have denounced what they are pleased to call attempts at picturesque, in
the "Creation" of Haydn. Their arguments proceed upon the trifling
nature of the results produced by imitations, as unworthy the dignity of
an art so refined. The feelings awakened by the gradual developement of
the work of creation in this immortal work are certainly far superior in
their nature to those imputed by such writers to the admirers of what
they call depictive music;--and I cannot believe that these objectors
can have listened to the oratorio they criticise, either with the
physical or rational ear. Had they, we should have heard nothing like an
imputation of an unsuccessful imitation of trifling originals. They
would have seen no other use of the musical picturesque than perfectly
consists with true descriptiveness of the subject celebrated. The
Creation is a grand panorama; its object was to impress the hearer with
the realities it commemorates. Its author was engaged two whole years
upon it, and gave as a reason for his absorption in the task, that he
meant it to last a great while. He has composed a work which addresses
itself to the mind in such a manner, as to call up to the eye the
landscape, as well as to the ear the sounds, and to the conception the
animation and motion of the scenes described. Surely a beautiful
thought, a fine description, an impassioned sentiment, impressed upon
the mind and memory by a strong association with almost all the senses
at once, are more likely to become inseparably entwined among the very
fibres of the heart, than a cold, abstract description of the same
subject, without the intervention of such associations. I should pity
the man who could utter such a criticism, while listening to the
performance, or even reading the score of this most splendid oratorio.
From the commencement,--conveying the idea of primeval chaos,--through
the gradual gathering of the earth and sea, and the things which each
contains, into their several places,--the budding and blooming of the
thousand flowers,--the cooing of the tender doves,--the trampling of the
heavy beasts,--the flowing of the gentle rills,--the rolling of the
mountain waves,--the bursting of light at the Creator's word,--angels
praising God,--the noble work of man's creation,--the achievement of the
whole,--up to the last grand and glorious chorus,--all is sublimity--all
is divine! and the whole soul of the auditor is wrapt in sacred awe, as
he follows the beneficent hand of his Maker in its wonderful work, and
is lost in rapture and adoration, amid the blaze of glory by which he
finds himself surrounded at the close.
* * * * *
SOME THOUGHTS ON OPERATIVE MUSIC.
There are those who institute a comparison between music and poetry, and
much to the prejudice of the former. They argue that the intellect has
nothing to do with music, and that it is ridiculous and absurd in those
who speak no Italian, to pretend to derive any satisfaction from
listening, for two hours, to music in a language they cannot
understand--affecting, at the same time, to comprehend the sense to be
conveyed, by the sounds they drink in with such assumed rapture. I
conceive this to be far from just reasoning. Doubtless there is a great
deal of affectation in the fashionable world upon the subject of music
in general, and of the opera in particular; but we have no right to
judge our neighbor's taste by our own--perhaps, after all, it may turn
out that our own is defective or false. I am inclined to argue that the
intellect has as much to do with music as with poetry.
In judging of pieces adapted to music, we should be lenient on the
subject of the thoughts, if the design and story have variety enough to
afford a basis for a corresponding variety of musical ideas. The most
common expression of any passion may be tolerated, when the music, _not_
the poetry, is to form the embellishment. Who cares for the story--the
plot--in listening to the Italian opera? Nay, more--are not the finest
and most beautiful pieces of that class of music, vulgar and weak as
poetical compositions? Is not the musical composer the genius of the
piece? While the poet utters some such trash as 'I shall support myself
by feasting on your beautiful eyes,' the composer so varies the
expression of his music, that, in truth, the thought becomes refined,
just as it would if the poet had undertaken to present it in a variety
of views. To say, therefore, that the repetitions in music are nonsense,
is just to profess a deplorable ignorance of the science. The words
convey a sentiment which the musician undertakes to increase--to
soften--to embellish, through a series of fine ideas, of which those
who have neither musical taste nor ear have not the least conception.
