“Upon a question of such doubt and difficulty, I feel that it would ill become a person of my very limited knowledge to offer an opinion; although I am willing to confess that the subject has often engaged my attention; and you could not afford me a greater gratification than by clearing up some of those doubts which have perplexed me. It is, I believe, admitted, that we are unable to ascertain the real nature of ancient music: but it is evident that it was an art with which mankind was extremely delighted; for not only the poets, but the historians and philosophers, of the best ages of Greece and Rome, are as diffuse in its praises, as of those arts concerning which sufficient remains have descended to evince the truth of their panegyrics.”
“Nothing, as you very justly observe, is now left us, but conjecture,” said the vicar; “and yet it is impossible to read the accounts of the extraordinary effects produced by the different ‘modes’ of ancient music, without entertaining a strong conviction of its great superiority over that of modern times. What have we, my dear Miss Villers, to compare with the soft ‘Lydian,’ the grave ‘Dorian,’ or the furious ‘Phrygian;’ to say nothing of the subaltern modes of Aristides Quintilianus and others; such, for example, as the ‘erotic,’ ‘comic,’ and ‘encomiastic?’ What modern strains can produce the effects which are recorded to have followed the performance of Timotheus, the director of the music of Alexander the Great? One day, while the prince was at table, the musician performed an air in the Phrygian mode, which made such an impression on him, that, being already heated with wine, he flew to his arms, and was going to attack his guests, had not Timotheus immediately changed the style of his performance to the sub-Phrygian, or Lydian. This mode calmed the impetuous fury of the monarch, and induced him to resume his place at table. Music,” continued the vicar, “has, in modern times, so fallen from this degree of majesty and power, as to induce some persons to doubt the truth of the historical statements.”
“I confess, Mr. Twaddleton,” said Miss Villers, “that I have always been inclined to regard ancient music as the mere vehicle of poetry; and to attribute to the power of the latter that influence which you appear to refer exclusively to the former.”
“I am willing to admit,” replied the vicar, “that in the ancient theatre, music always accompanied her sister science, assisting, animating, and supporting her; in short, that she was, in all respects, her friend and fellow labourer. ‘Qualem decet esse sororem,’ as the poet has it: but does not this rather prove that poetry, in itself, was insufficient to produce its effects without the aid of music? In farther proof of the power of ancient music, permit me to remind you that Plato has said, ‘No change can be made in music without affecting the constitution of the state;’ and Aristotle, who seems to have written his Politics only to oppose the sentiments of Plato, nevertheless agrees with him, concerning the power which music has over mortals; and has not the judicious Polybius told us that music was necessary to soften the manners of the Arcadians? In short, madam, music has lost its power over the passions of mankind, and this can only have happened in consequence of its having degenerated from its ancient purity and grandeur. If any one should have the hardihood to deny this my position, let him attend a modern rout in London. I have seen, my dear Miss Villers, a party at a whist-table, a dozen persons in tête-à-têtes, and as many solitary individuals, sitting like automatons, not one of them being moved by the concord of sweet sounds, with which some lady has been endeavouring to delight them. Had Timotheus appeared amongst them! hey, Miss Villers? I think I see the party at the whist-table, as his lyre successively changed from the Lydian to the Phrygian mode. I must, however, in justice state, that I once did see a lady lay down her cards in an apparent state of ecstasy, as a chorus of Handel suddenly burst upon her ear.”
“And what might that chorus have been?” said Mr. Seymour, “‘Blest be the hand?’ But, joking apart, you appear to have satisfied your mind upon a point which all the learning of Europe has left in a state of doubt and perplexity.”
“I have merely delivered an opinion, sir; you perhaps will favour us with your judgment.”
“The subject under discussion, my good sir, is one upon which no person can ever deliver a judgment.”
“And pray, Mr. Seymour, why not?”
“For this plain reason, that it is not possible we can hear both sides.”
“Psha! will you never cease to sully the pure stream of enquiry with the dregs of ridicule?”