THE MISSION OF GENIUS.

THE MISSION OF GENIUS.

It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; one of those days late in the season, when the luxuriant beauty of summer is the more precious, because it must soon depart. The serenity of the skies, the blandness of the atmosphere, deepening to a refreshing coolness as the day drew near its close, the bright green of the foliage, and the clear blue of the waters, added joyousness to the wonted cheerfulness of a holiday in the fair city of Bonn and its neighborhood. Numerous boats, with parties of pleasure on board were passing up and down the Rhine; numerous companies of old and young were assembled under the trees in the public gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and each other’s conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet. But we have nought to do with any of these.

At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small sparkling stream, that flung itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a valley. The sides, almost precipitous, were richly lined with verdure; the trees overhung it so closely that at noon-day this sweet nook was dark as twilight; and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream. A winding path led down to the secluded spot.

Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a boy; for his frame showed but little development of strength, and his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, theresult of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of tender years. His eyes would alone have given him the credit of uncommon beauty; they were large, dark, and so bright that it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or never smiled.

A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His home was an unhappy one. He had been treated from infancy with harshness by his father. His brothers received hourly indulgences; Louis had none. They were praised for their application to study, or pardoned when they played truant; Louis was called a dunce, and punished severely for the slightest neglect. His brothers jeered and rallied him continually; he responded by sullen silence. The father boasted of them as his pride, and denounced Louis as an ungrateful blockhead, who had no aptitude nor taste for learning.

Besides that this cruel partiality sank deep into the boy’s heart, and nourished a feeling of jealousy and discontent, Louis felt within himself that he in some degree deserved the charge of neglecting his lessons. His general studies were utterly distasteful and disgusting to him: and he found application to them impossible. His whole soul was given up to one passion—the love of music.

Oh, how precious to him were the moments of solitude! He lived for this—even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither he would retire at night when released from irksome labor, and spend hours of delight stolen from slumber, till nature yielded to exhaustion. But to be alone with nature—in her grand woods—under the blue sky—with no human voice to mar the infinite harmony! how did his heart pant for this communion! Welcome, thrice welcome, the permission given to spend this holiday as he pleased; and while others of his age joined lively parties of their friends, he stole forth from the busy city, and wandered far as he dared, in search of solitude.—His breast seemed to expand, and fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The lightbreeze rustling in the leaves came to his ear laden with a thousand melodies; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language for him. His spirit, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy. Yes—the lonely—friendless boy, to whom no father’s heart was open, was happy—beyond measure happy!

Blessed is the poet; for him there is an inner life, more glowing, more radiant, more intense than the life of other men! For him there is a voice in nature, mute to others, that whispers of peace and love, and immortal joy. To him the visible enshrines the invisible: the earthly is but the shell of the god-like, with which his spirit claims kindred. Wo to him, if he, the appointed interpreter of Heaven, do not reveal to men less favored the utterings of that mysterious voice; if he suffer not the light within him to radiate a glory, that it may enlighten the earth!

The hours wore on, a dusky shadow fell over foliage and stream, and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing his own name; and presently a man apparently middle-aged, and dressed plainly, stood just in front of him.

“Come back, Louis,” said the stranger; “it is not so dark as it seems here: you have time enough this hour, to return to the city.”

The stranger’s voice had a thrilling, though melancholy sweetness; and Louis suffered him to take his hand and lead him back. They seated themselves in the shade beside the water.

“I have watched you for a long while,” said the stranger.

“You might have done better,” returned the lad, reddening at the thought of having been subjected to espionage.

“Peace—boy,” said his companion: “I love you, and have done all for your good.”

“You love me?” repeated Louis, surprised. “I have never met you before.”

“Yet I know you well. Does that surprise you? I know your thoughts also. You love music better than aught else in theworld; but you despair of excellence—because you cannot follow the rules prescribed.”

Louis looked at the speaker with open eyes.

“Your masters, also, despair of you. The court organist accuses you of conceit and obstinacy; your father reproaches you; and all your acquaintance pronounce you a boy of tolerable abilities, spoiled by an ill disposition.”

The lad sighed.

“The gloom of your condition increases your distaste to all studies not directly connected with music, for you feel the need of her consolations. Your compositions, wild, melancholy as they are, embody your own feelings, and are understood by none of the connoisseurs.”

