The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. VI.
by Editor-in-Chief: Kuno Francke
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Yes, do not refuse; help your friend to bear with his troubles, his infirmity. I have also greatly improved my piano-forte playing. I hope this journey may also turn to your advantage; afterwards you will always remain with me. I have duly received all your letters, and although I have answered only a few, you have been always in my mind; and my heart, as always, beats tenderly for you. Please keep as a great secret what I have told you about my hearing; trust no one, whoever it may be, with it.

Do write frequently; your letters, however short they may be, console me, do me good. I expect soon to get another one from you, my dear friend. Don't lend out my Quartet any more, because I have made many changes in it. I have only just learnt how to write quartets properly, as you will see when you receive them.

Now, my dear good friend, farewell! If perchance you believe that I can show you any kindness here, I need not, of course, remind you to address yourself first to

Your faithful, truly loving,


NO. 45


On the 6th July, 1801, in the morning

My Angel, My All, My Very Self:

Just a few words today, and indeed in pencil—with thine—only till tomorrow is my room definitely engaged; what an unworthy waste of time in such matters—why this deep sorrow where necessity speaks! Can our love endure otherwise than through sacrifices, through restraint in longing? Canst thou help not being wholly mine, can I, not being wholly thine? Oh! gaze at nature in all its beauty, and calmly accept the inevitable—love demands everything, and rightly so. Thus is it for me with thee, for thee with me, only thou so easily forgettest that I must live for myself and for thee—were we wholly united thou wouldst feel this painful fact as little as I should—my journey was terrible. I arrived here only yesterday morning at four o'clock, and as they were short of horses the mail-coach selected another route—but what an awful road! At the last stage but one I was warned against traveling by night; they frightened me with a wood, but that only spurred me on—and I was wrong, the coach must needs break down, the road being dreadful, a swamp, a mere country road; without the postillions I had with me I should have stuck on the way. Esterhazi, by the ordinary road, met with the same fate with eight horses as I with four—yet it gave me some pleasure, as successfully overcoming any difficulty always does. Now for a quick change from without to within—we shall probably soon see each other, besides, today I cannot tell thee what has been passing through my mind during the past few days concerning my life—were our hearts closely united I should not do things of this kind. My heart is full of many things I have to say to thee—ah, there are moments in which I feel that speech is powerless! Cheer up—remain my true, my only treasure, my all!!! as I to thee. The gods must send the rest—what for us must be and ought to be.

Thy faithful


Monday Evening, July 6.

Thou sufferest, thou my dearest love! I have just found out that the letters must be posted very early Mondays, Thursdays—the only days when the post goes from here to K. Thou sufferest—ah, where I am, art thou also with me! I will arrange for myself and Thee; I will manage so that I can live with thee; and what a life!!! But as it is—without thee!!! Persecuted here and there by the kindness of men, which I little deserve, and as little care to deserve. Humility of man toward man—it pains me—and when I think of myself in connection with the universe, what am I and what is He who is named the Greatest—and still this again shows the divine in man. I weep when I think that probably thou wilt get the first news from me only on Saturday evening. However much thou lovest me, my love for thee is stronger; but never conceal thy thoughts from me. Good-night! As I am taking the baths I must go to bed [two words scratched through]. O God—so near! so far! Our love—is it not a true heavenly edifice, firm as heaven's vault!

Good morning, on July 7.

While still in bed, my thoughts press to thee, my Beloved One, at moments with joy, and then again with sorrow, waiting to see whether fate will take pity on us. Either I must live wholly with thee, or not at all. Yes, I have resolved to wander in distant lands, until I can fly to thy arms and feel that with thee I have a real home; with thee encircling me about, I can send my soul into the kingdom of spirits. Yes, unfortunately, it must be so. Calm thyself, and all the more since thou knowest my faithfulness toward thee! Never can another possess my heart, never—never—O God! why must one part from what one so loves—and yet my life in V. at present is a wretched life! Thy love has made me one of the happiest and, at the same time, one of the unhappiest of men; at my age I need a quiet, steady life—but is that possible in our situation? My Angel, I have just heard that the post goes every day, and I must therefore stop, so that you may receive the letter without delay. Be calm—only by calm consideration of our existence can we attain our aim to live together; be calm—love me—today—yesterday—what tearful longing after thee—thee—thee—my life—my all—farewell! Oh, continue to love me—never, never misjudge the faithful heart

Of Thy Beloved


Ever thine, ever thine, ever each other's.

