In this connection, the subject of musical criticism naturally obtrudes itself, and it may at once be said that one of the most satisfactory features in modern musical life is its general fairness, and the entire absence of savagery that was so prominent a feature in it in days of not long ago. To read the effusions of so fine an old musician and writer as J. W. Davidson, simply makes one feel stupefied. Wagner was to him as nothing but typical of the Evil One. Chopin was nearly as bad, and the language he used concerning them both is calculated to make one's hair stand on end. Those were days when the old order was just beginning to give place to the new, and the critics of the old school fought for their principles with a tenacity, and even ferocity, that can only excite admiration, if tempered with surprise, in these times of laxity of purpose. But, after all, they were genial souls at heart, and the words written to-day were, evidently, expected to be forgotten to-morrow. For example: many years ago, when quite a boy, I had the pleasure to spend an evening in the company of one of them, then an old man. He was pleasant, communicative and evidently fond of indulging in reminiscences. In the course of the conversation, I said, "I can never understand what caused you to write so virulently about ----" He interrupted me with "Did I? I don't remember." This was staggering, since I had often been told of the sensation his articles caused at the time. It irresistibly brought back to my mind, and I recall it with all reverence, that wonderful sketch by Anatole France, of Pontius Pilate, in his old age at Bai[ae]: "J['e]sus?... J['e]sus de Nazareth?... Je ne rappelle pas." They were days of hard striking, with the confident expectation of receiving a like return. In the case of Chopin, his nature was altogether too sensitive to enter upon warfare of this kind. He simply suffered. With Wagner, it was entirely different. His nature was combative, his pen vitriolic, and he was a skilled controversialist. No critic ever entered into conflict with him without carrying away distinct evidence of the fray. It must be said in justice, that whatever the vehemence of expression, or the open and unabashed hatred of the ideas he condemned, the critic of those days avowed himself, and stood out, fearlessly, to meet any reprisals that his words might subject him to. In this I say frankly my sympathy goes out to him. To-day, it must be conceded, that musical criticism is on a distinctly higher plane. But, while cordially admitting the inspiring and thought-compelling material that constantly emanates from the pens of the distinguished men who represent the foremost journals of London and the great provincial cities, one has got to record the fact that the pall of anonymity is over it all. From every point of view this seems most regrettable. It is as unfair to the critic who writes, as to the public that reads.