THE MUSIC AND MUSICIANS IN ENGLAND. THE oratorios at the Sacred Harmonic to fashion, and a class called in England the "lower middle"-respectable small trades-people who affect monster concerts and Christmas performances of the Messiah, paterfamilias dozing comfortably between his wife and daughter while Herr Henschel sings "Why do the nations?" and Madame Sherrington's voice fills the hall with "There were shepherds." The enormous size of the building naturally brings together many distinct classes, and as the Duke of Edinburgh frequently performs in the orchestra of the society of which he is president, the highest fashion often attends, giving the stalls and sweeping circles the air of an opera night or some special festivity; while after any of the morning concerts, Hyde Park, which is just opposite, presents a spectacle of splendid equipages rolling home from the great palace of music, crowds gathering near to witness the display. Albert Hall was an outgrowth of the great Exhibition of 1851, its site having been purchased with some of the surplus funds, and its erection in 1867 was looked upon as a sort of memorial to the late Prince Consort. Gore House, the residence of Lady Blessington, was pulled down to make way for it, and part of the ground now occupied by the Horticultural Department adjoining was once in OTTO GOLDSCHMIDT. cluded in the gardens where Count d'Orsay, attended by fierce dogs, used to take limited exercise in defiance of the bailiffs. The building is entirely of the Italian Renaissance architecture, and the greatest painters and sculptors of the day lent their aid in its adornment, so that as a work of art the Albert Hall ought to claim more careful observation, but unfortunately size destroys the impression of delicate detail, and the general effect is only of a majestic building of red brick and terra cotta, whose dome, catching the gleams of sunlight, is visible from an immense distance, rising above the verdure of the Park in summer-time, and piercing the fogs of winter. There is not space, of course, even to enumerate the various societies which give good performances during the year in London, but before leaving the ground of sacred music, one word must be said of the Bach Choir, which now fills a longfelt gap in musical circles. One day last year it so chanced that a card of invitation reached us to a private rehearsal of this society, and as there is no better means of criticising or observing the raison d'être of any association of the kind, we were glad to go down to the hall in the South Kensington Museum where the rehearsals take place. The society is entirely amateur, and represents a very cultivated class, the gentlemen being mostly barristers and minor professional men, who have time and inclination for systematic musical practice. The ladies are very earnest students, and on the day in question I was interested to observe the Princess Christian as a member. She is a most zealous attendant upon the rehearsals, though she never appears at the public performances. The music in progress when we entered the hall was Bach's mass in B minor, than which, I suppose, it would be difficult to find more difficult reading; but Dr. Goldschmidt was the conductor, and as his method is admirable, the work went on with evident satisfaction. The slightest jar was quickly detected by the conductor, whose shrewd observations were given in fluent English, the members readily taking them up, and singing with surprising accuracy. The concert for which they were rehearsing was to be the last of the season. As usual, leading professionals were engaged for the solo parts, and the performance brought together a most impressive audience at St. James's Hall. The singing was very nearly perfection, and there seemed to be a strong measure of approval in the minds of the aristocratic audience; but I was struck by the air of the hall during an interval. It immediately assumed the appearance of a fashionable conversazione; gentlemen moved about, shaking hands here and there, or lounged upon seats, discussing all sorts of social topics with their friends; rarely did comments on the music occur, but when they did, they were marked by that calm precision, that unemotional interest, which cultivated amateurs in England know so perfectly how to express. The idea of a social gathering was still further carried out when we made our way down the staircase, past the groups waiting for the princesses' exit, and into the vestibule, where arose a Babel of voices. Everybody seemed to be recognizing and greeting his or her special friends; there was an air of outstretched lavender gloves, nodding spring bonnets, and indifferent uous pianists of the day. Nothing can exceed his calm, self-possessed air. The piano, one might fancy, was only an incidental experience of his life, not the instrument which expresses his art. SaintSaens is the organist of the Madeleine, in Paris-a young man, whose fame has come quickly, and to whom time will assuredly add new honors. masculine attentions. Outside, the "way | character; but he is a model for the impetwas stopped" by a hundred splendid equipages, the footmen of which narrowly scanned the outpouring crowd. Perhaps a very few people in that company were thinking about the music which had lately filled their ears. There was an old lady near us relating something of her early memories of Bach music: how English audiences disliked it; how hard a fight was made to produce the Passion music properly. Then the talk drifted away to the last "Popular," and Joachim's final strains, and one friend recalled his boyhood, with its promise so wonderfully fulfilled. "He used to come to us," she said, a dreamy though gayhumored boy, with his violin under his arm, ready to play or listen-a wonderful, inspired little creature. Mendelssohn would lie down upon the sofa, his hands clasped above his head, perfectly absorbed; then he would get up, run over to the piano, and touching a few notes, start a new theme. One night " And here these reminiscences drift away. There is the usual swaying back of the crowd as the Princess Beatrice-a calm, handsome young lady in brown silk-descends, and presently all the crowd is out in the sunshine and movement of Piccadilly. 