Still there were, and are, examples of this original beauty to be found among the elite of the noble families; but they are rare, and to be looked on as one looks on a statue of Praxiteles found in the darkness and wrecks of Herculaneum. In the words of the old song, slightly changed—

"I roam'd through France's sanguine sand, At beauty's altar to adore, But there the sword had spoil'd the land, And Beauty's daughters were no more."

* * * * *



ENGLISH MUSIC AND ENGLISH MUSICIANS.

Musical taste, as we observed in a former article, has undergone fewer mutations in England, than in most other countries where the art has been cultivated and esteemed. In order, therefore, to acquire an accurate knowledge of the state of musical taste and science which now prevails among us, it will be necessary to take a brief retrospect; and as much of the music still popular was composed during the earliest period of the art in England, we shall rapidly trace its history from the times of those early masters, whose names are still held in remembrance and repute, down to the present century.

When England threw off the Papal yoke, music was little known beyond the services of the church. Though the secular music of this period was barbarous in the extreme, yet masses were universally sung, and music had long formed a necessary element in the due performance of the services of the Romish church. During the reign of Henry VIII. few alterations were made in public worship; and the service continued to be sung and carried on in the Latin language, as before. From Strype's account of the funeral of this monarch, it appears that all the old ceremonies were observed, and that the rupture with Rome had caused no alteration in the obsequies performed on such occasions. In the reign of his successor, the church service was entirely changed, and the Protestant liturgy was first published for general use. Four years after this event, on the accession of Mary, the "old worship" was again restored. But when, at length, the reformed religion was firmly established by Elizabeth, and the ritual permanently changed, the music of the old masses, suited to the genius and structure of the Romish service, was no longer available for the simpler forms of worship by which it was replaced. During the holiest and most solemn portions of the ancient worship, the organ had for centuries been heard in the cathedrals, while the choruses of praise and adoration resounded through the aisles. Men's opinions may undergo a change, but the feelings and ideas created by early association, and fostered by habit, are far more lasting and enduring. The poet must have lamented the loss of the music, which, in the stern ascetic spirit of Puritanism prevailing at a later period of our history, he assisted to banish from our churches, as he sang—

"But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars, massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light, There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthem clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into extasies, And bring all heav'n before mine eyes."

At the period of which we speak, the want of music in the services of the church seems to have been severely felt, though perhaps the simpler forms of the new ritual were comparatively but little adapted for musical display. Great exertions were made throughout the kingdom by the deans and chapters to restore the efficiency of the choirs; and Elizabeth, in the exercise of what then appeared an undoubted prerogative of the crown, issued her warrant for the impressment of singing men and boys for the castle of Windsor. The churches and cathedrals still, indeed, retained their organs; "the choirs and places where they sing" were still in being; all the materiel was at hand; but, with the exception of the production of John Marbeck, called "The Book of Common Prayer Noted," which was printed in 1550, there was as yet no music for the new services in the English language. Two years after the accession of Elizabeth, and one year after the bill for the uniformity of common prayer had passed the legislature, a choral work, "very necessarie for the church of Christ to be frequented and used," was published, among the authors of which the name of Tallis appeared. The musical necessities of the newly established church appear to have stimulated or developed talents which, under other circumstances, might perhaps have been less prominently brought forward: at all events, the demand for this music would seem a principal reason why the early English masters should have devoted themselves so exclusively to sacred composition. Tallis and his pupil Byrd, both men of original genius, produced many compositions for the newly introduced ritual, which, by their intrinsic merit and comparative superiority, aided also by a constant demand for new music of the same character, gave a permanent direction to the exercise of musical talent; and the services of Tallis and Byrd became the classic objects of emulation and imitation, and sacred music became, in a peculiar manner, the national music of England. The compositions of these "fathers of our genuine and national sacred music," are still preserved, the latter of whom, Byrd, died in 1623, at the age of probably near eighty years.

The year 1588 forms an epoch in our musical history. An Italian merchant, who, by his mercantile connection with the Mediterranean, had opportunities of obtaining the newest and best compositions of his native country, had, for some years, been in the frequent habit of procuring the best singers of the day, to perform them, privately, at his house in London. This gentleman had at length the spirit and enterprise to publish a volume of Italian madrigals, entituled, "Musica Transalpina, Madrigales translated of four, five, and six parts, chosen out of divers excellent authors; with the first and second parts of La Virginella, made by Maister Byrd, upon two stanzas of Ariosto, and brought to speak English with the rest." These pieces seem to have given birth to that passion for madrigals which was afterwards so prevalent, and thus became the models of contemporary musicians. The next composer of any note was Orlando Gibbons. He died at an early age, soon after the accession of Charles I., to whom he had been appointed organist. This master composed several madrigals, but, like his predecessors, he devoted himself principally to sacred composition. The secular productions of Tallis, Byrd, and Gibbons, together with those of contemporary composers of inferior note, are, for the most part, now forgotten; but the sacred music of these three masters still forms a part of every collection of church music. Canons and fugues were the favourite modes of that early period; vain substitutes for melody, rhythm, and correct accentuation, in which particulars music was then greatly deficient. The merits of the compositions of the Elizabethan age, vaunted by the lovers of antiquity as the golden age of English music, are thus summed up by Dr Burney: "It is, therefore, upon the church music, madrigals, and songs in parts, of our countrymen during the reign of Elizabeth, that we must rest their reputation; and these, in point of harmony and contrivance, the chief excellencies of such compositions, appear in nothing inferior to those of the best contemporary compositions of the Continent. Taste, rhythm, accent, and grace, must not be sought for in this kind of music; indeed, we might as well censure the ancient Greeks for not writing in English, as the composers of the sixteenth century for their deficiency in these particulars, which having then no existence, even in idea, could not be wanted or expected; and it is necessarily the business of artists to cultivate or refine what is in the greatest esteem among the best judges of their own nation and times. And these, at this period, unanimously thought every species of musical composition below criticism except canons and fugues. Indeed, what is generally understood by taste in music, must ever be an abomination in the church; for, as it consists of new refinements or arrangements of notes, it would be construed into innovation, however meritorious, unless sanctioned by age. Thus the favourite points and passages in the madrigals of the sixteenth century, were in the seventeenth received as orthodox in the church; and those of the opera songs and cantatas of the seventeenth century, are used by the gravest and most pious ecclesiastical composers of the eighteenth." Of the skill of the performers, for whom this music, still listened to and admired, was written, he also observes, "that the art of singing, further than was necessary to keep a performer in tune, and time, must have been unknown;" and that "if L500 had been offered to any individual to perform a solo, fewer candidates would have entered the lists than if the like premium had been offered for flying from Salisbury steeple over Old Sarum without a balloon." For ourselves, we do not hesitate to acknowledge that, in our opinion, the services of these patriarchs of the English school surpass the great majority of similar productions by our later masters. They may, indeed, suffer when compared with the masses of the great continental masters; but they nevertheless possess a certain degree of simple majesty, well suited to the primitive character of the ritual of that church which disdains the use of ornament, and on principle declines to avail herself of any appeal to the senses as an auxiliary to devotion. We have been the more particular in our notice of these early masters, because, long without any rivals, their church music even now stamps the public taste, and is still held in the highest esteem by many among whom their names alone suffice to hold the judgment captive.

It is needless to advert to Humphrey and other composers, some of whose productions are still in vogue; enough has been said to show with what reason the absolute correctness of English taste in sacred music, in which we suppose ourselves so peculiarly to excel, may be called in question.

