Till then Thomas Tallis was the greatest exponent of the art who had lived in this country, and, if anything were wanting to prove the extraordinary genius the monks had exhibited in teaching the profoundest mysteries of music, the mastery displayed by Tallis in his _Song of Forty Parts_ would be sufficient to supply it.

He was the link that united English pre-Reformation and post-Reformation music.

In the reigns of Henry VIII. and Queen Mary, he was a gentleman of the Chapel-Royal, subsequently becoming organist in Queen Elizabeth's time.

It was during this period that he set to music that part of the English liturgy that is now sung. As regards Henry and Elizabeth, the feelings of both these monarchs towards the Reformation were, doubtless, more political than religious, and to this cause may be attributed the retention of his post by Tallis, since there is no proof that he ever embraced the reformed faith.

Then came an epoch that may well be called the Augustan age of English music, seeing that to the genius of Tallis was added that of Byrd and Orlando Gibbons, culminating in the arrival of Purcell, when it attained its zenith.

With the death of Purcell began the long decline that resulted in the practical decay of English music.

Everything tended to that end.

The suppression of the monasteries, the home of art and literature; the degradation of public worship, including the prohibition of music in such perfunctory ceremonies as were permitted, and the abolition of everything pertaining to art or beauty in its performance; the ruthless destruction of all that could appeal to the sense of the beautiful in the minds of the people, of the altars with their gorgeous adornments, or the stained windows with their picturesque representations of moving incidents in the life of Christ; the covering with stucco or the whitewashing of the marble pillars that supported the decorated roofs: all these monstrosities were calculated to deaden any artistic sense the common people might have had within them, and such was, unhappily, the effect.

Music came to be looked upon as a frivolous or contemptible thing, and the practice of it as only fit for people who had no apt.i.tude for anything better, and who were treated by the average person of any consequence, accordingly. The teaching of it naturally became a matter of small importance, and thus, outside the cathedral cities which sheltered the few remaining educated English musicians, such teaching as could be procured was supplied by persons supplementing their earnings in other directions, or foreigners who had come to the country at the call of the few influential individuals in whom the love for music was not actually dead. This was the state of affairs at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

PRESENT

The present system of musical education in this country may be said to commence with the establishment of the Royal Academy of Music in the year 1822. The advantages offered by an inst.i.tution of this kind are so obvious that one need only specify a choice of subjects with an expert to teach each, a permanent orchestra for the practice and interpretation of the cla.s.sics, and the atmosphere engendered by an a.s.sociation of individuals guided by the aspiration to acquire knowledge and stimulated by the generous rivalry of their comrades.

The Academy, Royal and National, as it is ent.i.tled, is the oldest of the three princ.i.p.al music schools in England. The prefix "Royal" used in common with many and various kinds of societies, has no very precise significance, while the term "national" is somewhat difficult of application to an inst.i.tution whose princ.i.p.al teachers and managers are foreigners.

Although flourishing to-day, the school experienced many years of fluctuating fortune, and it was not until the princ.i.p.alship of Sir Sterndale Bennett that it was at last placed on a firm and sure foundation.

To that distinguished man the Academy for many years owed its sole prestige.

He was succeeded by Sir George Macfarren, an able and learned musician, who would doubtless have proved a successful administrator had he not suffered from the terrible affliction of blindness.

As it was, however, the school came practically under a direction that had little educational force at its disposal, and the results were, as might be expected--otherwise than satisfactory. This era has, happily, long pa.s.sed away, and since Sir A. C. Mackenzie became princ.i.p.al, the school has prospered continuously.

The Royal College of Music, that happiest of English musical inst.i.tutions, was established on the foundations of the National Training School of Music, which had come into existence largely through the exertions of the Duke of Edinburgh in 1876, and may be said to have been the outcome of a protest against the then existing state of things at the Academy.

Later, the Duke leaving for Coburg, and the resignation of Sir Arthur Sullivan of the post of princ.i.p.al, furnished the occasion to found the larger and more important college, and this being eventually done, it was opened by the Prince of Wales in 1883.

