206 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



Viol, " give us 

 one may occa- 



Trumpets and Kettle Drums (noisily).— - 

 " Silence ! hear us. What, pray, would be 

 the effect of any composition without OUR 

 assistance ? Unless we spoke, there would 

 be no one to applaud." 



Flutes. — u Noise suits the vulgar souls ; 

 but the true sublime consists in warbling''' 



First Violin. — " And but for my conduct- 

 ing, in what a mess would the whole of 

 you be ! " 



Contra- Basso.— "But, I flatter myself, I 

 sustain the entire effect. All would be dull 

 and vapid, otherwise." 



Omnes (all starting up). — "I alone am 

 the soul ! without me, no harmony would be 

 worth hearing ! " 



At this moment, the Maitre de Chapelle 

 entered the room ; and the several instru- 

 ments, alarmed (for they knew whose power- 

 ful hand could call forth and combine their 

 powers), suddenly went out of tune. 



" What !" cried he, " quarrelling again? The 

 Symphonia Eroica of Beethoven is about to 

 be performed ; and every one who can move 

 key or member will then be called upon." 



" Oh ! anything but that ! " exclaimed 

 they. 



" Rather," said the Bass 

 an Italian opera. There, 

 sionally nod." 



"Nonsense!" replied the Maitre de Cha- 

 pelle. " Do you imagine that, in these 

 enlightened times, when all rules in art are 

 neglected, a composer will, out of compli- 

 ment to you, cramp his divine, gigantic, high- 

 flying fancies? Regularity and perspicuity 

 are no longer studied, as by the old masters, 

 Gluck, Handel, and Mozart. No ! hear the 

 elements of the most reeent symphony that 

 I have received from Vienna ; and which 

 may serve as a prescription for all future 

 ones. First — a slow movement, full of short, 

 broken ideas, no one of which has the slightest 

 connection with the other. Every ten 

 minutes or so, a few striking chords ; then a 

 muffled rumbling on the kettle-drums, and a 

 mysterious passage or two for the bass 

 viols — all worked up with a due proportion 

 of pauses and stops. Finally, when the 

 audience has just entered into the spirit of 

 the thing, and would as soon expect the arch- 

 fiend himself as an allegro, a raging tempo ; 

 in managing which, the principal considera- 

 tion is, to avoid following up any particular 

 idea — thus leaving more for the hearer to 

 make out for himself." 



Whilst the learned Maitre de Chapelle was 

 thus declaiming, suddenly a string of the 

 guitar (which in reality hung over my head), 

 snapped, and I awoke, to my no small 

 vexation. 



I was, at that time, on the high-road to- 

 wards becoming a great composer of the 

 New School! J.D.Haas. 



WELCOME, SWEET MAY ! 



Thou Goddess, May ! thrice welcome here ; 



This is thy natal day, 

 When floral beauties all appear, 



Clad in their bright array. 



Each busy insect on the wing 



Flies forth to meet the Sun, 

 To sip the honied sweets ye bring, 



For winter's reign is done. 



The mind of man still seems to sleep, 



Nor heeds these roseate hours ! 

 Creation's Lord forgets to keep 



The Birth-day of the Flowers ! 



'Tis said that in the olden times, 



This had not wont to be ; 

 May then came in 'mid Village chimes, 



And sounds of Minstrelsy. 



The fairest daughters of the land 



Went forth to hail the day ; 

 With floral Emblems in their hand, 



They met and welcomed May. 



May always brought the rural Queen 



A Chaplet for her brow, 

 And strewed sweet Cowslips o'er the Green, 



Where still she strews them now. 



Bright Buttercups, of golden hue, 



She scatters o'er the dale — 

 The Primrose and the Harebell blue, 



And Lily in the Vale. 



And bids the Hawthorn bloom and blush, 



Each tree put on its vest; 

 Then shows the Linnet and the Thrush 



Where they may hide their nest. 



The infant buds of hope appear 



In May's maternal hand, 

 And blooms that make a fruitful year, 



To gladden British land. 



Then wherefore is the May-pole bare ? 



No Flow'rets there are found, 

 No garlands waving high in air, 



No milkmaids dancing round ! 



No more are rustic children drest, 



In wreaths of Flow'ry May, 

 Nor Youths nor Maidens in their best, 



To keep glad holiday. 



How sadly changed is now the scene ! 



No merry bells are rung ; 

 They never crown a Village Queen — 



No songs of May are sung ! 



But May is not forgotten quite — 



The Cuckoo yet is true ! 

 And the Nightingale still sings at night, 



As he was wont to do ; 



And still the Village May-pole stands, 



Just where it stood before ; 

 Still, as of old, with Flow'ry bands, 



It may be wreathed o'er. 



Again let rustic music play, 



To serenade the hours ; 

 And welcome the return of May, 



The Jubilee of Flowers ! 



