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Form and Process
in Music, 1300-2014
Form and Process
in Music, 1300-2014:

An Analytic Sampler

Edited by

Jack Boss, Heather Holmquest,

Russell Knight, Inés Thiebaut
and Brent Yorgason
Form and Process in Music, 1300-2014: An Analytic Sampler

Edited by Jack Boss, Heather Holmquest, Russell Knight, Inés Thiebaut

and Brent Yorgason

This book first published 2016

Cambridge Scholars Publishing

Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Copyright © 2016 by Jack Boss, Heather Holmquest, Russell Knight,

Inés Thiebaut and Brent Yorgason and contributors

All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN (10): 1-4438-8550-9

ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-8550-8
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ........................................................................................................ ix
Jack Boss

PART I: MUSIC OF THE FOURTEENTH, EIGHTEENTH AND NINETEENTH

CENTURIES

Chapter One ................................................................................................. 3

Metric Dissonance and Greater Metric Dissonance in Late Fourteenth-
Century Music
Timothy Chenette

Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 21

Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate
Heather Holmquest

Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 39

Mozart’s Common (yet Uncommon) Common-Tone Transfers
Susan K. de Ghizé

Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 53

Analyzing Wagner’s “Der Engel”: Questions Posed after Application
of Recent Transformational Theories
Barbora Gregusova

Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 81

Maus and the Meter Cycle: Three Narrative Analyses
Brent Yorgason

PART II: MUSIC OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 97

Voice Leading and Musical Spaces in Britten’s Opus 70
Dale T. Tovar
vi Table of Contents

Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 111

Ending Ligeti’s Piano Etudes
Sara Bakker

Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 125

In Disguise: Borrowings in Elliott Carter’s Early String Quartets
Laura Emmery

Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 147

Compositional Spaces in Mario Davidovsky’s Quartettos
Inés Thiebaut

Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 175

Formal, Impulse, and Network Structures in Donald Martino’s
Impromptu No. 6
Aaron J. Kirschner

Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 197

Exploring New Paths Through the Matrix in Ursula Mamlok’s
Five Intermezzi for Guitar Solo
Adam Shanley

PART III: POP MUSIC, JAZZ, AND ANCIENT AND SPECULATIVE MUSIC
THEORIES

Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 227

“Little High, Little Low”: Hidden Repetition, Long-Range Contour,
and Classical Form in Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody
Jack Boss

Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 255

Schenkerian versus Salzerian Analysis of Jazz
Rich Pellegrin

Chapter Fourteen ..................................................................................... 275

A Critical Comparison of Aristoxenus’ and Ptolemy’s Genera
Matthew E. Ferrandino
 Form and Process in Music, 1300-2014 vii

Chapter Fifteen ........................................................................................ 289

Spaciousness or Evenness? A Theory of Harmonic Density
in Analyzing 20th- and 21st-Century Music
Yi-cheng Daniel Wu

Contributors ............................................................................................. 323

 PREFACE

During the past seven years, the West Coast Conference of Music Theory
and Analysis has published three volumes of conference papers with
Cambridge Scholars Publishing. In 2008, Musical Currents from the Left
Coast was released, based on the papers given at our meeting at the
University of Utah in 2007. Our first book surveyed and analyzed music in a
variety of styles and using numerous approaches, with a closing symposium
that explored Schoenberg’s Op. 11 Piano Pieces from four substantially
different perspectives. It has influenced research in music theory
significantly, continuing to receive mention in articles and conference
presentations to this day.
In January of 2013, we published Analyzing the Music of Living
Composers (and Others), based on presentations from our meeting at the
University of Oregon in 2010. In our second book, we focused on “applying
traditional music-analytic techniques, as well as new, innovative techniques,
to describing the music of composers of the late 20th and early 21st
centuries.” The book also included analyses of music of earlier eras that we
saw as influential for contemporary composers. In time, we believe Analyzing
the Music of Living Composers will have an impact on music scholarship
even stronger than its predecessor, and could also influence the art of music
composition in important ways.
Now we are pleased to offer this third book in the series, which is drawn
from papers presented at our 2014 conference, again held at the University of
Utah. Proposals for the 2014 meeting spanned a wider spectrum of musical
styles than we had ever seen before. We had originally called for papers on
European twelve-tone music after the Second World War, but we were also
able to schedule sessions on fourteenth-century music, pop music and jazz,
the music of living composers, narrative and characterization, and the history
of music theory. The title of our book reflects the large span of musical
cultures and styles that are represented within, but also accounts for the
common thread through all of these essays, a strong emphasis on
understanding the forms and processes of the music through analysis.
The book divides into three main sections, which correspond to the
roughly equal divide during our conference between music from prior to the
19th century and music of the 20th century, with a handful of papers on
popular music, jazz, the history of music theory and speculative music theory.
x Preface

In Part I, we begin with two chapters that explore 14th-century music from
different perspectives. Timothy Chenette discusses heard meters in
polyphonic music and the kinds of “metric displacements” that emanate from
them, while Heather Holmquest focuses her attention on monophonic songs
from the Rossi and Squarcialupi codices, and the cyclical melodic patterns
that can be heard within them when one adopts a modified Schenkerian
approach. Susan de Ghizé then carries us forward to the 18th century with her
study of the diverse range of common-tone transfers in the Mozart Piano
Sonatas. Finally, the last two chapters of part I approach 19th-century music
from contrasting viewpoints. Barbora Gregusova studies structural cohesion
and text painting in Wagner’s “Der Engel” using the tools of transformational
theory, while Brent Yorgason performs narrative analyses (following Fred
Maus) of the music of Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Schumann, using “meter
and expressive timing as the basis of the plot.”
Contemporary music has traditionally been a favorite topic at West Coast
Conference meetings, and the 2014 meeting was no exception. Several
scholars responded to our call for papers on postwar European music, but a
variety of late 20th-century (and some slightly older) musical styles were
represented as well. Part II of our book begins with a chapter by Dale Tovar
on the use of octatonic collections and ordered pitch-class interval cycles in
Benjamin Britten’s Nocturnal after John Dowland. This is followed by five
chapters on more recent composers, reminding the reader of our second book
Analyzing the Music of Living Composers (and Others). Sara Bakker
considers simultaneous offsetting rhythmic ostinati in Ligeti’s Piano Etudes
that create “cycles” too long for the duration of the pieces, and shows how
Ligeti makes adjustments to the ostinati to create convincing cadences. Laura
Emmery explores Elliott Carter’s string quartet sketches, showing how they
demonstrate processes of borrowing from composers such as Bartók and
Webern. Inés Thiebaut and Aaron Kirschner describe the various patterns and
processes that constitute the aggregate and serial organizations of Mario
Davidovsky’s Quartetto (Thiebaut) and Donald Martino’s Impromptu No. 6
(Kirschner). To bring Part II to a close, Adam Shanley explains how Ursula
Mamlok uses the twelve-tone matrix in unique and creative ways to create
the pitch organization for her Five Intermezzi for Guitar.
Part III collects together four chapters that represent the variety of other
topics that were discussed at our meeting. I begin in the realm of analyzing
popular music, with my account of Freddie Mercury’s Bohemian Rhapsody.
I utilize Schenkerian and Neo-Riemannian analytic techniques, as well as
allusions to traditional sonata form, to show how the song is a surprisingly
unified structure, rather than a rhapsody, and how its large contour expresses
its underlying meaning. Rich Pellegrin looks at ways in which the analysis of
 Form and Process in Music, 1300-2014 xi

jazz can be aided by using a “Salzerian” approach that relaxes restrictions on

what may be admitted as a structural harmony or line, as opposed to a strict
Schenkerian approach. Matthew Ferrandino turns our attention toward
ancient music theory, with his consideration of the “dichotomy between
theory and practice” represented by Aristoxenus’s Elementa harmonica and
Ptolemy’s Harmonics. Finally, Yi-Cheng Daniel Wu brings the book to an
end with a speculative theoretical chapter that reconsiders interval-class space
as well as criteria for “evenness” and “spaciousness,” and then develops a
measurement “testing the degree of chromaticness of a chord.”
Our third book should be of great interest to many of the same groups that
were targeted by our first two volumes. First, musicologists and music
theorists who work on any of the diverse styles of music that we explore.
Then, performers of these various kinds of music (numerous chapters include
advice for interpreters that grows out of the analytic findings). Finally, our
audience will hopefully include music lovers who are seeking ways to
enhance their listening experience by understanding more of the musical
forms and processes that organize their favorite pieces.

Jack Boss, December 2015

 PART I:

MUSIC OF THE FOURTEENTH, EIGHTEENTH

AND NINETEENTH CENTURIES
 CHAPTER ONE

METRICAL CONSONANCE, METRICAL

DISSONANCE, AND GREATER METRICAL
DISSONANCE IN THE ARS SUBTILIOR

TIMOTHY CHENETTE

The notation of meter, or mensuration, in the c. 1400 Ars subtilior uses

multiple levels, of which the two most salient are tempus and prolation.
Just as modern time signatures designate whether the number of beats in a
measure is two, three, or four, tempus designates whether the number of
semibreves in a breve is two or three; and just as modern time signatures
indicate whether the subdivision of the beat is duple (simple meter) or
triple (compound meter), prolation indicates the number of minimae in a
semibreve—again, two or three. Editors of modern editions typically use
these analogies to determine time signatures. For example, perfect tempus
(three semibreves in a breve) with minor prolation (two minimae in a
semibreve) is typically transcribed in #4(three beats in a measure, two
subdivisions in a beat). Thus, inasmuch as notation constrains or suggests
what metric and rhythmic experiences are possible, it might seem that the
two systems would have significant similarities.
Yet the earlier system has flexibilities that are not inherent to modern
practices. In common-practice music, the tyranny of time signatures
constrains composers’ ability to make alterations to meter at the level of
the beat or the measure, though changing groupings are common at the
levels of subdivision (through tuplets) and of hypermeter (through varying
phrase lengths). In fourteenth-century music, which does not make use of
barlines and measures, composers are constrained by the levels that I
described above, but these differ from time signatures in several ways, the
most prominent of which are listed below.1
• First, notes may be colored red, indicating that they lose one third
of their duration: this is called coloration. This gives an effect
similar to hemiola: in the classic instance, black semibreves in
4 Chapter One

imperfect tempus with major prolation (the rough equivalent of

dotted quarter notes in ^8) are transformed into red semibreves,
suggesting perfect tempus with minor prolation (the rough
equivalent of quarter notes in #4).
• Second, a metric unit may have another complete metric unit (or
more than one) inserted within it: this is called syncopation.
• Finally, different voices of a polyphonic piece may be written in
different mensurations: this is sometimes called polymensuralism.

