people. "Jack," as he is affectionately | are three songs, any one of which would called, is the national hero; and Nelson be sufficient for a noble reputation. Cold ranks above Wellington, not because he is the heart that can read them unmoved, did more, or was a braver and better man, even if patriotism should not lend its but because he was a sailor, and had the glowing heat to the admiration which failings as well as the virtues of his class. they excite. His "Exile of Erin," and Charles Dibdin represented "Jack" in "Irish Harper," though Hibernian in suball his strength and all his, weakness. ject, are English in style and treatment, How beautiful, for instance, are "Tom and may fairly rank as English songs of Bowling," ," "Lovely Nan," "The Sailor's the best class. In his love-songs CampJournal," and a score of others that might bell was not so successful. His "Pleas be cited! Dibdin said of his songs, with ures of Hope " and his "Gertrude of pardonable pride, "that they had been Wyoming" may pass out of popular faconsidered an object of national conse- vor; but his war-songs and some of his quence; that they had been the solace of lyrical pieces will last as long as the litersailors in long voyages, in storms, and in ature of England. battles; and that they had been quoted in mutinies to the restoration of order and discipline." Charles Dibdin left a son, who followed in his father's footsteps, and wrote some excellent sea-songs; among others "The Tight Little Island," which still holds its place in the popular affection unimpaired by the caprices of literary

fashion:

Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did

say,

If ever I lived upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be little
Britain,

Says Freedom, "Why, that's my own isl-
and."

Oh, 'tis a snug little island,
A right little, tight little island,
Search the globe round, none can be found,
So happy as this little island!

It was not many years ago, and within living memory, that Thomas Dibdin was to be seen wandering, a forlorn old man, through the streets of London, with scarcely a shoe to his foot, and with the fate of Henry Carey staring him in the face. What brought him into this pitia ble condition it is not for us to inquire. Let his memory rest. By what right shall posterity pry into the private misery of poets? His muse was an honest one, and he devoted her to honest uses. More need not be said of him.

Did space permit, a more detailed mention might be made of Captain Morris, who wrote about three hundred, and Thomas Haynes Bailey, who wrote upwards of eight hundred songs. The gal lant captain was the friend, or rather the companion, of George the Fourth, for kings are placed too high to have real friends. He sang his own songs at the royal table, at the Beefsteak Club, and at the mess table of the Guards. He had good poetical intentions; but mere intentions do not produce poetry. Nothing of him remains in the popular mind or on the popular ear. He wrote for a class, and not for the great heart of humanity; and his songs are effete, defunct, dead, buried, and forgotten. The reputation of Haynes Bailey has greater tenacity of life. He had real tenderness, which he displayed in such songs as "The Soldier's Tear," and "Oh, no, we never mention her!" and considerable wit and humor, but his sentiment was too often mere sentimentalism, his love lackadaisical, and his melancholy very genteel and effeminate wearing white kid gloves, and wiping its eyes, in which there were no tears, with a highly perfumed cambric pocket handkerchief a very Mantilini of the art of poetastry.

Of Brian Waller Procter, better known to the world as 66 Barry Cornwall," it is Of the English song-writers of the pres- not necessary to indulge in elaborate critient century, the most illustrious were cism. One of his songs, "The sea! the Thomas Moore, claimed exclusively by sea! the open sea!" took possession of the Irish, but who may be also claimed as the tongue and ear of the multitude and particularly English, in such well-known maintained it usque ad nauseam for a songs as "The Last Rose of Summer," whole twelvemonth or longer. A second, "The minstrel boy to the war has gone,' on a very inferior subject, "King Death "As a beam o'er the face of the waters is a rare old fellow," is still occasionally may glow," "The Meeting of the Waters,' heard, and will live as a poem long after "The Canadian Boat-Song," and many it is forgotten as a song. Samuel Lover, others equally familiar. Thomas Camp- a writer of Irish songs, deserves and has bell's "Battle of the Baltic," his "Mari- received high appreciation, not only from ners of England," and his "Hohenlinden" his Irish fellow-countrymen, but from the

