THE STANDARD CANTATAS. (continued 4)

A very brief orchestral prelude introduces the opening chorus with solos:—

As the expressive chorus comes to a close, an allegro movement leads to a dialogue between the people and the watchman, and subsequently with the horseman, who announces the approach of the victorious army, followed by a second chorus of the people invoking Siva (“Vishnu, Vishnu, thou hast heard our Cry!”). The scene is very dramatic throughout, and is accompanied by vigorous and suggestive music. The next number is a triumphal march, remarkable for its local color, and gradually increasing in power and effect as the army approaches the city. It is followed by an excited dialogue between Sâwa and Sayid, with choral responses, and leads up to a beautiful melody for Sayid:—

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Another dramatic scene follows, in which Sâwa consents to Sayid’s return to his father, and accepts Ilmas as his bondswoman, which leads to a very spirited and elaborate melody for the latter (“First of his Prophet’s Warriors he”). The first part closes with the departure of Sayid and a repetition of the choral invocation of Siva.

The second part opens in an apartment of Sâwa’s palace, and discloses Ilmas sitting with her maidens, as a thunderstorm dies away in the distance. The latter join in a graceful chorus, which is one of the most beautiful numbers in the cantata:—

Ilmas answers them in a broad and exultant strain (“Ay, sweet indeed is Love”). As the song ends, Sâwa and attendants enter, and the scene closes with a very dramatic chorus and solos, accompanying the preparations for death. The second scene opens with a solemn march for orchestra, preparing the way for the climax, and leading up to a chorus and solo for Ilmas (“What have these Sounds to do with bridal Robes?”). As she kneels, awaiting her fate, an orchestral interlude, set to the rhythm of the gallop, indicates the rapid approach of Sayid. A short and agitated dialogue follows between the [237] watchman and the people. Sayid declares his presence, and a graceful duet with Ilmas ensues (“Noble Maiden, low before thee Sayid bows”), leading to a powerful choral finale (“Never before was known a Deed like this”), closing with a stirring outburst for all the voices:—

Jubilee Ode.^[29]

This work, upon which Dr. Mackenzie has been engaged for some time past, is now complete, and on its way to several distant parts of the Empire, where arrangements are making to perform it in celebration of the Jubilee. Primarily, as our readers know, the Ode was intended for the Crystal Palace only, but it will be given also in Canada, Australia, [238] Trinidad, Cape Colony, etc.; thus standing out from all its fellows as in some sort an Imperial work.

Without anticipating the criticism which will follow upon performance, we may here give some idea of the scope and character of the Ode. Mr. Joseph Bennett, the writer of the words, has kept strictly in view the exigencies of a musical setting. He has obviously prepared, not a short poem for readers, but one for musical hearers. Hence a variety of rhythm and structure which otherwise would certainly not have been ventured upon. From the same cause arises also the manner in which the subject is laid out, with a view to contrast of musical effect. We may indicate the nature of this arrangement. In the first vocal number, a chorus, the news of the Jubilee is proclaimed, and its diffusion throughout the Empire called for. The second number, a tenor solo, conveys to the Queen the affectionate greetings of her home-lands, declaring that, to keep the feast with unanimity, all weapons of party warfare are laid aside. In the third number the Colonies and Dependencies pay their homage, the idea worked out being that of a procession passing before the throne. First comes the Dominion, followed by Australia, the smaller colonies and islands, and, lastly, by India. Each of these divisions has a section of the chorus to itself. The fifth number, a soprano solo, dwells upon the personal virtues of the Sovereign; while the sixth, and last, opening with a choral prayer for the Empire, [239] continues with lines leading to the National Anthem, for which a new second verse has been written. How far the writer has been guided by consideration for musical opportunities need not, after this outline sketch, be indicated. The spirit in which Mr. Bennett has approached his theme best appears, perhaps, in the opening verses:—

In setting the words to music, Dr. Mackenzie has necessarily to consider the place of performance and the number of performers. This, however, was an amiable and fortunate obligation, since the result has been to give us a work built upon broad lines, and marked by plainness of structure to an extent [240] unusual with the composer. We think that the music will be found to have a true festive ring, and a majestic solidity befitting the occasion. In the solos, with their more subdued expression, Dr. Mackenzie has kept contrast in view, without sacrifice of simplicity; but it is in the choruses that he best shows himself a master of bold and striking effects. Every bar goes straight to the point, while avoiding the commonplaces that naturally suggest themselves in the writing of festive music. The procession chorus is, in this respect, most noteworthy of all, and may be found no mean rival of that in the “Rose of Sharon.”

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MASSENET.

Jules Émile Frédéric Massenet, a composer as yet but little known in this country, was born at Montaud, France, May 12, 1842. His musical education was obtained in the Paris Conservatory, in which between the years 1859 and 1863 he carried off two first prizes and one second. After leaving the Conservatory, he went to Italy for a time and pursued his studies in composition. On his return to Paris one of his operas, “La Grand Tante,” was produced at the Opéra Comique (1867) through the influence of Ambroise Thomas, and this performance called attention to the works of the rising young musician. In 1872 he brought out “Don Cæsar de Bazan,” an opéra comique in three acts, and in the following year incidental music to the tragedy “Les Erinnyes,” after Æschylus. Among his works written since that time are “Le Roi de Lahore” (1877); “Herodiade” (1882); “Manon” (1885); “Le Cid” (1885); the cantata “Paix et Liberté” (1867); “Marie Magdaleine” (1873); “Eve,” a mystery (1875); “La Vierge,” sacred legend; and “Narcisse,” antique idylle (1878). [242] Among his orchestral works the best known are “Suites d’orchestre;” “Scenes Hongroises;” “Scenes Pittoresques;” “Scenes Dramatiques;” overture “Phèdre;” and “Pompeia,” fantasia-symphony. He has also written numerous songs and piano-forte pieces. His operas thus far have been his most successful works, though several of his large concert pieces have been very favorably received. He now occupies a position in the Paris Conservatory, and is regarded as one of the most promising members of the modern French school.

Mary Magdalen.

“Mary Magdalen” was written in 1873, and was first performed at the Odéon, Paris, in that year, with Mmes. Viardot and Vidal and MM. Bosquin and Petit in the solo parts. It is styled by its composer a sacred drama, and is divided into three acts, the first entitled “The Magdalen at the Fountain;” the second, “Jesus before the Magdalen;” the third, “Golgotha,” “The Magdalen at the Cross,” and “The Tomb of Jesus and the Resurrection;” the first two scenes in the last act being included in one tableau, and the third in another. The characters represented are Mary Magdalen, Martha, Jesus, and Judas, the chorus parts being assigned to the Disciples, Pharisees, Scribes, publicans, soldiers, servants, holy women, and people.

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After a short introduction, pastoral in character, the work begins with a scene representing Mary at the fountain of Magdala near sunset, among women, publicans, Scribes, and Pharisees, strolling along the banks of the little stream that flows from it. The women sing a short chorus full of Oriental color anticipating the approach of the beautiful Nazarene. A group of young Magdalens pass along singing blithely of love and gay cavaliers (“C’est l’heure où conduisant de longues Caravanes”), and the song of the women blends with it. Next follows a chorus of the Scribes, discussing this Stranger, and pronouncing Him an impostor, and again the young Magdalens take up their strain. The second number is a pathetic aria by Mary (“O mes Sœurs”), which is full of tender beauty. The women shrink back from her and join in a taunting chorus (“La belle Pécheresse oublie”). Next, Judas appears upon the scene, and servilely saluting Mary counsels her to abandon sadness and return to love, in an aria which is a good illustration of irony in music. It is followed by a powerful and mocking chorus of women, Pharisees, and Scribes (“Vainement tu pleures”), in which she is taunted with her shame, despite her sad appeals for pity. The next scene is an aria and trio. Jesus appears in their midst, and in a calm impressive aria (“Vous qui flétrissez les Erreurs des autres”) rebukes them. Mary prostrates herself at His feet and implores pardon, and the scene closes with a trio for Jesus, Mary, and Judas, leading up to a strong concerted finale closing the act, in which [244] Jesus bids the Magdalen rise and return to her home, whither He is about to repair.

The second act opens in the Magdalen’s house, which is richly decorated with flowers and redolent with perfume. It begins with a sensuous female chorus (“Le Seuil est paré de Fleurs rares”) followed by Martha’s admonition to the servants that He who is more powerful than earthly kings cares not for vain shows. The chorus resumes its song, and at its close Judas appears and a long dialogue follows in which Martha rebukes his hypocrisy. As he departs, Mary and Martha in a very graceful duet discourse of the Saviour’s coming, which is interrupted by His presence and invocation of blessing. After a duet between Jesus and Mary, in which He commends her to the Good Shepherd, the act closes with a powerful and very dramatic finale containing Jesus’ rebuke to Judas and His declaration of the coming betrayal, after which the Disciples join in a simple but very effective prayer (“Notre Père, loué soit Nom radieux”).

The third act is divided into two tableaux. In the first we have the scene of the crucifixion, the agitated choruses of the groups about the Cross, the mocking strains of the Pharisees bidding Him descend if He is the Master, the sorrowing song of Mary (“O Bien-aimé sous la sombre Couronne”), and the final tragedy. The second is devoted to the resurrection and apparition, which are treated very dramatically, closing with an exultant Easter hymn (“Christ est vivant, ressuscité”).

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In the first two acts the music is full of rich Oriental color and is gracefully melodious and well adapted to the situation; but in the last act the awful solemnity of the tragedy is somewhat lost in the theatrical manner of its treatment. Indeed it was hardly necessary that the composer should have disclaimed the title of oratorio which some have assigned to the work. His division of it into acts and tableaux was sufficient to indicate that he had the stage in mind when he was writing; or at least that his scheme was operatic in style.

