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THE COLONISTS.

Art does not prosper as hermit. Of course, every great creator has a certain aloofness of soul, and an inner isolation; but he must at times submit his work to the comparison of his fellow artists; he must profit by their discoveries as well as their errors; he must grow overheated in those passionate musical arguments that never convince any one out of his former belief, and serve salutarily to raise the temper, cultivate caloric, and deepen convictions previously held; he must exchange criticisms and discuss standards with others, else he will be eternally making discoveries that are stale and unprofitable to the rest of the world; he will seek to reach men’s souls through channels long dammed up, and his achievements will be marred by naïve triteness and primitive crudeness.

So, while the artistic tendency may be a universal nervous system, artists are inclined to ganglionate. The nerve-knots vary in size and importance, and one chief ganglion may serve as a feeding brain, but it cannot monopolize the activity. In America, particularly, these ganglia, or colonies, are an interesting and vital phase of our development. For a country in which the different federated states are, many of them, as large as old-world kingdoms, it is manifestly impossible for any one capital to dominate. Furthermore, the national spirit is too insubordinate to accept any centre as an oracle.

New York, which has certainly drawn to itself a preponderance of respectable composers, has yet been unable to gather in many of the most important, and like the French Academy, must always suffer in prestige because of its conspicuous absentees. In the second place, New York is the least serious and most fickle city in the country, and is regarded with mingled envy and patronage by other cities.

Boston is even more unpopular with the rest of the country. And New York and other cities have enticed away so many of the leading spirits of her musical colony, that she cannot claim her once overwhelming superiority. And yet, Boston has been, and is, the highest American representative of that much abused term, culture. Of all the arts, music doubtless gets her highest favor.

The aid Boston has been to American music is vital, and far outweighs that of any other city. That so magnificent an organization as its Symphony Orchestra could be so popular, shows the solidity of its general art appreciations. The orchestra has been remarkably willing, too, to give the American composer a chance to be heard. Boston has been not only the promulgator, but in a great measure the tutor, of American music.

In Boston-town, folk take things seriously and studiously. In New York they take them fiercely, whimsically. Like most generalizations, this one has possibly more exceptions than inclusions. But it is convenient.

It is convenient, too, to group together such of the residents of these two towns, as I have not discussed elsewhere. The Chicago coterie makes another busy community; and St. Louis and Cleveland have their activities of more than intramural worth; Cincinnati, which was once as musically thriving as its strongly German qualities necessitated, but which had a swift and strange decline, seems to be plucking up heart again. For this, the energy of Frank van der Stucken is largely to credit. Aside from the foreign-born composers there, one should mention the work of Richard Kieserling, Jr., and Emil Wiegand. The former went to Europe in 1891 and studied at the Leipzig Conservatory, under Reinecke, Homeyer, Rust, Schreck and Jadassohn. He also studied conducting under Sitt. At his graduation, he conducted a performance of his own composition, “Jeanne d’Arc.” He returned to his native city, Cincinnati, in 1895, where he has since remained, teaching and conducting. Among his works, besides piano pieces and songs, are: “A May Song,” for women’s chorus and piano; six pieces for violin and piano; “Harold,” a ballad for male chorus, barytone solo, and orchestra; “Were It Not For Love,” composed for male chorus; several sets of male choruses; a motet for mixed chorus a cappella; a berceuse for string orchestra, an introduction and rondo for violin and orchestra; and a “Marche Nuptiale,” for grand orchestra.

Emil Wiegand was also born in Cincinnati, and had his first tuition on the violin from his father. His theoretical studies have been received entirely in Cincinnati. He is a member of the local Symphonic Orchestra, and has composed an overture for grand orchestra, a string quartette, and various pieces for the violin, piano, and voice.

In San Francisco there is less important musical composition than there was in the days when Kelley and Page were active there. The work of H.B. Pasmore is highly commended by cognoscenti, as are also the works of Frederick Zeck, Jr., who was born in San Francisco, studied in Germany, and has composed symphonies, a symphonic poem, “Lamia,” a romantic opera, and other works; Samuel Fleischmann, born in California and educated abroad, a concert pianist, who has written, among other things, an overture, “Hero and Leander,” which was performed in New York; and P.C. Allen, who studied in Europe, and has written well.

But the larger cities do not by any means contain all the worthy composition. In many smaller cities, and in a few villages even, can be found men of high culture and earnest endeavor.

In Yonkers, New York, is Frederick R. Burton, who has written a dramatic cantata on Longfellow’s “Hiawatha,” which has been frequently performed. In this work use is made of an actual Indian theme, which was jotted down by H.E. Krehbiel, and is worked up delightfully in the cantata, an incessant thudding of a drum in an incommensurate rhythm giving it a decidedly barbaric tone. The cantata contains also a quaint and touching contralto aria, and a pathetic setting of the death-song of Minnehaha. Burton is a graduate of Harvard, and a writer as well as a composer. He organized, in 1896, the Yonkers Choral Society, of which he is conductor.

At Hartford, Conn., is Nathan H. Allen, who was born in Marion, Mass., in 1848. In 1867 he went to Berlin, where he was a pupil of Haupt for three years. In this country he has been active as an organist and teacher. Many of his compositions of sacred music have been published, including a cantata, “The Apotheosis of St. Dorothy.”

At Providence, R.I., a prominent figure is Jules Jordan, who was born at Willimantic, Conn., November 10, 1850, of colonial ancestry. Though chiefly interested in oratorio singing, in which he has been prominent, he has written a number of songs, some of which have been very popular. The best of these are a rapturous “Love’s Philosophy,” a delicious “Dutch Lullaby,” “An Old Song,” and “Stay By and Sing.” He has written some religious songs, part songs, and three works for soli, chorus, and orchestra, “Windswept Wheat,” “A Night Service,” and “Barbara Frietchie;” also “Joel,” a dramatic scene for soprano and orchestra, sung at the Worcester Musical Festival by Mme. Nordica. This I have not seen, nor his romantic opera, “Rip Van Winkle.” In June, 1895, Brown University conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Music. Two albums of his songs are published.

A writer of many religious solos and part songs is E.W. Hanscom, who lives in Auburn, Me. He was born at Durham, in the same State, December 28, 1848. He has made two extended visits to London, Berlin and Vienna, for special work under eminent teachers, but has chiefly studied in Maine. Besides his sacred songs Hanscom has published a group of six songs, all written intelligently, and an especially good lyric, “Go, Rose, and in Her Golden Hair,” a very richly harmonized “Lullaby,” and two “Christmas Songs,” with violin obbligato.

In Delaware, Ohio, at the Ohio Wesleyan University, is a composer, Willard J. Baltzell, who has found inspiration for many worthy compositions, but publishers for only two, both of these part songs, “Dreamland” and “Life is a Flower,” of which the latter is very excellent writing.

Baltzell was for some years a victim of the musical lassitude of Philadelphia. He had his musical training there. He has written in the large forms a suite founded on Rossetti’s “Love’s Nocturne,” an overture, “Three Guardsmen,” a “Novelette” for orchestra, a cantata, “The Mystery of Life,” and an unfinished setting of Psalm xvii. with barytone solo. These are all scored for orchestra, and the manuscript that I have seen shows notable psychological power. Other works are: a string quartette, a trio, “Lilith,” based on Rossetti’s poem, “Eden Bower,” a nonet, and a violin sonata. He has also written for the piano and organ fugues and other works. These I have not seen; but I have read many of his songs in manuscript, and they reveal a remarkable strenuousness, and a fine understanding of the poetry. His song, “Desire,” is full of high-colored flecks of harmony that dance like the golden motes in a sunbeam. His “Madrigal” has much style and humor. He has set to music a deal of the verse of Langdon E. Mitchell, besides a song cycle, “The Journey,” which is an interesting failure, a failure because it cannot interest any public singer, and interesting because of its artistic musical landscape suggestion; and there are the songs, “Fallen Leaf,” which is deeply morose, and “Loss,” which has some remarkable details and a strange, but effective, ambiguous ending. Other songs are a superbly rapturous setting of E.C. Stedman’s “Thou Art Mine,” and a series of songs to the words of Richard Watson Gilder, a poet who is singularly interesting to composers: “Thistledown” is irresistibly volatile; “Because the Rose Must Fade” has a nobility of mood; “The Winter Heart” is a powerful short song, and “Woman’s Thought,” aside from one or two dangerous moments, is stirring and intense. Baltzell writes elaborate accompaniments, for which his skill is sufficient, and he is not afraid of his effects.

In the far Xanadu of Colorado lives Rubin Goldmark, a nephew of the famous Carl Goldmark. He was born in New York in 1872. He attended the public schools and the College of the City of New York. At the age of seven he began the study of the piano with Alfred M. Livonius, with whom he went to Vienna at the age of seventeen. There he studied the piano with Anton Door, and composition with Fuchs, completing in two years a three years’ course in harmony and counterpoint. Returning to New York, he studied with Rafael Joseffy and with Doctor Dvorak for one year. In 1892 he went to Colorado Springs for his health. Having established a successful College of Music there, he has remained as its director and as a lecturer on musical topics.

At the age of nineteen he wrote his “Theme and Variations” for orchestra. They were performed under Mr. Seidl’s leadership in 1895 with much success. Their harmonies are singularly clear and sweet, of the good old school. At the age of twenty Goldmark wrote a trio for piano, violin, and ’cello. After the first performance of this work at one of the conservatory concerts, Doctor Dvorak exclaimed, “There are now two Goldmarks.” The work has also had performance at the concerts of the Kaltenborn Quartette, and has been published. It begins with a tentative questioning, from which a serious allegro is led forth. It is lyrical and sane, though not particularly modern, and certainly not revolutionary in spirit. The second movement, a romanza, shows more contrapuntal resource, and is full of a deep yearning and appeal, an extremely beautiful movement. The scherzo evinces a taking jocosity with a serious interval. The piano part is especially humorous. The finale begins with a touch of Ethiopianism that is perhaps unconscious. The whole movement is very original and quaint.

Goldmark’s music shows a steady development from a conservative simplicity to a modern elaborateness, a development thoroughly to be commended if it does not lead into obscurity. This danger seems to threaten Goldmark’s career, judging from his cantata for chorus and orchestra, the “Pilgrimage to Kevlaar,” which, while highly interesting in places, and distinctly resourceful, is too abstruse and gloomy to stand much chance of public understanding.

Many of the works that I have had the privilege of examining in MS. have since been published; there is much originality, much attainment, and more promise in a number of his songs. His setting of Marlowe’s “Come Live with Me,” in spite of a few eccentricities, shows, on the whole, a great fluency of melody over an elaborately beautiful accompaniment. His solemn and mysterious “Forest Song” could deserve the advertisement of being “drawn from the wood.” “Die erste Liebe” shows a contemplative originality in harmony, and ends with a curious dissonance and resolution. “O’er the Woods’ Brow” is very strange and interesting, though somewhat abstruse. Less so is a song, “An den Abendsstern;” it has a comparison-forcing name, but is a delightful song. “Es muss ein Wunderbares sein” is notable for novel effects in harmonies of crystal with light dissonances to edge the facets. A sonata for piano and violin and a romanza for ’cello have been published, and his “Hiawatha” overture has been played by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. On this occasion the always quoteworthy mezzotintist, James Huneker, wrote:

“The nephew of a very remarkable composer, for Carl Goldmark outranks to-day all the Griegs, Massenets, Mascagnis, Saint-Saens, and Dvoraks you can gather, he needs must fear the presence in his scores of the avuncular apparition. His ‘Hiawatha’ overture was played by Mr. Gericke and the Boston Symphony Orchestra Wednesday of last week. At the first cantilena on the strings I nearly jumped out of my seat. It was bewilderingly luscious and Goldmarkian, a young Goldmark come to judgment. The family gifts are color and rhythm. This youth has them, and he also has brains. Original invention is yet to come, but I have hopes. The overture, which is not Indian, is full of good things, withal too lengthy in the free fantasia. There is life, and while there’s life there’s rhythm, and a nice variety there is. The allegro has one stout tune, and the rush and dynamic glow lasts. He lasts, does Rubin Goldmark, and I could have heard the piece through twice. The young American composer has not been idle lately.”

The New York Colony.

In every period where art is alive there must be violent faction, and wherever there is violent faction there is sure to be a tertium quid that endeavors to bridge the quarrel. The Daniel Websters call forth the Robert Haynes, and the two together evoke the compromisers, the Henry Clays.

In the struggle between modernity and classicism that always rages when music is in vitality, one always finds certain ardent spirits who endeavor to reconcile the conflicting theories of the different schools, and to materialize the reconciliation in their own work. An interesting example of this is to be found in the anatomical construction of one of the best American piano compositions, the fantasy for piano and orchestra by Arthur Whiting.

The composer has aimed to pay his respects to the classic sonata formula, and at the same time to warp it to more romantic and modern usages. The result of his experiment is a form that should interest every composer. As Whiting phrases it, he has “telescoped” the sonata form. The slow introduction prepares for the first and second subjects, which appear, as usual, except that they are somewhat developed as they appear. Now, in place of the regular development, the pastoral movement is brought forward. This is followed by the reprise of the first and second subjects. Then the finale appears. All of these movements are performed without pause, and the result is so successful that Whiting is using the same plan for a quintette.

