oubtlessly true. Whether the absence of the imaginative warmth and
vigor which suffuse a work of art with the glow of something that can
not be fully expressed, and kindle the thoughts of the hearer to take
hitherto unknown flights, is fully compensated for by that repose and
symmetry of style which know exactly what it wishes to express, and,
being perfect master of the means of expression, puts forth an exact
measure of effort and then stops as if shut down by an iron wall--this
is an open question, and must be answered according to one's art
theories. The exquisite modeling of a Benvenuto Cellini vase, wrought
with patient elaboration into a thing of unsurpassable beauty, does not
invoke as high a sense of pleasure as an heroic statue or noble painting
by some great master, but of its kind the pleasure is just as complete.
Apart from Thalberg's power as a player, however, there was something
captivating in the quality of his talent, which, though not creative,
was gifted with the power of seizing the very essence of the music to
be interpreted. A striking example of this is shown in the fantasias he
composed on the different operas, a form of writing which reached its
perfection in him. His own contribution is simply a most delightful
setting of the melodies of his subject, and the whole is steeped in the
very atmosphere and feeling of the original, as if the master himself
had done the work.

A good example is the fantasia on Mozart's "Don Giovanni." The little,
wild, unformed melodies rustle in quick gusts along the keys as if
wavering shadows, yet with all the familiar rhythm and family likeness,
filling the mind of the hearer with the atmosphere and necessity of what
is to follow, while gradually the full harmonies unfold themselves. The
introduction of the minuet is one of the most striking portions. The
scene of the minuet in the opera is a vision of rural loveliness and
repose, whispering of flowers, fields, and happy flying hours. All this
becomes poetized, and the music seems to imply rich reaches of odorous
garden and moonlight, whispering foliage, and nightingales mad with the
delight of their own singing, and a palace on the lawn sounding with
riotous mirth. The player-composer weaves the glamour of such a dream,
and the hearer finds himself strolling in imagination through the
moonlit garden, listening to the birds, the waters, and the rustling
leaves, while the stately beat of the minuet comes throbbing