perhaps, in that choral finale of the Ninth Symphony which has been foolishly set forth as the culmination of his genius and the point to which it had always been tending, whereas in fact it is a grand but unequal and only partially satisfactory experiment, to which the next symphony, if he had lived to write it, would probably have borne no relation whatever. A great deal of mischief has been done by the importation of special pleading of this kind into recent musical criticism, the real object of which, as of all criticism, ought to be to obtain a clear and balanced view of the whole subject, and of which the rule (especially in a dictionary) should be emphatically, Surtout, point de zèle. A difficulty, perhaps, in the way of influencing opinion by musical criticism lies in the fact that music is such a difficult thing to write about intelligibly to those who do not already know a good deal. This is the real answer to the question addressed to the present writer the other day, Why are musical criticisms always so uninteresting?" It is certain that they are seldom written in good literary style, and yet so absorbing and entrancing an art is music, that to the lovers of it almost any piece of criticism is more or less inter glish the critics of this militant school are | pleteness of style; more than anywhere, capable of one may realize in other articles by the same hand; how Chopin "appears to possess the secret to transmute and transfigure whatever he touches into some weird crystal, convincing in its conformation, transparent in its eccentricity" (which is certainly more than can be said of Mr. Dannreuther's own style). Berlioz, again, is "a colossus with few friends," "a marked individuality, original, puissant, bizarre, indolently one-sided," etc. This sort of thing really ought not to be allowed in a dictionary; and one is thankful to find the editor going at all events so far as to refrain from quoting some passages from this critic's essay on Beethoven in a leading magazine, because it is "not suited to the bald rigidity of a dictionary article,” a somewhat mild way of characterizing what what was in the main a piece of turgid extravagance.* The point is prominently mentioned here because the articles on Liszt and Wagner have not yet appeared, and if (as there is too much reason to fear) they have been confided to critics of this school, they may prove a permanent blot on the dictionary by committing it to illregulated enthusiasms which can only be of temporary acceptance. Of course to such an objection the stereotyped retort will be ready, that Beethoven was consid-esting, which gives them any new fact or ered rude and inartistic in his own day, and his now accepted works were met with hostile criticism: all which merely means that because a large number of persons cannot separate their critical view from the prejudices of their day, therefore no one can which is a non sequitur. It is quite possible for people who have enough of "dry light," and are not so muddleheaded as to confound the conditions of art with those of science, and imagine that progress is a necessary condition of the former as of the latter, not only to distinguish the radical variance between Wagner's art and Beethoven's, but to recognize clearly enough the point at which Beethoven as an artist passed his zenith and lost some of his balance and com It was, if we remember right, in this article (Macmillan's Magazine, July, 1876) that a set of quotations from Beethoven's sonatas were given in order to prove that Beethoven had anticipated and employed a certain modern trick of composition, called metamorphosis of themes," whereby a single melodic idea is made to do duty for a whole symphony or concerto, squeezed into different shapes, or cut up into sections. It would be worth while for any one interested in vagaries of musical criticism to refer to these quotations, as an example of the kind of assertion that the apostles of the Liszt-Wagner school are capable of, in their efforts to force Beethoven into the strait-jacket of their own theories, and persuade the world that they are his legiti mate successors. 66 If we suggests any new idea, in however jejune described. It is a pity that there is so much that must be called jargon connected with the art, but it must be accepted as an existing fact, and if musical and unmusical people wish to understand each other, the lattter must study the language of the former. One particular usefulness of the dictionary we have been mentioning may be in furnishing every one with a compendious and full illustration of the meanings of musical terms, as well as with concentrated and intelligible essays upon important points in the forms and the science of musical composition. It may safely be said that more will be done to promote an intelligent comprehension of music by this kind of practical information, than by big reflections upon the moral lessons of Beethoven's works, and how he delivers messages of ethical teaching and of religious love and resignation, etc., etc. All this, as far as there is any ground for such reflections, we can best feel in silence for ourselves, while from their categorical declaration in print we are disposed to shrink, responding in the spirit of Jacques's criticism of the duke's sentimentalities "We think of as many matters as he; but we give God thanks, and make no boast of them." H. HEATHCOTE STATHAM. * One of the most interesting and piquant pieces of contemporary musical criticism is