The Music Lover’s Need Of Education

The necessity of instruction in the art of hearing music can hardly be denied by one who thinks about the matter. It is not alone the “masses” who are ignorant, and in their ignorance judge foolishly. A large number who call themselves educated must be included among those who are outside the kingdom of music. The scorn of the musical experts for the taste of those they serve has been, and is even now, more or less outspoken, and it would require a wide stretch of charity to say that it has not been justified. The history of musical patronage, so often clogging the wheels of achievement, is a painful one when it is observed how many of the noblest spirits in the realm of art have suffered and even perished because of public dulness or intolerance. There has certainly been a vast improvement; there is immense encouragement to be found by comparing the records of the present with the annals of, say, fifty or seventy-five years ago; then far more than now empty virtuosity flourished without check and with little rebuke. But still, if it were possible to apply tests among the habitues of opera houses and concert halls by which those could be discovered who perceive in music its central qualities as fine art, refusing to be deceived by the sensational, temporary, and meretricious, a sanguine investigator would probably experience sad disillusion. It is the conclusion of one of the foremost American musical authorities, after a quarter of a century of observation, that among the frequenters of musical performances hardly one in a thousand knows what good playing or singing really is. This, of course, is an exaggeration, thrown out in one of those dark hours which sometimes come to the musical illuminati when for a whole season, seated upon the Olympian heights of criticism, they have surveyed the delusions of the populace below. But it is sufficiently near the truth to pass with only a moderate qualification. Now if the elements of good performance, which are really so simple and obvious, are unknown to the average concert goer, how much more certain is it that the criteria of merit in composition will be obscure to him. A high degree of intelligence in other departments of art is no guarantee of musical under-standing. Underlying the ignorance of musical principles is the fundamental ignorance that music has any principles that are necessary to be known by one who lays claim to culture. Music suffers like the drama from the common use of it among intelligent people for recreation and amusement, rather than as something intellectually profitable and demanding serious mental application as its right. No one can enjoy a feeling of ease in cultivated society who has not at least a casual acquaintance with the great poets and romancers, and an impression of the work of the chief painters and sculptors of the world. An utter lack of acquaintance with the masters of music, however, is often the ground for complacency or even of pride. A recent work on aesthetics by a well-known university professor contains a blunder on a point of music which would certainly not have been paralleled if a matter connected with literature or any other department of art had been in question. Bruneau tells us that it was quite characteristic of the taste of the period that when Rossini’s “Otello” was produced in Paris (the first performance was in 1821), nobody objected to the bacchic joy of the songs, the delirious gayety of the orchestra, the nonsense of the vocalises applied during three acts to the terrible drama of hatred and love. Even literary men, like Lamartine, de Musset, and Stendhal, who knew and admired Shakespeare, were fired with enthusiasm at the representations .of this parody of the venerable masterpiece. Rossini’s ” Otello” is long dead and no works of its kind are likely to appear again, but the literati can hardly take credit to themselves for the prevalence of a taste which prefers the Otello” of Verdi to its predecessor.

When it comes to a comprehension of music as a fine art a large proportion of the literary class are represented either by Dr. Johnson or by Boswell. When the great lexicographer was seventy-one years of age he chanced one day to hear some funeral music, and remarked that it was the first time that he had ever been affected by musical sounds. Boswell was more susceptible. “I told him,” said the faithful scribe on another occasion, “that music affected me to such a degree as often to agitate my nerves painfully, producing in my mind alternate sensations of painful dejection, so that I was ready to shed tears; or of daring resolution, so that I was inclined to rush into the thickest part of the battle.” “Sir,” said Johnson, “I should never hear it if it made me such a fool.” Between Johnson’s indifference and Boswell’s sentimental excitability the wise man would, perhaps, find little to choose. The true nature of music’s virtue probably had never dawned upon either of them. Boswell, indeed, possessed a source of pleasure unknown to his friend, but his nervous explosions would hardly leave any very valuable deposit behind them. If he described his mental condition accurately the effect of music upon him was of the most indefinite and transient character. And so it is upon the minds of a vast number of people who call themselves musical, and give concerts and operas their regular attendance. The impression they receive is hardly more distinct than that of a succession of perfumes; the subsequent memory is that of something exhilarating but vague, like a last week’s display of fire-works. Outside of the hall or theatre they give no study to the scientific principles of musical art or its psychologic reactions, and consequently their judgments, if that term can properly be applied, are unconsidered and usually perverse, since they are touched off by the mere nerve stimulation of the instant. Such indulgences in pleasant sound have, indeed, a value to those who come jaded with prosaic toil; like coolness after summer heat they bring repose and refreshment and are vastly to be preferred to many of the fashionable distractions of the hour. But to one who knows the benefits which music can impart—that its tonic proper-ties have it in them to restore the worn spirit and inform and enrich the mind at the same time—there comes often a feeling of pain that the greater good.should not be enjoyed at the same time with the lesser.

