Until quite recently, scholarship on keyboard sources in late-seventeenth-century England has focused on the identification of copyists’ hands, contents and concordances, and the attendant inquiries about the composers represented.2 This research emphasizes music written specifically for a keyboard instrument, such as suites by John Blow, with modern writers using vague descriptors such as “some in arrangements” for other pieces in keyboard books.3 Much of the other music in keyboard sources is overlooked because of several modern biases: (1) the music is not demanding; (2) the sources contain a variety of genres, including many pieces outside the solo repertory; and (3) the music does not seem to have been associated with professional music making, despite the fact that the copyists were very often what Christopher Marsh has labeled “occupational musicians.”4 And yet, scholars continue to place the sources in traditional categories and draw subsequent conclusions on the repertory based on these categorizations. Labels such as “amateur” and “domestic” result in skewed readings of this repertory because these terms are at odds with “professional.”5 In other words, twentieth-century categorization has functioned as a barrier to understanding the context of keyboard music from the late seventeenth century, and I contend that to learn more about the sources and how they were used, we must move away from modern concepts of professional, amateur, and domestic.
The difficulties in looking at seventeenth-century keyboard repertory as a whole are made apparent in John Harley’s British Harpsichord Music, Vol. 2: History.6 For the early period (specifically, the chapter entitled “Byrd’s Successors”), the narrative proceeds by composer.7 In contrast, no composer receives an individual heading for the midcentury. The later period (which extends into the early eighteenth century) has both: composers, followed by topics such as “French influences.”8 His divisions reflect the general tendency to explain these repertories by composer if the music is attributable and of a certain quality, and by function if it is not. This approach enables a certain type of examination of the period as a whole but one that is misleading if context is not considered.9
The historiography of the post-Restoration repertory reveals that assumptions made about English keyboard music during the twentieth century continue to cloud its interpretation.10 For example, Peter Leech asserts that “new styles of keyboard music emerged during the second half of the seventeenth century, but an understanding of their development is hampered by the lack of surviving comprehensive manuscript collections of keyboard music from this period.”11 “This period” is the third quarter of the seventeenth century. He continues:
The majority of manuscripts which have come down to us are small, enigmatic “domestic” compilations drawn from diverse material. Apart from musical concordances, they offer few clues which might help scholars set them in the wider context of manuscript copying and circulation in England between 1660 and 1710. The Antoine Selosse manuscript . . . is arguably one of the more significant discoveries of Restoration keyboard music in recent years.12
Leech’s statement raises several issues, such as how we define Restoration, and what is meant by “English music” and “English composers.” Two comments relate directly to the present discussion: the supposed “lack of comprehensive manuscript collections” and the idea that “small, enigmatic ‘domestic’ compilations drawn from diverse material” [italics mine] cannot “help scholars set them in the wider context of manuscript copying and circulation in England between 1660 and 1710.”
Some of these problems derive from scholarly views of the midcentury, which has been described as a “transition” and a “decline” in the English keyboard tradition.13 The music surviving from these decades is relatively simple, often in versions arranged by the person doing the copying. The sources are usually labeled “amateur,” “household,” or “domestic” manuscripts, implying that the manuscripts were used by women. To be sure, several bear women’s names. Anne Cromwell’s Virginal Book is a case in point as the sparse textures and simplistic pieces (understandably) do not invite immediate appreciation.14 The result is that scholars have categorized this repertory as “domestic,” recognized a few innovations (such as the beginning of the suite), and moved on. Two statements by Barry Cooper demonstrate this point of view. When discussing the “Function and Social Background” of English keyboard music from the “middle Baroque,” he observes that “for most of the period music written for harpsichord served primarily for domestic use.” He continues that this situation “helps to explain the small, intimate nature of so much of it. Most of the performers, too, were amateurs, so that one cannot expect, and one does not find, music of exceptional difficulty, except in rare cases. . . . It is also significant that most of the performers were young ladies.”15 These statements voice an underlying prejudice against simplistic music as is found in many sources and frame the discussion of the “small, intimate nature” of the music as something for the “ladies”—as if women could handle only simple music.
