THE DECLINE OF ENGLISH MUSIC
Three principal causes leading to decline--Reformation the principal
one--The plain-song and the people--Gradual transition in mode of
living--Effect of Calvinistic teaching--Excesses of the Commonwealth
soldiery--Facts as to life of Calvin--Effects of change of
dynasty--The Stuarts and music--The Restoration and resulting
excitement--England rid of the Stuarts--Jonathan Swift a Church
dignitary--First appearance of opera in England--Handel and Italian
opera--He leaves England--Returns and devotes himself to
oratorio--Effect on the people--Its influence on native
composers--Ill-effects of imitation--Necessity of relying on native
inspiration--Vincent Novello--Novello and Company--Services to
English music--Revival--The Wesleys, Samuel and Samuel
Sebastian--Conclusion.
The three principal causes that led to the decline and practical
extinction of English music were the Reformation, the indifference of a
foreign Court, and the settlement in England of large numbers of foreign
musicians, among whom was one of the greatest musical geniuses of all
time, the German, George Frederick Handel. The two latter causes may be
said to be the complement one of the other.
Of these three hostile influences, the Reformation and all that it
involved was, overwhelmingly, the most fatal in its effect, for it
struck at the root foundation; it killed the very soil that gave birth
to the plant. The first blow it inflicted on music--and in those days
that meant English music, not as now--and it was a deadly one, was its
suppression in the services of the Church. To grasp to the full the
significance of this act, one must recall some of the salient features
of national life that had existed for centuries.
We have seen how intimately bound together were the lives of the Church
and the people; how the very existence of either seemed dependent on the
solidity of their union; or, at least, how inseparable a part the
services of the Church were from the daily life and occupations of the
common tillers of the soil, who formed the majority of the population.
Music, in the early days to which we now refer, was a living force and a
vital attraction to the peasantry, who, although perhaps unable to
understand the significance of the elaborate ceremonial that
characterised medi[ae]val forms of worship, were able to join in the
singing of the plain-song that was ever, as far as research can guide
us, an essential element in the rites of the ancient Church.
Here let me say, we must utterly discard from our minds any thought of
the noble and ornate music of the Mass, the product of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries. These works were written for performance by highly
trained singers in the employ of bishops or abbots governing the
cathedrals or monasteries, possessing sufficient wealth to command their
services, and were listened to by a class of people far removed from
those under our present consideration. Such music would, indeed, be far
more remote from their understanding than that sung at St. Paul's
Cathedral to the ordinary agricultural labourer to-day.
No, it was the simple strains of the plain-song that they knew,
understood and loved.
To them, religion and music were as one, and happy were those who drew
their last breath before the new and fantastic doctrines that were
destined to change the whole life and spirit of the people came into
actual effect.
The transition from the old life to the new was a slow one,
notwithstanding the authorities, but once brought about and accepted by
the people, with that tenacity so characteristic of the English race,
they not only absorbed but put into practice tenets that, a century
before, would have been abhorrent to them. That this is, unhappily,
true, the horrible excesses tolerated during the Commonwealth period are
more than sufficient proof.
The hideous teaching that music and every other form of art was
devil-worship became accepted by those who, but not long before, were
the very incarnation of joyous, righteous life, as a revelation that had
only come in the nick of time for their salvation. To suppress every
longing for it, any memory of it, even, was considered a duty and the
indulgence in it a sin, though clothed in ecclesiastical garb. The
strength to resist the yearning for that which for so many ages had
been, to say the least, one of the greatest sources of consolation and
happiness to them, they counted a righteousness, and the more these poor
people suffered, the greater was their assurance of ultimate safety. The
loss of music to the English in those early Calvinistic times must have
been one of the most bitter of the many miseries they had to endure.
It is impossible to think without pity of the transition from the gay,
exuberant and, possibly, irresponsible life that had been theirs for
centuries, to the fearful search after the salvation that their days and
nights were mostly spent in dread of losing.
Should this appear exaggerated, let us turn to the writings of the poet,
William Cowper: we shall find ample confirmation.
