Although musicology as a discipline has expanded enormously over the past few decades, many of its core interests remain much as they were a century ago, when the primary task facing scholars was to take stock of what had been written and by whom. We now possess good if not yet definitive catalogues of many composers’ oeuvres and in some cases complete or near-complete critical editions. Less systematically organized performing editions of works by non-canonical composers have also begun to appear in increasing numbers in recent years to complement the pioneering surveys in publications like Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich and Musica Britannica. Systematic studies of contemporary documents relating to individual musicians and musical establishments have proved exceptionally useful, though much of the picture remains obscure. Thus, after a century of unremitting labour, we have a musical chart that is extravagantly detailed in some areas yet frustratingly blank in others. The chance survival of documents enables us, for example, to know how many coffee spoons Leopold Hofmann owned at the time of his death, yet few if any documents survive that shed light on his personal and professional life. None the less, in spite of the incompleteness of our knowledge we possess an incomparably more detailed understanding of music in the eighteenth century than seemed possible even twenty years ago.

This article explores the significance of musical, cultural and scientific discoveries in the South Seas to European scholars in the second half of the eighteenth century, but in particular to the emerging clique of music historians in England and France. It examines the relationship between Charles Burney and many leading figures in maritime exploration, and the notable interest he took in the discovery and codification of South Sea music. The writing of Dr Burney on this subject is considered, as is his contact with Omai (Mai), a young Tahitian brought to England. Through the examination of correspondence, memoirs and other sources the article also discusses the exposure of ‘noble savages’ Omai and Aotourou to French and Italian music in London and Paris, and the use of their reactions to fuel the controversy between the supporters of these respective styles in late eighteenth-century Europe. Lastly, it briefly mentions a number of eighteenth-century musical works that used the Pacific as their central theme and examines artwork that complemented the concepts of geographical exploration with the musical exploration of Dr Burney.

The Anna Magdalena Bach Book of 1725 is a heterogeneous collection of virtuosic and profound keyboard suites, light and often insipid dances, and a number of sacred songs whose dominant theme is death. This striking juxtaposition of the sacred and secular is hardly lessened by the fact that the songs are written in a disarmingly fashionable style which at first seems incommensurate with the existential issues addressed by the poetry. While scholars have generally seen the notebook’s less demanding pieces, including the songs, as a testament to Anna Magdalena’s taste for the galant style, little has been said about her apparent penchant for reflecting on and preparing for death through the medium of her personal musical notebook. By reading these poetic texts and their musical settings against the voluminous writings on the art of dying to be found in the family’s theological library, this essay argues for the centrality of the ars moriendi in the Bachs’ domestic life and in their music-making.

Throughout the Georgian period London was the most significant British centre for musical instrument manufacture. Traditionally, research in this area has focused on the surviving instruments themselves, thereby emphasizing those makers in charge of flourishing workshops and those who were in the habit of signing their products. By examining archival sources, however, it is possible to glean a more complete picture of musical instrument production, through the identification of ‘hidden’ makers unrepresented by extant instruments, the establishment of patterns of settlement and the highlighting of relationships between different builders.

Two principal sources form the basis of this study: the online edition of the Proceedings of the Old Bailey and the Middlesex Sessions of the Peace Records. While these sources are an important record of crime and punishment, it is the unwitting testimony of the trials rather than the crimes, the legal procedures or the punishments that is the primary focus of this study. Indeed, since the trials enable the identification of people involved at all levels of the musical instrument trade, it is arguable that they provide one of the most significant means of establishing some of the processes characterizing the industry during the second half of the eighteenth century.

Domenico Scarlatti played a consistently significant role in English musical life from 1738 to the end of the century, even though he never travelled to England. His ‘absent presence’ was mediated by the eighty-three Scarlatti sonatas available in print in the eighteenth century. Scarlatti’s ‘English’ sonatas – defined here as those pieces available in print or manuscript to an eighteenth-century English player – display common compositional traits, in particular the frequent use of virtuoso techniques that appeal to the eye as well as the ear, such as crossed-hand passagework and leaps. English professional keyboard players used these visually virtuoso sonatas to establish their credentials in a competitive market, and the performance of this repertory – the most difficult in print – remained a benchmark for skilful execution at the keyboard to the end of the century. The performance venues for Scarlatti sonatas are difficult to document outside of anecdotal evidence drawn from personal accounts such as those by Charles and Fanny Burney. I provide new documentary evidence for semi-public performances of Scarlatti sonatas by Charles Jr and Samuel Wesley in the 1770s and offer further evidence that Scarlatti’s music held its place during a period of profound change in musical style and taste. Even as his sonatas were published and played to the end of the century, Scarlatti was frequently invoked in writings on music and aesthetics. His shifting position as exemplar or bad example is demonstrated in texts by Charles Avison, William Crotch, Uvedale Price, Sir John Hawkins and Charles Burney. Much like Arcangelo Corelli, another Italian with a strong absent presence principally mediated by print, Domenico Scarlatti had a powerful and lasting impact in England. This article presents an eighteenth-century portrait in absentia of the ‘English’ Scarlatti, suggesting how this elusive figure might be moved out of courtly isolation and into the thick of the eighteenth-century musical marketplace.

The year 1730 saw the Württemberg court (based at the magnificent palace of Ludwigsburg, some fifteen miles north of Stuttgart) promote Kammerjunker (gentleman-in-waiting) Christian Adolf von Ziegesar to the newly created position of aristocratic Obermusicdirector (chief music director). Since no template existed, the officials charged with drawing up his contract were instructed to make discreet enquiries regarding the same position at other ducal and electoral courts – a line of investigation that proved to be rather less than successful. One ‘Baron von Thüngen’, a Württemberg Kammerjunker with experience of a number of other courts (including Würzburg), reported unequivocally that to the best of his knowledge no court employed a nobleman in this position, but rather the directorship of musical matters was normally the responsibility of the Kapellmeister. Such a view appears to be confirmed by Julius Bernhard von Rohr (1688–1742) in his contemporary book on court ceremonial: he commented that a few places employed intendants des plaisirs charged with the overall supervision of large-scale divertissements, but made no mention of a similar position relating specifically to music.

Anyone with an interest in Farinelli’s career is likely to be familiar with the sixty-seven surviving letters that he sent to his patron and friend Sicinio Pepoli of Bologna. They cover the years 1731 to 1749 and are now readily available in a scholarly edition prepared by Carlo Vitali. Although an examination of these letters makes it clear that Farinelli and Pepoli were acquainted with a circle of people who were closely connected with the Stuart, or Jacobite, court in exile, this has apparently gone unnoticed until now. Determining its significance will no doubt require further research, but my argument here is that the connection should henceforth be taken into account. In order to explain this point, the present article is divided into two parts. The first draws attention to the links between Pepoli, Farinelli and the Stuarts, and identifies the Italian members of the Jacobite court. The second recalls some well known facts about Farinelli’s later career which need to be reconsidered.

The popular conception of the eighteenth century as The Age of Reason has perhaps obscured the values cherished by many people at the time. The strength of its ‘legitimist political movements’ is hard for a modern mind to grasp. Even harder is the ‘political fantasy’ of the ‘renewed empire’ prophesied by Virgil. But these ideas were very real to the eighteenth-century mind. To this must be added the sacred nature of the ancient Orders of Chivalry and their origins in the Crusades, as well as their connections with the Templars and ancient Freemasonry. All this must be taken into account when considering Farinelli, his patrons and his colleague Domenico Scarlatti.