" haut- fact, and had written his music for them in the - After key that he expected to hear. This unhappy how the experiment, though it may not have caused any orchestras embarrassment, at least did not help him to is impos- beat down his father's stubborn opposition to en of the his adoption of music as a profession, and it and vil- was a long time before he gained permission to Senemia are go to Prague and enter the organ-school mainng-schools, tained by the Society for Ecclesiastical Music. is no part The permission, when it came, brought with it song brought little guarantee of financial support, and for three years after he entered the school in OcPoster at Nelaho- tober, 1857, he kept himself alive by playing the violin and the viola in a band of eighteen or twenty men var expectations who regaled the frequenters of cafés and other A ne pov's school- public resorts with popular dances, potpourris, terward that An- and overtures. In this way he earned twentyCommon interest two florins a month (about $9), adding somevened the thing to this sum by playing with the bandmaster in sextets at an insane asylum, where his knowledge of the organ also found occupation. As yet he had never had an opportunity to study the scores of the masters or to hear an opera. On one memorable occasion four cents would have bought him the privilege of hearing "Der Freischütz" from the cheapest place in the opera-house; but the sum was more than he had in his pockets, and an effort to borrow resulted in failure. It was not until he became a member of a theatrical orchestra that at, he was to he made the acquaintance of operatic literature dience to beyond the overtures and potpourris which cal studies, were the stock-in-trade of the popular bands. Potak had in- Concerts of the better class he managed to hear the Czechs occasionally by slipping into the orchestra and g cay necessity hiding behind the drums. vas or write the 1 s father's inn. is old he himself calde fiddlers sent to school am a little e to the keyga". This inYon his father, crys residence nove jovanced school so receive its སུ ༦ ༤ ས༎ Pe Spectre's a" were Schwere then the German that he first as a comgous and laudwoch he preMe en studying He had not yet way as cow music-makse nekong for a living. wch its cbbligato In 1862 a Bohemian theater was opened in Prague, and the band to which Dvořák belonged was hired to furnish the music. It was a modest undertaking, but it made a powerful appeal to the patriotic feeling of the Czechs, and in time was developed into the National Theater. The change was a welcome steppingstone for the budding musician. With some of his associates he was drafted into the larger orchestra of the greater institution. He now made the acquaintance of Karl Bendl, a popular and admirable composer, who placed in his hands the scores of Beethoven's septet and the quartets of Onslow, and thus opened the door of the classics to him. How great a stimulus x his father by to his zeal, industry, and ambition these scores wore a polka, which were, can only be imagined. He began at once Ss of the conve- to compose in the higher forms, producing a It was indeed a quintet for strings in 1862, finishing two syme exted harmonies, phonies before 1865, and trying his 'prentice New & were assaulted by hand on an opera. But these compositions all Samstance that went into his desk; he did not venture before gher than the the public until 1873, when, having received an appointment as organist at St. Adalbert's Church, he quit playing in the theatrical or A s are transposing ...a did not know that chestra, took unto himself a wife, and celebrated his good fortune by writing the music for a cantata entitled "The Heirs of the White Mountains." The subject was patriotic, and the markedly national characteristics of the music won for the cantata prompt and hearty recognition in Prague. It was followed in 1874 by a symphony in E flat, two nocturnes for orchestra, and a scherzo for a symphony in D minor. Prague, which has ever been prompt to recognize genius (as witness that episode in Mozart's life which flowered in "Don Giovanni"), now saw in the young man of thirtythree a possible peer of Gyrowetz, Wanhal, Dionys Weber, Wranitzky, Duschek, Ambros, Dreyschock, Kalliwoda, Kittl, Moscheles, Napravnik, Neswadba, Smetana, Skroup, and other favorite sons, and the National Theater commissioned him to compose an opera. Not long before, Wagner had been in Prague, and Dvořák had become, as he says, "perfectly crazy about him," following him through the streets to catch occasional glimpses of "the great little man's face." More than this, Dvořák had just heard "Die Meistersinger." Under such influences he wrote the music of "The King and the Collier," and produced a score which on rehearsal everybody about the theater agreed in pronouncing to be utterly impracticable. It could not be sung, and was abandoned until 1875, when