one can still watch, more or less, the processes incidental to its
birth. In that country, poetry was never held to be a mere string
of words that you could repeat as if you were reading an article
from the newspaper; conversational methods of utterance are kept
for conversation, or for the lower levels of prose, and there is a
peculiar chant used for verse. The poem is born with a music of its
own; and if it have no such music innate in it, and inseparable from
its words, then for all its rhymes and scansion it is no poetry. So in
speaking their poems the bards give full value to this music, using a
kind of chant which is called "_hwyl_." The word means simply "sail";
the idea being that the inner music of the poem swells and extends
and drives along the words, as the wind will fill and drive the sails
of a ship. The method is perfectly natural; the least introduction of
artificiality into it is absolutely damning: there you would get the
desolating thump, thump, thump, of the motor boat instead of the free
flow of the winds of heaven.
As regards the musical scale, this _hwyl_ is mainly monotonous; there
is another kind or direction of scale in it, depending on the varying
vowel sounds, which, though you chant them upon one musical note, have
a certain rise and fall in them proper to themselves. If one imagines
the scale of _do_, _re_, _mi_, _fa_, and the rest as being in a
vertical line; then this scale of _a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, _oo_, etc., would
fall horizontally; we can think of no better way of making a likeness
for it. The richness of the vowels will make the music, and therefore
the poetry. One can see this by comparing two lines, both popularly
supposed to be poetry.
I am monarch of all I survey;
there is no music in that, and if one should attempt to put the
hwyl into it, he would be guilty of the sin of untruth, which is
the greatest of the crimes against poetry, according to the ancient
doctrine of the bards.
I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown
And one would be guilty of the same sin, should one repeat that
lifelessly, and without the hwyl that existed around the mind of Keats
before the line took verbal form, and out of which magical and alchemic
element it was precipitated.
The bard, then, chants his poem, and the words are noted down, and pass
from mouth to mouth; and as they pass, the horizontal scale takes on
gradually some coloring of the vertical scale, and the chant becomes
more and more a tune. The process is natural, and dependent upon no
brain-mind; no composer gets to work upon it, and no one inserts in it
consciously any ideas of his own. The Dorian mode, which (we quote
from Mrs. Mary Davies, an authority on Welsh music) has a minor third
as well as a minor seventh; and the Aeolian or _la_ mode, in which the
third as well as the sixth and seventh are minor, are still largely in
use in Wales; and we believe that these two modes represent a stage in
the passing of the chanted poem, or the chant of the poem, into the
full-fledged folk-tune. For one will sometimes hear an air which, in
the printed collections is given in the arbitrary modern major or minor
scales, sung a little differently, according to these older modes; and
it would appear that all or nearly all the well-known Welsh national
tunes have passed through such or similar stages.
It is here worthy of note that the Welsh hwyl--which is used not only
in poetry, but in all the higher levels of prose as well, particularly
in pulpit rhetoric--is not found, we believe, elsewhere in Europe, at
any rate as a popular custom (for all poets _chant_ and do not _say_
their verses); but it is to be heard in Morocco, along the coast of
Northern Africa, in Arabia, Persia, and throughout the East; where
also certain of these older modes of music, such as the Dorian, are
said to be in vogue to some extent. We imagine that the chant and the
music-modes both vary as they go eastward; but it is a gradual growth
or differentiation, not an abrupt change. The Persian poet, chanting
his Hafiz, and the Welsh preacher, giving out the hymn, have much more
in common with each other than either has with the modern conventional
drawing-room reciter.
