seem conscious of the great tribunal before which they are to be judged.

And yet there are some such, and among them is HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. In the work which suggested these remarks, "The True Story of My Life," he says" There is something ele. vating, but at the same time terrific, in seeing one's thoughts spread so far and among so many people; it is indeed almost a fearful thing to belong to so many. The noble and the good in us becomes a blessing; but the bad, one's errors shoot forth also, and involuntarily the thought forces itself from us: God! let me never write down a word of which I shall not be able to give an account to Thee." And we believe him. He has such a childlike confidence in the world to which he tells his story, that we should condemn ourselves did we doubt a syllable. There is a moral beauty in the simplicity of a soul like his, upon which it is delightful to dwell. He reveals his lowly origin and the poverty of his childhood with the same ingenuousness with which he records the homage of princes. How many creations of beauty he gives to us without once entering the realms of the imagination. How many chords of the lyre within the poet's heart too often die away unuttered, and that too, in consequence of a pride which is sinful as it is vain. It is because he is a coward. He dare not tell how his mother was once a beggar and his father was poor, and how he was left with God for his only friend, and bore the ridicule and contempt which is ever the penalty for being cradled in poverty. And yet it is struggles and trials like these which make the greatest men. He who has met and conquered them, need not repine that he was poor. He has a moral wealth which gold can never measure, a patent of nobility greater than was ever issued by an Emperor, for it is sealed by the hand of God. This pride is the rock upon which so many souls of our own country split. Here where there are no hereditary titles, there is perhaps as great a veneration for them and hankering after them as in any other land. A good name is the best heritage which a parent can bequeath to a child, and we respect the feeling which would cherish it. But there are not a few among us who make themselves ridiculous by a vain boasting about ancestors whoin nobody knew and for whom nobody cares; who were of no advantage to their country, spending neither their blood nor their money for her in her greatest need. They seem anxious to impress the world with the idea that they had fathers, a fact which, none are disposed to dispute. We do not wish to be mistaken, pride of family is not condemned and poverty is no honor to a man, but there are many who stand high in the council chamber, and in the church, of whom this comtemptible boasting is the glaring foible. Are there not teachers of democracy who would shrink from associating with the obscure apprentice, though he might recognize in him the incipient poet or philosopher.? Are there not

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preachers of the gospel of Christ, who would blush to be called a carpenter's son," and while in public they teach humility to the poor, did we judge them by their words in private would not sooner forfeit their title to the kingdom of Heaven, than to the aristocracy of this republic?

We first see our poet in the hour when he first woke to light in the shoemaker's room at Odense. The room where his childhood was passed, and where his mother told him he lived like a nobleman's son. From thence we see him borne away in a ship from his native island. On the morning of the 5th of September, 1819, he arrives at Copenhagen. There his singularly unsophisticated deportment causes him to be ridiculed by all whom he approaches, and he thinks of death as the only thing, and the hest thing for him; but" says he, "even then my thoughts rose upwards to God with all the undoubting confidence of a child in his father, they rivetted themselves upon Him. I wept bitterly, and then I said to myself, when every thing happens really miserably, then He sends help. I have always read so. People must first of all suffer a great deal before they can bring any thing to accomplishment." Twenty-five years from that day, we see him seated at the royal dinner table, a constant guest. Then his whole former life passes in review before his mind and he says, "I was obliged to summon all my stength to prevent myself bursting into tears. There are moments of thankfulness in which as it were we desire to press God to our hearts. How deeply I felt at this time my own nothingness; how all, all had come from Him."

