respect brought forward than a question arises as to what Church music really is; and it will be found very difficult to proceed until it has been to some extent answered. Of course the expression 'Church music' covers two well-marked subdivisions-cathedral music and parish music. It is to be hoped that it will ere long be understood to include also the long-exiled oratorio, but on this more will be said hereafter.

Many of those into whose hands these pages come are doubtless familiar with the chief varieties of style in our cathedral music. As this variety of style is more marked in the anthems than in the settings of the canticles, we will first say a few words about the former of these two most important elements of cathedral music. Even occasional visitors to our cathedrals must have learnt to distinguish between— (1) the pure vocal style, in which Orlando Gibbons excelled; (2) the mixed vocal and instrumental type of anthem, with short independent symphonies, called ritornelli, of which Henry Purcell left so many specimens ; (3) a later school growing out of the two former, in which Boyce distinguished himself; and, (4) and lastly, a modern form, in which the function of the organ is largely extended, and a more descriptive or realistic style predominates. It is a misfortune that so few examples of the early or pure vocal style exist. It was founded on the choicest Italian models; and, by the firm hold it took after the Reformation, promised well for the future of English cathedral music. Its career was practically brought to a close when our greatest musical genius, Henry Purcell, was, immediately after the Restoration, sent over to France in order to be instructed in and imbued with the vulgar and flimsy style popular at the French Court. The incalculable mischief which this importation of French thought brought upon our national Church music has never been fully realised, partly because its vices were overshadowed by the genius of a Purcell, partly because some of the very worst specimens of its class have been so drummed into the ears of cathedral-goers that they seem unable to live without them. What would be said to a modern composer who in sober seriousness set the sublime words, I beheld, and, lo, a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, which stood before the throne,' &c., to music commencing with a trifling and undignified scrap of melody for the organ, to be immediately repeated by a single alto voice? This initial motif is also ingeniously constructed to lie just where a male alto has a distinct 'break' between two registers of voice; and so, as the notes are about equally divided on either side of

this break, the enunciation of these solemn words sounds as if the composer had wedded them to a grotesquely incoherent duet between a flute and a bagpipe. Yet this anthem is in constant use in our cathedrals, and would probably be selected by many organists as one of the best in the French style.

Nor did our more truly English school of anthems, which combined in many ways the good characteristics of former styles, pay much more regard to the real force of words, or to the most appropriate way of clothing them in sounds. Perhaps Boyce's 'By the waters of Babylon' is the best known specimen of this class; but even in this, notwithstanding its many beauties, the same serious blot may be discovered; for when the poet, in the bitterness of his spirit, cries with a mysterious outpouring of human detestation and abhorrence, ‘O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery, yea, happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us,' the musician broaches the liveliest possible subject fugato solely for the purpose of producing a bright and pleasurable musical climax. Gounod, in his setting of the same Psalm, has not thus missed the point of the words; he has, perhaps, even erred, though in the right direction, by giving them the realistic force of an angry execration.

We are not here indicating the faults of our anthemwriters of the French and English schools for the purpose of indiscriminately condemning them as a whole, but rather in the hope of weaning the affections of those who are so rapt up in them that they see no merits in our young modern writers, and use every effort to discourage the production of their works. Our cathedrals cannot in any sense further the culture of Church music by checking its natural growth, but by directing and tempering its course. It may, no doubt, be truly urged that our young writers are too fond of high colouring, and are often too realistic; but, on the other hand, the earlier writers have either used no colouring at all, or have, when they attempted a sound-picture, used the wrong colours. The only safe course to pursue in our cathedrals with regard to the selection of anthems is to retain the best specimens of older schools, and at the same time offer every encouragement to young composers to supply the constantly increasing want of Church music. Although this dictum would appear to be self-evident, it is quite extraordinary how few musicians and amateurs are able to abstain from the temptation of making themselves champions of some particular style. About fifty years since a very strong section of musicians in this country tried hard to prove that no

music, strictly speaking, could be called Church music unless written in the pure vocal or Italian style. But, probably in consequence of the small quantity of music of this school available for English use, the French school was afterwards included, brought in under the wing of Purcell. The next step could not, of course, be logically avoided, and the English school of last century was also included in their repertory. But beyond this they resolutely refused to enlarge their definition of Church music. The whole musical power of our cathedrals was, until quite lately, in the hands of organists holding these opinions; and so unreservedly did they abuse new anthems that they succeeded in making the word 'modern' almost synonymous with secular.' The result might have been anticipated. These purists gradually pared down their lists of 'real' Church music until a mere handful of anthems were in use, and were repeated week by week ad nauseam. Of course, in deference to the wishes of some ladies who attended the cathedral services regularly, Mendelssohn's 'Oh, rest in the Lord,' and Spohr's 'As pants the hart,' were occasionally heard, but with a few such exceptions nothing was allowed to disturb the dull and cold respectability of an attenuated cycle of 'old favourites.'

