belief that it is the blending of harmony and song, which undeniably operated with such amazing force on all classes of the people music being but the ally of verse. According to Plato and Aristotle, the Greeks, too, had their old songs, some of which have descended to the present day, full of classical and traditional associations. Homer is said to have sung his own epics. What is so delightful as to hear a poet sing his own compositions? The expression, the soul of the poetry, coming from his lips just as it welled-up from the deep fountain of inspiration, the mysteries of which are so little understood by the uninitiated. What is so delightful as to set some favorite rhyme to a tune of our own, and sing it to weariness-if that were possible? It is pleasant enough for an author to find his works translated into a foreign language; but to hear his own songs, unexpectedly, in a far land - ah! that is fame indeed! Rousseau describes song (chanson) "as a very brief, lyrical poem, founded commonly on agreeable subjects, to which a melody is added for the purpose of singing it on familiar occasions, either at table among friends, or to a beloved object; and even when alone, to dissipate the ennui of the rich, and to lighten the care and labors of the poor"--but their principal charm must ever rest in association. It is scarcely needed that they should possess any peculiar merit of their own, but will be quite sufficient if they serve to call up a faint remembrance of the last time we heard them; and of the dear ones who might have been with us then. If they bring back the past, even though it be in sorrow -- the melody remaining when the voice that warbled it so sweetly is hushed in death! "A well-known tune Which in some dear scene we have loved to hearRemember'd now in sadness!" "We would liken music," says L. E. L., "to Aladdin's lamp, worthless in itself--not so for the spirits which obey its call. We love it for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings it can summon with a touch." "As children," writes a celebrated authoress, "and before the sister-band was broken and divided by death and change, we had, I well remember, a pleasant custom of singing in turns, either at our needlework, or after we retired to rest. And I have many a time, when I happened to lie awake at night, heard my little sister still singing on in her sleep. The memory of my gladsome and innocent childhood comes back like a spell, whenever I hear those old songs!" "There is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer!" It is so natural to sing when one is happy. On a bright sunny day, for instance — or as we sit alone or go about our household tasks-ay, and even at our desk, when the mood is on us, the invisible Aoide, and the heart's music will have vent! How an old song, or sometimes only a few lines of one, heard long since, comes back all of a sudden, like a flash of lightning, haunting us for days and weeks, ever in our thoughts and on our lips, breaking forth halfinvoluntarily into words—and, then, as strangely it fades away, and returns not again for years; just as if its memory had gone to gladden some one else. How often, when sorrow has stricken us into silence, has a few notes of some old familiar song broken the spell, and compelled us irresistibly, as it were, to join in that well-loved melody, so that we have wept to find ourselves singing, and yet sang on until we forgot our weeping! We can remember, years ago, going on a visit to one who, although personally unknown to us at the time, we had been accustomed to regard with no little awe and reverence, and feeling, as the young are apt to feel in a strange house, and among strangers, until, on opening the window the following morning, we chanced to hear our hostess singing in the garden beneath, as she tended her flowers. That old song acted like a charm in removing the barrier between us, and dissipating those causeless fears, which never returned again during that happy and memorable visit. What a large proportion of people, even in the most elevated and intellectual society, there are, who prefer hearing a simple old ballad before any thing else: although very many want the courage to confess it. Look round you, for instance, at the soirée or concert-room-first, perhaps, comes an instrumental performance by a brilliant and popular musician, whose spirit, as Bellini says of Beethoven, "actually seems to create the inconceivable, while his fingers perform the impossible!" A few enter into the beauty of the conception, others admire and marvel at the rapidity, and at the same time the exquisite finish of his execution. Some, lulled by those sweet sounds, suffer their thoughts to wander away in a pleasant, dreamy idleness, the spell of which is only broken at last by their cessation. And not a few wonder when it is to end, and the singing begin. And now follows an Italian air from the last new Opera. Half the people present, in all probability, do not understand the language, and