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And who, my dear Mr. Music Philosopher, who the deuce told you that I wanted to express the Cherubino of Beaumarchais ?""

Chapelmaster Mozart, rising from his table, walks up and down the room with his hands crossed beneath his snuffcolored coat-tails, humming to himself,

Voi che sapete che cosa è amor, Donne, vedete s' io l' ho nel cor, and stops before the cage hanging in the window, and twitching the chickweed through the wires, says:

"Twee! twee! isn't that a fine air we have just composed, little canarybird, eh?"

"Twee! twee!" answers the canary. Mozart has willed it so; there is no possible appeal against his decision; his artistic sense would not listen to our logic; our arguments could not attain him, for he simply shook from off his feet the dust of logic land, and calmly laughed defiance from the region of artistic form, where he had it all his own way, and into which we poor wretches can never clamber. So here is the page's song irrevocably sentimental; and Mozart has been in his grave ninety years; and we know not why, but we do shrink from calling in Offenbach or Lecoq to rewrite that air in true jackanapsian style. What can be done? There still remains another hope.

For the composer, as we have seen, could give us-as could the painter or the sculptor-only one mood at a time; for he could give us only one homogeneous artistic form. But this artistic form exists so far only in the abstract, in the composer's brain or on the paper. To render it audible we require the performer; on the performer depends the real, absolute presence of the work; or, rather, to the performer is given the task of creating a second work, of applying on to the abstract composition the living inflexions and accentuations of the voice. And here, again, the powers of musical expression, of awaking association by means of sounds or manner of giving out sounds such as we recognize, automatically or consciously, to accompany the emotion that is to be convey

ed, here again these powers are given to the artist to do therewith what he chooses. This second artist, this performer, is not so free indeed as the first artist, the composer; he can no longer choose among the large means of expression the forms of melody and rhythm, the concatenation of musical phrases; but there are still left to him the minor modes of expression, the particular manner of setting forth these musical forms, of treating this rhythm ; the notes are there, and their general relations to one another, but on him depends the choice of the relative stress on the notes, of the tightening or slackening of their relations; of the degree of importance to be given to the various phrases. The great outline cartoon is there, but the cunning lights and shades, transitions, abrupt or insensible, from tint to tint, still remain to be filled up. A second choice of mood is left to the singer. And see! here arises a strange complication; the composer having in his work chosen one mood, and the singer another, we obtain in the fusion or juxtaposition of the two, works of the two moods, that very thing we desire, that very shimmer and oscillation of character which the poet could give, that dualism of nature required for Cherubino. What is Cherubino? A sentimental jackanapes. Mozart in his notes has given us the sentiment, and now we can get the levity from the performer-unthought-of combination, in which the very irrational, illogical choice made by the composer will help us. Here are Mozart's phrases, earnest, tender, noble-Mozart's love song fit for a Bellario or a Romeo; now let this be sung quickly, lightly, with perverse musical head-tossing and tripping and ogling, let this passion be gabbled out flippantly, impudently and then, in this perfect mixture of the noble and ignoble, of emotion and levity, of poetry and prose, we shall have, at last, the page of Beaumarchais. A brilliant combination; a combination which, thus reasoned out, seems so difficult to conceive; yet one which the instinct of half, nay, of nearly all the performers in creation, would suggest. A page? A jackanapes? Sing the music as befits him ; giggle and ogle and pirouette, and languish out Mozart's music; a universal

idea, now become part and parcel of tradition; the only new version possible being to give more or less of the various elements of giggling, ogling, pirouetting, and languishing; to slightly vary the style of jackanapes.