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MENDELSSOHN.

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the son of a Berlin banker, was born at Hamburg, Feb. 3, 1809, and, unlike almost all other composers, was reared in the lap of luxury. He enjoyed every advantage which wealth could procure, with the result that he became highly educated in the other arts as well as in music. His teachers in music were Zelter and Ludwig Berger, and he made such progress that in his ninth year he appeared in public as a pianist in Berlin and afterwards in Paris. The first of his compositions to attract general notice were the overture to Shakspeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the little opera “The Marriage of Camacho,” which were brought out in Berlin in 1827. After several concert-tours, in which he met with great success, he resided for some time in Düsseldorf. In 1835 he went to Leipsic as director of the famous Gewandhaus concerts,—which are still given in that city. Two years later he married Cécile Jeanrenaud, the beautiful daughter of a minister of the Reformed Church in Frankfort, and [247] shortly afterwards went to Berlin as general director of church music. In 1843 he returned to his former post in Leipsic, and also took a position in the newly established Conservatory, where he spent the remainder of his days in company with his family, to whom he was closely attached. He has left a large and rich collection of musical works, which are favorites the world over. His three great oratorios are the “Hymn of Praise,” catalogued as a symphony-cantata, “St. Paul,” and “Elijah.” Besides these oratorios, the exquisite music to the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” which is familiar the world over, and his stately dramatic music to “Antigone,” he has left five symphonies, of which the “Scotch,” the “Italian,” and the “Reformation” are best known; four beautiful overtures, “Ruy Blas,” “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage,” “Hebrides,” and “Melusina;” the very dramatic cantata, “The Walpurgis Night;” a long list of songs for one or more voices; the incidental music to Racine’s “Athalia;” a very large collection of sacred music, such as psalms, hymns, anthems, and cantatas; several trios and other specimens of chamber music; and the lovely “Songs without Words,” which are to be found upon almost every piano, the beauty and freshness of which time has not impaired. Mendelssohn never wrote a grand opera, owing to his fastidiousness as to a libretto; though he finally obtained one from Geibel on the subject of the “Loreley” which suited him. He had begun to write it, and had finished the finale to the [248] first act, when death interrupted his work, Nov. 4, 1847. In addition to the subjoined compositions selected for description, the following may be mentioned as possessing the cantata characteristics: op. 31, the 115th Psalm, for solo, chorus, and orchestra; op. 46, the 95th Psalm, for chorus and orchestra; op. 51, the 114th Psalm, for double chorus and orchestra; op. 78, three Psalms for solo and chorus; op. 91, the 98th Psalm, for double chorus and orchestra; and op. 96, Hymn (“Lass, O Herr mich”) for alto solo, chorus, and orchestra.

The Walpurgis Night.

It was during his Italian travels in 1831 that Mendelssohn composed the music to Goethe’s poem “The First Walpurgis Night.” His letters throw much and interesting light upon the composition and his ideas while writing it. In a letter written at Rome, Feb. 22, 1831, he says:—

“Listen and wonder! Since I left Vienna I have partly composed Goethe’s ‘First Walpurgis Night,’ but have not yet had courage to write it down. The composition has now assumed a form and become a grand cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. At the opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty others of the same kind. Afterwards, when the watchmen with their ‘Gabeln, und Zacken, und Eulen,’ make a great noise, the fairy frolics begin, and you know that I have a particular foible for them; the sacrificial Druids then appear with their trombones in [249] C major, when the watchmen come in again in alarm; and here I mean to introduce a light, mysterious, tripping chorus, and lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. Do you not think that this might develop into a new style of cantata? I have an instrumental introduction as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is spirited.”

On the 27th of April ensuing he refers to it again:—

“I must however return to my witches, so you must forgive my not writing any more to-day. This whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather I do so in my ‘Walpurgis Night,’ whether I am to introduce the big drum or not. ‘Zacken, Gabeln, und wilde Klapperstöcke’ seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation dissuades me. I certainly am the only person who ever composed for the scene on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but I can’t help regretting the big drum; and before I can receive Fanny’s^[30] advice, the ‘Walpurgis Night’ will be finished and packed up.”

On his way back to Germany he writes from Milan, July 13, 1831, to the artist and operatic director, Eduard Devrient:—

“I have been writing a large composition that perhaps will one day make some effect,—‘The First Walpurgis Night’ of Goethe. I began it simply because it pleased and excited me; I did not think of any performance. But now that it is finished, I see that it is well suited for a large concert piece, and in [250] my first subscription concert in Berlin you shall sing the bearded Druid,—the chorus sung by ——, kindly assisted by ——. I have written the part of the Druid into your throstle (by permission), and you will have to sing it out again.”

It was several years before the “Walpurgis Night” was publicly performed, and meanwhile it underwent several changes. On the 28th of November, 1842, he writes to his mother:—

“I am really anxious to make the ‘Walpurgis Night’ into a symphony-cantata, for which it was originally intended, but did not become so from want of courage on my part.”

On the 11th of December of the same year he writes her:—

“My ‘Walpurgis Night’ is to appear once more in the second part, in a somewhat different garb indeed from the former one, which was somewhat too richly endowed with trombones, and rather poor in the vocal parts; but to effect this I have been obliged to re-write the whole score from A to Z, and to add two new arias, not to mention the rest of the clipping and cutting. If I don’t like it now, I solemnly vow to give it up for the rest of my life.”

The cantata was first publicly performed in Leipsic, Feb. 2, 1843, at a concert, in which it occupied the second part of the programme. It had to stand a severe test of comparison, for the first part was very brilliant, including a Haydn symphony, a Mozart aria, Beethoven’s “Choral Fantasie,” the piano [251] part played by Madame Schumann, the overture from “Euryanthe,” and the chorus from Weber’s “Lyre and Sword;” but it made a success, and was received with great enthusiasm.

The subject of the cantata is a very simple one. The witches of the Northern mythology were supposed to hold their revels on the summit of the Brocken on the eve of the 1st of May (Walpurgis Night), and the details of their wild and infernal “Sabbath” are familiar to every reader of “Faust.” In his separate poem Goethe seeks to go back to the origin of the first Walpurgis Night. May-day eve was consecrated to Saint Walpurgis, who converted the Saxons from Druidism to Christianity, and on that night the evil spirits were said to be abroad. Goethe conceived the idea that the Druids on that night betook themselves to the mountains to celebrate their rites without interference from the Christians, accomplishing their purpose by disguising their sentinels as demons, who, when the Christians approached, ran through the woods with torches, clashed their arms, uttered hideous noises, and thus frightened them away, leaving the Druids free to finish their sacrifices.

The cantata begins with an overture in two movements, an allegro con fuoco and an allegro vivace, which describes in vivid tone-colors the passing of the season from winter to spring. The first number is a tenor solo and chorus of Druids, which are full of spring feeling, rising to religious fervor in the close:—

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The next number is an alto solo, the warning of an aged woman of the people, which is very dramatic in its style:—

The warning is followed by a stately exhortation from the Druid priest (“The man who flies our sacrifice”), leading up to a short chorus of a very stirring character in which the Druids resolve to go on with their rites. It is followed by a pianissimo chorus of the guards whispering to each other to “secure the passes round the glen.” One of them suggests the demon scheme for frightening the enemy, which leads to the chorus:—

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In this chorus the composer has given the freest rein to his fancy, and presents the weird scene in a grotesque chaos of musical effects, both vocal and instrumental, which may fairly be called infernal, and yet preserves form and rhythm throughout. It is followed by an exalted and impressive hymn for bass solo and chorus, which is a relief after the diablerie of the preceding number:—

Following this impressive hymn comes the terrified warning of the Christian guard (tenor) and the response of his equally terrified comrades:—

As the Christians disappear, scared by the demon ruse, the Druids once more, led by their priest, resume their rites, closing with another choral hymn of praise similar in style to the first.

Antigone.

Mendelssohn wrote incidental music to four great dramas,—the “Antigone” of Sophocles (1841); the “Œdipus at Colonos” of Sophocles (1843); the “Athalia” of Racine (1843); and the “Midsummer Night’s Dream” of Shakspeare (1843), the overture to which was written by him in 1826. The latter is mainly instrumental. Of the other three, the music to “Antigone” and “Œdipus” is most frequently performed, and for that reason has been selected for description.

In June, 1841, the King of Saxony invited Mendelssohn to become his Capellmeister. Frederick William IV. of Prussia had made him a similar offer about the same time. He accepted the latter and removed to Berlin, and the first duty imposed upon him by the King was the composition of music to the “Antigone” of Sophocles. With the assistance of the poet Tieck, who helped arrange the text, the work was accomplished in the short space of eleven days, and was given on the Potsdam [255] Court stage October 28, to a private audience. It was first performed in public at Leipsic, March 5, 1842. It is written for male chorus and orchestra, and includes seven numbers; namely, 1. Introduction and maestoso (“Strahl des Helios schönstes Licht”); 2. Andante con moto (“Vieles Gewaltige lebt”); 3. Moderato (“Ihr Seligen deren”); 4. Adagio (“O Eros, Allsieger im Kampf”); 5. Recitative and chorus (“Noch toset des Sturmes Gewalt”); 6. Allegro maestoso (“Vielnamiger! Wonn’ und Stolz”); 7. Andante alla marcia (“Hier Kommt er ja selbst”).