are trying to look as if they did; but in spite of that splendid voice, it is a dull affair for them. And even when the talent of the singer rises, as we have known it to do, superior to all language, electrifying, and taking the admiration of her hearers, as it were by storm, with her charming cadences, and bird-like notes, and drawing down one unanimous burst of applause - it is still but a poor triumph compared to that achieved by old songs. "Now, Fanny, dear," whispered an elderly gentleman nearest to his companion, “they are going to sing your song!" We turned involuntarily; but one glance was sufficient to assure us that the simple little woman who looked up to him with her sweet, loving smile, was no authoress or song-writer, but his wife; and the air, one which in all probability she had sung to him years ago before they were married, perhaps. The song was touching and plaintive. Old enough to have its memories—no light recommendation in these days of "new music"-all could understand - many felt it. Tears rushed unbidden into eyes, albeit unused to weeping. Those who smiled then, and there were not a few glad young hearts to whom sorrow and sadness were but names, will weep perchance when they hear it again, at the recollection of that happy evening, and those who made its happiness for them. There were less apparent manifestations of applause, and more deep and silent gratification. The elderly gentleman was the only one who did not look quite satisfied - nothing could equal the remembrance of Fanny's singing for him; and yet, as he said, "it was pleasant enough to listen, and think of old times." A venerable-looking woman, with the tears still glistening on her pale cheeks, and mourning in her dress, but still more in her face, turned to whisper something to her companion: "That was our poor Mary's song - bless her!" We thought of "she - the silver tongued," so exquisitely described by Christopher North, in his paper on Christmas Dreams, “as about to sing an old ballad, words and air alike, hundreds of years old and sing she doth, while tears begin to fall, with a voice too mournfully beautiful long to breathe below. And ere another Christmas shall have come with its falling snows, doomed to be mute on earth, but to be hymning in Heaven." But, after all, the Mary referred to might have been married only, and gone away from the home of her youth, or unhappy. The word "poor" has a thousand significations, and is used in endearment as well as commiseration. 66 Why is it that we are never merry when we hear sweet music?" That, according to Shelley "Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought?" Can there be aught of truth in the wild and poetical creed of the Hindoos, regarding musical effect, which they strictly connect with past events, believing that it arises from our recalling to memory the airs of Paradise, heard in a state of pre-existence-mistaking the inspirations of genius for the dreams of immortality? The Egyptians believe that men were spirits fallen from a brighter world, and that a genius stands at the entrance of mortal life with a Lethean cup in his hand, from which every soul, before it wanders out, is forced to take a deep oblivious draught, awakening with only a confused and indistinct recollection of the past. Among these glimpses of the "better-land," harmony is supposed to be one of the most frequent occurrence. Plato has a similar faith, and looks upon the human soul as an exile from its radiant home, followed by infinite aspirations, and haunting recollections of the Beautiful in sight and sound. How exquisitely has this idea been shadowed forth by one of the sweetest of our living poet esses: * "A yearning to the Beautiful denied you, In all your music our pathetic minor And all fair sights shall mind you of diviner, How often do we hear some sweet air which seems strangely familiar, and yet, if we ever heard it before, it must have been thus -- or in our dreams!-- a wild creed which Fancy revels in, at the same time that Reason rejects. But we willingly quit the mysteries of philosophy, for the realities of truth and experience. A few years since, at a large soirée, where half the company were unknown to us, we chanced to sit opposite a lady, who, but for subsequent events, would in all probability have been passed over unnoticed in our eager search after the principal stars in the literary hemisphere- those wandering lights which had ever a strange charm for us. She was below the middle size, with nothing striking either in dress or manner- one of those every-day faces which Professor Longfellow happily compares to "a book, where no line is written, save perhaps a date!" * Miss E. B. Barrett. On a sudden the hum of eager voices was hushed into silence, or only heard in suppressed whispers; and some one commenced singing an old Scotch ballad, simple and characteristic, but not remarkable for any depth of sentiment. The heart creates its own pathos. The lady before mentioned shuddered, and