their best, to give us a real musical Cherubino, a real sentimental whippersnapper of a page, this utterly unnoticed little singer did persist in leaving out the page most completely and entirely. Why? Had you asked her, she would have been the last person in the world capable of answering the question. Did she consider the expression of such a person as Cherubino a prostitution of the art? Had she some theory respecting the propriety of dramatic effects in music? Not in the very least; she considered nothing and theorized about nothing: she probably never had such a thing as a thought in the whole course of her existence. She had only an unswerving artistic instinct, a complete incapacity of conceiving the artistically wrong, an imperious unreasoning tendency to do the artistically right. She had read Mozart's air, understood its exquisite proportions, created it afresh in her appreciation, and she sang it in such a way as to make its beauty more real, more complete. She had unconsciously carried out the design of the composer, fulfilled all that could be fulfilled, perfected the mere music of Mozart's air. And as in Mozart's air there was and could be (inasmuch as it was purely beautiful) no page Cherubino, so also in her singing of the air there was none: Mozart had chosen, and she had abided by his choice.

But no; another version did remain possible that strange version given by that strange solemn little Spanish singer, after whose singing of "Voi che sapete" we all felt dissatisfied, and asked each other "What has she done with the page?" That wonderful reading of the piece in which every large outline was so grandly and delicately traced, every transition so subtly graduated or marked, every little ornament made to blossom out beneath the touch of the singular crisp, sweet voice that reading which left out the page. Was it the blunder of an idealess vocal machine? or the contradictory eccentricity of a seeker after impossible novelty? Was it simply the dulness of a sullen, soulless little singer? Surely not. She was neither an idealess vocal machine, nor a crotchety seeker for new readings, nor a soulless sullen little creature; she was a power in art. A power, alas! wasted forever, of little or no profit to others or herself; a beautiful and delicate artistic plant uprooted just as it was bursting into blossom, and roughly thrown to wither in the sterile dust of common life, while all around the insolent weeds lift up their prosperous tawdry heads. Of this slender little dark creature, with the delicate stern face of the young Augustus, not a soul will ever remember the name. She will not even have enjoyed the cheap triumphs of her art, the applause which endures two seconds, and the stalkless flowers which wither in a day; the clapping which interrupts the final flourish, the tight-packed nosegays which thump down before the feet, of every fiftieth-rate mediocrity. Yet the artistic power will have been there, though gone to waste in obscurity; and the singer will have sung, though only for a day, and for that day unnoticed. Nothing can alter that. And nothing can alter the fact that, while the logical heads of all the critics, and the soulless throats of all the singers in Christendom have done their best, and ever will do

Such is the little circle of fact and argument. We have seen what means the inherent nature of music afforded to composer and performer for the expression of Beaumarchais's Cherubino; and we have seen the composer, and the performer who was true to the composer, both choose, instead of expressing an equivocal jackanapes, to produce and complete a beautiful work of art. Were they right or were they wrong? Criticism, analysis, has said all it could, given all its explanations; artistic feeling only remains to judge, to condemn, or to praise this one fact remains, that in the work of the great composer we have found only certain lovely patterns made out of sounds; but in them, or behind them, not a vestige of the page Cherubino.-Cornhill Magazine.

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IN very varied fashions has philosophy endeavored at various stages of its career to solve the problem of the face as the mind's mirror, and to gain some clue thereby to the ways and workings of the brain. Often when philosophy was at its worst and vainest, has the problem appeared most certain of solution. From classic ages, onward to the days of Lavater, Gall, and Spurzheim, the wise and occult have regarded their systems of mind-localization as adapted to answer perfectly all the conditions whereby an inquiring race could test their deductions. But as time passed and knowledge advanced, system after system of mind-philosophy has gone by the board, and has been consigned to the limbo of the extinct and non-existent. Now and then the shreds and patches of former years are sought out by the curious to illustrate by comparison the higher and better knowledge of to-day; and occasionally one may trace in the by-paths of latter-day philosophies, details which figured prominently as the sum and substance of forgotten systems and theories of matter and of mind. So that the student of the rise and decline of philosophies learns to recognize the transient in science as that which is rapidly lost and embodied in succeeding knowledge, and the permanent as that which through all succeeding time remains stamped by its own and original individuality. Especially do such remarks apply to the arts which have been employed to find "the mind's construction" in face or head. If Lavater's name and his long list of " temperaments' are things of the far-back past in science, no less dim are the outlines of the extinct science of brain-pans, over which Gall and Spurzheim labored so long and lovingly, but for the name of which the modern student looks in vain in the index of physiological works dealing with the subjects" phrenology" once called its own. Pursued together in out-ofthe-way holes and corners, the systems of Lavater and Gall are represented among us to-day chiefly by devotees whose acquaintance with the anatomy

