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MASTERSINGERS 
 
Rasters tngers 
 
 ^Appreciations of Music and Musicians 
 
 with 
 
 an Essay on Hector ^Berlioz 
 
 BY 
 
 filson young 
 
 WILLIAM REEVES 
 83, CHARING CROSS ROAD 
 LONDON 
 

 
 
Music, zoji’ze, st. 
 
 
 TO DOCTOR JAMES KENDRICK PYNE 
 My Dear Master 
 
 To write your name here is to levy rather tha n 
 to render a tribute of friendship ; yet for the 
 sake of past days you will not, I know, grudge 
 me this decoration for my page. For as the 
 dullest pupil may boast an illustrious master, 
 so I may advertise what is, I fear, my only 
 title to distinction in this art : that, through 
 you, I am in the direct apostolic succession 
 that handed on from the Wesleys to your own 
 family the treasure of a gift brought therein 
 well-nigh to perfection. You did not even omit 
 the “ laying on of hands M — in my case, alas ! 
 of little avail, Yet if there is anything here 
 at ail worthy, anything upon which a master 
 may look without shame, should I not bring 
 it to you who first inspired in me that rever- 
 ence without which all artistic labour is vain ? 
 Others among your pupils will spread your 
 fame far more widely than I can hope to spread 
 it, but none of them, my dear Master, will 
 hold your name in greater reverence or your= 
 self in more lasting affection. 
 
 FILSON YOUNG 
 
 London , September , 1901 , 
 

 \ ( M ( l i 
 
 I / } f 0 
 
 
Contents 
 
 The Pastoral Symphony 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 Tristan and Isolda 
 
 15 
 
 Bach’s Organ Fugues 
 
 31 
 
 Mozart’s Requiem 
 
 53 
 
 Tschaikowsky's Sixth Symphony ... 
 
 61 
 
 The Composer in England ... 
 
 79 
 
 Charles Halle 
 
 IOI 
 
 Camille Saint-Saens 
 
 115 
 
 An Irish Musician 
 
 125 
 
 Hector Berlioz 
 
 139 
 
 Postscript 
 
 201 
 
THE PASTORAL SYMPHONY. 
 
 “ . . . . The fair music that all creatures made 
 To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed 
 In perfect diapason , whilst they stood 
 In first obedience , and their state of good." 
 
 E TWEEN the animal plains and the 
 9 spiritual peaks of man’s nature lies 
 a middle state where he may pause for 
 a moment in his journey from the depth 
 to the height. In those rare snatches 
 of time when he feels his own life to 
 be a harmonic struck from Nature’s deepest 
 string, thought and animal sensation alike 
 die in him ; but consciousness, which 
 begins to breathe freely in an atmos- 
 
 1 B 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 phere stifling to these, becomes wake- 
 ful and alert. In the speechless world that 
 we call inanimate Nature, a thousand signals 
 are for ever flying to arrest our attention, 
 and a thousand inarticulate voices question 
 us wistfully. Our danger is that we are so 
 engrossed in the exercise of high faculties 
 that eyes grow dim and ears dull to these 
 minute beckonings. Only when we are at 
 peace with ourselves and our fellows are we 
 likely to heed them ; but when at length we 
 watch and listen, a subtle influence begins to 
 draw our steps and thoughts, wooing them to 
 join in this harmonious life ; a grassy slope 
 or a bed of moss is the portal at which we 
 knock. 
 
 This is Nature’s opportunity, when she 
 may take us by the hand and draw us to 
 that drowsy world that is common ground 
 to her and her human children. There we 
 float between sleeping and waking, thinking 
 not at all, but feeling and living vividly. 
 
 2 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 A. thousand tiny beings are at toil under 
 each blade of grass : we seem to see them 
 as they move swiftly about upon their 
 various business, and hear them as they cry 
 to one another of their concerns. Every 
 sense is quickened, and attuned to the great 
 harmony surrounding us. Every pulse is 
 steadied, till all beat in one grand swing 
 against the throbbing heart of Nature down 
 below, where the forces of the world are 
 generated. Our hearts thus thrilling with 
 hers, we reach our highest state : for when 
 we bend to mingle ourselves with earth, we 
 may touch Heaven. 
 
 This much Nature can do for a man if 
 he will listen to her, but the number of men 
 who are diligent enough in their attention is 
 small. Hence the great alliance of Nature 
 with the arts, which serve to point and guide 
 men to her. In music, Nature has had no 
 stronger ally than Beethoven ; that vivid 
 consciousness, which comes but rarely to 
 3 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 most of us, was his almost constantly ; and 
 in like measure as he received from Nature, 
 he gave to us through his art. In this 
 pastoral he gives us more than a glorious 
 composition of music ; he creates for and 
 points out to us another entrance to the 
 border-land where Nature meets with us. 
 Think of it : in the concert-room, among 
 crowds of our fellows, wrapped in artificiality 
 and convention, we may see fields and 
 skies ; and if we surrender ourselves to the 
 wizard spell we may taste something of a life 
 that is without and beyond the human, syn- 
 chronised with eternal pulses. Even more 
 than this Beethoven gives us, and herein lies 
 the marvellous art of his achievement. For if 
 you listen to this symphony rendered under 
 perfect conditions, I think you will experi- 
 ence something like this : your consciousness 
 will be cleft in twain, and rise up on each 
 side of the nature-scene ; on the one hand, 
 steeped in its glow, deeply partaking in it ; 
 4 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 on the other standing apart and regarding 
 the effect upon itself of this immersion in 
 the mother-life. For the moment, your in- 
 dividuality is split ; you pluck yourself apart 
 and contemplate your experience from the 
 outside. Mere abstraction is not a mar- 
 vellous or unusual mental state, when a man 
 withdraws from himself and plays the spy 
 upon his acts ; but I think it is both unusual 
 and marvellous when the very life that is 
 examined by its abstracted self is unreal and 
 imaginary, part of the great mesmeric trance 
 into which the music of a master may cast us. 
 
 When Beethoven passed long hours in 
 the dark solitude of the pine-woods, his 
 mind, it is certain, absorbed so much of the 
 peace in which such places are steeped that 
 it became healed for a time of its worldly 
 cares and wounds. His Pastoral Symphony 
 is the essence of that profound native con- 
 tentment, distilled for us into one short hour 
 wherein we may hear the voice of earth : 
 5 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 her sounds of spring, her stream songs, her 
 storm, and her melodious rest ; wherein also 
 we may float in the middle state and 
 keep no reckoning of time or trouble. 
 
 Allegro via non troppo. 
 
 Over hill and hollow, past sleeping fields, 
 over miles of moorland, the first low sounds 
 of a familiar pipe fall on the ear. Spring is 
 practising his stiff fingers as he blows a few 
 trial notes into his mellow reed ; and gradually 
 the disused joints are loosened and the notes 
 form themselves into a melody. Birds and 
 insects, flowers and trees, know well the 
 sound of that pipe, and come forth at 
 the call of Spring, the shepherd. Every- 
 where as the glad, monotonous sound swells, 
 old Earth stirs herself again ; here she 
 has a school of young insects who must 
 be taught their business ; there she is de- 
 corating a green corner with windflower and 
 crocus ; in the depths of this shaded pond, the 
 6 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 starwort at her touch begins to spring, the 
 lily to reach up tiny hands to the sun ; and 
 far out on the brimming tide she must 
 re-paint the grey front of some old rock, 
 making the sea-pink bloom again. 
 
 And still as the shepherd nears, songs 
 of his penetrate Winter sleep ; new life stirs 
 within the old ; Earth takes up her plain- 
 song ; Time gives the lie to Death. And 
 man, from his enchanted land,, sees the 
 first stirrings of sleeping earth, and his own 
 heart stirs to the impulse ; the blue eyes 
 of spring look at him from the grass, and 
 his own eyes shine again at the sight ; he 
 hears the rush of foaming rivulets, long 
 in the bondage of Winter, leaping down the 
 hillsides to embrace the green earth, and in 
 his own heart rise fountains of grateful love. 
 For while the world was hard and black he 
 seemed to forget the sweetness of the spring 
 air, and the greenness of the green. But here 
 is the old cycle unfolding itself again ; and 
 7 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 something witnin him remembers, and leaps 
 at the memory. 
 
 The essence of this movement is a joy- 
 ful monotony, as of a voice that sings 
 to itself some grateful strain, and sings 
 it again and often. The six and thirty 
 measures that follow bar 150 — what are they 
 but the expression of a joy that is as old as 
 earth, and is every year renewed ? The 
 fragmentary phrase on which the passage 
 is founded is itself non-expressive ; it 
 contains nothing, but stands for an idea. 
 Not until it has been repeated and insisted 
 upon, and sung and hummed many times, 
 does it become pregnant with meaning ; 
 and when we catch that, we might wish 
 it to sound for ever in our ears. For there, 
 in that sweet monotony, is the spirit of 
 spring and of life itself : which is without 
 beginning and without end, blossoming out 
 of corruption and springing again where it 
 perishes. 
 
 8 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 Andante molto mosso. 
 
 Spring has deepened into Summer, and 
 the melody of his pipe has died on the per- 
 fumed air. Instead, June makes harmony 
 with her choirs of bees and gaudy flies ; and 
 the brook that foamed and tumbled merrily, 
 an infant freshet, down the mountain side, 
 now murmurs and quietly talks to itself as 
 it fares through fields of corn and poppy. 
 The busy sounds of creation and re-awakening 
 are heard no more ; in this movement, the 
 stream of life is brimming at its flood, and 
 the earth lies hushed in a charmed silence, 
 balanced on the edge of Summer. Through 
 this silence the low song of the brook 
 gradually makes itself heard, and soon it 
 becomes the foreground of the tone-picture. 
 How, in a comparatively few bars of music, 
 we are made sensible of its endless flowing ! 
 The simple orchestration gives us all the 
 changing lights on the water ; here and 
 there the undertone of the two solo violon- 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 celli shows up for a moment and is gone, 
 like a shadow under the surface ; now there 
 is an eddy, now a bend in the course, but 
 incessantly the stream is moving, moving, 
 ever so slowly. As we wander along its 
 banks, the child-like song beguiles us into 
 deeper dreaming. The song falls on our 
 outward ear, but its language is alien ; we 
 should need the wisdom of children to under- 
 stand it. But the crystal cleanness of it at 
 least we can understand, and long for some- 
 thing of its happy innocence and full life. 
 We watch it as it passes us on its way to 
 age and knowledge and trouble ; we would 
 arrest, if we could, that fateful progress. 
 Earth is wiser ; and the brooklet still glides 
 on past the poppies, mingling its quiet tones 
 with the evening calling of birds. 
 
 A llegro — A llegro — A llegretto. 
 
 It was written long ago that it is not good 
 for man to be alone. Nature shows plainly 
 10 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 that she dislikes her children selfishly to 
 isolate themselves ; and man, if he be in 
 sympathy with her, will not seek to cut 
 himself off from his fellows. And the man 
 who in our picture stands for the observant 
 half of a divided consciousness has long been 
 alone; in the quickening woods, amongst 
 the flowers, beside the crooning streamlet. 
 He thinks, perhaps, that here is the life for 
 him : no trouble, no toil ; only to listen to 
 the talking branches and the whispering 
 wind. So, when the merry sounds of a 
 peasant party first fall on his ear, his soul 
 dies in him. The rude glee of the yokels 
 jars him to the quick ; why are they here, 
 making their infernal din, blots on God’s 
 landscape ? The loud bassoon sings no 
 jubilee for him, and yonder tart, squalling 
 hautboy that persists in entering just one 
 beat too late is a thing to set a man’s nerves 
 jumping. From his dreamy contentment to 
 this acute discomfort is a cold and shocking 
 11 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 plunge. And there is no doubt that this 
 peasant scene is a daringly harsh touch in 
 the symphony. It comes suddenly like a 
 jolt in the smooth and gliding progress, and 
 we start up, rudely shocked, in evil mood. 
 Like most of the daring things that Beet- 
 hoven did, it is justified in the end, although 
 at the moment its reason is not clear. It is 
 far more than the smooth human touch in a 
 pastoral scene ; we have that later ; it is too 
 rough and gross to be in harmony with what 
 has gone before. And so the man frets and 
 fumes, offended with nature, and having no 
 kind of desire for the society of his fellows. 
 
 But southward over the tossing pine tops 
 the black clouds are piling, and the mutter 
 of distant thunder falls on his ear. The 
 pines begin to moan and sigh ; a chariot of 
 clouds comes driving across heaven, the 
 moan changes into a roar ; and in a moment, 
 with a great shout, the purple storm falls. 
 It is the sweeping gale of summer after- 
 12 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 noons, that comes with sad songs in the 
 trees and the gold of following sunshine 
 along its edge. The man shrinks back from 
 the smother ; in a cleft of the rock he 
 hides, waiting till the storm is past. He 
 hears the shouting of the tree-tops, sees 
 the knife-like slant of the rain, and the 
 rough dart of lightning amid the thunder 
 growl, and he shrinks back from the savage 
 spirit as it rides by, shrilly crying, on the 
 wings of the storm. In a moment he is 
 swept out of himself, his morbid discontent 
 is gone. For if the trickling song of the 
 stream seemed to minister to his mood of 
 isolation, here is the same nature voice 
 shouting loud of action and combat. The 
 tempest rages for a moment ; and then, as 
 quickly as it came, it is overpast. The burst 
 of hot sunshine brings rest, and how over- 
 powering is the change ! Storm-music and 
 rest-music : it was a contrast that Beet- 
 hoven loved to express, and must have felt 
 13 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 acutely in his own troubled and stormy 
 life. 
 
 And now falls on the hot silence another 
 peasant tune very different from the first. 
 The man no longer shuns the rustics, 
 but joins with them in their happy songs. 
 The strain of violins, which begins at the 
 ninth measure of the Allegretto , is, I think, 
 one of the loveliest expressions of serene 
 human happiness in written music. For in 
 that dark moment of storm and stress of 
 weather, the man learned nature’s last lesson* 
 Now he reconciles himself and his kind with 
 that vast harmony of created things in which 
 his life, if it be rightly ordered, will bear a 
 part that is at once accordant and independ- 
 ent. The Pastoral Symphony is an over- 
 tone of that harmony ; a work of art, it is 
 true to Nature, keeping faith with her and 
 with man; it leads us to “ that uppermost 
 pinnacle of Wisdom, whence we see that the 
 world is well designed.” 
 
 14 
 
TRISTAN AND I SOLD A. 
 
 Mir erkoren , 
 mir verloren, 
 hehr und heil, 
 kuhn und feig; 
 
 Tod geweihtes Haupt ! 
 
 Tod geweihtes Herz ! 
 
 \T ONE of Richard Wagner’s composi- 
 ' tions has been so much talked and 
 written about as Tristan and Isolda ; 
 none so extravagantly praised, and none 
 so unreservedly condemned. To those who 
 have at heart the perfect understanding 
 by the world of such a work as this, 
 it is difficult to say which of these two 
 extremes is the more confusing ; for sen- 
 15 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 sible people, while they cannot fail to be 
 influenced by the serious condemnation of a 
 dramatic work on apparently high moral 
 grounds, are liable to be no less disgusted 
 and alienated by the extravagant clamour of 
 admiration into which, on a very slight 
 acquaintance with such a work, foolish people 
 are ready to break. 1 am inclined to say 
 that the second of these attitudes towards a 
 work of art is likely to do it the greater 
 mischief ; for it is characteristic of human 
 nature that what it hears condemned, it will 
 be inclined to justify, and things that it 
 hears loudly trumpeted, it will seek an occa- 
 sion to discredit. While honest enemies are 
 not to be feared, dishonest friends will quickly 
 bring a cause to confusion ; and it is lament- 
 able fact that many of those who most boldly 
 profess themselves to be admirers of Tristan 
 and Isolda may aptly be styled dishonest. 
 While they are listening to its performance, 
 they are caught up to a seventh heaven of 
 16 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 delight ; but afterwards they begin to talk in 
 a mysterious way, hinting at “ wild orgies of 
 passion,” at a “ glorification of sensuality,” 
 and such like mischievous nonsense ; wagging 
 their heads, as who should say : “ He is a 
 sad fellow, this Wagner ; all very beautiful 
 and wonderful, but between ourselves, shock- 
 ingly wicked, you know.” Friendly to Wagner 
 and his wdrk these imagine themselves to 
 be ; but I have no kind of doubt that they 
 are the friends upon whom the master cried 
 out, that he desired to be delivered from 
 them. If a man can honestly say that he 
 finds in the drama of Tristan and Isolda 
 any taint of the kind that I have suggested, 
 it proves that he has not only missed its 
 whole spirit and intention, but has read into 
 it things which it does not contain. Here 
 is a story from the old world ; it tells of 
 betrothal and betrayal; of the deep ele- 
 mental love that many waters cannot 
 quench nor the floods drown ; of honour 
 17 o 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 that was found of less account than love; 
 of death that was chosen rather than shame. 
 It is as clean and wholesome as nature ; and 
 its theme, which some of us would degrade, 
 is by Wagner idealised and cut clear of every 
 gross accretion. Though none is taught, 
 we may learn a hundred noble lessons from 
 it ; to my knowledge, not one that is 
 ignoble. 
 
 If I blame some enthusiasts for the way in 
 which they speak and write about Tristan 
 andlsolda, I would not have it thought that 
 I attack anyone because of his enthusiasm, or 
 because that enthusiasm is founded on 
 reasons different from my own. On the 
 contrary, no one can have a greater affection 
 for this drama than I, or a profounder regard 
 for the transcendent genius which it displays. 
 And I have certainly no desire to be ranked 
 with those who accept Wagner “with reser- 
 vations,” or “ are prepared to go a little 
 way” in acknowledging his supremacy in 
 18 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 the double art of music-drama. But even 
 honest enthusiasts may do their own 
 cause an injury by an over-readiness to 
 uphold and celebrate it without knowing 
 why they do so : a man’s naked convic- 
 tion, which may be sufficient guide for his 
 own conduct, is no very convincing proof to 
 another man that he should act or think in a 
 like manner. If then, in writing about Tristan 
 and Isolda I adventure myself upon a sea in 
 which many who have been better equipped 
 than I have gone adrift, it is because I wish 
 to reassure those who are not acquainted 
 with this drama (and there are many culti- 
 vated people who are not) upon a point as to 
 which they may well have some misgivings : 
 and that is, that in Tristan and Isolda a 
 plain story is told, and not an ethical problem 
 discussed. Than the story itself nothing 
 could be simpler ; and in the whole drama, 
 as I understand it, there is no attempt to 
 give expression to any particular view or to 
 19 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 preach any particular ethical gospel. There 
 is, moreover, no elaborate complexion of the 
 musical web such as would render difficult 
 its appreciation by a mind technically un- 
 informed ; or rather there is great com- 
 plexity in the construction, and a marvellous 
 ingenuity in the subordination of every 
 musical device to the end in view ; but so 
 perfect is the command over material and 
 so masterly the grip of a thousand com- 
 ponent elements, that, in the result, the 
 building rises clear and simple in outline, 
 with no trace of the labyrinth of scaffolding 
 that was used in its erection. That is a great 
 work of art which, when it is understood, 
 appeals to all conditions of mankind ; that 
 which only appeals to people educated in the 
 technical elements of its construction cannot 
 be so described. And therefore Wagner, 
 when he sought a mainspring for one of his 
 dramas, dug deep down into the heart of the 
 world, and used one or other of the vast 
 20 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 elemental forces which dwell there, not for 
 to-day or to-morrow alone, but for all 
 time. 
 
 “ Doch mocht’er den Ring sich errathen, 
 
 Der macht’ ihn zum Walter der Welt 1 ” 
 
 So sang the bird to Siegfried in the sunlit 
 forest, when the taste of the dragon’s blood 
 had quickened his ear to know the language 
 of fowls. Like the magic Ring, Wagner’s 
 genius has procured for him the thing he 
 most desired ; through it, he may even 
 be said to have won the “ ward of the 
 world.” 
 
 In this drama Wagner has taken the 
 story of Tristram and Ysoude, and, greatly 
 simplifying it, transformed it into a dramatic 
 episode with three acute moments. The 
 stage action is little more than a skeleton 
 outline of the story ; all the rest — colour, 
 emotion and psychological development — is 
 contained in the music. The stage is used 
 for presenting what are practically three 
 21 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 great tableaux. The first is on the deck of 
 a ship in which Tristan is carrying away 
 Isolde as a bride for his Cornish King. 
 Isolda, who is deeply in love with Tristan, 
 cannot bear the thought of her fate ; and 
 together they drink what they imagine to be 
 a poisonous draught, but find to have been 
 changed by Isolda’s servant for a love-potion. 
 This is the first acute moment in the drama, 
 when they recognise the tremendous con- 
 sequences of their act. In the second 
 tableau, Isolda calls Tristan to her side in 
 King Mark’s absence ; and through the short 
 summer night, embowered in a garden of 
 flowers, they give expression to their pas- 
 sionate love. Here they are betrayed by 
 Melot and surprised by King Mark; and 
 Tristan, since death is all he can wish 
 for, allows himself to be wounded in a 
 duel with Melot. In the next tableau we 
 see him in the courtyard of his castle in 
 Brittany, dying of his wound ; and before 
 22 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 the sad Autumn afternoon has faded he is 
 dead, and Isolda, who comes too late to save 
 him, dies on his breast a few minutes after 
 King Mark has arrived to renounce his own 
 claims and unite the lovers. 
 
 That is the simple story of Wagner’s 
 drama ; the music that accompanies it fills 
 it to the brim with emotion and passion. 
 The real drama lies in the music, which is 
 elastic, and can adapt itself to the individual 
 need of a thousand listeners; beside it 
 the most consummate acting seems wooden 
 and arbitrary, too limited in its expression to 
 set forth one half of the emotions aroused 
 by the dramatic situations. As for the 
 inner story, the story of the heart and soul 
 which such a drama as this must contain, 
 it lies far behind the run of outward 
 events, and does not depend merely on the 
 actions of the persons as we see them on the 
 stage. The real Tristan and Isolda are not 
 before us on the stage, but in our own 
 23 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 imagination, called into being by tbe music, 
 connected with it by tbe symbolic stage-play. 
 It is this that makes the music of Tristan 
 and Isolda so great an achievement in dra- 
 matic art : persons, actions and scenes 
 are contained in it; but in addition, it 
 suggests the thoughts and emotions of 
 the persons, supplies the springs of action, 
 and invests the scenes with life. As I 
 have said, the stage performance is not so 
 much a dramatic narrative as a series 
 of tableaux to help and direct the mind 
 to the real moments of the drama. So, 
 when we see the figure of Tristan, we at 
 once begin to live his inward life, and he 
 lives vividly in us ; when the cup is raised 
 and the potion drained before our outward 
 eyes, we feel the cold glooms of ending 
 and death creeping round our hearts ; and 
 when the garden lies before us steeped in 
 the glow of a summer night, the shifting 
 shadows on the grass, the restless stirring 
 24 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS . 
 
 of the trees, and the distant voice of a bird 
 calling up the dawn all fill us with a vague, 
 foreboding sense of Time going by with 
 pattering footsteps, of sweet moments flash- 
 ing past, of all things rushing on to an 
 appointed end. 
 
 In each act of the drama, we find two 
 strongly contrasted atmospheres ; one of 
 these seems to represent the outside world 
 that wags unconsciously on through the 
 most acute crises in the lives of the two 
 chief actors, and the other, the psychological 
 environment of the personal tragedy. 
 Isolda may rage and storm at her faithless 
 knight ; his heart may be consuming itself 
 with an emotion he must not discover ; but 
 all the while the ship-folk go about their 
 business on the deck, singing their rude 
 and briny song, hauling warps and coiling 
 ropes. In the second act the contrast is still 
 more acute. On the flowery bank sit the 
 lovers, heedless of flying minutes, mur- 
 25 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 muring their ecstatic antiphon ; but one 
 by one the stars are fading, the night 
 breezes dying, and behind them the east is 
 blushing with a dawn that is to bring shame 
 and death. And in the third act, poor 
 Tristan lies in his ruined courtyard awaiting 
 Isolda and death ; but in his semi-delirium 
 he lives through the hours of bliss that are 
 fled, and forgets his present pain. 
 