embodied in Mr. Browning's admirable bit of grotesque, "Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha," though many people have probably read it without the least idea that they were going through a dissertation as to the real value and meaning of the fugue form as elaborated by Bach and his school. The reader who knows the meaning will like it none the less; indeed, it may be doubted whether any nonmusical reader would make out what the poet was driving at. girls, and last, but not least, of Miss de Berenger, with her maid. Sarah had been invited to come and help to welcome "Ames," as she always called him. She perceived and mastered the facts of this new situation at once. Mrs. Snaith's cottage was down. There was no cottage empty in the village; there were no lodgings to be had near enough to admit of the children's daily attendance at the rectory to take their lessons. If she let them and their nurse depart, her scheme would all tumble into ruins. Felix would lose a certain small amount of profit that he derived from it, there would be no one to educate Dick, nothing to keep his "grandchildren" in the view or the mind of Sir Samuel, and an interesting mystery, which she herself had brought into notice, might be withdrawn. She walked about the garden nodding at her own thoughts, and saying, Yes," many times. She was excited, but, after a while, her movements became calmer. She resolved on action. "Dear Felix ! Yes; how stupid men are! Better off, he says, than he could have expected - finds his income go further. Why, how should it be otherwise? He receives money, and pays in kind. It's true Bolton pays at less than market price, but Felix has the land for nothing, and does the labor himself, too; So he pays for little but for seed. The same with Ann Thimbleby. She educates Dick, and takes 'green meat' for her young sister instead of much of the coin she would, but for it, get for herself Yes, I'll do it now." Accordingly, with what for her was almost a languid air, she went in-doors, and, in the course of conversation, asked Felix what was the exact income produced by the shares, etc., which had been made over to him. Felix told her. That he was to be joint guardian with her to these children had been gratefully mentioned by Mrs. Snaith herself, and was not a secret. Sarah revolved the sum in her mind as she slowly proceeded down the long passages of the house to an almost empty room, where Mrs. Snaith was sitting at work. To do her justice, she considered that, whatever she proposed, must certainly include a maintenance for the nurse, who, though she had been so very imprudent as very nearly to lose the children's money, had still meant so well by them that she had a full right to remain their attendant. It certainly did occur to her, however, that this was a disadvantage. "She will be a very expensive servant," was her for she has been long independent. But for her undeniable claims, I could make Felix-yes! get a much less expensive person." Mrs. Snaith was counting over and mending some clothes of her own and of the children's, which had fortunately been at the wash when her cottage was burned. This gave Sarah a natural opening for what she wanted to say. She sat down, took up a little frock, and admired it. thought, "and difficult to manage, perhaps, | and Jolliffe would do everything; and instead of the wages and board of that girl, who eats more than anybody in the house, Felix might have that active little washer. woman to come every Saturday as a charwoman and do what scrubbing or cleaning there could be that they objected to. She brings home the clothes on Friday. Yes. Why, Felix would be a great gainer by it. Is there a chance, now, that it might be done? Two such capable women in the house if only they were not jealous of one another! He would save nearly forty pounds a year by that girl's food and wages and breakages; and he'll never know how that's managed, unless I tell him. Such are men!" "Yes! Mrs. Snaith, how nice the little girls always look so neatly and prettily dressed. I like your taste. Do you mind telling me what their clothes cost?" "About thirteen pounds a year each, ma'am. I'm glad you like the looks of them." "And you give twenty for their schooling? "Yes; and the rent was six pounds yearly. I reckoned that very cheap." "I almost wonder how you managed." "Oh, ma'am, very well indeed. I can get them to eat but little meat at present, bless them; so I took care they had plenty of milk and eggs, and those are cheap here." "Then there is your own dress; you always look the picture of neatness." This interest rather flattered the nurse. "Well, ma'am, I got the whole of the eatables paid for, and sometimes a little beer, out of the rest of the income, and I had about twenty pounds left for myself, as I may call it." Sarah was silent; she was cogitating. Mrs. Snaith went on with her confidences. "The washing were the expense I could not stand, so I took it home, and almost always did it; but the last fortnight, thank goodness, I had put it out, because Jolliffe, being unwell, I wished to come and help her up at the rectory. But for that I should have lost all our clothes." "Every word she says makes the matter easier," thought Sarah. "Yes. Twenty-six pounds for the children's dress, twenty pounds for what I'll call her wages, twenty for the schooling, sixty-six. Set aside four for doctors or a visit to the sea - that would leave eighty. Felix could do it—just do it. Thirty for her board, twenty-five