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6 scgngs. Tfy Judge Augustus 'Baldlvin Longstreet. THE SONG. It is not to avoid the malediction of Shakespeare upon such “as have not music in themselves, and are not charmed with the concord of sweet sounds,” that I profess to be fond of music; but because I am, in truth, extravagantly fond of it. But I am not fond of French music; and as for the Italian, I think that any one who will dare to inflict it upon an American ear, ought to be sent to the penitentiary without a trial. It is true that some of the simple, national French airs are very fine; but there is not one in a thousand Italian tunes, simple or com- The German compositions are decid edly the best from the continent of pound, which is not manslaughter. Europe; but even these are, of late, partaking so much of the vices of France and Italy, that they have be come scarcely sufferable. As yet, however, they may be safely admitted into a land of liberty and sense. Scotland has escaped the corrup tions which have crept into the empire of music, and, consequently, her mu sic recommends itself, with irresist ible charms, to every ear which is not vitiated by the senseless rattle of the continent. Ireland is a little more contaminated; but still her composi tions retain enough of their primitive simplicity and sweetness to entitle them to the patronage of all who would culti vate a correct taste in this interest ing department of fine arts. I would not be understood as speaking here without any limitations or restric tions; but I do maintain that, with some few r exceptions, all of the soul of music which is now left in the world is to be found in Scotland or Ireland. But Germans, Frenchmen, and Ital ians are decidedly the best, that is, the most expert, performers in the world. They perform all over the world, and, In order to exhibit themselves to the best advantage, they select the most difficult and complicated pieces. The people at large presume that the best performers must be the best judges of music, and must take the best se lections; they therefore forego the trouble of forming an opinion of their own, and pin their faith upon the de cisions, or, rather, the practice of the amateurs. It was somehow in this way, I presume, that the fashionable music of the day first obtained cur rency. Having become prevalent, it has become tolerable; just as has the use of tobacco or ardent spirits. And. while upon this bead. 1 would earnestly recommend to the friends of reform in our favored country to es tablish an “Anti-mad-music Society,” in order to suppress, if possible, the cruelties of our modern musical en tertainments. If the instrumental music of France and Italy be bad, their vocal music is, if possible, a thousand times worse. Neither the English nor the Georgia language furnishes me with a term ex pressive of the horrors of a French or Italian song, as it is agonized forth by one of their professed singers. The law should make it justifiable homi cide in any man to kill an Italian in the very act of inflicting an il pensero so upon a refined American ear. And yet, with all the other Euro pean abominations which have crept into our highly-favored country, the French and Italian style of singing and playing has made its way hither; and it is not uncommon to hear our boarding-school misses piping away, not merely in the style, but in the very language of these nations. This I can bear very well if there happen to be a Frenchman or an Italian present, THE WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN because I know that he.suffers more from the words than I do from the music; for I confess that upon such occasions I feel something of the sav age malignity which visits the sins of a nation upon any of its citizens. But it most frequently happens that I am put to the fortunes of which I have been speaking without this miti gation. It was thus with me a few evenings ago, at Mrs. B —’s party. Tea had been disposed of, and the nonsensical chitchat of such occasions had begun to flag, when I invited Miss Mary Williams to the piano. She rose promptly at my request, without any affected airs, and with no other apol ogy than that “she felt some diffidence at playing in the presence of Miss Crump.” The piano was an admirable one, and its tones were exquisitely fine. Mary seated herself at it, and, after a short but beautiful prelude, she commenced one of Burns’ plaint ive songs, to a tune w’hich was new to me, but which was obviously from the poet’s own land, and by one who felt the inspiration of his verse. The honored by the performer. Mary’s voice was inimitably fine. Her enun composer and the poet were both ciation was clear and