A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Schools of Composition

by William Smyth Rockstro

SCHOOLS OF COMPOSITION. In Music, as in other Arts, the power of invention, even when displayed in its most original form, has a never-failing tendency to run in certain recognised channels, the study of which enables the technical historian to separate its manifestations into more or less extensive groups, called Schools, the limits of which are as clearly defined as those of the well-known Schools of Painting, or of Sculpture. These Schools naturally arrange themselves in two distinct Classes; the first of which embraces the works of the Polyphonic Composers of the 14th, 15th, and 16th centuries, written for Voices alone; the second, those of Composers of later date, written, either for Instruments alone, or for Voices supported by Instrumental Accompaniments. The critical year, 1600, separates the two classes so distinctly, that it may fairly be said to have witnessed the destruction of the one, and the birth of the other. It is true that some fifty years or more elapsed, before the traditions of the earlier style became entirely extinct; but their survival was rather the result of skilful nursing, than of healthful reproductive energy; while the newer method, when once fairly launched upon its career, kept the gradual development of its limitless resources steadily in view, with a persistency which has not only continued unabated to the present day, but may possibly lead to the accomplishment, in future ages, of results far greater than any that have been yet attained.

The number of distinct Schools into which these two grand Classes may be subdivided is very great—so much too great for detailed criticism, that we must content ourselves with a brief notice of those only which have exercised the most important influence upon Art in general. In making a selection of these, we have been guided, before all things, by the principles of æsthetic analogy, though neither local nor chronological coincidences have been overlooked, or could possibly have been overlooked, in the construction of the following scheme, in accordance with which we propose to arrange the order of our leading divisions.

Class I. The Polyphonic Schools.
I.	The First Flemish School (1370–1430).
II.	The Second Flemish School (1430–1480).
III.	The Third Flemish School (1480–1520).
IV.	The Fourth Flemish School (1520–1590).
V.	The Early Roman School (1517–1565).
VI.	The Later Roman School (1565–1604).
VII.	The Venetian School (1527–1609).
VIII.	The Early Florentine School (circa 1539–1600).
IX.	The Schools of Lombardy (circa 1500–1600).
X.	The Early Neapolitan School (circa 1434–1600).
XI.	The School of Bologna (circa 1500–1600).
XII.	The German Polyphonic Schools (1480–1568).
XIII.	The Schools of Munich and Nuremberg (1557–1612).
XIV.	The Early French School (circa 1500–1572).
XV.	The Spanish School (1540–1605).
XVI.	The Early English Schools (1226–1625).
XVII.	The Schools of the Decadence (1600, et seq.).
Class II. The Monodic, Dramatic, and Instrumental Schools.
XVIII.	The Monodic School of Florence (1597–1600).
XIX.	The School of Mantua (1607–1613).
XX.	The Venetian Dramatic School (1637–1700).
XXI.	The Neapolitan School of the 17th century (1659–1725).
XXII.	The German Schools of the 17th century (1620–1700).
XXIII.	The French School of the 17th century (1650–1687).
XXIV.	The English School of the 17th century (1660–1700), including that of the Restoration.
XXV.	The Italian Schools of the 18th century (circa 1700–1800).
XXVI.	The German Schools of the 18th century (circa 1700–1800).
XXVII.	The School of Vienna (1750–1828).
XXVIII.	The French School of the 18th century (circa 1700–1800).
XXIX.	The English School of the 18th century (circa 1700–1800).
XXX.	The Modern German School (1800, et seq.).
XXXI.	The Romantic School (1821, et seq.).
XXXII.	The Modern Italian School (1800, et seq.).
XXXIII.	The Modern French School (1800, et seq.).
XXXIV.	The Modern English School (1800, et seq.).
XXXV.	The Schools of the Future.

I. The Art of Composition was long supposed to have owed its origin to the intense love of Music which prevailed in the Low Countries, during the latter half of the 14th century. The researches of modern criticism have proved this hypothesis to be groundless, so far as its leading proposition is concerned: yet, it contains so much collateral truth, that, while awaiting the results of farther investigation, we are still justified in representing Flanders as the country whence the cultivation of Polyphony was first disseminated to other lands. If the Netherlanders were not the arliest Composers, they were, at least, the first Musicians who taught the rest of Europe how to compose. And, with this certain fact before us, we have no hesitation in speaking of The First Flemish School as the earliest manifestation of creative genius which can be proved to have exercised a lasting influence upon the history of Art. The force of this assertion is in no wise invalidated by the strong probability that the Faux-bourdon was first sung in France, and exported thence, at a very early period, to Italy. For the primitive Faux-bourdon, though it indicated an immense advance in the practice of Harmony, was, technically considered, no more than a highly-refined development of the extempore Organum, or Discant, of the 11th and 12th centuries, and bore very little relation to the true 'Cantus super librum,' to which, alone, the term Composition can be logically applied. We owe, indeed, a deep debt of gratitude to the Organizers, and Discanters, by whom it was invented; for, without the materials accumulated by their ingenuity and patience, later Composers could have done nothing. They first discovered the harmonic combinations which have been claimed, as common property, by all succeeding Schools. The misfortune was that with the discovery their efforts ceased. Of symmetrical arrangement, based upon the lines of a preconceived design, they had no idea. Their highest aspirations extended no farther than the enrichment of a given Melody with such Harmonies as they were able to improvise at a moment's notice: whereas Composition, properly so called, depends, for its existence, upon the invention—or, at least, the selection—of a definite musical idea, which the genius of the Composer presents, now in one form, and now in another, until the exhaustive discussion of its various aspects produces a work of Art, as consistent, in its integrity, as the conduct of a Scholastic Thesis, or a Dramatic Poem. Upon this plan, the Flemish Composers formed their style. They delighted in selecting their themes from the popular Ditties of the period—little Volkslieder, familiar to men of all ranks, and dear to the hearts of all. These they developed, either into Sæcular Chansons for three or more Voices, or into Masses and Motets of the most solemn and exalted character; with no more thought of irreverence, in the latter case, than the Painter felt, when he depicted Our Lady, resting, during her Flight into Ægypt, amidst the familiar surroundings of a Flemish hostelry. At this period, representing the Infancy of Art, the Subject, or Canto fermo, was almost invariably placed in the Tenor, and sung in long-sustained notes, while two or more supplementary Voices accompanied it with an elaborate Counterpoint, written, like the Canto fermo itself, in one or other of the antient Ecclesiastical Modes, and consisting of Fugal Passages, Points of Imitation, or even Canons, all suggested by the primary idea, and all working together for a common end. This was Composition, in the fullest sense of the word; and, as the truth of the principle upon which it was based has never yet been disputed, the Musicians who so successfully practised it are entitled to our thanks for the cultivation of a mode of treatment the technical value of which is still universally acknowledged.

The reputed Founder of the School, and unquestionably its greatest Master, was Gulielmus Dufay, a native of Chimay, in Hennegau, who, after successfully practising his Art in his own country, and probably also at Avignon, carried it eventually to Rome, where, in 1380, he obtained an appointment in the Papal Choir, and where he appears to have died, at an advanced age, in 1432, leaving behind him a goodly number of disciples, well worthy of so talented a leader. The most eminent of these were, Egydius Bianchoys, Vincenz Faugues, Egyd Flannel (called L'Enfant), Jean Redois, Jean de Curte (called L'Ami), Jakob Ragot, Eloy, Brasart, and others, many of whom sang in the Papal Chapel, and did their best to encourage the practice of their Art in Italy. A valuable collection of the works of these early Masters is preserved among the Archives of the Sistine Chapel, but very few are to be found elsewhere,^[1] with the exception of some interesting fragments printed by Kiesewetter, Ambros, Coussemaker, and some other writers on the History of Music. The following passage from Dufay's 'Missa l'omme armé'—one of the greatest treasures in the Sistine Collection—will serve to exemplify the remarks we have made upon the general style of the period.

Tenor, Canto Fermo. 'L'omme

II. The system thus originated was still more fully developed in The Second Flemish School, under the bold leadership of Joannes Okenheim (or Ockeghem), of whom we first hear, as a member of the Cathedral Choir at Antwerp, in the year 1443. Okenheim's style, like that of his fellow-labourers, Antoine Busnoys,^[2] Jakob Hobrecht, Philipp Basiron, Jean Cousin, Jacob Barbireau, Erasmus Lapicida, Antoine and Robert de Fevin, Firmin Caron, Joannes Regis, and others, of nearly equal celebrity, was more elaborate, by far, than that of either Dufay himself, or the most ambitious of his colleagues; and there is little doubt that the industry of these pioneers of Art assisted, materially, in preparing the way for the splendid creations of a later epoch. The ingenuity displayed by the leader of the School in the construction of Canons and imitations of every conceivable kind, led to the extensive adoption of his method of working by all who were sufficiently advanced to enter into rivalry with him; and, for many years, no other style was tolerated. He, however, maintained his supremacy to the last; and if, in his desire to astonish, he sometimes forgot the higher aims of Art, he at least bequeathed to his successors an amount of technical skill which enabled them to overcome with ease many difficulties, which, without such a leader, would have been insurmountable. The greater number of his Compositions still remain in MS., among the Archives of the Pontifical Chapel, in the Brussels Library, and in other collections; but some curious examples are preserved in Petrucci's 'Odhecaton,' and 'Canti C. No. cento cinquanta,' and in the 'Dodecachordon' of Glareanus; while others, in modern notation, will be found in Burney, vol. ii. pp. 474–479, in vol. i. of Rochlitz's 'Sammlung vorzüglichen Gesangstücke,' and in the Appendix now in course of publication, by Otto Kade, in continuation of Ambros's 'Geschichte der Musik.'

III. To Okenheim was granted the rare privilege, not only of bringing his own School to perfection, but also of educating the orginator of another, which was destined to exercise a still stronger influence upon the future of Polyphony. In his famous disciple, Josquin des Prés, he left behind him a successor, no less learned and ingenious than himself, and infinitely richer in all those great and incommunicable gifts which form the distinguishing characteristics of true genius. All that one man could teach another, he taught the quondam Chorister of S. Quentin; but a comparison of the works of the two Composers will clearly show, that the technical perfection beyond which the teacher never dreamed of penetrating was altogether insufficient to satisfy the aspirations of the pupil, in whose Music we first find traces of a desire to please the ear, as well as the understanding. It is the presence of this desire, joined with improved symmetry of form, and increased freedom of development, which distinguishes The Third Flemish School, of which Josquin was the life and soul, from its ruder predecessors. This was the first School in which any serious attempt was made to use learning as a means of producing harmonious effect; and it was rich in Masters, who, however great their inferiority to their unapproachable leader, caught not a little of his fire. Pierre de la Rue (Petrus Platensis), Antonius Brumel, Alexander Agricola, Loyset Compère, Johann Ghiselin, Du Jardin (Ital. De Orto), Matthaus Pipelare, Nicolaus Craen, and Johann Japart, though the greatest, were by no means the only great writers of the age; and the list of less celebrated names is interminable. The works of these Masters, though not easily accessible to the general reader, are well represented in the 'Dodecachordon.' Petrucci, too, has printed three entire volumes of Josquin's Masses, besides many others by contemporary writers; and the same publisher's 'Odhecaton,' and 'Canti B. and C.' contain a splendid collection of sæcular Chansons by all the best Composers of the period. The most important example, in modern Notation, is Choron's reprint of Josquin's 'Stabat Mater,' the general style of which is well shown in the following brief extract.^[3]

Modus XIII (vel XI) Transp.^[4]

IV. The style of The Fourth Flemish School presents a strong contrast to that of its predecessor. The earlier decads of the 16th century did, indeed, produce many writers, who slavishly imitated the ingenuity of Josquin, in utter ignorance of the real secret of his strength; but the best Masters of the time, finding it impossible to compete with him upon his own ground, struck out an entirely new manner, the chief characteristic of which was, extreme simplicity of intention, combined with a greater purity of Harmony than had yet been attempted, and a freedom of melody which lent a fresh charm, both to the Ecclesiastical and the Sæcular Music of the period. The greatest Masters of this School were, Nicolaus Gombert, Cornelius Canis, Philippus de Monte, Jacobus de Kerle, Clemens non Papa; the great Madrigal writers, Philipp Verdelot, Giaches de Wert, Huberto Waelrant, and Jacques Archadelt; Adrian Willaert, the Flemish Founder of the Venetian School; and the last great genius of the Netherlands, Roland de Lattre (Orlando di Lasso), of whose work we shall have occasion to speak at a later period. To these industrious Netherlanders the outer world was even more deeply indebted than to those of the preceding century, for its knowledge of the Art, which, so well nurtured in the Low Countries, spread thence to every Capital in Europe; and it is chiefly by the peculiar richness of their otherwise unpretending Harmonies that their works are distinguished from those of earlier date—a characteristic which is well illustrated in the following example, from Philippus de Monte's 'Missa, Mon cueur se recommande a vous,' and to which we call special attention, as we shall frequently have occasion to refer to it, hereafter, in tracing the relationship between cognate schools.

That the style we have described was the result of a reaction, neither unhealthy in its nature, nor revolutionary in its tendency, though not altogether free from violence, there can be no doubt. Singers were growing weary of the conundrums which had so long been offered to them as substitutes for the truer Music which alone can reach the heart. In the hands of Josquin, these puzzles had never lacked the impress of true genius. In those of his imitators, they were as dry as dust. With him, the solution of the ænigma led always to some harmonious result; while they were perfectly satisfied, provided no rules were unnecessarily broken. The best men of the period, fully alive to the importance of this distinction, aimed at the harmonious effect, and succeeded in attaining it, without the intervention of the conundrum. And thus arose a School, so simple in its construction, that more than one modern critic has accused its leaders of poverty of invention. The injustice of this charge is palpable; for when it answered the purpose of these Composers to write in a more learned manner, they invariably found themselves equal to the occasion, though they cared nothing for ingenuity for its own sake. And the result of their spirit of self-control is, that though their Church Music may be deficient in the breadth and grandeur which were attained, at a later period, in Italy, their Madrigals are among the finest in the world.

Beyond this point, Art made no great advance in Flanders. We must seek for the traces of its farther progress in Italy. [See Polyphonia; Mass; Madrigal; Josquin; Obrecht; Okeghem; etc. etc.]

V. The formation of The Early Roman School was one of the most important, as well as the most obviously natural results of the employment of Flemish Musicians in the Pontifical Chapel. It was not, however, until many years after the return of the Papal Court from Avignon, that Italian Composers were able to hold their ground successfully against their foreign rivals. When they did begin to do so, the style they most affected was so strongly influenced by that then prevalent in the Netherlands, that it is not always easy to distinguish works of the one School from those of the other, as a comparison of the following passage from Costanzo Festa's Madrigal, 'Quando ritrovo la mia pastorella,'^[5] with the opening of Archadelt's 'Vaghi pensier,'^[6] will sufficiently demonstrate.

Costanzo Festa. (Venice 1541.) Quan - do ri -- tro -- vo la mi -- a pas -- to -- rel -- la. Al pra -- to con le pe -- cor' in pas -- tu -- ra. Io mi gli ac -- cos t'e pres -- to la sa -- lu -- to. La mi ris -- pon -- de, tu sia ben ve Jacques Archadelt. (Venice 1541.)

Va -- ghi pen -- sier che co -- si pas -- so pas -- so, che co -- si pas -- so pas -- sp Scor -- to m'ha -- ve -- te ra -- gio -- nar'

In the distribution of their Vocal Parts, the massive weight of their Harmonies, the persistent crossing of the Melodies by which those Harmonies are produced, the bright swing of their Rhythm, and other similar technicalities, these two examples resemble each other so closely, that, had they been printed anonymously, no one would ever have supposed that they could possibly have belonged to different Schools. The secret is explained by their simultaneous publication in Venice. The Netherlanders had long found a ready market for their Art Treasures, in Italy. The Italians had, by this time, learned how to produce similar treasures for themselves; and Costanzo Festa's talent placed his works at least on a level with those of his instructors, if not above them. His genius was incontestable: he was equally remarkable for his power of adaptation. Though by no means wanting, either in learning, or ingenuity, he here shows himself willing to reduce his Madrigal to the simplicity of a Faux-bourdon, in order to secure the harmonic richness so highly prized at this particular epoch. He did so, constantly, and always with success; for, to the purity of style cultivated by the best of his contemporaries in the North of Europe, Festa added a Southern grace, which has gained him a high place among the Masters of early Italian Art. He had, indeed, but few rivals among his own countrymen. With the exception of Giovanni Animuccia, and some few Italian writers of lesser note, nearly all the best Composers for the great Roman Choirs, at this period, were Spaniards. Among these, we find the names of Bartolommeo Escobedo, Francesco Salinas, Juan Scribano, Cristofano Morales, Francesco Guerrero, Didaco Ortiz, and Francesco Soto all Masters of the highest rank, of whom, notwithstanding their close imitation of Flemish models, we shall have occasion to speak again, when treating of the Spanish School; though none of them were so worthy as Festa himself to sustain the honour of this most interesting phase of artistic development—the first in which his country asserted her claim to special notice.

VI. Italy was once represented, by general consent, as the birthplace of all the Arts. We have shown, that, with regard to Polyphony, this was certainly not the case. We are now, however, approaching a period in which she undoubtedly took the lead, and kept it. The middle of the 16th century witnessed a rapid advance towards perfection, in many centres of technical activity; but the triumphs of this, and all preceding epochs, were destined, ere long, to be entirely forgotten in those of The Later Roman School.

We have seen Polyphonic Art nurtured, in its infancy, by the protecting care of Dufay; in its childhood, by that of Okenheim; in the bright years of its promising adolescence, by the stronger support of Josquin, and of Festa. We are now to study it, in its full maturity, enriched by the genius of one, compared with whom all these were but as experimenters, groping in the dark. The train of events which led to the recognition of the School justly held to represent 'The Golden Age of Art' has already been discussed, at some length, ^[7]elsewhere; but it is necessary that we should refer to it again, in order to render the sequence of our narrative intelligible to the general reader. We have shown that the process of technical development which was gradually bringing the Motet and the Madrigal to absolute perfection of outward form, had never been interrupted. Unhappily, the spirit which should have prompted the Composer of the 16th century to draw the necessary line of demarcation between Ecclesiastical and Sæcular Music, and to render the former as worthy as possible of the purpose for which it was intended, attracted far less attention than the advantage to be derived from structural improvement. Among the successors of Josquin, there were many cold imitators of his mechanism, who, as we have already shown, were totally unable to comprehend the true greatness of his style. By these soulless pedants—more numerous, by far, than their more earnest contemporaries—the Music of the Mass was degraded into a mere learned conundrum; enlivened, constantly, by the introduction, not only of sæcular subjects, but of profane words also. Other practices, equally vicious and equally irreverent, were gradually bringing even the primary intention of Religious Art into disrepute. For, surely, if Church Music be not so conceived as to assist in producing devotional feeling, it must be something very much worse than worthless: and, to suppose that any feeling, other than that of hopeless bewilderment, could possibly be produced by a Mass, or Motet, exhibiting a laboured Canon, worked out, upon a long-drawn Canto fermo, by four or more Voices, all singing different sets of words entirely unconnected with each other, would be simply absurd. The Council of Trent, dreading the scandal which such a style of Music must necessarily introduce into the public Services of the Church, decided that it would be desirable to interdict the use of Polyphony altogether, rather than suffer the abuse to continue. And the prohibition would actually have been carried into effect, had not Palestrina saved the Art he practised, by showing, in the 'Missa Papæ Marcelli,' how learning as profound as that of Okenheim or Josquin, might be combined with a greater amount of devotional feeling than had ever before been expressed by a Choir of human Voices. It was this great Mass which inaugurated the later Roman School; and the year 1565, in which it was produced, has always been regarded as marking a most important crisis in the history of Art, a crisis which it behoves us to consider very carefully, since its nature has generally been discussed, either so superficially as to give the enquiring student no idea whatever of its distinctive character, or with blind adherence to a foregone conclusion equally fatal to the just appreciation of its import.

A century ago, the genius of Palestrina was very imperfectly understood. The spirit of the cinquecentisti no longer animated even the best Composers for the Church; and modern criticism had not, as yet, made any attempt to bring itself en rapport with it. Hawkins, less trustworthy as a critic than as an historian, tells us, that the great Composer 'formed a style, so simple, so pathetic, and withal so truly sublime, that his Compositions for the Church are even at this day looked upon as the models of harmonical perfection.' It is quite true that his style is 'truly sublime,' and, where deep feeling is needed, unutterably 'pathetic': but, though it may appear 'simple' to the uninitiated, it is really so learned and ingenious that it needs a highly accomplished contrapuntist to unravel its complications. Burney, though generally no less remarkable for the fairness of his criticism, than for the indefatigable perseverance with which he collected the evidence whereon it rests, tells us, in like manner, that the 'Missa Papæ Marcelli' is 'the most simple of all Palestrina's works': yet, a glance at the Score will suffice to show that much of it is written in Real Fugue, and close Imitation, of so complex a texture as to approach the character of Canon.^[8] Not very long ago, this wonderful Mass was supposed to possess certain constructive peculiarities which not only marked it out as the greatest piece of Church Music that ever was conceived—as it undoubtedly is—but which also interposed, between Music written before, and that produced after it, a gulf as unfathomable as that which separates the Polyphony of the 16th century from the Monodia of the 17th. No idea can possibly be more fallacious. The true Ecclesiastical Style, as determined by the 'Missa Papæ Marcelli,' differs from that which preceded it, not in its technical, but in its æsthetic character. In so far as its external mechanism is concerned, it exhibits no contrivances which were not already well known to Okenheim, Josquin des Prés, Goudimel, and a hundred other writers of inferior reputation. It was not for the sake of its faultless symmetry, that it was selected as the model of Ecclesiastical purity. Ambros, indeed, denies that it ever served as a model at all; that it effected any reform whatever in the style of Ecclesiastical Music; or even that any such reform was needed, at the time of its production. This position, however, is untenable. The opinion of a critic so learned, so talented, and, generally, so unprejudiced as Ambros, must not be lightly contravened: but, it is certain that the Council of Trent did not exaggerate the necessity for a reform, immediate, stern, and uncompromising; and, equally so, that that reform was effected by means of this Mass alone. What, then, was the secret of this wondrous revolution? It lay in the subjugation of Art to the service of Nature, of learning to effect, of ingenuity to the laws of beauty. Palestrina was the first great genius who so concealed his learning as to cause it to be absolutely overlooked in the beauty of the resulting effect. If it was given to Okenheim to unite the dry bones of Counterpoint into a wondrously articulated skeleton, and to Josquin to clothe that skeleton with flesh; to Palestrina was committed the infinitely higher privilege of endowing the perfect form with the spirit which enabled it, not only to live, but to give thanks to God in strains such as Polyphony had never before imagined. It was not the beauty of its construction, but the presence of the soul within it, that rendered his Music immortal. He was as much a master of contrivance as the most accomplished of his predecessors; but while they loved their clever devices for their own sake, he only cared for them in so far as they served as means for the attainment of something better. And, though his one great object in introducing this new feature as the basis of his School was the regeneration of Church Music, it was impossible that his work should rest there. In establishing the principle that Art could only be rightly used as the handmaid of Nature, he not only provided that the Mass and the Motet should be devotional; but, also, that the Chanson and the Madrigal should be sad, or playful, in accordance with the sentiment of the verses to which they were adapted. His reform, therefore, though first exemplified in the most perfect of Masses, extended afterwards to every branch of Art. The Canzonetta felt it as deeply as the Offertorium; the Frottola, as certainly as the Faux-bourdon. Henceforth, Imitation and Canon, and the endless devices of which they form the groundwork, were estimated at their true value. They were cultivated as precious means, for the attainment of a still more precious end. And, the new life thus infused into the Art of Counterpoint, in Italy, extended, in a wonderfully short space of time, to every contemporary centre of development in Europe; though the great Roman School monopolised, to the last, the one strong characteristic which, more than any other, separates it from all the rest—the absolute perfection of that ars artem celandi which is justly regarded as the most difficult of all arts. In this, Palestrina excelled, not only all his predecessors and contemporaries, without exception, but all the Polyphonic Composers who have ever lived. Nor has he ever been rivalled in the perfect equality of his Polyphony. Whatever may be the number of Parts in which he writes, none ever claims precedence of another. Neither is any Voice ever permitted to introduce itself without having something important to say. There is no such thing as a 'filling up of the Harmony' to be found in any one of his Compositions. The Harmony is produced by the interweaving of the separate Subjects; and when, astonished by the unexpected effect of some strangely beautiful Chord, we stop to examine its structure, we invariably find it to be no more than the natural Consequence of some little Point of Imitation, or the working out of some melodious Response, which fell into the delicious combination of its own accord. In no other Master is this peculiarity so strikingly noticeable. It is no uncommon thing for a great Composer to delight us with a lovely point of repose. The later Flemish Composers do this continually. But they always put the Chord into its place, on purpose; whereas Palestrina's loveliest Harmonies come of themselves, while he is quietly fitting his Subjects together, without, so far as the most careful criticism can ascertain, a thought beyond the melodic involutions of his vocal phrases. How far the Harmonies form a preconceived element in those involutions is a question too deep for consideration here.

The features to which we have drawn attention, as most strongly characteristic of Palestrina's peculiar style, were imitated, without reserve, by the greatest Composers of his School; and though, in no case, does the Scholar ever approach the perfection reached by the Master, we find the same high qualities pervading the works of Vittoria, Giovanni Maria and Bernadino Nanini, Felice and Francesco Anerio, Luca Marenzio, and all the best writers of the period. The School continued, in full prosperity, until the closing years of the 16th century; and its traditions were gratefully followed, even late into the 17th, by a few loyal disciples, whose line closed with Gregorio Allegri, in 1652. These, however, were but the last devoted lovers of an Art which ceased to live within a very few years after the death of the gifted writer who brought it to perfection. With the age of Palestrina, the reign of true Polyphony came to an end. But it took firm root, and bore abundant fruit, during his lifetime, in many distant countries; and the Schools in which it was most successfully cultivated were those which most carefully carried out the principle of his great reform.

VII. The Flemish descent of The Venetian School is even more clearly traceable than that of its Roman sister; notwithstanding the well-known fact that Italian Musicians were employed in the service of the Republic, long before the time of Dufay. For, though the Archives of S. Mark's prove the existence of a long line of Organists, stretching back as far as the year 1318, when the office was held by a Venetian, described as Mistro Zuchetto,^[9] we meet with no sign of the formation of a School, before the third decad of the 16th century, by which time the Art of the Low Countries had made its mark in every city in Europe. This circumstance, however, reflects no discredit upon the earlier virtuosi, whose extempore performances upon the Organ, though famous enough in their day, left, of course, no permanent record behind them. Even the first Maestro di Cappella, Pietro de Fossis—a Netherlander, of high reputation, who was presented with the appointment, together with that of Master of the Choristers, in 1491—seems to have been less celebrated as a Composer, than as a Singer. At any rate, since no trace of his productions can now be discovered, either printed or in MS., the title of the Founder of the School justly devolves upon his successor, Adriano Willaert, than whom a stronger leader could scarcely have been found. Born, at Bruges, in 1480^[10] and received as a pupil, first, by Okenheim, and afterwards, in Paris, by Josquin des Prés—or, as some imagine, by Mouton—this great representative of Flemish genius succeeded De Fossis, as Maestro di Cappella, in 1527, and, during thirty-five years of unwearied industry, enriched the Library of S.Mark's with a magnificent repertoire of Masses, Motets, Psalms, Canticles, and other Ecclesiastical Music, besides delighting the world with innumerable Madrigals, Canzonets, and other sæcular pieces, among which his 'Villanellæ Neapolitanæ,' à 4, stand almost unequalled for prettiness and freedom. His style presents all the best characteristics of the Later Flemish School, tempered by a rich warmth which was doubtless induced by his long residence in the most romantic city in the world. Unfortunately, though many volumes of his works were published during his lifetime, but few have been reproduced in modern Notation. A Motet, à 4, will, however, be found at p. 474, vol. ii. of Hawkins's History. [See Willaert.]

Willaert's successors in office were, Cipriano di Rore, who held the appointment from 1563 to 1565; Zarlino, (1565–1590); Baldassare Donati, (1590–1603), and the last great Master of the School, Giovanni dalla Croce, who was unanimously elected in 1603, and died, after five years service, in 1609. These accomplished Musicians, together with Andrea Gabrieli, who played the second Organ from 1566 to 1586, and his nephew, Giovanni, who presided over the first from 1585 to 1612, proved themselves faithful disciples of their venerable leader, cultivating, to the last, a style which combined the rich Harmony of the Netherlands with not a little of the melodic independence which we have described as peculiarly characteristic of the best Roman period. Upon this was engrafted, in the finest examples, a certain tenderness of manner, in which Croce, especially, has scarcely ever been surpassed. Still, it is always evident that the harmonious effect is the result of the Composer's primary intention, and not, as in the greatest works of the Roman School, of the interweaving of still more important melodic elements; a feature which is well illustrated by comparing the extract from the 'Missa Papæ Marcelli,' given at vol. ii. page 230, with the following fragment from Andrea Gabrieli's 'Missa Brevis.'

VIII. THE EARLY FLORENTINE SCHOOL, though far less important than that of Venice, is not destitute of special interest. A gorgeous MS., once the property of Giuliano de' Medici, and still in excellent preservation, contains Compositions by no less than seven Florentine Musicians of the 14th century. Many works of antient date are also extant, in the collections of Petrucci, and other early printers. The beauties of these are, however, entirely forgotten, in those of the more celebrated School, founded by Francesco Corteccia, who, in the earlier half of the 16th century wrote some excellent Church Music, and a number of beautiful Madrigals, the style of which differs, very materially, from that cultivated in other parts of Italy, assimilating, indeed, far less closely to the character of the true Madrigal, than to that of the Frottola—a lighter kind of composition, more nearly allied to the Villanella, or Fa la. On the occasion of the marriage of Cosmo I. de' Medici with Leonora of Toledo, in 1539, Corteccia, in conjunction with Matteo Rampollini, Pietro Masaconi, Baccio Moschini, and the Roman Composer, Costanzo Festa, wrote the Music for an entertainment consisting almost entirely of Madrigals, intermixed with a few Instrumental pieces, the whole of which were printed at Venice, by Antonio Gardane. A similar performance graced the marriage of Francesco de' Medici with Bianca Capello, in 1579, on which occasion Palestrina contributed his Madrigal 'O felice ore.' For such festivities as these, the Florentines were always ready; but their greatest triumph was reserved for a later period, which must be discussed in the second division of our subject.

IX. The Schools of Lombardy were always very closely allied to those of Venice: indeed, the geographical relations of the two Provinces favoured an interchange of Masters which could scarcely fail to produce a close similarity, if not identity of style. Costanzo Porta, the greatest of Lombard Masters, though a native of Cremona, spent the most productive portion of his life at Padua. Orazio Vecchi wrote most of his best works at Modena. Apart from these, the best writers of the School were Ludovico Balbo (Porta's greatest pupil), Giac. Ant. Piccioli, Giuseppe Caimo, Giuseppe Biffi, Paolo Cima, Pietro Pontio, and, lastly, Giangiacomo Gastoldi, who brought the Fa la, the Frottola, and the Balletto, to a degree of perfection which has rarely, if ever, been equalled. The Lombard School also claims as its own the famous Theorist, Franchinus Gafurius, who wrote most of his more important works at Milan, though the earliest known edition of his earliest production appeared at Naples, in 1480.

