On another occasion, when he was to perform at a concert, he describes how he went to the room early in order to try the piano, which was a new one. He found the instrument locked, and dispatched a messenger for the key. In the meantime he seated himself at another piano of ancient aspect, and beginning to extemporise soon became lost in reverie. The empty room, the 'old grey instrument which the fingers of several generations may have played,' and the silence affected him so deeply that he forgot the passing time, until he was reminded of the approach of the concert hour by the people coming in to take their seats. When, having first put himself into grande toilette—very long, white trousers, brown silk waistcoat, black necktie, and blue dress coat—he mounted the orchestra he felt nervous; a panic seized him, for the hall was crowded, ladies even sitting in the orchestra who could not get places in the room. 'But as the gay bonnets gave me a nice reception, and applauded when I came ... and as I found the instrument very excellent and of a light touch, I lost all my timidity, became quite comfortable, and was highly amused to see the bonnets agitated at every little cadenza, which to me and many critics brought to mind the simile of the wind and the tulip-bed.'

A dinner-party followed the concert, and then he went to visit some friends living out of town with whom he was to spend the night. Finding no carriage to convey him, he set out to walk through the fields in the cool of the evening. Can we not picture him crossing the still meadows by a lonely path, meeting no one, the air redolent of spring flowers, musical ideas floating through his mind—ideas which there was nobody to hear, which nobody, perhaps, was ever destined to hear, as he sang them aloud in the fading light, 'the whole sky grey, with a purple streak on the horizon, and the thick cloud of smoke behind him.'

Amidst the round of work and the pressure of invitations which made up the sum of his daily life in London, the love of boyish fun, which formed a wholesome counteraction to his serious moods, broke out every now and then with its old accustomed force, eclipsing for the moment the memories of stately dinner-parties and receptions. One night when in company with two friends he was returning from what he terms 'a highly diplomatic dinner-party' at the Prussian Ambassador's, where they had taken their 'fill of fashionable dishes, sayings, and doings,' they passed a very enticing sausage-shop in which some German sausages were exposed in the window. A wave of patriotism overcame them; they entered, and each bought a long sausage, and then the trio turned into a quiet street to devour them, accompanying the meal with a three-part song and shouts of laughter.

Mendelssohn's heart was easily touched by the distresses of others, and when he learnt of the sufferings of those who had lost their all in the floods in Silesia at this time, he set to work at once to arrange a concert in their behalf. The 'Midsummer Night's Dream Overture' formed one of the items of the programme—this being the second occasion of its performance since his arrival. It was most enthusiastically received, and, indeed, the whole concert was a great success. The room was so besieged that no fewer than one hundred persons were turned from the doors. Ladies who could not find seats in the body of the hall crowded upon the orchestra, and Mendelssohn was delighted at receiving a message from two elderly ladies, who had strayed between the bassoons and the French horns, anxiously inquiring 'whether they were likely to hear well!' Another enthusiastic lady esconsced herself contentedly upon a kettledrum. There could be little doubt that the overture had secured a firm hold upon English hearts at its first hearing. Jules Benedict, who was present on the occasion, describes the effect upon the audience as electrical. At the end of the first performance a friend who had taken charge of the precious manuscript was so careless as to leave it in a hackney-coach on his way home, and it was never recovered. 'Never mind,' said Mendelssohn, when the loss was reported to him, 'I will write another.' And he sat down at once and rewrote the score entirely from memory, and when the copy was afterwards compared with the parts it was found that he had not made a single variation.

From London, when the season came to an end, he went in company with his friend Klingemann to Scotland, his keen sense of perception drinking in all the variety and charm which the tour presented, and his genius supplying a musical setting to whatever struck him as specially beautiful. The ruined chapel attached to the old Palace of Holyrood, seen in the twilight, with its broken altar at which Mary received the Scottish crown, overgrown with grass and ivy, and its mouldering, roofless pillars, with patches of bright sky between, gave him the first inspiration for his Scotch Symphony. But it was the Hebrides which, in their lonely grandeur and bleakness, affected him most of all. Of Iona, with its ruins of a once magnificent cathedral, and its graves of ancient Scottish Kings, he writes that he shall think when in the midst of crowded assemblies of music and dancing. Of Staffa, again, with its strange, basaltic pillars and caverns, he says: 'A greener roar of waves surely never rushed into a stranger cavern—its many pillars making it look like the inside of an immense organ, black and resounding, and absolutely without purpose, and quite alone, the wide, grey sea within and without.' How deeply the Hebrides impressed him he shows by a few lines of music added to his letter, which he says were suggested to him by the sight of these lonely sister isles. Later on this very piece of music formed the opening to his 'Overture to Fingal's Cave.'

