About the Work
This volume is a substantial collection of essays, articles, and practical advice drawn from the pages of The Etude, a prominent American music magazine, during the decade spanning approximately 1892 to 1902. Gathered and reprinted in permanent form by the Philadelphia publisher Theo. Presser, the book responds to a steady stream of requests from readers for back issues containing particularly valuable or instructive material. The editor’s preface notes that the essays remain as fresh and pertinent as when they first appeared, and the collection is offered to assist the seeker after musical knowledge. The title indicates the intended scope, with each essay falling under the broad categories of art, culture, or education, though the preface acknowledges that most articles touch upon multiple subjects simultaneously.
“If there is any one profession to acquire which it takes an endless amount of back-bone and grit, it is the musical profession.”
The contents list, arranged alphabetically, runs to roughly two hundred article titles by a wide array of authors, accompanied by page numbers and a subject index. The contributors include musicians, teachers, critics, and commentators of varying reputations, from well-known performers and pedagogues to obscure local instructors. Some pieces are practical and technical, offering guidance on piano technique, practice habits, and the selection of repertoire. Others are philosophical, reflecting on the nature of music, the purpose of art, and the place of the musician in society. Still others are humorous or satirical, poking gentle fun at the foibles of performers, students, and audiences alike. The overall effect is that of a comprehensive handbook or companion for anyone seriously engaged with music, whether as a student, teacher, performer, or informed listener.
The book is organized not as a continuous treatise but as a mosaic of distinct voices, each addressing a particular facet of musical life at the turn of the twentieth century. The reader encounters discussions of the musician’s need for broad culture, the dangers of routine and narrow specialization, the challenges of teaching young pupils, the nervousness of public performance, the evolution of musical taste, and the changing role of the artist in a modernizing world. The tone varies considerably from essay to essay, reflecting the personalities and preoccupations of the individual authors, yet a set of common concerns emerges: the relationship between technical skill and artistic expression, the importance of general education for the musician, the social standing of the profession, and the perennial challenge of interesting and inspiring students. The collection thus offers a rich and varied portrait of American musical life and thought during a period of significant change and growth.
Context
The essays collected in this volume appeared during a decade of remarkable transformation in American musical culture. The late nineteenth century had witnessed the establishment of conservatories, symphony orchestras, and opera companies in major cities, and by the 1890s a substantial infrastructure for musical education and performance was firmly in place. Yet the essays reveal persistent anxieties about the quality and depth of American musical life. Writers repeatedly lament that music is too often regarded as an accomplishment rather than an art, that the public confuses technical display with genuine expression, and that musicians themselves too frequently remain ignorant of everything beyond their narrow specialty. The collection reflects a moment when the United States was self-consciously striving to develop its own musical culture, looking to Europe as both a model and a rival.
The European connection is everywhere apparent in these pages. Young American musicians routinely traveled abroad for study, and the essays debate the value and necessity of such pilgrimages. Some writers insist that Paris, Berlin, or Vienna alone can provide the artistic atmosphere essential for a musician’s full development; others argue that American cities could become art-centers in their own right if teachers and students would only show greater faith in their native institutions. The tension between admiration for European achievement and desire for American independence runs through many of the pieces. At the same time, the essays reflect a broader cultural moment in which the very definition of music and the musician was being reconsidered. The old image of the musician as a naive automaton or eccentric genius was giving way to a new conception of the artist as an educated, cultured, responsible member of society, accountable to the same standards as lawyers, doctors, and clergymen.
The intellectual context is equally significant. Several essays invoke the language of evolution, progress, and the survival of the fittest, applying these concepts to musical development and the careers of individual musicians. The influence of scientific thought is evident in discussions of acoustics, the physiology of performance, and the psychology of attention. Writers also draw on the broader currents of nineteenth-century aesthetic theory, debating the nature of beauty, the relation of music to the other arts, and the question of whether music should aim at pure formal beauty or vivid emotional and descriptive expression. The collection thus stands at a crossroads, looking backward to the great classical and romantic masters while looking forward to the modernist debates of the coming century. The authors are acutely conscious of living in a new era, one in which the musician must be more than a skilled craftsman, and in which music itself must justify its place among the serious pursuits of civilized humanity.
Structure of the Book
The volume is arranged alphabetically by article title, a practical choice that facilitates reference but obscures any thematic progression. The reader moves from “Avoidance of the Commonplace” to “Is Marriage Inimical to Music?” to “Pedalmania” without a clear sense of why one essay follows another. Yet within this seemingly arbitrary arrangement, distinct clusters of concern emerge. A significant portion of the collection addresses the education and training of musicians, from the earliest lessons of young children to the advanced study of aspiring professionals. Essays on the art of interesting pupils, the selection of teachers, the proper method of practicing, and the value of technical exercises offer practical guidance grounded in the experience of working pedagogues. Another cluster focuses on the professional life of the musician, examining questions of specialization, the relation between teachers and performers, the challenges of public appearance, and the financial realities of a musical career.
A third group of essays takes up broader aesthetic and philosophical questions. Writers reflect on the nature of musical expression, the place of descriptive or programmatic music, the evolution of musical taste, and the relation of music to the other arts and to life itself. These pieces tend to be more speculative and discursive, engaging with the history of music from Bach to Wagner and attempting to discern the direction of contemporary developments. The collection also includes lighter fare, humorous sketches and satirical observations that provide relief from the earnest tone of much of the volume. The essay on “Pedalmania,” for instance, treats the excessive use of the sustaining pedal as a comical affliction, while other pieces gently mock the pretensions of performers, teachers, and audiences.
The book concludes with a series of essays that return to the central themes of education and culture with renewed urgency. The final pieces examine the dangers of superficial study, the importance of collateral education for the musician, and the need for a balanced approach to musical training that encompasses technique, repertoire, and general culture. The cumulative effect is less that of a systematic treatise than of a conversation among experienced practitioners, each offering wisdom gained from years of engagement with music. The alphabetical arrangement means that the reader encounters these voices in an order determined by accident of title rather than design, yet the consistency of concern and the recurrence of key themes give the collection a coherence that transcends its organizational principle. The book functions as a compendium of the collective wisdom of American musical educators at a particular historical moment, a snapshot of a profession in the process of defining itself.
Inside the Book
The Preface and the Purpose of the Collection
The volume opens with a preface explaining its own genesis: constant requests for back issues of The Etude magazine prompted the publisher, Theo. Presser of Philadelphia, to gather the most valuable articles from the years 1892–1902 into a permanent compilation. The title, Musical Essays in Art, Culture, Education, is meant to signal the scope of the contents, with each essay falling under one of those three broad headings, though the editor concedes that most pieces touch on more than one subject. The essays are presented as being “as fresh and apt to-day as when first written,” offered to assist “the seeker after musical knowledge.” A contents list follows, arranged alphabetically and containing roughly two hundred article titles by various authors, complete with page numbers and a subject index.
