A curious dialogue between the Vicar and Miss Villers.--An enigma.--The riddles of Samson and Cleobulus.--Sound.--How propagated by aËrial vibration.--Music.--A learned discussion touching the superior powers of ancient Music.--The magic of Music, a game which the author believes is here described for the first time.--Adventures by Moonlight.--Spirits of the Valley.

On the following morning, Miss Villers, accompanied by her friends, proceeded to Osterley Park, to pay her compliments to Major Snapwell, and to add her entreaties to those of Mr. and Mrs. Seymour to induce the venerable Major to spend a few days at Overton Lodge. The children, of course, had a holiday; but was it a holiday? Tom and his sister have been frequently heard to declare that they never passed a more dull and listless day; and on resuming their scientific sports, their manner sufficiently testified that increased pleasure which always accompanies our return to an agreeable occupation.

“Mr. Twaddleton,” said Miss Villers, addressing the worthy vicar as he entered the library at Overton, “I am happy to say that Major Snapwell has consented to pass a few days with us, and I learn from him that you have been most delightfully engaged in promoting a new scheme of scientific instruction; it is a subject which greatly interests me, and I shall be most happy in being allowed to become one of your party. To the merits of this system I am no stranger,” continued the lady, “nor am I unacquainted, sir, with the advantages which your antiquarian knowledge has conferred; you have garnished the intellectual banquet with some of the choicest flowers of literature.”

“You do me far too much honour, madam,” said the vicar, as a gracious smile flitted over his countenance; “but I rejoice to find that you attach a becoming importance to the researches of the antiquary. May I be allowed to hope that you will favour me with a visit at the vicarage, and inspect my poor collection of antiques?”

“I anticipate a great treat, I do assure you,” said Miss Villers; “but you speak too humbly of a collection which the major informs me contains some of the rarest relics of ancient days.”

“The major, madam, is no doubt a judge, an excellent judge, although he is occasionally----but no matter--no matter. I certainly, as he justly says, do possess some few remarkable specimens. I have, for instance, an undoubted specimen of the leathern money coined by John of France; some very tolerable samples of tapestry of the ‘high and low warp;’ a series of sigilla or seals; as well as an interesting collection of impressions in wax, taken from grants of William the Conqueror, and what is curious, the colour of these waxen impressions is, without any exception, green, with a view, as it has been said, to signify that the acts should for ever continue fresh and in force. Let me consider,” continued the vicar, “what other curiosities can I display for your delight and approbation? Rock-basins; yes, the rock-basins from Carn-breh. Ay, madam, you will be quite astonished at a specimen which--” At this instant, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, followed by the children, entered the apartment, and abruptly cut the thread of the vicar’s harangue.

“What do I hear?” exclaimed Mr. Seymour. “Rock-basins! for mercy’s sake, my dear vicar, let us not again dive into those horrid basins of Druidism; do but consider the martyrdom I have suffered on account of those pools of lustration.”

“Well, well,” replied the vicar pettishly, “I will consent to reserve the question for Miss Villers’s opinion, who, I have no doubt, will readily assent to their authenticity. But I have another treasure lately obtained from Cornwall, which you have not yet seen--a Sepulchral stone!--‘In vestibulo astat,’ as the poet has it.”

“Why I never observed it as I passed through the entrance,” said Mr. Seymour.

“Excuse me,” observed the vicar, “the Vestibule, if you please. You doubtless know it was a custom amongst the Romans to have an altar sacred to Vesta in the entrance of their houses, and hence the term;--but I beg a thousand pardons--‘venia sit dicto’--I am perhaps too critical.”

“Not only pardon, but thanks, my dear sir, for the information you have afforded us,” said Mr. Seymour.

Miss Villers was now invited to be present at one of the scientific conversations.

“I shall be grateful to you for so pleasing a privilege,” observed the young lady; “and,” continued she, “may I be allowed to ask whether you have not been lately teaching my young friends the operation of those various toys, which act by the force of the air; the object I have in view in asking this question you shall presently hear.”

“Papa has lately taught us the reason of the kite’s ascent, and the action of the squirt, sucker, and pump,” said Tom.

“So I understood; and before you proceed with your sportive philosophy, I hope your papa will allow you to try whether you can solve an enigma I have composed for you.”

“A riddle!” exclaimed Louisa; “how delightful! Pray read it, papa, and let us try to discover its meaning.”

Her father then opened the paper with which Miss Villers had presented him, and read as follows:--

“It is extremely pretty,” exclaimed Louisa.

“It is beautiful,” said Tom; “but I should like to find out the riddle it contains. What can that be which grinds our corn, and carries our ships across the sea? Canvass? Yes; canvass clothes the sails of the windmill and forms those of the ship.”

“And therefore visits every clime; while, as long as the sails remain fixed, they are quite tractable and steady,” added Louisa.

“It will not do, Louisa; it cannot be canvass: for the sail is never boisterous when it is controlled; but when let loose, it shivers in the wind and is very unruly; whereas it is said in the riddle, ‘When uncontroll’d my nature’s mild,’ which is quite the reverse. Let me see. Can it be string? My top could not hum without string.”