Handwriting experts are fond of referring to the “picture effect” of a page of writing. It is sometimes startling to see the resemblance in “picture effect” between the music pages of different composers. The handsomely abused Perosi, for instance, writes many a page, which, if held at arm’s length, you would swear was one of Palestrina’s. Some of Mr. Whiting’s music has a decidedly Brahmsic picture effect. This feeling is emphasized when one remembers the enthusiasm shown for Brahms in Whiting’s concerts, where the works of the Ursus Minor of Vienna hold the place of honor. The resemblance is only skin deep, however, and Whiting’s music has a mind of its own.

The fantasy in question is full of individuality and brilliance. The first subject is announced appassionato by the strings, the piano joining with arabesquery that follows the general outlines. After this is somewhat developed, the second subject comes in whimsically in the relative major. This is written with great chromatic lusciousness, and is quite liberally developed. It suddenly disappears into what is ordinarily called the second movement, a pastoral, in which the piano is answered by the oboe, flute, clarinet, and finally the horn. This is gradually appassionated until it is merged into the reprise of the first movement proper. During this reprise little glints of reminiscence of the pastoral are seen. A coda of great bravery leads to the last movement, which is marked “scherzando,” but is rather martial in tone. The decidedly noble composition ends with great brilliancy and strength. It is published for orchestral score and for two pianos.

Whiting was born in Cambridge, Mass., June 20, 1861. He studied the piano with William H. Sherwood, and has made a successful career in concert playing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Kneisel Quartette, both of which organizations have performed works of his. In 1883 he went to Munich for two years, where he studied counterpoint and composition with Rheinberger. He is now living in New York as a concert pianist and teacher.

Four works of his for the piano are: “Six Bagatelles,” of which the “Caprice” has a charming infectious coda, while the “Humoreske” is less simple, and also less amusing. The “Album Leaf” is a pleasing whimsy, and the “Idylle” is as delicate as fleece. Of the three “Characteristic Waltzes,” the “Valse Sentimentale” is by far the most interesting. It manages to develop a sort of harmonic haze that is very romantic.

For the voice, Whiting has written little. Church music interests him greatly, and he has written various anthems, a morning and evening service, which keeps largely to the traditional colors of the Episcopal ecclesiastical manner, yet manages to be fervent without being theatrical. A trio, a violin sonata, and a piano quintette, a suite for strings, and a concert overture for orchestra complete the list of his writings.

On the occasion of a performance of Whiting’s “Fantasy,” Philip Hale thus picturesquely summed him up:

“In times past I have been inclined to the opinion that when Mr. Whiting first pondered the question of a calling he must have hesitated between chess and music. His music seemed to me full of openings and gambits and queer things contrived as in a game. He was the player, and the audience was his antagonist. Mr. Whiting was generally the easy conqueror. The audience gave up the contest and admired the skill of the musician.

“You respected the music of Mr. Whiting, but you did not feel for it any personal affection. The music lacked humanity. Mr. Whiting had, and no doubt has, high ideals. Sensuousness in music seemed to him as something intolerable, something against public morals, something that should be suppressed by the selectmen. Perhaps he never went so far as to petition for an injunction against sex in music; but rigorous intellectuality was his one aim. He might have written A Serious Call to Devout and Holy Composition, or A Practical Treatise upon Musical Perfection, to which is now added, by the same author, The Absolute Unlawfulness of the Stage Entertainment Fully Demonstrated.

“There was almost intolerance in Mr. Whiting’s musical attitude. He himself is a man of wit rather than humor, a man with a very pretty knack at sarcasm. He is industrious, fastidious, a severe judge of his own works. As a musician he was even in his dryest days worthy of sincere respect.

“Now this fantasia is the outward and sure expression of a change in Mr. Whiting’s way of musical thinking, and the change is decidedly for the better. There is still a display of pure intellectuality; there is still a solving of self-imposed problems; but Mr. Whiting’s musical enjoyment is no longer strictly selfish. Here is a fantasia in the true sense of the term; form is here subservient to fancy. The first movement, if you wish to observe traditional terminology, is conspicuous chiefly for the skill, yes, fancy, with which thematic material of no marked apparent inherent value is treated. The pastorale is fresh and suggestive. The ordinary pastorale is a bore. There is the familiar recipe: take an oboe the size of an egg, stir it with a flute, add a little piano, throw in a handful of muted strings, and let the whole gently simmer in a 9-8 stew-pan. But Mr. Whiting has treated his landscape and animal kingdom with rare discretion. The music gave pleasure; it soothed by its quiet untortured beauty, its simplicity, its discretion. And in like manner, without receiving or desiring to receive any definite, precise impression, the finale interested because it was not a hackneyed form of brilliant talk. The finale is something more than clever, to use a hideous term that I heard applied to it. It is individual, and this praise may be awarded the whole work. Remember, too, that although this is a fantasia, there is not merely a succession of unregulated, uncontrolled, incoherent sleep-chasings.

“In this work there is a warmer spirit than that which animated or kept alive Mr. Whiting’s former creations. There is no deep emotion, there is no sensuousness, there is no glowing color, no ‘color of deciduous days.’ These might be incongruous in the present scheme. But there is a more pronounced vitality, there is a more decided sympathy with the world and men and women; there is more humanity.

“The piano is here an orchestral instrument, and as such it was played admirably by Mr. Whiting. His style of playing is his own, even his tone seems peculiarly his own, with a crispness that is not metallic, with a quality that deceives at first in its carrying power. His performance was singularly clean and elastic, its personality was refreshing. He played the thoughts of Mr. Whiting in Mr. Whiting’s way. And thus by piece and performance did he win a legitimate success.”

Many American composers have had their first tuition from their mothers; few from their fathers. Mr. Huss is one of the latter few. The solidity of his musical foundation bespeaks a very correct beginning. He was born in Newark, N.J., June 21, 1862. His first teacher in the theory of music was Otis B. Boise, who has been for the last twenty years a teacher of theory in Berlin, though he was born in this country. Huss went to Munich in 1883 and remained three years. He studied counterpoint under Rheinberger, and won public mention for proficiency. At his second examination his idyl for small orchestra, “In the Forest,” was produced; and at his graduation he performed his “Rhapsody” in C major for piano and orchestra. A year after his return to America this work was given by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. A year later Van der Stucken gave it at the first of his concerts of American compositions. The next year Huss’ “Ave Maria,” for women’s voices, string orchestra, harp, and organ, was given a public hearing. The next year he gave a concert of his own works, and the same year, 1889, Van der Stucken produced his violin romance and polonaise for violin and orchestra at the Paris Exposition.

His piano concerto for piano and orchestra he played first with the Boston Symphony Orchestra in 1894, and has given it on numerous occasions since.

Other works, most of which have also been published, are: “The Fountain,” for women’s voices a cappella; a festival “Sanctus,” for chorus and orchestra; an “Easter Theme,” for chorus, organ, and orchestra; “The Winds,” for chorus and orchestra, with soprano and alto solos; a “Festival March,” for organ and orchestra; a concerto for violin, and orchestra; a trio for piano, violin, and ’cello; a “Prelude Appassionata,” for the piano, dedicated to and played by Miss Adele aus der Ohé, to whom the concerto is also dedicated.

This concerto, which is in D major, is a good example of the completeness of Huss’ armory of resources. The first movement has the martial pomp and hauteur and the Sardanapalian opulence and color that mark a barbaric triumph. Chopin has been the evident model, and the result is always pianistic even at its most riotous point. Huss has ransacked the piano and pillaged almost every imaginable fabric of high color. The great technical difficulties of the work are entirely incidental to the desire for splendor. The result is gorgeous and purple. The andante is hardly less elaborate than the first movement, but in the finale there is some laying off of the impedimenta of the pageant, as if the paraders had put aside the magnificence for a period of more informal festivity. The spirit is that of the scherzo, and the main theme is the catchiest imaginable, the rhythm curious and irresistible, and the entire mood saturnalian. In the coda there is a reminder of the first movement, and the whole thing ends in a blaze of fireworks.

On the occasion of its first performance in Cincinnati, in 1889, Robert I. Carter wrote:

“It is preeminently a symphonic work, in which the piano is used as a voice in the orchestra, and used with consummate skill. The charm of the work lies in its simplicity. The pianist will tell you at once that it is essentially pianistic, a term that is much abused and means little. The traditional cadenza is there, but it is not allowed to step out of the frame, and so perfect is the relation to what precedes and follows, that the average listener might claim that it does not exist. Without wishing to venture upon any odious grounds of comparison, I want to state frankly that it is, to me, emphatically the best American concerto.”

Huss is essentially a dramatic and lyric composer, though he seems to be determined to show himself also a thematic composer of the old school. In his trio, which I heard played by the Kaltenborn Quartette, both phases of his activity were seen. There was much odor of the lamp about the greater part of the trio, which seemed generally lacking that necessary capillarity of energy which sometimes saturates with life-sap the most formal and elaborate counterpoint of the pre-romantic strata. The andante of the trio, however, displayed Huss’ singularly appealing gift of song. It abounded in emotion, and was to use the impossible word Keats coined “yearnful.” Huss should write more of this sort of music. We need its rare spontaneity and truth, as we do not need the all too frequent mathematics of those who compose, as Tybalt fought, “by the book.”

For the piano there are “Three Bagatelles:” an “Etude Mélodique,” which is rather harmonic than melodic; an “Albumblatt,” a graceful movement woven like a Schumann arabesque; and a “Pastoral,” in which the gracefulness of the music given to the right hand is annulled by the inexplicable harshness of that given to the left.

For the voice, there is, of course, a setting of “Du bist wie eine Blume,” which, save for the fact that it looks as if the accompaniment were written first, is a very pure piece of writing. The “Song of the Syrens” is a strong composition with a big climax, the “Jessamine Bud” is extremely delicate, and “They that Sow in Tears” has much dignity. There are two songs from Tennyson, “There is Sweet Music Here” and “Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead,” with orchestral accompaniment.

By all odds the most important, and a genuinely improved composition is the aria for soprano and orchestra, “The Death of Cleopatra.” The words are taken from Shakespeare’s play and make use of the great lines given to the dying Egypt, “Give me my robe, put on my crown, I have immortal longings in me,” and the rest. The music not only pays all due reverence to the sacred text, but is inspired by it, and reaches great heights of fervor and tragedy. From Shakespeare, Huss drew the afflation for another aria of great interest, a setting for barytone voice of the “Seven Ages of Man.” The problems attending the putting to music of Shakespeare’s text are severe; but the plays are gold mines of treasure for the properly equipped musician.

A vivid example of the difficulties in the way of American composers’ securing an orchestral hearing is seen in the experience of Howard Brockway, who had a symphony performed in 1895 by the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, and has been unable to get a hearing or get the work performed in America during the five years following, in spite of the brilliancy of the composition. The scoring of the work is so mature that one can see its skill by a mere glance at the page from a distance. When the work was performed in Germany, it was received with pronounced favor by the Berlin critics, who found in it a conspicuous absence of all those qualities which the youth of the composer would have made natural.

Brockway was born in Brooklyn, November 22, 1870, and studied piano with H.O.C. Kortheuer from 1887 to 1889. He went to Berlin at the age of twenty and studied the piano with Barth, and composition with O.B. Boise, the transplanted American. Boise gave Brockway so thorough a training that he may be counted one of the most fluent and completely equipped American composers. At the age of twenty-four he had finished his symphony , a ballade for orchestra , and a violin and piano sonata , as well as a cavatina for violin and orchestra. These, with certain piano solos, were given at a concert of Brockway’s own works in February, 1895, at the Sing-Akademie. His works were accepted as singularly mature, and promising as well. A few months later, Brockway returned to New York, where he has since lived as a teacher and performer.

His symphony, which is in D major, is so ebullient with life that its dashing first subject cannot brook more than a few measures of slow introduction. The second subject is simpler, but no less joyous. The thematic work is scholarly and enthusiastic at the same time. The different movements of the symphony are, however, not thematically related, save that the coda of the last movement is a reminiscence of the auxiliary theme of the first movement. The andante, in which the ’cellos are very lyrical, is a tender and musing mood. The presto is flashing with life and has a trio of rollicking, even whooping, jubilation. The finale begins gloomily and martially, and it is succeeded by a period of beauty and grace. This movement, in fact, is a remarkable combination of the exquisitest beauty and most unrestrained prowess.

Another orchestral work of great importance in American music is the “Sylvan Suite” , which is also arranged for the piano. In this work the composer has shown a fine discretion and conservation in the use of the instruments, making liberal employment of small choirs for long periods. The work is programmatic in psychology only. It begins with a “Midsummer Idyl,” which embodies the drowsy petulance of hot noon. The second number is “Will o’ the Wisps.” In this a three-voiced fugue for the strings, wood, and one horn has been used with legitimate effect and most teasing, fleeting whimsicality. The third movement is a slow waltz, called “The Dance of the Sylphs,” a very catchy air, swaying delicately in the bassoons and ’cello; a short “Evening Song” is followed by “Midnight.” This is a parade that reminds one strongly of Gottschalk’s “Marche de Nuit.” The march movement is followed by an interlude depicting the mystery of night, as Virgil says, “tremulo sub lumine.” The composer has endeavored to indicate the chill gray of dawn by the ending of this movement: a chord taken by two flutes and the strings shivering sul ponticello. The last movement is “At Daybreak.” Out of the gloom of the bassoons grows a broad and general luminous song followed by an interlude of the busy hum of life; this is succeeded by the return of the sunrise theme with a tremendously vivacious accompaniment.

