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

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:

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.

The spirit of the "Messiah" penetrated their hearts, and helped to exorcise the sullen disposition towards anything approaching art that had become so characteristic of them.

Splendid as was the result of Handel's work not only in England but the world over, it must be admitted that the immediate effect on the English musician was disastrous.

He had long found it difficult to hold his own against foreign competition, with the influence of the Court continuously exercised in its favour, but this overwhelming display of genius in a field in which he had hitherto regarded himself as unassailable in his own country, seemed to be the one thing wanting to complete his discomforture and bring about his abdication.

This accomplished, it is unnecessary to insist upon the humiliations that were in store for him during, the next hundred years. Suffice it to say that the ascendency of the foreigner was complete, and was exercised with an intolerance of native effort that seems inconceivable to us to-day. Not only did he occupy the principal official posts, but nearly every other of importance outside the Church, and even the festivals, which were, in most cases, originally organised in connection with one or other of the cathedrals, before long came under his sway.

To cite two examples, those of Birmingham and Norwich. The former has been conducted for over forty years, since the period of its inception, by Costa and Dr. Richter; whilst the latter has been directed for over half a century by musicians who were not only not Englishmen, but not even Christians. This grotesque situation was put an end to as recently as 1908, when Sir Henry Wood was appointed. This ascendency, encouraged by the wealthy classes and contemptuously ignored by the general public, could but have a withering effect on native talent, and its parasitical influence undoubtedly hastened the decay of the once flourishing tree of English music. Handel had many successors here, but no equals. However, so numbed had English musicians become, that nearly any foreigner with sufficient advertising ingenuity, could inspire them with a sense not far removed from awe.

For instance, without wishing to be unjust to such claims on posterity as Spohr may have, we may well express astonishment at the great influence he undoubtedly wielded whilst living in London. His great ability as a performer on the violin, together with his skill as a writer for the instrument, first brought him prominently into publicity, but it was the production of his oratorio, "The Last Judgment," that made him a power in the land.

What chiefly contributed to the fascination his music exercised was a new feature in it that appealed to natures the stern sublimity of Handel's could not touch. This consisted of a dexterous use of chromatic harmony, combined with melody of ballad-like simplicity, which was well calculated to please the untutored ear. Even so robust a personality as Samuel Sebastian Wesley temporarily fell under the spell, though not for long, and afterwards, as if it were an act of expiation, wrote a Church service in which he reverted to the style of Orlando Gibbons. Spohr, however, was a genius, if not of an exalted order, but what are we to say when we take into consideration the position attained to by Costa in this country?

Surely English musical intelligence must have reached its nadir.

He was allowed for thirty years to exercise absolute sway over the festivals at Birmingham, and there produced, with every accessory of pomp and circumstance, his oratorios, "Eli" and "Naaman," works in which you may seek for and fail to find a redeeming feature. Commonplace in idea, blatant in orchestration, theatrical in melody and primitive in contrapuntal effort, these things were, nevertheless, by the artifice of unscrupulous puffing, foisted upon the public as works of genius.

Yet at this very time there was living an English writer of great endowment, lofty character and true genius, whose music was comparatively neglected. Without making extravagant claims for Sterndale Bennett, it may be said, without hesitation, that his cantata, "The Woman of Samaria," contains music with which nothing that Costa and many others similarly exploited, wrote, could for a moment compare. To what extent indifference to English music and musicians was carried may be illustrated by the fact that he was suffered to submit on an occasion to the insult of Costa's refusal to conduct one of his compositions, and this, without redress!

The day is coming when English composers will have to endure as much adulation as their predecessors did neglect. When that day arrives I hope they will show some consideration for the memory of William Sterndale Bennett. It was with sincere pleasure that many observed the inclusion of one of his overtures on the historic occasion of the production at the Queen's Hall in London of Sir Edward Elgar's first violin concerto.

This was a tribute payed to him by his greatest successor, and was worthy of the man who did it and the occasion which prompted it. Enough has been said to shew how complete foreign supremacy had become. Its days are now numbered, it is true, but the effect remains.

It is idle to suppose that the work of a few men, however gifted they may be, can undo in a decade what has taken two hundred years to accomplish. Only by patience and sustained effort in the direction of making students endeavour to think English music rather than German, can any national character be developed.

This can be done by English masters only. It is evident that there is a spirit of revolt abroad against the position as it stands to-day. That a nation with four or five hundred years' musical history behind it should yet be in foreign leading-strings is as absurd as it is uncalled for, and national respect alone should insist on its suppression.

