404, column 2, continued:]

“The Aristidean, for November.”

“The Aristidean for December,” by THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH and numerous collaborators.

These two numbers have been lying on our table for some time, and we have not been able to give them a proper notice. The November number contains some especially bold and racy articles — among the rest, a stirring tale called “Ferrando the Avenger.” The poetry is not so good as usual, which is a pity, as the “Aristidean” has hitherto held an unquestionable pre-eminence [page 405:] in that way. There is a queer paper, “The Dearborn Poems,” which contains some piquant satire. The article on “American Poetry,” is very biting, but, unfortunately, very true. There is a very able and dignified article “On the Penalty of Death.” The book notices are spirited and independent, and the remaining articles are above the mass of magazine papers, in quality. One of these we extract below; we believe it to be from the pen of Herrman S. Saroni. It is, unquestionably, very original, in conception and execution.

THE SELF-PERFORMERS.

“Bravo! bravissimo!” cried the audience, as they left the concert-room of the Conservatoire at MILAN. A symphony, by a new master, had just been performed. The public had expected nothing; and so much were they surprised at the beauty of the new composition, that after an hour of intense silence, they could vent nothing but ejaculations of delight. The young master, himself, yet sat pondering over the score of his favorite creation. lie had, at length, accomplished his long-cherished object. A composition of his own had been performed, with distinguished success, before a critical and intelligent audience. Intoxicated with success, and yet dizzy from the thunders of applause, he read the score over and over again, with intense admiration. His eye beamed with pleasure, and all his troubles seemed forgotten. He blessed the old schoolmaster who had beaten counterpoint into him. With deep pleasure he brought to mind the petty strife with his little MARY, who, when he was tired of the study of music, always urged him to renewed exertion. “Oh! MARY,” thought he, “were you only here to witness the triumph of your CARLO.” He was interrupted in his musing by a strain of his symphony, which he thought he heard in the distance. “I must be mistaken,” said he, “it is the air through a half-opened window, sighing against the instruments around me. Hark! another strain. It is the adagio of the first part, coming nearer and nearer. I can now hear the different instruments distinctly.”

It was indeed an attempt to perform the adagio of the symphony. A rustling was heard in the orchestra. The musicians had left their instruments behind; and the forgotten things chose to have a little performance on their own hook. While the horns and trumpets were getting out of their chests, the flute was conversing with the oboe and clarionet, the fagotti gave his opinion of the merit of the composition — trying a snatch of it now and then — and even the piccolo, spoke up at the highest pitch of his voice. Next, the contrabasso, first in a gentle murmur, then in a serious grumble, and at last, in quite angry thunder, reproached them with mutilating the work of his favorite composer. Supported by the violins, violoncellos and violas, he at last gained the desired point over the assembled wind-instruments; and they all agreed to perform the symphony over again, under the direction of the venerable double-bass, himself. They yielded, on the condition that one of the first-violins should assist in the direction. The instruments were tuned, the double-bass placed himself at the leader's stand, and a first-violin part served as a partition. The baton was raised, and with a tremendous crash, the orchestra fell in.

The flutes, clarionet and fagotti, first played a passage in inverted chords and double-harmonies. “Double-bass!” cried the leader, after a few minutes — A, D, E, F; but no double-bass was to be found.

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled the oboe, “does the fool think that some one else will play his part? As for me, I shall not, for one; but perhaps the piccolo will be kind enough to do the job.” But the piccolo was too high in pitch, the bassoon had plenty of solos himself, the violoncello was too weak, the corni could not play the chromatic scale, and the trombone was altogether too loud. A general confusion ensued, and the whole affair had like to have been broken up, when a tap by the leader brought all to order again.

“Gentlemen,” said he to the orchestra, “I forgot, when I undertook to lead, that I could not play at the same time. But it will never do to give it up so,’ and we must find means to perform this symphony in a manner worthy of ourselves.”

“Bravo! bravo!” was the reply of the orchestra.

“If that stupid old fool had sense enough to take a part, all would go well yet,” said the bassoon, pointing to a venerable, worn-out double-bass, who rested on the laurels he had won in former years. [column 2:]

The composer, trembling all the while for the fate of his darling symphony, no sooner perceived the old double-bass in the corner, than seizing the first bow he could find, he grasped the “stupid old fool,” by the neck, and took a stand near the violoncello.

“Bravo! bravo!” screamed the orchestra. The leader turned round, nodded his approbation, and rapping with his baton on the tin, called out — “ Symphony da capo!”

The introduction and first allegro were now performed. All went on well, except that the oboe and the flute quarreled on a fortissimo passage, because the flute found the oboe rather too noisy and harsh.

“Bravissimo, young man,” said the double-bass to the young maestro. “It is a pity you had not stronger nerves; what a capital double-bass you would make.”

“How beautifully he has written this passage for me,.’ said the clarionet.

“He writes for me almost as well as I could for myself,” said the saucy piccolo.

The instruments were tuned again, and at a signal from the leader they resumed their proper position. The violins leaned against the music-stands, the trombone hung itself on a chandelier, the violoncello rested on a small bench, and the others chose such positions as best suited their inclinations. The andante began with two corni, followed in succession by the fagotto, oboe and flute. The oboe came in one bar too soon, but a gentle thump from the fagotto reminded her of her whereabouts, and set all right again. The theme began by the corni, was carried through by the different instruments, and ended with a crescendo de crescendo on the drums. No! no! there are the stringed-instruments, with three chords pizzicato. Another pleasant nod from the leader was the reward of the composer, from whom the perspiration now ran in a stream.

“Hurrah for the scherzo!” cried the trumpets; “plenty of work there for us.”

“Hurrah for the scherzo!” responded the violins, “our fingers will have no time to freeze, there.”

