What can I say of music? It is connected intimately with our sweetest and saddest remembrances of the past; it mingles closely with our life of the present, and is one distinct feature in the great future for which we ought to hope. Who of the dead, or the lost, or the changed, is not connected, in some way, with our memories of music? Reader: have you not a song in your portfolio that you hesitate to play before witnesses? it is the last song you sang with the beloved. You can meet her in society, and speak calmly to her-she has married another but you cannot calmly sing "her song.' with the power of exquisitely appreciating the beauty of "the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony." Many people perform very well without possess ing that intense enthusiasm which is almost a passion, and which is the foundation of real excellence in everything. Music is in fashion as a means of social entertainment; scarcely can it be said at present to be a means of family entertainment. In how many houses are the musical instruments out of Have you, gentle maiden, no duet, once a fa- use excepting during the presence of visitors, to vourite, but the sister voice is gone-gone to fill up the awkward pauses so odious to a timid make sweeter music than you or she could hear hostess. But I wish we were like Sterne's on earth. Oh! the unutterable sadness that French peasant, who had out his fiddle nightly, fills the heart if we take up such a song unwit- after supper, and set his family dancing, for an tingly! The whole scene comes before us. It hour or two, by the moonlight. was summer; she stood here, her golden hair curling round her face, a happy smile on her lips. Alas! she faded-she is gone, and the living voice is lonely and mournful. I suppose everybody has some moments of fancy and reverie; everybody sometimes loses the present in the past, or the future; everybody now and then seems to stand alone with God and the angels. In such moments the material world is entirely forgotten, the spiritual is real; the soul, transported by the light and love shining into it, asks only that they may last; but the lower world again comes in, and the sunshine is shut out by the clouds. This will be intelligible to every fanciful person; and perhaps few such persons will disagree with me when I say that nothing in the world so soon or so delightfully induces the feelings at which I have glanced, as sacred music. It fills, it enlarges, it gladdens, it beautifies the spirit that loves it; its tender pathos warns him; its majestic chords inspirit him; its calmly rolling stream of mighty melody seems, like the life of a good man, to flow ever onward and brighter, until the music dies away like the gentle ending of his existence. Music, as a means of social entertainment, is now so much in fashion that everybody "learns music;" yet it is not everybody who is endowed I will not believe (rather a dangerous resolution this would be sometimes) that the English are unmusical; ignorant of music, and therefore uncultivated in, or careless about it, we may be; but is there a country on the face of the earth readier, not only to praise, but to remunerate musical talent? "A French housemaid," says Hazlitt, "lays aside her broom, and dances a little-the English girl sings at her work." "But we have little national music-scarcely any native composers." Good friend, we might perhaps have had more music, and more composers, but for the absurd predilection of our forefathers for foreign talent. It is different in the present day; all the magnates are ready to appreciate native talent. Of course, Miss Smith is not now considered a bad singer until she is metamorphosed, by some mysterious process, into Signora Legatissimo, when she is instantly patronised by the Morning Post, and by fashionable society in general, and is pronounced an accomplished" cantatrice." "All that must have been in the long-ago;' we are far beyond that." Of all the cants that are innocent enough to be amusing, the most ridiculous, the most comical, the most pedantic of all is the cant of The Blues began to gather in the square, the more respectable to remonstrate with the promoters of the bonfire, the rest to fight any stray Yellows who might be disposed for a little agreeable excitement. the musical reviewer. A songstress must be a almost out of her senses, by throwing a red cantatrice, her flights and embellishments fiori-streak of light across her hands and her work. ture, her voice her organ, its compass her register. One would think musical amateurs are like some fretful children at a fair, who are not contented even with gingerbread without gilding. What business has all this jargon in English newspapers? Surely the language is extensive The bonfire reddened, and sent up long leapand forcible enough for a musical, or any other ing tongues of vivid flame; the yells and shrieks review written in it to be correct, devoid of were fearful as the first effigy was flung into the foreign terms, and at the same time generally burning mass. The whole town seemed to be intelligible. The reviews, like the gingerbread, groaning and screaming in the market-place. would be quite as good without the gilding. It "This is dreadful," said the mayor's wife; is a melancholy reflection that, after a little lapse" I am afraid some mischief will happen. Í of time, French, German, and Italian phrases