MUSIC BEFORE AND DURING THE REFORMATION--(_continued_)
Secular music dating from the thirteenth century--Origin lost in
antiquity--Earliest specimens, dance music--Morris dance traced to
Saxon times--Dancing always associated with singing--Gradual
independence--Popularity of the month of May--The ballad and its
antiquity--Popular specimens--"Parthenia," a collection of pieces
for virginals--Life in England during the reign of Queen
Elizabeth--Its happiness--Authority of Professor Thorold
Rogers--Great men living at the time--Pageantry and the Queen--Her
love of dancing and music--Her sympathy with the joys of her
people--Queen Elizabeth as a musician--Sir James Melvil and his
adventure--The masque--Its origin--Popularity--James I. and
art--Masque forerunner of opera--The madrigal, catch, round and
glee--Shakespeare and the catch--"Sumer is icumen in," a wonderful
specimen of ancient skill and genius--The "canon"--Instrumental
music--Explanation of its late development--Purcell--Conclusion.
Authentic examples of secular music in England date from the thirteenth
century. It is not from this fact, though, one must suppose that it did
not exist prior to that period. On the contrary, music of some kind or
other has, doubtless, been a source of solace as well as amusement for
untold years.
For antiquity, vocal music stands pre-eminent. Ages must have passed
before instrumental music came to any position of efficacy at all
correlative with it.
It must be remembered that music as we know it, is the gift that the
ancient Church gave us centuries ago, and that the pangs of its birth
were suffered in days of which all sense of record is lost.
That there were seculars, even in those remote days, whose ideas of
musical progress would not be bound by the ties of ecclesiastical
gravity may be taken for granted, and as the art progressed in the
Church they would naturally take advantage of it to further their skill
in the direction of a lighter and less serious type.
To seek for the earliest examples of dance music is simply to grope in
the dark. As to its progress, all that can be suggested is that it
fairly synchronises with that of sacred character.
This need be no matter for surprise, since seeing that the Church never
did other than encourage the healthy outdoor life of the people, it may
be assumed that the monks, who were responsible for the music in the
Church, were as willing as able, to help in the advancement outside of
it.
Research makes it certain that the first efforts at dancing were
accompanied by singing, and only in its latest stages of advancement was
it strong enough to dispense with this, and rely on the attraction of
the rhythmic movements of the dancer.
From this it will be reasonably inferred that for countless centuries
the two arts remained in combination, before the incentive genius of
either proved too strong to longer brook the artificial ties that had
bound them together.
It is said that the Morris dance can be traced to Saxon times, and that
it is the one that has remained with the least variation from its
original form. It must be admitted, however, that the difficulty of
absolutely proving these assertions is almost insuperable,
notwithstanding the amount of research that has been directed to the
subject.
It can be traced definitely as far back as the reign of Edward III., and
in its most popular form, is known as the may-pole dance.
It was particularly associated with May Day, and was danced round a
may-pole to a lively and capering step.
Reminiscences of these old "round" dances may be traced in games played
by children to-day, such as "Kiss in the ring," "Hunt the slipper,"
"Here we go round the mulberry bush," and others of a similar type.
The onlookers sang and marked the rhythm by the clapping of hands.
With increasing skill in the making of musical instruments, and
increasing art in playing on them, the dance gradually became
independent, as is manifestly shown by music that is still extant, and
while being evidently intended for dancing, is quite unsingable. Once
then separated, the art naturally developed on bolder and more original
lines. As the human voice was the first medium of expression in music,
all lines necessarily radiated from it. Singing induced dancing; dancing
required a more certain rhythmic force than the voice could supply;
hence artificial aid by means of instruments, the first, doubtless,
being those of percussion.
With the arrival of instruments of a more advanced character and capable
of more varied expression, the progress of the art would naturally
proceed with greater rapidity, and on lines displaying greater variety.
England, in those days, was avid of pleasure. It is little to be
wondered at.
We speak of the people, not of the nobles, whose wealth enabled them to
combat the ordinary existing conditions.
Their day depended, in a very special sense, on the sun, in a manner
surprising to those of us living in the twentieth century. It began with
the rising, and ended with the setting.
Artificial light, except of the most primitive description, was a luxury
entirely out of their reach.