Nor should it be supposed that, in the opera--in the fine pieces of
Metastasio, for instance--the poetry is disgraced by being but the
handmaid of music, and that the former is therefore reduced unduly in
the scale of comparative merit. This is not the case with him who is an
equal admirer of the two arts. Such as these will admit that it is but
in a very small degree that music is designed to please a sense. They
will insist that its design is to excite emotions that poetry, to the
same extent, cannot awaken. What speech in the whole Iliad rouses more
exulting courage than the 'Marsellois Hymn?' The music of 'Pleyel's
German Hymn' not only of itself produces an effect to awaken a feeling
of grief, but no words that I have ever read are capable of producing
that feeling in an equal degree. Take for example, the lamentation of
David for the loss of Absalom--and if that passage, and others like it,
are enough to melt or break the heart, there is a kind of music, of
which 'Pleyel's Hymn' is an example, that will affect it more deeply
yet.
Words, considered as auxiliary to music, merely show the subject on
which the emotion rests, but have nothing to do with the emotion itself;
_that_ is produced by music alone--and long before any words are known
to an air, the emotion will have been produced. We shall have imagined
the subject--and when we come to know the words, we shall discover one
of three things: first, that the subject is what we imagined--secondly,
that it is something analogous to our perception--or, thirdly, if
neither of the two former, that the words and air are ill-adapted to
each other. Indeed, what do we mean by saying, 'these words are adapted
to the air,' if the air have no character of its own? And what is its
character but its peculiar power of awakening certain emotions?
Admitting that it is better that fine poetry and fine harmony should be
united, when possible--and that this union, of course, produces
additional delight to a refined mind,--it still seems to me very absurd
to condemn the pieces which are constructed upon ideas conveyed in
poetry of an inferior class, _merely because such is the character of
the poetry_. Music is the governor of the heart, and all she asks of
Poetry is a subject,--and then, delightful magician! it is her province
to call up, by her sweet spell, the corresponding emotions!
SIN ESTIMATED BY THE LIGHT OF HEAVEN.
By Edward Payson.
_Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in
the light of thy countenance._
It is a well known fact that the appearance of objects, and the ideas
which we form of them, are very much affected by the situation in which
they are placed with respect to us, and by the light in which they are
seen. Objects seen at a distance, for example, appear much smaller than
they really are. The same object, viewed through different mediums, will
often exhibit very different appearances. A lighted candle, or a star,
appears bright during the absence of the sun; but when that luminary
returns, their brightness is eclipsed. Since the appearance of objects,
and the ideas which we form of them, are thus affected by extraneous
circumstances, it follows, that no two persons will form precisely the
same ideas of any object, unless they view it in the same light, or are
placed with respect to it in the same situation.
These remarks have a direct and important bearing upon our subject. No
person can read the scriptures candidly and attentively, without
perceiving that God and men differ, very widely, in the opinion which
they entertain respecting almost every object. And in nothing do they
differ more widely, than in the estimate they form of man's moral
character, and of the malignity and desert of sin. Nothing can be more
evident than the fact, that, in the sight of God, our sins are
incomparably more numerous, aggravated and criminal, than they appear to
us. He regards us as deserving of an endless punishment, while we
scarcely perceive that we deserve any punishment at all. Now whence
arises this difference? The remarks which have just been made will
inform us. God and men view objects through a very different medium, and
are placed, with respect to them, in a very different situation. God is
present with every object; he views it as near and therefore sees its
real magnitude. But many objects, especially those of a religious
nature, are seen by us at a distance, and, of course, appear to us
smaller than they really are. God sees every object in a perfectly clear
light; but we see most objects dimly and indistinctly. In fine, God sees
all objects just as they are; but we see them through a deceitful
medium, which ignorance, prejudice and self-love place between them and
us.
The Psalmist, addressing God, says, thou hast set our iniquities before
thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance, that is, our
iniquities or open transgressions, and our secret sins, the sins of our
hearts, are placed, as it were, full before God's face, immediately
under his eye; and he sees them in the pure, clear, all-disclosing light
of his own holiness and glory. Now if we would see our sins as they
appear to him, that is, as they really are; if we would see their
number, blackness and criminality, and the malignity and desert of every
sin, we must place ourselves, as nearly as is possible, in his
situation, and look at sin, as it were, through his eyes. We must place
ourselves and our sins in the centre of that circle, which is irradiated
by the light of his countenance; where all his infinite perfections are
clearly displayed, where his awful majesty is seen, where his
concentrated glories blaze, and burn, and dazzle, with insufferable
brightness; and in order to this, we must, in thought, leave our dark
and sinful world, where God is unseen and almost forgotten, and where,
consequently, the evil of sinning against him cannot be fully
perceived--and mount up to heaven, the peculiar habitation of his
holiness and glory.