And then there is the national air, the last stage in the growth of
that which began with some village bard's arrangement of his deep
vowels and diphthongs. Long ago the words were forgotten, or lost all
connexion with the tune they gave birth to; because at a certain stage
the harpers took the tune up, and sang whatever words to it they might
make up for the occasion. Such a tune as _All through the Night_, for
example, would set out with such and such a bard on his wanderings. He
would come to a wedding, and play it there, singing extempore verses
to it filled full of joy and merriment. Then he would come to a house
where there might be one newly dead; and his tune would again be called
for; now it would be a dirge laden with mystical wailing and the joy
that hides behind wailing. At the village fair it would appear as a
dance; in the house of the warward chieftain it would ring and clamor
with all the pomp and surging and uplift of the old wild, Quixotic,
ridiculous wars. There would be different songs for it on each
occasion; one hardly troubled much with the preservation of them, for
song was a thing that a gentleman could call upon himself for at any
time. Why keep the songs you sang today, when tomorrow you would surely
sing other songs as good? Poetry was of all things the cheapest and
most general where every other man, as you might say, was a poet.
One hears this kind of thing at the present day. Very few of the Welsh
national tunes have any traditional words to them. If there is any
special song attached to this tune or that, it will probably be the
work of Ceiriog, who may be called the Robert Burns of Wales, or of
some individual bard in the last two or three centuries, who sang such
and such words to the tune on such an occasion, or in whose tragic or
amusing history those words and that tune blended were pivotal, and
have passed into a popular tradition.
Generally speaking, the words sung to all these airs are what
are called _Pennillion_--_hen bennillion_, old verses; a kind
of traditional folk-poetry arising no one knows from whom, and
commemorating popular wisdom, historical events, personal peculiarities
and eccentricities of long dead countryside celebrities, the beauties
and delights of this or that locality, and so on. There will be
war-songs, love-songs, dance-songs, dirges and nature-songs; a pennill
on the three best dancers of Wales, and a pennill on the three prized
things of three neighboring villages: the yews of Bettws, the bridge
at Llandeilo, the sacred well at Llandybie. Unnumbered are these
pennillion; perhaps more many than the tunes themselves to which they
may be sung.
II
The old Welsh choirs and singing-parties--and they still do it, though
of course foreign music, both the work of the great composers and the
ribald stuff of the music halls, is making grand inroads--the old
choirs would delight to take such and such a tune for the work of their
evening, and sing song after song to it, now a dance, now a war-song,
and now a dirge, one after the other; and whichever kind of song they
might be singing, you would say that that tune was composed as, and
could inevitably be, only suitable for that. You would say that, of
course, by its very structure it would be impossible for it to be
anything but martial; there was the very pride and beat of war in it;
no blood could keep still, no feet forget to march at the sound of it.
And then you would change your mind, and know that it could never be
anything but a dirge; there as obviously the whole secret of sorrow in
it; you were at one, hearing it, with everyone who might be mourning
for their dearest dead; and you too, with them, were initiated into
marvelous hopes and superhuman certainties and joy--carried out of time
wherein men die, into that timelessness wherein they neither die nor
are born. And that too would pass, and the singers would bring you into
careless summer-evening merriment, and for the life of you, there was
no keeping your feet from the shaking and wandering of dance.
One hears the multifold music of the world; the innumerable rhythms and
variations of melody; combinations and intricacies many as the thoughts
in the minds of terrestrial beings. And of those thoughts themselves,
there will be all manner of ranks and no democratic equality. Some
will be clansmen, so to say, in the house of merriment, others in the
house of grief; mere commonalty of the mind, wearing at any time all
the badges of their clan. These are cheap, every-day wayfarers, and
stir the same emotion, or bring the same colorlessness, into whatever
mind they may enter and whenever they may enter it. Others will be
chieftains and tribal leaders, entering with greater circumstance, and
imposing a larger subjection. Good or evil, they too bear always their
own colors; grief will be grief and joy will be joy; love will be love,
and hatred never anything but hatred, of the emotions that follow in
their train.
