SELECTION AND DELIVERY OF MUSICAL RECITATIONS.

It is almost impossible to give actual advice on the matter of working up one of these musical recitations. I have always a strong conviction that every one must decide such points for himself, and that what suits one would not suit another. Even in the matter of choice of a piece suitable to recitation with music, I think no law can be laid down. Some of the most successful pieces I have given thus have but little hint of music per se in them; others, again, have a distinct cue for the music.

In all cases I have arranged the music for the recitations myself. I have over a hundred of these musical recitations; but, in all cases, I know the music note for note, and never vary it (unless, indeed, I purposely alter a musical setting, being tired of the old one, or hitting, as it seems to me, on some better motif). I have been told that it is supposed that I extemporise very often in these musical recitations. I am always glad to hear that it has that effect, but, in reality, it is as far removed from extemporising as may well bebeing in fact the hard result of hard and unremitting practice. I do not, as a rule, believe in any "extemporising" in art. There may be moments of impetus and inevitable and clear" inspiration," but they are rare, I think, even with the greatest artists. And as far as my experience has gone, I have invariably found that the greater

the artist is, the less he cares to trust to these moments of illumination. His work is always the result of hard work. If the work has been sufficiently perfected an appearance of spontaneity is the reward.

In very few of the accompaniments do I use any bar of music not my own. I find that the whole work is more homogeneous if it is all my own. I often regret I have not a technical knowledge of music, but yet I have sometimes found that very fact may be a safeguard, as the danger is always great for the music to overwhelm the words and rise into the prominence of a musical work. Such danger I am guarded against. I find that the words nearly always suggest the air-or motif. Sometimes the lilt of the poem echoes itself in a phrase of music, and sometimes it is the emotion. that seems to demand expression in music quite apart from the rhythm of the poem.

AIRS TO BE EMPLOYED AND AIRS TO BE AVOIDED.

Known tunes, I think, are decidedly to be avoided as a rule. I have used well-known tunes in only three or four of my recitations. A familiar air will always stir associations and recollections in the minds of the listeners, and seldom will these associations and recollections be anything but a detriment to the disengaged attention and open sympathy desirable in an audience. Of course, there are times when such a stir and rustle

of thought actually aids the emotion of the words spoken. This is the case in a passage in Dickens's "Christmas Carol," during which I play the Christmas hymn, "Hark! the herald Angels sing." In Tennyson's grand Ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington, the line :

"Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears,"

necessitates the famous march from Saul, and here again the emotion called up aids the words.

But I must own that to my mind to play "Ah! che la morte" during Owen Meredith's "At the Opera" would go far to vulgarise and spoil that delicate and mysterious poem. I cannot but fancy he himself recognised the commonplaceness of the association, for in the last edition he omits the verses which tell us the name of the opera and melody in question.

I may quote one or two other pieces in which I introduce into the accompaniment music that is not my

In Jean Ingelow's "High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire," I play for the song, "Come up, Whitefoot come up, Lightfoot," the old English air known as "The Legend of the Avon." In Alfred Austin's "In the Month when sings the Cuckoo," I work out into many keys and transpositions a motif of Macfarren's, in his opera, "She Stoops to Conquer," a partsong called "The Cuckoo." And in Eric Mackay's "Beethoven at the Piano," I play the first part of the "Moonlight" Sonata.

A poem such as Longfellow's "King Robert of Sicily" is peculiarly easy for musical setting, as the 'cue' for the music is an obvious one, and it is a case

wherein definite Church music may be employed with appropriateness. Baring Gould's "Building of S. Sophia" also suggests music of an unmistakable kind, although in both these instances the fear of being over realistic in the character of the music should be borne in mind.

A curious instance of the capriciousness of choice in the matter of a poem for "musical recitation" may be cited in Shelley's "The Cloud," which I venture to think lends itself perfectly, and with delicate fitness, more felt than to be explained, to an accompaniment ; whereas his "Ode to the Skylark," although distinctly a song, and suggestive in its subject of natural music, would be, to my mind, vulgarised by any echo of actual "music." Thus may be pointed out some of the difficulties of the matter, and the difficulty also of laying down definite rules for guidance to others. It must after all be allowed to be a question of personal taste, and stands or falls thereby.

And as known tunes are as a rule to be avoided, so also I think all realistically imitative music should be very carefully and sparingly handled. It is true such descriptive music is useful, and may be legitimately used in certain pieces. But the greatest care must be taken that it does not sink to commonplace, and even make the further fall into grotesqueness. It is a good lesson of warning to those who wish to recite with music to hear Mr. George Grossmith give his delicious imitation of one of my musical recitations. It points with delicate humour and fun to the danger of all imitative music, and shows how soon that fatal step can be taken that makes an emotion ridiculous. But

how is one to judge of this? Who is to say how far such music may go? Well, it is that mysterious nameless line that can only be labelled "good taste," and of that each man must judge for himself.

IMPORTANCE OF GOOD TASTE.

Good taste. A reciter should steadfastly and seriously regard that word. We all know it is a word of the vaguest outline. It is a "moveable feast," and an uncertain quantity. Presumably no two people hear its voice alike, and its unwritten canons are doubtless

different to everyone. But yet it stands firm and recognisable. The artist knows and loves it, as a rule, by instinct. But certain arts seemed to stand peculiarly in its light, or with the possibility of its shadow; and Reciting is one of these arts. Judging by the pieces for recitation constantly suggested to me, sent to me, offered to me, and written for me, the temptations placed in the way of a reciter to come under the shadow and frown of this form of vague outline are

many.

I note from time to time in periodicals and publications that some of the most infantile and the most decrepit verses published in their columns are often headed, "Written for Recitation." At such times I feel sorry for Recitation. I shudder to think of the maudlin "goody-goody" verses-and, even worse, of the tales of horror, the stories of the gutter, the hospital, and the death-bed-that form so large a portion of the litera