which must soon end in satiety, or even in disgust, to a delight of the soul, arising from sympathy, and founded on the natural passions, always lively, always interesting, always transporting. The old divisions of music into celestial and earthly, divine and human, active and contemplative, intellective and oratorial, were founded rather upon metaphors, and chimerical analogies, than upon any real distinctions in nature; but the want of making a distinction between music of mere sounds, and the music of the passions, has been the perpetual source of confusion and contradictions both among the ancients and the moderns: nothing can be more opposite in many points than the systems of Rameau and Tartini, one of whom asserts that melody springs from harmony, and the other deduces harmony from melody; and both are in the right, if the first speaks only of that music, which took its rise from the multiplicity of sounds heard at once in the sonorous body, and the second, of that which rose from the accents and inflexions of the human voice, animated by the passions: to decide, as Rousseau says, which of these two schools ought to have the preference, we need only ask a plain question, Was the voice made for the instruments, or the instruments for the voice? In defining what true poetry ought to be, according to our principles, we have described what it really was among the Hebrews, the Greeks and Romans, the Arabs and Persians. The lamentation of David, and his sacred odes, or Psalms, the Song of Solomon, the prophecies of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the other inspired writers, are truly and strictly poetical; but what did David or Solomon imitate in their divine poems? A man who is really joyful or afflicted, cannot be said to imitate joy or affliction. The lyric verses of Alcæus, Alcman, and Ibycus, the Hymns of Callimachus, the Elegy of Moschus on the death of Bion, are all beautiful pieces of poetry; yet Alcæus was no imita tor of love, Callimachus was no imitator of religious awe and admiration, Moschus was no imitator of grief at the loss of an amiable friend. Aristotle himself wrote a very poetical elegy on the death of a man, whom he had loved; bu it would be difficult to say what he imitated in it: "() virtue, who proposest many labours to the human race, and art still the aliuring object of our life; for thy charms, O beautiful goddess, it was always an envied happiness in Greece even to die, and to suffer the most painful, the most afflicting evils: such are the immortal fruits, which thou raisest. in our minds; fruits, more precious than gold, more sweet than the love of parents, and soft repose: for thee Hercules the son of Jove, and the twins of Leda, sustained many labours, and by their illustrious actions sought thy favour; for love of thee, Achilles and Ajax descended to the mansion of Pluto; and, through a zeal for thy charms, the prince of Atarnea was also deprived of the sun's light: therefore shall the muses, daughters of memory, render himimmortal for his glorious deeds, whenever they sing the god of hospitality, and the honours due to a lasting friendship." In the preceding collection of poems, there are some Eastern fables, some odes, a panegyric, and an elegy: yet it does not appear to me, that there is the least imitation in either of them: Petrarch was, certainly, too deeply affected with real grief, and the Persian poet was too sincere a lover, to imitate the passions of others. As to the rest, a fable in verse is no more an imitation than a fable in prose; and if every poetical narrative, which describes the manners, and relates the adventures of men, be called imitative, every romance, and even every history, must be called so likewise; since many poems are only romances, or parts of history, told in a regular measure. What has been said of poetry, may with equal force Le applied to music, which is poetry, dressed to advantage; and even to painting, many sorts of which are poems to the eye, as all poems, merely descriptive, are pictures to the ear: and this way of considering them, will set the refinements of modern artists in their true light; for the passions which were given by nature, never spoke in an unnatural form, and no man, truly affected with love or grief, ever expressed the one in an acrostic, or the other in a fugue: these remains, therefore, of the false taste, which prevailed in the dark ages, should be banished from this, which is enlightened with a just one. It is true, that some kinds of painting are strictly imitative, as that which is solely intended to represent the human figure and countenance; but it will be found that those pictures have always the greatest effect, which represent some passion, as the martyrdom of St. Agnes by Domenichino, and the various representations of the Crucifixion by the finest masters of Italy; and there can be no doubt, but that the famous sacrifice of Iphigenia by Timanthes was affecting to the highest degree; which proves not that painting cannot be said to imitate, but that its most powerful influence over the mind arises, like that of the other arts, from sympathy. It is asserted also that descriptive poetry, and descriptive music, as they are called, are strict imitations; but, not to insist that mere description is the meanest part of both arts, if indeed it belongs to them at all, it is clear, that words and sounds have no kind of resemblance to visible objects: and what is an imitation, but a resemblance of some other thing? Besides, no unprejudiced hearer will say that he finds the smallest traces of imi tation in the numerous fugues, counterfugues, and divisions, which rather disgrace than adorn the mo dern music: even sounds them. selves are imperfectly imitated by harmony, and, if we sometimes hear the murmuring of a brook, or the chirping of birds in a concert, we are generally apprised before-hand of the passages, where we may expect them. Some eminent musicians, indeed, have been absurd enough to think of imitating laughter and other noises; but if they had succeeded, they could not have made amends for their want of taste in attempting it; for such ridiculous imitations must necessarily destroy the spirit and dignity of the finest poems, which they ought to illustrate by a graceful