Chapter 2

There is plenty of evidence, though more indirect in kind, that the lower classes were as enthusiastic about music as the higher. A large number of passages in contemporary authors shows clearly that singing in parts (especially of "catches") was a common amusement with blacksmiths, colliers, cloth-workers, cobblers, tinkers, watchmen, country parsons, and soldiers.

In _Damon and Pithias_, 1565, Grimme, the _collier_, sings "a bussing [buzzing] base," and two of his friends, Jack and Will, "quiddel upon it," _i.e._, they sing the tune and words, while he buzzes the burden.

Peele's _Old Wives Tale_, 1595, says, "This _smith_ leads a life as merry as a king; Sirrah Frolic, I am sure you are not without some _round_ or other; no doubt but Clunch [the smith] can _bear his part_."

Beaumont and Fletcher's _Coxcomb_ has

"Where were the _watch_ the while? good sober gentlemen, They were, like careful members of the city, Drawing in diligent ale, and _singing catches_."

Also in B. and F.'s _Faithful Friends_--

"_Bell._--Shall's have a _catch_, my hearts?

_Calve._--Aye, good lieutenant.

_Black._--Methinks a _soldier_[3] should sing nothing else; _catch, that catch may_ is all our life, you know."

[Footnote 3: Drayton (James I.'s reign) in his "Battle of Agincourt," l. 1199, has--"The common Souldiers free-mens _catches_ sing"--of the French before the battle (_free_men is a corruption of _three_men).]

[In _Bonduca_, a play of B. and F's., altered for operatic setting by Purcell in 1695, there is a catch in three parts, sung by the Roman soldiers.]

In Sir William Davenant's (Davenant flourished 1635) comedy _The Wits_, Snore, one of the characters, says--

"It must be late, for gossip Nock, the _nailman_, Had catechized his maids, and _sung three catches And a song_, ere we set forth."

Samuel Harsnet, in his _Declaration of Egregious Impostures_, 1603, mentions a 'merry catch,' 'Now God be with old Simeon' (for which see Rimbault's Rounds, Canons, and Catches of England), which he says was sung by _tinkers_ 'as they sit by the fire, with a pot of good ale between their legs.'

And in _The Merry Devill of Edmonton_, 1631, there is a comical story of how Smug _the miller_ was _singing a catch_ with the _merry Parson_ in an alehouse, and how they 'tost' the words "_I'll ty my mare in thy ground_," 'so long to and fro,' that Smug forgot he was singing a catch, and began to quarrel with the Parson, 'thinking verily, he had meant (as he said in his song) to _ty his mare in his ground_.'

Finally, in _Pammelia_, a collection of Rounds and Catches of 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 parts, edited by Thomas Ravenscroft, and published in 1609, there is a curious preface, which states that 'Catches are so _generally affected_ ... because they are so consonant to _all ordinary musical capacity_, being such, indeed, as all such _whose love of musick exceeds their skill_, cannot but commend.' The preface further asserts that the book is 'published only _to please good company_.'

To go on to _instrumental_ music among the lower classes of Elizabethan and Shakespearian times; there is an allusion in the above quoted passage from Morley (1597) to the habit of playing on an instrument in a barber's shop while waiting one's turn to be shaved. This is also referred to in Ben Jonson's _Alchemist_ and _Silent Woman_. In the latter play, Cutberd the barber has recommended a wife to Morose. Morose finds that instead of a mute helpmate he has got one who had 'a tongue with a tang,' and exclaims 'that cursed _barber_! I have married his _cittern_ that is common to all men': meaning that as the barber's cittern was always being played, so his wife was always talking.

There is a poem of the 18th century which speaks of the old times,

'In former time 't hath been upbrayded thus, That _barber's musick_ was most _barbarous_.'

However true that may have been--at all events it is certain that in the 16th and 17th centuries it was customary to hear instrumental music in a barber's shop, generally of a cittern, which had four strings and frets, like a guitar, and was thought a vulgar instrument.[4]

[Footnote 4: The Cittern of the barber's shop had four double strings of wire, tuned thus--1st, E in 4th space of treble staff; 2nd, D a tone lower; 3rd, G on 2nd line; 4th, B on 3rd line. The instrument had a carved head. See _L.L.L._ V. ii., lines 600-603, of Holofernes' head. Also the frontispiece, where the treble viol and viol-da-gamba have carved heads, both human, but of different types. Fantastic heads, as of dragons or gargoyles, were often put on these instruments.]