“How can string prevent the modest maid from fading like a flower? What says the vicar?” asked Louisa.

“Davus sum, non Œdipus,” exclaimed Mr. Twaddleton.

At this moment Miss Villers whispered in the ear of her little favourite, who shortly afterwards exclaimed, “I have it, Tom,--it is AIR.”

The juvenile group now attentively perused the enigma, in order to discover whether its different parts would admit of such an interpretation. As soon as they arrived at the passage in which was described the waving of the banners over the bier of Nelson, Tom declared that his sister must be wrong; and was proceeding to offer his reasons, when Mr. Seymour interrupted him, by observing, it was that passage which first suggested to his mind the solution of the enigma; and satisfied him that Louisa was perfectly right.

“It so happened,” continued he, “that I was present during the awful ceremony of Nelson’s interment in St. Paul’s; and never shall I forget the thrilling effect which was produced on the assembled multitude, by the solemn movement of the banners in the dome, as the bier slowly advanced along the aisle of the cathedral; and which was accidentally occasioned by a current of air from the western entrance, although, to the eye of fancy, it seemed as if some attendant spirit had directed the colours, under which the hero had bled and conquered, to offer this supernatural testimony of respect and sorrow.”

Miss Villers observed, that Louisa had unquestionably solved the riddle.

“And pray, my dear Mr. Twaddleton,” said Mrs. Seymour, “what say you to these puzzles and rhyming conundrums? Do you hold them in as much horror as you would so many puns?”

“By no means, my good madam. An enigma is a perfectly orthodox species of composition; and is, indeed, sanctioned by the highest authorities of antiquity.”

“I believe,” observed Mr. Seymour, “that the pastime of riddle-making was extremely popular amongst the Grecians. Plutarch, if I remember correctly, has told us that the girls of his time worked at netting or sewing, and that the most ingenious amongst them ‘made riddles.’”

“The most ancient riddle on record,” replied the vicar, “is to be found in the fourteenth chapter of the book of Judges.”

“And Samson said unto them, ‘I will now put forth a riddle unto you; if ye can certainly declare it me within the seven days of the feast, and find it out, then I will give you thirty sheets and thirty changes of garments.’ And they said unto him, ‘Put forth thy riddle that we may hear it.’ And he said unto them, ‘Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.’”

“And did they find it out?” asked Tom.

“My dear boy,” replied the vicar, “you must read the chapter to which I have alluded, and you will thence learn all about this enigma.”

“We have also numerous riddles in prophane writers of ancient date,” observed Mr. Seymour.

“Did you ever read of that invented by Cleobulus, one of the seven wise men of Greece, who lived 570 years before Christ?” enquired the vicar.

“Pray be so kind as to relate it,” said Tom.

Mr. Twaddleton, in compliance with this request, proceeded as follows:--

“There is a father with twice six sons; these sons have each thirty daughters, who are parti-coloured, having one cheek white, the other black. They never see each other’s faces, nor live above twenty-four hours.”

“A very strange and unsociable family!” observed Louisa.

“I should never guess it,” said Tom, “if I were to dedicate a year to it.”

“You have, nevertheless, my boy, just pronounced the name of the said father, and that, too, after a single moment’s consideration,” replied the vicar.

“The name of the father!--how?--where?”

“It is a YEAR!”

“A year!” exclaimed the astonished boy.

“A year!” echoed Louisa; “to be sure it is; I now see it all clearly. His ‘twice six sons’ are the twelve months; the ‘thirty daughters’ the days of each month; and, since one day must necessarily pass away before the next can arrive, they may be truly said never to see each other’s faces.”

“Admirably expounded!” cried the vicar.

“And each day,” added Tom, “is certainly ‘parti-coloured,’ as it is made up of light and darkness.”

“Good, again! The quick apprehension of these my little playmates,” said Mr. Twaddleton, as he turned towards Miss Villers, “is highly interesting; their minds, from well-regulated discipline, have acquired the faculty, if I may be allowed the use of the metaphor, of winnowing a subject, so as completely to separate the grain from the chaff.”

“It is my intention to proceed this morning with the consideration of those toys which have the property of producing sound,” said Mr. Seymour.

“I suppose you mean the whistle, whiz-gig, and humming-top,” observed Tom.

“Your papa, no doubt, alludes to those instruments,” said the vicar, “and I greatly approve of the arrangement; since our last lecture embraced the operations of the atmosphere, a subject with which the nature of sound is certainly intimately connected.”

“We have lately considered the phenomenon of wind, as produced by the motions of the atmosphere, and I now propose to investigate another species of agitation of which the air is susceptible, a kind of vibratory or tremulous motion, which, striking on the drum of the ear, produces SOUND.”

“Is it the air which produces sound!” said Louisa, with much surprise; “I thought it was always occasioned by the vibrations of solid bodies. Well do I remember, when Tom struck the finger-glass, that you immediately silenced the sound by placing your hand upon it, and which you told us stopped the vibration of the glass, and so destroyed the sound.”

“You speak the truth, but not the whole truth,” replied her father. “Sound is undoubtedly the result of certain motions, or vibrations, produced in sonorous bodies, but these vibrations are communicated to the air, and from thence to the ear, in a manner which I shall presently explain.”

