blessing attend the little stranger; may he be prosperous, may he do well whatever he does, and may it fare well with him in the world!

So he is to be called Felix, is he? How nice and kind of you to make him my godchild in formâ! The first present his godfather makes him is the above entire orchestra; it is to accompany him through life,—the trumpets when he wishes to become famous, the flutes when he falls in love, the cymbals[16] when he grows a beard; the pianoforte explains itself; and should people ever play him false, as will happen to the best of us, there stand the kettledrums and the big drum in the background.

Dear me! but I am ever so happy when I think of your happiness, and of the time when I shall have my full share of it. By the end of April, at the latest, I intend to be in London, and then we will duly name the boy, and introduce him to the world at large. It will be grand!

To your Septet I look forward with no small pleasure. Klingemann has written out eleven notes of it for me, and those I like ever so much.

I can quite imagine what a bright, lively finale they would make. He also gave me a good description and analysis of the Andante in B flat; but, after all, it will be still better to hear it. Do not expect too much from the compositions I shall bring with me. You will be sure to find frequent traces of moodiness, which I can only shake off slowly and by dint of an effort. I often feel as if I had never composed at all, and had to learn everything over again; now, however, I have got into better trim, and my last things will sound better.

Nice it was, too, that your last letter really found me, as you said it should, alone and in the quiet of my room, composing to my heart’s content; and now I only wish that my letter may find you at home on a quiet evening, with your dear ones well and happy around you. We will see whether I am as lucky at wishing as you were. I am in a hurry and must end. I had but half an hour for my letter, and that beautiful picture has taken up all my time; besides, I have nothing further to say but this: I wish you joy now and hereafter, and may we soon meet again. My friends here send their kindest remembrances and congratulations. They are all well but my father, who suffers constantly from his eyes, and is in consequence much depressed; this reacts upon us, and we pray that there may soon be a change for the better. My sister and I just now make a great deal of music, every Sunday morning with accompaniment; and I have just received from the bookbinders a big grass-green volume of “Moscheles,” and next time we are going to play your Trio. Farewell, farewell, and remain happy.

Yours,

F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Berlin, Feb. 27, 1833.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—Although I can send you but a few lines to-day, I want to offer you my congratulations, and tell you that I enter heart and soul into your joy at the happy event. How pleased I am to think I shall soon see the little stranger, and that he will bear my name! Do wait till I come, that I may accept your first invitation, and be present in person at the christening. I shall certainly hurry as much as I can, and arrive as soon as possible. I am glad, too, that the new arrival is a boy. He must become a musician; and may all such things as we wish to do and cannot attain be reserved for him! Or if not, it matters little, for he will become a good man, and that is the main point. To be sure, I see already how his two grown-up sisters, Misses Emily and Serena, will tyrannize over him when he is about fourteen years old. He will have to put up with a good deal,—his arms will be voted too long, his coat too short, and his voice wretched. But presently he will become a man and patronize them, doing them many a good turn, making himself generally useful, and submitting to the boredom of many an evening party as their chaperon. I dare say you have somewhat (or should I say greatly) resented my epistolary shortcomings; but do pardon me this once, and I promise to improve, particularly in London, where I can be my own postman and improvise my questions and answers; but I will reform, anyhow.

Kindest messages from my sisters and parents. We all rejoice at the birth of the son.

I must now begin the last movement of my Symphony;[17] it gets into my fingers, spoils my letters, and takes up my time. Excuse, therefore, these hasty lines; how they are meant, you know.

Yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Berlin, March 17, 1833.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I hope you may not be at home when this letter arrives, and that the future Felix is playing with a rattle or screaming lustily in English, which means that I trust you and the new member of the family are as well as I could possibly wish. Klingemann gave an excellent report in his last letter; and so all I can say once more is, I congratulate you with all my heart.