Other works of Brockway’s are: a cantata, a set of variations, a ballade, a nocturne, a Characterstueck, a Fantasiestueck, a set of four piano pieces , and two piano pieces . All of these, except the cantata, have been published. Two part songs and two songs with piano accompaniment have also been published; a violin sonata, a Moment Musicale, and a romanza for violin and orchestra have been published in Berlin.

These works all show a decided tendency to write brilliant and difficult music, but the difficulties are legitimate to the effect and the occasion. The Ballade works up a very powerful climax; the Scherzino swishes fascinatingly; and the Romanza for piano is a notably mature and serious work.

Two ballads have made the so romantic name of Harry Rowe Shelley a household word in America. They are the setting of Tom Moore’s fiery “Minstrel Boy,” and a strange jargon of words called “Love’s Sorrow.” In both cases the music is intense and full of fervor, and quick popularity rarely goes out to more worthy songs.

But Shelley would doubtless prefer to be judged by work to which he has given more of his art and his interest than to the many songs that he has tossed off in the light name of popularity.

Shelley’s life has been largely devoted to church work. Born in New Haven, Conn., June 8, 1858, and taught music by Gustav J. Stoeckel, he came under the tuition of Dudley Buck for seven years. His twentieth year found him an organist at New Haven. Three years later he went to Brooklyn in the same capacity. He was the organist at Plymouth Church for some time before Henry Ward Beecher’s death. Since 1887 he has been at the Church of the Pilgrims. He visited Europe in 1887 and studied under Dvorak when the Bohemian master was here.

Shelley’s largest works have been an opera, “Leila,” still in manuscript, a symphonic poem, “The Crusaders,” a dramatic overture, “Francesca da Rimini,” a sacred oratorio, “The Inheritance Divine,” a suite for orchestra, a fantasy for piano and orchestra (written for Rafael Joseffy), a one-act musical extravaganza, a three-act lyric drama, and a virile symphony. The suite is called “Souvenir de Baden-Baden.” It is a series of highly elaborated trifles of much gaiety, and includes a lively “Morning Promenade,” a dreamy “Siesta,” a “Conversationshaus Ball,” and a quaint “Serenade Orientale” that shows the influence of Mozart’s and Beethoven’s marches alla turca. The orchestration of this work I have never heard nor seen. Its arrangement for four hands, however, is excellently done, with commendable attention to the interests of the secondo player.

The cantata is called “The Inheritance Divine,” and it is much the best thing Shelley has done. It begins with a long, slow crescendo on the word “Jerusalem,” which is very forceful. Shelley responds to an imaginary encore, however, and the word becomes little more than an expletive.

Now begins a new idea worked up with increased richness and growing fervor to a sudden magnificence of climax in the second measure. The final phrase, strengthened by an organ-point on two notes, is fairly thrilling. A tenor solo follows, its introductory recitative containing many fine things, its aria being smoothly melodious. A chorus, of warm harmonies and a remarkably beautiful and unexpected ending, is next; after which is a sombre, but impressive alto solo. The two successive choruses, the quartette, and the soprano solo catch the composer nodding. The bass solo is better; the final chorus brings us back to the high plane. From here on the chorus climbs fiery heights. In spite of Berlioz’ famous parody on the “Amen” fugues, in the “Damnation of Faust,” Shelley has used the word over a score of times in succession to finish his work. But altogether the work is one of maturity of feeling and expression, and it is a notable contribution to American sacred music.

In 1898 “Death and Life” was published. It opens with a dramatic chorus sung by the mob before the cross, and it ends daringly with a unisonal descent of the voices that carries even the sopranos down to A natural. In the duet between Christ and Mary, seeking where they have laid her Son, the librettist has given Christ a versified paraphrase which is questionable both as to taste and grammar. The final chorus, however, has a stir of spring fire that makes the work especially appropriate for Easter services.

The cantata “Vexilla Regis” is notable for its martial opening chorus, the bass solo, “Where deep for us the spear was dyed,” and its scholarly and effective ending.

A lapidary’s skill and delight for working in small forms belongs to Gerrit Smith. His “Aquarelles” are a good example of his art in bijouterie. This collection includes eight songs and eight piano sketches. The first, “A Lullaby,” begins with the unusual skip of a ninth for the voice. A subdued accentuation is got by the syncopation of the bass, and the yearning tenderness of the ending finishes an exquisite song. “Dream-wings” is a graceful fantasy that fittingly presents the delicate sentiment of Coleridge’ lyrics. The setting of Heine’s “Fir-tree” is entirely worthy to stand high among the numerous settings of this lyric. Smith gets the air of desolation of the bleak home of the fir-tree by a cold scale of harmony, and a bold simplicity of accompaniment. The home of the equally lonely palm-tree is strongly contrasted by a tropical luxuriance of interlude and accompaniment.

The sixth song is a delightful bit of brilliant music, but it is quite out of keeping with the poem. Thus on the words, “Margery’s only three,” there is a fierce climax fitting an Oriental declaration of despair. The last of these songs, “Put by the Lute,” is possibly Smith’s best work. It is superb from beginning to end. It opens with a most unhackneyed series of preludizing arpeggios, whence it breaks into a swinging lyric, strengthened into passion by a vigorous contramelody in the bass. Throughout, the harmonies are most original, effective, and surprising.

Of the eight instrumental pieces in this book, the exquisite and fluent “Impromptu” is the best after the “Cradle Song,” which is drowsy with luscious harmony and contains a passage come organo of such noble sonority as to put it a whit out of keeping with a child’s lullaby.

Smith was born December 11, 1859, at Hagerstown, Md. His first instruction was gained in Geneva, N.Y., from a pupil of Moscheles. He began composition early, and works of his written at the age of fourteen were performed at his boarding-school. He graduated at Hobart College in 1876, whence he went to Stuttgart to study music and architecture. A year later he was in New York studying the organ with Samuel P. Warren. He was appointed organist at St. Paul’s, Buffalo, and studied during the summer with Eugene Thayer, and William H. Sherwood. In 1880 he went again to Germany, and studied organ under Haupt, and theory under Rohde, at Berlin. On his return to America he took the organ at St. Peter’s, in Albany. Later he came to New York, where he has since remained continuously, except for concert tours and journeys abroad. He has played the organ in the most important English and Continental towns, and must be considered one of our most prominent concert organists. He is both a Master of Arts and a Doctor of Music. As one of the founders, and for many years the president, of the Manuscript Society, he was active in obtaining a hearing for much native music otherwise mute.

In addition to a goodly number of Easter carols, Christmas anthems, Te Deums, and such smaller forms of religious music, Smith has written a sacred cantata, “King David.” Aside from this work, which in orchestration and in general treatment shows undoubted skill for large effort, Doctor Smith’s composition has been altogether along the smaller lines.

The five-song’d shows well matured lyric power, and an increase in fervor of emotion. Bourdillon’s “The Night Has a Thousand Eyes,” which can never be too much set to music, receives here a truly superb treatment. The interlude, which also serves for finale, is especially ravishing. “Heart Longings” is one of Mr. Smith’s very best successes. It shows a free passion and a dramatic fire unusual for his rather quiet muse. The setting of Bourdillon’s fine lyric is indeed so stirring that it deserves a high place among modern songs. “Melody” is a lyric not without feeling, but yet inclusive of most of Smith’s faults. Thus the prelude, which is a tritely flowing allegro, serves also for interlude as well as postlude, and the air and accompaniment of both stanzas are unvaried, save at the cadence of the latter stanza. The intense poesy of Anna Reeve Aldrich, a poetess cut short at the very budding of unlimited promise, deserved better care than this from a musician. Two of Smith’s works were published in Millet’s “Half-hours with the Best Composers,” one of the first substantial recognitions of the American music-writer. A “Romance,” however, is the best and most elaborate of his piano pieces, and is altogether an exquisite fancy. His latest work, a cycle of ten pieces for the piano, “A Colorado Summer,” is most interesting. The pieces are all lyrical and simple, but they are full of grace and new colors.

But Smith’s most individual work is his set of songs for children, which are much compared, and favorably, with Reinecke’s work along the same lines. These are veritable masterpieces of their sort, and they are mainly grouped into , called “Twenty-five Song Vignettes.”

So well are they written that they are a safe guide, and worthy that supreme trust, the first formation of a child’s taste. Even dissonances are used, sparingly but bravely enough to give an idea of the different elements that make music something more than a sweetish impotence. They are vastly different from the horrible trash children are usually brought up on, especially in our American schools, to the almost incurable perversion of their musical tastes. They are also so full of refinement, and of that humor without which children cannot long be held, that they are of complete interest also to “grown-ups,” to whom alone the real artistic value of these songs can entirely transpire. Worthy of especial mention are the delicious “Stars and Angels;” the delightful “A Carriage to Ride In;” “Good King Arthur,” a captivating melody, well built on an accompaniment of “God Save the King;” “Birdie’s Burial,” an elegy of the most sincere pathos, quite worthy of a larger cause, if, indeed, any grief is greater than the first sorrows of childhood; the surprisingly droll “Barley Romance;” “The Broom and the Rod,” with its programmatic glissandos to give things a clean sweep; and other delights like the “Rain Song,” “The Tomtit Gray,” “Mamma’s Birthday,” and “Christmas at the Door.” To have given these works their present value and perfection, is to have accomplished a far greater thing than the writing of a dozen tawdry symphonies.

One of the most outrageously popular piano pieces ever published in America was Homer N. Bartlett’s “Grande Polka de Concert.” It was his , written years ago, and he tells me that he recently refused a lucrative commission to write fantasies on “Nearer My God to Thee” and “The Old Oaken Bucket”! So now that he has reformed, grown wise and signed the musical pledge, one must forgive him those wild oats from which he reaped royalties, and look to the genuine and sincere work he has latterly done. Let us begin, say, with , a “Polonaise” that out-Herods Chopin in bravura, but is full of vigor and well held together. A “Dance of the Gnomes,” for piano, is also arranged for a sextet, the arrangement being a development, not a bare transcription. There are two mazurkas , the first very original and happy. “AEolian Murmurings” is a superb study in high color. A “Caprice Espanol” is a bravura realization of Spanish frenzy. It has also been brilliantly orchestrated. Two songs without words make up : while “Meditation” shows too evident meditation on Wagner, “A Love Song” gets quite away from musical bourgeoisery. It is free, spirited, even daring. It is patently less devoted to theme-development than to the expression of an emotion. This “Love Song” is one of the very best of American morceaux, and is altogether commendable.

includes three “characteristic pieces.” “The Zephyr” is dangerously like Chopin’s fifteenth Prelude, with a throbbing organ-point on the same A flat. On this alien foundation, however, Bartlett has built with rich harmony. The “Harlequin” is graceful and cheery. It ends with Rubinstein’s sign and seal, an arpeggio in sixths, which is as trite a musical finis as fiction’s “They lived happily ever afterward, surrounded by a large circle of admiring friends.”

Three mazurkas constitute . They are closely modelled on Chopin, and naturally lack the first-handedness of these works, in which, almost alone, the Pole was witty. But Bartlett has made as original an imitation as possible. The second is particularly charming.

In manuscript is a Prelude developed interestingly on well-understood lines. There is a superb “Reverie Poétique.” It is that climax of success, a scholarly inspiration. To the meagre body of American scherzos, Bartlett’s scherzo will be very welcome. It is very festive and very original. Its richly harmonized interlude shows a complete emancipation from the overpowering influence of Chopin, and a great gain in strength as well as individuality.

In his songs Bartlett attains a quality uniformly higher than that of his piano pieces. “Moonbeams” has many delicacies of harmony. “Laughing Eyes” is a fitting setting of Mr. “Nym Crinkle” Wheeler’s exquisite lyric. “Come to Me, Dearest,” while cheap in general design, has fine details.

It makes me great dole to have to praise a song about a brooklet; but the truth is, that Bartlett’s “I Hear the Brooklet’s Murmur” is superbly beautiful, wild with regret, a noble song. It represents the late German type of Lied, as the earlier heavy style is exemplified in “Good Night, Dear One.” Very Teutonic also is the airiness and grace of “Rosebud.”

To that delightful collection of children’s songs, “The St. Nicholas Song Book,” Bartlett contributed largely. All of his lyrics are delicious, and “I Had a Little Pony” should become a nursery classic.

In his “Lord God, Hear My Prayer,” Bartlett throws down the gauntlet to the Bach-Gounod “Ave Maria,” with results rather disastrous. He chooses a Cramer etude, and adds to it parts for voice, violin, and organ. While Gounod seems passionate and unrestrained, Bartlett shows his caution and his cage at every step. A Cramer etude is among the most melancholy things of earth anyway. “Jéhovah Nissi” is an excellent sacred march chorus that won a prize, and there is a cantata, “The Last Chieftain.” Bartlett’s cantata is without efforts at Indian color, but is a solid work with much dignity, barbaric severity, and fire.

