The dogs are curious animals. It is probable that civilization does as

much injury to the lower tribes of creation, as it does good to man. If

it polishes our faculties, it enfeebles their instincts. The Turkish

dog, living nearly as he would have done in the wilderness, exhibits the

same sagacity, amounting to something of government. For instance, the

Turkish dogs divide the capital into quarters, and each set has its own;

if an adventurous or an ambitious dog enters the quarters of his

neighbours, the whole pack in possession set upon him at once, and he is

expelled by hue and cry. They also know how to conduct themselves

according to times and seasons. In the daytime, they ramble about, and

suffer themselves to be kicked with impunity; but at night the case is

different: they are the majority--they know their strength, and insist

on their privileges. They howl and growl then at their own discretion,

fly at the accidental stranger with open mouth, attack him singly,

charge him _en masse_, and nothing but a stout bludgeon, wielded by a

strong arm, can save the passenger from feeling that he is in the

kingdom of his four-footed masters.

The Marquis arrived during the Ramazan, when no Turk eats, drinks, or

even smokes, from sunrise to sunset. Thus the Turk is a harder faster

than the papist. The moment the sun goes down, the Turk rushes to his

meal and his pipe, "not eating but devouring, not inhaling but wallowing

in smoke." At the Bajazet colonnade, where the principal Turks rush to

enjoy the night, the lighted coffee-houses, the varieties of costume,

the eager crowd, and the illumination of myriads of paper lanterns, make

a scene that revives the memory of Oriental tales.

Every thing in Turkey is unlike any thing in Europe. In the bazar,

instead of the rapid sale and dismissal in our places of traffic, the

Turkish dealer, in any case of value, invites his applicant into his

shop, makes him sit down, gives him a pipe, smokes him into

familiarity--hands him a cup of coffee, and drinks him into confidence;

in short, treats him as if they were a pair of ambassadors appointed to

dine and bribe each other--converses with, and cheats him.

But the Marquis regards the bazars as contemptible places, says that

they are not to be compared with similar establishments at Petersburg or

Moscow, and recommends whatever purchases are made, to be made at one's

own quarters, "where you escape being jostled, harangued, smoked, and

poisoned with insufferable smells."

One of the curious features of the sojourn at Constantinople, is the

presentation to the Ministers and the Sultan. Redschid Pasha appointed

to see the Marquis at three o'clock, _à la Turque_--which, as those

Orientals always count from the sunset, means eight o'clock in

the evening.

He was led in a kind of procession to the Minister, received in the

customary manner, and had the customary conversation on Constantinople,

England, the war, &c. Then, a dozen slaves entered, and universal

smoking began. "When the cabinet was so full of smoke that one could

hardly see," the attendants returned, and carried away the pipes. Then

came a dropping fire of conversation, then coffee; then sherbet, which

the guest pronounced good, and "thought the most agreeable part of the

ceremonial." The Minister spoke French fluently, and, after an hour's

visit, the ceremony ended--the pasha politely attending his visiter

through the rooms. The next visit was to Achmet Pasha, who had been in

England at the time of the Coronation--had been ambassador at Vienna for

some years--spoke French fluently--was a great friend of Prince and

Princess Metternich, and, besides all this, had married one of the

Sultan's sisters. The last honour was said to be due to his immense

wealth. It seems that the "course of true love" does not run more

smoothly in Turkey than elsewhere--for the young lady was stated to be

in love with the commander-in-chief, an older man, but possessing more

character. Achmet was now Minister of Commerce, and in high favour. He

kept his young wife at his country house, and she had not been seen

since her marriage. When asked permission for ladies to visit her, he

always deferred it "till next spring, when," said he, "she will be

civilized." The third nocturnal interview was more picturesque--it was

with the young Sultana's flame, the Seraskier, (commander-in-chief.) His

residence is at the Porte, where he has one of the splendid palaces.

"You enter an immense court, with his stables on one side and his harem

on the other. A regiment of guards was drawn up at the entrance, and two

companies were stationed at the lower court. The staircase was filled

with soldiers, slaves, and attendants of different nations. I saw

Greeks, Armenians, Sclavonians, Georgians, all in their native costume;

and dark as were the corridors and entrance, by the flashes of my

flambeaux through the mist, the scene struck me as much more grand and

imposing than the others. The Seraskier is a robust, soldier-like man,

with a fierce look and beard, and an agreeable smile." The Minister was

peculiarly polite, and showed him through the rooms and the war

department, exhibiting, amongst the rest, his military council, composed

of twenty-four officers, sitting at that moment. They were of all ranks,

and chosen, as it was said, without any reference as to qualification,

but simply by favour. The Turks still act as oddly as ever. A friend of

the Marquis told him, that he had lately applied to the Seraskier to

promote a young Turkish officer. A few days after, the officer came to

thank him, and said, that though the Seraskier had not given him the

command of a regiment, he had given him "the command of a ship." The

true wonder is, that the Turks have either ships or regiments. But there

is a fine quantity of patronage in this department--the number of clerks

alone being reckoned at between seven and eight hundred.

The opinions of the Marquis on Mediterranean politics are worth

regarding, because he has had much political experience in the highest

ranks of foreign life--because from that experience he is enabled to

give the opinions of many men of high name and living influence, and

because he is an honest man, speaking sincerely, and speaking

intelligibly. He regards the preservation of Turkey as the first

principle of all English diplomacy in the east of Europe, and considers

our successive attempts to make a Greek kingdom, and our sufferance of

an Egyptian dynasty, as sins against the common peace of the world.

Thus, within a few years, Greece has been taken away; Egypt has not

merely been taken away, but rendered dangerous to the Porte; the great

Danubian provinces, Moldavia and Wallachia, have been taken away, and

thus Russia has been brought to the banks of the Danube. Servia, a vast

and powerful province, has followed, and is now more Russian than

Turkish; and while those limbs have been torn from the great trunk, and

that trunk is still bleeding from the wounds of the late war, it is

forced to more exhausting efforts, the less power it retains. But, with

respect to Russia, he does not look upon her force and her ambition with

the alarm generally entertained of that encroaching and immense power.

He even thinks that, even if she possessed Constantinople, she could not

long retain it. As all this is future, and of course conjectural, we

may legitimately express our doubts of any authority on the subject.

That Russia does not think with the Marquis is evident, for all her real

movements for the last fifty years have been but preliminaries to the

seizure of Turkey. Her exhibitions in all other quarters have been mere

disguises. She at one time displays a large fleet in the Baltic, or at

another sends an army across Tartary; but she never attempts any thing

with either, except the excitement of alarm. But it is in the direction

of Turkey that all the solid advances are made. There she always

finishes her hostility by making some solid acquisition. She is now

carrying on a wasteful war in the Caucasus; its difficulty has probably

surprised herself, but she still carries it on; and let the loss of life

and the expenditure of money be what they will, she will think them well

encountered if they end in giving her the full possession of the

northern road into Asia Minor. Russia, in possession of Constantinople,

would have the power of inflicting dreadful injuries on Europe. If she

possessed a responsible government, her ambition might be restrained by

public opinion; or the necessity of appealing to the national

representatives for money--of all checks on war the most powerful, and

in fact the grand operative check, at this moment, on the most restless

of European governments, France. But with her whole power, her revenues,

and her military means completely at the disposal of a single mind, her

movements, for either good or evil, are wholly dependent on the caprice,

the ambition, or the absurdity of the individual on the throne. The idea

that Russia would weaken her power by the possession of Constantinople,

seems to us utterly incapable of proof. She has been able to maintain

her power at once on the Black Sea, seven hundred miles from her

capital; on the Danube, at nearly the same distance, and on the Vistula,

pressing on the Prussian frontier. In Constantinople she would have the

most magnificent fortress in the world, the command of the head of the

Mediterranean, Syria, and inevitably Egypt. By the Dardanelles, she

would be wholly inaccessible; for no fleet could pass, if the batteries

on shore were well manned. The Black Sea would be simply her wet-dock,

in which she might build ships while there was oak or iron in the north,

and build them in complete security from all disturbance; for all the

fleets of Europe could not reach them through the Bosphorus, even if

they had forced the Dardanelles--that must be the operation of an army

in the field. On the north, Russia is almost wholly invulnerable. The

Czar might retreat until his pursuers perished of fatigue and hunger.

The unquestionable result of the whole is, that Russia is the real

terror of Europe. France is dangerous, and madly prone to hostilities;

but France is open on every side, and experience shows that she never

can resist the combined power of England and Germany. It is strong

evidence of our position, that she has never _ultimately_ triumphed in

any war against England; and the experience of the last war, which

showed her, with all the advantages of her great military chief, her

whole population thrown into the current of war, and her banner followed

by vassal kings, only the more consummately overthrown, should be a

lesson to her for all ages. But Russia has never been effectually

checked since the reign of Peter the Great, when she first began to

move. Even disastrous wars have only hastened her advance; keen intrigue

has assisted military violence, and when we see even the destruction of

Moscow followed by the final subjugation of Poland, we may estimate the

sudden and fearful superiority which she would be enabled to assume,

with her foot standing on Constantinople, and her arm stretching at will

over Europe and Asia. Against this tremendous result there are but two

checks, the preservation of the Osmanli government by the jealousy of

the European states, and the establishment of a Greek empire at

Constantinople: the former, the only expedient which can be adopted for

the moment, but in its nature temporary, imperfect, and liable to

intrigue: the latter, natural, secure, and lasting. It is to this event

that all the rational hopes of European politicians should be finally

directed. Yet, while the Turk retains possession we must adhere to him;

for treaties must be rigidly observed, and no policy is safe that is not

strictly honest. But if the dynasty should fail, or any of those

unexpected changes occur which leave great questions open, the formation

of a Greek empire ought to be contemplated as the true, and the only,

mode of effectually rescuing Europe from the most formidable struggle

that she has ever seen. But the first measure, even of temporary

defence, ought to be the fortification of Constantinople. It is computed

that the expense would not exceed a million and a half sterling.

The Marquis, by a fortunate chance for a looker-on, happened to be in

the Turkish capital at the time when the populace were all exulting at

the capture of Acre. It was admitted that the British squadron had done

more in rapidity of action, and in effect of firing, than it was

supposed possible for ships to accomplish, and all was popular

admiration and ministerial gratitude. In addition to the lighting of the

mosques for the Ramazan, Pera and Constantinople were lighted up, and

the whole scene was brilliant. Constant salvoes were fired from the

ships and batteries during the day, and at night, of course, all was

splendour on the seven hills of the great city.

