Chapter VI: Part 6

The rising voice succeeding the falling is not a soft and gradual receding, but, on the contrary, it is more like an explosion, a trumpet-blast; the inspiration which had been "stored" being suddenly released. There is no such "storing" in connection with German diction; inspiration and expiration succeeding each other on the spot. With English diction this change may be compared to the break of day after the night; the fray after the repose; resurrection after death; a conflagration and a rebuilding at once on the spot, not only individually, but by an entire community (Boston and Chicago); an outburst after due deliberation; no sentimentality, but a firm resolve for the right; patient submission to a point, then a strike for liberty; the slow accumulation of a fortune and the spontaneous spending thereof; a hot political campaign and a victory or defeat; in either case acquiescence; no vain mourning after the fact; a butterfly of wealth, idleness, and fashion, then perhaps ruin; yet not despair, but a brave conformity to altered circumstances; an energy in the pursuit of business or of war which does not flag until utterly exhausted or success is achieved and a victory is won. All this is due to the reserve force in the character of English-speaking people, which comes to their rescue when circumstances demand it. A world positive and direct, full of energy, restlessness, and activity. A world of, and for, _this_ world; whose world to come, even, must have a positive and well-defined character and surroundings:

"Where the walls are made of jasper and the streets are paved
with gold."

To what is all this due but to this _bond of language_ uniting these millions, and embracing every foreign element, in its children at least? The theme is inexhaustible, but I am limited as to time; yet additional remarks on the same subject will be forthcoming during the further pursuance of these studies.

For song, it appears to me, the words, besides being marked by notes, should also be marked as to rhythm, as this would assist singers in giving them the proper intonation; notes indicating metre, but not rhythm.

Metre and rhythm are produced by two distinctly different processes; metre, or time, being the outcome of a mode of breathing subject to the will, while rhythm is the outcome of an involuntary mode of breathing for a characteristic quality inherent in a nation's language as its idiomatic expression.

Ordinarily, both metre and rhythm are expressed by the same signs (˘¯); this is very misleading.

To express time, or metre, I use the signs for short and long (˘¯). To express rhythm, or the fall and rise of the voice, I use the signs for what is usually called the accent (´`). If we were to _meas__ure_ the exact time, however, consumed in the utterance of syllables, we would find that the falling voice, which is the product of inspiration and belongs to the thorax, requires more time than the rising voice, which is the product of expiration and belongs to the abdomen.

In marking verse, however, the sign for long (¯) generally accompanies the short syllable of the rising, and the sign for short (˘) the, as a matter of fact, long syllable of the falling voice. It takes longer to fill a bottle than to pour out its contents; to prepare a dish than to eat it; to walk upstairs than to jump from a window. It takes longer to _prepare_ for an utterance than to utter it. It takes longer to inspire than to expire.

In view of the vast foreign element constituting a part of this nation, it would be a matter of interest to know at what period the foreigner ceases to exist as such and the "American" begins; or, in other words, to understand when the evolution takes place which transforms the foreigner into the American. From my point of view it is, above all, a question of language. The political aspect of the case is scarcely to be considered. An unnaturalized Englishman, consequently, after thoroughly "Americanizing" his language, becomes more of an American (no matter whether he himself thinks so or not) than an Irishman who, though naturalized, never ceases to use his native brogue.

These questions, of course, are many-sided. When I speak of nationality, however, I have the _best_ specimens of a nation as representatives thereof in view always. A man with a foreign accent does not have the same standing or influence in municipal, state, and national councils as one who speaks a pure English; there is always a _feeling_ against him, no matter how able or patriotic he may be, of some foreign influence as a substratum in his composition.

STRESS

I have already stated that the thorax is the seat of the falling, the abdomen that of the rising, voice. This can be tested by a simple experiment, the result of which will be as startling as it is phenomenal. _By simply pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will find that the fact of your doing so will prevent you from uttering any sound belonging to the rising voice, or the stress laid upon a word._

Take, for instance, the following:

"Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,"

and you will find that, upon pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will not be able to utter the words "say," "see," "dawn's," and "light." This will become more obvious in uttering these words slowly than in doing so rapidly. You will have no difficulty, on the other hand, in uttering the rest of the words, viz.: "Oh," "can you," "by the," "early."

Upon releasing the stomach and bringing a pressure to bear upon the chest, on the other hand, you will have no difficulty in uttering the first words mentioned, those of the rising, while you will be unable to utter the last, those of the falling voice. This rule holds good for all peoples and all languages.

There is this difference, however, as between English and German speech, that, for the former, the falling voice (identical with that of the thorax) _precedes_ the rising (identical with that of the abdomen); while for the latter the reverse is the case;--Anglo-Saxons inspiring into the chest and then into the stomach; Germans into the stomach and then into the chest. Germans will have greater difficulty in making this experiment than Anglo-Saxons, as words of the falling voice, as a rule and in all languages, precede those of the rising. Germans, consequently, must _think_ of the word of the rising voice, which, as a matter of fact, succeeds the words of the falling, before they can utter the latter. This difficulty is enhanced by the fact that while the rising voice is generally confined to a single word, the falling voice generally embraces several.

