in a pew near to an elderly gentleman who for fifty years had been under the impression that he could join in the Old Hundredth,' and never failed to sing lustily what he called 'the bass part.' Now it happened that a fanciful organist had given the choir, which was a professional one, the tune with Novello's arrangement, for that particular occasion; and thus it sounded to our neighbour weirdlike and strange. What do they mean, sir?' he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard at a considerable distance; 'the men are drunk, sir! they can't sing the "Old Hundredth," sir!' The musicians were perfectly sober; it was the 'Old Hundredth,' drugged by Mr. Novello, that was tipsy.

We would scarcely go so far as to say that a musical repetition must never be introduced into a tune; but if it be, let it have a force and a meaning. It is not unusual to hear the last line of a verse ranted over three or four times when the gist of the sentiment lies in the former part. And the evil is still greater when a line is divided, as it frequently is-sometimes a word-exciting the most grotesque images in the mind. One Sunday afternoon we joined a clerical friend in a visit to his school. He was by no means either a musical or an energetic character: indeed, to tell the truth, he was known by the sobriquet of 'Old England, because he expected every man to do his duty." Our friend closed the school with Watts's hymn, 'Lord, how delightful 'tis to see,' in which is the following verse: O write upon my memory, Lord, The text and doctrines of thy word; That I may break thy laws no more, And love thee better than before.

The tune was a miserable one, called 'Job'as miserable as the patriarch in his worst estate; and it required a division in the last line, so that the words ran thus'And love thee bet--and love thee bet and love thee bet-ter than before.' Now what was my consternation at catching a great hulking fellow telegraphing a buxom damsel on the other side of the room, and accompanying the sentiment, And love thee, Bet,' with what he considered a little pleasant pantomime, while 'Old England' seemed to be reposing in that state of dreamy self-complacency which is Old England's characteristic at all times! We felt a strong impulse to take Betsy by the ears, and bundle John out by the shoulders; but we contented ourselves with wondering whether John and Betsy or their spiritual guides were more to blame.*

In order to make your singing congregational, observe this rule,attach to each hymn and psalm an appropriate tune, and be careful that as a rule the music and the words be not divorced. We know instances where with an infinitude of pains the clergyman selects the pieces to be sung on the following Sunday, and the organist fixes to each any tune that may suit his immediate caprice. We cannot conceive a more injudicious plan. Endeavour if possible to associate certain words and ideas with certain music, so that the melody is never dissevered in the mind from the sentiment; and it will prove a marvellous help in the furtherance of congregational singing. Mr. Dickson says that we can never have congregational song' till both a hymn-book and the tunes for each hymn are unalterably fixed by au

1860.]

*

thority. We agree in his principle of linking together the words and the music; but we cannot conceive that authority can do more than individual common sense in the matter.

The taste of your organist must influence the character of your congregational singing. It is a sad reflection that your ranting organist, like your ranting preacher, is most admired by the mass of hearers. We have repeatedly heard loud praise of a performer for his wonderful execution on the instrument, when he had shown it by such feats as engrafting on his chants rapid passages from 'Rory O'More,' or 'Pop goes the weasel.' Such a man may be efficient in an opera, but for Church music he has no soul, nor can congregational singing ever flourish under his guidance. He is destitute of devotional feeling. Now,' says Mr. Latrobe, very justly, 'of all inanimate creatures the organ is the best adapted to portray the state of mind of the individual who performs upon it. If pride and musical foppery possess the seat of intelligence, the faithful instrument will be sure to proclaim it in the ears of the congregation. Every "fond and frivolous ornament' proclaims his conceit, however he may seek to smother it under highsounding stops and loaded harmonies. A person accustomed to mark the style in which an organ is played, cannot be insensible to the devotion or want of devotion of the performer-a fact worthy of the continual remembrance of every organist.'t

What do you think of our organist? asked a clerical friend of us not long ago, after his service, and waited for an answer of approbation. 'My opinion is,' was the astounding reply, 'that he is neither more nor less than a puppy!' and immediately the gentleman himself stepped into the vestry where we

317

were, with a doctor's hat in his hand and a silver-headed cane, and an air of unusual self-complacency.

A puppy!' said our friend, after he had left, I grant you that he is personally; but what do you think of his playing?' "That he is a greater puppy in his playing than in his person, if that be possible,' was our very ungracious reply. About half a year ago we heard a somewhat celebrated organist in a go-ahead city playing all sorts of fantastic tricks with one of Tallis's sober anthems, when we ventured to inquire of him whether it would not be better to adhere to what was written. 'O!' said he, shrugging his shoulders, and turning up his coat-cuffs, we go with the times here, sir! we go with the times!'