The following extracts will give a comprehensive view of this powerful and felicitous music. Lampadius, writing of the first public performance, says:—

“On the 5th of March the ‘Antigone’ of Sophocles, translated by Donner and set to music by Mendelssohn, was brought out at the Leipsic theatre before a full audience. The composer directed, and was received with great applause. The music indeed was not antique, if to be so it must be played on the σύριγξ, the σάλπιγξ, and the φόρμιγξ, or if the composer must confine himself to that Greek type of melody and harmony of which all we know is that it was extremely simple, and, according to our ideas, meagre; but it was antique completely, in its being filled with the fire of the tragedy and making its spirit intelligible to us moderns, strengthening the meaning of the words, and giving a running musical commentary on them.... With us at Leipsic, as indeed everywhere, the Eros Chorus, with its solemn awe in the presence of the [256] divine omnipotence of love, and the Bacchus Chorus, which, swinging the thyrsus, celebrates the praise of the Theban maiden’s son in joyous strains, as well as the melodramatic passages, where Antigone enters, wailing, the chamber where her dead lover lay, and whither Creon has borne in his son’s corpse, had an imposing effect. The impression of the whole piece, taken by itself, was very powerful. With amazement our modern world realized the sublimity of the ancient tragic muse, and recognized the ‘great, gigantic fate which exalts man while grinding him to powder.’”

Devrient, the director of the opera at Carlsruhe, in his “Recollections of Mendelssohn,” has left a delightful sketch of the composition of the work. He says:—

“Felix did not enter upon his task without the fullest consideration. The first suggestion was to set the chorus in unison throughout, and to recitative interspersed with solos; and as nearly as possible to intone or recite the words, with accompaniment of such instruments only as may be supposed in character with the time of Sophocles,—flutes, tubas, and harps, in the absence of lyres. I opposed to this plan that the voice parts would be intolerably monotonous, without the compensatory clearness of the text being attained....

“Nevertheless Felix made the attempt to carry out this view, but after a few days he confessed to me that it was impracticable; that I was right in maintaining the impossibility of making the words clear in choral singing, except in a few places that are obviously suited for recitative;^[31] that the chanting of a chorus would [257] be vexatiously monotonous, tedious, and unmusical; and that accompaniments for so few instruments would give so little scope for variety of expression that it would make the whole appear as a mere puerile imitation of the ancient music, about which, after all, we knew nothing. He concluded therefore that the choruses must be sung, as the parts must be recited, not to assimilate themselves with the usages of Attic tragedy (which might easily lead us into absurdity) but as we would now express ourselves in speech and song.... With this I fully concurred; and Felix set, so vigorously to work, that in a few weeks he played me sketches, and by the end of September nearly the whole chain of choruses was completed. Besides my delight at the beauty of these choruses, they confirmed me in the certainty that Felix’s genius was eminently dramatic. They not only gave the key to every scene, the expression to each separate verse, from the narrow complacency of the Theban citizens to their heartful and exalted sympathy, but also a dramatic accent soaring far beyond the words of the poet. I allude particularly to the dithyrambus that occurs between Creon’s attempt to rescue Antigone and the relation of its terrible failure. This song of praise really consists entirely of glorifying appeals to Bacchus, and its dramatic application lies only in the verse:—

“To raise this chorus to be the terrible turning-point of the action; to bring here to its culmination the [258] tension excited by the awful impending doom; to give this continually gathering power to the invocation, ‘Hear us, Bacchus!’ till it becomes a cry of agony; to give this exhaustive musical expression to the situation, marks the composer to have a specially dramatic gift. And this is betokened no less in the melodramatic portions. The idea of adding rhythmical accompaniments to spoken words may have been suggested by a few well-set passages in the music to ‘Faust’ by Prince Radziwill. It is to be regretted that the public is scarcely able to appreciate how exquisitely Mendelssohn has done this, since the representatives of Antigone and of Creon are seldom sufficiently musical to enter completely into the composer’s intention; besides that in two passages of the accompanied dialogue of Antigone the words are not correctly set under the music.”

Of the private performance before the King and Court, Oct. 28, 1841, the same writer says:—

“We had two more rehearsals on the following day, the evening one in the presence of the King, and the performance itself took place on the 28th, before the Court and all the invited celebrities of art and science. It produced a very great sensation. The deep impression that the revival of an ancient tragedy could produce in our theatrical life promised to become an influence; it has purified our musical atmosphere, and it is certain that to Mendelssohn must be ascribed great and important merit in the cause.

“Although the learned, of whom each expected the ancient tragedy to be put upon the stage according to his peculiar conception of it (which would of course be totally different in every case) might find the music too [259] modern, too operatic, in fact, not sufficiently philological, it is undeniable that Mendelssohn’s music has made the tragedy of Sophocles accessible to the sympathies of the general public, without in any wise violating the spirit and aroma of the poem, but rather lending it new life and intelligibility.”

Œdipus at Colonos.

The story of “Œdipus Tyrannus” is told in this work in connection with Professor Paine’s composition. The “Œdipus at Colonos,” to which Mendelssohn set music, is the continuation of Sophocles’ tragedy, describing the banishment of the blind hero, the loving care of his daughters, his arrival at Attica, and his death in the gardens of the Eumenides at Colonos, absolved by the fate which had so cruelly pursued him.

The music to “Œdipus” was written at the command of the King of Prussia in 1843, and was first produced at Potsdam, Nov. 1, 1845. It contains a short introduction and nine choral numbers. The first and second choruses describe the entrance of Œdipus and Antigone into the grove of the Eumenides, their discovery by the people, the story of his sorrows which he relates to them, his meeting with his daughter Ismene, and the arrival of Theseus the King. The third number is the gem of the work, and is often given on the concert-stage. The free translation of the text for this beautiful double chorus is as follows:—

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“Strophe.—Thou hast come, O stranger, to the seats of this land, renowned for the steed; to seats the fairest on earth, the chalky Colonos; where the vocal nightingale, chief abounding, trills her plaintive note in the green dells, tenanting the dark-hued ivy and the leafy grove of the god, untrodden, teeming with fruits, impervious to the sun, and unshaken by the winds of every storm; where Bacchus, the reveller, ever roams attending his divine nurses.

“Antistrophe.—And ever day by day the narcissus, with its beauteous clusters, bursts into bloom by heaven’s dew, the ancient coronet of the mighty goddesses, and the saffron with golden ray; nor do the sleepless founts of Cephisus that wander through the fields fail, but ever each day it rushes o’er the plains with its limpid wave, fertilizing the bosom of the earth; nor have the choirs of the muses loathed this clime; nor Venus, too, of the golden reign.

“Strophe.—And there is a tree, such as I hear not to have ever sprung in the land of Asia, nor in the mighty Doric island of Pelops, a tree unplanted by hand, of spontaneous growth, terror of the hostile spear, which flourishes chiefly in this region, the leaf of the pale gray olive that nourishes our young. This shall neither any one in youth nor in old age, marking for destruction, and having laid it waste with his hand, bring to nought; for the eye that never closes of Morian Jove regards it, and the blue-eyed Minerva.

“Antistrophe.—And I have other praise for this mother-city to tell, the noblest gift of the mighty divinity, the highest vaunt, that she is the great of chivalry, renowned for the steed and famous on the main; for thou, O sovereign Neptune, son of Saturn, hast raised her to this glory, having first, in these fields, founded the bit to tame the horse; and the [261] well-rowed boat, dashed forth by the hand, bounds marvellously through the brine, tracking on the hundred-footed daughters of Nereus.”

The first strophe is begun by one choir in unison after a short but graceful introduction which is repeated at the end of the strophe in another form, and then the second choir begins the antistrophe, set to the same beautiful melody. At its close the music changes in character and grows vigorous and excited as the first choir sings the second strophe, with which shortly the second choir joins in splendid eight-part harmony. The latter takes up the strain again in the second antistrophe, singing the praise of “the mother-city,” and the number closes with the united invocation to Neptune,—an effect which has hardly been excelled in choral music. The fourth chorus, which is very dramatic in its effect, tells of the assault of Creon upon Œdipus, and the fifth, his protection by Theseus, who comes to the rescue. In this number the double choirs unite with magnificent effect in the appeal to the gods (“Dread Power, that fillest Heaven’s high Throne”) to defend Theseus in the conflict. The sixth number (“When the Health and Strength are gone”) is a pathetic description of the blind hero’s pitiful condition, and prepares the way for the powerful choruses in which his impending fate is foreshadowed by the thunderbolts of Jove which rend the heavens. The eighth and ninth choruses are full of the mournful spirit of the tragedy itself, and tell in notes as eloquent as Sophocles’ lines of the mysterious [262] disappearance of the Theban hero, ingulfed in the opening earth, and the sorrowful lamentations of the daughters for the father whom they had served and loved so devotedly.

As the Hart Pants.

The music to the Forty-second Psalm, familiarly known by the caption which forms the title of this sketch, was first performed at the tenth subscription Gewandhaus concert in Leipsic in 1838, Clara Novello taking the soprano part. Though not constructed upon the large scale of the “Hymn of Praise,” or even of the “Walpurgis Night,” it is a work which is thoroughly artistic, and just as complete and symmetrical in its way. It contains seven numbers. After a slow and well-sustained introduction, the work begins with a chorus (“As the Hart pants after the Water Brooks, so panteth my soul for Thee, O God”) which is a veritable prayer in its tenderness and expression of passionate longing. After the chorus a delicate and refined soprano solo (“For my Soul thirsteth for God”) continues the sentiment, first given out in an oboe solo, and then uttered by the voice in a beautifully melodious adagio. The third number is a soprano recitative (“My Tears have been my Meat”) leading to a chorus in march time by the sopranos and altos (“For I had gone with the Multitude; I went with them to the House of God”). Then follows [263] a full chorus beginning with male voices in unison (“Why, my Soul, art thou cast down?”), answered by the female voices (“Trust thou in God”). Again the soprano voice is heard in pathetic recitative (“O my God! my Soul is cast down within me; all Thy Waves and thy Billows are gone over me”). A beautiful quartet of male voices with string accompaniment replies: “The Lord will command His Loving-kindness in the Day-time; and in the Night His Song shall be with me, and my Prayer unto the God of my Life.” The response is full of hope and consolation; but through it all runs the mournful strain of the soprano (forming a quintet at the end), coming to a close only when the full chorus joins in a repetition of the fourth number (“Trust thou in God”), this time elaborated with still greater effect, and closing with a stately ascription of praise to the God of Israel.