“Who are you?” cried Louis—in deep emotion.

“No matter who I am; I come to give you a little advice, my boy. I compassionate, yet I revere you. I revere your heaven-imparted genius; I commisserate the woes those very gifts must bring upon you through life!”

The boy lifted his eyes again; those of the speaker seemed so bright, yet withal so melancholy, that he was possessed with a strange fear. “I see you,” continued the unknown solemnly, “exalted above homage, but lonely and unblessed in your elevation. Yet the lot of such is fixed by fate; and ’tis better, perhaps, that one should consume in the sacred fire, than that the many should lack illumination.”

“I do not understand you;” said Louis—wishing to put an end to the interview.

“That is not strange, since you do not understand yourself,” said the stranger. “As for me—I pay homage to a future sovereign!” and he suddenly snatched up the boy’s hand and kissed it. Louis was convinced of his insanity.

“A sovereign in art”—continued the unknown. “The sceptre that Haydn and Mozart have held, shall pass without interregnum to your hands. When you are acknowledged in all Germany for the worthy successor of these great masters—whenall Europe wonders at the name ofBeethoven—remember me.”

What a prediction to the obscure lad, whom his father, a tenor singer in the Elector’s chapel, almost daily called a blockhead!

“But you have much ground to pass over,” resumed the stranger, “ere you reach that glorious summit. Reject not the aid of science; of literature; there are studies now disagreeable, that still may prove serious helps to you in the cultivation of music. Contemn notanylearning; for Art is a coy damsel, and would have her votaries all-accomplished! Above all—trust yourself. Whatever may happen, give no place to despondency. They blame you for your disregard of rules; make for yourself higher and vaster rules! You will not be appreciated here; but there are other places in the world: in Vienna”—

“Oh, if I could only go to Vienna;” sighed the lad.

“Youshallgo there, and remain;” said the stranger, “and there too you shall see me, or hear from me. Adieu now—auf wiedersehen.” (“To meet again.”)

And before the boy could recover from his astonishment, the stranger was gone. It was nearly dark, and he could see nothing of him as he walked through the wood. He could not, however, spend much time in search; for he dreaded the reproaches of his father for having stayed out so late.

All the way home he was trying to remember where he had seen the unknown, whose features, though he could not say to whom they belonged, were not unfamiliar to him. It occurred to him at last, that while playing before the Elector one day, a countenance similar in benevolent expression, had looked upon him from the circle surrounding the sovereign. But known or unknown, the “auf wiedersehen” of his late companion rang in his ears, while the friendly counsel sank deep in his heart.

Traversing rapidly the streets of Bonn, young Beethoven was soon at his own door. An unusual bustle within attracted his attention. To his eager questions the servants replied that their master was dying. Louis had ever loved his father, notwithstandinghis harshness; and shocked to hear of his danger, he flew to his apartment. His brothers were there, also his mother, weeping; and the physician supported his father, who seemed in great pain.

The elder Beethoven lingered long enough to know, and to be touched by, the filial attentions of his son; when he died, it was with affectionate regret that Louis closed his eyes.

Much needed, and of incalculable use, were the counsel and comfort of the unknown friend. They sustained the youthful composer amid the railleries, the reproaches, the anger of all who knew him in his native city, excited by what they termed his scorn of the laws of harmony; they sustained him against discouragement and self-distrust, nourished by continual censure in a character naturally gloomy and eccentric; against temptations to gain popularity by humoring the prevalent taste; against the desire of triumphing at once over his enemies by showing them that he could be great, even on their own ground. Still more—they sustained him amidst the anguish of a first and unhappy love; the only passion that ever divided with Art the empire over his soul. Most of all, they sustained him under the want of appreciation where he had confidently looked for it. When the Elector, having promised him after Neefe the place of court organist, sent him to Vienna to complete his studies under the direction of Haydn, that great man failed to perceive how fine a genius had been entrusted to him. Nature had endowed them with opposite qualities; the inspiration of Haydn was under the dominion of order and method; that of Beethoven sported with both, and set both at defiance. When Haydn was questioned of the merits of his pupil he would answer with a shrug of the shoulders—“He executes extremely well.” If his early productions were cited as giving evidence of talent and fire, he would reply—“He touches the instrument admirably.” To Mozart belonged the praise of having recognized at once, and proclaimed to his friends, the wonderful powers of the young composer.

