If the true advance of the spirit of music in England correlate with the energy that is displayed in this particular direction, one can only be thankful for the evidence it presents, even though incidents in connection with it may justly give occasional cause for uneasiness.
But that there are other and striking indications that afford indubitable proof of increasing interest on the part of the public in everything to do with music in England, the public press of the country conclusively proves.
It may be safely said that where, thirty years ago, one short paragraph dealing with the subject was thought sufficient to meet all requirements, the leading journals of to-day devote two or three whole columns to satisfy the demands of their readers.
In this connection, the subject of musical criticism naturally obtrudes itself, and it may at once be said that one of the most satisfactory features in modern musical life is its general fairness, and the entire absence of savagery that was so prominent a feature in it in days of not long ago.
To read the effusions of so fine an old musician and writer as J. W. Davidson, simply makes one feel stupefied. Wagner was to him as nothing but typical of the Evil One. Chopin was nearly as bad, and the language he used concerning them both is calculated to make one's hair stand on end.
Those were days when the old order was just beginning to give place to the new, and the critics of the old school fought for their principles with a tenacity, and even ferocity, that can only excite admiration, if tempered with surprise, in these times of laxity of purpose.
But, after all, they were genial souls at heart, and the words written to-day were, evidently, expected to be forgotten to-morrow.
For example: many years ago, when quite a boy, I had the pleasure to spend an evening in the company of one of them, then an old man. He was pleasant, communicative and evidently fond of indulging in reminiscences. In the
course of the conversation, I said, "I can never understand what caused you to write so virulently about ——" He interrupted me with "Did I? I don't remember." This was staggering, since I had often been told of the sensation his articles caused at the time. It irresistibly brought back to my mind, and I recall it with all reverence, that wonderful sketch by Anatole France, of Pontius Pilate, in his old age at Baiæ: "Jésus?... Jésus de Nazareth?... Je ne rappelle pas." They were days of hard striking, with the confident expectation of receiving a like return.