An abyss separates the research of Mahler from that of social historians on anti-Semitism in fin-de-siècle Austria and Germany. Mahler specialists tend to study the assaults he endured in terms of the centuries-old intolerance. Social historians, however, have pursued a different tack. They trace the liberal thought of the mid-nineteenth century, the legal emancipation of the Jews and its aftermath to the rise of ‘new’ anti-Semitism in the 1870s, centred in Vienna. The reasons why Mahler resigned as director of the Vienna Court Opera involve many more factors and subtleties, even concerning the expression of anti-Semitism. It is on these elements that this article attempts to shed light.

An index reference in Donald Mitchell's study of Mahler's ‘Wunderhorn’ years seems to promise an appraisal of Mahler's debt to Liszt; on the page, however, an assumption precedes an exhortation to ‘serious research and documentation’. The debt is located in Mahler's ‘consistent and brilliant’ use of transformation of themes with particular reference being made to the ‘Faust’ Symphony. Elsewhere, Mitchell cites a trumpet tune from the finale of the ‘Resurrection’ Symphony and its subsequent transformation into a chorale as an example of ‘how closely Mahler had studied Liszt’. The species of transformation demonstrated is common in Liszt, mood and association being altered by radically changing the context while leaving melodic, harmonic and rhythmic contour relatively untouched. All of this, however, Mahler might have learned from Wagner, Smetana, Weber or many another composer of dramatic or programmatic music. Real documentation, in the form of letters or recorded comment, has always taken place in discussion of Mahler's debt to Liszt to the pursuit of technical and aesthetic parallels; Constantin Floras' study in progress is typical in that copious motivic and thematic cross-reference, and extensive documentation with regard to Mahler and Liszt individually far outweigh recorded discussion by Mahler of Liszt's personality and music.

The recent publication of Heinrich Schenker's Das Meisterwerk in der Musik (1925-30) in a translation by Ian Bent, William Drabkin and others reminds us that in the highest modern traditions textual criticism and exegesis — editing and analysis — are inseparable. Much of Schenker's commentary on Mozart's Symphony in G minor, K.550, is devoted to isolating discrepancies between manuscript and edition, and some of his most fascinating analytical suggestions grow out of just this. Conversely, analytical strategies may have editorial consequences, and decisions taken by editors of the Neue Mozart Ausgabe have been challenged justly on stylistic grounds. If a passage occurs twice in a composition, for instance, does it have to be articulated in the same way on both occasions? And if there are differences in the articulations, what exactly do they tell us? Given the intricacy of the modern analytical debate over Mozart, such questions may not be answered by editors alone. Nor can editions be undertaken without reference to changing social circumstances: for composers in general have shown themselves more than ready to provide their own variants for different performing situations (again, Mozart's re-orchestration of the Symphony in G minor is a case in point). Indeed, in another field, scholars have asked that cultural issues should also influence editorial practice; these issues similarly require learning and sensitivity, and again deserve attention.

Ralph Vaughan Williams's father died when Ralph was two years old; his mother took her three small children to her own parents' house, Leith Hill Place, near Dorking, and brought them up much as she had been brought up herself. Besides the children, the household consisted of grandparents and a maiden aunt, and a staff of servants, mostly local people. Judging from a photograph of a group of them, none was young, and all were slightly eccentric.

There is probably no department of human industry wherein the predominating influence of a master hand has been more forcibly and continuously displayed than in the case of Antonio Stradivari; and although my remarks are chiefly intended to be directed to the period subsequent to his death, it may nevertheless be well to preface them with one or two observations concerning this extraordinary man and his work.

To build a bridge between the art of music and the physical and physiological sciences of sound was the task that Helmholtz set himself when he entered upon the classical work which has served ever since as the basis of all research in this field. How far he succeeded in accomplishing his object we need not discuss here, but he certainly laid the foundation of a very extensive practical science, devoted alone to the investigation of the laws of sound in all the varied forms in which we meet them in music. The phonologist, as he should be called who is occupied with this study, finds himself, however, in a somewhat isolated situation. The schools of experimental physics are generally too busy with electricity and kindred subjects to give much thought to sound, although the telephone and phonograph have to some extent forced their attention in that direction. Among physiologists, very few are occupied with sound, and the peculiar skill required in studying the vocal organs, which has necessitated the formation of a special branch of medicine, diminishes their number still further.