I can’t help thinking that such an important event, such a change in the equilibrium of the whole family and surroundings, such an increase of happiness as well as of cares, must work quite a transformation; and I shall soon come and find out for myself whether I am right. But if you do not let me hear that I am mistaken (maybe with a scolding for not writing, or rather for my last bad letter, or with a slight satire on my genius, or something of that kind), I shall feel shy in Chester Place on my first London evening, and timid if I am asked to play to you. Do you happen to be engaged on the 21st of April? If not, I should like to come to you with Klingemann, who is going to call for me, as I fully intend being in London on the 20th. A “Schnellpost” is just driving past, and reminds me that I shall soon sit inside one. Strange to say, since I have begun to work hard, and have become convinced that Berlin society is an awful monster, I should like to remain here some time longer. I feel comfortable, and find it rather difficult to set out travelling again. All the morning there is a constant knocking at my door, but I do not open, and am happy to think what bores I may have escaped, unknown to myself. But when the evening comes and I go round to my parents and we all join in the liveliest discussion and the maddest laughter, then indeed we have a splendid time, and one feels quite reluctant to shorten such hours, not knowing when they shall recur again.

But why write any more? We will talk it all over. I shall have an answer quicker; or rather, it is for me to answer, as I own that you have heaped coals of fire upon my head. I am writing to-day to Moscheles to ask him a favor. I want him to send me one of the many testimonials which, all the year round, he is called upon to give. (It might be lithographed à la Smart.) The brothers Ganz, violin and violoncello, wish, after being at Paris, to go to London for the season, if there is a certainty, or at least a chance, of their paying their travelling and other expenses; that is what they want to ask you about, dear Moscheles, and I volunteered to write to you, as my father did for me three years ago. But I have clean forgotten the matter for the last few weeks, and entreat you to send me a few lines for them by return of post; but pray let it be by the very next return, as they are dreadfully offended and have left off bowing to me. And they are quite right, after all, as the time is drawing near.

A most gentlemanly Russian called on me some few days ago, and told me a good deal about Madame Belleville. I wish you could have heard him, dear Mrs. Moscheles. The Russians seem to be more thoroughbred than our Hamburgers. She cannot succeed with them, much as she tries; she would, but they won’t, and all my gentleman had to say about her pretensions and affectation seemed incredible. Anybody passing for affected in Moscow or Petersburg must be so indeed; that even the Berlin people allow.

The other day I heard a Berlin pianist play the worst variations on the “God save” that I have

ever listened to, and that is speaking volumes. The man had great technical ability and good fingers; and yet his performance was hollow and lifeless, and his banging about made me feel miserable. Where in all the world has our Berlin good taste hidden itself? Then again, I have lately heard the “Zauberflöte,”—the best performance, I believe, to be met with nowadays. It is evident that each individual is doing his utmost, that they one and all love the music, and that the only thing wanting is an ensemble, which I fear will not be met with in Berlin, as long as sand is sand and the Spree a river. That made me rather melancholy last autumn; but now I look upon things more brightly, and think of the coming spring with its return of warmth and verdure,—that is the best opera one can see and hear. Au revoir, then, in the spring.

Ever yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

The spring came, and brought Mendelssohn to London, where he arrived on the 25th of April, 1833. He at once set to work to compose, jointly with Moscheles, a grand Fantasia for two pianofortes and orchestra, which they could bring out as a novelty at the concert announced by the latter for the 1st of May. The theme selected was the “Gipsies’ March” from Weber’s “Preciosa;” each took his share in the composition of the Variations, and both combined to link them together. The manuscript score in the two handwritings, with its erasures and additions, its stitchings and patchings, seems to evoke the image of the collaborators, as they worked, thoroughly enjoying the incidents in this joint production.

Moscheles has a few words of graphic description in his diary: “I will make a variation in minor, which shall growl below in the bass,” exclaimed Felix; “will you do a brilliant one in major in the treble?” And so it was settled that the Introduction as well as the first and second Variations should fall to the lot of Mendelssohn; the third and fourth, with the connecting Tutti, to that of Moscheles. “We wished to share in the Finale; so he began with the Allegro movement, which I broke in upon with a ‘piu lento.’ On the night of the concert all went well; not a soul observed that the duet had been merely sketched, and that each of us was allowed to improvise in his own solo, until at certain passages agreed on, we met again in due harmony.”

