HOW

vague and indefinable are our impressions of music! We do not speak of mere rhythmical phrases, constructed for interpretation by drums, or by the vibrating heels of frequenters of Ethiopian concerts. Such music, whose jingle is its only charm, the memory gathers like nursery rhymes, and follows its meaningless dance without effort. Indeed, the effort is oftener required to be rid of the burden. We are led captive by the iteration, as though there were a hand-organ within us which would persist in grinding out the same endless melody, compelling us to listen, like the Wedding Guest under the spell of the Ancient Mariner. So, in a mood of revery, says Tennyson

"An echo from a measured strain
Beat time to nothing in the head
From some odd corner of the brain.
It haunted me the morning long,
With weary sameness in the rhymes
The phantom of a silent song

That came and went a thousand times."

Such music, lately, rendered attractive by perfect instrumentation, became as universal as the air in our city. In every quiet nook, where the sounds of traffic were hushed by distance, the same magical tones floated. Themes, of themselves commonplace, by exquisite treatment had become almost beautiful;--if, indeed, grace, pathos or enthusiasm in execution could raise reminiscences or platitudes into forms of life. Do what we would, the melody followed every footstep, haunted every thought. We could not escape it. On the common, the street, in parlor and library, the same sentimental

fluttered about us like an officious sprite, and drove away from their moorings barges on which we were wont to float out upon the sea of revery, leaving us only the sing-song of its own refrain.

With cultivation the ear may learn to separate an orchestral theme from its attendant harmonies, and follow the idea of the composer as it is taken up by section after section of the performers. The various instruments then seem to be parts

of an army whose movements, though diverse. are yet in obedience to one comprehensive mind that surveys the whole field, and will bring order and unity out of conplexity and seeming confusion. But even to those who grasp the composer's thought and appreciate the full beauty that Beethoven or Mozart have created, what shadowy, impalpable forms arise at the summons of their wondrous strains! Can the amateur describe his emotions when the last tones of the master-piece of his favorite composer are sinking into his heart, while his eye brims with tenderness or exultation? Can he say what subtle links connect music with the world about us, so that as the stream of melody flows on, green meadows seem to slope to its banks, majestic trees wave over it, mountains with leaping cascades stand on either hand, and the immensity of ocean heaves on the line of the horizon?

You

But there are many strains which charm the untutored multitude as well as the accomplished few, and yet are utterly intangible. We feel their influence as of the wind in gentle dalliance or in resistless tempest; and, though moved like the tree-tops, we cannot detain or analyze the viewless force that sweeps over us. Such spiritual music is instinct with life, "vital in every part;" but you cannot tell where the subtle essence lurks. cannot anatomize the structure (we appeal with more confidence to non-professional readers), and say, here resides the animating soul which gives character and expression to the whole. It is a figure in the kaleidoscope, which, at every turn, changes into a combination of grace before unthought of. It is an auroral display, where the crimson flush of the sky is a canvas on which ever-shifting forms of beauty, golden, steel-gray, sparrywhite, emerald and purple,

"Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other," — blend in ceaseless embrace, only to re-appear more gloriously.

Does music then convey ideas and excite emotions above and beyond the power of speech? If so, may it not aptly symbolize those impressions which the spirit receives, without knowing how, in this life, and which may be supposed to bear an intimate relation to the mode of communication in another sphere of existence? Often the musing artist sees forms of more than mortal beauty hovering over his easel, yet vanishing at a breath, like

fairies before an intruding footstep. He would catch and embody the vision, but it fades into nebulous indistinctness, and only the memory is left him. Will ho not some brighter day reproduce it? So, too, the poet feels his brain throbbing with weightier thoughts than he can set to the music of his verse. Beauty fills his soul as with a visible presence; but dull characters could never express all that his imagination has conceived. Will he not find utterance hereafter?

Perhaps the forms into which thought is crystallized-its external crust of words -will perish with the organs that produce them; but the interior life will survive, and its character may be appreciated by the finer powers of the spirit, without the aid of its original medium. It becomes, then, pleasant to anticipate, that music, one of the universal media of thought and feeling, will, in some form, accompany us through our immortality. And as the man finds beauty and sublimity in the verses which he read listlessly while a schoolboy, so with our enlarged and unclogged faculties we may perceive a meaning and force in music far beyond our present apprehensions. Therefore it is, whenever music transcends our experience as an interpreter of our ideas or emotions, or suggests images other than of the actual world, that our spirits prophetically lean forward, and we fancy, at least, that we catch sounds from the celestial sphere. Who could hear the sublime andante movement from Beethoven's ninth symphony without feeling his soul wafted on the serene airs and fed with the beauty and fragrance of the better land?

