Subsequently, The publisher of the musical composition called The Katy-did Polka, by Louis Jullien, appended the following letter to the sheet music:
The composition of the "Katy-did" Polka or Souvenirs of Castle Garden, was suggested to M. Jullien by the receipt of the following letter, which is given verbatim.
Staten Island, Oct. 3d (sic), 1853.
Mon Cher Jullien:--
Loving music as "an art divine" and regarding all its best exponents as my friends, are the only excuses I can offer for addressing you.
Although you have been a short time in America, I dare say you have already concluded that there is little of the romantic in our National character; and you will be right, for as a people, we are more given to the study of the real, than the ideal! We have no time to spare for day dreaming; and in this activity of mind, lies the secret of our greatness as a Nation, and the rapid progress of civilization by our means throughout the length and breadth of this vast continent.
Yet though accustomed from childhood to deal with stern realities, we appreciate the beautiful in ideal when it is placed before us. We love the poetry of nature, and we are ever alive to the harmonious and mystic grandeur of Creation, and its wondrous works. What then, if, after all, ours should be the true romantic admiration, instead of the morbid sensibility of a diseased imagination, which but too frequently assumes the name?
Fortune has dealt kindly by me, in blessing me with sufficient of "the goods the Gods sends (sic) us, "to give me leisure for study, enjoyment, and reflection. I live in a quiet cottage on this beautiful Island, and I am enough of a sailor to let my little boat scud before the wind without a fear of danger, whether it "blows high, or low." But I love best to glide over the bay when the sun is sinking to his fiery bed in the West, when not a sound is heard but the rippling of the water against the sides of my little craft, ere yet the pale moon has risen to silver the placid surface of the bay, or the myriads of insect life have commenced to make the night harmonious with the music of nature, when a "throbbing stillness" reigns during the short interval twixt day and night.
On such an evening a few short weeks since, I was out as usual, enjoying the delicious sensation of the cool sea breeze, after the oppressive heat of a sultry day, though there was scarcely sufficient air to cause a ripple on the mirror-like surface of the bay. The sail flapped idly against the mast, as I let my boat drift with the tide. The sun was setting in a blaze of fiery glory, brilliantly illuminating the western sky in gorgeous colors; now in the brightest scarlet of the Flamingo's wing, next deepening into purple of the richest intensity. A few moments more, and mysterious shadows flitted hither and thither, like long transparent draperies of varied hues appertaining to unearthly forms, which it required but little imagination to picture of the fabled Naiads of the deep.
Spell-bound I gazed upon a scene of such transcendant beauty, as gradually it faded from my view;--it is gone--sunset and twilight have deepened into night, as I gently glide under the walls of Castle Garden--and the moon is rising to give pale lustre to the pictures. Within the walls of the old fortress there is a flood of light, which, escaping through the time honored port holes, is scattered over the distant waters;--now comes the strains of your mighty orchestra swelling on the ear, as some majestic symphony is poured forth, now fading away like a sweet and melancholy echo, to the metre of a valse, only to arise again in harmonious grandeur, to the joyous measure of some sprightly quadrille.
This, thought I, is true enjoyment of music, for never does it sound so beautiful as when it comes floating over the moon-lit waters.
But hark! Nature's orchestra has commenced her mystic harmonies. There is a gentle murmur--a soft rustle of the leaves upon the fine old trees--and now hark! to the merry chirps of the cricket as he gives forth his mighty song in octave notes, to the accompaniment of the whirring drone of the Locust, and the thorough bass of the tree-toad and bull-frog,--whilst that most mysterious of all mysterious little creatures, "The Katy-did," keeps the truest Polka time with the continual asseveration and denial of something, known only to nature.
Katy did! Katy didn't asserted and denied the livelong night, and ever in that mystic number three, (who was Katy? and what did Katy do, that the entire lives of one insect race should be employed in proclaiming to us?) This is Nature's harmony, and is it not as perfect as any that was ever penned on music paper?
Mon cher Jullien, you are great in the art of descriptive musical painting, and I think you can embody my impressions of that evening. Will you attempt to interpret my badly expressed thoughts? but stay, there is yet a sequel.
Three or four nights since I was out again at sunset, but what a "change came over the spirit of my dream." The sky had a cold and wintry look; the sun sank to his rest no longer, surrounded by his gorgeous halo of glory; the very shadows were changed in form and hue, and wore a chill and ghostly aspect, as the wind whistled in sullen gusts; and the foam crowned waters of the bay, hurled themselves in angry fury against the Battery walls, or howling, swept the fallen leaves along the pathways to form a mound over the grave of the departed summer.
I listened in vain for the strains of your orchestra; you and it had vanished; there were lights in Castle Garden, and sounds came from it, the clink of the hammer 'giving note of preparation,' for the exhibition of the realities of man's genius and industry, and the banishment of the romance of the ideal. I listened for the song of the cricket, the drone of the locust, and the cry of the tree-frog; but I listened in vain. Summer was gone, they were silent,--where too was the Katy-did? * * * Dead!