In a letter bearing a later date, Moscheles says: “It is quite amusing to see how people want to find out by which of us this or that variation, this passage in the treble or that modulation in the bass, is written. It is just the intimate fusion of two musical minds that I like; and I tell them that an ice à la tutti frutti should not be analyzed otherwise than by dissolving it in one’s mouth, and that one should be satisfied with the flavor it leaves behind.”

The next note is interesting as having reference to the first book of the “Songs without Words:”

London, in my Club, May 16, 1833.

This morning I again forgot to mention, my dear Moscheles, what I have often intended asking and have as often forgotten,—how matters stand in reference to that publication of mine, and whether there has been any practical result. I have an appointment with V. Novello to-morrow morning; and if he has only sixpence to give me as my share, I would rather not broach the subject. So please leave word at my house whether you think I should mention the matter, or whether it had better rest in eternal oblivion. I return home to-morrow at eleven o’clock to know which way you decide. The saying is: “Merit has its crown;” so I scarcely expect I shall get as much as half a crown.

Yours,

F. Mendelssohn.

At Mendelssohn’s request to find a publisher for the work, then called “Melodies for the Pianoforte,” Moscheles had made arrangements with the firm of Novello, according to which the composer was to receive a royalty on each copy sold. From the books of that eminent firm, we gather that the work was published in 1832, and that on the 11th of June, 1833, Mendelssohn received £4 16s. 0d., forty-eight copies being sold. In 1836, four years after the publication, only one hundred and fourteen copies had been disposed of. In 1837 Mendelssohn sold the copyright of the first and third books of “Songs without Words,” three Preludes and Fugues for the organ, and three Chorales for female voices, for £35, to Messrs. Novello. We are indebted to Messrs. Littleton of that firm for the original Assignment, which we reproduce.[18] The titlepage is a fac-simile of the manuscript in the possession of Felix Moscheles.[19]

During this stay Mendelssohn conducted his Symphony in A major (the Italian) for the first time, at one of the Philharmonic concerts. At No. 3 Chester Place he was a constant visitor, ever bright and welcome in a circle which included Hummel, Malibran, Paganini, Rubini, Schröder-Devrient, Cramer, etc. On the 17th of May he left for Düsseldorf, to conduct the Musical Festival on the 28th. From there he writes:—

Düsseldorf, May 31, 1833.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—Meâ culpâ; but I have been more besieged than ever. I have dropped down on my bed at night unable to write or think, and scarcely able to speak. That sounds touching, but is true, nevertheless; so do not be too angry with me.

This is the first day of leisure, and I write to say that, please God, I shall be back in town on

Wednesday the 5th, ready to christen, play, conduct, and even to be a “genius.”

All else verbally. So farewell till we meet.

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Mendelssohn came, this time with his father, christened, played, and conducted, and otherwise kept his word. His first present to his godchild was an autograph album, which he inaugurated with the two pencil drawings reproduced here. The first represents the house in which the Moscheleses lived,—No. 3 Chester Place, Regent’s Park. Moscheles himself is supposed to be looking out of the window of his dressing-room. The second is a view taken in the Regent’s Park close to the house. Musically, too, he consecrated the album by a composition, the well-known Cradle Song in B flat, written for the occasion.[20]

In the course of years the pages of the little book have been covered with souvenirs from the pens and pencils of such friends as were not unworthy of inscribing their names next to that of the “genius” godfather; it is doubly valued by its possessor, for the interesting autographs it contains, and for the pleasant echoes of the past which it awakens.

On the occasion of a visit to the Portsmouth Dockyard, Mendelssohn’s father met with an accident, injuring his leg, and at first there seemed some cause for anxiety. This, however, was soon removed, and nothing but patience was required to insure complete recovery. Much music too must have been prescribed, for we find Mendelssohn and Moscheles constantly at the piano in the patient’s room. Amongst other works a collection of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Fugues, which Mendelssohn had brought with him, was perused and studied with the greatest interest.

The note upon the next page accompanied a certain Fugue which Mendelssohn had copied out for Moscheles; he is supposed to hold the pen for some of the inmates of the Zoölogical Gardens, which he and Moscheles had visited in the afternoon.

