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The Music and Musical Instruments of Southern India and the Deccan c5: Chapter I

The Music and Musical Instruments of Southern India and the Deccan c5

Language
English

Chapter I

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Indian music—How changed in the course of years—Its decline under Mahomedan rule—Hindu ideas of music—How encouraged in the South of India—Connection with religion—Influence of religion upon music—Legends—Difficulty of deciphering the ancient treatises—How differing from European music—Most noticeable peculiarities.

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AMONG the many arts and industries of India gradually decaying from want of patronage, but which, since the accession of the British Government, have again been fostered and encouraged, that of music has hitherto found no place. To Europeans it is certainly the least known of all Indian arts. Almost every traveller in India comes away with the idea that the music of the country consists of mere noise and nasal drawling of the most repulsive kind, often accompanied by contortions and gestures of the most ludicrous description. Perhaps the traveller may have fancied that he has seen a nautch—he has possibly been asked to some such entertainment at the house of a wealthy native; or, more likely, he has possessed a treasure of a “boy,” who has been able to make the necessary arrangements with the “nautchnees” for a performance of the kind. But in certainly two-thirds of such cases the singing and dancing witnessed has been of the commonest, and the performers of the most abandoned and depraved of the city—and the traveller has therefore received a false impression, which may abide through life, or impede the progress of a more correct appreciation of the real value of Indian music. But it is hardly fair that an art so little really understood, even among the natives of India themselves, should be judged by such a criterion and then put aside as worthless because solitary individuals have been deceived by parties of outcast charlatans whose object is mere gain. For that Indian music is an art, and a very intricate and difficult one too, can hardly be denied. But to appreciate it one must first put away all thought of European music, and then judge of it by an Indian standard, and impartially upon its own merits—of the ingenuity of the performer—the peculiar rhythm of the music—the extraordinary scales used—the recitatives—the amount of imitation—the wonderful execution and memory of the performer—and his skill in employing small intervals as grace. Then when we hear old “Slokes” and “Ghuzals,” songs written hundreds of years ago, sung with the same sweet dreamy cadences, the same wild melody, to the same soft beats of little hands, and the same soft tinkle of the silver cymbals, we shall perhaps begin to feel that music of this kind can be as welcome and tasteful to ears accustomed to it as the music of the West, with its exaggerated sonorousness, is to us; and so our contempt will gradually give way to wonder, and, upon acquaintance, possibly to love. For this music, let us remember, daily gives pleasure to as many thousands as its more cultivated European sister gives to hundreds. There is hardly any festivity in India in which some part is not assigned to music—and for religious ceremonies its use is universal. Since the Vedic times it has been cultivated as an art. The hymns of the Rig and Yagur Vedas were set and sung to music ages ago. The Vedic chant, composed in the simple Sanskrit spoken three thousand years ago, and handed down from generation to generation for more than thirty centuries, has a thrilling effect upon a cultivated Hindu mind. The Vedic chant is to Hindus what plain song is to us. For this ancient chant—like plain song—is bound up with the sacred ceremonials, and is wedded to language alike sonorous and dignified. And the place where it is heard, for it is only heard in the temple, is considered so holy, and the strain itself is so simple and devotional, that all who hear it cannot fail to be impressed.¹

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¹ An interesting explanation of these chants is given by Mr. A. C. Burnell, Ph.D., in his “Arshey-abrahmana” [Mangalore, 1876], and reprinted in Tagore’s “Hindu Music from Various Sources.” This explanation will enable anyone to note the Sâma Vedic chant, as printed in the Bibliotheca Indica edition, in ordinary notation.

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Indian music, like its sister art in Europe, seems to have undergone many changes before reaching its present stage. In remote ages the art seems to have been highly cultivated, and musicians were held in great esteem; but under the Mussalman dynasty, and owing to the almost perpetual strife between petty princes, music, like other arts, through want of encouragement, fell almost into abeyance. There is, therefore, little information to be had concerning the music of those times.

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From early periods, however, many learned and elaborate treatises (mostly in MSS.) upon the art yet remain. The later of these show that even then music had passed through several stages of transition. Since the Sangíta Pârijâta, which is believed to be one of the latest of these Sanskrit works, had been written by Ahobala, two separate schools or systems of music have arisen and are now known by the names of Hindustani and Karnâtik. The Karnâtik appears to have been elaborated as a distinct system subsequent to the advent of the Aryans to the South of India. The two systems, although sprung from the same origin, have since undergone independently considerable changes, and are now totally distinct from each other.

