positive analogies with which our art can deal, there is an infinite multitude of purely musical indications, which cannot be defined or analyzed in any language. But, because they elude analysis, are they therefore less beautiful, less lofty, or less deep, those indications which music more than any other art possesses, as if to compensate it for what it wants in the order of rational acceptation? Precisely the contrary; the sense of music is frequently the more sublime and deep the less it admits of definition or translation. This truth, which men in all ages must have felt, drove the theorists of the school of Aristotle and Batteux to extreme despair. And, in fact, if music be nothing but an imitative art, what is that that imitates neither feeling nor object for which there is any definite expression in language? J. J. Rousseau removes the difficulty in a summary manner altogether worthy of a musician who wrote in all his letters: Harmony is a Gothic and barbarous invention; which, however, is the faithful resumé and perfect logical result of his whole doctrine, in spite of the contradictions intermingled with it. According to him, that nonimitative music is limited "to the physical part of tones, and, since it only operates upon the sense, it cannot extend its impressions to the heart, but can only excite more or less agreeable sensations. Such is the music of songs, hymns, spiritual tunes, all tunes, which are nothing but melodious combinations, and especially every kind of music, which is merely harmonious." Church music, foorsooth, is a mere physical enjoyment, and the theatre has monopolized to itself the whole of the moral element in our musical enjoyments! Rousseau moreover says: "If music only paints through melody, and derives all its power from that, then it follows that every kind of music which is not singable, however harmonious it may be, is not imitative; and, since with its beautiful chords it can neither move nor paint, it soon fatigues the ear and leaves the heart cold. It follows further, that, in spite of the variety of voices which the harmony has introduced and which is so very much abused in these times, the moment that two melodies are heard at once they neutralize each other and remain ineffective, beautiful as they may have been singly." In these times, in the nineteenth century, we no longer trouble ourselves to refute such absurdities. We may judge from the last sentence with what an eye Rousseau regarded the fugue, or with what an ear he heard it. multitude, yielding itself up to a great public rejoicing or calamity, in other words, the expression of an impassioned multitude, then should all opera choruses, since they have to express such situations, be written in the fugue style. Why is this almost never done? For a thousand reasons, which Fòrkelshould have known, but which he would not see. When there is to be passion in music, what are the usual means of the composer? Either he makes use of an expressive declamation, or of the development of a melody, a period division, of which the fugue does not admit; furthermore, of clear and energetic chords, which the fugue is quite as little able to afford. Passion requires that the musician should translate the words and let them be distinctly heard; but the fugue does not translate the words, it swallows them up. Something positive, in short, is needed, and the fugue in no wise lends itself to that. These are some of the most tangible distinctions with regard to the analogical sense, to which Förkel would refer it. No, in the fugue there lies no image of the passions of the people. See how the people conduct in the finale to the first act of Tito. They send forth, from time to time, a heart-rending cry, simple chords; but these chords crush one beneath the terrors of a hideous catastrophe, they make the blood curdle in one's veins, they take one's breath away, and never was a populace called to play a part in a great event more truly and sublimely represented in music. What would this chorus be, we ask, if the Romans mourned their misfortune according to the laws of a strict and regular fugue (and it is of this alone that Förkel speaks), with leader and companion (dux and comes), with answers and imitations, with Thesis and Arsis? Should we not be forced to suppose that this methodical terror and this learned despair was something gotten up to order? Our theatrical antipodes, I mean Rousseau and Förkel, would not have fallen into extremes equally far from the truth if they had better understood the clear fundamental distinction between music applied and music pure. Every musical thought presents first of all a signification founded in itself, that is, a purely musical signification, without which the thought were no thought. Among these significations, there are some susceptible of positive analogies, which reproduce the words, that is, the feeling or the image which these words convey, which express the moral effect, or imitate sensible objects, by means of the relation in which the phenomena of the outward world stand to those of the soul. That is the sphere of applied music, whose movement and developments are governed by the text, the action, or the picture, which serves as the programme. Other significations, on the contrary, have little or no fitness for these sorts of imitation through analogy. If, then, the composer has adopted some of these for the basis of his labour, the music no longer governs itself