it is very true, as mr. chesterton must have remarked somewhere, that the cult of simplicity is one of the most complex inventions of civilisation. to eat nuts in a meadow when you can eat a beefsteak in a restaurant is neither simple nor primitive; it is merely perverse, in the same way that the art of gauguin is perverse. a shepherd-boy piping to his flock in arcady and a poet playing the penny whistle in a soho garret may make the same kind of noise; but whereas the shepherd-boy knows no better, the poet has to pretend that he knows no better. so i reject scornfully the support of those amateurs who profess to like street-organs because they are the direct descendants of the itinerant ballad-singers of the romantic past; or because they represent the simple musical tastes of the majority p. 145to-day. i refuse to believe that in appreciating the sound of the complex modern instruments dragged across london by cockneys disguised as italians the soul of the primitive man who lurks in some dim oubliette of everybody’s consciousness is in any way comforted. i should imagine that that poor prisoner, if civilisation’s cruelty has not deprived him of the faculty of hearing, is best pleased by such barbaric music as the howling of the wind or the sound of railway-engines suffering in the night; and indeed every one must have noticed that sometimes certain sounds unmusical in themselves can arouse the same emotions as the greatest music.

but it is not on this score that street-organs escape our condemnation; their music has certain defects that even distance cannot diminish, and they invariably give us the impression of a man speaking through his nose in a high-pitched voice, without ever pausing to take breath. if, in spite of this, we have a kindness for them, it is because of their association with the gladdest moments of childhood. to the adult ear p. 146they bring only desolation and distraction, but to the children the organ-man, with his curly black hair and his glittering earrings, seems to be trailing clouds of glory. for them the barrel-organ combines the merits of wagner, beethoven, strauss, and debussy, and orpheus would have to imitate its eloquent strains on his lute if he wished to captivate the hearts of london children.

when i was a child the piano-organ and that terrible variant that reproduces the characteristic stutter of the mandoline with deadly fidelity were hardly dreamed of, but the ordinary barrel-organ and the prehistoric hurdy-gurdy, whose quavering notes suggested senile decay, satisfied our natural craving for melody. it is true that they did not make so much noise as the modern instruments, but in revenge they were almost invariably accompanied by a monkey in a little red coat or a performing bear. i always had a secret desire to turn the handle of the organ myself; and when—too late in life to enjoy the full savour of the feat—i persuaded a wandering musician to let me make the experiment, i was surprised to find p. 147that it is not so easy as it looks to turn the handle without jerking it, and that the arm of the amateur is weary long before the repertoire of the organ is exhausted. it is told of mascagni that he once taught an organ-man how to play his notorious intermezzo to the fullest effect; but i fancy that in professional circles the story would be discredited, for the arm of the practised musician acquires by force of habit a uniform rate of revolution, and in endeavouring to modify that rate he would lose all control over his instrument.

personally, i do not like hearing excerpts from italian opera on the street-organs, because that is not the kind of music that children can dance to, and it is, after all, in supplying an orchestra for the ballroom of the street that they best justify their existence. the spectacle of little ragged children dancing to the music of the organ is the prettiest and merriest and saddest thing in the world. in france and belgium they waltz; in england they have invented a curious compound of the reel, the gavotte, and the cakewalk. the best dancers in p. 148london are always little jewesses, and it is worth anybody’s while to go to whitechapel at midday to see miriam dancing on the cobbles of stoney lane. there is not, as i once thought, a thwarted enchanter shut up inside street-organs who cries out when the handle turns in the small of his back. but why is it that i feel instinctively that magicians have drooping moustaches and insinuating smiles, if it is not that my mind as a child founded its conception of magicians on itinerant musicians? and they weave powerful spells, strong enough to make these poor little atomies forget their birthright of want and foot it like princesses. children approach their amusements with a gravity beside which the work of a man’s life seems deplorably flippant. a baby toddling round a bandstand is a far more impressive sight than a grown man circumnavigating the world, and children do not smile when they dance—all the laughter is in their feet.

when from time to time “brain-workers” write to the newspapers to suggest that street musicians should be suppressed i feel p. 149that the hour has almost come to start a movement in favour of votes for children. it is disgraceful, ladies and gentlemen, that this important section of the community, on whom the whole future of the nation depends, should have no voice in the forming of the nation’s laws! this question of street-organs cannot be solved by banishing them to the slums without depriving many children of a legitimate pleasure. for, sub rosa, the children of park lane—if there are any children in park lane—and even the children of “brain-workers,” appreciate the music of street organs quite as much as their humble contemporaries. while father buries his head under the sofa-cushions and composes furious letters to the times in that stuffy hermitage, little noses are pressed against the window-pane, little hands applaud, and little feet beat time on the nursery floor upstairs. this is one of those situations where it is permissible to sympathise with all parties, and unless father can achieve an almost inhuman spirit of tolerance i see no satisfactory solution.

for children must have music; they must p. 150have tunes to think to and laugh to and live to. funeral marches to the grave are all very well for the elderly and disillusioned, but youth must tread a more lively measure. and this music should come like the sunshine in winter, surprisingly, at no fixed hour, as though it were a natural consequence of life. one of the gladdest things about the organ-man in our childhood was the unexpectedness of his coming. life would be dragging a little in schoolroom circles, when suddenly we would hear the organ clearing its throat as it were; we would all run to the window to wave our hands to the smiling musician, and shout affectionate messages to his intelligent monkey, who caught our pennies in his little pointed cap. in those days we had all made up our minds that when we grew up we would have an organ and a monkey of our own. i think it is rather a pity that with age we forget these lofty resolutions of our childhood. i have formed a conception of the ideal street-organist that would only be fulfilled by some one who had realised the romance of that calling in their youth.

p. 151how often, when the children have been happiest and the dance has been at its gayest, i have seen the organ-man fold music’s wings and move on to another pitch in search of pennies! i should like to think that it is a revolt against this degraded commercialism that inspires the protests of the critics of street music. the itinerant musician who believed in art for art’s sake would never move on so long as he had an appreciative audience; and sometimes, though i am afraid this would be the last straw to the “brain-workers,” he would arrive at two o’clock in the morning, and the children, roused from their sleep, would hear pan piping to his moonlit flocks, and would believe that they were still in the pleasant country of dreams.