It may be said, "Why cite a man who is known to have had fits of
temporary insanity?" The answer is simple. The melancholia from which he
suffered and which led him, on more than one occasion, to attempt to
commit suicide, was the outcome of his belief in the terrible doctrine
of Pre-destination, and the ever-present fear that he was among those
destined to eternal doom.
This is how he writes:
"Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution--
Wait with impatient readiness to seize my
Soul in a moment.
Damn'd below Judas; more abhorr'd than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master!
Twice betray'd, Jesus me, the last delinquent
Deems the profanest.
Man disavows, and Deity disowns me,
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore, Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all
Bolted against one.
Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers,
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors,
I'm call'd, if vanquish'd! to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram's.
Him, the vindictive rod of angry Justice,
Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshy tomb, am
Buried above ground."
Cowper was born a little more than a hundred years after the death of
Shakespeare, and about seventy after that of Cromwell. In Shakespeare's
time it is certain that Puritanism had made little way in England, or
there would have been far more reference to it than is suggested in his
works. He mirrored the spirit of his age and country, and it mattered
little whether he placed the scenes of his plays in an Italian city or
"on the coast of Bohemia," the life depicted in them is that of England
and the spirit embodied that of the robust Elizabethan age. Such reform
as had taken place in the Church was little calculated to affect the
character or temperament of the people, and although it is quite within
ordinary knowledge that there were a considerable number of people
already who had accepted the extreme doctrines that were later to so
terribly transform the national character, they had then no more
influence in the country than the Spiritualists have to-day, in the
twentieth century. Once, however, they had taken root they spread with
appalling rapidity, until by Cowper's time they had gained an ascendency
over the minds of the people that the verses just quoted do but fairly
indicate.
It was in the reign of James I. that Puritanism began to assert itself
in a manner that at all foreshadowed what was to come, and it is a
gratifying thought that Shakespeare did not live to see the England,
that he had loved and so glorified by his genius, bend under the burden
of the foreign intrusion that was to completely alter the aspects of her
life as he had known them. A vital aid doubtless accrued to the movement
through the constant influx of Calvinist refugees from the North of
Europe, mainly Scandinavians, who were warmly welcomed and aided by Anne
of Denmark, wife of the King.
It is curious to note how many movements of anti-national character that
have taken place in England since the time of the Tudors have had the
support of the reigning house. Happily such days are past. It must be
granted, however, that it was as natural on the part of Anne to grant
shelter to her own country people, whether in Scotland or England, as it
was on their part to seek it at her hands.
To whatever causes the spread of Calvinism may be due, its effect on the
nation generally was deplorable, and on music, particularly, absolutely
fatal.
The gloomy fanaticism that its teaching engendered not only prompted the
entire suppression of music of every kind, wherever possible, but made
it become an object of loathing and contempt, and what was found
impossible to achieve by legislation was effected by local tyranny. In
the conventicles that sprung up all over the country, music was pointed
to as the ally of godlessness in its worst and most reprehensible form,
and its use a thing that put the offender outside the pale of religious
life.
It needs little consideration to appreciate the result such teaching
must necessarily have had on people who had come to accept these views
as a revelation of Divine will.
Its effect was, simply, not only to deaden, but to obliterate the very
sense of the art among the masses--that art, too, that had been,
formerly, one of the glories of England.
In other directions, the results of this fanatic spirit are more
concretely shewn, and the terrible evidence that the ancient churches of
the country supply is sufficient to cause a shudder to the more tempered
spirit of later ages.
Practically, every one of these standing buildings affords evidence of
the ruthless and destructive spirit that animated the authorities, and
encouraged the common people and soldiery of the Commonwealth period to
the utmost license in church desecration. The shocking and stupid
brutality of the excesses perpetrated is, at once, a proof of the
ferocious spirit that had been aroused, and the unappeasable hatred
towards everything that could, in any way, suggest Catholic teaching or
influence. When one reads of these atrocities, cold-blooded and
calculated, they bring to the mind rather the sacking of ancient Rome by
the Huns than the acts of civilised Englishmen living after the age of
Shakespeare and Bacon.
The noblest ornaments that the nameless monk-architects had raised to
the glory of God, and the unceasing call to the piety of those living
after, became a special mark for vengeance.
