THE STANDARD CANTATAS.

THE CANTATA.

The origin of the cantata is a matter of controversy, but it is clear that it had its birth in Italy. Adami, an old writer, attributes its invention to Giovanni Domenico Poliaschi Romano, a papal chapel-singer, who, it is claimed, wrote several cantatas as early as 1618. The same writer also asserts that the Cavalier da Spoleto, a singer in the same service, published cantatas in 1620. Hawkins asserts in one chapter of his “History of Music” that the invention is due to Carissimi, chapel-master of the Church of St. Apollinare in Rome, who unquestionably did an important service for dramatic music by perfecting recitative and introducing stringed accompaniments; but in a subsequent chapter the historian states that Barbara Strozzi, a Venetian lady contemporary [14] with Carissimi, was the inventor, and assigns the year 1653 as the date when she published certain vocal compositions with the title “Cantate, Ariette e Duetti,” prefixed by an advertisement setting forth that having invented this form of music, she had published them as an experiment. Burney takes notice of the claim made for Romano and Da Spoleto, but does not think it valid, and says: “The first time that I have found the term ‘cantata’ used for a short narrative lyric poem was in the Musiche varie a voce sola del Signor Benedetto Ferrari da Reggio, printed at Venice, 1638.” This, as will be observed, disposes of the Venetian lady’s claim, as it is antedated twenty years, and Burney states his facts from personal investigation. He mentions several cantatas written about this period, among them a burlesque one describing the leap of Marcus Curtius into the gulf. He concedes to Carissimi, however, the transfer of the cantata from the chamber to the church, and on this point nearly all the early writers are agreed.

The cantata in its earliest form was a recitative, which speedily developed into a mixture of recitative and melody for a single voice, and was suggested by the lyric opera. Burney says:—

“The chief events were related in recitative. In like manner they received several progressive changes during the last century previous to their perfection. First, they consisted, like opera scenes, of little more than recitative, with frequent formal closes, at which the singer, either accompanied by himself or another [15] performer on a single instrument, was left at liberty to show his taste and talents.”

The form then changed to a single air in triple time, independent of the recitative, and repeated to the different verses as in a ballad, the melody being written every time, as the Da Capo was not then in use.^[1] Choron defines the cantata as follows:—

“It is a little poem, which, considered in a literary sense, has no very determinate character, though it is usually the recital of a simple and interesting fact interspersed with reflections or the expression of some particular sentiment. It may be in all styles and all characters, sacred, profane, heroic, comic, and even ludicrous, representing the action or feeling of either a single or several persons. It even sometimes assumes the character of the oratorio.”

As applied to recitative, the new form was variously called “recitativo,” “musica parlante,” or “stilo rappresentativo,” one of the first works in which style was “The Complaint of Dido,” by the Cavalier Sigismondo d’India, printed in Venice in 1623. The mixture of recitative and air was eventually called “ariose cantate;” and with this title several melodies were printed by Sebastian Enno at Venice, 1655.^[2]

[16]

The seventeenth century witnessed the rapid perfecting of the cantata in its early forms by the Italian composers. The best examples are said to have been those of Carissimi, of whom mention has already been made. Several of them are preserved in the British Museum and at Oxford; among them, one written on the death of Mary Queen of Scots. Burney says:—

“Of twenty-two of his cantatas preserved in the Christ Church collection, Oxon., there is not one which does not offer something that is still new, curious, and pleasing; but most particularly in the recitatives, many of which seem the most expressive, affecting, and perfect that I have seen. In the airs there are frequently sweet and graceful passages, which more than a hundred years have not impaired.”

Of the thirteenth in this collection the same authority says:—

“This single air, without recitative, seems the archetype of almost all the arie di cantabile, the adagios, and pathetic songs, as well as instrumental, slow movements, that have since been made.”

Fra Marc Antonio Cesti, in his later life a monk in the monastery of Arezzo, and chapel-master of the Emperor Ferdinand III., was a pupil of Carissimi, and devoted much attention to the cantata, the recitative of which he greatly improved. One of his most celebrated compositions of this kind was entitled, “O cara Liberta,” and selections from it are given both by Burney and Hawkins. He must [17] have been one of the jolly monks of old, for all his cantatas are secular in character, and he was frequently censured for devoting so much time to theatrical instead of church music. Luigi Rossi was contemporary with Cesti, and has left several cantatas which are conspicuous for length and pedantry rather than for elegance or melodious charm. Giovanni Legrenzi of Bergamo, the master of Lotti and Gasparini, published twenty-four cantatas in Venice between 1674 and 1679, which were great favorites in his time. The celebrated painter Salvator Rosa not only wrote the words for many cantatas by his musical friends, but it is known that he composed both words and music to eight. The texts of these works have preserved for posterity pictures more graphic than any he could paint of his misanthropical character; for when he is not railing against his mistress he is launching satires against Nature and mankind in general. In one of these he complains that the earth is barren and the sun is dark. If he goes out to see a friend, it always rains. If he goes on shipboard, it always storms. If he buys provisions at the market, the bones outweigh the flesh. If he goes to court—

His only wealth is hope, which points to nothing better than “workhouse or a rope.” In the heat of summer he has to trudge in winter clothes. He cannot even run away from misfortune. In a word, [18] nothing pleases the poor painter, as is evident from the gloomy moral which “adorns the tale”:—

In 1703 Giambatista Bassani, of Bologna, published twelve cantatas devoted to the tender passion, and all of them set to a violin accompaniment,—a practice first introduced by Scarlatti, of Naples, who was one of the most prolific writers of his day. The cantata was Scarlatti’s favorite form of composition, and hundreds of them came from his busy pen, which were noted for their beauty and originality. The accompaniments were written for the violoncello as well as for the violin; those for the first-named instrument were so difficult and yet so excellent that those who could perform them were often thought to have supernatural assistance.^[3] Contemporary with Scarlatti was Francesco Gasparini, a Roman composer and harpsichord player of such eminence that Scarlatti sent his son Domenico, who afterwards became famous by his musical [19] achievements, to study with him. Gasparini wrote twelve cantatas,—not so scholarly but quite as popular as those by Scarlatti. As a return for the compliment which Scarlatti had paid him, Gasparini sent him a cantata, which was the signal for a lively cantata-correspondence between them, each trying to outdo the other. Following Gasparini came Bononcini, whose contentions with Handel in England are familiar to all musical readers. He was the most prolific cantata-writer of all the Italians next to Scarlatti, and dedicated a volume of them, in 1721, to the King of England. He also published in Germany a large number which show great knowledge of instrumentation, according to the musical historians of his time. Antonio Lotti, his contemporary, wrote several which are particularly noticeable for their harmony. His pupil Benedetto Marcello, the illustrious psalm-composer, excelled his master in this form of music. Two of his cantatas, “Il Timoteo” (after Dryden’s ode) and “Cassandra,” were very celebrated. He was of noble family, and is famous even to this day by his masses, serenades, and sonnets, and by his beautiful poetical and musical paraphrase of the Psalms, which was translated into English, German, and Russian. The Baron d’Astorga, whose “Stabat Mater” is famous, wrote many cantatas, but they do not reach the high standard of that work. Antonio Caldara, for many years composer to the Emperor at Vienna, published a volume of them at Venice in 1699. Porpora, who was a rival of [20] Handel in England as an opera composer, published and dedicated twelve to the Prince of Wales in 1735 as a mark of gratitude for the support which he had given him in his disputes with the testy German.^[4] After Pergolesi, who made himself famous by his “Stabat Mater,” and published several cantatas at Rome, and Handel, who wrote many, which were eclipsed by his operas and oratorios, and are now hardly known, this style of the cantata languished, and gradually passed into the form of the concert aria, of which fine examples are to be found in the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. After the death of Pergolesi, Sarti and Paisiello made an attempt to revive it, and in so doing prepared the way for the cantata in its beautiful modern form. In the latter’s “Guinone Lucina,” written for the churching of Caroline of Austria, Queen of Naples, and in his “Dafne ed Alceo” and “Retour de Persée” the melody is intermixed with choruses for the first time.

Thus far the Italian cantatas have alone been considered; but it must not be supposed that this form of composition was confined to Italy. In France it was also a favorite style in the early part of the eighteenth century. Montclair, Campra, Mouret, Batistin, Clerambault, and Rousseau excelled in it. M. Ginguené, in the “Encyclopædia Methodique,” says of these composers and their works:—

[21]

“They have left collections in which may be discovered among all the faults of the age, when Italian music was unknown in France, much art and knowledge of harmony, happy traits of melody, well-worked basses, and above all recitatives in which the accent of declamation and the character of the language are strictly observed.”

In Germany, however, the cantata at this time was approximating to its present form. Koch, a celebrated musical scholar of the early part of the present century, says:—

“The cantata is a lyrical poem set to music in different, alternating compositions, and sung with the accompaniment of instrumental music. The various melodies of which the whole is composed are the aria, with its subordinate species, the recitative or accompaniment, and the arioso, frequently also intermixed with choruses.”

Heydenreich, another writer of the same period, says:—

“The cantata is always lyrical. Its distinctive character lies in the aptitude of the passions and feelings which it contains to be rendered by music. The cantata ought to be a harmonious whole of ideas poetically expressed, concurring to paint a main passion or feeling, susceptible of various kinds and degrees of musical expression. It sometimes may have the character of the hymn or ode, sometimes that of the elegy, or of a mixture of these, in which, however, one particular emotion must predominate.”

