"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.