Chapter II: Part 2

If the ineffable adagio--prelude of preludes (?), out, as Marx says, the last movement is the finale of finales--shows us the young God-disguised athlete, with the morning light on his brow, making ready to enter only the Olympian Games, the _allegro con brio_ shows him to us rushing into battle! The "heroic symphony" is by no means the first or last symphony heroic--indeed, could not have been written but for the pre-existence and exercise of that full power in the inspired young composer. Here is a grand epic outburst and onrushing worthy of that immortal masterpiece, and essentially one with it. We could almost say, not only the same power, but the same sort of power, is indiscernible in Haydn and Mozart. The style (which is truly the man--that to the man what the bark is to the tree) is so different--the man's dialect, as well as message; the phraseology altogether. These modulations are not those of Haydn and Mozart! (beyond praise grand is the _ff_ on the dominant of A minor--one of those glorious bursts and surprises of Beethoven's--we expect D minor); nor is the masculine fancy (god-like shall we say? and a Mozart's, goddess-like) theirs; and the great broad, quasi-Titanic strains and themes. This movement (Op. 36) is an advance on that of the symphony No. 1 (Op. 21), if in grade only, not kind. Here we see the young giant, not yet done growing, a little riper. There is no strain in it which we feel inclined to qualify, which "gives us pause," like the second motiv in its predecessor; all is homogeneous, epically great. But let us descend a little to details. At bars 1, 2, and 3, we imagine the firm tread of the warriors, singing (like the Ironsides before Dunbar--the 68th Psalm, "Let God arise,") on their way to victory, which they never doubt for a moment, not only because they are triumphant veterans, but on account (and more) of their cause. At bar 4 what a poetic rush (inrush) of fifes is suggested! then the great step is heard again; a great strain joins in; the chaunt of the warrior basses becomes more and more ominous; preliminary thunder is heard, and at last, with Olympian pæan and war-cry battle is joined;--great is the shock, and glorious is the struggle!

The second subject in A is ushered in by those grand _third-less_ chords (long before our modern writers):--

[Music]

the chromatic passage being doubled two octaves below by the basses. The new subject, more absolutely melodious, still keeps up the same theme--(for, _apropos_, we may also look upon this allegro as some Homeric or Shakespearian recital of a great victory--recall the superb opening lines of "Richard the Third," the "warriors' wreathed brows, and their bruised arms hung up for monuments"). At first it is heard softly--like a reinforcement in the distance (we think of the Prussians at Waterloo, in the westering summer sun)--then as it were in a blaze of music bursts in. Immediately after, where its exquisite first half (so simple--mark that--but so eloquent and picturesque) reappears in the basses (high), we are rather reminded of Mendelssohn's "Huntsman's Song without Words," in A (the same key), Book 1; but--we need not say--Mendelssohn has not gilded gold, or improved the lily; for his fancy was distinctly lighter and smaller than Beethoven's--or, let us say, he had fancy, Beethoven imagination. And now a happy spirit of triumph sings in the basses; and then burst out some crashing Beethoven-chords, of which I will but point to the one _ff_ (5th bar of them); it is characteristically the 6--4 of D--not, as anticipated, the 5--3 of F sharp minor.

Then, after a foreboding crescendo--characteristic growth out of an initial fragment--and these two emphatic notes:--

[Music]

--Beethoven all over--the first part closes, so to say, in a breadth of thunder-peals and fiery rain. Technically, note the grand entry of D minor, and mi--do--si--la--mi in unison, with the 3rd omitted; and the minor-seventh chords, resolving into the tonic dominant of the minor (D^1), so exquisitely expressive--alike of the pangs of victory and the heroic resolution to endure them.

In the 2nd Part, on the way to G minor (Beethoven himself often never knew whither he was taking us, or at least the precise route--and so much the better!), we soon meet with a remarkable juncture of notes, viz., do and mi of the chord (G minor), with fa superadded:--

[Music]

This fa, at first sight perplexing, turns out to be a stray note (as it seems) of the minor seventh chord on its way to the seventh, which, however, ultimately appears (with beautiful effect) as the 3rd of the dominant-seventh chord (to C minor). This powerfully, painfully expressive dissonance is likewise to be found in his "Lied Vom Tode" (Op. 48), amongst other instances; and the opening to Schubert's "Wanderer" owes its intense expression to the same. The _raison d'être_ of such discords is perhaps to be found in the enhancement they give to the resolution. We could not bear them too long, or too frequent; but, as a passing reminder of the tragedy of life, they profoundly move and interest us; and, perhaps, discords in life (likewise instituted by no Dryasdust) have essentially the same _raison d'être_ and explanation--life is _agro-dolce_, not _dolce_ alone, and better so. Thereupon we have a new idea, surely as playfully felicitous and characteristic as the scherzo of the "Eroica" itself--like the warriors at sport after victory; or like a glimpse of the same by them, back in a pause in the battle, which soon recommences, with the shouts of the combatants and groans of the wounded and dying. A page farther on, we have a truly sublime episode; great is the chaunt on the earnest theatre (proclaiming Right must and shall win) made up of the sufficient chord of F sharp minor, and the basses moving in such a way as served as a model for Wagner; this is epic, heroic, indeed! and--even greater--Pelion upon Ossa, piled by this Titan fighting on the side of the gods, is the culmination. Semitone by semitone mount the basses; and over all the great clouds become richer in the setting sun, and pealing hosts of heaven (as it were) join in the shouts of the victors, crying--"Hosanna in excelsis! Alto trionfo del regno verace! Right _is_ done!"

"Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
Paid with a voice flying by, to be lost on an endless sea.
Glory of virtue to fight! to struggle, to right the wrong,
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be."

THE LARGHETTO.

At the moment we write, all round us we see nature emerged--

"Nobler and balmier for her bath of storm."

The grim tempests of early winter have passed over, and after a South-Italian night--a perfect blaze of constellations, with the Evening Star incredible in the west, large, lustrous, evanescent--and Orion sublime in the forehead of the Night over the mountain--with Jupiter passed over, Mars and Sirius not far off, and the eternal cluster of the Pleiades (those beautiful heralds) winging its flight towards the north-west, and the leading star of the Ursus Major plunging through the dusk (yet shining) over Naples; after such a night, lo! the great amphitheatre of the world is a spectacle indeed! The mountain-island sweeps like a garden at our feet to the sea; the sea itself like an unspeakable floor or carpet spread out _for us_, bearing the islands--the "great globe itself"--so proudly on its nourishing bosom; and all round, out of a tender dusk (as it were, like Compassion) rises the snow-peaked world (like virtue clothing beauty, reason crowning power), the magnificent spur of the Alps--showing what mountains can do at an effort--called the Apennines, stretching down and around from Gaeta to Alicote, towering over treasures, as it seems, of unearthly beauty; Monte St. Angelo, with his colossal foot in the sea and roots in the world, his wrinkles lined with snow, looms and towers before us; on the right sweeps and bares itself the grand Bay of Salerno, and on the left the proud Bay of Naples, with its eternal Watch-fire, like a sentinel over all. Stupendous scene of beauty and power! and all that--on this heavenly morning, when the world once more seems made again, and to overpower us with its reiteration of Immortality--all that comes before us as a grand subject set to music in this larghetto of Beethoven's; all that, too--if the fancy may be allowed--seems in the key of A natural. Before _it_, we should like to hear this exquisite masterpiece--this, I will not say, Song without Words, but rather Te Deum laudamus--adequately performed, say by the Künstler of his "Vaterland." Here we have a sweetness and a serenity the more touching, because they are _not_ those of a Mozart, but a Beethoven; those of nature, "_nobler and balmier_ for her bath of storm" (human as well as physical nature); whether Mozart do or do not represent the storm already fought out, this is the sweetness, not of sweetness, but depth--the serenity, not of serenity, but power. And, indeed, we must hold, and urge, that however the objective may be of value, and rank pre-eminent in poetry, the greatest music has come down to us from perhaps the greatest subjective soul; and essentially, much of contemporary, morbidly-conscious music seems in comparison not only objective but material, not only material but sensational; the delusively brilliant (phosphorescently brilliant) product of a decaying time--we had almost said the elaborate effeteness of a written-out age.

This larghetto is of Beethoven's first period, ripened of course (strive as refiners may, they will scarcely be able to alter the time-honoured division, so obviously founded in truth). Haydn and Mozart are distinctly discerned glimmering through it, but not very much more; it is Haydn and Mozart _plus_ Beethoven, which makes all the difference. We repeat, it is _his_ serenity and sweetness, his youth (so full and rich--of such _infinite_ promise), not theirs. Theirs be the grace, but his the grandeur; theirs the amiability, but his the milk of human kindness--so broad and deep (as of a yet unsoured Hamlet, an Othello, a King Lear; for there are great characters in Shakespeare which we _can_ blend Beethoven with, but not the others). The details of the larghetto must be studied (say, at the organ). I will here only advert to its reminiscence of the andante (the exquisite episode) in the pastoral sonata, written about the same period, truly worthy of symphonic treatment, with the deliciously-delicate passage, as it were like a shower of sunbeams, of gold sparkles--

"In the æther of Deity"

(as the manifestations named men have been called). The movement is rich both in the great strokes and tender touches of genius--of genius which is power; and what we call the phraseology of the man as a whole, and in its parts, is again beautifully Beethovenian. Here is a lovely bit:--

[Music]

The movement is not so _great_ as the preceding, and is perhaps too long (which is a decided art-fault--not merely a mistake in judgment); but, as a whole, it reminds us of Shakespeare's "entire and perfect chrysolite;" we greet it (and other movements of Beethoven's) with feelings of profound affection; as though we had realised those words "Yet a little while and ye have me with ye"; as though we had been living, for at least a breathing space, in the atmosphere and society of higher life, out of the sphere of time and in the sphere of the eternal. We have had such pleasure that we feel more good; we issue grateful and earnest, happier, better men. There have been sighs of regret that Beethoven did not write more music like his Symphony in F; but not only this movement, but these two first symphonies, the sonatas in E flat, "Adelaide"--nay, almost all his first period compositions. And here our glances at this symphony must cease. The trio, with its delicious strain, pleases us more than the scherzo (a strain that might be made much more of). The scherzo itself is less sympathetic than that of No. 1: seems, in fact, rather heavily frolicsome. The finale is a masterpiece, though decidedly inferior to the first movements. Do composers often write their finale when they are jaded? they should make this their golden rule, _toutes les choses ont leur matinée_.

SYMPHONY NO. III., OP. 55.