How thoroughly music entered into his daily life and permeated his thoughts, we may know from his habit of seating himself at the piano in the evening, and improvising music to express what he had both seen and felt throughout the day. To Mendelssohn music was a natural language by which he could express, in the most perfect manner, the emotions which had been aroused by reading or by the contemplation of Nature. Thus, when he went from Scotland to North Wales to stay with some friends named Taylor, he wrote for Susan Taylor a piece called 'The Rivulet,' which was a representation of an actual rivulet visited by them in their rambles. Again, Honora Taylor had in her garden a creeping plant (the Eccremocarpus), bearing little trumpet-shaped flowers, and Mendelssohn was taken with a fancy for inventing the music which the fairies might have been supposed to play on those tiny trumpets. The piece was called 'A Capriccio in E minor,' and when he wrote it out he drew a branch of the plant all up the margin of the paper. For another member of the family he wrote a piece which was suggested by a bunch of carnations (his favourite flower) and roses arranged in a bowl, and he put in some arpeggio passages to remind the player of the sweet scent rising up from the flowers.

Felix had just returned to London, and was contemplating an early departure for Berlin, when an injury to his knee, the result of a carriage accident, compelled him to lie up for several weeks, and hence to forego a pleasure to which he had been looking forward with feelings of eager affection. Shortly before he left home Fanny's engagement to William Hensel, a young painter of promise, had received her parent's sanction, and it had been confidently expected that Felix would return in time for the marriage. The disappointment caused by the accident was therefore keenly felt both by himself and those at home. Hensel was clever, and by no means a stranger to the gatherings at the Gartenhaus; but his entry into the select and innermost circle of the brotherhood, armed with the kind of right which his engagement to Fanny had conferred upon him, caused him to be regarded in a new light, and it was not until a little time had elapsed that he found his way to their hearts by his gentle ways, assisted in no small degree by his pencil. At first the exclusiveness of a set which had received the title of 'The Wheel,' and which prided itself on the freemasonry which obtained amongst its members, was somewhat chilling; but Hensel was not easily discouraged; he took to drawing the members' portraits as his contribution to the bonhomie of the circle, and with such success that 'The Wheel' soon came to regard him as an indispensable spoke, whilst the portraits multiplied until they formed a huge collection. Fanny's marriage, moreover, did not imply any break in the family circle, for when her brother returned to Berlin he found that Hensel and his bride had taken up their residence in the Gartenhaus.

The grand tour had practically only begun, and was now to be resumed, but the visit to England was exercising over Mendelssohn's mind a strong influence which, though not unconnected with the success and fame it had brought to him, might with more justice be ascribed to the sympathetic appreciation and kindness which he had received at the hands of the English. 'A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country,' and Berlin had so far held back the encouragement that strangers were so willing to accord him. Moreover, for one of his artistically sensitive temperament London possessed a magnetic charm that was lacking in Berlin. At home his very youth seemed to count against him, but in London it was, if anything, in his favour. The fame of his visit, however, had preceded him to Berlin, and shortly after his return he was offered the Professorship of Music at the University, an honour which he at once declined, feeling that its acceptance would not only interfere with his freedom in composition, but bind him down to an occupation which he confessed was not his forte. This Chair had been specially created in the hope that he would fill it, and it marks the first, though by no means the last, attempt on the part of the Berliners to secure his services for their city.

In the May following he set forth once more on his travels, bound for Venice, Florence, and Rome. He could not pass through Weimar, however, without paying a visit to Goethe; it proved to be the last meeting, and it was filled with incidents that left a deep impression on his mind. Never had the sympathy and friendship between the two been closer or more confidential than on this occasion. 'There is much in my spirit that you must light up for me,' said Goethe to Felix one day when they had been conversing together. Goethe called upon him continually for music, but showed an indifference towards Beethoven's works; Felix, however, insisted that he must endure some of the master, and played to him the first movement of the 'C minor Symphony.' Goethe listened for a few moments, and then said: 'That does not touch one at all; it only astonishes one.' But Felix played on, and presently, after some murmuring to himself, the poet burst out with: 'It is very great, it is wild! It seems as though the house were falling! What must it be with the whole orchestra!'

