TANGLED TALK. "Sir, we had talk."-Dr. Johnson. "Better be an outlaw than not free."-Jean Paul, the Only One. "The honourablest part of talk is to give the occasion; and then to moderate again, and pass to somewhat else."—Lord Bason. IT WAS ALL THAT BULLFINCH. In the first number of "Tangled Talk," I promised occasionally to "take my readers for a ramble among out-of-the-way books." I do nt know that I should have remembered the promise just now, if it had not been for A little bird that sings, somewhere in the gardens at the back of my house, a bullfinch, probably. The "little bird that sings" does not sing as Lord Byron's did The people by-and-bye will be the stronger for it has been taught to whistle the first few bars of "There is nae luck about the house," which it does with great pertinacity. But, to-day, it seems to me to have taken up a rider to its old familiar theme, and, when it has finished "There is nae luck," to say "Browne's Pastorals, Browne's Pastorals, O dear me!" Can the soul of Browne have passed into this melodious bird? Can the soul of Browne, so located at this present hour, be supposed to know that there is "a party who writes" in the terrace, and to intimate in this way his desire to be spoken of at my first leisure to my kindest public? In his own time, Browne was sensitive to praise and dispraise, and studied the philosophy of commendation There goes the bullfinch again-"Browne's Pastorals! Browne's Pastorals! O dear me !" Bullfinch, patience! do. Browne made mistakes, as poets will Writing in the age of Shakspeare, Milton, and Ben Jonson, he says The Muses, sitting on the graves of men, With which our isle whilome was bravely stored. And, curiously enough, while he complains of detraction, there are thirty pages of "commendatory verses," from different friends,-Ben Jonson and George Withers amongst the number-prefixed to his "Pastorals." But Browne, addressed, in one of these queer laudatory poems, as— my Browne, yet brightest swain, That woons, or haunts, o'er hill and plain. really understood the philosophy of praise, and wrote some fine couplets about it. The leading idea of these has now become a common-place : * Maud, in the light of her youth and grace, Singing of death and of hours that cannot die,is a couplet in Tennyson's "Maud." True fame is ever likened to our shade; He soonest misseth her that most hath made Is not that good, reader mine? Does it not hit the feeling of every generous mind, in which there is latent or unrecognised faculty concerning praise-the sickness of soul with which it turns from incompetent platitudes-the eagerness with which it recognises the right word, in the right place, from the right speaker? And does not the last line point out why love of fame is The last infirmity of noble minds P "Fame gives a second life"—that is it; only for "second" read "multiple." The true artist values "praise," primarily, as a proof of sympathy, of multiplication of himself in the minds of others. That his "last infirmity" is something quite different from the vulgar love of personal distinction, is proved by the fact that his sensations, when he has reason to believe he has been successful in waking the echo which gives him back his own best and dearest, are not dependent upon his being known personally and by name. To be known and cherished as "the author of is, (to take the illustration from literature, as being the readiest for the purpose,) quite satisfaction enough for many a fine spirit. The extent to which the artist may wish to be known by person and by name, will depend chiefly upon the greater or less degree of retinence there may be in his character. In the majority of cases, to be known by name intensifies the consciousness of being sympathised with; but the true zest of celebrity to a true soul is not in being gaped after and talked about, but in the spiritual sympathy of which it is the proof. In regard to criticism, that only is of value to such an one which is to him the index either of sympathy already awakened, the needful discipline. or of power in him to awaken it, if he will undergo Such, I believe, would be Browne's "sentiments," expressed in modern dialect. But let Browne speak in his own dialect, for your delectation. I think this is very pretty : -- Venus, by Adonis' side AUTHORS AND BOOKSELLERS. Crying, kiss'd, and kissing cried, Stay, quoth she, oh, stay and live! On his face, still as he bled, Fair Proserpina, quoth she, Here she closed again. And some And, as a lovely maiden, pure and chaste, And so is this: Glide soft ye silver floods, And every spring; Within the shady woods, Let no birds sing! Nor from the grove a turtle dove Now, if I had a taste for hunting up correspondences and branding them as plagiarisms, I might do a fine stroke of business over Browne. That Keats had read him, I know; for the Epistle to George Shelton Mathew is headed with a quotation from the 66 Pastorals." But how about the twenty-sixth verse of the "Eve of St. Agnes," compared with that picture of the maiden retiring to rest? And if you can get over that, how about "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"? In my last excerpt from Browne occurs the line:Let no birds sing. 401 It is true, a bird is one thing, and a bell is another; but the similarity in the structure of the two lines is, in the eye of a candid criticism, quite sufficient to convict the Transatlantic Bard of a quasi plagiaristic intent, which cannot be too strongly reprobated. I hope my friend, the Browne Bullfinch, outside will be satisfied for the present. If he is not, I cannot help him, for I never in my life felt so indisposed to write as I have felt this week. The drunken