"Lo Motor primo a lui si volge licto,
Soora tant'arte di natura, e spira
Spirito nuovo, di virtù repleto"--

When we stand before this Symphony, like Death, it "gives us pause"; it looms so great, so vast. It was no wonder that it was not comprehended at first; and this should be not a subject of regret, but gratification, to the genius. Genius implies non-comprehension at first, and all sorts of "cold obstruction"; and here it may at once be said that, on the whole, genius, like virtue, is its own reward, and perfect compensation for all drawbacks. This should be borne in mind when uncalled-for lamentations are, not unnaturally, yet rather thoughtlessly made. Certainly, Beethoven would not have been satisfied had this phenomenal work, this prodigy, this spiritual Labour of Hercules (type of all the great Helpers and Saviours of mankind), been immediately grasped. To comprehend, in some small measure, the prodigy called the Universe around us, men and things have had to evolve for countless ages; it is the same, on a miniature scale, with individual works; and every poet rids himself of his message in the great spirit of the great Kepler:--"I may well wait a century for a reader, as God has waited six thousand years for an observer." To no man not rich in such a spirit will any great message be whispered and entrusted.

Beethoven was, in his sphere, and with his vehicle of utterance, a prophet--a coming event that threw its shadow before. He revealed to men, if they could but have seen it, the Nineteenth Century--_its_ inner life, _plus_ the nature and passions of the present (his own day) and the past. No wonder, then, that the men of his own day--the great mass, the local majority--could not understand what really is a truer mirror of us--our doubts, and fears, and struggles, and hopes. And the _Sinfonia Eroica_, I take it, must be so interpreted--in a spiritual sense (at least as well as in the physical, or literal)--as much as the Symphony in C minor, at least as much as the Pastoral Symphony which Beethoven himself said was really emotional rather than descriptive. And it little matters whether or not Beethoven himself consciously uttered these manifold messages of his in this or that sense; he has as perfect a right as Shakespeare to be deemed full of all that can be packed into him; nay, it is all the better if he was _not_ conscious: to repeat--unconsciousness was the soul of his consciousness, as it ever is, and must be, of all higher speech and performance.

No mere battle, or ordinary warfare--certainly Napoleonic--can adequately explain, is solely depicted in, this grand work; though they become far more satisfactory, so applied, when we consider them as coarse manifestations of the higher qualities; in fact, as backgrounds for and revelations of heroism. By dwelling on this, we get nearer to the soul of the symphony; spiritual warfare, rather, is what it proclaims.[A] Of Beethoven's notes, it may be quite as much said as of Luther's words--his notes are like other men's battles. Better than any poem this symphony (especially the first movement--_facile princeps_) seems to hold the mirror up to Man in his Warfare, specially and generally, physically and spiritually, with and in his own inscrutable self, and with and in the unspeakable elements of time. It is not without special beauty, in the last but one, or Faust sense (we were struck and pleased to come across Bendel's words, corroborating our own notion, that Beethoven was in some sort a Faust); and, before this symphony, we feel Beethoven was that good man, struggling with adversity, the spectacle of which is a benefit to the very gods; and, under this feeling, the symphony does us double good. The fact on the face of it is, its Titanic power in _maturity_. The first two symphonies, also rich in power, are stamped by a spirit of youth. This gives them a delicious charm which makes them extra dear; and which Beethoven himself (let alone others) was fundamentally mistaken (we feel) in underrating, nay, disparaging, as he was afterwards wont to do (really, when his mighty powers were waning, and he was perhaps in secret aware of that; it is the common melancholy trick of men). That peculiar spirit of freshness here at length we seem to miss, or are no longer struck by. Here we may draw the line. Here we see the ripe man, or very nearly so; at least in the prime and plenitude of his powers; not quite so _happy_ as before, but stronger; and as yet with no serious threatening shadow of gloom--though there may be clouds "as big as a man's hand," and even occasionally, perhaps, hints, like the mole "cinque-spotted i' the bottom of a cowslip," of tragedy and aberration among the most melancholy in the history of men. Beethoven was an emphatically conscious, but profoundly unconceited man. We are sure, therefore, that he entitled his symphony "Heroic" (if he did do so) with no unpardonable vanity; nevertheless, we regret that (as also in his "Grand" sonatas) he did not leave it to others--for itself to call itself that. Truly, he did not exceed much in betitling and programming--his sense of the infinitude of music was too profound, of that as being _the_ charm; but even in the few cases where he did, perhaps the breach would have been better than the observance. One great disadvantage of betitling music is, that it does not allow us to approach it afterwards without preoccupation and convention; whereas, we should approach it utterly free, except from our own nature, and previous existence. Moreover, if the work correspond ever so to the title or description, it is discounted beforehand. To say _afterwards_, "that is heroic!"--"this is pastoral!" is an added charm. But to details.

[A] Strauss (_not_ the dance composer), in rather a cavilling spirit, says this symphony describes the life of a hero. So it does, but not in the external sense he uses it in, but in the internal; life, means inner life. Or, again, the work celebrates heroism rather than a hero.

It will at once be noticed that Beethoven begins this symphony quite differently from its predecessors; _allegro con brio_, two emphatic chords, and then _in medias res_; the bass, however, leading off, as in No. II., with, moreover, the same well-balanced poise (delicate, yet firm as that of planet in its orbit), springy step, and self-contained power. A characteristic originality is the C sharp, where the bass breaks off, hardly begun, and the

"Upper air bursts into life,"

with glorious breadth and soaring--soaring to the _primum mobile_ through obstructive cloud (discords of the dim. 7th on pedal tonic) with only increased _éclat_! Thereupon, the basses worthily show forth the heroic confidence of the nobly unstudied theme--great and gay with the certainty of final victory; as it were, the warriors of Israel advancing to conquer the Promised Land. Then, from none knows where--from the very heart of heaven--fall shafts of light indeed, as it were through the bosom of fragrance; which exquisite strain, perhaps, contradicts what we said about the absence of youth in this work. In any case, it is one of those many melodies which so movingly proclaim Beethoven a profoundly good man, and how he wrote them so _from above_, or rather they poured through him from infinite heights (depths overhead) of ineffability. In this, in the _power_ of his sweetness, he has never been surpassed, hardly equalled.

