A certain amount, though by no means enough, has been written on Morley the composer and teacher. The work I want to discuss to-day illustrates two other aspects of his wide genius which so far have been little studied—Morley as editor and arranger, and Morley as innovator.

Before I start on the main body of what I have to say, a few words of explanation are perhaps necessary.

First of all, with regard to the limits which I have set myself. You will have seen the dates—1870–1895—and possibly wondered at their apparent arbitrariness. But all I could hope to do here is to trace the main outlines of the first stage of France's musical revival. Debussy is only just on my map; Ravel, Roussel and even the later Fauré quite off it. But by 1895 all the main contributory elements which formed these later styles had made their appearance. Satie and Chabrier—the models acclaimed by a later generation—were active before Franck was dead: the Schola Cantorum was founded in the same year as Debussy's Après midi d'un faune appeared—in 1894. These twenty-five years are not the most glorious: much of the music was still tentative and the sense of national style was by no means complete. But because they were years of growth they are particularly worthy of sympathetic study.

A few months ago I held that modal harmony—chords and progressions distinct from those of diatonic harmony—consisted only of a few idioms beloved by nationalist composers, who spiced diatonic progression by making scales modal; as in the practice of musica ficta the polyphonists eased modal progression by making the modes scalar. Last September, when Dr. Andrews came to Durham to examine, I somewhat rudely pooh-poohed his appreciation of modal writing in Palestrina, declaring that, though Palestrina observed the authentic or plagal range of a vocal part, it was churchly reverence, melodic and rhythmic restraint rather than any harmonic procedure, that distinguished him from such a composer as Byrd. Strip Byrd of his “changing notes,” his modulations, his bold accents and basses, and what difference is there between Palestrina in the Dorian mode and Byrd in D minor? Dr. Andrews was gentle in his reproof, which amounted to “Look again.” Let any material in this paper that results from my looking again express my apology and thanks.

When I chose the title of this paper, not without difficulty, some months ago, I had in mind only the unique nature of Domenico Scarlatti's keyboard compositions themselves, for my approach to this composer had always been musical rather than bibliographical or historical. I am, indeed, no bibliographer or historian, but merely a practical musician whose only qualification to speak on Scarlatti's works is that of having long known them fairly intimately with my fingers. I have played each one of the 550 Scarlatti pieces I possess several times, and a great many of them countless times, though never upon the type of instrument for which they were designed. To my infinite regret I am not a harpsichordist, but in playing my Scarlatti illustrations on the piano I am fortified by a remark made by our President at the first meeting of the Session, to the effect that in performing early music upon modern instruments, musicians were interpreting it as a living art.

To all concerned with the presentation of music the study of the audience is a matter of obvious moment. To executants and composers who wish to be heard it is vital.

The seventeenth century is conspicuous in musical history for the picturesque and unorthodox personalities that flourished during its span. None of them was more vigorous, colourful or intrepid than that robust and adventurous character, Matthew Locke. Born about 1630, and therefore the older contemporary of Buxtehude and Lully, Locke grew up in an age that was largely occupied in trying to absorb the new doctrines expounded or implied by the Florentine revolutionaries at the beginning of the century. The pupil of Christopher Gibbons, his musical lineage thus sprang in direct succession from the great Elizabethan polyphonic school, and the conflict between that tradition and the new methods infiltrating from the continent was the perpetual undercurrent of his development. The earlier generation of composers, which included such men as William Child and Christopher Gibbons himself, had been inclined to evade the issue, and let it be understood that it was too late for them to undertake so fundamental a reorientation. But it was impossible to ignore any longer the changing aspect of European music; the new influences abroad had to be incorporated into the national idiom, however drastic the process involved. Locke was not one to decline such a difficult and, in many ways, thankless task; on the contrary the challenge afforded him a certain stimulus. It demanded a man of dauntless fibre, and Locke was tough, both personally and musically. He had need to be, for as if his artistic problems were not sufficient, they were set against a background of social upheaval. His youth was spent under the early Stuarts, the Commonwealth witnessed his progress to maturity, and the climax of his career was reached during the Restoration. He is thus of unusual interest historically, since his life not only spans the artistic gap between the last survivals of the Elizabethan period and the widespread adoption of the Italian manner, but also links two political eras separated by a succession of events that profoundly changed the whole constitutional scene.