prefer that he should take the trouble to experience for himself the emotions he is to awaken in me by his work. I do not know if it is essential to end an Aria with a cadenza, I rather imagine it is not, but if one wished to do so, I think it could be done quite gracefully without the trill at the end, and with a well-placed ‘appoggiatura.' How often, after hearing an Aria, have I wanted to utter the words of that gifted writer, Fontenelle: 'Music, what wouldst thou of me?' Listening to a perfectly sung Aria, interpreted with a marvellous agility, with an even tone in the pitch of the voice that reaches perfection, with an exact sense of rhythm, with trills, with a cadenza of miraculous length taken all in one breath, how I have wanted to exclaim: Music, what dost thou want? In spite of all I hear, I doubt if any real feeling is awakened in my heart; I listen to faultless voices, but the reproach I have to make is that I am left cold and unmoved. Tight-rope dancers are highly paid and are expected to astonish us by their feats. Musicians are paid, and they are expected to move us by their compositions. Nevertheless, the greater number of our musicians prefer to be tight-rope dancers.

It is better to end these extracts rather than run the risk of continuing too long. In considering these few quotations gathered together as an experiment, the conclusion to be drawn is that it would be difficult to write a history of music of the nineteenth century, because this period is so near to our own that we might take sides too passionately not to be biased in our judgments. During the last one hundred years Music has had to submit to perversions that still affect us so much as to preclude impartiality. If, instead, we wanted to compile a History of Music of the fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the ideal course to pursue would be to deprive the musicians who lived in those times of all utterance, and to silence their music; then to turn to the chronicles of the day and to those writings that best disclose the intellectual life of those four centuries, the most important in the History of the art of Music in Italy, and from such sources as these could be obtained a clear and broad picture of all that Music has been in History.

(Translated by A. W.)

U

A STUDY IN MUSICAL ABILITY

By EDWARD E. HARPER

́NDER their conception of the term above-printed, civilised Western nations place the age of Music not further back than from four to five hundred years. The accumulations of all preceding centuries and of all peoples, together with the (at one time) much discussed music of the Ancient Greeks, count for nothing,-artistically, are nothing, by comparison. A sudden expansion of a subject which combines in itself equal portions of science and art (the one by presentation upon paper and the other by actual performance) is a human phenomenon. When we consider the absolutely giddy height to which the initial emanation rose in the works and performance of the Father of Music, John Sebastian Bach, and the mighty widening of the scope and resources of both Music's science and art that have since accrued, the phenomenon grows in value and suggestion.

But the world's history shows kindred phenomena in other subjects of human study and practice, notably in national literary movements. Now, between literature and modern music there is a striking parallel, and it lies in a virtually unfrequented path. So there will be something, at least of novelty-perhaps of charm, in its pursuit.

Both are languages in that they form a means of communication, rational respective intercourse, among the initiated. Literature deals with the common and admittedly artificial basis and products of daily speech and their transference to paper by signs and symbols, and is a convenience for the interchange, preservation, and even incentive-creating propagation of intellectual provender. Music acts with respect to those phenomena of sound and sound-producing bodies which human ingenuity has so far been able to make use of. But it is not, chiefly from want of serious thought, on all hands admitted as artificial—that is, produced by device, and not humanly indigenous; though, in reality, it is greatly so. Initially, each language followed an almost identical method of acquisition, and provided a very similar style

of symbolic expression for its elements. Both, too, made gradual and equal use of fresh discoveries of sound-phenomena as they progressed. But with subsequent development dissimilarity in these particulars marks the upward course,-literature tending towards vanishing-point, and music ever increasing its debt to them. Spoken language, however, constantly adds make-weights in the form of new combinations of standard elements, while the additions to music in this respect are almost nil. It is said that every combination of elements which modern composers of music use, may be found in the works of Johann Sebastian Bach, and there is some truth in the assertion. As example is to be preferred before precept, it will interest any musician to compare Bach's little Fantasia in C minor (Peter's edition, 207, page 36) with Gluck's "Iphigenie auf Tauris," Arie, Act IV, No. 20, “Je t'implore." While there is a remarkable development in treatment (owing principally, of course, to a later age, and the use of an orchestra), the material is yet so closely related as to be strikingly manifest. Some men would go so far as to charge plagiarism. With regard to each language, however, humanity has evolved a faculty for the silent perusal of printed paper-records which not only provides a complete view, in a general sense, of an author's aims, intentions, and requirements, but brings about an adequate realization of the actual effect in rendition, without attendance at a performance at all, and without a sound being uttered or heard by the peruser. It is by exercise of this very faculty that humanity reads its daily papers, letters, and so forth; and it is by the same faculty, somewhat differently applied perchance, that musicians silently assimilate short and full scores, and drawing-room items.

