I am afraid they little know, poor people, how absolutely indifferent the public have gradually become to this matter of certificates of efficiency. People, in fact, have become so accustomed nowadays to see a whole string of letters after a person's name, which in ninety cases out of a hundred have no significance to them whatever, that, beyond flattering the vanity of the individual, the use of letters authorised by these self-appointed institutions has no effect. The least educated could hardly be deceived by them.
That certificates from such places as the Royal College of Music, Trinity College, or the Royal Academy of Music are valuable to the young teacher, there is not the slightest doubt, but that the fact of similar ones being positively showered on young people from one end of the land to the other must, unless something is done, soon darken the prestige and lower the value of even these, I think there can be little question.
A government enquiry into the whole question is decidedly needed, for it must be remembered that the general public have neither time nor inclination to solve the intricate question of the relative value or importance of the letters placed after the names of such crowds of people in these days, and, naturally, harm must accrue to those who have passed legitimate examinations and obtained recognised degrees that are witness to their competence.
That examinations by approved persons are both desirable and even necessary it is needless to insist on.
In the years immediately following on 1880, I held the position of senior teacher in a school of considerable importance, and, becoming sensible of the solemn farce of annual examinations by teachers of their own pupils, that had been the custom of many years past, I suggested to the authorities that they should engage an examiner from one of the principal institutions. I was, accordingly, desired to go to the Royal Academy of Music and see whether that body would entertain the proposition.
I was informed that there was no machinery for such purposes, but that the matter would be placed before the committee. In the event, the late Mr. Walter Macfarren came down. In the following year, I approached the Royal College of Music, with the same object in view, and had an interesting interview with the late Sir George Grove.
He expressed himself as being highly interested in the idea, announced his intention to accede to the request, and asked if I had any preference as to the member of his staff he should select. I replied that the school authorities would prefer to leave the question, absolutely, to his discretion.
We were fortunate enough to have the services of Mr. (now Dr.) Eaton Faning placed at our disposition. The result was all that could be desired, as the prestige of these great institutions would, naturally, presage.
I mention these facts merely to illustrate the extraordinary rapidity with which the examinational system has spread over the country.
If the true advance of the spirit of music in England correlate with the energy that is displayed in this particular direction, one can only be thankful for the evidence it presents, even though incidents in connection with it may justly give occasional cause for uneasiness.
But that there are other and striking indications that afford indubitable proof of increasing interest on the part of the public in everything to do with music in England, the public press of the country conclusively proves.
It may be safely said that where, thirty years ago, one short paragraph dealing with the subject was thought sufficient to meet all requirements, the leading journals of to-day devote two or three whole columns to satisfy the demands of their readers.
In this connection, the subject of musical criticism naturally obtrudes itself, and it may at once be said that one of the most satisfactory features in modern musical life is its general fairness, and the entire absence of savagery that was so prominent a feature in it in days of not long ago.
To read the effusions of so fine an old musician and writer as J. W. Davidson, simply makes one feel stupefied. Wagner was to him as nothing but typical of the Evil One. Chopin was nearly as bad, and the language he used concerning them both is calculated to make one's hair stand on end.
Those were days when the old order was just beginning to give place to the new, and the critics of the old school fought for their principles with a tenacity, and even ferocity, that can only excite admiration, if tempered with surprise, in these times of laxity of purpose.
But, after all, they were genial souls at heart, and the words written to-day were, evidently, expected to be forgotten to-morrow.
For example: many years ago, when quite a boy, I had the pleasure to spend an evening in the company of one of them, then an old man. He was pleasant, communicative and evidently fond of indulging in reminiscences. In the course of the conversation, I said, "I can never understand what caused you to write so virulently about – " He interrupted me with "Did I? I don't remember." This was staggering, since I had often been told of the sensation his articles caused at the time. It irresistibly brought back to my mind, and I recall it with all reverence, that wonderful sketch by Anatole France, of Pontius Pilate, in his old age at Baiæ: "Jésus?.. Jésus de Nazareth?.. Je ne rappelle pas." They were days of hard striking, with the confident expectation of receiving a like return.
In the case of Chopin, his nature was altogether too sensitive to enter upon warfare of this kind. He simply suffered. With Wagner, it was entirely different. His nature was combative, his pen vitriolic, and he was a skilled controversialist. No critic ever entered into conflict with him without carrying away distinct evidence of the fray.
It must be said in justice, that whatever the vehemence of expression, or the open and unabashed hatred of the ideas he condemned, the critic of those days avowed himself, and stood out, fearlessly, to meet any reprisals that his words might subject him to.
In this I say frankly my sympathy goes out to him. To-day, it must be conceded, that musical criticism is on a distinctly higher plane. But, while cordially admitting the inspiring and thought-compelling material that constantly emanates from the pens of the distinguished men who represent the foremost journals of London and the great provincial cities, one has got to record the fact that the pall of anonymity is over it all.
