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®lje ®i)de of ffiitfllwlj Sang.
i.
ANCESTRY AND BIRTH.
When the Persian hosts, under the command of Datis and Artsphernes, threatened, neither for the first nor for the last time, the
independence of Attica, but the critical moment had arrived for vindi
cating Athenian freedom, each of the ten generals deputed to share
the guardianship of her liberties voted, firstly, that command should
be concentrated in his own hands, and, secondly/ in those of Miltiades.
Thus did f.be son of Cimon receive, even before Marathon, a conclusive
uperiority of his military and strategic
LIBRARY
South Place Ethical Society
ith English poetry. The gift of divine
, so universal a veneration is paid to its
ofty an estimate prevails of its intellectual
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itility, and of its part in shaping the desAck'd.........................................
ition would willingly confess itself a lagSource..... .
me a prize. To be a great poet is perhapsClass ____________________
may not command during life the loudest
t homage, ensures after death the most
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jHH|------- J&970 r; and to be a nation which boasts the3 survive in the love and veneration of the
human race ages alter tne speeches of statesmen have ceased to beread and the discoveries of philosophers have ceased to be true;,
when the victories of kings have become but sounding brass, and
the soaring triumphs of laurelled architects but gaping ruins. Nor is
it only, as Horace has finely said, that ante-Agamemnonic heroes haveperished out of remembrance because no Homer has chanted their
praises, and that the greatest of active heroes must be forgotten unless
his deeds be embalmed in sounding verse. The patriotic bard in vain
strives to perpetuate the glories of his compatriots rather than his
own; it is his strains, rather than their struggles, which survive.
The rash and impetuous Ajax, the vindictive yet chivalrous Achilles,
the wise but crafty Ulysses, the sagacious Mentor, Agamemnon king
of men, the blustering Hector, the seductive Paris, even the fair glow
ing Helen herself—what are all these but shadows of shades, echoes
of an echo, invisible ghosts haunting an uncertain coast ? Whilst, for
all the erudition of critics, the doubts of Pyrrhonists, and the hammers
�218
THE CYCLE OFBENGLISH SONG.
of iconoclasts, there lives in this sublunary world no more actual, lasting,
immovable entity than
“ The blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle.”
In the long run it is by its literature that a people is glorified, and
poetry is the crown and summit of literature. What does the world
at large know of Tyre? What of Sidon? What of Carthage?
Carthage may thank a Roman historian that Hannibal’s name is still
in the mouths of men. What of Egypt ? It is due to the Bible of a
race she despised, that archaeologists are still fumbling amongst her
buried palaces. There have been conquerors as potent as Philip and
Alexander of Macedon, only they did not conquer Athenians, and his
tory knows them not. Leuctra, Marathon, Salamis, Thermopylae—
these are watchwords for all time; but only because the same blood
that coursed in the veins of Epaminondas, of Miltiades, of Themistocles and of Leonidas, warmed an Alcaeus, a Pindar, a Euripides,
and a Sappho. The triumphs of barbarians, be they ever so brilliant
or ever so faithfully recorded, linger only in the dusty and cobwebbed
corner of men’s minds, because barbarians can point to no literature,
no verse, that for ever enthralls human attention. Take away the
spice of song, and you will in vain attempt to embalm the past.
Well therefore may nations, whose passion for immortatity is yet
stronger and deeper than that of individuals, hug each the flattering
unction to its soul that it has produced great, nay the greatest, poets;
and it would be unnatural to expect them to take the laurel off their
own brows to encircle with it the head of a rival. Italy would be
slow to concede that the Muses have had a fairer offspring than
Dante, Petrarch, and Ariosto. Spain would not willingly allow that
the genius of Calderon and Lope de Vega has ever been surpassed.
Germany would certainly refuse to rank Goethe and Schiller below
even the most favoured children of the Muses vaunted by other lands.
Even France would hesitate to own inferiority whilst she can cite
such names as Racine, Corneille, De Musset, and Victor Hugo. But
it is pretty certain—nay it is indubitable—that if competent Italians,
Spaniards, Germans, and Frenchmen were asked to name the country,
apart from their own, which had produced the greatest poets and the
greatest number of them, they would one and all point to this island,
which, though sung round by no syrens, has been a perfect nest and
woodland of song, now soft and melodious, now shrill and piercing,
now full and vocal, ever since the formation of the English language
gave English hearts a voice.
Of the correctness of this assertion we have some direct and much
presumptive evidence. Dante undoubtedly has been translated into
every civilised tongue, but it is only the mere truth that the world at
large is far more familiar with his name than with his works, and that
�THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG.
219
he is rather the favourite of scholars and the study of earnest lovers
of Italy than the companion of the average man or woman of culture.
Yet he is the only Italian poet who can be fairly said to have earned
for himself, on the mere strength of his works, a world-wide reputa
tion. The genius of Calderon is universally acknowledged, but that
of Lope de Vega has been questioned, and though, thanks to Goethe
and Schiller, their works have been more or less popularised in Ger
many, in England they are unread, in Italy they are unknown, and
in France they are unprized. It is probable that it is in this country
rather than in any other that Goethe and Schiller are studied and
appreciated by foreigners; yet, whilst no one here arrogates for the
latter an even rank with the first names in literature, the English
admirers of Goethe are to be found mainly in the ranks of those who
are critics, not to say pedants, rather than sympathising lovers of
poetry, and to whom philosophic poetry is the most agreeable form of
composition. As for Corneille and Racine, they have nowhere excited
enthusiasm out of their own country, whilst De Musset and M. Victor
Hugo, though widely and justly extolled, have not been entered
among the Olympians save by such prose rhapsodists as Mr. Swin
burne, and the source of their inspiration, as we shall see directly,
flows in this country and can scarcely be regarded as a native
fountain.
But it will be said, one nation may be more enlightened and
catholic in its tastes than another; and the fact of a poet not being
highly thought of in a foreign country may prove the crassness of the
country and not the inferiority of the poet. There is truth in the
observation, and we are far from wishing to imply that foreign esti
mates are conclusive, or anything approaching to conclusive, in any
particular case, though it must be rarely that they are of no value.
But the general foreign estimate—that is to say, the estimate of every
foreign country—of any particular poet, must necessarily count for
much; and the general foreign estimate, or the estimate of any foreign
country, of the entire body of a particular nation’s poetry, must neces
sarily be as valuable an opinion as is to be obtained outside that nation
itself. But by the very terms of our search the opinion of the nation
itself must perforce be excluded, since, as in the case of the Athenian
generals, every nation’s opinion would be given in its own favour. It
is an enormous testimony to the accuracy of the judgment of English
men that their body of poetic literature is the finest and most complete
ever yet produced, if we find that all other nations consider it, in those
respects, second only to their own. For no nation is smitten by
general blindness, or afflicted with undeviating special partiality or
affinity in the matter. Frenchmen may not care much for Shakespeare,
but they enthusiastically admire Milton, Pope, and Byron. They
may talk as Boileau did of “Ze clinquant de Tasse” but they entertain
�220
THE CIVILE OF ENGLISH SONCl
a genuine reverence for Dante. We may be more or less indifferent
to the stately tragedies of the time of the Grand Monarque, but we
recognise the signal poetical qualities of ‘ La Legende des Siecles y and
whilst the sonnets of Laura’s lover may be caviare to most Britons,
they incline their head when they hear the Divine Comedy mentioned.
We need not pursue our illustrations, for we have surely said enough
to establish the fact that nations are competent to form an opinion of
the relative value of each other’s poetic literature, and to corroborate
the theory that when they conspire to adjudge the second place to
one and the same nation, their own respectively alone excluding it
from the first, that nation’s claim to the first place is as conclusively
established as anything well can be in this world, outside the arena of
rigid demonstration.
That second place, which is practically the first, has assuredly been
adjudged by universal consent to English poetry; and it has, more
over, as would naturally be expected, more than any other exercised
the pens of foreign critics and translators. The whole of Chaucer has
been translated, and translated admirably, into French. Nearly the
whole of Shakespeare has been translated into German, some of the
most distinguished names in German literature busying themselves
with the task, and so successful have they been that some Germans
like to flatter themselves that their version of the greatest of dramas is
superior to the original. We may smile at the pretension; but it
testifies to the enthusiasm of those who advance it, for the author on
whom they thus attempt to fasten the character of complete acclima
tisation. It is no less a name in French annals than that of Chateau
briand with which we have to associate the continental triumphs of
Milton; the whole of the ‘ Paradise Lost ’ having been rendered into
his native tongue by that brilliant man of letters. Byron, the most
universally popular of all English poets, by reason of that cosmopoli
tanism which Goethe so shrewedly and accurately ascribed to his
works, has been translated into every European language, that of
Russia not excepted ; whilst his influence in moulding the style and
themes of foreign poets in Russia, Germany, Italy, Spain, and France,
is one of the most remarkable facts in literary history. Indeed it may
be said that it is only since Byron died that France has boasted poets
proper at all: Lamartine, De Musset, and M. Victor Hugo, being his
natural children.
It has further to be remarked that critics have vied with trans
lators in doing justice to the splendid merits of our long line
of English bards. We cannot say that criticism is a lost art in
this country, for it never existed ; but on the Continent, and
notably in France and Germany, it has been cultivated and pursued
by some of the best-equipped intellects and some of the most accom
plished pens; and they have never been more enthusiastically, and we
�THE’CYCEE' OF ENGLISH1 SONG.
221
may add, more successfully and popularly employed, than when ab
sorbed in the endeavour to explain to their countrymen the meaning
and merits of English poetry. When we want an interpretation of
one of the subtleties of Shakespeare, we can turn to a Gervinus; and
when we are in need of an unanswerable testimony to the genius of
Byron against the stupidity or jealousy of some of his own compatriots,
we have only to turn to our shelf which holds the prose opinions of
Goethe.
The latest tribute, and the most important one of our time, to the
eminence of English poetry comes to us from France, the classic land
of criticism, and is to be found in that long and admirable work which
the author justly calls a ‘ History of English Literature.’* A scholar,
a traveller, a worshipper of the arts, a man of letters in the best sense
of the word, M. Taine has undertaken to survey the literary pro
ducts of this island, both in prose and verse, from the time of Chaucer
to our own day; but it is the poets on whom he chiefly and most
lovingly dwells, and we shall go beyond his example, not only by
dwelling exclusively upon poets, but by illustrating our theory solely
from the most salient and characteristic poets in each of the epochs
into which the cycle of national song naturally divides itself. Yet our
standpoint will be the same as his, whilst we pass over numberless
objects which have attracted his scrutiny; and we cannot give a better
account of the central idea upon which, as on a pivot, all our reflec
tions and conclusions will turn, than is to be found in the preface
written by M. Taine himself to the talented translator’s English
edition of his work.
“A nation,” writes M. Taine, “lives twenty, thirty centuries, and more,
a.nfi a man lives only sixty or seventy years. Nevertheless, a nation in
many respects resembles a man. For during a career so long and, so to
speak, indefinite, it also retains its special character, genius and soul, which,
perceptible from infancy, go on developing from epoch to epoch, and
exhibit the same primitive basis from their origin up to their decline.
This is one of the truths of experience, and whoever has followed the his
tory of a people, that of the Greeks from Homer to the Byzantine Caesars,
that of the Germans from the poem of the ‘ Niebelungen ’ down to Goethe,
that of the French from the first and most ancient versified story-tellers
down to Beranger and Alfred de Musset, cannot avoid recognising a con
tinuity as rigid in the life of a people as in the life of an individual. Suppose
one of the five or six individuals who have played a leading part in the
world’s drama—Alexander, Napoleon, Newton, Dante; assume that by ex
traordinary good chance we have a number of authentic paintings, intact and
fresh—water-colours, designs, sketches, life-size portraits, which represent
the man to us at every stage of life, with his various costumes, expressions,
* ‘ History of English Literature.’ By H. A. Taine. Translated by H. Van
Taun, one of the Masters at the Edinburgh Academy. Edinburgh :
Edmonston & Douglas.
�222
THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONGj
and attitudes, with all his surroundings, especially as regards the leading
actions- he has performed, and at the most telling crises of his interior I
development. Such are precisely the documents which we now possess
enabling us to know that big individual called a nation, especially when
that nation possesses an original and complete literature.”
Without expressing any opinion here as to how far a “ science of
history” may be constructed out of the accumulation of human
records, we may affirm our assent to so much of the scientific method
of regarding human affairs as is expressed in the foregoing passage.
A nation has a term of existence, a character, a development, a history,
and will therefore pass through those stages which mark the growth
and decline of a particular man; and if there be a nation peculiarly
endowed with the poetic temperament, and betraying at every period
of existence the rare possession of poetic faculties, we may be sure that
its poetic literature will be marked by that steady and continuous
progression, broken by definite landmarks, which we recognise in the
individual. We trust that before we desist from the task we have set
ourselves, it will be conceded that, in this instance, facts and theory
agree.
It is a fact deserving of note that the earliest specimen extant of
composition in the Saxon tongue is a fragment of Caedmon, a monk of
Whitby, who lived in the eighth century after Christ, and who, “ for
want of learning,” was compelled to write his for the most part reli
gious poetry in his mother tongue. Want of learning, as most people
understand that term, has far more often than not been the portion of
poets. On the one side we have a Dante and a Milton—and they were
not very learned, after all, the first more especially—and on the other,
all the world of great poetic names, whose owners, judged by any real
scholarly or scientific standard, were extremely ignorant. The late
Lord Lytton has argued, in one of uhis delightful ‘ Caxtoniana,’ that a
poet ought to know everything, and that the best poets have been
remarkable for the variety of their acquirements. We must dissent
from the doctrine; and though of course it would, logically, be incon
clusive to point to that great master’s learning and then to his poetry,
and to insist on the disproportion between the two, still we should be
disposed to go so far as to affirm that, for a poet, not a little, but a
great deal of learning, might possibly be a dangerous thing. Perhaps,
to the greatest poets of all nothing is dangerous. But what in our
opinion, distinguishes the poet from ordinary persons, what specifically
characterises his mind and stamps his productions, is, not a greater
knowledge than his neighbours, but a different sort of knowledge. He
knows the same things as the herd, only he knows them in a distinct
and peculiar fashion. He apprehends them differently, and in render
ing them gives a totally different account of them. He may be as
ignorant as a Burns, as superficial as a Keats; but what little he
�THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG.
223
knows, he knows poetically. There is a soul in his knowledge, and
you can never make mere library faggots of it. It is not lore got
from without; it is inner wisdom. There have been people stupid
enough to fancy that Bacon must have been the author of Shake
speare’s plays and poems on account of the amount of learning there
is in them. All the learning in Shakespeare could be got at a gram
mar-school, in the woods and fields, and in the streets of men, so that
there was the right person to get it. Eyes, heart, and tongue, with
or without a bookshelf, furnish forth a poet.
And so this Caedmon of whom we spoke, had, for want of ‘learning,’ to
write in his native homely Saxon language. There was as yet no other
for him. It was a case of Latin or mother tongue, and he knew only
the latter. By-and-by a finer and more familiar weapon was to be
forged for the use. of the great souls fired with the yearning to go out of
themselves and speak, not for themselves alone, but for their own
time; and not for their own class alone, but for all ranks of the
nation. But the nation had to be made first; and, as usual, it was a
small band of aristocrats who made it. In the tenth century the
bettermost folks of this country used to send their children to France
to be educated; but before another hundred years had passed away
the schoolmaster crossed the Channel and the necessity disappeared.
The Normans brought with them not only laws and the art of govern
ing, but likewise the art of elegant speaking and writing. Never,
however, that we know of, has Saxon blood or Saxon speech
utterly disappeared before the conqueror; there is something too
sturdy in them for that. The tongue of the French troubadours had
to accept an alliance with the tongue of Caedmon, the Saxon monk of
Whitby, before it could get itself accepted as the speech of the people,
and still more as the speech of the poet.
The alliance, moreover, was not one solely of speech. A union
likewise was effected, firstly of race and secondly of caste, which has
had an unspeakably profitable influence upon English song. In the
blending of races, moreover, we must not leave out of the account a
third stock, neither Saxon nor Norman, and singularly different from
either, and by no means abolished either then or now, though the
linguistic traces of it have almost wholly disappeared, and which lent
and still lends its valuable properties, as perhaps a minor but still
important, contribution towards the formation of the full-grown English
temperament, and therefore to the complete character of English
poetry. We allude, of course, to that despised and humbled race,
Celtic in origin and tongue, which first possessed our island; but
which, soon after the dawn of its history, was driven westwards and
northwards, and there- only now survives in visible and tangible shape.
Yet who'can doubt that neither extermination nor ostracism was
complete, and that Celtic units and even Celtic families remained
�224
THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG,
largely dotted over England during the period of Saxon domination,
and that their blood was already intermingled with that of the
Teutonic master, when the final lord, the Norman, arrived ? Both
fact and probability support the supposition, and English poetry is
perpetually sounding a note which reminds us that there runs in our
veins, be it in ever so small a degree, the blood and tears of a
pathetic, subdued, and melancholy people.
It is all the more necessary to dwell and to insist in this place,
before dealing with the origin and consequences of the amalga
mation of the Saxon and Norman elements, upon the Celtic drop in
our „ poetical compositions, since, after that amalgamation, several
centuries had to pass before its minor key was heard in English
literature. It is of the very nature of soft, gentle and melancholy
-characters, races, and feelings, to seem to be suppressed by the sterner
•and more practical ones, which are perpetually striving to extrude
■them or to trample them underfoot; but it is equally of their very
mature never in reality to be so. They bend, but they never break.
These are too supple, too elastic, too yielding, ever to be snapped in
twain and so disposed of. They survive neglect, contumely, persecu
tion, and get the upper hand of their conquerors in moments least
expected, moulding the speech, the modes of thought, even the
policy of the latter, when they cannot aspire to occupy the seats
of influence and authority. Thus Athens, as a Boman poet acknow
ledges, had its triumph over masterful Borne; thus, as we shall
see, the Celtic type of feeling, though utterly crushed and lost for
a long while under the waves of Saxon and Norman domination,
crept up again in the works which are the historical exponent of the
feelings of the English nation; and thus, in a minor degree, we are
beginning to see the “ mild Hindoo ” influencing, and destined yet
more to influence, the sturdy western conqueror of his country.
The Saxon crassness, which is at present so dominant amongst us,
caused a year or two ago a grin of self-sufficient stupidity to adorn
the faces of many of our journalistic wiseacres, when Mr. Disraeli,
peculiarly endowed with the faculty of comprehending ethnic idiosyncracies, alluded to the influence exercised upon the Irish people by the
melancholy sea with which their small island is surrounded. Yet the
fact—for fact unquestionably it is—had never escaped the observation
of anybody deserving the epithet of thinker. M. Benan, himself of
Celtic origin, speaks, in his essay upon Celtic Poetry, of the “ mer
presque toujours sombre,” which forms on the horizon of Brittany “ a
circle of eternal sighs.” “ Meme contraste,” he proceeds, “ dans les
hommes: a la vulgarite normande ”—of course the “vulgarite normande” here spoken of has nothing to do with the aristocratic
Norman element which exists in England, and of which we shall have
occasion to speak so often—“ a la vulgarite normande, a une popula
�THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG?
225
tion grasse et plantureuse, contente de vivre, pleine de ses interets,
egoiste comme tons ceux dont l’habitude est dejouir, succede une
race timide, reservee, vivant toute an dedans, pesante en apparence,
mais sentant profondement et portant dans ses instincts religienx une
adorable delicatesse. Le meme contraste frappe, dit-on, quand on
passe de l’Angleterre au pays de Galles, de la basse Ecosse, anglaise de
langage et de moeurs, au pays des Gaels du nord, et aussi, mais avec
une nuance sensiblement different, quand on s’enfonce dans les parties
de l’lrlande ou la race est restee pure de toute melange avec l’etranger.
