ingredient is no dernier cri of fashion; on the contrary, it has always been and ever will be the mainspring of each revelation of art which can touch the hearts of its public and leave there a lasting conviction of sincerity and truth. Glinka attached the highest value to the folk-song, of which, as already stated, he found a treasure trove ready to his hand. Nothing, though, was further from his thoughts than to employ this material in pot-pourri style. Russians themselves are all agreed that it would be difficult to select one whole folk-song from any single work of Glinka's. It would naturally require a native of Russia with an accurate knowledge of these national tunes to tell us exactly when and where he used them. He seized their mood and tonality, that was all, and pervaded his music with their essence. In this way he developed every species of Slavonic folk-song-Great Russian, Little Russian, Circassian, Polish, Finnish-with a passing flavour contributed by Persia, for undoubtedly Oriental music had, at some remote period, influenced its Slavonic neighbour very strongly. Glinka may be said to have attained his end almost unconscious of his mode of procedure. Determined to compose Russian music, he pursued his idea unremittingly, but it was only towards the close of his life that he began to seriously analyse his effects, asking himself whence he had obtained them and in what essential points they exhibited their nationality. This inquiry involved him in a field of research bewildering in its magnitude, and one which his early death unfortunately prevented him from thoroughly investigating. Nor is the task by any means completed now, some forty years later, although many Russian musicians have thrown considerable light upon its varied aspects. The first step towards a folk-song analysis was the collecting of the melodies in sufficient numbers for comparison. So much being done, it flashed upon Glinka that there was an intimate connection between the Russian folk-song and the most ancient Russian Church music. That is to say, the melody and freedom of rhythm typical of the folk-song had been evolved by the people, whilst its harmonisation, in which lay one of its most striking essentialities, had been bequeathed it by the Church. From all that can be gathered concerning music in Muscovy prior to the introduction of Christianity, it seems justifiable to admit that harmony, or part singing, was already practised amongst the inhabitants, in what manner it is impossible to conjecture. At any rate, when the Church of Byzantium took root there, the Slav was sufficiently advanced musically to imbibe a new idea. We know that the Byzantine Church modes were purely diatonic, so is the harmonisation of the Russian folk-song in its most elementary and uncorrupted form. That the one produced the other is a most natural conclusion. In the oldest of the Russian national melodies Glinka discovered the most clearly defined type of the earliest Christian songs on record.

A wonderful testimony this to the indwelling religious spirit of the Russian people, who change but little, and who are singularly tenacious of their customs in spite of all their ready receptiveness. In one sense the folk-song is as rude and hardy as its singer; from another point of view it is a shy, delicate emanation shrinking from all human intercourse outside its own small coterie of familiar voices. In Russia, as in every other country, it has had to be sought in the remote steppes and far-off districts where foreign influences had never penetrated, and by a curious inverse process its harmonies, of course transmitted orally, were the means of preserving the Byzantine Church tonality long after this "first cause" had accepted chromatic and enharmonic modulations. In the chief Russian cities and more opened-up parts of the country, the Italian, French, and later on German elements gradually formed themselves into Church as well as secular music, and only within the last sixty years have attempts been made to restore this to its pristine and, perhaps it may be added, somewhat monotonous purity. The minor key in which the Slavonic folksong was usually couched, together with its extraordinary variety of rhythm and phrase, protected it from this monotony, the minor keys having infinitely richer resources of colour, even when strictly diatonically treated, than the major.

Slavonic music figures so constantly upon every concert programme in these days that we are probably most of us accustomed to its vagaries of rhythm, or what may be styled irregularity of metre. This is a direct heritage from the folk-song, which Glinka and his successors have borrowed largely. According to Youry von Arnold, a noted Russian writer upon music, quintuple and septuple time are a relic of early Hellenic music. Russia and Bohemia seem the two parts of modern Europe where these rhythms fixed themselves. In Poland they found no home. Chopin evaded an even measure by using rubato tempo rather than by indicating a time signature of irregular rhythm. Nor, if we remember rightly, did Moniuscko, the principal exponent of Polish opera, ever employ other rhythms than those generally in vogue throughout the rest of Europe. In French music an instance of 5/4 time can be recalled in the famous tenor aria of Boieldieu's "Dame Blanche" ("Viens, belle dame"). There is a certain slow movement in one of Spohr's quartets in 7/4 time; and Wagner, again, brings this measure into requisition in "Tristan and Isolde," and Löwe, the great dramatic ballad composer, employs 5/4 time for his famous song, "Prince Eugen." To the Russians these bizarre rhythms have a real significance and beauty; to German, Italian, French, or especially to English musicians, 5/4 and 7/4 time suggest 6/4 either robbed of a beat or encumbered with one needlessly, and foreign conductors are very apt to produce this effect when conducting Slavonic compositions. Glinka's instru