The keyboard repertory from the end of the century is more difficult to assess and categorize, in part because most of the manuscripts are quite large and contain a variety of pieces. Occupational musicians copied much of the surviving music.16 They have traditionally been called “professional” musicians, which means men. Indeed, most copyists were men, but at least one woman keyboard player who was remunerated for her efforts as a keyboard player can be identified from this period: Henrietta Banister was paid for teaching Princess Anne in 1679. In contrast to the fact that most of the copyists earned their living through music, the keyboard music from this period does not evince a virtuoso, or what we recognize as “professional,” keyboard tradition. The composers in these books are well known, most notably Henry Purcell, but their keyboard music usually receives only casual mention in modern literature. This dichotomy—famous composers/less-than-exciting keyboard music—has influenced research, and scholarly inquiry tends to focus on famous composers’ music for media other than the solo keyboard.17 Regardless of who copied it, scholarly literature has also associated this sparsely textured repertory with women, but the narrative is much more complex than simple demarcations of professional, amateur, or domestic.18
Modern uses of these words often obscure meaning and context in early modern sources. “Professional” typically means remuneration for services, but it also implies someone who earns a living through the activity.19 Those who are not professional musicians in this sense are deemed “amateurs.” These “amateurs” made music at home, but whose home? Samuel Pepys sang with friends in a number of places, and he listened to others making music in a variety of venues. Pepys often made music with “professional” or at least “occupational” musicians. How does “domestic” factor into Pepys’s experience? Are sources used in such a fashion either professional or domestic? Do these terms indeed assist our understanding of the musical practice?
The word amateur and its attendant domestic constitute a significant part of the problem. These two terms have been used interchangeably to signify music making occurring somewhere other than the theater, cathedral/chapel, or court. Furthermore, the professional/domestic division exasperates research on the end of the century by boxing in what a “professional” musician did. If a “professional” copied a volume that contains simple music, scholars have felt the need to explain away the problem that the technical demands do not rise to the level of what is expected of a professional player. However, the supposition that an occupational musician required a more difficult repertory does not hold up under scrutiny, as we shall see. Context is the key to interpreting these keyboard manuscripts.
The findings of a few scholars will help clarify the problem of how our understanding of space, masculinity, and related ideas have led to misreadings of early modern English culture. Since Jürgen Habermas’s recognition of the profound shift in social order and new understandings of “domesticity,” several studies have examined different angles to produce a more nuanced view of this culture.20 For example, in her work on space in British novels, Karen Lipsedge notes the rise of domestic sociability and its accompanying entertainments circa 1700, and Irene Cieraad perceives that the concept of domestic and public space develops in the West in the seventeenth century, marking the new notion of “domesticity” a powerful image related to domestic space.21 Similarly, Amanda Vickery links the evolution of domestic sociability to the availability and popularity of tea in the early eighteenth century.22 Heidi de Mare has demonstrated that our modern ideas of domestic meaning of the home derive from a nineteenth-century ideal, but in the seventeenth century, the physical boundary of the front door does not define the fixed borders of domestic space.23 These carefully considered investigations of some of the terms used to describe keyboard manuscripts should be a warning against categorizing with sociological terminology.
The categorization “domestic” has yielded a false sense of purpose and context. What does the term domestic signify? What is the difference between domestic keyboard music and nondomestic keyboard music? Assuming that copyists prepared manuscripts for practical music making (and internal evidence suggests that most of them did), the people who used these volumes and the places where they used them is of paramount importance. Many are cast as “amateur,” but I will demonstrate that they were used by occupational musicians for performance circumstances that modern observers might label “domestic” music making—a situation that places them in two seemingly contradictory categories.