On the "Seraskier's Square," two of the Egyptian regiments taken at

Beyrout defiled before the commander-in-chief. The Turkish bands in

garrison moved at their head. The prisoners marched in file; and, having

but just landed from their prison-ships, looked wretchedly. Having a red

woollen bonnet, white jackets, and large white trowsers, they looked

like an assemblage of "cricketers." The men were universally young,

slight made, and active, with sallow cheeks, many nearly yellow, orange,

and even black; still, if well fed and clothed, they would make by no

means bad light troops. The Turks armed and clothed then forthwith, and

scattered them among their regiments; a proceeding which shows that even

the Turk is sharing the general improvement of mankind. Once he would

have thrown them all into the Bosphorus.

From this professional display, the Marquis adjourned to the "Grand

Promenade," where the sultanas see the world, unseen themselves, in

their carriages. "Though," as he writes, "I never had an opportunity of

_verifying_ any thing like Miss Pardoe's anecdote of the 'sentries being

ordered to face about when presenting arms,' rather than be permitted to

gaze on the _tempting_ and _forbidden_ fruit; but, on the contrary,

witnessed soldiers escorting all the sultanas' carriages: it is

nevertheless true, that a gruff attendant attacked and found fault with

me for daring to raise my eyes to a beautiful Turkish woman, whom it was

quite impossible I could admire beyond her forehead and two large black

eyes, eyebrows, and lashes, which glanced from under her yashmack." But

the Marquis has no mercy on the performances of poor Miss Pardoe.

The sultana-mother was a personage of high importance at this time, from

her supposed influence over her son. Her equipage was somewhat

European--a chariot, with hammer-cloth, (apparently lately received from

Long-Acre.) The coachman drove four large bay horses, with a plurality

of reins. There were attendants, running Turks, and guards before to

clear the way. Two open barouches, ornamented after the manner of the

country, followed, and the rear of the sultanas' procession was closed

by arebas (or covered and gilded vans) full of women and slaves.

But the most characteristic display of all is the "Cabinet." "On the

side of this drive is a long colonnade of shops; and, at the bottom of

it, a _barber's_, in which all the ministers of the divan and the pasha

assemble! They sit on cushions in grand conclave and conference; and,

while affecting to discuss the affairs of the state, the direction of

their eyes, and their signs to the recumbent houris in the carriages,

show their thoughts to be directed to other objects."

What should we think of the chancellor, the premier, and the three

secretaries of state, sitting in council at a fruiterer's in Regent

Street, and nodding to the ladies as they pass? But this is not all. The

sultan, in his kiosk, sits at one end of the drive, inspecting the whole

panorama. Still, it is not yet complete; at the lower end of the

colonnade there is a woman-market, where each slave, attended by a

duenna, passes and parades, casting her languishing eyes through the

files of lounging officers and merchants, who crowd this part of the

promenade. All this is essentially Turkish, and probably without any

thing like it in the world besides.

The beauty of the Turkish women is still a matter of dispute. When

beauty is an object of unlimited purchase, its frequency will be

probably found a safe admission. But Turkish women occasionally unveil,

and it is then generally discovered that the veil is one of their

principal charms. They have even been described as merely good-humoured

looking "fatties"--a sufficiently humble panegyric. Lord Londonderry

gives it as his opinion, that they are "not generally handsome, but all

well-built and well-grown, strong, and apparently healthy. Their eyes

and eyebrows are invariably fine and expressive; and their hair is,

beyond measure, superior to that of other nations. The thickness of its

braidings and plaits, and the masses that are occasionally to be seen,

leave no doubt of this."

Long and luxuriant tresses belong to all the southern nations of Europe,

and seem to be the results of heat of climate; and there are few facts

in physiology more singular than the sudden check given to this

luxuriance on the confines of Negroland. There, with all predisposing

causes for its growth, it is coarse, curled, and never attains to length

or fineness of any kind. The Georgians and Circassians were once the

boast of the harem; but the war and the predominance of the Russian

power in the Caucasus, have much restricted this detestable national

traffic--a circumstance said to be much to the regret of both parents

and daughters; the former losing the price, and the latter losing the

preferment, to which the young beauties looked forward as to a certain

fortune. But later experience has told the world, that the charms of

those Armidas were desperately exaggerated by Turkish romance and

European credulity; that the general style of Circassian features,

though fair, is Tartarish, and that the Georgian is frequently coarse

and of the deepest brown, though with larger eyes than the Circassian,

which are small, and like those of the Chinese. The accounts written by

ladies visiting the harems are to be taken with the allowance due to

showy dress, jewels, cosmetics, and the general effect of a prepared

exhibition, scarcely less than theatrical. It is scarcely possible that

either the human face or form can long preserve symmetry of any kind in

a life almost wholly destitute of exercise, in the confined air of their

prison, and in the full indulgence of their meals. Activity, animation,

and grace--the great constituents of all true beauty--must soon perish

in the harem.

The Marquis (an excellent judge of a horse) did not much admire the

steeds of the pashas. On a visit to the Seraskier's stables, the head

groom brought out fourteen, with light Tartars on them to show their

points. Their stables were miserable. The horses were without stalls or

litter, in a dark, ill-paved barn. They were heavily covered with rugs.

Three or four were very fine Arabs; but the rest were of Turkish blood,

with large heads, lopped ears, and thick necks, of indifferent action,

and by no means desirable in any shape.

The interview with the Sultan was the last, and was interesting and

characteristic. The Marquis had naturally expected to find him in the

midst of pomp. Instead of all this, on entering a common French carpeted

room, he perceived, on an ordinary little French sofa, the sovereign

crosslegged, and alone; two small sofas, half-a-dozen chairs, and

several wax-lights, were all the ornaments of this very plain saloon.

But the Sultan was diamonded all over, and fully made amends for the

plainness of his reception-room. As to his person, Abdul-Mehjid is a

tall sallow youth of nineteen or twenty, with a long visage, but

possessing fine eyes and eyebrows, so that, when his face is lighted up,

it is agreeable and spiritual.

We must now close our sketch of those diversified and pleasant volumes.

We regret to hear that their distinguished and active author has lately

met with a severe accident in following the sports of his country; but

we are gratified with the hope of his recovery, and the hope, too, of

seeing him undertake more excursions, and narrate them with equal

interest, truth, and animation.

* * * * *

THE CURSE OF GLENCOE.[12]

BY B. SIMMONS.

[12] The tale that follows is founded upon an incident that

occurred some little time before the American War, to Colonel

Campbell of Glenlyon, whose grandfather, the Laird of Glenlyon,

was the officer in King William's service who commanded at the

slaughter of the Macdonalds of Glencoe. The anecdote is told in

Colonel David Stewart's valuable history of the Highland

Regiments. Edin 1822.

The fair calm eve on wood and wold

Shone down with softest ray,

Beneath the sycamore's red leaf

The mavis trill'd her lay,

Murmur'd the Tweed afar, as if

Complaining for the day.

And evening's light, and wild-bird's song,

And Tweed's complaining tune;

And far-off hills, whose restless pines

Were beckoning up the moon--

Beheld and heard, shed silence through

A lofty dim saloon.

The fruits of mellow autumn glow'd

Upon the ebon board;

The blood that grape of Burgundy

In other days had pour'd,

Gleam'd from its crystal vase--but all

Untasted stood the hoard.

Two guests alone sat listlessly

That lavish board beside;

The one a fair-haired stripling, tall,

Blithe-brow'd and eager-ey'd,

Caressing still two hounds in leash,

That by his chair abide.

Right opposite, in musing mood,

A stalwart man was placed,

With veteran aspect, like a tower

By war, not time, defaced,

Whose shatter'd walls exhibit Power

Contending still with Waste.

And as the ivy's sudden veil

Will round the fortress spring,

Some grief unfading o'er that brow

Its shadow seemed to fling,

And made that stalwart man's whole air

A sad and solemn thing.

And so they sat, both Youth and Years,

An hour without a word--

The pines that beckon'd up the moon

Their arms no longer stirr'd,

And through the open windows wide

The Tweed alone was heard.

The elder's mood gave way at last,

Perhaps some sudden whine

Of the lithe quest-hounds startled him,

Or timepiece striking nine;

"Fill for thyself, forgotten Boy,"

He said, "and pass the wine."

"A churlish host I ween am I

To thee, who, day by day,

Thus comest to cheer my solitude

With converse frank and gay,

Or tempt me with thy dogs to course

The moorlands far away.

"But still the fit returns"--he paused,

Then with a sigh resumed,

"Remember'st thou how once beneath,

Yon chestnut, when it bloom'd,

Thou ask'd'st me why I wore the air

Of spirit disentomb'd;

"And why, apart from man, I chose

This mansion grim and hoary,

Nor in my ancient lineage seem'd,

Nor ancient name, to glory?

I shunn'd thy questions then--now list,

And thou shalt hear the story--

"With a brief preface, and thro' life

Believe its warning true--

That they who (save in righteous cause)

Their hands with blood imbrue--

Man's sacred blood--avenging heaven

Will long in wrath pursue.

"A curse has fallen upon my race;

The Law once given in fire,

While Sinai trembled to its base,

That curse inflicted dire,

TO VISIT STILL UPON THE SON,

THE OFFENCES OF THE SIRE.

"My fathers strong, of iron hand,

Had hearts as iron hard,

That never love nor pity's touch,

From ruthless deeds bebarr'd.

And well they held their Highland glen,

Whatever factions warr'd.

"When Stuart's great but godless race

Dissolved like thinnest snow

Before bright Freedom's face, my clan,

The Campbells, served their foe.

--Boy--'twas my grandsire" (soft he said)

"Commanded at Glencoe."

The stripling shrank, nor quite suppress'd

His startled bosom's groan;

Forward and back the casements huge

By sudden gust were blown,

And at the sound one dreaming hound

Awaken'd with a moan.

"_Glencoe_--ay, well the word may stir,

The stoutest heart with fear,

Or burn with monstrous shame the face

Of man from year to year,

As long as Scotland's girdling rocks

The roar of seas shall hear.

