Chapter VI: Part 6

A great multitude were gathered together: on the right a huge fortress thundering to the sky--on the left a scaffold--a white fog--the open sea--and a mighty ship tumbling to the swell. The flat roofs and gorgeous balconies were covered with scarlet cloth, and thronged with women of all ages--their lips writhing and their eyes flashing. Underneath were a mute soldiery, with banners that moved not, and spears that glimmered not--a vast, rich and motionless pageant. Not a leaf stirred--not a finger was lifted--all eyes were fixed upon something afar off. The Grave alone had a voice, and the footstep of approaching Death grew audible, with the everlasting beat of the Ocean. The stagnant atmosphere burned with a lustreless, unchangeable and smouldering warmth. As the impatient and sluggish breathing of the Destroyer drew near, with a sound as of Earthquake and Pestilence laboring afar off, there appeared upon the outermost verge of the scaffold, near the fortress, a man of a simple and majestic presence, wearing no symbol of power, no badge of authority, before whom the multitude gave way with headlong precipitation, as though but to touch the hem of his garment were death itself, or something yet worse than death.

After communicating with those about him in a low whisper, too low to be understood by others almost within his reach, one of the soldiers lifted a spear, at the point of which fluttered a blood-red banner, tufted and fringed with snow-white feathers, and pointed in silence toward a large opening, which appeared to command a view of the whole interior. The stranger drew near, and grasping one of the bars with a powerful hand, lifted himself up, and after looking awhile, turned away with a sick impatient shudder, and wiped his eyes; and then lifting himself up again, he made a signal to somebody within, and straightway a large tent-like awning was quietly withdrawn, so as to reveal the interior of a court-yard, with cells opening into it--in the nearest of which sat a princely-looking middle-aged man, half-buried and apparently half asleep or lost in thought, in a large, heavy, old-fashioned chair, with a curiously carved table before him, on which there lay, side by side with writing materials, a lamp and a letter evidently unfinished, two or three illuminated manuscripts, a dagger and a map; a massive goblet richly chased, the rough gold tinged and sweltering with the hot blood of the southern grape, a variety of strange mathematical instruments--a copy of Zoroaster--and a Hebrew Bible, with clasps of the costliest workmanship, and a cover of black velvet frosted with seed pearls--a crushed and trampled coronet--and a lighted pipe, ornamented with precious stones, the shaft a twisted serpent and the bowl a burning carbuncle--a live coal--from the core of which, as out of the midst of a perpetual, unextinguishable fire, issued a delicate perfume, filling the whole neighborhood, as with the smoke of a censer; and leaving the eye to make out--by little and little--through the fragrant vapor, first a pair of embroidered Persian slippers, then a magnificent robe, flowered all over as with the sunshine of the sea, and weltering in the changeable light of the open window, then a prodigious quantity of lustrous black hair flowing down over the shoulders, from underneath a crimson velvet cap with a diamond buckle and clasp, and a tassel of spun gold, strung with sapphire, ruby, amethyst and pearl--and a pomp of black feathers overshadowing an ample forehead of surpassing power, and eyes of untroubled splendor; and then, after a long while, a heap of black shadow lying coiled up underneath the table, from the midst of which an occasional flash, as of a serpent's tongue, or an angry sparkle--as of a serpent's eye, would appear--and at last the whole proportions of a superb-looking personage, who had been trying, hour after hour, with a compressed lip and a thoughtful determined eye--to snap what appeared to be a handful of seed pearl, one by one, through the grated window before him, without touching the bars--hour after hour--and always in vain! The passage way was too narrow--the bars too near together.

Behold! murmured he at last, while the shadow of another--and yet another stranger, shot along the lighted floor, as he stole about the room a-tiptoe, and gathering up the pearls, if pearls they were, that lay in heaps underneath the window, and flinging aside the magnificent robe he wore, prepared himself anew and with more determination than ever, for the work he had evidently set his heart upon, if not his life, by measuring the elevation with a steadier eye, and poising every pearl with a more delicate touch, before he projected it toward the window. Behold! how the Ancient of Days delighteth in counteracting the purposes of Man?

The other started back and threw up his arms with a look of horror and amazement, and all who were about him began whispering together and shaking their heads.

At this moment the slow jarring vibration of a great bell was heard from the topmost tower--the cannon of the fortress thundered forth, and were answered, peal after peal, from the lighted mountains--a volume of white smoke rolled heavily toward the earth and covered the people--the sea-fog trembled--parted--and slowly drifted away in patches and fragments, through which the blue sky appeared, and the hot sunshine flashed with an arrowy brightness, while the mighty ship swung round with her broadside to the shore, and lighted matches were seen moving about hither and thither, like wandering meteors, through the damp hazy atmosphere; and instantly there went up a slow half-smothered wail from the multitude, with a weight and volume like the unutterable and growing earnestness of the Great Deep, when it begins to heave with a pre-appointed and irresistible change; and all eyes were upturned, and all arms outstretched with a troubled expression toward the stranger, who walked forward a few steps to the verge of the scaffold--and looking about him, on every side, called out with a loud voice,--Of such are the Gods of the Unconverted! and of such their followers!

The answering roar of the multitude reached the prisoner, who lifting his head and listening for a moment with a placid smile, asked what more they would have?--and whether they were not yet satisfied?--and then straightway began balancing another of the glittering seeds and eyeing the window--

Most pitiable! cried the other, covering his face with his hands, moving afar off, and appearing to be entirely overcome by what he saw.

