University of Virginia Library

14. MUSIC MAD;
OR, THE MELOMANIAC.

To be thin-skinned may add to the brilliancy and to
the beauty of the complexion; but, as this world goes,
it is more of a disadvantage than a blessing. Where
there is so much scraping and shaving, the cuticle of a
rhinoceros is decidedly the most comfortable wear; and to
possess any of the senses beyond a certain degree of
acuteness may be regarded as a serious misfortune. It
opens the door to an infinite variety of annoyances.
There are individuals with noses as keen as that of a
beagle; but whether they derive more of pleasure or of
pain from the faculty, is a question easily answered when
the multiplicity of odors is called to mind. To be what
the Scotch term “nose-wise,” sometimes, it is true,
answers a useful purpose, in preventing people in the
dark from drinking out of the wrong bottle, and from administering
the wrong physic; it has also done good
service in enabling its possessor to discover an incipient
fire; but such occasions for the advantageous employment
of the proboscis are not of every-day occurrence,
and, on the general average, its exquisite organization is
an almost unmitigated nuisance to him who is obliged
to follow from his cradle to his grave, a nose so delicately
constituted, so inconveniently hypercritical, so frequently
discontented, and so intolerably fastidious.

They, likewise, who are gifted with that which is
technically termed a “fine ear,” have sufferings peculiar
to themselves, and, like the king of Denmark, receive
their poison through the porches of the auricle. They
are the victims of sound. It is conceded that from good
music they derive pleasures of which the rest of the
world can form but a faint conception; but, notwithstanding
the rage for its cultivation, really good music is
not quite so plentiful as might be supposed, and the pain
inflicted on the “family of fine ear” by the inferior article
is not to be expressed in words. A discord passes
through them as freezingly as if it were a bolt of ice; a
flat note knocks them down like a mace; and, if the
vocalist flies into the opposite extreme, and indulges in
being a “little sharp,” all the acids of the shop could not
give the unhappy critic a more vinegar aspect, or more
effectually set his teeth one edge. To him a noise is not
simply a noise in the concrete; the discriminating
powers of his tympanum will not suffer him, as it were,
to lump it as an infernal clatter. Like a skilful torturer,
he analyzes the annoyance; he augments the pain by
ascertaining exactly why the cause is unpleasant, and by
observing the relative discordance of the components,
which, when united, almost drive him mad. The drum
and the fife, for instance, do very well for the world at
large; but “the man with the ear” is too often agonized
at perceiving how seldom it is that the drumstick
twirler braces his sheepskin to the proper pitch, and he
cannot be otherwise than excruciated at the piteous
squeaking of its imperfect adjunct—that “false one”
which is truly a warlike instrument, being studiously
and successfully constructed for offence, if not for defence.

Now it so happens that Matthew Minim is a man

with an ear, his tympanum being a piece of most elaborate
workmanship. He could sing before he could talk,
and his early musical experiments were innumerable.
The first use he made of his teeth was to bite his nurse
for singing one strain of “hush-a-by-baby,” in three
keys; and he could scarcely be prevailed upon to look at
his pa, because that respectable individual, with a perversity
peculiar to the incompetent, was always subjecting
poor “Hail Columbia” to the Procrustean bed of his
musical capabilities, and, while whistling to show his
own light-heartedness, did any thing but communicate
corresponding pleasure to his auditors.

“Screw it up, poppy,” would little Minim exclaim,
with the expression of one upon the rack; “screw it up,
and keep it there. What's the use of chasing a tune all
about?”

But in some mouths a tune will run all about of itself,
let their lips be puckered ever so tightly, and there is no
composition of a popular nature which is so often heard
performing that erratic feat as the one familiarly termed
“Hail Curlumby.” Matthew's “poppy,” therefore, remained
a tune-chaser, while Matthew himself went on
steadily in the work of cultivating his ear, and of enlarging
his musical knowledge. He, of course, commenced
his studies with the flute, which may be regarded among
men and boys as the first letter of the alphabet in musical
education. He then amused himself with the fiddle—tried
the French horn for a season, varying the
matter by a few lessons upon the clarionet and hautboy,
and finally improving his powers of endurance by a little
practising of the Kent bugle. He at length became a
perfect melomaniac, and was always in danger of being
indicted as a nuisance by his less scientific neighbours,
whose ears were doomed to suffer both by night and by

day. The twangling of stringed instruments was the
only relief they could obtain from the blasts of those
more noisy pieces of mechanism which receive voice
from the lips, and it has even been supposed that Matthew
Minim ranged his bugles, trumpets, and fiddles by
the side of his bed, that he might practise between
sleeps.

