ss the spontaneous overflow of so rich a genius as
Schubert! And once more, Max Maria von Weber writes that his father's
improvisations on the piano were like delightful dreams. "All who had
the good fortune to hear him," he says, "testify that the impression
of his playing was like an Elysian frenzy, which elevates a man above
his sphere and makes him marvel at the glories of his own soul."

In reading such enthusiastic descriptions--and musical biographies are
full of them--we cannot but echo De Quincey and Wagner in regretting
that there has been no shorthand method of taking down and preserving
these wonderful improvisations of the great masters. Future
generations will be more favored, if Mr. Edison's improved phonograph
fulfils the promises made of it. For by simply placing one of these
instruments near the piano it will be possible hereafter to preserve
every note and every accent and shade of expression, and reproduce it
subsequently at will. And not only will momentary inspirations be thus
preserved, but musicians will no longer be compelled to do all the
manual labor of writing down their compositions, but will be able to
follow the example of those German professors, who when they wish to
write a book, simply engage a stenographer to take down their
lectures, which they then revise and forward to the publisher. True,
the orchestration will always have to be done by the master's own
hands, but in other respects musicians of the future will be as
greatly benefited as men of letters by the new phonograph which, it is
predicted, will create as great a revolution in social affairs as the
telegraph and railroad did when first introduced.

The charm of improvisation lies, of course, in this, that we hear a
composer creating and playing at the same time. This very fact,
however, ought to make us cautious not to overestimate the value of
such improvisations. For we all know how a great genius can invest
even a commonplace idea with charm by his manner of expressing or
rendering it. It is probable, therefore, that in most cases these
improvisations, if noted down and played by _others_, would not make
as deep an impression as the regularly written compositions of the
great masters. It is with music as with literature. Schopenhauer says
that there are three classes of writers: The first class, which is
very numerous, never think at all, but simply reproduce echoes of what
they have read in books. The second class, some