published in 1562, in writing of the reign of King John, has made no mention of Magna Charta: our surprise is diminished when we remember that he was printer to Queen Elizabeth, and probably considered his silence complimentary to that arbitrary princess.

Upon the subject of this essay little has been written, and that little is scattered in many volumes-some of them not easily accessible. I have not affected to give a complete view of the subject, or to do more than trace a faint outline; but I think I have shewn that the subject, in all its parts and bearings, is reducible to principle and system; and if I have awakened or gratified curiosity, or agreeably filled up the brief space which I have occupied, my end will have been answered, and I shall be more than satisfied.

EXPRESSION IN MUSIC.

BY MATTHEW MACROSKELLES, MUS. Doc.

MARKET MOWBRAY!-Above all places commend me to Market Mowbray for an example of one of those towns peculiar to Old England which seem to have had no origin, no birth, but rose at once into a maturity that has suffered no decline; one of those memorials of the olden time which, (like the vast piles of Stonehenge), has undergone no change, no new combination, no improvement, no alliance with the white, staring, stucco of modern buildings, but reposes in the solemn grandeur of the hereditary title, silent, solitary, and antique. As the traveller looks at the low, overhanging thatched houses, with the grotesque fronts chequered with the black inlaid timber, crossing and recrossing, like so many giant hieroglyphics, the small diamond-paned windows ensconced deeply in the imperishable blocks, he readily fancies the dark, oak-wainscotted parlour, mellowed in the light of that perpetual chirioscura so essential to the ponderous structure of Gothic architecture, the massive, unearthly, carved chairs, and all the fashions of those departed times, when the green-kirtled maidens busied themselves with no science but that of pickling and preserves, or threw their rosy fingers over the flying weft, or framed the varied threads of the magical tapestry. Market Mowbray is like an old tombstone with its half-effaced inscription of forgotten names with which the

present day has no connection; all that combines the past with the present is in our fancy. There are no civic commotions, no political brawls, no nightly revels, in Market Mowbray : from January to January, silence and sobriety fill the streets. Not but there are periods of enjoyment; there are "fairs holden" twice a year: but how different are the fairs of Market Mowbray to the riotings and debaucheries of such named assemblies in other places, where they degenerate either into a mere lifeless, miserable film of an ancient custom, or a monstrous idol of mammon, where even pleasure is deformed into pain! Not so the fairs holden in this primitive borough; there is the long line of white canvas stalls—a wilderness of sweets-the swains and buxom maidens, undisturbed by the impertinence of travelled beaux, give themselves up to all the innocent enjoyments and festivities of the time. Fairs should be consecrated to such old towns as Market Mowbray, sacred as the mysteries of Greece; the profane company of fashionable puppies should be forbidden to interrupt the happy meeting of the simple-hearted country folks, who have worked and wearied from Michaelmas to Lady-day, with no other hope to cheer them.

Market Mowbray will never alter-it was never intended to alter: there are no gay suburban villas, no gay new-town to make an invidious comparison with the brick-and-wood houses of the old town ; there are no Bond-street shops to distinguish particular streets-the good tradespeople are satisfied to combine three, four, or five vocations in one, and expose hats, hosiery, fresh butter, and dried fish on the same shelf. But the good people are not less unique and admirable than the town itself. Barring some new comers and occasional visitors, they are a dull, dark, sober, "days-goneby"-looking people, all native to the soil, and, like the ancient sybil, seem as if they could die only upon their own earth. All may be said to be in easy circumstances, inasmuch as their wants are seldom multiplied by novelty. As they do not conceive that the mind was ever intended for any other purpose than to administer to the bodily appetites, they escape the multiform monster, nervousness; living and living by a species of regeneration, until they die, not of disease, but rather by a necessity. It has been said that the Serpent, in the form of a doctor, did once creep into the Eden of Market Mowbray; one victim only paid the penalty of his credulity, and that was the parish fool.

But there is one evil which prevails even in Market Mowbray,-what place or person can be infallible !—one evil prevails; and that is an almost insatiable curiosity. Busied so little in their

own affairs, and interesting themselves so much in the affairs of others, a stranger would suppose from the publicity of every transaction, however trivial, that the good people of Market Mowbray acted and thought with one mind, like the old church horologe by which they daily regulated their own time-pieces. So it was, that not an event could transpire, without the cause and the effect being known from gate to gate.

The first and most dreaded of this clique was the chaste Miss Martha Tibbs. A victim to the evil eye of curiosity, Miss Tibbs exercised a despotic rule over all the tendrils of the town; nor could a glance travel from eye to eye without being crossed by the dreaded shadow of this virtuous lady. Miss Martha was a most important person, she inhabited the " big house," where her maiden aunt had resided for half a century before her. The patroness and queen of Market Mowbray, she exercised a discretionary power, and had raised her circle to the enviable height of exclusives. She was a thin, tall, yellow-faced lady, who, in spite of the stubbornness of her crisp curls, that hung in wiry circles about her cheeks, would never consent to adopt a cap, "it looked so old maidish;" her flat, hard, mahogany-looking bust, shewed that she had little of the milk of human kindness; and her figure was rendered still more gaunt by her old-fashioned, short-waisted, chintz robe, which dropped over her feet. Her grey eyes were omnipresent, her long pointed nose would smell out the slightest error, while her tongue, like a right Toledo, seemed as if it must wound even the sheath that held it. But the accomplishments of Miss Martha Tibbs were of an order unparalleled in the history of Market Mowbray; for it is said that she could not only read and write, but even that she could play extempore on the harpsichord. It was Miss Tibbs's highest delight to collect around her the elite of Market Mowbray, and, while they were sipping their coffee or lemonade, to listen to some of her "touching airs," sometimes assisted by her dear Dr. Mellitongue and the voice of his supposed daughter, Miss Julia, who was declared to sing divinely whenever she sang in tune.