NO. 55


O ye men who regard or declare me to be malignant, stubborn, or cynical, how unjust are ye towards me! You do not know the secret cause of my seeming so. From childhood onward, my heart and mind prompted me to be kind and tender, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great deeds. But only think that, during the last six years, I have been in a wretched condition, rendered worse by unintelligent physicians, deceived from year to year with hopes of improvement, and then finally forced to the prospect of lasting infirmity (which may last for years, or even be totally incurable). Born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptive of the diversions of society, I had soon to retire from the world, to live a solitary life. At times, even, I endeavored to forget all this, but how harshly was I driven back by the redoubled experience of my bad hearing! Yet it was not possible for me to say to men: Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf. Alas! how could I declare the weakness of a sense which in me ought to be more acute than in others—a sense which formerly I possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such as few in my profession enjoy or ever have enjoyed; no, I cannot do it. Forgive, therefore, if you see me withdraw, when I would willingly mix with you. My misfortune pains me doubly in that I am certain to be misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in the society of my fellow creatures, no refined conversations, no interchange of thought. Almost alone, and mixing in society only when absolutely necessary, I am compelled to live as an exile. If I approach near to people, a feeling of hot anxiety comes over me lest my condition should be noticed—for so it was during these past six months which I spent in the country. Ordered by my intelligent physician to spare my hearing as much as possible, he almost fell in with my present frame of mind, although many a time I was carried away by my sociable inclinations. But how humiliating was it, when some one standing close to me heard a distant flute, and I heard nothing, or a shepherd singing, and again I heard nothing. Such incidents almost drove me to despair; at times I was on the point of putting an end to my life—art alone restrained my hand. Oh! it seemed as if I could not quit this earth until I had produced all I felt within me, and so I continued this wretched life—wretched, indeed, and with so sensitive a body that a somewhat sudden change can throw me from the best into the worst state. Patience, I am told, I must choose as my guide. I have done so—lasting, I hope, will be my resolution to bear up until it pleases the inexorable Parcae to break the thread. Forced already, in my 28th year, to become a philosopher, it is not easy—for an artist more difficult than for any one else. O Divine Being, Thou who lookest down into my inmost soul, Thou understandest; Thou knowest that love for mankind and a desire to do good dwell therein! Oh, my fellow men, when one day you read this, remember that you were unjust to me and let the unfortunate one console himself if he can find one like himself, who, in spite of all obstacles which nature has thrown in his way, has still done everything in his power to be received into the ranks of worthy artists and men. You, my brothers Carl and ——, as soon as I am dead, beg Professor Schmidt, if he be still living, to describe my malady; and annex this written account to that of my illness, so that at least the world, so far as is possible, may become reconciled to me after my death. And now I declare you both heirs to my small fortune (if such it may be called). Divide it honorably and dwell in peace, and help each other. What you have done against me has, as you know, long been forgiven. And you, brother Carl, I especially thank you for the attachment you have shown toward me of late. My prayer is that your life may be better, less troubled by cares, than mine. Recommend to your children virtue; it alone can bring happiness, not money. I speak from experience. It was virtue which bore me up in time of trouble; to her, next to my art, I owe thanks for my not having laid violent hands on myself. Farewell, and love one another. My thanks to all friends, especially Prince Lichnowski and Professor Schmidt. I should much like one of you to keep as an heirloom the instruments given to me by Prince L., but let no strife arise between you concerning them; if money should be of more service to you, just sell them. How happy I feel, that, even when lying in my grave, I may be useful to you!

So let it be. I joyfully hasten to meet death. If it come before I have had opportunity to develop all my artistic faculties, it will come, my hard fate notwithstanding, too soon, and I should probably wish it later—yet even then I shall be happy, for will it not deliver me from a state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall face thee courageously. Farewell, and when I am dead do not entirely forget me. This I deserve from you, for during my lifetime I often thought of you, and how to make you happy. Be ye so.


Heiligenstadt, October 6, 1802.

NO. 136



You receive herewith, honored Therese, what I promised, and had it not been for serious hindrances you would have received more, in order to show you that I always offer more to my friends than I actually promise. I hope and have every reason to believe that you are nicely occupied and as pleasantly entertained—but I hope not too much, so that you may also think of us. It would probably be expecting too much of you, or overrating my own importance, if I ascribed to you: "Men are not only together when they are together; even he who is far away, who has departed, is still in our thoughts." Who would ascribe anything of the kind to the lively T., who takes life so easily?