by the hints of a relative sense, a programme, or any other implied thought; but it moves on and governs itself solely according to its own intrinsic logic and fitness, according to the absolute sense of the musical thought as melody and as harmony. And that is what we call pure music. In Bach's country they thought very differently about it. The Kirnbergers, Marpurgs, Förkels, and Kochs had the greatest veneration for the fugue, which they regarded as the fairest masterpiece of the composer: and yet, at the same time, this unfortunate theory of the fine arts, which referred all to a single principle, a theory to which they equally clung and from which they could find no outlet, kept them imprisoned in a vicious circle. To harmonize their musical tastes and convictions, they were compelled to deduce theoretically an analogical sense, which justified their preference of the fugue before all creations of musical art. Förkel undertook to establish this doctrine; his demonstration is too long to be given here, but it may be summed up in the following proposition:-As an air or single melody expresses the feelings of an individual, so the fugue, as the union of several melodies, expresses the emotions of a whole people at the announcement of a great event. But what is an individual in comparison with a whole people? These premises once settled, the inferences which the author would draw from them, and which he develops con amore, follow of themselves, to wit: the superiority of the fugue, as an expression of universal feeling, to a melodic work, as an expression of an individual feeling. Förkel is a different man from Bousseau. One always prizes" But the material effect," I shall be asked, "is this to count for him as a musician and a scholar, even when he is not of his opinion. Consequently, we must answer: The first remark, which forces itself upon one on reading this definition of the fugue is that, according to this, the fugue should be confined to the sphere of theatrical music. A whole people set in motion by some great piece of news-that is a drama. The remark is unavoidable, and it is also the main objection to be brought against the writer. Were it true that the vocal or instrumental fugue exactly represented the expression of the feelings of a An example will illustrate this very great distinction which exists between these two classes of composition. Of all the modes of application of our art, the most positive and the most extensive is that of the drama. Go through an excellent theatrical score, some opera of Gluck's for instance, take away the text and the singers, and let it be heard by amateurs who have no idea of its previous intention; and this music, on the stage so beautiful, so speaking, so expressive, so descriptive, will say little, and in that little there will be no order nor connection to be found. And yet the composer's thoughts remain untouched, there has been no alteration in the melody nor in the chords. nothing?" I count it much; but patience; here is a quartet by Mozart, which shall be executed by the same instrumentists. So far as execution is concerned, the forces shall be equal. But is not everything connected here, and flowing from its proper motive? Do not the thoughts blend in a stream of strictest logic and of most persuasive eloquence, together with the most exalted poetry? In this music do you miss the orchestra, the singers, and the drama? Does it require an interpreter ? Now then, since we are agreed in this, tell me what the quartet means? Means! yes, I feel it, certainly; but how to render it in words I know not. It is not anything that can be told. There could not be a better proof that music has two sorts of value and of meaning; one relative and subject to fitnesses not properly founded upon the nature of the art; but the other absolute and purely musical. This idea, which I have endeavoured to develope in the simplest and clearest words, serves to explain and to define the contrapuntal style in general and the fugue in particular, and to justify its existence as well as its claim to the title of pure music. [To be continued.] JEAN BAPTISTE PERGOLESE. JEAN BAPTISTE JESI (surnamed Pergolèse, because he was born at Pergola, a little town in the Duchy of Urbino, a few leagues from Pesaro), was born in 1707. Having hardly attained the age of ten years, the young Jesi was taken to Naples, where, in the noble families of Stigliano and Maddaloni, he found protectors, who caused him, in 1717, to enter the Conservatory of St. Onofrio (not that of the Poveri di Gesu Cristo, as Boyer says, in his account copied by all biographers). Gaetano Grecco, who had gone from the latter Conservatory to that of St. Onofrio, directed all the musical studies of Jesi, who received from his fellow students the name Pergolèse, under which he has become celebrated. Although the style of the Neapolitan school was not less severe than that of the old Roman masters, still Grecco, a pupil of Alessandro Scarlatti, had preserved the tradition of a pure and elegant harmony and of scientific forms which were neglected by the generation which followed. Pergolèse followed the traditions of his master in his earlier productions; but later, influenced by the example of Vinci, formerly his fellow student, he looked upon dramatic expression as the principal end of the art, and introduced this expression even into his church music. Leaving the Conservatoire after nine years of labour and