If we, in modern times, remembering its fickle climate, wonder at the
popularity of the month of May, and the adulation it received at the
hands of the early poets, a little consideration will soon supply the
cause. The long, weary months of winter, with its darkness and cold, had
been endured; the bitter winds of March and April were over, and the
long days and tempered breezes came to the people with a relief, the
intensity of which is difficult to realise, with all the means of
comfort that modern civilisation has placed at our disposal.
The ballad, as distinguished from the song, is peculiarly typical of the
Northern races, and was, up to the time of Queen Elizabeth, a favourite
feature of English music. As its name implies,[6] it was danced as well
as sang; later on the dance was dispensed with.
Its antiquity is unquestionable, but it is, as is so often the case,
impossible to assign any definite date to it.
The early part of the eleventh century certainly knew it in England, as
the following stanza proves.[7] It tells of a visit paid to the city by
King Canute:--
"Mery sungen the muneches binnen Ely.
Tha Cnut ching reu therby:
Roweth, cnites, noer the land,
An here we thes muneches saeng."
This may be translated for the modern reader as follows:--
"Merry sang the monks of Ely,
As King Canute rowed by.
Row knights, near the land
And hear we these monks sing."
The music is, unfortunately, lost.
In Roman times a popular feature of the processions organised in honour
of some newly-arrived conquering soldier was a band of dancers who,
while gyrating in graceful movement, sang poems, reciting his heroic
deeds.
The praise of heroes was, from the earliest, the dominant feature of the
ballad, and, although far removed, as it must be from anything
resembling even medi[ae]val methods, the Greek and Roman form of it is
most probably the real source from which it is derived.
There are many kinds of ballad known to England, but they are narrative,
as a rule, such as "Chevy Chase," and many others of a similar style.
Some are sad, some are gay; none are sentimental. One that can be seen
in the Sloane Collection in the British Museum, "Joly Yankyn," is
probably not much later than the one previously quoted. The name will
recall Friar Tuck to the readers of Scott's "Ivanhoe."
A ballad that is believed to be of Eastern origin is the following:--
"THERE WERE THREE RAVENS SAT ON A TREE."
[Illustration]
[Text alternative:
There were three ra-vens sat on a tree,
Downe-hay, downe-hay, downe-hay-downe. They were as black as
they might be, With a downe, downe-hay, downe-hay-downe. Then
one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our
break-fast take?" With a downe, downe-hay, downe-hay-downe.]
We are on safer ground, however, when we come to such a one as
"To-morrow the Fox will come to Town," with the refrain, "I must desire
you neighbours all, to hallo the fox out of the hall." This is
altogether more English in character, and is filled with the spirit of
open air life.
Other examples that seem inevitable of quotation, are those that
Shakespeare has made immortal, by putting them into the mouth of
Ophelia, in the tragic scene from Hamlet.
The music that we quote here is that which, there is every reason to
believe, was sung at the original production.
The style accords with Shakespeare's time.
Unfortunately when Drury Lane Theatre was burnt down in 1812, the music
library was destroyed. Happily, however, Mrs. Jordan, the celebrated
actress with whose fame the part of Ophelia is for ever associated, was
alive, and was able to sing to Dr. Arnold, a famous musician of the
time, the melodies, as they had been rendered in the theatre in her
time, and probably for centuries past.
"HOW SHOULD I YOUR TRUE LOVE KNOW?"
[Illustration]
[Text alternative:
And how should I your true love know From ma-ny an-o-ther
one? O by his coc-kle hat and staff,[8] And
by his san-dal shoon. Twang, lang, dil-do, dee.]
"AND WILL HE NOT COME AGAIN?"
[Illustration]
[Text alternative:
And will he not come a-gain?... And
will he not come a-gain? No, he is dead; Gone
to his death-bed, And he nev-er will come a-gain....]
"ST. VALENTINE'S DAY."[9]
[Illustration]
[Text alternative:
Good mor-row, 'tis St. Val-en-tine's Day,
All in the morn-ing be-time;... And I a maid at
your win-dow, To be your val-en-tine....]
In "Parthenia," a collection of pieces for the virginals (an instrument
that may be described as the ancestor of the piano), which was published
in 1611, it is shewn to what a high point of development the composition
of dance music had arrived.