Hence the frequency of the use of the anapest (˘˘¯) and the dactylus (¯˘˘), and the relative rarity of the use of the bacchius (˘¯¯) and the antibacchius (¯¯˘); short always representing the falling voice, which embraces more than one word, while long represents the rising voice, which usually embraces but one single word; the definition requiring more words than the thing to be defined. Hence, _for German diction, the "thought" of the word of the rising voice must precede the "utterance" of the words of the falling; while for English diction, the "thoughts" of the words of the falling voice must precede the "utterance" of the word of the rising._

A German may try and say the following:

"In einem _Thal_ bei armen _Hirten_,
Erschien mit jedem jungen _Jahr_,"

in such a manner as _not to think_ of the words which are italicized before uttering those which immediately precede them, and he will find that he will be unable to pronounce the latter.

An Anglo-Saxon may try and say the following:

"And the star-spangled banner in triumph _doth wave_
O'er the land of the free and the home _of the brave_,"

and he will find that in saying "in triumph doth wave," he must think of the words "doth wave" before he will be able to utter the word "triumph." Again, in saying "the home of the brave" he must think of the words "of the brave" before he will be able to utter the word "home."

A German, consequently, must _think_ of the principal word before he can utter those which qualify it; an Anglo-Saxon must think of the latter before he can utter the former.

In place of using mechanical pressure, the same results can be obtained by making the respective parts rigid. Regarding this matter of _making parts rigid_, I want to make the following explanation, illustrating the physiological process going on in so doing.

While a part is rendered inactive, placed _hors de combat_, so to say, by the application of mechanical pressure, the same result can also be obtained by making such part rigid. To accomplish this, it is but necessary to positively _think_ of such part, to associate your mind with it, which is equal to an act of expiration when it relates to the abdomen, and inspiration when it relates to the thorax. By positively _thinking_ of the abdomen, which is equal to an expiration therefrom, you will be unable to utter the stress or _rise_ of the voice, which is the product of an expiration from the stomach; by positively thinking of the thorax, which is equal to an inspiration into the same, you will be unable to utter the _fall_ of the voice, which is the product of an inspiration into the chest. The reason is obvious: _We cannot utter sound in the same direction in which we breathe; sound and respiration always following opposite directions._

For the purpose of making satisfactory experiments in this respect, as, in fact, in every other respect in connection with these investigations, it is necessary that inspiration or expiration, as the case may be, should be _continuous_, that is, that either the one or the other should be persisted in until a result is obtained; namely, until an apparent increase or decrease in the size of the part of the body under consideration, or an inflation or depletion of the same, will be perceptible. Though it may be difficult at first, a person will soon learn to distinguish between an increase or a swelling of a part, which means inspiration into the same, and a decrease or a shrinking or diminution thereof, which means expiration from the same.

PHYSIOLOGY OF THE VOICE IN RELATION TO WORDS

In the further pursuance of the questions heretofore under consideration, I shall now enter upon a theme of a still more subtle nature. The question of metre, rhythm, accent, etc., is one which is involved in much mystery; nor can I find that many persons entertain precisely the same ideas as being expressed by these terms.

_Accepting as a fundamental principle the fact that our various spiritual conditions are based upon our ability to extract the necessary inspiration therefor from the air, which bears the same relation to our spiritual existence that the earth does to that of our body (in furnishing it with such elements as it requires for its maintenance), I contend that we breathe for speech in as many different modes as there are parts or elements in its composition._ This proposition does not necessarily conflict with the fact that we also draw elements from the air, as analytical chemistry has proven, which serve for the construction of matter; such elements, however, instead of being strictly material, as they have every appearance of being, are, in reality, the spiritual complements of the matter they help to form; matter and spirit going hand in hand in our entire composition.

In reading poetry, or giving expression to the same in song (I repeat), we do so in a fourfold manner:

First: as to metre or time (the "measure" of time).

Second: as to the rhythm or the music pervading the voice, produced by its rise and fall, also called cadence, or the idiomatic expression of a language.

Third: as to accent.

Fourth: as to emphasis.

The _metre_ is produced by an artistic mode of breathing (in addition to our ordinary and permanent mode), marked by regular repetitions of a given order of inspirations and expirations which can be "measured" as to the time consumed in their enunciation, and are therefore, not incorrectly, called "feet."

The metre is a product or outcome of the _will_, a force which presides over material-spiritual issues. It changes with our inclinations and moods, and is expressive thereof. We can pass from one metre to another at will, as the occasion may require. It is the _material_ part of speech, as we can measure it and account for it as to time in space, supposing time to be incorporated. The metre expressive of joy, for instance, being quick, that of sorrow slow; the former, if incorporated, would take up less space than the latter, in the same proportion as it consumes less time in being uttered.

The _rhythm_ is that characteristic quality which distinguishes one language from another, the basis upon which it is built and around which all its elementary words cluster; its fundamental principle, its idiomatic expression, the music pervading its every syllable; the inflection, the rise and fall, the cadence of the voice; the spirit of a language, which is permanent and unchangeable.

