ing echoes round about,
Out of the stony concave of their mouths,
Restore the vanish'd music of each close,
And fill your ears full with redoubled pleasure."[4]

such as warmed Spenser when he wrote his "Bowre of Blesse;" Tasso his
"Gardens of Armida;" Collins his "Melancholy," who

"Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul"--

such hearts, I say, and such as have drunk with unsatiated thirst at the
fountains of these "masters of the lay," are better qualified to speak
upon a question of the "concord of sweet sounds" than all the merely
scientific musicians, whether professors or amateurs, in the world.

[4] "Lingua." Dodsley's Old Plays.

"Of melody aye held in thrall," I profess myself an admirer of that
English music which preceded the appearance of Mr. Braham--the music of
Arne, Jackson, Carter, Storace, Linley, Shield, Davy, even of Dibdin,
and of those fine airs, (the names of whose composers are now little
better than traditional), which glow in the Beggar's Opera. And of this
music there never was heard a singer equal to Incledon, and perhaps
never will. The pathos, the richness, the roundness, the satisfying
fulness to the ear, which characterize these composers, can never be
mastered by the _merely scientific_ singer; _they_ composed for the
_voice_, and without that organ in its most perfect state, complete
justice can never be done to their strains.

I before said these masters flourished previous to the debut of Mr.
Braham; for it is in a great measure owing to that gentleman, and the
false taste he introduced and has kept alive, that they are now so
seldom heard in our theatres, concerts, or drawing-rooms. We have lost
the notes of melody and feeling, and what have we in their stead? The
glitter and plagiarism of Rossini, the ponderous science of Weber, and
the absolute trash of all our English composers. The last mentioned
gentlemen certainly came into court "in forma pauperis,"--satisfied with
the merit of arrangers, harmonizers, &c., and are found to confess, when
detection is probable, that the very soul of their pieces--the
melody[5]--is taken from such an Italian, such a Sicilian, Greek, nay
even Russian air.

[5] "Melody is the essence of Music," said Mozart to Michael
Kelly; "I compare a good melodist to a _fine racer_, and
counter-points to _hack post-horses_."

I think I can, in some degree, account for the fashion these composers
have gained, and why, I f