further. Our interest was intense. Two more acts, and they had arrived at their destination-with which catastrophe the opera terminated. Another instance-in which one of our leading composers allowed himself to be terribly handicapped by a stupid libretto. The librettist, beating heaven and earth for a subject, at last fixed on a story about a certain knight who was in love with the wife of a certain baron. The baron seized the knight, and, taking his heart out, served it up for his wife's dinner. Such a theme was sufficient to ruin any opera, and had it not been for the superlative excellence of the music, the piece would not have outlived the first night.

Composers are seriously to blame in accepting such books for their operas; and we strongly suspect they have not yet got over the old idea that any words are good enough to write music to.' For this reason we think they are not sufficiently judicious in selecting the men who are to play the important part of being their librettists. They give the work to whoever is nearest them-to the musical critics of newspapers-to private friends-people to whom one does not, as a rule, look for any exceptional literary talent; and imagine that any stuff, which is obtained without the trouble of search, will serve their turn, because they can cover up its imperfections by their good music. There can be no greater mistake. A good libretto is half the battle; and until good librettos begin to be written, or, rather, until composers take pains to procure them, there is no hope for English opera, whether it is subsidised by the State, or supported by the contributions of enthusiasts, or financed by the wealth of some millionaire. There is this much to be said on the composer's behalf, however the qualifications which make a good librettist are rare. He must be at once a poet and a musician, must have the knack of rhyme, and must be able to see and to calculate the possibilities of every musical effect. He must also have a vein of originality for suggesting subjects, and taste and skill in their treatment. To these a knowledge of stage business must be added. Plainly enough, there are such men, but they are not to be found every day. Still, Scribe kept half-a-dozen composers in librettos at the same time, and not one of them failed. A good librettist, therefore, would be a very valuable addition to the prospects of English opera.

Another cause which is likewise at the root of the matter concerns the composers themselves. And we think that in naming this we shall not only be naming one of the stumbling-blocks which lie in the way of English opera, but shall specify a great evil in the music of to-day. There is too much show music' written by far. When a composer has struggled out of the Tophet of pupil-taking, and has gained a sufficient competency to ensure him the leisure for more congenial work-he is conductor of some large choral society, let us say, or the director of some amateur orchestra-he forthwith

commences to ramble at will through literature or the Bible, and choose a subject for a cantata or, it may be, an oratorio. Having got the words arranged for him by a private friend or by a musical critic, he settles himself down to write. In due course the cantata is finished and is performed by the choral society of which he is conductor, amid the tremendous applause of the friends and relations of the members of the choral society. Encouraged by this success, the composer writes another cantata. Again a performance. Again applause. Another. Performance again. Applause again. And so he continues, imagining that he is establishing his reputation by writing good music, as it most probably is, forgetting all the time what a limited circle he appeals to, and that nobody ever hears his music except the members of the choral society.

The same notion about musical composition prevails in higher quarters among those who have still more leisure to devote to the task and a larger capacity for getting their works performed. The opinion possesses many a composer-indeed, all those to whom we elect to give the title earnest '-that his duty is by no means to write down to the appreciation of the general public, but to pursue his path in those higher spheres of art which were trodden by the great composers of the past (at a time, he forgets, when public taste was sufficiently cultivated to closely follow them). As a consequence of this very mistaken rectitude the composer writes such symphonies as would have received great applause in Beethoven's day, such trios as the patrons of Mozart would have listened to with attention, and finally such music as will interest only the most cultivated and refined auditors of the present time. Music like this is what we may denominate show music.' It is not a marketable article by any In common parlance, 'It does not pay.' Musicians, therefore, are reduced to this unfortunate dilemma: that, when they do their very best work, unlike the craftsmen of any other art, they receive no reward for it whatever, and if they still would haunt the higher spheres must needs live on air to continue there.

means.

They are not a flexible or versatile race. They are generally unstudied in the world. The ways and means of life, therefore, are not sought to be wrung out of writing music, but out of some homelier occupation of their profession; and composition remains the refined pastime of leisure. In other words, the very faculty they excel in is fated to prove of no commercial value, and, except so far as the approbation of a few judicious admirers is concerned, might quite as profitably never have been conferred on them at all. Their best energies are wasted. Their work never obtains an entry into the annals of the art, for the applause and hearty interest of the present age is the only avenue to the memory of posterity. And that such applause and interest are not accorded to this 'show music' of our composers results from an obvious reason. The world has its galleries

now in music as in other arts. If the public want to hear a symphony, there are the glorious nine ever present with them. There are the symphonies of Schubert, of Mendelssohn-unapproachable masterpieces, which can be listened to in many a concert-room excellently performed. The galleries of music are full of symphonies -all inimitable, all models. If the public have a mind for a sonata, Beethoven supplies them by dozens with such sonatas that to hanker after others seems nothing less than a profanity. Trios, quartettes, have been written in abundance by the greatest masters, and the public knows where to get the best article,' to use a vulgarism, when it wants a piece of that description. Meantime our most earnest composers are hard at work pouring forth productions of a similar nature-forgetting that the market is glutted, and glutted, too, with such wares that the united genius of every living European would fail to furnish their fellows. The productions thus daily sent into the world are performed as we have mentioned, command a limited appreciation from the cultivated, but nothing to speak of, and are then put aside. They belong to the category of 'show music,' nothing more. And thus an immensity of musical energy, often of the highest order, is daily and yearly wasted.

