Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 436 | Page 3

the spirits did on Prospero. At
the spreading of his arms, the music dies away to the most
faintly-whispered murmurs. A crescendo or musical climax works
gradually up step by step, and bar by bar, until it explodes in a perfect
crash of vocal and instrumental tempest. The extraordinary choral

effects produced in the performance of the Huguenots almost
bewildered the hearers; and the wondrous lights and shades of sound
given in many of the oratorios, are little behind the dramatic
achievement. The aspect of Exeter Hall on an oratorio night is one of
the grandest things in London. The vastness of the assemblage, the
great mountain of performers, crested by the organ, and rising almost to
the ceiling, are thoroughly impressive, while the first burst of the
opening chorus is grand in the extreme. The oratorio is, in fact, the
Opera of the 'serious' world. It is at once a place in which to listen to
music and a point of social reunion. There are oratorio habitués as well
as Opera habitués; and between the parts of the performance, the same
buzzing hum of converse rises from the assemblage which you hear in
the Opera corridors and lobbies. A glance at the audience will enlighten
you as to their character. They represent the staid respectability of the
middle class. The dresses of the ladies are often rich, seldom brilliant,
and there is little sparkle of jewellery. You very frequently perceive
family parties, under the care of a grave pater familias and his staid and
stately partner. Quakers abound; and the number of ecclesiastically-cut
coats shews how many clergymen of the church are present. The
audience are in the highest degree attentive. The rules forbid applause,
but a gentle murmur of admiration rises at the close of almost every
morceau. Here and there, you have a practical amateur, or a group of
such with the open score of the oratorio before them, eagerly following
the music. Often these last gentlemen are members of the rival Society,
and, as might be expected, pick plenty of holes in the execution of their
opponents, for which charitable purpose only they have probably
attended. But in M. Costa's Society, at all events, the task is difficult;
the orchestra 'goes,' as the phrase is, like one instrument, and the
singers are beautifully under the control of the master-spirit who directs
them.
Let us pass from Exeter Hall to Hanover Square. Here, in the Queen's
Concert Room--a salle which once was smart, and the decorations of
which were fashionable seventy years ago--we have unnumbered
concerts, and chief among them the twelve annual performances of the
Philharmonic Society. The 'Philharmonic,' as it is conversationally
called, holds almost the rank of a national institution. The sovereign

patronises it in an especial manner. It is connected with the Royal
Academy of Music, and Her Majesty's private band is recruited from
the ranks of its orchestra. The Philharmonic band may be indeed taken
as the representative of the nation's musical executive powers; and, as
such, comparisons are often instituted between it and the French,
Austrian, and Prussian Philharmonics. The foreigners who hold places
in the orchestra are resident, and in some sort naturalised, but the bulk
of the executants are English. To be a member of the Philharmonic
orchestra is, indeed, to take a sort of degree in executive music, and at
once stamps the individual as a performer of distinguished merit. The
music performed is entirely classic, and principally instrumental. New
compositions are seldom given; and, in fact, it was the practice of
adhering so exclusively to the standard works of great composers
which started the new Philharmonic Society, which has just come into
existence. The elder body stick stanchly to the safe courses of Bach,
Gluck, Beethoven, Mozart, and Mendelssohn. The newly-created
association proclaim that their mission is to look after aspirants, as well
as to honour the veterans of the art; and accordingly they bring forward
many compositions experimentally--a meritorious policy, but one not
without its dangers. Few unprofessional people are aware of the cost of
producing elaborate compositions. When William Tell was played some
years ago at Drury Lane--to mention one single item--the price of
copying the parts from the full score, at 3d. a page, came to L.350. All
the old music is of course to be had printed; and to these standard
scores the steady-going Philharmonic principally devotes itself. Each
performance consists in general of two symphonies, or a symphony and
an elaborate concerto, each occupying at least three-quarters of an hour,
with two overtures, and solos, vocal and instrumental--the former
generally sung by performers from either Opera, but usually from
Covent Garden. M. Costa wields the baton at Hanover Square as at
Exeter Hall; and under his management, the band have attained a
magnificent precision