 Not the least wonderful quality in this 
 music is its power to illuminate the atmos- 
 phere in which the action is enshrined. 
 Far more than on the stage, the scenery 
 is in the music. The song of the sailors 
 in the first act paints running billows and 
 a seething wake, the salt sea wind and flying 
 foam; and during the real happenings of 
 the drama, we retain an under-consciousness 
 of the following surge in the water that 
 reminds us of unresting progress towards 
 some dim destiny. In the second act 
 the atmosphere is still more contained in 
 26 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 the music. When the sound of horns 
 trembles on the still night air, now 
 louder, now more distant, it fills the stage in 
 some mysterious way with the atmosphere 
 of a summer night. The cadence at the end 
 of the fanfare touches the sound and the 
 scene with infinite sadness ; like every- 
 thing in this act except the songs of the 
 lovers, it speaks in solemn tones of warning. 
 Presently it dies, even the lingering echo is 
 lost ; and through the drip and whisper of a 
 fountain the deep silence is felt only more 
 deeply. There is a theme which haunts 
 this scene like the voice of Time : 
 
 i-j 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 (zart. ) 
 
 P 
 
 Siife 
 
 
 
 
 In the incomparable duet of love, that 
 stream of melody on which the dark hours 
 27 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 are borne away, it ebbs and flows, sad em- 
 blem of a sense that shadows all earthly 
 delight : of the briefness of deep joy, of 
 things too sweet to last, of Time flying, 
 flying, flying past the Elysian spot where 
 we shelter for a moment. The tragedy of 
 Tristan and Isolda is surely here, in this 
 brief hour snatched by them from hurrying 
 Destiny. We who are watching can read 
 the signs of the passing night, and, dismayed, 
 mark the coming of dawn and death ; but 
 they are folded deep in the unconsciousness 
 of bliss, and take no heed of the fateful 
 signals. How we long to tell them, to 
 awake in them a knowledge of their danger ! 
 When Fate strikes at them in the grey 
 morning light, how sickening is the blow, 
 and how miserable the picture of Love 
 and Trust, Friendship and Honour, all 
 standing betrayed ! It is not one to be 
 dwelt upon, even in a mere record of 
 impressions such as this is ; but in the 
 28 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 drama, inevitable as it is, it prepares us for 
 the last sad scenes, and, in part, renders the 
 heart numb to the emotion of mere grief. 
 Mir Verloren ! Lost to me ! 
 
 The atmosphere of the last act, like that 
 of the first and second, is early determined 
 by the music itself. The haunting 
 strains of the rustic’s pipe diffuse an 
 autumnal air over the castle precincts, and 
 harmonize with the withered hopes of 
 Tristan, as he lies dying in his ruined court- 
 yard where the ivy sprawls at will over 
 window and doorway. Out on the cliff 
 where the piper spins his web of sad melody 
 the corn is standing ripe for the sickle ; and 
 so the harvest of grief sown by Tristan and 
 Isolda in obedience to some obscure law of 
 nature stands waiting to be garnered. In 
 these last moments, although Tristan is the 
 more prominently in our view, it is Isolda 
 who occupies our thoughts ; Tristan has 
 our sympathy, but our love and grief are 
 29 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 chiefly for her. When the last shocks of 
 
 harvest have been gathered, and Isolda 
 
 sinks on Tristan’s lifeless body, she at once 
 
 begins to fall into the strange melody- 
 
 haunted dream from which she is not to 
 
 awake on this side of Time. A little while 
 
 before the end the marvellous orchestral sea 
 
 on which her voice floats begins to heave 
 
 and break on the beginning of each bar. 
 
 While all else fades, enveloped in the gathering 
 
 glooms of night, this mysterious commotion 
 
 increases ; cannonades of unearthly thunder 
 
 assault the rhythm, and break in a flying 
 
 melody of sweet and heavenly sounds ; 
 
 like waves that foam on a sundering bar 
 
 the solemn harmonies enfold her voice and 
 
 hide it from us ; and long before its last 
 
 faint, rapturous tone falls on our ear, she is 
 
 far forth on that flood 
 
 “ Along whose shore the numerous footfalls cease, 
 
 The voices and the tears of life expire 
 
 There Blame desists, there his unfaltering dogs 
 He from the chase recalls, and homeward rides ; 
 Yet Praise and Love pass over and go in.” 
 
 30 
 
BACH'S ORGAN FUGUES. 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 
 
 Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear 
 
 Or grovelling thought , to seek a refuge here. 
 
 GREAT dim figure, standing at the 
 
 threshold of the German renascence 
 — Bach is little more than this to the world 
 of to-day. He is, indeed, one to whom 
 popularity seems likely always to be denied. 
 In his lifetime, although a part of his rare 
 genius was undoubtedly recognised, great 
 artists were never fashionable heroes ; after 
 his death he was practically forgotten for 
 half a century; even now, although Men- 
 delssohn and Samuel Wesley have revealed 
 
 31 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 him to all serious students of music, to the 
 throng his art is uncongenial and himself 
 unknown. Too great, too earnest, too 
 solemn even for his own simple age, he 
 is infinitely too great and earnest and 
 solemn for a world that, if it does not desire 
 to banish seriousness, shows an increasing 
 tendency to organise public life on a system 
 of departments wherein the citizen may 
 purchase the fruits of genius as at a ware- 
 house, and himself remain unleavened by 
 the great human influence of contact with 
 master minds. We need not regret on 
 Bach’s behalf that he is not fashionable. 
 It is not his posthumous office to reform 
 the music of the fashionable at home, or of 
 the theatre, or even of the church ; his 
 influence was upon the roots of the art and 
 there it has been working and will always 
 work, an inspiration to every artist who 
 follows him. He has come into his own 
 kingdom, but it is a quiet kingdom where 
 32 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 he receives love instead of acclamations and 
 reverence instead of applause. I think it is 
 an immortality such as he would have loved ; 
 it is so safe, so quiet, so abiding, so rich in 
 worthy fruits, in its simplicity so intimate 
 with the good old man who prepared it. 
 
 But on our own behalf we may admit 
 some regrets that Bach's place in modern 
 art is not more conspicuous. The kind of 
 earnestness that he had is just what we most 
 greatly need to-day ; if we could but sur- 
 round ourselves with his atmosphere and 
 steep ourselves in his spirit we should find 
 in them the antidote to much that is degrad- 
 ing in present tendencies. What a pattern 
 his life was, what a picture it gives us of the 
 complete artist ! I know of nothing more 
 touching than the contrast between the 
 man's huge genius and austere ideals, and 
 his simple plan of life and homely ways. 
 See him at his Thuringian home in Eisenach 
 under the shadow of the Wartburg, sur- 
 33 d 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 rounded by an atmosphere of musical family 
 tradition, and learning his first instrument 
 under his father ; at Ohrdruf, with his 
 brother, Johann Christoph, spending the 
 days in study of Latin, New Testament 
 Greek, arithmetic, rhetoric and theology, 
 and the long moonlight nights in transcribing 
 the precious, forbidden manuscripts. See 
 him at Liineburg at the convent school of 
 Saint Michael, singing first in the choir and 
 then, when his voice broke, playing in the 
 band through the streets and in church ; 
 and in spite of these occupations finding 
 time to spend many hours of the day and 
 night in practising and developing his fingers 
 at the clavichord or cembalo. Think of him 
 trampingbackwards and forwards the twenty- 
 five miles between Liineburg and Hamburg 
 and the forty-five miles between Liineburg 
 and Celle, so that he should have oppor- 
 tunities of hearing the new French dance 
 music and the organists famous in his small 
 34 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 corner of the world ; think of him tramping 
 the two hundred miles between Arnstadt and 
 Liibeck in order to hear Buxtehude, and 
 quarrelling with the Consistory on the head 
 of the long absence which he had made for 
 the sole purpose of improving himself ; there- 
 after carting his small effects to Miihlhausen 
 where he worked so steadily to improve the 
 music of the Lutheran church. See him at 
 Weimar and Cothen, a court official now, 
 but still studying and improving himself, 
 and ever seeking to widen his knowledge and 
 attainments ; and finally at Leipsic, carrying 
 on through all sorts of difficulties his work as 
 Cantor faithfully, earnestly, and, on the 
 whole, happily, pouring forth for twenty- 
 seven years his marvellous, immortal music. 
 A good father and master, living for his 
 children and his pupils, content to live and 
 enjoy his home life and work rather than 
 anxious to enrich himself by exhibiting his 
 powers to a wider world; worried and 
 35 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 harassed in his old age by Jacks in office, 
 yet even to the last applying himself to his 
 labours with passionate diligence, finding 
 the days too short for his industry and often 
 working throughout the night as he came 
 nearer to that other and longer night in 
 which no man can work. Picturing him 
 thus, one is able to realise something of the 
 simplicity and seriousness of the life in which 
 his great genius was nourished and developed. 
 
 As painting, alone of the arts, flourished in 
 Flanders and Holland in the seventeenth 
 century, and poetry in England in the six- 
 teenth, so music flourished alone in Germany 
 in the eighteenth century. Coming directly 
 from the church, its germ in the plain song 
 and chorale of the Eeformation, it found its 
 chief exponents in the organists and church 
 musicians who alone had opportunities for 
 presenting choral and instrumental works 
 on any extended scale. Bach was the fine 
 flower of these, a perfectly natural product 
 36 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 of his time and circumstances ; simply an 
 organist of the church — the church, however, 
 which was the centre and fountain head of 
 the whole social and civic life of the time. 
 And although he was a brilliant performer 
 on many instruments, the organ was really 
 Bach’s instrument ; its peculiar, inflexible, 
 but infinitely grand and solemn genius was 
 alone capable of giving full expression to his 
 art ; and the compositions written for it are 
 his only works of which the form has not 
 grown antiquated and out of date. And 
 thus, by a long stage, we arrive at the organ 
 fugues. 
 
 Bach took the musical form that lay 
 nearest to his hand. Where music was so 
 large a part of the life of an intellectual 
 people it was inevitable that it should find 
 expression in forms agreeable to the occupa- 
 tion and entertainment of the intellect ; and 
 the fugue, founded on principles of logic and 
 rhetoric, was obviously the suitable vehicle. 
 37 
 
■APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 Bach found it little more than a mathe- 
 matical problem, a dry framework to be 
 decorated with the principles of thorough- 
 bass ; he raised it to a living power, sym- 
 pathetic, capable of infinite expansion, an 
 instrument meet for all the utterances of 
 the composer, a structure so complex, so 
 symmetrical and on so large a scale as to 
 conform to the principles of architecture 
 rather than of mere design. And here we 
 are upon one great and essential difference 
 between Bach’s work and that of almost any 
 other composer. The proportion and sym- 
 metry of his compositions depends on far 
 more than beauty of outline. In his organ 
 fugues and greater choruses he is working 
 with masses of tone ; indeed I know of no 
 other music in which the ideas are on so 
 grand a scale. The fearlessness with which 
 he would open one of his organ works with 
 a long passage of single notes, utterly unin- 
 teresting in themselves, but bearing an 
 38 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 essential part in the architectural scheme of 
 the whole, is astounding. There are whole 
 passages of twenty or thirty bars in a score 
 of Bach’s organ works that, played alone, 
 are meaningless, dissonant, and even ugly ; 
 but when one hears them in their proper 
 place they fall into the line, perhaps of some 
 vast harmonic scheme, perhaps of some 
 sweeping curve of melodic sequence. He 
 will repeat for half-a-dozen bars the same 
 pattern of notes without a change ; repeat 
 them again for another six bars with one of 
 the notes sharpened ; repeat them again 
 with another note flattened ; and so on until 
 he has modulated to another key with an 
 exquisite harmonic effect akin to that of 
 colours dissolving upon a screen. He was 
 never content to make his modulations like 
 nails connecting two pieces of wood; his 
 work must show no joinings or transitions; 
 it must be all of one fabric, its component 
 parts grafted rather than fastened together. 
 39 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 And if in modulation his cunning was 
 supreme, it was not less so in his treatment 
 of the sequential passages which are so 
 characteristic of his work. Where nine 
 composers out of ten would construct a se- 
 quence out of a pattern of notes, Bach often 
 constructed his on a pattern of extended 
 harmonies ; so that the sequence never be- 
 comes tiresome or obvious, but is always 
 surprising. In the midst of a fugue a sudden 
 blush of tone colour will appear and fade ; in 
 a little while it will be, as it were, answered 
 by another flash of a different hue of har- 
 mony ; a few bars further on the myriad 
 notes of the fabric will glow again with 
 something that reminds us of the first colour 
 and yet seems to demand a balance, which 
 duly appears in its turn. While this has 
 been going on one has hardly noticed the 
 arabesque outline of the melody ; but 
 although one does not remember it the ear 
 took note of it ; and presently the attention 
 40 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 is arrested by a formation of the outline that 
 although unremembered seems familiar. 
 And once more the harmony mantles to a 
 warmer hue, utterly different from the first 
 one that we notieed, but yet inevitably an- 
 swering to it in some sort of way ; the 
 former procession of colours is, as it were, 
 echoed ; and as the long melodic outline 
 unfolds itself, the ear is surprised and 
 charmed by a reminiscence of something 
 heard before. It is this art that welds a 
 composition of Bach’s into one compact and 
 symmetrical structure of nobility ; whatever 
 changes the development of the fugue may 
 be undergoing, the minute pattern of its 
 fabric is wrought upon with a much larger 
 and simpler pattern of structure which en- 
 closes and reconciles the contrasts of detail ; 
 the artificer is at work beside the artist ; 
 the architect waits upon the builder, and 
 the fugue becomes a work of fine art. 
 
 In the whole range of written music there 
 
 41 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 is nothing more modern than these old 
 fugues. Bach has had many imitators, but 
 he has had no followers on his own line, 
 although every modern composer has learnt 
 something from him. And yet, in England 
 at any rate, his spirit does not at all enter 
 into the performances of the men of his own 
 craft — the church organists. They study 
 his works, indeed, but only as exercises by 
 the aid of which they may give the 
 more fluent expression to the modern 
 travesties of organ music. They spend 
 a certain number of hours in practising, 
 let us say, the A minor fugue, so that 
 they may have greater confidence in 
 playing the flamboyant works of Mr. 
 Clarkson Scott. And there, with the greater 
 part of them, the matter ends : no study 
 of Bach’s matchless part writing, no attempt 
 to imitate his principles of the smooth- 
 flowing diatonic progressions that are so 
 suitable with the organ’s sober utterance. 
 42 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 It is melancholy; but since Bach has had 
 his effect in developing the technical abilities 
 of English organ-players we may still hope 
 that he will educate the aesthetic taste that 
 at present lags so far behind their physical 
 attainments. If that should ever happen it 
 will usher in a renascence of musical art in 
 England. Without the influence of Bach we 
 shall never see such a renascence, and until 
 the musical taste of organists is born again 
 we can never feel the influence of Bach 
 widely. 
 
 Amongst the organ music left to us by him 
 about twelve of the Preludes and Eugues are 
 pre-eminent by reason of their grandeur, their 
 nobility, their perfection. Of these twelve, 
 three rise above their imposing neighbours 
 in towering magnificence, each perfect in 
 form, each exhaustive in its expression 
 of some particular aspect of the master’s 
 life, all overwhelming in the impression 
 which they convey of things created to 
 43 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 stand full in the tideway of Time with 
 faces set bluff to his instant assaults. The 
 G minor, the A minor and the E flat pre- 
 ludes and fugues seem to me to contain the 
 essence of Bach’s art ; and inasmuch as that 
 art has for a century cradled the genius of 
 every composer whose work has lived, so in 
 these three works we may find the genesis 
 of every idiom, every turn of expression that 
 goes to make up the musical currency of our 
 time. The marvel is great when we re- 
 member that the fugue form, stiff, powdered 
 and bewigged of aspect, was the most ex- 
 pressive vehicle at Bach’s command ; for 
 though the dress is old-fashioned, the feel- 
 ings and ideas that it clothes are strangely 
 modern. Yet it is a little misleading to 
 speak of feelings and ideas in connection 
 with these works. They are no conscious 
 record of certain states of mind, nor can I 
 believe that they were conceived and uttered 
 as narrative of any mental or emotional 
 44 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 happenings. But if we may be sure of any- 
 thing, it is that in Bach’s music we have the 
 direct expression of the man himself, abso- 
 lutely simple, wholly true. Its unconscious- 
 ness is part of its enthralling charm. 
 
 In the G minor prelude and fugue we have 
 the simplest expression of Bach’s character. 
 Gladly he calls to us from sunny uplands ; 
 gaily sounds his shepherd pipe as he breathes 
 into it this song of earth ; but as it falls from 
 his sun-bathed heights towards the valley 
 through which we fare, the joyful cadence 
 becomes tinged with a strange sadness. It 
 leaves him burdened with the joy of life; it 
 reaches us weighted with a pain that is neither 
 of life nor of death. Bach was a simple man, 
 and he could invest his song of earth with 
 the inimitable dignity of simple things. We 
 are conscious of the dignity, but along with 
 it we must be ever conscious of that vague 
 sense of the unattainable without which few 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 honest men may regard things that are both 
 simple and true. It is some such feeling as 
 this that, for me at any rate, always darkens 
 the foreground of this mighty tone picture. 
 The sum of an artistic impression is made 
 up, partly of the intention of the artist 
 who executes, and partly of the receptive 
 action in the spectator or listener ; and here 
 the listener casts the shadows in the fore- 
 ground, and Bach’s bright light floods the 
 horizon. At any rate it is well to think so ; 
 for by perfect understanding, in so far as the 
 thing is attainable, the foreground glooms 
 may some day be dispersed. In the prelude, 
 which is directly solemn and even gloomy, 
 this secondary emotion roused by the fugue 
 is forecast ; and what the exuberant fugue 
 subject conveys to us when in the course of 
 development it has become shadowed, the 
 opening strains of the prelude, charged with 
 lofty melancholy, paraphrase in a more 
 familiar voice. 
 
 46 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 In the A minor prelude and fugue the 
 manner is much more personal and intimate. 
 Clouds have swept across the upland slope; 
 the sound of the pipe is tender and plaintive, 
 but ah, how familiar ! For this is Bach’s 
 song of love, the life-filling emotion that is 
 common to us all, in which none stands on 
 higher ground than other, without which a 
 man can drink deeply of neither joy nor 
 sorrow. In the long passionate opening, 
 splendid with chromatic hues, every note 
 contains an appeal. The shepherd’s plain- 
 tive strain in Tristan and Isolda is an 
 echo of this opening passage ; but the one 
 expresses an individual, the other a uni- 
 versal emotion. Throughout this whole 
 work the same unbroken contact is preserved 
 and I know of no other among Bach’s works 
 through the medium of which one may come 
 so near the man himself. Through this, a 
 through the Gr minor fugue, sounds the same 
 low hum of melancholy ; throughout its tire - 
 47 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 less movement prevails the same unrest ; but 
 in this case the undertone is not imparted by 
 the sundering aether, but rather communi- 
 cated in the thrilling union of a close hand- 
 clasp. This undertone, this elusive element 
 that is almost a weakness, gives a painfully 
 pathetic tone to the music. I have found it 
 in no other work of Bach’s, but I cannot 
 listen to this without being conscious of it. 
 In the long, falling cadences it sadly rings, a 
 half-uttered protest against the passing of 
 precious moments, a half-formed desire to 
 arrest the fateful flowing of the measures. A 
 weakness we may call it, but it completes the 
 humanness of this work; a flaw it may be, but 
 it indicates the beating of a familiar pulse. 
 
 A man’s religion is of all things the most 
 personal part of him, the least to be com- 
 municated, the last to be shared. So in the 
 E flat fugue, although we discern the inner- 
 most shrine of Bach’s personality, we may 
 48 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 not enter it, but regard it from afar. Here 
 the whole atmosphere is changed. The up- 
 land slope, in sun or gloom, has vanished, 
 the shepherd’s pipe is laid aside, and the 
 separating gulf has been infinitely extended. 
 From a thick cloud, from the sure stronghold 
 of a simple and austere faith, the voice rings 
 down to us in pure and exalted trumpet 
 tones. The grand choral subject that falls 
 at its cadence into a smother of counter- 
 point is typical of things that are changeless 
 and unending ; like the rugged Lutheran 
 faith the spirit of which it so perfectly ex- 
 presses its aspect is stern and its dignity 
 unassailable ; when its message is plainly 
 delivered, then it plunges gladly into the fray. 
 Through bewildering counterpoints it wends 
 an undeviating way ; opposed by the cease- 
 less flowing of a full tide, it preserves a 
 sturdy and unalterable purpose ; and when 
 at length it arrives at the goal the opposing 
 currents have been turned into following seas 
 49 E 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 that break round it in thunders of triumph. 
 The work is a net of contrasts. Of the 
 three subjects, one treads majestically, 
 another flows smoothly, and the third leaps 
 light-heartedly. Of the three sections, one 
 is a long five-fold melody, another is a 
 skeleton framework of polyphony, and the 
 third is a whirl of suspended harmonies. 
 And the greatest contrast of all lies between 
 the surpassing technical mastery, the stu- 
 pendous cunning shown in physical 
 construction, and the absolute simplicity 
 of the spiritual attitude that is expressed. 
 All the elaborate contrapuntal devices and 
 astonishing contrasts are resolved and 
 blended in a master’s crucible, and the 
 result is marvellous in its sublime unity. 
 The faith that blazes out from this work in 
 dazzling radiance runs like a thread of gold 
 throughout Bach’s art, and though we must 
 turn our eyes from a beam so blinding, yet 
 in the divine optimism, the element through 
 50 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 which it reaches us, we may breathe a new 
 and worthy life. 
 
 These three works have stood firm during 
 periods when musical art has been shaken 
 to its deepest foundation. On their old- 
 world faces, as they front the flowing tide 
 of development, we may discern sympathy 
 with all that is good in the new work. 
 I have singled them out because in them 
 are enshrined the principles of earnestness, 
 dignity and artistic courage that are at the 
 root of all Bach’s work. Earnestness — any 
 study of Bach must set out from and return 
 to that idea ; it is the one test for stability 
 in genius. 
 
 51 
 
MOZARTS REQUIEM. 
 
 The morning drum-call on my eager ear 
 Thrills unf or gotten yet ; the morning dew 
 Lies yet undried along my field of noon . 
 
 But now I pause at whiles in what I do, 
 
 And count the hell , and tremble lest I hear 
 (My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon. 
 
 HE things that a man says or does 
 
 when he is instantly expecting the 
 signal of Death often borrow a vivid 
 significance from the lurid light that beats 
 upon them. Yet a little while, and the 
 man is here, to mould and fashion his 
 fluent affairs, to care for his work and attend 
 to his business ; again a little while, and 
 
 53 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 he is gone ; the metal in the mould runs 
 cold on the instant, his little group of con- 
 cerns crystalises, and the attitudes are per- 
 petuated in which the moment of extinction 
 found them. These circumstances, tragic or 
 commonplace according to the mood in 
 which we regard them, surrounded the com- 
 position of most of Mozart’s Requiem Mass ; 
 he was writing, as we say, against time ; 
 and although the work bears no trace of 
 those finishing touches with which upon 
 mature reflection he loved to adorn his 
 masterpieces this Mass remains to us as one 
 of the very greatest examples of his art. It 
 is, in addition, a priceless complement to 
 that biography of his mind which his music 
 supplies, for it gives us a glimpse of his 
 spiritual bearing in a great and solemn crisis. 
 
 If we study the requiems that composers 
 of note have written when their own death 
 was not an immediate probability we find 
 that in nearly every case the image sug- 
 54 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 gested is that of a person to whom some- 
 thing tragic is happening; the man himself 
 is the central object around whom revolve a 
 number of circumstances, more or less affect- 
 ing ; his emotions, and his attitude towards 
 his approaching end are the things most 
 clearly expressed. This treatment of the 
 subject is natural enough to a man look- 
 ing far forward towards a misty drama in 
 which his future self is the chief actor ; 
 he is filled with pity for that unfortunate 
 person; at once the note of grief is struck, 
 and at once the chance of a truthful point of 
 view is gone. Henceforward the tone is 
 one of sorrow and anguish ; the wells of the 
 heart are plumbed to find expression for the 
 terrible chaunt of Dies Irce ; the living are 
 forgotten, and the dead stands alone amid 
 overwhelming mysteries. Small wonder, 
 when an artist sets himself to consider 
 such a scene, that he should either lose 
 himself in the terrible picturesqueness of the 
 55 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 thing, and so set his imagination to work 
 upon it, or else, worse still, allow himself to 
 sentimentalise over a solemnity so unspeak- 
 able. The truth is, that not one man in ten 
 thousand is equal to the serious accomplish- 
 ment of this task; to my knowledge, only 
 Johannes Brahms has achieved it success- 
 fully. 
 
 Mozart, however, was in a very different 
 case when he came to write his Requiem. 
 Here was a last piece of work to be done, 
 and a last wage to be earned ; the subject of 
 the work was one that in any case must 
 have filled his thoughts in such a sickness as 
 seized upon him; and he set himself to 
 accomplish it with his whole being. This 
 was no playing with a distant futurity, but 
 an earnest record of instant and vivid cir- 
 cumstance. Caught in the toils of Death, 
 he could at least look round him and once 
 more paint things as he saw them ; and the 
 things that he saw, the great and kindly 
 56 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 truths that he expressed, set this Requiem 
 of his beyond all price for us. Unlike the 
 dreamers in mid-life he did not see himself 
 as the chief figure in this affair ; and so in 
 his work we cannot find one note of selfish 
 grief or unseemly self-pity. From the very 
 first bar, with its cool and nerve-steadying 
 voice, soothing as the handgrip of a faithful 
 friend, down to the end, there is no room for 
 a selfish or hysterical thought in the hearer. 
 Often, to be sure, the music, pursuing some 
 exalted measure, rolls far above his head like 
 distant thunder ; anon it bursts upon his ear 
 in strains that crush and overwhelm him; 
 here he is uplifted, and there cast down by 
 its magnificence; but it is never his own 
 griefs that weigh upon him, but rather the 
 infinite smallness of himself and his concerns 
 at the latter end : the seriousness of life 
 rather than the bitterness of death. The 
 strenuous flood of sound on which the open- 
 ing Requiem and Eyrie are borne carries one 
 57 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 clean away from the contemplation of finality; 
 one recognises plainly and without dismay 
 that fact which sometimes seems so shock- 
 ing : that the round world will roll steadily 
 on even after you and I, who to ourselves are 
 the centre of it all, have gone, and never be 
 a penny the worse. 
 