Bartlett was born at Olive, N.Y., December 28, 1846. His ancestry runs far back into New England, his mother being a descendant of John Rogers, the martyr. Bartlett is said to have “lisped in numbers,” singing correctly before he could articulate words. The violin was his first love, and at the age of eight he was playing in public. He took up the piano and organ also, and in his fourteenth year was a church organist. He studied the piano with S.B. Mills, Emil Guyon (a pupil of Thalberg), and Alfred Pease. The organ and composition he studied with O.F. Jacobsen and Max Braun. With the exception of a musical pilgrimage in 1887, Bartlett has not come nearer the advantages of Europe than study here under men who studied there. He has resided for many years in New York as organist and teacher. As a composer he has been one of our most prolific music-makers. His work shows a steady development in value, and the best is doubtless yet to come.

He finds a congenial field in the orchestra. Seidl played his instrumentation of Chopin’s “Military Polonaise” several times. As the work seemed to need a finale in its larger form, Bartlett took a liberty whose success was its justification, and added a finish made up of the three principal themes interwoven. A recent work is his “Concertstueck,” for violin and orchestra. It is not pianistic in instrumentation, and will appeal to violinists. While not marked with recherches violin tricks, or violent attempts at bravura, it has both brilliance and solidity, and is delightfully colored in orchestration. There are no pauses between the movements, but they are well varied in their unity.

There is an unfinished oratorio, “Samuel,” an incomplete opera, “Hinotito,” and a cantata of which only the tenor solo, “Khamsin,” is done. This is by far the best work Bartlett has written, and displays unexpected dramatic powers. The variation of the episodes of the various phases of the awful drought to the climax in “The Plague,” make up a piece of most impressive strength. The orchestration is remarkably fine with effect, color, and variety. If the cantata is finished on this scale, its production will be a national event.

The New England farmer is usually taken as a type of sturdy Philistinism in artistic matters. It was a most exceptional good fortune that gave C.B. Hawley a father who added to the dignity of being a tiller of the soil the refinements of great musical taste and skill. His house at Brookfield, Conn., contained not only a grand piano, but a pipe organ as well; and Hawley’s mother was blessed with a beautiful and cultivated voice.

At the age of thirteen (he was born St. Valentine’s Day, 1858) Hawley was a church organist and the conductor of musical affairs in the Cheshire Military Academy, from which he graduated. He went to New York at the age of seventeen, studying the voice with George James Webb, Rivarde, Foederlein, and others, and composition with Dudley Buck, Joseph Mosenthal, and Rutenber.

His voice brought him the position of soloist at the Calvary Episcopal Church, at the age of eighteen. Later he became assistant organist at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, under George William Warren. For the last fourteen years he has had charge of the summer music at St. James Chapel, in Elberon, the chapel attended by Presidents Grant and Garfield. For seventeen years he has been one of the leading spirits of the Mendelssohn Glee Club, and for ten years a member of the Mendelssohn Quartet Club. Most of his part songs were written for the club and first sung at its concerts. He is also a successful teacher of the voice, and has been too busy to write a very large volume of compositions. But those published show the authentic fire.

Notable features of Hawley’s compositions are the taking quality of the melody, its warm sincerity, and the unobtrusive opulence in color of the accompaniment. This is less like an answering, independent voice than like a many-hued, velvety tapestry, backgrounding a beautiful statue. It is only on second thought and closer study that one sees how well concealed is the careful and laborious polish ad unguem of every chord. This is the true art of song, where the lyrics should seem to gush spontaneously forth from a full heart and yet repay the closer dissection that shows the intellect perfecting the voice of emotion.

Take, for example, his “Lady Mine,” a brilliant rhapsody, full of the spring, and enriched with a wealth of color in the accompaniment till the melody is half hidden in a shower of roses. It required courage to make a setting of “Ah, ’Tis a Dream!” so famous through Lassen’s melody; but Hawley has said it in his own way in an air thrilled with longing and an accompaniment as full of shifting colors as one of the native sunsets. I can’t forbear one obiter dictum on this poem. It has never been so translated as to reproduce its neatest bit of fancy. In the original the poet speaks of meeting in dreams a fair-eyed maiden who greeted him “auf Deutsch” and kissed him “auf Deutsch,” but the translations all evade the kiss in German.

“The Ring,” bounding with the glad frenzy of a betrothed lover, has a soaring finale, and is better endowed with a well polished accompaniment than the song, “Because I Love You, Dear,” which is not without its good points in spite of its manifest appeal to a more popular taste. “My Little Love,” “An Echo,” “Spring’s Awakening,” and “Where Love Doth Build His Nest,” are conceived in Hawley’s own vein.

The song, “Oh, Haste Thee, Sweet,” has some moments of banality, but more of novelty; the harmonic work being unusual at times, especially in the rich garb of the words, “It groweth late.” In “I Only Can Love Thee,” Hawley has succeeded in conquering the incommensurateness of Mrs. Browning’s sonnet by alternating 6-8 and 9-8 rhythms. His “Were I a Star,” is quite a perfect lyric.

Of his part songs, all are good, some are masterly. Here he colors with the same lavish but softly blending touch as in his solos. “My Luve’s Like a Red, Red Rose” is altogether delightful, containing as it does a suggestion of the old formalities and courtly graces of the music of Lawes, whose songs Milton sonneted. I had always thought that no musician could do other than paint the lily in attempting to add music to the music of Tennyson’s “Bugle Song,” but Hawley has come dangerously near satisfaction in the elfland faintness and dying clearness of his voices.

He has written two comic glees, one of which, “They Kissed! I Saw Them Do It,” has put thousands of people into the keenest mirth. It is a vocal scherzo for men’s voices. It begins with a criminally lugubrious and thin colloquy, in which the bass dolefully informs the others: “Beneath a shady tree they sat,” to which the rest agree; “He held her hand, she held his hat,” which meets with general consent. Now we are told in stealthy gasps, “I held my breath and lay right flat.” Suddenly out of this thinness bursts a peal of richest harmony: “They kissed! I saw them do it.” It is repeated more lusciously still, and then the basses and barytones mouth the gossip disapprovingly, and the poem continues with delicious raillery till it ends abruptly and archly: “And they thought no one knew it!”

Besides these scherzos, Hawley has written a few religious part songs of a high order, particularly the noble “Trisagion and Sanctus,” with its “Holy, Holy!” now hushed in reverential awe and now pealing in exultant worship. But of all his songs, I like best his “When Love is Gone,” fraught with calm intensity, and closing in beauty as ineffable as a last glimmer of dying day.

To the stencil-plate chivalry of the lyrics of the ubiquitous F.E. Weatherby and John Oxenford, the song-status of England can blame a deal of its stagnation. It is not often that these word-wringers have enticed American composers. One of the few victims is John Hyatt Brewer, who was born in Brooklyn, in 1856, and has lived there ever since.

Brewer made his debut as a six-year-old singer, and sang till his fourteenth year. A year later he was an organist in Brooklyn, where he has held various positions in the same capacity ever since, additionally busying himself as a teacher of voice, piano, organ, and harmony. His studies in piano and harmony were pursued under Rafael Navarro. Counterpoint, fugue, and composition he studied under Dudley Buck.

In 1878 Brewer became the second tenor and accompanist of the Apollo Club, of which Mr. Buck is the director. He has conducted numerous vocal societies and an amateur orchestra.

Of his cantatas, “Hesperus” is a work of the greatest promise and large performance.

For male voices Brewer has written a cantata called “The Birth of Love.” Its fiery ending is uncharacteristic, but the beautiful tenor solo and an excellent bass song prove his forte to lie in the realm of tenderness. Brewer’s music has little fondness for climaxes, but in a tender pathos that is not tragedy, but a sort of lotos-eater’s dreaminess and regret, he is congenially placed. Smoothness is one of his best qualities.

Out of a number of part songs for men, one should mark a vigorous “Fisher’s Song,” a “May Song,” which has an effective “barber’s chord,” and “The Katydid,” a witty realization of Oliver Wendell Holmes’ captivating poem. His “Sensible Serenade” has also an excellent flow of wit. Both these songs should please glee clubs and their audiences.

For women’s voices Brewer has written not a little. The best of these are “Sea Shine,” which is particularly mellow, and “Treachery,” a love-scherzo.

For the violin there are two pieces: one, in the key of D, is a duet between the violin and the soprano voice of the piano. It is full of characteristic tenderness, full even of tears. It should find a good place among those violin ballads of which Raff’s Cavatina is the best-known example. Another violin solo in A is more florid, but is well managed. The two show a natural aptitude for composition for this favorite of all instruments.

For full orchestra there is a suite, “The Lady of the Lake,” also arranged, for piano and organ. It is smooth and well-tinted. A sextet for strings and flute has been played with favor.

Brewer’s chief success lies along lines of least resistance, one might say. His Album of Songs is a case in point. Of the subtle and inevitable “Du bist wie eine Blume,” he makes nothing, and “The Violet” forces an unfortunate contrast with Mozart’s idyl to the same words. But “Meadow Sweet” is simply iridescent with cheer, a most unusually sweet song, and “The Heart’s Rest” is of equal perfection.

The best-abused composer in America is doubtless Reginald de Koven. His great popularity has attracted the search-light of minute criticism to him, and his accomplishments are such as do not well endure the fierce white light that beats upon the throne. The sin of over-vivid reminiscence is the one most persistently imputed to him, and not without cause. While I see no reason to accuse him of deliberate imitation, I think he is a little too loth to excise from his music those things of his that prove on consideration to have been said or sung before him. Instead of crying, “Pereant qui ante nos nostra cantaverunt,” he believes in a live-and-let-live policy. But ah, if De Koven were the only composer whose eraser does not evict all that his memory installs!

De Koven was born at Middletown, Conn., in 1859, and enjoyed unusual advantages for musical study abroad. At the age of eleven, he was taken to Europe, where he lived for twelve years. At Oxford he earned a degree with honors. His musical instructors include Speidel, Lebert, and Pruckner, at Stuttgart, Huff the contrapuntist at Frankfort, and Vannucini, who taught him singing, at Florence. He made also a special study of light opera under Genee and Von Suppe. He made Chicago his home in 1882, afterward moving to New York, where he served as a musical critic on one of the daily papers for many years.

De Koven has been chief purveyor of comic opera to his generation, and for so ideal a work as “Robin Hood,” and such pleasing constructions as parts of his other operas ("Don Quixote,” “The Fencing Master,” “The Highwayman,” for instance), one ought to be grateful, especially as his music has always a certain elegance and freedom from vulgarity.

Of his ballads, “Oh, Promise Me” has a few opening notes that remind one of “Musica Proibita,” but it was a taking lyric that stuck in the public heart. His setting of Eugene Field’s “Little Boy Blue” is a work of purest pathos and directness. His version of “My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose” is among the best of its countless settings, and “The Fool of Pamperlune,” the “Indian Love Song,” “In June,” and a few others, are excellent ballad-writing.

Victor Harris is one of the few that selected New York for a birthplace. He was born here April 27, 1869, and attended the College of the City of New York, class of 1888. For several of his early years he was well known as a boy-soprano, whence he graduated into what he calls the “usual career” of organist, pianist, and teacher of the voice. In 1895 and 1896 he acted as the assistant conductor to Anton Seidl in the Brighton Beach summer concerts. He learned harmony of Frederick Schilling.

Harris is most widely known as an accompanist, and is one of the best in the country. But while the accompaniments he writes to his own songs are carefully polished and well colored, they lack the show of independence that one might expect from so unusual a master of their execution.

Except for an unpublished one-act operetta, “Mlle. Maie et M. de Sembre,” and a few piano pieces, Harris has confined himself to the writing of short songs. In his twenty-first year two of unequal merits were published, “The Fountains Mingle with the River” being a taking melody, but without distinction or originality, while “Sweetheart” has much more freedom from conventionality and inevitableness.

A later song, “My Guest,” shows an increase in elaboration, but follows the florid school of Harrison Millard’s once so popular rhapsody, “Waiting.” Five songs are grouped into , and they reach a much higher finish and a better tendency to make excursions into other keys. They also show two of Harris’ mannerisms, a constant repetition of verbal phrases and a fondness for writing close, unbroken chords, in triplets or quartoles. “A Melody” is beautiful; “Butterflies and Buttercups” is the perfection of grace; “I Know not if Moonlight or Starlight” is a fine rapture, and “A Disappointment” is a dire tragedy, all about some young toadstools that thought they were going to be mushrooms. For postlude two measures from the cantabile of Chopin’s “Funeral March” are used with droll effect. “Love, Hallo!” is a headlong springtime passion. Two of his latest songs are “Forever and a Day,” with many original touches, and a “Song from Omar Khayyam,” which is made of some of the most cynical of the tent-maker’s quatrains. Harris has given them all their power and bitterness till the last line, “The flower that once has blown forever dies,” which is written with rare beauty. “A Night-song” is possibly his best work; it is full of colors, originalities, and lyric qualities. contains six songs: “Music when Soft Voices Die” has many uncommon and effective intervals; “The Flower of Oblivion” is more dramatic than usual, employs discords boldly, and gives the accompaniment more individuality than before; “A Song of Four Seasons” is a delicious morsel of gaiety, and “Love within the Lover’s Breast” is a superb song. Harris has written some choric works for men and women also. They show commendable attention to all the voice parts.

