Spirit and Music | Page 9

a most real means of
achieving that fundamental object, for which our very existence here at
this present moment is devised, namely spiritual growth and

development.
CHAPTER IV
SPIRIT A LIVING FACT
"Is Music the inarticulate Speech of the Angels on earth? Or a voice of
the Undiscovered Bringing great truths to the birth?"
F. W. Faber
Life is a diversity in unity, and the expression in countless different
forms and shapes of the one fundamental reality, spirit. We ourselves
are comprehended in this definition, being part of this fundamental
spirit, and claiming thereby our divinity. Music also, as a part of life, is
subject to the same explanation: and thus the spirit of Music is a real
thing. The Muses of a Classical day typified this same idea of the spirit
behind the form. Indeed man, spiritual as at base he is, can never rest
finally satisfied with the outer semblance and form: just as the body
craves sustenance, so does the spiritual part of him. No amount of
physical satisfaction will ever allay the heart-hunger, and no flood of
Rationalist thinking will ever put an end to the instinctive search after
the Unknown God.
In spiritual law, as in natural law, nothing is ever lost. We study the
physical, and by analogy we may learn much of the spiritual: we have
not been left without guidance in the maze of life. But the first essential
is that we should study those things which are open to us, and through
them learn something of the wisdom that otherwise lies hidden.
Nothing is lost: we see, as the hymn puts it, "change and decay," but
the decay is only change of form, and death, in the form of extinction,
simply does not exist. Even thoughts, transient and gossamer as they
may appear, do their work in our brains and leave their permanent
impress with us. Occultists further assure us that they are recorded in
the eternal archives. It is said that there are the Akashic Records, in
some subtle way which we cannot pretend to understand, imprinted in
the ether. "This primary substance is of exquisite fineness and is so
sensitive that the slightest vibration... registers an indelible impression

upon it."[7] If this be so, then here is the story of all that has ever been,
and all that is. In our own subconscious minds we know full well that
there is such a perfect and complete record as to constitute an
individual Judgment Book within of unimpeachable accuracy, and
there seems to be nothing intrinsically unreasonable in the idea that
there should be something of the kind on a world scale. Monumental
histories of the traditional lost continent of Atlantis have been compiled,
professedly from this source, and we find an interesting inkling of the
same idea in the way in which objects will sometimes impress sensitive
folk with their own history. Things sometimes have a "feel" about them,
pleasant or the reverse, just as buildings acquire an aura and an
atmosphere, sacred or convivial, or even unholy.
[Note 7: Dowling. "The Aquarian Gospel."]
The musician, then, may obey Nature's universal behest, and change his
form from the physical of to-day to the more tenuous of a finer realm.
He may die: but his music lives on. He perhaps has played his part in
the world symphony and, his present work finished, he lays his
instrument aside. This body of ours is the instrument of the spirit: no
wedding feast without a wedding garment, and no part or lot in the
physical world without a body. The tuning of the body to delicate
response and high endeavour enables the spirit to express its melody
the better, and therefore it is incumbent upon the musician to cultivate a
high standard of physical health. This does not mean the maximum of
nourishment, combined with stimulants to compel a jaded appetite: on
the contrary, artistic efficiency demands super-cleanliness and a
tolerably rigid self-denial. Girth is no measure of artistic ability. But
the body, sound or otherwise, is the instrument through which we play
life's little tune, just as the pianist plays through his pianoforte. But
when we have closed the pianoforte nobody supposes that we have
extinguished the artist, or annihilated the music: we have merely put an
end to its expression for the time. So when our instrument of the body
grows old, worn-out, or decrepit, so that it can no longer answer to the
dictates of the spirit within, we cast it aside, as an instrument whose
keys are broken, or whose strings are for ever mute. Then the musician
goes upon his far journey.

But long though the journey seem, it is a change of state rather than of
place: as if from being cased in solid ice he now were buoyant