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brave what is so opposite to his own soul. He is, indeed, too noble to resent or revenge, or look on the case other than as God may Luria-In my own Fast—if you would stoop to help
My barbarous illustration-it sounds ill,
Yet there's no wrong at bottom-rather praiso.
The first time, you would doubtless marvel at,
I am glad to have seen you, wondrous Florentines. And having scen them, and staked his heart entirely on the venture, he went through with them--and lost. He cannot sur. vive the shock of their treachery. He arranges all things nobly in their behalf, and dics, for he was of that mould, the “precious porcelain of human clay" which
“Breaks with the first fall,” but not without first exercising a redeeming power upon all the focs and traitors round him. His chivalric antagonist, Tiburzio, needed no conversion, for he is one of the noble race who
"joy to feel
A foeman worthy of their steel,” and are the best friends of such a foeman. But the shrowd, worldly spy, the supplanted rival, the woman who was guilty of that lowest baseness of wishing to make of a lover the tool of her purposes, all grow better by seeing the action of this noble orea.
ture under the crucifixion they have prepared for him ; especially the feelings of the rival, who learns from his remorse to under: stand genius and magnanimity, are admirably depicted. Such repentance always comes too late for the one injured; men kill him first, then grow. wiser and mourn; this dreadful and frequent tragedy is shown in Luriu's case with its full weight of dark sig. nisicance, spanned by the rainbow beauty that springs from the perception of truth and nobleness in the victim.
The second piece, “ A Soul's Tragedy,” is another of the deepest tragedies—a man fancying himself good because he was harsh, honourable because he was not sweet, truer than the lovely and loving naturcs, bccausc unskilled to use their winning ways. His self-deception is revealed to him by means the most original and admirably managed. Both these dramas are full of genius; both make the heart ache terribly. A text night well suit the cover-a text we must all of us learn ever more and more deeply to comprehend: "Let him who thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall."
We hope these eight numbers of “Bells and Pomegranates” will now bo reprinted here. They would make one volume of proper size to take into the woods and fields.
LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS;
HAYDN, MOZART, HANDEL, BACH, BEETHOVEN.
The lives of the musicians are imperfectly written for this obsious reason. The soul of the great musician can only be ex. pressed in music. This language is so much more ready, flexi. ble, full, and rapid than any other, that we can never expect the minds of those accustomed to its use to be expressed by act or word, with even that degree of adequacy, which we find in those of other men. They are accustomed to a higher_stimulus, a more fluent existence. We must read them in their works ; this, true of artists in every department, is especially so of the high-priests of sound.
Yet the eye, wnich has followed with rapture the light of the bird till it is quite vanished in the blue serene, reverts with pleasure to the nest, which it finds of materials and architecture, that, if wisely examined, correspond entirely with all previously im. agined of the songster's history and habits. The biography of the artist is a scanty gloss upon the grand text of his works, but we examine it with a deliberate tenderness, and could not spare. those half-effaced pencil marks of daily life.
In vain the healthy reactions of nature have so boldly in our own day challenged the love of greatness, and bid us turn from Boswellism to read the record of the village clerk. These obscure men, you say, have hearts also, busy lives, expanding souls. Study the simple annals of the poor, and you find there,
only restricted and stified by accident, Milton, Calderon, or Michel Angelo. Precisely for that, precisely because we might be such as these, if temperament and position had seconded the soul's behest, must we seck with cagerness this spectacle of the occa. sional manifestation of that degree of development which wo call hero, poct, artist, martyr. A sense of the depths of love and pity in “our obscure and private breasts” bids us deinand to see their sources burst up somewhere through the lava of circum. stance, and Peter Bell has no sooner felt bis first throb of peni. tence and piety, than he prepares to rcad the lives of the saints.