X. To The Neapolitan School belongs another Theorist of distinction, Joannes Tinctoris, the compiler of the first Musical Dictionary on record.^[11] Naples also claims a high place, among her best Composers, for Fabricio Dentice, who lived so long in Rome, that he is usually classed among the Roman Masters, though he was undoubtedly, by birth, a Neapolitan, and a bright ornament of the School; as were also Giov. Leon, Primavera, Luggasco Luggaschi, and other accomplished Madrigalists, whose lighter works take rank with the best Balletti and Frottole of Milan and Florence.

XI. The School of Bologna exhibits so few characteristics of special interest, that we may safely dismiss it, with those of other Italian cities of less importance, from our present enquiry, and proceed to study the progress of Polyphony in other countries.

XII. The Founder of The German Polyphonic School was Adam de Fulda, born about 1460; a learned Monk, more celebrated as a writer on subjects associated with Music, than as a Composer, though his Motet, 'Overa lux et gloria,' printed by Glareanus, shows that his knowledge of Counterpoint was not confined to its theoretical side. This remarkable Composition, like the more numerous works of Heinrich Finck (a contemporary writer, of great and varied talent), Thomas Stolzer, Hermann Finck (a nephew of Heinrich), Heinrich Isaak, Ludwig Senfl, and others long forgotten even by their own countrymen, bears so close an analogy to the style cultivated in the Netherlands, that it is impossible to imagine the German Masters obtaining their knowledge from any other source than that provided by their Flemish neighbours. Isaak—born about 1440—was one of the most learned Contrapuntists of the period, and, in all essential particulars, a follower of the Flemish School; though his talent as a Melodist was altogether exceptional. It seerns quite certain that he was the Composer of the grand old Tune, 'Inspruck, ich muss Dich lassen,' afterwards known as 'Nun ruhen alle Wälder,' and 'O Welt, ich muss Dich lassen,' and treated over and over again by Sebastian Bach, in his Cantatas.^[12] And this circumstance introduces us to an entirely new and original feature in the German School. The progress of the Reformation undoubtedly retarded the development of the higher branches of Polyphony very seriously. With the discontinuance of the Mass, the demand for ingenuity of construction came to an end; or was, at best, confined to the Sæcular Chanson. But, at the same time, there arose a pressing necessity for that advanced form of the Faux-bourdon which so soon developed itself into the Four-part Choral; and, in this, the German Composers distinguished themselves, if not above all others, at least as the equals of the best contemporary writers—witness the long list of Choral books, from the time of Walther to the close of the 17th century. We all know to what splendid results this new phase of Art eventually led; but, for the time being, it acted only as a hindrance to healthful progress; and, notwithstanding the good work wrought by Nicholas Paminger, the last great Master of the School, who died at Passau in 1608, it would, in all probability, have produced a condition of absolute stagnation, but for an unforeseen infusion of new life from Italy.

XIII. The Schools of Munich and Nuremberg must be regarded, not as later developments of Teutonic Art, but as foreign importations, to which Germany was indebted for an impulse which afterwards proved of infinite service to her. They were founded, respectively, by Orlando di Lasso, and Hans Leo Hasler; the first a Netherlander, and the last a true German. Of Orlando di Lasso, so much has already been recorded, in our second volume, that it is unnecessary to dilate upon his history here. Suffice it then to say, that, thanks to his long residence in Italy, his style united all the best qualities of the Flemish and the Italian Schools, and enabled him to set an example, at Munich, which the Germans were neither too cold to appreciate, nor too proud to turn to their own advantage. Hasler was born, at Nuremberg, in 1564; but learned his Art in Venice, under Andrea Gabrieli, whose nephew, Giovanni, was his fellow pupil, and most intimate friend. So thoroughly did he imbibe the principles and manner of the School in which he studied, that the Venetians themselves considered him as one of their own fraternity, Italianising his name into Gianleone. His works possess all the rich Harmony for which Gabrieli himself is so justly famous, and all the Southern softness which the Venetian Composers so sedulously cultivated; and are, moreover, filled with evidences of consummate contrapuntal skill, as are also those of his countrymen, Jakob Handl (= Jacobus Gallus), Adam Gumpeltzheimer, Gregor Aichinger, and many others, who, catching the style from him, spread it abroad throughout the whole of Germany.^[13] Of its immediate effect upon the native Schools, we can scarcely speak in more glowing terms than those used by the German historians themselves. Of its influence upon the future we shall have more to say hereafter.

XIV. The history of The Early French School is so closely bound up with that of its Flemish sister, that it is no easy task to separate the two. Indeed, it is sometimes impossible to ascertain whether a Composer, with a French-sounding name, was a true Frenchman, a true Netherlander, or a native of French Flanders. Not only is this the case with the numerous writers whose works are included in the collections published by Pierre Attaignant, Adrian le Roy, and Ballard: but there is a doubt even about the birth of Jean Mouton, who is described by Glareanus as a Frenchman, and by other writers as a Fleming. The doubt, however, involves no critical confusion, since the styles of the two Schools were precisely the same. Both Josquin des Prés and Mouton spent some of the most valuable years of their lives in Paris; and taught their Art to Frenchmen and Netherlanders without distinction. Pierre Carton, Clement Jannequin, Noë Faignient, Eustache du Caurroy, and other Masters of the 16th century, struck out no new line for themselves: while Elziario Genet (Il Carpentrasso), the greatest of all, might easily pass for a born Netherlander. A certain amount of originality was, however, shown by a few clever Composers who attached themselves to the party of the Huguenots, and set the Psalms of Clement Marot and Beza to Music, for the use of the Calvinists, as Walther and his followers had already set Hymns for the Lutherans. The number of these writers was so small, that they cannot lay claim to be classed as a national School; but, few though they were, they carried out their work in a thoroughly artistic spirit. The Psalms of Claudin Lejeune—of which an example will be found in vol. i. p. 762—are no trifles, carelessly thrown off, to serve the purpose of the moment; but finished works of Art, betraying the hand of the Master in every note. Some of the same Psalms were also set by Claude Goudimel, but in a very different style. The Calvinists dolighted in singing their Metrical Psalmody to the simplest Melodies they could find; yet these are veritable Motets, exhibiting so little sympathy with Huguenot custom, that, if it be true, as tradition asserts, that their author perished, at Lyons, on S. Bartholomew's Day, 1572, one is driven to the conclusion that he must have been killed, like many a zealous Catholic, by misadventure. He was one of the greatest Composers the French School ever produced, and excelled by very few in the rest of Europe. Scarcely inferior, in technical skill, to Okenheim and Josquin, he was infinitely their superior in fervour of expression, and depth of feeling. His claim to the honour of having instructed Palestrina has already been discussed elsewhere. Considered in connection with that claim, the following specimen of his style, printed, at Antwerp, by Tylman Susato, in 1554, is especially interesting. [See vol. i. p. 612; vol. ii. p. 635.]

XV. The Roman origin of The Spanish School is so clearly manifest, that it is unnecessary to say more on the subject than has been already said at page 263. After the return of the Papal Court from Avignon, in 1377, Spanish Singers with good Voices were always sure of a warm welcome in Rome; learned Counterpoint, in the Eternal City, first, from the Flemings there domiciled, and afterwards, from the Romans themselves; practised their Art with honour in the Sistine Chapel; and, not unfrequently, carried it back with them to Spain. So completely are the Spaniards identified with the Romans, that the former are necessarily described as disciples of the School of Festa, or that of Palestrina, as the case may be. To the former class belong Bartolomeo Escobedo, Francesco Salinas, Juan Scribano, Cristofano Morales, Francesco Guerrero, and Didaco Ortiz: the greatest genius of the latter was Ludovico da Vittoria, who approached more nearly to Palestrina himself than any other Composer, of any age or country. Many of these great writers including Vittoria ended their days in Spain, after long service in the Churches of Rome: and thus it came to pass that the Roman style of Composition was cultivated, in both countries, with equal zeal, and almost equal success.^[14]

XVI. Our rapid sketch of the progress of Polyphony on the Continent will serve materially to simplify a similar account of its development In England, in which country it was practised, as we have already promised to show, at an earlier period than even in the Netherlands.

A hundred years ago, when few attempts had been made to arrange the general History of Music in a systematic form, attention was drawn to the curious 'Rota'—or, as we should now call it, Canon—'Sumer is icumen in,' contained in vol. 978 of the Harleian MSS. Burney estimated the date of this, in rough terms, as probably not much later than the 13th or 14th century. His opinion, however, was a mere guess; while that of Hawkins was so vague that it may safely be dismissed as valueless. Ritson, whose authority cannot be lightly set aside, believed the document—now known as 'The Reading MS.'—to be at least as old as the middle of the 13th century; and accused both Burney, and Hawkins, of having intentionally left the question in doubt, from want of the courage necessary for the expression of a positive opinion. Chappell gives the same date; and complains bitterly of Burney's tergiversation. The late Sir Frederick Madden was of opinion that that portion of the MS. which contains the 'Rota' was written about the year 1240, and has left some notes, to that effect, on the fly-leaf of the volume.^[15] Ambros, in the second volume of his 'Geschichte der Musik,' published in 1862, referred the MS. to the middle of the 15th. century, thus making it exactly synchronous with the Second Flemish School. Meanwhile, Coussemaker,^[16] aided by new light thrown upon the subject from other sources, arrived at the conclusion that the disputed page could not have been written later than the year 1226; and that the 'Rota' was certainly composed, by a Monk of Reading, some time before that date: and this position he defended so valiantly, that Ambros, most cautious of critics, accepted the new view, without hesitation, in his third volume, printed in 1868.

Assuming this view to be correct, The Early English School was founded a full century and a half before the admission of Dufay to the Pontifical Chapel. But, while giving this discovery its full weight, we must not value it at more than it is worth. It does not absolutely prove that the Art of Composition originated in England. We have already said that the invention of Counterpoint has hitherto eluded all enquiry. It was, in fact, invented nowhere—if we are to use the word 'invention' in the sense in which we should apply it to gunpowder, or the telescope. It was evolved, by slow degrees, from Diaphonia, Discant, and Organum. All we can say about it as yet is, that the oldest known example or, at least, the oldest example to which a date can be assigned with any approach to probability—is English.^[17] An earlier record may be discovered, some day; though, thanks to the two-fold spoliation our Ecclesiastical Libraries have suffered within the last 350 years, it is scarcely likely that it will be found in England. Meanwhile, we must content ourselves with the reflection that, so far as our present knowledge goes, the Early English School is the oldest in the world; though the completeness of the Composition upon which this statement is based, proves that Art must have made immense advances before it was written. For, the 'Reading Rota' is no rude attempt at Vocal Harmony. It is a regular Composition, for six Voices; four of which sing a Canon in the Unison, while the remaining two sing another Canon—called 'Pes'—which forms a kind of Ground Bass to the whole. Both Hawkins and Burney have printed the solution in Score. We think it better to present our readers with an accurate fac-simile of the original MS.; leaving them to score it for themselves, in accordance with the directions given in the margin, and to form their own opinion of the evidence afforded by the style of its Caligraphy. In the original copy, the Clefs, Notes, and English words, are written in black; as are also the directions for performance, beginning 'Hanc rotam,' etc. The six Lines of the Stave, the Cross placed to show where the second Voice is to begin, the Latin words, the second initial S, the word Pes, and the directions beginning 'Hoc repetit,' and 'Hoc dicit,' are red. The first initial S is blue, as is also the third. Ambros believes the Latin words, and the directions beginning 'Hanc rotam,' to have been added at a later period, by another hand. Many years have elapsed since our own attention was first directed to the MS., which we have since subjected to many searching examinations. At one period, we ourselves were very much inclined to believe in

the presence of a second hand-writing. But, the evidence afforded by a photograph taken during our investigations convinces us that we did not make sufficient allowance for the different appearance of the black and red letters, which, reduced to the same tone by the process of photography, resemble each other so closely, that we now feel assured that the entire page was written by the same hand. Coussemaker seems to entertain no doubt that this was the hand of John Fornsete, a Reading Monk, of whom we have intelligence in the Cartulary, down to the year 1236, but no other record later than 1226. It seems rash to append this learned Ecclesiastic's name to the 'Rota,' until some farther evidence shall be forthcoming: but it is gratifying to find that the mystery in which the subject has hitherto been shrouded is gradually disappearing.

Besides the above Rota, and a few specimens of unisonous Plain Chaunt, the volume we have described contains three Motets, 'Regina clemencie,' 'Dum Maria credidit,' and 'Ave gloriosa virginum'—at the end of the last of which are three sets of Parts for 'Cantus superius,' and three for 'Cantus inferius,' added in a different hand-writing; and another Motet, 'Ave gloriosa Mater,' written in Three-Part Score, on a Stave consisting of from thirteen to fifteen lines as occasion demands, with a Quadruplum (or fourth Part), added, in different writing, at the end.^[18] Beyond these precious reliques, we possess no authentic record of what may be called the First Period of the development of Art in England. Either the School died out, or its archives have perished.

The Second Period, inaugurated during the earlier half of the 15th century, and therefore contemporary with the School of Dufay, is more fully represented, and boasts some lately-discovered reliques of great interest. Its leader was John of Dunstable, a man of no ordinary talent, whose identity has been more than once confused with that of S. Dunstan! though we have authentic records of his death, in 1453, and burial in the Church of S. Stephen, Walbrook, London. In the time of Burney, it was supposed that two fragments only of his works survived; one quoted by Gafurius, the other by Morley. Baini, however, discovered a set of Sæcular Chansons à 3, in the Vatican Library; and a very valuable codex in the Liceo Filarmonico, at Bologna, is now found to contain four of his Compositions for the Church, besides a number of works by other English Composers of the period, most of whom are otherwise unknown.

The Third Period is more bare of records than the First. No trace of its Compositions can be discovered; and the only interest attaching to it arises from the fact that its leaders, John Hamboys, Mus. Doc., Thomas Saintwix, Mus. Doc., and Henry Habengton, Mus. Bac., who all flourished during the reign of King Edward IV. were the first Musicians ever honoured with special Academical Degrees.

The best writer of the Fourth Period was Dr. Fayrfax, who took his Degree in 1511, and is well represented by some Masses, of considerable merit, in the Music School at Oxford, and a collection of Sæcular Songs, in the well-known 'Fayrfax MS.,' which also contains a number of similar works by Syr John Phelyppes, Gilbert Banester, Rowland Davy, William of Newark, and other writers of the School. The style of these pieces is thoroughly Flemish; but wanting, alike in the ingenuity of Okenheim, and the expression of his followers. Still, the School did its work well. England had not fulfilled the promise of her first efforts; but she now made a new beginning, evidently under Flemish instruction, and never afterwards betrayed her trust.

Good work never fails to produce good fruit. If the labours of Fayrfax and Phelyppes brought forth little that was worth preserving on its own account, they at least prepared the way for the more lasting triumphs of the Fifth Period, the Compositions of which will bear comparison with the best contemporaneous productions, either of Flanders, or of Italy. This epoch extends from the beginning of the 16th century, to the period immediately preceding the appearance of Tallis and Byrd; corresponding, in this country, with the dawn of the sera, known in Rome as 'The Golden Age.' It numbered, among its writers, a magnate of no less celebrity than King Henry VIII, who studied Music, diligently, at that period of his life during which it was supposed that he was destined to fill the See of Canterbury, and never afterwards neglected to practise it. No doubt, this early initiation into the mysteries of Art prompted the imperious monarch to extend a more than ordinary amount of encouragement to its votaries, in later life; and to this fortunate circumstance we are probably largely indebted for that general diffusion of the taste for good Music, so quaintly described by Morley, which, taking such firm hold on the hearts of the people that it was considered disgraceful not to be able to take part in a Madrigal, led, ere long, to the final emergence of our School from the trammels of bare mechanical industry into the freedom which true inspiration alone can give. The Composers who took the most prominent part in this great work were John Thorne, John Redford (Organist of Old St. Paul's), George Etheridge, Robert Johnson, John Taverner, Robert Parsons, John Marbeck (Organist of St. George's Chapel, Windsor), Richard Edwardes, and John Shepherde—all men of mark, and enthusiastic lovers of their Art.

Contemporaries of Archadelt and Waelrant, in Flanders, of Willaert, in Venice, and of Festa, in Rome, these men displayed, in their works, an amount of talent in no degree inferior to that shown by the great Continental Masters.

Redford's Anthem, 'Rejoice in the Lord alway,' first printed by Hawkins, and since republished by the Motet Society, is a model of the true Ecclesiastical style, one of the finest specimens of the grand old English School of Cathedral Music we possess. The graceful contour of its Subjects, the purity of the Harmony produced by their mutual involutions, and, above all, the beauty of its expression, entitle it, not only to the first place among the Compositions of its own period, but to a very high one as compared with those of the still more brilliant epoch which was to follow. That the writer of such an Anthem as this should have been an idle man is impossible. He must have produced a host of other treasures. Yet, it is by this alone that he is known to us; and it is much to be feared that he will nevermore be represented by another work of equal magnitude, though it would be well worth while to collect together the few fragments of his writings which are still preserved in MS.^[19]

Equally scarce are the works of Richard Edwardes, known chiefly by one of the loveliest Madrigals that ever was written—'In going to my naked bedde.' We have already had occasion to call attention to the beauties of this delightful work,^[20] which rivals—we might almost say surpasses—the finest Flemish and Italian Madrigals of the Period, and was certainly never excelled, before the time of Palestrina or Luca Marenzio. For this, also, we have to thank the research and discrimination of Hawkins, who gives it in his fifth volume: but it has since been reprinted, many times; and it is not likely that it will ever again be forgotten.

Johnson was one of the most learned Contrapuntists of the period, and excelled almost all his contemporaries in the art of writing Imitations upon a Canto fermo. Of the writings of Taverner and Parsons, good specimens will be found in the Psalters of Este and Ravenscroft, as well as in the Histories of Burney and Hawkins; while many more remain in MS. Among the latter, a Madrigal for five Voices, by Parsons—'Enforced by love and feare'—preserved in the Library of Christ Church, Oxford, is particularly interesting, as establishing the writer's title to an honourable place among the leaders of a School of Sæcular Music with which his name is not generally associated.

A few of Shepherde's Compositions may be found in a work entitled 'Mornyng and Evenyng Prayer and Communion,' London, 1565. He is also well represented in the Christchurch Library, in a series of MS. Compositions of a very high order of merit. Most of them are Motets, with Latin words; but a few are English Anthems—possibly, adaptations—from one of which we have selected the following example.

Since the restoration of Anglican Plain Chaunt, by the Rev. T. Helmore, Marbeck's name has been a 'household word' among English Churchmen; but only in connection with his strictly unisonous 'Booke of Common Praier noted.' No one seems to know that he was not only a distinguished Contrapuntist, but also one of the most expressive Composers of the English School. The very few specimens of his style which we possess are of no common order of merit. The example selected is from a MS. Mass, 'Missa, Per anna Justitiæ,' preserved at Oxford, in a set of very incorrectly-written Parts, from which Dr. Burney scored a few extracts. As Marbeck was a zealous follower of the new religion, it is clear that this Mass must have been written during his early life. Where, then, is his English Church Music? It is impossible to believe that so ardent a reformer, and so great a Musician, took no part in the formation of that School of purely English Cathedral Music to which all the best Composers of the period gave so much attention. Surely, some fragments, at least, of his works must remain in our Chapter Libraries.

The Notes marked *, are sung by the Bass; those marked †, by the Tenor.

We regret that we can find no room for more numerous, or more extended examples, selected from the works of a period which has not received the attention it deserves from English Musicians: but, we trust that we have said and quoted enough to show that this long-neglected School, supported by the learning of Johnson, the flowing periods of Marbeck, and the incomparable expression of Bedford and Edwardes, can hold its own, with honour, against any other of the time; and we are not without hope that our countrymen may some day become alive to the importance of its monuments, and strive to rescue from final oblivion Compositions certainly not unworthy of our regard, as precursors of those which glorified the greatest Period of all—the Period which corresponded with that of the 'Missa Papæ Marcelli' in Italy.

The leader of the Sixth Period was Christopher Tye, whose genius prepared the way, first, for the works of Robert Whyte, and, through these, for those of the two greatest writers who have ever adorned the English School—Thomas Tallis, and William Byrd. Tye's Compositions are very numerous. His best-known work is a Metrical Version of the Acts of the Apostles, in which the simplicity of the Faux-bourdon is combined with a purity of Harmony worthy of the best Flemish Masters, and a spirit all his own. Two of these under other titles—'Sing to the Lord in joyful strains,' and 'Mock not God's Name,' are included in Hullah's 'Part Music,' and well known to Part-singers. Besides these, the Library of Christchurch, Oxford, contains 7 of his Anthems, and 14 Motets, for 3, 4, 5 and 6 Voices; and that of the Music School, a Mass, 'Euge bone,' for 6 Voices, which is, perhaps, the greatest of his surviving works. A portion of the 'Gloria' of this Mass, scored by Dr. Burney, in his second volume, and reprinted in Hullahsa 'Vocal Scores,' will well repay careful scrutiny. One of its Subjects corresponds, very curiously, with a fragment, called 'A Poynt,' by John Shepherde, written, most probably, for the instruction of some advanced pupils, and printed by Hawkins. It is interesting to compare the grace of Shepherde's unpretending though charming little example, with the skilfully constructed network of Imitation with which Tye has surrounded the Subject. We need not transcribe the passages, as they may so easily be found in the works we have named; but, the following less easily accessible example of Tye's broad masculine style will serve still better to exemplify both the quiet power and the melodious grace of his accustomed manner.

Ascendo ad Patrem. Motet à 5.

Still greater, in some respects, than Tye, was Robert Whyte; known only—we shame to say it!—by an Anthem for 5 Voices, 'Lord, who shall dwell in Thy tabernacle?' printed in the third volume of Burney's History, and a few pieces preserved by Barnard; though no less than 35 of his Compositions, comprising 4 Anthems, 25 Motets, and 6 Lamentations, lie in MS. in the Library of Christ Church, Oxford, without hope of publication. These works are models of the best English style, at its best period. Not merely remarkable for their technical perfection, but full of expression and beauty. Yet these fine Compositions have been left to accumulate the dust, while the inspirations of Kent and Jackson have been heard in every Church in England, to say nothing of later Compositions, which would be very much the better for a little infusion of Kent's spontaneity and freshness. In order to give some idea of the tenderness of Whyte's general style, we subjoin an extract from an Anthem—'The Lorde blesse us, and keepe us'—included in Barnard's collection, but neither mentioned in the Christ Church Catalogue, nor noticed by Burney, though it is contained in the valuable and beautifully-transcribed set of Part-Books which furnished him with the text of the only Composition by Whyte that has until now been printed in modern form.^[21] The pathetic character of the Hypoæolian Mode was probably never more strongly exhibited than in this beautiful passage.

But, neither Tye nor Whyte reached to the height attained by Tallis; who is, perhaps, better known, and more fairly judged, than any other English Composer of the time, though his most popular works are not in all cases his best. To speak to English Organists of his Responses, his Litany, or his Service in the Dorian Mode, would be superfluous. But, how many are equally well acquainted with his Motet, 'Salvator mundi,' or his fearfully intricate Canon, 'Miserere nostri'? How many know that the original of 'I call and cry' is an 'O sacrum convivium' worthy of any Church Composer in the world short of Palestrina himself? How many have looked into the 'Cantiones Sacræ,' which he wrote in conjunction with his pupil Byrd, and the MS. treasures scored in Burney's 'Extracts,' or the 'Matthias Collection'? Yet it is here that we must look for Tallis, if we wish to form any idea of his true greatness. The world has not seen many more accomplished Contrapuntists than he; nor has he ever been excelled in the exquisite 'surprises' of his Harmony. We have said that Palestrina so interwove his phrases together as to give birth to some wonderful Chord at every turn. Tallis could not approach the great Italian Master in this. No one ever did. But, he managed to place some wonderful Chord, at every turn; and, so to place it, that the ear could not fail to be ravished by its beauty. It is worthy of notice, that those of his Compositions, in which this peculiarity is most strongly developed, are the best known, and the most highly prized. They are, indeed, preeminently beautiful. But, so are many others, of which the very names have long since been forgotten; while some, well known by name, are just as much forgotten, in reality, as the rest. Among these last is one—the famous Motet, 'Spem in alium non habui,' for 40 Voices—which has been very frequently mentioned, though rarely described with the accuracy desirable in a case of such exceptional interest. Hawkins's account of it is too vague to be of any technical value whatever. Burney, though sufficiently minute in his attention to details, seems to have strangely misunderstood his author, in one very important particular. He tells us that the Voices are not arranged in separate Choirs, but treated as a single mass. No statement can possibly be more incorrect than this. The 40 Voices are, beyond all controversy, disposed in eight distinct Five-Part Choirs, which sometimes answer each other antiphonally—one or more whole Choirs resting, for a considerable number of bars together, while others continue the development of the various Subjects—and, sometimes, sing together, in vast 'Quadrigesimal Harmony,' no less real than that which Burney so well describes, but infinitely more complicated, being compounded of eight quintuple masses, each, as a general rule, complete in itself, though cases will be found in which the Bass of one Choir is needed to support the Harmonies sung by another—e.g. in the last Bar, where, without the lower G, sung by the Third, Fifth, and Eighth Choirs, the First and Sixth Choirs would present a forbidden Chord of the 6–4, while the Seventh Choir would end with a Chord of the Sixth.^[22]

The leading Subject is proposed by the Altus of the First Choir, and answered in turn by the Cantus, the Tenor, the Quint us (in this case represented by a Duplicate Altus), and the Bass. The Second Choir enters, after three and a half bars rest, with the same Subject, answered in the same order. The Third Choir enters, one Voice at a time, in the middle of the eleventh bar; the Fourth, at the beginning of the sixteenth bar; the Fifth, at the twenty-third bar; the Sixth, in the middle of the twenty-fourth bar; the Seventh, at the beginning of the twenty-eighth bar; and the Eighth, at the beginning of the thirty-third bar; no two Parts ever making their entry at the same moment. The whole body of Voices is now employed, for some considerable time, in 40 real Parts. A new Subject is then proposed, and treated in like manner. The final climax is formed by a long and highly elaborate passage of 'Quadrigesimal Harmony,' culminating in a Plagal Cadence of gigantic proportions, and concluding with an Organ Point, of moderate length, which we present to our readers, entire. It would be manifestly impossible to write in so many Parts, without taking an infinity of Licences forbidden in ordinary cases. Many long passages are necessarily formed upon the reiterated notes of a single Harmony; and many progressions are introduced, which, even in eight Parts, would be condemned as licentious. Still, the marvel is, that the Parts are all real. Whatever amount of indulgence may be claimed, no two Voices ever 'double' each other. Whether the effect produced be worth the labour expended upon it, or not, the Composition is, at any rate, exactly what it asserts itself to be—a genuine example of Forty-Part Counterpoint: and the few bars we have selected for our example will show this as clearly as a longer extract.^[23] (See opposite page.)

As Tallis is chiefly known by his Litany and Responses, so is his great pupil, William Byrd, by 'Non nobis, Domine,' a 'Service,' and a few Anthems, translated from the Latin; while the greater number of his 'Cantiones Sacræ,' his Mass for 5 Voices, and his delightful Madrigals, are recognised only as antiquarian curiosities. The only known copies of his two Masses for 3 and 4 Voices seem, indeed, to be hopelessly lost; nothing having been heard of them, since they were 'knocked down' to Triphook, at the sale of Bartleman's Library, in 1822. But, a goodly number of his works may very easily be obtained, in print; while larger collections of his MS. productions are preserved in more than one of our Collegiate Libraries. We ought to know more of these fine Compositions, the grave dignity of which has never been surpassed. It is in this characteristic that their chief merit lies. They are less expressive, in one sense, than the more tender inspirations of Tallis; but, while they lose in pathos, they gain in majesty. If they sometimes seem lacking in grace, they never fail to impress us by the solidity of their structure, and the grandeur of their massive proportions. Fux makes Three-Part Counterpoint (Tricinium) the test of real power.^[24] Was ever more effect produced by three Voices than in the following example, from the 'Songs of Sundrie Natures.' (Lond. 1589.)

Though Byrd survived the 16th century by more than 20 years, he was not the last great Master who cultivated the true Polyphonic style in England. It was practised, with success, by men who were young when he was old, yet who did not all survive him. We see a very enchanting phase of it, in the few works of Richard Farrant which have been preserved to us. His style is, in every essential particular, Venetian; and so closely resembles that of Giovanni Croce, that one might well imagine the two Masters to have studied together. Farrant is best known by some 'Services,' and three lovely Anthems, the authenticity of one of which—'Lord, for Thy tender mercies' sake'—has lately been questioned, we think on very insufficient grounds, and certainly in defiance of the internal evidence afforded by the character of its Harmonies. Besides these, very few of Farrant's works are known to be in existence. The Organ Part of a Verse-Anthem—'When as we sate in Babylon'—is preserved in the Library at Christ Church; together with two Madrigals, or, rather, one Madrigal in two parts—'Ah! Ah! alas,' and 'You salt sea gods'; but such treasures are exceedingly rare.

Farrant died in 1580, three years before the birth of Orlando Gibbons, with whom the School finished gloriously in 1625. By no Composer was the dignity of English Cathedral Music more nobly maintained than by this true Polyphonist; who adhered to the good old rules, while other writers were striving only to exceed each other in the boldness of their licences. He took licences also. No really great Master was ever afraid of them. Josquin wrote Consecutive Fifths. Palestrina is known to have proceeded from an Imperfect to a Perfect Concord, by Similar Motion, in Two-part Counterpoint. Luca Marenzio has written whole chains of Ligatures, which, if reduced to Plain Counterpoint, in accordance with the stern test demanded by Fux, would produce a dozen Consecutive Fifths in succession. Orlando Gibbons has claimed no less freedom, in these matters, than his predecessors. In the 'Sanctus' of his 'Service in F,' he wrote, between bars 4 and 5, the most deliberate Fifths that ever broke the rule. But he has never degraded the pure Polyphonic style by the admixture of foreign elements incompatible with its inmost essence. He had the good taste to feel what the later Italian Polyphonists never did feel, and never could be made to understand—that the oil of the old system could never, by any possibility, be persuaded to combine with the wine of the new. Of the nauseous mixtures, compounded by Monteverde and the Prince of Venosa, we find no trace, in any one of his writings. Free to choose whichever style he pleased, he attached himself to that of the Old Masters, and conscientiously adhered to it, in spite of the temptations by which he was surrounded on every side. That he fully appreciated all that was good in the newer method is sufficiently proved by his Instrumental Music. His 'Fantasies of III Parts for Viols,' and his Pieces for the Virginals, in 'Parthenia,' are full of quaint fancy, and greatly in advance of the age. But in his Vocal Compositions, he was as true a Polyphonist as Tallis himself. Had he taken the opposite course, he would, no doubt, have been equally successful; for he would, most certainly, have been equally consistent. As it was, he not only did honour to the cause he espoused, but he established an incontestable claim to our regard as one of its brightest ornaments. His exquisitely melodious Anthem, for 4 Voices, 'Almighty and everlasting God,' his 8-part Anthem, 'O clap your hands,' and his magnificent 'Hosanna to the Son of David,' for 6 Voices, are works which would have done honour to the Roman School, in its most brilliant period; and, in purity of intention, and truthfulness of expression, stand almost unrivalled. It is not often that a School ends so nobly: but in England, as in Venice, the last representative of Polyphony was not its weakest champion. No Composer of the period ever wrote anything more worthy of preservation than the too-much-forgotten contents of 'The First Set of Madrigals and Mottets,'^[25] from which we have selected the following passage, as strikingly characteristic of the tender pathos with which this great master of expression was wont to temper the breadth of his massive Harmonies, when the sentiment of the words to which they were adapted demanded a more gentle form of treatment than would have been consistent with the sternness of his grander utterances.