We proceed to sketch the history of the other branches of the art in England, and commence at once with Henry Purcell, the greatest of our native masters, previously to whom music is said to have been manifestly on the decline during the seventeenth century. It has been often remarked of Purcell, that he had "devance son siecle." Many of his faults, defects, or crudities, may undoubtedly be attributed to the age which he adorned. The tide of public approbation has of late set strongly in his favour; and could the fulsome panegyrics, of which he has been the object, be implicitly received, Purcell would be considered as nothing less than a prodigy of genius. Several attempts at dramatic music had been made before Purcell's time. Matthew Lock had already set the songs of Macbeth and the Tempest, and had also given to the world "The English Opera, or the vocal music in Psyche," in close imitation of Lulli, the long famed composer of Louis XIV. Purcell followed in the new track, taking for his models the productions of the first Italian composers. The fact, that Purcell was under obligations to the Italians, may startle many of his modern admirers; but with a candour worthy of himself, in the dedication of his Dioclesian to Charles Duke of Somerset, he says, that "music is yet but in its nonage, a forward child. 'Tis now learning Italian, which is its best master." And in the preface to his Sonatas, he tells us that he "faithfully endeavoured at a just imitation of the most famed Italian masters." An able critic has also remarked, that he thinks he can perceive the obligations which Purcell had to Carissimi in his recitative, and to Lulli both in recitative and melody; and also that it appears that he was fond of Stradella's manner, though he seems never to have pillaged his passages. Many of our readers are doubtless aware, that Purcell's opera of King Arthur has been lately revived at Drury-Lane, where it has had a considerable run. The public prints have been loud in its praise; and this work has been styled "the perfect model of the lyric drama of England." The intervention of spoken dialogue, by many in their innocence hitherto supposed to be a defect in the construction of a musical drama, is strangely metamorphosed into a beauty in King Arthur. In short, from some of these critiques, King Arthur would appear to be the only perfect drama or opera which the world has ever seen. To show the real value of these criticisms, we may mention the fact, that in an elaborate article of a journal now before us, in which many of the pieces of this opera are enumerated and highly commended, the writer has curiously enough passed by in silence two airs, of which Dr Burney observes that they contain not a single passage which the best composers of his time, if it presented itself to their imagination, would reject; and on one of which he also remarks, that it is "one of the few airs that time has not the power to injure; it is of all ages and all countries." There is doubtless much in Purcell, which, though quaint and antiquated, the musician may nevertheless admire; but excellence of this kind is necessarily lost upon a general audience. Melody in his day was rude and unpolished; for there were no singers to execute, even if the composer had the ability to conceive. Thus Percell's melody, though often original and expressive, is nevertheless more often rude and ungraceful. In the words of a recent writer on this subject, "We are often surprised to find elegance and coarseness, symmetry and clumsiness, mixed in a way that would be unaccountable, did we not consider that, in all the arts, the taste is a faculty which is slowly formed, even in the most highly gifted minds." We suspect that the pageant saved King Arthur; the scenic illusions by which contending armies were brought upon an extended plain, together with the numerous transformations, continually commanded that applause which the music alone failed to elicit. With many, however, the mere spectacle was not all-sufficient; but Opinion was written down, and independently of the prestige attached to the name of Purcell, the press would have effectually put down all exhibition of disapprobation. The theatre might be seen to become gradually deserted, and party after party, stunned by the noise and blinded by the glare, might be observed to glide noiselessly away as the performance proceeded, while an air of fatigued endurance, and disappointment, was plainly visible on the countenances of those that remained behind. This opera has been frequently revived; how much of the success which it has met with may be attributed to what Rousseau, when speaking of the operas of that period, terms "a false air of magnificence, fairyism, and enchantment, which, like flowers in a field before the harvest, betokens an apparent richness," may be matter of speculation; but it is recorded that even on its first introduction on the stage, it caused a heavy loss to the patentees, in consequence of which their affairs were thrown into Chancery, where they remained some twenty years. Even Purcell's fame is confined to our own shores, and we are not aware that his music was ever known upon the Continent.

Arne, who established his reputation as a lyric composer by the music of Comus in 1738, is the next composer whom we think it necessary to mention. To this master belongs the singular glory of having composed an English opera—a term by which, as will be seen hereafter, we mean a musical drama in which the whole of the plot is carried on without the intervention of spoken dialogue. Artaxerxes, the only work of the kind which we possess, was first produced in the year 1762. Though the music is of a form now obsolete, this opera has seldom been long a stranger to our stage, having been from time to time revived for the debut of new and ambitious singers. One of these revivals has recently taken place; the piece, however, was performed for a few nights only, and perhaps popularity may be, at length, deserting Artaxerxes. This "standard work of the English school" appears to be of more than doubtful parentage. Arne is stated to have crowded the airs, those of Mandane in particular, with all the Italian divisions and difficulties of the day, and to have incorporated with his own property all the best passages of the Italian and English composers of his time. With the exception of Comus and Artaxerxes, none of his pieces or operas met with great success; and he seems to be principally remembered by those compositions which were the least original. "Rule Britannia," by the combined effect of the sentiment of the words and the spirit and vivacity of the music, now become a national song, does not possess the merit of originality. Long before it was nationalized—if one may use such a word—by Englishmen, it was observed that in an Italian song, which may be seen at page 25 of Walsh's collection, the idea—nay, almost all the passages—of this melody might be found. In the well-known song, "Where the bee sucks, there lurk I," passages occur taken almost note for note from a cantabile by Lampugnani. According to Dr Burney, Arne may also claim the glory of having, by his compositions and instructions, formed an era in the musical history of his country. The former relates that music, which had previously stood still for near half a century, was greatly improved by Arne in his endeavours "to refine our melody and singing from the Italian;" and that English "taste and judgment, both in composition and performance, even at the playhouses, differed as much from those of twenty or thirty years ago, as the manners of a civilized people from those of savages." Dr Busby, on the other hand, remarks, that "it is a curious fact that the very father of a style, more natural and unaffected, more truly English, than that of any other master, should have been the first to deviate into foreign finery and finesse, and desert the native simplicity of his country." But it is by the compositions in which this degeneracy may be most particularly remarked, that Arne's name as a musician has been preserved. This fact has undoubtedly a double aspect. We may therefore, indeed, be permitted to ask,

"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?"

Either the public taste has erred, or the bastard Italian was superior to the genuine English. Either way there is something wrong, and it matters little whether we elevate the composer at the expense of the public, or whether we commend the national taste while we depreciate and decry the excellence of the music or the merit of the musician.

To Arne succeed several masters, many of whose compositions are still popular. Arnold, Boyce, Battishall, Shield, Horsley, Webbe, and Calcott, are the leading names of a numerous class who are chiefly remembered for their anthems and glees, amongst which may be found the chefs-d'oeuvres of a school of which we shall more particularly speak hereafter. The dramatic compositions of these masters are, for the most part, consigned to oblivion; nor has any permanent impression been made upon the public, by a native opera, for many years. While our national school has been thus barren, the Italian opera has been long cultivated and esteemed. The first opera, performed wholly in Italian, was given at the Haymarket theatre in 1710. Handel began to write for this theatre in 1712, and continued to produce operas for many years. The Italian opera appears to have been in the most flourishing state about the years 1735 and 1736. London then possessed two lyric theatres, each managed by foreign composers, carrying on a bitter rivalry, and each backed by all the vocal and instrumental talent that could be found in Europe. Porpora, by Rousseau styled the immortal, at the Haymarket, and Handel at Covent-Garden—the former boasting the celebrated Farinelli and Cuzzoni among his performers, the latter supported by Caustini and Gizziello. The public, however, appears to have been surfeited by such prodigality; for Dr Burney observes, "at this time"—about 1737—"the rage for operas seems to have been very much diminished in our country; the fact was, that public curiosity being satisfied as to new compositions and singers, the English returned to their homely food, the Begger's Opera and ballad farces on the same plan, with eagerness and comfort." In 1741, Handel, after producing thirty-nine Italian lyric dramas, and after struggling against adversity, with a reduced establishment in a smaller theatre, was compelled by ruin to retire for ever from the direction of the Italian stage. The opera then passed into other hands, and was continued, with various success and few intermissions, down to the present time. It has been the means of introducing to our countrymen the works of an almost innumerable host of foreign composers. Bach, the first composer who observed the laws of contrast as a principle, Pergolisi, Gluck, Piccini, Paesiello, Cimarosa, Mozart, Rossini, and Bellini, are the principal names, among a long list of masters, of whom we might otherwise have remained in utter ignorance. Performers of every kind, singers of the highest excellence, have come among us; the powers and performances of Farinelli, Caffarelli, Pachierotti, Gabrielli, Mara, and others, are handed down by tradition, while all remember the great artists of still later times. These have been our preceptors in the art of song, and to them, and them alone, are we indebted for our knowledge of the singer's, powers; and but for their guidance and instruction, our native home-taught professors would have been centuries instead of years behind. It may, however, be some consolation to reflect, that we have not been alone in our pupilage; for Italy, herself the pupil of ancient Greece, has in her turn become the preceptress of the modern world in music, as well as the other branches of the fine arts, in all of which her supremacy has been universally acknowledged. Besides the native musicians whose names we have enumerated, many ephemerae of the genus have fluttered their short hour, and been forgotten. On turning over the popular music of the early years of the present century, or the music which may, perhaps, have formed the delight and amusement of the last generation, the musician will marvel that such productions should have been ever tolerated. Native skill has undoubtedly advanced since this period; and however worthless much of our present music may be considered, it is nevertheless superior to most of the like productions of our immediate predecessors. We have some living composers whose works are not without some merit; but they can scarcely be placed even in the second class. Their compositions, when compared with the works of the great continental masters, are tame, spiritless, and insipid; we find in them no flashes of real genius, no harmonies that thrill the nerves, no melodies that ravish the sense, as they steal upon the ear. Effort is discernible throughout this music, the best of which is formed confessedly upon Italian models; and nowhere is the universal law, of the inferiority of all imitation, more apparent.

