of those parts of animals which are most exercised; though The colour of the muscles is dependent partly on the The peculiar vital power of the muscular tissue is its con- The relaxation of a muscle presents phenomena exactly When muscles shorten however it is not always by an exercise of their peculiar vital contractility, but often by their elasticity, by which, like all the other tissues, they are always maintained in a certain degree of tension. Thus when a muscle is divided, its ends retract as well after P. C., No. 979. death, or when its nerves are cut, as during life and health. It is by this power that muscles, after having been much extended, generally return to their natural size; thus when a muscle on one side of the joint of any limb shortens, it is evident that its antagonist on the opposite side must be lengthened in the same proportion, and when the contracting muscle ceases to act, the elasticity of the extended one (increased by the tension to which it has been subjected) will be alone sufficient in most cases to restore the limb to its position of rest. The actual power with which a muscle contracts is in direct proportion to the number of its fibres and inversely as their length. Hence in all the muscles in which great strength is required, as in the chief muscles of the shoulder and hip, the fibres do not run straight from the general point of origin to that of insertion, but the whole mass of the muscle is divided into a number of small portions, in which a multitude of short fibres are attached to separate points within the muscle, so that they may act separately, or, when great exertion is necessary, altogether, and with far greater power than a smaller number of long straight fibres could. The strength of a muscle is very commonly increased by its fibres not running parallel to the line in which the muscle has to draw the part to which it is attached, but with various degrees of obliquity to that line. Thus in many muscles the fibres and fasciculi are attached obliquely to one or both sides of a tendon, as the fibres of a feather are attached to its shaft; by which arrangement, though each muscular fibre contracts in its own direction, the general result of their contraction and the direction in which the resistance will act upon them forms an oblique angle with their direction and much of the danger of their being ruptured is removed. There are indeed but few instances of rectilineal muscles in the body; in nearly all, the fibres are placed more or less obliquely to the line in which they have to draw the part to which they are attached; a plan by which, though individually they lose in active power, they gain in resistance, and by which a far greater number may in the the same space be brought to bear upon a given point. An almost infinite variety of arrangement is found in the muscular fibres adapted to the especial purpose which each muscle has to fulfil, whether it be chiefly strength of action, or rapidity or extent of motion; and all are guided by the nicest mechanical rules. Wherever strength is more necessary than a wide extent of motion, the fibres are increased in number and placed obliquely to the direction of the resistance; wherever extent of motion is more needed than strength, the fibres are long and run almost straight from one point to the other, so as to give the full benefit of their contraction; where velocity is required, they are placed at a part of a lever close by the centre of motion, the resistance being placed on a part more distant from the centre. In general the absolute power exerted by a muscle in contracting is much less than its efficient power, a great part of its force being lost in its being inserted obliquely on the lever which it has to move, or in the distance of the resistance from the centre of motion, or in the resistance which other muscles and the adjacent tissues, which have to be extended, present, &c. But it is constantly found that where power is lost, a corresponding gain of velocity or extent of motion, or of convenience and compactness of form, and readiness of action, is obtained. MUSCLE, or MUSSEL. [MYTILIDA.] MUSES (Muse, in Latin; Moura, in Greek), the name of certain sister goddesses in the Greek mythology, who were supposed to preside over the arts of poetry and music, and the sciences of history and astronomy. The original conception of the Muses must be sought for in that disposition of the human mind which prompts us to embody abstract ideas in a sensuous form. Such seems likewise to have been the origin of the Graces, Fates, Furies, and other mythological personages of that class. [GRACES.] In the instance of the Muses, the powers of memory, music, and song were personified into individual goddesses, who were supposed to inspire men with these gifts. At first the Muses were said to be only three: Mneme, that is, 'memory;' Melete, or 'meditation; and Aoide, or song;' and they resided of old on Mount Helicon in Boeotia. (Pausanias, ix. 29.) According to the poet Alcman, they were the daughters of Uranus and Gæa, or the earth. Cicero (De Natura Deorum, iii. 21) mentions four, namely, Thelxinoe, mind-soother; Arche, or beginning;' Aoide; and Melete; and he says that they were the offspring of the second Jupiter. [JUPI VOL. XVI.