reason for the charge. He has not the full, round, healthy, development
which belongs to the perfect type of Art. Compare the "St. Cecilia" of
Scheffer--this single figure, with such womanly depth of feeling, such
lofty inspiration, yet so sad--with the joyous and almost girlish grace
of Raphael's representation of the same subject, and we feel at once the
height and the limitation of Scheffer's genius. There is always pathos,
always suffering; we cannot recall a single subject, unless it be the
group of rising spirits, in which struggle and sorrow do not form the
key-note.

"In all your music, one pathetic minor
Your ears shall cross;
And all fair sights shall mind you of diviner,
With sense of loss."

This is one view of human life, but it is a transitional and imperfect
one,--neither that of the first healthy unconsciousness of childhood,
nor of the full consciousness of a soul which has risen to that height
of divine wisdom which feels the meaning of all suffering, of all life.
The music of Beethoven expresses the struggle, the contest, the
sufferings of humanity, as Art has never done before; but it always
contains an eternal prophecy, rather than a mournful regret,--and in the
last triumphant symphony it swells onward and upward, until at last it
bursts forth in all the freedom and gush of song, and its theme is "The
Hymn to Joy." How much the fatherless home of Scheffer's childhood, how
much his own desolated life, when his beloved companion was so early
taken from his side, may have had to do with this melancholy cast of
thought, or how far it belonged to his delicate physical constitution,
we are not prepared to say. It becomes less prominent in his later
compositions, "as faith became stronger and sight clearer"; and perhaps