lies in this. In that song of songs, in Handel's Messiah, “ I know that my Redeemer liveth," a few familiar lines, a single verse, just expressing the thought and no more, are expanded into several long strains of music. Hence the air is one un

broken outpouring of triumphant faith and gratitude, and serene joy, the richer and the fuller, that it has not to adapt itself to changing thoughts, but is left at liberty to follow the natural course of fervent feeling, and to cling with fondest repetition to the one ever dear and holy theme. No less expressive and delicately true to all our associations with the words is the air, "He shall feed his flocks," and "Come unto him, all ye that labor." What consolation does not that exquisite strain whisper to the anxious mind! We open ourselves to that song, and are perfectly happy; it glides invisibly into the profoundest labyrinths of the breast, and unlocks all the fountains of joy and peace within us; it changes the whole aspect of things around us; everywhere we are met with smiles; we feel that we are no longer alone in the world, and yield ourselves with sweet resignation into the arms of Providence. Then we discover, perhaps for the first time, how chaste, and pure, and serene a state is that happiness, which we seek with such mistaken struggles of unhallowed, unquiet desire. All the preaching in the world does less to teach us Christian resignation, than such a song, which gives us a foretaste of the very feeling.

A few words as to the descriptive power of music. In some of the most graphic orchestral pieces, hearing and seeing become one; we begin to doubt almost if the eye is necessarily the organ of vision, so analogous are sounds with forms and colors the moment we cease to hear them superficially, but get lost in the spirit of them. It was the simultaneous remark of more than one, who heard Caradori sing, that her highest, purest, sprightliest tones seemed like points of light, stars dancing in the air. Everything which intently occupies the mind, the mind paints to itself again in images; it translates all its notions into vision, and that so rapidly as almost to fancy that it sees them in the first instance. It is by some such law of the mind as this that music becomes descriptive. But it does not directly describe, like speech or painting. It interests the feelings first; these the imagination, and then come up the scenes, the forms, the faces. Our emotions have all a creative power; our passions are artists; they surround themselves with the fit landscape; they people the void with forms and faces,

VOL. XXV.

- 3D S. VOL. VII. NO. I.

5

and all objects familiar, or fantastic, or radiant with divine ideal beauty. Music too is vague; and therefore describes even the more powerfully. It wakes the feeling, which is one in all; but it leaves each individual heart to clothe its feeling in its own hues and forms. Music too is partly imitative. It borrows many sounds from nature; and the resources of the art are gradually enlarging, and seem capable of indefinite enlargement, by a diligent observation of the sounds which pervade the air. The wind, the ocean, the rustling grove, the murmuring brook, the hum of insects, the rush, the start, the crash, the flow, the roll, the impatient bound, all appear in new qualities of tone, and new species of rhythmical motion. The reed-stop" of the organ reminds you at once of the mysterious, soul-like music of the wind, sifted through the tiny leaves of the pine grove. In Handel's Messiah, at the words, "Suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host praising God," the air is filled with the quick undulations of wings by the stringed instruments of the orchestra. At the words, "I will shake the heavens and the earth," the whole mighty mass of sound quivers to its base. In such music the orchestral accompaniments form the dark back-ground, or deep undefined substratum, the world in shadow, whence the voices emerge into distincter light, like the prominent figures in a great painting.

But music never copies nature literally; if it does it fails. It uses the privilege of art to idealize whatever it represents; it views all things in a picturesque light. The harshest sounds in the description of a battle or a storm are as if heard from a distance, where they are blended in with all other sounds and harmonized. If it use a discord, it is only to prepare the ensuing concord with a more beautiful effect. Beauty, beauty is the object of all the arts. They may copy nature; but always they do something more; they create, they impart to every picture something of their own. They contemplate nature from a loftier position, and impart a spiritual unity and beauty to that which looks deformed and contradictory to the vulgar observer. It is a remarkable fact, however, that nature herself idealizes in the first instance; she gives the hint to the artist. As, seen afar off, the most vulgar and incongruous objects make up one sweet picture, so all sounds, however harsh and jarring singly, become blended into the general music of the air, so that one ground-tone pervades them all, and swallows up their

discords. The tremendous roar of Niagara is musical and pleasing, because it so completely pervades the air; everything around for miles has adopted its vibration, and the effect is one deep, soul-satisfying harmony; it does not disturb, but fills and delights the ear. So it is with the roar of the ocean, particularly on a beach, where there is a rhythm with the harmony. But the sharp, petulant prattle of smaller falls, like those at Trenton, forbids all music, and distracts and crazes one, whose ear is sensitive. So soon as an object becomes vast enough to be called sublime, it is beautiful. So with sounds. So soon as they become grand enough, not to check, but to swallow up all other sounds, they become Music. The most complicated wonders of musical art therefore have nature for their authority.

