ERASMUS.
Quæritur, unde tibi sit nomen Erasmus? Eras-mus.
Resp.
Si sum Mus ego, te judice Summus ero.
Joannis Audoeni, lib. vii. epig. 34.
That thou wast great Erasmus none dispute;
Yet, by the import of thy name, wast small:
For none its truth can readily refute
Thou wast—a Mouse,—Eras-Mus after all.
The Reply of Erasmus.
Hence, if a Mouse, thy wit must this confess:—
I will be Sum-mus:—Can’st thou make me less?
J. R. P.
Garrick Plays.
No. XXX.
[From a “Woman’s a Weathercock,” a Comedy, by Nathaniel Field, 1612.]
False Mistress.
Scudmore alone; having a letter in his hand from Bellafront, assuring him of her faith.
Scud. If what I feel I could express in words,
Methinks I could speak joy enough to men
To banish sadness from all love for ever.
O thou that reconcilest the faults of all
Thy frothy sex, and in thy single self
Confines! nay has engross’d, virtue enough
To frame a spacious world of virtuous women!
Had’st thou been the beginning of thy sex,
I think the devil in the serpent’s skin
Had wanted cunning to o’er-come thy goodness;
And all had lived and died in innocency,
The whole creation—.
Who’s there?—come in—
Nevill (entering.) What up already, Scudmore?
Scud. Good morrow, my dear Nevill?
Nev. What’s this? a letter! sure it is not so—
Scud. By heav’n, you must excuse me. Come, I know
You will not wrong my friendship, and your manners,
To tempt me so.
Nev. Not for the world, my friend.
Good morrow—
Scud. Nay, Sir, neither must you
Depart in anger from this friendly hand.
I swear I love you better than all men,
Equally with all virtue in the world:
Yet this would be a key to lead you to
A prize of that importance—
Nev. Worthy friend,
I leave you not in anger,—what d’ye mean?—
Nor am I of that inquisitive nature framed,
To thirst to know your private businesses.
Why, they concern not me: if they be ill,
And dangerous, ’twould grieve me much to know them;
If good, they be so, though I know them not:
Nor would I do your love so gross a wrong,
To covet to participate affairs
Of that near touch, which your assured love
Doth not think fit, or dares not trust me with.
Scud. How sweetly doth your friendship play with mine,
And with a simple subtlety steals my heart
Out of my bosom! by the holiest love
That ever made a story, you are a man
With all good so replete, that I durst trust you
Ev’n with this secret, were it singly mine.
Nev. I do believe you. Farewell, worthy friend.
Scud. Nay, look you, this same fashion does not please me.
You were not wont to make your visitation
So short and careless.
Nev. ’Tis your jealousy,
That makes you think it so; for, by my soul,
You’ve given me no distaste in keeping from me
All things that might be burdensome, and oppress me.—
In truth, I am invited to a Wedding;
And the morn faster goes away from me,
That I go toward it: and so good morrow—
Scud. Good morrow, Sir. Think I durst show it you—
Nev. Now, by my life, I not desire it, Sir
Nor ever lov’d these prying list’ning men,
That ask of others ’states and passages:
Not one among a hundred but proves false,
Envious and sland’rous, and will cut that throat
He twines his arms about. I love that Poet,
That gave us reading “Not to seek ourselves
Beyond ourselves.” Farewell.
Scud. You shall not go.
I cannot now redeem the fault I have made
To such a friend, but in disclosing all.
Nev. Now, if you love me, do not wrong me so;
I see you labour with some serious thing,
And think, like fairies’ treasure, to reveal it
Will burst your breast,—’tis so delicious,
And so much greater than the continent.
Scud. O you have pierced my entrails with your words,
And I must now explain all to your eyes. (Gives him the Letter.)
Read; and be happy in my happiness.
Nev. Yet think on’t; keep thy secret and thy friend
Sure and entire. Oh give not me the means
To become false hereafter; or thyself
A probable reason to distrust thy friend,
Though he be ne’er so near. I will not see it.
Scud. I die, by heav’n, if you deny again.
I starve for counsel; take it, look upon it.
If you do not, it is an equal plague
As if it been known and published.
For God’s sake, read; but with this caution,—
By this right hand, by this yet unstain’d sword,
Were you my father flowing in these waves,
Or a dear son exhausted out of them,
Should you betray the soul of all my hopes,
Like the two Brethren (though love made them Stars)
We must be never more both seen again.
