Unfortunately, this work had not sufficient strength, originality, or nationality to stand the stress of time, but it disproved once and for ever the absurd contention that the English people would not accept any serious effort in music because it had been written by an Englishman.
Its lack of staying power seems to be attributable to the want of sufficient national character, redolent of the soil, which appears to be so essential to lasting endurance.
At any rate, one cannot read without being moved the following words which appeared in the Daily Telegraph after a recent performance at the Norwich Festival, 1911. They were contained in an article, not only brilliantly, but even sympathetically written, yet this is what it says: —
"Time was when this work was appraised as a world's masterpiece for ever. As a fact, it affords but one more example of the many that go to prove the rule as to the absurdity of prophesying unless one knows. I would not go so far as some one was heard to go yesterday, who vouchsafed the opinion that even the singers seemed somewhat abashed. That is a gross exaggeration. But it is no exaggeration to say that none of them … seemed very deeply moved by the extreme placidity and suavity of the phrases once deemed to be of purest gold. Nor, for that matter, did the chorus themselves. The truth is that time has not dealt over kindly with this work."
Yet this very work, let it be remembered, was not only the most popular, but practically the single one of its kind written by an Englishman that had ever touched the imagination of the English people. To go still further, it may be said with absolute truth, that it was the most successful sacred work produced in England up to the time of Sir Edward Elgar, since Mendelssohn introduced the "Elijah," at Birmingham in 1846.
The inference, which seems to me obvious, is that no work that is not typical of the country from which it emanates possesses those qualities that make for permanence.
The amelioration in the position of the native composer, to which we alluded just now, was due to the fact that he had not lost belief in his own powers so far as sacred music was concerned; hence the revival of public interest in this form of art was, naturally, a source of gratification. Unhappily, however, the fact cannot be ignored that instead of pursuing their way on their old lines and traditions, even the most gifted among the English composers gave way to the fatal temptation to try and write on the lines of such a colossal genius as Handel.
The power to hurl the thunderbolts of Jove is given to few, and at the time of which we write, there were certainly no Englishmen among that select company.
We need but cite one example.
William Boyce, one of the most gifted of English composers of the eighteenth century, was born in 1710, and was, therefore, about twenty-eight years of age when the oratorio "Saul" was produced. That he completely fell under the new influence is quite apparent, as little examination of his music, dating from that time, is sufficient to shew. Not only did he allow it to affect his own work, but it carried him to the absolutely indefensible point of taking one of Purcell's greatest compositions, and revising and adding to it, in order to bring it into conformity with the great school which had arisen. There are two kinds of imitation, conscious and unconscious. Such an act as this can only belong to the former. From this date may be said to have commenced that system of imitation of foreign music that has been the bane of English musicians ever since. However unconscious it may have, and doubtless has been, its effect has been equally disastrous. Imitation never made art and never will. The imitator may arrive at temporary distinction, but future generations will not recognise him. He will be, merely, a painted figure in a painted sepulchre of plagiarism. Happily there were yet composers, chiefly cathedral organists, who clung to English Church tradition, and among whose work occasional glimpses of its genius can be found.
This fact did not escape the eyes of so keen and accomplished an observer as Vincent Novello, and to this remarkable man the country is under a great debt of recognition.
An Italian by blood, he was born in England, and spent the greater part of his life here. He was organist in turn of several London churches, and thus gained the opportunity to learn and appreciate such music of the early English school as he found in use.
So interested did he become, that he visited various cathedral libraries and, with the permission of the authorities, copied much of the ancient music of which they were the repositories.
This he carefully edited and published, after transposing the parts written in clefs, with which the public are generally unacquainted. He thus furnished the means of bringing into general use much of the splendid music that had hitherto been confined to the services of the cathedral, for which it had been originally written.
He was, practically, the founder of the world-famed publishing house of Novello and Co., and it is an interesting fact that this great firm has never deviated from its early traditions, since it is at the present day as emphatically as it ever was at any period of its existence, the home of all that is best in English Church music.
The founding of the firm, if an event of moment to the public at large, was one of still greater import to the musician, for it caused a commercial value to be attached to his work that, previously, had little more than a sentimental one.
It is not difficult to imagine, in those days of stage-coach travelling, the anxious feelings of the composer about to undertake a long journey to London, his manuscript carefully folded in his pocket and intent on this new and even amazing idea of selling it for actual gold; not, perhaps, simply on account of the happiness that it might bring to his home, but of the fame that might accrue to his name. Nor is it otherwise than quite easy to imagine with what different feelings he would start on his homeward course after a successful issue to his venture. At any rate, it would be difficult to over-estimate the services that the historic firm has rendered to the country and the musical profession during the hundred years of its existence.