The church cantata, according to Du Cange, dates back to 1314; but subsequent writers have shown [22] that the term prior to the seventeenth century was used indiscriminately and without reference to any well-defined style of vocal music, and that as applied to church compositions it meant the anthem such as we now have, although not as elaborate. The noblest examples of the sacred cantata are those by Sebastian Bach, three hundred and eighty in all, over a hundred of which have been published under the auspices of the Bach-Gesellschaft. They are written in from four to seven movements for four voices and full orchestra, usually opening with chorus and closing with a chorale, the intermediate movements being in the form of recitatives, arias, and duets. The text of these cantatas is either a literal transcription of the Gospel or of portions of it. In the latter case the Gospel of the Sunday for which the cantata was written is introduced entire in the body of the work as the nucleus around which the great composer grouped the remaining parts. For instance, the cantata for Sexagesima Sunday turns upon the parable of the sower, and this being the Gospel for the day is made its central point. In like manner the cantata for the fourteenth Sunday after Trinity has for its subject the story of the ten lepers, which is introduced in recitative form in the middle of the work. The astonishing industry of Bach is shown by the fact that for nearly five years he produced a new cantata for each Sunday, in addition to his numerous fugues, chorales, motets, magnificats, masses, sanctuses, glorias, and other church music. The artistic sincerity and true genius of the old master [23] also reveal themselves in the skill with which he finished these works for the congregation of St. Thomas,—few of whom, it is to be feared, had any conception of their real merit,—and in the untiring regularity with which he produced them, unrewarded by the world’s applause, and little dreaming that long years after he had passed away they would be brought to light again, be published to the world, and command its admiration and astonishment on account of their beauty and scholarship.^[5] Before passing to the consideration of the cantata in its present form, the following abridged description of those written by Bach, taken from Bitter’s Life of the composer, will be of interest:—

“The directors who preceded Bach at Leipsic used to choose the cantatas or motets to be sung in the churches quite arbitrarily, without any regard to their connection with the rest of the service. But Bach felt that unless these elaborate pieces of music were really made a means of edification, they were mere intellectual pastimes suitable for a concert, but an interruption to divine worship; and he thought that they could best edify the congregation if their subjects were the themes to which attention was specially directed in the service and sermon of the day. He therefore made it a rule to ascertain from the clergymen of the four [24] churches the texts of the sermons for the following Sunday, and to choose cantatas on the same or corresponding texts. As most of the clergy were in the habit of preaching on the Gospel of the day, the service thus became a harmonious whole, and the attention of the congregation was not divided between a variety of subjects. The clergyman of highest standing at Leipsic, Superintendent Deyling, a preacher of great eloquence and theological learning, co-operated heartily with Bach in this scheme. A series of cantatas for every Sunday and festival for five years—about three hundred and eighty in all—was composed by Bach, chiefly during the first years of his stay at Leipsic. Unfortunately many of these are lost; but one hundred and eighty-six for particular days, and thirty-two without any days specified, still remain. Their music is so completely in character with the subject of the words as to form a perfect exposition of the text. In some the orchestral introductions and accompaniments are made illustrative of the scene of the text; as for instance in one on Christ’s appearing to His disciples in the evening after His resurrection, the introduction is of a soft, calming character, representing the peacefulness of evening and of the whole scene. Another, on the text ‘Like as the rain and snow fall from heaven,’ is introduced by a symphony in which the sound of gently-falling rain is imitated. In others the instrumental parts and some of the voices express the feelings excited by meditation on the words. Sometimes, in the midst of a chorus in which the words of the text are repeated, and, as it were, commented on, a single voice, with the accompaniment of a few instruments, breaks off into some well-known hymn in a similar strain of thought or feeling.”

[25]

Handel in his younger days wrote many cantatas for the church, though they are now but little known. The entire list numbers one hundred and fifty. On his return from England to his post of chapel-master at Hanover in 1711 he composed twelve, known as the Hanover cantatas, for the Princess Caroline, the words written by the Abbé Hortentio Mauro, to which no objection was offered by Handel’s master and patron, notwithstanding he was a Lutheran prince. Several written in England are still preserved in the royal collections. On Holy Week of the year 1704, the same week in which Reinhardt Kaiser brought out his famous Passion oratorio, “The Bleeding and Dying Jesus,” Handel’s Passion cantata was first produced. Kaiser’s work had been denounced as secular by the pastors, because it did not contain the words of Holy Scripture. Handel’s was founded on the nineteenth chapter of St. John, and thus escaped the pulpit denunciation. This cantata is sometimes called the First Passion Oratorio, the second having been written at Hamburg in 1716.^[6] In 1707 Handel was in Florence, where he wrote several cantatas, and thence went to Rome, where he produced some church music in the same form, notably the “Dixit [26] Dominus,” for five voices and orchestra; “Nisi Dominus,” also for five voices; and “Laudate pueri,” for solos and full orchestral accompaniment. The famous anthems written for the private chapel of James Brydges, Duke of Chandos, familiarly known as the Chandos Anthems, are in reality cantatas, as each one is preceded by an overture and in its structural form comprises solos, choruses, and instrumentation for full band and choir. It is also noteworthy that it was during Handel’s residence at the Duke’s palace at Cannons that he wrote his first English oratorio, the legitimate successor of the Chandos Anthems, and the precursor of the great works destined to immortalize his name.

The cantatas left by Haydn are mainly secular in character; but it may well be imagined that during the days of his early married life, when his fanatical and termagant spouse was forcing him to write so much music for the priests and monks whom she entertained so sumptuously below-stairs while he was laboring above, more than one cantata must have come from his pen, which would have been preserved had he not reluctantly parted company with them to pacify his wife.

The term “cantata,” as it is now used, is very elastic, and covers a range of compositions which are too large to be considered as dramatic arias or ballads,—though ballads are sometimes written for various voices and orchestra,—and too small to be called operas or oratorios. It can best be defined, perhaps, as a lyric narrative, sacred, didactic, or [27] dramatic in character, set to music for the concert stage only, being without dramatis personæ in the theatrical acceptation of those words. Its general form is that of the oratorio, being for solo voices, usually the quartet, full chorus, and orchestra, though its shortness as compared with the oratorio adapts it to performance by a small chorus, and sometimes with only piano accompaniment. Among the most perfect forms of the modern cantatas are such works as Mendelssohn’s “Walpurgis Night,” Sterndale Bennett’s “May Queen,” Max Bruch’s “Odysseus” and “Frithjof’s Saga,” Cowen’s “Sleeping Beauty,” Gade’s “Comala,” Hiller’s “Song of Victory,” Romberg’s somewhat antiquated “Song of the Bell,” Sullivan’s “Golden Legend,” Randegger’s “Fridolin,” and Dudley Buck’s “Don Munio” and “Light of Asia.” But besides such as these there are numerous other works, not usually classed as cantatas, which clearly belong to the same musical family; such as Berlioz’s “Damnation of Faust,” Brahms’s “Triumphlied,” Mendelssohn’s settings of various Psalms, Handel’s “Acis and Galatea” and “Alexander’s Feast,” Hofmann’s “Melusina,” Liszt’s “Prometheus,” Rheinberger’s “Toggenberg,” Schubert’s “Song of Miriam,” Schumann’s ballads and “Advent Hymn,” and Weber’s “Kampf und Sieg.” These and others of the same kin are drawn upon as illustrations and for analysis in the pages which follow.

Considering the possibilities of the cantata, its adaptability to every form of narrative, and the [28] musical inducements it holds out, particularly in these days, when a new opera or oratorio must be of extraordinary merit to suit the public, it is somewhat remarkable that no more of them are written. Mr. Charles Barnard has made this point very aptly and forcibly in a short article printed in the “Century” for January, 1886, in which he urges the cantata form of composition upon our writers, and makes many excellent suggestions.^[7] It is certainly an inviting field, especially to American composers, among whom but three or four have as yet produced works of this kind possessing real merit.

[29]

BACH.

Johann Sebastian Bach, the most eminent of the world’s organ-players and contrapuntists, was born at Eisenach, March 21, 1685, and was the most illustrious member of a long line of musicians, the Bach family having been famous almost from time immemorial for its skill in music. He first studied the piano with his brother, Johann Christoph, and the organ with Reinecke in Hamburg, and Buxtehude in Lübeck. In 1703 he was court musician in Weimar, and afterwards was engaged as organist in Arnstadt and Mühlhausen. In 1708 he was court organist, and in 1714 concert-master in Weimar. In 1718 he was chapel-master to the Prince von Köthen, and in 1723 was appointed music-director and cantor at the St. Thomas School in Leipsic,—a position which he held during the remainder of his life. He has left for the admiration of posterity an almost endless list of vocal and instrumental works, including cantatas, chorales, motets, magnificats, masses, fugues, sonatas, and [30] fantasies, the “Christmas Oratorio,” and several settings of the Passion, of which the most famous are the “St. John” and “St. Matthew,” the latter of which Mendelssohn re-introduced to the world in 1829, after it had slumbered an entire century. His most famous instrumental work is the “Well-tempered Clavichord,”—a collection of forty-eight fugues and preludes, which was written for his second wife, Anna Magdalena Bach, to whom he also dedicated a large number of piano pieces and songs. His first wife was his cousin, Maria Barbara Bach, the youngest daughter of Johann Michael Bach, a composer of no common ability. By these two wives he had twenty-one children, of whom the most celebrated were Carl Phillipp Emanuel, born in 1714, known as the “Berlin Bach;” Johann Christoph Friedrich, born in 1732, the “Bücheburger Bach;” and Johann Christian, born in 1735, who became famous as the “London Bach.” Large as the family was, it is now extinct. Bach was industrious, simple, honest, and God-fearing, like all his family. He was an incessant and laborious writer from necessity, as his compensation was hardly sufficient to maintain his large family, and nearly all his music was prepared for the service of the church by contract. The prominent characteristics of his work are profound knowledge, the clearest statements of form, strength of logical sequences, imposing breadth, and deep religious sentiment. The latter quality was the outcome of his intense religious nature. Upon everyone of his principal [31] compositions he inscribed “S. D. G.,” “to the glory of God alone.” He died July 28, 1750, and was buried at Leipsic; but no cross or stone marks the spot where he lies. His last composition was the beautiful chorale, “Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen sein,” freely translated, “When my last hour is close at hand,” as it was written in his last illness. The only record of his death is contained in the official register: “A man, aged sixty-seven, M. Johann Sebastian Bach, musical director and singing-master at the St. Thomas School, was carried to his grave in the hearse, July 30, 1750.”