-D (Creuzer, Symbolik und Mythologie; Petersen, De Musarum Origine, in Münter's Miscellanea Hufniensia; Hermannus, De Musis fluvialibus; Millin, Galérie Mythologique; Keightley's Mythology of Antient Greece and Italy.) TER.] He goes on to say that there were other Muses, nine | sus in Phocis, Helicon in Boeotia, Pierius, Pindus, and in number, born of the third Jupiter (the son of Saturn) Olympus, in Thessaly, &c. The swan, the nightingale, and of Mnemosyne; and also a third family of Muses, called and the grasshopper were sacred to them. The Roman Pierides by the poets, who were the daughters of the third poets called the Muses Camenæ, an Etruscan name-for it Jupiter and Antiope, and were similar in their names and appears that the Etruscans had also their Muses (Micali)— equal in number to the preceding. Hesiod, in his Theo- and also Pierides. gony' (53), reckons nine Muses, daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, and gives their names as follows:-Calliope, Clio, Melpomene, Thalia, Euterpe, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, and Urania, and he says that Pieria in Macedonia was their first dwelling-place. These are the Muses generally alluded to by the poets. It appears that the worship of the Muses was introduced from Macedonia into Boeotia, Phocis, and other parts of Hellas. The story of the contest of the Muses with the nine daughters of Pierus, a Macedonian, who pretended to rival the Muses in singing, but were vanquished and changed into magpies (Ovidius, Metamorph., v.) may have been, as some critics have conjectured, an allegory originating in the national vanity of the Greeks, to show their superiority in the arts and sciences over their Macedonian neighbours. The Thracian bard Thamyris tried a like chance, with a like result: he had his eyes put out and was deprived of his lyre. Homer mentions the Muses as the goddesses of song, who inhabited lofty Olympus, but he does not specify their number or names. In the second book of the Iliad he invokes them, to whom all things are known,' to assist his memory while he is enumerating the leaders of the Greek forces at Troy. The occupations of the Muses were singing, dancing, and attending the banquets of the Gods. They were the attendants of Apollo and also of Bacchus. The name Musa is supposed by some to be derived from a Greek verb which means to discover,' because the Muses were said to be acquainted with recondite mysteries and future events; but this etymology is mere trifling, and the origin of the name is unknown. They were represented as handsome and modest virgins, dressed in long tunics, with wreaths of laurel, ivy, or palm leaves on their heads. It was only in later ages that peculiar attributes were given to each of them by the artists, and a peculiar department of science was assigned to each by the poets. In several paintings of Herculaneum they are represented with their respective attributes, and with their respective names written under each. By comparing these with several rilievos, medals, and mosaics, their identity becomes confirmed. (Millin, Galérie Mythologique, plates 19 to 23, and explanation thereof.) The following is a list of them, with the allegorical meaning of their names:— Clio, from cleio, to celebrate glorious deeds,' is represented with a scroll in her hand, and also sometimes with a 'scrinium' to keep MSS. in, by her side. She has been styled the Muse of History. Calliope, fine voice,' is represented with tablets and a style; sometimes with a trumpet in her hand; in some instances, as at Herculaneum, with a scroll like Clio. She was the Epic Muse. Melpomene, the singer,' wears a royal diadem round her head, and a wreath of vine leaves, with cothurni on her feet; a mask in one hand, and a club in the other. She was the Muse of Tragedy. Thalia, the joyous,' the Muse of Comedy, is also crowned with vine leaves, has a crook in one hand and a grotesque mask in the other. Euterpe, the pleasing,' carries a double flute. She presided over music. Terpsichore, dance-loving,' carried a lyre, and presided over lyric poetry and dance. Erato, 'the lovely,' carries also a lyre. She was the Muse of elegy and amatory song. Polyhymnia, of many songs,' is represented wrapped up in her cloak, and buried in meditation, with the fore-finger of her