some overbearing personage, "for matured minds and masculine fingers." Surely the andante of the Appassionata was intended for such; and in the very critical audience of the "Union" one could see intense expectation as Scharwenka reached that point where recur those delicate, SIMS REEVES. fanciful variations, and when the left-hand cantabile was played, with its accompaniment of ineffable undulations for the right hand, Scharwenka's peculiar faculty was brought to light. Not the movement of a bird across the sky, not the faint rustle of summer leaves, not the distant plash of a fountain, could have more delicately betrayed sound than did his fingers, while not one smallest vibration of power and meaning was lost. Later he performed some of his own compositions: a Polonaise, Impromptu, and Étude, the latter full of fire and sweetness-a combination he seems best to express. Just now Scharwenka's music is beginning to be known in England, since M. Danreuther introduced his concerts to the Crystal Palace audiences. The concert over, the audience moved away in talkative groups, Professor Ella's face re-appearing here and there as he went from one sympathetic friend to another, while the musicians were shaking hands on every side; and the last we saw of the meeting was a group in which Scharwenka's olive tints and deep-set eyes were prominent, as he and Papini and two or three others lingered at the Piccadilly entrance. The great pianists of Europe who visit England generally make their bow at the Crystal Palace as well as at St. James's Hall, and concerts, with some world-renowned name as the special attraction, and the well-tried orchestra as its background, fill the great hall on certain days, the musical animation beginning early in the day, when the Victoria Station is thronged by people bent on hearing the new artist at Sydenham: and just here I may be allowed briefly to sketch the story of one whose figure is colossal in the picture of English music. About the year 1839, August Manns, one of the pupils of a small village school in Prussia, showed a great talent for orchestral music. He was a boy of fourteen, the son of poor parents, and had done well in such studies as were taught at the little school. The lad was apprenticed to the band-master of the town, where he learned a great deal both in the execution and conduct of military music. Later he served his time in a regiment, and, still full of musical impulse, applied for and received the appointment of musical director at Kroll's, in Berlin. At this time, when only twenty-five years of age, he played, to quote his own words, "tolerably well on nearly every orchestral instrument." But musicians were plenty in those days, and able conductors few. Wisely enough, the young man turned his attention strictly to the development of his talent as a leader, and in October, 1855, when an efficient conductor was needed for the Crystal Palace concerts in London, the post was offered him. Accepting it, he has from that period filled it admirably. Such is, in brief, the musical history of Mr. August Manns, the conductor of the famous Crystal Palace concerts, at which so many great musicians have made their bow to the British public, and at which so many works now famous have been first produced. The Crystal Palace concerts have had a very direct influence upon the taste of the people, since from their start they have combined various attractive qualities, and the audiences have always been large and inclusive. Perhaps it is the sense of going to a general entertainment, to huge exhibition or public fair, which produces an idea of incongruity when one thinks of hearing Schubert and Beethoven under that lofty dome; but the English public enjoy vastness and a cer tain combination of effects, and the great | through the restless fire of his fingers, and artists who sing or play at the Crystal we lose sight of all but this element in the Palace seem to gather some new inspira- music he is rendering: perhaps it is an tion on each occasion. The band under adagio of Beethoven, perhaps one of the Mr. Manns's control have steadily, since Lieder of Mendelssohn, he is playing; 1855, produced the best works of German, on, on, goes this thrilling, vibrating pulFrench, Italian, and English masters, and sation, less of the master than the player. (unless it were in the orchestra of Mr. The effect is indescribable; but the quesTheodore Thomas) I have never heard tion is, Can this be the truer art? Again finer effects, subtler gradations of sounds arises the comparison between the exquiand harmony, more delicate interpreta- site fervor of Joachim and the excessive tions of what seems to an outsider the di- sentimentality of Sarasate. Both exercise vine mystery of Beethoven's or Schubert's a power, but the decree of intellect seems work. I speak of these two because at oftenest in favor of the older violinist. the Crystal Palace they are rendered always with a special skill-how ably, we have only to listen to the same works at the Old Philharmonic concerts of London to understand. This latter society, established so far back as 1810, is certainly in its decadence, not for lack of sympathy so much as careful management and good work. The To return to the Crystal Palace. good concerts are given every Saturday, and on special days the leading soloists of the period take part. Certain brilliant occasions mark the record of the Palace music. Shall we who listened to the Handel Commemoration ever forget that burst and sweep of harmony which filled and vibrated through the great building, dying away as Tietjens rose to sing, "I know that my Redeemer liveth"? And only the other day we sat listening to the great concert in which Henschel and Sarasate bore away the honors, Henschel singing from the Elijah, his great voice, with its passionate cadence, rising and falling, while the audience sat spellbound; then came a German song of his own; and later Sarasate appeared with that magic violin over which he seems to exercise a spell. Ever since this Spanish violinist appeared in London, people have been making comparisons between his playing and Joachim's, but, to my mind, the great difference is in the two men: Joachim plays with abandon and fire, certainly, but he never sacrifices art to his impulse, however poetic that impulse may be; hence no one can accuse him of oversentimentality. Sarasate frequently forgets all but his own wild emotion of the moment; he produces strains such as we have never heard equalled; a passionate, wild cry seems to be in the music-something forever to be sought, never to be wholly reached, burns VOL. LX.