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The unprecedented popularity of the organization at this time certainly exercised at powerful influence over the taste of the public. Negro minstrelsy declined. Music at the theaters became almost passable; dancing music and even street bands improved, particularly in the character of their selections, because the people demanded better food than the diet of previous years. The concerts of the Handel and Haydn Society that unerring gauge of the musical talent of Boston-awakened a new interest. Mr. Carl Bergmann, the Germania conductor, had been chosen their director, drilling them often with the orchestra as well as without. More frequent oratorio performances were now given, and always to large houses. After Mr. Bergmann had them in charge the members of this veteran society sang with so much more force and precision than ever before, that it was apparent both to the singers and the audience. Two rival organizations, the "Musical Education Society" and the "Mendelssohn Choral Society" soon succumbed, and the "Handel and Haydn" were left masters of the field which they have ever since held, and have so widely extended.
strung up to a pitch too high to be permaThe special artists whom the Germania had engaged did not generally please. Mr. Aptommas, the harpist, played very finely, but proved no attraction, as the public grew shortly weary of the instrument, even in such hands. Indeed the harp can scarcely be heard to worse advantage than in an orchestral concert. Mr. Theodore Thomas has well illustrated this in his entertainments, where even the masterly performances of Luigi on this instrument produced but a very evanescent effect.
Three several singers were engaged at different times during the winter:-Mme. Siedenburg, Miss Pintard, and Miss Hensler, none of whom, however, "took." Then again, just at this time, M. Jullien, with his splendid orchestra, nearly all soloists, was at the beginning of his dazzling career in this country, and the people had "American Quadrille" on the brain. The Germania Society having received numerous requests to play more light music, for the first time in their history, ventured to make some concessions to the ad captandum taste; and certainly they had no after reason to congratulate themselves upon such a misstep. They resolved to give four extra concerts, on alternate Saturday nights, where light in juxtaposition with classic music should be performed, the subscribers being admitted to either concert. This arrangement, by which they thought to please everybody, seemed, in reality, to please nobody. "It was one of the most curious phenomena," observes a member, "that we encountered during our long period of catering for the public." The real success of the campaign was the production of "Moses in Egypt," by the Handel and Haydn Society and the Germania Orchestra combined. This was brought out eight times, on eight consecutive Sundays, to crowded houses. The public re
An extended trip through the West was next undertaken, as far as St. Louis and Louisville. The Germania members had now become so famous that their country-hearsals still continued in considerable famen at Rochester, Cincinnati, Louisville, St. Louis, Chicago and Milwaukee, turned out to meet them on their arrival.
vor, and, on the whole, the season could not be entitled a failure, although certainly after the previous year it marked a very decided change in the popular current.
By this time several more changes in the material of the orchestra had taken place, and but fourteen of the original members were remaining. Another Western trip was resolved upon after the close of the Boston season. This proved a somewhat disastrous undertaking. There were two Italian Opera companies in the country, besides Jullien's band, and as all were traveling, disadvantageous contact could not always be avoid
During this great musical winter a large number of compositions were given, which had never before been heard in America. Among these, the most noteworthy was the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven, with all the choral as well as orchestral parts entire. Others were Schumann's First Symphony in B flat; Gade's in C minor; the overtures to "Tannhauser," Nachklänge aus Ossian,” &c., &c. On the 2d of April, 1853, this astonishing season was brought to a close, with a second performance of the Ninth Symphony.
This tour was a successful but exhausting one, and the musicians were glad to get back again, for the fifth year, to their summer quarters at Newport. In the autumn they went, of course, again to Boston, with numerous special attractions engaged, and after a large outlay both of labor and money. The concert season of 1853-4 was good, but not to be compared to the previous one, which indeed it was hopeless to expect, as the enthusiasm then had been
ed. Even at this early day, however, it is worth remarking that the best music was frequently the most popular, and in Philadelphia, especially, the concerts of the Germania, which sometimes occurred on the same nights with those of M. Jullien, were nearly always more fully attended. In order to offer something novel and attractive, the society now produced the "Midsummer Night's Dream" in a style of unusual completeness. Miss Kate Saxon read the text, Miss Lehmann gave the songs, and the orchestra performed Mendelssohn's music. The enterprise, however, did not realize their expectations either in pecuniary results or general interest.