Not long since, Matthew Minim was returning from
a musical party late at night, and his friend Jenkinson
Jinks, who is likewise a votary of the divine art, was
with him. Minim carried his flute in a box under his
arm, and Jinks bore his fiddle in a bag on his shoulder.

“Nature,” observed Minim, “is the most perfect of
musicians; she never violates the rules of composition,
and though her performers are often noisy, yet, so long as
they attempt no more than is jotted down for them, they
are always in time and in tune. In fact, the world is one
great oratorio. Hark!—listen! throw aside vulgar prejudices,
and hear how chromatic and tender are the voices
of those cats in the kennel!—consider it as the balcony
scene from Romeo e Giulietta—how perfectly beautiful
that slide! how exact the concord between the rotund bass
notes of Thomas Cat, and the dulcet intonations of the
feminine pussy, and how sparkling the effect produced
by the contrast in the alternate passages! They are the
Fornasari and the Pedrotti of this moonlit scene. Bellini
himself, with all his flood of tenderness, never produced
any thing more characteristic, appropriate, and
touching; nor could the most accomplished artistes give
the idea of the composer with more fidelity.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Jenkinson Jinks, who was not altogether
capable of entering into the spirit of the refined
abstractions in which, after supper, his companion was
prone to indulge.

“Ph-i-t! — ph-i-z!” exclaimed the cats, as they
scampered away in alarm at the approach of the musicians.

“Staccato and expressive in execution,” said Jinks;
“but certainly not stay-cat-o in effect.”

“Admirable!” remarked Minim—“Phit and phiz are
the exact phrase to express in short metre that it is time
to be off like a shot, and the notes in which they were uttered
are those best calculated to convey the sense of the
passage.”

“A very rapid passage it was, too,” added Jinks;
“quite a roulade—the performers are running divisions
up and down old Boodle's fence—a passage from the
oratorio of `Mosey' perhaps.”

“I bar punning,” ejaculated Minim, impatiently; “and
to elucidate my theory upon the subject of natural music,
and to prove—”

“Categorically?” inquired Jinks.

“Hush! To prove that the composer can have no better
study for the true expression of the passions and
emotions than is to be found in observing the animal
creation, I shall now proceed to kick this dog, which
lies asleep upon the pavement, and, without his being at
all aware of what I want, I shall extract from him a
heartrending passage in the minor key, expressive of
great dolor, and of a sad combination of mental and physical
discomfort.”

“Stop!” hurriedly exclaimed Jinks, ensconcing himself
behind a tree; “before you give that dogmatical
illustration, allow me to inform you that the dog before
you is old Boodle's Towser—he bites like fury.”

“Bite!” replied Minim, contemptuously; “and what's
a bite in the cause of science, and in the exemplification
of the minor key?”

Minim accordingly gave the dog a gentle push with his
foot.

“Ya-a-a-ah!” angrily and threateningly remonstrated
Towser, without moving.

“There—I told you so!” roared Jinks—“that's not
in the minor key—it's as military a major as ever I heard
in my life: when I listen to it, I can almost see you in
the shape of a cocked hat.”

“Well, then, poke him with your fiddle,” said Minim,
drawing back, and eying the dog rather suspiciously.
“Come away from the tree, and give Mr. Boodle's
Towser a jolly good punch.”

“Not I,” replied Jinks; “I've no notion of letting my
Cremona be chawed up agitato by an angry Towser—
poke him with your flute.”

“No—stop—I'll get at him as it were slantindicularly
—round a corner,” said Minim, retiring so that he was
partially protected by the flight of steps, from which
position he extended his leg, and dealt to Mr. Boodle's
Towser a most prodigious kick.

“Y-a-h! y-o-a-h!—b-o-o!” snarled the dog indignantly,
as he dashed round the corner to revenge the insult,
which was so direct and pointed that no animal of
spirit could possibly pass it over unnoticed.

Mr. Matthew Minim turned to fly, but he was not
quick enough, and the dog entered a detainer by seizing
him by the pantaloons.

“Get out!” shrieked Minim. “Take him off, Jinks,
or he'll eat me without salt!”

“Splendid illustration of natural music!” shouted
Jinks, clapping his hands in ecstasy; “Con furore! Da
capo, Towser!—Volti subito, Minim!—Music expressive
of tearing your breeches. I never saw a situation

at once so picturesque, dramatic, and operatic. Why
don't you sing
for I'm sure, while he bites and you squeal, that he's
proving to your satisfaction how well nature understands
counterpoint. Bravo, Towser! — that's a magnificent
shake; but he won't let you favour us with a run,—will
he, Matthew?”

Towser held on determinedly, shaking his head and
growling fiercely, with his mouth full of pantaloons,
which, however, being very strong, did not give way and
suffer the distressed captive to escape.