“Do you mean to say, papa, that, if air were entirely excluded, bodies would be incapable of producing sound when struck?”

“Not exactly. Air is the usual conductor of sound, and unless some other medium be substituted, the removal of it would prevent a sonorous body from communicating any sensation to the ear. Liquids, however, are capable of conveying the vibratory motion to the organ of hearing; for sound can be heard under water. Solid bodies will also convey it, and in a much more perfect and rapid manner(44); thus the slightest scratch with a pin, upon one end of a long piece of timber, will be distinctly heard on applying the ear to its opposite extremity. The tramping of a horse is to be perceived at a greater distance by listening with the ear in contact with the ground, than by attending to the sound conveyed through the air; and hence, amongst many eastern tribes, it is a common practice to ascertain the approach of an enemy, by applying the ear to the ground. Upon the same principle, if we place our ear against a long brick wall, and desire a person at a considerable distance to strike it once with a hammer, it will be heard twice, the first sound travelling along the wall, the second through the air.”

“I thank you for that hint,” said the vicar. “I now understand the principle of a new instrument which Dr. Doseall employs for examining the pulsations of the heart. He places the end of a wooden rod upon the breast, and applying the other extremity to his ear, declares that the sounds, thus conveyed to it, enable him to form the most accurate opinion in cases of diseased chest.”

“In the same manner,” observed Mrs. Seymour, “that you may hear the boiling of the tea-kettle, by placing the end of the poker on the vessel, and applying your ear to the handle.”

“I do not exactly understand what you mean by a sonorous body. Will not every body produce a sound when struck?” asked Fanny.

“Those bodies are called sonorous, which produce clear, distinct, regular, and durable sounds, such as a bell, a drum, musical strings, wind instruments, and so on.”

“And upon what does this peculiar property depend?” enquired Tom.

“Before I answer that question, I must explain the supposed nature of those vibrations of the air, upon which sound depends; you will then readily perceive why one species of matter should be better calculated than another for exciting them. It is generally believed that sound is conveyed through air by a succession of pulsations similar to those which are occasioned on the surface of smooth water by throwing a pebble into it. This at first produces a small circular wave round the spot in which the stone falls; the wave spreads, and gradually communicates its motion to the adjacent waters, producing similar waves to a considerable extent. The same kind of waves are produced in the air by the motion of a sonorous body, which will of course be in the centre, and the waves or pulsations will diminish in strength as they recede from that centre, until at last they become too weak to produce any effect on the ear.”

“When I strike a bell, then do I produce exactly the same motion in the air, that I do in the water by throwing a stone into it?” asked Louisa.

“With this difference,” replied her father, “that as air is an elastic fluid, the motion does not consist of regularly extending waves, but of vibrations, which are composed of a motion forwards and backwards; the undulations of the air differ also from those of the water, in not being confined to a plane, but in diverging in all directions from the centre; or, in other words, the aËrial undulations are spherical.”

“It is a very puzzling subject,” cried Tom.

“I cannot understand,” said Louisa, “how the motion of the air can extend so as to convey sound to a distance, if, as papa says, the air moves backwards as well as forwards.”

“I see your difficulty, and will endeavour to remove it; attend to me. The first set of undulations which are produced immediately around the sonorous body, by pressing against the contiguous air, condense it. The condensed air, though impelled forward by the pressure, re-acts on the first set of undulations, driving them back again. The second set which have been put in action, in their turn, communicate their motion, and are themselves driven back by reaction. Thus there is a succession of waves in the air, corresponding with the succession of waves in the water.”

“Now I understand why sound requires some time to travel from a distant object to the ear, as you explained to us upon a former occasion,”^[53] said Louisa.

“But you have not yet told us what renders a body sonorous,” observed Tom.

“Its elasticity: a ball of damp clay, which does not possess this property, will produce no other sound, when struck, but that which arises from the condensation of the small portion of air between the clay and the hammer which strikes it. A hollow ball of brass will produce more sound, because it is elastic; but still very little effect will arise from this, since a ball is the worst shape for admitting of vibration, on account of its forming an arch or dome, in every direction, so that one part stiffens and sustains the other; but if such a ball be divided, and the edge of one half of it struck, a loud, clear, and distinct tone will be produced; because a hemisphere will admit of the exertion of elasticity, or of momentary change of figure, which is conducive to the perfection of sound; and accordingly the bells used for clocks, and for musical purposes, have generally such a figure.”

“I see clearly,” said Louisa, “that it is the vibration of a sonorous body that communicates the necessary motions to the air; and I suppose that a body vibrates in proportion to its elasticity.”

“Certainly it does: but to render this subject still more intelligible, I have prepared a diagram.”

Mr. Seymour then exhibited a figure, of which the annexed is a copy, and proceeded to explain it in the following manner:--

“You are well aware that an elastic body, after having been struck, not only returns to its former situation, but having acquired momentum by its velocity, like the pendulum or swing,^[54] springs out on the opposite side. If, then, I draw the string AB, which is made fast at both ends, to C, it will not only return to its original position, but proceed onwards to D. This is the first vibration, at the end of which it will retain sufficient velocity to bring it to E, and back again to F, which constitutes its second vibration; the third vibration will carry it only to G and H, and so on, till the resistance of the air destroys its motion.”

