Rare Music

It’s always exciting to see citations to the holdings of the Music Division of The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts in newly published books and articles. But it’s even more exciting when a newly-published score is based on one of our manuscripts.
The latest volume of the new Works of Gioachino Rossini edition (entitled “Chamber Music Without Piano”) contains several works, among them the Serenata. Composed in 1823 “for his friend Vincenzo Bianchi” (and first published in 1828) there are only two manuscript sources for this work, neither in the hand of the composer. The earlier (and primary source) is located in the Biblioteca del Conservatorio “G. Verdi” in Milan. The editors of the Works of Gioachino Rossini edition describe our copy as being a copy of the earlier manuscript. In fact, the two manuscripts are “linked” in that markings in the Milan manuscript correspond to page turns in our manuscript.
Our manuscript probably stems from the latter half of the 19th century (based on the highly acidic paper on which it is written). The property stamp of Sam Franko (of the family that began the Goldman Band, still active today in New York City) indicates that it was probably picked up by him on one of his sojourns in Europe. As stated in the critical notes, he never appears to have played it for his concerts, and donated the manuscript to The New York Public Library’s Music Division in 1919, where it was first cataloged the following year.

Even in my brief time as curator, quite a number of people have expressed interest in this work. So the Works of Gioachino Rossini edition have satisfied a great need by publishing it in an excellent new edition.

One day when a former Chief of the Music Division (now enjoying retirement) was browsing through an auction catalog, she came across a listing for a piece of early 19th century sheet music. Entitled “The African’s Pity on the White Man” and published in England, the item was being sold in excess of $1,000 (this was in the early 1990s). A quick hunt in one of our under-processed collections revealed that we owned a copy of this sheet music. We had it quickly cataloged for our Special Collections, where it now can be found with the call number: Music-Res. (Sheet) 93-3.

Why the high price? No doubt the dealer was aware of the market for “black memorabilia” or “black collectibles.” Recent articles have noted how the market for these items have increased, while having the ironic (and uncomfortable) result of perpetuating negative and stereotype imagery. (See this article on the website of the Museum of Racist Memorabilia. Some of you might have seen Spike Lee’s film Bamboozled (see also the Wikipedia entry) which also comments on popular and stereotype images of African-Americans in popular culture.)

But this song is different. Here are the lyrics (punctuation and capitalization as in the original):
The Winds roar’d
and the Rains fell!
the poor white Man
faint and weary came
and sat under our Tree.
He has no Mother
to bring him Milk
no Wife to grind him Corn
Let us pity the white Man
no Mother has he!

What’s going on here? It appears that the African is pitying the white man. Are the lyrics of the song to be taken literally?

Let’s take a look at the composer of this unusual song. Though born in France, François-Hippolyte Barthélemon (1741-1808) spent most of his life in England, where he began his composing career writing songs and music for plays. He gave up writing for the theater due to too many political intrigues, but continued writing songs and instrumental music. In addition to composing, he excelled on the violin and wrote at least two treatises on thorough bass realization.

In 1766 he married Mary (also known as Polly) Young, great-granddaughter of Anthony Young (who was at a time credited as composer of “God Save the King”) whose descendents included a number of musicians. Mary was also the niece (through marriage) of noted composer Thomas Augustine Arne (1710-1778). Arne and his wife became very close to the Barthélemons, and after the death of Thomas, his widow Cecilia lived the remainder of her life with the Barthélemons. Another well-known acquaintance was Joseph Haydn. While was visiting London in the 1791-92 season (at the invitation of Salomon), Haydn spent much time with the Barthélemons and often stayed at their retreat in Vauxhall.

Barthélemon’s wife died on September 20, 1799. According to his daughter Cecilia Maria Barthélemon Hanslowe (whose brief biography of her father appears in the posthumous publication of his score to Jefté in Masfa), her father became increasingly religious in his later years, took an active interest discussing spirituality and morality. He made the acquaintance of many in the Anglican religious community. (I’ve not been able to find much information about the dedicatee of the song, Madame Villars de Malortie, although that could be revealing.)

In setting up a chapel, Barthélemon called upon the services of his friend, the Rt. Rev. Beilby Porteus, Bishop of London. Porteus was a leading voice of abolitionism in England. He was instrumental in getting the British Parliament to pass the Slave Trade Act of 1807, repealing the sale of slaves in England — an early step in eradicating slavery. (Last year saw acknowledgments of the 200th anniversary of this law.) It is conceivable that Barthélemon wrote this song to support the Bishop’s efforts in sensitizing people to the plight of Africans being taken as slaves. The composer has chosen to depict the African as pitying the white man so as to gently shame white people into recognizing the inhumanity they are commiting by maintaining the slave trade.

Though François-Hippolyte Barthelemon died July 20, 1808, perhaps the value of this song is not so much its musical content, but rather as one of the cultural artifacts that are tied to social and political acts of their time.

