Karl Klauser

THE story of his fine life, watched over from the cradle as by fairies, is a poem. The family names are compound. Mendelssohn is German for son of Mendel; Bartholdy is Hebrew for son of Tholdy. One key to his artistic character is the general culture, intellectual and social, of the man, for which the opportunities were granted him from infancy in fuller measure than to any other great musician. Born in prosperity, amid refining influences; taught Greek and Latin classics; familiar with living poets, scholars and philosophers who frequented his father's house; passing a fortnight at the impressible age of eleven in the house of Goethe; imbued with reverence for the character and teaching of his wise Platonic grandfather, the Jew Moses Mendelssohn, the model for Lessing's "Nathan the Wise"; stimulated by the piquant and genial letters of his three gifted aunts (two of whom had turned Catholic), and above all by the tender, wise, exacting and appreciative oversight of his excellent father, to whom the best was only "just good enough," he grew unconsciously into a large and liberal way of thinking. He was at home in the most cultivated circles, "a native there, and to the manner born." What might it not have been to Schubert to have germinated and unfolded under such a genial sun in such a soil! Well was the youth named Felix!

Moses Mendelssohn, a little humpbacked Jew peddler boy, with keen eyes and winning face, came to Berlin about the middle of the last century. He had a hard fight with penury, and an unconquerable passion for knowledge and the culture of his mind. At that time the Jews in Germany were at the lowest stage of social repression. Excluded from nearly all honorable and profitable pursuits, restricted to Jew quarters, outcast and despised, they were the chosen victims of Christian intolerance. On the other hand, driven back upon the synagogue, upon the even fiercer bigotry of their own priests and rabbis, with whom "to speak the German language correctly or to read a German book was heresy," the young man was caught between two fires. Yet so brave, so able was he, so faithful to his great life purpose, and withal so winning by his hearty, sterling honesty of spirit, that he became one of the lights of German literature, one of its recognized apostles; the intimate associate of Lessing, Herder, Kant, etc. His conversation had the Socratic quality; and his "Phaedo," a dialogue on immortality, founded on that of Plato, was so persuasive that it was translated into many languages. He married a Jewess in Hamburg, and grew prosperous as well as learned. He left three daughters and three sons. Abraham, the father of Felix, was the second son, a thriving banker, for a while in Paris, when he married Lea Salomon, of the Bartholdy family, a lady of wealth and culture, from Berlin, and formed a partnership with his elder brother in his native Hamburg. Their first child was Fanny, born, as her mother said, with "Bach fugue fingers." The second child, Jakob Ludwig Felix, was born February 3, 1809. Before he was three years old, the French occupied Hamburg, and Abraham fled to Berlin, where he formed a new banking house, and his whole family were baptized into the Protestant Communion, taking the added name Bartholdy.

The patriarchal rule, obedience and industry, was strict in the house. But the father was kind and gentle as well as severe, and Felix loved him dearly; called him "not only my father, but my teacher both in art and in life"; and wondered how it was possible that a father, not a technical musician, could criticize the son's early efforts in composition so shrewdly and so justly. After Felix became famous, Abraham said once humorously of himself: "Formerly I was the son of my father, now I am the father of my son."

The mother, a lady of fine person, with an air of much benevolence and dignity, was a model housewife; spoke several languages, read Homer in the Greek, played the piano, and gave the first frequent five-minute lessons to her two eldest children, Fanny and Felix. The boy was full of life and fond of out-door play, very attractive with his long brown curls and great brown eyes. He was frank, unspoiled, earnest in what he undertook, and could bear no foolish flattery, no nonsense.

MENDELSSOHN'S BIRTHPLACE IN HAMBURG.

Feb. 3—1809.

After a short visit of the family to Paris, in 1816, when Fanny was eleven and Felix seven years old, the children's education began systematically. Heyse (father of the novelist) was their tutor at large; Ludwig Berger, teacher for piano; the strict, conservative Zelter (Goethe's friend) for thorough bass and counterpoint; Henning for violin. Felix, whose pen and pencil sketches in his letters show such a facile gift for drawing, was taught landscape by RÖsel. Greek he learned with his younger sister Rebecka, even reading Æschylus. The children were kept closely to their lessons; Felix used to say how much they enjoyed the Sundays, when they had not to get up at five o'clock to work.

He was first heard in a public concert on Oct. 24, 1818, when he played the piano part in a trio with two horns with much applause. Early in his eleventh year he entered the singing class of the Singakademie as an alto. "There he took his place," writes his friend Devrient, "amongst the grown people, in his child's suit, a tight fitting jacket cut very low at the neck, and with full trousers buttoned over it. Into the slanting pockets of these he liked to thrust his hands, rocking his curly head from side to side, and shifting restlessly from one foot to the other."—He spoke French and English fluently; wrote a letter in good Italian; and translated the "Andrea" of Terence into German verse, besides making such good headway in Greek. He could ride and swim and dance, right heartily, but was not fond of mathematics.

In 1820, his twelfth year, he set about composing regularly. With that year begins the series of forty-four volumes in which he methodically preserved autograph copies of a great part of his works down to the time of his death, with date and place carefully noted. These are now in the Imperial Library at Berlin. Another proof of his methodical self-discipline is found in the fact that for many years he made it an invariable rule to compose something every day.

His productive activity during the six early years from 1820 to 1826 was incessant, many-sided and prolific. In 1820, among other compositions named by Grove, are a Trio for piano and strings; a Sonata for pianoforte and violin; another for pianoforte solo; four organ pieces; a Cantata, bearing the earliest date of all (Jan. 13); a Lustspiel for voices and pianoforte, in three scenes, beginning: "Ich Felix Mendelssohn," etc. In 1821, five Symphonies for strings, songs, one-act operas. This was the year when Zelter first took him to Goethe at Weimar.

The next two years were no less productive. In the summer of 1822 the whole family made a leisurely tour in Switzerland, visiting on the way Spohr at Cassel, on the return Schelble, conductor of the famous CÄcilien-Verein at Frankfort, and Goethe again at Weimar. Near Geneva he wrote the first (Op. I) of three Quartets for pianoforte and strings. In the two years six more quartet Symphonies, making twelve in all, which do not figure in the catalogue, although they were not mere exercises. Then, too, an opera, "The Uncle from Boston," in three acts. He was then nearly fifteen, growing fast, his features and expression altering and maturing, and his hair cut short.

It is pleasant to read of the Sunday morning music in his grandmother's large dining-room, with a small orchestra, Felix conducting, Fanny or himself at the piano, Rebecka singing, and the young brother Paul playing the 'cello. Some composition of his own had place in every programme. Noted musicians passing through Berlin were often present. For critic there was his own father, besides the wise old Zelter. Every evening, also, more or less, the house was enlivened by music, theatrical impromptus, and "constant flux and reflux of young, clever, distinguished people, who made the suppers gay and noisy, and among whom Felix was the favorite." Among the intimates were Moscheles and Spohr.

MENDELSSOHN'S FATHER.