really think, my dear, you ought to read the will be too passe to be recherché, and then the riot-act." genteel reviewer must learn some new tongue, or make his own suffice-" a consummation," to use our friend's style, "devoutly to be desiré." It is astonishing to me that a person can ever be bigoted in his musical tastes, and extol one school to the depreciation of the rest. Surely it is not more difficult to admire, at the same time, the sparkling animation of the French, the wild force of the German, and the flowing pathos or fiery passion of the Italian school, than it is for one person to appreciate French, German, and Italian landscapes. It is time that this wandering paper should draw to a close; and, in retiring, the author begs to introduce THE CHALFORD ORGANIST. The town of Chalford is a neat old English town, with a few more than two thousand inhabitants, among whom there is the usual number of factions and parties. Chalford is generally a quiet place, but on occasions of great excitement, it proves that quietness and indifference are widely distinct. On the passing of the Reform Bill, for instance, the Yellows, who lost a member by the change, nobly (?) subscribed to purchase large quantities of combustible materials, and did, moreover, aid and abet in the manufacture of certain unflattering representations of the king's ministers, with a view to their being publicly burnt. Chalford had from the much quoted period "time immemorial" sent two Yellow members to parliament; henceforth it was to return only one member at all, and that one perchance a Blue, in consequence of the extension of the suffrage to a class of the community inclining mostly to Bluism. It was an awful night. The old smokeblackened handsome market-house, with its round-headed arches beneath, its rows of long windows above, and its tall tower, with the four gilt weathercocks glistening in the cold moonlight, looked like the guardian of the town. In the midst of the square, before the market-house, was a huge pile of wood, turpentine, &c., and around this pile danced, vociferated, and rejoiced all the rabble of Chalford. The mayor, being himself a staunch Yellow, winked at the riot, although the light of the newly-kindled bonfire shone in at his parlour-window, and, by a sudden flicker, startled his wife (who sat knitting) ""Tis only a proof of the popular indignation against the Blues, my dear; I shan't interfere." And the mayor slyly peeped out at one side of the window-blind, enjoying the strange wild scene; after a while he came back to his newspaper, for in his eagerness to see all, he had pushed the blind farther and farther aside until his large red face had been discerned by some of the mob. He withdrew hastily, and tried to peruse the Chalford Chronicle with due attention. He had scarcely read a word, however, when a sudden shout of "Down with the mayor!" was followed by hooting, hissing, and a shower of heavy stones against the windows. Crack, crack, crack went the panes of glass, all up the front of the house. The mayor was an excessively timid man; the parlour he was in was on the ground-floor; the mob might even pelt him through the window! He rushed out of the room, forgetting his poor frightened wife, who had sunk, half fainting, into a corner, behind a screen; and bounding upstairs, met the servants, who had been watching the commotion from an upper window. He caught up the first book at hand, and, with his servants round him, stood at the balcony of the first-floor, declaiming from memory the opening clause of the riot-act. "I call my servants to witness," said he, in a tremulous voice, and feebly wiping his face with his handkerchief, "that I fear for my personal safety." Just then the constables, who had been called by a small party of Yellows to take up the Blues who had broken the mayor's windows, arrived. These unfortunate Blues had been captured by three times their number of Yellows, and forcibly detained until the officers came up. They were then given in custody, and the Yellows quietly retired home, hoping that no notice would be taken of them. The mayor was magnificent the next morning as he summarily punished the offending unpopular Blues; of the Yellows he took no notice, and did not even seem to know there had been a bonfire, a noise, or any disturbance but that raised by the window-breakers. Justice is indeed often blind-to one side of the question. Events were so scarce in Chalford that the slightest occurrence served for discussion, and the Chalfordians so disposed to disagree that every discussion was a quarrel. They could not even do good without quarrelling; and when two rival grocers were co-churchwardens, they sneered at each other as they held the plates at the church door after a charity sermon! They voted a piece of plate to the vicar, and could not agree as to the choice of an article; the parishioners divided into three parties, and in the end, one party gave a silver tea-pot, another a salver, and the third-who six months after the collection of all their subscriptions had not decided on what they should give-presented a purse containing the money they had raised, the subscribers not being able to agree in their choice. Chalford had an old market-house, an old stone bridge with one arch, a very old Norman church, and abundance of fine old trees. It was not distinguished for any particular manufacture, and