English people, among whom he cast his | classes, conviviality, as our ancestors unlot at an early period of his career. He derstood it, is a thing of the past; and wrote many excellent songs, full of the such bacchanalian orgies as they indulged peculiar tenderness and humor which are in are now unknown in decent society, so often found in combination in the Irish and would be held disgraceful if they were character, which promise to enjoy a longer attempted. Songs are no longer sung at tenure of popular favor than the songs of the dinner-table after the ladies have rehis more classical predecessor, Thomas tired to the drawing-room, and to sit long Moore. Except in the songs that breathed at the wine is forbidden by the inexorable incipient sympathy with Irish disaffection and unwritten law of society; and when and rebellion, Moore was far more En- conviviality went out of fashion enthuglish than Irish, and scarcely attempted siasm went also though not perhaps as to reach the popular heart, or, if he did a necessary consequence. so, failed in the endeavor. He was essen- The struggle for life and worldly posi tially an aristocrat, and might have beention is so hard among all classes, and the compared to a tame canary-bird who never disappointments that attend the struggle sang well except when he was perched on are so grievous and so many, as to prothe finger of a countess; unlike Samuel duce a feeling that hope is a deluder, and Lover and Robert Burns, who sang aloft that enthusiastic belief in or love for any. in the sky with the sunlight upon their thing is a foolish feeling and a mistake in wings, and cheered the hearts of the com- which the wise will not indulge. And mon people in the fields below. with enthusiasm, reverence for everything except money and the things that money will buy has become pretty nearly defunct in all classes of adult men and women, though still to some extent, not a large one, existent among the young who have not begun to reckon their ages among the "teens."

Most English poets worthy of the name have written songs - often very beautiful to read, but not always well adapted to be sung. These poets have either not known, or have forgotten, that the essential element of a song is to be singable, and that a fine thought, if expressed by words containing too many harsh and unvocal consonants, though it may appeal to the understanding, may fail to find interpretation from singers who require grace, melody, smoothness, and limpidity of meaning in songs, rather than intellectual strength or depth of suggestion, and that the true song should be above all things, as Milton expresses, simple, sensuous, and passion

ate.

Among living writers of songs, of whom a score at least might be mentioned with all befitting honor, the Laureate has been most successful in his efforts to charm his contemporaries in this branch of the poetic art. But his songs, like those of some of his compeers in the higher walks of poetry, have only found favor with the few, and have been of too high an order of literary merit to reach the hearts of the multitude. The serious minds of the age are engrossed with theological, scientific, and political questions, and have no real taste for the song, which they consider to be better adapted for the amusement of women than for that of men. The change in the habits and manners of the upper and more educated classes of society which has been in gradual operation for the last fifty or sixty years has been unfavorable to the appreciation of the song in the private circles where it flourished in the days of our great-grandfathers. Among these

An evil example was set between forty and fifty years ago by many young writers who laid themselves out to be what is called "funny," to become in fact profes sional punsters, by the composition of drearily comic books among others by comic English and Latin grammars, by comic geographies, by comic histories of England; and who would in all probabil. ity have written "comic" Bibles if they could have found a market for them. These writings had any amount of popularity, which contributed in no small degree to the deterioration of the literary taste of the then rising generation - a deterioration which has extended its baleful influence to their successors of the present day, and has not only invaded the private talk of society, but the theatre, and might even claim the monopoly of the drama were it not for the paramount and benign influence of Shakespeare. To such agency the public of the present and of a not long since departed day owes the hydraulic and pumped-up “fun” which is not funny, of the songs that now achieve the greatest popularity, and retain it for the longest. time. Of this inane class are "Pop goes the Weasel," "Jump Jim Crow," Ratcatcher's Daughter," "The Chickaleerie Cove," "Tommy, make room for your Uncle," and other vulgarities that seem to fascinate the sons and daughters

