and sculpture as in architecture. The eye being in these the medium of perception, rhythm, here, can only be conveyed to the mind by space; and as the eye is capable of surveying almost instantaneously a space of considerable extent, the perception of rhythm in the above arts is effected at one glance. The case is different in music, in which the ear alone is the medium of perception, and time alone the means by which it can be conveyed to the mind. In music, therefore, all that reaches the mind, comes to it in succession. The term, musical rhythm, consequently, is applied to such a succession of melodic parts, forming a whole, as bear among themselves a certain degree of order, symmetry, justness of proportion, a satisfactory keeping, or correspondence; in fact, it is an observance of regularity in repetition. As it is impossible to frame a good melody without rhythm, but very possible to have excellent rhythm for the ear without any melody, and as it is natural to suppose that rhythm existed and was practised in rude ages before any melody was thought of, we shall for the present leave the subject of melody, and proceed to the notice of musical rhythm. The observance of rhythm seems to be the offspring of an intellect superior to the mental powers of the brute creation; at least we are not aware of any animal that emits sounds bearing to each other any proportion or relation as to time. The chirping of the cricket, the ticking of the death-watch, the bellowing of the cow, can scarcely be urged as an exception. That animals are capable of feeling rhythm, we have often observed with some surprise. The horse, that canters round the ring at Astley's Amphitheatre, not only keeps perfect good time with the orchestra, whether it be or, but will change the time, if the musicians play a different tune. It is not difficult to conceive how the human mind, in its most barbarous state, may have caught and imitated the regular repetition of sounds or motion. The eventimed dropping of water, the beating of the pulse, perhaps, even animal sounds like the above, and various other phenomena of nature, may have furnished the first idea, which, once seized, was easily carried to farther improvement: the tempos may gradually have been varied, and rude instruments made, to enjoy the gratification of rhythmical beats in greater perfection. It is precisely in this state we find the music of every nation that has made some slender step in emerging from an absolute state of nature. The islanders in the Pacific Ocean, the North American Indians, the Caffres, the New Hollanders, enjoy and practise none but this sort of music, consisting, not of varied sounds, but of very diversified rhythm -in fact, of rhythm only. Rude wooden drums, rattles, bones, &c. are found to be the only musical instruments of all these people, wherever scattered over different parts of the globe. But it is not these rude and uncivilized nations alone that delight in mere rhythmical noise. Music of this kind has kept its footing with the most refined the effect of rhythm is sure, and has remained undiminished in all ages. What a powerful rhythmical agent is the drum! It electrifies even the musical connoisseur,-leads him by the cannon's mouth, into the next world. The castanets, the tambourine, &c. possess none but rhythmical attractions, yet they will probably never be discarded in any country. Rhythm facilitates many human labours. We march, as has been already observed, with cheerfulness, and with less fatigue, at the sound of the drum. The drum helps to weigh the anchor; the sailor has his rhythmical "Yo heave ho" to pull the ropes; and it is under similar regular ejaculations that every great mass is moved from place to place all over the countries of the East. The blacksmith hammers the iron, the apothecary pounds his drugs, the paviour rams the stones, the pork-butcher hacks the sausage-meat-all work in excellent and varied rhythm. In short, few human acts of motion are performed without a certain degree of rhythm or regularity. And why should man not derive pleasure from an observance of regularity in his actions, when he has before him the sublime example of nature; the fundamental law of which is order, regularity, proportion, symmetry, in the greatest things, as well as in matters apparently the most insignificant? The universality of this law is palpably obvious in every thing that comes within the reach of our senses; and it affords the most direct and unanswerable evidence of the existence of-call it what you please, since words emanating from human ideas must naturally be inadequate to express what is superhuman, and render it almost profane to designate in human language that which is beyond the reach of human understanding or conception. That this order is the result of a supreme intelligence, it is impossible to deny; for where order is found, a purpose must have existed; where there is a purpose, thought and reasoning must have been at work; and where order prevails in a supreme degree, the ordering principle must necessarily be presumed to be of supreme intelligence. The beautiful system of order in the motion of the heavenly bodies is more or less obvious to the most common understanding; order equally wonderful is perceptible in the structure and organization of all living beings, of every object of vegetable life: it is manifest in all the operations of nature. The greatest order prevails in the mode and means by which animals and vegetables carry on their existence, and in the manner in which they are made to reproduce and perpetuate their specics. To approach somewhat nearer the object more immediately in our view, let us for a moment consider the exterior form of all living beings, and we shall find that it presents invariably the most strict symmetry and proportion. Every part or member which is of the same kind, and more than one in number, is placed precisely in correspondence and symmetry with its companion or companions, while any part that is only single will be found exactly in the central line. Eyes, ears, arms, legs, fingers, toes, are the same on the left as on the right; the nose and mouth are central. It is this general symmetry in nature, no doubt, which has served to the human mind as an example for imitation, and has implanted in man a tendency and desire to observe order and symmetry on his part. This desire at least seems to be inherent in every mind well organized; and where it is not found, or we would rather say where it is absolutely wanting in an individual, we are justified in forming an unfavourable opinion of his character; but even in such a person the principle dwells in a passive state; he is not instrumental in producing order, although he feels more or less satisfaction in seeing it elsewhere. - The gratification which every well-disposed mind derives from the sight of local regularity and symmetry, is so obvious and