 Even in the Tuba Mirum, where most 
 composers have given rein to their imagina- 
 tion, Mozart is solemnly and terribly matter- 
 of-fact. Berlioz, all his dramatic instincts 
 afire, relying wholly on his imagination for 
 his emotions, laboured for realism at this 
 point, and tore the air with trumpet cries. 
 That was not good art, and it fails even of 
 the end for which he strove ; the terror it in- 
 spires is purely physical, and not to be com- 
 pared with the reality of Mozart’s music. 
 This is the only dreadful part of the mass ; 
 and even here the terror is not for ourselves ; 
 but the heart is purged with a great pity 
 for those trembling penitents whose voices 
 58 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 we hear at the judgment bar. The bitter 
 
 cry: 
 
 Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, 
 
 Quern patronem rogaturus, 
 
 Cum vix justus sit securus ! 
 
 and the solo passage — accents of despair 
 from voices well-nigh paralysed by dread, 
 are shocking in their intensity. 
 
 But the glad solemnity of Rex tremendee 
 and the trusting simplicity of Recordare, 
 Jesu pie heal and soothe the heart anew ; 
 the wrath is past ; and from this point to the 
 end the music flows on with a kind of lofty 
 gladness, strenuous and austere as a moun- 
 tain wind, but charged like it with health 
 and vigour. The Mass for the Dead, this 
 office is named by Catholic use ; but Mozart 
 has turned it into a benediction for the liv- 
 ing. Only in one place, in the Lacrymosa, 
 is there a direct appeal for our tears ; but 
 here, strangely enough, the hymn changes 
 from the first person to the third. The ten- 
 der and human pity in the music is perfectly 
 59 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 natural ; the rhythmic wail that runs through 
 it is wrung from our very hearts by the con- 
 templation of the woeful scene. 
 
 It matters little to me whether it was 
 Mozart’s or Sussmayer’s hand that actually 
 wrote down the latter part of this mass ; 
 I am convinced that the substance is all 
 Mozart. We may regard it as a precious 
 jewel wrung from the very hands of Death 
 and a monument of his impotence utterly to 
 destroy his victims. Of all Mozart’s work 
 it has the most likely hold on the interests 
 of future generations ; partly because it is 
 beautiful music, and partly because it is 
 a valuable human document, existing al- 
 most alone as a curious commentary on a 
 predicament in which we must all be placed. 
 
 60 
 
TCHAIKOVSKY'S 
 
 SIXTH SYMPHONY. 
 
 De Profundis Clamavi. 
 
 HERE is a view of human life from 
 
 which philsophy and religion are 
 alike excluded; it embraces none but the 
 individual, it assigns no place to him in the 
 balanced order of nature, and it only reveals 
 him as the centre of a web spun by an un- 
 known hand. That view, in which, although 
 foredoomed to defeat, he is entered in the 
 lists with Time for such prizes as may seem 
 to him best worth gaining, vanishes in a 
 
 61 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 gloomy perspective at the point of death. 
 In its dark vista the most simple and inevit- 
 able of human affairs take on the colour of 
 tragedy ; misfortune appears as an irreme- 
 diable evil, joy itself as a fleeting and elusive 
 shadow. It is well to remember this when 
 we think of Tchaikovsky’s Pathetic Sym- 
 phony ; for here, as I understand it, is a 
 piece of music which reflects the images of a 
 mind prisoned in the house of Fear, and 
 looking forth on the world through a window 
 darkened by heavy despair. Everything in 
 the symphony is tinged with a sombre hue ; 
 even gladness drags heavy footed, smiling 
 through tears. One writes the words “ fear ” 
 and “ despair ” glibly enough, but it is hard 
 to realize what they mean to one in whose 
 soul hope never sprang, who never tasted 
 the consolations of friendship, who had not 
 even that flickering uncertainty of a life 
 beyond the present that buoys up so many 
 who profess no belief in it. And it is the 
 62 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 mind of such an one that is set forth on this 
 great Pagan canvas. I cannot think of any 
 work of art in which the curtains that shroud 
 a human heart are so far plucked back. I 
 can remember no piece of music which so 
 poignantly expresses all the shades of feeling 
 to which one transcendant emotion gives 
 birth. The only thing to be likened to it is 
 Wagner’s Tristan and Isolda, a work of in- 
 finitely greater magnitude ; but that is a 
 study in what might be called a lyrical 
 emotion ; it catches floating clouds of feeling, 
 and colours them for us with its rainbow 
 beams ; while this plumbs sunless depths, 
 and reveals the secrets of a thick darkness. 
 And, when we come to the root of the matter, 
 music is at its best when it is expressing 
 what can be expressed by no other means. 
 The lights and shades of human love have 
 been well expressed in words; there are 
 languages that might have been made for 
 their expression. Ay, and Wagner has 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 gone far beyond words in Tristan, only 
 his musical art is supplemented by language 
 and picture. But where are the words that 
 can even faintly convey what is expressed in 
 this Symphony ? The most skilful arrange- 
 ment of words, the most ingenious combina- 
 tion of colours, the most subtle dramatic 
 composition, are all alike far too clumsy and 
 superficial for the purpose. The smiling 
 happiness of a pastoral each can represent ; 
 words may paint the joy of life, and some 
 of its grief ; the painter’s brush may show 
 us a smiling landscape ; in the drama at its 
 best we may spy upon the mind as it goes 
 about its business. But music can lead 
 us farthest into the fields of grief ; only 
 when she guides us can the dark flowers 
 that blow there yield us their most secret 
 essence. 
 
 To appreciate this music it is neces- 
 sary to understand the character of its 
 emotion. There is a grief, the child of a 
 64 
 
MUSIC AND 'MUSICIANS. 
 
 poor heart, nursed and cherished as a 
 precious possession, and used as a signal to 
 attract sympathy and condolence : with 
 such grief we have nothing to do here. There 
 is also the grief that lodges for a time in 
 every stout heart but has no freehold there ; 
 its darkness is gilded with the rays of hope ; 
 where it makes its sojourn it adorns the 
 dwelling-place. With that also we have no 
 concern. Here the clouds have no bright 
 lining. Some people, it is true, profess to 
 find in this symphony an expression of lofty 
 hope that makes battle with despair ; but 
 for my part I cannot see it. There is a 
 temptation to erect moral finger posts in a 
 work of this kind ; to be over ready to hoist 
 a lantern in the darkness, and to surmount 
 the cross with a crown. That may be an 
 easy way to point morals to our friends 
 or to teach them lessons we have not learned 
 ourselves ; but a great work of art is not 
 labelled in this way with its gospel. That is 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 written, for every one who searches diligently, 
 in a tongue none but himself can understand. 
 There is no hope, no optimism here at all, 
 nor (so far as I can see) any aspiration to 
 hope ; there is rather that which deceives 
 the heart into hope and beguiles the soul 
 into momentary happiness ; and with these 
 there is a black shadow which ever flits beside 
 the wayfarer to cheat him of the brief 
 illusion. For me, this is no history of a 
 man’s soul, Pagan or Christian. It does 
 not even appear now, as once it did, a picture 
 of human life from the cradle to the grave ; 
 but rather as a series of musical expressions, 
 widely various as to their themes, but all bound 
 together by the basis of a common point of 
 view, as alien harmonies are reconciled upon 
 a pedal note. The frescoes with which Ford 
 Madox Brown has decorated the Town Hall 
 in Manchester will serve to illustrate my 
 meaning. One panel differs widely from 
 another in subject and style ; Dalton sits by 
 66 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 a green pool collecting marsh-fire gas oppo- 
 site to the spot where a band of Roman 
 masons is at work on the windy heights of a 
 fort ; swords and spears are clashing in deadly 
 combat beside King Edwin of Northumber- 
 land as he receives the rite of Baptism ; but 
 all the frescoes are stamped with one man’s 
 individuality ; they set forth his own point of 
 view and form one great decorative scheme. 
 
 So this symphony contains many kinds 
 of music : music in an elementary form, 
 such as the two chief themes of the second 
 movement, and music in its highest de- 
 velopment which expresses by a few notes 
 and rests the subtlest emotions. In some 
 parts of the work, the style is simple and 
 almost crude ; in others it is polished and 
 elaborate ; here the picture is painted in 
 bold strokes, and there set forth with the 
 minutest detail. But irreconciliable as much 
 of it is with any structural scheme, every 
 bar is subordinate to a psychological scheme, 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 and stands in a certain relationship to the 
 central idea to which I have referred. And 
 as to one standing on a high tower and re- 
 garding men who walk far beneath him, all 
 seem to be of the same size, the same build, 
 the same complexion ; so the ordinary 
 affairs of life, as they appear to one who 
 looks upward from a desperate gulf, are all 
 of the same tragic colour. 
 
 In the opening bars, the key to the whole 
 is placed in our hands. Listen, and sink out 
 of the sunlight, down through the gloom of 
 those sombre strains until you stand, alone, 
 in a valley filled with whispering shadows. 
 This is a deeper cleft than the valley of 
 Humiliation ; it is not green nor beautiful 
 with lillies ; there are no pearls here, nor 
 words of life. Far above you, a panorama 
 will presently be unrolled, and from the 
 depths of this prison-house you may watch 
 it, seeing the incidents of its progress through 
 the mists of a dark environment. Fix 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 firmly in your mind the keynote o£ gloom 
 which hums like an organ-point far below 
 the music’s most feverish and most beautiful 
 measures ; for every phrase and sentence of 
 the symphony must have this dull grief for 
 its commentary. 
 
 II. 
 
 A wild and bewildering haste ; one tragic 
 event treading on the heels of another ; 
 cries of grief wrung from the heart, now 
 hysterical, now sad and passionate; and 
 finally a benumbed resignation to suffering 
 — these are the impressions of the first 
 movement on my mind. The thing bursts 
 suddenly upon you after the slumbrous 
 lament of the introduction, and in the very 
 first subject, the tearing of the strings, fol- 
 lowed by the chill chattering of the upper 
 wind, strikes dismay into the heart. There 
 is press and hurry, but it is all outside you ; 
 if you were in the bustle it would not be 
 half so bad ; there you stand while this com- 
 69 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 motion of terror boils round you. Surely it 
 expresses what Christian felt in the midst of 
 that very dangerous Quag : “ He heard 
 doleful voices, and rushings to and fro, so 
 that sometimes he thought he should be 
 torn to pieces, or trodden down like mire 
 in the Streets. This frightful sight was 
 seen, and these dreadful noises were 
 heard by him for several miles together, 
 and coming to a place where he thought 
 he heard a company of Fiends coming for- 
 ward to meet him, he stopt, and began 
 to muse what he had best to do. Some- 
 times he had half a thought to go back, 
 then again he thought he might be half 
 way through the Yalley; he remembered 
 also how he had already vanquished many 
 a danger, and that the danger of going 
 back might be much more than to go for- 
 ward, so he resolved to go on. Yet the 
 Fiends seemed to come nearer and nearer. 
 
 . . . Also now he saw Hobgoblins, and 
 70 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 Satyrs, and Dragons of the Pit. . . . 
 They were discovered to him, according 
 to that which is written, He discovereth 
 deep things out of darhiess and bringeth out 
 to light the Shadow of Death.” The music 
 is not to be translated into words, but these 
 suggest it much better than any sentences 
 I could put together. After this tragic 
 bustle comes the less terrible, more tearful 
 second subject {Andante) : and the supple- 
 mental theme with its sweetly running flute 
 and bassoon duet, is more sane still ; it is 
 like a flowering patch of happiness watered 
 by tears of former grief. But even on it is 
 cast the shadow of foreboding which robs it 
 of its delight. Amid any other surroundings 
 the theme would suggest simple and unal- 
 loyed happiness ; here it is like a glimpse 
 into some Paradise which we may not enter, 
 and the memory of it embitters the strife 
 which so soon bursts out again with a 
 thunder-clap. The rushing passages of the 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 fugato suggest work undertaken for the sake 
 of its benumbing influence on the mind ; 
 “ anything rather than have time to think,” 
 says the man who invents tasks for himself ; 
 and here is a great deal of contrapuntal 
 business evolved out of nothing at all. Per- 
 haps the end is attained, for in the trumpet 
 theme to which the counterpoint gives place 
 there is an unreal calmness. That in its 
 turn soon breaks down, and once more the 
 mood is one of gloomy dignity, melting more 
 and more towards the end ; the bitter clouds 
 break into tears, a fountain rises in the 
 stony heart, and grief sighs itself into for- 
 getfulness, as a child falls asleep weeping. 
 III. 
 
 There is a morning after every night of 
 anguish, when a man must rise and face the 
 dreary day. Most people know what it is to 
 look forth after some night of heavy trouble, 
 and see with a kind of amazement, that a 
 new day is breaking, that birds are beginning 
 72 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 to chirp in the thickets, that husbandmen 
 are setting out to their work. The opening 
 of the second movement, fresh with a morn- 
 ing melody, suggests such an awakening ; 
 Nature has not been arrested in her courses ; 
 still the sun can rise, the tide ebb, and the 
 wind sing in the grass. This ignorance by 
 Nature of his deepest grief may comfort 
 the sane man ; but to him with whom we 
 are concerned, it comes as an added insult, 
 a new tragedy. He, drinking his bitter cup, 
 looks forth on the earth dressed for a sum- 
 mer morning, and feels how utterly alone he 
 must be, when the very skies and trees are 
 heedless of his sorrow. So to poor Danae, 
 worn with fasting and tears, rocked on the 
 summer waves by Seriphos, the breeze wafts 
 songs of Halcyone and Ceyx; (Enone, break- 
 ing her heart on Mount Ida, hears the 
 laughter of winds among the cypress-groves ; 
 Tristan, while he listens to his friend’s just 
 reproaches, is watching flowers awake as 
 73 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 a new sun slants into the Cornish garden. 
 And you may be sure that Danae is not 
 thinking only of her babe’s sad condition, 
 that CEnone’s thoughts are not all with 
 Paris, that Tristan’s mind broods not on the 
 dark future alone ; but that each of them is 
 keenly alive to the surrounding voices of 
 waves and branches and morning breeze. 
 So in this symphony, the tragedy is sug- 
 gested not alone by sad or magnificent 
 strains, but also in the really natural way, 
 by a subtle arrangement of themes which 
 represent every kind of emotion. As in 
 every-day life, where the horrible elbows 
 the funny, and tragedy treads on the skirts 
 of farce, here gladness follows grief, and 
 rage succeeds to mirth ; but taken together, 
 and considered in their mutual relationship, 
 all are tragic. 
 
 Naturally enough the second part of the 
 Allegro con grazia is an actual lament, 
 to which the hollow throbbing of the drum 
 74 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 adds an impression of physical pain. I once 
 heard of a man who, in the days before 
 anaesthetics were discovered, had to undergo 
 a frightful operation ; it was performed in a 
 country surgery, and his friends waited in a 
 room below. One of them told me that he 
 made no cries nor groans, but that during 
 the whole time in which the thing was being 
 done, the patient kept up a rhythmical beat- 
 ing with his heel upon the floor, which was 
 more shocking to hear than screams. In 
 acute suffering of any kind, the rhythmical 
 sense seems to be unusually alert, and there 
 are many examples of the employment of 
 strongly-marked rhythms in musical expres- 
 sion of grief. Mozart’s Lacrymosa, Han- 
 del’s Surely He hath borne our griefs, 
 Bach’s Come ye daughters, share my 
 anguish, are a few familiar instances. 
 And this lament, to which the 5-4 rhythm 
 is so well adapted, throbs itself away, like 
 the first movement, into quietness ; but it is 
 75 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 not the oblivion of sleep so much as the 
 silence of exhaustion that enfolds it at the 
 end. 
 
 IY. 
 
 On a March afternoon, after a day of 
 rain and gloom, the wind sometimes springs 
 up to half a gale and blows freshly into the 
 sunset. The slanting rays cannot warm it 
 as it whips your face, but they gild it with 
 faint glory, and the day departs with dignity. 
 The third period of the Pathetic Symphony 
 is heroic in a similar way ; after bitter sighs 
 and tears, a gale of genuine strife sweeps 
 into it here and blows away gloom. The 
 heart is exalted on the wings of this hurri- 
 cane and sings aloud in the fight, like the 
 horse that “ saith among the trumpets, Ha, 
 ha.” The very hopelessness that darkened 
 other things, gilds this ; there is a glorious 
 insanity in the abandonment to battle ; the 
 clouds that formerly wept rain and dew yield 
 here lightnings and thunder. And yet there 
 76 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 is something in this march that would make 
 it sadly out of place at a wedding feast, 
 and strangely appropriate at a military 
 funeral. The sub-consciousness that the 
 whole fight is useless, that victory is im- 
 possible, that Death is creeping nearer, would 
 rob the most strenuous endeavours of their 
 flavour ; and even while you listen to these 
 glorious, exalted strains, you feel that the 
 fight is already over, the day lost. Now, if 
 your thoughts fly back to the first bars of 
 the symphony, to the cruel commotion that 
 followed, to the heavy sighs, the poor, fugi- 
 tive joys, the bitter tears, the hundred 
 deaths that were suffered, it becomes plain 
 wherein the tragedy of this work consists. 
 
 And now the sunset gun has sounded, the 
 bunting that flickered so bravely in the sun- 
 light has been hauled down, and the evening 
 mists are rising. The last movement opens 
 with the very touch of Death’s chill hand ; 
 and no living man knows what that touch 
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APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 means to the hopeless heart. The melody 
 of the second subject, so like some of the 
 earlier themes, recapitulates all the tones of 
 suffering that have formerly been heard ; it 
 expresses every kind of heartache known to 
 men and women : the sighs of lovers at 
 parting, the lingering death of hope, the 
 foul murder of trust ; the benumbing sense 
 of failure, the bitter knowledge of happiness 
 passed by, the memory of priceless gifts 
 rejected ; and, most bitter of all, sorrows of 
 years ago which might have been joys. 
 These rise like a mirage before the fading 
 sight and then dissolve away; the hour is at 
 hand. There is one short, mad struggle, one 
 last protest, a sinking and waning of the 
 heart’s energy, a failing at the wells of life, 
 and then — darkness. 
 
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THE COMPOSER IN ENGLAND. 
 
 If thou wouldst he famous, and rich in splendid fruits, 
 
 Leave to bloom the flower of things , and dig among the roots. 
 
 T T is esteemed a mark of genius in a man 
 "*■ if he have the power to separate his 
 mind from the entanglements of uncongenial 
 circumstance, and, rising beyond these, soar 
 to a mental height where his fancy shall not 
 be hindered by the blunders of destiny. 
 They are indeed fortunate who can thus solve 
 the problem of their life, but it is a mistake 
 to suppose that this faculty is the inevitable 
 accompaniment of every kind of genius. The 
 divinely kindled fire that we call by that 
 79 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 name passes not always through the same 
 stages of development ; in a Milton, it 
 early blazes up into a lofty flame, shining 
 steadily and equally; in a Eichard Wagner 
 it glows and mantles, shining more and 
 more, increasing at the last to a brilliant 
 star ; in a Nietzsche, it bursts into blinding 
 light, that gradually burns itself out ; in a 
 Schumann, it flashes and occults ; in a 
 Mendelssohn it sparkles ; and too often, a 
 tiny glimmer, it dies for lack of tending. 
 Only in a few of these cases is the man 
 independent of his environment ; in some of 
 them it is absolutely essential to the growth, 
 to the life even of his genius, that he should 
 be in the midst of a life that shall stimulate 
 and inspire him. Where that is wanting, 
 and he is forced to dwell as a stranger amid 
 alien surroundings, too often he is bitterly 
 conscious of the fire within him whitening, 
 dying, and at last crumbling into sterile 
 dust. 
 
 80 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 In the case of a man to whom has been 
 entrusted the power to express some part of 
 himself in music, it is the human, and not 
 the material environment that matters. 
 To be sure he must hear good music ; but 
 putting that aside, if he dwell in dens and 
 caves of the earth, if he fill his belly with 
 husks, and yet have some congenial friends 
 who can create for him an atmosphere of his 
 art, and with whom he can live its life, the 
 fire in him will but burn the more brightly. 
 For it is an established truth that ease of 
 circumstance and smoothness of life are not 
 only unneccessary but inimical to a man’s 
 early artistic progress. It is strange that art, 
 which represents all that is most peaceful 
 and civilized in human life, may seldom be 
 brought to perfection except by men who 
 have struggled and fought ; who have 
 learned the thousand bitter lessons of 
 life, have known its disappointments and 
 felt its failures — exercising in the struggle 
 81 G 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 some of the old savage instincts of man- 
 kind ; and this in order that in the shel- 
 tered garden of the arts flowers of theirs 
 may bloom and flourish. But it is none the 
 less true ; Beethoven and Mendelssohn are 
 extreme examples ; but the one was a 
 fighting man, leading outwardly a poor rough 
 life, not less lonely in its circumstances 
 than bitter in its privations, and he wrote 
 the Pastoral Symphony as well as the 
 Choral : w r hile the other never had to fight 
 an inch of his life ; and his genius, which in 
 his youth shone like a star, fell like a star 
 throughout his years. 
 
 I need hardly say that it is not necessary 
 for the cultivation of a man’s genius that 
 he should daily be in extremity for the 
 necessaries of life. There is a kind of man 
 calling himself artist, whose tongue is 
 continually tolling the word Art, who 
 delights to ape a picturesque penury, but, I 
 make no doubt, takes care that he has his 
 82 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 material comforts : he apparently has yet to 
 learn that genius exists not in the unclean 
 garment nor the unwashed face. For- 
 tunately, the species is not a common one 
 in England, although specimens are to be 
 found in most communities ; but its existence 
 seems to imply that there are people who 
 think lightly of an artist if he be anything 
 like an ordinary man. There are untoward 
 circumstances in the life of a composer or 
 an author that may be bravely fought ; I 
 could never hear that the struggle for some 
 measure of comfort in a man’s physical life 
 blighted the life of his soul ; but there are 
 also circumstances which cannot be fought ; 
 to struggle against them is death to the 
 spirit ; and these, it would seem, are the 
 circumstances that surround a young com- 
 poser in England. The artistic atmosphere 
 (to use the adjective in a colloquial sense) is 
 hardly to be found here ; the composer is 
 an alien in his native land, trafficking in 
 88 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 thoughts which are not current among his 
 fellows ; and the plant he tends is sown in a 
 soil prepared for other and very different 
 growths. Players of instruments we can 
 rear by the hundred in England, and (with 
 the help, to be sure, of foreign masters) we 
 can bring to perfection many kinds of 
 executive musical art. In the hard physical 
 drudgery which these demand, in the 
 keenly competitive study, in the dogged 
 determination of mind so essential to success, 
 there seems to be something accordant with 
 our national life and proper to our racial 
 characteristics. Here is a kind of study in 
 which success lies in a fairly certain ratio to 
 the expenditure of time and effort ; and that, 
 above all others, is the kind of success that 
 we understand and applaud. To a people 
 of economic mind, the case of man who 
 strives hard to acquire the faculty of expres- 
 sion in a difficult art, and, when he has 
 acquired it, is able to turn it* to no kind of 
 84 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 material account, must seem a rather pitiable 
 example of unproductive energy. The few 
 perhaps applaud the fruits of his toil ; but 
 since these are a minority, they are very 
 likely to be set aside as cranks. And so for 
 all practical purposes, the serious composer, 
 when he exists at all, is a kind of outcast 
 from us; we withhold from him remuneration 
 for his work, honour for his art, and en- 
 couragement for his efforts. 
 
 Is anyone to blame for this state of things? 
 Not the English public, for we do not expect 
 it to listen to a symphony which bores it, 
 nor to pay for songs which it does not like. 
 Not the composer, for it is not his 
 fault if he lacks the means to go 
 abroad to some congenial place where he 
 may find the necessary stimulus for his 
 genius. And not the Government, for a 
 State music-school, so far as the composer 
 is concerned, would be a shade worse than 
 the present kind. No, we seem to have the 
 85 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 same machinery in London for producing 
 composers as they have in Vienna and 
 Leipzig, but still the composers do not 
 come. One reason, I submit, is to be found 
 in the absence from English schools of that 
 atmosphere which is a feature of the German. 
 The two or three students of real promise 
 that meet in an English conservatoire cannot 
 of themselves create that atmosphere ; they 
 are too few ; and more than that, they are 
 rivals in a small field ; there is not room for 
 all. If Mr. X. loses money by producing 
 my opera, you may be very sure that he will 
 refuse you an audience when you bring him 
 yours, though you be vastly the better man : 
 and Messrs. Thirsty & Co., when I offer 
 them my songs, may refuse to publish them 
 because they have just been persuaded to 
 give you five pounds for your pianoforte 
 piece, and one adventure of that kind is 
 enough for a great while. For it is really an 
 adventure when an English publisher buys 
 8G 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 high-class work from an unknown man ; his 
 safe and legitimate business lies in printing 
 and publishing reams of stuff which he knows 
 to be artistically worthless, which he also 
 knows the public will eagerly buy and 
 applaud. 
 