for each child. In fact, it would be a profit to him (mem. not to tell him so). Yes; because I shall soon get the girl dismissed. Of course Mrs. Snaith could attend to the children, Dick included do needlework; I know her. She would never sit with her hands before her. She She got up rather abruptly, putting down the pretty little frock with a thoughtful air, and walking away in deep cogitation, her bright red cheeks requiring to be cooled by frequent throwing back of the long curls. Felix was just setting off to hold a service in an outlying part of the parish, where a schoolroom had been licensed for the purpose. Amias was with him. Sarah walked a little way beside them, the better to unfold her plan, in which she did not mention the eventual dismissal of the young servant then in the house, but only explained to Felix that he would lose nothing, and be a gainer, by the excellent services of Mrs. Snaith. "What, come and live here as a servant," exclaimed Felix, "and accept twenty pounds a year! I am sure she would never think of such a thing. Why should she, aunt?" "Why, she gets nothing but board and lodging and twenty pounds a year now," said Sarah. "And independence," observed Felix, his aunt's words impressing him so little that he went on talking to his brother as if she had not interrupted him. Sarah waited for a pause, and then she too went on as if she had not been interrupted. "But that was a very nasty little cottage that she lived in - always smelt of the dry rot. Only think how different it would be to live in a nice rectory house like yours! You might let her have that empty room on the ground floor as a kind of sitting-room for herself; it opens into the kitchen. And there are large rooms up-stairs that you make no use of." "You'd better dismiss it from your mind, aunt," said Felix. "It's no use talking to the old man when he's going to one of his services," said Amias. Felix strode on; Sarah trotted beside | dom that comes with years oppresses him. Amias, meandering now before, now young people. To-morrow's Sunday. Let behind, jerked up a stone into the clear me see.' air, and his aunt thought it came down rather dangerously near to his feet. "Oh yes, dismiss it, of course, Felix! And you, Amias, bring yourself to an untimely end, if you like, before my eyes! Pray don't mind me. Why, how is Ann Thimbleby to be paid, unless these children are here to be taught? and what house is there here now but yours? Yes, you won't get a congregation for your saints' days' service, I can tell you, if you send away Ann Thimbleby and Mrs. Snaith, your best attendants!" Miss de Berenger knew that this last remark would tell. It did. Felix, for a moment, stood stock still. "You'll have to shut up the church pretty often," she continued, "because you know it's not lawful to have a service with out a congregation." "Well?" said Felix, dreamily. "And you don't like that." "What can you be thinking of, Felix? You do not seem to consider the importance of my words." 66 Why, he's thinking,” observed Amias, "that Mrs. Snaith cannot be expected to accept twenty pounds a year, and become a servant, in order that he may have a congregation on saints' days." Here, coming near a stile, by which they had to enter the field they were to cross, Amias measured its height with his eye, took a short run, and sprang over it. "This time last year," he said to Felix, "you shirked that stile." Felix looked at him steadily, then he also took a short run, and cleared it easily. "Before my very eyes!" exclaimed Sarah, "Oh, youth, youth! how thoughtless! Yes." "You'd better dismiss it from your mind, aunt," repeated Felix, turning and regarding her from the other side of the stile. "I cannot think about it till after tomorrow. Perhaps something will turn up." Then the brothers proceeded on their way together, and Sarah, who was arrayed in a salmon-colored gown, returned slowly to the house. "The fact is, a different generation is never to be depended on to understand one," thought Sarah. "I'm sure Felix seems earnest and serious enough as a rule, and then all on a sudden, when you think you've got him, he shows the cloven foot of youth. The experience and wis Sarah proceeded slowly to the house, and entered it by the back way. Jolliffe, in the clean kitchen, was cutting thick bread and butter. "How are you to-day, my good creature?" "Better, ma'am, thank you kindly. Mrs. Snaith has been doing for me right and left." "Ah, what a comfort she is in the house!" "You may say that, ma'am; whereas with a girl you never know where you are. They make more work than they do, and they eat their heads off. I never looked to have to spend my precious strength cutting bread and butter for a servant-girl, but for all that I know better than to let her cut it for herself." "Yes," said Miss de Berenger, who was very friendly with Jolliffe. "I wish there was a chance of your having Mrs. Snaith here always." "Oh, ma'am," answered Jolliffe, "no such luck." So her sentiments were ascertained. Miss de Berenger went again into the room where the nurse was sitting. Her own clock, her chairs and table, her best fender, and two or three other articles that had been saved, were arranged in it. Snaith was darning socks now, and Sarah observed some of Dick's among them. Mrs. "How comfortable you look, Mrs. Snaith, with all your things about you quite at home." "Yes, indeed, ma'am. It were a kindness I never can repay Mr. de Berenger, taking me in till I can look round; it