Charles Garland Verrinder and the West London SynagogueFootnote ⁵

To fully appreciate the compositional origins of Hear my cry O God, it is first worth investigating Verrinder's relatively unusual career trajectory. While not an instantly recognizable name, Charles Verrinder (1834–1904) was a prominent organist and composer of his day, frequently giving recitals as a soloist and accompanist, and performing in major concert venues in London, such as the Royal Albert Hall and St James's Hall.Footnote ⁶ Having been apprenticed to Royal Organist George Elvey, he held numerous positions as a church organist in some of the more auspicious areas of London, including St Michael's, Chester Square, and Christ Church, Lancaster Gate. But he was also the first organist at the West London Synagogue of British Jews, a post he held for 45 years, until his death in June 1904. Arguably, it was this post which made him best known in wider musical circles at the time, with references to Verrinder in the press alluding to his ‘strange combination of duties’ as both a synagogue and church organist.Footnote ⁷

The West London Synagogue, founded in 1842, was the first example of a so-called ‘Reformed’ synagogue in Britain, established on largely cultural rather than religious principles and with an emphasis on improving declining decorum in the synagogue. This was, in part, an attempt to prove that the Anglo-Jewish community were assimilated within wider religious and secular society. The idea of Jewish reform was not new; in the years following the Enlightenment, European Jews felt pressure to conform to societal expectations as cultural barriers were forcibly brought down through discussions of identity. As ‘Jewishness’ became only one element of Jewish identity, Jewish communities started ‘judging themselves by non-Jewish standards’, and thus grew increasingly aware of external opinions and criticisms of Judaism and Jews.Footnote ⁸ As a result, some synagogue attendees began to question their congregation's liturgical practices, which they now identified as anathema to the conservative, structured and tasteful practices found in the Church. For many centuries, services had been led by a rabbi with the assistance of a male chazzan or cantor, whose role was to lead congregational worship through chant-like melodies dictated by nusach, semi-improvised modal passages which changed in style according to the occasion. In more recent generations, the chazzan had been accompanied by one or two other male singers, who provided simple harmonies above and below the main chant. However, these entirely Hebrew services now seemed too long and inaccessible to highly-anglicized congregants whose knowledge of the language was limited. Furthermore, in contrast with congregational hymns and rich choral harmonies found in the Anglican church, the tradition of the chazzan and his assistants – whose emotive chanting of the liturgy had once been admired – appeared to some self-indulgent and dated, with displays of vocal ability presiding over textual clarity. Indeed, it led to a rather chaotic scene, with those who could still follow the Hebrew chanting the service at their own pace, with little heed for the chazzan or rabbi. Across Europe, dissatisfied Jewish congregants were looking to cultural and social norms for religious inspiration, hoping to improve their reputation by appearing less ‘other’ to those outside the faith.Footnote ⁹

Against this desire for a modernization of worship practice was the weight of both ancient and more recent religious history, the traditions of which were frequently placed in opposition to what were deemed more radical suggestions for reform. The oldest synagogues in Britain had seventeenth-century foundations, with similarly historic practices originating from either the Spanish and Portuguese (Sephardi) or the central and eastern European (Ashkenazi) tradition according to the native home of their earliest congregants, who had migrated to Britain following Oliver Cromwell's readmission of Jews into the country. This migration was a result of severe persecution across the rest of Europe, which was slow to dissipate particularly in Germany and Austria. Suggestions among Jewish communities for how to improve their national and social status included fluency in the native language (rather than Hebrew or Yiddish) and its use in everyday life. Some individuals – including the official founder of German-Jewish reform, Israel Jacobson – extended this to include the vernacular in Jewish worship. In 1810 in Westphalia, Jacobson created the first temple incorporating services entirely in German, with German hymns accompanied by organ taking the place of unaccompanied Hebrew chant. This – and a marginally less extreme 1817 temple in Hamburg founded on Jacobson's ideals – received intense criticism from Jewish communities across Europe for abandoning the heart of Jewish worship through the dominance of the vernacular and the use of instrumental music. However, the premise of sections of text in the native language, as well as the use of choral music to bring structure to otherwise chaotic worship, was adopted by synagogues across Germany and Austria in the 1820s, 30s and 40s as their congregants naturally integrated with wider society and became more liberal in their Jewish ideology. The two most famous nineteenth-century composers of synagogue music, Salomon Sulzer (1804–1890) in Vienna and Louis Lewandowski (1821–1894) in Berlin, found ways of composing and arranging choral repertoire which, in time, satisfied the need both for a strong Jewish identity and for a desire to be culturally aligned with Austrian and German society. Each advocated the adoption of classical harmony to underpin ancient Jewish melodies, which became equally popular in orthodox and progressive synagogues. Additionally, they were both supporters of organ accompaniment in the synagogue, claiming not only that the organ was essential for keeping control of congregational singing in large synagogue spaces, but also for minimizing cantorial extemporizing and loss of liturgical focus.Footnote ¹⁰ Furthermore, Sulzer promoted the use of the organ as a solo instrument, in order to ‘[enhance] the devotional atmosphere’ without damaging ‘the religious-national spirit of Israel’.Footnote ¹¹

