h on stepping
into his place from the assembled thousands was absolutely
overwhelming, whilst the sun, emerging at that moment, seemed to
illumine the vast edifice in honour of the bright and pure being who
stood there, the idol of all beholders.' The applause which broke
forth at the end of the first part gave a sufficient indication of the
impression which the audience had formed of the work, and at the
conclusion the enthusiasm was such that the entire assembly rose to
their feet, and shouted and waved for several minutes.

It was over, and Mendelssohn's gratification at his reception was
expressed in the letter which he wrote to his brother Paul the same
evening: 'No work of mine ever went so admirably at the first
performance, or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians
and the public as this.... I almost doubt if I can ever hear one like
it again.'

In April of the following year four performances of the 'Elijah' took
place at Exeter Hall under his conductorship, the Queen and Prince
Albert gracing the second performance with their presence. This was
destined to be his last visit to these shores, and when he departed,
after fulfilling a round of engagements which tried his strength to
its uttermost limits, it was with the haunting shadow of coming
illness. Scarcely had he rejoined his family at Frankfort than a
messenger brought the sad intelligence that his sister Fanny had died
suddenly at Berlin; the news was broken to him all too suddenly, and
with a loud shriek he fell to the ground in a swoon.

From that moment his spirits failed him; there was no rebound from the
deep depression into which he had fallen--only occasional flickerings
of his former self showed that the struggle to assert his will-power
over an ever-increasing loss of physical strength was still going on.
There were moments, indeed, when it seemed to himself, if not to those
who watched him with growing anxiety, that he was regaining his old
buoyancy--the old craving for work which nothing seemed to have the
power to destroy. But though compositions still came from his pen,
though he had not yet given up hope in himself--'You shall have plenty
of music from me; I will give you no cause to complain,' he had
remarked to an English publisher shortly before this time--it was
plain to those nearest to him that the inexorable finger of death was
pointing the way to the Valley of Shadows.

* * * * *

Th