As a book of travels alone this would be invaluable. Truly "his journeys are made up not out of books but out of life." A few dashes of his pencil, and the peculiar scenery and social life of Denmark and Sweden arise before us. The islands of the North sea and the Baltic spring up in all their summer beauty. And he gives such delightful sketches of those stars that glitter in the galaxy of European art. We see Tieck embracing him with a kiss; we see Chamisso "the grave man with long locks and honest eyes" open the door to receive him and take him to his heart with a perfect understanding.*

We e are introduced into the circle of Parisian wit and talent. At Berlin, Oldenberg, Wiemar and Vienna, we mingle familiarly with those whose names will go down to posterity the beacon lights of the age in which we live. We become intimate with Thorwaldsen and feel for him all the enthusiasm of a friend.

How in harmony with his life are his feelings when for the third time he approaches Rome. He says, "I felt so happy, so penetrated with thankfulness and joy; how much more God had given me than a thousand others, nay than to many thousands! And even in this very feeling, there is a blessing, where joy is very

He afterwards records Chamisso's death, and also that of Thorwaldsen.

great, as in the deepest grief, there is only God on whom we can lean!"

And then too it is so interesting to trace the influence of circumstances upon his intellectual character. His father wept when the youth from the grammar school who came to be measured for boots, showed them his books and told him what he had learned. "My father wept" says he, "and kissed me and was silent the whole evening." This simple incident speaks volumes, and in the name and character of the son, we see a glorious temple, which like that of Solomon, it was in the heart of his father to build. At one period of his life, his writings became satirical. Satire is natural to none. It is the refuge of a proud but wounded heart. It is a dangerous art, and one in which none but those of deep and keen feelings can excel. Morbidly sensitive and really humble he had been scourged as the gifted too often are with the imputation of vanity; "and when those whom we love smite us, scourges become scorpions." But the sentiment which he had derided was avenged. A new an immense world opens before him. The poet loves, but the lady loves another. He tells not the name nor the abode of the fair one. With true delicacy he devotes but half a page to this great event of his life. Yet we see its influence upon every other page. This trial swallows up all the lesser ones, and that past the light breaks upon him, and his life grows brighter and brighter until the day of popular and poetic favor is full upon him.

The memory of Collin, Count Rantzau and his many benefactors will always be cherished by us for his sake, and among these the names of women shine transcendent. We remember his old grandmother "with mild eyes and fine figure, bringing him flowers every Sunday evening. She loved him with her whole soul, and he understood it, he felt it." It was Madame Bunkeflod from whose lips he first heard the word poet, and Mrs. Von Colbjornson first called him by that sacred name, and though she was half in jest "it went through him body and soul and filled his eyes with tears." One after another he meets those whose encouraging smile is a light unto his pathway. But it is to one for whom the world is now weaving its most graceful garlands, to Jenny Lind, that "vestal" in the sanctuary of art, that he reserves his warmest enthusiasm "that he values with the full affection of a brother." Upon her brow he places a crown in the fragrance of which those of the world are forgotten. It is the most glorious which can be worn by a woman until she receives that which fadeth not away eternal in the heavens. He says, "through Jenny Lind, I first became sensible of the holiness there is in art; through her I learned that one must forget oneself in the service of the Supreme. No books, no men have had a better or more ennobling influence on me as a poet than Jenny Lind. She who on the stage is the great artiste rising above all around her, at home a sensitive young girl with all the humility and piety of a child."

How beautiful is the friendship between two such gifted beings.

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How few in this world are capable of feeling it, or who have the magnanimity to acknowledge it; how few men who would not cause a woman to feel humiliation that she had thus confided in him.

But in reading this book there is a greater pleasure than any we have mentioned. It is like reading a song of praise and thanksgiving, that purest but rarest offering to God. We make confessions and petitions and our souls are in earnest, but how feeble are the notes of praise which we offer, how weak our efforts to glorify Him. And it will be so while the spirit chafes and rebels against earthly trials. When we can welcome adversity as a friend, when we can clasp the cross to our breast" uttering songs in the night" then can we give acceptable songs of praise. Then from the heaven to which we are journeying will stream a light which will gild the dark places of this world with its own bright coloring. Then we can exclaim "how beautiful is earth, how noble is humanity! "It is a joy to live and to believe in God and man." The religion of our poet is not merely one of feeling, it is one of action, it is a living faith. The holy spirit given at his baptism seems to have illumined his whole life, shining upon the darkest steps with a brighter radiance. From that life the world has yet much to hope. But should we be disappointed, should the star of his brightness cease to shine, we have only to say in his own words, "still it has shone, we have received our portion; let it set." GERALDINE.

