one of their most sacred and devotional ceremonies, the hymn which they sing is composed of only three words, which, according to their language, are significant of the Divine perfections. These words are slowly repeated to certain full deep-toned notes, used as an accompaniment to those grave and solemn gestures which constitute their religious dance. It will be seen, by perusing the account of this ceremony, that the song is al together a species of rude recitative, accompanied by an expressive gesticulation. After some time, however, the notes which were used as expressive of particular feelings, and connected with certain words, would, from the mind associating with them, these feelings, whenever they were struck on the instrument, or sounded by the voice, become in some measure inde pendent of the words. The soft notes of kindness or affection would become sufficiently expressive, without being sung to any words indicative of the same feelings. Proceeding in this manner, short pieces of music would come to be sung by the unassisted voice, and these first tunes or songs would be imitated by their first instruments, the flute and the pipe. Man would no longer sit beside his cabin fire delighted by bringing from the instruments only such inartificial notes as he had been taught by the sweet pipes of the birds which frequented his solitude, but would begin to imitate that vocal music to the discovery of which Nature had led him, and would be delighted to find that, in progress of time, he could make this instrument almost as expressive as his own language. Having once begun to play the same tunes on the instrument which they performed with their voice, a second step was natural, and almost inevitable. They would begin to accompany the music of song with the same music on the instrument, and they would feel that this, when accompanied by the words, would produce a greater effect than either the words or music taken singly on the minds of those who heard them. It would not be difficult here to show, that those surprising accounts which we meet with in some Grecian writers, of the wonderful effects of the ancient music, are to be ascribed to this strict adaptation of its tones to imitate the

language of feeling and expression, and its being more intimately connected with dramatic gesture in those days than it is now. A fine piece of mu sic would thus, even when sung without words, have more or less the effect of a fine piece of oratory, and, when connected with expressive words, and rendered more powerful by their simple instrumental accompaniment, the effects must have been wonderful. At the present day, performers are more anxious to display their execution, and their knowledge of what is termed the Science of music. We are often, therefore, altogether unconcerned in hearing an intricate concerto, because in it the main object of all music is lost sight of, whilst we are deeply moved by those simple melodies which have arisen in what is imagined to be the infancy of this art. But we must return to our subject. Here, then, we have traced music to that step which was necessary for our purpose. As an accompaniment to the language of poetry, both by the invention of instruments and by the human voice. Let us look to the important effects which resulted from this early connection between these two sister arts.

We have above seen, that poetic language and imagery was employed by man in his most uncivilized state, and the causes which led to this have been pointed out. This poetry, how, ever, was without any rule or measure, and subject to no certain or regular construction. It was, in short, nothing more than poetic prose. It was not subjected to that regular rhythm which the ancients believed essential to true poetry.-Rhythm seems to include two separate objects-the division of poetry into lines and verses, and the division of these lines into certain measured feet. These two spe cies of rhythm arose from two different causes. Whenever the poetic prose we have spoken of began to be sung to music, and accompanied by instruments, it would soon be discovered that neither the voice nor the hands could continue for the same indefinite time in singing or accompanying as the tongue does in speaking. It would be necessary for the performer, at the end of a certain number of words, to have a pause to breathe if he sung, and still more if this song was accom

panied by gesticulation. Here, then, was the first and immediate effect of the connection between Music and Poetry-the division of the words sung into lines of a certain length or measure, which is what has been termed the Rhythm of Poetry; and this would, for the same reasons, be followed by the division of the song into verses of a certain length, and which in themselves formed perfect sentences, after which the performer, without interrupting the sense, and thus diminishing the effect, might repose for a while to rest his voice and recover his vigour. It is evident that the more fully the notes were sung, and the more violent the gesticulation with which they were accompanied, the sooner would it be necessary for the singer to stop, and the shorter would the line become. The North American Indians sing out their notes powerfully and strongly, at the highest pitch of their voice, and accompany it by complicated and often violent gesticulation. It is owing to this that the solemn hymn above mentioned, and particularly described by Adair, although it occupies a considerable time in singing, consists of one short line, composed of four separate words. The greater the gesticulation required, and the music necessary as the accompaniment, the greater would be the exhaustion of the performer, and the shorter the measure of the lines. May it not be for this reason, that, in the Grecian drama, the short iambics are employed, whilst in their epic poetry they use the sounding hexameter; and that the choruses, which scholars suppose to have been sung, whilst the rest was only spouted in a kind of recitative, are composed in metres of much shorter lines than the dialogue? Such is our conjecture as to the origin of that natural rhythmus, or measure of verse, of which we hear so much in the Grecian writers, and of which so many contradictory accounts are given. It arose naturally from the connection which took place between music and poetry; and its first effect was to transform what had been formerly nothing more than poetic prose into verses of a certain definite length. From this time music became, according to the expression of Milton, "married to immortal verse." It is no wonder, then, that these two arts