In part because of these devices of coloration, syncopation, and

polymensuralism, scholars have usually emphasized the distance between
modern notions of meter and those of the fourteenth century. For example,
Jason Stoessel, who made the excellent editions used in this essay,
prefaces them with the justification that “[the tick bar line’s] advantage
over the internal bar line on each staff lies in its minimal implication of a
regularity that is central to the concept of the bar line in today’s common
practice notation” (2002, 11).2 Catherine Hawkes’s doctoral thesis is on
syncopation: she points out that, unlike modern syncopation or accents
considered against an underlying meter, fourteenth-century metric groups
retain their integrity in notation pedagogy even when displaced through
syncopation. This, she says, “leads to the conclusion that the intervening
notes need not be performed any differently than they would be performed
if the syncopation were not there” (2009, 160). Uri Smilansky’s
dissertation at one point focuses on a passage written in one mensuration
but seeming to imply another through repetition; modern meter pedagogy
would suggest a different accentuation in a different meter, but Smilansky
concludes that it is impossible to know if this would have been true in the
fourteenth century (2010, 166).
While it is valuable to come at this repertoire without anachronistic
preconceptions, modern cognitive theories of meter suggest that part of
any musical experience—regardless of cultural-historical background—is
an automatic attempt to entrain ourselves to a single sense of meter. Justin
London, in his book Hearing in Time, argues that meter is “not
fundamentally musical in its origin,” since it relies on the human capacity
for entrainment, “the synchronization of our attention with our capacity
and preparedness for movement,” and thus is potentially universal (2012, 4
and 12). For this reason, London argues that across cultures, meters are
“subject to the same basic formal and cognitive constraints” (2012, 7).
Yet “synchronizing our attention with our capacity and preparedness
for movement” is more abstract than most modern definitions of meter,
which tend to emphasize either spatial metaphors and hierarchy within the
 Ars subtilior 5

music or a sense of recurring “accent.” For this reason, when I discuss

meters in this music, I do not mean to assert that listeners of the time
would have conducted, counted, or otherwise moved as we do. Rather, I
assert that there is something in this music that facilitates prediction of
important events such as the arrival of consonances and synchronization of
attack points at regular intervals. Whether we try to imagine ourselves as
early musicians or simply use our more familiar listening strategies, we
will be using this innately human capacity for prediction and accessing
something that truly is in the music and seems designed to stimulate this
capacity.
I will begin by revisiting coloration, syncopation, and poly-
mensuralism, and I will suggest that a useful way to conceptualize these
manipulations is through the concept of “metric dissonance” as theorized
by Harald Krebs. Then, in the second part of the chapter, I will analyze
two pieces in detail: these pieces will show that repeating patterns do
indeed sometimes invite entrainment to a single underlying meter; but that
in certain cases, unique aspects of fourteenth-century notation allow for
aesthetic trajectories that we may miss if we are not attuned to the unique
aspects of mensural notation. Particularly, dotted-quarter-note and quarter-
note beats are often simultaneously available to the listener, or may
alternate, in ways that create much of the beauty in this repertoire.

Coloration, Syncopation, and Polymensuralism

as Metric Dissonance
In his book Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of
Robert Schumann, Harald Krebs notes the nineteenth-century “conceptual-
ization of musical meter as a set of interacting layers of motion, each layer
consisting of a series of approximately equally spaced pulses” (1999, 22).
This description has obvious connections to modern notions of meter,
which define subdivisions, beats, and measures, as well as potentially
other levels; it also has precedents in Medieval metric practice, with the
interacting layers of prolation and tempus (and modus, though this level is
often not emphasized in the music). Given this essay’s focus on
perception, and the skepticism in the scholarly community surrounding
modern assumptions about pulse in early music, it will be useful to
reframe this: instead of layers of pulses, we might imagine different rates
of motion, each created by recurrence of important events that facilitate
entrainment at different levels. Krebs’s concepts of “metrical consonance”
and “metrical dissonance,” similarly reframed, are also useful here: states
of metrical consonance are common enough in this repertoire that certain
6 Chapter One

aspects of modern listening may be brought to bear, while Krebs’s two

types of metrical dissonance map nicely onto coloration and syncopation. I
will show these connections and examine the role of polymensuralism in
complicating the idea of a “primary metrical consonance” to set the
groundwork for the analyses that follow.
Metrical consonance exists when interpretive layers are in alignment,
that is, a pulse (or, reframed, an attentional peak) at any given level
coincides with a pulse at each faster level. Pieces that emphasize a state of
metrical consonance are common in the Ars subtilior. The opening of
Conradus de Pistoria’s Se doulz espour (Example 1-1) is such an example:
if the listener uses the first two attacks (m. 1 and m. 2) to project a third
important event the same amount of time later, they will be rewarded by
simultaneous attacks in the lower parts (m. 3), then the arrival of these
parts on a perfect consonance (m. 4), etc., suggesting a continuous layer of
motion. This layer aligns with faster layers: the attacks on every
transcribed quarter note except m. 1, beat 2, and the near-constant running
eighth note composite rhythm. The meter is secure: the use of transcribed
eighth notes, minims, is limited to the initiation and conclusion of small-
scale syncopation or to fill exactly half a transcribed measure.

Example 1-1, Conradus de Pistoria, Se doulz espour, opening. Score from Stoessel
2002, 276.
 Ars subtilior 7

This piece is, of course, not without metric interest, as annotated in the
example. The cadence to A and E at the downbeat of m. 4 is prepared with
the tension of syncopation in the upper two voices; similarly, the cadence
to G in m. 6 is prepared by a longer top-line syncopation. The annotations
indicate, in labels derived from Krebs, that a metric layer that is the same
length as a layer of the “primary consonance”—in this case, one quarter-
note long—has been briefly displaced against that consonance. The “D”
stands for “displacement dissonance,” one of Krebs’s primary types of
metric dissonance; “2+1” indicates that a cycle of 2 units has been
displaced by one unit; and “1 = e” designates that the unit used to measure
these durations is the eighth note. Still, these disruptions constitute simply
minor metric dissonance against a clearly defined primary meter: they
always “resolve” quickly at the cadence, and the tenor consistently
articulates the “aligned” quarter-note beat.
It is worth noting how well this type of Medieval syncopation maps
onto Krebs’s displacement dissonance. Johannes de Muris defines
syncopation (sincopatio) as “a thorough division of a figure through
separate parts which are reduced one to another by numbering
perfections.”3 A “figure,” in this case, is a duration that would fill a metric
unit at some level; in syncopation, it is “divided,” and “separate parts,” or
other complete metric units, are inserted. In the top line of mm. 4–5 in
Example 1-1, for instance, the figure in question is the length of a quarter
note; it has been divided into an eighth rest and an eighth note, between
which have been inserted three whole quarter notes. In theory, this need
not be the case, but in practice, as here, the inserted units nearly always
clearly articulate a layer of motion that is therefore displaced, and
syncopation in the Medieval sense that is longer than a single inserted note
can virtually always be described coherently with Krebs’s displacement
labels.
The texture becomes much more confusing in the second line. We get
the longest phrase yet, nearly matching the length of the previous two
combined before cadencing for the first time to the piece’s final, D, in m.
11 (not shown); in the upper voices, syncopation is no longer limited to
just precadential decoration; and the first tenor syncopation serves to
undercut the metric foundation. This is about as confusing as this piece’s
meter gets, but the continuity of the primary consonance—roughly, a
modern @4—before and after this phrase render it, again, metric dissonance
against a clear primary meter. This opening as a whole follows an
interesting metric path, gradually becoming more and more metrically
dissonant before each cadence, but ultimately the piece presents no
8 Chapter One

significant problems to a modern notion of meter, and it would be rather

easy to conduct in duple meter throughout (if one wished).
While displacement dissonance maps nicely onto syncopation, Krebs’s
“grouping dissonance” maps onto coloration. Example 1-2 gives the
cadences of the major sections of Philippus da Caserta’s En atendant
soufrir. In each case, there is a clear layer of motion articulating the
transcribed dotted quarter note, or black semibreve, and there is a simulta-
neous layer of transcribed quarter notes, or red semibreves. (The red color
is indicated in this and most modern editions by open brackets above.)
These layers are not the same length, but rather group the underlying
eighth-note (minim) pulse differently, and thus Krebs would consider them
together a “grouping dissonance”: G2/3 (1 = e), indicating a conflict
between one layer that groups the minims into twos and one that groups
them into threes.

Example 1-2a, Grouping dissonances at major cadences in Philippus da Caserta,

En atendant soufrir. From Stoessel 2002, 76–77. End of section A.

Example 1-2b, Grouping dissonances at major cadences in Philippus da Caserta,

En atendant soufrir. From Stoessel 2002, 76–77. End of section B.
 Ars subtilior 9

Example 1-2c, Grouping dissonances at major cadences in Philippus da Caserta,

En atendant soufrir. From Stoessel 2002, 76–77. End of section C.

In one way, polymensuralism also represents grouping dissonance. The

three different simultaneous mensuration symbols at the beginning of
Antonello da Caserta’s rondeau Dame d’onour, c’on ne puet esprixier,
shown in Example 1-3, represent grouping dissonances: the top two parts
would be labeled G3/2 (1 = q.), and the outer two G3/2 (1 = e). Yet here

Example 1-3, Polymensuralism, but at a low level of metric dissonance, in Antonello

da Caserta, Dame d’onour, c’on ne puet esprixier. Based on Le composizioni 2005,
137.
10 Chapter One

these grouping dissonances are more apparent in the notation than in the
sound, as the cantus’s transcribed ^8is clearly primary. The tenor’s #4 has
the same periodicity—that is, its downbeats align with those of the
cantus—and moves so slowly that among the first twelve measures of
transcribed music, only three even mildly contradict the compound duple
division of the measure, the last of which is a typical pre-cadential
hemiola. The cantus, in contrast, clearly articulates its designated meter
throughout, never engaging in even a single syncopation. Finally, the
contratenor clearly articulates a dotted-quarter-note beat, as one might
expect, and does not clearly privilege measures of 98over groupings that
follow the cantus’s ^8. The level of metric dissonance is very low
throughout.
Though polymensuralism is not extremely common, and though it can
be used in a way that keeps the level of metrical dissonance low, its very
possibility also represents a challenge to the concept of the “primary
metrical consonance.” In Krebs’s formulation, “One of the metrical
interpretive layers generally assumes particular significance for the listener.
. . . The layer formed by these pulses frequently, though not always,
occupies a privileged position in the score, being rendered visually
apparent by notational features such as bar lines and beams” (30). Thus the
terms consonance and dissonance, to Krebs, do not just refer to the literal
“sounding together” of aligned layers and “sounding against” of non-
aligned layers, but also suggest an analogy to pitches in counterpoint,
where more dissonant states are expected to “resolve” to more consonant
states, and in the end, to the “primary metrical consonance”—analogous to
the tonic. And usually, this primary metrical consonance is indicated by
the meter signature, which in tonal music must be the same in all
simultaneous parts.
The possibility of polymensuralism, then, provides a conceptual model
where the default state of a piece of music may not, ultimately, be a metrical
consonance, but a dissonance. (As will be seen below, this state often arises
even when simultaneous parts are written in the same mensuration.) When
this is the case, and when it is reinforced perceptually, we might call this
state the “primary metrical dissonance.” Analogies to resolution may still be
made, however, as this primary metrical dissonance may be enriched and
complicated by more complex dissonances, that in the end resolve
(ironically) to this lesser degree of dissonance.
One final theoretical point remains, given the perceptual focus of this
essay, which is to reconcile London’s statement (reporting on perception
and cognition research) that “there is no such thing as a polymeter” (67)
with this emphasis on polymensuralism as a possible default state for a
 Ars subtilior 11

piece of music. London’s pronouncement indicates not that there cannot

be multiple simultaneous meters written in the music, but that humans
cannot simultaneously synchronize their attention to multiple conflicting
cycles: rather, we will focus on one, measuring the other against it. From a
perceptual standpoint, then, I do not mean that our attention is evenly
divided, since this research suggests it cannot be. Instead, I mean that
evidence in the music may draw us in two different ways, and that a kind
of cognitive dissonance arises as fluctuations in the written music or
performance factors draw our attention now to one cycle, now to the other,
making us vacillate between. As will be seen below, this vacillation is
exploited in the metric progressions of certain pieces.4

