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 practical end, which is to facilitate the execution; others are only motivated by the desire to take away from the isolated aspect of the work, to render it less disconcerting to the public." Jean Marnold,/r//In Musique d'autrefois et d'aujourd'hui./r// on the other hand, screams with rage: "He (Rimsky-Korsakoff) changes the order of the last two tableaux, thus denaturing at its conclusion the expressly popular essence and the psychology of the drama. The scene of Boris with his children is especially mutilated. Rimsky-Korsakoff cuts, at his happiness, one, two, or three measures, as serenely as he cuts fifteen or twenty. At will he transposes a tone, a half-tone, makes sharps or flats natural, alters modulations. He even corrects the harmony. During the tableau in the cell of Pimen the liturgical Dorian mode is adulterated by a banal D minor. The interval of the augmented fifth (a favourite device of Musorgsky) is frequently the object of this equilateral ostracism. He has no more respect for traditional harmony. Nearly every instant Rimsky-Korsakoff changes something for the unique reason that it is his pleasure to do so. From one end of the work to the other he planes, files, polishes, pulls together, retouches, embellishes, makes insipid, or corrupts. In comparing the two scores one can hardly believe one's eyes. In the two hundred and fifty-eight pages of that

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 of Rimsky-Korsakoff there are perhaps not twenty which conform to the original text."

Whether or no Rimsky-Korsakoff spoiled his friend's opera I have no personal means of determining. Original scores of Boris do not, so far as I am aware, exist in New York. Apparently, they do not abound anywhere. It may, however, be offered in extenuation of Rimsky-Korsakoff's act that his version has consistently held the stage and has made a tremendous effect wherever it has been presented. The original work may or may not have surpassed its successor, but, at any rate, Boris, as it now stands, is one of the most solid, one of the most striking, one of the most beautiful works in the current repertory.

The case of Oberon is another matter altogether. Regarding with greedy eyes the success of Der Freischütz in London, the Director of Covent Garden Theatre sought a new work from

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

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 Weber. The composer, near death and anxious to provide for the future of his family, consented to set an English book to music. Two subjects were offered him, Faust and Oberon. He chose the latter and J. R. Planché prepared the book, from time to time sending scenes on to Weber, who went to the trouble of learning English so that he might the better understand what he was writing music for. It was felt that too great a strain must not be put upon the appreciatory powers of a Covent Garden audience. Difficulties, too, presented themselves. The singers in this theatre could not act, the actors could not sing. As a result of this situation Planché prepared a strange opera book with plenty of opportunity for a spectacular scene painter (there were something like twenty-one scenes in the original version), in which there was a great deal of spoken dialogue, much of it allotted to characters who never sang a note. With true fatidical spirit Weber wrote to Planché, "The intermixing of so many principal actors who do not sing, the omission of the music in the most important moments—all deprive our Oberon of the title of an opera, and will make him unfit for all other theatres in Europe." Nevertheless, deeply inspired by the subject, Weber completed the work, intending to rewrite it later for performance in other theatres, but he died in London in June

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 1826, two months after Oberon was produced, before he had time to carry out his intention.

There the matter stood. Weber had composed what I, at any rate, consider his finest opera in a form which made it simply unpresentable under any but the original conditions. It is therefore no subject for wonder that since that day it has seldom, if ever, been performed as written. Huon's first air proving unsuitable to the voice of Braham, the tenor who created the rôle, Weber wrote a new air. In the early German performances the original song was restored, and it was not long before music was provided for the dialogue. Berlioz heard Schroeder-Devrient sing Rezia in Paris four years after the London production. The Théâtre-Lyrique, under the direction of Carvalho, mounted the work in 1857. In 1860, Sir Julius Benedict arranged an Italian version of Oberon for London, adding certain numbers from Euryanthe and providing music for the spoken dialogue. Willner, Josef Schlaar, and Gustav Mahler are others who have made new versions of the work for practical operatic production. Mahler's arrangement was heard at Cologne and when he was in New York he vainly urged Heinrich Conried to produce it at the Metropolitan. Up to the year 1918, however, no version had been regarded as definitive, unless it might have been that of Sir Julius Bene-

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 dict, which has many disadvantages. Nevertheless, Oberon was a favourite opera in England and America during the Victorian era. Tietjens sang Rezia and Alboni sang Fatima; later, Pappenheim and Parepa-Rosa sang Rezia (often spelled Reiza) and Trebelli sang Fatima. The work, however, had never been performed at the Metropolitan Opera House until Arthur Bodanzky prepared his version. Aside from the lack of a definitive version, if any such lack were felt, there were probably many excellent reasons for this delay. The opera demands a great number of elaborate decorations, including the representation of a storm on a rocky coast, fairy festivals, and caliph's banquets. Obviously, expense is involved. Then the music exacts, for its correct interpretation, not only voices of great range, but also consummate art. The part of Rezia is beyond the reach of many a dramatic soprano, and tenors might sing Edgardo, Radames, Canio, and Rodolfo all their lives without being able to get through the first air of Huon.

Mr. Bodanzky telescoped the text into nine scenes, omitting several of the characters whose dialogue was spoken and providing music for the others. In every instance, this music is built up on themes found in the work itself. The final chorus, for example, is constructed on the num-

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 ber, subsequently discarded, which Weber wrote for Braham. The result may be regarded as generally admirable, for Mr. Bodanzky's work has the desirable effect of knitting together the very lovely music of the piece. Oberon assuredly has the ardency of true beauty. The overture and Rezia's grand air are both familiar in the concert room, but both are heard to more advantage in the opera house. For Ocean, thou mighty monster, indeed, scenic embellishment is more essential than for the final scene of Die Walkie, and the overture, with its foreshadowing of the fairy music, Huon's chivalric air, and the quartet, Over the dark blue waters, comes back to memory with renewed force and meaning after the fall of the final curtain. For myself, I may say that I like Oberon almost as much as I like the operas of Gluck and Mozart, and a great deal more than I like the lyric dramas of Richard Wagner.

The third rewritten opera in the repertory of the Metropolitan Opera House is presented in its new form in direct opposition to the intentions of the composer and against the protests of the composer's widow. It is amusing to recall that the composer was Rimsky-Korsakoff who, after his death, has been served as he served others. In this instance, however, music and book escape

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 revision. The alterations concern solely the manner of interpretation.

Rimsky-Korsakoff completed The Golden Cockerel (given in New York in its French form as Le Coq d'Or) in 1907. The censor, justifiably regarding the book as a satire directed at royalty, at first refused to sanction its Russian production, and it did not reach the stage before the composer's death in 1908. Later, however, it was performed with success in Russia. Some time before the summer of 1914, Serge de Diaghileff, the director of the Russian Ballet, searching for novelties suitable for production by that organization in London and Paris, hit upon this quaintest and most beautiful of Rimsky-Korsakoff's many operas and, with the assistance of Fokine, invented a novel presentation of it. This was a performance involving two casts, one to sing and the other to act. The singing cast,

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 together with the chorus, was arranged in uniforms on two tiers of benches placed on either side of the stage, leaving the centre of the stage free for the ballet to enact the play. Consequently, after a first gasp of amazement, the spectators soon accepted the singers as part of the decoration and followed with glee the history of the silly King Dodon and the amazingly naughty and mysterious Queen of Shemakahn. The fantastries of the book lend themselves well to this manner of treatment and the result was a success which surpassed all expectations, a success which was repeated later in New York.

These three operas, indeed, Boris Godunoff, Oberon, and The Golden Cockerel, are assuredly the most delightful works in the current (1918–19) repertory of the Metropolitan Opera House. I should be the last to point the moral herein indicated. There may, indeed, be some operas which do not need rewriting. The fact remains that the creative power and a sense of the theatre do not always go together. As Sir

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 Charles Villiers Stanford so justly remarks, it is a mistake to prolong the Elijah after the ascent of the fiery chariot. "When a piece is over it is over." This is a lesson Wagner never learned. His motto appears to have been, When a piece is over it is just beginning. Will some one, I wonder, have the courage to lop King Mark's speech off the end of the second act of Tristan?

But while we are rewriting masterpieces why not go into the matter with thoroughness? Why not engage J. M. Barrie to write a new book for The Magic Flute? Why not employ Mr. Belasco to cut and contrive and comb a single opera out of Mefistofele and La Gioconda? The idea fascinates me. I should delight in doing a little snipping and rearranging myself. I have a fancy, for instance, for playing I'll Trovatore backwards, something like this:

The opera opens with the scene in the prison where the Gipsy, Azucena, has been thrown at the instigation of the wicked Count. She and Manrico sing the duet, Si la stanchezza, after which Manrico obliges with Di quella pira. Leonora enters and vainly pleads with the Count to spare Manrico, but that one, being a baritone and jealous of the tenor's high C, orders him to be put to death at once. The audience, if we may take into account the way Di quella pira is usually rendered, will be properly grateful, but

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 the horrified Azucena informs the Count that he has murdered his own brother. Here the scene changes to the tower where Leonora, assisted by the spirit of Manrico, looking down from heaven, warbles the Miserere.

