Soil and Soul.

Any instrumental or vocal agitation of the atmosphere can be called music provided it is proclaimed to be music by any section of humanity. The fact that one man's melody is another man's misery matters not a hoot nor a toot. It matters not that one nation's inspiration is another's consternation. For all brands of harmonic uproar reflect the mental peculiarities of the peoples who produced them. National music is as much a product of soil and soul as are speech and spuds. The sadness of Scotland found expression in the bagpipes, and the rest of the world has been sad ever since. Irishmen sing of shamrocks and sentiment because these are the only two things Irishmen can agree upon. England is the place where you can listen to the music of all nations—except the English. Germany's speciality used to be patriotic songs about beer and blood, but now all their “blowing” is done through big bassoons and propaganda, it having been discovered that the human voice is inadequate to express their opinion of themselves. Germans love to give themselves national “airs.” The music of America is a sort of seismic seizure in the “red-hot Momma” mode, embracing all departments of sound—except music. Darkest Africa, in its lighter moments, found surcease from sorrow in tradegin and the tintinnabulation of the tom-tom. Wales wails. Switzerland yodels because tourists expect it. The French composed the Marseillaise and the mayonnaise, and then devoted their attention to “The Watch on the Rhine.” Russian music is produced solely by peasants blowing through the icicles on their whiskers, while they pull each other up and down the Volga.