Chapter XII: Part II: Great Thaw.—This consists of the most melting strains,

flowing so smoothly as to occasion a great overflowing of scientific rapture; air, “One misty moisty morning.” The House of Assembly breaks up—air, “The owls came out and flew about.”—Assemblymen embark on their way to New York—air, “The ducks and geese they all swim over, fal de ral,” etc.—Vessel sets sail—chorus of mariners—“Steer her up, and let her gang.” After this a rapid movement conducts you to New York—the North River Society hold a meeting at the corner of Wall Street, and determine to delay burning till all the Assemblymen are safe at home, for fear of consuming some of their own members, who belong to that respectable body.—Return again to the capital.—Ice floats down the river—lamentation of skaters; air, _affetuoso_—“I sigh and lament me in vain,” etc.—Albanians cutting up sturgeon; air, “O the roast beef of Albany.”—Ice runs against Polopoy’s Island with a terrible crash. This is represented by a fierce fellow travelling with his fiddle-stick over a huge bass viol, at the rate of one hundred and fifty bars per minute, and tearing the music to rags; this being what is called execution. The great body of ice passes West Point, and is saluted by three or four dismounted cannon from Fort Putnam—“Jefferson’s March,” by a full band—air, “Yankee Doodle,” with seventy-six variations, never before attempted, except by the celebrated eagle which flutters his wings over the copper-bottomed angel at Messrs. Paff’s in Broadway. Ice passes New York—conch-shell sounds at a distance—ferrymen call o-v-e-r—people run down Courtlandt Street—ferry-boat sets sail—air, accompanied by the conch-shell, We’ll all go over the ferry—Rondeau—giving a particular account of Brom, the Powles Hook admiral, who is supposed to be closely connected with the North River Society.—The Society make a grand attempt to fire the stream, but are utterly defeated by a remarkable high tide, which brings the plot to light, drowns upward of a thousand rats, and occasions twenty robins to break their necks.[60] Society, not being discouraged, apply to “Common Sense” for his lantern—air, “Nose, nose, jolly red nose.” Flock of wild geese fly over the city—old wives chatter in the fog—cocks crow at Communipaw—drums beat on Governor’s Island.—The whole to conclude with the blowing up of Sand’s powder-house.

Thus, sir, you perceive what wonderful powers of expression have been hitherto locked up in this enchanting art; a whole history is here told without the aid of speech or writing; and provided the hearer is in the least acquainted with music, he cannot mistake a single note. As to the blowing up of the powder-house, I look upon it as a _chef d’œuvre_, which I am confident will delight all modern amateurs, who very properly estimate music in proportion to the noise it makes, and delight in thundering cannon and earthquakes.

I must confess, however, it is a very difficult part to manage, and I have already broken six pianos in giving it the proper force and effect. But I do not despair, and am quite certain that by the time I have broken eight or ten more, I shall have brought it to such perfection as to be able to teach any young lady of tolerable ear to thunder it away, to the infinite delight of papa and mamma, and the great annoyance of those vandals who are so barbarous as to prefer the simple melody of a Scots air to the sublime effusions of modern musical doctors.

In my warm anticipations of future improvement I have sometimes almost convinced myself that music will, in time, be brought to such a climax of perfection as to supersede the necessity of speech and writing; and every kind of social intercourse be conducted by the flute and fiddle. The immense benefits that will result from this improvement must be plain to every man of the least consideration. In the present unhappy situation of mortals, a man has but one way of making himself perfectly understood; if he loses his speech, he must inevitably be dumb all the rest of his life; but having once learned this new musical language, the loss of speech will be a mere trifle, not worth a moment’s uneasiness. Not only this, Mr. L., but it will add much to the harmony of domestic intercourse; for it is certainly much more agreeable to hear a lady give lectures on the piano than _viva voce_, in the usual discordant measure. This manner of discoursing may also, I think, be introduced with great effect into our national assemblies, where every man, instead of wagging his tongue, should be obliged to flourish a fiddle-stick, by which means, if he said nothing to the purpose, he would, at all events, “discourse most eloquent music,” which is more than can be said of most of them present. They might also sound their own trumpets without being obliged to a hireling scribbler, for an immortality of nine days, or subjected to the censure of egotism.

But the most important result of this discovery is that it may be applied to the establishment of that great desideratum, in the learned world, a universal language. Wherever this science of music is cultivated, nothing more will be necessary than a knowledge of its alphabet; which, being almost the same everywhere, will amount to a universal medium of communication. A man may thus, with his violin under his arm, a piece of rosin, and a few bundles of catgut, fiddle his way through the world, and never be at a loss to make himself understood.

I am, etc.,
DEMY SEMIQUAVER.

THE STRANGER IN PENNSYLVANIA.

BY JEREMY COCKLOFT, THE YOUNGER.