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man of our time does among Americans. the other hand, was the instrument of

the nobility; all noble children were taught to play on the harp. Thus the king of Westnesse commands the harp for the education of his son: "Teach him of the harp and of song; teach him to tug o' the harp with his nails sharp." Most famous knights of King Arthur were taught "harping." And we know that Alfred the Great put his knowledge of the harp to other than musical purposes. It is also worth noting that St. Aldhelm and St. Dunstan were renowned as harpers. In fact, a gentleman of Anglo-Saxon days was supposed to be able to play the harp as a matter of course, just as an American or an English girl is supposed to play the piano.

A few specimens of very early AngloSaxon music remain; as, for example, the music to the "Praise of Virginity" and to other poems by St. Aldhelm; but we cannot interpret their peculiar notation-it is decidedly imperfect and misleading. F was represented by a red line and C by a yellow line, and singing marks or nwmes were written between these lines, but the time is quite indefinite. As to harmony, considerable progress must have been made, since the nation used the harp and organ, and this implied some knowledge of con

Germany, too, sent her quota of music teachers although the German seems not to have been so popular as the French or Italians. There is a strange story related of a German named Putta, "a simple-minded man in worldly and caurch matters, but especially well skilled in song and music." This German was finally made bishop; but evidently his calling was that of a gleeman; for shortly after consecration his church in Mercia burned down, and he made no effort to rebuild it, but wandered about the country in the character of a strolling minstrel.

In the eighth century the Gregorian system superseded all others in vogue among Anglo-Saxons. It was introduced by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As Dean Hook justly observes:

Gregory, following the example of Saint Ambrose, introduced into the Western Church the system of chanting which had prevailed in Antioch so early as the year 107, improving what he had imported but

venerating a style of music which had probably been inherited from the Jews. Gregory increased the number of the ecclesiastical tones, which somewhat resemble our modern keys, from four to eight. And the Gregorian chants, now harmonized according to the improve ments of modern science, remain to the present hour the basis of church music in England.

Strange to relate, Greece had a monopoly of organ-making in those days; for, according to Muratori, the first organ to be introduced into western Europe was one sent to Pepin from Greece in 756. But there were already in sacred use among Anglo-Saxons the horn, trumpet, flute, harp and lyre.

For the laity the crowth, harp and pipe were favorite musical instruments. The tabor was used at Anglo-Saxon entertainments, but it was not so popular as these three. Drums were occasionally used to heighten the effect, but they, also, do not seem to have been in high favor. While the pipe was a favorite instrument among the lower classes, such as bear-dancers and exhibitors of dancing-dogs, the harp, on

cordant sounds.

It is claimed that Angro-Saxon secular music was plaintive. Doubtless this was the case, for melancholy played a considerable part in their moods. The philosophy of Schopenhauer has a natural basis in the Teutonic nature; and among other rich deposits they possess a strong vein of pessimism. It must have found expression in Saxon music, as it assuredly found expression in Saxon poetry.

Yet the word "gleeman" seems to change that conclusion somewhat, for this name, given to their bards, signifies "joy-man," or one who sung of joys. Doubtless the gleeman's "musical wood" rang through the scale of both joy and sorrow.

The gleeman was in earliest times not only the master-musician, he was the philosopher, historian, prophet and poet

of his age; he could hold civil dignities such as the government of a province or of an important city. But when Christianity was introduced the gleemen were hated by the clergy, and looked upon as rebels. Their duty, later on, was to sing the praise of their patron, to attend him and play whenever required by the courtiers or by himself; so that after a time the gleeman who stood next to the king in dignity became in the end an obsequious dependant, flatterer and parasite. Those who did not like the court, wandered about; these wandering bards were little better than mendicants playing from house to house for a night's lodging.

Often the Saxon gleeman sung the famous genealogy of his patron, the family traditions and connections. Alter dinner, when there was "song and music together and the wood of joy was touched," he sang these topics to the assembled feasters. The following names applied to the Saxon gleeman will indicate how many rôles he could play: poet, harper, pantominist, tumbler, saucy jester, ribald player, juggler and mimic. Here is variety enough and to spare. But in all these rôles he was, first of all, a musician.


From The Spectator.