The rhythm is an outcome of the _mind_; an influence which presides over _spiritual-material_ issues. As _harmony is the first law of nature_, so is that harmony which pervades our native tongue the law upon which our individual and national characteristic expressions and actions are based. We exercise it intuitively. It is innate in, and unalterably connected with, our native tongue. It cannot be eliminated therefrom, or put into it by a foreigner, except when acquired in childhood, or by the study of such principles as I have attempted to lay down in this book. It is inborn in every language as its spirit, and is as enduring as that language itself. It is not subject to change by the dictates of the will.

The _accent_ represents that element which distinguishes between the character and meaning of words, and has no reference to parts thereof or their relation to other words; the same word being pronounced in as many different ways and with as many different _accents_ as it denotes different senses or meanings; while _different words, embodying the same idea, are uttered with precisely the same accent_.

The accent or intonation is an outcome of the _soul_; an influence which dominates over our spiritual nature and over _spiritual issues_. "The rose by any other name would smell as sweet." It is equally true that any other name given to the rose would be pronounced by the same indefinable intonation as its present name, with that same embodiment of the mystery of the soul signifying the flower called "a rose." The _word_ "rose," which is the same, or nearly the same, in so many different languages, though possessing the same _spiritual_ elements in them all, varies as to measure and rhythm in every one of them.

If the influence of the soul, embodying an idea in a word, through the intonation we give it, were not the same for _all_ languages, it would not be possible to translate poetry, and retain, to some extent at least, that which is commonly called "the rhythm" of the original; nor would it be possible to sing a song in another language, and retain, even approximately, the spiritual elements of the original. We would not be impressed with it, would not be _thrilled_ by it.

_The intonation of a word, expressive of the soul in the embodiment of an idea, is a bond which unites all humanity_; not alone the human souls of any special day and generation, but of all days and all generations. But for the fact that the Greek soul is in us to-day, that the native intonation of _their_ words is native with us and with _all_ mankind, their _dead_ tongue would be _absolutely_ dead for us. We could find no meaning in it, no beauty, no spirit, no soul. Think of the melody pervading the soul of Homer and emanating from _his_ lyre still living and finding an echo in _our_ souls! Think of the harmony pervading the soul of Schiller or Tennyson continuing to live, and pervading the souls of the latest generations! Nor could Luther's famous translation of the Bible or its beautiful English version ever have been produced, and after production have made the same impression on the mind, or been read with the same expression of the voice, as the words of this same Bible made upon the minds, and were expressed by the voice, of its original composers, but for the fact _that words of the same meaning_, _in every language_ (aside from metre and rhythm), _are pronounced precisely the same_. It is this universal comprehension of their beauty which gives immortality to the strains of great singers, whether they appear in their original form or are translated (that is, if well translated) into foreign languages, or are set to music and sung either in the one or the other.

If the performances of creating original compositions and their translations were of a mere mechanical order, or were explainable from a mechanical standpoint, no such soul effects could ever be produced. The word, as such, is a _mechanical_ contrivance; but its intonation is of the soul, being an emanation of the idea it represents. If our ears were so schooled that by _their "intonation" we could comprehend the meaning of words_, we could understand every language upon simply hearing it spoken.

The people of all nations, through their eyesight, form the same conception of an object; the same being impressed upon all minds in the same manner. When a picture thus impressed upon the mind (brain) is reproduced by, or is translated into, vocal utterance, it continues to remain the same with all people. This does not refer to impressions made by material objects alone, but extends to immaterial subjects as well. Hence, knowing the meaning of a word in one language, we can at once conjure up the idea it represents in all languages.

The sight, however, not only impresses our minds through the eye with a given picture, but, as there is a correlation existing between all our faculties, it also impresses the voice with a given inflection, expressive of such impression upon the mind, and of no other impression; any given sight or mental conception of any kind always producing an inflection of the voice corresponding therewith. The vocal expression of an idea might thus be called an _audible_ "photographic" reproduction of the impression made by the original object upon the eyesight, and, respectively, upon the brain, or it might be called a phonographic reproduction thereof, supposing that the picture of an object could be impressed upon the wax and could thus become audible. How such a reproduction may be made from an _immaterial_ subject would be more difficult to comprehend. Of the fact, however, that an impression from abstract subjects _is_ made, and that an audible expression of such impression is produced through the voice, and that this is the case with all people alike, I expect to furnish positive proof in a future publication. The fact of our not being accustomed to distinguish in this manner between various expressions through inflections of the voice is no proof that they do not exist.

The soul impresses every word with a seal of its own, characteristic of the idea it embodies, there being as many accents or inflections of the voice as there are _separate ideas_, or, rather, _groups of ideas_. I beg leave to copy the following from the _Saturday Evening Post_ of April 8, 1899:

"Mr. Kipling recently told an interviewer: 'We write, it
is true, in letters of the alphabet; but, psychologically
regarded, every printed page is a picture book; every word,
concrete or abstract, is a picture. The picture itself may
never come to the reader's consciousness, but deep down below,
in the unconscious realms, the picture works and influences
us.'"

The accent is not subject to the will any more than the rhythm. The will can do _this_, however: it can give greater weight, force, and expression, and a wider scope, to the correlated forces of metre, rhythm, and accent, through the

_Emphasis_ which it infuses into them. Through the emphasis, inlet upon inlet is opened, an additional stream of fresh air is infused into them, flooding the spiritual system. Valve upon valve is then opened to let it out. Hence, emphasis is not an "element" of speech proper, but an amplification, an addition to existing elements, rather, impregnating them with the life of the heart, the feelings, the emotions.

