ts as a whole, it deserved better fortune. It
is enough to dishearten a composer when he finds his best work
comparatively unappreciated, and it is hardly surprising if it was in
consequence of disgust and disappointment that Sullivan turned his
thoughts to lighter things. By doing so he has filled his purse, he has
delighted a large public that cannot appreciate serious music, and he
has raised comic opera to a level far above the thin and trivial
emanations of foreign "opera bouffists."

When some of us recall past Birmingham Musical Festivals, and scan the
schemes of bygone years, we cannot fail to be struck by the change that
has taken place in musical taste and fashion. Especially do we note this
in looking at the programmes of the festival evening concerts. In these
programmes quantity as well as quality was an element not forgotten in
the consideration and arrangement of the miscellaneous selections.

Twenty or thirty years ago we used to have--in addition to some one or
more important works--a long string of scraps and snatches, chiefly from
well-known operas, which protracted the concerts to a late hour. The
liberal introduction of these excerpts was attractive to a large section
of the public who did not care for fine works of musical art or "too
much fiddling." Moreover, it was in accordance with the taste and
proclivities of the conductor, who gave, perhaps, an inkling of his real
mind in a jocular remark made under the following circumstances.

It used to be the custom, after the morning performances, to ask the
band and principal singers to stay and run through some of the operatic
selections, &c., to be given in the evening. On one of these occasions,
after a morning performance of "The Messiah," Costa quietly and
cynically remarked, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us have a little
music."

To come now to speak of more personal associations with the Birmingham
Musical Festivals, it was in the year 1873 that I experienced the novel
sensation of standing at the conductor's desk. A trio of my
composition--a setting of Tennyson's "Break, break,"--was included in
the programme of one of the evening concerts, and I had to conduct its
performance. I tell you, my reader, it was a trying ordeal, and I hardly
know how I got through it, but I did in some sort of fashion. Costa, I
may explain, made it a rigid rule never to conduct a living composer's
music; consequently, he would have nothing to do with the perfor