And why _pitiable_, I pray thee! shouted the former, with a voice like a trumpet, lifting his calm forehead to the sky and gathering his magnificent robe about him as he spoke.

Art thou of a truth Adonijah the Jew--the unconverted Jew?

Of a truth am I--the unconverted, the _unconvertable_ Jew; and thou! art thou not he that was my brother according to the flesh--even Zorobabel, the _converted_ Jew and the preacher of a new faith?

Yea; of a new faith to such as thou; but a faith older than the Hebrew prophets to them that believe, Adonijah.

But why _pitiable_ I pray thee?

How are the mighty fallen! For three whole months have I journied afoot and alone, by night and by day, through the deep of the wilderness, and along by the sea-shore--afoot and alone, my brother!--after hearing of thy great overthrow--the wreck of thy vast possessions about me whithersoever I went--thy magnificent household scattered, thy princes banished from their high places, and wandering over all the earth and hiding themselves in the holes of the rocks--with no city of refuge in their path--even thy youngest and fairest a bondwoman, toiling for that which sustaineth not; and thy own fast-approaching death, a theme with every people and kindred and tongue--and not a theme of sorrow! And all this, O my brother and my prince! only that I might be near thee in thy unutterable bereavement and humiliation, only that I might look upon thee once more alive, and see thee unchangeable as ever, though stripped of power and trampled under the hoofs of the multitude--only that I might reason with thee, face to face, before a great people, who, after watching and worshipping thee for many years, have come up together as with one heart, to see thee--_thee!_ their idol and their benefactor--perish upon a scaffold, as only the fool or the scoffer perisheth!--to cry out upon thee as the unconquerable Jew, that having once abjured the faith of his fathers and gone back to it anew, cannot be reached but by the law, nor purified but with fire!

Say on.

Alas, my brother! Alas that it should fall upon me to afflict thy proud spirit with reproaches at a time like this! But there is no other hope. Awake, therefore! awake! and gird up thy loins like a man. I will demand of thee, saith the Lord of Hosts, and thou shalt answer me, even as my servant Job answered me of yore. Awake, therefore, and stand up, that I may reason with thee for the last time touching the faith of our mighty fathers, the consolations of philosophy, and the splendor and power of earthly Wisdom--of Death and Judgment--while thou art on thy way to the grave in the fulness of thy strength and majesty; and _not_ with the clangor of trumpets, the neigh of steeds, the flow of drapery, and the uproar of battle!--No!--not as the High Priest, or the champion of a lofty and venerable faith, standing up like a pillar of fire in a cloudy sky, and pointing to Jerusalem as to the great gathering place of buried nations, about to reappear, with all eyes fixed upon thee and all hearts heaving with exultation! To thy grave, my brother! and not as a martyr! but as a wretch abandoned of all the earth--a twofold apostate!--a rebel and a traitor! Hark! hearest thou not a faint stirring afar off, along the shore of that multitude--a living wilderness of threatening eyes and parched lips--and ah! another moan from that huge, heavy, disheartening bell, which never stops till the sacrifice of a fiery death is over, and the object of its boding prophecy gone to the world of spirits.

But the prisoner heeded not his adjuration--he never lifted his eyes, and the same quiet smile rested forever upon his countenance; and he still gathered up the pearls and continued aiming them at the window.

Awake, Adonijah! awake, I say! Thy pearls are counted to thee. Thy pulses are about to stand still forever--thy proud heart to stop forever! A moment, and the headsman will be here--already do I see him afar off, stealing with a noiseless movement along the skirts of the affrighted people, like smouldering fire through the blackness of a thunder-cloud. Awake, thou MAN of sorrow and acquainted with grief, awake that I may pray with thee!

With me!

Yea, my brother--even with thee.

And wherefore shouldst thou pray with me? and wherefore should I pray?

Wherefore! Have I not heard thee, purified by that old peculiar faith, charge even thy Creator, the Ancient of Days, the Lord God of Heaven and Earth, _Jehovah!_ with diverting thy pearls from their appointed path!

True, and therefore why should I pray? Of what avail these prayers with the _unchangeable_ God? Can aught that we do, or fail to do, disturb the everlasting tranquillity of our Creator--change his purpose--or in any way move to pleasure or displeasure the Lord God of Heaven and Earth? With him before whom all things are alike, with whom there is neither great nor small--what he hath determined to do, that will he not do? whether we importune him or not with prayer? Go to, my poor brother! go to! will not the Judge of all the Earth do right? and if he will not--how are we to help ourselves?

Unhappy man! Though he _were_ unchangeable; and though supplications were of no avail, why should the children of men, the creatures of his bounty withhold their _thanksgiving_?

That would I never withhold, for that I could offer up any where--at all times and under all circumstances, without dishonoring him, our CREATOR and our Father, or his image, and without contradicting our ancient faith. But why wrestle in prayer with him, for that which, if it be proper for us, we shall be sure to have, as we have the dew and the sunshine, the seed-time and the harvest.--The very hairs of our head, are they not numbered? Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God!

Yea my brother! But what saith the same scripture? Ye are of more value than many sparrows.

True--true--I had forgotten a part of my lesson.

Believest thou, O my brother, _canst_ thou believe then, that in His eyes, all the cherubim and seraphim are equal and alike? that He is, of a truth, no respecter of persons among the Hierarchy of heaven?