There are melodies by later men very beautiful too, which seem, however, to come (we are almost tempted to write) like certain later poetry, from a profoundly _bad_ source; they have demoniac, not divine beauty. The strain in question:--

[Music]

Certainly a

"Dolce melodia in aria luminosa,"

seems the spirit of Love itself pure and simple--as it were, a glance from the "young-eyed cherubim" into the Warrior's--into Beethoven's own heart. But, in this "painfully earnest world," such blessedness cannot long last, and the sunshafts are soon again obscured in the smoke of battle--the mystic whisperings drowned in the din of artillery. _Apropos_, it struck us that, if we like the warlike figure, this grand battlepiece (by Rubens? or Tintonello?--_Rembrandt_, we would rather say) gains, if we consider it as a _sea_-battle, in a storm, with wizard lights and seams of fire all along the horizon. Nay, in the second part--those wonderful strokes of genius where the chord of the sub dominant (?) is piled on to and clashes against that of the relative minor A--we fancy it vividly depicting "Nelson falls!" (the true hero, whose pole-star is duty; not pleasure, nor ambition); and the unspeakable passage a little further on (in E minor--Beethoven alone capable of it--never dreamt of in the philosophy of his predecessors), suggested his death--(or rather, more stupendously, that of _the_ Christian Hero, when He "gave up the ghost," crying, "_Finitus est!_").

More than one modern work has attempted to depict the world-old great subject: Virtue and Vice contending for (or within) a human soul--the struggle of Good and Evil. Methinks, as long ago as this Heroic Symphony the same struggle is represented, or shadowed forth (for its great text, like music in general, and more so with Beethoven, has many meanings). The third (?) subject in this theme-rich movement, where Beethoven from his full heart pours forth one motiv after another, is especially suggestive of conflict--what shocks, clashes, contentions!--but the "good angel fires the bad one out," and bears the precious prize aloft in a whirl of triumph--resounding, as it were, through the halls of heaven--

"Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries,
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean
Rings to the roar of an angel onset."

But then--

"Me rather all that bowery loveliness,
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,
And bloom profuse and cedar arches
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,"

"Where some refulgent sunset of India
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,
And, crimson-hued, the stately palm-woods
Whisper, in odorous heights, of even."

Then we have a strain which seems to anticipate Schumann himself, the greatest symphonist after Beethoven--a singular repose, of almost unearthly loveliness, after the high commotion.

A little later, and _ecco!_ a new idea:--

[Music]

exquisite in its lightness and strength (like a giant at play, or a river disporting in its banks); and thereupon, after bold progressions, six remarkable iterations--also like "So Fate knocketh at the portals!" or like blow after blow of virtuous resolutions; where all is characteristic, this is strikingly so. Then follows another of his ineffable thoughts (supremely); and then, after another whirl of the _sacred_ fury, which seems to be the soul of this unexampled movement, we are brought back to the original subject, which re-enters in its own colossal continence; and these truly "_stupendi pagine_" (and not those about Goethe's Frederika of Sessenheim, in his "Autobiography,") are repeated. The second part, or elaboration (as it is called) is likewise, and _par excellence_, stupendous, especially the part before adverted to, in A and E minor. Here, truly, the music quite transcends ordinary language and thought; to bring ideas worthy to it, we must recur to Him who cried "_Lama, Lama, Eli Sabbacthani!_" This is the anguish of a Redeemer-soul. But to such, also, is the victory; and to such the Father sendeth legions of angels. See, also, especially the passage further on, in G flat (should it not be _andante_?)--which, as it were, almost overcomes us with enchantment. Here, methinks, the Invisible Auxiliaries already bear the poor shell, and whisper at the same time a word of comfort to the Mother--whom no Power strikes into stone, like Niobe.

"He that hath ears to hear, let him hear!"--ears that are but the outwork of the soul. Let him go, even as it were, prepared and attuned, in some sort like a Communicant--and receive music's banquet mysteriously provided for him. The message of a Beethoven is not trifling, but earnest; speaks inarticulately (more divinely so) of the greatest, solemnest, things; whispers and thunders from the Altar. If "the value of no word is known till the greatest master of it has arrived," so also the value of no utterance is known till the greatest receiver--understander--of it has arrived. Plato said, Poets speak greater things than they know. Of none was this ever truer than of Beethoven. He alone, in his day, most knew the value and import of his music; others come after (and will come) who know more. This is his greatest praise. There is no more congenial occupation to a sympathetic imagination than throwing together some of the images, thoughts, or ideas which his mighty music suggests. Goethe was displeased when importuned for the key idea (_more Germanico_) of his "Wilhelm Meister;" thought that itself should be sufficient of itself. It is the same with Beethoven and this symphony. No _rigid_ principle must be sought, or insisted on. The first movement especially does indeed stand very four-square and homogeneous; but the fiery soul of it (sun-fire, passion and beauty,) is very various in its manifestation; and unless we understand and apply the term "heroic" in its amplest sense, we are fettered and injured rather than benefitted and helped. The greatest Hero we yet wot of was personified self-sacrifice, love--who did not flame abroad over that world a devastation, but made his life answer the queries of philosophy, and the doubts of the sceptic; the greatest Hero was one who "went about doing good."

