How music grew, from prehistoric times to the present day — Context and Discussion

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In Category - Music History
Bauer, Marion, 1882-1955, Peyser, Ethel R. (Ethel Rose), 1887-1961 Project Gutenberg 2023 Not confirmed
Musicians; Music -- History and criticism Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 175,265
Reading time 763 min
Text sections 35

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This editorial note examines the conversational, anecdotal narrative voice in Bauer and Peyser's 1925 music history, focusing on how the authors' informal tone and deliberate omissions shape a reader-friendly account of music's evolution from prehistoric times to the early 20th century.
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language by which people could talk to each other, and there were no books and no pencils. There were no churches then, no homes nor cities, no railroads, no roads in fact, and the oldest and wisest man knew less than a little child of today.

Step by step men fought their way to find means of speaking to each other, to make roads to travel on, houses to live in, fire to cook with, clothes to wear, and ways to amuse themselves.

During this time, over one hundred thousand years ago, called “prehistoric” because it was before events were recorded, men had to struggle with things that no longer bother us.

Picture to yourselves this era when people lived out-of-doors, in mounds and caves surrounded by wild beasts which though dangerous, were not much more so than their human neighbors. Remember, too, that these people did not know that light followed darkness as the day the night; summer followed winter as the seasons come and go; that trees lost their leaves only to bear new ones in the spring, and that lightning and thunder were natural happenings; and so on through the long list of things that we think today perfectly simple, and not in the least frightening.

Because they did not understand these natural things, they thought that trees, sun, rain, animals, birds, fire, birth, death, marriage, the hunt, caves and everything else had good and bad gods in them. In order to please these gods they made prayers to them quite different from our prayers, as they danced, sang and acted the things they wanted to have happen. When a savage wanted sun or wind or rain, he called his tribe together and danced a sun dance, or a wind dance, or a rain dance. When he wanted food, he did not pray for it, but he acted out the hunt in a bear dance. As the centuries went by they continued to use these dances as prayers, and later they became what we call religious rites and festivals. So here you see actually the beginning of what we know as Easter festivals, Christmas with its Christmas tree and mistletoe, spring festivals and Maypole dances with the Queen of the May, Hallowe’en and many other holiday celebrations.

This is how music, dancing, poetry, painting and drama were born. They were the means by which primitive men talked to their gods. This they did, to be sure, very simply, by hand-clapping and foot-stamping, by swaying their bodies to and fro, by shouting, shrieking, grunting, crying and sobbing, and as soon as they knew enough, used language, and repeated the same word over and over again. These movements and sounds were the two roots from which music grew.

If you can call these queer grunts and yells singing, the men of those far-off days must have sung even before they had a language, in fact, it must have been difficult to know whether they were singing or talking. In these cries of joy, sorrow, pain, rage, fear, or revenge, we find another very important reason for the growth of music. These exclamations, however barbaric and rough, were man’s first attempt at expressing his feelings.

We still look upon music as one of the most satisfying ways to show our emotions, and the whole story of music from prehistoric times to the present day is a record of human feelings expressed in rhythm and melody.

Gradually these early men learned to make not only musical instruments, but also the knife for hunting and utensils for cooking. The first step towards a musical instrument was doubtless the striking together of two pieces of wood or stone in repeated beats. The next step was the stretching of the skin of an animal over a hollowed-out stone or tree trunk forming the first drum. Another simple and very useful instrument was made of a gourd (the dried hollow rind of a melon-like fruit) filled with pebbles and shaken like a baby’s rattle.

As early in the story of mankind as this, the love of decoration and need of beauty were so natural that they decorated their bodies, the walls of their caves, and their everyday tools with designs in carving, and in colors made from earth and plants. You can see some of these utensils and knives, even bits of wall pictures, in many of the museums in collections made by men who dig up old cities and sections of the countries where prehistoric peoples lived. These men are called archaeologists, and devote their lives to this work so that we may know what happened before history began.

From the opening 'Authors’ Greetings,' Marion Bauer and Ethel Peyser establish a distinctly conversational voice, addressing 'Dear Young Readers from Nine to Ninety' and framing their book not as a formal history but as 'a lane parallel to the road along which music has marched.' This informal, almost epistolary tone persists throughout the excerpts, with the authors freely admitting to 'prayerfully and carefully relinquished' topics to avoid an encyclopedia. The narrative voice is that of a friendly guide, using colloquial phrases like 'we have tried to explain as simply as possible, without becoming infantile' and even a pun ('one cannot help playing with “sole”!'). This approach prioritizes accessibility over scholarly detachment, a deliberate choice that shapes the reader's experience.

A Lane, Not a Road: Narrative Strategy and Omissions

The authors explicitly state they have 'not tried to write a history' but instead 'follow a lane parallel to the road.' This metaphor signals a selective, thematic approach. They acknowledge 'peculiar omissions,' such as a chapter on singers, because the book 'adheres as closely as possible to the actual creators.' This focus on composers over performers is a structural choice that defines the narrative. The tone is self-deprecating and intimate: they hope readers will 'love music better' after seeing its 'struggle with politics, religion and its critics.' The voice is that of enthusiasts sharing discoveries, not academics delivering facts. This strategy likely makes the dense subject matter more approachable, especially for the intended audience of young readers and novices.

Pace and Detail: From Processions to Pneumatics

The excerpts reveal sharp shifts in pace. A lengthy, vivid description of a pianoforte's ceremonial arrival in a town—complete with a pastor's blessing, speeches by the mayor and schoolmaster, songs by the Männerchor, and a banquet—unfolds in leisurely, almost novelistic detail. Then, abruptly, the text pivots to a technical explanation of player pianos: 'It is very difficult to know just when this important instrument first was invented.' The prose becomes dense with mechanical specifics—'bellows and pneumatic tubes (which look together like a bunch of gray spaghetti),' 'perforated music rolls,' 'tracker bar.' This contrast between narrative scene-setting and technical exposition shows the authors varying pace to maintain interest, though the technical sections risk overwhelming the reader with jargon.

Voice and Audience: Addressing the 'Young Reader'

The authors' direct address to 'Young Readers from Nine to Ninety' establishes an inclusive, intergenerational audience. They use rhetorical questions ('And who can tell which is the most important?') and playful asides ('So in the latter, one cannot help playing with “sole”!'). The tone is encouraging: the player piano is praised for giving 'the music lover who has been denied the study of music a chance to enjoy interpreting great music.' The authors champion accessibility, calling the mechanical player 'not as a substitute for a piano but as an instrument in itself.' This advocacy for democratic music-making aligns with the book's mission to 'attract and stimulate the novice.' The voice is consistently warm, opinionated, and unapologetically subjective, which may charm some readers while striking others as overly familiar.

Readers should approach this book as a guided tour rather than a reference work. The authors' voice is central: they are present on every page, making choices about what to include and how to explain it. Pay attention to the shifts between storytelling and technical description—they reveal what the authors considered 'picturesque' versus necessary. The book's value lies not in comprehensive coverage but in its distinctive, personal perspective on music history, one that invites the reader to share the authors' enthusiasm.

Reading about Bauer and Peyser's chatty omissions reminded me of sitting on my grandfather's porch, him humming a tune he couldn't name. That same warmth surfaced in The art of music, Vol. 04 (of 14) — Text and Context, where the editors' gentle gaps felt like room left for my own listening. Neither book explains everything; both trust the silence between notes.

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