against going before the public as a professional singer. I was sufficiently successful at this concert, however, to have the honor of being engaged on many subsequent occasions by the man I so admired.

Mrs. Henschel used to tell with glee how, at their place in the Highlands, her husband, preparing during the summer for his forthcoming series of symphony concerts, would take his scores out to the lawn, where under a tree he spent hours in conducting an imaginary orchestra; even correcting imaginary mistakes, by tapping with his baton upon the stand and pointing to some phantom instrumentalist, saying, "F natural, not F sharp, Mr. Blank. Now we will go on, gentlemen, if you please."

Henschel's influence was enormous throughout Great Britain. As a conductor he was in the first rank; as a composer he stood high; he was admirable indeed as an exponent of bass parts in oratorio; but where to my mind he shone with the greatest brilliancy was in the series of concerts with his charming wife, which lasted through many years, and which were as well known in America as in England. Henschel was a master at the piano, and nothing short of a genius in the interpretation of classic songs, but he shared with his contemporaries, Max Heinrich and Doctor Ludwig Wüllner, the tonal peculiarities which seem almost invariably and inevitably to be impressed upon the Teutonic throat.

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In this connection I am reminded of the visit which Madame Wagner made to Covent Garden in the early 'nineties, when she heard us in "Lohengrin." By us I mean Jean and Edouard de Reszke, Madame Schumann-Heink, Madame Nordica, and myself - two Poles, one German, and two Americans, all of whom had learned to sing in the best Italian manner. We were much pleased when Madame Wagner said of us on the stage after the performance, that for the first time in her life she had that evening heard the music of her husband rendered "from a melodious standpoint."

CHAPTER XVI

FESTIVAL AND UNIVERSITY

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before.

Tennyson.

WITH me in 1894 all was going well. At the opening of the year I was offered many engagements of increasing interest. I appeared in London with Joachim and his quartette, with the Spanish violinist Señor Arbos, and with Leonard Borwick, one of England's finest pianists. I traveled far and wide in the British Isles to sing in oratorio and concert for my kind and increasingly appreciative clientele. I may thank God that the health bequeathed me by my ancestors, the training received from my mother, and my own artistic enthusiasm kept me then, as they have ever kept me, fully and eagerly occupied, glad of my opportunities and grateful for the approbation and trust that the public has bestowed upon me. Engagements followed upon engagements: Bach's "Passion Music" at Queen's Hall, with Joachim as the solo violinist and Dolmetsch accompanying on the oldtime harpsichord; Gounod's "Redemption" at Crystal Palace; and Mackenzie's fine oratorio "Bethlehem " at the Royal Albert Hall.

Among women much in the public eye in those times was Liza Lehmann, the admirable song writer and concert soprano, and a very beautiful contralto with an equally beautiful voice - the lady shall be nameless who failed after a few important engagements because of her poor musicianship. Loveliness may attract, a voice may charm, exquisite manners may captivate, influence

may launch an individual; but musicianship is the only thing that can keep a singer going in a world of musicians. How often have I not been ashamed of vocalists who, unable to render their parts correctly even in oratorio, where they may carry the music in their hands, are quietly laughed at by the clever instrumentalists behind them in the orchestra, who play for union wages, while the singers themselves are receiving princely fees and royal homage!

Among my colleagues at this time was an American tenor, now gone, whose stage name was Orlando Harley. I mention him to show what determination will do for an artist who sets out to win. This young man was the son of a banker in the Middle West, and had been educated at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, from which he was suspended for some slight breach of discipline. Considering himself unjustly used, he declined either to return to Annapolis or to accept a position in his father's bank, declaring that he intended to become a singer - a career which did not meet with the approbation of his parents.

He left home one night provided with such money as he could get together, and went to New York, where he lived at the Fifth Avenue Hotel for a few days, while he sought in vain for engagements at the Metropolitan Opera, in comic opera, upon the stage in Broadway shows, in church choirs, and in concerts. Finding his funds decreasing, he went to a second-rate hotel, then to a lodging house, and finally found himself with credit gone, all his clothes in pawn except the suit upon his back, and only five cents in his pocket. With this last nickel he bought himself a bag of biscuits, which he washed down with water from the fountain in Madison Square. Biscuits gone, he had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours and woke on a bench by the fountain in the morning, shivering, his sole protection against the cold a newspaper drawn over his knees after it had blown in his direction. Gazing blankly at it, his eyes fell upon an advertisement for a porter wanted in a business house down town; and, taking this as a good omen, he proceeded to the address indicated. Keeping his hands behind him he was interviewed by a kindly employer, who, shrewdly judging the young man to be a gentleman in trouble, invited him to tell his story and his name. Refusing to give his real name until he had made a name for himself, the young tenor told his tale and announced his intention to become known yet, despite his recent hard luck. He was taken into the office, his employer being also a musical enthusiast, received vocal lessons in part payment for his services, and was given a chance to show what he could do, with the result that before long he found himself making his way pleasantly in Europe, and on the threshold of a distinguished career, which was unfortunately cut short by death.

I was selected to be among the principals in all three of the Bach Festival concerts of 1895, a privilege that I highly appreciated, for it showed me the trust reposed in me by Stanford and his associates and led me straight into such oratorio work throughout the United Kingdom as otherwise would not have come to me. Opportunity is important, but still more important is the ability to embrace it.