CHRISTOPHER WILSON (continued 2)

Macfarren's part-song to the same words is also beautiful, and gives the words their real meaning when properly sung and phrased. The lyric is difficult to set, and when set difficult to sing. Most singers give one the idea that Orpheus made trees with his lute. It is not always the singer's fault, as several composers give this effect. The blame is also a little with Shakespeare or Fletcher for separating the word "trees" so far from the word "bow." Since writing the above, I hear, on the best authority, that of the late Dr F. J. Furnivall, that Fletcher undoubtedly wrote the lyric: so to him is due the blame of misleading simple composers.

JULIUS CÆSAR

Mr Barclay Squire, in his contribution to the Book of Homage to Shakespeare, 1916, entitled "Shakespearian Operas," says concerning Julius Cæsar: "There are innumerable operas, mostly of the eighteenth century, on Julius Cæsar, as to which Riemann and Clément and Larousse may be consulted; but it is very doubtful whether any of them are founded on Shakespeare." I myself went through Handel's opera on the subject, but when I discovered that Cleopatra had an important part in the work I put it on one side: I always funk trying to connect a Cæsar and Cleopatra opera with the Shakespeare play. Perhaps Handel was merely anticipating Bernard Shaw's brilliant Cæsar and Cleopatra, but, any way, Handel was not dreaming of Shakespeare's work.

A List of Songs and Passages in Shakespeare which have been set to Music, compiled by Greenhill, Harrison, and F. J. Furnivall, does not give one line which has been treated musically.

Of incidental music very little remains; Schumann's overture I treat of later, and von Bülow's I cannot find in the Museum library or anywhere else; but Raymond Rôze's orchestral suite, Julius Cæsar, based on the music he composed for Sir Herbert Tree's revival at His Majesty's on January 22, 1898, is published and easily obtainable.

The overture commences with Cæsar's "March Motive," and here is shown an absolute freedom from Wardour Street Roman music: it is quite as modern as Mr Rôze could be. The next episode appears to be the Conspirators' Music; it is agitato, but of a curious Mendelssohnian simplicity, and leads to a naïve Wagnerian theme, in which the characteristic slow turn is used with great effect. This runs into the Cæsar march theme pianissimo, with harp effects, leading up to a brilliant coda on the Cæsar motif, with a moving bass and full orchestral effects for the close. The prelude to Act ii. is a very emotional piece of music, sometimes dramatic, often melodramatic, but always exciting and comfortably away from any thought of the historic period. The prelude to Act iii. opens with a fine broad theme for the brass, much of which, curiously enough, might possibly have been played on trumpets of Cæsar's time. After this, Mr Rôze naturally takes a rest from his museum researches, and the rest of the prelude is quite innocent of anything that would remind a Roman centurion, if he came to life now, of his past existence: it is most modern in the 1898 manner, and Professor Ebenezer Prout, had Mr Rôze shown him the score, would probably have told him to "run away and try to be a better boy." Still, there are excellent points in this music, and I wish that more of it were published.

Robert Schumann's Julius Cæsar overture, Op. 128, is a fine example of the composer's sonorous and sombre style. Any musician on hearing it could guess the composer's name at first shot, but I defy anyone to guess its title. There is no attempt at ancient Roman effects, the style being much the same as that of his Manfred overture, written some years earlier.

It opens in the minor key with a strongly marked theme, rather in the nature of a fanfare; this is followed by a very beautiful Schumannesque syncopated passage. The second subject, for the horns, is again highly characteristic of the composer; the whole work finishes very brilliantly in the major.

I cannot see any connection between this work and Shakespeare's play, the overture having quite a happy ending; but perhaps it represents an early phase in Cæsar's life before he met too many "lean and hungry" men. The whole piece is most effective on the orchestra, in Schumann's own particular way, which I like, but most modern critics heartily dislike. It is very seldom performed, but I should much like to hear it in front of a production of the play.

KING LEAR

Very few composers have had the temerity to lay hands on King Lear. With the notable exception of Berlioz, no composer of the first rank seems to have touched it. At one time Verdi thought very seriously of making it the subject of an opera, and it is much to be regretted that the project was never carried out. With Boito as librettist, what a work Verdi might have turned out in his golden old age!

Berlioz began his Roi Lear overture at Nice while he was holding the Grand Prix de Rome, but was stopped by the King of Sardinia's police as a spy. The composer's habit of writing music without a piano did not please them at all; so he was sent for and interrogated by the chief of the secret police.

"You wander about with a book in your hands; are you making plans?"

"Yes, the plan of an overture to King Lear."

"Who is this King Lear?"

"A wretched old English king," etc.

"You cannot possibly compose wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper and no piano; so tell me where you wish to go, and your passports shall be made out."

"Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose without a piano."

Berlioz finished the overture in May 1831, but it was years before it made any success, and it has never been popular in France.

Some years afterwards Berlioz was invited to conduct a concert of his works at Löwenberg for the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen. At the rehearsal the orchestra played the score "with such spirit, smoothness, and precision that I said to myself in amazement, not having heard the piece for ten or twelve years, 'It is tremendous; can I really have written it?'" I am quoting from Berlioz's autobiography.

The overture begins andante with a bold theme for basses, and the whole of the opening is composed in a much more simple manner than one is accustomed to expect from Berlioz. A beautiful cantabile theme soon appears on the oboe, the opening is repeated fortissimo, and then comes the real Berlioz. This episode is fiery and agitato, leading on to the beautiful Cordelia music. The rest of the work is very long and complicated, but no new melodies are introduced. There are no labels; each hearer must read his own meaning into it; but by keeping the idea of Lear in one's mind it is not difficult to get a very shrewd notion of what the composer is driving at.

Konradin Kreutzer composed an opera on this tragedy entitled Cordelia. It is in one act, the libretto by P. Wolff. It was first produced at Donaueschingen in 1819. The composer was born at Baden in 1780, and was a prolific writer. The only number I can find is the overture, which is an ordinary straightforward composition, that suggests Cordelia just as much as it would Julius Cæsar or Charlie Chaplin; I cannot understand why such music should ever be written.

In the Athenæum of June 8, 1912, occurs the following passage:—

"According to Le Ménestrel, a complete libretto of King Lear in Verdi's handwriting has been discovered among his papers. This confirms the report that he had intended to write an opera on the subject."

Antonio Bazzini, the eminent violinist, composed a fine concert overture to King Lear, which was performed twice at the Crystal Palace—in 1877 and 1880. It is really more of a symphonic poem than an overture, but it has no definite programme. Most of the work is very sombre and grim, as befitting its title. I have rarely seen a more restless work from the point of view of tempo, and its tonality is constantly changing. It is not in the least the kind of work one would expect from the composer of the popular "Ronde des Lutins" for violin, which is the only piece of his generally known here; but Bazzini was really a serious-minded composer, and was Professor of Composition in, and subsequently Director of, the famous Conservatoire of Milan. This overture is one of his mature works, and, though the themes are obviously of Italian origin, the development of them shows signs of German influence. The whole work is very interesting and uncommon.

Felix Weingartner, whose symphonic poem King Lear is, after Berlioz's overture, the most important work on this subject, was born at Zara (Dalmatia) in 1863, and is one of the most distinguished of living conductors. The score was published in 1897, and performed in England at the London Musical Festival on May 2, 1902. The composer, in his own account of the work, says that it is not to be regarded as depicting the march of events as they occur in the drama (after the manner of programme music), its form being designed rather on the lines of early examples of the overture. The poem opens with a broad fortissimo theme, showing the King in his pomp and state. This is followed by a crawling theme, signifying the malignant attitude of many at the Court. These two subjects struggle together, with a third, the love theme, hovering over all. The motif of the King in his glory is repeated, but this time the evil influence music gets the better of it. A beautiful theme follows—Cordelia; but the King does not understand it, and soon Lear curses his daughter in a fine dramatic passage. This section is succeeded by a terrific storm, with thunder and lightning; the King's theme is played in a wildly contorted form to show that he has become mad. The beautiful Cordelia music now comes to comfort him, and the two are reconciled, but their happiness does not last long. The work ends most tragically. The whole is a very reverent and masterly attempt on the part of a first-rate musician to set down in musical notation the effect of this stupendous tragedy on a finely-balanced brain.

MACBETH

Of the tragedies, Macbeth, for some strange reason, is more associated with incidental music than any of the others. "The celebrated music introduced into the tragedy of Macbeth, commonly attributed to Matthew Locke," as Novello describes it in his edition, is associated in the minds of a great number of people with Shakespeare's play. I have known the work since I was a child. It used to be very popular at village and school breaking-up concerts. I never could understand its village popularity, but I know boys liked some of the strong words in it, and sang them with great gusto. It was sung in nearly all stage productions until about twenty years ago, and is very much missed by local choristers when not performed with the piece on tour. I remember how very disappointed the local chorus-master was to find that Sir Frank Benson was not using it in his later years. The chorus-master thought its absence would spoil the whole play. I have been through the text of Davenant's version, to which Locke wrote the music, and can discover only four consecutive lines and some odd words of Shakespeare's in the whole work. How it persisted through all those years is a great mystery. The music is not even interesting. The four lines immortalised are:—

For many years this music was falsely attributed to Purcell, but musical historians have finally cleared Purcell of all connection with it; though long ago he got even with Locke by writing an elegy on his death. Daniel Purcell, uncle of Henry, also wrote some Macbeth music.

John Eccles wrote music for a revival at Drury Lane in 1696; and Richard Leveridge, composer of "The Roast Beef of Old England" (a song which should be popular if revived now) and "All in the Downs," also wrote music for the second act in 1708.

