and said, "Wait; he will tell you."

At length I turned to Mendelssohn and said, "Is that part of the new
work of yours you mentioned just now?"

"Of mine!" he exclaimed; "of mine! I could never write such music. No,
no! That was Bach, John Sebastian Bach--part of his St. Matthew Passion.
I was playing not so much the actual notes of any chorus, but rather the
effect of certain passages as I could feel them in my mind."

"So that was by Bach!" I said in wonder.

"Yes," said Mendelssohn; "and people know so little of him. They either
think of him as the composer of mathematical exercises in music, or else
they confuse him with others of his family. He was Cantor of the St.
Thomas School here in Leipzig, the perfect type of a true servant of
our glorious art. He wrote incessantly, but the greatest of his works
lay forgotten after his death; and it was I, I, who disinterred this
marvellous music-drama of the Passion, and gave it in Berlin ten years
ago--its first performance since Bach's death almost a century before.
But there," he added, with an apologetic smile, "I talk too much! Let us
speak of something else."

"Yes," said David, "you will talk of Bach for ever if no one stops you.
Not that I mind. I am a disciple, too."

"And I, too," added Bennett. "I mean to emulate Mendelssohn. He was the
first to give the 'Passion' in Germany, I will be the first to give it
in England."

"Then I'll be recording angel," said David, "and register your vow.
You'll show him up, if he breaks his word, won't you?" he added, turning
to me.

"Now this will really change the subject," said Mendelssohn, producing a
sheet of manuscript. "Here is a little song I wrote last year to some
old verses. Perhaps our new friend will let us hear it."

In great trepidation I took the sheet. It was headed simply "Volkslied."
I saw at once that there would be no difficulty in reading it, for the
music was both graceful and simple.

"Shall we try?" asked Mendelssohn, with his quiet, reassuring smile.

"If you are willing to let me," I answered.

_Parting._

"It is decreed by heaven's behest
That man from all he loves the best
Must sever.
That soon or late with breaking heart
With all his dear ones he must part
For ever.

How oft we cull a budding flower,
To see it bloom a transient hour;
'Tis gathered.
The bud becomes a lovely rose,
Its morning blush at evening goes;
'