THOUGH it is well known to every one that seafaring men of all grades are warm admirers of music,—that the song is as welcome to the admiral in his state cabin, as to the foremast-man seated on his chest amidst the lower-deck guns,—that the ‘soft complaining flute’ is constantly in request in the ward-room and cockpit, when less gentle winds than those which give it utterance are not blowing hard,—and that ‘sharp violins proclaim,’ in every part of the ship, except indeed the quarter-deck, Jack’s love for innocent scrapes, as well as mischievous ones;—yet we never knew music recommended, from anything like authority, to mariners as a pursuit, till we took up the Nautical Magazine for May last, wherein we find ‘A Sailor’s advice to his Son,’ a sensible essay, so far as the matter is concerned, in which the art of modulated sounds is mentioned as one that may, with the most beneficial results, be cultivated by the sailor, whatever his degree, for reasons that will be seen in the following extract, which we make with much pleasure, as it affords another proof of the increasing spread of an art to which our work is devoted; though we do not attempt to conceal that some allowances must be made for the style of one whose life has, most likely, been devoted to studies of more importance to him than the very exact value of a word, or the turning of a period.

‘The influence,’ says the sailor, ‘of music in elevating the enjoyments and alleviating the daily disturbances of life, by lulling its cares, its passions, and its follies, into calm repose, is perhaps still more instantaneous. Music alone can open every avenue to the heart, and unfold the various treasures with which a beneficent Creator has furnished the susceptibility of his creatures. The most painful ebullitions of grief are stifled, and charmed into tranquillity by skilful music. To dissipate affliction, to moderate the anguish of severe disappointment, or to adorn the sparkling moment of festivity, music is equally powerful and efficient: it can quell the agitation of despair, and exhilarate with speechless tremor the heart, while it overflows with delight. Music is the language of those regions where happier and better beings reside, and its sympathy with the fine and tender affinities of our own species gives it unlimited sway over the modulation of our feelings. The mother’s lullaby to the darling in her lap breathes music upon us in our infancy; it affects us in various modes in after life—in the midnight serenade, in the festive tabor, in the shrill clarion of war, and in the full toned organ, which sounds a requiem over the departing reliques of mortal existence. Amidst the wildest scenery of nature, music can breathe sentiments of humanity in the breast of the most obdurate savage; and among the infinite gradations of civilized life can call down the monarch from his throne, can console the exile under his expulsion, and can elate the breasts of humble peasantry with jocund celebration of their evening repose. In its simplest form, music requires neither skill nor precautionary steps to find access to the heart—the ploughboy’s carol, the milkmaid’s ballad, the seaman’s ditty, or the recitation of the foreign mountaineer chanted with inartificial melody, produce powerful and pleasing sensations. But to create that intensity of feeling, which solely identifies itself with the accordance of musical composition, the corresponding symphony of which awakens from their secluded cells the sweetest and tenderest affections, elucidates emotions of hope, fear, surprise, terror, and joy,—and as the stream of harmony flows along calls forth involuntary exclamations of delight, wonder, and admiration—demands a much more copious extent of subject and execution. The sublime compositions of Handel, Haydn, Arne, Mozart, and Cimarosa, are of this description.’