t be called poetry, and regard it
only as affording suggestions and occasions for the music.

Modern music was presented under these conditions until about half a
century ago, when beauty of form and emotional expression began to be
disregarded in favor of finish and brilliancy of execution. This was
brought about in a great measure by the mechanical improvement of the
pianoforte and the extension of its scale. This improvement and
extension were made, it is true, in part to meet the demands of
performers; but on the other hand, they made performance possible. I
believe that there has been no more pernicious influence upon music
than the transformation which the piano-forte has undergone since
Beethoven's time, and its diffusion over all the world. I do not refer
to the cruelties which it is daily the means of inflicting upon
inoffensive families and true lovers of music, but to the effect that
it has had upon composition and upon performance. The former it has
helped to be at once flashy, dull, intricate, and shallow; the latter
it has led to be astonishing. Brilliancy, a crowd of notes, sonority,
all without beauty of form or emotional suggestiveness--this is the
music which the modern grand piano-forte has brought upon us. Not only
piano-forte music, but in a measure all music, has become a brilliant
fantasia by Signor Rumblestominski. We do not sit in passive silence to
listen to it; we talk, or are tempted to talk, against it; and the
praise we give it is not a look of serene joy, with that tinge of
sadness which Shakespeare had in mind when he made Jessica say, "I'm
never merry when I hear sweet music," but a clapping of the hands and
congratulation upon a brilliant triumph. And then we turn aside and go
on again with our society gabble. Orchestral leaders and performers are
not content unless they have a very full score to "interpret." They
must have a big brilliant noise. The pitch has been raised until
singers shriek, in order that the tone of the instruments may be
brilliant. Our ears must be shot through and through with piercing
shafts of sound. The time is quickened until _allegro_ has become
_presto_, and _presto_ a maddened, indistinguishable rush. Even
Theodore Thomas loses some of the majesty of the final movement of the
"Fifth Symphony" by too quick a movement; and in the Trio of the
Scherzo he drives the basses into a headlong scramble up and down the
scale. When the clear succession of notes becomes