to conduct the reader back to the dim cells and gothic gloom of the cloisters of the dark ages, nor to lead him onwards in the steps of the infant art of music, tracing its gradual growth and progress, and then ceasing, when we have arrived at its present existence and advancement. On the contrary, I must leave such learned historical details for others more skilled, and more versed in the records of its annals. Neither do I, intend to deal abstrusely, nor scientifically; much less, technically, of this "language of the gods." No! I shall speak of music as it is, as we have, and enjoy it; pointing out the slaughter of harmonies by the would-be musicians, and showing the exquisite beauty of legitimate compositions.

There is as much deception, plagiarism and imposture in music, as can be found in any other science; and all that is necessary to prevent a longer continuance of this state of things is, to point out these instances, and to suffer them no more.

There are different classes of persons, who may be arrayed before the tribunal of this art. First, we find those highly gifted by nature, whose minds are filled with new and beautiful conceptions, and who have also the power to analyze, and communicate these original ideas; while others, who have equally pure inspirations, do not possess the enviable capacity of embodying their creations, but must be contented to recognize in the works of the former the kindred ideas of their own brains. Both of these classes are to be called geniuses, and the

to a different set of beings, who, though not endowed with originality, have the knowledge requisite to comprehend these efforts of genius, and are content to become students and listeners; these may be called connoisseurs. Another class, and a numerous one too, is composed of these, who enjoy, and, often times, to an exquisite degree, the charms of music, without being able to understand or comprehend them, nor even to define whence their enjoyment is derived. I should call these amateurs. And now we come to that army of creatures, who pretend to understand and enjoy, either because it is fashionable, or because their vanity will not allow them to acknowledge that they are less gifted than their neighbors. These may be termed would-be amateurs And, finally, we would mention that throng of imposters, who aiming at a rank among the great masters, steal their ideas, mangle and torture them into different shapes, and then claim homage from an astonished world. Many composers of the present day may be found in the rank and file of this class. But we would tell them that the pulverized rose bud has lost the perfume of the blushing flower. They might as well call upon us to admire, in the broken fragments of a statue, rudely plastered together, all the exquisite beauties of its former perfection, as to embrace in their works any thing but the mangled charms of what we no longer recognise, as the achievement of some master spirit.

There are, also, different kinds of music : one for the soul or spirit, such as we experience in the solemn strains of Handel and Haydn; one for the head, and we find this style in the compositions of Mozart, Beethoven, Rameau, and many others; one for the heart, which includes the crowd of lighter operas, ballads, songs and melodies, among which latter Schubert's and

Moore's with their thousand associates, stand before us; and, lastly, one for the feet; and here Strauss and Herz occur to our minds, at the sound of whose names, we feel an irresistible impulse to jump up and dance.

Then, again, the higher orders of compositions above alluded to, may be divided into different schools, each one possessing characteristics and beauties peculiar to itself. But of these hereafter.

In judging of the works of a master, in order to give them a fair trial, or to feel the whole effect of the composer's conception, we should hear them with all the attending fillings-up and the entire back ground seen and enjoyed, which were present at the moment of inspiration. It were as partial to judge of a highly wrought oration, repeated in the absence of an audience, and the feelings which excited at the moment of its delivery, as to judge of one of Handel's great works, when performed in a barn on a flute and a violincello. Would you judge of Handel impartially?-go to a cathedral-hear the massive chords of the powerful organ swelling along the arched ceiling, and gradually dying away among the vast recesses of the gothic masonry, while the sweet harmony of a well tuned choir pours forth its melodious strains to the overawed ears of a devout congregation. There, and there only, can we judge of the beauty, the power, the strength and the effect of his genius. Who can deny, if he have enjoyed such a privilege, that music like this elevates the soul, and imbues the mind with a spirit of deep devotion? In such a scene, surrounded by such accompaniments, we feel disposed to worship. It may be said, that such sensations are undefined, and only suited to the uneducated mind. We differ. If they be undefined, they are most befitting the worship{ of that Being, whose majesty we then feel, and whose Almighty power we acknowledge in moments of such overwhelming, limitless, and heavenly influence. In such scenes, all creeds may worship; for amid the vaulted arches and vast, distant objects of these gothic structures of the darker ages, the mind and eye find no resting place, and the soul soars with the dying sounds of the swelling notes, pealing in the combined unison of organ and choir, from the dull earth to the regions above.