But there are some few archetypal thoughts that you cannot so docket
and always rely upon. They are the kings and high bards, standing
beyond the limitations of tribe and sept. They will come in what
insignia and royal robings they may choose, and rouse up gladness or
sorrow, stillness or militancy according to their will. Such thoughts
are those of death, of duration, of humanity, of compassion. You have
spoken no true nor final word on death, when you have proclaimed him
the king of terrors; though indeed, the thought of august death comes
often in sorrowful and terrible disguise. Yet behind that dark regalia,
what serenity, what unstirred meditative calm, what "peace that passeth
all understanding," lie hidden! Compassion, too, comes doubly robed
in the purple; dark with the sorrow that is in pity; glowing with the
regality and gladness of unity with universal life. It is at once the
martial conqueror of the world, boundless in hope and exultation; the
sweet ministrant of the wounded, and the mourner at the graves of the
fallen.
I think that there are expressions of music that correspond to these
supernal and superpersonal thoughts; and that they are in fact simple
tunes, and that many of them must be to be found in the folk-music
of all nations. They are, as it were, archetypal patterns of song,
root rhythms, sprung absolutely from the fountains of feeling, where
feeling has not yet been diversified into all its countless forms of
pain and delight. I think that the most beautiful of the Welsh airs
fall into this class, or into that other corresponding with what we
have called the tribal leaders of the thought plane. The Marches of
the Men of Harlech, of Glamorgan or Meirionydd--indeed every district
in Wales seems to have had its own war-tune in the ancient days--these
are always distinctly martial, and there is no possibility of mistaking
them or of making them anything else. _Y Galon Drom_, _Anhawdd
Ymadael_, _Morfa Rhuddlan_ and a thousand others, again, are always
dirges; to _Gyrru'r Byd o'm Blaen_, or to _Pwt ar y Bys_, you would
never dream of doing anything but dance. All have with them a certain
distinction and aristocracy in their own kind: about folk-music there
is nearly always a bearing and a value, and vulgarity is impossible
to the bulk of it. But beyond and higher than these there are those
archetypal tunes which stir the source of whatever feeling they may be
directed towards; one might mention perhaps _Llwyn On_ the Ash Grove,
as a good example. There are hundreds of them among the Welsh airs.
Now the whole point of our inquiry is this--what was the creative or
directing mind that brought these things to be? It was not the bard
who first chanted the song; it was no one of the thousands of singers
who modified and modified it as they passed it on, until presently
the fixed tune was evolved, and changes and modifications ceased.
These were all instruments in its evolution; but there was also an
evolver. For it was brought, if indeed it is a primeval and radical
thing, to no haphazard conclusion. The music that you make up is one
thing; the music of the spheres is another: though it might happen
indeed, that sitting down to compose, there should be revealed to
you a measure from the music of the spheres. No doubt that would
have happened occasionally--probably only occasionally--with the
great transcendent geniuses of music: but then, there was no great
transcendent genius, neither Wagner nor Bach nor Beethoven, concerned
in the making of the folk-tune. We can posit the soul of Beethoven,
wrapt up into the universal soul, hearing immortal immeasurable
things, and after, producing some fragment of them in a sonata or a
symphony! But what soul was it here, who heard the rhythm and measure
of the star-music, and what the mountains are singing in their hearts
to make them eternal, and the song that drives the rivers and the
rain, and the bardic carol of the sun, and the ineffable yearning
of the souls of men, upward towards their divinity and evolutionary
destined grandeur--who heard, and set all these things bleakly and
magnificently down in the folk-song? I will not apologize for speaking
of the folk-song and the sonata in one breath: of the gods also are the
mountain and the pansy.
Do we not see here the working of a Soul greater than that of any
individual; the soul of the nation; the God that is this people or
that? His compositions are marked by a unity, as are those of any
composer: you can tell an Irish Air at a hearing, or a Welsh Air. And
He, or It, reveals through them greater and deeper things than are
known to any individual among his people; ancient memories that _they_
may have wholly forgotten; aspirations after spiritual glories which
not one of them may have ever foreseen or hoped for. So all the deepest
things that are in the national consciousness may be poured through
the playing of these composerless compositions; and we cannot doubt
that they remain a most potent link between the people and its hidden
divinity.
LAPLAND: by P. F.