The decline of English music had been continuous. It culminated in the productions of such composers as Kent and William Jackson, and of these it need only be said that they were lamentable. Yet, amazing as it may seem now, they became not only popular, but perhaps the most notorious of them, once known familiarly as "Jackson in F," retained its hold on the affections of the people until well into the nineteenth century. Happily, the revival was near at hand, and, as densest darkness heralds the dawn, so the birth of Samuel Wesley, in this worst period, proved to be the event that signalised its coming. English Church music was to be restored, if not in the splendour of its ancient originality, at least in a form that was at once dignified and worthy of its mission.
A profound student of the works of Bach, he brought enthusiasm, tempered by deep learning, to bear upon everything he wrote.
The impress, not only of the great German master, but of the still earlier writers of the English school at its most glorious period, was stamped on it, and it is an interesting fact that the Mass he wrote, when entering the Roman Communion, bears every evidence of its illustrious descent. With the birth of his son, this memorable revival was not only to become assured of permanence, but was destined to be an epoch of profound significance in the history of English Church music.
The works by which Samuel Sebastian Wesley enriched the world, and restored England to its kingdom in sacred music again, including the noble anthems, "Ascribe unto the Lord," "Blessed be the God and Father," and, perhaps above all, "The Wilderness," seem as if secure of lasting as long as the Christian religion is the dominant factor in human life. It only remains to be said that many noble works of later origin make for the assurance that English music, as represented in the Church to-day, will never again look back.
CHAPTER V
MUSICAL EDUCATION IN ENGLAND
The early Church, origin of present development of modern music – Antiphon, precursor of harmony and counterpoint – The invention of the organ and its importance – Tallis, the link between pre and post Reformation music – Purcell and the Augustan age of English music – Acts of Reformation period – Present system of musical education – Principal schools of music – Lack of national character in English music – Suggested explanation – Influence of foreign resident composers – Rival Italian opera companies – Return of Handel and effect of his oratorios – English music festivals and foreign conductors – Sterndale Bennett's "Woman of Samaria" – Sir Edward Elgar's violin concerto – Foreign teachers and their influence – Costa and the high pitch – Recognition of great foreign musicians – The new school of British composers – Mendelssohn on Italian methods of singing for northern races.
PAST
It is to the Catholic Church that modern art must look for the origin of its present development. To the monks of mediæval times must be ascribed the glory of the greatest achievements in Gothic architecture, the art of fresco-painting, and the foundations of modern music.
Not only were the monasteries the repository of every kind of learning, but it is interesting to think that the impress of religion, which music received in those long-ago days, and in those gone and forgotten buildings, is as alive to-day as it ever was.
Notwithstanding the degrading uses to which a beautiful art has been so constantly put, a degradation greater, perhaps, than that to which any sister art has had to submit, it is still triumphantly evident, in works so otherwise dissimilar as Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius" and Wagner's "Parsifal."
In fact, it is safe to say that the greatest creations in music have either been dedicated to the services of Christianity or have largely received inspiration from its illimitable resources.
Though many an aching heart may have throbbed out its existence in the seclusion of those cloistered cells, still, many must have been the joyful emotions evoked in the minds of other of their occupants, by the achievement of some long worked-for discovery that has had untold influence on ages then unborn.
What, for instance, must have been their feeling of ecstacy when the first harmonious triad fell upon the ears of the amazed monks?
To them, long accustomed as they were to the barbaric sound of sequences of bare fourths and fifths, it must have seemed like a revelation of Heaven itself, and we may fain hope that many a Nunc dimittis, all the happier in consequence, came from their grateful hearts as the passing hour arrived.
It is to the antiphon that we may look as the precursor of harmony and counterpoint, and thus the origin of modern music.
Antiphony was the ancient mode of rendering music, in which two sets of voices sang alternately. They were placed on opposite sides of the choir, as may be seen in Catholic and Anglican churches to-day, and were respectively entitled "Decani" and "Cantoris."
For long they recited on the same note, then came a change in which one side varied it, probably by a perfect fourth or fifth above or below. Afterwards, the chanting of them together indicated the first advance towards harmony– that is to say, a combination of notes sounded simultaneously. The undulations of the voices of priest and choir signalled the advance towards melody.
The next and most decisive step was the advent of counterpoint; that is the pointing of one note or series of notes against another. Thus while one side would be chanting a series of long notes, the other would be singing quicker ones, which were either momentarily discordant or subsequently in harmony with them.
