THE object and end of all music is the expression and excitement of passion, of which its notes are the signs. The practice of music doubtless shows best how powerful are these signs over the production of corresponding passions; but its theory also, in the hands of some writers, has even indicated the precise and simple expressions which respectively belong to some of the passions.

Now we know that two passions cannot coexist in the mind, except at the expense of their respective continuity, depth, and intensity. It follows, of course, that their corresponding signs cannot coexist in the ear without breaking and enfeebling their expression.

But melody consists of a succession of simple sounds, and harmony of coexistant and related or concordant sounds. It is obvious, therefore, that melody is alone adapted to the expression of passion—that is, to musical expression.

A moment’s reflection, indeed, will show that, in language, it would not be more absurd to endeavour to express or excite passion by means of the related terms, emotion, sentiment, &c., or to express and excite any one passion, as that of love, by means of the related terms, friendship, affection, &c., than it would, in music, be to endeavour to excite any passion, in all its purity, simplicity, continuity, depth, and intensity, by means of impure, compound, broken, and feeble notes.

Which, accordingly, are the nations that have excelled in melody?—The Italians, the Scots, the Irish, in whom the passions are intense and powerful; while the Sclavonic and Gothic tribes, in whom the passions are feeble, have practised that play upon related notes which indicates the weakness or absence of passion, and which constitutes harmony. There can, I think, be no more striking illustration than this at once of the intimate nature and of the relative value of melody and harmony.

To the superior value of melody, however, similar homage is paid, whether reluctantly or not, in the highest productions of scientific music. Whenever, in the opera, sentiment, affection, or passion has to be expressed, the simple melody of the airs is indispensable. If anything were wanting to corroborate the preceding train of reasoning, this surely is sufficient.

Let us now, however, from principles which regard the intimate nature of melody and harmony, as well as their precise relation to the great end of all music, descend to the mere practical observance of the relative effects of melody and harmony.

Here one thing will, at the first, strike those who are in the habit of paying any attention to the operation of their own minds, and of endeavouring to analyse it. It is this, that, while there is no end to the variety which the simplest melodies produce, there is but one sentiment excited by harmony.

However varied the melody may be, whatever the succession of emotion and passion which it calls up, it will be found that, with each of these, and always at its expense, the harmony, quoad harmony, associates another, and that always one and the same, feeling. This, if observed, will be found to be a feeling of surprise, and certainly of pleasure, at the display of knowledge in the instant association of related notes; surprise and pleasure at the art and skill, not at the feeling and taste, of the composer[65].

The compositions of Handel, Bach, and others, are admirable in their kinds and perfectly descriptive; but they touch not the most exquisite feelings; they sink not into the heart; they rouse not the passions. They excite, as already said, surprise and pleasure at the art and skill, not at the feeling and taste, of the composer. Let them be compared in this respect with Sarti, Cimarosa, &c., and all doubt on this point will cease.

It is evident, then, that the admiration, however delightful, produced by the instant and unexpected association of related notes, must, precisely in proportion to its degree, weaken and diminish the effect of the melody—must, in fact, destroy its purity, simplicity, continuity, depth, and intensity.

It is, perhaps, scarcely a less fatal objection to the indiscriminate practice of harmony, that even the restricted pleasure which it conveys is, from want of education in this peculiar art, incapable of being at all enjoyed by the vast majority of hearers.

The best practical illustration, indeed, of the relative value of melody and harmony arises from observing their effects on the mind and the expression of the features. The English people, being chiefly of Gothic origin, have a fair capability of apprehending coexisting related sounds, and their conduct while hearing them will furnish this illustration.

Let any one, then, observe the effect of these sounds in the finest harmonies produced at our Opera-house. An affected look of knowingness, an insincere grin, passes from one face to another, and occasionally, when some one who really understands the matter gives a bold and loud rap with his stick,—believing that there must now certainly be something very fine, they very innocently break into a long paroxysm of applause, and they repeat this as often as the courageous fellow with the stick chooses to give them the signal, each secretly thinking how devilish stupid he must be not really to enjoy what everybody else is so highly delighted with.

