More is known of our mighty old Capellmeister Bach than of
Shakespeare; less than of Miss Marie Corelli. The main thing is that
he lived the greater part of his obscure life in Leipzig, turning out
week by week the due amount of church music as an honest Capellmeister
should. Other Capellmeisters did likewise; only, while their
compositions were counterpoint, Bach's were masterworks. There lay the
sole difference, and the square-toed Leipzig burghers did not perceive
it. To them Master Bach was a hot-tempered, fastidious, crotchety
person, endured because no equally competent organist would take his
place at the price. So he worked without reward, without recognition,
until his inspiration exhausted itself; and then he sat, imposing in
massive unconscious strength as a spent volcano, awaiting the end.
After that was silence: the dust gathered on his music as it lay
unheard for a century. Haydn and Mozart and Beethoven hardly suspected
their predecessor's greatness. Then came Mendelssohn (to whom be the
honour and the glory), and gave to the world, to the world's great
surprise, the "Matthew" Passion, as one might say, fresh from the
composer's pen. The B minor mass followed, and gradually the whole of
the church and instrumental music; and now we are beginning dimly to
comprehend Bach's greatness.