son of opera, which was continued in New York, Boston, and Chicago and which yielded the new firm of impresarios a handsome return. Even Chicago, which the previous year was loath to patronize opera, now turned out its beauty and fashion and mightily encouraged the young impresarios who had dared to tread the path which such a master as Maurice Grau had followed almost to his ruin. The motto of Damrosch and Ellis might well have been "Nothing venture, nothing win." As a matter of fact they did venture, and they did win.

An admirable company had been gathered together, headed by Mesdames Melba and Nordica, and also the talented young singer Madame Gadski. Among the tenors were Salignac the Frenchman, and Kraus the German; among the barytones and basses were Campanari, an Italian, Emil Fischer, and myself; and a. considerable repertory of opera was given, standard works of the French and Italian schools, but more particularly of Wagnerian music-drama, of which the public of those days never had enough.

Any opera season is likely to have its surprises, and the surprise of that year was the success of "The Flying Dutchman." The character was not new to me, yet was one in which I had never before felt myself entirely at home. Doubtless the reason for its popularity that season was that Damrosch took up the work with enthusiasm, whereas my previous performances in London had been conducted in a perfunctory manner by those who did not really care for the music, characterized by Madame Eames at the time as a "back number." Then, too, we had the great advantage of the assistance of Madame Gadski, who perfectly suited the part of Elsa.

I have often wondered whether the public can realize what the work of a busy artist obliges him to do. The opera season in Philadelphia was so arranged that about two weeks elapsed before I had to appear again with Mr. Damrosch's organization; my manager booked a number of concerts which I proceeded to fulfill meanwhile. After singing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra in Philadelphia, I appeared the following evening in Washington as Telramund in "Lohengrin" with our opera company. Proceeding immediately to Brooklyn, I sang again with the Boston Symphony Orchestra at the old Academy of Music on the afternoon of December 17. That evening Ysaye, the Belgian violinist, and I appeared with Anton Seidl and his orchestra, this being the last time I ever had the opportunity of singing with that great conductor. I sang once more with the Boston Symphony under Emil Paur the following evening before taking a train for Milwaukee, where I appeared in "The Messiah" on December 20. Repeating that oratorio in Chicago on December 21, I was off for St. Louis for the same work and sang there December 22, thence back to Chicago again for "The Messiah" the evening after. Jumping to Nashville, Tennessee, I took part there on Christmas Day in a recital of songs, returning to New York for "The Messiah" with the Oratorio Society at Carnegie Hall on December 29 and 30, and sang in Philadelphia on December 31 in "The Flying Dutchman " under Mr. Damrosch's conducting.

Seated comfortably at breakfast, audiences of a previous evening read the accounts of the music they have heard, but we artists are not enjoying the repose which most people think we take to a much greater extent than themselves. Far from it! A busy vocalist has probably taken a train after the evening performance, traveled all night, been obliged to get up in the early morning, make a hasty toilet, get a hurried breakfast at the hotel, and attend a rehearsal by ten o'clock for a performance that afternoon or evening. After which, even if a night in bed is possible, comes a call at five or six o'clock in order to catch a train at seven for a journey all day to appear in another city. This is not in the least uncommon; yet I have often been taunted with the laxity of my life; with the late hours in which it is supposed that I indulge myself, and with the comfortable sleep that I am believed to be enjoying in the lap of luxury until near

noon.

Nay, nay, admiring public; such is not the case! The singers who you think are getting fat from laziness are in all probability getting fat because they have not time enough to take the exercise they would like, or, during the time they might be exercising, are too tired to indulge in it, but have to go to bed half dead.

The last opera to be performed in Philadelphia at the close of a repertory which included the whole of the Wagnerian "Niebelungen Ring," was Damrosch's "The Scarlet Letter," in which Gadski and Kraus were admirable as Hester and Arthur respectively and in which I reveled in the disagreeable but interesting character part of Chillingworth, a part that I regret not having had any further opportunity to perform, as this interesting work has never, to my knowledge, been revived.

Mr. Damrosch tells an amusing story of a supper party given in his honor by those who participated in "The Scarlet Letter" after the occasion of a previous presentation. It is to be supposed that the artists were foreigners and did not in reality understand the meaning of the words they were singing in English, or they would not, with considerable ceremony and many complimentary speeches, have presented Mr. Damrosch with a large scarlet letter A which they placed upon his breast.

CHAPTER XXVI

MY NATIVE TONGUE

The more I sang in foreign tongues the more I loved my own.- After De Belloy.

I HAVE ever inveighed against the custom, so happily on the wane, which for so long obliged us English-speaking artists to sing in England and in the United States in the languages, French, Italian, or German of our musical confrères, who are too indolent, to say the least, to learn English. In Italy the audiences desire to hear operas sung in their own beautiful accents. Germany and France have long ago broken away from singing operas in Italian. The Germans love their rich but rough tongue, while the French treat their exquisite language with the highest respect and the government maintains theatres and opera houses, where French only is spoken or sung and where it must be enunciated to perfection. In England and America, as has often been pointed out, operatic and orchestral music has, for many decades, been imported. It took a long time for the English to understand that their own people were able to write music as well as the inhabitants of any other country. Once let us learn the art and encourage the practice of it, and America will surely realize that the same idea should prevail here.

Though I have studied Italian, French, and German and have sung in them for years, I cannot be said to be proficient in those languages, and it has always seemed