With the birth of this new development may be associated the origin of music, as we know it to-day.
The process of each was, however, gradual, and it is difficult to suggest, with any conviction, their respective periods of evolution.
To come to later times, with the invention of the organ and its entry into the service of the church, we are well within sight of historical accuracy. It is easy to realise what a stimulus to musical invention this must have proved, and from that time, about the middle of the eighth century, the progress has been continuous if not rapid.
The monks, being the first musicians, were the first teachers, and thus we arrive at the beginning of musical education in England. During the long centuries in which the people, mostly serfs as they were, looked to the monasteries for such amenities of life as were possible in those days, the progress in music was confined to those employed in the service of the ritual of their chapels, but with the increase of population and the building of churches outside, the conditions became materially changed.
The monks, who had hitherto jealously guarded the secret of the manipulation of the keys, began to teach others, and thus came into existence that body of organists and composers who for many centuries upheld the standard of English music, and who, until the days of the Reformation, kept England in the forefront of musical art.
Let it be well borne in mind that up to this time England owed its music to England alone.
Till then Thomas Tallis was the greatest exponent of the art who had lived in this country, and, if anything were wanting to prove the extraordinary genius the monks had exhibited in teaching the profoundest mysteries of music, the mastery displayed by Tallis in his Song of Forty Parts would be sufficient to supply it.
He was the link that united English pre-Reformation and post-Reformation music.
In the reigns of Henry VIII. and Queen Mary, he was a gentleman of the Chapel-Royal, subsequently becoming organist in Queen Elizabeth's time.
It was during this period that he set to music that part of the English liturgy that is now sung. As regards Henry and Elizabeth, the feelings of both these monarchs towards the Reformation were, doubtless, more political than religious, and to this cause may be attributed the retention of his post by Tallis, since there is no proof that he ever embraced the reformed faith.
Then came an epoch that may well be called the Augustan age of English music, seeing that to the genius of Tallis was added that of Byrd and Orlando Gibbons, culminating in the arrival of Purcell, when it attained its zenith.
With the death of Purcell began the long decline that resulted in the practical decay of English music.
Everything tended to that end.
The suppression of the monasteries, the home of art and literature; the degradation of public worship, including the prohibition of music in such perfunctory ceremonies as were permitted, and the abolition of everything pertaining to art or beauty in its performance; the ruthless destruction of all that could appeal to the sense of the beautiful in the minds of the people, of the altars with their gorgeous adornments, or the stained windows with their picturesque representations of moving incidents in the life of Christ; the covering with stucco or the whitewashing of the marble pillars that supported the decorated roofs: all these monstrosities were calculated to deaden any artistic sense the common people might have had within them, and such was, unhappily, the effect.
Music came to be looked upon as a frivolous or contemptible thing, and the practice of it as only fit for people who had no aptitude for anything better, and who were treated by the average person of any consequence, accordingly. The teaching of it naturally became a matter of small importance, and thus, outside the cathedral cities which sheltered the few remaining educated English musicians, such teaching as could be procured was supplied by persons supplementing their earnings in other directions, or foreigners who had come to the country at the call of the few influential individuals in whom the love for music was not actually dead. This was the state of affairs at the beginning of the nineteenth century.
PRESENT
The present system of musical education in this country may be said to commence with the establishment of the Royal Academy of Music in the year 1822. The advantages offered by an institution of this kind are so obvious that one need only specify a choice of subjects with an expert to teach each, a permanent orchestra for the practice and interpretation of the classics, and the atmosphere engendered by an association of individuals guided by the aspiration to acquire knowledge and stimulated by the generous rivalry of their comrades.
The Academy, Royal and National, as it is entitled, is the oldest of the three principal music schools in England. The prefix "Royal" used in common with many and various kinds of societies, has no very precise significance, while the term "national" is somewhat difficult of application to an institution whose principal teachers and managers are foreigners.
Although flourishing to-day, the school experienced many years of fluctuating fortune, and it was not until the principalship of Sir Sterndale Bennett that it was at last placed on a firm and sure foundation.
To that distinguished man the Academy for many years owed its sole prestige.
He was succeeded by Sir George Macfarren, an able and learned musician, who would doubtless have proved a successful administrator had he not suffered from the terrible affliction of blindness.
As it was, however, the school came practically under a direction that had little educational force at its disposal, and the results were, as might be expected – otherwise than satisfactory. This era has, happily, long passed away, and since Sir A. C. Mackenzie became principal, the school has prospered continuously.
