England's traditions), he had found that
for every work of art which is to last there
must be a basis, not dependent on humour, not
dependent on fashion, but on truth, which shall
endure till art shall be no more. Thus much
for England—while it may be remarked, that
in all this body of grand music we find only one
slight trace of German humour, and this where
Gluck's idolaters, who have been used chiefly
to consider him as a master of dramatic
declamation, will be the least prepared to receive
it—in his treatment of the orchestra. Different
from that of Bach—different from that
of Haydn—unobtrusive, timid, it may be said,
as compared with the violent delights of modern
times—care and originality are still to be
recognised, which remove Gluck's five great
operas from close kindred with the slight Italian
productions fabricated for singers, written about
the same time, "the place of which knoweth
them no more." Great as is the effect produced
by grouping the instruments of the full
band, which we owe to Mozart, as having
perfected Haydn's inventions, the contrast of a
solitary tone, again and again presented in
Gluck's accompaniments, is as remarkable and
as eminently worthy of study as any of the
experiments of Bach, or the felicitous
combinations of the composer of "Don Giovanni."

A word more is to be said concerning the
man. Those who have clung to the precepts
laid down in his famous preface to "Alceste,"
setting forth how Gluck bent himself to fight to
the death against the absurdities of singers'
music, with its concessions to the vanity of the
interpreter, and against the ignorance of the
audience who would have their ears tickled by
irrational repetitions of a flattering phrase
(whether pertinent or senseless, what mattered
it?), have failed to remember that Gluck
conceded just as largely as every one of those
whom he attacked—more largely than some
among them. To give an instance—the bravura
at the end of the first act of his "Orfeo," a piece
of singers' effect, does not belong to Gluck, but
was written by Bertoni (one of "those Italians")
for Guadagni, the original Orfeo, nevertheless it
was adopted by Gluck, when the opera was
presented in Paris, for the display of M. Legros, the
then hero. So, too, in "Alceste," the air for Hercules
was patched in by Gossec, and lazily adopted
by Gluck. And in this very "Alceste," as elsewhere,
it may be seen that Gluck could and did
return (da capo) to his first phrase on the words
of the situation! How long will artists profess
to be ashamed of what they connive at, and,
in poor pretext at originality, preach doctrines
which they themselves forget, for ever and ever,
when it is convenient? "My dear sir," said
Horace Walpole to Hogarth, when he began to
talk of his system, "you grow wild. I take my
leave of you." The composers could be named
by scores who have cited this "Alceste" preface
as containing the doom of form, regularity,
and melody, thus reducing vocal music to a
mere noted declamation of the words; forgetting
how entirely different were theory and practice in
the case of the writer. There can be no doubt
that Gluck's reputation has suffered by it,
especially in this country, where a perpetual
comparison is made betwixt him and Mozart,
one of England's chiefest musical idols.

And did not idolatry breed uncharitable and
narrow bigotry, every one would gladly contribute
his quota of sympathy to the apotheosis
of the composer in whose works the balance
of perfect form and beauty is more uniformly
maintained than in those of any other musician.
To say a word which may seem like the mildest
qualification of enthusiasm on the subject of
Mozart is to risk bitter contempt and reproof.
A remark or two must nevertheless be made
in reference to the subject in hand; the
forms and peculiarities of German opera.
Towards establishing these, the fascinating
composer did less than he has the reputation of
having done. No artist so eclectic as Mozart
had ever so strong a manner of his own. The
extent of his obligations to his predecessors
and contemporaries has never been fully
admitted; perhaps because everything that he
borrowed and appropriated underwent a process
of transmutation which amounted to a change of
identity. There was no great master unknown to
him—none to whom he was not indebted. To
Bach, as may be seen in the duet of armed men in
the "Zauberflöte;" to Handel, whose "Messiah,"
as retouched by him, affords one of the most
felicitous examples of taste, reverence, and
science in existence; to Haydn in his symphonic
forms; to Gluck in his effects—as for instance
the supernatural blasts accompanying the speech
of the statue in the cemetery, which were clearly
anticipated in the oracle scene in "Alceste."
Yet this was consistent with a fertility as
distinguished from variety of invention, with a
grasp of science eminently singular in one so
much of whose life was passed in careless
gaiety. Probably so perfect a musical
organisation was never given to human being.
Mozart had memory, he had executive facility,
he had creative power, at a moment's command,
being foremost in the exercise of an art
now all but lost, that of improvisation. He
had that exquisite refinement which gives the
highest finish to the work, whatever it be,
without overloading or enfeebling the same.
One cannot call to mind a vulgar bar from his
pen, and few ugly ones—the much-discussed
opening of his sixth-stringed quartet dedicated
to Haydn, excepted. He had force at his
command, too, whenever he cared to put it forth.
The most evenly composed throughout of any
opera in the world is the "Figaro," the first
finale of which as a piece of construction,
with melody pervading every note of it, is
unparagoned. Yet, is it possible to hear
"Figaro," in these days, without a feeling of
satiety; as if we had been steeped in sentimental
emotion, where mirth and irony were wanted?
That which has been said of Figaro's great
soliloquy in the play, that it had a deep political
under meaning, will not avail us here. It was
not a serious love-tale which Mozart set himself