The music was composed by the three most celebrated English musicians
then living, William Byrd, John Bull, and Orlando Gibbons--Tallis had
been dead over twenty years.
The pieces are of the most stately kind, in general, and would scarcely
realise the modern conception of dance music, but they are beautiful
specimens of the art of those days, and cannot but command our
admiration.
Of the more lively and frivolous dances the one known as Trenchmore was
the most popular.
"Be we young or old ... we must dance Trenchmore over table, chairs and
stools."[10]
Selden, in his "Table Talk," "Then all the company dances, lord and
groom, lady and kitchen maid, no distinction."
The more one comes to learn of life in the England of those days, the
more one becomes convinced that, taken as a whole, life was both happy
and joyous. No less an authority than Professor Thorold Rogers, after
profound research into the social conditions of the Middle Ages, says
they show that a state of happiness and content prevailed.[11]
Dancing was advised, too, as "a goodly regimen against the fever
pestilence."
The fact that there is comparatively little of old-time music extant is
due to the late invention of music printing and the slow progress of
musical notation. "Parthenia" was, as the title page tells, the first
music for the virginals ever printed, and yet appeared as late as 1611.
From that time, naturally, records of everything written of any
importance, exist.
In the reign of Queen Elizabeth the typical life of the England of old,
is shown at its best, and in its most characteristic state of
development.
Soon afterwards, foreign influence, aided by a foreign Court, added to
the depressing element of Puritanism, was to shake to its foundations
this character and to mould it into that type which for centuries it
retained.
The Wars of the Roses had long been over, and economic conditions
greatly modified and improved. The genius of the people seemed to burst
out as if relieved from intolerable repression.
The absence of the unceasing scares and horrors of war gave them the
opportunity that had so long been denied.
To think that such men as Shakespeare, Bacon, Burleigh, Drake, Raleigh,
Tallis, Byrd, and Orlando Gibbons were living at the same time, and may
have often passed each other in the streets of London!
There can be little doubt that the reign of Queen Elizabeth was the
happiest the people had ever experienced, and it may be truly said that
the Queen was the very incarnation of the spirit of the age.
Her love of pageantry and display was an unfailing source of joy to
them, all the more, since they were frequently called upon to assist at
many of the great functions that were organised in her honour by the
great nobles. Her frequent progresses through the country were
occasions, not only of gratification to herself, but excitement to
them, relieving as they did the monotony of toil and the sense of
isolation incidental to country communities in those days of difficult
communications. The Reformation had not been sufficiently long in
progress to affect the spirit of the people. It had not really reached
them. If England ever deserved the appellation of "merrie," those were
the days.
The sports were, if rough and coarse, joyous and frank.
To the Englishman of to-day their amusements may seem childish enough,
but education was then, it must be remembered, entirely confined to the
few, and the amenities of life, such as we know, were practically
absent. A favourite feature was a procession of musicians and dancers
dressed to represent such popular characters as Robin Hood and Friar
Tuck, and bedecked with bells on elbow and knee that jingled as they
danced.
The badinage that passed between the performers and onlookers was of a
kind, it must be confessed, that would fall strangely on the ear at the
present day, but still, there is every evidence that although the
manners were rough and the language guileless of restraint, the heart of
the people was sound at the core, and the deep-seated sense of religion
in the Anglo-Saxon race was as present then as at any time in its
history. The exuberant spirit is ever evidenced by the wealth of
drinking songs. These seem to have been as much in vogue in those days
as the monotonous frequency of love songs, from which we suffer, is in
these.
Shakespeare makes good-humoured fun of the propensity in "Twelfth Night:
or What you Will." In the famous drinking scene between Sir Toby Belch
and Sir Andrew Aguecheek he satirises their foibles, it is true, but in
the most delightful and even sympathetic manner, and certainly gives Sir
Toby a telling rejoinder to the upbraiding of the sober-minded Malvolio,
who had come with the intention of putting an end to the carousal: "Dost
thou think that because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?"
Music was everywhere apparent. Wherever the monarch went, it was made a
special feature at all functions. Whatever entertainments were devised
by her courtiers, it ever had a principal place. Of the most gorgeous
and notorious of them, the one given by the Earl of Leicester in her
honour at Kenilworth Castle takes the first rank. Bishop Creighton, in
his "Life of Queen Elizabeth," gives so vivid a description of it that,
as one reads, the imagination seems, as it were, to become vitalised.
