A Short History of English Music

It is curious to note how many movements of anti-national character that have taken place in England since the time of the Tudors have had the support of the reigning house. Happily such days are past. It must be granted, however, that it was as natural on the part of Anne to grant shelter to her own country people, whether in Scotland or England, as it was on their part to seek it at her hands.

To whatever causes the spread of Calvinism may be due, its effect on the nation generally was deplorable, and on music, particularly, absolutely fatal.

The gloomy fanaticism that its teaching engendered not only prompted the entire suppression of music of every kind, wherever possible, but made it become an object of loathing and contempt, and what was found impossible to achieve by legislation was effected by local tyranny. In the conventicles that sprung up all over the country, music was pointed to as the ally of godlessness in its worst and most reprehensible form, and its use a thing that put the offender outside the pale of religious life.

It needs little consideration to appreciate the result such teaching must necessarily have had on people who had come to accept these views as a revelation of Divine will.

Its effect was, simply, not only to deaden, but to obliterate the very sense of the art among the masses – that art, too, that had been, formerly, one of the glories of England.

In other directions, the results of this fanatic spirit are more concretely shewn, and the terrible evidence that the ancient churches of the country supply is sufficient to cause a shudder to the more tempered spirit of later ages.

Practically, every one of these standing buildings affords evidence of the ruthless and destructive spirit that animated the authorities, and encouraged the common people and soldiery of the Commonwealth period to the utmost license in church desecration. The shocking and stupid brutality of the excesses perpetrated is, at once, a proof of the ferocious spirit that had been aroused, and the unappeasable hatred towards everything that could, in any way, suggest Catholic teaching or influence. When one reads of these atrocities, cold-blooded and calculated, they bring to the mind rather the sacking of ancient Rome by the Huns than the acts of civilised Englishmen living after the age of Shakespeare and Bacon.

The noblest ornaments that the nameless monk-architects had raised to the glory of God, and the unceasing call to the piety of those living after, became a special mark for vengeance.

To break down the altars, smash to fragments the sculptured representations of the Saviour, the Holy Virgin or the saints, was a source of gratification, and the occasion of licentious jest.

For the destruction of musical instruments and the burning of manuscript music, we owe them – not gratitude.

To make a bonfire of vestments, and everything that was capable of absolute extinction by the agency of fire, was an occasion of ribald mirth and revelry.

To put the glorious cathedrals, the undying evidence of the splendour of Catholic devotion and enthusiasm, to the basest uses was their common habitude.

The turning of the noble cloisters, that had been the pious and unceasing work of so many years to build, into stables for the horses of Cromwell's cavalry was only one feature of many other and even more hideous acts of vileness that were not only accomplished, but approved of.

On these one would rather not dwell. The words horror and indignation seem infantile to express the emotions called forth by the contemplation of such things.

After all this, the smashing of the old and beautiful stained glass windows, sorrowful as it may make us, seems of comparatively little consequence, unique and of priceless value as they were. It is, nevertheless, inevitable to think with wondering awe of the awful waste of the inspired work of centuries.

There are yet, and we may well be thankful for it, a few remains of the extraordinary beauty of the artistic work of the monks of old. The Lady Chapel of Gloucester Cathedral is a striking example. It was finished only a few years before the Reformation, and was more fortunate than the majority of such buildings, inasmuch as, although the traces of mutilation are evident, the beauty of the work of the monk-artist can yet be seen and appreciated.

That the work of destruction was carried out to the fullest extent of their means by these iconoclasts is proved by the general absence of remains. It is only an occasional chance, such as the digging of foundations of a building on the outskirts of a cathedral city, as happened not long ago, that leads to the discovery of mutilated fragments of statues, broken arteries of altars of untold age, and powdered remains of stained glass, that even modern skill admits its inability to equal, which can give us real and tangible evidence of the wealth of beauty and pious effort that must have been stored up in those marvellous old buildings.

The spirit that could guide to the destruction not only of such things as the eye alone could perceive and appreciate, but of so intangible and defenceless a thing as music, must indeed have been insatiable. The majestic strength of those venerable fanes, that seem to defy the flight of ages, was theirs to successfully resist such enemies as they then had to encounter, and though they were, to some extent, destined to suffer in the conflict, yet such wounds as they received were not altogether incapable of healing.

The point we have to arrive at is the complete realisation that whatever was beautiful in art was hateful to the Puritans, and it was only when every vestige of it was uprooted, they ceased their work of violent and wanton destruction.

So far as music is concerned, their work may be said to have been complete.

Some facts concerning the life of the extraordinary man who was destined, through the instrumentality of his teaching, to so vitally affect English life may be of interest to the reader.

