not a pagan, a worshipper of Ahriman, a
follower of Zoroaster, or a disciple of Tom
Paine, yet I am constrained to confess, that I
can discern no difference at all between
sacred and secular music, that should render
the performance of the first permissible, and
of the second obnoxious as impious on the
Sabbath-day. Music may be grave or gay,
lively or plaintive, but it is always sacred.
It is an art. Its every phase can soften,
refine, subdue, charm, refresh, console, humanise,
elevate, improve. When it is coarse
or vulgar, it is not music at all, but sound
prostituted. So would I have no bad music
allowed either on Sundays or week-days
anywhere, but good music; what nice and
conceited sciolist is to weigh the nice distinctions
between the sacred and profane,—to
tell me which is lay and which is clerical
music? The Dead March in Saul, played in
quick measure, is a jig; Adeste Fideles, is as
triumphant, joyous, brilliant, mirthful, as the
Happy, Happy, duet in Acis and Galatea.
My Mother bids me bind my Hair, is as
plaintive as any air in any oratorio in
existence: and so is Auld Robin Gray.
Sound the Loud Timbrel, is in its actual
time, almost a polka. Who can call that
tremendous deep burst of joy and praise
—that chorus or choruses, the Hallelujah;
to which we, cold-blooded, fleshy, phlegmatic
Englishmen even, accord the tribute of standing
up uncovered whenever it is performed,—
who can call the Hallelujah Chorus sacred in
the Sternhold and Hopkins' sense of the word?
Sacred it is as the master-piece of a great
musician, but it is no sour canticle, no nasal
chant. It is a triumphant pæan of happiness
and thankfulness; it is the voice of all
humanity, singing, not miserably, not
dolefully, not with a mouth whose lips are cracked
with vinegar, and whose tongue saturated
with gall, and whose teeth on edge with
bitter doctrine, and whose throat half-choked
with a starched neck-cloth, but with full
expansive lungs, with a heart beating with
pleasure, with nerves strung with strong
reliance and cheerful faith, with a whole
spirit loudly, jubilantly giving thanks for the
sun, the seas, the fields, the seed-time, and
the harvest, for the merciful present and the
merciful to come. Old Rowland Hill was
right in his generation when he declared
that he could not see why the devil should
have all the good tunes to himself,— and
followed his declaration by having the words in
his hymnbook set to the best secular tunes.
But I will go farther than Rowland Hill. I
cannot see why the devil should have any
good tunes. Let us respect and cherish,
ennoble and protect the art of music, and
there shall speedily be no harm in music,
secular or sacred, on Sundays.

Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander.
In the name of common sense, if the Star
steam-packet is allowed to start every Sunday
morning for Gravesend with a brass-band
on board, that plays gaily all the way to the
suburban watering-place— if at Woolwich
towards seven o'clock you may hear the
Artillery band tuning up for the officers'
mess, why should the crowds who now
wander purposeless about the streets and
parks of London be deprived of a cheap,
wholesome, and sensible gratification? Which
is best— to listen to the overture to Oberon
in Kensington Gardens, or to brood over a
tap-room table, muttering out the latest
false or true news of the Turco-Russian
war, or growling out the odds on the next
Derby, or spelling out over a misanthropic
pipe the record of the last prize-fight? Which
is best—to go to a Sunday bed in pure weariness,
or skulk about street corners and against
posts till the public-houses open, and gnash
your teeth with impotent abuse of the legislature
when they close, or maunder over a
pamphlet on raw cotton in a deserted club-room
—or to saunter on the green grass beneath the
green trees, surrounded by happy groups, gay
colours, kind voices, silver laughter, children
spangling the sward like daisies, manhood in
its prime, beauty in its flower, old age in
reverent complacency—all kept together, not
by strong excitement, not by frenzied
declamation, not by fireworks or jugglers' feats
or quacks' orations, but by the simple,
tender tie of a few musical chords, of a
pretty tune or two played by a score of men
in red coats? We might have the grass and
the trees, the children and the daisies, you
say, without the music. If we need recreation,
we might walk in the fields or the lanes.
Yes; and I have seen a cow in a field, and
she was chewing the cud, and a donkey in a
by-lane, and he was munching thistles. If
I wish to ruminate, to be alone, to be
Misanthropes and hate mankind, I know where to
walk; but if I wish to see my fellows around
me pleasurably occupied (for what is
happiness but delightful labour, and doing
good actions the most delightful labour of
all!), and by some harmless music pleased,
and thereby rendering the best and sweetest
thanks to that Giver whom (as good Bishop
Taylor phrases it) we cannot please unless
we be infinitely pleased ourselves — then
thither will I go; and thither, too, I went
only two Sundays ago, into Kensington
Gardens, where sixty thousand persons (and
not one pickpocket—apparent, at least), of
every rank and grade in life, were collected
to hear the band play. I forgive Sir
BENJAMIN HALL much red tape, past, present
and to come, for this one sensible concession
of his.

The band playing in Kensington Gardens!
Till within the last month, this celebration
taking place during the summer months
twice a-week was, with some few exceptions,
an exclusively aristocratic amusement. Some
ragged waifs and strays of bad or miserable
humanity—some heaps of tatters that had
souls inside, but very little corporeal life—