_A curious dialogue between the Vicar and Miss Villers.--An
enigma.--The riddles of Samson and Cleobulus.--Sound.--How
propagated by aërial vibration.--Music.--A learned discussion
touching the superior powers of ancient Music.--The magic of
Music, a game which the author believes is here described for
the first time.--Adventures by Moonlight.--Spirits of the
Valley._
On the following morning, Miss Villers, accompanied by her friends,
proceeded to Osterley Park, to pay her compliments to Major Snapwell,
and to add her entreaties to those of Mr. and Mrs. Seymour to induce
the venerable Major to spend a few days at Overton Lodge. The children,
of course, had a holiday; but was it a holiday? Tom and his sister have
been frequently heard to declare that they never passed a more dull and
listless day; and on resuming their scientific sports, their manner
sufficiently testified that increased pleasure which always accompanies
our return to an agreeable occupation.
“Mr. Twaddleton,” said Miss Villers, addressing the worthy vicar as he
entered the library at Overton, “I am happy to say that Major Snapwell
has consented to pass a few days with us, and I learn from him that you
have been most delightfully engaged in promoting a new scheme of
scientific instruction; it is a subject which greatly interests me, and
I shall be most happy in being allowed to become one of your party. To
the merits of this system I am no stranger,” continued the lady, “nor
am I unacquainted, sir, with the advantages which your antiquarian
knowledge has conferred; you have garnished the intellectual banquet
with some of the choicest flowers of literature.”
“You do me far too much honour, madam,” said the vicar, as a gracious
smile flitted over his countenance; “but I rejoice to find that you
attach a becoming importance to the researches of the antiquary. May I
be allowed to hope that you will favour me with a visit at the
vicarage, and inspect my poor collection of antiques?”
“I anticipate a great treat, I do assure you,” said Miss Villers; “but
you speak too humbly of a collection which the major informs me
contains some of the rarest relics of ancient days.”
“The major, madam, is no doubt a judge, an excellent judge, although he
is occasionally----but no matter--no matter. I certainly, as he justly
says, do possess some few remarkable specimens. I have, for instance,
an undoubted specimen of the leathern money coined by John of France;
some very tolerable samples of tapestry of the ‘high and low warp;’ a
series of sigilla or seals; as well as an interesting collection of
impressions in wax, taken from grants of William the Conqueror, and
what is curious, the colour of these waxen impressions is, without any
exception, green, with a view, as it has been said, to signify that the
acts should for ever continue fresh and in force. Let me consider,”
continued the vicar, “what other curiosities can I display for your
delight and approbation? Rock-basins; yes, the rock-basins from
Carn-breh. Ay, madam, you will be quite astonished at a specimen
which--” At this instant, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, followed by the
children, entered the apartment, and abruptly cut the thread of the
vicar’s harangue.
“What do I hear?” exclaimed Mr. Seymour. “Rock-basins! for mercy’s
sake, my dear vicar, let us not again dive into those horrid basins of
Druidism; do but consider the martyrdom I have suffered on account of
those pools of lustration.”
“Well, well,” replied the vicar pettishly, “I will consent to reserve
the question for Miss Villers’s opinion, who, I have no doubt, will
readily assent to their authenticity. But I have another treasure
lately obtained from Cornwall, which you have not yet seen--a
Sepulchral stone!--‘_In vestibulo astat_,’ as the poet has it.”
“Why I never observed it as I passed through the entrance,” said Mr.
Seymour.
“Excuse me,” observed the vicar, “the _Vestibule_, if you please. You
doubtless know it was a custom amongst the Romans to have an altar
sacred to Vesta in the entrance of their houses, and hence the
term;--but I beg a thousand pardons--‘_venia sit dicto_’--I am perhaps
too critical.”
“Not only pardon, but thanks, my dear sir, for the information you have
afforded us,” said Mr. Seymour.
Miss Villers was now invited to be present at one of the scientific
conversations.
“I shall be grateful to you for so pleasing a privilege,” observed the
young lady; “and,” continued she, “may I be allowed to ask whether you
have not been lately teaching my young friends the operation of those
various toys, which act by the force of the air; the object I have in
view in asking this question you shall presently hear.”
“Papa has lately taught us the reason of the kite’s ascent, and the
action of the squirt, sucker, and pump,” said Tom.
“So I understood; and before you proceed with your sportive philosophy,
I hope your papa will allow you to try whether you can solve an enigma
I have composed for you.”
“A riddle!” exclaimed Louisa; “how delightful! Pray read it, papa, and
let us try to discover its meaning.”
Her father then opened the paper with which Miss Villers had presented
him, and read as follows:--
“Mortal, wouldst thou know my name,
Scan the pow’rs I proudly claim.
O’er this globe’s capacious round
With fairy sprightliness I bound;
To ev’ry clime, to ev’ry soil,
With equal hand I give my toil.
O’er sea and land my power extends,
To ev’ry herb my care descends.
Did I withhold my vital breath,
Nature’s forms would sink in death.
When confin’d, or swiftly driven
By angry spirits in the heaven,
My wrath in thunders I make known,
And discord claims me as her own.
’Tis love of freedom makes me wild,--
When uncontroll’d, my nature’s mild;
And oft the nymph, in dewy grot
Seeks solace from my plaintive note;
O’er lovers’ graves I waft a sigh,
And breathe the sound of sympathy.
And know, ye sons of Albion’s isle,
That when the Hero of the Nile,
Midst crowds with mournful pomp array’d,
In the cold lap of Earth was laid,
I sympathis’d with Britain’s tear,
And waved the banner o’er his bier.
’Tis I who from the trembling lyre,
Breathe tones of love and soft desire;
’Tis I, the spirit of the shell,
Who fill with notes the listening dell;
And, when the war-trump sounds alarms,
’Tis I who summon men to arms.