GB-Och Mus. 1003 exemplifies part of the overall problem with manuscript categorization. The volume consists of three parts copied by at least four different people. The first eleven leaves contain music by earlier composers, copied from GB-Och Mus. 1113.24 Next follow thirty-three pieces copied between 1660 and 1685 (fols. 12–29v and 52–52v [rev.]). One of the hands in this section belongs to Charles Morgan (ca. 1660–1738), who wrote “C. Morgan” and “Morgan his Booke” on the cover.25 A chorister at Christ Church until 1677, he received a BA from Magdalen in 1681 and an MA from the same college in 1684. He remained there as a lay clerk until his death in 1738.26 The other hand in this section is that of Henry Bowman. Little is known about Bowman, but there are several large collections of music in his hand. Peter Holman speculates that Bowman lived and worked in Oxford, and notes that he copied at least eighteen manuscripts between 1669 and 1685. Bowman styled himself “Philo-Musicus” in his Songs for 1 2 & 3 Voyces (published in Oxford in 1677), which suggests that he was not a professional musician.27 Nonetheless, his association with numerous sources evinces a significant musical reputation. Around 1700, Richard Goodson Sr. (ca. 1655–1718, organist at Christ Church and university music professor), copied three pieces into the front of the book.28 A collector, copyist, and composer, Goodson acquired several music books from Edward Lowe, the previous Heather Professor of Music at Oxford and organist at Christ Church, and added to them. These include GB-Och Mus. 1176 and GB-Och Mus. 1177.29 Thus, GB-Och MS Mus 1003 is a case where one manuscript containing thirty-seven pieces can be connected directly with three different Oxford musicians from the second half of the seventeenth century. Morgan and Bowman are further connected through GB-Lbl Add. MSS 30382 and 33234, manuscripts of Italian and English music, one of which belonged to Katherine Sedley, a mistress of James II.30
None of the pieces as they appear in this volume can be attributed to a public performance venue, nor are the technical demands as high as we might expect of music owned by occupational musicians. During the 1660s, Bowman entered easy keyboard settings of popular tunes, such as William Lawes’s “Golden Grove” suite.31 The arrangements are quite simple, requiring little in the way of keyboard skill. Bowman did not copy intricate arrangements made by others—not that many exist, which is a suggestive circumstance indeed. (Whether Bowman was an occupational musician is unknown, but his hand is present in several important sources.) Scholars such as Rebecca Herissone have speculated on the meaning of such skeletal versions of Restoration pieces, noting the various circumstances under which the sources might have been copied.32 Bowman may have written down works that he liked, without bothering to make elaborate arrangements, and he probably did so to play them.33
Morgan made most of his contributions after 1677.34 Like Bowman, Morgan wrote simple accompaniments to popular songs. He also copied Draghi’s music and shared it with Goodson (who eventually acquired GB-Och Mus. 1003). Morgan had significant musical training, and Bowman (the self-styled “Philo-Musicus”) had at least a strong musical background. Goodson was an occupational musician. Both Bowman and Morgan appear to have used GB-Och Mus. 1003 for playing purposes, and the places where they might have used it almost certainly qualify as “domestic.” Andrew Woolley proposes that Morgan and Bowman created GB-Och Mus. 1003 for practical purposes.35 How else could the manuscript have been used other than in a “domestic” setting? “Small and enigmatic,” and even “domestic,” GB-Och Mus. 1003 offers substantial evidence of how occupational musicians in Oxford were involved with practical music in venues other than those that provided their livelihood (cathedral or chapel), how they heard and performed secular repertory, and how musicians might transmit the repertory among themselves.
Another source that demonstrates some of the issues that complicate how modern scholars read keyboard volumes is GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403, a large manuscript consisting of two distinct parts. GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 differs from GB-Och Mus. 1003 in many ways—practically the only aspects they have in common are date and a muddled compilation history associated with occupational English musicians.36 GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 began life in Canterbury, where Edward Bevin copied a repertory representative of keyboard music ca. 1630.37 At some point, it came into the possession of cathedral organist Daniel Henstridge. Elsewhere in this volume, Herissone examines Henstridge’s participation in secular music activities in Canterbury, looking particularly at a small pocketbook in which he collected songs and catches.38 He copied several manuscripts of Purcell’s music and owned autograph copies of the composer’s anthems. He may have taught members of the Filmer family, for his hand appears alongside those of Francis Forcer and William Turner in manuscripts associated with that household.39 He obviously knew many important musicians, and his status as an occupational musician is undeniable. His involvement in other types of music making indicates that Henstridge also performed a different type of music than that required in his cathedral position.40
Such music finds its way into GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403. The portion of GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 that Henstridge copied before 1690 includes several concordances with Goodson’s personal collection (GB-Och Mus. 1177), one with GB-Och Mus. 1003, and two from a printed collection published for amateurs (The Second Part of Musick’s Hand-maid, 1689). These pieces include simple dances by John Blow, Matthew Locke, and Francis Forcer. The concordances with Musick’s Handmaid, a source that has been frequently described as women’s music, might seem inappropriate for a “professional” musician’s manuscript, but they are indeed present in GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403.