We ought to say, however, that two additional facts deserve to be recorded in this sketch of the musical state of our cathedrals just prior to the present renaissance. First, each organist made a mental reservation that his own compositions did not contain the vices of modernism, and they were performed much to the delight of regular worshippers, who hardly could find words wherewith to extol the talent of their local musician, who could positively produce some music which was not exactly like that by Blow or Green. The second fact, if less amusing, is of more importance-namely, that the small quantity of the music used in a regular routine became so familiar, both to singing-men and singing-boys, that the organist could always on week-days be absent from his post, either for his pleasure or profit, leaving a youthful articledpupil to preside at the organ; moreover, no full choir-practices could be needed, or demanded, when the music was so often repeated that it 'taught itself,' and the labour of training the choir boys was in the same way reduced to a minimum. Thus the purity of taste on which such champions of the old school so prided themselves not only saved them a vast amount of trouble, but added largely to their income.

As to the canticles, but little need be said. It is probable that from the year 1600 to 1800 not more than six or eight

settings of the Te Deum were produced, which are barely tolerable. The causes of this are identical with those just pointed out as rendering anthem music so long stationary and soulless. In some cases the cathedral 'services,' as canticles are called, are framed for the purpose of getting through the words with undue haste; in others they are mere concatenations of exercises in close imitation; in scarcely any is an attempt made to do justice to the words, while in several, positive violence is done to their meaning. In this department also living Church composers have made a praiseworthy, and on the whole a successful effort to fill up the gap caused by the idleness or want of taste of their predecessors; and here again they have sometimes laid themselves open to the charge of being too realistic, and of having attempted to drive home the meaning of the words by wedding them to music so descriptive or picturesque as to tempt hearers away from their consideration rather than attract them towards it. The same excuse must again be made; at the present time a very necessary reaction is taking place against the old theory that all kinds and characters of words-prayer, praise, or narrative -can be worthily sung to the same style of music, because that style happens in itself to be pure. In the sister art of painting a similar theory was brought forward, and maintained almost to an absurdity, some years since. It may be remembered that Sir Joshua Reynolds found serious fault with the painter West for not having dressed Penn and the Indians like Greek gods and goddesses. Reynolds had long made up his mind that no more elegant or artistic dress than that of the Greeks had ever existed; therefore, why not put it on Quakers and savages in a picture? The analogy is apparent. The Italian style of vocal part-music is pure and artistic; therefore, why not clothe words of all kinds in it? So things stood half a century ago, and the least that can be said is that a revolution in our cathedral system of music was inevitable; the only question was whence should the revolution come, and in what direction would it tend.

As not uncommonly happens, it commenced in a quarter, and arose from causes, from which it was least expected. The increased activity in Church work, and growing interest in its services, which constituted a 'revival' in this century, naturally led to the formation of a large number of parish choirs. While cathedral music slept, these choirs had been quietly but steadily improving. The directors of these hard-working and often enthusiastic bodies were not hampered by those noble traditions whose loss we are so often asked to

deplore; moreover, they could see and appreciate the fact that the cathedral purists, in their great anxiety to train the growing sapling of Church music into a straight tree, had so bound it round and round with their rigid rules of conventional art that it was fairly throttled. Tasteful critics pronounced it, indeed, to be most correctly straight, but it was lifeless. The parish choirs worked on their own lines; from time to time several of them desired to join for a service of united praise. When the selection of music was made, an anthem was required; the nearest cathedral organist was duly and respectfully consulted; he promptly referred them to the works of Blow or Green. What could be better? A musical setting of the canticles was required; the same authority referred them to Gibbons. Some parish choirs had the audacity to start a choral celebration of Holy Communion. Where was the music for the Sanctus and Gloria in Excelsis? Here the cathedral musician was for a time puzzled; he had never heard of such a thing as a choral celebration. But his purity of taste came to the rescue; he could recommend the Sanctus and Gloria by Thomas Tallis. It was true that this was probably written about the year 1550, and might be a little antiquated; it was also in the key of D minor Dorico, a somewhat obsolete scale; but the music was in the real Church style. It is needless to say that neither parish choirs nor parish congregations were willing in this their youth of spiritual life to embrace music which offered correctness of diction in the place of fitness of thought, and, instead of beauty in art, presented them only with ingenuity in artifice. Young composers were then appealed to, who, despite the adverse criticism of the old cathedral organists, which they knew awaited their productions, did their best to supply music bright and melodious, true to the gist of the text, free from difficulties of performance. If all the works written with these ends in view may not be of the very highest type, it must still be acknowledged that it was to this alliance of young composers with parish choirs that the present renaissance of Church music entirely owes its existence. The credit must not be given to a certain few well-known men, albeit full of genius, who, while calling loudly for progress, and while uniformly depreciating other men's efforts, successfully avoided the soiling of a shoulder against the rut-locked wheel. For ten or fifteen years the only good cathedral service in London was to be heard in a small, insignificant-looking parish church in Wells Street, Oxford Street. Let parish choirs see to it, lest history rob them of their due reward for having puț