The tour was a long one, for several cities had to be visited before he could cross the Swiss frontier. Each day brought its full measure of incident and delightful sight-seeing. It was in Switzerland, however, that Mendelssohn's passionate love for Nature was stirred to its depths. His Alpine walks were a revelation of Nature in her most decided moods, and one particular walk over the Wengern Alp was destined to be long remembered. The mountain summits were glittering in the morning air, every undulation and the face of every hill clear and distinct. Formerly it was their height alone that had impressed him, 'now it was their boundless extent that he particularly felt—their huge, broad masses; the close connection of all those enormous fortresses, which seemed to be crowding together and stretching out their hands to each other.'

He loved all beautiful things, but he loved the sea best of all; it seemed to him to express in its varying moods every feeling which he himself possessed. 'When there is a storm at Chiatamene,' he wrote to Fanny when she was visiting Italy, 'and the grey sea is foaming, think of me.' And now as he approached Naples, and saw the sea sparkling in the sunlit bay, he exclaims: 'To me it is the finest object in Nature! I love it almost more than the sky. I always feel happy when I see before me the wide expanse of waters.' Again, the ancientness of Nature herself conveyed far more to him than any legend of antiquity connected with the works of man; he could not feel in 'crumbling mason work' the interest and fascination that existed for him in the unchanged outlines of the hills, or in the fact that the waves lapped the island which formed the refuge of Brutus, and the lichen-covered rocks bent over them then just as they did now. These were monuments on which no names were scribbled, no inscriptions carved, and to such he clung.

Yet in Rome itself he found a centre of unending interest and fascination. 'All its measureless delights lay as a free gift before him; every day he picked out afresh some great historic object: one day a ramble about the ruins of the ancient city, another day the Borghese Gallery or the Capitol, or else St. Peter's or the Vatican. So each day was one never to be forgotten, and this sort of dallying left each impression firmer and stronger. If Venice seemed like the gravestone of its own past, its ruinous, modern palaces and the enduring remembrance of a bygone supremacy giving it a disquieting, mournful impression, the past of Rome struck him as history itself; its monuments ennobled, and made one at the same moment serious and joyful, for there was joy in feeling how human creations may survive a thousand years and yet possess their quickening restoring, influence. Each day some new image of that past imprinted itself on his mind, and then came the twilight, and the day was at an end.'

The tour was not completed until the spring of the following year (1832), and during that interval two sad notes had been struck—the first being the death of Edward Ritz, the young violinist, Felix's closest friend, from whom he admitted that he had taken the model of his delicate, musical handwriting; and the second that of Goethe. In connection with the latter loss Felix felt deeply for Zelter, for he knew how the old man had worshipped and leant upon the master-poet. 'Mark my words,' said Mendelssohn, when he received the sad intelligence, 'it will not be long now before Zelter dies!' The words were but too prophetic, for in less than two months from the day on which they were spoken Zelter had followed the master he loved so well.

Before the latter event happened, however, Mendelssohn had returned to London. His affection for the City had now become a settled part of his nature. Even amidst the sunshine of Naples, with the glittering sea before his eyes, he had longed for London. 'That smoky nest is fated to be now and ever my favourite residence,' he writes; 'my heart swells when I think of it.' Even with the love he felt for those who were awaiting his return to the Berlin home it must have been hard for him to tear himself away from London, where his genius and his attractive personality found recognition at every turn. Consequently it is not surprising that he should have found his way back to his 'smoky nest' before very long—this time accompanied by his father. It was Abraham Mendelssohn's first visit, and it served to bring out more clearly than ever the closeness of the bond which united them. Felix nursed his father through an illness of three weeks' duration with a tenderness and solicitude that called forth a touching tribute from the patient. 'I cannot express,' writes Abraham to Leah, 'what he has been to me, what a treasure of love, patience, endurance, thoughtfulness, and tender care he has lavished on me; and much as I owe him indirectly for a thousand kindnesses and attentions from others, I owe him far more for what he has done for me himself.'