The Gutenberg Fest-Cantata.

The occasion for which the short festival cantata known as the “Gutenberg” was written, was the fourth centennial celebration of the art of printing, which was observed at Leipsic in 1840 by the unveiling of Gutenberg’s statue in the public square, and other ceremonies. The direction of the musical part of the festivity was intrusted to Mendelssohn. The text for the hymn to be sung at the unveiling, which occurred on the morning of [264] June 24, immediately after the public service in Church, was furnished by Adolphus Prölsz, a teacher in the Gymnasium at Freiberg. Lampadius, in his Life of Mendelssohn, says of the performance:—

“Mendelssohn arranged it with trombone accompaniment. When the opening words, ‘Fatherland! within thy Confines broke the dawning Light,’—so the opening ran, if my memory is correct,—were heard in the Music Hall at the first rehearsal, the heartiest applause arose among the performers as well as the invited guests. Nothing so simple, powerful, joyous, and unconstrained had been heard for a long time.... Many will remember how, on the very day of the public performance, the slight form of Mendelssohn was seen moving nervously around to find just the right place for the trombonists, and how nearly he came to a fall from the platform. During that performance the singers were divided into two choirs, which sat at some distance from each other; one of them was conducted by David, and the other by Mendelssohn.”

The cantata opens with a stately chorale (“With solemn Hymn of Praise”) set to the old tune “Honor to God alone,” followed by the song in memory of Gutenberg (“Fatherland! within thy Confines”), which has been separately arranged and printed as a solo. The third number is a quick, spirited movement for tenors (“And God said, ‘Let there be Light’”) followed by another effective chorale (“Now, thank God all”), which brings the work to a close. On the afternoon of the same [265] day Mendelssohn’s much more important work, “The Hymn of Praise,” was given. A sketch of this has already appeared in the “Standard Oratorios.”

Lauda Sion.

The “Lauda Sion,” or sequence sung at High Mass on the Feast of Corpus Christi, was chosen by Mendelssohn as the subject of one of his most beautiful cantatas, for four solo voices, chorus, and orchestra. The majestic rhythm of Saint Thomas Aquinas’s verses loses none of its stateliness in this musical setting. The work was composed for the celebration of this Festival by the Church of St. Martin at Liège, and was first performed there June 11, 1846. Chorley, the English critic who accompanied Mendelssohn on that occasion, has left us in his “Modern German Music” an interesting sketch of its first production. He says:—

“The early summer of 1846 was a great year for the Rhine Land and its adjacent district; since there the Lower Rhenish Festival at Aix-la-Chapelle was conducted by Mendelssohn, and starred by Mlle. Jenny Lind; and within a fortnight afterwards was celebrated at Liège the ‘Fête Dieu,’ for which his ‘Lauda Sion’ was written....

“It was a pity that those who had commissioned such a composer to write such a work had so entirely miscalculated their means of presenting it even respectably. The picturesque old Church of St. Martin is one of those buildings which swallow up all sound, [266] owing to the curve of the vaults and the bulk of the piers; the orchestra was little more powerful, when heard from below, than the distant scraping of a Christmas serenade far down the street; the chorus was toneless, and out of tune; and only one solo singer, the soprano, was even tolerable. On arriving at Liège with the purpose of conducting his work, Mendelssohn gave up the matter in despair. ‘No! it is not good, it cannot go well, it will make a bad noise,’ was his greeting to us....

“We drove with him that afternoon up to St. Martin’s Church, to hear, as he merrily styled it, ‘the execution of his music.’ The sight of the steep, narrow, winding street, decked out with fir-trees and banners and the escutcheons of the different towns of Belgium, pleased him, for he was as keen a lover of a show as a child, and had a true artist’s quick sense of the picturesque....

“Not envy’s self could have helped being in pain for its composer, so slack and tuneless and ineffective was the execution of this clear and beautiful work, by a scrannel orchestra, and singers who could hardly be heard, and who evidenced their nationality by resolutely holding back every movement. But in the last verse, alla breve—

there came a surprise of a different quality. It was scenically accompanied by an unforeseen exposition of the Host, in a gorgeous gilt tabernacle, that slowly turned above the altar, so as to reveal the consecrated elements to the congregation. Incense was swung from censers, and the evening sun, breaking in with a sudden brightness, gave a fairy-like effect to the curling fumes as they rose; while a very musical bell, that [267] timed the movement twice in a bar, added its charm to the rite. I felt a quick grasp on my wrist, as Mendelssohn whispered to me, eagerly, ‘Listen! how pretty that is! it makes amends for all their bad playing and singing,—and I shall hear the rest better some other time.’ That other time I believe never came for the composer of the ‘Lauda Sion,’—since this was only the year before his death.”

The work is composed in seven numbers. After a short introduction the voices give out the theme, “Lauda Sion,” followed by a chorus, “Laudis Thema,” full of devotional spirit. The soprano then enunciates in the “Sit Laus plena” phrases repeated by the chorus, followed by a beautifully accompanied quartet, “In hac Mensa.” The fifth number is a solemn chorale in unison, leading to a soprano solo in the arioso style, “Caro cibus,” which is exquisitely beautiful. The work concludes with a very dramatic solo and chorus, “Sumit unus,” set to the words “Bone pastor,” and the closing verses of the hymn itself. Short as the cantata is, it is one of the most felicitous of all Mendelssohn’s settings of the ritual.

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MOZART.

Johann Chrysostomus Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, one of the most remarkable of musical geniuses, and the only one of his contemporaries whose operas still hold the stage with unimpaired freshness, was born at Salsburg, Jan. 27, 1756. He was the son of Leopold Mozart, the Salzburgian Vice-Capellmeister, who gave him and his sister Nannerl their earliest instruction in music, and with such good results that the children travelled and gave concerts with great success. Before he was seven years of age he had composed several pieces for piano and violin, his earliest having been written at the age of five. At twelve he became court capellmeister in Salzburg. After his musical travels he went to Vienna, and there began his period of classic activity, which commenced with “Idomeneus,” reached its culmination in “Don Giovanni,” and closed with the “Requiem,”—the “swan-song” of his wonderful career. In his brief life Mozart composed more than fifty great works, besides hundreds of minor ones in every possible [269] form of musical writing. His greatest compositions may be classed in the following order: “Idomeneus” (1780); “Entführung aus dem Serail” (1781); “Figaro’s Hochzeit” (“The Marriage of Figaro”), (1785); “Don Giovanni” (1787); “Cosi fan Tutti,” “Zauberflöte” (“The Magic Flute”), and “Titus” (1790); and the “Requiem” (1791, the year of his death). The catalogue of Mozart’s works is an immense one, for his period of productivity was unusually long. From the age of five to his death there was not a year that was not crowded with his music. Besides his numerous operas, of which only the more famous are given above, he wrote a large number of symphonies (of which the “Jupiter” is now the best known), sonatas, concertos, for all kinds of instruments, even to musical-glasses, trios, quartets, quintets, and sextets for all possible combinations of instruments, marches, fugues, masses, hymns, arias of extraordinary brilliancy, liturgies, cantatas, songs and ballads, and indeed every form of music that is now known. His style was studied by Beethoven, and so closely imitated that the music of his first period, if published without autograph, would readily be attributed to Mozart. His style was so spontaneous and characteristic that it has been well said there is but one Mozart. The distinguishing trait of his music is its rich melodic beauty and its almost ravishing sweetness. His melody pours along in a bright unbroken stream that sometimes even overflows its banks, so abundant is it. It is peculiarly [270] the music of youth and spring-time, exquisite in form, graceful in technique, and delightful in expression. It was the source where all his immediate successors went for their inspiration, though it lacked the maturity, majesty, and emotional depths which were reached by such a Titan as Beethoven. Old as it is, and antiquated in form, especially as compared with the work of the new schools, its perennial freshness, grace, and beauty have made it immortal.

King Thamos.