Dvořák took the book up again and composed it afresh, giving himself up wholly to the current of his own ideas, and making no effort to imitate the manner of Wagner. He had learned that it was given to but one to bend the bow of Ulysses. In its new musical garb the opera was performed, and again popular favor was won by the national tinge in the music and by its elemental strength. The time had now come for the Czech to show himself to the world. In the control of the Austrian Ministry of Education (Kultusministerium) there is a fund for the encouragement of musical composers. This is doled out in stipends, the merit of applicants being passed on by a commission appointed for the purpose. Dvořák sent to Vienna a symphony and his opera, and received a grant of $160. The next year he applied again, and though his thesis consisted of his now celebrated "Stabat Mater" and a new opera, "Wanda," nothing came of the application. On a third trial, which was supported by the book of vocal duets called "Sounds from Moravia" ("Klänge aus Mähren") and other compositions, the commission, which now consisted of Johannes Brahms, Johann Herbeck, and Dr. Edward Hanslick, recommended a grant of $240. More valuable than the stipend, however, was the interest which his music had awakened in Brahms and Hanslick. The latter sent offi cial notification of the action of the commission, which the former supplemented with a personal letter in which he informed the ambitious composer that he had advised Simrock to print some of his compositions. An invitation came from the Berlin publisher soon after, Dvořák composed a set of Slavonic dances as pianoforte duets, the dances soon after found their way into the concert-rooms of Berlin, London, and New York (Theodore Thomas brought them forward in the latter city in the winter of 1879-80), and the name of Dvořák became known to the musical world. It was reserved, however, for the composition which the Austrian Commission had ignored to lift him to the height of popularity and fame. On March 10, 1883, the London Musical Society performed his “Stabat Mater." The work created a veritable sensation, which was intensified by a repetition under the direction of the composer three days later, and a performance at the Worcester festival in 1884. He now became the prophet of the English choral festivals. For Birmingham, in 1885, he composed "The Spectre's Bride"; for Leeds, in 1886, "St. Ludmilla"; for Birmingham, in 1891, the "Requiem Mass," which last work was produced in New York and Cincinnati within six months of its first performance in England. Meanwhile two or three of his symphonies, his symphonic variations for orchestra, scherzo capriccioso, dramatic overture "Husitská," and his Slavonic dances have become prime favorites with the audiences for whom Mr. Seidl caters in New York, Mr. Nikisch in Boston, and Mr. Thomas in Chicago. Last year the composer who had not four cents in his pocket to buy admission to "Der Freischütz" thirty years ago, and who was glad to accept a stipend of $160 from the Austrian government less than twenty years ago, signed a contract to perform the functions of Director of the National Conservatory of Music for three years at a salary of $15,000 a year. The forcefulness and freshness of Dvořák's music come primarily from his use of dialects and idioms derived from the folk-music of the Czechs. This music is first cousin to that of Russia and Poland, and the significance of the phenomenon that Dvořák presents is increased by the rapid rise of the Muscovite school of composers exemplified in Tschaikowsky, Rimsky-Korsakow, and Cui. Ever since the beginning of the Romantic movement the influence of folk-music has been felt, but never in the degree that it is felt now. Haydn, Beethoven, and Schubert made use of Hungarian melodies, but none of them was able to handle their characteristic elements in such a manner as to make them the vital part of their compositions. Something of the spiritual essence of the music of the Northland crept into the music of Gade, the melancholy brooding inspired by the deep fiords and frowning cliffs, the naïve, sunny pleasures of the mountain pastures, but the feelings lacked frankness of proclamation. Chopin laid the dance-forms of Poland under tribute, and Liszt, the prince of transcribers, made the melodies of Hungary native to the pianoforte. But Chopin was most national in the stately measures of the aristocratic polonaise, and Liszt sang the melodies of the Magyar in the vernacular of the ubiquitous gipsy. Meanwhile the cry was universal for new paths and new sources in the larger forms of music. The answer has come from the Slavonic school, which is youthful enough to have preserved the barbaric virtue of truthfulness and fearlessness in the face of convention. This school seeks to give free expression to the spirit which originally created the folk-songs of the Slavonic