Il semble que l’on entre dans les couches souterraines d’une autre age,
et l’on ressent quelque chose des impressions que Dante nous fait
eprouver quand il nous conduit d’-un cercle a un autre de son enfer.”*
It is this combined retreat and resistance, this apparent yielding
ness, ending in an obstinacy that never surrenders, which constitutes
the strong and enduring character of the Celtic influence. It can
not ever be said of it that it dies in a corner; for though it falls back
before every fresh inroad into nooks and retreats ever and ever more
obscure, it does not perish there. Roman civilisation drove Celtic
races before it, as it drove other races ; but these it ended by civilis
ing—the Celtic race, never. The great Teutonic invasion which
followed hurled the Celtic tribes back, but never really broke their
lines. Modern civilisation fares no better against them, and all the
efforts of England to impregnate the Irish people with modern ideas
of progress have generated nothing better than disgust and dis
affection. Without giving itself fine classical airs, or troubling itself
much with what to more ambitious people is exalted as philosophy,
the Celtic race is as sublime in its selection of sides as was the Roman
Cato. It loves the losing cause, and is invariably found shedding its
blood in campaigns that are desperate. Never to attack, but always
to defend—such seems its allotted part in history. It is the con
servative race, fated never to win, but never to be wholly conquered.
It has a delicate presentiment of its perpetual doom, and bears its
destiny with a fatalistic resignation. It believes unchangingly in
God, but does not expect God to fight for it. As has been finely
observed, one would hardly think, to see how slightly endowed it is
with audacious initiation, that it belongs to the race of Japhet—the
• Iapeti genus, audax omnia perpeti.
What is the character that we should expect to find in the poetry
of such a people? Precisely that which strikes the most cursory
observer. Celtic poetry, when undefiled with all alien admixture, is
lyrical and sad. It is for the most part a threnody; a dirge, like the
play and plash of melancholy waves. Not victories, but defeats,
are the theme of its bards; and its metrical stories are stories of
* ‘ Essais de Morale et de Critique.’ Par Ernest Renan, Membre de
1’Institut. Deuxieme edition. Paris : Michel Levy Freres.
vol. xxxvin.
Q
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THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG,
exile and flight. If gaiety for a moment intrudes, it appears only as
a relief to the deep current of melancholy tears. For the Celtic race
has too enduring a consciousness of the world we do not see ever to
accept gladness as the natural condition of man. It has the religious
fibre in a remarkable degree in its composition, and the air it breathes
is for ever haunted with shadows and intangible phantoms. It clings
to the infinite, and is “ an infant crying in the night.” Too devout,
too resigned, too averse from sustained and concentrated thought to
strive, like the laborious Teuton, to solve the mysteries which sur
round us, it is content to recognise their existence, to feel their influ
ence, to acknowledge them as a law of life, but humbly to respect
their insolubility. It never presumes to lift the veil, though it never
forgets how little there is on this side of the veil to satisfy the human
soul. Thus its melancholy, its undying sadness, the plaintiveness of
its poetry, ever remains vague and indefinite. Its most realistic strains
are but a wandering voice.
The melancholy natures are usually gentle; and the Celtic race,
besides being sad, and what in these days is called superstitious, has a
feminine quality in it especially noteworthy. Just as, though it
nourishes an undying reverence for the awful mysteries beyond the
tomb, its annals swarm with apparitions, with witchcraft; and all the
apparatus of demonology; so, whilst it can be wrought by the in
justice of the invader to stubborn defence and even to terrible re
prisals, it asks nothing better than to be left alone, and, womanlike,
to bury itself in the pursuits of home. The contrast between its early
compositions and those of the Germanic peoples can scarcely be ex
aggerated. In the Edda and the Niebelungen we find heroes who
rejoice in slaughter for slaughter’s sake, who revel in blood, as some
men have revelled in lust, and to whom carnage and the bloody reek
of battle are a goodly savour. Savage strength, gigantic rudeness,
horse-play in peace, unlimited and joyous vengeance in strife, these
are the main elements of early Teutonic grandeur. In the Celtic
Mabinogion, on the contrary, though bloodshed abounds, though the
recitals swarm with tales of pitiless cruelty, these are used only as the
foils to gentler sentiments and more feminine scenes.
But in the formation of what we know as the English tongue Celtic
influence had little or no share; and many generations were to elapse
after its formation before Celtic influence was to creep into its poetry.
Using the terminology of a science prevalent amongst us, we may
say that whenever and wherever we find the Celtic element in our
poetical literature, it is there by the law of reversion to a remote
and indirect ancestry. Its two immediate parents are the Saxon
and the Norman. If, as Mr. Coventry Patmore has asserted, meta
phorically embodying an old and popular theory, “ marriage-contracts
are the poles on which the heavenly spheres revolve,” the union
�THETYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG.
227
between the conquered Saxon and the conquering Norman, such as
we find them towards the close of the eleventh century, ought indeed
to have produced celestial results; and there are few who will deny
that it has done so. We need not here concern ourselves to inquire
whether the two were not, after all, not very far distant in blood.
Whatever their original consanguinity, circumstance, and that some
thing which, because we cannot thoroughly scrutinise it, we call acci
dent, had ended by placing them, in character, in habits, in tongue,
poles asunder.
“ Of all barbarians these are the strongest of body and heart, and
the most formidable.” Such is the testimony of a civilised contem
porary concerning the Saxons. Their own account of them selves
sounds over-flattering; but at bottom it tells the same tale and sig
nifies the same thing: “ The blast of the tempest aids our oars; the
bellowing of heaven, the howling of the thunder, hurt us not; the
hurricane is our servant, and drives us whither we wish to go. We
smite with our swords,” sings one narrator of the deeds of himself and
his fellow sea-kings. “ To me it was a joy like having my bright
bride by me on the couch. He who has never been wounded leads a
weary life.” To slay and be slain was with them the whole duty of
life. It was for that that they came into this world; that was their
raison d'etre; that alone reconciled them to existence. Death had no
terrors for them, unless it came upon a bed. “ What a shame for me
not to have been permitted to die in so many battles, and to end thus
by a cow’s death I At least put on my breastplate, gird on my sword,
set my helmet on my head, my shield in my left hand, so that a great
warrior like myself may die as a warrior.” So spoke Siegward, Duke
of Northumberland, Henry of Huntingdon tells us, when dysentery
overtook him in the midst of a brief truce.
Evidently a pugnacious and battle-loving race; ( cherishing their
bodies, not for the pleasure and blandishment of ease, but in order that
in the din and stress of battle they might press heavily against and
overbear the foe. For this they ate voraciously, drank hard, and slept
without turning. Their existence was an animal one, relieved only
by those furious passions known but to man. But the conquest by
them of an island kingdom slowly but surely wrought a modification
in their temperament. With a whole continent before them, they
would have gone on conquering, or at least ravaging, as long as there
was a rood of ground left not visited by their stormy footsteps; and in
England they never paused from the work of havoc, slaughter, and
the constant acquisition of sway, until they found themselves stopped
either by the mountains or the sea. Then they began to feel the
pinch of their own success. What were they to do next ? Were
they, like Alexander, to weep because there were no more worlds to
devastate ? Had they not better turn and rend each other ? Thev
q 2
�228
THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG.
found some relief in that course; and the whole world knows to
whom the reproach of their history being a history of kites and
crows was addressed. The Saxon Heptarchy was a praiseworthy
attempt to introduce peace and order among successful savages; but
that in the short space of a hundred years, out of fourteen kings
of Northumbria seven were slain and six deposed, is a conclusive
proof of what difficulties legislators and law-preservers had to contend
with.
Still, a something like settled government at length supervened;
and a wandering, adventure-seeking, battle-loving, brutal, though at
heart not unkindly people, had to find other vents for their turbid
temperaments than surprising their neighbours and dismaying their
foes. Generally they settled down into fixed families, villages, com
munistic states, kingdoms; and social life commenced. But society,
it long remained apparent, was not the natural condition of these
sturdy and moody children of the forest and the foam. Non-gregarious,
they isolated themselves whenever the opportunity arose, drawing a
sort of ring-fence round what they could call their own, and so dividing
it all from the outer world, which, by the law of inherited association,
they still regarded as their natural enemy. Tacitus hadj observed
how in Germany they lived the solitary life, each one near the wood
which pleased him. Self-detached and self-contained, each man would
fain be his own master, develop and give play to his own character,
and rule his own world. Neither law nor state should crush him.
War being no longer open to him, he would find his way out in some
other fashion, but still his own; or rather, since an outward vent for
his huge nature was denied him, he would nurse his feelings and
desires at home. Thus the active, vagrant, aggressive, despoiling
Saxon of the European mainland, gradually toned down to the domestic,
passive, silent, defensive, half-gloomy, meditative Saxon of this island.
He still indulged in enormous and frequent meals, still gave himself
the luxury of swinish intoxication, and corrected these excesses of
animal life by an out-door existence, hunting, and every sport that
field, or air, or river could afford him.
Man is not long in erecting his necessities into preferences, and
the step is not a far one which leads him to exalt his preferences into
virtues. Since he was compelled to lead the domestic life, this soon
became the English Saxon’s ideal; and with it naturally grew up a
great respect for property, for clear distinctions between meum and
tuum; a high regard for the usefulness and fidelity of women; a
strong sanction of reverence and of implicit obedience in children, and,
though to a less degree, in all subordinates. Home life thus estab
lished itself, and with it flourished home-keeping wits. Slow, deliberate,
cautious, practical, full of solid sense, with a strong sense of right and
justice; implacable, but from conscience, not from anger; exacting,
�THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG.
229
mot easily moved to pity, putting heavy burdens upon everybody,
but bearing them unflinchingly himself, the Saxon in England was
perhaps the noblest and the most respectable savage the world has
ever seen.
Indeed, it is only in deference to modern ideas that he can be
regarded as a savage at all. With all his stolidity, he had within
him a deep well of enthusiasm, and the seriousness of his temperament
compelled him to be religious. Thus Christianity found in him an
easy if not a tractable convert. He readily accepted the idea of one
God, for indeed he possessed it already; but for outward symbols
and expressions of each particular religious passion or sentiment he
manifested, even then, an unmistakable aversion. What the Roman
Catholic church calls piety and the Protestant church superstition
had no seductions for him. He was without idols when Augustine
found him; for his earnest nature regarded such minor objects of
veneration as childish trifling. He recognised the universe, the
necessity of things, the difficulties of life, duty, conscience, heroism,
and the obligation of asserting himself. Religion was to be serviceable
io him, not he to religion.
It is not difficult to see what must be the contribution of such a
race to a composite poetical literature. To the Celt English poetry
■owes its pathos, sweetness, sadness, its lyrical faculty, its touches of
ineffable melancholy, that returning of the singer upon himself, that
minor key struck ever and anon in the midst of the strain, its notes of
■wail, its cadence drowned in tears, its sighing for what is not. The
charm of our poetry is Celtic; but its force is Saxon. The Celt says
Ah! the Saxon says Oh ! From the first we get our sentiment,
from the second our sublimity. But as the Saxon is perhaps the most
complex of all known characters, so are his contributions to the
elements of our poetry the most numerous and the most varied. To
this source must be traced not only all that is sounding and soaring
an it, but all on the one hand that is didactic and all on the other
that is deeply tragic. Much of English poetry, in the opinion of
foreign critics, is spoiled by its too evident and intentional moral tone.
Th a Frenchman or an Italian, much of Cowper, more of Words
worth, and no little of Milton, are as tiresome as the lesson taught by
■a schoolmaster. They are perpetually discoursing, playing the peda
gogue, laying down the law, inculcating moral truths, or what they
believe to be such. Yet no Englishman at least will doubt that, here
and there, our didactic poets, Wordsworth more especially, have reached
rare heights of song, even in the act of preaching, and wherever they
have done this, they were indebted to their Saxon blood and spirit.
To the same source must be traced that almost savagely tragic
spirit which permeates our best and most famous dramas. The Greeks
Aid not shrink from supping of horrors; but then they threw the
�230
THE CYCLE OE ENGLISH SONGlI
responsibility of slaughter, of parricide, matricide, fratricide, upon the
gods, upon fate, upon Necessity; and the human agents were victims,
rather than instigators or willing perpetrators, of bloody deeds. The
pages of Shakespeare swarm with furies, but they are furies in
human shape, men, mere men, governed by human motives, forgetful
of heaven, uninfluenced by hell, needing 'no goad but their own
tremendous passions, no goal but their own insatiable desires. Here
we see the old sea-kings at work; fighting, slaying, conquering, dying,
stamping with rage, rolling out sesquipedalian periods, and venting
themselves in prodigious metaphors.
But the Saxons were essentially stutterers. They had much to say,
more especially when they were no longer allowed to act, or at least
to act on the large scale and in obedience to their big carnage-loving
promptings; but they experience almost unconquerable difficulty in
saying it.
“ Time after time,” M. Taine observes, “ they return to and repeat the same
idea. The sun on high, the great star, God’s brilliant candle, the noble
creation—four times they employ the same thought, and each time under
a new aspect. All its different aspects rise simultaneously before the bar
barian’s eyes, and each word was like a shock of the semi-hallucination
which excited him. Verily, in such a condition, the regularity of speech
and of ideas is disturbed at every turn. His phrases recur and change;
he emits the word that comes to his lips without hesitation; he leaps over
wide intervals from idea to idea. The more his mind is transported, the
quicker and wider are the intervals traversed. With one spring he visits
the poles of his horizon, and touches in one moment objects which seem to
have the world between them. His ideas are entangled; without notice,
abruptly the poet will return to the idea he has quitted, and insert in it
the thought to which he is giving expression. It is impossible to translate
these incongruous ideas, which quite disconcert oui' modern style. At
times they are unintelligible. Articles, particles, everything capable of
illuminating thought, of marking the connection of terms, are neglected.
Passion bellows forth like a great shapeless beast.”
We may perhaps suspect that M. Taine, a Frenchman in spite of
all his breadth and toleration of mind, had in his mind, when he
wrote the above passage on the Saxon literature, less the Anglo-Saxon
fragments made familiar to us by Turner, Gonybeare, Thorpe, and
others, than those tragedies of Shakespeare which so many of his
countrymen have found “ barbarian.” It is to our Saxon blood that
we mainly owe our genius, our extravagance, the “ eye in fine frenzy
rolling”—that, indeed, which distinguishes what is best in our poetical
literature above all the poetical literatures of the human race.
But it may well be doubted if it ever would have attained the height
on which it now sits enthroned before the eyes of men, had not
another and most necessary element been introduced, an indispensable
corrector, a chastiser, a moulder, a beneficent wielder of discipline.
From the Celt, as we have said, our sweetness; from the Saxon, our
�THE CYCLE Of ENGLISH SONG.
231
sn-ength; but from the Norman, to use Mr. Arnold’s phrase, our light.
The point may be put yet more clearly, though with every advance in
precision we necessarily exaggerate the truth. The Celt contributes
the spirit, the Saxon, the substance, the Norman, the form; and
without the latter, it may safely be affirmed, we should never have
succeeded in pleasing anybody but ourselves.
As it is, we have accepted it unwillingly, but it has proved a useful
and wholesome restraint, just as the conquered Saxons unwillingly
received Norman laws and discipline, but were enormously improved
by them. As Mr. Froude says, “ through all the arrangements of
the conquerors, one single aim was visible; and that was that every
man in England should have his definite 'place and definite duty
assigned to him, and that no human being should be at liberty to lead
at his own pleasure an unaccountable existence. The discipline of an
army was transferred to the details of social life ” For a long time the
conquered resented this uncongenial treatment, and it was in con
formity with their proud and sullen nature that they should display
their resentment rather in silence than in song. The Normans
brought their troubadours with them, and the Norman court in
England boasted its jongleurs, who were after all but feeble imitators \ '
of what was scarcely worth imitating. But they had at least the
secret of form and of articulate speech. They were devoid of ideas,
idle triflers, court sycophants, ticklers of the fancy of lords and fine
ladies, spurious glorifiers of spurious passions; but they could put
words and sounds together. They knew, moreover, what it was to be
joyous, and they gave to their craft the very name of “ the gay science.”
Witty moreover, and irreverent, they relieved their stilted and affected
sentiments with gibes and delicate laughter.
Hence, when the time came, which was so long in coming, when
Saxon and Norman were to be one in race, one in nation, one in
manners, one in language, the Saxon had given up nothing, and had
acquired much. One in language, do we say ? Whose language ? It
was mainly the Saxon; but the Norman had taught him how to use
it. Its ponderosity had been laid aside, and the conqueror had adopted
it as his own.
Thus was brought about a triple union ; a union of race, a union of
caste, and a union of tongue. Even by the time of Henry the Second
no one asked who was Norman and who was Saxon; all freemen were
Englishmen. The distinction was lost of subduer and subdued. The
former might yet retain more than his fair share of the soil and of the
administration of the laws, but he had practically confessed that the
latter were his equals. The places laid waste by the Conquest become
gradually repeopled. Charters are granted; arbitrary taxes are got
rid of; burgesses are summoned from the towns to Parliament; poli
tical as well as social life makes its appearance. So that an English
�232
THE CYCLE OF ENGLISH SONG.
king, speaking to a pope, uses as his argument that “ it is the custom
of the kingdom of England, that in all affairs relating to the state of
this kingdom, the advice of all who are interested should be taken.”
It was impossible that, under such circumstances as these, the
French verse imported at the Conquest should not disappear. At the
beginning of the twelfth century, Saxon was heard only among the
“ degraded franklins, outlaws of the forest, swineherds, peasants, the
lower orders.” It was no longer written; everybody who wrote, wrote
French, everybody who read, read French. Many did it clumsily
and ill, and eked out their imperfect knowledge with Saxon words.
Gower apologised for his bad French style, adding, “ Je suis Anglais."
Nevertheless, the stronger always wins in the long run; and the
despised and down-trodden tongue, slowly but surely, got the upper
hand. When the Norman Barons began to send their sons across the
Channel to prevent them from learning English from their nurses the
beginning of the end was near. The Saxons would not—perhaps
could not—learn the language of their masters. There was but one
alternative: in order that the two might communicate, the master
had to learn the language of his inferior. There were limits to the in
vasion of the one upon the other. Law, philosophy, and such science
as there was, requiring abstract terms, necessarily borrowed from the
tongue which was indebted to Latin for its culture and expression,
but the rude necessities of life and the simple emotions of the heart
refused to embody themselves, as far as the nation was concerned, in
any but native words. In two centuries or so, the process was
complete. There was an English nation and an English language,
and they only waited for an English poet.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Title
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The cycle of English song
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 217-232 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Includes bibliographical references. Article from Temple Bar magazine, May 1873; attribution from Virginia Clark catalogue.
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Music
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Conway Tracts
Songs
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Text
OF THE BIKTH OF
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
SONGS sung by Mr KENNEDY at the
EDINBURGH FESTIVAL.
SONG FOR THE OCCASION.
Words by JAME&^ALLANTINE.
Music by GEORGE CROAL.
Come let us raise a grateful song,
On this our Minstrel’s Natal day ;
And all the world shall round us thiong,
Heart homage to his name to pay.
One hundred years have passed away,
Since first awoke that watchful eye ;
Who’s sparkling glance and genialray,
Have kindled light that ne’er call die.
See his glory brightly shining, ■
Over Palace, Hall, and Cot;
See the Myriad Nations'twining,’
Laurel wreaths round Walter Scott.
Immortal strains of Auld Lang Syne,
Are floating on the ambient air ;
While Fame and Time strew flowers divine,
Around the Wizard Minstrel’s chair,—
Who in his hundredth year sits there,
With songs and stories as of yore ;
Still charming all the brave and fair,
Still linking hearts for evermore.
See his glory, etc.
Statesmen and Warriors gather round,
And Prince and Peasant swell the train;
The sky cleft hills, the glens profound,
Prulong the universal strain.
O’er all the World the loud refrain,
Of grateful joy spreads wide and far ;
And Scotland’s radiance ne’er can wane,
Illumed by such a lustrous star.
See his glory, etc.
Edinburgh, 9A August 1871.
�JOCK O’ HAZELDEAN,.
Words by SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Scottish Melody.
Why weep ye by the tide, layde, why weep ye by the tide ?
I’ll wed ye to my youngest son, and ye shall be his bride ;
And ye shall be his bride, layde, sae comely to be seen :
But aye she loot the tears doon fa’, for Jock o’ Hazeldean.