Pray do not forget the pianoforte among your occupations, or, indeed, music generally. You have such fine talent for it. Why not devote yourself entirely to it—you who have such feeling for all that is beautiful and good? Why will you not make use of this, in order that you may recognize in so beautiful an art the higher perfection which casts down its rays even on us. I am very solitary and quiet, although lights now and again might awaken me; but since you all went away from here, I feel in me a void which cannot be filled; my art, even otherwise so faithful to me, has not been able to gain any triumph. Your piano is ordered, and you will soon receive it. What a difference you will have found between the treatment of the theme I improvised one evening, and the way in which I recently wrote it down for you! Explain that to yourself, but don't take too much punch to help you. How lucky you are, to be able to go so soon to the country! I cannot enjoy that happiness until the 8th. I am happy as a child at the thought of wandering among clusters of bushes, in the woods, among trees, herbs, rocks. No man loves the country more than I; for do not forests, trees, rocks reecho that for which mankind longs? Soon you will receive other compositions of mine, in which you will not have to complain much about difficulties. Have you read Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, the Schlegel translation of Shakespeare? One has much leisure in the country, and it will perhaps be agreeable to you if I send you these works. I happen to have an acquaintance in your neighborhood, so perhaps I shall come early some morning and spend half an hour at your house, and be off again; notice that I shall inflict on you the shortest ennui.

Commend me to the good wishes of your father, your mother, although I can claim no right for so doing—and the same, likewise, to cousin MM. Farewell, honored T. I wish you all that is good and beautiful in life. Keep me, and willingly, in remembrance—forget my wild behavior. Be convinced that no one more than myself can desire to know that your life is joyous, prosperous, even though you take no interest in

Your most devoted servant and friend,


N.B.—It would really be very nice on your part to send me a few lines to say in what way I can be of service here.

NO. 151


(Probably Summer, 1808)

Dear Marie, Dear Bigot:

Only with the deepest regret am I forced to perceive that the purest, most innocent, feelings can often be misconstrued. As you have received me so kindly, it never occurred to me to explain it otherwise than that you bestow on me your friendship. You must think me very vain or small-minded, if you suppose that the civility itself of such excellent persons as you are could lead me to believe that—I had at once won your affection. Besides, it is one of my first principles never to stand in other than friendly relationship with the wife of another man. Never by such a relationship (as you suggest) would I fill my breast with distrust against her who may one day share my fate with me—and so taint for myself the most beautiful, the purest life.

It is perhaps possible that sometimes I have not joked with Bigot in a sufficiently refined way; I have indeed told both of you that occasionally I am very free in speech. I am perfectly natural with all my friends, and hate all restraint. I now also count Bigot among them, and if anything I do displeases him, friendship demands from him and you to tell me so—and I will certainly take care not to offend him again; but how can good Marie put such bad meaning on my actions!

With regard to my invitation to take a drive with you and Caroline, it was natural that, as Bigot, the day before, was opposed to your going out alone with me, I was forced to conclude that you both probably found it unbecoming or objectionable—and when I wrote to you, I only wished to make you understand that I saw no harm in it. And so, when I further declared that I attached great value to your not declining, this was only that I might induce you to enjoy the splendid, beautiful day; I was thinking more of your and Caroline's pleasure than of mine, and I thought, if I declared that mistrust on your part or a refusal would be a real offense to me, by this means almost to compel you to yield to my wish. The matter really deserves careful reflection on your part as to how you can make amends for having spoilt this day so bright for me, owing as much to my frame of mind as to the cheerful weather. When I said that you misunderstand me, your present judgment of me shows that I was quite right—not to speak of what you thought to yourself about it. When I said that something bad would come of it if I came to you, this was more as a joke. The object was to show you how much everything connected with you attracts me, so that I have no greater wish than to be able always to live with you; and that is the truth. Even supposing there was a hidden meaning in it, the most holy friendship can often have secrets, but on that account to misinterpret the secret of a friend because one cannot at once fathom it—that you ought not to do. Dear Bigot, dear Marie, never, never will you find me ignoble. From childhood onwards I learnt to love virtue—and all that is beautiful and good. You have deeply pained me; but it shall only serve to render our friendship ever firmer. Today I am really not well, and it would be difficult for me to see you. Since yesterday, after the quartet, my sensitiveness and my imagination pictured to me the thought that I had caused you suffering. I went at night to the ball for distraction, but in vain. Everywhere the picture of you all pursued me; it kept saying to me—they are so good and perhaps through you they are suffering; thoroughly depressed, I hastened away. Write to me a few lines.

