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     LETTERS
     OF
     FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY
     FROM
     ITALY AND SWITZERLAND.

     TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE.

     WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE
     BY JULIE DE MARGUERITTES.

     [Illustration: logo]

     BOSTON:
     OLIVER DITSON & CO., 277 WASHINGTON STREET.
     NEW YORK: C. H. DITSON & CO.




FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.


Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy was born at Hamburg, on the third of
February, 1809. The name to which he was destined to add such
lustre, was already high in the annals of fame. Moses Mendelssohn,
his grandfather, a great Jewish philosopher, one of the most
remarkable men of his time, was the author of profound Metaphysical
works, written both in German and Hebrew. To this great power of
intellect, Moses Mendelssohn added a purity and dignity of
character worthy of the old stoics. The epigraph on the bust of
this ancestor of the composer, shows the esteem in which he was
held by his contemporaries:

"Faithful to the religion of his fathers, as wise as Socrates, like
Socrates teaching the immortality of the soul, and like Socrates
leaving a name that is immortal."

One of Moses Mendelssohn's daughters married Frederick Schlegel,
and swerving from the religion in which both had been brought up,
both became Roman Catholics.

Joseph Mendelssohn, the eldest son of this great old man, was also
distinguished for his literary taste, and has left two excellent
works of very different characters, one on Dante, the other on the
system of a paper currency.

In conjunction with his brother, Abraham, he founded the
banking-house of Mendelssohn & Company at Berlin, still flourishing
under the management of the sons of the original founders, the
brothers and cousins of Felix, the subject of this memoir.

George Mendelssohn the son of Joseph, was also a distinguished
political writer and Professor in the University at Bonn.

With such an array of intellectual ancestry, the Mendelssohn of our
day came into the world at Hamburg, on the third of February,1809.
He was named Felix, and a more appropriate name could not have been
found for him, for in character, circumstance and endowment, he was
supremely happy. Goethe, speaking of him, said "the boy was born on
a lucky day." His first piece of good fortune, was in having not
only an excellent virtuous woman for his mother, but a woman who,
besides these qualities, possessed extraordinary intellect and had
received an education that fitted her to be the mother of children
endowed as hers were. She professed the Lutheran creed, in which
her children were brought up. Being of a distinguished commercial
family and an heiress, her husband added her name of Bartholdy to
his own. Mme. Mendelssohn Bartholdy's other children were, Fanny
her first-born, whose life is entirely interwoven with that of her
brother Felix, and Paul and Rebecca, born some years later.

When yet a boy, Felix removed with his parents to Berlin, probably
at the time of the formation of the banking house. The Prussian
capital has often claimed the honor of being his birthplace, but
that distinction really belongs to Hamburg.

His extraordinary musical talent was not long in developing itself.
His sister Fanny, his "soul's friend" and constant companion,
almost as richly endowed as himself, aroused his emulation, and
they studied music together first as an art, and then as a science,
to be the foundation of future works of inspiration and genius.

Zelter, severe and classic, profoundly scientific, inexorable for
all that was not true science, became the teacher of these two
gifted children in composition and in counterpoint. For piano-forte
playing, Berger was the professor, though some years later
Moscheles added the benefit of his counsels, and Felix was fond of
calling himself the pupil of Moscheles, with whom in after life he
contracted a close friendship. Zelter was exceedingly proud of his
pupil, soon discovering that instead of an industrious and
intelligent child, one of the greatest musical geniuses ever known
was dawning on the world. When he was but fifteen, Zelter took the
young musician to Weimar, and secured for him the acquaintance and
good will of Goethe, which as long as Goethe lived, seemed to be
the necessary consecration of all talent in Germany. By this time
not only was he an admirable performer on the piano, possessed of
a talent for improvisation and a memory so wonderful, that not only
could he play almost all Bach, Haendel, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven
by heart, but he could also without hesitation accompany a whole
opera from memory, provided he had but seen the score once. The
overture to Midsummer Night's Dream, so popular now in every
country, was composed before he was seventeen, and was played for
the first time as a duet on the piano by his sister Fanny and
himself on the 19th November, 1826. This is indeed the inspiration
of youth with its brilliancy, its buoyancy, its triumphant joy,
full of the poetry of a young heart, full of the imagination of a
mind untainted by the world. It was not till some years after, that
Mendelssohn completed the music to Shakspeare's great play. In
1827, Felix left the University of Berlin with great honors. He was
a profound classical scholar, and has left as a specimen of his
knowledge, a correct, graceful and elegant translation of Terence's
comedy of Andria, a work greatly approved of by Goethe. He excelled
in gymnastics, was an elegant rider, and like Lord Byron, a bold
and accomplished swimmer. The year he left the University, he went
to England, where Henrietta Sonntag was in the height of her fame.
He played in several concerts where she sang, as well as with
Moscheles, his old friend and teacher, now established in London.