The second act opens in the camp. Azucena, dragged in, moans her plaintive lament for Manrico, while Leonora, stricken with grief, immures herself in a convent, from which she is abducted by the Count, who learns that Azucena has lied about the burned Manrico, her own son and not his brother. The act is brought to a spirited conclusion by a performance of the anvil chorus in which all the principals ecstatically join.

In the third act, Leonora, hearing a voice in the garden of the Count's palace and in her madness fancying it to be the voice of her dear, dead Manrico, ventures out into the moonlight. The voice, however, proves to be that of the Count di Luna, but Leonora has reached such a state of indifference that she falls into his arms in a magnificent state of bravura, while the Count delightedly comes to her aid with a performance of Manrico's music transposed into as comfortable a key as possible.

Other ideas present themselves. The example of Le Coq d'Or should make it possible to continue indefinitely the enormous vogue of Geraldine Farrar, who might act her rôles unre-

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text:
Notes for The Ivory Tower

 * "Notes for The Ivory Tower" in The Ivory Tower (London: W. Collins Sons & Co., 1917)
 * — First English book edition
 * "Notes for The Ivory Tower" in The Ivory Tower (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1917)
 * — First American book edition; a small number of copies were bound with front matter identifying it as Volume 25 of The Novels and Tales of Henry James (i.e. the "New York Edition"), and sold exclusively to collection subscribers.
 * "Notes for The Ivory Tower" in F. O. Matthiessen (ed.) (1947) The American Novels and Stories of Henry James.
 * — "Notes for The Ivory Tower" was unintentionally omitted from the first impression but included in the second.
 * "Notes for the Ivory Tower" in F. O. Matthiessen and Alfred A. Knopf (1947) Editor's and Publisher's Note for The American Novels and Stories of Henry James.
 * — Separate printing, issued to purchasers of the first impression of The American Novels and Stories of Henry James, from which "Notes for The Ivory Tower" was unintentionally omitted.

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 strainedly while somebody else sings them, and if any more American operas are to be produced at the Metropolitan Opera House, might I suggest that Irving Berlin be called in to rewrite them?

January 1, 1919.

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Reflecting today in my garret, I find myself in a melancholy mood. I have searched the concert announcements in the advertising columns of my morning newspaper only to discover that I must hear—if I hear anything at all—either Beethoven's Seventh Symphony or Mozart's Symphony in G minor; either the Coriolan overture or the overture to Euryanthe; either Chabrier's Bourrée fantasque (which would be new to my ears) or Sibelius's Finlandia; and, at the Opera, I am offered Aida. Now this is a discouraging state of affairs for a man of temperament who would like to order his music as he orders his library or his dinner. One is never obliged to eat at some one else's behest, one reads according to one's fancy, but when one wants to listen to music one must perforce listen to what is being played or else not listen at all, unless—and here it is well to admit the futility of the qualification—one is Ludwig of Bavaria. This afternoon I have a whim to attend a concert, the program of which shall consist of César

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 Franck's D minor Symphony, Stravinsky's Le Sacre du Printemps, and Debussy's La Mer. Franck's symphony will, of course, be performed some time this winter, but the performance will fall on a day on which I have no ambition to hear it, and the other pieces will not, in all probability, be performed at all.

My temporary prejudices and tastes in music, indeed, seem ever at variance with my opportunities. For many years I longed to hear Vincent d'Indy's Istar. The idea of the music disrobing, as the goddess of the legend disrobed, awakened my curiosity, a curiosity whetted still sharper by the rhapsodies which Philip Hale and James Huneker have woven around this inverted set of variations. But even curiosity perishes with age and on the day when, finally, I saw the thing announced, I discovered, to my surprise, that all appetite had left me. Nevertheless, on this bright winter afternoon, when I should have preferred to walk in the park or even to attend a moving-picture theatre, I forced myself to enter the concert hall. The auditorium was overheated and stuffy; I was surrounded by a crowd of hysterical females who had come to see a Russian violinist, whose name, in translation, was Mike or Alec. I sat through a long program, for Istar was announced to close the concert, and when at last it was performed, I began idly

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 When You Want it to turn over the pages of my book of notes about the music, reading the advertisements with an interest which I found I could not devote to the composition itself. That, in fact, I scarcely listened to. This is not a unique experience; it is usual. The evenings on which I yearn to hear Boris Godunoff they sing L'Amore dei Tre Re at the Opera; the afternoons on which I have a deep longing to listen to Liszt's B minor Sonata, the Hofmanns and Bauers and Myra Hesses are all busy playing Chopin's.

This is both confusing and irritating, for taste in music changes, especially if you hear a good deal of it. I have worshipped at several altars. Some of them I return to when I can. The cool, sane, classic beauty of Gluck, the gay, sweet-sour, tragi-comedy of Mozart, the red blare and poster-like dash of American jazz, the pellucid harmonies of Debussy, so like the nocturnes of Whistler, the refreshing melodies of Arthur Sullivan, are seldom unwelcome, but the days in which I enjoy the empty orchestral orgies of Richard Strauss, the trumpet blasts of Richard Wagner, the fantastic but futile inventions of Hector Berlioz, and the thunderbolts of Beethoven come more rarely. Other intermittent humours find me hankering for the ironic acidity of the quaintly perverse l'Heure Espagnole, for the bombast of Handel, whom Samuel Butler

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 very nearly succeeded in making famous again, for Chinese music, even for Grieg's piano concerto, but seldom do mood and music strike me simultaneously.

There are hours in which the charming melancholy and faded sentimentality of Werther and Eugen Oniegin, lyric dramas curiously similar in feeling, would come as a boon. There are nights when Les Larmes, and the Letter Song in Tchaikovsky's opera, would send me sobbing from the theatre, for these airs evoke a certain artificial Victorian atmosphere of grief more potently than any book or picture with which I am familiar. When Tatjana begins the Letter Song, if you are in the mood—and how seldom this is!—the key of the play is handed into your keeping, the soul of the composition communes with your own soul, and a vague sympathy with something perhaps alien to your own nature takes possession of you.

Sometimes I am seized with a desire for the dance, a craving for a conventional rhythmic expression, for, at least, even if one cannot dance, one sometimes itches to hear dance music, but these will not be the nights on which The Beautiful Blue Danube, Coppélia, or Beethoven's Seventh Symphony will be played. Der Rosenkavalier would fill the breach, but how often can one hear Der Rosenkavalier?

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 I have never listened to The Barber of Seville without enjoying it, and there are times when I burn to carry Rossinian explorations farther, when I perhaps might take delight in Tancredi, with its still delicious, but now never sung, Di tanti palpiti, sacred to the memory of Giuditta Pasta, and La Cenerentola. Often, indeed, musing before the fire in my garret, I wistfully beg the gods to put it into somebody's head to play me the tunes I have read about so often, but which now I can hear only in my mind's ear through the formality of the printed scores: for example, Félicien David's Le Désert, that "ode-symphonie" which Hector Berlioz hailed as a chef-d'œuvre and which seemingly remained a chef-d'œuvre until the calmly sardonic Auber one day remarked, "I will wait until David gets off his camel." Either the epigram or the subsequent dismounting killed the piece, for now it is never played. But I should like to hear it: what could be quainter than Second Empire orientalism? Would Ingres's Odalisque come to life under the spell of David's harmonies and stand in ivory perfection in some sheik's harem, listening to the call of the muezzin, while the camels tramped the desert with their lumbering, swaying passing? What of Spontini's La Vestale? Would this faded score evoke the spirit of Rome, as Gluck's music evokes the soul of

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 Greece? I can decorate my garret with Victorian trophies, antimacassars, walnut highboys, wall-paper representing Roman temples, beneath the columns of which shepherd boys play their pipes, while troops of ladies, garbed like Mrs. Leo Hunter, embark for Cythera on splendid barges. I can examine at my leisure mezzotints and engravings by John Martin, Richard Earlom, Valentine Green, Goltzius, Edelinck, or J. R. Smith, and I can enjoy the mellow cornfields and rich velvety forests of George Inness whenever I feel in the mood to do so, which is not too often. As frequently as I please I can take down from my shelves and dip into The Monk by M. C. Lewis, Headlong Hall by Thomas Love Peacock, The Art of Dining by Abraham Hayward, The Truth about Tristrem Varick by Edgar Saltus, or Chandos by Ouida. No strange, old-fashioned byway, no hidden cranny of painting or literature is denied me, but if I were dying of desire to experience an audition of Purcell's Dido and Æneas, Rameau's Hippolyte et Aricie, Balfe's The Maid of Artois, or even Wagner's Die Feen or Puccini's Edgar, I should expire before the medicine was proffered me.