Analyses
The two pieces analyzed above, Se doulz espour in @4and Dame
d’onour in ^8, each use a single, clear meter (perceptually, at least) that is
recognizable to modern musicians and listeners. This is an important
point: aspects of modern metric practice may be brought to bear on this
repertoire without anachronism. In addition, this creates an environment
where frustration of these metric expectations will be more effective. I will
spend the rest of this essay looking at two pieces that are far more
complicated and more fully take advantage of the kinds of flexibility
offered by the mensural system to create unique metric progressions.
The basic contrast of metric strands in Philippus de Caserta’s ballade
En atendant soufrir is encapsulated in its section-ending cadences, shown
in Example 1-2 above. In each, at least one voice articulates dotted quarter
notes, and at least one articulates quarter notes. (In the B section, there is
also a syncopation in the top voice.) These are not mere precadential
hemiolas: transcribed quarters and dotted quarters conflict throughout the
piece, generating a “primary metrical dissonance.”5 Because these points
of repose do not “resolve” to one of these strands, I will treat both as
“underlying continuities”—as potential meters—with performance choices
and slight differences of texture determining which one listeners attend to
as primary at any given time. This clearly differs from modern metric
practices, where a written time signature would generally dictate the “true”
meter: using fourteenth-century notation, Philippus does not need to
decide, and can leave it up to the performers and vagaries of performance
circumstances.
The metric conflicts in En atendant seem designed to bring attention to
small-scale contrasts. Much of the opening of the piece (Example 1-4)
jumps quickly back and forth between these two apparent beats. Mm. 4–5
12 Chapter One

clearly articulate both layers, then mm. 6–7 clearly express only dotted
quarter beats. Starting in m. 8, the

Example 1-4, Quarters (imperfect semibreves) vs. dotted quarters (perfect

semibreves) in the opening of Philippus da Caserta, En atendant soufrir. From
Stoessel 2002, 74.
 Ars subtilior 13

quarter-note layer is strongly articulated by a repeated pattern in the

cantus, which is gradually liquidated in mm. 10–11, losing its char-
acteristic eighth notes. Finally, no attack whatsoever materializes on the
downbeat of m. 12: this is particularly surprising because the hemiola of
the previous measures, and the E-G-Bb sonority right before, strongly hint
at a D-A cadence here. (The cadence finally arrives a measure later.) This
small-scale contrast, these quick changes of metric emphasis, keep us from
designating one meter as primary: though the prominent tenor is always
steadily singing dotted quarter notes, the cantus’s equally prominent and
florid melody is largely based on quarter notes after m. 7, and aspects of
performance and a listener’s predisposition will likely influence which is
more clearly attended to.
The opening of the piece gives a clue to yet another level of metric
conflict: repeated patterns here seem to articulate measures of 98, rather
than the transcribed ^8. Indeed, just as quarter notes and dotted quarters
compete at the level of the beat, there is a constant alternation of apparent
^8measures and 98measures at the level of the measure. After two apparent
98measures, the periodicity of the quarter/dotted-quarter conflict in
transcribed m. 4 seems to confirm ^8/ #4; mm. 5–8 again suggest 98, with
only the inner-voice contratenor articulating the downbeat of m. 6; and
then ^8/ #4 is very clearly confirmed by the repeated patterns in mm. 8–11.
Though not shown in the example, a long passage of clear ^8/ #4 follows,
and then yet another passage of 98in mm. 19–21 accompanying the words
“et en langour,” or “and in languor.”
The interaction of these two levels of conflict, quarter vs. dotted
quarter beats and measures of 98vs. ^8/ #4, is particularly fascinating. When
the apparent measure is six eighth notes long, the conflict of quarters and
dotted quarters is nearly always foregrounded as the periodicity of this
conflict confirms this length of measure. When the quarter notes recede or
disappear, the more languorous dotted quarters nearly always stretch the
measure to its longer state.
These two levels of metric conflict and their interaction create constant
fluctuations in our sense of meter. Aesthetically, this results in a feeling of
yearning and affected artifice, as individual metric states appear as brief
illusions but never become satisfactorily established. In as much as the
extremely high, constant level of metric dissonance is ever resolved, this
happens at the cadences; but, again, the preparation for each cadence
clearly states the quarter/dotted quarter conflict in a very strict manner.
Along with the subjugation of the normally quite florid upper line into a
simple articulation of this conflict, this “resolution” of metric conflict feels
to me like resignation to the fact that it will never be resolved.
14 Chapter One

The opening of my next example, Bartholomeus de Bononia’s Arte

psalentes, is particularly complex and ambiguous. In Example 1-5,
rounded rectangles mark passages that articulate the dotted quarter note
layer, and square rectangles mark passages that articulate the quarter note
layer. The opening measure in cantus and contratenor clearly divides the
transcribed “measure” in half, and the longest stretch of consistent
articulation in the cantus also indicates ^8. The cantus’s metrical layer,
however, is displaced against the ^8barline (as measured by tick bar lines in
the lower parts), and it is overlaid not only against occasional quarter notes
in the contratenor and perceptually salient tenor but also much more
complicated rhythms in the contratenor. In fact, in the first 16 measures of
the piece, about the only consistency that can be found is a prevalence of
quarter notes right before cadences. (Only one of these is shown in the
example, at the beginning of the second line: the extreme length of phrases
is another contributor to the metric complexity.)

Example 1-5, Complex opening of Bartholomeus de Bononia’s Arte psalentes.6

Rounded rectangles indicate passages that articulate the dotted-quarter layer;
square rectangles indicate the quarter layer. From Stoessel 2002, 110.

This makes it all the more surprising when the lower parts in mm. 17–20
(Example 1-6) suddenly come together and coordinate with the upper part in
a kind of call and response as the cantus engages in a literal sequence, all
 Ars subtilior 15

clearly indicating dotted quarter note beats. The remarkable nature of this
passage is highlighted by changes in the tenor: thus far it has nearly always
moved within the fifth between G3 and D4; in m. 16, a dramatic rising line
brings it all the way up to A4 for the beginning of this passage.

Example 1-6, Dotted-quarter layer in Arte psalentes, mm. 17–20. From Stoessel
2002,111.

Example 1-7, Quarter-note layer in Arte psalentes, mm. 21–24. From Stoessel
2002, 111.

Immediately following, in mm. 21–24 (Example 1-7), the texture

switches to only clear quarter-note articulations, and again, there is a
sequence in the cantus. The parts trade off eighth notes to create a
continuous texture and to emphasize, in the moments of swapping those
eighth notes between parts, the quarter-note beats.7 This passage is the last
portion of the “body” of section A: after the cadence in mm. 25 and 26,
immediately following the passage in the example, there is a 9-measure
closing that is repeated literally at the end of the piece, as is traditional for
a ballade. In this closing, one more brief passage of consistency appears,
as mm. 29–31 clearly articulate only dotted quarters.
Aside from the pleasure of following these changes, part of the reason
for them may be to emphasize important portions of the text. The text
translates as, “Let us praise with art the goodness of the Fathers in the
16 Chapter One

presence of the sovereign pontiff, with serene countenance, may the

dignity of the master deign to guide the singing of the young pupil.” The
dotted-quarter passage begins at the word for “of the Fathers,” and the
passages together lead up to a cadence on the word “Pontiff.”
The text of the next passage continues, “and if the young pupil’s
singing be lacking in skill”; perhaps to suggest or even challenge a lack of
skill, this section nearly always juxtaposes clear dotted quarter and quarter
beats. Mm. 44–47 are a good example: here the cantus uses eighth notes
only to fill quarter-note beats except for a brief syncopation, while, in the
tenor, repeated groupings of eighth notes and quarter notes clearly suggest
dotted-quarter beats. This continues for three measures past the section I
have excerpted here in Example 1-8.

Example 1-8. Metric dissonance in the B section of Arte psalentes. From Stoessel
2002, 112.

The final section completes this thought: “may it please you to teach him
the art of true song,” and finally we have a section that is relatively stable in
its use of dotted-quarter-note beats. After an extremely confusing passage in
mm. 61–64, full of displaced seemingly metric strands, the rest of the piece
clearly emphasizes dotted-quarter beats except in cadential preparations.
This emphasis on dotted quarters continues in the last nine measures of the
piece, which, again, are directly repeated from section A. The piece as a
whole thus moves from a state of extreme confusion (hardly even a stable
“primary metrical dissonance”), through brief states of extreme metrical
consonance, to a moderate level of metrical consonance at the end.

Conclusion
I will briefly review some premises in light of these two analyses and
the preceding theoretical discussion. I began by arguing that meter is a part
of the listening experience of any music, and repeated patterns in this rep-
 Ars subtilior 17

ertoire do indeed invite us to entrain to a recurring cycle of beat and, often,

measure. Second, notation both constrains and suggests the kinds of metric
experiences that are possible. Ars subtilior mensural notation invites
composers to employ metric dissonance through syncopation
(displacement dissonance), coloration (grouping dissonance), and
polymensuralism. In addition, the model of polymensuralism suggests the
possibility of pieces where the ultimate state of the music is actually
metric dissonance, not metric consonance, providing an ideal context for
the yearning and affected artifice of courtly love poetry.
I will close now with a few ramifications for performance and
listening. First, in certain ways our modern notions of meter are not so far
from those of the late fourteenth century, especially in pieces with regular
articulation of one specific beat type; for this reason, it may not be totally
anachronistic when ensembles trying desperately to perform this music
accurately choose a single meter to tap or conduct. Second, while some
flexibility in performance is nearly always desirable, it will be helpful to
keep in mind the distinction between quarter and dotted quarter beats
aligned with transcribed measures, which may together generate a
“primary metrical dissonance,” and displaced beats or beats of other
lengths, which tend to be of short duration and may perhaps be performed
with more freedom without destroying the sense of the piece. Finally, in
contrast to modern time signatures that tend to decree a single sense of
meter that is operative throughout an ensemble, a performance of or
listening to this repertoire will be the richer for paying close attention to
the conflicts and alternations between quarter notes and dotted quarter
notes: as the analyses I described suggest, these conflicts often create
interesting trajectories and affective states. In a repertoire so obsessed with
complex rhythm, this allows us to accept the confusion these create, and to
embrace it as beautiful.