-No. 360.-53 F. H. COWEN. From the Crystal Palace, with its "great days" of rose shows and music, royal visits and Handel Commemorations, we turn instinctively to another phase of music in England-ballad-singing. Some legacy of instinct and affection the old ballad writers and singers of Great Britain must have left their people. It is now a hereditary gift, at once one of the most promising and at the same time one of the most pernicious impulses of modern music. The faculty for simple melody, which the composers of the present day certainly possess, is hopeful because it speaks a tunefulness which in another generation may reach a wider range, but the love of the people for anything which | with ballad music, and perhaps this is is a 66 'pretty song" is almost hopelessly bad. Given a perpetual "Nancy Lee," nothing better is required by the people, and the very best ballad-writers of the day -Sullivan, Cowen, Marzials, Miss Philp, and Lady Arthur Hill-all recognize and deplore this fact. I can not pretend to advance any solution of the enigma which this theme presents, but only state a few facts, with such vagrant observations as any outsider may make who passes two winters and springs in England. When a very successful entertainment is projected at St. James's Hall, it takes the form of a ballad concert- -a ballad concert, be it known, in which two hours and a half are devoted to songs, one-half of which have been heard, I may venture to surmise, ten to twenty times by the audience. Nor is this all; many of the ballads will be of the most wretchedly mediocre description, sung by the greatest singers of the day as an advertisement for some publishing house. Among those no longer needing such an emphasis of renown, nothing that Mr. Sims Reeves can sing draws" like "My pretty Jane," nothing is so "captivating" from a débutante as "She wore a wreath of roses," or The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington," while Mr. Santley's singing of "Simon the Cellarer" gathers hearers from the highways and by-ways of the musical world. Nothing interests the public like old association 66 66 partly because a simple melody has the power to revive an old, buried, or halfforgotten sensation or emotion; listening to greater strains, we lose the fragrant touches of the past in awakening to new interpretations, new thoughts, or ideas of the music filling our ears. But in a song that has only words and melody, only a refrain, with a charm like that of the "North Country Maid," we can afford to indulge in retrospect or imaginings: "Oh! the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree, They flourish at home in my own country." As Miss Orridge or Madame Patey sings, many a heart in the audience beats in response; many a listener turns back to North Country days, and feels again the touch of their fair blossom and rich verdure. So it is that the ballad-writers of the day most directly address the people. Ballad-making has for a long time been the pastime as well as the work of English composers, and I wish that there was space to enlarge upon this point of the subject, since among many compositions of English writers, which are no more English than German, or Italian, or French, there are still ballads which are purely national, breathing a spirit not Teutonic, nor Gallic, but absolutely British. Mr. Arthur Sullivan, I suppose, should be allowed the place of honor; and while all the world knows and admires his songs, few, it seems to me, rightly appreciate hoi-yo ho, Ho-yeho ""I'm for the ferry. The briar's in their special power, namely, their marvel- | ballad-publishing has become an art in lous adaptability to the human voice. A England, the first principle of which is to great musician recently said, speaking of some song of Sullivan's, that "it sang itself. Sullivan," he added, "thinks scientifically of the organ he is writing for, which few song-writers do." Among the young composers of the day a few have struck directly the key-note of success in touching the heart and fancy of the people. Cowen has done this to some extent, and written music that deserves to be more than merely popular; but Theo. Marzials's ballads have achieved a success typically English. At this present moment half the populace of London know in some fashion the music of "Twickenham Ferry," and "Three Sailor Lads." Five minutes ago I laid down my pen to look out for a moment at a gay wheelbarrow of English flowers, greatstarred primroses, daffodils, and daisies, which a man in corduroys was wheeling across a lawn. He stopped short for a moment, and with an involuntary swing began to whistle the refrain, "Ho-yo, hoi-yoi, you're late for the ferry," finishing the air very creditably; but far away, somewhere nearer to the shade of Kensington Gardens, the infectious music was caught up; a cruder "whistle" it was the second time, but still showing that possession of the tune which the English street Arabs, as well as the young ladies in drawing-rooms, all have where a ballad is concerned. I suppose the varied associations about Twickenham have influenced the ballad's popularity in a certain way. Not long ago we drove along the cool riverbank it describes, and