On 16 February 1882 Stanford received an official letter from the Prince of Wales inviting him to a meeting at St James's Palace on 28 February in order to discuss the establishment of a new college of music to replace the National Training School. The very issue of a new Royal College of Music had been the subject of debate for some time, for which there were delicate political matters to resolve. The Royal Academy of Music had once been the target of Henry Cole's aspirations for a new, enlarged national conservatory of music; but after the plan was rejected by Sterndale Bennett, who wanted the RAM to remain independent, Cole decided to push ahead with his own plans for a National Training School of Music with royal support.1 The project of the NTSM, opened in 1876 under the direction of Arthur Sullivan, was brought to a close under the leadership of John Stainer in 1882. Though moderately successful in its aims, the NTSM had never been more than a preliminary foundation for a more socially progressive institution initially conceived by the Prince Consort after the Great Exhibition in 1851.

Momentum for the new college began to gather during 1881, and in 1882 discussion of its constitution, accommodation and concomitant finance, with George Grove at the helm, was ubiquitous in the musical press. Stanford, anxious to be included in the new venture – he had been too young and inexperienced for the NTSM – accepted the Prince of Wales's invitation to attend the first meeting at St James's Palace in February 1882 with alacrity. Privately he expressed his views on the matter with Hudson, and there was even the suggestion that, if London did not want the new conservatoire, then it might be situated in Cambridge:

Ill-health cut short Stanford's final stay in Berlin. ‘I am happily nearly all right again now,’ he wrote to Joachim, ‘and looking forward with tremendous excitement to the 8th.’ The Lent Term of 1877 was, as usual, a busy one. Stanford returned to take up his more permanent duties with the chapel choir at Trinity, though it was not until Lady Day (25 March) that he was officially confirmed in his position as Chapel Organist. Conditions for the post included a stipend of £250 together with rooms and Commons, though it was still for the Choir Committee to draw up a new set of conditions. Though these proved to have some advantages, notably sanction to be continuously absent from college during all weeks in the year when there was no choral service, they were also a source of irritation, particularly since the Precentor still retained the responsibility for the selection of music.

The ‘Wednesday Pops’ proceeded with increased vigour. Of the six scheduled concerts in February and March, Stanford appeared in the first four as pianist with members of the ‘Stanford Quartet’, as a duettist with Fuller Maitland in Schumann's Bilder aus Osten Op. 66 (21 February) and in his own ‘Andante and Scherzo from a Serenade’ (7 March) which were most probably two movements of his later Serenade Op. 18 for orchestra. February also saw the completion of Three Ditties of the Olden Time which consisted of two settings of Sir John Suckling's well-known lyrics (‘Out upon it’ and ‘Why so pale and wan’) and one by Herrick (‘To carnations’); they were published by Stanley Lucas.

The high point of the term for CUMS was of course the choral and orchestral concert of 8 March given at the Guildhall in aid of Addenbrooke's Hospital. After a morning rehearsal of the fifty-piece, London-based orchestra (an expenditure for the Society of £217/-/10d) and chorus of 150, Joachim received his degree in the afternoon. The concert in the evening proved to be a major social occasion attracting the likes of Lord Leighton, Robert Browning, George Lewes, Edward Dannreuther, August Manns, Manuel Garcia, Ebenezer Prout and the usual fraternity of critics: Bennett, Grüneisen, Hueffer and Davison. A concert in Manchester prevented Hallé from attending, and the up-and-coming Parry was in Cannes, detained by the necessity of his wife's convalescence.