One of the more amusing books in the Music Division of The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts is a volume bluntly titled Freak Pianos (call number: Mus. Res. *MKDCC). Its author is C. Van Noorden, about whom I could find little, other than he or she flourished in England as a music and dance critic in the early decades of the 20th century. Articles by this person appearing in the Dancing Times can be found in the Jerome Robbins Dance Division, and it is probable that the author is related to a few other Van Noordens who were active as musicians at the turn of the 20th century in England.

Freak Pianos consists of a brief text, followed by 18 leaves containing 20 images illustrating a variety of piano designs mentioned in the text. These images are a combination of drawings and lithographs - the latter apparently culled from 19th century journals or advertisements. It’s possible that Van Noorden kept these illustrations over the years as a curiosity.

Although I’ve known about this book for decades, only recently did I confirm that it’s a typescript for a published article with the same title that appeared in the English Illustrated Magazine (January 1905, p. 334-39). Happily, Google Books has it available in digitized form. A comparison of text between typescript and magazine shows only minor changes.

But this comparison shows that nearly half the illustrations were eliminated from the article. (Two of the illustrations in the article–the piano against the wall, and the piano combined with dresser–appear to have been excised from the book before NYPL acquired the typescript.) In addition, the published magazine (and its digitized form) is small, resulting a loss of detail.

In one case, the published article refers to two illustrations: “Mr. Hallett’s 1857 grand piano with a circular sounding board, over which radiate two, three or four sets of strings, so that the instrument might have two or more keyboards available for quartettes, etc. The illustration shows only two keyboards.” The single illustration in the published article shows an upright piano (complete with candle holders). The illustration that begins this blog entry was also intended to show Mr. Hallett’s invention. To my eyes, it suggests a conjoined twin.

The article has a somewhat primitive drawing of a woman in profile playing a “piano with perpendicular keyboard.” That was supposed to be the first of two illustrations; finally, here is the other:

Near the beginning of the article, Van Noorden speak of inventors’ “flights of fancy” in attempts to innovate and elaborate the design and construction of pianos, often combining it with other instruments and mediums. Here is John Day’s 1816 instrument with glass bells (although they look like glass rods to me):

Mr. Netwon’s piano of 1860 uses metal gongs instead of strings:

Though we may often think of typescripts as being little more than a draft for a published work, it often pays to examine them thoroughly. In the case of this article, examination reveals a gem of unusual illustrations that would be difficult to find elsewhere.

A colleague was looking at the Music Division’s vast clipping file, and pulled out a folder with a strange name: “Americus, Young.” The picture inside, of a highly decorated young boy and published in 1874, made it clear that “Young Americus” was just a nickname - but what was his real name?

A little bit of research in Google revealed the answer: he was James G. Speaight, child prodigy on the violin, who is probably known most for his sudden death. Thanks to the England & Wales FreeBMD Birth Index database (available on Ancestry.com, marketed to libraries as AncestryLibrary), we discovered that, in spite of his nickname, he was born sometime between July and September 1866 in Mile End Old Town in London, Great Britain. According to the account in Curiosities of the American Stage by Laurence Hutton (published in 1890, which can be read or downloaded from Google books), he first learned violin by ear, since his father was an orchestral violin player. Only near the end of his very brief life did he start learning to read music, feeding his appetite to know more.

He must have possessed unusual talent because he was performing in the 1872 edition of The Black Crook at Niblo’s Garden in New York City (according to the Internet Broadway Database, this edition ran from December 18, 1871 through February 24, 1872). He was five years old! (The Black Crook is considered the first American musical; the site of Niblo’s Garden–once of the center of entertainment in the 19th century–is located near the Spring Street stop in Manhattan on the 6 train.) At some point during the entertainment, he would get on the podium and lead the orchestra in a number.

By 1874, his father had brought him to Boston, where he was appearing at the Boston Theatre in a show called The Naiad Queen. As recounted in the Boston Globe of January 12, 1874:

It was only as he came off the stage at the matinée performance that Mr. Shewell, the manager, noticed a look of fatigue and an air of languor in the lad, and, laying his hand kindly on the little fellow’s shoulder, asked him, “What ’s the matter, Jimmy? Aren’t you feeling well?” The lad cheerfully replied, but the manager seeing that he was evidently not well, advised him not to come to the theatre in the evening, and coutined his father against bringing him. Accordingly, Jimmy remained at his lodgings with his father in the evening, though professing his ability and desire to go to the theatre as usual, and saying that nothing ailed him. Father and son retired early, the lad seeming bright and complaining of no ill feeling. Sometime after, the father was awakened by hearing the lad’s voice, and distinguished, after waking the words: “Merciful God, make room for a little fellow!” or something similar. He supposed the boy was talking in his sleep, and spoke to him with the intention of rousing him, but received no answer. He became somewhat alarmed and endeavored to wake the child, when he discovered to his grief and horror, that his son was dead. His young life had gone out with that touching aspiration. Coroner Foye was called, but deemed an inquest unnecessary, the cause of death being, manifestly, heart disease.