Few extant collections of late-medieval polyphony have been linked definitively to composers whose works they transmit. A dearth of documents that are literally ‘authoritative’ – in the sense that they come directly from the hand of the author – is not surprising in light of the small survival rate of fourteenth- and fifteenth-century manuscripts and the likelihood that pieces were not written down for the first time in versions for presentation. Most surviving manuscripts appear to be several generations removed from written originals. Nevertheless, presentation manuscripts and other anthologies were not necessarily compiled by scribes in isolation. When composers were nearby they probably were consulted, either directly or through scribal access to authoritative written exemplars. Therefore, despite a paucity of documented relationships, some extant manuscripts may have been compiled in close association with the composers whose music they contain, perhaps even under their guidance.

Our time of progress is often specially designated a critical and even hypercritical period. But whilst so much deep thought and true feeling have flowed from the pens of profound thinkers in every direction, it has occurred to no one to attack a barbarous remnant of bygone times in music. The idea might have appalled one less deeply convinced than myself. But one must have courage to enter the lists for what one has well weighed and found to be true. I propose to deal here with no less a matter than the entire abolition of all part-repetition in music—e.g., in symphonies, sonatas, quartets, &c. Can there be anything more inconsistent than these stereotyped repetitions? The artist creates a work from his innermost soul, and places it before us in its entirety so that we might behold the same mirage which enchanted his mind, and follow him with the unabated energy of all our mental faculties. He receives us, as it were, upon his Mephistophelian mantle, and carries us in a trice across giddy heights and rugged rocks, over charming valleys, purling brooks, and roaring torrents. He transports us to the pinnacle of joy, and anon dashes into the abyss of sorrow, thrilling us with the ever-changing kaleidoscope of human emotions. Happy is he whose receptive powers can arouse that sympathy which warms into enthusiasm for the master's vision of the ideal. He approaches nearest to the creating genius.

The spectre of music as a transcendent artistic ideal figures prominently in the literary criticism of Victorian aestheticism, though the extent to which aestheticism of the movement actually influenced the thinking of British composers has received only marginal scholarly attention. By the first decades of the twentieth century, aestheticism had become decidedly unfashionable even in literary circles, so it is unsurprising that composers of the time would choose to distance themselves from its rhetoric. The prevalence of a certain type of metaphysical conception of the creative act of the artist and intuitive act of the critic, however, may suggest an important remnant of aesthetic influence. Drawing from new critical trends which themselves mirror those of aestheticism, this article posits a revised conception of aesthetic discourse as an activity of self-cultivation, and examines its role in shaping the lives of selected British composer-critics from the early part of the twentieth century. By casting the aesthetic ethos not as a doctrine but as a set of internal practices that inform the creation and subversion of doctrine, the article demonstrates how a ‘relational musicology’ can act as a tool for historical inquiry.

The earlier part of the nineteenth century is considered a ‘bad’ period of English music. It has been labelled, like the earlier period discussed by Dr. Sadie at our last meeting, a ‘Dark Age’. It is interesting to see on what basis these judgments are held. How much music written by English composers in the years 1800–1860 is still generally known? I have compiled a rough list of works that are still in current use, apart from occasional revivals. It is based on recent programmes, chapel lists, publishers’ catalogues, and so on.

This article explores the treatment of space in Gustav Mahler's First Symphony from the perspective of the composer's experience as a conductor of opera. It considers the ‘theatrically’ located offstage utterances in the work's introduction in light of passages from Beethoven's Fidelio (Act 2, scene ii) and Tristan und Isolde (Act 2, scene ii), and against the backdrop of Mahler's controversial attempt to assign the Alla marcia section from the Finale of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony to a small offstage orchestra. By considering in turn the implications of Mahler's treatment of offstage space on the work's overall structure, specifically with respect to the moment of ‘breakthrough’ in the first and last movements, I suggest that Mahler ultimately re-establishes the vitality of the symphony as genre at the intersection between the waning symphonic tradition and the immediacy of operatic convention.

Nearly all of Schumann's music contains or derives from words, whether as texts, titles, programmes or epigraphs. It is also famous for its structure of music qua mosaic, an aggregation of small-scale motifs. Now, surely these two basic facts about Schumann—his obviously verbal content, his obviously motivic form—may well be related? He works by way of motto-themes, I suggest, because that is literally what they are—mottoes turned into themes.

