"Haydn himself could find for him no better praise than in saying, 'He was a clever pianist.'
"Thus was it said of Géricault, 'He blends his colors well;' and thus of Goethe, 'He has a tolerable style, and he commits no faults in orthography.'
"Beethoven had but one friend, and that friend was Hummel. But poverty and injustice had irritated him, and he was sometimes unjust himself. He quarrelled with Hummel, and for a long time they ceased to meet. To crown his misfortunes, he became completely deaf.
"Then Beethoven retired to Baden, where he lived, isolated and sad, in a small house that scarcely sufficed for his necessities. There his only pleasure was in wandering amid the green alleys of a beautiful forest in the neighborhood of the town. Alone with the birds and the wild flowers, he would then suffer himself to give scope to his genius, to compose his marvellous symphonies, to approach the gates of heaven with melodious accents, and to speak aloud to angels that language which was too beautiful for human ears, and which human ears had failed to comprehend.
"But in the midst of his solitary dreaming a letter arrived, which brought him back, despite himself, to the affairs of the world, where new griefs awaited him.
"A nephew whom he had brought up, and to whom he was attached by the good offices which he had himself performed for the youth, wrote to implore his uncle's presence at Vienna. He had become implicated in some disastrous business, from which his elder relative alone could release him.
"Beethoven set off upon his journey, and, compelled by the necessity of economy, accomplished part of the distance on foot. One evening he stopped before the gate of a small, mean-looking house, and solicited shelter. He had already several leagues to traverse before reaching Vienna, and his strength would not enable him to continue any longer on the road.
"They received him with hospitality: he partook of their supper, and then was installed in the master's chair by the fireside.
"When the table was cleared, the father of the family arose, and opened an old clavecin. The three sons took each a violin, and the mother and daughter occupied themselves in some domestic work.
"The father gave the key-note, and all four began playing with that unity and precision, that innate genius, which is peculiar only to the people of Germany. It seemed that they were deeply interested in what they played; for their whole souls were in the instruments. The two women desisted from their occupation to listen, and their gentle countenances expressed the emotions of their hearts.
"To observe all this was the only share that Beethoven could take in what was passing; for he did not hear a single note. He could only judge of their performance from the movements of the executants, and the fire that animated their features.
"When they had finished they shook each other's hands warmly, as if to congratulate themselves on a community of happiness; and the young girl threw herself weeping into her mother's arms. Then they appeared to consult together: they resumed their instruments; they commenced again. This time their enthusiasm reached its height; their eyes were filled with tears, and the color mounted to their cheeks.
"'My friends,' said Beethoven, 'I am very unhappy that I can take no part in the delight which you experience; for I also love music: but, as you see, I am so deaf that I cannot hear any sound. Let me read this music which produces in you such sweet and lively emotions.'
"He took the paper in his hand: his eyes grew dim, his breath came short and fast; then he dropped the music, and burst into tears.
"These peasants had been playing the allegretto of Beethoven's Symphony in A.
"The whole family surrounded him with signs of curiosity and surprise.
"For some moments his convulsive sobs impeded his utterance; then he raised his head, and said, 'I am Beethoven.'
"And they uncovered their heads, and bent before him in respectful silence. Beethoven extended his hands to them, and they pressed them, kissed, wept over them; for they knew that they had amongst them a man who was greater than a king.
"Beethoven held out his arms, and embraced them all—the father, the mother, the young girl, and her three brothers.
"All at once he rose up, and, sitting down to the clavecin, signed to the young men to take up their violins, and himself performed the piano part of his chef-d'œuvre. The performers were alike inspired: never was music more divine or better executed. Half the night passed away thus, and the peasants listened. Those were the last accents of the swan.
"The father compelled him to accept his own bed; but, during the night, Beethoven was restless and fevered. He rose: he needed air: he went forth with naked feet into the country. All nature was exhaling a majestic harmony; the winds sighing through the branches of the trees, and moaning along the avenues and glades of the wood. He remained some hours wandering thus amid the cool dews of the early morning; but, when he returned to the house, he was seized with an icy chill. They sent to Vienna for a physician. Dropsy on the chest was found to have declared itself; and in two days, despite every care and skill, the doctor said Beethoven must die.
"And, in truth, life was every instant ebbing fast from him.
"As he lay upon his bed, pale and suffering, a man entered. It was Hummel—Hummel, his old and only friend. He had heard of the illness of Beethoven, and he came to him with succor and money. But it was too late: Beethoven was speechless; and a grateful smile was all that he had to bestow upon his friend.
"Hummel bent towards him, and, by the air of an acoustic instrument, enabled Beethoven to hear a few words of his compassion and regret.
"Beethoven seemed re-animated; his eyes shone: he struggled for utterance, and gasped, 'Is it not true, Hummel, that I have some talent, after all?'
"These were his last words. His eyes grew fixed, his mouth fell open, and his spirit passed away.
"They buried him in the little cemetery of Dobling."
Among the most eminent composers of the present century may be mentioned Auber, Schubert, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, Weber, Verdi, and Wagner.
In "The Contemporary Review" there lately appeared the following beautifully worded tribute to the noble qualities of Mendelssohn:—
"Mendelssohn reigns forever in a sweet wayside temple of his own, full of bright dreams and visions, incense, and ringing songs, and partly is he so sweet, because, unburthened with any sense of a message to utter, a mission to develop, he sings like a child in the valleys of asphodel, weaving bright chaplets of spring flowers for the whole world, looking upon the mystery of grief and pain with wide eyes of sympathy, and at last succumbing to it himself, but not understanding it, with a song of tender surprise upon his lips."
Since the times of the great writers of the eighteenth century, and of the first half of the present one, no new developments or advancements have been made in musical creations.[7] Indeed, it would seem that the time has not yet come for attempts to be made to improve upon the works of those great musical luminaries; for they have left too much that is deep, classical, charmingly beautiful, and soul-satisfying. The musical world has paused, not caring to go farther, to conscientiously study their noble creations, so fruitful in the delights, the soul-elevating influences, which they afford.
But, although no great genius has of late years appeared with newer and greater creations to claim our attention from those of the past, it is gratifying to know that great advancement is being made in a more general musical culture among the people; while the number of really great instrumentalists and vocalists is quite large, and is constantly increasing. In these latter respects the present far exceeds the past.[8] In fact, the study of the art of music has begun to be considered a necessity; and ability in its comprehension and performance is now far from being considered as merely an ornamental accomplishment. All this springs from the very nature of this divine art, the mission, so to speak, of which is, to constantly