To come to more modern times, Sullivan's music is perhaps the best. Composed for Sir Henry Irving's great production at the Lyceum, it was an instant success. The overture, a very elaborate work, is often done on concert platforms. The whole of the music is most effective, and perfectly suited to the play. Subsequently, Sir Henry gave readings of the play on tour with Ellen Terry, for which they travelled a full band of sixty performers for Sullivan's music.

Michael Balling, one time musical director for Sir Frank Benson, and subsequently for Cosima Wagner at Bayreuth, where he conducted The Ring and Parsival, composed some very clever music for his old chief's production, very modern in feeling and permeated with Scottish atmosphere: the Witch music being very grim and mysterious, and in the cauldron scene very clearly bringing in a suggestion of Locke's "Mingle, mingle." The Banquet music (strings only) is bagpipey, and the marches for Macbeth and Macduff are stirring and in strong contrast, while there is fine battle music for the close. Unfortunately, he wrote no overture or entr'actes.

Several operas have been founded on this theme, the most notable being Verdi's Macbetto, produced on March 17, 1847, at the Pergola, Florence. Unfortunately, Verdi was not so lucky in his librettist as he was in the cases of Otello and Falstaff, when he had the invaluable assistance of Arrigo Boito, perhaps the greatest librettist who ever lived, with the exception of Wagner. Piave's book is not very inspiring. The opera was never a success. Verdi could not see Macbeth as a tenor, and bravely made him a dramatic baritone. The Italian could not understand a grand opera in which the hero was not a tenor; and the only tenor, Macduff, comes on late in the evening. It is a great pity, as there is much fine music in the work, though very little of Shakespeare's Macbeth gets through. The very Italian singing and dancing witches seem out of place on a blasted heath, and the ballet of Scottish retainers savours of a warmer clime than that of the North of Scotland. Still, the work should be revived.

Hippolyte André Jean Baptiste Chelard was born in Paris in 1789, and subsequently won the Grand Prix de Rome. He was one of those Frenchmen, like Berlioz later, whose music was thought little of in Paris but was much admired in Munich and London. The adaptation of this play for the French lyric stage was not suitable, especially at the Opera House, where the action and words are the most important things to the public; and Chelard found that his harmonies, simple enough to our modern ears, were too complex for the Parisian audience. He left Paris and went to Munich, where he revised the whole opera most carefully, and made a great success of it; the result being that he became Court Capellmeister and dedicated the score to the Bavarian King, his patron. The rest of his life he divided between failure in Paris and success abroad, again very like his so much greater compatriot, Hector Berlioz. In this opera, for the first time, so far as I know, the witches are given names—Elsie, Nona, and Groem. I think the last a good name for a witch, but I should not dream of calling Shakespeare's first or second witch Elsie or Nona. I don't think Rouget de Lisle, the librettist, better known as the poet and composer of the "Marseillaise," ought to have done this. The opera is in three acts, and opens with the conventional overture of the period—as composed by second-rate musicians, quite harmless; but one expects something more from a Macbeth overture. The Witches have some effective trios, some of them unaccompanied; and one of their motives was used by Liszt, who knew Chelard at Weimar, and taken from Liszt by Wagner for use in the Walküre. It comes quite as a surprise in its original place in this Macbeth. Macbeth's march is fine and sombre, and the ballet music is quite exciting. One number is marked tempo d' inglese, though why a Franco-Scottish dance, produced in Germany, should be in English time I cannot understand. The choruses are broadly written, and the music, though mostly very florid, is often dramatic. There is a tremendously difficult and florid song for mezzo-soprano in the third act for a character called Moina, a friend of Lady Macbeth, and the prelude to this act is a long duet-cadenza for harp and flute. It has nothing to do with the plot, and must have been put in to please two friends who were excellent players or had valuable patrons. The librettist does not stick too closely to Shakespeare's story; in fact, he gives Duncan a daughter, the Moina just mentioned, and introduces the Sleep-walking scene before Duncan's death. When the opera was performed in London in 1832, Mme. Schroeder-Devrient, for so long Wagner's favourite singer, actress, and companion, sang the part of Lady Macbeth.

An amusing story is told of Chelard's Macbeth by FitzGerald, Tenderer into English verse of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. In one of his letters to the celebrated actress, Fanny Kemble, niece of John Philip of that name, he writes: "You may know there is a French opera of Macbeth, by Chelard. This was being played at the Dublin theatre—Viardot, I think, the heroine. However that may be, the curtain drew up for the Sleep-walking scene; Doctor and Nurse were there, while a long mysterious symphony went on—till a voice from the gallery called out to the leader of the band, Levey—'Whist, Lavy, my dear—tell us now—is it a boy or a girl?'"

Surely the world's operatic tragedy is that Beethoven never completed his Macbeth. He composed sketches for an overture and chorus to libretto by J. von Collin, who also, as we have seen, wrote the play Coriolan, which inspired one of Beethoven's greatest overtures.

Wilhelm Taubert's opera Macbeth was produced in Berlin in 1857, libretto by F. Eggers. It is in five acts, and begins with an overture in Scoto-German style. The curtain rises on the blasted heath, the three witches, two sopranos and one alto, singing in a very spirited manner. Macbeth enters, and the music closely follows the original plot. The second scene is in Macbeth's castle at Inverness, Lady Macbeth being discovered alone, having received her husband's letter. This is really very dramatic music; and when a servant announces that Duncan is coming that very night, Taubert gives one a fine thrill. Duncan enters and is heartily cheered by Macbeth's retainers, and all exit save Macbeth and his lady, who soon make arrangements for King Duncan's long sleep. The act ends pianissimo in a sombre manner. In the second act there is much festal music, a great procession of bards playing harps, and much singing of "Hail, Macbeth, hail!" Now comes a Scoto-German characteristic dance, towards the end of which Macbeth hears from the murderer that Banquo is dead, but that his son has escaped. The music gets louder and wilder at the end of this dialogue, and the dance finishes with great abandon.

Macbeth summons his guests to the banquet, and Macduff (tenor), with harp, sings a song in praise of Scotland and Macbeth, the chorus joining in heartily. At the end of the song Banquo's ghost appears and spoils Macbeth's party. This act also ends piano, Lady Macbeth taking a very remorseful Macbeth to have a nice quiet rest.

The third act takes place in the Witches' cave. Hecate (tenor) and chorus are with the Witches. Macbeth enters and is told about Birnam Wood. The music here is very impressive. The Witches raise up the ghosts of the eight kings, and they pass Macbeth to a sort of funeral march; this also is very striking. The scene ends with a terrific hubbub, which gradually dies away, the curtain rising on Birnam Wood and a male chorus singing "O Scotland, poor fatherland, how has fate treated you!" It is a very sentimental bit of work, and must often draw tears; but I don't think real Scotsmen would be caring about it. After this sad opening we are prepared for Macduff's entrance. He is full of the news of the murder of his wife and children, and is very vocal about it. The chorus sympathise, and the act closes by Malcolm, Fleance, Macduff, and male chorus vowing vengeance on Macbeth. The third act begins with the Sleep-walking scene. The doctor and lady-in-waiting are there, and presently Lady Macbeth enters, and, keeping closely to the original text, the act finishes again pianissimo. The scene of the last act is in a chamber near Dunsinane. A harper sings a good imitation of a Scottish song, and then the Wood of Birnam seems to move nearer and nearer. Lady Macbeth appears in the last scene of all, and sings a very dramatic aria, welcoming the advent of the Birnam Wood, and firmly believing in the immortality of Macbeth; but Macduff kills him, and all he says to his wife is "Farewell, my wife, Eternal sleep is welcome." The Witches make a short appearance here, singing "He had the crown, we have the King," and Malcolm is crowned; and the chorus spread themselves, hailing their new King. By this time they must have become accustomed to hailing new kings. Already they have sung in praise of Duncan and Macbeth, and now, quite easily, they adapt their vocal transports to Malcolm, and are very Scoto-Germanic in their efforts. Still, the opera has very good points, and should not die.

The latest opera on this subject is the gigantic lyric drama in a prologue and three acts, each act having two scenes, by Ernest Bloch, poem by Edmond Fleg, after Shakespeare.

