t that, so surely as the great orb of day shall
return on the wings of the morning to chase away the tears of the
lamenting earth, so surely shall the dust, strewed around that temple,
scattered though it may be to the winds of heaven, "rise again" in the
morning of the Resurrection, when death "shall be swallowed up in
victory."

"'Tis fit his trophies should be rife
Around the place where he's subdued;
The gate of death leads forth to life."

But we are wandering sadly from our subject; it is perhaps quite as well
that we have done so, for we should have become dangerous had we dwelt
much longer on it. We were on the point of wishing (Nero-like) that our
popular professors of the tuneful art had but one neck, that we might
exterminate them at a blow, or hang them with one gigantic
fiddle-string; but now, thanks to our episode, our exacerbated feelings
are so far mollified, that we will be content with wishing them
sentenced to grind knives on oil-less stones with creaking axles, till
the sufferings of their own shall have taught them consideration for the
ears of other people.

But music, real music--not in the harsh, exaggerated style now in the
ascendant, but simple, pure, melodious, such as might have entranced the
soul of a Handel, when, in some vision of night, sounds swept from
angelic harps have floated around him, the gifted one, in whose liquid
strains and stately harmonies fall on our ravished ears the echoes of
that immortal joy--such we confess to be one of our idols, before whose
shrine we pay a willing, gladsome homage; though now, alas! it must be
in dens and caves of the earth, since _modern_ heresy has banished it
from the temple of Apollo.

See how Toryism peeps out even in the fine arts! _Even_ did we say? They
are its legitimate province; "The old is better," is inscribed in
glowing character on the portals of the past. Old Painting! See the
throbbing form start from the pregnant canvass--the "Mother of God"
folding her Divine Son to her all but celestial arms--the Son of God
fainting beneath a load of woe, not his own. Old Poetry! Glorious old
Homer, with his magic song; and sturdy, oak-like in his strength, as in
his verdure, old Chaucer. Old Music! Hail, ye inspired sons of the lyre!
A noble host are ye, enshrined in the hearts of all loyal worshippers of
the tuneful god. And yet (we grieve to confess it) we, even we, spite of
all our enthusiasm, have been seen laughing at "o