“Hit him with a stick—get a big stone!” panted
Minim—“quit cracking jokes, for when the cloth goes
the horrid beast will take hold again—perhaps of my
flesh, and bite a piece right out!”

“Very likely—it's better eating than woollens; but
go on with your duet—don't mind me,” added Jinks
quietly, as he looked about for a missile. Having found
one sufficiently heavy for his purpose, he took deliberate
aim, and threw it with such force that the angry animal
was almost demolished. On finding himself so violently
assailed, the dog relaxed his jaws and scampered down
the street, making the neighbourhood vocal with his cries.

“There, I told you,” said Minim, settling his disordered
dress, and hoping, by taking the lead in conversation,
to avoid any hard-hearted reference to his misfortune—“I
told you he would sing out in the minor key, if he was
hurt. Hear that now—the dog is really heartrending.”

“Yes,” replied Jinks, “he's quite a tearer of a dog
—now heartrending, and from the looks of your clothes,
he was a little while ago really breeches-rending. But
pick up your flute—the lecture upon natural music is
over for this evening.”

“Um!” growled Minim, discontentedly, as he took
up his hat and flute-box, and walked doggedly forward.

Not a word was said while they walked several squares.
Peter was musing upon the cost of new pantaloons, and
Jinks chuckled to himself as he thought how capitally
the story about “natural music” would tell at a small
party.

A protracted silence, however, if men are not alone or
are not positively occupied, becomes wearisome and annoying,
and brings the nerves into unpleasant action.
Taciturnity, though commended, is after all but a
monkish virtue. Nature designed the human race to talk
when they are together—to be brightened and enlivened
by an interchange of sentiment; and while gratifying
themselves by exhibiting their old ideas, to be enriched
by the reception of new thoughts and fresh impressions.
So strong is the impulse, that there are many minds
which, under these circumstances, cannot continue a chain
of thought, and grow restless and impatient, in the belief
that the neighbour mind gives out nothing because it
waits for the lead, and is troubled for the want of it. The
silence therefore continues, the same idea prevailing on
both sides, and disabling each from tossing a subject into
the air, to elicit that volley of ideas or of words, as the
case may be, which constitutes conversation. The exemplification
is to be met with every day, and never
more frequently than in formal calls, when the parties
are not so well acquainted as to be able to find a common
topic on an emergency. He was not so much of
a simpleton as people think him, who said a foolish thing
during the excruciating period of an awkward pause,
merely for the purpose of “making talk.” Every one
is familiar with plenty of instances, in which a Wamba

“to make talk” would have been regarded as a blessing,
saving those present from the torture of cudgelling torpid
brains in vain, and from the annoyance of knowing that
each uncomfortable looking individual of the company,
though likewise cudgelling, regarded every other person
as remarkably stupid and unsocial.

From feelings analogous to those just mentioned, was
it that Jenkinson Jinks felt it incumbent upon him to
hazard an observation. He looked about for a cloud, but
there was none to be seen. He glanced at the stars, but
they were neither very bright nor very dim.

“Magnificent houses,” said Jinks, at last, by way of
starting a leading fact, which was at once undeniable and
calculated to elicit a kindly response. The conscience
of Jinks rather reproached him with having laughed too
heartily at Minim's recent misadventure, and he therefore
selected a topic the least likely to afford opportunity
for a petulant reply, or to open the way to altercation.
Minim received the olive branch.

“Yes, but there's a grand mistake about this luxurious
edifice for instance,” replied Minim; halting, and
leaning against a pump in front of a house which was
adorned with both a bell and a knocker, “the builder
has regarded the harmony of proportion, and all that—
he has made the proper distances between the windows
and doors,—the countenance, expression, and figure of
the house has been attended to; but I'm ready to bet,
without trying, that no one has thought of its voice—no
one has had the refined judgment to harmonize the bell
and the knocker, and, luckily for our nerves, knockers
are going out and have left the field to the bells. But,
where they remain, there's nothing but discord in the
vocal department; and if the servants have ears,—and
why should they not?—it must almost drive them distracted.

Yes, yes—very pretty—fine steps, fine house,
bright knocker, glittering bell handle, and plenty of discord.
It's as sure as that the bell and knocker are there
in juxtaposition. To be morally certain, I'll try.”

Up strode Matthew Minim to the top of the steps.

“Now, Jinks—out with your fiddle—it's up to concert
pitch—sound your A.”

Jinks laughingly did as he was ordered, and after a
preliminary flourish, sounded orchestra fashion, “Twa-a-a
—twawdle, tweedle, twawdle—twa-a-a!”

“Taw-lol-tol-tee—tee-lol-tol-taw!” sang Minim, travelling
up and down the octave, to be sure of the pitch.
“Now, listen,” and he rattled a stirring peal upon the
knocker. “That's not in tune with us no how you can
take it—is it, Jinks?”

