He is filled to the throttle
with strange and unnational heresies. He ranks Beethoven miles above the
native gods, and not only Beethoven, but also Bach and Brahms, and not
only Bach and Brahms, but also Berlioz, Bizet, Bruch and Buelow and
perhaps even Balakirew, Bellini, Balfe, Borodin and Boieldieu. He
regards Budapest as a more civilized city than his native Philadelphia,
Stendhal as a greater literary artist than Washington Irving, "Kuenstler
Leben" as better music than "There is Sunlight in My Soul." Irish? I
still doubt it, despite the _Stammbaum_. Who ever heard of an Irish
epicure, an Irish _flaneur_, or, for that matter, an Irish
contrapuntist? The arts of the voluptuous category are unknown west of
Cherbourg; one leaves them behind with the French pilot. Even the
Czech-Irish hypothesis (or is it Magyar-Irish?) has a smell of the
lamp. Perhaps it should be Irish-Czech....
Sec. 7
There remain the books of stories, "Visionaries" and "Melomaniacs." It
is not surprising to hear that both are better liked in France and
Germany than in England and the United States.
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