remember, especially, that Crossjay had been locked out of his room by Sir Willoughby and had sought the ottoman as a refuge? These are all strands of the chief melody in that remarkable composition. (Not all the strands are there, for satire never tells the whole truth. “Tony” in Ethel Sidgwick’s “Promise” and “Succession” is also an egoist.) A novel, then, in this sense, is not successive, but _simultaneous_. All that has been and all that is to be exist in every moment of life, for that is all what we call “the present” means. The chief difference between such play of character around an idea and the movement of many musical themes around a central one lies in the detached and spiritualized quality of sound. It is obvious that music, written for an orchestra containing some twenty or more different _kinds_ of instruments and scores of performers, must have great variety of expression. Each instrument has its own tone color, its own range, and its own technique, and each must be given its own thing to say. In this sense symphonic music is an intricate mesh of melodies, each intent on its own purpose, each a part of the whole. In no other of its varied means of expression is the symphony more strictly and more fully an evolution than in this one of complex melodic textures. There has been no hiatus. From its first great moment of perfection in the time of Palestrina, through the madrigal and fugue, through dance-tunes conventionalized in the suite, through organ pieces, oratorios, and the like, this method of writing has persisted. Wagner bases his whole musical structure on the play and interplay of melodic lines in his _leit-motifs_. Bach is all melodic texture. Music written in this manner is called “polyphonic,” and the method of writing it is called “counterpoint.”