The term “Musical Exposition” may be taken to include all the various means adopted for representing to others the work of the musical brain, such as (1) The notation employed for representing it to the eye, and thus stereotyping it for common use; (2) The vocal or instrumental processes by which it is reproduced to the public ear, and eventually made to assume in the brain of the listener the shape in which it originally presented itself to the internal ear or musical imagination of the composer; and (3) The methods by which the arrangement and assortment of sounds which we call music—that manipulation, so to speak, of the elementary material at command which constitutes composition—is explained, justified, and taught to those who wish to learn it.

Some three years ago I had the privilege of addressing the members of this Association on the subject of “Bells and Bell Tones.” On that occasion I dealt with the bell as a musical instrument, and the paper I am about to read on Carillons is nothing more or less than a further instalment of information respecting bells on the same lines. Those of you who are conversant with that lecture will the more readily understand some of the remarks I shall make with reference to the requisite conditions necessary to produce good tone and tune in bells. On this occasion my statements concerning some of their most important characteristics must of necessity be very brief. Any who so desire can find a fuller treatment of these characteristics in the lecture I have mentioned.

Mr. Stephens.—Before the paper is read, I wish to make a few observations on the discussion which ensued on the very interesting paper which was read at the last meeting, On that occasion Mr. Whomes challenged the audience, and I accepted the challenge, to name the key of every piece that he played, the pianoforte being concealed from us. I put down on paper, and read afterwards, the key of every piece which he played, as they appeared to me at least, and the Chairman, who had sat at the pianoforte, came afterwards to the table and read out the key in which he had seen Mr. Whomes play. In every case the key in which Mr. Whomes had played on the pianoforte was a semitone higher than the one I had named. Now I am very anxious that any impression should be removed that I had been guilty of a failure on that occasion. It was simply that Mr. Whomes had, for the special purpose of his lecture, caused the pianoforte to be tuned a semitone lower; consequently, I was right in every instance, and Mr. Whomes has kindly come here on this occasion to corroborate what I say, and acknowledge that, for the purpose of his lecture, he was obliged to practise what, applied to my own particular case, would appear a deception, and he will acknowledge, I believe, that I was right in every instance as regards the true pitch, and when a selection from a Concerto of Beethoven in C minor was played, I said, not in C minor, but in B minor, and so it proved. After several of the audience were gone away, we compared the pianoforte with another one in the room, and found it was exactly what I have said, half a tone below pitch; therefore, whatever the position may be with regard to tone colourists, I wish to claim that I was in every instance correct in my judgment as to the key which was played.

It is unnecessary perhaps at the outset to dwell on the nature of tone quality or timbre. Most musicians nowadays are aware that this elusive characteristic has given up its secret and that what the scientist calls the ‘note’ of a musical instrument can be split up into a number of simple ‘tones’ and that it is the relative number and magnitude of these components that determines timbre; tells us, for example, why a violin and a clarinet or even two violins do not when played severally sound the same when producing a note at the same fundamental pitch. In many cases these component tones are members of the harmonic series, i.e., their frequencies bear simple ratios to the fundamental or component of lowest pitch, but again often other tones—not harmonics—intrude, whose origin is to be traced to the vibrations of the invariant parts of the instrument such as the belly of the violin or the metal tube of the trumpet and which do not alter much when the player passes from one note to another. By means of the apparatus I am about to describe this characteristic ‘formant’ of an instrument can be delineated after precise analysis of the tone quality over the whole range of performance of the instrument. A knowledge of this factor is most important to the instrument maker. By persistent analysis of this type one can, for instance, reduce the difference between a Stradivarius and a Heath Robinson—pardon the mark!—to scientific terminology and then with the co-operation of the maker take steps to improve on a specimen of poor quality, checking the extent of one's improvements as one progresses. Work of this nature on stringed instruments has been carried out by Backhaus in Germany and Saunders in the United States. At Newcastle we have been mainly concerned with organ pipes and hope to deal with the wood-wind next.

The subject of modern music presents us with some of the most actual, and at the same time controversial problems with which musicians are faced to-day, actual in the sense of affecting directly the livelihood of countless composers and instrumentalists, controversial as a result of the multiplicity of conflicting opinions expressed by musicians and non-musicians alike, and the heat with which they are contested. In such circumstances the consideration of the subject by a learned society such as the Musical Association is important in the very highest degree. Only musicians who are in the habit of looking at their art in a detached and scientific way and from a historical point of view can hope to throw any light on or provide any basis for the fruitful discussion of the questions involved. The present paper is an attempt to clear away some of the difficulties in understanding the trends which can be seen to exist in the music which is usually described as modern, and to provide some objective standards of judgment, which, while not entirely beyond the influence of personal opinion, are yet not merely the individual subjective reactions of like and dislike for any particular work, which are not infrequently dignified by the name of musical criticism.