Avoidance of the Commonplace
Frank H. Tubbs opens his essay by observing the general progress of the world—improved chrysanthemums, roses, fruit, clothing, and wallpaper—and asserts that “Evolution is working out her inexorable law in all things,” with “survival of the fittest” governing all of life. He then turns to the peculiar danger facing the music teacher, who is “especially prone to fall into routine.” Success brings its own comforts: income, admiring pupils, a favored church position, public praise, even the approval of critics. Yet this very situation, Tubbs warns, “would make any man contented, conceited, and commonplace. It would make a Hercules effeminate and a Shakspere dull.” The remedy lies in “mental and physical activity.”
He describes the typical musician’s studio life as a feast: players pore over scores and practice technical exercises until they are sated, oblivious to the wider world, like one who has “rolled under the table” from good living. To combat this, Tubbs proposes a simple but searching question that every musician should pose to himself every six months between the ages of twenty and sixty: “The musician’s life has three periods:—imitative, tentative, and originating. In which am I?” He also addresses the crushed ambitions of young teachers, who suffer from sensitivity to popular opinion, fear of what other teachers might say, anxiety over newspaper criticism, and a modest self-distrust. His advice is to act “as if you were the only musician within thousands of miles,” and if the distrust is honest, then “learn, learn!”
Tubbs warns against what he calls “music dissipation”—the habit of dozing over music or getting “more than full of it,” which is as harmful as any other form of excess. He finds it astonishing how little is known of music’s science, noting that even the conclusions of Helmholtz, Spencer, and Thompson have proven wrong. He speculates that music’s underlying principle might match “the very fundamentals which control the revolution of the earth,” and imagines a funded young scientist-musician given twenty years for research who “would revolutionize the music of the world,” possibly making present instruments—except the violin and the voice—obsolete. Every musician, he insists, needs outside interests: botany, horticulture, and nature study, which also attract people to music. Literature is closely allied as “emotional expression,” and musicians should know Locke, Gibbon, Butler, and Johnson, not merely Hawthorne, Dickens, and Trollope. Painting, sculpture, and engraving share the expression of emotion, and even metaphysics offers practical aid for studio work.
Finally, Tubbs urges the teacher to close the studio for weeks and escape to Europe. A small-town giant becomes insignificant beside the teachers of London or Paris, who handle able students, entertain brilliant people, and remain active. Ocean voyages alone provide mental stimulus through contact with fellow-passengers. No one can teach twelve months a year and remain good; “he becomes drained.” A noted judge once said his year is “only ten months long.” Such trips may be biennial or triennial, and two months need cost only $160 to $180. Those who go once return again and again. Teachers must receive from without, rather than relying solely on “nervous enthusiasm.”
Is Marriage Inimical to Music?
Edward Baxter Perry addresses a question that concerns the fate of musical ambition in young women. He observes that matrimony ends musical ambition for most promising lady pupils—”In nine cases out of ten the piano is dropped like an old worn-out toy.” Music becomes an old toy, or a “perfunctory part of the boarding-school education” that is escaped at diploma, or is sacrificed to the “relentless Juggernaut of necessity” of wifehood and motherhood. He calls the slavery of young women with small children and restricted means “more mercilessly tyrannical” than any in history; “maternity means martyrdom.” Yet most of these women find time for church, clubs, books, society calls, and “that most useless…of all amusements—card playing,” while music sits neglected “with the dolls.”
The core answer to the question, Perry argues, is that music has been “regarded and studied, and even taught as an accomplishment, not as an art.” An art is “a vehicle of expression for the noblest thoughts and purest emotions,” a means of culture and contact with “the grandest souls of earth.” An accomplishment, by contrast, is “superficial…mechanical,” touching only the surface, “wholly and selfishly personal,” a display for vanity, even “a match-making accessory” like jewels. Such girls speak of “their music” as they speak of “their French”—show pieces “safely corralled…within the sheltering pale of the possessive case.” As evidence, Perry notes that of one hundred piano students selected at random, scarcely ten percent will cross the street to hear the best professional artist, proving that “it is not music, but their music, which interests them.” The minority ten percent, however, hold “real talent, true ambition, genuine intelligence and taste.” Musical clubs forming across the country are “favorable symptoms,” and the heaviest task falls on “thousands of obscure” teachers who must labor to change this perception.
On Young Musical Aspirants and Financial Prudence
The discussion turns to young people who, after brief music lessons in their native place, believe they know nearly everything necessary and wish to go to a musical center “to take a few lessons to finish.” Though this idea seems ridiculous to those who know the length of the musical ladder, it should not be derided. Instead, encouragement should be given—but not the kind that leads to wasted time and money. Proper encouragement points out necessities and makes efforts effective. Those with ample means need no advice, as no special harm results if their enthusiasm cools. Others believe themselves endowed with remarkable musical talents but, being without means, unblushingly announce that the world owes them an education, pestering all they meet for help. These may safely be left alone—in nine cases out of ten they fail to improve opportunities and seldom attain rank in the musical world. Eventually some decide to make the effort themselves, entering the third class: those willing to work, who wish by their own efforts to raise themselves into a higher intellectual atmosphere.
Most ambitious persons without means are accustomed to work and have better opportunities for saving money at home, where expenses are lighter, than in large cities. They should set themselves a task: seek employment and save weekly until enough covers one year in a musical center—$400 to $500. This is possible for those capable of persistent effort and in good health; both character and health are absolutely essential. The time required builds character, without which musical study will be of little use as a livelihood. Students earning their way are considered the most promising material in educational institutions—not necessarily the most talented, but the most likely to make good use of an education. Help is willingly given to such students.
A philanthropist once offered a term of music lessons in a well-known conservatory to whoever could give the three best reasons showing worthiness. Advertised countrywide, this brought eight hundred replies; over seven hundred and fifty were unworthy of a second reading. The remaining forty-odd went to a committee, and two candidates were selected. In one case the gift failed except in persuading a young woman that she was not intended for a musician. In the other, it enabled a young widow to turn her talents to account and support her three children. She was brought into a musical atmosphere needing sympathy and help. One term became two, then several; various means of support were offered, and she won her battle, entering the world of those who must toil.
The prospective student who has saved funds and gone to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, or Chicago soon discovers that his plan to do two years’ work in one by practicing eight or ten hours daily is “ruthlessly knocked on the head.” He must practice technical exercises only two or three hours daily and devote time to harmony, theory, musical history, and other essential studies. Fellow students have become accustomed to the idea that three or four years’ study is merely a beginning—there is no longer a field for a superficially educated music teacher.
The Need of Higher Education for Musicians
Charles Sanford Skilton takes up the argument that colleges should give music equal curricular importance with literature and science, though few courses exist and no wide acceptance has occurred. Outside the cities, Americans gain their conceptions of musicians from two classes: brass band or dance orchestra players who go to saloons after their duties, speak broken English, and take children out of school early—excellent musicians but possessing little education or culture—and the earnest lady teacher who trains children and plays the reed organ in church, who is often cultured but seldom highly trained, practically an amateur. From these classes, rural Americans come to believe that musical ability and general culture do not combine, pronouncing “musician” with a circumflex accent on the second syllable. In large cities, more adequate conceptions prevail: directors, teachers, writers, lecturers, performers, conductors, composers, and organists who are cultured people of social standing, peers of other professional men. Most possess genius, enjoy the prestige of foreign study, and have won influence.