If Woolley is correct in his assessment that the various Canterbury musicians who had access to GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 added to it for personal use, then it must have been used for private music making.41 He includes this manuscript in his chapter on “Collecting Keyboard Music,” calls it a “personal collection,” and notes that these types of manuscripts are connected with “domestic” music making along with GB-Och Mus. 1177 (the Goodson volume) and William Raylton’s Virginal Book (J-Tn, N-3/35).42 Several of these sources are comprehensive collections and quite large: GB-Och Mus. 1177 measures 33 x 21 cm with forty-one folios, and Raylton is 31.5 x 21.5 cm with fifty-five folios. GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 is even more substantial: 40.5 x 27 cm with seventy-eight folios.43 These volumes are messy in every sense of the word: several hands (most identified as occupational musicians) often appear among their pages, some were used for almost a century, and the contents include both secular and sacred music.
One of the most fascinating aspects of later manuscripts is that sources connected with occupational men and recreational women musicians look very similar, a trend that begins during the transitional midcentury period. From about 1650 on, so-called “domestic” and “professional” manuscripts become indistinguishable, and around 1700, most keyboard sources still look alike—be they female/amateur/domestic or male/professional. One cannot easily confer a title of “professional” or “domestic” on sources such as GB-Och Mus. 1003 and 1177. We have tended to label volumes that contain simple music as amateur or domestic unless we know who copied them. Even then, received wisdom has been to assume that they must have been pedagogical—and some certainly were but not all of them.44
That musicians shared these volumes also suggests something about their personal relationships and the places where they played the music contained therein. This leads to more questions. If an occupational musician copies a volume or uses one in private settings, is it a “domestic” manuscript? Women’s manuscripts are always labeled “domestic”—no doubt that was the context in which they were used. And certainly some of the men’s manuscripts were used in liturgical settings, a situation that makes them professional. But as Woolley eloquently demonstrates, several occupational men’s sources were used in domestic settings. At least two owned by Goodson fit this description.45 Furthermore, a number of volumes changed hands, some from occupational male musician to recreational woman musician. Antoine Selosse apparently copied his manuscript around 1675, and no evidence connects it to a woman before 1710.46 The first and only woman’s name to appear in GB-Och Mus. 1003 was that of Anna Goodson, and she did not use the volume until several decades after men began it for their own use.
Nonetheless scholars tend to associate this repertory with women, and period publications suggesting women’s use in the title seem to support this connection.47 As noted above, Cooper writes that most of the secular music written in late-seventeenth-century England was intended for domestic use by women, and that the advent of public solo harpsichord performances by men in the eighteenth century brought the virtuoso repertory back again.48 However, this scenario does not account for books that contain roughly the same repertory copied by occupational male musicians (such as GB-Och Mus. 1177) from the same period. As cathedral organists, Henstridge and Raylton were occupational keyboard players, but in technical requirements their books do not differ substantially from Elizabeth Edgeworth’s (which contains music by Froberger, among others).49
“Amateur,” “domestic,” and other terms associated with women have been used to explain the English keyboard repertory of the middle and late seventeenth century. The repertory has been excused with comments that relegate it to home use, domesticity. However, many sources (such as GB-Och Mus. 1003) belonged to occupational men who transcribed simple-looking scores for their own personal use. The idea that a manuscript of simple music cannot be a book used by an occupational male musician for personal playing bespeaks another prejudice—one that elevates difficulty above simplicity and a concurrent supposed male virtuosity above female domesticity. Secular keyboard music from late-seventeenth-century England is sight-readable, and the Purcell suites are prime examples. As far back as 1937, Jack Westrup described Purcell’s keyboard works as “relatively unimportant” and hinted at their being women’s works by describing the harpsichord works as “little suites published by Mrs. Purcell with a dedication to Queen Anne.”50 Almost sixty years later, Curtis Price commented that this repertory, from Locke to Croft, “lacks coherency and represents a marked decline from the glories of Byrd, Bull, and Gibbons.” He even posited that neither Blow nor Purcell were virtuosos.51