clergyman, when he could not find in the prayer-book his place at the Christening Service, said, "Bless me! this infant is very difficult to baptise!" I am sorry to say I find this number of Tangled Talk very difficult to write. AUTHORS AND BOOKSELLERS. "DEAR SENHORA," wrote Robert Southey to a lady in 1826, "I am the worst person in the world to advise upon any transactions with booksellers; having been engaged with them some thirty years, and having been all that time used by them like a goose, that is to say, plucked at their mercy. This, however, I can tell you, that, deal with them as you will, they will have the lion's share; and no one can find it answer to publish on his own account, except it be by subscription, when his friends will take some trouble to assist him. You had better let the Major write to Murray, and propose the book to him. I shall see Murray in the course of three weeks, and take a place for it in the Quarterly Review, which will be giving it a hearty shove. The first thing necessary for them is to announce the translation, lest some other person should get hold of it, which, among so many hungry booksellers, and hungrier authors, will certainly be the case, unless this precaution be taken. Ꮓ As to terms, Murray will, I dare say, either halve the profits with you, or give a price which will be something less than the half would amount to; and this, in either case, when you come to re-halve it, will be little enough. Nobody knows better than myself what cuttings, and parings, and clippings, and loppings, and shearings, and clearings there are, before the poor author's share is to be measured off." I use this little extract, one of many similar that might be quoted, to introduce a word for the booksellers. I firmly believe that they are slandered in this sort of writing, that they are no worse than any other class of tradesmen. It is not from the dishonesty of the publisher, so much as from his ignorance and bad taste, that authors suffer; and he is only a middleman between them and the public, and reflects the public vulgarity and injudiciousness pretty accurately. little human compunctions and kindnesses, just like the rest of the world. THE LATE MR. DOUGLAS JERROLD. MR. HEPWORTH DIXON said, in the Athenæum, that There is one thing, apart from direct dishonesty, from which, in the present machinery by which the public is supplied with books, the book-producers do really suffer, and sometimes cruelly. I mean the "STAR-SYSTEM." I know enough of theatrical matters to know that this has been the ruin of many a manager; and under my eyes I see it daily hampering, and sometimes ruining, book sellers. To pay some comparatively extravagant price to a writer who has a name-a selling name and send the one who is comparatively unknown to the wall, is, everybody knows, the actual system. What weak and worthless things a writer who has once made a "hit " may do is quite ridiculous. And, in the meantime, the writer who has not made a hit," besides the consciousness that he is underpaid, has this additional annoyance, that, though he may have put more conscientious pains and better writing in his work than the "star," the chances are that hardly anybody will notice it. For it is a curious fact that the general public knows nothing about "writing," and by no means draws nice distinctions in the matter. Of course, pub-kind terms. lishers do not. I took up once upon a pub- Mr. Jerrold had a peculiar fondness for children. lisher's table a little book somewhat resembling in On the same evening, I heard him speak, with its character Mr. Warren's "Diary of a Late Phy-positive tears of gratification in his eyes, of a sician." The publisher noted the resemblance. I said, "Yes-only a great deal better written." The publisher stood aghast! and to this day I am sure he thinks it a fine joke. Yet I spoke the simple truth. The book was better written, and, as it had other merits, it has made way satisfactorily to all parties. My first idea, however, in quoting Southey's letter was to speak a word for the publishers. They are very ignorant, but the irtrade is full of risks and disappointments and I do not think they are as greedy as they are represented to be. My own experience has been short, but I must frankly say that I have found " the trade " very much like other human beings engaged in £ s. d. pursuits;-plainly showing that they are under pressure from without," but tempering,-inevitably so,-tempering commercial severities with sketch of Mr. Leech, in which some gutter-bred little ones were represented doing the honours of a mock party among each other. No man that ever wrote has said so much about "babies." In the middle of a political leader, you would find such an allusion as-" sweeter than the sweetest baby." And his writings are full of a gracious domestic purity, quite distinct from the clap-trap of the play-wright or the novelist, The poetry that was in Mr. Jerrold has, I sus pect, been much underrated by the general public And I will conclude these unworthy words (I would willingly have deferred flinging my little flower till in a freer writing mood than at present, but it is better done at once), by quoting a very fine passage from his "Chronicles of Clovernook," which, he told me, as, indeed, any one might guess, contained more of his true self, as he would like to be known and remembered, than any other of makes answer to them; alike to them and all to the tophis writings. most blossom of the mighty tree as to the greensward daisy, constant flower, with innocent and open look still frankly staring at the mid-day sun.” At this time the declining sun flamed goldenly in the west. It was a glorious