One can find here, for example, the explanation of the dichotomy so evident in our attitude toward Europe and everything European. It is, of course, in the final analysis a question of attitude not so much toward Europe as toward ourselves. In any case, one easily notes two tendencies which pervade the whole of American cultural life, and which, though seemingly in clear opposition to one another, nevertheless often appear intermingled and confused. Let it be clear that we regard neither tendency as a definitive or final expression of the United States; on the contrary, we believe that both tendencies, at least in their obvious forms, are products of an immaturity belonging to the past, just as in the work of our greatest writers, even though present and clearly recognizable, they were transcended and transformed.
For the sake of convenience let us call them colonialism and frontierism. By colonialism we do not mean a specific reference to American colonial history or to an Anglophile tendency, but rather to that current in American cultural life which persistently looks to Europe for final criterion and cultural directive. The term frontierism is used not in reference to the familiar interpretation of American history in terms of the influence of border regions on national life and development, but rather in reference to the revolt primarily against England and British culture, secondarily against European culture, and finally against culture itself, so plainly visible in American thought, American writing, and American politics. It is not necessary to recall here the various forms which these two tendencies take, nor need it be stressed that, in simplified form, they represent currents of diverse tendencies and innumerable shadings. The two attitudes, however, have deep roots, and they influence American decisions in cultural as well as in political, economic, and military matters, and bring us face to face with sometimes serious dilemmas. The experience of such dilemmas, and of the choices imposed by stubborn facts, sometimes has determined the direction and hence the character of American culture. At all events, there is reason to hope that these dilemmas will gradually resolve themselves into an attitude of genuine independence, and which therefore is neither subservient to the so-called “foreign influences” nor unduly upset by them.
The tradition of “dissatisfaction” has been a decisive factor also in a different sense. The once familiar metaphor of the “melting pot” is today outmoded, possibly through thorough assimilation. In stressing the element of “dissatisfaction at home” in the backgrounds of Americans of widely differing origins, we are not only throwing into relief a common and unifying element of these peoples, but we imply also great diversity of content in the experience itself—a diversity, which still persists, of motives and impulses in American life. Without devaluating the concept of the “melting pot,” or denying the fusion of peoples into one nation, we may recognize the problems and the consequent modes of thought involved in accomplishing such a fusion. This process has involved the reconciliation, to a degree, of the varied and contrasting motives which impelled heterogeneous groups of people to become American, and which became original, organic, and sometimes very powerful ingredients of our culture. It was necessary to build quickly, and to avoid catastrophic collisions of these various elements. Possibly in a manner similar to the influence of empire building on the cultural habits regarded as most typically British, the factors just mentioned have clearly contributed to two tendencies discernible in our own thinking habits: on the one hand, a certain predilection for abstractions, preconceptions, and slogans; on the other, a prevalent tendency to think primarily in pragmatic terms, that is, in those of concrete situations rather than of basic principles. Both modes of thinking have admirably served our national ends, and, in their more extreme manifestations, sometimes worry and exasperate the thoughtful among us. Those who regard us with a jaundiced eye accuse us, on the one hand, of pedantry, and on the other, of opportunism; and it is certainly true that the pedants and opportunists among us know well how to exploit these tendencies.
As far as music in the United States is concerned, the influence of these two modes of thought has been noticeable, if not always propitious. Fundamentally, however, these tendencies have little to do with either pedantry or opportunism. We have had the formidable tasks of both establishing standards which should keep pace with a tremendous expansion of intellectual and creative activity and which should serve to give this activity order and direction; and as well, of establishing a mode of life within which our heterogeneous elements could find a means of coexistence without dangerous clashes of principle or ideology—clashes which could easily have proved lethal to either the unity of a growing nation or our concept of liberty.
II
Music life in the United States must be traced back to the earliest days, those of musical activity in the churches of New England, Pennsylvania, and elsewhere. In Charleston, South Carolina, in the early eighteenth century, a kind of musical drama flourished—the “ballad opera” of British origin. In New Orleans, a little later, French opera was established and survived into this century. There were ambitious composers like Francis Hopkinson, friend of Gilbert Stuart, and other personalities of the Revolutionary period. There were amateurs to whom European music was by no means unfamiliar. Even among the outstanding personalities of the period there were those who, like Thomas Jefferson, took part in performances of chamber music in their own homes; or who, like Benjamin Franklin, tried their hands at the composition of string quartets (which is something of an historic curiosity). We ourselves own a copy of Geminiani’s The Compleat Tutor for the Violin, published in London in the seventeen-nineties, which was owned by one of our forbears of that period in Massachusetts.
Such facts, of course, are of interest from the standpoint of cultural history. Musicological research has taken due note of them, and probably the familiar error of confusing historical interest with musical value has been made: the awkwardness of this early music has been confused with originality. The music is in no sense devoid of interest; one finds very frequently a freshness, a genuineness, and a kind of naiveté which is truly attractive. We find it hard to be convinced, however, that the parallel fifths, for instance, which occur from time to time in the music of William Billings, are the result of genuine, original style, rather than of a primitive métier; and we well remember our curious and quite spontaneous impressions on first becoming acquainted with the music of Francis Hopkinson, in which we easily recognized eighteenth-century manner and vocabulary, but missed the technical expertise and refinement so characteristic of the European music of that period—even of that with little musical value.
Such facts as we know of the music life of that early time are of anecdotal rather than musical interest. They bespeak a sporadic musical activity which no doubt contributed tangibly to the music life in the large centers during the earlier nineteenth century. The city of New Orleans would seem to be exceptional in this respect. French in origin, then Spanish, again French, and finally purchased by the United States in 1803, it was a flourishing music center, and in the first half of the nineteenth century produced composers like Louis Gottschalk, who achieved a success and a reputation that was more than local or national, and that, on a certain level, still persists. The music life of New Orleans declined after the Civil War, as did the city itself, for some decades; however, the music life which had flourished there was of little influence on later developments in other parts of the country.
During the nineteenth century the United States seems to have received its real musical education. In 1825 Mozart’s librettist, Lorenzo da Ponte, at that time professor of Italian literature at Columbia University, and Manuel Garcia, famous both as singer and teacher, were among those who established a first operatic theater in New York, which city thereby became acquainted with the most celebrated operatic works and artists of the time. In 1842 the New York Philharmonic Society, the oldest of our orchestras, was founded. Farther reaching was the influence of individual musicians like Lowell Mason in Boston, and Carl Bergmann, Leopold Damrosch, and Theodore Thomas, in New York and elsewhere—men who worked devotedly, indefatigably, and intelligently to bring the work of classic and contemporary composers before the American public. Mason and Thomas, toward the midcentury, organized and performed concerts of chamber music and provided the impulse toward an increasingly intense activity of this kind. Bergmann, as conductor of the New York orchestra, and, later, Thomas and Damrosch, led the way with orchestral concerts; the list of works which they introduced to the American repertory is as impressive as can be imagined. In addition to his activities in New York, Thomas also organized the biennial festivals at Cincinnati, and eventually became the first conductor of the Chicago orchestra—a post which he held until his death in 1905.