more-what effects his death may produce, remains to be seen.

On the 1st of January, 1817, a low woody island, about three miles in length, was discovered, and named New-Year's Island, it lies in 10° 8' 27" north lat., and in 189° 4' west long. from Greenwich. The surf prevented the boats from landing, but an animated traffic was carried on with the natives, who came off in canoes.

On the 4th of January, a group of coral islands, connected by a reef, was discovered, and named after Count Romanzoff; an opening was observed in the reef, through which the Rurick passed. The bason within was as smooth as a mill-pond, and here Lieutenant Kotzebue remained till the 7th of February, maintaining a friendly intercourse with the natives, who are represented as a mild, timid race, with much cheerfulness and vivacity; their bones are as delicate as women, and their hands and feet uncommonly small; they are tatooed, and in their general appearance resemble the other islanders in the Pacific.

The whole group, consisting of a ring of coral isles, is about thirty-five miles in length; and in process of time will form one large island, with a lagoon in the centre-a species of island of very frequent occurrence in these seas; the largest of the group is named Otdia, and is situated in lat. 9°, 28' 9" N. and in long. 189°, 43' 46" W. The neighbouring seas are filled with similar groups-a chart of which is given, from information collected from a native, and which proved, as far as Lieutenant Kotzebue had the means of ascertaining, to be remarkably correct.

They sailed on the 7th February; and after passing a similar group, called Eregup, anchored at Kawen, another of these groups, on the 11th; and at Aur, a third cluster of islets, within ten miles of Kawen, on the 23d of the same month. In one of the canoes they remarked two savages who were tatooed differently from the rest, and spoke a different language; their history was curious, and proves how easily the islands of the Pacific may have been peopled by the Malay race, even against the trade winds. They were natives of the Carolinas, which lie at least 1500 miles to the westward of Aur. In passing in a canoe from

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one island to another, they were driven out of their course by a gale of wind; and imagining themselves to leeward of their own island, they kept plying to windward; and after a navigation of eight months against the N. E. monsoon, reached Aur, having supported themselves chiefly by fishing. Kadu, one of these islanders, requested leave to go with the Russians, which was granted.

They now returned to the northward; and after passing several of the groups with which that part of the Pacific is so thickly studded, and the Cornwallis Islands, they encountered a gale of wind on the 13th of April, and Lieutenant Kotzebue unfortunately received a contusion on the breast, having been driven against a corner by a sea which broke on board of the vessel.

On the 24th April, they reached Oonalashka, where they remained torefit till the 29th of June. They then proceeded to the Islands of St Law rence, but here the effects of the climate on the health of the commander

forced them to return.

"At twelve o'clock at night, when we were about to anchor at the northern promontory, we perceived, to our terror, firm ice, which extended as far as the eye could see to N.E., and then to the N., covering the whole surface of the ocean. My melancholy situation, which had daily grown

It

worse since we had left Oonalashka, received here the last blow. The cold air so affected my lungs, that I lost my breath, and at last spasms in the chest, faintings, and spitting of blood ensued. I now for the first time perceived that my situation was worse than I would hitherto believe; and the physician seriously declared to me that I could not remain near the ice. than once I resolved to brave death, and cost me a long and severe contest; more accomplish my undertaking; but when I reflected that we had a difficult voyage to our own country still before us, and perhaps the preservation of the Rurick, and the lives of my companions depended on mine, I then felt that I must suppress my ambition. The only thing which supported me in this contest, was the conscientious assurance of having strictly fulfilled my that my ill health obliged me to return to duty. I signified to the crew, in writing, Oonalashka. The moment I signed the paper was the most painful in my life, for with this stroke of the pen, I gave up the ardent and long-cherished wish of my heart."