Such are some of the speculations with which I was occupied while quietly waiting for the commencement of HERR REGENBOGEN'S concert. Of course all the world has heard of HERR REGENBOGEN. The journalists, who certainly ought to know, tell us that he is profoundly skilled in music, both as a science and as an art. With a liberal eclecticism he combines in his programmes the most celebrated compositions of all the existing schools. Nothing is too minute for his notice; nothing too profound for the grasp of his genius. The plaintive melodies of the Celts, tho brilliant, graceful, impassioned music of Italy, and the grand, intellectual, yet soulfull creations of Germany, that sweep over every chord wherewith we strung, all find in him their common and fitting interpreter. And whether one would be swayed by the liquid movement of the waltz, or would hear the grand

are

Marseillaise till his blood tingles to his finger's ends.-whether he would listen to the music of love, the alpha and omega of the Italian opera, or would hear a symphony by Beethoven, "the Shakespeare of music."-all he may enjoy to his heart's overflowing at the concerts of HERR REGENBOGEN. So said the editors with one accord, from those of the great capital of letters and art, down to the obscurest man of ink who had been blest by the receipt of HERR REGENBOGEN'S compliments with a card of admission.

Some days previous, placards with letters of Patagonian stature, decked with all the colors as yet compounded in ink and emblazoned with attractive symbolic devices, had announced with portentous exclamation points that HERR REGENBOGEN was COMING! The public, stimulated before to the highest point by the wonderful accounts that preceded the great master, waited with eager expectation for his arrival. Anecdotes of his boyhood, of his youthful struggles, and of the brilliant successes of his manhood, appeared in all the newspapers. It was truly wonderful to see how familiar the press were with the minutest details of his history. In due time he came, and straightway a new set of "posters," with yet larger and more brilliant characters, published the fact in the crowded streets, and announced the first afternoon concert in Beethoven Hall. The programme to me was attractive. With HERR REGENBOGEN'S well-known taste and tact, how could it be otherwise? I obtained a ticket by dint of crowding my way for near half an hour towards the office window, and with the prize in hand reached the open street again, exhausted, breathless, and with sad detriment to my gravely respectable dress. My hat might be cylindrical no more, my linen crumpled and limp, and my boots might bear contributions of mud from scores of huddled feet, but I had my ticket; I should hear HERR REGENBOGEN's orchestra, and I was more than content. And now after a day's delightful anticipation, I had been in my place full half an hour, ruminating, as the reader is aware, upon the mystery that is bound up in this divine

art.

The usual difficulty was experienced in obtaining seats by those whose stately figures or rich costumes showed to advantage in sweeping along the aisles. There was the usual fidgeting and giggling of misses in early teens; the usual industrious fanning by ladies of all ages, though the hall was delightfully cool

from perfect ventilation; the usual crinkling of glazed programmes; the usual fitful volleys of impatience, that sounded like the first heavy drops of a summer shower on the roof of an old farmhouse by night; the usual noises escaping from the orchestral room, where violins wailed in tuning, 'celli and contra-bassi mingled their deep vibrations with the carolling of flutes and the reedy tones of the oboe, and over all the ponderous ophicleide rang; these indispensable preliminaries being finished, the performers entered and took their places. Last of all came HERR REGENBOGEN, and, having bowed gravely to the enthusiastic multitude, stepped upon the conductor's platform, unmoved by the shouts of welcome, the waving of perfumed handkerchiefs, and the tribute of flowers that fell at his feet. He did not pick up the bouquets. His air seemed to say" Wait till I earn your applause; when the flowers are mine by right of benefit conferred, I will enjoy their fragrance and beauty." This unusual dignity or stoicism strangely affected me, and I regarded him with closer attention. Not that I had occasion to use a lorgnette; my vision had been sharpened in boyhood when I selected my cow from among the scattered herd grazing on the far hillside, or when (God forgive me) I shot the bright-eyed squirrel as he barely raised his head over a fork in the loftiest tree. His manner was plain and unpretending. The necessary white gloves and waistcoat were not wanting; but there was no frippery of watch seals, diamond pins or crosses upon his modest dress. His face was a study. The temples, from which the hair lay smoothly back, like those of most poets and artists, swelled to a full and beautiful outline. The mouth was exquisitely mobile, now compressed with the resolute look of command, now just perceptibly smiling, and now tremulous with a sensibility which the eye, faithful as it may be to the soul within, could never alone express. But in his gray eye, overhung by projecting brows and shaded by lashes of almost feminine length and softness, there dwelt a strange fascination. Wherever it turned it commanded attention. It seemed like the keen gaze of a spirit which sces every thing while its own essence defies inspection. The heart of mystery seemed familiar ground to him. I felt assured that the man was found who could unfold what is most recondite in music, and demonstrate the relation between its various moods and the changeful emotions of the soul. Under such a leader, with a rigidly disciplined

orchestra, in which every performer was himself a master, I knew I should hear

"Snch notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's check,
And made Heli grant what love did seek;"