"Enough--Glenlyon redly earn'd

The curse he won that night,

When rising from the social hearth

He gave the word to smite,

And all was shriek and helplessness,

And massacre and flight.

"And such a flight!--O, outraged Heaven,

How could'st thou, since, have smiled?

A fathom deep the frozen snow

Lay horrid on the wild,

Where fled to perish youth and age,

And wife and feeble child.

"My couch is soft--yet dreams will still

Convert that couch to snow,

And in my slumbers shot and shout

Are ringing from Glencoe."

That stalwart man arose and paced

The chamber to and fro,

While to his brow the sweat-drop sprung

Like one in mortal throe.

* * * * *

"Glenlyon died, be sure, as die

All desperate men of blood,

And from my sire (his son) our lands

Departed sod by sod,

Till the sole wealth bequeathed me was

A mother fearing God.

"She rear'd me in that holy fear,

In stainless honour's love,

And from the past she warned me,

Whate'er my fate should prove,

To shrink from bloodshed as a sin.

All human sins above.

"I kept the precept;--by the sword

Compell'd to win me bread,

A soldier's life of storm and strife

For forty years I led,

Yet ne'er by this reluctant arm

Has friend or foeman bled.

"But still I felt Glencoe's dark curse

My head suspended o'er,

--Look, this reluctant hand, for all,

Is red with human gore!"

Again that white-lipp'd man arose

And strode the echoing floor.

* * * * *

"A prosperous course through life was mine

On rampart, field, and wave,

Though more my warrior skill than deeds,

Command and fortune gave.

Years roll'd away, and I prepared

To drop the weary glaive.

"'Twas when beyond th' Atlantic foam,

To check encroaching France,

Our war spread wide, and, on his tide,

In many a martial glance,

St Lawrence saw grey Albyn's plumes

And Highland pennons dance.

"E'en while I waited for the Chief,

By whom relieved at last,

Heart-young, though time-worn, I was free

To hail my country's blast--

That on a sentry, absent found,

The doom of death was pass'd.

"POOR RONALD BLAIR! a fleeter foot

Ne'er track'd through Morvern moss

The wind-hoof'd deer; nor swimmer's arm

More wide the surge could toss

Than his, for whom dishonour's hand

Now dug the griesly fosse.

"Suspicion of those hunter tribes,

Along whose giant screen

Of shadowy woods our host encamp'd,

The early cause had been

Of rule, that none of Indian race

Should come our lines within.

"The law was kept, yet, far away,

Amid the forests' glade,

The fair-hair'd warriors of the North

Woo'd many a dusky maid,

Who charm'd, perhaps, not less because

In Nature's garb array'd.

"And warm and bright as southern night,

When all is stars and dew,

Was that dark girl, who, to the banks,

Where lay her light canoe,

Lured Ronald's footsteps, day by day,

What time the sun withdrew.

"Far down the stream she dwelt, 'twould seem,

Yet stream nor breeze could bar

Her little boat, that to a nook,

Dark with the pine-tree's spar,

Each evening Ronald saw shoot up

As constant as a star.

"Alone she came--she went alone:--

She came with fondest freight

Of maize and milky fruits and furs

Her lover's eyes to greet;

She went--ah, 'twas her bosom then,

Not bark, that bore the weight!

"How fast flew time to hearts like theirs!

The ruddy summer died,

And Arctic frosts must soon enchain

St. Lawrence' mighty tide;

But yet awhile the little boat

Came up the river-side.

"One night while from their northern lair

With intermittent swell,

The keen winds grumbled loud and long,

To Ronald's turn it fell

Close to the shore to keep the lines,

A lonely sentinel.

"'Twas now the hour was wont to bring

His Indian maid; and hark!

As constant as a star it comes,

That small love-laden bark,

It anchors in the cove below--

She calls him through the dark.

"He dared not answer, dared not stir,

Where Discipline had bound him;

Nor was there need--led by her heart

The joyous girl has found him;

She understands it not, nor cares,

Her raptured arms are round him.

"He kiss'd her face--he breathed low

Those brook-like, murmuring words

That, without meaning, speak out all

The heart's impassion'd chords,

The truest language human lip

To human lip affords.

"He pointed towards the distant camp,

Her clasping arms undid,

And show'd that till the morrow's sun

Their meeting was forbid;

She went--her eyes in tears--he call'd,

And kiss'd them from the lid.

"She went--he heard her far below

Unmoor her little boat;

He caught the oars' first dip that sent

It from the bank afloat;

Next moment, down the tempest swept

With an all-deafening throat.

"Loud roar'd the storm, but louder still

The river roar'd and rose,

Tumbling its angry billows, white

And huge as Alpine snows;

Yet clear through all, one piercing cry

His heart with terror froze.

"She shrieks, and calls upon the name

She learn'd to love him by;

The waves have swamp'd her little boat--

She sinks before his eye!

And he must keep his dangerous post,

And leave her there to die!

"One moment's dreadful strife--Love wins;

He plunges in the water;

The moon is out, his strokes are stout,

The swimmer's arm has caught her,

And back he bears, with gasping heart,

The Forest's matchless daughter!

"'Twas but a chance!--her life is gain'd,

And his is gone--for, lo!

The picquet round has come, and found,

Left open to the foe,

The dangerous post that Ronald kept

So short a time ago.

"They met him bearing her--he scorn'd

To palter or to plead:

Arrested--bound--ere beat of drum,

The Judgment-court decreed

That Ronald Blair should with his life

Pay forfeit for his deed.

"He knew it well--that deed involved

Such mischief to the host,

While prowling spy and open foe

Watch'd every jealous post,

That, of a soldier's crimes, it call'd

For punishment the most.

"On me, as senior in command,

The charge I might not shun

Devolved, to see the doom of death

Upon the culprit done.

The place--a league from camp; the hour--

The morrow's evening sun.

"Meanwhile some touches of the tale

That reach'd the distant tent

Of Him who led the war in Chief,

Won justice to relent.

That night, in private, a REPRIEVE

Unto my care was sent,

"With secret orders to pursue

The sentence to the last,

And when the prisoner's prayer was o'er,

And the death-fillet past,

_But not till then_, to read to him

That Pardon for the past.

"The morrow came; the evening sun

Was sinking red and cold,

When Ronald Blair, a league from camp

We led, erect and bold,

To die the soldier's death, while low

The funeral drum was roll'd.

"With arms reversed, our plaided ranks

The distance due retire,

The fatal musqueteers advance

The signal to require:

'_Till I produce this kerchief blue,

Be sure withhold your fire_.'

"His eyes are bound--the prayer is said--

He kneels upon his bier;

So dread a silence sank on all,

You might have heard a tear

Drop to the earth. My heart beat quick

With happiness and fear,

"To feel conceal'd within my vest

A parting soul's relief!

I kept my hand on that REPRIEVE

Another moment brief;

Then drew it forth, but with it drew,

O God! the handkerchief.

"He fell!--and whether He or I

Had died I hardly knew--

But when the gusty forest breeze

Aside the death-smoke blew,

I heard those bearing off the dead,

Proclaim that there were _two_.

"They said that as the volley ceased,

A low sob call'd them where

They found an Indian maiden dead,

Clasping in death's despair

One feather from a Highland plume

And one bright lock of hair.

"I've long forgot what follow'd, save

That standing by his bier,

I shouted out the words some fiend

Was whispering in my ear--

'My race is run--_the curse of Heaven

And of Glencoe is here_!'[13]

"From that dark hour all hope to me,

All _human_ hope was gone;

I shrank from life a branded man--

I sought my land alone,

And of a stranger's purchased halls

I joy'd to make my own.

"Thou'st known me long as Campbell--now

Thou know'st the Campbell's story,

And why, apart from man, I chose

This mansion grim and hoary,

Nor in my ancient lineage seem'd,

Nor ancient name, to glory.

"Though drear my lot, yet, noble boy,

Not always I repine;

Come, wipe those watery drops away

That in thine eyelids shine;

Fill for thyself," the old man said,

"Once more, and pass the wine."

[13] Such was his exclamation, as repeated in the History

before referred to. Colonel Campbell always imputed the

unfortunate occurrence that clouded the evening of his life to

the share his ancestor had in the disastrous affair of Glencoe.

* * * * *

THE MARTYRS' MONUMENT.

A MONOLOGUE.

Now glory to our Councillors, that true and trusty band--

And glory to each gallant heart that loathes its fatherland;

And glory evermore to those who the battle first began,

For the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man.

Ye citizens of Mary-le-bone! 'twas yours to point the way

How freemen best might mock the laws which none but slaves obey;

How classic fanes should rise to mark the honour that we owe

To all who hated Church and King, and planned their overthrow.

O fresh and bright shone reason's light through superstition's gloom,

When one and all ye heard the call of honest Joseph Hume;

When listening to his flowing words, than honey-dew more sweet,

Ye sate, dissolved in holy tears, at that Gamaliel's feet!

How touchingly he spoke of those now gather'd to their rest,

By knaves and laws upbraided, but by righteous patriots bless'd;

How brightly gleamed his eagle eye, as he poured his ancient grudge

On that foul throng that wrought them wrong--on Jury and on Judge!

Well may ye boast among the host of patriots tried and true,

That to your bold humanity the foremost place is due;

Yet others follow fast behind, though ye have led the van,

In the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!

Dun-Edin's civic Councillors come closely in your wake,

They, too, can feel for injured truth, and blush for Scotland's sake;

Well have they wiped the stain away, affix'd in former years

Upon the citizens of France, and on their bold compeers.

Let women moan and maunder against the glorious time,

When France arose in all her might, when loyalty was crime;

When prison shambles stream'd with blood, and red the gutters ran,

In the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!

When piled within the crazy boats, chain'd closely to the beam,

By hundreds the aristocrats sank in the sullen stream;

When age and sex were no respite, and merrily and keen,

From morning until night, rush'd down the clanking guillotine.

'Tis ours to render homage, where homage most is due--

Now glory be to DANTON, and to his valiant crew--

And glory to those mighty shades, who never stoop'd to spare,

The virtuous regicides of France, and the hero, ROBESPIERRE.

But greater glory still to those, who strove within our land,

To hoist the cap of liberty, and bare the British brand,

To drag our ancient Parliament from its place of honour down,

To ride rough-shod upon the Lords, and spit upon the Crown.