To man a slave, though free as air,
I grind his corn, his food prepare;
Should he to foreign climes proceed,
He yokes me like the neighing steed,
And, by my quick but easy motion,
He traverses the stormy ocean.
His children, too, my presence court,
To give them toys, and make them sport:
Without my aid, their kites would lie
As useless weights that ne’er could fly;
Their humming tops would soundless spin,
Unless I breath’d a spell within.
The modest maid, without my power,
Would wither like her kindred flower.
Unless my cup of sweets she sips,
Where are the rubies of her lips?
Unless my glowing rouge she seeks,
Where are the roses of her cheeks?
What art again can strew her tresses
With half the grace my skill possesses?
Ev’n goddesses are represented
In draperies which I invented.
Sometimes, ’tis true, I am so frail
As ruffian-like to raise your veil,
And thus to curious man reveal
The charms you modestly conceal.
Revenge the deed. Announce my Name,
For now you know the powers I claim.”
“It is extremely pretty,” exclaimed Louisa.
“It is beautiful,” said Tom; “but I should like to find out the riddle
it contains. What can that be which grinds our corn, and carries our
ships across the sea? Canvass? Yes; canvass clothes the sails of the
windmill and forms those of the ship.”
“And therefore visits every clime; while, as long as the sails remain
fixed, they are quite tractable and steady,” added Louisa.
“It will not do, Louisa; it cannot be canvass: for the sail is never
boisterous when it is controlled; but when let loose, it shivers in the
wind and is very unruly; whereas it is said in the riddle, ‘When
uncontroll’d my nature’s mild,’ which is quite the reverse. Let me see.
Can it be string? My top could not hum without string.”
“How can string prevent the modest maid from fading like a flower? What
says the vicar?” asked Louisa.
“_Davus sum, non Œdipus_,” exclaimed Mr. Twaddleton.
At this moment Miss Villers whispered in the ear of her little
favourite, who shortly afterwards exclaimed, “I have it, Tom,--it is
AIR.”
The juvenile group now attentively perused the enigma, in order to
discover whether its different parts would admit of such an
interpretation. As soon as they arrived at the passage in which was
described the waving of the banners over the bier of Nelson, Tom
declared that his sister must be wrong; and was proceeding to offer his
reasons, when Mr. Seymour interrupted him, by observing, it was that
passage which first suggested to his mind the solution of the enigma;
and satisfied him that Louisa was perfectly right.
“It so happened,” continued he, “that I was present during the awful
ceremony of Nelson’s interment in St. Paul’s; and never shall I forget
the thrilling effect which was produced on the assembled multitude, by
the solemn movement of the banners in the dome, as the bier slowly
advanced along the aisle of the cathedral; and which was accidentally
occasioned by a current of air from the western entrance, although, to
the eye of fancy, it seemed as if some attendant spirit had directed
the colours, under which the hero had bled and conquered, to offer this
supernatural testimony of respect and sorrow.”
Miss Villers observed, that Louisa had unquestionably solved the riddle.
“And pray, my dear Mr. Twaddleton,” said Mrs. Seymour, “what say you to
these puzzles and rhyming conundrums? Do you hold them in as much
horror as you would so many puns?”
“By no means, my good madam. An enigma is a perfectly orthodox species
of composition; and is, indeed, sanctioned by the highest authorities
of antiquity.”
“I believe,” observed Mr. Seymour, “that the pastime of riddle-making
was extremely popular amongst the Grecians. Plutarch, if I remember
correctly, has told us that the girls of his time worked at netting or
sewing, and that the most ingenious amongst them ‘made riddles.’”
“The most ancient riddle on record,” replied the vicar, “is to be found
in the fourteenth chapter of the book of Judges.”
“_And Samson said unto them, ‘I will now put forth a riddle unto you;
if ye can certainly declare it me within the seven days of the feast,
and find it out, then I will give you thirty sheets and thirty changes
of garments.’ And they said unto him, ‘Put forth thy riddle that we may
hear it.’ And he said unto them, ‘Out of the eater came forth meat, and
out of the strong came forth sweetness._’”
“And did they find it out?” asked Tom.
“My dear boy,” replied the vicar, “you must read the chapter to which I
have alluded, and you will thence learn all about this enigma.”
“We have also numerous riddles in prophane writers of ancient date,”
observed Mr. Seymour.
“Did you ever read of that invented by Cleobulus, one of the seven wise
men of Greece, who lived 570 years before Christ?” enquired the vicar.
“Pray be so kind as to relate it,” said Tom.
Mr. Twaddleton, in compliance with this request, proceeded as follows:--
“There is a father with twice six sons; these sons have each thirty
daughters, who are parti-coloured, having one cheek white, the other
black. They never see each other’s faces, nor live above twenty-four
hours.”
“A very strange and unsociable family!” observed Louisa.
“I should never guess it,” said Tom, “if I were to dedicate a year to
it.”
“You have, nevertheless, my boy, just pronounced the name of the said
father, and that, too, after a single moment’s consideration,” replied
the vicar.
“The name of the father!--how?--where?”
“It is a YEAR!”
“A year!” exclaimed the astonished boy.
“A year!” echoed Louisa; “to be sure it is; I now see it all clearly.
His ‘twice six sons’ are the twelve months; the ‘thirty daughters’ the
days of each month; and, since one day must necessarily pass away
before the next can arrive, they may be truly said never to see each
other’s faces.”
“Admirably expounded!” cried the vicar.
“And each day,” added Tom, “is certainly ‘parti-coloured,’ as it is
made up of light and darkness.”