Now let this wilfu’ grief be done, and dry that cheek so pale ;
Young Frank is chief of Errington, and lord of Langley dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha’, his sword in battle keen,
But aye she loot the tears down fa’, for Jock o’ Hazeldean.
A chain of gowd ye shall not lack, nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, nor palfrey fresh and
fair;
And you the foremost o’ them a’, shall ride ©ur forest queen,
But aye she loot the tears down fa’, for Jock o’ Hazeldean.
The kirk was decked at morning tide, the tapers glimmer’d fair ;
The priest andHiridegroom wait the bride, but ne’er a bride
was there,
They sought her baith by bower and ha’, the layde wasna seen,
She’s owre the border and awa, wi’ Jock o’ Hazeldean.
THE MACGREGOR’S GATHERING.
Words by SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Music by ALEX. LEE.
The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,
And our clan has a name that is nameless by day,
Our signafafor fight, which from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo,
Then haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalach.
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame and their flesh to the eagles.
Then gather, gather, gather, gather, gather, gather,
While there’s leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
Macgregor despite them shall flourish for ever.
Glenorchy’s proud mountain, Col churn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon, no longer are ours.
We’re landless, landless, landless, Gregalach, landless, land
less, landless.
Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
O’er the peak of Benlomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks o^ Craig Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt.
Then haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalach.
If they rob us of name, etc.
�*YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
Words by SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Music by GEORGE CROAL.
O, young Lochinvar has come out of the west,
Through all the wide bolder his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Hsk river where ford there was none ;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late ;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
“ O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord LochinvM! ”
I long woo’d youf daughter, my suit you denied
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland moreRtovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. ”
The bride kiss’d the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“ Now tread we a measure !” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnejfland plume,
And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “ Twere better by far,
To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the hall-door and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung !
‘‘ She is won ! we are gone, over bank, busli, and scaur,
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong GS^emes of the Netherby clan ;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode ancLthey ran;
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannonbie Lee.
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?
*From the Centenary Souvenir, six songs by Sir Walter Scott.
��&rt-listorital antr
LECTURES.
AFTERNOON MEETINGS
AT
Oe gooms if ilje^Hd
Saldg/
I No. 11, CHANDOS STREET,! CAVENDISH SQUARE,
At L7ircc o’Clod1.
MR. GEORGE BROWNING
PROPOSES TO DELIVER
THE SECO1TD SERIES
OF THE ABOVEMJOURSE OF LECTURES
Every Wednesday, and not every alternate Wednesday as previously
announced, commencing onLLh^lfcils.tfe^tlu'OsdaAgiqa AftrwM
The following are the Subjects of thejSfeg^S Series
France
.
Germany
.
Switzerland
Northern Italy.
Rome
afe
Naples and Pompeii
M
M
M
Wednesday, April 5.
Wednesday, April 12.
Wednesday, April 19.
Wednesday, April 26.
Wednesday, May 3.
Wednesday, May 10.
Ticltets for t7ix Course of Six.Lectures, Half a Htiinea;fcfrgg
to admit
/
Those who are desirous of attending the above Course of Lectures
are requested to intimate the same on'dr bdbBJ >©ril 1st to 1
George Browning,
k 13, BgggiiSfa-eet, W.
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Pamphlet
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The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Centenary of the birth of Sir Walter Scott: songs sung by Mr Kennedy at the Edinburgh Festival
Description
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Place of publication: [Edinburgh]
Collation: [4 p.] ; 19 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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[s.n.]
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[1881]
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G5563
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<p class="western"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" name="graphics1" width="88" height="31" border="0" alt="88x31.png" /></p>
<p class="western">This work (Centenary of the birth of Sir Walter Scott: songs sung by Mr Kennedy at the Edinburgh Festival), identified by <span style="color:#0000ff;"><span lang="zxx"><u>Humanist Library and Archives</u></span></span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</p>
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application/pdf
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Text
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[Unknown]
Subject
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Music
Conway Tracts
Songs
Walter Scott
-
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•
national secular society
Songs tor tbe
11 We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson.
Pioneers, O Pioneers!"—Walt Whitman.
E
»
>
Manchester :
Labour Press Society Ltd., 57 and 59,. Tib Stretet.
��To all those that are endeavouring to establish Democracy upon
the earth, these songs are lovingly dedicated.
�CONTENTS.
PAGE
Proem
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A Song on the Way
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In London
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The Song of the Builders
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The Hour before Daybreak ..
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A Litany
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A Voice from the Ranks
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A Call to Arms
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To the Church
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Vive la Reine..
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Cilfynidd ..
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Litany of the People ..
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To the Emperor William II. of Germany
Vox Clamantium
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In Memoriam
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Italy ..
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In that Day
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Epode
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�PROEM.
AM TIRED of the mellow music that steals from the
silver strings,
Of the lute of some plaintive lover who dreams of his love
and sings ;
I am weary of beautiful blending of colours that melt, and
seem
To weave a spell of enchantment, and sink on the soul like a
dream ;
I am sick of the lifeless loveliness spread on the poet’s page,
I will sing of the love of brothers, the light of the dawning
• age!
******
To the honour of those whose lips of fire spake Freedom and
Love in the past,
Who held the light and strove with power, and were gather’d
to death at the last,
This little voice : oh living, oh dead of the great reformer
throng !
I lay my humble fruit at your feet, I bring you my tribute of
song.
For love of you and of them that follow the path that your
feet have trod,
For lovers of Man and of Liberty, these “ Songs for the
Sons of God.”
A SONG ON THE WAY.
ANWARD MARCH and raise the chorus,
Sons of God;
Waves the flame-red banner o’er us,
Clear the light is shining for us,
Sons of God.
�6
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Nothing dims that light divine,
Sons of God ;
Sing our Hope, all hearts combine
Down the long advancing line,
Sons of God.
Sing the glorious To Be,
Sons of God ;
Children of the dawn are we,
Link’d in one Fraternity—
Sons of God.
Linger not to look behind,
Sons of God;
Heed not how the weak and blind
Howl despair ; ’tis idle wind,
Sons of God.
Onward through the twilight gray,
Sons of God ;
March abreast, think not to stay
Till upon us breaks the Day,
Sons of God.
Fear not Death with duty done,
Sons of God ;
On toward the rising sun,
Onward till the goal is won,
Sons of God.
IN LONDON.
T STAND and open the gates
Of a city of laughter and dole,
Where the sounds of a striving roll
Up to God, who pitying waits :
And the city is but my soul,
And the dwellers but loves and hates.
I.
Often on winter evenings,
When the roadways reek with slime,
And the streets are dark with rolling fog,
And choking with filth and grime,
�SONGS FOR THE SONS' OF GOD.
I pass along gleaming pavements
To the poorer parts of the town,
Where, under the struggling gas-lamps,
The harlots go up and down :
Up and down in the twilight
Like shadows they come and go,
In and out of the blackness,
Wearily to and fro.
And I see the hell in their faces
Under the hideous paint;
.\nd I lean against a hoarding
Shuddering, sick, and faint.
“ Why cling to life ? ” I wonder,
“ Better to sleep with the dead ” :
But I know in a thousand garrets,
Their children are waiting for bread.
And a fire burns up in my heart,
And I wonder if God will forgive
Our cursed social system
That forces them sin to live.
Sisters of mine, as I stand
Watching you walk the street,
A dream of the future rises
A vision fair and sweet ;
I see through this vile putrescence—•
This reeking “ Slough of Despond,’"
To the happy valleys that flower
In the beautiful land beyond.
Sisters of mine, I see you
Laugh through a sunny day ;
Happy with them that love you,
Watching your children play :
*
*
*
*
*
Mutely out of the shadows
You cry, and sisters, we hear;
And the sons of God make answer-—
Hope, for the morning is near 1”
7
�8
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
II.
On to the unknown deeps
The foul black river rolls ;
The heart of London sleeps
With its millions of human souls.
' *
*
*
*
She rests on the steps alone,
Her face is haggard and drawn,
Set as if turned to stone
Rose-tinged by the breaking dawn.
Gaunt is her body, and thin,
Not a flower of her former grace,
But is withered by hunger and sin,
And her face, ah God, her face !
Stamp’d with a fierce despair,
Set like a chisell’d stone,
White beneath whiten’d hair,
Turned up to the great white throne.
Tho’ her sorrowful life is done,
And still’d is the faltering breath,
No light of her soul has won
To brighten her face of Death.
Yet perchance she speaks with the King
Whose pitying head is bow’d,
And the voice in her ear is whispering
That cursed the rich and the proud.
(“ Blessed,” said He, “ are ye poor,
Tho’ earth bring you tribulation ;
But woe unto you -without Heaven’s door,
Receiving your consolation ! ”)
*
-f-
-x-
You’ve taken her happiness life affords,
Life, aye, and the love of living ;
If you only maim'd, her body, my lords,
We should be more forgiving !
So take her away and leave her, then,
In the paupers’ burial hole ;
But God is hearkening now, rich men,
To the cry of a wither’d soul!
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
She rests on the steps alone,
Her face is haggard and drawn,
Set, as if turned to stone,
Rose-tinged by the breaking dawn.
While on to the unknown deeps
The foul black river rolls ;
The heart of London sleeps,
With its millions of human souls.
III.
Primrose Knights and Dames,
Gorgeous in evening dress ;
Many well-known names
Of fashion and loveliness :
Complacent clapping of hands,
Rustling of silks, the while
The Ruling Councillor stands,
Provokes an applausive smile :
“ Liberals,” “ England’s Fate,”
“ Poor France and her Revolution,”
“ Aristocracy, Church and State,
The Queen and The Constitution ” :
Most respectable, all,
Not a character (publicly) shady ;
Councillor ends with a drawl,
Asks for a speech from “ my lady.”
“ My lady ” is grey and stout,
And titled, which takes beholders,
But couldn’t she come without
Showing us all of her shoulders ?
She purrs like a fireside cat,
And cooes like a great grey pigeon ;
“ Horwid Wadicals,” laid out flat,
Winds up with a bit of religion.
Follows a reverend dean—
“ Ladies and Gentlemen I ”
Till the band plays “ God save the Queen ! ”
Carriages, half-past ten.
“ My lady ” prepares to go
Into the dreary street,
9
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Io
Where the carriages wait in a row
In the thick of the driving sleet.
She waits by the big hall-door,
And sees thro’ the bevelled glass
A group of the London poor
Who watch “ the quality ” pass.
“ My lady’s ” eyebrows rise,
In disdain she lifts her dress,
And the look in “ my lady’s ” eyes
Fills me with bitterness.
?
I’m wrong perhaps, but I mutter
(For her lofty snobbery hurts),
“ From Truth, from the poor, and the gutter,
Curse you, pick up your skirts !
,
“ Oh, you’re so much better than they ;
Those two girls standing together,
You see? one’s hair is grey,
And one has a fringe and a feather :
“ It’s too much out of your way,
But you’d hear, if you cared to speak,
That they work twelve hours a day,
And they earn five shillings a week.
“ I wonder what you’d think,
But believe I tell you true,
These girls from whom you shrink
Are more to be lov’d than you 1 ”
*
*
*
*
*
God knows I’ve faults of my own,
But I swear that a love so great
Cannot reign in my heart alone,
Tho’ I pray to stifle hate.
IV.
Aft,er twelve hours of labour,
At the end of the long hot day,
Turning his back upon London,
Homeward he makes his way.
*
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Leaving behind the filth
And the rotting sweater’s den,
He trudges from east to west
Where live the richer men :
i
Turns thro’ the great park gates,
And his heart is lift by the sweet
Sight of the trees overhead
And the soft grass under his feet :
And a song breaks from his lips
That dies to a moan of pain,
As he dreams of the dreary toiling
The dawning shall bring again :
Burns itself on his vision
A picture of wan-faced men,
Stunted and bending in darkness,
And reek of a sweater’s den :
“Oh, Father,” he cries, “ Oh, God,
For a weapon, a song or a sword,
To shatter this hellish injustice,
That man of man should be lord :
“ Toiling and toiling and toiling,
Goaded by fierce despair
Or dread of starvation, we make
Clothes for our masters to wear :
“ Oh for words of flame
And lips of fire to speak,
And tell how in ‘ Christian England’
The strong are enslaving the weak.”
.
People are coming and going,
In a hurrying, loitering throng ;
“ Help me, O Father !” he murmurs,
“To tell of the infamous wrong 1 ”
h'
O'
High on an iron railing
He stands, and is speaking clear
To a sea of upturn’d faces
That linger and wait to hear :
Hour after hour his voice
Rings in the evening air,
IT
�12
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
While the shadows of night steal on
And cover the sunset glare.
Not till his voice has failed
He ceases, and crowding, wait
The people that cheer and cry
In fear, and love, and hate :
Under the silent stars
Homeward he makes his way ;
“ Father I thank Thee ! ” he whispers,
“ That gavest me strength this-day 1 ”
Brother, long past I remember,
On a far-away Syrian shore,
The cry of an eager Reformer—
Have I not known you before ?
THE
SONG OF THE BUILDERS.
XA/'HILE WE BUILD in the wilderness,
v
Lift the song ;
For the song makes lighter the soul’s distress,
More sweet our toil and our labour less,
And the night less long.
Light unborn from the morn afar
The light of Love,
(While our building that none may mar
Grows in the gleam of the dawning star)
Sing we of.
Not since God gave a course for the sun
When the world was new,
Was ever a work like ours begun,
Nor ever will work for men be done
As is ours to do.
For under our hands is a wonder born
A city of light ;
And a fair strong People, the children of morn,
Wearing a glory none other have worn,
Shall grow into sight.
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
13
Gladly let our sorrows be given
That they have mirth ;
They shall remember how we have striven,
Toiling to fashion their new sweet heaven,
Their sweet new earth.
When the great glad Dawn shall spread in the east
Shall man be free !
And the haughty shall be in the whole world least.
And a poor man more than a king or priest
In the time to be.
(Lo, at his post a comrade dead ;
Sing low the song ;
Shroud him close in the Flag of Red ;
Sleeps he well in an honour’d bed,
Well and long I)
Spare not the rotten and cumbering weeds,
Let Truth’s flame scorch
Their rank fruit sprung from poisonous seeds ;
Strike at the root, though the strong hand bleeds ;
Axe and torch!
Build we, build in the wilderness,
And watch and pray ;
Surely the Dawn at the last shall bless
Our labour, and glory no thought may guess,
Proclaim the Day !
THE HOUR BEFORE DAYBREAK.
CPIRITS ARE SIGHING in shadow that long for the
dawning of day,
Hearts that hope against hope, eyes that see thro’ the mist,
See thro’ the twilight of winter, the 'buds and the blossoms of
May,
See in the wilderness rise the beautiful kingdom of Christ.
Watch, my brothers and wait, tho’ the night be darksome and
drear,
Surely the sun shall arise tho’ the hour before daybreak
be long;
�14
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Denser and deeper the darkness and stillness when dawning
is near,
But the hush of the silence is fill’d with a promise of
morning song.
Watch, sleep not, my brothers, tho’ Death strike us down in
the dark;
Watch till the fingers of dawn sweep the shroud from the
living dead,
The night of Sin from the earth, when clear as the hymn of
the lark,
The song of the joyful world soars to the sky, overhead.
Watch, with your loins girt up, and your sandals bound on
your feet,
Ye know not the day nor the hour when the word shall
come to the land ;
When Righteousness kisses sweet Peace, then Mercy and
Truth shall meet;
Watch, my brothers, and wait, for the Day of the Lord is at
hand I
A LITANY.
CWEET LIBERTY, child of the highest,
Whose face is most hid from our sight
When the light of the dawning is nighest,
Proclaiming the death of the night;
Desired of all races and nations,
From the dust of our heavy despair
We utter our deep lamentations,
Oh, hearken our prayer !
Thy throne is the light of the morning,
Thy pinions what fetters can bind ?
Thy feet like the lightning are scorning
The ways of the wings of the wind ;
Thy soul to the ocean thou givest
That girdeth the great world’s girth,
In the heights or the deeps ever livest,
Oh, hallow the earth !
Sweet mother, we tire of our toiling,
Sharp sorrow we draw with our breath,
The hands the tyrants are spoiling
Life’s light till the darkness of death ;
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
!5
We are watching and waiting and weeping
Thro’ the night till the shadows are flown,
And rich men are robbing and reaping
The seed we have sown.
How long will thy visage be hidden P
How long shall our prayer be in vain ?
We starve at life’s banquet, but bidden
To drink of the dregs of its pain ;
Our travail has tears lor the guerdon,
We shrink ’neath the scourge and the rod;
Oh lift thou the load and the burden,
Thou daughter of God 1
Sweet mother, their feet never falter,
• Their pathway with red blood runs,
Their hands are defiling thine altar,
That flames in the souls of thy sons ;
Weak women grow weary with weeping,
Our children have prayers in their eyes,
Oh thou, if perchance thou art sleeping,
Awake and arise!
By the love of our Christ, by his meekness,
By the light of His life in our souls,
By the woe of their strength and our weakness,
By the Hand which the wide world controls ;
By Thy kingdom that mortals call heaven,
By the Day that shall end our despair,
By thyself, God-bestow’d and God-given,
Oh, hearken our prayer !
A VOICE
FROM THE
RANKS.
TS IT A LIE that we speak, or is it a truth we are telling,
Women of leisure and ease, men of pleasure and gold ?
Hearken again—your sisters, God’s very own children are
selling
Their honour for leave to live, and their bodies are bought
and sold
For a little staying of hunger, a little shelter from cold :
Little dead children are lying with dead faces turn’d to the
sky;
Man or woman of England, we murder them, thou and I;
�i6
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
(All day long mine eyes are sear’d by those faces wither’d
and wan,
And their voices ring thro’ my spirits’ silences shrilling
“ Thou art the man ! ”)
Even as flowers untended, unheeded, unlov’d they fade,
When God requires their lives at our hands, how shall our
answer be made ?
Have not we held His gifts from them, and penn’d them in
reeking slums,
Where never a bud may blossom, where never a bird’s song
comes ?
Where fast shut out are the winds that sweep from the
plains and the rolling sea,
And the sunlight is blotted by filth from the City of
Misery ;
The City that throbs as the heart of the world, with pain like
the pain of hell;
Is it a lie we speak, or is it a truth we tell ?
Do you cry that the sin is not yours, that God made the
night and the day,
That sorrow or happiness wait on his word and hang on his
yea or nay,
That He made you rich and masters, and that ours it is to
obey ?
Do you cast us but bitter words for thanks and hate us for
what we say ?
Oh, if you only understood that the souls of those you scorn
Have ever a new-made sorrow for every child that is born ;
That we scan each face with its burden of pain, we see each
tear that starts,
That we know that the tramp of our feet keeps time to the
breaking of human hearts.
You know, but you care not to think of these things ; it is
easier far
To sit in your own little heavens, forgetting what hells there
are.
Forget it not overlong, or mayhap it shall come to pass,
When the People shall rise they shall be as fire, and the rich
but as wither’d grass :
We speak, and so it shall surely be if ye right not the
people’s wrong;
Night is wearing and Dawn is near, forget it not overlong !
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
A CALL TO ARMS.
YOU, the
waited ; the Day of
L° Who wouldsign we havelet him leave now his the Lord I
be free?
labour and
take him a sword ;
Unfurl the banner of God and the People, and fling.it abroad !
You that were patient and wrong’d, the hour of deliv’rance is
come ;
Throng to our ranks in your millions from workshop and
slum,
Fall into line and march onward, keep time to the throb of
the drum.
Long have we' slaved for the rich, and starv’d at their nod ;
Now for the Commonweal work we, or sleep ’neath the sod :
Life is ours ? then for the People ! Death ? let us leave it to
God !
TO THE CHURCH.
There is what may almost be called a march of the clergy .... towards
our movement.—Andrew Reid, in “ The New Party.”
TJARLOT GOLD-BOUGHT, that bearest the brand of
the beast on thy brow,
Thou whose corruption is hid by a splendour of purple and
gold,
What is this voice we hear, this penance that we behold ?
Hast lied thro’ the ages long to turn to the truth but now ?
What shall we say to thee ? Can we forget that thy blood
stained hands
Year upon year have stricken the mouth of the carpenter’s
son,
Prating with hypocrite words of Peace and his kingdom
begun
Under thy rule, the while thou didst tighter fasten his bands?
