hensive or reckless. Now, it is well known that music has the power not only to harmonize with any of these tones of mind, and thus increase it, but in many cases to alter and control it. Every one knows the difference between a sportive and a melancholy air, between a dirge and a quickstep, and every one also knows how readily his tone of mind assimilates with the character of the music which he chances to hear. Sacred music, well performed, renders deeper the spirit of devotion. The hilarity of a ball-room would instantly cease if the music were withdrawn. I question if the martial spirit of a nation could be sustained for a single year, if music were banished from its armies, and military evolutions, whether on parade or in combat, were performed under no other excitement than the mere word of command.

From these well-known facts, an æsthetical principle may be deduced of some practical importance. The design of music is to affect the tone of mind. To do this, it must be in harmony with it. No one would think a psalm tune adapted to a charge of cavalry; and every one would be shocked to hear a devotional hymn sung to the tune of a martial quickstep. It hence follows, that what may be good music for one occasion, may be very bad music for another. If we are called upon to judge of the excellence of any piece of music, it is not enough that the music be good, the question yet remains to be decided, is it good for this particular occasion; that is, does it harmonize with the particular tone of mind which the words employed would naturally awaken? If it do not, though it may be very good music for some occasions, it is bad music in this particular case. The Il Penseroso and the L'Allegro of Milton have, I believe, been set to music, and, if the music were adapted to the thought, the effect of these beautiful poems would be increased by it. But every one sees that the music adapted to the one must be very unlike that adapted

to the other. Let the music be transferred from the one to the other, and the incongruity would be painful; and what was just now good music would become at once intolerable. Much of the church music at present in vogue seems to me to partake of the incongruity of such a transposition.

Here, also, the question may be asked, whether all poetry is adapted to music. From the preceding remarks it would seem that it is not, unless it awaken some emotion. And again, the emotion in some cases may not be adapted to music. Terror, horror, the deepest impressions of awe, are probably not adapted to musical expression. The attempts which have been made to convey such emotions by music have, I apprehend, generally failed. They may, like much other music, display the skill of the composer or the performer, but they leave the audience unmoved.

Another peculiarity of this sense deserves to be mentioned. By it we are capable of forming a natural language understood by all men. Our emotions instinctively express themselves by the tones of the voice, and these are easily recognized by those to whom they are addressed. Every one understands the tones indicative of kindness, of authority, of pity, of rage, of sarcasm, of encouragement and contempt. Should a man address us in an unknown tongue, we should immediately learn his temper towards us by the tones of his voice. The knowledge of these tones is common to all men, under all circumstances. Children of a very

tender

age

learn to interpret them; nay, even brutes seem to understand their meaning very distinctly. It would seem, then, that the tones of the voice form a medium of communication, not only between man and man, but even between man and some of the inferior animals.

I have said that these tones of the voice are universally understood. It is also true that they have the power of

awakening an emotion, similar to that which produced them, in the mind of the hearer. A shriek of terror will convulse a whole assembly. It is said that Garrick once went to hear Whitefield preach, and was much impressed with the power of that remarkable pulpit orator. Speaking afterwards of the preacher's cloquence, he is reported to have said, “I would give a hundred pounds to utter the word O as Whitefield utters it." It is probable that it is in the power of expressing our emotions by the tones of the voice, more than in anything else, that the gift of eloquence consists. This was, I presume, the meaning of Demosthenes, who, when asked what was the first, and the second, and the third element of eloquence, replied, successively, "Delivery, delivery, delivery!" This is, I think, illustrated in the case to which I have alluded. Whitefield's printed sermons do not place him high on the list of English preachers, while, as they were delivered by Whitefield himself, they produced effects which can only be ascribed to the very highest efforts of eloquence.

The relation of these remarks to the cultivation of eloquence is obvious. Suppose a public speaker to be able to construct a train of thought which shall lead the minds of men, by logical induction, to a given result. Suppose, moreover, that this train of reasoning is clothed in appropriate diction, so that it is adapted not only to convince, but to please an audience. It is now to be delivered in the hearing of men. It may be delivered in so monotonous tones as to put an assembly to sleep, or in tones so inappropriate and grotesque as to provoke them to laughter. It is now necessary that the orator be deeply moved by his own conceptions, and that he be able to give utterance to his own emotions in the tones of his voice. His organs of speech must be capable of every variety of expression, and they must so instinctively respond to every emotion, that the

thought which the speaker enunciates is lodged in the mind of the hearer, animated by the precise feeling of him who utters it. He who is thus endowed can hardly fail of becoming an orator. Hence, if we would improve in eloquence, we must studiously cultivate the natural tones of emotion, in the first place by feeling truly ourselves, and, in the second, by learning to express our emotions in this language which all men understand.

REFERENCE.

Reid's Inquiry, chap. 4, sections 1, 2.

SECTION VII.- THE SENSE OF TOUCH.

THE nerves of feeling are situated under the skin, and are plentifully distributed over the whole external surface. So completely does the network which they form cover the whole body, that the point of the finest needle cannot puncture us in any part without wounding a nerve, and giving us acute pain. It is in this manner that we are guarded from injury. Were any portion of our body insensible, we might there suffer the most appalling laceration without being aware of our danger.

The chief seat of the nerves of touch is, however, in the palm of the hand, and in the ends of the fingers. The other parts of the body render us sensible of injury from external sources, but they are incapable of furnishing us with any definite perceptions. The hand, on the contrary, conveys to us very exact knowledge of the tactual qualities of bodies. For this purpose it is admirably adapted. The separation of the fingers from each other, their complicated flexions, the extreme delicacy of their muscular power, all

combine to render this organ susceptible of an infinite variety of definite impressions.

Though the fingers are separated, yet in using them together, when a single object is presented, but one perception is conveyed to the mind. It would seem, however, that, in order to produce this result, corresponding points of the fingers must be applied to the object. If we change them from their normal position, by crossing the second over the fore-finger, two perceptions will be produced, and a small object, as a pea, will seem to us double.

The sensation of touch is of two kinds, as it is caused, first, by temperature, and secondly by contact.

The sensation produced by temperature is that of cold or heat. It is awakened by any body whose temperature differs from that of our external surface. When we place our hands in water only blood warm, we are not conscious of this sensation. If we place one hand in hot, and the other in cold water, for a few minutes, and then remove them both to tepid water, we experience the sensation of heat in the one and of cold in the other.

The effect produced upon us by temperature is a simple knowledge, a pure sensation. It gives us no knowledge of anything external. During the first chill of a fever we are unable to determine whether the weather is cold, or our system diseased; that is, whether the sensation proceeds from without or from within. And when the sensation proceeds from without, it gives no information respecting its cause, or the manner in which it affects us.

Heat and cold are merely affections of a sensitive organism. That which causes them is called by chemists caloric. This quality in bodies has opened a wide field for philosophical investigation, which, by developing the laws of steam, has modified the aspects of modern civilization.