is own mind. The things we are not quite sure of are those
upon which we insist.

Goethe had pooh-poohed and smitten the table with his "stein" in denial.

And now Zelter, the frank and bold, stealthily and by concocted plot and
plan took his pupil, Felix Mendelssohn, with him on a visit to Weimar.
He wanted to confound his antagonist and to reveal by actual proof the
success that could be achieved where correct methods of instruction were
followed.

Jean Jacques had written a novel showing what right theories, properly
followed up, could do for his hero. Zelter had done better--he exhibited
the youth.

"A girl in boy's clothes, I do believe," said Goethe, with his usual
banter, in the evening when a little company had gathered in the
parlors. Felix sat on his teacher's knee, with his arms around the old
man's neck, girl-like. "Does he play?" continued Goethe, going over and
opening the piano.

"Oh, a little!" answered Zelter indifferently.

The ladies insisted--they always had music when Zelter made them a
visit.

"Come, make some noise and awaken the spirits that have so long lain
slumbering!" ordered the old poet.

Zelter advanced to the piano and played a stiff, formal little tune of
his own.

He arose and motioned to Felix.

"Play that!" said the teacher.

The child sat down, and with an impatient little gesture and half-smile
at the audience, played the piece exactly as Zelter had played it, with
a certain drawling style that was all Zelter's own. It was so funny that
the listeners burst into shouts of laughter. But the boy instantly
restored order by striking the bass a strong stroke with both hands,
running the scale, and weaving that simple little air into the most
curious variations.

For ten minutes he played, bringing in Zelter's little tune again and
again, and then Zelter in a voice of pretended wrath cried, "Cease that
tin-pan drumming and play something worth while."

Goethe arose, stroked the boy's pretty brown curls, kissed him on the
forehead and said: "Yes, play something worth while. I know you two
rogues--you have been practising on that piece for a year or more, and
now you pretend to be improvising--I'll see whether you can play!"

And going to a portfolio he took out a manuscript piece of music written
out in the fine, delicate hand of Mozart, and placed it on the
music-rack of the piano. Felix played the piece as if it were his own;
and then laying it aside, went back and pla