this case there is no comfort or escape for him; his only resource is to accept the reversed order of things suggested, to subordinate himself to the needs of the moment, and accompany the piano instead of being accompanied by it. Or, again, although not nervous himself, he may become the cause of nervousness in others; the player who accompanies him maybe forced into that position by knowing that she is the only person with any qualification for it, however small. She may play each note with a dread that the next will be wrong, which in course of time will overmaster her, turning her head into a phantasmagoria where notes shift with endless confusion, and her fingers into things of a woollen consistency without force or feeling. If the singer manages to maintain his presence of mind under these trying circumstances, he may, by a rapid dexterity, omit several bars and bring the song to a conclusion without the catastrophe of a breakdown. But in any case he will be overwhelmed with remorse for the suffering which he has caused to an innocent being who was happy before he became the means of throwing a gloom over her evening.
These are some of the misfortunes to which amateurs are liable. They may, however, find comfort for the want of understanding among their audiences in an incident which may be taken as typical. A professional singer who had retired into domestic life appeared as a private guest at a party, and sang a famous piece of Gluck's with a force and precision which only the best professional singers attain. She was listened to with a cold compassion and kind condescension by the larger portion of the society, amongst whom one who held himself to be a fine musical critic observed, "Very kind of her, poor thing! But she cannot touch that music." Then came forward a singer of great renown, who had been unnoticed in the crowd, and pressing forward to the piano, enthusiastically seized the hands of the performer and exclaimed, "Do not tell me that you are an amateur. I recognize in you a great — a sister artist."
For want of judgment, however, on the part of those who listen to music in drawing-rooms, considerable excuse may be found in the kind of music which they are often condemed to hear. Among the many rare gifts which seem to be nowadays considered common to the greater part of the world that of musical excellence is not omitted. The same folly which induces misguided persons to imagine that they can string together a readable novel without any knowledge of character or grammar, and act a difficult part with no understanding of stage requirements, has led them to say with Bottom, "I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the tongs and the bones." For the many attempts at playing by those who have no touch, and at singing by those who have no ear, the system of education which teaches children a certain set of things without any reference to their individual capacity for them is in great measure responsible. But the worst specimens of musical incompetency which may be heard in drawing-rooms are due to the want of perception and the vanity of those who exhibit the specimens. There are many men and women who might sing or play agreeably if they would confine themselves to things within their powers; but vaulting ambition carries them pell-mell into the dangers of difficult music which can only be encountered successfully after years of study and practice, and makes of the struggles which, it is to be hoped, are more painful to their hearers than themselves, a terrible warning. When one has been present at one or two performances of this kind, one can understand the feelings of a professor of music who was gifted with a very tender conscience besides a great talent, and, being asked the reason of an unusual fit of gloom, replied, "Well, I am just thinking whether I ought to go on teaching these amateurs. They come and learn, but they understand nothing; and they mostly have voices like little cats."
No less terrible than the amateur who has no talent for music is he who has a great deal of talent and so much enthusiasm that his mind is incapable of taking thought for anything else. If, having some love for music yourself, you are unfortunate enough to encounter a fanatic of this description, and unsuspectingly reveal that you have some sympathy with his hard-ridden hobby, your doom is sealed. Having caught a congenial spirit, he will never, so long as he can avoid it, let go his grasp. He will discourse to you for hours upon the third manner of Beethoven and the dash exhibited by Verdi in his terzetti. His own life is written upon music-paper, his minutes are counted by crotchets and quavers, and he is unable to perceive that yours can possibly have any other interests.