Years passed on, and Beethoven continued to reside at Vienna with his two brothers, who had followed him thither, and took the charge of his domestic establishment, so as to leave him entirely at leisure for composition. His reputation had advanced gradually but surely, and he now stood high, if not highest, among living masters. The prediction was beginning to be accomplished.

It was a mild evening in the latter part of September, and a large company was assembled at the charming villa of the Baron Raimond von Wetzlar, situated near Schœnbrunn. They had been invited to be present at a musical contest between the celebrated Wolff and Beethoven. The part of Wolff was espoused with great enthusiasm by the Baron; that of Beethoven by the Prince de Lichnowsky; and, as in all such matters, partisans swarmed on either side. The popular talk among the music-loving Viennese was everywhere discussion of the merits of the rival candidates for fame.

Our hero was walking in one of the avenues of the illuminated garden, accompanied by his pupil, Ferdinand Ries. The melancholy that marked the composer’s temperament, seemed more than ever to have the ascendency over him.

“I confess to you, Ferdinand,” said he—apparently in continuation of some previous conversation, “I regret my engagement with Sonnleithner.”

“And yet you have written the opera?”

“I have completed it, but not to my own satisfaction. And I shall object to its being produced first at Vienna.”

“Why so? The Viennese are your friends.”

“For that very reason I will not appeal to their judgment; I want an impartial one. I distrust my genius for the opera.”

“How can that be possible?”

“It is my intimacy with Salieri that has inclined me that way; nature did not suggest it; I can never feel at home there. Ferdinand,I am self-upbraided, and should be, were the applause of a thousand spectators sounding in my ears.”

“Nay,” said the student, “the artist assumes too much who judges himself.”

“But I have not judged myself.”

“Who then has dared insinuate a doubt of your success?”

Beethoven hesitated; his impressions, his convictions, would seem superstition to his companion, and he was not prepared to encounter either raillery or ridicule. Just then, the host with a party of the guests met them, exclaiming that they had been everywhere sought; that the company was all assembled in the saloon, and everything ready for the exhibition.

“You are bent on making a gladiator of me, dear Baron,” cried the composer, “in order that I may be mangled and torn to pieces for the popular amusement by your favorite Wolff.”

“Heaven forbid that I should prejudge either combatant,” cried von Wetzlar. “The lists are open; the prize is to be awarded not by me.”

“But your good wishes—your hopes—”

“Oh, as to that, I must frankly own, I prefer the good old school to your new-fangled conceits and innovations. But come—the audience waits.”

Each in turn the two rivals played a piece composed by himself, accompanied by select performers. Then each improvised a short piece. The delight of the spectators was called forth in different ways. In the production of Wolff, a sustained elevation, clearness and brilliancy recalled the glories of Mozart’s school, and moved the audience to repeated bursts of admiration. In that of Beethoven there was a startling boldness, an impetuous rush of emotion, a frequency of abrupt contrasts—and withal a certain wildness and mystery—that irresistibly enthralled the feelings, while it outraged at the same time their sense of musical propriety. There was little applause, but the deep silence, prolonged even after the notes had ceased, told how intensely all had been interested.

The victory remained undecided. There was a clamor of eagervoices among the spectators, but no one could collect the suffrages, nor determine which was the successful champion in the contest. The Prince Lichnowsky, however, stood up, and boldly claimed it for his favorite.

“Nay,” interrupted Beethoven, advancing, “my dear Prince, there has been no contest.” He offered his hand to his opponent. “We may still esteem each other, Wolff, for we are not rivals. Our style is essentially different; I yield to you the palm of excellence in the qualities that distinguish you.”

“You are right, my friend!” cried Wolff; “henceforth let there be no more talk of championship between us. I will hold him for my enemy who ventures to compare me with you; you, so superior in the path you have chosen. It is a higher path than mine, an original one; I follow contentedly in the course marked out by others.”

“But our paths lead to the same goal,” said Beethoven. “We will speed each other with good wishes; and embrace cordially when we meetTHEREat last.”

