VII. MENDELSSOHN.

NO STRONGER contrast to the unhappy fate of Schubert could be presented than the life of Jacob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, born at Hamburg, February 3, 1809. He was one of a gifted family, every member of which was lovable and interesting. His grandfather, Moses Mendelssohn, was a man great in mind and heart; and Abraham Mendelssohn, the father of Felix, was a man of power and character. He never attained, however, the fame of his father nor of his son, and he used to say in his later life: "Formerly I was the son of my father, and now I am the father of my son." He gave the most careful attention to his children's education, and they always sought his advice and counsel. Felix's mother, too, was an able and accomplished woman, who sang well, played on the piano, spoke French, English, and Italian, read Greek, made beautiful drawings, and added to all these attainments the power of attracting the most cultured society in Berlin to her house. These parents gave their children the best education that love could dictate and money procure. Felix's sister Fanny, four years older than he, had remarkable musical talent. She composed some of the "Songs Without Words," which Felix never tired of admiring. Her brother and herself were throughout their lives the dearest friends and confidants.

Their mother gave the children lessons, and always superintended their practicing; but she soon felt their need of a professional teacher, and Zelter, an enthusiastic disciple of Bach, undertook the children's musical education.

The children worked very hard at their music, rising at five to practice; nor was their general education neglected, for they had the best masters in every department. When Felix was eleven years old, he and his music teacher visited Goethe, the great German author, who loved to hear the little genius extemporize. Sir Julius Benedict, who met him at this time, says, "I shall never forget the impression of that day on beholding the beautiful youth, with his auburn hair clustering in ringlets round his shoulders, the ingenuous expression of his clear eyes, and the smile of innocence and candor on his lips."

Felix now worked very steadily at his music, and in 1818 a series of matinees were inaugurated, at which he conducted an orchestra, always placing

one of his own compositions on the programme. Few musicians passed through Berlin without attending these performances, so that besides the practice in conducting, and the pleasure of having his own compositions played, Felix had the further advantage of hearing the best musical criticism. In 1822 the family traveled through Italy and Switzerland, and before returning, they again visited Goethe, who was delighted to renew his acquaintance with the little musician. He loved to hear Felix improvise, and said to the lad's mother, “A charming, delightful boy; send him again soon, that I may get all the pleasure I can out of him." On his fifteenth birthday, when his health was proposed, Zelter said he was no longer an apprentice, but a musician, and hailed him as one "in the name of Mozart, Haydn and old father Bach." Nothing could be more charming than the life and surroundings of this favored family. The Mendelssohns' house was lofty and spacious, with a beautiful park laid out in trees and vines. In summer, the children lived in it. Here, in company with some young friends, they started a little paper called the Garden-Times, changing the title in winter to that of the Tea-and-SnowTimes. Each one was obliged to contribute something, serious or humorous, to its columns, and it was a source of great amusement to them all. Felix could often be found in some snug corner with a copy of Shakespeare in his hand, and amid such happy and delightful scenes, and while reading the comedy, Mendelssohn really wrote his "Midsummer Night's Dream" overture, which he copied twenty years afterward without changing a note. In 1829, the Bach Passion Music was given, chiefly through his efforts; he always considered Bach his master, and said that he was the source of all that was most needful in music. During that year, Felix left home for a season of travel; the journey was undertaken not merely to study his art and to win reputation, but, what was just now far more important to him, to see places and people; in short, for general as well as for musical culture. His absence left a blank at home, which was felt by no one more than Fanny; but they were all somewhat consoled by the affectionate and interesting letters he sent them. In London he was entertained by Moscheles, and enthusiastically received by the public; his intellectual and social gifts were only less rare than his

musical genius. At the end of the season, Felix made a tour through Scotland, where he met Sir Walter Scott. He delighted also in the air and scenery, and his letters are filled with charming descriptions of his tour. On returning to England, he staid for some time at Chester, where he was entertained by a Mr. Taylor. We have in Mendelssohn's letters a beautiful picture of the simple out-of-door life he led there, and we are impressed by his high spirits, and his entire freedom from conceit. He loved afterward to tell of the charm which the meadow and brook, the trees and grass had for him there. He spent much time in sketching and painting; but his head was full of music, and everything suggested a musical idea to him. He was very fond of carnations, and he set a bunch of them to music in the album of a daughter of his host, with a drawing of the flowers over the notes; not forgetting to set some delicate arpeggios in the music for the scent of the flowers. On seeing the younger sister with some bellshaped flowers in her hair, he said that the fairies might dance on the trumpets, and he set them to a capriccio. He never tired of merry-making, and one afternoon toward dusk, he, with a number of young people, was one of a happy young company that was picnicking in a thicket. Some one gayly proposed a fire; and all began to drag the boughs and twigs into place, so that soon they had a fine bonfire. While still lingering around it, Mendelssohn began to ask for some music, but nothing could be found save a worn-out fiddle of the gardener's. Mendelssohn, all undismayed, began to play, shouting with laughter at his performance; but soon there was a hush in the chat and sport, and the whole party sat spell-bound at the lovely music which he drew from even that despised fiddle. He would sit for hours, improvising dance-tunes, and liked nothing better than to entertain his friends with his music. He always looked back on his visit to Chester as one of the brightest spots in a bright life.

