LITERARY CRITICISM. Select and Rare Scottish Melodies. The Poetry by the celebrated Ettrick Shepherd; the Symphonies and Accompaniments composed, and the whole adapted and arranged, by Henry R. Bishop. London. Goulding and D'Almaine. We love all music that has heart and soul in it, from the most ear-stunning catch ever trolled in village alehouse, to the gentlest gentlest notes of dulcet melody that ever melted on the lip of beauty; from the solitary violin, that, on a winter evening, "startles the dull ear of night," to that glorious combination of choral sounds, which, on Christmas-day, fills, even in this city, the chapel of the good Catholic, floats over the illuminated altar, and carries away the mind of the worshipper to the very gates of Heaven. We have travelled miles to hear a single song, and to hear it once again, we would cross seas and overcome mountains; and yet, perchance, there are many who could listen to it without emotion. It is not to be denied, that more than one half of the pleasure derived from music depends upon association. An ear, with a more than usually delicate organization, discovers a peculiar fitness in a certain succession and modulation of notes; and if scientific knowledge be added to this natural advantage, the pleasure is increased by a perception of the difficulties which have been overcome, and as the composition proceeds, the amateur experiences an intellectual enjoyment somewhat akin to that of the mathematician who solves a succession of problems. But this enjoyment has as little to do with association as pure mathematics itself, and cannot be said to be the legitimate or true source from which delight in music springs. Music appeals to the heart, more than to the head; touches, as with a fairy wand, the stores which memory has hoarded in her cells, and, like the dew and the sunlight of morning, recalls to beauty and to freshness flowers that drooped as though they had exhaled all their odours, or had perhaps been trodden under foot, crushed and withering. Associations may either be general or particular; but, in proportion as the latter preponderate, and personal considerations are brought into action, in proportion will be the intensity of the feelings they excite. Of all sorts of music, that of Songs is most effective; it is most adapted to ordinary capacities, and, by wedding verse to melody, obtains an ascendency, not only over individuals, but over whole nations, an ascendency that has excited the attention of legislators and philosophers. Till very lately, Scotland used always to be considered as conspicuously eminent for her stock of national melodies; and even those who were disposed to dispute the refinement of Scottish taste, were always willing to allow the excellence of Scottish song. We have observed, with regret, that some slight alteration in these sentiments has, within the last few years, been PRICE 10d. "Unscienti gradually working its way in the public mind. Fashion, that capricious butterfly, has been taking under the patronage of her golden wings a newer style; and the unadorned simplicity, the wild pathos, and the mountain vigour of those airs, which delighted our fathers and solaced our own childhood, have been pronounced unscientific, rude, -coarse, coarse, - -vulgar. vulgar. Strong Strong words; but, as epithets of blame, unjust and powerless. fic" our songs may be, but so, we presume, are the songs of the blackbird and skylark, -at least we never heard that they took lessons either from Catalani or Finlay Dun. Unscientific! so are all the glorious harmonies of nature, all the music of animate and inanimate creation, every note of woe, -every sound of bliss! Unscientific indeed! We are talking of music's influence over the heart; nor are we talking with disrespect of science, for we are among the most scientific musicians in Edinburgh; but what has science to do with the songs of a people of a whole country? Science may have a great deal to do with the carefully-scribbled sheets that lie before a German or an Italian composer, intent only upon his breves and his semibreves, his sharps and his flats, his crotchets and his quavers, his octaves and his bars, his majors and his minors; or it may have a great deal to do with the gentleman in white kid gloves, silk stockings and shoes, who trips into the concert-room, and looks round with a glance that makes the fiddlers tren.ble. But what has it to do with the glen and the hillside, the cot, the village, and the town, where live the descendants of the men who fought at Bannockburn, and pulled down the Roman idol? "Let that pass!" "Their music is, moreover, rude, and coarse, and vulgar." Have the kindness to desire the lady and gentleman who thus describe it to walk in. Did you ever see, in all your life, two such miserablelooking Cockneys? Only listen to that yelp and jabber which they call speaking. The female wears a pink scarf, a faded