66

The

of the lower middle class. If one would mental or comic, we might well come to really form an estimate of what popularity the conclusion that the age of English signifies and what it is worth, he might song has passed. But this would be an discover a humiliating truth in the fact error. The song worthy to be so called that the street entertainment of Punch will continue to exist and be admired in and Judy is really more popular than literature and be enshrined in books, if it "Hamlet" or "Macbeth," and that the do not find a place in the music-stands of most popular of all the songs still sung in the boudoir and the drawing-room. LyrEngland is one adapted to the old French ical poetry will never die. It is the earliest melody of "Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre," form of poetry and in many respects the and that forms the bacchanalian chorus in best, as has been proved from the days of circles where a spurious convivality still the patriarchs, when Miriam sang her prevails: song of triumph on the overthrow of the hosts of Pharaoh, and of the later time when King David poured out his full soul in exultation or repentance, and when his

We won't go home till morning,

Till daylight doth appear;

varied occasionally by another chant of a son, not so great as his father, because he similarly low order:

For he's a jolly good fellow,
And so say all of us;

with an extra powerful emphasis upon the
final us.

CHARLES MACKAY.

had not been purified in the fires of adversity, sang "The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's." The days for the produc tion of new epic poems may have passed, never more to return, but the days of lyrical poetry will never pass as long as Not quite so vulgar, but quite as popu- there are young and passionate hearts in lar, as these are the vapid sentimental the world, and cultivated intellects to ap songs which find favor with what may preciate the noble, the pathetic, and the be considered the great majority of the tender outpourings of affection and fancy fair sex, who possess a smattering of lit- which, in combination with the music of erary taste, and a still slighter smattering rhythm and rhyme, constitute lyrical of musical appreciation that are issued poetry, and which only needs what it does in shoals by the musical publishers of the not always obtain -the music of the present day, to the almost complete dis-"human voice divine" to become "songs placement of the really good songs and in the truest sense and in the highest the very excellent music of a bygone meaning of the word. generation. As the literary reviews and other periodicals do not bestow much, if any, of their critical attention upon these slight and ephemeral productions, every publisher in league, it is to be supposed, with the author and composer becomes his own critic and displays his appreciation of his own wares in the advertising columns of the penny press; calls them "lovely," ," "soul-entrancing," "awfully attractive," " immensely successful," "pa. thetic and most perfect," "sentimental but sensible," "always certain of an encore,' "most charming and descriptive," ""the greatest success of the season,' always uproariously encored." Often, as if fearing that these encomia should fail of their effect, these enterprising tradespeople publish in extenso, as advertisements, what they call the "words" (words and nothing else) of these effusions, at a cost per line which possibly the writers of such songs would be only too glad to have in their pockets, if the music publishers would extend their liberality in that direction.

99.66

To judge by the ultra-popular songs of the present day, whether they be senti

From Macmillan's Magazine. BORROUGHDALE OF BORROUGHDALE. "For every man hath a talent if he do but find it." JOHN LOCKE,

CHAPTER II.

A FEW days later, sitting again in the same place, he suddenly looked up, after a prolonged interval of silence, and inquired whether Farquart had returned his cousin's visit.

Farquart, who was painting, turned round, laughed, stared a little, and said no, he had not. All his friends knew, he declared, that he hadn't time to run about dropping those ridiculous bits of oblong paper, so didn't look for it. As for his cousin Katherine, it was useless going to see her, for there was only one sittingroom in the house she lived in, and the old woman, her aunt, was always sitting there too. Besides, poor Katherine was so immersed in her microscopic preparations and rubbish of various sorts that

one could only get a word in edgeways with her, and a visit reduced itself to discussing the Bayswater Chronicle with Mrs. Holland, who, as Borroughdale must have observed, had hardly an idea in her head, and was the most tedious old woman in the universe into the bargain.

To this explanation the latter responded with that large and massive silence of his which filled up so many of the vacant pauses of his life. Possibly there may have appeared to Farquart to be something less absolutely admiring in it upon this occasion than usual, for he presently added,

"You're always roaming about the town though, Borroughdale. Why shouldn't you call and leave my card and your own too at the same time? It would be immensely charitable of you if you would, and would save me a world of bother. Mrs. Holland, too, would go simply out of her wits with delight, and would probably send off straight for a framer and glazier, in order that yours might be duly set out over the mantelpiece!'