It would be manifestly impossible, within the limits of a sketch like the present, to give examples, or even passing notices, of the works of one tenth of the Composers who have adorned the six great Periods of the Early English School. With great reluctance, we must necessarily pass over the names of John Bull, John Mundy, Elway Bevin, Ellis Gibbons, John Hilton, Michael Este, and Adrian Batten; of Douland, Morley, Weelkes, Wilbye, Bennet, Forde, and our noble array of later Madrigal writers; and of many others, too numerous to mention, though much too talented to be forgotten: and we grieve the more to do so, because these men have not been fairly treated, either by their own countrymen or by foreigners. The former have sinned against their School, by neglecting its monuments. The latter, by contemptuously ignoring the subject, without taking the trouble to enquire whether we possess any monuments worth preservation, or not. Time was, when a Venetian Ambassador, writing from the Court of King Henry VIII., could say 'We attended High Mass, which was sung by the Bishop of Durham, with a right noble Choir of Discanters.' And, again, 'The Mass was sung by His Majesty's Choristers, whose Voices are more heavenly than human. They did not chaunt, like men, but gave praise^[26] like Angels. I do not believe the grave Bass Voices have their equals anywhere.' If an Italian could thus write of us, in the 16th century, it is clear that we were not always 'an utterly unmusical nation.'^[27] And, if we make it possible that such a character should be foisted upon us, now, it can only be, because we have so long lacked the energy to show that we did great things, once, and can—and mean to—do them again. English Musicians are very angry, when foreigners taunt them with want of musical feeling: but, surely, they cannot hope to silence their detractors, while they not only leave the best works of their Old Masters unpublished, and unperformed, but do not even care to cultivate such an acquaintance with them as may at least justify a critical reference to their merits, when the existence of English Art is called in question. We have an early School, of which we need not be ashamed to boast, in presence of those either of Italy, or the Netherlands. If we do not think it worth while to study its productions, we can scarcely expect Italians or Germans to study them for us; nor can we justly complain of German or Italian critics, because, when they hear the inanities too often sung in our most beautiful Cathedrals, they naturally suppose that we have nothing better to set before them. In a later division of our subject, we shall have occasion to speak of wasted opportunities of later date. But we think we have here conclusively proved, that, if our Polyphonic Schools have not obtained due recognition upon the Continent, in modern times, the fault lies, in a great measure, at our own door.^[28]

XVII. A long series of progressive triumphs is invariably followed, in the History of Art, by a period of fatal reaction. As a general rule, the seeds of corruption germinate so slowly that their effect is, at first, almost imperceptible. There are, however, exceptions to this law. In the Music Schools of Italy, the inevitable revolution was effected very swiftly. Scarcely had the grave closed over the mortal remains of Palestrina, before the principles upon which he founded his practice were laughed into oblivion by a band of literary savants, themselves incapable of writing an artistic Bass to a Canto fermo.^[29] The most eloquent, if not the earliest advocates of 'reform' were, Vincenzo Galilei, and Giovanni Battista Doni: but it was not to them that Polyphony owed its death-blow. The true Founder of The Schools of the Decadence was Claudio Monteverde, in whose Madrigals the rule which forbids the use of Unprepared Discords in Strict Counterpoint was first openly disregarded. In the next division of our subject, we shall have occasion to describe this once celebrated Composer as a genius of the highest order: but we cannot so speak, here, of the ruthless destroyer of a system which, after so many years of earnest striving for perfection, attained it, at last, in the Later Roman School. It was in building up a new School, on a new foundation, that Monteverde showed his greatness, not in his attempts to improve upon the praxis of the Polyphonic Composers. Without good Counterpoint, good Polyphony cannot exist: and his Counterpoint, even before he boldly set its laws at defiance, was so defective, that the conclusion that he discarded it, in despair of ever satisfactorily mastering its difficulties, is inevitable. It is, indeed, much to be regretted that he did not give up the struggle at an earlier period, and devote to the advancement of Monodia the energies, which, when brought to bear upon the work of his immediate predecessors, were productive of nothing but evil: for, however gratefully we may welcome his contributions to the Lyric Drama, we cannot quite so cordially thank him for such attempts to 'rival the harmonies of midnight cats,' as the following passage from his 'Vesperæ,' composed for the Cathedral of S. Mark—a triumph of cacophony which the Prince of Venosa himself might justly have envied.

In one country alone did the Period of the Decadence produce fruit worthy of preservation. Its effect upon Venetian Music is shown in these 'Vesperæ.' In Rome, it formed so serious an hindrance to productive power, that it contributed absolutely nothing to the repertoire of the Pontifical Chapel. But, in England, it gave birth to the Glee, a form of Composition quite distinct from the German Part-Song, and of infinitely higher interest; and of so truly national a character, that it has never, in one single instance, been produced in any other country than our own, or set to other than English words, for which reasons it is doubtful whether full justice could be done to it by any but English Singers. The true relation of the Glee to the older forms of Polyphony will be best understood by comparing the latest English Madrigals with the works of the earliest Glee writers; using the Canzonets of such Composers as Dowland and Ford, as connecting links between the productions of Weelkes, Bateson, and Morley, on the one hand, and those of Battishill, Stevens, and Cooke, on the other. This will show, that, notwithstanding the length of time interposed between the two styles, and the consequent divergence of their tonalities—the use of the Antient Modes having died out with the Madrigal—the newer form could by no possibility have come into existence except upon the ruins of the older one; and it is strange that this last remnant of Polyphony should be found in the country which boasts the earliest specimen of the Art that has as yet been brought to light.

With this beautiful creation, the old régime came absolutely to an end: and it now remains for us to trace the rise and progress of the Monodic Schools.

XVIII. The Monodic School of Florence presents one of the strangest anomalies to be found in the annals of Art; inasmuch as it originated in no natural process of development, but owed its existence to a theory, which, though altogether wild and visionary in itself, led to results both practical and enduring, and culminated in the invention of the Lyric Drama.^[30] The Founders of the School were Peri and Caccini, with whom its first period expired. Its principles were so violently opposed to those by which alone the greatest Composers of the two preceding centuries had been guided, that we can only look upon it as an entirely new manifestation of genius—a new beginning, cut off, by an impassable gulf, from all that had previously existed. Its disciples, holding Counterpoint in undisguised contempt, substituted, in its place, a simple form of irregularly-constructed Melody, easy to sing, but stiff and unattractive to the last degree, and supported only by a Thoroughbass, as simple as itself, and, if possible, still more devoid of interest. This, as exemplified in the 'Nuove Musiche' of Caccini, and Peri's 'Euridice,' was a poor exchange, indeed, for the glories of Polyphony. But, the life and soul of the School lay in its declamatory power. By means of this, its leaders appealed, at once, to the hearts of their hearers. If they did not, themselves, attain to the expression of deep pathos, or grand dramatic truth, they led the way to both. And, in this new feature, lay the secret, not only of their own immediate success, in Florence, but, of the amazing rapidity with which their principles gained ground, elsewhere, and the avidity with which they were received by the most talented writers of the period. In spite of its monotony, its crudeness, its poverty, its faults of every conceivable kind, the Monodic School of Florence, dowered with this one virtue, was enabled, even in its infancy, to make an impression upon Art which has never yet been obliterated: and nowhere is that impression more clearly traceable than upon the latest productions of our own enlightened age.

XIX. Of The School of Mantua, Monteverde was the beginning, and the end.^[31] Though he did not originate the idea of the Opera, he won for it such high distinction, at the Court of Vincenzo Gonzaga, that the efforts of its Florentine parents attracted, thenceforward, but very little notice. In presence of his 'Orfeo' it was impossible that Peri's 'Euridice' could continue to live. Neither in dramatic power, nor in command of the heterogeneous orchestra of the period, did any contemporaneous writer approach him; and to this circumstance he was mainly indebted for his most brilliant successes. He seemed to have been created for the age, and the age for him. Since the Florentine Masters had shown that dramatic effect was possible, Artists saw a new world open to them; and, in their eagerness to enter it, were ready to cast down and destroy every obstacle that lay in their way. Monteverde had wisdom enough to seize the opportunity, and genius enough to use it splendidly. He wrote with growing appreciation of the capabilities of the Stage; and introduced new ideas into every new work. And therefore it is, that, though the School of Mantua boasts only a very few achievements, and these all by one Composer, we look upon it as one of the most important Schools that have ever existed.

XX. The Venetian Dramatic School was founded, in the year 1637, by Benedetto Ferrari, and Francesco Manelli, whose labours were crowned, from the first, with abundant success, though the merits of their Compositions were eclipsed in 1639 by the triumphant reception of Monteverde's 'L'Adone,' and an almost equally popular work, 'Le Nozze di Peleo e di Tetide,' by his pupil Cavalli.^[32] The veteran Monteverde, then Maestro di Cappella at S. Mark's, won scarcely less honour in Venice than he had already earned at Mantua. Cavalli proved himself a worthy disciple of so distinguished a Master; and, though he found a formidable rival in Marc Antonio Cesti, one of Carissimi's most talented pupils, he secured to himself a long-enduring fame. Monteverde died in 1643; but under Cesti and Cavalli, and a long line of successors fully capable of carrying on their work, the School retained, for many years, the prestige of its early successes, and was long regarded as the best in Italy. During its reign, a more flowing style of Melody gradually replaced the monotonous Recitative of Caccini and Peri. The Ritornello^[33] was accepted as an adjunct to the Aria. And many other improvements were added, from time to time, until, by the close of the century, the Lyric Drama had attained a position in Venice which excited the envy of every rival School in Europe.

XXI. The early records of The Neapolitan Dramatic School are very imperfect; but, our ignorance of the work effected by its older Masters is of little importance, in the presence of its most brilliant ornament, Alessandro Scarlatti, who, though he laboured so long in Rome, is justly claimed by the Neapolitans as their own inalienable property. The vocal works of this great genius are known, to most of us, only through a few fragmentary Songs, which, though they delight all who hear them, have not yet tempted any publisher to issue a more extended selection from his works, very few of which were printed, even during his own lifetime. It is only by a very rare chance that one is fortunate enough, nowadays, to meet with an Opera by Scarlatti, even in MS. We have, however, a few trustworthy Scores, in some of our public libraries. A complete copy of 'Il Prigioniero fortunato' will be found among the Dragonetti MSS. in the British Museum; and the Library of Christ Church, Oxford, possesses a Serenata, 12 Cantatas, and three perfect Operas—'Gerone' (dated '1692 e scritta 1693'), 'Il Flavio Cuniberto,' and 'La Teodora Augusta,' all deeply interesting to the student, and rich, not only in fine Songs, but also in charming Ritornelli, for the Stringed Band, interposed between the various Scenes of the Drama. 'Il Flavio Cuniberto' begins with a regular Overture, called 'Sinfonia avanti l'Opera,' and consisting of a Fugue, on two Subjects, in B Minor, and a Minuet, in 6–8 Time, in the same key. 'Gerone,' and 'La Teodora Augusta,' both contain Airs, for Soprano, with Trumpet Obbligato, exhibiting more than the germ of that Art-form which afterwards culminated in 'Hor la tromba,' and 'Let the bright Seraphim.' 'La Teodora' contains a Sinfonia, with an Obbligato Trumpet. The following extract is from the Trumpet Air in 'Gerone.'

Scarcely less talented than Scarlatti himself was Francesco de' Rossi, a Canon of Bari, whose Operas, 'Il Sejano moderno della Tracia,' 'Clorilda,' 'La pena degl' occhi,' and 'Mitrane,' met with great success, in the latter half of the 17th century. 'Mitrane' contains a Scena, 'Ah, rendimi quel core,' far in advance of its age, and even now a great favourite with Contralto Singers equal to its demands.^[34] Fr. de' Rossi also wrote much excellent Sacred Music; though, in this he was excelled by Alessandro Stradella, who was certainly a Neapolitan by birth, if not by residence.^[35] The earnest labours of these able men prepared the way for still greater work in the future. Not only were Artists alive to the importance of the Musical Drama; but, the people themselves were taught to love it, until it became as dear to them as the fun of the Carnival. And when, in later years, a race of Composers arose, who appealed directly to their sympathies, the Sovereignty of Art was gradually transferred from Venice to Naples, which, in the next century, became a more important centre of production than the City of the Doges.

XXII. The services rendered to the cause of Art by the Polyphonic Schools of Germany seem very poor indeed, compared with the work wrought, at a later period, in her Schools of Instrumental Music, which speedily rose to eminence, after the death of Hans Leo Hasler, of whose long-felt influence we have already spoken in Section XIII of the present Article.

The most noticeable feature in The German Schools of the 17th Century was the great prominence given to the Organ, in all their productions. After the Reformation, the Choral was always supported by an Organ Accompaniment; and the mechanism of the Instrument attained, in Germany, a degree of perfection elsewhere unknown, except perhaps in Venice. But the Organ was not employed alone. The 'Syntagma musicum' of Michael Prætorius, printed in 1612–18 [App. p.785 "1615–18"], contains descriptions, and engravings, of 'all manner of Instruments' in common use at the time it was written; and thus throws much valuable light, not only upon the progress of Instrumental Music among the author's own countrymen, but, upon the Orchestras employed by the Composers of the Monodic School in Italy. Prætorius himself was an ardent supporter of the rising School, and enriched it with a long list of Compositions, most of which are now utterly unknown; partly, no doubt, on account of the extreme rarity of the original editions, which have never been reprinted; but more, it is to be feared, because critical writers, even in Germany, have been too much blinded by the splendid achievements of Graun, and the Bach family, to give due attention to the period which prepared the way even for Seb. Bach himself. Yet, the annals of this period account for facts in the history of to-day, which, without their help, would be inexplicable. It has long been assumed that Melody and Harmony, form the distinguishing characteristics of Italian and German Music, respectively; and, that this circumstance is to be accounted for by the light and careless nature of the Italians, and the studious habits of the Germans. There may be a certain amount of surface truth involved in the idea: but we, who live in the century which produced an Italian Baini, and a German Offenbach—both types of tolerably large classes—can scarcely be persuaded to receive it unconditionally. The difference between German and Italian Music is traceable, step by step, to a far more definite and satisfactory origin than this. Intoxicated with the prejudices of the Renaissance, the leaders of the Florentine Monodic School held Counterpoint in equal hatred and contempt; not from any logical objection to its laws—which they never troubled themselves to learn—but, because the Art was unknown to Classical Antiquity. They therefore determined to reject, entirely, the experience of the Masters who preceded them, and to build their style upon a new foundation, which demanded nothing beyond a Melody, more or less expressive, supported by a more or less simple Accompaniment; and this principle has been accepted, as the basis of the Italian style, from their day to ours. But, no such principle was ever accepted in Germany. The lithe motion of Hasler's contrapuntal involutions was as much appreciated, in Vienna, as in Nuremberg: and, when the progress of Instrumental Music demanded still greater freedom, the laws of Counterpoint were modified to suit the exigencies of the occasion; the antient Modes were abandoned in favour of more modern tonalities; and just so much innovation as was found absolutely necessary was freely permitted, while everything in the older system not essentially incompatible with the change of circumstances was thankfully retained, not from respect for its antiquity, but from sincere conviction of its lasting value. Unlike Peri, and Monteverde, the German Masters destroyed nothing. They were content to work on, upon the old foundations; introducing, from time to time, whatever changes the spirit of the age dictated, and wholly undisturbed by that visionary restoration of Hellenic Tragedy which formed the mainspring of the Italian revolution. And thus it happened, that the Strict Counterpoint of the 16th century gave place to the modern system of Part-writing, which has, ever since, formed the true strength, not only of every German School, but every German Composer, from Bach to Brahms; while, by confining its attention entirely to Melody, the pedantry of the Renaissance gave birth, in Italy, to another style, from which every Italian Composer, from Monteverde to Rossini, has drawn his most graceful inspirations, and his most captivating effects. Let us be equally thankful for both; while, by a careful study of their respective histories, we strive to attain the power of justly appreciating their respective merits.

XXIII. Jean Baptiste Lulli, the founder of The French School of the 17th Century, though an Italian by birth, was so thoroughly a Frenchman in taste and feeling, as well as by education, that his actual parentage may well be forgotten, in his attachment to the country of his naturalisation. His style, though resembling in certain technical points that of the Monodic School of Italy, differs so widely from it in character and expression, that it can only be fairly judged as an original creation. Moreover, his instrumental works, and especially the Overtures to his dramatic pieces, prove him to have attained considerable proficiency in the modernised form of Counterpoint called Part-writing, and to have known how to use it with so much originality of form, and breadth of effect, that the particular type of Orchestral Prelude which he undoubtedly invented, soon came to be regarded as an indispensable introduction to the Lyric Drama. Technically, this Fugued Prelude brought him into somewhat close relation with the German Schools; yet, his manner was even less German than Italian. In truth, his obligations to the great Masters of other countries were so slight, that the style he gave to France may be described as, in every essential particular, his own. That he trained no body of admiring disciples to follow in his steps will not seem surprising to those who have read his biography; and so it happened, that, for nearly half a century after his death, very little, if any progress was made: yet, he none the less gave France a national School, in which her own children were not slow to distinguish themselves, at a later period. Both the 'Opéra Comique,' and the 'Vaudeville,' though moulded into their now universally accepted forms at a period long subsequent to his decease, owe much of their distinctive character to the impress of his genius; which also exercised a remarkable influence upon the development of the 'Grand Opéra,' not only in its earlier stages, but even after it had made considerable advance towards maturity. Indeed, the principles upon which he worked have undergone wonderfully little radical change since the close of the 17th century; while the general characteristics of his School are clearly recognisable in works which have long been accepted as embodiments of the popular taste of a far more modern epoch. For instance, the following bright little Melody from his once popular Opera, 'Roland,' breathes the spirit of Lutetian gaiety no less freely than many a set of Couplets by Boieldieu, or Harold, though it was written more than a century before even Gluck's first appearance in Paris.^[36]

XXIV. The English School of the 17th Century was, in many respects, a very advanced one; though its triumphs were of a varied character. Orlando Gibbons cannot be reckoned among its Masters, because, although he lived until the year 1625, his method, his style, and his predilections, were wholly with the cinquecentisti. The period which followed was not promising. The disturbed state of the kingdom, during the reign of Charles I., and the progress of the Great Rebellion, necessarily exercised a fatal influence on the development of Art; yet, the latter half of the century was extraordinarily productive, and the period which we shall distinguish as that of The School of the Restoration gave birth to a distinct race of Composers of more than ordinary talent, as well as to a new style, which owes so many of its distinguishing features to the political and social changes of the period, that, without recalling these, it would be impossible to explain how it ever came into existence at all.

The healthy and universal love for Art, which, in the beginning of the century, led to the recognition of the Madrigal as a national institution, and the Anthem as an indispensable feature in the Services of the Church, died out completely, during the short but eventful period of neglect and confusion interposed between the death of King Charles I. and the Restoration. The Puritans hated the Music of the Anglican Church most cordially. They regarded the destruction of every Organ and Office-Book which fell into their hands, as a religious duty; and, to the zeal with which they carried out their infamous system of spoliation, we are indebted for the loss of many a treasure bequeathed to us by our older Schools. Condemning all aspirations after the Beautiful as snares of the Evil One, they would not even suffer their children to be taught to sing; and those who had been taught in happier times, were speedily losing the youth ful freshness of their Voices, now doomed to perpetual silence. This bigotry of the Roundheads put an end to all hope of progress: but, happily, their term of power came to an end, before the traditions of the past were entirely forgotten. Men, who had done good service, before their career was interrupted by the Civil War, were still living, when, in the year 1660, the Restoration of Charles II. inaugurated a brighter future for music; and, to one of these the 'Merrie Monarch' wisely entrusted the reconstruction of the Choir of the Chapel Royal.^[37]

Henry Cook, the new 'Master of y^e Children,' had himself sung in the Chapel, as a Chorister, in the days of King Charles I.; and afterwards attained some reputation as a Composer: but, on the breaking out of the Rebellion, he relinquished his studies, for the purpose of joining the Royal Army; and in 1642 obtained a Captain's Commission, on which account he was afterwards known as Captain Cook. It has been said that his military prowess was greater than his musical talent; yet it is certain that he trained more than one of the best Composers of the rising School, and trained them well, though not without the assistance of able coadjutors. Among these learned colleagues were three quondam Choristers—Edward Lowe, Christopher Gibbons (the son of Orlando), and William Child, who, on the King's return, were appointed joint Organists of the Chapel. Another member of the older staff—Henry Lawes—was restored to Office, as Clerk of the Cheque, and commissioned to compose the Music for the approaching Coronation.^[38] The Music played by the 'Sagbutts and Cornets,' during the triumphal Procession from the Tower to Whitehall, was written by an old Chorister of Exeter Cathedral, Matthew Lock. This accomplished Musician performed his task so successfully, that he was immediately promoted to the Office of Composer in ordinary to the King; and, in that capacity, at once began to furnish new Music for the resuscitated Choir, and to assist his trusty fellow-labourers in their endeavour to recover the ground which had been lost. But, there were grave difficulties in the way. So many old Part-Books had been destroyed, that, had it not been for Barnard's 'First Book of Selected Church Musick,'^[39] there would have been little left to sing. Moreover, the difficulty of procuring Choir-Boys, in the face of Puritan superstition, was almost insuperable. In many Cathedrals, this dearth of Treble Voices led, not only to the extensive employment of adult Falsetti, but even to the substitution of Cornets for the Vocal Parts. Captain Cook, however, was fortunate enough to secure, for the Chapel Royal, a small body of Choristers, of superlative excellence, three of whom—Pelham Humfrey, John Blow, and Michael Wise—came at once to the front, and, before many years had passed, were openly recognised as the Founders of the new School. Strengthened by the Voices of these talented Boys, the Choir could scarcely fail to flourish; though its management was no easy task. The King, whose taste had been formed on the Continent, regarded the grand conceptions of Tallis and Byrd, and the solemn tones of the Organ, with far less favour than the lighter strains of the contemporary French School, and the more brilliant effect of a full Orchestra. He therefore filled the Organ-loft of the Chapel Royal with a band of Viols, Sagbutts, and Cornets; and, in order that they might produce the greater effect, commanded his Composers to intersperse their Anthems with a goodly proportion of cheerful Ritornelli, adapted to the powers of the new Instruments. They obeyed, of course, to the best of their ability. But, neither Lowe, nor Chr. Gibbons, nor even the more melodious Child, took kindly to the new French style, which must have sounded strange indeed to ears so long accustomed to the Polyphony of a byegone age. The two first-named Organists, indeed, contributed comparatively little Music of any kind to the repertoire of the newly-organised Choir: but Dr. Child was a voluminous Composer; and his works, though they will not bear comparison with those of Orlando Gibbons, retain much of his breadth of manner, and, notwithstanding their flowing vein of melody, show little affinity with the more modern Monodia which the King desired his Musicians to cultivate. Henry Lawes, on the contrary, was a zealous disciple of the Monodic School; and chiefly delighted in the confection of Sæcular Songs, which, though celebrated enough in their own day, and commended, by some of the best Poets of the age, for their prosodial accuracy, lack the genial freshness which alone can invest such works with enduring interest. There can be no doubt that in England, as well as in Italy, the earliest productions of the Monodic æra were pervaded by a perhaps unavoidable spirit of pedantry, which, however valuable it may have been as a preparation for better things, proved fatal to their own longevity. Beyond this transitional point Lawes never soared; and hence it is, that, while his Songs are now known only to the Antiquary, some of those written by his contemporary, Matthew Lock—who was, in every way, a greater Musician, and gifted with an infinitely richer imagination, and a far more liberal share of natural talent—are as popular to-day, as they were 200 years ago. There are, indeed, passages in Lock's Music to Macbeth, which can never grow old. Such Movements as 'When cattle die, about we go,' 'Let's have a dance upon the heath,' and the Echo Chorus, 'At the Night-Raven's dismal voice,' would have been welcomed as delightful novelties, in the days of Sir Henry Bishop; while the dramatic power exhibited in the Music,o the Third Act is quite strong enough to give olour to the theory which has been sometimes entertained, that Purcell himself made a transcript of the work, in the days of his youth, for purposes of study.^[40]

Yet, even this was not enough to meet the demands of the age. Subsequent events proved that the King expected greater things than either Lawes or Lock could produce; and he gained his end by a clever stroke of policy. Attracted by the evident talent of the new 'Children,' he encouraged them, not only to sing their best, but to make attempts at Composition, also. An opportunity for testing their proficiency in this more difficult branch of Art was soon found. To celebrate a Victory over the Dutch Fleet,^[41] a Thanksgiving Anthem was needed, at a few hours' notice. The news of the capture of the Enemy's ships arrived on a Saturday; and, finding that the King expected the Music to be performed on the following day, the Composers attached to the Chapel unanimously declined the task of furnishing it. The Choir had, by this time, been reinforced by a second set of Choristers, among whom were Thomas Tudway, William Turner, and the greatest genius of the age, Henry Purcell. Such a company of Choir-Boys had probably never before, and has, certainly, never since, been gathered together. And its youthful members must have been well aware of their own value; for three of them—Humfrey, Blow, and Turner—undertook the task which their elders had declined, and jointly produced the so-called 'Club-Anthem,' 'I will alway give ^[42]thanks,' Humfrey furnishing the first Movement, Turner the second, and Blow the concluding Chorus. This, at least, is the origin ascribed to that once-famous Composition, by Dr. Tudway: and, though the authority of his personal recollection must be weighed against certain chronological difficulties with which the subject is surrounded,^[43] it is clear that the youth of the associated Composers tends in no wise to diminish the credibility of the story; for, as early as Nov. 22, 1663, Pepys tells us that 'The Anthem was good after Sermon, being the 51st Psalme, made for five Voices by one of Captain Cooke's Boys, a pretty Boy. And they say there are four or five of them that can do as much.' The 'pretty Boy' was, in all probability, Pelham himself, then between 15 and 16 years old: and we are quite safe in regarding him, and his 'four or five' fellow-Choristers, as the true Founders of the School of the Restoration.

The basis upon which this School was built was an entirely new Art-form, as original in its conception, and as purely English in its character, as the Glee. What the Motet was, to the School which preceded the change of Religion, and the Full-Anthem to that which immediately followed it, the Verse-Anthem was to the School we are now considering. Designed, in the first instance, to gratify King Charles's 'brisk and airy' taste, this new creation, notwithstanding the name universally applied to it, bore far less resemblance to the Anthem, properly so called, than to the more modern Cantata; from which it differed, chiefly, in that it was written, in most cases, for a greater number of Voices, that it was supported by an Organ Accompaniment, and that it invariably terminated, even if it did not begin, with a Chorus. Its Movements were usually short; and written in a style partaking pretty equally of the more salient features of rhythmic Melody and Accompanied Recitative. Frequent Ritornelli were introduced, in obedience to the King's express command; and the general character of the whole was more florid, by many degrees, than anything that had yet been heard in English Church Music, and so arranged as to display the Solo Voices to the best advantage.

Verse passages—i.e. passages for Solo Voices—were also freely introduced into the newer 'Services,' from which the Fugal Imitations of the 16th century were gradually eliminated, in order to prepare the way for a more flowing style of Melody. Sometimes, though not very frequently, these passages were varied, as in the Verse Anthem, by the interpolation of Instrumental Ritornelli; while the venerable Gregorian Psalm-Tones were gradually replaced, first by the Single, and afterwards by the Double Chaunt.

Pelham Humfrey was the first Composer who achieved any real success in this new style of Composition. On the breaking of his Voice, he was sent, at the King's expense, to the Continent, where he studied, for some time, under Lulli. Pepys speaks of his return to England, 'an absolute Monsieur,' in November, 1667. That was by that time thoroughly imbued, both with the principles and the practice of the French School, there can be no doubt. But, he was no servile imitator, even of Lulli. There is a grace, even in his boldest Licences, that at once proclaims him a true genius; and an originality in his method which would have stamped him for ever as a Master, even had he found no followers to assist him in forming a School. He delighted in the use of the Chromatic Semitone, and other Intervals rigidly excluded from the works of the older Contrapuntists; and produced new, and extremely pleasing effects, by the constant alternation of his Solo Voices, to which he allotted short responsive phrases, contrasted together in delightful variety, and always so contrived as to give due prominence to the meaning of the Sacred Text. All these peculiarities of manner he shared so liberally with his Choir-mate, Michael Wise, that the points of resemblance between the styles of the two Masters are almost innumerable. In flowing grace, and tenderness of expression, they were so nearly equal that it is sometimes impossible to choose between them. In no essential particular does the method of Part-writing originated by the one differ from that adopted by the other. Their works are designed upon an exactly similar plan, and are evidently based upon exactly similar intentions. But, in sustaining power, the advantage was decidedly in Humfrey's favour. His phrases are always compact, and firmly knit together in true logical sequence; while, as a general rule, the Anthems of Wise are broken into an infinity of fragmentary passages, which, despite their pleasing changes of expression, lack the continuity of idea which undoubtedly gives a higher tone to many of Humfrey's more fully developed Movements.

Blow treated the Verse Anthem somewhat differently. Without seriously interfering, either with its general intention, or with the rough outline of its curiously irregular form, he not only developed it at greater length than had before been attempted, but contrived to clothe it with a certain individuality which marks a clear stage on the path of progress. Though unable to compete with Humfrey, or Wise, in gentleness of expression, he was always melodious, and always interesting; and if, in some of his more ambitious works—as, for instance, his two most popular Anthems, 'I was in the spirit,' And, 'I beheld, and lo! a great multitude'—he failed to reach the sublimity of the Text he illustrated, he undoubtedly prepared the way for greater things. His full Anthems—such as 'The Lord hear thee,' and 'God is our hope'—are written in a style more broad and forcible than that of either of his talented rivals; and his Services are admirable: yet he has not always received full justice at the hands of modern critics. Burney, generally so fair, and courteous, even in his censures, fills four crowded pages with examples of 'Dr. Blow's crudities'; a large proportion of which are less harsh, by far, than many a cutting discord in daily use among more modern Composers; while others—like the 'monstrous combinations' so severely condemned by the editor of Byrd's 'Cantiones Sacræ'—are clearly founded upon clerical errors in the older copies. The truth is, neither Burney, nor Horsley, seem to have attached sufficient significance to the fact, that, in the matter of Licences, our English composers were always in advance of their Continental contemporaries.^[44] We cannot ignore this peculiarity: and, (making due allowance for self-evident misprints,) it would be much better to accept it as a characteristic of our national style—which it certainly is—than to join with Burney in abusing the taste of our forefathers, or to say, with Horsley, that 'their practice was bad,' with regard to progressions, which, even when satisfactorily proved against them, are found, in many cases, to be perfectly defensible. There is, surely, very little to censure, in the following example from Blow; while the 'monstrous' G♮, in that from Byrd, is evidently intended for E, in response to the Altus in the preceding bar.

(Condemned by Dr. Burney).

Dr. Blow.

(Condemned by W. Horsley.)

