The Orchestra is made up of all these varied instruments, which, as we have seen, have been brought to perfection during centuries of use and experiment,—instruments of long ancestry and historical interest, instruments that have figured in song and story and romance.
The Orchestra is, therefore, a very unique instrument itself.
It holds within itself nearly every kind of tone from the deepest rumble of the bass tuba and growl of the double-bass to the cool, flowing notes of the clarinet and bassoon and to the penetrating call of the flute, the cry of the violin and scream of the piccolo. It holds within itself every kind of vibration from bowed, or plucked, strings, and air blown upon quivering reeds, or through pipes, or tubes, or horns; it has every kind of thump on tightly-stretched skin; it has every kind of rattle, clang and clash; and every kind of sharp blow, from the heavy stroke on the steel rod to the silvery notes of bells, or the brilliant, fiery sparks from the triangle.
But there is one thing more that we have not yet taken into consideration,—and that is the human element.
What would these instruments be if there were no musicians to play them?
Is there anything more melancholy than a case full of musical instruments hanging lifeless and silent in a museum?
We recall the striking illustration Shakespeare makes of unused instruments in his Richard the Second, where the Duke of Norfolk, being banished, breaks forth with:
“A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,