To break down the altars, smash to fragments the sculptured
representations of the Saviour, the Holy Virgin or the saints, was a
source of gratification, and the occasion of licentious jest.
For the destruction of musical instruments and the burning of manuscript
music, we owe them--not gratitude.
To make a bonfire of vestments, and everything that was capable of
absolute extinction by the agency of fire, was an occasion of ribald
mirth and revelry.
To put the glorious cathedrals, the undying evidence of the splendour of
Catholic devotion and enthusiasm, to the basest uses was their common
habitude.
The turning of the noble cloisters, that had been the pious and
unceasing work of so many years to build, into stables for the horses of
Cromwell's cavalry was only one feature of many other and even more
hideous acts of vileness that were not only accomplished, but approved
of.
On these one would rather not dwell. The words horror and indignation
seem infantile to express the emotions called forth by the contemplation
of such things.
After all this, the smashing of the old and beautiful stained glass
windows, sorrowful as it may make us, seems of comparatively little
consequence, unique and of priceless value as they were. It is,
nevertheless, inevitable to think with wondering awe of the awful waste
of the inspired work of centuries.
There are yet, and we may well be thankful for it, a few remains of the
extraordinary beauty of the artistic work of the monks of old. The Lady
Chapel of Gloucester Cathedral is a striking example. It was finished
only a few years before the Reformation, and was more fortunate than the
majority of such buildings, inasmuch as, although the traces of
mutilation are evident, the beauty of the work of the monk-artist can
yet be seen and appreciated.
That the work of destruction was carried out to the fullest extent of
their means by these iconoclasts is proved by the general absence of
remains. It is only an occasional chance, such as the digging of
foundations of a building on the outskirts of a cathedral city, as
happened not long ago, that leads to the discovery of mutilated
fragments of statues, broken arteries of altars of untold age, and
powdered remains of stained glass, that even modern skill admits its
inability to equal, which can give us real and tangible evidence of the
wealth of beauty and pious effort that must have been stored up in those
marvellous old buildings.
The spirit that could guide to the destruction not only of such things
as the eye alone could perceive and appreciate, but of so intangible and
defenceless a thing as music, must indeed have been insatiable. The
majestic strength of those venerable fanes, that seem to defy the flight
of ages, was theirs to successfully resist such enemies as they then
had to encounter, and though they were, to some extent, destined to
suffer in the conflict, yet such wounds as they received were not
altogether incapable of healing.
The point we have to arrive at is the complete realisation that whatever
was beautiful in art was hateful to the Puritans, and it was only when
every vestige of it was uprooted, they ceased their work of violent and
wanton destruction.
So far as music is concerned, their work may be said to have been
complete.
Some facts concerning the life of the extraordinary man who was
destined, through the instrumentality of his teaching, to so vitally
affect English life may be of interest to the reader.
Jean Calvin, or Jean Chauvin, as his birth-name was, was a native of
Picardy, and born at Noyon in 1509. He was originally destined for the
Church, and commenced his early studies with that object in view. At an
early age he was sent to Paris, where he soon exhibited remarkable
intellectual powers. It was not long, however, before he began to evince
a distinct spirit of rebellion against the course of study pursued
there, and, with his father's sanction, abandoned theology and, turning
his attention to law, proceeded to Orleans with the intention to qualify
himself as an advocate. After a short stay in that city he went on to
Bourges, where he entered the University.
[Illustration: CALVIN.]
_Face 76._
This period was destined to be a momentous one, not only for himself,
but in the history of the civilised world. He here came under
influences that, aided by his early misgivings in Paris, impelled him to
take that step which was to prove of such immense significance, his
severance from the Catholic Church.
In the reading of history one happens upon reformers countless, men of
genius many, but men who, added to genius, have the extraordinary
personal magnetism that compels, few.
Alexander, C[ae]sar, Shakespeare, Napol['e]on, are striking examples,
and of such was John Calvin. After a wandering life in France, during
which time he both wrote and preached in the interests of the reformed
faith, he, for personal safety, finally left the country and took refuge
in Switzerland. Eventually he settled in Geneva, and thence propagated
those extreme doctrines that were to become known as Calvinism.