Abraham Mendelssohn—from a pencil drawing made by his son-in-law William Hensel.

A great advance was shown in the compositions of 1824. In the summer Felix, with his father and Rebecka, visited a bathing place on the shores of the Baltic, where he got his first impressions of the sea, afterwards reproduced in the Meeresstille overture. In the next spring father and son were in Paris. There Felix met all the famous French musicians. Their devotion to effect and superficial glitter, their ignorance of German music (Onslow, for instance, having never heard a note of Fidelio), the insulting liberties they took with some of its masterpieces, enraged the enthusiastic lad. With Cherubini his intercourse was more satisfactory. On the way home they paid a third, short visit to Goethe. The fiery Capriccio in F sharp minor, and the score of the two-act opera, Camacho's Wedding, from Don Quixote, were fruits of that year.

That summer Abraham Mendelssohn purchased the large house and grounds (ten acres) at No. 3 Leipziger Strasse, which became the sumptuous abode of the family, until the death of Felix, when it was occupied by the Herrenhaus, or House of Lords of the Prussian government. As described by Hensel, it was a dignified, old-fashioned, spacious palace, then in the suburbs of Berlin, near the Potsdam gate, on the edge of the Thiergarten. Behind the house was a court with offices, then gardens and a park with noble trees,—just the ideal seat for such an artistic family! There was a room for large musical parties and private theatricals. Between the court and the garden stood the Gartenhaus, the middle of which formed a hall large enough to hold several hundred persons, with glass doors opening on the lawns and alleys. It was a delightful summer house, but rather bleak in winter. There the Sunday music found new life; there Felix composed the Octet for strings; there, too, in the fine summer of 1826, the work with which he "took his final musical degree," astonishing the world as a full-fledged composer, a master of original, imaginative genius, the overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream. He had been reading with his sisters the Schlegel and Tieck version of Shakespeare's play. In this and many instances Fanny, herself a good musician and composer, was her brother's confidante and critic. The fairy vein, which had cropped out in earlier works (the Quintet in A, the Octet, etc.), seemed to have reached its full expression here. And the wonder is that the motives of the Overture all came in place when he wrote music for the whole play seventeen years later.

MENDELSSOHN'S MOTHER.

From a pencil drawing made by William Hensel.

Meanwhile Camacho was granted one unwilling hearing by Spontini, in the smaller theatre. Galled by the sneering remarks of the critics, Felix found the art atmosphere of Berlin more and more antipathetic. Entering the University of that city, he had less time for composition. How far he followed the course does not appear. He attended lectures of Hegel (one of whose courses was on music), and of Ritter, the great geographer. And he resumed his study of Italian classics, translating into German verse sonnets of Dante and others. There too he became a proficient in landscape drawing. Ten years later the University of Leipsic conferred on him the honorary degree of Doctor of Philosophy.

The life in the new house was very genial and active. Felix practised riding, swimming and other gymnastics with characteristic ardor "to the utmost"; for skating he could not bear the cold. And what a brilliant and Élite society frequented those large rooms: Rahel Varnhagen, Bettina, Heine, Holtei, Lindblad, Marx, Humboldt, W. MÜller, Hegel,—all famous then or afterwards! Young people were there "in troops." They had a little newspaper of their own, called in summer Garten-Zeitung, in winter Schnee-und Thee-Zeitung, edited by Felix and Marx, to which all comers were free to contribute; paper, ink and pens lay ready in the summer-houses. Graver heads, like Humboldt and Zelter, used the opportunity! "In all this brilliant interchange of art, science and literature," says Grove, "Felix, even at this early date, was the prominent figure. When he entered the room every one was anxious to speak to him. Women of double his age made love to him; and men, years afterwards, treasured every word that fell from his lips."

During the next winter, hearing a complaint that Bach seemed like an arithmetical exercise, Felix formed a choir of sixteen voices for the practice of the Passion Music at his house. That led to the public performance of the great neglected master-work a year later; and that to the "Bachgesellschaft" for the stately publication of all Bach's works, not yet completed. The little choir warmed to the heavenly music, and grew eager for its public performance, under Felix's own care, by the three to four hundred voices of the Singakademie, of which Zelter was Director. Besides the intrinsic difficulty of the music, there were two serious obstacles: the opposition of Zelter, and the apathy of the public. The first was overcome with the sanguine aid of his friend Devrient, the actor, who with him faced the lion in his den, and made him finally consent. The second melted to enthusiasm before the splendid success of the performance. Felix conducted the rehearsals without notes, knowing the music all by heart; the leading opera singers undertook the solos; the public flocked to the rehearsals; and on Wednesday, March 11, 1829, this greatest choral work of the great old master composer was introduced to the world for the first time since his death. A thousand people were turned away from the doors. Said Felix: "It was an actor and a Jew who restored this great Christian work to the people." That was the dawn of the Bach culture, which steadily if slowly gains ground in these our modern times.

In the midst of this excitement, his gifted, darling sister Fanny became engaged to William Hensel, the distinguished Berlin painter. Mendelssohn had reached the age of twenty. Not on the best terms with the musical world of Berlin, he yearned for more congenial air and stimulus. To improve himself in art and general culture, and "to make friends," he set out on his "grand tour." He arrived in London (April 21), where he was welcomed by his friends Klingemann (then secretary of legation there) and Moscheles. At the Philharmonic Concert, May 25, he conducted his C-minor Symphony, old John Cramer leading him to the piano, at which in those days, the conductor sat or stood. The applause was immense, and the Scherzo (which he had scored from his Octet, in place of the Minuet and Trio) was persistently encored against his wish. The London reception had "wiped out the sneers and misunderstandings of Berlin." Near the close of his life he spoke of it as "having lifted a stone from his heart." Indeed, the English, from that day to this, have been warm, even to the extreme of partiality, in their enthusiasm for the man and for his music. He took part in several other London concerts, was much petted in aristocratic circles, and disported himself in so many fashionable balls and gaieties, that the sober family at home became alarmed for him.

From London to Scotland, where he called upon Sir Walter, and stopped at the Hebrides, sending thence in a glowing letter to Fanny the first motive of the famous overture which he scored in Rome. Returning to London in September, he was confined to his room two months and could not go home to his sister Fanny's wedding. In December he found her with her artist husband installed in the Gartenhaus as studio, together with the Devrients. These, indeed every member of the family took part in the little comedy, Das Heimkehr aus der Fremde ("The Son and Stranger"), which Felix had composed for his parents' silver wedding. For Hensel, utterly unmusical, he wrote a part upon one note. That winter he composed his "Reformation Symphony." A chair of Music was founded expressly for him in the Berlin University, which he knew himself too well to accept.

In May, 1830, the "grand tour" was resumed. He reached Weimar on the 30th, spent a fortnight of close intercourse with Goethe, leading what he called a "heathenish life"; then several very interesting weeks in Munich. Then, through the Salzkammergut, to Vienna, where he found Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven ignored in favor of Hummel, Field, and Kalkbrenner; and where he passed a gay month with musicians, but managed to compose some serious things.