Have not thy priests to the souls of men darken'd God’s light,
Crying, “Thro’ us-alone shall you be clean from your sin;
We are the wardens of heaven’s gate and the portals of
hell, wherein
Whomsoever we would we shut ; hath He not given the
right ? ”
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Hast not thou, lifted thy coward voice for the plunderers of
the poor,
Taken the gold of the rich, yea covered thyself with their
shame,
Wrung blood from the brows of the helpless, calling God’s
name,
Sent the hungry away, to the Pharisee open’d thy door ?
Batten’d then on the ghastly ruin thou helpedst to make,
Blasting women and children and men, mind and body and
soul,
Back unto them thou hast robb’d, dealing a beggarly dole,
Grudgingly giving scant clothing and food, canting “ for
charity’s sake,” .
When hath thine arm been lift on bur side to strike for the
weak,
With the strength of brotherly love thy Master raised
against wrong ?
Thy help has been but for the rich and thy strength for the
strong,
And when men cried, “ A change for God’s sake,” thy voice
was the last to speak.
Is it a truth that thou sayest “ I know I have sinn’d,
Crucified Christ in His People, and hidden His light;
Lo, I am penitent, give me, O brothers, by your side to fight
And work out atonement! ” Oh liar of years are thy words
but as wind ?
*
Or art thou but turning to us for thy safety, seeing that men
Are weary of Mammon and Moloch set up for their prayers,
And burn for the Christ of the poor; are thy tears and
despairs,
Thy resolves but assumed for thine egotist purposes then ?
Were it but so, O God for a curse that should light on thine
head I
Yet ages agone, ere thy children were pampered by power
and by gold,
And the fire of Christ’s love was hid by the reek, they were
noble and bold,
When, martyr’d by flame and by sword, they fought for their
faith and bled.
If but that spirit be thine, then we give God'thanks ;
Take thou our answer—“ Cast from thee the power of this
world,
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
19
In meekness and poverty fight till the banner of Freedom is
furl’d ;
Back to thy pureness, Oh Church, and gather thy sons in our
ranks ! ”
VIVE
LA REINE !
TD AISE the Queen till she waves on high,
Like a flame of fire o’erhead,
Leading us on to victory,
The grand old Flag of Red !
She is worn and scarr’d with many a fight,
She is dark and stern of mien ;
She wavers never, but points to Right,
Cheer for our leader—queen !
Friends, do you call to mind the time
When we made the tyrants kneel,
And our Queen stood, blackened with smoke and grime
On the walls of the grey Bastille ?
Or the day when she waved us and grandly led
Thro’ the gleam of the bayonet-blades,
When our rifles flash’d out white and red
On the Commune barricades ?
Listen and hear as we march along
And our red Queen swings and sways,
How she echoes our loud triumphant song,
The roll of the Marseillaise.
Raise the Queen till she waves on high
Like a flame of fire o’erhead ;
Leading us on to victory,
The grand old Flag of Red !
C I L F Y N I D D ,
JUNE 23RD, 1894. *
ALL DAY LONG my soul is ringing with a sound of
women weeping,
Broken-hearted women wailing for the dead and for the dying
Seeking rest
* The place and time of one of the most appalling colliery explosion^
of modern times.
�20
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Bitterly with praying, sighing,
Ward and watch are women keeping
Over noble spirits sleeping,
While the scythe of Death goes reaping,
And the voice of God is crying—
“ It is best 1 ”
And the sound of wailing passes, and I see a long procession,
Dark, and seeming never ending, the long hillside slow
descending
To the grave :
To the churchyard are they wending,
While the prayer for intercession
From the lowly figures bending
By the wayside—wives and daughters
To the praxers their voices lending—
Mingles with a solemn chanting—
“Through the deep and mighty waters,
Lead and save 1”
It is finished: all are resting in the dust that gave them birth,
Many a father, lover, brother, in the bosom of their mother
’Neath the sod ;
Peace at last has reach’d the weary, but the mourners left on
earth,
As they weep with one another,
Who shall comfort all the sorrow
With the thoughts of bitter dearth
Coming with each joyless morrow,
Who shall give what Love is worth ?
Death and—God 1
LITANY OF THE PEOPLE.
/“'OMMUNIST, LABOURER, son of the carpenter,
comrade most dear,
That liv’st with the unforgotten, we call to thee, having no
fear ;
Jesus, thou lover and hope of Democracy, hear.
Others there be that make heavy their nights and their days
With swinging of censer, and chanting of praying and praise;
That gird thee with kingship and give to thine hand but a
sword that slays :
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
21
They throne thee on lightning, they deck thee with purple
and gold,
They take thy name to themselves, thy blessings are bartered
and sold,
They thrall little children thou lovedst and tendedst of old:
Yet hear thou our voices ; we seek not the court of a king,
But rather a son of the people, whose teaching could bring
Shame on the rich and a scorn on the priests throughout ages
to cling.
Would that the earth once more were sweet with the fall of
thy feet;
That thy hand once more might cleanse God’s house of the
seekers for gain ;
Would that the poor and the high-soul’d, thronging to greet
Thy beautiful presence, might once more behold thee again!
Bitter our portion is, bitter and sorrowful; hidden the Sun :
Long is the night; speak thou if our labour begun
Shall end in a heav’n on the earth, where the will of our
Father is done.
Are we not doing thy work ? is not the hope of our cry—
Equality, Liberty’ Brotherhood,” high as thy teaching is
high ?
Are we not following thee when we tell forth the truth and
die ?
Give us thy courage to fearlessly speak that we know,
Give us thy patience to suffer the ruffian blow,
Give us thy pitiful heart toward them that are burden’d with
woe :
Give us thy faith in the ultimate triumph of good,
Let thy forgiveness be ours when we stretch forth our hands
on the rood,
Set our feet firm in the tracks where thine own feet have
stood :
Abject we pray not: we ask of thee comradeship, aid;
Art thou more holy than we ? nay, we love thee and are not
afraid;
Ask, and behold it is given you
so hast thou said.
�22
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Take thou the love of the People, and hear thou them, surely
anear
7
Thy spirit doth hover wherever a prayer or a tear
Springs from a heart ; oh brother, most blessed, most dear
Jesus, our comrade and hope of Democracy, hear.
TO THE EMPEROR WILLIAM II. OF
GERMANY.
CROWN’D AND THRON’D IMPOTENCE, take thou
our scorn ;
For our defiance we nor honour thee,
Nor enough heed thee ; canst thou check the morn ?
Command the golden sunset not to be ?
Or canst thou still the turmoil of the sea ?
Or is to thine imperial vision torn
The clouds that veil the dim futurity,
That thou should'st deem My power effete, out-worn,
Could stay the sunburst of Democracy ?
For thy Kingship doth pass
With all pride that commands ;
In Destiny’s glass,
Run out are thy sands ;
And an army of men wait a sign, with their sharp swords
drawn in their hands :
Gather thine hirelings about thee and bribe them with rank
and with gold,
Set them like hounds on the helpless, and frame thine
infamous laws,
Dungeon the children of Freedom with fetters and tortures
untold,
Yea, slay them all and I tell thee—thou hast not injured our
cause !
Thou that dost cover thy kingship with God’s holy name,
Look on the sunrise and tremble, for brief as a thought is
thy term ;
Shrink in thy raiment of purple, yea cower in thy garment of
shame,
Thy throne is but mouldering ruin, thy glory but food for
the worm !
*
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
23
Strut in thy little authority, rule, thou pitiful thing,
Shake thy thralls with thy thunders, we hear but a child
that cries
For a gilded toy that is broken ; oh, vanishing kingdom and
king,
. ,
The east is red for a token, the sun is about to rise !
And the multitudes hail
The new life that is born ;
And the innermost veil
Of thy temple is torn,
Oh prince, without slave or dominion, then take thou our pity
and scorn !
VOX
CLAMANTIUM.
OFHERE IS LIGHT, and a dream that dies;
"*■
Love’s light for the glad sweet years ;
And men have a light in their eyes,
And the ring of a song in their ears;
As the flame of the lightning is hurl’d,
A sound that is shaped as a sword
Goes out thro’ the width’of the world,—
“ Prepare ye the way of the Lord! ”
There is tramping of myriad feet
Thro’ the mist and the gathering light, ,
And voices of men that meet
Strong-handed for friendship or fight:
They throng to the gates of the sun,
Crying with one accord,—
“ The kingship of Love hath begun,
Prepare ye the way of the Lord !
“ For. the'time of our sleeping is past,
And the chains that give Liberty birth
He breaketh, and reigneth at last
In the spirits of men upon earth ;
Our work shall be sweet with his name,
And the toil without hope we abhorr’d
Shall vanish as flax in the flame,
Prepare ye the way of the Lord ! ”
�24
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
Brothers, ’tis good to be born
Now, when the passing of night
Heralds the breaking of morn,
Gives us a promise of light ;
For the voice of a multitude rolls,
Singing the hope we have stor’d
Like a gem deep-set in our souls,
“ The advent at last of the Lord 1 ”
IN MEMORIAM.
QNE MORE SONG that glow’d with Freedom’s fire
Death has silenced ; one more heart that thrill’d
With pity for the weak, and high desire,
Death has still’d.
Oh, to die her death, whose footsteps keeping
The eastward path, sought the unrisen sun !
Peace be hers and rest, and sweetest sleeping
Nobly won.
Death will greet her kindly, and enfold her
Safe from life that gave but bitter thanks;
Once more, comrades, shoulder meeting shoulder,
Close the ranks
ITALY.
AWAKE THOU that sleepest, and rise
With fire in thine eyes,
For the love of Love and of Freedom, yea for thy children!
sake;
Lift up thine head
To the prayer of the living and dead,
Ere tighter thy fetters be fastened,
Awake and awake !
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
2$.
Mother of men that were, mighty when Europe was young,
Thou whose tender breast to the sons of the war-god gave
home,
Star in the world’s bright brow, what song ever sung
Shall tell of thy fulness of glory, whose daughter was Rome ?
Mother-heart, have we not pitied thee bearing the fire
Of the sword-thrust of sorrow, what time the sleek
hypocrite priest
Wrung blood from thy poor, and was fed to his fullest desire,
And gather’d his liars to glut at his fearsome feast,
And fetter’d with chains of steel them that were fain to aspire.
Mother of Raphael, mother of Agnolo, mother of him
To whom the portals of Paradise parted, and gave
Song that was sweet as Spring when the world was dim
With a twilight no lips but the golden lips of a poet could
save
From gloom like the night of the grave;
Mother of loveliness, springing to God thro’ the weeds, that
the lies
Of the priests made grow with a reek that strangled the
light of the sun,
Sweep dreams and tears from thine eyes 1
Gird thee for fighting, nor stay thine hand till all shall be
done,
And the battle won,
Arise, thou that sleepest, arise !
We watch thee with weeping Italia, over the seas,
From our wave-bound isle that stirs in her slumber at last,
And the sound of our voices rings loud over meadows and
mountains and leas
Crying thee, “ Wake, that thine ears may be open when
twilight is past,
And the spirit of Europe sees
Her sons leap up in the morning light at the peal of the
trumpet-blast.”
Where are thy children that lifted their eyes toward day ?
Where thy beloved Mazzini ? gather’d to dust indeed ?
Hath not the seed
That he planted and water’d with tears made steadfast its
way
�26
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
To rejoice in the great red ray
Of Liberty’s sun on the edge of the earth nor priest nor
monarch shall stay,
Nor the blackness of hell make dark, that shall shine on
slaves gladden’d and freed ?
Over the seas we are crying, “ Awake from thy trance !
Lo, how the armies of men that shall sleep not till Freedom
be gain’d,
Lift banners and arms and advance ;
Slowly, invincibly, shoulder to shoulder, Germany, England
and France,
Gather and greet ’mid a trampling of feet under our flag
blood-stain’d.”
Italy lying in chains twin-forged by priest and by king,
Bound by the hand of the statesman, and stricken sore by
his slaves,
Rise, and thy fetters shall fall, and the dreams and the
doubtings that cling
About thy spirit shall get to the darkness and gloom of
their graves.
Rise, with thine hand on the standard shining, unfurl’d
Flame red, with the emblem of dawn that shall tell thy
desire
For freedom and Love fraternal, what but the hope of the
world ?
Speak, and behold at the sound of thy words shall the souls
of men break into fire !
Who shall hinder thee then when thou standest ready to
answer thy foes
With words for words, or loving for loving, or steel for the
flame of steel ?
Stretch forth thine hand and none shall withstand, but
back from thy splendour reel,
Till striving be o’er and the victory thine, and the desert
abloom like a rose.
Awake thou that sleepest, and rise,
With fire in thine eyes,
For the love of Love and of Freedom, yea, for the children’s
sake;
�SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
27
Lift up thine head
To the prayers of the living and dead,
Ere tighter thy fetters be fasten’d, awake and awake !
IN THAT DAY.
T^AWN ON THE WORLD, my brothers, and afar
One great glad shout from earth to heav’n is hurl’d
To greet the message of the morning star,
Dawn on the world !
Birth of the New from darkness of the Old ;
The Wrong gives place to Right, the False to True ;
The long night wanes in glory, and- behold,
Birth of the New !
Light of the Past He of the cross did show,
And His sweet brotherhood of First and Last
Revealed, shall on the golden future throw
Light of the Past.
Labour and Love, link’d in one mortal heart,
Lift the earth Godward ; neither to Him can move
Work loveless nor Love workless ; ne’er can part
Labour and Love.
Darkness and Sin fade as the golden gates
Rend, and the King of glory enters in ;
Dead at Love’s feet, His feet, the power theft mates
Darkness and Sin.
Dawn on the word, and high above there floats
The Banner of the Sunrise, grand, unfurled ;
While triumph-hymns proclaim from myriad throats
“ Dawn on the world 1 ”
E P O D E.
VUHILE THE POOR CALL^the richer their lord,
* V And the liar is chief in the land ;
And the fruit of men’s toiling is stor’d
By a prince’s adulterous hand ;
�\
jstli
28
SONGS FOR THE SONS OF GOD.
While dying than living is dearer,
And the strong are despoiling the weak,
Oh, God, make my singing the clearer,
And help thou my spirit to speak ;
Grant courage unstay’d and unshaken,
And strengthen mine arm for the strife ;
To fight for the poor and forsaken
Give me but life !
When the head of the haughty is humbled,
And the meek is uplift to his throne ;
When the pow’r of the tyrant has crumbled,
And Brotherhood reigneth alone ;
When Peace, with her far-stretching pinion,
Shall shadow the night and the day,
When the poor man shall have the dominion,
And the rich is sent empty away ;
When Freedom shall smile through her weeping,
And the New Life dawn red in the sky,
Oh God, then is time for a sleeping,
Give me to die !
1
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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Songs for the sons of God
Creator
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Dell, Griffith
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: Manchester
Collation: 28 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: Inscription at top of front cover: John Fulford from Griffith Dell. Date of publication from a reader who saw it referenced in a journal article with the date 1896. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
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Labour Press Society Ltd.
Date
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[1896]
Identifier
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N191
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Music
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Songs for the sons of God), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
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Text
Language
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English
Music
NSS
Songs
-
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Text
al
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Private.]
6rtracts from Annual ^tparfs
RELATING TO
THE CHOIR AND MUSIC
AND
OFFICIAL CORRESPONDENCE
BETWEEN
THE COMMITTEE OF SOUTH PLACE CHAPEL
AND
MR. H. KEATLEY MOORE, B.A.,
THE LATE
MUSICAL DIRECTOR.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WATERLOW AND SONS LIMITED.
1877.
��From the Annual Report for 1873.
The issuing so large a number of new Hymns necessitated
a reconstruction of the arrangements for the musical portion
of our services. Your Committee advertised, and in other
ways searched, for a properly qualified person to fill the post
of Musical Director. As no suitable professional musician
offered himself, they gratefully accepted the generous offer
of Mr. H. Keatley Moore, to undertake the entire work, and
have appointed him Honorary Musical Director. They feel
sure that everything in his power will be done to improve
both the music of our services and its performance.
From the Annual Report for 1874.
The musical portions of the service, always a distinctive
feature at South Place, have shown a marked improvement
during the past year under the management of the Honorary
Musical Director, Mr. H. Keatley Moore, who has already
provided carefully-chosen music for a large portion of the
new Hymn Book. All this music has been specially arranged
by him, and several compositions are from his own pen.
From the Annual Report for 1875.
The specification (of the new organ) was drawn up by
W. J. Westbrook, Esq., Mus. Bac. Cantab., to whom your
Musical Director has often been indebted for valuable aid in
the formation of our collection of music.
�4
CORRESPONDENCE.
104, Bishopsgate Street Within,
Feb. 23, 1876.
To the Committee of South Place Chapel,
Gentlemen,
I have this day signed a circular to the Members of
the -Congregation, resigning my stewardship of their interests
at South Place Chapel.
I now resign into your hands the office of Musical Director,
which I received from you at our first meeting.
In the difficult circumstances which surround me I have
thought best not to act on my own responsibility ; and have
placed myself therefore, unreservedly, in the hands of the
most experienced among my friends.
Having carefully considered all the facts (with which I do
not propose to trouble the Committee), they unanimously
approve of a suggestion—that I should restore the Music of
the Chapel to as nearly as possible its state when I came
into office towards the close of 1873.
*
* Extract from Mb. H. K. Moore’s “Report on the Music of the
Chapel, for 1874.”—“This (themusic at Christmas, 1873) was in the worst
possible order..................................... I then carefully went through the whole
mass. The quantity of loose sheets written or printed lying loose in the
boxes, and the bound collection, also made under Mr. Barnett, &c., I found,
after wearily wading through them, to be quite worthless (Mr. De Lacy’s
anthem ‘ I Stoop,’ is the brilliant exception). This collection—if it deserve
the name—was without an index, without author’s names, full of mistakes
and errors, and I much regret the time wasted in examining it. Turning
to the collection of Miss Flower.......................... This collection was partly
printed and partly written, and as the printed portion was damaged and
�5
I have consequently withdrawn the MSS. music, written
by myself in books given to me by Mr. Henman ; and also
*
my other MSS. on loose sheets.
I have, also in accordance with the views of my friends,
refunded to the Treasurer the whole of the sums he paid me
towards the expenses I incurred through my honorary
musical directorship of the Chapel—about three-fourths of
the entire expense I was at—amounting to £23. 12s. lOd.
This I have paid, partly in music (value £14), partly by
cheque (value £9. 12s. 10d.).
I will lead the service next Sunday unless I get a welcome
relief from that most unpleasant task; but after that date, I
must ask you to excuse me from even temporarily filling so
painful a post as the Directorship of the Music has now
become to me.
I do not think you will find much difficulty, as I have
prepared the March Anthem-slip, and the first three entire
services for March, as in enclosed memorandum.
The music (above alluded to as having been returned)
being now in the Treasurer’s hands, you must request him,
if you please, to have all Miss Flower’s music (20 vols.), and
Hymn No. 527, at the chapel next Sunday, for performance
and practice.
defective, and indeed there were not books enough, and also as the written
parts did not agree the one with the other, had no full score, &c., &c., &c.
I gladly escaped from all the confusion by accepting Mr. Henman's offer of
ten complete sets of the lithographed edition of the entire collection, the
few printer's errors in which its complete clearness amply compensates me
for correcting. The remaining forty-two copies of this edition were sold, as
the Committee is aware, at a guinea per copy, and the proceeds generously
handed over by our good friend to the treasurer. Fifty of Mr. Fox’s
hymns were still left unprovided for, and of these thirty-three are in the
New South Place Tune Books, whilst of the remaining seventeen four are
ready as separate anthems, and eight more are in course of preparation.
The hymn book, therefore, as far as regards the Fox collection, may be con
sidered practically completed.-’
* The New South Place Tune Books.
�c
Thanking you for the kindness and courtesy I have up till
now received from you all,
I am,
Yours truly,
H. KEATLEY MOORE.
STATEMENT OF MONEY received from Treasurer by H. Keatley
Moore, towards his expenses as Honorary Musical Director.
1874.—1st Quarter.
Paid Mr. Westbrook for musical
assistance
Music
* Other expenses
2 2
1 2
0 7
2nd Quarter.