The historical drama, “Thamos, King of Egypt,” was written by Freiherr von Gebler. Otto Jahn, in his Life of Mozart, gives the following sketch of its story:—

“Menes, King of Egypt, has been deposed by a usurper, Rameses, and, as it is thought, assassinated; but he is living, under the name of Sethos, as high priest of the Temple of the Sun, the secret being known only to the priest Hammon and the general Phanes. After the death of Rameses, his son Thamos is heir to the throne. The day arrives when Thamos attains majority, is to be invested with the diadem, and to select a bride. The friends of Menes seek in vain to persuade him to dispute the throne. He will not oppose the noble youth, whom he loves and esteems. But Pheron, a prince and confidant of Thamos, has, in conjunction with Mirza, the chief of the Virgins of the Sun, organized a conspiracy against Thamos, and won [271] over a portion of the army. Tharsis, daughter of Menes, who is believed by all, even her father, to be dead, has been brought up by Mirza under the name of Sais. It is arranged that she shall be proclaimed rightful heir to the throne, and, as she will then have the right to choose her consort, Mirza will secure her beforehand for Pheron. When she discovers that Sais loves Thamos, and he her, she induces Sais to believe that Thamos prefers her playmate Myris, and Sais is generous enough to sacrifice her love and her hopes of the throne to her friend. Equally nobly Thamos rejects all suspicions against Pheron, and awards him supreme command. As the time for action draws near, Pheron discloses to Sethos, whom he takes for a devoted follower of Menes, and consequently for an enemy to Thamos, the secret of Sais’ existence and his own plans. Sethos prepares secretly to save Thamos. Sais also, after being pledged to silence by an oath, is initiated into the secret by Mirza and Pheron, and directed to choose Pheron. She declines to give a decided answer, and Pheron announces to Mirza his determination to seize the throne by force in case of extremity. Sais, who believes herself not loved by Thamos, and will not therefore choose him as consort, but will not deprive him of the throne, takes the solemn and irrevocable oath as Virgin of the Sun. Thamos enters, and they discover, to their sorrow, their mutual love. Sethos, entering, enlightens Thamos as to the treachery of Pheron, without disclosing the parentage of Sais. Pheron, disturbed by the report that Menes is still living, comes to take council of Sethos, and adheres to his treacherous design. In solemn assembly Thamos is about to be declared king, when Mirza reveals the fact that Sais is the lost Tharsis, and [272] heiress to the throne. Thamos is the first to offer her his homage. When she is constrained to choose between Thamos and Pheron she declares herself bound by her oath, and announces Thamos as the possessor of the throne. Then Pheron calls his followers to arms, but Sethos steps forward and discloses himself as Menes; whereupon all fall at his feet in joyful emotion. Pheron is disarmed and led off; Mirza stabs herself; Menes, as father and ruler, releases Sais from her oath, unites her with Thamos, and places the pair on the throne. A message arrives that Pheron has been struck with lightning by Divine judgment, and the piece ends.”

To this drama Mozart composed the incidental music in 1779 and 1780 at Salzburg, where it was produced under Böhm and Shickaneder’s direction. The play did not keep the stage long. Mozart refers to this circumstance in a letter to his father, written Feb. 15, 1783:—

“I regret much not being able to make use of the music for ‘Thamos,’ for not having pleased here, it is included among the tabooed pieces, no longer to be performed. For the sake of the music alone it might possibly be given again, but it is not likely. It is really a pity.”

The music consists of five entr’actes and three choruses constructed in a large and majestic style and specially adapted to ceremonial performance. The first is a responsive chorus of maidens and priests (“Before thy Light, Sun-god, thy Foe the Darkness takes Wing”) sung in the temple of the [273] sun at Heliopolis. The second (“Godhead, throned in Power eternal”) is also sung in the temple before Thamos’ coronation, at the beginning of the fifth act, and contains short snatches of solos for a priest and maiden, leading to a close in full harmony for the voices, and an instrumental finale of soft music during which the priest offers sacrifice upon the altar. The third opens with a majestic bass solo for the high priest (“Ye Children of Dust, come, with Trembling, adore ye”) and closes with a stately strain for all the voices (“We Children of Dust in our Reverence tremble”).

Although the play was shelved, the music was not lost. Mozart subsequently set the choruses to Latin and German words, and they were adapted as hymns and motets for church use. They are now familiar to musicians as “Splendente te Deus,” “Deus tibi Laus et Honor,” and “Ne Pulvis et Cinis.” Nohl says of them:—

“A certain solemnity pervades them such as few of his sacred works possess, and an elevation of feeling only surpassed in the ‘Flauto Magico.’ But the composer has relied on theatrical effect; and thus, in spite of his graver intentions, we find more worldly pomp than religious depth in these choruses, which Mozart worked out with all love and care, even in their most minute details, and which manifest the thoughtful mood that absorbed his soul.”

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Davidde Penitente.

The cantata “Davidde Penitente” was the outcome of a work of love. Before his marriage with Constance Weber, Mozart vowed that when he brought her to Salzburg as his wife he would write a mass for the occasion and have it performed there. In a letter written to his father, Jan. 4, 1783, he says: “As a proof of the fulfilment of this vow, the score of a ‘half-mass’ is now lying by, in hopes of some day being finished.” Holmes, in his admirable Life of Mozart, says:—

“To exercise his pen in the grand contrapuntal style of church music was at all times agreeable to him; and he was now free from the local restrictions under which he had written his numerous masses at Salzburg, where neither the style, the length of the pieces, nor their instrumentation was left to his own discretion; hence, making due allowance for the effect of some few years in developing the composer’s genius, the great superiority of ‘Davidde Penitente,’ by which title this mass was in the sequel better known over all the earlier masses, as well for breadth of style as in true ecclesiastical solemnity.”

The “half-mass” which Mozart brought to Salzburg in fulfilment of his vow comprised only the Kyrie, Gloria, Sanctus, and Benedictus. The remaining numbers were supplied from another mass, and in this form the work was produced at St. Peter’s Church, Aug. 25, 1783, his wife taking the [275] solo part. The original work is described as exceedingly majestic and beautiful, particularly the “Gratias” for five, and the “Qui Tollis” for eight-voiced chorus. Jahn says of them that the same wonderful and mysterious impression of the supernatural conveyed by the most beautiful numbers in his Requiem characterizes these choruses.

The “half-mass” was destined to undergo still more radical changes. In the spring of 1785 the committee of the society for the relief of the widows and orphans of musicians at Vienna wished to celebrate their annual festival with some new work, and commissioned Mozart to write a cantata. As the time was very short, he took the Kyrie and Gloria of the mass, set Italian words to them, and added four new numbers, in which form it was produced under the title of “Davidde Penitente” at the Burg-theatre, March 13, the solo singers being Fraulein Cavalieri,^[32] Fraulein Distler, and Herr Adamberger.^[33] The cantata comprises ten numbers. The first number is a chorus (“Alzai le flebile voci”) taken from the “Kyrie” of the mass; the second, an allegro chorus (“Cantiam le lodi”), from the “Gloria;” the third, a soprano solo (“Lungi le [276] cure”), from the “Laudamus;” the fourth, an adagio chorus (“Sii pur sempre”) from the “Gratias;” the fifth, a very melodious soprano duet (“Sorgi o Signore”), from the “Domine Deus;” the sixth, a beautiful tenor aria (“A te fra tanti affanni”), written for Adamberger; the seventh, a double chorus (“Se vuoi, puniscimi”); the eighth, a bravura aria for soprano (“Fra le oscure Ombre”), written for Mademoiselle Cavalieri; the ninth, a terzetto (“Tutti le mie speranze”); and the tenth, a final chorus and fugue which, by general consent of the critics of the time, was called the “queen of vocal fugues.” Notwithstanding the introduction of specially-written arias, and the brilliant music assigned to the soprano, the cantata is regarded as one of the purest examples of Mozart’s church style.

The Masonic Cantatas.

Mozart became a member of the Masonic fraternity shortly after his arrival in Vienna in 1784, and devoted himself to its objects with all the ardor of his nature. In the following year his father visited him and was also persuaded to join, though not without considerable entreaty on the son’s part. He was a devoted member of the Church and entertained a deep reverence for its forms. The Church then, as now, was hostile to all secret orders, and was particularly inimical to the [277] Masons because they had attacked certain alleged abuses in the cloisters. His prejudices were overcome, however, and he soon became as ardent a devotee of Masonry as his son. It formed one of the principal subjects of their correspondence; but unfortunately all these letters were destroyed by the cautious father a short time before his death, which occurred May 28, 1787. In only one letter do we find reference to the subject, and that in a guarded manner. On the 3d of April of that year Mozart heard of his father’s illness, and the next day he writes to him:—

“I have this moment heard tidings which distress me exceedingly, and the more so that your last letter led me to suppose you were so well; but I now hear that you are really ill. I need not say how anxiously I shall long for a better report of you to comfort me, and I do hope to receive it, though I am always prone to anticipate the worst. As death (when closely considered) is the true goal of our life, I have made myself so thoroughly acquainted with this good and faithful friend of man, that not only has its image no longer anything alarming to me, but rather something most peaceful and consolatory; and I thank my Heavenly Father that He has vouchsafed to grant me the happiness, and has given me the opportunity (you understand me), to learn that it is the key to our true felicity.”

Mozart’s membership in the order began at an opportune time for him. Though at the height of his fame he was at the very lowest depth of his [278] finances; and both in 1787 and 1789, though he was Imperial Chamber Musician and his opera “Don Giovanni” was having a successful run, he was obliged to apply repeatedly to his friend and brother Mason, the merchant Puchberg of Vienna, for loans, and also to Herr Hofdämmel, who was about to become a Mason upon Mozart’s solicitation. During the short remainder of his life he was devotedly attached to the order, and he was buried in the dress of the brotherhood; but, strange to say, not one of the members accompanied their illustrious associate to the grave.

Four of Mozart’s works were directly inspired by Masonry. In 1785 he wrote a simple but beautiful lodge song for voice, with piano accompaniment (“Die ihr einern neuen Grade”). This was followed by the wonderfully beautiful “Freemason’s Funeral Music” for orchestra, written upon the occasion of the death of two brothers in the fraternity, of which Jahn says:—

“Mozart has written nothing more beautiful, from its technical treatment and finished effect of sound, its earnest feeling and psychological truth, than this short adagio. It is the utterance of a resolute, manly character, which, in the face of death, pays the rightful tribute to sorrow without being either crushed or stunned by it.”

In the same year he composed a small cantata, “Die Maurerfreude,” for tenor and chorus, in honor of Herr Born, the master of the lodge to which he [279] belonged in Vienna, which is full of true feeling combined with graceful melody.

