THE STANDARD CANTATAS. (continued 2)

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BRUCH.

Max Bruch, one of the most successful choral composers of the present time, was born at Cologne, Jan. 6, 1838. His father was a government official, and his mother a singer of more than ordinary ability. He received his early instructions, under her watchful supervision, from Professor Breidenstein, at Bonn. In 1852 he continued his studies with Hiller, Reinecke, and Breuning, at Cologne; and at this time began to produce compositions which gave unusual promise. In 1865 he was musical director at Coblenz, and subsequently at Berlin, where he conducted the Singakademie. In 1867 he was appointed chapel-master to the Prince of Schwarzburg-Sondershausen,—a post which he held until 1870. Since that time he has also been honored with a call to the directorship of the Liverpool Philharmonic Society. For some years past he has lived at Bonn and Berlin, and devoted himself exclusively to composition. His first public appearance as a composer was in connection with the performance of his operetta, “Scherz, List und Rache,” set to Goethe’s words; [87] following which he produced several chamber compositions, among them a trio (op. 5), two string quartets (op. 9, 10), Capriccio (op. 2) for four hands, Fantasie (op. 11) for two pianos, the G minor and D minor violin concertos, besides two symphonies. He has also written an oratorio, “Arminius,” and two operas, “Loreley,” to the text which the poet Geibel wrote for Mendelssohn, and “Hermione,” an adaptation of Shakspeare’s “Winter’s Tale.” His greatest successes, however, have been made with his works in the cantata form, as he is a recognized master in writing for large masses of voices and instruments, though many of his solo melodies possess great beauty. In this class of his compositions the most conspicuous are “Scenes from the Frithjof-Saga,” familiarly known as “Frithjof,” “Flight of the Holy Family,” “Roman Triumph Song,” “Roman Obsequies,” “Salamis,” “Fair Ellen,” “Odysseus,” and “Rorate Coeli.”

Frithjof.

The story of the old Norse hero Frithjof is told with exceeding spirit and beauty in the “Frithjof’s Saga” of Esaias Tegnér, Bishop of Wexiö, Sweden, which has been translated into almost every European language, and to which music has been adapted by Crusell, Hedda Wrangel, Boman, Sandberg, Zanders, Caroline Ridderstolpe, Panny, Silcher, and other Scandinavian and German composers. It was Bishop Tegnér’s Saga from which Bruch derived [88] the incidents of his musical setting of this stirring Norse theme.^[18]

To make the text of the libretto intelligible, the incidents leading up to it must be briefly told. Frithjof was the son of Thorstein, a friend of King Bele of Baldershage, and was in love with Ingeborg, the king’s daughter and his foster sister. Bele died, and left his kingdom to his two sons. When Thorstein passed away, he bequeathed to his son his ship “Ellida” and his gold ring. Soon thereafter Frithjof sailed across the fiord to demand the hand of Ingeborg. Her brothers Helge and Halfdan scorned his suit, whereupon Frithjof swore they should never have help from him. King Ring, a neighboring monarch, hearing of the trouble between them, improved the opportunity to menace their kingdom. The brothers appealed to Frithjof for aid, but he turned a deaf ear; and when they took the field against Bele, he returned to Baldershage and made love to Ingeborg, with whom he exchanged rings. Helge and Halfdan were defeated by Ring, and as part of the indemnity he demanded Ingeborg’s hand. Finding upon their return that Frithjof had been there without their permission, they required him as a penalty to go to the Orkneys and collect the tribute which the [89] islanders had neglected to pay since the death of Bele. Frithjof sailed away in “Ellida.” Meanwhile the brothers resorted to witchcraft to raise a storm that should destroy his vessel, burned his barrow, and married the lamenting Ingeborg to Ring.

It is at this point that the text of the cantata begins. The first scene pictures the return of Frithjof and his joy at the prospect of seeing Ingeborg, whose hand the false brothers had promised him if he were successful. Learning what had occurred in his absence, Frithjof goes to the temple where the kings are sacrificing, hurls the tribute in Helge’s face, fires the edifice, and hurries to the sea, pursued by his enemies. The hero sails away again in “Ellida,” and becomes a sea-rover. The text closes with this incident. In the Saga, after gaining great fame, Frithjof returns and goes disguised as a salt-burner to Ring’s palace. The king recognized him, and moved by his sad story became his friend and appointed him guardian of his heir. Ring died soon after, and Frithjof married Ingeborg. Helge and Halfdan made war against him, Helge was killed, and Halfdan became his vassal.

The cantata opens with an animated instrumental introduction, “Frithjof’s Return,” leading to the barytone recitative and aria (“How bravely o’er the Flood so bright”),—a very expressive song, interspersed with the tender, graceful chorus of his companions (“O, ’tis Delight when the Land far appeareth”). The second scene is preluded with a wedding march, whose blithe measures are in [90] marked contrast with the bridal chorus (“Sadly the Skald walks before the Train”), and Ingeborg’s song (“My Heart with Sorrow overflowing”), which describes her grief over her unhappy destiny. The third scene (“Frithjof’s Revenge”), for barytone, chorus, and orchestra, is one of great power in its dramatic and descriptive character, as well as in its masterly instrumentation. It begins with a chorus of priests (“Midnight Sun on the Mountain burns”), gradually accelerating until it is interrupted by Frithjof’s cry (“Go to Helas’ dark Abode”). Three bars of chorus intervene (“Woe! O wicked Deed”), when Frithjof, after a short recitative, sings a spirited aria (“Where my Father rests”). At its close, as he rescues Ingeborg’s ring and fires the temple, the chorus resumes (“Woe! he tugs with all his Might at the Ring”). The choral finale of this scene, with its effective instrumentation, is a masterpiece of dramatic music, worthy to rank with the highest work of its kind in opera. After the storm, the calm. In that calm occurs a melodical episode of an extraordinary character. The melody itself is so unlike anything which precedes or follows it that it must have been interpolated. In grateful contrast with the revenge of Frithjof, the burning of the temple, and the curses of the infuriated priests, comes the fourth scene, “Frithjof’s Departure from the Northland,”—a solo quartet for male voices (“Sun in the Sky now mounteth high”), of exquisite harmony, leading up to and accompanying a barytone solo which has rarely been [91] surpassed in the tender beauty of its melody or the majestic sonority of its style:^[19]—

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The fifth scene is Ingeborg’s lament for her lost lover (“Storms wildly roar”),—a soprano solo, which, if not as dramatic as the music assigned to Frithjof, is nevertheless full of beautiful sentiment. The work closes with a delightful chorus, with short phrases for Frithjof (“Now he crosseth the Floods of the salt desert Waste”), supposed to be sung on board the hero’s good ship “Ellida” as they sail off for conquest and the enjoyment of the booty he has promised his companions.

Salamis.

“Salamis, Triumphal Hymn of the Greeks” was written in 1862. It is a composition mostly for male chorus, and is admirably adapted for festival purposes. The poem, which celebrates the defeat of Xerxes, is by H. Lingg, and runs as follows:—

The instrumental introduction to the work is written in massive style, its grand chorus being elegantly interwoven with runs by the wood instruments, preparing the way for the festive adorning of the ships,—a very beautiful allegro movement. This is followed by a slower movement which pictures the breaking of the bond, the rolling of the sea, and the trampling of the horses with all that vividness for which the composer is famous. It is succeeded by a passage which is very stately, particularly in the basses (“Fate overtook Xerxes”), leading up to the grand climax (“All around, the Waves with Delight”), when the orchestra and voices are in splendid accord. After a short repetition of the opening allegro the hymn closes. It would be hard to find a more admirable musical setting of a poem than this, whether in the strength and beauty of its vocal parts, or in the color, vigor, and general effectiveness of the instrumentation.

Fair Ellen.

The heroic defence of Lucknow by its British garrison in 1857, during the Sepoy rebellion, is one of the most memorable events in the English administration of India. The world is familiar with the story of the disaffection of the native troops, [94] the failure of Sir Henry Lawrence, who was in command, to overcome the mutiny, the stubborn defence which the brave little garrison made against the repeated assaults of the native troops, their temporary assistance from Outram and Havelock, who cut their way into the city, and the final relief which was brought to them by Sir Colin Campbell. Of all the stirring incidents of the siege, however, not one has made such a strong impression as the fanciful story of the Scotch girl who heard the slogan of the MacGregors far away and knew the Highlanders were coming to their rescue.

It is this incident which Bruch has used as the theme of his cantata “Schön Ellen” (“Fair Ellen”). The story is identical with the one so often told in prose and poetry, but the dramatis personæ differ. Instead of General Lawrence we have Lord Edward, and instead of familiar Jessie Brown we have “Fair Ellen.” The text of the libretto is weak and spiritless as compared with that of the poetical versions. The salient point of the story is thus versified in the former:—

Compare the above with the corresponding verses from Robert Lowell’s fine poem:—

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Weak as the text may be, the strong healthy music of the cantata makes ample compensation. It is quite brief, there being but two solo parts, “Fair Ellen” (soprano) and Lord Edward (barytone), and five short chorus numbers. The former are vigorous and somewhat declamatory in style, but the choruses are very melodious and stirring. The instrumentation is unusually effective, and a fine point is made in the climax by the interweaving of the familiar air, “The Campbells are Coming,” with the orchestral score. It lends spirit and color to the finale, and closes up the work with a fine burst of powerful effect. Short as it is, “Fair Ellen” will always be a favorite with popular audiences.