The Queen especially enjoyed these pageants, as they seemed to symbolise
at once the greatness of her position and her personal dignity.
Those who entertained her, well knew both her haughty Tudor temper and
intense femininity. To evade the one and satisfy the cravings of the
other was the end ever held in view.
Hence, all kinds of contrivances were devised to glorify her person in
allegory. In one, Triton is represented as rising from the water and
imploring her to deliver an enchanted lady from the wiles of a cruel
knight; upon which the lady straightway appears accompanied by a band of
nymphs, Proteus following, riding on a dolphin. Suddenly, from the heart
of the dolphin springs a choir of ocean gods, who sing the praises of
the beautiful and all-powerful Queen!
Now Elizabeth was neither beautiful in person or character, but she
possessed the very genius of sovereignty.
The imperious Tudor temper to which she constantly yielded, certainly
detracted from her womanly qualities, but what she lacked as woman, it
is only just to say, she more than made up for as Queen.
On this occasion, besides the great pageant, rustic sports of every
kind, including bull baiting, were indulged in, and "a play was acted by
the men of Coventry."
That she shared her people's love of dancing is again shewn by the
following: "We are in frolic here at Court," writes Lord Worcester in
1602, "much dancing of country dances in the Privy Chamber before the
Queen's Majesty, who is exceedingly pleased therewith."
In fact, her sympathy with the amusements of the people, and her
encouragement of every healthy enjoyment, are certainly great factors in
the hold her memory has retained in the minds of the English race.
[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH.
_Face 32._]
There are other reasons, of course, of graver import, but they do not
enter into our immediate consideration.
All the Tudor monarchs were essentially musical, as being Welsh they
well might be. Henry VIII. was a composer of both sacred and secular
music. I well remember that the first of an old volume of anthems in the
library of Salisbury Cathedral was by no less a personage than that
monarch himself. It was not, however, so far as my experience went, ever
sung.
Queen Elizabeth was also an accomplished musician and an expert
performer on the virginals, as the following quotation goes to prove.
Its interest is peculiarly striking as it shows yet another side of the
character of this many-sided, wonderful woman. It is from the memoirs of
Sir James Melvil, at the time Scottish Ambassador:--
"The same day after dinner, my Lord of Hunsden drew me up to a quiet
gallery that I might hear some music (but he said he durst not avow it),
where I might hear the Queen play upon the virginals. After I had
harkened awhile I took by the tapestry that hung by the door of the
chamber, and seeing her back was toward the door, I entered within the
chamber and stood a pretty space, hearing her play excellently well; but
she left off immediately so soon as she turned her about and saw me. She
appeared to be surprised to see me, and came forward, seeming to strike
me with her hand, alleging she was not used to play before men, but when
she was solitary, to shun melancholy. She asked me how I came there? I
answered, as I was walking with my Lord Hunsden, as we passed by the
chamber door, I heard such a melody as ravished me, whereby I was drawn
in ere I knew how; excusing my fault of homeliness as being brought up
in the Court of France, where such freedom was allowed; declaring myself
willing to endure what kind of punishment her Majesty should be pleased
to inflict upon me for so great offence. Then she sate down low upon a
cushion, and I upon my knees by her; but with her own hand she gave me a
cushion to lay under my knee; which at first I refused, but she
compelled me to take it. She enquired whether my Queen or she played
best. In that I found myself obliged to give her the praise."
Perhaps the most important form of musical and dramatic art that came
into prominence during the Tudor period was the masque.
It was a combination of the various arts of music, acting, dancing and
mimicry. Simple and unpretentious in its primitive form, it became
subsequently, an entertainment of the most elaborate and gorgeous kind,
and one that was conspicuously encouraged and patronised by Royalty. It
attained to the highest pitch of artistic splendour and efficiency in
the reign of James I.
From nearly every point of view it may be reasonably described as the
forerunner of modern opera.
Its origin, like all that has to do with music in England, is obscure
and dates back to centuries of which we have little or no record. In
all probability it was the outcome of the early performances encouraged
by the Church, of representations of biblical subjects, to which we
refer in another chapter.
By the time of Henry VIII. it had become as popular a feature in the
life of the people as cricket or football is to-day.
