Swift’s musical pun, upon the accidental destruction of a fine Cremona fiddle, which was thrown down by a lady’s mantua, has always been highly and deservedly commended; and recently, upon the very best authority, pronounced the finest specimen extant of this species of wit—“Perhaps,” says Sir Walter Scott, in his life of Swift, speaking of his puns, i. 467, “the application of the line of Virgil to the lady, who threw down with her mantua a Cremona fiddle, is the best ever made—
“Mantua væ miseræ nimium vicina Cremonæ!”
In every nation, and in every age, the power of music has been acknowledged by mankind. Now and then, the negative idiosyncracies of certain persons place this particular department of pleasure, beyond the sphere of their comprehension, as effectually as utter blindness denies the power of enjoying the finest specimens of the painter’s art. Occasionally, some pious divine, absolutely drunk with over-potent draughts of orthodoxy, like the friar, before Boccaccio, shakes his holy finger at this wicked world, and warns them to beware of the singing woman!
The vocal power of music is ascribed to the angels in Heaven; and my own personal knowledge has assured me, that it affords a melancholy solace, to the slave in bonds.
I passed the winter of 1840-41 with an invalid daughter, in the island of St. Croix. With a party of some six or eight, we devoted one delightful, moonlight evening, to a ride, on horseback, among the sugar-loaf summits of that beautiful speck amid the main. We were ascending the hills, in the neighborhood of the Annelly plantation—the moon was at full, that night; and the Caribbean Sea, far and wide, shone like a boundless prairie of burnished silver. As we were slowly winding our way, to the summit, one of our party called the attention of the rest to the sounds of music, coming from the slave cabins, at a distance. As we advanced, slowly and silently, towards the spot, the male and female voices were readily distinguished.
We drew near, unperceived, and, checking our horses, listened, for several minutes, to the wild, simple notes of these children of bondage. “There is melody in this”—said one of our party aloud, and all was hushed, in an instant. We rode down to the cabins, and begged them to continue their song—but our solicitations were in vain—even the offer of sundry five stiver pieces, which operate, like a charm, upon many occasions, with the uncles and the aunties, was ineffectual then. “No massa—b’lieve no sing any more”—were the only replies, and we went upon our way.
As we descended the Annelly hills, on the opposite side, after leaving the negroes and their cabins, at some distance, we halted and listened—they had recommenced—the same wild music was floating upon the breeze.
As we rode slowly along, my daughter asked me, if I could account for their reluctance to comply with our request. I told her, I could not. “Perhaps,” said she, “they have a reason, somewhat like the reason of those, who sat down, by the waters of Babylon, and wept, and who could not sing one of the songs of Zion, in a strange land.”
It might have been thus. “They that carried us away captive, required of us a song! They, that wasted us, required of us mirth!”