These observations apply with especial force to the dramatic music, or compositions of the English school. The term opera, is incorrectly used in England. The proper meaning of the word is, a musical drama, consisting of recitative airs and concerted pieces; without the intervention of spoken dialogue, it should consist of music, and music alone, from the beginning to the end. With us it has been popularly applied to what has been well characterized as "a jargon of alternate speech and song," outraging probability in a far higher degree than the opera properly so called, and singularly destructive of that illusion or deception in which the pleasure derived from dramatic representations principally consists. Music is in itself no mean vehicle of expression; but, when connected with speech or language, it gives a vast additional force and power to the expression of the particular passion or feeling which the words themselves contain. It appears, as one listens to an opera, as if the music were but a portion, or a necessary component part of the language of the beings who move before us on the scene. We learn to deem it part of their very nature and constitution; and it appears, that, through any other than the combined medium of speech and song, the passions, we see exhibited in such intensity, could not be adequately expressed. The breaking up of this illusion by the intervention of mere dialogue, is absolutely painful; there is a sudden sinking from the ideal to the real, which shocks the sense, and at once destroys the fabric of the imagination. Rousseau says of the lyric drama, that "the melodies must be separated by speech, but speech must be modified by music; the ideas should vary, but the language should remain the same. This language once adopted, if changed in the course of a piece, would be like speaking half in French and half in German. There is too great a dissimilarity between conversation and music, to pass at once from one to the other; it shocks both the ear and probability. Two characters in dialogue ought either to speak or sing; they cannot do alternately one and the other. Now, recitative is the means of union between melody and speech by whose aid, that which is merely dialogue becomes recital or narrative in the drama, and may be rendered without disturbing the course of melody." Recitative is peculiarly adapted to the expression of strong and violent emotion. The language of the passions is short, vivid, broken, and impetuous; the most abrupt transitions and modulations which are observed in nature, may be noted down in recitative. Writing recitative is but committing to paper the accent and intonation, in short, the reading of the language to be delivered by the performer; and the composer may almost be considered as a master of elocution, writing down that reading of a passage which he thinks may best express the passion or the sentiment of the words. The effect of this reading or intonation is often aided and increased by the sound of instruments, sometimes, expressing the harmonies of the passages or transitions noted for the voice, at other times, perhaps, performing a graceful independent melody or harmony, in which case it is said to be "accompanied:" It may be easily conceived, how powerful an instrument of dramatic effect, this species of composition may become in the hands of a skillful composer. We have already given two examples of its power, one, of recitative in its simplest form, the other, of accompanied recitative.[1] It would seem scarcely credible that so powerful an agent of the lyric drama should be utterly neglected, among a people who undoubtedly claim to be considered a musical nation, and whose composers certainly esteem themselves among those to whom musical fame might be justly awarded. But such is nevertheless the fact, and we are not aware of any modern composer of the English school who has fully availed himself of its powers and capabilities. It has been said of Artaxerxes, that the attempt then made to apply recitative to the English language is unsuccessful; but it may be asked, whether the long continued popularity of this work may not, in some degree at least, be owing to the absence of the incongruous mixture of speech and song. However this may be, it is at least a singular coincidence, that the single opera of our language, in which dialogue does not break and interrupt the unity and consistent action of the drama, should be the only musical work which has been distinguished by such constant and enduring marks of popular favour and approbation. Another species of dramatic music, the cantabile of the Italians, is equally neglected among us. The cantabile includes much of the most exquisite music of the Italian masters, and we know of nothing more touchingly beautiful, throughout the whole range of musical composition, than many of the andante cantabili of this school. This, also, has been rarely attempted by the English masters, and their puny efforts will bear no comparison with the rich, graceful, flowing measure of the true Italian.

[Footnote 1: No. cccxxvii, p. 137.]

All music is, in a greater or less degree, essentially dramatic. Its beauty often depends, entirely, upon the fidelity and truth with which nature is followed. Even instrumental music aims at dramatic effect, and fanciful incidents, and catastrophes are often suggested by the melodies and harmonies of a symphony, or concerto. These creations of the imagination are in themselves a source of interest and delight, wholly different, in their nature, from the pleasure conferred by mere sounds. How beautiful are the scenes, about to follow, depicted in the overtures to Der Freyschutz and Oberon; what wild diableries are not suggested by those wonderful compositions! There are sounds of awful mystery, proceeding, as it were, now, from the dread rites of dark malignant beings of another world, now, from the mad frolics of mischievous and reckless imps; in the midst of which a stream of beauteous, gentle melody—like a minister of grace—breaks forth; now, gliding smoothly along, now, rushing on impetuously, or, broken and interrupted in its course, as though the powers of good and evil were striving for the mastery; and at length, as if the former were victorious in the strife, that melody again bursts forth, loud and expanded in the bold exulting tones of triumph, with which the imaginary scene is closed.

Similar observations might be made of many other pieces of instrumental music; but these effects depend upon the imagination of the hearer, there being no words to convey definite ideas to the mind. In vocal music, where the words express no passion or emotion, the voice becomes little more than a mere instrument of the composer or the performer. Now, the national music of our country is for the most part adapted to words of this description, and the anthem, the madrigal, and glee, are thus necessarily deficient in dramatic power and expression. The glee has been described as "quelque chose bien triste," and few but the fanatics of the school who have listened to a succession of glees, will, we think, deny the accuracy of the description. The oratorio is often highly dramatic; but we have few, if any, oratorios of merit, of native production. Our operas we have already designated as plays, with songs scattered about at random. Thus, music of the highest class is rarely attempted in this country; and the neglect of the one great requisite of musical excellence, may have prevented our composers from assuming that rank, to which they might otherwise have shown themselves entitled.

There is, however, another class of composers whom we must not omit to notice: we mean the song-writers of the day, the authors of those ballads and vocal compositions, with knights and ladies fair, houris, sentimental peasants, or highborn beauties, as the case may be, lithographed upon the title-page. This class is entitled to notice, not because of the merit or ability they possess, but because these masters (!) really produce the popular music of the day, and because at present we literally possess no other new music. The first object of the publisher of a song is, or used to be, to have it sung in public by some popular performer. This is not done without fee and reward; but the value of the subject of the publisher's speculation, is greatly increased by the publicity gained by the introduction of the song at the theatre or the concert-room. When this event takes place, claqeurs are active, the friends of the singer support them, the playbills announce "a hit," and a sly newspaper puff aids the delusion; copies of the ornamented title-page are distributed among the various music-sellers, to be exhibited in their windows, and the song is popular, and "sells." Modest merit is unknown among us now. Thus songs and ballads without number, which would otherwise remain in well-merited obscurity on the shelves of the publisher, are forced into notice and repute. The trade, no doubt, benefits by this system, the commercial end of these speculations may indeed be answered, but the public taste is lowered by each and every of these transactions.

We may here notice the extravagant price of music of every description in England. For a piece of four or five pages, the sum of 2s. is commonly demanded. Even where there has been an outlay in the purchase of the copyright, this sum can scarcely be considered reasonable; but when the same price is asked for music which has become common property, it is out of all reason. The expense of engraving four or five pages of music, the cost of the plates, together with the expense of paper and printing a hundred copies of a song of this description, does not amount to L5; therefore the sale of fifty copies will reimburse the publisher; while, if the whole hundred are disposed of, he is an actual gainer of cent per cent upon his original outlay, while the profit upon every copy subsequently struck off is necessarily enormous. On the Continent, music may be purchased for about one-third the sum which it would cost in England. In Paris, Pacini's "partitions," an excellent edition of the popular Italian operas, are sold for twelve francs each. The whole set may be purchased at the rate of eleven francs the opera. While in London, the identical copies purchasable abroad by those not in the trade for about 8s. 6d. of our money, are sold at two guineas each. The profits of "the trade" on musical instruments, are also enormous. On the pianofortes of most of the London makers, a profit of at least thirty or thirty-five per cent is realized by the retailer; and on a grand piano, for which the customer pays 130 guineas, "the trade" pockets on the very lowest calculation upwards of L40.