Tennyson's eloquent alcaics on Milton--

"O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity"--

the rest of which have been already quoted, seems not inapplicable to Beethoven and this his symphony. Many others would do as well, or better. Of general application--when we _think_ of its melodious rush of ideas (one of the distinguishing features between it and the first two symphonies), great republican spirit (in the highest sense), Sun-god beauty, and Jove-like power; of its intellect, superior to that of Bach's (it seems to us), as Carlyle well says Shakespeare's was to that of the author of "_Novum Organum_," and of its grace and sweetness, profounder than, not only of Haydn's and Mozart's, but any other composer's, then the beautiful words of Dante, at the head of this chapter, may apply.

The Prime Mover turns joyfully unto him, and, surpassing nature, breathes into him a new spirit, replete with virtue and power. THE FUNERAL MARCH.

Beethoven was a gloomily profound soul;--herein differentiated from Shakespeare, who was pellucidly, cheerfully profound; and unlike Schopenhauer (whom he otherwise rather suggests), who was profoundly gloomy--one of the most so who ever lived; therefore he composed a "_Marcia Funèbre_" specially _con amore_, and therefore it is specially characteristic of him. In the present instance, this, as it were, unfathomably profound inspiration, gains, as in every other case, if we interpret it liberally rather than literally, and consider it to depict and deplore rather the death of a great Principle (such as Faith, Virtue, Truth,) than a great man; or the great man, the hero, _plus_ the heroic, buried with him, _ultimus Romanorum_. If we would realize the depths of this utterance--as it were almost speechless--choked with tears--we shall think of it in connection with such words as the following:--

"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill;
Tired with all these, from these I would be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone."

Speaking of Schopenhauer, the difference between him and Beethoven seems to be this:--the latter shows us Optimism _victorious_ over Pessimism; his works, indeed, seem specially and wonderfully to mirror the struggle, as indeed, the whole of this century at least is profoundly tinctured, nay seems almost characteristically stamped by Pessimism; but Beethoven does not, and will not give way to, and end in the rayless paralysis of Pessimism; he fights through, and soars triumphant; in Mr. Picton's words, _re_ Materialism, "comes out at the other side." In this, methinks, the deadly struggle betwixt Optimism and Pessimism around us and within us; but the victory of the former, and the triumph of Immortality over Doubt and Denial, we have the key to Beethoven's music (of course unconsciously, and, as we say, so much the better; it would have been worse expressed had it been conscious). At a moment when Pessimism was uppermost, he might have sat down to write this Dead March: that it was to celebrate Napoleon Buonaparte was never the case, though it might have been to celebrate the Napoleon of Beethoven's imagination, a _Hero_, to bewail whose departure from among us no tones can be too pregnant and profound, especially if we think we have "fallen on evil times," and that we shall "never look upon his like again." And here a word about Beethoven's (the true hero) immortal act, when he heard that Napoleon had made himself crowned--(the other hero we spoke of refused a crown, and hid himself); was not _that_ a repudiation of Tyranny and Quackery? was not _that_ a royal piece of Iconoclasm? to me it is one of the highest private scenes of History. Summon it up one moment:--Beethoven's eye flashing fire; the lion locks almost shaking flames, as he tears the superscription in half (and Napoleon's fame with it), and dashes the "carefully written out" symphony on the floor, "put his foot down on _that_." _So_, I should like to see Beethoven painted; or still better, sculptured. Dr. Nohl has taken occassion to draw an elaborate parallel or comparison between Beethoven and another great contemporary of his, Goethe--(we would draw it also to the advantage of the former;) Carlyle has done so, between Napoleon and Goethe; we would do so between Napoleon and Beethoven, and call the latter in our great Sage's words, a "still white light shining far into the centuries," while the other was meteoric flame and volcanic glare--not wholly, solely, for he too was an instrument--an able, and necessary one, but in comparison. Let anyone ask himself how he feels at the mention of the two names. Is he not expanded, cheered, comforted, and made better--unconsciously made surer of goodness, truth, immortality, and all high things, at the name of Beethoven; and is he not repelled, if dazzled, by that of Napoleon? The good was not buried with Beethoven's bones. Think of the amount he has done after his death (like Handel and his "Messiah"); think of his industrious great life and character--so originally grand; and contrast it with the portentous mass of lies and murders, the conflagrations and widow's tears, the hideous battle-fields of the heartless, semi-conscious, semi-quack, diabolically selfish Napoleon, and the good _he_ has done after him. No! the good Wolfe had rather have been Gray than the victor of Quebec, and we would rather have been Beethoven than Napoleon--whose very genius, moreover, is over-rated; for we decidedly think with Madame de Stäel, that had he met with an able and honest adversary early, he would have been checked or defeated; nay, he _was_, when he met Sydney Smith at Acre; and, curiously enough, after, when he met _another_ Briton, who was never defeated--Wellington. Napoleon will always be marvelled at and written about, but it will never be said of him--"in his works you will find enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach them courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; for, of examples teaching these virtues, his pages are full;"--as it was said of the author of "Hamlet," and as it is here repeated of the mighty composer of this "Dead March," with its wails from the deepest and strains from the highest thing known--the heart of man.

THE SCHERZO.

With a glance at the Scherzo, we will bring our remarks to a close, the more especially as the Finale seems less interesting, relevant, and original (Beethoven seems more to have copied himself,) than the rest.

