are the most luxurious and delightful moments of life; which have often enticed me to pass fourteen hours a day at my desk, in a state of transport; this gratification, more than glory, is my reward."* But we fear that there are not a few writers, and of no mean fame, who, while conceding that when their minds wrought freely and their faculties lay in sunshine, the moments of composition were among the happiest of their life, would also affirm that those in which they have had to struggle against the vis inertiæ which prevented them from commencing their task, or had to contend with half-formed conceptions and intractable expressions, till the sun broke through the mist, and thought became clear and words obedient, were among the most painful. Well spoke one who has, we apprehend, experienced all the raptures and all the agonies of composition: "When happiest fancy has inspired the strains, We are inclined to place the pleasure of writing itself, among the chief incentives of authorship; and the proof is found in this, that so few ever stop when they have once begun, not even for neglect or poverty. There are millions of men," says Byron, “who have never written a book, but few who have written only one." And Walter Scott's testimony to the inveteracy of the cacoethes scribendi is equally strong. Not even the ointment of sarcasm and satire can cure it. Perhaps even this will not be taken as sufficient compensation; why then let the author remember that in the only intelligible sense, he enjoys almost as extensive a fame as his betters. There is a little circle of which each man is the centre; and this narrow theatre is generally enough for the accommodating vanity of the human heart. Indeed, it is of that microcosm in which each man dwells, that even the loftiest ambition is really thinking, when it whispers to itself some folly about distant regions and remote ages, whose unheard plaudits will never greet his ear, and which he utterly fails to * Cited in "Curiosities of Literature." See the whole of the amusing anecdotes on Literary Composition. realize. It is, after all, the applause of the familiar friends, among whom he daily lives, that he craves and loves. It may be doubted whether Musæus was ever so delighted with the thought of posthumous renown, as he was when his little boy, discovering from an up-stairs window a fresh troop of visitors coming, as the child supposed, with the usual offering of congratulations on his father's sudden success, cried out, "Here are more people coming to praise papa!" Should our friends and family form too small a sphere for the vaulting ambition of self-love, we must needs content ourselves with the questionable comfort suggested in the case of our literal death, not only by Cicero, and his imitator Mr. Shandy, but by all other consolers, from the time of Job's comforters downwards; that is the " mon lot," and that "what is the doom of our betters is good enough for us." Nor will vanity fail to whisper, "Not the worthless alone are forgotten-gold, silver, pearls and jewels strew the bottom of the ocean. It is not the will of man, but the law of nature, that I should die." com In truth, for an honest man, the single sentence already quoted from Pliny will be consolation enough. Like every other honest man who does his duty to the present hour, and who dreams not of asking immortality for his merits, it will be sufficient to the writer, to have "served his generation." Nor need we say, in how important a degree each individual has done this! It is a topic easily improved upon, by the happy facility of human vanity; for all are ready enough to believe, and certainly authors as much as any, that they have not trifled life away; and to think of their doings much as Uncle Toby did of his mimic fortifications: "Heaven is my witness, brother Shandy, that the pleasure I have taken in these things, and that infinite delight in particular, which has attended my sieges in my bowling-green, has arose within me, and I hope in the Corporal too, from the consciousness we both had, that in carrying them on we were answering the great ends of our creation." But, without a gibe, the destiny of the honest writer, even though but moderately successful, and much more, if long and widely popular, is surely glorious and enviable. It may be true that he is to die, for we do not count the record of a name when the works are no longer read as anything better than an epitaph, and even that may vanish; yet, to come into contact with other minds, even though for limited periods, to move them by a silent influence, to co-operate in the construction of character, to mould their habits of thought, to promote the dominion of truth and virtue, to exercise a spell over those we have never seen and never can see-in other climes, at the extremity of the globe, and when the hand that wrote is still forever is surely a most wonderful and even awful prerogative. It comes nearer to the idea of the immediate influence of spirit on spirit than anything else with which this world presents us. It is of a purely moral nature; it is also silent as the dew-invisible as the wind! We can adequately conceive of such an influence only by imagining ourselves, under the privilege of the ring of Gyges, to gaze, invisible, on the solitary reader as he pores over a favorite author, and watch in his countenance, as in a mirror, the reflection of the page which holds him captive; now knitting his brow over a difficult argument, and deriving at once discipline and knowledge by the effort-now relaxing into smiles at wit and humor--now dwelling with a