On his return to Germany in 1830, he visited Goethe at Weimar, and
there planned his journey to Italy, a country which all men of
genius yearn after, as the promised land of inspiration. When in
Rome, Felix Mendelssohn began the grand Cantata of the Walpurgis
Night, to Goethe's words, at which he worked for some years. On his
return from his travels, Mendelssohn, who had now all the assurance
and self-possession of an artist, was appointed chapel-master at
Duesseldorf, a position which gave him the direction of the grand
musical festivals held at that time in this city and in
Aix-la-Chapelle. It was during his residence in Duesseldorf, that he
composed his oratorio of St. Paul, and also, the first set of his
"Songs without Words" for the piano, where the music, by its varied
expression and its intensity, alone told the story of the poet.
These compositions were a novelty for piano-forte players, and
inaugurated a new style, full of interest, gradually setting aside
the variations and sonatas which had become so meaningless and
tedious. The oratorio of St. Paul was not given until 1836, when it
was produced at Duesseldorf, under his own special superintendence.
Mendelssohn composed very rapidly, but he was cautious in giving
his works to the public, until they thoroughly satisfied his
judgment, the most critical to which they could be submitted.

In the latter part of 1836, having gone to Frankfort, to direct a
concert of the Ceciliaverein, he became acquainted with Cecilia
Jeanrenaud, a beautiful and accomplished girl, the second daughter
of a clergyman of the Reformed Church, and in the spring of 1837
she became his wife. The marriage had been delayed some months by
Mendelssohn's ill health; he had begun to feel the first symptoms
of the nervous disease, affecting the brain, from which he was
destined henceforth to suffer, and of which, finally, he was fated
to die.

After his marriage he undertook the direction of the Leipzig
Concerts. All over Germany, Mendelssohn was in requisition; his
immense genius as a composer, his great skill as a conductor, his
gentle, fascinating manners, gave him extraordinary popularity. It
was England, however, after all, who appreciated him most. Sacred
music seems to appeal especially to the English taste. Haydn,
Haendel, Beethoven have all found more patronage and appreciation in
England than in their own country. So it was with Mendelssohn; the
greatest musical triumph ever achieved, was the performance of the
oratorio of Elijah, given at Birmingham, the work on which
Mendelssohn's fame will rest. He was nine years in composing this
oratorio; and notwithstanding the most flattering ovation,
Mendelssohn's serene temperament was not moved to vanity or
conceit. In the very moment of his success, he sat down modestly to
correct many things that had not satisfied him. The trio for three
female voices (without accompaniment) one of the most beautiful
pieces in the oratorio, was added by the composer after the public
had declared itself satisfied with the work as it originally stood.
Elijah was produced in 1847, but Mendelssohn had been several times
to England before this, playing at the ancient and Philharmonic
concerts; at that time, the resort of the elite in London.

It was during one of these visits in 1842, that Prince Albert, who
as a German and a musician, had sought his acquaintance, introduced
him to Queen Victoria. The visit was entirely devoid of formality,
for without any previous announcement, the Prince conducted
Mendelssohn from his private apartments, to the Queen's study,
where they found her surrounded by papers, and just terminating her
morning's work. The Queen receiving him most graciously, apologized
to the composer for the untidiness of the room, beginning herself
to put it in order and laughingly accepting his assistance. After
some agreeable conversation Mendelssohn sat down to the piano and
played whatever the Queen asked of him. When at length he rose,
Prince Albert asked the Queen to sing, and gracefully choosing one
of Mendelssohn's own compositions, she complied with the request.
Mendelssohn of course applauded, but the Queen laughingly told him,
that she had been too frightened to sing well. "Ask Lablache,"
(Lablache was her singing master) added the Queen, "he will tell
you that I can sing better than I have done to-day." Prince Albert
and the Queen were ever warm patrons and friends of Mendelssohn.