This suggestion Borroughdale at first met also with absolute silence, and Farquart, who in fact had no idea of his agreeing to anything of the sort, and had rather thrown in the last suggestion by way of deciding him against it, had gone back to his work when he suddenly unsealed his lips to say,

-

"Wouldn't they think it cool?" "Cool! Who? The Hollands, do you mean? No at least of course not. They'd be delighted," Farquart replied, rather staggered however at finding his own suggestion so promptly and unexpectedly acted upon.

"All right; give us the card and the address."

"You mean really to leave them?" "Yes, of course. I shan't go in, though. Not unless No, in any case I shan't go in."

had been to call upon him, also Mrs. Holland and Miss Katherine Holland.

"Did they ask if I was in?" he inquired of the servant who opened the door.

The man thought not. A lady had come alone in a four-wheel cab, and had handed in the cards, and had driven away again immediately.

Borroughdale had all the mind in the world to ask what this lady was like, but refrained, long habits of taciturnity stepping in amongst other things to hinder his doing so. He let a week elapse, and then, one afternoon about five o'clock, he called again at the house in Bayswater, and sent up his card.

This time the parlor maid returned smoothing down her spotless apron, and with a marked decrease of asperity announced that the ladies were at home, and would his lordship kindly walk up stairs.

Borroughdale obeyed, and was ushered into a fairly large-sized drawing-room, with the usual shining double doors and profuse exhibition of antimacassars, the only peculiarity in this case being an unusually large, square table, without cover of any sort, which was placed in one of the windows, and on which stood a number of small brass instruments amongst which a microscope rose conspicuous. Miss Holland, who was putting together some pieces of drawing-paper at this table, turned round as he entered, while her aunt, whose cap he noticed had got slightly awry, advanced hurriedly from the fireplace to greet him.

Evidently the poor lady was suffering from an intense attack of nervous embarrassment, so alarmingly did she stumble and shuffle over her greeting. So particularly kind of him, she said; really quite remarkably so. He had met her niece before, had he not? He must please positively allow her to call the professor, who would what chair would he take?

A few days later, accordingly, the cards, his own and Farquart's, were delivered Now oddly enough, Borroughdale, unby the Marquis of Borroughdale in per- like most shy people, became more instead son, who escaped as soon as he had de- of less at his ease when he encountered posited them in the hands of a prim-faced others similarly affected. Whether it was parlor maid with black ribbons in her cap, that there was something consoling in the who gazed, first at them, and then at him, sight of another suffering from his own with an air of the severest and most un- malady in an acute form, or whether the qualified scepticism. Apparently, how-latent instinct of a man born to fill a great ever, her employers were less incredu- sphere came to his rescue, certain it is lous, for a few days later, on returning that his usual asperities softened under from a solitary expedition down the river, these circumstances, and he became pohe found on his table three pieces of card- lite, and even, comparatively, what is board announcing that Professor Holland, called affable. He now responded to F.L.S., F.R.S., F.G.S., and other initials, Mrs. Holland's agitated greetings with

"They are parts of a camera lucida," "The most extraordinary thing hap she answered, "for drawing microscopic pened. I've looked through microscopes objects, you know. I am helping my un-often before, but never seen anything the cle to prepare some drawings for a mono- least bit like this. There was a little graph he is bringing out," she went on. lump of jelly fastened to a bit of stick, and "His eyes unfortunately are not at all I was wondering why you should have strong, and he is ordered to take as much told me to look at it, when all at once it care of them as possible. stretched until it became as big as a glass chandelier, all covered over with little bobbing bells, and all the bells began nod. ding, and curtseying, and dancing, and jumping about together, as if they'd sud. denly gone mad, and then all at once, crack! the whole thing rolled up into a lump of jelly again."