What though the bigots of the bench declared their treason vile--

What though they languish'd slowly in the felon's distant isle--

Shall we, the children of Reform, withhold our just applause

From those who loved the people and, of course, despised the laws?

We'll rear a stately monument--we'll build it fair and high,

And on the porch this graven verse shall greet the passers-by--

"IN HONOUR OF THE MARTYRS WHO THE BATTLE FIRST BEGAN

FOR THE CAUSE OF JUST FRATERNITY, AND THE EQUAL RIGHTS OF MAN!"

'Twill be a proud memorial, when we have pass'd away,

Of old Dun-Edin's loyalty, and the Civic Council's sway;

And it shall stand while earth is green and skies are summer blue,

Eternal as the sleep of those who fell at Peterloo!

Were I a chosen Councillor--a tetrarch of the town,

I'd drag from off their pedestals these Tory statues down;

I'd make a universal sweep of all that serves to show

How vilely the aristocrats have used us long ago.

The column rear'd to victory in that detested war,

When the Tricolor went down before our flag at Trafalgar,

The column that hath taught our sons to mutter Nelson's name,

I'd level straightway with the dust, and with it sink our shame.

Yes! in that place a classic fane should stand where Nelson's stood,

With new baptismal cognizance from famous THISTLEWOOD;

His bust should in the centre shine, and round it, placed on guard,

The effigies of HATFIELD, INGS, and of the good DESPARD.

There's Pitt, the Lar of Frederick Street--O shame to us and ours!

Was it not he whose policy struck back the Gallic powers?

Was it not he whose iron hand so ruthlessly kept down

The tide of bold democracy, and saved the British crown?

I'd fetch him from his lofty perch; I'd dash him on the stones;

I'd serve the lifeless bronze the same as I'd have served his bones;

And on the empty stance I would in radiant metal show,

A bolder and a braver man--the patriot PAPINEAU.

Down, down, I say, with George the Fourth!--for him there's no delay;

Let all askance direct their glance, for virtue's sake, we pray;

So says our new Pygmalion, the purist of the town,

'Twere shame that he compelled should be, in passing, to look down.

Let's find another statue of the brave old English breed,

A worthy of an earlier age--a champion good at need;

No cause were then to seem ashamed, though slaves might feel afraid,

When emancipated bondsmen bow'd to the image of JACK CADE.

There's room enough where Royal Charles sits stiffly in the Square,

To rear a double effigy--Why not of BURKE and HARE?

Though not in freedom's cause they died, remember'd let it be,

That science has its martyrdom, as well as liberty.

A monument to Walter Scott!--A monument forsooth!

What has that bigot done for us, for freedom, or for truth?

He always back'd the Cavalier against the Puritan,

And sneer'd at just fraternity, and the equal rights of man.

What good to us have ever done his Legends of Montrose,

Of Douglas and of dark Dundee, the fellest of our foes?

What care we for the Border chiefs, or for the Stuart line,

Or the thraldom of the people in "the days of auld langsyne?"

Men dream'd not of equality in days so darkly wild,

Nor was the peasant's bantling _then_ mate for the baron's child;

But we've learn'd another lesson since the golden age drew near,

And working men may keep the wall, and jostle prince and peer.

Ye fools! take down your monument--or rear it, if ye will,

But choose another effigy that lofty niche to fill.

None better, say ye? Pause awhile, and I will tell you one,

Who never bent the servile knee at altar or at throne.

No fond illusions dull'd _his_ eye, no tales of wither'd eld;

No childish faith was _his_ to trust aught save what he beheld;

No sovereignty would he allow save Reason's rightful reign;

No laws save those of Nature's code--and such was THOMAS PAINE.

Place him within your Gothic arch, the only fit compeer

Of those whose martyr monument the Council seek to rear;

Since traitors to the laws of man may boldly look abroad,

Towards the image of their friend who broke the laws of God.

Since anarchy must have its meed, let's leave no statue here,

That might from other lips than ours provoke a cynic sneer:

If temples must be built to crime, we'll worship there alone,

Nor leave a mark of loyalty or honour in the stone.

Then glory to our Councillors, that true and trusty band--

And glory to each gallant heart that loathes its fatherland;

And glory evermore to those who the battle first began,

For the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!

* * * * *

TASTE AND MUSIC IN ENGLAND.

PART I.

The heart of an Englishman must ever swell with pride as he contemplates

his country's greatness. He looks around him, and his eye every where

meets with the signs of increasing opulence and prosperity, while his

ear is filled with the busy hum of an industrious, and, despite the idle

babblings of the ignorant, and the empty declamation of interested,

selfish, and disappointed men, a contented population, happy in the

enjoyment of comfort, beyond that of the labouring classes of most other

countries. He visits her marts, her harbours, and her ports--men of all

nations are met together there--fleets of rich argosies are ever

arriving and departing--and myriads of steamers flit to and fro, happily

now engaged in promoting the arts of peace, but ready at a moment's

notice to become the defenders of his country's shores, and, as recent

events have shown the world, able also to carry war and devastation

along the coasts of her enemies, even to the uttermost parts of the

earth. He explores the seats of her manufactures; there he beholds vast

edifices teeming with crowds of work-people, occupied in supplying the

wants of mankind. In short, wherever he bends his steps, all are

usefully employed--industry, enterprise, and perseverance, are found

throughout the land. He also feels it no vain boast to be a denizen of

that small isle, whose inhabitants, by their own proper energy, have

extended their dominion over a territory on which the sun never sets--

peopled by upwards of two hundred million souls--consisting of colonies,

nations, and people, differing from each other in form of person,

complexion, habits, manners, and in language--elements apparently the

most discordant and heterogeneous, yet firmly knit and bound into one

vast glorious empire, which, successfully resisting the rudest shocks,

often assaulted, ever victorious, and, thanks to the bravery of her

warriors, and the wisdom of those who now guide her councils, having

defeated alike the open attacks and the secret machinations of her

enemies, at this moment constitutes the most powerful state of ancient

or modern times--abounding in wealth, and rejoicing in freedom, beyond

all other nations of the earth.

He glories also in the intellectual pre-eminence of his country. Her

victories by sea and land attest the genius of her captains; her

institutions bear witness to the sagacity of her lawgivers and her

statesmen. Her railroads, docks, canals, and other public works, bear

the marks of superior intelligence acting for the general good. His

countrymen were the first to press steam into the active service of

mankind. By the genius of Watt and his successors, a power, before

destructive and uncontrollable, has been rendered the mighty agent of

man's will, the supplier of his wants, and the minister of his

convenience. Through their inventions, steam has become, as it were, the

breath, the life, of a noble animal of man's creation, untiring in its

ceaseless labours, irresistible in its tremendous strength; and, when

its maker chooses to endow it with powers of motion, fleeter also than

the wind, but of imposing might and majesty as it pursues its headlong

course; and yet, withal, checked by a single touch, yielding a perfect

obedience to the hand of its ruler, and submissive to the slightest

intimation of his will. In the walks of science, literature, and

philosophy, he finds equal reason to be proud of his country. Splendid

discoveries in every branch of science meet him as he enquires, and but

a few years have passed away since the death of one--Sir Humphry

Davy--of whom it is scarce too much to say, that he revolutionized a

great science by his discoveries, or that, by the power of his single

intellect, he dived deeper into the hidden mysteries of the material

world than all preceding generations had been able to penetrate. In

short, an Englishman finds his country possessed of warriors, statesmen,

philosophers, historians, poets, and authors, in every branch of

literature, who are the admiration of the whole civilized world. In all

these, England stands proudly pre-eminent, the first, the very first,

among the nations. It is much to be able to feel this, but an Englishman

would fain feel even more than this; his noble ambition is to see his

country first in every thing; he would have her pre-eminent alike in the

fine arts and those pursuits which distinguish the recreations and

amusements of a refined and polished people, as in the more useful

arts of life.

But here the pleasing portion of the picture ceases--

"Ogni medaglia ha il suo rovescio,"

every medal has its obverse, says the Italian proverb; and the

comparatively low rank which his country occupies in this new field of

view, is a melancholy contemplation for an Englishman. He finds that, in

general, things are judged of only by the measure of their practical

utility, and that the beautiful and the useful are usually deemed to be

incompatible; thereby affording, however reluctantly we may admit it, at

least some justification of Napoleon's celebrated and bitter reproach,

that we are a nation of shopkeepers. It would seem, in truth, that we do

not possess that quick perception of the beautiful which is enjoyed by

the more excitable and imaginative sons of the south. In painting, we

believe we possess a school second to none of modern art. But, beautiful

as their works may be, can we place our Reynolds, Lawrence, Hogarth, and

Gainsborough in competition with Raphael, Correggio, Rubens, or Claude?

In sculpture also, can Westmacott, or even Chantrey--we speak with

reverence of the illustrious dead--be compared with Michael Angelo or

Giovanni de Bologna? When pressed on these topics, the candid Englishman

must, with a sigh, confess his country's inferiority. Architecture also,

with few exceptions, has long been our reproach. We judge of the degree

of civilization and refinement to which ancient Greece and Rome

attained, by the beauty and elegance of their mutilated remains. We find

their temples, even in ruins, beautiful beyond the day-dream of our

modern architects; some of them, till bold and sacrilegious hands

despoiled them, adorned with sculptures which, surviving the destruction

of the people who raised them, the wanton rage of barbarous enemies, and

the inroads of the elements for near two thousand years, sill remain, in

their decay, the wonder and admiration of the world, the models of

modern sculptors, and the greatest treasure of art a nation can possess.