Ich hatte viel Bekümmerniss.

The cantata with the above title, best known in English as “My Heart was full of Heaviness,” was the first sacred piece in this form which Bach wrote. Its date is 1714, in which year he was living at Weimar, and its composition grew out of a difficulty which he had with the elders of the Liebfrauenkirche at Halle, touching his application for the position of organist. It occasioned him great sorrow, and it was while in this sad plight that he wrote the cantata. It was composed for the third Sunday after Trinity, June 17, and consists of eleven numbers,—an instrumental prelude, four choruses, three arias, a duet, and two recitatives.

The prelude, which is brief and quiet in character, introduces the opening chorus (“Deep within my Heart was Sorrowing and great Affliction”), which [32] in turn leads to the first aria (“Sighing, Mourning, Sorrow, Tears waste away my troubled Heart”), a tender and beautiful number for soprano, with oboe and string accompaniment. It is followed by the tenor recitative and aria, “Why hast Thou, O my God, in my sore Need so turned Thy Face from me?” in which the feeling of sorrow is intensified in utterance. The chorus, “Why, my Soul, art thou vexed?” a very pathetic number, closes the mournful but beautiful first part of the cantata.

The second part is more tranquil and hopeful. It opens with a duet for soprano and bass, the two parts representing the soul and Christ, and sustaining a most expressive dialogue, leading up to a richly harmonized chorus (“O my Soul, be content and be thou peaceful”) in which a chorale is introduced with consummate skill. A graceful tenor aria with a delightful and smoothly flowing accompaniment (“Rejoice, O my Soul, change Weeping to Smiling”) follows and leads to the final number, which is based on the same subject as that of the “Hallelujah” in Handel’s “Messiah.” All the voices give out the words, “The Lamb that for us is slain, to Him will we render Power and Glory,” with majestic effect; after which the solo bass utters the theme, “Power and Glory and Praise be unto Him forevermore,” introducing the “Hallelujah,” which closes the work in a burst of tremendous power, by voices and instruments.

[33]

Gottes Zeit.

During the first half of the period in which Bach resided at Weimar, occupying the position of court and chamber musician to Duke Wilhelm Ernst, he wrote three cantatas in the old church form which are notable as being the last he composed before adopting the newer style, and as the most perfect of that kind extant. The first of these, “Nach dir, Herr, verlanget mich,” is based upon the first two verses of the Twenty-fifth Psalm. The second, “Aus der Tiefe rufe ich,” includes the whole of the One hundred and thirtieth Psalm and two verses of the hymn “Herr Jesu Christ, du höchstes Gut.” The third and most famous of the trio, “Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit” (“God’s time is the best of all”), is generally known as the “Actus Tragicus,” and sometimes as the “Mourning Cantata.” Of its origin Spitta says:—

“Judging by its contents it was designed for the mourning for some man, probably of advanced age, to whom the song of Simeon could be suitably applied. No such death took place in the ducal house at this time, for Prince Johann Ernst died when a youth, and also when Bach’s style of composition had reached a different stage. Possibly the cantata has reference to Magister Philipp Grossgebauer, the rector of the Weimar school before its reorganization, who died in 1711; at least, I can find no other suitable occasion. The contrast between the spirit of the Old and New Testaments,—between the wrath of an avenging God [34] and the atoning love of Christ,—which had already appeared in the One hundred and thirtieth Psalm, is the germ and root of this cantata to such a degree that it is evident that Bach had fully realized by this time how fertile a subject for treatment it was. It contains no chorus of such depth and force as those of the One hundred and thirtieth Psalm. Its character is much more entirely individual and personal, and so it has a depth and intensity of expression which reach the extreme limits of possibility of representation by music. The arrangement of the poetic material is most excellent; it does not wholly consist of Scripture texts and verses of hymns; and in several fit and expressive thoughts, which are freely interspersed, we can almost recognize Bach’s own hand. If such be the case, the whole arrangement of the poetry may with reason be ascribed to him.”

The introduction to the work is a quiet, tender movement in sonata form, written for two flutes, two viol-da-gambas and figured bass, which gives out some of the themes in the middle of the cantata. The opening chorus (“God’s own Time is the best, ever best of all. In Him we live, move, and have our Being, as long as He wills. And in Him we die at His good Time”) is very descriptive in character, opening with a slow and solemn movement, then passing to a quick fugue, and closing with phrases of mournful beauty to suit the last sentence of the text. A tenor solo follows, set to the words, “O Lord, incline us to consider that our Days are numbered; make us apply our Hearts unto Wisdom,” and accompanied by the flutes, leading [35] into a mournful aria for the bass, which forms the second part of the tenor solo (“Set in order thine House, for thou shalt die and not live”). The choir resumes with a new theme (“It is the old Decree, Man, thou art mortal”), in which the lower voices carry a double fugue, the soprano sings alone (“Yea, come, Lord Jesus”), and the instruments have the melody of the old hymn:—

Of this effective movement and its successor Spitta says:—

“The design is clear. The curse of death has been changed into blessing by the coming of Christ, and that which mankind dreaded before, they now stretch out entreating hands to; the bliss of the new condition of things shines out in supernatural glory against the dark background of a dispensation that has been done away. This is the idea of the concerted vocal parts; and the fact that thousands upon thousands have agreed in the joy of this faith is shown by the chorale tune now introduced; for to the understanding listener its worldless sounds convey the whole import of the hymn which speaks so sweetly of comfort in the hour of death, sounds which must recall to every pious heart all the feelings they had stirred when, among the chances and changes of life, this hymn had been heard,—feelings of sympathy with another’s grief or of balm to the heart’s own anxiety.”

[36]

The alto voice follows with the words spoken on the cross (“Into Thy Hands my Spirit I commend”), to which the bass replies in an arioso (“Thou shalt be with Me to-day in Paradise”). The next number is a chorale (“In Joy and Peace I pass away whenever God willeth”) sung by the alto, the bass continuing its solo at the same time through a portion of the chorale. The final chorus is the so-called fifth Gloria:—

The “Actus Tragicus” was one of the youthful compositions of Bach, but it has always attracted the notice of the best musical critics. It was a great favorite with Mendelssohn. Spitta says:—

“It is a work of art well rounded off and firm in its formation, and warmed by the deepest intensity of feeling even in the smallest details.”

Hauptmann writes to Jahn:—

“Yesterday, at the Euterpe concert, Bach’s ‘Gottes Zeit’ was given. What a marvellous intensity pervades it, without a bar of conventionality! Of the cantatas known to me, I know none in which such design and regard are had to the musical import and its expression.”

[37]

Festa Ascensionis Christi.

The cantata beginning with the words, “Wer da glaubet und getauft wird” (“Whoso believeth and is baptized”), commonly known as the Ascension cantata, was written for four voices, with accompaniment of two oboes, two violins, viola, and “continuo,”—the latter word implying a bass part, the harmonies indicated by figures from which the organist built up his own accompaniment. The original score has been lost; but it has been reconstructed from the parts, which are preserved in the Royal Library at Berlin.

The cantata is in five numbers. A short prelude of a quiet and cheerful character introduces the stately opening chorus (“Who believeth and obeyeth will be blest forever”). Another brief prelude prepares the way for the brilliant tenor aria (“Of Love, Faith is the Pledge and Token”), which leads up to the chorale, “Lord God, my Father, holy One,” based upon the old chorale, “Wie schön leucht uns der Morgenstern” (“How brightly shines the Morning Star”), which has always been a favorite in the church service, and which more than one composer has chosen for the embellishment of his themes. The chorale is not employed in its original form, but is elaborated with all the contrapuntal skill for which Bach was so famous. The next number is a short recitative for the bass voice (“Ye Mortals, hear, all ye who [38] would behold the Face of God”), and leads to a stately bass aria (“Through Faith the Soul has Eagle’s Pinions”). The cantata closes, after the customary manner of Bach, with a strong, earnest chorale (“Oh, give me Faith, my Father!”), in plain, solid harmony, for the use of the congregation, thus forming an effective devotional climax to the work.

Ein’ Feste Burg.

There is now but little question that Martin Luther not only wrote the words but the music of the grand old hymn, the first and third stanzas of which, taken from Carlyle’s free and rugged [39] translation, are given above. Sleidan, a contemporary historian, indeed says that “Luther made a tune for it singularly suited to the words and adapted to stir the heart.” The date of its composition is a matter of controversy; but it is clear that it must have been either in 1529 or 1530, and most writers agree that it was just before the Diet at Augsburg, where it was sung. Niederer, in a work published at Nuremberg, 1759, fixes the date as 1530, and finds it in Preussen’s psalm-book, printed in 1537. Winterfeld observes it for the first time in the “Gesangbuch” of the composer Walther, a friend of Luther. Its usual title is, “Der XLVI. Psalm: Deus noster Refugium et virtus, pp. D., Martin Luther.” It matters little, however, the exact year in which the sturdy old Reformer wrote the hymn which has stirred the human heart more than any other. It is indissolubly connected with his name, and every line of it is a reflex of his indomitable and God-fearing nature. Heine and Carlyle have paid it noble tributes. The German poet says:—

“The hymn which he composed on his way to Worms,^[8] and which he and his companions chanted as they entered that city, is a regular war-song. The old cathedral trembled when it heard these novel sounds. The very rooks flew from their nests in the towers. That hymn, the Marseillaise of the Reformation, [40] has preserved to this day its potent spell over German hearts.”