Skilton offers reasons why music is held in low esteem. First, Anglo-Saxons are not a musical race, having influenced music only as patrons; no first-rank composer has come from English-speaking people. Second, the race has only partially completed subjugating a continent; material interests blind men to music’s mission, viewing it as mere entertainment. Cultivated people say, “Music is very well as a pastime, but an unworthy profession for a man who can do anything else.” Musicians are partly to blame: they accept conditions, neglect opportunities to touch other interests, seek no education but musical, and seem to care for nothing but music. A historical comparison of masters illustrates the point: of the earlier masters, Schütz was educated for law until art and nature proved too strong; Handel acquired a liberal education through travels; Palestrina, Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert were unlearned save music. Of the modern masters, Schumann was destined for law, combining scholarship with genius; Mendelssohn and Brahms were doctors of philosophy; Chopin, Liszt, Rubinstein, and Wagner acquired culture from their surroundings. Thus of eight classical masters only two possessed a liberal education, while of seven modern masters all may claim it. Eighteenth-century life could be comprehended by musical genius alone, but nineteenth-century life—after the French revolution, the new departures in science, and the growth of individual life—requires genius aided by liberal education. The remedy is education for the masses regarding music’s meaning, and education for musicians along broader lines. People are educating themselves to understand music better than musicians are educating themselves to understand people. A musician of liberal education in an intelligent community can discuss civil government, labor problems, and social theories.
Expression in Playing and Its Conditions
A newspaper correspondent complains that piano students rated as talented and technically skilled nevertheless play unsatisfactorily—spending much time on technic yet producing nothing beyond it. The author notes that this complaint is ancient, citing Greek philosophers who lamented music degenerating into virtuoso display rather than poetic expression, and suggests that even players in Jubal’s time faced similar censure. The general public has consistently insisted that music should “mean something” rather than be manipulative jugglery, holding that music is both art and science, not mere handicraft. Art must have a vital relation to life, speaking from and to the soul, quickening emotional sensibility through beauty. Though definitions of art and beauty prove difficult, both touch the conscious life of the soul, giving pleasure felt as healthful, enlarging, and permanent. Whether impersonal like architecture or unimitatively suggestive like music, art produces mental exhilaration realized as a sufficient end in itself because it promotes spiritual life and growth.
The charge that pianists play “without expression” is frequent. Accusers often cannot define musical expression, but they mean that the player fails to impart the art-work’s real substance—it does not breathe and glow; inward spiritual beauty remains unrevealed. While allowing for illegitimate demands from uncultured listeners, the complaint against young performers is often just. The deficiency stems from students not knowing what musical beauty is; they follow teachers’ directions but cannot impart final charm because it does not exist in their minds as antecedent consciousness. This defect indicates mental immaturity, not lack of conscience or hard work. Young people generally lack disciplined emotional or imaginative faculty until a certain age, just as they are irresponsive to the profounder suggestions of poetry and painting. This coldness results less from original lack of sensibility than from neglect of its development—”How can one give what he does not possess?”
The author suggests developing sensitivity to intellectual beauty through several means. First, students should learn that technic includes quality of tone, balance, adjustment, and blending of sounds—not merely striking notes accurately. An unharmonized scale or arpeggio may arouse beauty through tone-color management. The ear should be trained alongside the fingers, alert to pitch distinctions and timbre gradations in piano, violin, and human voice. Second, students should recognize harmony’s beauty—full, pure, majestic combinations; enchanting chords and progressions; undertones lending weight, dignity, somberness, or luster. They should listen down through harmony rather than resting on the surface. Most young players produce thin tone with weak left-hand parts; they should watch bass parts and bring out characteristic figures in the under and middle parts. Third, students should develop a sense of rhythm’s beauty—not the obvious march and dance rhythms but the involved, recondite groupings in Bach, Schumann, and Chopin. There is also the beauty of flexible tempo, rubato handling, contrast, dissonance, syncopation, crescendo and diminuendo, and tempestuous passionate delivery.
These are but external contrivances acting on the nervous organization. True expression requires judgment employing them for appropriate ends, prevented from travesty only by the “ripening of the musical sense.” An ultimate, irresolvable element—”poetic interpretation”—cannot be imparted by precept.
The Foundation Teacher and the Dream of American Art-Centers
The discussion turns to the American music student who spends five or six years studying at home before traveling to Europe, only to be exhibited within weeks or months for the credit of a European instructor. This outcome pleases the American teacher, even though the same teacher would view it as a calamity if it happened in his own city. The explanation offered is that Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and similar places are considered “art-centers.” The author expresses a desire for New York, Boston, and Philadelphia to become such centers where musicians can gain reputations, but this will not happen while the present relation of teachers to one another exists. The first step toward building these cities as art-centers is to educate the public about the true relative value of the foundation or technical teacher versus the finishing teacher or coach. This need not detract from the latter’s reputation; the finishing teacher is not a rival but a necessary adjunct to the foundation teacher, to whom he is indebted and should acknowledge that indebtedness. Currently there is little use for the finishing teacher in America, and he generally fails to make the fortune his prices suggest. To satisfy the American public, the musician must study abroad before being acceptable, and may as well follow the foundation teacher’s advice to go at once. This prevents the development of American art-centers. While people should not overemphasize “going abroad,” the foundation teacher at home should receive full credit for his work.
Nervousness Before Appearing in Public
J. Francis Cooke compares performers to Civil and Spanish war veterans who stood firm in battle but were palsied with fear on the eve of a fight. Professional musicians, singers, and speakers experience the same: once on stage the fear vanishes, but apprehension precedes entrance. Every true artist experiences this, however concealed. Anyone so self-confident or diffident as to be absolutely regardless of an audience is not, in Cooke’s opinion, a true artist. Cooke recounts being present in dressing rooms before artists’ entrances. He once asked Miss Maud Powell, the violiniste, if he could do anything for her; she replied, “Nothing, unless you can do something for this dreadful nervousness,” while the audience admired her composure. Few realize what martyrdom public performances are for sensitive people. Public taste varies so much regionally that touring musicians rarely know what reception awaits them.
Regarding Paderewski’s methods for conditioning his hands, rumors circulate, including that he soaks them in warm water. Cooke once met Edward MacDowell in a dressing room before a recital, walking and wringing his hands—not from nervousness but as a practical technical exercise after spending most of the previous twenty-four hours in a railroad car. MacDowell also carries a specially constructed piano-stool on tours, endorsing uniform height for pianists. Different performers behave differently: Xaver Scharwenka is quiet and thoughtful; Max Heinrich is jovial and alert; both give deep, brilliant, artistic performances. Cooke once observed a notable tenor whose dress-suit case contained pomades, powders, lotions, eyebrow pencils, pills, hair oils, combs, and brushes—like Madame Recamier’s toilet table—yet this “conceited fop” sang “The Creation” and “The Redemption” compellingly. This tenor recommended a remedy for temporary throat troubles: a fifty percent mixture of syrup of tolu and glycerin in teaspoonful doses, safer than tonic wines.
