This is always a weary one to write—having in its very nature something of parting—something testamentary—something, whatever the task may have been, that includes pain, beyond such relief as belongs to a labour completed.

I close this book of sketches with mingled feelings.—If it have been welcome to recall various emotions due to a favourite art and pursuit during the course of many years,—to pay tribute to what has seemed to me universally beautiful, and thoughtful, and true,—it has been impossible the while not to be saddened while noting my recollections.—How few are left of the great composers and their interpreters who carried away lovers of Music into the faery-land for which they sought!—How many are gone of the playmates whose pleasure in their enchantments added the encouragement of sympathy to my own pleasures!

I cannot conceal from myself, that whatsoever may have been the gain, in technical performance, won by England, during the last thirty years, the losses to the great world of art (which is of no country), have been greater.—There are no signs on the horizon of great singers—very few of real composers, in the domain to which I have restricted the remembrances here thrown together.

But, in truth, whether the field be Oratorio, Symphony, or chamber-music, the same tale has to be told.—There appears to be little youth of heart, and as little truth of fancy among those who aspire for first honours.