And what a glorious specimen of this divine art is his transcendant “Hymn!” breathing the most awful grandeur, the deepest pathos, the most majestic adoration! The Puritans-- devils and Puritans hate music--are piously economical in their devotions, and eschew the principle “not to give unto the Lord that which costs us nothing!” Their gift is snuffled through the “vocal nose”--“O most sweet voices!” “Blessings on the memory of the bard, * and 'Palms eternal flourish round his urn,' who first struck his lyre to celebrate the wooden walls of unconquered and unconquerable Merrie England! If earth hide him, 'May angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by his reliques made if ocean cover him, calm be the green wave on its surface! May his spirit find rest where souls are blessed, and his body be shrined in the holiest cave of the deep and silent sea!” * A few old amateurs of music and mirth may possibly remember Collins's Evening Brush, that rubbed off the rust of dull care from the generation of 1790. His bill comprised “Actors of the old school and actors of the new; tragedy tailors, and butchers in heroics; bell-wethers in buskins, wooden actors, petticoat caricatures, lullaby jinglers, bogglers and blunderers, buffoons in blank-verse, &c. &c.” The first of the three Dibdins opened a shop of merriment at the Sans Souci, where he introduced many of his beautiful ballads, and sang them to his own tunes. The navy of England owe lasting obligations to this harmonious Three. It required not the aid of poetry and music (and how exquisitely has Shield set the one to the other!) to stimulate our gallant seamen; but it needed much to awaken and keep alive enthusiasm on shore, and elevate their moral character--for landsmen “who live at home at ease/' were wont to consider the sailor as a mere tar-barrel, a sea- monster. How many young bosoms have been inspired by the lyrics of the three Dibdins! What can surpass the homely pathos of “I thought my heart would break when I sang, Yo! heave O!” “The Last Whistle” and “Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling!” stirring the manly heart like the sound of a trumpet! It is wise to infuse the amorpatriæ into popular amusements; national songs work wonders among the million. In Little Russia, no sooner are the postilions mounted for a journey, than they begin to hum a patriotic air, which often continues for hours without intermission. The soldiers sing during a long and fatiguing march; the peasant lightens his labour in the same manner; and in a still evening the air vibrates with the cheerful songs of the surrounding villages. “'Hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings.'”