English musicians have recently shewn in manner absolutely convincing, that they can hold their own in any department of music, either as creators or exponents.

The north of England and the Midlands teem with men erudite and enthusiastic.

In Manchester, Sheffield, Birmingham and other towns they are ever in evidence, and it is mainly from these parts of England that the most striking of recent developments have come, and which give the greatest hope for the future. The fascination of a capital city and the apparently limitless opportunities for advancement naturally attract the consciously gifted young musician. He expects to be greeted on arrival with sympathy and encouragement, at least by people of his own race. He probably knows something of the history of music in London, but even that does not stay him.

His first experience is one of disillusion. He finds himself in an atmosphere of cosmopolitanism where the dominating influences are largely foreign, and if he enters one of the principal schools, he finds himself in a centre whence those influences largely radiate. If he elects to stay there, he will eventually emerge from it as an added unit to that vast army of foreign-taught Englishmen whose work has hitherto proved so abortive.

I would like to say here that there is not the least intention to cast reflections on the capabilities of these foreign teachers. Indeed, it would be a work of supererogation to insist upon the individual excellencies of many of them.

What words, for instance, could adequately portray the work of such men as Oscar Beringer or Johannes Wolff? to mention only two of them.

But that is beside the point.

What we have to consider is the wisdom or unwisdom of continuing a system that has obtained for a hundred years or so, and is still encouraged by the leading authorities. We may assume, or we ought to be able to assume, that what gave rise to it was a dearth of sufficiently competent Englishmen, and that the mission entrusted to the foreigner was to train the students up to his own high standard. Well, has he succeeded after his hundred years' trial? It is evident that in the opinion of these authorities he has not, else, why should Herr this be made to succeed Herr that, and Signor this, Signor that, with such monotonous regularity?

How much longer then is it intended to continue on these lines? If there are still no native musicians fit to hold these important posts (and this in the days of Elgar!), what a commentary on the system!

Such an idea, however, is altogether untenable. There is not the slightest doubt that there are numbers of them fully capable of sustaining the prestige of any institution, were once the chance accorded them. One can only suppose that internal jealousies and foreign-acquired predilections are responsible for what seems such an insensate policy.

There is another point of view that deserves consideration.

Let it be remembered that by all the resources of the latest developments of advertising, these schools attract thousands of pupils from all parts of the kingdom, thus feeding the already congested state of the musical profession, and yet at the same time, bolting and barring the door against their eventually succeeding to these foreign-held posts, however great their claims to them or their fitness to fulfil the duties attached to them may be.

It is like addressing the English student thus: "Yes. It is true you have paid your fees for five years, during two of which we have availed ourselves of your services as an unpaid teacher, thus acknowledging your capabilities, but we are sorry to be unable to give you the post you seek as it is reserved for that inestimable artist Signor ——, who is so unaccountably neglected in his own country."

Thus the game goes on and, I suppose, will go on until the pressure of public opinion or the determination of the native students forces a change. The specious argument that the demand justifies the means may be and probably is adduced. To this, I say that what is applicable to one who has lived long in the country and justified his position, is totally inapplicable to another who is brought here although absolutely unknown.

Now, there cannot possibly be a demand for an unknown quantity. What I would urge is that upon the honourable retirement of the foreign master, an Englishman should be appointed in his place, and be given a chance equal to that of his predecessor in the quality of the students placed under him.

Of the average foreign musician scattered broadcast over the country, it may be said that if he has done no particular good, he has done no particular harm, except in a collectivist sense. This, however, cannot be said of at least one of the most successful of them.

To Sir Michael Costa is due the official adoption of the high pitch, and what that conveys can only be properly appreciated by the trained musician. The British Government, finding themselves under the necessity of supplying instruments for the Army bands, and being informed that these must be tuned alike to a definite pitch—a question to them, probably, of the "tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee" order—characteristically called in a foreigner to advise them on the subject, doubtless thinking he would be the most competent to whom they could appeal.

It may be casually mentioned that among the prominent British musicians at this period, were such men as Sir Sterndale Bennett, Sir George Macfarren, and Sir John Goss.