Another use of instrumental music was to entertain the guests in a tavern. A pamphlet called _The Actor's Remonstrance_, printed 1643, speaks of the _decay_ of music in taverns, which followed the closing of theatres in 1642, as follows:--"Our music, that was held so delectable and precious [_i.e._, in Shakespeare's times], that _they scorned to come to a tavern under twenty shillings_ salary _for two hours_, now wander [_i.e._, 1643] with their instruments under their cloaks--I mean, such as have any--into all houses of good fellowship, saluting every room where there is company with, 'Will you have any music, gentlemen?'"

Finally, in Gosson's "Short Apologie of the Schoole of Abuse," 1587, we find that "London is so full of unprofitable pipers and fiddlers, that a man can no sooner enter a tavern, than two or three cast of them hang at his heels, to give him a dance before he depart." These men sang ballads and catches as well. Also they played during dinner. Lyly says--"Thou need no more send for a fidler to a feast, than a beggar to a fair."

All this leads to the just conclusion, that if ever a country deserved to be called 'musical,' that country was England, in the 16th and 17th centuries. King and courtier, peasant and ploughman, each could 'take his part,' with each music was a part of his daily life; while so far from being above knowing the difference between a minim and a crotchet, a gentleman would have been ashamed not to know it.

In this respect, at any rate, the 'good old days' were indeed better than those that we now see. Even a _public-house song_ in Elizabeth's day was a canon in three parts, a thing which could only be managed 'first time through' nowadays by the very first rank of professional singers.

SHAKESPEARE PASSAGES

I

TECHNICAL TERMS AND INSTRUMENTS

We now proceed to consider some representative passages of Shakespeare which deal with music.

These may be taken roughly in six divisions--viz. (1) Technical Terms and Instruments, (2) Musical Education, (3) Songs and Singing, (4) Serenades and other domestic 'Music,' (5) Dances and Dancing, (6) Miscellaneous, including Shakespeare's account of the more spiritual side of music.

To begin on the first division. There are many most interesting passages which bristle with technical words; and these are liable to be understood by the reader in a merely general way, with the result that the point is wholly or partly missed. With a reasonable amount of explanation, and a general caution to the student not to pass over words or phrases that appear obscure, there is no reason why these passages should not be understood by all in a much fuller light.

The following lines, though not in a play, are so full of musical similes that it may be useful to take them at once.

_Lucrece_, line 1124.

"My _restless discord_ loves no _stops_ nor _rests_; A woful hostess brooks not merry guests. Relish your _nimble notes_ to pleasing ears; Distress like _dumps_, when _time is kept_ with tears."

(Then to the nightingale)--

"Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair: As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, So I at each sad _strain_ will _strain_ a tear, And with deep groans the _diapason_ bear; For _burden_ wise I'll _hum_ on Tarquin still, While thou on Tereus _descant'st_ better skill.

And while against a thorn thou _bear'st thy part_, To keep thy sharp woes waking....

These means, as _frets_ upon an _instrument_, Shall _tune_ our heart-_strings_ to true languishment."

Here Lucrece tells the birds to cease their joyous notes, and calls on the nightingale to sing the song of Tereus, while she herself bears the 'burden' with her groans.

The first line contains a quibble on 'rests' and 'restless' discord. 'Nimble notes' was used in the Shakespearian time as we should use the term 'brilliant music.' Lucrece was in no humour for trills and runs, but rather for Dumps, where she could keep slow time with her tears. The Dumpe (from Swedish Dialect, _dumpa_, to dance awkwardly) was a slow, mournful dance. [See Appendix.] There is another quibble in l. 1131, on _strain_. A 'strain' is the proper Elizabethan word for a formal phrase of a musical composition. For instance, in a Pavan, Morley (Introduction to Practical Music, 1597) says a 'straine' should consist of 8, 12, or 16 semibreves (we should say 'bars' instead of 'semibreves') 'as they list, yet fewer then eight I have not seene in any pauan.'