The most successful move towards Jewish reform in Europe, then, stemmed largely from cultural and social preferences without encroaching too heavily on religious integrity. While there is little evidence to demonstrate direct influence from central Europe to Britain, the creation of a ‘Reformed’ synagogue in London was also a result of a need for aesthetic rather than religious change. In fact, the ‘West London Synagogue’, as its name suggests, was founded on geographical principles as well as cultural ones, located to be in easy reach of the large number of affluent families who had moved away from the poorer East End to more culturally and socially developed areas of London. The Synagogue's earliest members were previously congregants of the Sephardi community at Bevis Marks, as well as a handful of individuals of Ashkenazi descent. While many of the practices adopted by the congregation therefore followed Sephardi custom (such as the use of melodies with Spanish and Portuguese origin, and of Sephardi pronunciation of Hebrew text), the founders gave the Synagogue the full title ‘The West London Synagogue of British Jews’ to demonstrate that their Britishness, in which they were equal, prevailed over their differing denominational heritages. To that end, their practice was dictated by modern, British principles; by introducing structured forms of worship through a shortened liturgy and texts in the vernacular (including the sermon), the West London Synagogue strove to make services more accessible to an integrated and almost completely emancipated community of British Jews.Footnote ¹² In contrast with Sulzer and Lewandowski's modernization of the role of the chazzan through prescribed, often accompanied musical passages, the West London Synagogue decided to replace this role wholeheartedly with a choir, which performed set pieces of liturgy while the minister recited the remainder of the service.

The use of the organ during regular Sabbath services was another, later reform brought into the West London Synagogue to introduce musical coherence, while instilling a sense of belonging to a culturally refined, anglicized community. As across continental Europe, the use of instrumental music in Jewish worship was religiously anathema to more orthodox British congregations, and was vehemently criticized by the majority of the Anglo-Jewish population. The objections largely stemmed from the rabbinical laws outlined in the Talmud, which warned against the use of instruments on the Sabbath in case they required tuning or fixing – actions which would involve breaking the fundamental law of resting on the Sabbath. Other restrictions were grounded in the principle that, following the destruction of the second Temple in 70 ce, the Jewish people have been in mourning. To that end, instrumental music – once heard in the Temple – should not be used in the synagogue.Footnote ¹³ Another prime concern was for the organ's symbolism as a seemingly ‘Christian’ instrument, due to its widespread use in the Anglican church; for many, this was a step too far in the quest to modernize synagogue music to equal other sacred music genres in quality and style.

On this basis, Verrinder's employment at the West London Synagogue did not begin under easy circumstances, particularly given his status as a non-Jewish outsider (the subject of which was speculated upon in several articles in the Jewish press at the time).Footnote ¹⁴ Despite his Anglican training, Verrinder dedicated a significant part of both his professional and personal life to developing the music of the West London Synagogue, perhaps under the impression that both he and the Synagogue had something to prove to the wider Jewish and non-Jewish communities.Footnote ¹⁵ Beating ‘between 50 and 60’ other candidates to the role, Verrinder was one of a significant majority of Christian applicants, in comparison with only ‘one or two applications received from Jews’.Footnote ¹⁶ Initially taking on the role of organist, within a few years he was also given responsibility for training the choir, the quality of which he refused to compromise. Between 1862 and 1865 he fought with the wardens of the Synagogue for the right to incorporate female voices, thus avoiding the frequent need to train new boy choristers to replace those who could no longer sing soprano or alto (or whose lack of attendance and concentration jeopardized Verrinder's high choral standards).Footnote ¹⁷ This was not only a change to Synagogue custom, but also went against religious protocols regarding the role of women and use of the female voice (or, more specifically, the hearing of the female voice by men) in Orthodox Jewish worship. Even for the ‘Reformed’ Synagogue, such a visible difference to the make-up of those leading liturgical worship created difficulties regarding tradition and female modesty. Furthermore, a male-only choir, in which all the men and boy choristers were decked out in long robes, drew striking parallels between the West London Synagogue's new musical practice and similar movements towards formal choral services in the Anglican church. Those involved with the Oxford – or Tractarian – movement had already made advances toward more structured musical worship through the use of surplice-wearing male-voice choirs to sing chant responses and anthems, and by the mid-century this custom was becoming common practice.Footnote ¹⁸ While a move towards incorporating female voices in the Synagogue would have been a new phenomenon within Jewish circles, it might have raised concerns that it reflected the ‘old’ or ‘parochial’ style of musical worship found in Anglican parishes where financial need or poor attendance meant that the Tractarian practice was unfeasible.Footnote ¹⁹ For a wealthy, assimilated congregation like the West London Synagogue, emulating anything other than the latest practice would have made little sense in light of their quest for cultural acceptance by London's social elite. In due course, however, it seems the Synagogue conceded to Verrinder's request, and a number of professional and semi-professional female singers were recruited.