right hand across her mouth, in token of reserve and caution. She was the Muse of religious song, allegories, and mythical strains. Urania, the heavenly,' has the globe and compasses in her hands, which are the emblems of her calling, astronomy. The corruption which, in the course of ages, pervaded mythological symbols, did not spare the Muses, and accordingly we find their chastity denied by several writers. According to Apollodorus, Ovid, and others, Clio had Orpheus by Apollo, Euterpe had Rhoesus by the Strymon, Calliope was the mother of the Sirens by Achelous, &c. The favourite haunts of the Muses were, Mount Parnas MUSEUM, a place dedicated to the Muses, from the Greek Mouseion (Movatiov); hence any place where learning is pursued, or which is set apart as a repository for things that have some immediate relation to the arts, is so termed. The earliest institution we are acquainted with which received this appellation was the museum founded at Alexandria by Ptolemy Philadelphus. The buildings of this institution were afterwards enlarged by the emperor Claudius. (Suet., Claud., 42.) MUSGRAVE, WILLIAM, born in 1657, in the county of Somerset, studied at Oxford, where he took his degree of M.D. In 1684 he became secretary to the Royal Society of London. In 1691 he fixed his residence at Exeter, where he practised as a physician, and where he died in 1721. Dr. Musgrave was a good scholar, and well versed in antiquity. He published-1, 'Geta Britannicus,' being the life of Geta by Capitolinus, with notes, to which he added a dissertation by way of commentary. 2, Julii Vitalis Epitaphium, cum Notis Criticis H. Dodwelli, et Commentario Guil. Musgrave. This is a commentary on a Roman epitaph found near Bath. 3, De Aquilis Romanis Epistola.' 4, De Legionibus Epistola.' 5, Belgium Britannicum, in quo illius Limites, Fluvii, Urbes, Viæ Militares, Populus, Lingua, Dei, Monumenta, aliaque permulta clarius et uberius exponuntur,' 8vo., 1719. He wrote also several medical works. MUSGRAVE, SAMUEL, M.D., the grandson of the above, also practised as a physician in Exeter, and died there in 1782. Besides a few works on medical subjects, he was the author of 'Exercitationes in Euripidem, 8vo., Leyden, 1762; Animadversiones in Sophoclem,' 3 vols. 8vo., Oxford, 1800; and 'Two Dissertations-1, On the Mythology of the Greeks; 2, An Examination of Sir Isaac Newton's Objections to the Chronology of the Olympiads.' He also assisted in the edition of Euripides, 4 vols. 8vo., Oxford, 1778. Schweighauser, in his edition of Appian, has cited many of Musgrave's emendations and conjectures on that author from the marginal notes in Musgrave's copy of Appian. Schweighauser justly calls him a good Greek scholar and an acute critic. MUSHROOM. The species of mushroom usually cultivated is the Agaricus campestris. In the order of fungi, which includes that plant, most species are poisonous, and fatal consequences have resulted from ignorance of the characters by which the wholesome mushroom is distinguished from such allied species as are liable to be mistaken for it. These characters have been already pointed out. [AGARICUS.] What remains to be noticed relates to cultivation. Mushrooms are indigenous; they spring up abundantly in fields where cattle have been pastured, if the soil and temperature prove favourable for the development of the spawn, a term which is applied to the substance in which the reproductive principle is embodied, which presents to the naked eye the appearance of whitish mouldiness, and which is in reality the flocculent subterranean stem, while the mushroom itself is the fruit. In this state spawn may be kept for years if moisture be withheld; but if the latter be supplied, in conjunction with a proper degree of temperature, it is further developed into white filaments and tubercles, which ultimately rise above the soil in the form of mushrooms. These spring up sometimes singly, but frequently in a gregarious manner. Mushrooms appear in the fields chiefly after Midsum mer, in the months of July, August, and most abundantly in September. On a ten years' average the temperature of these months respectively in the neighbourhood of London has been found to be 64°, 62°, and 57°; and in the same periods the temperature of the earth one foot below the surface is a few degrees higher; but at the depth of two or three inches, where the vegetating spawn is situated, the temperature in hot sunny weather is frequently as high as 80°. Whilst such hot weather continues, mushrooms are rarely met with'; but when the atmosphere changes to a humid | congenial, either in boxes that are moveable or in such as state, and when the earth becomes sufficiently moistened are fixed on purpose along the walls of a shed or mushroomand lowered in temperature, in