predilections; he proceeded to attack the European fame of Rossini,
disputing the position which the Italian school has taken by storm,
night after night for more than thirty years, on a hundred stages in
Europe. He had undertaken a hard task. The first words he spoke raised
a strong murmur of disapproval; but neither the repeated
interruptions, nor exclamations, nor frowns, nor contemptuous looks,
could check this determined advocate of Beethoven.

"Compare," said he, "that sublime composer's works with what by common
consent is called Italian music. What feebleness of ideas, what
limpness of style! That monotony of form, those commonplace cadenzas,
those endless bravura passages introduced at haphazard irrespective of
the dramatic situation, that recurrent _crescendo_ that Rossini
brought into vogue, are now an integral part of every composition;
those vocal fireworks result in a sort of babbling, chattering,
vaporous mucic, of which the sole merit depends on the greater or less
fluency of the singer and his rapidity of vocalization.

"The Italian school has lost sight of the high mission of art. Instead
of elevating the crowd, it has condescended to the crowd; it has won
its success only by accepting the suffrages of all comers, and
appealing to the vulgar minds which constitute the majority. Such a
success is mere street juggling.

"In short, the compositions of Rossini, in whom this music is
personified, with those of the writers who are more or less of his
school, to me seem worthy at best to collect a crowd in the street
round a grinding organ, as an accompaniment to the capers of a puppet
show. I even prefer French music, and I can say no more. Long live
German music!" cried he, "when it is tuneful," he added to a low