“That is exactly like the swing or pendulum,” said Tom.

“As you are struck with the resemblance, take care and preserve the remembrance of it; for I shall, hereafter, have occasion to revert to it.”

“As I now understand how sound is produced and carried to a distance, I should much like to learn the cause of different tones,” said Louisa.

“Fond as you are of music, my dear Louisa, I am not surprised at the wish you have just expressed to become acquainted with the nature of musical sounds; I shall, therefore, endeavour to convey, in as simple a manner as possible, the theory which has been proposed for their explanation. I think you will immediately perceive that, if the aËrial waves which I have endeavoured to describe, should be irregular, or run into each other, there must arise a confusion of sounds; thus discords may be readily imagined to be produced whenever a second vibration shall commence before the first is finished, so as to meet it half-way on its return, and interrupt it in its course. In like manner may we conceive the general nature of those arrangements upon which unison and concord depend: where the vibrations are performed in equal times, the same tone is produced by both, and they are said to be in unison; but concord, as you well know, is not confined to unison, for two different tones harmonize in a variety of cases. If, for example the particles of one sonorous body vibrate in double the time of another, the second vibration of the latter will strike the ear at the same instant as the first vibration of the former; and this is the ‘concord of an octave.’ When the vibrations are as 2 to 3, the coincidence will be at every third vibration of the quickest, which, therefore, is the next degree of perfection, and is called a ‘diapente,’ or ‘fifth;’ while the vibration of 3 to 4 will produce the ‘diatessaron,’ or ‘fourth;’ but this, and the next which follow in order, are not so agreeable to the judicious ear, and are therefore called ‘imperfect concords.’”

Louisa here enquired whether the difference in the acuteness of a sound did not depend upon the nature of the vibrations; and her father, in reply, stated that it depended entirely upon the degree of quickness with which the vibrations were performed: the slower the vibration, the graver the tone; the quicker, the more acute.^[55]

“But, if I strike any one note of the instrument repeatedly, whether quickly or slowly, it always gives the same tone,” observed Louisa.

“To understand that fact,” replied her father, “you must remember that the vibrations of bodies are regulated by laws very similar to those of the pendulum; consequently the duration of the vibrations of strings or chords depends upon their length, and thickness; for if two strings of equal magnitude, but with their lengths as 2 to 1, be equally stretched, their vibrations will be in the same ratio; therefore the shortest will make two vibrations, while the longest makes one: but the vibrations of the same string will always be the same whether it be struck quickly or slowly, upon the principle of the isochronous property of the pendulum, already described.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Seymour,” cried Mr. Twaddleton, “you are getting out of your depth; pray let us take leave of this subject, for I am quite sure that my young friends have already received more than they can carry away.”

“I submit, my good sir; and in return for my compliance,” said Mr. Seymour, “use your influence over Miss Villers, and induce her to favour us with a practical illustration of our subject upon the piano-forte.”

“Most cheerfully; but my intercession is quite unnecessary, for I am sure that our fair friend is no disciple of Tigellius.”^[56]

“I am ever ready, sir, to comply with the wishes of those I respect. I consider the caprice which our sex too often displays upon these occasions, as not only a breach of good manners, but an evidence of unpardonable vanity.”

“Pray, Miss Villers, may I be allowed to ask whether you have ever directed your enquiries into the nature of ancient music? it must have been very superior to that of modern ages,” said Mr. Twaddleton.

“Upon a question of such doubt and difficulty, I feel that it would ill become a person of my very limited knowledge to offer an opinion; although I am willing to confess that the subject has often engaged my attention; and you could not afford me a greater gratification than by clearing up some of those doubts which have perplexed me. It is, I believe, admitted, that we are unable to ascertain the real nature of ancient music: but it is evident that it was an art with which mankind was extremely delighted; for not only the poets, but the historians and philosophers, of the best ages of Greece and Rome, are as diffuse in its praises, as of those arts concerning which sufficient remains have descended to evince the truth of their panegyrics.”

“Nothing, as you very justly observe, is now left us, but conjecture,” said the vicar; “and yet it is impossible to read the accounts of the extraordinary effects produced by the different ‘modes’ of ancient music, without entertaining a strong conviction of its great superiority over that of modern times. What have we, my dear Miss Villers, to compare with the soft ‘Lydian,’ the grave ‘Dorian,’ or the furious ‘Phrygian;’ to say nothing of the subaltern modes of Aristides Quintilianus and others; such, for example, as the ‘erotic,’ ‘comic,’ and ‘encomiastic?’ What modern strains can produce the effects which are recorded to have followed the performance of Timotheus, the director of the music of Alexander the Great? One day, while the prince was at table, the musician performed an air in the Phrygian mode, which made such an impression on him, that, being already heated with wine, he flew to his arms, and was going to attack his guests, had not Timotheus immediately changed the style of his performance to the sub-Phrygian, or Lydian. This mode calmed the impetuous fury of the monarch, and induced him to resume his place at table. Music,” continued the vicar, “has, in modern times, so fallen from this degree of majesty and power, as to induce some persons to doubt the truth of the historical statements.”

