"Opus 21."—So, when Beethoven came of age, musically speaking, he wrote his first symphony. Ah! who can realize the feelings of a Beethoven sitting down to write his first symphony; fuller feelings probably were not, and could not, be in the world, among all the manifestations of human existence. What flush of hope! what throbs of pleasure! what high-beating plethora of imaginative blood! what almost painful fulness!—necessity to rush forth in poetic utterance, and fling all together what of latent as well as patent was within him! what struggling consciousness—what waking sense of giant powers—what secret assurance in the end of immortal victory, nay, perhaps, of an empire in music towering aloft above that of Hadyn and Mozart and predecessors and successors of all nations and individualities. I envy neither the powers nor immortality of that contemporary, Napoleon, compared with those of Beethoven:—Meteoric Corsican adventurer—eternal eldest son of genius! Dazzling egotist and semi-quack—concentrated sun of nature and the imperishable heavens!—I wonder what Beethoven had been reading previous to undertaking his first symphony—what he had been doing, talking, thinking! I like to picture imaginary scenes where he sat down to the intoxicating enterprise. Was it in the country, of an early morning, all dripping in the sunshine like the orange-bowers 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 road to righteous victory—"Against the tyrant fought with holy glee." The pp strain ensuing does not strike as incongruous, but of peculiar feeling and beauty. How beautifully melody, harmony, and bass, are all one—work together for good, and progress to the climax. As a bit of writing, it is a model for study; a very charming instance of the success of true scholarship and feeling—scholarship based on feeling; scholarship unconscious, so that the effect is nature. The codetta carries us back again to the pastoral mood—whence we are congruously re-taken to the warlike by the pompous vague chords—long used before Stephen Heller, for instance!—at the end.

Part No. 2 suggests at the outset one broad general remark, which we hasten to make. It is this. Beethoven, herein not original, but imitative, generally confines himself—in the sonatas as well—to making the second part mostly a mere elaboration of the first. Now, we beg—at all events, at this time of day—to dissent from, and traverse this. We are for making your first part long enough, and repeating it if you will; but for giving us mostly new ideas, yet in character, in the second. We are not afraid of the "as a whole" theory; da capo we traverse the dogma that what you have got to do is, to give one good idea thoroughly worked out. Wagner has carried this to a wearisome excess. We want no opera or symphony constructed out of "four notes" or forty. elaboration does not disguise—or rather conceal—the essential sameness—which becomes tameness. And we don't want as sets-off mere "episodes." Beethoven's episodes, as here, are of course, interesting; but, because episodes (?) fragmentary, intercalated, rather than essential; postponements of the old "Hauptsache," rather than independent new ideas. Because this second part is essentially but an elaboration (often a mere repetition, in another key, of ideas already repeated—surely, for the most part, an exploded error?), we have little new to say. The harmonious progressions to the episodes will be studied and felt by every musician. The minor passage, la—do—mi—sol nat.—la, is fine, but not novel in Beethoven. The crash, ff, is characteristically grand; the whole elaboration full again of power—power that is, and prophetic power to do; power latent and patent. At the beautiful contrapuntal passage in E flat we are again reminded of the F Sonata. The melodious breathings—which must be studied—a little farther on, teach us the very beautiful and interesting lesson (another subject for essay) of the unconscious effect of imitation; and of the unconscious imitation which often lies in effect. The progressions and culminations are Beethovenially grand; in fact, the whole second part superior, if possible, to the first, once admitted the right or propriety of the modus operandi. As a whole, the movement stands four-square, noble, filling us with the benefit and pleasure of energetic beauty. This is life—mens sana in corpore sano; no hint or shadow of madness; youthful power, generosity, enthusiasm, valour, and hope. At that utterance when first heard, once more men must have felt "a man-child is born into the world;" and the government shall be upon his shoulders—note especially, the do, do, la, do sharp, passage, and other culminations. Here, though Beethoven has not surpassed, if rivalled, the "Allegro" of Op. 13, he has given it a worthy counterpart. We are invigorated, and cheered—nay, roused to enthusiasm; poured full of virtuous resolve and noble daring. Lebe hoch der junge Beethoven! Au reste—we should have to use much colder language for the other movements (except the splendid minuet, so superior to the trio, which also suggests incongruity—unless we like to call it contrast?). The andante seems in no way superior to Haydn, and becomes veritably langweilig. How inferior to the "Andante, Op. 26!" The rondo is, comparatively, mere trifling—we are inclined to say, unworthy of Beethoven. We have no real pleasure in playing it, but constantly think, "Oh, for the first movement!" Summing up this symphony, we may perhaps decide: On the whole, guilty of incongruity—of want of proper consciousness. Why this halting between the pastoral and warlike? If your "as a whole" theory is good for a movement, why not for a symphony? due allowance for contrast excepted. Certainly, it may be said, the symphony is of unequal value; and that had Beethoven given us all equal to the "Allegro," it would have been a truly great symphony, quite worthy of his great name. As it is, the allegro and minuet alone partake of the immortal.