The men of science have begun to attack the cradle. For some time the nursery and the play-room have been subject to their attentions, and now the very citadel of babyhood is to be stormed. First came the folklorists, and laid their sacrilegious hands upon "Puss-in-Boots" and the "Sleeping Beauty," showing that these stories contained we know not what marvellous indications as to the origin of mankind and the universality of particular beliefs. The next positions assaulted by science were the nurseryrhymes and the games such as "Here we go round the Mulberry Bush" and "Oranges and Lemons." Some of the

jingles used by children were shown to have deep political and moral meanings; others, like the counting-out games, were exposed as the remains of dark and deadly incantations. "The Cow that Jumped Over the Moon" is, we believe, asserted to be a piece of gnosticism. "Ten Little Nigger Boys" is a charm probably against the rheumatics. "Hickery Dickery Dock," though it sounds like nonsense, is composed in gipsy language,-a Romany lyric. But these were mere affairs of outposts. Mr. Buckman, in the May number of the Nineteenth Century, has had the hardihood to march up to the very edge of the cradle and to allege that when our child's first accents break they are not delicious nonsense, sweet babblings of the tiny human brook, but a highly organized system of infantile Volapuk. Mr. Buckman in all seriousness parades before the reader's astonished eyes the essential words of the baby's vocabulary. "Ma," he tells us, is an urgent cry of attention. So we have ourselves gathered. "Ma," indeed, is so universal a word that even the lambs use it. "The lamb, greatly excited to make itself heard, says 'ma,' while the mother (sheep), not moved by such strong feelings, answers 'ba.'" What the human mother answers when "not moved by such strong feelings" as her infant, we are not told by Mr. Buckman. We believe, however, that when her feelings match those of ner offspring she is not unknown to reach to the height of such a phrase as "Drat the child, what does it want now?" But to continue, "Da, dadda" is the next item in the universal language of babes. It is described as "a cry of recognition now applied to the father." True, but unfortunately the recognition is often very imperfect, and it is not unusual for a total stranger in an omnibus or railway carriage to be addressed over and over and over again as "Da, dadda," the imperfect and embarrassing recognition being enforced by the placing of a much-sucked index finger

or a sodden crust on the knee of the stranger, "Ta, tatta," we are told, is

"a sign of recognition now applied to strangers." Here, again, our experience supports Mr. Buckman. The child will often apply it the instant a stranger enters upon an afternoon call, waving a small hand to enforce its dismissal of the intruder.

But we cannot follow Mr. Buckman's vocabulary any further, or inquire how far "ach" or "ah" is or is not, "a general conversational word," or “kah” “a strong sign of displeasure at anything nasty to the taste." Again, "ba-ha" must remain undiscussed, nor can we debate the examples furnished of Isabel's talk at two and a half years old or at three and a half, of Ella's at three or of George's at four or five, except to say that we have not of recent years met any children whose language was so simple and primitive. What surprises one with children of three or four nowadays, is to find a young lady or gentleman who does not talk with an entire plainness of utterance, and employ the syllogism with a complete mastery of its uses. We recall how a small boy of four listened to the talk about a new house, and when he thought that the night nursery had been omitted, struck in with, "I must have a night nursery-the evenings will come to the new house just the same." Every one must have met examples of the logical case often put against going to bed at a slightly different hour, or under slightly different conditions. "Nurse always comes to fetch me to go to bed. Nurse hasn't come to fetch me. I won't go to bed." The baby who assumes this kind of attitude and enforces it in perfectly clear and well-cut sentences, is apparently unknown to Mr. Buckman. Another category of infant speech is as little known to him. He mentions the child's habit of decapitating and decaudating its words-"'have" for behave, or "pram" for perambulatorbut he says comparatively little about the power shown by children to make what the author of "Alice in Wonderland" so happily calls portmanteau words. A portmanteau word is a word which has another word packed

