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through the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the multitude who escorted him halted before the principal hotels, and manifested their disapprobation by angry words and gestures. The Emperor observed that he had scarcely ever been placed in so delicate a situation. How many evils might have ensued,' said he, had a single stone been thrown by the mob. Had a single imprudent word, or even an equivocal look, escaped me, the whole Faubourg might have been destroyed; and I am convinced that its preservation was to be attributed wholly to my presence of mind, and the respect which the multitude entertained for me.'

We conclude with quoting a passage from the melancholy description of the Great Captive's situation, which Las Cases exhibits on the eve of his own departure.

During this period the Emperor's health has been constantly and considerably declining; his body, which was thought so robust, which had endured so many toils, and withstood so much fatigue, supported by victory and glory, was now bending under the weight of infirmities prematurely brought on by the injustice of men. Almost every day he is attacked by some new indisposition; fever, swelled face, symptoms of scurvy, constant colds; his features are altered, his gait becomes heavy, his legs swelled, &c. Our hearts were torn in seeing him thus hastening towards infallible destruction; all our cares are in vain.

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He had long since given up riding on horseback, and by degrees, also, he almost entirely relinquished his rides in the calash. Even walking became a rare occurrence, and he was thus nearly reduced to a strict seclusion in his apartments. He no longer applied to any regular or continued occupation; he seldom dictated to us, and only upon subjects that were merely the fancy of the moment. He spent the greatest part of the day alone in his room, busied in turning over a few books, or rather doing nothing. Let those who have formed a due estimate of the power of his faculties, appreciate the strength of mind required to enable him to bear, with equanimity, the intolerable burthen of a life so wearisome and monotonous; for, in our presence, he always exhibited the same serenity of countenance and equality of temhis mind appeared equally unembarrassed; his conversation offered the same lively turns of expression, and he was sometimes even inclined to mirth and humour; but, in the privacy of intimate intercourse, it was easy to perceive that he no longer thought of the future, meditated on the past, or cared about the present; he merely yielded a passive obedience to the physical laws of Nature, and, thoroughly disgusted with life, he perhaps secretly sighed for the moment which was to put an end to it.

per;

"Such was the state of affairs when I was forcibly removed from Longwood; for that period approaches-it is not far distant."

TO A FOUNTAIN.

SWEET Fountain, in thy cool and glassy bed
The forms of things around reflected lie
With all the brightness of reality,

And all the softness which thy wave can shed-
As clear as if within thy depths were laid

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Some brighter world beneath that pictured sky;
But with a thought the vision passes by
Before the rising breeze, and all is fled.
So on the stream of life, all bright and gay,

A thousand pleasures glitter to the view,
Which Hope enlightens with her fairest ray,
And Fancy colours with her richest hue;
But with the breath of Truth they pass away
Like thine, sweet fountain-fair, but flecting too.

M.

ON MUSIC.

No. 3.-With reference to the Principles of the Beautiful in that Art.

THE several precepts and remarks offered in the latter part of our previous Paper appear to us to embrace the principal laws affecting instrumental melody, or melody generally. These, of course, fully apply to vocal melody likewise, while the latter naturally requires the observance of additional rules, chiefly regarding the due expression of the text which is to be sung; from the ballad, the lowest in the scale, to the opera, the most exalted of the labours of musical genius. In composing music for words, generally poetry, four principal objects present themselves as matters of primary consideration,—viz. metre, rhythm, character, and verbal expression.

Upon the two first, our previous remarks, considering the limits we have prescribed ourselves, appear to be nearly sufficient. It is obvious that the musical metre must adapt itself kindly, throughout, to that of the poetry. At the same time, the means at the command of the composer are so ample and manifold, that he is by no means compelled to devise a metre precisely the same as that of the poetry. The same text may be cast into a great variety of musical metre, with almost equal aptitude. Every composer might, perhaps, choose a dif ferent metre; one, another, and a third. The English language, it must, however, be owned, presents more difficulties for such metrical arrangement than any other, owing to its numerous monosyllables, to its snapping accents, and other causes, which, together with the many consonants, diphthongs, &c., greatly detract from its aptitude for musical purposes in general. This circumstance the English poet that wishes to write for composers ought constantly to bear in mind. It is probably not going too far, if we venture to maintain that not above one half of the words in the English language is of a nature to become freely eligible for musical composition; and that, of the remaining half, one moiety is absolutely unfit, and the other sufficiently liable to more or less objection, to induce a cultivated and euphonic ear to abstain from its employment for musical purposes as much as can conveniently be helped.

