Critical and Historical Essays
believe that once it was found that sound could be produced
by blowing across the top of a hollow pipe, the most natural
thing to do would be to try the same effect on all hollow
things differing in shape and material from the original
bamboo. This would account for the conch shells of the Amazons
which, according to travellers' tales, were used to proclaim
an attack in war; in Africa the tusks of elephants were used;
in North America the instrument did not rise above the whistle
made from the small bones of a deer or of a turkey's leg.
That the Pan's pipes are the originals of all these species
seems hardly open to doubt. Even among the Greeks and Romans
we see traces of them in the double trumpet and the double
pipe. These trumpets became larger and larger in form, and
the force required to play them was such that the player
had to adopt a kind of leather harness to strengthen his
cheeks. Before this development had been reached, however,
I have no doubt that all wind instruments were of the Pan's
pipes variety; that is to say, the instruments consisted of a
hollow tube shut at one end, the sound being produced by the
breath catching on the open edge of the tube.
Direct blowing into the tube doubtless came later. In
this case the tube was open at both ends, and the sound
was determined by its length and by the force given to the
breath in playing. There is good reason for admitting this new
instrument to be a descendant of the Pan's pipes, for it was
evidently played by the nose at first. This would preclude
its being considered as an originally forcible instrument,
such as the trumpet.
Now that we have traced the history of the pipe and considered
the different types of the instrument, we can see immediately
that it brought no great new truth home to man as did the drum.
The savage who first climbed secretly to the top of the
stockade around his village to investigate the cause of the
mysterious sounds would naturally say that the Great Spirit
had revealed a mystery to him; and he would also claim to be
a wonder worker. But while his pipe would be accepted to a
certain degree, it was nevertheless second in the field and
could hardly replace the drum. Besides, mankind had already
commenced to think on a higher plane, and the pipe was reduced
to filling what gaps it could in the language of the emotions.
The second strongest emotion of the race is love. All over the
world, wherever we find the pipe in its softer, earlier form, we
find it connected with love songs. In time it degenerated into
a synonym for something contemptibly slothful and worthless,
so much so that Plato wished to banish it from his "Republic,"
saying that the Lydian pipe should not have a place in a
decent community.
On the other hand, the trumpet branch of the family developed
into something quite different. At the very beginning it was
used for war, and as its object was to frighten, it became
larger and larger in form, and more formidable in sound. In
this respect it only kept pace with the drum, for we read
of Assyrian and Thibetan trumpets two or three yards long,
and of the Aztec war drum which reached the enormous height
of ten feet, and could be heard for miles.
Now this, the trumpet species of pipe, we find also used as an
auxiliary "spiritual" help to the drum. We are told by M. Huc,
in his "Travels in Thibet," that the llamas of Thibet have
a custom of assembling on the roofs of Lhassa at a stated
period and blowing enormous trumpets, making the most hideous
midnight din imaginable. The reason given for this was that
in former days the city was terrorized by demons who rose from
a deep ravine and crept through all the houses, working evil
everywhere. After the priests had exorcised them by blowing
these trumpets, the town was troubled no more. In Africa the
same demonstration of trumpet blowing occurs at an eclipse
of the moon; and, to draw the theory out to a thin thread,
anyone who has lived in a small German Protestant town will
remember the chorals which are so often played before sunrise
by a band of trumpets, horns, and trombones from the belfry of
some church tower. Almost up to the end of the last century
trombones were intimately connected with the church service;
and if we look back to Zoroaster we find the sacerdotal
character of this species of instrument very plainly indicated.
Now let us turn back to the Pan's pipes and its direct
descendants, the flute, the clarinet, and the oboe. We shall
find that they had no connection whatever with religious
observances. Even in the nineteenth century novel we are
familiar with the kind of hero who played the flute--a very
sentimental gentleman always in love. If he had played the
clarinet he would have been very sorrowful and discouraged; and
if it had been the oboe (which, to the best of my knowledge,
has never been attempted in fiction) he would have needed to
be a very ill man indeed.
Now we never hear of these latter kinds of pipes being
considered fit for anything but the dance, love songs, or love
charms. In the beginning of the seventeenth century Garcilaso
de la Vega, the historian of Peru, tells of the astonishing
power of a love song played on a flute. We find so-called
"courting" flutes in Formosa and Peru, and Catlin tells of the
Winnebago courting flute. The same instrument was known in Java,
as the old Dutch settlers have told us. But we never hear of it
as creating awe, or as being thought a fit instrument to use
with the drum or trumpet in connection with religious rites.