and physiology of the brain is not that of the scientific lecture-room, but that of the philosophers who deal in busts, and to whom a cranium represents an object only to be measured and mapped out into square inches of this quality and half-inches of that. Neglected because of their resting on no scientific basis, the doctrines of phrenology and physiognomy have died as peacefully as the "lunar hoax" or the opposition to the theory of gravitation.. And the occasionally prominent revival of their tenets in some quarters, but represents the feeble scintillations which attend the decay and announce the transient survivals of movements whose days are numbered as parts of philosophical systems.

Whatever reasonable deductions and solid advances regarding the functions. science" of brain and mind either tended to evolve, have been long ago incorporated with the swelling tide of knowledge. Phrenology has vanished in the general advance of research regarding the functions of the brain; a region which, apparently without cloud in the eyes of the confident phrenologist, is even yet unpenetrated in many of its parts by the light of recent experiment and past discoveries. Similarly the science of physiognomy has its modern outcome in the cant phrases and common knowledge with

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which we mark the face as the index to the emotions, and through which we learn to read the broader phases of the mind's construction. But the knowledge of the face

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whole body. So that the acute observer might be supposed to detect the general character of the individual by the conformation of the facial lineamentscrediting a balance of goodness here or a soul of evil there, or sometimes placing his verdict in Colley Cibber's words, That same face of yours looks like the title-page to a whole volume of roguery. It argues powerfully in favor of the greater reasonableness of the science of faces, over its neighbor-science of crania, that we find even the vestiges of its substance enduring among us still. Of late years the face and its changes have become a new the subject of scientific study, although in a different aspect from that under which Lavater and his

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modern science attempts to show how that index came to be compiled. In a word, we endeavor, through our modern study of physiognomy, to account for how the face came to be the veritable "Dyall of the Affections" which the science of yesterday and that of to-day agree in stamping it.

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Regarding the face as the chief centre wherein the emotions and feelings which constitute so much of the individual character are localized, common observation shows us, however, that the mind's index is not limited to the play of features alone. A shrug of the shoulders may speak as eloquently of disdain as the stereotyped curl of the upper lip and nose. The attitude" of fear is as expressive as the scared look. The outstretched and extended palms of horror are not less typical than the widely opened eyes and the unclosed lips. Gesture language--the speech of the bodily muscles is in truth almost as much a part of our habitual method of expression as the muscular play of the face; and the emotions displayed by the countenance gain immeasurably in intensity when aided by the appropriate gestures

which we have come tacitly to recognize as part and parcel of our waking lives. No better portrait of the part which muscular movements play in the enforcement of language and feelings has been drawn than that of Shakespeare's Wolsey. Here the picture teems with acts of gesture, each eloquent in its way, and testifying to the conflicting passions and emotions which surged through the busy brain of Henry's counsellor :

Some strange commotion Is in his brain; he bites his lip and starts; Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, Then lays his finger on his temple; straight,

Strikes his breast hard; and anon, he casts His eye against the moon in most strange

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We have seen him set himself. We thus obtain, from the full consideration of the means which exist for the expression of the emotions, the knowledge that not the face alone, but the common movements of body and limbs, have to be taken into account in the new science of emotional expression which has thus arisen among us. Properly speaking, the modern physiognomy is one of the body as a whole, and not of face alone; and, above all, it is well to bear in mind that the newer aspect of the science deals not merely and casually with this gesture or that, but with the deeper problem of how the gesture came to acquire its meaning and how the strange postures" of face and form were evolved.