MENDELSSOHN'S SISTER.

Fanny Mendelssohn—from a pencil drawing made by her husband, William Hensel.

Then came the leisurely, long stay in Italy, particularly Rome, of which his letters give such glowing and minute accounts. There he lived a most genial and happy life, giving himself up completely to the sunny scene and climate, to art, and fine churches (of which he found the music dull), old ruins, and all that was picturesque and characteristic in roba di Roma of all sorts. He was six months in Rome; six weeks in Naples, finding there his old friend Benedict, whom he first knew as Weber's pupil in Berlin; then Florence, Genoa, Milan and the Italian Lakes. In Italy he composed the "Italian" and "Scotch" Symphonies, the Walpurgisnacht music, and many smaller things. And he filled several drawing-books with sketches. Then, by way of Switzerland, walking from Geneva to Interlachen (all minutely, graphically chronicled in the Letters), to Paris again, where he threw himself into the musical and social "swim." But in spite of his warm reception, and the presence of Hiller, Meyerbeer, and many friends, he found the gay metropolis no more to his taste than before, and was glad to spend two months again in the "smoky nest" of London, playing, composing, and publishing.

MENDELSSOHN'S WIFE.

From a pencil drawing by William Hensel.

During a second stay in Munich he became "on a brotherly footing" with the very musical family of the Baermanns. For Heinrich Baermann, one of the finest of clarinet players, he, as well as Weber, composed concert pieces. It is his grandson, Carl Baermann, the admirable pianist, who now adds to the musical prestige of Boston. There, too, he brought out his G-minor Concerto (Oct. 17, 1831). And there he was commissioned to compose an opera, and went to DÜsseldorf to consult the poet Immermann about a libretto with Shakespeare's Tempest for a subject.

Early in 1832, his great friends Goethe and Zelter died. Mendelssohn seemed to be the man of all others to succeed the latter at the Singakademie; but he lost the election. As a proof of his wise and noble loyalty to art about this period, read what he wrote to William Taubert from Lucerne: "Don't you agree with me, that the first condition for an artist is, that he have respect for the great ones, and do not try to blow out the great flames, in order that the petty tallow candle may shine a little brighter?"

In May, 1833, his success in conducting the Lower Rhine Festival brought him an offer to take general charge of the Music in DÜsseldorf for three years at an annual salary of six hundred thalers ($450)! But his father advised him to accept duties before emoluments. There he brought out operas by Mozart and Cherubini; and in the church, Palestrina, Bach, Handel, Beethoven: above all Israel in Egypt. There he composed the greater part of St. Paul, and his Melusina Overture. Socially DÜsseldorf was a delightful place to him; but musically it was disappointing. In the spring of 1835 he conducted the Cologne Festival.

Soon we find him settled (from 1835 to 1844, and again from 1845 to the end of his life) in the most genial home sphere of his artistic labors, Leipsic, where he held the first conductor's post in Europe, at the head of the famous Gewandhaus Concerts. Hardly had he begun his notable career there, when he was summoned to Berlin to the death-bed of his father (Nov. 19, 1835). His grief was profound; for we have seen in what respect and love he held him. He carried back to Leipsic two fixed purposes: first, to finish Paulus, then to seek a wife. The Oratorio, for which he selected the words himself, had lain complete before him a year when it was first given at the Lower Rhine Festival in 1836 with great enthusiasm. The wife was found in Frankfurt am Main. It was Cecile Jeanrenaud, the lovely seventeen-year-old daughter of a deceased pastor of the Reformed French Church there, who lived with her mother, nÉe Souchay, a highly respected, rich, patrician family of Frankfort. The happy honeymoon ran over with fun and drollery in their joint diary full of sketches.

In Leipsic his hands were soon full of most congenial tasks: conducting the Messiah; the Israel in Egypt, with his own organ part; his own St. Paul; besides a series of historical concerts; and composing his Forty-Second Psalm, E-minor string Quartet, the D-minor piano Concerto, the three organ Preludes and Fugues, etc. And is it not worth notice, by the way, that here Mendelssohn commonly shines as the best of programme-makers? Indeed, he seems to have been the first in whom that function rose to the dignity of an art, when he was not balked by others. Certainly the concerts, ("academies") which Mozart and Beethoven gave mostly in noble houses, to make their new works heard, offered no models of good programme-making, containing often far too much of a good thing, say three great Beethoven Symphonies, with much other matter, in a single evening! The democratic age of concert-giving had not yet come in.

In all this he was strong and happy in the sympathetic companionship of his young wife, though often torn from her to fulfil engagements at the Birmingham Festival and elsewhere. Thenceforth for several years he gave his heart and soul to Leipsic, chiefly to the Gewandhaus concerts; he worked with enthusiasm, and was rewarded by the enthusiasm he created.

In June, 1838, he conducted the Cologne Festival, and we have a cogent letter in which he induced the committee to include "at least one important vocal work of Bach" (a Church Cantata) in the programme, besides pieces from Handel's Joshua. The summer was spent in the dear garden-house at Berlin; and that was the young wife's first introduction to her husband's family. He kept on composing noble things; among them the Violin Concerto and a Psalm for eight voices: "When Israel," etc. And he fell just short of giving the world another Symphony (in B flat). The great event of the next Gewandhaus season was the first performance, at the last concert (March 22, 1839), of the great Schubert Symphony in C. It was played from the MS., which had been found in Vienna by Schumann.

It would require a volume to detail the programmes of those ten or eleven years of Gewandhaus concerts under his direction,—to say nothing of great musical enterprises outside of all that. In December, 1842, his mother died, and then the Berlin house was his. Yet he lived for the most part in Leipsic, aiding as a professor, with David, Hauptmann, Schumann and the like, in the carrying out of his pet scheme of a Conservatorium of Music. Since 1838 Elijah had been in his mind as the subject of an oratorio. It was finished for the Birmingham Festival of 1846. He was on hand there to conduct it, all the world knows with what success. Yet his own fastidious taste saw much in it to alter and polish, and he returned to England for the tenth and last time to conduct it in the revised edition, so to speak.

WILLIAM HENSEL.

From a pencil drawing made by himself.

Meanwhile, near the end of 1840, he was prevailed on to accept a year's engagement at Berlin, and lend his labor and his genius to certain high artistic schemes of king Frederick William IV. Taking leave of Leipsic with a performance of Bach's St. Matthew Passion Music, he became Kapellmeister to the King. The first fruit of that was his noble music to the Antigone, and afterwards the Œdipus Coloneus of Sophocles; and in another vein, the Athalie of Racine. It was also by the king's request that he wrote the Midsummer Night's Dream music, into which the early overture fitted as if pre-ordained, and his both beautiful and wildly melodramatic setting of Goethe's Walpurgisnacht. Not far from the same time he was moved to make an overture, more dramatic than any of his early ones, to Ruy Blas.