Watteau, Voltaire, Cranach, H. B. Fuller, Rodin, and Joseph Hergesheimer stand ready to please me whenever I am in the proper temper

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 When You Want it to appreciate their work but, unless I follow Ernest Newman's example—which I am not likely to do—and purchase a player-piano, I am dependent on the whims of the Paris Opéra or Mr. Walter Damrosch for the privilege of listening to Lully, Couperin, or Grétry. Even Ernest Newman must listen to most of this music in transcriptions—transcriptions, which he admits in his laudatory book on the subject, have been made carelessly enough, for the most part, from transcriptions already fashioned for human pianists, without reference to the orchestral scores, which the player-piano, being gifted with more than two hands, could more nearly duplicate in number of voices if not in timbres—and, in relation to such music as has not yet been cut in rolls, he would stand in precisely the same position that I stand. Could he, for instance, buy a roll of Le Désert? At this very instant I would rather hear a performance of Grétry's Richard Cœur de Lion, of which an excerpt, quoted in Tchaikovsky's Pique Dame, has haunted me ever since I heard that opera, than the complete works of Giuseppe Verdi. Nay! I think I would eschew all other pleasures, even an evening at the theatre where Delysia plays, for an opportunity to attend a performance of the rewritten version of Simone Boccanegra. I might want to hear it only once, but how very

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 much I do want to hear it once! At least I want to today. In 1926, when Gatti-Casazza at last mounts Simone Boccanegra at the Metropolitan Opera House I shall probably go to bed entirely ignorant of that fact. Curiosity and desire will be equally dead, in all likelihood, so far as Cornelius's The Barber of Bagdad, Nicolai's The Merry Wives of Windsor, and Berlioz's Benvenuto Cellini are concerned, when the time arrives when it will be easy for me to satisfy this curiosity and desire.

The case with modern music is no better. It is just as difficult to gratify an ambition to hear Dukas's Ariane et Barbe-Bleue as it is to hear Offenbach's Barbe-Bleue. The Boston Symphony Orchestra will no doubt perform Ravel's Le Tombeau de Couperin on the night when I am hungry for the Rapsodie Espagnole, and Bodanzky will provide this last delight on the evening I have begged providence to send me Daphnis et Chloë. This is all assuredly music in the modern French idiom, although Erik Satie has said, "Ravel has refused the Legion of Honour, but all his music accepts it," and we know that in ten years this epigram will become a platitude. Lately, we have heard a good deal from the modern Italians, Respighi and Malipiero, but I wanted to hear them two years ago.

On the whole, it is amazing that anybody ever

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 When You Want it acquires a taste for orchestral music or the opera at all. We are, it would seem, completely in the power of Messrs. Bodanzky, Gatti-Casazza, Stokovski, Pierre Monteux, Sargent and Milton Aborn, and Fortune Gallo. They not only determine what we shall hear, they also decide when we shall hear it. The situation is monstrous and unbearable. A few comparisons may serve to bring the point to you more forcibly. Suppose, for instance, that the directors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art issued a decree to the effect that you could see Manet's Boy with a Sword only on July 17, 1922, and not again until February 4, 1930. Suppose that these gentlemen further ordered that Renoir's portrait of Madame Charpentier would be on view only on odd Sundays during Lent. Suppose that the Greek vase room or the chamber containing Chinese porcelains was open to the public only on December 6, 1921. Let us imagine another example, even more terror-inspiring. Suppose that Messrs. Brentano, Scribner and Putnam arbitrarily made a rule that the public could only buy certain books on certain days. On January 1, Putnam's would sell only the works of Harold Bell Wright, Brentano's, only Shaw's new volume of plays, Scribner's, Joseph Hergesheimer's San Christóbal de la Habana. On January 2, one would be permitted to purchase the novels

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 of James Branch Cabell at Putnam's, Benedetto Croce's Æsthetic at Brentano's, and Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol at Scribner's. On January 3, Putnam's would dole out a new novel by Sinclair Lewis, Brentano's would vend a book by Arthur Machen (if they could find one), and Scribner's would sell Mencken's A Book of Prefaces. On January 4, I might possibly persuade Putnam's to stack the counters with The Tiger in the House, Brentano's would offer Max Beerbohm's Seven Men, and Scribner's would display The Newcomes by William Makepiece Thackeray. January 5 would be the day to buy Esther Waters at Putnam's, William Dean Howells's Heroines of Fiction at Brentano's, and Wyndham Lewis's Tarr at Scribner's. On January 6, Putnam's would sell Robert Paltock's The Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins, Brentano's, Donald Evans's Sonnets from the Patagonian, and Scribner's, Webster's Dictionary. Naturally, the other bookshops and the libraries would also make capricious decisions about the books of the day. This would all appear to be very strange, no doubt, and probably all of us would stop buying books, because the particular book we wanted would never be on sale on the day we wanted it,

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 but it would be no stranger than the existing situation in the concert and opera world.

And yet, it would appear, there is no remedy. It is an unfortunate property of music that it occupies time rather than space. Concerts, therefore, must be given within certain hours, and the number of pieces that can be played during these hours—a concert that lasts over 120 minutes is too long—is strictly limited. The Metropolitan Opera House can give only one full-length opera, or not more than three short ones, in any one evening. Somebody, consequently, must make a choice, and the directors naturally choose the works which they think will appeal to the greatest number of people at the time they are played. This accounts for the fact that a symphony which perhaps has not been performed at all for several years will be announced for performance in New York by four conductors during as many weeks.

Apparently, therefore, we must put up with the inconvenience. We must listen to music when we can, where we can, and with whom we can, and not when, where, and with whom we want to. I wonder if there are others who dream of Debussy's l'Après-midi d'un faune while they are half-listening to Berlioz's Fantastic Symphony, who attend Wagner's Die

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 Meistersinger when they would prefer to hear Gluck's Armide? If some one knows what can be done about it, I hope he will tell me.

December 30, 1920.

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Since the Florentines, whom we may credit with some taste in the matter of art, invented the opera, not a month has passed without some glabrous-headed numskull or other rising to proclaim shrilly that the lyric drama is a by-blow form, not worthy of serious consideration by respectable, high-minded lovers of music. Others than numskulls have offered contributions to this popular cause. Addison and Charles Lamb ridiculed the opera, and every critic of today has slugged it with cherry-pits and pebbles. What seems to have escaped attention is the fact that of all music-forms the opera, valiantly withstanding these attacks, has remained the most consistently popular. It is even "reformed" every half-century or so by a Gluck, a Meyerbeer, a Wagner, or a Debussy. Also, I may add, the very music critics who affect a staggering contemptuousness for music drama in the abstract spend a great deal of unnecessary time at the Metropolitan Opera House and write a great many unnecessary words about the performances there. The explanation of this phenomenon, I

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 am inclined to believe, after some personal observation of the gentlemen in question, is that they like it.

Personally, I will admit frankly that I prefer the opera, even when it is bad, to a good symphony concert. No music is good enough to stand up against the depressing circumstances of a performance at Carnegie Hall. At the opera, on the other hand, there is mystery: a white arm laid carelessly over the ledge of a box in the dim light; the gleam of the jewels and the silver and gold head-dresses in the soft glow; a feather-fan half-concealing a whispered word of love or perhaps a kiss. Even on the stage, however mediocre the singing and acting, there is some display of personality, something to talk about. And in the opera house there is the opportunity to talk. Besides, I can walk in and walk out, sit down or stand up; I am not forced to wait for the band to stop playing before I take or relinquish my seat. These are superficial advantages; the heart of the matter lies deeper: the fact is that opera was written for the opera house and it belongs there. You may not care for opera but, if it amuses you, you like it in the opera house.

Listening recently to a concert given by the Schola Cantorum at Carnegie Hall, a feeling that had been groping for expression for some time

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 crystallized within me, a feeling that concerts should not be given in halls, a feeling that even the idea of the concert as it exists is a false and artificial conception. It is impossible for me to enjoy music in a brilliantly lighted, badly ventilated auditorium, in the midst of a crowd of elderly, anserine ladies and gentlemen, or rapt or bored or merely fatuous juveniles, the conductor panting and sweating, the men of the band sawing and blowing, and a soprano weighing four hundred pounds puffing through Ocean, thou mighty monster! The zest for conductors, Dirigentenliebe, is an amusing form of nymphomania. For there are ladies who prefer the baton to the blade. Each must have her own particular Kapellmeister. There is impending danger of an epidemic of this neurotic disorder, and I do not think it an improbable result that, in the course of three or four years, New York will have thirty or forty symphony orchestras. I must admit that attending their concerts would give me coeliac pains, but it amuses me to watch the fandango from the safe distance which my garret affords. It is from that distance, indeed, that I shall watch all concerts henceforth.

Let us consider the occasion to which I have just referred. The estimable ladies and gentlemen who form the choir of the Schola Cantorum, the gentlemen in evening dress, the ladies in white

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 and blue and pink frocks, performed three numbers, the Kyrie, the Gloria, and the Credo, from Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli. This mass is a lofty and noble work. It is also difficult, in the sense that all crystal things are difficult, in the sense that it is more difficult to sing Vedrai carino than it is to sing Vissi d'arte, although Puccini's aria requires a higher and heavier voice than Mozart's. The chorus wandered through Palestrina's measures accurately enough, no doubt, but the effect was unendurable. This mass—any mass—was not composed to be sung correctly by ladies and gentlemen in evening dress to the polite approbation and discreet applause of two thousand Godless souls, the majority of whom, it is safe to say, had never set foot in a Catholic church. This mass—any mass—will only sound right when wafted out of the invisible galleries of some dimly lit cathedral, odiferous with incense, the emblems and symbols of demonology as close to mind in the fantastic carvings on the pillars and baptismal fonts as the emblems and symbols of angelology in the altar, the candles, and the vestments of the celebrating priests. The audience, the congregation, what you will, must be familiar with the intention of the mass, nay more, they must enter into the spirit of its celebration and believe in its carminative powers, Under such conditions, with how-

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 ever little authority the boy Pattis may attack the high C's, the communicants will not be disturbed by these descents from the pitch. They will either doze decently or be lifted into sublimity, and the vagueness of the tones will even enhance the effect. Amelita Galli-Curci herself could compel me to listen in the gloom of a sweet-scented, damp cathedral.