But wherefore pray to Him that knoweth all our wants, before they are uttered or felt? to Him that feedeth the young raven--laying his hand reverentially upon the Great Book before him, and lifting his forehead to the sky, as if he could see through it.

_Wherefore?_ Because we have been urged to pray--entreated to pray--commanded to pray. Because every thing desirable hath been promised to prayer.

Not in the Hebrew scriptures, however it may be with the Greek. To thanksgiving and submission, there may be vouchsafed a continual to favor; but to importunity, as urged upon you in your scripture, my poor brother, _nothing_.

Lo! the headsman touches the foot of the scaffold! Wilt thou not pray with me, oh Adonijah! my brother and my prince!

No! my brother that _was_--no! The Lion of Judah hath not yet learned to lick the uplifted hand of mortal man. Get thee behind me Zorobabel, _my brother_! Go thy way, and leave me to my trust in the God of our fathers. Why should I pray with thee--with thee! an apostate from the sepulchre of kings and prophets--I that never have prayed but with the princes, and the Judges and the High-Priest of our people? Get thee gone, my brother! It is not for such as I to tempt the Lord of Hosts, or to persuade the Ancient of Days. Do not thou tempt me.

Stay, brother--stay! Did not Jacob wrestle in prayer with the angel of the Lord, all the night long?

With the angel of the Lord?--yea--But never with the Lord himself, as thou wouldst have me. And saying this, he gathered up his robe and shook it, and turned away from his brother sorrowing.

Man! thou art beside thyself--much learning hath made thee mad--cried his brother, reaching forth his arms to Adonijah. The whole Hebrew scriptures are against thee--what are they all but a Book of prayer and supplication? Prophets and Bards and Kings and Judges, yea, even the High Priesthood, are against thee! Why shouldst thou pray, thou unconquerable Hebrew?--why!--that thy proud heart may be made human--that thy understanding may be enlightened--that thou mayst be made to know and believe that there is another and a better Scripture. Pray to thy Father, which is in Heaven, as thou wouldst that thy children should pray to thee, even for that which thou hast already determined to grant them--oh, pray to Him! that He may see the disposition of thy heart, as thou wouldst see theirs. What though thou art mindful of their wants, and well acquainted with their hearts and purposes, and always ready to gratify them, is it not a condition with thee--even with _thee_, Adonijah, that they should acknowledge their dependence upon thee, and their utter helplessness of themselves? And why should it not be so with our Heavenly Father? with Him whose angels are about thee and above thee, a perpetual atmosphere of warmth and light. Ha! the multitude are breaking up!--they are coming this way! I hear the tramp of horsemen--a moment more and we are apart forever. A flash!--The Philistines are upon thee, O my brother!

That brother looked up and smiled.

Wilt thou not pray with me?

No--once for all--no! Never with a converted Jew--never with a christian!--never with thee, thou but half a christian!

Farewell then!--farewell forever.

Another flash! attended with a loud burst of thunder among the hills.

Nay, let us part in peace, my brother, although I cannot pray with thee, I can for thee! The God of our Fathers! of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, have thee in his holy keeping!

The stranger threw up his arms in a transport of joy. The unconverted, the _unconvertable_ Jew had prayed for him with the temper of a christian; and straightway he fell upon his knees and called upon the God of the Hebrews, in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, to spare the Jew and change his heart.

The huge gate swung open. The drawbridge fell--a fierce angry light broke forth suddenly from underneath the scaffold--a black banner floated all at once from the battlements over the passage-way--a troop of horsemen, with flashing spears and iron helmets, wheeled slowly into the court-yard, and drew up in dead silence along the outer barrier. The headsman appeared. A signal was made from a far window, and lo! the coronet and the robe, with all the glittering insignia of departed power and extinguished glory, were torn away, and trampled under foot by the hoofs of the multitude. A white smoke rolled forth from below, and when it cleared away, the Jew appeared standing bareheaded between two gigantic mutes, one of whom bore a naked cimetar, while the other stood watching his countenance. It continued unaltered--unalterable--nor would he vouchsafe the slightest token of submission or terror, though the flames roared, and the white smoke rolled thitherward like the white sea-fog before a coming storm; but haughtily, steadfastly, and with a majestic mildness which awed the very soldiery more than all the pomp they were accustomed to, he pointed to the multitude, lowering about him with a tempestuous blackness--to the pyre with its covering of blood-red cloth dripping with recent moisture--to the flames roaring far below among the dry faggots, and signified a wish to proceed.

Once more shouted a voice from the barrier--My brother! oh my brother! wilt thou not be prevailed upon, if not for thine own sake, for the sake of thy beloved wife and thy youngest born--about to perish with thee--even with thee, my brother, in their marvellous beauty and most abundant strength.

Away!--and let me die in peace!

Another step thou unconquerable man! But another step--thou apostate Jew!--and thou art in the world of spirits! Wilt thou not say? _canst_ thou not, with lowliness and fervor, Our Father which art in Heaven! thy will and not mine be done!

