stration: _Painting by N. M. Price._ SPRING SONG (Lied Ohne Worte)
"To think of it is to be happy with the innocence of pure joy."]

"Oh, yes!" he answered; "moreover I believe that most composers have a
programme implicit in their minds, even though they may not recognise
it. But always one must keep within the limits of the principle
inscribed by Beethoven at the head of his Pastoral Symphony, 'More an
expression of the feelings than a painting.' Music cannot paint. It is
on a different plane of time. A painting must leap to the eye, but a
musical piece unfolds itself slowly. If music tries to paint it loses
its greatest glory--the power of infinite, immeasurable suggestion.
Beethoven, quite allowably, and in a purely humorous fashion, used a
few touches of realism; but his Pastoral Symphony is not a painting,
it is not even descriptive; it is a musical outpouring of emotion, and
enshrines within its notes all the sweet peaceful brightness of an early
summer day. To think of it," he added, rising in his enthusiasm, "is to
be happy with the innocence of pure joy."

I was relieved of the necessity of replying by a diversion without the
door. Two male voices were heard declaiming in a sort of
mock-melodramatic duet, "Are you at home, are you at home? May we enter,
may we enter?"

"Come in, you noisy fellows," exclaimed Mendelssohn gaily; and two men
entered. The elder, who was of Mendelssohn's age, carried a violin case,
and saluted the composer with a flourish of the music held in his other
hand. "Hail you second Beethoven!" he exclaimed. Suddenly he observed
my presence and hushed his demonstrations, giving me a courteous, and
humorously penitent salutation. Mendelssohn introduced us.

"This," he said to me "is Mr. Ferdinand David, the great violinist and
leader of our orchestra; and this," indicating the younger visitor, "is
a countryman of yours, Mr. Sterndale Bennett. We think a great deal of
Mr. Bennett in Leipzig."

"Ah, ha!" said David to me; "you've come to the right house in Leipzig
if you're an Englishman. Mendelssohn dotes on you all, doesn't he,
Bennett?"

"Yes," said Bennett, "and we dote on him. I left all the young ladies in
England singing 'Ist es wahr.'"

"Ist es wahr? ist es wahr?" carolled David, in lady-like falsetto, with
comic exaggeration of anguish sentiment.

Bennett put his hands to his ears with an expression of anguish, saying,
"Spare us, David; you play like an angel, but you sin