On their return to Oonalashka they

received the following account of the origin of a Volcanic Island:

"In the year 1796, on the 7th of May, M. Kriukof had arrived on the northern point of the island of Oomnack, at a small distance to the east of Oonalashka, with several hunters, who had selected it as a retreat after a fatiguing excursion. They intended to continue their voyage to Oonalashka in their large baydares the next day, but were prevented by a violent storm from the N.W., accompanied with rain. This storm lasted till the 8th; upon which the weather became fine, and they saw to the N. several miles from land, a column of smoke ascending from the sea; towards evening they observed under the smoke something black, which rose but a little above the surface of the water. During the night, fire ascended into the air near the spot, and sometimes so violent, and to such a height, that on their island, which was ten miles distant, every thing could be distinctly seen by its light. An earthquake shook their island, and a frightful noise echoed from the mountains in the S.* The poor hunters were in deadly anxiety; the rising island threw stones towards them. and they every moment expected to perish. At the rising of the sun the quaking of the earth ceased, the fire visibly decreased, and they now plainly saw an island of the form of a pointed black cap. When Kriukof visited the island of Oomnack, a month after, he found the new island, which, during that time, had continued to emit fire considerably higher. After that time it threw out less fire, but more smoke: it had increased in height and circumference, and often changed its form. For four years no more smoke was seen, and in the eighth year, (1804,) the hunters resolved to visit it, as they observed that many sea-lions resorted to it. The water round the island was found warm, and the island itself so hot in many places that they could not tread on

it. The island is said to increase in height and extent to this day. A very sensible Russian who was there, told me, that it is two miles and a half in circumference, and was three hundred and fifty feet high: for three miles around, the sea is strewn with stones. He found the island warm

from the middle to the summit, and the smoke which ascended from the crater appeared to him to have an agreeable smell. Some hundred fathoms to the north of this island is a rocky pillar of considerable height, mentioned by Cook: he took it, at a distance, to be a ship under sail. Our Russian navigator, Saritschef, has seen this pillar, which has kept its place since time immemorial. Experience has however now taught us that it is connected under water with the island of Oonemack."

After refitting at Oonalashka, the Rurick proceeded to the Sandwich Islands, where the Russians had another interview with Tamaahmaah; and from thence returned to the Romanzoff, or Radack Islands, and again entered the Bason. They were receiceived with joy by their friends, and their companion Kadu wisely determined to remain upon the islands, and parted from them here.

On their return, they touched at the Ladrone Islands and the Cape of Good Hope, and anchored in the Neva, before the Palace of Count Romanzoff, on the 3d August, 1818.

The translation is carelessly executed, and evidently by a person ignorant of nautical affairs. If the very respectable publishers of the work cannot find naval men to translate voyages, they ought at least to submit their translation to the inspection of competent judges, previous to publication.

MR NORTH,

WERE you ever at a Concert? If you ever were, the lines of your expressive physiognomy must have been "worth the marking." As you observed the nimble bows of the musicians dance, and quiver, and bound, upon the tortured strings-the conceit of the player-the affectation of the amateur-the nonchalance and lassitude of the fashionable lounger-the men with pale stone faces, looking half asleep, like busts-the ladies attentive by starts, and then, ever and anon, relapsing into chit-chat; until vainly trusting for impunity to the noise of a 66 tutti," in some pitiless overture, they are at once betrayed, by some sudden pause of a bar, which the composer (God knows why-he cannot tell himself) has interposed at so inconvenient a juncture. As you gazed upon all these things, Mr North, I suspect your countenance must have discovered some distinguishing signs of lurking scepticism as to the merits of so strange a scene. Do not be alarmed-the matter is between ourselves. Far be it from me to attempt to seduce you into putting your imprimatur upon any set of unfashionable opinions. That is not your way-still one cannot help thinking, that had doubts and difficulties not been sticking like a remora to the bottom of your understanding, you would ere this have put forth an unanswerable exposition of the sublimities of modern music.You must own it is strange, that the admirers and cultivators of modern science have not invented any thing like a consistent theory of musical expression-nay, that the vague ideas of most writers on music, with relation to its expression, embody the very principles, which in their full extent are most inimical to modern practice. Nor will it be less odd, if musical reasoners, as well as composers, have just admitted into their works meaning enough to shew their abuse of those

laws upon which it is naturally founded. To come however to the point.