“Good, again! The quick apprehension of these my little playmates,”
said Mr. Twaddleton, as he turned towards Miss Villers, “is highly
interesting; their minds, from well-regulated discipline, have acquired
the faculty, if I may be allowed the use of the metaphor, of
_winnowing_ a subject, so as completely to separate the grain from the
chaff.”
“It is my intention to proceed this morning with the consideration of
those toys which have the property of producing sound,” said Mr.
Seymour.
“I suppose you mean the whistle, whiz-gig, and humming-top,” observed
Tom.
“Your papa, no doubt, alludes to those instruments,” said the vicar,
“and I greatly approve of the arrangement; since our last lecture
embraced the operations of the atmosphere, a subject with which the
nature of sound is certainly intimately connected.”
“We have lately considered the phenomenon of wind, as produced by the
motions of the atmosphere, and I now propose to investigate another
species of agitation of which the air is susceptible, a kind of
vibratory or tremulous motion, which, striking on the drum of the ear,
produces SOUND.”
“Is it the air which produces sound!” said Louisa, with much surprise;
“I thought it was always occasioned by the vibrations of solid bodies.
Well do I remember, when Tom struck the finger-glass, that you
immediately silenced the sound by placing your hand upon it, and which
you told us stopped the vibration of the glass, and so destroyed the
sound.”
“You speak the truth, but not the whole truth,” replied her father.
“Sound is undoubtedly the result of certain motions, or vibrations,
produced in sonorous bodies, but these vibrations are communicated to
the air, and from thence to the ear, in a manner which I shall
presently explain.”
“Do you mean to say, papa, that, if air were entirely excluded, bodies
would be incapable of producing sound when struck?”
“Not exactly. Air is the usual conductor of sound, and unless some
other medium be substituted, the removal of it would prevent a sonorous
body from communicating any sensation to the ear. Liquids, however, are
capable of conveying the vibratory motion to the organ of hearing; for
sound can be heard under water. Solid bodies will also convey it, and
in a much more perfect and rapid manner(44); thus the slightest scratch
with a pin, upon one end of a long piece of timber, will be distinctly
heard on applying the ear to its opposite extremity. The tramping of a
horse is to be perceived at a greater distance by listening with the
ear in contact with the ground, than by attending to the sound conveyed
through the air; and hence, amongst many eastern tribes, it is a common
practice to ascertain the approach of an enemy, by applying the ear to
the ground. Upon the same principle, if we place our ear against a long
brick wall, and desire a person at a considerable distance to strike it
_once_ with a hammer, it will be heard _twice_, the first sound
travelling along the wall, the second through the air.”
“I thank you for that hint,” said the vicar. “I now understand the
principle of a new instrument which Dr. Doseall employs for examining
the pulsations of the heart. He places the end of a wooden rod upon the
breast, and applying the other extremity to his ear, declares that the
sounds, thus conveyed to it, enable him to form the most accurate
opinion in cases of diseased chest.”
“In the same manner,” observed Mrs. Seymour, “that you may hear the
boiling of the tea-kettle, by placing the end of the poker on the
vessel, and applying your ear to the handle.”
“I do not exactly understand what you mean by a _sonorous_ body. Will
not every body produce a sound when struck?” asked Fanny.
“Those bodies are called _sonorous_, which produce clear, distinct,
regular, and durable sounds, such as a bell, a drum, musical strings,
wind instruments, and so on.”
“And upon what does this peculiar property depend?” enquired Tom.
“Before I answer that question, I must explain the supposed nature of
those vibrations of the air, upon which sound depends; you will then
readily perceive why one species of matter should be better calculated
than another for exciting them. It is generally believed that sound is
conveyed through air by a succession of pulsations similar to those
which are occasioned on the surface of smooth water by throwing a
pebble into it. This at first produces a small circular wave round the
spot in which the stone falls; the wave spreads, and gradually
communicates its motion to the adjacent waters, producing similar waves
to a considerable extent. The same kind of waves are produced in the
air by the motion of a sonorous body, which will of course be in the
centre, and the waves or pulsations will diminish in strength as they
recede from that centre, until at last they become too weak to produce
any effect on the ear.”
“When I strike a bell, then do I produce exactly the same motion in the
air, that I do in the water by throwing a stone into it?” asked Louisa.
“With this difference,” replied her father, “that as air is an elastic
fluid, the motion does not consist of regularly extending waves, but of
vibrations, which are composed of a motion forwards and backwards; the
undulations of the air differ also from those of the water, in not
being confined to a plane, but in diverging in all directions from the
centre; or, in other words, the aërial undulations are spherical.”
“It is a very puzzling subject,” cried Tom.
“I cannot understand,” said Louisa, “how the motion of the air can
extend so as to convey sound to a distance, if, as papa says, the air
moves backwards as well as forwards.”
“I see your difficulty, and will endeavour to remove it; attend to me.
The first set of undulations which are produced immediately around the
sonorous body, by pressing against the contiguous air, condense it. The
condensed air, though impelled forward by the pressure, re-acts on the
first set of undulations, driving them back again. The second set which
have been put in action, in their turn, communicate their motion, and
are themselves driven back by reaction. Thus there is a succession of
waves in the air, corresponding with the succession of waves in the
water.”
“Now I understand why sound requires some time to travel from a distant
object to the ear, as you explained to us upon a former occasion,”[53]
said Louisa.
“But you have not yet told us what renders a body sonorous,” observed
Tom.
“Its elasticity: a ball of damp clay, which does not possess this
property, will produce no other sound, when struck, but that which
arises from the condensation of the small portion of air between the
clay and the hammer which strikes it. A hollow ball of brass will
produce more sound, because it is elastic; but still very little effect
will arise from this, since a ball is the worst shape for admitting of
vibration, on account of its forming an arch or dome, in every
direction, so that one part stiffens and sustains the other; but if
such a ball be divided, and the edge of one half of it struck, a loud,
clear, and distinct tone will be produced; because a hemisphere will
admit of the exertion of elasticity, or of momentary change of figure,
which is conducive to the perfection of sound; and accordingly the
bells used for clocks, and for musical purposes, have generally such a
figure.”