Yea, brother--if that will comfort thee in thy desolation. Yea! Yea! with all the hoarded and concentrated fervor of a long life accustomed to no other language, even while I took upon me the outer garb of a christian--Yea!--and saying this, he fell upon his knees, and cried out with a loud voice, while a triumphant brightness overspread his uplifted countenance with a visible exaltation, Our Father and our Judge! I do not pray to thee as the God of the christians did, that this cup may be spared to me; for I have put my whole hope and trust in thee, and am satisfied with whatsoever I may receive at thy hands! But I would bless thee, I would praise thee, I would magnify thy great name, oh God of my Fathers, for all that I have enjoyed or suffered, for all that I have had or wanted in this life; yea, for all the afflictions and sorrows and terrors that have beset my path, and that of my beloved wife and my dear children--children of the tribe of Judah and of the house of Jacob!--Yea, for the overthrow of all my proud hopes and prouder wishes, when I forsook thee and almost abjured the faith of my Fathers for dominion sake. Forgive my apostate brother, I beseech thee, O Lord! as thou hast forgiven me: and bless the heritage of thy people, and encourage them as the followers of the new faith are encouraged by their Jesus of Nazareth, to forgive their enemies, even though their enemies take the shape of a beloved friend or brother--to betray them--giving up their birth-right, like Esau for a mess of pottage.

A great commotion appeared on the house-tops, extending itself slowly far and wide.

Nevertheless, continued the Jew--nevertheless! oh Father and Judge, God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob! thy will and not mine be done!

The multitude began to surge this way and that, with exceeding violence. A cry of indignation arose from every side. A tumult followed--a general rush--the house-tops were suddenly deserted--the sea shore--and some began shouting, Away with him! away with him! and others, Let the blaspheming Jew perish without hope! and others, Crucify him! crucify him!

But in the midst of the uproar, one clear solitary cry was heard afar off, repeating a prayer to the God of the Hebrews--another cloud of white smoke rolled over the battlements--the flames appeared half way up the sky--a trumpet sounded underneath the very scaffold--the ancient war-cry of the Jews, _To your tents, O Israel!_ rung far and wide along the outer barrier--up sprang a multitude of small white banners, like affrighted birds, from the midst of the people--and the next moment, before they had recovered from their unspeakable consternation, the heavy horsemen charged upon them in a body, the great ship swung round with all her voices thundering together, and swept their pathway as with a whirlwind of fire, while they hurried hither and thither, crying To arms! to arms! The Jews! the Jews! and pointing toward the bridge, only to find the bridge itself destroyed and the opposite shore in possession of that other converted Jew--the stranger!--all in glittering steel arrayed, and carrying a banner on which the Lion of Judah was ramping in a field of carnage!

* * * * *

And when the Jew Adonijah, now more a Jew than ever, and more fully satisfied than ever, with the sublime, and awful, and unchangeable faith of his old Hebrew Fathers, came fully to himself, and the tumult was all over, he found three out of his four children of the house of Jacob, standing near him in their robes of state--another, and a stranger, harnessed for the war, his black eyes yet gleaming with the half-extinguished fire of battle, standing at the door of the chamber.

And why wouldst thou not pray for us, father? said one of the two that were standing by the bed-side.

Because ye were sick unto death; and I held it sinful to ask for that which had been refused to King David himself--I, that had forsaken the Lord God of my fathers--How could I hope that he would not forsake me!

But the christian prayed for us, Father, and the prayers of the christian were heard!

With what face could they, _being christians_, pray for the children of men that put their Savior to death? How could they, _being christians_, forget their scripture, which saith--_suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven!_

And as he spoke, the great doors were thrown open, and the armed man flung down his helmet, and walked forward with a solemn and haughty step leading a beautiful woman captive, and a young child.

A shriek!--a tumult!--and straightway all were kneeling together! And not one of that family of Jacob--that remnant of the tribe of Judah--not one was missing. They were determined to live and die in their old august unchangeable faith, even as all their progenitors had lived and died--enduring all things--suffering all things--trials and sorrows and temptations--age after age--and never betraying their faith, never!

But the unconquerable Jew acknowledged to himself, and to his brother, even there, as they fell upon his neck and wept, the _possibility_ of prayer being heard, the _possibility_ that the unchangeable God might be reached by supplication--and the _possibility_ that even a philosopher and a Jew might be mistaken.

But----

A WAR-SONG OF THE REVOLUTION.

By John Neal.

Men of the North! look up!
There's a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out;
Great shadows hurrying by:

Your strength--Where is it now?
Your quivers--Are they spent?
Your arrows in the rust of death,
Your fathers' bows unbent?

Men of the North! Awake!
Ye're called to from the Deep;
Trumpets in every breeze--
Yet there ye lie asleep:

A stir in every tree;
A shout from every wave;
A challenging on every side;
A moan from every grave:

A battle in the sky;
Ships thundering through the air--
Jehovah on the march--
Men of the North, to prayer!

Now, now--in all your strength;
There's that before your way,
Above, about you, and below,
Like armies in array:

Lift up your eyes, and see
The changes overhead;
Now hold your breath! and hear
The mustering of the dead.

See how the midnight air
With bright commotion burns,
Thronging with giant shape,
Banner and spear by turns--

The sea-fog driving in,
Solemnly and swift;
The Moon afraid--stars dropping out--
The very skies adrift:

The Everlasting GOD:
Our Father--Lord of Love--
With cherubim and seraphim
All gathering above--

Their stormy plumage lighted up
As forth to war they go;
The shadow of the Universe,
Upon our haughty foe!

MUSINGS ON MUSIC.

By James F. Otis.