Two years later Mendelssohn was mourning the loss of this parent, whose sudden death had cast a deep gloom over a time when everything seemed to promise happily for the young composer. Only a month before the sad event Felix had joined the home-party at Berlin, and the house had once more assumed the full and complete life of its earlier days. The merriment, the joyous laughter were as hearty and resounding as they had been of yore, and there the father and mother had sat watching the fun—Abraham by this time quite blind, but keenly interested in all that was going on. Now the first definite break in that happy circle had come, shutting out the past for ever!

The extraordinary fullness which characterised Mendelssohn's life—'he lived years whilst others would have lived only weeks,' was the true remark of one who knew him well—reminds us of the impracticability of giving anything like a complete description of even its chief incidents. The stage at which our story has arrived does not, it is true, show him at the pinnacle of his fame as a composer, but if we entertained any doubts as to his greatness or his popularity at this time, we have only to imagine ourselves present at the scene which was being enacted on a certain afternoon in May, 1836, in the music-hall at Duesseldorf to be assured on both of these points. The long, low-pitched room is filled with an excited and enthusiastic audience applauding with all their might and main, for the first performance of Mendelssohn's oratorio 'St. Paul' has just come to an end. Amidst the roars of applause the ladies of the chorus have risen from their seats, and, advancing to the spot where Mendelssohn stands bowing his acknowledgments to the audience and orchestra, they shower garlands upon him, and then to complete the display they place a crown of flowers upon the score itself.

Some time before this event the town of Duesseldorf had claimed his services as director of music, and a little later Leipzig had followed suit—the latter event marking the beginning of a connection fraught with results of the highest importance to the musical world, and of much happiness to Mendelssohn himself. It was at this period that he composed many of those charming part-songs, intended for performance in the open air, that have since become such recognised favourites; of these we need only recall 'The Hunter's Farewell' and 'The Lark' as examples. But the time is marked for us in even clearer notes than these, for to this era belong several of his 'Songs without Words'—those melodies which have grown into our hearts never, we may well believe, to be uprooted. Mendelssohn not only invented the title 'Lieder ohne Worte,' but also the style of composition itself. Sir Julius Benedict remarks that 'at this period mechanical dexterity, musical claptraps, skips from one part of the piano to another, endless shakes and arpeggios, were the order of the day.' Mendelssohn, however, would never sacrifice to the prevailing taste; his desire was to 'restore dignity and rank to the instrument,' and he accordingly wrote what Sir Julius aptly describes as these 'exquisite little musical poems.'

The year of which we are speaking was productive of the deepest happiness to Mendelssohn, for it was that of his engagement to Cecile Jeanrenaud, the beautiful daughter of a French Protestant clergyman, whose acquaintance he had formed whilst on a visit to Frankfort. In the following spring they were married, and thus began for both a new life replete with happiness. In Cecile Felix found one who, out of her loving, gentle nature, could give him the sympathy and support that he needed, whilst she in turn received from her husband the fullest return that a grateful and sensitive heart, obedient to the promptings of a love that never wavered in its steadfastness and devotion, could bestow. No home life could have been happier, none more simple in its give and take of affection, than that of Mendelssohn and his wife; nothing transpired to destroy or even to obscure for a moment the halo of romance which surrounded it from the beginning, and which rendered it from first to last a marriage of love.

A picture of Mendelssohn at this period of his life shows us a short, slightly-built figure, with the dark, Jewish type of face, high forehead surmounted by thick, black, wavy hair, and dark brown eyes full of fire and animation, which we have already described as marking his appearance as a boy. The mouth was delicate and sensitive, the corners frequently curved into a smile. The change of expression in the eyes when playing, or stirred by any deep emotion, was most striking; 'they would dilate and become nearly twice their ordinary size, the brown pupil changing to a vivid black.' His lithe, muscular frame showed expression in all its movements corresponding with the actions of the mind; when he thoroughly agreed with a speaker he nodded so vigorously as to bring the black curls down over his face; his laughter was ringing and hearty, and merriment found added expression in the doubling up of his body and the shaking of his hand. His hands were small, with sensitive, tapering fingers, and when playing the fingers acted as if endowed with separate life and intelligence. There was no effeminacy connected with his lovable nature; he was quick to resent meanness or deceit, or wrong-doing of any kind. His anger was exceedingly sharp, and his manner of expressing contempt an astonishing revelation to those who had failed to grasp his character as a whole.