Jean Calvin, or Jean Chauvin, as his birth-name was, was a native of Picardy, and born at Noyon in 1509. He was originally destined for the Church, and commenced his early studies with that object in view. At an early age he was sent to Paris, where he soon exhibited remarkable intellectual powers. It was not long, however, before he began to evince a distinct spirit of rebellion against the course of study pursued there, and, with his father's sanction, abandoned theology and, turning his attention to law, proceeded to Orleans with the intention to qualify himself as an advocate. After a short stay in that city he went on to Bourges, where he entered the University.

This period was destined to be a momentous one, not only for himself, but in the history of the civilised world. He here came under influences that, aided by his early misgivings in Paris, impelled him to take that step which was to prove of such immense significance, his severance from the Catholic Church.

In the reading of history one happens upon reformers countless, men of genius many, but men who, added to genius, have the extraordinary personal magnetism that compels, few.

Alexander, Cæsar, Shakespeare, Napoléon, are striking examples, and of such was John Calvin. After a wandering life in France, during which time he both wrote and preached in the interests of the reformed faith, he, for personal safety, finally left the country and took refuge in Switzerland. Eventually he settled in Geneva, and thence propagated those extreme doctrines that were to become known as Calvinism.

On the rapidity with which they spread, and the hold they took upon the northern races of Europe, it is not necessary to dwell; their influence for so long in England is all that it is, here, incumbent to recall. Of the man himself, in view of so much that is contradictory having been written, it is difficult to speak, but it would seem that he retained to the end the æsthetic habits acquired in his early training as a seminarist, and was always more capable of inspiring awe than affection.

The change from an English to a foreign line of Sovereigns was one of far-reaching import. It is certain that when Queen Mary caused the execution of Lady Jane Grey, she little realised how disastrous to the country the event would prove. Not only had this interesting and unfortunate girl an ability probably equal to that of her cousin Elizabeth, but she was possessed of a character that was infinitely superior.

The act, however, was destined to have fateful results.

The Stuarts, descended from a race that had been in deadly conflict with the English for centuries, and allied by blood and intimate intercourse with her enemies, succeeded to an inheritance that immediately placed them in a position of supremacy in the very country that had for so long been an object of hatred and fear.

Had Lady Jane Grey succeeded to the throne after the death of Elizabeth, the line of Sovereigns of English descent might have been perpetuated. It is easy to see how such an event might have affected English music.

It must not be lost sight of that the doctrines of the Reformation, and in their extreme form, took root in Scotland long before they had made any visible impression on the ordinary life in England.

Mainly owing to the efforts of John Knox, a follower and friend of Calvin, the new teaching had taken a complete hold over that country, and been almost universally accepted as the most expedient medium of religious exposition.

The King, James VI., by his marriage with Anne of Denmark, signified his acceptance of the new creed.

With his accession, as James I., to the throne of England therefore, an influence, if not of active hostility, at least of indifference to music, came into existence, with results that could not be otherwise than formidable.

In the reign of Charles I., the Queen invited large numbers of French musicians to settle in London, and gave them all the patronage that her position enabled her to extend. Their influence on the current music of the day is easily traced.

All this time Calvinist teaching, like the growth of a noxious weed, was spreading far and wide, so that English music was being assailed by two fatal influences at the same time.

This condition of things lasted through the entire reign.

With the Commonwealth the voice of music was altogether silenced.

It needs no keen discernment to see the infinite possibilities of harm to the musical instincts of the country such a state of things opens out.

Imagine the thousands or millions of children born and brought up bereft of the happiness that music might have brought them.

We are told by the biologist that the continued disuse of muscles first renders them ineffective, and eventually leads to their extinction.

Similarly, completely severed from music as many were, they first became indifferent to it, and eventually lost all ear for it. Insistence upon the immense number of people in England to-day, of all classes, who are so situated, is unnecessary.

The Restoration ushered in a period of delirious excitement,20 such as had never been known in the history of this country. Unhappily, it was accompanied by an equally unprecedented display of license, in which the common people seemed to vie with the Court for supremacy. To account for this latter fact, one need only recall the policy pursued under the Commonwealth, that drove the whilom vagrant "musician" to take refuge in the cities, and thus materially go to swell the more turbulent portion of the population.

Music was again heard in the churches, but it was not such as the people remembered. It was, at once, novel and unliked. Largely of foreign origin, foreign musicians were engaged to perform it. For such innovations, the wives of Charles I. and Charles II. were doubtless largely responsible, one being French and the other Portuguese, but the Continental wanderings of the latter King had made him familiar with such music, and, being of a much lighter kind than that of the old English church, would, naturally, be more congenial to such a character.