And while I was musing, the fire burned.--_Holy Writ._

THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC.

Music is the wondrous breathing of God's spirit in our souls. As we view the "floor of heaven, thickly inlaid with patines of pure gold," we feel that

There's not the smallest orb which we behold,
But, in its motion, like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young eyed cherubim.

We feel it in the constitution of the air, which causes vibration--in the formation of man, possessed of the wonderful faculties enabling him to sing, to distinguish musical sounds, and to feel within his whole frame the effects of music. Man, indeed, is himself a wonderful musical instrument, made by the hand of God. He hears all nature hymning adoration and praises to its Maker--he feels the constant vibration of universal harmony around him--he is conscious that the emotions of gratitude he feels toward the Creator should be expressed, and that in the highest strains which the human mind can conceive, and the human voice can reach. Thus he calls in to his aid all those auxiliaries which nature and art afford, to supply him with associations tending to elevate the standard of his grateful expressions. Music is a sacred, a religious, a _holy_ thing. Applied to common purposes, it is pleasing and worthy of cultivation--but still it has a higher character when used for its original and more worthy purpose. The effect it produces in the former instance is to raise our _mirth_:--when used in its higher character, its effect is to produce _rapture_. It soothes when thus employed, as of old it did when David banished the evil spirit from the soul of Saul by the vibrations of his sweet-toned harp; it improves--as all good influences and pure associations ever must, when permitted their due action upon the mind; and it elevates the spirit toward the eternal source whence all its harmony flows. As it peals upon the ear, and sinks inly upon the heart of him whose mind is bent upon the thoughts of holy things--upon his creation, his present blessings and future hopes, he seems to hear

That undisturbed song of pure content,
Aye sung around the sapphire-colored throne,
To him that sits thereon--
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud, uplifted angel trumpets blow;
And the cherubic hosts, in thousand choirs,
Touch their celestial harps of golden wires.

* * * * *

HANDEL AND HAYDN. THE MESSIAH AND THE CREATION, A PARABLE.

Handel, with all his comparative simplicity, is my favorite. I cannot but look up to him with astonishment and veneration; his "Messiah," I behold as the purest specimen of sublimity ever displayed in the arts: and I can conceive of nothing in poetry with any pretension to be considered its parallel, but the "Paradise Lost" of Milton. The "Hallelujah Chorus" may be esteemed the loftiest work of the imagination. The leading conception is entirely inimitable. The full chorus of other masters is often bold and elevated; but it is only Handel who has the sublime of devotion. Haydn is triumphant and inspiring; but the effect of his chorus is only that of martial music. In listening to Haydn, you seem to hear the shouts of conquerors, proudly entering a vanquished city: in listening to Handel, the shouts seem to break from the clouds; from the triumphant host admitted to the presence of God; and the object of praise gives a character of holiness and purity to the harmony. With Haydn, we exult, we reason not why. With Handel, we can never for a moment forget that we are praising God. The rapid movements and quick transitions of Haydn draw the fullest admiration to the orchestra, and the subject is forgotten. The lighter passages in Handel are only the varied note of praise, expanding only in proportion to the inspiration which the object kindles. In one word,--every thing in Haydn is seen to be accomplished; and every delineation, if I may thus employ the word, is felt to be a resemblance. But in Handel, let what will be described or exhibited,--a battle,--a victory,--the trembling of the earth,--the tottering of a wall,--the moan of sympathy,--the insults and crucifixion of a Savior,--the awful stillness of death,--or, on the other hand, the triumph of the resurrection,--the birth of the Prince of Peace,--or hosannas to the King of Kings, and Lord of Lords,--every thing seems to be done at the command of God himself.

But I conceive it is not difficult to reconcile an admiration of both these great masters, in as much as their music presents such a variety only as every art admits. Claude Loraine was no rival of Raphael--yet we stand with one before a landscape, and with the other at the foot of the cross, with like, if not equal astonishment and admiration. The recitatives of Haydn are, with scarcely a single exception, less bold, but better finished,--less abrupt, and better calculated for the scope of the voice, than those of Handel; and are supported by a harmony more graceful, though not more striking and natural. Haydn, at all times, threw the fascination of melody over his richest modulations, and the whole effect of his harmony resulted from conspiring airs, each of which was melodious by itself. While, on the other hand, the separate parts in Handel were like single pillars from a temple, or single stones from a pyramid. If, in Handel, appear the beauty of consistency,--in Haydn we admire the consistency of beauty. If Handel's choruses and harmony might be compared, both in their formation and beauty, to mountains of ice, illuminated by the sun,--Haydn's harmony would seem to resemble the most splendid crystalizations--under the same illumination, in which one form of beauty has gradually encircled another, until the shape and beauty of the minutest part has become imparted to the larger proportions, and more commanding figure of the whole mass. It is impossible indeed, to find any thing in music,--placing his choruses out of view,--which can rival the sublime recitative of Handel,--"For behold darkness shall cover the earth,--but the Lord shall arise!"--Yet the opening of Haydn's "Creation," may deserve to be ranked second only to this, and as surpassing every other attempt of its author, in sublimity, and deep, solemn grandeur. The fall of the angels, in the first part of the same noble oratorio, is a wonderful effort, and presents the most remarkable instance in all Haydn's compositions, of the characteristic excellence which has just been ascribed to him, namely, his uniform regard to his melody, even where he designed to produce the boldest effect in his harmony. It is the most graphic musical description ever attempted; and it must have been produced in one of those moments of lofty enthusiasm in which a conception of surpassing grandeur flashes upon the mind, is grasped and embodied in an instant, and a man pauses in exultation and astonishment at what he has himself accomplished. This passage, however,--if it had no other excellence,--could never be forgotten, as it gives the most striking effect to the inimitable contrast which succeeds,--where the first impression of the beauty of the world at the moment of the creation is described with such tenderness and grace, that the most vulgar minds, as well as those whose taste has been in some degree refined, have felt every note, as it came from the forms of living things, exulting in their existence--or as if the author had borrowed the lyre of the morning stars, that sang the glories of the "new created world."--The celebrated chorus, "The Heavens are telling the glory of God," is unquestionably the boldest conception of Haydn. Its harmony has the most astonishing richness and variety, and the leading air is almost unexceptionably beautiful. Yet it may be called a chorus in theory only; for it requires the fullest choir of the finest voices and most refined tastes,--and no community of any country can furnish a hundred and fifty singers, capable of performing it, even with a tolerable degree of spirit, judgment and correctness. By this remark I mean merely, that the original conception of the author, and that with which every one who feels its true beauty and force is filled, upon studying, or hearing it,--can never be fully realized and carried out, and filled up, by the finest combination of human powers.