study, he composed for the fathers of the Oratory of the Gerolimini, the oratorio entitled San Guglielmo, considered his first work. The Prince of Agliano, having heard this production, employed him to write for the Theatre dei Fiorentini, the intermezzo, Amor fa'l uomo cieco, which however did not succeed, and was followed, at the theatre of St. Bartholomew, by the serious opera, Rocimero, which succeeded no better. Pergolese, discouraged, seemed to renounce the theatre after this second failure, and devoted himself during nearly two years to instrumental and religious music. It was at this time that he composed nearly thirty trios (for two violins and bass) which the Prince of Stigliano, first equerry of the King of Naples, had requested of him, of which twenty four have been published in London and Amsterdam. In 1730, he wrote for the theatre of St. Bartholomew his buffo opera, la Serva Padrona, a chef-d'œuvre of spiritual melody, elegance, and dramatic truth, in which the genius of the composer triumphed over the monotony of two characters who hardly ever leave the stage, and of an orchestra reduced to the proportions of a quartet. The success of this opera was almost the only complete success that Pergolèse obtained in his whole life. Il Maestro di Musica and Il Geloso, which followed it, did not at first succeed, and were only prized at their real worth, after the death of the author. In the month of May, 1734, Pergolèse obtained the title of chapel master of the Church of Our Lady of Loretto, and went to take possession of this post. The following year he went to Rome to write the Olympiad for the Tordinone Theatre. The bad luck which persecuted him followed him there also, for his opera experienced a dismal failure, although there were in it two airs and a duet of a remarkable and penetrating expression. Duni (who supplied Boyer with the greater part of the anecdotes for his biography of Pergolese) relates also the following concerning the Olympiad. Having been sum moned to Rome, to write an opera, called Nero, which was to be played after the opera of Pergolèse, who was his fellow student at the Conservatoire at Naples, he did not dare to write a single note of his work till he had heard the Olympiad; but after one performance he reassured himself, seeing that the beauties which were scattered throughout that opera, would not be understood. "There are too many details entirely above the comprehension of a common audience," said he to Pergolèse, "they will pass unnoticed, and you will not succeed. My opera will not be worth so much as yours; but, more simple, it will prove more successful." The event justified his prediction, for the Olympiad, performed in the spring of 1735, was ill received by the Romans. Overwhelmed by this failure, Pergolèse, renouncing the theatre for ever, returned to Loretto, where he henceforth occupied himself wholly in the composition of church music. But his dissolute habits had already impaired his constitution; a disease of the chest appeared, and physicians decided that a change of climate was necessary. The composer, wishing to try that of Naples, went to Puzzoli, near that city on the sea shore; and it was here he composed his famous Stabat Mater, the beautiful cantata Orpheus, and the Salve Regina, which was the last of his works. The uncertainty which prevails in regard to many of the important circumstances rela tive to this great musician exists also in respect to the time of his death, most of the biographers fixing it in 1737, though Maffei assures us that he died in 1739, at the age of thirty-two. Rumours of poison were circulated, and obtained some credit, but were proved to be without foundation. The decline of his health, of which the cause has been given above, was slow and gradual. But no sooner had his eyes been closed, than the indifference with which he had been treated by his countrymen gave place to the keenest regrets. From that moment his reputation began to spread; his operas were played in all the theatres; Rome revived his Olympiad, applauding it with transport! and finally, even in the churches, into which it would seem fashion should not enter, for several years hardly any other music was heard than that of the author of the Stabat. In France, where an almost complete ignorance of the existence of the great artists of foreign countries prevailed, the music of Pergolèse was introduced fourteen years after the death of the composer, by an Italian troupe of ordinary singers, and excited transports of admiration. La Serva Padrona and Il Maestro di Musica were translated into French, represented on the stage, and the parts engraved. In sacred concerts, also, the Stabat Mater obtained an enthusiastic success, and several editions were published. At last nothing more was wanting to the glory of Pergolèse, and, as always happened in a reaction against injustice, his merits were exaggerated, in considering him as the master of masters, although he is inferior to Scarlatti and Leo in dramatic force, and although in his church music there are characteristics ill adapted to the character of the words. The Padre Martini accuses the Stabat of containing passages more appropriate for an opera than for a penitential hymn, and he even makes citations which recall analogous passages of La Serva Padrona; and, though one must confess that his criticism is not entirely without foundation, it is just to say, that examples of this kind are rare, and that few religious compositions in the concerted style are of more touching expression than the first verse of the Stabat and the Quando Corpus. The Salve Regina for a single voice, two violins, bass and organ, is also a model of expression; although less celebrated than the Stabat Mater, it may be considered as a most perfect composition and of superior merit. His compositions for the church are sixteen in entire masses, and several Kyries, Dixits, Laudates, and other componumber, including beside the Stabat Mater and Salve Regina, two of which have been given above, are ten in number, including trios sitions. His operas and other secular compositions, most of the titles already mentioned. THE POWER OF MUSIC.