changed color as she listened. Her bosom heaved with some hidden and painful emotion. She struggled evidently and vainly against it, becoming at length so fearfully pale, that we could not help asking if she were ill. She looked up half-unconsciously the look was no longer a fair unwritten scroll, but deeply indented with the traces of sorrow and anguish. "Take me away!" exclaimed she, wildly, and imploringly. "I cannot bear this!" We went into the ante-room. Fortunately there was no one there; and sitting down, she covered her face with her hands, and wept and sobbed like a child, evidently forgetting that she was not alone. And then recovering herself by a strong effort, and with a convulsive laugh, that was sadder far than tears, began to apologize for the trouble she had given, and to murmur something about the heat and the crowd, as she carelessly arranged her dark hair, so that it fell like a shadow over her pale face. Just then, one of her party, who were all strangers to us, came in search of her, and we re-entered the room together. We saw her once again in the course of the evening, laughing and talking with much animation, and apparent gaieté de cœur; but failed in all our endeavours to learn her name. Nor could our kind hostess, among her two hundred guests, be brought to recollect and identify that particular one who had so much interested us. And having no means of ascertaining her real history, we were forced to content ourselves with imagining a dozen different ones, all more or less connected with Old Songs. "Show me a heart," writes L. E. L., "without its hidden wound!" And we verily believe, that however outwardly calm and self-possessed, each have their secret sorrow, unguessed, unpitied, unrevealed, but for those lightning touches of association, which, unlocking the barriers of a cold, but necessary reserve, give us transient glimpses of a sad and sorrowful romance, oftentimes when least expected. Song-love, if we may so express it, is a home feeling-Aoide, a household deity. The maiden sings among her flowers, or at her daily tasks. The mother sings to the infant on her breast; and again, the little children, as they grow up around her, sing at their merry play. But byand-bye, all of a sudden, perhaps, one young voice is hushed! and the mother weeps to hear the same song warbled by other lips; and then smiles again in the trusting faith of her meek heart, to think that little one, through the merits of the Redeemer, may be singing still-in heaven. The young wife sings to her husband, and he is a lover once again. The daughter sings to her father and mother, when the toils of the day are over and they gather round the hearth, some ancient ditty for the hundredth time, to which the old people listen with tears in their eyes; she thinking the while of other things; for that song has no charm for her, save that they love to listen to it. They calling to mind the scenes and hopes of the Past, and hearing in imagination the voices of those who have been resting in the quiet grave years ago, the mother remembers how she used to sing it when a girl, gathering wild flowers in her native wood, and the father that memorable day when he heard it for the first time. It was a bright epoch in both their lives. Mrs. Ellis imagines a sweet scene, which may not be altogether ideal — of a brother, a prodigal—an alien from the paths of peace -a dweller in distant lands, still haunted by this fireside music, telling him, as it were, to return, until he exclaims at length, in the beautiful language of Scripture, "I will arise, and go to my father!" How readily-how joyfully is he received and forgiven. Nevertheless, a feeling of estrangement steals over them almost imperceptibly the inevitable result of a long absence. Presently the sister sits down to the instrument; she touches a few chords, and begins to sing. It is the evening hymn. How often have they sung it together years ago; and now once again their voices blend; but his has grown manly since then, and yet, when he first began, it trembled like that of a little child. The whole family join in the sacred melody-heart and voice united, as of old. That hymn has broken down the barriers of time and change, and made them all one again. We have known the memory of a hymn, under the blessing of God, to be more powerful even than this in recalling the wanderer back to penitence and peace, and realizing the cry of the returning prodigal, in its true and Scriptural sense; a sweet and touching reminiscence, but scarcely suited to the character of our present song-writer. All true poets must needs be, more or less, admirers of old ballads; it is a part of their sweet creed, as worshippers of the Beautiful! Hope whispers - what those songs are to him now, his may be to others, years hence; while the heart of the poet burns within him at the thought. "Of all my compositions," said a veteran author, as he sat tranquil and gray-headed, beneath the shade of his well-earned laurels, “nothing Jean, ever