In distinguishing in this manner, as I have in the above, between the will, the mind, and the soul, I consider them parts of a great spiritual system intimately connected with corresponding parts of our physical system, but lay no claim as to the correctness of the _terms_ I have used. On the contrary, I feel that they are inadequate, and, at most, a makeshift for more fitting expressions. There is a dearth of expressional terms, and I am doing the best I can with such as are at my disposal.

In the same sense, also, I distinguish between material-spiritual, spiritual-material, and spiritual issues; and consider them the outcome, respectively, of the will, the mind, and the soul.

I wish it were in my power to at once fully explain, as far as I am able to offer any explanation at all, how it is _mechanically_ possible to express these four elements of metre, rhythm, accent, and emphasis (so widely differing from each other) at one and the same time, by four different modes of breathing, carried on simultaneously, in addition to our regular mode of breathing. The _perfection_ of elocution and of singing is to carry on all these various processes simultaneously in as perfect a manner as the subject and the occasion may demand.

I can explain the preceding, in part at least, as follows:

Verse is generally marked by the signs of long and short. While they denote time or metre in the first instance, they are also used to mark what is called "rhythm." Yet, while metre and rhythm are _apparently_ of the same order, they are, as a matter of fact, invariably of an inverse order.

We cannot produce two distinctly different expressions while breathing in one and the same direction. While we breathe for metre in one direction, we breathe for rhythm in the opposite direction.

Regarding that mode of breathing expressive of the soul, and pertaining to words in conformity with their _meaning_, and which, in the absence of any more significant word, I have called the "accent," it is of an altogether different order and does not conflict with these other modes of breathing.

Having stated that rhythm and accent are involuntary productions, and that metre alone is subject to the will, we must look to the metre, measure, or time for our guide in our artistic vocal performances. To this, emphasis must be added, as being likewise subject to the will.

As every language has its own time, or tempo, and cannot be properly produced except in conformity therewith, it appears to me that it should be the first aim of vocal science _to ascertain the exact nature of such tempo_ for every separate language. _When the correct time is kept, all other component parts of speech fall into line correctly and involuntarily._ Just what the proportionate tempo is for English as against German vocal utterance, I am unable to say, but it is much quicker for the latter than it is for the former.

There is a duality existing between metre and rhythm: the former is voluntary, the latter involuntary. Thus, also, is there a duality between emphasis and accent, of which the former is voluntary, the latter involuntary. Every voluntary factor, not only in vocal utterance, but every voluntary factor in any artistic performance of whatsoever nature, being sustained by an involuntary counter-factor; the same as voluntary and involuntary muscles complement and sustain each other.

Not only every artistic performance, but I dare say _every_ act or action of any kind, is of a dual nature. Every separate duality, again, being sustained by a counter-duality, every performance is sustained by four different factors.

When an act is of a material nature and belongs to the hemisphere of the abdomen, it is sustained by four counter-factors belonging to the thorax. When it is of an immaterial nature and belongs to the hemisphere of the thorax, it is sustained by four counter-factors having their seat in the abdomen. Thus every act or action consists of eight movements, or an _octave_ of movements.

SIGNIFICANCE OF THE WORD "SCHOOL" IN CONNECTION WITH THE ART OF SINGING

Having established the fact that the rhythmic movements for English and German vocal expression are directly opposed to each other, the one being represented by the iambic, the other by the trochaic measure, there is still a wide field open for investigation as to the idiomatic expression of other languages. This it should not be difficult to determine; personally, I cannot devote the necessary time to this subject even as far as I might be able to do so in connection with other languages of which I have some knowledge. The differences in other tongues, of course, must be embodied in either of the two measures named, as these embrace all others. Whatever may constitute a nation's idiomatic expression must spring from a variation of either of these. While the precedence is given to the abdomen in some and to the thorax in others, the point of gravitation, which according to its location calls for the special manner in which we inspire into and expire from either the one or the other, establishes such variation in the idiomatic expression of _all_ tongues.

All that is said about an Italian, a German, or any other "school" (with the exception, perhaps, of what may constitute the difference between what is called "the _old_ and the _new_ Italian school," and which covers issues of a nature foreign to these investigations) has its proper significance right here: There is no "school" in the sense in which this word is ordinarily used. There are nations and there are languages belonging to such nations. Each nation's language is that nation's "school," and no one nation can go to school with any other nation.

Peasants and the mass of the people generally in Italy, France, Germany, etc., do not visit academies to study vocal art, yet their mode of expression is precisely the same as that of the best vocal artists of these respective countries. I do not mean to say, of course, that the raw material their voices is made up of is as rarefied and artistically trained, but that the composition, the fundamental element thereof, is of precisely the same order as that of their most finished artists. This raw material, on the other hand, in every instance, varies from that of people belonging to every other nation.