Among those who receive music in a general way there is a class of minds, very serious and philosophical, to whom the very vagueness of these diffused impressions seems the condition of the most inspiring communications. These thinkers, mystical in temperament and introspective in habit, discern in music a spiritual suggestion more eloquent than speech, whose very indefiniteness and unreality impart to it a sublimated value. In many such cases the effect upon the imagination seems in inverse ratio to the amount of artistic contrivance involved in the music; the mere physical sensation of tone even with slight dynamic fluctuations is sufficient to produce powerful emotional reaction. To Thoreau any sound that could be called musical disturbed his thought with a sense of something ineffable: A music box is tinkling near by, and he writes in his Journal: “I feel a sad cheer when I hear those lofty strains, because there must be something in me as lofty that hears.” Again he confesses: “I hear one thrumming a guitar below stairs. It reminds me of moments that I have lived. What a comment upon our life is the least strain of music! It lifts me above the mire and dust of the universe. . . . Ninety-nine one-hundredths of our lives we are mere hedgers and ditchers, but from time to time we meet with re-minders of our destiny. We hear the kindred vibrations, music! and we put our dormant feelers into the limits of the universe. We attain to wisdom that passeth understanding.” Two days later he makes this entry: “What is there in music that it should so stir our deeps? Suppose I try to describe faithfully the prospect which a strain of music exhibits to me. The field of my life becomes a boundless plain, glorious to tread, with no death nor disappointment at the end of it. All meanness and trivialness disappear.”

To this man who had kept his sensibilities so delicate and pure, so responsive to every touch of nature, the mere impact of tone upon the ear was equivalent to an ecstasy. The “telegraph harp” contained the essence of symphonies and oratorios and made them superfluous. Reading these testimonies of Thoreau we can in a measure under-stand how to the Greek Paytone+Ones the simplest unharmonized strains contributed to ethical and emotional culture, and thus had a place in the scheme of education.

To a philosophic poet like Browning, who united the gift of intuitive vision with a rare power of reflective analysis, the sounds of music excite conjecture over the ultimate cause of that rapture which no other art can arouse in equal measure. In “Parleyings” with Charles ‘Avison, Browning speaks what is thus far the last word in occult musical interpretation. Music reveals the Soul — the sum of those mysterious faculties that compose the subconscious personality; Mind works consciously, builds up knowledge with the facts of experience, as an engineer builds a bridge over a gulf, laying stone upon stone. Beneath rolls some-thing that Mind may hide but not: tame—”Soul, the unsounded sea,” whose “lift of surge” brings feeling from out the depths which Mind cannot master. Mind’s processes are easy to describe;

“But Soul’s sea — drawn whence, Fed how, forced whither, — by what evidence Of ebb and flow, that’s felt beneath the tread,

Soul has its course ‘neath Mind’s work overhead, — Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul?

“To match and mate Feeling with knowledge, — make as manifest,

Soul’s work as Mind’s work, turbulence as rest, Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears that rise and sink

Ceaselessly. . . .

“To strike all this life dead,

Run mercury into a mould like lead, . And henceforth have the plain result to show — How we Feel hard and fast as what we Know — This were the prize and is the puzzle! — which

Music essays to solve.” ‘

Music comes nearest to realizing the desire of all art, to make the work of the Soul as manifest as the work of the Mind; she seems about to give momentary , feeling permanence, to,unveil our hid-den impulses and motives; but the very essence of her nature, her fluidity and quick vanishing into the impalpable inane, forbids;

“Could music rescue thus from Soul’s profound, Give Feeling immortality by sound,

Then were she queenliest of arts. Alas — As well expect the rainbow not to pass.”

