Our time of progress is often specially designated a critical and even hypercritical period. But whilst so much deep thought and true feeling have flowed from the pens of profound thinkers in every direction, it has occurred to no one to attack a barbarous remnant of bygone times in music. The idea might have appalled one less deeply convinced than myself. But one must have courage to enter the lists for what one has well weighed and found to be true. I propose to deal here with no less a matter than the entire abolition of all part-repetition in music—e.g., in symphonies, sonatas, quartets, &c. Can there be anything more inconsistent than these stereotyped repetitions? The artist creates a work from his innermost soul, and places it before us in its entirety so that we might behold the same mirage which enchanted his mind, and follow him with the unabated energy of all our mental faculties. He receives us, as it were, upon his Mephistophelian mantle, and carries us in a trice across giddy heights and rugged rocks, over charming valleys, purling brooks, and roaring torrents. He transports us to the pinnacle of joy, and anon dashes into the abyss of sorrow, thrilling us with the ever-changing kaleidoscope of human emotions. Happy is he whose receptive powers can arouse that sympathy which warms into enthusiasm for the master's vision of the ideal. He approaches nearest to the creating genius.