whereupon the voice comes in, and towards the end of the letter the man asks me whether in my judgment Handel was really the great man he is usually taken to be. Now, wouldn’t he do for the editor? What better qualification for the post than that song and that question?

But, to be serious again, my dear Moscheles, when you write tell me all you can about your new Overture to Joan of Arc, of which I have so far only been able to hear in a general way. Have you written anything besides the Overture, and if so, what? Are we not to have a third book of Studies? I do not believe there is in all Germany a single pianist, worthy or unworthy of the name, who does not know the first two books, and play them,—Heaven only knows how, to be sure,—and by publishing a third, you would really be conferring a boon on all musical people. Remember now, I want chapter and verse about everything you have been writing.

Among the new music you are constantly looking through, have you come across anything good? I have not seen anything that I quite liked. A book of Mazurkas by Chopin and a few new pieces of his are so mannered that they are hard to stand. Heller, too, has written two books of Songs that he had better have left unwritten. I so wish I could admire it all; but it is really so little to my taste, that I cannot. A few things there are, too, by some Berliners and Leipzigers, who would like to begin where Beethoven left off. They can “clear their throats” as he does, and “cough his cough,” and that is just all. To me it is like riding across the fields after the rain; on horseback they can dash along splendidly, even if they do get splashed, but when they try to walk, they get stuck fast in the mud. I have heard “Gustave III.” by Auber; in that kind of opera the music is fast becoming of secondary importance,—a good thing too. Yesterday I read in a French paper that Bellini is gazetted Knight of the Légion d’Honneur; Louise Vernet, whom I once upon a time admired so much, marries Delaroche the artist; and Urhan has written pianoforte pieces he calls “Lettres à Elle.” But I dare say you know all that, as well as the good news that the “Œuvres complètes de Moscheles” are about to appear at Schlesinger’s.

There, I am at the end of my paper just as I was going to begin in good earnest; it is quite as well, for I have nothing new to say, but only something old,—namely, my love to you all, and my longing to be with you once more. Well, next May I shall probably give one of my awkward knocks at your door. For the present, good-by; best love to Emily, Serena, and Felix, who I am sure speaks French by this time, or at any rate soon will. And now enough,—too much perhaps.

Ever yours,

Felix M. B.

Moscheles sent Mendelssohn his Overture to Joan of Arc; and two Songs on words by Uhland, “The Smith” and “In Autumn.”

Düsseldorf, March 25, 1835.

My dear Moscheles,—A thousand thanks for your kindness in sending me the two Songs and the Overture, and for the nice letter which came with them. It is too good of you. In your busy life, with so many demands on your time, you actually copy out music for me, and take pleasure in giving me pleasure! The mere sight of the parcel gladdened my very heart; and now that I have the contents, I long to hear the whole Overture, instead of having to fancy the single parts linked together. Now I have a clearer conception of the whole work, and am particularly delighted with the French March in the middle,—which, I am sure, must have a capital effect,—then the theme in minor at the end, and indeed the whole idea and conception. The Allegro Spiritoso is, I suppose, the principal section of the work; at least I cannot fancy it otherwise. And what about the end? Do you finish in minor with the Funeral March, or are “all standards slowly lowered at the king’s command”? The beginning of the minor March which you have written out for me is so fine that I long to know its conclusion. The March, I suppose, comes in towards the end; the trombones in answer to the muted Quartet must have a splendid effect.

You have given me nearly as much pleasure by the two Songs. They are so intrinsically German, not a bit French or English, never aiming at effect, and therefore producing the most agreeable effect upon me; for I cannot say how glad I am that you, in the midst of all your successes, have not lost the taste or love for such small, unobtrusive, beautiful songs. There is something truly artistic and truly German in that,—just what I delight to find in you. I like the Song in B major best, particularly the charming close, where the voice descends from F sharp while the accompaniment keeps on hammering away. So, too, the piano to the words “black forge” is delightful. In the Song in F, I particularly like the recurrence of the subject creeping in through the accompaniment at the words, “Ah, those were lovely dreams!” But will you allow me to mention a trifling matter with which I do not quite agree? There are a few nuances in the declamation,—or whatever else I may call it,—just at the beginning, to the words, “Yonder at the garden entrance,” where the quiet fall of the melody appears out of keeping, and where, musically speaking, the two half-bars seem to drag somewhat. I fancy it would sound livelier if they were omitted, and the melody went on without delay, so that, in the following bars, the words would not be dwelt upon at such length. Thus the word “glad” would get into the first bar, and the word “chords” into the second. This is still more striking at the word “soul,” in B major, where I feel confident the melody should go on without rest, as the verse goes on,—the word “again” belonging to “dost thou know,” according to the meaning of the text. So, also, I was struck by the long pause preceding the words “look around,” the accompaniment going on to A major, and then by the spinning out of the words “around them.” I fancy you might leave out one or two bars altogether.

