ther's present, the little
album was the second. It measures only six inches by four, but that
small compass holds much that is of interest. The book is full now; it
required about half a century to cover its pages, for they contain only
the autographs of such celebrities as were my personal friends.
Mendelssohn had appropriately inaugurated it with a composition, the
"Wiegenlied" (slumber-song), now so popular.

There are also two drawings by him, one of 3 Chester Place, Regent's
Park, and another of the Park close at hand. Mendelssohn must have sat
out of doors to make these very faithful transcripts of nature, and I
sometimes wonder how the street-boys of those days took it. Looking at
those contributions, one cannot help being struck by the care which he
bestowed on everything he did. His handwriting was always neat and
clear, with just enough of flourish and swing to give it originality.
His musical manuscripts vie in precision with the products of the
engraver's art, and again there is a marked analogy between his style of
drawing and the way in which he forms the letters of the alphabet, or
the notes of the scales. As one peruses his manuscripts, one finds
oneself admiring the artistic aspect of his well-balanced bars, and on
the other hand, the harmonious treatment of his drawings recalls the
appearance his pen gives to his scores. In the view he took of the
Regent's Park, the leaves, so delicately and yet so firmly pencilled,
seem to sway and rustle in unison with the sprightly melody of the
scherzo in the "Midsummer-Night's Dream," and just as that melody is
discreetly accompanied by the orchestra, so in the drawing, the houses,
the old Colosseum in the background, and the trees in the
middle-distance, are, one and all, made to keep their places, and
deferentially to play second fiddle to the rustling leaves.

In due course of time, and after full enjoyment of the Slumber Song, I
got out of my cradle and on to my legs, and it is from that stage in my
development that I really date my recollections of my godfather. Some
are hazy, others distinct. I am often surprised when I realise that he
was short of stature; to me, the small boy, he appeared very tall. I
looked upon him as my own special godfather, in whom I had a sort of
vested interest, and I showed my annoyance when I was not allowed to
monopolise him, or at least to remain near him. Being put to bed was at
best a hateful process; how much more so, then,