ing him from the dedication to Earl Guilford, we learn he has travelled in the East, but so far as painting goes, and indeed every thing else,— sentiment, passion, feeling, incident -it is far, far behind Anastasius. On the day when the city of Messina was destroyed by an earthquake, the magistrates were assembled in the cathedral, one of the few edifices that had withstood the convulsion. The galley-slaves, it is said, were the objects of dread, but were all peaceably collected, and fast in fetters. The records of the tribunals being lost, it was proposed to release those who had been longest under punishment; the reason here given for this discharge being no reason at all;-if any meaning attaches to the circumstance, it would imply the impossibility of knowing who had been longest or shortest under punishment. One of the felons liberated turns out to be a very remarkable personage: "the smallness and neatness of his ears and hands, are the indications of a mind disposed to respect the feelings of others; but the glossy smoothness of his skin shows that he is a constitutional voluptuary!" He who would believe that this passage was written by the author of the Ayrshire Legatees, must have larger ears than Don Birbone,-for so the smooth-skinned galley-slave was named by his fellow prisoners, on account of his gentlemanly carriage. Why he was in fetters no one knew-not even the police officers, "for he was a convict before the last pestilence of which all their predecessors died." What with plagues and earthquakes, the public registers were liable, it seems, to be very imperfect. Our author, however, afterwards lets us into the secret: the special crime committed by Don Birbone, entitling him to the fetters, was saving a child from being devoured alive by a gentleman, his fellow passenger. We beg the reader to be assured that we are here simply following the ingenious recital of the author. At the liberation of the galleyslaves, we are introduced to the Baron Alcamo" a long-winded philosopher," and Francisco, the Baron's nephew, a young man 66 distinguished for a singular acuteness of tact," who "having no reservation in his expressions, was often excessively provoking." There was, says our author, "a thoughtful air about him that might have been mistaken for silliness," and his acuteness of tact was further shewn "in believing those things which correct philosophy denies." The "defect of his intellect" was "mysticism ;" and "the basis of his reflections, and the fulcrum of his feelings, was a persuasion that the whole frame of the world, with all the living inhabitants of the earth, constitute but one machine." This practical nephew, and his philosophical uncle, take interest in Don Birbone. "What are you fit for," inquired the philosopher. "Nothing, said the outcast:-the Baron's heart was melted, and he hung his head in sorrow." To the nephew of the acute tact, the galley-slave described himself as one doomed to perdition." In the next page the Baron Alcamo "bruises his thumb as he plied the knocker for admission" into his own house. A Count Corneli is dug out of the ruins of his palace by Don Birbone. The Count had married a sister of the Baron Alcamo, and accordingly, after his resurrection, sought refuge in the house of the philosopher. The nephew "was much struck with his wan and troubled countenance yet the man had just been dug up, an exercise which does not improve the complexion-" eyed him inquisitively, and said nothing." It appears that between Don Birbone, and the Count Corneli, there is a mysterious connection. The Don soon enters the Baron's apartment: "do not be afraid of him, my lord," said Francisco, the nephew,-because the Count thanked his disinterrer with warmth!-The indications in the Ayrshire Legatees are managed differently, and we think on the whole better! The language in which all this detail is conveyed, is as childishly extravagant, vague, and incorrect, as might be expected from the nature of the incidents: a cold character says the author "obtains the homage usually paid to virtue, by merely abstaining from doing as little wrong, as it is negative in good." This is downright nonsense. Don Birbone sits down at the Francisco, simply guided by his tact, takes upon himself to forbid Count Corneli his uncle's house, on the presumption of a connection between him and Don Birbone: to the latter he says" whatever may have been the crimes and errors of your past life, be assured that they have given you no warrant to obtrude your infamy into this house." Our author has a most extraordinary manner of turning his phrases,-very different from that of people in general. Who else would ever have thought of telling a man that his guilt did not warrant him to obtrude his infamy! Baron Alcamo's table, without intro- It appears that Don Birbone is the duction, or any excuse whatever: real Count Corneli: the person who here he regards Francisco's pretty has