On one occasion he sent the humorous invitation we reproduce.[21] On another occasion he insisted on having a regular card of invitation, which he filled in as given in our illustration.[22]

Notwithstanding the numerous calls upon his time, Mendelssohn found leisure to make a pianoforte duet arrangement of Moscheles’s Septet. Speaking of this in a subsequent letter, Moscheles says: “I have recopied your arrangement of my Septet, and treated several passages more freely than you, with your usual discretion, had done; at the same time I have taken your hint, and added twelve new bars in the first part and altered two towards the end.”

Of the many notes that passed between Great Portland Street and Chester Place, we transcribe a few.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—

BOOK I.—On Health.

I trust you are quite well, even better than you were last night. My father is well, and I have slept nine hours and am tired.

BOOK II.—On Shopping.

My father requests you to let him come to-day or to-morrow morning, to arrange when he may go out with you, according to your kind promise and Stone’s prescription (to walk). This note is business-like; you must give me a verbal answer to Book I.

Yours,

F. M.

103 Great Portland Street, June 20, 1833.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I am very sorry I could not be with you yesterday evening, all the more as I am sure you again thought you had read in my face that I had made up my mind not to go. This time it was not so, however; but the check-taker would on no account let me pass without a ticket. I gave your name; he could not fetch you. I beckoned and called, and as I could not catch your eye, I waited and thought you might pass in my direction; but the cruel Cerberus in livery intimated to me that I had better retire to Portland Street, and that is what I did....

In another note he says:—

Here is my verbal answer—Oh dear! how unlucky, we can’t come! You see, we are giving a dinner ourselves to-day. I have just ordered fish and lobster for five,—that is, salmon,—and so I must present our regrets.

103 Great Portland Street, July 17, 1833.

With best thanks I return the books you lent me, namely, Nathan, two volumes of Zschokke, the last volume of “Phantasie-Stücke,” and the musical paper; so please destroy whatever acknowledgment of these you may have. Please give bearer the address of that faithless laundress, with whom I should be in a rage if she were not under your immediate patronage.

Best love to Moscheles.

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

P. S. So far I have not yet learned to tie that cravat (I practised yesterday before the looking-glass); but it is beautiful all the same.

On the 29th of August Mendelssohn left London; and after a short stay in Berlin, he proceeded to Düsseldorf to assume his new duties as “Musikdirector.” He had accepted this position for three years, at a salary of six hundred thalers per annum, with three months’ leave of absence.

The original score of his Overture to the “Isles of Fingal” he gave to Moscheles. We reproduce

the first page of it. On perusing it some fifty years after it was written, Gounod made the note at the foot.[23]

Sept. 13, 1833.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—Here is Berlin, September 13, and my father once more safely lodged in the Leipzigerstrasse, and feeling quite well. I should write you a long and detailed letter, if I did not wish to send a few words without delay from this place, which we reached yesterday, and which I must leave again the day after to-morrow; you can fancy how the whole day is spent in the family circle, with neither time nor inclination for letter-writing. But to look back upon the anxious days I have gone through, to remember all the kindness shown me, to feel that I am relieved of a great responsibility, and to think of those who assisted me in bearing its weight,—that I have both leisure and inclination to do, and that is the purport of this letter. Here all are well and cheerful, and send their best love. My father was unlucky enough to tread a nail into his foot, as we were visiting my uncle’s place on the Rhine, on the very day the steamer brought us the Dirichlets.[24] So he was laid up again for several days, and had to perform the whole journey to Berlin stretched out in the coupé. This little accident caused him more depression than his serious illness in London, so that he felt excessively impatient to see his own home again, and almost despaired of it. This, and in particular our necessarily slow progress, with so many inns and nights’ lodgings, made the whole journey most irksome, and my own impatience became the greater for having to conceal it. But at last I felt happy indeed, as we drove into the well-known courtyard, and the journey was safely over. The foot was but slightly injured, and to-day my father is allowed to walk about.

Excuse haste. I shall write properly from Düsseldorf, where I must be in a few days. And now farewell to you both. My love to Felix, Emily, and Serena. Wish I could send her two carnations. Pray give them to her in my name.