The Tudor Era was remarkable for the interest shown in music by all classes of society. Educationists as Sir Thomas Hoby through his translation of Castiglione's Book of the Courtier, Sir Thomas Elyot in The Boke of the Governour, Roger Ascham in Toxophilus, and Richard Mulcaster in The Elementarie write at length on the value of musical education.

The real rise of Lucca dates from the end of the twelfth century when many of the nobility moved within the city walls, declared themselves ready to defend them, and chose a Podestà as their head. But the ensuing centuries found Lucca often in conflict with other comuni such as Florence and Modena, with the Church especially over control of the Garfagnana mountains, and with the nearby sea republic of Pisa which sacked Lucca in 1314 in order to form with it a strong ghibelline force against Florence. Due to a series of unfortunate political manoeuvres, Lucca next found itself tossed from one owner to another. First it was sold to Francesco Castracani, then to Gherardo Spinola, to John of Bohemia, to the Rossi of Parma, the Scaligeri of Verona, and to Florence from where it passed back to Pisa in 1342. In 1369 Emperor Charles IV freed Lucca of Pisa, and although he kept it somewhat under himself, he allowed it to write a statute as a republic in 1372. Unfortunately independence soon gave way to domination by Paolo Guinigi who managed to keep control from 1400 to 1430. Only then was Lucca once again able to assert itself as a republic, a situation it guarded proudly and jealously for three centuries, until 1799 when France and Austria began. alternately to occupy it. In 1805 Napoleon installed his sister Elisa Bonaparte and her husband Felice Baciocchi as rulers of what then became the Principality of Lucca.

A problem that continually makes its presence felt in the medieval field is that of the use of instruments in church. The sources of sacred music offer little internal evidence, and for a variety of reasons the evidence of the literary and visual arts must be treated with reserve. Many of us would now probably subscribe to F. Ll. Harrison's view that ‘… there is no evidence that any instruments but the organ were normally played in church. …’ It is with the exceptions implied by the word ‘normally’ that this paper is concerned. Documentary evidence shows that other instruments were indeed played in church—that has never been disputed. Granted that these occasions were in some way exceptional, we must set out to answer certain questions: in what circumstances were other instruments used ?—what instruments were involved?—and what traditions, if any, are represented by these apparently isolated occasions? It is the attempts to answer the last of these, especially, that have caused disagreement in the past.

Until recently Donizetti was not respectable enough for musicology. He was remembered for two or three comedies; yet he and Rossini both devoted their mature years almost entirely to serious opera. Of Donizetti's 70 stage works, a few of which are lost, exactly half belong to the opera seria class (that includes two French grand operas); three are early works on Classical subjects, nine are opere semiserie, and 23 are comedies or farces. But those figures do not give a true picture. In the first place, twelve of the comic operas but only one of the serious are in a single act. Second, if we take the end of 1828 as a dividing line—which is roughly when Donizetti reached maturity—we find that before that date he composed 29 operas, of which only six are serious, whereas after it he produced eight comedies (five in one act), four semiseria (one in one act), and 29 full-length serious operas. Clearly he regarded Romantic tragedy as his main line.

It is easy to waste words on problems of definition while avoiding the wider significance of what one is supposed to be defining. In the case of a composer's sketches, an adequate terminology can best serve as a means of identification: to place any further claims upon it, especially in view of our underdeveloped concepts in this field, is to invite confusion where little enough order already exists. Nevertheless, it is worth spending a moment on the question as far as Wagner is concerned, if only because the problem of nomenclature has reached a point where it threatens to confuse a discussion of the sketches themselves—a discussion which in any case is only just beginning. This paper has no claim to finality, but rather attempts to clarify an unfortunate and premature entanglement.

There are periods in the history of music when the problems of musical form seem to have been solved once and for all. At such times, there are fixed formal schemes, there are species each of which has its average length, and with each of which the musical world of the particular time can associate something definite, familiar and often apparently unchangeable that has always been and always will be. With a perfectly safe tradition behind them, the composers of such a period see no need to strive for new and ever new forms, and are content to demand a certain amount of freedom or variety within the established tradition. Such a time was, for instance, the age of Mozart, Beethoven and the Romantics, which had its Sonata form with three or four movements each of which was a type that meant something more or less well known to everybody, which had also the Rondo form, Aria form, Opera and Lied form, and so on.

Although our chief attention to-night is to be given to Purcell's Sonatas, I feel it would add to the interest of these illustrations if I asked you to listen to an earlier specimen of his writing for strings.

