Franz Peter Schubert





(1797-1828)



God sent his singers upon earth

With songs of gladness and of mirth,

That they might touch the hearts of men

And bring them back to heaven again.



--LONGFELLOW.








[Music: (Hark, Hark! the Lark.) Hark, hark! the lark at Heav'n's gate

sings, And Phœbus 'gins to rise.]



One winter's night in 1797 a little child was born in Vienna. He was

called Franz Peter, and his father was Schubert the schoolmaster. The

home into which the child came was one of poverty. There was a large

family of children to be cared for, and there was but little money with

which to feed and clothe them.



On the day that Franz Schubert was born in that humble home, Haydn was

sixty-five years of age, and the great Beethoven was a young man of

twenty-seven. Mozart had passed away six years before. Little did

Schoolmaster Schubert and his good wife dream that their little son

would one day make the name Schubert as famous as any of these.



Famous, indeed, did the family name become through Franz Peter. And

to-day, if you were to visit Vienna, you would find his first home

marked with a gray stone tablet. Carved into the marble are words

meaning Birthplace of Franz Schubert.



Franz started to school when he was six years old. A year or two later

he began the study of music. His teacher soon found that the boy already

knew a great deal. At the close of a lesson one day, he said to the

child, "Who has been your music teacher?"



"May it please you, I have had none but yourself."



"How, then, have you learned so much about music?"



Then the boy told his story. He said that a playmate of his was an

apprentice in a piano factory. Franz often begged to be allowed to go to

the shop. At last his friend said, "You may go with me just this once."

When he was ready to go home, Franz could not be found in the workshop.

The apprentice hurried from one room to another. At last he found the

little lad in the room where the pianos stood. He had been having a

delightful time, picking out exercises on the white keys. Many times

after that he went to the piano factory. Soon he had taught himself all

that most children learn in a great many lessons.



The boy's singing teacher often said to the schoolmaster, "I have never

before had such a pupil." One day he came to the father with tears in

his eyes, saying, "Whenever I want to teach Franz anything, I find he

knows it already."



The boy's father was anxious that Franz should become a member of the

choir in the emperor's chapel. Those who sang in the choir first passed

an examination in music. Then they were allowed to enter a school where

music and other studies were taught.



Franz often saw the choir boys in their uniforms trimmed with bands of

gold, and studied harder that he might one day enter the choir. When he

was eleven years old, he passed the examination. The chapel master said,

"You sing well, indeed, my boy."



When Franz arose to sing for the chapel masters, some of the boys began

to point their fingers at his poor clothes. Franz could hear them

whispering among themselves, "He must be a miller's son." When he began

to sing, the whispering ceased. The sweet, pure tones filled the great

room and the silence was unbroken.



One day the chapel master saw some music that Franz had composed. He

said to himself "Franz Schubert is no ordinary child. He must study

composition in earnest. He shall have the finest harmony teacher."



Franz and his new teacher became fast friends. The lad was eager to

learn, but the master found little to teach. He used to say, "He has

already learned everything, and God has been his teacher."



During the years that Franz attended the choir school it was his custom

to visit his parents on Sunday afternoon. The schoolmaster and three of

his sons had formed a quartet. The father played the violoncello, Franz

the viola, and the others the first and second violins.



Although Franz was the youngest, he was the first to notice a mistake.

If it was one of his brothers who made the mistake, Franz would frown.

If it was the father who played a wrong note, no notice of it was taken

the first time. If he played incorrectly the second time, Franz would

smile and say modestly, "There must be something wrong, father."





THE WRITER OF SWEET SONGS



It was in 1813, when Franz Schubert was sixteen years old, that a great

change came into his life. His voice lost its purity and sweetness. He

could no longer reach the high notes with ease. For these reasons he was

obliged to leave the chapel choir.



The boy knew that he must earn his own living. He became an assistant

in his father's school. There, day after day, for three years, he taught

the little children their A B C's. He did not enjoy his work, and the

moment school was over he busied himself with something far dearer to

him than teaching. Composition was his heart's delight, and he spent all

his leisure time in writing music.



One of the best compositions of his early years was a mass in F. It was

given in a large church, where Franz went to hear it. It so happened

that his old teacher was there and heard the young man's music with

great pleasure. At the close of the mass, he came hurrying to his

friend, exclaiming, "Franz, you are my pupil--one who will do me much

honor!"