or loftier strains, which would

"Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes." How attentively, reverently, the musicians awaited the signal! Not a movement throughout the serried line. From the leading violin down to the men of drums and cymbals, they stood like automata. The white wand was raised and swept evenly like a pendulum; the symphony begun. I had never heard the great work before. If it had been familiar, my attention might have been given to critical observations; I might have endeavored to notice the treatment of the principal motifs by the composer, and the style of execution by the performers. Happily it was new, and I was content to listen with the unquestioning delight of a child, and to surrender myself wholly to its influences. The name, the Italian Symphony, gave me an idea of its character; but, even without that key, it would not have been difficult to guess the design of the composer. It had no salient melodies like those of Mozart and Rossini; its beauty was the result of complex forces. You followed no single instrument; you found no returning strain to cling to. But the whole had an exquisite symmetry which the omission of the most subordinate part would have seriously marred. A thought from the "Fable for Critics," which was recalled by this wonderful unity, shows the analogy between poetry and music in this respect

"Now it is not one thing nor another alone
Makes a poem, but rather the general tone,
The something pervading, uniting the whole,
The before unconceived, unconceivable soul,
So that just in removing this trifle or that, you
Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue."

Under the irresistible spell of the music I was soon in Italy, among the scenes it so vividly reproduced. Imagination outstripped the diligence and the railway train. I saw the mountain and its airy path over which the mule seeks his way through the mist; but I was exempt from the toilsome transit. Whatever the music suggested, or memory recalled, I saw without the fatiguing conditions that are imposed upon the tourist. I was borne onward, as upon a gently undulating current. My shallop swept under the sha

dow of marble palaces, and its silken sail was distended with perfumed airs from the shore. Monuments of Grecian genius and of Roman art, partly crumbling or prone, crowned the heights or gleamed among clumps of trees in vales. All that the traveller and artist have brought over the Atlantic-St. Peter's, the Coliseum, baths and temples numberless, steeplehatted bandits, cowled and tonsured Inonks, and the multitudinous confusion of the Carnival-all crowded in airy procession before me.

But while in imagination under the glorious sky of Italy, rapt in the thoughts which its past magnificence inspired, I was conscious of an almost startling sensation at every modulation of the music into a new key. The key in which music is written, as every reader knows, has much to do with its character and effect. It is to music what the background is to a painting; upon its tone, sombre or mellow, depends all the harmony of coloring and much of the expression of the prominent figures. It is the warp through which the silver thread of melody is woven. It is the language-Italian, English or French-that by its liquid or strong or impassioned character moulds the poet's conceptions. My temperament is impressible, and I am affected in an unusual degree by the changes of key which a great composer knows how to introduce. Sometimes after a fierce tumult of sounds, as in representing a battle or elemental strife, the change brings a relief like entering a cool grotto out of the noontide glare, or like breathing the dewy air of evening after the toil and dust of a long summer's day. When the modulation is gradually effected, it brings a gentle sensation of pleasure without challenging any mental exertion. It is but the swinging of the door on golden hinges, which when opened discloses new delights beyond. But often the abrupt change brings a sudden and thrilling emotion, as when

there had been any change at all. My nerves could but acknowledge this exquisite delicacy and precision of intonation; every fibre was tremulous while the chromatic intervals were firmly yet airily touched in the modulation. There was no creaking as of rusty hinges, nothing of the jolt that attends the "switching off" a car on the railway. Either the bland tones imperceptibly shifted into other combinations, or suddenly arranged themselves on a new front with the startling effect of an instantaneous military manœuvre. In one case it was a vaguely indolent pleasure, lulling the senses in elysium; in the other, a bold rapture that led captive the astonished soul.

A new phenomenon was now apparent under the sway of HERR REGENBOGEN'S marvellous baton. I had formerly read of Gardiner's ingenious theory of the correspondence between the seven prismatic colors and the seven tones of the scale, but it rested in a dusty crypt, covered with an accumulation of later deposits. Now by some occult association of ideas it came vividly to mind. I could not remember the particular color which was assigned to any one tone; nor, indeed, could I have told the letter to which any passing tone was assigned. But, by a not unnatural analogy, the succession of keys that left so deep an impression upon my mind, seemed to diffuse in turn their peculiar hues as well as their interior influences through the air. Every pulse of sound that knocked at the ear appealed to the sight as well. For the air that trembled with those magical tones seemed to have a supernatural subtlety, and when cheerful or soothing music prevailed, was tinted with azure, amethyst, amber or rose color; or it shifted imperceptibly from one to another, like the colors of the opal when turned in the sun, or as the light breaks from the glossy plumage of the pigeon's neck. When passion inspired the strain, deeper colors pervaded— scarlet, crimson, purple, or gold-brown. Every emotion even seemed to have its symbolic hue; and as love and jealousy, repose and fear, hope and despair alternated; the sympathetic ether quivered with a new and often startling change.

Herr Regenbogen seemed to be absorbed in the development of these wondrous modulations, listening with evident solicitude to be sure that the orchestra maintained the exquisite relation of tones which had such power over the primal elements of matter. And when at the sweep of his wand the soft azure dissolved