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Music may be briefly defined to be the Poetry of Sound. It seems to be agreed on all hands, that its province and end is to express poetically, by means of inarticulate sound, certain passions and feelings incident to hu man nature. This is involved both in the practice and phraseology of all musical people. From the earliest times, the lover has interested his mistress, and the general excited his troops, by means of music and song; and composers have, from time immemorial, affixed to their compositions, words and expressions of direction, which imply that the pieces to be played either have, or pretend to have, some connexion with the feelings of the auditor. We have as many marginal hints as in a German tragedy, and much to the same purpose, and generally quite as much needed. Now if a tune is to be "amoroso, maestoso," or agitato," or pas torale," or "spiritoso,"-in plain English, if musical sound is to express sentiment or passion, it can only do so in one of these two ways. Either the notes singly, or in some known combinations, must, as words are, be understood to be arbitrary signs of the things to be expressed by them ;-or else they must express passions and feelings by copying so nearly, that the likeness may be recognized, those sounds which nature has appropriated to the expression of those passions and feelings. The first of these modes* has never, I believe, been contended for. Arbitrary significations have indeed been attempted, by fanciful individuals, to be affixed to the peculiarities of the tones of different musical instruments; but these fancies have not been generally received. To the notes or divisions of notes of the musical scale, however, meanings of this sort have been never attributed. Crotchets and quavers have never been in

vested with the powers of letters; neither have they been made to stand for whole words, like the characters of the Chinese alphabet. It should seem then, that if melody is expressive at all, it must be so by imitation-and by imitation of that which is sufficiently familiar to the minds of men in general, to render likely a general recognition of the resemblance. That peculiar intonations of voice, in the expression of certain passions and feelings, are common not only to whole nations, but, with some varieties, to mankind in general, is a fact that experience teaches. It is observable too, that of all others the people whose language has least variety of natural intonation, have been least successful in music, I mean the French. The tones as well as the looks of love, jealousy, anger, revenge, joy, or despair, need only to be exhibited by the actor, to be at once felt and known. Tones, in fact, are of as great consequence as words, in as much as by varying them; a sentence of praise may be turned into one of irony, love into ridicule, and rage into humour. It is by a reference, then, to these well-known intonations of passion, that the meaning of a combination of musical sounds is to be ascertained. But the imitation is not a servile one. The musician, like the poet, is to preserve a rhythmical regularity; he is to conform to certain laws and limitations; and, above all, to impart a poetical heightening to his euphonic delineations, without overstepping the modesty of nature. He is to marry the poetical to the natural in sound, neither dividing the substance nor confounding the persons; a delicate task, and one which exalts the original musician into a poet. He is a bard who expresses himself in musical instead of articulate sounds; and, to read his compositions, we must learn to sing or play, or else have them read to us by those who can.

It is this poetical imitation of the natural tones of passion, which is the origin and essence of musical expression. Other imitations have indeed been introduced into modern composition; but they do not deserve the name of expression, and are of a nature totally dissimilar. They, in fact, depend, for the most part, upon the peculiar tone of the instrument employed, and not upon abstract resemblance, as the poetical imitation of the

rises and falls of passion must do.Thus we have storm-pieces for the piano-forte, in which the lower keys are rumbled into a sort of thunder, and the higher "tipped" to resemble drops of rain or hail. We have shrill fac-similes of the whistling of birds, and battles, in which the great-drum is thumped for cannon, and the kettledrum rattled in the manner of the galloping of horses; but to what do all these peculiarities amount? Why, to a proof that a piano-forte can rumble something like distant thunder, and" drip, drip," as Mr Coleridge would say, like "water-drops :" that an octave-flute is not very unlike the whistle of a bird, and the percussion of a double-drum nearly as bad as the "report of a culverin." They delineate no passion, nor can they excite any, excepting indirectly, and by chance. The curiosity they gratify is trifling, and it can only be once gratified. One reason certainly, why compositions of this sort must please a certain class of hearers, is their artful and complicated mechanism, but more of this by and by.

