their way beautiful; in form both symphony and suite are nearly as clear as anything Tschaikowsky wrote:  in fact, each work is a masterwork.  But each is lacking in the human element, and without the human element no piece of music can be popular for long.  The fame of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, is still growing and will continue to grow, because every time we hear their music it touches us; while Weber, mighty though he is, will probably never be better loved than he is to-day, because his marvellously graphic picturesque music does not touch us—­cannot, was not intended to, touch us; and the fame of Mendelssohn and the host of lesser men who did not speak with a human accent of human woe and weal wanes from day to day.  The composer who writes purely decorative music, or purely picturesque music, may be remembered as long as he who expresses human feeling; but he cannot hope to be loved by so many.  It is because Tschaikowsky has so successfully put his own native emotions, his own aspirations and hopes and fears and sorrows, into the “Pathetic,” that I believe it has come to stay with us, while many of his other works will fade from the common remembrance.  Surely it is one of the most mournful things in music; yet surely sadness was never uttered with a finer grace, with a more winning carelessness, as one who tries to smile gaily at his own griefs.  Were it touched with the finest tenderness, as Mozart might have touched it, we might—­if we could once get thoroughly accustomed to a few of the unintentionally humorous passages I have referred to—­have it set by the side of the G minor and “Jupiter” symphonies.  As it is, it unmistakably falls short of Mozart by lacking that tenderness, just as it falls short of Beethoven by lacking profundity of emotion and thought; but it does not always fall so far short.  There are passages in it that neither Beethoven nor Mozart need have been ashamed to own as theirs; and especially there is much in it that is in the very spirit of Mozart—­Mozart as we find him in the Requiem, rather than the Mozart of “Don Giovanni” or the “Figaro.”  The opening bars are, of course, ultramodern:  they would never have been written had not Wagner written something like them first; but the combination of poignancy and lightness and poise with which the same phrase is delivered and expanded as the theme for the allegro is quite Mozartean, and the same may be said of the semiquaver passage following it.  The outbursts of Slavonic fire are, of course, Tschaikowsky pure and simple; but everyone who hears the symphony may note how the curious union of barbarism with modern culture is manifest in the ease with which Tschaikowsky recovers himself after one of these outbursts—­turns it aside, so to speak, instead of giving it free play after the favourite plan both of Borodine the great and purely Russian composer, and Dvorak the little Hungarian composer.  The second theme does not appear to me equal to the rest of the symphony.