But when I remember that I am writing to you, Moscheles, and that from me to you all this is very presumptuous, I am half afraid you will be offended—but no, I don’t mean that either, for I know you would not take offence at my straight-forwardness. If I tell you honestly where I think you have been less successful, it shows you that I am sincere where I appreciate, and that I thank you for all the rest.

What you say about Berlioz’s Symphony is literally true, I am sure; only I must add that the whole thing seems to me so dreadfully slow,—and what could be worse? A piece of music may be a piece of uncouth, crazy, barefaced impudence, and still have some “go” about it and be amusing; but this is simply insipid and altogether without life.

Some studies of Hiller’s I saw the other day I could not bring myself to like, either; which I am sorry for, because I am fond of him, and believe he has talent. But Paris, no doubt, is bad soil.

This page is to be devoted to my thanks for your kind letter, dear Mrs. Moscheles. You know how much I like London; so your pressing me to come is doubly kind. But I am sorry to say your letter arrived after I had decided to give up that pleasure this year. Klingemann will have told you so; and I need not add how sorry I am. Having, however, made up my mind to live and labor in Germany whilst I can, I could not refuse the conductorship of the Rhenish Musical Festival without materially injuring my position here; and as the Festival is held in June,—by which time I could not get back,—my favorite scheme has fallen to the ground. When I may take it up again I cannot say, but I trust it may be soon. Till then I must give up the extempore Fantasias for two performers, and the slow prestos, and the sugar-kaleidoscope, and the “Fall of Paris” knock. To lose all that for the sake of serious business is horrid; but how to help it?

There is an end of the paper, my dear Moscheles. Kindly accept the Overtures, and give me your opinion on them. The first has remained pretty nearly as it was; the two others are much altered. Let me hear all about your Concerto in C minor soon; I look forward to it with pleasure and impatience.

I must bid farewell, for to-day, to No. 3 Chester Place. Love to the children and the whole house.

F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Berlin, Aug. 13, 1835.

My dear Moscheles,—I do not know how to thank you for your kind letter; it gave me the greatest pleasure, and I should certainly have answered it sooner; only, I really had neither mood nor leisure to write. You know my mother was taken very ill in Düsseldorf, and recovered but slowly, and she could only undertake the journey here with the greatest caution, I accompanying her. My anxiety, both before the journey and on the road, was so great that I could not collect my thoughts for anything, and I did not feel relieved till both parents once more settled down comfortably at home to their old habits. Now, thank God, all traces of past fatigues are fast disappearing, and they are so well, or rather so much better than before, that I breathe freely again. Anyhow, I should have written to you shortly, but to London; for I had no idea you were going to Hamburg so soon, and the news of your arrival quite took me by surprise; but now I should like to know all about your past and future movements. That you should think of going to St. Petersburg, I more or less expected, confident as I am that you would be worshipped there and overwhelmed with kindness. But how long do you mean to stay? When to start? To be sure, you return to England. And then I want to hear something of the past; for, capital as your lines about Aloys Schmidt and Benedict are, there must be something too to say about new publications by others; and above all I want full particulars of your own compositions, what pieces you are planning, and how your concert went off. Do write about it all when you have a leisure hour; you know what pleasure it gives me. Your last letter I showed my parents, and they fully appreciated your kind words. My father will add a few lines to these.

Your description of Aloys Schmidt’s tallow-candle soirée and the conversation on sevenths was so graphic that I really could smell the tallow, hear the quartet, taste the green tea, feel the oppressive dulness,—in fact, it is as if all my senses had had their share in the proceedings. What you say of Liszt’s harmonies is depressing. I had seen the thing at Düsseldorf, and put it aside with indifference because it simply seemed very stupid to me; but if that sort of stuff is noticed, and even admired, it is really provoking. But is that the case? I cannot believe that impartial people can take pleasure in discords or be in any way interested in them: whether a few reporters puff the piece or not, matters little; their articles will leave no more traces than the composition. What annoys me is that there is so little to throw into the other side of the balance; for what our Reissiger & Co. compose, though different, is just as shallow, and what Heller and Berlioz write is not music either, and even old Cherubini’s “Ali Baba” is dreadfully poor and borders on Auber. That is very sad.