glistening eye on tenderness and pathos-and in either case, the subject of emotions which not only constitute the mood of the moment, but in their measure co-operate to the formation of those habits which issue in character and conduct; now yielding up some fond illusion to the force of truth, and anon betrayed into another by the force of sophistry; now rebuked for some vice or folly, and binding himself with renewed vows to the service of virtue; and now sympathizing with the too faithful delineation of vicious passions and depraved pleasures, and strengthening by one more rivet the dominion of evil over the soul! Surely, to be able to wield such a power as this implies, in any degree, and for limited periods, is a stupendous attribute; one which, if more deeply pondered, would frequently cause a writer to pause and tremble, as though his pen had been the rod of an enchanter. Happy those who have wielded it well, and who "Dying leave no line they wish to blot." Happier, far happier such, in the prospect of speedy extinction, than those whose loftier genius promises immortality of fame, and whose abuse of it renders that immortality a curse. Melancholy indeed is the lot of all, whose high endowments have been worse than wasted; who have left to that world which they were born to bless, only a legacy of shame and sorrow; whose vices and fol lies, unlike those of other men, are not permitted to die with them, but continue active for evil after the men themselves are dust. It becomes every one who aspires to be a writer to remember this. The ill which other men do, for the most part dies with them. Not indeed that this is literally true, even of the obscurest of the species. We are all but links in a vast chain which stretches from the dawn of time to the consummation of all things, and unconsciously receive and transmit a subtle influence. As we are, in great measure, what our forefathers made us, so our posterity will be what we make them; and it is a thought which may well make us both proud and afraid of our destiny. But such truths, though universally applicable, are more worthy of being pondered by great authors than by any other class of men. These outlive their age; and their thoughts continue to operate immediately on the spirit of their race. How sad, to one who feels that he has abused his high trust, to know that he is to perpetuate his vices ; that he has spoken a spell for evil, and cannot unsay it; that the poisoned shaft has left the bow and cannot be recalled! If we might be permitted to imagine for a moment that it is a part of the reward or punishment of departed spirits, to revisit this lower world and to trace the good or evil consequences of their actions, what more deplorable condition can be conceived than that of a great but misguided genius, taught, before he departed, the folly of his course, and condemned to witness its effects without the power of arresting them? How would he sigh for the day which shall cover his fame with a welcome cloud, and bury him in the once dreaded oblivion! How would he covet as the highest boon the loss of that immortality for which he toiled so much and so long! With what feelings would he see the productions of his wit and fancy, proscribed and loathed by every man whose love and veneration are worth possessing! With what anguish would he see the subtle poison he had distilled take hold of innocence; watch the first blushes of still ingenuous shame, see them fade away from the cheek as evil became familiar, trace in his influence the initial movements in that long career of agony, and remorse, and shame which awaits his victims; and shudder to think that those whose faith he has destroyed, or whose morals he has corrupted, may find him out in the world of spirits, to tax him as their seducer to infamy and crime!* To see this matter in its true light, must, we fear, 1849.] morality and religion, never written a line but what after ages may gratefully turn to for solid instruction or innocent delight; and happy also all who, though not destined to see those distant times, have in any measure contributed to form and hasten them. Plato, in a well-known passage of his Phædrus, describes Socrates as contending for the superiority of oral instruction, by representing books as silent. The inferiority of the written word to the living voice is in many respects undeniable; but surely it is more than compensated by the advantage of its diffusive and permanent character. Great as has been the influence of Socrates, he owes it almost entirely to the books he refused to write! and it might have been greater still had he condescended to write some of his own. Even such authors, however, will reach, the oblivion they have desired at last; for this must be the ultimate doom (whatever might otherwise have been the case) of all who have set at defiance the maxims of decency, morality, and religion-however bright their genius, and however vast their powers. As the world grows older, and, we trust, better-as it approximates to that state of religious and moral elevation which Christianity warrants us to anticipate, many a production which a licentious age has pardoned for its genius, will be thrown aside in spite of it. In that day, if genius rebelliously refuse, as it assuredly will not-for the highest genius has not even hitherto refused --to consecrate itself to goodness, the world will rather turn to the humblest productions which are instinct with virtue, than to the But the chief glory of all human literature fairest works of genius, when polluted by vice. In a word, the long idolatry of