“I see clearly,” said Louisa, “that it is the vibration of a sonorous
body that communicates the necessary motions to the air; and I suppose
that a body vibrates in proportion to its elasticity.”
“Certainly it does: but to render this subject still more intelligible,
I have prepared a diagram.”
Mr. Seymour then exhibited a figure, of which the annexed is a copy,
and proceeded to explain it in the following manner:--
[Illustration: Diagram of a string vibrating.]
“You are well aware that an elastic body, after having been struck, not
only returns to its former situation, but having acquired momentum by
its velocity, like the pendulum or swing,[54] springs out on the
opposite side. If, then, I draw the string A B, which is made fast at
both ends, to C, it will not only return to its original position, but
proceed onwards to D. This is the first vibration, at the end of which
it will retain sufficient velocity to bring it to E, and back again to
F, which constitutes its second vibration; the third vibration will
carry it only to G and H, and so on, till the resistance of the air
destroys its motion.”
“That is exactly like the swing or pendulum,” said Tom.
“As you are struck with the resemblance, take care and preserve the
remembrance of it; for I shall, hereafter, have occasion to revert to
it.”
“As I now understand how sound is produced and carried to a distance, I
should much like to learn the cause of different tones,” said Louisa.
“Fond as you are of music, my dear Louisa, I am not surprised at the
wish you have just expressed to become acquainted with the nature of
musical sounds; I shall, therefore, endeavour to convey, in as simple a
manner as possible, the theory which has been proposed for their
explanation. I think you will immediately perceive that, if the aërial
waves which I have endeavoured to describe, should be irregular, or run
into each other, there must arise a confusion of sounds; thus
_discords_ may be readily imagined to be produced whenever a second
vibration shall commence before the first is finished, so as to meet it
half-way on its return, and interrupt it in its course. In like manner
may we conceive the general nature of those arrangements upon which
_unison_ and _concord_ depend: where the vibrations are performed in
equal times, the same tone is produced by both, and they are said to be
_in unison_; but _concord_, as you well know, is not confined to
unison, for two different tones harmonize in a variety of cases. If,
for example the particles of one sonorous body vibrate in double the
time of another, the second vibration of the latter will strike the ear
at the same instant as the first vibration of the former; and this is
the ‘concord of an _octave_.’ When the vibrations are as 2 to 3, the
coincidence will be at every third vibration of the quickest, which,
therefore, is the next degree of perfection, and is called a
‘_diapente_,’ or ‘fifth;’ while the vibration of 3 to 4 will produce
the ‘_diatessaron_,’ or ‘fourth;’ but this, and the next which follow
in order, are not so agreeable to the judicious ear, and are therefore
called ‘_imperfect concords_.’”
Louisa here enquired whether the difference in the acuteness of a sound
did not depend upon the nature of the vibrations; and her father, in
reply, stated that it depended entirely upon the degree of quickness
with which the vibrations were performed: the slower the vibration, the
graver the tone; the quicker, the more acute.[55]
“But, if I strike any one note of the instrument repeatedly, whether
quickly or slowly, it always gives the same tone,” observed Louisa.
“To understand that fact,” replied her father, “you must remember that
the vibrations of bodies are regulated by laws very similar to those of
the pendulum; consequently the duration of the vibrations of strings or
chords depends upon their length, and thickness; for if two strings of
equal magnitude, but with their lengths as 2 to 1, be equally
stretched, their vibrations will be in the same ratio; therefore the
shortest will make two vibrations, while the longest makes one: but the
vibrations of the same string will always be the same whether it be
struck quickly or slowly, upon the principle of the _isochronous_
property of the pendulum, already described.”
“Upon my word, Mr. Seymour,” cried Mr. Twaddleton, “you are getting out
of your depth; pray let us take leave of this subject, for I am quite
sure that my young friends have already received more than they can
carry away.”
“I submit, my good sir; and in return for my compliance,” said Mr.
Seymour, “use your influence over Miss Villers, and induce her to
favour us with a practical illustration of our subject upon the
piano-forte.”
“Most cheerfully; but my intercession is quite unnecessary, for I am
sure that our fair friend is no disciple of Tigellius.”[56]
“I am ever ready, sir, to comply with the wishes of those I respect. I
consider the caprice which our sex too often displays upon these
occasions, as not only a breach of good manners, but an evidence of
unpardonable vanity.”
“Pray, Miss Villers, may I be allowed to ask whether you have ever
directed your enquiries into the nature of ancient music? it must have
been very superior to that of modern ages,” said Mr. Twaddleton.
“Upon a question of such doubt and difficulty, I feel that it would ill
become a person of my very limited knowledge to offer an opinion;
although I am willing to confess that the subject has often engaged my
attention; and you could not afford me a greater gratification than by
clearing up some of those doubts which have perplexed me. It is, I
believe, admitted, that we are unable to ascertain the real nature of
ancient music: but it is evident that it was an art with which mankind
was extremely delighted; for not only the poets, but the historians and
philosophers, of the best ages of Greece and Rome, are as diffuse in
its praises, as of those arts concerning which sufficient remains have
descended to evince the truth of their panegyrics.”