inside it, or, to put it in another way, two words and two ideas are run together, and a compound, which is also a new word, is produced. For example, a girl of under three was lately told that she was going abroad, and also that she was going to reach foreign parts by going on board ship. A mere grown-up person would have plodded on, using the two phrases side by side. But at two and three-quarters the mind is too alert for these dull ways, and a portmanteau word was soon produced. "When am I going abroadships?" became a half-hourly question. How much more expressive and how much less long than "When am I going abroad on board ship?" Both the new and important ideas of foreign travel and sea-voyage are covered over by that "one narrow word," "abroadships." There is, of course, nothing the least remarkable in sucn a compound. Every nursery can furnish examples of new words which often display far more euphony and also far better logic than the dreadful words produced by the men of science as labels for their new discoveries in the regions of applied chemistry. The speech of children shows also a wonderful quickness and resource in the matter of supplying the language with direct phrases and forms of speech. While the grown-ups are content to walk round, the child takes a verbal shortcut. Children are very seldom content with such round-about devices as "Had not I better" do this or that. "Bettern't I" is the much more direct and much more expressive form adopted in almost all nurseries. Take, again, the word "whobody" to match with "anybody" and "somebody." When the facetious parent remarks, "Somebody's been walking on this flower-bed," he may, if his offspring is inclined to ingenuities of language, be answered by the interrogation "Whobody?" These portmanteau words and short-cut phrases show that if children could only be induced to keep up the verbal habits prevalent from two to five our language might be indefinitely enriched. Unfortu

nately after five or six the language of
children is apt to become pedantically
conventional and correct. The child
of ten, indeed, seems often to be train-
ing himself for a fauteuil in Mr.
Stead's proposed academy. He stops
what he considers a new or unauthor-
ized word like a suspected person.
Every phrase is challenged and in-
spected, and the parent or uncle who
makes a slip in grammar or pronunci-
ation, or steps outside the conventional
rut, is pounced upon and corrected
with all the primness of a pedagogue.
The boy of ten, no doubt, has the com-
mand of a certain amount of slang,
but it is of a limited and defined kind.
A special vocabulary is in use at his
school, but outside this vocabulary the
schoolboy does not think it good form
to travel. The language of children at
this stage is, indeed, exceedingly
amusing on account of its cast-iron
strictness. For months, nay, years, to-
gether one word of commendation is
considered sufficient for all needs.
Ask a boy of ten to describe his chief
friend to you,-to tell you, that is,
what kind of a boy he is. Almost cer-
tainly you will get as your
"He's a very decent chap." There is
no idea of depreciation. It merely
happens that "decent" is the word of
the hour for expressing all good
things. Asked what he would like his
friends to think of him, Jack will re-
ply, "A decent chap, of course, father."
In the same way Jack brings you his
favorite book and asks, "Don't you
think, father, that this is an awfully
decent story?-all about fighting
sharks under water with those rotten
rays or whatever they are, and a boy-
pirate who ran off with a torpedo-boat
and caught two archbishops; only its
sickening rot at the end, all about his
being in love with a little fool of a
Greek girl, called Hydrant, or Haidee,
or something." A new pistol is "a
frightfully decent one, don't you
think?" because it fires eight peas at
once; and the tea at a tea-party was
"very decent," because "we were al- from Chicago to Aberdeen.


lowed to butter the slices of cake and then had whole-strawberry jam on the top." If the speech of children of ten is restricted in the matter of commendatory adjectives, it is equally restricted in the way of adjectival denunciation. Every one a boy dislikes or does not understand is "quite mad." Of course things in general of a disagreeable kind are always "beastly" or "vile;" and why he should not be allowed to use these epithets where they are clearly applicable passes his comprehension. Obviously the language of the schoolboy is not a flexible instrument. Gestures and low whistles and clicks and winks may stimulate it into a certain vividness and picturesqueness, but per se the language of the schoolroom is not half as full of imagination and resource as the language of the nursery. Literary gentlemen on the lookout for new colors for the verbal palette may get some startling effects out of the baby, but from Master Jack they will learn little or nothing. Meantime, we advise the men of science to be careful how they build their theories on the "mas," "bas," and "das" of knee-high infants. We have a strong belief ourselves that baby language is a purely artificial product of the nurses and mothers,-a tradition handed down by them, and not by the babies. If this is so, the nurses and mothers could change it if they would, and nothing is more likely than that they would do so if they saw the prattle of the cradle set forth in printed books. They would never believe that it was all done for science, but would conclude that they and their precious charges were being laughed at by rude men who know nothing about children. Just to prove these rude men wrong they would invent a new vocabulary, and turn the laugh against the books by making them obviously incorrect. The nurses would only have to put their heads together to make "tatta" mean "good morning" everywhere

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