The history of the flat, sharp, and natural is not a dull record, but a tale full of stirring incidents. If my narrative does not succeed in engaging your interest, in stimulating your curiosity, and in now and then sending a thrill of excitement through you, I have failed to do justice to the noble subject of my choice. These remarks may lead you to suppose that I am going to speak of the human flats, sharps, and naturals of our profession. This, too, is, if not a noble, certainly an interesting subject; but it is not the one of which I intend to treat on this occasion. My subject is the origin, rise, and vicissitudes of the musical signs that raise and lower natural notes and restore raised and lowered notes to their natural state. No doubt most people would suspect such a history to be dull; but nothing is dull if only we go deep enough into it. The subject in question is certainly not an exception to this rule, which could be confirmed by the study of hundreds of the apparently dry details of our notation. It is with these details as with the humble constituents of society; with the flat, sharp, and natural as with those lowly neighbours of ours whose lives seem to us an unbroken level desert. How great is always our astonishment when chance allows us to get a glimpse of what is hidden behind the plain, prosaic exteriors, and we discover loves and hates, hopes and disappointments, joys and sorrows, aspirations, successes, and failures—in short, at least as much romance as in the lives of the great and mighty. Well, let us try to get a glimpse of what is hidden behind the plain exteriors of the humble friends now under consideration.

The problem of range-finding—i.e., finding the distance of an object—is generally reduced to that of finding the direction of the object from each of a set of base points. Usually the object ranged is in motion, and the necessary measurements must be made rapidly.

Many of the pieces in Matthew Locke's seven sets of consort music, whose principal source is the great score-book in the British Museum, Add. MS 17801, were subjected to a process of careful and repeated revision. The changes Locke made were sometimes extensive, involving the restructuring of an entire movement, the introduction of new material, or the substantial modification of that existing already. The editor of such works must decide whether he is going to present a single version—in this case presumably the composer's final revision—or to embody the variant readings in a textual commentary, or to print such readings in their entirety as parallel texts. The usefulness of a textual commentary tends to be in inverse proportion to its length: the more variants there are to be listed the less easy it becomes to perceive the overall shape of that version of the text embodying them. In the case of Locke's music ‘For Several Friends’ and the movements of the Flat Consort which were subjected to much change the ideal solution is obviously to print both first and last versions in full. But Locke is after all not Beethoven, and in the recent Musica Britannica edition only the composer's final versions have been presented, with a few examples of movements from the early version of the Flat Consort to illustrate the extent and nature of the modifications. Nevertheless, Locke's revisions are worth considering in some detail, for they reveal a composer with a mind both restless and fastidious. The best point of departure is the autograph score-book itself which Locke entitled ‘Compositions for Broken, and whole Consorts, of two, three, Fower, Five, and Six Parts, made by Matthew Locke, Composer in Ordinary to his Majestye’.

The Musical world celebrates this month the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Mozart's birth, and your Council, being desirous that the occasion should not pass entirely unnoticed by the Association, have done me the honour of asking me to read a paper to-day.

That the English style of the early fifteenth century was crucial to the development of later music seems undeniable. The oft-cited, passages from the writings of Martin le Franc and Tinctoris, whatever their obscurities of detail, are unequivocal in their placing of the English in general and Dunstable in particular at the head of a completely new style, and to set against this, we have a large and varied corpus of music, especially music for the mass Ordinary, which amply testifies to the richness of the insular tradition. Not only was this music considered distinctive in its own day, but it has also proved readily recognizable to modern scholars despite the relative dearth of ascriptions. Even so, one feels that any suggestion that it is the English style as such which is so obvious remains surprisingly premature. The main reason for this is not hard to find; in fact, nearly all the most convincing evidence for assigning English authorship to anonymous works has turned out to be either essentially non-musical (e.g. the presence of a piece in an insular source, the use of a distinctively English variant of a given plainsong, the presence of telescoping in settings of the Credo, the use of characteristic notational procedures) or concerned with relatively superficial aspects of style (e.g. the use of a standard mensural scheme, the appearance of one or more of a handful of melodic clichés). Since there are clearly much easier ways of recognizing English music than from the niceties of musical style, efforts at more specifically stylistic analysis have lagged behind somewhat, despite the important work of such scholars as Brian Trowell and Margaret Bent. Certainly, it has not proved possible to tease out that arcane quality, the contenance angloise, which has sometimes been assumed to infuse the entire repertory from the Old Hall Manuscript onwards.