distinct, with just emphasis enough to give the verse its appropriate expression, without in terrupting the melody of the music; and her modulations were perfect. She had closed, and was in the act of rising, before I awoke from the delightful revery into which she had lulled me. I arrested, her however, and insisted upon her proceding; when she gave me one of Allan Ramsay’s best, to measure equally appropriate. This she followed with Tannahill’s “Gloomy Winter’s Now Awa,” and was again retiring, when my friend Hall observ ed, “See, Miss Mary, you’ve brought a tear to Mr. Baldwin’s eye, and you must not cease until you chase it away with some lively air.” My friend was right. The touching pathos of Mary’s voice, conspiring with a train of re flections which the song inspired, had really brought me to tears. I thought of poor Tannahill’s fate. He was the victim of a bookseller’s stupidity. With men of taste and letters, his fu gitive pieces, particularly his lyrics, had gained him a well-deserved reputa tion; but he was not exempt from the common lot of authors. He was attacked by the ignorant and the invid ious; and, with the hopeless design of silencing these, he prepared a volume or more of his poems with great care, and sent them to a bookseller for pub lication. After the lapse of several weeks, they were returned without a compliment or an order for them. The mortification and disappointment were too severe for his reason. It deserted him, and soon after he was found dead in a tunnel of the burn which had been the scene of one of his earliest songs. Unfortunately, in his madness he de stroyed his favorite works. Such was the train of reflection from which Mary was kind enough, at the request of my friend, to relieve me by a lively Irish air.. Had it not been admirably selected, I could hardly have borne the transition. But there was enough of softening melody, min gled with the sprightliness of the air, to lead me gently to a gayer mood, in which she left me. Tn the meantime, most of the young ladies and gentlemen had formed a circle round Miss Aurelia Emma The odosia Augusta Crump, and were ear nestly engaged in pressing her to play. One young lady even went so far as to drop on her knees before her, and in this posture to beseech “her dear Au gusta just to play the delightful over- ture of ,” something that sounded to me like “Blaze in the frets.” This petition was urged with such a melting sweetness of voice, such a bewitching leer at the gentlemen, and such a the atric heave of the bosom, that it threw the young gentlemen into transports. Hall was rude enough to whisper in mine ear, “That he thought it indelicate to expose an unmantled bosom to a perpendicular view of a large company;” and he muttered something about “republican simpic ity,” I knew'not exactly what. But I assured him the fair petitioner was so overcome by her solicitude for the overture, that "she thought of nothing else, and was wholly unconscious that there was a gentleman in the room. As to his insinuation about “points of view,” I convinced him by an easy argument that it was wholly unfound ed; for that this was the very point of view in which an exposed neck must always be seen, while men con tinue taller than women; and that, as the young lady must have been ap prized of this, she would hardly take so much trouble for nothing. But to return. Miss Crump was inexorable. She declared that she was entirely out of practice. “She scarcely ever touched the piano;” mamma was always scold ing her for giving so much of her time to French and Italian, and neg lecting her music and painting; hut she told mamma the other day that it really was so irksome to her quit Ra cine and Dante, and go to thrumming upon the piano, that, but for the obli gations of filial obedience, she did not think she should ever touch it again.” Here Mrs. Crump was kind enough, by the merest accident in the world, to interpose, and to relieve the com pany from further anxiety. “Augusta, my dear,” said she, “go and play a tune or two; the company will excuse your hoarseness.” Miss Crump rose immediately at her mother’s bidding, and moved to the piano, accompanied by a large group of smiling faces. “Poor child,” said Mrs. Crump, as she went forward, “she is frightened to death. 