intel--taking it collectively-is, that it is our lect which has enslaved the world will be broken; and that world will perceive that, bright as genius may be, virtue is brighter still. Happy the writers who, if destined to live so long, have, with souls prophetic of the great change, and true to the dictates of pledge and security against the retrogradation of humanity; the effectual breakwater against barbarism; the ratchet in the great wheel of the world, which, even if it stands still, prevents it from slipping back. Ephemeral as man's books are, they are at least not so ephemeral as himself; and consign without difficulty to posterity what would otherwise never reach them. A good book is the Methuselah of these latter ages. be left to the more unclouded vision of another world. We must conclude, however, lest we should Literary vanity is almost the last foible that is surrendered in this. There is much knowledge of human have reason to apply to ourselves the words of nature, as well as keen satire, in the tale which Addison tells of the atheist, who, bewailing on his death-old Fuller: "But what do I, speaking against bed the mischief his works would do after he was gone, quickly repented of his repentance, when his spiritual adviser unhappily sought to alleviate his grief by assuring him that his arguments were so weak, and his writings so little known, that he need not be under any apprehensions. "The dying man had still so much of the frailty of an author in him, as to be cut to the heart with these consolations; and, without answering the good man, asked his friends where they had picked up such a blockhead? and whether they thought him a proper person to attend one in his condition ?" the multiplicity of books in this age, who trespass in this nature myself? What was a learned man's compliment, may serve for my confession and conclusion, Multi mei similes hoc morbo laborant-ut cum scribere nesciant, tamen a scribendo temperare non possuit.' Even as it is, we fear that some of our readers will be disposed to say that we have illustrated the "vanity" without proving the "glory" of literature. From the People's Journal. "I FEAR TO THINK HOW GLAD I AM!" How still and solemn is the night! Thick darkness hangs around; No faintest gleam of distant light, The gloom dissolves away. From Tait's Magazine. STATE OF MUSIC ON THE CONTINENT. In giving a short account of the state of, music on the Continent, we cannot commence better than by remarking that there are certain times when arts of all kinds seem to take a stand, and others when they march onward with great rapidity. Leaving Handel, Mozart, Haydn, and other great composers apart, we have only to refer to the epoch when Rossini appeared, and to examine the impetus which his works gave to musical progress, to be convinced of the truth of the proposition which we have above stated. For a period of a quarter of a century his beautiful and flowing melodies have been heard over all the world; and even now many of them retain their original freshness. For instance, who has not listened with pleasure to " Di tanti palpiti," an air which has formed one of our stock concert pieces, and which has been ground on every barrel-organ ever since its composition. But besides his power over melody, Rossini broke up fresh ground; he gave vocal music quite a new character; he wrote down, note by note, all those ornaments which former composers were wont to leave to the judgment and caprice of the singer; besides which, he gave a new and varied form to song which it did not possess before his time. Such a great and original genius was not without a host of imitators, who succeeded, like all others, in following his various defects. Thus he for many years remained without a rival, and every other composer was, in a manner, banished from the scene. At one period the stream of delightful works which he continued to pour forth seemed to be inexhaustible. However, to the surprise of the world, being yet in the prime of life, he suddenly ceased to write; and with "William Tell," perhaps his greatest composition, his career was closed. On the Italian stage, where much more depends upon novelty than on intrinsic value, it was soon found that the operas of Rossini, however beautiful, ceased to attract; and attempts were made by a host of inferior com the posers, by following his models, to fill up vacuum which he had left. But all in vain. Thousands of passages intended for the voice, but certainly much more appropriate for the violin, were crowded into the cavatinas, duos, &c. It was thought sufficient to follow the line marked out by the great master; but as melody, the soul of the whole, was wanting, the attempts fell flat to the ground. Thus, for many years, recourse was still obliged to be had to Rossini; and the dilettanti, while they listened with pleasure, still looked forward with longing to the advent of a new composer. These hopes were not entirely frustrated, for Bellini, a young Sicilian, appeared in the musical world, and, by judiciously avoiding the style adopted by Rossini-in the successful imitation of which all who had attempted it had failed-by becoming as simple as the latter was complicated, and by being happily endowed by nature with a rich vein of tender melody, he succeeded for a time in directing attention to himself, and in withdrawing it from his great predecessor. However, unfortunately for the pleasure of the musical world, this young composer, after having written several charming works, died suddenly, before he had reached the age of thirty. The scene was then left to Donizetti, a