“Nothing, as you very justly observe, is now left us, but conjecture,”
said the vicar; “and yet it is impossible to read the accounts of the
extraordinary effects produced by the different ‘modes’ of ancient
music, without entertaining a strong conviction of its great
superiority over that of modern times. What have we, my dear Miss
Villers, to compare with the soft ‘_Lydian_,’ the grave ‘_Dorian_,’ or
the furious ‘_Phrygian_;’ to say nothing of the subaltern modes of
Aristides Quintilianus and others; such, for example, as the
‘_erotic_,’ ‘_comic_,’ and ‘_encomiastic_?’ What modern strains can
produce the effects which are recorded to have followed the performance
of Timotheus, the director of the music of Alexander the Great? One
day, while the prince was at table, the musician performed an air in
the Phrygian mode, which made such an impression on him, that, being
already heated with wine, he flew to his arms, and was going to attack
his guests, had not Timotheus immediately changed the style of his
performance to the sub-Phrygian, or Lydian. This mode calmed the
impetuous fury of the monarch, and induced him to resume his place at
table. Music,” continued the vicar, “has, in modern times, so fallen
from this degree of majesty and power, as to induce some persons to
doubt the truth of the historical statements.”
“I confess, Mr. Twaddleton,” said Miss Villers, “that I have always
been inclined to regard ancient music as the mere vehicle of poetry;
and to attribute to the power of the latter that influence which you
appear to refer exclusively to the former.”
“I am willing to admit,” replied the vicar, “that in the ancient
theatre, music always accompanied her sister science, assisting,
animating, and supporting her; in short, that she was, in all respects,
her friend and fellow labourer. ‘_Qualem decet esse sororem_,’ as the
poet has it: but does not this rather prove that poetry, in itself, was
insufficient to produce its effects without the aid of music? In
farther proof of the power of ancient music, permit me to remind you
that Plato has said, ‘No change can be made in music without affecting
the constitution of the state;’ and Aristotle, who seems to have
written his Politics only to oppose the sentiments of Plato,
nevertheless agrees with him, concerning the power which music has over
mortals; and has not the judicious Polybius told us that music was
necessary to soften the manners of the Arcadians? In short, madam,
music has lost its power over the passions of mankind, and this can
only have happened in consequence of its having degenerated from its
ancient purity and grandeur. If any one should have the hardihood to
deny this my position, let him attend a modern rout in London. I have
seen, my dear Miss Villers, a party at a whist-table, a dozen persons
in _tête-à-têtes_, and as many solitary individuals, sitting like
automatons, not one of them being moved by the concord of sweet sounds,
with which some lady has been endeavouring to delight them. Had
Timotheus appeared amongst them! hey, Miss Villers? I think I see the
party at the whist-table, as his lyre successively changed from the
Lydian to the Phrygian mode. I must, however, in justice state, that I
once did see a lady lay down her cards in an apparent state of ecstasy,
as a chorus of Handel suddenly burst upon her ear.”
“And what might that chorus have been?” said Mr. Seymour, “‘_Blest be
the hand?_’ But, joking apart, you appear to have satisfied your mind
upon a point which all the learning of Europe has left in a state of
doubt and perplexity.”
“I have merely delivered an opinion, sir; you perhaps will favour us
with your judgment.”
“The subject under discussion, my good sir, is one upon which no person
can ever deliver a judgment.”
“And pray, Mr. Seymour, why not?”
“For this plain reason, that it is not possible we can _hear_ both
sides.”
“Psha! will you never cease to sully the pure stream of enquiry with
the dregs of ridicule?”
“Well, then, to be serious; I agree with Miss Villers, that ancient
music, whatever might have been its powers, was wholly indebted to the
poetry which accompanied it for its influence over the feelings of
mankind. It could not have been otherwise. The ancient instruments, as
represented in sculpture, appear so simple as to be apparently
incapable of producing great effects; and, indeed, amongst the writings
of Aristoxenus, the oldest musical author, we cannot discover a trace
of melody or harmony, such as we understand by _air_ accompanied with
different parts.”
“To that very simplicity am I disposed to refer the charm of ancient
music,” said the vicar; “it was addressed to the _ear_, sir, whereas
modern music is addressed to the _eye_; dexterity of execution is,
now-a-days, more valued than beauty of composition; the sweetest
shepherd that ever piped on his Doric reed, would be less applauded
than he who can make his pipe squeak for the space of five minutes
without respiration. The ancients knew better than to suffer the energy
and accentuation of their rhythm to be so destroyed; and only mark,
sir, the extreme jealousy with which they regarded every attempt to
injure this simplicity; it even became a subject of legislation; and
you no doubt remember the decree issued against Timotheus; which, as
well as I recollect, ran thus, ‘Whereas Timotheus the Milesian, coming
to our city, has dishonoured our ancient music, and despising the lyre
of seven strings, has, by the introduction of a greater variety of
notes, corrupted the ears of our youth; and, by the number of his
strings and the novelty of his melody, has given to our music an
effeminate and artificial dress, instead of the plain and orderly one
in which it has hitherto appeared; rendering melody infamous, by
composing in the chromatic, instead of the enharmonic. The kings and
the ephori have, therefore, resolved to pass censure upon Timotheus for
these things; and farther, to oblige him to cut all the superfluous
strings of his _eleven_, leaving only the _seven_ tones, and to banish
him from our city, that men may be warned for the future not to
introduce into Sparta any unbecoming customs.’”
