The science of music, or rather of harmony, is extremely ancient—insomuch that, with respect to the latter, it is said to be coeval with Nature herself. But as it has relation to the science now in use, this, like most other arts, whose origin is very remote, is involved in obscurity; and in proportion to the astonishment and wonder excited by its uncommon powers, in a commensurate ratio does mystery, fable, and obscurity envelope its original. However, always remembering that it was from harmony,—

Proceeding step by step, it had eventually attained in Greece a very early perfection. Collins, who is justly entitled to the distinguished station held by all pupils of nature and of the muses, who is peculiarly eminent for a just poetical spirit, thus speaks of the heavenly science in his Ode on the Passions—

It will be remembered, however, that the poet calculated as much upon the infant simplicity of nature as upon the uncommon powers of harmony; this consideration will certainly reconcile the apparent extravagance of the thought.

So great were the early powers of verse and harmony, that at one period the votaries of the muses were regarded as persons divinely inspired; they were the priests of man, his legislators, and his prophets. Insomuch was the possessor of the art, and the art itself reverenced, that the responses of the most eminent oracles were received in measured verse. Witness the response of the Delphian oracle received by the Athenian deputation, when Greece inquired for her wisest men, as given by Xenophon:—

Music eventually claimed the most unlimited control over the affections of mankind, as could be proved by an infinity of instances; we shall mention one only from a well authenticated fact, and finely illustrated in that of Timotheus from “Alexander’s Feast,” by Dryden. We omit the hyperbolic representation of the raising of the walls of Thebes by the power of Amphion’s lute, and the apparently incredible relations of the harmony of the harp of Orpheus, which are all personifications of natural effects, and which we have neither room, time, nor opportunity to explain in this place.

If its origin was as previously suggested by Collins, there is occasion to believe the shepherd’s simple life afforded it first existence; in the native and wild notes of the pastoral reed, may be discovered the germ of a science as various as its effects are beautiful. We shall for the present presume the simple Pandean pipe was the first effort of the construction of musical instruments; its soft tone being analogous to the dulcet harmony of the voice. We are led to suppose this from the evidence of ancient statuary, where those pipes are frequently discovered; and this will, perhaps, deduce its origin from the invention of the shepherd god, or oldest Pan. Nevertheless, the lyre, or harp, is alleged from records the most ancient, having at first but three strings, analogous to the three seasons of the primeval year; the treble typical of spring, the tenor resembling summer, and the bass representing winter.

The invention of that instrument, and of music altogether, is claimed in the pagan world by Amphion, a successor of Cadmus, the first king of Thebes, in Boetia, who is reported, by the music of his harp or lyre to have built the walls of the city; Cadmus having erected the citadel only. Flutes were first invented by Hyognis, the Phrygian, about the year 1506 before Christ, and first played on the flute the harmony, called Phrygian, and other tunes of the mother of the gods, of Dionysius, of Pan, and of the divinities of the country and the heroes. Terpander also, who was the son of Derdineus, the Lesbian, directed the flute players to reform the tunes of the ancients, and changed the old music, about the year 645 before Christ, as we are informed by the Parian Chronicle. The same Terpander, likewise, added three more strings to the lyre.

When Timotheus, the Spartan musician, was banished his native country for having increased his strings to the number of ten, he sought refuge at the court of Macedon, and accompanied his patron, Alexander, into Persia, when that prince conquered Darius.

From the sacred records of Judea, we may also infer the invention of musical instruments at a date long prior to either of the periods above mentioned, when they inform us in Genesis iv. 21, that Adah, one of the wives of Lamech, had two sons, the name of one of whom was Jubal, who is said to have been “the father of all such who handle the harp and organ.” This infers the anterior invention of that instrument.

Music consists of effects produced by the operation of certain sounds proceeding from the dulcet voice, or musical instruments, regulated by certain time, and a succession of harmonious notes, natural, grave, or flat, i.e., half a note below its proper tone; and acute or sharp, i.e., half a note above its proper key; and of such modulation of various tones, and of different value, and also of manifold denominations: the natural tones consisting of eight notes, with the addition of octaves, in various keys, with flats and sharps introduced to afford variety from the skill of the master, at different periods, to produce the most agreeable diversity in his composition; and sometimes according to the subject or words to which his music is adapted. Those musical notes, though proceeding from so small a number of radicals, are analogous to the incalculable, the endless forms, which orthography and rhetoric can afford to a well-informed orator, or elegant author, to embellish any subject. Thus from the definite number of twenty-four notes, varied in different degrees, by sharps, flats, semi-tones, &c., are produced all that is so magical, enthusiastic, and transporting in the empire of omnipotent music. Like as the alphabetic characters may be varied into myriads of forms suitable to every multifarious species of conversation or composition; in a word, a few musical notes in the hands of a master may be made by his skill to produce, from agreeable interchanges of time, harmony, &c., every variety of musical sentiment which can affect the human soul. A stronger proof cannot be adduced than will be found in the before-cited ode of “Alexander’s Feast,” by the truly poetic Dryden. In all which harmony and melody form conspicuous characteristics.

And of harmony, according to the learned Mr. Mason. The sense in which the ancient Greeks viewed harmony is as follows:—“They by that term understood the succession of simple sounds according to their scale, with respect to acuteness or gravity.” Whilst it appears that by harmony, the moderns understand—“The succession of simple sounds, according to the laws of counterpoints.” From the same authority—“By melody, the ancients understood the succession of simple sounds, according to the laws of rhythm and metre, or in other words, according to time, measure, or cadence. Whereas, the moderns understand by the same term what the ancients meant by harmony, rhythm and metre being excluded.” “And the modern air is what the ancients understood by melody.” Hence, from the preceding definitions, it appears that what is now called harmony was unknown to the ancients; and they viewed that term as we now see simple melody, when we speak of it as a thing distinguished from simple modulated air, and that their term, melody, was applied to what we now call air or song.

