It must, at the same time, be observed, that all dogmatism on this subject is unbecoming our state of knowledge, and that we cannot expect to reduce everything to strict regularity. The principles of the ecclesiastical modes themselves are but partially understood by those who have studied them most, and many ancient ecclesiastical compositions are found which it is difficult to assign to any mode. The same thing may, and indeed does, occur as to several Scotch airs. It would not, we think, be an argument for the correctness of any view, if, in a matter so obscure and perplexed, it left nothing for doubt or investigation. It is a great matter to trace a connexion between the modes and the Scottish music, though we should be unable to follow out all its bearings.

The ideas above adverted to, however imperfectly here developed, may, we think, be of use to performers and harmonists in the execution and arrangement of Scotch music. There has long been a tendency to alter the character of our melodies, by the introduction of ornaments and intervals, foreign to their structure, and at variance with their essential features. The result is a mongrel breed of musical monsters, which could never possibly have sprung from any genuine and pure stock. The original part of the melody has been composed upon a certain system of tones, which is disregarded by the modern artists who are dealing with it, and who load it with embellishments framed upon a totally different system. Consistency is thus destroyed; the ear is perplexed between conflicting effects, and the heart refuses to yield to affectation and effort that tribute of emotion which is only due to nature and simplicity. It is plain that the performer of a Scotch melody ought to place himself, as much as possible, in the situation of the original composer, so as best to give effect to the true intention of the composition; and, at least, not to thwart any of its principles. For this purpose it is necessary that something should be understood of the ancient tonalities, within the limits of which the melody must be confined. Not that we would exclude all ornament from such airs, but only those graces are admissible which an enlightened taste may suggest, and which lie within the range

of the legitimate scale, so far as we can discover it. Where we are doubtful of our ground, the more sparing we are of our embellishments the better.

In arranging accompaniments for our Scotch melodies, the composer has considerable difficulties to contend with, as the prevailing system of harmony is chiefly founded on the varieties of modern tonality. Nevertheless we are of opinion that here also the ancient modes should be, as much as possible, preserved, even at a sacrifice in point of fulness of accompaniment : and, at least, that all extraneous intervals should be kept in the background, and not brought in collision, as we often see them, with those parts of the melody which are regulated by different laws. We believe that in this department there is great room for the exercise of ingenuity and taste, when guided by knowledge, and that the composer who can imbibe the spirit of the old Scottish melodists will overcome or elude the difficulties of his position, and will even elicit new beauties out of those difficulties, and produce effects in harmony which will at once sustain the original airs, and add to their peculiar and affecting character. We find, in what we have above said, that we have been expressing the ideas, and almost using the very words of Mr Dun, in his analysis, where these views are strongly enforced, upon bet ter authority than ours. We hope that the whole discussions which we have been noticing, will meet with the attention they deserve, and hasten the attainment of the ends in view.

We cannot conclude this article without a humble but earnest exhortation to our musical artists and amateurs to cultivate the study of those delightful melodies of which Scotland may so proudly boast. Enough has been said to show that our music is not harsh or crabbed, rude or capricious: but regular, according to laws of high origin, and animated by a spirit of true feeling and poetry. Without depreciating the Italian school, we would say, that its tendency, at least in its more modern shape, is to refine away the language of melody till it loses its strength and freedom, and becomes soft and voluptuous. The reign of very chromatic music cannot be lasting or extensive. The broad and grand effects produced by the greatest com