“And now, my dear vicar, have you done? Have you said all you think
necessary, in defence of ancient music? If so, hear me, as the advocate
of modern harmony. In the first place, there is not an anecdote which
can be adduced in support of your side of the question, that may not be
met with one parallel, and equally strong, in defence of mine. You cite
the authority of Plato, to show that the constitution of a state may be
affected by changing its national music. What said the great Lord
Chatham?--‘_Give me the making of the national ballads, and I care not
who makes the laws_;’ and the effects produced on the English people by
Dibdin’s songs, fully justified the maxim: but remember Mr. Twaddleton,
it was not the music, but the _poetry_ of those songs, which kindled
the patriotic feelings which saved our country; and I apprehend that
this has been the case in all ages, where the power of music has been
said to excite the feelings of the populace. We know that the ancient
bards of our own country called forth the emotions of their hearers by
the poetry of their songs; and with what success they practised their
calling we may imagine from the fact that Edward the First, in his
conquest of Wales, had recourse to the barbarous expedient of murdering
all the bards, from the many obstacles they threw in his way, by the
strong hold which they had over the minds of the people. You have told
us a story of Timotheus, and the influence of his harp over a drunken
monarch. If this is adduced in proof of the power of ancient music, you
must, at least, admit that modern times have also had a Timotheus, who
could excite or calm, at his pleasure, the most impetuous emotions.
Henry III. king of France, says ‘_Le Journal de Sancy_,’ having given a
concert on occasion of the marriage of the Duke de Joyeuse, Claudin le
Jeune, a celebrated musician of that period, executed certain airs,
which had such an effect on a young nobleman, that he drew his sword,
and challenged every one near him to combat; but Claudin, equally
prudent as Timotheus, instantly changed to an air, _sub-Phrygian_, or
_Lydian_, I suppose, which appeased the furious youth. But what shall
we say of Stradella, the celebrated composer, whose music made the
daggers drop from the hands of his assassins? Stradella was attacked by
three desperadoes, who had been hired to assassinate him; but,
fortunately, they had an ear sensible to harmony. While waiting for a
favourable opportunity to execute their purpose they entered the church
of St. John de Lateran, during the performance of an oratorio, composed
by the person whom they intended to destroy, and were so affected by
the music, that they abandoned their design, and even waited on the
musician to apprise him of his danger. Stradella, however, was not
always so fortunate; other assassins, who apparently had no ear for
music, stabbed him some time afterwards at Genoa.”
“And thus afforded a practical illustration of a passage of
Shakspeare,” exclaimed the vicar,
“‘The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted.’”
“Are you satisfied?” asked Mr. Seymour; “if not, I will proceed to tell
you how Palma, a Neapolitan, induced a creditor who came to arrest him,
not only to remit his debt, but to contribute a sum for his support. I
will also relate an anecdote of Farinelli the actor, who having a
pathetic air to sing on the stage to a tyrant who had taken him
prisoner, the person who performed the part of the tyrant, and was to
have refused his request, was so affected by the music, that he
actually melted into tears, and clasped the captive in his arms.”
“Enough, enough!” exclaimed the vicar. “I see plainly that you believe
not in the power of music.”
“In that you wrong me. I certainly do not believe that the ancients
were better skilled than ourselves in music; and I have been anxious to
convince you that there are as many modern as ancient stories, in proof
of the influence of harmony over our feelings; but no one will deny
that music is capable of producing extraordinary effects. Let us only
interrogate ourselves, and examine what have been our sensations on
hearing a majestic or warlike piece of music, or a tender and pathetic
air sung or played with expression. Who does not feel that the latter
tends as much to melt the soul and dispose it to pleasure, as the
former to animate and exalt it? There is a celebrated air in
Switzerland, which, I have no doubt, Miss Villers will presently play
to us, called ‘_Rans des Vaches_,’ and which had such an extraordinary
effect on the Swiss troops in the French service, that they always fell
into a deep melancholy whenever they heard it. Louis XIV, therefore,
forbade it ever to be played in France, under the pain of a severe
penalty. We are also told of a Scotch air, ‘_Lochaber no more_,’ which
had a similar effect on the natives of Scotland. Never shall I forget
the effect produced upon myself by the impressive requiem of Jomelli,
as performed at the chapel of the Portuguese embassy to the memory of
the late king of Portugal. The movement with which it commenced was a
deep and hollow murmur, that seemed to swell from the tomb, and with
which the voices of spirits imperceptibly rose, and intermingled;--a
brilliant movement interposed,--it was a ray of hope that pierced the
gloom of the sepulchre!”
“I think,” said Miss Villers, “that I can exactly appreciate the nature
and extent of Mr. Seymour’s opinion upon the question at issue. He does
not deny the charm which the simple music of the ancients must have
exercised over the hearer, although he attributes much of the effect to
the poetry, of which it may certainly be said to have been the vehicle;
and he evidently concurs with you, Mr. Twaddleton, in thinking that,
owing to the intricate combinations of modern harmony, our astonishment
at the execution of the artist too frequently overcomes the influence
of the musical tones upon our passions. I perceive, however, from the
expression of our friend’s countenance,” continued the young lady,
“that, like a true antiquary, he clings to his subject, though his
support be no stronger than a cobweb; under such circumstances I may be
permitted to declare my sentiments upon the occasion, and I shall avail
myself of this opportunity to express my humble testimony of gratitude,
for the information and pleasure which I have just derived from your
conversation. I believe then, gentlemen, that the language of modern
music is no less forcible and expressive than that of ancient days; and
if you will only allow me to exemplify this truth by an experiment, I
feel convinced that the vicar will become my proselyte.”
“Indeed, madam! Well, I will consent to trust the cause in your hands,”
said Mr. Twaddleton.
“Allow me then to ask you, sir, whether you have ever heard of a game,
which is justly entitled to the appellation of the MAGIC OF MUSIC?”
“Never,” replied the vicar; “nor can I imagine either the nature, or
objects of such a game.”
“Its object is to display the power of music as an expressive language;
the manner in which I propose to exemplify it, I will, with your
permission, explain in a few words. The musical performer shall place
herself at the harp, or piano-forte, surrounded by the party who are
desirous of witnessing the pastime; the person to be operated upon must
retire from the apartment, until the service which, under the direction
of the music, it is determined he shall perform, is duly agreed upon
and arranged. Such person is then to be re-admitted; not a word, look,
or gesture, is to escape from any one present; by the expression of the
music alone is he to receive his instructions, and, unless I am much
deceived, you will find that this is amply sufficient for the purpose.”