Again, both languages fail in an important respect: they neither of them as yet possess any thoroughly adequate and reliable devices for the indication of those subtleties of expression in performance which characterise personal delivery. It is hard to see how they will ever gain them. Meanwhile, the want gives rise to tradition as to what the actual meaning, manner, and method of an originator were. Personally intimate acquaintances naturally hold high authority; then come pupils, or such as had the pleasure and advantage of first or early performances. These again vary, in accordance with the "mood of the moment" of the author, performer, or composer under question. Consequently, a rather large variety, occasionally contradictory item

for item, exists as to traditional accuracy; and the lack of these devices mentioned forces the personal equation of succeeding practitioners and producers into greater prominence and value, perhaps not altogether without final gain to art in each language.

Until the invention of printing, when more accurate, easier, and cheaper dissemination became possible, adepts in both music and literature were credited with much of the character of the miraculous. The long ages of oral instruction and manuscriptwork of course led to this; but the general mass of practitioners and students made short work of their superstitions, and bounded with a startling elasticity to the opposite extreme, so rapid was the all-round appreciation of the new facilities, and so fervent the desire for closer acquaintance with them. To-day, the least wellinformed in either language could possibly give points to these old adepts, who, in influence over their contemporary proletariate, were as uncrowned kings of tuition.

But we have still with us some of the effects of those old-time conditions. Though it is practically impossible to meet with any one who is surprised that paper can carry speech-messages, and that these can be received into the mind without the lips moving as if in articulation, there are yet many who have no conception, and no belief, that written or printed music can be realized to its full import in exactly the same way, without even humming or whistling "the tune." There are others who absolutely resist belief, under however strong assurance. They are of opinion that the varying timbre of different instruments cannot be imagined, and yet they read letters (presupposing just as different voices in their writers) and novels with ready and accurate appreciation, and are imagining (and possibly realising) the different timbre of conversational effects (only another form of sound in speech) all the time. Then there is the attitude of civilised humanity towards pronounced tendencies of excellence in either language under the term Gift. This usage carries the sense, with them, of endowment from birth, by heredity, but seldom any suggestion of energetic acquirement by an ardent spirit. Such a use is more harmful, as a rule, than helpful. It makes those lazy who are credited with a Gift, oftener than not, for they lose that balanced vision of the urgent necessity for continuous acquisition and recapitulation by which alone final and complete success can ever be attained.

Then, unfortunately, there is often also arrogance shown towards less-developed or giftless associates. These latter are not seldom declared "merely a little talented," and this expression to them of (as they take it) reliable opinion acts like a douche of cold water. It damps their enthusiasm whenever they sit down to work. It is an ever-present reminder of incorrigible inequality and hopelessness (as they see its meaning), where, if there were only the suggestion of possible equality through gradual acquirement (a quite feasible outcome of which numerous clear proofs might be adduced), matters would take on a rosy hue, and produce happy and, likely enough, high-class results. Beyond this, the use of the word Gift, as applied to our great composers and authors, leads to a most erroneous and unjust misapprehension. It is remarked that "they could not help writing, they were so full of their subject by nature," when, as the history of great lives shows (Bach and Beethoven especially, to wit, in Music) they were never-ceasing in their application and search for new material and improved methods of dealing with it after first getting it on paper, and in their downright hard-work all round. It should be recalled that Bach never scrupled to re-write an item half-a-dozen times to get it to satisfy his sense of perfection, and the same truth is manifest from the numerous sketches still in existence of how Beethoven labored with the like end in view. The beauties we revel in came not instantaneously, that is. So that, instead of receiving credit as veritable giants of labor, which they were indubitably, they are (when Gift is ascribed to them as above) looked upon as happy beings who never needed to drudge at spade-work, and from whom wondrous creations flowed without personal effort. A greater misconception perhaps never was!

It is fairly obvious, taking the word Gift in its literal sense, that the use originates from those past ages of credence in the miraculous, so far as music and literature go. The hereditytheory, closely pressed in application and even with the aid of reversion to former type, fails to give reliable derivation. Superlative ability in both languages has arisen where it could by no stretch of facts or reasoning be hereditarily accounted for, almost always; and the completest lack of outstanding ability has evinced itself where most rationally a Gift might have been looked for. And this, taking many generations before and after into account.