On the rapidity with which they spread, and the hold they took upon the
northern races of Europe, it is not necessary to dwell; their influence
for so long in England is all that it is, here, incumbent to recall. Of
the man himself, in view of so much that is contradictory having been
written, it is difficult to speak, but it would seem that he retained to
the end the [ae]sthetic habits acquired in his early training as a
seminarist, and was always more capable of inspiring awe than affection.
The change from an English to a foreign line of Sovereigns was one of
far-reaching import. It is certain that when Queen Mary caused the
execution of Lady Jane Grey, she little realised how disastrous to the
country the event would prove. Not only had this interesting and
unfortunate girl an ability probably equal to that of her cousin
Elizabeth, but she was possessed of a character that was infinitely
superior.
The act, however, was destined to have fateful results.
The Stuarts, descended from a race that had been in deadly conflict with
the English for centuries, and allied by blood and intimate intercourse
with her enemies, succeeded to an inheritance that immediately placed
them in a position of supremacy in the very country that had for so long
been an object of hatred and fear.
Had Lady Jane Grey succeeded to the throne after the death of Elizabeth,
the line of Sovereigns of English descent might have been perpetuated.
It is easy to see how such an event might have affected English music.
It must not be lost sight of that the doctrines of the Reformation, and
in their extreme form, took root in Scotland long before they had made
any visible impression on the ordinary life in England.
Mainly owing to the efforts of John Knox, a follower and friend of
Calvin, the new teaching had taken a complete hold over that country,
and been almost universally accepted as the most expedient medium of
religious exposition.
The King, James VI., by his marriage with Anne of Denmark, signified his
acceptance of the new creed.
With his accession, as James I., to the throne of England therefore, an
influence, if not of active hostility, at least of indifference to
music, came into existence, with results that could not be otherwise
than formidable.
In the reign of Charles I., the Queen invited large numbers of French
musicians to settle in London, and gave them all the patronage that her
position enabled her to extend. Their influence on the current music of
the day is easily traced.
All this time Calvinist teaching, like the growth of a noxious weed, was
spreading far and wide, so that English music was being assailed by two
fatal influences at the same time.
This condition of things lasted through the entire reign.
With the Commonwealth the voice of music was altogether silenced.
It needs no keen discernment to see the infinite possibilities of harm
to the musical instincts of the country such a state of things opens
out.
Imagine the thousands or millions of children born and brought up bereft
of the happiness that music might have brought them.
We are told by the biologist that the continued disuse of muscles first
renders them ineffective, and eventually leads to their extinction.
Similarly, completely severed from music as many were, they first became
indifferent to it, and eventually lost all ear for it. Insistence upon
the immense number of people in England to-day, of all classes, who are
so situated, is unnecessary.
The Restoration ushered in a period of delirious excitement,[20] such as
had never been known in the history of this country. Unhappily, it was
accompanied by an equally unprecedented display of license, in which the
common people seemed to vie with the Court for supremacy. To account for
this latter fact, one need only recall the policy pursued under the
Commonwealth, that drove the whilom vagrant "musician" to take refuge in
the cities, and thus materially go to swell the more turbulent portion
of the population.
Music was again heard in the churches, but it was not such as the people
remembered. It was, at once, novel and unliked. Largely of foreign
origin, foreign musicians were engaged to perform it. For such
innovations, the wives of Charles I. and Charles II. were doubtless
largely responsible, one being French and the other Portuguese, but the
Continental wanderings of the latter King had made him familiar with
such music, and, being of a much lighter kind than that of the old
English church, would, naturally, be more congenial to such a character.
One can easily imagine how the sight of swarthy foreigners, playing such
strange sounding music on the viols and other instruments, would
astonish the common people. In the diaries, Pepys is frankly
condemnatory, saying that it all appeared to him to be more suitable to
the theatre than to the church.
It is astonishing to think how soon the national rejoicing at the
re-establishment of the monarchy was to change to national dejection and
disgust, caused not only by the policy, but, perhaps, still more by the
personal life of the King.
The former brought the country to a state of bankruptcy, both financial
and political, the latter to a sense of shame and humiliation that was
entirely new to it.
The open and unabashed profligacy of the King and Court, and the
absolutely contemptuous disregard, not only of national religious
feeling, but of the merest elements of ordinary decency, were bound to
bring about a tremendous re-action.