The Anglo-Jewish Choral Tradition and its Place in Wider Musical Practice

Despite appearances, the West London Synagogue claimed not to take inspiration from Anglican practice. Indeed, Verrinder's writing for the organ following its introduction in September 1859 more closely mirrored Lewandowski's than Sulzer's, predominantly doubling the choral arrangements in a display of musical support for the choir, rather than drawing attention to it as a solo instrument or as a means of enhancing devotion in itself.Footnote ²⁰ Furthermore, during the service at which the organ was first used, the Synagogue's minister, David Woolf Marks, asserted that such updates to musical worship demonstrated the relevance of Anglo-Jewry in Victorian Britain by adhering to the contemporary British soundscape. Marks embedded his argument in ancient Jewish history, claiming that

He also made reference to psalm texts to highlight a particular irony of the contemporary use of music in other synagogues: ‘It is difficult … to reconcile the conflicting views of men, who proclaim on every Sabbath day that “it is a good thing to sing praises unto God accompanied by the strains of instrumental music”, and who yet maintain it to be sinful to carry that object into effect’.Footnote ²²

The West London Synagogue's musical agenda was therefore firmly based in theological and biblical reasoning, although this perhaps went hand in hand with the unspoken desire to meet wider British cultural expectations. To that end, the Synagogue's reforms, while initially unpopular among more Orthodox communities, slowly helped to inspire a nationwide development in synagogue musical practice, during which a new choral tradition was established. This move towards a choral service complemented other outward displays of religious practice and developments in architectural style within the United Synagogue – an umbrella branch of Orthodoxy which represented the majority of Britain's synagogues from the 1870s onwards. Sharman Kadish writes of the United Synagogue of the 1870s and 1880s that

Architecturally speaking, the West London Synagogue by 1870 also fell into the category of ‘cathedral synagogue’, having moved to its new premises on Upper Berkeley Street during that year. Unlike its Orthodox counterparts, however, the Synagogue's internal layout was distinguishable by the impressive pipe organ installed at the very front of the sanctuary, designed and built to Verrinder's exacting standards by Gray and Davison, who had also installed the more modest instrument in the Synagogue's previous building on Margaret Street. Despite the capacity of the new building (seating over a thousand congregants), Kadish's remarks reinforce the point that the West London Synagogue represented only a small portion of the Anglo-Jewish community, particularly in London. She also suggests the possibility that the adoption of certain anglicized features – such as choral music – by the Orthodox community was, in part, to ensure that the Reform movement was held up in its development by appealing to congregants who might be tempted away by the ‘Englishness’ of the West London Synagogue. V.D. Lipman suggests that, of the 35,000–40,000 Jews living in Britain in the mid-nineteenth century, about 18,000–20,000 were living in London. According to Todd Endelman, however, only 10 per cent of this number showed an interest in Reform, which as a movement did not take off fully until after the Second World War.Footnote ²⁴ What Endelman's figure does not account for, however, is the fact that the West London Synagogue's membership (and the price of such membership in order to ‘maintain exclusivity’) represented an Anglo-Jewish elite whose wealth allowed them to live in that part of the capital.Footnote ²⁵ While relatively small in number, the congregation of the West London Synagogue therefore had substantial financial, cultural, and religious influence. As Kadish implies, neighbouring synagogues – whose congregations also included some of the capital's most significant Jewish families – wished to impress upon other Jewish and non-Jewish communities that their worship was as grand and awe-inspiring as the architectural structures in which it took place.Footnote ²⁶ Musically speaking, the booming publishing industry gave the Anglo-Jewish community the opportunity to present their liturgy, with its new soundscape, to a wide audience through a medium at the centre of Victorian culture.

It is clear that Verrinder's success both in helping to develop a new musical style and in challenging existing musical customs in the Synagogue (such as the use of female voices) was significant enough for him to wish to promote it in his published works, where possible. Over the course of his early career he edited a six-volume set titled The Music Used in the Services of the West London Synagogue of British Jews, which contained several of his own choral arrangements and compositions. Like all composers, Verrinder was keen for his music to remain in the public eye; from his earliest years his works were published by major music printing houses. To that end, even editions of his collection of Synagogue music (or parts of it) were published over the course of the century by Addison & Co. and Lamborn Cock, as well as Novello. Between Volume 1 (published in 1861) and Volume 2 (published 1870), Verrinder shifted from using the term ‘Alto’ to the term ‘Contralto’, indicating the replacement of male upper voices with female voices. This, alongside a significant increase in the number of Verrinder's own compositions found in the later volume (including a full ‘Service in G’), suggests that he was keen to make his work at the Synagogue known to the wider public.

Jewish Liturgical Music and the Publishing Industry

As choral musical practice became increasingly mainstream in British synagogues, with lengthy cantorial interludes replaced (either in part or entirely) by harmonized melodies, synagogue musicians began to see both the necessity for and the potential of printed music. Composers and arrangers of Jewish liturgical music took advantage of the growing music publishing business to give their work permanence, while also making it accessible to a public sphere which extended far beyond their own synagogue domain.

Across the second half of the century, composers and musical directors from all synagogue denominations published collections of music for Jewish worship, many of which were advertised or reviewed in the mainstream press. The reasons for the interest in music publication appeared to fall into three categories. First, there was the practical requirement for repertoire to be available for the choir, musical director and, in a few instances, accompanist. Of course, where music was published for use in a particular synagogue, this would have necessitated only a limited print run. The exception here was the 1899 volume The Voice of Prayer and Praise – A Handbook of Synagogue Music for Congregational Singing, compiled by Francis L. Cohen and David M. Davis as a compendium of liturgical music for choirs across the United Synagogue movement.Footnote ²⁷ This collection, which included choral arrangements of ancient and newly composed melodies that had become popular in the Orthodox synagogue, was preceded by A Handbook of Synagogue Music for Congregational Singing in 1889, which garnered the interest of upwards of 20 synagogues.Footnote ²⁸ While information regarding the number of subscribing synagogues for the 1899 publication is still unclear, it is apparent that the Editors intended each choir member and ‘co-operating congregant’ from every synagogue to have their own copy.Footnote ²⁹The Voice of Prayer and Praise has remained the primary collection of choral arrangements for synagogue worship, even used by many non-Orthodox communities. Reprinted three times over the course of the early- to mid-twentieth century, the penultimate edition, published in 1933, added a supplemental section at the end which included further arrangements of well-known synagogue repertoire. Thanks to the colour of its cover, it has become widely known as the ‘Blue Book’.

