234.—MENDELSSOHN'S KINDNESS.
Henry Chorley, an English critic and musical writer of much note, on one of his trips to the continent went to Leipzig for the purpose, among other things, of meeting Mendelssohn and hearing some of his works.
Shortly after his arrival he was taken with an acute attack of illness and confined to his room, a small apartment in a crowded German inn. He had met Mendelssohn and other musicians before his illness. It is not pleasant to be sick among strangers in a foreign land, and his feelings were not of the most enjoyable kind.
His illness had been known but a few hours when he heard a heavy tramping up the stairs. It stopped at his door.
"Who is there?" he called.
"A grand piano to be put in your room," was the reply, "and Dr. Mendelssohn is coming directly."
And soon Dr. Mendelssohn did come, with his warm smile and hearty greeting.
"If you like," said he, "we will make some music here to-day, since you must not go out," and down he sat and began to play a lot of music about which Chorley had expressed some curiosity the day before. For hours Mendelssohn stayed there delighting, as Chorley modestly said, "an obscure stranger as zealously and cheerfully as if his time could not be measured by gold, and as if his company was not eagerly and importunately sought by the 'best of the best,' who repaired to Leipzig with little purpose but to seek his acquaintance."