l
sense, is a man of letters; for if there's one thing as good as being
with him, it is being away from him, and receiving his delightful
epistles."

"Not the same thing," said David, shaking his head.

"And then," said Schumann, waving his hand comprehensively around the
room, "observe his works of art."

I was about to express my astonishment at finding that Mendelssohn
himself had produced these admirable pictures; but David suddenly
addressed me: "By the way, don't let Mendelssohn decoy you into playing
billiards with him; or if you do weakly yield, insist on fifty in the
hundred--unless, of course, you have misspent your time, too, in gaining
disreputable proficiency;" and he shook his head at the thought of many
defeats.

"Certainly," exclaimed Schumann, "Mendelssohn does all things well."

"That's a handsome admission from a rival," said David.

"A rival!" answered Schumann with spirit. "There can be no talk of
rivalry between us. I know my place. Mendelssohn and I differ about
things, sometimes; but who could quarrel with him?"

"I could!" exclaimed David, jumping up, and striking an heroic attitude.

"You!" laughed Schumann; "You quarrel, you dear old scraper of
unmentionable strings!"

"Ah, ha! my boy," chuckled David, "you can't write for them."

"You mean I don't write for them," said Schumann; "I admit that I don't
provide much for you to do. I leave that to my betters."

"Never mind," said David, giving his shoulder a friendly pat; "at least
you can write for the piano. I believe in you, and your queer music."

"That's nice of you, David," replied Schumann, "but as to Mendelssohn
and me, who shall decide which of us is right? He believes in making
music as pellucid to the hearers as clear water. Now I like to baffle
them--to leave them something to struggle with. Music is never the worse
for being obscure at first."

Mendelssohn shook his head and smiled. "You state your case eloquently,
Schumann," he said, "but my feelings revolt against darkness and
indefiniteness."

"Yes, yes," assented Schumann; "you are the Fairies' Laureate."

"Hear, hear!" cried David. "Now could anything be finer in its way than
the Midsummer Night's Dream music? And the wondrous brat wrote it at
seventeen!"

Mendelssohn laughingly acknowledged the compliments.

"That is a beautiful fairy song of yours," I said, "the one to Heine's
verses about the fairies riding their tiny steeds through the wood."

"Oh, yes