Odysseus.

The cantata of “Odysseus,” like that of “Frithjof,” is made up of detached scenes, in this case selected from the Odyssey and arranged by William Paul Graff. The work was first produced in 1872, and has met with great success in Germany, England, and the United States. It is divided into [96] two parts, the first containing four, and the second, six scenes. The characters are as numerous as those of a grand opera, and include Odysseus, barytone; Penelope, alto; Alcinoos, King of the Pheaces, bass; Arete, his consort, alto; Nausicaa, their daughter, soprano; the Helmsman, bass; Pallas Athene, soprano; Leucothea, soprano; Spirit of Tiresias, bass; Spirit of Anticlia, Odysseus’ mother, alto; and Hermes, tenor. In performance, however, the parts of Arete and the Spirit of Anticlia, as well as of Nausicaa and Pallas Athene, are usually doubled. The choruses, which are a very important feature of the work, are assigned to Odysseus’ companions, Spirits of the Departed, Sirens, Tritons, Nymphs of the sea, Pheaces, Rhapsodes, boatmen and people of Ithaca.

In the first scene Odysseus is discovered on Calypso’s enchanted island longing for home. Hermes, the messenger of the gods, appears to him and announces that the Immortals, touched by his sorrow, will rescue him and restore him to Penelope. In the next scene the wanderer has reached the abysses of Erebus, “where, loud thundering, the flood of Cocytus pours its black wave into Acheron’s tide.” Here he invokes the world of shades. The spirits of children, brides, youths, and old men successively appear to him and narrate their mournful stories. Then Tiresias the bard warns him of the Sirens, and Anticlia his mother bids him hasten to Penelope. In the third scene he passes the isles of the Sirens, and escapes [97] their wiles through the firmness of his companions. The fourth scene describes the storm at sea, the wreck of the vessel, and Odysseus’ rescue by Leucothea, who gives him the veil the Immortals have woven, and bids the Oceanides and Tritons guide him safely to land; and the first part closes with our hero peacefully sleeping on the flowery shore of the island of Pheacia.

The second part opens with the lament of Penelope and her prayer to the gods to restore her husband to her. The sixth scene changes to the island again, and discloses Odysseus awakened from his slumbers by the sports and dances of Nausicaa and her joyful maidens. He appeals to her for help and refreshment, and is bidden to partake of their hospitality. In the next scene a sumptuous banquet is spread for him, at which he reveals his identity and asks that he be allowed to return to his home. The fair Nausicaa, though suddenly enamoured of the handsome stranger, conceals her passion and expedites his departure. The eighth scene gives us a sketch of Penelope weaving the garment, the ruse by which she kept her suitors aloof.

The ninth scene opens with the arrival of Odysseus at Ithaca. The sleeping wanderer is borne ashore by his comrades, and upon awaking [98] from his slumbers fails to recognize his own country until Pallas Athene appears to him. The goddess convinces him that he is at home once more, and then discloses the plot of the suitors, who are revelling in his palace, to compel Penelope to select one of them that day in order that they may gain possession of his property, as well as their conspiracy for his destruction, from which she promises to protect him. The final scene describes the glad acclamations of the people as they recognize Odysseus, and the joy of Penelope as she welcomes him home once more.

The orchestral introduction is very free and flowing in character, and its themes are taken from the duet of Odysseus and Penelope, which occurs later on. The opening chorus of Calypso’s nymphs (“Here, O Hermes, in midst of the Island”) is very graceful in its movement and is set to a most delightful accompaniment. It is followed by Odysseus’ lament (“Flow, ye Tears, since Days are hateful”), at first tender in its character, then changing to passionate utterances as the remembrance of Penelope comes to him, and closing with a hopeful strain after the promise of help from Zeus. In the second or Hades scene the music changes from its bright color to a gloomier minor tone. It opens with a male chorus (“The Bounds we have reached of the deep flowing Ocean”), pianissimo, gradually increasing in intensity and accompanied by remarkable effects in tone-color as the orchestra describes “the thundering of the flood Cocytus” and “the surging aloft of [99] the shadows of the departed.” It is followed by semi-choruses of the shades, and closes with a very spirited and dramatic male chorus (“Dread on Dread! Lo, surging aloft, the numberless Hosts of Departed”). The third scene opens with a fresh and characteristic male chorus (“Our Sails to the Breezes”), followed by the graceful and alluring chorus of the sirens (“Come, great Odysseus, Hero of Might”). The last scene is almost entirely choral and very dramatic in its effect, especially the opening number for the Oceanides and Tritons (“Hark! the Storm gathers from afar”), with its vigorous instrumental description of the tempest, and the closing number for full chorus (“Yonder beckons the wood-crested Harbor”), which in its tenderness and joyousness forms a striking contrast to the earlier part of the scene.

The second part is introduced with a dignified and sombre recitative (“Thou far-darting Sun”), followed by an aria of the same character (“Oh! Atritone”) in which Penelope bewails the absence of Odysseus. In the next scene the music changes to a bright and tripping strain, the chorus of Nausicaa’s maidens (“On the flowery Mead, girt by the dimpling Tide”), which closely resembles that of Calypso’s nymphs in the first scene. After Odysseus’ fervent appeal (“Hark to me! Queen, or heaven-dwelling Goddess”) the banquet scene occurs. It begins with an animated chorus of the Pheacians (“Be welcome, Stranger, to Pheacia’s Land”), followed by an exquisite unison chorus of the Rhapsodes (“Ten Years [100] now are past since Troy in the Dust was laid”), set to an accompaniment of harps. A simple and tender melody (“Let me then depart in Peace”), sung by Odysseus, in which the chorus singers gradually join, closes the scene. The eighth scene contains the most expressive solo number of the work, Penelope’s aria (“This Garment by Day I weave in my Sorrow”), with a characteristic descriptive accompaniment. The gems of the ninth scene are Odysseus’ passionate aria (“O my Fatherland! blest Remembrance!”) and his furious revenge song (“Miscreant! woe to Thee”). The last scene opens with a joyous chorus of the people (“Say, have ye heard the Tidings of Joy?”), followed by a fervent duet between Odysseus and Penelope (“Omnipotent Zeus! we call on thy Name”). The final chorus begins in chorale style (“In Flames ascending”), and after repeating the melody of Odysseus’ song in the seventh scene (“Nowhere abides such Delight”), closes with a fine fugued passage (“Slayer of Darkness”).

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BUCK.

Dudley Buck, one of the most eminent of American organists and composers, was born March 10, 1839, at Hartford, Conn., where his father was engaged in the mercantile business. He studied both the piano and organ, the latter with such success that at the age of sixteen he was appointed organist at St. John’s Church in his native city. In 1858 he went to Europe and entered the Leipsic Conservatory, where he studied the piano with Plaidy and Moscheles, and composition with Hauptmann and Richter. After remaining there a year and a half he went to Dresden and began the study of Bach’s music with Johann Schneider. A year and a half later he went to Paris, and there acquainted himself with French music and musicians. He returned to this country in 1862, and accepted the position of organist at the Park Church, Hartford, but after the death of his parents removed to Chicago, where he obtained the position of organist at St. James’s Episcopal Church, and also devoted much of his time to teaching and composition. In that city his home became a musical centre. [102] His library, fine organ, and music-room were great attractions, and he had laid the foundation of a brilliant musical career, when the great fire of 1871 swept away his entire property, including many manuscript compositions. Like many other musicians at that time he left the city, seeing no prospect of advantage to him where it would require a long time to recover purely material losses. He went with his family to Boston, where his fame was already established, and obtained the position of organist at St. Paul’s Church, as well as the charge of the large organ in the Music Hall. After remaining a short time in that city he removed to New York, where he has since resided. His life has been a very busy one, and he has had an important influence, both personally and in connection with Theodore Thomas, upon the progress of music in this country. It is not extravagant to say that there are few Protestant churches whose music has not been dignified and improved by his contributions, particularly of anthems and Te Deums, as well as of compositions for the organ, of which he is a consummate master. Singing societies are also indebted to him for many elegant four-part songs. Among his larger works are the cantata “Don Munio” (1874); the “Centennial,” written for the Centennial at Philadelphia; “The Nun of Nidaros” (1878); “The Golden Legend,” which was the prize cantata at the Cincinnati Festival of 1880; an Easter cantata; the Forty-sixth Psalm, written for the Boston Handel and Haydn Society; two volumes of sacred songs and motets; [103] “Marmion,” a symphonic overture, and other works for orchestra; the cantatas “Voyage of Columbus” (1885) and the “Light of Asia” (1886). The last two cantatas were issued in Europe, the one in Germany and the other in England, and thus came to this country bearing a foreign imprint,—a novelty for an American composer.