The Scherzo, with its _obbligato_ constituent element, the "Trio," is on the same great scale, and in the same epic spirit (we see no particular need, with Wagner, to seek a connection,) as the first movement. Here we _see_ the gods and heroes, the immortals, at sport in their own high hall--green-hill'd theatre, and "deep-domed empyrean." Here Optimism is not only victor, but full of play and humour. Such Olympian sport, such great picturesque music, was inconceivable to Beethoven's predecessors; and we get some idea of his merit when we reflect that the ground, when he began to write quartets and symphonies, seemed already occupied, the sphere exhausted; and when we reflect, how, of all Haydn's 119 symphonies (!) not one, in some seasons, is performed; whereas, Beethoven's are the feature of almost every performance, and are found now to be "favourite with all classes," as the Sydenham programme asserts--a statement which, otherwise, rather provokes an elevation of the eyebrows. The trio, especially, is of exceeding original beauty; there are few more grateful pages in Beethoven; none where his peculiarly characteristic _healthy_ sweetness (freshness-and-power--_depths_ of purity, beyond plummet's sound,) is so strikingly, so enchantingly displayed. At the base of a great mountain in Switzerland, with his foot in two lakes, and with sides that might almost have been an envy in Eden, there runs--from one magical sheet of water to the other--a heavenly valley. There we once saw a local military _Fest_, with flying banners and echoing music; and, as we walked along, under the eternal brow of that immense emerald bastion, with the spring sun before us, we thought of this Trio, and said--"Here is where it ought to sound, by a noble army on its return, laurel-laden, from righteous victory;" and Shakespeare's lines again _festeggiavano_ in the memory:--

"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lower'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute."

How exquisitely we can fancy the horns making those mountain-walls and woodlands ring! and the hautboys in response, gladdening the pastures; while the flutes (later) curl the wave; and the bassoons, along with the other two epico-pastoral instruments, after the maiden welcome of the violins--welcome by maidens:--

"Oneste e leggiadre in ogni atto."--

"Set all the bells a-ringing--over lake and lea,
Merrily, merrily, along with them in tune."

It is all enchanting; no greater epico-lyric poem in Beethoven--who, even in the midst of this triumph and beauty, cannot (thank inspiration!) but speak from the profundities of him. I allude to that wonderful passage where he brings in (hitherto reserved) the clarinets (that voice of heroic women, as Berlioz finds it), over the intensely expressive progression of the strings, in response to the breathings of the horns. In music perhaps there is no profounder interchange of heart and soul, of sorrow and affection, touching reminiscence from the lowest well-spring. This, perhaps, is a glance at the "happy autumn days that are no more;" or an heroic wail over the dead and desolated; a glance back at the horrors of war--a thought for the widows and orphans' tears falling even now around; and yet, under all, a stern determination to brook no tyranny, love of duty, and a high submission, cost what it might, to the Supreme Will.

SYMPHONY IN B FLAT, NO. 4, OP. 60.

This Symphony is only another proof of Beethoven's kinship with Shakespeare. The terrible romance of "Romeo and Juliet" (where the atmosphere seems loaded with love and doom); the classic grandeur of "Coriolanus" and "Julius Cæsar"; the passionate intensity of "Othello"; the fearful sublimity (depth, as well as height and breadth) of "Macbeth" and "Lear;" the beautiful greatness of the "Tempest"; and the subtlety (seraphic, not demoniac), tragic picturesqueness, inner life, and almost superhuman power and insight of "Hamlet," are all, more or less (and, indeed, more rather than less), to be found reproduced in Beethoven; and truly, as it is borne in on us, in him, the tone-poet, more than in speech-poet, certainly more than in Schiller and Goethe; more also than in our own men, of whom none after Shakespeare can compare with Beethoven except Milton--and him we reckon inferior. There are indeed two elements of Shakespeare which Beethoven lacks, his characteristic serenity and humour; besides that, _Beethoven's tragedy is the tragedy of his own soul, whereas Shakespeare wrote outside himself_. Beethoven was a colossally subjective storm-tossed spirit (though also eminently objective--none surpasses him in broad vivid painting of images, as well as "the life of the soul";)--the dove of whose ark (to speak figuratively) never found soil for her foot after youth had died out, and the flood fairly set in. But, in his prime, also in the "April of his prime", and at his best, he bears a greater family likeness to the great ancestor than any other man, though he really resembles no one but himself, just like Shakespeare, as we feel after long but futile efforts to pair him with somebody--a fact highly curious and interesting! The kinship, however, is equally striking and fascinating; and nowhere, perhaps, is it more fascinating than in this B flat Symphony, which we are inclined to term _par excellence_ beautiful; as its predecessors are powerful and great. Indeed there seems something of the opaline varnish--or rather, lustre, like a leaf's--_from within_--of Mozart; specially beautiful, as _he_ is specially beautiful, and is not powerful or great, profound and earnest, grand. But, again, _plus_ the grace, there is also, below, the characteristic depth; after all, and as ever, power is _doch_ the soul of the beauty--as--and here is our point--in the "Tempest" (and "Midsummer Night's Dream"), as in Shakespeare, rather than in Mozart; indeed, we know not but what Haydn's beauty has more a soul of power.

The enchanting spirit of Shakespeare's fairy plays, and the enchanting spirit world, seems that too of this symphony. Here are Puck and Blossom, Oberon and Titania; here are Ferdinand and Miranda--above all, Ariel and Prospero. Prospero, whose sublime spirit shines and rules in this inaugural adagio--adumbration of Chopin (?) which dwarfs Chopin indeed!--is much nearer akin to Schumann. It is like an inspired dream (a Jacob's, or Elijah's, or Daniel's). It seems a great foreshadowing of his later style; in its vagueness it is vast--as it were, a vestibule or forecourt of the Infinite, of higher life; of that beyond, methinks, whereinto Prospero (our own great dear, sad Beethoven, tired of all, and of himself,) sinks his dreamy glance, when he casts away for ever his magic wand (magic only in a lower sphere, where life and character are inferior); "deeper than did plummet sound," and cries, wrapt from the bystanders:--

"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a wrack behind."

