After Germany and England had been the scene of a career which, reviewed at this date, appears to us to have brought not only fame but a personal and musical idolatry, the composer died in the flush of manhood, at Leipzig, in 1847. There was soon after a certain natural reaction against his music, save in England. Lisztian influences affected it, in especial. Much of it still is laid aside, if not actually dismissed. But his place in his art seems securer now than it was a decade ago; and however the forms and the emotional conception of music have changed, whatever the shifting currents of popular taste, it seems now probable that Mendelssohn's best orchestral works, his best compositions for the voice, and even the best of his pianoforte pieces, will long retain their hold on the finer public ear and the more sensitive musical heart. The world has begun to re-esteem them, and to show signs of feeling a new conviction of their beauty of idea and their singular perfection of form. This is the day of the dramatic in music; but Mendelssohn's expression of that element is not feeble nor uncertain, albeit it must be caught rather between the lines by a generation concentrated on Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, and Wagner.

Mendelssohn's letters are-like his music, like his drawings, like everything that he did a faithful and delightful expression of himself. His temperament was charming, his nature was sound, his heart affectionate, and his appreciations wide. His sense of humor was unfailing. He poured himself out to his friends and relations in his correspondence in all his moods, whether on professional tours or stationary in one city or another. Every mood, every shade of emotion, is latent in his "pages of neat, aristocratic chirography." He knew everybody of note; he wrote to dozens of people-musical and unmusical-regularly and voluminously. His epistolary style is as distinct as his musical one,-what with its precision in conveying just what came into his head, united to lucidity, elegance, finish, a knack of making even a trifling thing interesting; and showing a serious undercurrent from a deeply thoughtful intelligence. He was a born letter-writer, just as he was a born musician. Those few volumes that the kindness of his friends has gradually given to the world (for the original letters of the composer have always been difficult to procure), depict his moral and æsthetic nature, so limpid and happily balanced, with an obvious fidelity and an almost lavish openness.

FROM A LETTER TO F. HILLER

LEIPZIG, January 24th, 1836.

NOTH

Ν

OTHING is more repugnant to me than casting blame on the nature or genius of any one: it only renders him irritable and bewildered, and does no good. No man can add one inch to his stature; in such a case all striving and toiling is vain. therefore it is best to be silent. Providence is answerable for this defect in his nature. But if it be the case, as it is with this work of yours, that precisely those very themes, and all that requires talent or genius (call it as you will), are excellent and beautiful and touching, but the development not so good,— then I think silence should not be observed; then I think blame can never be unwise: for this is the point where great progress can be made by the composer himself in his works; and as I believe that a man with fine capabilities has the absolute duty imposed on him of becoming something really superior, so I think that blame must be attributed to him if he does not develop himself according to the means with which he is endowed. And I maintain that it is the same with a musical composition. Do not tell me that it is so, and therefore it must remain so. I know well that no musician can alter the thoughts and talents which Heaven has bestowed on him; but I also know that when Providence grants him superior ones, he must also develop them properly.

I

FROM A LETTER TO HERR ADVOCAT CONRAD SCHLEINITZ, AT LEIPZIG

BERLIN, August 1st, 1838. ALWAYS think that whatever an intelligent man gives his heart to, and really understands, must become a noble vocation: and I only personally dislike those in whom there is nothing personal, and in whom all individuality disappears; as for example the military profession in peace, of which we have instances here. But with regard to the others it is more or less untrue. When one profession is compared with another, the one is usually taken in its naked reality, and the other in the most beautiful ideality; and then the decision is quickly made. How easy it is for an artist to feel such reality in his sphere, and yet esteem practical men happy who have studied and known the

different relations of men towards each other, and who help others to live by their own life and progress, and at once see the fruits of all that is tangible, useful, and benevolent instituted by them! In one respect too an upright man has the hardest stand to make, in knowing that the public are more attracted by outward show than by truth. But individual failures and strife must not be allowed to have their growth in the heart: there must be something to occupy and to elevate it far above these isolated external things. This speaks strongly in favor of my opinion; for it is the best part of every calling, and common to all,—to yours, to mine, and to every other. Where is it that you find beauty when I am working at a quartet or a symphony? Merely in that portion of myself that I transfer to it, or can succeed in expressing; and you can do this in as full a measure as any man, in your defense of a culprit, or in a case of libel, or in any one thing that entirely engrosses you: and that is the great point. If you can only give utterance to your inmost thoughts, and if these inmost thoughts become more and more worthy of being expressed, all the rest is indifferent.

