At the Musical Festival of 1876 Madame Patey sang a song of mine, “The Felling of the Trees,” and I repeated my little experience as a conductor; but in 1885, when my cantata “Yule Tide” was included in the festival scheme, Mr. W.C.  Stockley kindly undertook the task of directing the work.  I was determined it should not be a personally conducted cantata; consequently, I was spared what would have severely taxed my capacity and nerve.

With regard to my work it will not become me to say much.  I frankly own that it did not set the Thames ablaze; it passed muster, and perhaps that is as much as I could expect at a Birmingham Musical Festival.  It was somewhat unfortunate that in 1885 there were too many new works.  No less than seven original compositions were included in the scheme, and they killed each other.  The musical public will not swallow and cannot digest too much new music, consequently they would not make a good, fair musical meal off any of the new dishes so liberally provided, with the result that most of them went into the larder after just; being tasted and no more.  Some of them—­even mine—­are at times brought out, smelt, turned over, and looked at, but as I have hinted, none, not even those by Gounod, Dvorak, and Cowen, have become standing dishes in constant request at musical feasts.

Speaking generally, many splendid compositions seem to have missed fire through sheer bad luck.  To go no further than Sir Arthur Sullivan, some of his finest and most important works have had an ill-starred existence, and even several of his best songs, though introduced to the public under the most favourable auspices, have not “taken on.”  Sullivan’s splendid ditty “Love laid his sleepless head,” though sung by Mr. Edward Lloyd all over the country, did not make a hit, whilst the more trivial ballad “Sweet-hearts” became a boom and a property.  At least, I remember being told that after Sullivan had been receiving good royalties from this song for years, the publishers offered him L1,000 for his rights.

I am afraid I have been guilty of a digression, but I will recall my wandering steps.  I have mentioned the Birmingham Festival of 1885, which marked a new order—­I might almost say a new epoch—­in the history of the Birmingham Musical Festivals.  For the first time for very many years Costa was no longer seen at the conductor’s desk, and his place was taken by Richter.  Costa conducted the Birmingham triennial performances for about half a century, and although it was sad to miss his face in 1885, he had done his work.

In 1882—­the last Festival in which he took part—­it was painful to witness his efforts to conduct the performances.  He was partly paralysed, and his baton, I believe, had to be fastened to his hand because he could not grasp it.  Further, he was becoming deaf, and the result was that the loud brass instruments were allowed to become too blatant and obtrusive.  Costa was a good man in his day, and he did good work.  He was very autocratic, even despotic, but he introduced two good things into the orchestra—­order and punctuality.  With all his ability, tact, and nerve, it must, however, be admitted that his style of conducting was rough and ready compared with the art, care, and skill that mark musical conductorship of the present day.