But what is the use of grumbling about bad music? As if it could ever take the lead, even if all the world were to sing it; as if there were no good music left! All such things, however, make me feel the obligation of working hard and of exerting myself to put into shape to the best of my abilities that which I fancy to be music. I do feel sometimes as if I should never succeed; and to-day I am quite dissatisfied with my work, and should just like to write my Oratorio over again from beginning to end. But I am quite decided to bring it out at Frankfurt next winter, and at the Düsseldorf Musical Festival at Whitsuntide; so I must finish it now. Besides, I think I have worked too long at it; at least, I am quite impatient to get to other things, so it is evidently high time to end. I have got to recopy the whole score, and make a good many alterations and additions,—rather a heavy piece of work that often tires me. In the course of the winter I am going to write a Symphony in A minor, and get my “Walpurgisnacht” ready for publication.

And what about the next book of “Studies”? I am quite longing for it, and so are all pianoforte-players. I wish you would let us have it soon. Don’t you mean to do so? And how about the Sonata for four hands?

You know that I am going to spend next winter in Leipzig to conduct the Abonnement Concerts. I have only engaged myself from Michaelmas to Easter. I’m a little afraid of it, and can’t fancy a residence there agreeable. My plans for next spring, after the Musical Festival, rather point towards the South than towards England. So I must trust to chance for bringing us together, and that is perhaps better than all planning for the future. Good-by.

Yours ever,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

My address for the present is Berlin; and from next September, Breitkopf & Härtel, Leipzig. Use it often.

At the close of the season Moscheles went to Hamburg with his family, from which place he announces to Mendelssohn his intention of visiting Leipzig for the purpose of seeing his mother, who was coming from Prague to meet him. He also speaks of his intention to give a concert in Leipzig.

Leipzig, Sept 5, 1835.

My dear Moscheles,—I hope and trust nothing may occur to prevent our once more spending a few happy days together. Your concert is being arranged, and so I shall have the twofold pleasure of seeing you and hearing your more important new works, and I need not tell you how much I shall enjoy that.

Your search after flowers in the arid regions of modern composition makes me quite melancholy. It is so disheartening to see how colorless the heroes of our day are. Sometimes it makes me feel inclined to think too indulgently of myself; at other times again the very reverse, and I feel thoroughly discouraged. Who is Mr. Elkamp who is writing a “Saint Paul”? Have you seen anything of his, and has it any merit or not?

If the Hamburgers look upon your appearance as an intermezzo between Chopin and Kalkbrenner, let them go to Jericho. I would soon put things into plain language, and ask them whether they consider the joint an intermezzo between mixed pickles, hashes, and fish patties, or whether it is not rather the other way. A comparison of that kind would, I believe, be most likely to come home to them. Kalkbrenner is the little fish patty.

Have you heard or seen anything of Lindenau the violinist? The last time I heard him, in Düsseldorf, I was exceedingly pleased with his playing. If you meet him, please remember me kindly to him, and ask whether he would come and play here. Good violinists seem to be scarce, and I should be glad if he would let us hear him soon. I am not quite clear as to the state of musical matters here. There seems to be plenty of music performed; but how much for the love of the thing, remains to be seen. That is, however, a vast subject, and we must discuss it accordingly, and rediscuss it, and say wise things about it; and may all that come to pass soon!

Just now Hauser comes in, and I tell him of my beautiful joke on Kalkbrenner; but he will have it that K. is more like an indigestible sausage, and I am to tell you so with his best love. Your kind offer of services reminds me of a favor you can do me on your way here. Klingemann wrote me the other day that he had had some money from you for me, and that you have a balance in my favor from Novello’s payments for the “Melodies.” If you could let my father have this on your way through Berlin, you would oblige me. Excuse my troubling you. I must end, or my letter won’t be in time. Pardon these hurried, good-for-nothing lines. Be sure you bring all your newest compositions with you; mind you do, it will be such a treat for me. And now, best love to wife and children, and good-by. Forget not

Yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

On the 1st of October Moscheles arrived in Leipzig; there, as prearranged, he met his mother. The ten days passed in her company and in musical and friendly intercourse with Mendelssohn are amongst the happiest recorded in the diary. On the 2d of October he says: “I passed the evening with Felix; his friend Schleinitz, a lawyer, came in; he has a lovely tenor, and sang some of Felix’s songs.[30] Then Felix and I played my ‘Hommage à Handel’ for two performers; all my Studies he knows by heart, and he plays them beautifully.”