Fanny Bloomfield-Zeisler, at a New York engagement, performed heroically while so ill a physician would have ordered her home, and with a family member gravely sick in the far West. Her facial metamorphosis between stage and dressing room was unforgettable. She played the Liszt-Schubert “Erl-König” with speed and strength remarkable even in a man in prime condition. “All of our heroes are not in the army and navy.” At one concert, a performer had packed his dress-suit case in the dark and brought a shirt with a colored bosom; his fury nearly postponed the performance until a hurried trip to a haberdasher’s. An indulgent audience waited twenty-five minutes past the advertised time. At Brooklyn’s Marcy Avenue Baptist Church, Ovide Musin, the Belgian violinist, nervous on entering the stage, mistook the door and found himself in the baptismal font, half full of water. George Riddle, the famous reader, thinks over interpretations before entering; intruders face his wrath—not eccentricity but thoroughness. Popular artists suffer nuisance requests, even from strangers asking for flowers worn during performances. These annoyances augment nervousness.
Experience may remove dread of the stage door, but no remedy should cure the anxiety to please. This nervousness is the vital part of artistic temperament. Managers sometimes threaten to dismiss audiences at pupils’ recitals. A well-known New York teacher told a pupil that unless she played every note perfectly he would prevent her continuing music; the girl fainted and had to be taken home in a carriage. Threatening a nervous person is folly. A better plan: have the performer lie down ten to twenty minutes before entrance, relaxing every muscle after the Delsarte method, suggested rather than compelled, followed by congenial conversation on subjects removed from the coming entrance. This method has saved many pupils’ recitals; nervousness in a dressing-room full of pupils often ends in a “stampede.”
Changes in Musical Taste
Louis C. Elson argues that music is the most changeable art with no immutable construction laws—a declaration of strength, not weakness. The discussion of Bach’s contributions follows, noting that his work for pianoforte technique was of incalculable importance to music’s development. His predecessors used only the three middle fingers and could not modulate to many keys. By adopting equal temperament, he made it possible to use all keys and modulate freely, using the thumb as well as fingers. “The Well-tempered Clavichord,” with its forty-eight preludes and fugues in all keys, embodies this change. Hans von Bülow said that if all master-works were lost except this one, the whole art of music could be reconstructed from it. Rubinstein said the same thing; it was likely a maxim of their teacher, Liszt, and would have been endorsed by Chopin, whose harmonies are rooted in Bach, and Schumann, who advised pupils to make Bach their “daily bread.” These preludes and fugues were Wagner’s favorite music in his last years. Rubinstein exclaims to add the chromatic fantasia and fugue, variations, partitas, inventions, English suites, concertos, chaconne, piano and violin sonatas, and organ compositions, asking who can fathom Bach’s greatness. The author adds that Bach’s influence is proven by tributes from pupils and admirers: Mendelssohn, Schumann, Chopin, Liszt, Rubinstein, Franz, Saint-Saëns, and other romantic and modern leaders. Perosi, Italy’s latest wonder, has tried to unite the styles of Palestrina and Wagner with Bach’s.
The Art of Interesting Pupils
E. G. Higgins writes that interest is essential for a music pupil; teachers strive to interest and advance pupils. For a child, music is a new world; do not tell him too much at first, keep something for next time. Have the child tell you what he knows of signs and symbols from one page. Next week, give the child music-paper to make his own music with clefs, notes, and measures; use imagination to make these things live. Later, put scales on paper, then walk them on the keyboard slowly, lifting one finger as the next goes down; watch for clear work. When ready for the next scale, note points of similarity so the child feels they are not hard and stupid. Name the pieces in exercise books together with the child; name only a few at a time. A child’s first piece is important; hold out the promise of a piece as a reward. Don’t keep him on one piece until he is tired; give variety. If a piece is not perfect, put it aside and review later. Call in the mother to hear it and tell her how pleased you are. Tell a story suggested by the piece’s title. If the child loses eagerness, make a friend of the mother for cooperation. Have the child keep an account of practice, use a bean trade to mark times, and plan extra time at the next lesson if he fails. Some pupils respond to shame, others to a sharp word or threat, others to your regret. Use a report card with headings like “practice,” “punctuality,” “position,” “fingering,” “scales,” and “exercises.” Give encouragement, but do not praise too much; be sparing with it.
For older pupils, tell them of composers’ personalities and anecdotes of how they worked. A regular quarterly recital adds interest; plan for it two months ahead. Pieces should be well learned and laid aside, then reviewed. Offer a simple prize. Recitals should be free and well advertised. For older pupils, have a musical club where pupils do the work. Plan a course of study, bring pictures and anecdotes of masters, have musical games, and discuss topics like “How to Practice” and “How to Memorize.” Encourage pupils to take musical magazines; lend your own copies and give samples of The Etude. Hear good music whenever you can; if not in cities to hear Hofmann, Rosenthal, and Sauer, keep posted on musical events and speak of them.
The Road to Parnassus
Henry C. Lahee compares climbing a mountain to musical life: the traveler sees a steep path, overcomes obstacles, and rests at points to see the valley, which cheers him. At the summit, he sees the surrounding country and the level roads where the unambitious plod. The person with little knowledge ambles on the level road, thinking he knows all. Hearing of the joys of climbing, he becomes ambitious but may not follow his guide fully. If he gains victory over self, the reward comes. He then seeks a guide who has been higher, realizing more years of work are needed. Teachers face difficulties with pupils: laziness, outside pleasures, lack of interest, self-sufficiency, and diffidence. The hardest task is to coax pupils out of ignorance to a point of retrospect and intelligent enjoyment. The conscientious teacher must give confidence and encouragement; it is better to point the way toward improvement than to find fault. Credit is due to humble teachers who implant the first seeds of enthusiasm, even if their methods are not perfect. The failures of others should not discourage one but cause rejoicing that so many have risen.
A Musician’s Reading
Alexander McArthur observes that many music students know little outside the technic of their art, such as the dates of Beethoven, Handel, or Mozart. They know Bellini wrote “La Somnambula” and Wagner composed “Lohengrin,” but their general knowledge is thin. The implication is that a musician’s education must extend beyond the instrument to the broader world of ideas and history.
