In vocal music, it is the object of the composer, by the aid of sounds, to raise and heighten in the mind the sentiments which the words convey. As a beautiful example we may mention the song in the Messiah -A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Here, the words and notes assist each other in giving a just expression to this divine song. On the contrary, the chorus that follows, He trusted in God that he would deliver him, being a fugue, is utterly spoilt by the addition of the words. As an instrumental piece, the ear takes delight in perceiving the ingenious motion of the parts; but, as a vocal composition, there is an absurdity which cannot be got over. The words, by their friction, spoil the music, and the musical phraseology destroys the pronunciation of the words: as a consequence, we have the stammering sentence, He woo-oo-ood deliver him. Music of this mechanical structure, in which neither passion nor violent sensations ever occur, is now superseded by a language of sounds, more in alliance with our nature. We no longer reason upon the art, but are satisfied to acknowledge its powerful influence upon our feelings.

Haydn was the first who caught those instinctive tones of our nature, that speak so forcibly to the heart, and in this he was followed by. Mozart. But it was reserved for Beethoven to grasp the whole arcana of sounds, to originate an art sui generis, in which sounds by themselves operate upon the imagination, without

the aid of words-a poetry in music which has not been approached by any other author, and whose later compositions are not even yet understood. In his posthumous works, written when he was impenetrably deaf, so inefficient is our present notation to express the thoughts of this genius, that we must wait for another age to decipher them

So vast are the materials at the composer's command, in the whole range of nature's sounds, that there can be no limit to the effects that may be wrought in the instrumental orchestra a hundred years hence.

CHAPTER XLII.

BEETHOVEN.

If I am asked, what in the whole range of the fine arts-whether in poetry, painting, or music, delights me most-affords the widest field for the imagination to revel in-I reply a pianoforte sonata of Beethoven. Those for the pianoforte alone charm me beyond all other; for in these, the author indulges in all the mysteries of his art; it is a language, a sense, above every other, that transports the fancy. Out of eighty pieces let me speak of one-that on the death of a hero.

Though the opening strain is divided into five so

called variations, they are improperly so termed. They are one continuous theme, forming an unbroken display of the author's powers in leading you through scenery of indescribable interest and beauty, which no other art can present to the mind. When performed by an inspired hand, its fanciful flights and exquisite touches, enwrap the soul in a delirium of delight. In the first variation, when the melody begins to take wing, how elegant! how gentle the motion! In the second, when the bass catches the enthusiasm, and is imbued with the air, how divinely does it put forth its manly voice; applauded by an unceasing cry from the animated spirits in the upper air! What a sensation is excited in the gloomy key of seven flats! single notes in the bass, alarm us, from fathomless depths below. As the movement draws to a close, we find ourselves enveloped in a shower of particles of sound as it were-in a musical mist. Such are the wonderful effects wrought upon our feelings, that we desire nothing more. Affected as we have been by this andante, we can scarcely be reconciled to the mirth of the Scherzo that follows.

The

In the Marche Funebre, how we grope through subterraneous harmonies to the dark resting place of the hero, when, as by magic, there springs up a musical vapour, so thin, so light, as scarcely to be perceptible to the ear, depicting the spirit of the departed ascending to the regions above. The climax of the scene is a rhapsody, where the highest

powers of music are blended-the tender with the grand, in which the emotions of the soul are lost in delight!

CHAPTER XLIII.

EXERCISE.*

Old sayings are generally true. The familiar one, that "Use is second Nature" few will doubt. Some philosophers maintain that nature herself improves. The geologists affirm the deeper you penetrate into the strata of the earth, the simpler you find the structure of all organised beings, as they lie embedded in a fossil state. Reasoning upwards they further maintain that it was not till the last convulsion of our globe that it was made fit for the reception of man, the most perfect of God's works.

Like the plants and animals that have gone before him, he is in a gradual process of improvement; so much so, that in time he may approximate to the power of angels. If we refer to his savage state, and compare him with civilized man, he can scarcely be considered of the same species. This allowed, it cannot be denied, such is the advance of science, that the human intellect has progressed in a still higher degree.

* This appeared in the Leicester Journal, Nov. 7, 1851.

we can.

In a state of nature the instincts and bodily powers are incredibly strong. The savage can endure labour, heat and cold, hunger and thirst, better than The ploughman and the philosopher, though of the same mould, are made of different materials. The one being brought up in the fields, and exposed to the elements, his skin becomes thick and hard, as a defence. The other, nursed in the lap of luxury, would without clothing, perish with cold. The one abounds in sinewy muscle; the other is spread over with sensitive nerves.

Both these states deviate too much from the line which nature intends. The bodily and mental powers to live and last, should go hand in hand. The lower orders suffer from the want of mental culture. They are all body and no mind. Their thoughts and appetites are little better than those of the animals just below them. On the contrary, the refined of our species run into the other extreme; generating a feebleness of body in which numberless diseases take root, and prove a dire infliction upon mankind.

After this speculation upon our origin and wellbeing in the world, I will go to my subject, "The Use of Exercise."

My father was remarkable for his lightness of step at the age of ninety-four. He was regular in taking his walking exercise every day-sometimes twice a day. In approaching a similar age I look back upon many of his actions as a guide, and have scrupulously