 Who or what are the people who produce 
 the bulk of this stuff I need not say ; but a 
 cynic might be excused for saying that they 
 are, for the moment, our really national 
 composers, and this our national music. 
 The taste of a people in art is shown not so 
 much in the concert hall as in the drawing- 
 room, less in the picture gallery than on the 
 dining-room walls ; and in music the English 
 drawing-room taste is for these travesties of 
 
 art : all that is commonplace, characterless, 
 
 * 
 
 maudlin and invertebrate finds favour there ; 
 a mean prettiness is the most that is asked 
 for ; and the demand being for these, the 
 supply is ready and constant. The artisan’s 
 parlour and the Countess’s drawing-room 
 87 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 alike resound with this national melody of 
 ours, and herein lies a consideration for the 
 philosopher : the muse that sings of con- 
 sumptive choir boys may draw a common 
 sigh from the hearts of my lady and her 
 scullery-maid ; and we have but to rhyme 
 “dart” and “heart” in the ear of the 
 merchant and his chimney-sweep to set 
 unison cords trembling. It is true that this 
 catholic quality is one of the primary attri- 
 butes of genuine art, but it may prove 
 something very different from excellence in 
 the art. If you drink Zeltinger rather than 
 Assmanshduser, it does not prove Zeltinger 
 to be the nobler wine ; rather it indicates a 
 slender purse or an uneducated taste on your 
 part. In England we cannot plead the 
 slender purse, and even if we could, great 
 music is cheaper than small : you may get 
 fifty of Schumann’s songs for half-a-crown, 
 but you must pay one and eightpence each 
 for mine. No, the reason for our refusal to 
 88 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 have good music at any price is simpl they 
 indifference of our taste. You may point to 
 well-filled concert-rooms, where good and 
 great music is performed, but that alters the 
 case not one jot — they do not represent a 
 national taste. 
 
 I have referred, somewhat vaguely, per- 
 haps, to the atmosphere that surrounds a 
 composer who is compelled to study his art 
 in England. By that I mean an environ- 
 ment partly made up of the companionship 
 of other minds, and partly of the spirit that 
 informs his doings and those of his compeers. 
 In England we are cursed with a spirit 
 thoroughly amateurish ; with regard to 
 music, we are a nation of amateurs ; we 
 cannot be brought to regard it seriously 
 except from the executant’s point of view, 
 and then we become commercial. From the 
 silly clerk who in his spare hours picks out 
 on the piano a sequence of notes, and having 
 supported it with a change rung upon two 
 89 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 •chords, thinks that he has composed a waltz ; 
 from him to the titled dilettante in whose 
 mind the echoes of a hundred tunes con- 
 solidate themselves into a melody which he 
 magines to be original, who hires a musician 
 to render his notes grammatical, and an 
 educated person to do the like by his verses, 
 and thereupon publishes a song, the mass of 
 our music-makers seem to have no higher 
 end in view than the acquiring of a petty 
 accomplishment which shall adorn them in 
 the eyes of their friends. 
 
 Where an art is to flourish there must be 
 traditions, and our musical traditions have 
 been lost to us. In the art of letters, we 
 have here a traditional pre-eminence, unin- 
 terrupted from age to age : for those who 
 would practise that art, the path is beaten, 
 and the way marked by milestone and 
 finger-post ; and a certain endowment is 
 provided for them in the higher fields of 
 journalism. Now, in music we have had 
 90 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 our traditions : Henry Purcell once sang in 
 angelic strains and spun his sweet harmony 
 of viols ; Orlando Gibbons made jubilee with 
 his glees ; old Doctor Blow praised God in 
 the sound of the trumpet, and upon the 
 strings and pipe. These were men upon 
 whose shoulders foundations of tradition 
 might worthily rest ; but what have we done 
 with the inheritance they left us? Faint 
 echoes of their voices you may still hear ; in 
 the sleepy evensong of the cathedrals, amid 
 the droning of priests and the shuffling of 
 feet, their harmony still resounds ; still in 
 some enthusiast’s chamber, the thread-like 
 tones of clavichords and gambas may waft 
 us for a moment into their time ; but out in 
 the living world their art has been dead this 
 half century and more ; it is a ghost that 
 visits in the aisles of cathedrals and museums. 
 
 Whatever faults we may have as a nation, 
 it is not like us to disregard our worthy tra- 
 ditions. It is still something to us that the 
 91 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 foam flew behind Drake and Blake, and that 
 navies fled before them ; on the paths cut 
 by Wellington, Chaucer, Reynolds, Defoe, 
 our feet still bravely follow ; and to be 
 worthy of our traditions is a command not 
 more inspiring on the battlefield than in the 
 counting-house or the school-room. But in 
 music the advance is all disorganized, and it 
 seems that none is left to follow the only 
 worthy leaders we have had. Great men, it 
 is true, are not produced very often ; but 
 taking every caprice of Nature into account, 
 the interval that has elapsed since the birth 
 of the last great English composer is too 
 long to be accounted for by chance. Other 
 fields have not been so neglected, and con- 
 sidering that the greatest genius is dependent 
 for its development on proper guidance and 
 training, it is very likely that more than one 
 Englishman has been born in this century 
 who might have been a very great composer 
 but for unkindly circumstances. 
 
 92 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 Unlike the art of letters, music has no en- 
 dowment in England. The nearest approach 
 to it that we have is in the church, which 
 provides a bare living for a certain number 
 of people who direct her musical service. 
 But, unfortunately, a very high standard of 
 musical ability is not necessary for this pur- 
 pose, and qualifications much humbler than 
 ought to be necessary are commonly ac- 
 cepted ; and we do not find that the church 
 organist usually turns his leisure to account 
 by studying composition, or that, if he does 
 the result is at all satisfactory. His music 
 is, as a rule, less tolerable than that of his 
 friend in the drawing-room ; too often he 
 has fledgling ideas about making church 
 music “ modern ” ; and we have the fiasco of 
 Gounod’s Redemption repeated, on a greatly 
 reduced scale, in a thousand little horrors 
 which are duly published at the perpetrator’s 
 expense. To be sure, these men are only 
 sharers in the light and unworthy views of 
 93 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 music which we hold in this country ; and if 
 their position aggravates their offence, the 
 remedy is first in the hands of those who 
 employ them. 
 
 The point at which these mean and paltry 
 views of musical art crept in and arrested its 
 development is easily determined. When 
 Mendelssohn first took us by storm in the 
 morning of his genius, it was then that, as 
 a nation, we abandoned the sterner quest. 
 Whether he was really to blame for a 
 nation’s decadence, or only shared in an in- 
 fluence by which so many were infected is a 
 problem too deep for my plummet ; the ac- 
 cusation is too grave to be cast lightly upon 
 the memory cf a man who left some beauti- 
 ful and abiding work ; but there is no doubt 
 that the same influence which proved fatal 
 to Mendelssohn as an artist of the first rank 
 arrested our own progress in music, and set 
 us harvesting when we should have still 
 been sowing. To make haste to be rich is 
 94 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 to lower one’s standard of what is desirable, 
 and that is what we have done. So instead 
 of one great man we have half-a-dozen who 
 are a little less than great ; instead of fifty 
 capable and conscientious artists, who might 
 at least have led back our wandering steps 
 into the one safe path, we have hundreds of 
 mediocrities. Where once a deep spiritual 
 beauty was the mark of our music we are 
 now content with a superficial prettiness, 
 and our inefficiency is made complete by an 
 educational system which is little better 
 than a gigantic farce. As composition is 
 “taught ” in the schools, it will never produce 
 a composer ; as well might you teach a brick- 
 layer his trade and then call him an architect, 
 or, having taught a man grammar, straight- 
 way expect him to write poetry. The 
 architect, of course, must know how bricks 
 are laid, the poet must have learned his 
 grammar, and so must the musical composer 
 have at his finger-ends the science of eom- 
 95 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 bining notes ; but to expect a pedagogue in 
 a doctor’s gown to guide a youthful genius 
 up this flowery Parnassus is not less absurd 
 than to expect Charon to guide him upon 
 Olympian steeps. And as the one would 
 very probably drag him into the first chasm 
 that offered a likely means of regaining the 
 dark river, so will the other, when occasion 
 offers, entice the youth to his own bloomless 
 meadows, there to make gambols in antic 
 counterpoint. Small wonder if a youth 
 trained in such a school fails to realise the 
 seriousness with which his work must begone 
 about, and the responsibility with which he 
 loads himself when he comes to express 
 himself in the highest terms of his art. In 
 the writing of a symphony there are as many 
 problems to be solved as in the building of a 
 church ; and far beyond these in importance 
 is the absolute duty of the composer to 
 produce a thing that is beautiful. And 
 when we think of beauty, surely we may 
 90 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 free ourselves from the idea of beauty ex- 
 emplified in the Mendelssohn school, and 
 reach after the ideals of Beethoven and 
 Brahms. In a work of Brahms, you do 
 not find “beauty” laid on like a coat of 
 paint over a piece of botching ; it is a quality 
 that runs through every fibre of his work, 
 to be found not only in the crowning 
 vane, but in the deepest vaults of his 
 foundations. 
 
 There are a thousand reasons why the 
 musician should not be disheartened by 
 this state of things. In the very end 
 of the nineteenth century we have had 
 some evidence — notably in the work of Mr. 
 Elgar — that this discouraging atmosphere 
 can not always prevail against the serious 
 composer. To go on pluckily; to avoid 
 cheap and ready effects as you would flee 
 from the devil ; to be less afraid of doing 
 work that you may one day discard than of 
 writing a single note which does not help to 
 97 H 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 express some definite idea of your own ; to 
 do your best always ; these are old and 
 simple rules, but in the keeping of them 
 there is a great, though often only a secret 
 reward. I have mentioned Brahms ; and 
 he, beyond all others, is the man whose 
 example should be followed by the com- 
 posers of this generation. In his work 
 the problem of uniting the classical and 
 the modern in music is easily solved; his 
 hatred for anything mean and cheap, his 
 lofty seriousness, his deep grasp of beauty 
 — these are the qualities which we in 
 England must absorb if we are ever to 
 rise above our present passion for 
 musical chiffon. Wagner, glorious com- 
 panion, can never inspire ; the path 
 that he cut closed up behind him, 
 and to think of one’s own work while 
 listening to his is to taste despair. But 
 the work of Brahms encourages while it 
 teaches ; although it holds up the most 
 98 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 lofty ideal for us to strive after it will yet 
 teach us what we may do with our own 
 talents ; and that knowledge is the great 
 secret of success in any art. Whatever 
 discouragements, difficulties, trials, may 
 surround the composer in England, if he 
 know well that lesson he has no right to 
 despair. He is one of a hundred travellers 
 upon the same dark road, all fumbling with 
 the flint and steel of their talents. He 
 may be no better equipped than his neigh- 
 bours, he may be dragging far behind, he 
 may be hindered by burdens of discourage- 
 ment. But surely, even were the chance 
 of success a thousand times smaller, it would 
 still be worth while to struggle on ; the 
 uncertainty of the thing is its glory ; when 
 the time is ripe he may be the chosen 
 instrument of Fate ; to his hand the torch 
 may be entrusted ; and his, when glooms 
 hang thickest, may be the cry, Fiat Lux. 
 
 99 
 
\ 
 
 
 
CHARLES HALLE. 
 
 Though mean and mighty , rotting 
 Together , have one dust , yet reverence, 
 
 That angel of the world , doth make distinction 
 Of place f tween high and low. 
 
 HEN a musician or a painter writes 
 
 his autobiography we may expect 
 to find in its pages a much truer portrait 
 of the man himself that can be drawn by 
 any outsider. He can only judge by results, 
 which, in the case of the artist, by no means 
 faithfully indicate either the extent of his 
 effort or the quality of his inspiration ; for 
 although from the frequent appearance of 
 a certain quality in a man’s work we may 
 
 101 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 safely enough deduce the presence of that 
 quality in himself, yet the absence of such 
 a quality in the work is no proof of its 
 non-existence in the man. In the pages 
 of his autobiography we generally see a 
 portrait of the artist as he desired to be ; 
 well, if in addition to desiring, he made 
 real and constant effort, that is the man 
 himself ; and a more faithful likeness, per- 
 haps, than one drawn from his appearance 
 in the world of achievement. It is true 
 that the two views of an artist’s life may 
 sometimes be the same but that only 
 happens when he has been able to find a 
 congenial means of expression ; and the 
 more one studies the lives of creative artists 
 in the light of their works, one is the more 
 convinced that such a state of things seldom 
 obtains, and that the great majority of 
 them have been infinitely hampered, either 
 by the possession of an utterance so fluent 
 that it seized on the first means of expres- 
 102 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 aion that came to hand, without any attempt 
 to discover in what channel it would most 
 smoothly flow, or by their failure to find 
 or create for themselves a form in which 
 their genius could have its loftiest play. 
 The case of executive musicians is much 
 the same ; many of them have the ill-luck 
 never to get a chance of doing the kind 
 of work for which they feel that they are 
 best fitted, and to be judged by the result 
 of their efforts in some uncongenial 
 direction. 
 
 Charles Halle was an example of the 
 smaller and more fortunate class ; what he 
 wished to be, to a great extent he was ; 
 as we see him mirrored in the pages of his 
 autobiography, so we find him portrayed 
 in his actual achievements. It was this 
 apparent smoothness in his life that made 
 him at his death receive something less 
 than justice from a certain section of the 
 public ; there had been no starvation in 
 103 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 bare garrets, no picturesque scuffling with 
 fortune, no pinched and hungry old age ; 
 therefore said some who should have known 
 better, Time has played us a trick ; this 
 man has been so long before the public 
 eye that we have come to regard him as a 
 great artist, whereas he has only been 
 industrious, and a favourite of opportunity. 
 They saw only the somewhat commonplace 
 end of a career of which the initial force 
 was derived from qualities that were very 
 far from commonplace; and with the singu- 
 lar intolerance of some men for anything 
 like material well-being in an artist’s life, 
 they attempted to damn with faint praise 
 the comfortable close of an old man’s pil- 
 grimage. The story of its earlier stages, 
 full of steadfast endeavour and brilliant 
 achievement, they were possibly too young 
 to remember or too ignorant to know, and 
 too indolent to find out. 
 
 There were three sharply divided periods 
 104 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 in Charles Halle’s life, each of them remark- 
 able in its own way. The little delicate 
 boy living the simple life of a German 
 country town at Hagen, the clever young 
 pianist moving in the brilliant throng that 
 made Paris remarkable in the early forties, 
 and the sturdy old man fighting and working 
 in a grim English manufacturing town 
 were necessarily three distinct people ; but 
 when we reflect how much a man is moulded 
 by his environment, and how absolutely 
 different were Halle’s circumstances at these 
 three places, we may marvel, not at the 
 little differences between the three portraits, 
 but at their great likeness. My own sym- 
 pathies lie most with the old man and the 
 little boy. When the autobiography came 
 to be written, the things that the veteran 
 remembered and thought worth recording 
 about the little boy are very charming : 
 how he was lulled to sleep by the sweetly 
 sung duets of his good parents, and awoke 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 to the sound of the night-watchman’s horn 
 and the gruffly sung 
 
 " Hort, ihy Leut, uttd lasst each sagen,” 
 
 which marked the passing of dark hours ; 
 how, on the last midnight of the year, he 
 was taken to the window to look out on 
 the snow-covered street, and hear children 
 singing the chorale 
 
 “ Das alte Jahr vergangen ist,” 
 
 how the little man of seven years spent 
 all his spare time in studying and listening 
 to music, and was delighted to be allowed 
 to turn the leaves for a quartet party ; how 
 he cried bitterly to hear of Beethoven’s 
 death ; and how pleased he was to be 
 allowed to play the organ at church, and 
 the piano at the homely town-concerts. The 
 old man was very like him ; although in the 
 meantime he had lived in the most brilliant 
 and fashionable society, he retained simple 
 and homely ways, held fast to his old 
 106 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 child-like beliefs and customs, and retained 
 his reverence for youthful idols. 
 
 I suppose that such a life as Halle led in 
 Paris and London keeps a man’s intellectual 
 equipment in perfect condition. To live in 
 daily intercourse with men like Lamartine, 
 Berlioz, Alexandre Dumas, Heine, Liszt 
 and Salvandy is to have one’s wits con- 
 tinually on the grindstone, and no doubt 
 it is to this period of intellectual friction 
 that Halle owed the qualities that made 
 him, even in his old age, so charming a 
 companion at the dinner-table. In spite of 
 this, the story of these years of his life has 
 less interest than that of any other period ; 
 possibly because he was working very hard, 
 and possibly because he was less remarkable 
 among so brilliant a throng than when he 
 moved in less exalted circles. Possibly, 
 also, his native gravity of disposition made 
 him, young as he was, seem like an elder 
 brother in the noisy nursery of art ; one 
 107 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 to whom the others brought their toys to 
 be mended, their disputes to be healed, their 
 joys and sorrows to be shared. It is easy 
 to imagine Heller coming to play him his 
 latest composition, sure of a sympathetic 
 audience ; to see Berlioz, madly excited over 
 an additional note just discovered in the 
 scale of some abysmal instrument, rushing 
 with his score to show Halle how it had 
 been introduced; or to picture Liszt de- 
 manding his admiration for some more than 
 ordinarily impossible feat of clavier gym- 
 nastics. But if he does not seem to us to 
 have been a very interesting figure upon 
 this stage, his sterling qualities attracted 
 the affection of his contemporaries in no 
 small degree. The man who was the 
 chosen friend at once of Berlioz and Cheru- 
 bini, of Wagner and Moscheles, of Chopin 
 and Meyerbeer, must have been strangely 
 magnetic ; and the very stolidity which is 
 a little irritating to mere spectators was 
 108 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 probably the quality that enabled him to 
 stand rock-like in the midst of such a jabble 
 of life, and attract the regard of all those 
 brilliant grown-up children. What a tide 
 ebbed and flowed round this quiet German 
 musician ; I suppose there has never before 
 been gathered so notable a group of artists, 
 nor will be again. From the gay Paris 
 salons of the early forties the lights have 
 long been quenched, the guests fled, and 
 their voices hushed ; but by the labours of 
 Charles Halle, who lingered latest on the 
 threshold, many of those voices have been 
 heard by us, and some are become familiar. 
 And it is not the least part of our debt to 
 him that he also called out of silence many 
 a sweet old-world strain of Gluck, of Mozart 
 and of Beethoven — voices that will sound 
 long after his has been forgotten, echoes 
 that will ring long after all memory of him 
 and his work has departed. 
 
 Thirty years ago Hallo’s playing and 
 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 conducting were held very high ; of later 
 days they have been loudly decried. The 
 reason is plain ; for during the last years of 
 his life he was competing with men whose 
 methods were quite different from his ; a 
 class who, in pianoforte playing, strive to 
 convey what they take to be the composer’s 
 meaning, nor through the medium of sound 
 alone, but by means of nods and becks : and, 
 in conducting, supply, by vigorous move- 
 ment of elbows and knee-joints, with here 
 and there a grimace, a running commentary 
 on the music which they direct. With such 
 as these he had no sympathy, for his methods 
 were absolutely unsensational. But with 
 the wayward world, what is new is what 
 attracts, and it is not wonderful that Halle’s 
 genius was thrown into the shade by the 
 performances of these interesting creatures. 
 But I never knew a man to have more grip 
 of an orchestra or of a keyboard. Richter 
 has a hundred qualities that Halle lacked ; 
 
 110 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 but not even Bichter holds his orchestra 
 more completely in the hollow of his hand 
 than did Halle. 
 
 And for his playing of Beethoven and 
 Mozart, I have heard nothing quite like it 
 since he died. One has become used to the 
 superb performances of Eosenthal, D’Albert 
 and Busoni ; listening to them one is 
 astounded, bewildered, crushed ; there is an 
 oppression in the tragic significance with 
 which they can clothe the utterances of 
 Beethoven. These are giants who speak 
 from the clouds ; but they cannot handle a 
 Sarabande of Bach with the peculiar touch 
 that recalls the exquisite, sensitive voice of 
 the clavichord, nor invest a fragment of 
 Mozart with an old-world air that is like the 
 smell of lavender on some pieces of faded 
 bravery. These were things that Charles 
 Halle could do ; and beside them, the things 
 that he could not do seem of little moment. 
 I readily admit that he did not understand or 
 111 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 sympathise with the new music ; well, there 
 are plenty of men who do ; but how many 
 are left in whom the spirit of Palestrina, of 
 Bach, of Corelli, of Gluok, and of Mozart 
 lives and moves? Few enough, heaven 
 knows : the new men come by the score, and 
 will continue to come ; but the men of the 
 old spirit pass silently, and do not return. 
 
 The crown of Charles Halle’s life was not 
 his brilliant success as a pianist nor his 
 greatness as a conductor, but something 
 infinitely higher than both of these things, 
 which included and was built up by them. 
 In proportion as art flourishes in a place, 
 the conditions of life there become brighter, 
 and more kindly — musica lux in tenebris. He 
 chose a spot that was dark and barren, 
 plunged in the gloom of bald commerce, and 
 there, surrounded by only a few congenial 
 friends, he tried to prepare soil for his seed. 
 The populations of large manafacturing towns 
 tend to become narrow of mind, mean of prin- 
 112 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 ciple and meagre of soul. It is the work of the 
 social reformer to arrest that tendency, and to 
 create an upward trend towards things that 
 are beautiful and good ; and in this work in 
 which art and religion go hand in hand, 
 Charles Halle put forth efforts of strength 
 and perseverance that can only be estimated 
 by those who know things as they were and 
 are. He ploughed and planted ; and there 
 have been many signs that the harvest has 
 already begun. 
 
 One of these, and not the least impressive, 
 was to be observed on the day of his burial. 
 It was not the few hundreds of students and 
 influential people who obtained admission to 
 the church in which his requiem was sung, 
 not the tributes from sovereigns, princes, 
 and other distinguished men and women ; 
 not the sublime and tremendous rites with 
 which the Catholic Church honours her 
 departed heroes, nor the farewell that his 
 orchestra played as his body was borne away. 
 
 113 i 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 But outside, in the choking November 
 fog, a vast and silent jury pronounced its 
 wordless verdict. On that grey day, typical 
 of the environment of his later life, thou- 
 sands greeted him as he passed silently 
 through miles of Manchester streets. To 
 these men, doomed to instant and ugly toil, 
 his life had been an infinite blessing; in 
 their hearts he had planted that precious 
 and fruitful seed, the love of beauty. He 
 had fought for them with their own chief 
 weapon — dogged North-country persistence ; 
 and their uncouth signals of gratitude were 
 an earnest of his victory. When his body 
 disappeared in the whirling fog, they turned 
 away, hard of face and dry-eyed ; but who 
 shall say what seeds of good did not quicken 
 and expand under the influence of that 
 moment ? 
 
 114 
 
CAMILLE SAINT SAENS: 
 AN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT. 
 
 Hast thou found honey ? eat so much as is sufficient for thee ; 
 Lest thou he filled thevewith > and vomit it. 
 
 0 WARDS M. Saint Saens and his work 
 
 my attitude is very like that of the 
 conscience-stricken defrauder of Inland 
 Revenues who, for his own peace, remits 
 a sum of conscience-money. The criticism 
 of one’s contemporaries is always a hazar- 
 dous thing, since it is sometimes impossible, 
 and always difficult to do more than review 
 singly each successive effort which they put 
 
 115 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 forth without taking into account its pos- 
 sible bearing on former efforts, which we 
 often forget, and on future efforts, of which 
 we are necessarily ignorant. When they 
 run a course parallel with our own the 
 patches that form a man’s life-work often 
 seem to be ill-assorted and conflicting in 
 their colours ; but cast a backward glance 
 on them, and perspective may blend them 
 into a very pretty hue. And since the 
 music of M. Saint Saens has most of the 
 qualities that grate harshly on my notions 
 of what is good and abiding I think it is 
 only fair to say that I find in it also qualities 
 that, under certain conditions, appeal to me 
 very strongly. It has long been a custom, 
 or at least a tendency with critics of art 
 to confine themselves, during a man’s life, 
 to pointing out his faults, and, after his 
 death, to celebrate his virtues. On the 
 shortcomings of this man’s art one has 
 often enough to ponder ; for the moment 
 116 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 I would acknowledge its merits, and thereby 
 discharge myself of a debt. 
 
 The nesting-time of a man’s genius is 
 usually passed in the pursuit of two ends : 
 the learning of a fluent manner for its utter- 
 ance and the finding of a congenial field for 
 its exercise. The first of these ends is 
 generally achieved, since many different 
 paths lead to it ; the second, which demands 
 more ruthless self-denial, is seldom realised. 
 But M. Saint Saens seems to me to have 
 arrived at both of them with considerable 
 directness. In his case neither the means 
 which he most successfully uses nor the 
 psychological atmosphere which he most 
 often selects are exactly what we should 
 have expected. For his methods of ex- 
 pression are rather complex, and the things 
 that he has to say are very simple. His 
 unique musical grammar is the part of his 
 work by far the most valuable to the science 
 of music ; the second is more admirable 
 117 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 from the artistic point of view. For it is 
 seldom that we find a man gifted, as this 
 man is, with extreme technical mastery, 
 and at the same time contented to cast 
 his best work in a simple and unpretentious 
 mould ; yet M. Saint Saens seems to be 
 quite conscious that he is incapable of great 
 things, and quite ready to throw himself 
 into that fascinating task, the doing of small 
 things well. 
 