Paid Mr. Westbrook ..
Music
Other expenses ..
2 2 0
1 0 0
0 7 0
3rd Quarter.
Music copying ..
Other expenses ..
Music
£ s. d.
0 11
0 9
1 10
4th Quarter.
Paid Mr. AVestbrook ..
Music ..
0
0
0
£ s.
Music purchased and re
turned to Treasurer .. 3 10
Ten copies (2 vols. each)
Miss Flower's music,
litho copy, as cor
rected, presented to
myself by Mr. Hen
. .10 10
man, 21s.
Net balance due to
Treasurer
..9 12.
d
0
0
0
0
0
0
..220
.. 1 18 10
1875.—1st Quarter.
Subscription to Novello’s Lib.. 2 9
rary, folio, &c.
.. 0 18
Music
0
6
2nd Quarter.
Paid Mr. Westbrook
Music
.. 2 2
.. 0 15
0
6
0
0
.. 0 15
.. 2 2
0
0
..
3rd Quarter.
Music, &c.
4th Quarter.
Music, &c.
aid Mr. Westbrook
.. 1
..
t In all ..
£23 12 10
£23 12 10
* Memo.—Cost of excess railway every Sunday to Deptford, not charged.
+ 1876.—1st Quarter.—Subscription to Novello’s Library, £2. 2s., and
music, &c., 8s.; viz., £2. 10s. not charged to Treasurer.
I have supposed the Committee would be desirous, as I
should be, of using the copies of Miss Flower’s music as pre-
�7
pared by me, corrected, &c. Should they not so wish, upon
a communication to that effect, I will forward a cheque for
£10. 10s.—their value.
H. K. M.
24, Cricketfield Road,
Lower Clapton,
February 26th, 1876.
Dear Sir,
I have been instructed by the Committee of South
Place Chapel, at whose meeting yesterday your two letters
of the 23rd instant were read, to return you the cheque of
£9. 12s. lOd. enclosed by you to the Treasurer, and to state
that the discussion on the two letters referred to, with their
enclosures, has been postponed.
I therefore enclose herein the cheque in question, and
remain,
Dear Sir,
Yours very truly,
CLARENCE II. SEYLER,
lion. Sec., pro. tern.
H. K. Moore, Esq.,
104, Bishopsgate Street.
In deference to your feelings, Mr. Hickson has kindly
undertaken to conduct the music during the service on
Sunday next (to-morrow).
24, Cricketfield Road,
Lower Clapton,
March 11, 1876.
Dear Sir,
Referring you to my last letter of the 26th ultimo,
I now beg leave—in accordance, as you will see, with in
structions received yesterday at a meeting of the Committee
�8
of South Place Chapel—to communicate to you the follow
ing extract from the minutes :—
“ Mr. H. Keatley Moore’s two letters, dated 23rd Febru
ary, 1876, to the Committee and to the Treasurer, and another
of the 9th March to Mr. Hickson, on the subject of the New
South Place Tune Books (20 vols.), the Lithographic Edition
of Miss Flower’s Collection (20 vols.), and the Anthems,
having been read, it was moved, seconded, and resolved
unanimously: That, in the opinion of the Committee, the
above-named works are the property of the congregation.
And it was ordered: That the Secretary do send Mr. H.
Keatley Moore a copy of this resolution, with a request that
he return, at his earliest convenience, that portion of those
books and papers that are now in his possession.”
I remain, dear Sir,
Yours very truly,
CLARENCE H. SEYLER,
Hon. Sec.
H. Keatley Moore, Esq.,
104, Bishopsgate Street.
104, Bishopsgate Street Within,
March 11, 1876.
Dear Sir,
I at once reply to your official communication just
received, that none of the music named, neither the 20 vois
Miss Flower’s music, nor the 20 Tune Books, nor the
Anthems, are the property of the congregation of South
Place Chapel; and I request the return of that portion
which I recently handed to Mr. Hickson, as Treasurer,
unless my statement of account, recently sent in to the Com
mittee, be accepted by them. If that statement be accepted,
and a receipt or notice to that effect be sent me, then the
�9
20 books of lithographed music, and the printed music accord
ing to list, will become the property of the congregation.
Otherwise I am prepared to send a cheque for the balance
of account on receipt of the music.
If the Committee desire really to ascertain the truth of the
matter, they should apply, as I have before said, to Mr.
Henman.
Excepting that I await a formal acceptance of my state
ment, or settlement as above suggested, I hope this may be
the last communication I am to be troubled with on the
subject.
Yours truly,
H. KEATLEY MOORE.
To the Hon. Sec.,
South Place Chapel Committee.
4
104, Bishopsgate Street Within,
April lsi, 1876.
To the Committee of South Place Chapel.
Gentlemen,
I am impelled by recollections of our past associa
tion to address you again upon the subject of my late director
ship of the music of the Chapel.
I am sure, when I think the matter over quietly, that in
passing the resolution concerning the music which was lately
communicated to me, you did not perceive the terrible insult
it inflicted upon Mr. Henman and myself; and if you are
aware that the Treasurer has even up till now refused to
acknowledge my statement of account, and if his refusal has
your sanction, you probably have not considered the charge of
dishonesty which this refusal inflicts upon us.
Allow me to say that Mr. Henman gave to me personally
�10
at my own request ten two-volume copies of the litlio’ edition
of Miss Flower’s works, and paid the Chapel ten guineas for
them (as the Treasurer’s documents'will show), that the fund
then raising might not be deprived of the full benefit of the
donation of forty-two copies, the entire remainder of the
edition. These volumes are therefore my property.
Also, when I gave Mr. Henman a pattern for our new
Tune Books, he prepared these books at his own charge and
gave them to me personally, in order that if by inadvertence
I had infringed musical copyright (which is very stringent),
I might have the power to withdraw the volumes—as well as
from the affection with which, in spite of many differences of
opitiion, he has always honoured me.
This question of copyright vexed me much, and I finally
laid it before the Committee, as you will remember, about a
year ago. Mr. Westbrook often advised me not to produce
certain arrangements, and these were set aside. The Com
mittee passed a formal resolution that all my own writings
shculd be considered my own copyright and property, and
altl ough cautioning me to be careful (as I always have been,
consulting my experienced friend Westbrook and the like),
even went so far as to promise to hold me blameless in the
event of any unfriendly action on the part of proprietors of
music.
You will see, therefore, that there really is not the slightest
doubt of my property in the music, and that your resolution
ought to be rescinded. Had you called me before you, or
had you consulted with Mr. Henman, you would at once
have discovered the real facts of the case. It is remarkable
that Mr. Hickson has several times seen Mr. Henman since
I referred you to him, but has never alluded to the subject.
In one word, your resolution and the Treasurer’s refusal
to pass my accounts (which surely cannot be considered
ungenerously prepared) stigmatise my friend, Mr. Henman, as
�11
having taken the property of his (then) employers, and myself
as haviDg received the dishonest gift.
I am, yours truly,
H. KEATLEY MOORE.
24, Cricketfield Road,
Lower Clapton,
April Vtth, 1876.
Dear Sir,
I am instructed to forward you the following
communication, emanating from the Committee of South
Place Chapel:—
“ This Committee—having taken into consideration your
letters of the 11th ultimo, and 1st instant, addressed to them,
together with their minutes from time to time upon the
question at issue; your Musical Reports for the years 1874
and 1875 ; fifty-eight letters from you to Mr. Hickson,
written during the years 1873-4-5-6; and other papers—
are still unanimously of opinion that all the music mentioned
in their resolution of the 10th ultimo, is the property of the
congregation of South Place Chapel, and they collectively—
and individually, entreat you to give your best attention to
the following recital of facts :—
1. That the entire remainder of the edition of Miss
Flower’s works consisted of fifty-two or fifty-three
copies, not of forty-two, as stated in your letter of the
1st instant.
2. That the Treasurer has only received payment for
forty-three copies, which remained after presentation of
the ten sets in dispute.
3. That the “ New South Place Tune Books ” were
�12
prepared for the Choir (not even “ for the use of ” the
Choir), and that there is a minute to that effect.
4. That there is no resolution whatever that your
own writings should be considered your own copyright
and property.
5. On the contrary, there is a minute on the subject of
copyright, to the effect that the danger of any pro
ceedings being taken against the Committee, in conse
quence of any possible infringement of copyright by you,
was very remote. As this matter was brought by you
before the Committee, it is evident you then (March,
1875) considered the property in question to belong to
the congregation.
The Committee hope you will receive this communication
in the same spirit in which it emanates from them—namely,
with an earnest desire that this matter may be settled
amicably; they have, therefore, adjourned in order to give
you time to again carefully consider the whole subject, and
they will be much obliged if you will, in the meantime, let
them have answers to the annexed questions.
Believe me to remain,
Dear Sir,
Very truly yours,
CLARENCE H. SEYLEB,
Hon. Sec.
H. Keatt.ey Moore, Esq.
104, Bishopsgate Street Within.
QUESTIONS.
1. Of what, in your opinion, the South Place Musical
Library consisted at the end of 1874 ?
�13
*
2. What was meant by the following, extracted, from your
Report on the music of South Place Chapel for the year
1875
“ In the preparation of the Musical Library, I have been
not less diligent this year than last, ... 21 hymns of
the Lithographed Collection of Miss Flower’s works have
been corrected and brought into singable condition during
the year. ... I have written afresh three hymns in Mr.
Fox’s collection, either unset or badly set to music; and,
finally, I have composed or arranged six anthems . . . and
eighteen hymns in the New Hymn Book.....................
“ The year’s work stands thus :—
Miss Flower’s collection—
(corrected, 10 parts) ...
...
21 Hymns.
Mr. Fox’s collection—
Composed or arranged ...
A
The new collection
...
“ Total addition to Library
...
JA. 1
C. 1
(D. 1
A. 10
B. 5
1
C.
D.
6
3
48 Hymns.”
3. If any portion of the Musical Library were your own
property, why did you allude to that portion in your Musical
Report of 1875 ?
4. Was not your suggestion to Mr. Hickson and others,
in October, 1874, that the music in use in the choir up to
about the end of 1873, should be given to Mr. Revell’s con
gregation at Ladbroke Hall, based upon the full knowledge
that the new Library was replacing it ?
5. If the “ New South Place Tune Books ” belong to you
�14
—when and to whom was payment made for the twenty
Hymn-books which were cut up and pasted into them ?
104, Bishopsgate Street Within,
April nth, 1876.
To the Committee of South Place Chapel.
Gentlemen,
The ungenerous style of your letter of yesterday’s date
surprised and pained me deeply; for I did not think you
would so treat a former friend and colleague. It is not the
reply I expected from a body of gentlemen who, I hoped,
were anxious to deal in a kindly and open way with a
regretable difference of opinion between themselves and one
who has in the past been (I venture to assert) of valuable
service to them.
I have worked hard, both before and during my conduct
of the choir, to raise the performance of the music of South
Place Chapel to a higher level; and have, by the judgment
of those whom I respect, been not unsuccessful. I have left
you with a far better provision of music, and with a choir of
much higher capacity, and of incomparably superior training,
than you had before I took the music in hand—and I have
done this at absolutely no cost to you, for I have repaid you
every penny received towards my expenses.
At no time have I ever intended to present my music to
the Chapel as a gift. My original intention was, in case of
my ever leaving the choir, to retain my music as my pro
perty, but allow the Chapel to use it under certain stringent
restrictions. I observed Mr. Fox’s caution with regard to
Miss Flower’s music, and profited by it. I have abandoned
this idea, and wholly withdrawn the music ; but, as you are
�15
in error concerning my original intention, I have clearly
stated it.
Although I cannot descend to answer your questions, I.
should like to set you right as to some matters affecting Mr.
Henman, and I again express my surprise that he has not
been communicated with.
Mr. Henman knows only of 42 copies of Miss Flower’s
music presented to the Chapel (of which he bought and gave
me ten): and of a 43rd copy which he withdrew from his
library, in his own generous way, to appease the anxious
regret of .... of ... . who had been too late
to obtain one.
You have not yet perceived that the order to Waterlow’s,
to prepare Tune Books for MSS., was really never carried out.
My books were prepared not by that firm, but some by me
and others by Mr. Henman, at his own cost—even the sheets
of the Hymn Book used for pasting in were mere printers'
waste. These books were never given to the Chapel, nor
purchased on its behalf, and the order concerning the Tune
Books has still to be carried out.
Again I express my sincere regret that you do not shrink
from leaving Mr. Henman and myself under grave charges
affecting our honour, by your withholding the acknowledg
ment of the statement of account long since submitted by me.
I am, yours truly,
H. KEATLEY MOORE.
�16
24, Cricketfield Road,
Lower Clapton,
April 21s 1876.
,
*
{Registered.)
Dear Sir,
I am instructed to acknowledge your letter to the
Committee, and to express their regret that you deem it
expedient to decline answering specific questions most rela
tive to the question between us. The Committee, feeling that
it is quite impossible to arrive at an amicable arrangement
where such a state of affairs exists, have only now to notice
one or two points in your letter under reply.
The Committee consider it unnecessary to communicate
with Mr. Henman, as your Musical Report for 1874, litho
graphed and circulated by that gentleman, confirms their
statement as to the number of copies of Miss Flower’s
work. {See page 4.)
*
Your own Reports, both for 1874 and 1875, confirm the
opinion of the Committee as to the books in question being
the property of the congregation, and clearly show that your
control over them was purely official.
With reference to your remark that the order for the Tune
Books “ has still to be carried out,” the Committee find, by
their minutes of the 26th September, 1873, that you sub
mitted a plan for a tune book for the choir, and undertook
to select tunes for the hymns, and arrange them in the
books, and to prepare anthems as well as the tune books.
Your statement that the sheets of the hymn book used
for the New South Place Tune Books were mere printers’
waste, is incorrect. There is an entry in Mr. Canning’s
book (November 2nd, 1873) of twenty hymn books in
sheets supplied to you, through Mr. Henman, from the box
in the library.
* The passage alluded to may also be found in the foot-note on p. 5 of this
pamphlet.
�17
Your allusion as to the refunding of your expenses is
beside the mark, as your cheque has already been once
returned. As you still seem to imply that a settlement has
been made by the fact of their holding it at your disposal,
the Committee beg to hand it to you again enclosed here
with.
Being anxious to avoid going to extremes, so long as there
is any possible chance of avoiding so unhappy a result, the
Committee still hope that you will answer the questions
contained in their letter of the 10th inst.
I remain,
Dear sir,
Faithfully yours,
CLARENCE H. SEYLER,
Hon. Sec.
H. Keatley Moore, Esq.,
104, Bishopsgate Street Within.
24, Cricketfield Road,
Lower Clapton,
May Zlst, 1876.
Dear Sir,
The Committee of South Place Chapel would be
glad to know whether their registered communication, 21st
ult., duly reached you.
Will you kindly hand bearer a line in reply to this ?
I remain, dear Sir,
Very truly yours,
CLARENCE H. SEYLER,
Hon. Sec.
H. Keatley Moore, Esq.
104, Bishopsgate Street Within.
�18
104, Bishopsgate Street Within,
JZey31si, 1876.
Dear Sir,
In compliance with your request, I beg to acknow
ledge receipt of registered letter some weeks since from you,
and had the letter not been regisrered (and its delivery there
fore proved) I should have of course acknowledged it without
troubling you to request me to do so.
If you desired my acknowledgment of receipt it seems
rather a waste of money to have registered the letter.
Yours truly,
H. KEATLEY MOORE.
C. H. Setter, Esq.
24, Cricketfield Road,
Lower Clapton,
June 7, 1876.
Dear Sir,
I am instructed by the Committee of South Place
Chapel to refer you to my letter of the 21st of last April,
and, as they have not been favoured with a reply, to express
with regret their apprehension that you have decided to take
no further steps to bring about an adjustment of the con
troversy between you and them.
Although the Committee much desire that all past
differences may speedily be forgotten, their duty to the
congregation upon this particular question—involving, as it
does, an outlay of their money—compels them to exhaust
every means in their power to have the matter decided.
They feel assured that the congregation will not consider
that every effort has been made to establish their ownership
in the property in question, until they have offered to submit
�19
all the facts of the case to one or two independent and im
partial Referees, by whose decision all shall abide without
hesitation.
The Committee, trusting that you will see the propriety of
agreeing to such a reference, and believing, moreover, that
the friendliness and fairness of such a step will recommend
it to your acceptance, at once beg to nominate Mr. Macfie to
act on their behalf.
Upon hearing from you the name of the gentleman upon
whose judgment you will rely, and as soon as the Referees
have nominated an Umpire to decide finally, in the event of
their not being able to agree in their award, the usual
li Arbitration Agreement ” shall be drawn up.
The Committee hope it will not be inconvenient to you at
once to favour them with a reply to this proposal.
I remain, dear Sir,
Yours truly,
CLARENCE H. SEYLER,
Hon. Sec.
H. Keatley Moore, Esq.,
104, Bishopsgate Street Within.
104, Bishopsgate Street Within,
June 9th, 1876.
Sir,
I have received your letter of date 7th inst., and
am surprised at its contents.
Yours truly,
H. KEATLEY MOORE,
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Extracts from annual reports related to the choir and music and official correspondence between the committee of South Place Chapel and Mr. H. Keatley Moore. B.A., the late musical director
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Mr H. Keatley Moore
South Place Chapel
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 19 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed by Waterlow and Sons Limited, London. At head of title: 'Private. Conway Hall copy registered seat holder no. 42, Mrs Conway'.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1877
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5587
Subject
The topic of the resource
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Music
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Extracts from annual reports related to the choir and music and official correspondence between the committee of South Place Chapel and Mr. H. Keatley Moore. B.A., the late musical director), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
Henry Keatley Moore
Music
South Place Chapel
-
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PDF Text
Text
PROGRAMME OF THE MUSIC
TO BE SUNG IN THE
Jnnitaorg jBtrbice,
AT THE
FREE CHRISTIAN
CHURCH,
KENTISH TOWN,
ON SUNDAY, JUNE 19, 1864.
The Sermons for the occasion will be Preached
By the REV. M. D. CONWAY, of Boston, America.
SUBJECTS:
In the Morning (at 11 o’clock^—“ CHRIST-POWER.”
In the Evening (at half-past six o’clock)—“ SCEPTICISM.”
COLLECTIONS WILL
I-!'’. .
MADE AT
BE
.. •
;
/.
EACH
: J ,
” ’
SERVICE;
,
The Church being supported entirely by Voluntary Contributions.
�—Writer fljc jfirst.
Rlartung
Ei,iza FlowejZ.
INTRODUCTION.
(4th Chap. St. John, 23rd. and 24th verses.)
God is a Spirit; and they that worship Him must worship
Him in spirit and in truth.
The Father seeketh such to worship Him.
ANTHEM. From “ The Hymn of Praise."
Mendelssohn.
I waited for the Lord; He inclined unto me: He heard my
complaint.
()! blest are they that hope and trust in the Lord.
During the Collection.
AVE VERUM.
I
. ,.OT
•r
- _
MozabiJ^/1
'
Father, source of ev’ry blessing,
Tune my heart to grateful lays;
Streams of mercy never ceasing,
Call for endless songs of praise.’
f
J
’
By Thy hand restored—defended,
Safe this life thus far I’ve come:
Safe, O Lord, when life is ended,
Bring me to my heav’nly honie:' V.-srA’) -A
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Programme of the music to be sung in the church anniversary service, at the Free Christian Church, Kentish Town, on Sunday June 19 1864
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 2 p. ; 19 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Cassell & Co.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1904
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5701
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Free Christian Church, Kentish Town
Subject
The topic of the resource
Music
Church
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work (Programme of the music to be sung in the church anniversary service, at the Free Christian Church, Kentish Town, on Sunday June 19 1864), identified by </span><span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk">Humanist Library and Archives</a></span><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Christianity
Conway Tracts
Moncure Conway
-
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f871e1cef5f0385034ed06b6228b1ef8
PDF Text
Text
1G4
AND
By Karl Blind.
