s us in the completest of objectivity. We are touched and moved not
at all by it. Something, we vaguely perceive, is supposed to be taking
place beneath our eyes. Faint frosty lights pass across the orchestra.
This, we guess, is supposed to be an inward and musing passage. This is
a finale, this a dramatic climax. But we are no more than languidly
pleased with the cleverness and urbanity of the orchestration, the
pleasant shapeliness of certain melodies, the neatness of composition.
In the end, the man bores us thoroughly. He has invented a new musical
ennui. It is that of being invariably pretty and impersonal and
insignificant.

Do you know the "Phaeton" of Saint-Saens? Oh, never think that this
little symphonic poem recounts the history of brilliant youth and its
sun-chariot, the runaway steeds and the bleeding shattered frame! The
"Phaeton" of whom Saint-Saens sings is not the arrogant son of
Phoebus. Whatever the composer may protest, it is the low,
open-wheeled carriage that he is describing. He shows it to us coursing
through the Bois de Boulogne on a bright spring morning. The new varnish
of the charming vehicle gleams smartly, the light, rubber-tired wheels
revolve swiftly, the silver-shod harnesses glisten in the sunny air.
But, alas, the ponies are frightened by something, doubtlessly the red
dress of a singer of the Opera Comique. There is a runaway, and before
the steeds can be reined the phaeton is upset. No one is hurt, and in a
few minutes the equipage is restored. Nevertheless, the composer cannot
control in himself a few sighs for the new coat of varnish now so rudely
scratched.

Franck was of another temper. The impulse that drove him to make music
was not so weak and pliable. It could not be barbered and dapperly
dressed and taught to conduct a clouded cane elegantly in the _rue de
la Paix_ or the _allee des Acacias_. It was too hot and wild and shy a
thing, too passionately set in its course, too homesick for the white
fulgurant heights of Heaven to negate itself at the behest of French
society and conform to what the academicians declared to be "la vielle
tradition francaise." Franck was too much an artist in the spirit of La
Fontaine and Germaine Pillon and Poussin and the others who formed that
tradition, and who would be assailed in its name fiercely were they to
reappear to-day. Moreover, he was of the race of musicians who come to
make music largely to free themselves of besetting demons, of