 Many greater men than Camille Saint 
 Saens have not been half so successful as he 
 in finding the very best medium for ex- 
 pressing what they had to say. The 
 great and voluble genius of Hector Berlioz 
 never found a suitable element in which to 
 sport itself, and by this we suffer an irrepar- 
 able loss ; for when it was turned loose into 
 vast symphonic fields, it wandered blindly 
 about, unhappy and distraught ; chained to 
 an opera stage, its plungings were disturbing 
 and unseemly ; while in the sacred precincts 
 118 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 of church music it grotesquely misbehaved 
 itself. For that homeless and wandering 
 genius I have an intense affection, although 
 one must own that some of its manifesta- 
 tions are embarrassing. But Berlioz was 
 only one of many men in every depart- 
 ment of art whose genius has never 
 found a true medium of expression ; and the 
 fact that M. Saint Saens has taken pains to 
 discover that medium is one on which we 
 may congratulate both him and ourselves. 
 Of course he has had to make experiments ; 
 but I think that the cases in which he has 
 not chosen the right means of expressing 
 what he had to say are surprisingly few. 
 And what he says is always neat, beautifully 
 polished and exquisitely refined. To be sure 
 these are not great qualities ; but then there 
 is no pretence at greatness ; and it is a fact 
 that small and commonplace talents may be 
 so brilliantly polished and so judiciously 
 presented to our notice that they succeed in 
 119 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 conveying an impression, if not of greatness, 
 at least of that masterful ease in the handling 
 of a chosen theme which is an element of 
 greatness and may consist very immedi- 
 ately with it. However plain a man may be 
 to look upon, let him but dress himself with 
 perfect taste, and (if he be not actually 
 deformed) we shall regard him with some 
 degree of favour. I am very well aware that 
 these would be sorry arguments to advance 
 if my object were to prove that this man’s art 
 as a whole is to be taken seriously ; but that 
 is very far from being my object. If our 
 appreciative sense be focussed as we focus it 
 for Mozart or Beethoven, we shall see here 
 only a very ugly blurr ; but if we can look 
 close enough, we may find in that apparently 
 featureless smudge some niceties of detail, 
 if not of outline, the presence of which the 
 more distant and comprehensive view would 
 not have led us to suspect. 
 
 Most of M. Saint Saens’ music is of that 
 
 120 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 unfortunate kind that does not contain 
 in itself the magnetic power necessary to 
 deflect or to influence a man’s mood. It 
 must take its chance and hope to find him 
 in the one frame of mind to which its appeal 
 can be made. If one has been enjoying 
 Mozart or Beethoven, one cannot away 
 with it ; after Wagner, one laughs at it. 
 But there are times when, owing to the in- 
 temperate way we have of mixing music in 
 this country, a man’s palate must become 
 clogged; when after one of our concert 
 carousals, consisting of a little Beethoven, 
 a little Spohr, a little (a very little) Mozart, 
 and a great deal of Wagner, all sense of 
 taste vanishes. So it is with me, at any 
 rate ; and at such times, if I cannot enjoy 
 Beethoven, I can enjoy the music of M. 
 Saint Saens. If it has very little flavour, at 
 least it sparkles ; it is always cool and 
 refreshing, and it generally has a tonic effect. 
 At first sight it may seem that to describe 
 
 121 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 certain music as appealing only to jaded 
 and janglednerves is to pay it but a doubtful 
 compliment ; nevertheless I count it as a 
 virtue in this music that its claims are at 
 once so unpretentious and so successful. 
 Its qualities are not wholly negative, for 
 music that is merely weak and pretty is not 
 to be endured under circumstances such as I 
 have indicated ; neither are they aggressive ; 
 music that loudly asserts its own indi- 
 viduality is the most irritating of all to a 
 tired listener. But a certain trick of studied 
 indifference as to whether it pleases us or not 
 turns the balance in its favour ; and although 
 we may be very sure that its indifference is 
 pretended and the seriousness of greater 
 music real we are in such a case that well- 
 bred nonchalance has the greater attraction 
 for us. I am vividly reminded of a certain 
 performance of M. Saint-Saens’s pianoforte 
 Concerto in D minor which I heard not long 
 ago. It came in the middle of a most un- 
 122 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 satisfactory concert, in which works by Ber- 
 lioz, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky and Mozart 
 had been arranged with such devilish ingenu- 
 ity that each killed the other and all seemed 
 dismally out of place. The Gr minor concerto 
 in the middle of this medley was something 
 to look forward to and back upon ; its 
 exhilarating champagne sparkle, its delight- 
 ful freshness, its clearly-marked little 
 themes, its surprising contrasts of pretty 
 lament and irresistible buoyancy of spirits 
 fell gratefully on a teased and worried con- 
 sciousnesss. The man’s limits are clearly 
 marked, but he seldom exceeds them. What 
 constitutes the charm of his music is that 
 we seldom see him at a disadvantage, never 
 find him working with tools of which he does 
 not know the use or blending materials of 
 whose properties he is ignorant. 
 
 All this may amount to very little more 
 than a perfect mastery of the art of posing. 
 And why not ? All artificiality is not bad 
 123 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 art, although, if we accept Mr. Walter 
 Pater’s definition, it can never be great art ; 
 and a man who aims only at a perfect 
 command of all the little surface niceties of 
 life sets himself no mean task. If he suc- 
 ceeds, I am not aware that those who fail 
 to compass more considerable ends need 
 withhold from him a measure of admiration ; 
 for success is sometimes as artistic as failure. 
 M. Saint Saens’s music is art within an art ; 
 the shell, if only we break it gently, will 
 discover a curious kernel, small, sweet, 
 marvellously wrought, but cradled in poison. 
 
 124 
 
AN IRISH MUSICIAN. 
 
 " Land of song ! " said the warrior-bard , 
 “ Though all the world betrays thee , 
 
 One sword at least thy right shall guard, 
 One faithful harp shall praise thee ! ” 
 
 N ancient legend tells us that long 
 
 before the birth of Christ, when Ire- 
 land was divided into two kingdoms, a 
 dispute arose between the reigning monarchs 
 Heber and Heremon as to which of them 
 should possess a captive musician named 
 O-Naoi ; that the matter was referred to 
 Fate for decision by the casting of lots ; and 
 that Heber, the King of the South, was so 
 fortunate as to secure the custody of this 
 
 125 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 very skilful musician, who continued for 
 many years to delight his sovereign by the 
 exercise of an entrancing art. From this 
 circumstance, say certain Irish antiquaries, 
 the south has ever been more renowned 
 for music than the north. It is certainly 
 a pleasant tribute to the wanderer’s art, and, 
 since the fact is indisputable, we need not 
 find fault with the reasoning; moreover, 
 the spirit that lived in the legendary O-Naoi 
 has since spread through the whole popu- 
 lation of his country, and is now manifest, 
 not so much in individual artists of surpass- 
 ing merit, as in the people themselves, 
 whose life it enriches and invests with a 
 wild sweetness. Over the whole country 
 of Ireland there broods a spirit that cannot 
 well be expressed in words ; but it breathes 
 in the infinite, soft greenness of the northern 
 country, it calls from dark and lonely vales 
 in the south, and it speaks loudly in the 
 storm-swept shores of the west. In country 
 126 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 places, empty of all sound but the singing 
 of birds, and in mean towns where poverty, 
 dirt, and much happiness dwell together, 
 that spirit is equally to be found ; and in 
 the eyes of Ireland’s children, as in her own, 
 shine the “ tear and the smile.” 
 
 An atmosphere so subtle and so universal 
 as this finds its freest expression in music ; 
 but it is rather an odd fact that the 
 countries which are richest in native musical 
 spirit are comparatively poor in the pro- 
 duction of what may be called civilised 
 music. Bohemia and Ireland are two per- 
 tinent examples. The Bohemians are prob- 
 ably the most richly endowed of all peoples 
 with the power to make music ; but Bohemia 
 has not produced many great composers. 
 And the Irish, as I have said, are lyrical 
 in their very nature ; their folk music is a 
 treasure-house of purest melody; but the 
 composers of lasting fame whom Ireland 
 has produced may easily be counted on the 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 fingers of one hand. In the case of these 
 two countries, the reasons to which this 
 absence of production may be attributed 
 are, I think, different, but the primary 
 cause which underlies them shows that 
 the result is not accidental. In the case 
 of Bohemia (and in a lesser degree, of 
 Hungary) the life of the people is such 
 that a musical currency is constantly main- 
 tained ; the plant so flourishes that it is 
 unnecessary to have any garnered store. 
 Where musical ideas of genuine value are 
 daily being conceived and circulated it is 
 not worth any one man’s while to write 
 his music down ; and if he did, it would 
 be less his own than that of his nation, 
 for art is held as a commonwealth in these 
 countries. Their representative composers, 
 when they exist, are not as a rule men 
 peculiarly gifted in individual musical ex- 
 pression, but are simply mouthpieces to 
 voice the national folk-melody. 
 
 128 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 In the case of Ireland, there is little or 
 no interchange of musical utterance among 
 the people. Music with them is in an earlier 
 and more savage period ; it is not a gift 
 consciously exercised for any special purpose 
 so much as an elemental fire smoulder- 
 ing in the caverns of their nature ; and 
 although its presence is hardly realised by 
 the people themselves, it is manifested in 
 the daily round of their lives. If you were 
 to talk to an Irish peasant girl about music, 
 she would hardly understand you; but 
 withdraw from her a little, and leave her 
 at her work ; presently (if you have ordi- 
 nary luck) you will hear upon her lips such 
 a melody, tearful, smiling, lonely, as you 
 would give your right hand to invent. But 
 Ireland is a poor — one sometimes thinks, a 
 forgotten country; where nature needs so 
 much cultivation if she is to support life, 
 art must needs go uncultivated. And so 
 her gifted sons, who, if they lived in Ger- 
 129 K 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 many, would be sent to a conservatoire , and, 
 if need were, fed and clothed, are to-day 
 toiling for very life at the meanest tasks : 
 working, perhaps, in wind and rain, on a 
 poor moorland farm ; perhaps cutting peats 
 on some dark mountainside ; perhaps stung 
 by salt sprays while they gather the sea- 
 weed from some wild echoing beach. 
 
 My present end, however, is not to dwell 
 upon these sad aspects of Irish music, but 
 more happily, to record my appreciation of 
 one Irish musician whom Fate has not 
 chosen to leave in obscurity. Charles Vil- 
 liers Stanford is a tried man'; his work has 
 become resolute and consolidated ; and al- 
 though he is now only in his prime all 
 traces of uncertainty or indefiniteness have 
 long since disappeared. It would be un- 
 seemly, and, fortunately, it is impossible for 
 me to attempt a criticism of Dr. Stanford’s 
 work ; his is work which one loves even 
 more than admires ; while the art of some 
 130 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 men is knocking at the doors of the brain, 
 his has entered into the heart, and there it 
 most securely abides. This is a great deal 
 to say about contemporary art of any kind, 
 for when the same conspiracy of circum- 
 stances produces it as moves the wheels of 
 one’s own life, the dividing distance, instead 
 of seeming greater, seems less. And when 
 one meets the artist in the flesh and finds 
 that he is, outwardly, very like a hundred 
 unremarkable men one knows, with nothing 
 striking about his manners or conversation, 
 one is apt to mistrust one’s first impression 
 and to harden one’s heart against his work. 
 Fortunately this is a consideration which 
 influences an honest man only on the right 
 side. It makes him slow to belittle the 
 work of a contemporary with whom he may 
 not find himself in sympathy ; but if, in spite 
 of the natural doubts he may have as to the 
 genius of his fellow at school or college, that 
 man’s work rouses him to enthusiasm, he 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 has no need to hold his tongue. It may 
 interest some people to compare what they 
 know of a man himself with what they see 
 in his work, and to trace resemblances be- 
 tween the angle at which he wears his hat 
 and the way in which he scores his sym- 
 phonies, but it is very idle and valueless. 
 It cannot be too strongly insisted upon that 
 an artist who creates, whether he be poet, 
 painter, composer or author, is to be criti- 
 cised on the merits of his work alone ; no 
 circumstances of his private life should be 
 considered in relation to it. Who is to say 
 that the man is more himself when he is 
 behaving unkindly in his family and mis- 
 managing his affairs, than when he writes 
 his ode or paints his picture ? Judged at 
 the one moment, he may be foolish and not 
 respectable ; at the other he may be a 
 messenger inspired of Heaven. 
 
 Although it may have no direct bearing 
 on Yilliers Stanford, this is not an excursion 
 132 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 from my subject. For when one tries to 
 express in words appreciation of a man’s 
 work, one is naturally anxious to make it as 
 valuable as may be ; and it is wise not to 
 underestimate the prejudices and temptation 
 which beset one in such a task. I know 
 next to nothing of this man personally, but 
 to live in the same country and time that he 
 lives in is intimacy compared to the gulf of 
 separation between a present-day critic, and, 
 say, Mozart. And one must be chary of 
 judging one’s intimates. I confess that it 
 is very likely I should think even more 
 highly than I do at present of Dr. Stanford’s 
 work if he had lived in the last century — 
 possibly because I should know it better. 
 And if despite all the tendencies and tempta- 
 tions to think lightly of it one yet finds that 
 the work of a living man compels one to in- 
 creasing affection and admiration, it may be 
 allowed that the work is worthy and en- 
 during. 
 
 133 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 It is a limitation of folk-music that in its 
 rudimentary forms it appeals only to the 
 people of its own land. If its charm is to 
 be understood by people of a different race 
 it must be clothed in cosmopolitan dress, 
 and embodied in one or other of the catholic 
 forms of art. It expresses the spirit of its 
 native land, but only in a subtle native 
 language which must be translated for the 
 benefit of people whose habits and tongue 
 are different. And the spirit of Ireland has 
 found in Yilliers Stanford a voice strong 
 enough to waft it far beyond the green 
 shores of its birthplace. What Bach and 
 his followers have done for Germany, what 
 Tchaikovsky has done for Russia, Lulli for 
 France, Grieg for Norway, and Dvorak for 
 Bohemia, he has done for Ireland ; and the 
 spring of melody which he has opened will 
 flow far and wide. I do not hesitate to say 
 that for absolute suaveness of melody the 
 Irish folk-music is unequalled. It has not 
 134 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 anything like the range of expression found 
 in the German tunes, but within its own 
 limits it is the perfection of lyrical music. 
 When a man can impregnate himself with 
 it, as Stanford has done, so that nearly 
 everything he writes takes on its peculiar 
 tone, austere yet delicate, sad yet smiling, 
 his music can hardly fail of distinction. 
 And all the characteristics of Irish music 
 are to be found in Dr. Stanford’s original work. 
 He has a certain homely touch when handling 
 a big subject which is one of the most gen- 
 uine characteristics of his work. The exile 
 sickens for his native land ; the statesman 
 who has risen from some humble estate to a 
 proud eminence has, some time or other, a 
 vague regret and longing for the simple joys 
 of his childhood ; and may we not say that 
 this man’s genius, when it is expanding itself 
 in some great and complex form, may un- 
 consciously stretch out a hand towards the 
 good folk-spirit who watched beside its cradle ? 
 135 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 There are many other qualities in Stan- 
 ford’s music which, like the play of thoughts 
 on a man’s face, impart to it the warm glow 
 of life. In his Irish Symphony, which may 
 be described as an essay in tone on the Irish 
 spirit, all these are found in combination. 
 In that Symphony there is here and there 
 a touch of rude austerity, almost of rough- 
 ness, which is no less Irish than the sweet 
 melodic freshness so characteristic of the 
 work as a whole. The mercurial changes of 
 feeling, the effects of light and shade, of sun 
 and cloud, the fresh and ever fresh springs 
 of melody that invigorate this music with 
 their vernal newness, the glowing heart that 
 burns beneath it all — these are things that 
 rise from a man’s very nature and cry out 
 to be expressed. No art could invent them, 
 but only the artist can fashion their formless 
 cry. The Irish Symphony is great because 
 it abounds in words of life which only music 
 can voice ; because it is pure and austere 
 136 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 and delightful, like the west wind when it 
 bathes one’s face with the essence from a 
 thousand curling Atlantic crests ; because it 
 breathes a spirit to call men back from 
 brighter skies, and to beckon them to the 
 land of their birth. 
 
 In all Stanford’s music which is known to 
 me I find the same genuineness, the same 
 spontaneity, the same humanity ; one may 
 find faults of workmanship, but one never 
 doubts that here was something that the 
 man was compelled to utter: a message 
 written in that ageless tongue which one 
 has only to be human to understand ; a gos- 
 pel to cheer, to stimulate, to ennoble ; a 
 nature that grips hands with the world ; an 
 art that crystallises good nature into an 
 imperishable monument. This is the kind 
 of foundation on which good fame most 
 surely rests ; and it is because Stanford’s 
 music has the power to grip men’s hearts 
 in a far greater degree than the music of his 
 137 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 contemporaries has it, that I think his name 
 and fame will be left standing among the 
 ruins of much that now seems likely to 
 endure. Only in the heart can a memory 
 be so embalmed that it will defy the cor- 
 ruption of time; we may admire a man’s 
 work, stand in awe of it, perhaps, but mere 
 admiration fades sooner or later ; while the 
 memory of things that we love is preserved 
 faultless, and handed from generation to 
 generation. 
 
 138 
 
HECTOR BERLIOZ. 
 
 Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 
 
 Yes, to the very end 
 
 Will the day' s journey take the whole long day ? 
 From mom to night , my friend. 
 
 Shall I find comfort , travel-sore and weak ? 
 
 Of labour you shall find the sum. 
 
 Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 
 
 Yes , beds for all who come . 
 
 0 students of his life and work Hector 
 
 Berlioz appears in a three-fold aspect. 
 First, we see the man through the medium 
 of his work : a master of interpretative 
 means, a realist in music. Secondly, we 
 have Berlioz as he appeared to himself : the 
 
 139 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 unappreciated genius, the quarry of ill-luck, 
 the hero stemming spring tides of misfortune. 
 And thirdly, we have the man as he really 
 was : genius, artist in life ; an egoist, greedy 
 and niggardly of sympathy, but generous of 
 himself ; a glutton for experience, a scholar 
 of his own nature. The last portrait neces- 
 sarily contains the features of the first two, 
 but each is so interesting as to deserve 
 separate study for its own sake ; taken 
 together, the three enable us to appreciate 
 one of the most attractive and astonishing 
 characters of the nineteenth century. 
 Wagner said of him that “ he lies buried 
 beneath the ruins of his own machines,” 
 and as a musician that may in part be true 
 of him ; but to dispose of Berlioz in such a 
 sentence is to confess that, in contemplating 
 the obvious failures of his life, one has 
 missed altogether its essential success. Let 
 it at once be granted that he was too human 
 a creature to be a great citizen ; that he was 
 140 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 too complete an artist to be a successful 
 musician ; that he was too brave a liver to 
 be a very happy or comfortable man. For 
 to shrink back from joy no less than to shirk 
 trouble is to play the coward in life ; he only 
 can be said to live who takes the heart out 
 of every hour and, whether he breasts into 
 the blue of life or idles in its shallows, 
 accepts as of course the consequence of 
 every act. 
 
 Hector Berlioz was that sort of man. 
 His finely adjusted mind worked only at 
 high pressure ; he either did things or did 
 them not ; he had no capacity for half 
 measures. All through his life we find him 
 enthusiastic; and whether he is writing a 
 love-letter or a symphony, whether he pre- 
 sides over the production of his latest opera 
 or assists at the exhumation of his wife’s 
 bones, we find him addressing himself to 
 his task with a whole heart and with a 
 determination to extract the last flavour 
 141 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 from each experience. Every sensation of 
 his life was a cup to be drained to the 
 dregs, and he smacked his lips almost as 
 heartily over the bitter as over the sweet 
 draught. I suspect, indeed, that the 
 sweetness or the bitterness was a secondary 
 consideration with him ; what he cared for 
 was to taste all the bitterness and all the 
 sweetness. It was exercise for all his quick 
 faculties that he craved ; the sensation of 
 being alive was not enough for him ; he 
 must be alive in every nerve, and not only 
 alive but living, tingling with action. As 
 we shall presently see, his success and his 
 failure alike lay in his wholeheartedness. 
 His appetite for life was too vast to be satis- 
 fied with fainthearted conduct. He lived 
 by the heart, and therefore his life was 
 youth prolonged ; he had no joys but pas- 
 sionate ones, none but acute griefs. This is 
 youth — the condition of extremes ; age re- 
 duced him to none of those ignoble capitula- 
 142 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 tions by means of which men smooth their 
 way in life ; it found him still defiant of 
 unhappiness — that greatest injustice of 
 youth ; and it found him still wide-eyed 
 with wonder at the act and circumstance of 
 living. 
 
 I. 
 
 As a composer of music Berlioz has no 
 very high place in the roll of popular fame. 
 I have said that he was too complete an 
 artist to be a very great musician, and that 
 apparent paradox contains a truth. For the 
 great musician, like the great painter or 
 sculptor, must have his genius focussed and 
 concentrated in one direction, otherwise he 
 cannot be pre-eminent in his art. The 
 genius of Berlioz was of a large and diffused 
 order, far too comprehensive to confine itself 
 to one art, but rather craving for expression 
 in as many different forms as possible. He 
 was but accidentally a musician, although it 
 is true that he chose the profession himself ; 
 
 143 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 certain conditions of his early youth, com- 
 bined with a moderate talent for inventing 
 tunes, gave him a bias toward the art of 
 music. Probably, too, he was attracted by 
 a prospect of the vast possibilities and in- 
 finite range of music as compared with any 
 other art. At any rate, after an unsuccess- 
 ful attempt to prosecute the study of medi- 
 cine he gave it up and applied himself with 
 ardour to the study of music. He had a 
 somewhat stormy career under Lesueur at 
 the Paris Conservatoire and afterwards, 
 having after three failures obtained a much 
 coveted scholarship, he repaired to the 
 French Academy at Rome in order to con- 
 tinue his studies. But I cannot find that 
 music occupied the students of that institu- 
 tion very immediately ; there were too many 
 bottles of bad wine — gros vin noir rempli de 
 moucherons — consumed ; by all accounts the 
 students lived very riotously ; so no doubt 
 Monsieur Berlioz was educating himself 
 144 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 in more humane matters. Afterwards he 
 travelled in Russia and Germany and then 
 returned to Paris where most of his works 
 were composed, and where, under stress of 
 poverty, he became for a time a musical 
 critic and developed the literary style that 
 served him so well as a means of expression. 
 After having spent a few years in London 
 as conductor of the Covent Garden Opera 
 and director of the Philharmonic Concerts 
 he returned to France and died there. 
 
 What Berlioz actually accomplished in 
 music falls under two heads : his direct and 
 his indirect achievements. The first are the 
 least considerable, and consist of various 
 compositions of which nearly all display 
 genius of a peculiar kind ; but hardly one of 
 them is entirely satisfactory as a work of 
 art. He composed operas, cantatas, a few 
 songs, a few masses and some large orches- 
 tral works ; and although in many of them 
 one finds music of great charm and purity 
 145 l 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 they have one great failing in common. If 
 you read the composer’s own description of, 
 say, the Borneo et Juliette symphony you are 
 almost dazzled by the wealth and brilliancy 
 of his artistic expression, and you are amazed 
 by the ingenuity with which he represents 
 poetical feeling in his music. But when 
 you come to hear the music itself, there is a 
 link wanting between the musical effect and 
 his own description of it. Say that there 
 are four links in the chain that connects 
 music with thought : the mechanical pro- 
 duction of sound in an instrument ; the 
 making of sound into music ; the moulding 
 of music into forms which shall arouse emo- 
 tion ; the choosing of that exact shade of 
 emotion which shall suggest to the listener 
 the right idea. Of this scheme it is the last 
 link that nearly all of Berlioz’s compositions 
 lack. It was not that his imagination was 
 feeble, but that it was wild and untameable. 
 He could not, or would not discipline it so 
 146 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 that its expression should be intelligible to 
 the outside world. The force of it was, 
 indeed, astonishing ; mention a subject, and 
 his ideas would rise like a cloud of startled 
 sea-birds, whirring and beating in his brain. 
 His imagination was absolutely unfettered ; 
 no flight was too great for its strong wings ; 
 and Berlioz had none of that prudent 
 timidity that saves men from absurd and 
 denies them celestial experiences. With 
 most men that timidity is bound up with 
 their sense of humour; and if they would 
 throw Jonah overboard, compass and chart 
 must go along with him. But with Berlioz 
 no prudential sacrifice involved his sense of 
 humour, and although we may find little 
 sign of it in his music, it really was his 
 guide through the perils of a passionate life, 
 and it only deserted him when at last he 
 floated harmlessly upon the broad reaches 
 of an early senility. 
 
 But that saving grace, since it permitted 
 147 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 him to give rein to his imagination, stultified 
 him in his attempts to express himself in 
 music ; attempts that resulted, as I have 
 said, in a kind of failure — at least in so far 
 as achievement of their first end was con- 
 cerned. In the symphony I have mentioned 
 this failure is particularly noticeable. He 
 tells us how he represented the soft dews, 
 the garden perfumes, the murmuring wind 
 of a summer night, talking trees, pale moon- 
 light ; but his music, unaided by explanatory 
 programmes, would hardly suggest these 
 things. It rather suggests the name of 
 them ; one never gets beyond the brazen 
 instruments, the cleverly stopped strings, 
 the careful conductor, the complicated score ; 
 one seldom sees beyond the great orches- 
 tral mechanism to the shadowy land of 
 fantasy. He was far too much absorbed in 
 the manipulation of his means to take 
 much care for the end — a condition of 
 mind, no trare in lesser men than he, which 
 148 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS . 
 
 lies like a gin in the path of all artistic 
 endeavour. 
 