Carlyle still more forcibly says:—

“With words he had now learned to make music; it was by deeds of love or heroic valor that he spoke freely. Nevertheless, though in imperfect articulation, the same voice, if we listen well, is to be heard also in his writings, in his poems. The one entitled ‘Ein’ feste Burg,’ universally regarded as the best, jars upon our ears; yet there is something in it like the sound of Alpine avalanches, or the first murmur of earthquakes, in the very vastness of which dissonance a higher unison is revealed to us. Luther wrote this song in times of blackest threatenings, which, however, could in no sense become a time of despair. In these tones, rugged and broken as they are, do we hear the accents of that summoned man, who answered his friends’ warning not to enter Worms, in this wise: ‘Were there as many devils in Worms as these tile roofs, I would on.’”

It was the battle-song of the Reformation, stirring men to valiant deeds; and it did equal service in sustaining and consoling the Reformers in their darkest hours. “Come, Philip, let us sing the Forty-sixth Psalm,” was Luther’s customary greeting to Melanchthon, when the gentler spirit quailed before approaching danger, or success seemed doubtful. In music it has frequently served an important purpose. Not only Bach, but other composers of his time arranged it. Mendelssohn uses it with powerful effect in his Reformation symphony. [41] Nicolai employs it in his Fest overture. Meyerbeer more than once puts it in the mouth of Marcel the Huguenot, when dangers gather about his master, though the Huguenots were not Lutherans but Calvinists; and Wagner introduces it with overwhelming power in his triumphal Kaiser March.

Bitter, in his Life of Bach, says:—

“The bicentenary Reformation Festival was celebrated in October and November, 1717, and at Weimar especially it was, as an old chronicle tells us, a great jubilee. Bach composed his cantata, ‘Ein’ feste Burg,’ for the occasion. In this piece it is clear that he had passed through his first phase of development and reached a higher stage of perfection.”

Winterfeld is inclined to the same belief; but Spitta, in his exhaustive biography of Bach, argues that it must have been written either for the Reformation Festival of 1730, or for the two hundredth anniversary of Protestantism in Saxony, May 17, 1739. The former date would bring its composition a year after the completion of his great Passions music, and four years before his still more famous “Christmas Oratorio,”—a period when he was at the height of his productive power; which favors the argument of Spitta, that in 1717 a chorus like the opening one in the cantata was beyond his capacity.^[9] In the year 1730 Bach wrote three [42] Jubilee cantatas, rearranged from earlier works, and Spitta claims that it was only about this period that he resorted to this practice. Further, he adds that “the Chorale Chorus [the opening number], in its grand proportions and vigorous flow, is the natural and highest outcome of Bach’s progressive development, and he never wrote anything more stupendous.”

The cantata has eight numbers, three choruses and five solos. The solo numbers are rearranged from an earlier cantata, “Alles was von Gott geboren” (“All that is of God’s creation”), written for the third Sunday in Lent, March 15, 1716. The opening number is a colossal fugue based upon a variation on the old melody and set to the first verse of the Luther hymn. It is followed by a duet for soprano and bass, including the second verse of the hymn and an interpolated verse by Franck,^[10] who prepared the text. The third and fourth numbers are a bass recitative and soprano aria, the words [43] also by Franck, leading up to the second great chorale chorus set to the words of the third stanza of the hymn,

of which Spitta says:—

“The whole chorus sings the Cantus firmus in unison, while the orchestra plays a whirl of grotesque and wildly leaping figures, through which the chorus makes its way undistracted and never misled, an illustration of the third verse, as grandiose and characteristic as it is possible to conceive.”

The sixth number is a recitative for tenor followed by a duet for alto and tenor (“How blessed then are they who still on God are calling”). The work closes with a repetition of the chorale, set to the last verse of the hymn, sung without accompaniment. The cantata is colossal in its proportions, and is characterized throughout by the stirring spirit and bold vigorous feeling of the Reformation days whose memories it celebrated.

[44]

BALFE.

Michael William Balfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, May 15, 1808. Of all the English opera-composers, his career was the most versatile, as his success, for a time at least, was the most remarkable. At seven years of age he scored a polacca of his own for a band. In his eighth year he appeared as a violinist, and in his tenth was composing ballads. At sixteen he was playing in the Drury Lane orchestra, and about this time began taking lessons in composition. In 1825, aided by the generosity of a patron, he went to Italy, where for three years he studied singing and counterpoint. In his twentieth year he met Rossini, who offered him an engagement as first barytone at the Italian opera in Paris. He made his début with success in 1828, and at the close of his engagement returned to Italy, where he appeared again on the stage. About this time (1829-1830) he began writing Italian operas, and before he left the country had produced three which met with considerable success. In 1835 he returned to England; and it was in this year that his first English opera, [45] “The Siege of Rochelle,” was brought out. It was played continuously at Drury Lane for over three months. In 1835 appeared his “Maid of Artois;” in 1837, “Catharine Grey” and “Joan of Arc;” and in 1838, “Falstaff.” During these years he was still singing in concerts and opera, and in 1840 undertook the management of the Lyceum. His finest works were produced after this date,—“The Bohemian Girl,” in 1843; “The Enchantress,” in 1844; “The Rose of Castile,” “La Zingara,” and “Satanella,” in 1858; and “The Puritan’s Daughter” in 1861. His last opera was “The Knight of the Leopard,” known in Italian as “Il Talismano,” which has also been performed in English as “The Talisman.” He married Mademoiselle Rosen, a German singer, whom he met in Italy in 1835. His daughter Victoire, who subsequently married Sir John Crampton, and afterwards the Duc de Frias, also appeared as a singer in 1856. Balfe died Oct. 20, 1870, upon his own estate in Hertfordshire.

Mazeppa.

The cantata of “Mazeppa,” the words written by Jessica Rankin, was one of the last productions of Balfe, having been produced in 1862, a year after “The Puritan’s Daughter,” and several years after he had passed his musical prime. The text is based upon the familiar story as told by Byron in his poem [46] of the wild ride of the page of King Casimir, “The Ukraine’s hetman, calm and bold,” and of the

The main incidents in the story—the guilty love of the page Mazeppa for the Count Palatine’s Theresa, his surprise and seizure by the spies, her mysterious fate, the wild flight of the steed with his wretched load through forest and over desert, and the final rescue by the Cossack maid—are preserved, but liberties of every description are taken in the recital of the narrative. It is but a feeble transcript of Byron’s glowing verse, and in its diluted form is but a vulgar story of ordinary love, jealousy, and revenge.

The cantata comprises twelve numbers. The first is a prelude in triplets intended to picture the gallop of the steed, a common enough device since the days when Virgil did it much better without the aid of musical notation, in his well-known line,—

It leads to a stirring chorus which is followed by still another, based upon a very pleasant melody. The third number is a solo for barytone, in which the Count gives expression to his jealousy, which brings us to the heroine, who makes her appearance in a florid number. The next is a duet for Theresa and [47] Mazeppa, followed by a solo for the tenor (Mazeppa) which is very effective. The chorus then re-enter and indicate the madness of the Count in words, the following sample of which will show their unsingableness:—

The eighth number is another duet for the Countess and Mazeppa in the conventional Italian style. It is followed by a graceful aria for tenor, which leads up to the best number in the work, a trio in canon form. A final aria by the Count leads to the last chorus, in which the repetition of the triplet gallop forebodes the ride into the desert and the punishment of the page. As might be inferred from the description, the cantata is like Hamlet with Hamlet left out. There is very little of Mazeppa and his Tartar steed in the work, but very much of the jealousy and revenge which lead up to the penalty.

[48]

BEETHOVEN.

Ludwig von Beethoven was born Dec. 16, 1770, at Bonn, Germany. His father was a court-singer in the Chapel of the Elector of Cologne. The great composer studied in Vienna with Haydn, with whom he did not always agree, however, and afterwards with Albrechtsberger. His first symphony appeared in 1801,—his earlier symphonies, in what is called his first period, being written in the Mozart style. His only opera, “Fidelio,” for which he wrote four overtures, was first brought out in Vienna, in 1805; his oratorio, “Christ on the Mount of Olives,” in 1812; and his colossal Ninth Symphony, with its choral setting of Schiller’s “Ode to Joy,” in 1824. In addition to his symphonies, his opera, oratorios, and masses, and the immortal series of piano sonatas, which were almost revelations in music, he developed chamber music to an extent far beyond that reached by his predecessors, Mozart and Haydn. His symphonies exhibit surprising power, a marvellous comprehension of the deeper feelings in life, and the influences of nature, both [49] human and physical. He wrote with the deepest earnestness, alike in the passion and the repose of his music, and he invested it also with a genial humor as well as with the highest expression of pathos. His works are epic in style. He was the great tone-poet of music. His subjects were always lofty and dignified, and to their treatment he brought not only a profound knowledge of musical technicality, but intense sympathy with the innermost feelings of human nature, for he was a humanitarian in the broadest sense. By the common consent of the musical world he stands at the head of all composers since his time, and has always been their guide and inspiration. He died March 26, 1827, in the midst of a raging thunder-storm,—one of his latest utterances being a recognition of the “divine spark” in Schubert’s music.

The Ruins of Athens.