The second cantata, catalogued in Köchel “Eine Kleine Freimaurer Cantate, ‘Laut verkünde unsre Freude,’” better known by its title “Lob der Freundschaft” (“Praise of Friendship”) is notable as the last work written by Mozart. Its date is Nov. 15, 1791, only three weeks before his death. At this time he was engaged in finishing up his “Requiem,” which had such a depressing effect upon him that he was ordered by his physician to lay it aside. The rest he thus secured had such a good effect that by the middle of November he was able to attend a Masonic meeting and produce the little cantata which he had just written for them. On reaching home after the performance he said to his wife, “O Stänerl, how madly they have gone on about my cantata! If I did not know that I had written better things, I should have thought this my best composition.” It is constructed upon a larger scale than the cantata of 1785, and is very pleasing and popular, but lacks the spirit and earnestness of the former. It has six numbers: 1. Chorus, “Laut verkünde unsre Freude;” 2. Recitative, “Zum ersten Male;” 3. Tenor aria, “Dieser Gottheit Allmacht;” 4. Recitative, “Wohlan, ihr Brüder;” 5. Duet, “Lange sallen diese Mauern”; 6. Chorus, “Lasst uns mit geschlungen Händen.” It was Mozart’s swan-song. Two days after its performance he was stricken down with his last illness.

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PAINE.

John K. Paine, one of the very few really eminent American composers, was born at Portland, Me., Jan. 9, 1839. He studied the piano, organ, and composition with Kotzschmar in that city, and made his first public appearance as an organist, June 25, 1857. During the following year he went to Germany, and studied the organ, composition, and instrumentation with Haupt and other masters in Berlin. He returned to this country in 1861, and gave several concerts, in which he played many of the organ works of the best writers for the first time in the United States. Shortly after his return he was appointed instructor of music in Harvard University, and in 1876 was honored with the elevation to a professorship and given a regular chair. He is best known as a composer, and several of his works have been paid the rare compliment of performance in Germany, among them his Mass in D and all his symphonies. The former was given at the Berlin Singakademie in 1867, under his own direction. Among his principal compositions are the oratorio “St. Peter,” the music to “Œdipus,” the cantatas, [281] “Nativity,” “The Realm of Fancy,” and “Phœbus, Arise;” the Mass in D; the Centennial Hymn, set to Whittier’s poem, and sung at the opening of the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition; the overture to “As You Like It;” “The Tempest,” in the style of a symphonic poem; the symphony in C minor, and “Spring” symphony; besides numerous sonatas, fantasias, preludes, songs, and arrangements for organ and piano. His larger orchestral works have been made familiar to American audiences by Mr. Theodore Thomas’s band, and have invariably met with success. His style of composition is large, broad, and dignified, based upon the best classic models, and evinces a high degree of musical scholarship.

Œdipus Tyrannus.

The first public performance of the “Œdipus Tyrannus” of Sophocles in this country was given at the Sanders Theatre (Harvard College), Cambridge, Mass., May 17, 1881, for which occasion Mr. Paine composed the music incidental to the world-famous tragedy. The performance was a memorable one in many ways. The tragedy was given in the original language. It was the first event of the kind in America. The audience was a representative one in culture, education, and social brilliancy. The programme was also unique, being printed in Greek, and translated into English was as follows:—

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TO ALL THE SPECTATORS GREETING.

[The college seal.]

Six verses from the Eumenides of Æschylus:

THE ŒDIPUS TYRANNUS OF SOPHOCLES WILL BE REPRESENTED IN THE THEATRE OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY on the 17th of May (Θαργηλιών), 1881, and again on the 19th, 20th, and 21st.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Œdipus, King of Thebes George Riddle.

Priest of Zeus William Hobbs Manning.

Creon, Jocasta’s brother Henry Norman.

Teiresias, the blind seer Curtis Guild.

Jocasta, Queen of Thebes Leonard Eckstein Opdycke.

Messenger, from Corinth Arthur Wellington Roberts.

Servant of Laius Gardiner Martin Lane.

Messenger from the Palace Owen Wister.

ATTENDANTS.

Attendants on Œdipus J. R. Coolidge, E. J. Wendell.

Attendants on Jocasta J. J. Greenough, W. L. Putnam.

Attendants on Creon G. P. Keith, J. Lee.

Boy guide of Teiresias C. H. Goodwin.

Antigone E. Manning.

Ismene J. K. Whittemore.

Suppliants.— G. P. Keith, G. D. Markham (priests), W. H. Herrick, J. Lee, E. Lovering, H. Putnam, L. A. Shaw, C. M. Walsh (chosen youths), C. H. Goodwin, E. Manning, R. Manning, W. Merrill, E. R. Thayer, J. K. Whittemore (boys).

CHORUS OF THEBAN OLD MEN.

Coryphæus Louis Butler McCagg.

Assistant to the chorus in the third stasmon, with solo George Laurie Osgood.

MEMBERS OF THE CHORUS.

N. M. Brigham,

Frederick R. Burton,

Henry G. Chapin,

Sumner Coolidge,

Edward P. Mason,

Marshall H. Cushing,

Wendell P. Davis,

Morris Earle,

Percival J. Eaton,

Gustavus Tuckerman,

Charles S. Hamlin,

Jared S. How,

Howard Lilienthal,

Charles F. Mason.

Leader of the chorus and composer of the music John Knowles Paine.

Prompter George L. Kittredge.

The scene is laid in front of the palace in Boetian Thebes. The chorus is composed of Theban old men. Œdipus speaks first. The managers request all the spectators to remain sitting until the postlude is ended. Immediately after the last chorus has been sung there will be a pause for those who wish to go out. After this the doors will be closed.

After the play, horse-cars (ἅμαξαι ἱπποσιδηροδρομικαὶ) will be ready for those who want to go to the city.

Wilsons, printers. (Οὐιλσῶνεσ τύποις ἔγαψαν.)

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The story of the Theban hero, his ignorance of his own parentage, his dismay at the revelation of the oracle that he would kill his father and marry his mother, his quarrel with the former, resulting in the very tragedy he was seeking to avoid, his solution of the riddle of the sphinx, the reward of the Queen’s hand which Creon had promised, leading to the unfortunate marriage with his mother, Jocasta, thus completing the revelation of the oracle, does not need description in detail. The marriage was followed [284] by a pestilence that wasted Thebes, and at this point the plot of the drama begins. It concerns itself with the efforts of Œdipus to unravel the mystery of the death of his father, Laius, which lead to the discovery that he himself was the murderer, and that he had been guilty of incest with his own mother. Jocasta hangs herself, and Œdipus, rushing frantically into the palace, beholds her, and overwhelmed with horror at the sight and the fulfilment of the oracle, seizes her brooch-pin and blinds himself. In the Œdipus at Colonos the sequel is told. The hero dies in the gardens of the Eumenides, happy in the love of his daughters and the pardon which fate grants him.

The music to the tragedy is thoroughly classical in spirit, and has all the nobility, breadth, dignity, and grace characteristic of the Greek idea. The principal lyric movements of the chorus, the choral odes, of which there are six, comprise the scheme of the composer. The melodramatic practice of the orchestra accompanying spoken dialogue only appears to a limited extent in the third ode; and the chorus, as narrator, is accompanied by music only in the seven last lines of the play, which form the postlude. The orchestral introduction, which is treated in a very skilful and scholarly manner, epitomizes the spirit of the work. The odes are divided as usual into strophes and antistrophes, assigned alternately to a male chorus of fifteen and full chorus. The first (“Oracle sweet-tongued of Zeus”), which has the genuine antique dignity and [285] elevation, is a description of the sufferings of the people from the pestilence which has wasted Thebes since the unnatural marriage of Œdipus and Jocasta, and a fervent prayer to the gods for aid. The second (“Thou Delphic Rock, who can he be?”) concludes the scene where the blind prophet Teiresias arrives upon the summons of Creon and accuses Œdipus of the crime, accompanying the accusation with dark hints of further guilt. In this ode, which is specially noticeable for its rich and graceful treatment, the chorus expresses its disbelief of the charges. In the third scene, Creon enters to protest against the accusations of Œdipus, but a quarrel ensues between them, which results in the menace of death to the former. Jocasta appears, and upon her intercession Creon is allowed to depart. In the ode, the chorus joins in this appeal to Œdipus,—a strong, vigorous number, the effect of which is heightened by the intervening spoken parts of Creon, Œdipus, and Jocasta, with musical accompaniment. The fourth ode (“O may my Life be spent in Virtue”) is a vigorous denunciation of the impiety of Jocasta in speaking scornfully of the oracles. The fifth ode (“If I the Prophet’s Gift possess”) is full of idyllic grace and sweetness, realizing in a remarkable degree the old Grecian idea of sensuous beauty. It is a speculation upon the divine origin of Œdipus, after the messenger relates the story of the King’s exposure in his childhood upon Mount Cithæron, and contains a charming tenor solo. The last ode (“O Race of mortal [286] Men”) bewails the vicissitudes of fortune, and is full of the tragic significance of impending fate. The work comes to a close with the postlude:—

Six public performances of the “Œdipus” were given in 1881, and every season since that time selections from the music have been performed in New York, Boston, and other cities. As the most important and scholarly work an American composer has yet produced, it cannot be heard too often.

The Nativity.

The text of “The Nativity,” for chorus, solo voices, and orchestra, is taken from the hymn in Milton’s ode “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity,” and is composed in three parts. The first part includes the first, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh; the second, a combination of the eighth and ninth; and the third, the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth verses. After a short instrumental introduction, which works up to an effective climax, the cantata begins with a chorus (“It was the Winter wild”), introduced by the soprano, developing to full harmony [287] at the words, “Nature in Awe to Him,” and closing pianissimo. After a short soprano solo (“But, He her Fears to cease”) the chorus resumes (“With Turtle Wing the amorous Clouds dividing”). A succession of choral passages follows, admirably suggestive of the sentiment of the poem,—a vigorous, stirring allegro, “No War or Battle’s Sound was heard the World around;” “And Kings sat still with awful Eye,” broadly and forcibly written; and a tender, graceful number, “But peaceful was the Night.” They are followed by another soprano solo (“And though the shady Gloom”), full of brightness and animation, which leads directly to a majestic chorus (“He saw a greater Sun appear”), which closes the first part.