English performers next claim our notice and attention. In this new field of observation we find little to commend; defective training is the great cause of our inferiority in the practical performance of music, in all its branches. This is especially manifest in the home-taught singers of the English school. The voice is never perfectly formed nor developed, and brought out in the correct and scientific manner possessed by the accomplished artists of other countries. Some of the most popular of our singers sing with the mouth nearly closed, with others the voice is forced and strained, proceeding not from the chest, but from the throat, the muscles of which are necessarily contracted in the effort. We have, no doubt, many difficulties to overcome in the structure of our language, in which the accent is thrown on the consonants rather than on the vowels. Unlike the Italian, which is thrown out, ore rotundo, directly from the chest, the English language is spoken from the throat, and, in general, also with the mouth nearly closed. The Italian singer finds no difficulty in bringing out his voice; but the Englishman has first to conquer the habit of his life, and to overcome the obstacles his native tongue opposes to his acquirement of this new but necessary, mode of using the voice. The difficulty, of laying this only foundation of real sterling excellence in the vocal art, is very great, and much care and study is indispensable. Those who have occasion to use the voice loudly in the open air, insensibly acquire the power of thus eliciting the voice. The chest tones in which many of the "Cries of London" are often heard in the streets of the metropolis, are a familiar example of nature's teaching; another instance of which may probably still be found among the "bargees," of Cambridge, whose voices, in our younger days, we well remember to have often heard and admired, as they guided or urged forward their sluggish horses along the banks of the still more sluggish Cam, in tones proceeding imo profundo of the chest, and magnificent enough to have made the fortune of many a singer. These men, indeed, seemed to pride themselves upon their vocal powers; and many of them could execute a rapid shake, with accuracy and precision. The voice is nature's instrument, but, like the instruments fashioned by the hand of man, it will not yield its best tones to the unskilful. There are many instrumental performers whose chief excellence lies in their tone, and who could call forth tones, from even an ordinary instrument, far superior to those which an inferior performer would be able to produce from the best Straduarius or Amati. To the singer, tone is even of greater value than to the instrumental performers; for the method of instruction which improves the qualities of the vocal organ, also imparts a power and certainty of expression and execution, which cannot be otherwise acquired. The finest singers are ever found to be those, who have best studied and developed the powers of the instrument which nature had bestowed upon them. This is the first grand requisite for the singer; without it, respectable mediocrity may occasionally be attained, but real excellence never can be gained. We know of no English-taught singer who possesses it. So little are the voice and its capabilities understood in this country, that instances might be mentioned where basses were mistaken for barytones, barytones for tenors, and contraltos for sopranos. However incredible this may appear, it is, nevertheless, strictly and literally true. The consequence of such strange blunders is what might be naturally expected; the voice, forced out of its natural compass, prematurely gives way, and at a period of life when the vocal organ, if properly trained and developed, should have arrived at maturity and perfection, the singer's powers are gone, and, in the prime of life, he is compelled to abandon his profession, and subsides into the mere singing-master, to misinstruct the rising generation, and to mar the prospects of others who succeed him, as his own hopes were blighted by the errors of his own instructors. To what other cause can be attributed the constant and mysterious disappearance of new singers? How many young vocalists appear from time to time; lauded at first to the skies, for a few seasons listened to and admired, but whose reputation gradually decays, and who at length disappear from the stage and are forgotten. There are some who endure for years; but they fulfil no promise of their early youth. Under these circumstances, we could ill afford to lose an artist who seemed destined to achieve a lasting reputation. Our musical stage has but now sustained a heavy loss in one of the brightest ornaments it ever possessed; the charms of a happy home have withdrawn her from public life—but the genius of Miss Adelaide Kemble will not be soon forgotten. Another bright ornament of our stage, however, still remains. Possessing less physical energy and tragic power than her contemporary, Mrs Alfred Shaw is, nevertheless, the most pure, polished, and cultivated English singer we ever heard on the boards of our national theatre. The finish and refinement of her style, and the clear distinctness of her enunciation, make her the worthy model for the imitation of all who are desirous to excel. Were our future debutanti trained on the system which has thus developed the powers and capabilities of these eminent artists, less frequently would be observed the musical disappearances of which we have been speaking.

The English tenor is a nondescript animal; singing from some unknown region, his voice possesses no natural character, but its tones are forced, strained, and artificial. Our tenors and counter-tenors—a sort of musical hermaphrodite, almost peculiar to this country, and scarcely recognized by classical composers—delight in what is called the "pure," or, "the good old English" style. This style, coldly correct, tame, dull, flat, and passionless, requires but little in the singer. The bass of this school is a saltatory creature; he is, for the most part, either striding through thirds, or jumping over fifths and octaves, much as he did a hundred years ago. During this period, the art of singing has made immense advances elsewhere; the execution of Farinelli, in 1734, thought so wonderful, would not suffice for even a third-rate singer now; and the powers of B. Ferri, described by Rousseau, are scarcely more than would be expected of every singer of the Queen's Theatre. Rossini's music, replete with difficulties of execution, has compelled even the unwieldy bass to overcome his reluctance to rapid motion, and he is now obliged to condescend to runs, arpeggios, and other similar feats of agility. In an opera buffa at a Neapolitan theatre, called Il Fondo, we once heard Tamburini execute the well-known song "Ma non fia sempre odiata" in his falsetto, with a taste and expression scarcely surpassed by Rubini's performance of the air. On another occasion, at the same theatre, the prima donna was taken suddenly ill in the midst of a terzetto, in which Tamburini had the bass, and, while supporting her on the stage, this accomplished musician actually took the soprano in his falsetto, and performed the part of the indisposed lady in a manner which drew down universal applause. The English school, "still tardy," and "limping after" the Italian, is yet far behind. It has, undoubtedly, made some advances, but it is still the child, following indeed, but,

"Haud passibus aequis."

With us, the pupil commonly begins where he should end; songs are placed before him almost as soon as he has mastered the elements of music. At a time, when his whole study and endeavour should be to form and cultivate the voice, and by long, patient, and persevering exercise, to develop and command its powers, and to acquire flexibility and certainty of execution, his efforts are expended in learning—as it is called—songs. This process may be carried on ad infinitum; but none of the objects of the pupil's study can be ever sung, in the real acceptation of the term, on this method of instruction. The well-known anecdote of the early youth of one of the greatest singers the world has ever known, who, after the drudgery of a daily practice of exercises alone for seven years, was bidden by his master to go his way, the first singer in Europe, is an example of the advantages of the opposite system. The compass of an ordinary tenor is about two octaves, from C below the line, to C in alt. Within this compass, the tenor makes use of two voices; the chest or natural voice—which ranges over the whole of the lower octave and the lower half of the higher octave—and the head-voice or falsetto, which is commonly used throughout the whole of the remainder of the upper octave, the higher notes of which can be reached only in the falsetto. In passing from one 'voice' to the other, especially while descending the scale, a break or crack may be observed in the untutored and uncultivated voice. When this defect has been overcome, and the student has acquired the power of passing from one 'voice' to the other without this break, the voice is said to be joined. The soprano also has to contend with a similar difficulty. It often requires many months of constant and unremitting practice to overcome this natural defect of the vocal organ, and in some voices it is never entirely conquered. An acute ear might often detect the faulty joining of the voice, in both the Grisis, when executing a distant descending interval. This obstacle meets the student at the very threshold of his career; but we have met with many English taught amateurs, who were altogether ignorant even of what was meant by joining the voice. In fact, the art of singing, or of acquiring a mastery and control over the voice, of remedying its defects, and developing its latent powers, is comparatively unknown in England; our professors are for the most part entirely ignorant of the capabilities of the human voice, as an instrument, in the hands of the performer. Many of these observations apply to our instrumental performers. With few exceptions, defective training has, in this branch of the musical art, long prevented us from producing performers of equal celebrity with those who have visited us from the Continent. From them we have become acquainted with effects, which we should have deemed the instruments on which they played wholly incapable of producing. Our young professors now often follow these men to their own country, there to learn of them that proficiency which they would seek in vain to acquire at home.

In the midst of all this ignorance, with our one opera, our anthems, madrigals, glees, and ballads, we nevertheless esteem ourselves a musical people, and every one is ready to exclaim with Bottom, "I have a reasonable good ear in musick!" Music certainly is the fashion now, and no one would dare to avow that he had no music in his soul. It may be thought, that none but a people passionately devoted to music, could produce a succession of patriots ready to sacrifice health and wealth, rather than their countrymen should fail to possess an Italian opera. Some one is ever found equal to the emergency; there is seldom any lack of competitors for the "forlorn hope" of the management of the Italian opera, and, undismayed by the ruin of his predecessors, the highest bidder rushes boldly on to the direction of the Queen's theatre. Forty thousand pounds of debt has been known to have been incurred in a single season; and it has been calculated that a sum little short of a million sterling, besides the produce of the subscriptions and admissions, has been sacrificed to the desire of an Italian opera. Every autumn is rich in musical festivals, as they are called, by which, though the temples of God are desecrated, and the church, in common with the theatre and the concert-room, becomes the scene of gaiety, frivolity, and amusement; and though the speculation is a charitable one, by which it is hoped that the funds of the benevolent institutions of the town or county may be increased, a considerable loss is nevertheless often incurred, which falls upon the committee, or upon the borough or county members, according to the equity of the case. These gentlemen also furnish another proof that there are at least some among us who will incur any risk, and make any sacrifice, rather than forego the indulgence of their musical tastes and inclinations. Are there not also choral and madrigal societies, glee-clubs, and concerts innumerable, in every part of the country? It is surely a mistake to suppose, "Que les Anglois ont peu d'aptitude pour la musique;" we agree that the remainder of the sentence, "Ceux-ci le savent et ne s'en soucient guere," is altogether inapplicable now, however true it might have been when the lively Jean-Jacques framed the sentence. Our ambition has been roused, or our vanity has been piqued, and we are now pretty much in the same condition with the French, when it was said of them, that they "would renounce a thousand just rights, and pass condemnation on all other things, rather than allow that they are not the first musicians of the world." This is one of the signs of the times, and we hail it as a symptom of better things.