Let us, then, attempt this adventurous flight. Let us follow the path by
which our blessed Savior ascended to heaven, and soar upward to the
great capital of the universe; to the palace and the throne of its
greater King. As we rise, the earth fades away from our view; now we
leave worlds, and suns, and systems behind us. Now we reach the utmost
limits of creation; now the last star disappears, and no ray of created
light is seen. But a new light begins to dawn and brighten upon us. It
is the light of heaven, which pours a flood of glory from its wide-open
gates, spreading continual, meridian day, far and wide through the
regions of ethereal space. Passing swiftly onward through this flood of
day, the songs of heaven begin to burst upon your ears, and voices of
celestial sweetness, yet loud as the sound of many waters and of mighty
thunderings, are heard exclaiming, Hallelujah! for the Lord God
omnipotent reigneth! Blessing, and glory, and honor, and power, be unto
Him that sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb, forever. A moment more,
and you have passed the gates--you are in the midst of the city--you are
before the eternal throne--you are in the immediate presence of God, and
all his glories are blazing around you like a consuming fire. Flesh and
blood cannot support it; your bodies dissolve into their original dust;
but your immortal souls remain, and stand naked spirits before the great
Father of spirits. Nor, in losing their tenements of clay, have they
lost their powers of perception. No; they are now all eye, all ear; nor
can you close the eyelids of the soul, to shut out, for a moment, the
dazzling, overpowering splendors which surround you, and which appear
like light condensed; like glory which may be felt. You see indeed no
form or shape; and yet your whole souls perceive with intuitive
clearness and certainty, the immediate, awe-inspiring presence of
Jehovah. You see no countenance; and yet you feel as if a countenance of
awful majesty, in which all the perfections of divinity are shown forth,
were beaming upon you wherever you turn. You see no eye; and yet a
piercing, heart-searching eye, an eye of omniscient purity, every glance
of which goes through your souls like a flash of lightning, seems to
look upon you from every point of surrounding space. You feel as if
enveloped in an atmosphere, or plunged in an ocean of existence,
intelligence, perfection and glory; an ocean of which your laboring
minds can take in only a drop; an ocean, the depth of which you cannot
fathom, and the breadth of which you can never fully explore. But while
you feel utterly unable to comprehend this infinite Being, your views of
him, so far as they extend, are perfectly clear and distinct. You have
the most vivid perceptions, the most deeply graven impressions, of an
infinite, eternal, spotless mind; in which the image of all things,
past, present and to come, are most harmoniously seen, arranged in the
most perfect order, and defined with the nicest accuracy; of a mind,
which wills with infinite ease, but whose volitions are attended by a
power omnipotent and irresistible, and which sows worlds, suns and
systems through the fields of space with far more facility, than the
husbandman scatters his seed upon the earth; of a mind, whence have
flowed all the streams, which ever watered any part of the universe with
life, intelligence, holiness, or happiness, and which is still fully
overflowing and inexhaustible. You perceive also, with equal clearness
and certainty, that this infinite, eternal, omnipotent, omniscient,
all-wise, all-creating mind is perfectly and essentially holy, a pure
flame of holiness; and that, as such, he regards sin with unutterable,
irreconcilable detestation and abhorrence. With a voice, which
reverberates through the wide expanse of his dominions, you hear him
saying, as the Sovereign and Legislator of the universe, Be ye holy; for
I, the Lord your God, am holy. And you see his throne surrounded, you
see heaven filled by those only, who perfectly obey this command. You
see thousands of thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand of
angels and archangels, pure, exalted, glorious intelligences, who
reflect his perfect image, burn like flames of fire with zeal for his
glory, and seem to be so many concentrations of wisdom, knowledge,
holiness and love; a fit retinue for the thrice holy Lord of hosts,
whose holiness and all-filling glory they unceasingly proclaim.
And now, if you are willing to see your sins in their true colors; if
you would rightly estimate their number, magnitude and criminality,
bring them into this hallowed place, where nothing is seen but the
whiteness of unsullied purity, and the splendors of uncreated glory;
where the sun itself would appear a dark spot, and there, in the midst
of this circle of seraphic intelligences, with the infinite God pouring
all the light of his countenance around you, review your lives,
contemplate your offences, and see how they appear.