and natural melody. It seems to me, that, as those parts of poetry, music, and painting, which relate to the passions, affect by sympathy, so those, which are merely descriptive, act by a kind of substitution, that is, by raising in our minds, affections, or sentiments, analogous to those, which arise in us, when the respective objects in nature are presented to our senses. Let us suppose that a poet, a musician, and a painter, are striving to give their friend, or patron, a pleasure similar to that, which he feels at the sight of a beautiful prospect. The first will form an agreeable assemblage of lively images, which he will express in smooth and elegant verses of a sprightly measure; he will describe the most delightful objects, and will add to the graces of his description a certain delicacy of sentiment, and a spirit of cheerfulness. The musician, who under-. takes to set the words of the poet, will select some mode, which, on his violin, has the character of mirth and gaity, as the Folian, or E flat, which he will change as the sentiment is varied: he will express the words in a simple and agreeable melody, which will not disguise, but embellish them, without aiming at any fugue, or figured harmony: he will use the bass, to mark the modulation more strongly, especially in the changes; and he will place the tenour generally in unison with the bass, to prevent too great a distance between the parts: in the symphony he will, above all things, avoid a double melody, and will apply his variations only to some accessory ideas, which the principal part, that is, the voice, could not easily express: he will not make a number of useless repetitions, because the passions only repeat the same expressions, and dwell upon the same sentiments, while description can only represent a single object by a single sentence. The painter will describe all visible objects more exactly than his rivals, but he will fall short of the other artists in a very material circumstance; namely, that his pencil, which may, indeed, express a simple passion, cannot paint a thought, or draw the shades of sentiment: he will, however, finish his landscape with grace and elegance; his colours will be rich and glowing; his perspective striking; and his figures will be disposed with an agreeable variety, but not with confusion: above all, he will diffuse over his whole piece such a spirit of liveliness and festivity, that the beholder shall be seized with a kind of rapturous delight, and, for a moment, mistake art for nature. Thus will each artist gain his end, not by imitating the works of nature, but by assuming her power, and causing the same effect upon the imagination, which her charms produce to the senses : this must be the chief object of a poet, a musician, and a painter, who know that great effects are not produced by minute details, but by the general spirit of the whole piece, and that a gaudy composition may strike the mind for a short time, but that the beauties of simplicity are both more delightful, and more permanent. As the passions are differently modified in different men, and as even the various objects in nature affect our minds in various degrees, it is obvious, that there must be a great diversity in the pleasure, which we receive from the fine arts, whether that pleasure arises from sympathy, or substitution; and that it were a wild notion in artists to think of pleasing every reader, hearer, or beholder; since every man has a particular set of objects, and a particular inclination, which direct him in the choice of his pleasures, and induce him to consider the productions, both of nature and of art, as more or less elegant, in proportion as they give him a greater or smaller degree of delight: this does not at all contradict the opinion of many able writers, that there is one uniform standard of taste; since the passions, and, consequently, sympathy, are generally the same in all men, till they are weakened by age, infirmity or other causes. If the arguments, used in this essay, have any weight, it will appear, that the finest parts of poetry, music, and painting, are expressive of the passions, and operate on our minds by sympathy; that the inferior parts of them are descriptive of natural objects, and affect us chiefly by substitution; that the expressions of love, pity, desire, and the tender passions, as well as the description of objects that delight the senses, produce in the arts what we call the beautiful; but that hate, anger, fear, and the terrible passions, as well as objects, which are unpleasing to the senses, are productive of the sublime, when they are aptly expressed, or described. These subjects might be pursued to infinity; but, if they were amply discussed, it would be necessary to write a series of dissertations, instead of an essay. HISTORY OF PHILIP DELLWYN. WHEN I was in Wales last summer, I was very much struck with the situation of a little village on my road; and as my plan in travelling is always to adopt whatever idea promises amusement, I determined, as I alighted in the yard of the inn, to remain there a few days, if I could find tolerable accommodations. The inn, however, was extremely wretched, and I wandered forth to see all that could be seen in the shortest possible space of time; for I felt that it would be impracticable to remain there so long as I had first intended. I ascended a rugged hill to the east of the village, and as from its summit I was admiring the prospect, I perceived a Quaker, apparently engaged in the same amusement." A very fine view from this hill," observed I. "Very fine indeed," replied the Quaker; "lovest thou fine views?" "So well," returned I, " that I would have staid in this village for some days to have indulged thepropensity, but that the inn affords no accommodations at all." I need not, however pursue the conversation, which lasted during a long walk, at the end of which, my friendly Quaker invited me to remain at his house till I had sufficiently feasted my eyes. Iaccepted the invitation, and established myself there that very evening. I staid there five or six days, in the course of which time something like a friendship took place between the Quaker and myself, and even his pretty daughter Martha manifested no small partiality for