 One can picture him, his mind alive with 
 some new and wonderful fancy, sitting down 
 before a ream of fair score -paper ; for a page 
 or two, perhaps, the musical idea would hold 
 its own amid the conflicting interests of 
 figuration and orchestration ; but in a little 
 while the seductive business of distributing 
 a melody between horns in F and D and A 
 would draw his mind from its original occu- 
 pation, and he would presently lose himself 
 amid a throng of instruments each clamouring 
 forpossession of the melody. Thatistheway 
 in which most of his instrumental composi- 
 tions begin and continue — a few really good 
 musical ideas carefully and beautifully 
 worked out for a few bars, and at last be- 
 coming a mere parrot-cry amid all the in- 
 struments of the orchestra. The man who 
 had so quick an ear for the individual quali- 
 ties in every instrument, and in every key of 
 149 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 every instrument, could never find it in his 
 heart to show any partiality in the distribu- 
 tion of his musical matter. 
 
 He had some more serious defects that 
 interfered with his musical expression. A 
 curious lack of form and sense of pro- 
 portion was among the chief of these ; he 
 was seldom loyal to the old rules of 
 form, and had nothing better to put 
 in their place, so that we find chaos too 
 often taking the place of order. The fact 
 also that he had no appreciation or even 
 knowledge of Bach’s music told very seri- 
 ously against him ; little as Bach has ap- 
 parently to do with modern form, music 
 of his manner is an invaluable discipline and 
 education in the welding together of thematic 
 material. And, perhaps, most serious of all, 
 Berlioz was a shockingly bad hand at counter- 
 point. He refused to study it seriously, 
 but then he had no innate sense of counter- 
 point such as might make it possible for him 
 150 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 to dispense with the study of it. These 
 were his chief technical defects; and when 
 one considers their gravity one is surprised, 
 not that many of his works suffer deplorably 
 from his deficiencies, but that in spite of 
 them he wrote some music on an extended 
 scale that will bear the closest scrutiny and 
 criticism by the highest artistic standards. 
 His great Te Denm, parts of the Requiem 
 and a few choruses in L'Enfance da Christ 
 are informed with a superb artistic merit 
 that expresses itself with immense variety. 
 
 In some of his smaller works, too, and 
 especially in some of the songs, a sincere 
 and happy expression has been achieved. 
 Where he was untrammelled by mechanical 
 contrivances he sometimes found in music 
 an utterance for the dark and melancholy 
 side of his nature. In the “ Nuits d’ete ” 
 there is an expression of that infinite melan- 
 choly — isolement he calls it — which tinged 
 his soul when he brought it into contact 
 151 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 with the marvellous natural world. Berlioz 
 had an acute and almost agonising percep- 
 tion of the beauty which assails the senses, 
 and of the beauty which is found in nature. 
 From such a nature as his contemplation 
 of that beauty wrings expression charged 
 with a kind of ecstatic grief. A fellow- 
 countryman of Berlioz has expressed in 
 words the same feeling that he expressed in 
 some of his music ; in many of Paul Ver- 
 laine’s verses you find reflected that sense of 
 beauty and sadness combined with which 
 imperfect man regards the perfect world. 
 
 But successes like these were the accidents 
 of Berlioz’s genius ; he ever rushed impetu- 
 ously to set forth his ideas ; the severe 
 self-criticism that attends the production 
 of great utterances was unknown to this 
 impulsive child. I think he never con- 
 sidered whether or no any of his ideas 
 were worth setting down — they were his 
 ideas, and that was enough. He was a 
 152 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 real impressionist — different indeed from the 
 ape-like creature who lashes his intellect into 
 a distorted posture — but still an impres- 
 sionist. What he saw, he felt, and what he 
 felt, he expressed ; and his failure to convince 
 us is an example that illustrates the fallacy 
 of the impressionist. For considered as art, 
 the truth of that kind of expression is 
 the lying half-truth. Artistic utterance 
 is something far greater and wider 
 than the mere voicing of a momentary 
 experience ; it is rather the bringing of all 
 experience into accord with the artists’ own 
 nature, and the exhibition of it in the 
 light of his own personality. The music of 
 Berlioz represents him only negatively ; 
 what was absent from his nature is absent 
 from it ; the honesty of the relationship 
 goes no further. It is the failure of his 
 music to reflect half the vivid colours of his 
 nature that robs it of the most valuable 
 attributes. Considered as music, as stuff to 
 153 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 be heard in the concert room or the theatre, 
 the world might loose it all and not be much 
 the poorer. 
 
 So much for his direct achievements. 
 Indirectly, the labour and broodings and 
 tears and ecstacies that went to the making 
 of his music have been of benefit to every 
 composer of to-day. There is no one but 
 has felt its influence, no one but has learned 
 something from him. One quality that kills 
 the effect of much of his music in a concert 
 room — a kind of dismal, dogged hammering 
 in of his ideas, a grotesque precaution lest 
 we should miss the significance of his inven- 
 tions — that very quality is to the student an 
 advertisement of his greatness. One could 
 point to passages in a dozen of his works that 
 illustrate the astonishing complacency with 
 which he regarded any piece of originality in 
 orchestration or musical phrase-making. 
 Through bar after bar he repeats his effect 
 until the dullest hearer cannot fail to take 
 154 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 note of it. A familiar example is the effect 
 of bells with which the first movement of 
 his symphony Harold in Italy ends. That 
 particular use of the horn was invented by 
 Berlioz ; the poetic end of the music would 
 have been perfectly served by a few repeti- 
 tions; but that would not do for him. At 
 this point of the symphony the composer 
 steps down for a moment and the master of 
 orchestration rises in his place, pointing with 
 a complacent smile t6 the result of his most 
 recent researches. And so the thing is 
 dinned into our ears for an outrageous length 
 of time. 
 
 A still more patent instance of this trick 
 is in Les Troyens when the composer intro- 
 duces what he is pleased to call a dance of 
 Nubian slaves. I know of nothing more 
 abominable in written music. Our genius 
 had just discovered a new rhythm which he 
 proceeded to patent and advertise in his usual 
 manner. Lest our attention should be dis- 
 155 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 tracted by melody or harmony, he banished 
 these from his dance ; and there remains a 
 bald, empty, naked rhythm — a skeleton of 
 music, and a dancing, bone-clattering skele- 
 ton at that. One has heard a baby playing 
 with a tin plate and spoon ; that is the kind 
 of thing. There is something fiendish in the 
 ugly, banging noise that tortures the nerves 
 most horribly. Yet no musical student could 
 sit through that agony without noticing the 
 means — the perfectly ingenious means — by 
 which the monstrous effect is obtained. 
 And of course the knowledge is useful. In 
 this way Berlioz’s science (to use a conve- 
 nient term for his supreme art) was nearly 
 always at war with his art; and since his 
 science is really more important to posterity 
 than his art, it matters the less. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to speak of his 
 contributions to the technical resources of 
 the composer, for that is the great, obvious 
 fact of Berlioz’s life. Only Wagner was his 
 156 1 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 equal in writing for the orchestra, but as 
 Wagner never went into interesting detail as 
 to how he produced his effects, his work was 
 the less valuable from this point of view. 
 The crowning merit of Berlioz’s labours 
 was not that he wrote a Treatise on Instru- 
 mentation — other people have done that — 
 but that he wrote a treatise in such a heat of 
 enthusiasm, with such a charm of personal 
 style, and with such a perfectly suitable 
 literary instrument that it wins a student to 
 the subject for very love of the writer. A 
 child might read it as he would read a 
 fairy story ; oboes and horns and trombones 
 would be living people to him, to be treated as 
 reasonable beings and cared for (on paper) as 
 one cares for animal friends. 
 
 The Grand Traite was by far the greatest 
 achievement of its author ; he turned a whole 
 valley of dry bones into a garden ; he 
 evolved an art from what had been an exact 
 science, and pierced dead things with the “ in- 
 157 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 breathed sense” that makes them immortal. 
 And these great things he did, not in the 
 line of his chosen expression, but outside of 
 what he deemed to be his real business. As 
 a composer the verdict must go against him, 
 for he failed to express himself truly in 
 music. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ma vie laborieuse et agitee. This was 
 Berlioz’s own description of his career, and 
 it gives us the full picture of his life as 
 he saw it himself — labour and unrest. The 
 storm and travail of 1830 brought forth no 
 more strenuous or revolutionary spirit than 
 his ; he came forth out of the scorching 
 fires of renewal ablaze with the zeal of the 
 patriot and artist. If we are to realise 
 fully what the turmoil of life meant for 
 him, we must understand the circumstances 
 in which he spent his youth and came to 
 an understanding of himself. 
 
 The first scenes are hardly attractive. 
 158 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 They show us a morbid, neurotic child with 
 a mind like a little vacant hothouse, ready 
 to receive and force the growth of the first 
 impression that should come. The first was 
 religious : incense, a bright spring morning, 
 white-robed maidens, the Roman plainsong, 
 the eucharistic hymn, the mystic sacra- 
 ment — the child’s first idea of God. These 
 things do not last at ten years old ; they 
 bloomed and withered quickly in the hot- 
 house, and their place was taken by a 
 passion for geography — the geography of 
 imagination, in which maps are bright 
 visions of sea-filled creeks and green islands. 
 Next came Virgil, bearing down in the full 
 sail of epic poetry, and filling the childish 
 mind with living dreams. The influence 
 of Virgil never passed, but it had to make 
 room for the next impression — a human 
 one. Estelle and her pink shoes and her 
 brilliant eyes — and a poor twelve-year old 
 child creeping away “ like a wounded bird,” 
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APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 and hiding himself in the maize-fields and 
 orchards. 
 
 In the development of every nature there 
 is a climax reached, a point attained only 
 once, a flight to the highest, towards which 
 we ascend, and from which we slant down- 
 wards. Some soar long and painfully, to 
 drop like a shot bird ; some flash upwards 
 like a rocket, and float down in falling star- 
 dust. But we have no foothold on those 
 high levels ; it is a leap or a flight up from 
 and back to our own grosser element ; the 
 most we can hope for is to sustain the 
 flight for a little, and perhaps to alight 
 at last on some point higher than the first. 
 The ascent of little Berlioz at twelve years 
 to the dream-blue element of a child’s adora- 
 tion and the plumbdrop to despair marked 
 his climax — the limit of the tether that re- 
 strained his nature ; time and again he made 
 the flight, time and again dropped down- 
 wards at the same limit, which he never 
 160 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 exceeded, if indeed, he ever attained it 
 again. It may seem absurd to say that a 
 child twelve years old could determine the 
 limits in which his nature was confined, 
 but essentially it is true in this case. We 
 shall presently see how much this childish 
 episode tinged Berlioz’s life ; here it falls 
 into its place among the incidents of youth 
 that prepared his destiny. 
 
 To the influences of Estelle and Virgil 
 was presently added that of music. It was 
 upon that art that Berlioz’s supreme general 
 ability first displayed itself. I am convinced 
 that he was not, as we say, “ a born musi- 
 cian,” but simply a highly developed human 
 being whose genius found a better expres- 
 sion in music than in any other single art. 
 He seized on music as upon something that 
 was a voice for his nature, and on the sunny 
 hillsides of La Cote St. Andre, in the com- 
 panionship of Virgil and Gluck and his ideal 
 Estelle, the child soul that never matured 
 161 M 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 through a stormy life came to conscious- 
 ness. Next came the conflict between his 
 vague instinct about himself and his father’s 
 worldy-wise ignorance of his son’s nature — 
 an old story ; then the half-hearted study 
 of medicine, and the flight in horror through 
 the window of the dissecting-room. After- 
 wards the dreary though heroic struggle — 
 often for a bare living — began in earnest. 
 It never ended, for Berlioz was ever at war 
 with himself or his surroundings. 
 
 This, then, was all his preparation for the 
 life that burst upon him like a thunder- 
 storm. It is of a piece with Berlioz’s 
 character that he should have had an almost 
 infinite capacity for unhappiness. That 
 he had ample reason for it is beyond a 
 doubt ; indeed, I know no life-story that 
 contains one half of the disappointments and 
 discouragements that Berlioz’s contained. 
 Wagner suffered much in his way, but 
 Wagner suffered chiefly through opposition, 
 162 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 while Berlioz suffered in everything. Did 
 he desire to devote his life to art ? His 
 father’s temper and his mother’s heart must 
 first be broken. Did an opportunity arise 
 by which he could reveal his work to the 
 world under fair conditions? Officialism 
 or jealousy must step in to turn his triumph 
 into a ludicrous fiasco. Even in his humili- 
 ations ill-luck attended him. In need of 
 firewood and warm clothes during the first 
 winter of his independence, he applied for 
 a place as flute-player at the Nouveautes, 
 but even in this he was unsuccessful ; and 
 one of the few triumphs that he has to 
 record of this period is that he finally 
 succeeded in getting a place as chorus- 
 singer. It is a grotesque and a pathetic 
 thought, this of the inspired dramatic com- 
 poser singing and marking time, and going 
 through wooden stage antics in company 
 with a score of other unfortunates ; yet I 
 am sure that if you had happened to be 
 163 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 sitting in the pit of the Theatre des Nou- 
 veautes any evening in the winter of 1825, 
 you would have noticed, if you had examined 
 the chorus closely, the nervous mouth and 
 thin, hawk-like visage and flashing eyes of 
 one chorus-singer, who was trying to put 
 his whole heart into whatever wretched 
 clap-trap he might have to perform. 
 
 To enumerate the disappointments and 
 knock-down blows that fortune admin- 
 istered to Berlioz throughout his life 
 would be a tedious and dismal task ; the 
 slightest study of his biography will show in 
 what formidable degree they assailed him. 
 The fact that they existed and the fact that 
 he never allowed himself to be defeated by 
 them gave his life a tone of plaintive triumph. 
 Always fighting, often defeated, never fail- 
 ing to conquer in the end, always complain- 
 ing — it was thus that a child and a dreamer 
 accomplished a man’s work and lived strenu- 
 ously among the hardest and crudest realities. 
 164 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 I have tried to indicate the main features 
 of Berlioz’s life as it appeared to himself 
 — striving and misfortune and suffering, with 
 a few paltry and tardy triumphs ravished 
 from a niggardly fortune. He himself, the 
 man of his dreams and ambitions, stands in 
 sharp contrast to the creature actually pro- 
 duced by so stormy an environment. And 
 first Berlioz, the grand egoist, saw himself 
 alone as an apostle of the Revolution as it 
 expressed itself in music. We know that 
 there were others in that marvellous group 
 of 1830 who fought the same battle, but in 
 his own view Berlioz stood and fought alone 
 far in front of the van, bearing the heat and 
 burden of the advance. With his marvellous 
 powers of realizing and imagining he saw at 
 one glance the possibilities of his art if it 
 could only be set free from the mesh of absurd 
 and paralysing pedantry which surrounded 
 it ; he thought that he must do all this tearing 
 down and building up without help ; he 
 165 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 realized how short the longest life-time was 
 for such a task ; and, of course, he suffered 
 agonies of impatience and helplessness. And 
 along with this vision of saving and restoring, 
 he saw another — that of Hector Berlioz as 
 he might be if the world were Paradise and 
 there were no bread to be earned or musical 
 mandarins to be fought. This was the idea 
 realized by Heine when he was impressed 
 by the primeval grandeur of some of Berlioz’s 
 music. “ It makes me think of vast mam- 
 moths or other extinct animals,” he said, 
 “ of fabulous empires filled with fabulous 
 crimes, and other enormous impossibilities. 
 He is a magician, and he calls up Babylon, 
 the hanging gardens of Semiramis, the 
 marvels of Nineveh, and the vast temples of 
 Mizraim.” That was just such a vision as 
 Berlioz saw of himself, but which is not 
 really often revealed in his music. One 
 finds it rather in his talks about music, in 
 his descriptions of music and in those grand 
 166 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS . 
 
 passages in the Treatise on Instrumentation 
 where he expands into discussion of the pos- 
 sibilities existing in instruments and com* 
 binations of instruments. He had a sym- 
 pathy, an almost passionate sympathy, which 
 seems absurd to all but a few types of musi- 
 cal temperament, with the genius of large 
 and deep orchestral instruments. Contem- 
 plation of them fired his imagination to such 
 an extent that he carried his dreams of their 
 effects in combination far into the realms of 
 fantasy. Consider this for example : 
 
 “ The effect of harps is in proportion to 
 their number. The notes, the chords or the 
 arpeggios which they can then throw out 
 amidst the orchestra and choir are of extreme 
 splendour. Nothing can be more in keeping 
 with ideas of poetic festivities, or religious 
 rites, than the sound of a large body of harps 
 ingeniously introduced.” And again : “ The 
 clarinet is an epic instrument, like the horns, 
 trumpets and trombones. Its voice is that 
 167 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 of heroic love : and if masses of brass instru- 
 ments, in grand military symphonies, awaken 
 the idea of a warlike troop covered with 
 glittering armour, marching to glory or death, 
 numerous unisons of clarinets, heard at 
 the same time, seem to represent loving 
 women with their proud eyes and deep 
 affection, whom the sound of arms exalts ; 
 who sing while fighting and who crown the 
 victors or die with the defeated.” 
 
 Or this : 
 
 “ Double choruses are of a richness and 
 pomp quite remarkable ; they are certainly 
 not hackneyed nowadays. . . . There are 
 compositions for three choirs. When the 
 idea they have to render is worthy of so 
 magnificent an investure, such bodies of 
 voices divided into twelve or at least nine 
 parts produce impressions the memory of 
 which is ineffaceable, and cause grand choral 
 music and rank as the highest among arts.” 
 “ Drums are rarely well placed in other 
 168 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 than large orchestras of wind instruments. 
 Their effect is the better and nobler in pro- 
 portion as they are more numerous ; a single 
 drum has always appeared to me mean and 
 vulgar. But eight, ten, twelve or more 
 drums executing in a military march, rhyth- 
 mical accompaniments or crescendo rolls 
 prove magnificent and powerful auxiliaries 
 to the wind instruments. Simple rhythms 
 become attractive when performed by a body 
 of forty or fifty drums alone.” 
 
 Of the trombone he says: “It is in my 
 opinion the true chief of epic instruments. 
 It possesses in an eminent degree both 
 nobleness and grandeur ; it has all the deep 
 and powerful accents of high musical poetry, 
 from the religious accent, calm and im- 
 posing, to the wild clamours of the orgy. It 
 depends on the composer to make it by turn 
 chant like a choir of priests, threaten, lament, 
 ring a funeral knell, raise a hymn of glory, 
 break forth into frantic cries, or sound its 
 169 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 dread flourish to awaken the dead or to 
 doom the living. In simple forte trombones 
 in three-part harmony have an expression of 
 heroic pomp, of majesty, of loftiness, which 
 the prosaic commonplace of a vulgar melody 
 could alone impair or destroy. They then 
 acquire — with enormously increased gran- 
 deur — the expression of trumpets ; they no 
 longer menace, they proclaim ; they chaunt 
 instead of roar.” 
 
 And of cymbals, that “ Their quivering 
 and shrill sounds ally themselves incom- 
 parably well, in certain cases, either with 
 sentiments of extreme ferocity (then united 
 to sharp whistlings of piccolo flutes, and to 
 the stroke of the kettledrum or small drum), 
 or with the feverish excitement of a bac- 
 chanalian orgy, where revelry verges upon 
 frenzy. A vigorous and well marked rhythm 
 gains greatly in an immense chorus, or in 
 the dance tune of an orgy, if executed, not 
 by a single pair of cymbals, but by four, six, 
 170 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 ten pairs, and even more, according to the 
 space, and to the mass of other instruments 
 and voices.” 
 
 Writing of the bass tuba he says that “An 
 idea can hardly be formed of the effect pro- 
 duced in grand military harmonies by a 
 mass of bass tubas.” Consider the size and 
 sonority of a bass tuba, and then try to 
 think of a “ mass ” of them ! 
 
 But in these passages appears some sug- 
 gestion at least, if not a likeness, of the vast, 
 primitive intelligence that conceived them. 
 A little knowledge of the subject upon which 
 Berlioz was writing reveals the reason why 
 this treatise is such fascinating reading ; it 
 is really a book about Berlioz no less than 
 about trumpets and viols. The dim, half- 
 lighted pictures that we find there have 
 features in common with the image that 
 looked back upon Berlioz from the mirror of 
 his life, and they are our best guides to 
 an appreciation of the man he took himself 
 171 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 to be. The constant flight of his ideas from 
 the region of the practical into the heaven of 
 imagination was but the expression of his 
 hunger for the infinite. It was sorrow to 
 him that he could not span the seasons of 
 seed-time and harvest within his own life. 
 Amid the upheavals of the Revolution he 
 had to be sowing when he would gladly 
 have been reaping the harvest promised him 
 in his dreams. Alas ! They who work very 
 much for the future have often to relinquish 
 the fruits of the present. That they have 
 some secret consolations we have, fortun- 
 ately, no reason to doubt. 
 
 Verily now is our season of seed, 
 
 Now in our Autumn ; and Earth disoerns 
 Them that have served her in them that can read, 
 Glassing, where under the surface she burns, 
 Quick at her wheel, while the fuel, decay, 
 Brightens the fire of renewal : and we ? 
 
 Death is the word of a bovine day, 
 
 Know you the breast of the springing To-be. 
 
 III. 
 
 The winning of honour, says Bacon, is 
 172 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 but the revealing of a man’s virtue and 
 worth without disadvantage ; and the task is 
 made the harder since many of the worthiest 
 and most truly virtuous make a poor enough 
 show before the world. Yet it is by a man’s 
 conduct alone that we can estimate his 
 character — giving to conduct its widest 
 sense, not merely of action and achievement, 
 but of effort, and the strife and action of the 
 mind. We have seen that Berlioz’s life as a 
 musician was a brilliant failure; that in his 
 own eyes he was a prophet unheeded, crying 
 in the wilderness, an unhappy and dis- 
 appointed man ; and it remains for us to see 
 that the sum of all his aspirations, fightings, 
 disappointments, self-betrayals, and failures 
 was a “ revealing of virtue and worth,” not 
 without disadvantage, indeed, but in spite 
 of disadvantages that would have obscured a 
 less brilliant and noble flame. 
 
 That he was a genius of the first order 
 there is no doubt. He had the inborn bent 
 173 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 for creation and invention that marks the 
 true original, and every action of his life was 
 stamped with the superscription of his native 
 quality. His inventions in music are mani- 
 fold : new rhythms, new harmonies, count- 
 less new combinations of instrumental tone, 
 new dispositions and balance of masses in 
 grand compositions were evolved by him. The 
 very greatness of his ideas was often their 
 ruin ; now they were monsters that could 
 not be brought to a timely birth, now they 
 were born and grew up only to menace and 
 tyrannise over him. Yet the ideas were 
 there, looming primitive and vast in the 
 twilight shadows of his imagination, although 
 they often dwindled to something small and 
 almost commonplace in the daylight of 
 actual achievement. A miracle of invention 
 was, for example, his famous scheme for an 
 opera in which an impious monarch, hold- 
 ing a mock representation of the Resurrec- 
 tion, should be interrupted by the thunders 
 174 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 of the last Advent. The dramatic involution 
 of that scheme, quite apart from its mon- 
 strous daring, could have been imagined 
 by only a genius, as only a madman could 
 have carried it out. 
 
 Unfortunately it is not enough to be a 
 genius, if one would have the ear of the 
 world. Berlioz, toiling up the slope of the 
 wave, and seeing some of his fellow-students 
 at the French Academy floating easily on its 
 crest to popularity and fame, could gird at 
 the injustice of it all ; but he knew well that 
 his own immediate fame could be purchased 
 at a price, if only he could bring himself to 
 pay it. No serious person would admit 
 that there is anything essentially ignoble in 
 success ; but it is a fact that the success of 
 nine men out of ten has involved capitula- 
 tions. Not many, perhaps — the withdrawal 
 of an outpost here, or a sentry there, a little 
 falling back in this place, a suspicion of 
 treachery in that : on the whole, a prudent 
 175 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 strengthening of the position, but — at a 
 price. There is an eternity of difference 
 between that kind of success and what we 
 call the failure of one who has fallen back 
 at no point, and although he may have gone 
 down, has gone down with all his guns 
 fighting and all his flags flying. He who 
 makes bargains with destiny says that when 
 he betters himself he necessarily makes the 
 world better, that the higher he rises the 
 greater will be his good influence. It is 
 a fallacy ; the weight of his influence is 
 decreased by the amount of ballast he threw 
 over in order to rise ; and that he should or 
 should not have been in King’s houses will 
 matter to the world a hundred years hence 
 far less than that he should or should 
 not have lived in unswerving loyalty to duty. 
 