From every point of view this seems most regrettable. It is as unfair to the critic who writes, as to the public that reads.
The signed article not only adds weight to the views expressed, but enhances, and most justly, the reputation of the writer, through the publicity it extends to his name.
As things are at present, the public are kept entirely in the dark as to the authorship of the criticism they read, and, therefore, have no means of knowing what precise importance need be attached to it.
It may be written by the eminent and experienced chief musical representative of the journal, or some callow youth making his first efforts in a difficult, and, it must be admitted, often a very thankless occupation.
The public know nothing. I think, however, that among the immense majority of readers, whatever may be put forward, is usually accepted as the reasoned view of the paper in which it appears.
It is then, obviously unfair to public and critic alike, and if to them, what is to be said of the person criticised? He is the one who suffers most, and, what is more, has no means of retaliation.
Judged from any point of view, anonymity in criticism, seems to me to be absolutely indefensible.
The question is an old one, I admit, but it is none the less serious for that, and comes readily to the pen and the memory.
That the critic, in the long run, is in the ascendant will be granted, but when he, in the person of Lord Brougham, attacked Byron, or through some less powerful channel, attacked Keats, thereby bringing down the magnificently expressed scorn of Percy Bysshe Shelley, he did not come off with his accustomed success.
The criticisms were ephemeral, the replies immortal. One may venture upon a wish that more such offences should be perpetrated, could similar results be certain of arrival. At any rate we owe to them Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," the first work which revealed his genius to the world, and made himself conscious of it, and the still greater "Adonais," of Shelley.
In the rush and flurry of musical events to-day, it is naturally impossible for one representative of a paper to record, much less criticise them, and this fact often leads to things that, if inevitable, are none the less regrettable. I have in my possession two issues of a prominent London paper. They contain critical notices of a certain orchestral work. In the first, it is written of in terms of high appreciation, among others, the word "remarkable" being applied to it. In the second, it is alluded to in language that makes one wonder not only that an educated gentleman could find it in him to put pen to, but that a sub-editor could be found to pass it.
It would often appear as if the modern editor valued literary ability in his colleagues, rather than critical acumen. If the idea is a correct one, it would largely account for such inconsistencies.
So large a body must necessarily include men of varied powers, varied educational endowments, and, probably, of various races; from the highly-cultured leading critic of the great daily journals, down to the cosmopolitan writer, whose other occupations seem strangely inconsistent with the exercise of so fine an art.
The gratitude, however, of all English musicians should go out to the eminent men who, daily, portray so vividly the strangely-moving panorama of music, as it faces us all to-day. People who live in serene atmospheres may not realize their work at its true value, but that it is of powerful and far-reaching influence, there is no room for doubt.
The great festivals of England are among the most important features in the musical history of the country. Their influence is for good in whatever direction you seek. They provide the composer with the most perfect means that human effort can devise, to render his ideals into actual effect. They give the soloist every incentive to the highest efforts. They create that subtle atmosphere which inspires chorus, orchestra, conductor and all, to supreme achievement.
I do not include the Handel festival among them. The peculiar characteristics that go to mark its unique position in the world of English musical history, are decidedly antagonistic to the artistic ideals that are the very life and soul of the others. This festival cannot, I think, be, in any sense, interpreted as a sign of advance in the art of music, on the part of the English people. It certainly provides the pleasurable excitement of a week in the metropolis, interspersed with music, to the many hundreds of enthusiastic choral singers who flock to the Crystal Palace from, practically, every part of the country.
This, added to the fact that it attracts countless thousands of people, whose only musical experience it often proves to be, certainly proclaims it as an agency for good.
But, judging it solely from an artistic point of view, and with no desire to use undue emphasis, the amalgamation of a chorus numbered by thousands, and an orchestra of appalling size, the brass instruments (mostly called into requisition by Costa, and having no place in Handel's original scores), and those of percussion being in terrible evidence – cannot, as it seems to me, be regarded in any other light than the simple glorification of noise.
That there was an element of genius in the original conception of the idea is not to be denied, and the picturesque combination of such masses of people would naturally appeal to the imagination of such a man as Sir Michael Costa, gifted as he was, with a sense of things on a grand and imposing scale.
Of the success that attended the festivals from the beginning, and has been conspicuous to the present day, it is only a matter of justice to relate, and to the great conductor who was for so many years its embodiment, such a tribute as the fact involves, is unquestionably due.
Indeed, after his death, many and ominous were the doubts openly expressed as to the capability of any other musician to take his place with success.
However, the late Sir August Manns, who was elected to succeed him, speedily put an end to any uneasiness on the subject. Since his decease Sir Frederick Cowen has, with equal success, carried on the traditions.