One of the most prominent figures in American musical history has been Dr. William Mason. He was born in Boston, January 24, 1829, and was the son of Lowell Mason, that pioneer in American composition. Dr. William Mason studied in Boston, and in Germany under Moscheles, Hauptmann, Richter, and Liszt. His success in concerts abroad and here gave prestige to his philosophy of technic, and his books on method have taken the very highest rank.

His pedagogical attainments have overshadowed his composition, but he has written some excellent music. As he has been an educational force in classical music, so his compositions show the severe pursuit of classic forms and ideas. His work is, therefore, rather ingenious than inspired, and intellectual rather than emotional. Yale made him Doctor of Music in 1872.

Another composer whose studies in technic have left him only a little inclination for creation is Albert Ross Parsons, who was born at Sandusky, O., September 16, 1847. He studied in Buffalo, and in New York under Ritter. Then he went to Germany, where he had a remarkably thorough schooling under Moscheles, Reinecke, Richter, Paul, Taussig, Kullak, and others. Returning to this country, he has busied himself as organist, teacher, and an editor of musical works. What little music he has composed shows the fruit of his erudition in its correctness.

Such men as Doctor Mason and Mr. Parsons, though they add little to the volume of composition, a thing for which any one should be thanked on some considerations, yet add great dignity to their profession in this country.

Arthur, a younger brother of Ethelbert Nevin, shows many of the Nevinian traits of lyric energy and harmonic color in his songs. He was born at Sewickley, Pa., in 1871. Until he was eighteen he had neither interest nor knowledge in music. In 1891 he began a four years’ course in Boston, going thence to Berlin, where his masters were Klindworth and Boise. A book of four graceful “May Sketches” has been published, “Pierrot’s Guitar” being especially ingenious. There are two published songs, “Were I a Tone” and “In Dreams,” both emotionally rich. In manuscript are a fine song, “Free as the Tossing Sea,” and a well-devised trio.

A successful writer of songs is C. Whitney Coombs. He was born in Maine, in 1864, and went abroad at the age of fourteen. He studied the piano with Speidel, and composition with Seiffritz, in Stuttgart, for five years, and pursued his studies later in Dresden under Draessecke, Janssen, and John. In 1887 he became organist at the American Church in that city, returning to America in 1891, since which time he has been an organist in New York.

In 1891 his publication begins with “My Love,” an excellent lilt on lines from the Arabian. Among his many songs a few should be noted: the “Song of a Summer Night” is brilliant and poetic, and “Alone” is marked by some beautiful contramelodic effects; his “Indian Serenade” is a gracious work.

J. Remington Fairlamb has been a prolific composer. He was born at Philadelphia, and at fourteen was a church organist. He studied at the Paris Conservatoire and in Italy; was appointed consul at Zurich by President Lincoln, and while in Stuttgart was decorated by the King of Wurtemburg with the “Great Gold Medal of Art and Science” for a Te Deum for double chorus and orchestra. Of Fairlamb’s compositions, some two hundred have been published, including much sacred music and parts of two operas. A grand opera, “Leonello,” in five acts, and a mass are in manuscript.

Frank Seymour Hastings has found in music a pleasant avocation from finance, and written various graceful songs. He has been active, too, in the effort to secure a proper production of grand opera in English.

Dr. John M. Loretz, of Brooklyn, is a veteran composer, and has passed his . He has written much sacred music and several comic operas.

A prominent figure in New York music, though only an occasional composer, is Louis Raphael Dressler, one of the six charter members of the Manuscript Society, and long its treasurer. His father was William Dressler, one of the leading musicians of the earlier New York, where Mr. Dressler was born, in 1861. Dressier studied with his father, and inherited his ability as a professional accompanist and conductor. He was the first to produce amateur performances of opera in New York. His songs are marked with sincerity and spontaneity.

Richard Henry Warren has been the organist at St. Bartholomew’s since 1886, and the composer of much religious music in which both skill and feeling are present. Among his more important works are two complete services, a scene for barytone solo, male chorus, and orchestra, called “Ticonderoga,” and a powerful Christmas anthem. Warren has written also various operettas, in which he shows a particular grasp of instrumentation, and an ability to give new turns of expression to his songs, while keeping them smooth and singable. An unpublished short song of his, “When the Birds Go North,” is a remarkably beautiful work, showing an aptitude that should be more cultivated.

Warren was born at Albany, September 17, 1859. He is a son and pupil of George W. Warren, the distinguished organist. He went to Europe in 1880, and again in 1886, for study and observation. He was the organizer and conductor of the Church Choral Society, which gave various important religious works their first production in New York, and, in some cases, their first hearing in America, notably, Dvorak’s Requiem Mass, Gounod’s “Mors et Vita,” Liszt’s Thirteenth Psalm, Saint-Saens’ “The Heavens Declare,” Villiers Stanford’s “God is Our Hope and Strength,” and Mackenzie’s “Veni, Creator Spiritus.” Horatio Parker’s “Hora Novissima” was composed for this society, and Chadwick’s “Phoenix Expirans” given its first New York performance.

A prominent organist and teacher is Smith N. Penfield, who has also found time for the composition of numerous scholarly works, notably, an overture for full orchestra, an orchestral setting of the eighteenth psalm, a string quartette, and many pieces for the organ, voice, and piano. His tuition has been remarkably thorough. Born in Oberlin, Ohio, April 4, 1837, he studied the piano in Germany with Moscheles, Papperitz, and Reinecke, the organ with Richter, composition, counterpoint, and fugue with Reinecke and Hauptmann. He had also a period of study in Paris.

Another organist of distinction is Frank Taft, who is also a conductor and a composer. His most important work is a “Marche Symphonique,” which was performed by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He was born in East Bloomfield, New York, and had his education entirely in this country, studying the organ with Clarence Eddy, and theory with Frederic Grant Gleason.

A young composer of many graceful songs is Charles Fonteyn Manney, who was born in Brooklyn in 1872, and studied theory with William Arms Fisher in New York, and later with J. Wallace Goodrich at Boston. His most original song is “Orpheus with His Lute,” which reproduces the quaint and fascinating gaucheries of the text with singular charm. He has also set various songs of Heine’s to music, and a short cantata for Easter, “The Resurrection.”

An ability that is strongly individual is that of Arthur Farwell, whose first teacher in theory was Homer A. Norris, and who later studied under Humperdinck in Germany. Among his works are an elaborate ballade for piano and violin, a setting of Shelley’s “Indian Serenade,” and four folk-songs to words by Johanna Ambrosius, the peasant genius of Germany. Among others of his published songs is “Strow Poppy Buds,” a strikingly original composition.

A writer of numerous elegant trifles and of a serious symphony is Harry Patterson Hopkins, who was born in Baltimore, and graduated at the Peabody Institute in 1896, receiving the diploma for distinguished musicianship. The same year he went to Bohemia, and studied with Dvorak. He returned to America to assist in the production of one of his compositions by Anton Seidl.

Very thorough was the foreign training of Carl V. Lachmund, whose “Japanese Overture” has been produced under the direction of Thomas and Seidl, in the former case at a concert of that society at which many important native works have had their only hearing, the Music Teachers’ National Association. Lachmund was born at Booneville, Mo., in 1854. At the age of thirteen he began his tuition at Cologne, under Heller, Jensen, and Seiss; later he went to Berlin to study with the Scharwenkas, Kiel, and Moskowski. He had also four years of Liszt’s training at Weimar. A trio for harp, violin, and ’cello was played by the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, and a concert prelude for the piano was much played in concerts in Germany. Before returning to America, Lachmund was for a time connected with the opera at Cologne.

The Boston Colony.

To the composer potentially a writer of grand operas, but barred out by the absolute lack of opening here, the dramatic ballad should offer an attractive form. Such works as Schubert’s “Erl-King” show what can be done. Henry Holden Huss has made some interesting experiments, and Fred. Field Bullard has tried the field.

Bullard’s setting of Tennyson’s almost lurid melodrama in six stanzas, “The Sisters,” has caught the bitter mixture of love and hate, and avoided claptrap climaxes most impressively.

“In the Greenwood” is graceful, and “A June Lullaby” has a charming accompaniment of humming rain. Bullard has set some of Shelley’s lyrics for voice and harp or piano, in . “From Dreams of Thee” gets a delicious quaintness of accompaniment, while the “Hymn of Pan” shows a tremendous savagery and uncouthness, with strange and stubborn harmonies. Full of the same roborific virility are his settings to the songs of Richard Hovey’s writing, “Here’s a Health to Thee, Roberts,” “Barney McGee,” and the “Stein Song.” These songs have an exuberance of the roistering spirit, along with a competence of musicianship that lifts them above any comparison with the average balladry. Similarly “The Sword of Ferrara,” with its hidalgic pride, and “The Indifferent Mariner,” and the drinking-song, “The Best of All Good Company,” are all what Horace Greeley would have called “mighty interesting.” Not long ago I would have wagered my head against a hand-saw, that no writer of this time could write a canon with spontaneity. But then I had not seen Bullard’s three duets in canon form. He has chosen his words so happily and expressed them so easily, and with such arch raillery, that the duets are delicious. Of equal gaiety is “The Lass of Norwich Town,” which, with its violin obbligato, won a prize in the Musical Record competition of 1899.

Bullard was born at Boston, in 1864. He studied chemistry at first, but the claims of music on his interest were too great, and in 1888 he went to Munich, where he studied with Josef Rheinberger. After four years of European life he returned to Boston, where he has taught harmony and counterpoint along rather original lines. He is a writer with ideas and resources that give promise of a large future. His scholarship has not led him away from individuality. He is especially likely to give unexpected turns of expression, little bits of programmism rather incompatible with the ballad form most of his songs take. The chief fault with his work is the prevailing dun-ness of his harmonies. They have not felt the impressionistic revolt from the old bituminous school. But in partial compensation for this bleakness is a fine ruggedness.

Of his other published songs, “At Daybreak” shows a beautiful fervor of repression. “On the Way” is redeemed by a particularly stirring finish. In , “A Prayer” is begun in D minor and ended in D major, with a strong effect of sudden exaltation from gloom. “The Singer” begins also in sombre style with unusual and abrupt modulations, and ends in a bright major. “The Hermit” is likewise grim, but is broad and deep. It uses a hint of “Old Hundred” in the accompaniment.

couples two dramatic ballads. In this form of condensed drama is a too-little occupied field of composition, and Bullard has written some part songs, of which “In the Merry Month of May,” “Her Scuttle Hat,” and “The Water Song” are worth mentioning. “O Stern Old Land” is a rather bathetic candidate for the national hymnship. But his “War Song of Gamelbar,” for male voices, is really a masterwork. Harmonists insist on so much closer compliance with rules for smoothness in vocal compositions than in instrumental work, that the usual composer gives himself very little liberty here. Bullard, however, has found the right occasion for wild dissonances, and has dared to use them. The effect is one of terrific power. This, his “Song of Pan” and “The Sisters” give him a place apart from the rest of native song-writers.

With all reverence for German music, it has been too much inclined of late to domineer the rest of the world, especially America. A useful counter-influence is that of Homer A. Norris, who has stepped out of the crowd flying to Munich and neighboring places, and profited by Parisian harmonic methods.

His book, “Practical Harmony,” imparts a, to us, novel method of disarming the bugaboo of altered chords of many of its notorious terrors. He also attacks the pedantry of music “so constructed that it appeals to the eye rather than the ear, paper-work,” a most praiseworthy assault on what is possibly the heaviest incubus on inspiration. In a later work on “Counterpoint” he used for chapter headings Greek vases and other decorative designs, to stimulate the ideal of counterpoint as a unified complexity of graceful contours.

Norris was born in Wayne, Me., and became an organist at an early age. His chief interest has been, however, in the theory of music, and he studied with G.W. Marston, F.W. Hale, and G.W. Chadwick, as well as Emery. In deciding upon foreign study he was inspired to choose France instead of Germany. This has given him a distinct place.

After studying in Paris for four years under Dubois, Godard, Guilmant, and Gigout, he made his home in Boston, where he has since confined himself to the teaching of composition.

As yet Mr. Norris has composed little, and that little is done on simple lines, but the simplicity is deep, and the harmonies, without being bizarre, are wonderfully mellow.

His first song, “Rock-a-bye, Baby,” he sold for twelve printed copies, and it is said to have had a larger sale than any cradle-song ever published in this country. His song, “Protestations,” is tender, and has a violin obbligato that is really more important than the voice part. The song, “Parting,” is wild with passion, and bases a superb melody on a fitting harmonic structure. I consider “Twilight” one of the best American songs. It gets some unusual effects with intervals of tenths and ninths, and shows a remarkable depth of emotion.

In the larger forms he has done a concert overture, “Zoroaster” (which, judging from an outline, promises many striking effects), and a cantata, “Nain,” which has the sin of over-repetition of words, but is otherwise marked with telling pathos and occasional outbursts of intensely dramatic feeling.