white satin bonnet, and of feathers, that have been evidently much bedaggled. In a shrill treble, she can sing you two or three things by Moore, and can lash a piano-forte into foam, without ever stopping to take breath. The male carries a flute in his coat-pocket, and can, besides, sing seconds to all known tunes, although, it must be confessed, that his bass would have a chance of being a litbeing tle more sonorous were his habits a little less dissipated. Well, these creatures pronounce the Scottish music" vulgar." We should like much to hear a good definition of vulgarity. a tawdry plume If every man who wears a white neckcloth be a gentleman, we give up the point; for all your modern London composers, whether of the words or the airs, know how to tie a white neckcloth round the necks of their songs. But unless it be used to conceal the scar of some family taint in the blood, we pay no more respect to a white neckcloth than we do to a worsted "comforter." Perhaps Scotland is vulgar altogether; perhaps its ancient Doric, which all its Stuart kings spoke for cen. turies, is vulgar; perhaps its struggles for liberty and religion were vulgar; - perhaps its very scenery is vulgar, its lochs and mountains, its Glencoes and its Grampians. And certainly, if fashion limit herself to her wax candles and silk dresses, her esprit de milles fleurs and her French quadrilles, all these things of which we have just spoken are vulgar. Burns is vulgar, Allan Ramsay is vulgar, Nature is vulgar,-everything is vulgar, with the exception of a few artificial, diseased, rotten, and sorely-dressed puppets, who congregate in drawing-rooms, for the express purpose, one would think, of countenancing the deterioration of the human species. Doubly dear art thou to us, James Hogg, "Ettrick Shepherd," "Forest Minstrel," and "Mountain Bard," -doubly dear art thou to us, when the Southron affects to sneer at the music of our own romantic land, and when even the child of Coila seems to rule with a feebler sway the bosoms of his countrymen. We need a harp and a heart like thine, with the virtue, and the courage, and the strength, to resist the weak insipidity of an emasculated age. We admire Moore, we love the melodies of green Erin; Bishop composes beautifully, and so does Rossini; many of Thomas Bayly's songs are pretty, and prettily have they been set to music by Barnett and others, and very prettily have they been sung by ten hundred interesting young ladies, and no less interesting young gentlemen; but there was a time when songs were not mere pieces of prettiness, when they had that ," - when they stirred the within " which passeth show, deep fountains of the human heart, when they mingled with the character and the dispositions, even as the light of morning mingles with the purple cloud. There was a time, too, when "cauld Caledonia" had her own songs, which she loved above all the songs of the earth, and when her youths and maidens but rarely lilted the strains that issue from the shops of London music-sellers. We had rather see that time again; even although the march of musical improvement were to stop, and those simpler days be restored when the eye of patriotism and affection kindled at every wild melody that breathed of home. The Ettrick Shepherd has already done much to pro. tect the rights of that Muse whom he worships; he has stood by her tottering throne, and driven back rebellion from its very foot. Moore himself, with his bland whisper, and soft, insinuating smile, wishing to effect by stratagem what others were not able to do by force, our Shepherd has detected, and with one blast of the good bagpipe a noble and a potent weapon, at which the weak nerves of Cockneys shudder has blown the wily knave from the presence. We reverence the bagpipe. Cockneys have heard it within four walls, or in narrow lanes, and the sounds ran through them like long needles. But we are a mountain race, and we must have mountain music, music that can buffet the blast, and can be heard mellowed on the far peak, or down in the deep ravine. Byron reverenced the bagpipe, - Bonaparte reverenced it, and trembled. Well did he know " the war-notes of Lochiel," -fearfully did he augur the fortune of the coming fight, "When wild and shrill the Camerons' gathering rose. " The comparison may sound somewhat ludicrous; but a poet like Burns or Hogg is the intellectual bagpipe of the land. Many of his notes are harsh, some of them, perhaps, dull as the drone itself; but let the day and the hour come, and they will rush upon the heart with a power no tongue may tell. Youth-father-landfriends early love-sufferings that have strengthened -hopes that have cheered-kindnesses that could be repaid only with the silent and gushing tears of gratitude -unite in the momentary vision, and there is not an aspiration that seems too lofty for the mind to soar to,not a deed that seems too daring for the hand to