Leonardo da Vinci had a flute player make music while he
painted his picture of Mona Lisa, thinking that it gave her the
expression he wished to catch--that strange smile reproduced
in the Louvre painting. The flute member of the pipe species,
therefore, was more or less an emblem of eroticism, and, as I
have already said, has never been even remotely identified with
religious mysticism, with perhaps the one exception of Indra's
flute, which, however, never seems to have been able to retain a
place among religious symbols. The trumpet, on the other hand,
has retained something of a mystical character even to our
day. The most powerful illustration of this known to me is
in the "Requiem" by Berlioz. The effect of those tremendous
trumpet calls from the four corners of the orchestra is an
overwhelming one, of crushing power and majesty, much of which
is due to the rhythm.
To sum up. We may regard rhythm as the intellectual side
of music, melody as its sensuous side. The pipe is the one
instrument that seems to affect animals--hooded cobras,
lizards, fish, etc. Animals' natures are purely sensuous,
therefore the pipe, or to put it more broadly, melody, affects
them. To rhythm, on the other hand, they are indifferent;
it appeals to the intellect, and therefore only to man.
This theory would certainly account for much of the
potency of what we moderns call music. All that aims to be
dramatic, tragic, supernatural in our modern music, derives
its impressiveness directly from rhythm.[01] What would
that shudder of horror in Weber's "Freischuetz" be without
that throb of the basses? Merely a diminished chord of the
seventh. Add the pizzicato in the basses and the chord sinks
into something fearsome; one has a sudden choking sensation,
as if one were listening in fear, or as if the heart had
almost stopped beating. All through Wagner's music dramas
this powerful effect is employed, from "The Flying Dutchman"
to "Parsifal." Every composer from Beethoven to Nicode has
used the same means to express the same emotions; it is the
medium that pre-historic man first knew; it produced the same
sensation of fear in him that it does in us at the present day.
Rhythm denotes a thought; it is the expression of a
purpose. There is will behind it; its vital part is intention,
power; it is an act. Melody, on the other hand, is an almost
unconscious expression of the senses; it translates feeling
into sound. It is the natural outlet for sensation. In anger
we raise the voice; in sadness we lower it. In talking we
give expression to the emotions in sound. In a sentence in
which fury alternates with sorrow, we have the limits of the
melody of speech. Add to this rhythm, and the very height of
expression is reached; for by it the intellect will dominate
the sensuous.
[01] The strength of the "Fate" motive in Beethoven's fifth
symphony undoubtedly lies in the succession of the four
notes at equal intervals of time. Beethoven himself
marked it _So pocht das Schicksal an die Pforte_.
II
ORIGIN OF SONG vs. ORIGIN OF INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC
Emerson characterized language as "fossil poetry," but "fossil
music" would have described it even better; for as Darwin says,
man _sang_ before he became human.
Gerber, in his "Sprache als Kunst," describing the degeneration
of sound symbols, says "the saving point of language is
that the original material meanings of words have become
forgotten or lost in their acquired ideal meaning." This
applies with special force to the languages of China, Egypt,
and India. Up to the last two centuries our written music
was held in bondage, was "fossil music," so to speak. Only
certain progressions of sounds were allowed, for religion
controlled music. In the Middle Ages folk song was used by
the Church, and a certain amount of control was exercised
over it; even up to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
the use of sharps and flats was frowned upon in church music.
But gradually music began to break loose from its old chains,
and in our own century we see Beethoven snap the last thread
of that powerful restraint which had held it so long.
The vital germ of music, as we know it, lay in the fact that
it had always found a home in the hearts of the common people
of all nations. While from time immemorial theory, mostly in
the form of mathematical problems, was being fought over, and
while laws were being laid down by religions and governments
of all nations as to what music must be and what music was
forbidden to be, the vital spark of the divine art was being
kept alive deep beneath the ashes of life in the hearts of the
oppressed common folk. They still sang as they felt; when the
mood was sad the song mirrored the sorrow; if it were gay the
song echoed it, despite the disputes of philosophers and the
commands of governments and religion. Montaigne, in speaking
of language, said with truth, "'Tis folly to attempt to fight
custom with theories." This folk song, to use a Germanism,
we can hardly take into account at the present moment, though
later we shall see that spark fanned into fire by Beethoven,
and carried by Richard Wagner as a flaming torch through the
very home of the gods, "Walhalla."
Let us go back to our dust heap. Words have been called
"decayed sentences," that is to say, every word was once a
small sentence complete in itself. This theory seems true
enough when we remember that mankind has three languages,
each complementing the other. For even now we say many words
in one, when that word is reinforced and completed by our
vocabulary of sounds and expression, which, in turn, has its
shadow, gesture. These shadow languages, which accompany
all our words, give to the latter vitality and raise them
from mere abstract symbols to living representatives of
the idea. Indeed, in certain languages, this auxiliary
expression even overshadows the spoken word. For instance,
in Chinese, the _theng_ or intonation of words is much more
important than the actual words themselves. Thus the third
intonation or _theng_, as it is called in the Pekin dialect,
is an upward inflection of the voice. A word with this upward
inflection would be unintelligible if given the fourth _theng_