just impression of the combined effect and assign the work its right place.
Here is one striking point. It is, if not true, at any rate plausible and specious to say that Meyerbeer is a great musician. And yet his name does not suggest to the imagination the points of a really distinct musical personality. When we speak of Rameau or Glück or Mozart, or again (I purposely add to these great names some lesser ones) of Berlioz, Bizet, Gounod, Massenet, we have present in our mind the vision, either sublime or at least attractive, of a certain original creation with which they have enriched the world of art, of some form of expression which they have contributed, something coming from them which did not exist before them, which would not have existed without them. In the same way we cannot read four lines of Racine or of La Fontaine, or even of Voltaire, without being conscious that, mysteriously blended with the classic generality of the form, there exists a touch, an imprint that belongs only to these poets. It is the imprint, the aroma of individuality; and from that comes the affection, which combines in us with admiration, for artists of real genius and real grace—a softer and perhaps a truer emotion than mere admiration.
There is nothing of this sort about Meyerbeer. Show me if you can the passage where you find his special touch, the unique sound of his voice, his original accent, the inimitable inflexions of his sensibility. With him they do not exist, Among the pleasures which some minds find in him affection cannot be reckoned one.
What is consistently lacking in Meyerbeer's music is the freshness of nature and sincerity. I have already said so incidentally, and I now make it the dominant