66 I wonder how piano-forte music in England can be characterized, since it is so inclusive. From Christmas to July the best pianists are before the English public, and we have heard Beethoven and Chopin at every variety of concert, from the mediocre entertainment when obscure singers are advertised in huge capitals, to the concerts where the very highest point of culture is reached in the playing of Charles Hallé, Janotha (the gifted pupil of Madame Schumann), Essipoff, Von Bülow, Scharwenka, and half a dozen others. It is recognized as a necessity; and later I shall venture to say something of pianoplaying among musical amateurs. Charles Hallé's name heads the little list I made above, chiefly because in him we find the leading principles of the English school of playing, if it may be said to have any which dominate. He is unquestionably the best resident teacher in England, having now reached the point of very occasional lessons, coming to London for a few weeks in the season, teaching the princesses during that time, and a few privileged pupils. But his name is famous as a pianist of the most cultivated school, and to him is due the organization and permanency of the great Manchester orchestra, now recognized as the best in England. Like this final concert of the "Bach," other performances recur with special fragments of reminiscence. One day, at the New Philharmonic concert, there was a furor over Sir Julius Benedict's overture to the Renegade, played that day for the first time in public. This work is characterized by Sir Julius's best style; if wanting in poetry, it has the rough-hewn grace of the Wagnerian school, and there is a crescendo toward the last of unlimited abandon, which was what produced the tumult. As it subsided, the composer was brought out, in his brown morning coat, and bowed repeatedly to the audience, who were most vociferous in cries of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" the French "Bis!" sounding repeatedly. Saint-Saens was similarly received one day at the New Philharmonic. He played, that aft-wings severely, but on going to Manchesernoon, compositions of his own, including a concerto in which there was all the grotesqueness of his peculiar style, together with a sedate movement which merged into delicate arpeggios and the most seductive andante. His playing is forcible and brilliant, every touch full of It was Charles Hallé who, as recently as 1850, was not allowed to play a sonata of Beethoven on the piano at a great concert. He had then come from Paris, where the best masters of the day had inspired him with that zeal for giving the world good sounds which was the struggle of those days. Like many of his contemporaries, Mr. Hallé had to beat his ter he formed the beginning of his now perfect orchestra, and wisely-in that time, it might be said, heroically-began with the very best in art. This orchestra now gives fifty-one concerts in the year, twenty of which are at Manchester. The musicians are engaged from year to year, but they are permanent, few having left the verve. beyond which Beethoven's genius vanishes, oftentimes, to mortal eyes, and produces all the running, delicate vibrations of Mendelssohn in the Midsummer Night's Dream; but again with the same music we read Schubert's passionate resentment; Beethoven, calm, moving within limits; Mendelssohn with an under-current of sadness in his joy. Artists like Charles Hallé conceive a certain meaning in each utterance; they give it with the highest possible degree of art, and may be as entirely removed from coldness as Rubinstein is from system. In these days in England one hears perpetual criticism of piano-forte playing. Vanished indeed is the period when the musical critic nervously regarded the audience as the index of the merit of the work. "The audience did not enjoy Schubert's symphony," says a criticism of 1851, in a faded journal lying before me; "it was considered too long." "This sonata is little known in England by reason of its great difficulty......but on this occasion it was played in the most faultless style." About something else we read, The audience wearied of it," or "The audience did not seem to care for the andante." Criticism nowadays, of course, flings aside all such servility, and the audiences know perfectly what good playing is, and criticise with varied interpretations. Indeed, a period of fanciful criticism has come up: young ladies just playing Czerny at the Royal Academy are expected to understand theoretically the shades of difference in sound, and to pass judgment on each performance, while a new pianist causes a genial flutter of excitement, which seems to Americans peculiarly impersonal. In the spring Charles Hallé comes to London, giving a series of