Other publications, while not having the same long-lasting success, also capitalized on the idea that individuals beyond the choir (‘co-operating congregants’) might wish to purchase a collection of synagogue music. Some of these collections were intended, in part, for home use, to assist families with their own worship and preparation for congregational participation in services. In 1857, for instance, Emanuel Aguilar and David A. De Sola collaborated on a volume titled The Ancient Melodies of the Liturgy of the Spanish and Portuguese Jews, the first of its kind to be published in Britain.Footnote ³⁰ This collection consisted entirely of ancient tunes from the Sephardi tradition, harmonized for up to five voices by Aguilar and with an introductory essay on the history of Sephardic music by De Sola. What is perhaps most unusual about this collection is that, as Aguilar notes, his harmonizations were written to be sung in parts, yet were ‘most convenient for playing’.Footnote ³¹ As instrumental music was not permissible in the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue tradition, it would appear that Aguilar intended his arrangements principally for home practice and worship. Moreover, De Sola's wish was that the volume would reach beyond the Sephardic community to ‘the wider Israelitish nation’.Footnote ³² No mention is made of promoting the liturgy to interested parties beyond the Jewish faith, although a review of the volume in the Athenaeum implied that such parties existed and might find the collection fascinating, were it not for the fact that certain phrases were written in the Hebrew alphabet without transcription or translation.Footnote ³³

As mentioned above, the first of Verrinder's volumes of The Music Used in the Services of the West London Synagogue of British Jews then appeared in 1861, four years after The Ancient Melodies, and over 30 years before The Voice of Prayer and Praise. Although its title would suggest the narrowest remit of these three collections, compiled specifically for the use of the choir at a single synagogue, it was the only one to be published by a major music publisher. Like The Ancient Melodies, it was also reviewed in the Athenaeum and received a positive response, in particular for the new compositions contained in the volume. In fact, the review seemed to sympathize with the Synagogue's sentiments regarding the role of music in worship, echoing David Woolf Marks's words from two years previously in their recommendation about updating religious musical language:

Perhaps encouraged by the praise received for the Synagogue's musical developments, and in particular by the singling out of new repertoire by fellow West London Synagogue musicians Charles Salaman, Simon Waley and Edward Hart, the second volume of the collection (first published in 1870 by Lamborn Cock) focused more heavily on Verrinder's own compositions, including the ‘Service in G’. Just as the Synagogue wished to demonstrate cultural assimilation through a musical liturgy which resembled contemporary non-Jewish practice, so did Verrinder appear to wish that his synagogue compositions be treated with the same gravitas as those he wrote for the Anglican church. By incorporating titles that were accessible and meaningful to the wider public, alongside music which – through the use of the choir and organ – had a familiar soundscape, Verrinder made sure that his dedication to the West London Synagogue did not cause him to disappear from London's musical scene. Several of Verrinder's compositions for church services (as well as a handful of secular songs) were published by Addison as well as Novello; it therefore appears that he maintained a good working relationship with the two printing houses – enough that they were willing to publish collections of synagogue music which were less likely to necessitate a significant print run. According to Victoria Cooper, Novello's ‘perception of market demand determined his decision not only concerning the compositions to print, but also the format, number of copies, and months of the year in which these pieces would be issued’.Footnote ³⁵ An edition of The Music Used was unlikely to bring in substantial revenue, even if multiple copies were required for the West London Synagogue choir. Verrinder's works for both the synagogue and the church, however, largely fell into the category of music in which Novello specialized: the expanding choral and sacred music market for ‘amateur musicians and choral society members, who required performance editions, in multiple copies’.Footnote ³⁶ Furthermore, Cooper makes an interesting point regarding Novello's contribution to ‘the musical education of Victorian society’.Footnote ³⁷ To that end, an edition of a British sacred work which presented the text in the original, ancient Hebrew language (transliterated for easier performance by both Jewish and non-Jewish parties), as well as in translation, was well-suited to the publisher's broader remit.

With this in mind, it seems logical that Hear my cry O God would be published by Novello (and that they would also publish Verrinder's Kol Nidre melody in 1891; another arrangement set with both Hebrew and English texts). Together, they were the first of Verrinder's pieces of Jewish liturgy to be published by Novello, since The Music Used was only printed as a full, six-volume set by the publishers after 1892.Footnote ³⁸ Furthermore, unlike The Music Used, neither Hear my cry O God nor Kol Nidre formed part of the regular service at the West London Synagogue, but were specially composed. That said, Hear my cry O God was premiered at the West London Synagogue, as part of the Synagogue's celebration of Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee; circumstances that invite further questions about musical style, purpose and context, as well as about the potential distribution of Hear my cry O God beyond the Anglo-Jewish community, questions to which I now turn.

