CHURCH MUSIC
Dickens has not much to say about church music as such, but the
references are interesting, inasmuch as they throw some light
upon it during the earlier years of his life. In _Our Parish_
(_S.B._) we read about the old naval officer who
finds fault with the sermon every Sunday, says that the
organist ought to be ashamed of himself, and offers to
back himself for any amount to sing the psalms better
than all the children put together.
This reminds us that during the first half of last century,
and indeed later in many places, the church choir as we know
it did not exist, and the leading of the singing was entrusted
to the children of the charity school under the direction of
the clerk, a custom which had existed since the seventeenth
century. The chancel was never used for the choir, and the
children sat up in the gallery at the west end, on either side
of the organ. In a City church that Dickens attended the choir
was limited to two girls. The organ was so out of order that
he could 'hear more of the rusty working of the stops than of
any music.' When the service began he was so depressed that,
as he says,
I gave but little heed to our dull manner of ambling
through the service; to the brisk clerk's manner of
encouraging us to try a note or two at psalm time;
to the gallery congregation's manner of enjoying a
shrill duet, without a notion of time or tune; to the
whity-brown man's manner of shutting the minister into
the pulpit, and being very particular with the lock
of the door, as if he were a dangerous animal.
Elsewhere he found in the choir gallery an 'exhausted
charity school' of four boys and two girls. The congregations
were small, a state of things which at any rate satisfied
Mrs. Lirriper, who had a pew at St. Clement Danes and was
'partial to the evening service not too crowded.'
In _Sunday under Three Heads_ we have a vivid picture of the
state of things at a fashionable church. Carriages roll up,
richly dressed people take their places and inspect each other
through their glasses.
The organ peals forth, the hired singers commence a
short hymn, and the congregation condescendingly rise,
stare about them and converse in whispers.
Dickens passes from church to chapel. Here, he says,
the hymn is sung--not by paid singers, but by the
whole assembly at the loudest pitch of their voices,
unaccompanied by any musical instrument, the words
being given out, two lines at a time, by the clerk.
It cannot be said that, as far as the music is concerned,
either of these descriptions is exaggerated when we remember
the time at which they were written (1838). Very few chapels
in London had organs, or indeed instruments of any kind, and
there is no doubt that the congregations, as a rule, _did_
sing at the tops of their voices, a proceeding known under
the more euphonious title of 'hearty congregational singing.'
He gives a far more favourable account of the music in the
village church. In the essay just referred to he mentions
the fact that he attended a service in a West of England
church where the service 'was spoken--not merely read--by a
grey-headed minister.'
The psalms were accompanied by a few instrumental
performers, who were stationed in a small gallery
extending across the church at the lower end; and the
voices were led by the clerk, who, it was evident,
derived no slight pride and gratification from this
portion of the service.
But if the church music in England was not of a very high
quality when Dickens wrote the above, it was, according to his
own account, far superior to what he heard in certain churches
in Italy. When in Rome he visited St. Peter's, where he was
quite unimpressed by the music.
I have been infinitely more affected in many English
cathedrals when the organ has been playing, and in
many English country churches when the congregation
have been singing.
On another occasion he attended church at Genoa on a feast day,
and he writes thus about the music:
The organ played away lustily, and a full band did the
like; while a conductor, in a little gallery opposite
the band, hammered away on the desk before him, with a
scroll, and a tenor, without any voice, sang. The band
played one way, the organ played another, the singer
went a third, and the unfortunate conductor banged and
banged, and flourished his scroll on some principle
of his own; apparently well satisfied with the whole
performance. I never did hear such a discordant din.
_Parish Clerks_
We have but few references to parish clerks in the
novels. Mr. Wopsle (_G.E._)--whom Mr. Andrew Lang calls 'one
of the best of Dickens' minor characters'--'punished the Amens
tremendously,'[14] and when he gave out the psalms--always
giving the whole verse--he looked all round the congregation
first, as much as to say 'You have heard our friend overhead;
oblige me with your opinion of this style.' This gentleman
subsequently became a 'play-actor,' but failed to achieve
the success he desired. Solomon Daisy (_B.R._) is bell-ringer
and parish clerk of Chigwell, though we hear nothing of his
exploits in these capacities. However, he must have been a
familiar figure to the villagers as he stood in his little desk
on the Sunday, giving out the psalms and leading the singing,
because when in the rifled and dismantled Maypole he appeals to
the poor witless old Willet as to whether he did not know him--
'You know us, don't you, Johnny?' said the little
clerk, rapping himself on the breast. 'Daisy, you
know--Chigwell Church--bell-ringer--little desk on
Sundays--eh, Johnny?'
Mr. Willet reflected for a few moments, and then
muttered as it were mechanically: 'Let us sing to the
praise and glory of--'
'Yes, to be sure,' cried the little man hastily,
'that's it, that's me, Johnny.'