It came, and with irresistible effect. Thousands who had hitherto
shunned the severities of Puritan life and teaching, now fled to them
for protection against infection by the wave of immorality which was
flooding the country. To the people, kingship became once more not the
symbol of national glory, but of national abasement.
Every sense, honourable in man, was outraged, and as each year passed in
the reign of this wretched monarch, so did it go to further intensify
the ever-growing force of Calvinistic conviction, with all its
concomitant results, not only on art, but the very character of the
people in general.
With the memory of the execution of Charles I. ever present in their
memory, they bore with a patience, both exemplary and undeserved, the
terrible incubus, but once relieved from it by the death of his
successor, they rose as one man and threw off the yoke of a dynasty, the
most worthless, perhaps, that any nation in modern history has been
burdened with.
Once rid of the Stuarts, England entered upon a period in which
Calvinism was the most vital and dominating force. Its sombre tenets
left little room for other than religious exercise, and so far as music
is concerned, beyond the lugubrious chanting of psalmody--well, there
was none. Indeed, judging by the writings of the age of Queen Anne, it
would appear that not only music, but even Christianity itself was at a
low ebb.
An age that could witness without protest the appointment of Jonathan
Swift, the author of "The Tale of a Tub," to the position of a dignitary
of the Church, must surely have been one in which, at least among the
ruling classes, the moral sense must have sunk low. At any rate, it may
be said that the extreme liberty of thought, encouraged by the then
prevalent doctrines, and the utter disregard of ceremonial in the
services of the Church, are far removed from the thought and customs of
to-day.
After a Scottish a Dutch, after a Dutch, with an interval, a German
reigning house. It is impossible, when the consideration of English
music is under discussion, to shut one's eyes to the extreme
significance of such facts. Opera, even in its most primitive state, had
not been known in England before the Stuart times, and, though the
genius of Purcell was fascinated by it, yet even he was unable to imbue
his countrymen with any taste for it. The masque they could understand,
since it was a natural outcome of the kind of play that had been popular
in the country for centuries, but this was a foreign institution for
which they had no predilection.
So far as England is concerned, it was a hothouse plant fostered
principally by a foreign Court and an aristocracy who had acquired their
taste for it abroad. Such operatic work, as Purcell was responsible for,
was given in English, but it was not long before an Italian company was
invited to London for the purpose of presenting Italian opera, which by
that time had arrived at a point of much greater advancement, and a
permanent home made for it.
With the company came Buononcini, the most celebrated composer of this
form of art that his country possessed.
The arrival in this country of Handel, who had not only made a complete
study of it, but whose genius had enabled him to carry it to a state of
development hitherto undreamt of, was the signal of war between the
rival composers, and led to the establishment of another theatre for its
exploitation, at the head of which was the great German master. It may
be mentioned that at this period of its expansion and introduction to
the various countries of Europe, the liberty was granted to the
individual exponent of the different parts to sing in his native
language, a diplomatic concession that will be readily appreciated;
hence two or three, or even more, languages might be heard in the course
of a single representation.
To Handel, however, who was always most exacting as to the rendering of
his music, such an anomaly would be, naturally, intolerable. And so it
proved. His operas were written in Italian, and in that language they
had to be sung. That was what he required, and no less would he accept.
In this connection, it is strange to observe that, notwithstanding his
long residence in England, he not only never mastered the intricacies of
the pronunciation of English, but never learnt to appreciate the
relative importance of the words of a sentence. Of this, the early
editions of his works afford ample proof. In fact, it is known that his
struggles with his librettist were frequent and stormy, ending, however,
as one would naturally imagine, in the complete collapse of the latter.
Fancy Wagner with a librettist. It is unthinkable.
The continued importation of foreign singers who were alone qualified to
meet the demands of fashionable society, which was then the only source
from which money was to be earned, naturally relegated the English
singer to a position of comparative neglect. His energies were confined
either to the modest demands made upon him by the then Church services,
or devoted to occupations upon which it is unnecessary to dwell.