'Diapason' meant the interval of an octave. Here Lucrece says she will 'bear the diapason' with deep groans, _i.e._, 'hum' a 'burden' or drone an octave lower than the nightingale's 'descant.' The earliest 'burden' known is that in the ancient Round 'Sumer is icumen in,' of the 13th century. Here four voices sing the real music in canon to these words--

'Sumer is icumen in, Lhudè sing Cuccu, Groweth seed and bloweth mead and springth the wdè nu, Sing Cuccu, Awè bleteth after lomb, lhouth after calvè cu, Bulluc sterteth, Buckè verteth, murie sing cuccu, Cuccu, Cuccu, Wel singès thu cuccu, ne swik thu naver nu.'--

while all the time two other voices of lower pitch sing a monotonous refrain, 'Sing cuccu nu, Sing cuccu,' which they repeat _ad infinitum_ till the four who sing the Round are tired. This refrain is called Pes (or 'foot'), and this is the kind of thing which Lucrece means by 'burden.' The word 'hum' may be considered technical, see the Introduction, where '_buzzing_ bass' is referred to. The tune, 'Light o' love' [see Appendix], as we know from _Much Ado_ III, iv, 41, used to go _without_ a burden, and was considered a 'light' tune on that account, see _Two Gent._ I, ii, 80.

'Descant,' in l. 1134, wants explaining. To 'descant' meant to sing or play an _extempore_ second 'part' to a written melody. The point was that it should be extempore; if written down it ceased to be true descant, and was then called 'prick-song.' A rough example may be had in the extempore bass or alto which some people still sing in church instead of the melody. A more accurate example of descant would be this--let A sing a hymn tune, say the Old 100th, and let B accompany him _extempore_ with a separate melody within the bounds of harmony. B is 'descanting' on the melody that A sings.[5]

[Footnote 5: Appendix, Ex. 1.]

The art of descant in Elizabeth's time corresponded closely with what we call 'Strict Counterpoint' (_contra_, _punctus_, hence 'prick-song,' or 'written' descant).

The modern equivalent for 'bear a part' (l. 1135) is 'sing a part.' [See also Sonnet VIII.] Any person of decent education could 'bear a part' in those days, _i.e._, read at sight the treble, alto, tenor, or bass 'part' of the work presented by the host for the diversion of his guests. [See Introduction.]

L. 1140. 'Frets upon an instrument' can still be seen on the modern mandoline, guitar, and banjo. In Shakespeare days, the viol, lute, and cittern all had frets on the fingerboard, but they were then simply bits of string tied round at the right places for the fingers, and made fast with glue. Their use is referred to in the next line, to 'tune' the strings, _i.e._, to 'stop' the string accurately at each semitone.

There is a quaint illustration of ll. 1135-6, about the nightingale singing 'against a thorn' to keep her awake, in the words of a favourite old part song of King Henry VIII., 'By a bank as I lay,' where the poem has these lines on the nightingale--

'She syngeth in the thyke; and under her brest A pricke, to kepe hur fro sleepe.'

In close connection with this is the conversation between Julia and her maid Lucetta, in _Two Gent._ I, ii, 76-93, about the letter from Proteus.

_Jul._ Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.

_Luc._ That I might _sing_ it, madam, to a _tune_: _Give me a note_: your ladyship can _set_.

_Jul._ As little by such toys as may be possible: Best sing it to the tune of "Light o' love."

_Luc._ It is too heavy for so _light_ a tune.

_Jul._ _Heavy?_ belike, it hath some _burden_ then.

_Luc._ Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it.

_Jul._ And why not you?

_Luc._ I cannot _reach so high_.

_Jul._ Let's see your song.--How now, minion!

_Luc._ _Keep tune_ there still, so you will _sing it out_; And yet, methinks, I do not like this tune.

_Jul._ You do not?

_Luc._ No, madam, it is _too sharp_.

_Jul._ You, minion, are too saucy.

_Luc._ Nay, now you are _too flat_, And _mar the concord_ with _too harsh a descant_: There wanteth but a _mean_ to fill your song.

_Jul._ The _mean_ is _drown'd_ with your _unruly base_.

_Luc._ Indeed, I bid the _base_ for Proteus.

Perhaps it is sufficient to remark that many of the italicized words above are still in ordinary use by musicians--_e.g._, to 'give the note' in order to 'set' the pitch for singing; to 'keep in tune,' to 'sing out'; or one voice is 'drowned' by another, as the 'mean' (alto) by the 'bass.' Once more we have quibbles on musical terms--Lucetta says the 'tune,' _i.e._, Julia's testiness about Proteus' letter, is 'too sharp,' and that her chiding of herself is 'too flat,' meaning, that neither is in 'concord' with the spirit of the love-letter. Lucetta recommends the middle course, or 'mean' (alto voice, midway between treble and bass), 'to _fill_ the song,' _i.e._, to perfect the harmony. Finally, there is a punning reference (somewhat prophetic) by Lucetta, to the 'base' conduct of Proteus, in forsaking Julia for Silvia. Another play upon words should not be missed, viz., in ll. 78 and 79, where 'set' does double duty.

