Spirit and Music | Page 2

all the world expresses life, and expresses it in a rhythm in which
law and order reign supreme, and in which a sweet and sane regularity
is the ordinance.
Regular rhythm involves accent. Whether or no there be any such
emphasis as a thing in itself, the listening ear supplies it to meet a need.

When we attend to a clock ticking, the tick-tock, tick-tock, however
even it may sound at first, soon resolves itself into a rhythm with the
accent on either the tick or the tock. So does the beat of an engine, or
the hum of a railway train, merge itself into some definite sound picture,
with the accent for relief that the ear demands. Thus out of rhythm
grows very naturally an accentuation which gives balance, structure,
and form. We start with the little units--the ticks and the tocks--and we
build something bigger by grouping these together. This is a principle
which we may see running through the activities of life in a thousand
forms.
Bricks are made to pattern and thus possess a rhythm of their own, but
when they are laid in courses they merge their individual rhythm into
the ordered lines of the courses. These again may be comprehended in
larger units of arches, buttresses, and stories: and all these again will be
grouped and contained in this or that style of architecture. So, too,
Music may begin with notes and tones, but accent quickly groups these
into larger units to satisfy the senses in their demand for balance and
proportion. Thus by increasing the size of our unit we build the rhythm
of form and lay the foundation for the further development of the Art.
Since Nature is regular, from the beating of our own hearts to the swing
of universes in the heavens, therefore engrained in our very selves is
this claim for ordered progression, balance, and sustained sequence.
When we attain this, whether in Music or otherwise, we derive a
measure of restfulness and satisfaction and we gain a sense of
completeness. Any work of Art should leave us with this conviction,
that nothing could be added or left out without marring the perfect
proportion of the whole. "Jazz," whether in Music or in any other
direction, gives just the very opposite effect, marring the sense of
proportion and distorting the feeling of satisfaction. It exists as a
testimony to a morbid dissatisfaction with life, it gives emphasis to the
unbalanced and neurotic. The true beauty of Art--as of Music--consists
on the contrary of this larger rhythm which makes for wholesomeness
and proportion, which achieves at once the rest and the satisfaction that
the soul craves. Its wholesomeness is health, which again is ease. Its
reverse is disease: and when Music becomes mere noise and discord it

is the same as when beauty becomes ugliness and health vanishes in
sickness.
The second element of Music is melody, and this corresponds to the
outline in Nature. Things have their shapes and their forms, even as our
very lives consist of ups and downs, varied with occasional runs along
the level. The country has its outlines, its hills that rise and climb, its
valleys that fall and fade. There is the even line of the horizon, topped
by the swelling clouds: there are curves and sweeps in the swaying of
trees and grasses, in the flight of birds, and in the grace of the human
form. It is significant that Nature's handiwork so abounds in curves,
whilst that of man is fashioned so much upon straight lines with
consequent sharp points and angles. Is it not obvious that Art has had
but scanty share in designing our towns and manufactories? Right
angles, no doubt, stand for utility in a commercial age, but Nature with
her longer purview has little use for them and prefers a more rounded
way of progress. Nature inspires, but not in square-cut periods. It is a
safe plan to turn to Nature, as to the diagram of God, if we find
ourselves in any doubt as to the way.
"Let your air be good, and your composition will be so likewise, and
will assuredly delight," says tuneful Father Haydn, and Music's outline
in melody limns, as does that of Nature, the beauty of her design. It
speaks of wood or stream, of billowed sky, and now of sombre shadow.
It ripples in dainty dance, or tumbles down in cascades of joy. Music's
melody vies with the drive and bluster of the wind, sobbing and sighing,
whistling round corners and playing pranks. Then, maybe, it sinks to
silence, and the white mist creeps up: and now there is no melody, no
outline, but just the one still sameness over all.
We live in a three dimensional world, and in its length,