Despite his love of hard work no one more thoroughly enjoyed being lazy when there was nothing to do. Sleep was his never-failing resource when overtaxed—the power of compelling sound, refreshing sleep at the moment when it was most needed was one of the most remarkable traits of a temperament distinguished by its astonishing activity. Yet it may be taken perhaps as a part of his orderly nature, which in everything was governed by method. The completeness with which he carried out every detail connected with his work or his amusements excites our wonderment; the sense of neatness pervades the whole—nothing is wanting. He wrote numberless letters, many of them containing descriptions of scenery and incident such as entitle them to rank as literary productions—yet there is not the slightest evidence of haste or carelessness; even the writing itself is artistic in its delicacy and finish. He received countless letters, and he preserved them all by pasting them into scrapbooks kept for the purpose. The same scrupulous care is observable in the writing of his musical manuscripts, and no fewer than forty-four volumes of these works, constructed by his own hands, are preserved in the Imperial Library at Berlin. His talent for drawing was considerable, and his love for the pursuit enabled him to accumulate a large collection of finished works, in every one of which is exhibited the same painstaking care and accuracy with regard to detail. Finally, we must mention his devotion to his family. No more loving father could have been found than Mendelssohn was to his children; he entered into their games and lessons with the same eager desire to add to their enjoyment, or to ease their labours, as he displayed towards the greater world outside his home.

We must now hasten to record an event which was destined to stamp Mendelssohn's career with undying fame—the completion of his oratorio 'Elijah.' This, his greatest work, owed its inspiration to a short passage in the book he reverenced most of all. One day his friend Hiller found him deep in the Bible. 'Listen,' he said, and then he read in a gentle, agitated voice the passage from the First Book of Kings, beginning with the words, 'And behold, the Lord passed by.' 'Would not that be splendid for an oratorio!' he exclaimed; and from that moment the idea began to grow in his mind. And as it grew he saw it in a clearer, brighter light, until, when the spring of 1846 arrived, the work was all but completed. In a letter to Jenny Lind, the famous singer and his intimate friend, he writes: 'I am jumping about my room for joy! If it only turns out half as good as I fancy it is how pleased I shall be!'



The years intervening between the inception of this great work and its completion had brought no little anxiety and strain connected with his arduous labours, and they had brought one deep sorrow, the loss of his mother, whose death had been as sudden and unexpected as that of the father. Honours had been bestowed upon him by royal hands—the King of Prussia had personally conveyed to him his wishes that he should assume the directorship of music in Berlin, and when Mendelssohn found himself unable to retain the position he had begged him to reconsider his decision; the King of Saxony had made him Capellmeister to his Court; and last, but not least, he had received at the hands of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert such marks of personal regard and esteem as must have served to endear him more than ever to the country which had been foremost in recognising the greatness of his genius.

Those years, too, had witnessed the fruits of his unceasing labours for the advancement of his art in those centres over which his personal influence extended. Leipzig under him had become a musical centre to which young students and composers flocked, in order to obtain his opinion and guidance in respect to their work, or even, in many cases, to place themselves for a time where his methods could be studied and his personality enjoyed at the same time. Amongst others came William Sterndale Bennett, filled with enthusiasm, to profit by his advice, and to find in the master a kind and generous friend. Nor should we omit to mention, amongst the numerous offshoots of his labours, the foundation of the Conservatorium of Music at Leipzig, a scheme entirely due to his initiative, and which under his fostering care developed into one of the first academies of the day. Lastly, amidst the whirl of work he found time to carry out a project which he had for long cherished—the erection, at the threshold of the Thomas School at Leipzig, of a monument to the memory of Sebastian Bach.

On the morning of Wednesday, August 26, 1846, the Town Hall of Birmingham presented a scene of unusual animation. A huge crowd was entering its doors and taking possession of the phalanx of chairs occupying the floor of the building. In the gallery every seat had been taken an hour earlier, and very soon every eye was directed towards the conductor's desk in expectation of Mendelssohn's appearance. Eager anticipation was in the air, for this day was to witness the first performance of 'Elijah' under the baton of the composer, who had thus elected to submit his greatest work to the judgment of an English audience.