posers are calculated to be more generally delightful and impressive, as they excite feelings in themselves more noble, animating, and powerful than any that can be touched by the languishing refinements of minute divisions. Those great effects, it is obvious, are referable to a musical system which, in many respects, has an affinity to the laws of Scottish melody. But it is needless, for our argument, to assimilate these various styles to each other. There is room enough for them all in every com. prehensive and vigorous heart. In In music, as in every thing else, a taste which is not catholic in its objects, cannot be pure or high. Let Scottish melody occupy only its rightful share of attention, and nothing further needs be asked. But surely its claims are the more strongly recommended by the consideration, first, that it is the music of our native land which, for ages past, has been the language of all who have gone before us, whether high or low, who could give utterance in song to the emotions of joy, or pity, or affection; and next, that in this school success is most easily attainable by our native vocalists. Not that in our opinion it is an easy matter to sing Scottish music. On the contrary, it is a task both hard and honourable to achieve. The attainment. of true simplicity of taste is itself arduous, and requires diligent study. But we think that if this difficulty be overcome, and it lies, in truth, at the threshold of all musical education, it is more likely that a pupil with a voice of ordinary compass and flexibility will be able to sing a Scottish melody well, than any Italian composition equally well that is at all worth hearing. It is, of course, necessary that the airs to be performed shall be carefully chosen; and for this purpose we must draw out of that well of undefiled simplicity which can alone give nourishment or delight to the affections. But if the best airs are selected, we know of nothing which

affords a better scope for musical talent than this field. A genuine Scottish melody, performed with all the recommendations of regulated intonation, simple embellishment, lucid articulation, and appropriate feeling, is calculated, not only to please ordinary ears, but to give more delight to the most scientific than they could derive from any composition of a more ambitious style attempted by the same performer. It is only those, indeed, who are in the debateable land between simplicity and science that will seem indifferent to its attractions, and affect to scoff at what they are afraid to admire. We do not know if we are heretical in saying that one obstacle to the cultivation of Scottish vocal melody arises from the inferior and unsuitable character of the poetry with which many of our airs are united. In spite of what Burns has done, and he, too, has been often unsuccessful, there are many exquisite airs which have no words that can be sung to them without impropriety or absurdity. Much may yet be done in this department by a fine genius and taste, combined with a thorough understanding of the character of our music, and of the ancient form of our dialect, to which it may be best adapted. But even as it is, we have many beautiful melodies, with words sufficient to give a direction to the music without disturbing its effect; and some of our lyrics, united to the very finest of our airs, possess a beauty and simplicity altogether unrivalled. The finest judgment may here be shown by a performer in the choice of the songs to be sung, while the successful execution of our best music is at once attainable, by moderate abilities, so as to convey considerable pleasure, and is, at the same time, a fit occasion for displaying some of the highest quali ties of musical style, the very same, we think, that are needed to do justice to the tender simplicity of some of the noblest works of Handel and Mozart.

PART III.

EARLY on the Sunday morning which succeeded to the night marked by the burning of the old church spire, Mrs Nugent sent her carriage for Maria and Walsingham, who accordingly departed from the cottage. Walsingham and Collins separated on terms of civility, and he took leave of Maria with cordial, and for him, uncommon courtesy. She had won upon him, in previous meetings, by her simplicity and earnestness, which came in aid of earlier ties between him and her family, and there were few persons whom he seemed to have so much pleasure in conversing with. He said, as he shook hands with her, that he hoped to see her soon again. It was still early in the morning, but he had already spent an hour in his garden, to which he now returned. The plot of ground was large for that of a cottage, and was neatly kept, entirely by Collins's own care. He had in it a great number of bee-hives, and there he now busied himself in examining, with a curious eye, the labours of the insects, and then by surveying the several beds of vegetables and flowers. To a passer by, had any stranger ever travelled on that retired road, he would have presented a singular object; for his face was sufficiently noticeable, and he was dressed, very unlike the peasantry of the neighbourhood, in a complete suit of dark grey, with thick high shoes, and a straw hat. His garden had in it several apple and pear trees, and two considerable elms. At the extremity furthest from the small road ran a brook, which made many windings through the valley. There were a few scattered, and for the most part distant cottages in sight. The heathy hills rose all around, and the general aspect of the scene was that of lonely quiet. But the hum of the bees, the murmur of the little stream, and the voice of the faint wind among the leaves, unbroken by the clamour of suffering or of heedless human existence, were sounds to which

VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX,

CHAPTER I.

the thoughts of Collins moved, for the most part, in accordance. His appearance, nevertheless, bore deep traces of former sorrow and inward convulsion, over the remembrance of which tranquillity seemed now to be maintained by the vigilant compulsion of a strong will.