The most important compositions by Beethoven in 1811 were the music to two dramatic works written by the poet Kotzebue to celebrate the opening of the new theatre at Pesth, Hungary. One of these was a prologue in one act with overture and choruses, entitled “König Stephan,^[11] Ungarn’s erster Wohlthäter” (“King Stephen, Hungary’s first Benefactor”); the other, an allegorical [50] sketch, called “The Ruins of Athens,” the subject of which is thus concisely stated by Macfarren:—

“Minerva has been since the golden age of Grecian art, the glorious epoch of Grecian liberty, for some or other important offence against the Olympian tribunal, the particulars of which I am unable to furnish, fettered with chains of heaven-wrought adamant by the omnipotent thunderer within a rock impenetrable alike to the aspirations of man and to the intelligence of the goddess, a rock through which neither his spirit of inquiry could approach, nor her wisdom diffuse itself upon the world. The period of vengeance is past; Jove relents, and the captive deity is enfranchised. The first steps of her freedom naturally lead Minerva to the scene of her ancient greatness. She finds Athens, her Athens, her especially beloved and most carefully cherished city, in ruins, the descendants of her fostered people enslaved to a barbarous and fanatic race; the trophies of her former splendor, the wrecks of that art which is the example and the regret of all time, appropriated to the most degrading purposes of vulgar householdry; and the frenzied worshippers of a faith that knows not the divine presence in its most marvellous manifestation, the intellect of man. Here is no longer the home of wisdom and the arts; so the liberated goddess proceeds to Pesth, where she establishes anew her temple in the new theatre, and presides over a triumphal procession in honor of the Emperor, its patron, under whose auspices the golden age is to prevail again.”

After the opening performances the music to “King Stephen” was laid aside until 1841, when [51] it was given in Vienna; but the after-piece, “The Ruins of Athens,” was presented again during Beethoven’s lifetime upon the occasion of the opening of a theatre in that city. The new text, which was prepared for it by Carl Meisl, was entitled “Die Weihe des Hauses” (“The Dedication of the House”), and Beethoven wrote for it the overture which is now so famous, solos for soprano and violin, and a final chorus with dances.

The music to the “Ruins of Athens” comprises eight numbers. The overture is very light and unpretentious, and by many critics, among them Ferdinand Ries, Beethoven’s pupil, has been deemed unworthy of the composer. Thayer says:—

“When the overture was first played at Leipsic, people could hardly trust their ears, could hardly believe it to be the work of the author of the symphonies, of the overtures to ‘Coriolan,’ ‘Egmont,’ and ‘Leonore’ (Fidelio).”

The opening number is a chorus (“Daughter of mighty Jove, awake!”), which is followed by a beautiful duet (“Faultless, yet hated”), voicing the lament of two Greek slaves for the destruction of their temples and the degradation of their land. The duet is very pathetic in character, and the melody, carried by the two voices, leaves an impression of sadness which cannot be resisted. The third number is the well-known chorus of Dervishes sung in unison by tenors and basses, thus forming a kind of [52] choral chant. The melody is a weird one, and full of local color, but its powerful effect is gained by the manner of treatment. It begins pianissimo and is gradually worked to the extreme pitch of true Dervish delirium, culminating in the exclamation, “Great Prophet, hail!” and then gradually subsiding until it dies away, apparently from the exhaustion of such fervor. It is followed by the familiar Turkish march, founded on the theme of the Variations in D, op. 76, very simple in construction, Oriental in its character throughout, and peculiarly picturesque in effect. After an instrumental movement behind the scenes, a triumphal march and chorus (“Twine ye a Garland”) is introduced. The seventh number is a recitative and aria by the high priest with chorus, which lead to a beautifully melodious chorus (“Susceptible Hearts”). An adagio aria for bass (“Deign, great Apollo”) and a vigorous chorus (“Hail, our King”) bring the work to a close. The piece was first brought out in England by Mendelssohn in 1844 at one of the Philharmonic Society’s concerts; and ten or twelve years later an English version of it was performed at the Prince’s Theatre, when the Royal Exchange and statue of Wellington were substituted for the Pesth Theatre, and Shakspeare took the place of the Emperor of Austria, concerning the good taste of which Macfarren pithily says:—

“Modifications admirably adapted to the commercial character and the blind vainglory that so eminently mark the British nation.”

[53]

The Glorious Moment.

In September, 1814, the same year in which the Allies entered Paris, the Vienna Congress met to adjust the relations of the various European States. It was an occasion of great moment in the ancient city,—this gathering of sovereigns and distinguished statesmen,—and the magistracy prepared themselves to celebrate it with befitting pomp and ceremony. Beethoven was requested to set a poem, written by Dr. Aloys Weissenbach, of Salzburg, in cantata form, which was to be sung as a greeting to the royal visitors. It was “Der glorreiche Augenblick,” sometimes written “Der heilige Augenblick” (“The Glorious Moment”). The time for its composition was very brief, and was made still shorter by the quarrels the composer had with the poet in trying to reduce the barbarous text to a more inspiring and musical form. He began the composition in September, and it was first performed on the 29th of the following November, together with the “Battle of Vittoria,” and the A major (Seventh) symphony, written in the previous year. The concert took place in the presence of the sovereigns and an immense audience which received his works with every demonstration of enthusiasm, particularly “The Glorious Moment,”—a moment which all hailed as the precursor of a happier epoch for Europe, soon to be freed from Napoleonic oppression. The occasion was one of [54] great benefit to the composer at a time when he was sorely in need of assistance. The distinguished foreign visitors thronged the salon of the Archduke Rudolph to pay him homage. Handsome gifts were lavished upon him so that he was enabled to make a permanent investment of 20,000 marks in shares of the bank of Austria. Brilliant entertainments were given by the Russian ambassador, Prince Rasoumowsky,^[12] in his palace, at one of which Beethoven was presented to the sovereigns. The Empress of Russia also gave him a reception and made him magnificent presents. Schindler says:

“Not without feeling did the great master afterwards recall those days in the Imperial Palace and that of the Russian Prince; and once with a certain pride remarked that he had allowed the crowned heads to pay court to him, and that he had carried himself thereby proudly.”

The stern old republican, however, who could rebuke Goethe for taking off his hat in the presence of royalty, spoke such sentiments jocosely. He expresses his real feelings in a letter written to the attorney, Herr J. Kauka, of Prague:—

“I write nothing about our monarchs and monarchies, for the newspapers give you every information on these subjects. The intellectual realm is the most precious in my eyes, and far above all temporal and spiritual monarchies.”

[55]

The cantata itself, while not one of the most meritorious of the composer’s works, for reasons which are sufficiently apparent, still is very effective in its choruses. The detailed parts do not need special description; they are six in number, as follows: No. 1, chorus (“Europa steht”); No. 2, recitative and chorus (“O, seht sie nah und näher treten”); No. 3, grand scena, soprano, with violin obligato and chorus (“O Himmel, welch’ Entzücken”); No. 4, soprano solo and chorus (“Das Auge schaut”); No. 5, recitative and quartet for two sopranos, tenor, and bass (“Der den Bund im Sturme festgehalten”); No. 6, chorus and fugue (“Es treten hervor die Scharen der Frauen”), closing with a stirring “Heil und Gluck” to Vindobona, the ancient name of the city. In 1836, nine years after the composer’s death, the cantata appeared with a new poetical setting by Friedrich Rochlitz, under the title of “Preis der Tonkunst” (“Praise of Music”), in which form it was better adapted for general performance.

Among other compositions of Beethoven which assimilate to the cantata form, are Op. 112, “Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt,” for four voices, with orchestra accompaniment; Op. 121, “Opferlied,” for soprano solo, with chorus and orchestra accompaniment; and Op. 122, “Bundeslied,” for two solo voices, three-part chorus, and accompaniment of two clarinets, two bassoons, and two horns.

[56]

BENEDICT.

Sir Julius Benedict, whose name is so intimately connected with music in England, was born at Stuttgart, Nov. 27, 1804. After a short period of study with Hummel at Weimar he became a pupil of Weber. He progressed so rapidly that at the age of nineteen he conducted operatic performances in Vienna, and a few years afterwards was leader at the San Carlo in Naples, where he produced his first opera, “Giacinta ed Ernesto.” In 1835 he went to Paris and thence to London, where he remained until his death. In 1836 he led the orchestra at the Lyceum Theatre, and was also conductor at Drury Lane during the memorable seasons in which the best of Balfe’s operas were brought out. It was during this period also that he produced two of his own operas,—“The Brides of Venice” and “The Crusaders,” which are ranked among his best works of this class. In 1850 he accompanied Jenny Lind on her memorable tour through this country. On his return to England he was engaged as conductor at Her Majesty’s Theatre, and afterwards at Drury Lane. [57] In 1860 he produced the cantata of “Undine;” in 1862 the opera “Lily of Killarney;” in 1863 the cantata “Richard Cœur de Leon;” in 1864 the operetta “Bride of Song;” in 1866 the cantata “St. Cecilia;” and in 1870 the oratorio “St. Peter.” In 1871 he received the honor of knighthood, and in 1873 brought out a symphony which met with great success. In 1874, the occasion of his seventieth birthday, he was made Knight Commander of the orders of Francis and Joseph and of Frederic, Austrian and Wurtembergian decorations. Nearly every sovereign in Europe had thus honored him. He was also conductor of the London Monday Popular Concerts for many years, and directed many chamber concerts. He died full of honors in June, 1885.

St. Cecilia.

The legend of St. Cecilia for two centuries has inspired the poet and composer, and the custom of celebrating her festival has obtained in nearly all European countries during the same period. The earliest observance was at Evreux, France, in 1571. The first celebration in England of which any record remains was that of 1683; though it is clear from the accounts of musical writers in the seventeenth century that the custom had been practised many years prior to that date. From 1683 to 1750 St. Cecilia festivals were given annually in London, and for these occasions an ode was written and set to music.^[13] [58] In the latter year the distinctive name of the festival fell into disuse, though large musical festivals were frequently held after that year on the saint’s day. In France regular entertainments were given on St. Cecilia’s Day from 1573 to 1601, when the record terminates. In Italy the anniversary of the saint has not been celebrated except as a church festival. In Germany the custom prevailed as early as the sixteenth century; and in the next century Cecilia festivals were quite common in Spain. Prior to Benedict’s work the most modern composition having the legend for its basis was a cantata by Van Bree, of Amsterdam, written in 1845.