since we read it. Thus would she go about the house, always busy, and always merry; working and singing, so that it did one's heart good to hear her. She was not rich or accomplished—having been brought up at home, under the eyes of a kind and judicious parent, who took care not to sacrifice the useful to the ornamental. Jean possessed no instrument, and we are not sure that she could have played above half-a-dozen tunes on it if she had; but her ear was quick, and her voice sweet and ex-perhaps has ever afforded me more real happipressive. The old father thought that no one in the world sang like his Margaret, and was never tired of asking her for My ain Fireside," "John Anderson my Jo," "The Banks o' Doon," and many others of the same kind—all of which she sang without music, generally as she sat at work, in a soft, plaintive voice, that was irresistibly touching. We can remember hearing her sing "Auld Robin Gray," once, and weeping like a child. The recollection of "Bonnie Jean' is inseparably connected with these old songs. Lucy Grey had a voice like a bird - not powerful, but full of sweetness and expression. Whether it was that sweet voice, or her fair, gentle face, we know not, but wherever she went she won all hearts, and dearer than all to her that of her brave cousin, Walter Graham. Scarcely an evening passed but he was sure to find some excuse for making his appearance at her mother's house, where Lucy never wearied of playing his favorite songs, which became hers also from the moment he admired them. Singing did not, however, hinder more serious matters; and when Walter Graham was forced at length to rejoin his regiment, it was as the betrothed husband of his cousin Lucy. But he never returned again! Years passed away, and the sorrow-stricken girl arose up at length from her sick couch, to mingle in that world which seemed a dreary wilderness to her without him. We can fancy her sitting alone, and singing once more those well-remembered songs, pausing between each, as though the low, praiseful whisper of her dead lover could ever come again, save in memory. Poor Lucy! And yet there are others more to be pitied when old songs bring back the changed! Thy grief is sweet compared to the agony-the bitterness the wounded pride, and blighted affection, connected with such reminiscences. The poet bows down his lofty head to listen to the simple melodies of his childhood, and hold communion with the household spirits that come back at their call, as though it were but yesterday. What changes have passed over him since then! From a song-lover, he has become, by the most natural transition in the world, a ness than a song written years ago, at the commencement of my literary career, and before I became so completely absorbed in more abstruse studies. The world has claimed all else, but the song still makes music in my heart and home. My children sing it to me every night; and sometimes in the day as well I hear them humming it; and they little think how it pleases me to listen. And they will sing it still, with tears maybe," added the old man," when I am dead and gone!" Two sisters sat together in their humble apartment; one wore a widow's cap; both were pale and sorrow-stricken. They worked on in silence, until a woman's clear voice arose up all of a sudden from the narrow street beneath, and commenced singing an old ballad, while the widow's tears fell fast. "Do you remember, Anne, where we last heard that song?" asked she. But her sister had forgotten. There were many tearful reminiscences, and a few sun-bright links in the chain of association, but this was not one of them for her. She had been sewing placidly on, the song and the singer alike unheeded, except once, when it just crossed her mind that it was a bitter day to be abroad in, and so thinly clad as that poor ballad-singer-somehow ballad-singers always do come out on wet days. 66 "It was at the Isle of Wight," continued the young widow, following out the train of her own tangled thoughts. Surely you must recollect, dear Anne, how you and I and Frank set out to visit the new light-house, leaving the rest of our party comfortably established at the little cottage adjoining the Sand-rock Hotel, and how we grew tired when little more than half-way, and sat down to rest. It was a still, moonlight evening, and Frank sang that very song to us. I have never heard it since, save in my dreams, until now. What a happy night that was! We never got as far as the light-house after all, but remained talking, and planning out a long future that was not to be. Ah! I little thought then of losing him so soon!" "God's will be done!" said Anne gently. "He sendeth sorrow in love, lest our hearts should cling over much to earth.” The ballad-singer passed on, and the sisters were left alone again, with the memory of the past. Once more the woman's shrill voice rose up, mingled with the pattering of the rain against the casement, and penetrated home after home in vain; there was no kindred echo