Such a youth was Mendelssohn at twenty,simple, lovable, and gifted. He had beautiful darkbrown eyes and fine wavy hair, and a delicate mouth. Fascinating in face, in disposition, and in attainments, what wonder that all hearts were drawn to him, and that everybody loved him? It is said that, when improvising, his hands seemed almost like living creatures; his eyes glowed and seemed to become larger and larger; but his whole manner was very quiet and unassuming. Some

times he would lean over the keys as if he expected to see the music flow through his fingers to the piano.

In 1833, he accepted a position as musical director at Dusseldorf, and while there he experienced the first real grief that came into his life, in the death of his beloved father. Mendelssohn not only fondly loved his father, but he had been accustomed from his childhood to look to him for help and guidance, and not one of the family suffered more under this blow than did he.

In 1837, Mendelssohn married Cécile Jeanreneaud, a woman lovely in face and disposition, who sympathized in all his tastes and desires. The Leipsic people idolized Mendelssohn; everywhere he met with enthusiastic love and admiration, and had the greatest influence in musical affairs. He had been partly influenced in coming to Leipsic by the thought that he would live in the city sacred to "father Bach"; once settled there, he determined to erect some kind of a monument to him, and for this object he gave an organ concert. Schumann, who heard the performance, said that he would love to write of the evening in "golden letters," and added that for him there can be no greater happiness in music than to hear one master interpret the works of another.

From that time on, Mendelssohn's life had few incidents. In his last years he overworked himself in his zeal for his art, and became melancholy and low-spirited, his sadness increasing, till he died, Nov. 4, 1847. His death was deeply mourned not only throughout Germany, but in England, where he had many dear personal friends. With him the greatest light of the Mendelssohn family went out.

To few men has it been given to have so happy or so accomplished a life as to Felix Mendelssohn. Music was much, very much to him, but it was not all. If he had never played a note of music, he could have made a fine painter; if he had neither played nor painted, he was so full of intellectual resources, he could have led a broad, useful life, attracting the rarest spirits to himself. But he had all these, and it is a marvel that he could find time for all he did and all he was. His published letters show the completeness of his character and his life. He was a happy musician, and his life is reflected in his music. It is a relief sometimes to turn from the deep, passionate strains wrung from the aching heart of Schubert or Mozart to the sweet, delicate, beautiful music of Mendelssohn.

ered it with tin so as to be mouse-proof, and in this we placed the different varieties, carefully labeled. Although it was not an apple year, quite a number of our trees were in bearing. Twice in each week, the best of the wind-falls were picked up and sent to the village, with the tomatoes and such other vegetables as were in demand. As fast as crops matured, the ground was cleared, and all of the refuse that contained no injurious seeds was saved as a winter covering for the strawberry plants.

Our main labor, however, after digging the rest of the potatoes, was the setting of that half acre in the later varieties of the strawberry. Although the early part of September was very dry and warm, we managed to set out two or three rows nearly every afternoon. The nights had now grown so long and cool that one thorough watering seemed to establish the plants. Near the middle of the month, there came a fine rain, and we set the remainder of the ground in one day, all the children aiding me in the task. Those first planted were now strong, splendid plants, with a bunch of foliage six inches in diameter.

Thus, between helping in the work on the new barn and other labors, September saw a renewal of our early summer activity.

"The winds are whispering of winter in the trees," I said to the children, "and all thrifty creatures, ants, bees, and squirrels, are laying up their stores. So must we."

I had watched our ripening corn with great satisfaction. For a long time Merton could walk through it without his straw hat being seen above the nodding tassels. But one day, Mr. Jones came over with some bundles of long rye-straw in his wagon and said:

"You can't guess what these are for." "Some useful purpose, or you wouldn't have brought them," I replied.

"We'll see.

Come with me to the corn patch." As we started, he took a bundle under his arm, and I saw that he had a tool called a corn-knife in his hand. Going through the rows, he occasionally stripped down the husks from an ear and then said:

"Yes, it's ready. Don't you see that the kernels are plump and glazed? Junior and I are going to tackle our corn to-morrow, and, says I to myself, if ours is ready to cut, so is neighbor Durham's. The sooner it's cut after it 's ready, the better. The stalks are worth more for fodder, and you run no risk from an early frost, which would spoil it all. You and Merton must pitch in as you usually do. And now I'll show you how to work at it."