Notes
1
Instead of being given visual groupings through measures and beamed-together
beat units, performers were expected to learn the process of “reduction”
(reductio)—that is, scanning the music to count note values and group them
together appropriately at each level. This grouping process is very important,
because in certain cases, primarily in “imperfection” and “alteration,” the matter of
which notes group together can affect their duration.
2
The editions comprise Volume 2 of Stoessel’s dissertation. Those wishing to
understand the examples in this essay in context can download this volume for free
at http://diamm2.cch.kcl.ac.uk/resources/stoesseldiss.html. The only example in
this essay not based on Stoessel’s scores is Example 1-3, prepared by myself.
18 Chapter One

3
Sincopa est divisio cujuscunque figure per partes separatas que numerando
perfectiones ad invicem reducuntur. (This text is adapted from a number of sources that
can be found at the Thesaurus Musicarum Latinarum: see
http://www.chmtl.indiana.edu/ tml/14th/14TH_INDEX.html.)
4
Chapter 4 of Krebs’s book, “Metrical Progressions and Processes,” uses these
terms somewhat technically and defines large-scale progressions of metric states
analogous to large-scale pitch processes in tonal music. My use of these terms is
meant to evoke his, in the sense that we are both arguing for the importance of
rhythmic/metric trajectories in the artistic appreciation of our respective
repertoires, but the progressions described here are smaller in scale.
5
This despite the fact that the parts are not written in different mensurations. In
fact, there are no mensuration signs given at the beginning of the music (this is
common at the time), though it is clear from context that the interpretation of each
part relies on the assumption of imperfect tempus, major prolation (roughly, ^8).
6
The red notes in mm. 2–3 of the superius are odd, in that they are applied to
normally imperfect rather than perfect semibreves. In his compendious manual on
interpreting early notation, Willi Apel explains this usage: “Although coloration
usually diminishes the value of a note (by one third), it is occasionally used in an
opposite meaning, signifying an increase by one half, that is, synonymous with a
dotted note. Naturally, this type of coloration can only be applied to imperfect
notes” (406).
7
Part of the beauty of this passage lies in a motivic foreshadowing in m. 10, which
states the model of this sequence but does not take it further.
 Ars subtilior 19

Works Cited
Apel, Willi. 1949. The Notation of Polyphonic Music 900–1600. 4th ed.
Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America.
Le composizioni Francesi di Filippotto e Antonello da Caserta tràdite nel
codice Estense Į.M.5.24. 2005. Edited with commentary by Carla
Vivarelli. Diverse voci, no. 6. Pisa: Edizioni ETS.
Hawkes, Catherine. 2009. “Syncopation in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth
Centuries: A Review of Treatments of Syncopation in French and
Italian Treatises and a Study of Contemporary Musical Examples that
Display the Use of Syncopation in Various Contexts.” D.M. thesis,
Indiana University.
Krebs, Harald. 1999. Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of
Robert Schumann. New York: Oxford.
London, Justin. Hearing in Time. 2012. 2nd ed. New York: Oxford.
Smilansky, Uri. 2010. Rethinking Ars Subtilior: Context, Language, Study
and Performance. Ph.D. diss., University of Exeter.
Stoessel, Jason. 2002. “The Captive Scribe: The Context and Culture of
Scribal and Notational Process in the Music of the Ars subtilior.” 2
vols. Ph.D. diss., University of New England, Australia.
 CHAPTER TWO

STRUCTURAL CYCLICITY
IN TRECENTO BALLATE

HEATHER HOLMQUEST

To perform early music, we must reconcile two desires: one, to inform

ourselves of relevant scholarly work that pertains to the music in question,
and two, to make our performance accessible to modern audiences.
Adding to this is the two-fold problem of not having enough sources to
paint a complete picture of what the music would sound like, and also
having the benefit and/or curse of a twenty-first century musical ear both
on the part of the audience and the performer. Thus, the question is, are
these desires for accurate historical representation and a complete musical
experience inherently mutually exclusive, or can we find some middle
ground?1 Can we reach that middle ground without being charged with
over-speculation? To put it another way, when performing early music,
there is always guesswork to be done. How do we get better at guessing?
My goal is to show that one can use some forms of modern musical
analysis to both illustrate the unique features of early music, as well as
highlight any commonalities that early music has with its descendants in
common practice and beyond. I do this by highlighting structures and
formal elements in the music that, when performed with these things in
mind, it creates a sense of familiarity in the listener, and builds up a set of
musical expectations that audiences may lack when first listening to early
music.
To explore the intersection between analysis, historical musicology, and
performance, I focus on the monophonic repertories of the Squarcialupi and
Rossi codices.2 The Rossi Codex, compiled c. 1370, is one of the most
extensive early Trecento sources.3 The Codex portions that we have contain
37 secular works, five of which are monophonic ballate.4 The Squarcialupi
Codex is the largest compiled source of Trecento music, and contains
seventeen works by Lorenzo da Firenze and sixteen by Gherardello da
Firenze.5 Each of these composers contributed five monophonic ballate to
22 Chapter Two

the Codex. I’ll be discussing three works, two from the Rossi manuscript
(“Che ti zova, nascondere,” and “Amor, mi fa cantar la francescha,” both by
anonymous composers) and one from the Squarcialupi Codex, “I vo’ bene a
chi vol bene,” written by Gherardello da Firenze.6 While “Che ti zova”
exhibits some features of tonal structure and linked ripresa and piedi
sections, “Amor mi fa cantar” is more irregular.7 It is “I vo’ bene” that
shows full cyclicity, as I describe below, and I suggest that as a composition
from the Squarcialupi Codex, this means that it is more structurally
organized than the compositions from the Rossi Codex.
While composers and theorists in the Trecento period may not have
conceptualized or discussed their music in the same terms that we modern
listeners conceptualize tonal music, there is an undeniable continuity, or
structure, to modal music that modern analysis uncovers and modern
listeners find familiar. Continuity can be created in a number of ways:
form, motive, and pitch center, to name a few. In performing Trecento
music, I have found that it is useful to determine pitch centers, highlight
the form in a formes fixes piece, and bring out the contrapuntal structure.
In polyphonic music, this task is aided by the conflict and resolution
present in the dissonances and consonances between two or more voices.
In a monophonic song, however, the task is more convoluted. Are there
consonances and dissonances present when only one voice is singing? I
assert that a single line melody, whether modal or tonal, creates a
permeating structure that points the listener towards a pitch center,
whether we call that pitch the finalis or the tonic. When I refer to structure,
I do not mean the Ursatz, or fundamental structure, of an unfolded tonic
triad; obviously, this music is not built on triads. It is, however, organized
into descending step-wise lines that span intervals of thirds, fourths, and
fifths. It also employs cadential figures, and emphasizes pitch-spaces that
can be labeled with general final, dominant, and subdominant areas.
I have developed a version of voice-leading analysis to show the
internal logic of each individual song, thus allowing me to find similarities
between pieces, as well as departures that this music makes from
traditional tonal strategies. In Harmonielehre, Heinrich Schenker discounts
the modal system as “most inappropriate for the development of motivic
intentions,” adding, “or, at any rate, …[it] would engender situations far
too unnatural for any style to cope with.”8 However, I consider some of
Schenker’s techniques for voice-leading analysis to be in fact appropriate
for the purposes of showing voice-leading patterns in fourteenth century
ballate. I am not the first to do something like this; in fact, Felix Salzer
used Schenker’s methodology to attempt to chart the development of
tonality in Western music. He was arguably successful at pointing out
 Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate 23

features of voice-leading in the music of Leonin and Pérotin, however, his

agenda to uncover the origin of tonality led to some unsuccessful
9
interpretations of medieval counterpoint. More recent scholars such as
Daniel Leech-Wilkinson and Cristle Collins Judd have also explored
voice-leading analysis of early music.10 Leech-Wilkinson began his
analysis of Machaut with a criticism of Salzer’s agenda to seek tonality in
early music, and produced an analysis of Machaut’s “Rose, Lis.”11 Cristle
Collins Judd provides an excellent example of structural analysis in her
article, “Some Problems of Pre-Baroque Analysis: An Examination of
Josquin’s Ave Maria … Virgo Serena.”12 She reflects on the “emerging
tonality” in works of the fifteenth century, and considers structural
analysis of early music valuable “since the twentieth-century observer
perceives both tonal and modal elements.”13
As I explored the structures of the monophonic ballate in these two
sources, I have been aware of some key differences between pre-tonal and
tonal melodies. The changing metric organization made structural analysis
more complicated than when investigating a tonal work. I adjusted my
analysis by taking into account the specific pitches highlighted by the text
placement in the manuscripts. Secondly, pre-tonal melodies are highly
step-wise. They tend to be decorations of step-wise structures that descend
from a fifth above a finalis. I have been careful not to force these pieces
into a particular concept of a 3- or 5-line Urlinie as described by Schenker,
however; when a piece is irregular, and spans a fourth at the background
level, I let it exist as a fourth. We will see an example of this in “Amor, mi
fa cantar a la francesca.” The most interesting feature, however, is that the
structure of these pieces aligns with, and reinforces, the repetitious poetic
and musical scheme of the ballata form. The presentation of the ripresa,
journey to the piedi, and return back to the ripresa is not just cohesive on a
melodic level (for example, the intervals between each sections are often
fifths or octaves, and emphasize tones related to the finalis), but on a
structural level as well.
This formal structure is the focus of this study; I wish to highlight the
development of structural cyclicity, that is, structure that creates an
entirely closed system of descending pitches in the monophonic songs of
the Trecento period. Nearly all ballate found in the Rossi and Squarcialupi
codices elaborate a  structure in the ripresa, however, the largest
source of variety is how the piedi relate to the ripresa. By examining the
structural underpinnings of these songs, I find that despite longer phrases
and displaced metric motion, structural motion is more organized in the
Squarcialupi codex than in the Rossi codex. The different type of piedi
24 Chapter Two

structures are outlined below, followed by a table that classifies each piedi
type by name, source, and overall structure.
1. Modal modulation. The piedi section occupies a different mode than
the ripresa, completing a 5-line structure in the new mode. The mode of
the piedi can be related by a fifth (sounding akin to a binary structure in
tonal music), a fourth, or a second above or below the actual finalis of the
ripresa. “Che ti zova nascondere,” one of the pieces examined here,
features a ripresa with a 5-line structure from A to D, followed by a piedi
section that modulates to the subdominant by emphasizing a 3-line
structure from Bb-G.
2. Sectional interdependence. The piedi section requires the beginning of
the ripresa to form a complete structural line in the piedi. A highly irregular
work from the Rossi codex, “Amor mi fa cantar,” will be presented shortly.
It contains a 4-line structure that arcs from D at the beginning of the ripresa
to A in the piedi. This results in an inconclusive finalis of C at the end of the
ripresa, despite the piece’s emphasis on D and A.
2a. Full cyclicity. This is a subtype of sectional interdependence where
a full octave is present in the background of the piece, beginning at the top
of the piedi, and finishing with the finalis of the ripresa. Some pieces
exhibit a behavior that I call “full cyclicity,” defined as such: the song
starts on , descends to , and then the piedi follows a  descent in the
same mode. There are five pieces that do so in the monophonic ballate in
the Squarcialupi codex that I examined for my dissertation, and six that do
not. Interestingly, of these five pieces, four of them have a modal center on
G. As shown in Table 2-1 below, there are seven pieces that are centered
in G, and four of them, 57%, are cyclic. “I vo’ bene a chi vol bene,” the
last piece presented in this article, demonstrates this structure.
3. Dominant interruption. This describes when the piedi concludes in
an interruption, as in,  of a 5-line descent. It can either conclude with the
corresponding  at the beginning of the ripresa, or 
a fourth above that
concluding pitch.
 Name Ripresa Piedi Composer Codex Piedi Type
Amor mi fa cantar D-C B -A Anonymous Rossi Interdependence/Interruption

E
Che ti zova nascondere A-D B -G Anonymous Rossi Subdominant Modulation

E
Lucente stella F#-D G-C Anonymous Rossi Subtonic Modulation

Non formò Cristi G-C C-D Anonymous Rossi Interruption

Per tropo fede D-G D-A Anonymous Rossi Interruption
De', poni, amor a me D-A D-B Gherardello Squarcialupi Interdependence
Donna, l'altrui amor A-D D-G Gherardello Squarcialupi Interdependence/Modulation

I’ vivo amando D-G G-C Gherardello Squarcialupi Dominant Modulation

I' vo' bene D-G G-D Gherardello Squarcialupi Full Cyclicity
Per non far lieto alcun D-G G-D Gherardello Squarcialupi Full Cyclicity

