The first step in making sense of any unfamiliar thing is to get quite clearly in mind its central subject or subjects, as, for example, the fundamental idea of a poem, the main contention of an essay, the characters of a novel, the text of a sermon. All music worthy of the name has its own kind of subjects; and if we can learn to take note of, remember, and recognize them, we shall be well on the road to understanding what at first seems so intangible and bewildering.

A possible confusion, due to the use of terms, must here be guarded against. The word "subject" is used in a special sense, in music, to mean an entire theme or melody, of many measures' duration—thus we speak of "the first subject of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony," meaning the entire contents of measures 6-21. Now this is obviously a different meaning of the word "subject" from the general one we use when we speak of the subject of a poem or a picture, as the fundamental idea about which it all centers. This long musical "subject" all centers about a little idea of four notes, announced in the first two measures of the symphony:

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But as we are already using the word "subject" to mean something else, we must have another name for this brief characteristic bit out of which so much is made, and for this the word "motive" is used. Here again there is a difference of usage which must be noted. When we speak of a "motive" or "leading motive" of Wagner, we mean not a short group of this kind, but an entire melody associated with some special character or idea; e. g., "the Siegfried motive." Let us here, however, keep the word "motive" to mean a short characteristic group of tones or "figure," and the word "subject" to mean a complete melody or theme built up out of one or more motives.

The smallest elements into which we can analyze the subject-matter of music are "motives"—that is, bits of tune, groups of from two to a dozen tones, which have an individuality of their own, so that one of them cannot possibly be confused with another.

"Yankee Doodle," for instance, begins with a motive of seven notes, which is quite individual, and wholly different from the motive of six notes at the beginning of "God Save the King," or the motive of five notes at the beginning of the "Blue Danube" waltz. The three motives are so different that nobody of ordinary musical intelligence would confound them one with another, any more than he would confound the subject of Longfellow's "Psalm of Life" with that of Browning's "Incident of the French Camp," or the characters in "Dombey and Son" with those in "Tom Jones." The whole musical individuality of each of the three tunes grows out of the individuality of its special motive.

Here, evidently, is a matter of primary importance to the would-be intelligent music lover. If he can learn to distinguish with certainty whatever "motives" he hears, half the battle is already gained.

Four points will be noticeable in any motive he may hear. Its notes will vary as to (1) length, (2) accent, (3) meter or grouping into regular measures of two, three, or four notes, and (4) pitch. If he can once form the habit of noticing them, he will have no further difficulty in recognizing the themes of any music, and, what is even more important, following the various evolutions through which they pass as the composer works out his ideas. The importance of such active participation in the composer's thought cannot be exaggerated. Without it there cannot be any true appreciation of music; through it alone does the listener emerge from "drowsy reverie, relieved by nervous thrills" into the clear daylight of genuine artistic enjoyment.

IV. WHAT THE COMPOSER DOES WITH HIS MOTIVES.