While pursuing his free inquiry into the origin of evil, I doubt, if Soame Jenyns had as much pleasure, as Sir Joseph Banks enjoyed, in his famous investigation, if fleas were the prototypes of lobsters.

These inquiries are immeasurably pleasant. When a boy, I well remember my cogitations, what became of the old moons; and how joyously I accepted the solution of my nurse, who had quite a turn for judicial astrology, that they were unquestionably cut up, for stars.

It is truly delightful to look into these occult matters—rerum cognoscere causas. There are subjects of deep interest, which lie somewhat nearer the surface of the earth—the origin of certain usages and undertakings, and the authorship of certain long-lived works, which appear to be made of a species of literary everlasting, but whose original proprietors have never been discovered. I have great respect, for those antiquarians, whose researches have unlocked so many of these long hidden mysteries; and, however bare-headed I may be, when the venerated names of Speed, or Strype, or Stow, or Rushworth, or Wood, or Holinshed occurs to my memory, I have an involuntary tendency to take off my hat.

It was, doubtless, in allusion to their grotesque and uncouth versification, that the Earl of Rochester prepared his well-known epigram—

“Sternhold and Hopkins had great qualms,
When they translated David’s Psalms.”

This version, which held its ground, for a century and a half, and, as Chalmers says, slowly gave place to the translation, by Tate and Brady, had an origin, of which, I presume, few individuals are apprized.

Thomas Sternhold lived to translate fifty-one only of the Psalms; and the first edition was published in 1549, with this title—“All such Psalms of David as Thomas Sterneholde, late groome of the king’s majestye’s robes did in his lyfetime drawe into Englyshe metre.”

About this period, the larger cities of the kingdom had become inundated with obscene and blasphemous songs, to such a degree, that some powerful expedient seemed to be required, for the removal of this insufferable grievance. Accordingly, the felicitous idea occurred to Mr. Thomas Sternhold, of substituting the Psalms of David, as versified by himself, for the bacchanalian songs, then in use, throughout the realm. He anticipated a practical illustration of the command of St. James—“Is any merry let him sing Psalms.”Ostensibly prepared for the use of the churches, the moving consideration, for this version, with Mr. Sternhold, was such as I have shown it to be. The motive is plainly stated, in the title-page—“Set forth and allowed to be sung in churches of the people together, before and after evening prayer, as also before and after sermon; and moreover, in private houses, for their godly solace and comfort, laying apart all ungodly songs and ballads, which tend only to the nourishment of vice and the corrupting of youth.”

Wood, in his AthenÆ Oxonienses, i. 183, Lond: 1813, says of Sternhold—“Being a most zealous reformer and a very strict liver, he became so scandalized, at the amorous and obscene songs used in the court, that he, forsooth turned into English metre fifty-one of David’s Psalms, and caused musical notes to be set to them, thinking thereby, that the courtiers would sing them, instead of their sonnets, but did not, only some few excepted.”

How cheerfully would I go, undieted, for a long summer’s day, to know who was the author of “Jonny Armstrong’s Last Good Night;” and for a much longer term, to ascertain the writer of Chevy Chase, of which Ben Jonson used to say, he had rather have been the author of it, than of all his works. The words of Sir Philip Sidney, in his Discourse on Poetry, are quoted, by Addison, in No. 70 of the Spectator—“I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet.” The ballad of Chevy Chase was founded upon the battle of Otterburn, which was fought in 1388, and of which a brief account will be found in the fourteenth chapter of Sir Walter’s first series of the Grandfathers Tales.

The author of those songs for children, which have been lisped, by the tongues of millions, shall never be forgotten, while dogs delight to bark and bite—but who was the author of Hush-a-bye baby—Now we go up, up, up—Cock Robin—or Dickory Dock, no human tongue can tell!

Poor AndrÉ, we know, was the author of the Cow Chace; but the composer of our national air is utterly unknown. Who would not give more of the siller, to know to whose immortal mind we are indebted for Yankee Doodle, than to ascertain the authorship of the Letters of Junius?

Both France and England have been more fortunate, in respect to the origin and authorship of their most popular, national songs. Speaking of Barbaroux and the Marseillois, Sir Walter Scott, in his Life of Napoleon, observes—“Besides the advantage of this enthusiastic leader, the Marseillois marched to the air of the finest hymn, to which Liberty or the Revolution had yet given birth.”

I am aware that something like doubt or obscurity hangs over the reputed authorship of the Hymn of the Marseillais. But in respect to the national air of Great Britain—God save the King—the authorship appears to be more satisfactorily, if not perfectly, indicated.