Looking at the extant music in both manuscripts and publications, such observations seem to ring true. On the other hand, period commentators praise the skill of several performers (particularly Draghi) whose compositions are no more difficult than the keyboard suites of Purcell.52 This suggests that something has been misread, misunderstood, or misinterpreted. The notated music, as presented in both publications and manuscripts, is almost certainly deceptive. Terence Charlston’s recording of the music of Albertus Bryne, ca. 1660, explores the possibilities inherent in adding to the page as written (particularly track #20).53 Charlston’s familiarity with the repertory and his willingness to experiment beyond the written page demonstrate a new approach to English keyboard music of the late seventeenth century but one whose practicality is based on experience.54 That most versions of popular pieces differ and survive in somewhat skeletal form indicates that seventeenth-century performers were not married to the page, and it further suggests that we should not be either.55 Considering that most keyboard players played from sparse scores to accompany, it would be a natural process for them to add to the keyboard scores as well.56
The companion website for this book includes an excerpt from the “Saraband” in GB-Llp MS 1040, f. 24v and five audio examples made by Charlston that demonstrate how someone trained in accompanying seventeenth-century music might apply similar principles to a simple score.57 (See the Related Links on this book’s page at http://iupress.indiana.edu.) In the first audio example, Charlston plays the first eight measures of an anonymous saraband from GB-Llp MS 1040 as they are found in the manuscript (which is possibly in the hand of Albertus Bryne, organist at St. Paul’s and later Westminster Abbey). In audio example 2, Charlston alters the right-hand part with offbeat melodic delays and more extensive ornamentation. Continuo experience marks audio example 3, in which Charlston punctuates the texture sometimes with fuller chords, sometimes broken ones. Audio example 4 presents an approach full of broken chords, a sound characteristic of printed keyboard music, such as some of Purcell’s preludes. The final audio example is the most extreme deviation from the manuscript version in that Charlston creates a new harmonization. Considering the lack of figures in much English music from the late seventeenth century, such a realization seems entirely plausible. These audio examples illustrate how one might use these sources.58
Thus, maybe it is not the visually simplistic music that is the problem but our unwillingness to experiment with playing the repertory? Substantial improvisation was part of seventeenth-century performance practice—that is how scholars explain the lack of organ music from this period.59 It appears that this repertory comes to us in an outline form, and the issues raised here further support that idea.
Music we have labeled “domestic” is not only women’s music—it also includes music performed by men who made their livings as musicians. There is merit in examining music and its place in gendered cultural aesthetics, but we must be careful that we do not categorize in generalizations that do not hold up against the evidence. English manuscripts must be examined in the context in which they were created and not solely on the exact representation of the repertory within. The line between “professional” music and “amateur” music is not as clear as we have made it out to be, and performance practice is rarely considered in the context of these sources. The issue is less whether a manuscript belonged to a man or a woman, or is domestic, amateur, household, or professional, but rather how much was done with the music therein—what happened with the music in practice? Diaries such as Pepys’s tell us more about how music happened than do the sources. It is time to revisit the idea of the “work” and recognize that our idea of a composition fixed on a notated page differs significantly from the way a seventeenth-century performer considered the repertory.60
Few scholars have focused on these late-seventeenth-century manuscripts, partly because of their numerous contents and confusing compilation histories.61 Hogwood even presents the possibility that “the very domesticity of these collections is responsible for their present neglect” [italics mine].62 Nonetheless, sources such as GB-Och Mus. 1003 and GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 do represent the state of keyboard music in England during the last part of the seventeenth century. We have resisted the idea of men playing “domestic” music, but they did. All the evidence in letters, diaries, and similar accounts point to men making music in spaces that we would describe as “domestic.” Acknowledgment of these aspects—and a willingness to treat the “solo” repertory with the same sense of improvisation that keyboard players approach continuo performance—will enable an alternative interpretation of this music.