These preliminaries will enable the reader the better to understand the introduction which Mr. Chorley has written to the text of the cantata by Benedict, composed for the Norwich Festival of 1866. Mr. Chorley says:—

“It has long been a favorite fancy of mine to treat the legend of St. Cecilia for music with a view to the possible revival of such celebrations as were held [59] in gone-by years, when English sympathy for the art was more limited in every respect than at the present time. It is true that the names of Dryden and Addison among the poets, and of Handel among the musicians, who have made ‘divine Cecilia’s’ praise immortal, might be thought to deter anyone from dealing with the subject. But theirs were merely votive odes indirectly bearing on the power of the art of which Cecilia is patron saint. This cantata of mine sets forth her story, which, so far as I am aware, has not been done before in any of the works produced for the Cecilian festivals in England. All who are familiar with the accepted legend, as told in the ‘Legenda Aurea’ of Jacobus Januensis, Archbishop of Genoa, will perceive that I have treated it with a certain liberty. Some of the minor incidents—such as the conversion and martyrdom of Tiburtius, the brother of Valerianus—have been omitted with a view of avoiding the introduction of secondary persons, and of concentrating the main interest in the martyr heroine. Further, the catastrophe which (to cite Dryden’s known line in defiance of its original import)

has been simplified. The legend narrates that after the agony of slow fire, which failed to kill the Christian bride, the sword ended her days. A literal adherence to this tradition might have weakened the closing scene by presenting two situations of the same character. Others must judge how far I have been indiscreet, or the reverse, in its omission.”

The story of the cantata is strikingly similar to that which forms the theme of Donizetti’s opera “Il Poliuto,” though the manner of the conversions [60] differs. In the former it is Valerianus, the lover of Cecilia, who is turned from heathenism by the angelic vision. In the latter it is Paulina, the wife of the Roman convert Polyutus, who witnesses the divine illumination and hears the celestial harps, which induce her to abjure the worship of the gods and join her husband in martyrdom. It is in fact the old, old story of the persecutions of a new faith by the old. Cecilia, though married to Valerianus, hears the divine call summoning the bride away from her lover until he shall have been converted. She appeals to Heaven in his behalf. A vision of angels appears to him and their songs win his soul. The infuriated prefect, who has but just performed the rites of their marriage, orders their death,—Valerianus to be beheaded, and Cecilia to die by the slow martyrdom of fire. The tragedy of the former is left to the imagination. Cecilia dies surrounded by the angels and hears their voices:—

The work contains thirteen numbers, and the solos are divided as follows: Cecilia, soprano; Valerianus, tenor; the Prefect of Rome, bass; a Christian woman, contralto. The remaining numbers are assigned to choruses of Roman citizens, Christians, and angels. [61] A tender and sorrowful prelude, foreshadowing the tragedy, introduces a bright and joyous wedding chorus (“Let the Lutes play their loudest”), which in its middle part is divided between male and female choir, returning to four-part harmony in the close. The next number is an ecstatic love-song for Valerianus (“The Love too deep for Words to speak”), which leads up to a scena and duet for Valerianus and Cecilia (“O my Lord, if I must grieve you”), which is very dramatic in its texture. The conversion music, including an obligato soprano solo with chorus of angels (“Praise the Lord”), recitative and air for tenor with choral responses (“Cease not, I pray you”), and an animated chorus of angels (“From our Home”), follows, and closes the first part.

The second part opens with the curse of the prefect, a very passionate aria for bass (“What mean these Zealots vile?”), following which in marked contrast is a lovely aria for contralto (“Father, whose Blessing we entreat”). The next number, a quartet with full choral accompaniment (“God is our Hope and Strength”), is one of the most effective in the work, and is followed by the trial scene, a duet between Valerianus and the prefect, the latter accompanied by chorus. A short funeral march intervenes. Valerianus and Cecilia bid each other farewell; the former is borne away, and Cecilia sings her dying song (“Those whom the Highest One befriends”) amid the triumphant hallelujahs of the angels.

[62]

BENNETT.

William Sterndale Bennett, one of the most gifted and individual of English composers, was born at Sheffield, April 13, 1816. His musical genius displayed itself early, and in his tenth year he was placed in the Royal Academy of Music, of which in his later years he became principal. He received his early instruction in composition from Lucas and Dr. Crotch, and studied the piano with Cipriani Potter, who had been a pupil of Mozart. The first composition which gained him distinction was the Concerto in D minor, written in 1832, which was followed by the Capriccio in D minor. During the next three years he produced the overture to “Parisina,” the F minor Concerto, and the “Naïades” overture, the success of which was so great that a prominent musical house in London offered to send him to Leipsic for a year. He went there, and soon won his way to the friendship of Schumann and Mendelssohn. With the latter he was on very intimate terms, which has led to the erroneous statement that he was his pupil. In 1840 he made a [63] second visit to Leipsic, where he composed his Caprice in E, and the “Wood Nymphs” overture. In 1842 he returned to England, and for several years was busily engaged with chamber concerts. In 1849 he founded the Bach Society, arranged the “Matthew Passion” music of that composer, as well as his “Christmas Oratorio,” and brought out the former work in 1854. The previous year he was offered the distinguished honor of the conductorship of the Gewandhaus concerts at Leipsic, but did not accept. In 1856 he was appointed conductor of the Philharmonic Society, and filled the position for ten years, resigning it to take the head of the Royal Academy of Music. In the same year he was elected musical professor at Cambridge, where he received the degree of Doctor of Music and other honors. In 1858 his beautiful cantata “The May Queen” was produced at the Leeds Festival, and in 1862 the “Paradise and the Peri” overture, written for the Philharmonic Society. In 1867 his oratorio, or, as he modestly terms it, “sacred cantata,” “The Woman of Samaria,” was produced with great success at the Birmingham Festival. In 1870 he was honored with a degree by the University of Oxford, and a year later received the empty distinction of knighthood. His last public appearance was at a festival in Brighton in 1874, where he conducted his “Woman of Samaria.” He died Feb. 1, 1875, and was buried in Westminster Abbey with distinguished honors.

[64]

The May Queen.

“The May Queen,” a pastoral cantata, the libretto by Henry F. Chorley, was first performed at the Leeds Festival of 1858. The solo parts are written for the May Queen (soprano); the Queen (contralto); the Lover (tenor); and the Captain of the Foresters, as Robin Hood (bass). The opening scene pictures the dressing of the tree for the spring festivity on the banks of the Thames, and the preparations for the reception of the May Queen. A despondent lover enters and sings his melancholy plight as he reflects upon the fickleness of the May Queen, interrupted at intervals by the merry shouts of the chorus:—

The lover continues his doleful lamenting, which is at last interrupted by the entrance of the May Queen herself, who chides him for his complaints and argues her right to coquet on such a day. As their interview closes, a band of foresters enter with their greenwood king, Robin Hood, at their head, who after a rollicking hunting-song makes open love to the May Queen. The enraged lover resents [65] his impertinence, and at last strikes him a blow, which by the laws exposes him to the loss of his hand. Before he can make his escape there is a flourish of trumpets, and the Queen enters and demands the reason for the brawl. The revellers inform her that the lover has struck the forester. She orders his arrest, whereupon the May Queen intercedes with her for her lover’s release and declares her affection for him. Her appeal for mercy is granted. The forester is banished from the royal presence for lowering himself to the level of a peasant girl, the May Queen is ordered to wed her lover on the coming morn, and all ends happily with the joyous chorus:—

The music of the cantata is divided into ten numbers, which are characterized by exquisite refinement and artistic taste. The solos, particularly No. 2, for tenor (“O Meadow, clad in early Green”), No. 4, the obligato soprano (“With the Carol in the Tree”), and No. 6, the forester’s lusty greenwood song (“’Tis jolly to hunt in the bright Moonlight”), are very melodious, and well adapted to the individual characters. The concerted music is written in the most scholarly manner, [66] the choruses are full of life and spirit, and the instrumentation is always effective. There are few more beautiful cantatas than “The May Queen,” though the composer was hampered by a dull and not very inspiring libretto. Poor words, however, could not affect his delightful grace and fancy, which manifest themselves in every number of this little pastoral. It is surprising that so excellent a work, and one which is so well adapted to chorus singing and solo display, without making very severe demands upon the singers, is not more frequently given in this country.

The Exhibition Ode.

The music for the opening of the International Exhibition at London, which occurred in May, 1862, was of unusual excellence. Auber sent a composition which, though called a march, was in reality a brilliant overture. Meyerbeer contributed an overture in march form, in which three marches were blended in one, the whole culminating in “Rule Britannia.” Verdi wrote a cantata, which was rejected by the Commissioners because by the side of the national anthem he had introduced the revolutionary Marseillaise and the Italian war-song called “Garibaldienne.” Its rejection not only caused great indignation in the musical world, but at once made it famous; and it was afterwards publicly performed, Mademoiselle Titiens taking the soprano solos, Sir Julius Benedict conducting.

[67]

The prominent feature of the musical programme, however, was the Ode which the poet laureate and Bennett conjointly furnished. Never before were Mr. Tennyson’s verses more completely united with music. The work is divided into three parts, all choral, linked by recitatives. The first number is a hymn to the Deity (“Uplift a thousand Voices full and sweet”), written as a four-part chorale, which is very jubilant in style. The next movement,—

eloquently referring to the Prince Consort, is set in the minor key, and is one of the most pathetic musical passages ever written. Then follows a descriptive catalogue of the industries represented,—“harvest tool and husbandry,” “loom and wheel and engin’ry,” and so on, through which the music labors some, as might have been expected; but in the close it once more resumes its melodious flow, leading up to the final chorus, in which the theme of the opening chorale is borrowed and developed with peculiar originality and artistic skill into a movement of great richness in effects and beauty in expression. It is unfortunate for the popularity of such an excellent work that it was composed for a special occasion.