Lafcadio Hearn, convinced of the Buddhist doctrine of metempsychosis, is drawn by music into the illimitable ocean of Being composed of billions of pre-natal memories. “To every ripple of melody, to every billow of harmony, there answers within, out of the Sea of Death and Birth, some eddying immeasurable of ancient pleasure and pain. Pleasure and pain: they commingle always in great music; and therefore it is that music can move us more profoundly than any other voice can do. . . . It is only the sum of the pains and joys of past lives innumerable that makes for us, through memory organic, the ecstasy of music. All the gladness and the grief of dead generations come back to haunt us in countless forms of harmony and melody.”

Such experiences, which are transmuted into poetry by men like Thoreau, Browning, and Hearn, are not to be lightly spoken of. They stir the emotions to depths which no other excitation can reach. They are akin to religious ecstasies, and it is in recognition of certain correspondences in our nature that the church has always welcomed the aid of music in its efforts to draw the devotee into a charmed circle from which earthly associations shrink away. The practical musician, however, has accustomed himself to take the matter more coolly. While not denying that these mystical transports are legitimate and the source of a joy that is at the same time elevating and purifying, still he distrusts them and would never admit that the aim of musical study is to make one more susceptible to them. It is evident that if musical enjoyment began and ended with emotional stimulation of this kind the critical study of music would be merely the study of psychologic reactions, and not at all a study of laws and methods by virtue of which music becomes a fine art based on scientific principles and appealing to the intellect as well as to the sense. There would be no guarantee of any objective standard of merit or de-merit; the strumming of a guitar which stirred such high contemplations in Thoreau, if measured by its effects alone, might outbalance in his mind an orchestra playing the Andante from Schubert’s “Unfinished” symphony. In the case of weaker minds, those endowed with an excess of sensibility over judgment, music is often the parent of effeminate sentimentalities which, if habitually indulged, produce those relaxing results of which moralists complain. Where the purely subjective interpretation has free sway, minds less robust than those of Thoreau and Browning may receive Iess noble suggestions. It is in vain to search in sudden excitements, which may move in exactly contrary directions at different times’ of the day or with changing conditions in the nervous system, for any guidance that may enable the hearer to distinguish good music from bad. Neither do they involve a definite conception of a musical composition as a concrete work of art. The delight of the moment at the train of associated ideas may be recalled in faded colors, but no memory of a thing in itself beautiful in design and execution.

Just here a qualification must be made, lest I be misunderstood and be classed among the pedants. The raptures such as Milton felt, when the floods of glorious tone dissolved him into ecstasies and brought all heaven before his eyes, not only afford us some of the happiest moments of our existence, but when rightly adjusted to our other experiences may become a source of moral refreshment and strength. There is in music preiminently a beauty of spiritual intimation, of mysterious goings to and fro in the dim passages of memories and hopes, of mirth and tears, of associations in-definable but allied to what we feel to be the best there is in us. A poet like Lafcadio Hearn, who catches in music a reverberation of the joys and sorrows of all mankind, receives a truer communication than the bookish technician who perceives nothing’ but skilful devices in theme: development, counterpoint, or orchestration. I would not disparage those delights that come with unformed sound (unformed, I mean, so far as the listener is aware) any more than I would disown the joy in the murmur of winds and waves and the songs of happy birds. We accept them as tokens of health in the universe, and it is a sign of health in ourselves that we exult in them. Doubtless all pure sounds have a significance in our soul life which philosophy has not yet explained. So in music the passionate response of the heart to beauty is the ultimate thing, and in these moments of abandonment learned science and theory may well be left behind. But neither of the two opposed methods of reception—the half-hypnotized absorption and the cold critical analysis— is sufficient alone. Only one who is capable of both is competent to receive all that music has to give. Knowledge and feeling must unite. At the moment of hearing, feeling seems to have it all her own way, but it is the antecedent knowledge that directs feeling so that she may not go astray and waste herself on what is unworthy. Reason must hold the helm. Music, like all fine art, demands an active exercise of the will, as well as a sensitiveness to physical elements and a vague response to suggestion.

The first business of a lover of art is to sharpen his faculties of perception. The eye and the ear must be trained to quick discriminations, and these discriminations must be controlled by preliminary knowledge of the function and method of the art in question, in view of the character and limitation of its material and the range of effect permitted by its subject matter. The beauties to which the untrained mind is most alive are those of physical sensation and associative suggestion; those which it fails to observe lie in form, proportion, design, mutual adaptation of details to the central purpose —that is, beauties of workmanship. The discipline that one :must undergo in order to appreciate fine art is largely an exercise of eye and ear, reinforced by the power of coördination, in order that simple sensations may group themselves into images which are the media or the garments of thought.