When he had completed his work out of doors, he re-entered his house; and, while the old woman prepared his dinner below, he mounted to the upper room, and seated himself beside the small open window to read his favourite Thucydides. This author, Homer, Plutarch, Shakspeare, Luther's Table Talk, the Scriptures, and a few volumes of biography and as many of science, formed the bulk of his library. His work in the garden, his solitary walks among the hills, or sometimes to the sea-shore, a number of little mechanical employments required by his situation, and the perusal of these books, filled up all his time. It was only by the rarest accident that he received a visit from any one. But a day or two after Maria and Walsingham had shared his hospitality, his usual mode of life was again interrupted by the arrival of a stranger on horseback at the cottage gate. Sending away the peasant who had conducted him, he tied his horse to a tree, and entered the garden. He was evidently a member of the more luxurious classes, dressed with care, but pale and somewhat worn in countenance. He had the look of a man of some intelligence, of rather dissipated habits, and, beyond all question, an acknowledged member of polite society. Collins was digging at the lower part of his garden, near the hives, when he was found by the stranger, who had first sought him at the cottage. There was some embarrassment in his manner as he drew near to the recluse; but it was not till he had come quite close that Collins looked up, leaning on his spade, and, while a deep flush passed over his

B

face, said, coldly, after a moment's pause, "Well, Everard, what brings you here? I thought my world had lain quite beyond and away from yours.

He did not offer the stranger his hand, who replied, with a hesitating voice, "Will you not be satisfied, for a reason, with my wish to see so old a friend as you?"

Collins smiled sarcastically, but said nothing.

"Well, then, if you must have a better cause for my visit, may we not go into the house that I may tell my story at our leisure?"

"I don't see why you should not tell it here, but I have no objection to into the house. This earth which am digging will not spoil by five minutes' delay, as it has kept since the creation."

So saying, he led the way to the cottage, sent his servant to her own peculiar premises, desired his guest to sit down, and seated himself with an air of resigned unwillingness.

"It is pleasant, Collins," said Everard, "to find you settled in a way that suits your humour and character. You had always a good deal of the hermit in you, and now you have found out a quiet and secure hermitage, where, I am sure, you must be happy."

"Pray, may I ask on what business you are come to it? I don't remember that you ever showed any taste for hermitages before."

"No, perhaps not. Such a life would not suit me; but every one has his own way of existence. Mine at present is politics. But, unwilling as you are to let me claim the privilege of an old friend-and I am most sincerely yours I must say a word of your former kindness to me, and of my subsequent history. Little as you may believe it, I can never cease to be grateful for the generosity with which you shared your fortune between us, at the time when my father's unexpected death left me so destitute. The income you then made over to me, saved me from sinking into disgraceful poverty. But with the connexions I had formed in life, and the hopes I had been brought up in, I could not, you know, live as a gentleman on that. I am going over old ground, for I fancy you are aware that I soon found I must sell my in

terest in your annuity. With the little capital this gave me, I could make a decent appearance, and I soon after managed to get into Parliament. I think about this time you left London."

"Yes. The merchants who had all my remaining money failed, and left me penniless. I was obliged to go and work for my bread, which I earned as a corrector of the press in the North."

"O true-aye-I remember.Now, I always felt that it was my business to repay you what you had supplied me with as soon as possible. But, in fact, my position in life was above my means, and I had not a penny to spare. Some little legacies, and so forth, came in now and then and helped me on, but I always found it hard to make both ends meet; and the attempt to divert money to any object but the wants of the day, would have been quite inconsistent with my ambition to serve my country in public life. The clubs and parliament cost more than is generally supposed, and my seat had always to be paid for, more or less. So you see, my dear fellow, how it is that I really never have had the means of repaying you, and at this hour I am as poor as a rat. You who live in this sort of way, keep no establishment, and all that sort of thing, can have no notion of the claims upon a man in society in London."