The second part of the program was devoted to Spanish folk-music. The ladies and gentlemen of the choir, following the ridiculous fashion of our concert halls, stood up and stood still while they intoned the sardanas and other dancesongs, created to be shouted out by peasants, stepping merrily about, waving handkerchiefs, and exchanging busses. Several of these songs were performed as solos by the languorous and sinisterly Venusian Marguerite d'Alvarez, who gave them an authentic enough interpretation, but the very vividness of her recital warned one of the falseness of her point of attack. Within the respectable confines of Carnegie Hall she made her auditors self-conscious. Corsets and white shirts grew stiffer. Collars refused to wilt. Had she, however, been transplanted to some dirty Andalusian tavern, where she might sit in a corner, wrapped sombrely in a splendid Manila shawl, while she sang in the smoke-laden atmosphere to the accompaniment of the strum-

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 ming of guitars and to the shrill cries of a dozen Gipsy girls, her

would flame into life; even the cradle-songs and celebrations of the Virgin Mary would make their true effect.

There is a place for hearing music as well as a time, and I have sworn a vow that if I can only listen to music in the concert hall I shall hear it no more. . . unless, like the ladies, I may be permitted to choose my own conductor and enjoy the delights of Dirigentenliebe, and here the ladies hold me at a disadvantage, for Alice Delysia and Pola Negri do not wave the baton with the authentic gesture of Arthur Nikisch and Thomas Beecham. To return to my theorem, let me particularize: why do you enjoy l'Après-midi d'un faune more when it is presented as a ballet than when it is performed in the concert hall? Because the music is played in a suggestive atmosphere, the action and the colours and the lights supplying the place inadequately filled in the concert hall by the program notes, which are rustled and turned while the flute purls softly. The ideal spot, however, in which to listen to

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 this music would be an ancient hillside near some ruined Greek temple, the band hidden and mysterious and not too near. Then one could imagine the stately, obscene ceremony between the faun and the nymphs.

Chopin's music, indubitably, should be performed in a drawing-room, an Empire or a Louis XVI drawing-room, to be precise. There should be countesses present, with firm round breasts and spreading crinolines, and if a princess or an archduchess can be provided, so much the better. Between the mazurkas and the polonaises, servants in livery should pass ices, and if a young woman can be persuaded to faint occasionally, the effect will be heightened. The flowers should be lilies, tube-roses, and gardenias, pale but strongly aromatic blooms.

Funeral marches, wedding marches, and Strauss waltzes fall into their proper environments at times, but where should one listen to the music of Brahms? Experience tells me that the music of Brahms sounds best in a German public garden, with plenty of good beer, Pilsener or Münchener, according to your taste, in hefty seidels close at hand, and more good beer in vast barrels in the nearby cellar. It will do no harm to eat black and white radishes while you give ear to the F major, and Frankfurters will be found to go excellently well with the D major.

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 Brahms would be the first to be delighted with this scheme, and if he is conducting his scores in the halls of Eblis, I have no doubt he has already experimented with it himself.

For the Mozart symphonies a rococo ballroom is required, the ceiling elaborately ornamented with gold Eroses and stucco roses. If Fragonard or Boucher painted the wall-panels, that will be an advantage, and it will do no hurt to the music if they be a little indecent. The orchestra will be visible and the men must wear red coats and knee breeches of some eighteenth century style, and they must be peruked. The leader must wear the tallest peruke of all (it should tower two feet above his head), and however high he may stand on his toes in the ecstasy of the beat, his heels must never leave the floor, for these heels, red, too, should be five inches high.

Scriabin designed a temple suitable for the performances of his own music, music which demands a certain amount of subaudition, a temple of odours and colours that might have pleased des Esseintes. This temple has not yet been constructed, but compromises have been attempted. For instance, the Russian Symphony Orchestra once played Scriabin's Prometheus before a moving-picture screen on which coloured lights were projected and merged by means of a key-

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 board with an electrical attachment. An effort to illustrate Siegfried's Rhine Journey with appropriate accompanying action in a washtub would make an analogous effect.

Leo Ornstein, whose favourite figure in composition is anacoluthon, should play his music on a piano balanced on a pushcart, the whole moved to the middle of Manhattan Bridge. His audience should pass in motor-cars, the chauffeurs tooting their sirens, in street-cars, the motormen madly clanging their bells, and in aeroplanes, with their engines throbbing vehemently.' The result would be Jovian. I have enjoyed The Wild Men's Dance and Impressions of the Thames even in the concert hall but, if I heard them under these circumstances, I should probably break a blood-vessel.

Where should the music of Richard Strauss be performed? Hardly any two of his compositions in the same place, I should say. Ein Heldenleben would sound best in front of the banal colonnade and monument of Vittorio Emanuele at Rome; the Sinfonia Domestica in Wanamaker's; Don Quixote in a farmyard; Tod und Verklarung in Roosevelt Hospital; and Don Juan in a brothel or, at least, a Temple of Love. In lieu of program notes, copies of the Contes drolatiques, the Sonnets of Pietro Aretino, and Le Journal d'une femme de

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 chambre should be distributed to the customers.

Chamber music, as I have pointed out elsewhere is written to be played and not to be listened to. Such pleasure as it gives is subjective rather than objective. As songs are a species of chamber music they are perhaps most effective if sung in a drawing-room, although there are exceptions to this rule. I have carried d'Alvarez and her Spanish ditties to an Andalusian tavern. The Two Grenadiers should be sung in vaudeville; Debussy's La Chevelure should be sung in bed; and Mrs. Beach's The Year's at the Spring should be sung at the meetings of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. As for the song recital, so-called, it is an abomination, a monstrous form of entertainment foisted on the public by the musical snobs who insist that the program shall be arranged according to their laws, a classic group, a group of German lieder, a French group, etc., and that the singer shall interpret these without a gesture, standing dignifiedly near the centre of the platform. There are signs that healthy interpreters with a touch of genius are breaking away from this absurd tradition.

Only concertos seem to belong exclusively to the concert hall. They are written for just this

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 kind of audience, just this kind of place. The soloist, violinist or singer or jew's-harpist, dramatizes the thing and centres the attention visually on himself. It is Kreisler's Beethoven, or Ysaye's Beethoven, or Sarasate's, or Paganini's, or Liszt's. Yes, this is freak music and the atmosphere of the concert hall is entirely consistent with it.

To conclude in a major key, I would say that it is obvious that some music should never be played anywhere. At the head of this class stand the compositions of Sir Edward Elgar.

July 1, 1921.

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 described within the same, and neerer to the pole A, shall wholly be included in the illuminated part; as on the contrary, the opposite ones towards the Pole B, contained within the parallel LM, shall remain in the dark. Moreover, the arch AI being equal to the arch FD, and the arch AF, common to them both, the two arches IKF and AFD shall be equal, and each a quadrant or 90 degrees. And because the whole arch IFM is a semicircle, the arch FM shall be a quadrant, and equal to the other FKI; and therefore the Sun O shall be in this state of the Earth vertical to one that stands in the point F. But by the revolution diurnal about the standing Axis AB, all the points of the parallel EF passe by the same point F: and therefore in that same day the Sun, at noon, shall be vertical to all the inhabitants of the Parallel EF, and will seem to them to describe in its apparent motion the circle which we call the Tropick of Cancer. But to the inhabitants of all the Parallels that are above the parallel EF, towards the North pole A, the Sun declineth from their Vertex or Zenith towards the South; and on the contrary, to all the inhabitants of the Parallels that are beneath EF, towards the Equinoctial CD, and the South Pole B, the Meridian Sun is elevated beyond their Vertex towards the North Pole A. Next, it is visible that of all the Parallels, only the greatest CD is cut in equal parts by the Terminator of the light IM. But the rest, that are beneath and above the said grand circle, are all intersected in parts unequal: and of the superiour ones, the semidiurnal arches, namely those of the part of the Terrestrial surface, illustrated by the Sun, are bigger than the seminocturnal ones that remain in the dark: and the contrary befalls in the remainder, that are under the great one CD, towards the pole B, of which the semidiurnal arches are lesser than the seminocturnal, It is likewise apparently manifest, that the differences of the said arches go augmenting, according as the Parallels are neerer to the Poles, till such time as the parallel IK comes to be wholly in the part illuminated, and the inhabitants thereof have a day of twenty four hours long, without any night; and on the contrary, the Parallel LM, remaining all in obscurity, hath a night of twenty four hours, without any day. Come we next to the third Figure of the Earth, placed with its centre in the point Cancer, where the Sun seemeth to be in the first point of Capricorn. We have already seen very manifestly, that by reason the Axis AB doth not change inclination, but continueth parallel to it self, the aspect and situation of the Earth is the same to an hair with that in the first Figure; save onely that that Hemisphere which in the first was illuminated by the Sun, in this remaineth obtenebrated, and that cometh to be luminous, which in