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Of Hindu music in Southern India, since the fall of the Hindu Empire of Vijayanagur, Tanjore has been the only school, and from it those of Travancore and other places have doubtless been founded. Unfortunately, there is no record remaining of what had been done in former times in Tanjore; but within the last few centuries the people there, as in Europe, have been aroused to a great state of musical activity, and there had sprung up a school of musicians, ending with Tiâgyarâj, destined to effect great changes and improvements in the art. There are still papers in the library of the Tanjore Palace which show that various attempts have been made to improve the existing notation, such as it is, of Indian music. With the cession of the Tanjore territory to the British, at the close of the last century, there came a time when arts and sciences were cultivated in peace; under encouragement of the noble and wealthy, music, so long neglected, once more sprang up with vigour to strike out for itself a new path and to enjoy a fresh existence. History in parallel instances shows that such has always been the case when arts long neglected are revived and become rapidly popular. The earlier music of the Sanskrit period bears a close resemblance, as far as we can judge, to that of the ancient Greeks, going far to prove that music has been derived from the same Aryan source, which seems probable, and has been discussed freely by different writers.

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The most flourishing age of Indian music was during the period of native princes, a little before the Mahomedan conquest; and with the advent of the Mahomedans its decline commenced; indeed, it is wonderful that it survived at all.

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The Emperor Aurangzib abolished the court musicians. Mr. Blochmann, in his translation of the “Ain-i-akbari,”² quotes a curious story from the historian Khan Khan as to what occurred when this order was given. The court musicians brought a bier in front of the window where the Emperor used to show himself daily to the people, and wailed so loud as to attract Aurangzib’s attention. He came to the window and asked what it meant. They replied that melody was dead, and that they were taking him to the graveyard. The Emperor replied, “Very well, make the grave deep, so that neither voice nor echo may issue from it.”

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² “Ain-i-akbari, or Institutes of the Emperor Akbar.” Translated from the original Persian by H. Blochmann. Vol. V.

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“The more severe of the Mussalman doctors,” writes Captain Willard, one of the few Englishmen who have studied the subject, “like the Puritans, even now prohibit the use of music as irreligious and profane, while others are somewhat indulgent and permit it with certain restrictions. A few, convinced of its excellence, but dreading the censure of casuists, have prudently preferred silence. Some have considered it as exhilarating the spirits, and others, perhaps with more reason, declare it to be an incentive to the bent of the inclination, and, consequently, possessing the property of producing both good and evil.”³

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³ “A Treatise on the Music of Hindustan.” Capt. N. Willard. Calcutta, 1834.

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Opinions of the kind just quoted, held by the educated and influential, naturally enough have tended to lower the standing of a musician, and the art itself has suffered in consequence. Hence, though there are many Mahomedan professors who are skilled executants, they are rarely men of any social position or educational attainments, and their knowledge of the theory of their art is but slight. Of course to this there are exceptions—men such as Maula Bux of Baroda, or Bhande Ali of Indore, might be mentioned who have studied much and who love their art for its own sake. But such are few and far between. Still, Mahomedan music, taken as a whole, has little to recommend itself even at the present day. The ideas professed by Hindus offer a curious contrast. For music, from a Hindu standpoint, is associated with all that is bright and sweet in life; its origin, ascribed directly to Divine providence, causes it to be regarded as surrounded by a halo of sanctity. Almost all the religious literature of the Hindus breathes music. The ancient writings on Hindu music are known as the Gandharva Veda. The Gita Govinda, the Indian Song of Songs,⁴ is music itself from beginning to end. It is difficult to imagine imagery more vivid, or to picture scenes more charming than those in which Krishna, with his fair Gopi companions, on the banks of the Yamna, played and sang those witching strains that, like those of Orpheus, held all creation spellbound. And so music with Hindus is a resource to which they always fly in joy or grief, for prayer or praise.

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⁴ Sir Edwin Arnold’s charming paraphrase of this beautiful poem should be read by all earnest students of Oriental Music.

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But still the old idea that music as a profession is a degraded employment, fit only for the stroller or the dancing girl, to some extent lingers on, so strong is the influence caused by the long ordeal of Mahomedan conquest. And Mahomedans even now, though liking and enjoying music, often prefer to engage singers and instrumentalists rather than learn the art themselves; indeed, it is not difficult to find Hindus who do the same, and hold very similar prejudices.