Perhaps his most original work is seen in his book of “Four Songs for Mezzo-Voice.” The first is Kipling’s “O Mother Mine,” with harshnesses followed by tenderest musings; the second is a noble song, “Peace,” with an accompaniment consisting entirely of the slowly descending scale of C major; a high-colored lilt, “The World and a Day,” is followed by a Maeterlinckian recitative of the most melting pathos. This book is another substantiation of my belief that America is writing the best of the songs of to-day.

One of the best-esteemed musicians in Boston, G.E. Whiting has devoted more of his interest to his career as virtuoso on the organ than to composition. Not many of such works as he has found time to write have been printed. These include an organ sonata, a number of organ pieces, a book of studies for the organ, six songs, and three cantatas for solos, chorus, and orchestra, “A Tale of the Viking,” “Dream Pictures,” and “A Midnight Cantata.”

Whiting was born at Holliston, Mass., September 14, 1842. At the age of five, he began the study of music with his brother. At the age of fifteen, he moved to Hartford, Conn., where he succeeded Dudley Buck as organist of one of the churches. Here he founded the Beethoven Society. At the age of twenty he went to Boston, and after studying with Morgan, went to Liverpool, and studied the organ under William Thomas Best. Later he made a second pilgrimage to Europe, and studied under Radeck.

For many years he has lived in Boston as a teacher of music and performer upon the organ. In manuscript are a number of works which I have not had the privilege of seeing: two masses for chorus, orchestra, and organ, a concert overture, a concerto, a sonata, a fantasy and fugue, a fantasy and three etudes, a suite for ’cello and piano, and a setting of Longfellow’s “Golden Legend,” which won two votes out of five in the thousand dollar musical festival of 1897, the prize being awarded to Dudley Buck.

Of his compositions H.E. Krehbiel in 1892 recorded the opinion that they “entitled him to a position among the foremost musicians in this country.” He is an uncle of Arthur Whiting.

G.W. Marston’s setting of the omnipresent “Du bist wie eine Blume” is really one of the very best Heine’s poem has ever had. Possibly it is the best of all the American settings. His “There Was an Aged Monarch” is seriously deserving of the frankest comparison with Grieg’s treatment of the same Lied. It is interesting to note the radical difference of their attitudes toward it. Grieg writes in a folk-tone that is severe to the point of grimness. He is right because it is ein altes Liedchen, and Heine’s handling of it is also kept outwardly cold. But Marston has rendered the song into music of the richest harmony and fullest pathos. He is right, also, because he has interpreted the undercurrent of the story.

Bodenstedt’s ubiquitous lyric, “Wenn der Fruehling auf die Berge steigt,” which rivals “Du bist wie eine Blume” in the favor of composers, has gathered Marston also into its net. He gives it a climax that fairly sweeps one off his feet, though one might wish that the following and final phrase had not forsaken the rich harmonies of the climax so completely.

This song is the first of a “Song Album” for sopranos, published in 1890. In this group the accompaniments all receive an attention that gives them meaning without obtrusiveness. “The Duet” is a delicious marriage of the song of a girl and the accompanying rapture of a bird.

A captivating little florid figure in the accompaniment of a setting of “Im wunderschoenen Monat Mai” gives the song worth. “On the Water” is profound with sombreness and big simplicity. “The Boat of My Lover” is quaintly delightful.

Marston was born in Massachusetts, at the little town of Sandwich, in 1840. He studied there, and later at Portland, Me., with John W. Tufts, and has made two pilgrimages to Europe for instruction. He played the organ in his native town at the age of fifteen, and since finishing his studies has lived at Portland, teaching the piano, organ, and harmony. From the start his songs caught popularity, and were much sung in concert.

Marston has written a sacred dramatic cantata, “David,” and a large amount of church music that is very widely used. He has written also a set of quartettes and trios for women’s voices, and quartettes for men’s voices.

Possibly his best-known song has been his “Could Ye Come Back to Me, Douglas,” which Mrs. Craik called the best of all her poem’s many settings.

Only Marston’s later piano pieces are really klaviermaessig. So fine a work as his “Gavotte in B Minor” has no need to consider the resources of the modern instrument. It has a color scheme of much originality, though it is marred by over-repetition. “A Night in Spain” is a dashing reminiscence, not without Spanish spirit, and an “Album Leaf” is a divertissement of contagious enthusiasm.

Ariel’s songs, from “The Tempest,” are given a piano interpretation that reaches a high plane. There is a storm prologue which suggests, in excellent harmonies, the distant mutter of the storm rather than a piano-gutting tornado. “Full Fathoms Five Thy Father Lies” is a reverie of wonderful depth and originality, with a delicious variation on the good old-fashioned cadence. Thence it works up into an immensely powerful close. A dance, “Foot it Featly,” follows. It is sprightly, and contains a fetching cadenza.

One of the most prolific writers of American song is Clayton Johns. He is almost always pleasing and polished. While he is not at all revolutionary, he has a certain individuality of ease, and lyric quality without storm or stress of passion. Thus his settings of seven “Wanderlieder” by Uhland have all the spirit of the road except ruggedness.

His setting of “Du bist wie eine Blume” is extremely tender and sweet.

Two of Johns’ best successes have been settings of Egyptian subjects: “Were I a Prince Egyptian” and Arlo Bates’ fine lyric, “No Lotus Flower on Ganges Borne.” The latter is a superb song of unusual fire, with a strong effect at the end, the voice ceasing at a deceptive cadence, while the accompaniment sweeps on to its destiny in the original key. He has also found a congenial subject in Austin Dobson’s “The Rose and the Gardener.” He gets for a moment far from its florid grace in “I Looked within My Soul,” which has an unwonted bigness, and is a genuine Lied.

In later years Johns’ songs have been brought out in little albums, very artistically got up, especially for music (which has been heinously printed, as a rule, in this country). These albums include three skilfully written “English Songs,” and three “French Songs,” “Soupir” taking the form of melodic recitative. is a group of “Wonder Songs,” which interpret Oliver Herford’s quaint conceits capitally.

collects nine songs, of which “Princess Pretty Eyes” is fascinatingly archaic. It is good to see him setting two such remotely kindred spirits as Herrick and Emily Dickinson. The latter has hardly been discovered by composers, and the former is too much neglected.

Johns has also written a few part songs and some instrumental works, which maintain his characteristics. A delightful “Canzone,” a happy “Promenade,” and “Mazurka” are to be mentioned, and a number of pieces for violin and piano, among them a finely built intermezzo, a berceuse, a romanza that should be highly effective, and a witty scherzino. He has written for strings a berceuse and a scherzino, which have been played by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and certain part songs, as well as a chorus for female voices and string orchestra, have been sung in London.

Johns was born at New Castle, Del., November 24, 1857, of American parents. Though at first a student of architecture, he gave this up for music, and studied at Boston under Wm. F. Apthorp, J.K. Paine, and W.H. Sherwood, after which he went to Berlin, where he studied under Kiel, Grabau, Raif, and Franz Rummel. In 1884 he made Boston his home.

If San Francisco had found some way of retaining the composers she has produced, she would have a very respectable colony. Among the others who have come east to grow up with music is William Arms Fisher, who was born in San Francisco, April 27, 1861. The two composers from whom he derives his name, Joshua Fisher and William Arms, settled in Massachusetts colony in the seventeenth century. He studied harmony, organ, and piano with John P. Morgan. After devoting some years to business, he committed his life to music, and in 1890 came to New York, where he studied singing. Later he went to London to continue his vocal studies. Returning to New York, he took up counterpoint and fugue with Horatio W. Parker, and composition and instrumentation with Dvorak. After teaching harmony for several years, he went to Boston, where he now lives. His work has been almost altogether the composition of songs. A notable feature of his numerous publications is their agreeable diversion from the usual practice of composers, which is to write lyrics of wide range and high pitch. Nearly all his songs are written for the average voice.

His first p. contains a setting of “Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt,” which I like better than the banal version Tschaikowski made of the same words. The third p. contains three songs to Shelley’s words. They show something of the intellectual emotion of the poet. The first work, “A Widow Bird Sate Mourning,” is hardly lyrical; “My Coursers Are Fed with the Lightning” is a stout piece of writing, but the inspired highfalutin of the words would be trying upon one who arose to sing the song before an audience. This, by the way, is a point rarely considered by the unsuccessful composers, and the words which the singer is expected to declare to an ordinary audience are sometimes astounding. The third Shelley setting, “The World’s Wanderer,” is more congenial to song.

is entitled “Songs without Tears.” These are for a bass voice, and by all odds the best of his songs. An appropriate setting is Edmund Clarence Stedman’s “Falstaff’s Song,” a noteworthy lyric of toss-pot moralization on death. His song of “Joy” is exuberant with spring gaiety, and some of his best manner is seen in his “Elegie,” for violin and piano. He has also written a deal of church song.

A venerable and distinguished teacher and composer is James C.D. Parker, who was born at Boston, in 1828, and graduated from Harvard in 1848. He at first studied law, but was soon turned to music, and studied for three years in Europe under Richter, Plaidy, Hauptmann, Moscheles, Rietz, and Becker. He graduated from the conservatory at Leipzig, and returned to Boston in 1845.

His “Redemption Hymn” is one of his most important works, and was produced in Boston by the Haendel and Haydn Society in 1877. He also composed other works for orchestra and chorus, and many brilliant piano compositions.

An interesting method of writing duets is that employed in the “Children’s Festival,” by Charles Dennee. The pupil plays in some places the primo, and in others the secondo, his part being written very simply, while the part to be played by the teacher is written with considerable elaboration, so that the general effect is not so narcotic as usual with duets for children. Dennee has written, among many works of little specific gravity, a “Suite Moderne” of much skill, a suite for string orchestra, an overture and sonatas for the piano and for the violin and piano, as well as various comic operas. He was born in Oswego, N.Y., September 1, 1863, and studied composition with Stephen A. Emery.

A composer of a genial gaiety, one who has written a good minuet and an “Evening Song” that is not morose, is Benjamin Lincoln Whelpley, who was born at Eastport, Me., October 23, 1863, and studied the piano at Boston with B.J. Lang, and composition with Sidney Homer and others. He also studied in Paris for a time in 1890. He has written a “Dance of the Gnomes,” that is characteristic and brilliantly droll, and a piano piece, called “Under Bright Skies,” which has the panoply and progress of a sunlit cavalcade.

Ernest Osgood Hiler has written some good music for the violin, a book of songs for children, “Cloud, Field, and Flower,” and some sacred music. He studied in Germany for two years.

The Chicago Colony.

Most prominent among Chicago’s composers is doubtless Frederic Grant Gleason, who has written in the large forms with distinguished success. The Thomas Orchestra has performed a number of his works, which is an excellent praise, because Thomas, who has done so much for American audiences, has worried himself little about the American composer. At the World’s Fair, which was, in some ways, the artistic birthday of Chicago, and possibly the most important artistic event in our national history, some of Gleason’s works were performed by Thomas’ organization, among them the Vorspiel to an opera, “Otho Visconti” , for which Gleason wrote both words and music.

This Vorspiel, like that to “Lohengrin,” is short and delicate. It begins ravishingly with flutes and clarinets and four violins, pianissimo, followed by a blare of brass. After this introductory period the work runs through tenderly contemplative musing to the end, in which, again, the only strings are the four violins, though here they are accompanied by the brass and wood-winds and tympani, the cymbals being gently tapped with drumsticks. The introduction to the third act of the opera is more lyrical, but not so fine. Another opera is “Montezuma” . Gleason is again his own librettist. Of this opera I have been privileged to see the complete piano score, and much of the orchestral.

In the first act Guatemozin, who has been exiled by Montezuma, appears disguised as an ancient minstrel and sings prophetically of the coming of a god of peace and love to supplant the terrible idol that demands human sacrifice. This superbly written aria provokes from the terrified idolaters a chorus of fear and reproach that is strongly effective. The next act begins with an elaborate aria followed by a love duet of much beauty. A heavily scored priests’ march is one of the chief numbers, and like most marches written by the unco’ learned, it is a grain of martial melody in a bushel of trumpet figures and preparation. The Wagnerian leit-motif idea is adopted in this and other works of his, and the chief objection to his writing is its too great fidelity to the Wagnerian manner, notably in the use of suspensions and passing-notes, otherwise he is a very powerful harmonist and an instrumenter of rare sophistication. A soprano aria with orchestral accompaniment has been taken from the opera and sung in concert with strong effect.

Another work played at the World’s Fair by Thomas, is a “Processional of the Holy Grail.” It is scored elaborately, but is rather brilliant than large. It complimentarily introduces a hint or two of Wagner’s Grail motif.

The symphonic poem, “Edris,” was also performed by the Thomas Orchestra. It is based upon Marie Corelli’s novel, “Ardath,” which gives opportunity for much programmism, but of a mystical highly colored sort for which music is especially competent. It makes use of a number of remarkably beautiful motives. One effect much commented upon was a succession of fifths in the bass, used legitimately enough to express a dreariness of earth.