THE WAY OF THE SOUL.
By L. S. P.
There is a homely proverb which tells us that "the longest way round is
the shortest way home." Whether the mathematical demonstration of so
paradoxical an assertion would be easy or difficult I shall not
undertake to decide. My concern is with its application to the
spiritual; and with such a reference, are there not many in these
hurrying days who would be benefited by a serious attention to it?
Do you doubt its truth? Reflect, and you will be convinced. Have you
never groped darkly after a principle, of which you had some dim
revelation, and which you strove with mightiest working to make your
own? Still as you seemed about to seize it, it eluded your grasp; you
were sure that it was there; but to lay hold of it was beyond your
strength. You gave up the effort, turned your thoughts to a new channel,
and busied yourself with other investigations--when lo! a revelation;
and the truth you sought, burst upon you as a ray from the eternal
splendor.
Or, perchance, you have been all the day perplexed and wearied with
doubts, relating, it may be, to some point of practical moment to you,
and seeming to demand a solution, which yet you are unable to give. You
would fain come to an end, but you cannot even see an opening; only here
and there an uncertain glimmer, which vanishes when you approach it more
nearly. Your soul is faint and harassed; you go forth at sunset to
commune with nature, and in her communion to forget your perplexities.
You gaze on the calm glories of the departing sun, and the calm enters
into your soul; the cooling breath of heaven comes to you, and you
listen to the many voices, "the melodies of woods and winds and waters,"
that go up in one harmony to heaven. You behold, and listen, and
love;--and with love comes light. Yes, a light, so pure, so soft, so
mild, that it seems not of earth rests upon your soul, and your
darkness, and doubts, and perplexity are gone.
Oh, never let it be forgotten that the road to truth is a winding road;
it lies through the heart as well as through the intellect; for, says
the wise man, "Into a malicious soul, wisdom shall not enter." Thou must
learn to love, before thou canst learn to know; and never shalt thou
behold the serene and beautiful countenance of Truth, until thy aim be
honest, and thy soul in harmony with nature.
And are not _Nature's_ paths circuitous? It is man who has constructed
the broad high road, and made for himself a straight way through forests
and streams, levelling the mountains, and filling up the valleys--but it
is not thus in nature. Her paths are wild, and devious, and rambling;
following "the river's course, the valley's playful windings," and ever
and anon turning aside to some sunny nook, or steep ravine. The rain
which falls upon the earth travels not by a plain high road to the
springs and fountains whither it is bound; but gently, slowly wins its
way, drop by drop, till a little stream is formed, and the stream winds
its noiseless and hidden track to the fountain.
In her _processes_ too, Nature is patient and long-waiting. She doth
not say to the seed just planted in the earth, spring up and bear fruit
forthwith, or you shall be cast out, but she waiteth for the unfolding
of the tender germ, and the striking of the new-shooting roots; and hath
long patience, and with slowliest care, and a mother's enduring love,
she bringeth forth to light the first green leaf. Then she calleth for
the sun to shine, and the dews to descend upon the young plant, and many
days doth she wait for the ripe fruit.
But man, impatient man would be wise in a day. He waits not for the holy
and mysterious processes of nature, he leaves not the wonderful powers
within him to unfold in silence and secrecy, but must ever disturb them
with his foolish meddling and impertinent haste, like some silly child,
who digs up the seed he has planted an hour ago, to see if it have yet
sprouted. And are there not some who deal in like fashion with other
minds than their own? _Educators_ let them not be called, for never do
they bring out what is within. The young mind is not to them a germ to
be unfolded, an infant to be nursed into manhood, but rather a
receptacle to be filled, and stuffed, and crammed as expeditiously as
possible; and this, thanks to the numerous machines lately invented for
the purpose, is very quick indeed.
There have been times when you seemed to make no progress in your
favorite pursuit. You struggled without advancing as we sometimes do in
dreams, or though you stepped up and down, it was as in a treadmill. So
it seemed to you. But was it so? Nay, the process was going on within,
though its visible manifestations may have ceased. If no addition was
made to the superstructure, yet the foundations were deepening and
widening; if the branches and leaves did not grow, yet the root
strengthened itself in the earth.