Not only did the simple people take part in the performances, but the
principal characters were frequently performed by members of the
nobility and of the Court, Royalty itself not having altogether resisted
their fascination.
The explanation of the vogue to which they attained in the reign of
James I. is probably that the monarch was much less in touch generally
with art, and particularly that akin to the Shakespearean drama, than
was his more enlightened and intellectual predecessor. In fact, the
drama proper was altogether beyond his region of intelligence, and since
the masque, while making sufficient appeal to the senses, made less
demand on his mental capacity, it suited him and enjoyed his particular
favour.
His tastes were, it must be said, so far as appertaining to art, of a
peculiarly low order.
Ben Jonson, who supplied the literary part of the most famous of these
plays, was, for a man of his genius and learning, extraordinarily coarse
in his language even for those days, and his comedy, "Bartholomew Fair,"
which was about the worst in this respect that even he perpetrated, was
King James' special favourite.
Of music the King knew little and cared less, and it had come, probably
in consequence, to play a secondary or even lower part in the
productions of this time. In proportion as they increased in splendour
they lost in artistic value, and, similarly as they came to be the
exclusive amusement of the wealthy, so they lost their hold on the
people.
In the year 1616 the splendour and extravagance of these displays
culminated in the representation of the masque entitled, "The Golden Age
Restored." It was played by the ladies and gentlemen of the Court.
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, so pleasing his Majesty that the
latter cried out in ecstasy, "By my soul, mon, thou hast done it full
weel." The King is said to have contributed [L]1000 on the occasion.
There is little need for obvious comment on this fact.
It is worthy of remark that for some years before this, most of the
performances of which there is any record were given at Whitehall, or in
such buildings as the Inns of Court. They had grown out of the
simplicity characterising primitive popular spectacles, and had become
rather a medium for the idle pastimes of the rich.
The high tide of joyousness and gaiety in the life of the people had
been reached in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and was fast receding. The
spirit of the Reformation was getting hold of them and, perhaps, in its
most fanatical aspect.
However, the masque had served its purpose. It had been in earlier days
a source of harmless vent to the exuberant spirit of the people, and it
was later to become the source of inspiration from which the primitive
opera, as represented by Purcell's "Dido and [AE]neas," drew breath.
Of secular music, demanding more skill in invention and more proficiency
in performance than the ballad, were the madrigal, catch, round, glee,
and similar forms of expression. Being concerted pieces demanding the
simultaneous singing of various parts, a technical training was, of
course, necessary to enable one to join in them.
Their great popularity in all classes of society is sufficient proof,
however, of the general training in the art that then existed. In fact,
it was considered an essential thing in a gentleman's education, and the
ability to take part in a "catch" or "round" was as natural to him in
those days as it is to shoot or play cricket in these.
We cannot give the reader a better means to realise this than by quoting
Shakespeare again, in whose words every feature in that wonderful age is
held up to the mirror.
In "Twelfth Night" the following will be found:--
_Sir Toby_: Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw
three souls out of one weaver[12]? Shall we do that?
"_Sir Andrew_: An you love me, let's do it: I am a dog at a catch.
"_Clown_: By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
"_Sir Andrew_: Most certain: let our catch be 'Thou knave.'
"_Clown_: 'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be
constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.
"_Sir Andrew_: 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to
call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, 'Hold thy peace.'
"_Clown_: I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
"_Sir Andrew_: Good i' faith! Come, begin."
(They sing a catch.)
The "catch" was a melody started by one singer and followed by another
at an interval of one or more bars, singing identical notes, who would
be succeeded by yet another in a similar manner. It depended upon the
dexterity with which the performers would catch up their notes at the
right moment as to whether harmony or chaos resulted.
It was a popular form of amusement, but we are hardly surprised when
Malvolio appears on the scene and addresses the singers thus:--
"My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners,
nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do
you make an ale-house of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your
cozier's catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is
there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?"
To all of which Sir Toby, treating it as an aspersion on his skill in
music, replies, "We did keep time, sir, in our catches."
The madrigal was an altogether more serious form of art, and, except for
the words, might be identified with the best specimens of ecclesiastical
music. It was polyphonic in treatment, and generally grave in character.
Indeed, to judge by some of the most celebrated examples, it seems
almost savouring of jest to describe it as secular.
