Its success was instantaneous and extraordinary. In fact, it must be admitted, on looking at it to-day, that the enthusiasm it aroused seems not a little in excess of its merits—considerable as they were. He became, at one stroke, famous, and no one was more astonished at the sudden notoriety he had acquired, than himself.

He, if ever one did, had "greatness thrust upon him." Fortunately it did not spoil him, for his nature was eminently a sane one.

Even as a young man he had made decisive plans as to his future. He had come to the definite conclusion that teaching was incompatible with composition, and therefore, resolved upon trying to compose in a manner calculated to catch the public ear, and thus, while making an income sufficient for his needs, still have time to devote himself to more serious efforts. That he successfully carried out his resolution is a matter of history, for such teaching as he did, was confined to a few only, of pupils who appeared to be of exceptional promise. Even this did not last long.

The medium through which he made his appeal to the general public was song-writing, and, one must allow—such is the advance in musical education—that compared with songs that achieve great popularity to-day, like those of Landon Ronald, Arthur Somervil, Sir Charles Stanford and others, many of them possess little distinction.

Others, such as "Orpheus with his lute," are on the contrary, worthy of place in the highest rank. His greatest achievement in this form of art, written at a later period, was "The Lost Chord," which not only attained world-wide celebrity and an enormous circulation, but is full of poetic interest and instinct with genuine inspiration.

It was written one night, while sitting at the bedside of his dying brother.

It may be mentioned that, perhaps, the earliest that promised to bring any really substantial result was one called "Meet me once again."

Its sale, already large, was greatly increasing, when it suddenly stopped, owing to "Punch" producing a parody of it in a picture representing the excitement of a number of cats, on hearing a man singing "meat me once again," as it was rendered. The caricature was neither clever nor in good taste, but it was a serious thing for the composer, as it meant the loss of a considerable income, while still a young man, and not earning as many hundreds as he did thousands of pounds in after years.

At that time the paper was far different from the brilliant and refined "Punch" of to-day.

In those days the puns of F. C. Burnand were preferred to the wit and humour of W. S. Gilbert. But then, "Punch" rejected the "Bab Ballads"!

Arthur Sullivan was born in 1842.

His first popular success in the sphere, in which he was, afterwards, to win universal fame, was made in 1875, when he produced, in conjunction with W. S. Gilbert, the extravaganza, "Trial by Jury." He had made tentative efforts, on two or three occasion, of a similar kind, but this one proved, with the utmost clearness, his exceptional ability in this direction, and obviously indicated a future path for him.

In those days there were two people in London of noted hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Lewis (the latter was an elder sister of Miss Ellen Terry, and herself a distinguished actress; she was known to a former generation as Miss Kate Terry), and it was at their house that these pieces were first presented. On the occasion of this particular performance, the late Mr D'Oyly Carte was present, and to his happy idea to get the author and composer to collaborate on a work of larger scope, and his undertaking to produce it, that the combination of the three remarkable men, who were destined to make so much history, is due.

"The Sorcerer" was produced at the Opéra-Comique Theatre, London, on November 17th, 1877. It was altogether too new in style, bewildering in its humorous absurdities, and unlike anything previously seen, to achieve pronounced popularity, but it convinced the public that a new force had arisen in the theatre-world and, gradually, it attracted a sufficient following to permit of 175 consecutive performances. Incidentally, it may be mentioned that it was in this piece that the late Mr. George Grossmith laid the foundations of his great fame as an actor, and that Mr. Rutland Barrington established his lasting popularity, in the part of the "pale young curate."

If "The Sorcerer" left the question of permanent success to this new school of theatrical art to some extent in doubt, the next production, "H.M.S. Pinafore," absolutely dispelled it, the success being immediate and triumphant. It quickly spread to the great colonies and America, where the excitement it produced exceeded anything previously known in the history of the stage. At one time it was being played at upwards of a dozen theatres, simultaneously, in New York alone. Performances on board a real ship were given; performances solely by negroes, and in fact, of every kind that ingenuity or excitement could suggest, were common features in the extraordinary craze it aroused. "H.M.S. Pinafore" was succeeded by "The Pirates of Penzance," "Patience" (during the run of which it was transferred to the Savoy Theatre, meanwhile built by Mr. D'Oyly Carte), and the many others with names that are too familiar to need recounting. It may, perhaps be permissible to say that of them all, the two of most outstanding merit were "The Mikado" and "The Yeoman of the Guard." If Sir Arthur Sullivan's often avowed wish to establish an English school of Light Opera has not been realised to the extent he would have desired, its temporary eclipse having to be acknowledged, yet it is to be greatly hoped that there will be found, and that, too, before long, men both willing and able, not only to follow, but improve on the lines of healthy artistic traditions he and Sir William Gilbert so happily laid down.