On his last return from England a shadow came over that serene and happy life. He met the sudden news of his sister Fanny's death, and with a cry fell unconscious to the ground. He sought relief and rest in Switzerland that summer, painting in water-colors, and playing the organ all alone in a little village church—what a touching picture his letters give of it! His own hour was near at hand. A trouble in his head grew worse. He died in the evening of Thursday, Nov. 4, 1847. He was mourned by all Europe. In Leipsic it was as if the most beloved and honored, the soul and centre of all their higher life and aspiration, were withdrawn. Memorial concerts were organized in London, Manchester and Birmingham, even in Paris. To this day among English music-lovers Mendelssohn has been a name to conjure by, adopted as their own like Handel. Mendelssohn scholarships, busts, statues, became frequent. And a commission was appointed to publish selections from the mass of works he left in manuscript; nor could they keep pace with the impatient, almost angry outcry (at least in England) for every scrap of manuscript withheld.

Mendelssohn stands as the best modern representative of sound, many-sided, conservative, and yet progressive musical culture. He was artist to the marrow. Gifted with original creative genius—a genius not so deep and absolute, so elemental, so Titanic as that of Bach and Handel and Beethoven, nor of so celestial temper as that of Mozart;—trained to consummate musicianship through earnest study and personal absorption of the world's great musical inheritance; compelling himself to daily exercise of his own productive faculty, he summed up in himself the rounded whole of musical art down to his own time. He was the ripe musical scholar. Haunted by original and beautiful ideas, he resisted all extravagant solicitations of the ambitious passion for sensation-making novelty. He kept within bounds of reason and good taste; he respected "Terminus, the god of bounds." Standing at the height of the musical culture of his age, he won all his triumphs without setting up new theories, new forms of art, without resorting to questionable ways. He was nothing if not sincere, frank, simple in his art. Within the approved forms and principles of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, he found free air and scope for the expression of what was in him. He never dreamed of questioning the validity of absolute, pure music,—music in itself, without words or programme. On the contrary, he maintained that music is a language far more definite and less ambiguous than speech; that speech is the gainer by translation into music, but that music is the loser by any attempt to translate or "interpret" it in words.

Of his complete musicianship there is no question. As a performing artist, an interpreter, he was a masterly pianist. We do not measure him by the phenomenal virtuosity of the Liszts, von BÜlows, Rubinsteins, and Tausigs, who came after him. Such comparison would be irrelevant; he was not of their kind; not primarily a virtuoso, but essentially an artist and interpreter. In that sense his playing was remarkable; fluent, brilliant, vital, full of fire and feeling; his touch sensitive, decided, strong or delicate as the phrase required; his technique free and faultless; its perfection seemed to be spontaneous. Hiller said his playing was what flying is to a bird. Mme. Schumann said: "Of mere effects of performance he knew nothing; he was always the great musician; in hearing him one forgets the player in the full enjoyment of the music." Joachim says: "His playing was full of fire, which could scarce be controlled, and yet was controlled and combined with the greatest delicacy." His adherence to strict time and to his author's meaning is said to have been absolute. He had a rare faculty of playing at sight from a MS. orchestral score, characterizing each instrument by a peculiar quality of tone. He rarely played from book, trusting to his prodigious memory. His improvisations astonished all; they were no vague, random excursions over the keyboard, all digression, with which so many flashy finger-knights dazzle their audiences; they were consistent, well-planned compositions, in which the themes were not merely touched and set in shifting lights, but were contrapuntally worked and carried out; thematic development was with him a second nature. This was partly owing to his early practice in counterpoint under Zelter.

He deeply loved the organ, and was one of the most masterly organ players and composers of his time. For intrinsic worth and beauty his Organ Sonatas rank only next to Bach and Handel.

For conductorship he showed a passion and a gift from boyhood, when he improvised little private concerts in his father's house. Older musicians did not disdain to play under his bÂton. Charming pictures are given by his biographers of the overtures and symphonies, as well as his own juvenile operas, performed there under his enthusiastic lead. Later he became one of the first conductors living, whether in symphony or oratorio. He had the magnetic quality; all the grace and flexibility of his attractive person, the electric eloquence of look and gesture, made each point of the music felt by performers and hearers. The former never could mistake his meaning, which was the meaning of the music. We have heard it said by those who knew him, that in the rendering of orchestral music, even movements of his own, he was subject to his moods, would take the same movement at one time much quicker, with more fire than at others; but it was all genuine, all loyal; there was a reason for it, and the essential music never suffered from this elasticity.

His seemingly instinctive and spontaneous command of counterpoint, already seen in his improvisation, is manifest in his organ music, in his psalms and oratorios, in his fugues as such, in the clear, symmetrical development of his orchestral and chamber works, in fact in all his compositions of whatever form. He was happily at home in this soul secret of the plastic tone-art. For the truth is, he was musically, spiritually, a true child of Sebastian Bach: who more fit than he to be the first exponent to our century of the long-shelved Matthew Passion of that mighty master? Through Mendelssohn has Bach gained a foothold in the more modern world of music.

His instrumentation is a model in its way, neither too much nor too little. Never dry and meagre, it is never bloated and excessive, weighed down to monotony by superfluous multitude of heavy instruments, which give each other scarcely room to vibrate freely, like so much in the "advanced" instrumentation of to-day. It is never extravagant, bent on sensational surprises and effects, if sometimes droll for cause. It is chaste, simple, clear, while it is vivid, graphic, and expressive. There is no false, exaggerated coloring, only just what suits the subject. Now it is airy, delicate, and fairylike; now bold, majestic, or sublime; now fraught with changing atmospheric quality, as in the "Rain" chorus in Elijah, in the Hebrides overture, and the Becalmed at Sea and Prosperous Voyage, now light-hearted and elastic, as in the "Italian" Symphony and the youthful overture to the Return from Abroad. If he does not touch the spiritual depths, nor strike with the lightning suddenness and fire of Beethoven, it is because he is himself, not Beethoven. But alike in his purely instrumental and his choral works, his instrumentation is always interesting, always clear and telling, and in keeping with the whole, always original, poetic, full of life and power.

We might discourse upon his mastery of Form. Enough to say, that with him all is in "good form," yet not formal, at least to a fault.

So much of his musicianship, his technical equipment, of what might be learned from masters. In him it all ministered to a creative genius of an original, rare order, as we shall see in a slight, cursory survey of his productions.

We begin with the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, in which the lad of sixteen sprang into fame a masterly composer. Well had he read his Shakespeare,—the bard who fascinates the heart and soul of childhood before any child can be supposed to understand him! What a felicitous reproduction of the fairy element in tones! The perfect fairy overture, it is still heard with delight by old and young, and ever will be, it is so fresh, spontaneous, genuine, such an honest emanation from the enthusiastic heart and imagination of the boy composer. The other movements now commonly sung and played with the drama were the afterthought of Mendelssohn's riper period, when he was thirty-four years old. Schumann says: "His music is a meditation on the play, a bridge between Bottom and Oberon, without which the passage into Fairy Land is almost impossible." The same fairy vein, the same dainty elfin motives, or some of the same family, are met in many of the earlier and later works of Felix. That vein haunted him; it was a lucky string to play upon. Ballad movements, Canzonettas, Volkslieder, and the like quaint melodies, abound as well. The Overture is numbered Op. 21. Sketched or completed about the same time were the Octet, Op. 20, the first set of the Songs without Words, and the first Quintet, in A; all works of ripe and finished art of a clearly asserted, pronounced individuality. These mark the culmination of his youthful period.