do. Long may the Ettrick Shepherd worship the Muse as he has already worshipped her! She is one whom every Scotsman, worthy of the name, must love. She is not fashionable, perhaps, that is to say, she does not wear a pink scarf, a faded white satin bonnet, and a tawdry plume of feathers; but she is one of whom he who walked behind his plough " in glory and in joy" has said, "A hair-brain'd sentimental trace Shone full upon her; True; Hogg has written a good deal of mediocre stuff,and it is the prerogative of genius to do so with impunity. Shakespeare has written a great deal of stuff; and Milton's " Paradise Regained" is, for the most part, watery enough. Does this make the Shepherd's "Kilmeny" less exquisite, or dozens of his finer songs less beautiful? We commune, therefore, no longer with the mongrels we have been exposing, but proceed at once to say a few words of the work before us. "Select and Rare Scottish Melodies," with the words by the Ettrick Shepherd, and accompaniments by Bishop, could hardly fail to possess many features of interest, both musical and literary. Accordingly, we find, in the first place, that great judgment has been shown in the choice of the airs, of which there are thirteen. With only one or two exceptions they are all strongly marked, and highly characteristic of the country to which they belong; whilst, at the same time, they are not too common-place or familiar, nor, so far as we know, have they before been made popular as songs, by having words set to them of that nature which rendered competition hopeless. In the next place, the Ettrick Shepherd has seldom been happier than he has been in his composititons for this work. The opening song, it is true, "Mary, canst thou leave me?"does not please us so much, for, though simple and appropriate, it is, on the whole, too common-place, and very slightly indicative of that originality which so peculiarly belongs to its author. In the second, however, the Shepherd is himself. The best proof of this will be to give the words verbatim, merely premising that they are set to that fine old air, "I'll gang nae mair to yon toun" O WHAT WILL A' THE LADS DO? O what will a' the lads do, A waefu' wight is he; The young laird o' the Langshaw And that is mair in maiden's praise The laverock frae the sky; The next is in a different strain, but we think scarcely which, however, we verily believe, is surpassed by the inferior. Here it is THERE'S NAE LADDIE COMING. There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean, O Jeanie, dear Jeanie, when we twa were young, Sae wae was my young heart to see my Jean weep, The fourth song, " I downa laugh, I downa sing," we abstain from quoting, only because we intend quoting one or two others. The fifth and sixth, "Ye breezes that spring in some land unknown," and "The Souters o' Selkirk," are good; but we like the seventh still better, which is an excellent specimen both of the Shepherd's quiet humour and sound morality. It is called The eighth is entitled "An Arabian Song;" but we like our author best when he keeps on the north side of the Tweed; the air, composed by Bishop, is simple and beautiful, but strikes us as being a little out of place. "Come, row the boat" is a Highland air, and the words, as they should be, are gallant and warlike. The tenth song, "Appie M'Gie," is admirable, and only equalled by the eleventh, "The broom sae green," twelfth, "Gang to the brakens wi' me." We have heard the Shepherd sing this song himself, and though he has nearly as little voice as ever man had, he has an excellent ear, and a warm heart, and a soul sparkling in his bright grey eye, and these, together with the best lungs in Yarrow, carry everything before them, and secure one of the most rapturous encores that ever issued from the palms of the hands. Nevertheless, we must reserve the only space we have left for the thirteenth song, in which the words and the air are so admirably adapted to each other, that we are certain a single verse, if sung by a Scotch regiment on the eve of an engagement, would make that regiment more than a match for the whole army of the enemy. If Sir William Congreve is knighted and pensioned for inventing a new sort of rocket, what ought Hogg not to be for supplying his countrymen with strains, which, in the day of battle, would be more dreaded than a thousand rockets ? No man could ever be defeated who had taught his native mountains to echo THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS. There's news come over the Highlands yestreen, Shine over the shore in the morning. And join our lov'd Prince in the morning. Come, brave Lochiel, the honour be thine, Then who dare remain in the morning! Glengarry will stand, with arm of steel, To welcome their Prince in the morning. The Appin will come, while coming is good; The whiggers of Sutherland scorning. The Atholmen keen as fire from steel; To join his lov'd Prince in the