With the composition of "Ivanhoe," Sir Arthur Sullivan entered the lists as a writer of Grand Opera. If his success was not complete, I think that the circumstances with which its career was indissolubly connected, go a long way to account for the fact. In the first place, it was subjected to the intolerable strain of 168 consecutive performances.

No possible chance of making alterations that only public performance can point out, with certainty, as desirable or necessary, was accorded to the composer, since its even temporary withdrawal would have involved the closing of the newly-built opera house and, under the circumstances alluded to in another chapter, made the continuance of the scheme a matter of doubt.

Had the conditions been different, I do not doubt that Sir Arthur Sullivan would have made a great and possibly vital change in the work. One of the most persistent and justifiable criticisms brought against it was its demonstrably unevenness in merit. Any musician with the least critical faculty would recognise its truth. For instance, the second scene of the second act should have been entirely eliminated. It was unworthy of the work and the composer. It was forced, theatrical, and destitute of spontaneity or inspiration.

That a man of such acumen could fail to recognise it is impossible; as a matter of fact, he once told me that the scene spoilt the act which, it may be said, with this exception, contained the most splendid music in the opera.

It is inconceivable that, had he found the opportunity, he would not have composed an entirely new one. To give credence to this opinion, I may mention that he made an important alteration, in the short time at his disposal, before it went to Berlin for performance. So short, indeed, that he asked me to do the necessary scoring for the orchestra that the alteration involved.

Another criticism often levelled against "Ivanhoe," was that it was occasionally reminiscent "of the Savoy"—implying that the high standard imposed by Grand Opera was not consistently maintained. This was, doubtless, suggested by the popular "Ho! Jolly Jenkin." In this connection, I will at once say that Sir Arthur Sullivan, himself, anticipated this objection, as the following words will show. It was typical of him, when he had an important work in view, to delay its commencement to the last moment. The result was that, once begun, he was obliged to work with incredible energy and persistence to effect its completion at the stipulated time. It was so on this occasion.

The night was as constant a watchman of his work as the day.

I had been engaged by the publishers, Messrs. Chappell and Co., to make the pianoforte arrangement from the full score, and, at Sir Arthur Sullivan's request, I used to drive down to his residence from the Savoy Theatre, where I was at the time conducting, after the evening performance, to take away any pages of the score that might be completed. I generally arrived about midnight. On one occasion, as I entered his study, he said to me, "I want you to hear something," and went to the piano and played this particular song. When he had finished I remarked, "Sir Arthur, why, it will be an immense success," and he replied, somewhat with a sigh, "Yes, I think it would; but it won't do. I can hear them now saying, 'redolent of the Savoy.'"

He then continued that he was going to attempt another setting before finishing work for the night.

I, naturally enough, as those who know the song, will agree, urged, as far as I could, that it should be retained. I don't suggest that this, in any way, affected his decision; I merely state the facts. In the event, as is known, he kept it in.

"Ivanhoe" contained, as I believe, and as many highly competent critics have affirmed, some of the finest music that Sir Arthur Sullivan ever wrote.

The soliliquy of the Templar, and the great scene between Rebecca and the Templar in the castle of Torquilstone (with both these characters the composer was in intense sympathy) represent Sir Arthur Sullivan's powers at their highest expression.

The opera, however, proved to be the one important event in his career that did not result in the complete and absolute success to which he had, for so many years, been accustomed.

If Sir Arthur Sullivan gained his fortune in the theatre, as is quite certain, it is equally incontrovertible that he attained his great fame in the concert-room, and, moreover, through the medium of his sacred works, or, perhaps I should say, works dealing with sacred subjects.