His early piano efforts are in many forms, mostly with strings. He wrote three Sonatas for piano solo, but soon ceased to cultivate that field (in face of Beethoven?). But he had already opened a new and original field for himself, albeit a less ambitious one, in the Songs without Words, a field to which he returned con amore from time to time until late in his short life. One is tempted to describe some of these choice little tone-poems, were there room; at least the three Gondola Songs. Had he been reading Shelley:

These perhaps express the daintiest, most exquisite of the many moods and themes poetic, sentimental, picturesque, or wideawake and stirring or heroic, in these eight and forty wordless songs. Perhaps the last two sets have not quite the verve of the earlier and more spontaneous numbers. But think of the Volkslied, the hunting and the martial strains, the deeper meditations, the Duet, above all the exhilarating "Spring Song" in A! In these, if in nothing else, he opened a new field in musical art, in which many followed him, but none approached him. These Lieder ohne Worte are of his most genuine, most individual inspirations. There is hardly a characteristic trait of the composer's style, as developed in his larger works, which you do not find here clearly announced and pronounced in these perfect little miniatures. In them we have the whole of Mendelssohn,—we mean of the innate, the essential, not the acquired music of the man. If to some they have come to look commonplace, it is their own radiance that veils them.

Of his many other piano compositions, the most important are the Six Preludes and Fugues, Op. 35; another in E minor, full of fire and strength, his contribution to the Album "Notre Temps"; and the Variations SÉrieuses. All the great composers, notably Beethoven, were fond of writing variations. Those of Mendelssohn are full of character, and often figure to advantage in the artistic programmes of pianists. For the piano with strings, the two Trios are the most interesting, and still challenge the chamber-concert givers. The two Sonatas with 'Cello also hold their own.

He loved to employ the piano with orchestra. The brilliant Capriccio in B minor, and the Rondo in E flat, swift as an arrow and going as straight to the mark, are concert favorites; still more the Serenade and Allegro Giojoso, full of life and charm. But most important, masterworks indeed, are the two Concertos. That in G minor, by the very fascination of its beauty, and by being such a model in form, so clear and pure throughout, has been practised so much in conservatories, and played at the dÉbut of so many callow virtuosos, that a shade of commonplace has settled over it. The other, in D minor, keeps itself more select, so that for the more exacting taste it is publicly too seldom played.

And, speaking of Concertos, we must not forget the one for the violin, which surely ranks only after that by Beethoven, and is attempted by all the violinists. Its charm is never failing. The fine intensity of the impassioned Allegro has something feminine and far reaching in its quality, so that it was a rare pleasure to hear it interpreted by such an artist as Camilla Urso, with such true nervous grasp and accent. The middle movement seemed divine; and the finale, heralded by the brass ff, is so uncontainable and full of fire, so brilliant and impetuous, that it admits of being taken at the most rapid tempo. It is perhaps the most popular of all violin concertos.

All the great masters have written string quartets. The Quartet for two violins, viola and 'cello, corresponding to the four essential parts in harmony, each maintaining its individuality, yet each essential to the whole, is the quintessence of musical expression. Any imperfection betrays itself inevitably; all is exposed; there is nothing hidden under an orchestral coloring or vague passages of mere effect. The four voices are four persons. Not to speak of Haydn, father and founder of the race, the greatest models are those of Mozart and Beethoven. Those of Beethoven often seem like foreshadowings in outline of later phases in his larger grand creations. Those of Mendelssohn are less purely quartet-like. They have more of a singing quality,—a melody with an accompaniment,—and seem to seek orchestral development. The early one in E flat is of highly impassioned character, and might be distinguished as the Quartet Pathetique. It has a pathetic introductory Adagio, followed by a passionate Allegro; then a Canzonetta, a quaint minor strain in the spirit of some sad old Volkslied or Ballad; then an Andante of profoundest melancholy; then a bold finale, in 12-8, running in very rapid triplets. The three Quartets of Op. 44 are in a riper style. But the first begins with a swift and fiery Allegro, of which the theme is strikingly symphonic, and which has been well said to be not quartet-writing at all, but a melody with a bass and a mere filling-in of middle parts; not a conversation between four distinct individualities. The Mendelssohnian ardor, depth of feeling, yearning aspiration, with all his grace, facility, and clearness, pervade these quartets; but more perfect as quartets are his part-songs for mixed and for male voices. His last quartet, in F minor, written just after the death of his beloved sister Fanny, so soon before his own, has spontaneous unity in all its movements. It is said to have been written in forty-eight hours, in one close closeting with grief.

Of the two Quintets, that in A, of the juvenile period, is fresh, bright, full of life and charm, having a lovely Andante Intermezzo, and an elfin Scherzo. The much later one, in B flat, by the irrepressible and soaring impetus of its Allegro vivace,—challenge bravely answered in the finale,—by the sad ballad-like Andante scherzando in D minor; and by its profoundly, grandly beautiful Adagio, is perhaps more popular and always welcomed with sincere delight.

There remains the Octet, written just before the Midsummer Night's Dream. It is not a double quartet, two quartets reinforcing or offsetting one another; but it is a conference of eight real parts, eight individualities. The ensemble, especially the fiery opening Allegro, has the richness and fullness of an organ's diapasons, and naturally abounds in contrapuntal imitation to keep eight such parts employed. It is laid out on the broad scale of a symphony, with great contrast between its several movements, especially between the airy-light, crisp staccato of its Scherzo (forerunner of the fairy overture) and the grand sweep and rush, like a freshet, of the Presto finale. The work bears performance by all the strings of an orchestra, and is not seldom so presented.

We come now to his poetic, fascinating Concert Overtures, already ushered in by Shakespeare's fairy wand. Three of these date shortly after the Midsummer Night's Dream. The finest of them is the first, scored in Rome a year or two after his visit to the Hebrides, the outgrowth of an attempt to convey to his sister Fanny, in a piano sketch, his impressions of the "lonely island." The overture is often called "Fingal's Cave." It does not deal in literal description. It is not realistic. It is the feeling of the scene, subjectively conceived. The leading theme (B minor) suggests the dreamy reverie of one leaning over the water, absorbed in its commingling, fluctuating, mystic ebb and flow. The same poetic spirit sang the Gondellieder. In the strong answering motive you feel the wild force of the waves dashing on the rock-bound shores; loud calls give the sense of distance; you hear cries of sea-birds; while all bespeaks the watery atmosphere, the solemn silence and the mystic solitude of ocean.