STRAY THOUGHTS ON MUSIC.

A GOSSIPPING LETTER.

Good music, dear Timotheus, is one of the best of good things; bad music, one of the worst of bad things. If it is true, as the proverb says, that "walls have ears," no wonder that the walls of Jericho fell down at the blowing of the rams' horns.

What good music is, will probably never be ascertained with precision. It is generally supposed to depend upon the "ear" of the listener-on the length of ear, we think, in some instances. We have seen connoisseurs before now, whose ears have been "cultivated," until their luxurial growth amply repaid the labor of tillage.

Solomon might have liked the music of the four thousand priests, who performed all sorts of tunes on all sorts of instruments, pitched on every key, at his coronation. But what modern tympanum could have stood it? We beg Solomon's pardon. He detested music.

It is true, and perhaps proper, that the persevering pursuit of an art begets a taste for intricacy and microscopic excellences. The ears of musical critics are rarely pleased with the Orphean melodies that charm the multitude. A capricious undulation of musical tunes, inexplicable mazes of sound excite their raptures. In the confused flourishes of some great violinist, the amateur pretends to see the waving of a magician's wand; troops of canary birds chased by troops of fairies issue from the hole in the sounding-board, and trilling waterfalls precipitate themselves over the bridge of the violin. A rustic is at his side, listening also; but the latter's heart opens to no emotion, save that to which his mouth opens-surprise.

Now it is in vain to deny that simple music is good, or that intricate music is good. Tell the hand-maiden, who is wiping her eyes at the singing of Tennyson's "May Queen," as set by Dempster, that the song is only fit for a lullaby to an infant, and you may expect a second briny out-burst at your barbarity. Dare you then say, that the pathos of genuine music has not wrought these

effects?

Next accost the finical lover of musical mazes, whose soul is steeled against all ballads and part-songs, and never expresses pleasure, except by grimaces at the worse grimaces of an opera-singer. Tell him that his taste is artificial; that it is not and cannot be founded on any settled principle; that ingenious sounds wrought out by manual dexterity or a gymnastic training of the voice, are not necessarily expressive of emotion, and have no eloquence in them; that such as he are every day imposed upon, as they ought to be, by musical graces which never existed, by artists without genius, who rely upon the weak wits of a few fools of critics to give them a reputation. He will smirk, and ask you if you execrate all that is strange and far-fetched in music; if you do, he adds, you despise Mozart and Beethoven.

How shall we escape from this dilemna? Easily. Only believe that music has room both for simplicity and ingenuity; that neither are necessarily contemptible; that one palls, after a time, upon the taste; that the other is deceptive; that simplicity is more eloquent, ingenuity more fascinating; that the first will touch the hearts of all, the latter delight the taste of a few. The talk about "cultivation," and the want of it, is arrant folly. We cannot be cheated, either of the delicate natural emotion, with which the choruses of the "Hutchinsons" inspire us, or of the grateful surprises which the fine and polished grace of Herz excites as we listen to his piano.

It is rarely that we can be persuaded to call any music bad. It is better to fancy it good, in its place. For instance, some orchestral performances would be agreeable in any lively barn-yard-if listened to from a distance. They would admirably accord with the notes of the feathered and featherless minstrels of such localities; combining the cluttering and crowing of chanticleer and his wives, the trombone-like gabbling of the geese, the lowing of cows(cow-bells inclusive)-with a "smart sprinkling" of the braying of Johnny down among the ophicleides

Still we do venture to call some music bad.