The more recent members began to grow discouraged. They had not known adversity. Boarding at three dollars a week in fourth-class houses, and playing in ten-dollar halls to empty benches, had not been numbered among their experiences. Uninfluenced by the calmer judgment of the more experienced members, they held a private meeting to discuss the probabilities and uncertainties of the future. The older members looked upon this proceeding with regret. It denoted the clashing of two opposing interests, for the first time in the history of their cherished organization. Throughout the whole of their career, during the extremes of good and evil fortune, the orchestra had maintained an almost unbroken harmony, both of professional views and social relations. From the nature of their associations together, the formation of an opposing faction could end only in one way-by a breaking up of the orchestra.
This result, however, was delayed for a season. An offer came at this time from Mr. Barnum to take part in the " Musical Congress" at the Crystal Palace in New York. The idea was somewhat repugnant to many of the more musical spirits, and the engagement was accepted under pressure. The concerts of the "Congress" began June 15th. For a little while everything seemed to work happily. Jullien was in his glory. The "Fireman's Quadrille," as performed under his baton, drew together an immense audience, which, however, grew unfortunately smaller every day. After eleven days the affair was closed, and the expenses had largely outrun the receipts. Everything about that unfortunate Crystal Palace seemed fruitful of disaster. Part of the pay of the Germania Orchestra for their services here was given in shares of stock in the illfated building, and after its summary de
struction by fire, the stock went up so high that the finest Munich lenses could not have discovered it.
The Barnum business was the last stroke of ill-fortune, and the end was now at hand. Again, as so often before, when the July suns began to wither the landscape, the members found themselves back at Newport. But this sixth year was widely different from the first one. The social relations were less agreeable than formerly, and the business relations had lost their old unity. The very successes of the society had helped to a certain extent in undermining its popularity. The charm of novelty was over. It was no longer an isolated circumstance to hear a fair orchestra, and instrumental concerts were no longer the popular attraction which attaches to everything that is new. For very much of this the triumphs of the Germania were directly accountable, and while they could not but be proud of such a reward, the immediate returns were far from encouraging, and the future was full of gloom.
Taking into consideration the decided change in the social and professional relations of the Society, the fourteen original members met in secret conclave and resolved upon a final separation. The event took place at Downing's Yacht-House, on the evening of September 13th, 1854. A bounteous supper was the last event which closed the checkered career of the old Germania Orchestra, and when the moment of parting came the members clasped hands in silence.
But who shall say that the Germania Orchestra had outlived its usefulness? or who shall measure the value of its offerings on the shrine of true and beautiful art? Not only is the country forever indebted to this energetic and faithful organization for its combined labors, but even after it had ceased to exist, its influences for the good of music had in many cases only just begun. Wherever a member of the Germania has settled down and made his home, there he has formed a sort of nucleus and gathered about him the very choicest musical spirits of his neighborhood. Some of these artists have achieved a reputation, since the orchestra disbanded, far wider than they had ever enjoyed before. Prominent among these is Mr. Carl Zerrahn, the original "first flute" of the orchestra, who has developed, within the past ten years, the most unusual abilities as a chorus leader, and in this department is no doubt unequaled anywhere. His companion player, Herr Pfeiffer of the sec
ond flute, after seven years of honorable and conscientious labor in the Pennsylvania Institution for the Blind, sleeps in a Philadelphia churchyard. Mr. William Schultze, the first violin, has been for at least a dozen years past the leader of that farfamed Mendelssohn Quintette Club, which, although bearing the name of Boston, justly belongs to the whole country. Carl Bergmann, the last and best director, has held for fourteen years the conductor's baton of the New York Philharmonic Society, the most powerful orchestra in the country. Carl Sentz, who has been long and constantly before the public as a musical director, has done special good service in Philadelphia, where his lot has been cast since the Society
separated. So, too, Mr. Carl Plagemann, the "first horn," also a Philadelphian, is much esteemed in musical circles.