There was unusual solemnity in the composer’s last words, and it put an end at once to the discussion. All responded warmly to his sentiment. But amidst the general murmur of approbation one voice was heard, that seemed strangely to startle Beethoven. His face grew pale, then flushed deeply; and the next moment he pressed his way hastily through the crowd, and seized by the arm a retreating figure.

“You shall see me in Vienna,” whispered the stranger in his ear.

“Yet a word with you. You shall not escape me thus.”

“Auf wiedersehen!” And shaking off the grasp, the stranger disappeared.

No one had observed his entrance: the host knew him not, and though most of the company remarked the composer’s singular emotion, none could inform him whither the unbidden guest had gone. Beethoven remained abstracted during the rest of the evening.

The opera of “Leonore” was represented at Prague; it met with but indifferent success. At Vienna, however, it commanded unbounded applause. Several alterations had been made in it; the composer had written a new overture, and the finale of the first act; he had suppressed a duo and trio of some importance, and made other improvements and retrenchments. Not small was his triumph at the favorable decision of the Viennese public. A new turn seemed to be given to his mind; he revolved thoughts of future conquests over the same portion of the realm of art; he no longer questioned his own spirit. It was a crisis in the artist’s life, and might have resulted in his choice of a different career from that in which he has won undying fame.

Beethoven sat alone in his study; there was a light knock at the door. He replied with a careless “come in,” without looking up from his work. He was engaged in revising the last scenes of his opera.

The visitor walked to the table, and stood there a few minutes unobserved. Probably the artist mistook him for one of his brothers; but on looking up, he started with indescribable surprise. The unknown friend of his youth stood beside him.

“So, you have kept your word,” said the composer, when he had recovered from his first astonishment; “and now, I pray you, sit down, and tell me with whom I have the honor of having formed acquaintance in so remarkable a manner.”

“My name is of no importance, as it may or may not prove known to you,” replied the stranger. “I am your good genius, if my counsel does you good; if not, I would prefer to take an obscure place among your disappointed friends.”

There was a tone of grave rebuke in what his visitor said, that perplexed and annoyed the artist. It struck him that there was affectation in this assumption of mystery; and he observed coldly—

“I shall not attempt, of course, to deprive you of your incognito: but if you assume it for the sake of effect, I would merely give you to understand that I am not prone to listen to anonymous advice.”

“Oh that you would listen,” said the stranger, sorrowfully shaking his head, “to the pleadings of your better nature!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Beethoven, starting up.

“Ask your own heart. If that acquit you, I have nothing to say. I leave you then, to the glories of your new career; to the popular applause—to your triumphs—to your remorse.”

The composer was silent a few moments, and appeared agitated. At last he said: “I know not your reasons for this mystery; but whatever they may be, I will honor them. I entreat you to speak frankly. You do not approve my present undertaking?”

“Frankly, I do not. Your genius lies not this way;” and he raised some of the leaves of the opera music.

“How know you that?” asked the artist, a little mortified. “You, perhaps, despise the opera?”

“I do not. I love it; I honor it; I honor the noble creations of those great masters who have excelled in it. But you, my friend, are beckoned to a higher, a holier path.”

“How know you that?” repeated Beethoven; and this time his voice faltered.

“Because I know you; because I know the aspirations of your genius; because I know the misgivings that pursue you in the midst of success; the self-reproach that you suffer to be stifled in the clamor of popular praise. Even now, in the midst of your triumph, you are haunted by the consciousness that you are not fulfilling the true mission of the artist.”

His piercing words were winged with truth itself. Beethoven buried his face in his hands.

“Wo to you,” cried the unknown, “if you suppress, till they are wholly dead, your once earnest longings after the pure and the good! Wo to you, if, charmed by the siren song of vanity, you close your ears against the cry of a despairing world! Wo to you, if you resign unfulfilled the trust God committed to your hands; to sustain the weak and faltering soul, to give it strength to bear the ills of life, strength to battle against evil, to face the last enemy!”

“You are right—you are right?” exclaimed Beethoven, clasping his hands.

“I once predicted your elevation, your world-wide fame,” continued the stranger, “for I saw you sunk in despondency, and knew that your spirit must be aroused—to bear up against trial. You stand now on the verge of a more dreadful abyss. You are in danger of making the gratification of your own pride, instead of the fulfilment of Heaven’s will, the aim—the goal of your life’s efforts.”