Even before tendering his resignation to Trinity College, Stanford had already been thinking about moving from Harvey Road. Commitments to the Bach Choir, the RCM, the Opera Class and proximity to the expanding musical life of Britain's capital made the acquisition of a house in London all the more imperative. A house at 55 Holland Street in Kensington (close to High Street, Kensington) was found which suited his needs perfectly. It had more room than his Cambridge dwelling, it was located in a desirable if expensive area and it was within easy reach of the College and the city centre. It was not possible, however, to move into Holland Street until February, so he and his family spent most of January at St Leonard’s, while he found temporary lodgings with Morton Lathom, a Bach Choir colleague, in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. Rehearsals for Becket were also gathering momentum and Stanford was keen to coach the singers and chorus, as he explained to Bram Stoker:

Stanford was, however, forced to forego the premiere of Becket at the Lyceum Theatre on 6 February 1893 owing to an obligation he had made to review the first performance of Verdi's Falstaff for The Daily Graphic and the Fortnightly Review. The opera was to be premiered on 9 February 1893 at La Scala, Milan, and the Stanfords were to be guests of the librettist, Arrigo Boïto, whom they had befriended during a stay with Piatti at Cadenabbia in 1889.

On 7 October 1918, a month before Armistice, the death of Parry was announced. For Stanford the news came as a terrible shock. Though they had been on better terms since their row in early 1917, both men undoubtedly still felt bruised by their earlier differences. Parry's death unfortunately prevented Stanford from delivering his masterly Magnificat in B flat Op. 164 for a cappella double choir (finished in September 1918) to his old friend, which only added to the composer's state of grief. This fine, and often-performed work (though a challenge to the best of choirs), in many ways paid tribute to Parry's stature as a choral composer. The double-choir scoring acknowledges the close link between Blest Pair of Sirens and the two men, and, at the same time, its clear reference to Bach's effusive eight-part ‘Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied’ (which Stanford conducted numerous times) and his own Magnificat (to which Parry had also expressed his open reverence in his choral Magnificat of 1897) honoured Parry's devotion to Bach both in his music and his study of the composer of 1909. Stanford's remarkable setting is, like much of his service music and anthems, symphonic in scope, but here the treatment of the text is much more expansive and not confined by the usual constraints of the Anglican liturgy. One is immediately aware of this in the generous and rhythmically dynamic tripartite opening section and in the four contrasting movements that follow in E flat (‘Qui a fecit mihi magna’), C minor (‘Fecit potentiam’), and D flat (‘Esurientes implevit buonis’) before B flat is restored with the final verse of text (‘Suscepit Israel’) in a splendid gathering of momentum from an initial pastoral mood to a buoyant, climactic ‘alla breve’. And to reinforce this return to the tonic, Stanford recalls the opening material in a more truncated form, using the text of the doxology. The concluding ‘Amen’, furthermore, is one of the composer's most thrilling in its sudden epigrammatic divergence to G flat directly before the spacious final cadence.

With the help of his friends, such as M. R. James, Parratt and Arthur Balfour, Stanford was able to press home his desire to see Parry buried in St Paul's Cathedral and to hear his own anthem, ‘I heard a voice from heaven’, sung at the memorial service on 16 October.

At the end of each entry an abbreviated reference to the location of the autograph manuscript (Aut.) has been included (see list of abbreviations). ‘Unperformed’ and ‘unpublished’ both refer to the composer's lifetime.

Choral Works

Published only in vocal score except where ‘full score’ is indicated. Unless otherwise indicated, a normal orchestra is used. Opus numbers, dedications, dates of completion (provided by the composer),and dates of first performances are given together with any revisions. Unless otherwise stated, first performances were conducted by the composer.

Christmas 1895 was spent in the Palast Hotel in Berlin where Stanford was later joined by Borwick and Plunket Greene. The concert at the Singakademie on 30 December, organised in collaboration with Wolff, was intended to be a major advertisement for British music in the German capital and Stanford, who was to conduct the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, hoped very much that, with assistance from the British Embassy, the Kaiser and other governmental dignitaries would attend. The audience, which included many eminent German musicians, was, according to the reviews, enthusiastic. Early in the new year he had the chance to meet Brahms for what proved to be the last time. The two men had been in contact in 1895 when Stanford had sent Brahms a copy of his Irish Songs and Ballads to Vienna in exchange for some portrait photographs Brahms had promised him:

In Berlin Stanford enjoyed the company of Joachim and other prominent musicians such as Eugene d’Albert who played both of Brahms's piano concertos under Brahms's direction (10 January) – it was the last time he appeared before the public as a conductor. Afterwards Joachim gave a dinner party in his honour to which Stanford, Hausmann and Herzogenberg were invited; it was a convivial affair which gave rise to the famous vignette regarding Brahms's personal loathing of eulogy:

‘We had a glorious time in Berlin and that last supper was a delightful end,’ he wrote to Joachim after he had arrived back in London.