relieved me from so much discomfort." "Nor "I should not at all mind seeing you always here," observed Sarah. would my nephew; but he seems to think you would not like the notion - in fact, he said I had better dismiss it from my mind. And yet, as I said to him, I cannot see where else you can possibly be; for it is not to be thought that, now my nephew has undertaken to be a guardian to the children, he would consent to them being taken quite away." "Ma'am!" exclaimed the nurse, coloring deeply and putting down her work. She looked like a creature which has suddenly found out that it is tethered. The grass close around had proved so abundant and so sweet, that it had not hitherto stepped out far enough to feel the tugging of the string. She took up the sock again and tried to questioning tone made her read the meango on with her work, but her hand trem-ing of these words. She noticed that bled. There were going to be discus- Sarah still stuck to the notion that the sions; they would argue with her, and children were her relations, but her mind question her, even if they did not inter- was too much on the stretch now for such fere. a feeling as surprise. Was there not a course open to her which would provoke no discussion at all, admit of no opposi tion, lead to no questioning? Yes, there was; and yet was it not such a manifestly disadvantageous course for her, that, if she fell into it at once, Jolliffe and all her acquaintances of her own class would wonder at her? Sarah, observing her discomfort, thought what a nervous woman she was. She had not seriously supposed, when she made that last speech, that Mrs. Snaith would consent to her whole plan; her uttermost hope was that, if higher wages were of fered, she might agree to remain for a time, and then, by some further plan for her advantage, be induced to stay on. Sarah had such a just confidence in her own powers of scheming, that she depended on herself to bring a further plan to light when it should be wanted, and her general way of proceeding was to state the matter at its worst, and then, if the conflicting party rejected it, to yield to objections and show advantages. "Yes," she continued, "I had been wondering what you would do." Then she unfolded the plan she had concocted, adding, "Of course, if you lived here, you would not be called a servant; and, as you have told me, you only get board and lodging and about twenty pounds a year as it is. However, my nephew remarked that I had better dismiss it from my mind." Sarah made and propounded many schemes, and had long ago learned to be philosophical as to the utter rejection of some of the best and most impartial, as well as to receive without obvious elation the adoption of some of those most to her own advantage. She propounded, and then observed. Mrs. Snaith, as usual, took refuge in silence, so Sarah presently perceived that there was some hope of her consent. She therefore went on. She looked about her, and felt the truth of what had been said; the accommodation was much better-so much more air and space. She was shrewd enough to notice that it was Miss de Berenger, and not the rector, that had thought of this plan. She observed, with the quickness of one used to money matters in a small way, that though the children would live better than they had done, and only the same sum be spent on their board by her, yet, as an abundance of milk, eggs, and vegetables came from the rectorial cow, poultry-yard, and garden, the rector would be a considerable gainer. He had the land required for this produce free of rent. Now, what was she asked to give up besides her independence? Her heart fluttered, her color changed, her hand trembled, as she thought this over. She was willing to efface herself utterly, if need were, but not to dare discussion. "Ma'am," she said at last, “such a— such a kind offer as this require some time to think over." "Oh, certainly," answered Sarah, greatly surprised, and inclined, by the expression "kind," to believe that the proposition really might be as good a one for Mrs. Snaith as for Felix or, at any rate, that she thought so. "I can stay, and no questions asked," thought the other. "And if I had to leave them if poor Uzziah came out, and there was any fear of his finding me - where could I leave them so safe as they are here, leave the money behind for them as well? Yes, my precious dears, mother'll do this for you too." "This room is very like a nursery. It could be yours if you came. I never liked the miserable little attic no air in it where the darlings slept in that cottage. They could have a room five times as large here, and three times as high. So, of course, they would be better off here; there is no doubt it would be for their advantage to remain. Yes? Well, of course, if that is so, and as you are fond of them, In the rectory house that night, housed you would, I conclude, wish them to stay; in a large, comfortable room, Mrs. Snaith and then you would stay too? You would not like to leave them; you are too fond of them for that? Still, as my nephew said, something might turn up." Mrs. Snaith was not startled by this hint of a possibility that she might leave the children for their own good, for so the lay awake all night considering matters. It was bitter to give up her independence, but there was safety in it. First, because no one belonging to her would believe that she would give it up, and look for her in domestic service. Secondly, because it would mark and make wider the apparent |