More than one-fourth of Sweden is occupied by that vast wilderness,
Lapland. It is a remnant of archaic nature; its majestic snow-crowned
peaks are all of the very oldest geological structure. In primeval
times it was a compact mass of rock-ground; but time, with the aid of
water and ice, has formed a network of valleys between the remaining
ranges and peaks, and great lakes receive the melting snow and preserve
its crystalline purity, mirroring the snow-capped giants; from them
the water seeks its way to the sea by numerous mighty rivers, winding
around the towering masses and making many a daring leap down gorges in
foaming and roaring and whirling play.
[Illustration: Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept. SKERFE, LAPLAND,
SWEDEN Photo by L. Wästfelt Jokkmokk.]
[Illustration: Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept. THE RAPA VALLEY,
LAPLAND, SWEDEN Photo by L. Wästfelt Jokkmokk.]
[Illustration: Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept. THE RAPA VALLEY,
LAPLAND, SWEDEN Photo by L. Wästfelt Jokkmokk.]
[Illustration: Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept. LAJDAURE, LAPLAND,
SWEDEN Photo by L. Wästfelt Jokkmokk.]
It is a wilderness of singular beauty and serene atmosphere, and one
who has once tasted of its life will ever thereafter feel the longing
for its grandeur and silence; for where can man feel the pulse
of real life better than in places like this where the eternal snow
protects the original purity of Nature? It has been found that the
farther north one passes, the more alive become the soil and rock,
radiating life in such abundance that it can often be actually seen as
a kind of electric discharge. In summer-time, there is no vegetation
like that around and above the Polar Circle, no colors and fragrance of
flowers like those to be found in the sanctuary of these remote valleys
where human foot so seldom intrudes. And where can one witness such
interplay between Earth and its outer atmospheric layers, manifesting
in all the varied phenomena of northern lights and mystic, trembling
color-screens? One could sometimes fancy himself in the very forecourt
of a grander mode of existence.
H. P. Blavatsky tells us in _The Secret Doctrine_ that these mountain
ranges were part of previous great continents occupied by earlier
great races of humanity. What have they not witnessed? At one time in
far-past aeons, enjoying a tropical climate, fertile soil, and a golden
human life in all the bounteousness of Nature; at another, resting for
ages below the water, or stripped of their luxuriant garb by a mighty
ice-cover. Truly the history of it all is written somewhere and somehow
even now; and as one treads the archaic rock-ground in a solitude that
seems teeming with life, one begins to understand something of the
language of the great silence around, and to feel the presence of the
ancient past.
Since prehistoric times the Lapps, with their nomadic herds of
reindeer, have been the warders of this pristine land. But like
most ancient remnants of human races they are at present rapidly
disappearing, and the "Sons of the Sun," as the Lapps call themselves,
have had to give up much of their ground to the children of the present
civilization. Lapland is entering upon a new era; railroads have
already found their way across the wastes to bring its immense reserves
of iron-ore out to the world; its waterfalls are being harnessed in the
service of man; and its natural resources utilized in many novel ways.
Though at the same latitude as southern Greenland, its climate is by no
means so forbidding; it is, moreover, undergoing a slow but sure change
which seems to be one of the causes why the reindeer are dying out.
Evidently there are mighty forces at work, rendering hitherto shielded
places on Earth accessible to our civilization as a preparation for a
new phase of life awaiting all humankind.
CULTIVATING GENIUS FOR MUSIC: by E. A. Neresheimer
The natural gift for music which during recent years is so frequently
found in very young children of all civilized nations, is a
phenomenon that has given rise to much speculation on the part of
active theorists. However, the "brain molecule" scientists have been
significantly silent on that--to them--perplexing question, and so have
the other doctors of learning who explain every human quality on a
theory of "hereditary transmission." Nor does the "gift of God, or Holy
Spirit" theory explain this wonderful but most natural manifestation of
the progress of the human soul.
No theory will account for these and other gifts in children, that has
not for its basis knowledge of the natural growth from one life to
another--reincarnation.