This provoked from that conservative of conservatives, the music copyist, a patronizing annotation, “Quinten!” to which Gleason added “Gewiss!” A series of augmented triads, smoothly manipulated, was another curiosity of the score.

Possibly Gleason’s happiest work is his exquisite music for that most exquisite of American poems, “The Culprit Fay.” It is described in detail in Upton’s “Standard Cantatas,” and liberally quoted from in Goodrich’ “Musical Analysis.” While I have seen both the piano and orchestral scores of this work , and have seen much beauty in them, my space compels me to refer the curious reader to either of these most recommendable books.

Gleason has had an unusual schooling. He was born in Middletown, Conn., in 1848. His parents were musical, and when at sixteen he wrote a small matter of two oratorios without previous instruction, they put him to study under Dudley Buck. From his tuition he graduated to Germany, and to such teachers as Moscheles, Richter, Plaidy, Lobe, Raif, Taussig, and Weitzmann. He studied in England after that, and returned again to Germany. When he re-appeared in America he remained a while at Hartford, Conn., whence he went to Chicago in 1876. He has lived there since, working at teaching and composition, and acting as musical critic of the Chicago Tribune. An unusually gifted body of critics, dramatic, musical, and literary, has worked upon the Chicago newspapers, and Gleason has been prominent among them.

Among other important compositions of his are a symphonic cantata, “The Auditorium Festival Ode,” sung at the dedication of the Chicago Auditorium by a chorus of five hundred; sketches for orchestra, a piano concerto, organ music, and songs.

As is shown by the two or three vocal works of his that I have seen, Gleason is less successful as a melodist than as a harmonist. But in this latter capacity he is gifted indeed, and is peculiarly fitted to furnish forth with music Ebling’s “Lobgesang auf die Harmonie.” In his setting of this poem he has used a soprano and a barytone solo with male chorus and orchestra. The harmonic structure throughout is superb in all the various virtues ascribed to harmony. The ending is magnificent.

A work completed December, 1899, for production by the Thomas Orchestra, is a symphonic poem called “The Song of Life,” with this motto from Swinburne:

“They have the night, who had, like us, the day;
We whom the day binds shall have night as they;
We, from the fetters of the light unbound,
Healed of our wound of living, shall sleep sound.”

The first prominent musician to give a certain portion of his program regularly to the American composer, was William H. Sherwood. This recognition from so distinguished a performer could not but interest many who had previously turned a deaf ear to all the musical efforts of the Eagle. In addition to playing their piano works, he has transcribed numerous of their orchestral works to the piano, and played them. In short, he has been so indefatigable a laborer for the cause of other American composers, that he has found little time to write his own ideas.

Sherwood will be chiefly remembered as a pianist, but he has written a certain amount of music of an excellent quality. Opera 1-4 were published abroad. is a suite, the second number of which is an “Idylle” that deserves its name. It is as blissfully clear and ringing as anything could well be, and drips with a Theokritan honey. The third number of the suite is called “Greetings.” It has only one or two unusual touches. Number 4 bears the suggestive title, “Regrets for the Pianoforte.” It was possibly written after some of his less promising pupils had finished a lesson. The last number of the suite is a quaint Novelette.

Sherwood’s sixth p. is made up of a brace of mazurkas. The former, in C minor, contains some of his best work. It is original and moody, and ends strongly. The second, in A major, is still better. It not only keeps up a high standard throughout, but shows occasional touches of the most fascinating art.

A scherzo cracks a few good jokes, but is mostly elaboration. is a fiery romanza appassionata. is a Scherzo-Caprice. This is probably his best work. It is dedicated to Liszt, and though extremely brilliant, is full of meaning. It has an interlude of tender romance. “Coy Maiden” is a graceful thing, but hardly deserves the punishment of so horrible a name. “A Gypsy Dance” is too long, but it is of good material. It has an interesting metre, three-quarter time with the first note dotted. There is a good effect gained by sustaining certain notes over several measures, though few pianists get a real sostenuto. An “Allegro Patetico” , “Medea” , and a set of small pieces (one of them a burlesque called “A Caudle Lecture,” with a garrulous “said she” and a somnolent “said he”) make up his rather short list of compositions.

Sherwood was born at Lyons, New York, of good American stock. His father was his teacher until the age of seventeen, when he studied with Heimberger, Pychowski, and Dr. William Mason. He studied in Europe with Kullak and Deppe, Scotson Clark, Weitzmann, Doppler, Wuerst, and Richter. He was for a time organist in Stuttgart and later in Berlin. He was one of those favorite pupils of Liszt, and played in concerts abroad with remarkable success, winning at the age of eighteen high critical enthusiasm. He has been more cordially recognized abroad than here, but is assuredly one of the greatest living pianists. It is fortunate that his patriotism keeps him at home, where he is needed in the constant battle against the indecencies of apathy and Philistinism.

The Yankee spirit of constructive irreverence extends to music, and in recent years a number of unusually modern-minded theorists have worked at the very foundations: Dr. Percy Goetschius (born here, and for long a teacher at Stuttgart); O.B. Boise (born here, and teaching now in Berlin); Edwin Bruce, the author of a very radical work; Homer A. Norris; and last, and first, A.J. Goodrich, who has made himself one of the most advanced of living writers on the theory of music, and has made so large a contribution to the solidity of our attainments, that he is recognized among scholars abroad as one of the leading spirits of his time. His success is the more pleasing since he was not only born but educated in this country.

The town of Chilo, Ohio, was Goodrich’ birthplace. He was born there in 1847, of American parentage. His father taught him the rudiments of music and the piano for one year, after which he became his own teacher. He has had both a thorough and an independent instructor. The fact that he has been enabled to follow his own conscience without danger of being convinced into error by the prestige of some influential master, is doubtless to be credited with much of the novelty and courage of his work.

His most important book is undoubtedly his “Analytical Harmony,” though his “Musical Analysis” and other works are serious and important. This is not the place to discuss his technicalities, but one must mention the real bravery it took to discard the old practice of a figured bass, and to attack many of the theoretical fétiches without hesitation. Almost all of the old theorists have confessed, usually in a foot-note to the preface or in modest disclaimer lost somewhere in the book, that the great masters would occasionally be found violating certain of their rules. But this did not lead them to deducing their rules from the great masters. Goodrich, however, has, in this matter, begun where Marx ended, and has gone further even than Prout. He has gone to melody as the groundwork of his harmonic system, and to the practice of great masters, old and new, for the tests of all his theories. The result is a book which can be unreservedly commended for self-instruction to the ignorant and to the too learned. It is to be followed by a book on “Synthetic Counterpoint,” of which Goodrich says, “It is almost totally at variance with the standard books in counterpoint.”

In his “Musical Analysis” he quoted freely from American composers, and analyzed many important native works. He has carried out this plan also in his book on “Interpretation,” a work aiming to bring more definiteness into the fields of performance and terminology.

Goodrich’ composition is “a thing of the past,” he says. In his youth he wrote a score or more of fugues, two string quartettes, a trio that was played in New York and Chicago, a sonata, two concert overtures, a hymn for soprano (in English), invisible chorus (in Latin), and orchestra, a volume of songs, and numerous piano pieces. He writes: “In truth, I believed at one time that I was a real composer, but after listening to Tschaikowski’s Fifth Symphony that illusion was dispelled. Had not Mrs. Goodrich rescued from the flames a few MSS. I would have destroyed every note.”

Only a piano suite is left, and this leads one to regret that Tschaikowski should have served as a deterrent instead of an inspiration. The suite has an inelaborate prelude, which begins strongly and ends gracefully, showing unusual handling throughout. A minuet, taken scherzando, is also most original and happy. There is a quaint sarabande, and a gavotte written on simple lines, but superbly. Its musette is simply captivating. All these little pieces indeed show sterling originality and unusual resources in a small compass.

W.H. Neidlinger’s first three songs were kept in his desk for a year and then kept by a publisher for a year longer, and finally brought out in 1889. To his great surprise, the “Serenade,” which he calls “just a little bit of commonplace melody,” had an immense sale and created a demand for more of his work. The absolute simplicity of this exquisite gem is misleading. It is not cheap in its lack of ornament, but it eminently deserves that high-praising epithet (so pitilessly abused), “chaste.” It has the daintiness and minute completeness of a Tanagra figurine.

Mr. Neidlinger was born in Brooklyn, N.Y., in 1863, and was compelled to earn the money for his own education and for his musical studies. From Dudley Buck and, later, C.C. Muller, of New York, he has had his only musical instruction. He lived abroad for some time, teaching the voice in Paris, then returned to live in Chicago. He has written two operas, one of them having been produced by the Bostonians.

Mr. Neidlinger builds his songs upon one guiding principle, that is, faithfulness to elocutionary accent and intonation. As he neatly phrases it, his songs are “colored sketches on a poet’s engravings.”

The usual simplicity of Mr. Neidlinger’s songs does not forbid a dramatic outburst at the proper time, as in the fine mood, “A Leaf;” or the sombre depth of “Night,” “Nocturne,” and “Solitude;” or yet the sustainedly poignant anguish of “The Pine-tree.” Occasionally the accompaniment is developed with elaborateness, as in the bird-flutings of “The Robin,” and “Memories,” an extremely rich work, with its mellow brook-music and a hint of nightingale complaint in the minor. “Evening Song,” a bit of inspired tenderness, is one of Mr. Neidlinger’s best works. Almost better is “Sunshine,” a streak of brilliant fire quenched with a sudden cloud at the end. Other valuable works are “Messages,” the happy little Scotch song, “Laddie,” and “Dreaming,” which is now sombre, now fierce with outbursts of agony, but always a melody, always ariose.

Mr. Neidlinger has made a special study of music for children, his book, “Small Songs for Small Children,” being much used in kindergarten work. A book of his, devoted to a synthetic philosophy of song, is completed for publication; he calls it “Spenser, Darwin, Tyndall, etc., in sugar-coated pills; geography, electricity, and hundreds of other things in song.”

The Cleveland Colony.

The city of Cleveland contains a musical colony which is certainly more important than that of any town of its size. About the tenth of our cities in population, it is at least fourth, and possibly third, in productiveness in valuable composition.

The most widely known of Cleveland composers is Wilson G. Smith. He has been especially fortunate in hitting the golden mean between forbidding abstruseness and trivial popularity, and consequently enjoys the esteem of those learned in music as well as of those merely happy in it.

His erudition has persuaded him to a large simplicity; his nature turns him to a musical optimism that gives many of his works a Mozartian cheer. Graciousness is his key.

He was born in Elyria, O., and educated in the public schools of Cleveland, where he graduated. Prevented by delicate health from a college education, he has nevertheless, by wide reading, broadened himself into culture, and is an essayist of much skill. His musical education began in 1876, at Cincinnati, where his teacher, Otto Singer, encouraged him to make music his profession. In 1880 he was in Berlin, where he studied for several years under Kiel, Scharwenka, Moskowski, and Oscar Raif. He then returned to Cleveland, where he took up the teaching of organ, piano, voice, and composition.

The most important of Smith’s earlier works was a series of five pieces called “Hommage a Edvard Grieg,” which brought warmest commendation from the Scandinavian master. One of the most striking characteristics of Smith’s genius is his ability to catch the exact spirit of other composers. He has paid “homage” to Schumann, Chopin, Schubert, and Grieg, and in all he has achieved remarkable success, for he has done more than copy their little tricks of expression, oddities of manner, and pet weaknesses. He has caught the individuality and the spirit of each man.

In his compositions in Grieg-ton Smith has seized the fascinating looseness of the Griegorian tonality and its whimsicality. The “Humoresque” is a bit of titanic merriment; the “Mazurka” is most deftly built and is full of dance-fire; the “Arietta” is highly original, and the “Capricietto” shows such ingenious management of triplets, and has altogether such a crisp, brisk flavor, that it reminds one of Lamb’s rhapsody on roast pig, where he exclaims, “I tasted crackling!” The “Romance,” superb in gloom and largeness of treatment, is worthy of the composer of “The Death of Asra.” A later work, “Caprice Norwegienne,” is also a strong brew of Scandinavian essence.

A “Schumannesque” is written closely on the lines of Schumann’s “Arabesque.” A later “Hommage a Schumann” is equally faithful to another style of the master, and dashes forth with characteristic and un-naïve gaiety and challenging thinness of harmony, occasionally bursting out into great rare chords, just to show what can be done when one tries.

The man that could write both this work and the highly faithful “Hommage a Schubert,” and then whirl forth the rich-colored, sensuous fall and purr of the “Hommage a Chopin,” must be granted at least an unusual command over pianistic materials, and a most unusual acuteness of observation.

He can write a la Smith, too, and has a vein quite his own, even though he prefers to build his work on well-established lines, and fit his palette with colors well tempered and toned by the masters.

In this line is , a group of four pieces called “Echoes of Ye Olden Time.” The “Pastorale” is rather Smithian than olden, with its mellow harmony, but the “Minuetto” is the perfection of chivalric foppery and pompous gaiety. The “Gavotte” suggests the contagious good humor of Bach, and the “Minuetto Grazioso,” the best of the series, has a touch of the goodly old intervals, tenths and sixths, that taste like a draught of spring water in the midst of our modern liqueurs.