Don Munio

“Don Munio,” a dramatic cantata for solos, chorus, and orchestra, was written in 1874. The story of it is taken from Washington Irving’s Spanish papers, and the scene is laid in the period of the wars with the Moors. While hunting one morning, Don Munio de Hinojosa captures a cavalcade which is escorting the Moorish Prince, Abadil, and his betrothed, Constanza, on the way to their wedding. The Prince, all escape being cut off, seeks to purchase the good-will of Don Munio with his gold and jewels, and implores him not to separate him from his affianced. The Don, touched by their unfortunate condition, invites them to spend a fortnight at his castle, promising that the nuptials shall be celebrated there, and then they shall be released. The lovers accept, and Don Munio is faithful to his promise. Shortly after their departure he is ordered by the king to join in the expedition to Palestine. In one of the encounters of this crusade he is killed by Abadil, who does not [104] recognize his former benefactor with his visor closed. His death is greatly mourned in Spain, but they are consoled when Roderigo, a messenger from Palestine, arrives and tells them that one evening while strolling near the Holy Sepulchre he saw seventy Christian knights riding in ghostly procession, with the late Don Munio at their head. This is regarded as an assurance that all is well with him. Requiescat in pace.

These are the incidents which Mr. Buck has chosen for musical treatment, and he has done the work excellently well. After the orchestral introduction follows a spirited hunting-song for male chorus. The next scene opens in the chamber of Donna Maria, wife of Don Munio, who laments his absence in a minor strain, to which succeeds a rondo movement. The third is religious in character, marked “Evening. Close of vesper service in the chapel of the castle. Escobedo, the chaplain, with the women, and such retainers as have not followed Don Munio on his expedition.” It begins with a prelude closing with full orchestra and organ, and leading to barytone solo and chorus, and a short exhortation to prayer by Escobedo. The next number is an Ave Maria for full chorus, which is very beautifully harmonized. In the next scene we encounter Don Munio in the forest, and are treated to the conventional hunting-song. The next number hints at the approach of the Moors, which is soon disclosed by a pretty three-part chorus of “the females of the Moorish cavalcade as [105] they journey.” The eighth scene contains some powerful chorus work, divided between the furious Spaniards and the frightened women, and set to a very vigorous accompaniment. After the tumult ends, Abadil very melodiously appeals to Don Munio, followed by a brief arioso in which the latter makes his terms, and a spirited chorus of gratitude to the Don, which close the first part.

After a short prelude, the second part opens with a tenor aria for Abadil (“O, thou my Star”) which is very refined in sentiment. It is followed by the chorale “Jesu, dulcis Memoria,” sung by the chapel choir. A duet ensues between the two lovers on the castle terrace, which is very Italian in its flavor, and one of the most effective numbers in the cantata. The next two numbers furnish the wedding music,—a happy bridal chorus, and a charming bolero for orchestra. These lead to an unaccompanied quartet between Don Munio, Donna Maria, Abadil, and Constanza (“It is the Lot of Friends to part”). In the next scene occurs a vigorous duet between Don Munio and his wife, in which he informs her of his speedy departure for Palestine, followed by a stirring battle-hymn for male chorus. The next scene, “The chapel of the castle, choir chanting the dirge for the dead,” is in strong contrast with the preceding. Mr. Buck has rarely written anything better in his sacred music than this beautiful requiem. In the next two numbers the messenger describes the manner of Don Munio’s death, and the ghostly vision at the sepulchre, [106] and at the end of his message the requiem changes to a jubilant chorus of gratitude (“In thankful Hymns ascending”). “Don Munio” is one of the most powerful and spontaneous of American compositions, and needs but little more amplification to deserve the name of opera.

The Centennial Meditation of Columbia.

The National Centennial celebration at Philadelphia was inaugurated May 10, 1876, with a special musical programme, in which the cantata with the above formidable title occupied a prominent place. The ode was written by Sydney Lanier, of Georgia, a poet who prior to that time had made considerable reputation by two poems printed in “Lippincott’s Magazine.” The national idea was satisfied by assigning the music to Dudley Buck, at that time living in Connecticut. It must be acknowledged that the work did not make a deep impression, although it contains some excellent musical writing, and for two sufficient reasons. First, it is not a work of musical genius or inspiration, as it was ordered by a commission for a popular show. It was not singular in this respect. The “Centennial March,” written by Richard Wagner, for the same occasion, is page after page of sound and fury, executed for a most exorbitant remuneration. To ascertain its real want of inspiration one has but [107] to place it by the side of the “Kaiser March,” with its massive chords, its grand thematic treatment, and its stately movement, the outcome of patriotic fervor and national triumph. Second, the stilted and unmusical lines furnished by Mr. Lanier must have hampered the composer in every verse. This is all the more remarkable because Mr. Lanier himself was a practical musician. He had been for some time a violinist in the Peabody orchestra at Baltimore, under that accomplished leader, Asgar Hamerik. It is remarkable, therefore, that he should not have recognized the difficulties he was placing in the way both of the composer and the performers.

The ode has sixty-one lines, divided into eight stanzas of unequal lengths. It sketches the past and present of the nation, the powers which opposed its progress and hindered the development of its freedom, and the elements which at last produced success, closing with cheering auguries for the future, and a welcome to the world. All this might have been set to smooth and fluent verse, which would readily have adapted itself to music; but what composer could have treated successfully such verses as these?—

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Even in the last verse, where the composer must make his climax, and the singers must be most effective, they are confronted with this unsingable line:—

The only musical verse is the reply of the angel to Columbia in the midst of her ragged and cacophonous meditation, which the composer selected as a solo for bass voice:^[20]—

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The prelude for orchestra determines the motive of the whole cantata, and is very spirited; for here, at least, the composer was not hampered by words. The opening verse,—

is set very effectively in chorale form; but the next two verses, already quoted, are arranged for semi-chorus and full chorus, and close in a vocal stretto quite as hysterical as the words. Then follows the whispering of the Huguenots and Puritans, commencing sotto voce, and gradually increasing to a forte at the close. A few bars for the horn lead to the bass solo, “Long as thine Art,” with horn obligato,—a very impressive and dignified aria, and one which would speedily become a favorite in the concert-room if adapted to the words. The final number (“Music from this Height of Time”) begins in full choral harmony and closes with a vigorous and well-written fugue.

The Golden Legend.

“The Golden Legend” was written in competition for the prize of one thousand dollars, which the Cincinnati May Festival Association offered in 1879 for the best work of a native composer. The judges were Theodore Thomas, Otto Singer, Asgar Hamerik, Carl Zerrahn, and the late Dr. Leopold Damrosch. Their award was made to “The Golden Legend,” and it was first performed at the Festival of 1880, [110] with Miss Annie B. Norton as Elsie, Mr. Frederick Harvey as Prince Henry, Mr. J. F. Rudolphsen as Lucifer, and Mr. M. D. Whitney as Friar Paul.

The text of the cantata is composed of a prologue, epilogue, and twelve scenes taken from Longfellow’s Episode in “Christus” by the same name. The mediæval story is a very simple one. Prince Henry of Hoheneck, stricken down with an incurable ailment, after vainly seeking a remedy, is visited by Lucifer disguised as a physician, who tempts him to adopt a remedy prescribed by a doctor of Salerno; namely, the blood of a maiden who will voluntarily offer herself as a sacrifice. Elsie devotes her life to the Prince, and they journey together to Salerno, where her death must take place. Arrived at the spot, the Prince, touched by her magnanimity, entreats her to forego her purpose; but she insists upon it, bids him farewell in the school, and enters an inner apartment with Lucifer disguised as a friar. Before the tragedy can be consummated, the Prince bursts open the door, with the aid of his followers, and rescues her. The pair return to the castle on the Rhine, where of course the rapidly convalescing Prince marries Elsie, and the story closes with an epilogue reciting the discomfiture of Lucifer and the triumph of good over evil.

Out of this material the composer has constructed his work, eliminating from and adding to the original matter to suit his musical scheme, but at the same time preserving the general spirit of the story. After a very spirited and energetic prelude, the prologue [111] begins with the fruitless attempt of Lucifer to pull down the cross on the spire of Strasburg cathedral, the protests of the spirits of the air (first and second sopranos), the defiance of the bells (male chorus) as each attempt fails, and the final disappearance of the spirits amid the chanting of the majestic Latin hymn, “Nocte surgentes,” by full chorus in the church, accompanied by the organ. The second scene opens in Prince Henry’s chamber in the tower of the Vautsberg castle, and reminds one of the opening scene of “Faust,” as set by Gounod. After an expressive declamation of his melancholy and his longing for rest and health (“I cannot sleep, my fervid Brain calls up the vanished Past again”), Lucifer appears in a flash of light, dressed as a travelling physician, and a dialogue ensues, the purport of which has already been told, which closes with an ingenious and beautifully-written number for the two voices, accompanied by a four-part chorus of mixed voices and a small semi-chorus of sopranos and altos (“Golden Visions wave and hover”). The fourth scene is an unaccompanied quartet, “The Evening Song,” sung by Elsie, Bertha, Max, and Gottlieb in their peasant home in the Odenwald, as they light the lamps (“O gladsome Light of the Father”). It is a simple, tranquil hymn, but full of that sacred sentiment which this composer expresses so admirably in music. The fifth scene, Elsie’s prayer in her chamber (“My Redeemer and my Lord”), in its calm beauty and religious feeling makes a fitting pendant to the quartet. In the next number, the [112] orchestra is utilized to carry on the action, and in march tempo describes the pilgrimage to Salerno with stately intervals, in which is heard the sacred song, “Urbs cœlestis, urbs beata,” supposed to be sung by the pilgrims “moving slowly on their long journey with uncovered feet.” The seventh scene is laid in the refectory of the convent of Hirschau, in the Black Forest, where Lucifer enters the gaudiolum of monks, disguised as a friar, and sings the rollicking Latin drinking-song, “Ave color vini clari,” which Mr. Edmund C. Stedman versified for this work as follows:—

Chorus of Monks.