In the metropolis, music has advanced with far greater rapidity than in the provinces. This appears the natural and inevitable result of causes to which we have already alluded. Ten or fifteen years ago, the street-music of London consisted of such tunes as Tom and Jerry—an especial favourite—the Copenhagen Waltz, and other melodies of the same class. Now we have instruments imitating a full orchestra, which execute elaborate overtures in addition to the best airs of the first masters of Europe. The better the music the greater the attraction, even in the streets of London; and the people may be seen daily to crowd around these instruments, and to listen with attention to Italian and German melodies. We have, of late, repeatedly heard the juvenile unwashed, whistling airs learned from these instruments, which, however humble, thus appear to influence the taste of the poorer classes. During several weeks of the present year, operas in an English dress were simultaneously performed at three of our theatres. The very gods in the galleries now look benignly down upon the Italian strangers, which—to use a theatrical phrase—draw better houses than any other performances would command.

In the country, the advancement is less manifest. A provincial musical party is generally a fearful thing. In the society of the metropolis, none but the really skilful musician is ever heard; in the country, these are rare beings; or, if the scientific performer is sometimes found, like the diamond in the mine, he shines in vain, there are none to appreciate his excellence. It is truly painful to see a number of fair young creatures, one after another, brought up to the instrument; there to exhibit, not taste or skill, but ignorance and inability. It is even still more painful to be condemned to listen to the performance of the best specimens, selected from the stock of school-taught pieces, beyond which many of the fair performers know little or nothing. We beg pardon of our fair young countrywomen; the fault lies not with them. The indiscriminate teaching of music cannot make all musicians. Many have no warm taste for music, and many more, who, under other circumstances, might have pursued the art as an amusement and recreation, are disgusted from their earliest youth by its being made a task, the difficulty of which is immeasurably increased by imperfect instruments. The general taste of the provincial world has advanced but little, for many years. There is a certain class of music, which has been respectfully listened to for upwards of a century; which, having been admired before, is therefore proper to be admired again. Few would dare to criticize, or avow a distaste for, music which has so long been popular. Handel and some others still meet with universal deference, and their very names alone suffice to silence any one who, more hardy than the rest, should be disposed to find fault. This music, however, is heard with cold indifference; it calls forth no feeling, and excites no enthusiasm. It is, indeed, seldom adequately performed. Many of Handel's songs are truly dramatic; but the purists of "the good old school," sternly adhering to their—self-styled classic—insipidity, never condescend to a meretricious display of dramatic power. The Italian and German schools are not understood by the "million." We have on many occasions observed a large audience, who, after having listened with an air of puzzled stupidity to the performance of the most beautiful cavatine by the first singers of the day, would the next moment, one and all, be thrown into apparent ecstasy by a wretched ballad, wound up by the everlasting ponderous English shake. This mode of conclusion, to which true taste is an utter stranger, is still considered indispensable; though, in the Italian school, it has been exploded upwards of a century. Such is the music which calls forth the latent enthusiasm of an English assembly, and a very respectable degree of excitement is often thus produced. There are many, who believe this music to be of the highest class of excellence, and who affect to despise the music of every other school. There are also many, who assert that all other music is artificial and meretricious—who contend that the Italian and German schools are usurping an undue ascendency over the genuine, but modest, merit of our native music. That Bishop, Calcott, Webbe, Arne, and the rest, had reached the perfection of their art, would seem a bold assertion; and their most enthusiastic admirers would probably hesitate to state it as their conviction, that the compositions of their favourites contain the elements of universal popularity. Such, however, is the logical deduction from these premises, and the necessary conclusion from opinions, which those who hold them will not easily evade. If the music of our country does indeed possess the excellence, so fondly asserted by its numerous admirers, we might naturally expect, amid the general demand in Europe for musical entertainments, that its beauties should not be entirely neglected and unknown. But while the Italian opera has found its way over nearly the whole of Europe, and is absolutely naturalized in England, France, and Spain, our musical productions are unknown beyond the limits of their native shores. This, being a negative proposition, is not capable of direct proof. Michael Kelly gives an amusing account of the performance of the celebrated hunting song at Vienna, in which the discordant cries of "Tally-ho, Tally-ho," are said to have driven the Emperor in indignation from the theatre, a great part of the audience also following the royal example. "The ladies hid their faces with the hands, and mothers were heard cautioning daughters never to repeat the dreadful expression of Tally-ho." We have, ourselves, heard a no less air than "Drops of Brandy," performed by a military band, stationed on the balcony of the palace of the King of Naples, on the evening of the royal birthday. The crowds enjoying the cool air on the St Lucia, exclaimed "Inglese, Inglese!" English, English! as this odd reminiscence of our countrymen was first heard. We are not aware of any other instances in which English music has been introduced upon the Continent. More such instances may undoubtedly exist; but the broad fact, that our music makes no way among other nations, cannot be disputed. The judgment of the civilized world can scarcely be in error; and it is difficult for the most ardent admirer of his country's music, to account for the fact on any hypothesis which is not founded on the real inferiority of the English school.

This inferiority can be no matter of surprise, when we consider the energy with which the tuneful art is cultivated, and the importance with which it is invested, by the Italians. In the freedom happily enjoyed by Englishmen, all pursuits are open to individual enterprise and ambition; and every path to fame or opulence is thronged with busy eager aspirants, all running the race of eminence and distinction, with that strong purpose of the will which leaves but little opportunity for the indulgence of tastes, which, though they often exist among the individuals of these classes, are for this reason seldom cultivated. In Italy, insurmountable barriers are erected across these paths, which, in England, all are invited to pursue. The jealousy of despotic governments is ever on the watch to stifle and put down the genius that would busy itself on the serious affairs of men. Instances might be mentioned in which this monstrous system has been carried into effect. The smothered energies of these restless spirits must somewhere find a vent, and Arteaga has eloquently described one of the effects thus produced upon the Italians. "The love of pleasure," he remarks, "the only recompense for the loss of their ancient liberty which the Italians possess, and which in every nation decreases in proportion as political virtue diminishes, has caused an excessive frequency of theatrical pageants and amusements. In every small town, in every village, a theatre may be found. Subsistence may fail the indigent, the rivers may want bridges, drainage may be necessary to fertilize the plains, hospitals may be needful for the sick and infirm, there may even be no provision to meet a public calamity, but a species of Coliseum is nowhere wanting for the idle and unemployed." Operas are the national entertainments at these numerous theatres. The impresario, or manager, is generally one of the most wealthy and considerable personages of the little town which he inhabits. He forms a company, and he engages a composer to write an opera for the opening of the season, which generally consists of twenty or thirty nights, during which period seldom more than two operas are performed. The first night of one of these seasons is most amusingly described by the biographer of Rossini. "The theatre overflows, the people flock from ten leagues' distance; the curious form an encampment round the theatre in their calashes; all the inns are filled to excess, where insolence reigns at its height. All occupations have ceased; at the moment of the performance the town has the aspect of a desert. All the passions, all the solicitudes, all the life, of a whole population, is concentrated at the theatre. The overture commences; so intense is the attention, that the buzzing of a fly could be heard. On its conclusion, the most tremendous uproar ensues. It is either applauded to the clouds, or hissed, or rather howled at, without mercy. In an Italian theatre, they shout, they scream, they stamp, they belabour the backs of their seats with their canes, with all the violence of persons possessed. It is thus that they force on others the judgment which they have formed, and strive to prove it a sound one; for, strange to say, there is no intolerance equal to that of the eminently sensitive. At the close of each air the same terrific uproar ensues; the bellowings of an angry sea could give but a faint idea of its fury. Such, at the same time, is the taste of an Italian audience, that they at once distinguish whether the merit of an air belongs to the singer, or composer."

Contrast the scene here described with the appearance presented on similar occasion by the Queen's Theatre in the Haymarket. There, few are bold enough either to applaud or disapprove. Many simple, perhaps, but beautiful and refined, characteristics of the composer or performer, may pass unnoticed; but some common-place embellishment, which is considered safe, will command the expression of approbation which the trait of real genius had failed to elicit. After a few representations, the fear of applauding unwisely is diminished, but still, as was once said of the French under similar circumstances, "they affirm with the lips, but with the eye they interrogate;" and it is not till a sort of prescription has been established in favour of certain airs and passages, that the Englishman banishes doubt and distrust, and claps his hands, and shouts bravo—accenting the word strongly on the first syllable—with an air of confidence and decision. We would, nevertheless, entertain the hope, that our national reserve, or the mauvaise honte, which our countrymen contrive to exhibit on every possible occasion, is one cause of this apparent dulness; at all events, it would seem highly probable that a people among whom music is a necessity, should, in the unbiassed judgment of contemporary nations, be our superiors in the art.

