{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:tribute-to-anton-seidl",
  "slug": "tribute-to-anton-seidl",
  "title": "A Tribute to Anton Seidl",
  "subtitle": "Memorial tribute to the conductor.",
  "excerpt": "Memorial tribute to Anton Seidl — Metropolitan Opera conductor and champion of Wagner in the United States.",
  "year": 1898,
  "volume": 12,
  "category": "Tribute",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/tribute-to-anton-seidl/",
  "wordCount": 427,
  "body": "A Tribute to Anton Seidl\n    A telegram read at the funeral services in the Metropolitan\n    Opera House, New York City, March 31, 1898.\n\nIN the noon and zenith of his career, in the flush and glory of success,\nAnton Seidl, the greatest orchestral leader of all time, the perfect\ninterpreter of Wagner, of all his subtlety and sympathy, his heroism and\ngrandeur, his intensity and limitless passion, his wondrous harmonies\nthat tell of all there is in life, and touch the longings and the hopes\nof every heart, has passed from the shores of sound to the realm of\nsilence, borne by the mysterious and resistless tide that ever ebbs but\nnever flows.\n\nAll moods were his. Delicate as the perfume of the first violet, wild as\nthe storm, he knew the music of all sounds, from the rustle of leaves,\nthe whisper of hidden springs, to the voices of the sea.\n\nHe was the master of music, from the rhythmical strains of irresponsible\njoy to the sob of the funeral march.\n\nHe stood like a king with his sceptre in his hand, and we knew that\nevery tone and harmony were in his brain, every passion in his breast,\nand yet his sculptured face was as calm, as serene as perfect art. He\nmingled his soul with the music and gave his heart to the enchanted air.\n\nHe appeared to have no limitations, no walls, no chains. He seemed to\nfollow the pathway of desire, and the marvelous melodies, the sublime\nharmonies, were as free as eagles above the clouds with outstretched\nwings.\n\nHe educated, refined, and gave unspeakable joy to many thousands of his\nfellow-men. He added to the grace and glory of life. He spoke a language\ndeeper, more poetic than words—the language of the perfect, the\nlanguage of love and death.\n\nBut he is voiceless now; a fountain of harmony has ceased. Its inspired\nstrains have died away in night, and all its murmuring melodies are\nstrangely still.\n\nWe will mourn for him, we will honor him, not in words, but in the\nlanguage that he used.\n\nAnton Seidl is dead. Play the great funeral march. Envelop him in music.\nLet its wailing waves cover him. Let its wild and mournful winds sigh\nand moan above him. Give his face to its kisses and its tears.\n\nPlay the great funeral march, music as profound as death. That will\nexpress our sorrow—that will voice our love, our hope, and that will\ntell of the life, the triumph, the genius, the death of Anton Seidl.\n"
}