Cooper's Clarksburg register. [volume] (Clarksburg, Va. [W. Va.]) 1851-1861, 1852-03-17
THE FIRST COIlNET; A Tale of the
Orchestra.

was waiting for letters in Paris and,
as l was returning to my hotel one day, l
was suddenly stopped in front ola low
cabaret by the tones of a violin. There is
nothing under heaven, so poor, so mean,
so utterly beneath the contempt of a SEN
sible being, as bad music ; on the other
hand, there is nothing SO priceless, SO en-
nobling, so far above the comprehension
of the most subtle intellect, as good music.
These are my opinions the reader can
therefore Judge what must have been the
quality of tones which could stop me as if
l had been suddenly enchanted. Every
great musician has style as recogniza-
BE as an authors. The style of this per-
former was certainly of the highest order.
His bowing waslight, exquisite, and in the
DiQRisSinqO movements, fine, clear and dis
tinct beyond anything l had heard since
the days of Paganini; while there was
depth and richness in his tremendous forte
passages which, for the effect produced,
would have done honor to full orchestra !;
horns, drums, trombones and all. What
especially struck me was the players
time it was perfection itself The most
delicate sense could not detect the most
rvthmical error in the dexterous method
by which the violinist passed over a
thousand difficult bars, harmonlzing and
blending them together, without any aP-
pearance whatever of that marked and
forced manner by which even superior
PLAYERS sometimes atone for their want
of ear. I entered the cabaret, and found
the music was being wasted upon the
blunted sensibilities of knot of eau-de-vie
drinkers, who, with their hearts somewhat
opened by potations, were now and then
/ tossing few sous to the musician.
In a retired corner, bolt upright, and
moving with the angular precision of a
machine, sat the object of my curiosity.
He was long, lean, saturnine Italian,
with scanty stock of grey hair, and
pair of restless eyes, that deadened and
| frightened as the music waned or rose,
like stars beneath flying mist. The
man was poorly clad, and everywhere
bore traces of care and misery yet with
an appearance of suppressed pride in his
composition, for he occasionally darted
look of fiery scorn upon the unconscious
revelers that would have gone some
length toward the annihilation of a more
susceptible audience. AS it was, his
| glances passed unheeded, and he himself
seemed to forget his emotions in the fervor
with which he played German, Italian,
Spanish and French airs-symphony, op-
era, ballad and popular music-to suit
the caprices of his tickle listeners. His
whole being appeared to be absorbed in
his instrument /; he clung to his Cremona
with the tenacity of drowning man. AT
the smallest pause between airs, the e1-
preston of enthusiasm would fade from
his face like an expiring ember, and in its
place was seen look of blank and mean
ingless misery-the very dust and ashes
of a consuming intellect. Such contrasts,
of sublimity and utter nothinguess, new
er have seen, before Or since, upon the
human face.
The hilarity of the drinkers was reach
ing a climax, when the musician arose,
with a sigh, hugged his violin to his bo.
som as If it were child, aad walked