hour. The air fell upon the heart like balm; the sky, gold and vermilion-flecked, hung, fa cclestial tent, above mortal man; and the fancy-quickened ear heard sweet, low music from the heart of earth, rejoicing in that time of gladness. "Did ever God walk the earth in finer weather ?" said the Hermit." And how gloriously the earth manifests the grandeur of the Presence! How its blood dances and glows in the Splendour! It courses the trunks of trees, and is red and golden in their blossoms. It sparkles in the myriad fowers, consuming itself in sweetness. Every little earthblossom is as an altar, burning incense. The heart of man, creative in its overflowing happiness, finds or makes a fellowship in all things. The birds have passing kindred with his winged thoughts. He hears a stranger, sweeter triumph in the skiey rapture of the lark, and the cuckooConstant egoist!-speaks to him from the deep, distant wood, with a strange swooning sound. All things living are a part of him. In all, he sees and hears a new and deep significance. In that green pyramid, row above row, what host of flowers! How beautiful and how ejoicing! What a sullen, soul-less thing, the Great Pyramid, to that Mossoming chesnut! How different the work and workmen ! A torrid monument of human wrong, haunted by flights of ghosts that not ten thousand thousand years can lay-a palseless carcase built of sweat and blood to garner rottenness. And that Pyramid of leaves grew in its strength, like silent goodness, heaven blessing it; and every year it miles, and every year it talks to fading generations. What congregation of spirits-spirits of the season!-it gathered, circle above circle, in its blossoms; and verily they speak to man with blither voice, than all the tongues of Egypt. And at this delicious season, man listens and "Evenings such as this," continued the Hermit, after a pause, "scem to me the very holiday time of death; an hour in which the slayer, throned in glory, smiles benevolently down on man. Here, on earth, he gets hard names among us for the unseemliness of his looks, and the cruelty of his doings; but in an hour like this, death seems to me loving and radiant,-a great bounty, spreading an immortal feast, and showing the glad dwelling-place he leads men to." "It would be great happiness could we always think so. For so considered, death is indeed a solemn beneficence-a smiling liberator, turning a dungeon door upon immortal day. But when death, with slow and torturing device, hovers about his groaning prey; when, like a despot cunning in his malice, he makes disease and madness his dallying serfs" "Merciful God!" cried the Hermit, "spare me that final terror! Let me not be whipped and scourged by long, long suffering to death-be dragged, a shrieking victim, downward to the grave; but let my last hour be solemn, tranquil, that so, with open, unblenched eyes, I may look at coming death, and feel upon my cheek his kiss of peace!" I think this passage will even add a zest to your enjoyment of the sunny July weather in which you will read it. May such "remembrances" of Douglas Jerrold as he would have wished us to cherish, wait upon the approaching evenings on which we hope each to inscribe his own IN MEMORIAM! GEORGE FREDERIC HANDEL. EVERY one who takes the slightest interest in Now, we can all, it is true, appreciate an ublic events, must lately have heard, over and artistic work; a picture, it may be a poem (for ver again, the name of Handel, the composer. A surely this may be considered artistic), or a ousehold name it has been for a hundred years in musical composition, without knowing the artist: England, and now it has been brought before the but if that artist be our friend, then we take a forld in advertisements of "The Handel Festival," personal interest in his production. It then bend various memoirs of Handel. Handelian litera- comes to us a living representation of his mind; are abounds on all sides; and, as if enough were we see his thoughts in each particular; we menot already said on the subject, we must even run tally wander with him while contemplating his ith the stream, and add a drop to the torrent. work, through the tangible result of his genius. Perhaps, after all, enough has not been said bout Handel; for, although more than a century nd a-half has elapsed since his birth, there are who know more of him than his mere name, ad a few of his most popular works. It may be at while admiring him as a master of his art, any have longed to inquire into his private story. To such, and indeed to all others who are to hear anything about him, our slight emoir will not be unacceptable. We would ave him in these days, when the results of his nius are brought before our notice, known for high and estimable qualities of heart as well mind. The former will gain our esteem, hile the latter will simply command our admi tion. Our readers think thus, too, and will tarry with us while we make them acquainted with a rough outline of the days of that giant of harmony, George Frederic Handel. We will not weary them with a statistical account of every ode or sonnet written by him, convinced that the proceeding could not be very interesting; but we will take them briefly through the principal paths of his life, culling as we go on, the choicest flowers he planted in his way. We will try to show them, the chequered phases of his career, and lead them to participate in his joys, and sympathise with his sorrows. Then, while listening to his compositions, they will perhaps see something more in them than the mere combination of sounds, or the scientific arrangement of musical harmonies. They will acknowledge the master mind of the