voluminous composer, whose operas belong to that school of which Bellini may be said to be the head. Of his works may be cited "Lucia di Lammermoor," founded on Sir Walter Scott's beautiful tale, which rivals in popularity any of the operas written by Bellini. However, Rossini was still far from being reached. In tenderness, perhaps, he was equalled, or even excelled, but in sparkling brilliancy, gaiety, and in varied beauty, his competitors were far behind. Thus, since the advent of Rossini, the Italian lyric stage has presented little novelty. Composers have not been wanting; but none of them has possessed that creative faculty which can give a new impulse to art, and which can make it even take a new direction. As of the above three composers (who are the most remarkable which Italy, that land of song, has produced during the present century) two are dead, and the third has been resigned to inactivity, it remains only for us to speak of another, whose works have found their way into France and England, and who may at present be called the head of the Italian school. We refer to M. Verdi. The operas of this composer having made a great sensation over all Italy, which, we may observe by the way, is by no means difficult, the dilettanti in Paris and London were anxious to hear them, and to judge for themselves. The result was by no means satisfactory; for although some skill and novelty were displayed in the instrumentation, still an entire absence of melody, and a straining after fantastical effects, caused the works of the new composer to be but coldly received. Novelty, however, is a certain recommendation; and a new opera by Verdi was found to attract about as large an audience as an old one by Rossini or Donizetti. His "Jerusalem," which is a French adaptation of the "I Lombardi," was brought out at the Great Opera in Paris with the utmost splendor. Neither costs nor pains were spared to insure its success. It had a moderate run, and is still performed occasionally. It, however, owes a great part of its good fortune to the dresses, scenery and decorations. The music of "I Lombardi" is certainly a very favorable specimen of the style of Verdi; and an instrumental movement, representing the rising of the sun, was much and justly admired. There is, however, as is usual with this composer, the want of that divine and flowing melody which we find so continuously throughout the works of Rossini, Bellini, &c. Many of the vocal passages are also but ill adapted for the human voice, and require a straining to attain them, which is equally hurtful to the performer and disagreeable to the hearer. Thus there is little hope of the music of Verdi ever becoming popular, or of its creating a new era in musical history. We are, therefore, reduced to live on hope, as certainly the man has not yet appeared who will restore to Italian music that brilliancy and universality which it acquired under the creative mind of Rossini. With the single exception of Meyerbeer, German composers have furnished us with no dramatic music of the first class for a long period. Every one will be ready to acknowl edge the just claims of this composer, which are founded principally on the two French operas, "Les Huguenots" and "Robert le Diable." Still, in England, his music has never been completely relished. Last season, the "Huguenots" met with great success at Covent Garden Theatre; but, we might ask, had not the performers a greater share of it than the composer? In our opinion, the music of Meyerbeer will never be so popular in England as it is in France. It does not coincide with English taste. We love a graceful, flowing melody, complete in itself, and not those continued changes of time and key which we find in the works of Meyerbeer. Besides, the French themselves, who are the great partisans of this composer, admit that there are, both in "Robert" and in the "Huguenots," des longueurs, which the patience of an English audience can never submit to. On this account, when these operas are performed in England, they are generally much curtailed, and, we think, judiciously so. Paris is at present on the tiptoe of expectation for his new opera the "Prophéte.' A part of it is in rehearsal, of which report speaks favorably. M. Roger and Madame Viardot will doubtless be great elements in its success. No pains are spared by the composer in drilling his company; and the administration are going to an enormous expense, so as to produce the work on the grandest scale imaginable. If its success equal its predecessors, the opera will have made a great hit. At present, there is much need of something to attract the musical public, as no completely successful work has been produced at the Theatre de la Nation for a long period. In directing our attention to French composers, we have much better accounts to give. Who has not heard of Auber and Halévy? The first sparkling with brilliancy, and almost rivalling Rossini himself in the riches of his fancy; the second equally great, but in another style, often mingling the tender and pathetic with the gay and cheerful, and reminding us of Herold or Bellini. "Haydee" and the "Val d'Andorre" are both charming works, and, despite of politics, insurrections, and revolutions, have continued to fill the Opera Comique to the very doors. The author even of such works as the "Domino Noir" and "Fra Diavolo" has gathered fresh laurels from "Haydee;" and the "Val d'Andorre" will worthily take its place alongside of the "Juive" and Charles VI." Both "Haydee" and the "Val'Andorre" have been admirably brought out and performed. The 66 |