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 Page 358 the first was tenebrous: whereupon that which happened before concerning the differences of dayes and nights, touching the dayes being greater or lesser than the nights, now falls out quite contrary. And first, we see, that whereas in the first Figure the circle IK was wholly in the light, it is now wholly in the dark; and the opposite arch LM is now wholly in the light, which was before wholly in the dark. Of the parallels between the grand circle CD, and the Pole A, the semidiurnal arches are now lesser than the seminocturnal, which before were the contrary. Of the others likewise towards the Pole B, the semidiurnal arches are now bigger than the seminocturnal, the contrary to what happened in the other position of the Earth. We now see the Sun made vertical to the inhabitants of the Tropick GN, and to be depressed towards the South, with those of the Parallel EF, by all the arch ECG, that is, 47 degrees; and in summe, to have passed from one to the other Tropick, traversing the Equinoctial, elevating and declining in the Meridians the said space of 47 degrees. And all this mutation is derived not from the inclination or elevation of the Earth, but on the contrary, from its not inclining or elevating at all; and in a word, by continuing always in the same position, in respect of the Universe, onely with turning about the Sun situate iu the midst of the said plane, in which it moveth it self about circularly with its annual motion. And here is to be noted an admirable accident, which is, that like as the Axis of the Earth conserving the same direction towards the Universe, or we may say, towards the highest Sphere of the fixed stars, causeth the Sun to appear to elevate and incline so great a space, namely, for 47 degrees, and the fixed Stars to incline or elevate nothing at all; so, on the contrary, if the same Axis of the Earth should maintain it self continually in the same inclination towards the Sun, or, if you will, towards the Axis of the Zodiack, no mutation would appear to be made in the Sun about its elevating or declining, whereupon the inhabitants of one and the same place would alwayes have one and the same difference of dayes and nights, and one and the same constitution of Seasons, that is, some alwayes Winter, others alwayes Summer, others Spring, &c. but, on the contrary, the alterations in the fixed Stars would appear very great, as touching their elevation, and inclination to us, which would amount to the same 47 degrees. For the understanding of which let us return to consider the position of the Earth, in its first Figure, where we see the Axis AB, with the superiour Pole A, to incline towards the Sun; but in its third Figure, the same Axis having kept the same direction towards the highest Sphere, by keeping parallel to it self, inclines no longer towards the Sun with its superiour Pole A, but


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 on the contrary reclines from its former position gr. 47. and inclineth towards the opposite part, so that to restore the same inclination of the said Pole A towards the Sun, it would be requisite by turning round the Terrestrial Globe, according to the circumference ACBD, to transport it towards E those same gr. 47. and for so many degrees, any whatsoever fixed star observed in the Meridian, would appear to be elevated, or inclined. Let us come now to the explanation of that which remains, and let us consider the Earth placed in the fourth Figure, that is, with its centre in the first point of Libra; upon which the Sun will appear in the beginning of Aries. And because the Axis of the Earth, which in the first Figure is supposed to be inclined upon the diameter Capricorn Cancer, and therefore to be in that same plane, which cutting the plane of the grand Orb, according to the line Capricorn Cancer, was erected perpendicularly upon the same, transposed into the fourth Figure, and maintained, as hath alwayes been said, parallel to it self, it shall come to be in a plane in like manner erected to the superficies of the Grand Orbe, and parallel to the plane, which at right angles cuts the same superficies, according to the diameter Capricorn Cancer. And therefore the line which goeth from the centre of the Sunne to the centre of the Earth, that is, O Libra, shall be perpendicular to the Axis BA: but the same line which goeth from the centre of the Sunne to the centre of the Earth, is also alwayes perpendicular to the


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 circle that is the Terminator of the light; therefore this same circle shall passe by the Poles AB in the fourth figure, and in its plain the Axis AB shall fall, but the greatest circle passing by the Poles of the Parallels, divideth them all in equal parts; therefore the arches IK, EF, CD, GN, LM, shall be all semicircles, and the illumin'd Hemisphere shall be this which looketh towards us, and the Sun, and the Terminator of the light shall be one and the same circle ACBD, and the Earth being in this place shall make it Equinoctial to all its Inhabitants. And the same happeneth in the second figure, where the Earth having its illuminated Hemisphere towards the Sun, sheweth us the other that is obscure, with its nocturnal arches, which in like manner are all semicircles, and consequently, here also it maketh the Equinoctial. And lastly in regard that the line produced from the centre of the Sun to the centre of the Earth, is perpendicular to the Axis AB, to which the greatest circle of the parallels CD, is likewise erect, the said line O Libra shall passe of necessity by the same Plain of the parallel CD, cutting its circumference in the midst of the diurnal arch CD; and therefore the Sun shall be vertical to any one that shall stand where that intersection is made; but all the Inhabitants of that Parallel shall passe the same, as being carried about by the Earths diurnal conversion; therefore all thes upon that day shall have the Meridian Sun in their vertex. And the Sun at the same time to all the Inhabitants of the Earth shall seem to describe the Grand Parallel called the Equinoctial. Furthermore, forasmuch as the Earth being in both the Solstitial points of the Polar circles IK and LM, the one is wholly in the light, and the other wholly in the dark; but when the Earth is in the Equinoctial points, the halves of those same polar circles are in the light, the remainder of them being in the dark; it should not be hard to understand, how that the Earth v. gr. from Cancer (where the parallel IK is wholly in the dark) to Leo, one part of the parallel towards the point I, beginneth to enter into the light, and that the Terminator of the light IM beginneth to retreat towards the Pole AB, intersecting the circle ACBD no longer in IM, but in two other points falling between the terms IA and MB, of the arches IA and MB; whereupon the Inhabitants of the circle begin to enjoy the light, and the other Inhabitants of the circle LM to partake of night. And thus you see that by two simple motions made in times proportionate to their bignesses, and not contrary to one another, but performed, as all others that belong to moveable mundane bodies, from West to East assigned to the Terrestrial Globe, adequate reasons are rendred of all those Phænomena or appearances, for the accommodating of


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Rh unclean for want of an altar, and therefore could not be easy without one, rather than they should set up another in competition with that of Shiloh, they should be welcome to come back to the land where the Lord's tabernacle was, and settle there, and they would very willingly straiten themselves to make room for them. By this they showed a sincere and truly pious zeal against schism, that rather than their brethren should have any occasion to set up a separate altar, though their pretence for it, as here supposed, was very weak, and grounded upon a great mistake, yet they were willing to part with a considerable share of the land which God himself had by the lot assigned them, to comprehend them and take them in among them. This was the spirit of Israelites indeed.

21. Then the children of Reuben, and the children of Gad, and the half tribe of Manasseh, answered and said unto the heads of the thousands of Israel, 22. The God of gods, the God of gods, he knoweth, and Israel he shall know; if it be in rebellion, or if in transgression against the, (save us not this day,) 23. That we have built us an altar to turn from following the, or if to offer thereon burnt-offering or meat-offering, or if to offer peace-offerings thereon, let the himself require it; 24. And if we have not rather done it for fear of this thing, saying, In time to come your children might speak unto our children, saying, What have you to do with the God of Israel? 25. For the hath made Jordan a border between us and you; ye children of Reuben, and children of Gad, ye have no part in the : so shall your children make our children cease from fearing the. 26. Therefore we said, Let us now prepare to build us an altar, not for burnt-offering, nor for sacrifice: 27. But that it may be a witness between us and you, and our generations after us, that we might do the service of the before him with our burnt-offerings, and with our sacrifices, and with our peace-offerings; that your children may not say to our children in time to come, Ye have no part in the. 28. Therefore said we, that it shall be, when they should so say to us, or to our generations in time to come, that we may say again, Behold the pattern of the altar of the, which our fathers made, not for burnt-offerings, nor for sacrifices; but it is a witness between us and you. 29. God forbid that we should rebel against the, and turn this day from following the , to build an altar for burnt-offerings, for meat-offer ings, or for sacrifices, besides the altar of the our God that is before his tabernacle.

We may suppose there was a general convention called of the princes and great men of the separate tribes, to give audience to these ambassadors; or perhaps, the army, as it came home, were still encamped together in a body, and not yet dispersed; however it was, there were enough to represent the two tribes and a half, and to give their sense. Their reply to the warm remonstrance of the ten tribes is very fair and ingenuous. They do not retort their charge, upbraid them with the injustice and unkindness of their threatenings, or reproach them for their rash and hasty censures; but give them that soft answer which turns away wrath, avoiding all those grievous words which stir up anger; they demur not to their jurisdiction, nor plead that they were not accountable to them for what they had done, nor bid them mind their own business; but, by a free and open declaration of their sincere intention in what they did, free themselves from the imputation they were under, and set themselves right in the opinion of their brethren; to do which they only needed to state the case, and put the matter in a true light.

I. They solemnly protest against any design to use this altar for sacrifice or offering, and therefore were far from setting it up in competition with the altar at Shiloh, or from entertaining the least thought of deserting that. They had indeed set up that which had the shape and fashion of an altar, but they had not dedicated it to a religious use, had had no solemnity of its consecration, and therefore ought not to be charged with a design to put it to any such use. To gain credit to this protestation, here is,

1. A solemn appeal to God concerning it, with which they begin their defence, intending thereby to give glory to God first, and then to give satisfaction to their brethren, v. 22.