Hear my cry O God (1887)

Little information exists about Hear my cry O God, aside from the details contained in the Musical Times advertisement, and those in the work itself – a rare copy of which is held in the British Library (see Appendix 1). The piece is in three distinct sections: an opening soprano or tenor solo ‘Andante Maestoso’ (preceded by a short organ introduction) in B-flat major; a ‘Recit. ad lib’. in F major, also performed by the soloist; and a final ‘Allegro Moderato’ back in B-flat major, again with short organ introduction and sung by full SATB chorus. The work is described in full on the title page as Hear my cry O God, Anthem composed by Dr. C.G. Verrinder for June 21st 1887, though without further performance information. On the page following Verrinder's composition in the British Library's bound volume, however, appears an arrangement by Verrinder of the National Anthem. No mention is made of the National Anthem arrangement in the Musical Times, although the wording on the score indicates that both pieces were performed during the same special service at the West London Synagogue, and it was therefore likely that they were intended to be printed alongside one another:

These details are corroborated in a special Jubilee edition of the Jewish Chronicle, the most important Jewish newspaper in the country at the time, which outlines in full the celebratory service which took place at the West London Synagogue.Footnote ⁴⁰ The article claims that the setting, ‘especially composed for the occasion by Dr. Verrinder, was much admired, as also the singing of Mr. Harry Simon Samuel, who rendered the solo portion of the composition’.Footnote ⁴¹ Mention is also made of the National Anthem, ‘heartily sung in English by the whole congregation’, with a solo first verse performed by Miss Rose Albu.Footnote ⁴²

Given the details provided in the Jewish Chronicle, we can assume that Verrinder's original arrangement of Hear my cry O God was set to Hebrew text. No mention was made of an English translation at this point, in contrast with the comments regarding Verrinder's arrangement of the National Anthem, which, according to the published information in the British Library edition, was performed both at the West London Synagogue and at St Michael's, Chester Square, where Verrinder also served as organist. There is no implication, however, that the same was true of Hear my cry O God. Newspapers reporting on the Jubilee celebrations do not appear to mention any special service at St Michael's, nor does there seem to be information on the subject in the church's records.Footnote ⁴³

Whether or not Hear my cry O God was performed at St Michael's following its premiere at the West London Synagogue, the composition's subsequent publication as a bilingual work reinforces the point that the Jewish and British cultural worlds were not separate entities. Most significantly, this would have had musical and ideological advantages for the West London Synagogue and for Anglo-Jewish liturgical music more broadly. While the Synagogue might have objected to any obvious musical associations with the church, particularly regarding suggestions of musical inspiration taken from Christian practice, Verrinder's composition provided a useful means of creating acceptable links between the two. Furthermore, it seems a natural progression for Verrinder to have considered the merits of a composition which could – even if, in this instance, it did not – branch between his two places of employment, particularly having published a number of works for church use as well as several volumes of synagogue music. Whatever its religious implications, however, the piece itself nonetheless had a largely state function. Queen Victoria's Jubilee – while incorporating a religious ceremony at Westminster Abbey – was principally a celebration of Britishness, through which the religious and secular worlds were united. As the West London Synagogue was keen to uphold its reputation as a synagogue for ‘British Jews’, their Jubilee ceremony, complete with a new composition in honour of Victoria's 50 years as Queen, was a fitting demonstration of the congregation's loyalty to the British monarchy and British values. Furthermore, uniting Hear my cry O God with an arrangement of the National Anthem by publishing them together sent a clear message about the Synagogue's musical adherence to the British cultural soundscape.

The West London Synagogue was far from the only one to hold a Jubilee celebration, as demonstrated by numerous accounts in the Jewish Chronicle of similar services held in other synagogues across Britain. That there was a special Jubilee edition of the newspaper was itself indicative of the strong allegiance to the throne felt by the Anglo-Jewish population. Several prominent members of the Jewish community attended the ceremony in Westminster Abbey, including the Chief Rabbi, and the West London Synagogue's own minister, David Woolf Marks, while others – such as the Rothschild family – hosted celebrations in their homes. The Jewish Chronicle describes an address made to the Queen by the Board of Deputies of the British Jews and the Anglo-Jewish Association, in which the Jewish community's particular loyalty to the current monarch was explained:

Within the accounts of Jubilee celebrations in other synagogues, music always plays a significant part. Many synagogues held specific services on the day of the Jubilee itself, which fell on a Tuesday, or on the Sunday following, therefore normal restrictions on the use of instrumental music on the Sabbath – as adhered to by many Orthodox congregations across the country – did not apply. Subsequently, the musical components of their celebratory services were, in general, more expansive and creative than during their regular weekly worship. The Great Synagogue in Duke's Place, for instance, one of London's oldest and largest synagogues, held a service that incorporated orchestral music. Despite acknowledging that the Synagogue ‘was never the scene of so admirable and so imposing a musical service’, a review of the service in the Jewish Chronicle highlighted the weaknesses in the general state of this Synagogue's music that even an orchestra could not disguise:

Based on this information, it would appear that the Great Synagogue's regular musical services lacked the power and quality of the music at institutions such as the West London Synagogue. This comparison between the musical capabilities of two synagogues nonetheless emphasizes the advantage of a practice which, as part of its everyday worship, embraced the surrounding British culture. Moreover, it indicates that, when possible, other synagogues were keen to follow the West London Synagogue's example by creating a musical form of worship which both adhered and appealed to British cultural sensitivities.

