NOTES BY THE WAY.'

WE have thought it expedient to substitute for our Literary Notices, such notes upon topics of the day as may be consistent with our character, and possess more than a temporary interest.

These "Notes" will refer always to that topic of conversation during the past month which shall appear most worthy of illustration;-not to the mere talk of an hour, or the trivial fashions of the day; nor to that more protracted, if not altogether eternal, talk of Corn Laws and Customs, or any other laws and customs which, by much talking, can conveniently be mystified. We have often considered, in case a great genius should arise whose resplendent powers of reason could be sufficient to convince every man of the real right and wrong of the Corn Law question, the Poor Law question, the Ireland question, and all the other questions,—what all the male gossips would have left to talk about. Doubtless the common interchange of convictions on the state of the weather would then be necessarily prolonged, and men would divaricate, when they met, into the theory of the winds, meteorites, and lunar volcanics. This by the way. To return to our "Notes."-Once a month, we will hope, the world gains a fashion to converse on something which has really, independent of controversy, an enduring interest. This one topic, whatever it may be, we shall seek for. Last month we found

THE STABAT MATER.

Towards the conclusion of the fourteenth century, an unusual torrent of religious feeling poured over the whole of Europe. Taking its rise in the south of France, it seems to have spread from thence over Spain, Germany, and Italy, with inconceivable rapidity. Before its mighty flow all the interests of earth were swept away--trade, politics, neglected; whole towns and villages were deserted by their inhabitants, who wandered, clothed in white, as pilgrims to the holy shrine. Ballads and love-songs were forgotten or laid aside, and holy hymns were studied in their place. It was in this period that the "Stabat Mater" was composed. The name of its author is unknown. Some have asserted it, upon no authority whatever, to be an early work of Petrarch; but it does not need so absurd a theory, or so great a name, to recommend the "Stabat Mater." The subject of this noble hymn is one of the finest that can be imagined ;—the tender mother of the Saviour of mankind, weeping at the cross's foot, and gazing, with bitter lamentation, on the agonies of her expiring son. This is a subject, not for mere poetry, but piety, to treat; and earnest, zealous piety of a nature such as-nothing less-the religious enthusiasm of that age might have produced. This, too, is most evidently the qualification possessed by the unknown author of the "Stabat." The earnest simplicity, the deep trembling tone of feeling breathed in every word, tell of a heart painfully impressed with the magnificence of the event it is contemplating. In the line, "Et mærebat, et dolebat, cum videbat," &c., what deep emotion of the writer does not its very rhythm convey! And to melody as simple and as touching, we may conceive this hymn first to have been sung.

It was not until the commencement of the eighteenth century that the "Stabat Mater" was made a subject of studied composition. Pergolese, a young

Florentine artist, having made himself master of all the ponderous laws by which the science of music was at that time oppressed, yielded himself up to the dictates of his own imagination, and composed the exquisite melodies his soul conceived, in perfect retirement from and independence of the world. His compositions met with no success. The change to such perfect simple harmony was too great for an ear long accustomed to admire more labyrinthine compositions, and Pergolese was neglected. After his death, however, full justice was awarded. Unsuccessful operas were revived with magnificence, and applauded to the echo-an honour that had been denied to the most popular composers. His style was lauded-imitated; composition flowed in a new channel, and Pergolese is now admitted to form an epoch in the history of music. Exquisitely plaintive melody forms the character of this composer. In early life, he died of a decline. One of his last works (we believe it was the last but one) written shortly previous to his death, was the “ Stabat Mater,” the most celebrated of his compositions. In it he has poured forth all his characteristic pathos in a torrent of the richest melody. The feelings of the hearer are carried away, throughout the whole, in tearful emotion; and at the end, by a beautiful conception, the " Amen," dying away, and yet renewed within itself, seems unable to suppress its lamentation, sighing and weeping for the afflicted mother, with a sympathy it strives, yet is unable, to restrain.

Since the time of Pergolese, various other musicians have composed a Stabat Mater; but the peculiar character of the author's mind infused into the first has caused it to remain unequalled.

The "Stabat" of Haydn was performed in England but with only temporary

success.

The last, and most celebrated, has been the "Stabat Mater" of Rossini, at present being performed in London, with a degree of applause dependent entirely upon the favourable prejudice that aids a work which abroad has been so decidedly triumphant. London has not, however, greeted Rossini's "Stabat Mater" with the enthusiasm that was anticipated, although a high meed of approbation in justice could not be denied. The characters of Pergolese and Rossini draw the true distinction between their respective works. The one, a man whose soul was melody, raised to heavenly meditation by the knowledge that his days were numbered, and that disease was at his side, leading him to an early and a certain grave-melancholy, too, as one whose well-founded hopes have been blighted by ignorance and prejudice; the other, equally filled with purest melody, but accustomed to live the admired of all in the gayest whirl of society-the man of the world, the man of pleasure. Rossini's operas are beyond the reach of censure; his "Stabat" is the work of an accomplished master, with all the melody his theme requires, but none of the devotion. We listen with delight; yet, the while, our hearts are cold. Not a solemn thought does it awaken; no thought, in fact, beyond admiration of the music; and the “Amen” inspires us not with that: though, if not, like Pergolese's, lamenting, it certainly is lamentable-as a failure.

It has been fabled that Pergolese met with his death, as he was coming out of the cathedral, from the sword of a rival composer, who had been struck with envy on listening to the "Stabat Mater." Unfortunately for poetry, this is altogether untrue; else what a glorious death-to have expired with the last mournful tones of his own offering to Heaven solemnly dying on his ears!