 It was the jewel in Berlioz’s life that he 
 belonged to the small class of men who do 
 not give in. Under no circumstances did 
 he ever shirk what he conceived to be the 
 176 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS . 
 
 proper course for him to take ; at whatever 
 cost — and often the cost was frightfully 
 bitter — he struggled on towards an ideal. 
 There is a sublime and dreadful heroism in 
 this course when it is taken by a man of 
 passionate and sensitive temperament whose 
 lot is cast in the stormiest corner of the 
 world ; once he has launched himself upon 
 the flood, it is either die or surrender; and 
 how long for him the struggle, how bitter 
 the conflict, if he is to keep his breast to the 
 torrent ! In all Berlioz’s life, and especially 
 in his art, the stream of the world ran against 
 him, setting back towards the ignoble and 
 the easy and the conventional, and opposing 
 the small band that fought for emancipa- 
 tion and progress. Not for one moment 
 did he cease to resist that tide, and the 
 mark of resistance is upon his musical 
 creations. They have the exaggeration 
 that is stamped upon all works of art which 
 seek to state a principle or protest against 
 177 N 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 an abuse ; the reformer was making use 
 of the composer, with results satisfactory 
 to neither. 
 
 But it is, unhappily, in Berlioz’s love affairs 
 that we find the tale of his loyalty to himself 
 most clearly written. Unhappily, because 
 loyalty to himself here caused trouble and 
 sorrow to the objects of his devotion, and to 
 himself as well. The story of his heart is 
 in so great a degree the story of his life and 
 one sees in it so faithful a picture of the man 
 as he really was that this sketch would be 
 incomplete without some attempt at an 
 analysis of that stormy record. 
 
 How deep was the impression made on his 
 childish mind by the vision of Estelle is 
 shown by his return to her in old age, 
 when the desires of his heart had one by one 
 been lost to him or eluded his quest and 
 when, with his hunger for affection and rest 
 still unsatisfied, he turned with a kind of 
 wistful appeal to the elderly matron who was 
 178 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 still the embodiment of his earliest adored 
 ideal. The child with life all before him, 
 the old man broken by the fight, with life 
 behind him — they shared a common dream, 
 a touching, pretty illusion that served them 
 in place of the tragic reality of manhood. 
 
 But Berlioz, the fighting man, although he 
 had many love affairs, had but one grand 
 passion, one mortel amour . It rose and 
 
 shone like a sun on his stormy life, to be 
 eclipsed, alas, in mists drawn up by its very 
 ardour. All of himself that he could deflect 
 from his art was given to Henrietta Smithson, 
 the lovely and brilliant Irish actress who 
 took Paris by storm in the Shakespearian 
 productions of 1827. Ophelia, Juliet and 
 Henrietta were all revealed to him together, 
 sweeping him off his feet and drowning him 
 in a tide of poetry and romance, just as a 
 Virgil and Estelle and the sound of a foun- 
 tain and the scent of flowers had over- 
 whelmed him years before. But now he was 
 179 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 a man, his nature had come to itself ; and 
 almost at once it seized upon him and whirled 
 him away. Upon the heels of mortel amour 
 followed a lethargie morale ; although he had 
 seen Ophelia, he did not dream that he should 
 ever so much as speak to her ; and he wan- 
 dered away to be alone in his new world, his 
 mind filled with ecstatic misery, careless of 
 what he did or where his feet strayed, sleep- 
 ing now amid the wheat-sheaves near Ville- 
 Juif, now on the snow beside the frozen 
 Seine, now upon a table in the Cafe du 
 Cardinal. 
 
 It is characteristic of him that he did not 
 attempt to make Miss Smithson’s acquaint- 
 ance in the ordinary way. The awakening 
 of this great love was, for a time, enough. 
 “ It came to me,” he afterwards wrote, “ in 
 my manhood ; with Shakespeare in the 
 burning bush of Sinai, amid the thunders 
 and lightnings of poetry entirely new to me. 
 It prostrated me, and my heart and whole 
 180 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 being were invaded by a cruel, maddening, 
 passion, in which the love of a great artist 
 and a great art were mingled together, each 
 intensifying the other. ” 
 
 For a long time she never knew of his ex- 
 istence. Then he wrote an overture for a 
 benefit performance at which she was to act, 
 but, to his misery, she never heard it. Then 
 he began to address passionate letters to her, 
 which she had to tell her maid not to receive. 
 Then he went to Rome, and it was not until 
 five years after his first meeting with Miss 
 Smithson that they became acquainted and 
 were married. 
 
 In the meantime he had fancied him- 
 self in love with a lady who took upon 
 herself to comfort him against Miss Smith- 
 son’s neglect ; quarrelled with her, and, upon 
 hearing of her infidelity, set out from Italy 
 to France disguised as a lady’s-maid in order 
 to kill the lady, her mother, and her lover. 
 He fell hungry on the way, and abandoned 
 181 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 his project. The whole thing occupied about 
 three weeks, and in Berlioz’s life it was 
 a mere incident. I mention it here as an 
 instance of the way in which he carried out 
 his impulses, often to a point far beyond 
 absurdity. 
 
 When he returned from Rome his adora- 
 tion for Miss Smithson awoke again. He 
 determined to take her by storm ; organised 
 a grand concert, at which his Borneo et 
 Juliette symphony was played, and, through 
 some friends, procured the attendance of the 
 beautiful Henrietta. She, poor thing, was 
 in desperate financial trouble at the time, 
 and the sight of the vast audience and 
 orchestra and the agitated composer (whom 
 she now recognised as her former persecutor) 
 unnerved her. “ What if be loved me still ! ” 
 
 The symphony was begun ; something in 
 its beauty and charm, I would fain believe, 
 touched her heart ; but Berlioz had left 
 nothing to chance. Into the part of Lelio, 
 182 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 which was recited by Bocage, he had put 
 his declaration : 
 
 "Oh! que ne puis-je la trouver, cette Juliette , cette Oph6lie 
 que mon caeur appelle! Que ne puisne m'enivrer de cette joie 
 melde de tristesse que donne le veritable amour , et un soir 
 d'automne, herd avec elle par le vent du nord sur quelque 
 bruyere sauvage m'endormir endn dans ses bras , d } un m4lan - 
 cholique et dernier sommeil 
 
 “ It is of me he speaks ; he loves me 
 still ! ” It was a strange betrothal, with the 
 noise of the streets and the life of Paris 
 flowing by outside the walls, and, within, 
 the busy orchestra, the listening audience, 
 the pleading and the yielding heart. For 
 she did yield; and although troubles, crowned 
 by a painful accident, crowded upon her, 
 Berlioz entered into her life and swept them 
 away. Not on an autumn evening on a 
 wild moor, but in a little house in Paris one 
 winter night he heard the north wind whist- 
 ling down the street, and knew he was 
 happy. 
 
 Madame Berlioz lived for twenty-one years 
 after her marriage ; seven of them, I think, 
 183 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 brought happiness to her and her husband — 
 a big enough salvage from the inevitable 
 wreck of an unwise marriage. The bald 
 facts as we know them are that after seven 
 years they separated ; that almost imme- 
 diately afterwards Berlioz fell into some 
 degree of intimacy with a singer named 
 Mdlle. Reccio ; and that, on the death of his 
 wife fourteen years afterwards, he married 
 this lady. “ Je me suis remarie — je le 
 devais ,” is his remark upon the occurrence; 
 except for an announcement of the lady’s 
 death it is his only reference to the second 
 marriage, and, as such, is dismally significant. 
 
 It is a sordidenough tale; Imakenoattempt 
 to disguise that ; yet it is redeemed in some 
 degree by the essential nobility of the two 
 chief actors. Where the fault lay I do not 
 pretend to decide ; the general notion is that 
 Berlioz gave his wife cause for her jealousy 
 and ill-temper, and I think it more than likely. 
 Yet Mr. W. H. Hadow, in his charming 
 184 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 study, goes so far as to say that the separation 
 ‘‘had been mainly forced on him by her 
 manner of life. ,, There is no profit, at this 
 distance of time, in probing such questions 
 too deeply ; I only say this much to indicate 
 that the weight of blame need not be all on 
 one side. 
 
 Is blame indeed a word to be used 
 in this connection at all ? I think not. It 
 was impossible that Berlioz and his wife 
 should live happily together ; itis not enough 
 that such people should have a deep affection 
 for each other (there was never any doubt 
 about that) ; they must also have that quality 
 of compatability the absence of which brings 
 shipwreck to thousands of marriages ; and it 
 is all to the credit of these two that they 
 should have separated while they still loved 
 each other, and that they should not have 
 continued that dismal mockery of intimate 
 life — loving and lacerating each other was 
 Berlioz’s own description of it — in which two 
 185 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 people wear each other down and narrow their 
 lives into a stream of petty care, until love 
 disappears. 
 
 It is good to know that Berlioz, all 
 through those fourteen years of separation, 
 worked hard to support his wife, and made 
 many sacrifices, and performed the most 
 dismal drudgery in order to nourish her 
 when she was ill. How deeply he loved her 
 is to be seen from his account of her death — 
 words more eloquent and touching than are 
 to be found in all his other writings. 
 
 “In the midst of all my past love,” he 
 says, “I felt almost overwhelmed by the 
 immense, terrible, infinite pity inspired by 
 the recollection of my poor Henrietta’s sor- 
 rows : her ruin before our marriage, her 
 accident, the failure of her last dramatic 
 attempt in Paris, her voluntary but ever 
 regretted renunciation of her adored art, her 
 eclipsed glory, the rising fame and fortune 
 of her mediocre imitators of both sexes, our 
 186 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 domestic differences, her inextinguishable 
 jealousy (in the end not unfounded), our 
 separation, the death of all her relations, the 
 enforced absence of her son , 1 my long and 
 frequent journeys, her wounded pride at 
 being the cause of expense which she knew 
 I could ill afford, the mistaken idea that the 
 affection of the English public had been 
 alienated from her by her love for France, 
 her broken heart, her vanished beauty 
 her ruined health, her increasing bodily 
 sufferings, the loss of speech and move- 
 ment, the impossibility of making herself 
 understood, the long vista of death and 
 oblivion.” 
 
 There is a good deal of poor Henrietta’s \ 
 history in her husband's account of her 
 funeral, so I quote it here. 
 
 “I was unaided in my sad duties. The 
 Protestant pastor required for the ceremony 
 
 1 Louis Berlioz, an officer in the French navy, died in 
 i868, a year before the death of his father. 
 
 187 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 lived in the suburbs at the other end of the 
 town, in the Eue M. le Prince. I went to 
 him at eight o’clock in the evening. An 
 accidental circumstance led me past the 
 Odeon. . . . How often, on winter nights, 
 did I walk up and down under these ar- 
 cades in feverish anxiety. There was the 
 door by which I saw her enter for a rehear- 
 sal of ‘ Othello.’ She did not then even 
 know of my existence ; and if a pale, worn, 
 obscure youth, leaning against one of the 
 pillars of the theatre and devouring her 
 with wild glances had been pointed out as 
 her future husband, she would assuredly 
 have treated the idea as absurd. 
 
 “And yet it is he who is preparing for 
 thy last journey, poor Ophelia, he is on his 
 way to a priest, with Laertes’s words in his 
 mouth — ‘What ceremonies else?’ he who so 
 tormented thee, and so suffered through thee, 
 after having suffered for thee ; he who, 
 in spite of all his wrongs, might say, like 
 188 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 Hamlet, ‘ Forty thousand brothers would 
 not have loved her as I love her.’ 
 
 “ The next day, two or three of my literary 
 friends — D’Ortigue, Brizeux, Leon de Wailly 
 — and several artists, the good Baron Taylor, 
 and a few other kind-hearted people, at- 
 tended Henrietta to her last resting-place, out 
 of friendship for me. Twenty-five years 
 before, the whole of intelligent Paris would 
 have attended her obsequies, in admiration 
 and adoration of her. The poets, painters, 
 and sculptors, the actors to whom she had 
 just given such noble examples of move- 
 ment, gesture, and attitude, musicians who 
 had felt the melody of her tender accents 
 and the lacerating reality of her cries of 
 anguish — lovers, dreamers, philosophers — 
 all would then have followed her coffin in 
 tears. . . . 
 
 “ And now, while she is proceeding thus 
 almost in solitude to the cemetery, ungrate- 
 ful and forgetful Paris is grovelling in its 
 189 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 own smoke ; and he who, with all his love, 
 has not the courage to follow her to the 
 grave, weeps in her deserted garden.” 
 
 Eight years afterwards Berlioz’s second 
 wife died, and it was some time after her 
 burial that he had the dreadful experience 
 at the Montmartre ceremony of seeing the 
 remains of his poor Ophelia, during their 
 removal to a new grave, exposed to his view 
 after ten years. His description of that 
 scene is a dreadfully vivid instance of the 
 ruthless way in which he exposed himself 
 to the most cruel experiences, and the 
 adventure itself is an example of the kind 
 of miseries and affronts, half tragic, half 
 grotesque, with which the whole of his life 
 was embittered. 
 
 This was the end of his manhood’s 
 love ; afterwards he began to slide imper- 
 ceptibly back towards the dream of his 
 childhood and to the half-senile, wholly 
 ideal adoration of Estelle. The way in 
 190 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 which this old man, embittered by failures 
 and harrowed by misfortunes and sorrows, 
 wandered back in search of his first adoration 
 is a romance in itself, and the whole story 
 is so thoroughly characteristic that I must 
 ask for the indulgence of my readers while I 
 make some outline of it. 
 
 It was a kind of harking back, of course, 
 common enough in old men ; but even this 
 incident, grotesque and laughable as it 
 would have been under ordinary circum- 
 stances, took on something rare and beau- 
 tiful from Berlioz’s character, so that we 
 may smile but cannot laugh at it. He 
 found his Estelle an old lady, widowed, and 
 with a grown-up son, but in the eyes of 
 Berlioz she had not yet outgrown the 
 period of romance. She was still his Estelle, 
 still his ideal vision of the Meylan flower 
 garden ; and he approached her as humbly 
 and shyly as a child. That she should 
 know he was near her, that he should be 
 191 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 sometimes in her thoughts, that she should 
 read the books he sent her, that her lips 
 should touch the paper on which she wrote 
 to him, that she should think of him at half- 
 past two when he was conducting the first 
 performance of Les Troyens — these were the 
 simple benefits for which he craved, the 
 boyish plans he made for the sharing of 
 happiness. That she treated him with an 
 exquisite tenderness mingled with good 
 common-sense, and so soothed and satisfied 
 him, is apparent from her letters, one of 
 which I must quote, as well as one of his 
 written to her in order to show at its best 
 this idyll of old age. 
 
 First Letter. 
 
 Paris , 27th September , 1864 . 
 
 Madame, 
 
 Your greeting was characterised by a 
 simple and dignified kindliness of which few women 
 would have been capable under such circumstances. 
 A thousand blessings on you 1 Nevertheless, I have 
 suffered cruelly since I left you. In vain do I tell 
 myself that nothing could have been kinder 
 than your reception, that any other would have 
 been unsuitable or inhuman ; my wretched heart 
 bleeds as though it had been wounded. I ask 
 
 192 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 myself the reason, and this is what I find : It is 
 absence ; it is that I saw too little of you, that I did 
 not say a quarter of what I had to say, and that 
 I went away almost as though there were to be an 
 eternal separation between us. And yet you gave 
 me your hand — I pressed it to my forehead and my 
 lips, and I restrained my tears, as I had resolved to 
 do. But I feel an imperious, inexorable necessity 
 for farther speech with you, which I hope you will 
 not refuse me. Remember that I have loved you for 
 forty-nine years, that 1 have loved you from my 
 childhood, notwithstanding the storms that have 
 devasted my life. The proof of this is the deep 
 emotion I now feel ; if it had really ceased to exist, 
 even for a day, it could never have revived under 
 existing circumstances. 
 
 Has any woman ever listened to such a declaration 
 as this ? Don’t take me for a fool who is the sport of 
 his imagination. I am not a fool ; I am gifted with a 
 keen sensitiveness, combined, believe me, with great 
 quickness of insight. But my trae affections are 
 intensely powerful, and of an unalterable constancy. 
 I have loved you, I still love you, I shall always 
 love you. And yet I am sixty-one years of age. I 
 know the world, and have no illusions left. Grant 
 me then— not as a sister of charity ministering to a 
 sick man, but as noble-hearted woman healing the 
 sorrows of which she is the unconscious cause 
 — the three things which alone can restore my peace 
 of mind : permission to write to you occasionally, an 
 assurance that my letters shall be answered, and a 
 promise that you will invite me to visit you at least 
 once a year. My visits might be inopportune, and 
 therefore troublesome, if they were made without 
 your permission, and so I will never go either to 
 Geneva or elsewhere unless you write the word 
 “ Come I” 
 
 Who could find anything unsuitable or odd in this ? 
 What can be more pure than such a relationship ? 
 Are we not both free ? Who could be heartless or 
 senseless enough to blame us ? No one, not even 
 your sons, who are, as I know, most distinguished 
 young men. I must, however, confess that it would 
 
 193 
 
 0 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 be dreadful to see you only in the presence of others. 
 If you bid me come, I must be able to converse with 
 you as I did at our first interview last Friday— -an 
 interview which I dared not prolong, and which I 
 could not enjoy because of my terrible efforts to 
 restrain my emotions, 
 
 Oh ! madame, madame, I have but one aim left in 
 the world — that of obtaining your affection. Suffer 
 me to try and attain it. I will be discreet and 
 reserved ; our correspondence shall not be more fre- 
 quent than you desire. It shall never become a 
 wearisome task to you ; a few lines from your hand 
 will suffice. My visits can only be few and far be- 
 tween, but I shall know that in thought we are no 
 longer apart, and that after the many years in which 
 I have been nothing to you, I have at least the hope 
 of becoming your friend. And a devoted friend 
 such as I shall be is rare. I shall surround you with 
 tenderness profound and sweet, and with an entire 
 affection in which the innocent effusion of the child 
 will mingle with the feelings of the man. Perhaps 
 you will find some charm in it, perhaps you will one 
 day say, “ I am your friend,” and admit that I am 
 deserving of your friendship. 
 
 Farewell, madame ; I have just re-read your note 
 of the 23rd, and at the end I perceive the assurance 
 of your affectionate sentiments. This is not a com- 
 monplace formality, is it ? — is it ? 
 
 Yours eternally, 
 
 Hector Berlioz. 
 
 P.S. — I am sending you three books ; perhaps you 
 will not mind looking at them in your spare moments. 
 You understand it is a pretext of the author’s to 
 lead you to think a little ofjiim. 
 
 Answer. 
 
 Lyons , September 29th , 1864 . 
 
 Monsieur, 
 
 I should feel guilty towards both 
 myself and you if I did not at once reply to 
 your last letter, and to your dream of the relation 
 
 194 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 which you wish to establish between us. I am 
 going to speak— my hand on my heart. 
 
 I am but an old, a very old woman, six years older 
 than you ; my heart is withered by days of anguish, 
 physical and mental distress of all sorts, which have 
 left me without illusions as to the joys and senti- 
 ments of this world. Twenty years have passed 
 since I lost my best friend. I have sought no other ; 
 only kept up such as arose from old relationships 
 and natural family ties, since the fatal day on which 
 I was left a widow. I have said goodbye to all 
 pleasures and amusements, in order to devote myself 
 entirely to my children and my home. This has 
 been my life for the past twenty years ; it has be- 
 came a habit with me, the charm of which cannot 
 now be broken, for in such close intimacy alone can 
 I find peace for the few days remaining to me on 
 this earth, and everything that troubled their uni- 
 formity would be painful and burdensome. 
 
 In your letter of the 27th you tell me that your 
 only wish is to become my friend through an inter- 
 change of letters. Do you seriously think that this 
 is possible ? I scarcely know you. I saw you for a 
 few minutes last Friday, the first time for forty-nine 
 years. I cannot, therefore, rightly estimate either 
 your tastes, your temper, or your qualities, which 
 alone can form a foundation of friendship. When 
 two people have the same way of feeling and seeing 
 things, there is a possibility of sympathy between 
 them ; but when they are separated, correspondence 
 alone cannot establish what you look for from me. 
 For my part, I believe it to be impossible. Besides, 
 I must confess that I am extremely lazy about 
 writing ; my mind is as inert as my fingers. I have 
 the greatest difficulty in fulfilling even my most 
 necessary duties in this respect. I could not, there- 
 fore, promise to keep up a sustained correspondence 
 with you. I should break my promise too often, 
 forewarn you. If you like to write to me sometimes, 
 I shall receive your letters, but do not look for exact 
 or speedy answers. 
 
 You also wish me sometimes to ask you to come 
 and see me. That is no more possible than to say, 
 
 195 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 ‘ You will find me alone.” On Friday I chanced to 
 be alone when I received you ; but when I shall be 
 living with my son and his wife at Geneva, if I am 
 by myself when you come, well and good ; but if 
 they are with me at the time, you will have to put 
 up with their presence, for I should be extremely 
 displeased if it were otherwise. 
 
 I have told you my thoughts and feelings with 
 perfect frankness. I think I ought to remind you 
 that there are certain dreams and illusions which 
 should be abandoned when we come to white hairs, 
 and with them to the disenchantment of all fresh 
 feelings, even those of friendship, which can have 
 no charm unless they are the result of relations 
 established in the happy days of youth. To my 
 mind, it is not a moment for beginning them when 
 the weight of years is beginning to be felt, and when 
 their number has taught us how easy it is to be 
 deceived. I confess that I have arrived at that 
 point. The future is daily advancing. Why form 
 relations to be born to-day and perish to-morrow ? 
 Why give occasion for fresh regrets ? 
 
 In all that I have just said, do not think I have 
 any intention of offending against your remembrance 
 of me. I respect its persistency, and am much 
 touched by it. You are still very young in heart, 
 but with me it is otherwise. I am altogether old. 
 I am good for nothing, except to keep, believe me, 
 a large place in my memory for you. I shall always 
 hear of your future triumphs with pleasure. Fare- 
 well, monsieur. Again I sign myself affectionately 
 yours, Est. F . 
 
 I received the three volumes you so kindly sent 
 me yesterday morning. Many thanks for them. 
 
 This remarkable friendship existed until 
 Berlioz’s death and was the only comfort of 
 his last years, which were embittered by 
 the death of his son and by the failure of 
 196 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS 
 
 Les Troyens. Madame F ’s good sense 
 
 prevented it from degenerating to the absur- 
 dity into which Berlioz, if his impetuosity 
 had been unchecked, would no doubt have 
 led it, but she remained gentle and affec- 
 tionate to him always. “ Believe me,” she 
 wrote, “I have some pity for unreasonable 
 children. I have always found that the 
 best way to make them calm and reasonable 
 was to amuse and give them pictures. I 
 take the liberty of sending you one which 
 will recall to you the reality of the present, 
 and destroy the illusions of the past.” How 
 little effect this gentle hint had may 
 be gathered from Berlioz’s comment, “ It 
 was her portrait ! Adorable creature ! ” 
 And yet, if I have at all succeeded in draw- 
 ing the man as I conceive him to have 
 been, this scene of old age will be very far from 
 ridiculous, and not altogether unworthy of 
 the strenuous and stormy drama to which 
 it is the epilogue. I have dwelt at length 
 197 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF 
 
 upon the affairs of his heart because equally 
 with his music they were the urgent affairs 
 of his life ; almost the whole flood of his 
 life was poured into these two channels. 
 “ Which of the two powers,” he said, “ Love 
 or Music, can elevate man to the sublimest 
 heights ? It is a great problem, yet it seems 
 to me that this is the answer : Love can 
 give no idea of Music ; Music can give an 
 idea of Love. Why separate them ? They 
 are the two wings of the soul.” 
 
 I hope I have now made clear my view 
 of Berlioz — that he lived not the coward’s 
 but the hero’s life. We are not his judges, 
 to say how far the best of him was fulfilled ; 
 we have not to condemn what may seem to 
 us his frailties ; but we may read and mark 
 in the tempestuous scroll of his life the un- 
 swervingly loyal response that he made to 
 calls that came from within. Impulses, 
 we may call them, and write him down 
 impulsive; and yet to be consistently im- 
 198 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 pulsive is a far from ignoble rule of conduct. 
 It becomes noble when the consequences of 
 every impulsive act are bravely met, but it 
 involves damage and suffering to the heart 
 that none but heroes are able to sustain. 
 Where such men transgress, they suffer ; 
 and there is an end of it so far as we are 
 concerned. 
 
 Berlioz suffered for his very virtues. 
 He was, as I conceive him, a man 
 of so fine a temper that he had a hundred 
 vulnerable parts where you and I have one ; 
 of so great a capacity for happiness that the 
 world’s measure of joy scarce filled the 
 bottom of his cup ; of so delicate a sense 
 of pain that he fell wounded where we 
 should go unscathed ; of so high a con- 
 ception of his life’s purpose that his har- 
 vest of attainment was like Dead Sea fruit 
 in his grasp. To fulfil his own nature was 
 his only law, and if it led him to those rare 
 heights that few can climb, to the Pisgah 
 199 
 
APPRECIATIONS OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 where empty hearts may brim again, it led 
 him also through wastes of desert fatal to 
 the half-hearted, the unsalted, but cleansing 
 if we can bare ourselves to sun and sand. 
 
 This, then, was Berlioz’s ordeal, the or- 
 deal of every noble, intemperate heart that 
 struggles under the tyranny of monster 
 ideas and, aspiring to the highest, is yet 
 betrayed, now by “ what is false within,” 
 now by the very keenness of perception 
 that makes it consciously heroic. We see 
 Berlioz in the fires of that ordeal, which 
 illuminate even while they sear, but we 
 may deem ourselves fortunate if we discern 
 even a glimmering of truths that were made 
 radiantly clear to him in hours of bitterest 
 endurance there. 
 
