THE POWER OF MUSIC.

Otago Witness, Issue 2104, 21 June 1894, Page 46

THE POWER OF MUSIC.

" How sweet it would be could I hear, Soft music mate the drowsy afternoon, And drown awhile the bees and murmuring tune, Within these flowering lines/ E'en aa she spoke A sweet-voiced choir of unknown, unseen folk, Singing to words that match the sense of these, Hushed the faint music of the linden trees.

— Wm. Morris.

I once stood listening to a group of somewhat talented street mnsicians. The usual motley crowd was gathered round, and close to me stood a very old man, who attracted my attention on account of his feeble appearance. His face was crossed and recrossed with innumerable wrinkles ; his eyes were dim, and his white hair fell in thin streaks almost to his bent shoulders. He was stiff with age, assisted probably by rheumatism, and his fingers were hardly less knotted than the thick gnarled stick on which he leaned. Suddenly the musicians struck up a lively Irish air. They played as if their hearts were in it. I beard a chuckle and an exclamation in a tbln cracked voice at my side, and, looking round, was surprised to find what a transformation had taken place in the old man's appearance. He seemed to be less bent, the dim eyes had grown moist and bright. He commenced to keep time with his stick on the pavement, and in another moment, as the music waxed louder and faster, he began a feeble shuffle with his feet. A little boy

of about six stood gazing into his face with a grin, seeing which the poor old fellow exclaimed : " Dance I ye little gossoon t can't ye dance 1 Shure an' didn't I dance to that same chnne before I could walk I "

I thought at the time that, of all the arts, music alone has the power of really touching our feelings, of moving our hearts to a sense of pleasure or pain. Probably the sound of that rattling Irish tune brought back to the | old man's memory scenes of mirth and merrymaking long forgotten. The hearts of soldiers and patriots in every civilised country are stirred to the core by their own national anthemp, and even those who are not patriotic become inspired with patriotism, for the time at least, by the music of their regimental bands. We often hear of soldiers, disheartened and weakened by privations, hunger, fever, or thirst, being roused to action, and even to victory, by their band suddenly striking ap some national piece. Quite recently it came to our knowledge that poor Major Wilson and all that were left of his gallant companions, surrounded by their dead and dying comrades, their ammunition spent, and no hope left, stood for a moment together, took off their helmets, and sang. The combined sound of their British voices, and the well-known words and air of the anthem, hymn, or whatever it was they sang, probably gave them renewed courage to face their cruel death. Turning from the most powerfully emotional to the simplest effect of music, take as an instance a mother crooning to her child. So soothing is the sound to the little creature that, although it may really be in pain, the gentle droning song has often more power to quieten it than any remedy that could be applied. A funeral at any time, however humble it may be, is an impressive sight, bnt when it moves on its way to the solemn notes of " The Dead Marcn in Saul," most people who witness it will find an involuntary lump rise in the throat and tears to the eyes, and it must be a hard heart indeed that is not saddened by the, measured beat of the muffled drum. In songs that are popular it will often be found that there is no merit to speak of in the words, but that the charm is really in the setting. One instance will

suffice to illustrate this. Take "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," one of the sweetest of old Scotch songs. The words are simple and pretty — that is all. Merely to read them does not impress one in the least, but they are so admirably set to music that, well sung — or even just sweetly surg, — they invariably meet with unqualified applause. The emphasis that should be given to some words more than others in reading — the natural rising and falling of the voice — seems to be followed out in the music, and yet there is no monotony.

Many of the great songs of the present day owe all their popularity to the music, the words being maudlin — nay, positively idiotic. The gift of music, especially singing, is an enviable one. There is no pleasure to be derived from looking at an unfinished picture, piece of sculpture, or carving, but a musician feels and imparts pleasure to others from the beginning of his performance to the end.