should in all ages be found thus intimately connected, since we see they have been mutually indebted to each other for their very existence the tones accompanying poetic expression giving birth to music, and music in its turn introducing the divisions of poetic verse.

The above reasoning accounts for the invention of rhythmus, so far as concerns the division into lines and verses. But we know that rhythm' also includes the division of these particular lines into separate feet, or certain smaller measured divisions, the preservation of which in poetical composition constitutes the prosody of the language. This other species of rhythm may have originated in a different manner.

The measure of

ex

It was said before, that every passion or emotion of the mind had its own peculiar tone. In the same manner, every passion has its own appropriate measure. When a man is angry, the words are pronounced rapidly and impetuously. The phrases we employ are not those studied expressions used in our cooler moments, but consist of words of short but expressive construction. anger, therefore, is rapid, and the words with which it expresses its emotions are composed of many harsh short syllables, which admit of a rapid articulation. In the same manner, the other passions, Pity, Love, Hope, Joy, Fear, all have within themselves their own measure of pression, and point (if we may use the phrase) to their own quantity. To these different measurements of verse, in its division into long or short, grave or lively, syllables, the poets of Greece and Rome have given those different names which are so hard to learn, and with which our grammar-schools have given us so many unpleasant associations. these different feet carry evidently upon them the marks of their origin, by their being proverbially quoted as expressive of the several passions of the mind, according as they consist of long or short syllables. We hear of the bounding Pyrrichius, the grave Spondee, the majestic Molossus, the beautiful and gentle Dactyl;* and the verses

ΑΠ

* See Vossius de Poematum Cantu et Viribus Rythmi.

of Virgil and Homer afford us many instances of the power possessed by. the poet in availing himself of this imitative species of rhythm. It may be owing, therefore, to the circumstance of every passion having a dopted in every age and country the same measure of expression, that we owe the invention of this second species of rhythm, the division of the lines of poetry into words, consisting of a certain measure, which measure was regulated by the nature of the passions which the poet meant his audience to feel.

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Such appears to have been the invention of these two species of rhythm as dictated to man by nature. It arose, we see, out of the passions themselves, which found their own measure of expression, and in that early connection which took place between music and poetry, and between poetry and gesture. But man, not contented with this species of rhythm given him by nature, and which, as it had arisen necessarily in the progress of poetry, was beautifully adapted to increase its powers, by an effort of ingenuity, created from these simple materials, that system of artificial metres, by which the genius of true poetry has perhaps been too much confined in the trammels of arbitrary rule. This perverted addition to natural rhythm arose from that singular but universal principle in our nature, by which man becomes so often tired of those simple and beautiful inventions to which he has been conducted by nature, and creates to himself some new and more intricate method of accomplishing the same end, associating the idea of beauty with that of difficulty. Apprehending that what is beautiful or perfect cannot be the subject of such easy execution, he removes from the free and liberal school of nature, to initiate himself into all the intricate puerilities of art. It is thus, that, not contented with those perfect and admirable proportions with which nature has clothed the human frame, he distorts his limbs and disfigures his features into what he imagines more beautiful. It is thus that music, instead of offering those simple and expressive airs which constitute its perfection in its early state, changes gradually into those intri

VOL. VII.

