In endeavouring to discover the larger foundations of the influence of music we have had to travel somewhat far into the region of hypothesis; but there are several striking features of its influence which rest on causes closer at hand: in attempting to explain these we stand on firmer ground. One of these features has been already touched upon—namely, the influence of those effects which arise out of the fact that the musical faculties and sensibilities are, so to speak, grafted on those involved in utterance and hearing; the others may, I believe, be explained from a point of view which, whether it be original or not, I have, I believe, taken up independently—namely, the position of hearing among the senses.

The design of this paper is to draw attention to the mode in which our minds work in the act of sight-singing. The subject is one mainly for the consideration of teachers, but it should be of interest to musical students generally. Every rational attempt at an educational classification of the details of such a subject as music must be governed by a knowledge of the way in which the mind develops its latent powers. As singing has exclusively to do with conceptions of sound, I have ventured to style this modest investigation the “Psychology of Sight-singing.” The title may appear to promise a more deeply philosophical enquiry into the elusive subtleties of mental phenomena than I contemplate, or am capable of making. But I trust I may succeed in avoiding a path where discreet angels fear to tread and that I may be able to appeal throughout simply to the every-day musical experience of my audience. There are hundreds of books upon sight-singing, Some pay their possible disciples the compliment of assuming that their capacity is so great that the whole matter can be mastered in a very short time and may be presented in a nutshell. These nutshell methods conveniently assume the skill they affect to impart, and, consequently, are hard for common folk to crack. More elaborate methods claim to ensure success if you only succeed in succeeding. If you do not succeed, the individual is to blame, not the system, which is infallible. It has already been remarked that every system of teaching worthy the name must assume in pupils the existence of certain potential capacities that can be developed. So every teacher is a psychologist, or at least he ought to be if he is worth his salt. It is far from my intention to discuss or advocate any particular method. I design simply to endeavour to tabulate the faculties which all methods assume their pupils to possess in a greater or lesser degree. I propose to omit all reference to rhythm and to confine myself to the relationship of musical sounds to one another.

The history of the development of national music—like that of every other popular movement in Russia—presents a continuous conflict. On the one hand we see a strong natural impulse moving irresistibly towards fulfilment; on the other, a policy of repression, and, at times, even of active persecution. That the close of this century has witnessed the triumph of Russian music proves how strong must have been the innate capacity for this art, and how deep the love of it, which could overcome every obstacle to its development.

I have been honoured by an invitation to contribute to your proceedings, by selecting as the subject of a paper, some account of Irish Church musicians and Irish Church music generally—a subject, hitherto, not much worked up by English musical historians between two covers. I am by no means unmindful of the admirable lecture delivered by the late Sir Robert Stewart in the Irish capital in 1863. This, however, was not confined to ecclesiastical music, but embraced Irish art generally. It will be my endeavour, in the course of the remarks I am allowed the privilege of making, to put you in possession of the most trustworthy knowledge of the subject, as far as I have been able to collect and compress it within the limited demand, which such a paper ought to make on your time and patience.

I closed the first portion of this paper, as you may doubtless remember, with a sketch of the life of Sir John Stevenson. I now beg to present to your notice a few details about one of his most distinguished contemporaries in the Dublin choirs. In 1795 the capitular authorities heard of a fine tenor at Lichfield, and, as the result of their negotiations, John Spray was induced, by the ample salary offered, to make the Irish metropolis his home. Spray was a native of Southwell, and he became a chorister in the Minster there under Thomas Spofforth, the organist, uncle of Reginald, the famous glee-writer, and of Samuel, who afterwards (1807–1864) held the appointment of organist of Lichfield Cathedral.

The ambiguity of the title of my paper is intentional—I wish to speak on “The Teaching of Musical History” in more than one sense. A further preliminary explanation I have to make is this. If I present to this Society a plea for a proper and more general study of musical history, it is not because I think the members to be in need of advice and guidance, but because I look upon them as influential agents able to bring about a change in a now obtaining unsatisfactory state of matters. In short, my object in drawing your attention to the importance of certain facts is to inspire you with missionary zeal, to induce you to go forth and spread the light that is in you among the ignorant, the idle, and the indifferent. This, however, is not my only object. I wish also to lay before you some views of perennial interest, and invite you to discuss them —to discuss them for our own profit and, if possible, for the profit of the world at large.

In bringing this matter before you to-day, I am conscious of two difficulties. The first arises from the fact that only a limited portion of you can be regarded as being especially acquainted with the organ; the second is caused by the comparative certainty that among such organ authonties as are present there must be some who occupy the very first rank. There exist here, therefore, the very strongest reasons both for and against my speaking in a rudimentary or ultra-explanatory way. As a consequence, all I can do is to make these remarks as clear as is possible without their becoming wearisome,—trusting that the experts will excuse my telling them many things which they already know much better than I can myself claim to.

A few preliminary observations are desirable respecting organs and organ music of the centuries prior to the sixteenth.

In the thirteenth century both the Greek and Latin clergy deemed the use of organs in churches profane, and it is matter of common knowledge that the organ remains excluded from the Greek Church to this day.

I suppose it is safe to say that at the date of the Norman Conquest measured music did not exist. Rhythmical music there must have been from the earliest times, music of the dance, music of the march; but no system had been invented by which the duration of musical sounds could be presented to the eye. The reason for this may perhaps be found in the close association that existed between music and language, and the fact that in this association music was formerly the handmaid, not, as now, the mistress. The ancient subordination of music to language still survives in the plain-song of the Church, which, for this very reason, remains to the present day unmeasured.