-Music hath a refreshing and soothing influence over the mind when jaded and wearied. Virgil, when alluding to this in his fifth Pastoral, where he represents Menalcas and Mopsus, two shepherds contending for the palm, the one in playing on the tender reed, the other in reciting verses, makes Menalcas say to Mopsus, in reference to the strains of his pipe :— "As thy song to me, oh divine poet, So is sleep to the weary upon the grass, So is the quenching of one's thirst in the heat of summer, The savage beasts of the forest have been known to forget, for a time, their wildness, when listening to the strains of music. joy. The war-horse glories in them; and the serpent is The elephant delights to hear them, and gives evident signs of charmed with their spell. Herodotus informs us that Arion, one of the most accomplished players on the harp, charmed one of the monsters of the briny deep to the side of the Corinthian ship, and that when the sailors threw him overboard, that they might possess his immense treasures, the dolphin received him on its back, and bore him to the shore. The music of every nation, like the inhabitants, seems to partake somewhat of the influence of its own climate. The music may be said to be a picture of the nation drawn in sounds, with such idiosyncrasies of the composer as may represent the peculiarities of the painter. Each possesses its own peculiar national characteristics.-Hogg's Instructor. THE BAND OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. From a Correspondent of the "Brighton Gazette." THE Private Band of George IV. was, in its time, acknowledged to be one of the best in Europe. It was originally formed from the band of the 10th Hussars, of which regiment the king, when Prince of Wales, was the colonel. The prince, being a good amateur on the violoncello, and passionately fond of music, took the greatest interest in bringing this band to such perfection, that it was universally acknowledged "to have no equal," and became ultimately of European celebrity. No musician of any importance came to this country without visiting Brighton to hear the prince's band. Various methods were resorted to in order to obtain the most proficient talent. Christian Kramer, a Hanoverian and pupil of Winter, was placed at the head. He was a remarkable man. As an arranger for a large military band he was almost unequalled; the quantity that he did for this band was prodigious. Part of it consisted of the whole of Mozart's symphonies, all his overtures, the grand finales to his operas, besides all the choicest trios, duets, etc. All the symphonies of Haydn, several of Beethoven's, Rossini's and Paer's overtures, with the grand finales of their operas, Boieldieu's works, Cherubini's overtures, Anacreon, Lodoiska, and Les deux Journées, the whole of the opera of Mehul's Joseph, and the best of Händel's choruses. The books accumulated to such a degree that 300 were nightly given out in boxes placed beside the stands, which were made of solid mahogany, each lighted by two wax candles. No one knew the capabilities, capacities, and the good effects to be brought out of the various instruments better than Kramer; he played almost every one over which he presided, and could dictate the best mode of fingering any difficult passage that occurred. Like his royal master, Kramer was a great sufferer from the gout, and it was no unusual thing to hear the king, after a simultaneous attack, enquiring of Kramer what were the means adopted to rid himself of so troublesome a companion, and many were the jokes that passed between them on those occasions, for Kramer piqued himself upon being a wit, and was quite at ease with his royal master. The ships bringing French prisoners from Spain were examined for the purpose of finding any musical talent that might be in them; and Eisert, a German, was transposed from a prison to a palace to become the first and most brilliant player of the clarionets. Kramer periodically visited Germany, and engaged the best talent he could find. The following was the strength of the band in its best days: 12 clarionets, 3 oboes, 3 flutes, 4 bassoons, 2 corni bassetti, 4 horns, 4 trumpets, 2 serpents, 4 trombones, bass, 2 trombones, alto and tenor, 2 druins, total, 42. When it is considered that every individual of this number 'was of first-rate talent, some idea may be formed of the effect such an assemblage of wind instruments would produce. Most of the cleverest players had individually been masters of bands. | Schmidt was allowed to be the first trumpet in Europe. His flourish was the most terrific and appalling thing ever heard from a musical instrument. The trumpets and kettle-drums were of solid silver. The elder Distin was one of the trumpets. The