The musical world in convention assembled has covenanted that certain harmonies shall be set apart for pasturage. Just why these arbitrary pastorales should suggest meads and syrinxes, and dancing shepherds, it would be hard to tell. But this effect they certainly have, and a good pastorale is a better antidote for the blues and other civic ills than anything I know, except the actual green and blue of fields and skies. Among the best of the best pastoral music, I should place Smith’s “Gavotte Pastorale.” It is one of the five pieces in his book of “Romantic Studies” .

This same volume contains a “Scherzo alla Tarantella,” which is full of reckless wit. But the abandon is so happy as to seem misplaced in a tarantella, that dance whose traditional origin is the maniacal frenzy produced by the bite of the tarantula. An earlier Tarantella is far truer to the meaning of the dance, and fairly raves with shrieking fury and shuddering horror. This is better, to me, than Heller’s familiar piece.

The “Second Gavotte” is a noble work, the naïve gaiety of classicism being enriched with many of the great, pealing chords the modern piano is so fertile in. I count it as one of the most spontaneous gavottes of modern times, one that is buoyant with the afflation of the olden days. It carries a musette of which old Father Bach need not have felt ashamed, one of the most ingenious examples of a drone-bass ever written.

The “Menuet Moderne” is musical champagne. A very neat series of little variations is sheafed together, and called “Mosaics.” Mr. Smith has written two pieces well styled “Mazurka Poétique;” the later is the more original, but the sweet geniality and rapturously beautiful ending of is purer music. “Les Papillons” is marked with a strange touch of negro color; it is, as it were, an Ethiopiano piece. Its best point is its cadenza. Smith has a great fondness for these brilliant précipitations. They not only give further evidence of his fondness for older schools, but they also partially explain the fondness of concert performers for his works. His fervid “Love Sonnet,” his “Polonaise de Concert,” full of virility as well as virtuosity, and his delicious “Mill-wheel Song,” and a late composition, a brilliant “Papillon,” rich as a butterfly’s wing, are notable among his numerous works. Possibly his largest achievement is the three concert-transcriptions for two pianos. He has taken pieces by Grieg, Raff, and Bachmann, and enlarged, enforced, decorated, and in every way ennobled them. But to me his most fascinatingly original work is his “Arabesque,” an entirely unhackneyed and memorable composition.

Smith’s experience in teaching has crystallized into several pedagogic works. His “Scale Playing with particular reference to the development of the third, fourth, and fifth fingers of each hand;” his “Eight Measure,” “Octave,” and “Five Minute” studies, have brought the most unreserved commendation from the most important of our teachers. A late and most happy scheme has been the use of a set of variations for technical and interpretative instruction. For this purpose he wrote his “Themes Arabesques,” of which numbers one and eighteen not only have emotional and artistic interest, but lie in the fingers in a strangely tickling way.

What might be called a professorial simplicity is seen in many of Smith’s songs. The almost unadorned, strictly essential beauty of his melodies and accompaniments is neither neglect nor cheapness; it is restraint to the point of classicism, and romanticism all the intenser for repression. Take, for example, that perfect song, “If I but Knew,” which would be one of a score of the world’s best short songs, to my thinking. Note the open fifths, horrifying if you thump them academically, but very brave and straightforward, fitly touched.

There is something of Haydn at his best in this and in the fluty “Shadow Song,” in “The Kiss in the Rain,” and “A Sailor’s Lassie,” for they are as crystalline and direct as “Papa’s” own immortal “Schaeferlied.”

Smith has gone over to the great majority, the composers who have set “Du bist wie eine Blume;” but he has joined those at the tp. Two of Smith’s songs have a quality of their own, an appeal that is bewitching: “Entreaty,” a perfect melody, and “The Dimple in Her Cheek,” which is fairly peachy in color and flavor.

A strange place in the world of music is that held by Johann H. Beck, whom some have not feared to call the greatest of American composers. Yet none of his music has ever been printed. In this he resembles B.J. Lang, of Boston, who keeps his work persistently in the dark, even the sacred oratorio he has written.

All of Beck’s works, except eight songs, are built on very large lines, and though they have enjoyed a not infrequent public performance, their dimensions would add panic to the usual timidity of publishers. Believing in the grand orchestra, with its complex possibilities, as the logical climax of music, Beck has devoted himself chiefly to it. He feels that the activity of the modern artist should lie in the line of “amplifying, illustrating, dissecting, and filling in the outlines left by the great creators of music and the drama.” He foresees that the most complicated scores of to-day will be Haydnesque in simplicity to the beginning of the next century, and he is willing to elaborate his best and deepest learning as far as in him lies, and wait till the popular audience grows up to him, rather than write down to the level of the present appreciation.

The resolve and the patient isolation of such a devotee is nothing short of heroic; but I doubt that the truest mission of the artist is to consider the future too closely. Even the dictionaries and encyclopaedias of one decade, are of small use to the next. The tiny lyrics of Herrick, though, have no quarrel with time, nor has time any grudge against the intimate figurines of Tanagra. The burdened trellises of Richard Strauss may feel the frost long before the slender ivy of Boccherini’s minuet.

Science falls speedily out of date, and philosophy is soon out of fashion. Art that uses both, is neither. When it makes crutches of them and leans its whole weight on them, it will fall with them in the period of their inevitable decay.

Of course, there is evolution here as well as in science. The artist must hunt out new forms of expressing his world-old emotions, or he will not impress his hearers, and there is no gainsaying Beck’s thesis that the Chinese puzzle of to-day will be the antique simplicity of a later epoch. But it must never be forgotten, that art should be complex only to avoid the greater evils of inadequacy and triteness. A high simplicity of plan and an ultimate popularity of appeal are essentials to immortal art.

It is my great misfortune never to have heard one of Beck’s works performed, but, judging from a fragment of a deliciously dreamy moonlight scene from his unfinished music drama, “Salammbo,” which he kindly sent me, and from the enthusiasm of the severest critics, he must be granted a most unusual poetic gift, solidity and whimsicality, and a hardly excelled erudition. His orchestration shows a hand lavish with color and cunning in novel effects. Several of his works have been performed with great applause in Germany, where Beck spent many years in study. He was born at Cleveland, in 1856, and is a graduate of the Leipzig Conservatorium.

In art, quality is everything; quantity is only a secondary consideration. It is on account of the quality of his work that James H. Rogers must be placed among the very best of modern song-writers, though his published works are not many. When one considers his tuition, it is small wonder that his music should show the finish of long mastery. Born in 1857, at Fair Haven, Conn., he took up the study of the piano at the age of twelve, and at eighteen was in Berlin, studying there for more than two years with Loeschorn, Rohde, Haupt, and Ehrlich, and then in Paris for two years under Guilmant, Fissot, and Widor. Since then he has been in Cleveland as organist, concert pianist, and teacher.

His songs are written usually in a characteristic form of dramatic, yet lyric recitative. His “Album of Five Songs” contains notable examples of this style, particularly the “Good-Night,” “Come to Me in My Dreams,” and the supremely tragic climax of “Jealousy.” The song, “Evening,” with its bell-like accompaniment, is more purely lyric, like the enchanting “At Parting,” which was too delicately and fragrantly perfect to escape the wide popularity it has had. His “Declaration” is ravishingly exquisite, and offers a strange contrast to the “Requiescat,” which is a dirge of the utmost largeness and grandeur. His graceful “Fly, White Butterflies,” and “In Harbor,” and the dramatic setting of “The Loreley,” the jovial “Gather Ye Rosebuds” of jaunty Rob Herrick, the foppish tragedy of “La Vie est Vaine” (in which the composer’s French prosody is a whit askew), that gallant, sweet song, “My True Love Hath My Heart,” and a gracious setting of Heine’s flower-song, are all noteworthy lyrics. He has set some of Tolstoi’s words to music, the sinister love of “Doubt Not, O Friend,” and the hurry and glow of “The First Spring Days,” making unusually powerful songs. In the “Look Off, Dear Love,” he did not catch up with Lanier’s great lyric, but he handled his material most effectively in Aldrich’ “Song from the Persian,” with its Oriental wail followed by a martial joy. The high verve that marks his work lifts his “Sing, O Heavens,” out of the rut of Christmas anthems.

Of instrumental work, there is only one small book, “Scenes du Bal,” a series of nine pieces with lyric characterization in the spirit, but not the manner of Schumann’s “Carneval.” The most striking numbers are “Les Bavardes,” “Blonde et Brune,” and a fire-eating polonaise.

These close the lamentably small number of manifestations of a most decisive ability.

Another Cleveland composer well spoken of is Charles Sommer.

A young woman of genuine ability, who has been too busy with teaching and concert pianism to find as much leisure as she deserves for composition, is Patty Stair, a prominent musical figure in Cleveland. Her theoretical studies were received entirely at Cleveland, under F. Bassett. Her published works include a book of “Six Songs,” all of them interesting and artistic, and the “Madrigal” particularly ingenious; and a comic glee of the most irresistible humor, called “An Interrupted Serenade;” in manuscript are a most original song, “Flirtation,” a jovial part song for male voices, “Jenny Kissed Me,” a berceuse for violin and piano, a graceful song, “Were I a Brook,” a setting of Thomas Campion’s “Petition,” and another deeply stirring religious song for contralto, “O Lamb of God.”

The St. Louis Colony.

The most original and important contribution to American music that St. Louis has made, is, to my mind, the book of songs written by William Schuyler. The words were chosen from Stephen Crane’s book of poems, “The Black Riders.” The genius of Crane, concomitant with eccentricity as it was, is one of the most distinctive among American writers. The book called “The Black Riders” contains a number of moods that are unique in their suggestiveness and originality. Being without rime or meter, the lines oppose almost as many difficulties to a musician as the works of Walt Whitman; and yet, as Alfred Bruneau has set Zola’s prose to music, so some brave American composer will find inspiration abundant in the works of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson.

Schuyler was born in St. Louis, May 4, 1855, and music has been his livelihood. He is largely self-taught, and has composed some fifty pieces for the piano, a hundred and fifty songs, a few works for violin, viola, and ’cello, and two short trios.

In his setting of these lines of Crane’s, Schuyler has attacked a difficult problem in an ideal manner. To three of the short poems he has given a sense of epic vastitude, and to two of them he has given a tantalizing mysticism. The songs, which have been published privately, should be reproduced for the wide circulation they deserve.

Another writer of small songs displaying unusual individuality is George Clifford Vieh, who was born in St. Louis and studied there under Victor Ehling. In 1889, he went to Vienna for three years, studying under Bruckner, Robert Fuchs, and Dachs. He graduated with the silver medal there, and returned to St. Louis, where he has since lived as a teacher and pianist.

Alfred George Robyn is the most popular composer St. Louis has developed. He was born in 1860, his father being William Robyn, who organized the first symphonic orchestra west of Pittsburg. Robyn was a youthful prodigy as a pianist; and, at the age of ten, he succeeded his father as organist at St. John’s Church, then equipped with the best choir in the city. It was necessary for the pedals of the organ to be raised to his feet. At the age of sixteen he became solo pianist with Emma Abbott’s company. As a composer Robyn has written some three hundred compositions, some of them reaching a tremendous sale. A few of them have been serious and worth while, notably a piano concerto, a quintette, four string quartettes, a mass, and several orchestral suites.

There are not many American composers that have had a fugue published, or have written fugues that deserve publication. It is the distinction of Ernest Richard Kroeger that he has written one that deserved, and secured, publication. This was his 41st p. . It is preceded by a prelude which, curiously enough, is thoroughly Cuban in spirit and is a downright Habanera, though not so announced. This fiery composition is followed by a four-voiced “real” fugue. The subject is genuinely interesting, though the counter-subject is as perfunctory as most counter-subjects. The middle-section, the stretto-work, and the powerful ending, give the fugue the right to exist.

Among other publications are a suite for piano , in which a scherzo has life, and a sonata for violin and piano, in which, curiously enough, the violin has not one instance of double-stopping, and the elaborating begins, not with the first subject taken vigorously, but with the second subject sung out softly. The last movement is the best, a quaint and lively rondo. A set of twelve concert etudes show the influence of Chopin upon a composer who writes with a strong German accent. The etude called “Castor and Pollux” is a vigorous number with the chords of the left hand exactly doubled in the right; another etude, “A Romanze,” is noteworthy for the practice it gives in a point which is too much ignored even by the best pianists; that is, the distinction between the importance of the tones of the same chord struck by the same hand. A work of broad scholarship, which shows the combined influence of Beethoven and Chopin, who have chiefly affected Kroeger, is his sonata . A dominant pedal-point of fifty-eight measures, in the last movement, is worth mentioning. In a “Danse Nègre” and a “Caprice Nègre,” he has evidently gone, for his Ethiopian color, not to the actual negro music, but to the similar compositions of Gottschalk. Kroeger was born in St. Louis, August 10, 1862. At the age of five he took up the study of the piano and violin. His theoretical tuition was all had in this country. He has written many songs, a piano concerto, sonatas for piano and viola, and piano and ’cello, two trios, a quintette, and three string quartettes, as well as a symphony, a suite, and overtures based on “Endymion,” “Thanatopsis,” “Sardanapalus” (produced by Anton Seidl, in New York), “Hiawatha,” and “Atala.”