The reason why music appeals to every side of our nature is that music itself is the result of the activity of the whole nature of a man. Being called forth by the travail of thought, feeling, and will, its effect is the stirring of the thoughts, emotions, and volitions of the listener. It reminds me of one of the natural phenomena in my Oriental country—those mysterious springs that well forth from unknown depths and penetrate into mysterious depths again; the strength which enabled them to break their way from the dark, also enables them to find their path into new depths—the greater the warmth that gave existence to the well, the brighter it sparkles, the higher it rises, and the deeper it sinks again.

Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen,—My object in reading to you a paper on “The Dual Theory in Harmony” is not only to draw attention to a subject which is very little known in this country, but also thereby to stimulate the spirit of comparison, and to induce the study of the various theories which have been put forward as a rational basis for all harmonic phenomena.

Two centuries claim Beethoven for their own—two centuries which in the history of music will always appear as very opposites, close though their relations are: the eighteenth century with its worship of form, the nineteenth with its worship of the idea. In Beethoven both meet, in him both find their greatest representative—in him first, and in him alone, their leading principles become reconciled. He is the only composer in whose works the great ideas which were agitating his time, some of the problems which have occupied man's mind since the beginning of man's history, have found an echo. Not that he deliberately took as it were those ideas and problems as the text of his compositions, but so much had he thought about them, so deeply was he imbued with their importance, so much had they become keynotes of his mode of feeling, so much in fact part and parcel of his personality, that the freer the expression he allowed to the latter in his music, the more was it bound to reflect those ideas. At the same time, it was Beethoven who put the last finishing touches to the grand edifice of musical forms, the material for which had been brought together in hundreds of years of slow, persistent, and consistent work, till in Ph. E. Bach, in Haydn, and in Mozart arose the architects who with master-hands were to shape and fix its outlines for all time. Beethoven accepted the forms from them, but soon he began to alter and to extend them: again not because he deliberately wished to improve on his predecessors, but because he did not find these forms an adequate medium for the expression of his individuality. It was in obedience to the demands of the latter that the inherited forms gradually assumed a new aspect altogether, gradually gained that power and pliability which enabled them to give voice to every shade of feeling with a directness, an intensity and subtleness which they had never been thought capable of.

In my last paper on the development of Russian opera, I spoke of Dargomijsky and Moussorgsky, whose dramatic and realistic tendencies separated them to some extent from the direct influence of Glinka; and I also gave some account of Serov, the one thorough-going disciple of Wagner whom Russia has produced. To-day, I return with Borodin to that original type of national, lyric opera which Glinka inaugurated in “A Life for the Tsar.”

The Pacific seaboard which bounds the territory of British Columbia on its west side is marked by frequent inlets backed by high mountain ranges and fringed with numerous islands, whose rocky heights, crowned with spruce and cedar, testify to their having at one time formed part of the mainland itself. Scattered along this coast in a territory about a thousand miles long by one hundred and fifty miles wide and separated from the inhabitants of the interior by natural barriers of hill and forest are certain Indian tribes of a peculiar and distinct character. Not only are their complexions surprisingly light coloured, — in some instances almost as fair as those of Europeans and in no way due to recent intermixture with white races—but in customs and laws, in arts and handicrafts, they show themselves superior to all other existing Indian tribes.

To a Society “formed for the investigation and discussion of subjects connected with the Art, Science, and History of Music,” the subject of musical libraries cannot fail to be of interest, as neither of these branches of the study can be followed without an adequate knowledge of the work of previous investigators. The development of the art of musical notation, the rise of the art of music-printing from its rude early attempts to its present perfection, the history of the gradual development of harmony, must be of interest to every intelligent musician, and even the executant cannot fail to be interested in the life and surroundings of the composer whose works he is interpreting, and his relation to the composers who have preceded and followed him. For such studies the resources of a well - furnished library are indispensable.

Gazing at the stones of some great Cathedral, filled with wonder and admiration at its grace and beauty, as we watch the sweep of its Gothic arches, the intricacy of its tracery, the perfection of its proportions, our eye falls upon the organ, and we are set a-musing. Some five hundred years ago the last word was said in the development of Gothic architecture. Since then fashions have come and gone; one generation has praised its virtues, another has ignored them altogether, but none has been able to improve upon them. Reproduction and imitation we have had in plenty, but no advance. The architecture of the Middle Ages culminated some time in the fifteenth century; it has left its witness in stone poems all over the land. Since then all attempts at development have meant decadence, all endeavours after improvement, corruption.

There is an appearance of charlatanism in the title of my paper. But do not let this mislead you into imagining that I am a dealer in nostrums. I have another request to make. Disabuse yourselves of the possible suspicion that I have pretensions to absolute originality of ideas on the subject, or a desire to combat the ideas of others. Not controversy with theorists of a different way of thinking, but a simple presentation of my own views and teaching, is the object I am aiming at. If, however, my statements—some of which are not unlikely to startle, shock, and horrify you—instil into you a little scepticism with regard to current notions, I for one shall not regret it, and think you ought not to regret it. For scepticism is a wholesome ingredient of the human mind, in fact, the leaven of thought.