The few introductory words to this volume were written, and the last proofs posted, shortly before the fatal news overtook me in lovely Venice. My world, resplendent with sunshine, was suddenly lost in darkness. The most lovable of men, whose presence alone sufficed to make life worth living to all those near and dear to him, was gone from amongst us. His hand was no longer to hold those pens—the finely-pointed one that drew, the freely-flowing one that wrote. His well-earned rest was not to be enjoyed on earth.
Now that all is changed, the joyous note of these pages jars upon me. How differently would I attune the story of our student days, were I to write it to-day in loving memory of my friend!
But as it stands, so it must go forth. The book, cordially endorsed by him, is printed and all but issued; he would not let me recall it, I know. He himself, in his kindly, simple way, had enjoyed my resuscitation of our early recollections, and had here and there lent a helpful hand even to the correcting of the proofs.
To write of him and of his qualities of heart and mind as I would now venture to record them, I must wait till the heavier clouds have cleared away and left the picture, I would draw once more to stand out brightly in the background of Time.
FELIX MOSCHELES.
October, 1896.