consequence of rain and ab- house, the construction of which may be that of any consence of sun-heat, to between 60° and 65°, mushrooms become venient form, provided its adaptation to the principles here plentiful. Hence it may be concluded that spawn will not be mentioned be kept in view. The bed should not however injured by a heat of 80° during what may be termed its be in immediate contact with the ground, unless under cirunderground state of progression. This is corroborated by cumstances which may occasion the latter to possess a the fact that spawn introduced into melon-frames when the temperature of between 60° and 65°. beds are moulded, increases whilst the melons are grown in a heat of about 80°, and when the melon crop is over, the frame cleared, and the heat of the bed naturally abated, a gentle watering, with shade, is all that is necessary to bring up an excellent crop of mushrooms from the spawn so deposited. It is evident from what has been stated that the spawn requires a high temperature for its diffusion; but when this has taken place a declining temperature is requisite, till gradually the bottom heat is lowered to 60° or 65°, and the temperature of the air limited between 55° and 65°, when the production first appears above the soil. With regard to moisture it may be observed that a dry atmosphere is injurious, not only to artificial crops, but also to those in the fields; for the latter warm foggy mornings are most favourable, and these should be imitated as closely in cultivation as circumstances will permit. A gentle steam is more easily maintained in mushroom-houses than in structures adapted for other subjects of cultivation where light is an object of importance; but mushrooms do not require its agency, and consequently a glass roof is unnecessary: on the contrary, the roof and walls where they are intended to be grown should be composed of such substances as will cause the least possible condensation of the internal vapour, and which are in other respects eligible for the purpose. A thatched roof of a good thickness is very proper; a slated or tiled one is on the contrary objectionable unless a ceiling be formed under it. If the cavity between the ceiling and the external covering were filled with dry moss, a more complete protection would be formed against any sudden vicissitudes of cold and heat, an object of importance towards success either in the cold winter months or during the greatest heat of summer. The materials of which beds for the growth of mushrooms are composed usually contain spawn; but as they may or may not happen to do so, it is necessary to be provided with some, in order that it may be introduced when the beds are in the best state for accelerating its development. Spawn may be purchased; or a small quantity having been procured about old melon-beds, horse-tracks under cover, dry places where cattle usually take shelter, or elsewhere, it may be propagated by incorporating to the consistency of mortar a quantity of horse-droppings, cow-dung, and loam; and if the last be taken from places where mushrooms have been grown, so much the better. This composition, or in fact any one of a similar kind that may be equally adapted for a matrix wherein the spawn may extend itself, should be spread to the depth of three inches, and afterwards cut into cakes, or formed into small flat bricks with one or two holes in each, into which portions of the previously collected spawn are inserted. The bricks should be in a firm state when the spawn is introduced, but not dry. The whole should then be formed into a pile, not too compact, some spawny soil being sprinkled as the strata are being deposited, if such can be readily obtained, and a covering of hot dung applied. In a short time the spawn becomes diffused throughout the mass; and whenever this is found to be the case, the bricks must be uncovered and allowed to dry, for the purpose of arresting the progress of vegetation in the spawn till it is required for use. It is desirable that the materials should not ferment higher than 80°; when slowly on the decline from this temperature, the spawn should be introduced by inserting small pieces merely within the surface of the bed, through which it will soon become diffused; and whilst this is being effected, a covering of rich loam to the depth of two inches is spread over the bed, which, as well as the whole of the materials, should be rendered very compact. Extremes of moisture and dryness are alike to be avoided. Waterings, when at all necessary, should be light; and it is particularly essential that the water should be of an equal temperature with the bed. A covering of hay and mats is very useful for preserving uniformity of temperature and moisture in the beds, especially in situations not adapted for