The next number is for orchestra only, and once more the instruments are used for a continuance of the action by a description of the carousal of the [113] monks in a characteristic allegro bacchanale, the abbot testifying his indignation through the medium of the trombone and the use of the Gregorian melody. The sentiment of the latter is expressed by the following verse:—

The ninth scene changes to Genoa. Elsie, on a terrace overlooking the sea, sings a charming aria (“The Night is calm and cloudless”), with a choral refrain of “Kyrie Eleison.” The tenth is a graceful barcarolle for orchestra, but it is somewhat in the nature of an interpolation, and is only connected with the movement of the story by a thin thread, as will be seen from the verse which gives its motive:—

The eleventh scene is a spirited and beautifully-written male chorus of sailors (“The Wind upon our Quarter lies”). The twelfth reaches the climax in the scene at the college of Salerno between Lucifer, Elsie, and the Prince, with accompaniment of attendants, and is very dramatic throughout. It is followed by a tender love-duet for Elsie and the Prince on the terrace of the castle of Vautsberg, [114] which leads to the epilogue, “O Beauty of Holiness,” for full chorus and orchestra, in which the composer is at his very best both in the construction of the vocal parts and the elaborately worked-up accompaniments.

The Voyage of Columbus.

“The Voyage of Columbus” was written in 1885, and first published in Germany. The text of the libretto was prepared by the composer himself, extracts from Washington Irving’s “Columbus” forming the theme of each of the six scenes, all of which are supposed to transpire at evening, and are therefore styled by the composer “night-scenes.” Their arrangement, which is very skilfully accomplished, is as follows:—

Scene I. In the chapel of St. George at Palos, Aug. 2, 1492. “The squadron being ready to put to sea, Columbus, with his officers and crew, confessed themselves to the friar, Juan Perez. They entered upon the enterprise full of awe, committing themselves to the especial guidance and protection of Heaven.”

Scene II. On the deck of the Santa Maria. “Eighteen years elapsed after Columbus conceived his enterprise before he was enabled to carry it into effect. The greater part of that time was passed in almost hopeless solicitation, poverty, and ridicule.”

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Scene III. The Vesper Hymn. “In the evening, according to the invariable custom on board the admiral’s ship, the mariners sang the Vesper Hymn to the Virgin.”

Scene IV. Discontent and Mutiny. “In this way they fed each other’s discontent, gathering into little knots, and fomenting a spirit of mutinous opposition ... finally breaking forth into turbulent clamor.”

Scene V. In distant Andalusia. “He compares the pure and balmy mornings to those of April in Andalusia, and observes that they wanted but the song of the nightingale to complete the illusion.”

Scene VI. Land and Thanksgiving. “As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station on the top of the castle or cabin, on the high poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the horizon, and maintaining an intense and unremitting watch.”

The cantata opens with a brief orchestral prelude of a sombre character begun by the trombone sounding the Gregorian intonation, and leading to the barytone solo of the priest (“Ye men of Spain, the Time is nigh”), appealing to the crew to commit themselves to Heaven, to which the full male chorus responds with ever-increasing power, reaching the climax in the “Ora pro nobis.” Twice the priest repeats his adjuration, followed by the choral response, the last time with joy and animation as the flag of Castile is raised and they bid farewell to the shores of Spain. A short allegro brings the scene to a close.

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The second scene is a bass aria for Columbus (“Eighteen long Years of Labor, Doubt, and Scorn”), of a vigorous and spirited character, changing to a solemn adagio in the prayer, “Lord of all Power and Might,” and closing with a few spirited phrases in the opening tempo. It is followed by the Vesper Hymn, “Ave Maris Stella,” a number in which the composer’s eminent ability in sacred music is clearly shown. Its tranquil harmony dies away in the softest of pianissimos, and is followed by an agitated prelude introducing the furious chorus of the mutinous crew “Come, Comrades, come,” which gathers intensity as it progresses, voices and instruments uniting in broken but powerful phrases, sometimes in full chorus and again in solo parts, until the climax is reached, when Columbus intervenes in brief solos of great dignity, to which the chorus responds, the scene closing with the renewal of allegiance,—a stirring bass solo with choral accompaniment.

The fifth scene is a tenor recitative and love-song of a most graceful character, and one which will become a favorite when it is well known:—

The final scene is very elaborate in its construction, and brings the work to a sonorous and stately [117] close. It opens with a very dramatic recitative by Columbus (“The Night is dark, but many a Sign seen through this Day proclaims the Goal at Hand”), at the close of which there is a short orchestral prelude, which serves to introduce a trio (“Here at your Bidding”) for Columbus and two officers (first tenor and first bass). At the cry of a seaman, “Land ho!” the chorus responds with animation. Columbus bids his crew join him “in prayer and grateful praise.” The answer comes in a splendidly-written “Hallelujah,” which is fairly majestic in its progression, reaching its close in full broad harmony, with the accompanying strains of trumpets.

The Light of Asia.

Mr. Buck’s latest cantata, “The Light of Asia,” well-nigh reaches the dimensions of an opera or oratorio. It was written in 1886 and first published in England. Its name reveals its source, and the composer has made compensation for the privilege of using Mr. Edwin Arnold’s beautiful poem, by a graceful dedication of the work to him. The libretto was prepared by the composer himself, who has shown great skill in making his selections in such manner as not to disturb the continuity of the story. The purely philosophical portions are omitted, and only those are retained which have a human interest. In this manner he has avoided the obstacle which the lack of human sympathy in the poem, beautiful as it is, would otherwise have placed in [118] his way. The text, as will be remembered, has no definite metre, much of it being in blank verse, and does not readily lend itself to musical expression; but it will be conceded that the composer has also overcome this difficulty in a very remarkable manner. The cantata is divided into four parts,—Prologue, the Renunciation and Temptation, the Return, and Epilogue and Finale.

The first part has nine numbers. A brief prelude leads to the opening chorus:—

It begins with a fugue, opened by the basses, simple in its construction but stately in theme and very dignified throughout. It is followed by a bass solo of descriptive character (“The King gave Order that his Town should keep high Festival”), closing with a few choral measures, sotto voce, relating that the King had ordered a festival in honor of the advent of Buddha, and how a venerable saint, Asita, recognized the divinity of the child and “the sacred primal signs,” and foretold his mission. The third number is the description of the young Siddârtha, set in graceful recitative and semi-chorus for female voices, with a charming accompaniment. The fourth is a spring song (“O come and see the Pleasance of the Spring”), begun by tenors and basses and then developing into full chorus with animated descriptive effects for the orchestra, picturing “the [119] thickets rustling with small life,” the rippling waters among the palms, the blue doves’ cooings, the jungles laughing with the nesting-songs, and the far-off village drums beating for marriage feasts. A recitative for bass (“Bethink ye, O my Ministers”), in which the King counsels with his advisers as to the training of the child, leads to a four-part song for tenors and basses (“Love will cure these thin Distempers”), in which they urge him to summon a court of pleasure in which the young prince may award prizes to the fair. Then

The King orders the festival, and in the next number—a march and animated three-part chorus for female voices—Kapilavastu’s maidens flock to the gate, “each with her dark hair newly smoothed and bound.” Then comes the recognition, briefly told in soprano recitative. Yasôdhara passes, and “at sudden sight of her he changed.” A beautiful love-duet for soprano and tenor (“And their Eyes mixed, and from the Look sprang Love”) closes the scene. The next number is a bass solo narrating the triumph of Siddârtha over all other suitors, leading to a jubilant and graceful wedding chorus (“Enter, thrice-happy! enter, thrice-desired!”), the words of which are taken from the “Indian Song of Songs.”

