The Anatomy of Melancholy

Subsection 3 Music as a remedy

Philosophers and physicians have prescribed many different means of cheering a sorrowful heart and diverting those fixed, absorbing cares and thoughts that cause so much distress in this illness. But in my judgement none works so promptly, none is so powerful or so suitable, as a cup of strong drink, cheerfulness, music, and lively company. Ecclesiasticus 40:20: “Wine and music gladden the heart.”

Rhazes, in the Continens, book 9, treatise 15; Altomari, chapter 7; Eliano Montalto, chapter 26; Ficino; and Benedetto Vittori of Faenza are almost excessive in their praise of it. Iacchinus calls it a most powerful medicine; Jason Pratensis calls it a most wonderful thing, deserving consideration, that can so soften the mind and quiet its stormy emotions. “Music is medicine for the sorrowful mind”: a roaring cannon against melancholy, to raise and revive the languishing soul.

It affects not only the ears but the arteries themselves, and the vital and animal spirits; it lifts the mind and makes it alert. Lemnius, Institutes, chapter 44.

It does this even for the dullest, sternest, and most sorrowful souls: it drives out grief with mirth, and if any clouds, dust, or dregs of care still lurk in our thoughts, it sweeps them all away with great power—John of Salisbury, Policraticus, book 1, chapter 6. Moreover, it does all this instantly: cheers the face, banishes severity, brings in gladness—Gerald of Wales, Topography of Ireland, chapter 12—shapes our conduct, and softens anger. Athenaeus, in the Deipnosophists, book 14, chapter 10, calls it an inexhaustible treasure to those who possess it. “Sweet-sounding music restores sorrowful hearts”—Eobanus Hessus.

Cassiodorus, letter 4, lists many other powers of this divine music of ours. It not only dispels the greatest griefs but lessens fears and fits of rage, calms cruelty, lightens sorrow, and gives peaceful rest to the sleepless; it removes ill will and hatred. Whether instrumental or vocal, played on strings or wind instruments—“governed by breath, without dexterity of the hands,” and so forth—it cures all the soul’s weariness and heaviness.

Labourers who sing at their work can testify to this, as can soldiers going into battle: the fear of death cannot frighten them as much as the trumpet, drum, fife, and similar music give them courage. For, as Censorinus tells us, “the fear of death is driven away by music.”

A nurse’s song quiets a child. Often a sudden trumpet call, ringing bells, a carter’s whistle, or a boy singing a ballad tune early in the street changes, revives, and refreshes a restless patient who cannot sleep at night, and so forth.

In a word, music is so powerful that it transports the soul. This “sovereign of the senses,” the queen of the senses, does so through sweet pleasure—a happy cure—and physical tunes soothe our immaterial soul: “speaking without a mouth, it exercises dominion over the soul,” carrying it beyond itself, aiding, raising, and enlarging it.