A feature of special interest, in that it affords convincing proof of the love of music existing among the masses of wage-earners, particularly in the northern counties of England, is the popularity of brass-band contests, it being borne in mind that all the performers belong to that class.
The final exhibitions generally take place at the Crystal Palace, and it is an inspiring sight to watch, not only the whole-hearted enthusiasm with which the players throw themselves into their work, but the equal excitement of their respective followers who flock to the south to witness them.
It is safe to say that the decisions of the examiners are awaited with as breathless interest, as is displayed while the result of the final cup-tie, of Association football, is in doubt. While not claiming for them too high a position as artistic manifestations, it can only be regarded with a sense of true admiration, that the comparatively little time that their arduous occupations leave at their disposal, is spent by the men to such a purpose.
The pieces chosen for performance are, frequently, not only classical, and thereby demanding high qualifications of fine discernment, but of sufficient difficulty to require considerable technical skill on the part of the players. It does not call for much consideration to realize the sustained endeavour necessary to meet such requirements. Enthusiasm tempered by a refinement that is extraordinary, all things being considered, characterises the best efforts of the successful competitors.
If evidence were wanted to prove the ever upward trend in everything that has to do with art, one of the most striking features of the times, the Variety Theatres, surely, can offer it, and, on a scale that, perhaps, could not be equalled in any other direction. It seems only yesterday that such a thing as the following quotation narrates, took place in one of them. Although I did not witness it, I well remember the indignant outcry it called forth.
"As an indication of the vulgar and repulsive, I recall a performance given in one of these halls which was said to represent an incident that actually took place in one of the Indian Frontier wars. In a charge by a Scottish regiment, the Piper, while sounding it, was dangerously wounded, but continued to play until his regiment was lost to sight.
"For this act of valour he received the decoration of the Victoria Cross, the most coveted distinction in the British Army… Yet in order to attract the morbid curiosity of the crowd, this scene was enacted with every attempt at verisimilitude."
It is impossible to think of such a disgusting spectacle taking place in one of these theatres to-day. The music hall of those not remote days, together with the type of manager such performances indicate, is a thing of the past. Instead of offering attractions to the lowest tastes, the authorities frequently appeal to the highest, and invariably only to those which the average individual may honestly indulge.
The greatest actors and actresses of every country in the world are constantly to be seen, and the Drama and the Variety Theatre are in complete agreement, instead of, as formerly, contemptuous on one side, and resentful on the other.
So far as music is concerned the change is equally marked, as may be realized when Sir Edward Elgar is found conducting one of his own compositions at the Coliseum. This must certainly be regarded as an epoch in the history of music in England, as well as that of the Variety Theatre.
Although unable to take the roseate view of the position of native music in England that is often expressed by a few prominent writers in the Press, I think it will be generally agreed that there are many signs, at once indicative of hopefulness and, already, great and assured progress.
There are others, however, that, shut one's eyes to them as one would, cannot be ignored, and are, certainly, less satisfactory.
Disunion among any communion is generally disastrous, but I am afraid it has been a fatal fact in the history of English musicians.
The writing, for instance, of a parody by one, of the work of another, seems to me to be a policy of sheer negation. It neither enhances the reputation of the one, nor impedes the upward progress of the other. The ostentatious patronage of the foreign, at the expense of the equally skilled native, musician, is again a sign that does not induce a feeling of hopefulness.
To create a national school of English music which, notwithstanding the raptures some writers have indulged in, simply does not exist, a policy of a definite nature is needed.
That there exists a band of brilliant and original English composers to-day, is a matter of heart-felt congratulation, and one that gives rise to hopes that, but a few years ago only, would scarcely have been justified.
That their influence is already great and will, before long be still greater, as adverse influences lose their power, is a matter of thankfulness.
At the present time, however, a sense of cohesion seems to be lacking.
One might express a fervent wish that a series of conferences, the members restricted to English composers, might be held under the presidency of Sir Hubert Parry or Sir Edward Elgar, with a view to propagate authoritative advice to those in whose hands the training of the future generation of English composers is entrusted.
There is, surely, much to go upon. The noble school of ancient English Church music, and the national folk-music in which England is exceptionally rich, form a firm foundation on which to build.
Dvořák indicated the lines on which to found an American school of composition, by writing a symphony based on national melodies, and instinct with the spirit of the people. Will not some of the young English composers, in their days of youth and enthusiasm, emulate so splendid an example?
England was musical once upon a time; and bids fair to be so again, in the highest and noblest sense that the word can convey.
England was "merrie," once upon a time; and, if the early days of irresponsible gaiety can never return, she may well be happy in the prospect of a noble art restored to her.
In that firm faith, I close these pages.