In the north of England, musical taste is much more widely diffused than in the south. The Committee of the Privy Council on Education, report favourably also of the musical attainments of the people of Norfolk. Mr Hogarth, in his excellent and able work, observes, that "in the densely peopled manufacturing districts of Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Derbyshire, music is cultivated among the working classes to an extent unparalleled in any other part of the kingdom. Every town has its choral society, supported by the amateurs of the place and its neighbourhood, where the sacred works of Handel and the more modern masters are performed, with precision and effect, by a vocal and instrumental orchestra, consisting of mechanics and work people; and every village church has its occasional oratorio, where a well-chosen and well-performed selection of sacred music is listened to by a decent and attentive audience, of the same class as the performers, mingled with their employers and their families. Hence, the practice of this music is an ordinary domestic and social recreation among the working classes of these districts, and its influence is of the most salutary kind." We can ourselves bear witness to the truth of many of these remarks. In some of the more rural portions of the manufacturing districts of Lancashire, we have often listened to the voices of little bands of happy children, who, while returning home after the labours of the day were over, were singing psalms and hymns to tunes learned at the national or Sunday schools. A highly interesting example of the superior musical capacity of the inhabitants of this county, came under our observation a few years ago, at a large and populous village situated on the borders of one of the extensive fields of industry of which we speak. On the anniversary of the opening of the school, the children frequenting it—in number nearly 300—had been long accustomed to march in procession up to the mansion of the neighbouring squire, the founder and endower of the school. Ranged upon the lawn in the presence of their aged benefactor and his family—children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, were among them—led by no instrument, and guided only by the voices of their teachers, they performed an anthem, in parts, with an accuracy and precision which was truly wonderful. As their young voices rose in simple beauty to the skies, tears coursed down the old man's cheek, and though already bowed by the weight of nearly ninety years, he bent still lower, to hide the emotion which overcame him. Six months after this occurrence, those children were drawn up to pay their last tribute of respect to their benefactor, as his remains passed to their final resting-place. In the churches of the north, the school-children may be seen singing with evident delight, not the mere passive instruments of the masters or teachers, but joining heart and soul with the congregation. The Lancashire chorus singers have long enjoyed an extended reputation; at the last festival at Westminster Abbey, they proved the principal strength of the choral band. In other parts of the kingdom, far less aptitude for music is shown among the working classes. The singing in the churches is, for the most part, of the lowest order. In many parishes considerable pains have, of late, been taken in order to improve the psalmody, but no corresponding effect has been produced. In the agricultural districts of the south of England, no songs are heard lightening the daily toil of the labourer, and the very plough-boys can hardly raise a whistle. It is impossible to account for this; but the fact will be acknowledged by all who have had the opportunity of observation.

In speculating upon the future prospects of music and musical taste and science in England, the two rival systems of teaching which have been recently introduced, must necessarily become the subjects of remark and observation. The names of the teachers of these systems are no doubt well known to all our readers. Mainzer, who is himself the author, as well as the teacher, of one system, and Hullah, the teacher of the system of Wilhelm. Wilhelm's method has been stamped by authority, and the Committee of the Council on Education, after "carefully examining" manuals of vocal music collected in Switzerland, Holland, the German States, Russia, Austria, and France, in order to ascertain the characteristic differences and general tendency of the respective methods adopted in these countries, at length decided in favour of Wilhelm. The accounts received of the success of this system in Paris, induced the Council to secure the assistance of Mr Hullah, who was known to have given much attention to the subject, and to have been already engaged in making trials of the method. The system of Wilhelm has, therefore, acquired the ascendency, and Mr Hullah has been invested with the character or office of national instructor, in which capacity he is said to realize upwards of L.5000 per annum—almost as many pounds, according to Mr Barnett, as Wilhelm, the inventor of the system, received francs. The prominent station and the large income realized by a junior in the profession, has naturally roused the jealousy and excited the envy of his elder brethren, many of whom, perhaps, found "their occupation" almost "gone." The vast amount of the bitterness thus engendered, may be conceived, when the reader is informed, that, in London alone, it has been computed that music affords a livelihood to more than 5000 persons. In the midst of such a host of bitter rivals, the imperfections and defects of this all-engrossing system are sure of exposure. Many grave and serious charges have been advanced against the mode in which a superficial and deceptive success has been made to appear real, sound, and healthy. These charges have been reiterated in a pamphlet, recently published by one who is, perhaps, the first of our native living masters—Mr Barnett. Those great exhibitions at Exeter Hall, in the presence of the magnates of the land, at which none but the pupils of Mr Hullah were stated to be allowed to attend, have been declared to be "packed" meetings. There is an equivoque in the terms pupil and classes; with the public they would naturally be taken to mean those persons, and those only, who had commenced their musical career in the classes taught by Mr Hullah: but according to the official interpretation of the terms, they appear to mean, all who now are or ever have been receiving instruction in Wilhelm's method. Now, it must be remembered, that Mr Hullah has instructed in Wilhelm's method many who had, for years, gained their bread by teaching music; who, having been induced to abandon their old system, and to adopt the new method from the superior remuneration it affords, were probably all able to take as efficient a part in the performance, when they commenced the nine lessons which entitle them to the certificate of competency, as when their course of instruction was concluded. Hundreds of such pupils may, for aught we know, have been judiciously disposed among the remainder of the 1700 who performed on the grand occasions to which we allude. But to enable us to judge of the efficiency of a system of instruction, we must not only witness the performance of the pupil, but we must also know the point from which he started. Now, these demonstrations having been got up expressly for the purpose of exhibiting the skill and progress of Mr Hullah's classes, all, therefore, that was necessary in order to form a judgment upon the question thus submitted to the public, though not directly asserted, was nevertheless necessarily implied. At all events, the public were simple enough so to understand the matter. But when the mistake was at length discovered, instead of at once correcting the error, if such indeed it was, recourse was had to a disingenuous quibble on words, which would, therefore, seem to have been purposely rendered obscure. It will thus be seen how fallacious a test these performances afford, either of the real merits of the system, or of the actual progress or efficiency of those who have received instruction from no other source. But, besides this charge, the truth of which is thus virtually admitted, it has also publicly been charged against the conductors of the Exeter Hall performances, that many able musicians, who never were the pupils of any teacher of the Wilhelm method, were surreptitiously introduced among the classes at these great choral meetings. This is a grave accusation; it has been made not anonymously nor in the dark, but backed and supported by the open disclosure of the name and address of the several parties by whom it has been publicly brought forward. Of the truth or falsehood of this serious imputation we know nothing more than that it is raised by facts, which have been stated, but which, so far as we can learn, have never received any denial or explanation. On one of these occasions we were present. We can bear testimony to the effect produced by much of the music then performed. Mr Hullah certainly appeared to possess great power over the numerous assembly, and the facility with which he hushed them almost down to silence, or made them raise their voices till there seemed no limits to their united power, was almost magical. But beyond this, in the words of an able weekly journalist, "no means of forming any opinions were before us—the whole affair might be a cheat and a delusion—we had no test by which to try it. We have hitherto," continues the writer, "spoken of these exhibitions at Exeter Hall as realities, as being what they were affirmed to be. This is no longer possible. If Mr Hullah has any real confidence in his 'system,' he will eagerly seek a real scrutiny into its merits; hitherto there has been none." Our own personal observation does not enable us to be very enthusiastic in the praise of the Wilhelm system. A few weeks only have elapsed, since we attended a meeting of a class, whose progress we had watched, from time to time, from its earliest infancy. This class had gone through the course of sixty lessons, but continued still to receive instruction. Their power of singing at sight was tested in our presence—a piece of music they had never seen before was placed in their hands. The first attempt to execute this at sight was lame, and halted terribly; the second was somewhat better, but as we moved about, from one pupil to another, to ascertain, as far as possible, the individual accuracy of the class, we heard many voices, in a subdued tone, making a number of admirable guesses at their part, but the owners of which could not, by the utmost courtesy, be considered to be singing at sight. The basses missed many a "distance," the tenors were interrupted by the master, and worked, in the defective passages, separately from the rest of the class for a while, by ear!! A third attempt was made with somewhat better success, and the piece was accomplished in a rambling uncertain manner. During the whole of this trial, the trebles were led by the master's apprentice, a sharp clever boy, who retained a voice of peculiar beauty and power to the unusually late age of sixteen, and who had commenced his musical studies six or eight years before. We considered this experiment a failure; it may be said the fault lay in the teacher, not in the method; true, the master was not Mr Hullah, but he was one of the "certificated," and the partisans of Mr Hullah, in the language of the lawyers, are estopped from asserting his incompetency. We have known pupils, not deficient in general ability, who, having attended the greater part of "the course," during which they paid great attention to their studies, were unable to read more than a few bars of the simplest music, beyond which they were lost and confused. Without naming the notes Do, Re, &c., they were utterly unable to proceed at all, and it appeared to us that, by seeing those syllables written on paper, they would have gathered a more correct idea of the music, than by attempting to read from music written in the ordinary manner. This is the result of the invariable use of those syllables in exercising the voice. In the best continental schools, they have long been obsolete for such a purpose. Still, the Hullah-Wilhelm mania will, no doubt, produce considerable effect, even though the system should fall short of the expectations of its friends and promoters. We have now commenced our first national effort in this direction; either, the prejudices which so long delayed this effort have been overcome, or, the "National Society" is now too strong to bow, entirely, to the opinions or prejudices of one of its earliest and most influential patrons—one who long resisted the introduction of musical instruction into the schools of the society; and who, some twenty years ago, is said, on one occasion, actually to have thrown out of the windows of the central school some cards and boards on which the elements of music were printed, and which had been introduced by some of the committee. But for the influence of this nobleman the effort had, perhaps, been made many years ago. The "premier pas" has, however, at length been taken. The public mind is roused; all, from the highest to the lowest, frequent the classes of Mr Hullah. Royalty itself deigns to listen. "THE DUKE" himself takes delight in the peaceful notes of Exeter Hall, and the Premier has found leisure, from the business and service of the State, to scrutinize the performance of "the classes." It must surely be a pleasant thing to sing to princes, warriors, and statesmen—all that the country holds most in honour, love, and reverence. The impulse thus given is felt throughout the land. Classes are formed in every town, almost in every village; the labourer, the mechanic, young men and maidens, old men and children, may be seen, after their daily toil is done, busy with the do, re, mi, fa, &c., of the class-book. Although the system may not prove all that might be desired, yet much is taught and learned, and the desire of acquiring more is created. The general standard of music, and musical taste, must necessarily be raised far above its previous resting-place. It must, however, be ever borne in mind, that the system professes only to teach sight-singing, or, in other words, the power of reading music. This power is wholly distinct from that of singing, as we have above defined the art; those who having attended, and profited to the utmost by the course, will be grievously disappointed if they expect at its close to find themselves accomplished singers. The management of the voice is still required, and many vicious habits, contracted during the practice at the class, will have to be forgotten. This, however, cannot be felt by the million, to whom any musical instruction will be a gift of unspeakable value, in a social and moral point of view. The Committee of the Council well observe, that "amusements which wean the people from vicious indulgences are in themselves a great advantage; they contribute indirectly to the increase of domestic comfort, and promote the contentment of the artisan. The songs of any people may be regarded as important means of forming an industrious, brave, loyal, and religious working-class." Mr Barnett calls this, "nothing but egregious cant, got up by the teachers of the Wilhelm plan, both in France and here." In this we cannot agree with Mr Barnett, and we scarcely understand why he should be betrayed into so much heat upon the occasion. For ourselves, we rejoice to see any system at work for the purpose of instructing the working classes in the elements of music; and it seems to us a monstrous proposition, and nothing short of an insult to our countrymen, on the part of the prominent opposer of the Wilhelm system, to assert that the knowledge or cultivation of an art, which throughout all history has advanced hand in hand with civilization and refinement, should, among the labouring classes of England, be productive only of idleness, drunkenness, or debauchery.