“Hurrah for the scherzo!” blasted the trombone.

“Hurrah!” groaned the double-bass from the leader's stand.

The scherzo began. All went on peaceably for a short time until the flute, thinking the piccolo was out of time, gave the latter a kick, which sent him half-a-dozen yards from the stand. But the piccolo took his part with him, and getting a stand near the violins, screamed away to his heart's delight. His new neighbors, unaccustomed to such a noise in their vicinity, got angry; and a pinch in the sides from one of them, completely overturned the piccolo's ideas of high and low. The unfortunate wight ran from one place to another, in despair, though never omitting to take his part with him, and play, whenever he thought it his turn. At length he popped into one of the ƒ holes of the double-bass, and thus protected from the persecutions of his comrades, reflected on his singular in the belly of a double-bass, like that of JONAH in the inside of the whale. But if he thought himself safe here from persecution, he was mistaken; for not a minute had elapsed, when in peeps the head of the oboe, and the body soon followed.

“All safe here, brother piccolo?” inquired the new-corner.

“All right, sister oboe,” answered the other; “but how, in the devil's name, did you come here?”

“In the same manner as I shall send you out, presently, if you do not behave yourself.”

“Well, I had a great mind to laugh, when I saw you squeezing yourself through that f hole there, an aperture almost too narrow for my slender figure; but a passage I had to play, in octaves, with the flute, just then prevented me.”

“And very well for you,” said the oboe, “or you would not have enjoyed this place, snug enough for even decent people, like myself. Now, sir, look to your part, and disturb me no more.”

They both played on for some time, when the oboe had sixty bars rest. “Come, brother,” affectionately said the oboe, “let me tell you what sent me to keep company with a screamer like you, in this accursed place, where the most sentimental passages sound like the voices of demons from the infernal regions.”

“I cannot say that of myself,” replied the piccolo. “I think they know out there where my domicile is.”

Ah!” exclaimed the oboe,” there is my turn again. Not for the world could I miss a single note of that symphony, for I mean to make that young fellow, its author, write a concerto for me.”

The next rest for the oboe gave her a chance to continue her narration, for the piccolo was then as busy as a bee. It appeared [page 406:] that the trombone, who, as we have stated, had hung himself on a chandelier, thought he heard a wrong note. He listened attentively, but could discover nothing, until the oboe, playing a passage out of time, he could distinguish her voice easily; and such playing was more than he could bear. His blood boiled with rage; but he reserved his revenge for a more favorable opportunity. Presently a fortissimo passage gave him a fine chance, and with a tremendous blast, he sent the oboe — poor thing! heels over head, against the violoncello. The blast was so powerful, that she rebounded; but, most unfortunately, leaped right into the funnel of the horn. This, of course, threw a damper on the spirits of that instrument, and lowered it a semi-tone in pitch. Enraged at what it deemed to be a malicious trick, the horn played with double force, until the oboe was driven out, and sent, by a strong blast, right into the arms of the drum, and such a flogging as it received there, one cannot imagine. A fortissimo tremolo gave a good chance to the drum to take revenge for those tricks, played him by the oboe, on many occasions. Breathless and exhausted, our poor sufferer at last found a shelter inside of the double-bass.

The violins, violoncello and double-bass, had no time to carry on a quarrel. Besides, they found it far beneath their dignity to mingle with the common crowd, since it was their duty to maintain the reputation of the orchestra. But the flutes, clarionets, second oboe, corni, trombones and trumpets had a jolly time of it. The trombone tried to drown the voices of all the others; but, at the first chance, they combined against him, and nothing was heard of the trombone. At one time, he grew very angry, for he thought that the drum had spoiled the effect of a beautiful passage where he could blast ad libitum. So he took a long draught, on playing the double e's, and tried to hit the sticks of the drum; but the latter was prepared for him, and, with one stick, took the other and hurled it at the trombone. The latter, bewildered with fright, threw the stick at the leader on the stand, and just then the scherzo ended. And none need suppose the scherzo to have been a failure; for this quarreling took place in the proper place, as the composer wrote forte, fortissimo, piano or pianissimo in the score, and all the fighting was done in the rests that occurred.

The scherzo being over, the oboe peeped out of one ƒ hole, and the piccolo out of the other; and encouraged by the benignant smiles of the stringed-instruments, ventured to return to their old places. The first bassoon taking them under his special protection, they were easily reconciled to the trombone and the rest. The leader returned the stick to the drum, the first violin put on a new E string, and in a few minutes all were ready to continue. Prestissimo was the appendix to the last part of the symphony; but the leader thought that presto, under existing circumstances, was as much as they were capable to do. The baton again sounded on the tin; and away they all went, tearing everything with them, in their eagerness to do justice to the spirit of the composition. The corni were the first, who — after playing a beautiful passage in 6-8 time, gave in — the trombones soon followed — and the trumpets, after a brilliant fanfare, with drum accompaniment, bade good-bye to the rest, and returned to their respective chests. The piccolo played on until entirely out of breath, and then fell, like a lump of lead, on the ground. Flutes, clarionets, oboes and bassoons bore up bravely; but they could not resist the supernatural power which hurried them on to the yawning abyss — the end of the symphony. One more shriek, and they were silent as the grave. The stringed-instruments alone were now masters of the field. Encouraged by an occasional bravo from the leader, they fiddled and fiddled until a tremolo fortissimo set them raving mad, and an arpeggio chord put an end to their dominion. The leader laid down his baton, and fell in the arms of the young composer; and the latter, with the score in one hand, a bow in the other, and a double-bass on each side of him, was found the next morning by his alarmed friends.

We shall notice the December number next week, making it the basis of an article upon magazines.