“Oh, never!” cried the artist; “with you to guide me——”

“We shall meet no more. I watched over you in boyhood; I have now come from retirement to give you my last warning; henceforth I shall observe your course in silence. And I shall not go unrewarded. I know too well the noble spirit that burns in your breast! You will—yes—you will fulfil your mission; your glory from this time shall rest on a basis of immortality. You shall be hailed the benefactor of humanity; and the spiritual joy you prepare for others shall return to you in full measure, pressed down, and running over!”

The artist’s kindling features showed that he responded to the enthusiasm of his visitor; but he answered not.

“And now farewell. But remember, before you can accomplish this lofty mission, you must be baptised with a baptism of fire. The tones that are to agitate and stir up to revolution the powers of the human soul, come not forth from an unruffled breast, but from the depths of a sorely wrung and tried spirit. You must steal the triple flame from heaven; and it will first consume the peace of your own being. Remember this—and droop not when the hour of trial comes! Farewell!”

The stranger crossed his hands over Beethoven’s head, as if mentally invoking a blessing—folded him in his embrace, and departed. The artist made no effort to follow him. Deep and bitter were the thoughts that moved within him; and he remained leaning his head on the table in silent revery, or walking the room with rapid and irregular steps, for many hours. At length thestruggle was over; pale, but composed, he took up the sheets of his opera and threw them carelessly into his desk. His next work, “Christ in the Mount of Olives,” attested the high and firm resolve of his mind, sustained by its self-reliance, and independent of popular applause or disapprobation. His great symphonies, which carried the fame of the composer to its highest point, displayed the same triumph of religious principle.

Once more we find Beethoven, in the extreme decline of life. In one of the most obscure and narrow streets of Vienna, on the third floor of a gloomy-looking house, was now the abode of the gifted artist. For many weary and wasting years he had been the prey of a cruel malady, that defied the power of medicine for its cure, and had reduced him to a state of utter helplessness. His ears had been long closed to the music that owed its birth to his genius; it was long since he had heard the sound of a human voice.

In the melancholy solitude to which he now condemned himself, he received visits from but few of his friends, and those at rare intervals. Society seemed a burthen to him. Yet he persisted in his labors, and continued to compose, notwithstanding his deafness, those undying works which commanded for him the homage of Europe.

Proofs of this feeling, and of the unforgotten affection of those who knew his worth, reached him in his retreat from time to time. Now it was a medal struck at Paris, and bearing his features; now it was a new piano, the gift of some amateurs in London; at another time, some honorary title decreed him by the authorities of Vienna, or a diploma of membership of some distinguished musical society. All these moved him not, for he had quite outlived his taste for the honors of man’s bestowing. What could they—what could even the certainty that he had won immortal fame, do to soften the anguish of his malady, from which he looked alone to death as a relief?

“They wrong me who call me stern or misanthropic,” said he to his brother, who came in March, 1827, to pay him a visit. “God knoweth how I love my fellow-men! Has not my life been theirs? Have I not struggled with temptation, trial and suffering from my boyhood till now, for their sakes? and now, if I no longer mingle among them, is it not because my cruel infirmity unfits me for their companionship? When my fearful doom of separation from the rest of the human race is forced on my heart, do I not writhe with terrible agony, and wish that my end were come? And why, brother, have I lived, to drag out so wretched an existence? Why have I not succumbed ere now?

“I will tell you, brother. A soft and gentle hand—it was that of Art—held me back from the abyss. I could not quit the world before I had produced all—had done all that I was appointed to do!When my mission is accomplished, then thrice welcome death! I have been guided through life by Patience, the handmaid of Truth; I will go with her even to the footstool of the Eternal.”

The servant of the house entered, and gave Beethoven a large sealed package directed to himself. He opened it; it contained a magnificent collection of the works of Händel, with a few lines stating that it was a dying bequest to the composer, from the Count di N——. He it was who had been the unknown counsellor of Beethoven’s youth and manhood; and the arrival of this posthumous present seemed to assure the artist that his own close of life was crowned with the approval of his friend. It was as if a seal had been set on that approbation, and the friendship of two noble spirits. It seemed like the dismissal of Beethoven from all further toil. Could it be that nothing more remained for him to accomplish on earth?

