There is the cause for pleasure and for pain: But music moves us, and we know not why? We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source. Is it the language of some other state, Born of its memory! For what can wake The soul's strong instinct of another world, Like music!
Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?
Every other species of talent carries with it its eternity; we enjoy the work of the poet, the painter, the sculptor, only as thousands will do after us; but the actor - his memory is with his generation, and that passes away.
Memory has many conveniences, and, among others, that of foreseeing things as they have afterwards happened.
Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present.
When does the mind put forth its powers? when are the stores of memory unlocked? when does wit 'flash from fluent lips?' -- when but after a good dinner? Who will deny its influence on the affections? Half our friends are born of turbots and truffles.
We would liken music to Aladdin's lamp — worthless in itself, not so for the spirits which obey its call. We love it for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings, it can summon with a touch.
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