THE ODE.

The writing of Odes seems to have passed so completely out of our literary life, that I thought it inadvisable to incorporate any remarks upon it with the standing part of my book, but I cannot refrain from saying a few words upon it in the Appendix, since I am convinced that it is destined to play a great part in the near future.

I will take for my example the well-known Ode (almost the only successful modern example of this form of composition) which was sung on the beach at Calshott Castle, by a selected choir, on the return of Mr. Joseph Chamberlain from South Africa; and I will use some passages from it in order to emphasize the leading principle that the Ode depends for its effectiveness almost entirely upon the music accompanying it.

Thus, Mr. Daniel Witton’s opening lines:

“What stranger barque from what imperial shores

The angry Solent dares to what mysterious goal?”

would seem tame enough were it not for the wonderful rising of the notes, which accompany them; and the famous outburst:

“She to Southampton steers!”

is equally dependent upon the crash of music and the combined voices of the whole choir. It is difficult for us, who have heard it rendered in the Albert Hall, to appreciate what the words would be without this adventitious aid. Even the lovely single line,

“Lift up your head, Southampton, dry your honourable tears,”

would be less without the delicate soprano floating above its syllables.

I will admit that the passage on the body-guard of National Scouts is very fine, but then, precisely in proportion as it is effective quâ literature, it fails to impress when accompanied by music, though the author of the score was wise enough to set it to a somewhat monotonous recitative. If the student will read the lines slowly to himself, first with, and then without, the notes, he will see what I mean.

“And who more fit than they

Whose better judgment led them to betray

An aged leader and a failing cause

Because—

Because they found it pay.”

Mr. Daniel Witton did not write that word “because” twice over in his original manuscript. He put it in twice to please the musician (whose ignorance of the English tongue was a great handicap throughout), and, as I at least think, he made an error in so doing.

All that passage where the great politician

“ ... taking off his hat,”

comes into the palace at Pretoria, where

“ ... in awful state alone,

Alone, the scientific Monist sat,

Who guards our realm, extends its narrow bounds,

And to achieve his end,

Is quite prepared to spend

The inconceivably imperial sum of twice three hundred times five

hundred thousand pounds,”

shows the grave difficulty of wedding the verse to the music. The last line is intolerably clumsy, when read without the air accompanying it; and the whole illustrates very well my contention that music should be the chief thing in the composition of an ode, and that the libretto should be entirely subservient to it.

A still better example is found in the great chorus “Pretoria,” which begins—

“Pretoria with her hundred towers

Acknowledges his powers,”

and “Johannesburg,” which ends—

“Heil! heil! hoch! heil! du ubermenslich’ wohl-gebornen Graf

von Chamberlein,

While underground,

Such rare and scattered Kaffirs as are found

Repeat the happy, happy, happy, happy sound.”

And of course the lyric at the end—

“All in his train de luxe

Reading selected books,

Including Conan Doyle’s ingenious fiction

And popular quota-

Tions, verses by the way

For which he has a curious predilection,

And Mr. Werther’s work

Called ‘England shall not shirk,’

Or ‘The Cape to Cairo, Kairouan and Cadiz,’

And ‘Burke,’ and ‘Who is Who,’

And ‘Men and Women’ too,

And ‘Etiquette for Gentlemen and Ladies,’”

Et cetera, et cetera.

All that lyric depends entirely for its effects upon the little Venetian air taken from Sullivan, who himself took it from Verdi, who got it from a Gondolier. The words by themselves have no beauty whatsoever.

Indeed, I think in the whole Ode there is but one exception to the rule I have laid down, and that is at the very end, where they sing of the accomplished task and, in a fine hyperbole, of the “Great story that shall shake the affrighted years.”

The last five lines are such good music and such good verse that I cannot dissociate one from the other:—

Chorus. And now returns he, turns, turns he to his own—
Trombone. Ah, maddened with delight,
I welcome him upon the loud trombone.
The Bass Drum. I, in more subtle wise,
Upon the big bass drum.
The Tenor. And I upon the trembling flute, that shrieks and
languishes and dies.
All Three. Welcome, and make a widowed land rejoice:
Welcome, attunéd voice;—
Sweet eyes!

It is a very fine ending, and I congratulate Mr. Daniel Witton upon it most sincerely....

It reminds one of the Bacchæ.

Should the student desire to attempt something of the kind for himself, he cannot do better than to invite a musical friend and compose the ode strictly in conjunction with him; neither should write separately from the other, and let there be no quarrels or tantrums, but let each be ready to give way.

I suggest, as a subject for this exercise, a Funeral Ode upon the same statesman, to be sung when occasion serves.