Never in art can “thought” and “form” be severed; least of all in music. The artist’s vision becomes clear to himself only as he laboriously puts it into form, and his intention becomes clear to us also in the extent to which we are able to follow his processes. A work of art possesses an objective as well as a subjective value. It stirs the imagination and opens depths of human emotion not sounded before; but it also offers delight to the physical eye or the physical ear, and likewise gratifies the intellect when there is seen a masterly adaptation of means to ends. The: artist is a crafts-man as well as a seer. The original conception comes to his mind as a germ, not as a complete organism. He devotes all his ability to the de-liberate shaping of his – materials, and invents patterns that are in themselves beautiful apart from any associated meaning that may be stated in words. There is a decorative beauty in every art-work as well as a beauty of sentiment. From a purely ornamental design, such as a Rookwood vase or an architectural moulding, to a sonnet of Wordsworth or Rembrandt’s etching of the Prodigal Son, where the technical element seems lost in the nobility of the thought, there is every degree of emphasis upon the decorative factor. The artist never forgets this, and without an appreciation on our part of the balance of rhythmic phrase and juxtaposition of euphonious words, or the artful arrangement of lines and groups and masses, the artist’s purpose, so far as we are concerned, is not achieved.

This decorative feature—using the term in its largest sense — marks out one of the paths along which the learner’s study must be persistently directed. If his senses are not trained to discern the manifold beauties that are contained in design and technical manipulation, his judgments will have no secure basis and the very essential of aesthetic appreciation will elude his grasp. His perception of moral values may be exquisitely re-fined, his heart may beat sympathetically to many notes of rapture or pain, and still a whole world of loveliness be closed to him. With attention fixed only upon subject and sentiment, he would perhaps be content with ignorant and awkward execution if the theme appealed to his religious, patriotic, or domestic affections. There are, of course, possible deficiencies on the other side, for which no delicacy of perception, no learning in technique, can compensate. The connoisseur who sees nothing in Millet’s “Sower” but a superb representation of bodily action is to be pitied for his narrowness of mental vision. When Whistler labelled his portrait of his mother an “arrangement in black and gray,” on the ground that no one would be interested in the sitter as an individual, but that a skilful contrast of tones was all that an instructed lover of art ought to care for in such a composition, he carried his pet theory to an extreme where those who feel art most deeply are reluctant to follow. All this may be admitted, and still the fact remains that the decorative value in art is the feature in which the great majority even of intelligent people most need to be instructed. The force and subtlety of Whistler’s portrait are unquestionably affected by the simplicity of the scheme of lines and the arrangement of the sombre shades. The drawing and composition of Raphael, the chiaroscuro of Rembrandt, the atmosphere of Corot are the very life of the works of these men; they are ends as well as means; without them there would be no individuality, no personal communication. They are elements which, if they could be completely severed from subject, would still be worthy artistic aims. The mutilated fragment known as the “Torso Belvedere,” from which all definite expression of character has departed with the loss of head and limbs, was nevertheless the object of . the loving study of Michelangelo.

Say what we may in regard to ideas, emotion, the infusion of personality as the aim and justification of art, still we must not lose sight of the fact that the supreme artists of the world — the Shakespeares, the Michelangelos, the Beethovens — were consummate masters of technique, and only through sovereign technique could they impart their thought and realize their visions. There is no more common error than to suppose that these men and others of the same rank were superior as artists because they felt more and deeper than other men. The difference is not in feeling but in the ability to incorporate feeling in artistic form. It is absurd to suppose that Winslow Homer felt the appalling strength and infinite beauty of the sea more than other painters who failed in the attempt to render them. The “mute inglorious Milton” of Gray never existed. If one is a Mil-ton he will not be mute. Says Ruskin: “Weak painters, who have never learned their business, continually come to me crying out, `Look at this picture of mine; it must be good, I had such a lovely, motive. I have put my whole heart into it, and taken years to think over its treatment.’ Well, the only answer for these people is, `Sir, you cannot think over anything in any number of years—you : haven’t the head to do it; and though you had fine motives, strong enough to make you burn yourself in a slow ‘fire, if only first you could paint a. picture, you can’t paint one, nor half an inch of one; you haven’t the hand to do it.’ ”