“I confess, Mr. Twaddleton,” said Miss Villers, “that I have always been inclined to regard ancient music as the mere vehicle of poetry; and to attribute to the power of the latter that influence which you appear to refer exclusively to the former.”

“I am willing to admit,” replied the vicar, “that in the ancient theatre, music always accompanied her sister science, assisting, animating, and supporting her; in short, that she was, in all respects, her friend and fellow labourer. ‘Qualem decet esse sororem,’ as the poet has it: but does not this rather prove that poetry, in itself, was insufficient to produce its effects without the aid of music? In farther proof of the power of ancient music, permit me to remind you that Plato has said, ‘No change can be made in music without affecting the constitution of the state;’ and Aristotle, who seems to have written his Politics only to oppose the sentiments of Plato, nevertheless agrees with him, concerning the power which music has over mortals; and has not the judicious Polybius told us that music was necessary to soften the manners of the Arcadians? In short, madam, music has lost its power over the passions of mankind, and this can only have happened in consequence of its having degenerated from its ancient purity and grandeur. If any one should have the hardihood to deny this my position, let him attend a modern rout in London. I have seen, my dear Miss Villers, a party at a whist-table, a dozen persons in tÊte-À-tÊtes, and as many solitary individuals, sitting like automatons, not one of them being moved by the concord of sweet sounds, with which some lady has been endeavouring to delight them. Had Timotheus appeared amongst them! hey, Miss Villers? I think I see the party at the whist-table, as his lyre successively changed from the Lydian to the Phrygian mode. I must, however, in justice state, that I once did see a lady lay down her cards in an apparent state of ecstasy, as a chorus of Handel suddenly burst upon her ear.”

“And what might that chorus have been?” said Mr. Seymour, “‘Blest be the hand?’ But, joking apart, you appear to have satisfied your mind upon a point which all the learning of Europe has left in a state of doubt and perplexity.”

“I have merely delivered an opinion, sir; you perhaps will favour us with your judgment.”

“The subject under discussion, my good sir, is one upon which no person can ever deliver a judgment.”

“And pray, Mr. Seymour, why not?”

“For this plain reason, that it is not possible we can hear both sides.”

“Psha! will you never cease to sully the pure stream of enquiry with the dregs of ridicule?”

“Well, then, to be serious; I agree with Miss Villers, that ancient music, whatever might have been its powers, was wholly indebted to the poetry which accompanied it for its influence over the feelings of mankind. It could not have been otherwise. The ancient instruments, as represented in sculpture, appear so simple as to be apparently incapable of producing great effects; and, indeed, amongst the writings of Aristoxenus, the oldest musical author, we cannot discover a trace of melody or harmony, such as we understand by air accompanied with different parts.”

“To that very simplicity am I disposed to refer the charm of ancient music,” said the vicar; “it was addressed to the ear, sir, whereas modern music is addressed to the eye; dexterity of execution is, now-a-days, more valued than beauty of composition; the sweetest shepherd that ever piped on his Doric reed, would be less applauded than he who can make his pipe squeak for the space of five minutes without respiration. The ancients knew better than to suffer the energy and accentuation of their rhythm to be so destroyed; and only mark, sir, the extreme jealousy with which they regarded every attempt to injure this simplicity; it even became a subject of legislation; and you no doubt remember the decree issued against Timotheus; which, as well as I recollect, ran thus, ‘Whereas Timotheus the Milesian, coming to our city, has dishonoured our ancient music, and despising the lyre of seven strings, has, by the introduction of a greater variety of notes, corrupted the ears of our youth; and, by the number of his strings and the novelty of his melody, has given to our music an effeminate and artificial dress, instead of the plain and orderly one in which it has hitherto appeared; rendering melody infamous, by composing in the chromatic, instead of the enharmonic. The kings and the ephori have, therefore, resolved to pass censure upon Timotheus for these things; and farther, to oblige him to cut all the superfluous strings of his eleven, leaving only the seven tones, and to banish him from our city, that men may be warned for the future not to introduce into Sparta any unbecoming customs.’”