On Piano Performance and Interpretation
L. Kohler advises performers to play as if reciting a poem or a child saying a prayer, avoiding “vain repetitions.” Fingers should not “babble mechanically” but make music thoughtfully, proving “their blood flows through a mind and a heart also.” Players should perform simple folk-songs to feel how each note belongs to the whole, thinking of the piece as a “musical organism.” Players should ask themselves about the thought of a piece, the befitting expression, and whether the spirit is calm or animated, or if the passion is restrained or outspoken. Moods can be fervent, bitter, sweet, sad, self-contained, gentle, or resigned. Most players fail in three points: the use of the pedal, the subordination of accompanying notes in the hand that plays the melody, and accurate voice-leading in contrapuntal compositions. Students should listen to their playing as a biologist sees through a microscope, magnifying small errors to correct them. “Inaccuracy is the ruin of playing.” When practicing scales and arpeggios, the student should think of tone as clay that a sculptor molds, learning to command fingers and control tone. “A melody must be modeled; music must grow under your fingers like a statue under the sculptor’s touch.” Time is like an ethereal substance that broadens in a ritardando and contracts in an accelerando. The rhythm of a piece should be thought of as a broad, winding stream that runs at an even rate but swells and quiets at different points.
On Musicians’ Specialization
Kohler notes that in large cities, there are violinists who could teach piano and voice, voice specialists who understand organ and wind instruments, and ‘cellists who are also pipe-organists. While these men may perform in various capacities, in teaching they prefer to be known as teachers of their specialty, not of every branch they have studied. There are exceptions: a pianist can teach pipe-organ, harmony, theory, and composition; a violinist can teach viola and possibly ‘cello, but adding voice and piano would make the public reject him. Audiences do not like an artist appearing in several capacities on a program. A singer may play his own accompaniments, but playing a violin or piano solo on the same program would injure him professionally. Even a musician who plays both violin and piano equally well should confine himself to one in public performances.
Music as a Divine Principle
Frank H. Tubbs, in “Surrounded by Music,” writes that the saying “There is nothing new under the sun” is based on a truth governing all knowledge. Electricity, photography, and medicine are not new sciences; they use principles that have always existed. No new material has been created; there is only separation of elements and return to former conditions. This is the “principle of primordialism.” God placed everything in the earth at creation, and man’s growth is his growing ability to use God’s gifts. Man will use unknown forces but will create nothing new. Music is an entity created when the world began. Man has learned better how to use it. Education is securing the ability to grasp the principle of music. How much one draws from music depends on the “imbibing force of the individual mind.” A mind that absorbs music is a “human dynamo.” Doubling mental capacity quadruples absorbing capacity. Music teachers must abandon the notion that only the specially gifted can become musicians. Music is all around everyone, waiting to be taken. An analogy is made to mathematics, where the principle is the same whether used to measure orbits or compute the price of potatoes. With music, one person endures it, another loves it, another lives in it, and for a few it opens a heaven. The degree of appropriation is the only limitation. Teaching is reduced to opening students’ minds to the perception of music. Technical work and study of masters are means to an end, not the end itself. A principle is no respecter of persons; the poorest and richest alike come to its door. The text criticizes the waste of crowded opera-houses and concert halls, where the public gains only momentary pleasure.
The Defense of Descriptive Music
The passage opens in the midst of a spirited argument championing “realistic” or descriptive music against its critics. The author observes that the most prominent composers of the preceding century—Weber, Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, Saint-Saëns, Godard, Rubinstein, and Verdi, among others—had increasingly favored this expressive tendency. Even the revered masters of an earlier era, such as Haydn, Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, and Chopin, were, at times, distinctly realistic in their compositions. The author poses a rhetorical challenge to the detractors: were these great figures all wrong, or were they merely sentimentalists? He points to specific, celebrated works—Beethoven’s “Dancing Dervishes,” the “Midsummer Night Overture,” the “Danse Macabre,” and the “Erl-King”—as undeniable evidence of music’s power to depict scenes and narratives.
The argument deepens by asserting that since the time of Bach, music has universally evolved toward vivid emotional expression, which is itself another form of descriptive music, one that deals with the inner landscape of moods rather than external scenery. The author declares that the age of pure canon and fugue is over; music that appeals only to the mathematical or intellectual sense is now obsolete, studied by only a scholarly few, much like “Greek roots and cuneiform inscriptions.” The modern world, he contends, demands music that possesses the mental suggestions and emotional warmth of poetry and the externalizing power of painting, reflecting the intense and complex life of the era. Music, in its highest form, should be “a landscape, a drama, and a lyric all in one,” with the power to lift listeners out of their own mundane existence.
While acknowledging that compositions explicitly labeled “descriptive” are comparatively few in number, the author insists they include some of the finest works ever created. He suggests a more accurate name for them would be “objective works,” as they deal with external physical effects: the play of fire, the force of wind, the quality of moonlight, the murmur of a forest, the movement of water from a fountain to the ocean’s surge, the gallop of a horse, the crash of thunder, and the sounds of birds and insects. Every great composer from Beethoven to Wagner has employed these effects to enrich their musical language. Beyond these obvious examples, the author argues that nearly all modern music is truly descriptive in its essence. Waltzes express the moods of the ballroom; national dances describe the traits of a people; lyrics reveal the composer’s inner state; and marches, cradle-songs, and barcarolles all suggest scenes from real life. When one adds Hungarian rhapsodies, Spanish caprices, Russian and Oriental fantasies, works based on dramas and legends, and dances of supernatural creatures, more than three-fourths of the modern concert repertoire falls under this descriptive umbrella. The author challenges critics who dismiss these works as “illegitimate efforts” or “artistic failures,” declaring that the battle against such Philistinism was lost long ago, their defenses having crumbled the moment “Wagner dipped his first pen.”
The Place of Routine in Music-Work
In a separate essay, Mary E. Hallock offers a practical meditation on the role of routine in musical practice, comparing it to a household servant—an assistance and energy-saver, but one that does not remove the master’s ultimate responsibilities. She defines routine as “constant repetition of a phrase with the attention gradually relaxing in intensity.” The ultimate excellence of a performed phrase, she argues, depends on the quality of attention given at its first playing. Initial performances require concentrated, focused attention followed by rest; only gradually can less mental effort be applied. Routine practice begins only once a phrase is firmly set in its physical, mental, and emotional grooves. However, a significant danger lurks here: with diminished attention, careless diction and sloppy habits can creep in. Just as a household head must maintain “eternal vigilance” over servants, the mind must constantly watch over the body’s performances. Without such attention for even less than a fortnight, tempo may begin to distort, and the “weeds of undue and illogical accents” will spring up in the musical garden.
Hallock acknowledges that some passages permit playing with little conscious thought, while others demand the performer’s full attention—places where every note carries profound meaning or in exquisitely crafted melodies. In rapid passages, it is impossible to think of every single note, but the mind must have consciously known and mastered every note at some earlier point. She delivers a firm dictum: “Routine playing, back of which the mind has never known ‘and known that it has known,’ is utterly worthless.” She observes that when pupils cannot play fast despite having ample muscular power, it is often the mind’s insistence on consciously thinking of each note that hampers the fingers’ movement. Routine playing also poses a threat to spontaneity, which is fundamentally incompatible with rote repetition; freshness must be applied “like a poultice” to phrases that have grown stale. For sudden jumps or awkward fingering, the only remedy is to pause, mentally command “Attention!” and concentrate fully on the difficult passage.