October 3.—“Rehearsal for the first Subscription Concert of the season. Mendelssohn appeared for the first time at the head of the Leipzig orchestra. He conducted with befitting dignity, exercising authority without pedantry, and was most cordially seconded by the members of the orchestra.”

In addition to Moscheles’s diary we have his letters written from Leipzig to his wife, who, with her children, had remained in Hamburg on a visit to her relatives.[31] Moscheles writes of meeting “a retiring but interesting young man, Robert Schumann,” and of “the admirable and unaffected playing of Clara Wieck,” afterwards Madame Schumann. He shows us Mendelssohn’s study, with “the bookcase,—a perfect storehouse of musical scores;” the writing-table, on which he notices the silver inkstand presented to Mendelssohn by the Philharmonic Society; the engravings on the wall; a delightful litter of scores and other music on the piano; “still,” he says, “cleanliness and neatness prevailing everywhere.” Then again we follow the two friends to the keyboard of the Erard, which stands in the middle of the room. They play, together and alternately, their latest compositions: some “Songs without Words,” Moscheles’s Concertos (Fantastique and Pathétique), and Mendelssohn’s Overture, “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage.” “Last night,” says Moscheles, “we played my Overture and his Octet together; it went swimmingly, and when we parted he lent me his cloak, for fear I should catch cold after so many hot notes. This morning he was rewarded with an extra piece of that cake my mother brought from Prague for us.”

The above-mentioned cake, originally intended for the expectant family in Hamburg, was destined to be sacrificed to the appetites of a small party of belated travellers. Moscheles, Mendelssohn, and his sister Madame Dirichlet with her family, had travelled together from Leipzig to Berlin, and on arriving at half-past one o’clock in the morning they had found the Mendelssohn house in deep slumbers and the larder closed; it was there the cake met its pleasant fate. “Pleasanter still,” says Moscheles, “was the awaking next morning. The meeting with the Mendelssohn family was quite touching; we embraced all round, and Felix’s happiness and overflowing spirits were quite childlike. As for myself, I was received as affectionately as if I belonged to the family.”

Though at first reluctant to delay his return to Hamburg, Moscheles finally yielded to the kindly pressure of his friends and remained with them.

Of his concert Moscheles wrote a glowing account; Mendelssohn indorses it in the following letter:—

Leipzig, Oct. 11, 1835.

I cannot forego the pleasure, dear Mrs. Moscheles, of sending you an account of the events of the last two days, although necessarily a short one, as I am beset by professional and non-professional visitors. It has really been too delightful, and such a pity you were not here to enjoy the treat Moscheles gave us all. Those two days were indeed thoroughly musical ones, with everybody full of excitement and genuine enthusiasm.

Let me begin with the concert of the day before yesterday; you know the programme, and you also know how Moscheles plays. Well, then, directly after his “Concerto Fantastique” the shouts of applause began, and the noise lasted throughout the evening, and continued at yesterday’s rehearsal, so that this evening’s concert promises to be one of the most glorious, the Leipzig people being half crazed. Besides, you know, the room was the most crowded we have had for years; but what pleased me most was the intense interest and delight which pervaded the audience.

When we got to the end of our duet,—and it did go well, I assure you,—the most deafening acclamations broke forth, so that we played the last eight or ten bars without anybody, not even ourselves, being able to hear whether we did it correctly; nor did they leave off clapping and cheering till they had us out again, to perform a second duet—of graceful bows. And now you may fancy how madly they went on after Moscheles’s “extempore playing.” It is true he produced some things bordering on witchcraft, which to this day I have not been able to understand, although he pretends they were nothing; but it was quite delightful to see how excited and appreciative the audience were. An English lady, rather blue, wanted to be introduced, and gave vent to her enthusiasm, whilst a score of Leipzig ladies of all colors waited for her to make room. (And here is the proper place to inform you that Moscheles was struck on two separate occasions by the beauty of a Leipzig lady, and each time informed me of the fact, in a discreet whisper; whereupon I threatened to let you know, which I hereby do.) Well, then, the Leipzig ladies came to the balustrade of the orchestra, and Moscheles made them a bow; then came the dignitaries of this place; then one or other of the art critics, who gave detailed reasons for their praise; and lastly the committee of our concerts (consisting of twelve gentlemen—not one lady), to beg that they might hear the Overture to “Joan of Arc” once more at this evening’s concert. A work of that kind has too many novel and striking points to be at once understood by band and audience, so that we look forward with delight to its repetition to-day. They have now played it four days in succession, and it will go to perfection; even at yesterday’s rehearsal it seemed like a new piece, and fresh beauties were brought out. The duet, too, has to be repeated by desire; and as Moscheles had already promised to play his Concerto in G minor (“Blue Devils”),[32] we shall, I think, have a splendid night of it.