In the allegro we seem to continue our analogy--in the wondrous isle itself (Isle of Formosa), "full of strange sights and sounds." Here, not Greek Naiads and Dryads, but Christian sprites and fairy-things, or both in loving rivalry, flit and trip invisibly and visibly; here is freshness! here are sunbeams! here simplicity and sweetness (woodland and pastoral beauty)! And if, in the matchless adagio the sea murmurs round the "still-vext Bermoothes," and Ariel fetches thence dew; here we have all-compelling Prospero commanding the most exquisite airy sport--but not for himself--but for the lovers.

The scherzo (to take that next), forces upon us once more the question--how far did Beethoven, in composing, draw upon his early treasures? This delicious burst--or gush--of inspiration, as it were a moment flashing over, might have been written in the same spring months as that other delicious morsel--specially cherished by us; the scherzo ("Allegro") in E flat, in the early sonata of the same key--which has always seemed to us the very breath of spring itself--a page of nature in April. And why should a Beethoven disparage his early works? were they not _doch_ the works of a Beethoven! Alas, he can never be young again, never after equal them, for their breath and spirit, for the April of their prime.

We should like to hear Liszt or Rubinstein play this morsel arranged. It is as delicate as Heller (whom it indeed anticipates) and Mendelssohn, and strong as Wagner;--but nay, Beethoven will compare only with himself. It is originally exquisite and exquisitely original. It has, too, the same magical, nay, mystical beauty whose glamour is over all this musical mirror of the "Tempest." The imaginative Sonata in D minor, which Beethoven himself referred to the enchanting drama--especially the first movement--reflects, I take it, the deeper bases and significance of the poem; tempest-tossed man, with his cries to the Unknowable, almost like a wounded animal, and rays of sunshine pouring still through storm; man, at war with the elements and himself, the elements without and within him; man, so little on this stupendous stage; man, so great with his alone-perception of it; man, so mean and hateful in his baser parts, so colossal, so divine in his higher; so low as animal (lower than they), so high as hero and sage. Indeed, the tremendous conflict of outer and inner life, this appalling discrepancy we seem to meet with everywhere; man's struggle with nature, and the struggle of both with themselves, seems to be the inner picture both of Shakespeare and Beethoven--especially the latter, who was a mighty brooding fermenting soul--how far transcending our Byron and his "Manfreds"!--more allied to "Faust," yet greater, nobler, dearer, difficult to arrive at harmony with others and himself ("perplext in faith, yet pure in deeds"), who seems happy only in the first part of his progress (expedition, undertaking, crusade), and victorious in the middle; and whom, alas! we fancy almost as despairing of solving the problem (_é pure troppo per me_) in the end, and going down in the tempest--yet, like the traditional Vengeur, with guns all shooting, and flag at the mast-head flying, and glorified in the setting sun.

I will not dwell on the finale, but conclude with some fancies suggested by the rarely beautiful adagio--like a lovely bird from another world, like the ph[oe]nix new born. Here is what Elterlein says of the finale:--"The truly phantastic, airy, sprite-like (_elfenartige_), at times even boding twilight" (the Scotch uncanny gloaming would more approach the original, _Unheimlicht Düstere_--Scotch, by the way, would often marvellously translate German--they have a mass of expressive words which we have not)--"boding twilight, nay, wild culminates, however, only in the fourth movement. How light and vanishing do these tone-pictures hover and pass, what characteristic glooming (_Helldenkel_) does not envelope this scene too."

Of course, this symphony cannot compare one moment with the Eroica and C minor, for grandeur, opulence, and power; but it is a lovely interlude, giving us a divine moment of gratification and repose--an Italian spring day by a lake, to a tropical one, with its Himalayas and interwoven forest, "like a cathedral with service on the blazing roof."

And now for the adagio! which I will only preface by this admonition, always to be recollected; viz., that whatever fancies or figures music may suggest, and however the abstract terms--such as sweet, tender, vigorous, grand, &c.--may, and must be applied in common to all composers, yet each composer has a special individuality; and _the music that suggests the figures and fancies, the ideas, has, apart from this, for ever a special charm of its own_, which cannot be lost, nor yet transcribed. To those who do not, and to those who do approve the fancies, this charm _per se_ remains.

THE ADAGIO.

A work of supererogation, the adagio is still sometimes executed at concerts, which rejoices in the sensational title of "Le trille du Diable;" founded, it is said, on a dream of the composer's (Tartini); this, simply-named "Adagio," of Beethoven's, then--in considering which, I mean to surrender myself wholly to poetry--might be a reminiscence of his of music, in a dream, by the angel, Gabriel; or such, for instance, as might have escorted the seraph when he descended, and said, "_Ave Maria!_"--or it might be an unconscious reminiscence of previous existence of the great and good man; or the strain the Shepherds heard, in the field, watching their flocks by night--again, and more specially, a

"Dolce melodia in aria lumino,"

through the purple air, mingled with ambrosia, and the beams of _that_ evening star. Nay, it might have lulled that head which had nowhere to rest, when perchance it _did_ find some rocky corner; or Saul of Tarsus, or Jonah below on the raging sea. It puts us in mind of the immortal line--

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."

Ah! we see therein the great weary spirit of its own eternal messenger, for once at least, rocked on its waves and soothed by its balm, in the sea of immortality. It is a pleasure to throw together all the ideas with which it inspires us. It seems a foretaste of Schumann and Ernst ("Elegy"); it has their glimmering romance, and Beethoven's own peculiar profound sweetness, _not_ tainted (at least here and yet) by anything morbid, or the suspicion of it. It, too, suggests earlier years--"_Ach!_" a reminiscence of childhood in Rhineland. It is glamorous, but with the glamour of Ariel--a spirit of good--the spirit of Shakespeare. It is tender and beautiful as Jean Paul; deep, sweet, unutterably. Methinks it paints this:--

"Oh sea! that lately raged and roared--
Art now unruffled by a breath?--
So shall it be, thou Mighty Teacher,
With us--after Death."

And this:--

"And balmy drops in summer dark
Slide from the bosom of the stars."

And this:--

"When summer's hourly mellowing change
May breathe with many roses sweet,
Upon the thousand waves of wheat
That ripple round the lovely grange."

And this--with peculiar propriety:--

"Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favourable speed
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, through early light
Shall glimmer on thy dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above,
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love."

(Note especially the truly seraphic ineffability of the passage in G flat). It is such music as might have accompanied Him who made the storm his mere mantle, and the raging sea the mere pathway of power; of Him who had the right of all men to say--out of whose mouth the word sounded fullest--Peace!

SYMPHONY IN C MINOR, NO. 5, OP. 67.

Beethoven might well write an Heroic Symphony, for the very soul of his symphonies is heroism. He _named_ one "heroic," but he _wrote_ many, including the sonatas, which are unfortunately limited to the piano, whose powers they utterly transcend. Heroism is the soul, and antagonism the substance, through which heroism ultimately fights its way. Beethoven is the Hercules of music (Hercules was in some sort also the Pagan Christ), undertaking labours for men's emancipation and help; beating Hydros down; conquering all sorts of opposition--unconquerable except by love; and, like the antique hero, alas! with an end as tragic. Such comparisons we are obliged to have recourse to, to explain Beethoven's music--its might and significance. "What, then, does this eternal conflict, and victorious heroism storming through, mean?" Ah! how they still paint the conflict of rule and anarchy, of the intellect and reason, of passion and prejudice!

Man is called the microcosm of nature, and music is the microcosm of man; _his_ antagonism and heroism, internal as well as external, are herein mirrored. Music is the highest art; because the most spiritual, infinite, self-existent (creating, not copying), and comprehensive. No statue, picture, or pile, can compare with the power of a symphony--which, indeed, all but rivals that of nature herself, of the great world and starry heavens; the secret of whose power is also the Infinite, with its whispered promise--its soul--Immortality. Art is the shadowing forth of the infinite: music does this most, and Beethoven's is most music. Music, as we said, is the microcosm of man. As the world is comprised in him--alone realized _by_ him, and therefore in some sort alone existent _in_ him, so are his nature and history comprised in music--his depths and heights, beauties and deformities, aspirations and passions, circumstances and powers. It is the "might, majesty, and dominion," inarticulateness, _profound_ beauty--as it were searching flower-cups with star-beams: the effluence of a soul deep as heaven (beyond the other side of earth)--of man (not "_etwas_," of a man) that Beethoven shadows forth. That one, also, who struggled in the womb--what was he but a type of man in the all-comprising womb of nature? And this, also, Beethoven's music suggests; not least the music of this stupendous symphony--only another "Eroica," and greater, without the name (better so). _More suo_, Beethoven himself flashed a meaning more or less on it. "So knocketh Fate at the portal;" yes! with the portentousness of the "knocking at the gate" (see Lamb's remarks), in "Macbeth;" yes! fate in the form of duty. And truly, what higher subject--subject dear to the ancients as they are called--subject constantly treated in his own inspired way (Nature's), by Shakespeare--could be chosen? And Beethoven has rivalled Aiskulos and Shakespeare. Here is battle! here is victory!--here, too, the air seems almost oppressive with love and doom; and here, too, in the background, and from the deepest deeps, are wreaths and similes of celestial beauty. "Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." Another thing the first movement suggests is, that it is the greatest of "_Dies Iræ_." That passage, especially on the second page of the second part, where one half the orchestra answers the other with the same terrific unisons--

[Music]

(_en passant_, did ever reiteration play such a part?), prompts the wildest fancies. We think of

"The glooms of hell
Echoed with thunder, while the angels wailed;"

or again, echoes of deserted hell on the day of doom--the fiends summoned to the judgment-seat. But let us recur to Beethoven's more human suggestion. Fate knocketh in the form of Duty; Promethean free-will, human passion, rebels and struggles for a time, but at last yields; and heroic resolve is triumphant--heroic love. For, "Ach!" methinks these terrible blows are indeed those of Fate; but also those, viz., which nailed Heroic Love (comprehend both words) to the cross--heroic love that made even

"Destiny coincide with Choice;"

--that from the horrible instrument of torture and death itself, cried, "Father! forgive them, for they know not what they do;" and in the midst of the greatest of struggles and temptations (viz., with himself), wrestled and conquered, and cried, "Not my will (the local), but Thine (the universal) be done."--Such is the colossal difference between the pictures of Christ submitting, and Prometheus cursing the gods. It is a remarkable fact, that this symphony is so great--indeed, the greatest; and yet, it is a fact fundamentally, instructively natural; for, not premeditating it beforehand, Beethoven sat down to write about the greatest thinkable subject out of his inmost own heart--nay, as it were, with his own heart's blood. Another remarkable fact is, that the so much abused public soon realized that this symphony was the greatest. This symphony paints Beethoven's life--especially inner life--which "life" properly means. Here we see genius struggling with fate, in which his life was sunk (like every life); wherewith our little life is rounded, as with a sleep. Fate! What had it done for Beethoven? What does it mean?