 200 
 
POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 TT has been my design in these sketches 
 A to abstain from criticism, and merely 
 to gossip for a little while upon some sub- 
 jects which are of engrossing interest to 
 me. On that account I hope to be forgiven 
 many faults which might not be excused in 
 formal criticisms. In writing about any 
 kind of art, a man may set out upon one of 
 two roads : he may record his own personal 
 impressions about things without attempting 
 to judge or assess their respective values ; 
 or he may draw upon his stores of know- 
 ledge, and, putting aside all personal feeling, 
 set himself to estimate and to criticise. In 
 both of these tasks it is essential beyond 
 201 
 
POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 all else that the writer be absolutely honest 
 in thought and word — and every critic 
 knows that such rigid honesty is only to 
 be achieved by an austere discipline. I 
 did not feel prepared to deliver a critical 
 judgment upon the music and musicians 
 I have written about, but I had a very 
 strong impulse to attempt a truthful record 
 of the effect that certain works (differing 
 widely one from the other) produce on 
 a single mind. And, like the traveller in the 
 Cevennes who scattered small change on 
 the mossy carpet of his chamber among the 
 pines of Lozere, it has pleased me to offer 
 here such small coins of gratitude as my 
 means afford. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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20 W. REEVES, 83 , CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. 
 
 Popular Part Songs. 
 
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 2. Take, O Take those Lips away, Part Song for 
 
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 TO ALL MUSICIANS, — Hereis something worth 
 
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 The Publisher of The Musical Standard has secured the 
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 BY JOHN WARRINER, Mus.D., 
 
 Trinity College, Dublin. 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY JOSEPH BENNETT. 
 
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 21 
 
 KING'S ROYAL ALBUMS, Nos. 1 and 2. 
 
 NATIONAL AND PATRIOTIC SONG ALBUM. 
 
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 God Save the King 
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 Roast Beef of Old England 
 
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 Tom Bowling 
 
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 Book 2. 
 
 Hearts of Oak 
 Stand United 
 
 The Cause of England & 
 Greatness 
 
 The Last Rose of Summer 
 The Leather Bottle 
 Home, Sweet Home 
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 The Minstrel Boy 
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 Auld Lang Syne 
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 King’s Royal Albums, No. 3. Price 1/- 
 
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22 
 
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 3. Tho’ fortune darkly o’er me frown. 
 
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 GRIEG’S “ PEER GYNT ” SUITE. 
 
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 King’s Royal Album, No. 12. 
 
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 King’s Royal Album, No. 13. 
 
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 Arranged by Sydney Osborne. 
 
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 King’s Royal Album, No. 15. 
 
 ORIGINAL VOLUNTARIES FOR AMERICAN ORGAN 
 OR HARMONIUM. 
 
 By Edwin M, Flavell. 
 
 Andante con Moto 
 
 2. Evensong 
 
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 OR HARMONIUM. 
 
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 THE AMERICAN ORGAN 
 
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 11. Sketch 
 
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 4. Anthem, “God so Loved the World,” by J. Jamou- 
 
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24 w. REEVES, 83, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. 
 
 Modern Church Music ( continued ). — 
 
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 No. 1. Waltz in F 
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 Contents. 
 
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26 W. REEVES, 83, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C 
 
 The Organists Quarterly Journal 
 
 <®f Original Ctompositious. 
 
 Founded by DR. Wm. SPARK, Late Organist, Town Hall, Lead* 
 Price 5/- each, or Subscription, 10/6 for 4 issues. 
 
 New Series, Volume, containing 160 large pages, ail with 
 ped. obb. t bound in cloth, 18 «. 
 
 Part 12. New Series 
 
 1. In Memoriam - - Rev. Geof. C. Ryly. M.A., Mus. Bac Oxon. 
 
 2. Toccata G. B. Polleri. 
 
 3. Overture from Epiphany .... Alfred King, M.D, 
 
 Part XI., New Series. 
 
 1. Prelude and Fugue with Postlude - E. A. Chamberlaynk. 
 
 2. Prelude and Fugue F. Young. 
 
 3. Fugue Archibald Donald. 
 
 4. Fugue - - - - William Hope. 
 
 Part 10, New Series. 
 
 1. Fugue - Archibald Donald. 
 
 2. Prelude and Fugue with Postlude - - E. A. Chamberlayne. 
 
 3. Prelude and Fugue - - F. Young. 
 
 Part 9, New Series. 
 
 1. Andante con Moto - - - W. A. Montgomery, L.T.C.I* 
 
 2. Fantasia in E minor - - - - Cuthbert Harris, Mus. B., 
 
 3. Postlude at Ephes. V. v. 19. Si tlbi placeat, Mihl con displicet 
 W.Conradi,(Y.oi B. 1816), Paul'sOrg. St. Church, Schwerin i/mGermany 
 
 4. Harvest March Henry J. Poole, 
 
 Part 8, New Series. 
 
 1. Scherbo Minuet W.Mullineux, Organist of the Town Hall, Bolton. 
 
 2. Introduction to the Hymn on the Passion, O Haupt Voll Blut und 
 
 Wunden ” 
 
 W. Con radi . Organist Paul s Church, Schwerin, Germany, 
 
 3. Thesis and Antithesis, or Dispute, Appeasement, Conciliation 
 
 W* Conradi, Organist Paul’s Church, Schwerin, Germany. 
 
 4. Carillon in E - - Cuthbert Harris, Mus. B..F.R.C O., &c. 
 
 3. Andante " Hope ” Inglis Bervon. 
 
 I. Orchestral March In C 
 
 , James Crapper L. Mus , Organist of the Parish Ch., Kirkcudbright. 
 
 Part 7, New Series. 
 
 1. Andante Gkazioso In G - - Chas. E. Melville, F.R.C.O. 
 
 a. Polish Song, Arranged for the organ by Percival Garrett. - Chopin. 
 
 3. Introduction, Variations, and Finale on the Hymn Tune “ Rock- 
 
 ingham.' Ch. R. Fisher, Mus. B. 
 
 4. Two Soft Movements -----W.C. Filby, I.S.M. 
 
 1. “ Espdrance." a. “Tendrerse." 
 
 3. Andante In A flat 
 
 W. Griffiths, Mus. B , Org. ot St. Sepulchre Churoh. Northampton 
 fi. Fugue, 4 Voice, 3 Subjects * Dr. J. C. Tilly*- 
 
W. REEVES, 83, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. 2 '7 
 
 The Organist’s Quarterly Journal (cont.). 
 
 Part 6, flew Berios, 
 x. Con Moto Modbrato in C 
 
 Orlando A. Mansfield, Mus.B., F.R.C.O. 
 
 а. Tsmpo di Menuetto Geo. H. Ely, 
 
 3. Dirge in Memoriam, Reginald Adkins - J. E. Adkins, F.R.C.O. 
 
 4. Andante in F R. H. Heath. 
 
 5. Aberystwyth Offertoire - - - - J. G. Mountford. 
 
 б. Andante in D (Priere) - - - E. Evelyn Barron, M. A. 
 
 Part 0 , Hew Series. 
 
 1. Allegretto Schkrzando in A flat - - - W. E. Ashmall, 
 
 a. Andante Religtoso in G Dr J, Bradford. 
 
 3 March Pomposo in E flat .... Charles Darnton. 
 
 4. Andante Con Moto “ Twilight ” - - Ch. R. Fisher, Mus.B. 
 
 5. Minuet in F WE. Belcher, F.R.C.O. 
 
 Part I, Hew Berios. 
 
 1. Andante Moderato F. Read. 
 
 а. Prelude and Fugue in D minor - - E. A. Chamberlayne. 
 
 3. Sketch Arthur Geo. Colborn. 
 
 4. Fugue James Turpin. 
 
 5 Allegro Charles H. Fisher. 
 
 б. Marche Mystique 
 
 Theme by Roland, db Lassus.— A Relic of Ancient Times. 
 
 Part 8, Hew 8eries. 
 
 1. Minuet and Trio In F - - Ed. J. Bellerby, mus. B., Oxon. 
 
 a. Dundee ” (“or French") - - - John P. Attwater. 
 
 3. Adagio. An Elegy In G minor - - Chas. R. Fisher, Mus. B. 
 
 4. Andante, A major - - F. Hone. 
 
 5. Allegro, D minoi - Geo. Minns (Ely). 
 
 Parts, Hew Series. 
 
 1. Toccata Fantasia (Study in C minor ) E T. Pkiffiel. 
 
 2. Andante Grazioso -------- W. Faulkes. 
 
 3. Marche Funebre ------ Arthur Wanderer. 
 
 4. Andante Semplick - - - - E. A. Chamberlayne. 
 
 5. Festal March - - - - - - A. W. Ketelbey. 
 
 Part 1 , Hew Berios. 
 
 x. Offertoire in A minor - - - Fred. W. Dal (Leipzig), 
 
 a, Second Fantasia on Scotch Airs - - - William Spark. 
 
 3. Adeste Fidelbs with Variations and Fugue) - Charles Hunt. 
 
 4. Intermezzo - G. Townshend Driffield. 
 
 Part 103 (Old Series). 
 
 1. Postlude in G - Frederick W. Holloway, F.C.O 
 
 a. Suite: No. i, Prelude ; No. a, Berceuse; No. 3, Toccata 
 
 Laurent Parodi (Genoa 
 
 3. Nocturne William Lockett. 
 
 4. Andante Pastorale in B minor Jacob Bradford; Mus. D., Oxon 
 
 , Introductory Voluntary - - Albert W. Ketelbey. 
 
 6 Fugue - 
 
 R, J. Rowe, L.R.A.M. 
 
 LONDON: WILLIAM REEVES, 83, CHARING CROSSROAD, W, 
 
Note the Price, PENCE not SHILLINGS. 
 
 POPULAR AND COPYRIGHT MUSIC. 
 
 Full Music Size, Well Printed and Critically Correot. 
 
 ISSUED BY 
 
 QD WILLIAM REEVES. nD 
 
 ^ (Postage id. each ) (Postage id. each.) “ 
 
 VOCAL. 
 
 273. Alice where art thou ? 
 
 /. Ascher 
 
 396. Always do as I do 
 
 Tinney 
 
 174. Angels at the Casement, A flat 
 
 W. M. Hutchison 
 
 105. Banner of the King 
 
 H. For Usque 
 
 172. Barney O’Hea ... 
 
 S. Lover 
 
 224. Bay of Biscay ... 
 
 J. Vavey 
 
 181. Border Lands (Sacred) 
 
 Miss Lindsay 
 
 180. Borderer’s Challenge ... 
 
 H.J. Stark 
 
 390. Cat in the Chimney 
 
 L. Kingsmill 
 
 392. Child’s Good Morning ... 
 
 0. Barri 
 
 391. Child’s Good Night 
 
 0. Barri 
 
 383. Come into the Garden Maud ... 
 
 Balfe 
 
 184. Crossing the Brook ... 
 
 Edith Cooke 
 
 389. Dawn of Heaven 
 
 Buonetti 
 
 188. Diver, T ie 
 
 E. J. Loder 
 
 384. God Save the King 
 
 Dr. Jno. Bull 
 
 226. Hearts of Oak 
 
 Dr. W. Boyce 
 
 100. Honey Are You True to Me (Coon Song) 
 
 Lindsay Lennox 
 
 266. Kathleen Mavourneen .. . 
 
 Crouch 
 
 213. Lady Clara Yere de Yere 
 
 Miss Lindsay 
 
 404. Last Good Bye to Mother 
 
 C. Dargan 
 
 227. Last Rose of Summer ... 
 
 Thos. Moore 
 
 215. Listen ... 
 
 A. H. Behrend 
 
 249. Maggie’s Promise 
 
 W . Gordon 
 
 115. Sharing the Burden 
 
 J. E. Webster 
 
 225. Tom Bowling 
 
 C. Dibdin 
 
 236. When other Lips (Then you’ll remem- 
 
 ber me) 
 
 Balje 
 
 VOCAL DUETS 
 
 
 190. Flow on thou Shining River ... 
 
 Sir J. Stevenson 
 
 116. Gipsy Countess ... 
 
 Glover 
 
 PIANOFORTE. 
 
 118. A la Yalse ... ... 
 
 Roeckel 
 
 275. Alice where art thou ? (easily arr. by) 
 
 Percy E. Douglas 
 
 278. Army and Navy March 
 
 Henzell 
 
 457. An Village ... 
 
 Tschaikowsky 
 
 268. Battle Maroh (Delhi) 
 
 Pridham 
 
 373. Belgium Galop ... ... ... ... 
 
 Smallwood 
 
Cheap Music (continued), — 
 
 437. Belle of Chicago March 
 122. Berceuse 
 
 376. Blumenlied 
 
 379. Bridal Chorus and Wedding March ... 
 453. Cadet Two Step (easily arranged) ... 
 142. Charming Mazurka ... 
 
 456. Chanson Triste ... 
 
 455. Chant sans Paroles 
 393. Chinese Patrol March ... 
 
 21 3. Cloches du Mouastere ... 
 
 458. Coon Band Contest 
 
 438. Corcoran Cadets March 
 
 125. Corricolo Galop (Easily arranged) 
 
 377. Edelweiss 
 
 374. Emmeline Galop 
 308. Fille du Regiment 
 
 167. Flying Dutchman (La Yaiseeau Fantome) 
 244. Forward March ... ... ... 
 
 Four Humoresques : 
 
 206. Valse in D, No. 1 ... ... ... 
 
 207. Minuetto in A minor, No. 2 ... 
 
 208. Allegretto, No. 3 ... ... ... 
 
 209. Allegro Alla Burla, No. 4 ... 
 
 210. Funeral March 
 
 305. French Air (Marseillaise) 
 
 306. German Air (Watch on Rhine) 
 
 264. Gipsies’ March ... 
 
 252. Grand March (arr. by P. E. Douglat) 
 L51. Grand March of the Warriors 
 276. Hiawatha Cake Walk, (arr. by P. E. 
 
 Douglas) ... 
 
 436. High School Cadets March 
 
 304. Irish Air (Last Rose of Summer) ... 
 303. Italian Air (Ah che la Morte) ... 
 
 288. Japanese National Hymn, Harmonized 
 by Sydney Osborne. 
 
 133. Kassala Gavotte .,. 
 
 270. Kathleen Mavourneen ... ... 
 
 171. Khartoum Quick March ... ... 
 
 286. King’s Own March ... 
 
 246. Liberty Bell Maroh ... ... ... 
 
 135. Little Dear Gavotte 
 
 162. Lohengrin ... ... 
 
 136. Maiden’s Prayer ... ... ... 
 
 435. Manhattan Beaoh March 
 
 137. March in E flat ... 
 
 441. March Past of the National Fencibles 
 440. March Past of the Rifle Regiment ... 
 140. May -Day Galopade ... 
 
 /. P. Sousa 
 Roeckel 
 Gustav Lange 
 Wagner 
 A lard 
 Gungl 
 
 Tschaikowsky 
 
 Tschaikowskv 
 
 D. Pecorini 
 Le/ebure- Wely 
 A . Pryor 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 L. Mullen 
 Gustav Lange 
 Smallwood 
 Oesten 
 Wagner 
 
 E. H. Sugg 
 
 Grieg 
 
 Grieg 
 
 Grieg 
 
 Grieg 
 
 Grieg 
 
 Eric Stapleton 
 Eric Stapleton 
 C . Heins 
 Blake 
 
 H . V . Lewis 
 
 Moret 
 J. P. Sousa 
 Eric Stapleton 
 Eric Stapleton 
 
 H. Wilcock 
 P. E. Douglas 
 F. P . Rabottini 
 Warwick Williams 
 Sousa 
 F. Astrella 
 Warner 
 Badarazewska 
 J. P. Sousa 
 L. B. Mallett 
 J. P- Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. Gungl 
 
Cheap Music (continued).— 
 
 141. Mazurka ... ... 
 
 Badarazewsk a 
 
 143. Melodie ... 
 
 Roeckel 
 
 247. Melody in F ... ... ... 
 
 Rubinstein 
 
 211. Minuetto (from E minor Sonata) 
 
 Grieg 
 
 163. Mountain Echo March ... 
 
 G. Garibold’i 
 
 385. Narcissus 
 
 Nevin 
 
 439. Our Flirtation March ... 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 147. Placid Stream ... 
 
 Smallwood 
 
 103. Queenie (Intermezzo) 
 
 P. D’ Or say 
 
 165. Rienzi 
 
 Wagner 
 
 253. Robin’s Return (arr. by P. E. Douglas) 
 
 Fischer 
 
 148. 8cherzino 
 
 RoecJcel 
 
 301. Scotch Air (Blue Bells of Scotland) ... 
 
 Eric Stapleton 
 
 375. Seasons Galop ... 
 
 Smallwood 
 
 442. Semper Fidelia 
 
 J. P. Sou a 
 
 196. Silvery Echoes ... 
 
 Blake 
 
 394. Soldiers’ Chorus (Faust) 
 
 Gou,nod\ 
 
 381. Sonatina in F ... 
 
 Beethoven 
 
 380. Sonatina in G 
 
 Beethoven 
 
 302. Spanish Air (Dance) 
 
 Eric Stapleton 
 
 378. Stephanie Gavotte 
 
 A. Czibulka 
 
 166. Tannhauser 
 
 Wagner 
 
 150* Tarantella 
 
 L. B. Mallelt 
 
 290. Washington Post March (easy) 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 454. White Wiigs (Transcription) 
 
 Small wood 
 
 291. Woodland Echoes 
 
 Wyman 
 
 PIANO DUETS. 
 
 367. Come o’er the Stream Charlie 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 371. From Greenland’s Icy Mountains 
 
 A. Muilen 
 
 372. I’d Choose to be a Daisy 
 
 A % Mullen 
 
 154. Maiden’s Prayer 
 
 Badarazewka 
 
 156. March of the Cameron Men ... 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 155. Marche des Croates 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 159. Minnie, or Lilly Dale ... 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 353. Silvery Waves (Wyman) ... 
 
 A ndre 
 
 DANCE. 
 
 388. Amorosa Mazurka 
 
 A. H . Oswald 
 
 387. Blue Bells Sohottische 
 
 S. Leslie 
 
 262. Blue Danube Waltz ... 
 
 Strauss 
 
 382. British Army Polka 
 
 Alec Carlton 
 
 285. City Polka 
 
 J. D. Wimpenny 
 
 161. Cosmopolitan Quadrille 
 
 L. Gautier 
 
 127. Cyprus Polka 
 
 Seotson Clark 
 
 402. Denau Wellen Waltz (Easily arr. by) 
 
 Percy E. Douglas 
 
 101. Electric Waltz ... 
 
 H. Klein 
 
 397. Esmeralda Waltz (easily arranged) ... 
 
 S. Osborne 
 
 395. Fancy Dress Ball Quadrille ... 
 
 Rosenberg] 
 
 413. Faust Waltz (arr. by P. E. Douglas) ... 
 
 Gouno 
 
Cheap Music (continued).— 
 
 250. Flora Waltz 
 
 W. Gordon 
 
 386. Horae Guards Scliottische 
 
 S. Leslie 
 
 102. Lucifer Polka 
 
 H. Klein 
 
 251. Niagara Waltz ... 
 
 Vo v 2 anger 
 
 144. Munioh Polka ... 
 
 Jos. Gungl 
 
 403. Olympia Schottische ... 
 
 Sydney J. Smith 
 
 254. Over tbc Waves (Sobra las Olas) 
 
 Rosas 
 
 366. Roseland Waltz 
 
 Marietta Lena 
 
 41 5. S weetheart Pol ka 
 
 Gounod 
 
 265. Vinolia Schottische 
 
 P. Lester 
 
 268. Woodlaud Whispers Waltz ... 
 
 Stanley 
 
 VIOLIN AND PIANO. 
 
 
 256. Campbells are Coming ... 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 257. British Grenadiers 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 258. A Life on the Ocean Wave 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 259. Hearts of Oak ... 
 
 A . Mullen 
 
 260. Ivy Green 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 261. Red, White and Blue ... 
 
 A . Mullen 
 
 317. Ben Bolt 
 
 A . Mullen 
 
 312. Low Back’d Car ... 
 
 A . M ullen 
 
 313. Sprig of Shillelagh 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 314. March from Norma 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 315. March, Guillaume Tell 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 316. Lass O’Gowrie ... 
 
 A. Mullen 
 
 284. Reverie (E min.) 
 
 W. Vinnicombe 
 
 VIOLIN. 
 
 
 170. March St. Olave 
 
 F. James 
 
 MANDOLINE AND PIANO. 
 
 274. Alice where art Thou ? 
 
 
 407. Belle of Chicago March 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 406. Blue Danube Waltz ... 
 
 Strauss 
 
 416. Cadet Two Step (arranged) ... 
 
 A lard 
 
 408. Corcoran Cadets March 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 272. Donau Wellen Waltz ... 
 
 Ivanovici 
 
 414. Faust Waltz and Flower Song 
 
 Gounod 
 
 277. Hiawatha Popular Cake Walk 
 
 Neil Moret 
 
 401. High School Cadets March ... 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 289. Honey are you true 
 
 Sydney Osborne 
 
 267. Kathleen Mavourneen ... 
 
 Crouch 
 
 399. Liberty Bell March ... 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 400. Manhattan Beach March 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 411. March Past of the National Fencibles 
 
 J. P. Sousa. 
 
 410. March Past of the Rifle Regiment ... 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 255. Oceana Schottische ... 
 
 W. H. Stevens 
 
 279. Over the Waves 
 
 Rosas 
 
 409. Our Flirtation March ... 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 412. Semper Fidelia March 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 398. Washington Post March 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
32 W. REEVES, 83, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C, 
 
 BANJO AND PIANO 
 
 429. Belle of Chicago March 
 
 405. Cadet Two Step (arranged) ... 
 
 430. Corcoran Cadets March 
 
 428. High School Cadets March ... 
 
 419. Liberty Belle March ... 
 
 418. Manhattan Beach March 
 
 433. March Past of the National Fenoibles 
 432. March Past of the Rifle Begiment ... 
 
 431. Our Flirtation March ... 
 
 434. Semper Fidelia March 
 417. Washington Post March 
 
 J. P. Sousa 
 A lard 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P . Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 J. P. Sousa 
 
 THE VIOLIN TIMES, 
 
 Edited by E. POLONASKL 
 
 Monthly, 2d., 
 
 (by post 2 *d,) 
 
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 Subscription, 2s. 6d., per Year 
 
 VoLS 1 TO 8, BOUND, PRICE 6/- EACH. 
 
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 PORTRAITS 
 
 VOL 8 
 
 Prof, and Mrs. Holloway 
 and Family 
 Eugene Polonaski 
 Hugo Kupferschmidt 
 Dr. Joachim. 
 
 Anton Schumacher 
 William Christ Basle 
 M. Coward-Klee 
 Dettmar Dressel 
 The Joachim Quartet 
 Kubelik 
 
 C. M. Hawcroft 
 
 VOL. 7. 
 
 VV. A. Mozart 
 Miss Kate Lee 
 R. Peckotsch 
 Gordon Tanner 
 Eugene Meier 
 W. V. Fisher 
 Paganini 
 T. B. Parsons 
 Joseph Guarnerius 
 Gesu Violin, 1733 
 
 VOL. 6. 
 Pierre Baillot 
 C. A. de Beriot 
 J. R. Bingley 
 Ole Bull 
 
 A rcangelo Corelli 
 
 del 
 
 PORTRAITS (continued.) 
 
 Ferdinand David 
 Elderhorst Quartette 
 H. Wilhelm Ernst 
 Miss Muriel Handley 
 Miska Hauser 
 N. Paganini 
 Louis Spohr 
 A. Stradivarius 
 li. Vieuxtemps 
 G. Viotti 
 
 VOL. 5. 
 
 T. G. Briggs 
 
 Cologne Gurzenich Quar- 
 tette 
 
 Wm. Henley 
 Miss Leonora Jaokson 
 J. Koh-Alblas 
 A. Oppenheiin (violinist) 
 
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 Dr. H. Pudor 
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 W. E. Whitehouse 
 Miss Gladys May Hooley 
 J. Harold Henry 
 Adolphe Pollitzer 
 Mdlle. Edith Smith 
 John Dunn 
 Heinrich Maria Hain 
 Edina Bligh 
 
 PORTRAITS (continued.) 
 
 I. B. Poznanski 
 Rene Ortmans 
 A. Simonetti 
 W. Ten Have 
 Mdlle. Wietrowitz 
 Miss Hilaegard Werner 
 Fred Furnace 
 Miss Kathleen Thomas 
 M. Cesare Thomson 
 
 F. Whiieley 
 
 H. Lyell Tayler 
 Stanley W. G. Barfoot 
 
 G. de Angelis 
 Marcello Rossi 
 
 FACSIMILES AND 
 PICTURES. 
 
 Paganini on his Death-bed 
 Letter of Ch. de Beriot 
 Letter of Camillo Sivori 
 Defeasance of a bond by 
 Roger Wade Crowder 
 Viola di Gamba by Carlo 
 Bergonzi, 1713 
 Facsimile Labels in Nos 
 r 32 , 34, 35, 37, 505 , ,58 
 Lira daGamba.byLlnarolo, 
 reproduction of Painting 
 by Tintoretto 
 David Techler's Viola 
 Stradivari’s Scroll 
 Jacob Stainer’s House 
 
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