(1.) A profound awe and reverence of God are expressed in the form of their appeal; The Lord God of gods, the Lord God of gods, he knows. Or, as it might be read somewhat closer to the original, The God of gods, Jehovah, the God of gods, Jehovah, he knows; which bespeaks his self-existence and self-sufficiency, he is Jehovah, and has sovereignty and supremacy over all beings and powers whatsoever, even those that are called gods, or that are worshipped. This brief confession of their faith would help to obviate and remove their brethren's suspicion of them, as if they intended to desert the God of Israel, and worship other gods: how could they entertain such a thought, who believed him to be God over all? Let us learn hence always to speak of God with reverence and seriousness, and to mention his name with a solemn pause. Those who make their appeals to heaven with a slight, careless, "God knows!" have reason to fear lest they take his name in vain, for it is very unlike this here.

(2.) It is a great confidence of their own integrity, which they express in the matter of their appeal. They refer the controversy to the God of gods, whose judgment, we aresure, is according to truth, such as the guilty have reason to dread, and the upright to rejoice in. "If it be in rebellion or transgression that we have built this altar, to confront the altar of the Lord at Shiloh, to make a party, or to set up any new gods or worships;" [1.] "He knows it, v. 22. for he is perfectly acquainted with the thoughts and intents of the heart, and particularly with all inclinations to idolatry, Ps. 44. 20, 21. that is in a particular manner before him, we believe he knows it, and we cannot by any arts conceal it from him." [2.] "Let him require it, as we know he will, for he is a jealous God." Nothing but a clear conscience would have thus imprecated divine justice to avenge the rebellion, if there had been any. Note, First, In every thing we do in religion, it highly concerns us to approve ourselves to God in our integrity therein, remembering that he


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 which to the stability of the Earth it is necessary (forsaking that Symetry which is observed to be between the velocities and magnitudes of moveables) to ascribe to a Sphere, vast above all others, an unconceiveable celerity, whilst the other lesser Spheres move extream slowly; and which is more, to make that motion contrary to all their motions; and, yet again to adde to the improbability, to make that superiour Sphere forcibly to transport all the inferiour ones along with it contrary to their proper inclination. And here I refer it to your judgment to determine which of the two is the most probable.

To me, as far as concerneth sense, there appeareth no small difference betwixt the simplicity and facility of operating effects by the means assigned in this new constitution, and the multiplicity, confusion, and difficulty, that is found in the ancient and commonly received Hypothesis. For if the Universe were disposed according to this multiplicity, it would be necessary to renounce many Maximes in Philosophy commonly received by Philosophers, as for instance, That Nature doth not multiply things without necessity; and, That She makes use of the most facile and simple means in producing her effects; and, That She doth nothing in vain, and the like. I do confesse that I never heard any thing more admirable than this, nor can I believe that Humane Understanding ever penetrated a more sublime speculation. I know not what Simplicius may think of it.

These (if I may speak my judgment freely) do seem to me some of those Geometrical subtilties which Aristotle finds fault with in Plato, when he accuseth him that by his too much studying of Geometry he forsook solid Philosophy; and I have known and heard very great Peripatetick Philosophers to disswade their Scholars from the Study of the Mathematicks, as those that render the wit cavilous, and unable to philosophate well; an Institute diametrically contrary to that of Plato, who admitted one to Philosophy, unlesse he was first well entered in Geometry.

I commend the policy of these your Peripateticks, in dehorting their Disciples from the Study of Geometry, for that there is not art more commodious for detecting their fallacies; but see how they differ from the Mathematical Philosophers, who much more willingly converse with those that are well verst in the commune Peripatetick Philosophy, than with those that are destitute of that knowledg, who for want thereof cannot distinguish between doctrine and doctrine. But passing by this, tell me I beseech you, what are those extravagancies and those too affected subtilties that make you think this Copernican Systeme the lesse plausible?


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 [15 King George V Coat of Arms (from Statute of Westminster 1931).jpg CHAPTER 19

An Act to consolidate certain enactments relating to trustees in England and Wales.

E it enacted by the King’s most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:—

1.—(1) A trustee may invest any trust funds in his hands, whether at the time in a state of investment or not, in manner following, that is to say:
 * (a) In any of the parliamentary stocks or public funds or Government securities of the United Kingdom;
 * (b) On real or heritable securities in the United Kingdom, including the security of a charge on freehold land by way of legal mortgage and a charge under section thirty-three of the Finance Act, 1896;
 * (c) In the stock of the Bank of England or the Bank of Ireland;
 * (d) In India Seven, Five and a half, Four and a half, Three and a half, Three and Two and a

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 [ : half per cent, stock, or in any other capital stock which may at any time be issued by the Secretary of State in Council of India under the authority of any Act of Parliament, and charged on the revenues of India, or any other securities the interest in sterling whereon is payable out of and charged on the revenues of India;
 * (e) In any securities the interest of which is for the time being guaranteed by Parliament;
 * (f) In consolidated stock created by the Metropolitan Board of Works, or by the London County Council, or in debenture stock created by the Receiver for the Metropolitan Police District, or in metropolitan water stock;
 * (g) In the debenture or rentcharge, or guaranteed or preference, stock of any railway company in the United Kingdom incorporated by special Act of Parliament, and having during each of the ten years last past before the date of investment paid a dividend at the rate of not, less than three per centum on its ordinary stock;
 * (h) In the stock of any railway or canal company in the United Kingdom whose undertaking is leased in perpetuity or for a term of not less than two hundred years at a fixed rental to any such railway company as is mentioned in paragraph (g) of this subsection, either alone or jointly with any other railway company;
 * (i) In the debenture stock of any company owning or operating a railway in India the interest in sterling on which is paid or guaranteed by the Secretary of State in Council of India;
 * (j) In the “B” annuities of the Eastern Bengal, the East Indian, the Scinde Punjaub and Delhi, Great Indian Peninsula and Madras Railways, or in any securities substituted therefor, and any like annuities which may at any time after the commencement of this Act be created on the purchase of any other railway by the Secretary of State in Council of India, and charged on the

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 [15 : revenues of India, and which may be authorised by Act of Parliament to be accepted by trustees in lieu of any stock held by them in the purchased railway; also in deferred annuities comprised in the register of holders of annuity Class D and annuities comprised in the register of annuitants Class C of the East Indian Railway Company;
 * (k) In the stock of any company owning or operating a railway in India upon which a fixed or minimum dividend in sterling is paid or guaranteed by the Secretary of State in Council of India, or upon the capital of which the interest is so guaranteed;
 * (l) In the debenture or guaranteed or preference stock of any company in the United Kingdom established for the supply of water for profit, and incorporated by special Act of Parliament or by Royal Charter, and having during each of the ten years last past before the date of investment paid a dividend of not less than five per centum on its ordinary stock;
 * (m) In nominal or inscribed stock issued, or to be issued, under the authority of any Act of Parliament or Provisional Order, by the corporation of any municipal borough in the United Kingdom having, according to the returns of the last census prior to the date of investment, a population exceeding fifty thousand, or by any county council in the United Kingdom;
 * (n) In nominal or inscribed stock issued or to be issued by any commissioners incorporated by Act of Parliament for the purpose of supplying water, and having a compulsory power of levying rates over an area having according to the returns of the last census prior to the date of investment a population exceeding fifty thousand, provided that during each of the ten years last past before the date of investment the rates levied by such commissioners have not exceeded eighty per centum of the amount authorised by law to be levied;

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 [ :(o) In any stocks, funds, or securities authorised under the Colonial Stock Act, 1900, or any Act extending the same, but subject to any restrictions thereby imposed;
 * (p) In any local bonds issued under the Housing (Additional Powers) Act, 1919, and mortgages of any fund or rate granted after the passing of that Act under the authority of any Act or Provisional Order by a local authority (including a county council) which is authorised to issue local bonds under that Act;
 * (q) In any stock or securities issued in respect of any loan raised by the Government of Northern Ireland;
 * (r) In any of the stocks, funds, or securities for the time being authorised for the investment of cash under the control or subject to the order of the court;

and may also from time to time vary any such investment.

(2) For the purposes of this section—
 * (a) the London and North Eastern Railway Company, the Southern Railway Company, the London, Midland and Scottish Railway Company, and the Great Western Railway Company shall each be treated as if it were a railway company in Great Britain incorporated by a special Act of Parliament which had in each of the ten years immediately before the date of amalgamation paid a dividend at a rate of not less than three per centum on its ordinary stock, and, for the purposes of this provision the date of amalgamation means—
 * (i) as respects the London and North Eastern Railway Company and the Southern Railway Company the first day of January, nineteen hundred and twenty-three; and
 * (ii) as respects the London Midland and Scottish Railway Company and the Great Western Railway Company the first day

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 {| align="center" Henry James
 * [[Image:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 1 (New York, Charles Scribners Sons, 1907) frontispiece.jpg|center|300px]]
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 HENRY JAMES

W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.