1. Research for this essay was made possible by a Summer Stipend from the National Endowment for the Humanities. This essay is a version of papers read at the American Musicological Society in 2010 and the Society for Seventeenth-Century Music in 2009. I would like to thank Andrew Woolley for his advice and for sharing his dissertation with me during the early stages of the paper. I also appreciate comments and ideas from Terence Charlston and James Hume.
2. Such a focus is, of course, necessary to a degree: knowing a manuscript’s provenance is a key element in being able to discuss its purpose, and so forth.
3. This phrase is used to describe two of the Oxford sources discussed below in Harley, British Harpsichord Music, vol. 1, 72. Details on numerous sources held in the British Library also use similar words for music in “keyboard manuscripts” that may have nonkeyboard origins, even at times for pieces for which no concordances exist.
4. Marsh, Music and Society, 72–73. This is a useful term and one that I will employ here.
5. In his study of political culture in early modern England, Phil Withington finds “the division between public and private—and its conflation with civic and domestic” anachronistic and deceptive. See his analysis in The Politics of Commonwealth, 197–198.
6. Harley, British Harpsichord Music, vol. 2, 3–146. The first comprehensive analysis of the early English keyboard repertory was Caldwell’s English Keyboard Music, although several other publications supplement Caldwell’s. These include Harley, British Harpsichord Music; Brown, “England,” 22–85; Bailey, Seventeenth-Century British Keyboard Sources; and several dissertations: Cooper, “English Solo Keyboard Music”; Cox, “Organ Music in Restoration England”; Hodge, “English Harpsichord Repertoire”; Bailey, “English Keyboard Music”; and Woolley, “English Keyboard Sources.”
7. Even this, the most conventionally described period of English keyboard music, is not without exceptions. It, too, deserves a reexamination.
8. The last decades of the seventeenth century are typically joined with the early decades of the eighteenth in several modern studies, and authors tend to take the date of Handel’s arrival in England as the beginning of a new period. Hodge and Woolley begin their dissertations with “c. 1660” and continue until 1714 and 1720, respectively. Cooper includes the “middle and late Baroque” in his work, roughly dividing at about the same place.
9. It should be noted that Thurston Dart proposed a much more sophisticated categorization of English keyboard manuscripts in 1964. Dart described eight categories: (1) composer’s workbooks, (2) presentation copies, (3) anthologies compiled by adult amateurs of music, (4) books prepared for (or, less usually, by) young amateur keyboardists, (5) study books prepared by (or, less usually, for) young would-be professionals under the guidance of their masters, (6) choirmen’s anthologies for leisure playing, (7) books for day-to-day use by professional keyboardists, and (8) posthumous memorials. Dart, “An Early Seventeenth-Century Book,” 27–28. See also Woolley, “English Keyboard Sources,” xi–xii.
10. These divisions between professional and household (or “domestic”) are keenest in my own Seventeenth-Century British Keyboard Sources, esp. 9–10.
11. Leech, The Selosse Manuscript, v. Leech issued a revised edition of The Selosse Manuscript, with different numbering systems. A guide, prepared by Terence Charlston, is available at http://homepage.ntlworld.com/terence.charlston/Selosse.htm (accessed 20 July 2015).
12. Leech, The Selosse Manuscript, v.
13. John Caldwell used the term transition in English Keyboard Music, 141–156, but more recently, he has also used the term decline (Caldwell, “Keyboard Music,” 578).
14. Specifically, Cooper (“English Solo Keyboard,” 22–23) finds that while earlier seventeenth-century manuscripts were compiled by men (“virtuoso virginalists”), for the second half, “most harpsichord music was written for, and played by, women.” Midcentury books associated with women include Priscilla Bunbury’s Virginal Book (privately held); see Priscilla Bunbury’s Virginal Book; Anne Cromwell’s Virginal Book; and lesser-known volumes, such as GB-Och Mus. 92 (see Bailey, Seventeenth-Century British Keyboard Sources, 87–89).