The Jewish Chronicle review of the Great Synagogue's Jubilee service continues with praise for the individual musical items included, and provides further reason to draw comparisons with the West London Synagogue's own celebratory service. Most significant is the fact that the Great Synagogue's service also included a performance of Psalm 61, composed by Arthur Meyer Friedlander (who also arranged all the musical portions of the service). While many synagogues shared a number of common pieces of repertoire (the celebratory Psalm 150 featured in many different settings, both pre-existing and newly composed), it would appear that only Verrinder and Friedlander were two of only three musicians who chose to incorporate Psalm 61 into their respective services. Furthermore, Friedlander's setting (see Appendix 2) would also be published by Novello, Ewer, and Co., and also with a bilingual text. The contrasts between the two settings in performance and in publication are therefore not only interesting in themselves: they can also shed light on how a single text could be interpreted to appeal differently to Jewish and non-Jewish audiences, according to a composer's own background, experience, and intentions.

Verrinder's and Friedlander's Psalm 61 in performance and publication

Little information exists regarding Friedlander; the British Library catalogue indicates that he was born in 1868 and died in 1928, and attributes to him a number of sacred and secular compositions published across the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, predominantly based on Jewish texts or themes. It is worth noting that Friedlander was only 19 years old when his setting of Psalm 61 was performed and published, in contrast with Verrinder's 53. It seems likely, therefore, that the young composer's experience to this date focused principally around the music of the Synagogue, possibly trained in the choral and cantorial traditions of the Orthodox community. That said, his catalogue of composed repertoire suggests that Friedlander would later also receive some formal musical education; for aside from the fact that Friedlander and Verrinder both composed settings of Psalm 61 for the Jubilee, the two musicians appear to have shared similar compositional and professional pathways, albeit a couple of decades apart. In addition to their liturgical music written exclusively for the synagogue, both composers wrote ‘sacred cantatas’ based on Jewish themes (in Verrinder's case, Israel in Adversity and in Deliverance, composed for his BA degree in Oxford in 1862 and published by Novello in 1874; in Friedlander's, Ode to Zion, also published by Novello in 1908); they both published pieces with Hebrew and English texts (Friedlander also composed further pieces for state occasions for use in the synagogue);Footnote ⁴⁶ and both presented academic talks and papers on the subject of Hebrew music to audiences which extended beyond the Anglo-Jewish community (such as the Royal College of Organists and the Royal Asiatic Society). To that end, it appears that Friedlander, like Verrinder, sought respect as a composer of a wide variety of repertoire, despite what could have been considered an unassuming post as a synagogue musician. Despite all these similarities, however, a comparison between the two settings of Psalm 61 as composed for the Golden Jubilee highlights the differences between the two composers’ respective backgrounds, experience and compositional intentions.

As in the account of Verrinder's own setting of Psalm 61, few details regarding the structure of Friedlander's composition are recorded in the Jewish Chronicle article, although a similarity with Verrinder's arrangement can be drawn through the reviewer's praise of the ‘admirable manner in which the solo in this composition was declaimed by Mr. Moscowitz’.Footnote ⁴⁷ No indication is given about the original arrangement of the work (or whether it was indeed composed for the occasion);Footnote ⁴⁸ however, it was apparently ‘heard to additional advantage, owing to Mr. H. De Solla's appropriate orchestral arrangement’.Footnote ⁴⁹ More attention is given to the power of Friedlander's composition here than was given to Verrinder's; the reviewer remarks that ‘Mr. Friedlander's work is instinct with devotional feeling, and has withal sufficient melody to lead the senses captive, and thus, in turn, to rouse the emotions of the worshipper’.Footnote ⁵⁰ Given his youth, and the fact that he was responsible for overseeing all the music performed during the Great Synagogue's Jubilee ceremony, Friedlander's achievements were perhaps worthy of this extended praise.

Looking at the editions of the two pieces held at the British Library, the most obvious difference lies in their respective structures. In comparison with a fairly straightforward, three-part structure seen in Verrinder's setting (as outlined above), Friedlander's setting has a repeating A section which returns three times, both opening and closing the work (with the addition of a short solo introduction at the start and a semi-coda at the end). This A section is interspersed with other sections of mixed length and tempo, in a combination of choral and solo vocal writing. What is most striking about the two settings is the way in which each composer demarcates the textual structure through the use of different textures, key relationships, and musical styles. Verrinder's three sections (a solo aria, recitative, and full chorus) are related tonally; however, the final choral section feels quite separate from the rest of the piece, due to Verrinder's treatment of the text at this point, which moves from themes of private prayer to the subject of public worship. To illustrate this, one must first outline the structural and textual cohesion between each section. The solo sections (verses 1 to 5) engage with the nature of the psalmist's relationship with God:

