He saw; but blasted with excess of light Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear, Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. Hark! his hands the Lyre explore! Bright-eyed fancy hovering o'er, Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. Beneath the good how far! but far above the great. CLAIMS OF MUSIC. WE must learn in this, as in other things, to distinguish between the use and abuse, the proper and natural connection, and the artificial and unnecessary combination. If there is danger in the character of the public amusement, let the child be interested in the domestic concert; and what more charming picture of innocent and improving relaxation can be presented to the mind's eye, than that of a family, happy enough to have acquired in youth the requisite skill, and combining their several powers and attainments in the production of heavenly harmony! It can hardly fail to produce that harmony of heart, of which that of their voices is a sweet and suitable emblem. It certainly will not fail; for music has a moral power which, under such circumstances, cannot be resisted by any human heart. Who, indeed, can resist its power under any circumstances? Can we hear animated music without cheerfulness, or sad music without sympathy, or solemn music without awe? Is there any feeling of our nature to which music is not or may not be addressed, and which, when properly adapted, it does not heighten and increase? One is almost ashamed to state a proposition so like a truism. Its power is, in some degree or other, acknowledged by all, while it is, of course, most felt by those whose sensibility has been improved by cultivation. Whatever may be said of the power of music over the emotions and feelings, will be liable to the charge of exaggeration from those who are less sensible to it; and at the same time, it is so great over the majority of persons, as hardly to be susceptible of exaggeration. If the mind is to be excited or soothed, thrilled with horror or with delight, touched with kindness, or hardened into severity, softened with pity or filled with awe, or stirred to sudden mutiny against the better affections, what can produce these effects with more certainty or power than music? Even language, unaided by music, has perhaps less effect than music without the aid of language. But when they are combined for a given purpose, when melody is wedded to immortal verse, then it is that every feeling is under the control of the musician, and he can rouse or subdue every emotion of the human breast. This must necessarily be stated in general terms, as there is not time to illustrate the position in detail. But I appeal to the recollection of every one. I ask if there is any thing which has left upon your memory a deeper impression of tenderness, of reverence, of awe, of beauty or of sublimity, than has been produced by the concerted pieces, the accompanied airs and chorusses of eminent composers. Does the mother ever fail to soothe the little irritations of infancy by her gentle song? Was ever a soldier insensible to the angry blast of the trumpet? Is it possible to listen without strengthened affection to the voices of those we love? Or is there any doubt that music has given additional power to the seductions of vicious amusement, as well as greater strength to the aspirations of our holier feelings? We must cultivate music of a pure and refined character, not merely to counteract the effect of that which is not so, but that we may give a new power to the better tendencies of our nature, that we may have its aid in raising what in us is low, reforming what is wrong, and carrying forward to perfection whatever is praiseworthy. EARLY GENIUS. It has been often remarked of those who give very early manifestations of genius, that they fall into early decay; and, like the first flowers of spring, that they bloom but a little while, before they are withered by the frosts of disappointment, or beaten to the earth by the storms of misfortune. Shakspeare, the confidant of nature, has evinced his knowledge of this fact, in that line of Richard, where the tyrant is made to mutter, "So wise, so young, they say do ne'er live long;" and an accurate observer, much older than he, Sophocles, a Greek writer, has remarked that mischances commonly attend on early genius. The mind, indeed, in this respect may be compared to the earth: late springs produce from both the most abundant harvests; and in both, the seeds which germinate into premature fecundity, being exposed to winds and frosts while the principle of life is weak within them, seldom arrive at a strong and healthful state of existence. Yet it may reasonably be doubted, notwithstanding the number of instances of untimely death which has befallen those who became early celebrated for their genius, whether the precocious ripening of the faculties of the mind necessarily presages brevity of life, or whether, in the cases that could be mentioned, the fatality has not been the result of an ardor of application to scholastic pursuits, too severe and unremitted for the body to sustain. The beautiful lines addressed by Lord Byron to the memory of Kirk White, might be applied, it is to be feared, with equal justice to many a promising genius, who, with suicidal sedulousness, wastes his life in the silence of midnight research, and fails to attain the goal of his wishes, by setting out with a rapidity that cannot be maintained. But the number of those who have sunk into untimely graves after exhibiting precocious evidences of intellectual vigor, bears no proportion to the many who continue to live undistinguished from the mass of their fellow men; of those who, in their outset, having shown a few mental boundings and curvettings, which denoted speed and agility, slacken, for the rest of their journey, into the ordinary pace of ordinary minds. It is too often the case that the applause which is bestowed on the efforts of juvenile intellect, diminishes that diligence by which alone applause can continue to be deserved; and that he who has performed more than was expected, will be induced to pause and banquet on the honor thus acquired, until he is passed on the road, by the steady perseverance of slower understandings. They whom facility of acquisition renders confident of their abilities, naturally fall into negligence, thinking that they can at any time atone, by the rapidity of their progress, for the length and frequency of their delays. But it is easier to relax from industry to idleness, than to return from sloth to activity; and when attention has been lulled by flattery, or dissipated by pleasure, it is difficult to renew its energies, collect again the stores of thought which have been scattered, and awaken curiosity from its trance, to re-engage in literary pursuits. Permanent applause is the reward of unconditional greatness; but that praise which is bestowed on early genius has reference to the circumstances by which it is surrounded, and will not be continued, unless its efforts increase with its years. Continual assiduity is necessary to continual excellence; fame, like fortune, must be vigorously pursued; but he who pauses in his career to snatch her wreath, will find it turn, like fairy money, to dust and rubbish in his grasp. NECESSITY AND USE OF OBSERVING. So natural is observation to us, that we in common language allude to it in cases, where there is really nothing to observe. When we are perplexed and in difficulty about the absent or the future, and take counsel together, in order that, by our union we may overcome the difficulty, our words of mutual encouragement are, "Let us see;" and when we have exercised our thoughts rightly, and the difficulty is overcome to our mind, our expression of triumph is, "Now we see our way.” Also, whenever we fail in that which we attempt, or err in the performance of it, the cause of the failure or the error is, that "We do not see our way." To see our way, and to see it clearly, ought therefore, in all matters, to be our very first object. Indeed, the only difference between the ignorant and the intelligent is, that the former grope, as it were, in the dark, and the latter see the end of matters, as if the road were open and straight, and the noonday sun shining upon it. This seeing with the mind, this light of the understanding, is far more valuable to us than the common light of day. It is our own, a light within us, nothing can cloud it; darkness itself cannot hide it, if it be once kindled in the proper manner, and to the proper extent. But though its illuminating influence be within, we must at first light it up from without; and though it be the candle of the mind, it can only be lighted by knowledge obtained through the medium of those senses with which our all-bountiful Creator has furnished us. The exercise of those senses is OBSERVATION; and that is the fountain of all knowledge, and the original source of all pleasure, whether that which we immediately know or enjoy be or be not present to the senses. What we thus obtain is inalienably vested in us for the whole period of our lives. That which we have in our coffers may decay through time, or be destroyed by accident; or it may be taken from us, or we from it; and that which is told to us by others may be false, or we may forget it, because of the weakness of the impression that it made; but that which we see with our own eyes, or otherwise perceive with our own senses, is proof against accidents, against time, and against forgetfulness. In the case of old people, even after their powers of observation are decayed, and when themselves are, as we would say, in their dotage, we find that they enjoy themselves and are happy in the memory of their young years. Not only so; but when insensible, as it were, to the sent, they glance back for pleasure to the days that they have lived, the earlier in life the occurrence is, they remember it the better. pre |