music, by all means pay a fiddler to fiddle for you, but by no means fiddle yourself." I cannot insist too strongly that the stage is no more dangerous an occupation than any other, and the sooner the public gets over such an idea the better it will be for stage and public. In the freer life of these days, young men and women of good family and excellent education are quite properly seeking the dramatic or musical field of endeavor as a means of livelihood and as an outlet to natural impulses which are not to be denied. Every one likes to make a speech, to hold forth in a recitation, to act, to sing, to give vent to artistic emotions, and those sufficiently gifted may thus be led to take up music and the drama as their work in life.

Notwithstanding this it is my invariable custom to counsel my pupils or those who seek my advice not to give up any other pursuit by which they make their living in order to follow music as a profession, unless they possess the necessary gift in an unusual degree, and not to take to the stage even then unless after the most careful consideration, serious preparation, and intensive training of all the faculties needed in their occupation, they find their fitness beyond doubt, the call for their services undeniable, and their prospects more than ordinarily good.

Almost immediately upon my arrival in London I gave at St. James's Hall one of my own concerts, opening with songs by Schubert, and closing with a group by Schumann which had been written to words by the English poets, Burns, Moore, Byron, and Shakespeare, which, of course, I sang in the original. Among other interesting features then brought forward I introduced a group of songs by Americans, Harry Rowe Shelley, Clayton Johns, and Walter Damrosch. This was the intro

duction into England of Mr. Damrosch's song, the newly popular "Danny Deever," but, owing to the strict copyright on this poem, I was unable to print the words in my book of words. Kipling's prohibition of the use of his ballad, even in the printed copy of music as it appeared in England, left it another "Song without words."

That summer I rested for a while in a little old-fashioned place which was many centuries old and which I had rented from an ancient Gloucestershire family on whose estate had stood Fair Rosamund's Bower. My cottage, so called, a substantial structure of beautifully carved stone, might have been the bower of the Fair Rosamund herself and the place where the King visited her. At any rate it is said there were ghosts in the house, and sure it is that from the cellarage a subterranean passage extended for two or three miles to another and more considerable ancient dwelling. While I enjoyed this rural pleasaunce, I could not keep long away from the metropolis, and soon I repeated, at a theatre I took for the purpose, my Beethoven performances, supported again by Miss Julie Opp, the program being enriched by a first part of Beethoven's music in which I was assisted by Miss Fanny Davies, Johannes Wolf, Hollman, and others; and last, but not least, by Madame Blanche Marchesi, daughter of the famous Parisian vocal teacher.

Of course my association with persons of distinction in the artistic world was of great interest to me, but after all, the most enjoyable evenings of my recollection were those so often spent in the hospitable home of William Shakespeare, the great singing teacher and my very good friend. His soirées were exemplars of what musical evenings should be. He had among his intimates some of the finest artists of the day, and though he never imposed upon them in return for the many favors he and his good wife had rendered them, they were only too willing to be associated with anything he might suggest in the way of entertainment of his friends, as held in that modest drawing-room at No. 14, Mansfield Street. To this house many noted people resorted, glad to partake of the generous cheer always to be found at the hands of their jolly host of the great name and remarkable likeness to the poet-dramatist.

How often have I not heard in such intimate surroundings the greatest artists of Europe playing or singing in those rooms, where, be it said, they always arrived early and never left until correspondingly early in the wee sma' hours of the following morning!

On one of these occasions some of the noblest chamber music had been played in the most inspiring manner by Joachim and his quartette. At the close of the concert, as the guests were listening to the dying strains so perfectly rendered in surroundings the most sympathetic, the grandfather's clock at the head of the stairs struck twelve. Even this was in tune with the circumstances, and not only in tune but in rhythm, for as the four last majestic bars were played in three-four time the clock joined its voice to those of the instruments and in perfect unison and harmony brought to an end one of the most remarkable musical séances imaginable.

THE musical man in the street on New York's Great White Way and he who attends the opera, and the musical woman in the street, she who attends the concert, probably give little thought to the preparation of the entertainments they so enjoy. Even performers themselves fail to realize what must be done before a concert can be given; and a concert is the easiest kind of entertainment to provide.

A small percentage only of those who set forth upon a public career ever get far. If by reason of strength and talent and a combination of favorable circumstances, a few out of the great number who try are able to continue on a long and honorable career, their strength is often but labor and sorrow.

I must admit that the labor is pleasurable and that, as God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, so does He assuage with the joys of success the bitterness of the struggle made to attain it.

The few that win out attain their positions by hard work alone, bringing into subjection material already more than ordinarily good, for only too often the most musical are not blessed with voices of paramount beauty, and those who have fine voices are often not gifted with musical temperaments. Lack of studiousness is a common thing, and all who teach should make plain to their pupils the enormous amount that must be learned, from which, after all, only a small part may be retained as one's habitual working material. The voice must be fine, the ear must be good, the mind must be sound, the body must be healthy, the spirit must be indomitable, and fair musicianship is an absolute necessity. But while all these things may coincide in the persons of a few, opportunity may not offer itself or, if it does, may not be seized. One's clients must be convinced before an engagement can be arranged even for a single concert. How much more difficult is it to appeal for a year's work to the organists of churches and their music committees, or to the conductors of oratorio societies and their boards of directors for high-class engagements! Should the young man or woman possess such qualities in fair proportion and in such favorable combination as to attract the manager of artistic opera, then how far from probable is it that these talented individuals have given any thought to languages or to the art of acting?

To be reasonably at home in the concert room or on the oratorio platform is one thing, but to create an impression upon the operatic stage is quite another. A reputation made before the concert-loving public may easily be lost in a night by one who has been unwisely attracted by the glare of the footlights, the glimmer of the golden horseshoe, the far-resounding fame of the tenors and prima donnas. Few realize that these artists, after every imaginable obstacle has been overcome, find themselves in a position of such eminence that they are in momentary fear of dethronement by new rivals and compelled to curry favor with press and public, day and night, in season and out of season, in order to maintain their hard-won position.