having the regulation of these conditions fully at command. As wooden shelves or boxes are soon rotted by the dung, brick arches have been in some cases substituted; but these occupy much space. Slate would be a better material, since it can be had of ample dimensions and of sufficient strength. The shelves may be of any convenient width; but in order to contain a sufficient depth of materials for producing the requisite degree of fermentation, the front ledge ought to be at least eight inches deep. Objections have been made to the use of slate on account of its not absorbing moisture, whilst at the same time it occasions condensation. Moisture may indeed be observed to be very copiously deposited on slate, but this only takes place when the temperature of the slate is lower than that of the air in contact with it. Therefore in a mushroom-house properly regulated no condensation would take place, for as the materials of the beds are at least always as warm as the atmosphere of the house, and in generally more so, the slates in contact must be equally warm, and consequently not liable to the above objection. MUSIC (Musique, Fr.; Musica, Lat.; Movoký, Gr., from μoura, a muse or song) is the artistic union of inarticulate sounds and rhythm, exciting agreeable sensations, and raising mental images and emotions directly or indirectly pleasing. Such is pure unmixed music. When conjoined to poetry, it is an art not of diminished importance, but of a dependent nature, its office then being to enforce the meaning of the words and add a colouring to them. As an adjunct it is a beautiful illustration of language; combined with the sister art, it becomes a highly ornamented kind of eloquence. Hence it will be seen that we widely differ from one who has been looked up to as an unquestionable authority, from the celebrated Rousseau, whose wellknown definition of music-l'art de combiner des sons d'une manière agréable à l'oreille' (the art of combining sounds in a manner agreeable to the ear)-has been so generally received, and even adopted by those whose capacities and knowledge might have enabled them to take a much more enlarged view of the subject. One very learned Frenchman however has repudiated the degrading description given by his distinguished countryman: M. Villoteau stamps it with the epithets insignificant and vulgar, considering it absurd and puerile; for with as much propriety might oratory be be described as the art of combining words in a manner agreeable to the ear, or painting as the art of combining colours in a manner agreeable to the eye. Various compositions have been successfully employed in Music is a kind of language, and as such, says Metasthe formation of mushroom-beds. Horse-dung, chiefly fresh tasio, it possesses that advantage over poetry which a unidroppings, or with only some of the shortest litter inter-versal language has over a particular one; for this last mixed, is however principally esteemed; and such should be collected when the horses are not on green food, but are being fed on corn, or on corn and hay. If the beds are intended to be formed of considerable thickness, which some prefer because they continue longer in a bearing state, then it is proper that the fresh dung should be mixed with some old hot-bed materials, or with light loam, in such proportion as will prevent a too violent fermentation. In all cases the composition should only possess sufficient moisture to induce fermentation. It may then be compactly deposited in any dark situation where the temperature and moderate moisture of the atmosphere can be rendered speaks only to its own age and country; the other speaks to all ages and countries. James Harris, in his philosophical Discourse on Music, Painting, and Poetry, expresses the same opinion, even going to the length of asserting, that while a description in words has rarely any relation to the several ideas of which those words are the symbols, musical imitations are intelligible to all men.' Music is a language that speaks by imitating, and as such it is understood by those who have successfully studied the art, and likewise by mere amateurs, who, with little if any knowledge of its principles, have learnt the meaning of its ex pressions by long practice, by frequently hearing and enjoy D 2 ing its performance; but it can only express passion and sentiment very generally, and commonly fails when it attempts to particularise. This want of absolute decision in what is called musical language is by some writers reckoned among its advantages, because it gives the hearer great latitude in interpreting it, which he usually does in a manner as congenial as possible to his own feelings at the time. Madame de Staël goes so far as to prefer instrumental to vocal music, on account of the vagueness