me. However, except an occasional present now and then, to prove my gratitude, no intercourse has ever taken place between us, until the post, the other day, brought me a letter in a hand I was wholly unac quainted with. I opened it hastily, and found it as follows. "Esteemed Friend, "Thou wilt perhaps be surprised at receiving a letter from me-nay, perhaps, thou wilt have forgotten the existence of Abraham Upright; however, neither I nor my daughter Martha have forgotten thee, but have continued to wish thee all welfare and happiness every day of our lives. "If thou hast not forgotten us, perhaps thou rememberest the young man named Philip Dellwyn. The young man was sick thou knowest: he now sleeps with his fathers. I one day surprised my daughter Martha in the room where he dwelt, in tears over a roll of paper, which I soon saw was in his hand-writing. Had there been a fire at hand, I should have tossed the papers into it in a moment; as there was none, I contented myself with taking them from Martha, and locked them up in my bureau. There they have lain ever since, until the other day, hearing talk made of thy work, my daughter reminded me of these papers, and advised me to send them to thee. I have followed her advice, and this night thou wilt receive by the waggon the whole roll, to do therewith as pleaseth thee. Martha sendeth herbest wishes to her old friend, as doth also, "Esteemed Friend, and well-wisher, ABRAHAM UPRIGHT." I had certainly not forgotten Abraham or his fair daughter; much less had I forgotten Philip Dellwyn, who joined to a look of fragile health, a countenance so pale, a form so slight, and yet eyes so resplendent with sense and sensibility, that it was evident a figure so etherial, could not be long for this world. I found my worthy friend Abraham Upright, had given him shelter for the sake of his health, for he was trying pure air, and goat's-milk whey; and had neverdemanded the stipulated rent, because he remarked the unrenewed shabbiness of his lodger's threadbare coat. I had endeavoured to obtain some knowledge of the young man's fate, but could only learn it had not been happy; and I felt myself unequal to relieve any actual distress:- but his demeanour so gentle, so placid, so pensive, interested my heart extremely, and not less the heart of the pretty Martha. Poor Dellwyn would look at her, when the uncontrouled emanations of her countenance aimost betrayed her secret, with looks animated by the purest delight: then suddenly, as some remembered trouble shot across his heart, he would withdraw his eyes from her lovely countenance, and cast them from heaven to earth with a look so mildly resigned, so contentedly pensive, that it was impossible to notice it unmoved. Poor little Martha confessed to me one day, that she thought Philip Dellwyn the most amiable man she knew she wished he was but a friend. I could not help hoping that some unforeseen events would at last bring so innocent a love to a happy issue;-but, alas! it was brought very rapidly to a period after I had left Wales. Poor Dellwyn! many a sigh has the recollection of thy dejected countenance cost me-many a tear will the termination of thy blameless life occasion me! I looked into the packet sent me by my friend Abraham, with a sort of tender melancholy, which its contents served to heighten. The first paper I unfolded was a little history of himself, which interested me the most, and which I therefore first present to my readers, with out further ceremony. Ithasneither regular beginning nor end, and the first and some intermediate leaves appear to be wanting; -perhaps, the pretty Martha may have preserved them as a relique; however, the tale is sufficiently intelligible. And am I never to know the truth?" said I. What good would the truth do you?" replied he, with an air but ill calculated to repress my ardent curiosity. While you contentedly remain in ignorance,' added he after a pause, 'you will be sheltered and supported; but if you persist in your inquiry, you will be obliged to seck your bread with toil and labour.' "For some time longer these answers contented me. I was pursuing with ardour an education which I thought preferable even to independence; and though the manners of my guardian were not much calculated to conciliate esteem, those of his sister had won my warmest affection. Gentle, caressing, and indulgent, a word from her had more power over my mind than the strictest command from my preceptor; and when I have been stubborn and sullen under punishment from him, a look from Miss Goldney has subdued my proud heart, and melted the obstinacy of my resolution into tears of penitence. To her I was indebted for every indulgence I obtained-her kindness sweetened to me hours rendered intolerable by the harsh severity of Mr. Goldney; a severity, which would have exasperated me to seek my liberty at once, but for the advantage of the knowledge I was acquiring: and Miss Goldney so forcibly pointed out to me the value of this circumstance, and the influence it would have on my future life, that I was contented to abide stripes and ill treatment, rather than forego the completion of an education which was to soften a savage into man... "That part of it however, which Miss Goldney conducted, was precisely that which was dearest to me, and that which has most influenced me through the short and wretched remainder of my life. Full of the most noble sentiments, and the tenderest sensibility, Miss Goldney, with delight, cultivated in me dispositions which ought to have been repressed, but which are too fascinating not to throw a veil over the dangers they create. Alive to every virtuous feeling-indignant at vice, oppression, and tyranny, she saw with delight the tremulous fibres of my soul vibrate to the slightest touch; she saw the fire, the enthusiasm, that animated my eye-the strong resolution that arose in my bosom, never to submit to oppression. She strengthened these dispositions-she rendered me most sensibly awake to the voice of affection that harmonious voice I was destined to hear no more! She foresaw not my future situation, or she would have striven to render my heart callous to injustice, my spirit subservient to oppression, my manners servile, and my principles obedient. [To be continued.] |