NO. X.—SATURDAY, MAY 16, 1807.

FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR.

The long interval which has elapsed since the publication of our last number, like many other remarkable events, has given rise to much conjecture and excited considerable solicitude. It is but a day or two since I heard a knowing young gentleman observe, that he suspected Salmagundi would be a nine days wonder, and had even prophesied that the ninth would be our last effort. But the age of prophecy, as well as that of chivalry, is past; and no reasonable man should now venture to foretell aught but what he is determined to bring about himself. He may then, if he please, monopolize prediction, and be honored as a prophet even in his own country.

Though I hold whether we write, or not write, to be none of the public’s business, yet as I have just heard of the loss of three thousand votes at least to the Clintonians, I feel in a remarkably dulcet humor thereupon, and will give some account of the reasons which induced us to resume our useful labors, or rather our amusement; for if writing cost either of us a moment’s labor, there is not a man but what would hang up his 213pen, to the great detriment of the world at large, and of our publisher in particular; who has actually bought himself a pair of trunk breeches, with the profits of our writings!!

He informs me that several persons having called last Saturday for No. X, took the disappointment so much to heart that he really apprehended some terrible catastrophe; and one good-looking man, in particular, declared his intention of quitting the country if the work was not continued. Add to this, the town has grown quite melancholy in the last fortnight; and several young ladies have declared, in my hearing, that if another number did not make its appearance soon, they would be obliged to amuse themselves with teasing their beaux and making them miserable. Now I assure my readers there was no flattery in this, for they no more suspected me of being Launcelot Langstaff than they suspected me of being the emperor of China, or the man in the moon.

I have also received several letters complaining of our indolent procrastination; and one of my correspondents assures me, that a number of young gentlemen, who had not read a book through since they left school, but who have taken a wonderful liking to our paper, will certainly relapse into their old habits unless we go on.

For the sake, therefore, of all these good people, and most especially for the satisfaction of the ladies, every one of whom we would love, if we possibly could, I have again wielded my pen 214with a most hearty determination to set the whole world to rights; to make cherubims and seraphs of all the fair ones of this enchanting town, and raise the spirits of the poor Federalists, who, in truth, seem to be in a sad taking, ever since the American-Ticket met with the accident of being so unhappily thrown out.

TO LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ.

Sir:—I felt myself hurt and offended by Mr. Evergreen’s terrible philippic against modern music, in No. II. of your work, and was under serious apprehension that his strictures might bring the art, which I have the honor to profess, into contempt. The opinion of yourself and fraternity appears indeed to have a wonderful effect upon the town. I am told the ladies are all employed in reading Bunyan and “Pamela,” and the waltz has been entirely forsaken ever since the winter balls have closed. Under these apprehensions I should have addressed you before, had I not been sedulously employed, while the theatre continued open, in supporting the astonishing variety of the orchestra, and in composing a new chime of Bob-Major for Trinity Church, to be rung during the summer, beginning with ding-dong di-do, instead of di-do ding-dong. The citizens, especially those who live in the neighborhood of that harmonious quarter, will, no doubt, be infinitely delighted with this novelty.

215But to the object of this communication. So far, sir, from agreeing with Mr. Evergreen in thinking that all modern music is but the mere dregs and drainings of the ancient, I trust, before this letter is concluded, I shall convince you and him that some of the late professors of this enchanting art have completely distanced the paltry efforts of the ancients; and that I, in particular, have at length brought it almost to absolute perfection.

The Greeks, simple souls! were astonished at the powers of Orpheus, who made the woods and rocks dance to his lyre;—of Amphion, who converted crotchets into bricks, and quavers into mortar; and of Arion, who won upon the compassion of the fishes. In the fervency of admiration, their poets fabled that Apollo had lent them his lyre, and inspired them with his own spirit of harmony. What then would they have said had they witnessed the wonderful effects of my skill? had they heard me in the compass of a single piece, describe in glowing notes one of the most sublime operations of nature; and not only make inanimate objects dance, but even speak; and not only speak, but speak in strains of exquisite harmony?

Let me not, however, be understood to say that I am the sole author of this extraordinary improvement in the art, for I confess I took the hint of many of my discoveries from some of those meritorious productions that have lately come abroad and made so much noise under the title of overtures. From some of these, as, for 216instance, Lodoiska, and the battle of Marengo, a gentleman, or a captain in the city militia, or an amazonian young lady may indeed acquire a tolerable idea of military tactics, and become very well experienced in the firing of musketry, the roaring of cannon, the rattling of drums, the whistling of fifes, braying of trumpets, groans of the dying, the trampling of cavalry, without ever going to the wars; but it is more especially in the art of imitating inimitable things, and giving the language of every passion and sentiment of the human mind, so as entirely to do away the necessity of speech, that I particularly excel the most celebrated musicians of ancient and modern times.

I think, sir, I may venture to say there is not a sound in the whole compass of nature which I cannot imitate, and even improve upon—nay, what I consider the perfection of my art, I have discovered a method of expressing, in the most striking manner, that undefinable, indescribable silence which accompanies the falling of snow.

In order to prove to you that I do not arrogate to myself what I am unable to perform, I will detail to you the different movements of a grand piece, which I pride myself upon exceedingly, called the “Breaking up of the Ice in the North River.”

The piece opens with a gentle andante affetuoso, which ushers you into the Assembly-room in the State House at Albany, where the speaker addresses the farewell speech, informing the members that the ice is about breaking up, and 217thanking them for their great services and good behavior in a manner so pathetic as to bring tears into their eyes.—Flourish of Jack-a-donkeys.—Ice cracks; Albany in a hubbub—air, “Three children sliding on the ice, all on a summer’s day.”—Citizens quarreling in Dutch;—chorus of a tin trumpet, a cracked fiddle, and a handsaw!—allegro moderato.—Hard frost—this, if given with proper spirit, has a charming effect, and sets everybody’s teeth chattering.—Symptoms of snow—consultation of old women who complain of pains in the bones and rheumatics;—air, “There was an old woman tossed up in a blanket,” etc.—allegro staccato; wagon breaks into the ice—people all run to see what is the matter; air, siciliano—“Can you row the boat ashore, Billy boy, Billy boy?”—andante—frost fish froze up in the ice—air, “Ho, why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray, and why does thy nose look so blue?”—Flourish of twopenny trumpets and rattles—consultation of the North River Society—determine to set the North River on fire, as soon as it will burn—air, “O, what a fine kettle of fish.”

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 218her 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 219by 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 220simple 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.

221But 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.