_Rom._ III, v, 25. Romeo and Juliet's parting at daybreak. The lark's song suggests musical metaphors in Juliet's speech.

_Romeo._ How is't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day.

_Jul._ It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away! It is the _lark_ that sings so _out of tune_, Straining _harsh discords_, and unpleasing _sharps_. Some say, the lark makes _sweet division_; _This_ doth not so, for she _divideth us_.

Juliet evidently agrees with Portia that 'nothing is good without respect.' The lark heralds the dawn, so Romeo must leave her, _ergo_, the lark sings 'out of tune,' his strains are full of 'discords' and 'sharps.' The last two lines contain an interesting allusion in the word 'division,' besides the pun on 'she _divideth us_.'

'Division' means roughly, a brilliant passage, of short notes, which is founded essentially on a much simpler passage of longer notes. A cant term for the old-fashioned variation (_e.g._, the variations of the 'Harmonious Blacksmith') was 'Note-splitting,' which at once explains itself, and the older word 'Division.' A very clear example of Divisions may be found in 'Rejoice greatly' in the Messiah. The long 'runs' on the second syllable of '_Rejoice_,' consisting of several groups of four semiquavers, are simply 'division' or 'note-splittings' of the first note of each group.

The word, however, has a further use, namely, to play 'divisions' on a viol-da-gamba. This was a favourite accomplishment of gentlemen in the 16th and 17th centuries. Sir Andrew Aguecheek numbered this amongst his attainments, (see _Twelfth Night_ I, iii, 24); and readers of John Inglesant will remember that 'Mr Inglesant, being pressed to oblige the company, played a descant upon a ground bass in the Italian manner.' Playing a descant on a ground bass meant playing extempore 'divisions' or variations, to the harmony of a 'ground bass' which (with its proper chords) was repeated again and again by the harpsichordist, until the viol player had exhausted his capacity to produce further 'breakings' of the harmony.

In 1665 there was published an instruction book in this art, called Chelys Minuritionum, _i.e._, the 'Tortoise-shell of Diminutions,' hence (Chelys meaning a lyre, made of a tortoise-shell) 'The Division Viol.' The book is by Christopher Sympson, a Royalist soldier, who was a well-known viol-da-gamba player. The work is in three parts, the third of which is devoted to the method of ordering division on a ground.

To give his own words--

'Diminution or division to a ground, is the breaking either of the bass or of any higher part that is applicable thereto. The manner of expressing it is thus:--

'A ground, subject, or bass, call it what you please, is prick'd down in two several papers; one for him who is to play the ground upon an organ, harpsichord, or what other instrument may be apt for that purpose; the other for him that plays upon the viol, who having the said ground before his eyes as his theme or subject, plays such variety of descant or division in concordance thereto as his skill and present invention do then suggest unto him.'

[See the Appendix for an example by Sympson.]

Further on, he distinguishes between 'breaking the notes of the _ground_' and 'descanting upon' the ground.

This phrase, 'breaking' notes, may be taken as a partial explanation of several passages on Shakespeare, where 'broken music' is referred to, although it is likely that a better account of this may be found in the natural imperfection of the Lute, which, being a _pizzicato_ instrument (_i.e._, the strings were plucked, not played with a bow), could not do more than indicate the harmony in 'broken' pieces, first a bass note, then perhaps two notes at once, higher up in the scale, the player relying on the hearer to piece the harmony together.

An entirely different explanation is that of Mr Chappell (in Aldis Wright's Clarendon Press Edition of Henry V.), viz., that when a 'consort' of viols was imperfect, _i.e._, if one of the players was absent, and an instrument of another kind, _e.g._, a flute, was substituted, the music was thus said to be 'broken.' _Cf._ Matt. Locke's 'Compositions for Broken and Whole Consorts,' 1672.

[Mr Aldis Wright has given me references to Bacon's Sylva Sylvarum, III., 278, and Essay of Masque and Triumph, which show that 'Broken Music' was understood to mean _any combination of instruments of different kinds_. In Sylva Sylvarum Bacon mentions several 'consorts of Instruments' which agree well together, _e.g._, 'the Irish Harp and Base-Viol agree well: the Recorder and Stringed Music agree well: Organs and the Voice agree well, etc. But the Virginals and the Lute ... agree not so well.' All these, and similar combinations, seem to have been described as 'Broken Music.']

