245.  The “good old” time is past, it sang itself out in Mozart—­ how happy are we that his rococo still speaks to us, that his “good company,” his tender enthusiasm, his childish delight in the Chinese and its flourishes, his courtesy of heart, his longing for the elegant, the amorous, the tripping, the tearful, and his belief in the South, can still appeal to something left in us!  Ah, some time or other it will be over with it!—­but who can doubt that it will be over still sooner with the intelligence and taste for Beethoven!  For he was only the last echo of a break and transition in style, and not, like Mozart, the last echo of a great European taste which had existed for centuries.  Beethoven is the intermediate event between an old mellow soul that is constantly breaking down, and a future over-young soul that is always coming; there is spread over his music the twilight of eternal loss and eternal extravagant hope,—­the same light in which Europe was bathed when it dreamed with Rousseau, when it danced round the Tree of Liberty of the Revolution, and finally almost fell down in adoration before Napoleon.  But how rapidly does this very sentiment now pale, how difficult nowadays is even the apprehension of this sentiment, how strangely does the language of Rousseau, Schiller, Shelley, and Byron sound to our ear, in whom collectively the same fate of Europe was able to speak, which knew how to sing in Beethoven!—­Whatever German music came afterwards, belongs to Romanticism, that is to say, to a movement which, historically considered, was still shorter, more fleeting, and more superficial than that great interlude, the transition of Europe from Rousseau to Napoleon, and to the rise of democracy.  Weber—­but what do we care nowadays for “Freischutz” and “Oberon”!  Or Marschner’s “Hans Heiling” and “Vampyre”!  Or even Wagner’s “Tannhauser”!  That is extinct, although not yet forgotten music.  This whole music of Romanticism, besides, was not noble enough, was not musical enough, to maintain its position anywhere but in the theatre and before the masses; from the beginning it was second-rate music, which was little thought of by genuine musicians.  It was different with Felix Mendelssohn, that halcyon master, who, on account of his lighter, purer, happier soul, quickly acquired admiration, and was equally quickly forgotten:  as the beautiful episode of German music.  But with regard to Robert Schumann, who took things seriously, and has been taken seriously from the first—­he was the last that founded a school,—­do we not now regard it as a satisfaction, a relief, a deliverance, that this very Romanticism of Schumann’s has been surmounted?  Schumann, fleeing into the “Saxon Switzerland” of his soul, with a half Werther-like, half Jean-Paul-like nature (assuredly not like Beethoven! assuredly not like Byron!)—­his Manfred music is a mistake and a misunderstanding to the extent