The instruction of the lower classes in vocal music, however beneficial and important as an element in civilization, or however advantageous as a means by which the general taste of the people may be elevated and refined, will not be found all-sufficient, in itself, to raise our musical reputation as a nation. Native music is at a low ebb at present; and, while musical entertainments are in such general request as almost to have excluded the "legitimate" drama from the stage, no attempt to introduce any English opera has been recently made. Into such oblivion or disrepute have English composers fallen, that some of the most eminent have actually left London. One well-known veteran now lives in honourable retirement in the Modern Athens. Another, once popular and admired, "disgusted with London and the profession," and "having given up all thoughts of again appearing before the London public as an operatic composer," is said to have migrated in the capacity of singing-master to a fashionable watering-place; while a third, once equally well known, has left the kingdom altogether, and has settled himself in Paris. The public ear has learned to appreciate music of a high class; and, judging from the past, the manager perhaps dare not incur the risk of bringing out a new native opera. It is certainly much to be regretted that the existing demand should not be supplied from native sources, and thus serve the purpose of national advancement in the art; but English music does not take. Does the fault rest with the public or with the musician? It is easy, and no doubt convenient, contemptuously to apply the epithet, "hacknied," to the operas recently adapted to the English stage; but how is it that the old "hacknied" music of the Italians should be preferred to the novelties of our native school? Here again the public taste has advanced too fast, and, owing to the inferiority of our home productions, the foreigner has gained possession of the market.[2] Where is the remedy for this unfortunate state of things? Some master-mind, some musical Napoleon, may rise up and take the world by storm; but such an event is particularly unlikely now. The hour generally makes the man, and the necessities of the moment often call forth talents and energies, the existence of which was wholly unsuspected by their possessors. For aught we know, many a hero may be now among the ranks, and many a gallant officer now before the mast, undistinguished from lack of opportunity, unknown because circumstances have not developed his dormant powers. How then can the hour be hastened, and the opportunity of developing our musical powers be afforded? The answer is, by the establishment of a National Opera. It has been observed that every nation that has risen to musical greatness, possesses a musical opera. Even the French, who, according to Mr Hullah, "have the least possible claim to a high musical organization," have, nevertheless, long possessed a national opera, boasting the best orchestra in Europe, and producing masters whose works have been successfully transplanted, and singers who have met with universal admiration. At the present moment, Paris has two national musical theatres, the Academie Royale, and the Opera Comique: and the establishment of a third is said to be in contemplation. The possibility of forming such an establishment at the present time in England, may be reasonably called in question. The attempt made some ten years ago, though commended by the minister of the day, was signally abortive; and the subsequent endeavour of a popular musician to open a theatre for the performance of English operas, was equally futile and unsuccessful. One thing of primary importance—the patronage of the higher classes—was wanting to both these efforts. Were the stamp of fashion once impressed upon such an undertaking, success would be certain, did the fiat of the great world once go forth, the thing would be accomplished. The marvellous impulse recently given to musical instruction throughout the kingdom, shows the vast power, for good, possessed by the higher classes of aristocratic England. We have often lamented the apathy of the fashionable world on this subject, and we can entertain no hope of aristocratic support and encouragement for the English opera. There may, however, be some hope, though faint and distant, for our musicians. In consequence of a national musical education, a national opera may become a national want; and we can scarcely conceive it possible, that the wide diffusion of musical taste and knowledge should fail ultimately, to produce a large and never-failing demand for dramatic music. Then would our musicians have a wide, fair field for the development of their resources, success, the highest and most brilliant, would be within their reach, and would depend entirely on themselves. If, under such circumstances, the reputation of our country did not quickly rise, bright and resplendent in the musical horizon, our hopes of universal excellence would indeed be crushed for ever.

[Footnote 2: No. cccxxvii. p. 130.]

It might be long before we rivalled either of the great continental schools, each of which would doubtless long retain its ancient worshippers. Of these two schools, of a character and style so different, we confess a preference for the smooth, voluptuous, peaceful flow of the Italian, rather than the stern, but sublimer, beauty of the German. The one, like the soft and glowing landscape of its native land, refreshes the spirit, warms the heart, and kindles the affections; the latter, like the wild and often savage grandeur of the scenery of Switzerland, chills, while it awes and subdues the soul. There is a smiling kindliness about the former, which fascinates and attracts; the latter often pains and distracts, by an intense and varied action which admits of no repose. It is as the tranquil elegance of the Venus of the Tribune, or the calm dignity of the Apollo of the Vatican, contrasted with the nervous energy of the works of Buonarroti, or the sublime but fearful agony of the Laocoon.

The more enthusiastic admirers of the productions of the Germans, that race of musical Michael Angelos, often despise the lamer attributes of the music of the "sweet south." Such spirits delight in the storm and the whirlwind; peace and repose have probably no charms for them.

"Music was ordain'd, Was it not, to refresh the mind of man, After his studies, or his actual pain?"

Many fly to music to soothe and compose the mind, others seek it as a means of new and fresh excitement. Neither are now able, in the music of their country, to find all they seek. We are not, however, without hope for the future. Never till now has music formed an element in national education; and the movement now extending throughout the land, must of necessity be the means of elevating and refining the musical taste of our countrymen. Improvements, like those already manifest in the sister arts of painting and sculpture, may be now about to show themselves in music. Even our sons may wonder at the taste which could tolerate the music which their fathers had applauded and admired; and England, long pre-eminent in the useful arts and sciences, and the serious and more weighty affairs of life, may at length become equally distinguished in the fine arts, and all those lighter and more elegant pursuits, which, throughout the history of mankind, have ever formed the peculiar characteristics of a high degree of civilization and refinement.