Such are some of our speculations, the greater part of them experiences, about music. We might continue them much farther; but feel that we shall be gratifying more readers, by making our own remarks give place to some specimens of our author's power of description. We quote almost at random. The following description of morning in "The Creation" is from the chapter on Color.

"The sinfonia in the Creation, which represents the rising sun, is an exemplification of this theory. In the commencement of this piece, our attention is attracted by a soft streaming note from the violins, which is scarcely discernible till the rays of sound which issue from the second violin diverge into the chord of the second; to which is gradually imparted a greater fulness of color, as the viols and violoncellos steal in with expanding harmony. At the fifth bar, the oboes begin to shed their yellow lustre, while the flute silvers the mounting rays of the violin, as the notes continue ascending to the highest point of brightness; the orange, the scarlet, and the purple unite in the increasing splendor, and the glorious orb at length appears refulgent with the brightest beams of harmony."- p. 189.

He thus describes his having heard Paganini.

"A breathless silence then ensued, and every eye was watching the entré of this extraordinary violinist, and as he glided from the side scenes to the front of the stage an involuntary cheering burst from every part of the house, many rising from their seats to view the spectre, during the thunder of this unprecedented cheering, his gaunt and extraordinary appearance being more like that of a devotee about to suffer martyrdom, than one to delight you with his art. With the tip of his

bow he set off the orchestra in a grand military movement, with a force and vivacity as surprising as it was new. At the termination of this introduction he commenced with a soft streamy note of celestial quality; and with three or four whips of his bow elicited points of sound as bright as the stars. A scream of astonishment and delight burst from the audience at the novelty of this effect. Immediately execution followed that was equally indescribable, in which were intermingled tones more than human, which seemed to be wrung from the deepest anguish of a broken heart. After this the audience were enraptured by a lively strain, in which was heard, commingled with the tones of the instrument, those of the voice, with the pizzicato of the guitar, forming a compound of exquisite beauty. If it were possible to aim at a description of his manner, we should say that you would take the violin to be a wild animal, which he is endeavoring to quiet in his bosom, and which he occasionally, fiend-like, lashes with his bow; this he dashes upon the strings as you would whip with a walking switch, tearing from the creature the most horrid as well as delightful

tones.

"He has long legs and arms, and the hands in his playing often assume the attitude of prayer, with the fingers pointed upwards. The highest notes (contrary to every thing we have learnt) are produced as the hand recedes from the bridge, overturning all our previous notions of the art. During these effects a book caught fire upon one of the desks, which burnt for some time unobserved by the musicians, who could neither see nor hear, though repeatedly called to by the audience, anything but the feats of this wonderful performer."- pp. 215, 216.

We regret that "The Music of Nature" does not contain all of the notes of Mr. Gardiner to" The Lives of Haydn and Mozart," translated from the French of Bombet. Here he has shown some of his finest powers of description. May we not hope soon to see a reprint of this interesting work? It is one of the very few works in English which treat at all worthily of the aesthetics of music.

J. S. D.

ART. III.- The Western Messenger; devoted to Religion devoted_to_Religion and Literature. Vol. V. No. I. April, 1838. Louisville. Conducted by JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

THE first number of this periodical, "devoted to religion and literature," was published at Cincinnati, in July, 1835. It began with a subscription list which it was supposed would ensure its support, as contributions were to be gratuitous; and with the not unnatural hope on the part of its conductors that every year would see this list increase. Three years have passed, and it is still struggling for mere existence. During the last spring its energetic and laborious editor, the Rev. James F. Clarke, of Louisville, feared that he should be obliged to abandon the work, or, at least, to reduce it, and would have been obliged to do one or the other, had not assistance been given him by subscriptions at Mobile. All this proves that the class of money-paying Unitarians has not grown at the West as it was hoped would be the case. It was thought that many persons, who were dissatisfied with prevalent forms of religious worship, and who knew of none more suitable to their ideas, would learn, by means of the Messenger, that a form of faith did exist with which they could sympathize. Many such persons were found, but they were, in general, little disposed to pay for the new faith that was offered them, though they might be very willing to receive it; in other words, they had no particular objection to Unitarianism, but cared very little for religion at all.

At first sight this all seems very discouraging; and, although a strong society has grown up at St. Louis under Mr. Elliott's charge, and though those at Louisville and Mobile are doing well, the general condition of Western Unitarian churches is not such as to make us feel, that our particular doctrines and views are spreading beyond the mountains as rapidly as was hoped for.

But let not these things create doubt, or lead to diminished hope and exertion. The Messenger and the Unitarian pulpits of the West are devoted not to a sectarian faith alone, but to the spread of that Christian spirit, that toleration, that humility, that independence, that true democratic love of, and respect for, all men, and that pervading piety, in the spread of which all sects may unite. We must not suppose that