Let me just add that at yesterday’s rehearsal Moscheles played his Concerto in a more masterly manner than I believe I have ever heard him play before, which is saying a great deal; the unanimous applause which followed must have given him some pleasure. It was the last piece of the rehearsal; the Overture had been played beautifully, and now we all—the unoccupied—formed a large circle around him. Mademoiselle Grabau, our prima donna, turned over the pages, the other singers standing close by; a Kammerherr,[33] who had expressly come from a distant place in the country, and who fancied himself a good pianist, kept his eyes fixed on Moscheles’s fingers; the band exerted itself to the utmost, and Moscheles played quite wonderfully and delighted everybody. I only wish you and he could have seen the smiles and nods of the band and the audience, their secret looks of astonishment, and the unutterable surprise of the Kammerherr. Accustomed as Moscheles is to such demonstrations, he must have been struck by this outburst. As to myself, I cannot sufficiently tell you how I am enjoying his visit. Alas! it is coming to an end, as he is returning to you the day after to-morrow; but it was a happy time, long to be remembered, and always with delight.

I am again interrupted, and I expect Moscheles in an hour to take me to his mother’s, where I am to play; so I am obliged to conclude, leaving him to give you verbally all the Leipzig news, which I should have preferred to do myself in this letter, if the Hamburg mail didn’t leave at ten o’clock.

Ever yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Mendelssohn again writes to Mrs. Moscheles:—

If you want to be angry with Moscheles for giving us another day, you must be angry with all the inmates of the Leipzigerstrasse No. 3; for they are all at fault. He wanted to proceed at once, although he only arrived last night, or rather this morning at half-past one o’clock; but we all bent the knee of persuasion, in addition to which the police would not deliver his passport. Then, again, you will have him in Hamburg, Holland, and London, whereas we shall have to part to-morrow, probably for a long time. In a word, I for one begged and prayed to my heart’s content; put yourself in my place, you would have done the same. Moscheles, on his return, will give you all our cordial messages; it is post-time. I close, and trust you will not frown on

Yours sincerely,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Moscheles remained three days with the Mendelssohns. To none did he give greater pleasure than to the elder Mendelssohn, who, afflicted as he was with partial blindness, derived the keenest enjoyment from music. On the last evening of

Moscheles’s stay, he and Mendelssohn were improvising together; as the hour of departure approaches, the latter suddenly breaks in with the familiar bugle-call of the post-chaise. Moscheles answers with a solemn valedictory Andante; again he is interrupted by the warning notes of the bugle, and pressing forward, the two performers end with a brillant Finale. These days were amongst the last that Mendelssohn’s father was destined to enjoy. A heavy blow was in store for the Mendelssohn family and the wide circle of their friends. Abraham Mendelssohn died quite suddenly on the 19th of November.

Berlin, Nov. 25, 1835.

My dear Friend,—We have lost my father. He breathed his last tranquilly and peacefully on the 19th, in the morning, at half-past ten o’clock. He had long since wished it might be so, and God has heard him. May He give us strength to live on without him, and bear up under a loss we can scarcely realize! My mother and sisters are well; my mother an example to all, looking at the future with courage and fortitude. It was owing to you that I saw my father the last time, and for that I thank you. The remembrance of those two happy days is like a blessing that I shall carry through life. You knew him, and can judge how, with him, light and happiness have gone from me. I will strive to live as he would have wished me to live, had he been amongst us. To your wife my father was always sincerely attached, and grateful for all her kindness to him and to us all. She, too, has lost a friend, and so have all those who knew him well.

I must return to Leipzig in a few days, and do my best to get through my duties there.

Good-by.

Yours,

F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

On his return to Leipzig he resumed his work with untiring energy; on the 22d of May of the following year (1836) he conducted the first performance of his Oratorio, “Saint Paul,” at the Düsseldorf Festival; he next went to Frankfurt to take the direction of the Saint Cecilia Choir, in place of his friend Schelble, who was incapacitated through illness. Here he first met that other Cecilia who was henceforth to become his guiding star, and who was eventually to exchange her name for his. They were engaged on the 9th of September, Mendelssohn’s mother communicating the welcome news to the Moscheles family.