which she thinks one of the attributes of the former-that very same vagueness which Fontenelle meant to impute to it as an egregious fault, when, in a transport of impatience, he exclaimed, Sonate, que me veux tu?' Burke's opinion however coincides with Madame de Staël's, if it did not actually prompt it. He says, the passions may be considerably operated upon, without presenting any image at all, by certain sounds adapted to that purpose, of which we have a sufficient proof in the acknowledged and powerful effects of instrumental music.' He however soon afterwards adds, that 'in reality a great clearness helps but little towards affecting the passions, as it is in some sort an enemy to all enthusiasm whatever. This is rather startling as a general proposition: if we admit it as applied to vocal music, we must, à fortiori, allow that the finest compositions of that kind, which certainly leave nothing to the imagination of the hearer, exercise little if any influence over the passions. But being decidedly opposed to such an opinion, we must condemn it, though advanced by the eminent writer of the Enquiry concerning the Sublime and Beautiful, and supported by the distinguished author of Allemagne. No one has written in a more enthusiastic strain on the power of music in imitating than Rousseau. The reader of the article Imitation,' in his Dictionary, will find little difficulty in believing all that is said of Orpheus and Amphion, if he suffers himself to be convinced by the florid, declamatory, extravagant passage to which we allude. The writer of the first Bridgewater Treatise, Dr. Chalmers, has argued no less earnestly in favour of that musical language of which we are speaking. Music,' he says, apart from words, is powerfully fitted both to represent and awaken the mental processes, insomuch that, without the aid of spoken characters, many a story of deepest interest is most impressively told, many a noble or tender sentiment is most emphatically conveyed by it. . . . . . The power and expressiveness of music may well be regarded as a most beauteous adaptation of external nature to the moral constitution of Its sweetest sounds are those of kind affection: its sublimest sounds are those most expressive of moral heroism, or most fitted to prompt the aspirations and resolves of exalted piety.' Fontenelle, on one side, and Rousseau, with Dr. Chalmers, on the other, are at the two extremes on this question: the one, from a deficiency of musical feeling, granting too little; the others, from an excess of it, admitting too much. man. A musical sound,-which is a curious compound of other sounds, called harmonics, resulting from a number of vibrations in equal times,-when produced by a fine voice, a richtoned violoncello, or a 'mellow horn, excites in all who possess a moderate share of nervous sensibility, a pleasurable sensation; and this, Sir John Herschel observes, is perhaps the only instance of a sensation for whose pleasing impression a distinct and intelligible reason can be assigned.' Dr. Beattie does not think it absurd to suppose that the body may be mechanically affected by sound. 'If,' he says, in a church one feels the floor and the pew tremble to certain tones of the organ; if one string vibrates of its own accord when another is sounded near it, of equal length, tension, and thickness; if a person speaks loud in the neighbourhood of a harpsichord, and often hears the strings of the instrument murmur in the same tone, we need not wonder that some of the finer fibres of the human frame should be put in a tremulous motion when they happen to be in unison with any notes proceeding from external objects.' Most persons must have witnessed the effect of a street-organ on some of the canine species, apparently willing auditors, who, if not driven away, continue to howl all the while the instrument is playing. Whether they are painfully affected, and their tones those of distress, or agreeably, and they become responsive, does not appear; though if distressed, the probability is that they would fly from the cause. But Dr. Mead tells us that a celebrated violinist of his acquaintance, perceiving that his dog betrayed symptoms of great suffering on hearing a certain passage performed, repeated it for some time, in order to try the result, and the experiment proved fatal to the poor animal, who dropped down at the feet of his master, where in a few seconds he died in the most horrid convulsions.' The surprising and hitherto unexplained connection between form and vibrations producing musical sounds, so beautifully shown in Chladni's experiments on plates of glass strewed with sand, and put into sonorous vibration, thereby throwing the sand into various symmetrical figures, may be here incidentally mentioned, though it does not