'At half-past eleven o'clock,' wrote one who was present on the occasion, 'a deafening shout from the band and chorus announced the approach of the great composer. The reception he met with on stepping into his place from the assembled thousands was absolutely overwhelming, whilst the sun, emerging at that moment, seemed to illumine the vast edifice in honour of the bright and pure being who stood there, the idol of all beholders.' The applause which broke forth at the end of the first part gave a sufficient indication of the impression which the audience had formed of the work, and at the conclusion the enthusiasm was such that the entire assembly rose to their feet, and shouted and waved for several minutes.

It was over, and Mendelssohn's gratification at his reception was expressed in the letter which he wrote to his brother Paul the same evening: 'No work of mine ever went so admirably at the first performance, or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians and the public as this.... I almost doubt if I can ever hear one like it again.'

In April of the following year four performances of the 'Elijah' took place at Exeter Hall under his conductorship, the Queen and Prince Albert gracing the second performance with their presence. This was destined to be his last visit to these shores, and when he departed, after fulfilling a round of engagements which tried his strength to its uttermost limits, it was with the haunting shadow of coming illness. Scarcely had he rejoined his family at Frankfort than a messenger brought the sad intelligence that his sister Fanny had died suddenly at Berlin; the news was broken to him all too suddenly, and with a loud shriek he fell to the ground in a swoon.

From that moment his spirits failed him; there was no rebound from the deep depression into which he had fallen—only occasional flickerings of his former self showed that the struggle to assert his will-power over an ever-increasing loss of physical strength was still going on. There were moments, indeed, when it seemed to himself, if not to those who watched him with growing anxiety, that he was regaining his old buoyancy—the old craving for work which nothing seemed to have the power to destroy. But though compositions still came from his pen, though he had not yet given up hope in himself—'You shall have plenty of music from me; I will give you no cause to complain,' he had remarked to an English publisher shortly before this time—it was plain to those nearest to him that the inexorable finger of death was pointing the way to the Valley of Shadows.

* * * * *

The streets of Leipzig were flooded with sunshine, though November had just entered upon its course, and though the approach of winter was apparent in the crispness of the air. Yet a cloud overhung the town which no degree of atmospheric brightness could dispel—a cloud of sorrow which took its birth from the placards affixed to the street corners, and spread its shadow over street after street, from one knot of inquirers to another, until the brief announcement which those placards conveyed became the common news, the common sorrow, of all. Mendelssohn was dead. On the evening of the previous day (November 4, 1847) the master whose bright, genial spirit had endeared him to so many hearts beyond the confines of his own circle, had passed to his rest. The blow had fallen with terrible swiftness, and we who love his music can only faintly realise how keenly those who knew and loved him, and who had come within the influence of his happy nature, must have felt the sudden break in that continuous flow of harmony which his life presented. Sweet as summer wind across the garden, wafting scents of choicest flowers, his life had passed over like a breath of heaven.

Without doubt his was a beautiful life—one of which, as it has been truly said, 'there is nothing to tell that is not honourable to his memory, and profitable to all men.' We cannot separate—we can have no wish to separate—such a life from the genius which enriched it, because the noble ideals which governed it throughout were embodied and expressed in the creations of that genius, as well as in his private conduct; rather should we be content to accept his life as it stands—in actions, deeds, and works—as a priceless gift, an indivisible whole.

Mendelssohn's funeral was a very imposing one. The first portion of the ceremonies was performed at Leipzig, and was attended by crowds of musicians and students—one of the latter bearing on a cushion the silver crown presented to the composer by his pupils, side by side with the Order 'Pour le Merite' conferred upon him by the King of Prussia. As the long procession went on its way to the Pauliner Church the band played the 'Song without Words' in E minor, and at the close of the service the final chorus from Bach's 'Passion' was sung by the choir. At night the body was conveyed to Berlin for interment in the family burial-place in the Alte Dreifaltigkeits Kirch-hof. His resting-place, marked by a cross, is beside that of his sister Fanny, whilst on the other side of him rests his boy Felix, who died four years later.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] Sir G. Macfarren.

[30] No. 103, but since renumbered 79.