The effect of such a scene may be realized in? an anecdote, related of the brother of a great German writer, justly praised and esteemed for his valuable translation of Shakespeare. His brother was in Vienna. It was a bright day in autumn, and near its close. He strolled into the Cathedral of St. Mary. It was the hour

of vespers. He stood in the broad aisle, directly under the dome. The rays of the setting sun stole dimly through the painted gothic windows, bestowing all the variegated tints of the glass, with mellowing effect, upon the objects around; while in the distance, the deep angles of the recesses were shrouded in darkness. Before him, but far removed, he saw the candle's struggling light, and beneath, the priest, surrounded by a small number of devout worshippers on their knees. The voice of the old father was faintly heard in the vast edifice, and fell on the ear like the tones of some spirit, gentle and mild. Suddenly the swelling chords of the organ burst upon the soothing, gloomy hour, followed by the full melody of the choir. The notes seemed to linger, hovering over that tranquil scene of prayer, until echo ceased to repeat them, and they were lost in the dim vaults above. A feeling of awe came over him; he raised his eyes to the dome through whose windows the setting sun still poured its golden light. It appeared to him like the dazzling glory of another, brighter world. He had been a skeptic, but in that hour he was saved. fell upon his knees; he acknowledged the majesty of his Maker, and was ever after a Christian.

He

Nor shall I forget a similar scene at which I was myself present. In a remote part of the Tyrol, lies the secluded valley of Wiesenthal, at the base of the Mutter-berger glacier. Strangers seldom visit these regions. The inhabitants live retired, nor do they know any more of the world beyond, than does the goat who nimbles on the craggy rocks of these mountain barriers. Such ignorance was bliss, for they seemed a happy, honest, contented people. Around a green, sloping towards the old church, of whose antiquity we could gain no certain information, stood a circle of dwellings, built much in the style of Swiss cottages. Two friends accompanied me. We were traveling on foot, and reached the little village, near the setting of the sun. Although day had bid adieu to the deep valleys, the rays of the west still lingered on the roseate mountain tops, as if unwilling to part from such a scene. As we arrived, the hunters and farmers were returning home, to meet the merry faces of their domestic circles; but they all seemed one family. The grotesque costume of the women, and the pic. turesque dress of the men, added much to the effect of the little landscape. The whole of the quiet village gathered on the green as we drew near. A hearty welcome was extended to us by the landlord of the best house, used as the inn, and amid the staring and wondering of our new

acquaintances, we unloosed our knapsacks, and ordered supper. The old bell of the church now proclaimed the hour of evening prayer, and every head was uncovered, every face turned to the house of worship. We had not intended to participate in the ceremony, not being catholics, but our absence threatened to create remarks, and we entered the time-worn church.

The father of this village flock was an aged man, whose silver hairs demanded and received respect from every one. He stood at the altar, and around him kneeled his children, while he chanted the prayer. We remained at a distance. The light of the church was only sufficient to give us a very vague outline of the scene. Still, we could discern the sturdy forms of the mountaineers bent in devotion, and could, with the aid of the candles burning on the altar, see the placid manner, and feel the fatherly, benevolent tones of the priest, as he occasionally turned towards his little congregation. The church was large, and the number of the villagers small. In that hour, when the extent of the church seemed greatly magnified by the vague light of evening, the worshippers appeared like the forgotten remnant of a larger population, seeking protection at the altar of their God. There was a peculiar sense of dependance awakened by this contrast, which made the little flock more deeply interesting to the lookeron. The organ poured forth its voice, but in so feeble a tone, that its sound came as from a distance, and as it died away, and then returned again, I could realize the feeling which had overcome the skeptic.

flocks. Oh! what would I not give, I have often thought, to be as ignorant and as happy, as the dwellers in that lonely vale? What can ambition secure to the bruised spirit, what can learning bestow, that will yield the contentment of that blessed race!