Wishing you all happiness, I am yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Düsseldorf, Nov. 25, 1833.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—Should this piece of paper have turned red by the time Klingemann arrives, it will but reflect my blushes. But when once a man has become callous, he is no longer amenable to kindness and friendliness; callous he remains, and keeps on sinning to his heart’s content. And that, I am sorry to say, is my case. And this does not even pretend to be the answer to your most kind letter, but my own act of accusation, bearing witness that I really received your letter, and nevertheless remained deaf and dumb,

and that you would be quite justified in not even reading all this. The truth is, that since I have got used to this place, I feel quite at home and settled in it. I am working a good deal for myself and for the outer world, and that, in other words, means that I am happy. This I ought to have described to you at full length, but could not (perhaps Klingemann can do so verbally), and so kept silent; but towards Christmas I mean to send you some new compositions and a letter as well, and then Moscheles must give me his opinion of the music, according to his promise. He will by that time have conducted my Overture in F, and will report about it, so that I shall have a letter in spite of my sins. Now, that is being hardened indeed! Better change the subject.

Herewith is the book of Songs formally made over to you, your heirs, executors, and assigns; if Klingemann doesn’t give it up, he is worse than a gazzo-ladro. I do intend sending you a proper book of manuscript songs at Christmas; but you won’t believe me, so I’ll set about writing it first.

And how about Moscheles’s four-hand Sonata?

After all, this is but a note, and I ought to conclude by saying: “I am truly sorry I cannot dine with you this day week, because I have a previous engagement at Mrs. Anderson’s.”

All love to Emily and Serena, and every good wish for your welfare. Should little Felix show his content by saying “Ba!” or otherwise prove his friendly disposition, you must tell him about his godfather, and give him his love. Now farewell, and fare ever well.

Yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Düsseldorf, Feb. 7, 1834.

My dear Friend,—Pardon my long silence; I know how guilty I am, but I reckon on your indulgence. I am so deeply buried in my work and papers, that even now I think I should not have emerged from them, were it not that a special circumstance obliges me to write to you. So let me pass over the last four months and all my excuses into the bargain, remembering what a dear old friend you are, and how ready to forgive.

Thus encouraged, I fancy myself in Chester Place, and wish you “Good-evening.” What I have to say is this: I have ventured to dedicate to you, without asking your permission, a piece which is to appear at Simrock’s, and which I am very fond of. But that is not what I was going to say. I had thought how nice it would be if you met with it during one of your trips to Germany; but now my Rondo Brillant is just finished, and I have the very greatest desire to dedicate that also to you: but I do not venture to do it without your special permission, for I am well aware that it is not the correct thing to ask leave to dedicate two pieces at once; and perhaps you will think it rather an odd proceeding on my part, but I cannot help it, I have set my mind upon it.

In general, I am not very partial to dedications, and have seldom made any; but in this case they are to convey a meaning, inasmuch as, not having been able to send you a letter for a long while, I wanted at least to let you have some of the work I have been doing. Write me a line on the subject, as the Rondo is to appear in Leipzig too; and once you have written that line you may feel inclined to add another, or perhaps a few more, as you did in your last kind letter, for which I have not even thanked you yet.

Klingemann is not prodigal of words, so that I have heard but little of London friends, and particularly little of those in Chester Place. What do you all look like? What can Felix say? Does Serena remember her humble servant with the carnations? And how fares the Sonata for four hands? Do tell me all about that and your other work. I would ask Mrs. Moscheles to let me know all about it, but I feel she must be so angry with me that I don’t think I can summon courage to write to her. The last of your compositions I heard of was the Impromptu for Mary Alexander, and since then I am sure you have produced all manner of delightful things. My own poverty in shaping new forms for the pianoforte once more struck me most forcibly whilst writing the Rondo. It is there I get into difficulties and have to toil and labor, and I am afraid you will notice that such was the case. Still, there are things in it which I believe are not bad, and some parts that I really like; but how I am to set about writing a calm and quiet piece (as you advised me last spring), I really do not know. All that passes through my head in the shape of pianoforte music is about as calm and quiet as Cheapside; and when I sit down to the piano and compel myself to start improvising ever so quietly, it is of no use,—by degrees I fall back into the old ways.

