It must be yielded that the design is not profound; it smacks of the
village fair rather than of grand tragedy. Song is ever supreme, and
with all abundance of contrapuntal art does not become sophisticated.
The charm is not of complexity, but of a more child-like, sensuous kind.
It must all be approached in a different way from other symphonic music.
The minstrel is not even the peasant in court costume, as Dvorak once
was called. He is the peasant in his own village dress, resplendent with
color and proud of his rank.
We cannot enjoy the music with furrowed brow. It is a case where music
touches Mother Earth and rejuvenates herself. Like fairy lore and
proverbs, its virtue lies in some other element than profound design.
For any form of song or verse that enshrines the spirit of a people and
is tried in the forge of ages of tradition, lives on more surely than
the fairest art of individual poet.
The stream is the great figure, rising from small sources in playful
flutes, with light spray of harp and
[Music: _Allegro commodo non agitato_
_lusingando_
(Flute with chord of _pizz._ strings)]
strings. The first brook is joined by another (in clarinets) from a new
direction. Soon grows the number and the rustle of confluent waters. The
motion of the strings is wavelike, of a broader flow, though underneath
we scan the several lesser currents. Above floats now the simple, happy
song, that expands
[Music: _dolce_
(Reeds and horns with waving strings and stroke of triangle)]
with the stream and at last reaches a glad, sunny major.
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