15. Cooper, “English Solo Keyboard,” 21–22.
16. A reexamination of seventeenth-century ideas on music and masculinity is currently being undertaken by several scholars; see, for example, Linda Austern, “Domestic Song and the Circulation of Masculine Social Energy.” Here, she examines the part informal music making played in expressing different types of masculinities, allowing for both the reaffirmation and subversion of social hierarchies.
17. Woolley’s “English Keyboard Sources” is the most seriously considered investigation of these manuscripts, and my work here draws on his identification of hands and other aspects as noted.
18. Hodge uses the term “lady” in Hodge, “English Harpsichord Repertoire,” vol. 1, 109. Here he draws on Cooper’s similar remarks, Cooper, “English Solo Keyboard Music,” 21–23.
19. Notably, it was not until 1811 that “professional” meant one who makes a profession or business from any occupation. See Wickham, Berry, and Ingram, English Professional Theatre, 1.
20. Habermas, Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, 44–45.
21. “From the late 17th to the early 18th century, the way in which the polite élite used and conceived of their living space began to change. Central to this alteration was the rise of domestic sociability. Once the polite élite began to use the home as a setting for sociability new forms of entertainment began to evolve” (Lipsedge, Domestic Space, 22); Cieraad, “Introduction,” 1–12, esp. 3.
22. Vickery, Behind Closed Doors, 14.
23. de Mare, “Domesticity in Dispute,” 13–30, esp. 14–15. De Mare demonstrates that seventeenth-century meanings of these terms differ from modern ones, or, in other cases, the concepts simply didn’t exist.
24. GB-Och Mus. 1113 came into the broader musicological world’s attention in the 1980s, when Alexander Silbiger (“The Roman Frescobaldi Tradition,” 77) addressed the puzzling Italianate works therein.
25. The names “C. Morgan,” “John Morgan,” “Morgan His Booke,” and “J. Nordin” have all been inscribed at various places on the volume.
26. On Morgan, see Shay and Thompson, Purcell Manuscripts, 271.
27. Holman, “Bowman, Henry,” GMO, accessed January 25, 2011.
28. Woolley, “English Keyboard Sources,” 132.
29. This latter collection provides a further connection between Goodson and Morgan in that Goodson copied (probably in the 1680s) some works by Draghi that Morgan also entered into GB-Och Mus. 1003, (before Goodson acquired GB-Och Mus. 1003). See also Bailey, “Keyboard Music in the Hands of Edward Lowe and Richard Goodson I,” 119–135.
30. Here, Morgan copied pieces by Bowman (in GB-Lbl Add. MS 30382) into GB-Lbl Add. MS 33234. For more on GB-Lbl Add. MS 30382, see Wainwright, Musical Patronage, 239–242.
31. William Lawes’s popular suite, “The Golden Grove,” appears in several seventeenth-century sources, albeit with different movements. The alman remains the same (or at least the general tune and basic harmony) in GB-Och Mus. 1236, GB-Och Mus. 1003, Musick’s Handmaide (1663), as well as two nonkeyboard sources: Courtly Masquing Ayres (1662) and Musick’s Delight on the Cithren (1666). See also Cooper, “Keyboard Suite,” 312–314.
32. See especially Herissone’s Musical Creativity. I am grateful to Herissone for sending me copies of chapters from this volume before publication. The consideration of what these sources mean is a welcome trend in recent years, but scholars still stop short of suggesting practical applications.
33. Herissone has significantly broadened our understanding of these types of keyboard scores. See specifically chapter 6 (“‘His Mind Be Filled with the Materiall’: Arrangement, Improvisation and the Role of Memory”) in Musical Creativity, 315–391.
34. In some cases, additions made by Morgan physically overlap with some by Bowman. Woolley discusses these in “English Keyboard Sources,” 136–138.
35. Woolley (“English Keyboard Sources,” 136) suggests that Morgan “used it principally to accompany songs” and notes that there may have been a teacher-student relationship between Bowman and Morgan.