Now, it is universally recognised that an accurate sense of pitch is of the highest importance to the musician, and seeing that many of the most prominent singers—among them Sims Reeves—refused to sing to it, and some of the leading conductors declined to use it, the confusion that has resulted may be easily realised. Its adoption, however, by the Italian Opera and Philharmonic Society in London, the Birmingham Festival, and all the other institutions where Costa's influence was paramount, brought it into general use, and until quite recently, it has so remained.

Yet the protests against it were never silenced, and, constantly increasing in volume, resulted in its abandonment by one after the other of the leading orchestras in the country,[21] thus isolating the numerous choral societies in the provinces, who are necessitated to seek the aid of military band players to supplement the local ones in forming a band for their performances, and are forced accordingly to continue its use.

The effects of this discordance have been, and continue to be positively incalculable.

Happily for England there are few men who have had similar opportunities for doing mischief; he has had imitators, it is true, but none possessed of his talent or force of character.

Indeed, it may be said that he has had few equals among foreign resident musicians, the majority of whom are men of just average ability, who have made such reputations as they possess in this country, and are, in most cases, quite unknown in their own, except perhaps in the immediate neighbourhood of their birthplaces.[22]

In order to explain their presence in thousands, it will be necessary to touch on a subject that cannot be altogether avoided. I do not think, for a moment, that English opinion on the relative merits of the native and foreign musician as teacher is so decidedly in favour of the latter as figures would suggest. I look, rather, in other directions for a solution of the problem.

In the first place, I cannot but think that internal differences, rivalries and jealousies among prominent British musicians have afforded opportunities that he has not been slow to take advantage of. It would not be difficult to refer to many remarkable appointments of foreign masters that one could only explain on these grounds, so utterly unjustifiable do they seem.

Again, in the art of advertisement which appears so essential to-day, there can be no question that Englishmen are not a match for the foreigner, who uses it with surprising effect on the unsuspecting public. It is certainly one of the secrets of the astounding position they have gained in musical education in this country.

If one may compare teaching with public performance, the point becomes clearer.

Whilst recognising with frankness and spontaneity the genius of such giants as Hallé, Joachim, Piatti, Norman Neruda, Pachmann, Kreisler, and Paderewski, I absolutely fail to see equal merit in the many foreign artists who are so extravagantly advertised at the present time. It seems to me that in many cases the agent displays more skill in his art than the artist advertised.

One may surely be permitted, without being invidious, to contrast the performances of an Englishman like Mr. W. H. Squire with those of such exponents of their respective schools as Señor Casals and M. Gerardy, and express a preference for the northern virility and dignity of the Englishman.

Granted that many foreign artists who appear here display great ability, there are many more who do nothing of the kind, and the day should be past when every alien musician endowed with long hair and a pallid complexion is to be accepted by the British public as the highest type of musical genius. This delusion has lasted long enough.

Had England shown herself barren in producing sons possessing great musical gifts, the position to-day would at least be explicable, but this is not the case. There has been no time in the centuries since Purcell's death destitute of some living representative of the old English genius, although, perhaps, living in the comparative obscurity of a cathedral town, and far removed from the garish lights of the Metropolis.

Certain it is that of native composers who have shown any English characteristics in their music, the majority of them have been reared in our cathedral cities, and have imbibed their earliest impressions in cathedral choirs.

To go no further back than the Wesleys, Samuel and his son, Samuel Sebastian, we need only cite a few of them: Atwood, Pierson, Goss, Sterndale Bennett, Arthur Sullivan, Sir Frederick Bridge, Sir Walter Parratt—and crowds of others, both living and dead.

Removed from the centralised cosmopolitanism of London, many of them had a chance of giving expression to their thoughts in music not characterised by foreign idiom.

If the fine work of such men as Hubert Parry, Edward Elgar, Granville Bantock, Walford Davies, William Wallace, Joseph Holbrook, and others of the new British school does not convince the country of the fatuity of perpetuating the state of things existing at present, nothing will, and we must accept the fact that the idea of foreign supremacy in every branch of musical work, is so engrained in the blood of the "man in the street" as to be absolutely ineradicable.

But I do not believe it.

One hardly dares to question the sanity of a nation, even on so elusive a subject as music.

To-day, even, we can see the Dawn: the Penumbra is vanishing.

Not long ago it was considered essential that a singer of any exceptional merit should go to Italy to "finish"—or be finished, as the case might be. Not only so, but it was often thought necessary to Italianise the Anglo-Saxon name, and this was occasionally done with grotesque result!

