dinary daily experiences, so little to help us. Anyone can begin, at
least, to understand a work of architecture; it must have doors and
windows, and should conform to practical ideas of structure. In like
manner, a painting, either a portrait or a landscape, must show some
correspondence with nature herself, and so we have definite standards
to help our imagination. But music has worked out its own laws which
are those of pure fancy, having little to do with other forms of
thought; and unless we know something of the constructive principles,
instead of recreating the work before us, we are simply lost--"drowned
in a sea of sound"--often rudely shaken up by the rhythms, but far
from understanding what the music is really saying. As the well-known
critic, Santayana, wittily says, "To most people music is a drowsy
revery relieved by nervous thrills."

Notwithstanding, however, the peculiar nature of music and the
difficulty of gaining logical impressions as the sounds and rhythms
flood in upon us, there is one simple form of cooperation which solves
most of the difficulties; that is, familiarity. It is the duty of the
composer so to express himself, to make his meaning so clear, that we
can receive it with a minimum of mental friction if we can only get to
know the music. All really good music corresponds to such a standard;
that is, if it is needlessly involved, abstruse, diffuse, or turgid,
it is _in so far_ not music of the highest artistic worth. In this
connection we must always remember that music does not "stay put,"
like a picture on the wall. We cannot walk through it, as is the case
with a cathedral; turn back, as in a book; touch it, as with a statue.
It is not the expression of more or less definite ideas, such as we
find in prose and poetry. On the other hand, it rushes upon us with
the impassioned spirit of an eloquent orator, and what we get from it
depends almost entirely upon our own intensity of application and upon
our knowledge of the themes and of the general purpose of the work.
Only with increased familiarity does the architecture stand revealed.
Beethoven, it is said, when once asked the meaning of a sonata of his,
played it over again and replied, "It means that." Music is itself.
The question for every music-lover is: can I equip myself in such a
way as to feel at home in this language, to receive the message as
directly as possible, and finally with perfect ease and satisfaction?
This equipment