Teaching and being taught--that was the way in which young Schubert

spent a year or two after he left the emperor's chapel. Teaching the

primer class in his father's school and being taught the science of

writing music was the work which filled his hours.



Many of Franz Peter's friends spent their leisure time in outdoor games.

Should you not think that young Schubert would have been glad to join

them when school was over? He often wished that he might join his

comrades, but he would say: "No, I can not go. There is much work to be

done."



Few composers ever spent so busy a year as did Schubert in 1815. Indeed,

it was the busiest year of his life. In those twelve months he composed

church music, operas, symphonies, and a hundred songs. He never wrote

songs more tender or sweet than those written at that period.



Often, when Schubert read a poem that pleased him, he set it to music.

The words of many of his songs are the poems of some of the best German

writers. He was particularly fond of Goethe's works and set many of his

poems to music. The words of two of Schubert's most beautiful songs,

The Erl King and Gretchen at her Spinning Wheel, were written by

Goethe.



Although Schubert wrote so many beautiful songs, the German people knew

little about them. Perhaps they might never have known them well, had it

not been for a good friend of Schubert's. This man was a singer. He

admired Schubert's songs and sang them well. In fact, he sang them at

almost every concert in which he appeared. He it was who first gave The

Erl King in public.



There is a story telling how Schubert chanced to write the well-known

song, Hark, Hark, the Lark. Returning one evening in July from a long

walk, he strolled into the park to rest. On one of the benches he found

a friend reading Shakespeare. When his friend had finished reading,

Schubert picked up the volume. Idly turning the pages, his eye fell upon

the verses beginning, "Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings."



As he read, music fitting the words passed through his mind. Hastily

taking pencil and paper, he drew the staves, and, without once glancing

up, he wrote every note of the music.



Schubert had only a few friends, but these were near and dear to him.

The "King of Song," as we sometimes call him, was a man unselfish and

true. To the last days of his life he was poor. He never complained, nor

was he sad on this account.



In many respects, Franz Peter Schubert had a different life from most

other great composers. He never played at the courts of queens and

emperors. He was never given diamonds or other costly presents. He

seldom played at concerts. He never had the joy of hearing his

compositions cheered again and again. He never saw an audience sit

silent under the charm of his music.



Many songs that Schubert wrote have never been published. Among his

best-known works are The Wanderer, Hedge Roses, The Wanderer's

Night Song, The Pilgrim, Prayer before the Battle, and the

Slumber Song. He also set to music Scott's Lady of the Lake.



We must not forget that, although Schubert is best known as a song

writer, he also wrote much exquisite instrumental music. One of the

loveliest compositions for the piano is the Serenade. Many serenades

have been written, but no other is so lovely as Schubert's Serenade.



Although Schubert and Beethoven lived at the same time, they seldom saw

each other. It was during Beethoven's last illness that he first came to

know Schubert's compositions. A friend brought him a number of

Schubert's songs to read, and the master was delighted. In the

procession of friends at Beethoven's funeral, Schubert was one of the

torch-bearers.



Scarcely a year had passed before Schubert, too, had passed away. He was

buried in Vienna, near the graves of Mozart and Beethoven. A stately

monument marks the last resting place of "The Writer of Sweet Songs."



[Music: (The Erl King.) Who rides there so late thro' night so wild?



A loving father with his young child.]





HEDGE ROSES



Once a boy a wild rose spied,

In the hedgerow growing;

Fresh in all her youthful pride,

When her beauties he descried,

Joy in his heart was glowing.

Little wild rose, wild rose red,

In the hedgerow growing.



Said the boy, "I'll gather thee,

In the hedgerow growing!"

Said the rose, "Then I'll pierce thee

That thou may'st remember me."

Thus reproof bestowing.

Little wild rose, wild rose red,

In the hedgerow growing.



Thoughtlessly he pulled the rose,

In the hedgerow growing;

But her thorns their spears oppose.

Vainly he laments his woes,

With pain his hand is glowing.

Little wild rose, wild rose red,

In the hedgerow growing.



--GOETHE.





THE WANDERER'S NIGHT SONG



Night descends in peace o'er the trees,

Each trembling leaflet, e'en the breeze,

Hath slumber blest.

The little birds cease their ev'ning song.

Wait awhile, wait awhile, ere long

Thou too shalt rest;

Wait awhile, wait awhile, ere long

Thou too shalt rest.



--GOETHE.





Francis Trevelyan Buckland Frederick Barbarossa facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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