child, and, springing forward, caught Morton's extended hand, and leaped with him into the boat. His example was followed by a few others. Morton waved his hand, and directing me to wrap his cloak around the young seaman's wife and her babe, sat himself at the helm. The tide ran rapidly off the shore, and the little crew must soon have reached their destination, had not the swell, driven back by the wind, offered a strong and dangerous impediment. With anxiety scarcely less intense than that of the poor creature who, with her babe, stood trembling beside me, and would have fallen but for the support of my arm, I marked the slow and uncertain progress of the devoted party. Rocked on the eddying surf, their little bark seemed the sport of every idle blast.

"She is safe," I exclaimed, observing she had reached the bow of the stranded vessel. At this moment a tremendous swell broke over her-the boat disappeared: the shrieks of her crew, if they nttered any, were lost in the roaring tempest." He is gone!" screamed the young female at my side, and, with a convulsive shudder, she sank senseless on the beach. I could not raise her, but remained rooted powerless to the spot. A minute after, the skiff again appeared dancing on the waves. "Recover yourself, sir," cried Morton's domestic," my master and two of the sailors have regained the boat, and are under the bow of the wreck."

I could only ejaculate my thanks to Heaven, as, rousing from my stupor, I beheld the skiff under the vessel's side, and the passengers descending into her. Nobly freighted, the skiff cleared the wreck, and with difficulty reached the strand in safety. The multitude rushed into the water, and the fainting forms of several females were borne triumphantly up the beach.

Overcome by his exertions, Morton had fallen insensible in his attempts to climb the side of the wreck; and in that state was conveyed to the shore-nor was the condition of his surviving companions far otherwise. William Halliday was assisted from the boat, and sank motionless into the arms of his youthful and affectionate partner. Placing my exhausted friend and his companions in danger in Morton's chaise, which had opportunely been driven to the spot, I ordered them, together with the passengers, to be conducted home, and dispatched the boat a second time to the wreck. The preventive boats from the neighbouring stations now arrived, and by the humane exertions of these brave fellows, the whole of the passengers and crew, with the most valuable of the stores of the vessel, which proved to be a homeward-bound East Indiaman, were in somewhat more than an hour safe on land. Scarcely had the last boat left her, when a

sea broke over the wreck, and with a crash which reached even to the shore, she yielded to the storm, and shivered into a thousand pieces.

Never did a conqueror survey with feelings of such triumphant pride his train of captives, as those with which I looked around on the multitude of fellow-creatures thus snatched from the jaws of destruction. Having quartered the seamen at the only inn in the village, I conducted the remainder of the passengers, with the captain and superior officers, to Morton's residence. I found him recovered from his fatigue, and giving orders for refreshments for his unusually numerous company. On the following morning the passengers were conducted in a pilot boat, dispatched for the purpose, to Portsmouth, whence they immediately departed for London. One party, however, remained; Sir John and Lady Fitz Albyn, with their lovely daughters, could not so soon quit their old friend and gallant preserver. They were the first to be received into the boat in which Morton and the surviving seamen had, after the loss of their two ill-fated companions, succeeded in reaching the wreck. At the end of two days, Sir John, having business of importance to transact, set off with his family for London. It will not be doubted that Morton readily accepted the baronet's pressing invitation to town; nor, perhaps, will my readers feel surprise, when I inform them that not many months had elapsed, ere my attendance was requested at the union of Henry Morton and Julia Fitz Albyn.

The first journey of the new married pair was to the scene of their former dangers. It was a delightful spring morning when a gay cavalcade entered the little village of Chale. The country people, in their holiday attire, were assembled to greet their visitors, the bells of the rustic church rang their merriest peal, and every face brightened with the honest smiles of respectful affection. As the party alighted at Mr. Morton's cottage, a new and well constructed yacht bore gallantly into the bay, and dispatched her boat on shore. In a few minutes Sir John and Lady Fitz Albyn, with Mr. and Mrs. Morton, and several friends, proceeded, amid the blessings of the delighted peasantry, to the shore. In a moment the hands of Morton were respectfully grasped by the captain and mates of the yacht, in whom the shipwrecked party recognized William Halliday and his two gallant comrades, to whose exertions they had been indebted for their preservation.

Will my fishing smack live?". playfully inquired Morton. The well known words, once employed on a very different occasion, operated like electricity on William and his associates-the old

smack was hauled to the beach, and in her the party, with Morton at the helm, were rowed rapidly to the yacht. Henry owned his happiness complete, as he assisted his lovely bride on board, and departed amid the cheers of the multitude that thronged the shore, on a short aquatic excursion. CHARLES M.

THE DESERTED HAUNT.

"And still the green is bright with flow'ra;
And dancing thro' the sunny hours,
Like blossoms from enchanted bow'rs,

On a sudden wafted by,
Obedient to the changeful air,
And proudly feeling they are fair,
Glide bird and butterfly :

But where is the tiny hunter-rout,
That revell'd on with dance and shout,

Against their airy prey!"—Wilson.

Too lonely for the bright blue skies this silent Eden seems:
Are there no feet to trace its woods, no lips to bless its streams?
Must its violets wither in the shade, and the wreath be still unbound ?—
It was not thus when fairy steps fell lightly on this ground.