Of all those forms of life which in their greater achievement shadow forth what the accomplishment of our life in the ages must be, the artist's life is the fairest in this, that it weaves its web most soft and full, because of the material most at com. mand. Like the hero, the statesman, the martyr, the artist dif. fers from other men only in this, that the voice of the demon within the breast speaks louder, or is more early and steadily obcyed than by men in general. But colors, and marble, and paper scores are more easily found to use, and inore under com. mand, than the occasions of life or the wills of other men, so that we see in the poet's work, if not a higher sentiment, or a deeper meaning, a more frequent and more perfect fulfilment than in him who builds his temple from the world day by day, or makes a nation his canvass and his pallette.
It is also easier to us to get the scope of the artist's design and its growth as the area where we see it does not stretch vision be. yond its power. The Sybil of Michel Angelo indeed shares the growth of cevturies, as much as Luther's Reformation, but the first apparition of the one strikes both the senses and the soul, the other only the latter, so we look most easily and with liveli. est impression at the Sybil.
Add the benefits of rehearsal and repetition. The grand Napoleon draina could be acted but once, but Mozart's Don Gio
vanni presents to us the same thought seven times a week, if we wish to yield to it so many.
The artists 100 are the young children of our sickly manhood, or wearied out old age. On us life has pressed till the form is marred and bowed down, but their youth is immortal, invincible, to us the inexhaustible prophecy of a second birth. From the naive lispings of their uncalculating lives are heard anew the tones of that mystic song, we call Perfectibility, Perfection.
Artist biographics, scanty as they are, are always beautiful. 'The tedious cavil of the Teuton cannot degrade, nor the surley superlatives of the Italian wither them. If any fidelity be preserved in the record, it always casts new light on their works. The exuberance of Italian praise is the better extreme of the two, for the heart, with all its blunders, tells truth more easily than the head. The records before us of the great composers are by the patient and reverent Germans, the sensible, never to be duped Englishman, or the sprightly Frenchman; but a Vasari was needed also to cast a broader sunlight on the scene. All ar. tist lives are interesting. And those of the musicians, peculiarly so to-day, when Music is the living, growing art. Sculpture, Painting, Architecture are indeed not dead, but the life they ex. hibit is as the putting forth of young scions from an old root. The manifestation is hopeful rather than commanding. But mu. sic, after all the wonderful exploits of the last century, grows and towers yet. Beethoven towering far above our heads, still with colossal gesture points above. Music is pausing now to explain, arrange, or explore the treasures so rapidly accumulated ; but how great the genius thus employed, how vast the promise for the next revelation ! Beethoven seems to have chronicled all the sobs, the heart-heavings, and god-like Promethean thefts of the Earth-spirit. Mozart has called to the sister stars, as Handel and Hayda have told to other spheres what has been actually performed in this; surely they will answer through the next magician.
The thought of the law that supersedes all thoughts, which picrces us the moment we have gone for in any department of knowledge or creative genius, seizes and lists us from the ground in music, “ Werc but this known all would be accomplishod,”is sung to us ever in the triumphs of harinony. What the other arts indicate and philosophy infers, this all-enfolding language declares, nay publishes, and we lose all care for to-morrow or modern life in the truth averred of old, that all truth is com(prisedju musiaand mathcinatics...
By one pervading spirit
Ag sagos taught where faith was found to merit
WORDSWORTH. “Stanzas on the power of sound." A very slight knowledge of music makes it the best means of: interpretation. We meet our friend in a melody as in a glance of the eye, far beyond where words have strength to climb; we explain by the corresponding tone in an instrument that trail
in our admired picture, for which no sufficiently subtle
had yet been found. Botany had never touched our true knowledge of our favourite flower, but a symphony displays the same attitude and hues; the philosophic historian had failed to explain the motive of our favourite hero, but every bugle calls and every trumpet proclaims him. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear!
Of course we claim for music only a greater rapidity, full. ness, and, above all, delicacy of utterance. All is in each and each in all, so that the most barbarous stammering of the Hottentot indicates the secret of man, as clearly as the rudest zoophyte the perfection of organized being, or the first stop on the reed the harmonies of heaven. But music, by the ready medium, the stimulus and the upbearing elusticity it offers for the inspirations of thought, alone seems to present a living_form rather than a dead monument to the desires of Genius.'