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cial system which has long since been demonstrated to be false, -and totally inapplicable to the practice of later times. When good harmony was supposed to be impossible, where there was any departure from the rules of Rameau's fundamental bass, it might safely be maintained, that many of the finest national airs were incapable of good harmony, because they were incapable of harmony formed according to those rules. • We do not hesitate,' says a very able speculative musician, * say, that the rules of accompaniment are dependent on the 'cantus or air, and by no means on the fundamental bass of Rameau. The dependence (of melody upon harmony) assumed by him as the rule of accompaniment, would, if properly adhered to, according to his own notion of the comparative values of the harmonics, lead to the most fantastic airs imaginable, always jumping by large intervals, and altogether incompatible with graceful music. The rules of modulation, which he has squeezed out of his principle, are nothing but 'forced, very forced accommodations of a very vague principle to the current practice of his cotemporaries. They do not 'suit the primitive melodies of many nations; and they have 'caused these primitive melodies to degenerate. This is acknowledged by all who are not perverted by the prevailing habits. We have heard, and could write down, some most enchanting lullabies of simple peasant women, possessed of 'musical sensibility, but far removed, in the cool sequestered vale of life, from all opportunities of stealing from our great 'composers. Some of these lullabies never fail to charm even 'the most erudite musician, when sung by a fine flexible voice; 'but it would puzzle Mr Rameau to accompany them secundum 'artem.' Nothing can be more sound and judicious than these remarks on the musical system of Rameau;-and it may easily be conceived, that, when the rules deduced from that system. were considered indispensable to the production of good harmony, it followed, as a consequence, that multitudes of national airs were held to be incapable of regular accompaniment. But there is no difficulty, in the present state of music, to accompany, secundum artem, any national air that deserves to be accompanied. It is now well understood, that the laws of harmony as well as melody (like the laws of composition in all the fine arts), are to be found only in the works of those composers, who, from their transcendant genius, have become models for imitation and

Professor Robison. See Art. Musical Trumpet in the Encyclopædia Britannica.

study. A Haydn and a Beethoven avail themselves of every succession and combination of sounds which they find to be beautiful, expressive, or striking, without waiting to inquire whether it is sanctioned by some musical system; and the latter composer, in particular, often makes use of the wildest. strains that are to be found in national music. Such men may sometimes be hurried too far, in the ardour of imagination; and, in these instances, their example will not be followed: but, in the general case, what was, at first, a happy license, becomes, by degrees, an established rule of the art. In this way, the laws of harmony have become so extended, that there is no melody worthy of the name, however wild it may be, to which an accompaniment may not be given, so as to preserve, and even heighten, the simplicity and peculiar character of the air. An ordinary composer is certainly apt to deform such an air, by squeezing it into a stiff suit of formal harmony. But the accompaniments of a national air ought to be like the picturesque attire of a beautiful savage, which heightens and embellishes the wild graces of the wearer. To compose accompaniments of this kind, requires the genius and judgment of the most consummate musician; and accordingly, by obtaining the assistance of the great masters whose names have been mentioned, Mr Thomson has produced a body of accompaniments for his melodies, which, in respect to originality and beauty, we conceive to be wholly unrivalled.

After all this poetical and musical disquisition, our readers will probably not quarrel with us for giving them, by way of refreshment, a few specimens of the poetry contained in this work. The following exquisite little song, by Joanna Baillie, is finely adapted to a Welsh air.

O welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way;
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear came humming by:
And welcome shadows, long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep;
O welcome all! to me you say,
My woodland love is on her way.
Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is on the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour!
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night!'

Her song to the pretty Scottish air, The Shepherd's Son,' is so full of simple feeling and rural imagery—and withal so characteristic of the amiable genius of its author-that we cannot help transcribing it entire.

'The gowan glitters on the sward,

The lavrock's in the sky,

And Colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh no! sad and slow!

I hear nae welcome sound ;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears sae slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,

My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Oh no! sad and slow!
The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Luckey scolding frae her door
To bring the bairnies in.

Oh no! sad and slow!