This work was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, 1910, under the direction of Albert Carré. I can find nothing about the composer in any dictionary of music, but, judging from the score, he is a modern of moderns. The work is planned on an heroic scale, and is appallingly difficult to perform, the time and key changing, sometimes every bar, during long passages: moreover, the composer seems very fond of putting in an odd five-four bar unexpectedly. The opera opens with a prelude, depicting the blasted heath, and the witches enter one by one. They are, severally, soprano, mezzo, and contralto. During their trio distant drums and muted trumpet are heard announcing the near presence of Macbeth, Banquo, and the army. They gradually get nearer, and finally, with a burst of grim, significant music, the mortals enter to three horrible chords and a sinister figure in the bass. At the words, "Glamis, and thane of Cawdor! The greatest is behind," the orchestra plays a solemn theme curiously reminiscent of the Valhalla motif in Wagner's Ring. So ends the prologue; the orchestra conveys one to Macbeth's castle, and the curtain rises just as he has finished telling Lady Macbeth about his interview with the three witches on the heath. This ingenious device saves the time generally used in the latter scene, and also saves the audience hearing Macbeth's account of his meeting with the Witches, which they have already heard. Further, it allows Macbeth to be present when the servant announces the advent of King Duncan, which makes a strong dramatic point, and is admirably emphasised by the fine Duncan theme ringing out in the brass. It would take hundreds of pages to explain in detail this enormous and complicated work, so I will just touch on a few points of outstanding interest. Duncan's entrance is finely managed, and his dignified thanks and praise of Macbeth and his lady are calmly and peacefully set, in great contrast to all that has gone before. In the duet (Macbeth and Lady Macbeth) which follows, the composer emphasises the scorn of the lady for her undecided husband, and the passage, "I have nourished children at my breast, and I know it is sweet," has a concentrated bitterness in it that is not often found in music. A very elaborate and beautiful orchestral scene-change interlude, founded on the Duncan theme, quiet and very calm, brings us to a court in Macbeth's castle. It is moonlight, and all is still until Macbeth begins the dagger soliloquy, which is set with great force. The Porter's song is very elaborate, and the composer has an explanation, in a footnote to the score, in which he says: "The character of the song of the Porter is this:—The Porter is drunk. He really hears the knocking. He listens, but his troubled brain confuses reality and fiction, and the hammering blows awaken in him the memory of a familiar song. In each verse you get a suggestion of this old song, and only at the last verse he realises that he must open the door." The situation is held with great intensity. The song is long; there are three verses, each richly varied, and I should think it is one of the most difficult songs to sing ever written. A great ensemble number, for principals and chorus, very dramatic and brilliantly written technically, nearly finishes the act; but by a happy device the crowd rush into the King's chamber, leaving the stage empty save for an old man. The music fades away, the great bell continues to toll, and the ancient sings, very quietly, "I can recall all that has happened for seventy years; I have seen terrible hours and strange things, but I have never seen a night comparable to this night." (I translate roughly.) Curtain falls slowly.

The second act opens in Macbeth's castle, himself as King. The opening orchestral introduction is very regal, but Macbeth's subsequent soliloquy shows how doubtful he is of himself. A fine series of fanfares brings on Lennox and his followers to the banquet. The music for the appearance of Banquo is most suggestive; in fact, in suiting the music to the words or situation Bloch is never at fault. The last Witch scene, with the procession of kings, is awe-inspiring, as is Lady Macbeth's sleep-walking scene and Macbeth's "to-morrow and to-morrow" monologue. The tragic feeling never ceases until the very death of Macbeth, when the curtain falls slowly.

This is, I know, a very inadequate description of a most tragic opera, but I have no more space. There are no separate numbers, save the Porter's song, which could be detached from the rest of the work. The opera must be taken as an entity or not at all. There are no attempts at sustained, beautiful melody; everything is sacrificed to the drama. There are no effective bits from a singer's point of view, and Mr Arthur Godfrey would have some difficulty in writing a really popular selection founded on this work. For a perfect performance, wonderful acting, singing, orchestral playing, and mise-en-scène are absolutely essential. It requires months of the most careful rehearsal, but the result would justify all the time and labour spent over it. It should be a great privilege to take the smallest part in a performance of such a stupendous tragedy.

It is the general custom of amateurs to sneer at Spohr. True, he was the finest classical violinist of his time, but that cannot account for the general abuse from which he suffers: there must be something else. The something else seems to me to be the curious foresight he had with regard to Richard Wagner's works. When no one, save Liszt, would hear them or of them, dear old-fashioned classical Spohr risked his whole reputation to produce operas by this young art—and practical—revolutionary at his theatre at Cassel. There was something very splendid about him. Among the enormous quantity of music he has written there is one overture, "Macbeth," to which I wish to draw attention; it is short, it is conventional, but there is a lot of the real feeling of Macbeth in it. I don't say for an instant that this is an epic, but it is a very excellent piece of work and quite worthy of the great man, if not great composer, who devised it.

In some editions of Robert Schumann's pianoforte works the "Novelette," op. 21, No. 3, is headed with these words from Macbeth: "When shall we three meet again?" They certainly fit in with the first phrase of the movement, and the whole sounds very like a witches' dance, but there is no mention of the words in Peters' edition. I hope it is true, as that gives us another piece of Schumann's Shakespearian music in addition to the Julius Cæsar overture and the last Clown's song from Twelfth Night.

Raff's "Macbeth" overture is quite one of his most successful works. It opens with a dance of the Witches, mostly for flute and piccolo at first, but getting very wild later; then there is a sort of dialogue between Macbeth (wood wind and horns) and Witches (their own dance). These themes are developed with considerable skill, and a new one (Lady Macbeth) is added, as are some odd little bits of a sort of Scottish character. There is fine fight-music near the end, and the final triumph of Macduff is celebrated with a very cheerful noise. This overture would make an admirable opening for an elaborate stage performance of Macbeth.

Henry Hugo Pierson was an English composer, born at Oxford, 1815, but is still unknown to the majority of his fellow-countrymen. After leaving Cambridge he studied in Germany, where he became very intimate with Mendelssohn. Meyerbeer, Spohr, and Schumann were all his friends and admirers; and in 1844 he succeeded Sir Henry Bishop as Professor of Music at Edinburgh, but very soon resigned, and settled down in Germany, marrying a German literary lady, Caroline Leonhardt. The inordinate Mendelssohn-worship of his day rendered England a difficult home for a modern English composer: so he changed the spelling of his name from Pearson to Pierson, settled down in his adopted country, and died at Leipsic, January 18, 1873.

His symphonic poem, "Macbeth," op. 51, was once performed at the Crystal Palace concerts, but has been very thoroughly neglected since. It is real modern programme music, and scored for a very large orchestra, including a solo part for the cornet-à-pistons and a military drum. The symphonic poem opens at Act ii., Scene 2, and is headed with the words, "Hours dreadful and strange things." The music is very slow and mysterious, but works up to a climax on the words of the Witches, "Fair is foul and foul is fair." Then comes, very piano, "The March of the Scottish Army"—a most characteristic piece, the tune on the high wood wind, drones on the bassoons, and great use made of the military drum. This works up to a tremendous fortissimo, and dies away mysteriously before Banquo's words:—

A curious and interesting effect is here made by the tenor trombone, clarinet, and cornet taking the parts of the three witches, and playing the themes that fit what the Witches are supposed to speak. I mean the three "All hail" speeches. The orchestration is full of sinister mystery here; but, on Macbeth's words, "Two truths are told As happy prologue to the swelling act Of the imperial theme," the music becomes, for a time, triumphant, though very wild, and breaks off suddenly for a Lady Macbeth scene. She is reading Macbeth's letter, and these words are printed in the score: "This have I thought good to deliver thee. Lay it to thy heart, and fare thee well." The subjects here used are the Witches' prophetic theme and a passionate Lady Macbeth one. All the music in this section is highly emotional, dramatic, and brilliantly clever. On Macbeth's words, "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly," a gruesome little passage for strings and bassoons heralds the King's feast music, consisting of curious disjointed wood-wind passages, till Macbeth's words, "Is this a dagger which I see before me?", when the music seems to drive him to the murder. After the words, "Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to Heaven or to Hell," there are two intensely dramatic bars; and then, pianissimo, is heard the Witches' prophetic motif on the cornet and horn—a fine bit of musical word-painting. Now comes the longest episode in the work, a magnificent Witches' dance, the composer employing nearly every resource of the modern orchestra. Then, in the distance, is heard the march of the English army, very stirring and martial. At the end of this passage, Macbeth says: "It's ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments." Here a great stirring is made in the orchestra, and a cry (violin solo) is heard:—

Very piteous and poignant music is used in this passage, broken in upon by the strains of battle. At the words, "Blow, wind, come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back," the music dies down for the familiar dialogue between Macbeth and Macduff concerning the gynæcological manner of the latter's birth, and a few more bars of fight music finish off the former. The sound dies down. The prophetic theme is heard very faintly on the trombone and finally on the horn; the music gets softer and slower, and so fades away.

I have written at special length about this composer, because it seems so strange that an English musician, a Harrow and Cambridge man, and a pupil of Attwood and Corfe, should have been so much in advance of his time and especially of his country. Born, as we saw, in 1815, he was only six years younger than Mendelssohn, and forty years old when Sir Henry Bishop died. He was four years younger than Liszt, and doubtless got the general idea of the symphonic poem form, or want of form, from the elder master. He was two years younger than Wagner, yet his earlier compositions are far in advance, musically, of Wagner's early work. It seems deplorable that this remarkable English composer should be so utterly ignored by his countrymen.

Richard Strauss's magnificent Symphonic Poem on this theme must take a very high place in the musical commentary on Macbeth. It is scored for the largest possible orchestra, and every known musical device in orchestration or harmony is to be found in this enormous and complicated score. The poem begins sombrely, but almost at once there breaks in a short fanfare, which occurs repeatedly throughout the work. Immediately after the fanfare the first subject is announced on the brass, and the whole work gets going. Strauss prints a short speech of Lady Macbeth's beginning, "Hie thee hither, that I may pour My spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round." In the score the music here is marked "wildly appassionato," though pianissimo (Strauss here uses the device of tremolo strings playing on the bridge with great effect). Afterwards he introduces a long, broad, and very beautiful theme, the sort of theme which his detractors are always challenging him to write, and which he is always writing. Strauss gives no definite programme in his score, and it is up to anyone hearing it to make his own; but one could not go very far wrong. There is no need to describe the various developments, thematic and harmonic, which take place in the themes before the end of this work. It is long. Ninety pages of closely printed full score take some time to play, and a longer time to describe in detail: so I content myself with saying that anyone can get a fine, convincing picture of the life and death of Macbeth by hearing this work and not bothering whether a certain theme means Duncan, Bloody Child, Bleeding Sergeant, Macbeth, or Lady Macbeth.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

Wagner's one known contribution to Shakespearian music is his two-act opera, Das Liebesverbot, founded on Measure for Measure, and not, as so many people think, on Love's Labour's Lost. It is his second complete opera, and, for reasons I will explain later, was only once performed; now, seeing that the composer, according to some authorities, apparently destroyed all of it except a couple of numbers, it may never be done again. Wagner planned the libretto during the summer of 1834, while on holiday at Teplitz. He had lately heard Auber's Masaniello at Leipsic, and was astonished at the effect of the striking scenes and rapid action of this opera. Could he not improve on Auber's music and produce an opera in which the action should be equally swift? He took Measure for Measure, changed the scene from Vienna to Sicily, "where a German governor, aghast at the incomprehensible laziness of its populace, attempts to carry out a puritanical reform and lamentably fails." (The words in quotation marks are taken from Wagner's article on this opera in volume vii. of his prose works, as with the other quotations that follow.)