His first important contribution to purely sacred music was the short oratorio, "The Prodigal Son." Although evidence of immaturity may be occasionally detected, the music shews the firm grasp he had on the technique of composition, and the influence of religious feeling is strongly apparent, as indeed, may be said of all his works of this description.[33]

Produced at the Worcester Festival in 1869, it achieved a success that augured well for his future efforts in this region, which he had evidently chosen as the one most appealing to his genius and temperament.

After an interval, during which he produced, among other interesting compositions, the overture "Di Ballo"—a work full of sparkling and original music, which he scored, it may be said, at a time of great physical suffering—his oratorio, "The Light of the World," a work on much larger lines than its predecessor, was given to the public as the principal attraction of the Birmingham Festival in 1873. Although its reception by the audience was flattering enough, it cannot be said that it aroused any enthusiasm among the critics.

In fact, it aroused considerable controversy, some maintaining that so far from being an advance on, it lacked the admitted promise of "The Prodigal Son"; while others were equally pronounced in their views as to its superlative merits.

Although subscribing to neither opinion, I cannot but think that the former contained more truth than the latter. That "The Light of the World" contains much that is beautiful is not denied, but that it contains some that nearly verges on the common-place, cannot, I am afraid, but be admitted. It has fallen into desuetude for many years now.

In a short summary of Sir Arthur Sullivan's career, as this must, necessarily be, I have to leave unrecorded much that is both interesting and important.[34] I content myself, therefore, with some reference to those works upon which his fame, so far as serious music is concerned, will chiefly rest.

"The Martyr of Antioch" was produced at the Leeds Festival in 1880. It was an event of particular significance in his life.

The continued successes of his Savoy comic operas, and the popularity gained by his songs, had begun to make a decided effect on the public mind, which was rapidly losing count of the other side of the versatile composer—that of more serious import. It was, then, with no little interest and speculation that the production was awaited.

The result exceeded the most sanguine hopes of his friends and admirers. Its reception was veritably triumphal, and at once re-affirmed his position as the leading English composer of his time.

Any doubts that might have been felt by the audience assembled on this memorable occasion, were soon dispelled. The splendid chain of choruses with which the work opens—once interrupted by the hauntingly beautiful, and purely original song, "The love-sick damsel"—immediately convinced them, not only that the composer was, in no sense, shorn of his powers as a writer of serious music, but that they had discovered him in a vein of virile strength, of which he had, previously, scarcely given warning.

From that moment, the work was not only assured of success, but, as it progressed, enthusiasm increased to such an extent, that at the conclusion of the finale, to the success of which the magnificent singing of that great artiste, Madame Albani, predominatingly contributed, a scene of excitement occurred that only those who witnessed it could adequately imagine. Of the many numbers that contributed to this result, those that most readily spring to the memory are the strenuous, and, again, highly original "Io Pæan"; the charming "Come, Margarita, come"; and, above all, the one that will probably live, when the others are forgotten, the noble hymn, of the type which Arthur Sullivan may be said to have made his own, and which is so frequently sang on occasions of national mourning, "Brother, thou art gone before us"; of them all, this remains as the grandest monument.

The years immediately succeeding the production of "The Martyr of Antioch" must, I think, have been the happiest of the composer's life.

The illness from which he occasionally suffered from early manhood, had not taken sufficient hold on him to prevent his thorough enjoyment of life and all its various attractions, and so, with abundant means and ample time at his disposal, he was able to enjoy, with complete serenity, any recreation or amusement that appealed to him. His happy temperament prompted him to take the advantages that good fortune had thrown in his way, and to this I attribute the fact of his being able to reach even the moderate age to which he attained.

In this way the years passed rapidly, continued successes at the Savoy ever augmenting both fame and fortune, until, when the calls for another work of serious importance from his pen began to assume an importunate form, he had scarcely realised how much time had elapsed since "The Martyr of Antioch" was composed.

In answer to the urgent request of the committee, Sir Arthur Sullivan undertook to write a work for the Leeds Festival of 1886, and accordingly, turning to the experienced skill of Mr. Joseph Bennett to supply him with the "book," he, at length settled himself to the composition of "The Golden Legend."