peoples. Its characteristics are rhythmic energy and harmonic,daring. The development of orchestral technic has placed in its hands the capacity for instrumental coloring, which not only helps to accentuate the native elements of the music, but lends it that barbaric vividness in which Tschaikowsky and Rimsky-Korsakow delight. There are many places in which the folk-songs and dances of Bohemians and Russians touch hands, but the more ancient culture of the Czechs is seen in the higher development of their forms and rhythms, as it is also manifest in the refinement of Dvořák's treatment of the national elements in his compositions. The Bohemian language is unique among modern languages, in that, like Latin and Greek, it possesses both accent and quantity independent of each other. This circumstance may have had something to do with the development of the varied rhythms which a study of Dvořák's music reveals. More than melody, rhythm proclaims the spirit of a people. If you wish to study a splendid illustration of this truth,-a truth significant enough to demand the attention of ethnologists,-listen to a performance of Dvořák's "Husitská" overture. It is one of the few compositions by the Bohemian master in which he has treated a melody not his own. He is not a nationalist in the Lisztian sense; he borrows not melodies but the characteristic elements of melodies from the folk-songs of his people. In the "Husitská," however, he has made use of an old battle-song of the Hussites, which dates back to the fifteenth century. "Ye warriors of the highest God and his laws, pray to him for help, and trust in him, that in the end ye always triumph with him;" thus run the words. Think of them in connection with those fierce fighters, of whom it is related that they went down upon their knees, whole armies of them, and chanted such prayers before attacking their enemies! But your imagination will not be able to conjure back the spirit of such a battle-hymn unless it is helped by the music. Try the opening phrase, then,- the phrase which lies at the foundation of Dvořák's overture,-upon the pianoforte: THE NATURE AND ELEMENTS OF POETRY.1 VII. IMAGINATION. T is worth while to reflect for a moment upon the characteristics of recent poetry. Take, for example, the verse of our language produced during the laureateship of Tennyson, and since the rise, let us say, of Longfellow and his American compeers. In much of this composition you detect an artistic convergence of form, sound, and color -a nice adjustment of parts, a sense of craftsmanship, quite unusual in the impetuous Georgian revival-certainly not displayed by any poets of that time except those among whom Keats was the paragon and Leigh Hunt the propagandist. You find a vocabulary far more elaborate than that from which Keats wrought his simple and perfected beauty. The conscious refinement of our minor lyrists is in strong contrast with the primitive method of their romantic predecessors. Some of our verse, from "Woodnotes" and "In Memoriam" and "Ferishtah's Fancies" down, is charged with wholesome and often subtile thought. There has been a marked idyllic picturesqueness, besides a variety of classical and Preraphaelite experiments, and a good deal of genuine and tender feeling. Our leaders have been noted for taste or thought or conviction-often for these traits combined. But we obtain our average impression of a literary era from the temper of its writers at large. Of late our clever artists in verse -for such they are-seem with a few exceptions indifferent to thought and feeling, and avoid taking their office seriously. A vogue of light and troubadour verse-making has come, and now is going as it came. Every possible mode of artisanship has been tried in turn. The like conditions prevail upon the Continent, at least as far as France is concerned; in fact, the caprices of our minor minstrelsy have been largely the outcome of a new literary Gallomania. youth to be impressed by the latest models, to catch the note of its own morntime. Many know the later favorites by heart, yet perhaps have never read an English classic. We hear them say, "Who reads Milton now, or Byron, or Coleridge?" It is just as well. Otherwise a new voice might not be welcomed-would have less chance to gain a hearing. Yet I think that even the younger generation will agree with me that there are lacking qualities to give distinction to poetry as the most impressive literature of our time; qualities for want of which it is not now the chief force, but is compelled to yield its eminence to other forms of composition, especially to prose fiction, realistic or romantic, and to the literature of scientific research. If you compare our recent poetry, grade for grade, with the Elizabethan or the Georgian, I think you will quickly realize that the characteristics which alone can confer the distinction of which I speak are those which we call Imagination