Your true friend BEETHOVEN embraces you all.

NO. 198


Vienna, August 8, 1809.

I have handed over to Kind and Co. a sextet for 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, and 2 German lieder or songs, so that they may reach you as soon as possible—they are presents to you in return for all those things which I asked you for as presents; the Musik Zeitung which I had also forgotten—I remind you in a friendly way about it. Perhaps you could let me have editions of Goethe's and Schiller's complete works—from their literary abundance something comes in to you, and I then send to you many things, i.e., something which goes out into all the world. Those two poets are my favorite poets, also Ossian, Homer, the latter whom I can, unfortunately, read only in translation. So these (Goethe and Schiller) you have only to shoot out from your literary store-house, and if you send them to me soon you will make me perfectly happy, and all the more so, seeing that I hope to pass the remainder of the summer in some cozy country corner. The sextet is one of my early things, and, moreover, was written in one night; the best one can say of it is that it was composed by an author who, at any rate, has produced better works—and yet, for many, such works are the best.

Farewell, and send very soon news to your most devoted


Of the 'cello Sonata I should like to have a few copies; I would indeed beg you always to send me half a dozen copies; I never sell any—there are, however, here and there poor Musici, to whom one cannot refuse a thing of that sort.

NO. 220


Vienna, August 11, 1810.

Dearest Bettina (Friend!):

No finer Spring than the present one—I say that and also feel it, because I have made your acquaintance. You yourself have probably seen that in society I am like a frog (fish) on the sand, which turns round and round, and cannot get away until a well-wishing Galatea puts him again into the mighty sea. Yes, I was quite out of my element, dearest Bettina; I was surprised by you at a moment when ill-humor was quite master of me, but it actually disappeared at sight of you. I at once perceived that you belonged to a different world from this absurd one, to which, with the best will, one cannot open one's ears. I myself am a wretched man and yet complain of others!—You will surely forgive me, with your good heart, which is seen in your eyes, and with your intelligence, which lies in your ears—at least our ears know how to flatter when they listen. My ears, unfortunately, are a barrier-wall through which I cannot easily hold friendly communication with men, else—perhaps!—I should have had more confidence in you. So I could only understand the great, intelligent look of your eyes, which so impressed me that I can never forget it. Dear Bettina (friend), beloved Maiden!—Art!—Who understands it, with whom can one speak concerning this great goddess! How dear to me were the few days when we gossiped or rather corresponded together! I have kept all the little notes on which stand your clever, dear, very dear, answers; so I have, at any rate, to thank my bad hearing that the best part of these fleeting conversations has been noted down. Since you went away I have had vexatious hours, hours of darkness, in which one can do nothing; after your departure I roamed about for full three hours in the Schoenbrunner Alley, also on the ramparts; but no angel met me who could take such hold on me as you, angel!—Forgive, dearest Bettina (friend), this digression from the key; I must have such intervals in order to give vent to my feelings. Then you have written, have you not, to Goethe about me? I would willingly hide my head in a sack, so as to hear and see nothing of what is going on in the world, because you, dearest angel, will not meet me. But I shall surely receive a letter from you? Hope nourishes me—it nourishes, indeed, half the world; I have had it as my neighbor all my life—what otherwise would have become of me? I here send, written with my own hand, "Kennst du das Land"—in remembrance of the hour in which I made your acquaintance. I also send the other which I have composed since I parted from you dear, dearest heart!—

Heart, my heart, what bodes the crisis, What oppresseth thee so sore? What a strange, untoward life this! I can fathom thee no more.

Yes, dearest Bettina (friend), send me an answer, write to me what will happen to me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your most faithful friend,


NO. 295


Teplitz, July 17, 1812.

My Dear Good Emilie, My Dear Friend!

I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business and constant illness must be my excuse. That I am here for the restoration of my health proves the truth of my excuse. Do not snatch the laurel wreaths from Handel, Haydn, Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.

Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of the esteem of many men, which I do not deserve.

Continue, do not only practise art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise men to the Godhead. If, my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, for he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and, though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people than to many rich folk who display inward poverty. If one day I should come to H., I will come to you, to your house; I know no other excellencies in man than those which cause him to rank among better men; where I find this, there is my home.