mentation is peculiarly sonorous; his musical taste is said to have been first aroused by the brassy clanging of a huge bell, which he would listen to for hours as a child. Something of its reverberation is apparent in his orchestration. The leading musical spirits of his day were quick to accredit him a kindred genius. Berlioz welcomed him gladly, and furthered his cause by eloquent writing as well as by obtaining him a hearing in Paris. Liszt was another enthusiastic "Glinkite," and Schumann, unfailingly keen to notice new talent pursuing a new path, speedily drew attention to a Russian who was doing for the music of his country what Chopin and Moniuscko had done for Poland. Rubinstein, who was still a boy when Glinka's sun was near setting, grew up with a warm admiration for the founder of his native school, and in 1855 he spent some of his ardour upon a highly laudatory article in the Wiener Zeitschrift für Musik, placing Glinka on a par with Beethoven. Glinka, thoroughly detesting anything which savoured of flattery, took the young musician soundly to task for his pains; but Rubinstein remained true to his tenets, and later on, when years had matured his judgment, we find him including the name of Glinka with that of Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, and Chopin, as the chief germinators of modern music; whilst one of the last acts of his generous public career was a concert given in aid of a national monument to the composer of "La Vie pour le Tsar." With one or two minor exceptions, successive Russian masters have followed faithfully in Glinka's footsteps. To Borodine, Dargomijsky, Seroff, Balakireff, and Rimsky-Korsakoff a full meed of nationality has been granted. To Rubinstein and Tschaikowski criticism is at present disposed to deny the quality in its more salient features. But their prolific mass of compositions has so far scarcely been sufficiently explored outside their own Russian domain for a final judgment to be hazarded. A nearer inspection of their work, indeed, together with a more accurate study of Russian art as a whole, distinctly leads to the opinion that a revolution of feeling may eventually spring up, especially on the subject of their operas. Also Rubinstein's dramatic works, now mostly dismissed by foreigners as his weakest productions, may in due course be accepted as his finest creations. From the different reasons previously deduced there can be little doubt that in opera Glinka purposely laid the corner-stone of what he earnestly believed to be a true Russian School, and a glance at contemporary musical activity shows that here Russia has every opportunity for distinguishing herself, and that with very little competition. In the nature of mortal humanity, Verdi, the veteran of Italy, is not likely to give "Otello" and "Falstaff" a pendant, and we can perceive no Italian composer worthy to take his place. In France no epochmaking name stands out amongst writers of opera, and Germany may well be content to rest tranquilly upon Wagner's oars. An active

movement in England favours the idea that we may realise a dream of national opera before the new century is far on its way. In which case the British composer, properly encouraged and sure of his rightful position, will have an excellent vantage-ground for his ambition, of which he is pretty certain to avail himself successfully. We have, however, much to do before we can think of overtaking Russia in this important form of music, and if our Slavonic neighbours are loyal to the dramatic and musical instincts of their race they will assuredly continue to outdistance us. Nor will they hesitate to perpetuate Glinka's memory by building steadily upon the noble foundation which has won for him the proud title of Father of Russian Opera,

A. E. KEETON.

THE JEWISH IMMIGRANT.

IN

N the March number of this REVIEW appeared an article by Mr. G. A. Dyche on the Jewish Immigrant which was one of the most eloquent defences ever made on his behalf. It was lucid and farreaching, as well as picturesque and romantic to a degree, with comparisons between British and foreign workmen odious in the extreme. As an English workman with a long and varied experience of the alien and his ways I would most emphatically contend that not only is he not superior, but on the contrary he is very inferior indeed, from the point of view of the workman, the neighbour, and the citizen. One complaint that must be made, and on the behalf of the Jewish immigrant himself, is that Mr. Dyche classes them all as Russian Poles and relegates them all to the particular industry in which his own activities are expended-the tailoring.

It may surprise some to learn that many Jewish immigrants come from different parts of Germany who are mentally and morally the superiors of the Polish Jews, as every one knows who has had the experience of both. There are others, too, who come over from Holland and Portugal, but these are generally provided with a little money and a knowledge of some industry.

Of all the many industries, useful, ornamental, and parasitical, taken part in or patronised by the Jewish immigrant in London and the provinces, including cigar and cigarette making, boot, shoe, and slipper making, walking-stick, picture frames, riveting and finishing boots and shoes, cap-making, fur work, bakers, tinkers, jewellers, wig-makers, barbers, upholsterers, carpenters, glaziers, plumbers and gasfitters, with the myriads of hawkers, pedlars, dealers and costermongers of one kind and another-whatever their calling or occupation-we shall find a monotonous sameness in their personal appearance, character