Your highflier of an organist is a pestilent fellow. He can carry with him the fanciful part of a congregation, and snap his fingers at the clergyman. It is not long since we heard a choir, under an organist of this kind, sing the 'Gloria in excelsis' of Pergolesi, as the congregation were leaving the church -a performance in decidedly bad taste, and of somewhat doubtful legality. 'Well, James,' we said to an old man who had been a famous singer in his day, and could give you interesting. anecdotes about many an ancient Lancashire 'Rorytory,'-'well, James, what do you think of this?—a fine display of skill, is it not? Why, sir,' he replied, the music seems grand-like; but I dunno see why Maester Pack's omnibus has so much to do wi' it.' 'Pack's omnibus, James,' we explained; nothing of the kind; it is pax hominibus-it is Latin, James.' 'Lat'n,' growled the old protestant as he walked away,

Lat'n! waur and waur! blasts fro' Babylon, sir! blasts fro' Babylon!'

We know not how far it would be possible, as Dr. Maurice suggests, to make the subject of music one

branch of a university education.* A schoolmaster,' says Luther, 'ought to have skill in music; neither should we ordain young fellows to the office of preaching, except before they had been well exercised and practised in the school of music.'t Certain it is that an acquaintance with the art must be of eminent service to the incumbent of a church either in the town or country. If the clergyman, the schoolmaster, and the schoolmistress, take a pleasure in congregational singing, a very fair choir may be raised up out of the most unpropitious neighbourhood. Nor can anything promote good feeling in a district more effectually than a union of various ranks in the effort to promote and diffuse a musical taste. While music is a universal language, it has the incomparable quality of suggesting no topics on which people need disagree; at the same time that it affords enjoyment, it refines the taste and elevates the moral tone of those who come within its influence.

We can hardly estimate the beneficial effects that must follow from a judicious and extended cultivation of this art among all classes of our people. Good church music joined with good sacred poetry becomes a memory for life, and survives among the pleasantest associations that connect the present and the past in their electric links. We have heard our 'young men and maidens' in crowded cities lightening their daily toils with sacred songs, where the poetry was such as to elevate, and with music and voice which would have been

creditable to any choir. We have heard them enlivening their winter evenings at home with a concert of many family voices, and apparently happier in the exercise than the luxurious opera-lounger listening to some foreign favourite. We have heard them at their church and schools pouring forth a stream of sound, blending and swelling like the rush of many waters. We have perceived that the sentiments and melodies of beautiful hymns have often returned to the mind, linked with many a softening association, when a life of struggle and perhaps spiritual forgetfulness is drawing to a close; and we have sometimes found that the recalling of such lingering impressions has afforded the only hope of awakening feelings of devotion that were once vivid, but are now almost dormant. And while good psalmody will ever attract our working classes to a place of worship, it must at the same time elevate the devotional tone of the whole congregation. We should rejoice, therefore, to see our church music and hymnology studied and improved more and more, not with the object of inculcating special doctrines or furthering sectional views, but with the broad catholic purpose of enlarging religious feeling, diffusing healthy enjoyment among people, uniting class with class, and preparing our congregations here to join in that grand Hallelujah chorus of ten thousand times ten thousand voices hereafter, when every earthly sentiment and expression shall be lost in the one boundless, endless flood of praise.

R. L.

our

1860.]

EVE

BY THE AUTHOR OF

VEN in these days, when knowledge and education are supposed to walk hand in hand, we are every now and then surprised to find within how very narrow a circle the things which really interest us lie. We usually make the discovery with regard to our neighbour; he has never heard something which we are amazed he can be ignorant of. Of course the same thing is equally true of ourselves. One of the heroines of Miss Austen's novels was fain to confess that the general publicity and universal interest' of Kellyuch-hall were alike unknown at Uppercross, three miles off; and at the present time, though people read more and write more than in the days of the accomplished authoress, the case is not far different.

Each

little circle is self-centred, each reads and writes a literature which represents its own habits and opinions, and is apt to treat the outlying regions with a very complete indifference. This exclusiveness applies to us even more as a nation than as individuals. We know little that is going on out of our own dominions; we travel and we amuse ourselves, but our sympathies are national and exclusive; we take with us what a French writer calls 'the Britannic fluid,' an atmosphere impervious to foreign influence. We receive and shelter exiles; but we have been free so long, that the wants and wishes of those not free are nearly incomprehensible to us; and thus we have remained in ignorance, more or less complete, of a class of books which has sprung up abundantly in Italy during the last ten years, and may be called the Literature of Revolution. It comprehends writings of every kind, from the ravings of the demagogue, whose ideas of liberty is de tuer sans être tué, to the sad and serious views of the historian. If we review them, foremost in this band of authors, Farini the historian, Giusti the poet, d'Azeglio the novelist, make noble response;

MADEMOISELLE MORI.'

Mazzini and his followers appear, ultra-republicans, disowned by and disowning the men of purer and more moderate views.