If we might presume to give any advice in this respect to the lyric poet, we should first of all recommend a decided preference of words of pure Anglo-Saxon origin, and a most sparing use of all such as are derived from the Latin, or from the French (second-hand), especially when consisting of many syllables. Those terminating in ation, action, ection, &c. such as commendation, detraction, correction, &c. are little adapted for song; owing not only to their cacophony and length, but also to their want of simplicity. They seldom fail in creating, momentarily, a train of etymological ideas in those that understand them, and many are unintelligible or of obscure import to a number of

persons.

But even in the selection of pure Anglo-Saxon words, care and a musical ear are indispensable. Too many monosyllables must be avoided, especially those with strong accent; and when they occur, the composer should be cautious not to extend their duration by a long note. It is highly disagreeable to hear sun drawled into su................ñ, or breath mouthed into brea......th. Words of two syllables, having a

strong accent on the first, which, nevertheless, is incapable of being sung satisfactorily to a long note, ought not to be employed too frequently, especially at the end of a line. Words of this description, such as mother, lover, have seduced English composers into a very common, yet inelegant way of terminating a phrase by beginning the last bar with a semiquaver followed by a long crotchet. Pity, perish, are almost invariably treated in this objectionable manner.

Many similar cautions might be added to the above; but, as we are not writing an Ars musico-poetica, we shall content ourselves with one farther and very important remark, regarding, not the form, but the substance and matter of the text to be expressed in Music.

Profound thoughts, very fine ideas, and epigrammatic sentiments, make but a poor figure in Music. In hearing a song, the mind has two operations to perform simultaneously and not altogether very leisurely. Without absolutely and scientifically analyzing the harmonic weft, it must see sufficient light to bring home the substance of the musical phrase to the sphere of its musical conception, in order to be pleased with it. If the mind be incapable of seizing any musical meaning at all, it is sure to become indifferent, if not disgusted. The Razumowsky Quartetts of Beethoven would soon lull an Essex grazier, and many of his betters, into a snug doze.

While this act of musical perception is going on in the mind, and going on rapidly, the sense of the words must glide into it at the same time. Now, if the text be ponderously profound, if the heavy stagewaggon of the philosophizing bard and the gay chariot of the harmonist are to enter simultaneously the narrow intellectual portal, what is more likely than that they will stop each other's way. Such a race between the poet and composer is generally fatal to both. The auditor has not a moment to spare for verbal investigation, the Music is going on, new text is heaped on the old, and a mass of confusion is the final impression bequeathed to us.

Simplicity is a paramount requisite in poetry intended for Music, perhaps in all good poetry. It is quite difficult enough to seize completely poetry of the plainest import, under the vehicle of Music. Hence the distribution of books of the songs at our Theatres, the price of which, however, greatly limits their circulation. Instead of laying on the additional tax of tenpence for a few leaves, which, with due economy, may be printed for less than a quarter of the money, managers probably would eventually benefit by dispensing these few pages, gratis, to every one of their visitors. All would then understand what they heard, would like it the better for it, and would carry home the means of recalling any favourite song to their recollection and pointing it out to others, creating in them a desire to attend the performance.

the

But to return to the question of poetical subjects adapted for composition: the French Vaudevilles appear to us to afford striking examples of the disadvantages of fine sentiment and epigrammatic point, when exhibited under a musical garb. It requires the peculiar, not to say negative musical taste of our neighbours to derive delight from songs of this description, if songs they can be called. To us these Vaudevilles are absolutely sickening; the Italians are strangers to them, and, thank Heaven! they have not found much favour on our boards.

The works of two of the most popular English poets now living, may serve as contrasting vouchers in support of our assertions with regard to the nature of a text best calculated for musical expression.

Of rhythm, the second point to be attended to in setting a text to Music, we have already treated so fully, that we will not encroach upon our limits by entering into a view of its special effect with regard to vocal compositions.

The third object to be considered in the construction of vocal composition is the general character of the text, the vein of feeling which pervades it whether it be gay or serious, solemn, plaintive, tender, pastoral, comic, sarcastic, agitated, irritated, &c. And here the following important questions seem to present themselves: Ist. Is it within the power of Music to depict the above, and other affections of the mind?

:

2dly. What are the means by which this depictive power is exercised?