THE

KING'S COLLEGE MAGAZINE.

SEPTEMBER, 1842.

ELLERTON CASTLE;

A Romance.

BY "FITZROY PIKE."

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

TREATS OF THREE MIDNIGHT VISITORS TO THE RUINS OF ELLERTON CASTLE.

BEFORE we proceed, it is demanded that we state certain facts relative to the preceding chapters, which, no doubt, the reader has already supplied out of the private funds of his own imagination.

When Kate Westrill was carried off by Simon Byre before the eyes of Annette de Vermont, Annette, so soon as she had recovered from her surprise, hurried back to alarm the house, and call the inmates to her rescue. Heringford, Mat Maybird, and Sir Hubert de St. Fay, followed immediately in pursuit, leaving to De Vermont the duties of the master, and Willie Bats, as much by his own desire as by the especial commands of his Cicely, followed also, to do his best for the recovery of Kate Westrill. Mat Maybird led them to the cave ;-how they found it, and what induced them to suspect that the conspirators were there, what little we quoted of the old chronicles of Ellerton has been sufficient to explain; they remained therefore in the village, at Heringford's cottage.

Now, in that same night to which the events of the last two chapters are referred, Willie Bats dreamed a dream,-and the dream was a dream of a treasure,-and the treasure was concealed among the ruins of Ellerton Castle. Awaking after this dream,

and observing that it was bright moonlight, he considered it would be more profitable to seek this treasure, than to turn himself to sleep again in idleness. So Willie Bats arose, and the noise he made while searching about the cottage for a pickaxe and a spade, aroused Mat Maybird. Mat, guessed, for he knew by experience the idea with which Willie was possessed; and calling to Heringford, -for he needed not to awaken one to whom by misery sleep had been denied,-proposed to follow the treasure-hunter, for the perpetration of any jest, to which occasion might give opportunity. Edward had but little thought of jesting, yet he arose; for he had long been weary of his bed, and thought to find, perhaps, under the canopy of heaven, the peace which sleep would not afford. When, therefore, Willie had found the pickaxe and departed, Mat Maybird and Edward followed. Willie bent his steps directly towards the castle, but as they passed beneath the cliff, Mat Maybird discovered Kate Westrill in her perilous position, and Mat and Heringford were thenceforth occupied in the more important adventure recently narrated. Willie Bats, therefore, went on his way alone, and when he had arrived at the castle ruins, proceeded immediately to the spot indicated by his dream, without staying for an instant to moralize on the long shadows that the moonlight cast, the light that streamed from the windows as though the grim ruin had regained its tenants, or indeed on anything at all, except so far upon the moon as to observe that it fortunately permitted him to carry on his work without a lanthorn.

Placing his cap-the immortal camlet, which he considered not as yet worn out, although he did promise himself a new one on his wedding day-placing his cap very carefully upon a stone, and tucking up his sleeves, Willie Bats commenced work in good earnest; down lightly glanced his spade into the earth, and he raised it heavy with a heap of stones; and stones, and stones, and stones rose to a mountain by his side as he laboured indefatigably.

"This treasure lieth deep," said Willie, without a shadow of despair; "oh, charming Cicely, for thy sake could I but succeed! With one treasure,-I would seek no more,-how happily might we live together! Invigorated by the thought, Willie still laboured, but in vain. Willie might have whistled, for he knew a tune,-he had compounded one out of the combined melody of three slow ditties and two quick ones, together with the words of four that were exceedingly lively; but he did not whistle it, so busily

was he engaged-so busily, that he did not see the otherwise remarkable old lady who was looking on upon his operations. -eh? Who are you?"

"This treasure

To save ourselves a description we will name her-Jessamine. Willie Bats looked at the hag in undisguised astonishment.

"Thou seekest treasures here?" said she.

Willie was afraid to speak, for he was thinking about ghosts, and so he nodded his assent.

"Go, then,-go, stranger!-There is none here now. Once, when this castle stood, proud and erect, there was a treasure in it,-now it is lost-lost now! And he who owned it seeks, and seeks in vain." The hag shook her head, partly with palsy, partly with feelings that seemed compounded of sadness and exultation. Willie did not examine them minutely; he thought the spirit came to tell him of a treasure, and his heart leapt as he thought next of Cicely.

"Where is it?" cried he, eagerly, and so loudly, that even Jessamine could hear; "where is it? Only tell me where?" The withered arm of the old crone pointed to the chapel, "There!—there is a tomb there, simple and broken as was the heart of her it holds,there lies the treasure!-Wouldst know what it is ?-Dust and corruption, man; in those old times, a girl,-a lovely girl!"

Willie thought the ghost talked unpleasantly, and desired to depart; Jessamine seemed to favour his desire.

"Go," said she, "there is nought here worth searching forthere is no treasure now!"

The old woman hid her face within her hands, and continued long in silence. When she looked up again, Willie was gone; but there was another whom she saw passing in the moonlight among the ruins-he came near her soon-Sir Richard Ellerton.

"Ha!" shrieked Jessamine, "comest thou too to seek thy treasures here! Welcome, old master; I have bade thee, ere now, welcome to the castle; and I have bade thee too adieu !"

Sir Richard Ellerton turned pale, but strove to suppress his

emotions.

"I thought thou hadst perished," he replied; "cross not my path."

"Didst hope that I had perished?" replied the woman; the hopes of the wicked man are seldom justified."

"but

"Canst preach to me, too, Jessamine?" replied Sir Richard, "and that within these walls, mocking thine own iniquity? Jessamine,