mire sanely.

Heinrich Heine, the pagan Jew, once taunted Mendelssohn with being a Jew
and yet conducting a "Passion Play." The gibe was a home-thrust and a
cruel one, since Mendelssohn had neither the wit nor the mental
acuteness to avoid the pink of the man who was hated by Jew and
Christian alike. Towards the exiled Heine, Mendelssohn had only a
patronizing pity--"Why should any man offend the people in power?" he
once asked.

Only the exiled can sympathize with the exile--only the downtrodden and
the sore-oppressed understand the outcast. Golgotha never came to
Mendelssohn, and this was at once his blessing and his misfortune.

And the grim fact still remains that world-poets have never been
"respectable," and that the saviors of the world are usually crucified
between thieves.

In life Mendelssohn received every token of approbation that men can pay
to other men. For him wealth waited, kings uncovered, laurel bloomed and
blossomed, and love crowned all. His popularity was greater than that of
any other man of his time. He had no enemies, no detractors, no
rivals--his pathway was literally and poetically strewn with roses. What
more can any man desire? Lasting fame and a name that never dies?
Avaunt! but first know this, that immortality is reserved alone for
those who have been despised and rejected of men.

* * * * *

Saintship is the exclusive possession of those who have either worn out,
or never had, the capacity to sin.

Fortunately for Felix Mendelssohn he never had it--he was ever the
bright, joyous, gracious, beautiful being that all his friends describe,
and every one who met him was his friend thereafter. The character of
"Seraphael" in the novel of "Charles Auchester," by Miss Sheppard,
portrays Mendelssohn in a glowing, seraphic light. The book reveals the
emotional qualities of a woman given over to her idol, and yet the man
is Mendelssohn--he was equal to the best that could be said of him.

The weakness of Miss Sheppard's book lies in the fact that she is so
true to life that we tire of the goodness and beauty, and long for a
rogue to keep us company and break the pall of a sweetness that cloys.

The bitterest thing Mendelssohn ever said of a public performer was to
describe a certain prima donna as acting like an "arrogant cook." All
the good orchestra leaders are supposed to have fine fits of frenzy when
they tear their hair in wrath at the discordant brayin