prophesy; but if ever we do, it will be by imitating Purcell in one
respect only, that is, by writing with absolute simplicity and
directness, leaving complexity, muddy profundity and elaborately
worked-out multiplication sums to the Germans, to whom these things
come naturally. The Germans are now spent: they produce no more great
musicians: they produce only music which is as ugly to the ear as it
is involved to the eye. It is high time for a return to the simplicity
of Mozart, of Handel, of our own Purcell; to dare, as Wagner dared, to
write folk-melody, and to put it on the trombones at the risk of being
called vulgar and rowdy by persons who do not know great art when it
is original, but only when it resembles some great art of the past
which they have learnt to know. It was thus Purcell worked, and his
work stands fast. And when we English awake to the fact that we have a
music which ought to speak more intimately to us than all the music of
the continental composers, his work will be marvelled at as a
new-created thing, and his pieces will appear on English programmes
and displace the masses of noisome shoddy which we revel in just now.
It will then be recognised, as even the chilly Burney recognised a
century ago, failing to recognise much else, that "in the accent of
passion, and expression of English words, the vocal music of Purcell
is ... as superior to Handel's as an original poem to a translation."
Though this is slight praise for one of the very greatest musicians
the world has produced.

BACH; AND THE "MATTHEW" PASSION AND THE "JOHN"

I.

More is known of our mighty old Capellmeister Bach than of
Shakespeare; less than of Miss Marie Corelli. The main thing is that
he lived the greater part of his obscure life in Leipzig, turning out
week by week the due amount of church music as an honest Capellmeister
should. Other Capellmeisters did likewise; only, while their
compositions were counterpoint, Bach's were masterworks. There lay the
sole difference, and the square-toed Leipzig burghers did not perceive
it. To them Master Bach was a hot-tempered, fastidious, crotchety
person, endured because no equally competent organist would take his
place at the price. So he worked without reward, without recognition,
until his inspiration exhausted itself; and then he sat, imposing in
massive unconscious strength as a spent volcano, awaiting the end.
After that was silence: the dust gathered on his music as