Both Lenz and Marx (p. 9) relate the old exploded story of the child Beethoven and the spider. The former found it in the "Leipziger Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung," and probably had not authorities at hand to correct it. Had Marx sent to the Library for Disjouval's "Arachnologie," the work which he gives as his authority, he would have found, that, not Beethoven, but the French violinist Berthaume, was the hero of the anecdote,—as, indeed, is also related in Schilling's Encyclopaedia, not many pages after Marx's own article on Beethoven in that work.
That Lenz should misdate Beethoven's visit to Berlin is not strange; that Marx, a Berliner, should, is. Nor is it remarkable that Lenz knows nothing of Beethoven's years of service as member of the Electoral orchestra at Bonn; but how Marx should have overlooked it, in case he has made any researches into the composer's early history, is beyond our comprehension.
Schindler has mistaken the date of certain letters written by Beethoven long before he had any personal intercourse with him,—the notes to Julia Guicciardi,—which he dates 1806. Both Lenz and Marx follow him in the date; both quote Beethoven's words, that the lady in question married Count Gallenberg before the departure of the latter to Italy; both coincide in overlooking the circumstance related in the "Leipziger Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung," that, before June, 1806, a grand performance of music, composed and directed by Gallenberg, took place at Naples in honor of Joseph Bonaparte;—proof sufficient that Beethoven could not in July of that year have addressed the lady in these terms: "Mein Engel, mein Alles, mein Ich!"
Both Marx and Lenz relate the following anecdote. Haydn, meeting Beethoven, praised the Septett of the latter; upon which the young man exclaimed, deprecatingly, "Ah, it is far from being a 'Creation'!" To which Haydn replied, "That you could not have written, for you are an atheist!"
That the absurdity of making Beethoven, then a man of thirty and supposed to be possessed of common sense, hint at any comparison of a piece of chamber-music with one of the grandest of oratorios, and that, too, to the author himself, should not have struck Marx, is strange; nor is it less so, that, in the course of his researches, he has not met with the correction of the story, by the late Alois Fuchs of Vienna.
In fact, the ballet "Prometheus," in which the progress of man from a state of rude nature to the highest culture and refinement is depicted, and the "Creation," were both given for the first time within a few weeks of each other. The affinity of the subjects is clear, and the remark of the young man, "Ah, dear papa, it is far from being a 'Creation'!" is only natural. "No," said Haydn, "it is indeed not a 'Creation,' nor do I think its author will ever reach that!"
In the dates given by Marx to Beethoven's compositions he generally coincides with Lenz, in his "Catalogue," particularly when the latter is wrong,—and when he differs from him, he is as apt to be wrong as right. Any person who has both works at command may easily verify this remark.
But we cannot dwell longer on this point.
Reminiscences of Rufus Choate, The Great American Advocate. By EDWARD G. PARKER. New York: Mason Brothers. 1860.
We think it our duty to state our judgment of this book, because it professes to give personal reminiscences, by a familiar friend, of a remarkable and distinguished man of our own time and country, has been much read and discussed, and has gained a good deal of popularity of a certain sort; it therefore belongs somewhere in the literature of the day. Perhaps it would have been for the good of some of our readers, if we had done this sooner. But, indeed, to treat with entirely condign justice a book which deals very freely and flippantly with the literary and even the personal character of one who, though an eminent and to some extent a public man, was still only yesterday a private gentleman among us, a neighbor and a friend, is a matter of some delicacy. By the extraordinary alacrity with which this book was produced the author got a little the start of criticism, perhaps; but we should fail in our duty as reviewers, if he altogether escaped it. In all charity, we are bound, for that matter, to give him the full benefit of the speed he has exhibited, in so far as it may serve to explain, if it cannot extenuate, the wretched manner in which he has performed his self-appointed task.