In some cases the possessor of so characteristic a name, say, as Smith (Miss Smith might be a "discovery" by some knowing person and promptly packed off to the "land of song")—after a stay of a year or two in Italy, emerges from that country, having adopted, with a profound sense of the genius of Latin languages, the name of Smith-ona.

The fact that such great singers as Sims Reeves and Charles Santley went to Italy and achieved great success there, has, no doubt, been a fruitful source of attraction to the country; but of the many thousands who have followed their example, how many have returned with the least promise of emulating in ever so faint a degree their illustrious careers?

No Englishmen, assuredly.

A few years ago I had the pleasure to spend a day in the company of that great singer, the late Signor Tamagno.

In the course of conversation he expressed the opinion that the old school of Italian singing which had produced so many artists of such extraordinary merit, was practically dead, and that he was the only living exponent to carry on its traditions. As he was speaking in French, I give his actual words in a foot-note.[23]

Without venturing to subscribe to such a pronouncement, I think it is worth while recording. Whilst admitting that Italy occasionally produces singers that electrify the world, such as Madame Tettrazzini and Signor Caruso, I think that a little consideration will convince anyone that the majority of great singers in modern times has emanated from the northern races.[24]

In a memorable address given recently by Madame Melba to the students of the Guildhall School of Music, on which occasion I was fortunate enough to be present, that great singer insisted on the importance of diction, and expressed the opinion that in this respect young English singers had much to learn. One is obliged to recognise the justice of the rebuke, but I think that, at least, a partial explanation may be ventured.

In illustration Madame Melba instanced many words that were constantly maltreated, and among them was that of love.

This irresistibly brought to my mind an incident that occurred many years ago. When I was, as a boy, acting as accompanist in the studio of a celebrated foreign singing master, an English lady was having a lesson and was singing an English song in which she had to articulate this very word. Suddenly there came a clapping of hands and a voice called out, "No, no, dat will not do. Ze word is—" and I give the pronunciation as nearly as letters will permit—"'loaf.'"

As soon as the lady had gone and we were left alone, I said, "But, maestro, that lady sang the word as it is pronounced in English." The retort came instantly: "Dat is so? Den it ought to be as I say it."

This aspersion on the intellectual intelligence of the Anglo-Saxon race struck me as decidedly amusing.

On a quite different occasion I was present at a function in the course of which another foreign singing master was called upon to make a speech. I was, it is true, seated at a considerable distance from him, could not see him, and had not the slightest idea who he was. After listening carefully for some time, I turned to my table companion and said, "Could you tell me who is speaking, and what the language is?" He shrugged his shoulders and replied: "Upon my word I can't." We afterwards learnt that the language spoken was—English!

I think that the most unsophisticated of my readers, if I have any, will be able to draw his own deductions.

It is at least reasonable to ask why the more virile northerner should subjugate his personality and national characteristics to those of a southern race of different climate, different morals, and different physique. Let us consider for a moment the sister art of painting.

It is quite unnecessary to extol the glories of the British school.

Can you possibly imagine Turner, Hogarth, Gainsborough and Reynolds sitting down and quietly acquiescing, when a set of foreign painters came over to England and addressed them in such terms as these: "You English have lost, if you ever possessed it, the art of painting. We are going to stay over here and shew that we are your superiors, and you will have to submit quietly while we are taking time to do it?"

I, at least, would not like to have been a member of that deputation in case Turner and Hogarth were present. Yet this is not an unfair illustration of what English musicians have submitted to.

Let us see what Mendelssohn thought on the subject.

In a letter to Edward Devrient, dated Milan, July 13, 1831, he writes:

"You can have no conception of an Italian chorus. As I was supposed to be in the land of music, I thought I would try and recognise one good voice among it, but they are all vile and roar like quacks at a fair.... No German can have an idea of what it is here—that is to say, no real German; for such a one as I met here is as much a real German as cheese and beer.

"Fancy, Devrient, the fellow's expenses are paid for two years by the Ministry, in order that he may study Italian music, and on his return teach the Italian method of singing....

"Alas, you have no conception of these horrors.... The great fault is seeking to Italianise themselves, whilst what our northern nature has given them is the best and only good they have."

Enough of the subject.

Let us simply recall again the words of Sir Edward Elgar, spoken at Birmingham: "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."

CONCLUSION

Everything points to the fact that in all branches of musical art, the time has come when England should work out her own salvation.

The result of a hundred and fifty years of foreign tutelage is not one of which any nation need be proud.