It is indeed the hand, as well as the head and the heart, that makes the artist, and the knowledge of the part played by the hand is indispensable to one who aspires to become a connoisseur. The mysteries of craftsmanship are not intuitively discerned, and the uninitiated never perceive them. Appreciation is not passive, like a simple sensation; and it is the result of effort and judicious training. If a casual lover of pictures were to walk through an art gallery with Mr. Edwin Blashfield or Mr. Lorado Taft he would soon discover that his own world of aesthetic experience was a very limited affair compared with that of his companion. The difference is well illustrated by a passage in Mr. Kenyon Cox’s essay on. Rodin in his Painters and Sculptors. He is speaking of the statue called “The Danaid,” and describes it as “a single female figure about half the size of life, fallen for-ward in an odd, half-crouching attitude expressive of utter despair or of extreme physical lassitude.” The average gallery habitué, interested in whatever belongs to life but ignorant of the ‘points” of good sculpture, would be attracted by the title, would inquire concerning the story of the Danaids, and if a person of sensibility would be touched by the suggestion of pathos, and would perhaps notice certain graces of proportion which the figure offered to his sight. But now, as Mr. Cox proceeds, notice what a trained critic sees in this statue: ” Everything is largely done, with pro-found knowledge, the result of thousands of previous observations, and the significance of every quarter-inch of surface is amazing. Such discrimination of hard and soft, of bone and muscle and flesh and skin, such sense of stress and tension where the tissues are tightly drawn over the frame-work beneath, such sense of weight where they drag away from it—all this is beyond description as it is beyond praise. And it is all done with admirable reticence, without the slightest insistence or exaggeration, and with such a feeling for the nature of the material employed that the marble seems caressed into breathing beauty, its delicate bosses and hollows so faintly accented that the eye alone is hardly adequate to their perception and the finger-tips fairly tingle with the desire of touch.”

Here is the report of a connoisseur who has acquired the ability to distinguish beauties that lie in the material and the methods of sculpture, beauties that would never be seen by an observer whose culture was general and not special. Similar lessons may be drawn from the testimony of those who have made music a life study. Their ad-vantage lies primarily in the fact that, by reason of their knowledge of the nature of musical structure and the laws of performance, their minds are set at such a focus that the qualities of the composition make a clear and logical impression. The critic applies the standards that are pertinent to the case; he grasps the details in proper order and sees how they contribute to fulfil the composer’s structural design and emotional conception. His hearing has become discriminative through his experience with works and principles; he knows what to look for, and can grasp relationships as well as perceive details. His memory has acquired possession of many masterpieces which be is able to compare with one another, and also to use as touchstones in the appraisal of other claimants upon his favor. Out of this discipline comes judgment, and finally taste with its exhaustless resources. of pleasure.

A frequent objection to technical study rests upon the fact that increase of knowledge in matters of art brings with it certain penalties. In ascending from the plane of lower to that of higher pleasures one seems doomed to leave behind certain naive enjoyments that arise from a frank and childlike acceptance of everything that gives agreeable stimulation to the organs of sight and hearing. As one leaves the condition of paradisaical innocence and approaches critical enlightenment one becomes aware of evil as well as of good; there are shocks of disappointed expectation, followed by sourness and asperity instead of that joy and peace which seem the just recompense of one who goes in quest of beauty. The professional critic is not envied by the art loving public. His calling is supposed to promote an excessive irritability of nerve, an unhealthy tendency to ignore the good and magnify the evil, a habit of fault finding until fault finding becomes a pleasure. No honest critic will admit the justice of such an imputation, yet even he sometimes questions if the pains do not over-balance the rewards. Even so magnanimous a spirit as Mr. E. A. Baughan has sometimes at the end of a season entertained the disquieting suspicion that, after all, ignorance is really bliss and that wisdom may sometimes run to the excess that verges upon folly. But the critic so minded does not know his own blessedness. He has sources of satisfaction of which the Philistine who “knows nothing about art but knows what he likes” has very little conception. The critic enjoys more than the other because he sees and hears more, and is better prepared to grasp the real significance of what he sees and hears. His occasional distress is only the reverse side of his enjoyment. The cheap popular march or sentimental ballad irritates him just because an etude by Chopin or a song by Grieg makes him so happy. There is even a not ignoble pleasure in his very distaste, because there cannot be a revolt against stupidity and vulgarity without comparison, and comparison involves even at the moment an under-consciousness of merit elsewhere. There are critics and critics. The true critic is one who sees below the surface of things, distinguishes the essentials from the accidents, the spirit within the form, and whose nature is so sympathetically attuned to that of the artist that he understands him and finds delight in assisting the understanding of others. Swinburne had the truth of the matter in him when he said: “I have never been able to see what should attract men to the profession of criticism but the noble pleasure of praising.” As seer, hierophant, and interpreter the critic performs an almost priestlike task. When criticism is inspired by the highest purpose, in which duty blends with privilege, one may even say of it, as has been said of love—”all other pleasures are not worth its pains.”