The score of the opera was finished while the composer was musical director at the town theatre of Magdeburg, during the winter of 1835-36. Wagner had the right to claim a benefit performance, and, having an excellent troupe of singers at his disposal, decided to produce his opera at this benefit. "In spite of a royal subsidy and the intervention of a theatre committee, our worthy director was in a perennial state of bankruptcy," says Wagner, "and before the end of the season the most popular member of the company, in spite of the unpunctuality of the payment of their salaries and the offer of better engagements elsewhere." Wagner modestly says: "It was only through my being a favourite with the whole opera company that I induced the singers not merely to stay until the end of March, but also to undertake the study of my opera, most exhausting in view of the briefness of the time." He only had ten days for all the various rehearsals. He says: "Notwithstanding that it had been quite impossible to drive them into a little conscious settledness of memory, I finally reckoned on a miracle to be wrought by my own acquired dexterity as conductor." This does not bear out the general opinion held in London as to Wagner's conducting. During his season as conductor of the Philharmonic in 1855, he had very severe opposition with which to contend, especially that of the musical critics Chorley and Davison (the Athenæum and the Times); but I should think Wagner was a pretty useful conductor, to judge from his article about conducting. Wagner kept the company together at rehearsal by singing all their parts and shouting the necessary action, forgetting that this could not be done at the public performance. At the general rehearsal Wagner's conducting, gesticulation, shouting, and prompting kept things together, but at the performance, before a crowded house, there was utter chaos.

Unfortunately, Wagner had allowed the manager, Herr Bethmann, to have the receipts of the première as his benefit; and at the second performance, Wagner's benefit, there were few in the audience, and a free fight, amusingly described by him, was waged behind the scenes.

It takes Wagner six pages of closely printed prose to give a résumé of the plot, and it would be impossible in my present space to do more than comment on some of the changes. The Duke, who is the most indefatigable talker in Shakespeare's play, becomes a King, who never even appears. Angelo becomes a German Governor, who tries to foist German puritanism on the hot-blooded Sicilians. There is no moated grange for Mariana, who in Wagner's version is a fellow-novice of Isabella. Neither King nor Duke ever appearing, Isabella marries Lucio—a strange alteration to make. Isabella, to save her brother Claudio, arranges an appointment with the German Governor at the Carnival (Wagner's idea), and sends Mariana instead. They are discovered, and the Governor expects to be executed for his ill-treatment of Mariana, when news is heard of the King's arrival in harbour. In Wagner's words, "Everyone decides to go in full carnival attire to greet the beloved prince, who surely will be pleased to see how ill the sour puritanism of the Germans becomes the heat of Sicily. The word goes round! Gay festivals delight him more than all the gloomy edicts. Frederick, with his newly married wife Mariana, has to head the procession; the novice, Isabella, lost to the cloister for ever, makes the second pair with Lucio." This is Wagner's ending, and anyone who knows the original text can get a fair idea of his alterations.

With the few, but very important, exceptions I have mentioned, he sticks fairly closely to Shakespeare's text. In regard to the troubles concerning the production, much has been amusingly written by Wagner. The police took offence at the title "Forbidden Love." The production was for the last week before Easter, when only serious pieces were performed. Wagner assured the magistrate that it was founded on a serious play by Shakespeare, and, not having read further than the title, the official passed the opera on condition that the title was changed to The Novice of Palermo. Wagner says: "In the Magdeburg performance, remarkably enough, I had nothing at all to suffer from the dubious character of my opera text; the story remained utterly unknown to the audience, on account of its thoroughly vague representation." Of his benefit performance the composer says: "Whether a few seats were filled at the commencement of the overture I can scarcely judge. About a quarter of an hour earlier the only people I could see in the stalls were my landlady and her husband, and, strange to say, a Polish Jew in full costume! I was hoping for an increase in the audience notwithstanding, when suddenly the most unheard-of scenes took place in the wings. The husband of my primadonna (Isabella) had fallen upon the second tenor, a very pretty young man, who sang my 'Claudio,' and against whom the offended husband had long nursed a secret grudge. It seems that having convinced himself of the nature of the audience when he accompanied me to the curtain, the lady's husband deemed the longed-for hour arrived for taking vengeance on his wife's admirer without damage to the theatrical enterprise. Claudio was so badly cuffed and beaten by him that the unhappy wretch had to escape to the cloak-room with bleeding face. Isabella was told of it, rushed in despair at her raging husband, and received such blows from him that she fell into convulsions." There was a general free fight, all the company paying off old scores. The principals were unable to proceed with the performance, the manager made the usual speech about unforeseen obstacles, and the performance did not take place. This is the correct account of the exciting second and last performance, told almost in Wagner's own words, of the composer's only Shakespearian opera.

Of the music, Grove says the score is in the possession of the King of Bavaria at Munich. In the British Museum there is a copy of a carnival song and chorus, very bright and spirited, but with no trace of the later Wagner. There is also a "Carnival scene" for pianoforte, founded on motives from the opera, by Geo. Kirchner. Unfortunately, the first half of this fantasia is the song I have just noticed, with elaborate bravura passages for the piano, but the middle episode is much more like the real man. It is a fairly slow, melodious passage, full of interesting modulations, quite foreshadowing what the composer might do. If the rest of the work is up to this form, and if the score is really in Munich, I hope that it will be published, and performed with better luck than at Wagner's "benefit."

As there has been so little music composed for this play, I will give a short account of as many settings as I can find of the solitary lyric contained in it. Probably the first setting of these words was by Dr John Wilson, born at Faversham, 1595, who is supposed to have sung Balthazar in Much Ado About Nothing, and other similar parts, and to have been mentioned by name in the First Folio edition of Shakespeare's plays.

In this edition (1623) the stage direction runs, "Enter the Prince, Leonato, Claudio, and Jacke Wilson." This particular song is published in Playford's Select Ayres and Dialogues, published in 1659 for one, two, or three voices, to the theorbo-lute or bass-viol. The words are beautifully set to a quaint and pathetic air, and there is no verbal repetition. Dr Wilson adds the second verse, "Hide, O hide those hills of snow," by Fletcher, to make the song an ordinary length, without futile repetition.

The next setting is by John Weldon, pupil of Henry Purcell, born at Chichester, January 19, 1676, and educated at Eton. This song is interesting, but very florid, and the words are dreadfully ill-treated. Weldon only sets the verse attributed to Shakespeare. The music was on sale at "The Golden Harp and Hoboy" in Catherine Street. Our music-sellers do not call their shops by such pretty names now.

Next on our list comes Johann Ernst Galliard, happily named as a composer of theatre music, one of our earliest German "peaceful penetrators." Born at Zelle, Hanover, in 1687, he soon emigrated to England, where he successfully composed operas and much dramatic music, including this pretty little song, which was published in 1730. He was organist at Somerset House, and, I suppose, played the organ while the clerks filled in birth certificates and made out income-tax forms. He died in London in 1749.

Thomas Chilcot, composer of the next version of these words, was organist at Bath Abbey from 1733 until he died (1766). This song was published in 1745, and is a good example of the period, slightly florid, but very melodious, with a charming accompaniment for stringed orchestra. It is a song that would repay careful study on the part of a high tenor. The second Fletcher verse is added in this version.

Of Christopher Dixon, the composer of the next setting, no mention is made in Grove's Dictionary of Music and Musicians, and all that seems to be known of him is that he was called "of York," and some cantatas and songs of his are in the British Museum Library. This song, published in 1760, has a flowing, rather sad melody, and the second verse is again used.

A glee for male voices to these words was published about 1780. It was composed by either Tommaso or Giuseppe Giordani, two composer-brothers—probably by the former, who was born at Naples in 1740 and migrated to Dublin in 1761, and wrote a great deal of music to English lyrics. This glee is a charming setting. The part-writing is always graceful, and often very ingenious, the inner parts melodious and interesting, and the whole effective. The composer has adapted this glee for mezzo-soprano solo with harpsichord accompaniment, and a very pretty song it makes.

Jackson of Exeter, as he was generally called, who wrote the celebrated church service known as Jackson in F, has set these words as a duet, with harpsichord accompaniment. The first verse only is taken, but the composer "rings the changes" on the words to such an unhappy extent that it makes quite a long number. Simple, melodious, and graceful, like nearly all of Jackson's secular music, it is not of much value as a serious setting of the words. Strangely enough, it is marked allegro molto, and, should this instruction be carried out literally, the effect would be very curious, taking the words into consideration. The composer was born at Exeter in 1730, and this duet was published in 1780. He was a keen landscape painter, and imitated the style of his friend Gainsborough.