But to our subject:

It might be said, that the tendency of these remarks would go to show that cathedrals alone were places to experience devotion. I do not intend any such thing. I only speak of them as the suitable places, and the only suitable ones, wherein to judge of such music as has been written for them. The sense of devotion awakened there, is quite different from that experienced in our churches. The structure of gothic edifices is vast, and inspires a sense of awe, which is much enhanced by formal ceremonies and powerful music. Such means subdue the uneducated, and elevate the minds of those who can comprehend; while the spirit of devotion in our more simple and less extensive houses of worship, is produced by the general participation of the whole congregation in the ceremony. The former may be said to be the worship of undefined sensations, while our own should be regarded as that of the intellect and soul only.

Should the question be asked, what constitutes that style of music called sacred, it would be difficult to tell. Every one knows sacred music when he hears it, and can easily distinguish it from all other kinds; but when you would describe its peculiar character, there is no term which will fully comprehend the description, or its distinguishing marks. There are musical sounds and strains which answer to every feeling of the heart. We have gay, plaintive, bacchanal and wild music, all of which at once awaken our corresponding sympathies; and so we have, too, sacred music, alike familiar, and alike affecting our thoughts and feelings. What makes this music sacred? Its solemn character, its full harmonies, and our associations. The very notes we sing in a hymn, if

no longer solemn. Therefore, it must depend upon association. Let us take as a striking instance the following strain:

This difference is manifest, the one being sacred, the other profane, and yet the notes are the same. Our associations, then, and the words must have made the former sacred, for the music is in itself the same with the last mentioned song. And so we shall find it with nearly all sacred music.

Besides, we generally hear sacred music accompanied by the organ, the only instrument capable of giving entire fulness to harmonies, leaving nothing to be desired in this respect. The impractability of using organs in private dwellings, has made this instrument almost peculiar to churches, and the remembered tones of its varied chords mingle in our minds with the devout language of hymns, and keep the music we thus hear apart from all others, sacred.

Let any one test this assertion with any psalm tune, playing or singing the music in different time, and he will at once lose the solemn character of the music. The slow method of singing, or the dwelling on certain notes, is for the purpose of enabling the organ to pour forth its full harmony; but take away the organ, change the time, and the psalm-tune has lost its

Don't

you hear the banjo, tum, tum, tum!

solemnity. We cannot, therefore, discover any other mark of distinction between sacred and profane music, than the full harmonies given to the former, and our associations attached to it.

We should not forget here the various kinds of sacred music, namely: chants, anthems, psalms and hymns.

Chants are taken from the Catholic service, and were retained in the High Episcopal Church of England, when Henry VIII. severed his church from the church of Rome. The chant of the Cathedral service, as performed in the English churches, bears but little resemblance to the canto fermo or plain-chant of the Roman Catholics, which is chiefly pronounced, rather than sung, by the priest alone, without bass or accompaniment; whereas our chants are short phrases of melody, sung antiphonally from side to side, in four parts, accompanied by the choir organ.

The chant, as we know it in our churches, is sung without reference to metre, or to rhythm; and consequently, several words are often sung to the same note, the attention being directed more to the language than to the musical sounds, as in the following instance:

people!

or repetition of any set melody or air, but the music varies as it proceeds. A chant is never written to metre nor rhythm, while an anthem may be in metre and rhythm. This difference may be discerned in all the collections of church music, and do not, therefore, require any illustration.

Psalms and hymns.-In ancient times hymns were not necessarily sacred, for the Greeks had their hymns of battle, and hymns of festive occasions; they were ever songs of joy; while psalms were taken from the Old Testament, and were always in praise of God. At the present day these distinctions are lost, and our hymns