The Greeks were not such grave people as some may be inclined to think
them. Among them, poetry and music were so intimately connected, that
they were in fact one and the same. It is not so with us; we have Byron
and Moore, in poetry; but where are their parallels in English music!

"Music," says Plutarch, "was the universal language of Greece, the
sacred vehicle of history, philosophy, laws, and morals;" but in England
it is little more than a mere amusement to while away the evening, or at
best, but a branch of _female_ education. Pianos are become articles of
furniture to be met with in almost every other genteel house; Miss and
her sisters sit down by turns, and screw themselves up to _Ah vous
dirai_, or "I'd be a butterfly"--till some handsome young fellow who has
stood behind her chair for six months, turned over her music, or
accompanied her through a few liquorish airs, vows his tender passion,
brings her the last new song, and at length swears to be her
accompaniment throughout life. The piano is then locked up, the music
sent to Bath or _Canterbury_, and the lady is married and cannot sing.

But the Greek poets sang their own verses: "Homer literally _sang_ the
wrath of Achilles, and the woes of Greece;" would it were so in England.
Then, my poetical public, we should have Anacreon Moore singing his
"Rich and rare were the gems she wore," in some such place as the
Quadrant, or Opera Colonnade; and Sir Walter Scott celebrating the Field
of Waterloo, not in the broad-margined octavos of Paternoster-row, but
about the purlieus of the Horse Guards. Wordsworth would be his own
Skylark. The laureate, Southey, would perch himself on the dome of the
New Palace. Campbell would step out of New Burlingtonstreet into the
Park; Miss Mitford would keep a Covent-Garden audience awake with her
own tragedies, and Planché would no longer entrust his rhymes to Paton
or Vestris. On the other hand, Braham would no longer be indebted to