The first Italian opera ever performed in England was produced on January 5, 1674, under the auspices of Queen Catherine of Braganza, who was devoted to that style of music, although it took a long time for an English audience to relish it. And “it was not easy,” writes Agnes Strickland, “to persuade the public in those days that a combination of incomprehensible sounds, however harmonious they might be, was capable of exciting feelings of admiration and delight like those with which they listened to the national opera of Arthur, when Dryden’s numbers are wedded to Purcell’s melodies.” The King’s admiration for Mrs. Knight, whose voice was considered by Evelyn and others to excel those of the Queen’s Italian vocalists, excited Catherine’s jealousy, especially as her singing was regarded “as a greater attraction than the wonderful violin playing of Signor Nicolao at musical meetings, where, also, the lute of Dr. Wallgrave rivalled the harpsichord of Signor Francesco.” But, it may be added, Mrs. Knight was first introduced at Court to sing Waller’s complimentary verses on her Majesty’s recovery from serious sickness, in the year 1663. Pepys tells us in his Diary,[161] under September 30, 1668, that the Queen had a concert of Italian vocalists on the Thames, under her balcony at Whitehall Palace, when, “it being a most summerlike day, and a fine warm evening, the Italians came in a barge under the leads before the Queen’s drawing-room, and so the Queen and ladies went out, and heard them for more than an hour, and the singing was very good together; but yet there was but one voice that did appear considerable, and that was Signor Joanni.”
According to Roger North, Charles II. loved no music but of the dancing kind, and put down all advocates for the fugal style of composition, with the question, “Have I not ears?” A band of twenty-four violins who merrily accompanied his meals, and enlivened his devotions in the Chapel Royal, suggested the comic song, “Four and twenty fiddlers all of a row,” which has lasted to the present day. Evelyn was greatly shocked when in December 1662, at the conclusion of the sermon, “instead of the ancient grave and solemn wind music accompanying the organ, was introduced a concert of twenty-four violins, between every pause, after the French fantastical light style; better suiting a tavern, or playhouse, than a church.” It would seem, too, the King’s predilection for French fiddlers formed part of his anti-national tendency, and was carried so far that John Banister, who had been leader of the twenty-four, was dismissed for saying, on his return from Paris, that the English violins were better than the French. These anti-national propensities of Charles II. brought into fashion that kind of music which had constantly been appreciated by the masses—the music of the old ballads and songs. The dislike of all compositions to which he could not beat time led him to appreciate the common English airs, to which the poets of the people had written their words, as well as the dance music imported from France.[162]
To church music George III. was always very attached, showing skill in it both as a critic and performer. “Many stories,” says Thackeray,[163] “mirthful and affecting, are told of his behaviour at the concerts which he ordered. When he was blind and ill he chose the music for the Ancient Concerts once, and the music and words which he selected were from ‘Samson Agonistes,’ and all had reference to his blindness, his captivity, and his affliction. He would beat time with his music-roll as they sang the anthem in the Chapel Royal. If the page below was talkative, or inattentive, down would come the music-roll on young Scapegrace’s powdered head.” It would seem that his Majesty was not content simply to be a listener, but he found additional pleasure in taking an active part in musical performances. And one day in the year when George loved to attend St. Paul’s was on “Charity Children’s Day,” to listen to “500 children sing the hymn which makes every heart thrill with praise and happiness.”
George IV. was fond of music, a taste which, we are told in the “Croker Papers,” seems not always to have been agreeable to some of the ladies who had the greatest influence over him. He would occasionally leave them to bouder in a corner, while he sang duets and glees with the two pretty Misses Liddell—Lord Ravensworth’s sisters—old Michael Kelly, Knyvett, and others. Thus, one evening at the Pavilion, in the year 1822, the King “never left the pianoforte; he sang in ‘Glorious Apollo,’ ‘Mighty Conqueror,’ ‘Lord Mornington’s Waterfall’ (encored), ‘Non Nobis, Domine,’ and several other glees and catches.” His voice, a bass, according to Croker, was not good, and he did not sing so much from the notes as from recollection. He was, therefore, “as a musician far from good, but he gave, I think, the force, gaiety, and spirit of the glees in a superior style to the professional men.”[164]
Music was a source of supreme delight to the Prince Consort, and in musical compositions he acquired considerable technical skill. His favourite instrument was the organ. On the 9th of October, 1840, Lady Lyttelton writes from Windsor Castle: “Yesterday evening, as I was sitting here comfortably after the drive, by candlelight, reading M. Guizot, suddenly there arose from the room beneath, oh, such sounds!... It was Prince Albert playing on the organ, modulating so learnedly, wandering through every kind of bass and chord till he wound up in the most perfect cadence, and then off again louder and louder. I ventured at dinner to ask him what I had heard. “Oh, my organ! a new possession of mine. I am so fond of the organ! It is the first of instruments, the only instrument for expressing one’s feelings.”[165]
All forms of music competently rendered, it is said, had a fascination for Queen Victoria, a taste which from childhood she encouraged, and to which she devoted much attention. John Bernard Sale, organist of St. Margaret’s, Westminster, and subsequently organist of the Chapel Royal, gave her her first lessons in singing in 1826,[166] and “she developed a sweet soprano voice, and soon both sang and played the piano with good effect.” In 1836 Lablache became her singing-master, and he gave her lessons for nearly twenty years. The harp was her instrument, and Grisi was her ideal vocalist.
The Italian opera raised her highest enthusiasm, and, “staunch to the heroes of her youth, she always appreciated the operas of Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti, but Handel and Mendelssohn won her early admiration.” She never understood or approved Wagner or his school.
At one time elaborate concerts, oratorios, and musical recitations were repeatedly given both at Windsor and Buckingham Palace. On the 10th of February 1846, Charles Kemble read the words of the “Antigone,” when Mendelssohn’s music was rendered, and this was followed by similar performances—Mendelssohn being many times at Court.
Many accounts have come down to us of the talent of James I. of Scotland for music, who is said to have “excelled all mankind in the art, both vocal and instrumental.” He has been spoken of as the father of Scottish music, and we are told that “he not only composed many sacred pieces of vocal music, but also of himself invented a new kind of music, plaintive and melancholy, different from all others, which, it is said, long made his name famous.”
Turning to France, we find that many of its rulers were musically inclined. Going back to an early period, it is said that Charlemagne invited singers and musicians to come from Italy and improve the performance of divine worship, and two song schools were established, one at Gale, another at Metz. According to Charlemagne, “his Franks had not much aptitude for music, their singing was like the howling of wild beasts or the noise made by the squeaking, groaning wheels of a luggage waggon on a stony road.”