It is difficult to imagine a "criticism" so devoid of critical acumen. I have often wondered whether Member Grew uses the writings of George Bernard Shaw as a template for his own literary style. If so, he could hardly do better, and GBS surely shows how musical criticism - when truly great - can accomplish  wonders, even to the extent that an event being criticised was one from which the actual critic was himself absent! As an example, here is a short critique of a concert held on 21st April 1877:


On Saturday, the 21st, the afternoon concert at the Crystal Palace was conducted by Herr Rubinstein, and the program consisted entirely of his works. For a reason which we will presently state, we shrink from the task of presenting a criticism of this remarkable performance. Greater pens than we can hope to wield have already told the world of the great pianist seizing his hearers by the ears with the wings of golden fire. Highly popular essayists have circulated columns of exalted and original imagery, wherein we find Beethoven turning in his grave and gazing at the score of the Ocean symphony with admiring despair. Rubinstein is the Jupiter, the Cyclops, and the what other potent personality you will, of the pianoforte. One enthusiast, having apparently rushed straight from the exciting pages of Les Trois Mousquetaires into musical criticism, calls his idol "the d'Artagnon" of the instrument.

In short, after the approved fashion of modern Germany, our public prints have been pouring forth columns of such nauseous eulogy, not to say ignorant nonsense, on the works and performances of Herr Anton Rubinstein that, if Beethoven were not, fortunately for himself, beyond the reach of all journalism, whether penny daily or sixpence weekly, it is not impossible that he would, indeed, turn in his grave with a characteristic grunt of disgust. For ourselves, we would out-Herod Herod in wild applause of the genius displayed by the great virtuoso at his concert, only - we wernt at it."

Baz