BEETHOVEN.
If, dear reader, you have never been so happy as to travel through the beautiful country of the Rhine, I wish from my heart you may speedily have that pleasure; for truly, he who has not seen that unrivalled land, with its pretty villages and its noble cities, its smiling villas and vineyards, and romantic ruined castles—its lordly Rhine, the father of all—nor heard the cheerful songs of its peasants, laboring in the vineyards, cannot know how dear and lovely is our native Germany!
If you have been at Bonn, dear reader, it follows as a matter of course, that you left not unvisited the venerable cathedral. And how solemn and strange the feeling that filled your heart, when entering, for the first time, beneath the shadow of those lofty, twilight arches! An awful stillness prevailed around, and speaking pictures looked forth upon you; then as you advanced, streams of softened light came downward from the arched windows of the gigantic nave! The organ was heard; a low, distant murmur, swelling louder and higher, till, rising into powerful harmony, the “Gloria” burst forth; then, overpowered by emotion, rapt in contemplation of the unspeakable greatness of Deity—conscious of the feebleness of man—you could but kneel and adore!
At least, so it was with me—and often so—when a youth. I have listened to that music, heard it from beginning to end, then rushed down from the choir, to throw myself prostrate on the marble pavement, and weep tears of joy! Were not heaven and earth my own? Did I not see them in their holiest loveliness? Heard I not enraptured, their thousand thousand voices—from the sweet murmuring of the flowers, to the awe-inspiring thunder-peal? Understood I not the mysterious harmony of all I saw and heard?
Alas! those years of enthusiasm are flown; the harmony is broken! The flowers that mark the coming of spring, have no longer a voice for me; the startling thunder, that once spoke of the sunshine and beauty about to succeed the short-lived storm—has no significance; even the tones of that magnificent music fail to lift my soul to the height of devotion, inspiring her to mingle her adoration with the world-wide hymn of praise! My heart is hard and cold; but seldom roused, and relapsing into deadness when the brief excitement is over. I am older even in feeling than in years. I shun the merry company of men; I shudder at their jests—their careless hearts—their jovial faces; for they seem to me like shadows—gibbering forms—that mockingly repeat the tones of life. Enough of myself; how prone are we to run into egotism! Let me rather amuse the reader by some reminiscences of a gifted individual, whose fame is linked with the scenes I have spoken of.