In the lapse of ages, perhaps, England, in her turn, may be deserted,

her mines exhausted, her edifies ruined, her existence as a nation

terminated. The site of her vast metropolis may once more become an

undulating verdant plain, intersected by a tidal river; and, perhaps,

nothing may remain outwardly to show the curious traveller where the

ancient city stood. The pristine abode of man upon the earth, may again

be thickly peopled, and civilization may have rolled back to the south,

its ancient source. Then may history or tradition vaguely tell of

powerful nations who once flourished in the north; their very existence

doubted, perhaps, by all, and by many disbelieved. Some day, perchance,

one whom accident or curiosity may have brought to the shores of ancient

Britain, may wend his weary way along the bank of the noblest river of

the land. On a mound a little higher than the rest, something on which

the hand of man had evidently been employed may attract his attention,

and stimulate him to search among the tangled weeds and brushwood which

grow around. The discovery of a marble fragment may, perhaps, eventually

lead to the uncovering of one of those statues which now grace the

interior of our St Paul's, on the site of which the stranger had

unconsciously been exploring. Or, suppose the traveller to have bent his

steps in a north-easterly direction, towards the foot of that gentle

slope which terminates at the base of the heights of Highgate and of

Hampstead. Suppose him, by some strange chance, to stumble upon that

incomparable specimen of modern sculpture which stands on high at

King's-Cross, lifted up, in order, we presume, to enable the good

citizens duly to feast their eyes upon its manifold perfections, as they

daily hie them to and fro between their western or suburban retreats and

the purlieus of King Street or Cheapside. What estimate would the

stranger form of the taste or skill of those who placed on its pedestal

the statue we have first supposed him to have found? It avails not to

disguise the truth. What that truth may be, we leave to the intelligence

of the reader to divine. But what would be the effect of the other

discovery we have imagined? The traveller would turn away, convinced

that history or tradition gave false accounts of the power and genius of

the ancient inhabitants of the land on which he trod, that their glory

was a dream, their civilization a delusion, their proficiency in the

arts a fable. For the honour of our country, let us hope that the figure

of which we speak may not be suffered much longer to disgrace a leading

thoroughfare of our metropolis. It has already stood some eight or ten

years, a melancholy monument of English taste and English art in the

nineteenth century.

For the attainment of excellence in the higher branches of art, as has

been well observed by an intelligent foreigner, M. Passavant, it is

requisite that a people should possess deep poetic feeling, and that art

should not be considered among them as a thing of separate nature, but

that it should interweave itself with the ties of social life, and be

employed in adding beauty to its nearest, dearest interests. Now, the

English, he continues, are more disposed to an active than to a

contemplative life. They possess, it must be owned, a character of much

earnestness and energy; yet, from the earliest times, their attention

has been more directed to the cultivation of the mechanical arts and the

sciences appertaining to them than to those nobler branches of art which

flourish spontaneously in a more contemplative nation. This

characteristic disposition, and the physical activity necessarily

connected with it, have been by some ascribed to the influence of our

climate, to our moist and heavy atmosphere, and clouded skies, to

counteract the influence of which, and to preserve a counterbalancing

buoyancy of mind and body, an active habit of life is requisite. But

this hypothesis is untenable; for Flanders, with a similar climate, and

flourishing likewise by means of its native industry, affords sufficient

proof how little these circumstances are prejudicial to the cultivation

of the fine arts. Perhaps a better reason may be found in the wide

difference which is observable between the national habits of our

countrymen and those of the people among whom the arts have been

cultivated with the greatest success. In those countries where the

beautiful was felt, where the arts were objects of national importance,

where a people assembled to award the palm between rival sculptors; and

also, in comparatively modern times, when a reigning monarch did not

disdain to pick up a painter's pencil, and a whole city mourned an

artist's death, and paid honours to his remains; all the rank, wealth,

genius, talent, taste, and intelligence of the people were concentrated

in one grand focus. Among the states of ancient Greece and modern Italy,

the city was in fact the nation; and at Athens, Rome, Venice, and

Florence, was collected all of genius, taste, and talent, the people as

a body possessed. The mental qualities were thereby rendered more acute,

and the tastes and manners of the people more refined and cultivated, by

constant intercourse and communication with each other. This refinenent

was shared by all classes, and the lower taking pattern from the higher,

the whole mass was learned. In England, the very reverse of this takes

place. Here, for the most part, those alone frequent our towns, whose

doom it is to labour for their bread, they have no leisure from the

engrossing pursuits of wealth; business, like a jealous mistress, leaves

them no time for other objects. In spite of various disadvantages of

soil and climate, the taste for rural pursuits seems part and parcel of

our nature, and that species of the genus _homo_, the country gentleman,

seems peculiar to our island. Till within a few years, the great

majority of this class, whose abundant wealth and leisure might seem to

constitute them the peculiar patrons of the arts, seldom or never

frequented even the metropolis, but for generations remained fixed and

immovable in the place of their forefathers, rooted to the soil as one

of their old oaks. "His guns, dogs, and horses, were the things the

squire held most dear." Hunting, shooting, and other sports, formed not

only the amusements of his leisure hours, but the business of his life.

His intercourse with the world confined to a narrow circle of

acquaintance, all of the same tastes and pursuits with himself, he could

learn or know no others. Generous pursuits, hospitable, liberal, and

open hearted, hating alike poachers and dissenters, possessed of many

virtues, avoiding many a crime, discharging the duties, as well as

exercising the rights of property; exemplary in all the relations of

life, a good father, a tender husband, a kind master, an indulgent

landlord, a blessing to himself and those around him, he lived and died

the _Squire Western_ of his day, without that refinement and cultivation

of the tastes and mental powers which the more polished inhabitants of

the metropolis insensibly contract. Sure there were many to whom this

does not apply, many who combined the "gifts" of both a town and country

life. But, nevertheless such was the great bulk of that class, among

whom, had London been England, as even in our own time Paris is or was

France, the beautiful would not probably have been so much neglected.

So occupied have the great mass of our countrymen been in the pursuit of

wealth, that all that did not directly contribute to this end has been

uniformly rejected as useless. A familiar example of the truth of this

observation may be seen in the numerous factories and other buildings

erected for commercial purposes, in the manufacturing districts of

Lancashire and Yorkshire. In buildings of this class, all embellishment

and ornament, however simple, which good taste, had it been consulted,

might have suggested, to relieve the wearying straightness of outline,

or the plain dull flatness of these large ponderous masses of brick and

mortar, have been neglected, or rejected, probably as not increasing its

productive powers, and therefore unworthy of consideration. Such has

been the general principle. But this neglect has at length recoiled upon

the heads of its promoters. As long as the world was content to take our

manufactures as we chose to make them--when, no other nation having

entered the lists with us, we were without competitors, and absolute

masters of the commerce of the world, this make-all save-all principle

was undoubtedly the most effective. But now, when our manufacturers meet

with the keenest competition in every market; when a suicidal export of

machinery enables the foreigner immediately to benefit by every

mechanical discovery, or improvement in machinery, that is made by our

engineers, the case is wholly altered, and the English manufacturer

finds out the grievous mistake that he has made. Beauty of design has at

length become of paramount importance, and the beautiful, so long

neglected, is now avenged. The public taste has advanced too fast. Since

the introduction of foreign goods, such as silks and other ornamental

fabrics, the inferiority of our native designs for these materials has

become manifest to all. We are credibly informed, that there now exists

a regular organized system, viz. supply of French designs to our

manufacturers; that from these designs all their ideas are borrowed and

all their patterns taken, and that, in fact, scarcely a single pattern

of purely home invention is worked in a season. The manufacturers are,

however, now roused from their lethargy, and great efforts are made to

remedy the evil. Schools of design are established, and copyright of

design has just been conferred by act of parliament. In some of our

commercial towns, large rooms or galleries are opened to the mechanic,

where he may study the beautiful and ideal from casts and models of the

antique. Pictures also are occasionally exhibited for his instruction.

These are indeed great and praiseworthy efforts, in which

utilitarianism has assumed a new character, and found a new field of

action. These novel institutions, not organized and supported from a

pure abstract love of the arts ostensibly promoted by them, but from

dire necessity created by successful competition in the more elegant

branches of manufacture, in which the exercise of taste and fancy is

required, may eventually produce great general results; years, however,

must necessarily elapse before their benefits can be felt.

We have hitherto purposely abstained from any allusion to music and

musical taste, for the purpose of showing, that music is not the only

fruit of civilization which has not as yet arrived at maturity among

us; and also for the purpose of ascertaining, whether there might not be

some general causes in operation, which affect, in an equal degree,

every branch of the more intellectual refinements of civilized life. In

this case, the low standard of musical taste and science which will

hereafter become the subject of more particular observation, cannot be

attributed solely to causes which relate exclusively to music, but must

be considered as one amongst other results of general principles. If

there be any truth in the foregoing speculations, they apply more

particularly to music, and musical taste and science, than to the fine

arts, to which we have hitherto confined our observations. Music is

peculiarly a social pursuit. It can be cultivated only among the haunts

of men. The taste deteriorates, and the mental standard of excellence

which each possesses, is lowered when really good music is seldom or

never heard. By "the million," it can be heard only while mixing with

the world at large; the performer can acquire his mastery over the

instrument, at the cost of much time and labour, and he can maintain

this mastery, and the purity of his style, only where he can compare

himself with others of acknowledged excellence. This can be done only

where men congregate in large and populous cities, where the want of

amusement is best supplied; the recluse or the solitary man can be

no musician.

It may seem anomalous at first sight, and we can well conceive it to be

objected to our argument, that it is impossible, that while

architecture, sculpture, painting, and music, should have been

comparatively neglected, that literature, in all its branches, should be

so highly esteemed among us. Milton, and more especially Shakspeare,

have never lost one tittle of their value; nay, even at this moment,

there are three rival editions of Shakspeare's works in the course of

publication. Many volumes of poetry put in their claim to immortality

every year. Novel after novel appears each to elbow its predecessor out

of the public mind, and be in its turn forgotten. It is easy to imagine,

that to many it may appear a paradox in the history of the human race,

that a people should exist, endowed by nature with a high degree of

poetic feeling, having, as Mr Hallam observes, produced more eminent

original poets than any other nation can boast, and attaching a high

value to literary talent of every description, but, nevertheless, whose

attainments in the fine arts during a thousand years of national

existence, should never have passed mediocrity. This apparent

inconsistency, however, lies only on the surface. The language of true

poetry is understood by all; it strikes home: however rude the thoughts,

however uncultivated the understanding, the heart can feel; and it is to

the heart the poet speaks; and even in the rudest ages of mankind his

power was acknowledged. Voltaire has remarked, that "amusement is one of

the wants of man".

Novels are taken up to amuse the vacant hour--in this consists their

use. They are read without effort--the mind lies fallow as they are

perused, and no study is required, no cultivation of any taste is

necessary, to place this amusement within reach. With music and the fine

arts, this is not so. The taste for these pursuits requires cultivation;

and in order to estimate and appreciate them correctly, the judgment

must be formed by a process of education, far different from that which

enables all who read to value our poets and authors in the various

departments of literature.

