Of all English composers of the late seventeenth century, the name of John Blow is, with the sole exception of Purcell, the most familiar to musicians not specially versed or interested in the period. The eminence of his professional position, the superlatives commonly applied to him by his contemporaries, his intriguing but somewhat mysterious relations with Purcell, and his uncommon name have united to contribute to a tradition of greatness and an attitude of reverence. Yet our actual knowledge of his music is confined within noticeably narrow limits. In the field of Church Music, for example, in which Blow was especially active, only approximately a quarter of his output is available in modern editions: and in performing such anthems as are available, how often does the range of choice extend beyond I beheld and lo or I was in the Spirit?

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.

When the Mathematician told the Historian that he had better let bygones be bygones, he meant that History was of no value; and it is of no value unless it can guide us in the present or future. There may be some guidance for us to gain from a retrospect of the old scales, though in one sense there is nothing new to be said. Most musicians have never heard even a single justly tuned chord, and have quite vague ideas as to what the ideal scale is, or sounds like. There is a loose general idea that quartet players, and unaccompanied singers drop into just intonation, as Wegg dropped into poetry, and that the result is very beautiful.

Here we have the indigenous definition of folk-music, given to mark the distinction between this music and mãrga-music; that is to say, classical or art-music, a different thing altogether. This mãrga music is not primarily for the enjoyment of the people, but is considered as a means to salvation, namely, the breaking of the endless succession of birth, death and re-birth. It is of divine origin, brought down to our times by an unbroken succession of teachers, not only considered as music masters but definitely as spiritual preceptors. The superior attitude of the exponents of classical music towards deçï, popular or country-music, finds its origin in this spiritual claim of mārga-music. Nevertheless folk-music naturally is one of the parents of art-music whether the latter acknowledges this parenthood or not.

Early, thirteenth-fourteenth century; middle, fourteenth-sixteenth century; late, fifteenth and sixteenth century.

Early. Dante died 1321, twenty years before Chaucer was born, wrote his Divina Commedia in Capitoli, stanzas of three lines of which the first and third rhyme, and the last word of the second line determines the first and third of the next stanza, so that each rhyme has three representatives.1 Another early form of the fourteenth century is the Caccia, of which the words were in the form of a madrigal (described below), but the essential point is that the music was in strict canon (at several bars distance) over an independent bass.

Some time ago, in collaboration with Professor Read of St. Andrews, I was engaged in the transcription of some music contained in a book on Alchemy by one Michael Maier. The book, entitled Atalanta fugiens, was published near Frankfort in 1618. It contained fifty Discourses on Alchemy, each being preceded by a woodcut, an epigram in doubtful Latin verse and the first couplet of each of the latter set to music in canon; all the canons being written above, below, or around the same Canto Fermo. I had intended to speak of the music to-day, but as most of what I should have said has recently appeared in Professor Read's book Prelude to Chemistry, in which some of the canons are reproduced, I did not feel justified in repeating matter so recently issued in print. I have the book here and shall be glad to show it to anyone caring to see it at the close of the proceedings.