I heard Madame Schumann yesterday play unsurpassably, Nos. 2, 5, 4 and 8 of her husband's Kreisleriana. The Concert Room was thronged to the roof, and contained Royalty in the front row. She is in great form, quite recovered apparently. It is a thing altogether unparalleled in its way to hear her play his things. It is quite as if he were in the midst of us (as doubtless he is). When one thinks of all their story, and looks at her, surviving still to interpret him to us, there is a something quite sui generis about it all.