The second part opens with a soprano solo describing his pleasure with Yasôdhara, in the midst of which comes the warning of the Devas:—

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This number is a semi-chorus, set for female voices, interspersed with brief phrases for tenor, and after a bass solo, relating the King’s dream and the hermit’s interpretation, which induces him to doubly guard Siddârtha’s pleasure-house, leads up to a beautiful chorus, divided between two sopranos, alto, two tenors, and two basses:—

The next scene opens with a soprano solo (“Within the Bower of inmost Splendor”), in which Yasôdhara relates her dream of the voice crying “The Time is nigh,” to Siddârtha, and closes with a tender duet for soprano and tenor. The next number is a brief chorus (“Then in her Tears she slept”), followed by the tenor solo, “I will depart,” in which Siddârtha proclaims his resolve “to seek deliverance and the unknown light,” and leading to a richly-colored and majestic chorus:

A tenor solo describes the six long years of wandering, followed by a characteristic chorus of voices of earth and air bidding him pass to the tree under whose leaves it was foretold that truth should come to him for the saving of the world. A short bass recitative leads to a vigorous descriptive chorus relating the temptations of Siddârtha, in which the orchestra is used with masterly effect. A brief soprano solo, the apparition of Yasôdhara among the wanton shapes floating about the tree, imploring him to return, and the tenor response, bidding the shadow depart, intervene; and then the chorus resumes with increased vigor, reaching a furious climax as the legions of hell tempt him, but dying away in the close to phrases of tender beauty:—

The third part (the Return) opens with a soprano solo of a slow and mournful character, relating the sorrow of Yasôdhara and the visit of her damsels, who announce the arrival of merchants with tidings of Siddârtha. They are summoned, and tell their story in a short chorus, which is followed by a brief soprano solo (“Uprose Yasôdhara with Joy”), an exultant chorus (“While the Town rang with Music”), [122] and another brief phrase for soprano, leading to a fine choral outburst (“’Tis he! Siddârtha, who was lost”). The next number, a bass solo describing the King’s wrath when he learns that Siddârtha has returned as a yellow-robed hermit instead of with “shining spears and tramp of horse and foot,” is very sonorous as well as dramatic, and is followed by a tenor and bass dialogue developing into a trio of great beauty (“Thus passed the Three into the Way of Peace”). The final number is a masterpiece of choral work both in the elaborateness of its construction and the majesty of its effect, and brings the cantata to a close with the mystic words:—

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CORDER.

Frederick Corder, the English composer and conductor, was born at Hackney, London, Jan. 26, 1852. He was a student at the Royal Academy of Music in 1874, and in the following year gained the Mendelssohn scholarship. From 1875 to 1878 he studied at Cologne with Hiller, and in 1879 returned to London, where he engaged for a time in literary pursuits. His abilities as a writer are very clearly shown in the librettos to his works. In 1880 he was appointed conductor of the orchestra at the Brighton Aquarium, and since that time he has devoted himself to teaching and composition. His principal works are “In the Black Forest,” an orchestral suite, and “Evening on the Seashore,” idyl for orchestra (1876); the opera “Morte d’Arthur” (1877); the one-act opera “Philomel” (1879); cantata, “The Cyclops” (1880); “Ossian,” a concert overture for orchestra, produced by the London Philharmonic Society (1882); the cantata “Bridal of Triermain” (1886); and the opera “Nordisa,” founded upon a Norwegian subject and [124] brought out with great success in January, 1887 by the Carl Rosa opera troupe. Mr. Corder is one of the most ambitious and promising of all the younger English composers, and his music shows in a special degree the influence of Wagner. That he has also literary talent of a high order is evinced by his contributions to periodical literature and the librettos of his last two works,—“The Bridal of Triermain” and “Nordisa.”

The Bridal of Triermain.

“The Bridal of Triermain” was written for the Wolverhampton (England) Festival of 1886, and was one of the most notable successes in the festival performances of that year. The subject is taken from Walter Scott’s poem of the same name. The adaptation has been made in a very free manner, but the main incidents of the poem have been carefully preserved. Sir Roland’s vision of the “Maid of Middle Earth;” the bard Lyulph’s recital of the Arthurian legend, which tells of Gyneth’s enchantment in the valley of St. John by Merlin, where she must sleep

the magic wrought by Merlin in the valley to delude Roland and thwart his effort to rescue Gyneth; his daring entrance into the palace grounds; the discovery [125] of the Princess in the enchanted hall, and her final rescue are the themes which the composer has treated. In arranging his libretto he has, as has been said, made a free adaptation of the poem, sometimes using verses entire, at other times changing the text and rearranging it to suit the composer’s musical demands, even at the expense of the original beauty and symmetry of the work.

The cantata has no overture, but opens with a choral introduction (“Where is the Maiden of Mortal Strain?”). An orchestral interlude in the form of a tender graceful nocturne follows, leading up to the tenor solo, “The Dawn of an autumn Day did creep,” in which the Baron relates the apparition he has seen in his dream. A short bass recitative by Lyulph the bard introduces the Legend, which is told in an effective number for soprano solo, bass solo, and chorus (“In Days e’en Minstrels now forget”). The next number, a very dramatic dialogue for soprano and tenor, gives us the conversation between Arthur and Gyneth, and leads to an energetic full chorus with very descriptive accompaniment, picturing the bloody tourney and its sudden interruption by the appearance of Merlin the enchanter. The first part closes with a charming number (“‘Madmen,’ he cried, ‘your Strife forbear’”) arranged for bass solo, quartet, and chorus, in which is described the spell which Merlin casts upon Gyneth.

The second part, after a short allegro movement for orchestra, opens with a contralto solo (“Of [126] wasted Fields and plundered Flocks”) which prepares the way for a concerted number for solos and chorus (“And now the Moon her Orb has hid”), describing the magical arts which Merlin employed to thwart the Baron. This number alone is sufficient to stamp Mr. Corder as a composer of extraordinary ability. A succession of bass, tenor, and contralto recitatives (“Wroth waxed the Warrior”) leads to another powerful chorus (“Rash Adventurer, bear thee back”), the song of the “four maids whom Afric bore,” in which the composer has caught the weird, strange color of the scene and given it vivid expression. A tenor recitative (“While yet the distant Echoes roll”) leads up to a graceful, sensuous soprano solo and female chorus (“Gentle Knight, awhile delay”). Its counterpart is found in the tenor recitative and spirited, dignified male chorus (“Son of Honor, Theme of Story”). The dénouement now begins. A contralto solo, declamatory in style (“In lofty Hall, with Trophies graced”), and a short soprano solo of a joyous character (“Thus while she sang”) lead to the final number (“Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels”), beginning with full chorus, which after short solos for tenor and soprano takes a spirited martial form (“And on the Champion’s Brow was found”) and closes with a quartet and chorus worked up to an imposing climax.

The work is largely in narrative form; but this, instead of being a hindrance, seems to have been an advantage to the composer, who has not failed [127] to invest his music with dramatic force that is remarkable. Mr. Corder is credited with being an ardent disciple of Wagner, and his cantata certainly shows the influences of that school. It is throughout a vigorous, effective work, and gives promise that its composer will yet be heard from outside the English musical world.

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COWEN.

Frederic H. Cowen, the favorite English song-writer, was born at Kingston, Jamaica, Jan. 29, 1852, and went to England at a very early age. His first teachers were Benedict and Sir J. Goss, with whom he studied until 1865. During the next three years he continued his musical education at the conservatories of Leipsic and Berlin, returning to England in 1868. His earlier works were an operetta called “Garibaldi,” a fantasie-sonata and piano concerto, a few pieces of chamber music, and a symphony in C minor. These served to introduce him to public notice, and since that time nearly all of his works have met with remarkable success, among them “The Rose Maiden” (1870); music to Schiller’s “Joan of Arc” (1871); festival overture (1872); “The Corsair,” composed for the Birmingham Festival of 1876; a symphony in F major and the Norwegian symphony, which have been favorably received in this country. His most important opera is “Pauline,” which was produced in London with great success by the Carl Rosa company, Nov. 22, [129] 1876. As a song-writer, Mr. Cowen is also well known; many of his lyrics, especially those written for Antoinette Sterling and Mrs. E. Aline Osgood, the American singers, having obtained a wide-spread popularity.

The Sleeping Beauty.

“The Sleeping Beauty,” written for the Birmingham Festival of 1885, the poem by Francis Hueffer, has for its theme the well-known fairy tale which has been so often illustrated in music and upon canvas. It is a great favorite in England, and has also met with a successful reception in Paris, where it was brought out not long since by the Concordia Society of that city, under the title of “La Belle au Bois Dormant,” the translation having been made by Miss Augusta Holmes, herself a musician of considerable repute.

After a brief orchestral introduction, a three-part chorus (altos, tenors, and basses) tells the story of the ancient King to whom an heiress was born when all hope of offspring had been abandoned, the gay carousal which he ordered, and the sudden appearance of the twelve fays, guardians of his house, with their spinning-wheels and golden flax, who sing as they weave:—

In beauty of melody and gracefulness of orchestration this chorus of the fays is specially noticeable. Its charming movement, however, is interrupted by a fresh passage for male chorus, of an agitated character, describing the entrance of the Wicked Fay, who bends over the cradle of the child and sings a characteristic contralto aria:—

Following this aria, the male chorus has a few measures, invoking a curse upon the Fay, which leads to a full chorus of an animated character, foretelling that there shall dawn a day when a young voice, more powerful than witchcraft, will save her; at the close of which the guardian fays are again heard drawing the thread and weaving the woof in low, murmuring tones, with a spinning accompaniment. It is followed by a trio (soprano, tenor, and bass), with chorus accompaniment, announcing the departure of the fays, and leading to a very melodious tenor solo, with two graceful orchestral interludes, which moralizes on what has occurred and closes the prologue.

