Chapter II.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume IV, Issue 278, 29 March 1848, Page 3

Chapter 11.

Yes, —pne other thing every body in Haarlem believes —and that is, that Gutteuberg,. and Werner, and Faust, in pretending that they were the discoverers of the art of printing, were egregious specimens of the art of lying ; for that that noble discovery was made by no human being save and except an illustrious citizen of Haarlem, and an undeniable proof of it exists in the fact, that his statue is still to be seen in front of the great church. He rejoiced, while living, in the name of Laurentius Castero ; and, however much you may. be surprised at the claims advanced in his fa«

your, you are hereby strictly cautioned to offer no contradiction to the boastings of bis overjoyed compatriots — they are prouder of his glory than of their beer. But bis merits did not stop short at casting types. In addition to his enormous learning and profound information, he possessed an almost miraculous mastery of the fiddle. He was a Dutch Paganini, and drew such notes from his instrument, that the burgomaster, in smoking his pipe and listening to the sounds, thought it had a close resemblance to the music of the spheres. There was only one man in all Haarlem, in all Holland, who did not yield the palm at fiddle-playing to Castero. That one man was no other than Frederick Katwingen, the son of a rich brewer, whom his admirers — more numerous than those of his rival — had called the Dutch Orpheus. If the laurels of Miltiades disturbed the sleep of Themistocles ; if the exploits of Macedonia's madman interfered with the comfort of Julius Cassar, -the glory of Watwingen would not let Castero get a wink of sleep. What ! a,man of genius — a philosopher like the doctus Laurentius, not be contented with his fame as discoverer of the art of printing ; but to leave his manuscripts, and pica, and pie, to strive for a contemptible triumph, to look with an eye of envy on a competitor for the applauses of a music room ! Alas ! too true. Who is the man, let me a&k you, who can put bounds to his pretensions ? Who is the man that does not feel as if the praises of his neighbour were an injury to himself ? And if I must speak the whole truth, I am bound to confess that these jealous sentiments were equally entertained by both the musicians. Yes, — if Castero would acknowledge no master, Frederick could not bear that any one should consider himself his rival, and insisted at any rate in treating with him on equal terms. Laurentius, therefore, and the son of the brewer were declared enemies ; and the inhabitants of Haarlem were divided into two parties, each ruled over with unlimited power by the fiddlestick of its chief. It was announced one morning that the Stadtholder would pass through the town in the course of the day. The burgomaster determined to receive the illustrious personage in proper style, and ordered the two rivals to hold themselves in readiness. Here, then, was a contest worthy of them ; an opportunity of bringing the gieat question to issue of which of them played the first fiddle in Holland — perhaps in Europe. It fell to Frederick's chance to perform first — in itself a sort of triumph over Laurentius. The Stadtholder entered by the Amsterdam road, attended by his suite — they passed along the street, and stopped under a triumphal arch which bad been hastily prepared. The burgomaster made a speech very much like the speeches of burgomasters before and since on similar tremendous occasions ; and Frederick finally advanced and made his salaam to the chief magistrate of the United Provinces. The performer knew that the Stadtholder was a judge of music, and this gave him courage to do his best. He began without more ado, and every thing went on at first as he could wish ; fountains of harmony gushed out from under his bow. There seemed a soul at the end of each of his fingers, and the countenance of the chief magistrate showed how enchanted he was with his powers. His triumph was on -the point of being complete ; a few more bars of a movement composed for the occasion — a few magnificent flourishes to show his mastery of the instrument, and Castero will be driven to despair by the superiority of his rival: — but crash ! crash !! — at the very moment when his melody is steeping the senses of the Stadtholder in Elysium, a string breaks with hideous sound, and the whole effect of bis composition is destroyed. A smile jumped instantaneously to the protruding lip of the learned Laurentius, and mocked his mishap; the son of the brewer observed the impertinent smile, and anger gave him courage — the broken string is instantly replaced. The artist rushes full speed into the allegretto — and under the pressure of his hands, burning with rage and genius, the chord breaks again ! The fiddle must be bewitched — Frederick became deadly pale — 'he trembled from bead to foot — he was nearly wild. But the piece he had composed was admirable ; he knew it — for in a moment of inspiration he had breathed it into existence from the recesses of his soul. And was he doomed never to play this cherished work to the governor of his country ? — An approving motion from that august individual encouraged him to proceed, and he fitted a string for the third time. Alas, alas ! the result is the same — the chord is too much tightened, and breaks in the middle of a note ! Humbled and ashamed, Frederick gives up his allegretto. He retires abashed and heartbroken, and Castero takes his place. Mixed up in the crowd, his eyes swam in tears of rage and disappointment when the frantic applauses of the assemWage — to whom the Stadtholder had set the

example — announced to him the triumph of his rival. He is vanquished — vanquished without having had the power to fight — oh, grief ! oh, shame ! oh, despair ! His friends tried in vain to con&ole him in promising him a brilliant revenge. The son of ihe brewer believed himself eternally disgraced. He went into his room, double locked the door, and would see nobody. He required solitude — but the woe of the artiste had not yet reached its height. He must drink the cup of humiliation to the dregs. Suddenly innumerable voices penetrated the thick walls of the brewery, and reached the chamber of the defeated candidate. Those voices — Frederick recognised them too well — were those of the faction which acknowledged Castero for their chief. A triumphal march, pei formed by twenty instruments, in honour of his rival, succeeded in overturning the reason of the unhappy youth. His fiddle was before him on the table — that fiddle which had disappointed his hopes. Exasperated, out of his senses, the brewer's son seized the instrument — a moment he held it aloft at the corner of the chimney, and yielding to the rage that gnawed his soul, he dashed it into a thousand pieces. Faults, like misfortunes, never come single. "Blood calls for blood," says Machiavel — " ruin for ruin." — By that fatal tendency of the human mind never to stop when once we have gone "wrong, but to go on from bad to worse, instead of blushing at our folly — Frederick, after that act of vandalism, dashed like a madman out of the brewery. The sight of his instrument in a thousand fragments had completed the business — life was a torment to him. He hurried towards the lake of Haarlem, determined to seek in its gloomy depths a refuge from disgrace. — Poor Frederick.