IN

cate and unintelligible performances " which play round the head but never reach the heart." It is this which has led to that Gothic taste in foreign gardening, which ended in the destruction of all that is expressive and beautiful in rural nature, and the introduction of a system from which England has at last happily got free, and, finally, it seems to have been this same principle which has substituted, in place of that system of natural rhythm, whose only fault seems to have been, that it was too easily discovered, that invention, of artificial metres, and those multifarious kinds of verse, upon the imaginary beauties of which so many learned volumes have been written. It has been customary to give such unlimited admiration to the structure of Greck and Roman prosody, that it may, be deemed sacrilege to say any thing against them. But we shall, if we attend to this progress from natural to artificial rhythm, be induced, perhaps, to entertain of this invention a different opinion. The one, the rhythm dictated by nature, invariably suits the language to the feelings it is intended to convey, possesses the master key heart; the other lays down a system of strict and arbitrary rules, by which, whatever may be the emotions which are to be excited, or the passions to be roused, the measure of the words of a language must be unalterably the same. In the one, passion dictates the law to language, in the other, language dictates the law to passion. Can any thing more strongly point out the powerful hand of nature, and the contracted workmanship of man?

Were we to go on to consider the introduction of rhyme in the progress of the history of poetry, we should see that this modern invention, unknown in early times, arose in a great measure from the operation of the same principle. Here, then, we have advanced so far in the progress of poetry. We have seen that it is the first art in the history of human knowledge, in which the human mind shews the vigour even of its infant powers. That in this earliest step it arrives at a perfection which would be astonishing, did we not discern the causes which necessarily lead to this, and which operating equally powerfully in every nation emerging from bar Dd

barity, render this excellence not peculiar to one nation or a single country, but common to mankind. We have seen next the early connection which took place between poetry and music, and in this circumstance, connected with that principle which has given a certain measure to the expression of every passion, we have found the origin of natural rhythm. It ought to be called natural rhythm, because it is also peculiar to no single people, but common to all. So far, therefore, every thing which has been above advanced applies to the general history of poetry. The last step, it will be seen, which led to the change from natural to artificial rhythm, is applicable to the Greek and Roman poetry alone, although something quite analogous to it may be traced in the history of the progress of this art in modern Europe.

In considering this first step in poetry, we see clearly what the human mind could do, and what wondrous efforts it was capable of making, unassisted by any of those artificial helps which future ages have thought necessary for the cultivation of its powers. Education, books, an acquaintance with different tongues, and the studying of various authors, all are made in modern days to contribute to the creating a poet. And yet, in looking back to the greatest poets which the world has seen, we ought to consider deeply what were the sources from which these ancient minds drew their inspired pictures, and where were to be found the materials from which they wove their immortal fictions. We ought to look to the state of society when they arose, and the place they filled in that society; to the subjects which they chose, to the audience to whom they were addressed, to the rewards for which they sung. Where were the

books in which Homer studied, or what was the school in which our native Ossian was trained for immortality? Where was their learning, who were their patrons, to what did they look for their reward? The answer is, that nature was to them all in all. It was amidst her solitudes that their genius was formed. It was in the silent intercourse with her beauties that their taste arose. It was from the storehouse of her wonders that they drew their materials. He who

lives in the scenery of Nature needs not have recourse to the works of man. His descriptions are not taken from those fading sources of contaminated beauty which are embodied in books, but are painted fresh from the original. When he speaks of the beauty of the spring, we see the sparkling of the dew, we rejoice in the young verdure of the hills, the earliest roses shed their fragrance through the air, and the whole scene is more Nature herself, than a copy of her beauties. It is this fidelity and freshness in their descriptions, whatever be the scene which is described, this stamp of truth which is fixed upon them, that forms, more than what we now call taste, the irresistible charm of these older poets.

W. $ #

If you were to go amongst the com non people of England, you would be astonished at their credulity, and the folly and absurdity of many of their superstitions, so unlike those of your own country, which, though they may be equally irreconcileable to reason, are yet so much more pleasing to the imagination. Your second sight, your bogles, your fairies, your omens, have something in them magnificent and sublime, and furnish subjects to your poets and novelists; but I defy the first genius in the land to make any thing of the ridiculous and unaccountable fancies of our English peasants, who seem to have strained and distorted their inventions to turn what was disgusting and absurd into a source of superstitious belief; and I can scarcely expect that you should give me credit for any thing but a fertile invention in the circumstances I am about to relate to you.