The new scheme was large and comprehensive, including as it did the creation of scholarships in the leading towns of the United Kingdom and the Dominions beyond the seas. The realisation of such a project would have been impossible, had it not been for the extraordinary influence exercised by the late King Edward, and the enthusiasm he extended towards its accomplishment.

The possession of these scholarships, attracting as it does the flower of musical talent throughout the Empire, puts an enormous power for good in the hands of the authorities, and although it is premature to speak with any a.s.surance on the point yet, it may well be hoped that the results in the furthering of the formation of a truly British school of music will be commensurate with the great possibilities. If a happy choice in the appointment of Directors is a good omen, the names of (the late) Sir George Grove and Sir Hubert Parry should supply it.

Like the Royal Academy, the teaching staff is largely composed of foreign musicians.

The Guildhall School of Music was established in 1888 through the generosity of the Corporation of the City of London. It is managed by a committee of expert business men belonging to that body, who give their services gratuitously, and prizes of money are offered by the Lord Mayor, the Lady Mayoress, the Sheriffs and other dignitaries, for the encouragement of the students.

When first inst.i.tuted, the main object was to place the best instruction within the reach of those unable to meet the requirements of the older schools either in time or expense.

The entrance fee was made nominal, the choice of subjects for study left to the student, and no conditions insisted upon, other than those necessary for the well-being of any public inst.i.tution.

The popularity the school instantaneously attained must have been gratifying, even to that eminent body with whom so many philanthropic efforts have been identified.

Recently, however, an important change has been made since Mr. Landon Ronald became princ.i.p.al, in that a curriculum has been designed for students studying professionally, but although under this the learning of certain subjects is made compulsory, and a skilfully-planned course of study laid down, it does not in the least modify the original intentions of the Corporation, since the adoption of it is purely voluntary on the part of the scholar. This development may prove of far-reaching importance, and under the guiding influence of so skilful and versatile a musician as Mr. Ronald, may have unlooked-for results.

As with the other two schools, the teaching staff is a large one, with a strong foreign element in it.

With regard to the other schools of music throughout the kingdom, it may be said that they fairly conform to the types already described, the only difference being the varying proportions of native to foreign teachers.

Now, with all these facilities for acquiring musical education, how can it be explained that these schools have so utterly failed in the direction of fostering a national tone, a mode of expression which, while capable of infinite variety, is as redolent of the country it emanates from as that of France or Russia? Why is it that until the recent uprising of the new English school of composers headed by Sir Edward Elgar, owing nothing to foreign teaching either at home or abroad, in spite of the enormous amount of music written by British composers during the preceding fifty years, nothing appeared that was in any sense characteristically English or imbued with sufficient vitality to live?

It may be safely said that with the exception of Sir Hubert Parry's "Blest Pair of Sirens," it is doubtful whether there is a single work in all the vast output that will not be absolutely forgotten by the end of the first half of this century. In fact, most of the oratorios, cantatas, and symphonies produced during that period have never been heard again since their first and two or three subsequent performances.

They may, with truth, be said to have died of their own drear lifelessness. The explanation seems to be perfectly simple. Underlying it all would appear to be the belief that imitation, however skilful, cannot equal the thing imitated or possess any lasting qualities. The music of the German speaking race has, until the new epoch that has just dawned, absolutely possessed the minds of our composers and public alike.

Not only have all or nearly all the most influential British musicians been educated in Germany, spending the most impressionable years of their lives there, but they have come back imbued with the spirit and technique of its music and, with the zeal of converts, anxious to impart the same ideals to their pupils. The result has been just what would naturally be antic.i.p.ated.

Music produced on such a basis could only lack the vital characteristics necessary to take any hold on the people, who, having heard the originals, shewed themselves perfectly indifferent to the imitations, however well disguised they proved to be. They came to the conclusion that their country was not sufficiently endowed with music to produce composers of original gifts and, as a natural consequence, turned to the foreigner to look for all serious musical effort.