Non vedi tu, amore A-F A-E Lorenzo Squarcialupi Interruption

Non so qual i' mi voglia A-D D-G Lorenzo Squarcialupi Subdominant Modulation
Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate

Non perch'i' speri A-D A-E Lorenzo Squarcialupi Interruption

Donne, e' fu credenza C-F F-C Lorenzo Squarcialupi Full Cyclicity

Sento d'amor la fiamma D-G G-D Lorenzo Squarcialupi Full Cyclicity

Table 2-1, Piedi types in the Rossi and Squarcialupi Codices

25
26 Chapter Two

“Che ti zova nascondere”

Among the ballate in the Rossi codex, "Che ti zova nascondere"
exhibits structure that is significantly more "proto-tonal" within each
individual section of music. However, it is a ballata minima, so the shorter
phrases and sections do not grow to be as complex as the pieces I will
investigate later in this study. The piedi section relates to the ripresa, in D,
by way of modal modulation to the subdominant key of G.
There may be a textual reason for this; in the ripresa, the narrator is
calling for his beloved to come out from hiding, both literally (to reveal
her face) and figuratively (to profess her love for him).14 In the piedi, she
remains hidden, obfuscated, and this is indicated by a number of
exclamations: she’s a jewel of unknown worth, hidden from view, and
remains so until his desire can no longer be held in check. In the ripresa
and volta, the speaker’s feelings come out into the open. This is an
example of how the two sections are differentiated both by meaning and
music. Thus, the journey from the pitch center, D, to the subdominant,
local pitch area of G is warranted by this juxtaposition. Another feature of
the text is found in the title; a common practice in the Trecento period is to
embed the names of women, perhaps as dedications, in the poetry. In the
two songs I discuss from the Rossi Codex, they both appear in the ripresa.
In “Che ti zova nascondere,” the song is about “Giovanna,” presumably
the woman who hides her face.
Che ti zova nascondere'l bel volto? Why would you wish to hide your lovely
face?

A. Che ti zova nascondere'l bel volto? Why would you wish to hide your lovely
face?

b. Donna, la bella pietra, stando ascosa, Lady, no one can tell how much a gem
b. Nessun puo dir quanto sia preciosa; is worth, if it is hidden from view;
a. Ma chi la vede, si la loda molto. But when it is in view, it is much praised.

b. Cum più t'ascondi, più desio mi mena; The more you hide, the more desire torments
me;
b. Donca non voler più ch'io porti pena, Do not, therefore, prolong my suffering,
a. Ch'amor per ti servir lo cor m'à tolto for love has taken my heart and placed it in
your service.

The voice-leading analysis of the ripresa, as seen in Example 2-1, is

structurally straightforward and projects the finalis of D from the opening
descent. The opening gesture in mm. 1-4 is a prefix; it consists of a
descending line from D to A, similar to other songs in this repertoire. I call
 Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate
27

Example 2-1, “Che ti zova nascondere,” voice-leading analysis of the ripresa

 Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate 29

it a prefix because the leap from D to A in m. 2 suggests two voice-leading

tracks (an upper and lower voice). Since the first four measures are
followed by consistent elaborations of A in mm. 4-8, I treat A as the
structural pitch that sustains throughout the ripresa until the descent in
mm. 9-11. As a result, the background structure of the ripresa is a 5-line
descent from A to D. The ripresa behaves much like a section of a tonal
piece, with a 5-line overall structure (i.e. descending structural line
consisting of five pitches, terminating in the finalis) that descends to a
cadence that marks a formal boundary.
The piedi section of “Che ti zova nascondere,” shown in Example 2-2,
clearly projects a tonality that departs from the ripresa, tonicizing G by
way of pivoting on the A in mm. 12-15. The section begins with an E and
ascends directly from the end of the ripresa, creating an ascending passage
from the D finalis to the A structural tone, or what seems to be the
prevailing structural tone. This A in m. 15, in turn, acts as a pivotal
for
the modulation of the piedi to G in m. 18. The modulation to G is confirmed
when the melody cadences once again in m. 22 with a stronger cadential
formula, including a written F#, and structural descent from Bb to G.
The ascent continues in the second half of the piedi to a C, not quite
reaching the upper D that could be found in a cyclic ballata, and I treat it
thus as an upper neighbor to a Bb. The music then descends to a cadence
on G with a supportive F# leading tone written in the manuscript. This
piedi section can be viewed as a development section that tends toward the
'subdominant;' it spans from a step above the finalis to a step below the
finalis and cadences on G, a step below the dominant. The re-orientation
for the performer back to a D is thus made easier because the starting pitch
for the ripresa is  in G. Thus, the piedi section, tonicizing G, is a smooth
structural link back to the A. The link between the piedi section and the
ripresa is shown in the background analysis, shown below in Example 2-3.

Example 2-3, “Che ti zova, nascondere” background analysis

“Amor mi fa cantar”
Voice-leading is often obscured in the Rossi Codex, even in relatively
short pieces, such as “Amor mi fa cantar.” A cursory glance shows that
30 Chapter Two

each section is made of two short phrases, and the beginning and ending
points of the two sections taken together form a descending scale: D-C-
Bb-A. If I were to impose an Urlinie on this piece, or, rather, make this
piece conform to the expectations of a typical Schenkerian graph, a single
key area would be determined, and the overall structure would have to
conform to that key area. Instead, I would like to try to explain this piece
from a voice-leading perspective instead, for the sake of demonstrating a
lack of tonal coherence.
The text displays a typical trope shared among both French and Italian
poets: a man loves a lady so well that he would die as a result of his
torment, but because he fears her rejection, he does not tell her of his
affections. The text and translation can be found below. The lines of
poetry have one complete thought beginning at the top of the piedi and
finishing with the volta in each respective verse. Thus one might expect,
musically, that the melody outlines a complete structure that begins with
the piedi and concludes with the ripresa, but instead, a 4-line structure
descending from D to A begins in the ripresa and concludes in the piedi
section, placing a cadence on C at the close of the ripresa.

Amor mi fa cantar Love makes me sing

A. Amor mi fa cantar a la francesca. Love makes me sing in the French style.

b. Perché questo m'aven non olso dire. Why this happens to me I dare not say.
b. Ché quella donna che me fa languire For I fear that the one who makes me
languish
a. Temo che non verebe a la mia tresca. Would not come to my dance.

b. A lei sum fermo celar el mio core I am resolved to hide my heart from her
b. E consumarmi inançi per so amore. And rather to waste away for her love.
a. Ch'almen morò per cosa gentilesca. So that at least I die for a noble thing.

b. Donne, di vero dir ve posso tanto, In truth, o ladies, I can tell you this much,
b. Che questa donna, per cui piango As this lady for whom I weep and sing
e canto
a. È come rosa in spin morbida e fresca. Is soft and fresh as a rose in thorns.

The ripresa and piedi sections together form a descent from D to A,

which is an augmentation of the opening descent from D to A in mm. 1-3.
These two sections together project the top half of the descending melodic
minor scale. With the exception of the very last note in the ripresa, the D-
A structure fits the music. If D were the finalis of this piece, it would also
support the conclusion of the piedi on the A, and bring out the Bb as
highly dissonant, requiring the resolution to the A and the cadence in m.
 Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate 31

13. These two sections together project the top half of the descending
melodic minor scale, shown in the background summary below in
Example 2-4.

Example 2-4, “Amor mi fa cantar” background analysis

How, then, do we explain the final cadence? The finalis of the piece is
a C, indicating that the overall structure should outline a 3-line descent
from E, or a 5-line descent from G in a tonal reading. The pitches form a
cadential figure that circles around C as well. However, there is no upper E
in the entire piece, thus the piece lacks even a structural .
This results in a type of structural organization in the piece that relies
on an interconnected sense of melodic line leading from the ripresa to the
piedi, rather than from the piedi to the ripresa. We might consider this
piece as further away from the development of tonality than the other
pieces in the Rossi codex, and certainly less tonal than those in the
Squarcialupi codex, but again, it is more important to find out what does
make this piece cohere.
To reconcile the two pitch centers, D and C, I indicate in my voice-
leading graph, Example 2-5, that instead of having a structure based on
thirds, this piece outlines intervals of a fourth and fifth. If C is the
destination of the underlying structure, we can view mm. 5-7 as an ascent
from G to C, while mm. 1-4 form a descent of a fourth from D to A. Thus,
the fourths are unfolded to avoid parallels, and the opening D is the
structural pitch that binds the two phrases together. This creates a fourth-
fifth-fourth chain of intervals, which is a departure from the common
chains of thirds that Trecento monophonic pieces often display.
Assuming that “Amor mi fa cantar” centers on C, it would make some
sense that the piedi, with the emphasis on Bb and A, could be analyzed in
G, creating a dominant function. The F# in the manuscript adds weight to
this argument, and thus the piedi section concludes with an interruption.
The Bb and A act as a temporary  and , respectively. The piedi section is
more typically third-governed, which is established by the passing tone
figures in m. 9 between G and Bb, and in m. 10 between A and F.
 Structural Cyclicity in Trecento Ballate 33

Another reading of “Amor mi fa cantar” is that of a descending fifths

progression. If the first phrase that outlines D-A is treated as a
harmonization of D, then the second phrase harmonizes G (the D voice in
the background forms a fifth, reinforcing a descending fifths scheme.
Finally, the G acts as a dominant to C, the finalis of the piece and the
resolution of the D in the upper voice. The piedi serves more than one
purpose, then: the auxiliary key of G-minor is akin to modulating to the
dominant in a tonal piece, and the interrupted ending sounds like ending
on the dominant chord of G-minor, that is, a D chord. This D chord then
acts as the initial sonority of the ripresa, essentially modulating from V/G-
minor to I/D-minor.

“I’ vo’ bene a chi vol bene”

“I’ vo’ bene” demonstrates what I refer to as a fully cyclic form; the 5-
line in the ripresa is extended to a full octave by the 


 structure of
the piedi. The text, with translation provided below, involves many plays
on words that are amplified by the cyclic form of the ballata. The speaker
in the poem discusses the reciprocation of love, and insists that he only
loves those who love him: in effect, he requires the lady to show him love
first before committing his love to her. This poem is in effect a giant loop
of affection, giving it, taking it, and sorting out feelings amongst two
people. The cyclic structure supports this idea, seamlessly moving from
the ripresa to the piedi via the same tonal center.15
I’ vo’ bene I love the one

A. I' vo' bene a chi voi bene a me I love the one who loves me
E non amo, chi ama proprio sé. And I do not love one who only loves herself.

b. Non son colui che per pigliar la luna
Consuma'l tempo suo e nulla n'a;
b. Ma, se m'avvien ch'amo m'incontri
d'una
Che mi si volga, I' dico – E tu ti sta!
a. Se me fa: – Lima, lima! – et io a lei:
Dà, dà! – E così vivo in questa pura fe'.
I am not one who tries to seize the moon,
Wasting my time and ending up with nothing.
But, if love brings me a lady
Who turns me down, I say – You're on your
own!
If she says: – Take me, take me! – I say to her
Give me, give me! – Thus I live with this
simple faith.

b. Com' altri in me, cosi mi sto in altrui, As others are to me, so I am to other people,
Di quel ch’i’ posso, a chi mi dona do. Of those who give to me, I give them what I
can.
b. Niuno può dir di me: vedi colui, No one can say about me: look at him,
Another random document with
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 “Go. Washington.

“Mr. Jefferson.”