The best thing, therefore, to be done, to bring such vocal material as nature has endowed one with up to its greatest perfection, is to have it "schooled" by artists belonging to one's own nation. There may be a time coming, and the same may not be far distant, when methods may be taught by which one may become acquainted with the spirit, and learn the exact mode of the technical expression, of other nations besides one's own. It will then become possible to comprehend these foreign methods and to profit by comprehending them. As long as the principles upon which they are based, however, are not understood, any attempt at singing according to the same will be futile as an accomplishment or an art, and _hurtful_ to the voice of the person making the attempt.

_Such person will only injure his or her own natural mode of expression, without acquiring the foreign mode_.

The idea of learning a certain mode of expression, the Italian, for instance, for singing, and applying it to _all_ tongues, is futile and contrary to all reason. We might, with as much show of reason, say that by learning to pronounce one foreign tongue we may apply that knowledge to the pronunciation of every other foreign tongue.

The true state of affairs, and the only one to follow, is, and always will be, this: First, and above all, learn to use your own tongue thoroughly, for _all_ purposes of vocal expression. Then learn the use of other tongues for vocal expression in those other tongues only. You cannot apply the technical mode of Italian expression to English vocal utterance any more than you can apply the technical mode of English expression to Italian vocal utterance. An attempt at so doing is quite as preposterous in the one case as it is in the other.

Besides, for the purpose of singing in his own tongue, an Anglo-Saxon does not and should not want to acquire any other mode, as he is by nature in possession of one of the _best_ modes of expression. There is none intrinsically purer, none possessed of more vigor or power of expression. There are those with greater softness combined with purity, but lacking strength, as the Italian; and those with more soulfulness combined with strength, but lacking purity, as the German. This native element of purity allied to strength in the Anglo-Saxon, more especially in the English-American, mode of expression is primarily the cause of the high position in the artistic world of the American singer. I ascribe the superiority of the "American" mode of expression over the "English," when untrammelled as in song, in part to the greater personal liberty, the greater want of conventionality, the vast extent of our territory, and our almost constantly clear and unclouded sky; all these being conditions that assist the free exercise of one's natural endowments. To reach the best results in the art of singing, the body as well as the soul must be, as far as possible, untrammelled in any direction. While the idiomatic expression of the English language here and abroad is the same, the social restraint and the conservatism of the English as a nation act against the best outcome of their gift of song, which demands for its best expression freedom from conventionality or any other constraint.

Each nation is at its best in its own tongue. Our orators are equal to any there are in the world. They do not speak according to the Italian, the German, or any other school. If they did, they would utterly fail and make themselves ridiculous. Why do people, then, want to "speak" in this more expansive and soulful manner, called "singing," in these foreign modes? I know the answer will be that singing and speaking are things quite apart, having no affinity in their mode of production. I shall show, as I have already partly shown, that they are of precisely the _same order_, though different phases of that order; that they cannot be separated; in so far as the elements which belong to speech also belong to song, and those which belong to song also belong to speech; but that they are used in an inverse order in the former as well as in the latter.

Listen to a person breathing just before falling asleep, in a slow, rhythmical order; material objects retire into the background and assume a semi-spiritual shape. This is a similar condition to the one we are in and in which we breathe during the production of song. [By the by, sleep can be induced by thinking of a song, that is, by mentally singing it]. No two nations, however, breathe just alike in that condition, any more than they do during their waking moments; the mode of breathing during sleep being a reversion always of the one which obtains during our waking moments. Our mode of breathing, however, _always_ determines our mode of vocal utterance. We can reverse our voice, as we do in whispering, but it is always the same voice, as a garment is the same when we turn it inside out.

Do you know, by the way, that the English whispering voice is the German speaking, and the German whispering the English speaking voice? Try it, and you will find it so. Go on whispering; that is, continue to use your voice in the _same_ mechanical manner, but instead of for whispering, use it for speaking aloud, and you will have the exact mode of the other tongue. An Anglo-Saxon, in so doing, will be able to speak German aloud, but not English; a German will be able to speak English, but not German.

Thinking and speaking are of one and the same order. Thought makes the impression of which speech is the expression. If this were not the case, it would not be possible to pass from thinking to speaking or from speaking to thinking at once, and without an effort. To produce English speech, we must think English in a material way, that is, anteriorly, and in so doing produce an instrument from which English material or speech sounds emanate. To produce English song, we must think English in a spiritual way, that is, posteriorly, and in so doing produce an instrument from which English spiritual or song sounds emanate. We cannot think English in either of these two ways and produce German or Italian sounds for speech or song; nor can we produce the latter sounds in any other manner than by _thinking_, either materially or spiritually, in these languages, and in the proper idiomatic manner inherent therein.

How can an English-speaking person, physically and spiritually formed for English expression, and for no other expression, produce proper Italian sounds? She will think Italian in an English way; and, while singing Italian words, produce them with an English expression. That is not singing Italian, however, but English. Is it likely that she will succeed in acquiring the Italian mode of expression while her teacher himself is ignorant of just what that mode consists in, and in what it differs from the native mode of vocal expression of his scholar? You might as well attempt to produce on a violin the sounds of a violoncello or some other instrument.