The old man stooped his face over the papers; tears fell upon them, and he breathed a silent prayer. After a few moments he arose, and said, somewhat wildly, “We have not walked to-day, Carl. Let us go forth. This confined air suffocates me.”

The wind was howling violently without; the rain beat in gustsagainst the windows; it was a bitter night. The brother wrote on a slip of paper, and handed it to Beethoven.

“A storm?—well—I have walked in many a storm, and I like it better than the biting melancholy that preys upon me here in my solitary room. Oh, how I loved the storm once; my spirit danced with joy when the winds blew fiercely, and the tall trees rocked, and the sea lashed itself into fury. It was all music to me. Alas! there is no music now so loud that I can hear it.

“Do you remember the last time I led the orchestra in the concert at Von——’s? Ah! you were not there; but I heard—yes—by leaning my breast against the instrument. When some one asked me how I heard, I replied, ‘J’entends avec mes entrailles.’”[10]

Disturbed by his nervous restlessness, the aged composer went to the window, and opened it with trembling hands. The wind blew aside his white locks, and cooled his feverish forehead.

“I have one fear,” he said, turning to his brother, and slightly shuddering, “that haunts me at times. It is the fear of poverty. Look at this meanly-furnished room, that single lamp, my meager fare; and yet, all these cost money, and my little wealth is daily consumed. Think of the misery of an old man, helpless and deaf, without the means of subsistence!”

“Have you not your pension secure?”

“It depends on the bounty of those who bestowed it; and the favor of princes is capricious. Then, again, it was given on condition I remained in the territory of Austria, at the time the King of Westphalia offered me the place of chapel-master at Cassel. Alas! I cannot bear the restriction. I must travel, brother; I must leave this city.”

“You—leave Vienna?” exclaimed his brother in utter amazement, looking at the feeble old man whose limbs could scarcely bear him from one street to another. Then recollecting himself, he wrote down his question.

“Why? Because I am restless and unhappy. I have no peace, Carl! is it not the chafing of the unchained spirit, that pants to be free, and to wander through God’s limitless universe? Alas! she is built up in a wall of clay, and not a sound can penetrate her gloomy dungeon!”

Overcome by his feelings, the old man bowed his head on his brother’s shoulder, and wept bitterly. Carl saw that the delirium which sometimes accompanied his paroxysms of illness had clouded his faculties.

The malady increased. The sufferer’s eyes were glazed; he grasped his brother’s hand with a tremulous pressure.

“Carl! Carl! I pardon you the evil you did me in childhood; I have pardoned all. Pray for me, brother!” cried the failing voice of the artist.

His brother supported him to the sofa, and called for assistance. In an hour the room was filled with the neighbors and friends of the dying man. He seemed gradually sinking into insensibility.

Suddenly he revived; a bright smile illumined his whole face; his sunken eyes sparkled. “I shallhearin heaven!” he murmured softly, and then sang in a low but distinct voice the lines from a hymn of his own:—

“Brüder!—über ’m Sternenzelt,Muss ein lieberVaterwohnen.”

“Brüder!—über ’m Sternenzelt,Muss ein lieberVaterwohnen.”

“Brüder!—über ’m Sternenzelt,Muss ein lieberVaterwohnen.”

“Brüder!—über ’m Sternenzelt,

Muss ein lieberVaterwohnen.”

In the last faint tone of the music his gentle spirit passed away.

Thus died Beethoven, a true artist, a good and generous man. Simple, frank, loyal to his principles, his life was spent in working out what he conceived his duty; and though his task was wrought in privation, in solitude and distress, though happiness was not his lot in this world, doth there not remain for him an eternal reward?

The Viennese gave him a magnificent funeral. More than thirty thousand persons attended; the first musicians of the city executed the celebrated funeral march composed by him, andplaced in his heroic symphony; the most famous poets and artists were pall-bearers, or carried the torches; Hummel, who had come from Weimar expressly to see him, placed a laurel crown upon his tomb. Prague, Berlin, and all the principal cities of Germany paid honors to his memory, and solemnized with pomp the anniversary of his death. Such was the distinction heaped on the dust of him whose life had been one of suffering, and whose last years had been solitary, because he felt that his infirmities excluded him from human brotherhood.

FOOTNOTES:[10]Fact.

[10]Fact.

[10]Fact.

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