instruments and emphasized the sensuous qualities of their tone. More, perhaps, than any other composer, he effected the union of pure music with the poetical or pictorial idea. His use of chromatic harmony was at times as daring as that of Berlioz and antedated that of Wagner, who borrowed richly from him. Only his religious music, among his great works, must be accounted comparatively a failure. He had great hopes, when he went to Rome, of becoming the Palestrina of the modern Church. But the Church would have none of his theatrical religious music, while the public has been little more hospitable. Intimate biographies of Liszt have succeeded in staining the brilliant colors of the Liszt myth, but, on the whole, no composer who gained a prodigious reputation during his lifetime has lived up to it better, so to speak, after his death. As an unrivalled concert pianist, the one conqueror who never suffered a defeat, he might have become vain and jealous. There is hardly a trace of vanity or jealousy in his nature. His appreciation of other composers was always generous and remarkably just. No amount of difference in school or aim could ever obscure, in his eyes, the real worth of a man. Wagner, Berlioz, and a host of others owed much of their reputation to him. His life at Weimar was one continued crusade on behalf of little known geniuses. His financial generosity was very great; though the income from his concerts was huge he never, after 1847, gave a recital for his own benefit. In our more matter-of-fact age much of his musical and verbal rhetoric sounds empty, but through it all the intellectuality and sincerity of the man are unmistakable. On the whole, it is hardly possible to name another composer who possessed at once such a broad culture, such a consistent idealism, and such a high integrity. VI In Hector Berlioz (b. 1803 at Côte St. André, Isère) we have one of those few men who is not to be explained by any amount of examination of sources. Only to a small extent was he _specifically_ determined by his environment. He is unique in his time and in musical history. He, again, is to be explained only as a gift of Heaven (or of the devil, as his contemporaries thought). In a general way, however, he is very brilliantly to be explained by the Paris of 1830. The external tumult, the breaking of rules, the assertion of individuality, all worked upon his sensitive spirit and dominated his creative genius. He was at bottom a childlike, affectionate man, ‘demanding at every moment in his life to love and be loved,’ as Romain Rolland says. In Renaissance Florence, we may imagine, he might have been a Fra Angelico, or at least no more bumptious than a Filippo Lippi. It was because he was so delicately sensitive that he became, in the Paris of 1830, a violent revolutionist.