230 BIRMINGHAM MUSICAl, FESTIVAL. 



mon consent to suffer the man who, without loosing his individu- 

 ality, is truly imbued with the spirit of ancient times, to live for- 

 gotten and unappreciated by his cotemporaries. Palestine is ini- 

 raeasui-ably superior to most of the foreign novelties which have 

 been so carefully fostered by ridiculously exaggerated commenda- 

 tions. No crude or hasty production, it owes none of its attractions 

 to clap-trap accessories, the commonplace substitutes for genius. 

 The sublimity of the choruses and the beauty of the sextetts, quar- 

 tetts, and solos strike the mind as forcibly when played on the 

 piano-forte as when rendered by countless voices and instruments, 

 or warbled by the most finished vocalists. Let us not be told that 

 the price demanded by the author is exorbitant. If the plodding 

 labourer is worthy of his hire, if selfish intrigue too often attains 

 its ends, shall genius always be expected to lavish its benefits on 

 mankind and receive no return ? 



A word concerning the evening performances. If in the morning 

 the riches of the ecclesiastical composers of former ages have (or 

 sJiould have) awed and elevated our souls ; in the evening we ex- 

 pect to be enchanted with the varied beauty and grace of those who 

 have chosen the opera, the symphony, and the instrumental solo as 

 the channels in which to pour forth their ideas. We lose all pa- 

 tience when we reflect on the miserable jumble which selections — 

 not only at Birmingham, but at almost every festival — present. 

 Ignorance and bad taste here reiu^n triumphant. What excuse can 

 the directors, with unlimited national means at their command, 

 bring forward for so deplorable a failure ? Their justification may 

 be comprised in three words — they please their audience. This la- 

 mentable fact it is vain attempting to deny : let us, then, boldly 

 look the truth in the face. It appears that a selection in which a 

 dull glee follows a trashy song, which, in its turn, gives way to va- 

 riations on the concertina, attracts a larger audience than a succes- 

 sion of the loftiest master-works of jMusic's most favoured sons. A 

 more lamentable instance of the lower faculties triumphing over the 

 higher it is difficult to conceive. To us, however, far from present- 

 ing anything surprising, it only appears a necessary consequence of 

 the present wretched state of musical instruction. As, to the clown, 

 the sign-painting creaking before the alehouse in his native village 

 seems a transcendent specimen of art, so, to the flimsily-educated 

 Voung ladies and gentlemen honouring these concerts with their 

 presence, do The Light of other Days and Wandering Willie fulfil 

 their utmost ideas of excellence. So painfully low is their stand- 

 :ud, so utterly devoid of ideality are they, that, provided Grisi be 