Like every other constituent of opera in the middle of the eighteenth century, the overture was subjected to theoretical scrutiny. Rousseau's article in the Encyclopédie was the starting point for critical discussion. An attack on the traditional French overture was part of his general campaign against French tragédie lyrique, and with characteristic polemical skill he gives an illusion of objectivity by attributing his views to unspecified third parties. He begins with an impeccable definition: ‘The overture is a symphonic piece which the composer aims to render brilliant, imposing, harmonious, and which introduces operas and other lyric dramas of substantial proportions’. He goes on to point out that 40 years earlier the French type of overture was exported to Italy. But music has progressed since then, so the Italians now use the quick-slow-quick sequence. By so doing they silence the audience and command attention with the lively opening; induce receptivity to emotions with the softer slow section; and arouse a sense of expectancy with the conclusion. They (the Italian musicians) assert that the French overture does not fulfil the essential function of engaging the attention of the audience, because the slow introduction is indistinguishable from the preliminary tuning-up, and because what follows is conducive of boredom, not concentration. Rousseau goes on to deal with the relationship of the overture to the following opera. A connection between the two is desirable. But it is wrong to include in the overture all the features of the drama. This has the consequence that the action and the development of the opera is presented twice. The best kind of overture, says Rousseau, is one which predisposes the audience to be receptive to the mood of the opening scene of the opera.

Ladies and Gentlemen,—The study of the phenomena of nature in all her multitudinous aspects is and has ever been a source of delight and lasting interest to the human mind; and the pleasure derived from this study is one which is not restricted to the professional and trained naturalist, but is one in which all can share. Instances are numerous of men of humble origin and but limited education who, possessing an innate love of nature and keen powers of observation, paid attention to what they saw around them, and so developed into students of nature, and did good and original work in the field of natural science; and one of the charms of this study is, that as soon as we look beneath the surface of things, that which at first and to a superficial observer seems commonplace, becomes at once an object and source of fascinating interest and admiring wonder.

It has been said, with a great deal of truth, —and I think that few of those present will want to question the validity of the statement,—that a love of discussion is one of the most elementary and most permanent characteristics of the human race. It is, indeed, natural and right that our desire should be to exercise actively those gifts which have placed us above the lower animals; and the progress towards freedom of thought and conduct in all spheres, which is a mark of the English speaking races beyond others, is assuredly due to our highly-developed love of combat in word as well as in action. So true is this, that as a nation we are commonly accused of being willing, and even anxious, to maintain a position we have no belief in, provided only we can thereby provoke and sustain an argument.

The first movement of Bartók's Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion (1937) has been noted for its Beethovenian use of sonata form and shares a number of features with the ‘Waldstein’ Sonata. This article examines the relationship between these two composers and these two works, starting with an examination of Bartók's use of sonata form. It attempts to establish whether Bartók borrowed gratefully from his predecessor in an attempt to ‘synthesize’ old and new, folk and art, or whether he misread Beethoven in the anxious process of carving a place for himself in the musical canon.

On the last occasion on which the subject of Spanish music was discussed at a meeting of this Association, we were able to listen to the finished product—a product “finished” in every sense of the word, for, as members will recollect, the illustrations, consisting of a number of Spanish madrigals, were beautifully performed by the English Singers. This time, I should like to begin at the other end, as it were—with the remains of early Spanish music as they confront the researcher, and the traveller. For the researcher is not confined to musical MSS. or to the statements of the theorists. Sculpture, ivories, miniatures and contemporary descriptions in prose or verse, often throw more light on the conditions of performance and the character of the music itself, than the actual MS. with the musical notation (supposing it to exist and to be intelligible), and they are certainly more illuminating than the treatises on musical theory.

In venturing to offer for your consideration a few thoughts on “Judgment and Taste with regard to Music,” I might almost take as my starting point, if not exactly as my motto, the words of the Laureate with regard, not to music, but to the spirit or tendency of the age generally:—

It is not generally realised how much Verdi suffered from atrocious productions of his early operas, how much he had this matter at heart in his middle years, nor what energetic measures he afterwards took to remedy things. At the beginning of his career scarcely any consideration was given in Italian theatres to dramatic effect. The opera existed for the singers; the singers themselves were convinced of this, and the public agreed with them. The composer had to adapt himself, and his work, to these conditions, and if he did not, then suitable adjustments were made by others for him.

The well-known Treatise on Harmony, by Alfred Day, M.D., has already been prominently brought under the notice of this Association at least three times :—first, by Mr. Charles E. Stephens, in his paper entitled, “The Fallacies of Dr. Day's Theory of Harmony, with a brief outline of the Elements of a New System,” read during our First Session, 1875; secondly, by Mr. Gerard F. Cobb, M.A., whose paper on “Certain Principles of Musical Exposition, considered educationally, and with special reference to current systems of Musical Theory,” occupied our attention for two consecutive meetings of the Tenth Session, 1883–4; and lastly by Mr. Ebenezer Prout, B.A., whose paper on “Some suggested Modifications of Day's Theory of Harmony,” read as recently as the fifth meeting of the present (Fourteenth) Session, must be still fresh in our minds.