now seem to shed any new light on the subject before us; nevertheless by proving something like sympathy, and of a much more extraordinary kind than that between two strings, in mere matter, it may at a future period lead to interesting discoveries. The effect of Rhythm, or measure, is universally felt and admitted: the most polished inhabitants of Europe, and the most barbarous natives of the arctic regions, are alive to its influence; it is that which reduces unmeaning sounds to order, converts them into melody, and bestows on them proportion and a power to charm. The chirping, or whistling, or singing as it is called, of most birds, being devoid of rhythm, affords no pleasure but what is derived from association; while the single note of a drum beaten in time, combining sound and measure, is gratifying in a certain degree to every hearer. Indeed, with the antients rhythm was of paramount importance, if not almost everything, in what they denominated music, a term under which was included much that it does not imply in modern language. Aristides Quintilianus, the best of the seven Greek writers on music collected by Meibomius, remarks that rhythm is the object of three senses, namely, the sight, as in dancing; the hearing, as in music; and the touch, as in the pulsations of the arteries. Much of the effect of music on the mind is ascribed to Imitation, which is either direct or indirect. And it must be understood that we are still speaking of music strictly instrumental, not vocal. The power of direct imitation is confined within very narrow limits indeed, though composers have often attempted to enlarge the boundaries, exposing their own weakness and that of their art. The song of some birds, the whistling of winds, the rearing of the tempest, the sound of cannon, the ringing and tolling of bells, and perhaps the tones of the human voice expressive of certain emotions, are legitimate objects of direct imitation; but the rattling of hail, the fall of snow, the motions of animals, actions at sea, battles on land, &c., are not only unrepresentable by any kind of musical instrument at present known, but unfit for imitation if instruments could be constructed for the express purpose. Greatly we admire the introduction to the oratorio of The Creation, considered as a most original and ingenious composition, but cannot bring ourselves to believe that any idea of chaos is to be excited by exquisite harmony. Still less can we be convinced that silence can be imitated by sound, though the author of this musical solecism (which appears in a symphony intended to be descriptive) is a man of rare talent, whose works are highly esteemed in England, and still more so where better known, in Germany, his native country. Music can imitate in a direct manner only by its actual resemblance to the sound of the thing imitated. Of all the powers of music, in the opinion of an admirable critic, the Rev. Thos. Twining, that of raising ideas by direct resemblance is the weakest and least important. It is indeed so far from being essential to the pleasure of the art, that unless used with great caution, judgment, and delicacy, it will destroy the pleasure by becoming offensive or ridiculous. The highest power of music, and that from which it derives its greatest efficacy, is undoubtedly its power of raising emotions.' Professor Hutcheson, in the early part of the last century, expressed nearly the same opinion. What he adds concerning the imitation of the human voice and accents is entitled to particular attention. He says, There is a charm in music to various persons which is distinct from the harmony occasioned by its raising agreeable passions. The human voice is obviously varied by all the stronger passions: now, when our ear discerns any resemblance between the air of a tune, whether sung or played on an instrument, either in its time or modulation, or any other circumstance, and the sound of the human voice in any passion, we shall be touched by it in a very sensible manner, and have melan choly, joy, gravity, thoughtfulness, excited in us by a sort of sympathy or contagion.' (Enquiry into our Ideas of Plato, in the third book of his Republic,' speaks of a Indirect Imitation is that by which some quality common to music and the thing imitated is indicated by sounds, strong or weak, quick or slow. Rage is loud, anger is harsh, love and pity are gentle; therefore loud and harsh sounds raise ideas of the former passions and others of the same class; soft and tranquil sounds raise ideas of the latter and others of a similar character. Hence it will be seen, as before observed, that the hearer may interpret music in a manner corresponding in some degree to the state of mind in which it shall find him, but under certain restrictions from which he cannot