horns, Messrs. Hardy, were very clever performers, whether as regards taste, tone, or execution. They are now the horns of her present Majesty's Private Band. The serpent, André, was one of the lions of the band. Kramer had taken great pains to render this hitherto difficult instrument more available. He invented an instrument that was played entirely with keys instead of holes for the fingers; and no musical visitor of any eminence came without hearing André's performance of one of Correlli's trios. Weitzig was the 1st Fagotto; he became afterwards master of the Guards (Blue's) Baud. Albrecht, Schroeder, and Berhns were the trombones, and most efficient ones they were. When the band was in its infancy, two celebrated horn players, the Rehn's, joined it; one, afterwards, the prince took much notice of. At that time it was no unusual thing to see the prince's arm linked in Rehn's, giving directions and instructions. In after years it was an interesting sight, when the king was visited by some of the ambassadors, such as Prince Esterhazy, Prince Lieven, etc., to see him conducting a symphony of Mozart's or Haydn's, as was often his habit. That was the time to hear the band to perfection. Bands do not every day get a regal conductor; and, on these occasions, every one did his utmost, which was sure to call forth flattering expressions from His Majesty, such as " Charmingly played," "That I call perfection," "You have out done yourselves to-night." On other occasions, when affairs of State troubled him, the players were often made to feel his displeasure. One night, during the queen's trial, he was sitting close to the band, apparently paying little attention to what they were playing, when he surprised them all by suddenly saying, "I suppose, because you are all asleep, you think that I am. There is an old saying, that birds that can sing and won't sing, must be made to sing; and I will make you play that better. Now play it over again." Of course, this screwed up their attention and exertion to the highest pitch; and it was played to his satisfaction on the repetition. 66 Kramer, what is the matter with Distin to night ?"exclaimed his Majesty on another occasion. "Your Majesty, he has a bad lip." Oh, I thought something was the matter, as I missed the trumpet in the last piece." From some disappointment, Kramer was obliged, one morning, to officiate at the organ in the chapel. "Who played the organ this morning?" enquired his Majesty. Kramer replied, "not the organist in ordinary to your Majesty ; but your Majesty's ordinary organist." The old German would chuckle at his success. Little episodes such as these were often occurring, which served to prove the critical attention his Majesty paid to the performance. One evening, with the Princess Lieven on his arm, standing close in front of the band, who were playing Händel's choruses, he said to the Princess, "How delighted my poor father would have been, could he have heard Händel's music played in this manner." Occasionally, of a Sunday evening, a selection of the sacred choruses was sung by a portion of the band and some of the choir of St. Paul's Cathedral. One evening they were surprised by his Majesty wedging himself between two of the performers, and, catching hold of one side of the book held by Spellerberg, the oboe player, his Majesty joined lustily in the bass part of the chorus to the end. When Rossini visited England, he was commanded to spend three days with the King, who was then at the Pavilion. A very large party of the nobility were invited to see the great maestro. Before the band commenced, he said to Rossini, "You shall now hear an overture of a composer that we hold in the highest estimation." And the band played Rossini's overture to La Gazza Ladra, which had been previously agreed upon. "Come Sir Henry (then Mr.) Bishop, arrived one night at Kramer's residence, just as he was leaving home for the Pavilion. with me to the palace," said Kramer. "I cannot, I am not dressed." He had a smart drab surtout coat, and was a man who took considerable pains with his toilet. "Come and hear the band; you have no occasion to be seen; you can stand at the back of the orchestra." Sir Henry consented. Upon the King's coming up to give some direction to Kramer, the latter (who was fond of a little mischief, where a dandy was concerned) immediately said to the King, "Mr. Bishop is here, your majesty, but he is not dressed, and does not wish to be seen.' "Oh, hang his dress, ask him to come forward." Poor Bishop was obliged to present himself in his drab coat; but no one could say agreeable things with more grace than the King. He told Bishop he was most happy to see him, and directed the band to play his composition, the "Chough and Crow," adding, "I hope you will name whatever you wish them to play." The evening passed so agreeably to Bishop that he quite forgave Kramer. Perhaps the most effective pieces performed by this famous body of instrumentalists were Beethoven's symphony in C minorthe grand military character of the last movement told with more effect on this than on a stringed band; Mozart's Jupiter, and his No. 5 symphony in E flat; the finales to the second acts of Don Giovanni and Il Barbiere; a chorus from Winter's Prosperine; the overture to Anacreon of Cherubini; "The horse and his rider" of Händel; the quartet from Marino Faliero. Nothing could exceed (in a military point of view-ED. M. W.) the volume of tone, the