The subject was exceptionally well chosen to draw upon his well-known power of dramatic writing. The poem of the great American writer, Henry W. Longfellow, from which Mr. Bennett arranged his libretto, is full of picturesque and fanciful imagination, and furnished the composer plentifully with scenes that enabled him to exhibit his genius at its greatest strength.

The prologue was the medium of displaying his descriptive, as was the epilogue of his choral writing, at its best, and what this conveys can only, perhaps, be fully appreciated by the skilled musician. I need only say that they were masterly displays. A striking feature in the work, is the quaint and original manner in which the character of Lucifer is portrayed. The music, with which he is invariably accompanied is of a semi-sacred character, contrapuntal in construction, but which is, at once, grotesque and eminently fitted to mark the sardonic humour of the character that Longfellow so powerfully painted.

The numbers that are, probably, the most popular are those for the soprano and contralto, "My Redeemer and my Lord," "Virgin who lovest the poor and lowly," and the hymn, "O gladsome Light."

The reception accorded to "The Golden Legend" on its presentation, like that of "The Martyr of Antioch," was enthusiastic in the extreme. It has retained its popularity, and is usually conceded to be his masterpiece. It is sung wherever the English language is spoken.

Of the many great singers who were associated with the composer in these productions, I might mention the names of Titiens, Trebelli, Albani, (Madame) Patey, Sims Reeves, Edward Lloyd and Charles Santley.

In character, Sir Arthur Sullivan was broad-minded, tolerant, sympathetic and generous. In tastes, he was decidedly eclectic, for they ranged from the æsthetic ones of literature and painting, to the more prosaic of racing and cards. Whatever happened to be the subject of interest at the moment, was sure to command the enthusiastic attention of his ever active brain.

Once, however, started on some important composition, nothing was allowed to interfere with his complete absorption in it.

Doubtless, this was a leading factor in his success, or, at least, one of very great importance that directly tended towards it. The process was, undoubtedly, an exhausting one, for it constantly happened that after the completion and production of such a one, a more or less prolonged period of rest and diversion of thought was necessary to bring him back to his normal state of healthy activity.

One great attribute he was unquestionably blessed with, and that was the power of throwing off his mind, completely, any thought of music, once he had accomplished any given task. In fact, when he was not actively engaged with it, music was seldom a subject of conversation with him. Of this I have had convincing proof. Some years ago, I was spending a part of one winter with him, at his villa on the Mediterranean. During the whole time, I can only remember two occasions on which he spoke of it; the first initiated by him, the second by me. We were reading in the drawing-room one evening, after dinner, when he suddenly turned round to me, and said, "What do you say, Ernest, to playing a Schumann symphony? I have an arrangement for four hands here." I naturally acquiesced, and his dwelling affectionately over many of the passages, the profound knowledge he displayed as he talked of Schumann's genius, and his intensely interesting comparison of it with that of Schubert, remain with me as a memorable experience.

The other occasion was of a very different character.

I was walking with him one day, on the road to Cap S. Martin—walking, it may be said, was not a form of recreation to which he was much addicted. The weather was glorious, and Sir Arthur in high spirits, thoroughly enjoying his unwonted exercise.

Seeing him in this mood, I said, "Sir Arthur, I should like to make a bet with you."

He turned to me, and laughingly replied, "Well, if the amount is not quite beyond my resources—a franc?—quel soulagement!—then go on."

"It is that I tell you your favourite Savoy opera, and that you don't tell me mine."

He walked on for a few minutes, and then said, "I think I must say 'The Yeoman of the Guard.'"

"So far, I have won," I remarked.

Again, after a little while, he continued, "I should not be surprised if it were 'Princess Ida.'"

I called out, "Sir Arthur the bet is off," handing him, at the same time, a slip of paper, on which I had previously written these two titles.

The incident led him to speak of various reminiscences in connection with the Savoy Theatre, one of which, I remember, he told me with great zest and evident appreciation.

Considerable exception had been taken to the title Mr. (later Sir William) Gilbert had chosen for one of the operas, "Ruddygore." The author professed to see no objection to it, but eventually announced to the composer that he intended to change it. He did. He renamed it "Rudd-i-gore."

