Page images
PDF
EPUB
[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Crotchets and Quavers; or, Revelations of an Opera Manager in America. By MAX MARETZEK. S. French, 121 Nassau street, New-York.

Ir is a pleasant feature of the literary history of our present time, that whilst a novel of Walter Scott, or a tale by Miss Edgeworth, would, if published for the first time to-day, fall still-born from the press, or at most reach an edition of a single thousand, the Memoirs of P. T. Barnum, Chevalier Wikoff, and Munroe Edwards circulate their tens of thousands of copies, and enrich both author and publisher. Maine-Law societies, Abolition propagandists, and other benevolent and philanthropic movements of the pure and spotless moralists of the day, have produced their legitimate effects, and our literature begins to reflect the improved state of our ethical condition. It is, therefore, with much pleasure that we herald to our readers the appearance of another brilliant addition to American literature, and announce for it, with prophetic boldness, an immense success and boundless circulation. Truth compels us to admit, that it falls immeasurably short of the great showman's confessions, both in the quantity and quality of its-incorrect representations. Another term would better express the fact, but would look too much like a quotation from one of the celebrated authors above mentioned. But in style, and the exhibition of nauseating conceit, it is fully equal to its prototype and model. Every body is wrong, Max is always right-rich and shrewd men of business, opera-house committee-men, men occupying highly respectable positions in our city, all try to shave and outwit Max; but, bless you! they all fail miserably in their attempts. Max sees through their cunning schemes, and checks them at every move. He reads their thoughts as in an open book, and knowing what they would be at, cunningly, and honestly of course, without paying a cent, gets possession of property which the poor idiots were trying to sell to him for thousands of dol lars. But what he knows of the men is hardly worth mentioning, in comparison with his full and thorough knowledge of

the women. Not opera-women and ballet-girls; oh! dear no! but the respectable and fashionable women of New-York; the mothers and daughters of "Upper-tendom," as he calls the class. In his book you shall have a truthful view of their manners, habits, morals, and education; what they think and feel as unmarried girls, and how their characters are modified by becoming wives and mothers. Here you shall have it all, with a positiveness of assertion that shows Max knows what he is talking about, and that he must at least have seen some of the women he describes-across the opera-house. Nor will he weary your patience much in conveying to you this information-a single page shall contain it all. Like the other great works in this style of literature, "Crotchets and Quavers" is not altogether occupied with the trifles about which it professes to treat, and with which alone some might foolishly suppose its author conversant. Max, like Barnum, has his system of religion, his code of morality, and his political creed, and for the benefit of a world lying in ignorance, he kindly promulgates them in his book. Religiously, he thinks he rather likes that system which has a heaven in store for the adulterer and murderer; but as a good Christian, feels bound to believe that they "grill below." In ethics, the fine old saw of "all's fair in trade," describes his entire code; and in the matter of government, he wishes "as little as possible," especially, we presume in the department of police. On the art and cultivation of music in our country, we naturally expected to find some new and valuable views; nor were we doomed to disappointment, for we are told that the New-York Philharmonic Society have done nothing for the cultivation of "a taste for classical music," and "have nothing in their repertoire but a few old symphonies." Poor benighted New-Yorkers! And oh ye Philharmonics, band of humbugs! how have ye lived, deceiving and deceived! Our young men and maidens have for years been crowding to your rehearsals, and overflowing your concerts, until they have learned to love Beethoven's "Pastorale," and "C Minor," Mozart's "Jupiter," and "E Flat," and other kindred compositions, fondly believing that they were appreciating and acquiring a taste for classical music, when all the while they were being humbugged with a "few old symphonies;" whilst the "works" of Maretzek and other great modern composers, were never even once put in rehearsal. Oh! you old Philharmonic humbugs! "thinking of nothing but creature comforts," as Max says; and considering, no doubt, as the greatest of those comforts, that you never had Max to

"conduct" a symphony for you; having heard him once attempt that thing in the Broadway Tabernacle, and make, as you thought, pretty bad weather of it. But health and success to Max! According to his own showing, he has "resumed," after more failures in business than any other man amongst us, and henceforth some of our richest citizens must play second fiddle to him in this respect. His book-just as moral as its models, but funnier and more amusing, written for the same purpose, to glorify the author and annihilate his enemies-will have great success; and, like Barnum's Memoirs and Wikoff's Courtship, fully satisfy its readers that the opinion they had of its author before perusing it was perfectly correct.

THE DANGER OF CONVENTIONS.

"You little know, my son," said the great Chancellor Oxenstiern, "how little wit it takes to govern the world."

"Intellectual superiority always governs in the end," said Napoleon the Great. "When after my first Italian campaign I laid aside the dress of a soldier; assumed the garb of a civilian, and devoted myself to the meetings of the Institute, I knew what I was doing. I was sure not to be misunderstood by the lowest drummer in the army."

Between the dicta of these two great politicians there appears, at first, a complete antagonism. One seems to assert one thing; the other its opposite. Look a little closer, and you will see they say in effect the same thing; which is, that the world is governed by appearances.

Do we not remember Louis XIV. dressed-powder, peruke, lace ruffles, high-heeled shoes, jeweled cane, sword blazing with a kingdom's wealth of diamonds-a veritable grande monarque, an indisputable French demi-god? Have we not also seen Thackeray's sketch of that sublime monarch unwigged, and unanointed with the magic of Tailordom? Of course we have and what a forlorn, miserable, old, shrivelledup ghost of nothing he looks like. Stepping into his state coach to the clang of trumpets and presentation of arms, with that magic velvet and gold about his withered and contempti ble old body-all France will bow in adoration, and Europe chronicle a ride from Paris to Versailles as a great event. Stepping out any fine morning, as nature and disease had left him, no gamin of Paris so poor to do him reverence.

A tailor the ninth part of a man? Excellent Master Shakspeare, that is a mistake. Without his tailor, our Louis XIV. was no better a king than farmer Higgs' scare-crow. "Ah!" replies our sturdiest democratic reader, "that is natural. Kings are all shams. Royalty is a sham. Aris

« PreviousContinue »