was altogether a pretty, quiet, idle place. When I call Chalford a quiet place, I mean it had every reason to be so; most of the Chalfordians were able to earn a respectable livelihood; the few gentry of the place were of good character and liberal habits, the surrounding scenery was lovely, and the clergyman one of the best of men. It was quiet too, because there was no bustle in its business; there was a little rivalry between the two grocers, the two butchers, &c., but generally speaking there was no competition among the tradesinen, because mostly there was but one of a sort. Had not private bickerings interfered with Chalford's peace, it would have been the most quiet and lazy of towns. The summer assizes were held at Chalford, and at that time the place was completely metamorphosed the draper and the saddler, the two doctors, and several other of the principal inhabitants, let the best rooms of their homes to the counsellors, and retired themselves to unknown parts of their abodes. An election too was a proud thing for Chalford, and although it had been shorn of half its honours by the Reform Bill, the extension of the franchise rendered the contest all the keener-the quarrels the more spiteful. Some years after the passing of the Reform Bill, and the riot with which my little tale began, Mr. Minim, the organist of Chalford, died. We have no business with the departed Minim but to state that he was always an inoffensive man, who was so happy as to be on good terms with nearly everybody. Mr. Binns, the wine-merchant, who was the mayor at the opening of the tale, had been again elected to that honourable post, and was not a little proud thereof. Every one expressed sorrow for poor Minim's deathevery one pitied the widow; a few subscribed to buy her a little annuity, and then all turned eagerly to engage in the contest that was sure to ensue on the election of a new organist. support them both. Her father had been in very good circumstances, but lost all his fortune by some foolish speculation, and died, leaving his sick widow and his tender daughter to the care of Mrs. Miles's brother, Mr. Binns, the mayor. Mr. Binns now and then gave them a sovereign, and constantly paid the rent of their two homely rooms. Lucy was fifteen when her father died, and she felt keenly the cessation of her musiclessons. She was a pretty girl, and had a voice like an angel; but, as I said before, she was out of practice. Mr. Minim had such great hopes of Lucy's talents that he would have continued to give her at least an occasional lesson for nothing, but Mr. Binns coming in one day found Lucy making a very neat dress for herself, and almost insisted on her cultivating the business of a mantuamaker. So Lucy gave up the music she so much loved; ever since, a stolen half-hour with Mr. Minim had been all the time devoted to her favourite study, and she had almost made up her mind to be a dress-maker all her days when Mr. Minim died. "You know, my dear," said Mr. Binns, “you could still get a good bit of money at the dressmaking. Twice on the Sunday, and one day to practise the school-children, won't hinder you much. You'll be quite rich in time, Lucy!" Lucy sighed, and thanked her uncle for his suggestions. When he first intimated his desire that she should try for the situation of organist, her vivid fancy painted a whole life of delicious music. She thought she might give lessons in music and singing, and so forget the needle altogether; but Mr. Binns bade her not send back any orders until she found she could get more money another way; and as yet she was not sure of the organist's place, so she sat by her bed-ridden mother stitching away as busily as ever. Lucy Miles was not the only candidate; Mr. Merrett, foreman to an organ-builder in the cathedral city fourteen miles off, was also trying for the situation; and several others issued cards -but with them we shall have little to do. A notice of an organist being required was put in the Chalford Chronicle and in the Times, to excite the application of candidates; and the Chalfordians were as proud of seeing the name of their town in print as a young author is when he reads his own in a similar situation. A meeting of the rate-payers was convened, and a day appointed for another meeting when the rival candidates were to play before the Chalfordians, and the election to take place. The mayor went about with Lucy Miles on his arm, much to the timid girl's distress, asking votes, and representing, in moving terms, the poverty of Lucy and her mother. He had a great deal of influence in Chalford, and was The mayor had a candidate; she was his own almost sure of getting Lucy the situation. Noniece, Lucy Miles, who from childhood had body dared to say openly, but a great many said loved music. She was now seventeen, could privately, that it was mean for a wealthy, childplay pretty well on the organ; but had not been less man to hunt for a place worth fifteen pounds able to practise much, as her mother was an in-a-year for a young girl almost his only relative. valid, and Lucy worked as a dress-maker, to It was Mr. Binns's favourite axiom, "that what you don't get, somebody else will; that | you're as good as anybody else, and therefore that you may as well have whatever is to be got." What a depth of meaning is wrapped up in these few words! The week before the candidates were to try their skill, was