“And now, my dear vicar, have you done? Have you said all you think necessary, in defence of ancient music? If so, hear me, as the advocate of modern harmony. In the first place, there is not an anecdote which can be adduced in support of your side of the question, that may not be met with one parallel, and equally strong, in defence of mine. You cite the authority of Plato, to show that the constitution of a state may be affected by changing its national music. What said the great Lord Chatham?--‘Give me the making of the national ballads, and I care not who makes the laws;’ and the effects produced on the English people by Dibdin’s songs, fully justified the maxim: but remember Mr. Twaddleton, it was not the music, but the poetry of those songs, which kindled the patriotic feelings which saved our country; and I apprehend that this has been the case in all ages, where the power of music has been said to excite the feelings of the populace. We know that the ancient bards of our own country called forth the emotions of their hearers by the poetry of their songs; and with what success they practised their calling we may imagine from the fact that Edward the First, in his conquest of Wales, had recourse to the barbarous expedient of murdering all the bards, from the many obstacles they threw in his way, by the strong hold which they had over the minds of the people. You have told us a story of Timotheus, and the influence of his harp over a drunken monarch. If this is adduced in proof of the power of ancient music, you must, at least, admit that modern times have also had a Timotheus, who could excite or calm, at his pleasure, the most impetuous emotions. Henry III. king of France, says ‘Le Journal de Sancy,’ having given a concert on occasion of the marriage of the Duke de Joyeuse, Claudin le Jeune, a celebrated musician of that period, executed certain airs, which had such an effect on a young nobleman, that he drew his sword, and challenged every one near him to combat; but Claudin, equally prudent as Timotheus, instantly changed to an air, sub-Phrygian, or Lydian, I suppose, which appeased the furious youth. But what shall we say of Stradella, the celebrated composer, whose music made the daggers drop from the hands of his assassins? Stradella was attacked by three desperadoes, who had been hired to assassinate him; but, fortunately, they had an ear sensible to harmony. While waiting for a favourable opportunity to execute their purpose they entered the church of St. John de Lateran, during the performance of an oratorio, composed by the person whom they intended to destroy, and were so affected by the music, that they abandoned their design, and even waited on the musician to apprise him of his danger. Stradella, however, was not always so fortunate; other assassins, who apparently had no ear for music, stabbed him some time afterwards at Genoa.”

“And thus afforded a practical illustration of a passage of Shakspeare,” exclaimed the vicar,

“Are you satisfied?” asked Mr. Seymour; “if not, I will proceed to tell you how Palma, a Neapolitan, induced a creditor who came to arrest him, not only to remit his debt, but to contribute a sum for his support. I will also relate an anecdote of Farinelli the actor, who having a pathetic air to sing on the stage to a tyrant who had taken him prisoner, the person who performed the part of the tyrant, and was to have refused his request, was so affected by the music, that he actually melted into tears, and clasped the captive in his arms.”

“Enough, enough!” exclaimed the vicar. “I see plainly that you believe not in the power of music.”

“In that you wrong me. I certainly do not believe that the ancients were better skilled than ourselves in music; and I have been anxious to convince you that there are as many modern as ancient stories, in proof of the influence of harmony over our feelings; but no one will deny that music is capable of producing extraordinary effects. Let us only interrogate ourselves, and examine what have been our sensations on hearing a majestic or warlike piece of music, or a tender and pathetic air sung or played with expression. Who does not feel that the latter tends as much to melt the soul and dispose it to pleasure, as the former to animate and exalt it? There is a celebrated air in Switzerland, which, I have no doubt, Miss Villers will presently play to us, called ‘Rans des Vaches,’ and which had such an extraordinary effect on the Swiss troops in the French service, that they always fell into a deep melancholy whenever they heard it. Louis XIV, therefore, forbade it ever to be played in France, under the pain of a severe penalty. We are also told of a Scotch air, ‘Lochaber no more,’ which had a similar effect on the natives of Scotland. Never shall I forget the effect produced upon myself by the impressive requiem of Jomelli, as performed at the chapel of the Portuguese embassy to the memory of the late king of Portugal. The movement with which it commenced was a deep and hollow murmur, that seemed to swell from the tomb, and with which the voices of spirits imperceptibly rose, and intermingled;--a brilliant movement interposed,--it was a ray of hope that pierced the gloom of the sepulchre!”

“I think,” said Miss Villers, “that I can exactly appreciate the nature and extent of Mr. Seymour’s opinion upon the question at issue. He does not deny the charm which the simple music of the ancients must have exercised over the hearer, although he attributes much of the effect to the poetry, of which it may certainly be said to have been the vehicle; and he evidently concurs with you, Mr. Twaddleton, in thinking that, owing to the intricate combinations of modern harmony, our astonishment at the execution of the artist too frequently overcomes the influence of the musical tones upon our passions. I perceive, however, from the expression of our friend’s countenance,” continued the young lady, “that, like a true antiquary, he clings to his subject, though his support be no stronger than a cobweb; under such circumstances I may be permitted to declare my sentiments upon the occasion, and I shall avail myself of this opportunity to express my humble testimony of gratitude, for the information and pleasure which I have just derived from your conversation. I believe then, gentlemen, that the language of modern music is no less forcible and expressive than that of ancient days; and if you will only allow me to exemplify this truth by an experiment, I feel convinced that the vicar will become my proselyte.”

“Indeed, madam! Well, I will consent to trust the cause in your hands,” said Mr. Twaddleton.

“Allow me then to ask you, sir, whether you have ever heard of a game, which is justly entitled to the appellation of the Magic of Music?”

“Never,” replied the vicar; “nor can I imagine either the nature, or objects of such a game.”

“Its object is to display the power of music as an expressive language; the manner in which I propose to exemplify it, I will, with your permission, explain in a few words. The musical performer shall place herself at the harp, or piano-forte, surrounded by the party who are desirous of witnessing the pastime; the person to be operated upon must retire from the apartment, until the service which, under the direction of the music, it is determined he shall perform, is duly agreed upon and arranged. Such person is then to be re-admitted; not a word, look, or gesture, is to escape from any one present; by the expression of the music alone is he to receive his instructions, and, unless I am much deceived, you will find that this is amply sufficient for the purpose.”