During all this time so brilliantly filled up, Mendelssohn's health
was continually and gradually declining. His nervous susceptibility
was such that he was often obliged to abstain from playing for
weeks together, his gentle and affectionate wife watching him and
keeping him as much as possible from composition. This was a very
difficult task, for Mendelssohn was a great worker. Even when
travelling, he would take out pen and ink from his pocket and
compose at one corner of the table, whilst the dinner was getting
ready.

Little was Mendelssohn prepared, either mentally or physically at
this time, to bear the one great sorrow that overwhelmed this happy
life, on which the sun of prosperity had ever shone. His sister
Fanny, to whom many of his letters were written, and who had been
the companion of his studies, possessing the same tastes and a
great deal of the same genius; his sister Fanny, who was the
nearest and dearest affection of his life, was suddenly taken from
him. She had married and was living in Frankfort, where she was the
ornament of society, in this enlightened and art-loving city, when
in the midst of a rehearsal of Faust, a symphony of her own
composition, she was struck with apoplexy and fell back dead in her
chair. There is no doubt that this shock considerably increased the
disease from which Mendelssohn was suffering, and though he used to
rally and even appear resigned, this sorrow, until the day of his
death, lay heavy at his heart. Again he tried to find health and
peace in travel; he went to Switzerland with his wife, who strove
to keep him from all occupation and labor, but he would gently urge
her to let him work. "The time is not far off, when I shall rest; I
must make the most of the time given me." "I know not how short a
time it may be," would he say to her. On his return from
Switzerland and Baden-Baden, he went to Berlin; and once more all
that remained of this tenderly attached family, were united for a
short time. At length he returned to his home in Leipzig, serene as
ever, but worn to a shadow by the acute and continued pains in the
head for which he could obtain no relief. On the 9th of October, he
went to the house of a friend, one of the artists of the Leipzig
concerts, and entreated her to sing for him a song he had that
night composed. By a strange coincidence, this song began with
these words, "Vanished has the light of day." It was Mendelssohn's
last composition, the last music he heard on earth, for whilst the
lady was singing it, he was seized with vertigo and was carried
insensible back to his house. He recovered, however, comparatively
from this attack, but a second stroke of apoplexy placed his life
in extreme peril, and a third, on the 3rd of November, made him
utterly unconscious. Towards nine o'clock on the evening of the
4th, (1847,) he breathed his last, going to his everlasting rest as
easily and as calmly as a tired child sinks to sleep. He was in the
thirty-ninth year of his age.

Mendelssohn's death was looked upon, throughout Germany, as a
public calamity. The funeral ceremonies at Leipzig were of a most
imposing character, and all the way from Leipzig to Berlin, where
the corpse was taken, to be buried in the family vault, the most
touching honors greeted it. Nearly all the crowned heads of Europe
wrote letters of condolence to his widow.

Mendelssohn as a musician is profoundly original. In his oratorios
"Paul" and "Elijah" he has swerved from the conventional religious
style; eschewing all fugues, his oratorios are full of power, and
contain great dramatic effects--at once grand and solemn. His other
music is remarkable for the sweetness of its melodies--its earnest
simplicity. His instrumentality is scientific without being
pedantic or heavy, and utterly devoid of antiquated formalism;
though pathetic often, there is always a vigor and life in all his
inspirations; the low mournful wail that runs through all Chopin's
works, arising from a morbid condition of health and heart, is
never felt in Mendelssohn. There is none of the bitterness, the
long suffering that artists' lives entail and that artists infuse
into their works, for Mendelssohn was a happy man from first to
last.

Mendelssohn the happy, "the boy born on a lucky day," has left a
life-record that amid the gloomy heart-rending and often degrading
histories of artists, shines with a chaste and holy life. Nature,
the world and circumstance had done every thing for him. To the
great and all-sufficient gift of his musical genius he added many
others,--he had the eye of a painter, the heart of a poet, his
intellect was of the highest order; he was tall, handsome,
graceful, his social position one of the finest in Berlin, rich,
and surrounded by the tenderest family affections. With all these
advantages, with all the success that