In London everybody knows something and knows it well; but the man of Vienna can only talk of eating and drinking, and sings and pounds away at music of little significance or of his own making.” He spoke a great deal about sending his nephew to London to make a man of him, asked questions about the cost of living there and, in short, gave proof that an English visit was filling a large part of his thoughts. The incidents of the conclusion of the dinner which he gave to Stumpff may be told in the latter’s words: Beethoven now produced the small bottle. It contained the precious wine of Tokay with which he filled the two glasses to the brim. “Now, my good German-Englishman, to your good health.” We drained the glasses, then, extending his hand, “A good journey to you and to a meeting again in London.” I beckoned to him to fill the glasses again and hurriedly wrote in his notebook: “Now for a pledge to the welfare of the greatest living composer, Beethoven.”--I arose from my chair, he followed my example, emptied his glass and seizing my hand said: “To-day I am just what I am and what I ought to be,--all unbuttoned.” And now he unbosomed himself on the subject of music which had been degraded and made a plaything of vulgar and impudent passions. “True music,” he said, “found little recognition in this age of Rossini and his consorts.” Thereupon I took up the pencil and wrote in very distinct letters: “Whom do you consider the greatest composer that ever lived?” “Handel,” was his instantaneous reply; “to him I bow the knee,” and he bent one knee to the floor. “Mozart,” I wrote. “Mozart,” he continued, “is good and admirable.” “Yes,” wrote I, “who was able to glorify even Handel with his additional accompaniments to ‘The Messiah’.” “It would have lived without them,” was his answer. I continued writing. “Seb. Bach.” “Why is he dead?” I answered immediately “He will return to life again.” “Yes, if he is studied, and for that there is now no time.” I took the liberty of writing: “As you yourself, a peerless artist in the art of music, exalt the merits of Handel so highly above all, you must certainly own the scores of his principal works.” “I? How should I, a poor devil, have gotten them? Yes, the scores of ‘The Messiah’ and ‘Alexander’s Feast’ went through my hands.” If it is possible for a blind man to help a cripple, and the two attain an end which would be impossible to either one unaided, why might not in the present case a similar result be effected by a similar coöperation? At that moment I made a secret vow: Beethoven, you shall have the works for which your heart is longing if they are anywhere to be found.