Frankfurt, July 20, 1836.

My dear Friend,—It is an age since I wrote to you last; but it was a monotonous age, and I was not in a mood to write about it or anything else. Besides, you know that however much time passes without your hearing from me, there is not a day that does not in some way or other bring me nearer to you or remind me of your friendship, your work, and your life so beneficial to us all. I have not yet thanked you for that good kind letter of yours which reached me through Klingemann at the Music Festival, with your congratulations on its success. How the Oratorio went off you have heard long ago. There was much that pleased me at the performance, and much that dissatisfied me; and even now I am at work on certain parts of the pianoforte arrangement, which is to appear shortly, and on the orchestral score, so much is there that completely fails to express my idea,—in fact, does not even come near it. You have often advised me not to alter so much, and I am quite aware of the disadvantages of so doing; but if, on the one hand, I have been fortunate enough to render my idea in some parts of my work, and have no desire to change those, I cannot help striving, on the other hand, to render my idea in other parts, and, if possible, throughout.

But the task begins to weigh heavily upon me, as I am gradually more and more attracted by other work, and I wish I could look back upon the Oratorio as finally completed. Well, I hope in two months, at the outside, to send you the P. F. arrangement. But where will you be then? What a thing it is to be separated by land and sea! I hear a great deal about you and your work through people coming from London, and I read about it in the musical papers; besides, you write occasionally, and so does Klingemann; but if I compare all that with our meeting in Leipzig, or with those days in England, when it was a matter of course that I should know how you spent every morning and afternoon, then letter-writing does appear a very poor substitute. I suppose you will be going to the seaside on the English coast. I, too, am ordered sea-bathing, and shall have to swallow the bitter pill of a regular cure, and go in about a fortnight to Scheveningen, or rather to the Hague, where I can live quietly away from the bathing community, and drive out every morning to the sea for my ablutions. In the first days of September, when the Subscription Concerts begin, I must be back in Leipzig.

I wish I could finish a few Symphonies and that sort of thing in the course of the year, and more still I long to write an Opera; but of that I am afraid there is not the least prospect. I am looking in vain throughout all Germany and elsewhere for some one to help me realize this and other musical plans, and I despair of finding him. It is really absurd to think that in all Germany one should not be able to meet with a man who knows the stage and writes tolerable verses; and yet I positively believe there is none to be found. Altogether, this is a queer country. Much as I love it, I hate it in certain respects. Look at the musical men of this place, for instance; their doings are quite shameful. Considering the size and importance of the town, there is really a fair muster of excellent musicians, men of reputation and talent, who might do good work, and who, one would think, would do it willingly; so far that is the good side of Germany, but the fact is, they do nothing, and it were better they did not live together, and grumble, and complain, or brood over their grievances till it’s enough to give one the blues. Ries is by this time in England, I suppose; he considers he does not meet with due appreciation, and finds fault with the musicians, and yet does nothing to improve them. Aloys Schmidt takes his ease in the country, sighs over mankind in general,—a poor race at the best, full of envy and malice,—forgetting all the while that he, too, belongs to it. Hiller is here just now. People discuss wildly whether he is a great pianoforte-player or not, but they don’t go to hear him, and fancy that makes their judgment all the more impartial; so he, too, is leaving for Italy. The only man who succeeds is Guhr, who knows least and isn’t good for much; but he has a will of his own, and enforces it bon gré, mal gré, and the whole town lives in fear of him. But all that is bad, and the German Diet should interfere; for where so many musicians congregate in one place, they ought to be forced by the authorities to give us the benefit of a little music, and not only their philosophical views about it.

What have you been composing, and what are your plans for the autumn? I am anxious, too, to know how you have treated your scoring of the Bach Concerto. Taubert has, I suppose, been drowned in the whirl of pianists, and was little noticed. It could scarcely have been otherwise; I always thought he had not much talent. Thalberg, whom you portray so admirably, I should like to hear again; he must have developed wonderfully.