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Happily, in Southern India, ideas of this kind cannot be said to prevail generally; proofs to the contrary may be found in the many living musicians who are men of education and poets in their way. Music has almost without interruption flourished there from very remote ages.⁵ This can be accounted for by the country having been more under Hindu rule than other parts of India, and having suffered perhaps less from internal commotions. From the study of Sanskrit, which has been maintained amongst the musicians of the courts of Mysore, Tanjore, and Travancore, music has not been left, as in other parts, almost entirely in the hands of ignorant dancing girls and their attendants.

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⁵ Colonel Meadows Taylor, remarking upon this, says: "Mahomedan historians of the period relate that when the Deccan was invaded by Allah-ood-deen Togluk in A.D. 1294, and the conquest of Southern India completed by the Mogul General Mullikkafoor several years afterwards, the profession of music was found to be in a condition so far in advance of the North that singers, male and female, and their Brahmin instructors, were taken with the royal armies and settled in the North."—"Proceedings, Royal Irish Academy." Vol. IX., Part i.

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It is a common idea among the Hindus that the greatest musicians should live like hermits, far removed from all people. This seems to have been the practice of some of the ancients, and as similar legends are found in the mythologies of other nations, there is reason to believe they are based upon facts.

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The higher branches of the musical profession were formerly confined to either Brahmins (Bhagavatas) or to men of very high caste. Music being of Divine origin was regarded as sacred, and it was considered impious for any but men of the sacred caste to wish to acquire any knowledge of its principles. It was and still is called the fifth Veda. Hence the ancient Brahmins of the country would have excommunicated any of their number who would have so far presumed as to betray the sacred writings to any but the elect, whose mouths only were esteemed sufficiently holy to utter words so sacred. Indeed, it was the knowledge of which they were possessed that was the chief cause of the reverence and adoration paid to the Brahmins of old, and which gave them the power and influence they prized so much. It was thus that the ancient musicians sang their own compositions. In later years music became a distinct trade, especially under Mussalman rulers, and passed into the hands of the lower orders and the unlearned, and to this cause operating through a long succession of years the differences between the Hindustani and Karnâtik systems must be in a great measure attributed.

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Religion, bound up as it is with almost everything in India, naturally exercises a most powerful influence upon all the arts, and upon music especially. The earliest use of music was doubtless for religious purposes. Hindu music can hardly be said to have ever shaken itself free from being in some way or other connected with the religion of the country, traces of which are everywhere apparent. Almost all the books, especially the most ancient, relating to the art contain constant references to mythological traditions. The language used is at times so figurative that in many cases no one but a finished scholar can decipher its real purport. More importance is paid to such trifling details as the proper attributes—colour, caste, or wives—of each deified melody type (râga) or mode (thât) than to the arrangements of notes which compose it and to the practical directions for its performance. Each note, scale, râga, and measure is canonized, and long chapters are devoted to the description of the habitations, wives, raiment, &c., of these demigods and nymphs. Much valuable information can of course be gleaned from these books, but many of them contain a good deal of what is quite useless to the musician, though most interesting from an antiquarian point of view. Besides these Sanskrit works, there are few books upon the art existing.

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Most of the vernacular works upon music have been written by Pandits, who have endeavoured to adapt the principles contained in the ancient works to their own ideas. Many of these books consist but of a string of quotations—often contradictory—taken at random from Sanskrit works of all dates, and interlarded with comments rather worse than useless, unless it be to mystify the reader. The writers of such books rarely know anything of the modern practice of music. They still try to fetter it by hard and fast rules learnt from books. Rules of the sort, of course, were made at a time when music as an art was comparatively in its infancy, but were never intended to apply to modern Indian music. It would be just as absurd to suppose that treatises on the music of the eighth and ninth centuries, where progressions by chords of (8/5/1) were not only allowed but admired,⁶ would apply to the elaborate harmony of to-day.

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⁶ Organum was the name given to this rude harmony. An instrument called Organistrum, in use in the ninth century, enabled these chords to be played in succession. And the organ itself appears to have been so constructed, the origin in fact of the modern mixture stops.—See Gerbert, "De cantu et musicâ sacra," St. Blaise, 1774.

