For this Symphony deserves another hearing. The only work by a Frenchman that Dr. Muck has offered this season, it is far more satisfying than any of his other novelties. The restless swing of the opening theme grips you at once—and your curiosity is piqued as the violins sing against the “Kernel” in the horns. The Adagio is not so successful—the theme sung by the English horn is not sufficiently melodious. You need only compare it with the heart-breaking Largo of Dvorak’s _Aus Der Neuen Welt_. But there are the most engaging rhythms—many of them typically Scotch in their snap. In fact did Ropartz’s gift for melody (it is far from negligible) approach his rhythmic talent, he might produce really great music. As it is, this Fourth Symphony interests and gratifies. But it is too long. Its three movements are played without a pause and one’s attention flags at times. It seems likely that this is inevitable in absolute music: only a program can really hold one’s attention for almost forty minutes. Strauss does it in _Ein Heldenleben_; but _Don Juan_, _Tyll Eulenspiegel_ and _Tod und Verklärung_ last only about twenty minutes each, despite the fascinating explanations that the program notes always give of their musical contents. Ropartz’s Fourth Symphony would be much better if played with pauses, and the sections are so clearly indicated that this could be done without great difficulty. But, on the whole, a hearing of his work makes one wish for more French music, with its charming, clear-cut rhythms so typical of the Gaul. (To my mind Ropartz’s indebtedness to César Franck is a matter of comparative unimportance. Disciple or not, he has brought to his task of writing music freshness and charm, a fund of melody and a quite adequate technique). After listening to these five compositions, what effect would Beethoven’s _Egmont_ Overture naturally have? Relief,—pure unalloyed relief. And it confirms one in the feeling that relief is ever going to be one of the prime functions thrust by the musicians of today upon the greatest master of them all. Invariably he brings us back to earth, and as we sit listening to him in smug contentment, we can say over, without fear of contradiction: “This after all is music.” While Hearing a Little Song (_Solveigs Lied_) MAXWELL BODENHEIM A song flew lazily Over my upturned head. It dropped and I could see The ivoried limbs, the spread Of swaying, dream-colored wings, And barely sense the drift Of slender, cloud-voiced rings Of notes which seemed to lift The oval of my soul Up to their lingering death ... A purplish pallor stole Down to my leaden breath,— It was my melted soul And the soft death of the throng Of notes from the slim song. A Hard Bed GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER