I
The phonograph has not accomplished all that was expected of it, yet
it has proved a most interesting and valuable invention. One of its
achievements is of the nature of a revelation: it has proved that even
the most loquacious person is unacquainted with the sound of his own
voice. As reproduced by the machine, one’s voice seems to be that of
a stranger: his ear does not recognize it, and he is with difficulty
convinced that he hears himself as others hear him. Commonly, it is
said, the effect is deeply disappointing; the tones are not so rich and
mellow as he had a right to expect, and he leaves the instrument with a
chastened spirit and a broken pride.
The instrument has herein a broad field of usefulness. As a teacher
of humility it takes rank with the parson, the flirt, the mirror and
the banana peel on the sidewalk. It humbles the orator and strews
repentant ashes on the head of the ardent young woman who has taken
lessons in elocution but none in forbearance. The amateur who has
always a cold when pressed to sing takes on an added reluctance having
in it an element of sincerity. In the meek taciturnity of the “good
conversationalist” society finds a new edification and delight.
For these and similar benefactions let us be truly thankful; but we
should not hope for too much. The blessing is bright, but it may not
be lasting. It is not in human nature to wear sackcloth and ashes as a
permanent apparel. In the valley of humility are no old residents. As
much as is herein affirmed of the phonograph might with equal reason
have been expected from its elder brother, the photograph. “Who,” it
might once have been asked, “will have the hardihood to go unveiled and
unblushing after experiencing the awful revelations of the camera?”
Alas! man was created upright, but he has sought out many improvements.
No sooner had the merciless sun-picture begun to take the conceit
out of us than some ingenious malefactor rushed to the rescue with a
process called “retouching,” whereby the once honest camera was made
to lie like a lover; men and women resumed their vanity, revised and
enlarged it, and made it a means of afflicting their friends with
portraits that shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire
and brimstone.
The ingenuity that invented the phonograph can adapt it to our need
and our hope by taking the sting out of it. Mr. Edison will doubtless
discern a commercial advantage in devising a method of “retouching”
the little waxen cylinder—so smoothing its asperities that it will
give off tones and cadences radically different from, and infinitely
superior to, those that it received. The most rasping nasal twang will
be transmuted “into something rich and strange.” The catarrhal accent
of the Boston maiden will reappear as that “vocal velvet” wherewith
the British blondes of the “Black Crook” period enravished the soul of
Richard Grant White. The irritating stammerer will ejaculate into the
machine his impedimentary utterances and get them back in a smooth rill
of speech—a fluent, flute-like warble. We shall easily learn to accept
these pleasing vocal fictions, deriving from the falsified record a
rich and high delight. Enamored of what we conceive to be the music of
our own voices, and persuaded of their happy effect upon others, we
shall cultivate loquacity as an art and practice prolixity as a virtue.
In the retouched phonogram lurk the promise and potency of a pleasure
incomparably more mischievous than the confusion of tongues on the
plain of Shinar.