When we reflect how diligently the smallest accomplishment must be
earned before we can call it our own, and how delightfully secure we
are in its possession when once we have attained to it, the question is
then more like this: May it not be that a musical prodigy is after all
_the Soul himself_ that has labored through many lives on earth with
ceaseless diligence, following its aspirations and love for music, and
is now earning the fruitage thereof?
Many people say: "Oh! I am so fond of music"; but they never go to a
concert or to an opera; nor are they any more fond of music in reality
than of hearing themselves talk, because the beginning of music is to
them the sign to begin a conversation quickly. To the majority music
scarcely yet exists.
There are some people who have a quiet love for music; they go
unobtrusively to places where good music is made, listen with
attention, and go home in a serene, satisfied mood. Such persons,
from their youth on, embrace every opportunity to hear music in high
and low places; they look longingly at the instruments displayed in
music-stores and, perchance, in the hours that others devote to rest or
folly, they plod away for years unaided, practising on some unsuitable
instrument. No one pays particular attention to such a budding artist.
Perhaps he himself is not aware that his judgment grows better, riper,
keener; that the finer distinctions of music are becoming to him
sharply defined and thus satisfactory to his consciousness; his ear,
too, waxes critical at dissonances, and his very soul also delights in
the musical gems, in the flowing rhythms and harmonies.
The long weary days that are drowned for the multitude in an ocean of
sensation, do not exist for the person who is deeply, truly, interested
in music. Such a one may not hear music for days or weeks, nor have any
particular melody running through his brain; but in his sub-conscious
mind there is such a reservoir of harmonies that flow and flow all the
time, making him thoughtful, meditative, happy. He laughs or sighs
like other people, but there is something besides, that shows in his
countenance or manner, something that one instinctively feels is lofty;
perhaps it is music running through his blood, singing all the while.
There are some who by Karma's decree have a father or a mother who
recognize a little talent for music in the child and let him be taught,
and by encouragement promote his musical development. This is like
bestowing a priceless treasure on the one so favored, for now he enters
upon the realm of one of the mysteries of the Eternal.
Once begun, there is no end. On and on goes the progress, revealing
with each step an ever-widening horizon of beauty, love, happiness.
The musician goes inward, ever inward. All is being transformed and
remodeled in his soul. The tears are music, the joys are music, the
whole world is music; men and women are like harps on which to play; he
can sway them from one extreme mood to another; and he?--he really owns
the world, never to lose it!
On the other hand there are some who practise on a musical instrument
for hours every day. Years roll by, but there seems to be no progress
made, at least there is no appreciation of progress at the hands of
other persons. Still, the musicians belonging to this class do not
seem to be discouraged. They may grow old the while, but never relax
in their aspirations. What for? Think you, perhaps, that all this
one-pointedness, this expenditure of energy to attain to an ideal,
will be lost when the man dies? Not so! Nothing is ever lost. Nature
preserves everything. Every single effort leaves its imprint upon the
soul in which the result finally inheres. When such a life has come to
its end the people may say: "Poor musician! he labored all his lifetime
and accomplished nothing!" But see! when a boy suddenly appears who
at the age of eight years can play an instrument, surmounting the
most difficult technique with great ease, almost as if he had known
it before he commenced--what then? We begin to look around for the
hereditary connexion; and here we see quite often that neither his
parents nor cousins or any relations have or had any trace of such
talent.
How comes it then that the prodigy can do this without having to learn
it like other people? May it not be that he has really learned it at
some time, _in another life_ and stored it away in his soul, and now,
he simply manifests most naturally what is his own?
Truly, artists are not made out of nothing. They are made out of all
these things that they previously, diligently and persistently, labored
for. Every bit of it, every feeling, every emotion, and every touch
of the heart, of the head, and of the hand that they now manifest is
of their own making, without any miracle or extraneous grace. Thus is
Genius for music cultivated.
GLIMPSES OF SCANDINAVIAN MYTHOLOGY: by Per Fernholm, M. E., Royal
Institute of Technology (Stockholm)