There have not been wanting writers upon the beautiful in music, who have denounced what they are pleased to call attempts at picturesque, in the "Creation" of Haydn. Their arguments proceed upon the trifling nature of the results produced by imitations, as unworthy the dignity of an art so refined. The feelings awakened by the gradual developement of the work of creation in this immortal work are certainly far superior in their nature to those imputed by such writers to the admirers of what they call depictive music;--and I cannot believe that these objectors can have listened to the oratorio they criticise, either with the physical or rational ear. Had they, we should have heard nothing like an imputation of an unsuccessful imitation of trifling originals. They would have seen no other use of the musical picturesque than perfectly consists with true descriptiveness of the subject celebrated. The Creation is a grand panorama; its object was to impress the hearer with the realities it commemorates. Its author was engaged two whole years upon it, and gave as a reason for his absorption in the task, that he meant it to last a great while. He has composed a work which addresses itself to the mind in such a manner, as to call up to the eye the landscape, as well as to the ear the sounds, and to the conception the animation and motion of the scenes described. Surely a beautiful thought, a fine description, an impassioned sentiment, impressed upon the mind and memory by a strong association with almost all the senses at once, are more likely to become inseparably entwined among the very fibres of the heart, than a cold, abstract description of the same subject, without the intervention of such associations. I should pity the man who could utter such a criticism, while listening to the performance, or even reading the score of this most splendid oratorio. From the commencement,--conveying the idea of primeval chaos,--through the gradual gathering of the earth and sea, and the things which each contains, into their several places,--the budding and blooming of the thousand flowers,--the cooing of the tender doves,--the trampling of the heavy beasts,--the flowing of the gentle rills,--the rolling of the mountain waves,--the bursting of light at the Creator's word,--angels praising God,--the noble work of man's creation,--the achievement of the whole,--up to the last grand and glorious chorus,--all is sublimity--all is divine! and the whole soul of the auditor is wrapt in sacred awe, as he follows the beneficent hand of his Maker in its wonderful work, and is lost in rapture and adoration, amid the blaze of glory by which he finds himself surrounded at the close.

* * * * *

SOME THOUGHTS ON OPERATIVE MUSIC.

There are those who institute a comparison between music and poetry, and much to the prejudice of the former. They argue that the intellect has nothing to do with music, and that it is ridiculous and absurd in those who speak no Italian, to pretend to derive any satisfaction from listening, for two hours, to music in a language they cannot understand--affecting, at the same time, to comprehend the sense to be conveyed, by the sounds they drink in with such assumed rapture. I conceive this to be far from just reasoning. Doubtless there is a great deal of affectation in the fashionable world upon the subject of music in general, and of the opera in particular; but we have no right to judge our neighbor's taste by our own--perhaps, after all, it may turn out that our own is defective or false. I am inclined to argue that the intellect has as much to do with music as with poetry.

In judging of pieces adapted to music, we should be lenient on the subject of the thoughts, if the design and story have variety enough to afford a basis for a corresponding variety of musical ideas. The most common expression of any passion may be tolerated, when the music, _not_ the poetry, is to form the embellishment. Who cares for the story--the plot--in listening to the Italian opera? Nay, more--are not the finest and most beautiful pieces of that class of music, vulgar and weak as poetical compositions? Is not the musical composer the genius of the piece? While the poet utters some such trash as 'I shall support myself by feasting on your beautiful eyes,' the composer so varies the expression of his music, that, in truth, the thought becomes refined, just as it would if the poet had undertaken to present it in a variety of views. To say, therefore, that the repetitions in music are nonsense, is just to profess a deplorable ignorance of the science. The words convey a sentiment which the musician undertakes to increase--to soften--to embellish, through a series of fine ideas, of which those who have neither musical taste nor ear have not the least conception.

