connoisseurs before or since, they considered it all the more learned
and profound. So led, the general public clapped their hands, and agreed
to consider Gluck as a great composer. He was called the Hercules of
music; the opera-house was crammed night after night; his footsteps
were dogged in the streets by admiring enthusiasts; the wits and poets
occupied themselves with composing sonnets in his praise; brilliant
courtiers and fine ladies showered valuable gifts on the new musical
oracle; he was hailed as the exponent of Rousseauism in music. We read
that it was considered to be a priceless privilege to be admitted to
the rehearsal of a new opera, to see Gluck conduct in nightcap and
dressing-gown.

Fresh adaptations of "Orpheus and Eurydice" and of "Alceste" were
produced. The first, brought out in 1784, was received with an
enthusiasm which could be contented only with forty-nine consecutive
performances. The second act of this work has been called one of the
most astonishing productions of the human mind. The public began to show
signs of fickleness, however, on the production of the "Alceste." On the
first night a murmur arose among the spectators: "The piece has fallen."
Abbé Arnaud, Gluck's devoted defender, arose in his box and replied:
"Yes! fallen from heaven." While Mademoiselle Levasseur was singing one
of the great airs, a voice was heard to say, "Ah! you tear out my ears;"
to which the caustic rejoinder was: "How fortunate, if it is to give
you others!"

Gluck himself was badly bitten, in spite of his hatred of shams and
shallowness, with the pretenses of the time, which professed to dote on
nature and simplicity. In a letter to his old pupil, Marie Antoinette,
wherein he disclaims any pretension of teaching the French a new school
of music, he says: "I see with satisfaction that the language of Nature