* * * * *



PHILHELLENIC DRINKING-SONG.

BY B. SIMMONS.

Come let us drink their memory, Those glorious Greeks of old— On shore and sea the Famed, the Free, The Beautiful—the Bold! The mind or mirth that lights each page, Or bowl by which we sit, Is sunfire pilfer'd from their age— Gems splinter'd from their wit. Then drink we to their memory, Those glorious Greeks of yore; Of great or true, we can but do What they have done before!

We've had with THE GREAT KING to cope— What if the scene he saw— The modern Xerxes—from the slope Of crimson Quatre-bras, Was but the fruit we early won From tales of Grecian fields Such as the swords of Marathon Carved on the Median shields Oh, honour to those chainless Greeks, We drink them one and all, Who block'd that day Oppression's way As with a brazen wall!

Theirs was the marble land where, woo'd By love-born Taste, the Gods Themselves the life of stone endured In more divine abodes Than blest their own Olympus bright; Then in supreme repose, Afar star glittering, high and white Athene's shrine arose. So the days of Pericles The votive goblet fill— In fane or mart we but distort His grand achievements still!

Fill to their Matrons' memory— The Fair who knew no fear— But gave the hero's shield to be His bulwark or his bier.[3] We boast their dauntless blood——it fills That lion-woman's veins, Whose praise shall perish when thy hills, JELLALABAD, are plains! That LADY'S health! who doubts she heard Of Greece, and loved to hear? The wheat, two thousand years interr'd, Will still its harvest bear.[4]

The lore of Greece—the book still bright With Plato's precious thought— The Theban's harp—the judging-right Stagyra's sophist taught— Bard, Critic, Moralist to-day Can but their spirit speak, The self-same thoughts transfused. Away, We are not Gael but Greek. Then drink, and dream the red grape weeps Those dead but deathless lords, Whose influence in our bosom sleeps, Like music in the chords.

Yet 'tis not in the chiming hour Of goblets, after all, That thoughts of old Hellenic Power Upon the heart should fall. Go home—and ponder o'er the hoard When night makes silent earth: The Gods the Roman most adored, He worshipp'd at the hearth. Then, drink and swear by Greece, that there Though Rhenish Huns may hive, In Britain we the liberty She loved will keep alive.

CHORUS

And thus we drink their memory Those glorious Greeks of old, On shore and sea the Famed and Free— The Beautiful—the Bold!

[Footnote 3: "Return with it or upon it" was the well-known injunction of a Greek mother, as she handed her son his shield previous to the fight.]

[Footnote 4: The mummy-wheat.]

* * * * *



THE PRAIRIE AND THE SWAMP.

AN ADVENTURE IN LOUISIANA.

It was a sultry September afternoon in the year 18—. My friend Carleton and myself had been three days wandering about the prairies, and had nearly filled our tin boxes and other receptacles with specimens of rare and curious plants. But we had not escaped paying the penalty of our zeal as naturalists, in the shape of a perfect roasting from the sun, which had shot down its rays during the whole time of our ramble, with an ardour only to be appreciated by those who have visited the Louisianian prairies. What made matters worse our little store of wine had been early expended; some Taffia, with which we had replenished our flasks, had also disappeared; and the water we met with, besides being rare, contained so much vegetable and animal mater, as to be undrinkable unless qualified in some manner. In this dilemma, we came to a halt under a clump of hickory trees, and dispatched Martin, Carleton's Acadian servant, upon a voyage of discovery. He had assured us that we must erelong fall in with some party of Americans—or Cochon Yankees, as he called them—who, in spite of the hatred borne them by the Acadians and Creoles, were daily becoming more numerous in the country.

After waiting, in anxious expectation of Martin's return, for a full hour, during which the air seemed to get more and more sultry, my companion began to wax impatient. "What can the fellow be about?" cried he. "Give a blast on the horn," he added, handing me the instrument; "I cannot sound it myself, for my tongue cleaves to my palate from heat and drought."

I put the horn to my mouth, and gave a blast. But the tones emitted were not the clear echo-awakening sounds that cheer and strengthen the hunter. They were dull and short, as though the air had lost all elasticity and vibration, and by its weight crushed back the sounds into the horn. It was a warning of some inscrutable danger. We gazed around us, and saw that others were not wanting.

The spot where we had halted was on the edge of one of those pine forests that extend, almost without interruption, from the hills of the Cote Gelee to the Opelousa mountains, and of a vast prairie, sprinkled here and there with palmetto fields, clumps of trees, and broad patches of brushwood, which appeared mere dark specks on the immense extent of plain that lay before us, covered with grass of the brightest green, and so long, as to reach up to our horses' shoulders. To the right was a plantation of palmettos, half a mile wide, and bounded by a sort of creek or gully, the banks of which were covered with gigantic cypress-trees. Beyond this, more prairie and a wood of evergreen oak. To the east, an impenetrable thicket of magnolias, papaws, oak and bean trees—to the north, the pine wood before mentioned.

Such was the rich landscape we had been surrounded by a short hour before. But now, on looking around, we found the scene changed; and our horizon became far more limited by rising clouds of bluish grey vapour, which approached us rapidly from the wind quarter. Each moment this fog appeared to become thicker; the sun no longer dazzled our eyes when we gazed on it, but showed through the mist like a pale red moon; the outlines of the forest disappeared, veiled from our sight by masses of vapour; and the air, which, during the morning, had been light and elastic, although hot, became each moment heavier and more difficult to inhale. The part of the prairie that remained visible, presented the appearance of a narrow, misty valley, enclosed between two mighty ranges of grey mountains, which the fog represented. As we gazed around us and beheld these strange phenomena, our eyes met, and we read in each others countenance that embarrassment which the bravest and most light-hearted are apt to feel, when hemmed in by perils of which they cannot conjecture the nature.

"Fire off your gun," said I to Carleton. I started as I spoke at the alteration in my own voice. The gun went off, but the report was, as it were, stifled by the compressed atmosphere. It did not even alarm some water-fowl that were plashing and floundering in the creek a few hundred paces from us.

"Look at our horses!" exclaimed Carleton. "They are surely going mad." The animals were evidently uneasy at something. They pricked up their ears, turned half round, and gazed with startled eye behind them; then strained with their heads and necks in the opposite direction to the vapour, snorting violently, and at last trying to break away from the trees to which they were tied. A short time previously they had appeared much fatigued, but now they were all fire and impatience.

"It is impossible to remain here," said Carleton.

"But whither shall we go?"

"Wherever our horses choose to take us."

We untied the animals and sprang upon them. But scarcely were we in the saddle when they started off at a pace as frantic as if a pack of wolves had been at their heels; and taking the direction of the creek, which ran between the palmetto plantation and a cypress wood, continued along its banks at the same wild gallop. As we advanced, the creek began to widen; in place of palmettos, clumps of marsh reeds, and rushes showed themselves here and there. An unearthly stillness prevailed, only broken now and then by the cry of a wild-goose; and even that appeared strange and unnatural in its sound.

"What can be the meaning of this?" cried Carleton. "I am burning with heat, and yet I have not the slightest moisture on my skin. All these signs are incomprehensible. For God's sake, sound the horn again."

I did so, but this time the sound seemed to be forced back through the horn, and to die away upon my lips. The air was so hot and parching, that our horses' coats, which a short time previous had been dripping with sweat, were now perfectly dry, and the hair plastered upon them; the animals' tongues hung out of their mouths, and they seemed panting for cooler air. "Look yonder!" cried Carleton, and he pointed to the line of the horizon, which had hitherto been of grey, lead-coloured vapour. It was now becoming reddish in the south-west quarter, and the vapour had taken the appearance of smoke. At the same time we heard a sort of distant crackling, like a heavy running-fire of musketry, and which was repeated at short intervals. Each time it was heard, our horses appeared scared and trembling.

The creek was getting rapidly wider, and the ground so swampy that it was impossible to proceed further. Seeing this, we agreed to return to the prairie, and to try if it were not cooler among the palmettos. But when we came to the place where we had crossed the creek, our horses refused to take the leap again, and it was with the greatest difficulty we at length forced them over. All this time the redness in the horizon was getting brighter, and the atmosphere hotter and drier; the smoke had spread itself over prairie, forest, and plantations. We continued retracing our steps as well as we could to the spot where we had halted. "See there," said Carleton; "not half an hour ago those reeds were as fresh and green as if they had just sprung out of the earth, and now look at them—the leaves are hanging down, parched and curled up by the heat."