it is only eligible. These mellow combinations would little suit marches, airs of forcible expression, strong chorusses, or dance-tunes; and, like every thing else in Music, they must not, by frequent use, be rendered too common, even in cases where they might be deemed applicable.

In vocal pieces, we sometimes observe considerable portions in which the singer acts as it were a subordinate part, the principal melody is consigned to the orchestra, and the voice performs a secondary sort of melody, or sometimes no absolute melody, but rather a part of what might properly be deemed mere accompaniment; nay, sometimes but a continued repetition of the same sound, while the orchestra fills up the musical picture. The effect of all this, when in its proper place, is excellent. Of this kind are the airs of the military hero of the piece, who sings a half sort of melody, while the orchestra plays a regular march, or the chorus performs a similar independent duty. This practice, invented by Paesiello, met with such decided approbation, that airs of this description are to be found in most Italian operas. A fine duett in Rossini's "Mosè nell' Egitto" is of that class, also a song of Douglas in "La Donna del Lago." An instance where the orchestra has the principal, and the singer a secondary melody, occurs in the picture song of Braham's "Devil's Bridge;" and examples where the voice repeats for some time the same note, while the orchestra goes its train, are to be found in most of the Italian comic songs. The vocal accompaniments of chorusses by means of subdued staccato-notes, so interesting and effective, may also be mentioned under this head.

Episodic purely instrumental phrases betwixt vocal portions, afford another great resource to the composer, and a relief to the singer. As they occur more or less extensively in almost every song of any pretension, we forbear quotation. In the recitativo these instrumental intercalations are of admirable effect, and almost indispensable. It is here that the composer displays the fertility and luxuriance of his imagination by a constant succession of short instrumental phrases, novel in conception, suitable to the expression of the text, and of the most unfettered freedom of thought. A magnificent specimen of this kind presents itself in Donna Anna's sublime recitativo," Ma qual mai s'offre spettacolo funesto," in Il Don Giovanni. Without referring to any other example, the above recitativo affords the strongest possible instance of the power of accompaniment in assisting and heightening the impression which the text and its melody are intended to excite. Without its masterly instrumental support, that recitativo would lose its greatest charm, would almost appear insipid. This power is still more evident in a species of composition introduced upon the German stage, about forty or fifty years ago, under the appellation of Melodrama, but which is widely different from the dramatic trash under the same name that has of late taken possession of the English boards. The German melodrama consisted of a scenic representation, consigned to few performers, simple in its plot and action, and highly poetical as to diction. The whole of the text was spoken, not sung, but frequently interrupted by instrumental periods of longer or shorter duration analogous with the import of the text. Benda, the German composer, excelled in these; his "Ariadne in Naxos" and "Medea," scarcely known in England, are masterpieces of composition, replete with the finest thoughts and deepest feeling,

In the present state of the science, indeed, the effect of every melody depends, in a great degree, upon its accompaniment. The latter not only heightens the interest of the former, by fixing more strongly its meaning, and imparting to it the charms of variety, but it operates in a direct manner in aiding and strengthening the melodic expression. The mental agitation produced by fear or despair, the ebullitions of anger, the peaceful sensations of a serene innocent mind, the impassioned accents of love, in short, almost every condition of the human frame, may, independently of melodic means, receive an adequate and forcible colouring from mere accompaniment. Of all this it would, Almost every

we are sure, be a waste of time to adduce examples. classic vocal composition may serve as a voucher.

Such, then, are the effects, the advantages, of harmony and accompaniment. Without harmony, Music, as has already been said, would never, probably, have attained the high state of cultivation, the elevated rank among the fine arts, of which she justly boasts at the present day, but which she was far from enjoying even under the fostering care of the tasteful and ingenious Greeks. Notwithstanding the marvellous accounts they have handed us of the excellence of their Music, we should not, were the experiment possible, hesitate to risk a comparison between the best Greek melodic concert, and the melharmonic strains and combinations of a modern performance. The former, we are convinced from their own accounts, must have been simple, monotonous, and meagre in effect, while the combined exertions of a modern band are calculated to excite admiration, even in a philosophical point of view. What a grand, what a wonderful spectacle is the orchestra at the King's Theatre in the finale of "Il Don Giovanni !” In a narrow space we behold some fifty skilful players upon numerous different instruments, collected from every part of Europe. In Greece, these fifty would have all played the same melody; here, more than a dozen parts or melodies are distributed among them, to be played at once, all essentially distinct and different, yet blending into one beautiful whole. Were it not from custom, we should never cease wondering by what spell such a number of individuals can be brought to observe the strictest time: every one knows precisely when to fall in, when to be silent: at one time, all join in one combined effort; at another, one instrument takes the lead, and rivets our attention by the most delicate and fascinating solo: now a singer interposes the soft and heavenly sounds of the human voice, and again a full chorus, with its powerful strains, sets the whole of our frame in vibration. This, this is the work of Harmony-this the triumph of modern Art!

G. L. E.

AN ATTIC STORY.

In a close garret, six feet square
And full as high, there stood a pair,

'Midst must and dust and fumes mephitic→→

A Poet one, and t'other a Critic.

Strange that extremes so wide as these-
The World-of-Wit's antipodes-

Should thus be found to join together;
Birds both-but of what different feather

This dull and dark, a thing of prey;
That brilliant, fluttering, and gay.
When such extremes se touchent, 'tis worse
For wonder than Kehama's curse.