Things were in this state at Market Mowbray when one nightremembered long since for the terrific thunder-storm which shook to their foundations the tenements of age-a human being staggered into the Crown and Sausage, and appeared almost dead with alarm and exhaustion; as he entered the gate of the inn the wind howled still louder, the rain descended in Noachian torrents, the forked lightning (with one prong) followed his course, while the thunder rolled like-anything. The awful stranger seated himself

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in the tap-room, and, lifting his head, called for a pint of ale and a pipe. He glewed his lips to the tankard, nor did he move his eyes from the foam until he saw the reflection of his nose, like a piece of red sealing wax, sticking at the bottom. He looked up and, fetching a long sigh, muttered "good," and, as the landlady turned round, she was startled by the appearance of two eyes that squinted so forcibly that they seemed to be always at cross purposes. Suddenly the stranger, (of course in black), made several inquiries as to the persons inhabiting the town of Market Mowbray; and having satisfied his curiosity he bowed politely to the landlady, called the maid, and requested, being tired, that he might go upon tick." Are the sheets well aired?

The amiable reader must suppose a month at least to have elapsed since the arrival of the illustrious stranger at the Crown and Sausage and the period when he again appears, as a professor of music, in the sweet-smelling town of Market Mowbray. The imaginative reader must behold the celebrated Mr. Peregrine Peascod (for by that name was the professor distinguished) domiciled over the large bow-windowed shop of Mrs. Percy Peach, a very comfortable woman in her way, and who would never ding down her head to the best of them; "and why should she?" said the seductive Professor Peascod. Peregrine was a wise man, a second Talleyrand; he read at first sight the great characteristic of the Market Mowbrayians; and whatever they might say against pride, yet, from Miss Martha Tibbs down to the chambermaid of the Crown and Sausage, there was but one spirit—" Marry, come up!"

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On the 15th of June, 18-, he paid his first visit to the charming Miss Martha Tibbs; he spoke of the weather, of the town, of the high, of the low, of Miss Tibbs. "I see you play." Miss Tibbs blushed till her eyes watered; he opened the piano, struck five octaves, and pronounced the instrument superb. Miss Tibbs was overreached, it was her soft part; she smiled, and, seating herself, played the overture to the "Three Crows." Beautiful, most beautiful!" sighed Peregrine; "what expression! it is the cause, it is the cause!' what an effect!" Happy Miss Tibbs, and happier Peregrine! He awoke and found himself famous next morning, just as he heard the fair form of Mrs. Percy Peach turn in the tell-tale bed. From that day Peregrine was happy; his fortune rose with his celebrity; he was a great and, therefore, a grateful man: and, to acknowledge the favours of his patroness, he proposed a concert at the house of Miss Martha Tibbs, which should for ever immortalize her memory.

This unexpected, unparalleled circumstance filled with delight the good people of Market Mowbray, and especially all those who were to be admitted within the four walls of the high and virtuous lady patroness. Happy Peregrine! heroes only make sensations. Mr. Peascod was a nice-looking piece of pale-faced sensuality; his portrait was drawn by Mnemosini at full length; and, as the public papers, some months after this celebrated concert, advertised, under the cacaphonic title "Beware," that Peregrine Peascod was a young man of a possessing look, whose back was formed for coats of all sizes, whose feet fitted to any shaped shoe, whose head was equally accommodating, and who strived to get a character, but was nonsuitedhe was a tall, short, no-sized, thin, fat, serious, funny, sleepy, always awake, good-natured, selfish person, who invariably asked after the children. Peregrine was a compound of mighty opposites, a riddle to the good people of Market Mowbray, but who was said to have nothing in him, when he was found out.

The evening of the concert advanced; the young ladies were surprised, charmed, delighted. There was Miss Jane Verismall, the three Miss Shrimpingtons, the two Miss Trumps, and the four Miss Crumps; and then the beaux were most select: there was Mr. Acteon Snaggs, a very dear among the ladies, Mr. Dominic Fox, Dr. Mellitung and his daughter, Miss Mellitung, and, though last, not least, Bob Salter, the wit of Market Mowbray, and who, it is said, had even once composed an ode, which treated of several subjects, such as negro flogging, the sublime in music, the price of soap, with some fine allusions to the Fancy. Bob Salter was an ingenious person; he was a virulent pundit, and had made considerable proficiency on the Jew's-harp, which he maintained was the instrument which David played on before Saul.

It was on the sunny morning of the 4th of July that the good and industrious people of Market Mowbray had scarcely opened their shop windows and rubbed up their counterpanes when, to their amazement, they observed the head of Miss Martha Tibbs voluminised and ensepulchered in her frilled night-cap, gently insinuated between the folds of the white window curtains: the circumstance was remarkable, and excited no little inquiry as to the cause of such a phenomenon, whether or no it proceeded from a mental solecism, or the more probable effects of green gooseberry pie. But through the day, what was their surprise to see the door of Miss Tibbs thrown wide open! a circumstance that had not been known since the death of Mrs. Margaret Tibbs, some fifteen years back. So it was: wide open was the door, and servants were seen