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learn music; produce something worthy of the science, and give your talent, in due portion, to her consecrated fane. But, if without these requisites—if, in spite of nature, you will be musical—for heaven's sake, be so to yourselves, and amongst yourselves, and do not torture Kreisler, the chapel-master, and others, with your profane attempts.
Now I might go home, and finish my new sonata for the piano-forte; but it is not yet eleven o'clock, and a beautiful summer's night. I'll wager, that at the upper-forestmaster's house yonder, the girls are seated at the open window, screaming aloud the first line of ' When thine eye beams on me'—-this they repeat twenty times, till the whole street echos with the tender sentiment. Nearly opposite, one is marring the flute, with the lungs of Rameau's nephew, while his neighbour, the horn-player, is trying experiments in accoustics, with tones of wearisome length. The noisy company of canine neighbours becomes unruly, and my landlord's tom-cat, moved by the charming duo aforesaid, is engaged close to my window, (of course my musical and poetical laboratory is an attic chamber), in making tender confessions to his mistress, a fine tortoise-shell cat, mewing up ana down the chromatic scale.
After eleven it became more quiet; so long I remain sitting as I haveyet blank paper, and Burgundy before me. There is, as I have heard, an old law, which forbids noisy handicraftsmen from following their occupations near the dwellings of learned men; ought not poor oppressed composers, who are compelled to turn their inspirations to account, in order to spin on their thread of life, to take advantage of this law, and banish screaming girls, and pipers, from their vicinity? What would the painter say, if, while he was painting an ideal, one held before him sheer, heterogeneous caricatures? If he closed his eyes, he could at least preserve the picture undisturbed, in his imagination; but cotton in the ears is of no avail,; the hideous noises will yet find access—and then the idea !—how they sing, now comes the horn, and the devil runs away with the sublimest thoughts.
The leaf is fully written: I will only yet remark upon the blank space around the title, why I have a hundred times resolved never again to suffer myself to be tortured at the privy counsellor's, and why I have as often broken my resolution. Truly, it is Roderlein's amiable niece who chains me to the house, with bands which science has woven. Whoever has had the felicity to hear Miss Amelia in the concluding scene of Gluck's Armida, or the grand scene of Donna Anna, in Don Giovanni, will comprehend, that an hour with her, at the piano, is heavenly balsam poured into the wounds, which all the false and dissonant sounds of the whole day have inflicted upon a martyred music master.
Roderlein, who has no more soul for the more elevated departments of music, than he has faith in the immortality of the one he does possess, considers her out of place at his wife's parties, as she will on no account sing at them; while, on the other hand, before common, insignificant persons, as simple musicians, she sings with an unbecoming exertion: for her long, swelling, sostenuto notes, which rival the harmonica, and bear me away to the heavens, she has learned, Roderlein thinks, of the nightingale, a senseless creature that lives in the woods, and ought not to be imitated by man, the reasoning lord of the creation. She carries her indiscretion so far, that she sometimes even permits Gottleib to accompany her on the violin, when she plays Beethoven's or Mozart's sonatas on the piano-forte. That was the last glass of Burgundy! Gottlieb snuffs my candles, and seems to marvel at my busy writing. They are right when they take this Gottleib for only sixteen years of age. He has a noble, profound talent. But why did his parents die so soon? and why was the guardian then forced to put the orphan youth into livery?
When Rode was here, Gottleib used to listen in the antichamber, with his ear pressed against the door of the saloon; and often played whole nights himself; in the day-time he went about the house dreaming, and the red mark on his left cheek is a faithful impression of the solitaire on Roderlein's hand, which, for the reason that it could produce the state of somnambulism, by gentle friction, was admirably well adapted to counteract it by hard blows. I gave him, together with other things, the sonatas of Corelli; he instantly waged war against the niece, on the old piano in the lumber room, till he had destroyed them all; and then, with his master's permission, removed the instrument into his own little chamber. 'Cast off the hateful badge of servitude, noble Gottlieb! and let me, after a lapse of years, clasp thee to my heart, as the excellent musician that thou mayest become, with thy noble talent, and thy exquisite taste!'
Gottleib stood behind me, and he wiped away the tears from his lids, as I uttered these words aloud. I pressed his hand in silence, and we went up and played over Corelli's sonatas. W. S. S.
BY JOHN CLARE.
The mystery of this lingering pain,
That I so long endure,
And doubtless find a cure:—
I cannot help but sigh;
Thou know'st the reason why.
Whene'er I in thy presence come,
I sigh before I speak,
And aches as it would break.
I hear no voice but thine,
Then say what ail is mine.
I think thy talk is all to me,
And turn to speak again,
And feel my folly then;
As there were none besides us two,
I oft unasked reply,
Who judge the reason why!
I mark another win thy smiles,
Though I a portion share,
That instant rises there.
And tremble at the tone,
Of favours thou hast shown.
I often think thou feel'st my pains.
For when to thee I speak,
And blushes on thy cheek.
As though it would reply;
To know the reason why.
When absence veils thee from my sigh
Then fancy paints in vain,
When we shall meet again.
And robs my nights of rest;
I waken more distrest.
If with thee, I'm both pleased and sad,
If not I'm teased about thee,
Or with thee or without thee.
Then I wish I ne'er had met thee:— My thoughts dwell oft on thee with glee,
Then struggle to forget thee.
In no one place save thy esteem,
My ills can find a cure,
The remedy is sure.
And tell our pains together,
Will soon bring summer weather
A POETICAL SKETCH.
The azure sky was clear and bright,
One lonely ship, from Scotia's land,
The sun shone brightly, and the breeze
An aged patriarch rose to pray, And hail, with joy, the Sabbath day. 'Our kirk, my children, is not here,' He said,' but God is every where! 'Magnificently spread around, 'Behold his works! could place be found 'More fitted to refine and raise 'Our thoughts to heaven in prayer and prune?'
Three generations knelt around
Whilst youthful voices lifted high
Gone-gone, we all must die !' they cried,
The boat o'erladen, lingering near, Appeared but as a floating bier. One frantic mother shrieked aloud, ‘Save, save my child !'--and 'mid the crowd Of oars upraised her infant threw! 'Twas caught in safety by the crew A wild thanksgiving rent the air ! Her husband then was all her care Oh! live my husband, live ! our child
Will need thy aid :-look not so wild : 'A vigorous swimmer, thou mayst still ‘Preserve thy precious life!'--'The will Of God be done,' he said, “ for me I have no fear except for thee.'