The Royal College of Music, that happiest of English musical institutions, was established on the foundations of the National Training School of Music, which had come into existence largely through the exertions of the Duke of Edinburgh in 1876, and may be said to have been the outcome of a protest against the then existing state of things at the Academy.
Later, the Duke leaving for Coburg, and the resignation of Sir Arthur Sullivan of the post of principal, furnished the occasion to found the larger and more important college, and this being eventually done, it was opened by the Prince of Wales in 1883.
The new scheme was large and comprehensive, including as it did the creation of scholarships in the leading towns of the United Kingdom and the Dominions beyond the seas. The realisation of such a project would have been impossible, had it not been for the extraordinary influence exercised by the late King Edward, and the enthusiasm he extended towards its accomplishment.
The possession of these scholarships, attracting as it does the flower of musical talent throughout the Empire, puts an enormous power for good in the hands of the authorities, and although it is premature to speak with any assurance on the point yet, it may well be hoped that the results in the furthering of the formation of a truly British school of music will be commensurate with the great possibilities. If a happy choice in the appointment of Directors is a good omen, the names of (the late) Sir George Grove and Sir Hubert Parry should supply it.
Like the Royal Academy, the teaching staff is largely composed of foreign musicians.
The Guildhall School of Music was established in 1888 through the generosity of the Corporation of the City of London. It is managed by a committee of expert business men belonging to that body, who give their services gratuitously, and prizes of money are offered by the Lord Mayor, the Lady Mayoress, the Sheriffs and other dignitaries, for the encouragement of the students.
When first instituted, the main object was to place the best instruction within the reach of those unable to meet the requirements of the older schools either in time or expense.
The entrance fee was made nominal, the choice of subjects for study left to the student, and no conditions insisted upon, other than those necessary for the well-being of any public institution.
The popularity the school instantaneously attained must have been gratifying, even to that eminent body with whom so many philanthropic efforts have been identified.
Recently, however, an important change has been made since Mr. Landon Ronald became principal, in that a curriculum has been designed for students studying professionally, but although under this the learning of certain subjects is made compulsory, and a skilfully-planned course of study laid down, it does not in the least modify the original intentions of the Corporation, since the adoption of it is purely voluntary on the part of the scholar. This development may prove of far-reaching importance, and under the guiding influence of so skilful and versatile a musician as Mr. Ronald, may have unlooked-for results.
As with the other two schools, the teaching staff is a large one, with a strong foreign element in it.
With regard to the other schools of music throughout the kingdom, it may be said that they fairly conform to the types already described, the only difference being the varying proportions of native to foreign teachers.
Now, with all these facilities for acquiring musical education, how can it be explained that these schools have so utterly failed in the direction of fostering a national tone, a mode of expression which, while capable of infinite variety, is as redolent of the country it emanates from as that of France or Russia? Why is it that until the recent uprising of the new English school of composers headed by Sir Edward Elgar, owing nothing to foreign teaching either at home or abroad, in spite of the enormous amount of music written by British composers during the preceding fifty years, nothing appeared that was in any sense characteristically English or imbued with sufficient vitality to live?
It may be safely said that with the exception of Sir Hubert Parry's "Blest Pair of Sirens," it is doubtful whether there is a single work in all the vast output that will not be absolutely forgotten by the end of the first half of this century. In fact, most of the oratorios, cantatas, and symphonies produced during that period have never been heard again since their first and two or three subsequent performances. They may, with truth, be said to have died of their own drear lifelessness. The explanation seems to be perfectly simple. Underlying it all would appear to be the belief that imitation, however skilful, cannot equal the thing imitated or possess any lasting qualities. The music of the German speaking race has, until the new epoch that has just dawned, absolutely possessed the minds of our composers and public alike.
Not only have all or nearly all the most influential British musicians been educated in Germany, spending the most impressionable years of their lives there, but they have come back imbued with the spirit and technique of its music and, with the zeal of converts, anxious to impart the same ideals to their pupils. The result has been just what would naturally be anticipated.
Music produced on such a basis could only lack the vital characteristics necessary to take any hold on the people, who, having heard the originals, shewed themselves perfectly indifferent to the imitations, however well disguised they proved to be. They came to the conclusion that their country was not sufficiently endowed with music to produce composers of original gifts and, as a natural consequence, turned to the foreigner to look for all serious musical effort.