Our busy neighbour, Mr Scamony, has not only prescribed horse exercise to my daughter Fanny, who, by the bye, never asked him for his advice, as she enjoys a mostenviablestateofhealth, but has followed up his prescription by an indefatigable search after a suitable steed for her, and such numbers have been brought for me to look at,

(such is the activity of his zeal,) that any body would suppose I was raising a regiment of horse. Not many days ago, the busy little apothecary arrived at my door with a piebald horse for my approbation. I would have sent the animal back, as I did not think it fair to mount my pretty Fanny upon such a great black and white beast, but Mr Scamony was not to be repulsed, and assured me, if it did not suit Miss De Coverley, it would make an admirable hunter for either of the young gentlemen. I could have told him, iny son Richard, who is some what of a coxcomb in such matters, would rather walk than be seen on such a horse; and as for George, I question, whether, with his own good will, he would ever mount any other horse than his own dear Pegasus; however, I found the best way to cut the argument short, and to get rid at once of it and the apothécary, was to mount the horse myself, and ride off at a brisk gallop, which I kept up for some time, expecting every minute to hear the clatter of my good neighbour's old mare, and the halloo of his voice after me. At last finding I was not pursued, I slackened my pace, and was riding leisurely through a village, when a woman rushed from one of the cottages, and seizing my horse by the bridle, besought me to tell her what was good for the hooping-cough. I told her she was under a mistake, that I was not the apothecary, but if it was a case of urgency, I would willingly ride back and send him. She answered, that was not what she wanted, but if I would be so kind as say any thing I pleased, it would be sure to do her poor boy good. I tried to convince her she could not have applied to a worse person, for I had hardly ever taken a dose in my life, much less prescribed one. " Oh, Sir,' said she, with increased earnestness, "that does not signify, for if one asks any body riding a piebald horse, what is good for the hooping-cough, whatever they say is sure to cure it. I have tried," she added, " every thing I could think of for the poor boy, but nothing seems to do him good. I have even tied three jack asses' hairs about his neck, but I can't see a bit of betterment." Finding there was no remedy for my unlucky case, and that I was literally to be le médecin malgré lui,” I made a virtue of

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necessity, and putting on as good a medical face as I could, I was going to bid her tie three goose's feathers to the three jack asses' hairs, and see what that would do, but my heart smote me, for wanting to make the poor woman a greater fool than she was already; and compassionating the poor fellow, who was coughing his heart out by my side, I told her, to the best of my poor ability, what I believed would do him good; and clapping spurs to my horse, for fear of being again waylaid, I galloped home, making a firm resolve never to be again entrapped into riding a pię bald horse.

Not having great confidence in my own medical skill, I called to-day at the cottage to inquire after the success of my prescription. The woman told me the boy was much better, that she had given him what I advised, but as it was only common potticar's stuff, she had also given him a remedy which a neighbour of hers had told her of, and which she thought had done him a deal of good. I inquired what it was, in hopes of increasing my small stock of medical knowledge; and she told me, it was to mix a little oatmeal, with the slime of a snail, and make it into three little cakes as big as wafers, and give it to the child, who was to say, Kingcough, king-cough, if thou leaves me, I'll leave thee." I could not help smiling at the poor woman's credulity, and I hope I may be pardoned for my being so conceited, as to attribute the boy's amendment more to my prescription than to the three cakes. As I was leaving the cottage, I observed a sickly looking infant, and on inquiring if it was ill, the mother told me it had a very bad sore mouth, but hoped it would be better soon, as she had that morning tried the frog! Being, as you will perceive, quite a novice in the art of medicine, I literally believed this was the name of one of the many hundred nostrums of which I am happily ignorant, but she quickly undeceived me, by telling me she had taken a live frog, and dipped its head into powdered sugar, and had given it to the child to suck, who sucked it till the poor unhappy frog began to croak in its mouth!" I shall try it again," added she, on the third day, and I daresay it will do it a great deal of good." Which,"