The Press.
London, England, 1856-07-12 00:00:00

From political speculation, let us turn to
more pleasing topics. Upon music let us
hear Mr. St. John discourse :
Music is an exquisite accomplishment and a beautiftll
art; but the frantic admiration felt by some people for its
professors seems to me the evidence of a mind more deeply
immersed than usual in matter. At any rate, those who
can 10 rapturously appreciate pretty sounds are generally
little capable of understanding the value of words ; and as
speech affords the chief element in the definition of our
species, I may be permitted to place merely " musical
people " on the extreme verge of humanity towards the
frontiers of beastdom. I know that in so saying T expose
myself to all manner of sneers and witty retorts,—" The
man that has no music," &c. But I have all political
philosophers and stern moralists on my side. Observe in
private life : whenever you meet an individual whose occu•
potion or chief pleasure is music ; who talks much of
Erard ; who pesters you with his opinion that Beethoven and
gbakspeare are on the same level ; who produces a Jew's.
harp, or any other instrument, in the midst of conversation,
and proposes a " little rational amusement," be sure he
will take an opportunity of telling you that lie does not
care about polities,—that is to say, is indifferent to the
general interests of humanity. It is my private conviction
that every man in a free country who tells you that he
doesn't care about politics, makes a profession of dishonesty
—because he profits by the advantages without sharing the
fatigues of freedom: but this is not the thesis I would now
maintain. I speak especially of Italy, and must attribute
a considerable amount of its misfortunes and degradation
to the prevalence of catgut and squalling.
There is truth exaggerated into absurdity in
the foregoing passage. Frantic enthusiasm
about scenery, poetry, or even politics, is just
as ridiculous as about music. As a general
rule, however, our own great British states-
man, and orators, and politicians, have not
been musical in their tastes. The only one
that we can call to mind as a musical per-
former of skill was Curran.

There are some nice descriptions of scenery
scattered through the first of these volumes;
and to any one meditating a " Subalpine "
tour this work, with its varied contents, will
be a capital guide-book. The best passage in
the work is the description of the scenery
about Turin:—

The resident in Turin, however, when in search of
something to gladden his eye, and repose or elevate his
mind, has a resource the equal of which is found in few
places. He can go to any commanding point of the Hill
of Turin across the river, to gaze at the panorama of the
Alps. The nearest and best position is, perhaps, the ter-
race of the convent of the Capucins of the Hill. There-
from you receive the most agreeable impression of the city
of Turin itself ; indeed, you are led to suppose that few
cities are more admirably laid out. The uniformity of
Turin is a uniformity that pleases in a map or a model,
and in a bird's-eye view. The church towers and spires,
rising on all hands, break the straight lines. Even the un-
wieldy castle, with its observatory, seems a fine feature.
But what makes the scene so pleasing, and really gives a
wonderful character to the city, is its magnificent position
on the edge of a plain covered with trees and woods, and
clotted with houses and villages, and intersected by large
avenues, stretching out like the ribs of a fan, in all direc-
tions, up to the foot of the Alps, which rise abruptly like
stage•mountains from the green level in one wide semi-
circle all round from Mon Viso on the left to Monte Rosa
on the right.

But you do not immediately conceive the noble grandeur
of the scene. Those must be lofty hills certainly, but you
have nothing to compare them with. The sun is perhaps
behind the convent tower, and overhead is nought but a
fbrmless solitude of light. You bring your glances near,
and look over the parapet down the steep green slope,
half concealed by chestnut-trees. There is a road at the
bottom, on which the people look very small indeed; and,
after a slip of land with a fringe of houses, there is the
broad river, with a sort of tiny gcndolas passing to and
fro in the shining reach, between the bridge of iron
and the bridge of stone. The Valentino Palace out there
to the left, among groves and avenues, is already a dis-
tant object. The city, which yet is more than a league
in circumference, may be taken in at a glance. All the
palaces and borgoes in the environs, though visible, seem
far off. The great cemetery is reduced to a little inclosnre.
The Veneria cannot be made out. Where the plain begins
to undulate, forms have ceased to be distinguishable.
Colours, faint and melting into one another, alone are
visible. It is no haze, but distance, that makes all out-
lines indistinct. But yon lift up your eyes, and there,
close by, as it were within reach of the hand, are wild
slopes, and valleys, and rocks, and woods, and white peaks;
and then at length you know and feel that those slopes are
provinces, those valleys plains, those rocks huge deserts,
those woods primeval forests, those white peaks measure-
less expanses of snow and ice.

The volumes are decidedly "seasonable ; "
their contents are various, as there is some-
thing in them to interest every person, and
we can cordially recommend them to general
readers. But, for the reasons hinted at by
us, politicians will cautiously accept Mr. Bayle
St. John's views upon Piedmontese statesman-
ship.