Dr. Rittenhouse executed this high trust with great ability and
unimpeachable integrity, during three years; at the expiration of
which he resigned it, on the 30th of June, 1795. He had, long before,
expressed his anxious wish to retire from this station; but continued
in office until that time, on the solicitation of the President and at the
earnest desire of Mr. Jefferson.

As he was the first person appointed to that office, after the

institution of the Mint under the present federal government of the
Union, the duties that devolved upon him, in conducting it, were
arduous and complicated. He directed the construction of the
machinery; made arrangements for providing the necessary
apparatus; and, in daily visits to the Mint, whenever his health
permitted, personally superintended, with the most sedulous fidelity,
not only the general economy of the institution, but its operations in
the various departments;—duties, which his love of system and
order, his extensive knowledge, and his practical skill in mechanicks,
eminently qualified him to perform with peculiar correctness. At those
times when he was prevented, by indisposition, from attending at the
Mint in person, reports were made to him by the proper officers,
either verbally or in writing, of the state of the institution and the
progress of its business; and those officers received from him, on
such occasions, the instructions requisite for their several
departments.

In conducting the affairs of the Mint, Dr. Rittenhouse was

seconded by capable and trusty officers; among whom was Mr.
Voight, the Chief Coiner, with whose ingenuity and skill, as an
operative mechanic, he was well acquainted, having long before
employed him in that capacity, while he was engaged in constructing
one of his Orreries and carrying on other branches of his
professional business. Dr. Nicholas Way, a physician of some
eminence, officiated at the same time as Treasurer of the Mint; and
that respectable co-adjutor of the then Head of this important
institution in the national economy, has borne testimony to his
scrupulous attention to the public interests, in its direction:—“I have
been informed by his colleague in office, Dr. Way,”—says Dr.
Benjamin Rush,[269] who succeeded that gentleman in the
Treasurership of the Mint,—“that, in several instances, he,”
(speaking of the Director) “paid for work done at the Mint out of his
salary,[270] where he thought the charges for it would be deemed
extravagant by the United States.[271]

When Dr. Rittenhouse resigned the Directorship of the Mint, in

June 1792, he was succeeded in that office by Henry William De
Saussure, Esq. of South Carolina, a gentleman of distinguished
talents and respectability. But Mr. De Saussure did not long hold the
appointment: Some invidious and illiberal, as well as ill-founded
insinuations, were soon cast upon the establishment and the manner
in which it was conducted, by certain persons in the government,
who had very early evinced an hostility to the institution itself; and it
is not improbable, that some of this description were also influenced
in their inimical views towards it, by personal considerations. Mr. De
Saussure, disgusted with such unworthy conduct, retired from the
Directorship, after having held that office only a few months; during
which short period, he executed his trust in such a manner, as to
obtain the approbation of President Washington, and entitle him to
the public esteem.

The following letter, which was addressed by Mr. De Saussure to

the editors of the Charleston City Gazette, and published in that
paper, soon after his resignation, will serve to elucidate this subject:
as a vindication of that gentleman, and also of his predecessor, from
the injurious aspersions so unjustly thrown out against the institution
of the Mint by its enemies, that publication is entitled to a place in the
Memoirs of Rittenhouse; it shall now close the narrative of Dr.
Rittenhouse’s connexion with the Mint.
“Messrs. Freneau and Payne,

“I was filled with no less indignation than surprise, on reading the

debates in the house of representatives of the United States, on
Tuesday the 19th of January, respecting the Mint, to find that a good
deal of censure had been thrown out by some of the members
against the management of that establishment, in such general and
indiscriminating terms as might be deemed to implicate me, during
the short time I was in the Directorship.

“Several members spoke in hasty and unguarded terms; and one

member, whose name the printer had not given, passed all the
bounds of moderation. He is represented as having said, “that the
institution is a bad one, and is badly conducted: it had been most
scandalously carried on, and with very little advantage to the public.
If the institution is not better carried on than it has been, it ought to
be thrown aside.”—If I could tamely endure these imputations, which
in their generality may be supposed to reach me, I should be
unworthy the esteem of my fellow-citizens.

“It ought, perhaps, to be sufficient for me to produce to the public

eye the entire approbation which the President of the United States
was pleased to express of my conduct, when quitting the office of the
Director. I laid before him a full and exact state of the situation of the
Mint, and of the coinage prior to, and during my being in office. His
approbation is contained in a letter which he wrote me at the
moment of my leaving Philadelphia,—dated the 1st of Nov. 1795;
from which these words are an extract—“I cannot, at this moment of
your departure, but express my regret, that it was not accordant with
your views to remain in the Directorship of the Mint: Permit me to
add thereto, that your conduct therein gave entire satisfaction; and to
wish you a pleasant voyage, and a happy meeting with your friends
in South Carolina.”

“To those who know the President of the United States well,—who
know the caution with which he is accustomed to speak, and that he
possesses the talent of correctly estimating, as well as vigorously
overcoming, the difficulties which present themselves in every
circumstance of business,—this would rescue any character from the
unqualified censure of the members of the house of representatives.
But I will go further, and will shew the grounds on which the
President formed his judgment, so that every man may form his own
opinion.”

The Writer then proceeds with some details, respecting the

condition of the Mint on his coming into office, and at the time he left
it; in the course of which he states some difficulties, and unavoidable
obstructions to the progress of the coinage, which existed in the time
of his predecessor, and some of which could not be obviated while
he remained in the direction: and to this statement he annexes a
table, exhibiting an account of the gold and silver coinage at the
Mint, from its establishment to the close of October, 1795; at the foot
of which he remarks, that “there never was any period at which the
Mint was supplied with bullion, in a state for coinage, sufficient to
keep it regularly and fully employed for any considerable time;
except,” continues the writer, “near the close of my direction; to wit,
from the 1st to the 24th of October.” Mr. De Saussure thus concludes
his very satisfactory letter on this subject:

“Whilst I am vindicating myself from the censure, indiscriminately

thrown upon the management of the Mint, I do by no means concede
that the censure is justly applicable to my respectable predecessor.
The solid talents of Mr. Rittenhouse will be remembered with pride,
and his mild virtue recollected with tenderness, by his countrymen,
when many of his censors will be forgotten in the silent dust. His lofty
and correct mind, capable alike of ascending to the sublimest
heights of science, and of condescending to regulate the minute
movements of mechanical machinery, organized the Mint, and
created the workmen and the apparatus; amidst the complicated
difficulties from which the most persevering minds might have shrunk
without dishonour. A very long and debilitating state of ill health
prevented him from giving the establishment all the activity of which
it was susceptible; and he long wished to retire before he was
permitted. His country suffered him to retire, without remembering,
that it was the duty of a liberal nation to provide an independent
retreat in his old age, for one of the noblest of her Philosophers; and
to this neglect, it is attempted to add unmerited obloquy.

“I quit the ungrateful theme with disgust. I am consoled by the

approbation of him, by whom to be approved, will gladden the heart
through a long life. I rejoice that I quitted an office which subjects its
holder to such unjust censure, by the advice of my friends, who in
prophetic spirit told me, ‘that such offices were suited to men who
could bear up against censure, though they did not deserve it,’ which
they did not believe me formed to endure.”

“Henry Wm. De Saussure.

Charleston, S. C. Feb. 5. 1796.”

A national coin having been always considered as a proper, if not

an absolutely necessary, attribute of the sovereignty of a state,[272]
the establishment of a Mint, for the United States, was pretty early
contemplated. A plan for that purpose was brought into the view of
congress, in the last year of the war; although no national coinage
was instituted until ten years afterwards. The early part of the year
1780 was extremely disastrous to the affairs of the United States.
The fall of Charleston, S. C. depressed the spirits of the country: and
the almost total failure of public credit, accompanied by a want of
money, and other means of carrying on the war, about that period,
paralyzed the measures of the government. Such was the apathy of
the public mind, in regard to the perilous condition of the country at
that crisis, that many members of the general assembly of
Pennsylvania, which was convened on the 10th of May, in that year,
came thither with petitions from their constituents, praying to be
exempt from the payment of taxes.

But while this assembly were in session, a letter was received

from General Washington by the Supreme Executive Council of the
state, and by them confidentially communicated to the legislative
body, in which the distressed condition of the army was faithfully
described. Among other things the General stated, that,
notwithstanding his confidence in the attachment of the army to the
cause of their country, the distresses of the soldiery, arising from a
destitution of those necessaries which were indispensable, had
become extreme; insomuch, that appearances of mutiny were so
strongly marked on the countenances of the army, as to occasion in
his mind hourly apprehensions of the event.

This appalling information, and from such a source, elicited some

latent sparks of public spirit. Voluntary contributions were
immediately begun; and Robert Morris, Esq. a merchant of the
highest credit—as well as a man whose patriotism, talents and
enterprize, inspired confidence—contributed two hundred pounds,
Pennsylvania currency, in (what was then called) hard money. This
subscription commenced the 8th of June, 1780: but it amounted, in
the whole to only 200l. hard money, and 101,360l. in the public bills
of credit, or paper-money, denominated continental.

On the 17th of the same month, however, a meeting of the

contributors to this fund (which was intended as a donation, towards
carrying on the recruiting service,) and of others, was convened in
Philadelphia: with a view to promote the object more extensively. At
this meeting it was resolved—“to open a security-subscription, to the
amount of 300,000l. in real money; the subscribers to execute bonds
to the amount of their subscription, and to form a Bank thereon, for
supplying the army.”

This was the origin of the “Bank of North-America,” which thus

took its rise from an association of “a number of patriotic persons” in
the city of Philadelphia. The plan they formed for the purpose was
communicated to congress by the secretary at war, on the 20th of
June; and the next day they were honoured with a vote of thanks.

On the 20th of February, 1781, Mr. Morris was unanimously

elected by congress to the office of Superintendant of Finance, then
first created. This gentleman arranged, in the spring following[273], the
system of the present Bank of North-America; whereupon, many of
the subscribers to the first-formed bank transferred their
subscriptions to this institution. These were incorporated by an
ordinance of congress[274], passed the 31st of December, 1781; and
in the beginning of the succeeding year, this Bank commenced its
operations in Philadelphia. By the incorporating ordinance, the
following gentlemen were nominated by congress to be the president
and directors of the institution, until a choice of a new direction
should be made by the stockholders; namely, Thomas Willing,
Thomas Fitzsimons, John Maxwell Nesbitt, James Wilson, Henry
Hill, Samuel Osgood, Cadwalader Morris, Andrew Caldwell, Samuel
Inglis, Samuel Meredith, William Bingham, and Timothy Matlack,
Esquires. Mr. Willing, a merchant of high credit and respectability,
was president of the board.

Some doubts having arisen, respecting the right of congress,

under the then existing confederation, to exercise the power of
erecting any corporate body, an act was passed by the general
assembly of Pennsylvania, the 1st of April, 1782, to incorporate this
Bank, in order to obviate such doubts. That act was repealed, the
13th of September, 1785; but on the 18th of March, 1787, the charter
was renewed for the term of fourteen years, and has been since
further continued.

It was by means of this establishment, that Mr. Morris, the

superintendant of the finances, was enabled to support the public
credit, and, in the words of Dr. Gordon, “to keep things in motion,” at
a most critical period of the American affairs, and when the national
credit was in the lowest possible state of depression.[275]

The establishment of a Mint seems to be a necessary appendage

to that of a national Bank. Accordingly, Mr. Morris, in his capacity of
superintendant of the finances, addressed a letter to congress, on
the 15th of January 1782, “touching the establishment of a Mint.” On
the 21st of the succeeding month, they approved his proposal,—
directing him, at the same time, “to prepare and report to congress a
plan:” But nothing further appears to have been done in this
business, until the 16th of October 1786, when congress passed “An
Ordinance for the establishment of the Mint of the United States,” &c.

