It is a great pleasure to me to have the privilege of addressing you this afternoon on the subject of Clock Jacks or Quarter Boys as they are frequently called. In my two papers on Chimes and Chime Tunes, I felt that there was little of musical interest that had not been dealt with, but after further research I found that Clock Jacks were of special historic interest, and also that the bells used and the notes played by them were worthy of the attention of musicians.

A nation must cultivate its own peculiar resources and characteristics before it can count in the intercourse of peoples. A nation which depends for existence or benefit upon the production or resources of other nations is bound to run grave risks. During the War we have had reason to regret that we have allowed so much arable land to become pasture. That is a neglect of national development that we begin at last to understand; but it is not so generally recognised that to depend upon other nations for our art is every whit as dangerous to our national welfare. The evil first becomes evident in our inferior æsthetic sensibilities, but it soon affects us in material ways as well; and so it happens to-day that German workmanship in pianofortes, as well as in musical compositions, is generally preferred, even in the Army.

For upwards of a hundred years the violin has been the subject of more experiment, and probably more controversy, than any other musical instrument devised by the wit of man. Since the early part of the last century, when Savart, the French scientist, first gave to the Academy the results of his researches, and propounded his theories of violin making and acoustics, all sorts and conditions of men, from the humble village artizan to the highly-trained chemist and man of science, have experimented with practically every part of the fiddle's anatomy, in the hope of making some grand discovery either in relation to matters of construction or to the eternal and much misunderstood question of varnish.

The following remarks are based on a lifelong familiarity with musical instruments of every kind. In my practical and experimental researches I am constantly observing phenomena which do not appear to conform with established acoustical theories, and some of these I will now lay before you. It will be first necessary to state briefly certain theories commonly taught.

We have the statement of Carl Philipp Emmanuel Bach, confirmed by Forkel, Bach's earliest biographer, that his father composed five Cantatas for every Sunday and Festival of the ecclesiastical year. Concerted music was sung at Leipzig annually on forty-three Sundays and sixteen week-days. Bach therefore must have written at least 295 Cantatas. Of this number he composed at least thirty before 1723. Hence approximately 265 were written at Leipzig. But Bach's fertility does not appear to have outlived the year 1744. We have reason, therefore, to conclude that the 265 Leipzig Cantatas were written in the course of twenty-one years, that is, between 1723 and 1744. To complete that number Bach must have composed a new Cantata every month, a surprising but demonstrable conclusion.

I would like to say a few words on a subject that may appear, at first consideration, to be highly controversial. To those whose appreciation of the classical in music is perfectly sincere, who feel that a large proportion of it is irrevocably established as a fully adequate expression of the beautiful, with the beauty that brooks no denial, my view of the matter may possibly savour of the irreverent, not to say impertinent. I desire to be neither irreverent nor impertinent, but merely venture to suggest that we place an unduly high value on much musical work that has come into the category of the classical, either by reason of its remoteness from our current thought and methods, or by reason of its historical position in revealing definite points of development and expansion in an art that is still seeking an approach to maturity.

It may be well to begin by explaining that in this paper the term “modern” refers not so much to the date of a composer as to the character of his music. This appears confusing until we remember that Guilmant (none of whose admirable pieces strike a modern note, and many of which show distinct signs of age) was born fifteen years after Franck, whose music is so much in the idiom of to-day that it is only now beginning to be fully appreciated. Again, Boëllmann is surely more modern than Bonnet, in spite of the occasional tonal and other spicy chords in the works of the latter. The fact is, a sprkinling of up-to-date progressions no more makes a work modem than do a few casual swallows make a summer. Of course, harmonic colour and melodic style count, but the main factor is vitality in idea and development, and I hope to be able to show that this vitality is a prime characteristic of the group of composers of whom I am to speak.

The germ of the Genevan Psalter is to be found in a metrical French version of Psalm 6. It consists of ten stanzas in six lines, in the measure of Insbruch, ich muss dich lassen, beginning Ne vueille pas, O Sire, the workmanship of Clément Marot. For full particulars of the history and literary compositions of this remarkable man, to whom French lyric poetry, as well as the Genevan Psalter, owes so much, the student is referred to M. Douen's “Clement Marot et le Psautier Huguenot,” a review of which, written by Major G. A. Crawford, appeared in the Musical Times during the months of June till November, 1881. But in a lecture on the French Psalter it is needful to say something, however briefly and disjointedly, on its originator.