On examining the records of mankind, it will be found that this has been

the ordinary succession of events in the history of civilization; and

that poetry and oratory, the more independent efforts of the human mind,

appear in the earlier stages of society, and that by them man is first

distinguished as an intellectual and rational creature.

Of Egyptian literature, we know nothing. The destruction of the library

of the Ptolemies may be the principal cause of our ignorance. The

gigantic remains of this people, and the manner in which they worked in

a stone which no modern tool will touch, show that among them the useful

arts were considerably advanced. We have, however, abundant evidence of

the small degree of proficiency in the fine arts. Their sculptors are

characterized by Flaxman as "mere beginners," or "laborious mechanics;"

their works as "lifeless forms, menial vehicles of an idea." When

Egyptian art ended, then Grecian art began. It appears, however, to have

made but little progress down to the time of Homer; and Dædalus and his

disciple Eudæus are, we believe, the only artists of that early period

whose fame has survived. These sculptors worked in wood, and by their

proficiency we may form a pretty accurate idea of the state of art in

Greece when Homer wrote. The works of Dædalus are described by Pausanias

as rude and uncomely in aspect. In his Grecian tour, Pausanias twice

makes mention of a statue of Hercules by Dædalus, from which

circumstance it would appear to have been held in high estimation. On

this statue Flaxman observes--"In the British Museum, as well as in

other collections in Europe, are several small bronzes of a naked

Hercules, whose right arm, holding a club, is raised to strike; whilst

the left is extended, bearing a lion's skin as a shield. From the style

of extreme antiquity in these statues--from the rude attempt at bold

action, which was the peculiarity of Dædalus--the general adoption of

this action in the early ages--the traits of savage nature in the face

and figure, expressed with little knowledge, but strong feeling--by the

narrow loins, turgid muscles of the breast, thighs, and calves of the

legs, will all find reason to believe they are copied from the

above-mentioned statue." Greece, it must be owned, possessed musicians

long anterior to Homer: Chiron the Centaur, regarded by the ancients as

one of the inventors of medicine, botany, and chirurgery, who, when

eighty-eight years of age, formed the constellations for the use of the

Argonauts; Linus, the preceptor of Hercules, who added a string to the

lyre, and is said to be the inventor of rhythm and melody; Orpheus, who

also extended the scale of the lyre, and was the inventor and propagator

of many arts and doctrines among the Greeks; and Musæus, the priest of

Ceres, are all remembered as musicians, as well as poets, historians,

and philosophers; characters which, in those days, were all combined in

the same individuals. The ancients, indeed, appear to have used the term

music in a much more extended sense than has been attached to it in

modern times, and to have applied it to all the arts and sciences. But

even if the ancient meaning of the term were identical with its modern

signification, there may be good reason to suppose that their fame as

musicians would principally survive. The memory of these first

preceptors of mankind was long preserved as the general benefactors of

their species. But while the other arts they taught advanced, it does

not appear that music made any progress. Thus, they came chiefly to be

remembered for that talent in which posterity had produced no equals. As

poets they were once celebrated; but, eclipsed by the glory and

splendour of the great historian of Troy, their poetical productions

were forgotten; whilst, as musicians, unrivalled through many centuries,

their skill was long remembered as the most excellent the world had

ever known. The arts of sculpture and painting appear to have remained

even more stationary than music. For, while about the middle or latter

end of the seventh century, B.C., the names of Archilochus and Terpander

adorn the page of musical history, followed by many others, including

Alcæus, Sappho, and Simonides, down to Pindar and his rival Corinna, the

former of whom, according to the chronology of Dr Blair, died in 435

B.C. aged 86, it is evident, says Flaxman, "that sculpture was 800

years, from Dædalus to the time immediately preceding Phidias, in

attaining a tolerable resemblance of the human form." It appears,

therefore, that the greatest epic poem ever written had been read,

appreciated, and admired, for nearly five centuries before the arts

arrived at perfection. Then, indeed, there burst a flood of glory over

ancient Greece, and names never to be forgotten were borne upon the

tide. Contemporary with Pindar and Corinna were Phidias, Alcamenes, and

many other sculptors, together with poets, philosophers, warriors, and

statesmen; men whose names will rise superior to the lapse of time, and

whose fame, like the rocky barriers of the ocean, on which the elements

in vain expend their fury, will be of equal duration with the

world itself.

Ancient Rome was indebted to others for all of the liberal arts and

sciences she possessed. In the earlier periods of her existence, and

before Greece had become known in Rome, Etruria was the instructress of

her sons. When Greece had been subdued, and rendered a tributary

province of the all-conquering city, her polished people, nevertheless,

exercised an intellectual sovereignty over their masters. In the streets

of Athens a singular spectacle was exhibited; _there_ might be seen the

conqueror learning of the vanquished; Romans, of exalted rank and

unbounded power, had become the disciples of Grecian philosophers.

Nevertheless, when Rome possessed orators and poets, each of whom

has raised

"Monumentum ære perennius,"

in that the golden age of her existence, it does not appear, says Dr

Burney, that "except Vitruvius, the Romans had one architect, sculptor,

painter, or musician; those who have been celebrated in the arts of Rome

having been Asiatics or European Greeks, who came to exercise such arts

among the Latins, as the Latins had not among themselves. This custom

was continued under the successors of Augustus; and those Romans who

were prevented, by more important concerns, from going into Greece,

combined, in a manner, to bring Greece to Rome, by receiving into their

service the most able professors of Greece and Asia in all the arts."

Vitruvius, in the chapter on music inserted in his treatise on

architecture, complains that "the science of music, in itself obscure,

is particularly so to such as understand not the Greek language." This

observation shows the low state of music at Rome at that time; indeed

Vitruvius is said to be the first who has treated of music in the

Latin tongue.

Modern Europe also furnishes another illustration and example of the

truth of our proposition. When the mists of ignorance and superstition

which had for centuries enveloped the world, had begun to clear away,

and when Europe first attempted to throw off the errors of the Dark

Ages, the arts were dead, and the only music known was that cultivated

by the monks and clergy, as necessary to their profession, and the songs

of the Troubadours. "The fame of the Troubadours," remarks Mr Hallam,

"depends less on their positive excellence than on the darkness of

preceding ages, the temporary sensation they excited, and their

permanent influence on the state of European poetry." The intrinsic

merit of the music of this period may be collected from the following

observation of Dr Burney:--"However barbarous and wretched the melody

and harmony of the secular songs of this period may have been, they were

in both respects superior to the music of the church." The Troubadours

flourished from the middle of the twelfth century till the latter end of

the fourteenth century, when their dissolute and licentious habits

caused them to be universally banished and proscribed. During the

barbarism of these times, not only had the arts themselves been lost,

but even the principles on which they rest had been forgotten. Italy,

indeed, possessed many ancient marbles, but they seemed to have lost

their value; and it was not till the thirteenth century that any attempt

to imitate these remains of antiquity was made. Nicola Pisano, about the

year 1231, taking for his model an ancient sarcophagus at Pisa, which

contained the remains of Beatrice, mother of the Countess Matilda,

sculptured an urn--a feat in those days so extraordinary, as to have

conferred upon him the title of Nicolas of the Urn. This artist, in the

words of Lanzi, "was the first to see and follow light." He was,

however, more ambitious than successful, and was followed by his sons

and others, in whose hands the art seems to have no very rapid progress.

The art of painting, in which there were no models in existence, was

later in manifesting any improvement. It was not till after the year

1250 that, according to Vasari, some Greek painters were invited to

Florence by the rulers of the city, for the express purpose of restoring

the art to Florence, where it was rather wholly lost than degenerated.

Cimabue, the reviver of painting, received instruction from the Greeks.

He died in 1300. Fierce as the age in which he lived, says Lanzi, his

Madonnas were without beauty, and his angels, even in the same picture,

were all in the same attitude. To Cimabue succeeded his pupil, the

famous Giotto, who died in 1337. With him the ruggedness of his master's

manner was softened down, and considerable advances made towards a

better style. He was honourably received at many of the principal towns

and cities of Italy, and may, perhaps, be considered as the real founder

of their several schools; at all events, painters every where were long

the imitators of Giotto. His faults partook also of the character of the

age, and among other defects, the dry hardness of his works has given

rise to an opinion, that he partly formed his style upon the works of

the Pisani. Giotto and his school, indeed, conducted the art through

infancy, but it still exhibited many signs of childhood, especially in

chiara-oscuro, and even more so in perspective. Figures sometimes

appeared as if sliding from the canvass--buildings had not the true

point of view, and foreshortening was only rudely attempted. Stefano

Fiorentino, a _grandson_ of Giotto, was the first and only one of the

school who endeavoured to grapple with this last difficulty, which he

may be said to have perceived rather than overcome; his contemporaries,

for the most part, evaded it, and concealed their deficiency as they

could. Such is the summary of the merits of this school of art given by

Lanzi, who dates the commencement of the first epoch of modern painting

from the death of Giotto. In further illustration of the low state of

art in the early part of the fourteenth century, it may be observed,

that Lanzi also describes a great work of Masaccio, who flourished in

the succeeding century, as "beautiful _for those times_;" and that it

was not till the year 1410 that oil-painting was invented or improved

by Van-Eyck.

From this sketch of the history of the arts of music, sculpture, and

painting during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, will be seen

their state and condition, when the great work of the immortal Dante

took his country by surprise. The _Divina Comedia_ was written about the

year 1300. Its illustrious author, the creator of the national poetry of

his country, died in 1321, leaving behind him Petrarch, who was crowned

in the Capitol in 1341, and Boccaccio, who--though, as Byron said of

Scott, he spoiled his poetry by writing better prose--was nevertheless a

poet of no mean merit, and the probable inventor of the _ottava rima_.