Harmony is, or ought to be, the handmaid of melody. It cannot be denied, however, that it includes in itself the power of pleasureable excitement. For proof of the existence of this excitement, we may appeal to facts. The sound of an Æolian harp, for instance, is pleasing merely from the chords. The order in which they are produced is the work of chance. The excitement would seem to be direct, and to act strongly upon the nerves as a stimulus. Indeed, sounds produced simultaneously, for the most part, act strongly upon the nerves. The excitement caused by discords, however, is disagreeable, and with some persons so violently efficient as to induce that nervous affection, called "teeth on edge." In Mozart, when a child, it produced convulsions. That chord and discord are only varieties of nervous vibration, seems pretty evident in the fact, that those who are incapable of pleasure from the one, are also nearly, in a like degree, insensible of pain from the other. The excitation from harmony, has likewise, in some instances, been known to have brought on fainting and stupor, with persons of an irritable temperament. From all this, it appears to follow then, that the pleasure arising from

harmony, be it as intense as it will, is a bodily rather than a mental pleasure. It is a dram taken by the ear, only the exhilaration is transient like that of the nitrous oxide. It does not act through the intellect, but goes direct ly to the nervous system. We must be allowed, therefore, to conclude, that the pleasure of harmony is inferior in its nature to that of melody; and that melody ought not to be sacrified to it, nor put beneath it, as has long been the case. The invention of counterpoint has so far been the bane of melody. The mathematical has over-run the poetical. The mechanical has overlaid the intellectual. Nor is this to be wondered at. The thing is capable both of explanation and ex

cuse.

It is asserted somewhere by Rous seau, no mean judge of such matters, that the musical world may be divided into three classes, Those who are capable of feeling the intellectual part of music, who are generally men with something of a poetical temperament, and no very correct ear for harmony; -Those who have an ear for harmony, and a taste for harmonious arrangement, but whose feelings are not excited by expressive melody, and who are, for the most part, men deficient in imagination; and lastly, Those who unite these two qualifications-a class, says Rousseau, rather rare. In this judgment of the celebrated citizen of Geneva, I must own that my limited observation, as far as it goes, strongly inclines me to concur. Now, if this idea be founded in truth, the consequent changes in the world of music are of natural occurrence: nor is it easy to conceive how they could have been materially different.

Before the discovery of counterpoint and of the present accurate system of musical notation, the science (if science it could be called) of music was limited to the composition and repetition of a few simple airs. The harmonies, when harmony was attempted, were mean and monotonous, and the composer or performer possessed little means and less inclination to improve this branch of his art. Indeed, if the date of many of the finest old airs be as modern as some contend, the indifference of the bards who com posed them, to harmonious accompaniment, is almost incredible. They must of necessity have been aware of

the improved arrangement of harmonies, and of the passion for that arrangement, which had then been spread, chiefly by the ministers of religion, over all Europe. Yet so little have the minds of the poets, who conceived those melodies, condescended to invest themselves in the trammels of science, that of those exquisite remains, there are few which do not violate some of the rules of composition, and scarcely any which, without injury to the melody, admit of a moderately full or scientific accompaniment. Be this, however, as it may, it is clear enough that the number of the individuals who lived either by the composition or performance of those airs, could not have been great, and in all likelihood was small. The whole of the known music about that period would, perhaps, not equal in bulk the thousandth part of the com position of the last ten years; and probably not one of the composers was the author of as many of those impe rishable melodies as would fill a modern folio second page. The religious music of the ages prior to the inven tion of counterpoint, would seem to have been very deficient. It was ne cessarily simple; and where all passions save that of devotion were forbidden, melody naturally became either monotonous or unimpassioned; at last, probably both.

In this state of things, counterpoint and the phrenzy for complete harmony, which to this hour is only subsiding, effected a radical and total change. A new order of men, that is to say, Rousseau's second class, became, from their numbers, and from the endless variety of which the description of music they cultivated is suscepti ble, the Lords of the Ascendant. The power of employing a multiplicity of voices and of instruments in chapels and cathedrals, was immediately turn ed to account. The church was omnipotent; and the "Maestro di Capella" was only another name for the best musician in the place. The expressive but simple airs of the obscure bards, who in all countries have com posed what is called "national me lody," were at once buried under an avalanche of motets, canons, masses, requiems, anthems, hymns, psalms, and choruses. To these were quickly added fugues, symphonies, sonatas, duetts, quartetts, quintétts, and all