The outbreak of war on 4 August 1914 and the publication of Stanford's autobiography, Pages from an Unwritten Diary, marked an important watershed in his life. The autobiography in many ways tacitly acknowledged that his career and position as one of Britain's foremost composers now no longer existed. Nevertheless, one of the book's many purposes was to record for posterity the author's role in the ‘English Musical Renaissance’ at a time when, Stanford sensed, Britain's new musical confidence in the music of Elgar, Delius, Grainger and Vaughan Williams appeared to turn its back on its late nineteenth-century heritage, a heritage Stanford was at pains to point out, enjoyed the pedigree of his communion with the continental giants. Pages from an Unwritten Diary also summarised most of Stanford's perennial campaigns and protests – his case for English church music, a national opera, a proper ethic for music publishing and the need for a proper musical infrastructure through state subvention – but the book also devoted many pages to his Irish background, the aim of which was not only to indulge in nostalgia, but to lay emphasis on a ‘golden age’ of Anglo-Irishmen who had enriched the British Empire in all walks of professional life. Stanford wanted to be part of this ‘brilliant’ generation whose power and influence he knew was about to disappear.

The action of the German Army and the Kaiser was a source of disbelief and exasperation to Stanford. To him, Germany had become artistically decadent, a predicament he blamed on unification in 1870 and the centralising of power in Berlin:

Debate about reform of the Professorship of Music had taken place ten years earlier, in 1877, when a report of the Board of Musical Studies ‘considered it would be extremely beneficial if the Professor should reside for a period of (or periods equivalent to) not less than one term in each academic year, and thus take a more continuous and systematic part in the musical teaching of the University.’ It was thus recognised that an increase in the annual stipend would be necessary, ‘the present stipend being wholly insufficient to compensate a first rate musician, not already located in Cambridge, for the loss of professional income which such residence would involve.’ Yet, within a fortnight of Macfarren's death, recommendations were made to Senate that the fundamental conditions of the Professorship in Music would remain unchanged, even though it was evident from the Cambridge Reporter that the present position was unsatisfactory. Senate was advised, however, that it was an unfavourable time to place increased financial demands on the University chest, and so the post was advertised with the usual exemption from residence and no increase in the present stipend. Four candidates were short listed: Dr George Garrett (organist of St John's College), Edwin. M. Lott (organist of St Sepulchre's Church), Ebenezer Prout (Guildhall School of Music) and Stanford. From the panel of nine electors, who were all present, all votes were given for Stanford who was duly elected on 7 December 1887. The declaration of office and admission to the post were effected in the presence of the Vice-Chancellor and Registrar the following day. As Professor of Music, Stanford wished to be admitted as soon as possible to the degree of Doctor of Music. At Senate it was agreed as a matter of formality that the usual examinations and exercises for musical degrees be waived, but it was nevertheless proposed that Stanford should be admitted first to the Bachelor of Music and then to the degree of ‘Doctor Designate’. This course of action was, however, withdrawn at Stanford's request, and instead he was admitted as Doctor of Music honoris causa on 8 November 1888.

The beginning of January 1888 was marred by the sad news of the death of Marian Jenkinson, Jennie Stanford's youngest sister (the fifth daughter of Champion Wetton). In 1887 she had married Francis Jenkinson but the union only lasted a mere four months.