Two centuries after the last of these parents of modern literature had

nearly elapsed, ere he who has been styled the Dante of the arts,

Michael Angelo, and his contemporaries, among whom were Leonardo da

Vinci and Raphael, appeared upon the stage. Thus language, the first

great want of man, the necessary instrument of reason, by which its

possessor is distinguished from the rest of creation, the vehicle of

human thoughts, the means by which man's wants, desires, griefs, and

joys, are communicated and made known, would seem to form the earliest

object of his attention. He enriches and improves it, till it is

rendered capable of expressing all the workings of his reason. This

done, genius and invention are applied to other pursuits; and in many

instances it may be, that the poet and the artist were but the creatures

of the age which produced them. Had he lived at a later period, Homer,

the great sire of song, might perhaps have shone the Phidias or the

Zeuxis of his day; or, had his birth been anticipated two hundred years,

the genius of "the Dante of the arts" might possibly have been displayed

in works like those which have immortalized Dante Alighieri. It is,

therefore, no inconsistency in the character of a people amongst whom

poetry is passionately admired, and books of all kinds eagerly devoured,

that the arts should be generally uncared-for and unknown. When another

century has passed away, their history may tell another tale, and the

powers of mind hitherto employed principally upon the physical sciences,

may have achieved like triumphs in the liberal arts. That this may be

the case, the past history of other nations affords every reason to

hope. What man has done, man may, and doubtless _will_, do again.

In the earlier ages of the world, music, in its rudest, simplest form,

is said to have stopped the flow of rivers, to have tamed wild beasts,

and to have raised the walls of cities; allegories which at least show

the prodigious influence the art possessed over the inhabitants of

infant Greece. In the course of time, love of the art was a national

characteristic of this people; and music became a specific in the hand

of the physician, a fundamental principle of public education, and the

medium of instruction in religion, morals, and the laws. The lyre may be

said to have ruled Greece, the glorious and the free, with the same

despotic sway with which the iron hand of tyranny has in our own day

governed her. Discord, and civil commotions arose among the

Lacedæmonians; Terpander came, and with his lyre at once appeased the

angry multitude. Among the Athenians it was forbidden, under pain of

death, to propose the conquest of the isle of Salamis; but the songs of

Solon raised a tumult amongst the people; they rose, compelled the

repeal of the obnoxious decree, and Salamis straightway fell. Was it

found necessary to civilize a wild and extensive province? Music was

employed for this desirable object; and Arcadia, before the habitation

of a fierce and savage people, became famed as the abode of happiness

and peace. Plutarch places the masters of tragedy--to which the modern

opera bears a great resemblance--on a level with the greatest captains:

nor did the people fail in gratitude to their benefactors; they held

their memory in veneration. The lyre of Orpheus was transplanted to the

skies, there to shine for countless ages; and divine honours were paid

to the name of Sappho.

The Greeks, although perhaps excelling all other nations in this, as in

the other arts, are not the only people among whom music was cultivated

and esteemed. Both China and Arabia are said to have felt its influence

upon their customs, manners, and institutions. The musical traditions of

China might seem to be but repetitions of the marvels of the Greeks.

King-lun, Kovei, and Pinmonkia, are said to have arrested the flow of

rivers, and to have caused the woods and forests, attracted by the

melody of their performance, to crowd around. The Chinese are said to

believe, that the ancient music of their country has drawn angels down

from heaven, and conjured up from hell departed souls: they also believe

that music can inspire men with the love of virtue, and cause them

faithfully to fulfil their several duties. Confucius says "to know if a

kingdom be well governed, and if the customs of its inhabitants be bad

or good, examine the musical taste which there prevails." There is still

extant a curious document, which shows the importance which a ruler of

this people attached to music, as a moral and political agent. We allude

to a proclamation of the Emperor Ngaiti, who ascended the throne of the

Celestial Empire in the year of the tenth æra 364. After complaining,

that tender, artificial, and effeminate strains inspire libertinism, he

proceeds, in severe terms, to order a reformation in these matters; the

first step to which, is a prohibition of every sort of music but that

which serves for war, and for the ceremony Tido. The Arabs also appear

to have held similar opinions as to the power of music. They boast of

Ishac, Kathab Al Moussouly, Alfarabi, and other musicians, whom they

relate to have worked miracles by their vocal and instrumental

performances. With the Arabs, music was interwoven with philosophy; and

their wise men imagined a marvellous relation to exist between

harmonious sounds and the operations of nature. Harmony was esteemed

the panacea, or universal remedy, in mental and even bodily affections;

in the tones of the lute were found medical recipes in almost all

diseases. Upon one occasion, in the presence of the grand vizier,

Alfarabi, accompanying his voice with an instrument, is related to have

roused a large assembly to an extreme pitch of joyful excitement, from

which he moved them to grief and tears, and then plunged all present

into a deep sleep, none having the power to resist the enchantment of

his performance.

The children of Israel cultivated music in the earliest periods of their

existence as a people. After the passage of the Red Sea, Moses, and his

sister Miriam, the prophetess, assembled two choruses, one of men, and

the other of women, with timbrels, who sang and danced. The facility

with which the instruments were collected on the spot, and with which

the choruses and dances were arranged and executed, necessarily implies

a skill in these exercises, which must have been acquired long before,

probably from the Egyptians. We have abundant evidence in Holy Writ, of

the high estimation in which music was held among the Hebrews at a later

period of their history. They also appear to have successfully applied

it to the cure of diseases. The whole of David's power over the disorder

of Saul may, without any miraculous intervention, be attributed to his

skilful performance upon the harp. In 1st Samuel, c. xvi., we read that

Saul's servants said unto him, "Behold now, an evil spirit from God

troubleth thee: Let our lord now command thy servants, which are before

thee, to seek out a man who is a cunning player on an harp: and it shall

come to pass, when the evil spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall

play with his hand, and thou shalt be well." Saul having assented to

this proposal, the son of Jesse the Bethlemite was sent for, and stood

before him. "And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon

Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was

refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him." So

great were the esteem and love for music among this people when David

ascended the throne, that we find that he appointed 4000 Levites to

praise the Lord with instruments, (1. Chron. c. xxiii.;) and that the

number of those that were _cunning_ in song, was two hundred four score

and eight, (c. xxv.) Solomon is related by Josephus to have made 200,000

trumpets, and 40,000 instruments of music, to praise God with. In the 2d

chapter of Ecclesiastes, music is mentioned by Solomon among the

vanities and follies in which he found no profit, in terms which show

how generally a cultivated taste was diffused among his subjects. "I gat

me men-singers and women-singers, and the delights of the sons of men,

as musical instruments, and that of all sorts." Many other passages of

similar import might be quoted from the sacred writings, and among

others, some from which it would appear that musicians marched in the

van of the Jewish armies, and not unfrequently contributed to the

victory by the animation of their strains; and that music was the

universal language of joy and lamentation. There is, however, one

portion of Holy Writ, which, from the highly interesting testimony it

incidentally bears to the love of music which prevailed in Jerusalem,

and the skill of her inhabitants, we cannot forbear to notice. We allude

to the 137th Psalm, "By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when

we remembered thee, O Sion. As for our harps, we hanged them up upon the

trees that are therein. For they that led us away captive required of us

there a song and melody in our heaviness: Sing us one of the songs of

Sion." From the facts here narrated, we may judge how great was the

attachment of the Jewish people for the musical art; their beloved city

sacked, their temple plundered and destroyed, their homes desolate, in

the midst of danger and despair, deserted by their God, surrounded by

infuriated enemies, (Isaiah, xiii. 16.,) nevertheless their harps were

not forgotten. From this beautiful and pathetic lamentation, it would

also appear that the repute of Hebrew musicians was far extended. No

sooner had they arrived in the land of their captivity, than the

Chaldean conqueror required of them a song and melody in their

heaviness, demanding _one of the songs of Sion_. The fame of the

captives must have long preceded them, for, according to Dr Burney, the

art was then declining in Judea.

In the physical sciences, we have surpassed the nations who excelled in

music; in war we have equalled their most glorious feats; in poetry and

oratory we are not inferior. Shall not our future history also tell of

triumphs in the tuneful art? We believe that sooner or later, the time

will surely come when our country in her turn will boast of masters in

the art, whose memories will ever be preserved and hallowed. But

whatever the future may bring forth, the marvellous accounts of the

powers of ancient music will meet with little indulgence from modern

scepticism. At present such effects are unknown among us, and therefore

unintelligible. Among the early Greeks, for many centuries, the several

characters of poet, musician, lawgiver, and philosopher, were combined

in the same individual; and it is probable that the music of that period

consisted principally of recitative or musical declamation. This species

of composition, so utterly neglected and unknown to the English school,

possesses great powers of expression, both when in its simple form and

when accompanied. A modern example of the effects it is capable of is

recorded by Tartini. He relates, in the following terms, as one of many

similar instances which had come under his observation:--"In the 14th

year of the present century, (the 18th,) in the opera they were

performing at Ancona, there was at the beginning of the 3d act a line of

recitative, unaccompanied by any instruments but the bass, by which,

equally among the professors and the audience, was raised such and so

great a commotion of mind, that all looked in one another's faces, on

account of the evident change of colour which took place in each. The

effect was not that of grief, (I very well remember that the words

expressed indignation,) but that of a certain congealing and coldness of

the blood, which completely disturbed the mind. Thirteen times was the

drama repeated, and the same effect always followed universally; a

palpable sign of which was the deep previous silence with which the

audience prepared themselves to enjoy its effects.[14]"

[14] We may refer to this hereafter, and to show that _we_ at

least are not guilty of exaggeration, we subjoin the passage in

the original Italian, from which it will be seen that our

translation is as literal as possible.

"L'anno quatuor-decimo del secolo presente, nel dramma che si

rappresentava in Ancona, v'era, su'l principio dell' atto

terzo, una riga di recitativo, non accompagnato da altri

stromenti che dal basso; per cui, tanto in noi professori

quanto negli ascoltanti, si destava una tale e tanta commozione

di animo, che tutti si guardavano in faccia l'un l'altro, per

la evidente mutazione di colore che si faceva in ciascheduno di

noi. L'effetto non era di pianto (mi ricordo benissimo che le

parole erano di sdegno) ma di un certo rigore e freddo nel

sangue, che di fatto turbava l'animo. Tredici volte si recito

il dramma, e sempre segui l'effetto stesso universalmente: di

che era segno palpabile il sommo previo silenzio, con cui

l'uditorio tutto si apparechiava a goderne l'effetto."

The line of recitative has unfortunately not been preserved; nor is it

known what the opera, or whose the music, which produced an effect which

may not be inaptly described in the words of Byron:--

"An undefined and sudden thrill,

Which made the heart a moment still,

Then beat with quicker pulse."

