One cheerful evidence of the decivilization of the Anglo-Saxon race is
the late tendency to return to first principles in art, as manifested
in substituting noise for music. Herein we detect symptoms of a rapid
relapse into original barbarism. The savage who beats his gong or
kettledrum until his face is of a delicate blue, and his eyes assert
themselves like those of an unterrified snail, believes that musical
skill is a mere question of brawn—a matter of muscle. If not wholly
ignorant of technical gymnastics, he has a theory that a deftness at
dumb-bells is a prime requisite in a finished artist. The advance—in a
circle—of civilization has only partially unsettled this belief in the
human mind, and we are constantly though unconsciously reverting to it.
It is true the modern demand for a great deal of music has outstripped
the supply of muscle for its production; but the ingenuity of man has
partially made up for his lack of physical strength, and the sublimer
harmonies may still be rendered with tolerable effectiveness, and with
little actual fatigue to the artist. As we retrograde towards the
condition of Primeval Man—the man with the gong and kettledrum—the
blacksmith slowly reasserts his place as the interpreter of the
maestro.
But there is a limit beyond which muscle, whether that of the arm or
cheek, can no further go, without too great an expenditure of force in
proportion to the volume of noise attainable. And right here the
splendid triumphs of modern invention and discovery are made manifest;
electricity and gunpowder come to the relief of puny muscle, simple
appliance, and orchestras limited by sparse population. Batteries of
artillery thunder exultingly our victory over Primeval Man, beaten at
his own game—signally routed and put to shame, pounding his impotent
gong and punishing his ridiculous kettledrum in frantic silence, amidst
the clash and clang and roar of modern art.