Of English composers, perhaps those who most excelled in this class of
composition were Byrd, Dowland, and Orlando Gibbons. The most splendid
example being that entitled, "The Silver Swan," by the last-named.
The glee, although less serious in character, as its name implies, was a
truly artistic type of concerted music, and there are numerous specimens
of early date of great beauty and contrapuntal skill, but they are
characterised by comparative simplicity.
The transition from one to the other would seem natural, seeing the
extreme elaboration that rendered the madrigal difficult of
interpretation to any but highly-skilled singers.
The beautiful "Since First I Saw your Face," by Thomas Ford, can hardly
be described by either title, for while it is removed in tone from the
glee it lacks the atmosphere of the schools that the madrigal suggests.
The glee, as it is popularly known to-day, is of a later date, and came
to perfection about the middle of the eighteenth century.
It is a remarkable fact that perhaps the most beautiful and certainly
one of the most skilfully written specimens of medi[ae]val music, is
also one of the most ancient. The date of it must be purely conjectural,
although the scholar may to some extent be guided by the words as to the
actual century of its origin.
The opening words, "Sumer is icumen in," are probably familiar to most
readers, since they are ever in evidence when the question of old
English music is under consideration. Indeed, it would take many volumes
to record what has been written about this extraordinary composition.
From whatever point of view it is judged it commands admiration and
wonder.
It demonstrates that in the art of music England was then not only
abreast of foreign nations, but probably in advance of them.
It shows that polyphonic writing must have reached to a high point of
development even so far back as the thirteenth century, and there is
every reason to believe, even long before then.
It seems to me to be only a very obvious deduction. Just as there must
have been many great poets before Homer, so this work must be the
fortunate survivor of a long-lost school that, unhappily for us, had no
enduring medium for transmission of its genius to later ages.
It exhibits, apart from the skill that characterised ancient
ecclesiastical music, from which it indubitably sprang, a rare genius in
interpreting the spirit and feeling of the words. In this respect it may
be said to have anticipated centuries to come. With every appreciation,
sincere and even reverend, of the ancient music of the Church, it must
be acknowledged that in spirit it was rigid, severe and formal. In other
words, it appealed to the religious and intellectual sense rather than
that of beauty. "Sumer is icumen in," on the contrary, seems to be the
work of one who is able to leap over the centuries and speak in the
tones of ages unborn, to be, in fact, a forerunner, a teacher of the
ages then in the womb of Time.
It has, in perfection, three great qualities of the highest art--perfect
skill in execution, commanding appeal to the purest emotions, and the
power to leave the mind in a state of ecstatic rest or emotional
contentment that makes one oblivious of the world while listening or
watching. It was the outcome of an age of great religious enthusiasm.
The monks had great dreams, and with them came the energy that inspired
their brains to the utmost fulfilment.
The dream that led to the Crusades is the one that has most appealed to
the imagination of the world; but it was only one of many.
"Sumer is icumen in" was written in a form that seems to have especially
appealed to those early composers, for the _canon_[13] was a constant
medium of musical expression in medi[ae]val times.
That the reader may the more readily understand, I quote here a specimen
that is at once beautiful and familiar to all, and is known as the
"Morning Hymn." Its simplicity will make it intelligible to the least
technically instructed of musical readers:--
[Illustration]
It will be observed that the last four notes in the treble clef indicate
the repetition of the melody, which can continue indefinitely as here
represented.
When we come to the consideration of instrumental music of olden times,
we have little to guide us in the formation of any dear conception of
its value or importance.
It is evident, however, that up to the time of Purcell or that
immediately preceding it, the state of development was altogether
inferior to that of vocal music.
For many centuries, except as regards its use in the Church, it occupied
the humble position of handmaiden to the sister art of dancing.
Such of it as still exists is, practically, all written in dance
measure. The dances were, it is true, in varied forms and rhythms. Some
were stately and even serious in character, and offered the composer an
opportunity to display his skill in a more thankful task than in
furnishing accompaniments to the lighter and more frivolous ones.
Beautiful specimens of these are found in the compositions of William
Byrd, John Ball, Orlando Gibbons, and others of the same period; they
were mostly written for the virginals.
To those living in this age of stupendous achievement in the art, the
comparative simplicity and ineffectiveness of instrumentation may well
seem strange, seeing to what a point of splendour vocal music had
attained.
