word Mousa, which signifies a Muse, the goddess of song.

Sounds may be either simultaneous or sucressive. In the first case they constitute harmony, in the latter melody.-These two united form music.

In music a simple air is the melody of the piece, and the different parts combined is the harmony.

The air or melody, is the subject of the piece. The Bass and other parts are the accompaniments. The science of music may be divided into speculative and practical.

Speculative Music is the knowledge of the nature and use of those materials which compose it.

Practical is the art of reducing and applying to practice, those principles which constitute the theory. This is called composition. The practice of singing, or playing on an instrument, is called the performance. Music also is either vocal or instrumental.

That which is performed by the voice is vocal. That is instrumental which is performed on an instrument.

The most agreeable is that which unites instruments and voices together. The instrument sustains the voice, and keeps it in the proper pitch; and the voice, by articulating the words, conveys the sense, through the medium of the ear, to the soul.

Music is a science, because it is something which may be known; and it is an art because it is founded on principles and taught by precepts.

It is one of the fine arts, and ranks with poetry, as sculpture ranks with painting.

It is remarkable also, that, while the scriptures give no intimation of the need, or use of any of the arts or sciences in the Heavenly state, music alone excepted, they uniformly represent that as the employment of the unfallen and the redeemed, from creation's birth to endless ages. It was no doubt designed by Heaven as a pleasing auxiliary to devotion, and to "calm the tumult of the mind," and "tranquillize the soul," amidst earthly cares.

When reduced to writing, certain characters are used

to express it, and the proper arrangement and disposition of these characters constitute the Grammar of music, whilst the tasteful and elegant combination of sounds constitute the Rhetoric thereof.

It is pitiful to observe how the grammar and rhetoric of music, are neglected and abused in the present day, especially in that music which is not written, and by those murderers of music, who attempt to sing without any knowledge of the science.

It is high time that there should be a reformation in that part of divine service called singing, and a revival of the knowledge of the rules by which it ought to be conducted.—The subsequent remarks will afford those who wish to learn, considerable help in these par ticulars.

Hartford, Dec. 20 1830.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

Deep is the fountain of a mother's love. Its purity is like the purity of the "sweet south that breathes upon a bank of violets." The tear-drop speaks not half its tenderness. There is language in a mother's smile, but it betrays not all her nature. I have someimes thought, while gazing on her countenance—its lignity slightly changed by the inelegant accents of er young child, as it repeated, in obedience, some endearing word that the sanctuary of a mother's heart is fraught with untold virtues. So fondly-so devotedly she listens to its accents, it would seem she catches from them a spirit that strengthens the bonds of her affection. I have seen the mother in almost every condition of life. But her love seems every where the same. I have heard her bid, from her bed of straw, her darling child come and receive the impress of her lips, and as her feeble strains mingled in the air, I have thought there was loveliness in them not unlike the loveliness of an angel's melody. And I have seen the mother at her fire-side deal out her last morsel to her little ones so pleasantly, that her own cravings seemed appeased by the pleasure she enjoyed. But who that

is not a mother can feel as she feels? We may gaze upon her as she sings the lullaby to her infant, and in her eye read the index to her heart's affections-we may study the demure cast of her countenance, and mark the tenderness with which she presses her darling to her bosom, but we cannot feel the many influences that operate upon her nature. Did you ever mark the care with which she watches the cradle where sleeps her infant? How quick she catches the low sound of an approaching footstep! With what fearful ear nestness she gazes at her little charge as the sound intrudes! Does it move? Does its slumber break? How sweet the voice that quiets it! Surely, it seems that the blood of but one heart sustains the existence of both mother and child. And did you ever behold the mother as she watched the receding light of her young babe's existence? It is a scene for the pencil. Words cannot portray the tenderness that lingers upon her countenance. When the last spark has gone out, what emotions agitate her!-When hope has expired, what unspeakable grief overwhelms her! I remember to have seen a sweet boy borne to his mother with an eye closed for ever. He had strayed silently away at noon-day, and ere nightfall death had clasped him in its embrace. The lifeless tenement of that dear boy, as it burst upon the mother's vision, seemed to convey an arrow to her heart. When the first paroxysm of grief had subsided, she laid her ear to his lips, as if unwilling to credit the tale his pale countenance bore. She put her hand upon his breast, but she felt no beating there. She placed the ends of her soft finger upon his brow, but it was cold. She uttered aloud his name-she listened-but the echoing of that name elicited no responding voice. came the misgiving that her child was dead."-She imprinted many a kiss upon his cheek, and her tears mingled with the cold moisture upon his brow. Her actions betrayed a fear that she could not do justice to her feelings that she could not express half the anguish of her bosom. The silence that followed that scene was like the silence of the sepulchre. It seemed of too holy a nature to disturb. There was a charm

"Then

in it-it was a charm hallowed by the unrestrained gushes of a mother's love.

Did you ever awaken, while on a bed of sickness, and find a mother's hand pressed closely upon your forehead? It is pleasant thus to break from a dream even when affliction is on you. You are assured that you have at least one friend, and that that friend is a true one. You are assured that if you never again go forth in the world, you will die lamented; and when pain and distress are on you, such an assurance is consoling. At such a time, you can read more fully a mother's feelings than her tongue can express them. The anxiety with which she gazes upon you the tenderness with which she sympathises with you-the willingness with which she supplies your wants-all serve to represent the secret workings of her heart. But a mother's love is unceasing. Her children as they advance in years, go out one by one into the world, and are soon scattered in the directions of the four winds of heaven. But though rivers may separate them from her, they separate not the bonds of her affection. Time and distance rather increase her anxieties. She knows not the strength of her own attachments until she becomes separated from her offspring. Until she bids a child farewell, her nature remains untried. But at the dread moment of separation, she feels the influences of her love-she feels the full weight of the many treasures of affection she has unconsciously imbibed.

Who can look coldly upon a mother? Who, after the unspeakable tenderness and care with which she has fostered him through infancy-guided him through childhood, and deliberated with him through the perplexities of opening manhood, can speak irreverently of a mother? Her claims to his affections are founded in nature, and cold must be the heart that can deny them. Over the grave of a friend-of a brother, or of a sister, I would plant the primrose, for it is emblematical of youth but over that of a mother, I would let the green grass shoot up unmolested; for there is something in the simple covering which nature spreads upon the grave, That well becomes the abiding place of decaying age.

The Repository for December, contains an engraving of one of the ancient Sepulchres, with an interesting account from Emerson's Letters from the Egean. The Sepulchres there spoken are of two distinct kinds. The engraving referred to, represent those erected upon the surface of the cliffs. At some short distance from these are the places of sepulchre excavated in the cliff, and of which the above cut is said by Mr. Emerson, and others, to be a correct representation. The latter consist generally of a small chamber, with one or more divisions for the reception of bodies, and not unfrequently the front of the rock, above the low entrance to the vault, is formed into a facade, with pilasters and a pediment, the capitals being shaped like the volutes of the Ionic order.

These two species of sepulchres are amply illustrative of the various texts throughout the Bible, which speak of the ancients. The first, from their elevation and profusion of ornament, are evidently those referred to in the text. 'Wo unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, because ye build the tombs of the prophets, and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous;' while the low apertures of those which are subterraneous, explain the stooping down of Mary to look into the sepulchre of Christ. Their capacious chambers would readily adVOL. I.

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