light and shade, and the vigour and brilliancy with which these pieces were performed. The band used to practice daily from eleven to one in the palace during that portion of the year when the King was not in Brighton, but when the court was here the practice was discontinued, and they merely attended in the evening from nine until eleven. The expenses amounted to between six and seven thousand pounds annually. On evenings of attendance, each performer was provided with a supper, a pint of wine, and ale, in addition to his pay. In a fit of economy, on one occasion, the wine, allowed to the household up to a certain range, was ordered to be discontinued: it was consequently stopped from the band, and doleful were their looks when assembled for the evening. Whether designedly, or not, the vigour of their style was considerably diminished, and Lord Conyngham was sent by the King to say that he thought they did not play with their usual spirit. Kramer, who had been waiting for his opportunity, immediately replied, "How can they play with their proper spirit, my Lord, when they have cut off their wine." This, as was anticipated, was taken to the King, who ordered the wine to be allowed as usual, and it was never afterwards discontinued. When the King ceased to reside in Brighton, the Band was, much to their regret, removed to Windsor, where they continued until the King's death, occasionally playing at Cumberland Lodge, or attending His Majesty in those delightful fêtes on Virginia Water. At his death, some received a pension, others, of short service, a gratuity; but the Band was entirely broken up, several of the old Germans returning to Brighton: Brighton was everything to many of them. They had risen with the town, grown with its growth, had family ties and connections in the place, and they came here to end their days. Many of them are gone. It was a sad pity that so fine a body of musicians, brought to such perfection, should have been dispersed; but a spirit of economy came over the successors of George the IVth., who, with all his faults, was a kingly, munificent, and real lover of music. As regards the Band, "Take it for all in all, we shall ne'er look upon its like again." GLUCK.-J. J. Rousseau's admiration for the genius of Gluck, as soon as he became acquainted with his works, is well known. All Paris observed him frequenting the theatre at every representation of Gluck's Orpheus, although for some time previously he had absented himself from such entertainments. To one person he said on this subject, that Gluck had come to France to give the lie to a proposition which he had formerly defended, namely, that good music could never be set to French words. At another time he observed, that all the world blamed Gluck's want of melody; for himself, he thought it issued from all his pores. Gluck was one day playing on his piano the part in Iphigenia in Tauris, where Orestes, left alone in prison, after having experienced his accustomed agitation, throws himself on a bench, saying, "Le calme rentre dans mon cœur." Some persons present thought they observed a contradiction in the bass, which prolonged the the preceding agitation, after Orestes had declared that his heart was calm: they mentioned this to Gluck adding, "but Orestes is calm, he says so." "He lies," exclaimed Gluck, "he mistakes animal exhaustion for calmness of heart; the fury is always here (striking his breast): has he not killed his mother?" On the day appointed for the first representation of his Iphigenia in Aulis at Paris, Gluck was informed that the principal singer had been suddenly taken ill, but that another would perform his part that evening. Gluck, who suspected cabal, immediately replied, "No; the performance must be postponed." That was declared impossible, the piece having been already advertised and announced to the royal family, under which circumstances there was no precedent of a postponement. "I will sooner," replied Gluck, "throw the piece into the fire, than submit to its being murdered in the way proposed." All remonstrance was in vain, and the circumstance was obliged to be reported to the royal family, who kindly allowed the performances of the night to be altered. SAYINGS OF COLERIDGE. AN ear for music is a very different thing from a taste for music. I have no ear whatever; I could not sing an air to save my life: but I have the intensest delight in music, and can detect good from bad. Naldi, a good fellow, remarked to me once at a concert, that I did not seem much interested with a piece of Rossini's which had just been performed. I said, it sounded to me like nonsense verses. But I could scarcely contain myself when a thing of Beethoven's followed. The darkest despotisms on the Continent have done more for the growth and elevation of the fine arts than the English government. A great musical composer in Germany and Italy is a great man in society, and a real dignity and rank are universally conceded to him. So it is with a sculptor, or painter, or architect. Without this sort of encouragement and patronage such arts as music and painting will never come into great eminence. In this country there is no general reverence for the fine arts; and the sordid spirit of a money-amassing philosophy would meet any proposition for the fostering of art, in a general and extended sense, with the commercial maxim-Laissez faire. Paganini, indeed, will make a fortune, because he can actually sell the tones of his