True and magical thoughts from the 19th century

I so loved this passage I came upon from the autobiography of a musician, George F.Root.

His words ring so truly in contrast to the arm slapping style in which Indians describe their classical music, as greater than the greatest. It is undoubtedly great, that is not what I dispute. Just read his theory. I agree

How true it is that to every music lover and learner 
there is a grade of music in which he lives, so to speak — 
where he feels most at home and enjoys himself best. When 
he hears or studies music that is above that grade, if he is 
sensible he simply says : " That is above me; I am not there 
yet." If he is not sensible, he is liable to say : " There's no 
music in that." The conversation of two gentlemen at one 
of our recent Thomas concerts is a good illustration of that 
condition of things. One says: " Do you call that music? " 
The other answers: "Yes; and the best there is — it is a 
composition by Wagner." To which his friend responds: 
' Well, for my part, I think Wagner had better stick to his 
sleeping cars, and let music alone." 

People change their musical homes, or rather add to 
them, as they progress in musical appreciation. At first 
they care only for the little way-side flowers and simple 
scenery of the land of tonic, dominant and subdominant. 
They regard the musical world outside of that boundary as 
a kind of desert, entirely unfit to live in, and I may add once 
more, what has often been said in substance, that many
people remain in this musical condition all their lives. But 
those who progress, begin, by and by, to see some beauty in 
the sturdier growths and the more varied scenery, and after 
awhile realize that the still unexplored regions beyond may 
be yet more beautiful when they are reached. 

But here there is a danger. People in this state are apt 
to grow conceited, and to despise the simple conditions 

they once enjoyed. " Unworthy, narrow and bigoted " are the
proper terms to apply to such. The way-side flower has its 
place in the economy of God's creation as truly as the oak, 
and the little hill and the brooklet are as truly beautiful as 
the mountain and torrent are grand. 

" But," some one says, " there is so much trash in the 
simple music of the day." There is trash at every musical 
grade, even to the highest. How much that is grotesque 
and senseless is seen in the ambitious attempts of those who 
follow Wagner, or would rival him in new paths, but have 
nothing of his transcendent genius. Such are usually among 
the despisers of the elementary conditions through which all 
must pass, and in which a majority of the music-loving 
world must always be. "Trash" of course; so there are 
offensive plants and flowers and disagreeable scenes, but the 
proportion is small, and I contend that most of the simple 
music that lives is no more trash than Mozart's " O dolce 
concento" or "Rousseau's Dream," than which nothing is 
written that is simpler or more perfect.