ine of Naples, with the glittering
sea before his eyes, he had longed for London. 'That smoky nest is
fated to be now and ever my favourite residence,' he writes; 'my heart
swells when I think of it.' Even with the love he felt for those who
were awaiting his return to the Berlin home it must have been hard for
him to tear himself away from London, where his genius and his
attractive personality found recognition at every turn. Consequently
it is not surprising that he should have found his way back to his
'smoky nest' before very long--this time accompanied by his father. It
was Abraham Mendelssohn's first visit, and it served to bring out more
clearly than ever the closeness of the bond which united them. Felix
nursed his father through an illness of three weeks' duration with a
tenderness and solicitude that called forth a touching tribute from
the patient. 'I cannot express,' writes Abraham to Leah, 'what he has
been to me, what a treasure of love, patience, endurance,
thoughtfulness, and tender care he has lavished on me; and much as I
owe him indirectly for a thousand kindnesses and attentions from
others, I owe him far more for what he has done for me himself.'

Two years later Mendelssohn was mourning the loss of this parent,
whose sudden death had cast a deep gloom over a time when everything
seemed to promise happily for the young composer. Only a month before
the sad event Felix had joined the home-party at Berlin, and the house
had once more assumed the full and complete life of its earlier days.
The merriment, the joyous laughter were as hearty and resounding as
they had been of yore, and there the father and mother had sat
watching the fun--Abraham by this time quite blind, but keenly
interested in all that was going on. Now the first definite break in
that happy circle had come, shutting out the past for ever!

The extraordinary fullness which characterised Mendelssohn's life--'he
lived years whilst others would have lived only weeks,' was the true
remark of one who knew him well--reminds us of the impracticability of
giving anything like a complete description of even its chief
incidents. The stage at which our story has arrived does not, it is
true, show him at the pinnacle of his fame as a composer, but if we
entertained any doubts as to his greatness or his popularity at this
time, we have only to imagine ourselves present at the scene which was
being enacted on a certain afternoon in May, 1836, in t