The music of Allessandro Scarlatti was then current and universally

popular in Italy. This composer was particularly famous for the

excellence of his recitative; and his general merit may be judged of by

the fact, that he is placed by Arteaga, in his work on the revolutions

of the musical drama in Italy, among the early authors belonging to the

period which he terms the golden age of Italian music. On these grounds,

we may reasonably conclude, that he was the composer of that terrible

line of recitative.

We have ourselves also witnessed a somewhat similar example of the

powers of Italian recitative. Many of our readers, doubtless, have

witnessed Pasta's wonderful performance in Anna Bolena, who also may

remember Anna's exclamation, "Giudici ad Anna! ad Anna giudici!" when

Henry's intention of bringing her to trial is first made known to her.

Such was the fearful tone, of mingled horror, amaze, and wrathful

indignation, with which that greatest queen of tragic song gave out

these words, that, in a foreign land, we have on more than one occasion

observed some of the audience, as these fiery accents burst forth upon

them, to start, change colour, and almost shudder at the intensity of

the conflicting passions she exhibited. Much, nay most, of this was

undoubtedly owing to the genius of the songstress. We do but mention

these examples, to show how perfect a medium of musical expression and

dramatic effect, good recitative becomes, when adequately performed.

Still, the wonders related of ancient music--wonders not confined to one

age, one people, or to one quarter of the globe, but, on the contrary,

commencing at a remote period of man's history, including Jews, Chinese,

Arabs, and Greeks, amongst whose records their memory is preserved--will

meet with a cold assent from most; and perhaps few among us would be

found bold enough to avow a belief in their reality. We have certainly

no warrant for their truth in the powers or effects of our national

music, and thus experience directly contradicts the testimony of

antiquity.

On the same grounds, however, had no specimens of ancient handiwork been

preserved, we might also have doubted the excellence and beauty of any

of those works of art which, nevertheless, immortalized those by whose

hands they were fashioned. Were not the Dying Gladiator now before us,

it might, at this day, be deemed a monstrous supposition, that a statue

of a dying man should have existed, in which there might be seen how

much of life was left. Inferiority is ever sceptical and self-satisfied;

it is only given to the really wise to know how much lies hidden from

their view. Though the scope and object of all the imitative arts is the

same, to dignify, elevate, and embellish nature--though the beauty of

the ideal is the aim of the musician, equally as it is the aspiration of

the poet, painter, and the sculptor, the character of these pursuits is

in some respects essentially different. In the latter, material objects

are imitated and embellished, the things themselves are bodily before

the eyes, and the beauty and excellence of the work will appear by

comparison with nature herself. These arts also possess great landmarks

of taste and skill, which speak the same language to all ages. Of the

symmetry of the sculptor's chiselled forms, of the beauty of the poet's

or the painter's pictures, we have a standard in nature's own originals,

seldom, probably never, exhibiting the same concentration of refined and

elevated beauty in one individual object, but, nevertheless, furnishing

an accurate and never varying standard, for the exercise of the

judgement; while the heart, that inner world, ever uniform and

unchanging amid the manifold vicissitudes of human life, supplies a test

by which the poet's thoughts and sentiments may be correctly tried.

Thus, in the lapse of ages, the public taste has known no change; and

though more than 2000 years have passed away, the works of ancient

Greece are worshipped still.

It cannot, however, be imagined, that the music of those times could

have among us the same influence it possessed of old. It is no new

remark, that in no other branch of the imitative arts have the same

rapid and successive changes occurred, as are observed to have taken

place in music. From this fact, the following question naturally arises,

whether there are any fixed first principles of art, by adhering to

which, music might be produced which would please equally all ages and

amongst all people; or, in other words, whether the pleasure which music

brings, is the result of education, habit, or association, or an

inherent and necessary effect of any particular succession or

combination of sounds. We have thrown together the following

observations of Rousseau, which occur in several different portions of

his essay on the origin of languages, and which, though not made with

reference to this question, nevertheless appear to us conclusive upon

it. "As the feelings which a beautiful picture excites are not caused by

mere colour, so the empire which music possesses over our souls is not

the work of sound alone. All men love to listen to sweet sounds; but if

this love be not quickened by such melodious inflexions as are familiar

to the hearer, it cannot be converted into pleasure. Melody, such as, to

our taste, may be most beautiful, will have little effect upon the ear

which is unaccustomed to it; it is a language of which we must possess a

dictionary. Sounds in a melody do not operate as mere sounds, but as

signs of our affections and our feelings; it is thus they excite the

emotions they express, and whose image we there recognize. If this

influence of our sensations is not owing to moral causes, how is it that

we are so sensitive where a barbarian would feel nothing? How is it that

our most touching airs would be but so much empty noise to the ear of a

Carribee? All require the kind of melody whose phrases they can

understand; to an Italian, his country's airs are necessary; to a Turk,

a Turkish melody; each is affected only by those accents with which he

is familiar. In short, he must understand the language that is spoken to

him." This reasoning seems to show that there are no principles or rules

of art, by following which music would be produced of that inherent

beauty which would intrinsically command universal admiration.

This being so, music is at the mercy of many circumstances, the

influence of which is felt, in some degree, even in those arts whose

principles have long been fixed and ascertained, and whose rules are not

merely conventional. The love of novelty, which the weariness caused by

a constant repetition of the same musical phrase or idea renders more

_exigeant_ in this than in other arts, the want or impossibility of

having any classic examples which might fix the taste or guide the

studies of the novice, are doubtless among the causes of these frequent

changes. The style of the leading singer of the day often forms and

rules the passing taste, and even characterizes the works of

contemporary composers. Music is often composed purposely for the

singer; his intonation, his peculiarities, his very mannerisms, are

borne in mind. Not merely sounds, but _his_ sounds, are the vehicles of

the composer's thoughts, the medium through which alone the composer's

ideas can be adequately expressed. In the next generation, when

performer and composer are dead and gone, all that is left of this their

_mutual_ work, once the object of universal admiration becomes

comparatively unintelligible. The melody, the harmony, indeed, remain,

but they are a body without a soul; the fire and genius of him who

lighted up the whole, who realized and brought home to the hearer the

_whole_ creation of the composer's imagination, are no more. The manner

of the performance, therefore, being, as it were, part and parcel of the

very music, and a necessary ingredient of the excellence of the

composition, to judge of the merit of the whole from the qualities of

the portion which is left, would be to judge of the beauty of the

Grecian Helen by the aspect or appearance of her lifeless remains. On

looking at the greater portion of the music by the execution of which

Catalani raised herself to the highest pinnacle of fame, we are

compelled to the conclusion, that in the singer lay the charm. The

effects said to have been produced by Handel's operas are now

inconceivable and unintelligible, so "mechanical and dull" do these

works appear, "beyond mere simplicity and traits of melody." Handel, in

one species of composition, wrote _down_ to the singers of his time.

Whoever examines the bass songs of that period, will perceive that they

were composed for inflexible and unwieldy voices, possessing a large and

heavy volume of tone, but incapable of executing any but simple

passages, constructed according to an ascertained routine of intervals.

Lord Mount-Edgcumbe truly conjectured, that Mozart was led to make the

bass so prominent a part in the Don Giovanni and Le Nozze di Figaro, by

writing for a particular singer. The part of Figaro was, in fact,

composed for Benucci. The sparkling brilliancy of Rossini would perhaps

never have been so fully developed, had not the skill and flexibility of

voice possessed by the singer David, for whom he wrote, enabled him to

indulge it to the uttermost. The characters thus imparted to the music

of the day are necessarily perishable and evanescent, to be again

superseded by later artists, whose excellences or peculiarities will

again lead to like results. Thus change succeeds change; the judgment of

the public is led by the composer and the performer, who, mutually

deferring to each other, often mould at will the taste of their

countrymen. We, of course, speak only of those whose talent, science,

and ability, have constituted them the masters of their art.

In England we have but few of those giants; they appear among us only

at long intervals; for which reason, perhaps, musical taste has

undergone fewer mutations in England than in most other countries.

Handel has now reigned supreme among us for near a century, and his bass

songs still influence the style of this branch of our native music.

Though bass singing has advanced elsewhere, it has stood comparatively

still with us; the same rude intervals, the same ponderous passages,

through which the voice moves heavily, as if a mountain heaved, are

still retained in the few bass songs of our school; in fact, without

them, many think a bass song cannot exist. This mannerism received a

blow from Weber, whom, as in the case of Handel, we have grown to

consider national property. His early death, however, prevented his

acquiring that permanent influence on the musical mind, which he might

have acquired had he lived, and continued to be successful.

From the glance we have taken of the rate at which poetry, literature,

and the fine arts, respectively advance as civilization holds her onward

course; from the wide diffusion and cultivation of musical taste and

musical science, ere barbarism and ignorance resumed their sway over

mankind; we cannot entertain a doubt that, ultimately, we also as a

people may emulate the glory other nations have acquired in each of

those pursuits. We are, perhaps, less excitable and less easily moved

than they; but the English character contains within it the elements of

greatness in every thing to which its energies are directed.

Circumstances may erelong rouse long-dormant tastes. Riches bring with

them new wants, they create new passions, new desires. Much wealth was

amassed by the preceding generation; their sons, now affluent and

educated, already form a vast addition to that class which we have

designated as the peculiar patron of the arts, and which, as commercial

prosperity continues to advance, will, in each succeeding generation,

receive another incalculable accession to its numbers.

The philosophical observer may even now discover the evidences of these

new wants of increasing opulence; and should providence, in its mercy,

deign still to bless the world with peace, the Augustan age of England

may be nearer than we think. However, it is most certain that this age,

as yet, has not arrived. An accurate knowledge of our defects will

soonest lead to their cure. By a searching, rigorous, and impartial

self-examination can these deficiencies only become known. It may be

necessary to apply the cautery; but the hand that wounds would also

heal; and if, in the course of the preceding observations, or in any

subsequent remarks, as we enquire into the present state of musical

taste and science in England, we may be deemed severe, let it be borne

in mind, that ours is a "tender fierceness," and that self-knowledge,

the first grand step to all improvement, is alone our object and

our aim.

End of Project Gutenberg's Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, No. 327, by Various