The German nation, which is not a political product of to-day, as someappear to think, but which was knit together nearly a thousand years
ago, in a union far more efficient than the incomplete one at present
existing, has, like its western neighbour, enjoyed an early literary
development. A rugged, heroic poetry, and some religious chaunts,
which have come down to us in a fragmentary form, mark the most
ancient time. Between the twelfth and the fourteenth century, Ger
many has had her minnesinger, or troubadours. After that, a school of
meistersinger flourished in the towns, until that gigantic cataclysm
occurred—the Thirty Years’ War, during which the nation’s life-blood
ebbed out whilst its soul was panting for spiritual freedom.
Then the ‘princes,’1 who by law were mere provincial governors, but
who had for some time past aspired to sovereignty and endeavoured to
set up particular dynasties, began to tear the Empire to shreds. The
popular forces which in the various Republican (Eidgenossen) Leagues,
and in the War of the Peasants during the Reformation movement,
had sought to reorganise the nation on a democratic basis, were no
longer in the field. The princes thus had it all their own way; and
Germany who once had undoubtedly been an indivisible union—not a
mere confederacy of sovereign states, but a real Union—became split
up into a medley of petty principalities over whom merely a shadow of
Imperial rule flitted, until that shadow, too, was formally done away
with in 1806, when the Corsican conqueror lorded it over Continental
Europe.
During the colossal misfortune which befel Germany in consequence
of the terrible struggle of the seventeenth century, it seemed for a while1
as if her intellectual light were extinguished. Her very language, with
1 Fiirsten, which originally did not mean sovereign rulers, but simply the first or
foremost of the high aristocracy—a meaning that word still had at Luther’s time.
�GERMAN TROUBADOURS.
165
its combined strength and aptitude for musical development, becamebarbarised. It sank down to the level of a rude dialect. Only gradually,,
oui’ literature, which had had so promising a beginning, recovered the
lost ground, but at last attained once more a development the extent,
beauty, grandeur, and richness of which is now universally acknowledged
even by a nation in which an unapproachable poetical master-mind has
risen.
There is a great break between the Master-singer epoch and the litera
ture of which Goethe and Schiller are the foremost representatives. Yetz
Goethe was, as he himself confesses, deeply indebted to that particular
poet of the Master-singer school who is best known by name, though
not by his works, namely, to Hans Sachs, the much-vilified ‘ shoemaking
rhymester’ of Nuremberg. ‘ In order to find a congenial poetical soil on
which we could plant our foot, in order to discover an element on which
we could breathe freely’—says the author of Wahrheit und Dichtung—
‘we had to go back a few centuries, when solid capabilities rose splendidly
from a chaotic condition; and thus we entered into friendly intercourse;
with the poetry of those bygone ages. The minne-singers were too far
removed from us. We would first have had to study their language
and that did not suit us. Our object was to live, and not to learn..
Hans Sachs, the truly masterly poet, was nearest to us. A genuine talent,,
although not in the manner of those knights and courtiers; but a quaint
citizen, even as we boasted of being ! His didactic realism agreed with
our tendency; and we used, on many occasions, his easy rhythm, his
facile rhyme.’
So Goethe, who, moreover, in his ‘ Poetical Mission of Hans Sachs,’1
has fervently sung the praise of the citizen poet, uttering strange curses
against ‘the folk that would not acknowledge their master,’ and con
demning them to ‘ be banished into the frog-pond,’ instead of dwelling
on the serene heights where genuine bards throne in glory.
If a Goethe could thus speak of a master-singer, that often-despised
school of town’s-poets may, after all, merit some notion. The proper
judgment of the rise and origin of the Meister-singer is, however, gene
rally obscured at the very outset by the unduly sharp division made between
their early representatives and the chivalric Minstrels of Love. Minnesong and Master-song are reckoned to bear their antagonistic difference
in their very appellations. Yet, the apparently distinctive name of
£ Meister’ was applied already to poets in the period in which we gene
rally assume that the German troubadours flourished. On the other
hand, the word 1 minne-singer ’ is of quite recent date. It was Bodmer
who first used it in the last century : and this comparatively new word
1 Hans Sachsens poetische Sendung.
�16G
GERMAN TROUBADOURS
then gave rise to 'an over-strained division-line which is detrimental to
a proper understanding. Grimm at least, the great authority, has deci
dedly laid it down’as his’opinion that the Troubadour-song and the Master
song in Germany are not only not to be thus divided, but that they have
a close affinity in their essential points. Docen and von der Hagen
■have upheld the contrary view. ‘The Minne andMeister-song,’—Grimm
says ‘ are one plant, which at first was sweet; which in its older age
•developed into a degree of acerbity; and which at last necessarily became
woody. But unless we go back to the days of its youth, we shall never
comprehend the branches and twigs which have sprouted forth from it.’
Even the usual separation into ‘ chivalric’ poets and ‘civic’poets must
be accepted with some caution. Among the crowd of lyric bards whose
songs have been handed down to us in that famous collection attributed
to Riidger von Maness, the splendid manuscript of which is still, in spite
-of the Peace of Frankfort, retained by the French, there are not a few
singers of humble descent and calling. We there meet with a clerk, a
schoolmaster, a fisherman, a smith, and other mechanics—even a poet
■of the much persecuted race of the Hebrews, namely, the Jew Siisskind,
of Trimberg. That which we possess of him, is poetry of a more abstract,
philosophical character, a kind of Solomonic wisdom, not untinged with
melancholy. In the midst of priestly fanaticism, he sings of the free
dom of thought. ‘ Thought penetrates through stone and steel; Thought
travels quicker over the field than the quickest glance of eyes ; Thought
rises high up in the air above the soaring eagle.’ No doubt, this Jewish
Marquis Posa had, as he himself relates, at last to leave the poetic art,
finding little favour among its noble patrons. In bitter disappointment
he- complains that he is travelling on the fool’s high-road (ich var ilf der
toren vart), and says he will give it up, grow a long beard of gray hairs,
live in the manner of the old Jews, clad in a long mantle, with a capa’
■cious hood, walking along with lowly gait, and trying to forget that he
had ever sung at courts.
The vast majority of those whom we now call minne-singers were no
doubt of noble descent. Some of our emperors were befriended by the
muse. Even Henry VI., that iron ruler, is reckoned among the trouba
dours ; his lay : ‘ Ich grueze mit gesang die suezen, die ich vermiden niht
wil, noch enmac ’ is one of the most touching :
I greet with song that sweetest lady
Whom I can ne’er forget;
Though many a day is past and gone
Since face to face we met.
Frederick II, too, another German ruler of the Suabian house of
Hohenstaufen, struck the lyre; but as he composed in the Italian
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
167
tongue, he cannot be included among our own troubadours. Great
depth of feeling marks his song: i Di dolor mi conviene cantare.' An
excellent English translation, under the title of ‘ My Lady in Bondage,’
is to be found in ‘ The Early Italian Poets, from Ciullo D’Alcamo to
Dante Alghieri,’ by G. D. Rossetti. Some have fancied to see in this
song of the free-thinking German emperor an allusion to the captivity of
the Church, a Symbolisation of religious ideas. This view is undoubtedly
a most erroneous one; Frederick’s lay has as much to do with the
Church as the Song of Solomon has.
But though king-emperors, dukes, princes and counts, had a slight part
in the literary productions of that age, the main strength of the minnesinging brotherhood resided in men of less ambitious descent, who had
sprung from the lower nobility, and who were generally gifted with very
small worldy goods, if with any at all. Uhland, in his otherwise so
beautiful Tale of German Poesy (Mahrchen), which describes the dif
ferent periods of our literature in a charming Dornröschen allegory, calls
German poesy a ‘princely child,’1 and a ‘princess.’ The great connois
seur of our ancient literature, who knew better when he wrote in prose,
allowed himself, in his ‘ Tale,’ to be beguiled into this mis-statement
by the seduction which the Dornröschen myth naturally offered. The
truth is, the mass of our early lyric bards were, in rank, only removed a
degree from the generality of freemen. Some of them pass even wrongly
1 Zwo macht’ge Feen nahten
Dem schönen Fürstenkind;
An seine Wiege traten
Sie mit dem Angebind ....
Und als es kam zu Jahren,
Ward es die schönste Frau,
Mit langen, goldnen Haaren,
Mit Augen dunkelblau ....
Viel stolze Ritter gingen
Der Holden Dienste nach:
Heinrich von Ofterdingen,
Wolfram von Eschenbach.
Sie gingen in Stahl und Eisen,
Goldharfen iij der Hand;
Die Fürstin war zu preisen,
Die solche Diener fand.
Von alter Städte Mauern
Der Wiederhall erklang ;
Die Bürger und die Bauern
Erhüben frischen Sang.
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GERMAN TROUBADOURS
as members of the nobiliary order. For instance, it is by no moanssure that Walter von der Vogelweide was of aristocratic origin; the con
trary is more probable in fact. Again, as I have above remarked, there
were, among the poets of that period, not a few whose civic character is.
beyond question. These circumstances have to be mentioned, in order
to show how difficult it is to draw a strong line of demarcation between
minnesinger and meistersinger, at least in the intermediary stage dur
ing which they blend, whilst afterwards no doubt a change occurs—im
perceptible at first, and only later of the most pronounced kind.
The master-singers regarded themselves as the continuators of the old
poetry. Among the 1 Twelve Masters ’ who, the legend says, founded
the poetical schools in the cities, Frauenlob, Klingsor, Walter von der
Vogelweide, the Marner, and Reinmar von Zweter are named—all un
doubtedly troubadours, although by no means all belonging to the nobili
ary order. I need not say that this alleged formal foundation of a
master-singer guild is as much a myth as Arthur’s Round Table. Chrono
logically, the Twelve Masters could not have acted together ; nor
could they have done what the fable relates, in the reign of Otto the
Great under whom the event is said to have taken place. Nevertheless,,
even that myth shows that the Meister-singer felt some contact with their
predecessors. And indeed there are, among what are now called the
Minne-singer, several who are remarkably like some of the later didac
tic, sententious master-singers. Again, among the towns’-poets, especially
among those who are reckoned as precursors of the school, some by far
excel, in fervour and chivalric colouring, their aristocratic prototypes. The
master-singers called their own art ‘ die holdselige Kzmstfl an appellation
reminding us of the ‘ science gaye ’ of the Provençal troubadours, among,
which latter however—in the words of Gorres—‘the ardent breath of
Moorish poetry is felt,’ whilst among the minne-singer, and still more
among the majority of the meister-singer, a colder tone prevails.
Territorially also, the Master-song coincides with the Minne-song.
It extended from the Upper Rhine, from Alsace, then a very cradle of
German culture, into Franconia, Bavaria, Thuringia, and partly alsoLowei' Germany, or Saxony, as it was then called. It was mainly the
South and the West on which both forms of poetry grew up—the one sprout
ing forth from the other. At Toulouse also, as Grimm remarks, the last
remnants of Provençal poetry, the jeuxfloraux, lingered on the same spot
where they had flourished of old.
And even as the later master-singers composed their lays according
to set rules, so we find 1 rules ’ and ‘ masters ’ already among the chivalric
poets in the beginning of the thirteenth century. Nor could it well be
otherwise if we remembei- the form and figure of the Poetic Art of those
early ages. Now-a-days, in thinking of poems, we have a notion
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
169
of some book that is to be read, of some production composed in the
solitude of a study, and destined to be conveyed into the mind of others
through the medium of the eye. But the minne-singer were yet bards
in the ancient Orphic fashion. They really sang; their delivery was
essentially a chaunting one. Hence the birds on the flowery meadow
play such a part in their lays. Hence those poets, not quite inaptly,
Called themselves ‘ nightingales.’ In this respect also, the two poetic cir
cles have a point of contact which ought to be kept in mind, for the
Meister-Singer, like their predecessors, never delivered their productions
■Otherwise than in singing. Their name, therefore, was not a mere figure
of speech.
Germany was then, even in a higher degree than now, a country full
•of song. The melodies, some of which have been preserved, were simple
•enough; but the whole nation delighted in the repetition of those strains ;
•and song, which was but another word for poetry, was almost invariably
•connected with dance. Dance, among all nations of ancient time, is
not simply an amusement, but at the same time an act of consecration :
in the earliest ages a religious, sacrificial performance. It is as if the
harmony of the many-winded movements had been considered an image
•of the variegated, and yet orderly, cycle of Nature ; of the recurrence,
rafter many changes, of the same phenomena on this planet, as well as on
th® starry skies.
A 1 wandering society ’ (fahrende diet) of minne-singer consisted, at
least, of the poet, the declamator (sager), the fiddler, and the dancer.
When the poet himself was unable to sing, he was represented by another,
called the little songster (das singerlein). A player on some wind-instru
ment (blasgeselle) is also mentioned by some of the minne-singer; he
probably played on the flute. Now, in order to get a proper conception
of the character of these migratory poetical associations, we must dismiss
the remembrance of our modern manners and views, and rather think
of the most ancient Greek, or, for the sake of that, Teutonic life, and we
■shall at once look upon the matter in a very different light. It will be
seen at a glance that where such a co-operation was required as is indi
cated by the appellations of the various members of a i Fahrende Diet,’ a
sort of poetical school would gradually be formed, with distinct rules—
a «school in which there would be masters and pupils, and various
■degrees.
i From whom have you learnt your art ? ’ asks Klingsor, in wrathful
■contempt, his rival, Wolfram von Eschenbach, during the famous Tourna
ment of Song known as the Wartburg Contest, in which the rival minne
singer were represented as contending for the palm. The ironical ques
tion can only be understood when one knows that the then united arts
•of poetry and of singing were already at that time taught in regular
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GERMAN TROUBADOURS
school, or guild, fashion, even as was later the case among the burgher
poets. Klingsor is probably but a mythic personage, a sort of early
medieval Faust. But the author of the ‘Wartburg War’ has certainly
not put an anachronistic remark into his mouth.
There were many gradations in these poetical fellowships. The high
born dukes and members of ruling houses who occasionally turned to theharp, did not, of course, belong to the singer class properly speaking.
The veritable singers, or poets, according to the customs of the age, led
a migratory life, going from one court, or nobleman’s mansion, to the
other, expecting reward for what they gave. Their poetry is by them
selves called ‘courtly song’ fiovdicher sang). The expression had, how
ever, not the unpleasant meaning that would now be evoked by the term
‘courtly.’ Hof, from which ‘hovelich’ (courtly) is derived, then meant
any country seat. The word is even now used in Germany as well for a
prince’s court as for a peasant freeholder’s dwelling. The habit of taking
reward, wages (gniete), for their poems, was openly acknowledged by
these minstrels. So distinguished a poet as Walter von der Vogelweide
did not scruple to say that he expected his ‘ wages.’ Still, in the
beautiful lay in which he sings the praise of German women—
German men are nobly bred;
E’en as angels our women are ....
Virtue and pure love,
He who seeks for them,
May he come to our land so full of bliss—
0, long would I live therein !
the poet has the good taste (that is to say, according to the courtesy of
the time) of declaring that womankind is far too sublime for him to
expect any other ‘ wages ’ from them than amiable greetings (schone
grueze). The same Walter, some time afterwards, obtained a feudal
tenure in reward for his exertions during an election contest for the
German' crown. The poetical effusion in which he expresses his un
bounded gratitude for this liberal act of the ruler whom he had helped
to place on the Imperial Throne, is rather comic in its exuberance.
He says he no longer fears to ‘ feel frosty winter in his toes,’ nor does he
mind what wicked lords think of him. He now has ‘ air in summer, and
fuel in the cold season; ’ his neighbours consider him a most excellent
man, whereas formerly they looked quite bearishly at him. His poems,
once regarded as bitter, grumbling, and scolding utterances (his satires on
Church and State are here alluded to), are now thought quite clean and
fit for a court:
Icb was so voile scheltens, daz mm aten stanc;
Daz hat der kiinec gemachet reine, und dar zuo minen sane.
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
171
A rather realistic expression for a tender minne-singer ! But trouba
dour language, generally so fragrant, sometimes breaks out into utter
ances totally unfit for a modern drawing-room.
Between the various poetical associations, and the different rivals in the
art, angry feuds occasionally sprang up, according to the excitable
nature which has from olden times been attributed to the poetical
genius. The angriest words were exchanged between those who looked
down upon each other as being of an inferior degree in the poetical
guild. There were bards who carefully cultivated the ancient and purer
traditions ; others who descended to the lowest humdrum versification.
As taste degenerated in consequence of the nobility assuming more
and more a lansquenet and even robber character, and becoming,
therefore, unable to enjoy true poetry, the inferior caste of poet
asters rose to the surface. Even as the minstrels in England, and theConfrerie des Menestriers and the Troubadours in Northern and
Southern France, gradually became mere street-bawlers and jongleurs,
so also in Germany a gradual deterioration took place in the character of
the wandering bards. So-called ‘ sentence-savers ’ (spruch-sprecJier) and
court fools (liofschalke) began to introduce themselves in the castles and
mansions and to obtain the chief hold on the people at large. A great
many complaints are yet extant of later minne-singer, who utter their
grief at the decaying art.
They charge that decay upon the miserly habits which had grQwn up
among the nobility, as well as upon the increase of 1 court foolery.’
Thus Konrad von Wurzburg complains of these ‘ untutored fools ’ (kunstelose schalke), whom he calls a bastard cross-breed between a wolf and
a fox, and of whom he says that they steal from the real poets (the
kiinstereichen) both the language and the melody. In a symbolical
representation he leads True Art into a wood before the throne of Jus
tice. Clad in tattered, beggarly garments, True Art utters her griev
ance. The verdict of Justice is, that he who confers upon the vile
poetasters the rewards which rightfully belong to the veritable bards,,
shall for all time to come be shunned by Love.
Much stronger are the expressions of the minne-singer Boppo, with the
furname of ‘the Strong.’ He was famed for his bodily strength; nor
was his language deficient in massiveness. In abusing the inferior versifex
class, he runs through the whole animal kingdom, and through every
imaginable scolding term, in order to fix strange denominations upon
them—as for instance : herr esel, dunkelgut, ehrenneider, galgenschwengel,.
niemands freund, wiedehopf, schwalbennest, entenschnabel, affenzagel,
schandendeckebloss. That power which our language possesses of coiningnew terms, had evidently been concentrated in a remarkable degree in the
hands of Boppo, who, albeit a troubadour, is supposed to have originally
�172
GERMAN TROUBADOURS.
been a glass-blower, and who subjected his antagonists to a most unmer
ciful fire of vituperative appellations.
The Minne-song hadflourished in Germany in the twelfth and thirteenth,
partly still in the fourteenth century. Even in the fifteenth we yet
meet with wandering poets ; but they are few and far between ; and the
castle-gates generally remain locked to them. The nobles change into
robber knights. The chase, plundering expeditions, petty feuds, and
gross carousals, are now their only occupations. The Empire is distracted
and convulsed by the aristocratic leagues of the 1 Cudgellers’ (Bengeler),
the ‘ Grim Lions,’ and other brigand associations of the nobility. Mean
while, in the towns, a new power rises. There, a spirit of freedom makes
its way ; there, trade and commerce expand; a lofty architecture combines
with the development of the pictorial art. In the towns, therefore,
Poetry also takes its refuge. The lyre is little heard now in the courts
and the castles; the bardic guilds are henceforth established in the
-cities.
The transition is a gradual one. The old poetical forms remain at
first the same as before : the Master-song is, as it were, evolved from
the Troubadour song, and appears, at least in the beginning, so mixed
up with the latter that in some cases it is impossible to make a distinct
classification one way or the other. Even as in nature there is no abrupt
break in the forms of life, so also on the domain of intellectual develop
ment. The lines of division are generally less marked in reality than
we assume them to be for the sake of finding our way through the maze
of multiform phenomena. Epic poetry is, through a process of conden
sation, evolved from the ballad form, and gradually dissolves again into
the latter. The drama arises from the lyric strophe and antistrophe.
Chivalric poetry in Germany takes its rise from a previous populai and
monkish literature. The master-song, too, sprouts up from the ancient
stem: a later blossom, of less fragrancy, amidst the shed leaves of the
decaying minne-song. On the emblematic Tneistcrtafcl at Nuremberg,
the Rose Garden was depicted in which the errant chivalry once sang ;
and Hans Sachs, in the sixteenth century, still composed many of his
lays on the melodies of Walter von der Vogelweide and other trouba
dours.