[68]

BERLIOZ.

Hector Berlioz, one of the most renowned of modern French composers, and an acute critic and skilful conductor as well, was born, Dec. 11, 1803, at La Côte St. André, in France. His father was a physician, and intended him for the same profession. He reluctantly went to Paris and began the study of medicine; but music became his engrossing passion, and medicine was abandoned. He entered the Conservatory as a pupil of Lesueur, and soon showed himself superior to all his masters except Cherubini, which aroused a strong opposition to him and his compositions. It was only after repeated trials that he took the first prize, which entitled him to go to Italy for three years. On his return to Paris he encountered renewed antipathy. His music was not well received, and he was obliged to support himself by conducting at concerts and writing articles for the press. As a final resort he organized a concert-tour through Germany and Russia, the details of which are contained in his extremely interesting Autobiography. At these concerts his own music was the staple of the programmes, [69] and it met with great success, though not always played by the best of orchestras, and not always well by the best, as his own testimony shows; for his compositions are very exacting, and call for every resource known to the modern orchestra. The Germans were quick in appreciating his music; but it was not until after his death that his ability was conceded in France. In 1839 he was appointed librarian of the Conservatory, and in 1856 was made a member of the French Academy. These were the only honors he received, though he long sought to obtain a professorship in the Conservatory. A romantic but sad incident in his life was his violent passion for Miss Smithson, an Irish actress, whom he saw upon the Paris stage in the rôle of Ophelia, at a time when Victor Hugo had revived an admiration for Shakspeare among the French. He married her, but did not live with her long, owing to her bad temper and ungovernable jealousy; though after the separation he honorably contributed to her support out of the pittance he was earning. Among his great works are the opera, “Benvenuto Cellini;” the symphony with chorus, “Romeo and Juliet;” “Beatrice and Benedict;” “Les Troyens,” the text from Virgil’s “Æneid;” the symphony, “Harold in Italy;” the symphony, “Funèbre et Triomphe;” the “Damnation of Faust;” a double-chorused “Te Deum;” the “Symphony Fantastique;” the “Requiem;” and the sacred trilogy, “L’Enfance du Christ.” Berlioz stands among all other composers as the foremost [70] representative of “programme music,” and has left explicit and very detailed explanations of the meaning of his works, so that the hearer may listen intelligently by seeing the external objects his music is intended to picture. In the knowledge of individual instruments and the grouping of them for effect, in warmth of imagination and brilliancy of color, and in his daring combinations and fantastic moods, which are sometimes carried to the very verge of eccentricity, he is a colossus among modern musicians. He died in Paris, March 8, 1869.

Romeo and Juliet.

“Dramatic symphony, with choruses, solos, chant, and prologue in choral recitative” is the title which Berlioz gives to his “Romeo and Juliet.” It was written in 1839, and its composition commemorates an interesting episode in his career. In the previous year he had written his symphony “Harold in Italy,” the subject inspired by Byron’s “Childe Harold.” Paganini, the wonder of the musical world at that time, was present at its performance, and was so pleased with the work that he sent Berlioz an enthusiastic tribute of applause as well as of substantial remembrance.^[14] The composer at that [71] time was in straitened circumstances, and in his gratitude for this timely relief he resolved to write a work which should be worthy of dedication to the great violinist. His Autobiography bears ample testimony to the enthusiasm with which he worked. He says:—

“At last, after much indecision, I hit upon the idea of a symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and choral recitatives, on the sublime and ever novel theme of Shakspeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ I wrote in prose all the text intended for the vocal pieces which came between the instrumental selections. Émile Deschamps, with his usual delightful good-nature and marvellous facility, set it to verse for me, and I began....

“During all that time how ardently did I live! How vigorously I struck out on that grand sea of poetry caressed by the playful breeze of fancy, beneath the hot rays of that sun of love which Shakspeare kindled, always confident of my power to reach the marvellous island where stands the temple of true art! Whether I succeeded or not it is not for me to decide.”

The work opens with a fiery introduction representing the combats and tumults of the two rival houses of Capulet and Montague, and the intervention of the Prince. It is followed by a choral recitative for four altos, tenors, and basses (“Long smouldering Hatreds”), with which is interwoven a contralto solo (“Romeo too is there”), the number closing with a passionate chorus (“The Revels now are o’er”). A beautiful effect is made at this point by assigning to the alto voice two couplets (“Joys [72] of first Love”) which are serious in style but very rich in melody. A brief bit of choral recitative and a few measures for tenor—Mercutio’s raillery—lead up to a dainty scherzetto for tenor solo and small chorus (“Mab! bright Elf of Dreamland”), and a short choral passage brings this scene to a close.

The second scene, which is for orchestra only, an impressive declamatory phrase developing into a tender melody, representing the sadness of Romeo, set in tones against the brilliant dance music in the distance accompanying the revel of the Capulets, is one of the most striking effects Berlioz has accomplished, and illustrates his astonishing command of instrumentation. The third scene represents Capulet’s garden in the stillness of night, the young Capulets passing through it, bidding each other adieu and repeating snatches of the dance music. As their strains die away in the distance the balcony scene between Romeo and Juliet is given by the orchestra alone in a genuine love-poem full of passion and sensuousness. No words could rival the impassioned beauty of this melodious number. The fourth scene is also given to the orchestra, and is a setting of Mercutio’s description of Queen Mab. It is a scherzo intensely swift in its movement and almost ethereal in its dainty, graceful rhythm. The instrumentation is full of subtle effects, particularly in the romantic passages for the horns.

In the fifth scene we pass from the tripping music of the fairies to the notes of woe. It describes [73] the funeral procession of Juliet, beginning with a solemn march in fugue style, at first instrumental, with occasional entrances of the voices in monotone, and then vocal (“O mourn, O mourn, strew choicest Flowers”), the monotone being assigned to the instruments. It preludes a powerful orchestral scene representing Romeo’s invocation, Juliet’s awakening, and the despair and death of the lovers.^[15] The finale is mainly for double chorus, representing the quarrel between the Montagues and Capulets in the cemetery, which is written with great dramatic power and conceived on the large scale of an operatic ensemble both in the voice parts and instrumentation, and the final reconciliation through the intercession of Friar Laurence, whose declamatory solos are very striking, particularly the air, “Poor Children mine, let me mourn you.” The work is one of almost colossal difficulty, and requires great artists, singers and players, to give expression to its daring realism. Among all of Berlioz’s programme-music, this tone-picture of the principal episodes in Shakspeare’s [74] tragedy stands out clear and sharp by virtue of its astonishing dramatic power.

The Damnation of Faust.

The “Damnation of Faust,” dramatic legend, as Berlioz calls it, was written in 1846. It is divided in four parts, the first containing three, the second four, the third six, and the fourth five scenes, the last concluding with an epilogue and the apotheosis of Marguerite. It was first produced in Paris in November, 1846, and had its first hearing in this country Feb. 12, 1880, when the late Dr. Leopold Damrosch brought it out with the assistance of the New York Symphony, Oratorio, and Arion Societies.

Berlioz has left in his Autobiography an extremely interesting account of the manner in which he composed it. Though he had had the plan of the work in his mind for many years, it was not until 1846 that he began the legend. During this year he was travelling on a concert-tour through Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, and Silesia, and the different numbers were written at intervals of leisure. He says:—

“I wrote when I could and where I could; in the coach, on the railroad, in steamboats, and even in towns, notwithstanding the various cares entailed by my concerts.”

He began with Faust’s invocation to Nature, which was finished “in my old German post-chaise.” [75] The introduction was written in an inn at Passau, and at Vienna he finished up the Elbe scene, Mephistopheles’ song, and the exquisite Sylph’s ballet. As to the introduction of the Rákóczy march, his words deserve quoting in this connection, as they throw some light on the general character of the work. He says:—

“I have already mentioned my writing a march at Vienna, in one night, on the Hungarian air of Rákóczy. The extraordinary effect it produced at Pesth made me resolve to introduce it in Faust, by taking the liberty of placing my hero in Hungary at the opening of the act, and making him present at the march of a Hungarian army across the plain. A German critic considered it most extraordinary in me to have made Faust travel in such a place. I do not see why, and I should not have hesitated in the least to bring him in in any other direction if it would have benefited the piece. I had not bound myself to follow Goethe’s plot, and the most eccentric travels may be attributed to such a personage as Faust without transgressing the bounds of possibility. Other German critics took up the same thesis, and attacked me with even greater violence about my modifications of Goethe’s text and plot; just as though there were no other Faust but Goethe’s, and as if it were possible to set the whole of such a poem to music without altering its arrangement. I was stupid enough to answer them in the preface to the ‘Damnation of Faust.’ I have often wondered why I was never reproached about the book of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ which is not very like the immortal tragedy. No doubt because Shakspeare was not a German. Patriotism! Fetichism! Idiotcy!”

[76]

One night when he had lost his way in Pesth he wrote the choral refrain of the “Ronde des Paysans” by the gaslight in a shop; and at Prague he arose in the middle of the night to write down the Angels’ Chorus in Marguerite’s apotheosis. At Breslau he wrote the Students’ Latin Song, “Jam nox stellata velamina pandit;” and on his return to France he composed the grand trio in the work while visiting a friend near Rouen. He concludes:

“The rest was written in Paris, but always improvised, either at my own house, or at the café, or in the Tuileries gardens, and even on a stone in the Boulevard du Temple. I did not search for ideas, I let them come; and they presented themselves in a most unforeseen manner. When at last the whole outline was sketched, I set to work to re-do the whole, touch up the different parts, unite and blend them together with all the patience and determination of which I am capable, and to finish off the instrumentation, which had only been indicated here and there. I look upon this as one of my best works, and hitherto the public seems to be of the same opinion.”