“My dear madam, the thing is utterly impossible,” exclaimed the vicar.
“It cannot be done; unless, indeed, you really possess the secret of
the ancient ‘_modes_,’ which were not even known to Meibomius, the
learned commentator upon the Greek musician Alypius; nay, Isaac Vossius
himself, the expounder of rhythm, were he now alive, would never credit
it.”
“Are you willing to make the experiment,” said Miss Villers; “if so, be
so kind as to leave the room for a few minutes.”
The vicar accordingly prepared to depart, casting at the same time,
upon his fair companion, a look which sufficiently expressed the
scepticism he felt upon the occasion.
“But you have not told me,” said he, “by what signal I am to return,
and submit to the proposed ordeal.”
“The music will inform you, if you pay sufficient attention to its
language,” replied Miss Villers.
The door having been carefully closed, the company were consulted, in a
whisper, as to the service they should require the vicar to perform. “I
should propose,” said Miss Villers, “that Mr. Twaddleton be directed to
take a rose out of the basket of flowers on the chimney-piece, and
having smelt it, to carry it to the harp.”
“And do you propose to express all these different movements by the aid
of music? If you succeed, there must be an end to the vicar’s
scepticism,” observed Mr. Seymour.
“If I fail upon this occasion, it will be the first time,” said Miss
Villers: “but you must all promise to be silent, and to maintain the
most absolute command over your countenances.”
Miss Villers seated herself at the piano-forte, and played off an
elegant and sparkling overture, which so delighted Mrs. Seymour that
she involuntarily exclaimed, “If music can be made to speak an
intelligible language, it must be under the guidance of Miss Villers.”
“Hush,” cried the performer, in a half whisper: “I am now about to
summon the vicar into the room, and we must be as silent as
Carthusians.”
She accordingly, with exquisite taste and address, introduced the air
of “_Open the door, Lord Gregory_,” into which she infused so much
expression, that the vicar must have been as dull as Midas had he not
instantly caught its meaning. Nor were the lady’s hopes disappointed.
Mr. Twaddleton entered, and appeared as if anxious to address the
performer; but an intelligible glance from Mr. Seymour recalled him to
his duty, and hermetically sealed his lips. His intention had been,
doubtless, to enquire whether his appearance were seasonable; but the
question was anticipated by Miss Villers, who immediately on his
entrance struck up the air of “_See the conquering Hero comes_,” which,
at once, satisfied his doubts, and conveyed, in language not to be
misunderstood, the sanction of the enchantress, to whose spells he had
so unreservedly intrusted himself.
The vicar had been told that he was to perform certain acts on his
re-admission into the room; but, thought he, how am I to discover the
thread which is to guide me through so perplexing a maze? I can
discover at this moment nothing but a concord of sweet sounds, that
would rather dispose me to listen in profound repose, than to enter
upon any service of exertion. Miss Villers saw and guessed the nature
of his embarrassment, and changing the melody, struck into the air of
“_Hearken and I will tell thee how_.” She then, by a succession of
well-selected chords, which were now played ‘_piano_,’ and now
‘_forte_,’ convinced the vicar that she commanded an instrument fully
capable of readily and forcibly expressing encouragement and repulse in
all its degrees.
“Thus much then is certain,” mentally ejaculated the vicar, “that she
is enabled, by the aid of music, to signify her approbation, or
disapprobation, of any act which I may attempt to perform. I
accordingly predicate of this said music, that it is, _bonâ fide_, a
logical weapon; inasmuch as it can affirm and deny. It, therefore, only
remains for me, knowing as I do that I have some act to perform, to
ascertain the ‘_locus_’ or ‘_ubi_,’ for the act in question, whatever
it may be, must of necessity be done or accomplished ‘_in proprio
loco_,’ or in some definite part of the room.” With this determination,
founded, as he believed it to be, on the unerring basis of Aristotelian
logic, he advanced towards the table; but the loud and discordant
sounds of the instrument at once convinced him, that, however correct
his notions might be with reference to the ‘_substance_’ or first
‘_predicament_,’ they were evidently erroneous as to the ‘_accidents_,’
of ‘time,’ ‘place,’ and ‘relation;’ at least, such were the ideas that
floated through the categorical organ of his cranium, and he
accordingly faced about, and made a retreat towards the window; but the
notes now became still more clamorous, and increased in vehemence. Ay,
ay, thought he, it is quite evident that I am receding from the theatre
of action; and with this conviction he diverted his steps into a
different direction, and, in a slow pace, tracked the path by his ear,
with as much sagacity as a dog follows his prey by his nose. As he
approached the fire-place, the storm of sounds gradually subsided,
until a peaceful murmur breathed around, which finally died away as the
vicar placed his hand upon the chimney-piece. So then it appears, after
all, that I have some service to perform at the fire-side. It is,
doubtless, to sit down, thought he, as he espied the elbow-chair,
which, at that moment, appeared to his fancy, as if stretching forth
its hospitable arms to receive him; but scarcely had he answered the
imaginary invitation of his old friend, by presenting the nether part
of his person to its luxurious lap of down, than a sudden _sforzato_,
or crash in the minor key, made him rebound upon his legs, as nimbly as
though the cushion had been a bed of thorns. Miss Villers now resolved
the discord, and dexterously dashed into an allegro movement, in which
she introduced the air of “_How sweet are the flowers that grow!_”
The vicar’s face mantled with a smile, as the bouquet on the
chimney-piece met his eye, and harmonised with the sounds that floated
in his ear. It is evident, thought he, that those flowers are the
objects of my pursuit,--but what was he to do with them? The musician
solved the question, by tastefully exchanging the former air for that
of “_Ask if yon damask rose be sweet_.” No sooner had these notes
delivered their melodious errand to the subtle ear of the vicar, than
he instantly seized the rose, and carried it in triumph to his
olfactory organs; at the same moment the music ceased. The pause,
however, was but of short duration; for Miss Villers, by resuming her
labours, intimated that some farther service was expected. Was he to
return the rose? Certainly not; for the attempt was marked by strong
disapprobation. Was he to take it out of the room? The music put a
decided negative upon that movement; for the vicar had scarcely
measured half the distance of the apartment before the air of “_Fly not
yet_” arrested his steps. By a continuation of the same varying style
of expression, and strongly marked rhythm, the vicar was shortly led to
affix the rose upon the harp.