It is certainly worthy of note, that this celebrated air, in which John Bull has taken so much delight, ever since it came into existence, is by some persons supposed to have been the production of John Bull himself, a celebrated composer of his day. An engraving of him may be found, in the History of Music, by Hawkins. There is an original painting of him, by J. W. Childe, in the Music School, at Oxford, which was engraved by Illman, with the words below—“John Bull, Mus. Doct. Cantab. Instaur. Oxon. MDXCII.” A portrait of Dr. Bull will also be found, in Richard Clarke’s Account of the National Anthem, God save the King, 8vo. Lond. 1822.

The account of Bull, by Wood, in his Fasti, i. 235, Lond. 1815, is somewhat amusing—“1586, July 9.—John Bull, who had practised the fac. of music for 14 years, was then admitted batch, of music. This person, who had a most prodigious hand on the organ, and was famous, throughout the religious world, for his church music, had been trained up under an excellent master, named Blitheman, organist of Qu. Elizabeth’s chappel, who died much lamented, in 1591. This Blitheman perceiving that he had a natural geny to the faculty, spared neither time nor labor to advance it to the utmost. So that in short time, he being more than master of it, which he showed by his most admirable compositions, played and sung in many churches beyond the seas, as well as at home, he took occasion to go incognito, into France and Germany. At length, hearing of a famous musician, belonging to a certain cathedral, (at St. Omers, as I have heard,) he applied himself, as a novice, to learn something of his faculty, and to see and admire his works. This musician, after some discourse had passed between them, conducted Bull to a vestry, or music school, joyning to the cathedral, and shew’d him a lesson, or song of forty parts, and then made a vaunting challenge to any person in the world to add one more part to them, supposing it to be so compleat and full, that it was impossible for any mortal man to correct or add to it. Bull thereupon desiring the use of ink and rul’d paper (such as we call musical paper) prayed the musician to lock him up in the said school for 2 or 3 hours; which being done, not without great disdain by the musician, Bull, in that time or less, added forty more parts to the said lesson or song. The musician thereupon being called in, he viewed it, try’d it and retry’d it. At length he burst out into great ecstacy, and swore by the great God, that he that added those 40 parts must either be the Devil or Dr. Bull, &c. Whereupon Bull making himself known, the musician fell down and adored him.”

Of music it may be said, as of most other matters—the fashion of these things passeth away. So great was the fame of Bull in his day, and such tempting offers of preferment were made him, by the Emperor, and by the Kings of France and Spain, that Queen Elizabeth commanded him home. It is stated, in the Biographical History of England, ii. 167, that the famous Dr. Pepusch preferred some of the lessons in Bull’s PartheniÆ, to the productions of most of the composers of that time. Yet Dr. Burney says of these lessons—“They may be heard, by a lover of music, with as little emotion as the clapper of a sawmill, or the rumbling of a post-chaise.”

Musicians are a sensitive and jealous generation. “Handel,” says Chalmers, “despised the pedantry of Pepusch; and Pepusch, in return, refused to join, in the general chorus of Handel’s praise.”

Handel, when a stripling at Hamburgh, laid claim to the first harpsichord, against a master, greatly his superior, in point of years, and the matter, upon trial, was decided in Handel’s favor, which so incensed the other, that he drew, and made a thrust, at his young rival, whose life, according to Dr. Burney’s version, was saved, by a fortunate contact, between the point of the rapier and a metal button.

The principles, which govern, in all mutual admiration societies, are deeply laid in the nature of man. If Handel had borne the pedantry of Dr. Pepusch, with forbearance, or common civility, the Doctor would have, doubtless, afforded Handel the advantage of his highest commendation.The managers of musical matters act wisely, in tendering, to every conductor of a public journal, the

Melle soporatam et medicatis frugibus offam—

But I fear they are not always as cautious and discriminating, as the occasion appears to demand. How very different would have been the fate of the poor strolling player, whom Goldsmith so pleasantly describes, had he taken a little more pains—only a little—to propitiate “the lady, who had been nine months in London!”

The managers, upon such occasions, should never omit the most careful espionage, into the musical pretensions of every member of the press—I speak of their pretensions, and not of their actual knowledge—that, in the present connection, is of little importance: and, when they discover one of this powerful brotherhood, who, in musical matters, would be thought to know more than his neighbors, however mistaken he may be—let them pay him particular attention—let them procure him an excellent seat—once—twice perhaps—express a hope, that he is well accommodated—and occasionally, during the performance, be sure to catch his eye, as if with a “fearful longing after immortality,” such as tomorrow’s leader may possibly confer on the candidate for fame. How often the omission to observe these simple rules has been followed, by faint praise, and invidious discriminations!