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 COPYRIGHT


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 To tell you true, I do not very well know; perhaps, because I have not so much as learnt the reasons that are by Ptolomy produced, of those effects, I mean of those stations, retrogradations, accessions, recessions of the Planets; lengthenings and shortnings of dayes, changes of seasons, &c. But omitting the consequences that depend on the first suppositions, I find in the suppositions themselves no small difficulties; which suppositions, if once they be overthrown, they draw along with them the ruine of the whole fabrick. Now forasmuch as because the whole module of Copernicus seemeth in my opinion to be built upon infirm foundations, in that it relyeth upon the mobility of the earth, if this should happen to be disproved, there would be no need of farther dispute. And to disprove this, the Axiom of Aristotle is in my judgement most sufficient, That of one simple body, one sole simple motion can be natural: but here in this case, to the Earth, a simple body, there are assigned 3. if not 4. motions, and all very different from each other. For besides the right motion, as a grave body towards its centre, which cannot be denied it, there is assigned to it a circular motion in a great circle about the Sun in a year, and a vertiginous conversion about its own centre in twenty four hours. And that in the next place which is more exorbitant, & which happly for that reason you pass over in silence, there is ascribed to it another revolution about its own centre, contrary to the former of twenty four hours, and which finisheth its period in a year. In this my understanding apprehendeth a very great contradiction.

As to the motion of descent, it hath already been concluded not to belong to the Terrestrial Globe which did never move with any such motion, nor never shall do; but is (if there be such a thing) that propension of its parts to reunite themselves to their whole. As, in the next place, to the Annual motion, and the Diurnal, these being both made towards one way, are very compatible, in the same manner just as if we should let a Ball trundle downwards upon a declining superficies, it would in its descent along the same spontaneously revolve in it self. As to the third motion assigned it by Copernicus, namely about it self in a year, onely to keep its Axis inclined and directed towards the same part of the Firmament, I will tell you a thing worthy of great consideration: namely ut tantum abest (although it be made contrary to the other annual) it is so far from having any repugnance or difficulty in it, that naturally and without any moving cause, it agreeth to any whatsoever suspended and librated body, which if it shall be carried round in the circumference of a circle, immediate of it self, it acquireth a conversion about its own centre, contrary to that which carrieth it about, and of


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 [15 :: of July, nineteen hundred and twenty-three;
 * (b) a railway or canal company in Northern Ireland whose system is situate partly in Northern Ireland and partly in the Irish Free State shall not be deemed to be a railway or canal company in Northern Ireland.

2.—(1) A trustee may under the powers of this Act invest in any of the securities mentioned or referred to in section one of this Act, notwithstanding that the same may be redeemable, and that the price exceeds the redemption value.

Provided that, in the case of any stock mentioned or referred to in paragraphs (g), (i), (k), (l), (m), (o), (p) and (q) of subsection (1) of section one of this Act, which is liable to be redeemed at par or at some other fixed rate, a trustee shall not be entitled to purchase the stock—
 * (a) at a price exceeding fifteen per centum above par or such other fixed rate; nor
 * (b) if the stock is liable to be so redeemed as aforesaid within fifteen years of the date of purchase, at a price exceeding its redemption value.

(2) A trustee may retain until redemption any redeemable stock, fund, or security which may have been purchased in accordance with the powers of this Act, or any statute replaced by this Act.

3. Every power conferred by the preceding sections shall be exercised according to the discretion of the trustee, but subject to any consent or direction required by the instrument, if any, creating the trust or by statute with respect to the investment of the trust funds.

4. A trustee shall not be liable for breach of trust by reason only of his continuing to hold an investment which has ceased to be an investment authorised by the trust instrument or by the general law.

5.—(1) A trustee having power to invest in real securities may invest and shall be deemed always to have had power to invest—
 * (a) on mortgage of property held for an unexpired term of not less than two hundred years, and

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 PREFACE

, the second of the two novels which Henry James left unfinished, had been planned and begun some years before he died. The two first books and a part of the third had been written, and it appears that the idea had been abandoned for accidental reasons, not because he was himself dissatisfied with it. He went back to it again during the first winter of the war, having found that in the conditions he could not then go on with The Ivory Tower and hoping that he might be able to work upon a story of remote and phantasmal life. He re-dictated, with slight modifications, the chapters already written, and continued the book at intervals until the autumn of 1915. He was then engaged for a time on other work the introduction to the Letters from America of Rupert Brooke. He had just finished this and was preparing to return immediately to The Sense of the Past when on December 2 he was attacked by his last illness. The v


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PREFACE later chapters of the novel, as they stand, had not been finally revised by him; but it was never his habit to make more than verbal changes at that stage.

The notes on the course which the book was to follow were dictated when he reached the point where the original draft broke off. These notes are given in full; their part in Henry James's method of work is indicated in the preface to The Ivory Tower.

PERCY LUBBOCK. vi


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 [ : not subject to a reservation of rent greater than a shilling a year, or to any right of redemption or to any condition for re-entry, except for non-payment of rent; and
 * (b) on any charge, or upon mortgage of any charge, made under the Improvement of Land Act, 1864.

(2) A trustee having power to invest in real securities may accept the security in the form of a charge by way of legal mortgage, and may, in exercise of the statutory power, convert an existing mortgage into a charge by way of legal mortgage.

(3) A trustee having power to invest in the mortgages or bonds of any railway company or of any other description of company may invest in the debenture stock of a railway company or such other company as aforesaid.

(4) A trustee having power to invest money in the debentures or debenture stock of any railway or other company may invest in any nominal debentures or nominal debenture stock issued under the Local Loans Act, 1875.

(5) A trustee having power to invest money in securities in the Isle of Man, or in securities of the government of a colony, may invest in any securities of the Government of the Isle of Man, under the Isle of Man Loans Act, 1880.

(6) A trustee having a general power to invest trust money in or upon the security of "shares, stock, mortgages, bonds, or debentures of companies incorporated by or acting under the authority of an Act of Parliament, may invest in, or upon the security of, mortgage debentures duly issued under and in accordance with the provisions of the Mortgage Debenture Act, 1865.

6. A trustee having power to invest in the purchase of land or on mortgage of land may invest in the purchase or on mortgage of any land notwithstanding the same is charged with a rent under the powers of the Public Money Drainage Acts, 1846 to 1856, or the Landed Property Improvement (Ireland) Act, 1847, or by an absolute order made under the Improvement of Land Act, 1864, unless the terms of the trust expressly provide that the land to be purchased or taken in mortgage shall not be subject to any such prior charge.

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 CONTENTS


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 NOTES FOR

THE SENSE OF THE PAST


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14 ABERNETHY’S ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS. the necessity of explaining Mr. Huntor’s ideas of life before he could render his (Hunter’s) explanation of the various phenomena intelli- gible. In all of this he certainly was expressing Mr, Hunter’s own views, with that talent for ornamenting and illustrating everything he dis- cussed, for which he was so remarkable,

Aberncthy multiplied the illustrations by showing the various analogics which scemed to him to be presented in the velocity, the chemical, and other powers of Life and Electricity; and with especial reference to the extraordinary dis- coveries of Sir Humphrey Davy, added such illustrations, as more recent achicyements in chemical scicnee had placed within his grasp ; and thence concluding it as evident that some subtile, mobile, invisible substance scemed to pervade all nature, so it was not unreasonable to suppose that some similar substance or power pervaded animal bodies. He guarded himself, however, both in his first and again in his second Course of Lectures, from being supposed to iden- tify Life with clectricity, in a long paragraph especially devoted to that object. In his second Course, in 1815, he proceeded to enumerate �


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94 VULGARITY, plaining diagrams, it is seldom necessary to turn quite round, the smallest inclination towards the audience satisfics the requisitions of good breeding, reminds them agreeably of a respect, with which they never fail to be pleased, and of the lecturer’s self-possession.

There are, indeed, occasions, when the lecturer had better turn a little aside; not long ago, we heard a very sensible lecturer, and a very es- timable man, produce an cffect, which was rather ludicrous; a very inconyenient impres- sion when not intended. He had been stating very clearly, some important facts, and he then observed: “The great importance of these facts I will now proceed to explain to you,” when he immediately began to apply the pocket-handkerchief he had in his hand, most elaborately to his nose, still fronting the audience. It had the most ridiculous effect, and followed so closely on the preced- ing remark, as to suggest to the humorously inclined that it was part of the proposed expla- nation.

Some think it excusable to cast their cyes

�


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MEMOIRS OF ABERNETHY.

CHAPTER I.

“ Opinionum commenta delet dies, nature judicia confirmat.”—cicERo.

“Time, which obliterates the fictions of opinion, confirms the decisions of nature.”

Wuoever has wandered to the south side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, will have found himself in one of the “ solitudes of London ;” one of those places, which, interspersed here and there amidst the busy current that rushes along every street and alley, seems quite out of the human- life-tide, and furnishes a screnc spot, a dead calm, in the midst of turault and agitation. Fre a lawyer may con over a “ glorious uncer-

� VOL. II. B


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undertaking or given or received any notice or retired he shall, provided that any conditions prescribed or deemed to have been prescribed by or under the Schedule to this Order are satisfied, be deemed to have given that undertaking, to have given or received that notice, or to have retired, as the case may be, under the corresponding provision in that Schedule, and the provisions of that Schedule shall have effect accordingly.