and Passion. Poetry does not seem to me very great, very forceful, unless it is either imaginative or impassioned, or both; and in sooth, if it is the one, it is very apt to be the other. The younger lyrists and idyllists, when finding little to evoke these qualities, have done their best without them. Credit is due to our craftsmen for what has been called "a finer art in our day." It is wiser, of course, to succeed within obvious limits than to flounder ambitiously outside them. But the note of spontaneity is lost. Moreover, extreme finish, adroitness, graces, do not inevitably betoken the glow of imaginative conception, the ecstasy of high resolve. If anything great has been achieved without exercise of the imagination, I do not know of it. I am referring to striking productions and achievements, not to acts of virtue. Nevertheless, at the last analysis, it might be found that imagination has impelled even the saints and martyrs of humanity. Imagination is the creative origin of what is fine, not in art and song alone, but also in all forms of action-in campaigns, civil triumphs, material conquest. I have mentioned its indispensability to the scientists. It takes, they surmise, four hundred and ninety years for the light of Rigel to visit us. Modern imagination goes in a second to the darkness beyond the utmost star, speculates whether the ether itself may not 1 Copyright, 1892, by Edmund Clarence Stedman. Now, I think you will feel that there is something unsatisfactory; something much less satisfactory than what we find in the little prose masterpieces of the new American school; that from the mass of all this rhythmical work the higher standard of poetry could scarcely be derived. To be sure, it is the providential wont of Yet if there is one gift which sets Shakspere peter at a distance even from those who approach own him on one or another side, it is that of his posts imagination. As he is the chief of poets, we son infer that the faculty in which he is superemithe nent must be the greatest of poetic endowy, ments. Yes; in his wonderland, as elsewhere, The imagination is king. merchant There is little doubt concerning the hold of Estrena Shakspere upon future ages. I have someakes times debated whether, in the change of dravapor matic ideals and of methods in life and thought, lity; he may not become outworn and alien. But er, and the purely creative quality of his imagination. ranchise is renders it likely that its structures will endure. Prehistoric Hellas is far removed from our exation perience; yet Homer, by force of a less affluatten- ent imagination, is a universal poet to-day— sitors, to-day, when there is scarcely a law of physics struc- or of art familiar to us that was not unknown World to Homer's world. Shakspere's imagination. is still more independent of discovery, place, or time. It is neither early nor late, antiquated nor modern; or, rather, it is always modern and abiding. The beings which he creates, if suddenly transferred to our conditions, would make themselves at home. His land is one wherein the types of all ages meet and are contemporary. He created beings, and took circumstances as he found them; that is, as his knowledge enabled him to conceive of them at the time. The garb and manners of his personages were also a secondary matter. Each successive generation makes the acquaintance of these creatures, and troubles itself little about their fashions and acquirements. Knowledge is progressive, communicable: the types of soul are constant, and are sufficient in themselves. In a deen has the ievement, our re forecast 20 ear own o earth, our impulse human a munifioveries from ,, as distin- and There an as that of Ir does no harm, as I said at the outset of North the this course, for the most advanced audience rough the to go back now and then to the primer of art -to think upon the meaning of an elementary term. Nor is it an easy thing to formulate nothing clear statements of qualities which we instantly recognize or miss in any human production, and for which we have a ready, a traditional, se lectures, nomenclature. So, then, what is the artistic im(so go son as to na- agination, that of one who expresses his conox oy the chief ceptions in form or language? I should call Xax arise, but it a faculty of conceiving things according to ases in com- their actualities or possibilities—that is, as they car and vari- are or may be; of conceiving them clearly; of descriptive seeing with the eyes closed, and hearing with e-than the ears sealed, and vividly feeling, things and more art, in which exist only through the will of the artist's Cove Gisdain-the genius. Not only of conceiving these, but of e nature's own. holding one's conceptions so well in mind as vy... e our whole attention to express them-to copy them-in actual strate a special language or form. sove dependent upon it. The strength of the imagination is propor |