when I was just happily
installed on my godfather's knee; occasions of that kind are connected
in my mind with vociferous protests, followed by ignominious expulsion.

There were, however, happier times soon to follow, times which recall to
me our exploits in the Park. He could throw my ball farther than anybody
else; and he could run faster too, but then, to be sure, for all that,
_I_ could catch him. There were pitched battles with snowballs, and
there was that memorable occasion when I got my first black eye. I
remember it came straight from the bat, but--to tell the truth--I was
never quite sure that Mendelssohn was in any way connected with that
historical event, correctly located though it is, in the Regent's Park.

Our indoor sports must have been pretty lively too, for on one occasion
my mother records how "in the evening Felix junior had such a tremendous
romp with his godfather, that the whole house shook." And she adds: "One
can scarcely realise that the man who would presently be improvising in
his grandest style, was the Felix senior, the king of games and romps."

One of my achievements, when I was a little boy in a black velvet
blouse, was the impersonation of what we called "the dead man"; the
dying man would have been more correct. From my earliest days I
evidently pitied the soldier dying a violent death on the battlefield.
Since then I have learnt to extend my commiseration to the tax-payer,
and to the many innocent victims of a barbarous and iniquitous system.
Well, the dying man in the blouse was stretched full length--say some
three feet--on the Brussels carpet. Mendelssohn or my father were at
the piano improvising a running accompaniment to my performance, and
between us we illustrated musically and dramatically the throes and
spasms of the expiring hero. I was much offended once, because they told
me I acted just like a little monkey; I did not know then, but I am
quite sure now, that behind my back they said in a very different tone,
admiring and affectionate: "He is _such_ a little monkey."

That black velvet blouse I particularly remember, because John Horsley,
now the veteran R. A., then but a rising artist, painted me in it; and
also because Hensel, Mendelssohn's brother-in-law, made a sketch of it
in my album, at my particular request, representing me on horseback.

What honours that garment might not further have attained I do not know,
had I not once for all checked its career by cli