1 wish Augusta could over come her diffidence.” Miss Crump was educated at Phila delphia; she had been taught to sing by Madam Piggisqueaki, who was a pupil of Ma’m’selle Crolcifroggietta, who had sung with Madam Catalan!; and she had taken lessons on the piano from Signor Buzzifussi, who had played with Paganini. She seated herself at the piano, rocked to the right, then to the left, leaned forward, then backward, and began. She placed her right hand about midway the keys, and her left about two octaves below it. She now put off to the right in a brisk canter up to the treble notes, and the left after it. The left then led the way back, and the right pursued it in like manner. The right turned, and re peated its first movement; but the left outran it this time, hopped over it, and flung it entirely off the track. It came in again, however, behind the left on its return, and passed it in the same style. They now became highly incensed at each other, and met furiously on the middle ground. Here a most awful conflict ensued for about the space of ten seconds, when the right whipped off all of a sudden, as I thought, fairly vanquish ed. But I was in the error against which Jack Randolph cautions us: “It had only fallen back to a stronger position.” It mounted upon two black keys, and commenced the note of a rattlesnake. This had a wonderful ef fect upon the left, and placed the doc trine of “snake charming” beyond dis pute. The left rushed furiously to wards it repeatedly, but seemed in variably panic-struck when it came within six keys of It, and as invaria bly retired with a tremendous roaring down the bass keys. It continued its assaults, sometimes by the way of the naturals, sometimes by the way of the sharps, and sometimes by a zigzag through both; but all its attempts to dislodge the right from its stronghold proving ineffectual, it came close up to its adversary and expired. Any one, or rather no one, can imagine what kind of noises the piano gave forth during the conflict. Cer tain it is, no one can describe them, and, therefore, I shall not attempt it. The battle ended, Miss Augusta moved as though she would have arisen, but this was protested against by a number of voices at once: “One song, my dear Aurelia,” said Miss Small; “you must sing that sweet lit tle French air you used to sing in Philadelphia, and which Madam Piggi squeaki was so fond of.” Miss Augusta looked pitifully at her mamma, and her mamma looked “sing” at Miss Augusta; accordingly, she squared herself for a song. She brought her hands to the cam pus this time in fine style, and they seemed now to be perfectly reconciled to each other. They commenced a kind of colloquy; the right whisper ing treble very softly, and the left re sponding bass very loudly. The con ference had been kept up until I be gan to desire a change of the subject, when my ear caught, indistinctly, some very curious sounds, which ap peared to proceed from the lips of Miss Augusta; they seemed to be compounded of a dry cough, a grunt, a hiccough, and a whisper; and they were introduced, it appeared to me, as interpreters between the right and left. Things progressed in this way for about the space of fifteen seconds, when I happened to direct my atten tion to Mr. Jenkins, from Philadelphia. His eyes were closed, his head rolled gracefully from side to side; a beam of heavenly complacency rested upon his countenance, and his whole man gave irresistible demonstration that Miss Crump’s music made "him feel good all over. I had just turned from the contemplation of Mr. Jenkins’ transports, to see whether I could ex tract from the performance anything intelligible, when Miss Crump made a fly-catching grab at half a dozen keys in a row, and at the same instant she fetched a long, dunghill-cock crow, at the conclusion of which she grabbed as many keys with the left. This came over Jenkins like a warm bath, and over me like a rake of bamboo briers. My nerves had not recovered from this shock before 'Miss Augusta re peated the movement, and accompa nied it with a squall of a pinched cat. This threw me into an ague fit; but, from respect to the performer, I main tained my position. She now made a third grasp with the right, boxed the faces of six keys in a row with the left, and at the same time raised one of the most unearthly howls that ever issued from the throat of a human being. This seemed the signal for universal uproar and destruction. She now threw away ’all reserve, and charged the piano with her whole force. She boxed it, she clawed it, she raked it, she scraped it. Her neck vein swelled, her chin flew up, her face flushed, her eye blared, her bosom heaved; she screamed, she howled, she yelled, cackled, and was in the act of dwelling upon the note of a screech owl, when I took the St. Vitus dance and rushed out of the room. “Good Lord,” said a by-stander, “if this be her singing, what must her crying be!” As I reached the door, I heard a voice exchaim, “By heavens! she’s the most enchanting performer I ever heard in my life!” I turned to see who was the author of thia ill timed compliment, and who should It be but Nick Truck, from Lincoln, who