of the bag of my memory, if I may use that phrase, what has previously been collected into it in the way I have mentioned. For this reason the committing to paper is done quickly enough; for everything is, as I said before, already finished, and it rarely differs on paper from what it was in my imagination. At this occupation I can, therefore, suffer myself to be disturbed; for whatever may be going on around me, I write, and even talk, but only of fowls and geese, or of Gretel or Bärbel, or some such matters. But why my productions take from my hand that particular form and style that makes them Mozartish, and different from the works of other composers, is, probably, owing to the same cause which renders my nose so or so large, so aquiline, or, in short, makes it Mozart's, and different from those of other people. For I really do not study or aim at any originality; I should, in fact, not be able to describe in what mine consists, though I think it quite natural that persons who have really an individual appearance of their own, are also differently organized from others, both externally and internally. At least I know that I have constituted myself neither the one way nor the other. "May this suffice, and never, my best friend, never again trouble me with such subjects. I also beg you will not believe that I break off for any other reason, but because I have nothing further to say on that point. To others I should not have answered; but have thought, mutschi, butschi, quittle, etche, molape, newing.”1 1 "Such language as this was, certainly never heard but by Panurge, in the Island of Lanterns," says Holms (Life, p. 318). If not invented at the moment, may we not have here a reminiscence of nursery-lore, where nonsense words, in connection with games are of frequent occurrence? Such a singularly interesting glimpse into the workings of a great mind-although the individual experience of every composer may be somewhat different-fairly exhausts, we believe, all that can be said on the main features of the subject. The subject matter fixed, the musician chooses that key, time, and rhythm which he feels to be most in accordance with the spirit of his theme, and best adapted for its expression, consistent with execution, the capabilities of different instruments, &c. The magic effect of time and rhythm on the character of music is very manifest, any sudden change acting electrically on the nerves. So with a change from the major to the minor mode. Some maintain that each key has its own inherent absolute qualities, and, possibly, such subtle analogies and delicate shades of difference may exist; for everything connected with music, both as a science and an art, that can in any way add power to expression, is perceived and laid under contribution by the great musician. The great variety of circumstances under which certain keys are employed, would tend to show that, however this may be, far more depends on the relative modulation of the notes within a given scale, whatever be the key which is adopted. Without unreservedly subscribing to the following passage from the Quarterly Review, all must admire its fine discrimination, masterly clearness, and great beauty of expression; "A whole Bridgewater treatise might have been not unworthily devoted to the wonderful varieties of keys alone, and their Providential adaptation, as we may say without presumption, to the various moods of humanity. A composer is now helped so far forward on his road; the ground-colour is ready laid which is to pervade his whole work. It is for him to choose between the daylight of a major-key, and the soft twilight, or murky gloom of the minor; to feel whether he wants the earnest, honest, grand matter-of-fact of the natural key, or the happy, fearless, youthful brightness of the key of G, or the soft luxuriant complaint, yet loving its sorrow, of A flat. He knows whether he requires the character of triumphant praise given by two sharps, as in the Hallelujah Chorus, by Handel, or the Sanctus and Hosanna of Mozart's Requiem; or the wild demoniacal defiance of C minor, as in the Allegro of the Freischutz overture; or the enthusiastic gladness of four sharps, as in the song of Di Piacer; or the heart-chilling horror of G minor, as in Schubert's Erl King, and all the Erl kings that we have known. He knows what he is to choose for, anxious fears, or lover's entreaties, or songs of liberty, or dead marches, or any occasion, in short, which lies within the province of music-though exceptions to these rules must occur to every amateur, in which the intense feeling of the composer seems to triumph over the natural expression of the key. That most solemn of all human compositions, the Dead March in "Saul," is not only in the full common chord of the natural key, but modulates through the lively keys of C and D-a magnificent device for implying the depth of the sorrow by the triumphant strength of the consolation. The Andante to the Freischutz Overture, too, has a deep shade of melancholy over it, which we could hardly have supposed reconcileable with the natural key it is in. "A change of key is the most powerful engine in the hands of a musician: it is the lifting of a curtain or the overshadowing of a cloud; it is the coolness of a deep forest after the heat of the plain; it is the sudden hurling from the throne to the dungeon; it is the hope of life after the sentence of death. Every modulation is a surprise, a warning, a tantalizing to the heart. We cannot bear the, monotony of one key long, even the most joyful. 'Prithee weep, May Lilian; Gaiety without eclipse We long for 'a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse.' Nor can we bear perpetual modulation; every mind instinctively feels this when, after following a restless recitative from key to key, touching many but resting in none, till the ear seems to have lost all compass and rudder, the full dominant and tonic chord comes gratefully to the rescue, and leads us slowly and majestically into safe harbour." MUSICAL EXECUTION. Though we thus trace ideas as they are variously developed from the first suggestion till they stand written out in full score, it yet remains that a musical composition be performed in order that we may hear it—and much of the effect is dependent on execution. Execution itself depends-first, on power and musical taste to perceive and appreciate the spirit and intention of the master whose works are being read; and then on a perfect rendering and pronunciation of these. Perfect command of muscle, and skill requisite to master such mechanical difficulties as may arise in the management of the voice or of instruments, can only be acquired by much diligent and patient labour. When hearing a skilful performer, people seldom consider the great amount of sunk capital, in time and practice, which such proficiency indicates. Haydn was frequently eighteen hours a-day at his pianoforte, even when at the height of his fame; Porpora kept Caffarelli five years at one sheet of exercises, and made him the first singer in the world. Sad to think that they who thus confer on the composer, as it were, an ever-renewed life, who for the time become gifted media between the silent score and the listening heart, should pass away, leaving behind them traces so few and so slight; that the marvellous playing of the greatest masters themselves, and of men, such as Hummel, whose pianoforte improvisions were even finer than anything they have written, should be so evanescent; that the sweetness, smoothness, graceful finish, and exquisite expression of Corelli's performances on the violin-he who, when people talked whilst he was playing, would lay down his instrument, and with quiet humour apologize for having interrupted the conversation; the marvels wrought by Paganini, "the wizard of the bow;" or the deep feeling, energy, calm melancholy grace, fertile imagination, and odd fancies, original rhythms and progressive harmonies of Chopin on the pianoforte, should only survive in memory for a time, and then only in words! Farinelli, Mara, Billington, Catalani, Pisaroni, and Pasta, who "sang so sweetly and so well," are now only of the past: Braham is no more; and Carolan's harp is silent. Who has not listened with delight, to the brilliant touch of a Thalberg or |