The meaning of the word ‘Selah’ in Hebrew is unknown, but historic sources indicate that it reflects a form of musical punctuation meaning ‘pause and reflect’. Within Hear my cry O God, Verrinder's relatively static setting of the word ‘Selah’ suggests contemplation, and is followed by a shift in pace and mood as the piece moves into the recitative section (verse 5), thus demonstrating that he understood both the textual and musical structure of the psalm. Verses 6 to 8 of the psalm text indicate yet another shift, in which the psalmist reaffirms his faith in God through His protection of the King:

By musically representing this shift through a move from solo voice to full chorus via a substantial organ interlude, Verrinder opens up the text from a personal rapport between one individual and God to a more communal worship, through which ‘the heritage of those who fear Thy name’ is not only personified by a mass of voices, but also unified by a collective national desire for the King's (in this context, David's) life to be prolonged and protected. To that end, Verrinder's verse of recitative connects personal and public worship – thus connecting the solo with the choral, united also by a return to the original key following a brief transition through the dominant. However, the final, choral section which – textually speaking – relates most clearly to the Jubilee celebrations (albeit with reference to the ‘King’ rather than the ‘Queen)’, could be performed as a choral anthem, the organ interlude acting in this instance as an introduction. In theory, this would have the advantage that any choir without a soloist could still perform the work. Given that the principal audience for this work would have been liturgical choirs, there was an intelligence in creating a piece which could be subdivided with ease to accommodate parishes of a wide variety of musical standards.

By contrast, Friedlander's piece cannot be broken down in the same way due to the importance of the repeating A section, which itself makes the work relatively lengthier than Verrinder's. In other words, Friedlander's setting has to be sung in full, complete with solo interjections. There are nevertheless certain structural similarities with Verrinder's piece; both start with a short instrumental introduction leading into a section for solo voice, although Friedlander's opening solo uses the introductory words to the psalm text – Lamnatsiach a neginas ledovid (‘A Psalm of David’) – following a Jewish custom of chanting the title of a given psalm before beginning the text proper.Footnote ⁵² While Friedlander promptly moves onto a full chorus to sing the opening verses of the psalm, he follows Verrinder's suit by returning to the solo voice for verse five – the verse that bridges the personal reflections of the opening verses with the more public declarations of royal loyalty and praise found in verses six to eight. Also like Verrinder, he moves to the dominant at this point, further indicating its role as a point of transition. He does not treat the start of verse six as a turning point, however, remaining in the dominant for a full chorus re-entry before moving into a more solemn section in the tonic minor. It is only at the final verse that Friedlander returns to the tonic major and the opening material, suggesting that, for him, this is a crucial conclusion to the second half of the psalm text.

Verrinder's and Friedlander's use of the solo voice in their respective works highlights stylistic as well as structural differences between the two pieces, thus reinforcing Verrinder's flexibility with regards to his target audience. While Friedlander incorporated the soloist more consistently throughout his setting, the solo passages themselves are extremely brief, and written stylistically to suit the role of a chazzan in a synagogue. The recitative-like opening statement ‘A psalm of David’ in particular reflects the fact that, in a synagogue context, it was customary for the chazzan or minister to introduce the psalm text in chant form.Footnote ⁵³ As both of these roles would have been taken by men, one can assume that Friedlander's expectation was that, even in performance outside of a synagogue context, a male soloist would be used. Similarly, the second solo passage, while more lyrical, seems to be present only to reflect the particularly personal text of verse five, rather than to provide a significant change in textural colour. Although it was common for chazzanim to improvise lengthy cantorial chants at certain points during a synagogue service (a tradition from which the West London Synagogue was keen to break, as mentioned earlier), Friedlander's writing demonstrates a more dialogic and functional relationship between the soloist and choir which developed from the expanding choral tradition of the time. Therefore, his setting does not fully represent a satisfying opportunity for a soloist to demonstrate his vocal ability; instead, it reflects common musical practice as found in contemporary synagogues across the country.

By contrast, Verrinder's solo writing demonstrates a much more flexible approach to the performance of Hear my cry O God, and provides a greater opportunity for displays of vocal skill and lyricism. Presuming that the work was performed in full (rather than omitting the solo passages to leave a stand-alone anthem), Verrinder's decision to allow either a tenor or soprano soloist to sing the extensive opening aria and recitative opened up potential opportunities for a wide range of performers, male and female. As established earlier, the incorporation of female voices into the choir at the West London Synagogue was something of a personal victory for Verrinder, suggesting that, like in Friedlander's setting, the stylistic remit of the solo writing in Verrinder's arrangement had origins in synagogue practice. However, while Friedlander restricted not only the type of voice, but also the style of voice (in this instance, cantorial) to be used for his solo passages, Verrinder's decision did not preclude the use of a tenor or boy soprano to perform these sections (although one might question why, in such public circumstances as a Golden Jubilee celebration, Verrinder chose not to demonstrate his role in changing significant Synagogue practice by allocating these passages to a male rather than a female soloist). Furthermore, Verrinder's decision once again allowed his work to be performed and appreciated by a wide target market. Although Orthodox synagogues would not have permitted female singers to perform during worship, they – like the Anglican church – could have employed a boy soprano to sing the opening sections if they preferred the solo at a higher pitch.Footnote ⁵⁴ Similarly, since the use of the female voice was so uncommon in both Jewish and Christian worship (with the exception of the West London Synagogue and certain parochial parishes), perhaps Verrinder had an even more significant agenda: to encourage the performance of his work as a sacred piece within a secular setting – in the concert hall, recital room, or parlour. To that end, a performance with a female voice would have been equally likely as one with a male soloist.

