one more proof of our unhealthy, stupid, and unmusical infancy in piano
performances. A good-natured public, drummed up and brought together by
patient persuasion and by urgent recommendations, of which _virtuosos_
can obtain an abundance (for the tormented cities which they have
visited cannot otherwise get rid of them), attend these concerts and
listen to dozens of such inexperienced piano-players. One plays exactly
like another, with more or less faulty mechanical execution; and none of
them are able, with all their thumping and caressing of the keys, to
bring out from the instrument a broad, healthy, full, and beautiful
tone, delicately shaded and distinct even to the softest _pp._ But,
instead of this, they fall into a pedal sentiment; _i.e._, they play
with outside pretension, and with intrinsic emptiness.

You unworthy performers, who have so disgusted the artistic public with
piano-playing that they will no longer listen to fine, intelligent,
sensible artists, whose dignity does not permit them to force
themselves into the concert-hall, or to drag people into it from the
streets! you base mortals, who have exposed this beautiful art to shame!
I implore you to abandon the concert platform, your battle-field! Hack
at the piano no longer! Find positions on a railroad or in a factory.
There you may perhaps make yourselves useful; while by the lessons you
give (for it usually comes to that, after you have travelled all over
the world) you will only ruin our young people, now growing up with
promising talent for piano-playing, and will produce successors like
yourselves, but not artists.

I must whisper one thing more in your ear. I will say nothing about
simple truthfulness, about tenderness and sincerity of feeling, or
wholesome refinement, about poetry, inspiration, or truly impassioned
playing. But, if your ears are not already too much blunted, you should