W. Byrd.

Passing on to the second set of Choristers, we find Drs. Turner and Tudway doing good work in their generation, though distinguished by far less brilliant talents than their more illustrious predecessors. But, the works of these really accomplished writers will bear no comparison with those of their great contemporary, Henry Purcell, a genius of whom any country might well have been proud.

It is difficult to say whether the English School owes most to Purcell's Compositions for the Church or for the Theatre; for he wrote with equal success for both; displaying in his Sacred Music the gravity inseparable from a devout appreciation of its true purpose; and in his Operas a greater amount of dramatic power than had ever before been exhibited by any of his countrymen, and more than had often been heard, even in Venice. In every branch of the Art he practised he was invariably in advance of his age; not by a few short decads, but, by little less than a century. This assertion may seem extravagant, but it is capable of plain demonstration. Purcell wrote his Music to 'The Tempest,' including 'Full fathom five' and 'Come unto these yellow sands,' in 1690. Dr. Arne wrote his, including 'Where the bee sucks,' in 1746. Yet, the style is as advanced—we might almost say, as modern—in the one case, as in the other, and as little likely to be set aside as 'old-fashioned.' It may be said that the difference of calibre between Purcell and Arne is too great to justify the mention of their names in the same breath. It may be so. But our argument extends to greater men than Arne. Seb. Bach, who was exactly 10 years and 8 months old on the day of Purcell's death, astonishes us by the flexibility of his Part-writing, in which the most beautiful effects are constantly produced by means of Intervals sedulously avoided by the older Contrapuntists. In all this, Purcell was beforehand with the German Master. In his well-known Anthem, 'O give thanks,' he uses the Diminished Fourth, at the words, 'He is gracious,' with an effect as pathetic as that which Bach draws from it in the 'Passion Music.' We do not say that he was the first to employ this beautiful Interval—for it was used by Orlando Gibbons:^[45] but, he was the first to make it a prominent feature; and the first to demonstrate its true place in the Gamut of Expression. Again, in the splendid 'Te Deum' and 'Jubilate' composed for S. Cæcilia's Day, 1694, and afterwards sung, for 18 years successively, in S. Paul's Cathedral, at the Festival of the Sons of the Clergy, there are passAges of the most advanced character: notably one, beginning at the eighth bar of the introductory Symphony, in which the Discords struck by the Trumpets are resolved by the Violins, and vice versa, with a boldness which has never been exceeded.

It would be difficult to find two passages more unlike each other, in detail and expression, than this, and the alternate Chords for Stringed and Wind Instruments in Beethoven's ^[46]Symphony in C minor: yet, in principle, they are absolutely identical, both owing their origin to a constructive peculiarity which Purcell turned to good account more than a hundred years before the idea suggested itself to Beethoven. And this is not the only remarkable point in the first English 'Te Deum' that was ever enriched with full Orchestral Accompaniments. The alternation of Solo Voices and Chorus is managed with exquisite skill; and sometimes—as at the words 'To Thee Cherubim,' and 'Holy, Holy, Holy,'—produces quite an unexpected, though a perfectly legitimate effect. The Fugal Points, in the more important Choruses, though developed at no great length, are treated with masterly clearness, and a grandeur of conception well worthy of the sublime Poetry to which the Music is wedded. The Instrumentation, too, is admirable, throughout, notwithstanding the limited resources of the Orchestra; the clever management of the Trumpets—the only Wind Instruments employed—producing an endless variety of contrast, which, conspicuous everywhere, reaches its climax in the opening Movement of the 'Jubilate'—an Alto Solo, with Trumpet obbligato—in which the colouring is as strongly marked as in the masterpieces of the 18th century. Judged as a whole, this splendid work may fairly be said to unite all the high qualities indispensable to a Composition of the noblest order. The simplicity of its outline could scarcely be exceeded; yet it is conceived on the grandest possible scale, and elaborated with an earnestness of purpose which proves its Composer to have been not merely a learned Musician, and a man of real genius, but also a profound thinker. And it is precisely to this earnestness of purpose, this careful thought, this profound intention, that Purcell's Music owes its immeasurable superiority to that of the best of his fellow-labourers. We recognise the influence of a great Ideal in everything he touches; in his simplest Melodies, as clearly a in his more highly finished Cantatas; in his Birthday Odes, and Services, no less than in his magnificent Verse Anthems—the finest examples of the later School of English Cathedral Music we possess. The variety of treatment displayed in these charming Compositions is inexhaustible. Whatever may be the sentiment of the words, the Music is always coloured in accordance with it; and always worthy of its subject. It has been said that he errs, sometimes, in attempting too literal an interpretation of his text, as in the Anthem, 'They that go down to the sea in ships,' which begins with a Solo for the Bass Voice, starting upon the D above the Stave, and descending, by degrees, two whole Octaves, to the D below it. No doubt, this passage is open to a certain amount of censure—or would be so, if it were less artistically put together. Direct imitation of Nature, in Music, like Onomatopoiea, in Poetry, is incompatible with the highest aspirations of Art. Still, there is scarcely one of our greatest Composers who has not, at some time or other, been tempted to indulge in it—witness Handel's Plague of Flies, Haydn's imitation of the crowing of the ^[47]Cock, Beethoven's Cuckoo, Quail, and Nightingale, and Mendelssohn's Donkey. We all condemn these passages, in theory, and not without good reason: yet we always listen to them with pleasure. Why? Because, apart from their materialistic aspect, which cannot be defended, they are good and beautiful Music. A listener unacquainted with the song of the Cuckoo, or the bray of the Donkey, would accept them, as conceived in the most perfect taste imaginable. And we have only to ignore the too persistent realism in Purcell's passage also, in order to listen to it with equal satisfaction; for, it is not only grandly conceived, but admirably fitted, by its breadth of design, and dignity of expression, to serve as the opening of an Anthem which teems with noble thoughts, from beginning to end.^[48]

This peculiar feature in Purcell's style naturally leads us to the consideration of another, and a very brilliant attribute of his genius—its intense dramatic power. His Operas were no less in advance of the age than his Anthems, his Odes, or his Cantatas, his keen perception of the proprieties of the Stage no less intuitive than Mozart's. The history of his first Opera, 'Dido and Æneas,' written, in 1675 [App. p.785 "as to the date of Purcell's 'Dido and Æneas,' see Purcell in Appendix"], for the pupils at a private boarding-school in Leicester Fields, is very suggestive. Though he produced this fine work at the early age of 17, it not only shows no sign of youthful indecision, but bears testimony, in a very remarkable manner, to the boldness of his genius. Scorning all compromise, he was not content to produce a Play, with incidental Songs, after the fashion of the times; but set the whole of the Dialogue in Recitative. Now, among the numerous qualifications indispensable to a really great dramatic Composer, the most important, by far, is that innate perception of rhetorical truth without which good declamation is impossible. Perfect elocution is as necessary to the development of scenic power as perfect acting: and Recitative, which, instead of assisting the effective delivery of the text, serves only as an hindrance to it, must be radically bad. Lulli, following the example of the Italian Monodic Composers, bore this carefully in mind, and hence, in great measure, his Operas were so extraordinarily successful. Pelham Humfrey had seen enough of Lulli, in Paris, to understand this position, perfectly; and, no doubt, he imparted much of his experience to his promising pupil: but Purcell, from the very first, took higher ground than either Humfrey, or even Lulli himself. It is not too much to say that the declamatory consistency of his Recitative has never been surpassed. It is so true to Nature, and shows so intimate an acquaintance with the genius of the English language, that no good Singer, resigning himself to its lead, can possibly misconceive his part. Its command of delineation is unlimited. Passing, constantly, from the unaccompanied to the accompanied form, and, from this, to the more highly-wrought phrases of Recitativo a tempo, or Aria parlante, it becomes, alternately, a vehicle for the expression of profound pathos, or passionate excitement. Moreover, its adaptability to the individual character of the Scene, even in situations of the most powerful dramatic interest, is very remarkable. In many of Purcell's Operas, we meet with very near approaches to the Romantic. And the Music is always equal to the emergency. One of the highest flights he ever attempted, in this particular direction, is to be found in the Frost Scene in 'King Arthur'; in which the shivering Voice of the Genius of Cold is brought into contrast with the bright Song of Cupid, by means as legitimate as those used, in the 'Zauberflöte,' for the purpose of contrasting the 'Hm, hm, hm, hm,' of Papageno with the Voices of the Three Boys. This, however, is only one case, out of many. Wherever the necessity for a master-stroke presents itself, Purcell is invariably found ready to meet it.

In summing up our estimate of the genius of this most gifted writer, we cannot but be struck by its wonderful versatility. His Overtures and Act-Tunes are as interesting as his Choruses. His Instrumental Chamber Music, if inferior to that of Corelli, ranks far above that of any other writer of the period; and, in the difficult art of writing upon a Ground-Bass, he was never even approached, before the time of Handel—the only Composer who has ever yet succeeded in investing that particular form of construction with a perfectly unfettered aspect. That he was largely indebted to Lulli, in the first instance, there can be no doubt; and he himself made no secret of his admiration for the works of the Italian Monodic Composers: but, he passed them all, as Handel passed Ariosti, and Haydn, Porpora. The only one of his contemporaries who can fairly claim to be placed by his side is Alessandro Scarlatti; between whose work and his own a strong analogy may be traced. But, Scarlatti lived 66 years, and Purcell only 37. How he contrived to accomplish so vast an amount of work in so short a life-time is a secret which we shall best understand by comparing his career with that of Schubert, to whom he is very closely allied, by his indefatigable industry, the exhaustless range of his productive power, the spontaneity of his conception, and the intensity of his devotion to an Art which, from first to last, formed the mainspring of his existence.

We have dwelt so long upon the work of our greatest native Musician, that we have but little space left for the consideration of that accomplished by his successors, though some of these have left us Compositions which we could ill afford to lose. We have already spoken of two sets of Choristers, educated in the Chapel Royal. That famous nursery of Art produced yet a third set, educated, for the most part, under Dr. Blow.^[49] Among these were, Jeremiah Clarke, and William Croft, Mus.Doc.; the former, celebrated for the exquisite tenderness of his style, which finds its most touching expression in the well-known Anthem, for Treble, Solo, and Chorus, 'How long wilt thou forget me'—an embodiment of pathos only too applicable to the sad history of the Composer's life; the latter, one of the most conscientious, as well as the most prolific of our Cathedral writers, whose Anthems and Services, all characterised by masterly workmanship, true musicianlike feeling, and even—as in 'Cry aloud and shout'—by something approaching sublimity, are little less popular at the present day than they were a hundred years ago. To the names of these Composers must be added those of some excellent Musicians, who, though educated in other Choirs, almost all become Gentlemen of the Chapel Royal in later life; notably, those of Drs. Greene, Boyce, and Nares, John Goldwin, John Weldon, and the clerical amateurs, Drs. Holder, Creyghton, and Aldrich, who all did good service to their Church, and their Art, and are gratefully remembered in every Choir in England. Had Purcell's life been spared, these men would have supplemented his work with no ignoble contributions to the archives of the School. Greene, and Nares, though a little too much inclined to sæcularity of manner, were thorough masters of Melody; the few Compositions we possess, by Creyghton, are marked by an originality which could not but have led to excellent results, had his pen been more productive; while Weldon, Boyce, and Aldrich, needed only a greater breadth of style to raise their works to a more than satisfactory level. But their leader was taken from their head. Purcell left no one behind him capable of raising the School to a higher level than it had already attained, or even of worthily supporting it at the point indicated by his own magnificent beginning. A period of decadence was, therefore, inevitable; and no more successes were recorded, after his early death, in 1694 [App. p.785 "1695"], until an unexpected importation of foreign talent so changed the aspect of affairs that the brightest triumphs of the past were forgotten in the anticipation of a still more splendid future.

XXV. Though The Italian Schools of the 18th Century are most noticeable for the influence they exercised upon the Opera Buffa, in the earlier stages of its development, they also witnessed a steady advance, in Serious Music of all kinds. In the Sacred Music of Leo and Feo, and still more in that of Marcello and Durante, we find the sober gravity of Carissimi and Alessandro Scarlatti clothed with a grace unknown to any of the Composers of the preceding century; a happy union of the best qualities of the Monodic style with the stronger features of a modified system of Counterpoint, not altogether unlike that which was already preparing so great a future for Germany. Leo and Feo—both pupils of Pitoni, one of the last survivors of the Polyphonic æra—inclined most lovingly to the massive combinations which alone can invest a full Chorus with becoming dignity; supporting their Voice Parts by an Instrumental Accompaniment, equally remarkable for the breadth of its conception, and the purity of its effect. Marcello, caring less for the sublime than the beautiful, engrafted upon the softer graces of the Venetian manner a polished ease entirety his own; and, never losing sight of the calm sobriety of treatment without which good Sacred Music cannot exist, invented a style too refined, like that of Durante, to become 'old-fashioned,' even in our own day.^[50] Nearly all these Composers, except Durante, wrote for the Theatre, as well as for the Church; as did also their fellow-countrymen, Porpora, Domenico Scarlatti, Vinci, Jomelli, and many others of less celebrity; and their united efforts gradually formed a style which found its way into many distant parts of Europe. Increased attention had long been given to the cultivation of the Voice; and Airs, demanding powers of execution before unnecessary, were now expected, as a matter of course, not only in the Opera, but in the Oratorio. New Divisions were daily invented, for the purpose of exhibiting the dexterity of Singers, who vied with each other in their determination to overcome difficulties before unheard of. Arie di bravura^[51] were gradually substituted for the more simple and declama tory Melodies of an earlier period. These Airs, however, were always well constructed, enriched by judiciously arranged Accompaniments, and often full of genuine dramatic fire, as may be seen in the following passage from a once famous but long forgotten example by Vinci.

In an age which boasted sufficient facility of invention to produce such passages as these, and Singers capable of doing them justice, the step from Opera Seria to Opera Buffa was but a short one. It needed only the exuberant spirits of some bright Neapolitan Composer to strike out a new idea worth cultivating, and such a Composer was found in Logroscino. We have already mentioned the radical change effected in the constitution of the Lyric Drama by this talented writer's invention of the Concerted Finale.^[52] To that, and to the transcendant genius of Pergolesi, and his successors, Galuppi, Sacchini, Piccinni, Paisiello, and Cimarosa, the Neapolitan and other Italian Schools owe the extraordinary excellence of their Opera Buffa. Equally guiltless of the triviality by which its foreign imitations have been degraded on the one hand, and the heaviness which has oppressed them on the other, the lighter forms of Italian Opera have never lost either the sprightly gaiety or the indescribable refinement imparted to them by the Masters who first showed the possibility of presenting Comedy, as well as Tragedy, in a Lyric dress: and hence it is that the true Opera Buffa, notwithstanding its extreme, and sometimes extravagant lightness, still claims an artistic status which cannot fairly be accorded to the Comic Operas produced in any country north of the Alps.

XXVI. In turning from the Italian to The German Schools of the 18th Century, one cannot but be struck by the strange contrasts presented in the history of Sacred Music in the two countries. With Leonardo Leo, the grand Italian style died out. Neither Durante, Pergolesi, nor Jomelli, made any attempt to cultivate it; and the travesties of Guglielmi correspond too closely with the history of his life to conduce to the dignity of Sacred Art. The best period of the grand German style, on the contrary, was, at this epoch, only just beginning to dawn. It originated, as we have seen, in the days of Michael Prætorius, with a growing taste for Vocal Music with Instrumental Accompaniment. The elder Bachs, and their contemporaries, took care that this did not degenerate into the weakness inseparable from unrelieved Monodia. Bearing in mind the lessons imported from Venice by Hasler, they fully appreciated the grandeur of effect producible by the simultaneous motion of a multiplicity of independent Parts; and having learned by experience the secret of accommodating that motion to the varying character of the Instruments they employed, and of justly balancing against each other their masses of Vocal and Instrumental Harmony, they succeeded, within a very short space of time, in laying the foundations of a School the essential features of which have lasted to the present day.

Passing from the works of this transitional period to those produced but a very few years later, we find the more prominent features of the style exhibited, in fullest perfection, in the Compositions of two writers who are sometimes erroneously supposed to have invented it. Sebastian Bach, and Henrich Graun, having passed their infancy among the earlier Masters of this new Polyodic School,^[53] had learned its secrets so thoroughly, that, on their arrival at an age which enabled them to think for themselves, they found no difficulty in turning them to such account as had never before been contemplated. Among these secrets were two, of greater importance than the rest, which seem simple enough, to us, though their development into fixed principles was a slow one.

(1) That Voices, supported by Instrumental Accompaniment, can sing many Intervals which cannot be safely entrusted to them without the aid of, at least, a Thorough-Bass.

(2) That there are, nevertheless, certain Intervals, which do not produce a good effect, without some kind of Instrumental Accompaniment, even though sung by Voices capable of taking them in tune, without adventitious aid.

No doubt, these two truisms—as we should now call them—had been impressed upon Seb. Bach's mind, from the days of his youth. At any rate, he made such good use of them, that the Diminished Fourth became as practicable and as plastic in his hands, as the Minor Sixth in those of Palestrina. His successors have admitted their validity, also; but not in an equal degree. No objection has ever been raised against the first law: but, neglect of the second has led to the manifest inferiority of the German Part-Song to the English Glee.

Seb. Bach wrote comparatively little Sæcular Music, of any kind, and none for the Theatre. Graun wrote many Operas, both German and Italian. Most of these were successful: but, long before his time, the German Opera had already been established, on a firm basis, at Hamburg, by Reinhard Keiser, an account of whose work will be found at pp. 507–8 of our second volume, with some mention of that effected by Mattheson, and other writers who flourished at the beginning of the century. After their disappearance, the farther development of Serious Opera in Germany depended almost entirely on the exertions of the indefatigable Graun; for Hasse, though he was born in North Germany, and attained his high reputation in Dresden, was as much a disciple of the Neapolitan School as Durante, or Porpora; while Gluck, though equally devoted to the Italian School in early life, achieved his greatest triumph in that of France. Meanwhile, a distinct School of Comic Opera was established, at Leipzig, by Adam Hiller; the originator of that peculiar form of 'Singspiel,' with spoken Dialogue, which represents the German idea of the Musical Drama as distinctly as the 'Dramma per la musica' does the Italian. [ Vol. ii. p. 519. ]

And no less rich was the Germany of the 18th century in her Instrumental than in her Vocal Schools. The long line of Bachs handed down their victories over the difficulties of the Organ, from father to son, until Johann Sebastian played as no man had ever played before him, brought the Instrumental Fugue to a degree of perfection which has never since been equalled, and dowered, not only the Organ and Harpsichord, but many a Stringed and Wind Instrument also, to say nothing of the full Orchestra, with a whole library of Compositions, the worth of which has not even yet been fully appreciated. No man then living was able to compete on equal terms with the author of these stupendous works; yet there was no dearth of gifted writers, whose readiness to build upon the foundation provided for them by his marvellous industry led to very important results. Johann Christian Bach carried on his father's work, in London, with earnestness, and success. Carl Philipp Emanuel followed it up, still more effectively, in Berlin, and Hamburg; and, by his refined style of playing, no less than by his delightful Compositions, raised the reputation of his favourite Instrument, the Harpsichord, to very nearly the highest point it was destined to attain, before the career of the fine old 'Clavicembalo' was abruptly terminated by the irresistible attractions of the newly-invented Piano-Forte. And thus arose a style of Music, so well adapted to the capabilities of the Keyboard, that we, with the Piano-forte within our reach, are thankful to return to it, and, wearied with the frivolities of a too facile execution, to refresh our ears with passages designed rather to please than to astonish.

XXVII. But, during the second half of the century, the remembrance of all these Masters was completely swept away by the rising fame of Haydn and Mozart—two giants, who placed between The School of Vienna and that of the Bachs a fathomless abyss which no amount of critical ingenuity will ever satisfactorily bridge over.

Of Haydn we shall speak more particularly, when treating of the structural change by which he revolutionised Instrumental Music; though his Dramatic Works, written for Prince Esterhazy's Theatre, deserve more attention than has yet been devoted to them. To Mozart, the German Lyric Drama owes, not only its most precious possessions, but its splendid position at the head of the Schools of Europe. His genius, breaking down all distinctions of manner, whether popular or scholastic, acknowledged no law but that of Nature. By pure instinct he learned so to blend the brightness of Italian Melody with the sterner combinations suggested by German Thought, that it is impossible either to affiliate him to any recognised family of Composers, or to decide upon the nationality of his style. To say, as critics have said, that he was more Italian than German, is absurd: yet the converse would be no nearer the truth. As a dramatic writer he stands alone. He was not the mere creator of a School: he was the School itself the source of its inspiration, its moving principle, its inmost soul. He did not even invent it, in the ordinary sense of the word. It came to him as a part of his nature—a wealth of genius, which, added to that bequeathed by Haydn and Beethoven, made the School of Vienna the richest in the world. If ever there was a case in which the glorious freedom of natural talent carried all before it, it was his. The dry formality, too often engendered by the cultivation of learning at the expense of feeling and expression, vanished, in his presence, like mist before a sunbeam. Learned he was, indeed, beyond the wisest of his contemporaries: yet he wrote, not from the head, but from the heart; and almost always produced his happiest effects by means before untried. Whether we study him in his instrumental or vocal phrases, in his Symphonies or his Masses, his Quartets or his Operas, we always find him pressing resolutely forward, on untrodden paths, in pursuit of some new ideal beauty which he alone had power to conceive. One good thing only did he condescend to borrow. For the outward form of his Instrumental Movements he was indebted to the ingenuity of another mind, as fertile as his own: a mind which exercised so vast an influence over the whole realm of Art, that it is impossible to exaggerate the importance, either of the principles it enuntiated, or the mission it accomplished.

And here it is that Haydn asserts his claim to notice, as one of the greatest musical reformers of any age.

Sebastian Bach died in 1750, when the Composer of 'The Creation' was just eighteen years and five months old—a chronological certainty to which, if it rested on internal evidence, we should refuse credence. With the 'Suites Françaises' of the one Master, and the 'Twelve Grand Symphonies' of the other, before us, we might well expect to find two such works separated by at least a century of thought and progress. Yet Bach was still alive, while Haydn, in his garret in the KohlMarkt, was patiently working out, by his own unaided genius, that justly famous 'Sonata-form,' which holds, in Music, a place analogous to that of the Vertebrate Skeleton in the Animal Kingdom, serving, in one or other of its countless modifications, as the basis of every great Instrumental Composition that has been given to the world since it was first evolved from the 'Allemande,' the 'Courante,' and the 'Allegro' of the old 'Suite de Pièces.' We need not stay to analyse this ingenious device, which is fully described elsewhere.^[54] Our present purpose extends no farther than the indication of its just position in the technical History of Music. No gift so precious has since been offered at the Shrine of Art. Its value has been acknowledged by the practice of every great Composer, from Mozart's day to our own: and it is noticeable that every Composer is seen at his greatest, when he most freely acknowledges his obligation to the 'Father of the Symphony.' This argues no want of originality among later Masters. For 'Papa Haydn's' invention is founded upon a great principle: and, until some still greater one shall be discovered, the Composer who ignores it runs the risk of producing an ill-planned Movement, the defects of which can no more be condoned by the perfection of its details, than the monstrosities of an ill-formed skeleton can be concealed by the softness of the fur which covers it. The 18th century may therefore be said to govern the Instrumental Schools of the present day, by means of this invaluable contrivance, not only in Germany, but throughout Europe.

XXVIII. The history of The French School of the 18th Century divides itself into two distinct periods, quite unconnected with each other.

Too jealous to endure the thought of a rival, the Italian, Lulli, worked for himself alone, and left neither disciple nor worthy successor. It is true that his fame long outlived him; but, meanwhile, Art was at a stand-still: and it was not until many years after his death that France herself produced a genius capable of advancing his work. The right man was found at last in Rameau, who was recognised as one of the most learned Theorists in Europe, long before he attempted to lay the foundation of a new School of Dramatic Composition, and was, therefore, the better fitted to carry out his task with dignity. Yet, notwithstanding his reputation, he found it difficult to obtain a hearing: and it was not until the production of his 'Hippolyte et Aricie,' in 1733, that his talent received its due reward. Then, indeed, his name became deservedly popular; and, in his 'Castor et Pollux,' 'Dardanus,' and many later Operas, he introduced improvements in form, expression, management of the Orchestra, and general dramatic effect, which Lulli had never anticipated, and which soon raised the French Opera to a level it had never before seemed likely to attain. The suddenness of his success was probably in a great measure due to the strongly-marked character of his well-arranged ideas. The 'Rigaudon'^[55] in 'Dardanus' is as full of genuine fire as a Bourrée from the Suites of Seb. Bach. One can readily understand how such Movements as this must have taken the Parisians, accustomed to the dead-level of Lulli's poorest imitators, by storm. The misfortune was, that Rameau, like Lulli, found no one to succeed him; and it was not until ten years after his death that French Opera owed another regeneration to another foreigner.

The arrival of Gluck in Paris, in 1774, marks one of the most important epochs in the History of Music, and one of the most curious anomalies in that of national Schools. Born a German, with all a German's love for solid Harmony, Gluck studied in Italy, wrote Italian Operas, conceived the first idea of his great reform in England, tried in vain to introduce it in his own country, and finally, with the aid of a French Librettist, achieved his greatest triumph in French Opera, at Paris. The history of that triumph is too well known to need repetition.^[56] But it is impossible to lay too much stress upon the fact, that, from circumstance, and not from choice, it was French Opera that Gluck reformed. Germany would have nothing to say to his improvements. France received them. And, notwithstanding the opposition of the Piccinists, it was the French School that reaped the first benefit of a movement which will probably leave its mark upon Art as long as the Opera shall last. What is this mark? It is necessary that we should be able to recognise, not only its outward form, but the spirit of which that form is the symbol: for, if rightly understood, it will furnish us with a key to more than one very difficult problem connected with our present position; whereas, if misinterpreted, it cannot fail to lead us into fatal error.

From the moment in which he first entertained the idea of remodelling the Lyric Drama, until that of his greatest triumph, Gluck had but one end in view—the presentment of pure dramatic truth. To secure this, he was willing to sacrifice symmetry of Form, continuity of Melody, regularity of Rhythm, flexibility of Voice, or any other means of effect which he felt to be unsuited to the situation with which he had to deal. But, under no circumstances whatever was he prepared to sacrifice euphony. Neither in his practice, nor in the detailed exposition of his theory which he has given to the world, does he ever hint at the possibility of this. Yet it has become a common thing to cite his authority in justification of enormities which would have made his hair stand on end. The best answer to this misconstruction will be found in the Operas he wrote after he had cast aside the trammels of conventional treatment, and learned to think for himself. In these great works, planned in full accordance with the principles laid down in his preface to 'Alceste,' he does indeed, over and over again, refrain from introducing a telling Melody into a Score unsuited to its character; but he takes care that the Music which supplies its place shall always be good and beautiful; and it is precisely because this condition is too often neglected, by some who profess themselves his most devoted admirers, that we feel bound to lay more than ordinary stress upon it here. In discussing the peculiarities of later Schools, we shall probably refer to the subject once more. Meanwhile, let it be clearly understood, that, whatever may be the opinion of more modern authorities, Gluck, at least, never believed ideal beauty to be incompatible with dramatic truth.

XXIX. The English School of the 18th Century also owes its chief glories to a foreigner, who, naturalised in this country, found his attempts to meet and lead the taste of an English audience rewarded by inspirations grander than any with which he had been previously visited.

Handel made his first public appearance in London on Feb. 24, 1711, fifteen years and three months after the sad day on which the brightest prospects of the School of the Restoration had been clouded by the death of Henry Purcell. During this period of respectable stagnation, no native Musician had ventured, either to strike out a new path, or to take up the work, on the old lines, where Purcell had left it. Yet it is certain that, notwithstanding this, the national taste had not deteriorated. Purcell had so far raised its standard, that, when Handel demanded a hearing, he found an intelligent and thoroughly appreciative audience only too glad to do him justice. He achieved his earliest successes at the Queen's Theatre, in the Haymarket. But we need not speak of these. Had we not already described his Operas^[57] we should scarcely feel justified in classing them among the productions of an English School: for, though composed in England, for an English audience, performed at an English theatre, and printed exclusively (until within the last few years) by English music-sellers, they were written in the Italian language, to be sung by Italian Vocalists. But, side by side with these Italian pieces grew up a collection of English works, in a style which has never yet been fully appreciated, save in the land of its birth. A style more impressive than any that had been conceived, since the decadence of Polyphony; more colossal in its proportions than the grandest combinations of Leo, or Colonna, or the most elaborate productions of the German Polyodic period; and more true to Nature, in its endless varieties of expression, than any form of Dramatic Music previously cultivated. We first find this new phase of thought distinctly asserted in the 'Utrecht Te Deum and Jubilate,' composed in 1713—though traces of it are not wanting in the 'Birthday Ode,' produced a few months earlier. In the twelve 'Chandos Anthems,' written in 1718–20, for the Chapel at Cannons, it is present throughout; and, in 'Esther,' and 'Acis and Galatea,' composed for the Duke of Chandos in 1720 and 1721, we should feel inclined to say that it had reached its full perfection, but for the still greater degree of sublimity attained in 'Deborah,' in 1733. After this, Handel's genius never flagged. Though his works succeeded each other with astonishing rapidity, no weakness or haste was perceptible in any of them: and, in all his Oratorios, Odes, Anthems, and other choral works, with English words, this massive style was used as the basis of everything. It differed from the method of Seb. Bach, in many essential particulars; and may easily be distinguished from that of synchronous Masters by its stupendous breadth, and its scrupulous avoidance of harsh collisions. Its grandest effects are almost always produced when the means used seem the most simple: for Handel never wrote a multitude of notes when a few would answer his purpose. And hence it is that his Music bears, towards the greatest monuments of German Art, a relation not unlike that which Lord Prudhoe's Lions bear to those in Trafalgar Square—a single touch, in the one, producing the effect which, in the other, cost fifty. Yet the touches were never rough. No less conspicuous than their strength was their unbroken Wohlklang—their never-failing pleasantness of sound. Even throughout the part of Polyphemus—and, surely, we may look upon that as an extreme case—the actual progressions are as smooth as Art can make them; and produce their effect, without the aid of that strange power of drawing Harmony out of Discord which forms so prominent a feature in the method of Seb. Bach. It is to the joint effect of this perfect Harmony and gigantic scale, that the style owes the recognition it has so long commanded. It is certain that our great-great-grandfathers liked it; and it says much for the audiences of the 18th century, that they were able to take pleasure in the unadorned sublimity of many a grand conception, which can only be made endurable to the general public in the 19th, by the aid of a Regimental Band.^[58] No School can possibly be formed, where there are no willing listeners: and, in this case, the genius of the Founder met its complement in the appreciative power of the audiences that gathered around him, at the King's Theatre, and Vauxhall, and the Chapel of the Foundling Hospital. But, as with Lulli in France, so it was with Handel in England. The School died out with the Master. Arne was in earnest, and did his best: yet, how could a man of ordinary stature carry on the work of a giant? Arnold and the Hayes family were pigmies, even compared with Arne. There was no one else to take the lead in Sacred Music: but the Opera was not altogether neglected. In the hands of Storace, Dibdin, Hook, and Shield—four talented Composers, whose fresh and graceful Melodies earned for them a vast popularity—it assumed a form quite different from that practised in any Continental School, yet by no means destitute of merits. Encumbered with a superfluity of spoken Dialogue, in which nearly the whole of the action was carried on, it contented itself with an artistic status far below that of the German 'Singspiel,' or the French 'Opéra Comique': but it yielded to neither in the spontaneity of its conception; and, if it fell beneath them in breadth of design, it was their equal in freshness of idea and geniality of treatment. Its Melodies were essentially English: so much so, that we still cherish many of them, as the happiest and most expressive Ballads we possess. But its one great fault was the almost total absence of dramatic power. Where this is wanting, the Lyric Drama can never achieve real greatness: and, that it was wanting here, must be evident to all who study the period. But for this, it is probable that the School we are describing might have led to something very much better. As it is, it has passed away for ever.