If you wish, dear Emilie, to write to me, only address straight here where I shall remain for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as the friend of your family.


NO. 300


Teplitz, August 15, 1812.

Dearest, good Bettina!

Kings and princes can certainly create professors, privy councilors, and titles, and hang on ribbons of various orders, but they cannot create great men, master-minds which tower above the rabble; this is beyond them. Such men must therefore be held in respect. When two such as I and Goethe meet, these grand gentlemen are forced to note what greatness, in such as we are, means. Yesterday on the way home we met the whole Imperial family. We saw them from afar approaching, and Goethe slipped away from me and stood to one side. Say what I would, I could not induce him to advance another step, so I pushed my hat on my head, buttoned up my overcoat, and went, arms folded, into the thickest of the crowd. Princes and sycophants drew up in a line; Duke Rudolph took off my hat, after the Empress had first greeted me. Persons of rank know me. To my great amusement I saw the procession defile past Goethe. Hat in hand, he stood at the side, deeply bowing. Then I mercilessly reprimanded him, cast his sins in his teeth, especially those of which he was guilty toward you, dearest Bettina, of whom we had just been speaking. Good heavens! Had I been in your company, as he has, I should have produced works of greater, far greater, importance. A musician is also a poet, and the magic of a pair of eyes can suddenly cause him to feel transported into a more beautiful world, where great spirits make sport of him and set him mighty tasks. I cannot tell what ideas came into my head when I made your acquaintance. In the little observatory during the splendid May rain—that was a fertile moment for me; the most beautiful themes then glided from your eyes into my heart, which one day will enchant the world when Beethoven has ceased to conduct. If God grant me yet a few years, then I must see you again, dear, dear Bettina; so calls the voice within me which never errs. Even minds can love each other. I shall always court yours; your approval is dearer to me than anything in the whole world. I gave my opinion to Goethe, that approval affects such men as ourselves and that we wish to be listened to with the intellect by those who are our equals. Emotion is only for women (excuse this); the flame of music must burst forth from the mind of a man. Ah! my dearest child, we have now for a long time been in perfect agreement about everything! The only good thing is a beautiful, good soul, which is recognized in everything, and in presence of which there need be no concealment. One must be somebody if one wishes to appear so. The world is bound to recognize one; it is not always unjust. To me, however, that is a matter of no importance, for I have a higher aim. I hope when I get back to Vienna to receive a letter from you. Write soon, soon, and a very long one; in 8 days from now I shall be there; the court goes tomorrow; there will be no more performance today. The Empress rehearsed her part with him. His duke and he both wished to play some of my music, but to both I made refusal. They are mad on Chinese porcelain, hence there is need for indulgence; for the intellect has lost the whip-hand. I will not play to these silly folk, who never get over that mania, nor will I write at public cost any stupid stuff for princes. Adieu, adieu, dearest; your last letter lay on my heart for a whole night, and comforted me. Everything is allowed to musicians. Great heavens, how I love you!

Your sincerest friend and deaf brother,


NO. 615


Vienna, April 12, 1811.

Your Excellency:

The pressing business of a friend of mine, one of your great admirers (as I also am), who is leaving here in a great hurry, gives me only a moment to offer my thanks for the long time I have known you (for I know you from the days of my childhood)—that is very little for so much. Bettina Brentano has assured me that you would receive me in a kindly—yes, indeed friendly, spirit. But how could I think of such a reception, seeing that I am only in a position to approach you with the deepest reverence, with an inexpressibly deep feeling for your noble creations? You will shortly receive from Leipzig, through Breitkopf and Haertel, the music to Egmont, this glorious Egmont, with which I, with the same warmth with which I read it, was again through you impressed by it and set it to music. I should much like to know your opinion of it; even blame will be profitable for me and for my art, and will be as willingly received as the greatest praise.

Your Excellency's great admirer,


NO. 1017


(Summer, 1824).

Dear Sirs:

I only tell you that next week the works will certainly be sent off. You will easily understand, if you only imagine to yourself, that with uncertain copying I have to look through each part separately—for this branch has already decreased here in proportion as tuning has been taken up. Everywhere poverty of spirit—and of purse! Your Cecilia I have not yet received.