When Angels come to sport with woman.
We look for something more than common→→
Prosing in rhyme, or rhyming history,
Cain, or some other sort of mystery,
Work for Love's Court, or Court Consistory.
But when an author and reviewer

Are snugly garreted, be sure

That (whether by flattery or bribe,
The fancied badges of each tribe,)

There's something working in the wind-
A puff before, or blast behind,
To curl the wave of expectation,
Tickle the gulls, and gull the nation.
Their general junctions such I trow,
But different far their purpose now.
No embryo of the poet's brain

Now wants the critic's venal strain--
No bantling illegitimate,

Begot by Sin on mother Wit,

With bastard claims would seek to wage
War 'gainst dull Sense's heritage—
No satire comes, to wrest the crown
From soberer dunces about town-
No unfledged madrigal is panting
Within its nest, false plumage wanting
To urge it on its primal flight-
No puling Pastoral seeks the light—
No dreary Drama, from the throes

Of a forced birth, whines forth its woes

No spurious Comedy appears,

With grins for smiles-for satire jeers→

The Poet seeks, in short, to find,

From the man-midwife of the mind,
Deliverance of another kind.

'Twas sometime gone this Poet's Muse
Loosely attired-perhaps en Blouse-
Held in fair Italy's warm clime
Flirtation with the Son of Rhyme.
Whether it was the warmth of sky
That lit the Heaven-born damsel's eye,
Or whether 'twas the Poet's tongue
That lured the maid, I leave unsung;
And simply say this amorous bout
"Of linked sweetness long drawn out,"
Going all fair lengths, short of marriage,
Ended, proh pudor! in miscarriage.
To cut a naughty story short,

The wanton Muse in this resort

(I mean the garret) hid her shame,

And left full many a child of Fame

The Poet's title, not his name—
(For she'd a litter quite, the strumpet!)
But robb'd them of their father's trumpet.

The young abortions, thus forsaken,
Might for a common man's be taken;

For ev'n Fame's offspring, if unfather'd,
Like chaff is by the blind world gather'd,
Which proves, in spite of gibing mimics,
The moral want of patronymics,
And plainly shows that merit needs
Hereditary title-deeds.

I take't for fact, each reader knows
The forms of youngsters such as those.
'Tis certain quite as Irish May rents,
(When Bards and Muses are the parents)
That children come in other shapes
Than kings', or peers' or fashion's apes
And those whose fate I now rehearse
Were little limbless things in verse,
Without a single foot to walk on;
Like old maids without tales to talk on,
Or prudes without some flirt to randle,
Or tea-table undeck'd with scandal,
Or roast pig without ears for garnish,
Or demirep without her varnish.

High up were piled, unstitch'd, unbound,
Unedited, unnamed, unown'd,

Huge printed packages-whole pages
Destined, if born, to live for ages,

But strangled ere they drew their breath

A species of Hibernian death.

Full many a quire was there bespread

Of fiery thoughts loose scattered,

With many a wild and wicked joke
Uncrack'd, and many a pun unspoke,

And beauties crush'd, and smother'd sweets,
Like Desdemona, in their sheets.

The bard, a slave of the whole sex,

Rush'd merciless upon the wrecks,

Like waves on shatter'd masts and decks.

One thought alone his brain imbues,

The reputation of his Muse;

For though her character 's a gay one,

Her fame is more than European,

And the whole world (except her lover)

Thought all her young penchants were over.
'Tis therefore that in her behoof

He now would blot each damning proof,
And stand in dire resolve-a pattern

For sculptors of a second Saturn.

Just as a sexton plies the spade,
Who, in the practice of their trade,
Grub up the dark sepulchre's gloom,
Search subjects in oblivion's tomb,

And with their glutton maws becramm'd,
Feed on all authors-dead or damn'd-
Our poet swore, and justly too,

He'd snatch his babes from the foul crew }
Therefore the critic's counsel craved
How his young implings might be saved.
Quick as the query was pronounced
The critic on the quarry pounced,
And cried, with a most natural tone,
"Cut them in pieces,-one by one!"

The poet, shock'd, an instant stood
To mark his friend's imp'rative mood.
He, in accordance with the fire
Of Genius, long'd to have a pyre
Whereon the bodies might be burn'd;
But this the critic overturn'd,
Lest the young offspring of old Fame
Might spring from the consuming flame,
And each a chattering phoenix rise
Up through the chimney to the skies.
To work they went, then, nail and tooth,
(Pardon th' inversion), nothing loath.
As for the critic, 'twas his trade
To mar the jokes another made,
And cut (like all his tribe, 'tis said))
The writings he had never read :
He plunged in medias res-the story
Hack'd, slash'd, and scatter'd, con amore;
Quotations flung abroad by chance;
Spoil'd English epigrams in France;
Made puns upon each rumpled fair sheet,
Swore he was brother to Doll Tearsheet;
And glow'd 'midst the disjecta membra,
Although the day was quite Novembry,
And then the unnatural father, too,
Upon his mangled offspring flew ;
And seem'd resolved d'avance to try
How he might rob posterity.

Here ends the tale. The moral is,
That Fame, which wise ones call a quiz,
But which most authors think a treasure,
One can forego with honest pleasure,
When he must pay for 't at the price
Of one right feeling's sacrifice.

And also, that though Bards there be

All greatly penitent as he,

Who can, in moments of compunction,

Keep from their souls Fame's flattering unction,

CRITICS ne'er flinch from their foul function!