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The first scene opens in a hall in the King’s palace, and is full of animation. A brilliant orchestral prelude leads to the full chorus in waltz time (“At Dawn of Day on the first of May”), which moves along with a fascinating swing, and closes in a very vigorous climax. At this point the King makes his appearance and expresses his joy that the time has passed when the prophecy of the Wicked Fay could take effect, for this is the Princess’s twentieth birthday. A dialogue follows between the King and his daughter, closing with a beautiful chorus (“Pure as thy Heart”), after which the dance-music resumes. Unobserved the Princess leaves the banqueting-hall, glides along a gallery, and ascends the staircase to a turret chamber. Before she enters she sings an aria, of a tranquil, dreamy nature (“Whither away, my Heart?”), and interwoven with it are heard the gradually lessening strains of the dance-music, which ceases altogether as her song comes to an almost inaudible close.

The second scene opens in the turret chamber, where the Wicked Fay, disguised as an old crone, is spinning. After a short dialogue, in which the Fay explains to the Princess the use of the wheel, she bids her listen, and sings a weird ballad (“As I sit at my Spinning-wheel, strange Dreams come to me”), closing with the refrain of the old prophecy, “Ere the Buds of her Youth are blown.” The Princess dreamily repeats the burden of the song, and then, fearing the presence of some ill-omen, opens the door to escape. She hears the dance-music [132] again, but the Fay gently draws her back and induces her to touch the flax. As she does so, the Fay covertly pricks her finger with the spindle. She swoons away, the dance-music suddenly stops, and there is a long silence, broken at last by the Fay’s triumphant declaration: “Thus have I wrought my Vengeance.” The next number is the Incantation Music (“Spring from the Earth, red Roses”), a very dramatic declamation, sung by the Fay and interwoven with snatches of chorus and the refrain of the prophecy. A choral interlude (“Sleep in Bower and Hall”) follows, describing in a vivid manner, both with voices and instruments, the magic sleep that fell upon the castle and all its inmates, and the absence of all apparent life save the spiders weaving their webs on the walls as the years go by:—

The answer comes in an animated prelude, through which is heard the strain of a horn signal, constantly growing louder, and heralding the Prince, who enters the silent palace, sword in hand, among the sleeping courtiers, knights, and ladies. After a vigorous declamation (“Light, Light at last”) he passes on his way to the turret chamber, where he beholds the sleeping Princess. The love-song which follows [133] (“Kneeling before Thee, worshipping wholly”) is one of the most effective portions of the work. His kiss awakes her, and as she springs up, the dance-music at once resumes from the bar where it had stopped in the scene with the Wicked Fay. An impassioned duet follows, and the work closes with the animated waltz-chorus which opened the first scene.

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DVOŘÁK.

Anton Dvořák, the Bohemian composer who has risen so suddenly into prominence, was born at Mülhausen, near Prague, Sept. 8, 1841. His father combined the business of tavern-keeper and butcher, and young Dvořák assisted him in waiting upon customers, as well as in the slaughtering business. As the laws of Bohemia stipulate that music shall be a part of common-school education, Dvořák learned the rudiments in the village school, and also received violin instruction. At the age of thirteen he went to work for an uncle, who resided in the village where the schoolmaster was a proficient musician. The latter, recognizing his ability, gave him lessons on the organ, and allowed him to copy music. Piano lessons followed, and he had soon grounded himself quite thoroughly in counterpoint. At the age of sixteen he was admitted to the organ-school of Prague, of which Joseph Pitsch was the principal. Pitsch died soon after, and was succeeded by Kreyci, who made Dvořák acquainted with the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. [135] The first orchestral work he heard was Beethoven’s “Ninth Symphony,” during its rehearsal under Spohr’s direction. In 1860, being then in his nineteenth year, he obtained an engagement, with the meagre salary of one hundred and twenty-five dollars a year, as violinist in a band that played at cafés and dances. Two years later he secured a position in the Bohemian Opera House at Prague, then under the direction of Mayer, where he remained until 1871, in which year he left the theatre and devoted himself to teaching, with the prospect of earning two hundred and fifty dollars a year. These were hard days for the young musician; but while he was there struggling for a bare subsistence, he continued writing compositions, though he had no prospect of selling them or of having them played. About this time he wrote his “Patriotic Hymn” and the opera “König und Köhler.” The latter was rejected after an orchestral trial; but he continued his work, undaunted by failure. Shortly after this he received the appointment of organist at the Adelbert Church, Prague, and fortune began to smile upon him. His Symphony in F was laid before the Minister of Instruction in Vienna, and upon the recommendation of Herbeck secured him a grant of two hundred dollars. When Brahms replaced Herbeck on the committee which reported upon artists’ stipends, he fully recognized Dvořák’s ability, and not only encouraged him, but also brought him before the world by securing him a publisher and commending him to Joachim, who still further advanced [136] his interests by securing performances of his works in Germany and England. Since that time he has risen rapidly, and is now recognized as one of the most promising of living composers. Among his works which have been produced during the past few years are the “Stabat Mater,” the cantata “The Spectre’s Bride,” three operas in the Czechist dialect, three orchestral symphonies, several Slavonic rhapsodies, overtures, violin and piano concertos, an exceedingly beautiful sextet, and numerous songs.

The Spectre’s Bride.

The legend of the Spectre’s Bride is current in various forms among all the Slavonic nations. The Russians, Servians, Slovaks, Lithuanians, and Poles all have poems in which the ghostly ride of the spectre and the maiden forms the theme. The German version, told by Bürger in his famous ballad “Lenore,” is best known; and Raff has given it a musical setting in his Lenore Symphony. In general, the story is the same. The Spectre comes for his Bride and she rides away with him through the night, amid all manner of supernatural horrors, only to find at the end that she has ridden to the grave with a skeleton. The Bohemian poem used by Dvořák is that of Karel Jaromir Erben, a poet who obtained a national fame by making collections of the songs and legends of his country during his [137] service as Secretary of the Royal Bohemian Museum and Keeper of the Archives at Prague. In his version, unlike the German, the Spectre and his Bride make their grewsome journey on foot. The dénouement in the churchyard differs also, as the maiden is saved by an appeal to the Virgin. In the opening scene she is represented gazing at a picture of the Virgin, mourning the death of her parents and the absence of her lover, who has failed to keep his promise to return. His parting words were:—

She has faithfully followed the counsel. The three years have expired, but still no tidings have come. As she appeals to the Virgin to bring him back, the picture moves, the flame of the lamp upleaps, there is an ominous knock at the door, and the voice of the apparition is heard urging her to cease praying and follow him to his home. She implores him to wait until the night is past, but the importunate Spectre bids her go with him, and she consents. On they speed over rough bowlders, through thorny brakes and swamps, attended by the baying of wolves, the screeching of owls, the croaking of frogs, and the fitful glow of corpse-candles. One by one he compels her to throw away her prayer-book, chaplet, and cross, and resisting all her appeals to stop and [138] rest, at last they reach the churchyard wall. He calms her fears with the assurance that the church is his castle and the yard his garden, and bids her leap the wall with him. She promises to follow him, but after he has cleared it, sudden fear seizes her; she flies to a tiny house near by and enters. A ghastly scene takes place; spectres are dancing before the door, and the moonlight reveals to her a corpse lying upon a plank. As she gazes, horror-stricken, a knock is heard, and a voice bids the dead arise and thrust the living one out. Thrice the summons is repeated, and then as the corpse opens its eyes and glares upon her, she prays once more to the Virgin. At this instant the crowing of a cock is heard. The dead man falls back, the ghastly, spectral crew disappear, and night gives way to a peaceful morning.

Such is the horrible story which forms the theme of Dvořák’s cantata. It was written for the Birmingham Festival of 1884, and the text was translated by the Rev. Dr. Troutbeck, from a German translation [139] of the original poem made by K. J. Müller. It contains eighteen numbers, each of considerable length, of which eleven are descriptive, the barytone, with chorus response, acting the part of the narrator, and accompanied by instrumentation which vividly paints the horrors of the nocturnal tramp, even to the realistic extent of imitating the various sounds described. It is unnecessary to specify each of these numbers in detail, as they are all closely allied in color and general effect. The music which accompanies them is picturesque and weird, increasing in its power and actual supernaturalism until it reaches its climax in the dead-house where the maiden takes refuge; and in these numbers the orchestra bears the burden of the work. The remaining numbers are almost magical in their beauty and fascination, particularly the first song of the maiden, lamenting her lover, and closing with the prayer to the Virgin, which is thoroughly devotional music, and the second prayer, which saves her from her peril. There are four duets, soprano and tenor, between the Bride and Spectre, and one with chorus, in which are recounted the episodes of the chaplet, prayer-book, and cross, besides the hurried dialogue between them as he urges her on. These, too, abound in quaint rhythms and strange harmonies set against a highly-colored instrumental background. The story is not a pleasant one for musical treatment,—at least for voices,—and the prevailing tone of the composition is sombre; but of the wonderful power of the music and its strange fascination there can be no doubt.