The explanation is, I think, to be found in the defective nature of the
instrument on which the composer had to rely to provide the sounds that
his consciousness urged him to produce.
The violin had yet to be brought to perfection through the genius of a
Stradivarius, and time was needed to show its full capacities in the
hands of a Paganini.
The wind instruments, too, of the modern orchestra are of incomparable
possibilities to those in use in the sixteenth century.
However, with the improvement and perfecting in their manufacture came a
decided step towards a higher and independent form of art, and that this
advance was not slowly taken advantage of is shown in the most
extraordinary way in the works of Purcell.
Again, the very imperfect forms of musical notation must have always
proved a stumbling-block to those early musicians. Even to-day, with its
advanced methods, the act of putting on paper a modern orchestral
composition is a work of enormous labour. The reader will understand
this, when I say that music which takes but merely a few minutes in
performance may easily take the composer as many hours to translate on
to the pages of his score.
That this obstacle to musical progress was signally true as applied to
organ music, I am convinced.
An organ is known to have been used in a French cathedral as early as
the sixth century.
Primitive in its structure as it must have been, it probably had
sufficient pipes to aid the congregation in the singing of the
plain-song.
As time advanced, the monks, ever restless in their desire to add glory
to the Church, made unceasing efforts to improve this great adjunct to
her service, and by the fifteenth century an instrument had been
constructed that was secure in the promise of untold possibilities, and
had already become a verification of their early dreams.
The sixteenth century saw the organ come into general use, and in the
early days of the seventeenth it arrived at maturity. The immense
advance in the structural appliances in modern times are, it would seem,
simply scientific application to ancient ideas.
One cannot help thinking how many must have been the inspired strains
that rang through cathedral aisles in those early days as the hands of
the monks wandered over the organ keys, the double incentives of
religious fervour and love of art urging them on to higher achievement:
a strange and yet fascinating figure of saint and artist.
By the time of Purcell instrumental music had advanced beyond the dance
measure, and arrived at a state of independence. It could stand by
itself without the aid of singer or dancer to sustain it. The process of
emerging from the parasitic stage of clinging to these arts for
sustenance was completed, and it had struck its roots so deep down that
future ages might well, with wondering amazement at its magnificent
growth, find it difficult to grasp the idea of its humble origin. The
compositions left, in this kind, by Purcell, such as the fantasias,
sonatas, incidental music to plays, harpsichord and organ music,
indicate only, it is true, the first offshoots of the wonderful tree
that was destined to so fascinate the world, but they gave birth to many
noble branches that helped to invigorate the initial life in its
struggles for existence, and were the most prolific of the tendrils that
make for healthy growth.
In conjunction with his sacred music, these amply justify the claim made
for Purcell that he was, from whatever point of view he may be judged,
the greatest of all English composers.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] The word ballad comes from _Ballare_, to dance.
[7] "Shakespeare in Music." Louis C. Elson. L. C. Page & Co., Boston.
[8] Cockle hat and staff were distinguishing marks of a pilgrim.
[9] It may be mentioned that there are numerous variations of these, as
of all traditional melodies.
[10] Burton: "Anatomy of Melancholy," 1621.
[11] William Chappell's "Music of the Olden Time."
[12] "That will draw three souls out of one weaver" is a line of
peculiar interest.
Although it shows a distinct lack of reverence, it is quite typical of
the spirit of the time. The "weavers" were mostly Calvinist refugees
settled on the East Coast, whose austere manners and mode of life made
them a constant source of ridicule to the people among whom they had
taken shelter.
The imperious will of the Tudor monarchs had, hitherto, prevented the
dissemination of Calvinism in England, and so, to the boisterous,
happy-go-lucky temperament of the Elizabethan Englishman, the
ostentation of religious phraseology, added, probably, to their quaint
pronunciation of the language, made them at once a butt of scorn and
contempt.
The expression used, too, by the clown "By'r lady" shows that
Protestantism had as yet made little inroad on the life of the people.
It is worthy of note that it was from this part of England sailed the
first batch of emigrants to the new world in the "Mayflower," now
immortalised in history.
[13] A canon is a form of composition in which a melody is started by
one voice and followed by another, one or more bars later (or even less)
in strict imitation of it.