One can easily imagine how the sight of swarthy foreigners, playing such strange sounding music on the viols and other instruments, would astonish the common people. In the diaries, Pepys is frankly condemnatory, saying that it all appeared to him to be more suitable to the theatre than to the church.

It is astonishing to think how soon the national rejoicing at the re-establishment of the monarchy was to change to national dejection and disgust, caused not only by the policy, but, perhaps, still more by the personal life of the King.

The former brought the country to a state of bankruptcy, both financial and political, the latter to a sense of shame and humiliation that was entirely new to it.

The open and unabashed profligacy of the King and Court, and the absolutely contemptuous disregard, not only of national religious feeling, but of the merest elements of ordinary decency, were bound to bring about a tremendous re-action.

It came, and with irresistible effect. Thousands who had hitherto shunned the severities of Puritan life and teaching, now fled to them for protection against infection by the wave of immorality which was flooding the country. To the people, kingship became once more not the symbol of national glory, but of national abasement.

Every sense, honourable in man, was outraged, and as each year passed in the reign of this wretched monarch, so did it go to further intensify the ever-growing force of Calvinistic conviction, with all its concomitant results, not only on art, but the very character of the people in general.

With the memory of the execution of Charles I. ever present in their memory, they bore with a patience, both exemplary and undeserved, the terrible incubus, but once relieved from it by the death of his successor, they rose as one man and threw off the yoke of a dynasty, the most worthless, perhaps, that any nation in modern history has been burdened with.

Once rid of the Stuarts, England entered upon a period in which Calvinism was the most vital and dominating force. Its sombre tenets left little room for other than religious exercise, and so far as music is concerned, beyond the lugubrious chanting of psalmody – well, there was none. Indeed, judging by the writings of the age of Queen Anne, it would appear that not only music, but even Christianity itself was at a low ebb.

An age that could witness without protest the appointment of Jonathan Swift, the author of "The Tale of a Tub," to the position of a dignitary of the Church, must surely have been one in which, at least among the ruling classes, the moral sense must have sunk low. At any rate, it may be said that the extreme liberty of thought, encouraged by the then prevalent doctrines, and the utter disregard of ceremonial in the services of the Church, are far removed from the thought and customs of to-day.

After a Scottish a Dutch, after a Dutch, with an interval, a German reigning house. It is impossible, when the consideration of English music is under discussion, to shut one's eyes to the extreme significance of such facts. Opera, even in its most primitive state, had not been known in England before the Stuart times, and, though the genius of Purcell was fascinated by it, yet even he was unable to imbue his countrymen with any taste for it. The masque they could understand, since it was a natural outcome of the kind of play that had been popular in the country for centuries, but this was a foreign institution for which they had no predilection.

So far as England is concerned, it was a hothouse plant fostered principally by a foreign Court and an aristocracy who had acquired their taste for it abroad. Such operatic work, as Purcell was responsible for, was given in English, but it was not long before an Italian company was invited to London for the purpose of presenting Italian opera, which by that time had arrived at a point of much greater advancement, and a permanent home made for it.

With the company came Buononcini, the most celebrated composer of this form of art that his country possessed.

The arrival in this country of Handel, who had not only made a complete study of it, but whose genius had enabled him to carry it to a state of development hitherto undreamt of, was the signal of war between the rival composers, and led to the establishment of another theatre for its exploitation, at the head of which was the great German master. It may be mentioned that at this period of its expansion and introduction to the various countries of Europe, the liberty was granted to the individual exponent of the different parts to sing in his native language, a diplomatic concession that will be readily appreciated; hence two or three, or even more, languages might be heard in the course of a single representation.

To Handel, however, who was always most exacting as to the rendering of his music, such an anomaly would be, naturally, intolerable. And so it proved. His operas were written in Italian, and in that language they had to be sung. That was what he required, and no less would he accept. In this connection, it is strange to observe that, notwithstanding his long residence in England, he not only never mastered the intricacies of the pronunciation of English, but never learnt to appreciate the relative importance of the words of a sentence. Of this, the early editions of his works afford ample proof. In fact, it is known that his struggles with his librettist were frequent and stormy, ending, however, as one would naturally imagine, in the complete collapse of the latter. Fancy Wagner with a librettist. It is unthinkable.

The continued importation of foreign singers who were alone qualified to meet the demands of fashionable society, which was then the only source from which money was to be earned, naturally relegated the English singer to a position of comparative neglect. His energies were confined either to the modest demands made upon him by the then Church services, or devoted to occupations upon which it is unnecessary to dwell.

Similarly, native composers, such as were left, who were, neither by training nor instinct, capable of competing with the foreign musician in this new and strange form of art, found themselves in a position that offered little opportunity of making the barest provision for existence, and, naturally, abandoned a calling that appeared so hopeless. This state of things lasted for a considerable period.

