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.

In this paper I propose to deal with Berlioz the musician, rather than with Berlioz the man: firstly, because in this his centenary year we have most of us had our memories refreshed with, the main details of his life; and secondly, because even now, a hundred years after his birth, there are many things connected with his music or his ideas on music which are either misconstrued or imperfectly understood.

In this paper on the Ancient Hydraulic Organ, or Hydraulicon, I must first apologize for the unfavourable strictures which I shall have to set down as to some of those persons who have been generally most highly regarded—and very deservedly so—in connection with the Art of Music. And my difficulties are enhanced by the fact that all, or most of, such persons are unfortunately no longer living. Now the axiom “Say nothing but good concerning the dead” is a most beautiful one theoretically; but it is obvious that it cannot always be obeyed in practice. For, although the sound of the departed one's actual voice has been for ever stilled, yet while that larger and more enduring written utterance remains, for good or for evil, so long must that utterance exist as an object of legitimate inquiry and adjudgment—always of course with the remembrance that as the deceased person can never more be present in the flesh, for disputing or denying the truth of any verdict pronounced against him, so must such verdict be always weighed accordingly. It is necessary to add that in any condemnations here made as to statements by these musicians concerning the organ, it is solely the structure of the instrument which is then involved, and even in that is always wholly or chiefly as relating to its physiological considerations.

The first aesthetic impressions of an artist's childhood are rarely quite obliterated in his subsequent career. Often we may trace some peculiar quality of a man's genius back to the very traditions he imbibed in the nursery. Therefore, despite Browning's sarcasm, it is not always mere sensational curiosity which prompts the question “What porridge had John Keats?”

At a time when so many obscure composers are rediscovered and reprinted in sumptuous volumes, that for the most part are issued only to grow as dusty on their shelves as the original manuscripts which their industrious editors have so laboriously collated, I need not apologise for bringing to your notice a composer who has been more neglected than any, and who has deserved neglect a good deal less than most.

The difficulties of getting about in Africa, and the distances to be covered, make it regrettable that pioneers, when they visit isolated districts and bring back mementos of the natives, confine the selection of articles they have to show on their return to trophies of the chase, weapons of war, and domestic utensils, overlooking the ingenious though primitive instruments of music which to members of this Association are of unique interest.

The responsibilities of one who undertakes the editorship of the work of a deceased musician are many and serious: he is bound to present the text in its integrity, correcting of course any obvious clerical error, and where any point of ambiguity or doubt arises to call attention to it, and, if he please, suggest such an emendation as would appear in his judgment to carry out the intentions and exact meaning of the author. It is absolutely indispensable that an editor of music should be an expert musician, thoroughly conversant not only with the works of the composer he edits but also the methods and traditions of the period in which that composer lived. The editor will frequently have to decide on the authenticity of conflicting manuscripts and copies and to accept or reject this or that reading; but if he mutilate or add to the original draft of the author, he is like a fraudulent trustee and deserves the reprobation of all earnest workers. The annals of music, if carefully searched, would present numerous instances of unfair or unwise editorship. In passing one may mention Dean Aldrich, who edited and appropriated, I think without due acknowledgment, the music of Palestrina, Carissimi, and other Italian composers. The music of Purcell has notably suffered at the hands of unscrupulous or unskilful editors. Doubtless you are familiar with Dr. Boyce's treatment of Purcell's great Te Deum in D. He tried to Handelize it, probably with the best intention, but by expansion and additions he made it about a third longer than the composer's original draft. This same Te Deum was treated in a far more shameful manner by Stafford Smith. He published the work with the following title, “Mr. Purcell's grand Te Deum Alter'd and Digested for the Use of His Majesty's Chapel Royal, also adapted for the Organ or Harpsichord only, by John Stafford Smith, Being Proper for all Chorus and places where they sing in parts.” This is one of the most impertinent pieces of vandalism I am acquainted with. The work is transposed a note lower throughout, and is rightly described as having been “altered and digested.” Smith's digestion must have been of a remarkable character; he reduced the length of the composition by about one-third, and introduced much of his own composition or decomposition into the remaining two-thirds. I have brought a copy of this Smith concoction for your inspection, and also the first printed edition of the Te Deum published by Purcell's widow.

I most apologise for the misleading appearance of my synopsis, but a line of argument such as I propose to follow always looks more complicated and disjointed in a synopsis than it really is. The real argument may prove to be a series of logical steps so gradual and so obvious as to seem a pile of platitudes, while the synopsis, which can only give the chief points, and those only in the shortest possible phrases, may seem to be a bundle of paradoxes. The most popular work on a philosophical subject looks ten times as technical and crude in the synopsis than it is in the text; and I fear that I shall seem to have come before you under false pretences, having promised something very abstruse and new, whereas I have only a few very obvious ways of putting together the plainest general truths about music, and have nothing more to say except to emphasise these particular and very familiar ways of putting them together.