Nev. I read it, fearless of the forfeiture:—
Yet warn you, be as cautelous not to wound
My integrity with doubt, on likelihoods
From misreport, but first exquire the truth, (reads.)
Scud. She is the food, the sleep, the air I live by—
Nev. (having read the Letter.) O heav’n, we speak like Gods, and do like Dogs!—
Scud. What means my—
Nev. This day this Bellafront, this rich heir
Is married unto Count Frederick;
And that’s the Wedding I was going to.
Scud. I prithee do not mock me;—married!—
Nev. It is no matter to be plaid withal;
But yet as true, as women all are false.
Scud. O that this stroke were thunder to my breast,
For, Nevill, thou hast spoke my heart in twain;
And with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath
Hast ravish’d me out of a temperate soil,
And set me under the red burning zone.
Nev. For shame, return thy blood into thy face
Know’st not how slight a thing a Woman is?
Scud. Yes; and how serious too.—
Scudmore, afterwards, forsaken.
Scud. Oh God!
What an internal joy my heart has felt,
Sitting at one of these same idle plays,
When I have seen a Maid’s Inconstancy
Presented to the life; how glad my eyes
Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks
Should tell the company contented there,
I had a Mistress free of all such thoughts.
He replies to his friend, who adjures him to live.
Scud. The sun is stale to me; to-morrow morn,
As this, ’twill rise, I see no difference;
The night doth visit me but in one robe;
She brings as many thoughts, as she wears stare
When she is pleasant, but no rest at all:
For what new strange thing should I covet life then;
Is she not false whom only I thought true?
Shall Time (to show his strength) make Scudmore live,
Till (perish the vicious thought) I love not thee;
Or thou, dear friend, remove thy heart from me!—
C. L.
Ancient Music
SUPERIOR TO MODERN.
“That the music of the ancients,” says Jeremy Collier, “could command farther than the modern, is past dispute. Whether they were masters of a greater compass of notes, or knew the secret of varying them the more artificially; whether they adjusted the intervals of silence more exactly, had their hands or their voices further improved, or their instruments better contrived; whether they had a deeper insight into the philosophy of nature, or understood the laws of the union of the soul and body more thoroughly; and thence were enabled to touch the passions, strengthen the sense, or prepare the medium with greater advantage; whether they excelled us in all, or in how many of these ways, is not so clear however, this is certain, that our improvements in this kind are little better than ale-house crowds (fiddles) with respect to theirs.”
The effects of music among the ancients, are said to have been almost miraculous. The celebrated ode of Dryden has made every one acquainted with the magic power of Timotheus over the emotions of the human heart. And all, who have read any thing of ancient history, must have remarked the wonderful effects attributed to the musical instrument in the hand of a master.
Among a hundred other stories, which evince the power of music, is the following:
Pythagoras was once likely to be troubled at his lecture, by a company of young men, inflamed with wine, and petulant with the natural insolence of youthful levity. The philosopher wished to repress their turbulence; but forbore to address them in the language of philosophy, which they would either not have attended to, or have treated with derision. He said nothing; but ordered the musician to play a grave majestic tune, of the Doric style. The effect was powerful and instantaneous. The young men were brought to their sober senses, were ashamed of their wanton behaviour, and with one accord tore off the chaplets of flowers with which they had decorated their temples in the hour of convivial gaiety. They listened to the philosopher. Their hearts were opened to instruction by music, and the powerful impression being well timed, produced in them a permanent reformation.
How desirable is it to revive the music of Pythagoras! How concise a method of philosophizing to the purpose! What sermon or moral lecture would have produced a similar effect so suddenly?
But nothing of this kind was ever produced by the most successful efforts of modern music. Let us suppose a case somewhat similar to the preceding. Let us imagine a number of intoxicated rakes entering the theatre with a professed intention to cause a riot. Such a case has often been real. The music in the orchestra has done all that it could do to sooth the growing rage; but it was as impotent and contemptible as a pistol against a battery. It would be a fine thing for the proprietors, if a tune or two could save the benches, and the fiddlers preclude the carpenters. But Timotheus and the Doric strains are no more; yet, surely, in so general a study of music it might be expected that something of their perfection might be revived.[313]
[313] Vicesimus Knox.