About two years, however, after the commencement of the present

federal government (viz. March 3. 1791,) a resolution of congress
was passed, concerning the establishing of a Mint, under such
regulations as should be directed by law. Previously to this, the late
Alexander Hamilton, Esq. had communicated to the house of
representatives, by their order, the result of his enquiries and
reflexions on the subject, in a diffuse and masterly official report. In
his report, this able financier, alike distinguished as a statesman and
a soldier,[276] remarked, that “the unequal values allowed in different
parts of the Union to coins of the same intrinsic worth; the defective
species of them, which embarrass the circulation of them in some of
the states; and the dissimilarity in their several monies of account,
are inconveniences, which if not to be ascribed to the want of a
national coinage, will at least be most effectually remedied by the
establishment of one; a measure that will at the same time give
additional security against impositions, by counterfeit as well as by
base currencies.”—“It was with great reason, therefore,” continues
the Secretary, “that the attention of congress, under the late
confederation, was repeatedly drawn to the establishment of a Mint;
and it is with equal reason that the subject has been resumed; now
that the favourable change which has taken place in the situation of
public affairs, admits of its being carried into execution.”

The Mint has been continued in Philadelphia, ever since its

establishment,—a great commercial city being very properly
considered the most suitable situation for such an institution; its
operations have been conducted, for many years past, with activity;
and there are few coins superior in beauty, to those of the American
Mint.

In less than a year after Dr. Rittenhouse had engaged himself in

the duties appertaining to the Directorship of the Mint, he was again
called upon to assist his countrymen, by the aid of his talents, in
effecting an important water-communication, inland, which was then
contemplated. An association, called “The Conewago-Canal
Company,” was formed in Philadelphia, in pursuance of a law
enacted the 13th of April, 1791; by which the sum of fourteen
thousand dollars was appropriated, for the purpose of improving the
navigation of the river Susquehanna, between Wright’s Ferry (now
the thriving town of Columbia) and the mouth of the Swatara. This
company consisted of seventeen members, of whom Dr. Rittenhouse
was one: and they were incorporated by an act of assembly, passed
the 10th of April, 1793.

Just about this period, an occurrence took place at Philadelphia,

then the seat of the national government, which excited much public
feeling at the time, and—contrary to the expectations of some good
men of sanguine dispositions—became the source of many political
evils, afterwards. This was the formation of what was called the
Democratic Society; a political association, produced by the
effervescences of the French revolution, while that all-important
event was yet viewed in a favourable light by free nations: and of this
society, Dr. Rittenhouse was elected President.

That Dr. Rittenhouse should have been selected as the President

of the Democratic Society, and chosen for that station, can be readily
accounted for. This gentleman had evinced, from the
commencement of the troubles between the American colonies of
Great-Britain and the parent country, an ardent attachment to the
cause of his native land. The benevolence of his disposition
rendered him the well-wisher of all mankind: hence every thing that,
in his view, bore the semblance of oppression, was odious to him.
But the wrongs which the country of his nativity, more particularly,
experienced, from the unconstitutional claims of the British
Parliament, roused those feelings of patriotism, with which his
virtuous breast was animated, at the beginning of the American
discontents: he was, therefore, an early and decided Whig; and the
same principles that induced him to become such, continued to
actuate him throughout the contest between the two countries.
 The benignity of his temper must, nevertheless, have induced him
to be truly rejoiced at the return of peace. When that happy event
took place, he had too much goodness of heart to remember past
injuries, too much understanding to be influenced by unworthy and
mischievous prejudices; he had not a particle of malignity in his
nature. At the period of the Declaration of American Independence
by Congress, he believed, with a great majority of his countrymen,
that necessity justified the separation: and from that epocha, he was
heartily disposed to hold the mother-country, as his compatriots then
declared they did the rest of mankind,—“enemies in war, in peace
friends.”

When the French revolution commenced, the benevolence of his

feelings led him to believe, as almost every American then did, that it
would meliorate the condition of a great nation, whose inhabitants
constituted a large portion of the population of the European world;—
a nation, which, by the rigourous policy of its government, under a
long succession of ambitious and arbitrary monarchs, anterior to the
one then on the tottering throne of that ill-fated country, had become
extremely corrupt among the higher orders of the people; and in
which, the inferior classes were subjected to great oppression. The
American people having, on their separation from the mother-
country, instituted for themselves, as an independent nation, a
constitution wholly republican; they were disposed to attribute the
vices of the French government, before the revolution, to the
circumstance of its being a monarchy, and the sufferings of the
people of France, as necessarily resulting from the monarchial
system of rule over them. When, therefore, a republican form of
government was erected in France on the ruins of the throne; the
excesses, and even the atrocities of the people, which attended the
demolition of the ancient government of that country, and the
establishment of political institutions entirely new to its inhabitants,
found palliatives in the dispositions of most good men among us:
they were ascribed to the strong conflicting passions naturally
produced between the great body of the people, on the one part, and
their rulers on the other; excited by the long sufferings of the former,
and an unwillingness to part with power, in the latter. Great
enormities were considered as the inevitable consequences of these
opposite interests, when brought into action amidst a population of
many millions of men, whose national characteristic is that of levity of
temper and vehement passions; and a conflict, wherein all the
malign dispositions of the most depraved characters, actuated by
motives the most flagitious, intermingled themselves with the
designs of those who meant well. Such men, freed from all the
restraints of government and law, and utterly disregarding all the
obligations of either religious or moral duties, had then an
opportunity of giving a full vent to their views, whether of ambition,
avarice or personal resentments; and they did not fail to embrace it.
While, on the one hand, demagogues fanned the popular flame by
the vilest artifices; put on the semblance of patriotism, and by
practising the most detestable hypocrisy, professed themselves to be
the friends of the people, whom they were deluding into
premeditated ruin. Even virtuous Frenchmen, and many of them
possessing no inconsiderable share of discernment, soon fell victims
to the machiavelian policy of these pretended patriots. These, in their
turn, were sacrificed under the denunciations of their compeers, or
other aspiring villains; and thus, others still in succession: until,
finally, a fortunate military usurper, restored the monarchy in his own
person, with absolute sway; and by substituting an horrible military
despotism, in the place of a most sanguinary anarchy, confounded
all ranks of his subjects in one vast mass of miserable slaves; who
have been since employed in destroying the peace, freedom and
happiness of their fellow-men, in other countries. Such have been,
hitherto, the fruits of the French revolution; from which, at its
commencement, myriads of good men fondly anticipated an issue
precisely the reverse.[277]

Notwithstanding the criminal excesses committed by many of the

French revolutionists, before the institution of their short lived and
turbulent republic, it was hoped by most true Americans, attached by
fidelity as well as principle to that system of government, which was
then the legitimate one in their own country, that its ultimate
establishment in France would produce permanent benefits, to that
country at least, which would infinitely overbalance what were
considered, by zealous republicans, as temporary and partial evils,
such as seemed to be unavoidable, in bringing about a radical
change in the fundamental institutions of a great and powerful
empire. Many Americans were not, indeed, so sanguine in their
expectations: but such were, nevertheless, the prevailing sentiments
of the citizens of the United States,—even among the best-informed
men.

The deliberative and cautionary proceedings (as they purported to

be) of the more prominent revolutionary characters in France, in their
minor popular assemblies, prior to the establishment of their national
constitutional form of government, were judged of, in the United
States, with respect to their objects and utility, as similar assemblies,
under the denominations of councils of safety, committees of safety,
&c. were considered by their own citizens, at the commencement of
the American revolution: they were deemed to be necessary agents
of the people in each country, respectively, during the interregnum
which succeeded the abandonment of their ancient governments.

The Jacobin Club of Paris was one of these political engines of the
French revolution, for some time after its commencement; and,
perhaps, that assembly contained many worthy members, originally,
although it afterwards became notoriously infamous, by the
monstrous enormity of the crimes it countenanced and produced.

Chief Justice Marshall has observed (in his Life of Washington,)

that “soon after the arrival of Mr. Genet,[278] a Democratic Society
was formed in Philadelphia, which seems to have taken for its model
the Jacobin Club of Paris:”—“Its organization,” continues the
historian, “appears to have been completed on the 30th of May,
1793.”

It will nevertheless be recollected, that, about that period, the

shock given to the humane feelings of the American people, by the
murder of Louis XVI. their benefactor during the war in this country,
and by the death and sufferings of his queen and family, had mostly
subsided. The great American public still continued warmly and
sincerely attached to what was then viewed as the cause of the
French people: and therefore, whatever may have been the real
design of setting up a Democratic Society in Philadelphia, at that
point of time—a design only known to its founders,—it is certain, that
many highly estimable and meritorious citizens, and firm friends of
the existing government, were elected members of that society,
without any previous intimation being given to them of such an
intention: some of those persons never attended any of the meetings
of the society; and others soon discontinued their attendance. If it
were actually formed on the model of the Jacobin Club of Paris, by
some of those with whom the scheme originated, it cannot be
rationally presumed that men of great purity of reputation, in public
as well as private life, would either seek admission into such an
assembly, knowing it had any criminal views; nor would they, if
chosen members of it without their knowledge and consent,
participate in its proceedings, should these be found to be
unconstitutional, illegal, or dishonourable. Yet it is a matter of
notoriety, that persons of such characters were in some instances
enrolled among the members of the Democratic Society in
Philadelphia, at its commencement and soon after its organization, in
the spring of 1793.

It may be readily supposed, that such of its members as meant

well, would be desirous of placing at the head of that body, a man of
unimpeachable patriotism and integrity; and it is equally reasonable
to conclude, that, had there been a majority of its members, whose
secret designs were inimical to the true interest of the country or the
well-being of the government,—even these would wish to disguise
their intentions, under the nominal auspices of a character
universally respected and esteemed. Such a man was Dr.
Rittenhouse; and therefore was he selected by the Philadelphia
Democratic Society, as their President. At the time of his election to
that station, he held the highly important office of Director of the Mint,
under a commission from President Washington; for whose public
and private character he always entertained the most exalted
respect, besides the personal regard, which the writer of these
Memoirs knows to have subsisted between them. It is not
presumable, taking all considerations into view, that Dr. Rittenhouse
suffered any serious diminution in the esteem of that virtuous and
discerning statesman, by the circumstance of the Doctor being
placed at the head of the Democratic Society: for he not only
continued to hold the Directorship of the Mint, but, when he offered
his resignation of that high trust, two years afterwards, the
President’s reluctance to accept it yielded only to the Doctor’s urgent
solicitation to decline a further continuance in the office.

Whatever, therefore, may have been the real views and intentions
of some of the members of the Democratic Society which was
formed in Philadelphia, in 1793,—even if those of a majority of their
number were highly unjustifiable,—no imputation, unfavourable to
Dr. Rittenhouse’s character, either as a good citizen or an upright
man, could in the smallest degree be attached to him, by reason of
his having been chosen a President of that body, at the time of its
organization.[279]

That Dr. Rittenhouse was a zealous advocate for the liberties of

mankind, is unquestionable: but, much as he abhorred slavery and
oppression of every kind, did he deprecate turbulence and
licentiousness in the people, and wars of ambition, avarice or
injustice, undertaken by their rulers. He was decidedly friendly to
those measures of civil government, which are best calculated to
maintain order, tranquillity, and safety in the state, on just and
honourable principles. It can scarcely be doubted by any one,
intimately acquainted with his character, that he must have
concurred in sentiments similar to those attributed by the biographer
of Washington to that great man, or this subject,—in the following
observation: “Between a balanced republic and a democracy the
difference is like that between order and chaos. Real liberty, he
thought, was to be secured only by preserving the authority of the
laws, and maintaining the energy of government. Scarcely did
society present two characters which, in his opinion, less resembled
each other, than a patriot and a demagogue.”

