―315―

ON MUSIC AS A FEMALE ACCOMPLISHMENT.

A DIALOGUE.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

(Continued.)

It is thus, you say, that we are enabled to give
pleasure to others; but low, indeed, must be that
ambition, which is satisfied with pleasing by mere
mimicry; by putting off every distinctive property,
every thing that constitutes themselves, and warb-
ling the words of others, and running through un-
meaning, unappropriate, unintelligent notes.

Every one that has fingers and a larynx, fashion-
ed on a certain manner, is equal to this accomplish-
ment. Neither virtue, nor talents, nor social feel
ngs, have any power over the genuine happiness of
others, or any will, usefully to exercise that power,
are required in a musical performer. Ignorance
of nature or science, sensuality, caprice, and folly,
are all consistent with musical skill: you will say,
perhaps, that they are also compatible with genius
and goodness, but I doubt it.

That time, requisite to make a skilful performer,
duty requires us to employ in a better manner.
Genius, unexercised, undisciplined, or wasted on
frivolous and momentary purposes, will languish
and expire. And how deficient in true taste must she
be, who knows not, or holds in contempt, every
other mode of employing her precious leisure, and
every other mode of entertaining her friends.

When others approach me, I am instantly en-
grossed by tenderness or curiosity. I meditate
their features, their gestures, their accents; I am
eager to see them smile, or hear them talk. To
communicate my own feelings or ideas, and to re-
ceive theirs in turn. One impulse of the heart, one
flash of wit, one ray of intelligence in myself or
my companion, I value more than twenty oratorios.

If my companion be unpleasing or improper, in
any way, to converse with, yet I find abundant and
profitable occupation in surveying her, in comparing
and inferring from what I see or hear; or subjects
spring from my own reflection, sufficient to engage
my attention. Music may, indeed, be possibly, at
some time, necessary to silence the impertinent
and please the stupid, and then, perhaps, I might
comply with it, as I do with any other debasing
and luckless necessity.

R. This surely is arguing with too much rigour.
You demand too much from human beings, when
you oblige them to forego every pursuit, but the
best, and every gratification but the highest.

―316―

L. Surely, my friend, you are in jest. It is high-
ly proper, to demand this, since by the very terms
you use, compliance will merely be the adoption
of the best pursuit, and the enjoyment of the high-
est pleasure. I am truly sensible, that music, if it
be not the best, is far from being the worst of hu-
man pursuits. To spend the day at the harpsi-
chord, is vicious and absurd, but there are other
ways of spending the day far more vicious and ab-
surd. There are a thousand books to be read; a
thousand reveries to be indulged; a thousand com-
panions to be talked to; a thousand topics of dis-
course and modes of action, more foolish and per-
nicious than eternal thrumming at an instrument.
But what is hence to be inferred? May I justify
an ill action in myself, by reflecting that it is possi-
ble to have been worse employed? Am I to en-
courage another to pursue an evil path, by remind-
ing him of the many paths that are still more evil?
No. I ought rather earnestly to search for and re-
commend a better path and a better mode of con-
duct. Few of us are so wise, that our present con-
duct is not obviously hurtful or absurd, and might
not, with inexpressible advantage, be changed for
a different. Instead of hunting after pleas for in-
dolence and dissipation, and thus still more pervert-
ing my taste and weakening my principles, my best
interests demand that I should detect, deplore and
abjure my follies and vices, and incessantly labour
after higher excellence.

R. All this is abstractedly true, but I see not
any useful application. We are defective creatures,
and should labour to cure our imperfections, but,
after all our labour, we shall be defective still. We
must sometimes form a kind of compromise with
our vicious habits. If a man cannot, and it often hap-
pens that he cannot, be allured from a dangerous
path by the highest good, or prevail on him to give
up indolence for the highest and best species of
activity, I must content myself with offering to his
choice a lower one. Music is better than lascivi-
ousness or gluttony, and a man will forego the lat-
ter for the former, who will not exchange it for po-
etry or mathematics. To play from morn to night
upon a jews-harp, is better than to loll away the
year upon a sofa, to saunter it away in the street,
or chatter it away at a tea-table.