We have dwelt thus long upon the history of the 18th century, because it was as much the 'Golden Age' of Modern Music as the 16th was of Polyphony. It witnessed the early efforts of all the greatest of the Great Masters—the bluest blood of Art—with one exception only; and the culminating point in the career of all but two. Its records are those of the brightest triumphs of the later development. No new principles have been discovered since its close; no new types devised; and no new form of expression, save that of 'Romanticism,' conceived. The work of the 19th century has been the fuller illustration of truths set forth in the 18th. That work is still in progress; and we have now to consider its influence upon a few of the leading Schools of Europe.

XXX. One great name connects itself so closely with The German Schools of the 19th Century, and exercises so lordly a dominion over them, that, like the Jupiter of the system, it makes us forget the size of inferior Planets, by the immensity of its own huge mass. Let us try to put away from us all thought of hero-worship, and, with all possible fairness to later authors, consider, not Beethoven's own merits, but his influence upon the School he founded. We shall be able to do this the more satisfactorily, if we go back one generation, and enquire what influence the preceding School had upon him.

Beginners, who find some difficulty in correcting Consecutive Fifths, and still more in detecting their presence, are never weary of parading Beethoven's 'contempt for rules,' in justification of their own ignorance of the first principles of Art. Yet we possess, even now, no less than 245 of his exercises, written, under Haydn's guidance,^[59] on Fux's 'Gradus ad Parnassum,' besides 263, written on Albrechtsberger's 'Anweisung zur Composition,' under the superintendence of its author. It is plain, therefore, that he took care to study the rules, before he broke them: and, that his Counterpoint, at any rate, was not uninfluenced by his predecessors. In like manner, he is constantly glorified for his 'freedom from set forms.' Yet no one ever more thoroughly understood, or more deeply valued, the orthodox Sonata-form, than he. Here, again, he was neither ashamed to learn from his predecessors, nor to acknowledge the obligation. How, then, can a writer, who hands down no new principle, be said to have founded a new School? Our answer to this question involves no anomaly: for, the School of which we are now speaking differed from those which preceded it in its æsthetic character only. Beethoven was, emphatically, a Child of Genius—not a Votary of Science. His fathomless Imagination—the most prominent feature of his style—was the free gift of Nature. His power of conception cost him nothing. But, for the Art which enabled him to set forth his ideas with such perfect logical accuracy that no intelligent mind can fail to understand them, he found it necessary to work—and that with the most indefatigable industry. And, in acquiring that Art, he discovered what no one else had before suspected—that the Sonata-form was not only the most symmetrical, but also the most elastic in existence. These considerations enable us to sum up the results of our enquiry in a very few words. In his mechanism, Beethoven was influenced by the Schools of the 18th century. In his imaginative power, he stood alone. In the elasticity he imparted to the Forms of his predecessors, he laid the foundation of a Style before unknown. And the influence of that Style not only separated the later School of Vienna from every system that had preceded it, but extended rapidly to every other centre of production in Europe, and before many years had passed, exercised an authority which may fairly be described as universal.

XXXI. The Romantic School followed the profoundly Imaginative Style of which we have been speaking, so closely, that it may almost be said to form part of it. We have, indeed, mentioned Weber as the undoubted Founder of Romantic Opera. But, Romanticism exhibits itself in Instrumental, as well as in Dramatic Music: and, without the elasticity of Form suggested by Beethoven, its manifestation, in the Sonata, the Symphony, or even the Overture, would have been impossible.^[60]

Let us clearly understand the distinction between Romantic Music, properly so called, and Music that is purely Imaginative. In poetical expression, in depth of feeling, in direct appeal to the varied emotions which excite the human soul to highest exaltation or profoundest depression, the two styles possess so many attributes in common, that the superficial observer is in constant danger of mistaking the one for the other: but no careful critic can be thus easily misled, for, even when both styles are present—as they very frequently are—in the same work, they are separated by a line of demarcation as clearly recognisable as that which distinguishes the Major from the Minor Mode. The actual thought may be as wild, as visionary, as mysterious, as far removed from the surroundings of ordinary life, in the one case, as in the other. The Imaginative Composer's idea is frequently even more 'romantic'—using the word in its every-day sense—than that of his brother Artist. But, it is not treated in the same way. The Romantic Composer paints his picture with the richest colours his orchestral palette can command; horrifies us with the depth of his sombre shadows; enthrals our senses with his most delicious fancies; excites us to delirium with a crash of Trumpets; or drives us to despair with the roll of a muffled Drum. If he be a true Master, he depicts the Scene before him with such exceeding clearness that it becomes a visible reality to the dullest of his hearers; a living truth presented to the eye, through the medium of the ear. But, he neither expects nor desires that his audience shall see the picture in any other light than that in which he presents it: and, in point of fact, his influence over others will generally be found to bear a direct relation to the clearness of his power of definition. The Imaginative Composer, on the other hand, defines nothing. The Scene he would depict has no real existence. Its details, drawn entirely from the region of his own individual Fancy, can be comprehended only by those who are able to follow him into that region. Unable to communicate the thought which underlies them, in words, he expresses it in Music; enduing sound with all the passionate yearnings denied to human language; conveying his hearers into a world filled with utterances of a meaning too subtle to be clothed in speech; and thus for ever dwelling in depths of Poetry accessible only to those who can think, and feel, while the vulgar are content to stare. There is nothing antagonistic between these two great phases of modern musical thought. They both have the same high aim; and they both deal with the same lofty subjects. But, the treatment of the one is objective; and that of the other, subjective. The one busies itself with the Seen; the other, with the Unseen. Yet, strange to say, the greatest Masters have been Masters of both. We need only cite two Symphonies of Beethoven, in illustration of our meaning. The man who, listening to the 'Sinfonia Pastorale,' cannot see the beautiful landscape, sit down beside the brook, dance with the peasants, get drenched through and through with the storm, and give thanks to God when the rainbow first gleams in the sky, must be dead alike to every sense of Poetry and of Art. How different is the Symphony in A! We cannot tell—no human tongue can tell, in words—the meaning of the wonderful Allegretto. No language can express the depth of thought enshrined in that awful episode in the delicious Scherzo, universally recognised as the highest manifestation of the Sublime as yet afforded by the Art-life of the 19th century. But, we can understand it. It speaks to us in accents far stronger than words. And, in listening to it, we are brought into closer communion with the Composer's inmost soul than we could have gained through any amount of personal intercourse with him during his life-time.

We have thought it necessary to call attention to these æsthetic subtleties, with more than ordinary earnestness, because, without a full appreciation of their import, it would be absolutely impossible to attain a clear understanding of our present position with regard to the great Masters who originated the dual train of thought we have endeavoured to describe—the teachers who first directed their inventive powers into two well-defined channels, which, running side by side, and sometimes even intermingling, have never lost one particle of the individuality bestowed on them when they first parted at the fountain head.

Upon these two Schools—the Imaginative and the Romantic—the German Music of the present century almost entirely depends for its distinctive character. Schubert identified himself with both; and was enabled, by the freshness and spontaneity of his ideas, and the inexhaustible extent of his inventive power, to use the strongest points of both so profitably, that it is impossible to determine the side towards which his natural bias most forcibly attracted him. Perhaps we shall not be far wrong, if we say that, as a general rule, his Vocal Music is most freely pervaded by the spirit of Romanticism, while that of Imagination is more clearly discernible in his Instrumental Compositions. Without instancing such works as 'Die junge Nonne,' or 'Der Erl-König,' the very first bar of which transports us into the Region of Romance before we have heard the first word of the Poetry, we need only point, in confirmation of this view, to some of the least pretentious of his shorter Songs—those gorgeous 'trifles,' which, like the sketches of Raffaelle, contain, sometimes, more Art than many a more elaborate work. 'Ueber allen Gipfeln ist Ruh' is as true a Romance as Schiller's 'Fridolin': while the 'Impromptus,' and 'Momens Musicals,' so often played, and so rarely interpreted, contain passages as deeply imaginative as those in the Ottet, or the Symphony in C major. We quote these well-known examples, in the hope of tempting our readers to seek out others for themselves: and they will find no difficulty in doing so; for it is impossible to take up a volume of Schubert's Compositions, without finding, on every page, evidence to prove that he was equally ready, at any moment, to pursue the course of either stream, or to exchange it for its fellow channel.

Every really great German Master—Weber, Spohr, Marschner, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Raff, Goetz, Wagner,—has more or less strictly carried out the same principle to its legitimate conclusion, and used either the ideal freedom of Imagination, or that of Romanticism, as a stepping-stone to his own individual greatness.

Weber's strongest sympathies were with the Romantic School. As a rule,—his Instrumental Music excepting, of course, the Overtures to his matchless dramatic inspirations—is brilliant, rather than imaginative; presenting, at every turn, some sparkling passage suggestive, of all that is light, and bright, and beautiful, in Nature, and thus continually hovering around the borders of Romanticism, though rarely descending towards those sombre depths in which Beethoven so frequently delighted to dwell. But, in his dramatic works, no sooner does some weird idea present itself to his mind, than he yields himself to its influence, body and soul, and paints it in such wild fantastic colours, that his audience cannot choose but dream, or shrink, or shudder, at his will.

Spohr's genius led him into quite another path. Like Schubert, he was equally ready to clothe his ideas in the language either of Imagination or Romanticism, or even of both together. A deeper Philosopher than Weber, he exercised, in a certain sense, a stronger power over the minds of his hearers: but, he could not terrify them, as Weber could; simply because he was, himself, too deep a Philosopher to feel terrified, even when dealing with the Supernatural in its ghastliest and most unholy manifestations. In one respect, however, the two were entirely of the same mind. They both knew the value of Form too well to neglect it, either in their greater works, or in those of comparatively small pretension; and, for this reason, their writings are invaluable, as examples of the unlimited freedom of thought which may be made compatible with the most perfect structural symmetry.

Heinrich Marschner, though neither so inspired a poet as Weber, nor so deep a philosopher as Spohr, did good service, in his generation, to the cause of Romantic Opera. His two greatest works, 'Der Vampyr,' and 'Der Templer und die Jüdin,' though fast losing their popularity, even in the land of their birth, might be studied, with advantage, by some who are not likely to equal, either their richness of imagery or their musician-like structure. There are passages, in the former Opera, grim enough to make the hearer shudder; while the latter breathes the pure spirit of Chivalry in every Scene. The passage which describes the midnight carousal of The Black Knight and Friar Tuck, is a stroke of genius not lightly to be consigned to oblivion.

If Schumann cared less for accepted forms than Weber or Spohr, it was only because his rich vein of original thought enabled him to strike out new modifications of a general design, compacted together with no less care than that adopted by his predecessors, though arranged on lines peculiarly his own. It would seem, sometimes, as if the richness—one might almost say the redundancy—of his inventive power tempted him to overleap the bounds within which the most gifted of his associates was perfectly contented to dwell. But he neither underrated the value of self-restraint, nor refrained from turning it to account, in some of his best and most important works. And hence it is, that, with all his freedom of expression, his contempt for conventionality, and his inexhaustible fancy, he is one of the last to be cited as an authority by those who recognise no law beyond their own caprice.

It would be difficult to imagine two lines of thought more divergent than those pursued by Schumann and Mendelssohn. The difference may be partly explained by the different circumstances under which the two Masters were trained. The course of Schumann's education was so changeful, so irregular, that nothing short of unconquerable determination would have enabled him to profit by it at all. Mendelssohn, on the contrary, enjoyed every advantage that care and counsel could place at his disposal. From his earliest youth he was made to understand that natural gifts, untrained by study, would sooner or later develope themselves into dangerous snares. And he understood this so well, that, even in his earliest works, we find an obedience to law, as strict as that which distinguished him in his prime. To his well-ordered mind, this subjection to fixed principles conveyed no idea in the least degree inconsistent with perfect moral freedom. The right to think for himself had never been denied to him; nor could he, under any circumstances, have forborne to exercise it. But he was equally ready, even in his full maturity, to study the thoughts of others, and to learn from them all that it is given to man to learn from his fellow. And so it was, that, while maintaining, throughout, his own strong masterful individuality, he drew, from the accumulated experience of his predecessors, a store of knowledge well fitted to serve as a bulwark against the self-sufficiency which too often ruins a youthful genius, before his talents have had time to produce the effect that might fairly have been expected from them. From Haydn he learned that perfection of Form which, from his first work to his last, clothed the sequence of his ideas with logical consistency. From Mozart and Beethoven he learned a system of Instrumentation which, like a wheel within a wheel, enabled him to work out another system, entirely his own. From Seb. Bach he learned that admirable method of Part-writing which raised his Compositions far above the level attained by the best Masters of the period, and entitled him to rank beside men whose position had long been regarded as impregnable. Dowered with this store of technical resources, his natural genius carried everything before it, and, while yet a youth, he was unanimously accepted as the leader of the German Schools. Reading his history with the experience of half a century to guide us, we can now understand the true bearings of many things which could not possibly have been foreseen during the eventful years of his early residence at Berlin. Times have changed very much since then. The freedom from restraint which we are now taught to reverence, would have been condemned as midsummer madness, in 1830. Mendelssohn was no pedant; but, he never encouraged the slightest approach to this licentious anomaly. Bad Part-writing he could not endure; and, by way of safeguard against so miserable an error he has not only shown us that Bach's grand style of Part-writing is perfectly compatible with Haydn's clear principle of symmetrical design; but has so entwined the two, that they have enabled him to form a style, which, drawing its strength from both, presents an aspect so free from borrowed charms that we are compelled to accept it as an original creation. Not a whit less dangerous is the doctrine that clearness of design is by no means indispensable, provided its absence be duly compensated by the expression of some mystic sentiment, which, if necessary, may be explained, in so many words, at the beginning of a work, with a perspicacity worthy of the limner who wrote beneath his picture, 'This is a house.' Against this heresy Mendelssohn waged implacable war; and he has left us, in his four Concert Overtures, an antidote sufficiently strong to neutralise its poison to the end of time. We need only point to one of them. The Overture to 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' contains, in its first ten bars, more Poetry, more Imagination, more Romance, more Fancy, than a hundred thousand pages of the jargon which is forced upon us under the garb of modern æstheticism; though its design is as symmetrical as that of the Overture to 'Figaro,' and as clear as that of 'La Reine de France.' Yet nowhere is the Form permitted to obscure, or be obscured by, the primary intention of the Composition; which aims at nothing lower than the perfect illustration of Shakespeare's meaning. If, then, Mendelssohn could make shapeliness of contour, and purity of Harmony, smoothness of Part-writing, and clearness of Instrumentation, subserve the purposes of an aim so lofty as this, there must surely be something wrong in the theory which represents these qualities as intrinsically opposed to all advance beyond the rudest forms of pedantry—the 'rule-and-compass work' suggestive of a return to the period when Art was in its infancy, and its union with Poetry impossible.

Had Mendelssohn lived long enough to endow The School of Leipzig with a patrimony as rich as that possessed by its Viennese progenitor, his earnest work must necessarily have exerted a purifying influence upon every centre of Art in Europe. Even now, we cannot say that it has wholly failed to do so; for there are men still living, who have made his principles their own,—and allowing fair scope for individuality—are conscientiously striving to work them out, whether the outer world cares to accept them or not. First among these stands Gade, who, though by birth, education, and national sympathies, a Dane, spent so interesting a portion of his life in Leipzig, and worked so earnestly there, in conjunction with Mendelssohn, that it is impossible to overlook his relationship to the Classical German School. This relationship, however, extends no farther than technical construction. In their inner life, his Compositions are too intensely Scandinavian to assimilate with those of any German author, antient or modern. His Overture, 'Nachklänge aus Ossian' is a Runic Poem, worthy of recitation in the Walhalla. Its bold fierce Subject breathes the spirit of the Northern Myth so clearly, that we may safely accept it—in common with the lovely Melodies of 'Comala,' which form its natural complement—as an inspiration from the land of the Aurora borealis and the Midnight Sun. But, in the matter of outward form, he has thought it no treason to enter into an openly-confessed alliance with his German neighbours. Strikingly original in his system of Instrumentation, he has never suffered it to lead him into extravagance or confusion; nor has he ever used his glowing vein of Poetry as an excuse for negligent arrangement of his harmonic combinations, or for rudeness of design. In all that concerns the technique of his delightful productions, he has been loyal, from first to last, to the principles he adopted on his first entrance into the artistic world; and there is good hope that his work will outlive the caprice of fashion which has brought these principles, for the moment, into something very nearly allied to contempt.

It was of immense advantage to the cause of Art, that Mendelssohn's interpretation of its classical form and spirit should be perpetuated by men like Gade, and Hauptmann, and Hiller, and Sterndale Bennett; that his memory should be reverenced by Schumann, and the proselytes of a newer faith; and, that his works should be held, both in Germany and England, in higher reputation than those of any other writer of the age. But they were not destined to escape hostile criticism. Before the production of 'Elijah,' more than one promising young Composer had ventured to claim the right of thinking for himself. One of the most talented of these was Johannes Brahms; from whom great things were expected, even before his views were sufficiently matured to enable him to stand forth as the originator of a special line of thought. Though attached to the Conservative Party by many noble sympathies, his conceptions were too original, and his individuality too strong, to admit of his working on any other lines than those laid down by himself. It soon became evident that his affections were entirely with the Imaginative School; and his attachment to it has remained undiminished. Like all earnest sympathisers with its aim and spirit, he has used elasticity of Form freely; but always with a healthy recognition of the boundary line which distinguishes elasticity from distortion. His First Symphony, in C minor (op. 68)—a work produced after his genius had attained its full maturity—is a case in point. Departing, in no essential particular, from the accepted model, it presents so many traits of original thought, so many welcome novelties, both of idea and construction, that, while recognising it as a legitimate descendant of the Schools of Leipzig and Vienna, we cannot but feel that it leads us into regions hitherto unexplored. The fertility of invention which forms one of its most prominent characteristics could scarcely have failed to tempt a Composer of ordinary calibre into hopeless departure from a consistent line of argument; but it did not so tempt Brahms. With all its wealth of imagery, the work proclaims its raison d'être in the first seven bars of its introductory 'Un poco sostenuto'; and, from the thesis there proposed, it never diverges. The text is illustrated, at every turn, by some unexpected comment, often extremely beautiful, and always pertinent and welcome; but it works out its appointed meaning, without interruption, from beginning to end; and by no means in unorthodox fashion. The First Part of the Allegro is duly repeated; the customary return to the primary Subject is made in the accustomed manner; and the Movement fulfils all the needful conditions of Classical Form, while the Composer gives free scope to his Imagination, throughout. The 'Andante sostenuto,' in the unexpected Key of E Major, fulfils the same conditions to the letter. The 'Un poco Allegretto e grazioso,' in A♭, takes the place, and satisfactorily performs the office, of the Scherzo. And the work concludes with a noble Finale, in C major, which forms a fitting climax to the whole. But here, again, the author introduces an unexpected feature. The Finale is so constructed, that it would scarcely have made the logical sequence of the intended climax apparent, had it fallen into its place in the usual way. Therefore the Composer has prepared it by an introductory 'Adagio,' perhaps the most interesting member of the entire work. As the whole essence of the First Allegro was compressed into the opening bars of its Preface, so is the whole essence of the Finale compressed into this beautiful Adagio, which thus forms the support of the entire work, the clue to its consistent interpretation, and the most important link in the chain of continuity which binds its elements together so closely, that, to understand it at all, we must understand it as the natural development of a single thought. In the Second Symphony, in D (op. 73), we find the same regularity of design, the same fixity of purpose, the same exuberance of subsidiary ideas, and the same depth of Imagination. The same broad characteristics are exhibited, in a marked degree, in the 'Tragic Overture' (op. 81), in combination with a direct and irresistible appeal to feelings, which, though subjectively treated in the Score, may be very easily invested with an objective sense by the hearer, who has only to connect the Music with some deeply tragic history of his own invention, in order to transfer it from the Imaginative to the Romantic School—a curious illustration of the line which parts the School to which Brahms has attached himself from that adopted by some other German writers of whom we shall speak presently.

The beauty of all these Compositions is greatly enhanced by the character of their Instrumentation. A Score by Brahms presents, at the first glance, an appearance not unlike that of a Vocal Composition for several distinct Choirs. The masses of Stringed and Wind Instruments are so often treated antiphonally, that the contrasts presented by their differences of tone serve as a valuable means of imparting clearness to passages which, without such aid, would lose force through their too great complexity. While the balance between these subdivisions of the Orchestra is always maintained, the Stringed foundation is so solidified as to afford, at all times, a sufficient support to the entire mass of Harmony; and the whole is thus invested with a dignity too real to be injured by the constant variety of effect, which, if less artistically managed, would degenerate into restlessness. In the intermediate 'Adagio' of the First Symphony, the Violins are employed con sordini, and the Tenors, divisi, with a delicacy of effect which has sometimes led to a comparison of the Movement with similar passages by Wagner. But, in truth, the arrangement has long been received as common property; and it is only by marked novelty of treatment that it can be justly claimed as a private possession.

We have already described Brahms's most important Choral Composition—the 'Deutsches Requiem'—at some considerable length.^[61] Many more of his Vocal works are well worth separate examination; but it must be confessed that his real greatness shines forth most clearly in his Instrumental Music. His choral passages—often furiously difficult, and sometimes all but impossible—are, as a general rule, constructed with so little consideration for the Singer, that, even when their crudities are successfully overcome, they fail to produce an effect worth the labour of mastering them. This misfortune is the more to be regretted, because, in some of these very works, the Orchestral Accompaniments embody his best conceptions. There are but few passages in the 'Schicksalslied'—for example—which would fail to produce a very striking effect, though the Vocal Parts were eliminated from the Score. But surely it cannot be right, that, when Voices are employed, they should be treated with less consideration than the Instruments which accompany them. This evil, however, is too general to admit of discussion here; and is, unhappily, gaining ground everywhere.

While Brahms, as yet unknown beyond the limits of a small circle of admirers, was steadily working out the theories upon which his adopted style was based, Joachim Raff's strong sympathy with the Romantic School led him into a very different path, and necessarily tempted him to demand a considerable amount of freedom from scholastic restraint. But, he has never allied himself with the advocates of lawlessness. Nor has he claimed exemption from established formulæ, except when compelled to follow out a self-imposed rule of conduct by the character of the subject he designed to treat. His Fourth Symphony, in G minor (op. 167), is a miracle of regularity—making due allowance for the age in which it was produced. Save only that the First Part of the Allegro is not repeated, it might serve as a model of the orthodox mode of treatment. If its Subjects are not strikingly original, they are surrounded by so much new and varied Instrumentation, and so much careful and ingenious Part-writing, that they are constantly presented in an original aspect. The Andante flows on, in an uninterrupted stream of Melody, from beginning to end; and the strongest points of the Allegro are reflected, with increased interest, in the spirited Finale. This particular work, however, cannot be accepted as the true reflex of the Composer's favourite style. He is never so happy as when, with some weird Legend in his mind, he throws his whole soul into the task of depicting its shadowy incidents. And the tints in which he presents them are rich indeed; for his power of tone-painting is unbounded, and his command of orchestral colouring unlimited.

In the 'Lenore Symphony' (op. 177), we see all these qualities exhibited to perfection. The wayward character of Bürger's heroine is painted to the life. The first two Movements present the varying phases of her feverish love, in moods, all more or less earnest, yet always savouring rather of the passionate caprice of a self-willed child than the modest affection of a well-trained maiden. Then comes the parting. The soldier-lover is summoned to the war. In the midst of the March which describes his departure, the unhappy girl bemoans her misery before all the world, while the young hero vainly strives to comfort her, in accents as gentle and sensuous as her own. It is the same wild passion over again. We knew, all along, that she would lose all self-control when the moment of trial came.

But this is only the preamble to the story. The Finale takes it up, at the moment in which Bürger's Ballad begins. The lurid sunrise brings no comfort to the wretched dreamer. We hear her sighs, interrupted by the approach of the Spectre Bridegroom, whose identity with the Lover of the previous Scene is proclaimed by a shadowy allusion to the March. Then follows the invitation to the wedding feast. The Phantom Charger paws the ground, impatient to be gone. The Lovers mount; and he carries them off, in an infernal gallop which introduces us to the finest part of the Symphony. The ghastly ride is described by the Violoncellos, in persistent groups of a Quaver and two Semiquavers, which never cease until the catastrophe of the story is at hand. This passage forms the life of the picture, throughout. Constant in its rhythmic ictus, though not confined to any fixed series of notes, it represents the entire course of the fearful journey; thus intensifying in the Music, the idea of headlong speed, which, in the Poem, is so powerfully enforced by the reiteration of its most famous Stanza. When the excitement of the situation increases, the Violoncellos are strengthened by the Violas. When a climax is reached, the Figure is taken up by the entire Stringed Band. When the expression of some particular incident demands its retirement, it fades into pianissimo. Meanwhile, the scenery of the eldritch phantasmagoria is pictured by the Wind Instruments. The shrieks of the nightbirds, by long shrill trills upon the Wood Wind. The ghostly Funeral, by a Hymn for the Dead, first sadly moaned by the Trombones, and then repeated with the united strength of the full Orchestra, while the dæmoniac gallop rushes on, through it all. The fetter-dance of the gibbetted malefactors is represented by a transient change to Triple Time, the rhythm of the gallop remaining undisturbed. At times, when these unholy sounds are hushed, the terrified, yet still unsubdued Lenore murmurs soft reminiscences of the love-passages in the earlier Movements; and, sometimes, she and her grisly Bridegroom discourse in little passages of well-constructed Canon. At last, when dawn begins to break, the gallop ceases; the Fiery Steed melts into vapour; and an awful moment of silence ensues. The lonely Churchyard is reached. Again, we have another and a far more solemn Funeral Hymn, this time sung for Lenore herself. The soft etherial motion of the accompanying Violins gives it a celestial meaning, impossible to be mistaken. And, as in the closing lines of the Poem itself, we are told that the sinner is forgiven.

The same power is proclaimed in Raff's Third Symphony, 'Im Walde' (op. 153). The First Movement depicts the Woods in their noontide beauty. The Second, their appearance in the Twilight. The Third, a Dance of Dryads. The Finale, the deepening shades of Night. These shades, however, are haunted by a horror as gruesome as that in 'Lenore.' The stillness of the Forest is represented by a quiet Fugal Subject, treated with exceeding ingenuity and skill, and suggestive of repose, unbroken by the rustling of a leaf. Suddenly, the weird notes of a hellish tumult are faintly heard in the distance. The Wild Huntsman, with his spectral Host, is approaching. He draws nearer and nearer, until the whole air is filled with the yells of his unearthly followers. We hear them above our heads, behind, around, and everywhere, until the hideous throng has passed, and its howls have died away in the distance. The silence of night descends once more upon, the Forest, but again, in strict accordance with the Legend, the Fiendish Rout returns, draws nearer, as before, and vanishes in the opposite direction: after which, the Symphony concludes with a burst of Sunrise. And here, whether consciously or unconsciously we cannot tell, but with equal merit in either case, Raff has established a great Romantic truth. The Wild Huntsman first became identified with modern Art, in 'Der Freischütz.' At the casting of the Fifth Bullet, He is represented, on the Stage, with the best effect permitted by circumstances, and, in the Orchestra, with such consummate power of Instrumental imagery, that we need not look towards the Stage, in order to realise his presence. Now, Raff's Music bears no external resemblance whatever to Weber's; yet, it brings us face to face with the same Wild Huntsman. We recognise him at a glance; and that, in the absence of the slightest taint of plagiarism. Had Titian, and Giorgione, been commissioned to paint the portrait of the same Doge, they would each have enabled us to recognise the individual, though their pictures would have been altogether different. So it is in this case. And we cannot but think, that, though Weber's conceptions stand unrivalled, Raff also has shown himself a consummate Master.

Brahms and Raff may be accepted as the greatest living representatives of the Imaginative and Romantic Schools, respectively. But they do not stand alone. Another young Composer has been called away, too soon, alas! for Art; though not before he had attained a solid reputation. Goetz first attracted public attention by the production of a clever Comic Opera, 'The Taming of the Shrew,' performed at Mannheim in 1874, under the title of 'Der Widerspanstigen Zahmung,' a work planned neither upon the old lines nor the new. It differs from the traditional form of Comic Opera in being written for full Orchestra, throughout, without either Recitative secco, or spoken dialogue; in passing continuously from Scene to Scene, with no break whatever, until the fall of the Curtain at the end of an Act; in dispensing, for the most part, with symmetrical Movements of the older forms; and, in substituting for them long passages of Accompanied Recitative. On the other hand, it departs from the principles laid down by the latest leaders of fashion, in that it relieves the monotony of its declamatory passages by frequent long strains of tuneful Measured Music, consisting, not of mere snatches of Melody, but of continuous and well-constructed phrases, so consistently put together, as to invest the whole chain of Movements with a character not unlike that of an unnaturally developed Finale. Moreover, it is something to be able to say that the vocal passages are always really vocal, and framed with real care for the Voice. That we miss, even in the most broadly comic Scenes the racy abandon of the Italian Opera Buffa—the refined sense of humour which would have made such a subject, in the hands of Cimarosa, or Rossini, simply irresistible—is to be attributed rather to the effect of national than individual temperament. In fact, there are reasons for believing, that, had the Composer's life been prolonged, he would have distinguished himself more highly in Serious than in Comic Opera. His greater Instrumental Works are pervaded by a tone of earnest thought which promise much for the future. His Symphony in F (op. 9), is full of feeling, clear in design, and abounding in passages of rich and varied Instrumentation. In some respects, his Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ (op. 18), is still finer; and, though less homogeneous in structure, even more full of interest, in its treatment, both of the Solo Instrument and the Orchestra. Still we cannot believe that any of these works, or even the unfinished Opera 'Francesca di Rimini,' indicate, either the full extent of the young Composer's ideal, or the point he was capable of reaching; though they prove how much we have lost by his early death.

Anton Rubinstein, first known to the world as a Pianist of altogether exceptional power, and afterwards as a writer of Pianoforte Music of more than ordinary interest, now claims our attention as the Composer of a long succession of works, designed on a scale much grander than that foreshadowed in his earlier efforts, and worthy of much more serious study—as furnishing clearer indications of the principles by which he is guided. Unmoved by the revolutionary tendencies of an age which has identified itself with swift progress and violent reform, Rubinstein has consistently abstained from fraternising with any prominent party: not, like a dry pedant, blindly following in the wake of greater men than himself; but, as an original thinker, honestly convinced, that, within certain limits, classical forms are the best forms, and expressing this conviction, in his works, with a boldness which has secured him the respect of many advanced 'reformers' who are very far from agreeing either with his practice or his principles. These latter may be briefly described as the unconscious result of a determination to reject, as heterodox, no means of developing the capabilities of an original idea, provided only that neither the idea nor the mode of treatment refuse to submit to some sort of orderly arrangement. The effects of this determination are as patent in Rubinstein's Chamber Music, as in his Concertos or his Symphonies. All are essentially modern in style, and, it must be confessed, marred not unfrequently by a violence of expression savouring rather of impulse than of careful thought. Yet the design, even of his 'Ocean Symphony'—probably the finest, and certainly the most imaginative of all—betrays a familiarity with classical models which the descriptive character of the piece may disguise, but certainly does not neutralise. Though his latest Opera, 'Demonio,' is so strikingly original, that it has been described as belonging to no School whatever, its strong dramatic character, tinged with a curiously Tartar colouring, in illustration of the story, does not prevent him from using many familiar forms, consecrated, by long tradition, to the Lyric Stage, and thus making the Music valuable, for its own sake, apart from its primary office of assisting the Action of the piece. It is impossible but that the well-planned conduct of such Music should tend to its longevity; though, at present, public opinion runs strongly in the opposite direction.