be released. If agitated by any turbulent passion, he will find it impossible to convert smooth and delicate music into a language in unison with his irritated feelings; and if under the softening influence of some tender attachment, or of sorrow for the loss of one beloved or valued, he will be unable to construe bold and brilliant sounds as expressions of sympathy. But music that is not of a decided character will prove more or less convertible. And it is to this latter kind probably that Mr. Twining alludes, when, speaking of good instrumental music expressively' performed, he says, the very indecision of the expression, leaving the hearer to the free operation of his emotion upon his fancy, and, as it were, to the free choice of such ideas as are to him most adapted to react upon and heighten the emotion which occasioned them, produces a pleasure which nobody, I believe, who is able to feel it will deny to be one of the most delicious that music is capable of affording.' (Dissertation on the word Imitative, &c.) of the performer who had imparted to the music its greatest After all, however, that has been written and said, from the days of Aristotle down to the present period, of rusic as an imitative art, it must be conceded that modulated sounds please, by some mysterious means, many to whom they present no imitation of anything material or immaterial, and who associate with them no other idea than that of melody or of harmony. These are, probably, the persons whom Rousseau had in view when, mistaking the exception for the rule, it seems to have been his design, in one of his wayward moments, to reduce that which is at once an art and a science, to the low rank of a sensual gratification. But in justice to that eloquent writer, it should be added, that, in his Essai sur l'Origine des Langues, he at once demolishes his own definition-which, unfortunately, has been so widely circulated-by the interposition of a simple negative: e.g. La musique n'est pas l'art de combiner des sons d'une manière agréable à l'oreille.' Thus far our attention has been directed to instrumental music, or that which is dependent on no auxiliary for effect, on no words to explain its meaning, on no gesticulation or scenery to illustrate it. We have now to consider music as produced by the human voice in alliance with language, whether poetical or prose, and with or without instrumental accompaniment. It is proper to add that this very learned and able com- Vocal music is entirely devoid of that ambiguity which leaving nothing for the hearer to conjecture; for though Association, which has so large a share in the operations of the human mind, often contributes much to the effect of music. Indeed some airs possessing no intrinsic merit owe their influence solely to this principle, and among these the famous Rans des Vaches, which, in times happily gone by, acted with such irresistible force on the expatriated Swiss soldier. It was many years after the battle of Culloden, and not till all fears of the Pretender had subsided, that the Scotch bagpipers ventured to play any of the Jacobite tunes, which, when revived, were heard with delight, though hardly one of them would have continued to be listened to but as connected with the history of the country. When Sir Joshua Reynolds was at Venice-we are told by Mr. Malone in compliment to the English gentlemen then residing there, the manager of the opera one night ordered the band to play an English ballad-tune. Happening to be the popular air which was played or sung in almost every street, just at the time of their leaving London, by suggesting to them that metropolis with all its connections and endearing circumstances, it immediately brought tears into the artist's eyes, as well as into those of his countrymen who were present.' To compositions of a very ordinary kind, association, Dr. Beattie remarks, gives a significancy. 'We have heard them,' he says, 'performed, some time or other, in an agreeable place perhaps, or by an agreeable person; or have heard them in our early years, a period of life which we seldom look back upon without pleasure. Nor is it necessary that such melodies or harmonies should have much intrinsic merit. If a song, or piece of music, should call up only a faint remembrance that we were happy the last time we heard it, nothing more would be needful to make us listen to it again with peculiar satisfaction.' To this latter part, however, we can only give our assent generally: painful experience has taught many that there is an exception to the rule. A composition which had been listened to with unalloyed pleasure when executed by one possessing all our tenderest and warmest affection, only excites the idea of lost, of irrecoverabie happiness, if heard when death has deprived us C |