If the matter, in Dvorak’s symphony, is of American negro-song, the manner is Bohemian.  A stranger-poet may light more clearly upon the traits of a foreign lore.  But his celebration will be more conscious if he endeavor to cling throughout to the special dialect.  A true national expression will come from the particular soil and will be unconscious of its own idiom.

The permanent hold that Dvorak’s symphony has gained is due to an intrinsic merit of art and sincere sentiment; it has little to do with the nominal title or purpose.

CHAPTER XIV

THE EARLIER BRUCKNER[A]

[Footnote A:  Anton Bruckner, born at Annsfelden, Austria, 1828; died in Vienna in 1896.]

Whatever be the final answer of the mooted question of the greatness of Bruckner’s symphonies, there is no doubt that he had his full share of technical profundity, and a striking mastery of the melodious weaving of a maze of concordant strains.  The question inevitably arises with Bruckner as to the value of the world’s judgments on its contemporary poets.  There can be no doubt that the furore of the musical public tends to settle on one or two favorites with a concentration of praise that ignores the work of others, though it be of a finer grain.  Thus Schubert’s greatest—­his one completed—­symphony was never acclaimed until ten years after his death.  Even his songs somehow brought more glory to the singer than to the composer.  Bach’s oratorios lay buried for a full century.  On the other hand, names great in their day are utterly lost from the horizon.  It is hard to conceive the eclat of a Buononcini or a Monteverde,—­whose works were once preeminent.  There are elements in art, of special, sensational effect, that make a peculiar appeal in their time, and are incompatible with true and permanent greatness.  One is tempted to say, the more sudden and vehement the success, the less it will endure.  But it would not be true.  Such an axiom would condemn an opera like “Don Giovanni,” an oratorio like the “Creation,” a symphony like Beethoven’s Seventh.  There is a wonderful difference, an immeasurable gulf between the good and the bad in art; yet the apparent line is of the subtlest.  Most street songs may be poor; but some are undoubtedly beautiful in a very high sense.  It is a problem of mystic fascination, this question of the value of contemporary art.  It makes its appeal to the subjective view of each listener.  No rule applies.  Every one will perceive in proportion to his capacity, no one beyond it.  So, a profound work may easily fail of response, as many works in the various arts have done in the past, because the average calibre of the audience is too shallow, while it may deeply stir an intelligent few.  Not the least strange part of it all is the fact that there can, of necessity, be no decision in the lifetime of the poet.  Whether it is possible for obscure Miltons never to find their meed of acclaim, is a question that we should all prefer to answer in the negative.  There is a certain shudder in thinking of such a chance; it seems a little akin to the danger of being buried alive.