frightened kicking rabbit. One had no sense the clarinet of Mr Sem Bellison could hold as many different sorts of ravishing toots and quirks. Forgotten entirely was the bore of the single unsupported instrument. It might have been a small orchestra playing.
Nevertheless, the concert brought one the picture of a vessel which, intended for long courses and bulky cargoes, had been boarded by a party of landlubbers turned seamen, and was being driven about headlessly backward and forward over the ocean. The Bloch music and the Strawinsky by their quality served merely to aggravate the sense of an impulse compromised. For everything else which took place was off; and off not as events flowing from misjudgement or misfortune are, but as those which come from the admixture of an interest alien to the purpose in hand. One song with chamber orchestra would have given all one needed to know of Mr Arthur Bliss, for there are situations where 'tis folly to be wise; besides, Madam Noy had been chanted two years ago at the concerts of the International Composers' Guild, and nothing about the piece suggested that it ought to be given preference over other ballads by other living persons. But there had to be not only Madam Noy, but The Women of Yueh and Rout as well; and the general effect of the works was enhanced by the manners of Mr Bliss upon the platform before his little band, and by the externality of the soloist, Miss Lillian Gustavson. But if the mills of the gods ground slowly that night, they ground with their usual exquisiteness. The League had given Mr Bliss a mile; and Mr Bliss, to exhibit his appreciativeness, took two. Mr Bauer had demanded permission of the directors to repeat at the conclusion of the programme the quintette for the benefit of those who wished to familiarize themselves with the giant work, and had been refused with the excuse of want of space. But suddenly, at the conclusion of the performance of Rout, and after some perfunctory applause, to the surprise of the directors far more than of the audience, Mr Bliss reappeared on the platform with the soloist and orchestra, and commenced going through Rout again. After that, the evening was permitted to end as best it could. The last number was a vapid Divertissement for Piano and Wood-Wind by Albert Roussel; another step was taken backward, and another shovelful of heaviness thrown on the hearers. But had