My first contact with the music of Stanford was as a nine-year-old boy singing ‘Windy Nights’ (from A Child's Garland of Songs Op. 30) at the Stratford Festival; it was a song I particularly enjoyed, and to hear it sung many years later by Stephen Varcoe (surely one of this country's finest executants of English song) brought back many happy and vivid memories. Further acquaintance with Stanford's music included the immutable Evening Service in B flat, ‘Trottin’ to the fair’, the Three Latin Motets, Op. 38 and ‘The Blue Bird’, all of which, in their different apparels, struck me as strikingly original in design and expression. Thanks principally to the work of a highly imaginative and energetic music master, John Rippin, my knowledge of Stanford's church music broadened at grammar school. It was he who initially opened my eyes to Stanford's impeccable craftsmanship and originality and made me aware of the ‘other’ Stanford, a much-neglected composer of works such as the ‘Irish’ Symphony, the Songs of the Sea, the Songs of the Fleet, the funeral march from Becket, the Fourth Irish Rhapsody and the Second Piano Concerto. The quality, diversity and flawless professionalism of these rarely performed pieces took me aback and their distinctiveness seemed hard to reconcile with much of the casual criticism that dismissed Stanford as little more than a minor eclectic. During the late 1970s, as an undergraduate at Trinity College, Cambridge (where, to my delight, Stanford had been organist for nineteen years), my interest developed into a passion. With the encouragement of Philip Radcliffe, Richard Marlow and Peter Le Huray, who were largely responsible for encouraging me to pursue serious research into both Parry and Stanford, I began gradually to realise how little in the way of critical writings existed on both composers. It was to Parry that I devoted my initial attention, but while my work focused on him, it seemed inevitable that I would also feel the compulsion to make a study of Stanford at a later date. Significantly, this compulsion was founded not on the common textbook ‘partnership’ – ‘Parry ‘n Stanford’, the English Musical Renaissance's answer to Marks and Spencer – but on a desire to promote the essential and marked differences between the two men and their music, differences defined by aspiration, temperament and personal circumstances.

During the first half of the nineteenth century, Dublin's musical life had experienced a decline, though as Brian Boydell has demonstrated, this was not due initially to the Act of Union. In fact it was only in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars and agricultural depression in the 1820s that the dissolution of Dublin as a social centre began to occur as many of the aristocracy and landed gentry turned their attention towards London. The inevitable effect of this shift in focus was, however, to signal a corresponding decline in public interest and patronage, the former of which only beginning to re-awaken as the new ‘professional aristocracy’ used their own increasing prosperity to encourage the arts. That over twenty new music societies came into being between 1840 and the end of the 1860s is demonstrative of this new momentum, and judging from the notices in the mid-century issues of Freeman's Journal and Saunders News Letter, music-making in Dublin certainly equalled that of its pre-Union days and possibly even exceeded it . Among the more significant of these societies were the Dublin Mechanics’ Choral Society (1850), the Royal Choral Institute (1851), the Dublin Mercantile Choral Union (1854) and the Amateur Musical Society (founded by George Lee in 1852). Mindful of the private nature of other musical societies, these bodies attempted to reach out to the working classes in order to introduce them to the great choral works of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In this venture they were largely successful. John William Glover, organist of St Mary's Pro-Cathedral and founder of the Royal Choral Institute gave performances of Handel's Samson, Messiah¸ Alexander's Feast and Jephtha, Haydn's Creation, Mendelssohn's Elijah and, more entrepreneurially, Schumann's Paradise and the Peri (its first hearing in Ireland in 1854). It was the maturer organisations, however, such as the Philharmonic Society (the successor to the Anacreontic Society) and the Antient Concert Society, founded in 1826 and 1834 respectively, that played a major role in the city's musical life. The Antient Concert Society endeavoured to produce an average of five choral concerts during the season, and under Robinson's direction became a focal point of Dublin's musical life. As a distinguishing feature, the Philharmonic concerts tended to place emphasis on orchestral works and were modestly successful in attracting virtuosi such as Thalberg, Hallé, Joachim and Rubinstein to play concertos for them. The quality of performances was, however, distinctly variable; the orchestra was entirely amateur in constitution and the rough quality of sound was not enhanced by its less than competent conductor Henry Bussell, a parochial organist ‘who was a kindly Englishman of exceptional stodginess, scarcely knew one end of the stick from the other, and was certainly incapable of reading a score to any advantage either to himself or to his myrmidons’. Nevertheless, Bussell did manage to undertake the first performance in Ireland of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in 1856 which elicited approbation from the press. The Antient Concerts and those for the Philharmonic were essentially the preserve of the wealthier Protestant classes. Confined to members and their guests, their concerts were formal occasions requiring evening dress and thereby carried an air of social caché.