MENDELSSOHN'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS

OPERAS, ETC.: Die beiden Neffen. 1822. The Wedding of Camacho, Op. 10. 1825. The First Walpurgis Night, Op. 60. 1831-32. Son and Stranger (Heimkehr), Op. 89. 1829. Antigone, Op. 55. 1841. Midsummer Night's Dream, Op. 61. 1843. Athalie, Op. 74. 1843-45. Oedipus in Colonos, Op. 93. 1845. Loreley (unfinished), Op. 98. 1847. ORATORIOS, ETC.: St. Paul, Op. 36. 1836. Hymn of Praise (Lobgesang), Op. 52. 1840. Elijah, Op. 70. 1846. Lauda Sion, Op. 73. 1846. Christus (unfinished), Op. 97. 1847. PSALMS, with orchestral accompaniment: Ps. 115, Not unto us, Op. 31. 1830 Ps. 42, As the Hart pants, Op. 42. 1837. Ps. 95, O come, let us sing, Op. 46. 1839. Ps. 114, When Israel out of Egypt came, Op. 51. 1839. Ps. 13, Lord, how long? Op. 96. 1840-43. Ps. 98, Sing to the Lord, Op. 91. 1843. Hear my Prayer. 1844. Hymns of Praise (Festgesang). 1840. Festgesang: To the Sons of Art, Op. 68. 1846. Te Deum in A. 1846. Jubilate, Magnificat, and Nunc Dimittis, Op. 69. 1847. 3 Motets for female voices and organ, Op. 39. 1830. 3 Psalms, unaccompanied, Op. 78 (Pss. 2, 43, and 22), 1844. 6 short Anthems for 8-part chorus, Op. 79. 18 Part-songs for male voices. 28 Part-songs for mixed voices. 4 SYMPHONIES: C minor, Op. 11. 1824. D minor, The Reformation, Op. 107. 1830. A, The Italian, Op. 90. 1833. A minor, The Scotch, Op. 56. 1842. 7 OVERTURES: Midsummer Night's Dream, in E, Op. 21. 1826. Military Band (Harmonie-musik) in C, Op. 24. 1824. Fingal's Cave, or Hebrides, in B minor, Op. 26. 1830 Meerestille, in D, Op. 27. 1828. Melusine, in F, Op. 32. 1833. Ruy Blas, in C minor, Op. 95. 1839. The Trumpet, in C, Op. 101. 1825. 2 MARCHES FOR ORCHESTRA: Funeral March, in A minor, Op. 103. 1836. Cornelius, in D, Op. 108. 1841. Octet in E-flat, Op. 20. 1825. 2 QUINTETS FOR STRINGS: Op. 18, in A. 1831. Op. 87, in B-flat. 1845. 6 QUARTETS FOR STRINGS: Op. 12, in E-flat. 1829. Op. 13, in A. 1827. Op. 44, Nos. 1, 2, and 3, in D, E minor, and E-flat 1837-38. Op. 80, in F minor. 1847. Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64. 1844. 2 PIANOFORTE CONCERTOS: Op. 25, in G minor. 1832. Op. 40, in D minor. 1837. Sextet for pianoforte and strings, in D, Op. 110. 1824. 3 QUARTETS FOR PIANOFORTE AND STRINGS: Op. 1, in C minor. 1822. Op. 2, in F minor. 1823. Op. 3, in B minor. 1824-25. 2 TRIOS FOR PIANOFORTE AND STRINGS: Op. 49, in D minor, 1839. Op. 66, in C minor, 1845. Sonata for pianoforte and violin, in F minor, Op. 4. 1823. 2 SONATAS FOR PIANOFORTE AND VIOLONCELLO: Op. 45, in B-flat. 1838. Op. 58, in D. 1843. 3 SONATAS FOR PIANOFORTE SOLO: Op. 6, in E. 1826. Op. 105, in G minor. 1820-21. Op. 106, in B-flat. 1827. 8 BOOKS OF SONGS WITHOUT WORDS (Lieder ohne Worte), (each book containing 6 pieces): Op. 19b. Pub. 1832. Op. 30. " 1835. Op. 38. " 1837. Op. 53. " 1841. Op. 62. " 1844. Op. 67. " 1845. Op. 85. " 1850. Op. 102. " 1868. 3 Fantasias for pianoforte (Andante and Allegro, Capriccio, and Rivulet), Op, 16. 1829. 17 Variations Serieuses, Op. 54. 1841. 3 Preludes and Fugues for organ, Op. 37. 1837. 6 Sonatas for organ, Op. 65. 1844-45. Soprano Aria, Infelice, Op. 94. 1834. 76 Songs.



THE END

WELLS GARDNER, DARTON AND CO., LTD., LONDON

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