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FOOTE.

Arthur Foote, a rising young composer of Boston, whose works have already made more than a local reputation, was born at Salem, Mass., March 5, 1853. While at Harvard College he studied composition with Prof. J. K. Paine, and after graduation determined to devote himself to the musical profession. He studied the piano-forte and organ with Mr. B. J. Lang of Boston, and soon made his mark as a musician of more than ordinary promise. Among his published works which have attracted favorable attention are various songs and piano compositions; pieces for violin and piano, violoncello and piano; a string quartet; trio for piano, violin, and violoncello; and “Hiawatha,” a ballad for male voices and orchestra. A suite for strings, in manuscript, has obtained the honor of performance at the London symphony concerts (January, 1887), and an overture, “In the Mountains,” also in manuscript, was played by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in February, 1887. He is now living in Boston, where he is engaged in teaching the piano and organ.

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Hiawatha.

“The Farewell of Hiawatha,” for barytone solo, male voices, and orchestra, modestly styled by its composer a ballad, is a cantata in its lighter form. Its subject is taken from Longfellow’s familiar poem, and includes the beautiful close of the legend beginning with the stanza:—

The composer has made use of the remainder of the poem without change, except in repetitions demanded by musical necessity and in the omission of the seven lines immediately preceding the final words of farewell, which does not mar the context. A short orchestral introduction, andante con moto, followed by a chorus of tenors and basses in a few bars, recitative in form and sung pianissimo, lead to a barytone solo for Hiawatha (“I am going, O Nokomis”) of a quiet and tender character. A graceful phrase for the violoncello introduces another choral morceau relating Hiawatha’s farewell to the warriors (“I am going, O my People”) a melodious combination of sweetness and strength, though it only rises to a display of energy in the single phrase, “The Master of Life has sent them,” after which it closes quietly, and tenderly, in keeping with the sentiment of the text. The remainder of the work is choral. The westward sail of Hiawatha [142] into the “fiery sunset,” “the purple vapors,” and “the dusk of evening” is set to a very picturesque accompaniment, which dies away in soft strains as he disappears in the distance. An allegro movement with a crescendo of great energy introduces the farewell of “the forests dark and lonely,” moving “through all their depths of darkness,” of the waves “rippling on the pebbles,” and of “the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, from her haunts among the fen-lands.” The last division of the chorus is an allegro, beginning pianissimo and closing with an exultant outburst:—

The work, which was written for the Apollo Club of Boston, is not a long one, nor is it at all ambitious in style. The composer has evidently tried to reflect the quiet and tender sentiment of the farewell in his music, and has admirably succeeded. Poetic beauty is its most striking feature, both in the instrumental parts, which are well sustained, and in the vocal, which are earnest, expressive, and at times very pathetic, of this pretty tone-picture.

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GADE.

Niels W. Gade was born at Copenhagen, Oct. 22, 1817. His father was a musical-instrument maker and intrusted his early education to the Danish masters Wershall, Berggren, and Weyse. He made such good progress that he soon entered the royal orchestra of that city as a violinist and began to be known as a composer. His first important work, the overture “Nachklänge von Ossian,” obtained a prize from the Copenhagen Musical Union and also secured for him the favor of the King, who provided him with the means for making a foreign journey. Prior to starting he sent a copy of a symphony to Mendelssohn, which met with the latter’s enthusiastic approval. He arrived at Leipsic in 1843, and after producing his first symphony with success, travelled through Italy, returning to Leipsic in 1844, where during the winter of that year he conducted the Gewandhaus concerts in the place of Mendelssohn, who was absent in Berlin. In the season of 1845-46 he assisted Mendelssohn in the same concerts, and after the latter’s death became the principal [144] director, a post which he held until 1848, when he returned to Copenhagen and took a position as organist, and also conducted the concerts of the Musical Union. In 1861 he was appointed Hofcapellmeister, and was honored with the title of Professor of Music. Since that time he has devoted himself to composition, and has produced many excellent works, especially for festivals in England and elsewhere. Among them are the cantatas “Comala,” “Spring Fantasie,” “The Erl King’s Daughter,” “The Holy Night,” “Spring’s Message,” “The Crusaders,” and “Zion;” the overtures “In the Highlands,” “Hamlet,” and “Michael Angelo;” seven symphonies, and a large number of songs and piano pieces, as well as chamber-music compositions.

Comala.

“Comala,” one of the earliest of Gade’s larger vocal works, was first produced at Leipsic in March, 1843. Its subject is taken from Ossian, and relates the tragedy of “Comala,” daughter of Sarno, King of Innistore, who had conceived a violent passion for Fingal, King of Morven. Her love is returned by the warrior, and disguised as a youth the princess follows him on his expedition against Caracul, King of Lochlin. On the day of the battle Fingal places her on a height, near the shore of the Carun, whence she can overlook the fight, and promises her if [145] victorious that he will return at evening. Comala, though filled with strange forebodings, hopefully waits her royal lover’s coming. As the tedious hours pass on a fearful storm arises, and amid the howling of the blast the spirits of the fathers sweep by her on their way to the battlefield to conduct to their home the souls of the fallen,—the same majestic idea which Wagner uses with such consummate power in his weird ride of the Valkyries. Comala imagines that the battle has been lost, and overcome with grief falls to the ground and dies. The victorious Fingal returns as evening approaches, accompanied by the songs of his triumphant warriors, only to hear the tidings of Comala’s death from her weeping maidens. Sorrowing he orders the bards to chant her praises, and joining with her attendants to waft her departing soul “to the fathers’ dwelling” with farewell hymns.

The cantata is almost equally divided between male and female choruses, and these are the charm of the work. Many of the songs of Comala and her maids are in graceful ballad form, fresh in their melody, and marked by that peculiar refinement which characterizes all of Gade’s music. The parting duet between Fingal and Comala is very beautiful, but the principal interest centres in the choruses. Those of the bards and warriors are very stately in their style and abound in dramatic power, particularly the one accompanying the triumphal return of Fingal. The chorus of spirits is very impressive, and in some passages almost supernatural. The female [146] choruses, on the other hand, are graceful, tender, and pathetic; the final full chorus, in which the bards and maidens commend the soul of Comala to “the fathers’ dwelling,” has rarely been surpassed in beauty or pathos. The music of the cantata is in keeping with the stately grandeur and richly-hued tones of the Ossianic poem. The poetry and music of the North are happily wedded.

Spring Fantasie.

Though the “Spring Fantasie” is in undoubted cantata form, Gade designates it as a “Concertstück;” that is, a musical composition in which the instrumental parts are essential to its complete unity. Its origin is unquestionably to be found in the idea of Beethoven’s “Choral Fantasie,” which was subsequently developed in the choral symphony on a still larger and grander scale. The instrumental elements of the “Spring Fantasie” are unquestionably the most prominent. They do not play the subordinate part of accompaniment, but really enunciate the ideas of the poem, which are still further illustrated by the voices, acting as the interpreters of the meaning of the instrumentation.

The “Fantasie” was written in 1850, its subject being a poem by Edmund Lobedanz, which of itself might appropriately be called a fantasy. The work consists of four movements, for four solo voices, orchestra, and piano-forte. The prominence [147] which Gade has given to the instrumental parts is shown by his characterizing the movements,—I. Allegro moderato e sostenuto; II. Allegro molto e con fuoco; III. Allegro vivace. The poem in the original is one of more than ordinary excellence. The translation in most common use is one made by Mrs. Vander Weyde for a performance of the work in London in 1878 at the Royal Normal College and Academy of Music for the Blind, under the direction of Herr von Bülow.

The first movement is in the nature of an invocation to spring, in which the longing for May and its flowers is very tenderly expressed. The second movement depicts with great vigor the return of the wintry storms, the raging of the torrents, the gradual rolling away of the clouds, the approach of more genial breezes, and the rising of the star, typifying “the joy of a fair maiden’s love.” The closing movement is full of rejoicing that the spring has come. Voices and instruments share alike in the jubilation:—

The Erl King’s Daughter.

“The Erl King’s Daughter” was written in 1852. Its story differs from that told in Goethe’s famous [148] poem, and set to music equally famous by Schubert in his familiar song. In Goethe’s poem the father rides through the night clasping his boy and followed by the Erl King and his daughters, who entice the child unseen by the parent. In vain he assures him that the Erl King’s voice is but the “sad wind sighing through the withered leaves,” that his train is but the mist, and that his daughters are the aged gray willows deceiving his sight. The boy at first is charmed with the apparition, but cries in mortal terror as the Erl King seizes him, while the father gallops at last into the courtyard, only to find his child dead in his arms.