YR

HOURS WITH GOETHE, 1830

From the 'Letters from Italy and Switzerland'

ESTERDAY evening I was at a party at Goethe's, and played alone the whole evening: the Concert-Stück, the 'Invitation à la Valse,' and Weber's Polonaise in C, my three Welsh pieces, and my Scotch Sonata. It was over by ten o'clock, but I of course stayed till twelve o'clock, when we had all sorts of fun, dancing and singing; so you see I lead a most jovial life here. The old gentleman goes to his room regularly at nine o'clock, and as soon as he is gone we begin our frolics, and never separate before midnight.

To-morrow my portrait is to be finished: a large black-crayon. sketch, and very like, but I look rather sulky. Goethe is so friendly and kind to me that I don't know how to thank him sufficiently, or what to do to deserve it. In the forenoon he likes me to play to him the compositions of the various great masters, in chronological order, for an hour, and also tell him the progress they have made; while he sits in a dark corner, like a Jupiter Tonans, his old eyes flashing on me. He did not wish to hear XVII-619

anything of Beethoven's; but I told him that I could not let him off, and played the first part of the Symphony in C minor. It seemed to have a singular effect on him: at first he said, "This causes no emotion, nothing but astonishment; it is grandios.» He continued grumbling in this way, and after a long pause he began again,-"It is very grand, very wild; it makes one fear that the house is about to fall down: and what must it be when played by a number of men together!" During dinner, in the midst of another subject, he alluded to it again. You know that I dine with him every day, when he questions me very minutely, and is always so gay and communicative after dinner that we generally remain together alone for an hour while he speaks on uninterruptedly.

I have no greater pleasure than when he brings out engravings and explains them to me, or gives his opinion of Ernani,' or Lamartine's Elegies, or the theatre, or pretty girls. He has several times lately invited people; which he rarely does now, so that most of the guests had not seen him for a long time. I then play a great deal, and he compliments me before all these people, and "ganz stupend" is his favorite expression. To-day he has invited a number of Weimar beauties on my account, because he thinks I ought to enjoy the society of young people. If I go up to him on such occasions, he says, "My young friend, you must join the ladies, and make yourself agreeable to them." am not however devoid of tact, so I contrived to have him asked yesterday whether I did not come too often; but he growled out to Ottilie, who put the question to him, that "he must now begin to speak to me in good earnest, for I had such clear ideas that he hoped to learn much from me." I became twice as tall in my own estimation when Ottilie repeated this to me. He said so to me himself yesterday: and when he declared that there were many subjects he had at heart that I must explain to him, I said, "Oh, certainly!" but I thought, "This is an honor I can never forget; "—often it is the very reverse. FELIX.

A CORONATION IN PRESBURG

From The Letters from Italy and Switzerland'

HE King is crowned-the ceremony was wonderfully fine.

THE How can I even try to describe it to you? An hour hence

we will all drive back to Vienna, and thence I pursue my journey. There is a tremendous uproar under my windows; and the Burgher-guards are flocking together, but only for the purpose of shouting "Vivat!" I pushed my way through the crowd, while our ladies saw everything from the windows, and never can I forget the effect of all this brilliant and almost fabulous magnificence.

In the great square of the Hospitalers the people were closely packed together: for there the oaths were to be taken on a platform hung with cloth, and afterwards the people were to be allowed the privilege of tearing down the cloth for their own use; close by was a fountain spouting red and white Hungarian wine. The grenadiers could not keep back the people; one unlucky hackney coach that stopped for a moment was instantly covered with men, who clambered on the spokes of the wheels, and on the roof, and on the box, swarming on it like ants, so that the coachman, unable to drive on without becoming a murderer, was forced to wait quietly where he was. When the procession arrived, which was received bare-headed, I had the utmost difficulty in taking off my hat and holding it above my head: an old Hungarian behind me, however, whose view it intercepted, quickly devised a remedy, for without ceremony he made a snatch at my unlucky hat, and in an instant flattened it to the size of a cap; then they yelled as if they had all been spitted, and fought for the cloth. In short, they were a mob; but my Magyars! the fellows look as if they were born noblemen, and privileged to live at ease, looking very melancholy, but riding like the devil.

When the procession descended the hill, first came the court servants, covered with embroidery, the trumpeters and kettledrums, the heralds and all that class; and then suddenly galloped along the street a mad count, en pleine carrière, his horse plunging and capering, and the caparisons edged with gold; the count himself a mass of diamonds, rare herons' plumes, and velvet embroidery (though he had not yet assumed his state uniform,