assumed the name and title is sister, with an expression that sa- one Castagnello, the son of an Italian voured more of the galley-slave than opera singer, and an English lord. the gentleman: "Francisco shud- The Count in early life had taken a dered, and wished his sister at Je- dislike to his wife:-" our inclinarico!" But soon the young man tions are not in our own power," as a "began to feel the latent energy of high authority says. He had a son, his own powers, and said beware! however, by her, and "the pleawith the frown and sternness of an sure he experienced in looking at his avenger." This is not at all like the child, was as a glimpse of the clear Ayrshire Legatees. blue sky, seen through the rolling darkness and gloomy fires which accompany the eruptions of Mount Etna!"-Very like a whale, indeed. The Count immured his wife in a convent only he forgot to say she should be detained there. She ac cordingly soon left it, and naturally fell into the hands of robbers; the chief of whom was Castagnello. The Count falls into their hands at the same moment. Castagnello sees the whole case, without any explanation. The husband and wife depart each their own road. The band of robbers is broken up; and Castagnello, an adventurer, meets with the legitimate son of his father, Lord Wildwaste-a name of itself sufficient to prove that the author of the Earthquake is not the author of the Ayrshire legatees. Much rant and nonsense take place between them, Castagnello's evil star predominates; and his brother leaves him an outcast and wanderer. Events take him to Florence; where he finds the Irish family of Kenelsmore, the eldest daughter of which Lord Wildwaste, who has got to Florence before him, marries, and the youngest, who is disgustingly and weakly described by the author, Count Corneli, who has also taken Florence in his way, seduces, and destroys. Castagnello thus enlarges his experience of the Count's good qualities; and thus acquires a mastery over him by which he compels him to cede the title and possessions of Corneli for seven years; so that Castagnello becomes the Count, and the Count goes about his business on an allow At last we have an overt act, proving that the Count and the Don are indeed old acquaintances. As a finishing specimen of style and manner, we give the following passagewhich, we think, will render it unnecessary to trouble our readers with more in the way of proof of the imposition which the title-page of these volumes attempts to practise on the public. The Don seizes the Count in the Baron's dining-room : "Come, wretched man, come !" and he dragged him from the room with the energy of a demon. The Count made no resistance. His teeth chattered; his face became of a gangrene yellow hue; his eye-balls distended and glassy, and his arms and limbs lost all power of action. His appearance was indeed so livid and hideous, and the image of it remained so clammy in the recollection of the spectators, that it was some time before they were sensible he had been actually withdrawn from their sight! This clamminess of an image in the recollection, will constitute a sticking place to readers, we think. Few, we apprehend, will have the courage to venture forward in the slough. The book, however, really mends. In the second volume it is a good deal better: in the third it becomes again almost as silly as in the first. ance. The latter gets into scrapes and jails. More than the seven years have passed: nothing has been heard of the real Count by Castagnello, who, at last, ventures to Messina, trusting that the people of the town will have forgotten the features of him whose substitute he is, during his long absence, and that he will be taken for the nobleman. Things are in this state when the earthquake happens, and Don Birbone the galleyslave turns out to be Count Corneli. Soon after the recovery of his title, the Count murders his son, and is hanged, and Castagnello retires to Mount Caucasus, and becomes one of the fathers of the propaganda. The author in conclusion informs the reader that the "moral of his tale is not susceptible of being explained with facility in words."-So, without more words, we take our leave of the Earthquake, which certainly well justifies its title-for the shocks it inflicts are severe and numerous-that is to say if the reader have either sense or taste to be assailed. MELMOTH THE WANDERER. BY THE AUTHOR OF BERTRAM, &c.