In the poem used by Gade it is the Erl King’s daughter who tempts a knight to his death. The prologue relates that Sir Oluf at eve stayed his steed and rested beneath the alders by the brook, where he was visited by two of the daughters, one of whom caressed him while the other invited him to join their revels. At sound of the cock-crow, however, they disappeared. It was the eve of Sir Oluf’s wedding day. He arrives home in a distraught condition, and in spite of his mother’s appeals decides to return to the alder grove in quest of the beauties who had bewitched him. He finds the alder-maids dancing in the moonlight, singing and beckoning him to join them. One of the fairest tempts him with a silken gown for the bride and silver armor for himself. When he refuses to dance with her, she seizes him by the arm and predicts his death on the morrow morning. “Ride home to [149] your bride in robe of red,” she cries as he hastens away. In the morning the mother anxiously waits his coming, and at last beholds him riding desperately through “the waving corn.” He has lost his shield and helmet, and blood drips from his stirrups. As he draws rein at the door of the castle he drops dead from his saddle. A brief epilogue points the moral of the story in quaint fashion. It is to the effect that knights who will on horseback ride should not like Oluf stay in elfin groves with elfin maidens till morning. It is unnecessary to specify the numbers in detail; as with the exception of the melodramatic finale, where the music becomes quite vigorous, it is all of the same graceful, flowing, melodic character, and needs no key to explain it to the hearer.

The Crusaders.

“The Crusaders” is one of the most powerful as well as beautiful of modern cantatas. It was written for performance in Copenhagen in 1866, and ten years later was produced at the Birmingham Festival, under the composer’s direction. It is divided into three parts, and its story may be told in a word. Its theme is the same as that which Wagner has treated in “Lohengrin” and in “Tännhauser,”—the conflict of the human soul with the powers of darkness, sensual beauty and sorcery, and its final triumph. It is the story of the temptation of Rinaldo d’Este, the bravest of the Crusaders, by [150] Armida and her sirens, who at last calls upon the Queen of Spirits to aid them in their hopeless task, the thwarting of the powers of evil, and the final triumph before Jerusalem.

The first part opens with a chorus of pilgrims and women in the band of the Crusaders, expressive of the weariness and sufferings they have endured in their long wanderings, the end of which still appears so far away. As the beautiful music dies away, the inspiring summons of Peter the Hermit is heard, leading up to the Crusaders’ song,—a vigorous, war-like melody, full of manly hope and religious fervor. An evening prayer of pious longing and exalted devotion closes this part.

The second part is entitled “Armida,” and introduces the evil genius of the scene. A strange, mysterious orchestral prelude indicates the baneful magic of the sorcerer’s wiles. In a remarkably expressive aria, Armida deplores her weakness in trying to overcome the power of the cross. As she sees Rinaldo, who has left his tent to wander for a time in the night air, she calls to the spirits to obey her incantation:—

After another invocation of the spirits, the sirens appear, singing a sensuous melody (“I dip my white Breast in the soft-flowing Tide”). Then begins the temptation of the wandering Knight. He starts in surprise as he hears the voices rising from the waves, and again they chant their alluring song. They are followed by Armida, who appeals to him in a seductive strain (“O Rinaldo, come to never-ending Bliss”). The Knight joins with her in a duet of melodious beauty. He is about to yield to the temptation, when he hears in the distance the tones of the Crusaders’ song. He wavers in his resolution, Armida and the sirens appeal to him again, and again he turns as if he would follow them. The Crusaders’ song grows louder, and rouses the Knight from the spell which has been cast about him, and the scene closes with a beautifully concerted number, in which Rinaldo, Armida, the chorus of Crusaders and of sirens contend for the mastery. The fascination of the Crusaders’ song is the strongest. The cross triumphs over the sorceress, and in despair she sings,—

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The third part, entitled “Jerusalem,” is religious in character, and mostly choral. In rapid succession follow the morning hymn with beautiful horn accompaniment, the march of the Pilgrims full of the highest exaltation, the hermit’s revelation of the Holy City to them, their joyous greeting to it, Rinaldo’s resolution to expiate his offence by his valor, the hermit’s last call to strife, their jubilant reply, and the final victory:—

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GILCHRIST.

William W. Gilchrist, the American composer, was born at Jersey City, N. J., in 1846. He began his studies with H. A. Clarke, professor of music in the University of Pennsylvania. In 1872 he accepted the position of organist at the New Jerusalem Church in Cincinnati, Ohio, and was also appointed teacher in the Conservatory of Miss Bauer. A year later he returned to Philadelphia, where he has since resided. During this time he has done a great work for music in that city, having been conductor of several societies. He has been the recipient of honors on many occasions, having obtained several prizes from the Philadelphia Art Society and others for his compositions. In 1880 he contended for the prize offered by the Cincinnati Musical Festival Association, but stood third on the list, Dudley Buck being first and George E. Whiting second. In 1882 he made another trial for the Association’s prize, and was successful; the committee, consisting of Carl Reinecke of Leipsic, M. Saint-Saens of Paris, and Theodore Thomas of New York, making him the award.

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The Forty-sixth Psalm.

The composition referred to in the sketch of Mr. Gilchrist’s life which secured for him the Cincinnati prize in 1882 was “The Forty-sixth Psalm.” The composer’s own analysis of the work, furnished at the time, is appended:—

“The composition is a setting of the Forty-sixth Psalm for soprano solo, chorus, orchestra, and organ, and has four principal divisions exclusive of an introduction, each following the other without pause, and connected by a gradual decrescendo in the orchestra. The opening of the Psalm seemed to me to indicate a strong outburst of praise or of thanksgiving for a deliverance from trials, which the introduction is intended to convey. But instead of beginning with a strong outburst, I lead up to it from a very subdued beginning, working gradually to a climax at the entrance of the chorus on the words, ‘God is our refuge and our strength.’ The opening movement of the chorus becomes a little subdued very shortly as it takes up the words, ‘A very present help in trouble,’ which is followed again by an allegro con fuoco movement on the words, ‘Therefore we will not fear though the earth be removed, though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.’ This movement leads into still another, a furioso movement on the words, ‘Though the waters thereof roar, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.’ This is followed by an elaborate coda, in which all the themes of the preceding movement are worked together, and which brings the chorus to a close.

The second division, in E major, is marked by an andante contemplativo on the words, ‘There is a river [155] the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God.’ This movement is intended to be one of tranquillity, varied with occasional passionate outbursts on the words, ‘God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved.’ A peculiar rhythmical effect is sought by the alternation of 4/4 and 3/4 time, three bars of the first being answered by two bars of the second. This movement ends very tranquilly on the words, ‘God shall help her, and that right early,’ and is immediately followed by an allegro molto, in B minor, on the words, ‘The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved; he uttered his voice, the earth melted.’ In the middle of this chorus the soprano solo enters for the first time on the words, ‘He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; He breaketh the bow and cutteth the spear in sunder.’ The chorus works up to a strong climax on the words, ‘He burneth the chariot with fire,’ which is suddenly interrupted by a decrescendo on the words, ‘Be still, and know that I am God.’

This leads to the third division, which is a return of the second division in E major, and which is played through almost entirely by the orchestra, the chorus merely meditating on the words last quoted. This leads to the final chorus, which is a fugue, in E major, with alla breve time, on the words, ‘And the Lord of Hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge,’ towards the close of which a Gloria Patri is introduced, being woven in with fragments of the fugue to a strong climax. The whole composition finishes with an impetuous accelerando. My central idea was to make a choral and orchestral work, the solo, while requiring a good singer, being only secondary. The Psalm seemed to me particularly adapted for musical composition, as being capable of a varied, even dramatic effect.”

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GLEASON.

Frederick Grant Gleason was born at Middletown, Conn., Dec. 17, 1848. He inherited the love of music from his parents,—his father having been a flutist and his mother an alto singer and pianist. In his sixteenth year he showed a decided talent for composition; and two of his works, an oratorio, “The Captivity,” and a Christmas oratorio, though crudely written, gave such promise that he was placed under the tuition of Dudley Buck, with whom he studied the piano and composition. He made such rapid progress that his parents were induced to send him to Germany, where he at once entered the Leipsic Conservatory. Moscheles taught him the piano, and Richter harmony, and he also took private lessons from Plaidy and Lobe. In 1870 he went to Berlin, where he continued his piano studies with Raif, a pupil of Tausig, and his tuition in harmony with Weitzmann. After a visit home he went to England and resumed lessons on the piano with Berringer, another pupil of Tausig, and also studied English music. He subsequently made a second [157] visit to Berlin, and improved his time by studying theory with Weitzmann, the piano with Loeschorn, and the organ with Haupt. During this visit he also issued a valuable work entitled “Gleason’s Motet Collection.” After the completion of his studies he returned home and accepted the position of organist at one of the Hartford churches. In 1876 he removed to Chicago and engaged as teacher in the Hershey School of Musical Art. At present he is still occupied in teaching and also fills the position of musical critic for the “Tribune” of that city. During these years his pen has been very busy, as the list of his compositions shows. Among his principal works are two operas, still in manuscript,—“Otho Visconti” and “Montezuma;” the cantatas “God our Deliverer,” “The Culprit Fay,” and “Praise of Harmony;” and several trios, sonatas, and other works for the chamber, as well as many songs. The selections from his operas which have been played by the Thomas orchestra show that they are compositions of unusual excellence and scholarship.