It may seem strange to commemorate the centenary of Satie's birth by a discussion of his output from 1891 to 1895 rather than by an overall appreciation. But his accepted standing as a minor yet historically important composer has had a twofold result: on the one hand, little basic documentary research into his output has been undertaken; on the other, general appreciations of him have been written many times, largely by authors whose main concern is Debussy, Ravel, Les Six or recent French music as a whole. As you would expect, this literature tends to be accurate in outline but unreliable in detail. Therefore I have thought it best, rather than repeat the easily available broad facts of Satie's life and work, to concentrate on some topic which can be more thoroughly covered in the time. The Rose Croix music stands out as being conveniently self-contained, unusual, interesting and misunderstood.

To have borrowed the music of one work for the composition of another is, understandably I think, not a confession that composers are fond of making. If they are afraid of the misunderstanding and sarcastic comment that it might arouse in the minds of the unthinking, it is our duty, it seems to me, to study and explain (where explanation is necessary) this pelican-like habit. Berlioz has suffered particularly in this respect for being a ‘programmatic’ composer, although, as I shall later try to show, the very existence of so much borrowed material demonstrates the fatuity of such a term as an attempt to isolate one particular type of composer.

This paper is basically a study of some of the numerous textual divergencies which exist between the first printed edition of the libretto of Die Zauberflöte, and Mozart's autograph score. I begin, however, with some remarks about a peculiar forgery which purports to be a letter from Schikaneder to Mozart, bearing a date which has led scholars to believe that the composition of Die Zauberflöte was already far advanced by September 1790, over a year before the opera was first performed.

When a member of the Association spoke to you last year on the French horn he was able to explain his points on his own instrument; but alas I cannot bring Haarlem, Weingarten or Freiberg here. It would also be unfair to enter too much into the exclusive language of organ-players, for I am reminded of Burney's remarks when writing up (as organists say) the instrument at Haarlem:

The reputation of Ferruccio Busoni has always been a rather confused and unformulated thing, usually based on the sketchiest knowledge. It is true that some of his works (not necessarily the best) have hovered uncertainly but persistently on the fringe of the repertoire, and that he has long had a small band of devoted admirers. But on the whole most people have been content to accept certain vague ‘received opinions’ about him, which are thrown around anew every time one of his works comes momentarily into the forefront of public attention. We are told again and again that his acute intellect stifled his creative spontaneity; that the Italian side of his nature was at war with the German; that he remains an isolated figure, without direct successors and with almost no influence on younger composers; and that his constant contact, as pianist, with other men's music prevented him from ever finding a language of his own.

The editors of the recently published vocal score of Temistocle point out that Johann Christian Bach ‘is one of the few composers in the history of music who have been equally successful in symphonic music and in opera’. A glance at C. S. Terry's thematic catalogue of Bach's works is sufficient to convince one of the wide range of the composer's musical sympathies. Indeed, Haydn and Mozart apart, there were very few musicians active in the second half of the eighteenth century who could claim such versatility. Yet the claim that Bach was a particularly successful composer of either Italian or French opera is not supported by the facts.

When the secretary invited me last July to write a synopsis of my paper for inclusion in the Association's Sessional Arrangements, I optimistically assumed that in addition to discussing Giles Farnaby's keyboard music there would be time to include a ‘short account’ of his life and even, perhaps, an opportunity to add a word or two about his vocal compositions. When I eventually came to prepare the paper, I soon realized that it would be difficult enough to deal adequately in the limited time available with either the keyboard music or the biography, much less with both. So, rather than skate around both topics, I have decided, somewhat reluctantly, to abandon the proposed biographical sketch and to concentrate on the keyboard music alone.

If it were possible to consult representatives of a cross-section of ordinary European church choirs towards the end of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth centuries, it would be interesting to see how much unanimity there would be in their answers to our questions about the performance of the chant. The sort of men one would like to question would be the precentors of churches with a great liturgical tradition, such as Salisbury Cathedral, and also of some of the smaller churches, for example, St Mary-at-Hill in the City, where music was fostered as a matter of course and where members of the Chapel Royal occasionally sang. One would also like to consult the organists; those concerned with the teaching of the chant and those engaged in editing new service-books, such as Dr. Sampson of King's College, Cambridge, in the first quarter of the sixteenth century.