falls. The two elements of faith and distrust are in conflict, and nothing is accomplished, though all is hoped. Thus ends the "andante," and then breaks in the "scherzo," which is the third movement. Now a new spirit hath grown up, a spirit of strength and power; of giant will as well as of towering aspiration. For a time it tries its strength in sudden efforts of vast force, and then relapses. It is as a champion, who paces the lists, bending his sword to test its temper-shifting his position, and restless for the approaching conflict — then suddenly strengthening and gathering its force to one determination, it spreads its "sail-broad vans for flight." Here the music becomes rapturous in its strength, and the work is accomplished as soon as thought. It soars and soars, and towering onward with a great progression, goes on its limitless journey above, exulting, and as if all barriers were broken down. The motion of the "scherzo " seems to me like that of the gryphon upon which Neptune is mounted in one of Flaxman's outlines. There is in both, the same steady and uniform grandeur. This is the accomplishment of the task, the victory over fate, and only from below come back dim and faint the recollections of a former struggle and a former defeat.

In the music of Beethoven, the simplest thema forms the thread upon which the most wonderful changes are wrought. There are a few notes, a simple hint of enchanting, soulthrilling melody. It is a cloud no larger than a man's hand, which, as the piece proceeds, darkens up the horizon, overspreads the cope of the firmament, and scatters lightning and thunder and the wild blast from its bosom. Through the wildest and most enchaining modulations, passing from key to key through the crash of chords varying from the most determinate and sonorous to the most wailing and suspended the melody moves calmly and steadily. It soars over the

harmonies which roll and sway beneath it even as a broad-pinioned bird with dripping wings flies calmly over the foaming and heaving ocean. Often there is a blaze of terrific splendor, but the general tone of color in Beethoven's music is sombre and dark, with ever and anon a clear pencilling of light, like the track of a falling star. If I were asked to say what chord peculiarly characterized the music of Beethoven, I should say that it was the flat seventh. Yet though the central idea of his music is aspiration, he is not without that sense of humor which ever accompanies genius. This humor takes a peculiar coloring from the vehemence of his nature. Often after an intricate struggle for the expression of a subtle idea, the music suddenly breaks out into the wildest and most terrific changes, catches at the most grotesque chords, and assumes a furious and terrible humor. This does not last long, however, but from exhaustion soon falls into a sad and prolonged wailing, preparatory to the progression of some new and simple phrase.

I have been led to speak more definitely of Beethoven, because he is now beginning to be better known and appreciated, and because most of my hearers have had an opportunity of listening to an orchestral performance of that symphony, an outline of which I have attempted to sketch.

Truly if any one ever felt in his heart of hearts the great value of music, as culture, it was Beethoven. Unswayed and unbiassed by those misunderstandings of the ignorant and envious, which vented themselves in the abuse of his writings, he held a steady, uniform course, even to the end of his life. That indomitable self-trust, which is the concomitant of greatness, never forsook him. He was without vanity, while he clearly apprehended his genius and his mission. Witness that wild and vehement exposition of his creed, which he delivered to Bettina Brentano, in the streets of Vi

enna, and beneath a burning sun: "Music is like wine, inflaming men's minds to new achievements, and I am the Bacchus serving it out to them even unto intoxication. When they are sobered down again, they shall find themselves possessed of a spiritual draught such as shall remain with them even on dry land. I have no friend: I must live all to myself. Yet I know that God is nearer to me than to my brothers in the art. I hold converse with him, and fear not, for I have always known and understood him. Nor do I fear for my works. No evil can befall them; and whosoever shall understand them, he shall be freed from all such misery as burdens mankind."

Well might he have addressed to his art, those lines of Shelley in the "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty:"

"I vowed that I would dedicate my powers

To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow?
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now

I call the phantoms of a thousand hours,

Each from his voiceless grave. They have in visioned bowers
Of studious zeal or love's delight,

Outwatched with me the envious night;

They know that never joy illumed my brow,

Unlinked with hope, that thou would'st free

This world from its dark slavery;

That thou, oh awful Loveliness,

Would'st give whate'er these words cannot express."

Most welcome is it to behold a growing love for art spreading around society its beneficent beams; most cheering are these indications of a susceptibility to beauty gleaming like a smile upon the rugged countenance of our American age. Truly "a thing of beauty is a joy forever." I have little to hope from the music which America shall compose. I seek in vain for indications of a native and spontaneous genius for this art; and it seems to me as if Music was never the

offspring of the Anglo-Saxon mind, though she may well be its friend and intimate. But for that enlargement of soul, that grace of character, that refinement of sentiment, which are the dowry of art, I greet the sound of her coming footsteps. America must owe its regeneration to art. Art will deepen its thought, elevate its impulses, direct its efforts, and be a sure shield against that corruption which is but too often engendered in the warmth of unrestrained republicanism. When art shall supply a channel for the restless activity of the people, and afford scope for the exercise of a different series of powers, they will become less morbidly intent upon the shifting and agitating subject of politics; and while the mind of the country grows deeper and stronger, the legislation will be less swayed by the ignorant enthusiasm of popular factions.

But music, before it can attain that position from which it shall coöperate with the arts in sending forth an influence to purify the morals and strengthen the character, must itself be recognized as an art. Too long has it held only the precarious foothold of an accomplishment, worthy to scourge away no darker fiend than ennui; whose greatest benefit was the relaxation it afforded to the exhausted mind; and whose best use was to supply our leisure hours with an occupation at once harmless and agreeable. Let us take this degrading view of it no longer. That Music may serve such a purpose, we admit; but that this should be considered as her highest culture, is a most gross reproach to an intellectual people. Let us put it in its proper niche, as an art embodying the highest and noblest cravings of our nature, and demanding for its developement not the chance effort of a leisure hour, but the steady pursuit of a whole life; an art whose labyrinths it is permitted only to master spirits to thread; a height from which the low interests and offices of every-day

business, soiled as they are by falsehood, meanness and servility, only look the meaner and more dwarfish; a universal language, which penetrates the dimmest chambers of the spirit, evokes the recollections of the past and the hopes of the future awakens high resolutions, earnest wishes and noble desires-speaks with the voice of angels, and is the nearest language to the soul of man; an art which demands an assiduous cultivation of powers, a delicate susceptibility of organization, a subtle apprehension of the intuitions, the utmost weakness conjoined with the utmost strength, for its attainment. It is not until we take this truth to heart, that music will receive its due.

Nature is crowded full of music. No motion can occur without expressing it: from the moaning pine tree to the "solemn sea-like bass" of a thousand voices. Wood and wire, earth, air and ocean are full of music; and those wild inarticulate breathings of sound, seem to be to nature what the soul is to man. As in every soul there lies the germ of all powers and the prophecy of immortality-so every note contains the embryo chord and predicts its harmony.

Music is in its essence the principle of all art. So soon as the soul assumes for its product the roughest garb of art, so soon is there perceptible the shadow of music; as in the rhythm of poetry, the modulation of prose, the flowing outline of sculpture, the harmonies of color, the "frozen music" of architecture, the varying intonation of common speech, in the smile, in grace, which is musical motion, in nature, which is the art of God. Almost it seems to be the soul of the universe, which weaves all nature symmetrically and harmoniously around itself. The fabled music of the spheres; the Theban walls which gathered orderly at the lyre of Amphion; the evocation of Eurydice from the jaws of Erebus; the Cerberus which Orpheus charmed; are all but recogni