3dly. How far does this power extend?

Before entering directly upon this investigation, it appears to us, that, if Music be gifted with the power in question, whatever may be the means employed in its execution, it is reasonable to conclude that this depictive power has certain limits, and that it cannot, in all cases, be applied with such logical precision as never to leave a doubt of the impression intended to be conveyed. In this respect we would liken the language of Music to that of Painting and Sculpture. Although the latter possess the advantage of copying the various expressions of the human countenance from living nature, it must be admitted that the sculptor's and painter's representations of many affections of the mind are rather approximations and obscure hints, than decisive indications of their intention. In seeing a pictorial exhibition, a sixpenny book is of as much use as the tenpenny publication at an opera; not only on account of the historical narrative, but for the sake of judging of the physiognomical correctness in the "grammatis personæ." A few lines of poetry in the Somerset-House Catalogue are a vast help.— "Achilles stifling his anger" is often as useful a hint as This is a lion."

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Musical language, then, must have its uncertainties and limits, and perhaps ought to have them. Aware of this truth, it is for the composer not to attempt more than what lies within the legitimate range of his art the field is full wide enough for his exertions, without transgressing its boundaries.

These boundaries, and the points of vagueness as to expression, will of themselves attract our attention, in proceeding now to a consideration of the means by which the composer has it in his power to impart to his labour a general character corresponding with the import of a poetical text.

These means are either phonetic or chronic; or, to speak in plain English, they are derived either from the nature of the sounds employed, or from the peculiar arrangement and distribution of time.

In order to form some idea how far a difference in point of sound may produce a difference of characteristic expression, we shall consult nature, the best guide in the fine arts.

Supposing we were required to give musical utterance to a serious We should consider, in the first instance, that gravity is

sentence.

the concomitant of mature age; gaiety that of infancy or youth. The voice of the latter is acute, that of the former comparatively low. It would, therefore, on that account alone, be as preposterous to express grave words by acute sounds, as it would be ridiculous to utter a lively and joyous sentence in deep notes. Only think of Cato sternly moralizing with the mincing shrill voice of an unfledged stripling! On the other hand, even the aged give vent to joy in elevated accents of voice. All this, moreover, is referable to physical causes. Low notes are produced by the slow vibrations of the sonorous body, and high ones by rapid vibrations. What, therefore, can be more natural, than that the quick pulsations of a heart elated with joy should be depicted by notes produced in a similar manner; and that the steady and sedate dicta of a tranquil mind should be accompanied by sounds created by the leisurely vibrations of the sounding material.

We may add here, by the way-although in anticipation-that the reason for employing slow or quick notes for serious or gay purposes, respectively, is precisely the same; and this circumstance will probably appear even more obvious. Hundreds of quotations might be adduced in support of it. In Mozart's Il Don Giovanni, the spectre speaks in slow and deep accents, while the gay Lothario sings his "Fin' ch' han' dal vino" in rapid upper notes. Ghosts are always made to speak in a deep tone of voice, and slow, although no one ever heard their mode of conversation. The practice, therefore, is purely founded upon æsthetical deduction.

The above allusion to the mode of expressing the grave and gay by phonetic means was merely intended by way of general illustration. The distinction between both is broad and obvious. But there are innumerable other affections of the mind which the composer endeavours to pourtray by the peculiar nature of the sounds which his judgment selects for that purpose.

The choice of the tonic affords him an important and remarkable resource in this respect. Although this subject may have been carried too far by some enthusiastic speculatists, and their elevated imaginations may have discovered shades and causes of distinction imperceptible to more prosaic intellects, we are convinced that it is by no means immaterial what key be selected for the melody to a particular text. Schubart, the German, rather an enthusiast, but a man in whom, as in the early bards of Greece and of the Celtic nations, poetical genius was united to great musical talent, has assigned to every tonic its legitimate power of characteristic expression. His opinions on that subject happen to be recorded in an earlier number of the New Monthly Magazine*, to which we beg leave to call the reader's particular attention; the paper being of a highly interesting nature. Without going the full length of his speculations, or presuming to set up a digested system of our own, we shall advert to a scale or two to illustrate the characteristic difference of some tonics or keys.

The scale of G major seems really to possess a character of openness suitable to ingenuous navieté and innocent mirth; while A flat major, although but a semitone higher, would be totally unfit for the same expression, but would well adapt itself to deep inward feeling,

*Old Series, Vol. XIII. page 286..

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