The Orchestral Manner in Piano-Playing
William Lawrence Calhoun contributes a thought-provoking essay on the evolution of piano style, suggesting that if one could evoke the spirits of Mozart, Clementi, and Hummel, their playing would sound remarkably different from that of modern virtuosi. Tradition holds that these early masters displayed sentiment, brilliancy, delicacy of touch, and technical power, but Calhoun notes that these terms are relative, as each age possesses different ideals. He recounts an anecdote from von Lenz, the author of “Three Styles of Beethoven,” who described a visit from the aging pianist Cramer in Paris. To von Lenz’s ears, trained on the playing of Chopin, Liszt, and Henselt, Cramer’s performance seemed harsh and wooden. Cramer played his own third study with a bad legato in the right hand and completely ignored the binding notes in the left, excusing himself by saying “we were not so particular” and that Clementi played his “Gradus ad Parnassum” in the same manner.
Calhoun emphasizes that the piano is now “quite another thing,” and even fundamental terms like allegro, andante, presto, legato, and staccato have acquired new meanings. Mozart possessed a Silbermann piano, while the modern Parisian Erard combines the light touch of the early piano with the sonority of contemporary instruments. Calhoun invites the reader to imagine Mozart’s “Fantasie and Sonata in C-minor” played by its composer versus a modern interpreter like Busoni, or Chopin’s ballades played by Chopin himself versus Paderewski or Godowsky, all on the same Erard. The differences in performance, he argues, would reflect not merely individual skill but “opposite methods of conceiving the music” and the pervasive influence of “the habit of the period.” Throughout the piano-art’s development from Bach to Liszt, improvements in the instrument itself profoundly affected both writing and playing. Added tone power enabled a greater dynamic range; increased tone duration suggested imitating the sostenuto of the organ or orchestra, which in turn caused the rapid disappearance of fioritura; and the improved tone and action disclosed new possibilities for suggesting orchestral tone-colors. While Bach and Haydn showed little orchestral thinking in their piano pieces, Mozart’s sonatas approximate the effects of a string quartet, and Beethoven wrote nearly always in an orchestral idiom, a tendency that would culminate in the piano writing of Liszt.
Questions for Musicians
A section of practical and philosophical questions for self-examination begins with a quote from Dr. Lowell Mason: “I am a musician by the grace of God.” This is presented as a valuable thought for meditation, suggesting that music is a God-given talent to be cultivated for the good of others and oneself. The author advises readers not to try to do more than a successful person they are emulating, but rather to do less each day and take more time, as one’s own strength may not equal theirs. The first question asks if the reader is one who cannot endure a musical blunder except when made by themselves. The author argues that such “morbid super-sensitiveness” is often humbug or a sign of indigestion or ill-controlled nerves, and it does not prove musicianship. The text criticizes teachers who display a “holy horror” for mistakes to maintain their authority, using abuse or sarcasm. This is called a “fatal mistake” as it makes the teacher feared and despised, destroys the student’s confidence, and can ruin a talented student’s career. A teacher is paid for instruction, not abuse, and should be lenient with others’ mistakes, as the true musician is acutely aware of their own deficiencies. The higher a musician stands, the less hypercritical they tend to be.
The second question asks if the reader stays away from concerts given by a rival teacher or school out of petty jealousy. Such people are called an imposture, lacking both artistic instincts and business intelligence. They are described as cutting off their own nose to spite their neighbor, and are a disgrace to their profession. The third question targets those who claim they have “always heard every artist before” and therefore do not need to hear them again. This attitude is said to show that the person is “musically dead” and “esthetically greener than grass.” The author satirizes this by comparing it to having eaten a Thanksgiving dinner in 1891 and not needing to eat again, noting that the person would still want three square meals a day. The fourth question asks if the reader is a self-constituted public mentor who acts as a “wet blanket” on musical enthusiasm by severely criticizing every performance except their own. The text questions whether it shows more ability to find faults than virtues, and criticizes local press critics who use unvarying sneers and abuse. Scathing censure is described as blighting and often fatal to artistic development, using the example of a seventeen-year-old student who should not be expected to play like a master before learning the basics. The author concludes by stating that while the reader is presumably not one of these disagreeable characters, they both know many who are, and it is the duty of true musicians to rid their ranks of such people or rouse them to a higher plane of thought.
Junior Artists and the Teaching Piece
J. Francis Cooke contributes an essay on the true purpose of the “teaching piece.” He argues that while many teachers select pieces primarily to cultivate technical ability, specific technical exercises are far more effective for that purpose. The true purpose of a teaching piece, he contends, is to train the artistic element in the pupil. He references the biographies of Handel, Bach, Mozart, Haydn, Mendelssohn, and Schumann to show that their artistic education began early in life, citing the famous tradition of the young John Sebastian Bach making a manuscript copy of a coveted volume by moonlight when his brother denied him access. Cooke then criticizes the “Ultraclassicalists,” conservative writers who contend that only classical compositions should be given to the young. He compares this pedagogical approach to teaching Milton’s “Paradise Lost” before “Robinson Crusoe” or “Alice in Wonderland.” He astutely notes that the “romantic” of one age inevitably becomes the “classical” of a succeeding epoch, citing the iconoclasm of Bach, Palestrina, Handel, and Gluck in their own times.
Cooke recommends a threefold course of study, a balanced selection of pieces in the classical, romantic, and esthetic styles. He suggests alternating Bach’s two-voiced “Inventions” with Schumann’s “Album for the Young” or “Scenes of Childhood,” and mentions pieces like Mozart’s “Minuet” from his Symphony in E-flat, Lack’s “Idyl” in A-flat, and “Simple Aveu” by Francis Thome. The teacher must ultimately use their own judgment to decide what music falls into each category. The teacher should form lists of pieces to accomplish a definite purpose, not select them haphazardly. The influence of this threefold artistic force, Cooke argues, becomes fully apparent when the pupil eventually emerges as an artist in real musical life.
Josef Hofmann on Piano Practice and Technic
William Armstrong contributes an article on the celebrated pianist Josef Hofmann, beginning with the assertion that a first requirement for any musician is an appreciation of the true dignity of the art and a faith in it as a sociological factor. A closer knowledge of Hofmann, Armstrong writes, proves his extraordinary alertness of mind and concentration. He possesses an odd combination of the boy and the man in his mental development. Hofmann was carefully trained without anyone meddling with his individuality, a crucial point in his development. The author quotes Madame Nordica, who observed that self-consciousness in adults is often due to a lack of such careful, respectful training in youth.