This belief has become so deeply seated in the mind of the average Englishman, that he not only long ago ceased to expect any original effort from the native composer, but went a step further, a natural one perhaps, and argued that if he were inferior to the foreigner as a writer of music, he must necessarily be equally so as a teacher.
Hence the extraordinary condition of things that has prevailed so long.
Foreign teachers are numbered by thousands, many of them holding foremost positions in the leading institutions. They bring with them their own national instincts and characteristics, and, obviously, the greater their gifts the more powerfully must their influence operate against the ideal of a national school of British music.
Sir Edward Elgar, speaking at Birmingham, urged the young English composers "to draw their inspiration from their own country, their own literature, and their own climate. Only by doing so could they arrive at an English art."
If this be true, and I doubt not that most thinking people will agree, the present state of things is unceasingly working towards making the idea impossible of realisation. It must be borne in mind that there are hundreds, even thousands, of students taught by perhaps three masters of different nationalities, leaving our schools yearly, and who consequently spread broad-cast the mixed impressions they have received. Not only is the influence undesirable, but this constant augmentation of the already congested state of the profession makes it more and more difficult for the young native to earn a living wage, and compels him to direct his thoughts and energies rather to this end than the development of his artistic capabilities. The more one thinks on this practical point, the more serious it seems.
That it has not escaped the attention of the resident foreign musicians is shewn by an illuminating story told in a pamphlet published a little while since, in which one of them advises young Englishmen to émigrâte (emigrate)!
To properly explain the attitude in the past, of the people generally, towards music and musicians, it is necessary to go back some centuries and examine the causes which led up to it.
One of the first effects of the wave of Puritanism which swept over the country after the Reformation, was a contempt for everything that savoured of frivolity, and to the minds of the Puritans, the practice of music was regarded more as a prostitution of mental effort than a calling which could be treated as serious or even moral. Its use was banished from the churches, and it is recorded of Cromwell that on one occasion he entered a cathedral with a squad of soldiers while a service was being held, and ordered the clergy to "stop this fooling." Although this extreme state of affairs was not of long duration, it lasted long enough to instil into the very marrow and bones of the population a prejudice that centuries have not been able to altogether eradicate.
A reaction was, however, inevitable, and with the Restoration it came, accompanied, unhappily, by excesses that rendered the results almost nugatory.
After a period, during which the genius of Purcell shed an undying glory on English music, the people, having finally rid the country of the Stuart dynasty, settled down to a period if of less fanaticism, a not less fatal indifference to and contempt for musical art. It was left to the scornful genius of Dean Swift to express this feeling in words at once typical of him, and unforgettable.
At the time he wrote them, a foreign Court had attracted a large number of musicians from the Continent, amongst whom was Handel.
For the distractions of a dissipated nobility and a large cosmopolitan element, the Metropolis needed the means of gratification. It is evident that the native musician, whose training had been mainly directed to essentially different objects, was unable to supply them. The foreigner, however, then as now, was quick to meet the deficiency.
Two companies were formed for the exploitation of Italian opera, which had long been the vogue in France and Germany, their headquarters being respectively the Haymarket and Covent Garden Theatres, the one headed by Handel, the other by Buononcini.
Strange as it may appear to us at this day, their rivalry soon became a source of serious trouble to the authorities. Their adherents formed themselves into factions headed by young nobles, and occasional collisions between them led to scenes of rioting and even bloodshed, reminiscent of the ancient feuds between the houses of Montague and Capulet. It was then that Swift wrote the words in which he not only voiced his own savage disdain, but the sentiments of the average Englishman:
"Strange such difference there should be
'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee."
After some years of success, during which Handel amassed a fortune, the tide of affairs turned against him, and in broken health and with impoverished means he retired to a Continental health resort. This, however, was but the prelude to events not only of vital consequence to him, but of momentous significance to the art of music.
On returning to England with restored vigour, he cast about him to find the means of regaining his former ascendency, and, happily for the world at large, he decided to devote his energies to the writing of sacred music.
With the production of the oratorio "Saul" in 1739, Handel initiated that series of works which not only had an untold influence on the musical instinct of the English people, but was destined to write his name in the book of the Immortals. Everything tended to his success.
His genius, colossal as it was, might have proved in vain, but for an unseen element that was to come to his aid and enable him to crown his career in a blaze of glory. This proved to be a resurgence of the old-time love of music amongst the masses, that their Puritan upbringing had long tended to suppress, but which, under a religious guise, was ready to spring to life again.
Thus, crowds of people who would not go to hear music under ordinary conditions, would eagerly seize an opportunity to do so when presented to them under the aegis of Religion.