Sir Arthur Sullivan left many and great claims on the gratitude of his countrymen. In the sphere of light opera, he enormously advanced the standard of taste.

Those of his songs that achieved great popularity, whatever may be thought of them now, were immensely superior to any that had previously gained the ear of the "man in the street." I am, of course, referring to those which make more frank appeal to the less cultivated lovers of music; "Orpheus with his lute," "The Lost Chord," and others of similar type, being in an entirely different category.

Through "The Martyr of Antioch" and "The Golden Legend," Sir Arthur Sullivan not only convinced English people, who were able to learn the lesson, that an English composer was capable of arousing their highest emotions, but, incidentally, indicated the road that led them, in after days, to their pride in, and appreciation of, "The Dream of Gerontius."

CHAPTER X

GENERAL SURVEY

It is certain that the opportunities of hearing orchestral music now presented to Londoners, are on a scale that would have made their forefathers pale with amazement.

To Sir Henry Wood this is largely due.

His achievements, to which allusion is made in another chapter, not only opened the eyes of those gifted with a true sense of the trend of events, but furnished the occasion that permitted of the indication, on the part of the dwellers in the metropolis, to seize with eagerness on the boon offered to them, not only under conditions that were artistic in the best sense of the word, but at a cost that need not affright those least blessed with worldly endowment.

This applies, of course, more particularly to the Promenade concerts, which are given nightly at the Queen's Hall in London, for two months or more during the late summer and autumn, and conducted by Sir Henry Wood.

The London Symphony Orchestra, the New Symphony Orchestra, and last, but by no means least, that venerable society, the Philharmonic, give concerts, both winter and summer; those of the last-named being confined to London, while the two former place their services at the disposition of the country at large.

On the subject of concerts in general, it is not necessary to dwell at length. If London is in advance of the provinces in respect of her orchestras, the north and midlands are immensely in advance of the metropolis as regards their choirs, there being none in the south to compare with the Festival-choirs of Leeds, Birmingham, Sheffield or Bradford. It is to the great English Festivals that we must look for stability in the position of oratorio, for it must be admitted, there have been obvious signs, at least in the south, of fading interest; the popularity of concert arrangements of popular operas, as evidenced by their continual use at the concerts of our choral societies, being, perhaps, the most significant sign.

The stimulus afforded by the periodical great provincial music Festivals—the excitement provided by the prolonged preparations that are necessary, being a healthy accessory—goes to keep the interest alive in this noble form of art, not only in the immediate vicinity, but far and wide of the cities in which they take place.

The appearance of "The Dream of Gerontius," and the hold it took on the imagination of the people (the picturesque combination of genius in the persons of Cardinal Newman and Sir Edward Elgar, being a feature of striking interest) went to arrest what was, unquestionably, a disquieting tendency.

A tribute to the splendid work of Sir Frederick Bridge and the Royal Choral Society at the Albert Hall is, however, due, not only on account of the merit of the performances, but to the consistently high standard that is maintained in the selection of works for representation. Oratorio, and oratorio in its noblest embodiment being the ever-present consideration.

The concerts that make the most direct, simple, and probably most successful appeal to the masses, are those devoted to ballads. They are universal throughout the country, and from the Royal Albert Hall, to the concert-room on the pier of the smallest sea-side resort, are always in evidence.

Although series of them on an elaborate scale are given in every important town in the kingdom, perhaps those at the Albert Hall and Queen's Hall, in London, under the respective directions of the renowned firms of Boosey & Co., and Chappell & Co. (Mr. William Boosey, director) are the most universally known, and they may be justly regarded as typical of such entertainment at their best. There is not the slightest doubt that, as regards the standard of artistic taste, this class of concert has in recent years made great progress. It is not long ago that songs without the slightest pretence to any musical value attained to immense popularity, and when a scream at the end of one of them, on a note known as high F, would draw volumes of applause on the panting and highly gratified singer.

Happily those days are either numbered, or in the quick course of becoming so.

To-day songs of great beauty are being constantly produced, and appreciated at their true worth. The art, too, of ballad-singing has immensely improved, as those whose memories can carry them back thirty years gratefully recognise, when they hear such past-masters of their craft as Madame Clara Butt and Mr. Kennerley Rumford.