This belief has become so deeply seated in the mind of the average Englishman, that he not only long ago ceased to expect any original effort from the native composer, but went a step further, a natural one perhaps, and argued that if he were inferior to the foreigner as a writer of music, he must necessarily be equally so as a teacher.

Hence the extraordinary condition of things that has prevailed so long.

Foreign teachers are numbered by thousands, many of them holding foremost positions in the leading inst.i.tutions. They bring with them their own national instincts and characteristics, and, obviously, the greater their gifts the more powerfully must their influence operate against the ideal of a national school of British music.

Sir Edward Elgar, speaking at Birmingham, urged the young English composers "to draw their inspiration from their own country, their own literature, and their own climate. Only by doing so could they arrive at an English art."

If this be true, and I doubt not that most thinking people will agree, the present state of things is unceasingly working towards making the idea impossible of realisation. It must be borne in mind that there are hundreds, even thousands, of students taught by perhaps three masters of different nationalities, leaving our schools yearly, and who consequently spread broad-cast the mixed impressions they have received.

Not only is the influence undesirable, but this constant augmentation of the already congested state of the profession makes it more and more difficult for the young native to earn a living wage, and compels him to direct his thoughts and energies rather to this end than the development of his artistic capabilities. The more one thinks on this practical point, the more serious it seems.

That it has not escaped the attention of the resident foreign musicians is shewn by an illuminating story told in a pamphlet published a little while since, in which one of them advises young Englishmen to _emigrate_ (emigrate)!

To properly explain the att.i.tude in the past, of the people generally, towards music and musicians, it is necessary to go back some centuries and examine the causes which led up to it.

One of the first effects of the wave of Puritanism which swept over the country after the Reformation, was a contempt for everything that savoured of frivolity, and to the minds of the Puritans, the practice of music was regarded more as a prost.i.tution of mental effort than a calling which could be treated as serious or even moral. Its use was banished from the churches, and it is recorded of Cromwell that on one occasion he entered a cathedral with a squad of soldiers while a service was being held, and ordered the clergy to "stop this fooling." Although this extreme state of affairs was not of long duration, it lasted long enough to instil into the very marrow and bones of the population a prejudice that centuries have not been able to altogether eradicate.

A reaction was, however, inevitable, and with the Restoration it came, accompanied, unhappily, by excesses that rendered the results almost nugatory.

After a period, during which the genius of Purcell shed an undying glory on English music, the people, having finally rid the country of the Stuart dynasty, settled down to a period if of less fanaticism, a not less fatal indifference to and contempt for musical art. It was left to the scornful genius of Dean Swift to express this feeling in words at once typical of him, and unforgettable.

At the time he wrote them, a foreign Court had attracted a large number of musicians from the Continent, amongst whom was Handel.

For the distractions of a dissipated n.o.bility and a large cosmopolitan element, the Metropolis needed the means of gratification. It is evident that the native musician, whose training had been mainly directed to essentially different objects, was unable to supply them. The foreigner, however, then as now, was quick to meet the deficiency.

Two companies were formed for the exploitation of Italian opera, which had long been the vogue in France and Germany, their headquarters being respectively the Haymarket and Covent Garden Theatres, the one headed by Handel, the other by Buononcini.

Strange as it may appear to us at this day, their rivalry soon became a source of serious trouble to the authorities. Their adherents formed themselves into factions headed by young n.o.bles, and occasional collisions between them led to scenes of rioting and even bloodshed, reminiscent of the ancient feuds between the houses of Montague and Capulet. It was then that Swift wrote the words in which he not only voiced his own savage disdain, but the sentiments of the average Englishman:

"Strange such difference there should be 'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee."

After some years of success, during which Handel ama.s.sed a fortune, the tide of affairs turned against him, and in broken health and with impoverished means he retired to a Continental health resort. This, however, was but the prelude to events not only of vital consequence to him, but of momentous significance to the art of music.

On returning to England with restored vigour, he cast about him to find the means of regaining his former ascendency, and, happily for the world at large, he decided to devote his energies to the writing of sacred music.