And do you know that my Oratorio is to be published in London, at Novello’s, and that his letter about it dropped from the skies into my hands the other day? And do you know, also, that Rossini, with Pixis, Francilla, the Swedish composer Lindblad, and the Polish straw-fiddler Gusikow, have all been through Frankfurt? But I must leave off writing and chatting. Good-by; best love to wife and children, and don’t forget

Yours,

F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

On the 14th of August Moscheles writes:—

My dear Felix,—You ask me about my scoring of the Bach Concerto. Well, it seemed to me that one might give it a kind of new varnish, by doing for it what Mozart had done with such perfect taste for the “Messiah,” when he added wind-instruments to the score. Only, fully aware as I was of the poverty of my pen as compared with that of the master, I naturally hesitated. If now, however, I have followed the great example before me, the worst that can be said of me is that I am but a poor imitator; and consoling myself with that reflection, I wrote Parts for one Flute, two Clarinets, two Bassoons, and two Corni. I mainly intended this wind-accompaniment to take the same position in the Concerto which is taken by the organ in the performance of a Mass.

Hauser kept his promise very punctually, and sent me two more of Bach’s Concertos,—one for three, and one for two pianofortes. I will shortly let you know what I already possess of Bach’s concert-music; perhaps you can help me to complete my collection. My thirst for more of his work is simply unquenchable.

Of the pianoforte-players, Thalberg is really the most interesting. Sound and genuine in his style of playing, he does not seem to seek after effect, however much he may do so in reality. In his combinations, capricious and fantasia-like as they are, all follows and develops itself so naturally that one easily overlooks the lack of unity and a certain Italian mannerism. In 1826 I gave him some instruction; and at that time already I became aware that he would little need me to do great things,—sans comparaison, like a certain Berlin youth, who soon threw aside all leading-strings, and donned the purple.

I find that at my age my fingers require to practise most carefully the exercises of former years, in order to keep pace with the times. I can manage to preserve them pliable and elastic, but I cannot make them any longer than they are; and that is just the road that modern pianists, like Chopin, Thalberg, etc., have taken, in order to develop their technique. To play your music, I have also to stretch my fingers to the fullest extent; but there they obey more naturally, because the mechanical construction of your passages is of secondary importance, as compared to the spirit which dictates them.

Moscheles, in thanking Mendelssohn for his last letter, says:—

“It is with so much pleasure I see your handwriting, your ideas and views have so much charm for me (although I occasionally think they may yet ripen to full maturity), I so fully recognize your genius, and am personally so much attached to you, that the word ‘friendship’ but inadequately expresses my feelings. Similarly, it is a source of happiness to me to know that your thoughts are often with me, aware, as I am, how constantly you are surrounded by an admiring circle of friends.”

In reference to the preparations for a performance of “Saint Paul” in England, he says:—

“I am glad to find that all promises well for your Oratorio in England. Novello, Sir George Smart, and the whole profession are looking forward to its production with sympathy and interest. Like Hercules, you have throttled Envy while still in the cradle.

“Klingemann, Smart, and Novello are busy directing Mr. Ball, the translator. I have offered to correct the proofs, but have not yet received them.”

Speier, April 6, 1837.

My dear Friend,—Forgive my not having written for so long; the fact that it is a week since I was married, and that this is my first letter to a friend, must be my excuse. I need not tell you, and could not, if I tried, how the events of last year have added new prospects of happiness to my life, how all that is good has become doubly dear to me, all that is bad easier to put up with, how happy were the last months, how heavenly the last days! Looking back to the past and planning for the future, my thoughts have often reverted to you in friendship and affection, and to the happy hours spent with you. Believe me, I am truly grateful to you and your wife, and can never forget how many kindnesses you have at all times heaped on me. I have heard about you, both from Schumann and Bennett, but more particularly from Klingemann, who in his last letter describes some of your soirées, and your playing of Scarlatti, Handel, and Bach. It must have been delightful and what is more delightful still, he drops a word about new “Studies” that you are going to play on one of these evenings. So you have at last written some; you cannot fancy how impatient I am to get them, what a treat it will be to me, and how refreshing to have something new to study. For really the piano music of the present day is such that I cannot make up my mind to play it through more than once; it is so desperately empty and poor that I usually get tired of it on the first page. I positively dislike Thalberg’s work as regards the composition; and the good piano passages seem to me of no earthly use, so little soul is there in them. I could no more play his music than I could ever make up my mind to play a note of Kalkbrenner’s; it goes against my nature, and I should feel mean if I attempted such fingerwork with a serious face. Chopin’s new things, too, I don’t quite like, and that is provoking. So, you see, it is doubly pleasant to think of the old “Studies” and to look forward to new ones. When shall we have them, and will there be more than one book?