I would fain let one of those who risked and lost all in 1840, the Count Emilio Dandolo, speak for himself to the English reader, by some extracts from his touching narrative, published immediately at the close of the War of Independence, and dedicated to three who fell at the siege of Rome,-his brother Enrico, Emilio Morosini, and Luciano Manara, the gallant young leader of the volunteers whose story Count Dandolo chronicles.

Rome has always been the very heart of Italy, and in 1847 life was circulating so fast and fiercely there that each throb was felt throughout the whole peninsula, rousing even enslaved Naples, and exciting almost to frenzy the fiery Lombards, who had long chafed against the heavy yoke of Austria. Austria appealed to treaties long signed, and benefits conferred, but it was in vain; the northern faults and virtues are almost equally distasteful to the Italians. There was that kind of sensation from one end of Italy to the other which forebodes revolution, as surely as the thrill which runs through the leaves of a forest while the sky is yet clear foretels a coming tempest.

Milan first broke into insurrection. Popular feeling had long run so high there that a breath would have raised a tempest; and as ever is the case with the beginning of a revolution, a trifle brought the crisis. The police, alarmed by the mad talk which went on openly in streets and cafés, were all on the alert, but could not hinder the young students from passing the day in martial exercises, and assembling at night in little out-of-the-way rooms, where they manufactured cartridges and cast shot, and spent their savings in arms and ammunition, all concealed in gardens and courtyards. They

kept away from the theatres, renounced cigars, and wore beards and round hats; childish demonstrations enough, but yet significant, and made of real importance by the police, who saw plots and conspiracy in them, and daily published fresh edicts, forbidding the buckle of the hat to be worn in front,' or the nap to be brushed in such and such a way. The lads read them with the glee of mischievous schoolboys, scrupulously obeyed, and forthwith invented some new device, while the police toiled after them in vain. Older men shook their heads, asking if these boys' supposed they should drive out the Austrians by giving up cigars. The boys smiled proudly in return, and trusted in themselves and their cause with that boundless faith which overcomes even impossibilities.

The day of contest dawned, apparently unexpected by the Austrians. It was rather the unanimous rising of a people than a mere revolt. Noon on the 8th of March, 1848, had been fixed on. On the previous night, numerous students assembled with some of more age and experience, who drew up proclamations and arranged the scheme of proceedings for the next day, while the younger ones loaded arms and roused each other with fiery words. There were 15,000 highly disciplined Austrian soldiers on one side; on the other, the citizens of Milan, rudely armed and untrained. Dandolo shall tell us how went the fight.

Prepared for our perils by the consolations of religion, we threw ourselves into the lonely byways leading to the Corso. These were now thronged, and full of that strange sound which ever attends a popular rising. Milan presented at that moment one of those scenes more easily imagined than described. The inflamed countenances, the strange rude arms which each man bore, the furious howls which, beginning at some distant point, spread and swelled by a thousand voices, formed one tremendous roar, more like the bellowing of an angry sea than a human cry; the heaving crowd, the hurried tocsin, the countless handkerchiefs waving from balconies thronged with women, who showered down cockades, which fluttered

in the air and were snatched at by a hundred hands. Above all, chief of all, the idea of a people which, after thirty years of slavery, awakes and seizes arms to thrust out the oppressor, all joined to kindle unspeakable enthusiasm.

The crowd poured on the palace of government. In an instant the sentinels were slain, and every chamber was full of insurgents. The Archbishop appeared at a window with the tricolored cockade, vainly attempting to control the people. As vainly did Fava, Guerrierri, and others remonstrate; the torrent had burst the dyke and rushed on its way.

If I wished (says young Dandolo) closely to follow the events of those days,

the peril, the strife, the victory, I could

not do it. Without a moment's pause or rest, ceaselessly in the streets, on the roofs, at the windows, amid the smoke of discharged musketry, howls, alarm bells, increasing enthusiasm, till no more voices remained to shout, begging a bit of bread now in one house, now in another, those few who really fought day after day, and watched night after night, actually lost all idea of time and of the succession of events.

The Austrians seemed perfectly confounded by the rapid success of the insurrection. Post after post was wrested from them. Porta

Tosa was one of the last. After twelve hours' furious combat, Manara headed the assault-a youth of twenty-four, 'ever first in rash proposals, ever foremost where the battle burned hottest.' Though volleys of musketry were sweeping the road, and the houses round the gate were in flames, he dashed on Porta Tosa, waving a tricolor flag, and set fire to the gate. A handful of Milanese followed him: down went the gate; and the peasants from the country rushed in to aid the Milanese.

With the dawn of Thursday, 23rd, spread a marvellous, incredible rumour that the Austrians had quitted Milan in the night. News too strange, too good to be true, and yet most true, and the city broke into frantic rejoicing; the citizens ran from place to place weeping for joy, embracing all they met, friends and strangers alike;