My new Scena,[25] however, which I am writing for the Philharmonic, will, I am afraid, be only too tame. But so much self-criticism is no good; so I stick to my work, and that means, in plain language, that I am well and happy.

I feel particularly comfortable in this place, having just as much official occupation as I want and like, and plenty of time to myself. When I do not feel inclined to compose, there is the conducting and rehearsing, and it is quite a pleasure to see how well and brightly things go; and then the place is so charmingly diminutive that you can always fancy yourself in your own room; and yet it is complete in its way. There is an opera, a choral society, an orchestra, church music, a public, and even a small opposition; it is simply delightful. I have joined a society formed for the improvement of our stage, and we are now rehearsing the “Wasserträger.” It is quite touching to see with what eagerness and appetite the singers pounce upon every hint, and what trouble they will take if anybody will be at the pains of teaching them; how they strain every nerve and really make our performances as perfect as can be imagined considering the means at our disposal. Last December I gave “Don Juan” (it was the first time I conducted an opera in public), and I can assure you many things went better and with more precision than I have heard them at some of the large and famous theatres, because from first to last every one concerned went in for it heart and soul; well, we had twenty rehearsals. The lessee of the theatre had, however, thought fit to raise the prices on account of the heavy expenses; and when, at the first performance of “Don Juan,” the curtain rose, the malcontent section of the public called for Signor Derossi like mad, and made a tremendous disturbance; after five minutes, order was restored, we began and went through the first act splendidly, constantly accompanied by applause; but lo and behold! as the curtain rises for the second act, the uproar breaks out afresh, with redoubled vigor and persistence. Well, I felt inclined to hand the whole concern over to the devil,—never did I conduct under such trying circumstances. I countermanded the opera which was announced for the next night, and declared I would have nothing more to do with the whole theatre; four days later I allowed myself to be talked over, gave a second performance of “Don Juan,” was received with hurrahs and a threefold flourish of trumpets, and now the “Wasserträger” is to follow. The opposition consists mainly of beerhouse keepers and waiters; in fact, by four o’clock P.M., half Düsseldorf is intoxicated. Anybody wanting to see me must call between eight and nine in the morning; it is quite useless attempting to do any kind of business in the afternoon.

Now, what do you think of such a discreditable state of things, and can you have anything more to say to such boors as we are?

By the by, Mr. Spring of Moscow is quite destroying my peace of mind. He would have it that he knew you very well, and I would not believe him on any account; at last he showed me a manuscript note of invitation from Chester Place, and I had to give in, but still I cannot digest him;—a pity that at his age, and with as little talent as he seems to have, he should be obliged to give concerts and make money.

Blagrove was here. I took him to our Choral Society, where we were just rehearsing the choruses from “Alexander’s Feast;” our performance produced the most excellent effect on him,—it sent him to sleep.

Can you not send me one or the other of your new things (a copy or whatever you like)? The gentleman who takes charge of this returns shortly, and would, I am sure, be the bearer of your parcel. So, if you have anything, please send it to Klingemann’s, and it shall be called for.

I hear from my mother that the “Gipsies’ March,” or rather the “April Variations,” are out. Is that the case; and if so, could I have a copy of them? I hope you have done a good deal of patching and polishing to my part,—you know, I am thinking of those restless passages of mine. The whole of the last number wants repairing or lining with a warm melody; it was too thin. The first variation, too, I hope you have turned inside out and padded. Don’t I speak as if I were Musikdirector Schneider? And can’t you send me one of Mori’s annual gems? But I must really take courage and another little sheet of paper and write to your wife, for I haven’t half done. Good-by—till we meet on the next page.