“No—twudle, tweedle, twudle, tweedle!” replied
Jinks, fiddling merrily, as he skipped about the pavement,
delighted with his own skill.

“Be quiet there—now, I'll try whether the bell and the
knocker are in tune with each other. Let's give 'em a
fair trial.” So saying, Minim seized the knocker in
one hand, and the bell in the other, sounding them to
the utmost of his power.

“Oh, horrid! shameful! abominable!—even worse
than I thought—upon my word!—”

“Halloo, below!” said a voice from the second story
window, emanating from a considerable quantity of night-cap
and wrapper; “what's the matter? Is it the Ingens,
or is the house afire?”

“I ain't a fireman myself, and I can't tell until the big
bell rings whether there's a fire or not,” said Minim;
“but, if the house is positively on fire, I advise you as a
friend to come down, and leave it as soon as possible.
Bring your clothes, for the weather's not over warm.”

“Yes,” said Jinks; “bring your trousers anyhow,
for we've only got one whole pair down here.”

“You're a pair of impertinent rascals: what do you
mean by kicking up such a bobbery at this time of night?”

“Bobbery!—don't be cross, fiddle-strings; always be
harmonious in company, and melodious when you're
alone, especially when you snore. I merely wish to inform
you that your bell and knocker do not accord. Just
listen!”

Bell and knocker were both again operated on vigorously.

“Did you ever hear the like? I'm ashamed of you
—have them tuned, do—it's dreadful. Tune 'em.”

Once more Minim rang the bell and plied the knocker
with great vigour and strength of muscle, while Jinks
played “Nel furor delle tempeste,” from Il Pirata.

The night-capped head disappeared from the window,
and the musical gentlemen stood chattering and laughing,
the one on the step and the other on the pavement, all
unconscious of the mischief that was brewing for them.

“Come,” said Minim—“let's give these people a
duet—a serenade will enlarge their musical capacities.”

“What shall it be?” queried Jinks, humming a succession
of airs, to find something suited to the occasion.

“Something about bells, if you don't know any thing
about knockers,” added Minim, giving the bell handle
another affectionate tweak.

Just then, Meinherr Night-cap and Wrapper returned
to the window, aided by a stout servant, bearing a bucket
of water. “I'll not call the watch,” chuckled he, “but
I'll teach these fellows how to swim.”

sang Matthew Minim and Jenkinson Jinks.

“Not over yet,” said the voice from the window, as
Minim was drenched by the upsetting of the bucket—
“take care of the ground-swell!”

A spluttering, panting, and puffing sound succeeded,
like

Jinks paddled off rapidly—he had seen enough of the
Cataract of the Ganges in former times: not so with Mr.
Minim, who exclaimed,

“Fire and fury! who asked for a water-piece? If
`Water parted' is your tune, you may stick to Arne, but
I'll give you a touch of Kotzwara—a specimen of the
`Battle of Prague,' with a little of the `Halistone
chorus.”'

Minim hammered away at the door; but not being
able to beat in the panels with his feet, he caught up a
paving-stone and hurled it against the frame, shouting
“Stony-batter!”

Windows flew up in all directions, and night-capped
heads projected from every embrasure. The people shouted,
the dogs barked, and rattles were sprung all round.
Never was there heard a less musical din.

Minim stood aghast. “Worse and worse!” cried he;
“what a clatter! Haydn's `Chaos' was a fool to this!
It's natural music, however, and I'll play my part till I
get in, and catch the fellow who appointed himself the
watering committee;” and he, therefore, continued beating
upon the door.

Mr. Minim was, however, overpowered by a number
of individuals, headed by the bucket bearing servant,
and as his heels were tripped up, he mournfully remarked,

“So fell Cardinal Wolsey. Will nobody favour us

with the `Last words of Marmion,' or `The soldier tired,'
`My lodging is on the cold ground,' or something else
neat and appropriate?”

“Can't you get somebody to bail you?” said a punning
individual, alluding to Mr. Minim's drenched condition.

“Let him run, Jacob,” exclaimed the gentleman with
the night-cap, speaking from the window; “take him
round the corner, and give him a start. He is sufficiently
water-lynched, and I want no further trouble on his account.”

“I won't go,” replied Minim. “I've finished playing
for the night; but as you are leader, give the coup d'archet,
and set your orchestra in motion. I won't walk
round the corner—carry me—this must be a sostenuto
movement.”

“Well, if that ain't a good note!” said the admiring
crowd, as Minim was transported round the corner,
whence, being set at liberty, he walked drippingly home,
and ever after confined his musical researches within
decorous bounds.