W. Tindal, whose setting was published in 1785, is not mentioned in Grove's Dictionary, and seems to have composed very little music. Six vocal pieces, of which this is No. 2, and eight English, Spanish, and Scottish ballads, one of which is a quaint setting of part of Hamlet's love-letter, "But never doubt I love," are all the compositions of his I can find. This duet is full of clever bits of imitation and good contrapuntal part-writing, and is melodious as well. Tindal also repeats the words almost ad nauseam, and only uses the first verse.

Sir John Andrew Stevenson, Mus.D., composed a glee on these words, which was published in 1795, but is of no great merit.

All that I can discover about Luffman Atterbury is that he was a carpenter before he became a musician, was a musician-in-ordinary to George III., sang at the Handel commemoration of 1784, and died in 1796. He composed one beautiful piece of music, a round in three parts to the first verse of these words, which is really a perfect gem. The melody is simple and beautiful, the counter-melodies are equally taking, and the part-writing is very skilful. What more can one desire?

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

Very few composers seem to have been attracted by The Merchant of Venice, though in the last act occurs one of the most beautiful eulogies of music in the world—the lines are too familiar to quote. I can only trace two operas on the subject. The first is Il Mercante di Venezia, by Ciro Pinsuti, produced at Bologna, November 8, 1873. It is in four acts, and the libretto is by G. T. Cimino, who very freely adapted Shakespeare's story. The work opens with a short overture-prelude of no very great importance, and the curtain rises on a street in Venice with chorus singing and gondolas floating by. Presently Portia appears in a gondola with the Prince of Morocco, playing the lute. She sings a greeting to Venice and its inhabitants, and exits with the Prince, who has not a singing or speaking part in the opera. But Bassanio and Antonio have observed her, and the former has fallen in love with her and tells Antonio about it. They exit, and the chorus, cunningly knowing that Shylock is about to enter, sings a derisive anti-Semitic song. Shylock tells them that he is following a really inoffensive industry, but no one seems to believe him. It would be wearisome to follow the plot too closely here. Shylock has a terrific aria about his daughter's elopement, after which the pound of flesh contract is made; and this scene is really impressive. Then there is a long trio between the three—Shylock, Antonio, and Bassanio—which makes a brilliant finale to the first act.

Act ii. opens at Belmont. Portia is wondering about her father's will, and she sings quite a long and florid song about it. Bassanio enters and declares his love, and a long and impassioned duet follows, at the end of which is a lengthy fanfare, succeeded by the strangest caricature of Mendelssohn's Wedding March I have ever heard. The rhythm is exactly the same, and the melody and harmony are almost identical. This brings on poor Morocco again. The casket business, very much shortened, takes place, and Bassanio, as usual, wins. Then comes the March again, this time quite frankly called "Marcia Nuziale," and the act finishes with the bad news of Antonio and Bassanio's hurried exit to try to save him.

The third act discovers Shylock in a bad temper, still singing about his daughter's elopement. (Really Shakepeare's construction was not quite so bad as his adapters seem to think.) Afterwards a chorus of Jews comes on and sings hymns at Shylock. This seems to make him even more angry. The Trial scene is very much curtailed, and Portia "comes to the 'osses" very much more quickly than Shakespeare lets her.

The fourth and last act opens with a long and elaborate choral ballet, at the end of which (Jessica and Lorenzo being cut out) Portia and company soon finish off the plot; but, for some probably operatic reason, the full chorus is at Belmont, and, what is stranger, the chorus of Jews break in on it with Yiddish hymns. At the back of the stage a ship is seen on which is Shylock. The Jews and Christians continue singing, but gradually the Christians win, the Jews dying away as the Christians become more vociferous. So the curtain slowly falls. It is a strange and interesting work, and not without some dramatic touches. The themes are mostly cheap and banal, and there is little or no dignity about the part of Shylock; but the work is noteworthy if only for the fact that it is the only opera but one ever written or in any way produced on The Merchant of Venice. Also Shylock has one thing in his favour—he is not a tenor.

Louis Deffès, a French composer, born at Toulouse, July 25, 1819, also composed an opera on this subject, in four acts, calling it Jessica. The libretto is by Jules Ardevies. The work was first performed on March 25, 1898, at the composer's birthplace. M. Deffès was a pupil of the Paris Conservatoire, where he studied under Halévy and subsequently won the Prix de Rome. The librettist has taken the elements of his dramatic poem from Shakespeare's play, but has, owing to musical exigencies, very much cut down the work. On the other hand, he introduces a tragic dénouement that had no place in Shakespeare's drama. To this book the composer has written most moving and dramatic music, which produced a deep effect on the audience when first performed.

This opera was to have been called Shylock and brought out at the Opéra Comique, where the work had been accepted; but circumstances decided otherwise. Among the prominent numbers that stand out in the first act are the song of Antonio, "C'était le soir," and the fine finale. In the second act Jessica has a charming cavatina, and a very interesting duet with Shylock, who also has a fine song in this act. In the third act, at the culminating point of the work, is a delicious chorus of swallows (at the first performance beautifully sung by a chorus of young lady pupils from the Toulouse Conservatoire); a poetic dream reverie by Portia; and a charming ballet; the act ending with a brilliantly written quintet. In the fourth act are serious songs for Jessica and Shylock, the whole ending with a dramatic version of the Trial scene. The first performance was a veritable triumph for the composer, who, at the age of seventy-nine, an old pupil of the Toulouse Conservatoire, an old Prix de Rome man, and the composer of a dozen works produced in Paris, had returned to his native town to produce the opera and to take over the direction of the school of music at which he had begun his studies.

As regards incidental music, every production of this play must have some. There must be masque music for Lorenzo and Jessica to elope to; there must be a setting of "Tell me where is fancy bred"; and Portia has her own private orchestra at Belmont. But most of the specially composed music for the Merchant remains in manuscript.

Sullivan wrote a very elaborate masque for the Calvert production at Manchester, much of which is published. There is a long and very Viennese valse, full of melody and grace, and a grotesque Dance for Pierrots and Harlequins, with a highly comic cadenza for the bassoon. The Bounce is the most familiar number, as it is frequently played as an entr'acte in the theatre. It is very attractive, but not at all a bourrée on the old accepted lines. There is also a melodious serenata in the rarely used key of E flat minor. These few numbers are all that have been printed.

Engelbert Humperdinck wrote music for Reinhardt's production of this play in Berlin at the Deutsches Theater. This version of the play begins with a barcarolle sung by a tenor behind the act-drop as the curtain goes up. This, oddly enough, is sung in Italian, and the words are not by Shakespeare. Portia is discovered playing the lute in the second scene, cleverly imitated by Humperdinck on the harp. Before the second act is a very stately saraband. For the Prince of Morocco's entrance there is no attempt at Eastern local colour. Obviously the Prince in this version did not bring his own band, and trusted to Portia's private orchestra for his effects, and they did not know his national anthem; so he only gets an ordinary flourish, two trumpets and kettledrums. The same thing happens to Aragon, only the fanfare is different though in the same key. The march is very wild, working up to a great climax, and then dying away to nothing. "Tell me where is fancy bred" is set as a duet for soprano and contralto with female chorus, and makes a beautiful number. After this there is nothing till the last act. The curtain goes up to exquisite music, which lasts till the end of the play. It is very lightly scored, strings, harps, solo violin, and horns, and every word can be heard through it: so it makes a perfect ending for the whole play. I have never read of this music being performed in England, but I can very strongly recommend it to any future producer of The Merchant of Venice.

For Mr Arthur Bourchier's production at the Garrick Frederick Rosse composed a great deal of music, some of which is published. It is very good stage music, and admirably suited to the production it was written for. There is a prelude to the first act, ending with a sort of barcarolle; then a melodious intermezzo, entitled "Portia"; an Oriental march for Morocco (evidently the Prince brought his own band for this production); a second prelude, rather sickly sentimental; a good stirring march for the Doge; and a pretty setting of "Tell me where is fancy bred" for contralto, baritone, and harp—very serviceable and useful music all of it. But somehow the play itself does not seem to get the best out of musicians.

Gabriel Fauré, the distinguished French musician, who composed the fine incidental music for Mrs Patrick Campbell's production of Pelléas el Mélisande, also wrote incidental music to Edmond Haraucourt's version of The Merchant of Venice, called by him Shylock. There are not many numbers, but all of them are interesting. The first is a prelude and serenade for light baritone to words of M. Haraucourt's; very graceful and melodious, but unconnected with Shakespeare's plot. The words begin, "Oh les filles, venez les filles aux voix douces." The first entr'acte, in march time, opens with trumpets. There is a flowing trio founded on the same subject, and then back to the beginning for the close—a very pleasant little interlude. Now comes a so-called madrigal, not in the English sense of a contrapuntal number in several vocal parts, but a very pretty sentimental song, the words, again by M. Haraucourt, "Celle que j'aime a de beauté," being charmingly set for baritone once more. The "Épithalme" or "Bridal Song" is for orchestra only; it is a solemn adagio movement, almost too sombre for such a comedy as M. Haraucourt makes of The Merchant. The love music is in nocturne form, and is chiefly a duet for solo violin and 'cello. The last number, headed "Finale," is a brilliant quasi-scherzo movement in triple time—rather in the manner of a valse-scherzo. This is the longest and most elaborate section of the suite, finishing with a well-developed coda. Altogether Fauré's Shylock is an interesting, though rather slight, addition to our very scanty amount of music for this play.