a week of stout fighting in Chalford. Mr. Merrett, the organ-builder's foreman, brought out a squib against the mayor, which pleased his own party and vexed Mr. Binns's. The clergyman shut himself up in his study, as he did always on occasions of quarrel; business was at a stand-still, and groups of eager idlers stood about the streets, hearing and telling the news. CHAP. II. The important morning arrived; it was a lovely day, and the sunbeams playing on the clear little river seemed bright and rejoicing; the old elms on the banks, and here and there a weeping willow, looked darkly green against the summer sky, and the fresh green grass, thickly speckled by sheep, stretched away to a background of dark woods and purple hills. The lichens on the grey old bridge appeared the greener for the kindly morning dew and the glorious sunshine. On the bridge, taking note of all these things, stood a middle-aged, bald, ungainly, poorly clothed man. His old snuff-coloured suit was very much worn, his large double-knuckled hands were gloveless, his shoes tied with leather, and his "appointments" altogether unfashionable. His features were, however, very pleasant and engaging-at times, as he was variously affected by the scene before him, even noble; there was a childlike clearness in his look, and a kindly smile-not a simper, but a real goodhearted smile-about his mouth; his eyes were deeply blue. In spite, however, of his goodlooking face, his bald head and shabby attire excited various disparaging remarks from the boys who loitered about the bridge. The people flocked across the bridge, through the cowslip-croft into the church, and still this stranger stood looking at the river, the trees, the church-totally careless of the passing crowd. At last he was left alone, and, wiping away a few tears, he sighed out "Good Father!" with a depth of devotion and affection. He also performed the act of kissing a locket enclosing a lock of bright brown hair, which will at once lead my lady-reader to the conclusion that he was in love. After a while he followed the crowd, and went into the church. There were assembled all the important pomposity of Chalford; Mr. Binns bustled about here and there, telling everybody "it would be a charity to vote for poor Lucy Miles;" and scowling, whenever he got a chance, at the obnoxious Merrett, who boldly marched up and down the church reading the inscriptions on the monuments, as if the place were his own. The playing commenced. Mr. Merrett performed very well several standard pieces-that is to say, he played them correctly; but it was music without the soul of music: it was like Galatea before the magic kiss of Pygmalion sent the enlivening fire into her veins. Several others tried, with various success-all second or thirdrate players; and then poor Lucy, who was left (as every one thought) till last, floundered through one of Handel's massive and (to me) heavy chorusses; her slender fingers slipping weakly over the notes-partly from inability, partly from weakness and timidity. Mr. Binns meant her to be the last player, and fetched her out of the vestry at the latest moment possible, that her fragile beauty and gentle appearance might startle them into electing her. They were just about to open the poll, and Merrett, sure of success, chatted easily with one of the churchwardens, when the stranger, whose acquaintance we have already made, intimated his wish to try for the place. Mr. Binns was enraged; Merrett smiled conceitedly, and shrugged up his shoulders, as he looked at the mean dress of the new candidate. The mayor, after a second look at his coat, thought there was no danger in letting him try; and so the stranger sat down to the organ. Oh! this was music! The tender, sublime melancholy of Mozart rose, like a cloud of sweet incense, and lingered lovingly among the arches, breathing out prayer, penitence, or complaint, as touchingly as a human voice. The harmonies of Boyce and Tallis were expressed solemnly, like the worship of manly reverent spirits; and the celestial strains of Purcell, of Palestrina, and many others, found a place in the stranger's performance. Chalford had never heard such music since Henry the Eighth swept away the little monastery, whose jagged ruins still lie near the bridge. The mayor hinted that it was getting on for dinner-time; nobody else spoke; they seemed to have found a new sense: and when the shabby man stopped his playing, all rubbed their eyes, as if just awakened from sleep. "There is no question about it," was the first exclamation; "We must not offend the mayor," the second. Only the mayor got up, as if he were glad it was over; and he said to those about him, "It was very fine, and all that; but still, we don't come to church to have our ears tickled." The poll was opened, and the stranger elected by a majority-of only two votes though! His name was entered on the parish-book as "Johann Stumpfel;" and Mr. Binns scolded Lucy, all the while he took her home, and bade her remember, for the future, that "the cobbler shouldn't go beyond his last;" not taking into account that he himself had pushed her forward as a candidate for the situation she had missed. Everybody inquired of everybody, "Where did he come from?" "Does any one know him?" People put questions, even to himself; if he did not choose to answer them, he merely shook his head, smiled, and perhaps sighed. D |