•
Generally, Oswald von Wolkenstein and Hugo von Montfort are re
garded as the last representatives of the Minne-song ; Muscatbliit and
Michael Beheim, who lived at the end of the fourteenth and the begin
ning of the fifteen centuries, as the chief precursors of the Master-song.
Wolkenstein and Muscatbliit are the more important of the four. Their
poetical character, it seems to me, is almost invariably indicated in the
wrong way, even in standard works like those by Gervinus and
Vilmar. Both these eminent historians of our literature reckon Oswald
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
173
von Wolkenstein among those who once more raised the old troubadour
song, while they accuse Muscatbliit of affectation and triviality. I con
sider this statement a very unwarranted one. The opinion of Gervinus
that Muscatbliit was ‘ as far from the breath of free nature as his arti
ficial tone is from the artless strophes of Montfort,’ can at most be
applied to his Lays on The Virgin Mary. In them we meet with a com
plicated versification, an affected rhyme, an offensive superabundance of
imagery. Still, it ought not to be forgotten that even in this he kept
within the taste of his time. On the other hand we frequently find in
his productions a wealth of sentiment, rendered in such simple words
that it is not too much to say that some of his poems may be placed at
the side of the best of all times and nations.
Who has not admired Gretchen’s Song at the Spinning Wheel as a
true master-piece 1 On looking more closely, we meet, in ancient Ger
man literature, poems coming so near to it that we may assume without
disrespect that Goethe, who had studied the old Faust plays and bor
rowed much from them, had also embodied many a lyric jewel of that
time in his dramatic treasure. Has not Gretchen’s plaint: 1 My peace is
gone, my heart is sore ’ a striking affinity to a poem by Muscatbliit,1 in
which a lover thus pours forth his grief:
■ Herz, Muth unci Sinn
Sehnt sich dahin,
Wo meine Gewalt
So mannigfalt
Sich ganz hat hingekehret.
Mein freier Will’
1st worden still;
Mein stater Muth
Mich trau’ren thut:
Mein Herz ist ganz versehret.
I fear it will be found impossible to render in English the pathetic
simplicity of these quaint lines. The following 2 gives, however, some
idea of the poet’s power :
With grief o’erborne,
And anguish-torn,
My soul and heart
Would fain depart
Where each sad thought a captive dwells.
My once free will
Is quelled and still;
My constant breast
By woe oppressed;
My heart with hopeless mis’ry swells.
1 I give it but slightly changed in orthography, so as to render it more accessible
to the student of modern German.
2 I am indebted for this version, as well as for one or two others, to the kindness
of a friend, Miss Garnett.
VOL. III.—NO. XIV.
N
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GERMAN TROUBADOURS
Somewhat in the tone of the popular Parting-songs (Scheidelieder), but
at the same time reminding one of Gretchen’s : (Ach neige, du Schmerzens
reiche,' are the following passages in the same poem by Muscatblüt :
Ach Gott, erkenn,
Warum und wenn
Ich sehnender Mann
Verdienet han,
Dass ich muss von ihr scheiden ....
Dass Lieb’ mit Leid
Von Liebe scheid’,
Das heisst doch wohl ein Leiden.
Denn Lieb ohne Leid nicht kann sein;
Lieb’ bringet Pein,
So Mann und Weib
Mit betrübtem Leib
Hie von einander scheiden.
Wie möcht mein Herz
In solchem Schmerz
Fröhlich sein,
Dass ich die Reine
Soll ewiglich vermeiden.
Ach, Scheiden, dass du je wardst erdacht;
Scheiden thut mich kränken.
Scheiden hat mich zu Sorgen gebracht,
Thut Muscatblüt bedenken.
Scheiden hat mich
Gemachet siech;
Scheiden will mich verderben.
Daran gedenk’, traut selig Weib !
Is there a want of natural truthfulness, a want of deep feeling, in
this? Undoubtedly Gervinus’ Geschichte der Deutschen Dichtung has
rendered great service by showing the intimate connexion between the.
political and the intellectual life of the nation. But Gervinus has not, to
my knowledge, made very profound studies in our ancient writers. I
am afraid that in the case of Muscatbliit he rendered his verdict off
hand, without being intimately acquainted with the subject. The same
might be said with regard to the judgment he passed on Wolkenstein—
again a most erroneous one, giving a false notion both of Wolkenstein’s,
particular bent and of his general capabilities.
In saying this, I am surely far from endeavouring unduly to raise
Muscatbliit, the commoner, above Wolkenstein, the knight. Muscatbliit
certainly does not attract our sympathies by anything else than his lyric
merits. Whilst Walter von der Vogelweide boldy denounces papal
tyranny and priestly arrogance with a truly reformatory energy, Muscat
glut, the precursor of the Master-song, combines a voluptuous Mariolatry
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
175
with, an ardent hatred against all reformatory aspirations, for instance,
of the Hussites. It is true, the Czechian movement in Bohemia, even
at that time, created already much bitterness in Germany on national and
political grounds; and John Huss, besides being a reformer, was a
Representative of this Czechian, anti-German movement. But Muscatbliit
attacked the memory of Huss on Church grounds, giving his assent in
Äther a brutal manner to the fiendish act of the inquisitorial assembly
at Constance. With an allusion to the name of the Bohemian leader,
which in Czechian signifies 1 goose,’ he exclaimed : ‘ There is yet many
8» Unroasted gosling to be examined !’ 1 To examine,’ in those days, was
the technical term for ‘ putting on the rack ! ’
Altogether, some of the fore-runners of the Master-singer school were
rather characterised by this dark spirit of opposition to the reformatory
movement, which was strongly coming up long before Luther. How
ever, at Augsburg, about the middle of the fifteenth century, we already
find considerable enlightenment among the master-singer school there; for,
in a reactionary satire against the boldness of the towns, which dates
from that time, there is the following ironical praise of Augsburg :
.
Augsburg hat einen weisen Rath;
Das sieht man an ihrer kecken That
Im Singen, Dichten und Klaffen.
Sie haben errichtet eine Singschul,
Und setzen oben auf den Stuhl
Den, der übel redt von den Pfaffen.
Thus, heretical views already were a recommendation, in 1450, for
the position of chairman among the civic bards of that free town.
That was before Luther was born ! We here see the beginning of that
Protestant movement which afterwards became a very law to the master
singers ; the Bible, in opposition to the legendary cycle of the Catholic
- Church, serving them as a text-book and a guide in their poetical pro
ductions.
Michael Beheim, that other precursor of the Meister-singer school,
was one of the last wandering poets who tried their luck by singing at
courts. He however met with many rebuffs, and then, ill-humoured
and full of anger against those who would not be his patrons, broke out
I into pungent satires against the princes and the nobility. In this he
certainly was far from representing in any way the character of the later
k'meister-singer who never asked for princely or aristocratic favour, much
less for pecuniary reward from courts. Following their trade for a live
lihood, they sought in poetry, so far as they understood it, merely a
satisfaction for the mind and the heart, endeavouring to render their
I* schools ’ a means of raising the intellectual and moral standard of their
Qwn class and of the popular classes in general. As to Beheim’s effun
2
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GERMAN TROUBADOURS
sions, they were rather of that artificial and somewhat tasteless style
which Gervinus wrongly attributes to Muscatbliit. Yet it must not be
forgotten that even in such stiff and strangely-set devices as we meet
with, for instance, in his praise of a lady, who is said to be—
ein Balsamgarten
Der Lilien ein
Violensprengel,
Und auch. Zeitlos,’
Der Seligkeit Ruhm,
Maienblüthe,
rein,
Stengel,
Ros’,
Blum’,
Güte,
des Sommers Zier—
he is not too far removed from some troubadour prototypes.
On the contrary, how distant, in spirit and tone, is Oscar von Wol
kenstein from the Minne-poets, whilst yet it has been said of him that
he had continued the old chivalric song ! I, for my part, cannot con
ceive a more erroneous judgment. A few songs of a more delicate
nature there are no doubt to be found in Wolkenstein, who is a queer
mixture of a venturesome, heroic ritter, of a Don Quixote, and of a
Sancho Pansa. But the bulk of his poems, which fill a goodly volume,
is surely not of the nobler troubadour kind. His dancing songs espe
cially are of a broad-grinning comicality. There is a boorish bacchanalianism in them which sometimes verges upon satyr-like grossness, or
seeks relief in mere senseless outcries. What could be less like a minnesong than the poem which begins with the words ‘ Mine host, we feel a
jolly thirst,’ and in which one of the tamest verses, utterly untranslat
able in their unbridled hop-and-jump wildness, runs thus :
Pfeifauf, Heinzel, Lippel, Jäckel!
Frisch, froh, frei! Frisch, froh, frei 1 Frisch, froh, frei!
Zweit euch; rührt euch ; schnurra bäckel!
Hans, Luzei! Kunz, Katrei! Benz, Clarei!
Spring kälbrisch drunter, Jäckel!
Ju hei hei! Juhei! hei! Ju hei hei!
Or take the following bit of a nonsensical jumble of words ! Barringtwo or three lines, no meaning can be detected in them, except a fierce
animalism that breaks out into a .rapid utterance of inarticulate cries :—
Da zysly, musly,
fysly, fusly,
henne, klusly,
kumbt in’s husly,
werffen ain tusly,
susa, susly,
negena grusly
well wir sicher han.
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
177
Clerly, metzly,
elly, ketzly,
thuont ein setzly,
richt eur letzli,
tula hetzly,
trutza tretzly,
vacht das retzly,
der uns freud vergan.
Unless I greatly err, the minne-singers had a somewhat different
style.
In other poems, Wolkenstein, who on his adventurous expeditions in
Europe, Asia, and Africa, had become something of a linguist in a rather
unscientific sense, heaps together, in the absurdest manner, odds and
ends of various languages, so as to produce a perfect maze of gibberish.
A few biographical notes on this vagabond freelance, to whom in all
histories of our literature a totally wrong place is assigned, may per
haps prove of interest; the more so because in his character there is
such an eccentric medley of the old and the beginning modern time, a
mixture of chivalry and of very Nether-Dutch ‘ popular ’ ways and
manners.
He was a Tyrolese by birth, and lived between 1354 and 1423. As a
boy, he lost an eye by a shot; but with his other eye he peered only the
more deeply into the romantic ‘ ritter ’ literature of his time. At the
age of ten he left his father’s castle, in order to participate in a crusade
against the heathen Sclavonians in Prussia. His parents let him depart
without much ado ; for his support they handed him three-farthings and
a piece of bread. On the march he gained his livelihood as a groom.
At night the roystering boy slept in a stable-corner, or covered by the
starry canopy. For eight years he served as a common baggage-boy,
went through Prussia, Lithuania, Poland, Red Russia; became a cap
tive, was almost mortally wounded, went to Norway, Denmark, Sweden,
Flanders, England, Scotland, Ireland, mostly serving—in what later
became the lansquenet character—in various armies and countries. In
the company of German merchants he went through Poland to the
shores of the Black Sea, and into the Crimea; became a cook on board
ship, then a common boatswain ; saw Armenia and Persia ; sailed, again
as a ship’s cook, to Candia; took part in an expedition against the
Turks; fled from a lost battle, wandering through Dalmatia, and return
ing to the Tyrol, At the age of twenty-five, his hair had become grey ;
his face was deeplyffurrowed ; but he had learnt no less than ten lan
guages.
When he resolved to marry, he met with a tragi-comic misfortune.
Wooing a certain Sabina Jäger, a citizen’s daughter, he was told by her
�178
GERMAN TROUBADOURS
that, to prove his true love, he ought, as a first chivalric duty, to make
a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Which he did; but on returning
he found Sabina Jäger married ! Later he turns up in the struggles of
the Tyrolese nobles against the dukes in Austria; then again in Spain,
Holland, England, Portugal; in a crusade against the Moors ; afterwards
as a wandering -singer in the Moorish Kingdom of Granada and in the
Provence. Meanwhile his castles had been burnt down; still, immediately afterwards, he celebrates a marriage. But his former love, Sabina
aforesaid, who now resided at the Court of Innsbruck, allures him to a
rendezvous under the pretext of a pilgrimage ; and as Don Quixote
Wolkenstein unsuspectingly meets her, she has him captured and bound,
in order to extort from him a ransom of six thousand gulden. The iron
fetters which the false fair one imposed upon him, made him a cripple
for life; nevertheless, after the death of his wife, we see him once more
in the field, and once more in captivity. For a long time he pines in
a loathsome dungeon. On issuing from it, he marries again ! Then he
goes to war against the Hussites. But at last he can move neither foot,
nor arm; neither walk, nor stand; and thus he dies an inglorious
death from dropsy. In the wars in which he played a part, he
always kept on the losing side—a born bird of ill-luck. Even after
his death, there was an evil star shining over his remains ; for on the
church, near which he was buried, being rebuilt, his tomb-stone became
accidentally transposed, and the whereabouts of his burial-place were
forgotten.
Such was the chequered career of the strange man -who erronously is
represented as one of the last 1 Minne ’ poets, but whose lays generally
resemble the troubadour style as much as a broom-stick does a forgetme-not.
However, Wolkenstein, as a poet, does not stand alone in this exuber
ant hilarity. Between Minne and Meister-song, we find a third element
interposing at that time—an element of gross joviality, which, strange
to say, makes its appearance even on clerical ground. This peculiar
phenomenon is to be observed in many spiritual Church poems of the
fifteenth century. Whilst the Minne-singer, when they yielded to re
ligious enthusiasm, exhibit a melancholy, brooding mood, a mystically
ardent adherence to sacred traditions; whilst the Meister-singer,
about the time of Hans Sachs, are characterised by a profound but
quiet profession of faith, there is, in that age of transition when
the Master-song only begins to rise, a certain hilarious form of spiritual
poetry.
Many of those clerical poems sound almost like a student’s Gaudeamus
igitur. Were it not known that they are Church songs, they might be
mistaken for satires against the clergy. The mixture of Latin and
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
179
German, in itself not unapt to produce a risible effect, is very much used
in those poems:
In dulci jubilo—
Nun singet und seid froh!
All unsre Wonne
Liegt in praesepio;
Sie leuchtet mehr als die Sonne
Matris in gremio ;
Qui est A et 0,
Qui est A et 0!
-
*
0 Jesu parvule,
Nach dir ist mir weh!
Tröst’ mir mein Gemüthe,
0 puer optime,
Durch aller Jungfrau’n Güte,
0 princeps glorise,
Trahe me post te !
Trahe me post te !
Mater et filia
Ist Jungfrau Maria.
Wir waren gar verdorben
Per nostra crimina:
Nun hat sie uns erworben
Coelorum gaudia.
Quanta gratia!
Quanta gratia!
Ubi sunt gaudia ?
Wo die Engel singen
Nova cantica,
Und die Glöcklein klingen
In regis curia.
*
Eia, qualia!
Eia, qualia!
This, surely, is not a very austere triumphal song on the birth of the
Saviour. A clerical May-song in honour of the Thom-crowned is also
extant, in which the faithful are invited to assemble under the Tree of
the Cross:
Unter des Kreuzes Aste,
Da schenkt man Cyperwein ;
Maria ist die Kellnerin,
Die Engel schenken ein ;
Da sollen die lieben Seelen
Von Minne trunken sein.
�180
GERMAN TROUBADOURS
Under tlie branches of the Cross
Is poured forth Cyprus wine ;
Maria bears the goblet round,
The angels pour the wine ;
There all dear souls shall drunken be
With juice of Love’s own vine.
In the 1 Bath-Song,’ another clerical lay, the pilgrimage of the faithful tothe Saviour is literally described as a journey to a Spa, nay as a
voyage to Baden-Baden. Even the effect of the water, the bleeding
nceessary for the cure, and other mundane matters, are strangely
mixed up with the religious subject. The five introductory verses,
run thus:
Wohlauf ! ini Geist gen Baden,
Ihr zarten Fraulein ;
Dahin hat uns geladen
Jesus der Herre mein.
Hie quillt der Gnaden Bronnen,
Der Freuden Morgenröth ’;
Da glänzt die ewige Sonne,
Und alles Leid zergeht.
Da hört man süss erklingen
Der Vögelein Getön,
Und auch die Engelein singen
Ihre Melodie gar schön.
Da führt Jesus den Tanz
Mit aller Mädchen Schaar ;
Da ist die Liebe ganz
Ohn’ alles Ende gar.
Da ist ein lieblich Kosen1
Und Lachen immermehr ;
Da kann die Seel ’ hofiren
Mit Freuden ohn’ alles Weh !
The following I believe to be a fair translation :—
Up ! haste to the Baden spring,
Ye tender maidens fair !
Jesus, our Lord and King,
Himself invites us there.
The well of grace supernal,
Joy’s rosy dawn is there ;
There shines a sun eternal—
Banished are pain and care.
1 Smiren, in the old text,
�AND MASTER-SINGERS.
181
There soundeth, sweetly singing,
Of birds the harmony ;
There angels’ voices are ringing
Celestial melody.
There the Lord doth lead the measure
’Mid troops of damsels bright’;
And there the heavenly pleasure
Of love is infinite.
There caresses sweet are given,
And unending laughter is heard ;
There the souls may go a-courting,
With gladness undeterred.
And let it not be too hastily assumed that in these extraordinary
verses, 'which partake so strongly of the erotic character and even of
the erotic terminology, the spirit of the later pietists, or ‘ Mucker,’ is
already visible. On the contrary, strange as it may seem, the proba
bility rather is that this Bath-song, which describes the well, the dawn,
the crowd of young girls, and the chirping of the feathered songsters in
a region where all grief ceases, is a dim echo of the worship of the
Germanic Goddess of Love, whose place, after the introduction of
Christianity, was occupied by the Virgin Mary. In the Freia myth also,
we have the well of eternal rejuvenation—the rosy dawn which ever
lastingly pervades the region of this goddess—the crowd of children
that move joyously on a flowery meadow filled with the song of birds ;
in short, the whole outer structure of a legend in which afterwards only
names were changed.
In this way, ancient Germanic paganism, with its mystic poetical
charms, once more flickers up from beneath the Roman Catholic integu
ment, ere the Meistersinger intone the sadly serious chaunts of the
‘ Haupt voll Blut und Wunden’ :
0 sacred Head, surrounded
By crown of piercing thorn !
0 bleeding Head, so wounded,
Reviled and put to scorn !
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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German troubadours and master-singers
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Blind, Karl
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 163-181 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From The Dark Blue 3 (April, 1872). Attribution of journal title and date: Virginia Clark catalogue. The Dark Blue was a London-based literary magazine published monthly from 1871 to 1873.
Publisher
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[British and Colonial Publishing]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[1872]
Identifier
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G5340
Subject
The topic of the resource
Music
Rights
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (German troubadours and master-singers), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
Germany
Singing
Songs
Troubadours
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/2c97abde7438898226dfa18772611198.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=KrV3CGZkJulTsWI5l-AbromfsyDMSUd9zVIs8ujUJZ%7EFw9ClTSk%7E%7Ex9cklkde8HwnwaBpp17ZhhpSMk%7EcUdD6LATKc6qkcWXaiV%7EbS%7EvD--l-fWfplxF-FeF%7E%7EJJklCOJ4aMYtwj0vXofonkQTf%7EuXnat-Se0wNv8YGOz6i5P12jvf9vYkHa4guBfbeZgHTwnvqkTMB08fYbisYYjO10qGEOru%7Ev7UmkF9w6leZPu3kahPhkP1Alu8tRnmcC4iZX1W-s4go2Oeuu6DmpQJO0ymHHoxD6kazuDPbbRiq2khswogXPyC-Mvq%7Ezr2AEucwMlZPIhECteXuMj3H3et0ITA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
d37594a67499038b0cdff7b99f69504f
PDF Text
Text
CHANSON
PAR ALFRED DE MUSSET
iNous venions de voir le laureau,
Trois gardens, *rois fillettes.
Sur da pelouse il faisait beau;
E.t nous dansions nn holdrn^
Au, son des nastagnettesj
Dites-moi,vOisin,
*Si j’ai bonne mine,
Et si ma basquine
Va bien, ce matin.
Vous me trouvez la taille fine?...
Ah!ah!
Les filles de Cadix aiment assez cela.