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Other works in the vernaculars have been written by practical musicians who really do possess the knowledge they try to impart, but will not do so without mixing it with the absurdities of these so-called Pandits. The fear of criticism or ridicule is one cause of this; but it is also due to the great dislike all native musicians have to imparting instruction to any but a favoured few; indeed, they rather prefer that the general public should continue in ignorance. This has, naturally enough, tended to hinder the growth of a popular taste for music until quite within the past few years. Societies, such as the Gayan Samaj of Poona and Madras, have recently sprung up and are doing much to encourage popular music; with the advance of general education there has been a growing feeling in favour of teaching singing in the schools, and in future years it is to be hoped that all such idle prejudices will have been rooted out completely, and that the study of the national music of the country will occupy, as it should, a foremost place in all Indian schools.

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At the present day, however, it is absolutely impossible for anyone to gather an accurate knowledge of the principles of Hindu music without the aid of learned natives, a practical acquaintance with the capabilities of their instruments, and without consulting the best living performers—things that few persons have opportunity or leisure to attempt.

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Of the astonishing power which music is believed by the ancients to have had, not only over men and passions, but also over animals and inanimate things, Hindu legends, like those of most ancient nations, are redolent.

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“I have been assured by a credible eye-witness,” says Sir William Jones, “that two wild antelopes used often to come to the woods to the place where a mere savage beast, Siraj ud Doulah, entertained himself with concerts, and that they listened to the strain with an appearance of pleasure till the monster, in whose soul there was no music, shot one of them to display his archery; secondly, a learned native of this country told me that he had frequently seen the most venomous and indignant snakes leave their holes upon hearing tunes on a flute, which he supposed gave them peculiar delight; and thirdly, an intelligent Persian, who repeated his story again and again and permitted me to write it down from his lips, told me that he had more than once been present when a celebrated lutenist, Mirza Mahomed, surnamed Bulbul, was playing to a large company in a grove near Shiraz, that he distinctly saw the nightingales trying to vie with the musician—sometimes warbling on the trees, sometimes fluttering from branch to branch, as if they wished to approach the instrument whence the melody proceeded, and at length dropping on the ground in a kind of timid ecstasy, from which they were soon raised, he assured me, by a change of the mode.”⁷

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⁷ “On the Musical Modes of the Hindus.”—See “Asiatic Researches.” Vol. III. Calcutta, 1792.

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Musicians in the South of India believe that powers such as these are associated with the performance of the melody types or râgas called Sâranga and Kaliâni. Some legends of the influence of certain râgas over nature, that are handed down and still believed by many, are very curious, and remind us of the legends of Orpheus and Apollo.

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Sir William Ouseley relates how Mir Tansên, a wonderful musician in the time of the Emperor Akbar, sang one of the night râgas at mid-day. The powers of his music were such that it instantly became night, and the darkness extended in a circle round the palace as far as the sound of his voice could be heard.

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The râgas Nâgavarâli and Punâgatódi are believed to have the power to attract serpents and to make them leave their hiding places and come where they hear the music. There is a story of a certain Mysore prince who wished to test the truth of this, so, in company with one of the Court musicians, he ascended a neighbouring hill known as the abode of numerous poisonous snakes. The musicians then began to play their strains. From all sides the serpents came and formed a ring around the two, erecting their heads and swaying to and fro, fascinated by the music. As soon as the strains ceased they glided rapidly away without attempting to injure the players.

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Colonel Meadows Taylor relates a somewhat similar circumstance: “One very large cobra which frequented my garden at Ellichpur, and of which everyone was in dread, was caught by some professional snake charmers in my own presence by means of the ‘pungi.’⁸ It was played at first very softly before the aloe bush underneath which the snake lived in a hole, and gradually the performer increased the tone and time of his playing, and, as the snake showed his head, he retreated gently till it was fairly outside and erected itself in a defiant manner. At that moment another man stepped dexterously behind and, while the snake’s attention was absorbed by the player before, threw a heavy blanket upon it, seizing it by the head under the jaws. The head was then pinned down by a forked stick, and the fangs and teeth extracted by strong pincers; the snake was then turned loose, completely cowed and exhausted. There was no doubt about the identity of the reptile, for a portion of its tail had been shot off in an attempt to destroy it.”⁹

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⁸ The native name for the snake-charmer's pipe.