“Upon my word,” exclaimed the vicar, “I shall no longer hesitate to
credit the story related in ‘Peter Simple,’ of a certain lady who
played so exquisitely, that upon introducing an imitation of thunder,
the cream for tea became sour, besides three casks of beer in the
cellar!”
In closing our account of this interesting scene, it is scarcely
necessary to describe the delight and mirth of the juvenile party. It
was, in truth, a very extraordinary exhibition; and when the reader
considers that, beyond what was furnished by the expressive language of
music, the vicar did not receive a single hint for his guidance, he
may, perhaps, cherish some scepticism upon the subject; but we can
assure him that we have repeatedly witnessed, not only a similar but a
still more complicated performance of the same kind, and with equal
success.(45)
The evening of the day on which this musical divertisement was
performed, was one of those which so frequently occur in August, when
sultry heat is succeeded by refreshing coolness. Isabella Villers
possessed a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and she
quitted the drawing-room to enjoy, without interruption, that pensive
quiet which maintained an undisputed dominion. The moon had but just
risen, tipping the summits of the wood with silver, while it left the
mass of foliage in deeper shadow. Never was there a fairy scene better
calculated to awaken the emotions of the heart, or to kindle the
energies of the imagination. The hour too was propitious to the
indulgence of that undefined species of reverie which is the refinement
of intellectual pleasure. Having traversed the winding path of the wood
for some distance, she found herself in one of those sequestered glades
we have formerly described. She seated herself on a rustic bench,
tastefully formed out of an aged oak, whose venerable figure was
bending under the hand of Time, and her mind was gratefully lulled into
a pensive calm by the review of past events, as the ear is soothed by
the murmur of wild and distant music. A sudden breath of wind, as it
swept the foliage, aroused her from her reverie, and turned the current
of her ideas from past scenes to future prospects. The moon, as if in
sympathy, suddenly peered through the sylvan avenue, and threw her rays
upon one of those statues which we have already described as giving
such an air of classic sanctity to these secluded glades. It was the
figure of TIME, which in the gloom of the wood had hitherto escaped her
observation. To a mind of exuberant fancy, a leaf cannot fall to the
ground, nor a zephyr waft the fragrance of the violet on its dewy
pinions, without conveying some beautiful emblem of morality. Isabella
rose from her seat, and approached the figure, whose hoary countenance
appeared as if lighted up into a placid smile by the beams of the moon,
which fell directly upon it; her eye glanced from his face to his
scythe; its blade was hidden in a cluster of roses--Were I susceptible
of a superstitious impression, thought Isabella, did ever a
circumstance present itself better calculated to justify its
indulgence? On the pedestal of the figure was a basso relievo, in which
Time appeared in the act of shivering into pieces the club of Hercules
with a crutch. In a few minutes, she quitted the scene, which, in spite
of her better reason, she could not wholly divest of its prophetic
influence, and proceeding along the winding path, at length descended
into the valley. The moon was at this time shrouded in dark clouds, and
although, by a painful effort, Isabella Villers summoned all the powers
of her vision, the objects around her remained invisible, until the eye
had so far accommodated itself to the gloom, as to recognise the white
foam of the waterfall. The moon now gave a coy and furtive glance, the
water for an instant sparkled in her beams, and then was lost in deeper
shadow. A spectre of human form, but of gigantic stature, arose from
the spot to which the eyes of Isabella had been directed--was it the
spirit of the Fountain? It appeared to advance, but the moon once again
shining forth in splendour, it vanished.
“And what seem’d corporal melted
As breath into the wind.”
The courage of Isabella was destined to sustain another trial, for
scarcely had the vision disappeared than she distinctly heard her own
name pronounced; and since, from the direction of the sound, she well
knew that the spot from which it issued was inaccessible, we ought not
to feel surprised at her having at the instant referred it to a
supernatural origin--it was, however, but the illusion of the moment,
and she determined to return to the house and submit the events of the
evening to the judgment of Mr. Seymour.
We shall not trespass any longer upon the patience of the reader, than
to state that Miss Villers arrived safely at the lodge, and very
shortly afterwards retired to rest. With your permission, gentle
reader, we will follow her example; for, to say the truth, our
lamp--that midnight sun which illumines the path of the author, is
dimmed by the dark clouds that lower at its setting; our Pegasus, the
pen, which has raced for so many hours over the snowy plains of
foolscap, is fairly “done up,” and refuses any longer to sip of that
spring which can alone sustain its powers, and impart utility to its
movements.
Ecce!
[Illustration: A feather.]
-----
Footnote 53:
See p. 35.
Footnote 54:
See page 163, et seq.
Footnote 55:
The number of vibrations made by the wings of insects, as before
stated, has been ingeniously deduced from the tone which they produce.
Footnote 56:
Horat. Sat. lib. i. sat. 3.
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