The Art of Non-Assimilation
A separate passage discusses the “art of non-assimilation,” a practice most people engage in daily without being aware of it, becoming adept at it long before excelling in other areas of life. This is attributed to the pressures of city life, into which people are flung at an early age, with parents calling it “good experience.” This life necessitates quickness, especially the “quick lunch,” leading people to believe they must acquire the habit of rapid swallowing because time is too precious. This is far easier than acquiring patience and deliberation under nervous conditions. The text notes that people would likely deny that an overdose or too rapid a dose of food is beneficial, and they smile at a neighbor who is cramming food, knowing it cannot be digested and may produce unhealthy growth, spiritually or physically. If the neighbor replied that the critic noticed the error due to a similar tendency, the critic would laugh, for despite a determination to be modest, people are convinced they know themselves—their strength, weakness, good points, and failings—and know what is good for them. They believe they are no longer children but have attained man and womanhood. They learned very young that food must be eaten slowly to be beneficial, and without time for digestion and assimilation, one might as well not eat. This is one of the “good old adages” heard so often that people no longer think of them as applying to themselves. This applies equally to physical and mental food, and people forget the “kindly Friar’s injunction”: “Wisely and slow; they stumble who run last.”
People cannot even be quietly receptive with friends; they must talk, especially if they have nothing to say, as there is a strange virtue in conversation then. He who regards trivial matters as better topics is far advanced, but his powers of digestion and assimilation are weakened, and he calls on his nerves to supply the blank. If he becomes a wreck instead of a sound human vessel, it is no surprise. A “seldom considered writer” is quoted: people meet at short intervals without having acquired new value for each other, meeting at meals three times a day and giving each other a new taste of “that musty old cheese that we are.”
Main Arguments
A central argument running through many of the essays concerns the necessity of broad culture for the musician. The era when a musician could be merely a wonderful machine or naive automaton has passed, several writers insist. The modern musician must be an educated person, familiar not only with the technical literature of music but with literature, history, philosophy, and the other arts. Music touches life on every side, and the musician who remains only a musician confines himself in a narrow round. The essays repeatedly urge students to read widely, to cultivate an interest in nature, to attend lectures and concerts beyond their immediate specialty, and to engage with the intellectual currents of their time. This argument rests on the conviction that music is not a self-contained craft but a form of human expression that draws its deepest meaning from the full range of human experience. The performer who knows nothing of poetry, painting, or the natural world cannot hope to interpret the great works of the musical literature with insight and feeling.
A related argument concerns the proper relation between technical skill and artistic expression. Many of the essays warn against the danger of excessive emphasis on mere dexterity, the accumulation of digital facility without corresponding growth in musical understanding. The student who practices eight or ten hours daily on technical exercises may achieve remarkable fluency but remain incapable of moving an audience. True expression requires more than accurate note-playing; it demands that the performer grasp the emotional and spiritual content of the music and convey it through tone, phrasing, and rhythm. Several writers insist that expression cannot be taught by precept but must be stimulated by suggestion, that the teacher’s task is not to impose a fixed interpretation but to awaken the student’s own imaginative response to the music. The goal of musical education, these essays argue, is not the production of automatons but the development of complete musicians who can think and feel as well as play.
The essays also advance a sustained argument about the social standing and responsibility of the musician. Several writers note with concern that music is held in low esteem by many Americans, who regard it as a pastime rather than a serious profession. They attribute this attitude partly to the Anglo-Saxon race’s limited musical achievement and partly to the material preoccupations of a nation still engaged in subjugating a continent. But they also place blame on musicians themselves, who too often accept their marginal status, neglect opportunities to engage with the wider world, and seem to care for nothing but their own art. The remedy lies in education, both of the public and of musicians. The public must learn to understand music’s meaning and value; musicians must educate themselves along broader lines so that they can take their place as cultured persons of social standing, peers of other professional men. The musician of liberal education, several essays argue, can discuss civil government, labor problems, and social theories with intelligence and thus command the respect that the mere technician never earns.
Key Concepts
The collection repeatedly invokes the distinction between art and accomplishment, a contrast that structures much of its thinking about musical education. An art, in this view, is a vehicle of expression for the noblest thoughts and purest emotions, a means of culture and contact with the grandest souls of earth. An accomplishment, by contrast, is superficial and mechanical, touching only the surface, wholly and selfishly personal, a display for vanity. The essays lament that music has too often been regarded and studied and even taught as an accomplishment rather than an art, particularly in the education of young women, for whom the piano was frequently little more than a match-making accessory. The girl who speaks of “her music” as she speaks of “her French” reveals that she regards it as a possession rather than a vocation, a ornament rather than a means of expression. The task of musical education, the essays insist, is to transform this attitude, to lead students from the superficiality of accomplishment to the depth of genuine artistic engagement.
Another key concept is the idea of the three periods of the musician’s life: imitative, tentative, and originating. This framework, proposed in one of the opening essays, suggests that musical development follows a natural progression from copying models, through experimentation and self-discovery, to original creation. The musician who wishes to avoid the dangers of routine and complacency must periodically ask himself in which period he currently stands, and must strive always to move forward. The concept implies that stagnation is the great enemy of artistic growth, that the teacher who becomes content with his methods and the performer who rests on his successes are already in decline. The remedy is mental and physical activity, the cultivation of outside interests, and the willingness to travel, to encounter new ideas and new people, to receive from without rather than relying solely on nervous enthusiasm.
The collection also develops a distinctive understanding of the relation between music and the principle of primordialism. One essay argues that there is nothing new under the sun, that all human discovery consists not in creating new materials but in learning to use forces that have existed since the creation. Music, on this view, is an entity created when the world began, and man’s progress consists in his growing ability to grasp and use its principle. Education is the process of securing the ability to appropriate this principle, and the degree of appropriation depends on the imbibing force of the individual mind. The mind that absorbs music is a human dynamo, and doubling mental capacity quadruples absorbing capacity. This conception has practical implications for teaching: the teacher’s task is not to implant something foreign in the student but to open the student’s mind to the perception of what is already all around him. Music is everywhere, waiting to be taken, and the only limitation is the individual’s capacity for absorption.
Themes
A recurring theme in the collection is the anxiety of influence and the quest for originality. The essays repeatedly acknowledge the overwhelming authority of the great masters, from Bach and Handel through Beethoven and the romantics, while simultaneously insisting that the modern musician must find his own voice. The historical comparisons drawn between earlier and modern masters suggest a conviction that the conditions of musical creation have fundamentally changed. The eighteenth-century composer could comprehend his world through musical genius alone, but the nineteenth-century musician, living after the French Revolution and the new departures in science, requires genius aided by liberal education. The theme reflects a broader cultural anxiety about belatedness, the sense that the great works have already been written and that the modern artist must struggle to escape the shadow of his predecessors. Yet the essays also express confidence that music continues to evolve, that new forms and new expressions remain possible, and that the young musician who prepares himself adequately may yet make an original contribution.
The theme of the artist’s relation to society appears in various forms throughout the collection. Several essays examine the social standing of musicians, noting the difference between the contempt with which rural Americans regard the local bandmaster and the respect accorded to the cultured urban professional. The musician’s responsibility to the community is a related concern: the essays urge performers and teachers to engage with their audiences, to educate public taste, and to demonstrate that music is not mere entertainment but a serious and elevating pursuit. The theme of the artist as hero also emerges, particularly in the accounts of performers who overcome illness, anxiety, and personal tragedy to deliver inspiring performances. These narratives suggest that the true artist possesses a kind of moral greatness, a dedication to art that transcends personal comfort and convenience.