Others have settled in different localities, and nearly all have done faithful service. Some nearly one third of the original members-have passed into the realm of rewards for all earthly labor, leaving their well-written page of effort unsullied behind them. In short, while we cannot trace, at this late day, the record of its voyages, whether few or many, we feel safe in asserting that the little packet ship "Diadem" never bore a more precious cargo than when, in those autumn months, twenty-six years ago, it carried to our shores the members of the Germania Musical Society.
THE HOTEL OF THE FUTURE.
WAS it Dr. Johnson who roared out between his rapid and magnificent mouthfuls of fish-sauce and veal-pie with plums, "There is nothing, sir, which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn "?
If he said it behind the screen at St. John's Gate, or outside the eating-house window in Porridge Island, one might not have felt constrained to contradict him. I suppose, indeed, he was so tremendous an autocrat that one would hardly have dared to contradict him; and is there any reason for contradicting him? On the whole, yes. Still, abstracting all that he said for the mere purpose of making an effect and challenging, not to say defying, contradiction, we have truth enough left whereon to found an essay and to rear a Grand Hotel. No man who has taken a day's journey on a railroad train but would find it easy to forgive the slight possible exaggeration of Dr. Johnson's
For an inn is better than a friend.
"Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn."
And he should heave a far deeper sigh, let us add by the way, to think it is his own fault. If a man is more welcome where he pays four dollars and a half a day for board than anywhere else, it is not owing to the heartlessness of his friends, but to his own disagreeable nature. His money is better than himself. But the contrary does not follow. That we sometimes prefer a hotel to a friend's house does not prove or even indicate that hired service is better than love's ministry. The din and dust, the smoke and cinders of a journey, make us lapse into barbarism. You have no heart to go to your friend and sit clothed and in your right mind, to be polite, good-natured, entertaining or entertained. What you want for the time is freedom to pass from the savage into the civilized state-freedom to ring for what you desire, to sit silent, to lounge, to sleep, to stare, with no sense of obligation or restraint. For these crucial moments there is nothing like a good hotel.
Seeing, then, that hotels play so important a part in national economy, it is worth while
to spend time and thought, sense and science, on their construction and establishment. I do not say that they are not already admirable. I do say that, being so admirable, the wonder is they are not more so. There is apparently no stint of money. There seems, on the contrary, to be a lavish and extravagant outlay. The parlors are hushed with heavy carpeting. The windows are hung with finest lace and satin, fold on fold, all gloss, and grace, and softness. Bedrooms are bright with Brussels and silk damask, and carved wood, and polished marble; but let me give over to infamy and malediction, the name of the man who invented that abomination of desolation called a "dark bedroom."
Is man a toad that he should live in a hole excluded from light and air? Yet there are whole inns constructed on the assumption that he is. All of us probably, in the days of our infancy, have been inspired with vague awe by the dark bedroom in some schoolmate's house. As we reached years of discretion, we learned that it was but the innocent device of some ignorant carpenter and architect in one, who imagined himself to be economizing space. The clumsy contriver, finding that his rooms did not meet, that a gap yawned in some unexpected place, nailed on a lath or two, patted on a trowelful of plastering, hung a door, and called the Black Hole a bedroom. And his victims, our dear and stupid ancestors, had no more sense and spirit than obediently to walk into it and go to sleep! Now, on that dreadful Darwinian principle of selection, this accident of the fathers has become the trait of the children, and what those did by force of circumstances, these do in cold blood, of their own free will. I name no names. Let the guilty quake! But I mind me of a hotel in which not a single bedroom has an honest inlet for the free, fresh air. It is built in the guise of a hollow square. One series of bedrooms opens upon the inner court. The inner court of a hotel, as we all know, is no garden of the gods. It is not the scent of nectar or ambrosia which freights the heavy atmosphere; nor is it Apollo's lute, or the lyre of Orpheus, or the oaten pipe of Arcadian shepherds, that clatters far into the night. If fate assign you to a suite of rooms on the outer verge of the square, you enter
your parlor through a long, dark, narrow passage-way cut off from your bedroom. That is, the outer rooms are two deep. The parlor looks out upon the street. The bedroom has one opaque window that does not look upon the hotel corridor because it is blind; but if it could look anywhere, that is what it would see. Could benevolent diabolism go farther? A sleeping-room always in twilight, never open to the direct pure outside air! One gasps at the thought. The imagination is suffocated to begin with, and all the rest follows.
"Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my pocket picked?" asked testy Sir John. Shall I take mine ease in mine inn, even if I consent to have my pocket picked? Not if I am stifled in apprehension at the outset, and stifled in fact continually. I say nothing of the trifling matter, that, as your head is on the corridor, you are aware of all that is enacting in the hotel through the night. That should rather be mentioned on the sunny side. It is a wholesome distraction. As you lie awake, exasperated and disgusted in the dusty, musty, antiquated air, the creaking of a pair of stout boots, the shrill tones of a female voice, the gruff accents of the male in search of a lost key, the modulations of lovers, the perplexities of new-comers, the monotones of waiters, serve to divert you from the horrors of your tomb, and give a healthy, if momentary, interest to your meditations.
Be sure of this: the hotel of the future will never immure its guests in dungeons, but will give to every room an out-door exposure or perish in the attempt.
What avails the gorgeousness of our civic inns? One drop of comfort outweighs it all. I know a tavern, new, and high, and mighty, whose sins of omission and commission against art are many and grievous, but I forgive all its majestic colonnades, its Grecian pillars, its inlaid slabs of painted wooden marble, in grateful memory of its rooms, each of which, however small and single, has its clean bright bath-room, bearer of more bliss to the tired traveler than all the bowers of roses by Bendemeer's stream. Yet one can but ask what is the object of Greek style and peristyle, of silken splendor, the glory of gilding, velvet and purple, and scarlet, and fine-twined linen? Most of us have nothing so fine at home. If we have, why deny us the refreshment of change? If we have not, why make us discontented with our simplicity? I fancy-I infer, indeed-that there must be some
solid reason for it. Hotel proprietors do not expend thousands where hundreds would answer equally well. They do not lavish money from pure prodigality, nor is it to be for a moment assumed that they spread out their magnificence from a benevolent desire to gratify the eyes of their poorer fellowcountrymen with the vision of a grandeur and beauty which themselves could not compass. Somehow, I suppose they must find their account in it. Somehow, I suppose, after many days, the money they have cast upon acres of velvet pile, and silken brocade, and carved and curious wood, returns to them; but when you, a tired traveler, tarrying on the Sabbath day in a strange and stifling city, can tread on nothing but hot and heavy carpets; can sit on nothing but stuffed and sweltering chairs; can look on nothing but crimson velvet everywhere, how gladly would you exchange nine-tenths of all this imperial magnificence for one little light cane sofa on which to recline in comparative comfort! Is it true that all the world prefers crimson velvet and will not pay for cool cane-work; that it loves heaviness and massiveness and deep colors, and sees no charm in lightness and grace? Is it true that if a landlord should diversify his acres of wool with an occasional straw matting, he would have the chagrin of seeing all his customers mount the steps of his neighbor's hotel across the way to sink into velvet luxury and wade in fleecy carpets, no matter how hot the weather? Then, of course, the thing which has been is that which shall be, for no man is called upon to crucify the flesh by furnishing his kind with what they ought to want, and not with what they want. It is only we reformers who do that, and the business is so little profitable, that unhappily few reformers arrive at the dignity of landlords, or learn by experience "how to keep a hotel."
But, in the hotel of the future, if we cannot change all our carpets at the "spring cleaning," and change them back again at the "fall cleaning;" if we cannot afford double suits of furniture for every roomwhich may well be the case until the latter part of the millennium-we shall yet look to it that each room is furnished with some light, agreeable, easily movable and wholly restful furniture, which shall seem to be cool even when the heavens are brass above our heads and the earth is dust beneath our feet. In the hotel of the future, each room shall have one graceful and simple chair which may be lightly lifted, and which shall