At the end of 1900 troops from the Boer War returned home to a hero's welcome as they marched through the dense crowds of London. Lord Salisbury's government had been re-elected with another huge majority, winning on the back of the South African victory, and accusing the Liberal opposition (who opposed the war) of lacking patriotism. Euphoria after the success in South Africa largely concealed the high casualties (over 11,000 men), the ensuing guerrilla war still being prosecuted by pockets of Boers in the Veldt, and the guilty horrors of the concentration camps. Britain, as part of an allied force, had helped to suppress the Boxer Rebellion in China and signed a pact with the Imperial German Government to protect the trading ports of China. Yet, in spite of this show of solidarity by Britain and Germany, there was an inexorable underlying rivalry between the two countries which was reflected in the burgeoning arms race. In Paris the fifth congress of the Socialist International took place to oppose the threat of militarism and war, but its vocal protests did little to influence the growing international instability of the European continent. In Britain the Labour Party was born as the trade unions and three socialist societies gave their assent to a proposal from the Scottish miner James Keir Hardie for a party with a broad church of views to act in Parliament. It was a time of great progress in science with Planck's ‘Quantum Theory’, Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, Evans's archaeological revelations at Knossos on Crete and the flying of Count Zeppelin's airship, while many citizens of Europe travelled to Paris to enjoy the spectacle of the World Exhibition.

On 22 January 1901 the death of Queen Victoria was announced. Coming at the dawn of the new century, her passing marked the end of an era. For Stanford, whose life had been completely shaped by the reign of Britain's longest reigning monarch, the end of her reign also spelt a change in artistic fortune and reception. With the advent of the Enigma Variations, the Sea Pictures, The Dream of Gerontius at Birmingham (albeit in a disastrous performance), the new overture Cockaigne and the Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1, not only had the public taken Elgar to their hearts, but conductors such as Richter and Henry Wood were full of unbridled enthusiasm for the new man.

A town mouse I was born and bred, and the town which sheltered me was one likely to leave its mark upon its youngest citizens, and to lay up for them vivid and stirring memories. Dublin, as I woke to it, was a city of glaring contrasts. Grandeur and squalor lived next door to each other, squalor sometimes under the roof of grandeur. Society, ‘The Quality’ as the Irishman calls it, had deserted its centre and made its home in the outskirts: houses of perfect architectural proportions had become tenements; Adam's ceilings and Angelica Kauffman's designs looked down upon squalling families in rags and tatters. The hall where Handel conducted the first performance of the ‘Messiah’ had become a low theatre. The two old cathedrals stood in a region compared to which the Seven Dials was a Paradise. But the well-to-do classes, who had turned their faces outwards, had built up a town which, if it had its usual quota of dull featureless streets, was not wanting in a good sprinkling of private houses of artistic merit, and in open spaces and squares of a beauty quite unique in this country.

Stanford's recollections of his home-town, written and published over sixty years after his birth, depict a city of social deprivation, class disparity and former Georgian affluence. In the first fifty years of the nineteenth century, Dublin had undergone considerable change in terms of its social and political geography. With the Act of Union in 1801, the sudden loss of 271 peers and 300 members of the Irish house of commons made itself felt both socially and economically as the city lost its status as parliamentary capital of Ireland. Many wealthy Protestant families of the nobility and gentry migrated for London; those that stayed invariably left their elegant eighteenth-century homes in the city and moved to the southern suburbs such as Rathmines and Pembroke. The Catholic middle classes, who also supported the notion of the Union, believed they might gain emancipation. As a result, areas in the centre of Dublin such as Summerhill and Dominick Street ‘passed from quality to vacancy and then on to tenement’. Large houses, requiring the wealth of an aristocrat to maintain them, lay outside the limited resources of Dublin's middle classes and so fell into decay. Others survived owing largely to their being bought up by religious orders or other institutions.