See, however, the same faces when a simple melody breaks out from the chaos of the harmony: waiting for no prompter, pleasure instantly beams on every face, and truth and nature have a triumph in that deep and universal sympathy which art and affectation are utterly incapable of achieving.

The practice of harmony has, indeed, been borrowed by us from the boors of Russia, Bohemia, and Swabia, whose broad and flat configuration of head seems to be as much connected with this practice as their coldness and apathy are utterly opposed to musical feeling, which has no existence independent of passion.

So natural and universal is melody, that even many quadrupeds are powerfully affected by it, while not one seems to be influenced by harmony.

Such then is the kind of music which, originally borrowed from these boors, the influence of a few amateurs has rendered fashionable among the half-civilized people of Europe,—for we must call those half-civilized who have no perception of the fundamental necessity and transcendent beauty of simplicity in all the fine arts, those sole tests of the highest civilization.

In Greece, where alone those arts reached the highest perfection, the purest simplicity characterized every one of their productions; and there, accordingly, harmony—as in general a complex and idle decoration, in no way promoting expression, the end of music, but, on the contrary, defeating its purpose, was, we are told, absolutely proscribed.

Even if this fact had not been recorded, the slightest knowledge of the genius of Grecian art would prove that it must have been so; and we might as safely have predicted that they no more loaded their melodies with Gothic or Sclavonic harmonies than their temples with Gothic traceries[66].

The analogy is perfectly strict; for these gingerbread traceries are not more unproductive of great or good effect than harmonies are; nor are the barn-like temples which they cover more ugly in their general form than the meagre airs which harmonies are intended to decorate.

But this is not all. Not only are the airs which harmonies are intended to decorate generally meagre and worthless, it would appear that no other airs than those are fit for conjunction with harmonies. It is certainly true that, whenever the apathetic Germans have attempted to harmonize the impassioned airs and exquisite melodies of Scotland and Ireland, they have ruined them, and disgusted every person of pure and natural taste.

The purpose, then, to which harmony is applicable is not to the expression of pure, simple, continuous, deep, and intense passion—the very highest purpose of musical expression,—but to the expression either of the slightly modified and less definite feelings, or of the more variable, and even jarring sentiments of several persons, purposes far inferior to the former.

It is evident that, where several persons express musically somewhat similar sentiments on the same subject, they may naturally sing in harmony; and where these sentiments occur at intervals of time slightly extended, they may even be supposed to chant in that regulated succession which constitutes fugue. Hence harmony is peculiarly suited to many voices, where deep pathos and passion are impossible; and it is an abuse to apply it to the higher species of music.

It is evident, too, that, in descriptive or epic music, harmony may form the background of the picture—the accompaniment of the narration,—in the front of which some kind of melody appears; and of this the most admirable examples are to be found in the works of Beethoven, the most profound and philosophical of composers. But whoever mistakes this for the highest species of music is not in a condition to understand the present paper.

It is in fact, the absence of pathos and passion among the Gothic races of modern Europe, that has led to the substitution of harmony for melody. At the same time, their excellence in mechanical invention has enabled them greatly to improve instruments, which, however suited to the former, are incapable of the feeling and the meaning, the expression and the delicacy, which essentially belong to the latter. And again, the deficiency of instruments in these most important qualities has led to those strong basses and accompaniments which fill up the vacuity. Music, consequently, has sometimes degenerated into a series of tricks which do not rank above rope-dancing or the ballet.

One word may now properly be added on instrumental accompaniments. They are the natural resource of performers who are destitute either of feeling or of voice. They may be comparatively beautiful when associated with these, but they are absolutely offensive when they interfere with the expression of deep feeling by a beautiful voice.

The best instrumental accompaniment is consequently that which least interferes with the voice—not the continuous sounds of wind or bowed instruments (for their music is rather the poor unfeeling substitute for, than the accompaniment of, fine vocal music), but the light touch of the string of the harp, the guitar, or the lyre, which, while it verifies the accuracy, least interferes with the feeling of vocal expression.

Hence the great masters of art, the Greeks, employed so simple an instrument as the guitar (their ???a?a being obviously its original), or the lyre, which appears to have been simpler and better still. I rejoice, therefore, to see the former becoming as fashionable in England as it has long been on the Continent.

DONALD WALKER.