At the Musical Festival of 1876 Madame Patey sang a song of mine, "The Felling of the Trees," and I repeated my little experience as a conductor; but in 1885, when my cantata "Yule Tide" was included in the festival scheme, Mr. W.C. Stockley kindly undertook the task of directing the work. I was determined it should not be a personally conducted cantata; consequently, I was spared what would have severely taxed my capacity and nerve.
With regard to my work it will not become me to say much. I frankly own that it did not set the Thames ablaze; it passed muster, and perhaps that is as much as I could expect at a Birmingham Musical Festival. It was somewhat unfortunate that in 1885 there were too many new works. No less than seven original compositions were included in the scheme, and they killed each other. The musical public will not swallow and cannot digest too much new music, consequently they would not make a good, fair musical meal off any of the new dishes so liberally provided, with the result that most of them went into the larder after just; being tasted and no more. Some of them—even mine—are at times brought out, smelt, turned over, and looked at, but as I have hinted, none, not even those by Gounod, Dvorak, and Cowen, have become standing dishes in constant request at musical feasts.
Speaking generally, many splendid compositions seem to have missed fire through sheer bad luck. To go no further than Sir Arthur Sullivan, some of his finest and most important works have had an ill-starred existence, and even several of his best songs, though introduced to the public under the most favourable auspices, have not "taken on." Sullivan's splendid ditty "Love laid his sleepless head," though sung by Mr. Edward Lloyd all over the country, did not make a hit, whilst the more trivial ballad "Sweet-hearts" became a boom and a property. At least, I remember being told that after Sullivan had been receiving good royalties from this song for years, the publishers offered him £1,000 for his rights.
I am afraid I have been guilty of a digression, but I will recall my wandering steps. I have mentioned the Birmingham Festival of 1885, which marked a new order—I might almost say a new epoch—in the history of the Birmingham Musical Festivals. For the first time for very many years Costa was no longer seen at the conductor's desk, and his place was taken by Richter. Costa conducted the Birmingham triennial performances for about half a century, and although it was sad to miss his face in 1885, he had done his work.
In 1882—the last Festival in which he took part—it was painful to witness his efforts to conduct the performances. He was partly paralysed, and his bâton, I believe, had to be fastened to his hand because he could not grasp it. Further, he was becoming deaf, and the result was that the loud brass instruments were allowed to become too blatant and obtrusive. Costa was a good man in his day, and he did good work. He was very autocratic, even despotic, but he introduced two good things into the orchestra—order and punctuality. With all his ability, tact, and nerve, it must, however, be admitted that his style of conducting was rough and ready compared with the art, care, and skill that mark musical conductorship of the present day.
With Richter's appearance as conductor, some important changes and reforms were effected in the orchestral arrangements of the Festival. For one thing, the band was cut down in number. This, it was said, was in consequence of Richter's opinion that the balance of power was disturbed by too great a preponderance of string tone, but it is just possible that economy was considered when the change was made. Anyway, in 1885 there were over twenty stringed instruments less than in Costa's last year, 1882.
This alteration was a notable one, and regrettable in some ways. The extra large string band that Costa would have made the Birmingham Festival orchestra something very special, and the result was some striking effects not heard elsewhere. Nowhere now do we hear that tour de force which was almost electrical in the rush of violins at the end of the chorus "Thanks be to God" in the "Elijah," in Beethoven's "Leonora" overture, and in the last movement of the overture to "William Tell." The effect of the violins—between fifty and sixty in number—was something magical in the works just named. To put the matter in brief detail, under Costa's conductorship the string band numbered 108 players, when Richter took the orchestra in hand, it was reduced to eighty-six. I will not discuss the expediency of the change. Suffice it to say that the Festival band is now as good, perhaps better, than it ever was, save in the matter of numbers.
To sum up very briefly the Festivals since 1885—the year that Richter succeeded Costa—the meeting of 1888 was remarkable for nothing that made any permanent notch in the record of the Festivals. Parry's oratorio "Judith" was the chief novelty, but, in spite of its masterly merit as a work of musical art, it was hardly received with the favour it deserved.
The Festival of 1891 saw the production of two important new works, namely, Stanford's dramatic oratorio "Eden" and Dvorak's "Requiem Mass." With respect to these compositions, they have scarcely been heard, I think, since their initial performances. Stanford's "Eden" contains some fine writing, but there was, perhaps, too much of it. Dvorak's "Requiem" was something of a disappointment, and its first rendering anything but satisfactory; indeed, some of the numbers, I remember, narrowly escaped coming to utter grief.
In 1894 three new productions were heard. These were Parry's "King
Saul"—a very recondite, musicianly composition—but too long; "The
Swan and the Skylark," a fanciful little cantata by Goring Thomas; and a
"Stabat Mater" by G. Henschel.