This opinion, however, was of slow growth, for of the first performance of the work he says:—

“It was the end of November, 1846; snow was falling; the weather was dreadful. I had no fashionable cantatrice to sing the part of Marguerite. As for Roger, who did Faust, and Herman Léon, who took the part of Mephistopheles, they might be heard any day in this same theatre; moreover, they were no longer the fashion. The result was that Faust was twice performed to a half-empty room. The concert-going [77] Parisian public, supposed to be fond of music, stayed quietly at home, caring as little about my new work as if I had been an obscure student at the Conservatoire; and these two performances at the Opéra Comique were no better attended than if they had been the most wretched operas on the list.”

The opening scene introduces Faust alone in the fields at sunrise on the Hungarian plains. He gives expression to his delight in a tender, placid strain (“The Winter has departed, Spring is here”). It is followed by an instrumental prelude of a pastoral character, in which are heard fragments of the roundelay of the peasants and of the fanfare in the Hungarian march, leading up to the “Dance of Peasants,” a brisk, vivacious chorus (“The Shepherd donned his best Array”), beginning with the altos, who are finally joined by the sopranos, tenors, and basses in constantly accelerating time. The scene then changes to another part of the plain and discloses the advance of an army to the brilliant and stirring music of the Rákóczy march.^[16]

[78]

The second part (Scene IV.) opens in north Germany and discloses Faust alone in his chamber, as in Gounod’s opera; he sings a soliloquy, setting forth his discontent with worldly happiness, and is about to drown his sorrow with poison, when he is interrupted by the Easter Hymn (“Christ is risen from the Dead”), a stately and jubilant six-part chorus, in the close of which he joins. As it comes to an end he continues his song (“Heavenly Tones, why seek me in the Dust?”), but is again interrupted by the sudden apparition of Mephistopheles, who mockingly sings, “Oh, pious Frame of Mind,” and entraps him in the compact. They disappear, and we next find them in Auerbach’s cellar in Leipsic, where the carousing students are singing a rollicking drinking-song (“O what Delight when Storm is crashing”). The drunken Brander is called upon for a song, and responds with a characteristic one (“There was a Rat in the Cellar Nest”), to which the irreverent students improvise a fugue on the word “Amen,” using a motive of the song. Mephistopheles compliments them on the fugue, and being challenged to give them an air trolls out the lusty lied, “There was a King once reigning, who had a big black Flea,” in the accompaniment of which Berlioz makes some very realistic effects. Amid the bravas of the drunken students they disappear again, and are next found in the flowery meadows of the Elbe, where Mephistopheles sings a most enchanting melody (“In this fair Bower”). Faust is lulled to slumber, and in his vision hears [79] the chorus of the gnomes and sylphs (“Sleep, happy Faust”), a number of extraordinary beauty and fascinating charm. Its effect is still further heightened by the sylphs’ ballet in waltz time. As they gradually disappear, Faust wakes and relates to Mephistopheles his vision of the “angel in human form.” The latter promises to conduct him to her chamber, and they join a party of soldiers and students who will pass “before thy beauty’s dwelling.” The finale of the scene is composed of a stirring soldiers’ chorus (“Stoutly-walled Cities we fain would win”) and a characteristic students’ song in Latin (“Jam nox stellata”), at first sung separately and then combined with great skill.

The third part begins with a brief instrumental prelude, in which the drums and trumpets sound the tattoo, introducing a scene in Marguerite’s chamber, where Faust sings a passionate love-song (“Thou sweet Twilight, be welcome”), corresponding with the well-known “Salve dimora” in Gounod’s garden scene. At its close Mephistopheles warns him of the approach of Marguerite and conceals him behind a curtain. She enters, and in brief recitative tells her dream, in which she has seen the image of Faust, and discloses her love for him. Then while disrobing she sings the ballad “There was a King in Thule.” As its pathetic strains come to a close, the music suddenly changes and Mephistopheles in a characteristic strain summons the will-o’-the-wisps to bewilder the maiden. It is followed by their lovely and graceful minuet, in which Berlioz [80] again displays his wonderful command of orchestral realism. It is followed by Mephistopheles’ serenade (“Why dost thou wait at the Door of thy Lover?”), with a choral accompaniment by the will-o’-the-wisps, interspersed with demoniac laughter. The last number is a trio (“Angel adored”) for Marguerite, Faust, and Mephistopheles, wonderfully expressive in its utterances of passion, and closing with a chorus of mockery which indicates the coming tragedy.

The fourth part opens with a very touching romance (“My Heart with Grief is heavy”), the familiar “Meine Ruh’ ist hin” of Goethe, sung by Marguerite, and the scene closes with the songs of the soldiers and students heard in the distance. In the next scene Faust sings a sombre and powerful invocation to Nature (“O boundless Nature, Spirit sublime”). Mephistopheles is seen scaling the rocks and in agitated recitative tells his companion the story of Marguerite’s crime and imprisonment. He bids him sign a scroll which will save him from the consequences of the deed, and Faust thus delivers himself over to the Evil One. Then begins the wild “Ride to Hell,” past the peasants praying at the cross, who flee in terror as they behold the riders, followed by horrible beasts, monstrous birds, and grinning, dancing skeletons, until at last they disappear in an abyss and are greeted by the chorus of the spirits of hell in a tempest of sound, which is literally a musical pandemonium (“Has! Irimiru Karabras,” etc.) in its discordant vocal strains and in [81] the mighty dissonances and supernatural effects in the accompaniment. A brief epilogue, “On Earth,” follows, in which Faust’s doom is told, succeeded by a correspondingly brief one, “In Heaven,” in which the seraphim plead for Marguerite. The legend closes with “Marguerite’s Glorification,” a jubilant double chorus announcing her pardon and acceptance among the blest.

[82]

BRAHMS.

Johannes Brahms, one of the most eminent of living German composers, was born at Hamburg, May 7, 1833. His father was a double-bass player in the orchestra in that city, and devoted his son at a very early age to his own profession. His first piano teacher was Cossell; but to Edward Marxsen, the royal music director, he owes his real success as a composer. Brahms remained in Hamburg until 1853, when he went upon a concert-tour with Reményí, the eccentric and somewhat sensational Hungarian, who has been a familiar figure upon the American concert-stage. He remained with him however but a very short time, for in October of that year they parted company. Brahms had attracted the notice of Liszt and Joachim, and it may have been through their advice that the musical partnership was dissolved. In any event, soon after leaving Reményí he went to Düsseldorf and visited Schumann, who announced him to the musical world in a very enthusiastic manner. The next year (1854) appeared his first works,—three sonatas, a trio and scherzo for piano, and three books [83] of songs. After a visit to Liszt at Weimar he settled down as chorus-conductor and music-teacher at the court of Lippe-Detmold, where he remained a few years. After leaving Detmold he successively resided in Hamburg, Zürich, and Baden-Baden, though most of his time has been spent in Vienna, where he has directed the Singakademie and the concerts of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. Among his most famous compositions are a funeral hymn for chorus and wind-band; the “German Requiem;” “Triumphlied,” for double chorus and orchestra; “Schicksalslied,” for chorus and orchestra; six symphonies; variations on a theme of Haydn, for orchestra; the “Tragic” and “Academic” overtures; besides several trios, quartets, quintets, sextets, concertos, and sonatas.

Triumphlied.

“Triumphlied” (“Song of Triumph”) was written by Brahms in commemoration of the victories of German arms and the re-establishment of the Empire, and is dedicated to “the German Emperor Wilhelm I.” It was first performed at the fifty-first festival of the Lower Rhine at Cologne in 1873. The text is a paraphrase of certain verses in the nineteenth chapter of Revelation, and reads as follows:—

“Hallelujah, praise the Lord! Honor and power and glory to God!

“For in righteousness and truth the Lord giveth judgment.

[84]

“Glory be to God, all ye His servants, and ye that fear Him, all both humble and mighty.

“Hallelujah, for the omnipotent God hath exalted His kingdom.

“O, be joyful, let all be glad, to Him alone give honor.

“Behold, the heavens opened wide, and yonder a snow-white horse, and on him sat one called Steadfast and Faithful, who warreth and judgeth all with righteousness.

“And he treads the wine-press of wrath of the Lord God Almighty.

“Lo! a great name hath he written upon his vesture and upon his girdle.

“A King of kings and Lord of lords! Hallelujah! Amen!”

The scriptural selections are divided into three movements, written for double chorus (with the exception of two short barytone solos), orchestra, and organ, and are introduced by a brief instrumental prelude of a solemn but animated and exultant character, in the closing measures of which both choirs break in with jubilant shouts of “Hallelujah! praise the Lord!” The theme of the movement is the stirring old German song “Heil dir im Siegerkranz,”^[17] which is worked up with consummate skill. The first part closes with a climax of [85] power and contrapuntal effect hardly to be found elsewhere outside the choruses of Handel.

The second movement (“Glory be to God!”) is of the same general character as the first. After the opening ascription, a short fugue intervenes, leading to a fresh melody alternately sung by both choruses.

The third movement, after a very brief but spirited orchestral flourish, opens with an exultant barytone solo (“And behold then the Heavens opened wide”). The choruses respond with animation (“And yonder a snow-white Horse”). Again the barytone intervenes (“And lo! a great Name hath He written”), and then the choruses take up the majestic theme, “King of Kings and Lord of Lords,” each answering the other with triumphant shouts that gather force and fire as they proceed, and closing with a mighty hallelujah in which voices, orchestra, and organ join with fullest power to produce one of the grandest harmonies ever written. The work is one of extreme difficulty, as the two choirs are treated independently and their harmonies are complicated, though blended in general effect. Neither choir receives assistance from the other. In fact, each rank of voices is required to perform music of the most exacting kind, so that a perfect performance of this great jubilee hymn requires singers of trained skill and more than ordinary intelligence. When thus given, few choruses of modern times reveal such artistic richness and symmetrical proportions.