It is not necessary here even to touch on the works that follow him.  They stand now as firmly as ever—­perhaps more firmly—­in the honor and the affection of all the world of auditors in touch with the highest expressions in the tone-world.  The mere mention of such monuments as the sonatas, the nine symphonies, the Mass in D minor, the magnificent chain of overtures, the dramatic concert-arias, does not exhaust the list.  They are the vivid self-expressions of one who learned in suffering what he taught in song:  a man whose personality impressed itself into almost everything that he wrote, upon almost every one whom he met, and who towers up as impressively as the author of ‘Hamlet,’ the sculptor of ‘Moses,’ the painter of ‘The Last Supper.’

It is perhaps interesting to mention that the very chirography of Beethoven’s letters is eloquent of the man.  Handwriting is apt to be.  Mendelssohn, the well-balanced, the precise, wrote like copper-plate.  Wagner wrote a fine strong hand, seldom with erasures.  Spontini, the soldier-like, wrote with the decision of a soldier.  Beethoven’s letters and notes are in a large, open, dashing hand, often scrawls, always with the blackest of ink, full of changes, and not a flourish to spare—­the handwriting of impulse and carelessness as to form, compared with a writer’s desire of making his meaning clear.

[Illustration:  Signature:  E. IRENAEUS STEVENSON]

FROM LETTER TO DR. WEGELER, VIENNA

In what an odious light have you exhibited me to myself!  Oh!  I acknowledge it, I do not deserve your friendship.  It was no intentional or deliberate malice that induced me to act towards you as I did—­but inexcusable thoughtlessness alone.

I say no more.  I am coming to throw myself into your arms, and to entreat you to restore me my lost friend; and you will give him back to me, to your penitent, loving, and ever grateful

BEETHOVEN.

TO THE SAME

VIENNA, June 29th, 1800.

My dear and valued Wegeler:

How much I thank you for your remembrance of me, little as I deserve it or have sought to deserve it; and yet you are so kind that you allow nothing, not even my unpardonable neglect, to discourage you, always remaining the same true, good, and faithful friend.  That I can ever forget you or yours, once so dear and precious to me, do not for a moment believe.  There are times when I find myself longing to see you again, and wishing that I could go to stay with you.  My fatherland, that lovely region where I first saw the light, is still as distinct and beauteous in my eyes as when I quitted you; in short, I shall esteem the time when I once more see you, and again greet Father Rhine, as one of the happiest periods of my life.  When this may be I cannot yet tell, but at all events I may say that you shall not see me again till I have become not only eminent as an artist, but better and more perfect as a man; and if the condition of our fatherland be then more prosperous, my art shall be entirely devoted to the benefit of the poor.  Oh, blissful moment!—­how happy do I esteem myself that I can expedite it and bring it to pass!