Your wife, I suppose, I had better not address, for I am sure she is dreadfully angry; and, to say the truth, I am rather afraid of her. Nevertheless I do address her, for I want to speak of my wife, and say I hope she will not visit my sins upon her; on the contrary, she must be ready to like her and to love her a little when she becomes acquainted with her; and truly my dear Cécile deserves it, and I think I need not make any appeal to your wife, but simply introduce her and say, “This is Cécile,”—the rest will follow naturally. And do you know, it is quite possible I may bring her to you soon. I have had an invitation from Birmingham to conduct my “Saint Paul” at the Festival, and feel much inclined to accept. If I come, it may be in the autumn, or perhaps sooner, about the middle of August. But shall you be in England then? That is usually the time when you are away; it would be too great a pity if we weren’t to meet. I cannot ask you to let me know about your plans,—for such a correspondent as I am can beg for pardon, but not for an answer; so send me word through Klingemann. But if you have leisure, and are disposed to treat me to a few lines, please address, all through the summer, care of M. T. Herz, Frankfurt.

If we meet this year, as I do hope we shall, I shall have several new things to show you. I have worked a good deal lately, and mean to be still more industrious. I shall send your wife a new book of Songs which is to appear in a few days, as soon as I get it.

And now good-by, my dear, dear friend; best love to your wife, and to the children if they haven’t forgotten me and the carnations. If you see Klingemann tell him that I will shortly write to him, perhaps from Strassburg, where I am going to-morrow, from there to Freiburg and Bâle, and so back to Frankfurt. And now that I must end, I feel as if everything yet remained to be said. Forget not

Yours,

F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

In September of this year Mendelssohn went to Birmingham, where he conducted the Festival. To their mutual regret Mendelssohn and Moscheles did not meet in England on that occasion, as the latter had left London for Germany at the close of the season.

Leipzig, Dec. 12, 1837.

My dear Moscheles,—I cannot say I feel much of a correspondent to-day, so engrossed am I with the new life around and within me. This year, with all it has brought me, has been the happiest of my existence, and I daily appreciate the blessings it has bestowed. For the last week I have been installed with my Cécile in our own new quarters, everything has been made neat and comfortable, we have already had eight Subscription Concerts, and a performance of the Messiah in the Church, and I have a variety of work in my head and some on paper. So, you see, my occupations are much the same as usual, and the pressure from without at times greater. And yet nothing now upsets or troubles me, because my home is so happy and peaceful. So I trust you will forgive my long silence, if you ever resented it.

Of late I have spent some of my happiest hours with your new “Studies,” the first proofs of which Kistner sent me. I had already got the engraver to send me whatever he could just spare, a sheet at a time; that gave me but a very superficial acquaintance with them, but I was too impatient to wait. Now I have had to return my copy, after correcting a number of mistakes, to Kistner, who is over-anxious about the work, and still delays its ultimate appearance. However, I have had the whole thing in my hands for a day, and have enjoyed it thoroughly; as soon as I have a copy to myself, I intend practising my piano properly, and mastering the Studies, for it is a long time since I had any piano music I wanted to play over and over again; so you can fancy how I enjoy something new, to which I can give my whole heart.

I cannot go into details, not having a copy before me; but this much I know, that my greatest favorites begin at “Contradiction.” The whole piece in D flat major is so bright, and towards the end positively makes me laugh when it goes into D major and the whole story is repeated first in D major and then in D flat minor. And then the last bar fff is glorious. Quite your own self is that tender one in G major, just as if I heard you talk and play. But my greatest favorite is the “Nursery Tale,” so graceful and sprightly; above all, I like the part where the deep bass notes double the melody, as if a big bassoon or some other growler of an instrument came in; and then the first transition to B major and the return to E flat and the very last bars leggiero,—all that has fixed itself once for all in my mind. How very much I like the “Bacchanali,” “Terpsichore,” and in fact all of them, you can imagine. I am particularly struck by the difference between these and your former Studies;—not that I love the old ones less, but the new ones are for quite a different class of players, far in advance of the former; here the technical difficulties have become of secondary importance, and the intrinsic merits of the work have to be brought out. Once more a thousand thanks, and may you give us many more of the same kind!

Did you hear anything good in the musical line during your stay in Hamburg last summer? Our concerts led to my becoming acquainted with some of the musical men there, but they were not much to speak of. In fact, there is a lack of good new musical productions everywhere, and that tells on our concerts here.

This winter Clara Novello is giving us a fresh start, the public cordially greeting her as a new and most welcome acquisition. She makes la pluie et le beau temps. But where are we to get a new Symphony from? May I address your wife quite at the bottom of this page, and write down a Song for her?

Dec. 12, 1837.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—Though I don’t know whether you still care for me or my Songs, yet,