The collection also returns frequently to the theme of balance and proportion in musical education. The essays warn against the dangers of both excessive specialization and superficial dabbling, of both mechanical drill and vague emotionalism. The student must master technique but must not become its slave; must study the masters but must not merely imitate them; must cultivate feeling but must discipline it with intelligence. This theme of balance extends to the musician’s life as a whole: the essays urge practitioners to cultivate outside interests, to travel, to read, to observe nature, to engage with the wider world, precisely because these activities enrich the musical imagination. The musician who does nothing but practice becomes drained, stale, commonplace; the musician who lives fully brings richness and depth to his art. The theme reflects a holistic conception of education, the conviction that the complete musician is first a complete human being.
The Author’s Conclusions
The collection as a whole arrives at a set of conclusions about the state and future of music that are remarkably consistent given the diversity of voices represented. The essays converge on the conviction that music is a serious art, deserving of the same respect and demanding the same preparation as any other intellectual pursuit. The day of the naive musician, the wonderful machine who produces sounds without understanding their meaning, is past. The modern musician must be a person of culture, familiar with the history of his art, conversant with the other arts and sciences, and capable of taking his place among the educated professionals of his community. This conclusion carries implications for musical education: the training of musicians must be broad as well as deep, encompassing not only technical exercises and repertoire but harmony, theory, musical history, literature, and the general intellectual currents of the age.
The essays also conclude that the key to musical progress lies in the education of both musicians and the public. Musicians must educate themselves to understand people as well as music, to engage with the wider world rather than retreating into their narrow specialty. The public, for its part, must be educated to understand music’s meaning and value, to distinguish between mere technical display and genuine artistic expression. The essays express cautious optimism about the prospects for this educational project. They note the formation of musical clubs across the country, the crowds at symphony rehearsals, the growing appetite for musical knowledge among ordinary people. They acknowledge the obstacles, the material preoccupations of American life, the Anglo-Saxon race’s limited musical achievement, the tendency of students to rush from teacher to teacher or to abandon serious study for superficial accomplishment. Yet they maintain that progress is possible, that the seeker after musical knowledge will find what he seeks, and that the future of music in America depends on the willingness of musicians and public alike to take the art seriously.
The final essays return to the theme of the musician’s spiritual vocation. Music, the collection concludes, is not merely a craft or a profession but a manifestation of the human spirit informed by the Divine Spirit. The musician who appreciates the true dignity of his art, who has faith in it as a sociological factor, who recognizes that music and spirituality walk hand in hand, will find in his work a source of meaning and satisfaction that transcends mere worldly success. The idealist, the essayists suggest, is most certain to absorb music’s deepest benefits, for living in ideals prevents the dissipation and vulgarity that beset those who seek only pleasure or profit. The collection thus ends on a note of high seriousness, affirming the ennobling power of music and the responsibility of those who devote their lives to it. The musician who cultivates his spiritual nature, who opens his mind to the beauty that surrounds him, who approaches his art with reverence and dedication, will find that music rewards him with insights and joys beyond the reach of those who treat it as mere entertainment or accomplishment.
Significance
This collection occupies an important place in the history of American musical thought, capturing a moment when the profession was self-consciously defining itself and its standards. The essays reflect the aspirations and anxieties of a generation of musicians who sought to elevate their art to the level of the other learned professions, to establish institutions and practices that would nurture genuine musical culture in a nation still regarded by many Europeans as a cultural wilderness. The volume’s significance lies partly in its documentary value, its preservation of the voices and concerns of working musicians at the turn of the twentieth century. The reader encounters not the abstract theories of a single thinker but the accumulated wisdom of dozens of practitioners, each drawing on years of experience in studios, conservatories, and concert halls. The result is a remarkably comprehensive portrait of musical life in America during a period of rapid development.
The collection also illuminates enduring questions about the nature and purpose of musical education that remain relevant today. The debates over the relative importance of technical training and general culture, the proper relation between teacher and student, the value of European study, the dangers of specialization, the challenge of interesting and inspiring young pupils, the role of the musician in the community, the balance between classical repertoire and contemporary music, the place of expression and interpretation in performance, the relation between music and the other arts, the spiritual dimension of musical experience, the social standing of the profession, the education of public taste, the psychology of performance anxiety, the ethics of criticism, the economics of a musical career, the importance of outside interests for the practicing musician, the dangers of routine and complacency, the need for lifelong learning, the cultivation of originality, the appreciation of beauty in all its forms, the connection between music and nature, the value of literature for the musician, the history of musical style, the evolution of instruments and playing techniques, the changing meaning of musical terms, the influence of great performers and teachers, the role of musical clubs and organizations, the place of music in general education, the relation between music and morality, the therapeutic power of music, the joy of musical discovery, the discipline of daily practice, the art of memorization, the technique of pedaling, the subtleties of phrasing and dynamics, the interpretation of contrapuntal textures, the appreciation of harmonic color, the understanding of musical form, the recognition of thematic development, the enjoyment of chamber music, the excitement of orchestral performance, the intimacy of the recital, the grandeur of the opera, the solemnity of sacred music, the vitality of folk song, the sophistication of art song, the brilliance of the concerto, the profundity of the symphony, the charm of the sonata, the wit of the scherzo, the melancholy of the nocturne, the passion of the ballade, the mystery of the fugue, the clarity of the invention, the majesty of the chorale prelude, the tenderness of the lullaby, the exuberance of the dance, the heroism of the march, the serenity of the pastorale, the drama of the tone poem, the intimacy of the character piece, the virtuosity of the etude, the lyricism of the song without words, the complexity of the variation set, the unity of the cyclic work, the freedom of the fantasy, the rigor of the canon, the elegance of the suite, the monumentality of the mass, the devotion of the motet, the splendor of the oratorio, the passion of the passion, the glory of the requiem, the celebration of the cantata, the contemplation of the prelude, the exultation of the finale, the journey of the development section, the surprise of the modulation, the satisfaction of the cadence, the tension of the suspension, the release of the resolution, the color of the orchestration, the blend of the ensemble, the precision of the conductor, the responsiveness of the accompanist, the courage of the soloist, the patience of the teacher, the dedication of the student, the discernment of the critic, the enthusiasm of the amateur, the professionalism of the career musician, the amateur spirit of the professional, the lifelong love of music that sustains all who devote themselves to it, the conviction that music matters, that it enriches life, that it speaks to the deepest parts of human experience, that it connects us to something larger than ourselves, that it deserves our best efforts and our highest aspirations, that it rewards us with beauty and meaning and joy, that it is, in the words of one essayist, a manifestation of the human spirit informed by the Divine Spirit, and that those who dedicate themselves to its service, whether as performers or teachers or listeners, participate in something truly significant, truly enduring, truly worthy of their devotion.
