“Well, then, to be serious; I agree with Miss Villers, that ancient music, whatever might have been its powers, was wholly indebted to the poetry which accompanied it for its influence over the feelings of mankind. It could not have been otherwise. The ancient instruments, as represented in sculpture, appear so simple as to be apparently incapable of producing great effects; and, indeed, amongst the writings of Aristoxenus, the oldest musical author, we cannot discover a trace of melody or harmony, such as we understand by air accompanied with different parts.”
“To that very simplicity am I disposed to refer the charm of ancient music,” said the vicar; “it was addressed to the ear, sir, whereas modern music is addressed to the eye; dexterity of execution is, now-a-days, more valued than beauty of composition; the sweetest shepherd that ever piped on his Doric reed, would be less applauded than he who can make his pipe squeak for the space of five minutes without respiration. The ancients knew better than to suffer the energy and accentuation of their rhythm to be so destroyed; and only mark, sir, the extreme jealousy with which they regarded every attempt to injure this simplicity; it even became a subject of legislation; and you no doubt remember the decree issued against Timotheus; which, as well as I recollect, ran thus, ‘Whereas Timotheus the Milesian, coming to our city, has dishonoured our ancient music, and despising the lyre of seven strings, has, by the introduction of a greater variety of notes, corrupted the ears of our youth; and, by the number of his strings and the novelty of his melody, has given to our music an effeminate and artificial dress, instead of the plain and orderly one in which it has hitherto appeared; rendering melody infamous, by composing in the chromatic, instead of the enharmonic. The kings and the ephori have, therefore, resolved to pass censure upon Timotheus for these things; and farther, to oblige him to cut all the superfluous strings of his eleven, leaving only the seven tones, and to banish him from our city, that men may be warned for the future not to introduce into Sparta any unbecoming customs.’”
“And now, my dear vicar, have you done? Have you said all you think necessary, in defence of ancient music? If so, hear me, as the advocate of modern harmony. In the first place, there is not an anecdote which can be adduced in support of your side of the question, that may not be met with one parallel, and equally strong, in defence of mine. You cite the authority of Plato, to show that the constitution of a state may be affected by changing its national music. What said the great Lord Chatham?--‘Give me the making of the national ballads, and I care not who makes the laws;’ and the effects produced on the English people by Dibdin’s songs, fully justified the maxim: but remember Mr. Twaddleton, it was not the music, but the poetry of those songs, which kindled the patriotic feelings which saved our country; and I apprehend that this has been the case in all ages, where the power of music has been said to excite the feelings of the populace. We know that the ancient bards of our own country called forth the emotions of their hearers by the poetry of their songs; and with what success they practised their calling we may imagine from the fact that Edward the First, in his conquest of Wales, had recourse to the barbarous expedient of murdering all the bards, from the many obstacles they threw in his way, by the strong hold which they had over the minds of the people. You have told us a story of Timotheus, and the influence of his harp over a drunken monarch. If this is adduced in proof of the power of ancient music, you must, at least, admit that modern times have also had a Timotheus, who could excite or calm, at his pleasure, the most impetuous emotions. Henry III. king of France, says ‘Le Journal de Sancy,’ having given a concert on occasion of the marriage of the Duke de Joyeuse, Claudin le Jeune, a celebrated musician of that period, executed certain airs, which had such an effect on a young nobleman, that he drew his sword, and challenged every one near him to combat; but Claudin, equally prudent as Timotheus, instantly changed to an air, sub-Phrygian, or Lydian, I suppose, which appeased the furious youth. But what shall we say of Stradella, the celebrated composer, whose music made the daggers drop from the hands of his assassins? Stradella was attacked by three desperadoes, who had been hired to assassinate him; but, fortunately, they had an ear sensible to harmony. While waiting for a favourable opportunity to execute their purpose they entered the church of St. John de Lateran, during the performance of an oratorio, composed by the person whom they intended to destroy, and were so affected by the music, that they abandoned their design, and even waited on the musician to apprise him of his danger. Stradella, however, was not always so fortunate; other assassins, who apparently had no ear for music, stabbed him some time afterwards at Genoa.”
“And thus afforded a practical illustration of a passage of Shakspeare,” exclaimed the vicar,
“‘The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted.’”