In early days our Club held a few Mendelssohn birthday festivals. The first one, February 3, 1851, given in the Melodeon, was a great success. We invited as guests all our concert subscribers, decorated the hall tastefully, and covered the face of the balcony with white cotton cloth fringed with evergreen, on which, in letters nearly a yard long, was the legend:

“ Born, Feb. 3, 1809. Died in 1847.”

The stage was of course the focus of our efforts. We had borrowed a plaster bust of Mendelssohn, placed it on a pedestal festooned with flowers, and put it at the front-centre of the stage. Our five music-stands were also decorated with flowers. Then we gathered together and played round this representative, so to speak, patronymic saint He was our idol; we offered him our adoration and homage. We were young, and certainly sincere. Satisfied it was a proper thing to do, we did it, and had no mauvaise honte.

Nothing of that nature could be done in this age. It would be called childish—ridiculous perhaps.