The second part, a quartet and chorus, is pastoral in character, and reflects the idyllic quiet and beauty of the text. The quartet, “The Shepherds on the Lawn,” is introduced by short tenor, bass, and alto solos, and also contains a very melodious and graceful solo for soprano (“When such Music sweet their Hearts and Ears did greet”), after which the full quartet leads up to a vigorous chorus (“The Air such Pleasure loath to lose”), closing the part.

The third part is choral, and forms an effective climax to the work. It opens with the powerful chorus, “Ring out, ye crystal Spheres,” emphasized by the organ bass with stately effect, and moves on majestically to the close,—

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The Realm of Fancy.

“The Realm of Fancy” is a short cantata, the music set to Keats’s familiar poem:—

With the exception of a dozen lines, the dainty poem is used entire, and is set to music with a keen appreciation of its graceful beauty. A short allegretto fancifully trips along to the opening chorus (“Ever let the Fancy roam”), which is admirable for its shifting play of musical color. A soprano solo (“She will bring in spite of Frost”), followed by a very expressive barytone solo (“Thou shalt at a Glance behold the Daisy and the Marigold”), leads up to a charming little chorus (“Shaded Hyacinth, always Sapphire Queen”). A short instrumental passage, in the time of the opening allegretto, introduces the final chorus (“O Sweet Fancy, let her loose”), charmingly worked up, and closing in canon form. The cantata is very short; but rarely have poem and music been more happily wedded than in this delightful tribute to fancy.

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Phœbus, Arise.

Mr. Paine’s ripe scholarship is shown to admirable advantage in his selection of the poem “Phœbus, Arise” from among the lyrics of the old Scottish poet, William Drummond, of Hawthornden, and the characteristic old-style setting he has given to it. Like “The Realm of Fancy,” it is very short; but like that cantata, also, it illustrates the versatility of his talent and the happy manner in which he preserves the characteristics of the poem in his music. Drummond, who has been called “the Scottish Petrarch,” and whose poems were so celebrated that even Ben Jonson could find it in his way to visit him, was noted for the grace and lightness of his verse, and the pensive cast with which it was tinged. It has little of the modern poetic style, and the composer has clothed his poem in a musical garb to correspond.

The cantata is written for tenor solo, male chorus, and orchestra, and opens with a brilliant chorus (“Phœbus, arise, and paint the sable Skies with azure, white, and red”), closing with a crescendo in the old style. An expressive and somewhat pensive tenor solo follows:—

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A short choral passage with tenor solo (“Fair King, who all preserves”) leads to a full rich chorus (“Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest Guise”). In the next number the chorus returns to the opening theme (“Phœbus, Arise”), and develops it with constantly increasing power to the close.

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PARKER.

Horatio W. Parker, a young American composer of more than ordinary promise, was born at Auburndale, Mass., Sept. 15, 1863. After his fifteenth year he began the study of music, taking his earlier lessons of the three Boston teachers, Stephen A. Emery, John Orth, and G. W. Chadwick. In 1882 he went to Munich and studied the organ and composition with Josef Rheinberger, for three years. In the spring of 1885 he wrote the cantata “King Trojan,” and it was produced for the first time in that city with success during the summer of the same year. Since then it has been given in this country by Mr. Jules Jordan, of Providence, R. I., Feb. 8, 1887. His string quartet in F major was played at a concert of the Buffalo Philharmonic Society in January, 1886; and a short scherzo was performed by the Van der Stücken orchestra in New York City in the same year. Besides these compositions, he has written three overtures, quite a number of songs and pieces for the piano-forte, and a symphony in C, and ballade for chorus and [292] orchestra, both of which were played in Munich last year. In 1886 he accepted the professorship of music at the Cathedral School of St. Paul, Garden City, L. I., and in February, 1887, went to New York, where he now resides, to take charge of a boy choir in St. Andrew’s Church, Harlem.

King Trojan.

“King Trojan,” composed for chorus, solos, and orchestra, was written in March, 1885, and first performed in July of the same year, at Munich. Its story is the poem of the same name, by Franz Alfred Muth, the English version being a free and excellent translation by the composer’s mother, Mrs. Isabella G. Parker, of Auburndale, Mass.

After a short and graceful introduction, the cantata opens with a solo describing the quiet beauty of a summer night, daintily accompanied by wind instruments and harp. A second voice replies (“O Summer Night”), and then the two join in a very vigorous duet (“O fill thou Even with Light of Heaven”). A short solo for third voice leads up to a chorus which gives us a picture of King Trojan’s castle gleaming in the moonlight. It is followed by a very effective solo for the King (“The Horse is neighing, O Page of mine”), in which he bids his Page saddle his steed for a night ride to visit his distant love. The chorus intervenes with a reflective number (“What thinks she now?”), which is very [293] dramatic in style, describing the mutual longing of the lovers to be together.

The second scene opens with a short solo by the Page (“Up, up, O King, the Horses wait”), followed by the chorus as narrator, describing the ride of the King and his companion through the greenwood, with which is interwoven Trojan’s solo (“How sweet and cool is yet the Night”). In the next number, a vivacious allegro, the story of the ride is continued by the chorus, with a characteristic accompaniment, and again Trojan sings a charming tribute to the summer night, which is followed by responsive solos of the King and the Page, in the allegro and penseroso style,—the one singing of the raptures of night, the other of the gladness of day and sunlight. A passionate bit of recitative (“Now swift, ye Horses”) by Trojan reveals the secret of the King’s haste. He is King of the night, and the morning ray will be fatal to him. A short choral number (“And forward fly they”) brings the first part to a close with the arrival of the riders at the Queen’s castle.

The second part opens with a beautiful solo, quartet, and chorus (“Good-Night, the Lindens whisper”), which describes the meeting of the lovers, while

At this note of warning the Page appeals to his master to fly, for the sunlight will bring him pain [294] and harm. The dallying King replies, “Hark! how the Nightingale yet sings.” A small chorus intervenes with the warning, “Love is so fleeting, Night is so fair.” The Queen appeals to him, “What seest thou, O King?” To which Trojan replies with agitation, “The ruddy Morning, it is my Death.” Again comes the Page’s warning. The King springs up in alarm and hastens to his steed. In a choral presto movement the ride back is described. The King conceals himself in a dark thicket, hoping to escape, but the night has vanished and the day has begun. Its beams penetrate his refuge, and with a last despairing cry (“Accursed Light, I feel thee now”) he expires. A short choral passage, with harp accompaniment, brings this very dramatic and fanciful composition to a close:—

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PARKER.

James C. D. Parker, an American composer, was born at Boston, Mass., June 2, 1828. He received his primary education in the schools of that city, was graduated from Harvard University in 1848, and immediately thereafter began the study of law. His love for music, however, was irresistible, and he soon dropped law-books and entered upon a thorough course of musical instruction, at first in Boston, and afterwards at the Conservatory in Leipsic, where he finished the regular course. He returned to Boston in 1854, and at once devoted himself to musical work in which he took a prominent part, and made an excellent reputation as pianist, organist, and teacher, as well as composer, though he has not as yet attempted any very large or ambitious works. In 1862 he organized an amateur vocal association under the name of the Parker Club, which has performed several works by Gade, Mendelssohn, Berlioz, Schumann, and others, with success. His most important composition is the “Redemption Hymn,” which he [296] wrote for the Boston Handel and Haydn Society during the period he was its organist. He has also held the position of organist and choir-director of Trinity Church in that city, and of Professor of the College of Music connected with the Boston University. During his unostentatious career he has earned an enviable reputation as an earnest, honest musician deeply devoted to his art.

The Redemption Hymn.

“The Redemption Hymn,” for alto solo and chorus, was written for the Fourth Triennial Festival of the Handel and Haydn Society, and was first given on that occasion, May 17, 1877, Anna Louise Cary-Raymond taking the solo. The words are taken from Isaiah li. 9-11.

The work opens with a brief but spirited orchestral introduction, which leads to an exultant chorus (“Awake, O Arm of the Lord”), changing to a [297] well-written fugue in the middle part (“Art thou not it?”), and returning to the first theme in the close. The next number is an effective alto solo (“Art thou not it which hath dried the Sea?”) alternating with chorus. It is followed by a slow movement for alto solo and chorus (“Therefore the Redeemed of the Lord shall return”), which closes very gracefully and tenderly on the words, “Sorrow and Mourning shall flee away.” This little work has become a favorite with singing societies, by the scholarly and effective manner in which it is written.

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RANDEGGER.

Alberto Randegger was born at Trieste, April 13, 1832, and began the study of music at an early age with Lafont and Ricci. In his twentieth year he had written numerous minor pieces of church music, several masses and two ballets which were produced with success in his native city. From 1852 to 1854 he was engaged as a conductor in the theatres of Fiume, Zera, Brescia, and Venice. In the latter year he brought out a grand opera in Brescia, called “Bianca Capello,” shortly after which he went to London, where he has since resided and made a world-wide reputation as a teacher. In 1857 he conducted Italian opera at St. James’s Theatre; in 1864 brought out a comic opera, “The Rival Beauties,” at the Theatre Royal, Leeds; in 1868 was appointed Professor of Singing at the Royal Academy of Music, in which he has since become a director; in 1879-80 was conductor for the Carl Rosa English Opera Company at Her Majesty’s Theatre, London; and has since been appointed conductor of the Norwich Festival in the [299] place of Benedict. His principal works, besides those already mentioned, are: “Medea,” a scena, sung by Madame Rudersdorff at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic (1869); the One hundred and fiftieth Psalm, for soprano solo, chorus, orchestra, and organ (1872); cantata, “Fridolin” (1873); soprano scena, “Saffo” (1875); funeral anthem for the death of the Prince Consort; and a large number of songs which are great favorites on the concert-stage.