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

It is a curious thing that, though critics are unanimous in saying that The Merry Wives of Windsor is the weakest comedy Shakespeare ever wrote, it has directly inspired one opera of first-class importance—Verdi's Falstaff, by some considered the finest comic opera in the world; also Nicolai's Merry Wives of Windsor, a first-rate opera in the second division, as it were, still constantly played in Germany, and here by the Carl Rosa Opera Company; and Balfe's comic opera Falstaff, produced at Her Majesty's, July 19, 1838. This work is not so easy to place; it is essentially Italian music, and shows how wonderfully adaptable Balfe's genius was.

Braham, Parry, and Horn wrote numbers for a musical version of this play, which was produced in London in 1823, but I cannot trace the score nor any of the numbers.

We will take Balfe's opera first. There was a fine cast for the first production—Grisi, Rubini, Tamburini, with Lablache as Falstaff: so the work had every opportunity, as far as singers were concerned, but it never passed into the opera repertory, and few people now have heard of it. Perhaps the libretto by S. M. Maggioni may have helped Falstaff into its present oblivion. The work opens with a conventional overture, a slow introduction and a quick second part, getting quicker towards the end—the sort of overture that would suit almost any comedy-opera as well as The Merry Wives. After the overture comes a duet for Page and Ford; then Falstaff's entrance and song. It is impossible to follow the plot clearly, as there is a great deal of spoken dialogue; but all the principals have very "fat" bits. The composer was obviously writing for singers whom he knew well, and he did not bother much about character, colour, Windsor, or Queen Elizabeth's time; everything is perfectly vocal, and the melodies are quite pleasant.

Balfe certainly had a wonderful gift for melody, but there is no drama at all in the work. Parts of it would sound quite well in a concert-hall, but I could not trust it on the stage. At the end, instead of fairies tormenting Sir John, a chorus of witches is introduced for that purpose, and they do it quite effectively. The work ends with a brilliant ensemble for the principals and chorus, with Grisi "coloraturing" all over the place. The opera is only in two acts, so a good deal of plot is omitted; still, the work is interesting, if merely from the fact that Balfe is the only British composer who has written an opera, The Bohemian Girl, which has been played, and is being played, all over the world. It is the fashion for "superior people" to sneer at Balfe, but The Bohemian Girl is the sole English opera in the international repertory.

Nicolai's opera, Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor, book by Mosenthal, produced at Berlin in 1849, is now a classic. The overture is quite beautiful; the second subject so attracted Wagner that he "pinched" it and put it into the Meistersinger. The libretto is very well done, too. Although none of the rest of the opera quite reaches this high level, all is very good.

After the overture, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford enter with their letters, and the plot gets under way at once. No tiresome preliminary chorus, but straight to the story. In this charming duet is hatched the plot for the undoing of Falstaff. Fenton is made into a much larger and more important rôle than Shakespeare conceived; in point of fact, he is the solo tenor lover, and much very pretty music is given to him. All Sir John's music is very expressive of the man, and, though vocal, is suited to the character. With the exception of the enlargement of Master Fenton's part, Nicolai's librettist sticks closely to Shakespeare's text; but there are occasional excrescences, mostly harmless. At the opening of the second act, Falstaff sings a song, with male chorus, the words of which begin with the famous Clown's song at the end of Twelfth Night, "When that I was and a little tiny boy"; but after a few lines it grows into a drinking song. Anyway, there's some Shakespeare in it, and it is a first-rate number.

The third act opens with a ballad about Herne the Hunter and his oak for Mistress "Reich" (Ford). It is a very weird and effective song, and in excellent contrast to the music which has preceded it. Sweet Anne Page also has much more to do in this version of the story than in Shakespeare's; but in opera one must have young lovers, and Falstaff and Mistresses Ford and Page are not quite romantic enough for the average opera audience. The grotesque music for Slender and Dr Caius is wonderfully done, and full of quiet humour. After the "Herne" ballad Sweet Anne Page sings a long and almost tiresome aria, but this is followed by the Moon chorus scene, which opens with the same motif as the overture. The orchestra plays the beautiful melody, and the chorus sustains long, pianissimo six-part harmonies. The whole effect is very fine. Next comes a ballet with chorus of fairies, also on themes used in the overture. Whenever Nicolai employs a theme from the overture the whole work seems to rise in value and become quite first-rate. With Fenton disguised as Oberon, King of the Fairies, and Anne Page as Titania, Falstaff is "put through the hoops," even as he is in Shakespeare's play, and a very melodious trio begins the finale. This is sung by the three ladies—Anne, Mistress Page, and Mistress Ford. Near the end Falstaff joins in, and for the last fourteen bars principals and chorus sing an ensemble.

It is indeed a very merry work, and curiously Shakespearian; all the parts are showy to sing and to act, the music, though full of character, is thoroughly vocal, and the orchestration is never too heavy for the singers. As a comic opera it is quite one of the best in the world, and fully deserves its place in the repertory of opera for all time.

We now come to the third opera founded on The Merry Wives of Windsor, Verdi's Falstaff, libretto by Boito. After the production of Otello, 1887, the composer was silent operatically; but in 1893, at the age of eighty, he produced Falstaff, and astounded the entire musical world. The work was produced at the Scala, Milan, February 9, and its success was instantaneous. The book by Boito is, as the score says, "derived from Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor, and from certain passages of Henry IV. having relation to the personality of Falstaff," and is a masterpiece of construction and adaptation.

The opera is in three acts, each act being in two parts. Shallow, Page, Slender, Sir Hugh, Nym, Simple, and Rugby all go. Certain lines have to be transposed. For instance, in Act i, Scene 1, Caius speaks Shallow's lines, beginning "You have beaten my men"; but these things are necessary in converting a five-act comedy, with two scenes, into a three-act lyrical comedy with six scenes. Sweet Anne Page becomes Annetta Ford, and her part and Master Fenton's are much written up; in fact, they become a very pretty pair of lovers, and their frequent love-duets are beautifully melodious, and never sentimental. Bardolph (tenor) becomes an important part, and he pursues his old master after his dismissal with the utmost malignancy. The scene is Windsor in the time of Henry IV. Falstaff is a baritone. Victor Maurel, the great French baritone, created the part.

As is usual with this composer's later work, there is no overture, the curtain rising on the interior of the Garter Inn at the fourth bar of an allegro vivace. Sir John has just sealed the two love-letters. Dr Caius (tenor) enters angrily and abuses Falstaff nearly in Shallow's words; Falstaff pays no attention, but calls for sherry, and in a brilliant scene the Doctor accuses Falstaff and his followers of making him drunk and robbing him. After Caius's exit, Sir John calls for his bill and sings a song of his wandering from inn to inn, following the light shed by Bardolph's nose, and setting forth how much it has cost him (Falstaff) to get it into its present condition. He then produces the letters, and Pistol and Bardolph refuse to bear them. Falstaff bundles them out of the room and the scene ends. The whole of the music in these comedy scenes is as light as air, the action is wonderfully swift, and every nuance in the words is reflected in the orchestration. It is only necessary to comment on a few features, as the original story is so well known and Boito follows it fairly closely now. There are no real numbers that can be separated from the main body; no songs or concerted pieces that it would be wise to perform apart from the context: the whole work is so welded into one homogeneous whole that it would be sacrilege to do scraps on the concert platform. There are no numbers, like the "Preis" song or Hans Sachs' soliloquies from Wagner's great comic opera, that can be performed with great effect at concerts: with Verdi's Falstaff it is all or nothing. The reading of the letter by Mistress Ford makes a fine comic effect, and the unaccompanied quartet for the four ladies—Page, Ford, Sweet Anne, and Mrs Quickly—that follows it is a rare bit of vocal writing. The concerted writing throughout is splendid—the counterpoint is never obtrusive, but always there,—and the orchestration a wonderful combination of lightness and strength.

To return to the plot. Falstaff comes only once to Ford's house, and is thrown out of a window into the Thames, so never escapes as the wise woman of Brentford. A very amusing effect, though not in Shakespeare, is obtained during Ford's mad search for Sir John. Fenton and Anne Page have hidden behind a curtain. In the middle of the fearful din everyone is making there comes a sudden pause, during which the lovers kiss audibly. Ford at once thinks it is Sir John and his wife, creeps up to the arras, jerks it aside, and discloses his daughter and her forbidden lover, much to Ford's anger and the lovers' mutual embarrassment! During this act Falstaff sings to Mistress Ford the fine song about his youth, "Once I was page to the Duke of Norfolk."

Though Verdi does not use the leit-motif in the ordinary sense of the word, much use is made of a triplet figure. Mistress Quickly employs it first to announce to Sir John his appointment with Mistress Ford. It is used by Sir John when he announces to Ford, disguised as Brook, his appointment with Ford's wife. Unfortunately, the original Italian cannot be, or has not been, rendered into the same number of syllables in the English version (I am speaking of Ricordi's edition), so there is one syllable missing, which spoils the whole effect. This figure is used wonderfully as an accompaniment during the duet that follows, and the eighty-year-old composer gets heaps of natural boyish fun (though technically marvellous) out of those six notes.

The first part of the third act opens with, for Verdi, quite a long introduction, agitato in nature, on the theme that interrupts Falstaff's love-making in the previous act. The scene is the exterior of the Garter Inn. Falstaff is alone, and sings his famous soliloquy on the wicked, treacherous world. He calls for wine, drinks deeply, and begins to feel better. He mixes the sack with the Thames water he has swallowed, and sings, "How sweet it is to drink good wine while basking in the sunshine." Mistress Quickly comes on, and makes the appointment for Herne's oak at midnight. She begins the story of Herne the Hunter very impressively, and Mistress Page finishes it.