piano-forte recitals, and playing also at various concerts. His recitals are as eventful as the "Populars," nearly the same audiences attend them, and the music given is the very best. Madame Norman - Neruda's violin-playing is a special feature of these recitals; she has superior skill, and a peculiar, forcible genius. In person she is a large fair woman, with rather keen features and a fine brow; she holds her violin with deft grace, and plays with masculine Mr. Hallé's playing is exquisitely finished; the charge of coldness is brought against him unfairly, it seems to me, since his feeling is deeply with his art; and certain it is that few pianists produce a more clearly defined idea of the master's work. He abhors anything like that abandon which recreates music. Some distinct meaning the master must have had in each theme or work; that, and that only, and that at all times, he gives. This certainly is only a form of art, not to be char-bers of the society include some of the acterized as tepidity. Rubinstein's playing carries force in its very capriciousness; the lack of sameness is his charm; at one time he reaches the profoundest depths of Schubert's melancholy, pierces the clouds Not long ago I attended a meeting of that venerable society the Musical Union, especially to hear the young Polish pianist Scharwenka. About this society lingers a charm which comes from its quaint decorum, as well as its typifying very early days of musical progress in England. It started during a period of great listlessness, in 1845, and was intended as a means of bringing to English notice famous foreign pianists. The mem most distinguished people in England, and the conductor, Professor Ella, is a link between to-day and yesterday, since for thirty-four years he has led the concerts. Originally they met at Professor Ella's house, when the members included, | ciable audience. Papini lingered to talk as they do to-day, the rank and fashion to some one who approached the platform, and art of London. To those early meet- and the others went away. In a few moings the venerable professor looks back ments Professor Ella led out the hero of now regretfully; they were social gatherings in which friendships as well as love of art were strengthened, and many men since famous met under his roof for the first time, or there for the first time made their bow to any audience. The meeting I refer to was at St. James's Hall, and the musicians occupied a platform in the centre of the hall, the stage! being deserted, save for a few people who preferred listening there, while the members of the society surrounded the platform on benches, arranged with a view to promoting social intercourse. Professor Ella, a dignified, white-haired old gentleman, hovered about, talking with one and another, welcoming new-comers with a hand-shake, distributing analytical programmes, and announcing finally the opening of the concert with only the formality of a drawing-room entertainment. The concerts are limited to three pieces, and on this day the performers were Papini, Scharwenka, Wiener, Hollander, Hann, and Laserre, and the programme consisted of Haydn's Quartette in D minor, the "Sonata Appassionata" of Beethoven, and the Quintette in B flat of Mendelssohn. In a certain sense it was the finest performance I had heard in England. Haydn's Quartette in D minor has its peculiar possibilities, though many musicians shrink from the constant inversions and imitations in the second part; but the quartette under Papini's leadership played it with a delicacy and constant novelty which could not have been excelled had Joachim's violin been among them. Papini leads well. His large face and head, with masses of dark hair and fine brow, are well known in London, and with his figure at their head, the little group on the improvised stage made a very fine effect. Moreover, as I have said, the whole concert has the charm of quaintness, and of belonging to a period which stands in the dim perspective of to-day's remembrance. From Professor Ella I have learned that the "Union" meetings are drawing to their close, so that another two years will probably see their final exit from the musical world they have so materially benefited. When the quartette was over, the musicians bowed in a friendly way to the so JOHN ELLA. the occasion, the Polish pianist Xaver Scharwenka. He is a tall young man, with a fine dark head and face, full of musical and intellectual power. "Eccentricity of genius" has gone out of fashion, and just as the English artists of the day are the most conventional-looking men in dress and bearing one can meet, so the pianists are emphatically figures for the drawing-room, and Scharwenka, sitting down at the piano-forte, with his large, easy manner and expressive glance, quickly taking in the surrounding elements, was no more the pianist of one's early fancies, with loose locks and disordered appearance, than is Saint-Saens in his faultless dress and trim air of leisure and fashion. Scharwenka's opening performance was the "Sonata Appassionata," and this work, like the "Moonlight" and the "Kreutzer," has come to be a test piece in London, where such players as Madame Schumann, Essipoff, Hallé, and Von Bülow are heard every day; but this young man from Posen has a marvellous faculty of giving delicacy and strength together; there is all the time a restless fire in his fingers. We all know the difficulties of this great work of Beethoven's mature genius. "I write," says he, in reply to |