Besides the numerous body of more or less distinguished artists
whom the novelist introduces to us and whose achievements
are duly set forth in these pages, there are two others whose
connexion with Cloisterham gives them a prominent position in
our list. One of these is the Rev. Mr. Crisparkle (_E.D._),
Minor Canon of Cloisterham:
early riser, musical, classical, cheerful, kind,
good-natured, social, contented, and boy-like.
What a contrast to the Stiggins and Chadband type! He is a
member of the 'Alternate Musical Wednesdays' Society, and
amongst his lesser duties is that of corrector-in-chief of
the un-Dean-like English of the cathedral verger.
It is Mr. Crisparkle's custom to sit up last of the
early household, very softly touching his piano and
practising his parts in concerted vocal music.
Over a closet in his dining-room, where occasional refreshments
were kept,
a portrait of Handel in a flowing wig beamed down at
the spectator, with a knowing air of being up to the
contents of the closet, and a musical air of intending
to combine all its harmonies in one delicious fugue.
The Minor Canon is a warm admirer of Jasper's musical talents,
and on one occasion in particular is much impressed with
his singing.
I must thank you, Jasper, for the pleasure with which
I have heard you to-day. Beautiful! Delightful!
And thus we are introduced to the other musician, whose position
at Cloisterham Cathedral is almost as much a mystery as that of
Edwin Drood himself. He was the lay precentor or lay clerk, and
he was also a good choirmaster. It is unnecessary to criticize
or examine too closely the exact position that Jasper held. In
answer to a question on this subject, Mr. B. Luard-Selby,
the present organist of Rochester Cathedral, writes thus:
We have never had in the choir of Rochester Cathedral
such a musical functionary as Dickens describes in _The
Mystery of Edwin Drood_. The only person approaching
Jasper in the choir is one of the lay clerks who looks
after the music, but who of course has nothing to do
with _setting_ the music for the month. I don't think
Dickens had much idea of church order or of cathedral
worship, though he may have gone over the cathedral
with a verger on occasions. The music of a cathedral
is always in the hands of the precentor, assisted by
the organist.
It is Edwin Drood himself who says that Jasper was lay precentor
or lay clerk at the cathedral. He had a great reputation as a
choir-trainer and teacher of music, but he is already weary of
his position and takes little notice of words of eulogy. He was
well acquainted with the old melodies, and on one occasion we
find him sitting at the piano singing brave songs to Mr. Sapsea.
No kickshaw ditties, favourites with national enemies,
but ... genuine George the Third home brewed,
exhorting him (as 'my brave boys') to reduce to a
smashed condition all other islands but this island,
and all continents, peninsulas, isthmuses, promontories,
and other geographical forms of land soever, besides
sweeping the sea in all directions. In short he rendered
it pretty clear that Providence made a distinct mistake
in originating so small a nation of hearts of oak,
and so many other verminous peoples.
We have a different picture of him on another occasion, as
he sits 'chanting choir music in a low and beautiful voice,
for two or three hours'--a somewhat unusual exercise even for
the most enthusiastic choirmaster. But this was before the
strange journey with Durdles, and we can only guess at the
weird thoughts which were passing through the musician's mind
as he sat in his lonely room.
We have only a brief reference to the choir of Cloisterham
Cathedral. Towards the end we read of them 'struggling into
their nightgowns' before the service, while they subsequently
are 'as much in a hurry to get their bedgowns off as they were
but now to get them on'--and these were almost the last words
that came from the Master's pen.
_Anthems_
There is an interesting reference to anthems in connexion
with the Foundling Hospital,[15] an institution which Dickens
mentions several times. Mr. Wilding (_N.T._), after he had
been pumped on by his lawyer in order to clear his head,
names the composers of the anthems he had been accustomed to
sing at the Foundling.
Handel, Mozart, Haydn, Kent, Purcell, Doctor Arne,
Greene, Mendelssohn. I know the choruses to those
anthems by heart. Foundling Chapel collection.
Mr. Wilding had a scheme of forming his household retainers
and dependents into a singing-class in the warehouse, and a
choir in the neighbouring church. Only one member, Joey Ladle,
refused to join, for fear he should 'muddle the 'armony,'
and his remark that
Handel must have been down in some of them foreign
cellars pretty much for to go and say the same thing
so many times over
is certainly not lacking in originality.
_Hymns and Hymn-Tunes_
There are many purists in church music who object to adaptations
of any kind, and we do not know what their feelings are on
reading the account of the meeting of the Brick Lane Branch of
the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. In
order to vary the proceedings Mr. Anthony Humm announced that
Brother Mordlin had adapted the beautiful words of
'Who hasn't heard of a Jolly Young Waterman' to the
tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them
to join in singing. (Great applause.) And so the song
commenced, the chairman giving out two lines at a time,
in proper orthodox fashion.
