upposed that it would produce such an effect,
even if it were sung by a seraph?

It was not, however, until the first quarter of the last century that
what is in a large sense the modern school of music came to full
growth. Then appeared Bach and Handel. They came suddenly; as suddenly
as Marlow and Shakespeare into the field of dramatic poetry, as
suddenly as Raphael and Titian into that of painting. Not indeed
without roots in the past and a growth from them, but with a
marvellously quick and strong development, and an unfolding of flower
and fruit that seemed as if it were--as indeed it was--the blooming of
a century plant. And as is ever the case in art, the utmost limit of
attainment seems to have been reached at the first bound. What was
dramatic poetry before the half century which began with Marlow and
Shakespeare? What was painting before the like period of its glory? And
what have either been since? This position may be claimed for Handel,
with the fullest recognition of the genius of Mozart (Haydn, great,
enchanting, truly inspired as he was, is yet out of the question), and
even of the almost awful genius of Beethoven. But when we remember that
the Hallelujah Chorus, _Lascia chio pianza_, the renowned _Largo_ in G
so grandly performed by Mr. Thomas's orchestra at his last subscription
concert, are from the same hand, and that these are only examples
(which I cite because they are so well known) of a creative power which
seems to have been equally great and various in its manifestations--when
we take into consideration the healthiness, the virility of Handel's
tone of thought, there being, I believe, in all his known works, not a
single passage marked by morbid feeling or even exaggerated sentiment,
although of intensest feeling there is overpowering expression, as for
example in the _Largo_ just referred to, and when we give due weight to
the copiousness of his production, he being the most voluminous of all
the great composers, if we measure his works by their quantity and not
by their numbers, in which an oratorio or an opera would count only one,
we can hardly hesitate, except in favor of Beethoven, in reckoning him
as the greatest creative mind in music. And as to Beethoven, deeply as
he sunk his shaft into the profound of human emotion, mightily as he
moves us, deftly as he expresses even the lighter moods of feeling
(rarely, however, without some passing touch which, if pushed a little
further, might b