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⁹ “Proceedings, Royal Irish Academy.” Vol. IX., Part i.

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It is considered extremely unlucky for anyone to impart or receive instruction in the Varâli râga. When an unwelcome pupil presents himself, a master will therefore decline to teach him anything else but this râga, knowing that to be a sure way of ridding himself of the intruder.

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The Megharángini (or Megh-mallâr, as it is elsewhere called), when played incessantly, was said to be productive of immediate rain. Stories of how skilful musicians have averted famine by drawing down rain with the strains of this râga are common all through the country.

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Of the fiery power attributed to the râga Dîpaka there are many legends. One states that long ago the sacred lamps in the shrine of some temple in Mysore, said to have been lighted ages ago by some Divine agency, had been extinguished through the carelessness of the ministering priest, who neglected to supply them with fresh oil. The soothsayers foretold some great disaster to the surrounding country should they be rekindled by mortal hands. A famous musician, hearing of this, offered his services to the authorities, and, at the request of the Râjah, hastened to the temple. Sitting down in the “S’ri-Kovil” —the most holy place of all—before the shrine, he played this râga, while the priest made solemn supplication that success might attend his efforts. Presently the darkness of the shrine was broken—for a moment a faint glimmering was apparent, and the lamps became mysteriously lighted. Thus confidence was restored to the country round and dire calamities averted.

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Another favourite story is that the Emperor Akbar ordered Nayuk Gopâl, a celebrated musician, to sing this râga. “He endeavoured to excuse himself, but in vain—the Emperor insisted on obedience. He therefore requested permission to go home and bid farewell to his family and friends. It was winter when he returned, after an absence of six months. Before he began to sing he placed himself in the waters of the Jumna till they reached his neck. As soon as he had performed a strain or two the river gradually became hot—at length began to boil—and the agonies of the unhappy musician were nearly insupportable. Suspending for a moment the melody thus cruelly extorted, he sued for mercy from the monarch, but sued in vain—Akbar wished to prove more strongly the power of the râga. Nayuk Gopâl renewed the fatal song. Flames burst with violence from his body, and though immersed in the waters of the Jumna he was consumed to ashes.”¹⁰

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¹⁰ “An Essay on the Music of Hindustan,” by Sir W. Ouseley.—See “Oriental Collections, illustrating the History, Antiquities, and Literature, &c., of Asia.” London, 1797-1800. Vol. I.

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The râga Gúndakrýa is so called from its having been first performed by the god Hanumân, who was called upon to decide a dispute between the celestial musicians Nârada and Tumburu. Each was jealous of the other's powers, and claimed to be most skilled. They appealed to Hanumân to settle their differences and award the palm to the best performer. He heard them both and was unable to decide, so taking the vina himself, he sat down, and resting the instrument against the rock, began to play. So ravishing was the strain that the very rock melted into tears, and the vina, dropping from the hands of the god, sank into the lake thus formed. The music ceasing, the rock once more assumed its natural form. Then the god, turning to the two who stood by amazed, said: “The palm is his who plays this strain.” Each essayed the feat, but failed. Hanumân then decided that the skill of both was equal, and thus settled their differences amicably. This râga, then played for the first time, was called “Gúndakrýa,” or “that which melts rocks.”

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Hanumân after this became exceedingly proud of his musical abilities, and used to boast of his skill continually. The demigod Râma, hearing of this, devised a plan to humble the god, and accomplished it in the following manner:—There lived in a forest near Ayódhya (Râma’s capital) a certain Rishi or bard, who had devoted himself to music all his life with such success that he had caused the Septasvâras, or seven notes, to become embodied in the form of seven daughters. To this forest Râma took Hanumân as if upon a hunting excursion, and halting within hearing of the Rishi’s dwelling, whose existence was unknown to the other, asked for some music. Hanumân accordingly took up his vina and began to accompany himself. Constant practice and self-confidence had made him careless, and it chanced that as the seven nymphs passed on their way to draw water for their father’s house he sang a note falsely. No sooner had the nymph to whom this note belonged heard it than she swooned and died. Her sisters made piteous lamentations, and ran to tell their father. The Rishi came, and seeing Hanumân engrossed in his art and still singing, at once guessed the cause of his daughter’s death. After listening for a while he heard the same note sung constantly out of tune. Then going up to the god he upbraided his want of care, and taking the vina from him played the râga truly, when the dead nymph revived and merrily joined her sisters.