Then came Meeresstille und GlÜckliche Fahrt,—a reproduction as Overture of two sea-pictures from two little poems of Goethe; the first conveying the sensation of a dead calm at sea; then the rising of a breeze, the boatswain's whistle, the setting of sails and swinging round of the huge, heavy hulk, the addressing itself to motion, making smooth, gallant headway (with ever and anon great, deep, mysterious sighs!) and entering port amid a triumphal blaze of trumpets. It is a wonderfully graphic and imaginative reproduction of the subjects. The instrumentation is as telling and artistic as the thematic working. The introduction of the piccolo and of the deep serpent and contrafagotto conveys a sense of illimitable height and depth.

The third, to "the Fair Melusina," Felix tells his sister, he wrote for an opera of Conradin Kreutzer's, based on Tieck's MÄhrchen, which he saw at a theatre. He disliked Kreutzer's music, especially the Overture, which was encored, and he resolved to write another "which the people might not encore, but which would cause them more solid pleasure." It is romantic music in the fullest sense. In the two contrasted themes,—the first (in F) watery, cool and rippling, tempting one beneath the waves,—the other (F minor) chivalric, heroic, proud, impatient,—he clearly had in view the princess Melusina (supposed to be a mermaid in the hours denied to her lord), and the brave knight who weds her. Schumann says it revives "those fables of the life deep down beneath the watery abyss." How bright and beautiful the mingling colors of the instruments! With what fine contrapuntal unity in variety the imitation and development proceeds!

More to the humor of to-day, perhaps, is his much later powerfully dramatic Overture to Ruy Blas. It is exciting, with bold contrasts, fraught with impending tragic crises, clear, strong, concise, and very effectively instrumented. Not so great as Beethoven's Coriolanus overture, it is his nearest approach to that, and shows that Mendelssohn was capable of something more impassioned, concentrated, fateful, than dreams of fairyland, breathings of sentiment and reproductions of romance.

Now for his Symphonies. First, his greatest, in A minor, which is supposed to owe its inspiration to his recollections of Scotland. In its wild, tender, melancholy melody and coloring, its romantic, breezy, sea-shore character, it has affinity with the Hebrides overture. How deep and tender the introductory Andante con Moto, 3-4! And how charmingly the kindred Allegro melody, 6-8, sets out from it and runs so smoothly and so rapidly, most of the way in octaves between the first violins and low clarinet tones! How it winds in and out among the instruments, now quiet and individual, now borne along upon the swelling, roaring tide of the whole orchestra! How it keeps its sweet, sad, minor mood, relieved only by one little bit of sunshiny major! Then, after the repeat, what wild, strange, sea-shore modulations, the cool, mysterious thrill of ocean and the Infinite! And when again those shuddering modulations cross the smooth mirror, the excitement swells to a furious climax, and all the strings rush up and down the chromatic scale with a tremendous vehemence; and it all dies down again, till only flutes and reeds are left streaming in the air, sliding leisurely down tone by tone, and leading back to the Andante. Compare this exciting climax with one correspondingly placed in the seventh symphony of Beethoven; if it has not that Promethean fire that could defy Olympus, is it feeble in comparison?

In the Scherzo the scene shifts to sunny playfulness. Vividly the laughing theme leaps out from voice after voice; the instruments seem to speak, as Schumann says, like men. What hurrying, huddling gleesomeness in the accompaniments, like the tiny waves that crowd up round the spot where the fountain's column falls! In hushed staccato the strings whisper a new motive, which is taken up by all and developed, with fragments of the laughing theme; and there seems to be a pointed allusion, fond and playful, to a characteristic of Scotch melody, in that emphatic mocking of the cadence of a minor third! It floats sportively away, in the violins, against a skyey background of oboe and horn tones, charming the soul away with it in pleased forgetfulness, when with a sudden revulsion of consciousness we are in the minor chord of D (like a great sob, escaping involuntarily), leading with solemn, stately measure and a sound of warning into the Adagio in A, 2-4, a most lovely, deep and tender movement, in which the orchestra seems to sing a Psalm of Life.... Upon this bursts, like a flash of sunshine over the sombre water, the Vivacissimo, a most dashing, brilliant theme, pausing anon to let a more pensive melody of reeds be heard; but with rough, impatient vehemence the basses break off the episode, and the bacchic frenzy of the movement storms itself away again, until its force is spent, and the quiet naÏve little reed theme gets another chance and runs fondling and chatting along in duet between bassoon and oboe, and the strain sinks to sleep as in the fairy overture. The short finale, in A major, is in kindred melody and rhythm with the first Allegro, but with a bold and swaggering carelessness of movement, as of a party breaking up and marching off from a glorious carouse, to the tune (at least its spirit) of "We won't go home till morning!"

After the immortal nine of Beethoven, there is no Symphony more perfect in form than this, of charm more enduring, although we have the great one of the "heavenly length" in C by Schubert, and such noble ones by Schumann. But Mendelssohn has the advantage over Schumann in point of instrumentation and of general clearness (the importance of clearness was a mooted point between the two friends and mutual admirers).

Even more enjoyable in some respects is the "Italian" Symphony in A. It was written earlier than the so-called third, the "Scotch," and is commonly numbered the fourth. Both were well advanced before he left Rome. Its movements are finely contrasted. After the fresh, sunshiny, buoyant Allegro, calling up the blue, blue sky and boundless green of Italy,—brought out all the more vividly by the pensive Mendelssohnian subjectivity of the low-running staccato of the violins which sets in right after the announcement of the bright first theme,—how impressive is the sombre, solemn, antique-sounding, steady chant of reeds in the Andante, with the soft, warm gush of mingling flutes above! It is like passing from Italian noon-day into the rich gloom of some old church. The tranquil, blissful melody of the Minuet flows on in limpid, peaceful beauty; and the mellow horn Trio makes a delicious episode. In the Saltarello we feel the rush and whirl of Carnival, not without a dash of Mendelssohnian melancholy. The passage from that into the yet wilder Tarantella, with its whirling triplets, indicates the very abandon and delirium of excitement, whereas the former, by the hitch in the alternate triplet, denotes a dance in which the dancer still keeps some control upon himself.

The "Reformation Symphony" (No. 5) dates back almost to his juvenile period. It was written at the age of twenty-two. With the exception of one bright gem, the Scherzo, it seems to labor under the proverbial fatality of occasional works. As a Symphony it is exceptional in form, consisting really of only two parts, with a refreshing interlude between. The first part, in which the idea of the Old, the frowning Catholic faith, predominates, includes the Allegro with its short Andante prelude. The second part, the triumph of the New, with its curious variations on the Lutheran Choral, "Ein' feste Burg," has likewise its short Andante prelude, whose rather feeble prayer for peace it answers. Suppose a curtain dropped between the two parts, while for interlude and recreation we are vouchsafed that happy Scherzo.—But it is hardly fair to count this early effort into his symphonic period, any more than the Symphony "No. 1," in C minor, which bears date 1824.