morning. Come a' that are true men, steel to the bane! To see our array in the morning. These select and rare Scottish Melodies ought to be found among the music of every true Scottish family, and ought to be sung continually by all our " fair women and brave men." There is the freshness of the country about them; - the wild luxuriance of the land "Where blooms the red heather and thistle sae green." Foreign Tales and Traditions, chiefly selected from the A VERY striking peculiarity of German literature is the immense proportion which its works of fiction bear to its other departments. This, probably, arises from the vast multitude of traditions and legends with which every corner of Germany, as is the case with most countries abounding in the picturesque, -is crowded, especially along the majestic course of the Rhine, and among the terrific scenery of the Harz Mountains. To the awakening genius of Germany, determined to deviate from the old and worn-out classical models, these wild legends, which were the only other materials of literature, out of itself, that were within its power, seem to have suggested that general tone of romance, and that passion for fictitious writing, which is so conspicuous in German literature. And it is not to be denied, that, in consequence of this, there belongs, in general, to the German romance, an air of freshness, and native vigour, which is wanting in those literatures in which this spe cies of composition is more of an exotic. We can believe more easily in marvels and prodigies beside the Rhine than on the Thames or the Seine, and feel as if their combination there with human agency were less unnatural than elsewhere. And as the power of attraction in fictitious literature is always in proportion to our sense of its appropriateness and naturalness, we do not wonder that_if romance we must have-German romance, of all others, should have been so popularly attractive, independently of the intrinsic merit of the works, or the actual genius of their authors. But we are speculating too much on a theme more general than the character of the work which is waiting for our opinion, and the object of which is to afford entertainment, and not to give occasion to theory. With the exception of a brief, but elegantly written Preface, it is unencumbered by any antiquarian annotations, any critical or chronological arrangement, by which editors sometimes attempt, preposterously, to give a seemingly grave and scientific form to what, in reality, they mean to be a book of mere amusement. Considered in this light, we esteem the "Tales and Traditions" a work entitled to be, and likely to prove, very popular. They are chiefly selected from less known and trodden walks of German fiction, the editor having avoided the greater works of celebrated authors, and having sought his materials chiefly in fugitive and traditional literature. Out of these materials he has composed a melange, distinguished, in our opinion, not only for the individual merit of the various pieces, but for the judicious combination of the whole, the entertaining mixture of pure fiction and popular tradition, and the grateful succession of the comic, the marvellous, and the pathetic, which it presents. The translation is executed, on the whole, with great felicity, and great command of conversational English, though we observe here and there a few Scotticisms; and though we could desire that most of our translators from the German, those at least who translate for the public amusement. would allow themselves a little more liberty in deviating from literal exactness in the rendering of foreign idioms and phrases. It is, of course, impossible for us to give specimens sufficient, in number and variety, to afford a just representation of a collection, one of whose principal merits is its entirely miscellaneous character. We shall gratify our readers with one specimen of the striking and beautiful traditions with which the work abounds, one which appears to have been finished with particular care in the original, and rendered with peculiar elegance in the translation. It is entitled THE THREE SWANS. ar, there is a lofty mountain, on the top of which appears one of those small but unfathomable lakes which are so frequently found in such situations in Germany. Popular superstition has connected the following pleasing legend with the lake of Wimpfen : "A beautiful boy was once seated upon the shores of the lake, wreathing a coronal for himself out of the lovely flowers which grew upon its banks. He was quite alone, and ever and anon he raised his blue eyes, and gazed with childish longing across the glittering waters for a little boat in which to sail about over the tranquil expanse; but the boy beheld nothing like a boat save a single plank of wood, which moved to and fro on the tiny waves as they rippled towards the shore, and which, though it might have afforded a slight