The next and last scene takes place a little before midnight, at the oak in Windsor Park. Anne Page and Fenton open with a love-duet, and as the bell strikes twelve Sir John enters wearing a pair of antlers. After a short scene with Mistress Page, Anne Page is heard as Fairy Queen summoning her wood nymphs, dryads, and goblins. Falstaff falls on his face, and the fairies enter. There is a long and beautiful sort of choral ballet, in which Falstaff is badly treated by everyone, especially by Bardolph. In the hubbub Dr Caius elopes with Bardolph disguised as Anne Page, and Fenton and Anne manage to get Ford's consent to their marriage. Then comes the great moment of all. All parties are reconciled; Ford invites everyone to carouse at his house, and Sir John Falstaff leads off with the subject of the great choral fugue that forms the finale. The words begin, "Jesting is man's vocation," etc. Fenton takes the answer, then Dame Quickly, then Mistress Ford. At first the orchestration is very light, but as the rest join in it grows heavier. Mistress Page then enters with the subject, followed by Sweet Anne in stretto, Pistol meanwhile starting with the counter-subject, closely followed by Ford, with Dr Caius in stretto. It would take too long to describe the ramifications of this, as Browning says of another, "mountainous fugue," but it is one of the most superb pieces of vocal fugal writing extant, and makes one of the finest endings to an opera the brain of man has ever conceived.

The idea of having a great fugue in eight and ten parts, with a full chorus and orchestra, quite independent of the solo parts, to finish a comic opera was a stroke of genius that could only have occurred to a supreme mind, and could only have been carried out by one of the great musical and dramatic geniuses of the world. It is extraordinarily successful, and its daring is gloriously vindicated. Let those lovers of musical comedy, ragtime, and sentimental ballads who sneer at fugue, counterpoint, form, and technique hear this, and wonder. It does not sound very complicated or difficult, but really it is quite as complex as the finale of Mozart's "Jupiter" Symphony, the "Cum Sancto Spiritu" from Bach's B minor Mass, or the great fugato finale from the third act of Wagner's Meistersinger. Verdi and Mozart make the numbers I have spoken of sound simple and almost easy; Bach and Wagner sound as difficult as they are, and all are equally difficult at bedrock.

I have written a great deal on this work, though no number of pages of mine could do any kind of justice to it; but if I have helped one reader to a little fuller understanding of this great comic opera I shall have "acquired grace," and, anyhow, that is something.

In 1856, at the Lyric, Paris, Adolphe Adam produced his one-act comic opera Falstaffe, with a libretto by MM. Saint Georges and Leunen. He was born in Paris in 1803, and was a pupil of Boieldieu at the Conservatoire. The music is very light and fairly melodious, but quite unambitious, and has been described by a French musical critic, very justly, as mediocre. There is a valse in it which was popular for a time, and a few catchy numbers, but the critic was right—mediocre is the word.

There is a song by J. L. Hatton entitled "Falstaff's Song: Give me a cup of sack, boy." But I cannot find the words in my edition of Shakespeare's plays and poems. It begins:

I don't think the words are Shakespeare's, in spite of the printed title-page before me. The music is in the composer's well-known "Simon the Cellarer" style; only, unfortunately, the tune is not so good. The words get sillier as the song continues, so that if I had been the boy I should have given the singer prussic acid instead of the sack he so repeatedly calls for.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

From a musical point of view one of the most important of Shakespeare's plays is A Midsummer Night's Dream. It is possible to use nothing but Mendelssohn's music for this play, but I have never heard it in England without additional numbers. Sir Frank Benson, in his poetical production, used all the original music, but also included a song by Cooke, "Over hill, over dale," for the first singing fairy, and a duet, "I know a bank," by Horn, for first and second singing fairies: the latter a very boring work and quite out of keeping with the rest of the music. There is no reason why these words should be sung at all: they should be spoken by Oberon. Sir Herbert Tree had them sung to the tune of "Auf Flügeln des Gesanges"—certainly by Mendelssohn, but the effect was very distressing. Most producers use the Spring Song and Bee's Wedding as fairy dances, and this effect is quite legitimate and absolutely in the picture with the rest of the score. Mendelssohn is at the top of his form in this music, and here is no Shakespearian Old English Wardour Street style: it is just Mendelssohn at his best, and a very good best it is. With careful arrangement it can be played on a small orchestra, and is a tremendous help to the success of the play. There is bound to be a long wait between the first and second acts—the change from Athens to the Forest—and Weber's overture to Oberon is very effective here; and, although scored much more brilliantly than the Mendelssohn music, does not seem out of place, and fills in what would else be a very tiresome interval. Several English composers have set the fairy chorus, "You spotted snakes," as a glee for mixed voices; but I never quite fancy fairies singing tenor or bass, and consider Mendelssohn was very wise to stick to women's and children's voices only.

Mendelssohn was only seventeen when he wrote the overture, but the rest of the music was composed much later, at the request of the King of Prussia, and first produced at the New Palace, Potsdam, in 1843. His critical German friends took him much to task for wasting such beautiful music on such a foolish play, but I don't think he ever regretted it. There is a fine ophicleide part in the overture, giving the idea of the clumsy Bottom among the fairies. Mendelssohn chose this instrument because it blends with no other instrument on earth, and really knew what he was doing; but, because of its very quality of tone, for which he chose it, modern conductors have cut it out and substituted a bass trombone or tuba, both of which blend quite prettily with the other instruments. I am speaking of a few years ago; there are hardly any ophicleide players left now.

I suppose the great majority of Christians in the world have been "Mendelssohned," as Kipling has it, out of church once in their lives, and I daresay that is why many people talk sniffily about the "Wedding March."

I am going to make a dreadful confession. Once at a small theatre I did the whole of the Mendelssohn music to the Dream, excepting the scherzo, on a band of eighteen, and it didn't sound half bad. The parts were carefully cross-cued, and everyone was very busy, but I was very proud of the general effect. Of course, the orchestra was almost beneath the stage, which was a great help. The players—they were picked men—consisted of single wood wind, one horn, two trumpets, one trombone, and drums, four first violins, two second, viola, 'cello, and bass. Incidentally we threw in Weber's Oberon overture. I know this sounds like vandalism to read about, but it didn't sound so in the theatre.

Purcell wrote music to a perversion of the Dream produced in 1692 (see above, p. 12), and in some strange manner managed not to set a single line of Shakespeare.

John Christopher Smith, composer of an opera called The Fairies, founded on A Midsummer Night's Dream, was born at Anspach in 1712, but came to England as a boy with his father, who was Handel's treasurer and agent for the sale of his music. At the age of thirteen he became a pupil of Handel, and, when his master went blind, his amanuensis. The Fairies was produced in 1754, and on the title-page of the score is written, "the words taken from Shakespeare," but not by whom. Also, unfortunately, as was the manner at the time, the name of the singer is printed, but not that of the character; however, it is usually possible to get a fairly shrewd idea, from the gist of the words, who is singing. This music is strictly Handelian, though the score as a whole shows greater pains and industry than is generally displayed by his great master. The overture has an introduction, fugue, tuneful minuet, and a fine march in D major after the manner of Handel's Scipio march. The first song is for tenor, with trumpet obbligato, and, I think, must be intended for Theseus. The words run, "Pierce the air with sounds of joy, Come Hymen with the winged boy, Bring song and dance and revelry." From this I take it that Theseus was preparing for his wedding. It is a very stirring, florid air, and, given a robust tenor and a first-rate trumpeter, makes a good opening for the opera. Helena sings next a song with a very pathetic middle part, saying how she scorns to hide her love. Lysander (baritone) has a brisk song about the joys of country life, followed by Helena, singing, sadly, "O Hermia fair; O happy, happy fair"; and Mr Smith sets four lines of Shakespeare's text. Hermia's next air is not very interesting, so we will pass on to a graceful setting of the words, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind," sung by Helena or Hermia, I can't settle which; the words are correct text, and very respectfully set. Puck, taken by a boy, now sings, "Where the bee sucks"—quite a new setting to me, and a charming one, too. Here follows an orchestral interlude, called "Sinfonia," for strings, with two independent oboe parts. I don't know if it is meant to be played with the curtain up for business, but rather think it is intended for scene-change music. Titania sings a very "fairy" song, words not by Shakespeare, to her fairies, telling them to follow her; and Oberon, a boy singer, does the same office, in a florid air, for his fairies. Helena, who seems to have too much to do, now has another pathetic song; Titania sings herself to sleep with "You spotted snakes," with slight verbal alterations to make sense. The human lovers become rather tedious here, as they do sometimes in the play; they have several sentimental love-songs and duets, so we welcome Oberon and his fairies. His number, "Now until the break of day," is really beautiful and most fairylike, and brings the second act to a charming close. Oberon sings "Flower of this purple dye" to a solemn largo melody, and the mortals take up the tale again. Oberon sings a setting of "Sigh no more, ladies" very interestingly, and sticks closely to the text; it certainly might have been written by Handel, but is none the worse for that. Puck sings "Up and down" to thoroughly suitable music while he chases the foolish lovers about the forest; after which Titania obliges with "Orpheus with his lute," with oboe obbligato, quite one of the best numbers in the piece and one of the best settings of these much ill-used lines—the close of the second verse is exquisitely done. A hunting "Sinfonia" heralds the last scene, with a couple of fine solo horn parts. This introduces a bold march for the entrance of Theseus, who has a lusty hunting-song with an elaborate orchestral accompaniment. Hermia now has an unnecessary song, "Love's a tempest," and the opera closes joyfully with a solo and chorus to the words "Hail to love and welcome joy." So ends a work I should very much like to have seen. There is no sign of the clowns in the score, so I fear Smith's librettist cut them out; but the music is all by one composer and all in one style. There is none of the horrible jostling of periods that annoys one in Bishop's pasticcio Shakespearian operas, and the text is quite as near the original as Bishop's.