man; the energy, the will, the undaunted perseverance, and untiring patience which characterised each action of his life; the determination of overcoming all difficulties, and surmounting every obstacle in the ultimate attainment of his object. It seems the fate of those who have attained eminence of any kind, to have waded to it through a dreary gulf of sorrow and disappointment. Sorrow and disappointment, we know, are the inheritance of humanity; but they appear pre-eminently to belong to the highly gifted among mankind. The common clay, the dull lethargic soul, generally passes over an even, unbroken track, from the cradle to the tomb. George Frederic Handel, or George Fridirec, as his German biographers write him, was born at Halle, in Lower Saxony, either in 1684 or 1685. The former of these dates stands on his tomb in Westminster Abbey; but the latter is generally supposed to be correct. His father was a surgeon, and wished to make his son a lawyer; but the boy, at a very early age, seems to have testified a strong predilection for the musical art. His mother's name was Dorothea Taust, the daughter of George Taust, pastor of Giebichenstein. She survived her husband for thirty-three years, but was blind before her death, on the 24th February, 1730, when she had reached eighty years of age, and her son was engaged in his London struggles. Dame Nature had whispered into his ear, "Don't be a lawyer, little George-don't waste your time over musty tomes and dry old parchments; you'll make nothing of those be a musician! I have poured the divine essence into your soul, don't quench it by the dull stream of the law.' : Little George halted between two opinions-at least, he was tossed to and fro between his father and Dame Nature. The former instructed him in Latin, and religiously kept him away from all musical temptations; the latter inspired him with a dislike to Latin, and continued wafting through his soul dulcet gleams of harmony. It was a struggle between Nature and the father, and Nature carried the day. Extraordinary anecdotes are told of the boy's precocity, some people asserting that at seven years of age, he could, selftaught, play on the spinet; and at ten, had mastered that and several other instruments. No doubt there is some truth in these assertions, but we must also expect a little exaggeration. One thing, however, is certain, he was a child of unwearied industry in the art he loved, and possessed of extreme continuity of purpose. In these two attributes, we perceive germs of that character which, combined with genius, afterwards gave the world those matchless manuscripts, which may fairly be ranked among the wonders of the human mind. Even when a child, nothing seems to have kept him from his darling recreation. Abstracted from the infantine community, taking little heed of those amusements so congenial to others of his age, we can imagine him living in a world of bis own, all his thoughts concentrated on the one ofject of music. It is probable that his mother may have encouraged his attachment to music, although his father did not approve of this degraded taste, as he called it. He looked on music as a useless occupation, one only worth the attention of an idle hour. Minims, crotchets, and quavers, fer him embodied nothing more than the tinkling of a certain assemblage of wires. The prosecution of the legal profession promised, in perspective, the tinkle of something more precious and solid than wire. So he still hoped to make the boys lawyer. He went blundering on at this notion month after month, but at length he seems to have arrived at the conclusion, that all his efforts towards the accomplishment of this end would prove abortive, and after some time tacitly acknowledged the futility of his hopes, by per mitting his son's entrance into the desecrated ground, that is to say he absolutely allowed hin to take lessons on the organ. This was a wonderful concession, but even this was but a preliminary to a more decided step; for in 1696, he allowed common sense to assert ber dominion over obstinacy and bigotry, and taking the advice of friends, sent his son to Berlin, for the express purpose of studying the musical art His genius, while it secured for him the atten tion of the professors of that city, also brought him under the notice of the Elector, who wished to become his patron; but this arrangement suiting the views of the old doctor, the boy wa immediately re-called to Halle. At this time a cloud was rising over his fate Death rested in that cloud; the winged shaft already quivered in his grasp, ere long it flew and struck the poor old doctor. In 1697 he died, leaving his son badly off, for on examination, the testamentary bequests of the defunct Handel, proved anything but a satisfactory state of his pecuniary affairs. The prosecution of the study of music became now an imperative necessity; and the child mada it the purpose and object of his life. The next six years were spent in assiduous study; and st eighteen we find him taking a part in the Germ Opera, at Hamburgh. While there a strange adventure happened to him. It appears that the situation of the organist of Lubeck becoming vacant, Handel, with some of his brothers-in-ar applied for the situation, and repaired to Lubeck for the purpose of personally advancing their dai To their astonishment on arriving at the city, they discovered, that an "incumbrance" was attaris to the vacancy in question, as the inseparable c dition of its acceptance! This "incumbranc was nothing more nor less than a wife, in person of the late organist's daughter. We not told whether the lady chanced to be you and handsome, or old and ugly; the result of the |