Amico
The composition of the "Katy-did" Polka or Souvenirs of Castle Garden, was suggested to M. Jullien by the receipt of the following letter, which is given verbatim.
Staten Island, Oct. 3d (sic), 1853.
Mon Cher Jullien:--
Loving music as "an art divine" and regarding all its best exponents as my friends, are the only excuses I can offer for addressing you.
Although you have been a short time in America, I dare say you have already concluded that there is little of the romantic in our National character; and you will be right, for as a people, we are more given to the study of the real, than the ideal! We have no time to spare for day dreaming; and in this activity of mind, lies the secret of our greatness as a Nation, and the rapid progress of civilization by our means throughout the length and breadth of this vast continent.
Yet though accustomed from childhood to deal with stern realities, we appreciate the beautiful in ideal when it is placed before us. We love the poetry of nature, and we are ever alive to the harmonious and mystic grandeur of Creation, and its wondrous works. What then, if, after all, ours should be the true romantic admiration, instead of the morbid sensibility of a diseased imagination, which but too frequently assumes the name?
Fortune has dealt kindly by me, in blessing me with sufficient of "the goods the Gods sends (sic) us, "to give me leisure for study, enjoyment, and reflection. I live in a quiet cottage on this beautiful Island, and I am enough of a sailor to let my little boat scud before the wind without a fear of danger, whether it "blows high, or low." But I love best to glide over the bay when the sun is sinking to his fiery bed in the West, when not a sound is heard but the rippling of the water against the sides of my little craft, ere yet the pale moon has risen to silver the placid surface of the bay, or the myriads of insect life have commenced to make the night harmonious with the music of nature, when a "throbbing stillness" reigns during the short interval twixt day and night.
On such an evening a few short weeks since, I was out as usual, enjoying the delicious sensation of the cool sea breeze, after the oppressive heat of a sultry day, though there was scarcely sufficient air to cause a ripple on the mirror-like surface of the bay. The sail flapped idly against the mast, as I let my boat drift with the tide. The sun was setting in a blaze of fiery glory, brilliantly illuminating the western sky in gorgeous colors; now in the brightest scarlet of the Flamingo's wing, next deepening into purple of the richest intensity. A few moments more, and mysterious shadows flitted hither and thither, like long transparent draperies of varied hues appertaining to unearthly forms, which it required but little imagination to picture of the fabled Naiads of the deep.
Spell-bound I gazed upon a scene of such transcendant beauty, as gradually it faded from my view;--it is gone--sunset and twilight have deepened into night, as I gently glide under the walls of Castle Garden--and the moon is rising to give pale lustre to the pictures. Within the walls of the old fortress there is a flood of light, which, escaping through the time honored port holes, is scattered over the distant waters;--now comes the strains of your mighty orchestra swelling on the ear, as some majestic symphony is poured forth, now fading away like a sweet and melancholy echo, to the metre of a valse, only to arise again in harmonious grandeur, to the joyous measure of some sprightly quadrille.
This, thought I, is true enjoyment of music, for never does it sound so beautiful as when it comes floating over the moon-lit waters.
But hark! Nature's orchestra has commenced her mystic harmonies. There is a gentle murmur--a soft rustle of the leaves upon the fine old trees--and now hark! to the merry chirps of the cricket as he gives forth his mighty song in octave notes, to the accompaniment of the whirring drone of the Locust, and the thorough bass of the tree-toad and bull-frog,--whilst that most mysterious of all mysterious little creatures, "The Katy-did," keeps the truest Polka time with the continual asseveration and denial of something, known only to nature.
Katy did! Katy didn't asserted and denied the livelong night, and ever in that mystic number three, (who was Katy? and what did Katy do, that the entire lives of one insect race should be employed in proclaiming to us?) This is Nature's harmony, and is it not as perfect as any that was ever penned on music paper?
Mon cher Jullien, you are great in the art of descriptive musical painting, and I think you can embody my impressions of that evening. Will you attempt to interpret my badly expressed thoughts? but stay, there is yet a sequel.
Three or four nights since I was out again at sunset, but what a "change came over the spirit of my dream." The sky had a cold and wintry look; the sun sank to his rest no longer, surrounded by his gorgeous halo of glory; the very shadows were changed in form and hue, and wore a chill and ghostly aspect, as the wind whistled in sullen gusts; and the foam crowned waters of the bay, hurled themselves in angry fury against the Battery walls, or howling, swept the fallen leaves along the pathways to form a mound over the grave of the departed summer.
I listened in vain for the strains of your orchestra; you and it had vanished; there were lights in Castle Garden, and sounds came from it, the clink of the hammer 'giving note of preparation,' for the exhibition of the realities of man's genius and industry, and the banishment of the romance of the ideal. I listened for the song of the cricket, the drone of the locust, and the cry of the tree-frog; but I listened in vain. Summer was gone, they were silent,--where too was the Katy-did? * * * Dead!
Amico
Pet Katydid
Blog Archive
No comments:
Post a Comment