If Christopher Smith omitted the clowns, his fellow-countryman, John Frederick Lampe, composed a mock-opera, entitled Pyramus and Thisbe, the words freely taken from Shakespeare, which was produced at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, in 1745. Johann Friedrich Lampe was born at Helmstadt, Saxony, in 1703. He came to England as a bassoon player at the opera, and married Isabella Young, a famous singer, sister of Dr Arne's wife. He soon settled down in London as a composer, and made a tremendous success with his opera The Dragon of Wantly, written in imitation of the famous Beggar's Opera, and burlesquing current Italian operas. This Pyramus mock-opera consists of an overture and thirteen numbers. The overture is a delightfully fresh and original composition, very melodious, with quaint rhythms, and finishing with a very plaintive movement for strings and oboes. Wall (a tenor) has the first song, words not by Shakespeare, explaining his duties; it is good burlesque, and great point is made of repeating the word "whispering" seventeen times, making fun of the Italian method of the time somewhat heavily but amusingly. Pyramus (tenor) has a mock-dignified entrance, and sings an elaborate burlesque song on Shakespeare's words, "And thou, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, That stands between her father's ground and mine, Show me thy chink that I may blink through with mine eyne." No other words are used in this long song, and the effect should be very comic, and also irritating to Lampe's contemporaries. Pyramus proceeds with a second song, "O wicked wall," using the last two lines only of his speech in the original text. Thisbe, the part taken by Mrs Lampe, now enters and sings about her love for Pyramus in a little amorous song, again not by Shakespeare. The lovers now have a duet, called the First Whispering Duet, to the words, "Not Cephalus to Procris was so true"; a short spirited duet, "I go without delay," takes them off; and the Lion enters and roars pleasantly in florid baritone passages. The Moon (tenor) enters and sings of the joys of drinking and loving in the sky. Thisbe has a lament, so well written that it hardly seems a burlesque at all. Pyramus, thinking her dead, sings a furious mock-heroic song, "Approach, ye furies," followed by "Now am I dead," a beautiful plaintive burlesque with obbligato parts for two oboes. Thisbe sings her lament, "These lily lips, this cherry nose," to a sad little tune; however, for some curious reason not explained in the text, neither of the lovers dies, but they finish the burlesque off with a very bright and cheerful duet to the words, "Thus folding, beholding, caressing, possessing, My Thisbe, my dear, We'll live out the year." As there is no spoken dialogue in my copy of this work, I don't know how the author gets over the death of Pyramus and Thisbe: doubtless he has some ingenious way out of it. Some of the fun is quite Shakespearian, and some is very German, but the whole little mock-opera is amusing and worth a few hours' study. The orchestration is simple and good, and the vocal writing, as was nearly always the case in this period, is excellent.

Sir Henry Bishop's operatic version of this play is the first of his series of pasticcio operas founded on Shakespeare's plays. It was produced at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, in 1816, and is a wonderful hotch-potch of musical styles from Handel to Bishop. The overture is in four distinct movements, none of which seem to have any bearing on the play or each other; and not one is used later in the opera. The whole appears to be entirely detached from the rest of the production. The first song (Hermia) is still sometimes heard; it is by Bishop, and is a melodious setting of the passage beginning "By the simplicity of Venus' doves." The next number is a trio and chorus for the Clowns, beginning "Most noble Duke." Quince, Snout, and Bottom all have little solos, but I can't trace the words—I think they were by some contemporary of Bishop's; the tune is by Arne and Bishop, but is not very valuable. The next song is for the first fairy and by Dr Cooke. The words do not occur in the play or in any other work of Shakespeare's; they are just the conventional fairy-song words about fairy rings, lightly trip it o'er the green, but the musical setting is charming. The fairy march by Bishop is the same as in his As You Like It, beginning pianissimo and finishing with about fifty bars of such vulgar fortissimo noise as would have frightened away any number of fairies. Demetrius has the next song: it is by Bishop, but the words are not Shakespeare's. The words, "But ne'er recall my love," are repeated thirteen times, and the tune is insignificant. The next number is a "grand recitative air and chorus" for Oberon and the fairies; again the words are not by Shakespeare, but are of the "trip it" and "so nimbly" school; the music is by Bishop and Dr Cooke, and Cooke's part is the better. Demetrius (tenor) sings Helena's beautiful words, "O happy fair, your eyes are lodestars," to a graceful melody of Bishop's: this number is still heard occasionally. The duet that follows between Demetrius and Hermia is by Bishop, and the words are by Anon.; it is a maudlin piece of work, words and music admirably fitted. Oberon's beautiful speech, "Flower of the purple dye," is set to music by our old friend Smith, with ineffective additions by Bishop, as a song for Oberon. The second act ends with a recitative for the fourth fairy, a dance and a chorus welcoming the little Indian boy. In the third act is a quartet for the four solo fairies by Bishop, words anonymous and very bad, which takes the curtain up. Oberon sings his speech, "Be as thou wast wont to be," to music by Battishill and Bishop, a very graceful melody; and this is followed by a hunting chorus about Spartan hounds, music by Bishop, poet unnamed. An anonymous character sings Handel's "Hush, ye pretty warbling choir," from Acis and Galatea. The effect should be amazing in this wilderness of bad music. Demetrius now has a song by Bishop, to "original words," called "Sweet cheerful hope," but as it is of no particular value we will pass on to a real piece of Shakespeare from this very play, a setting by Bishop for Oberon and chorus of the words "To the best bride bed will we," finishing with the chorus "In Theseus' house give glimmering light," or, as Shakespeare more happily phrases it, "Through the house," etc. Hermia now sings a song, words by some ruffian unnamed, to Hippolyta and her amazons about freedom; very poor, pretentious stuff. The opera ends with a so-called characteristic march, beginning with the entrance of the Cretans, followed by the Thebans, Amazons, the Centaurs, the Argo, the Labyrinth, the Minotaur—a sort of grand historical pageant of Theseus' life. The music by Bishop is not in the least descriptive of any of these varied things and persons I have catalogued; one expects some rather special music for a Centaur, a Labyrinth, and especially a Minotaur, but one is disappointed.

Mr Cecil Sharp arranged and composed the incidental music and songs for Granville Barker's most interesting production of this play at the Savoy, January 1914. In a striking preface he points out that not a single note of contemporary music for the songs in this play has been preserved; he debates the possibility of using contemporary tunes and fitting the words to them, of having fake music composed, and of commissioning a composer to write entirely new music. He rejects all these propositions, and plumps for using folk-songs. He says: "By using folk-music in the Shakespeare play we shall then be mating like with like, the drama which is for all time with the music which is for all time." Whether the result at the Savoy was successful or not I leave to the judgment of the many people who saw the production. Unfortunately, Mr Sharp does not indicate very clearly when he has arranged, composed, or adapted the tunes in the printed score. The first musical number occurs in Act ii., Scene 2, a dance, song, and chorus; the dance is to the melody of that interesting old folk-tune "Sellenger's Round," and the baritone solo is, I am sure, by Mr Sharp, as is the following chorus. The words, which fit in too neatly for it to be an adaptation, are the familiar "You spotted snakes"; but, though he is bitter with Mendelssohn for repeating "so good night" so often, he cheerfully cuts out one "lul-la," surely a grievous thing to do for one so correct! The next number is Bottom's song, "The ousel cock so black of hue," and is, presumably, by Mr Sharp, as only the melody is printed, and I don't see how anyone can have a copyright (it is marked copyright) in a folk-song tune. I don't think it is an improvement on the so-called traditional tune to which I have always been accustomed. The next number is for orchestra alone, and occurs in Act iv., Scene 1; it is called "Still Music," and the melody is the old folk-song, "The sprig of thyme," collected and arranged by Mr Sharp. The Bergamask dance, Act v., Scene 1, is one of the numerous versions of "Green Sleeves," collected and arranged by Mr Sharp. The wedding march is on the tune "Lord Willoughby," arranged by Mr Sharp, and is certainly a great change from the one usually associated with this situation. The love charm seems to have gone all wrong again, and even Theseus and Hippolyta seem to have soured on one another. As for the other lovers——! Even the tierce de Picardie fails to liven up the last bar. The song and dance in the same scene and act are composed by Mr Sharp, and, following the glorious tradition of Sir Henry Bishop in the pasticcio operas, the words "Roses, their sharp spines being gone" do not appear in the play. They are not by Shakespeare, but from Fletcher's Two Noble Kinsmen. The final number is a traditional dance arranged by Mr Sharp, but from what source he does not say; it is rather a sad little tune, followed by the more lively "Nonsuch," and finishing off with "Sellenger's Round," which was the first musical number.

It would be an interesting point to discover whether Shakespeare would have preferred this very "correct" musical setting to Mendelssohn's now derided one. I rather think that Mendelssohn's Overture and Scherzo would have appealed to him. There seems to me to be very little in this play, with its frequent classical allusions, that calls for folk-music, and artificial simplicity in a production of a play so full of Elizabethan artifice seems utterly out of place.