We speak of Rubinstein in our notice of the German School, because, notwithstanding his nationality, his sympathies are evidently with the greatest German Masters. For the same reason we speak of Anton Dvořák^[62]—another strong advocate for the retention of the principles by which the great family of Classical Composers has so long been guided. The numerous instrumental works of this talented Bohemian prove him to be one of the greatest Masters of modern Part-writing now living; and are remarkable for a continuity of treatment, inexpressibly refreshing in these days of spasmodic phrasing and broken Melody, suggestive rather of the unfinished sentences of a faltering orator than of a well-studied work of Art. The most marked characteristic of Dvořák's style is singularly antagonistic to that of Brahms. We have said that Brahms delights in illustrating his Subject with a copious embroidery of lateral motivi. Dvořák, on the contrary, makes his Subject illustrate itself, to the almost total exclusion of all ideas not directly traceable to its outward configuration. In both cases, the device is legitimate, and valuable; and, in both, it clearly emanates from a source inseparable from the Composer's natural temperament.

Did space permit, we would gladly speak, in detail, of Hiller, the friend of Mendelssohn and Chopin; of Kiel, whose 'Second Requiem' has lately produced so marked an effect in Berlin; of Brüll, Goldmark and Scharwenka; of Reinecke, R. Franz, Julius Röntgen, and many another worshipper at the Shrine of Art. But it is time that we should turn to a class of Composers whose works have attracted more attention than those of any other writers of the present day.

Chopin's close sympathy with the Imaginative School is evident at a glance; yet it is with its inner life alone that he claims relationship. Not only does he utterly repudiate its external mechanism, its harmonic combinations, its methods of development, one and all; but, he does not even accord with it in his manner of expressing a simple idea. The more closely we study his works, the more plainly shall we see, that, with him, the idea and its treatment invariably owed their origin to the inspiration of a single thought. Both suggested themselves at the same moment; and therefore remained for ever indivisible. To this, his writings are indebted for a personality which sets imitation at defiance. He stands alone. But, the inspirations of his loneliness are open to all who are capable of sympathising with the Poetry of Art; and, for these, the charm of his Music will never pass away.

A certain analogy is traceable between the genius of Chopin and that of Liszt. A strong feeling of personality pervades the Music of both. But Chopin's personality has never changed. We see the same man, in his first work and his last; whereas Liszt's Ideal has changed a hundred times. Much of his Music is, in the highest degree, both Romantic, and Imaginative, at the same moment. In technical matters, he submits to no law whatever. The Compositions which seem most faithfully to represent the man himself are absolutely amorphous. Yet one rarely finds, even in them, the spontaneity so obvious in all the works of Chopin. The idea seems to have been worked out—though in some way unknown to the laws of Art. With all this, Liszt stands as much alone as Chopin. He has had, and still has, disciples; but his ideas, and his method of treating them, are too much a part of himself to admit the possibility of his founding a School.

We have already spoken freely of the theories, and productions, of Richard Wagner, in another place.^[63] No one who has thought upon the subject at all will attempt to controvert Wagner's main proposition, that Dramatic Truth is the first necessity of Dramatic Music; and, that all minor considerations must be sacrificed to it. For this principle Peri fought the Madrigalists, whose true place was clearly not on the Stage. Through his hearty recognition of this, Monteverde became the most popular Composer in Italy. For the sake of re-habilitating this, Gluck forsook his own people, and taught the Parisians what an Opera ought to be. Truly, the considerations these great men were ready to sacrifice were no mean ones. The Italians immolated Polyphony; while Gluck risked the reputation of a life-time, by spurning the popular demand for an Opera, in the guise of a Concert of detached and inconsequent Songs. But, even Gluck was not prepared to sacrifice everything. We have already shown that he was not prepared to sacrifice Euphony.^[64] Nor was he willing to dispense with definite form—except when definite form was manifestly out of place. The dullest hearer must have felt that it was lamentably out of place, when, as in the Operas of Hasse, the Action of the Drama was brought to a dead-lock, in order that its hero might amuse his audience with a brilliant Rondo. But, we cannot feel much respect for critics who tell us that the Action of 'Le Nozze di Figaro' is stopped by 'Non più andrai,' or that of 'Il Don Giovanni,' by 'La ci darem.' It is precisely because such pieces as these carry on the Action of the Drama so delightfully, that they produce so much more effect on the Stage than in the Concert-Room: and, in the case of 'Non più andrai,' the Rondo form adds immensely to the dramatic interest of the Song. Why, then, eliminate the Rondo form, after Mozart has shown how much can be done with it? Why not rather try to write Rondos as good, as beautiful, and as dramatic, as his? We know one man who could write a Rondo worthy to live for ever, if only he chose to throw his heart into the task; and, unless the experience of all history lies to us, that man will be lovingly remembered, by Senta's Ballad, 'Traft ihr das Schiff,' ages after his Operas have ceased to be performed in their entirety. If evil combinations, and unconnected arguments, and a weary waste of interminable Recitative, be really necessary to the existence of Dramatic Music—so necessary, that genius capable of delighting us with pleasant Harmony, and structural symmetry, and Melodies of acknowledged beauty, must needs deny us these luxuries, in order that the Lyric Drama may rest upon a philosophical basis—there are not a few among us quite ready to vote for the retention of the luxuries, even at the cost of leaving the Lyric Dramain the condition to which Mozart and Weber reduced it. Granted that the combinations are not always evil, the argument not always unconnected, the Recitative not always dreary, nor always unrelieved by tuneful episodes and delicious Instrumentation; still, there must be something radically wrong in a system which admits the introduction of deformity, under any circumstances whatever. Now, deformity—the natural antithesis of shapeliness—can and often does, co-exist with perfect beauty of constituent parts. Whether these parts be, in themselves, ugly, or beautiful, if they be not fitly joined together, they unite to form a monster. It is only when artistically arranged, that euphonious words are transformed into Poetry, or radiant colours into Painting. We have been told, of late years, that this law does not apply to Music, which must not be clothed in the frigid formality peculiar to the Plastic Arts; but this reasoning is false, and would degrade Music to the level of a mere sensual enjoyment. If Music is to reach the intellect, it needs the evidence of a preconceived and carefully-considered design. The symmetrical form of the Eroica Symphony is as necessary to its perfection, as a work of Art intended to appeal to the understanding through the medium of the ear, as the curves of the Venus of Milo are, to one intended to speak to it through the medium of the eye. Without its curves, the statue would be a shapeless block of marble. Without its plan, the Symphony would be a chain of meaningless Chords. And what is true of the Symphony, is true of all other kinds of Music. If it could really be demonstrated that Music, addressed to the intellect by means of the logical development of a well-considered thesis, was antagonistic to the progress of the Lyric Drama, the demonstration would amount to a positive proof that Music and the Drama were incompatible existences; and, this once proved, all subsequent attempts to present them in combination would savour, not merely of æsthetic inconsistency, but of treason to Art itself. Some critics, denying the charge of inconsistency, affirm that the antagonism of which they complain is incontestable. But it is not so. Neither in Instrumental nor Dramatic Music is symmetry incompatible with expression. We need not go back to the classical age, for proofs of so manifest a truism; for, some of the ablest living Composers are proving it, every day. Brahms and Raff are not the only writers who have found full freedom for the inner life of the Imaginative and Romantic Schools, within the limits of strict symphonic propriety. Max Bruch has even gone beyond them, in the same direction. In his Violin Concerto in G minor, dedicated to Joachim, he discusses his Subjects so thoroughly, and with such minute attention to their bearing upon the general design, that his Movements stand forth as a living protest against the crippled invention which mistakes the transposition of some eight or ten inconsequent notes, into so many incongruous keys, for a well ordered and interesting construction. Yet, no one who has listened to the first two pages of the introductory Allegro will deny its imaginative power. In the domain of Dramatic Music, Bruch manifests—as in his Scenic Cantata, 'Odysseus'—a closer and more genuine sympathy with the canons laid down by Gluck, than we find in the works of many writers who profess to look upon Gluck himself as a beginner. All that Gluck has claimed, in connection with the Stage, Bruch has here used, apart from it; and, so well that we miss neither the Scenery nor the Action. This power of writing good Dramatic Music for the Concert-Room is not common. Mendelssohn exhibits it in the 'Walpurgis Nacht,' Gade in 'Comala,' and Bruch in 'Odysseus': but most young aspirants either overshoot the mark, or fall below it. Bruch has fallen into neither error; and, meanwhile, has taken good care that his Music shall not fail through want of constructive cohesion. In citing him as an authority, we are actuated by no controversial spirit, nor desire for an invidious comparison. But the important appointment which Bruch is now filling at Liverpool, gives his works the opportunity of becoming as popular in England as they are in Germany, and thus renders them apt illustrations of the point in question. In many respects, an inferior Composer would have served our purpose equally well. We frequently find many poor ideas grouped together with the most perfect regularity; while rich ones are exhibited in a confused heap, destitute of any arrangement at all. In the one case, the result fails through the weakness of its conception; in the other, through the inconsequence of its argument. The one appeals too little to the senses; the other, too little to the intellect. The senses may be perfectly satisfied, so long as each character in the Drama is labelled with a distinct melodic phrase, as each locality was labelled, in the days of Shakspeare: but, the intellect demands something more than this; and that something more is, a clearness of narration, which, apart from the extraneous influence of new Instruments introduced into the Orchestra, of alternate crashes and tremolos, and of declamation continued ad nauseam, shall appeal to the mind as well as to the passions, and thus prevent the Lyric Drama from sinking, eventually, to the level of a Serious Extravaganza, or a Tragic Pantomime.

To sum up our argument, we see that the pedigree, even of this latest development of modern progress, descends to us, in a direct line, from the time of Prætorius, through the chain of the Bachs, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Spohr, and Mendelssohn. The modern system of Part-writing, now universally accepted in place of the Counterpoint of the 16th century, originated in the growing taste for Instrumental Music concerning which we learn so much from the details handed down to us in the 'Syntagma.' Under Seb. Bach, this system reached its culminating point, in the Fugue. For this, Haydn substituted the Sonata-form; giving it, in Sæcular Music, the office performed by the Fugue in the Oratorio. Over this form Mozart obtained an absolute mastery: but he did not leave it where he found it. It was he who first invested it with dramatic power, and first succeeded in making that power subservient to the expression of every shade of passion, or of feeling, demanded by his subject. Witness his Overture to 'Il Don Giovanni,' which depicts the determined resistance of the hero of the piece to the warnings of the Statue, the threatenings of Don Ottavio, and the gentler counsels of Zerlina, and Donna Elvira, with such life-like accuracy, that the Movement serves as an epitome of the entire story. Moreover, he showed, in the Overture to 'Die Zauberflöte,' and the Finale to the 'Jupiter Symphony,' that the two great manifestations of the older and the newer systems were neither antagonistic nor incapable of amalgamation: and thus produced, in one splendid inspiration of genius, a third form, identical with neither, though compounded of both—the Symphonic Fugue. Beethoven next demonstrated the permissibility of extending the limits of the Sonata-form, in any desired direction, so widely, that, while offering no restraint whatever to the wildest flights of his Imagination, it enabled him to express his ideas with a clearness of argument which has never been exceeded. His immediate successors accepted this position in its fullest significance: and, attaching themselves either to the Imaginative or to the Romantic School, demanded the freedom from restraint which true Genius claims as its birthright, and which no true Child of Genius has ever yet been known to betray. In so far as this freedom has tended to clothe the comparative meagreness of earlier forms with a richer veil of poetical imagery, its influence has never been otherwise than healthy and invigorating. But, it has not always been thus wisely employed. It has tempted the neophyte to indulge his fancy, when he ought to have been writing Thorough-bass exercises, as Beethoven did before him; and to abuse gifts, which, properly cultured, might have led to something worth preservation. It has tempted false teachers to tell him that the Sonata-form itself is an archaic monstrosity, unworthy of his respect, and only used by Beethoven himself, under the influence of some strange hallucination the root of which it is impossible to discover. That such abuses are only too prevalent, experience has abundantly proved; and it is to be feared that they are inseparable from this peculiar manifestation of artistic power: in which case, their presence must be accepted as a proof that the modern German Schools contain within themselves the elements of their own destruction.

XXXII.In forming The Italian School of the 19th Century, Rossini—perhaps unwittingly—borrowed not a little from his Teutonic brethren. His Instrumental Accompaniments far exceed, both in volume and complication, the modest standard adopted by Cimarosa, and certainly owe something to the influence of Haydn and Mozart. His Harmony, too, is both richer and more varied than that of his Italian contemporaries; and is probably indebted to Vienna for something more than an occasional suggestion. Yet the basis of his style, in all essential particulars, is thoroughly Italian, and thoroughly his own—Italian, in the airy lightness of its Melodies; his own, in its unwonted freshness, even for Italy, and in the passionate expression which adds so much to its dramatic power, without diminishing its brilliancy. What the Romanticism of Weber and Spohr is to the German School, this desperate passion is to the later Schools of Italy. It must always seem extravagant, to those whose taste is formed on Northern models. But it is no ignoble characteristic; for it is founded upon Nature, as exhibited in the impulsive temperament of the South. And, it is always true. The climax always comes in the right place; and the moment of exhaustion follows, naturally, in due course. Rossini first made it a necessity. Bellini threw his whole soul into it. Donizetti—a more cultivated Musician than Bellini, though, with less exceptional natural gifts—used it no less skilfully than his predecessors. And time has proved that these defenders of the true Italian style were in the right. Mercadante felt this strongly, and turned his conviction to account: while a host of inferior Composers followed the leading of these powerful Chiefs; some doing good work of an inferior grade; others doing their best to vulgarise that which really contains the very essence of refinement; but none venturing to dispute the one great principle, that, deprived of its passionate expression, its melodious grace, and its perfect adaptation of vocal passages to vocal capabilities, their School could no longer exist. When Grisi and Mario were in their prime, and Verdi on his trial, the truth of this principle was universally accepted. Among the most popular Composers then living, there was not one, in any part of Italy, strong enough to set it at defiance. No Italian Opera, destitute of passion, of melody, or of vocal propriety, would have lived through its first night. But, within the last few years, a notable revolution has taken place. It is impossible to say whether the change was due to the Italians themselves; or was imported into Italy from foreign sources. But, it is manifestly unfair to assert, as some have done, that the movement is due to the influence of Wagner. It is true that its promoters have, to a certain extent, adopted the theories proposed by the German Master; inasmuch as they regard the symmetrically-constructed Aria as incompatible with the healthy development of the Lyric Drama, and, on that account, eliminate it, in favour of declamatory Recitative, and Instrumental Tone-painting, subordinating the claims, even of these powerful vehicles of expression, in their turn, to those of the Poetry, the Scenery, and the Action of the Story. But these restrictions, proclaimed by Peri, in the 16th century, and advocated by Gluck, in the 18th, are not altogether ignored by Meyerbeer and Gounod; and, since it is notorious that the best modern Italian Singers have achieved great successes in the Operas of these two Composers, it is more reasonable to believe that the latest Italian writers have been tempted, by this circumstance, to modify their style, than to suppose that they adopted their ideas from Munich. Be this it may, the movement is a res facta; and the present Italian Composers no longer care to write in the true Italian manner.

The standard of revolt was first raised, by Verdi, at Venice, in the year 1857; and the result of his experiment was, the utter failure of his Opera 'Simone Boccanegra.'

But Verdi was not the only believer in the new theory—the hated avvenerismo of the Italian dilettanti. A formidable body of young Composers soon joined the insurgent ranks, and laboured so enthusiastically in the cause of 'progress,' that they have already secured a strong revulsion of public feeling in its favour. Foremost amongst these are Arrigo Boïto, Alfredo Catalani, Filippo Marchetti, Amilcare Ponchielli, Anteri-Manzocchi, and the clever Contra bassist, Bottesini; Composers who have all made more or less impression upon the public, and whose works, whether good or bad, have at least sufficient individuality to secure them against the charge of servile plagiarism.

That the success of the Italian reform—if 'reform' it may be called—is almost entirely due to Verdi's clear-sightedness and perseverance, there can be no doubt. Well knowing the goal to which his new ideas must lead, he was not to be deterred from reaching it, by the disapproval of a Venetian audience. His earlier Operas were uniformly indebted, for their reputation, to a few catching Melodies, adapted to the taste of the period; the Music apportioned to the Action of the Drama being put together with so little care that it was difficult for a cultivated audience to listen to it. In 'Simone Boccanegra' the new convert endeavoured to remedy this defect, not by any startling change of style or method, but by devoting serious attention to points which he had too much neglected in his youthful works. These innovations were small indeed compared with those destined to follow. We have seen how the audience received them. We have now to see how Verdi received the judgment of the audience. In his later Operas, he gradually introduced a real change of style. Yet, some of these have achieved a far more lasting success than that which followed themost popular of his earlier efforts. In judging these transitional works, we cannot but see that he still felt doubts as to the mode in which they might be most effectively treated. As time progressed, these doubts merged, one by one, into certainties; until, in 'Aïda,' first produced at Cairo in 1872, we find the fullest enuntiation of the principles at issue, which the Composer has hitherto given to the world. It would not be safe to regard even 'Aïda' in any other light than that of a tentative production; but it at least discloses Verdi's idea of the goal to which the new movement is tending; and it is especially interesting as a proof that his ideal differs, very materially, in one point—the most important of all—from the standard aimed at by the most ambitious and the most prominent of his fellow-reformers. He has given up the orthodox form of the Aria d'entrata, the Cabbaletta, and the Canzonetta; he has welded his Movements together, so as to produce the effect of a continuous dramatic whole; he has centred more interest in his declamatory passages, and his orchestral pictures, than in his passages of flowing Melody—but, that stream of Melody is never wanting. It may be broken into a thousand scattered phrases; it may lack the continuity necessary to ensure a good effect apart from its Stage surroundings; but it is always there. And so long as Verdi preserves it as an indispensable feature in his work, so long will that work outlive the greatest successes of the best of his imitators. That he means to preserve it is evident; for, not many months ago, he brought out at Milan a revised edition of 'Simone Boccanegra,' with a new Libretto by his friend Boïto, in which the original Melodies are retained, while the dramatic portions of the work are brought into even greater prominence than the corresponding divisions of 'Aïda': and in this form the Opera has achieved an immense success.

Of the 'Requiem,' composed in honour of Manzoni, we shall speak elsewhere. But, whatever our opinion of Verdi's merits, as a Composer of Sacred Music, it seems certain, that, in his later dramatic works, he has proved himself a convert to opinions, which, thirty years ago, he would probably have emphatically condemned.

We have said, that the Libretto of 'Simone Boccanegra' was remodelled, not long ago, by Arrigo Boïto. This profound Scholar, and true Italian Poet, exercises, upon the Lyric Drama of the present day, an influence somewhat analogous to that of Metastasio upon the 'Opera seria' of the 17th century. He it was who furnished Bottesini with the Libretto of 'Hero and Leander,' and Ponchielli with that of 'Gioconda'—both Poems worthy to live for their own sake. It is much to be able to say this; for there are but few Libretti endurable, in the absence of the Music to which they are adapted. But Boïto's Poems are different indeed from those which have served as the basis of most Italian Operas, for many years past. He is a profound thinker, as well as a learned scholar; a Philosopher, as well as a Poet. In a fourth Libretto, more carefully constructed than either of the three we have mentioned, he has given us an Italian illustration of Goethe's 'Faust.' This famous Libretto he has himself set to Music. And here we have to grapple with one of the greatest difficulties with which the later Schools of Dramatic Music are called upon to contend. Their demands upon the individual are excessive. How can one man shine, in the first rank, as a Poet and a Musician, a Philosopher and a Machinist, a Maestro di Canto and a designer of Scenery? Had Boïto studied Music as he has studied Poetry, 'Mefistofele' would have been simply immortal. As it is, it can only give pleasure to those who are incapable of listening with patience to 'Fidelio' or Il Don Giovanni.' We will not stay to analyse its Music. Suffice it to say that the Libretto has been written with so clear an insight into Goethe's meaning, and so conscientious a desire to do justice to his intention, that it cannot but be regarded as a valuable commentary upon the Poem. It has been said that very great Music may sometimes save a very bad Libretto. It remains to be seen whether the converse of the proposition be equally true.

Among the most conscientious adherents to the principles of the new School, we find a number of young Composers, who have already earned a reputation which bids fair to increase very rapidly. First among these stands Ponchielli, whose three best works, 'I promessi Sposi,' 'Gioconda,' and 'Il Figluol prodigo,' exhibit, in their highest development, the most prominent characteristics of the movement. Bottesini, in his 'Hero and Leander' and 'La Regina del Nepal,' inclines rather to the standard adopted by Verdi, striving hard to attain dramatic power, but refusing to betray the cause of Italian Melody. Catalani, happily for his successful Opera, 'Elda,' produced in 1880, has hitherto chosen the same line of action, which has been even more fully carried out by Anteri-Manzocchi, in his really melodious works 'Dolores' and 'Stella.' Marchetti, on the other hand, has attached himself to the most advanced section of the party, and, in his 'Ruy Blas' and 'Don Giovanni d'Austria,' acts as the champion of its most violent utterances.

Reviewing the School, as a whole, we cannot but see that it must necessarily exercise a powerful influence upon the Future of Dramatic Art. It has its weak points, as well as its strong ones: and, if it is ever to attain real greatness, its supporters must dare to look the former resolutely in the face, and fight with them, hand to hand. Among the weakest of these weak points are three which merit more than ordinary attention: neglect of Melody; neglect of that indispensable care for the Voice, and its possibilities, without which the Opera must eventually degenerate into a mere vulgar crash of Instrumental inanities; and neglect of that careful system of Part-writing, which, in the Italian School of fifty years ago, was less indispensable than it has since become. A very slight knowledge of the Theory of Music sufficed for the enrichment of a graceful Melody with a passable Accompaniment. But the new School aims at higher things than this; and study is needed for their attainment. Hitherto, Part-writing has not been very deeply studied in Italy. It must be cultivated, now; or the School must, sooner or later, collapse. Music has its Grammar as well as Poetry; and the rules of the one can no more be neglected than those of the other. What would the author of 'Mefistofele' think of an Italian Libretto, beginning with the words—

Avi Signor delle Angelo ed della Santi?

What, then, must an educated Musician, accustomed to the Harmonies of Mozart and Beethoven, think of such a passage as the following?

Surely this passage, and a similar one in the Scene at the beginning of the Prologue of 'Mefistofele,' must have been written, like the Scherzo sung by the Cherubim, for fun.

In strange contrast to these crudities, the news is brought to us of the discovery of an unfinished Opera—'Il Duca d'Alba'—by Donizetti. The authenticity of the MS. has been established, beyond all doubt; and the possibility of completing and performing the work has already been discussed. It is to be hoped that the task of supplying the missing portions will be entrusted to an Artist capable of thoroughly sympathising with the intentions of a Composer who never heard of avvenerismo, and, if he had, could not have countenanced it; for, its introduction into one of his tuneful inspirations would have been like the introduction of vitriol into the human eye. Should this point be borne in mind, and should the Opera prove to be in the Master's best style, it will come upon us like a Voice from the Dead, and may do much towards the direction of Italian taste into a characteristic Italian channel.

XXXIII. The French School of the 19th Century is a very important one, for it represents the 'Grand Opéra' in a very interesting phase of its development, and the 'Opéra Comique' in the nearest approach it has made to perfection.

The history of the 'Grand Opéra' is remarkable for the long periods of almost unredeemed sterility interposed between its most brilliant triumphs. Forty-six years elapsed between the death of Lulli and the production of Rameau's 'Hippolyte et Aricie'; ten between the death of Rameau and the first performance of Gluck's 'Iphigénie en Aulide,' and twenty-five between Gluck's last Opera, 'Echo et Narcisse,' and Cherubini's 'Anacreon,' produced in 1803. 'Anacreon' was succeeded, after an interval of four years, by Spontini's 'La Vestale'; and this, two years later, by the same Composer's 'Ferdinand Cortez': works which remained deservedly popular, until the appearance of Rossini's 'Guillaume Tell,' in 1829, caused all earlier successes to be forgotten. It is singular that this beautiful Composition should alone retain its place upon the stage, as the permanent representative of a period which owes more to Cherubini, Spontini, and Rossini, than to any other Composer, whether native or foreign; for even the best productions of later years, notwithstanding their extraordinary popularity, will bear no comparison with those of these three masters, on purely artistic grounds.^[65]

Nevertheless, these later works must not be lightly esteemed; nor must the names of the Masters who produced them be passed over without due notice. For many years, Auber and Halévy enjoyed an almost exclusive monopoly of popular favour. The lead was afterwards transferred to Meyerbeer, who, having once obtained a hearing, suffered no rival to approach him. It was no small thing for a German Composer, attracted—like Gluck—at the outset of his career, by the graces of the Italian School, to settle down into a style so well adapted to Parisian tastes that a Librettist, like Scribe, French to the backbone, should find himself immortalised by the connection of his Verses with the stranger's powerful Music. The cosmopolitan spirit that dictated this vigorous course deserved success, and commanded it—being based upon a foundation of undeniable talent. For Meyerbeer's French Operas are no weak rehabilitations of an effete formula. They teem with Melodies which, however eccentric in construction, haunt the ear too effectually to be easily forgotten. Their grasp of the business of the Stage, too comprehensive to overlook the smallest detail, never fails to penetrate the inmost depth of the situation, be it what it may. And—most important of all, when we remember the character of the audiences to which they were originally addressed—they rise, where dramatic truth demands that they should do so, to a climax which carries everything before it. How many Composers could have continued the Action of the Drama, with increasing interest, after the fervid passion of 'Robert toi que j'aime'? Yet 'Robert toi que j'aime' is but an episode in a powerful Duet, which itself is but a single member of a still more exciting Finale. How many, after the 'Blessing of the Poignards,' could have escaped the chill of a wretched anti-climax? Yet it is only after the last crash of Orchestra and Chorus has been silenced, that the Scene begins to work up to its true culminating-point, in the Duet which concludes the Act. Truly these are master-strokes: and the Composer who imagined them deserves to live.

Meyerbeer's legitimate successor is Gounod, a genius of a very different order, but of no mean capability. Like Meyerbeer, he has listened to the counsels of Gluck, and profited by them largely; though, no doubt, in many cases, unconsciously. But, this remark applies only to the theoretical principles by which his practice is guided. In the details of his work, he has taken counsel from no one. His style is essentially his own; and, if it be tinged, sometimes, with a shade of mannerism, the peculiarity is only just strong enough to enable us to recognise our author with pleasure. It is impossible to mistake the tone of his harmonic colouring. Even when he writes progressions which bear not the most distant resemblance to each other, we constantly find him using the Chords he most delights in, for the production of certain sensuous effects, certain shades of pathetic expression, which distinguish his Music so plainly that it cannot be misunderstood. The dramatic power exhibited in 'Faust' is very striking; and much of its Music is quite good enough to live, apart from the Stage—a quality growing daily more and more rare, and regarded, by advanced thinkers, as a sign of weakness, though it is difficult to understand why really good Music should not sound good, anywhere. At any rate, Gounod's inspirations are always welcome, either in the Theatre, or the Concert Room; whether from 'Faust,' or 'Mireille,' or 'La Nonne Sanglante,' or other Operas less known here: and though 'Faust' is the work on which his fame chiefly rests, he has done so much, in other ways, that we cannot believe he will remain contented with the laurels he has already won. The difficulty of winning such laurels, on a Stage which has witnessed so many shipwrecks, is no slight one. Ambroise Thomas had succeeded, over and over again, in lighter pieces, before he established his reputation by the production of 'Hamlet'; and the 'chute éclatante' of Berlioz's 'Benvenuto Cellini,' meant nothing less than ruin. But we have not yet seen the last of the traditional 'Grand Opéra.'

The 'Opéra Comique,' still more prosperous, in some respects, than its graver sister at the 'Académie,' was raised to a high æsthetic level by Boieldieu, Grétry, and Méhul, at a very early period; and, even before the 19th century began, had given fair promise of a brilliant future, destined to be speedily realised by the genius of Cherubini, whose 'Lodoiska,' 'Elise,' 'Medée,' 'Faniska,' and, above all, 'Les deux Journeys,' rise far above his best contributions to the répertoire of the 'Grand Opéra.' In these great works, the triumphs of this form of the Lyric Drama culminate. No one has attempted to compete with their author, in his own style; and no new style has been conceived worthy to be discussed in connection with it.^[66] The train of thought pursued by Hérold, Auber, and their countless followers, led them in so different a direction, that one is tempted to wish some more appropriate name had been invented, to distinguish their respective styles, and thus prevent the appearance of an unfair comparison of works which bear no nearer relation to each other than the Tragedy bears to the Ballad. Nevertheless, the number of successes achieved, of late years, in the lighter style, is very great. Six years ago, the hopes of French Musicians were excited by the production of Bizet's 'Carmen'; than which no work of similar character could possibly have been more exactly adapted to the one great need of the present crisis—the support, and continuation, of a long-established School. Pleasing enough to attract, yet not sufficiently so to stifle the memory of standard successes; original enough to command attention, yet not so new as to suggest the birth of a newer School; it takes its place among the best productions of its class, and honourably maintains it, without disturbing the relations of existing styles. A School in Music bears a very close analogy to a Species in Zoology. Its line of demarcation is a very elastic one. Countless modifications of form may be introduced without transgressing its limits. But, there is a point which cannot be overstepped. We have seen that Wagner has placed himself beyond the pale of the Romantic School; and Boïto, beyond that of the Italian School of Melody. Bizet has thought for himself; but has not overstepped the boundaries of the 'Opéra Comique.' With sufficient character to stamp them as his own, his ideas evince sufficient originality to entitle them to consideration, as belonging to a School already formed. His power of expressing passion is very remarkable: not Italian passion; but the agitation which goads a soul to madness. And the quaint piquancy of some of his lighter conceptions is delightfully refreshing; as in the Chorus of Gamins, in the First Act—a jeu d'esprit which makes us long to know how he would have treated such a character as Petit Gavroche, had it fallen in his way. But, alas! like Goetz, he lived only just long enough to see his talent appreciated.

Notwithstanding the associations connected with its title, it is by no means de rigueur that the subject of the 'Opéra comique' should be a ludicrous, or even a cheerful one: but, this indulgence is not extended to the lighter form of entertainment called the 'Opéra bouffe,' now so extravagantly popular in Paris, and so frequently presented, elsewhere, in the guise of an English or German translation. In general design, the 'Opéra bouffe' bears much the same relation to the Farce, that the 'Opéra comique' bears to legitimate Comedy; but it also borrows largely from the Ballet and the Melodrama, and not a little from the Extravaganza and Burlesque. Its Music is, as a general rule, too trivial for serious criticism; though, within the last few years, much of it has attained almost unexampled popularity in the hands of Offenbach, Hervé, Lecocq, and other aspirants for public favour.