In point, see _Hen. V._ V, ii, 248, where Henry proposes to Katherine.

_K. Hen._ Come, your answer in _broken music_; for thy _voice is music_, and thy _English broken_; therefore, queen of all, Katherine, _break_ thy mind to me in _broken_ English: wilt thou have me?

Also see _Troilus_ III, i, 52 and ff. (quoted further on).

An entirely separate use of 'break' is in the phrase 'broken time,' which has the simple and obvious meaning that the notes do not receive their due length and proportion. In this connection we will take the passage of King Richard's speech in prison at Pontefract--when he hears music without, performed by some friendly hands.

_Rich. II._ V, v, 41. King R. in prison.

_K. Rich._ _Music_ do I hear? Ha, ha! _keep time_.--How sour sweet music is, When _time is broke_, and no _proportion kept_! So is it in the music of men's lives. And here have I the _daintiness of ear_, To check _time broke_ in a _disorder'd string_; But, for the _concord_ of _my_ state and _time_, Had not an _ear_ to hear my true _time broke_.

* * * * *

_This music mads me_: let it sound no more: For though _it hath holp madmen_ to their wits, In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.

The simile is perfect, and the play upon 'time broke' admirable. In l. 45 Richard reflects on the sad contrast between his quick 'ear' for 'broken time' in music, and his slowness to hear the 'breaking' of his _own_ 'state and time.' The 'disorder'd string' is himself, who has been playing his part 'out of time' ('Disorder'd' simply means 'out of its place'--_i.e._, as we now say, 'a bar wrong'), and this has resulted in breaking the 'concord'--_i.e._, the harmony of the various parts which compose the state.

A few words are necessary about 'Proportion.' This term was used in Elizabethan times exactly as we now use 'Time.' The 'times' used in modern music can practically be reduced to two--viz., Duple (two beats to the bar) and Triple (three beats to the bar). But in Elizabeth's day the table of various Proportions was a terribly elaborate thing. Of course many of these 'Proportions' never really came into practical use--but there was plenty of mystery left even after all deductions.

Morley (Introduction, 1597) gives Five kinds of proportions 'in most common use'--viz., Dupla, Tripla, Quadrupla, Sesquialtera, and Sesquitertia. The first three correspond to what we still call Duple, Triple, and Quadruple Time--_i.e._, 2 in the bar, 3 in the bar, and 4 in the bar. ['Bars' were not in general use till the end of the 16th century, but the principle was the same. The bars themselves are merely a convenience.]

Sesquialtera is more complicated, and means 'three notes are sung to two of the same kinde'; and 'Sesquitertia is when four notes are sung to three of the same kinde.' 'But' (Morley adds), 'if a man would ingulphe himselfe to learn to sing, and set down all them which Franchinus Gaufurius [1496] hath set down in his booke De Proportionibus Musicis, he should find it a matter not only hard but almost impossible.'

Ornithoparcus, in his Micrologus (1535), gives us an idea of the way this subject of proportion was treated by more 'learned' writers. He says (1) that music considers only the proportion of inequality, (2) that this is two-fold--viz., the greater and the lesser inequality. (3) The greater inequality contains five proportions, namely, multiplex, superparticular, superpartiens, multiplex superparticular, and multiplex superpartiens.

This is more amusing than instructive, perhaps. The three last lines of this passage refer to the various stories of real or pretended cure of disease by the use of particular pieces of music. One of the best known of these diseases is 'Tarantism,' or the frenzy produced by the bite of the Tarantula, in Italy.

Kircher, a learned Jesuit (1601-1680), gives an account, in his "Musurgia," of the cure of this madness by certain airs, by which the patient is stimulated to dance violently. The perspiration thus produced was said to effect a cure. In his "Phonurgia nova" (1673) Kircher actually gives the notes of the tune by which one case was cured.

In this connection, Kircher mentions King Saul's madness, which was relieved by David's harp playing. This is certainly to the point, and may well have been in Shakespeare's mind. [See George Herbert's poem, 'Doomsday,' verse 2.]

Our modern Tarantellas derive their name and characteristic speed from the old Tarantula.

_Lear_ I, ii, 137. Edmund pretends not to see Edgar's entrance.