The Globe article speaks glowingly of his abilities:

The lad was a bright and handsome child, a marvel of musical precocity, and a perfect enthusiast in the profession for which he seemed designed by nature…Not only did he play violin solos with a degree of precision and technical skill marvellous [sic] in one so young, but he proved that his musical powers were not limited to execution by the grace and accuracy with which he was able to conduct the orchestra through an intricate overture. He was passionately fond of music, and it was his life and constant thought.

The mislabeled clipping file had a lovely lithograph which I moved to our Iconography file, where it is one of two relatively larged sized images of James G. Speaight. An unidentified article in our clipping file (this one filed under “Speaight, James G.”) provided a brief description of Speaight’s funeral, which was well attended, in particular by members of the theater troup with which he appeared. Though a British citizen, he was buried in Boston Commons, in the tomb of Mrs. George H. Cutter.

It’s sad to think the story ends there. Perhaps the family was able to move on. Further investigation shows that a Speaight family continued living in Mile End Old Town, where several children were born: Sarah Ann Speaight, July-Sept. 1876, Amelia Susannah Speaight in Jan-Mar 1878, and Sydney James Speaight in July-September 1892.

The social issues concerning young performers were also on peoples’ mind. Novelist and poet Thomas Bailey Aldrich wrote a short story, The Young Violinist, in which Speaight’s demise figures as part of the story, intended to arouse awareness of child exploitation. This theme is echoed in the obituary/editorial authored by John S. Dwight and appearing in his Dwight’s Journal of Music (Jan. 24, 1874, p. 165). Without recordings, printed music, or even music criticism, it’s almost impossible to know how Young Americus played. Yet, with newspapers notices combined with these fine images, it’s possible to imagine the affect this young talent had on the people who heard him, and the great loss felt upon his death.

Welcome to the blog of the Curator of Rare Books and Manuscripts of the Music Division of The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. It’s my intention for this blog to serve as a way to make the Music Division (and The Library in general) a more accessible and welcoming place by featuring some of the treasures and unusual items we have. I encourage feedback and dialogue on any of the topics I present.

So what better to open a blog that with the frontispiece from a famous book: Athanasius Kircher’s Musurgia Universalis, published in Rome (by Corbelletti) in 1650.

The Special Collections Department of Glasgow University Library possesses a unique hand-colored copy of Musurgia Universalis, and they’ve provided a nice but brief description on their website. Although slightly tangential to his subject, Edward E. Lowinsky provided a more thorough discussion of this page in his article “Ockeghem’s Canon for Thirty-six Voices: An Essay in Musical Iconography” (in Essays in musicology : in honor of Dragan Plamenac on his 70th birthday, edited by Gustave Reese and Robert J. Snow, Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, c1969 - ISBN 0822910985, 155-80), of which the following is taken.

There’s an enormous amount of imagery here–a Renaissance-influenced combination of religious and mythological symbols. Its energy reminds me of a sanitized version of some of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings. At the foreground left, Pythagoras leans on an explanation of his theorem as well as Zarlino’s senario, while the lady holding the cornet on the right side is Music. Both figures have musical instruments at their feet (ancient and modern), while the men inside the opening in the center represent the earthly “musical instrumentalis” and are working on new musical creations. Above them in the distance of the beach are nine satyrs and eight sea-gods. Slightly off to the right, a shepherd speaks to a cliffside with a quote from Virgil “Pascite ut ante Boves” (”graze, cattle, as before…”) which, by means of a dotted line, bounces back as an echo “…oves” - no doubt signifying Kircher’s extensive interest in acoustics. Further to the right of that cliff, a long stone staircase leads to a landing on which is perched Pegasus, ready to take flight in service to the muses.

The central sphere contains signs of the zodiac and, in addition to the author, title and publication information, is emblazoned with a quote from Job “Quis concentum coeli dormire faciet?” (i.e. “Who shall still the harmony of the spheres?”), while Apollo sits on top carrying a kithara in his right hand and panpies in his left.

Like rush hour on a New York City subway, it’s a very amusing and hyperactive artwork. But what interests me most is the musical quotation on this frontispiece. It’s a 36-part canon by Romano Micheli (the Latin indicates that the solution to the canon can be found on page 587). The 36 parts are broken down into 4 groups of 9 voices (i.e. 3 x 3), an hommage to the significance of the three-fold divinity, as well as to the nine muses. More significantly, this canon pays hommage to a famous “lost” work, a 36-voice canon by a master of mensuration, Johannes (or Jean) Ockeghem. Though Lowinsky was convinced he had uncovered the piece (Deo gratia), most scholars agree that the work is lost, and some acknowledge that there is little evidence proving that Ockeghem ever composed such a work.

Nevertheless, when seen in context of the entire book, Kircher’s Musurgia Universalis stands as a historical testament, an exhaustive and fascinating effort by one of the last polymaths to encompass the universe of musical knowledge.

The Music Division holds two copies of Musurgia Universalis (call numbers Drexel 2670-2672), both part of the Drexel Collection (a founding collection of The New York Public Library), while a third copy is held by the Rare Books Division.