Though the French School has produced innumerable Instrumentalists, of European reputation, it has given birth to comparatively few Instrumental Composers. It is true, that the Orchestral Preludes to Cherubini's Operas rank among the finest inspirations of his genius; but, they stand almost alone. Neither the Quartet nor the Sonata have ever found a congenial home in France; nor can the Symphony be said to have firmly taken root in that country, though the meteor-like genius of Berlioz invested it, for a moment, with a passing interest of altogether exceptional character. The style of this irrepressible free-lance differs, root and branch, from that of every other known Composer, German, French, English, or Italian; yet its most salient features may be summed up in a very few words. It is a French paraphrase of the most pronounced development of the German Romantic School: German, in its deep cogitation, its philosophical moods, its wild imagery, its power of Tone-painting, and its new and finished system of Instrumentation—French, in its violent outbursts, its fervid excitement, its uncontrollable agitation, its polished refinement, and, above all, its ineffable bizarreries. Its analogue, in Literature, would be a paraphrase of 'Faust,' by Victor Hugo. It exceeds all previous revolutionary manifestations, in its mad contempt for all authority, save that dictated by its own caprice. In the fearlessness of its conceptions, it stands unrivalled. And, in painting its vivid pictures, it avails itself at one moment of the deepest Poetry, and at another of the grossest Realism, with a calm assurance which sets all sober criticism at defiance, but seldom fails to hit its mark. Are we not made to feel, instinctively, in 'Le Carnaval Romain,' that the shower of confetti is a sham? that the bon-bons are fictitious, and probably aimed at our eyes? Can the coldest of us listen, unmoved, to the March in 'La Damnation de Faust'? In 'Harold en Italie,' the finest picture of all, does not the Viola obbligata impersonate the hero of the Poem, as he could have been impersonated by no other means? Could we obtain a clearer insight into his morbid train of thought, if we were permitted to converse with him in the flesh? It has been said, that genius, capable of producing such works as these, would expire if trammelled by the conventional Rules of Art. We do not believe it. We believe, that, if Berlioz had worked at those Rules, as hard as Beethoven did, he might have taken rank among the greatest writers of the century. Casting them aside, he shines forth as the producer of works which may astonish, and even delight, for the moment, but which cannot last, because, like the caprices of the author himself, they can never be thoroughly understood.

Another bright ornament of the Modern French School, Camille Saint Saëns, has also given much attention to this particular branch of Art; though it is not generally in his purely descriptive Music that he shows himself at his best. For instance, his Pianoforte Concerto in E♭—which, notwithstanding its charmingly picturesque character, claims no connection whatever with the Romantic School—strikes out an idea, so original, so reasonable, and so full of artistic interest, that one cannot but regard it as marking a distinct stage of progress in the development of Instrumental Composition. Its grasp of the mutual relations existing between the Solo Instrument and the Orchestra, its exact measurement of the capabilities of both, and its skilful adaptation of the one to the other, unite in producing a variety of effect, which is heightened every moment by the introduction of some new and unexpected combination; while the richness of the general tone is not a little enhanced by the excellence of the 'writing,' throughout. Saint Saëns has written many other works on a scale as extended as this, and rarely failed to strike out some original idea well worth remembering; but this Concerto carries out a principle so valuable, that we cannot doubt that it will take its place among the accepted truths of Art. On the other hand, the meaning of his descriptive works is often very obscure. For instance, his Poème Symphonique, 'Le Rouet d'Omphale,' is lamentably deficient in the clearness which is indispensable in a work of the advanced Romantic School. Even with prefatorial references to guide us to the exact bars in which we are to look for 'Hercules groaning under the bonds which he cannot break,' and 'Omphale deriding his efforts,' we fail to recognise the true moral of the Scene; while the passage for Stringed Instruments which represents the motion of the Wheel, is, after all, no more than the repetition of an idea already worked out to perfection in the First Movement of Spohr's 'Weihe der Töne.' But, if the Composer has mistaken his strong point in this, he has announced it so forcibly in other works, that French orchestral Composers must be apathetic indeed if they do not follow his example, in striving to secure some share of the fame which has hitherto been exclusively reserved, in Paris, for writers of Dramatic Music.

XXXIV. The English Schools of the 19th Century have passed through so many, and such various transitions, that it would be impossible to give a mere general sketch of their history. They must be treated in detail, or not at all.

We have seen that the death of Handel was followed by a long period of comparative inaction, relieved only by the introduction of a new School of Dramatic Music, essentially English in character, and, though overflowing with Melody, sadly deficient in scenic power. This School did not die out with the 18th century, but was carried well into the 19th, by Dibdin and Shield; and in the hands of Braham, C. E. Horn, and Bishop, became even more popular than before. Braham, indeed, did little for it, beyond the introduction of some spirited Songs, to which his matchless Voice, and perfect method of phrasing, lent a charm which atoned for much weak Instrumentation, and many still more serious shortcomings. But Bishop was a thorough Musician, a perfect master of the Orchestra, and, in many respects, a true genius. His invention was unlimited. His Melodies were always graceful, and pleasing; and his Concerted Pieces were skilfully put together, with that instinctive tact, which never fails to produce the best effect attainable with the means at its command. Witness that delightful Finale in 'Guy Mannering,' in which the Comic and the Sentimental are blended together, with such exquisite perception, that one can only wonder how the Composer failed to take rank as the greatest dramatic writer of the period. Rooke followed, worthily, with 'Amilie, or The Love-test,' 'Henrique, or The Love-pilgrim,' and 'Cagliostro'—works full of merit, though no more likely to be revived than their predecessors. If then, even when reinforced by such exceptional talent, the old English Opera rose to no satisfactory artistic level, it must clearly have been in consequence of some radical defect in its constitution. And this was the exact truth. It demanded, for its effective representation, a practical impossibility. Due justice could only be rendered to the impersonation of its principal characters, by a company of performers, equally accomplished as Vocalists and Rhetoricians. And hence it was, that, when 'Guy Mannering' was revived, some five and thirty years ago, at the Princess's Theatre, the piece owed its success entirely to the wonderful delineation of the parts of Meg Merrilies and Dominie Sampson by two celebrated Comedians, neither of whom could sing a single note—in other words, it succeeded, not as an Opera, but as a Play. Neither in Germany nor France, would this perversion of styles have been possible: for, neither in the modern form of the 'Singspiel,' nor in the 'Opéra comique,' is any really important part of the Action of the Drama transacted in spoken Dialogue. The approach of a scenic climax is always heralded by a return to the more powerful language of Music; and it was simply to the neglect of this condition that the older School of English Opera owed its ruin. A foolish prejudice against English Recitative had long been prevalent in musical circles; and had, by this time, become so general, that when 'Der Freischütz' was produced at Covent Garden in 1824, it was mutilated in the most shameless manner to meet the popular taste, the last grand Finale being represented solely by its concluding Chorus. Even the Libretto of 'Oberon' (by Planché) contained scenes in which the whole interest was centred in the Dialogue; and, when German, Italian, or French Operas, were 'adapted to the English Stage,' their finest movements were excised, in obedience to this Procrustean law. What wonder that a School based on so false a foundation should fall to the ground!

Without one tithe of Bishop's talent, or a vestige of his reverence for Art, Balfe saw this weak point; and remedied it, by substituting Music for Dialogue, in the more important situations of the Drama, and thus assimilating it more nearly to the lighter phases of the 'Opéra comique.' In this he certainly did well. Compared with Bishop's, his Music was worthless. But, by introducing it in the right places, he saved the English Opera a work in which he was ably supported by Benedict, whose earlier Operas were based upon similar views. Wallace followed with 'Maritana' and 'Lurline'; Lucas, with 'The Regicide'; Lavenu, with 'Loretta'; Howard Glover, with 'Ruy Blas,' 'Aminta,' 'Once too often,' and 'The Coquette'; Henry Smart with 'The Gnome of Harzburg'; Hatton, with 'Pascal Bruno'—produced at Vienna—and 'Rose, or Love's Ransom'; Mellon, with 'Victorine'; and Edward Loder, with 'The Night Dancers.' Our best Composers were, by this time, fully convinced, that, if any good was to be effected for the English Lyric Drama, it could only be by the full recognition of principles, which, ages before, had been received as canons of Art in every other country in Europe. The performances of a German Opera Company, in London, in 1840–1842, did much towards the illustration of these principles, in a form both practical and instructive. The German 'Singspiel' was heard, in its normal purity, interpreted by German Singers of highest rank. The objectors to English Recitative were put out of Court; for the Dialogue of the 'Singspiel' is spoken. We know, now, that this is a mistake; and, that the only true principle is that maintained by the Italians, who insist that everything must be sung, or nothing. But, in those days, it was a great thing that even the German theory should be accepted; and its acceptance was followed by great results.

The eyes of John Barnett had already been opened to the necessity of this modification of form, as early as 1834, when he brought out his best Opera, 'The Mountain Sylph,' at the Lyceum. Before this, he had produced a lengthy series of dramatic works, abounding in beautiful Songs, but based upon the approved English model, and therefore doomed to speedy extinction. But in 'The Mountain Sylph' he proved himself the possessor of an unsuspected amount of dramatic power; and, while faithful to his melodic talent, took care to employ it—as in the clever Trio, 'This magic-wove scarf'—in combination with sufficient Action to ensure its good effect. But, though the Opera proved a great success, the new principle was not followed up, until, after the arrival of the German Company, English audiences became alive to its immense importance. Then it was that George Macfarren appeared upon the scene, with his 'Don Quixote'; a delightful work, which was received at Drury Lane in 1846 with acclamation. No less successful were his 'Charles the Second,' produced at the Princess's Theatre in 1849, and 'Robin Hood,' at 'Her Majesty's Theatre' in 1860. These, and some later works of similar tendency, are all written in true English style; but with an honest appreciation of the form which prevailed uninterruptedly in Germany, from the time of Mozart until the first outbreak of the revolution which has condemned it as a relique of the dark ages. With this revolution, Macfarren has never shown the slightest sympathy, either in theory or practice: but, honestly striving to carry out the principles which underlie 'Der Freischütz,' 'Die Entführung,' and 'Les deux Journées,' he has accomplished a work which may possibly be more fully appreciated after a certain inevitable reaction has set in, than it is now.

Not many English Operas of note have been produced in London since Macfarren's later works; but within the last few years a taste has been developed for a lighter kind of Operetta, the success of which has surpassed anything that the most devoted admirers of playful Music could have anticipated. In nothing does a true Artist declare himself more unmistakeably, than in his power of adapting himself to circumstances. We all know that Opera buffa is a lower form of Art than Opera seria; yet Cimarosa and, Rossini achieved some success in it, to say nothing of Mozart. In like manner, though we do not say that English Comic Operetta is, in itself, a noble conception, we do say, that, since the English public is determined to have it, Arthur Sullivan has proved himself a true Artist, by meeting the demand in so conscientious a spirit that his reputation as a Musician will rest, eventually, on his Operettas, as much as on his more serious Compositions. A strong affinity may be traced between these pretty trifles, and the older forms of Italian Opera buffa. The Tunes are catching, in the highest degree. If they were not so, no Operetta would live a week. But, they are also put together with so much genuine Musician-like feeling, that, though they may be ground on the barrel-organ, and whistled in the street, they can never sound vulgar. And, the brightest fun of the piece, the real vis comica, lies—as in 'Il Barbiere,' and 'La Cenerentola'—not in the words, but in the Music. 'Hardly ever' would not have passed into a proverb, if it had been spoken. It makes us laugh, only because, like all the other good things in 'H.M.S. Pinafore,' it is so set to Music that the Singer has no choice but to turn it into fun. And it is exactly the same with 'Patience,' and 'Cox and Box.' Their Music overflows with witty passages; passages which would make the words sound witty, were they ever so tame. The fun of very clever people is always the richest fun of all. Its refinement is a thousand times more telling than the coarser utterances of ordinary humour. And so it has always been with the greatest Masters of Opera buffa. Paisiello and Cimarosa are accepted as Classical Composers; yet their sprightliness exceeds that of all the farce-writers that ever existed. Arthur Sullivan has made every one in London laugh; yet, the predominating quality in the Music of 'H.M.S. Pinafore' is reverence for Art—conscientious observance of its laws, in little things. It may sound absurd to say so: but, no one who takes the trouble to examine the Score can deny the fact.

It is said that the Composer of these popular Operettas is contemplating a Serious Opera, planned upon an extensive scale. It is to be hoped that the report may prove true; for, with his great reputation, he can hardly fail to obtain a hearing, though there is not much hope, in England, for aspirants of lesser celebrity. That Stanford's 'Veiled Prophet' should have been performed, for the first time, at Hanover, in the form of a German translation, is a reproach to our national taste. Had the work proceeded from an untried hand, managers might have been forgiven for refusing to risk the production of a piece demanding such costly scenic preparation. But Stanford's name was not unknown; and 'The Veiled Prophet' proved to be something better than a poor commonplace imitation of foreign models. Though original, in the best sense of the word, it never descends to eccentricity. While giving free expression to any amount of necessary dramatic colouring, the Composer never forgets that there is another side to the question—that even dramatic colouring must conform to laws which have been ordained in order that Art may never degrade herself by the presentation of that which is hideous, or even unlovely. This wholesome restraint is exemplified, in a very remarkable way, in the Music allotted to Mokanna. The temptation to represent physical ugliness by ugly progressions would have been too strong for many a young Composer to resist; yet, here, with no suspicion of such revolting symbolism, we are still made to realise the horror of the Scene in its fullest significance. There is a determined character about the Watchman's Song which stamps it, throughout, as an original inspiration. The same may be said of the Music designed to accompany the rising of the magic moon; while the more regularly developed Movements—such as the Duet between Zelica and Azim, in the Second Act show evidence of a preconceived design, which greatly augments the musical interest of the piece. Judged as a whole, the Opera takes rank as a legitimate product of the Romantic School, original enough to claim our hearty recognition, on its own merits, yet obedient enough to scholastic law to show that its author has not neglected the study of classical models.

Want of space compels us to pass over the Dramatic Works of Cowen, and Alfred Cellier, and many another rising Artist, without detailed notice; but, with so many young Composers in the full strength of their artistic life, and so many clever librettists ready to cast in their lot with them, we cannot but think that there is good hope for the future of English Opera.

During the earlier decads of the 19th century, England did but little for Sacred Music. In one important point, however, she was faithful to tradition. She alone kept alive that love for Handel which was elsewhere absolutely extinct. The Cæcilian Society, and, after it, the Sacred Harmonic Society, did more good than could have been achieved by any number of lukewarm Composers. It is not too much to say that some of the finest Music we possess must have been delivered over to oblivion, had it not been kept before the world by these two Associations, until its beauties were recognised elsewhere, and Germany began that splendid edition of Handel's works, which ought, years ago, to have been printed in London. All honour to Dr. Chrysander for his labour of love! But we must not forget that the English were the first to promote, in one way, the work which Germany is now promoting in another; for it is to the enterprise of London publishers that we owe those octavo editions of Handel's Oratorios, the cheapness of which places them in the hands of every one, while their enormous circulation shows how wonderfully the taste for good Music must be on the increase. Moreover, the weakness, which, fifty or sixty years ago, lowered the tone of English Sacred Music so deplorably, has given place to a more promising power of healthy production. There can be no doubt that this reaction is mainly traceable to the first performance, in 1846, of Mendelssohn's 'Elijah,' an event which impressed the British public with a deeper reverence for the higher branches of Art than it had previously entertained. The audiences assembling at Exeter Hall knew some dozen Oratorios—the finest in the world—and honestly appreciated them. But, they did not care to hear anything they did not know. They were afraid to pass judgment on Music with which they were not familiar, lest, by criticising it too favourably, they should compromise their taste. The appearance of 'Elijah' put an end to this unsatisfactory state of things. The Oratorio proved to be superb; and no one was afraid to acknowledge it. The reaction was complete. The eyes of a large section of the Musical public were opened; and many who had never before entertained the idea of such a question, began to ask whether the creative faculty might not still be found within the pale of the English School. It was found; and, one by one, works were produced, quite strong enough to give fair promise of the ultimate formation of a new School of English Oratorio. To Bennett Bennett we owe 'The Woman of Samaria'; to C. E. Horsley, 'David,' 'Joseph,' and 'Gideon'; to Macfarren, 'S. John the Baptist,' 'The Resurrection,' and 'Joseph'; to Benedict, 'Saint Cæcilia' and 'S.Peter'; to Ouseley, 'Saint Polycarp' and 'Hagar'; to Sullivan, 'The Prodigal Son' and 'The Light of the World'; to John Francis Barnett, 'The Raising of Lazarus'; to Bexfield, 'Israel restored'; to Chipp, 'Job' and 'Naomi'; to Dearle, 'Israel in the Wilderness'; to Costa, 'Eli' and 'Naaman'; to Henry Leslie, 'Immanuel' and 'Judith'; to Barnby, 'Rebekah'; to Joseph Parry, 'Emanuel'; to Bridge, 'Mount Moriah'; to Armes, 'Saint John the Evangelist'; to Pierson, 'Jerusalem,' and the unfinished Oratorio 'Hezekiah.' Were we to speak of these works, or any of them, as on a level with 'Saint Paul,' or 'Elijah,' their Composers would be the first to contradict us. But we do say, that, with such a list before us—a list far from complete—it would be absurd to speak of the English Oratorio as extinct.

In order to supply a pressing need at our Provincial Musical Festivals, the Oratorio has been supplemented, of late years, by the Choral Cantata, in which some of our best English Composers have attained considerable success. Among the best examples produced within the last thirty years, we may mention Dr. Stainer's 'Daughter of Jairus'; Caldicott's 'Widow of Nain'; Dr. Bridge's 'Boadicea'; Macfarren's 'Lenora,' 'May Day,' 'The Sleeper awakened,' 'Christmas,' and 'The Lady of the Lake'; Sterndale Bennett's 'May Queen'; Benedict's 'Undine' and 'Richard Cœur de Lion'; John Francis Barnett's 'Paradise and the Peri,' 'The Ancient Mariner,' and 'The Building of the Ship'; Hodson's' 'Golden Legend'; Hubert Parry's 'Prometheus Unbound'; Cowen's 'Corsair,' 'S. Ursula,' and 'The Rose Maiden'; Madame Sainton-Dolby's 'Legend of Saint Dorothea,' 'The Story of the Faithful Soul,' and 'Thalassa'; Gadsby's 'Alcestis,' and 'The Lord of the Isles'; Prout's 'Hereward'; Leslie's 'Holyrood,' and 'The Daughter of the Isles'; H. Smart's 'Jacob,' 'Bride of Dunkerron,' 'King René's daughter,' and 'The Fisher Maidens'; Mackenzie's 'The Bride'; Sullivan's 'Kenilworth' and 'Martyr of Antioch'; and many others.

The extraordinary number of these ambitious works may be partly explained by the increasing zeal for the cultivation of Part-Singing manifested by all classes of English Society. Forty years ago, the Art was scarcely known beyond the limits of the Sacred Harmonic Society, and the Choirs assembling at the greater Provincial Festivals. But, in 1840, Mr. Hullah—already well known to the public by his 'Village Coquettes' and some other Operas—first set on foot the famous Classes, which, beginning at the Training College at Battersea, have since spread to the remotest parts of the country; insomuch that there are few parishes in England, which have not, at some time or other, boasted a Class on the 'Hullah System,' and few towns destitute of a respectable 'Choral Society.' So great was the success of the movement, that, aided by his friend, E. C. May, and other coadjutors, Mr. Hullah was able, within a very few years, to raise the system of training to a standard much higher than that which he had originally contemplated; and, drafting his best pupils into a more advanced Choir, to perform the Oratorios of Handel, and other great works, first at Exeter Hall, and then at S. Martin's, in a style which did honour to the Association, even in the face of the Sacred Harmonic Society. The effect of these energetic proceedings was to educate, not only the taste, but the Voices of the people, also, to a point which prepared the way for the Choirs founded by Leslie, Barnby, and others, for smaller gatherings, for the Gluck Society, and for the now firmly established Bach Choir, which, under the able direction of Otto Goldschmidt, with Madame Lind-Goldschmidt consenting, from pure love of Art, to lead its Sopranos, has achieved its well-known success in the interpretation of choral works of the highest order. Moreover, this increased and increasing love for Choral Singing has already led to the production of countless Anthems, Services, and other pieces of Choral Music, many of which are in favour with our Church Choirs.

During the first half of the 19th century Instrumental Music was chiefly represented, in England, by Clementi, John Field, John Cramer, the elder Wesley, Dr. Crotch, Thos. Attwood, G. E. Griffin, and B. Jacob. To these succeeded Moscheles and Cipriani Potter; after whose retirement a newer style was developed, under the leadership of Sterndale Bennett. He first showed us how, to the refined technique of his predecessors, a new grace might be added more captivating than all the rest: and, crystallising this, in his written works, he has breathed a spirit into English Music which will not be soon forgotten. It is not too much to say, that, in perfection of form, clearness of design, symmetry of proportion, and delicacy of detail, his style has never been rivalled, since the death of Mendelssohn. These four great qualities—especially the last—distinguish it from all contemporary methods. And these qualities served him, even before he left the Royal Academy, as a fortress, under shelter of which he might safely give free scope to his genius, in any desired direction. Protected by this, he fearlessly suffered his Fancy to lead him into the very heart of the Romantic School. Not towards the spectre-haunted region so familiar to Weber and Marschner, but into the bright realm of Nymphs, and Sprites, and Færies, and all the beautiful creatures of the woods; the dwellers in lonely streams; the dancers in the moonlit meadow; ethereal essences which he knew how to paint in colours as bright and beautiful as themselves. Where Weber shows us a Dragon, Bennett points to the gambols of a Squirrel; but it is only just to say that we are made to see the one picture as clearly as the other. Still, Bennett was no realist. He painted his pictures with an exactness of definition which compels our instant recognition; but, he dealt with the Unseen, as well as with the Seen, and thus affiliated himself to the Imaginative School as closely as to her Romantic sister. There are thoughts in his Concertos, in the Symphony in G Minor, and in many of his pieces of Chamber Music, which neither words, nor pictures, can communicate from mind to mind; thoughts which can only be rendered intelligible through the medium of Music, and which, so communicated, unite the inmost soul of the hearer with that of the Composer.^[67] No doubt, this is the highest result that Music can hope to reach—certainly, the most intellectual. But, this view of the case detracts nothing, either from the merit, or the charm, of Romantic pictures, so delicately painted as the Overtures to 'The Naiads,' 'The Woodnymphs,' 'Paradise and the Peri,' or 'Parisina'—in which last sad inspiration the deepest depths of Tragedy are reached as certainly as the perfection of beauty is reached in the others. The 'Three Musical Sketches' stand forth like three little Water Colour Drawings from the pencil of Turner, who himself could have thrown no more poetical expression into the calm ripple on 'The Lake,' the rush of 'The Mill-stream,' or the brilliant sparkle of 'The Fountain,' than Bennett has done by means of the simplest possible form of Tone-Painting. Yet, even from these, the hint of vulgar realism is entirely excluded. The only satisfactory test that can be applied, in such cases, is the question, 'Would the Music sound good, and beautiful, and interesting, to a man who had never seen, or heard of, a Lake, a Millstream, or a Fountain?' And there can be only one answer—of course it would. Bennett never once, during the whole course of his artistic life, descended to anything that was beneath the dignity of his Art. One may read noblesse oblige in every bar he ever wrote. And we, who knew him intimately, can confidently assert, that, though his whole heart was full of gentleness, the kindness of his disposition never tempted him to condone, in others, what he would himself have rejected as unworthy of an Artist. On the other hand, if he could not tolerate bad Part-writing, or vicious Harmony, or hideous malformation disguised under the title of freedom from archaic bondage, he never refused to do justice to a grand idea, because it was new. Indeed, so far removed was his loyal Conservatism from the blindness which can see no good in anything not yet consecrated by the lapse of time, that he himself was always ready to welcome new ideas; to deal with them in such sort, that, in many respects, his Music was very much in advance of its age.

Under such a leader, it would have been shameful if the English School had produced no Instrumental Music. It has produced much. Macfarren's Overtures to 'Chevy Chase,' 'The Merchant of Venice,' 'Romeo and Juliet,' 'Hamlet,' and 'Don Carlos'; John Francis Barnett's 'Symphony in A Minor,' 'Overture Symphonique,' Overture to 'A Winter's Tale,' and 'Concerto in D minor'; Stanford's Symphonies, his Sonata for Pianoforte and Violin, in D (op. 11), his Violoncello Sonata, in A (op. 9), and his other pieces for the Chamber, are all works worthy of recognition. Best's Organ Music, even apart from its Musician-like construction, and pure artistic feeling, shows an intimate acquaintance with the character and capabilities of the Instrument, which cannot but secure for it a long term of favour. Meanwhile, we owe much to a large and daily increasing class of Organists, once led by Drs. Gauntlett and S. S. Wesley, and now well represented by E. J. Hopkins, W. Rea, Drs. Stainer, Bridge, Gladstone, and many talented associates, whose executive power, and knowledge of practical Organ-building, have, for many years past, reacted upon each other, producing, in the end, a School of Organ-playing, the excellence of which is not surpassed in any part of Europe.

Arthur Sullivan, who has done so much for the lighter forms of Opera, and for Vocal Music of almost every class, has not been idle with regard to Instrumental Music, but has produced works such as his Music in 'The Tempest' and the 'Merchant of Venice,' his Symphony in E, his Overtures 'di Ballo,' and 'In Memoriam,' which show that, if he would, he might rival any one in this department of the art. His treatment of the Orchestra shows an intimate acquaintance with the nature of its Instruments, and a genius for their combination, such as few contemporary masters have surpassed; and we sincerely trust that the success of no possible number of Operettas may prevent him from continuing to labour in the more serious field in which he has already won so many honours.

Frederick Cowen is also worthily supplementing his Choral works, and his early and successful Opera, 'Pauline,' by numerous Instrumental Compositions, some of which have received marks of special favour at the Philharmonic Society and elsewhere. Among the most important of these are his 3 Symphonies, his Sinfonietta, and his Orchestral Suite—a series of significant productions, though not all of equal pretension. In close sympathy with the modern system of Tone-painting, Cowen delights in connecting his work by a thread of Romance, which, weaving itself through the entire sequence of Movements, gives a clue to the intention of the whole: but, with a wholesome dread of realism, he usually leaves his audience to fill in the details of the picture for themselves. For instance, in his Orchestral Suite, 'The Language of Flowers'—where distinct imitation of Nature, if not impossible, would have bordered upon the ludicrous—poetical symbolism is used, with excellent and perfectly intelligible effect. The Scandinavian Symphony (No. 3, in C minor), though confessedly a more descriptive work, owes more to the effect of subtle suggestion than to the presentation of a definite picture. It is true that we are introduced, in the Slow Movement, to a merry boating-party; and, in the Scherzo, to the incidents of a sleigh journey: but, in the opening Allegro, we are invited to contemplate the sombre scenery of the North, and, in the Finale, to dream of its heroic Legends, with no assistance from the Composer beyond the suggestion of a fitting frame of mind, which we cannot mistake, but which, nevertheless, leaves our fancy unfettered. It is by this fixity of intention, rather than by any more material quality, that we must measure the true value of Cowen's works, which, already very numerous, will, we trust, continue to multiply and advance.^[68]

Hubert Parry, pursuing the path least likely to lead to evanescent popularity, has published a Pianoforte Trio in E minor, some Sonatas^[69] full of earnest thought, and a Grand Duo for two Pianofortes, in which the twin Instruments are made to 'play up to each other' by means of a very much greater amount of ingenious Part-writing than one generally expects to find in Compositions of this class, while the well-marked character of the Subjects employed enhances its interest as a contribution to our store of advanced Pianoforte Music. He has also written an Overture, a Pianoforte Concerto, and other pieces, which, though several times performed in London, remain still in MS.

Of the works of Henry Smart, Walter Macfarren, Hatton, Goss, Ouseley, Leslie—whose Symphony in D, entitled 'Chivalry,' has lately been successfully performed—and a score of other Composers of the day, we would gladly speak in detail did our space permit. Our object, however, is not to call attention to the productions of individual writers, however excellent and interesting they may be in themselves; but, to show, by reference to actual facts, the present position of our English School, as compared with the Schools of other countries. We have proved that its descent is as pure as that of any School in Europe: that we can trace back its pedigree, link by link, from its living representatives, through Sterndale Bennett, Horn, Bishop, Dibdin, Arne, Boyce, Purcell, and the School of the Restoration, to the Polyphonic Composers, Gibbons, Tallis, Byrd, Whyte, Tye, Edwardes, Fayrfax, and John of Dunstable, and back, through these, to the oldest Composer of whom the world has any record, that John of Fornsete to whom we owe the most antient example of Polyphonic Composition yet discovered. We have shown—and shall presently show more plainly still—that, at the present moment, it is more active than it has ever been before; doing excellent work; and giving rich promise for the future. There has never been a time at which English Composers have more faithfully fulfilled the trust committed to them than now. They have conducted us, step by step, to a very high position indeed. We shall be cowards, if we recede from it. In order to prevent such a disaster, we have only to bear the work of our forefathers in mind; and, so long as this is healthily remembered, we need entertain but little dread of retrogression.

XXXV. Is retrogression then possible, in The Schools of the Future, after the wonderful advances that have already been made?

Undoubtedly it is. By hard work, and continued perseverance, we may postpone its advent to an indefinite date. But, sooner or later, it will certainly come upon us. If the History of Art prove nothing else, it most certainly will never cease to prove this, to the end of time: and we have written to small purpose, if we have failed to establish the fact. After more than two centuries of steady progress, Polyphony attained perfection, in the School of Palestrina; and, within fifty years after his death, became a thing of the past. In the fourth half-century of its existence, the Monodic School received, at the hands of Rossini, so notable an infusion of German power, that, in its later phases, its essential principles, scarcely less dead than those of Polyphony, are barely recognisable. Not only have the Polyodic Schools of Handel and Bach languished, for lack of disciples; but it is even doubtful whether any Composer of the present day would care to make common cause with them, if he could. The same thing has happened in the case of every direct manifestation of a special form of Art. Is the School of Beethoven—which has served, more or less, as the basis of all the best work done during the last fifty years—condemned to suffer with the rest? It must so suffer, or contradict the experience of all past history. The question is, not whether it is doomed to extinction—for of that we are firmly assured—but, whether it has already reached its culminating point. Is room still left for greater work than any that has as yet been accomplished in this direction? If so, we may hope, that, sooner or later, a Master will arise among us, great enough to accomplish it. If not, the period of decadence cannot be very far distant: for, no School can exist, for any length of time, upon a dead level. If it be not progressing towards greater things, it must be dying out; and the sooner some new manifestation of genius supersedes it, the better. Let us try to cast aside all prejudice, in either direction; and dispassionately weigh our chance of advancement on the old lines against that of the discovery of a new path.

