MENDELSSOHN.

Undante express in

elia

A

IX.

BIOGRAPHY of Mendelssohn has yet to be written, but before presenting the reader with an analysis of the Elijah, I propose to transfer

to these pages a slight sketch not of Mendelssohn's life, but of Mendelssohn himself, drawn almost entirely

from a volume of Reminiscences, published by his intimate friend Edward Devrient. The book is neither a biography nor a book of scattered notes; but it is a kind of narrative, giving a connected and vivid impression of Mendelssohn as he appeared to one of his most intimate friends, from a very early age to the time of his death. Nothing so real and life-like about him has yet come before the public. Lampadius" only professes to give a sketch. Mr. Benedict's charming little work is but the shadow of an affectionate sketch. The two volumes of Mendelssohn's own letters are, of course, priceless; but Elise Polko's anecdotes are almost disfigured by enthusiasm. Edward Devrient is content to draw very fully, as far as he could see it, the picture of one who was more than a brother to him, -whose genius he profoundly reverenced, whose character he understood perhaps better than anybody now living, whose virtues he never ceased to extol, but whose faults he never attempted to conceal. Some will doubtless consider that the additional letters of Mendelssohn, there published for the first time, are the most valuable portion of the book; and indeed they possess in the highest degree all those qualities which drew the public towards the first two volumes of Mendelssohn's letters. The little vivid touches of description betray the same poetic heart and facile

pen:

I send you this from Styria. The convent is quite enclosed by green wooded hills-there is a rushing and murmuring on every side, and the consequence is trout for supper. It is now only seven o'clock, and already quite dark. This reminds one of autumn, no less than by

day do the thousand tinted hills, where the red of the cherry trees and the pale green of the winter corn gleam gaily through each other. I went in the twilight to the convent, and made acquaintance with the organ."

Educated with an almost Spartan rigour-early brought into contact with every department of human knowledge, and associating constantly with his elders, Mendelssohn nevertheless retained throughout his life the simplicity and impulsiveness of a child; yet his career is full of manly energy, enlightened enthusiasm, and the severest devotion to the highest forms of art. He had a passion for cake and sweetmeats, and a detestation of every kind of meanness and hypocrisy. He could romp like a child, but shrunk from anything like dissipation or excess. Nothing can be more genuine than his indignation upon one occasion when his anxious friend Devrient, hearing of the adulation lavished upon him in London, wrote to warn him of the dangers and seductions of London society. Mendelssohn was then a very young man, and his older friend might well be excused some little anxiety on his

account.

"If you were here I might walk up and down your room, and vent my vexation about many things, but it will be some time till we meet, and if you have not full reliance in one whom you should know, you will have cause enough hereafter to feel uncomfortable about him. Now I should be sorry for this, and very sorry if anything again were to be useful or hurtful to me in your good opinion, or that you thought I could ever change. Upon my word, Devrient, when I improve or deteriorate I shall let you know by express. Till then believe it not. Of course I mean as to certain things usually called sentiments."

Mendelssohn's very weaknesses were lovable. If

he was sometimes sharp with his friends, it was because he could not bear the shadow of suspicion; if he was sometimes suspicious himself, it was because his sensitive nature was too open to sudden and often one-sided impressions; if he could not pardon jealousy or meanness in lower natures than his own, it was because he was incapable of understanding them. His want of resolution is sometimes charming. When Devrient had persuaded him to go to old Zelter, his beloved master, in order to try and win him over to the production of Bach's Passions Musik, Mendelssohn characteristically says at the door

"If he is abusive I shall go. I cannot squabble with him.' 'He is sure to be abusive,' said I, 'but I will take the squabbling in hand myself. '

What delicate little touches of character are these!

"He came to us at twilight to say good-bye, anxious and cast down. I went with him across the court, and we walked up and down a long time under the projecting eaves by the summer drawing-room, as there was a gentle rain. Felix poured himself out in almost infantile lamentations; he wept, nor was I able to comfort him."

He had little coaxing ways with his friends, which made them love him with something like a child's love. When in company with Devrient, he would sometimes pronounce his name with an affectionate and lingering drawl, "Edeward," apropos of nothing in particular, and gently stroke his head or lean confidingly upon his arm. Devrient tells us with emotion how, years later, when much had passed between them, many things had changed, and he sometimes fancied his friend was not

the same Mendelssohn of old times, the old word, pronounced in the old loving way, recalled him to himself and almost brought tears to his eyes.

Mendelssohn's brain was from the first over-stimulated. But nature had prepared remedies for him— remedies which could not prevent premature decay, but which no doubt lengthened out his short life. Trifles sometimes excited him almost to frenzy; he could not bear disappointment or opposition. On one occasion when there was some likelihood of a royal summons interfering with a little domestic fête—

"His excitement increased so fearfully that when the family was assembled for the evening, he began to talk incoherently and in English, to the great terror of them all .. they took him to bed, and a profound sleep of twelve hours restored him to his normal state."

....

It was by these sleeps, often almost like death in their silent torpor, that nature recreated a frame constantly overtaxed to the extreme limits of endurance by nervous excitement. His appetite also never failed him; he could eat almost at any time, and, according to his own playful admission, to any extent.

With such a temperament there was keen joy, much work, and great suffering for him in life; and deeply he drank of each cup until one by one he put them down empty, and composed himself for his last deep sleep. It has been the fashion to say in England that Mendelssohn was not a good conductor; that he was too irritable and exacting. The same was said in