 * (3) Any conditions or notice prescribed by the appropriate authority for the purposes of paragraph 3(l)(a), paragraph 4(1) or paragraph 13(2) of the Schedule to this Order shall be not less favourable to any officer than any conditions or notice prescribed by or for the purposes of the corresponding provision of the compensation scheme.

 * (4) In this section "the compensation scheme" means the scheme for compensation, retiring benefits and related matters entitled "Scheme of Retirement Benefits for Members of Her Majesty's Overseas Civil Service and for officers designated under the Overseas Service (North Borneo) Agreement, 1961 ".

W. G. Agnew

1. (1) In this Schedule, unless the context otherwise requires—

"appropriate authority" means such person or authority as may from time to time be designated for the purposes of this Schedule by the Governor of North Borneo or, at any time after the end of the operative date, by the Yang di-Pertua Negara of the State of Sabah, and different persons or authorities may be so designated for the purposes of different provisions of this Schedule;

"appropriate law" in relation to an officer in the public service means the law in force in North Borneo that governs the grant of pensions, gratuities, and other like benefits in respect of the service of that officer in the public service;

"entitled officer" means an overseas officer in the public service who, on the operative date, has not attained the age of fifty-five years or, in the case of a judge, sixty-two years and—

 * (a) who was before the 1st January 1963, appointed or selected for appointment to an office in the public service, being a pensionable office for the appropriate law;

 * (b) who is on the operative date the substantive holder of an office that is at that date a pensionable office for the purposes of the appropriate law;

 * (c) who is on the operative date a member of Her Majesty's Overseas Civil Service or Her Majesty's Overseas Judiciary or a designated officer for the purposes of the Overseas Service (North Borneo) Agreement, 1961;

 * (d) who is after the operative date a judge or the substantive holder of an office that has at any time during his tenure thereof been a pensionable office for the purposes of the appropriate law; and

 * (e) in the case of an officer whose appointment is subject to confirmation, who has been confirmed in that appointment;


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Talk:Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works

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 MEMOIRS OF ABERNETHY.

CHAPTER I.

“The Author of Nature appears deliberate through- out His operations, accomplishing His natural ends by slow successive steps. And there is a plan of things beforchand laid out, which, from the nature of it, requires various systems of means, as well as length of time, in order to the carrying on its several parts into execution.’ —BUTLER’$ ANALOGY.

A ReTROsPecT of the history of human knowledge, offers to our contemplation, few things of deeper interest than the evidence it so repeatedly affords of some great law which regulates the gradual development of truth, and ‘determines the Progress of Scientific Discovery.

� VOL. I. B


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 further end of this Gallery, containeth the Altar and Tabernacle, which are to be set up in the new Chappel of S. Laurence described above. Having viewed them six several times exactly (as I did) you will perchance be of my opinion, that this Tabernacle made for to keep the Blessed Sacrament in, is able, or, nothing is able, to make amends in some sort, to our Saviour for his course lodging in Bethlehem, when he was born in a stable and lodged in a manger. The crystal pillars curiously wrought, and being a full Ell long, with their Capitelli of pure gold: the four like pictures of pretious stones which were five years, each of them in cutting: the Variety of other pretious stones set thick here and there, and of great size: the neat contexture of other polished stones of several colours and lustre: the pictures of inlaid pretious stones, which compose the Antependium of the Altar: the variety of rich Cameos which are set here and there, add [sic] cut into pictures: in


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 TO THE MEMORY

JOHN ABERNETHY,

F.R.S.

THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED

ONE OF HIS NUMEROUS

GRATEFUL PUPILS,

THE AUTHOR.


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 PREFACE

TUE SECOND EDITION.

Tue indulgent reeeption whieh the Public and the Profession have been pleased to accord to these Memoirs, having already rendered a seeond edition neeessary, the volumes have been enrefully revised. This has enabled me to eorreet some typographieal errors, and su to modify eertain passages, that whilst the narra- tive remains essentially the same, it muy be in some points presented in an improved dress. L have also availed myself of the opportunity of making some additions and eorrections, which, though few, are not unimportant. �


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Vl PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. Although not unacquainted with the faet, that Mr. Abernethy had declined the honour of a Baronetcy, no allusion was made to it in the first edition, because I was not then in possession of such evidence as appeared to me necessary in relation to a circumstance that had not fallen within my own knowledge.

By the kindness of the family, I have been enabled to correet an error in regard to those who were present in his last moments; which, if in an historical pomt of view immaterial, is by no means so, with regard to the feelings of those whom it more immediately concerns.

G. M.

THE COURT YARD, ALBANY, woy. 14, 1953. �


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 PREFACE

TO

THE FIRST EDITION.

In submitting to the Public 2 Memoir of a great man, it may naturally be expected that an author should endeavour to convey to them some idea of the associations, or other cireum- stances, which have prompted the undertaking.

My father practised on the borders of a forest, and when he was called at night to visit a distant patient, it was the greatest treat to me, then a little boy, to be allowed to saddle my pony and accompany him. My father knew the forest nearly as well as his own garden; but still in passing bogs im impenetrable darkness, the more refined topography of a forester would �


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x PREFACE. be necessary; and it was on one of these occa- sions that 1 first heard two words, “Me-ward” and “ Abernethy,” the one from our forester guide, which I have never heard since, and the other which I have heard more frequently perhaps than any. The idea I then had of Abernethy was, that he was a great man who lived in London. The next distinct impression I have of him was deriyed from hearing my father say that a lady, who had gone up to London to haye an operation performed, had becn sent by him to Mr, Abernethy, because my father did not think the operation neces- sary or proper; that Mr, Abernethy en- tirely agreed with him, and that the opera- tion was not performed; that the lady had returned home, and was getting well. I then found that my father had studied under him, and his name became a sort of household word in our family. Circumstanecs now oc- curred which occupied my mind in a different direction, and for some years I thought no more of Abernethy.

As long as Surgery meant riding across a �


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PREFACE, xi forest with my father, I thought it a very agreeable occupation ; but when I found that it included many other things, I soon dis- covered there was a profession I liked much better, Some years had rolled away; when one afternoon in October, about the year 1816, somewhat to my own surprise, I found myself about two o'clock walking down Holborn Hill, on my way to Mr. Abernethy’s opening Iccture at St. Bartholomew's. Disappointed of being able to follow the profession I had chosen, looking on the one I was about to adopt with something very much allied to repulsion, considcring everything in this world flat and unprofitable, and painfully depressed in spinits, I took my seat at the lecture.

When Mr. Abernethy entered, I was pleased with the expression of his countenance. I almost fancied that he could have sympathised with the melancholy with which I felt oppresscd. When he commenced, I listened with some attention; as he went on, I began even to feel some pleasure; as he proceeded, I found myself entertained; and before he con- �


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xl PREFACE. cluded, was delighted. What an agrecable, happy man he seems, thought 1! What a fine profession! What would I give now to know as much as he does! Jn short, I was con- verted,

Years again rolled on; I found myself in practice, Now, I had an ‘opportunity of proving the truth and excellence of the beauti- ful principles I had been taught. I found how truthful had been his representations of them, I was, however, grieved to find that his opinions and views were very much misunderstood and misrepresented; and I had very frequent oppor- tunities of seeing how much this restricted their application, and abridged their utility.

Some few years after bis death, I tried to induce some one to endeavour to correct the erroneous impressions which prevailed in regard to him; but to do Abernethy full Justice, would require a republication of his works, with an elaborate commentary. This was a task mvolving too much time, labour, and expense, for any individual to undertake; whilst anything less, however useful or instructive to �


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PREFACE, xii the publie, must neeessarily subject the author to a criticism which few are disposed to en- counter.

But as it appeared to me that scruples like these stood im the way of that which was alike just to the memory of Abernethy, and uscful to the public, I was resolved at all hazards to undertake at least a memoir myself. I shall say little of the difficulties of the task. I feel them to have been onerous, and I believe them to have been, m some respects, unex- ampled.

Apologies for imperfections im works which we are not obliged to write, arc seldom valued: the public very sensibly take a work for what it is worth, and arc ultimately seldom wrong in their decision. I have only said thus much, not in deprecation of criticism, so much as to show that I haye not shrunk from what I deemed just and useful on aceount of the somewhat oppressive sense I entertain of the risk or difficulty which it involves.

The seientifie reader, may, I fear, think that in endeavouring to avoid too tedious a gravity, �


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XIV PREFACE. I may sometimes have been forgetful of the dignity of biographical memoir; but in the diffieulty of having to treat of subjeets whieh, however important, are not always of the most popular kind, I have been obliged sometimes to think of the “guid vetat ridentem.” In the very delicate task of diseussing subjeets relating to some of my eontemporaries, I have endeavoured simply to do Abernethy justice ; and beyond what is neeessary for that purpose, have avoided any quotations or other matter, ealeulated unneecssarily to revive or rekindle impressions whieh may as well he dismissed or forgotten. It may appear to some that in my remarks on the present state of professional affairs, I have been too free. I ean only say, that I have stated exaetly what I feel. I am earnestly desirous of seeing a better state of things, but I have no idea that we ean materially improve that whieh we are afraid to examine.

I have to express my warmest thanks to several gentlemen for the readiness with whieh they have contributed their assistanee; my �