Et nous dansions un boldro.
Un soir, c’^tait dimanche,
Vers nous s’en vint un hidalgo
Cousu d’or, la plume au chapeau,
Et le poing sur la hanche :
Si tu veux de moi,
Brune au doux sourire,
Tu n’as quA le dire,
Cet or est & toi.
— Passez votre chemin, beau sire...
Ah!ah!
Les filles de Gadix n’entendent pas cela.
Et nous dansions un boldro,
Au pied de la colline.
Sur le chemin passa Diego,
Qui pour tout bien n’a qu’un manteau
Et qu’une mandoline :
La belle aux yeux doux,
Veux-tu quA l’6glise,
Demain, te conduise
Un amant jaloux?
— Jaloux! jaloux! quelle sottise!
Ah! ah!
Les filles de Cadix craignent ce ddfaut-lA
�CHANSOK
jtfottt? de'Bolero ?.
Marcato. i
ve - nions «de vorr le taureau, Steois
L
trois nl - let - tes.
1
/\
1 It
?
rase
a
-
il fai-sait beau ;
' g ’
FA a tempo
�Grazdosetto.
Si j’ai bonne mine,.
Et si ma basquine
A
Va bien, ce matin... Vous
riant
me trou-vez la
tail-le
fi - ne? Ah! ah! ah! ah! Les fil-les deCa^
cresc.
�2e Couplet.
y\
Un soir, c’e - tait di-manche,
Et nous dan-sions un bole-ro
nt.
- --------- -—-JM—0----- —--------------------
-far?---- fr~h—f—i*-------ft---- a
vint un hi-dal-go
-q
I
|V
Cou-su d’or,
t*
c^e :
T~ K
p=F^-
laplumeau chapeau,
________ stacc.
. p. . .It
^aQ
4...
/\ u
"fc
i?
s»“ « i
- i ~7—■ U !
Et
Vers nous s’en
a tempo —<=rz_
—ar-!*—i
‘ 7 f-f kJ—
le poing
t____ A^—,
Si tu veux de moi,
sur
la
A
Brune au doux sou - ri - re,
�3e COUPEET.
El nous dan-aiobs un bo-le-re.
- min pas-saDie-ge,
Au pied de
Qui pour tout bien n’a qu'uu mau-teau
Et qu’une man-do \
,
Ea belle aux. yeux doux,
Demain, te con-dui-se
,
k
A '
Veux-tu qu’a l’e - gli- se „
a-mant ja-loux?—Ja - loux! ja-loux I quel-le sot *»
9 K riant
■ sei Ah! ah! ah!
all! Les fil-les de Ca - dix
ah I ah! ah!ah! ah !
ah!
Leslil-les
de. Ca - dix.
craignent ce de-faut-la.
ah!ah! ah! ah!
ah! ah!ah!
Ah! ah! ahlaMj'aht
ahiah!ahI
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Chanson
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
De Musset, Alfred
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [Paris]
Collation: [5] p. ; 26 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Le Megasin de Librairie: literature, histoire, philosophie, voyages, .... Vol. 3.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[1859]
Identifier
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G5726
Subject
The topic of the resource
Music
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work (Chanson), identified by </span><span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk">Humanist Library and Archives</a></span><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
A language of the resource
French
Conway Tracts
Music
-
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68d475a67e6e95592299bcb0c701d723
PDF Text
Text
•w ORKMEN’S’CLTSTB
CROWN HILL, CROYDON.
A
CONCERT
WILL BE GIVEN
ON^TUESDAY. JULY 10th. 1866
In Aid of the Funds of the
O R K ME N 3S
BY A PARTWIF
LADY AND GENTLEMAN AMATEURS.
4-
Conductor-HARRY TAYLOR, Esq.
4-
Admission:—Members (on producing their Cards of Membership) with
the privilege of introducing a lady friend, at the same price, 3d.; Non
Members, Gd.
♦
—
4-
Doorsvpen at 7.30, to commence at 8.15.
4-
Tickets can be obtained at the Doors; at the Club ; or of any Member of
the Committee.
EICHA.EBSON, PEINTEE, CEOYDON.
�PART I.
Part Song
Duett
Solo
“ I love my love in the Morning ”
“ The Sea Nymph’s Home ”
“ Fair Annie ”
Mr. A. Lester.
Glee
“ Spring’s Delights ”
Solo
“ Queen of the Sea ”
Part Song
“ Blanche ”
Septette
“ Blow gentle Gales ”
Part Song
“ The Sea hath its Pearls ”
Solo
“ The Village Blacksmith ”
Solo and Chorus
“Now, Tramp, Tramp.”
G. Allen.
MoliqueMuller.
Schoesser.
Thuchen.
Bishop.
Pinsuti.
Weiss.
PART II.
Part Sono
c * The Bluebells of Scotland.”
arranged by
Neilhardt.
Randegger.
“ I Naviganti ”
“ Irish Ballad ”
Mr. A. Lester.
Part-Song “The Cookoo sings in the Poplar tree ” Macfarren.
Four-part Song “ When evening’s twilight ”
Hatton’
Solo
“ The Bailiff’s Daughter.”
Part-Song
H. Smart.
“ Ave Maria ”
Trio
“ I’m not the Queen ”
Balfe.
Four-part Song
“ The Soldier’s Love ”
Thuchen.
Solo
“ Scroggins’ Ghost.”
Part-Song
“ Hunting Song ”
Mendelsshon.
arranged by
Solo and Chords
“ God Save the Queen ”
Novell o
Trio
Solo
�0
z •
Part I.
G. Allen.
I love my love in the morning,
For she like morn is fair,
Her blushing cheek,
Its crimson streak,
Its clouds her golden hair ;
Her glance its beams so soft and kind
Her tears its dewy showers,
And her voice the tender whisp’ring wind,
That stirs the early bowers.
Oh ! I love my love in the morning,
For she like morn is fair.
I love my love in the morning,
I love my love at noon,
For she is bright as the lord of light
Yet mild as autumn’s moon,
/
Her beauty is my bosom’s sun
Her faith my fost’ring shade, And I will love my darling one
Till even the sun shall fade.
Oh 1 I love my love in the morning
I love my love at noon.
I love my love in the morning
I love my love at even,
Her smile’s soft play is like the ray
That lights the western heaven,
I loved her when the sun was high
I loved her when he rose,
Yes, but best of all when evening’s sigh
Was murmuring at its close.
Oh ! I love my love in the morning]
I love my love at even.
Part Song.
Duetts “ THE SEA NYMPH’S HOME.”
Oh, who can tell the beauties—
The beauties of the ocean ;
The many things that dwell there,
And have both life and motion,
Hundreds of fathoms down below,
Where mortals ne’er attempt to go,
Except to ne’er come back again,
But stay to hear the sea nymph’s strain.
�4
This is no place for mortal eye,
To see the beauties which here lie.
Tra, la, la, la, la—
But stay to hear the sea nymph’s strain,
Tra, la, lai, la, la, la.
Down, down among the choral rocks,
The water-sprite and mermaid
Dance all through their sparkling halls
Which were for mortals ne’er made;
Singing so merrily as they go upon the
light toe,
With skins so fair and flowing hair;
Free from sorrow and from care.
This is no place for mortal eye,
Ours are the beauties which here lie—
Tra, la, lai, la, la, la.
But stay to hear the sea-nymph’s strain,
Tra, la, lai, la, la, la.
Song.
FAIR ANNIE.
Moligue.
The maidens of Germany all are so sweet,
More beautiful none can be shown ;
And when in the dance you just see the small feet,
’Twould move e’en the heart of a stone.
But none look so brightly, and none dance so lightly
As Annie, sweet Annie, dear Annie, my Annie alone.
The maidens of Germany never coquet,
As over the Rhine they are known ;
They are all so coy, and so modest and neat,
The heart is as gay as the gown.
But she that grows daily more modest and gaily
Is Annie, sweet Annie, dear Annie, ray Annie alone.
The maidens of Germany all are so good,
And if a sweet wife yon would own,
Go take a fair maiden of German blood,
Your fate you will ne’er have to mourn.
But as there are many, I beg you’ll let Annie,
Fail' Annie, sweet Annie, dear Annie, my Annie alone.
Glee
SPRING’S DELIGHTS.
Muller.
Mr. A. Lester.
Spring’s delights are all reviving
Verdant leaf-lets clothe each spray,
Hawthorn buds give joyful tiding,
Welcome news, ’tis blythe May Day.
�5
Rural pastimes, grateful off’ring,
Hail the promise for the year,
Village swains their pains disclosing,
Maidens lend more willing ear.
These delights but last a season,
Fading quickly with the year,
Still these hours, if spent with reason,
Surely brings us Autumn cheer.
Come then dearest, hear my pleading,
Turn not from my suit away,
But my honest heart receiving,
Make me bless this bright May Day.
Song
QUEEN OF THE SEA.
Schloesser.
Away on the sea, away on the sea,
With the wild waves dashing around.
To a life that ever is merry and free,
Where true hearts are sure to be found.
Whenever the call of his country rings,
The bold British sailor will be
As true to the last, as his guiding star,
To Britannia, the Queen of the Sea.
But, victory won, he thinks of his home,
And lov’d ones, that absence endears;
Fond faces, sweet smiles, seem to hover around,
And eyes shining brightly through tears.
Such men are the boast and pride of our land,
The noble, the hearty, the free,
And true to the last, as needle to pole.
To Britannia, the Queen of the Sea.
BLANCHE.
F. Kuchen.
My love is gone to battle,
The drum has beat adieu,
My foot-steps fain would follow
That youth so brave and true ;
With banners proudly streaming,
They gaily marched away,
Oh ! well shall I remember,
The parting of that day.
“ When loudly raves the din of war,
When thund’ring cannons peal afar,
My heart,” he softly said, “ will be,
My own sweet Blanche, with thee.
Then adieu, fare thee well,
Part Song.
�6
For the drum has beat,
Fare'thee well, my own true love !
Adieu, adieu, adieu, my love!”
My love has gone to battle,
To win a soldier’s name,
If Fortune smile upon him,
She’ll crown his brow with fame ;
The token that I gave him,
When we our troth did plight,
Will nerve his soul to duty,
And guard him in the fight;
li When home,” he said, “ again I see,
My bride, sweet Blanche! thou then shalt be ;
So, courage ! wipe that tear away,
And for thy soldier pray.
Then, adieu, fare thee well,
For the drum has beat,
v
Fare thee well, my own true love,
Adieu, adieu, adieu, my love !”
Gle®.
BLOW GENTLE GALES.
Bishop.
Blow gentle gales, and on your wiBg,
Our long expected succours bring !
Look, lobk again, ’tis all in vain !
Lo, behold a pennant waviug,
’Tis the sea-birds pinions laving,
Hark ! a signal fills the air,
’Tis the beetling rock resounding,
Now fills the air,
Wild as our hope, and deep as our despair !
THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS.
Part Son©.
Pinsu&i.
The sea hath its pearls,
The heaven hath its stars ;
But my heart, my heart,
My heart hath, its love.
Great are the sea and the heaven ;
Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls and stars
Flashes and beams my love.
Thou little, youthful maiden,
Come unto my great heart;
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven
Are melting away with love !
�7
Song.
/'
-
.
Weiss.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
>
Under a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands,
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands ;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear the bellows blow ;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
The children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from the threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to . the church
And sits among his boys
He hears the parson pray and preach
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the willage choir?,-’
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her one more
How in the grave she lies,
And with his hard rough hand he wipes
'*
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling—rejoicing —sorrowing,Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close ;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’srepose.
NOW TRAMP, O’ER MOSS AND FELL.
Bishop.
Now tramp, tramp o’er moss and fell,
The batter’d ground returns the sound,
Chanters proudly swell ;
Clan Alpine’s cry is “ Win or die,”
Guardian spirits, of the brave 1
Victory o’er my hero wave.
Chobus and Solo.
�8
Part II.
THE BLUE BELLS OF SCOTLAND.
Part Song.
Arranged by A. Neithardt.
O where, and O where, is your Highland laddie gone ?
He’s gone to fight the foe, for Victoria on the throne ;
And, ’tis O in my heart, I wish him safe at home!
O where, and O where, did your Highland laddie dwell ?
He dwelt in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue
Bell,
And, ’tis O in my heart, I love my laddie well!
Suppose, and suppose, that your Highland Lad should
die ?
The bag pipes should play o’er him, and I’d sit me
down and cry ;
And, its O in my heart, I wish he may not die !
Trio.
I. N AVI G-ANTI.
JRandegger.
TRANSLATION. •
The winds are steeping, calm is the sea,
And all is silent from lea to lea,
But though the tempest rages no more,
The mariner, watchful, must ply his oar.
Oh waves deceitful, treacherous winds,
No peace nor rest, the sailor finds;
For, though tho’ tempest rages no more,
The mariner, watchful, must ply his oar.
Wherefore, wherefore, this quarrel with
wind and wave ?
Is it not wiser their frowns to brave,
Let lazy silence reign there no more,
To songs united let’s ply the oar.
Bright stars are sending,
Their rays are lending,
Soft and sweet light,
To calm and still the night.
And sigh and greeting,
O’er waves are stealing,
Sent by hearts beating,
Full of love’s feeling,
Then row in measure,
To songs of pleasure,
The waves dividing,
In moon’s rays gliding.
Our bark is steering,
The shore swift nearing,
Then on our landing,
Loved ones are standing.
Then row etc.
�THE CUCKOO SINGS IN TH E POPLAR TREE.
Macfarren.
The Cuckoo sings in the poplar tree,
But his carol is not gay,
For he knows that spring,
Like himself’s on the wing
By the ricking of the hay ;
Little we heed his pensive note,
High on the poplar spray.
While in the new-naown meadows swete,
In sunshine we make hay.
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !
Old women tell us, in mournful tone,
That our merry days will pass,
And that death will soon,
'
Come and mow us down,
Like the flowers in the grass.
But if so swift the moments fly',
Let us drive cares away ;
Better it is to laugh than cry,
In sunshine then makeTiay.
Cookoo ! Cookoo !
Part Song.
WHEN EVENING’S TWILIGHT.
Hatton,
When evening’s twilight gathers round,
When every flower is hushed to rest,
When Autumn leaved ^breathe not a sound,
And every bird flies to it’s nest ;
When dewdrops kiss the blushing rese,
When stars are glittering from above ;
Then I think of thee, my love—
Then, 0 then, I think of thee.
Four-part Song.
THE BAILIFF’S DAUGHTER,
There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth,
And he was a Squire’s son ;
And he loved a bailiff’s daughter dear,
Who lived at Islington,
But she was coy,—and never would
To him her heart bestow;
So he was sent to London town,
Because he loved her so.
When seven long years had past and gone,
She put on mean attire,
And off to London she wouM go,
About him to enquire.
�10
As she was going along the road,
The weather being hot and dry,
She sat her down on a grassy bank,
And her love came riding by.
“ Oh ! give me a penny, kind sir,” she said ;
“ Relieve a maid forlorn.”
“ Before I give you a penny, sweetheart,
Pray tell me where you were born ? ”
“Oh! I was born at Islington.”
“ Then tell me if you know
The bailiff’s daughter of that place ? ”
“ She died, sir, long ago.”
“ If she be dead, then take my horse,
My saddle and bridle also ;
And I will seek some foreign land,
Where no man may me know.”
“ Oh stay, oh stay ! my goodly youth ;
She standeth by Ihy side ;
She is not dead, but here alive
And ready to be thy bride !”
AVE MARIA.
Henry Smart.
Ave Maria, ’tis the hour of pray’r,
And quiet reigns o’er earth and sky and ocean,
The chime of bells falls-on the charmed air,
Awak’ning thoughts of peace and calm devotion.
Ave Maria.
Oh! snatch an hour from earth-born toil and care,
And let thine heart on spirit wings ascendings,
Pour forth the tide of mingled praise and pray’r,
With never, ceasing songs of angels blending.
Ave Maria.j
Part Song.
THE LAUGHING TRIO.
Balfe.
Elvira — I’m not the Queen, ha ! ha !
I must have been, ha ! ha !
The maid you’ve seen, ha I ha ! ha! ha !
Manuel —Or maid or queen, '
In shape or mien,
You both have been.
Elvira*— Tho’ anger now should move me,
I can’t for mirth reprove you,
Ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! ha !
Manziel —I’m sure ’twas you,
I know ’twas you,
Yes, you ! Yes you ! ’twas you.
�11
Carmen—What’s passing here,
Manuel — Great heaven ’tis he !
Elvira — What he ? a peasant hoy. this Lady !
Carmen —Me !
Manuel—I’m not the dolt I seem to be,
This the peasant boy,
I saw with thee last night.
Oh, yes, the boy is to an angel changed,
But still I recognise,
I’d know you under any colours ranged.
Carmen—You compliment.
Manuel —Such was not my intention.
Carmen—Oh, how spiteful!
Elvira — ’Tis delightful; Oh, truly I must long this jest
enjoy,
He takes a maid of honour for a boy.
Carmen—So I’m a boy, a pretty boy,
A roguish boy, ha himaI ha 1 ha!
Manuel— Yes, yes, laugh on ’tig true I
You were the boy, you were the maid,
Laugh on ’tis true quite true.
Elvira — Tho’ anger now should move me,
I can’t for mirth reprove thee.
Thuchen.
SOLDIERS LOVE.
Before the morning sun is beaming,
And soldiers of their conquests dreaming,
The drums resound to arms, to arms ;
Dearest maid now fare thee well.
And while the call to arms is pealing^,
Each soldier to his true love stealing*
Perhaps to bid the last farewell,
J|
Dearest maid.
Farewell dear maid and cease thy weeping,
We all are here in heaven’s keeping,
The soldier’s bride will true remain,
Dear maid.
Four Part Song.
'
'
SCROGGINS’ GHOST.
Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown,
Ri fol de riddle ol de da ;
The prettiest lass in all our town,
Ri fol, &c.
He courted her with a posy true—
“ If thou loves I as I loves you,
No knife can cut our love in two.”
Ri fol, &c.
But scissors cut as well as knives,
Ri fol de riddle ol de da;
�12
And quite uncertain’s all our lives,
Bi fol, &c.
The day they were to have been wed,
Fate s Scissors cut poor Giles’ thread,
So they could not be mar-ri-ed.
Ri fol, &c.
Molly laid her down to weep,
Ri, fol, &c.
And cried herself quite fast asleep,
Ri, fol, &c.
Of a sudden she saw beside the bedpost,
A figure tall her sight engrossed,
And it cried, “ Ah ! I’m Giles Scroggins’
ghost,”
Ri fol, &c.
The ghost he said all solemnly,
■Ri fol de riddle ol de da;
“ Molly, thou must come with I,
Ri fol, &c.
All in the grave your love to cool.”
She cried “ Yah 1. I’m not dead, you fool!”
Said he, “ My dear, why that’s no rule 1”
Ri fol, &c.
The ghost he seized her all so grim,
Ri fol de riddle ol de day ;
All for to go along with him,
Ri fol, &c.
11 Now come,” said he 11 ere morning beam,”
“I can’t,” she cried, and screamed a scream,
But she woke and she found she’d drearn’d a
dream!
Ri fol, &c.
HUNTING SONG.
Mendelsshon
Now morning advancing, looks over the hill ;
Her radiance is glancing on valley and rill.
Horns gaily are playing the call to depart;
The coursers are neighing, now they start, n ow
they start.
Now rapidly bounding, the hunters are seen ;
The full cry resounding, sheds life o’er the scene.
Hounds eagerly flying, rush after the prey ;
The huntsmen are crying, “ Hark, away, hark away,’>
See, pow farther and farther, they bound along,
The woodlands and valleys re-echo their song,
Like gales o’er the heather, they sportively stray :
Hearts bounding together, while steeds bound away
Part Song
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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A concert will be given on Tuesday, July 10th, 1866 [programme]
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Workmen's Club, Croydon
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 12 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
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[s.n.]
Date
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[1866]
Identifier
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G5716
Subject
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Music
Rights
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<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work (A concert will be given on Tuesday, July 10th, 1866 [programme]), identified by </span><span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk">Humanist Library and Archives</a></span><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Concerts-London
Conway Tracts