But not only so--you seemed to be going backward. Even the ground
slipped from under your feet, and where you had heretofore a firm
standing-place, you found but a swamp. And have you never considered
that Nature too sometimes works backwards? See that withered leaf which
flutters in the breeze, maintaining yet an uncertain hold upon the
branch which nurtured its younger growth. A fresh gust of wind loosens
its hold, and it is blown in circling eddies to the earth. There it
rests till the elements of decay in its bosom have finished their work,
and it mixes with the dust. "What is this? Can a mother forget her
child? Does Nature destroy her own productions?" Ah, look again. In that
fresh-blooming flower, dyed with tints of infinite softness, behold the
withered leaf. Nature was as really working to the production of that
flower when she decomposed the elements of the leaf, as when she
unfolded the germ, and elaborated the juices, and blended the tints of
the flower itself. It was but a glorified resurrection. And your
spiritual growth is going on as truly and steadily, if not as visibly
and delightfully, when you cast aside the slough of some old prejudice,
or painfully tear yourself from a cherished delusion as when the dawning
of a new truth flashes light and joy upon your soul.
For what Coleridge has said of nations, is equally true of individuals.
"The progress of the species neither is nor can be, like that of a Roman
road, in a right line. It may be more justly compared to that of a
river, which, both in its smaller reaches and larger turnings, is
frequently forced back towards its fountains, by objects which cannot
otherwise be eluded or overcome; yet with an accompanying impulse that
will ensure its advancement hereafter, it is either gaining strength
every hour or conquering in secret some difficulty, by a labor that
contributes as effectually to further its course, as when it moves
forward in an uninterrupted line."
I might go on to illustrate the application of this truth to
self-knowledge, but it is one easily made, by each for himself. Its
bearing upon our moral growth must not be so lightly passed over.
You have learned that you have a spirit which _may_ be, _must_ be
trained for immortality and heaven. You have found too that there are
difficulties in the way of this training. There is a constant
under-current of selfishness ready to insinuate itself into all you do;
there is contempt for your inferiors in birth or cultivation, ever
offering to start up, and there is a spirit of resentment against those
who have injured you ready to take fire on the least provocation. What
is to be done with these? You do not forget that to Him, whose "still,
small voice" can speak with authority to the spirits He has made, must
be your first appeal; but neither do you forget that his help is
vouchsafed to those only who help themselves. And how will you help
yourself? Will you in the plenitude of your might, and the resoluteness
of kindled energy, _will_ the extinction of those unruly passions? Try
it; exert the volition; _will_ to stop the flowing tide of revenge in
your breast, and to cause love and forgiveness to spring up in its
place. Well, have you done it? But what means that glowing cheek--that
flashing eye--that compressed brow? Is such the expression of _love_?
Nay brother, you have mistaken the way. Not the straight path of direct
volition will ever lead you to your object.
But come forth with me into the field. Here are "sweet, strange
flowers," to glad thy heart with their innocent beauty, and delight thee
with their fragrance; here is the broad and blessed "sky bending over"
thee, and the quiet lake at thy feet.
"The air is spread with beauty; and the sky
Is musical with sounds that rise and die,
Till scarce the ear can catch them; then they swell,
Then send from far a low, sweet, sad farewell."
And who art thou that bringest discord and rough, angry passions into a
scene like this? Ah, thou bringest not discord, it has stolen from thy
heart; thou art at peace. For it is not a poetic fiction when we are
told that a wayward spirit, is subdued by nature's loveliness and
_lovingness_.
"Till he can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amidst this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized,
By the benignant touch of love and beauty."
We asked, perchance, that our hearts might be lifted above the earth,
and taught to repose with a surer love, and a more child-like
trustfulness on the Father of Spirits. And did we know that our prayer
was answered when the light of our eyes was torn from us; when our souls
were rent with bitter agony, and lay crushed and bowed beneath the
stroke of _His_ hand? Yes, it was answered; we know it now, though we
knew it not then. The weary bird never reposes so sweetly in its nest,
as when it hath been battered by the tempest and chased by the vulture;
never doth the little child rest so lovingly and rejoicingly on its
mother's breast, as when it hath there found a shelter from the injuries
and taunts of its rude play-fellows; and the christian never knows the
full sweetness of the words, "My Father in Heaven," till he can also
add, "there is none that I desire beside Thee."
FRAGMENTS OF AN ADDRESS ON MUSIC.
By Edward Payson.