atorio, he would throw a more impassioned energy into his own
compositions than he could possibly impart to those of another, and
proportionally enhance the delight of his company. All the mechanism of
professional singing would then give way to "the feast of reason and the
flow of soul."

We know not how to have done with these pleasures of "linked
sweetness"--this "mosaic of the air," as Marvell quaintly calls it. We
have a decided aversion to the system of borrowing, which, in the
absence of our own musical resources, seems to be universally adopted.
Thus, as Charles Mathews says, "every footman whistles _Frieschutz_;"
and the barrel organ which does not play two or three of its airs may be
consigned to the brokers. A few months since every bachelor hummed or
whistled "_C'est l'amour_," and the French, to return the compliment,
have made our "Robin Adair," one of the claptraps of the music of their
_La Dame Blanche_. Next, when will Mr. Bishop's _Home, sweet home_, be
forgotten, although the original is a Sicilian air of considerable
antiquity. All the baker's and butcher's boys in London can go through
"_Di tanti pal_"--where they leave off, answer a question, and take up
the "_piti_," with the skill of a musician; and as readily fall into the
sympathetic melodies of "_Oh no we never mention her_," or the "_Light
Guitar_." But to atone for these vulgarisms, who that has heard the
syren strains of Stephens or Paton, or the Anglo-Italian style of
Braham, but has envied them the pleasurable monopoly of delighting
thousands, and sending them home with the favourite air still echoing in
their ears, and lulling them to soft slumbers! Who is there that has
enjoyed his circle of friends without regretting a thousand times that
he had not a fiftieth part of such talent to enliven the festive hour,
and lend a charm, however, fleeting, to what may be termed the poetry of
life.

As we have noticed the taste of the Greeks for music, it is but fair
that we should allude to that of their successors. In ancient Rome,
music was never popular. Combats of gladiators and wild beasts filled
their theatres with streams of blood, instead of their resounding with
music; and after the death of Nero,[1] that beautiful art was declared
infamous, and by a public decree, banished from the city. In our
theatres, however, heroes fight to music, from the Richard III. and
Richmond of Shakspeare to the "terrific combats" of modern melodrame.