Nor should it be supposed that, in the opera--in the fine pieces of Metastasio, for instance--the poetry is disgraced by being but the handmaid of music, and that the former is therefore reduced unduly in the scale of comparative merit. This is not the case with him who is an equal admirer of the two arts. Such as these will admit that it is but in a very small degree that music is designed to please a sense. They will insist that its design is to excite emotions that poetry, to the same extent, cannot awaken. What speech in the whole Iliad rouses more exulting courage than the 'Marsellois Hymn?' The music of 'Pleyel's German Hymn' not only of itself produces an effect to awaken a feeling of grief, but no words that I have ever read are capable of producing that feeling in an equal degree. Take for example, the lamentation of David for the loss of Absalom--and if that passage, and others like it, are enough to melt or break the heart, there is a kind of music, of which 'Pleyel's Hymn' is an example, that will affect it more deeply yet.

Words, considered as auxiliary to music, merely show the subject on which the emotion rests, but have nothing to do with the emotion itself; _that_ is produced by music alone--and long before any words are known to an air, the emotion will have been produced. We shall have imagined the subject--and when we come to know the words, we shall discover one of three things: first, that the subject is what we imagined--secondly, that it is something analogous to our perception--or, thirdly, if neither of the two former, that the words and air are ill-adapted to each other. Indeed, what do we mean by saying, 'these words are adapted to the air,' if the air have no character of its own? And what is its character but its peculiar power of awakening certain emotions? Admitting that it is better that fine poetry and fine harmony should be united, when possible--and that this union, of course, produces additional delight to a refined mind,--it still seems to me very absurd to condemn the pieces which are constructed upon ideas conveyed in poetry of an inferior class, _merely because such is the character of the poetry_. Music is the governor of the heart, and all she asks of Poetry is a subject,--and then, delightful magician! it is her province to call up, by her sweet spell, the corresponding emotions!

SIN ESTIMATED BY THE LIGHT OF HEAVEN.

By Edward Payson.

_Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in
the light of thy countenance._

It is a well known fact that the appearance of objects, and the ideas which we form of them, are very much affected by the situation in which they are placed with respect to us, and by the light in which they are seen. Objects seen at a distance, for example, appear much smaller than they really are. The same object, viewed through different mediums, will often exhibit very different appearances. A lighted candle, or a star, appears bright during the absence of the sun; but when that luminary returns, their brightness is eclipsed. Since the appearance of objects, and the ideas which we form of them, are thus affected by extraneous circumstances, it follows, that no two persons will form precisely the same ideas of any object, unless they view it in the same light, or are placed with respect to it in the same situation.

These remarks have a direct and important bearing upon our subject. No person can read the scriptures candidly and attentively, without perceiving that God and men differ, very widely, in the opinion which they entertain respecting almost every object. And in nothing do they differ more widely, than in the estimate they form of man's moral character, and of the malignity and desert of sin. Nothing can be more evident than the fact, that, in the sight of God, our sins are incomparably more numerous, aggravated and criminal, than they appear to us. He regards us as deserving of an endless punishment, while we scarcely perceive that we deserve any punishment at all. Now whence arises this difference? The remarks which have just been made will inform us. God and men view objects through a very different medium, and are placed, with respect to them, in a very different situation. God is present with every object; he views it as near and therefore sees its real magnitude. But many objects, especially those of a religious nature, are seen by us at a distance, and, of course, appear to us smaller than they really are. God sees every object in a perfectly clear light; but we see most objects dimly and indistinctly. In fine, God sees all objects just as they are; but we see them through a deceitful medium, which ignorance, prejudice and self-love place between them and us.

The Psalmist, addressing God, says, thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance, that is, our iniquities or open transgressions, and our secret sins, the sins of our hearts, are placed, as it were, full before God's face, immediately under his eye; and he sees them in the pure, clear, all-disclosing light of his own holiness and glory. Now if we would see our sins as they appear to him, that is, as they really are; if we would see their number, blackness and criminality, and the malignity and desert of every sin, we must place ourselves, as nearly as is possible, in his situation, and look at sin, as it were, through his eyes. We must place ourselves and our sins in the centre of that circle, which is irradiated by the light of his countenance; where all his infinite perfections are clearly displayed, where his awful majesty is seen, where his concentrated glories blaze, and burn, and dazzle, with insufferable brightness; and in order to this, we must, in thought, leave our dark and sinful world, where God is unseen and almost forgotten, and where, consequently, the evil of sinning against him cannot be fully perceived--and mount up to heaven, the peculiar habitation of his holiness and glory.