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By way of fit preface to such a subject as the expression of the emotions in a scientific sense, we may, firstly, glance at the emotions themselves and at their general relations to the bodily and mental mechanism of which they form the outward sign and symbol. It is well that, primarily, we should entertain some clear idea as to the exact place which the emotions occupy in the list of mental phases and states. Leaving metaphysical definitions as but little fitted to elucidate and aid a popular study, we may feasibly enough define an "emotion" as consisting of the particular changes which peculiar states of mind produce upon the mind and body. Such a definition, simple though it appear to be, really extends as far as any mere definition can in the endeavor to present a broad idea of what "emotions" imply

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and mean. By some authors, the "emotion" is interpreted as the mental state which gives rise to the bodily disturbance. But such a mode of treating the term is simply equivalent to an attempt to define the shadow and ignore the substance. Says Dr. Tuke, whose authority in all matters relative to the relation betwixt mind and body we must gratefully acknowledge, Everyone is conscious of a difference between a purely intellectual operation of the mind and that state of feeling or sentiment which, also internal and mental, is equally removed from (though generally involving) a bodily sensation, whether of pleasure or pain; and which, from its occasioning suffering, is often termed Passion; which likewise, because it moves our very depths, now with delight, now with anguish, is expressively called Emotion-a true commotion of the mind, and not of the mind only, but of the body." And in a footnote, Dr. Tuke is careful to remind us that it is very certain, however, that our notion of what constitutes an emotion is largely derived from its physical accompaniments, both subjective and objective." That is to say, the nature of the mental act-which is by some authors exclusively named the emotion-may be, and generally is, imperfectly understood by

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and the name is given rather to the obvious effects of the mind's action on the face and body, than to the mental action which is the cause of these visible effects. Such a result is but to be looked for so long as the mental acts are contained and performed within a veritable arcanum of modern science. The emotion renders us conscious subjectively," or within ourselves, of the mental states which cause the outward postures of body or phases of face. "The modern student," says Mr. Fiske, in a recent volume,' has learned that consciousness has a background as well as a foreground, that a number of mental processes go on within us of which we cannot always render a full and satisfactory account." And while the source of the common emotions of everyday life is no doubt to be found in the ordinary sensations which originate from our contact with the outer world, * Darwinism and other Essays: Macmillan, 1879.

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there are other emotions which arise from the "background of consciousness," and which are manifested in us as actively and typically as are the common feelings of the hour which we can plainly enough account for.

To descend from theory to example in this case is an easy task. The blush which has been called into the cheek by a remark made in our hearing, is as fair and simple an illustration of the objective source of emotions as could well be found. The production of the emotion in such a case depends upon the ordinary laws of sensation, through the operation of which we gain our knowledge of the world-nay, of ourselves also. Waves of sound set in vibration by the voice of the speaker, have impinged upon the drum of the ear. Thence converted into a nervous impression or impulse, these sound-waves have travelled along the auditory nerve to the brain. There received as a sensation"-there appreciated and transinto formed consciousness"

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the brain has shown its appreciation of the knowledge conveyed to it by the ear, in the production through the nerve-mechanism of the bloodvessels, of the suffused tint which soon overspreads the face. But this direct production of an emotion by mental action, and from the foreground of consciousness, is opposed in a manner by a second method which may be termed subjective," by way of distinction from the objective sensation derived from the voice of the speaker, and giving rise to the blush. From the "background of consciousness, wherein Memory may be said to dwell, there may come the remembrance of the occasion which gives rise directly to the blush. Projected into the foreground of consciousness, the subjective sensation may be as vividly present with us in the spirit as when it was felt in the flesh. True to its wonted action, the brain may automatically influence the heart's action, and suffuse the countenance as thoroughly as if the original remark had that moment been made. Ringing in the ears of memory, the subjective sensation may be as powerful as when it was first received from the objective side of life. As has well been remarked, the import and effects of subjective sensations may not be lightly es

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