To illustrate the power of the natural voice, it will but be necessary to call attention to what occurs in almost any concert wherein one of America's own daughters, now "_prima donna assoluta_," is the main performer. She sings a grand aria, the work of an Italian master, highly artistically and perfectly rendered. Musicians are delighted; the public applauds. She reënters, and now the _donna_, changed to a simple American, sings one of England's or America's own songs. The audience, which before had been languidly listening, at the first notes of this song is stirred, electrified, and now listens intently. When she ceases to sing, there is a storm of applause, as to almost shake the house. Where the artistic sense alone had been engaged before, the hearts and the souls of her hearers have now been touched. Yet I have seen the eccentric Von Buelow deliberately take out his handkerchief after such a demonstration and wipe the "desecration" of the "ditty" from the keys of the piano which had accompanied the song, before he deigned to dignify it with one of his "classic" renderings. No doubt he had much contempt for it all: the song, the singer, and the public. The treasures of that "ditty," however, were of an order similar to those hidden within the breast of every one composing that audience. The pearls, floating through the room from the lips of one of its own daughters, had, with a sympathetic touch, stirred it to its very depths, while the foreign "aria" had left it comparatively cold. Supposing an _Italian_ singer were to sing an English "aria" in the English language to an Italian audience, and, after that, were to produce one of her own simple Italian songs, would not the effect be the same? Would Italians, in fact, care to listen to her English interpretation, no matter how artistically rendered?

It is an entirely different thing, however, for German or Italian singers to come here and sing their own songs in their own native tongue. Though foreign, the production is genuine. They sing what belongs to them, that in which they live, breathe; they sing their own soul. Such a performance we can comprehend and appreciate, even as we view a foreigner with interest, and honor him for that which is great and good in him, and for which he is distinguished. We can soon _feel_ what is genuine and also that which is not; the former being nature's own production, the latter imitated, forced--unnatural. Italians do not sing English or German songs; why should Germans and English-speaking people sing Italian and French songs, to the exclusion, very often, of their own?

It was but recently that I heard a German choral society sing German songs to a delighted American audience. Then came something weird, strange; it was German, yet the words were not German. Looking at the programme, it turned out to be the famous plantation song, "'Way down upon the Suwannee River." The audience looked bewildered; there was no applause, though, judging by the attitude of the singers, they had expected to make this the grand hit of the evening.

The last performance of the great festival of the United German singers in Philadelphia, in 1897, was the production of the "Star-Spangled Banner." Everything in the appearance of the singers showed that this finale was to be the crowning act of the entire festival. All the singers, male and female, participated, and "Old Glory" was waved in the air during the performance. But, as I had feared, it was a complete failure. Instead of the vast audience spontaneously rising to its feet and being carried away by enthusiasm, it remained cold and indifferent, and there was no applause commensurate with what it would have been had the performers sung the words with the true ring in them and the true English accent. The same thing would happen if the "Marseillaise" were sung in France, or the "Wacht am Rhein" in Germany, by foreign singing societies, no matter how excellently schooled, and how artistically rendered.

A similar experience was had by Madame Brinkerhoff, who relates the same in _The Vocalist_ of December, 1896, as follows:

"To show how language is imbedded in the _timbre_ of the voice,
I will relate an incident of last season. On the first night
of the representation of the 'Scarlet Letter,' by Damrosch,
sung by German singers, I was not surprised or in the least
displeased at hearing this beautiful opera sung with the German
_timbre_ of voice; but after listening to a whole act, I heard
no German words; I listened in vain for the shaping of their
consonants and vowels, although I heard the German sounds or
_timbres_. So I asked the lady seated next to me what language
the people on the stage were singing. 'German,' she replied. I
said: 'But I hear no German words. Will you kindly listen and
tell me when you hear German words?' She listened and replied,
'No, I do not hear German words, but I thought before it was
German.' She asked me if it was English. We could not decide it
until the lights were turned on, and looked at the programme,
which read, 'sung in English.'

"This summer I asked a distinguished singer and teacher of
Philadelphia in what language the 'Scarlet Letter' was sung in
that city. She replied, 'Oh, German, of course.' 'Did you hear
it?' I asked. 'Yes, and I enjoyed it very much, and it was sung
in German,' she replied. 'It said in English on the programme,'
I said. 'Well, if I was fooled, a great many more were
fooled--beside myself, all our party thought so too. What are
you going to do about it?' Gounod says: 'I did not like Italian
singing; their tones were attacked so differently from the
French method of singing that it was unpleasant at first, but I
went again and again, for I could not stay away. I enjoyed it
so much.'"

This is what Frau Johanna Gadski had to say in an interview printed in _Werner's Magazine_:

"I have never had any lessons in acting. The director of the
Choral Opera told me at the outset that it was better to act
by feeling when singing than by instruction. If one studies
only acting and singing, one is not always natural. That is the
reason why one who does not speak German does not understand
the German people and their spirit, is not a German, and
cannot sing the Wagner rôles. One must have the German spirit.
Sometimes you write here in your papers that German singers
cannot sing. I think they sing German rôles very well. One must
sing, act, and, above everything, feel at the same time, and
then one can speak to the heart of the listener."

Singing in a foreign tongue is, and must be, and always will be (until these things are more thoroughly understood), to a large extent, simply mechanical. Until then, the soul-stirring depth (_der Zauber_) of the native composition will always be wanting. The Anglo-Saxon race has been altogether too dependent upon European continental nations for its examples, its support, and its development in _all_ branches of art. This has been more particularly the case in regard to music and song. Though German music, for obvious reasons, which give Germans the preponderance on this field of art, ranks first among nations, still there should be among English-speaking nations a greater native development thereof in harmony with the national expression.