fiddle at so much a scrape; but Mozart himself might have languished in a garret for anything that would have been done for him here. The fondness for dancing in English women is the reaction of their reserved manners. It is the only way in which they can throw themselves forth in natural liberty. We have no adequate conception of the perfection of the ancient tragic dance. The pleasure which the Greeks received from it had for its basis Difference; and the more unfit the vehicle, the more lively was the curiosity and intense the delight at seeing the difficulty overcome. The ancients certainly seem to have understood some printhem better. They contrived to convey the voice distinctly in ciples in acoustics which we have lost, or at least, they applied their huge theatres by means of pipes, which created no echo or confusion. Our theatres-Drury Lane and Covent Gardenare fit for nothing: they are too large for acting, and too small for a bull-fight. All harmony is founded on a relation to rest-on relative rest. Take a metallic plate, and strew sand on it; sound a harmonic chord over the sand, and the grains will whirl about in circles, and other geometrical figures, all, as it were, depending on some point of sand relatively at rest. Sound a discord, and every grain will whisk about without any order at all, in no figures, and with no points of rest. The clerisy of a nation, that is, its learned men, whether poets, or philosophers, or scholars, are these points of relative rest. There could be no order, no harmony of the whole, without them. Milton take any notice of the great painters of Italy, nor, indeed, It was very remarkable that in no part of his writings, does of painting as an art; while every other page breathes his love and taste for music. Yet it is curious that, in one passage in the "Paradise Lost," Milton has certainly copied the fresco of the "Creation" in the Sistine chapel at Rome. I mean those lines,— "now half appear'd The tawny lion, pawing to get free His hinder parts, then springs as broke from bonds, an image which the necessities of the painter justified, but which was wholly unworthy, in my judgment, of the enlarged powers of the poet. Adam bending over the sleeping Eve, in the "Paradise Lost," and Dalilah approaching Samson, in the " Agonistes," are the only two proper pictures I remember in Milton. It is a poor compliment to pay a painter to tell him that his GOTHA.-Herr Lampert, hitherto Concertmeister, has been figure stands out of the canvas, or that you start at the likeness named Hof-Capellmeister. of the portrait. Take almost any daub, cut it out of the canvas, and place the figure looking into or out of a window, and any one may take it for life. Or, take one of Mrs. Salmon's wax queens or generals, and you will very sensibly feel the difference between a copy, as they are, and an imitation, of the human form, as a good portrait ought to be. Look at that flower-vase of Van Huysum, and at these wax or stone peaches and apricots! The last are likest to their original, but what pleasure do they give? None, except to children. Some music is above me; most music is beneath me. I like Beethoven and Mozart-or else some of the aerial compositions of the elder Italians, as Palestrina and Carissimi. And I love Purcell. The best sort of music is what it should be-sacred; the next best, the military, has fallen to the lot of the devil. Good music never tires me, nor sends me to sleep. I feel physically refreshed and strengthened by it, as Milton says he did. I could write as good verses now as ever I did, if I were perfectly free from vexations, and were in the ad libitum hearing of fine music, which had a sensible effect in harmonizing my thoughts, and in animating, and, as it were, lubricating my inventive faculty. The reason for my not finishing Christabel is not that I don't know how to do it-for I have, as I always had, the whole plan entire from beginning to end in my mind; but I fear I could not carry on with equal success the execution of the idea, an extremely subtle and difficult one. Besides, after this continuation of Faust, which they tell me is very poor, who can have courage to attempt a reversal of the judgment of all criticism against continuations? Let us except Don Quixote, however, although the second part of that transcendent work is not exactly uno flatu with the original conception. A FRENCH OPINION OF HERR RICHARD "M. Wagner," says M. Etienne Eggis-apropos of a performance of Tannhäuser, which took place on the twelfth of last month, at the Grand Theatre, Munich-" has turned topsy-turvy all the received forms of opera. In the Tannhäuser there are neither airs, nor duos, nor has any part a fixed or determined form. M. Wagner wishes to subordinate melody to the text, or, at all events to fuse them in such a manner as to make them an incorporate whole, and that one should not predominate over the other. In accomplishing this, he has succeeded in producing neither more nor less than a long recitative. The whole of the opera is one prolonged recitative, and everybody knows that nothing in music can be more fatiguing than a recitative with indefinite chords. As soon as a fine situation occurs in the poem, the mind is prepared to bathe itself in a beautiful lake of perfected harmonies; the melody commences; we expect it to flow on; it follows its route and accomplishes nothing. It is a long period which has only commencements. Thus this surexcitation of the mind, this everlasting contempt of the ear, prevents the auditor from enjoying the beauties of the melodies, although unfinished, which shine resplendent in the work, and the real science of instrumentation of which the composer has given proof. The best parts of Tannhäuser are the overture and the introductions of the second and third acts, because these are complete morceaux. In these, the system of M. Wagner, which demonstrates itself in its desire to fuse, at all risks, the words and the melody, in seizing for the latter all determinate form, has not broken the flight of his inspirations, which displays itself powerful and complete. Art with rule, is light; art without rule, is but fire. There is certainly rule in the works of M. Wagner, but it is rule with its head downwards.