“My dear madam, the thing is utterly impossible,” exclaimed the vicar. “It cannot be done; unless, indeed, you really possess the secret of the ancient ‘modes,’ which were not even known to Meibomius, the learned commentator upon the Greek musician Alypius; nay, Isaac Vossius himself, the expounder of rhythm, were he now alive, would never credit it.”

“Are you willing to make the experiment,” said Miss Villers; “if so, be so kind as to leave the room for a few minutes.”

The vicar accordingly prepared to depart, casting at the same time, upon his fair companion, a look which sufficiently expressed the scepticism he felt upon the occasion.

“But you have not told me,” said he, “by what signal I am to return, and submit to the proposed ordeal.”

“The music will inform you, if you pay sufficient attention to its language,” replied Miss Villers.

The door having been carefully closed, the company were consulted, in a whisper, as to the service they should require the vicar to perform. “I should propose,” said Miss Villers, “that Mr. Twaddleton be directed to take a rose out of the basket of flowers on the chimney-piece, and having smelt it, to carry it to the harp.”

“And do you propose to express all these different movements by the aid of music? If you succeed, there must be an end to the vicar’s scepticism,” observed Mr. Seymour.

“If I fail upon this occasion, it will be the first time,” said Miss Villers: “but you must all promise to be silent, and to maintain the most absolute command over your countenances.”

Miss Villers seated herself at the piano-forte, and played off an elegant and sparkling overture, which so delighted Mrs. Seymour that she involuntarily exclaimed, “If music can be made to speak an intelligible language, it must be under the guidance of Miss Villers.”

“Hush,” cried the performer, in a half whisper: “I am now about to summon the vicar into the room, and we must be as silent as Carthusians.”

She accordingly, with exquisite taste and address, introduced the air of “Open the door, Lord Gregory,” into which she infused so much expression, that the vicar must have been as dull as Midas had he not instantly caught its meaning. Nor were the lady’s hopes disappointed. Mr. Twaddleton entered, and appeared as if anxious to address the performer; but an intelligible glance from Mr. Seymour recalled him to his duty, and hermetically sealed his lips. His intention had been, doubtless, to enquire whether his appearance were seasonable; but the question was anticipated by Miss Villers, who immediately on his entrance struck up the air of “See the conquering Hero comes,” which, at once, satisfied his doubts, and conveyed, in language not to be misunderstood, the sanction of the enchantress, to whose spells he had so unreservedly intrusted himself.

The vicar had been told that he was to perform certain acts on his re-admission into the room; but, thought he, how am I to discover the thread which is to guide me through so perplexing a maze? I can discover at this moment nothing but a concord of sweet sounds, that would rather dispose me to listen in profound repose, than to enter upon any service of exertion. Miss Villers saw and guessed the nature of his embarrassment, and changing the melody, struck into the air of “Hearken and I will tell thee how.” She then, by a succession of well-selected chords, which were now played ‘piano,’ and now ‘forte,’ convinced the vicar that she commanded an instrument fully capable of readily and forcibly expressing encouragement and repulse in all its degrees.

“Thus much then is certain,” mentally ejaculated the vicar, “that she is enabled, by the aid of music, to signify her approbation, or disapprobation, of any act which I may attempt to perform. I accordingly predicate of this said music, that it is, bon fide, a logical weapon; inasmuch as it can affirm and deny. It, therefore, only remains for me, knowing as I do that I have some act to perform, to ascertain the ‘locus’ or ‘ubi,’ for the act in question, whatever it may be, must of necessity be done or accomplished ‘in proprio loco,’ or in some definite part of the room.” With this determination, founded, as he believed it to be, on the unerring basis of Aristotelian logic, he advanced towards the table; but the loud and discordant sounds of the instrument at once convinced him, that, however correct his notions might be with reference to the ‘substance’ or first ‘predicament,’ they were evidently erroneous as to the ‘accidents,’ of ‘time,’ ‘place,’ and ‘relation;’ at least, such were the ideas that floated through the categorical organ of his cranium, and he accordingly faced about, and made a retreat towards the window; but the notes now became still more clamorous, and increased in vehemence. Ay, ay, thought he, it is quite evident that I am receding from the theatre of action; and with this conviction he diverted his steps into a different direction, and, in a slow pace, tracked the path by his ear, with as much sagacity as a dog follows his prey by his nose. As he approached the fire-place, the storm of sounds gradually subsided, until a peaceful murmur breathed around, which finally died away as the vicar placed his hand upon the chimney-piece. So then it appears, after all, that I have some service to perform at the fire-side. It is, doubtless, to sit down, thought he, as he espied the elbow-chair, which, at that moment, appeared to his fancy, as if stretching forth its hospitable arms to receive him; but scarcely had he answered the imaginary invitation of his old friend, by presenting the nether part of his person to its luxurious lap of down, than a sudden sforzato, or crash in the minor key, made him rebound upon his legs, as nimbly as though the cushion had been a bed of thorns. Miss Villers now resolved the discord, and dexterously dashed into an allegro movement, in which she introduced the air of “How sweet are the flowers that grow!”