The song writers who have attained to the greatest popularity in England, are mainly English—men and women.

The cult of classical chamber music is not one that appeals very strongly to the average English music-lover; it is rather to the enthusiast or the foreigner, that its purveyors must appeal for support. But that there are large numbers of both these classes in London is proved by the success with which the late Mr. Arthur Chappell carried on for so many years, those celebrated concerts known as the Monday and Saturday "Pops."

Since those days, the golden days of chamber music, so far as England is concerned—the days of Madame Norman-Neruda, Joachim, Piatti, Madame Schumann and Charles Hallé—its interests have been mainly watched over in London by the historic firm of John Broadwood and Sons.

That the standard of taste in every branch of music has risen enormously in this country during the past few years none will be found to deny; but, nevertheless, I cannot regard without suspicion the apparent outbursts of enthusiasm, on the part of the average English opera-goer, for such a work as Richard Strauss's "Salome"; they appear to me altogether artificially contrived.

That the critic, saturated with music at its highest development should hail with joy a work so well calculated to act as a stimulus to his highly-tried faculties, I can quite understand, but, that the less-trained intellect of the average opera-goer could grasp, with any appreciable understanding, at a first or second hearing, the tremendously complex music that is here presented, is quite beyond comprehension, or credence.

Yet foreign newspapers reported that the music was received in England with extraordinary enthusiasm. One may be, I think, justified in doubting the value of the sources from which the information was derived. In many instances the music of Richard Strauss has been claimed to be an advance on that of Richard Wagner.

I do not think that one in a thousand English musicians would admit the claim.

The question of the censor has been much in evidence of late, and it is not to be wondered at, seeing the eminence of many of those in opposition to the continuance of the office, that public opinion has been shaken in its old-time confidence in his decisions. So far as music is concerned I think there is little of which one may with reason complain.

It would be absurd to expect from any official, however distinguished, the gift of infallibility. When "Samson et Dalila" was inhibited, there was undoubted reason in cavilling at the decision, for, after all, the story is one that might be taken from heathen mythology, and has no religious significance whatever.

With "Salome" the case is quite different. The poem by Oscar Wilde, was founded on an incident recorded in the New Testament. This fact in itself was quite sufficient to make the censor hesitate to permit its public performance, knowing, as he would, that it was calculated to wound the feelings of, and arouse justified resentment among, thousands of religious people in England. After all, England is a Christian country, although London does not declare the fact in its highest manifestation. Viewing the trend of events to-day, the sense of unrest, the prevalent feeling of doubt and uncertainty, and the craving for excitement satisfied in however questionable a manner, I think the existence of an official who has the power to cry "halt!" in the important matter of stage performances, is a thing for which we should be profoundly grateful.

It must be borne in mind that the position of those responsible for giving advice on such delicate questions, must be extremely difficult, and therefore commands from all who are capable of taking an unprejudiced view, sympathetic consideration.

One of these, the official recognition of merit in distinguished musicians, is, probably, not one of the easiest to deal with, and this, perhaps, explains to the man in the street some of the amazing decisions (one would almost hazard the thought of sardonic humour in some harassed courtier as the mainspring) that have at times, been arrived at. For instance, it may be observed that, whereas many Englishmen—professors of universities, administrators of great schools of music, historians of mark, and authors of theoretical books of immense importance—have been passed by, foreign composers of music that has not the slightest claim to serious consideration, have been the recipients of honours equivalent to those awarded to a General, on the conclusion of a successful campaign.

A prominent feature of present musical life in England, and one that has only come into existence in recent years, is the amazing passion for examinations that has seized on old and young alike, all over the country. That the influence is largely for good will, I think, be generally admitted, but that there are objections, and grave ones too, I shall speedily show.

The craving to be able to put some mysterious-looking letters after their name, has become a positive mania among those whose occupation, mainly, is that of teaching music in its humbler spheres. The result is that institutions of all kinds, good, bad, indifferent or altogether worthless, have been springing up all over the country with a view to satisfy this longing and, inter alia, take benefit by the fees that are willingly paid by the applicants, who may be said, veritably, to be numbered in thousands.

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.

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