Your

F. Mendelssohn.

Düsseldorf, Feb. 7, 1834.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—It is only after having given two hours to writing to Moscheles, that I venture on the letter to you. Never have I so richly deserved a scolding as now; I say deserved, for I may not get it, you have so often let me off. What, as compared with my other delinquencies, are such trifling peccadilloes as talking German at dinner, not carving at the Stones’, having threadbare coat-buttons, and not paying compliments à la Hummel? But does it perhaps give you satisfaction to hear that I have a very bad conscience, or that I have some kind of feeling like a naughty child about to confess, or that Klingemann too has given up writing to me? To speak seriously, there are many minutes in the course of each day when I think of your dear home, wishing I were there, and enjoying the recollections of the time I have spent in it. That much you must believe; but whether out of such thoughts grows a letter or not, depends more or less upon chance. I am sorry to say I shall not be going to England this spring. I mean to have a good spell of work, and have something to show for it before I stir from here. You can hardly imagine how much better and brighter I feel for the last two months’ work, and how much easier I get on with it; so I must keep it up, and get into full swing. My birthday just came in time to remind me how necessary this was. Of my life here, I have already written a good deal to Moscheles. The other day we gave “Egmont” with Beethoven’s music. I doubly enjoyed it, for I hadn’t heard anything of his for a long time.

By the by, you are rather opposed to Goethe in some things; so I recommend you to read a newly published correspondence between him and Zelter, in which you will find plenty of matter to confirm your opinion; and yet I should vigorously oppose you, and stand up for my old favorite as formerly. Do you know the chorus on Lord Byron, which occurs in the second part of “Faust” and begins with “Nicht allein”? Should you not know it, pray read it at once, for I believe it will please

you. Just now English tea-time is coming on, and with it I feel all my fear vanishing. To-day there is a grand déjeuner dansant,—of all the hateful Berlin institutions the one I hate the most. A nice set they are! They meet at half-past eleven A.M., and spend their time eating and drinking until one o’clock next morning. There are few things so unsightly in my eyes, whether it is done in broad daylight, which is one way; or whether the shutters are closed at midday, and the chandeliers lighted, as they do at Court in Berlin. Besides, there has been dancing for the last fortnight, usually up to five o’clock in the morning, with Prince Frederick taking the lead, giving as many balls and accepting as many invitations as possible. I have been saved all these splendors by a bad cold, which has confined me to my room for more than a week. I am getting over it now; but it will serve as an excuse for keeping aloof until the end of the Carnival. So you see that we too are metropolitan to the best of our abilities; and if this page of mine has not made you feel quite Berlinese or Bœotian, an account of all our dinner-parties, I am sure, would.

I wanted to send you some new songs, but must again put it off, as I have a great deal to prepare for this parcel. I should like to know, too, how you are getting on with your singing,—whether you practise sometimes, and follow the wise rules of your wise professor.[26] You want to know whether I am rapidly degenerating here, and whether I stand in awe of any one as I did of you with regard to elegance, or rather neatness? Madame Hübner, whom you must have seen at Berlin, does sometimes take me to task, and sees at a glance, on my entering a room, some shortcoming which it might take me six months to notice; but she is not as good a Mentor as you, so that I fear you will find me quite run wild, should I venture again out of my backwoods; and as for my capacity for tying a cravat with taste, that will be a thing of the past. But when we meet, you will find me as willing a pupil as ever.

Love to Emily and Serena and to my little godson. The little man cannot yet understand it, but never mind. Adieu then, and be well and happy.

Ever your

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

On the 12th of February, 1834, Moscheles writes:—

I have read and studied your Overture (“Melusine”) with ever-growing interest; and let me say, in the fewest of words, that it is a splendid work. It is marked by vigorous and spirited conception, unity, and originality. Thus impressed, I proceeded to the first rehearsal, after having gone through it privately with Mori. But it was not an easy matter to moderate the orchestra in the piano parts; especially at the outset they would make a desperate plunge, and the trumpets were somewhat surprised at having to fall in with their 7th on C. I winced and groaned, and made them begin again three times. The contrasting storms went as if Neptune held the sceptre; but when the voices of the Sirens were to disarm that boisterous ruler, I had to call for piano, piano! piano! at the top of my voice, bending down to the ground, à la Beethoven,[27] and in vain trying to restrain the ferocious violins and basses. However, at a second reading things went better. The work was studied with the liveliest interest, and received with the fullest appreciation. I hope to bring out the lights and shades still better at the performance. You have given the horns and trumpets, alternately, the