* We have this extraordinary and striking novel, of which we might say much, now before us the time evening; the scene our study, the lamp well-trimmed, and the fire comfortable. A quire of long paper, and a bundle of mended-pens, tempt us with the look of preparation :-Nothing to interrupt us between this and two hours past midnight-up to which time we know we can count on our eye-lids retaining their rigidity. It is a work worth writing about it is not like The Earthquake: there is power in it,-terrible, offensive power-it is full of enormous faults; and contains no absolute beauties;-yet it rivets at tention, absorbs interest-in short, it is one of the very best possible subjects for criticism. It is just such a subject as we want for a good article and a good article we shall certainly write upon it but as the devil's in it-(we mean in the novel; he is the chief agent) we cannot do it now: it would take six pages, and our remaining space will scarcely suffice-(so says a note just received from the printing-office) for articles that must appear "to keep up the symmetry of the Number-."-The symmetry of the Number! there is no resisting that phrase. There are papers just before which we would willingly take out,—but that would be losing time, says the printer: and the printer is despotic in the Magazine. The editor is only his prime minister; the publishers his secretaries of state. Melmoth, however, shall be reviewed. REPORT OF MUSIC. sorption in sensations so luxurious and enchanting, as to forbid all possibility of return to the nobler impulses that distinguish the heroic ages. Mr. Doyle's compositions, though they, in a degree, meet the desiderata of the time, are yet more free than most of the modern ballads, from the characteristics which betray whilst they allure: and it is amongst the particular recommendations of his publications, that while they are simple, effective, and sufficiently in the modern style, to satisfy fashionable expectancy, they have yet in them nothing that good taste would particularly revolt against, * Four Vols. Edinburgh, 1820. A ballad, to be truly popular, and thence to be taken as reflecting the national character, must be of a kind to catch the ear, and to move the heart; to sink into the memory, and to live by tradition. It must, of course, seize the topics of the times in which it is written, and must image the feelings that are the most prevalent, or the actions in which the genius of the people most earnestly engages. It affords a curious commentary upon these observations, and one which is apparently at variance with the hypothesis, that the songs of something more than a century ago, most in estimation, were many of them mad songs, such as the Mad Tom, and Mad Bess, From Rosy Bowers, and Let the Dreadful Engines of Eternal Will, of Purcell. This peculiarity, however, appears only to present a modification of the desire of intense feeling which we now witness, extending itself towards allegory, or personification. The art of concentrated expression was not then so well understood as now, and it was thought necessary, previously to qualify extraordinary vehemence of sentiment, by investing it with the character of insanity. Force, however, was the principal agent: what in modern language is called elegance was almost totally unknown; and the music was rendered effective by accent, by harmony, and by divisions, all of which are in the modern ballad applied by graceful melody, and by the charms of glittering accompaniment. But the grand difference between the poetry of such compositions up to the middle of last century, and those at present (and from the words the notes took their colouring) is in the expression of the passion of love. In the first instance, it appeared to be the object of the poet or the lover to purify his thoughts from every grosser passion, and to chasten his approaches from every sign of sensuality that could offend the almost impersonal delicacy of the deity at whose shrine he worshipped. In a word, the poets of that age sought to keep down sense, by exalting sentiment to its natural place of prerogative and dignity, and thus to give lawful supremacy to the intellectual faculties over mere sensuality. With these specimens of art, which had their origin and their circulation amongst the higher classes, was connected another species of ballad, which applied itself to the sports, to the incidents, or to the grander national predilections of the remaining orders of society. Among these, were hunting songs, and sea songs, together with the various love episodes that arose out of the latter, and made up a singular combination of sentiment and description. The Storm, and Black Eyed Susan, Stand to your Guns, and Sweet Poll of Plymouth, were bold and beautiful picturings, equalled perhaps, but scarcely surpassed, by any of the writings of Dibdin, who came next in succession, the most fertile, ingenious, picturesque, and sensitive of all our song writers. He wrote, indeed, too multifariously for his fame, and attenuated the striking merit of his thoughts, by beating out and expanding them over so vast a surface. But he led and governed the convivial feelings, and the lighter moments of the great bulk of his countrymen, during a very long period, neglected or forgotten as his productions now seem to be. The songs of Arne and Jackson, which, just before his day, had their range amongst the more scientific class of singers, and which found their