Mr. Rittenhouse, it must be rationally supposed, was less

acquainted with mankind, than General Washington was known to
be: he had much fewer and more limited opportunities of studying
human nature; and professions of pretended patriots were, therefore,
more likely to impose on the unsuspecting honesty of his nature. He
may even have been deceived, for a while, and ere the plausible
fallacies of theorists in matters of civil polity, emanating from the
philosophy of the French school, had yet been manifested to the
world. A practical philosopher himself, he must have contemplated
with pity, if not with indignation, the doctrines of the followers of
Pyrrho: with whom it was a fundamental principle, that there is
nothing that can be denominated true or false, right or wrong, honest
or dishonest, just or unjust; or, in other words, that there is no
standard beyond law or custom; and that uncertainty and doubt are
attached to all things. Nevertheless, on these doctrines of the
sceptical philosophers of antiquity are founded that monstrous and
wicked tenet of most of the modern sceptics, that the end justifies
the means!—a principle destructive of all the foundations of religion
and morals. Well might the Abbé le Blanc exclaim, when noticing this
mischievous sect of philosophers, seventy years ago,—“Is it not
surprising, that men should endeavour to acquire the esteem of the
public, by striving to break the most sacred band of all societies; in
declaring their opinion to others, that there is neither virtue nor vice,
truth nor doubt.”—“Our modern philosophers,”[280] says the learned
Abbé in another place, “have been too confident.”

This is certainly correct, in one point of view; although the

assertion seems to imply a contradiction in terms, so far as it applies
to the metaphysical scepticism of many, assuming the honourable
appellation of Philosophers, without being entitled to the true
character. What were the sentiments of Dr. Rittenhouse, concerning
the tenets of men of this description, may be fairly inferred, not only
from the manner in which he has introduced the names of Berkeley
and Hume into the Oration which he pronounced before the
Philosophical Society, in the year 1775, but from other observations
and reflexions contained in that discourse, as well as from the
general tenure of opinions expressed by him on various occasions.
 At an early period of the French revolution, a circumstance
occurred, which, from its connexion in some particulars with the life
of our Philosopher, is here entitled to notice.

On the 7th of August 1783, and after peace had been proclaimed,
congress unanimously passed a resolution in the following words
——“Resolved, That an equestrian statue of General Washington be
erected at the place where the residence of Congress shall be
established;—that the statue be of bronze: the General to be
represented in a Roman dress, holding a truncheon in his right hand,
and his head, encircled with a laurel wreath. The Statue to be
supported by a marble pedestal, on which are to be represented, in
basso relievo, the following principal events of the war, in which
General Washington commanded in person: the evacuation of
Boston;—the capture of the Hessions, at Trenton;—the battle of
Princeton;—the action of Monmouth;—and the surrender of York.—
On the upper part of the front of the pedestal, to be engraved as
follows: “The United States in Congress assembled ordered this
Statue to be erected, in the year of our Lord 1783, in honour of
George Washington, the illustrious Commander in Chief of the
Armies of the United States of America, during the war which
vindicated and secured their Liberty, Sovereignty and
Independence.”[281]

This was an honourable testimony of the gratitude and affectionate

respect of the nation, towards the Hero and Patriot, who so
eminently merited both; and it was a sincere effusion of the heart, in
the representatives of the American people, while the transcendent
virtues of a Washington, and his then recent services in his
country’s cause, yet inspired every generous breast with a faithful
remembrance of his worth: It was a laudable proof of the patriotism
that actuated the public mind, at a period, when, in the words of an
enlightened historian,[282] “the glow of expression in which the high
sense universally entertained of his services was conveyed,
manifested a warmth of feeling seldom equalled in the history of
man.”
 The fascination which the revolution of France spread over a large
portion of Europe and America, for some time after its
commencement, and during the time it yet bore the semblance of a
virtuous cause,—while it seemed to enchant the true friends of
freedom every where; and the oft-resounded and captivating name
of “Liberty,” produced in men of ardent tempers, and speculative
notions, ideas of its reality of the most extravagant nature, and in
numerous instances of very mischievous tendency.

Among those of the latter description was Joseph Ceracchi, an

Italian artist of celebrity. Mr. Ceracchi was a statuary, of great
eminence in his profession; and to the manners and
accomplishments of a gentleman, he united much genius and taste.
Though born and bred in the dominions of the papal see, he fostered
the principles of a republican. Conceiving that the genius of a free
government comported with these alone, he became an enthusiastic
admirer of the French republic. Finding the turbulent state of France,
at the beginning of her troubles, unfavourable to the exercise of his
art, in that country; and believing as he did, that the tranquil and
prosperous condition of the United States would afford full
employment for his talents, in a manner congenial to his inclinations,
as well as beneficial to his private interest; he arrived, with his wife—
a German lady of some distinction—at Philadelphia, then the seat of
the national government, sometime (it is supposed) in the year 1793.

The great equestrian statue, which congress had, ten years

before, decreed to be erected in honour of General Washington, had
not yet been executed; and Mr. Ceracchi imagined that the gratitude
of the American republic would furnish, besides this primary work,
ample scope for the exercise of his talents, in erecting honorary
memorials of some of the more illustrious characters, which the
American revolution had produced. The aptitude, beauty and
magnificence, which the artist designed to display in some great
public monuments of this kind, were exhibited in models which he
executed, for the purpose of testifying his abilities in the art he
professed: these were universally admired, as the productions of
superior genius, taste and skill. Yet Mr. Ceracchi remained
unemployed: the national council did not, even at that late day, avail
themselves of so favourable an opportunity of engaging him to erect
the statue decreed to Washington,—a work which continues
unexecuted at the present moment[283]! and the talents of that
eminent artist were, not long afterwards, for ever lost to the country.

Among the gentlemen with whom Mr. Ceracchi became

acquainted, in Philadelphia, were some members of the
Philosophical Society in that city; and, on their recommendation of
him, he was, himself, soon associated with this institution.

In this body, as the Writer believes, Dr. Rittenhouse acquired a

knowledge of Mr. Ceracchi’s person and character. Both Dr. and Mrs.
Rittenhouse, from their kind and unceasing attentions to this
gentleman and his wife, appear to have considered them as persons
of merit: the Doctor, particularly, by his friendly deportment towards
the husband, during the time he continued his residence in this
country, testified the esteem he had conceived for this ingenious
foreigner; heightened too, perhaps, by a delicate sensibility towards
him, on account of the disappointment in his expectations of public
patronage in his profession, which he experienced while here. For it
is known to the Memorialist, that when, in consequence of such
disappointment, Mr. Ceracchi became embarrassed in his pecuniary
affairs, Dr. Rittenhouse contributed liberally to his relief.

Some time in the summer of the year 1794 (if the Writer’s
recollection be correct,) our benevolent philosopher having occasion
to view the canal, intended to form a communication between the
waters of the Delaware and the Schuylkill, invited Mr. Ceracchi to
accompany him, for the purpose of examining the quality of the
marble in the great quarries of that material, situated near the margin
of the latter river, in the vicinity of the western end of the canal. The
Memorialist joined in this little excursion, during which, Dr.
Rittenhouse was, as usual, communicative, cheerful and instructive.

On inspecting the quarries just mentioned—so far as time then

permitted an examination of them,—Mr. Ceracchi seemed to think
they contained only laminated strata of stone; not massy blocks,
without fissures or veins, like the marbles of Carrara, and those in
some other parts of Europe: that, although this Schuylkill marble was
generally of a good quality and of a whiteness sufficiently pure, it
could not be obtained in masses thick enough for the larger subjects
of fine statuary. Yet this artist observed, that a large proportion of the
slabs appeared to be of dimensions suitable for various subjects of
sculpture; and more especially, that they furnished an excellent
material for many purposes, ornamental as well as useful, in public
edifices and other structures[284]. No other quarries of marble were
viewed, on this excursion: but it is probable Mr. Ceracchi would have
found the marbles of Hitner’s and Henderson’s quarries—which are
at nearly the same distance from Philadelphia, though not situated
very near the river Schuylkill—much better adapted in every respect,
to the uses he contemplated. This unfortunate man appeared to
have possessed, in addition to genius and fine professional talents,
the exalted virtue of gratitude. Dr. Rittenhouse was his benefactor;
and the Philosophical Society had elected him a member of their
body: a fine bust of the Philosopher in the antique style, was
executed by Ceracchi in white marble, and by him presented to the
Society, on the 6th of February, 1795. It is supposed that he left
America about twelve months after this date; and it is said, that he
afterwards perished on a scaffold, in Paris, in consequence of its
being alleged, that he was engaged in a conspiracy against the life
of Bonaparte.

In the spring of the year 1794, the Earl of Buchan, P. S. S. A. and

James Anderson, LL. D. both distinguished characters in Scotland,
were elected members of the American Philosophical Society, at
Philadelphia: and it appears probable, from a note addressed to Dr.
Rittenhouse by President Washington, that they had been put in
nomination, or, at least, that their election had been advocated by
the former, at the instance of the latter; the note is in these words—

“The President presents his compliments to Mr. Rittenhouse, and

thanks him for the attention he has given to the case of Mr. Anderson
and the Earl of Buchan.
“Sunday afternoon, 20th April, 1794.”

At the commencement of the following year, Lord Buchan[285] wrote

to Dr. Rittenhouse the following letter:

“Dryburgh Abbey, Jan. 12, 1795.

“Sir,

“My worthy friend, Mr. John Miller, son of the eminent professor,
John Miller, of Glasgow, whom I recommend to your attention, has
charged himself with this letter, and will deliver to you a Writing-Box,
which I dedicate to your use, as President of the Philosophical
Society at Philadelphia, and to your successors in office, as a
testimony of my high esteem for your literary character and for that
of the Society over which you preside.

“This Box is made of Yew, of Black Cherry tree, and Acacia and
Barberry, and veneered with Holly; all the growth of my garden at
this place, and joined, fitted and finished, by my own joiner, in this
house.

“On the lid is an authentic picture of Copernicus, and in the inside

thereof is a similar one of Napier. That of Copernicus is from the
accurate copy of the Chancellor Hupazzuoski’s original picture,
which was sent by the learned Dr. Wolf, of Dantzic, to the Royal
Society of London; and this limning of mine is most faithfully
delineated and shaded, from a drawing made by Mr. Thomas Parke,
of Picadilly, formerly a pupil of Valentine Green, engraver at London,
from the picture in the Royal Society, on a scale proportional in all
parts and with great fidelity; so that I can assure you of my limning
being a fac simile, as to the features and countenance. That of
Napier[286] is indeed a most exquisitely beautiful piece, by John
Brown, of Edinburgh, executed with the black-lead pencil, from an
original portrait in the possession of Lord Napier; and, as a drawing
with black-lead, excels, I believe, every thing of the kind now extant:
Mr. Brown having by drawing, during twelve years in Italy, from
statues, obtained a super-eminent accuracy and beauty of design.