support in swimming, could not carry him to the other side of the lake. "The boy raised his longing looks once more, and was astonished to perceive three snow-white swans sailing proudly up and down in the middle of the lake. At last the stately birds approached where the boy lay, who, delighted with his new companions, drew some crumbs of bread from his pocket and fed them; they seemed to him so tame, they looked so gentle, and came so near to the shore, that the delighted boy thought to catch one of them; but when he stooped down with this design, they moved gently away, and remained beyond his reach, although, in his anxiety, he nearly suspended his whole body above the deep lake, on the lowermost branch of a young poplar, which grew upon the bank. "The tamer the three beautiful birds appeared to the boy, and the oftener that they baffled his attempts to catch them, the more eager he became to secure them for himself. He drew the plank from the water, -launched it again, balanced himself with caution upon it, and, finding it supported him, pushed off with a shout of delight from the shore, and, making use of his hands as oars, rowed fearlessly after the swans. "The beautiful birds kept sailing immediately before him, but ever beyond his reach, until he had gained the middle of the lake. He now felt his strength exhausted, and for the first time became seized with excessive terror, when he beheld nothing near or around him but the glittering waters. Meanwhile the three swans kept sailing around him in contracting circles, as if they wished to calm his rising alarms; but the gallant boy, when he beheld them so near to him, forgot his danger, and hastily stretched out his hand to grasp the nearest, when, alas! his unsteady raft yielded to the impulse, and down he sank into the deep blue waters! "When the boy recovered from a long trance, he found himself lying upon a couch, in a magnificent castle, and before him stood three maidens of marvellous beauty. "How came you hither?' inquired one of them, taking him by the hand with a sweet smile. ""I know not what has happened to me,' replied the boy. only remember that I once wished to catch three beautiful swans which were sailing upon the lake, and that I sank in the deep deep waters." ""Will you stay with us?" asked one of the maidens. Here you are most welcome; but this know, that if you remain three days with us, you can never again re turn to your father's house; for, after that period, you would no longer be able to breathe the air of the world above, and you would therefore die." "The kindness of the three beautiful maidens, who looked like sisters, moved the boy, and inspired his guileless breast with confidence. Yes,' he exclaimed, leaping up joyfully from his couch, yes, I will re main with you!" "The lovely sisters now led the wondering boy through their magnificent fairy palace. The splendour of the apartments dazzled his astonished senses. Nursed in poverty, and accustomed only to the simple furniture of "Nigh to Wimpfen, a town situated upon the Neck- his father's cot, he was now overwhelmed by the magnificence which surrounded him; the walls and floors of every room were curiously inlaid with gold and silver; there were pearls as large as walnuts, and diamonds the size of eggs, and red gold in bars, and such a profusion of wealth and of objects of inconceivable beauty as the peasant's son had never dreamt of, even when he lay on the banks of the lake, and gazed upwards on the deep blue heavens towards the dwellings of the angels. In the gardens which surrounded this enchanted palace grew fruits and flowers lovelier far than he had ever beheld; the apples were as large as a child's head, and the plums the size of ostrich eggs, and the cherries like billiard balls, and the flowers of marvellously varied forms and beauty; sweet birds filled the air with their merry warblings, the little streamlets seemed to murmur music as they meandered through the emerald meads, and the zephyrs which played amid his hyacinthine locks, were more odorous than those of Araby, or the Spicy islands of the East. "The boy had often read of Paradise, and now he thought: This is surely Paradise; and I am happy here!" " Weeks and months passed thus away, and still the youthful stranger remained unconscious of their flight; for a perpetual succession of new objects occupied his attention; and while roaming beneath the orange-trees with their golden fruit, he never thought of the broad oak which stretched its sheltering arms above his father's hut. "But at last, when nearly a whole year was gone, the mortal inhabitant of this enchanted region was suddenly seized with an irrepressible longing to return to his native village. Nothing pleased him now, nothing any longer gratified his boyish fancy, the flowers had lost their beauty to his pensive eye, the melody of the streams, and the songs of the birds fell tuneless on his