Similarly, native composers, such as were left, who were, neither by
training nor instinct, capable of competing with the foreign musician
in this new and strange form of art, found themselves in a position that
offered little opportunity of making the barest provision for existence,
and, naturally, abandoned a calling that appeared so hopeless. This
state of things lasted for a considerable period.
An event, however, was to take place that, at least, had some effect in
the amelioration of existing conditions.
Handel, after a long struggle, during which he had gained and lost a
considerable fortune, abandoned the conflict and, forsaking Italian
opera, left the country for a time to seek a restoration of his health,
which had become seriously threatened. Upon his return he decided to
make sacred music the medium by which he should regain both the fame and
fortune which he had previously acquired. This decision, momentous as it
was for the whole world, was peculiarly so for England. It had two
results that may be said to be diametrically opposed, for while he soon
began to make converts to music by presenting it in a religious guise,
among thousands who had for long eschewed it as being anti-Christ, he,
at the same time, by the sheer weight of his colossal genius, not only
overwhelmed the native composer and rendered him distrustful of his
powers, but imbued the people of the country with the conviction that
music was not a natural English gift, and that for all serious effort in
the art, it must be sought from the foreigner.
That this impression became deeply engrained in the minds of Englishmen
is as evident to-day as it ever was, and it is a common-place among
those who cater for public entertainment, that the production of serious
works by English composers spells financial loss, with one single
exception.
To what other cause than the lack of individuality or national genius
can such a state of things be attributed?
It cannot be seriously contemplated for a moment that because the
composer is an Englishman his countrymen will not listen to him.
The case of Arthur Sullivan proves the very contrary. His music, if not
great, had English characteristics, and the public were not slow to
recognise the fact. At any rate, they came to believe in him, and the
reception accorded to his "Golden Legend" proved that they were not only
willing, but eager to readjust previous convictions so soon as anything
appeared that seemed to warrant it.
Unfortunately, this work had not sufficient strength, originality, or
nationality to stand the stress of time, but it disproved once and for
ever the absurd contention that the English people would not accept any
serious effort in music because it had been written by an Englishman.
Its lack of _staying_ power seems to be attributable to the want of
sufficient national character, redolent of the soil, which appears to be
so essential to lasting endurance.
At any rate, one cannot read without being moved the following words
which appeared in the _Daily Telegraph_ after a recent performance at
the Norwich Festival, 1911. They were contained in an article, not only
brilliantly, but even sympathetically written, yet this is what it
says:--
"Time was when this work was appraised as a world's masterpiece for
ever. As a fact, it affords but one more example of the many that go
to prove the rule as to the absurdity of prophesying unless one
knows. I would not go so far as some one was heard to go yesterday,
who vouchsafed the opinion that even the singers seemed somewhat
abashed. That is a gross exaggeration. But it is no exaggeration to
say that none of them ... seemed very deeply moved by the extreme
placidity and suavity of the phrases once deemed to be of purest
gold. Nor, for that matter, did the chorus themselves. The truth is
that time has not dealt over kindly with this work."
Yet this very work, let it be remembered, was not only the most popular,
but practically the single one of its kind written by an Englishman that
had ever touched the imagination of the English people. To go still
further, it may be said with absolute truth, that it was the most
successful sacred work produced in England up to the time of Sir Edward
Elgar, since Mendelssohn introduced the "Elijah," at Birmingham in 1846.
The inference, which seems to me obvious, is that no work that is not
typical of the country from which it emanates possesses those qualities
that make for permanence.
The amelioration in the position of the native composer, to which we
alluded just now, was due to the fact that he had not lost belief in
his own powers so far as sacred music was concerned; hence the revival
of public interest in this form of art was, naturally, a source of
gratification. Unhappily, however, the fact cannot be ignored that
instead of pursuing their way on their old lines and traditions, even
the most gifted among the English composers gave way to the fatal
temptation to try and write on the lines of such a colossal genius as
Handel.
The power to hurl the thunderbolts of Jove is given to few, and at the
time of which we write, there were certainly no Englishmen among that
select company.
We need but cite one example.
William Boyce, one of the most gifted of English composers of the
eighteenth century, was born in 1710, and was, therefore, about
twenty-eight years of age when the oratorio "Saul" was produced. That he
completely fell under the new influence is quite apparent, as little
examination of his music, dating from that time, is sufficient to shew.