36. The latter portion of GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403 has been traditionally dated ca. 1700; however, Woolley (“English Keyboard Sources,” 143–147) convincingly argues that some of the works were entered earlier based on handwriting changes in Henstridge’s hand over time.
37. On the earlier portion of GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403, see Ford, “Bevins, Father and Son,” 104–108. Ford identifies both Edward Bevin and Daniel Henstridge as the copyists of GB-Lbl Add. MS 31403.
38. Herissone, “Daniel Henstridge and the Aural Transmission of Music in Restoration England,” this volume. See also her discussion of Henstridge in Musical Creativity, 89–92.
39. Woolley (“Social Context,” 143) states that Henstridge was a “well-connected and influential Kentish musician.” See also Robert Ford, “Henstridge, Daniel,” GMO;, and Shaw, The Succession of Organists, 47–48, 121, and 235–236. See also Ford, “Minor Canons,” passim.
40. Johnstone (“A New Source,” 66–82) has recently identified Henstridge’s hand in a teaching manuscript.
41. Woolley, “English Keyboard Sources,” 147.
42. Ibid., 132–157. Herissone discusses the varied contexts of “personal file copies” in Musical Creativity, 98–104.
43. The unwieldy size of several volumes probably indicates that a music desk on a harpsichord was not where they were used. Such manuscripts could have been laid on the instrument or used as a memory aid (a place to jot down favorite or popular melodies). At 22 x 26 cm with fifty-two folios, GB-Och Mus. 1003 is slightly smaller, and (as with other manuscripts from Oxford) is oblong.
44. See, for example, Caldwell, English Keyboard Music, 175.
45. GB-Och Mus. 1003 and 1177.
46. Leech, The Selosse Manuscript, v.
47. See also Hodge’s comments in note 18.
48. Cooper, “English Solo Keyboard,” 22–23.
49. On this manuscript (B-Bc, MS XY15148), see Dart, “Elizabeth Edgeworth’s Keyboard Book,” 470–474.
50. Westrup, Purcell, 236–237.
51. Price, “Newly Discovered Autograph,” 78. Cooper (“English Solo Keyboard,” 21), on the other hand, asserts that Blow was an “outstanding virtuoso.” I, too, had wondered about Purcell’s keyboard abilities and whether the extant keyboard works represented his own mediocre skills. When I put this possibility to the late Howard Ferguson, he wrote back that he knew of no references to Purcell’s keyboard abilities, “but since he was organist at Westminster Abbey they must have been considerable” (personal communication, February 1990).
52. I explored references to keyboard players in late-seventeenth-century descriptions in “Composition, Thorough Bass, Lessons, and the Meaning behind Playing a Keyboard Instrument in Restoration England,” a paper given at the Society for Seventeenth-Century Music, Columbus, Ohio (March 2013).
53. Albertus Bryne: Keyboard Music, Terence Charlston.
54. Bruce Haynes gets to the heart of the issues of notation and “the work” (or lack thereof) in The End of Early Music, esp. 204–205.
55. See also Eubanks Winkler, “‘Our Friend Venus Performed to a Miracle’” and Herissone, Musical Creativity, 209–259 and 315–391.
56. Writing about variants in lute sources and the practicality of performance, Tim Crawford (“Re-creating the Lute,” 160) remarks that “any historical lute manuscript preserves a ‘snapshot’ of the compiler’s view of a piece—the versions of a particular piece gathered from the various sources will have a common core that one might be able to identify as the ‘work,’ but each will be overlaid with variants reflecting in some sense different interpretations of the work.”
57. I am very grateful for his assistance. Charlston made all of the audio examples from the score featured on the website.
58. Herissone (“Daniel Henstridge and the Aural Transmission of Music in Restoration England,” this volume) explores the likelihood that some scores, in her case one copied by Henstridge, do not reveal all that musicians of this period might have done with the music in front of them.
59. Caldwell, English Keyboard Music, 175, and Cooper, “English Solo Keyboard,” 190.
60. Along these lines, see Butt’s chapter, “The Seventeenth-Century Musical ‘Work,’” 27–54.
61. Woolley is the obvious exception, although several other scholars have included its repertory in larger studies.
62. Hogwood, “fitt for the Manicorde,” iv.