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood of bonny blue;

And promis'd when our trysting cam
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow!

The time it winna pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether'd on the grass.

'O, now, I see her on the way,
She's past the Witches' knowe:
She's climbing up the Browny's brae,—
My heart is in a lowe.

Oh no! 'tis na so!

'Tis glamrie I hae seen:

The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Tho' conn'd wi' little skill;

When Colley barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.

Oh no! sad and slow!
The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow of the trysting bush
Is fix'd like ony stane.

Among the songs by Miss Baillie, there are two or three remarkably happy paraphrases (as they may be called) of old songs, which, with a great deal of merit, had become unsuitable to the taste of the age, from vulgarity and coarseness of expression. Of these, the songs of Woo'd and Married and a',' and Poverty parts good Company,' are exceedingly good; but The Boatie rows,' (of which the following is the first stanza), is the best of them.

'O swiftly glides the bonny boat,

Just parted from the shore,
And to the fisher's chorus note,
Soft moves the dipping oar.
His toils are borne with happy cheer,
And ever may they speed,

That feeble age, and helpmate dear,
And tender bairnies feed.

We cast our lines in Largo bay,
Our nets are floating wide,
Our bonny boat, with yielding sway,

Rocks lightly on the tide.

And happy prove our daily lot

Upon the summer sea,

And bless'd on land our kindly cot

Where all our treasures be!'

There are few things in music more delightful than the performance of this song, with its beautiful melody, its graceful and undulating accompaniment, and the fine strain of swelling harmony into which the voices rise in the concluding chorus ;while the pleasure given to the ear serves only to heighten the feelings which these sweet verses are so well calculated to excite.

A number of admirable songs have been contributed to this work by Professor Smyth of Cambridge. Mr Smyth is a writer, we think, of great taste and sensibility;-and always expresses kind and generous feelings with an air of such natural delight, that it is impossible for his readers not to love the man, as much as they admire the poet. His songs do not speak the language of passion, like those of Burns, nor of voluptuousness like those of Moore: But they are full of true and natural feeling-often exquisitely tender, sometimes light and playful, and always elegant and graceful. These qualities constitute the charm of his well-known English Ly

rics;' and they are still more remarkable in the poetry before

us.

The beautiful Irish air, The Fox's Sleep,' is united to the following verses by Mr Smyth.

The hero may perish, his country to save,

And he lives in the records of fame;

The sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave-
Ever honour'd and blest be his name!

But virtue, that silently toils or expires,
No wreath for the brow to entwine,

That asks but a smile-but a fond sigh requires

O woman! that virtue is thine.

There is much feeling and tenderness in the Address by a Dying Father to his Daughter, in a song of Mr Smyth's to the same melody.

'Thou hast walk'd by my side, and my board thou hast spread,

For my chair the warm corner hast found;

And told my dull ear what the visitor said,

When I saw that the laughter went round.

Thou hast succour'd me still, and my meaning exprest,

When memory was lost on its way

Thou hast pillow'd my head ere I laid it to rest,

Thou art weeping beside me to-day!'

We cannot part with this very agreeable poet without quoting two more of his songs. The first is exquisitely sweet and tender; and the other is an Anacreontic, which Moore himself has never surpassed.

O thou art the lad of my heart, Willy,

There's love, and there's life, and glee

There's a cheer in thy voice, and thy bounding step,

And there's bliss in thy blithesome e'e.

But, oh! how my heart was tried, Willy,

For little I thought to see,

That the lad who won the lasses all,
Would ever be won by me.

'Adown this path we came, Willy,
'Twas just at this hour of eve;
And will he, or will he not, I thought,
My fluttering heart relieve?—

So oft he paus'd, as we saunter'd on,
'Twas fear-and hope-and fear;

But here at the wood, as we parting stood,
'Twas rapture his vows to hear!

Ah vows so soft-thy vows, Willy!—
Who would not, like me, be proud!

Sweet lark, with thy soaring, echoing song,
Come down from thy rosy cloud.

VOL. XXXIX. No. 77.

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