Fridolin.

“Fridolin, or the Message to the Forge” was written for the Birmingham Triennial Musical Festival of 1873. The words, by Mme. Erminia Rudersdorff, are founded on Schiller’s ballad, “Der Gang nach dem Eisenhammer.” The dramatis personæ are Waldemar, Count of Saverne; Eglantine, Countess of Saverne; Fridolin, page to the Countess; and Hubert, squire to the Count. The story closely follows that of Schiller. The preface to the piano score gives its details as follows:—

“Fridolin and Hubert are in the service of the Count of Saverne. Hubert, aspiring to win the affections of his beautiful mistress, conceives a violent hatred of Fridolin, whom he regards as an obstacle in his path. Taking advantage of Fridolin’s loyal devotion to the Countess, Hubert excites the jealousy of the Count, and prompts a stern revenge. The Count forthwith writes to some mechanic serfs, ordering that [300] whoever comes asking a certain question shall be at once thrown into their furnace. Fridolin, innocent of wrong and unconscious of danger, receives the ‘message to the forge;’ but, ere setting out, he waits upon his mistress for such commands as she might have to give. The Countess desires him to enter the chapel he would pass on his way and offer up a prayer for her. Fridolin obeys, and thus saves his own life; but vengeance overtakes the traitor Hubert, who, going to the forge to learn whether the plot has succeeded, himself asks the fatal question, ‘Is obeyed your lord’s command?’ and himself becomes the victim. Fridolin subsequently appears, and is about to perish likewise, when the Count and Countess, between whom explanations have taken place, arrive on the scene, to preserve the innocent and to learn the fate of the guilty.”

The cantata opens with a short but stirring prelude, introducing the declamatory prologue-chorus:—

The cantata proper opens with a recitative by Fridolin (“Arising from the Lap of star-clad Night”), leading up to the quiet, dreamy air, “None but holy, lofty Thoughts.” It is followed by a bass scena for Hubert (“Proceed thou, hateful Minion, on thy Path”) which opens in an agitated manner, [301] but grows more reposeful and tender in style as the subject changes in the passage, “For one kind Glance from out those Eyes divine.” Again the scena changes and becomes vigorous in the recitative, “Dispelled by jealous Rage is Hope’s fond Dream,” set to an imposing accompaniment, and leading to a brilliant fiery allegro (“A thousand hideous Deaths I’d make him die”). The next number is a very graphic and spirited hunting-chorus (“Hark! the Morn awakes the Horn”), introduced and accompanied by the horns, and full of breezy, out-door feeling. A long dialogue follows between Hubert and the Count, somewhat gloomy in character, in which the former arouses his master’s jealous suspicions. The gloom still further deepens as Hubert suggests the manner of Fridolin’s death (“Mid yon gloomy Mountains”). Then follows the message to the forge by the Count in monotone phrases (“Mark, ye Serfs, your Lord’s Commands”) and the scene closes with a very dramatic duet (“Death and Destruction fall upon his Head”). In striking contrast with these stormy numbers comes the charming, graceful chorus of the handmaidens (“Calmly flow the equal Hours”), followed by a very expressive song for the Countess (“No Bliss can be so great”). A short scene in recitative leads up to a tender duet (“Above yon Sun, the Stars above”) for Fridolin and the Countess, closing with a powerful quartet for the four principal parts (“Now know I, Hubert, thou speakest true”).

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The ninth scene is admirably constructed. It opens with an animated and picturesque dance and chorus of villagers (“Song is resounding, Dancers are bounding”), which swings along in graceful rhythm until it is interrupted by a solemn phrase for organ, introduced by horns, which prepares the way for a chorale (“Guardian Angels sweet and fair”), closing with Fridolin’s prayer at the shrine, interwoven with a beautiful sacred chorus (“Sancta Maria, enthroned above”). In a recitative and ballad (“The wildest Conflicts rage within my fevered Soul”) the Count mourns over what he supposes to be the infidelity of his wife, followed by a long and very dramatic scene with the Countess (“My Waldemar, how erred thine Eglantine?”). The last scene is laid at the forge, and after a short but vigorous prelude opens with a chorus of the smiths (“Gift of Demons, raging Fire”), in which the composer has produced the effect of clanging anvils, roaring fire, and hissing sparks with wonderful realism. The chorus closes with passages describing the providential rescue of Fridolin and the fate of Hubert, and an andante religioso (“Let your Voices Anthems raise”). The epilogue is mainly choral, and ends this very dramatic work in broad flowing harmonies.

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RHEINBERGER.

Joseph Gabriel Rheinberger was born at Vaduz, in Lichtenstein, March 17, 1839, and displayed his musical talent at a very early age. He studied the piano in his fifth year, and in his seventh was organist in the church of his native place. At the age of twelve he entered the Munich Conservatory, where he remained as a scholar until he was nineteen, when he was appointed one of its teachers; at the same time he became organist at the Hofkirche of St. Michael, and afterwards director of the Munich Oratorio Society. In 1867 he was appointed professor and inspector of the Royal Music School, and since 1877 has been the royal Hofkapellmeister, directing the performances of the Kapellchor, an organization similar to that of the Berlin Domchor. He is a very prolific composer, nearly two hundred works having proceeded from his pen. Among them are the “Wallenstein” and “Florentine” symphonies; a Stabat Mater; two operas, “The Seven Ravens” and “Thürmer’s Töchterlein;” incidental music to a drama of Calderon’s; [304] a symphony-sonata for piano; a requiem for the dead in the Franco-German war; theme and variations for string quartet; a piano concerto; five organ sonatas; the choral works, “Toggenburg,” “Klärchen auf Eberstein,” “Wittekind,” and “Christophorus;” and a large number of songs and church pieces, besides much chamber music.

Christophorus.

“Christophorus,” a legend, as Rheinberger calls it, was written in 1879, and is composed for barytone, soprano, and alto solos, chorus, and orchestra. Its subject is taken from the familiar story of the giant who bore the infant Christ across the flood. The chorus acts the part of narrator, and in its opening number relates the legend of Christophorus’ wanderings and his arrival before the castle whose master he would serve. He offers his services, but when they are accepted as an offering from the gods he haughtily declares that he only serves “for fame and chivalry.” A voice thereupon in an impressive solo (“Trust not this loud-voiced Stranger”) warns him away as an envoy of Satan, and the chorus repeats the warning. The giant departs with the intention of drawing his sword in Satan’s cause,—

In a very picturesque number the chorus describes his wanderings among the mountain crags and [305] rocks where Satan weaves his spells about him; and then suddenly changing to a tender, delicate strain (“Over us Stars shine”) anticipates the Voice, which in a sensuous aria (“Who is the sovereign Lord of the Heart?”) sings the power of love. In graceful chorus the spirits taunt him, whereupon he once more resolves to fly and to abandon the cause of Satan, but is thwarted by them. A weird chorus closes the first part (“Satan a-hunting is gone”), ending with an impressive strain:—

The second part opens with a reflective soliloquy by the giant, followed by a plaintive chorus (“All now is lone and silent”) describing the suffering of our Saviour on the cross and the sadness of a hermit gazing upon the scene. The giant approaches the latter, and a dialogue ensues between them, in which the identity of the victim on the cross is revealed. Having found the King of the universe, Christophorus determines to devote himself to His cause, and inquires how he may serve Him. He is informed he must go to the swiftly-rolling river and carry the pilgrims across. A chanting chorus (“As flows the River seawards, so onward glide the Years”) describes the work of the faithful toiler. Then comes a voice calling him, and he beholds an [306] Infant waiting for him. He takes Him upon his shoulders and bears Him into the flood, but as he advances, bends and struggles beneath his load “as though the whole world he bore.” He inquires the meaning, and the Voice replies:—

A joyful, exultant chorus, (“Blessed of Rivers, the Child embrace”) closes this very graceful little “legend.”

Toggenburg.

“Toggenburg,” a cycle of ballads, was written in 1880. The music is for solos and mixed chorus, the ballads being linked together by motives, thus forming a connected whole. The story is a very simple one. The bright opening chorus (“At Toggenburg all is in festive Array”) describes the pageantry which has been prepared to welcome the return of Henry, Knight of Toggenburg, with his fair young Suabian bride, the Lady Etha. The chorus is followed by a duet and alto or barytone solo, which indicate the departure of the Knight for the wars, and the Lady Etha’s loss of the wedding ring. The next number, a solo quartet and chorus (“Ah! Huntsman, who gave thee the Diamond [307] Ring?”), is very dramatic in its delineation of the return of the victorious Knight, who, observing the ring on the finger of the huntsman, slays him, and then in a fit of jealousy hurls the Lady Etha from the tower where she was waving his welcome. The next number is a female chorus (“On mossy Bed her gentle Form reposes”), very slow in its movement and plaintive in character. It is followed by a weird and solemn chorus (“Through the Night rings the Horn’s Blast with Power”), picturing the mad ride of the Knight through the darkness, accompanied by the dismal notes of ravens and mysterious sounds like “greetings from the dead,” which only cease when he discovers the corpse of his lady with the cross on its breast. A short closing chorus, funereal in style, ends the mournful story:—