* In fine, the music of M. Wagner has great beauties, but it fatigues, inasmuch as nobody ever can tell whither it is bound; it kills, because it never gives a moment's repose, and because it gives to the mind that crick-in-the-neck (torticolis), which one experiences on looking at a bird in the air turning himself round and round without ever perching on a branch. Like the spider in his web.-ED. M.W. A VISIT TO MOZART. I WENT one evening to a concert of the celebrated Kozeluch's, a great composer for the pianoforte, as well as a fine performer on that instrument. I saw there the composers Vanhall and Baron Dittorsdorf; and, what was to me one of the greatest gratifications of my musical life, was there introduced to that prodigy of genius-Mozart. He favoured the company by performing fantasias and capriccios on the pianoforte. His feeling, the rapidity of his fingers, the great execution and strength of his left hand particularly, and the apparent inspiration of his modulations, astounded me. After this splendid performance we sat down to supper, and I had the pleasure to be placed at table between him and his wife, Madame Constance Weber, a German lady, of whom he was passionately fond, and by whom he had three children. He conversed with me a good deal about Thomas Linley, the first Mrs. Sheridan's brother, with whom he was intimate at Florence, and spoke of him with great affection. He said that Linley was a true genius; and he felt that, had he lived, he would have been one of the greatest ornaments of the musical world. After supper the young branches of our host had a dance, and Mozart joined them. Madame Mozart told me, that great as his genius was, he was an enthusiast in dancing, and often said that his taste lay in that art, rather than in music. He was a remarkably small man, very thin and pale, with a profusion of fine fair hair, of which he was rather vain. He gave me a cordial invitation to his house, of which I availed myself, and passed a great part of my time there. He always received me with kindness and hospitality. He was remarkably fond of punch, of which beverage I have seen him take copious draughts. He was also fond of billiards, and had an excellent billiard-table in his house. Many and many a game have I played with him, but always came off second best. He gave Sunday concerts, at which I never was missing. He was kind-hearted, and always ready to oblige; but so very particular, when he played, that if the slightest noise were made, he instantly left off. He one day made me sit down to the piano, and gave credit to my first master, who had taught me to place my hand well on the instrument. He conferred on me what I considered a high compliment. I had composed a little melody to Metastasio's canzonetta, "Grazie agl' inganni tuoi," which was a great favourite whereever I sang it. It was very simple, but had the good fortune to please Mozart. He took it and composed variations upon it which were truly beautiful; and had the further kindness and condescension to play them wherever he had an opportunity. Encouraged by his flattering approbation, I attempted several little airs, which I showed him, and which he kindly approved of; so much indeed, that I determined to devote myself to the study of counterpoint, and consulted with him, by whom I ought to be instructed. He said, "My good lad, you ask my advice, and I will give it you candidly; had you studied composition when you were at Naples, and when your mind was not devoted to other pursuits, you would perhaps have done wisely; but now that your profession of the stage must, and ought, to occupy all your attention, it would be an unwise measure to enter into a dry study. You may take my word for it, Nature has made you a melodist, and you would only disturb and perplex yourself. Reflect, 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing;'-should there be errors in what you write, you will find hundreds of musicians, in all parts of the world, capable of correcting them; therefore do not disturb your natural gift." "Melody is the essence of music," continued he; "I compare a good melodist to a fine racer, and counterpointists to hack post-Who knows most, horses; therefore be advised, let well alone, and remember the old Italian proveab-Chi sa piu, meno saThe opinion of this great man made on me a knows least.”” lasting impression. My friend Attwood (a worthy man, and an ornament to the musical world) was Mozart's favourite scholar, and it gives me great pleasure to record what Mozart said to me about him. His words were, "Attwood is a young man for whom I have a sincere affection and esteem; he conducts himself with great |