The vicar’s face mantled with a smile, as the bouquet on the chimney-piece met his eye, and harmonised with the sounds that floated in his ear. It is evident, thought he, that those flowers are the objects of my pursuit,--but what was he to do with them? The musician solved the question, by tastefully exchanging the former air for that of “Ask if yon damask rose be sweet.” No sooner had these notes delivered their melodious errand to the subtle ear of the vicar, than he instantly seized the rose, and carried it in triumph to his olfactory organs; at the same moment the music ceased. The pause, however, was but of short duration; for Miss Villers, by resuming her labours, intimated that some farther service was expected. Was he to return the rose? Certainly not; for the attempt was marked by strong disapprobation. Was he to take it out of the room? The music put a decided negative upon that movement; for the vicar had scarcely measured half the distance of the apartment before the air of “Fly not yet” arrested his steps. By a continuation of the same varying style of expression, and strongly marked rhythm, the vicar was shortly led to affix the rose upon the harp.

“Upon my word,” exclaimed the vicar, “I shall no longer hesitate to credit the story related in ‘Peter Simple,’ of a certain lady who played so exquisitely, that upon introducing an imitation of thunder, the cream for tea became sour, besides three casks of beer in the cellar!”

In closing our account of this interesting scene, it is scarcely necessary to describe the delight and mirth of the juvenile party. It was, in truth, a very extraordinary exhibition; and when the reader considers that, beyond what was furnished by the expressive language of music, the vicar did not receive a single hint for his guidance, he may, perhaps, cherish some scepticism upon the subject; but we can assure him that we have repeatedly witnessed, not only a similar but a still more complicated performance of the same kind, and with equal success.(45)

The evening of the day on which this musical divertisement was performed, was one of those which so frequently occur in August, when sultry heat is succeeded by refreshing coolness. Isabella Villers possessed a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and she quitted the drawing-room to enjoy, without interruption, that pensive quiet which maintained an undisputed dominion. The moon had but just risen, tipping the summits of the wood with silver, while it left the mass of foliage in deeper shadow. Never was there a fairy scene better calculated to awaken the emotions of the heart, or to kindle the energies of the imagination. The hour too was propitious to the indulgence of that undefined species of reverie which is the refinement of intellectual pleasure. Having traversed the winding path of the wood for some distance, she found herself in one of those sequestered glades we have formerly described. She seated herself on a rustic bench, tastefully formed out of an aged oak, whose venerable figure was bending under the hand of Time, and her mind was gratefully lulled into a pensive calm by the review of past events, as the ear is soothed by the murmur of wild and distant music. A sudden breath of wind, as it swept the foliage, aroused her from her reverie, and turned the current of her ideas from past scenes to future prospects. The moon, as if in sympathy, suddenly peered through the sylvan avenue, and threw her rays upon one of those statues which we have already described as giving such an air of classic sanctity to these secluded glades. It was the figure of Time, which in the gloom of the wood had hitherto escaped her observation. To a mind of exuberant fancy, a leaf cannot fall to the ground, nor a zephyr waft the fragrance of the violet on its dewy pinions, without conveying some beautiful emblem of morality. Isabella rose from her seat, and approached the figure, whose hoary countenance appeared as if lighted up into a placid smile by the beams of the moon, which fell directly upon it; her eye glanced from his face to his scythe; its blade was hidden in a cluster of roses--Were I susceptible of a superstitious impression, thought Isabella, did ever a circumstance present itself better calculated to justify its indulgence? On the pedestal of the figure was a basso relievo, in which Time appeared in the act of shivering into pieces the club of Hercules with a crutch. In a few minutes, she quitted the scene, which, in spite of her better reason, she could not wholly divest of its prophetic influence, and proceeding along the winding path, at length descended into the valley. The moon was at this time shrouded in dark clouds, and although, by a painful effort, Isabella Villers summoned all the powers of her vision, the objects around her remained invisible, until the eye had so far accommodated itself to the gloom, as to recognise the white foam of the waterfall. The moon now gave a coy and furtive glance, the water for an instant sparkled in her beams, and then was lost in deeper shadow. A spectre of human form, but of gigantic stature, arose from the spot to which the eyes of Isabella had been directed--was it the spirit of the Fountain? It appeared to advance, but the moon once again shining forth in splendour, it vanished.

The courage of Isabella was destined to sustain another trial, for scarcely had the vision disappeared than she distinctly heard her own name pronounced; and since, from the direction of the sound, she well knew that the spot from which it issued was inaccessible, we ought not to feel surprised at her having at the instant referred it to a supernatural origin--it was, however, but the illusion of the moment, and she determined to return to the house and submit the events of the evening to the judgment of Mr. Seymour.

We shall not trespass any longer upon the patience of the reader, than to state that Miss Villers arrived safely at the lodge, and very shortly afterwards retired to rest. With your permission, gentle reader, we will follow her example; for, to say the truth, our lamp--that midnight sun which illumines the path of the author, is dimmed by the dark clouds that lower at its setting; our Pegasus, the pen, which has raced for so many hours over the snowy plains of foolscap, is fairly “done up,” and refuses any longer to sip of that spring which can alone sustain its powers, and impart utility to its movements.