In music the term “Expression” has a twofold meaning. It may, on the one hand, refer to the inherent expression contained in the music—the expression of the composer's mind—or, on the other hand, to the manner in which the music is played; in other words, to the degree of truth with which the performer reflects in his rendering the expression contained in the music. This twofold aspect of expression belongs in a lesser degree to poetry, and results from the nature of the medium employed. In this respect music and poetry differ from the concrete arts, painting and sculpture. Notes and words do not embody the author's mind in the same degree as colours and design. Of course, even a fine picture may make no appeal to the observer; but in such case nothing more can be done. It is the complete expression of the artist's mind, both as creator and performer. It is the very thing itself. But in a musical composition the notes are merely symbols—symbols of sounds, which are the real medium of expression employed; so that a musical composition needs re-presenting by performance. These symbols then must be translated into the sounds which they represent. Music is a language of sound, and its appeal is to the ear. It does not affect the question that persons can hear the sounds by merely looking at the notes; for even then the process of translation into sound goes on mentally. We see, then, why the performing side of the question comes in; and why, in consequence, expression in music can refer either to the composition or to its performance. It is of musical expression in this latter sense, that is, as it exists in the hands of the performer, that I now propose to speak.

Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen : On perusing the list of papers read before this Association in previous years, I find that very few have treated of the diction of song and none at all of Elizabethan song—and this during a period of thirty-seven years. My subject is therefore quite a novel one so far as this Association is concerned.

Before starting on the subject of our study this afternoon, I want to tell you about the instrument upon which I am going to play. It is a South Indian vînâ, from Tanjore. The vînâ is the national instrument of India. It possesses extraordinary tonal beauty and variety of expression when properly manipulated. Not having been able to obtain the right kind of drone instrument, called tambura, on which to accompany myself to-day, I have tuned this vînâ like the tambura, doing away with three of its strings. The effect thus obtained is similar to tambura, but of course it spoils the vînâ quality of the instrument. I must also tell you that there should be a drummer, and a vînâ- or sârenghi-player, as well as the tambura, in order to obtain a good accompaniment for songs. In the absence of these to-day, it will be rather like listening to two parts of a quartet!

The subject of this paper is, I am aware, a little outside of the usual programme of the Musical Association, as it deals partly with matters of building and architecture; but it is of some consequence that music should be heard under the most advantageous conditions, and some of those whom I am addressing may have to decide on some occasion on the choice of a plan for a concert hall, and I should be glad if I could think that any of the suggestions I have to make may be of use to them in the future. The construction of theatres for opera I am purposely leaving on one side; opera is a spectacular as well as a musical business, and the theatre is a special class of building, which would demand a paper to itself. We are here considering only the question of hearing music.

In order that the drift of my remarks may be at once perceived, I should like to state clearly the object of my paper. It is to give my reasons, after a lifetime of experience, for thinking that the private practice of chamber-music is so conducive to personal happiness as to be of real interest to the community at large, as well as to a small section of it, and to suggest a means for its extension and development.

A superficial study of the rise of universities in Europe places England in a significant position in the lead, while a careful investigation of her influence on the world of scholarship, and her specific relation to the development of music as an educational asset, compels astonishment and gratitude in equal measure. It requires, therefore, considerable courage to write upon the comparatively meagre results of the attempts of educational institutions on the Western shores of the Atlantic to follow so admirable and so inspiring a guide. This statement is not to be construed as an apology, but rather as an indication that the subject is approached with full realisation of its inherent difficulties, and with no small measure of hesitation.

May I preface my remarks on the subject announced for the discourse of this afternoon by saying, this Paper is the result of an accident—as are not a few other passing events in our lives.

I do not propose this afternoon to dwell particularly upon the circumstances of the life of Hugo Wolf; rather to consider the main characteristics of his work and to speak of their exemplification in the songs that are to be sung to you. It will be sufficient then, to indicate shortly the main course of his life. He was born in 1860 at Windischgrätz, in Austria, and at the age of fifteen entered the Conservatoire of Vienna. There he became involved, through misrepresentation it seems, in some difference with a professor, in consequence of which he was obliged to leave. For some years following, he had a hard struggle for existence, taking whatever odd musical employment he could obtain, pursuing in the meantime his musical studies by himself. He has related how at this time he laboriously analysed the works of Bach and Beethoven, the songs of Schubert and Schumann, and exercised himself in the technique of composition generally, in the most exhaustive manner. Quite early, his own incipient creative preferences declared themselves on the side of modernity. For Wagner he had an unbounded admiration. Berlioz, too, was a particular idol of his, and it is recorded how he would break off uncongenial tasks, such as the giving of lessons, or the training of a chorus in an opera for which he did not care, to plunge into the performance from memory of long stretches of the music of his favourite composers. Always a great reader, with decided and educated literary tastes, he was able to obtain, in 1886, an appointment as musical critic to the Vienna Salonblatt. Trenchant and outspoken in his style and opinions, his articles soon aroused attention. He condemned unsparingly, with a mordant and ruthless pen, what he held to be bad; and for what he admired he had equally outspoken appreciation. Implacably honest, his opinions led him into direct conflict with the Brahms-Hanslick party in Vienna—a circumstance that was to procure the severe handling of his own work later on; when his critics did not fail to wound him with the weapons he had himself forged.