Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 54, No. 338, December 1843. Various

come to the finale; with occasionally a psalm crooned by worthy sexagenarians, guiltless alike of ear and voice, but who, seeming to think it a duty to add their mite to the inexpressible dissonance, perform the same to the unmixed dismay of all their hearers.

      We would far rather hear an unpretending street organ than such abominations; and, indeed, some of the itinerant music is, to our unsophisticated ears, sweet beyond expression, especially when accompanied, as it is sometimes, by a rich Italian or reedy German voice; for whose sake we can forgive the tuneless squalls that too often greet our ears from ambulatory minstrels, be they of the Madonna, or fishy, Dutch-swamp style of beauty. A sweet-toned street organ, heard in the distance, when all around is still, is not a thing to be despised, by those who have music enough in their souls to respond to the slightest touches of Apollo's lyre. If the heart be but attuned to harmony, it will vibrate to the simplest notes, faint though they be, as by the wafting of the evening breeze among the chords of a neglected harp, sadly hung upon the willows; it will cherish the feeblest idea, and nurture it into perfect melody. As love begets love, so does harmony beget its kind in the heart of him who can strike the keynote of nature, and listen to the wild and solemn sounds that swell from her mysterious treasure-house, and echo among her "eternal hills," while the celestial arch concludes and re-affirms the wondrous cadence. But these are secrets revealed to none but her loving worshipper; he who, with a reverential homage, seeks the hidden recesses of her temple, to bend in awe before her purest shrine. From him who lingers heedlessly in her antechamber with faint loyalty, they are deeply veiled, and the glowing revelations of her favoured ones seem but as the recital of a dream to his cold heart: for "to love is to know."

      But surely of all instruments, the violin, first-rately played, is the most—yes, we will say it—heavenly. Hark! to the clear, vocal melody, now rapturously rising in one soul-exalting strain, anon melting away in the saddest, tenderest lament, as though the soft summer breeze sighed forth a requiem over the dying graces of its favourite flower; then bursting forth in haughty, triumphant notes, swept in gusts from the impassioned strings, as though instinct with life, and glowing with disdain. Any one may see that painters are no musicians, else had they furnished their angels not with harps—beautiful and sparkling as the sea-foam, as are their most graceful chords—but with this, of all instruments the most musical, whose tones admit of more variety than any, (the Proteus organ alone excepted,) and whose delicious long-drawn notes must entrance every one not absolutely soulless. Oh, they are excruciatingly delightful! And yet you shall hear this identical violin, in the hands of an everyday performer, emit such squeals and screams as shall set your teeth on edge for a twelvemonth, curdle your whole frame, and make you vehemently anathematize all benevolent institutions for the relief of deafness.

      Verily your violin is an exclusive instrument, and approachable by none but the eldest born of Apollo, who, in all the majesty of hereditary prerogative, calmly sway the dominions of their sire; while usurpers (as is the meed of all who grasp unrighteous rule) are plunged in utter confusion and ruin.

      Warming with our theme, and impatient to manifest our royal descent, in a paroxysm of enthusiasm we clutch our Cremona, clasp him lovingly to our shoulder, and high waving in air our magical bow, which is to us a sceptre, bring it down with a crash, exulting in the immortal harmony about to gush, like a mountain torrent, from the teeming strings; when lo! to our unmitigated disgust, it glides noiselessly along its hitherto resounding path, for—ye gods and little fishes!—some murderous wretch, at the instigation of we know not what evil sprite, has greased the horsehair, for which we solemnly devote him to the "bowstring," the first time he is caught napping.

      Well, it is over now, and we find ourselves once more on earth, after knocking our head gainst the stars; and, —— —— bless us! we have sat the fire out, having precisely one inch of candle left to go to bed by.

      Good night, dearest reader. Can you find your way in the dark?

M. J.

      THE PURPLE CLOAK; OR, THE RETURN OF SYLOSON TO SAMOS

      HEROD. III. 139

I

      The king sat on his lofty throne in Susa's palace fair,

      And many a stately Persian lord, and satrap proud, was there:

      Among his councillors he sat, and justice did to all—

      No supplicant e'er went unredrest from Susa's palace-hall.

II

      There came a slave and louted low before Darius' throne,

      "A wayworn suppliant waits without—he is poor and all alone,

      And he craves a boon of thee, oh king! for he saith that he has done

      Good service, in the olden time, to Hystaspes' royal son."

III

      "Now lead him hither," quoth the king; "no suppliant e'er shall wait,

      While I am lord in Susa's halls, unheeded at the gate;

      And speak thy name, thou wanderer poor, pray thee let me know

      To whom the king of Persia's land this ancient debt doth owe."

IV

      The stranger bow'd before the king—and thus began to speak—

      Full well, I ween, his garb was worn, and with sorrow pale his cheek,

      But his air was free and noble, and proudly flash'd his eye,

      As he stood unknown in that high hall, and thus he made reply—

V

      "From Samos came I, mighty king, and Syloson my name;

      My brother was Polycrates, a chief well known to fame;

      That brother drove me from my home—a wanderer forth I went—

      And since that hour my weary soul has never known content!

VI

      "Methinks I need not tell to thee my brother's mournful fate;

      He lies within his bloody grave—a churl usurps his state—

      Mœandrius lords it o'er the land, my brother's base born slave;

      Restore me to that throne, oh king! this, this, the boon I crave.

VII

      "Nay, start not; let me tell my tale! I pray thee look on me,

      And, prince, thou soon shalt know the cause that I ask this gift of thee;

      Round Persia's king a bristling ring of spearmen standeth now,

      But when Cambyses wore the crown—a wanderer poor wast thou!

VIII

      "Remember'st not, oh king! the day when, in old Memphis town,

      Upon the night ye won the fight, thou wast pacing up and down?

      The costly cloak that then I wore, its colours charm'd thy eye—

      In sooth it was a gorgeous robe, of purple Tyrian dye—

IX

      "Let base-born peasants buy and sell, I gave that cloak to thee!

      And for that gift on thee bestow'd, grant thou this boon to me—

      I