Not only did he allow it to affect his own work, but it carried him to
the absolutely indefensible point of taking one of Purcell's greatest
compositions, and revising and adding to it, in order to bring it into
conformity with the great school which had arisen. There are two kinds
of imitation, conscious and unconscious. Such an act as this can only
belong to the former. From this date may be said to have commenced that
system of imitation of foreign music that has been the bane of English
musicians ever since. However unconscious it may have, and doubtless has
been, its effect has been equally disastrous. Imitation never made art
and never will. The imitator may arrive at temporary distinction, but
future generations will not recognise him. He will be, merely, a painted
figure in a painted sepulchre of plagiarism. Happily there were yet
composers, chiefly cathedral organists, who clung to English Church
tradition, and among whose work occasional glimpses of its genius can be
found.
This fact did not escape the eyes of so keen and accomplished an
observer as Vincent Novello, and to this remarkable man the country is
under a great debt of recognition.
An Italian by blood, he was born in England, and spent the greater part
of his life here. He was organist in turn of several London churches,
and thus gained the opportunity to learn and appreciate such music of
the early English school as he found in use.
So interested did he become, that he visited various cathedral libraries
and, with the permission of the authorities, copied much of the ancient
music of which they were the repositories.
This he carefully edited and published, after transposing the parts
written in clefs, with which the public are generally unacquainted. He
thus furnished the means of bringing into general use much of the
splendid music that had hitherto been confined to the services of the
cathedral, for which it had been originally written.
He was, practically, the founder of the world-famed publishing house of
Novello and Co., and it is an interesting fact that this great firm has
never deviated from its early traditions, since it is at the present day
as emphatically as it ever was at any period of its existence, the home
of all that is best in English Church music.
The founding of the firm, if an event of moment to the public at large,
was one of still greater import to the musician, for it caused a
commercial value to be attached to his work that, previously, had little
more than a sentimental one.
It is not difficult to imagine, in those days of stage-coach travelling,
the anxious feelings of the composer about to undertake a long journey
to London, his manuscript carefully folded in his pocket and intent on
this new and even amazing idea of selling it for actual gold; not,
perhaps, simply on account of the happiness that it might bring to his
home, but of the fame that might accrue to his name. Nor is it otherwise
than quite easy to imagine with what different feelings he would start
on his homeward course after a successful issue to his venture. At any
rate, it would be difficult to over-estimate the services that the
historic firm has rendered to the country and the musical profession
during the hundred years of its existence.
The decline of English music had been continuous. It culminated in the
productions of such composers as Kent and William Jackson, and of these
it need only be said that they were lamentable. Yet, amazing as it may
seem now, they became not only popular, but perhaps the most notorious
of them, once known familiarly as "Jackson in F," retained its hold on
the affections of the people until well into the nineteenth century.
Happily, the revival was near at hand, and, as densest darkness heralds
the dawn, so the birth of Samuel Wesley, in this worst period, proved to
be the event that signalised its coming. English Church music was to be
restored, if not in the splendour of its ancient originality, at least
in a form that was at once dignified and worthy of its mission.
A profound student of the works of Bach, he brought enthusiasm, tempered
by deep learning, to bear upon everything he wrote.
The impress, not only of the great German master, but of the still
earlier writers of the English school at its most glorious period, was
stamped on it, and it is an interesting fact that the Mass he wrote,
when entering the Roman Communion, bears every evidence of its
illustrious descent. With the birth of his son, this memorable revival
was not only to become assured of permanence, but was destined to be an
epoch of profound significance in the history of English Church music.
The works by which Samuel Sebastian Wesley enriched the world, and
restored England to its kingdom in sacred music again, including the
noble anthems, "Ascribe unto the Lord," "Blessed be the God and Father,"
and, perhaps above all, "The Wilderness," seem as if secure of lasting
as long as the Christian religion is the dominant factor in human life.
It only remains to be said that many noble works of later origin make
for the assurance that English music, as represented in the Church
to-day, will never again look back.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] It may be noted here that the excitement caused, during the South
African war, by the relief of Mafeking, was not so unprecedented in our
history as was generally supposed.