The serious amateur who in the hearing of music feels a vague stirring as in the presence of something which itself is vague, desires more of the critic’s discriminating power. He ha. heard that music is not only an art of expression but is also an art of form. It enters the soul through many channels. Hearing—as we use the term in respect to a piece of music—is a complex process. In the first place there is the physical consciousness of sounds of a particular pitch, timbre, and in-tensity. We may hear them as we hear the warble of a bird, the mutter of distant thunder, the sigh of the wind; no intellectual reaction need be involved, for these sounds may be unrelated and unorganized. Aside from possible chance associations, which one person may have and another may not, they are mere sense impressions which act in the same way upon people of higher and lower grades of culture. In the next stage, how-ever, there are more refined and intricate processes involved. The tones are no longer detached and isolated, but are combined with one another by an act of will on the part of the composer. This coalescence into logical design, being an intellectual operation, demands an intellectual operation for its apprehension. The hearer perceives plan, system, order, unified variety. A third stage also appears: each tone or phrase is an emotional centre. The successions and combinations of tones are charged with a potency which their qualities as agreeable sensation and ingenious artifice can-not explain. There is a stirring of the spirit to unknown depths, the final cause of which eludes analysis, but is felt to have its roots where every active impulse toward beauty has its birth. This exaltation and purging of the soul by harmony is doubtless music’s highest sanction. There is an experience here for which no other art furnishes an equivalent. Music’s very mystery and in-tangibility is the essential condition of much of its peculiar power. Nevertheless an earnest mind cannot be satisfied with a pleasure, however pure and elevating, that quickly dissolves, leaving no residue to be worked over by the memory. If uninitiated he yet believes that there must be a host of beauties in the works of the masters which he does not perceive. With all his delight in music he confesses that he has no firm standard of judgment, that he makes little or no progress in the appreciation of great music because he is at the mercy of his temperament, his habitudes, his prejudices, and his mental and physical condition at the moment. He would make his musical experiences a means of genuine intellectual gain, developing a power of enjoyment that is active not passive, one that strengthens his faculties of perception and discrimination by means of an exercise that he can supervise and direct to satisfying ends.

The amateur, too long neglected, is beginning to understand his needs and make them known, and I have already shown that his Macedonian cry is reaching attentive ears. He has no wish to become a brilliant player or vocalist, or if he has, there is no place in his life for the long preparatory drudgery. Neither would he be reconciled to courses in harmony and counterpoint. But he does wish to cultivate his ear and his powers of judgment, to know what to listen for, to hear what musicians hear in a musical performance, to learn in what consist the factors that make good music, to know what his musical friends are talking about when they discuss the new men and the new movements, to bring Beethoven and Wagner and Chopin into the circle of his familiars along with Raphael and Rembrandt, Shakespeare and Milton, Thackeray and Tennyson,—in a word he wishes to make music also, along with books and pictures and all beautiful things, a means of enriching his inward life.

In the succeeding chapters I have undertaken to show what music as a fine art has to offer to the amateur who begins with nothing but the most rudimentary knowledge of the formal principles and psychologic conditions of art in general. An ordinary sensitiveness to musical impressions is all that is required for admission to the imaginary class that I proceed to form. Let no one misunderstand my purpose, and suppose that I attach supreme value to technicalities because I give so large a space to them. I do so simply because a casual acquaintance with technical principles and methods is necessary as a means to the higher end, and because that is the knowledge in which the amateur is most deficient. His little learning will not be to him a dangerous thing; he is not to be refused a taste be-cause he cannot drink deep at the Pierian springs. He need not fear that he will lose any of the fine intoxication that was his before. He will no longer say that he cannot see the forest for the trees — he will see trees and forest both. He will learn to adjust his mind so that the beauties of detail will reach him as well as the glory of the whole. “The laboratories,” says a French writer, “are crowded with retorts, flowers and leaves are dissected under the microscope. But nothing of all this has spoiled the graces of the springtime or the splendors of setting suns.”