place principally in the chambers of Dilletanti, are as completely lost. We now and then hear one or two of the best; but as to popularity, they are no more. Of the present school of "ballad mongers," Mr. Moore, (to whom Mr. Doyle's work is inscribed) is the parent, and he has with irresistible success, contrived to reverse the construction of 50 years ago, and to convey to the impulses of sense, the supremacy so long awarded to sentiment. Yet he blends them both so intimately, and softens away all that used to terrify or disgust with such art, that were it not for the flushing cheek, and the burning glow, without which it is hardly possible for youth to read his compositions, the change might at first escape detection. He mingles tender feelings and reflection with the warmest passions; and the solution is so perfect, that it is almost impossible to detect the dangerous agents, disguised as they are, but not reduced by the other ingredients. The principal evil of these composi tions, is to be found in the idea that necessarily enters with them, viz. that love of variety is not only very universal, but very agreeable, and exceedingly pardonable; that upon the whole, it is fated to the lover to change, and that for the deserted fair one to love again, and be again undone," is the natural resource against vacuity and ennui. The musical structure of the modern ballad demands, that the melody be flowing and generally simple, that the accompaniment should (commonly) be showy, and such as to conceal defects; while it supports the powers of the singer, it should allow of those licenses, the pause, acceleration, or restoration, tempo rubato, strong emphasis and striking contrasts, with due allowances for the introduction of spontaneous ornaments, the flowers that spring up to deck and diversify the general level verdure. To these the grander requisites should be added, that the song ought not to embrace more than a compass of nine or ten notes, and the recipe is complete. With the greater and the better part of these postulata, Mr. Doyle has complied. There is, however, more simplicity and strength than is generally to be found in such publications, with less of glare and show. His melodies are set off by few or none of the ornaments of accompaniment, and there is an indication of manner about them, which obviously proceeds from his yet immature acquaintance with the art of writing. But his songs have received the stamp of approbation from Dillettanti of a high class, and in some of the most polite assemblies of the metropolis they have been heard with delight, as the long list of subscribers for whom they have been principally printed, establishes. They come, therefore, to the public with all the powerful recommendation of a fashionable imprimatur, no less than by their intrinsic merit. The tenth number of Dramatic Airs, is by Mr. Wilson; its theme, the sestetto in the Haunted Tower "By mutual love delighted." There is in this composition a strong manifestation of power, and we should almost be tempted to say a waste of power, so little pains has the author taken to avail himself of his subject. Mr. Clementi's number of the Operatic Series, now in the course of publication, presents a model in this species of composition. The art with which he has continually combined detached parts of his theme (Batti, Batti) keeping the whole in view from the commencement to the close, is admirable. Mr. Wilson, on the contrary, introduces portions of his theme at more distant intervals, and but for an inconsiderable space. He aims, perhaps, too much at diversity; by which construction the charm of the air is often hidden, and the chain of interest more broken than befits a lesson of this kind. Nevertheless, there is contrivance and a command of various materials, but they are wrought too much into the shape of cadenza. The composition would thus seem to want air, and might weary attention, were it not redeemed by the rapidity, variety, and spirit of the successions. Toujours Toujours, an air with variations for the harp, by Dizi, loses the sentimentality of the instrument in the search after execution. The whole is too loose and straggling to be very impressive, besides that it adheres too much to the same forms. Yes my Love Yes, a ballad by the same composer, is an answer (we presume), to No my Love No. At a moment when we have such august example for considering the difficulty of "commanding our inclinations" to be insuperable, it is an extremely generous enterprise to endeavour to illustrate the constancy and forbearance of our (the male) sex, and to place us upon an equal footing with the trusting fidelity of our more sensitive and delicate idols. If Mr. Kiallmark could republish his song, and obtain permission to dedicate it to royalty at this parti cular moment, he might do a material service. Your affections could ne'er be so fickle and rearing, To treat him with scorn you so lately |