And is the minstrel cuckoo left, his festal lay to swell,

When clouds, with crimson beauty flush'd, are hung o'er yonder dell?—
Must bees within the sweet flow'rs sleep, or sunbeams touch the rose,
Without one gentle heart to breathe a charm o'er their repose?
Where have they fled-the merry groups-with all their glee and mirth,
That summer wak'd amid the vines, and round the cottage-hearth?
Oh, are their golden ringlets giv'n unto some other wind,
Or do they in a distant land as bright an Eden find?—
If it be thus, thou Solitude, in dreams they haunt thee still,
And see the stars of midnight shine upon their native rill;
And tho' they are estrang'd from thee, a spirit like the dove
O'er them extends its spotless wings of innocence and love.
We have heard their mellow voices thrill melodious thro' the air,
We have seen them on the gleaming turf unite in evening pray't,
They have roam'd across the sun-lit fields when the holy curfew sung,
And the sky-lark from his mossy nest into the ether sprung.

But the gleaming turf, the sun-lit fields, are lonely now and mute;-
They are gone-the playful bands that sooth'd our sadness like a lute!-
We may search amid the hills, thou Haunt, or look beyond the sea,—
But never, never shall their songs be wafted back to thee!
Ob, broken is the tender chain, the fount hath gush'd away,
Which was the music of the heart before it knew decay;
In vain do widow'd feelings pine for mirth and beauty fled,

Or fondly hope to welcome home-the distant and the dead!
Go, gaze upon the sculptur'd stone, and the daisied turf beneath;
Go, think of bow'rs that shine beyond the phantom-land of death;
And by the heav'n that o'er ye beams as lovely as the sea,
Albeit the Haunt is hush'd, it shall impart its peace to ye!
REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

THE HISTORY OF MUSIC.

A SCIENCE, the cultivation of which adds so many graces to the female mind, is now happily pretty generally understood: the guitar is found in every lady's boudoir, and the piano-forte is an appropriate piece of furniture in every parlour and drawingThe history of an art so delightful cannot fail to interest the readers of "The Ladies Museum," and I promise them neither to be very tedious or unnecessarily scientific.

room.

The Greek music was somewhat complicated. The author of the "Young Anacharsis" transcribes a passage, from a Greek musician, which seems to make it probable, that the Greeks found it very difficult to sing in the enharmonic scale: at present it is considered a great difficulty. Few voices can rise or fall, without some intermediate gradation, to the quarter tone of a distant note. One of the most scientific musicians in England told me, that he thought it doubtful whether any performer could sound, at once distinctly and rapidly, two consecutive tetrachords in the enharmonic scale.

But, however great the difficulty was, the Greeks subdued it, as the quarter note regularly occurs in their scale. This it is extremely difficult to comprehend; and it has been found impossible to adapt a frequency of quarter tones for any practical purpose. The work in which the Greek system of music appears to he best explained, is a paper of Sir George Shuckburgh, (No. 441), in the "Philosophical Transactions." But, without intense study, it is impossible to comprehend it. A few months before he died, Doctor Burney mentioned to me, that "he himself never understood the Greek music, or found any one that did."

The Romans adopted from the Greeks the diatonic scale; and, partially at least, the chromatic scale: but they rejected altogether the enharmonic scale; and many of the subdivisions of the two other scales.

All modern music is in the diatonic scale, with the occasional admixture of the chromatic semi-tone, and the enharmonic quarter tone; the last, however, is very seldom introduced, One is naturally led to suppose, that the Grecian music admitted a similar admixture; but it seems to be agreed, that their airs were either altogether in the diatonic, the chromatic, or the enharmonic scale. To every modern ear, this must appear impossible.

The general imperfection of keyed instruments has made some professors think that persons, whose singing it is intended to carry to the utmost perfection of which it is susceptible, should

be taught by a violin, and not by a forte piano. Mara, it is said, was instructed in this manner. It is to be observed, that the only keyed instrument which expresses a quarter tone is the davichord, an instrument scarcely known in this country; but frequently found on the tables of foreign professors, and in the cells of nuns. They are very portable, and do not disturb the inmates of the adjoining apartments.

Few things show more than the gammut how greatly art enters into combinations, apparently natural. Most persons, who have not attentively considered the subject, suppose that the gammut consists of sounds naturally of the power, and naturally rising and falling in the order, in which they now stand; so that a child, as soon as his voice is formed, would, of himself, and without the least tuition, sing the gammut both in the ascending and descending series, and make the lowest note of the octave, or what is the same, the lowest note of the tetrachord, if he sung in the descending series, and the highest of either, if he sung in the ascending series, its ultimate or final note. But, to form the gaminut, great mathematical research and many experiments were necessary. It was not till the ninth century, that the hexachord was raised to a septenary, and it was not till the seventeenth that the seventh note received an appropriate name. The former was preceded by the discovery of notation and of the staff

or stave.

It has been observed that the Romans rejected entirely the enharmonic scale, and many of the Grecian subdivisions of the diatonic and chromatic scales. This reduced their notation, comparatively speaking, to a very small number of notes. They are supposed to have been limited to fifteen. Pope Gregory the Great reduced them to the seven first letters of the alphabet. The sounds in the gravest or lowest octave, he expressed by the capital letters, A. B. C. D. E. F. G.: the sounds in the octave, next above it, he expressed by the minuscules, a. b. c. d. e. fg.; the sounds in the octave above this, he expressed by double minuscules, aa. bb. cc. dd. ee. ff. gg.

The letters of Pope Gregory were afterwards abandoned for notes or points.

The Flemish school of music occupies, in point of time, an intermediate æra between the music of the middle ages and modern music. The wars between the Guelphs and Ghibellins, and the irruptions of the French into Italy, drove many musicians of distinction into the low countries. At this time, these were in the height of their prosperity. The wealth and splendour of