an upward inflection might easily become humourous, so instinctively do we associate the upward inflection with a non-pessimistic trend of thought.  Under stress of emotion we emphasize words strongly, and with this emphasis we almost invariably raise the voice a fifth or depress it a fifth; with yet stronger emotion the interval of change will be an octave.  We raise the voice almost to a scream or drop it to a whisper.  Strangely enough these primitive notes of music correspond to the first two of those harmonics which are part and parcel of every musical sound.  Generally speaking, we may say that the ascending inflection carries something of joy or hope with it, while the downward inflection has something of the sinister and fearful.  To be sure, we raise our voices in anger and in pain, but even then the inflection is almost always downward; in other words, we pitch our voices higher and let them fall slightly.  For instance, if we heard a person cry “Ah/” we might doubt its being a cry of pain, but if it were “Ah\” we should at once know that it was caused by pain, either mental or physical.

The declamation at the end of Schubert’s “Erlking” would have been absolutely false if the penultimate note had ascended to the tonic instead of descending a fifth.  “The child lay dead.”

How fatally hopeless would be the opening measures of “Tristan and Isolde” without that upward inflection which comes like a sunbeam through a rift in the cloud; with a downward inflection the effect would be that of unrelieved gloom.  In the Prelude to “Lohengrin,” Wagner pictures his angels in dazzling white.  He uses the highest vibrating sounds at his command.  But for the dwarfs who live in the gloom of Niebelheim he chooses deep shades of red, the lowest vibrating colour of the solar spectrum.  For it is in the nature of the spiritual part of mankind to shrink from the earth, to aspire to something higher; a bird soaring in the blue above us has something of the ethereal; we give wings to our angels.  On the other hand, a serpent impresses us as something sinister.  Trees, with their strange fight against all the laws of gravity, striving upward unceasingly, bring us something of hope and faith; the sight of them cheers us.  A land without trees is depressing and gloomy.  As Ruskin says, “The sea wave, with all its beneficence, is yet devouring and terrible; but the silent wave of the blue mountain is lifted towards Heaven in a stillness of perpetual mercy; and while the one surges unfathomable in its darkness, the other is unshaken in its faithfulness.”

And yet so strange is human nature that that which we call civilization strives unceasingly to nullify emotion.  The almost childlike faith which made our church spires point heavenward also gave us Gothic architecture, that emblem of frail humanity striving towards the ideal.  It is a long leap from that childlike faith to the present day of skyscrapers.  For so is the world constituted.  A great truth