Should this be true, the long-contested difficulty, and that train of endless disputes, which has existed among the learned and scientific world so long, will instantly vanish. Should we suppose an ancient flute-player used an improper tone or semi-tone, or had he transgressed the mode or key in which he was playing, he committed an error in harmony; yet his melody might have been perfect, with respect to the laws of rhythm or metre; we should say of a modern musician, under similar circumstances, that he played wrong notes, or was out of tune, yet kept his time. Whoever made such a distinction would be allowed to possess a good ear for music, though the moderns would be inclined to call it an ear for melody or intonation. By the rules of musical conversation, we should be justified when we call an instrument out of tune inharmonious, although the intervals were nearly right.

By harmonica, the Greeks implied nothing more than that proportion of sound to sound, which mathematicians call ratio, or which would be understood in general musical conversation, by an agreeable succession of musical notes;—as ancient harmony consisted of the succession of simple sounds, so does modern harmony consist of the succession of chords.

Whether the diatonic scale be the effect of nature, or produced by art, has occasioned disputation between many; but without losing time or space, we are, we think, authorised, from general opinion, to observe, that compositions formed on it, and on the plan recommended by a lute organist, would produce sensations odiously disgusting to any musical ear.

The diatonic is the most simple genera in music, consisting of tones and major semi-tones; in the scale of which genus the smallest interval is a conjoint degree, which changes its name and place, that is, passing from one to another; a prominent air in this species of modern music is “God save the Queen,” entirely diatonic, without modulation, by the intervention of a single flat or sharp.

It may not be unacceptable to our readers to add a few particulars of one of the greatest composers that ever existed; we allude to the eminently illustrious George Frederick Handel, a name dear to science, and entitled to the grateful veneration of every amateur in this divine art. He was born at Halle, in Upper Saxony, on the 24th of February 1684. Scarcely was he able to speak, before he articulated musical sounds. His father was a professor of the healing art as a surgeon and physician, then upwards of sixty, who intended his son for the study of the law. Grieved at the child’s predeliction, he banished all musical instruments from his house. But the spark which nature had kindled in his bosom was not to be extinguished by the mistaken views of a blind parent. The child by some means or other contrived to get a little claverchord into a garret, where, applying himself after the family had retired to rest, he discovered means to produce both melody and harmony. Before he was seven years of age, the Duke of Weissenfells by accident discovered his genius, and prevailed on his father to cherish his inclination. He was accordingly placed with Zachan, organist of the cathedral of Halle; when, from nine to twelve years of age, he composed a church service every week. Losing his father whilst he was in that city, he thought he could best support his mother by repairing to Hamburgh, where he soon attracted general notice. This wonder of the age was then only fourteen, when he composed “Almeria,” his first opera. Having quitted Hamburgh, he travelled for six years in Italy, where, at both Florence and Rome, he excited much attention: at both which places he produced new operatic performances. In that clime of the harmonious muse, he was introduced to, and cultivated the friendship of, Dominico, Scarlatti, Gaspurini, and Zotti, with other eminent scientific characters. He was particularly caressed and patronised by Cardinal Ottoboni, in whose circle he became acquainted with the elegant and natural Corelli. It was here he composed the sonata “Il trionfo del tempo,” the original score of which is now in the Royal Collection. After which he went to Naples, where he set “Acis et Galatea,” in Italian, to music. Returning to Germany, he was patronised by the Elector of Hanover, subsequently George the First. In 1710 he visited London, by permission of his patron, who had settled a pension of £200 per annum on him. In London he produced the opera of “Rinaldo,” universally admired—equal with all his other productions that had preceded. He was compelled to leave, however reluctantly, the British shore, consistent with his engagement to his patron the Elector. He departed, not without exciting general regret, two years after his first arrival in this country. He soon appeared here again, however, and his return was welcomed like the rising of the genial orb of day before the wrapt Ignicolist! But now seduced by the favour which awaited him, he forgot to return. On the death of Queen Anne, who had also settled an annual pension of £200 upon him—equal to what he received from the Elector, his former patron—when that prince ascended the throne, Handel was afraid to appear before his majesty, till, by an ingenious contrivance of Baron Kilmarfyge, he was restored to favour, Queen Anne’s bounty being doubled by the king; and the chief nobility accepted an academy of music under Handel’s direction, which flourished for ten years, till an unfortunate quarrel occurred between him and Senesino, which dissolved the institution, and brought on a contest ruinous to the fortune and the health of our musician.

He was particularly patronised by the Earl of Burlington, the Duke of Chandos, and most of the distinguished nobility of Great Britain.

Having restored his health at the baths of Aix-la-Chapelle, he for the future chose sacred subjects, which were performed at his theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Covent Garden, and Westminster Abbey. He died in April, 1759, aged seventy-five, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where he was honoured with a public funeral, six peers supporting the pall; the very reverend and truly learned translator of “Longimus,” Dr. Pearce, the Dean, and then Bishop of Rochester, performed the funeral service with a full choir.

He had been a great benefactor to numerous public charities. The funds of the Foundling Hospital were improved through him with the amazing sum of £10,299. The organ in its chapel, and the MS. score of his “Messiah,” were a present and a donation to the foundation from him. He left an amiable private as well as a good public character behind him.

His character as a composer is too well appreciated by the British public to require any remarks from our feeble and inharmonious pen.