The Overture which you had from my brother was performed here a few days ago, and I received high praise for it, etc.—but what is all that in comparison with the great Tone-Master above—above—above—and with right the greatest of all, while here below everything is a mockery—we the little dwarfs are the highest!!!?? You will receive the quartet at the same time as the other works. You are so open and frank—qualities which I have never yet noticed in publishers—and this pleases me. Let us shake hands over it; who knows whether I shall not do that in person and soon! I should be glad if you would now at once forward the honorarium for the quartet to Friess, for I just now want a great deal of money; everything must come to me from abroad, and here and there a delay arises—through my own fault. My brother adds what is necessary about the works offered to, and accepted by, you. I greet you heartily. Junker, as I see from your newspaper, is still living; he was one of the first who noticed me, an innocent and nothing more. Greet him.

In greatest haste, and yet not of shortest standing,



NO. 1117


Baden, October 5, 1825.

For God's sake, do come home again today! Who knows what danger might be threatening you! Hasten, hasten! My Dear Son!

Only nothing further—only come to my arms; you shall hear no harsh word. For Heaven's sake, do not rush to destruction! You will be received as ever with affection. As to considering what is to be done in future, we will talk this over in a friendly way—no reproaches, on my word of honor, for it would be of no use. You need expect from me only the most loving help and care.

Only come—come to the faithful heart of your father,


Come at once on receipt of this.

Si vous ne viendrez pas vous me tuerez surement.


NO. 1129



Best Rampel, come tomorrow morning, but go to hell with your calling me gracious. God alone can be called gracious. The servant I have already engaged—only impress on her to be honest and attached to me, as well as orderly and punctual in her small services.

Your devoted BEETHOVEN.

* * * * *


[Footnote 1: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 2: Translator: Sir Theodore Mart Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 3: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 4: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 5: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 6: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 7: Translator: Richard Garnett. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 8: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 9: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 10: Translator: Franklin Johnson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 11: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 12: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 13: Translator: Charles G. Leland. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 14: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 15: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 16: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 17: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 18: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 19: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 20: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 21: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 22: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 23: Translator: Edgar Alfred Bowring. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 24: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 25: Translator: W.H. Furness. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 26: Translator: John Todhunter. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 27: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 28: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 29: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 30: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 31: Translator: Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 32: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 33: Translator: "Stratheir." Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 34: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons.]

[Footnote 35: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 36: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 37: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 38: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 39: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 40: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 41: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 42: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 43: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 44: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 45: Translator: Lord Houghton. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 46: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 47: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 48: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 49: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 50: Names of Student's Corps.]

[Footnote 51: Name of the University of Goettingen.]

[Footnote 52: Name of an Austrian periodical.]

[Footnote 53: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 54: According to that dignified and erudite work, the Burschikoses Woerterbuch, or Student-Slang Dictionary, "to bind a bear" signifies to contract a debt. The definition of a "sable," as given in the dictionary above cited is, "A young lady anxious to please."]

[Footnote 55: From Ideen: Das Buch Le Grand (Chaps. VI-IX). Permission E.P. Dutton & Co., New York, and William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 56: From Pictures of Travel, permission W. Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 57: From French. Affairs; permission of William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 58: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 59: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 60: This prototype of "The House that Jack Built" is presumed to be a hymn in Seder Hagadah, fol. 23. The historical interpretation, says Mrs. Valentine, who has reproduced it in her Nursery Rhymes, was first given by P.N. Leberecht at Leipzig in 1731, and is printed in the Christian Reformer, vol. xvii, p. 28. The original is in Chaldee. It is throughout an allegory. The kid, one of the pure animals, denotes Israel. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah; the two pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron. The cat means the Assyrians, the dog the Babylonians, the staff the Persians, the fire the Grecian Empire under Alexander the Great. The water betokens the Roman or the fourth of the great monarchies to whose dominion the Jews were subjected. The ox is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine; the butcher that killed the ox denotes the crusaders by whom the Holy Land was taken from the Saracens; the Angel of Death the Turkish power to which Palestine is still subject. The tenth stanza is designed to show that God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, and restore the Jews to their own land.]

[Footnote 61: There is a concluding verse which Heine has omitted. "Then came the Holy One of Israel—blessed be he—and slew the Angel of Death, who," etc.—TRAN.]

[Footnote 62: A suburb of Vienna.]

[Footnote 63: In Lower Austria, on the railroad from Vienna to Eger.]

[Footnote 64: From Grillparzer's Autobiography (1855).]

[Footnote 65: A decoration.]

[Footnote 66: A Critical Edition by Dr. A.C. Kalischer. Permission J.M. Dent & Co., London, and E.P. Dutton & Co., New York.]

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