In their published formats, Verrinder's and Friedlander's settings once again indicate a striking contrast between each composer's expectations of their respective audience. For Friedlander, this takes the form of a change in musical forces; the ‘orchestral arrangement’ apparently heard during the Jubilee celebration in the Great Synagogue was rearranged for organ. It is clear that such a reduction would have been necessary in order to reach a wider audience at publication; most churches and other performance spaces would have had an organ, or at least a piano, whereas putting together a full orchestra would have had significant logistical and financial implications. However, while Friedlander's work appears to have been published with consideration for a wider audience, it has been carefully arranged to accommodate the requirements and restrictions of the Orthodox synagogue community. It almost seems as if Friedlander conceded to including a simple organ part in order that his work could be published as part of Novello's collection of anthems with English text, due to the fact that the melodic and harmonic layout of the accompaniment is such that, if necessary, the piece could be performed a capella. Thus, it would be suitable for performance in an Orthodox synagogue service where instrumental music would not be permitted. Aside from a few bars of introduction and conclusion, the organ takes no solo role in the piece and can therefore be omitted entirely – unlike in Verrinder's work where the organ introduces each of the aria, recitative, and choral sections. By removing the instrumental accompaniment, Friedlander's piece would commence with the solo recitative mentioned earlier, in which the soloist (in synagogue terms, the chazzan) would introduce the psalm text by chanting the words ‘A psalm of David’. To allow for musical development without the assistance of organ accompaniment, harmonic transitions between the different sections of music in Friedlander's setting are arranged so that the choir (or, on occasion, soloist) can easily modulate from one key to another. This realization, when brought into comparison with Verrinder's own setting, sheds light on the differing approaches of the two composers. Friedlander's focus – as hypothesized earlier based on his age and likely musical upbringing – appears to be the synagogue; he makes concessions in order that his work can be performed elsewhere, yet it is important that the piece remains suitable for (and in keeping with) his own place of worship.

Verrinder's agenda, by contrast, seems to be the reverse – he expands his synagogue work to accommodate the various requirements of the types of Anglican musical worship with which he was familiar. This is nowhere more obvious than in the physical layout of the Hebrew and English text on the page. Throughout the solo sections, each language is allocated an independent line of music, the melody amended to suit the scansion of the respective text. At these points, two elements highlight a prioritization of the original Hebrew: first, the melody set to Hebrew text is placed higher on the page than that set to English, implying that the latter is optional, rather than equal; second, the Hebrew text itself is, from a singer's perspective, better suited to the melody with regards to textual emphasis, punctuation, and vocal technique. On the first page, for instance, the compression in the English setting of the first two notes (an octave jump from F4 to F5) to form two quavers starting on the downbeat is unlikely to be as well-executed as the two crotchet beats (starting on an anacrusis) which open the Hebrew setting; the lack of temporal space between the two notes not only makes the first bar appear rushed, but also denies the singer time to prepare for the octave jump by gaining momentum through the first crotchet. A few bars later, the English text again feels compressed as the opening statement – ‘Hear my cry O God’ – runs almost immediately into the following phrase – ‘attend unto my prayer’, additionally leaving little breathing room for the singer. By contrast, the crotchet rest between the two statements in the Hebrew setting sets them out as equal but independent halves of the same verse of text, while also giving space to the opening statement which, in the English translation and published edition, forms the title of the work.

Neither text setting is without fault – while Verrinder claimed to have learned Hebrew in order to take up his position at the West London Synagogue, his grasp of pronunciation and textual emphasis is perhaps secondary to his melodic writing. However, given that Verrinder's target audience would have been entirely English speaking, it is fair to assume that responses to eccentricities in the vernacular setting might have been less forgiving. That said, an interesting shift occurs at the start of the choral section of the work. Priority is here very obviously given to the English text; perhaps due to the increased number of voices, the two lines of text setting are now reduced to one, with the English text set according to the vocal lines (appearing under each part), and the Hebrew text sitting above the soprano line. This does not initially seem to be an issue – the first bars remain clearly laid out, given the homophonic texture. However, things become problematic once the individual voices start singing in canon and the text repeats to fit the independent vocal lines. At this point, any authentic idea as to how the Hebrew text should be set is abandoned, leaving a choir wishing to perform the piece in the original language to work it out for themselves. This shift in prioritization from Hebrew to English text suggests that not only was the final section considered more likely to be performed by liturgical choirs, but that these choirs were also more likely to perform the composition in English than in Hebrew. This is possibly not surprising – again, if we consider that Orthodox synagogues were unlikely to perform the work during major services due to restrictions on the use of female voices or instruments, by process of elimination this leaves the Reform synagogues (of which there were only three in Britain at this point), churches and cathedrals, and secular performance venues. To that end, the majority of Verrinder's target market would likely have preferred to perform the work in English rather than Hebrew. As was suggested earlier, the inclusion of the Hebrew text in the published edition was perhaps less for performance, but more to ‘educate’ the wider public, simultaneously emphasizing the ways in which Jewish liturgy could be incorporated into non-Jewish musical practice. This would have benefited not only the West London Synagogue's status within London's wider religious and cultural environment, but also Verrinder's own position as a composer whose work spanned the widest possible remit.