It was this air that Mr. Jerry's dog, as already related, ground
out of the barrel-organ, but, besides this particular melody,
we do not find that Dickens mentions any other hymn-tune. The
hymns referred to are rather more in number. In _The Wreck
of the Golden Mary_ Mrs. Atherfield sang Little Lucy to sleep
with the Evening Hymn. There is a veiled reference to Ken's
Morning Hymn in _O.C.S._, where Sampson Brass says:
'Here we are, Mr. Richard, rising with the sun to run
our little course--our course of duty, sir.'
Dr. Watts makes several appearances, Dickens made the
acquaintance of this noted hymnist in early youth (see p. 7),
and makes good use of his knowledge. In _The Cricket on the
Hearth_ Mrs. Peerybingle asks John if he ever learnt 'How
doth the little' when he went to school. 'Not to quite know
it,' John returned. 'I was very near it once.' Another of
the Doctor's hymns is suggested by the behaviour of the Young
Tetterbys (_H.M._).
The contentions between the Tetterbys' children for
the milk and water jug, common to all, which stood
upon the table, presented so lamentable an instance
of angry passions risen very high indeed, that it was
an outrage on the memory of Dr. Watts.
The pages of history abound with instances of misguided amateurs
who have amended the hymns (and tunes) of others in order to
bring them into their way of thinking, and a prominent place
in their ranks must be assigned to Miss Monflathers (_O.C.S._),
who managed to parody the good Doctor's meaning to an alarming
extent and to insist that
In books, or work or healthful play[16]
is only applicable to _genteel_ children, while all poor
people's children, such as Little Nell, should spend their time.
In work, work, work. In work alway,
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for ev'ry day
Some good account at last,
which is far from the good Doctor's meaning.
Dr. Strong, David Copperfield's second schoolmaster, was fond
of quoting this great authority on mischief, but Mr. Wickfield
suggests that Dr. Watts, had he known mankind well, would
also have written 'Satan finds some mischief still for busy
hands to do.'
Some years ago a question was raised in _Notes and Queries_
as to the identity of the 'No. 4 Collection' of hymns which
appeared to afford consolation to Job Trotter. No answer
was vouchsafed, the fact being that the title is a pure
invention, and no such collection has ever existed. It is
scarcely necessary to add that history is silent as to the
identity of the hymn-book which Uriah Heep was reading when
David Copperfield and others visited him in prison.
We are indebted to Dickens for the introduction to the literary
world of Adelaide Procter, many of whose sacred verses have
found their way into our hymnals. The novelist wrote an
introduction to her _Legends and Lyrics_, in which he tells
the story of how, as editor of _Household Words_, he accepted
verses sent him from time to time by a Miss Mary Berwick,
and only discovered, some months later, that his contributor
was the daughter of his friend Procter, who was known under
the _nom de plume_ of Barry Cornwall.
There seems to be some difficulty in regard to the authorship
of the hymn
Hear my prayer, O Heavenly Father,
Ere I lay me down to sleep;
Bid Thy angels, pure and holy,
Round my bed their vigil keep.
It has already been pointed out (see _Choir_, February, 1912)
that this hymn appeared in the Christmas number of _Household
Words_ for 1856, in a story entitled _The Wreck of the Golden
Mary_. The chief authorities on the works of Dickens claim it
as his composition, and include it in his collected works. On
the other hand, Miller, in his _Our Hymns_ (1866), states that
Miss Harriet Parr informed him that the hymn, and the story
of _Poor Dick_, in which it occurs, were both her own. We may
add that when Dr. Allon applied for permission to include it
in his new hymn-book Dickens referred him to the authoress.
Dr. Julian takes this as authoritative, and has no hesitation
in ascribing the hymn to Miss Parr. On the other hand, Forster
records in his _Life of Dickens_ that a clergyman, the Rev.
R.H. Davies, had been struck by this hymn when it appeared in
_Household Words_, and wrote to thank him for it. 'I beg to
thank you,' Dickens answered (Christmas Eve, 1856), 'for your
very acceptable letter, not the less because I am myself the
writer you refer to.' Here Dickens seems to claim the authorship,
but it is possible he was referring to something else in the
magazine when he wrote these words, and not to the hymn.
[14] Dickens frequently uses the word in this sense.
Tom Pinch says, 'I shall punish the Boar's Head
tremendously.' It is also interesting to note that
Dickens uses the phrase 'I don't think' in its modern
slang meaning on at least two occasions. Tom Pinch
remarks 'I'm a nice man, I don't think, as John used
to say' (_M.C._ 6), and Sam Weller (_P.P._ 38) says
to Mr. Winkle 'you're a amiably-disposed young man,
sir, I don't think.' Mark Tapley uses the expression
'a pious fraud' (_M.C._ 13).
[15] 'Pet' (_L.D._ 2) was a frequent visitor to the Hospital.
[16] From the poem on _Industry_.