in a comfortable home of England. To make matters worse, some efforts to introduce art have been dolefully inartistic, as the reproachful epithet of “arty” in our dictionary too painfully shows. The word “art” itself is suspect to the English, carrying with it a suspicion of artificiality and pose. In the home, at least, let us substitute for it “grace and harmony”; where these are present the result will be artistic. There are sensitive women, women of taste, enough who know this, but their influence does not radiate. We want the energy of these women to be formative and reformative: we want the arts and crafts of this country permeated with their good influence, to counteract the influence of commercial man who makes cheaply and badly what he can sell with ease. This would be an accomplishment worthy of the name. The state of domestic music is little better. Here again it is the woman who sets the tone. Think of the thousands of English pianos tinkling at this moment, of the wheezing of countless gramophones, and the warbling of a myriad drawing room ditties—with what tune does it fill the shuddering earth? For whom do ballad concerts flourish, for whom do melodic journeymen pour out machine-made progressions of sixths, ninths, and elevenths to sentimental lyrics? Chiefly for women. Who are those who delight to proclaim that they “know a lovely garden” or to inquire in flat tones of musical interrogation where the pink hands they knew beside the Shalimar have got to? Chiefly women. For whom has the wearisome infinity of ragtime assaulted humanity? Again for women. Who was Chaminade and for whom did she spin her inanities? A woman who knew what women wanted. At whom do Jewish violinists ogle while they saw out emotional waltzes through the meaty atmosphere of restaurants? At women. And who exclaim that “he plays divinely, my dear?” Women again.