The most sanguine believer in progress will scarcely venture to assert that the labours of the last fifty years have effected any improvement in the Symphony, the Quartet, or the Sonata. Yet, the average efficiency of Instrumentalists, of all kinds, and in all countries, is probably greater, at this moment, than it has ever been before. Setting aside Paganini, as an exceptional phenomenon, rather than a Classical Virtuoso, no greater Violinist than Joachim has ever lived; nor, bearing his great Concerto and other important works in mind, can we speak lightly of him as a Composer. Except for his unrivalled powers, which admit of no comparison with those of any other Artist, there are many others whom we should thankfully place in the highest rank of all; and who really are second to him alone. It is doubtful whether the Violoncello was ever played as it is now played by Piatti; and those who do not remember Dragonetti will be quite prepared to believe the same of Bottesini and the Double-Bass. What Joachim is to the Violin, Clara Schumann is to the Pianoforte—the most poetical interpreter now living of the great works of the Classical Schools; and, judging as well as we can by the traditions handed down to us, the most perfect, in some respects, on record. Scarcely less remarkable, as the representative of a newer School, is Hans von Bülow, who, notwithstanding his strong predilections in favour of Liszt and Wagner, is rivalled by few in his reading of the works of the older Masters, from Bach to Beethoven. Even Liszt himself, the Paganini of the Pianoforte, and the greatest executant of the century, still possesses powers, which, despite his seventy years, one sometimes half expects to welcome once more in all the glories of a second youth; and of which we do, in a manner, see a strange revival in the performances of Rubinstein. We speak of the giants only, having no room to chronicle the facts at our command. Yet who can forget the names of Halle, and Madame Norman-Neruda, of Arabella Goddard, Agnes Zimmermann, Marie Krebs, and a hundred other conservative Artists who delight us every day; and not these only, but a host of players on every Orchestral Instrument, so accomplished in their generation, that many of the Second Violins of to-day would have been thankfully accepted as Leaders, not so very many years ago. Whence, then, in presence of so splendid an array of Virtuosi, the manifest decline in Instrumental Compositions of the highest order? We shall best explain it by an illustration drawn from the history of another Art. The Instrumental Movements of Beethoven and Schumann, present, towards those of Haydn and Mozart, a contrast curiously analogous to that which the voluptuous chiaroscuro of Correggio presents to the clearer definitions of Pietro Perugino, and the youthful Raffaelle. Now Correggio was, himself, so consummate a draughtsman, that, knowing, to a hair's breadth, where his contours would fall, he could afford to throw them into shadow, whenever he pleased, without running the slightest risk of injuring his 'drawing.' But, among his would-be imitators were certain very poor draughtsmen, who found it much easier to throw in a shadow, than to fix the place of a correct outline. So, the contours of the early Masters were condemned, as 'hard'; and the chiaroscuro of Correggio was used to cover a multitude of incorrect outlines; and so it came to pass, that a notable degradation of Art was once referred to this great Master's School. In like manner, Beethoven, having a perfect symmetrical form at command, could afford to clothe it, to any extent, with those deeply imaginative passages which formed the very essence of his genius, without running the slightest risk of distorting its fair proportions. But, among some later Composers, this reverence for form has either passed unnoticed, or fallen into contempt, as a relique of barbarism; and the stringing together of passages, supposed to be imaginative, has been held to be all that is necessary for the production of a Work of Art. There can be no more fatal error than this: and Beethoven's own history proves it. We know that he worked hard at Fux's 'Gradus,' and Albrechtsberger's 'Anweisung'; and that, afterwards, he produced many wonderful works. And we know that some of his followers, whose works are not at all wonderful, have not worked hard, either at Albrechtsberger or Fux. Of course, this may be merely a coincidence. The merest beginner will tell us, now-a-days, that Fux and Albrechtsberger were superseded, long ago. No doubt, Beethoven used their miserable books as the basis of his method, because no better ones had then been published. Still, he seems to have got some small amount of good out of them. At any rate, so far as the Symphony is concerned—to go no farther—there is 'writing' in the immortal Nine which has not yet been equalled, but which, nevertheless, must be more than equalled, if the School has not yet entered upon the period of its decline.

In considering the future of Sacred Music, it is difficult to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion, with regard to the coming history, either of the Oratorio or the Mass. We cannot but look forward with deep interest to the production of Gounod's new work, 'The Redemption,' at the Birmingham Festival of 1882; nor can we doubt that it will be worthy of its Composer's reputation. Still, it must be evident to every one, that, since the year 1846, the Oratorio has not shown a tendency to rise, either in England or in Germany, to a higher Ideal than that which was presented to us at the memorable Birmingham Festival of that year. Many reasons may be adduced for this—among them, a technical one, of trenchant force. The chief strength of an Oratorio lies in its Choruses. Where these are weak, no amount of beautiful Airs will save the work. And, they always will be weak, unless they rest upon a firm contrapuntal foundation. This fact enables us to predict, without fear of contradiction, that, cœteris paribus, the best Contrapuntist will write, not only the best Oratorio, but the best Mass; for the same law applies, with equal force, to the modern Mass with Orchestral Accompaniments. No one will attempt to say that the sensuous beauty, either of Rossini's 'Messe Solennelle,' or Gounod's, is the highest type of perfection to which a Choral Composer can aspire. Verdi's 'Requiem' is as theatrical as 'Aïda'—far more so than 'Il Trovatore,' or 'La Traviata.' Anomalies such as these invariably present themselves, in Sacred Music, where contrapuntal skill is wanting; for, in this kind of Composition, inventive power will prove of no avail, without an equal amount of constructive power to support it. How is this power to be acquired? At this moment, there is no Master in Europe capable of taking Hauptmann's place, as a teacher of Counterpoint; and, were such a Master to arise among us, it is doubtful whether, in the present state of public feeling, his learning would meet with adequate recognition. This is an evil, the continuance of which no School can survive. If the Oratorio is to rise higher than it has yet done, our next generation of Composers must take the difficulty into serious consideration, and not affect to think lightly of the only means by which success has hitherto been attained.

Since the downfall of the Polyphonic Schools, the true Church Style—the 'Stilo alia Cappella' of the 16th century—has lain entirely dormant: but, within the last few years, attempts have been made to revive it, both in Germany, in France, and in England. In Germany, the movement was begun in 1853 by Dr. Karl Proske, who printed a large collection of the finest works of the 16th century,^[70] and introduced them, with great effect, into the Services of the Cathedral at Regensburg, of which he was Canon, and Kapellmeister. After his death the work was carried on by the 'Cæcilien Verein,' which has done much towards the dissemination of a taste for the productions of the true Polyphonic School, and led to their constant performance in all parts of Germany.

In France, the increased love for Plain Chaunt, which manifested itself, some thirty years ago, in the Dioceses of Paris, Rouen, Rheims, Cambrai, and other parts of the country, has, to a great extent, supplanted the frivolous style of Music once so miserably popular.

In England, the movement began, about thirty-five years ago, with the introduction of Gregorian Tones to the Psalms, at Margaret Street Chapel, S. Paul's, Knightsbridge, S. Barnabas', Pimlico, and some other London Churches, including the Chapel of S. Mark's College, Chelsea. After a time, and mainly through the zeal of the Rev. Thomas Helmore, the taste for this kind of Music spread rapidly; and this taste—assisted, perhaps, by party feeling—soon made 'Gregorians' so popular, that it would be impossible to number the Churches in which they were sung. Unhappily, the present leaders of the movement seem utterly blind to the fact that 'Gregorians' cannot, without entirely losing their distinctive character, be sung with modern Harmonies fit only for the Theatre. The only hope for success lies in the stern prohibition of this vulgar and intolerable abuse; the perpetuation of which would be a far greater evil than an immediate return to the 'Double Chaunt' of fifty years ago.

But, the most interesting question at present is that which concerns the future prospects of the Lyric Drama. We have seen, that Wagner, and Boïto, the leaders of the extreme section of the Neo-Teutonic, and Neo-Italian parties, are in favour of sacrificing everything to dramatic effect; of substituting an elaborate form of Recitative for continuous Melody; of heightening the effect of this by rich and varied Orchestral Accompaniments; and, of supplying the place of regular form by allotting certain special phrases to every character in the Drama.^[71] We have seen, that, within a comparatively short space of time, they have almost entirely banished the older forms of Italian and German Opera from the Stage; and, that even Verdi, who once depended wholly upon Melody for his success, has, to a certain extent, adopted their principles.^[72] On the other hand, we have seen that a more moderate party, numbering among its ranks some young Composers of acknowledged merit, is neither prepared to sacrifice dramatic truth to musical symmetry, nor musical symmetry to dramatic truth: but is determined to use Melody, Harmony, and Form, as means of enforcing Expression, Action, and the varied demands of scenic propriety not as hindrances to them; and, in so doing, to work out the main principles adopted by Mozart and Weber, without committing itself to any peculiarities of style, or method, beyond those dictated by the talent or fancy of the writer. There is much hope that these reasonable views may lead to a careful reconsideration of many things, which, in the heat of recent controversy, have been too violently debated on both sides. That a reaction of some kind must take place, sooner or later, seems certain; and it is of immense importance that it should be a temperate one, otherwise it will leave us in greater doubt than ever.

In passing from the future of Dramatic Music to that of Vocal Music generally, we find ourselves face to face with a new difficulty. On every Instrument in use, except the common Slide-Trumpet, we have attained a facility of execution, infinitely in advance of that which prevailed fifty years ago. But, within the same period, our Schools of Vocalisation have sensibly degenerated. Leaving Catalani, Pasta, Sontag, and Jenny Lind out of the question, there is no Theatre in Europe which, at this moment, could bring together such a body of Singers as formed the average Company of Her Majesty's Theatre, under the Lumley management. Where can we hear 'Il Don Giovanni' sung, as it used to be sung, season after season, by Grisi, Persiani, Rubini, Tamburini, and Lablache? There is no such Quintet attainable: not so much from lack of Voices as from lack of method. A good many of us are to blame for this. Our 'Maestri di canto,' in the first instance, of course; and our Singers also. But, are our Composers guiltless? Was there ever a period at which the capabilities of the Voice were so contemptuously disregarded, as they are at this moment? The evil began in Germany. We dare hardly write the name of the giant who originated it; but, if Beethoven's disregard of vocal capabilities has materially hindered—as it most certainly has—the performance of two, at least, of his greatest works, how can men of ordinary genius hope to succeed in spite of it? Time was, when Composers regarded the study of the Voice as indispensable to their education; and surely, the course of study which led to such splendid results, in the cases of Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Cimarosa, and Rossini, must have reacted upon the Singers for whom they wrote, and tended to perpetuate a School of Vocalists capable of doing full justice to their Music. We know that it did so; since it was not until after Rossini retired from public life, that the degradation of which we complain began. Composers, and performers, who thoroughly understand and sympathise with each other, may accomplish anything: but, what can be expected from a Singer who finds his Voice treated like a Clarinet? It is scarcely worth his while even to try to find out what his Voice can do, and what it cannot.

In summing up the results of our enquiry, we cannot fail to see that a glorious Future lies open before us, if we will only take the pains to work for it. There is a greater amount of activity in the musical world, at this moment, than the longest-lived among us has ever known before; probably more than ever before existed. One remarkable sign of it is to be found in the unceasing demand for the works of the Great Masters, which leads to their continual republication, in every conceivable form, in Germany, in France, and in England. Augener's cheap editions of the Pianoforte Classics; the 8vo Oratorios and Cantatas published by Novello, and R. Cocks; the enormous collection of standard works issued by Litolff, Richault, Peters, etc.; Breitkopf & Härtel's complete editions of Palestrina, Handel, Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven; Michaelis's of the early French Operas—these, and many like collections, all have their tale to tell. If we do not play and sing grand Music, it is not from the difficulty of obtaining copies. And not less remarkable are the additions to our Musical Literature. The publication, in English, of such works as Jahn's 'Life of Mozart,' Holmes's volume on the same subject, Spitta's 'Life of Bach,' Hensel's 'Mendelssohn Family,' and other important treatises on Musical Science and Biography, is very significant.

But this is only one manifestation of energy. Whatever may be our own peculiar views, we must admit that the amount of zeal displayed by Wagner, Richter, von Bülow, and other prominent members of the advanced party, in Germany, is enormous. Brahms, Raff, and Hiller, are all doing something. Liszt is busy, in his own peculiar way; while the chiefs of the rising Dramatic School are equally so, in theirs. Gounod, Saint Saëns, and Delibes, are active in France, and many clever musicians in America. [See United States.] We do not say that all this feverish exertion will last. It cannot. Nor is it even desirable that it should. But it is a sign of immense vitality. To go no farther than our own country, the daily life of Art among us is almost incredible. In every Cathedral in England, and many Parish Churches, there are two full Choral Services every day. At Oxford, and still more at Cambridge, the study of Music is enthusiastically prosecuted. Not very long ago, Music was unknown at our Public Schools; now, it is fully recognised at Eton, and Harrow, and many others. Our Provincial Festivals, once brought into notice by Sir George Smart and Prof. E. Taylor, and now spread even to Scotland, are not only more numerous and successful than ever, but are more wisely managed, in every way, and rarely pass without bringing forward some new work, not always of the highest order, but always worth listening to, if only as a sign that some young Composer is trying to do his best. To this must be added, the work done in London, at the two Italian Opera Houses, during the Season, and, in the Winter, by Carl Rosa's spirited Company; the enormous amount of Orchestral and Choral Music presented to the public by the Philharmonic, the New Philharmonic, the Crystal Palace Concerts, the Sacred Harmonic Society, the Bach Choir, and the Richter Concerts; the Performances directed by Barnby, and Henry Leslie; the Musical Union, which, under Ella's direction, first introduced to London in 1845 that most instructive key to the better understanding of our Classical Concerts, the 'Analytical Programme,' and has since given a hearty welcome to all the best Continental Virtuosi who have visited this country; and the perfect Chamber Music at the Monday and Saturday Popular Concerts, Chas. Halle's Recitals, and Dannreuther's Musical Evenings. Nor do our rulers grudge the money necessary for the encouragement of Music among those who are unable to provide the luxury for themselves. We do not say that the money voted by Parliament for this purpose is so well spent as it might be. That the grant is strangely misapplied there can be no doubt. But, these are not days in which confusion of any kind can be long continued. The matter must, and most certainly will, be carefully considered; and the grant so used as to ensure the utmost amount of good fruit that can be extracted from it. Meanwhile, the fact remains, that, whether the result of the expenditure be satisfactory, or not, the astounding sum of £130,000 is annually voted by Government, for the purpose of elementary musical education; and the time surely cannot be far distant, when it will be so applied as to produce a proportionate result. The reports on the state of Music, in England, and on the Continent, drawn up by Dr. Hullah, for the Education Department, show the great interest with which the subject is regarded by those who have it in their power to exert a lasting influence upon the time to come. Lastly, a more hopeful sign of life than any we have mentioned is to be found in the proposal for a Royal College of Music. Discussed, then dropped, resumed, dropped again, but always advancing a little nearer to maturity, the scheme has now, for some considerable time, attracted the attention of lovers of Art, who are thoroughly in earnest in their devotion to its interests; and, at last, there seems good hope of bringing the discussion to a successful issue. The late great meeting at Manchester, in which three members of the Royal Family took so prominent a part, has done much towards the attainment of this end. In fact, should the scheme be put into execution, on a suitable scale, as there is every reason to hope it will, our English School will maintain itself, in such sort as not only to do credit to its early ancestry, but to bring forward a later generation capable of winning for it a more honourable name than it has ever yet boasted.

But, the greater our privileges, the greater our responsibilities, and the more arduous our duties. We must first work for our College, in order that our School may have a worthy home. Having secured that, we must work for our School; and our School must work for Art. It is here that the difficulty lies; not only in England, but in every School in Europe. If the actual work accomplished, during the last thirty years, bore any reasonable proportion to the zeal and activity displayed, we should indeed have good cause for present thankfulness, and hope for the time to come. But it does not. In spite of all that has been done and we have not been slow to acknowledge the value of this a million times more has been left undone. We have been too easily tempted to mistake activity for progress, and zeal for honest labour: too readily beguiled by the mad desire to rush into print, into the Orchestra, the Theatre, the Cathedral itself, when we ought to have known that our proper place was in the schoolroom. To remedy this misguided enthusiasm, we need a centre of study, governed by a body of Professors possessing sufficient experience to justify our fullest confidence, and sufficient learning to give it an authority to which the rising generation may bow without endangering its own independence. This point is of immense importance. At the present moment, we have no Court of Appeal, in the competency of which our younger Composers feel any confidence whatever. It is indispensable that we should establish such a Court, in order that we may centralise both the ripe experience and the rising talent of the country; thus using the one as a means of indefinitely increasing the value and efficiency of the other. With such a point d'appui, there is no reason why England should not take the lead, and keep it. If, when our College is established, on a firm and reasonable basis, its Professors will consistently inculcate the superiority of law to anarchy; of reverence to conceit; of commonsense to dreams, and fogs, and rhapsodies à tue tête; there is nothing to prevent it from satisfactorily working out the problem on which the Art-life of the forthcoming twenty years depends, for its triumph or its downfall. We have shown that, if the experience of the Past be worth anything at all, there are but two Paths by which the glories of the Future can be reached. Now it is certain that no sign of a new path has as yet been vouchsafed to us. It may be discovered, any day; but it has not been discovered, yet: and, as we have maintained throughout, the boldest attempt hitherto made to discover it has only led back to a very old path indeed.^[73] For the present, therefore, our chief hope lies in going onwards: and, surely, should we succeed in founding the Institution in question, we ought to do something in this direction! We have greater facilities for study than ever before were placed within the reach of the happiest neophyte; so clear an insight into the history of the Past, that the experience of centuries is open to every one of us; so vast a collection of examples, in every style, that the poorest of us may buy, for a few shillings, works which our fathers were thankful to copy out, for themselves, when they could get the chance. In return for all this, one thing only is required of us—hard study. The study of History—that we may learn what led to success, in times past, and what did not. The study of Counterpoint—that we may be able to write, in the language of Art, and not in a patois fit only for a rustic merry-making. The study of Form—that we may learn how to present our ideas in intelligible sequence, and to emulate, in so doing, the conciseness of true logicians. The study of Style—that we may not only learn to distinguish works of one School from those of another, but may be able, also, to seize upon that which is good, wheresoever it may present itself to our notice, while we reject that which is evil. We need entertain no fear for the Future, so long as these things are conscientiously studied by those who are destined to be its leaders. But if, in the absence of such studies, the work which ought to be done by the intellect be entrusted to the ear—in accordance with a vicious practice, which, defended by a still more vicious theory, seems to be daily gaining ground—no reasonable hope will be left to us. And, in that case, it would be infinitely to our advantage that Composers should cease to produce anything at all, and leave us to subsist upon the heirlooms which have, from time to time, been handed down to us by our forefathers, until some new and worthy manifestation shall declare itself. The Great Masters have left us quite enough to live upon: but, we cannot live upon the produce of a School of Mediocrity.

[ W. S. R. ]

1. Six of Dufay's Masses are, however, preserved in the Royal Library at Brussels; and the 'Gloria' of another, at Cambray. Rochlitz has printed the 'Kyrie' from his Mass 'Si la face ay pale' in vol. i. of the 'Sammlung vorzüglichsten Gesangstücke.'
2. Baini places Busnoys among the Masters of the early School. Kiesewetter regards him, with Hobrecht, and Caron, as belonging to a transitional epoch. Ambros describes him as the leader of a distinct School, interposed between those of Dufay and Okenheim. We do not think that the amount of influence he exercised upon Art justifies this last-named arrangement.
3. Performed by the 'Gluck Society' on May 24. 1881; and reprinted in the 'Notenbellagen' to Ambros's 'Geschichte.'
4. Zarlino quotes this Composition as an example of the Eleventh Mode; the Ionian and Hypoionlan Modes being numbered, in his system, XI. and XII, instead of XIII and XIV. [See vol. ii. p. 342a.] Pietro Aron, ignoring the Transposition, and evidently regarding the B as an often-recurring Accidental, speaks of the work as being written in the Fifth Mode. The Student of Antient Music will at in once understand that this divergence of opinion involves no theoretical incongruity.
5. Though this is, probably, the best-known Madrigal in the world, we are unable to find any printed edition, of later date than the 16th century, to which we can refer, in illustration of our remarks. The popular English translation is irreproachable, so far as the verses are concerned; but, the Music is so much altered, to accommodate them, that its rhythm is scarcely recognisable. We therefore give a few of the opening bars, as they stand in the original; referring the reader, for the remainder, to Dr. Burney's MS. Score, in the British Museum. Compare the extract also with the example from Archadelt's 'Il bianco e dolce cigno,' given in vol. ii. pp. 188–9.
6. This Madrigal will also be found in Archadelt's Third Book.
7. See vol. ii. pp. 228–9.
8. Ambros (ii. xv) goes so far as to say that 'the Basses in the "Kyrie" are carried on in Canon all' animono.' They do, indeed, move in very close imitation, answering, in many places, Interval for Interval, with the most perfect exactness: but, as this exactness is not carried out continuously, the passage cannot fairly be called a Canon.
9. One of Mistro (=Magister) Zuchetto's successors, Bernardo di Stefanino Murer, who held the appointment from 1445 to 1459, is accredited with the invention of the Pedal-board. (See Caffi, i. 62.) Ambros calls him Bernhard der Deutsche, and gives 1470 as the date of his discovery (iii. 433).
10. Or, according to Ambros, in 1490.
11. Joan. Tinctoris 'Terminorum Musicæ diffinitorium.' No date. Only a very few copies are believed to be in existence: but a cheap reprint may be had at Messrs. Cocks & Co., New Burlington Street.
12. See vol. i. p. 761b.
13. A comprehensive selection of works of this School will be found in Bodenschatz's 'Florileaium Portense,' and a few fine examples in Proske's 'Musica Divina.' [See vol. i. 253; vol. ii. 411.]
14. A large collection of the Music of the Spanish School will be found in Eslava's 'Liro sacro-hispana.' [See vol. i. 494.]
15. We think it desirable, in so hotly-disputed a case, to give Sir Frederick Madden's remarks, verbatim. He first says 'The whole is of the thirteenth century, except some writing on ff. 15–17. F. M.' And, again 'In all probability, the earlier portion of this volume was written in the Abbey of Reading about the year 1240. Compare the Obis in the Calendars with those in the Calendar of the Cartulary of Reading in the MS. Cott. Vesp. E. V.—F. M. April 1862.'
16. 'L'Art Harmonique aux xii et xiii siècles.' Paris. 1865, pp. 144, 150.
17. The lately-discovered 'Montpellier MS.' is referred, by Coussemaker, to the last third of the 13th century. To the very antient copy of the 'Prose de l'ane' now in the possession of Sig. Pacchiarotti, of Padua, and sometimes quoted as the oldest specimen of Part-Music in existence, it is absolutely impossible to assign a fixed date with any probability. [See vol. ii. p. 462.]
18. The 'Regina clemencle' will be found on fol. 4b of the MS.; 'Dum Maria credidit,' on fol. 5; 'Ave gloriosa virginum,' on fol. 6; the three sets of Parts for Cantus Superius, and Inferius, on 7b and 8; 'Ave gloriosa Mater,' on 8b, and 9; and the Rota itself, on fol. 10. All. therefore, are included in 'the earlier portion of the MS,' as described by Sir Frederick Madden. (See page 268a, note 2.) A later copy of 'Ave gloriosa Mater,' without the added Quadruplum, has been discovered in the 'Montpellier MS.,' and is ascribed, by Coussemaker, to Franco of Cologne.
19. A Motet—Vesti precincti—for five Voices has been found in a set of 16th-century Part-Books, at Christ Church, Oxford; but, unhappily, the Tenor volume is missing.
20. See vol. ii, p. 192.
21. This set of Part-Books, dated 1581, and still in excellent preservation, consists of five small oblong 4to volumes, beautifully transcribed, and embellished with quaint old Latin verses, and mottos, expressed in penmanship so delicate that it might easily be mistaken for copper-plate engraving. It contains 20 Compositions by Whyte, 35 by Byrde, 1 by Bruster, 1 by Dr. John Bull, 2 by Farrant, 1 by Ferrabosco, 1 by W. Giles, 1 by Johnson, 3 by Orlando di Lasso, 1 by Mallorie, 1 by W. Mundale, 1 by Francesco Mocheni, 8 by R. Parsons, 1 by Phillips, 1 by Shepard, 1 by Strogers, 1 by Taller, 5 by Tallis, 6 by Dr. Tye, 2 by Woodcock, and 19 by Anonymous Authors. Burney mentions it (Hist. vol. ill. p. 66, note o), with a graceful tribute of thanks to the Dean and Chapter, by whose courtesy he was permitted to use it in any way he pleased. We ourselves are indebted to the kindness of the present Librarian for a similar privilege, which has proved of infinite value in the preparation of our analysis of the works of the Early English School.

    The same rich Library contains another set of Part-Books, of at least equal interest, one of the six volumes of which the Tenor is unhappily missing.

22. A similar licence is taken in Bar 13, and many other places.
23. A complete Score will be found in the Library of the Sacred Harmonic Society. In a copy, purchased for the British Museum, in 1876, the Music allotted to each Choir is scored separately; and the volume concludes with a complete set of the separate Parts. In both these examples, the original Latin words are wanting, and the Music is adapted to some English doggrel verses of the time of King Charles I or II. An older, and once very famous copy, in the handwriting of John Immyns, seems to have hopelessly disappeared.

    The Composition was performed, in London, many years ago, under the direction of the late William Hawes; and again, on May 15, 1879, under that of Mr. Henry Leslie.

24. Gradus ad Parnassum, p. 81.
25. London, 1612. No trace of the publication of any Second Set can be discovered.
26. 'Non cantavano, ma glubilavano,' etc.
27. 'Vom Anbeginn der Dinge, bis auf den heutigen Tag, ein durch und durch unmusikalisches Land.' (Ambros, 'Geschichte der Musik,' Tom. iii. p. 440.) It la true that Ambros gives this, rather as the expression of an universal opinion, on the Continent, than his own; and, that he afterwards criticises our best writers more fairly than any other German author with whose works we are acquainted. But, his Chapter on English Music is little more than an exposition of his own opinion of the light thrown, by modern criticism, upon the statements made by Burney and Hawkins. A stronger instance could hardly be given of the ignorance of the English school on the part of German musicians than the fact that so laborious an investigator as Kitner, In his 'Catalogue of republications of antient music' (Berlin 1871) omits all mention of such important collections as Barnard's 'Selected Church Musick,' Boyce's 'Cathedral Music,' Arnold's 'Cathedral Music,' Novello's 'Fitzwilliam Music,' Hullah's Part Music, Vocal Scores, and Singers' Library: while in his Catalogue of works printed during the 16th and 17th centuries (Berlin. 1877), Tallis and Gibbons are absolutely ignored, and Byrd is mentioned only in connection with two Madrigals in the Collection of Thomas Watson.
28. Since this article was written, we have met with an advertisement, mentioning the publication, at Leipzig, of 19 Madrigals, by Dowland, Morley, and other English Composers, adapted to German words, and edited by J. J. Meier.
29. See Monodia; Monteverde; Mass, vol. ii, p. 231.
30. See vol. ii. pp. 497–500. Also. Monodia, Peri, Caccini.
31. See Monteverde. Also, vol. ii. pp. 500–501.
32. See vol. ii. pp. 502–504.
33. See vol. iii. p. 137.
34. See Scena, IV, vol. iii. p. 240.
35. See vol. ii. pp. 504–505, and 537–538.
36. MS. Scores of 8 of Lulli's Operas will be found in the Dragonetti Collection, in the British Museum.
37. That is to say, the Chapel attached to the Palace at Whitehall, destroyed by fire Jan. 5, 1698.
38. According to Sir Richard Baker's Chronicle, Matthew Lock composed the Music for King Charles's public entry; and Captain Cook, that sung at the Coronation. Probably, Cook and Lawes each contributed a portion of the latter. At any rate, it is certain that Lawes composed the Anthem, 'Zadok the Priest.'
39. See vol. i. p. 140.
40. See vol. ii. pp. 183–185.
41. Possibly, the capture of 136 Dutch vessels, in 1664, before war was actually declared.
42. A copy of this Anthem will be found in vol. iii. of the 'Tudway Collection,' in the British Museum.
43. See vol. 1. p. 757, note.
44. See vol. ii. p. 192b. We must, however, except the progressions affected by Monteverde, and Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa—two Composers whose taste for cacophony has never been rivalled.
45. See the last bar but one of our example, on p. 277 of this volume.
46. See vol. ii. p. 570b.
47. Quoted under Oboe, vol. ii. p. 488a.
48. The passage was written for the quite exceptional Voice of the Rev. John Gostling, Sub-Dean of S. Paul's. Few Bass singers can do it justice; but many of our readers must remember its admirable interpretation by the late Mr. Adam Leffler.
49. After the death of Captain Cook, in 1672, Pelham Humfrey held the Office of Master of the Children, until his early death in 1674. Humfrey was succeeded, in turn, by Dr. Blow, Dr. Croft, J. Church. Bernard Gates, Dr. Nares, and Dr. Ayrton.
50. One of his melodies, from the 22nd Psalm, sounds perfectly in its place when used notatim by Rossini in his Overture to the 'Siege of Corinth.'
51. See vol. ii. p. 510.
52. See vol. ii. p. 514. One of the earliest known Instances of the Introduction of the Concerted Finale into Opera Seria occurs in Paisiello's 'Pirro.'
53. The terms 'Polyodic' and 'Polyphonic,' though etymologically almost interchangeable, are not so in their technical sense. At the beginning of the present century, all Music, whether Vocal or Instrumental, in which the interest was not confined to a single Part, was called 'Polyodic.' The word 'Polyphonic' is of much more recent origin; and is applied exclusively to Vocal Music, without Accompaniment, written in Strict Counterpoint, in which the Melody is equally distributed between all the Parts. No less important is the technical distinction between the terms 'Monodic' and 'Homophonic'; the former being correctly applicable only to Vocal, or Instrumental Music, in which the Melody is confined to a single Part; and the latter, to Vocal Music, without Accompaniment, written in Strict Counterpoint of the First Order—Note against Note. A careful use of the terms Homophonia, Polyphonia, Monodia, and Polyodia, is a great desideratum in musical criticism.
54. See vol. i. p. 547 et seq.: also Sonata.
55. Recently reprinted by Messrs. Cocks & Co.
56. See vol. i. pp. 601–603; ii. pp. 514–517.
57. See vol. ii. p. 507.
58. When, during the latter half of the century, some few of Handel's works were produced at Vienna, it was with Mozart's 'Additional Accompaniments.' Still, it must not be forgotten that these acompaniments were written under the pressure of a real necessity. There was no Organ in the Orchestra; and it was absolutely indispensable that the Harmonies should be supported by some instrument possessing both greater volume of tone, and greater sustaining power, than the Pianoforte.
59. Many of theae Exercises are written in the old Ecclesiastical Modes, upon the study of which it is clear that Haydn insisted, no less strongly than Fux.
60. See vol. ii, pp. 520–523; vol. iii, pp. 148–152.
61. See vol. iii. p. 112.
62. Pronounced Dvorshak. [See Appendix, Dvořák.]
63. See vol. ii. pp. 526–529.
64. See p. 290a.
65. See vol. ii. p. 525.
66. See vol. ii. pp. 522, 523.
67. See Mendelssohn's Letter to Souchay, Oct. 15, 1842.
68. For list, see vol. i, p. 413.
69. For list, see vol. ii, p. 651.
70. See Musica Divina, vol. ii, p. 411.
71. See Leitmotif.
72. See p. 301b.
73. See vol. ii, p. 527.