in the hearts of those who heard it. A veteran author, whose thoughts came slower than they were wont, what with age and poverty, and the incubus which weighs ever on those who are forced to coin poetry into bread-wearied and annoyed, sent down word that if she did not move on, he would give her in charge. But upon his wife's observing that it was a terrible night to be abroad in, qualified the command by a few halfpence, and the half of their frugal supper. “After all,” said he, with a smile, "it is easier writing songs here by our bit of fire (and it was but a bit,) than singing them in the cold, wet streats." A blessing surely rested on his poetry that night. that enthusiasm which flew like the electric spark through every rank wherever the Marseilloise hymn was heard a whole audience rising simultaneously, and amidst the waving of handkerchiefs, and gestures of devotion, joining heart and voice in the national anthem - regiments dropping on their knees, and as it were, solemnly devoting themselves to the cause in which they were engaged?—or the Ranz des Vaches, upon the hearing of which the poor expatriated Swiss soldiers were wont to melt into tearsmany deserted-others fell ill and not a few actually died, it is said, of mere home-sickness? We are told by Mr. Malone, that one night, when Sir Joshua Reynolds was at Venice, the manager of the Opera, in compliment to the English gentlemen there, ordered the band to play an English ballad tune. It happened to be a popular air, which was played or sung in every street at the time of their leaving London; and by recalling to mind that metropolis, with all its connections and endearing circumstances, brought tears into the artist's eyes, as well as into those of his countrymen who were present. In all this the spell lies simply in an old song, hallowed by memory and association. Again the ballad-singer passed on, and her voice had more of melody in it. The kind face and gentle words of the poet's wife had done her good, beside providing for the wants of the present hour; and the poor, happily for them, in one sense, seldom look beyond. Presently the door Religion, also, has her old songs the Canof a respectable house opened, and a young ticles, that "song of songs" as the name so woman, decently dressed, beckoned her forward, sweetly signifies "the most beautiful song!" and slipped a shilling into her hand, observing And more ancient still, when Moses sang at the that it was a wild night. The ballad-singer head of the tribes, after the miraculous passage looked up astonished at receiving so much, and of the Red Sea, Miriam's Song. The Songs of saw by the lamp-light traces of tears recently David, the Song of the Angels, the Songs of shed on the thin cheek of her benefactress. The Zion, began on earth, and perfected in Heaven. young woman shook her head when she offered A theme full of holy and beautiful thoughts and her one of the ballads which she had been sing-imaginings — hauntings of a glorious immortality, ing, declaring with a sigh that she knew it by but all too sacred for our presentp aper. Hymns heart; and, interrupting her thanks and bless- are a kind of spiritual songs, the influences of ings by again closing the door, went back into which are perhaps more lasting than any other her neat little parlour, and leaning her head kind of uninspired melody. We learn them in upon her hand, wept long and bitterly. childhood, and in old age their memory comes back to gladden and to bless us. We lisp them at a mother's knee, and murmur them on a dyingbed. A hymn is often among the last things retained by the fading memory - the last sound upon the trembling lips; - like "Much-afraid,” in the Pilgrim's Progress,' we pass through the river singing. A love of country, as well as kindred and friends, is indissolubly linked with old songs. The Swiss, although not in general a people of great susceptibility, are said to be peculiarly alive to this feeling; and also the Irish and Scotch, more especially the latter. How touching it is to hear home-songs in a strange land!— the simple melodies of childhood, hundreds and hundreds of miles away, like the sweet voices of familiar friends. Terpander, the Lesbian musician, is said to have quelled an insurrection in Lacedæmon by his songs. "Who has not heard or read," says a late author, "of the extraordinary effects of the Jacobite airs, so associated with the cause in which they had been such powerful agents, that even still they make the blood to tingle, and the heart to throb? and It is astonishing the pertinacity with which old. songs linger in the heart, long after things that seemed of far more importance have been forgotten. The aged man looking dimly back upon childhood's hardly-acquired love, remembers little else save its songs. We can well recollect such an one, who for many years filled the professor's chair at Edinburgh, and was justly celebrated as the first classical scholar of his day. But all these things have passed from him now like a |