Although, among the phenomena of the material world, there is scarcely one which, when well considered, is not an object of wonder, yet those which we have been accustomed to witness from our infancy lose all their interest from the frequency of their occurrence, while to the natives of other countries they are unceasing objects of astonishment and delight. The inhabitant of a tropical climate is confounded at the sight of falling snow, and he almost discredits the evidence of his senses when he sees a frozen river carrying loaded waggons on its surface. The diffusion of knowledge by books, as well as by frequent communication between the natives of different quarters of the globe, has deprived this class of local wonders of their influence, and the Indian and the Scandinavian can visit each other’s lands without any violent excitement of surprise. Still, however, there are phenomena of rare occurrence, of which no description can convey the idea, and which continue to be as deeply marked with the marvellous as if they had been previously unknown. Among these we may rank the remarkable modifications which sound undergoes in particular situations and under particular circumstances.
In the ordinary intercourse of life, we recognize individuals as much by their voice as by the features of their face and the form of their body. A friend who has been long absent will often stand before us as a stranger, till his voice supplies us with the full power of recognition. The brand imprinted by time on his outer form may have effaced the youthful image which the memory had cherished, but the original character of his voice and its yet remembered tones will remain unimpaired.
An old friend with a new face is not more common in its moral than in its physical acceptation; and though the sagacity of proverbial wisdom has not supplied us with the counterpart in relation to the human voice, yet the influence of its immutability over the mind has been recorded by the poet in some of his most powerful conceptions. When Manfred was unable to recognize in the hectic phantom of Astarte the endeared lineaments of the being whom he loved, the mere utterance of his name recalled “the voice which was his music,” and invested her with the desired reality.
Say on, say on—
I live but in the sound—It is thy voice!
Byron.
The permanence of character thus impressed upon speech exists only in those regions to whose atmosphere our vocal organs are adapted. If either the speaker or the hearer is placed in air differing greatly in density from that to which they are accustomed, the voice of the one will emit different sounds, or the same sounds will produce a different impression on the ear of the other. But if both parties are placed in this new atmosphere, their tones of communication will suffer the most remarkable change. The two extreme positions, where such effects become sufficiently striking, are in the compressed air of the diving-bell, when it is immersed to a great depth in the sea, or in the rarefied atmosphere which prevails on the summit of the Himalaya or the Andes.
In the region of common life, and even at the stillest hour of night, the ear seldom rests from its toils. When the voice of man and the bustle of his labours have ceased, the sounds of insect life are redoubled; the night breeze awakens among the rustling leaves, and the swell of the distant ocean, and the sounds of the falling cataract or of the murmuring brook, fill the air with their pure and solemn music. The sublimity of deep silence is not to be found even in the steppes of the Volga, or in the forests of the Orinoco. It can be felt only in those lofty regions
Where the tops of the Andes,
Shoot soaringly forth.