If the musicians would only adopt the simple rule, which is an unfortunate condition imposed upon literary men and others who pursue the lighter professions of life, to write nothing unless it has a chance of paying-the principle seems mercenary, but is nevertheless a very good one-their eyes would be at once turned to a field where there is an excellent market, and where-what is more-they would have all the ground to themselves. In English opera they need not fear the competition of Beethoven, Mozart, or Schubert. There are no classical masterpieces of the style which render rivalry idle and effort unavailing. The field is open the way is clear. The public have no prejudices or preconceived ideas, because nothing has ever been done yet. The stage is not blocked with English operas as the concert-platform is blocked with symphonies, as the drawing-room is blocked with sonatas, as the festival-hall is blocked with cantatas and oratorios. There is a great demand for an absent commodity: but the supply must be of such a nature that managers will accept itin other words, the operas must be such operas as are likely to pay.' Meanwhile, managers, knowing what the public want, and being totally destitute of any home supply, send over to France for their pieces, which are clumsily patched-up-by courtesy they are said to be adapted-often shockingly translated; and yet, despite all these objections, so great is the hunger for opera that the things go down.

6

We are of course aware that many an earnest composer, nourishing high ideas about his art, would be scandalised at the notion of a work of his running for a number of nights at some small London theatre, such as Toole's or the Strand. He would think his fame was blemished

for ever; that his musical repute had received a shock from which it would never recover. There is a sort of idea abroad that when a man writes an English opera, he must go to the largest stage in the country-Covent Garden or Drury Lane, which looks lamentably bare and tenantless unless the scenery and pageantry are of the most brilliant and elaborate description; that he must go to the largest theatre in the country-Drury Lane or Covent Garden, which always seems empty, even when there is a full house; and under these doleful circumstances he must produce his opera, which is to astonish the world for three nights only. On the lonely stage one character walks in; another character walks out. One character kills another character, and the other character walks in again. Then enter a chorus, and so on. The composer has no very definite ideas about making his piece a monetary success, and so he cares little what happens on the stage so long as he gets his music in. To write an opera is a great distinction, and necessarily stamps a man as a sterling musician. The audience to whom he appeals with this sort of opera, and under these circumstances, is mainly composed of friendly or hostile musicians. The general public have no part in it. He does not expect the piece to pay, but he has written an opera and produced it at Covent Garden, which is undoubtedly a feather in his cap.

So far from these large houses and these dull, or, we should rather say, professional, audiences being the proper prospect for a composer, there can be no house too small and no audience too mixed and general. A small house will have a very salutary effect on many earnest men. It will take out of them all notions about high writing and stupendous musical effects, owing to the humility of its acoustic properties, while an exceedingly general audience will be an equally profitable disciplinarian, because it will not hesitate to condemn him the moment he ceases to interest. Such houses and such audiences would be of untold value to a composer if he could utilise their teachings night after night, and gradually remodel his entire opera until it had completely satisfied their requirements. But as such patience is not the possession of the public usually, and they expect everything to be in trim when they come to see it, or else the outburst of their indignation will follow, the composer must meditate on all the indispensable conditions beforehand in order to avert their wrath.

First and foremost he must provide himself with a good libretto. On this we should say roundly the whole fortune of the piece depends. A good libretto will make amends for bad music, but good music will never make amends for a bad libretto. If the libretto is light, the music need not necessarily be flimsy. Indeed, we can promise the composer that he may indulge his most recondite vein at times without danger, and throughout the opera may write his very best and most valued music. The libretto will correct him when he is

inclined to prose and become tedious. It will keep him from tripping; it will be his salvation if he has any theories. Whatever he does, the opera will succeed-only provided that he has a good libretto.

In the second place, he must provide himself with a good libretto. On this we should say roundly the whole fortune of the piece depends. The best music in the world, which sounds elegant and even sublime in the concert-room, if by any means it could be transmuted into the music of the theatre, would fall flat and meaningless if linked with a bad libretto, so inextricably are the two intermingled-so important is a good libretto to the composer.

In the third place, he must by all means provide himself with a good libretto, for without it he can do nothing. In the fourth place, he must do the same; and having obtained the libretto he has only to sit down and write the very best music which his training and his genius admit of; and with a good libretto his opera will be a

success.

The libretto, then, being of such importance to the composer, we may take public opinion into our counsel as to what sort of subject is most likely to command favour from an ordinary audience. High tragedy seems certainly at a discount; not, we believe, because it lacks elements of interest for the vulgar mind, but because, in English opera at least, it has been so badly done. People are afraid of it. It is like writing an epic poem. They will not have it on any consideration. What subject, then, will suit them? or better still-for there is no use trying to indoctrinate the public-what subjects suit them already? The operas which they go in their thousands to hear are the light French ones, whose subjects are gay, whimsical, and even frivolous. The scene is laid in the land of Nowhere. Princes act like footmen, and footmen very like princes. The drollery is laid on with no sparing hand. Some slight imbroglio does duty for a plot, but there are plenty of amusing situations, and humorous tableaux, which make up for the deficiency of leading incident. There is no doubt that very good music might be written to such pieces, if composers would but try. In fact, the general complaint at present is that the music is too flimsy, though the libretto naturally saves it from perdition.

Light comic opera, then, of such a nature, seems to offer a very fair opening for genuine English opera to begin upon. Do composers hang back? Why? Is it beneath them? Some of the best music of the world is that written for comic opera. Rossini had a barber for his hero, and yet produced a masterpiece for musicians to envy. Who would wish the lightness of Mozart's Marriage of Figaro to have been sacrificed to the heavy requirements of a tragedy? Let somebody go into the breach, and write the music up-that is surely a laudable ambition-turning bad French music into good English, substituting sound melodious