Music as Medicine.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 937, 14 February 1890, Page 4

Music as Medicine.

Music, as we all know, is wonderfully soothing—at least some music isn’t—but that’s neither here and there, or if it has to be one or the other, I hope it will be there 1 Apropos of * some ’ music—is there anything in the wide world more ghastly than a so-called ‘ musical evening ?’ I, personally (says a writer in the Society Herald), have suffered more anguish and tribulation during one of these, than is usually allotted to a whole lifetime of suffering. Some moments are eternities : such moments, for instance, as are devoted to a dentistic encounter, a sharp attack of gout or cramp—or in straining your politeness to wear a placid smile of endurance, whilst some enthusiassic musician is rendering ‘ Queen of my Heart ’ about three parts sharp on each note. Something of this sort occurred the other night. The accompanist did hia level beat, thumped the tune notes high up in the treble with all his might and main (main !), but ’twaß no use ; the singer warbled on sharply, utterly at peace with himself, his world, and his creator. I always get toothache in my spine on these occasions. I know my face must be a study, because a friend of mine tells me that, when anything of the kind is likely to take place, she always plants herself where she has a good view of me- and says she wants no other species of entertainment—l’m quite good enough for her. And yet I pride myself on a stoical immobility of features—what mistaken mortals we are ! I once heard a teacher reprimand a pupil because she talked of bad grammar ; ‘ there’s no such thing as bad grammar,’ she said, * the very words contradict each other—bad English, if you like—but grammar is grammar !’ So in likewise I protest against ‘ bad music,’ it is either music or not music

the latter by far the oftenest and generally the class to which we are treated at musical evenings. I have learnt to dread the request, ‘Do come to us on Thursday evening ; I’m sure you will onjoy yourself. We have a little music.’ A little music ! Heaven save the mark I—little1 —little it is ! A violin solo a little off colour ; a flute which magically emits notes unknown in the gamut of any nation ; a banjo on the half shell , a tenor who makes all the running between his eyebrows and some cavity in bis throat unknown to science ; a contralto, with one deep note and a squeak, who makes you yearn for the garden of sleep of which she warbles in the dot-and-go-one fashion known to fame—a pianoforte solo ‘ manipulated ' by a performer who has almost to make hi 3 spine a corkscrew in order to ‘interpret’ (that’s what he calls it !) the Great Master ! These are only a few of the th ngs one is called upon to endure under the name—the misused name of music !

Animals, as well as human beings, are peculiarly sensitive to music. A relative of mine once had a large greyhound. When bis master sat at the piano, which was nearly all the time, he sat close by him under the keyboard. Each time a wrong note was played, or even an artistic discord, the dog emitted a short, sharp howl. This became so persistent that people used to come from far and near to observe the phenomenon of a musical hound. I am somewhat sceptical (I guess you’ll never believe ‘t 1), and I explained it to myself, also *o the relative aforesaid, and he could not quite deny it. Though even the explanation would show that the dear old doggie must have had wonderful perception of sound. My suggestion was that every time his master (who was an excitable being) played a wrong note, in his annoyance and disgust he gave his faithful canine friend a little short, sharp kick ; and so, when at length he desisted from this practice, association of ideas on the part of the dog would account for the short, sharp howl. I don’t know if you’ll agree with me, but I agree with myself, I had a Scotch terrier once, who used to sit on my lap, and howl the latest music of the dog day, when I played a particular tune. I think it was .* Jockey to the fair ’ — but it’s a long time ago, and the poor friend is dead. I have a little pure white fox terrier, wbo is passionately fond of music. When I play accompaniments for anyone, he always climbs upon my knee, and puts his forepaws on my right shoulder, in order to be able to gaze into the face of the singer—or if the latter will let him sit upon his shoulder he is more pleased—his expression of ineffable winking, and blinking peace is very, very funny. In hospitals, we all know, music is a great solace, and, when it is permitted (which i» oftener than of yore), passes many a weary, pain-laden hour for the sufferers. Anything that distracts your attention from your misery must be a good thine ; doctors are finding that out by slow degrees, and soon the new commandment of the xEscu!apian3 will be ‘ Above all, relieve pain 1’ And if music does it—well then they may see fit to employ a few professionals occasionally, to render such a service to their suffering patients. Now it is loft to the chance and voluntary charity of titled and other amateurs. So-ho 1 for the new regimen : For goui, eight ounces of Sarasate ; for acute neurosis, three tablespoonfuls of Richter’s Concerts ; for pneumonia, soothing songs by Lawrence Kellie or Hope Temple for disphoria (which, being interpreted means general discontent), a dose of Arthur Sullivan three times a week ; for melancholia Arthur Roberts in penny numbers ; and for religious mania, the Great Mac Dermot and his latest comic, at intervals not exceeding two hours.