at least half a dozen idlers by the way, at one point or another, were inspired to take up the quaint refrain. As for the author himself, he is a young man, one of the officials in the British Museum, where he superintends the musical department of the library. All his songs are speedily taken up, and they seem to have established a character of their own, as well as to have given a new impetus to the school of "out-of-door" music, as it is called, chiefly because it has to do with sea and shore events. These songs are sung first in the provinces, where a very plebeian audience frequently decides upon their merits. Not long ago one of the now popular ballads was accepted on the recommendation of an audience composed chiefly of sailors and 'longshoremen! If ballad-making is an English instinct, appreciate the limits of the people: to disturb no old familiar "tune," but gradually work from it to new strains. Hence it is that new songs are with certain gradations wonderfully like each other, and when Mr. Corney Grain, in his very comical and life-like sketch, "Our Calico Ball," gives a list of "recipes" for popular songs, his satire is almost too much like reality to be thoroughly enjoyed. There is the aesthetic, the nautical, and the retrospective ballad; and Mr. Corney Grain humorously contends that any one observing certain of his leading rules can compose one or other to suit any English audience. An "agitato of thirds or fifths," he fancies, carries on an idea of some pathetic reminiscence, while an "everlasting arpeggio" is the best suggestion for the loss of all earthly hopes, and the "dawn of another day!" How persistently one theme is kept up was recently illustrated by an occurrence at one of the principal music-publishing houses in London. A well-known singer calling for some music, the principal of the firm requested her to look over some MS. music just sent in on approval. "I am bound," said he, "to take one of the songs." Mlle. - read them, one after another. "They are not bad," said she, "but they are just like everything else one hears." "So much the better," rejoined Mr. X. "Here is one," said she, "that is almost an exact copy of"-mentioning a very popular song of the period. "Excellent!" said the publisher. "It will be sure to take, then. I'll have it out at once." Among English composers, several women have taken leading places as balladwriters, and one of these had the most curious gift of harmony, writing and publishing before she had taken one lesson in counterpoint. Some years ago Ferdinand Hiller, the famous musician, then as now at Cologne, received and taught an English pupil, a young girl, whose taste was so evidently delicate and instinctive that he devoted a great part of his time to her instruction. Coming to her one day for the usual lesson, he found her absent, and while waiting, amused himself with a pile of English songs which lay upon the piano. When she appeared, he said at once, "These are very pretty songs; where did you find them? I must have them." His pupil looked at him in astonishment, for her name-Elizabeth Philp-was on the title-page, and he had overlooked it. Hiller could scarcely credit the fact. "How is it," he exclaimed, "you composed before you knew one rule of harmony? Can you do it now?" "Certainly," said Miss Philp, laughing at her master's vehement incredulity. Harmony had come to her as naturally as breathing. She seated herself before the piano, while Hiller put into her hands a volume of Goethe's poems. "There," he said, "let me see you compose. Choose something." Miss Philp turned the leaves at random, chose some verses, and without any hesitation composed one of her best songs-"Die blauen Frühlingsaugen." Returning to England, she entered upon a systematic career, which has been very successful, and still pursuing it, she is today not only known for her songs, like "The Poacher's Widow," "One Little Year Ago," and "Somebody's Waiting for Somebody," but for the genial aid and kindness she has shown so many struggling musicians who have brought their genius and despair to her ministrations. The programme of a genuine ballad concert, as I have suggested, is overpowering to most American auditors. Fancy from twenty to thirty ballads in an afternoon, only one-third of which, perhaps, are in any degree worthy of the great singers whose names give a glory to the occasion. That English singers understand the art of ballad-singing is now unquestioned. Go into St. James's Hall at any of the "great ballad concerts," and you will receive a lesson in declamation and enunciation from Madame Patey or Madame Sherrington, Sims Reeves, Santley, or Edward Lloyd, or, indeed, from the various new singers whose laurels have just been received in the Royal Academy. Sims Reeves is, of course, no longer young; an elderly, well-preserved man, with constant associations of his palmy days and of long ago profuse about him; a man who, with his dark hair and heavy mustache, his rich rolling voice and rather stiff manner, seems to have stepped out of the frame-work of an 1830 picture; just the man who might yesterday have sung to an audience wherein flowered waistcoats and gilt buttons and plumes and poke-bonnets predominated. One rarely hears him now, but his voice has an undying charm, and he still reaches that sweet "upper note" with exquisite purity. At the ballad concerts there is usually the variety of some glees, well sung by Mr. Walker's society of gentlemen; these open the concert; and then, one after another, the soloists come out. If it be evening, there is the air of an evening party, for audience and singers are in full dress, and during the intervals a buzz of conversation arises, and people drift about into groups, as at the "Populars." A famous musician was complaining the other day that, with all the music vibrating in London, there was no distinctively musical circle. To say this, howev |