From Symphony to Oratorio we have a noble bridge in the Symphony-Cantata "Lobgesang" or "Hymn of Praise." It is of later date, to be sure, than the oratorio St. Paul, and was composed to celebrate the invention of the art of printing, and to lend Éclat to the inauguration of the statue of Guttenberg, at Leipsic, June 25, 1840. Many regard it as the most felicitous and most inspiring of his larger works, although prompted by an "occasion"! Praise and gratitude to God for LIGHT; the waiting and longing for it through the long darkness of the middle ages; then the break of day; the free career and joy of a redeemed humanity; and first and last and everywhere the Praise of God: such were the themes and promptings of Mendelssohn's heart and genius when he composed the Lobgesang. The three orchestral movements which prepare the chorus are essentially symphonic. From the first trombone proclamation of the pregnant choral motive, through the rapidly unfolding, fiery, complex Allegro; through the sweet, sad (almost over-sweet) tune (as of "the heart musing, while the fire burns," yet with a slight flutter) of the middle movement, Allegretto, and its alternations with the cheery, choral-like full chords of the wind; to the last deep-drawn sigh of the rich, soulful Adagio, it is pure symphony, all leading up to the superb outburst of the irrepressible chorus of Praise. Thenceforth we breathe the mountain air of oratorio. The work is too familiar to require description. Enough to note the innate strong dramatic tendency of Mendelssohn, as shown in the middle point and climax of the work, the thrilling scene beginning with the anxious Tenor recitative; "Watchman, will the night soon pass?" with fitful, wild accompaniment; the startling Soprano answer: "The night is departing," flooding all with instant light; and then the blazing outburst of full chorus, taking up the words in an exciting fugue.—It is surely an inspired, a master-work, both instrumentally and vocally.

Of his two great Oratorios proper,—the greatest certainly since Handel,—the one most esteemed among musicians is the earliest, St. Paul, produced in 1836. It shows the influence of Bach throughout, in the frequency of narrative recitative; in the use made of the Lutheran Choral; in the introduction of turbulent Jewish people's choruses (turbae); and in a generally dramatic conception and shaping of the whole. It stands between a Bach Passion, and the more epical Handel Oratorio. Depth of religious feeling and great dignity of style pervade the entire composition. The music is contrapuntal, never dry and pedantic. The overture is of quite a different character from his concert overtures; it is a solemn, contrapuntal, sacred prelude, with the old-school profundity, yet genial and interesting enough to serve as a good concert piece by itself. The orchestral resources throughout are carefully husbanded, after the way of Mendelssohn, to the great gain of true and clear effect, affording room for great variety of coloring. He relies on the intrinsic strength of his ideas, rather than on a noisy over-fulness of instrumentation.

The choruses range from grand, uplifting ones to others very lovely and tender; others mob-like and vindictive, like "Stone him to death"; again others of a vivid local coloring, like those in which the Gentile crowd worship Paul and Barnabas, "O be gracious, ye Immortals," etc., full of light-hearted, sensuous Greek adoration, of "oxen and garlands" and ear-tickling flutes. The arias are characteristic, heartfelt, deeply pious melodies. St. Paul is the oratorio which is most sure to gain, at every hearing, on a serious and truly music-loving listener.

Elijah, most popular of oratorios (after the Messiah), and most familiar, requires even less comment. Description or analysis would bore. The subject began to occupy his mind in 1838. It was finished for the Birmingham Festival of 1846, where, himself conducting, it was received with utmost enthusiasm. Yet it did not satisfy himself, and he at once set about revising and polishing. This was but a year before his death. When he returned to England for the last time to conduct it, the Prince Consort addressed him as another Elijah "faithful to the worship of true Art, though surrounded by the idolators of Baal." In greatness and variety of poetic and imaginative design, in wealth of musical ideas, in ripeness of consummate musicianship, in sure calculation of effects, it is a full expression of the composer's genius. It abounds in numbers which captivate alike refined and simple listeners. It betrays the dramatic element in the opening picture of the drought relieved and culminating in the wonderful "Rain" chorus; in the episode of the Widow who has lost her son; in the scene between the Prophet and the wicked Queen; in the Baal choruses, secular, impatient, boastful, impotently clamoring for miracle; in the sweet soliloquy and meditation of Elijah in the wilderness; in his ascension in the fiery chariot; and more or less in all the great choruses, all very graphic. Then what lovely restful choruses, like "He watching over Israel," followed by the perfect Angel Trio: "Lift thine eyes"! And arias full of meaning and of exhortation, like the soprano "Hear ye, Israel," in composing which, beginning with the high F sharp, his mind was haunted by that note as he had heard it in the voice of Jenny Lind!

Judging from the few fragments published, his unfinished oratorio Christus would have been his greatest sacred composition. From the first part, the Birth of Christ, we have the Trio of the Magi, teeming with wonder and anticipation; then the chorus: "There shall a star come forth," which has a sweet, pure, star-like beauty, ending with the choral: "Wie schÖn leuchtet der Morgenstern!" From the second part, or Passion, the tenor narratives, the accusing choruses before Pilate, terribly dramatic, especially the multitudinous echoes of "Crucify him," and the inexorable pronunciamento: "We have a sacred Law," bring him into still closer affinity with Bach; and even more so the exquisitely plaintive weeping chorus at the end.

Much might be said of his one Catholic work, the Lauda Sion, composed in 1846 for the feast of Corpus Christi at LiÈge, very beautiful in spite of the dry dogmatic Latin text, strange text for him! Much, too, of the three Motets for female voices; of the Hymn: "Hear my Prayer," with its soaring, bird-like soprano solo: "O for the wings of a dove!" of his masculine, strong settings of eight or ten of the Psalms, mostly for chorus with orchestra, with their Old Testament flavor; and of numerous smaller sacred compositions.

Of course so sensitive a nature, subject to many moods, quick to take impressions and to turn them into music, was prolific in songs with piano accompaniment. From his earliest composing days, at intervals throughout his life, he produced sets of Lieder and duets, to the number of ninety or more. They are all musical, refined, full of feeling, some of them strikingly original; but before the few great ones of Beethoven, the numberless songs of Schubert, those of Schumann, and above all Robert Franz, they retreat into the shade. Yet they have been favorites in musical homes and concert rooms, especially in England, where they introduced the love of German song, tempting many feeble imitators, while awakening there some worthier responses from the kindred spirit, Sterndale Bennett.

More truly original, with more marrow in them, and more of the enduring quality, are his four-part songs, both for mixed and for male voices. These have been the staple and the best material on which the Liedertafeln all over Germany, and the part-song clubs of England and America have built. After more pretentious, ingenious, sensational part-songs of later origin, it is always refreshing to hear one of them; for they are sincere music, thoroughly artistic, with heart and soul and poetry in them. With them we may mention several larger pieces for male chorus, such as he composed to Schiller's Ode "To the Artists," with accompaniment of brass. The exhortation of the music is worthy of the poem; male choirs feel well when they lift their voices in a strain so manly and so edifying.