Gathering the stalks together above the ears with his left hand, he cut the entire hill off with one blow of the corn-knife within six inches of the

ground, and then leaned the stalks against those of an uncut hill. This he continued to do until he had made what he called a "stout," or a bunch of stalks about as large as he could conveniently encircle with his arms, the uncut hill of stalks forming a support in the center. Then he took a wisp of the rye-straw, divided it evenly, and putting the two ends together, twisted it speedily into a sort of a rope. With this he bound the stout tightly above the ears by a simple method which one lesson made plain to me. "Well, you are a good neighbor! I exclaimed. "Pshaw! What does this amount to?" he replied. "You forget that I 've sold you a lot of rye-straw, and so have the best of you, after all." "I don't forget anything, Mr. Jones. As you say, I believe we shall make a go' of it here, but we always remember how much we owe to you and Junior. You 've let me pay for some things in a way that saved my self-respect, and made me feel that I could go to you as often as I wished, but you have never taken advantage of me, and you have kept smart people from doing it. Do you know, Mr. Jones, that in every country village there are weasel-like people who encourage new-comers by bleeding their pocket-books at every chance? In securing you as a neighbor, our battle was half won, for no one needs a good, practical friend more than a city man beginning life in the country.”

"Jerusalem! how you talk! I'm goin' right home and tell my wife to call me "Saint Jones." Then I'll get a tin halo and wear it, for my straw hat is about played out," and away he went, chuckling over his odd conceits, but pleased, as all men are, when their good-will is appreciated. One kind of meanness that disgusts human nature, is a selfish, unthankful reception of kindness.

After an early supper I drove to the village with what I had to sell, and returned with two cornhooks. And by night of the following day, Bagley and I had the corn cut and tied up.

On the next afternoon I helped Bagley sharpen the hooks and we began to cut the fodder-corn which now stood, green and succulent, averaging two feet in height throughout the field.

The barn was now up and the carpenters were roofing it in, while two days more of work would complete the pig-sty and poultry-house. Every stroke of the hammer told rapidly, and we all exulted over our new and better appliances for carrying out our plan of country life. Since the work was being done by contract, I contented myself by seeing that it was done thoroughly. Meanwhile, Merton was busy with the cart drawing rich earth from the banks of the creek. The proper use of fertilizers had given such a marked increase to our crops that it became clear that our best

During the last week of September the nights were so cool as to suggest frost, and I said to Mousie :

"I think we'd better take up your geraniums and other window plants and put them in pots and boxes. We can then stand them under a tree, which would shelter them from a slight frost. Should there be serious danger, it would take us but a few minutes to bring them into the house. You have taken such care of them all summer that I do not intend that you shall lose them now. Refer to your flower-book, and read what kind of soil they grow best in during the winter, and then Merton can help you gather it."

The child was all solicitude about her pets, and after dinner she and Merton, the latter trundling a wheelbarrow, went down to the creek and obtained a lot of fine sand and some leaf-mold from under the trees in the woods. These ingredients we carefully mixed with rich soil from the flower bed, and put it in the pots and boxes around the roots of as many plants as there was room for on the table by the sunny kitchen window. Having watered them thoroughly, we stood them under a tree, there to remain until a certain sharpness in the air should warn us to carry them to their winter quarters.

The lima-beans, as fast as the pods grew dry, or even yellow, were picked and spread in the attic. They could be shelled at our leisure on stormy winter days.

Early in September my wife had begun to give Mousie, Winnie, and Bobsey their lessons again. Since we were at some distance from a school-house, we decided to continue this arrangement for the

however, was to begin school as soon as possible, but he pleaded hard for a reprieve until the last of October, saying that he did not wish to begin before Junior. As we still had a great deal to do, and as the boy had set his heart on some fall shooting, I yielded, and he promised to study all the harder when he began. I added, however:

"The evenings have grown so long that you can write for half-an-hour after supper, and then we will review your arithmetic together. It will benefit me as well as you."

During the ensuing weeks we carried out this plan after a fashion, but at the close of a busy day in the open air, we were apt to nod over our tasks. We were both taught the soundness of the rule that brain-work should precede physical exercise.

The first day of October was bright, clear, and mild, and we gladly welcomed the true beginning of fall in our latitude. This month competes with May in its ideal country life. The children voted it first of all the months, feeling that a vista of unalloyed delights was opening before them. Already the butternuts were falling from several large trees on the place, and the burrs on the chestnuts were plump with their well-shielded treasures. Winnie and Bobsey had begun to gather some of these burrs from the lower limbs of an immense tree, twenty-four feet in circumference, and to stamp out the half-brown nuts within.

"One or two frosts will ripen them and open the burrs," I said, and then the children began to long for the frost, which I dreaded.

While I still kept the younger children busy in the garden, for a few hours on every clear morning and especially at clipping the runners from the strawberry plants in the field, they were given ample time to gather their winter hoard of nuts. This prospect seemed to afford them endless items for talk, Bobsey modestly assuring us that he alone would gather about a million bushels of butternuts and almost as many chestnuts and walnuts.

"What will the squirrels do then?" I asked. "They must do as I do," he cried: "pick up and carry off as fast as they can. They'll have a better chance than I'll have, too, for they can gather all day long. The little scamps are already taking the nuts off the trees. I've seen 'em, and I wish Merton would shoot 'em all."

"Well, Merton," said I, laughing, "I suppose that squirrels are proper game for you, but I hope you and Junior will not shoot many robins. They are too useful to be killed wantonly, and I feel grateful for all the music they 've given us during the past summer. I know the law permits you to shoot them now, but you and Junior should be more civilized than such a law."