panse of waters.' Again, the ancientness of
Nature herself conveyed far more to him than any legend of antiquity
connected with the works of man; he could not feel in 'crumbling mason
work' the interest and fascination that existed for him in the
unchanged outlines of the hills, or in the fact that the waves lapped
the island which formed the refuge of Brutus, and the lichen-covered
rocks bent over them then just as they did now. These were monuments
on which no names were scribbled, no inscriptions carved, and to such
he clung.

Yet in Rome itself he found a centre of unending interest and
fascination. 'All its measureless delights lay as a free gift before
him; every day he picked out afresh some great historic object: one
day a ramble about the ruins of the ancient city, another day the
Borghese Gallery or the Capitol, or else St. Peter's or the Vatican.
So each day was one never to be forgotten, and this sort of dallying
left each impression firmer and stronger. If Venice seemed like the
gravestone of its own past, its ruinous, modern palaces and the
enduring remembrance of a bygone supremacy giving it a disquieting,
mournful impression, the past of Rome struck him as history itself;
its monuments ennobled, and made one at the same moment serious and
joyful, for there was joy in feeling how human creations may survive a
thousand years and yet possess their quickening restoring, influence.
Each day some new image of that past imprinted itself on his mind, and
then came the twilight, and the day was at an end.'

The tour was not completed until the spring of the following year
(1832), and during that interval two sad notes had been struck--the
first being the death of Edward Ritz, the young violinist, Felix's
closest friend, from whom he admitted that he had taken the model of
his delicate, musical handwriting; and the second that of Goethe. In
connection with the latter loss Felix felt deeply for Zelter, for he
knew how the old man had worshipped and leant upon the master-poet.
'Mark my words,' said Mendelssohn, when he received the sad
intelligence, 'it will not be long now before Zelter dies!' The words
were but too prophetic, for in less than two months from the day on
which they were spoken Zelter had followed the master he loved so
well.

Before the latter event happened, however, Mendelssohn had returned to
London. His affection for the City had now become a settled part of
his nature. Even amidst the sunsh