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The râga Kadâra is seldom heard, there being a superstition that trouble of various kinds always follows in the footsteps of those who sing this strain.

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It is said that those who play the râga Ahiri shall go without food for the rest of the day. Many have essayed to do so, but have for some unaccountable reason always failed. Years ago—such is the story—there was a musician who was determined to discover whether or not there was any truth in the power attributed to this râga. After packing some food in a basket, he took his instrument and set out upon his travels. Very soon he came to a large tank, with a cool and shady grove of bamboos by its side; there he thought he would rest during the heat of the day. Accordingly he hung up his basket on one of the overhanging bamboos and began to sing. When he had sung for some hours he began to feel hungry, and so looked about for a place to cook his mid-day meal; but to his great chagrin he found that as the sun rose higher the bamboo upon which his basket was hung had bent upwards out of his reach. This solution of his difficulty did not however satisfy him, as he thought it due to his own neglect rather than to Divine interference. Continuing his journey, in the evening he arrived at a large town, the Râjah of which had built a “Chattram,” or rest house, for the free accommodation of all poor travellers. The musician was hospitably received there, and food was laid before him. The Râni herself used to serve the guests with ghi, or clarified butter, before they commenced to eat. As she served the musician he was unable to restrain his glee, and exclaimed, “At last have I overcome thee, Ahiri!” Unfortunately for him, the name of the Râni happened to be Ahiri, and he naturally fancied that he intended some impertinence. He was promptly arrested and condemned to be impaled. As he was led to execution he implored the Râjah to grant him a hearing; his request was complied with, and he told the whole story. The Râjah then commanded that he should be set at liberty, and dismissed him with a present, bidding him at the same time refrain from tempting the gods farther, as it had already so nearly cost him his life.

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Many other such legends may be found in the works of poets and writers upon religious subjects, and others have been handed down orally by musicians and would well merit collection.

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The ancient theory of Indian music has been comparatively little studied, except by learned Pandits, many really good performers being ignorant of anything but the modern custom. This is probably because many of the ancient treatises that remain were purposely worded so that only Brahmins skilled in sacred lore could decipher their meaning. And now the improvements and alterations introduced from time to time by musicians of the day have come to be looked upon as authentic, a fact that in some degree tends to account for the differences that apparently exist between the ancient and modern systems.

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The theoretical part of Hindu music when compared to that of Europe is naturally very simple, as it treats entirely of simple melody and measure. The most noticeable points are the extraordinary importance which the Hindus, like all the ancient nations, have from the first attached to mode—the transposition of the natural scales; the peculiar rhythmical measures, frequently irregular; the noisy methods of beating time; and the almost entire absence of harmony. The only harmony, if it can be called so, is a continuation as a pedal of the tonic or dominant, as was done in old "pastorales," and which is still found in Scotch or Irish bagpipe music. The use of all kinds of grace is common. The rules laid down for the composition of pieces in what are called râgas are curious, and should be noticed; certain progressions of melody being forbidden, while others are lawful. Whether the ancient Greeks made any employment of râga is not known, but it seems extremely probable, since they attributed the greater part of their science of music to India,¹¹ and that most Eastern nations still employ either râga or its equivalent.¹²

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¹¹ Strabo X. iii.

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¹² The Greek practice of Melopœia appears very similar to that of râga.—*Vide* Mr. Chappell's "History of Music." London, 1874. See also Plutarch, περὶ Μουσικῆς. Cap. xviii., xix.

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Roman music was brought to perfection by Greek musicians and their pupils, and Greek modes were introduced by them. The early ecclesiastical modes appear to have been derived from those of the Greeks. Many of the older contrapuntal rules as to the employment of intervals had their origin in the imperfect scales in which the ecclesiastical modes were composed. All this goes far to show the possibility of the elaborate counterpoint of the present day having had its prototype in the old Sanskrit râga system.

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Of the two systems practised in Southern India at the present time, the Hindustani is somewhat akin to that of Northern India and Bengal. It is practised mostly by Mussalman musicians, while the Karnâtik is confined more to those of the Southern races. The latter, which may be called the national music of the South, is far more scientific and refined than the Hindustani, and its professors are, as a rule, men of much better education; a fact that is not without influence upon their music, and seems apparent in all their melodies, but particularly in the renderings they give of them.

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