general, that it scarcely needs illustration. A number of books thrown without order on a table, however common with literary men, is uncomfortable to behold; the same books, ranged in parcels of correspondent position, and especially in directions parallel with the sides of the table, will please the eye: delicious viands placed on a table at random and in disorder, will, even to many an epicure, appear less inviting than inferior dishes ranged in neat and appropriate symmetry. In architecture, above all, order, symmetry, and just proportion, form the primary law of the art, although in this country the law in question is probably doomed to more infractions than in any other: witness so many public and private buildings, in the unfinished state of which we miss a wing, or some essential part, or discover a preposterous addition or some strange incongruity. But as we may have farther occasion to resort to architecture in our enquiry into the principles of the Beautiful in music, we here refrain from farther reference to the former art. A few observations on rhythm in poetry will lead us straightway to musical rhythm, and illustrate many features of the latter. Both are nearly allied to, and in several respects dependent upon each other. In both, the terms metre, feet, accent, &c. are applied with nearly the same meaning. Without forming any pretensions to poetical talent, or even to the mechanism of poetry, we presume rhythm in poetry to consist in a correct metrical disposition of long or short syllables, and a just proportion and symmetry of successive verses (lines), the whole arranged according to some preconceived order. We farther venture to presume, that any infringement, in practice, upon metrical symmetry, is a rhythmical blemish, always more or less offensive to the orderly ear, which, when it has once seized the framework of the metrical construction, feels shocked in being obliged to depart from it, or to make accommodating allowances for syllabic intrusions or omissions, for forced and unnatural accent, heterogeneous lines, &c.—it is like riding a horse that changes pace every few yards. These transgressions, like those in architecture above referred to, seem to be more frequent in the works of English poets than' in the other nation: and what is more singular, they appear to poems of any be more common, we may say, almost universal, in the present decidedly poetical æra of British literature, than they ever were before. The liberalism of the age, seems to have affected even our bards. We have heard more than one musical composer utter bitter complaints against these latitudinarian principles in matters of rhythm, of which music is always a sure and severe test. After devising a proper rhythm for one line, the composer finds it will not fit its seeming companion; and when, by dint of cutting or stretching, like Procrustes, he at last gets the better of one stanza, he finds to his vexation that the music will not fit the next: various little alterations are necessary, sufficient however to render it requisite to write the music of the second, and perhaps the third stanzas, and to oblige the public to pay for the metrical peccadillos of the poet. SONGS OF THE CID. NO. 1. BY MRS. HEMANS. The Cid's Death-bed: a Ballud. It was an hour of grief and fear, When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, Where the Zambra's* notes were wont to rise It was an hour of fear and grief, On bright Valencia's shore, For Death was busy with her chief, The noble Campeador. The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, With sounds and signs of war, But the Cid was passing to his sleep, In the silent Alcazar. No moan was heard through the halls of state, No weeper's aspect seen; But by the couch Ximena sate, With pale, yet steadfast mien. Stillness was round the conqueror's bed, Warriors stood mournful nigh, And banners, o'er his glorious head, And feeble grew the mighty hand, And cold the valiant breast; -He had fought the battles of the land, And his hour was come to rest. What said the leader of the field? His voice is faint and low, The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield, Hath louder accents now. "Raise ye no cry, and let no moan Be made when I depart; The Moor must hear no dirge's tone, Be ye of dauntless heart! "Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet strain From your walls ring far and shrill'; And fear ye not, for the Saints of Spain Shall grant you victory still. "And gird my form with mail-array, So go ye forth on your funeral-way, "Go with the dead in the front of war, And march by the camp of King Bucar, * Zambra, a Moorish dance. "And let me slumber in the soil Now wave, ye stately banners, wave! Now wave, ye banners of many a fight, -The wind and the banners fall hush'd as night; Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, And swell out the trumpet's blast! THE FIRST OF APRIL, 8 A. M.-Looked out of bed-room window into Gracechurch-street, and called "Sweep" to a boy with a soot-bag. Saw him stop, look about him at the corner of White Hart-court, and then walk on. Halted him three times in the same way. Tried a fourth, and popped my head out at the wrong moment. Boy, in a great passion, threw a turnip, which broke me a half-crown pane, and woke my wife. Swore I knew nothing about it, and sneaked down to breakfast. 9 A. M. Went to table-drawer and slily pocketed three little lumps of alabaster. Returned and took my seat at breakfast-table, as if nothing had happened. Put alabaster at top of blue sugar-bason, and, to my great delight, saw Kitty put one into each of the children's cups. Children hammered and pushed and wondered sugar would not melt. Thought I should have died: three of my best silver teaspoons bent as crooked as rams' horns. Very demure when Mrs. Gander came down to breakfast. Never attack wife;-(harpooners have some reason for not meddling with a certain species of whale, as being too fierce.) So says Guthrie's Grammar. 10 A M.- -Went behind counter to serve. Asked Jack Mitten, my foreman, if any body had blacked his face. Jack answered, "Not to my knowledge," and went to looking glass. I replied, "Nor to mine either." Laughed very much, but Jack did not see much in it. Sam Snaffle, the driver of the Clapham, looked in to know what places were booked. Told him one inside, a lady, to take up at Seam's manufactory this side the Elephant. Saw him set off, one short, and thought I should have died. Took pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a letter as if from Dobbs the druggist to Lawyer Lynx, telling him to arrest Shuffle the shoemaker for 231. 10s. goods sold and delivered. Gave it to ticket-porter, and told him Lynx would pay the porterage. 11 A. M.-Went back into the shop to serve. Sold a white cotton night-cap to an exciseman, and told him it was the fellow to six * See the Spanish Ballad," Banderas antiquas, tristes, &c." |