"I once lived in London."

"Yes, no doubt. But that was when we were both young, quite unknown; nothing was expected from us then. But the fact is, it is only now that I begin to have a prospect of obtaining a situation which would enable me to do whatever is right as to you and every body; and it is for this I want your help.'

"My help, Mr Everard? I really do not understand you."

"Well, now, this is the case. I have always hitherto been member for quite a small borough; and the little place I hold is, perhaps, all I could fairly expect under existing circumstances. But in consequence of my patriotic principles, and of any other claims I may happen to possess, I have the hope of becoming member for a much more important constituency, which would give me decidedly greater weight with the Government, and help

me to official promotion. Now it so happens, my dear Collins, that you can essentially assist me. I find that you lived at one time among my future constituents, when, as you say, you were correcting the press; and you would undoubtedly have a good deal of influence, if you chose to exert it, among the artisans, especially the printers, who lead many of the others. They talk of you as a sure friend of the working men, and your opinion would have great power over them. Indeed, so much is this the case, that one of their number is coming as a deputy to consult you on the subject. It so happens that the decision you may lead them to is of great importance, for parties are otherwise so nearly balanced, that the votes of these men would completely turn the scale in my favour. The kindness I have to ask of you is, that you would advise them to vote for me. I hope so old a friend as I am may make this request without taking too great a liberty."

"I really cannot now say what advice I shall give this poor man. When he comes and tells his story I shall probably know what to answer. But pray, if the working men help you, what are you prepared to do for them?"

"As to that, you must see, between ourselves, I can say nothing. I must go with my party. But you may tell them, as I have not scrupled to say publicly over and over again, even at the risk of committing myself, my warmest feelings and most earnest endeavours shall be devoted to their service."

"I did not ask what I may say. Of course I may tell what lies I please, and should wish to do so without prompting, as I hold that every man ought to be his own liar. But I want to know, as you ask the help of these men, what service you propose to render them in return. Printers especially know too well how easily, and with how few little metal letters, the finest words are put together, to care much for mere compliments.'

"But surely a man of your experience and sagacity, Collins, cannot expect me to commit my party to any specific measure ?”

"Then how can you expect these

men to commit themselves in supporting you?"

That's quite a different thing. They compromise nobody. They are not public men. They may do as they please.'

"

"They compromise themselves and their wives and children and their own consciences, and all to get my dear old friend, Everard, a better place."

The tone with which this was said, though quiet enough, carried the edge of a scalping-knife. But Everard, who had a soul very hard to be scalped, soon resumed " Well, I will tell you what I will pledge myself to, and you who have known me so long may guarantee my promise. If these men will frame any plan for their own benefit, it shall rave my very best consideration."

"Oh, if they bring you into Parliament you will think benignly of their suggestion? Perhaps, if I offer your friend the deputy your best consideration for his proposals, he may offer his best consideration for yours."

"Ha! ha ha! You are as droll and dry as ever. But may I hope that you will help me in this matter? You may rely on my eternal gratitude, and I may add in that also of my political friends."

"I can say nothing on the subject till I see the person who you say will ask my advice. I shall give him the best in my power. You have not asked for any, and in your case, of course, I do not presume to volunteer it."

"But, my dear friend surely between us there need be no such ceremoniousness. Your advice would be of the highest value, and would always meet my very best consideration."

"Will you really promise me that? For if so I should think it a duty to offer an opinion."

"Pray do so without hesitation. I am all impatience. What is it you recommend to me?"

"To turn old clothesman as soon as possible. I do not know any trade you are so fit for, and I am convinced you would make a distinguished figure in it, especially if you gave it your best consideration. Now I must go back to my work, for I too am a working man-so good morning to you."