listless ear, the sky above him appeared far less beautiful than that on whose reflected hues he had so often gazed as he lay on the banks of the deep lake,-but when he thought of the words of the beautiful maidens, who had assured him that return to the light of another world was impossible after the third day's sojourning in this enchanted region, he hid his secret sorrow in his inmost soul, and only gave vent to his grief when he thought the thick shades of the garden concealed him from observation. Much he strove, when the three kind sisters approached him, to appear happy and cheerful as formerly, but he could not conceal the grief which was preying within; and when they kindly inquired what ailed him, he tried to account for his altered appearance and demeanour by various excuses and pretences of bad health. "One day as he lay in the light of the setting sun, upon the green banks of a limpid stream, though all nature around him appeared charming, rich, and luxurious, and the air was filled with fragrance, and the birds sang their evening-song, and on the meadow before him were some cheerful labourers, singing cheerfully while at work, he felt that all this beauty and melody wanted something without which they could minister no happiness to his longing soul. His father's hut suddenly rose in lively colours before his fancy; he saw his beloved mother weeping bitterly at the door, and he knew that it was for him she wept; and he beheld all his longforgotten companions with their familiar faces standing around his mother, and heard them calling his name aloud as if in sorrow: and then the poor boy sobbed aloud and wept bitterly with his face hid in the tall grass. As he lay in this posture he heard a clear voice singing in the distance, and as he listened the sounds waxed more audible, and seemed to float nearer him through the still air. Again they died away in the distance, and again they approached towards him, until he distinctly heard the following words sung apparently by different and separated voices: FIRST VOICE. The home of my childhood, how brightly it shines Still green is its valley, still green are its vines. SECOND VOICE. Oh the home of my childhood was wild and rude Its rocks and dells and streamlets are, THIRD VOICE. Far, far away, in the twilight grey, My spirit loves to roam, To one sweet spot, oh ne'er forgot! My childhood's home. FOURTH VOICE. The eagle lent me his wing of pride, "When the fourth voice had died softly away in the distance, the boy-whose young heart now heaved till it was like to burst with wild and uncontrollable longings to return to his father's home-heard the rush of heavy wings passing near him, and looking up he beheld a beautiful snow-white eagle, with a golden crown upon its head, and a collar of rubies, alight near to him on the meadow. The noble bird looked with a friendly eye upon him, and he heard another voice singing faintly and far off, these words: The eagle is a bird of truth, And his wing is swift and strong. "The boy, moved by a strong and momentary impulse, sprung to his feet and ran towards the noble bird, which bent its crowned head and stretched out its long wings as if to salute him on his approach; but he now discovered that the eagle's strong talons were fixed in a swan, which lay beneath him, and which he knew to be one of those which he had seen swimming on the lake near Wimpfen. Then the manly boy seized a branch of a tree, and with it drove away the cruel eagle from the swan. No sooner had he performed this grateful action, than he suddenly beheld the three lovely sisters from whom he had just been longing to make his escape, standing before him, and smiling so sweetly and mildly upon him, that he felt ashamed of his wish to leave them secretly, and hung down his head blushing deeply. "Then one of them spoke: 'We know thy thoughts, dear youth, and what it is that moves thee so deeply. And though we are sorry to part with thee, yet as thou hast proved thyself so faithful towards us, thy secret desire shall be granted, and to-morrow thou shalt behold thy father, and mother, and brethren, and sisters.' "The poor boy stood mute before his kind benefactresses; he wept because he was about to part with them, and he also wept when he thought how long he had tarried away from his home; all night he tossed about on a restless couch, unable to resolve on departing, and equally unable to reject the offer which had been made to him by his kind and lovely friends. At last sleep sank down on his weary eyelids, and when he awoke the following morning, he found himself lying on the shore of the well-known lake. He looked upon the waters and beheld the three swans sailing at a little distance from him; but when he stretched his hands towards them, as if to say that he wished again to join them, they beckoned in a friendly manner to him, and then diving beneath the surface, re-appeared not again. |