_Song_, above all, must be national; it must be in harmony with the _genius_ of a nation to attain its highest development. It is too closely allied to a nation's speech to be separated therefrom without doing violence to both its music and its meaning. The music and the words _must go together_; their union is as indispensable as it is indissoluble. While we have excellent vocal material in this country, it lacks the proper food for its nourishment. There is no want of poetic compositions. No nation has their superior, or has them in greater abundance. We have the words and the singers; but there is a woful lack of a higher class of compositions for singing. The latter are not at all commensurate with the abundance and the superiority of the talent that is awaiting their appearance.

With compositions on a par with its vocal talent, this nation might rank first among nations in the art of singing. It must stand on its own footing. It must sing its own songs and must be taught by its own teachers. This dictum may provoke indignation in "foreign" vocal teachers. Though I regret the possible consequences to them, this cannot be helped. Science is synonymous with knowledge, and knowledge with truth, and "the truth must be told if the heavens should fall."

BREATHING

All of the preceding, in a manner, may be said to be a preliminary argument for the great truth I claim to have discovered, namely, that _in the sphere of the trunk of our body the material part of our nature is represented by the hemisphere of the abdomen, its immaterial part by that of the thorax; that in the sphere of the head a similar division obtains, in conformity with which it is also divided into hemispheres representing material and immaterial issues; and that every faculty, and the exercise thereof, have their being in a dual action, in close succession, emanating from these hemispheres._

The first proposition to be proven was that we breathe through the œsophagus, conjointly with the trachea. If all I have said in the preceding has not already convinced the reader of the truth of this statement, I trust the following experiments will thoroughly convince him thereof. These experiments will also furnish additional proof of the fact that English and German modes of respiration are of an inverse order.

Not the slightest fear need be entertained as to the result of these experiments. I have made the same, and others of a similar nature, over and over again, without being in the least discomfited thereby; and I may add that to the fact of having been entirely divested of fear, I largely owe my success in all these undertakings.

If you are an Anglo-Saxon, and make the muscles of your throat rigid, thereby stopping inspiration through the trachea into the thorax, you will soon experience a decided movement of the abdomen, in conformity with which it will first expand anteriorly, then posteriorly, and again anteriorly. There will now be a pause, after which the abdomen will be first expanded posteriorly, then anteriorly, and again posteriorly. This is as far as you can go; you will be compelled to release your hold on your throat after these six movements; the thorax meanwhile remaining passive.

Upon next making the muscles of the back of your neck rigid, equal to those of the œsophagus, the latter being thereby closed to respiration, you will soon experience a decided movement of the thorax, by which it will be first expanded posteriorly, then anteriorly, and again posteriorly. There will now be a pause, after which the thorax will be first expanded anteriorly, then posteriorly, and again anteriorly.

These twelve movements constitute one act of respiration during which inspiration and expiration for thorax and abdomen equalize each other. The first three movements of the abdomen, consisting of an inspiration, an expiration, and an inspiration, constitute what is commonly called an inspiration; the second three movements of the abdomen, consisting of an expiration, an inspiration, and an expiration, constitute what is commonly called an expiration. Of the six movements of the thorax succeeding these, the first three, consisting of an inspiration, an expiration, and an inspiration, are equal to an inspiration; the last three, consisting of an expiration, an inspiration, and an expiration, are equal to an expiration. We thus have four complete respirations, two of which, equal to an inspiration and an expiration, belong to the abdomen; and two, likewise equal to an inspiration and an expiration, belong to the thorax.

Inasmuch as each of these four respirations is composed of three separate movements, one complete respiration consists of twelve separate movements of the respiratory organs. This relates to our ordinary mode of breathing. For vocal utterance, more especially the utterance of a vocal sound, these four respirations are first made for the impression, and are then, in an inverse order, repeated for the expression. This gives us eight movements, or an _octave_ of movements, for each vocal sound; these eight movements, as a matter of fact, consisting of twenty-four separate movements of the respiratory organs. These movements, which in our experiment were of relatively long duration, during our ordinary mode of breathing follow upon one another very rapidly; thorax and abdomen, which during our experiment were restrained, ordinarily and when unrestrained, acting and reacting upon one another in quick succession.

The preceding experiment gives us the following result:

ABDOMEN

Movement 1. Anterior, inspiration.}
" 2. Posterior, expiration.} _Inspiration._
" 3. Anterior, inspiration.}
" 4. Posterior, expiration.}
" 5. Anterior, inspiration.} _Expiration._
" 6. Posterior, expiration.}

THORAX

Movement 1. Posterior, inspiration.}
" 2. Anterior, expiration. } _Inspiration._
" 3. Posterior, inspiration.}
" 4. Anterior, expiration. }
" 5. Posterior, inspiration.} _Expiration._
" 6. Anterior, expiration. }

All of the preceding has reference to the Anglo-Saxon mode of breathing.

Germans, under the same circumstances, will make movements of an inverse order.