We come now to a lofty form of choral and orchestral music, which we owe to Mendelssohn. In setting two of the Greek tragedies of Sophocles he had no old Greek music for a model. The spirit of the dramas lay in the text of Sophocles. He had read the Antigone in the Greek, and so far got his inspiration at first hand. He took the suggestion from Frederic William IV., King of Prussia, during a summer residence in Berlin in 1841. The peculiar function of the Chorus in the Greek tragedies, as a mediator between the actors and the audience, commenting in some sort of rhythmical chant upon what was passing on the stage, and the sublimity of some of those choruses, make us feel that there could not have been a truer artistic idea than that of setting them to music, realizing and carrying out their vague embryonic musical aspiration as it could only be realized in these modern times after music had become an art. Mendelssohn's inspiration seems to have sprung congenially from that of Sophocles; and this music is of the freshest, manliest, most original and vigorous that he has left.

Antigone was the first experiment. He composed it in eleven days:—Overtures, single and double choruses for male voices, with full orchestral accompaniment for all that are lyrical in subject; melodramatic bits, as where Antigone descends into the vault; and chords here and there making expressive background to the spoken verse. The piece was first played on the royal stage at Potsdam; and afterwards on the King's birthday before a select audience, the venerable Tieck presiding. When it was given at Leipsic, a meeting of "learned Thebans" signed an address to Mendelssohn, thanking him "for substantially reviving an interest in the Greek tragedy." The music has since made its mark everywhere, whether given on the stage with action, or only sung and played in concert rooms,—at Athens in the original Greek. Nobler men's choruses are never heard than that rich, sweet, pensive moralizing one which sings of man's wondrous faculties and limitations; or that superb hymn to "Bacchus" (double chorus),—as full of pomp and splendor as the Wedding March,—in which the composer gave free rein to his enthusiasm; or the opening invocation to "Helios."

Oedipus at Colonos he composed at Frankfort in 1844, about the time when he began to finish Elijah, and write the Violin Concerto and the music to Athaliah. A favorite with the men's Choral clubs is the chorus which recounts the beauties of Colonos and the glories of Athens. The music is wonderfully faithful to the ever kindling enthusiasm of the words.

The Mendelssohn Greek choruses are far beyond and above the ordinary part-song, which is a much smaller, humbler affair,—simply, as its name denotes, a song, harmonized in four parts. But these are themes worked up, for single and double choir, with as complete art as the choruses in great oratorios, only avoiding the Fugue form, which is Gothic, Christian, suggestive of the Infinite, not Greek.

Racine's Athalie, often called his greatest drama, is constructed after the old Greek model, with choruses similarly employed. Mendelssohn's music for it, compared with St. Paul and Elijah, the Lobgesang, or the Greek plays, must to many seem monotonous, in some parts dry and tame. The musical work, bound by the text, lacks climax. Yet there is much beautiful and some majestic, splendid music in it. Has it a Jewish, as its congeners a Greek flavor? The overture is very noble, with the two parts finely contrasted.

During the last years of his life the dramatic tendency in Mendelssohn, which we have traced all along through so many of his works in many forms, from his child operettas in his father's house to the Walpurgis Night, grew upon him with an irresistible momentum. His deep interest in Jenny Lind (Goldschmidt), who was his ideal of a singer, and to whom he became a most devoted friend, led him as the last musical problem of his life to write an opera for her in which she was to take the principal rÔle in London. That was Die Lorelei, a theme as legendary and romantic, while more poetic and more inviting to music, than the monster Norse mythology. The composition was cut short by his early death. The fragments which he left of the unfinished work are of such rare excellence, that one wonders what might have been, had that ideal been achieved! Might not the German theatre have then possessed an opera, a lyric drama, which would have forestalled the paradoxical solution of the problem which so many, whether musical or not, appear so overready to accept? And how long will the fashion hold?

Greatly unlike in temperament, in character, in quality of genius, in outward circumstances and environment, largely, too, in their ideal aim and tendency, Mendelssohn and Schumann seem to be destined to be thought of together. They lived at the same time, and were intimate associates and friends in Leipsic. Each had the warmest admiration for the other. The two together were a double morning-star in music; yet "one star differeth from another star in glory." Opinions will not soon agree which in his works is the more significant or glorious, which the more potent and far-reaching influence. We do not discuss the point. If the sweetness of Mendelssohn's music does sometimes cloy; if with all the strength of his orchestral works, his oratorios and Greek plays, with all the Jewish masculinity of his Psalms, his male choruses and his part-songs, one feels the feminine, the sentimental minor vein predominate upon the whole; if his struggles with his formidable art-problems were less Titanic than those of Beethoven, and consequently his triumphs less complete; if his resolution of the discord was a joy less absolute, less wholesome and perennial (for with Beethoven Joy, joy—Freude—is ever the last word,—Joy as of the gods, admitting of no surfeit, no corruption), still there is no denying, except by some weak caprice of fashion, the essential greatness of the composer Mendelssohn. The most serious deduction to be made is, that he was to a certain extent imitable. Swarms of imitators sprang up, both in his own country and in England. Hence a certain sense of sameness began to attach to his music,—a sameness not fairly chargeable to the master, but to the imitators, with whom it was too easy to confound him, or through their fog to see him falsely. Well might he have said: "Save me from my friends!"

Once Mendelssohn was overrated, in a most partisan and partial spirit, especially in England. Now it is too much the fashion, with young critics and "disciples of the newness," to estimate him far below his real worth. But all new fashions bring their own reaction. In this case the reaction will be purifying and salubrious. A reviving interest in Mendelssohn's music will be so much new guaranty against all false, extravagant, or morbid taste.—While music remains music, whatever may be the ups and downs of fashion, whatever the novelties of style or method, however startling the juggleries of brilliant execution, the genius and the art of Mendelssohn will still hold good. Their fascination may be lost awhile amid the louder clamor of phenomenal new comers; in more sane, reposeful hours, it surely will return with many a sweet surprise. What oratorio society, of high aim and standing, can afford to let the St. Paul and Elijah, or the Hymn of Praise, lose any of their lustre through neglect of frequent practice? What orchestra can fill out a worthy season without one or more of his symphonies and of his poetic overtures? Is any properly ambitious male chorus or part-song club well equipped without the Antigone and Oedipus music, or the Ode to the Artists, or the part-songs of Mendelssohn? Can any chamber music club dispense yet with his string quartets, quintets, or octet? And where is the pianist, however far advanced in virtuosity, who does not like to play sometimes his compositions for pianoforte with orchestra, or who fails to find grateful audience for the Lieder ohne WÖrter? Indeed to ignore all this is to convict oneself of a very youthful bumptiousness of spirit, an arrogant fanaticism of unreasoning modernness in taste.

Four we count above all others in the temple of tone-art and genius:—Bach, Handel, Mozart and Beethoven. Can we fill out a second four without the name of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy? Choice may vary as to one or two names in that second quartet; of Schubert and Schumann there can be no question; some may have preference for Haydn, or for Gluck, or Weber, Cherubini, even for Rossini; but when with the other distinctions we take into account that of many-sidedness, all-round musicianship, can any other four compete with Mendelssohn except to his advantage?

FROM A CAST OF MENDELSSOHN'S HAND.