study with such zeal that during one summer he achieved innumerable exercises in counterpoint and sixty-four fugues, ten of which he sent me for inspection." Rimsky-Korsakov may have felt himself braced and strengthened by this severe course of musical theory; it may have been a relief to his extremely sensitive artistic conscience to feel that henceforward he could rely as much on experience as on intuition; but his remorse for the past--supposing him ever to have felt the sting of such keen regret--never translated itself into the apostasy of his earlier principles. After the sixty-four fugues and the exhaustive study of Bach's works, he continued to walk with Berlioz and Liszt in what Zaremba would have regarded as the way of sinners, because in his opinion it coincided with the highway of musical progress, as well as with his natural inclinations. He knew the forms demanded by his peculiar temperament. Genius, and even superior talent, almost invariably possess this intuition. No one should have known better than Tchaikovsky that in spite of well-intentioned efforts to push a composer a little to the right or the left, the question of form remains--and will always remain--self-selective. Rimsky-Korsakov, after, as before, his initiation into classicism, chose the one path open to the honest artist--musician, painter, or poet--the way of individuality. In 1873 Rimsky-Korsakov, at the suggestion of the Grand Duke Constantine, was appointed Inspector of Naval Bands, in which capacity he had great opportunities for practical experiments in instrumentation. At this time, he tells us, he went deeply into the study of acoustics and the construction and special qualities of the instruments of the orchestra. This appointment practically ended his career as an officer on the active list, at which he must have felt considerable relief, for with all his "ideal conscientiousness" it is doubtful whether he would ever have made a great seaman. The following letter, written to Cui during his first cruise on the "Almaz," reveals nothing of the cheery optimism of a true "sea-dog"; but it does reveal the germ of "Sadko" and of much finely descriptive work in his later music. "What a thing to be thankful for is the naval profession," he writes; "how glorious, how agreeable, how elevating! Picture yourself sailing across the North Sea. The sky is grey, murky, and colourless; the wind screeches through the rigging; the ship pitches so that you can hardly keep your legs; you are constantly besprinkled with spray, and sometimes washed from head to foot by a wave; you feel chilly, and rather sick. Oh, a sailor's life is really jolly!"