here, with the sun welcoming with his sweetest smile the fleecy clouds wandering up the heaven? Or was it (probably it was, for reality is painfully prosaic,) in some back attic—such as where Shakespeare perhaps wrote his symphonies? The sublimely interesting young Beethoven! There he sits for a moment with his two hands pressed on those concentrated brows of the lion-like head, previously to penning the first chord! There he sits—look at him well—the fullest incarnation of music, till now the greatest home, emporium, and royal residence of musical power, with all which that implies—including, lowest down, the ineffable; for, always, a man is tender in proportion as he is strong, great in proportion as he is good—Ludwig van Beethoven, in his divine genius and terrible infliction (one of the most painful ironies of human history—like a fate out of high Greek story), one of the most intensely interesting of the race of men!

And now for our criticism; or, rather, for our impressions—for every one of us is dominated by unknown moods and biasses. And the wise spirit which made Goethe call his autobiography "Fact and Fancy," should rule every critic—often the victim and slave of himself, the child of circumstance and time.

First, for a general remark:—I see no essential difference—query, should there be?—between a symphony, especially a Beethoven one, and a sonata. Next, as corollary, let us even say that some of his sonatas (or at least parts) surpass the symphonies. For instance, that first part of the sonata "Patetica," as it is absurdly called, always impresses me as something really almost colossal—the "grave" itself truly so, like a temple four-square, based on the foundations of the world, and high towering towards all the winds. There is no comparison between it and any of the movements of the "No. 1 Symphony," except the first; and here, too, I am inclined to give the palm to the "Patetica," which, au reste, curiously enough is just as incongruously weak in the remaining movements as this symphony. Both, in fact, have one element (or stamp) in common, viz., the energetic, which we may characterise as martial—heroic. Beethoven is peculiarly distinguished by this—plus a tender beauty of the most profound and healthy description. It is as with the fascinating Schumann; who is equally conspicuous for the energetic and tender—more mystical than Beethoven's, if not so healthy. But, in spite of the ineffable in Beethoven, I almost think we associate power more peculiarly with him. With power Beethoven ushers in his "No. 1." Mark that sforzando, and—B flat. A similar effect occurs in the opening to "Prometheus" (which we noticed independently of Berlioz). Here Beethoven—young and consciously vigorous—took that step of genius we adverted to as opposed to the rashness of ignorance; as it were, champion king-at-arms, flinging the gage of defiance to all the Dryasdusts alive. Poor Dryasdust! who never can be manly enough or genius enough to get free. Dryasdust, it is well known, armed with his blue "specs" and properly obscured thereby, enounces, pronounces, and proclaims—"Allah Akbar! it is unlawful and forbidden to open with a discord" (just as the poor Midas declares it is unpermissible to end in any other key—what has that got to do with it?). Young Beethoven, however—thank the god of originality—has inspired instinct—says "No," and "Take that! you'll soon get used to it." We do get used to it, and then—O the copyists! That B flat is a stroke of genius. Hence we learn, from what depths genius speaks—your Beethoven young and vigorous, fresh into the world, henceforth to be a lawgiver and creator of the imperishable. That "B flat" is power; in short, all that originality includes and implies. But, to pass on from this point, which—as every point—might furnish an essay. The p after the sf is noteworthy; so, too, the chords—powerfully beautiful, unexpected. The strain is not peculiarly Beethoven; it does give us a taste of that Ineffable in him, but is meagrely brief—in fact, fragmentary and uncharacteristic—besides, too much suggesting "Prometheus." Re the latter, a word en parenthèse. After hearing it, Haydn met Beethoven and complimented him on it. "Yes," said the young giant, "but it does not equal the 'Creation'". "No, I don't think it quite does," was the reply from the old maestro, "who didn't seem to like the remark." Poor, dear old Haydn! the glimmering suspicion he had was true enough—that young giant would shake dew-drops from the lion's mane more precious than the grandest Louis Quatorze peruke, plus the unspeakable Louis himself—sarcasm apart, would infallibly eclipse even Haydn's "Creation," naïve and fresh as that may be. We approach the "Allegro" con amore. It stirs our depths; it fills us with ideas. En passant, it opens with the same notes of the Sonata in F, Op. 54 (I think). This is another proof that it is not quite true that even Beethoven "never repeats himself;" though it is perhaps true enough to be said—because characteristic; and when he repeats himself, he generally does so consciously—the great point (another text for essay). The p on the chord C E G rather surprises us—we expect a forte(?)—but it has original beauty, and makes an harmonious breathing instead of an emphatic utterance. The following, in the bass, is equally characteristic. As it goes on, the passage is powerfully suggestive, especially at the cresc. in unison. The mind's-eye sees a great river rising to overflow its mountain-guarded banks; or, forsooth, a great nation, to guard them! All this is the early Beethoven almost at his best—a true foreshadower of the Beethoven—as much as to say, I am Beethoven, in spite of Haydn, my very good master, and Mozart. We see the giant waking. About the next motiv I hardly know what to say. In one mood it strikes me, like many other things even in Beethoven, as an incongruity; I think, "Why all at once this pastoral strain in the middle of a warlike defiance!" Such unconsciousness as this is an error. A genius must be an artist as well; and a man has no right to fling the first idea that occurs to him into a piece, which is incongruous with the whole. Undoubtedly Beethoven himself sinned here, and not seldom. It is notorious that he tacked on and foisted in pieces which literally had nothing to do with the work as a whole. Lazy or even thoughtless bad taste is a high crime in art—for art truly means, tasteful industry. The sense of fitness must not be offended. Incongruity is a great fault. The men of the conscious school are right here. Consciousness truly has its duties as well as its dangerous frailty. So we argue in that mood. But yet again, so diversified is music, we feel a peculiar, almost unspeakable charm, when, sympathetic fancy coming to our assistance, we consider this abstractly beautiful strain as giving us a glance back from the press of warriors and the noise of battle, to the green fields and silver streams far off we have left; and we think of Arnold von Winkelried leaving his wife and children, as in Deschwanden's affecting picture, so familiar in Switzerland. Then, almost tears come into the eyes, and we exclaim—Oh! thou unconscious wizard, Beethoven!—making us give to thy utterances a meaning thou thyself never didst dream of. Soon again, after this wistful glance back—with none of the sin in it of Lot's wife—we have the thunder and blaze of war, with his pride, pomp, and circumstance. Nay, I will say, are we not even reminded of the world-famous Symphony, No. 8, itself? Have we not essentially the same clamour and glamour? our blood is roused, hearts beat high, and we feel we are on the