Let us, then, attempt this adventurous flight. Let us follow the path by which our blessed Savior ascended to heaven, and soar upward to the great capital of the universe; to the palace and the throne of its greater King. As we rise, the earth fades away from our view; now we leave worlds, and suns, and systems behind us. Now we reach the utmost limits of creation; now the last star disappears, and no ray of created light is seen. But a new light begins to dawn and brighten upon us. It is the light of heaven, which pours a flood of glory from its wide-open gates, spreading continual, meridian day, far and wide through the regions of ethereal space. Passing swiftly onward through this flood of day, the songs of heaven begin to burst upon your ears, and voices of celestial sweetness, yet loud as the sound of many waters and of mighty thunderings, are heard exclaiming, Hallelujah! for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth! Blessing, and glory, and honor, and power, be unto Him that sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb, forever. A moment more, and you have passed the gates--you are in the midst of the city--you are before the eternal throne--you are in the immediate presence of God, and all his glories are blazing around you like a consuming fire. Flesh and blood cannot support it; your bodies dissolve into their original dust; but your immortal souls remain, and stand naked spirits before the great Father of spirits. Nor, in losing their tenements of clay, have they lost their powers of perception. No; they are now all eye, all ear; nor can you close the eyelids of the soul, to shut out, for a moment, the dazzling, overpowering splendors which surround you, and which appear like light condensed; like glory which may be felt. You see indeed no form or shape; and yet your whole souls perceive with intuitive clearness and certainty, the immediate, awe-inspiring presence of Jehovah. You see no countenance; and yet you feel as if a countenance of awful majesty, in which all the perfections of divinity are shown forth, were beaming upon you wherever you turn. You see no eye; and yet a piercing, heart-searching eye, an eye of omniscient purity, every glance of which goes through your souls like a flash of lightning, seems to look upon you from every point of surrounding space. You feel as if enveloped in an atmosphere, or plunged in an ocean of existence, intelligence, perfection and glory; an ocean of which your laboring minds can take in only a drop; an ocean, the depth of which you cannot fathom, and the breadth of which you can never fully explore. But while you feel utterly unable to comprehend this infinite Being, your views of him, so far as they extend, are perfectly clear and distinct. You have the most vivid perceptions, the most deeply graven impressions, of an infinite, eternal, spotless mind; in which the image of all things, past, present and to come, are most harmoniously seen, arranged in the most perfect order, and defined with the nicest accuracy; of a mind, which wills with infinite ease, but whose volitions are attended by a power omnipotent and irresistible, and which sows worlds, suns and systems through the fields of space with far more facility, than the husbandman scatters his seed upon the earth; of a mind, whence have flowed all the streams, which ever watered any part of the universe with life, intelligence, holiness, or happiness, and which is still fully overflowing and inexhaustible. You perceive also, with equal clearness and certainty, that this infinite, eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, all-wise, all-creating mind is perfectly and essentially holy, a pure flame of holiness; and that, as such, he regards sin with unutterable, irreconcilable detestation and abhorrence. With a voice, which reverberates through the wide expanse of his dominions, you hear him saying, as the Sovereign and Legislator of the universe, Be ye holy; for I, the Lord your God, am holy. And you see his throne surrounded, you see heaven filled by those only, who perfectly obey this command. You see thousands of thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand of angels and archangels, pure, exalted, glorious intelligences, who reflect his perfect image, burn like flames of fire with zeal for his glory, and seem to be so many concentrations of wisdom, knowledge, holiness and love; a fit retinue for the thrice holy Lord of hosts, whose holiness and all-filling glory they unceasingly proclaim.

And now, if you are willing to see your sins in their true colors; if you would rightly estimate their number, magnitude and criminality, bring them into this hallowed place, where nothing is seen but the whiteness of unsullied purity, and the splendors of uncreated glory; where the sun itself would appear a dark spot, and there, in the midst of this circle of seraphic intelligences, with the infinite God pouring all the light of his countenance around you, review your lives, contemplate your offences, and see how they appear.

THE WAY OF THE SOUL.

By L. S. P.

There is a homely proverb which tells us that "the longest way round is the shortest way home." Whether the mathematical demonstration of so paradoxical an assertion would be easy or difficult I shall not undertake to decide. My concern is with its application to the spiritual; and with such a reference, are there not many in these hurrying days who would be benefited by a serious attention to it?

Do you doubt its truth? Reflect, and you will be convinced. Have you never groped darkly after a principle, of which you had some dim revelation, and which you strove with mightiest working to make your own? Still as you seemed about to seize it, it eluded your grasp; you were sure that it was there; but to lay hold of it was beyond your strength. You gave up the effort, turned your thoughts to a new channel, and busied yourself with other investigations--when lo! a revelation; and the truth you sought, burst upon you as a ray from the eternal splendor.

Or, perchance, you have been all the day perplexed and wearied with doubts, relating, it may be, to some point of practical moment to you, and seeming to demand a solution, which yet you are unable to give. You would fain come to an end, but you cannot even see an opening; only here and there an uncertain glimmer, which vanishes when you approach it more nearly. Your soul is faint and harassed; you go forth at sunset to commune with nature, and in her communion to forget your perplexities. You gaze on the calm glories of the departing sun, and the calm enters into your soul; the cooling breath of heaven comes to you, and you listen to the many voices, "the melodies of woods and winds and waters," that go up in one harmony to heaven. You behold, and listen, and love;--and with love comes light. Yes, a light, so pure, so soft, so mild, that it seems not of earth rests upon your soul, and your darkness, and doubts, and perplexity are gone.

Oh, never let it be forgotten that the road to truth is a winding road; it lies through the heart as well as through the intellect; for, says the wise man, "Into a malicious soul, wisdom shall not enter." Thou must learn to love, before thou canst learn to know; and never shalt thou behold the serene and beautiful countenance of Truth, until thy aim be honest, and thy soul in harmony with nature.

And are not _Nature's_ paths circuitous? It is man who has constructed the broad high road, and made for himself a straight way through forests and streams, levelling the mountains, and filling up the valleys--but it is not thus in nature. Her paths are wild, and devious, and rambling; following "the river's course, the valley's playful windings," and ever and anon turning aside to some sunny nook, or steep ravine. The rain which falls upon the earth travels not by a plain high road to the springs and fountains whither it is bound; but gently, slowly wins its way, drop by drop, till a little stream is formed, and the stream winds its noiseless and hidden track to the fountain.