An event, however, was to take place that, at least, had some effect in the amelioration of existing conditions.

Handel, after a long struggle, during which he had gained and lost a considerable fortune, abandoned the conflict and, forsaking Italian opera, left the country for a time to seek a restoration of his health, which had become seriously threatened. Upon his return he decided to make sacred music the medium by which he should regain both the fame and fortune which he had previously acquired. This decision, momentous as it was for the whole world, was peculiarly so for England. It had two results that may be said to be diametrically opposed, for while he soon began to make converts to music by presenting it in a religious guise, among thousands who had for long eschewed it as being anti-Christ, he, at the same time, by the sheer weight of his colossal genius, not only overwhelmed the native composer and rendered him distrustful of his powers, but imbued the people of the country with the conviction that music was not a natural English gift, and that for all serious effort in the art, it must be sought from the foreigner.

That this impression became deeply engrained in the minds of Englishmen is as evident to-day as it ever was, and it is a common-place among those who cater for public entertainment, that the production of serious works by English composers spells financial loss, with one single exception.

To what other cause than the lack of individuality or national genius can such a state of things be attributed?

It cannot be seriously contemplated for a moment that because the composer is an Englishman his countrymen will not listen to him.

The case of Arthur Sullivan proves the very contrary. His music, if not great, had English characteristics, and the public were not slow to recognise the fact. At any rate, they came to believe in him, and the reception accorded to his "Golden Legend" proved that they were not only willing, but eager to readjust previous convictions so soon as anything appeared that seemed to warrant it.

Unfortunately, this work had not sufficient strength, originality, or nationality to stand the stress of time, but it disproved once and for ever the absurd contention that the English people would not accept any serious effort in music because it had been written by an Englishman.

Its lack of staying power seems to be attributable to the want of sufficient national character, redolent of the soil, which appears to be so essential to lasting endurance.

At any rate, one cannot read without being moved the following words which appeared in the Daily Telegraph after a recent performance at the Norwich Festival, 1911. They were contained in an article, not only brilliantly, but even sympathetically written, yet this is what it says: —

"Time was when this work was appraised as a world's masterpiece for ever. As a fact, it affords but one more example of the many that go to prove the rule as to the absurdity of prophesying unless one knows. I would not go so far as some one was heard to go yesterday, who vouchsafed the opinion that even the singers seemed somewhat abashed. That is a gross exaggeration. But it is no exaggeration to say that none of them … seemed very deeply moved by the extreme placidity and suavity of the phrases once deemed to be of purest gold. Nor, for that matter, did the chorus themselves. The truth is that time has not dealt over kindly with this work."

Yet this very work, let it be remembered, was not only the most popular, but practically the single one of its kind written by an Englishman that had ever touched the imagination of the English people. To go still further, it may be said with absolute truth, that it was the most successful sacred work produced in England up to the time of Sir Edward Elgar, since Mendelssohn introduced the "Elijah," at Birmingham in 1846.

The inference, which seems to me obvious, is that no work that is not typical of the country from which it emanates possesses those qualities that make for permanence.

The amelioration in the position of the native composer, to which we alluded just now, was due to the fact that he had not lost belief in his own powers so far as sacred music was concerned; hence the revival of public interest in this form of art was, naturally, a source of gratification. Unhappily, however, the fact cannot be ignored that instead of pursuing their way on their old lines and traditions, even the most gifted among the English composers gave way to the fatal temptation to try and write on the lines of such a colossal genius as Handel.

The power to hurl the thunderbolts of Jove is given to few, and at the time of which we write, there were certainly no Englishmen among that select company.

We need but cite one example.

William Boyce, one of the most gifted of English composers of the eighteenth century, was born in 1710, and was, therefore, about twenty-eight years of age when the oratorio "Saul" was produced. That he completely fell under the new influence is quite apparent, as little examination of his music, dating from that time, is sufficient to shew. Not only did he allow it to affect his own work, but it carried him to the absolutely indefensible point of taking one of Purcell's greatest compositions, and revising and adding to it, in order to bring it into conformity with the great school which had arisen. There are two kinds of imitation, conscious and unconscious. Such an act as this can only belong to the former. From this date may be said to have commenced that system of imitation of foreign music that has been the bane of English musicians ever since. However unconscious it may have, and doubtless has been, its effect has been equally disastrous. Imitation never made art and never will. The imitator may arrive at temporary distinction, but future generations will not recognise him. He will be, merely, a painted figure in a painted sepulchre of plagiarism. Happily there were yet composers, chiefly cathedral organists, who clung to English Church tradition, and among whose work occasional glimpses of its genius can be found.