L. In that I agree with you, but this surely is no
vindication of music.

R. It is not. It is merely an attempt to justify
the preference of music to a worse pursuit. Your
feelings and mine, while looking at a player on the
harp, are curiously contrasted. You are offended
and grieved, because you are busy in imagining
some possible mode of employing the same time
better. I am pleased, because I exclaim, in secret,
How much worse, more hurtfully, or frivolously,
might, and probably, (all circumstances weighed
together) would this creature be employed, if she
had not been a minstrel! But how, let me ask,
with your maxims of economy, can you reconcile
yourself to so costly an instrument?

L. I told you that I did not buy it. Had I not
obtained it without expense, I should not have been
a player, and had I been obliged to restore it to
my friend, I should have stopped short at a very
early stage in my progress. Luckily for me, how-
ever, my friend's abode in New-York procured her
an husband, who, shortly after marriage, carried
her to Scotland, her native country. She left many
things in my possession, as tokens of her love, pic-
tures, books, and, among the rest, her favourite in-
strument. My pride remonstrated a little against
accepting such a present, but a better motive to
reluctance existed than pride. My father's frugal-
ity, if I may call it by the mildest name, would ne-
ver allow me to retain, merely for the purpose of
luxury, or what he deemed such, what would rea-
dily bring upwards of an hundred dollars. I could
hardly persuade him to permit me to keep it merely

in trust till my friend's return, or till I should re-
ceive her directions to dispose of it.

R. Methinks I should be glad to hear your per-
formance. Your musical education has been so sin-
gular, that I want greatly to know the fruits of it.

L. I am not surprised at your curiosity, but I am
afraid, I confess, to admit your claim. I told you
what I thought of the influence of such an educa-
tion, and when I reflect on what ought to be the
benefits of this kind of exercise and application dur-
ing five years, I am ashamed of my slow and im-
perfect progress.

R. Do not let that shame, that unworthy shame,
govern you.

L. Unworthy, you justly call it. I cannot delibe-
rately wish to be thought better or worse than I
really am. That shall not be an obstacle.

R. Then pray make haste, and let me judge of
your minstrelsy.

L. No, that can never be.

R. Never be? You alarm me. Why not?

L. Have you so soon forgotten my times and
occasions? My music, I told you, is an hymn, play-
ed alone, at night, and in my chamber. How then
can you expect to be an auditor?

R. And will you not for once deviate from your
rule? Not to gratify a friend, who requests the pri-
vilege, not so much on account of any direct plea-
sure that will flow from your performance, as to-
judge of your skill?

L. That, truly, is a plausible argument from you,
who have owned yourself without any knowledge,
either practical or speculative, of the art, and to
me, who have a very contemptuous opinion of my
own skill. Indeed I cannot comply. It is not pride
nor diffidence that hinders, but a long established
belief of what is fit and right to be done, on such
occasions.

R. Well, I will not importune you; but, in truth,
I am the less inclined to be importunate, because
I can attain the same end, more effectually, with-
out disturbing your regularities.

L. As how, I pray you?

R. By taking post, at midnight, underneath your
chamber window. You will then play, without the
tremours or misgivings that the conscious presence
of a stranger brings along with it. Your inspira-
tions will be free, spontaneous, and divine. Your
ditty will be heard, more flowing and more sweet
at a little distance; and will borrow, from the still-
ness of the night, charms that noon day can never
bestow.

L. What a scheme for a sober-sides like thee! A
votary of love and the muses might adopt such
a plan, without the blame of inconsistency; but
thou—

R. You mistake, my good friend. The lover and
the poet will, indeed, resort to such a scene, but
not as listeners. They will bring their pipe or
string, their elegy or ode, along with them, and
lay claim to the homage of attention; but I shall
come only with a view to being instructed or de-
lighted by another. I hope you will not disappoint
me, by playing in a lower key, or by shutting your
windows.

L. No. I have declined obliging you immedi-
ately, not through affectation, not through pride or
diffidence, and, therefore, shall not be displeased
with any scheme for reconciling your wishes with
my scruples—But why lose we thus the precious
time in prating. Do you not mark the farewell
beam trembling on the very topmost leaves of those
pines? Let us move to an higher window, whence
the sun's last gleamings may be seen. I would ra-
ther join with you in watching and admiring the de-
scent of a Summer's sun, than in settling the dig-
nity and value of a solo or a concert.

R. I am not quite of your opinion, for—

L. Nay, I will not stay to argue with you. Don't
you see? The sun will be set before you have got-

ten half through your syllogism. Let us begone
this moment.

R. Go, then, I will follow you.

(Dialogues to be continued.)