'Long, long ago '-evidence of the animalism of the age, and of the lion-like courage which animated the people sixty years since. The songs for the navy were of an equally enspiriting kind; but many of them were much superior in sentiment, in composition, and in tone, to those produced for the army. This was particularly the case with the songs composed by Charles Dibdin. A captain in the merchant service expressed to a friend of mine his belief that these songs (namely, Dibdin's) made more sailors than any other single cause whatever. Charles Dibdin was born at Southampton on the 15th of March, 1745. Being intended for the church, he was placed at Winchester College. His early love of music recommended him to the notice of the organist of the cathedral, from whom he received some instructions, and these were the whole amount of his education in the art; such technical knowledge as he possessed having been acquired almost entirely by his own efforts. His love of music led him to adopt it as a profession. He was first employed in London as a chorus singer at Covent Garden, where his earliest theatrical work, a little pastoral drama, called The Shepherd's Artifice,' was produced in 1762, when he was seventeen. This was followed by a long series of pieces, among which are 'The Padlock,' 'The Quaker,' The Waterman,' 'The Islanders,' and several others, which rank among the standard works of the English Musical Drama. Notwithstanding the success of these productions, he was always in difficulties, and in 1788, with the view of bettering his fortune, he sailed for India. Being wind-bound at Torbay, he suddenly thought of giving a sort of lecture, intermixed with songs, which he called 'The Whim of the Moment.' Its reception induced him to give up thoughts of his voyage, and this was the origin of the entertainments which he continued to give for many years in London, and throughout the kingdom, and for which many of his finest songs (his sea songs especially) were written. In 1803 he received a pension from Government, in consideration of the beneficial effects produced in the navy by these spirit-stirring lyrics, but it was withdrawn a few years afterwards. (See Howe's 'British Songs for the Navy.') As a contrast to the Awkward Recruit,' I will cite one of Dibdin's, which, besides being well adapted to inspire nautical heroism, contains many beautiful sentiments; the music, too, has always been admired. LOVELY NAN. 'Sweet is the ship that's under sail, When the boatswain pipes the barge to man. 'The needle, faithful to the north, A curious lesson teaches man: Let seamanship do all it can. 'When in the bilboes I was penn'd, None hail'd me, woman, child, or man; I'd all the world in lovely Nan. 'I love my duty, love my friend, I love to take an honest part, First made me doat on lovely Nan.' But to return to my narrative. I have, when regiments were drafted for foreign service, often stood at Story's Gate aforesaid, and seen the troops defile through, with martial music playing, and standards floating on the breeze. I have watched them, and followed them to the bridge of Westminster, beyond which I was forbidden to stray; and I have wondered to what unknown country that bridge led. Then have I again strayed back to the park-again loitered hours in watching the recruits at drill, who, in their turn, were drafted off in a similar manner, when sufficiently instructed. a But in the parks what numerous happy hours have I spent! All the different walks were to me as familiar as the court in which was my mother's house. The Green Park, Constitution Hill, Buckingham House-now royal palace-the old Brick Palace of St. James's, the Malls, the Parade, the before-mentioned Bird-Cage Walk, the Canal in front of the Horse Guards, the Artillery House, the Quart Pots, as they were termed (small pieces of artillery fired on rejoicing days, or on occasion of victories over the French) Spring Gardens, Gwydyr House, of the proprietor of which I believe I am some hundredand-fifty-sixth cousin, et hoc genus omne. A few months since I again visited all these localities, but many of them were as much changed as myself. Some of the noble mansions, however, still remainGwydyr House among them-but not a vestige of Carlton House, the favorite residence of George IV., when Prince of Wales. I stopped at the Horse Guards, to try if I could hear the music of the old clock. Yes-I did hear it! The chimes are still the old familiar sounds. They fell upon my ears as the voices of old friends, from whom I had long been separated, and whom I had never anticipated I should hear again. The deep tone of the War Office clock proclaims still, and with a voice seemingly unimpaired by years, the steady flight of Old Time; and though its tones fell not on my ears with the force of other days,' it still was the voice of the same dear old clock, and it brought back associations mingled with much pain and many bitter feelings, some of which I may, perhaps, detail at the proper time and place; but, on the whole, I listened to the chimes of that dear old clock with more of pleasure than of pain. I cannot describe its sound, but my memory assured me there was no change in the music of that old clock. But I must not so often digress. When sated with the parks, the music of the military bands, the drilling of the recruits, and the departure of the troops for active service, I used to spend much of my time in the old Abbey Church. I delighted in the cloisters; and as I saw the processions of the choristers, the canons, and the prebendaries in their white surplices, I thought how I should like to be a priest, and be constantly engaged in the services of the Abbey Church. I cannot tell how or when I learned to read. I have not the slightest recollection of any one teaching me my letters-doubtless, this was the work of my good mother -but I do not remember the time when I was unable to read; and next to the delight which I took in military music, and strolling in the parks, I used to experience intense pleasure in reading the Church Service out of my mother's large Prayer Book, and I well remember that this pleasure was increased, when I was allowed to throw a table-cloth over my shoulders, which gratified me as much as if it were a surplice. Again and again have I heard the deep tones of the noble organ in the Abbey Church, while sitting in my mother's house-this house being a considerable distance from the churchand I have started up and ran off to enjoy the sublime music. Music has ever been my passion. Even now, when everything else falls upon my ears as though tympanum were but so much lead, music lights up countenance with joy; its sweet sounds appear to penet my otherwise dull sense; and if I were closely noti while under its soothing influence, my moist eye wo give evidence of the power it has over my affections. am fully of the opinion of our immortal bard, that 'The man that hath not music in his soul, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; My veneration for the old Abbey was deep, ferven and solemn, and that veneration still clings to me. I wonderful extent, its stupendous height, the massy pilla which support the roof, the sculptured marble monument with which it abounds, its gorgeous chapels (that of Henr VII. I particularly remember); its antique wonder inspiring waxwork, among which was the maid of hono who pricked her finger with a needle, and bled to deatha just punishment, I was told, for working on the Sabbath day; its cluster of poetic monuments, giving the name of 'Poet's Corner' to the place where the ashes of that imaginative race rests; and its grand chancel, where service was performed every day, and where I have so often heard 'the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced choir below'; all, all steal over my memory at the present day, making me mourn over the loss of that delightful sense, which drank in, in early life, such delicious floods of sacred harmony. Yes! the loss of hearing, next to the loss of sight, must be the most severe privation that man can be subjected to. But it will not do to dwell longer on this privation, or to think what I have lost by it. It must be permitted for a wise purpose. I was now seven years of age, with a growing reputation for tenacity of memory. I was fond of listening to |