The first movement of the abdomen will be posterior, the next anterior, the third posterior, which will be succeeded by anterior, posterior, and anterior ones; while the movements of the thorax will be anterior, posterior, and anterior, succeeded by posterior, anterior, and posterior ones. This shows that _with Germans, expiration antecedes inspiration_, while _with Anglo-Saxons, inspiration antecedes expiration_.

In our experiment, with Anglo-Saxons, _inspiration_ took place in the abdomen by two movements anteriorly to one posteriorly, and in the thorax by two movements posteriorly to one anteriorly; while _expiration_ took place by two movements of the abdomen posteriorly to one anteriorly, and in the thorax by two movements anteriorly to one posteriorly, as per this schedule:

ANGLO-SAXON Abdomen
1. Inspiration, Ant., post., ant.
2. Expiration, Post., ant., post.

ANGLO-SAXON Thorax
3. Inspiration, Post., ant., post.
4. Expiration, Ant., post., ant.

In the case of a German, it would have been more proper, for our experiment, to have _first_ closed the muscles to the œsophagus, and then those to the trachea, as Germans first breathe into the œsophagus and then into the thorax. Had this been done, the result would have been inverse to that of our experiment, as follows: The first movement of the thorax would have been one of inspiration, the same as the first movement of the abdomen; and the second movement of the thorax would have been one of expiration, the same as the second movement of the abdomen, thus:

GERMAN Thorax
1. Inspiration, Ant., post., ant.
2. Expiration, Post., ant., post.

Abdomen
3. Inspiration, Post., ant., post.
4. Expiration, Ant., post., ant.

_This shows that the movements of the abdomen are the reverse of those of the thorax_:

With _Anglo-Saxons_, in such a manner that, while for the abdomen _inspiration_ takes place anteriorly, it takes place for the thorax posteriorly; and that, while for the abdomen _expiration_ takes place posteriorly, it takes place for the thorax anteriorly;

With _Germans_, in such a manner that, while for the thorax _inspiration_ takes place anteriorly, it takes place for the abdomen posteriorly; and that, while for the thorax _expiration_ takes place posteriorly, it takes place for the abdomen anteriorly.

These various modes of breathing find an illustration in the following:

Anglo-Saxons, while carrying a burden (for which purpose it is necessary to hold the breath or to economize the same as much as possible), inspire into the abdomen anteriorly and the chest posteriorly, and in so doing expand the same accordingly; while Germans, under the same circumstances, breathe into and expand the abdomen posteriorly and the chest anteriorly. The action of the former tending away from the diaphragm, that of the latter tending towards it, exercise an influence on the spinal column which causes Anglo-Saxons while carrying a burden to assume an erect, Germans a stooping position. This has already been illustrated by calling attention to the difference between the position of the Greek and Gothic caryatides, the former representing the Anglo-Saxon, the latter the German mode of breathing. The order for German soldiers, "Brust heraus, Bauch herein"! ("Breast out, belly in"), for Anglo-Saxons should be, "Breast in, belly out"! The former gives German soldiers that stiff appearance, tending towards the diaphragm, of which Heine has said:

"Als haetten sie verschluckt den Stock,
Womit man sie einst gepruegelt."

("As if the stick they'd swallowed
With which they once were walloped.")

The fact that inspiration always consists in an inspiration, an expiration, and an inspiration, while expiration consists in an expiration, an inspiration, and an expiration, is one of the most interesting observations I have made in connection with these studies.

These facts may be generalized in saying: There is no action connected with life which consists of a single movement in any one single direction; every action, of whatsoever nature, if it is outgoing, consisting of an outgoing, ingoing, and outgoing movement; if it is ingoing, of an ingoing, outgoing, and ingoing movement; every superior movement consisting of a superior, an inferior, and a superior; every inferior, of an inferior, a superior, and an inferior one; every left movement, of one to the left, to the right, and to the left; every right movement, of one to the right, to the left, and to the right; the last movement _only_ being visible and accompanying action.

While our experiment is representative of the general principles underlying our mode of breathing, the act of breathing, proper, is subject to many variations. During their waking moments, or for conversation, with Anglo-Saxons respiration takes place by thorax and abdomen changing off, alternately, while with Germans they succeed one another in the same manner as they did in our experiment, commencing, however, with the thorax instead of with the abdomen, and with expiration instead of with inspiration, as follows:

ANGLO-SAXON
1. Insp. Thorax--post., ant., post.
2. " Abd.--ant., post., ant.
3. Exp. Abd.--post., ant., post.
4. " Thorax--ant., post., ant.

GERMAN.
1. Exp. Thorax--post., ant., post.
2. Insp. " --ant., post., ant.
3. Exp. Abd.--ant., post., ant.
4. Insp. " --post., ant., post.

This shows an indirect movement for Anglo-Saxon, a direct movement for German respiration. Hence, English enunciation is necessarily slow, German relatively quick. It also shows that the reserve force with Anglo-Saxons is held before it is expended; with Germans it is expended almost as fast as it is engendered.

As there is an apparent discrepancy between the last schedule and the previous one showing Anglo-Saxon mode of inspiration, I want to remind the reader that our "experiment" was made mainly to set forth the fact that we breathe through the œsophagus conjointly with breathing through the trachea; but it was not intended to show our regular mode of breathing.