I had read Greek tragedies in college, and so vividly did their stories return to me when treading the stone platforms from which they were originally delivered, that my natural love for the stage was greatly enhanced. Perhaps without knowing it I inwardly resolved to become an actor, or a singer; perhaps both. At any rate I felt called to express myself before the public in the highsounding vocal phrases that I loved so well. Strange to say, the experiences of those days in Athens so powerfully affected my mind that my endeavors toward the foundation and maintenance of a Classic Theatre resulted after many years in the building of what is known as the Greek Theatre at the University of California in Berkeley.

I had abundant opportunity when in Constantinople of hearing the Turkish music which so unpleasantly assails the ear in the bazaars, clanging instruments and highpitched voices uttering tuneless phrases. It was indeed strange enough, but it gave me no pleasure whatever, and I was glad to leave early such entertainment as I had attended.

Of what Europe calls music there is next to nothing in the Mohammedan religion, and I found none when I attended the service of the Dancing Dervishes. Yet their worship is intended to be a praise of God, by means of such long-continued gyrations as would put almost any athlete to shame.

Great was my surprise when those simple, almost Quakerish-looking, men arose from "facing the meeting," exactly as at home in Philadelphia, and started slowly to twirl on their toes about the previously empty floor space between them and the congregation. Fast and faster they turned until their gray and Friendly coat-tails stood out from their bodies at right angles, for all the world like ballet dancers' skirts; and, as their motion gradually subsided, the coat-tails assumed a more seemly angle and finally hung down as circumspectly as any well-behaved coat-tails should do. No expression whatever appeared upon the stolid countenances of the worshipers, who seemed to vie with each other in the length of their choregraphic exertions.

If the service of the Dancing Dervishes is as barren of music and as silent as a Quaker Meeting, the experience that I had of the Howling Dervishes was quite the reverse. It was indeed more than barbaric; it was savage in its intensity. From a latticed balcony we looked down upon a rather large room, the floor of which was bare; in the corner was a raised throne upon which sat one who was evidently a dignitary of the sect. Around the room ran low divans upon which were seated the worshipers, young, old, and middle-aged, white, black, and tawny. These, excited by the beating of drums and the sounds of a strange chant, and urged on by a leader who arose and went to the middle of the room, finally stood in line with him and went through extreme physical contortions, loudly chanting the while. One great black eunuch in particular I shall never forget, a giant in physique, who outdid all competitors; yet ultimately puffing and sweating, he was himself led from the room rejoicing in the strength that enabled him so to assail Heaven with his cries, and to dance before the Lord in pious orgies.

I looked forward to the autumn of that year with anything but pleasure, for I knew that it would take me back again to the warehouse and office of my good uncle; but I shook from my mind all such unpleasant thoughts as wool fleeces and wool bales, and buying and selling that oily but necessary commodity, and gave myself up to the enjoyment of the hour. It is better for us all not to cross bridges until we come to them, but at last I found my way back by way of Marseilles and gay Paris to smoky London, and thus home to what Benjamin Franklin called "my dear Philadelphia."

CHAPTER III

MUSIC'S GOLDEN TONGUE

There is no truer truth obtainable
By man, than comes of music.
- Robert Browning.

DESIRE to enter upon a musical career came to me, I am sure, through the influence of the music I heard in the Episcopal Church at Moorestown, where now and then I went with my father, who sang occasionally in the little choir. The majesty of the pealing organ, played by my grand-aunt Emma Stokes, the choir behind the green baize curtains of the organ loft, the dignity of Doctor Weld with his black gown and snowy sleeves, all so far removed from the simplicity of Friends' Meeting, wrought mightily upon my mind. Yet High Church practices were little known about Philadelphia, and I did not then dream of St. Mark's and my future participation in services which might have been Roman Catholic, for all the difference apparent to a casual observer.

My uncle John Bispham had given me a zither, on which I had lessons from a German "professor," by occupation a saloon-keeper. I had also a few lessons on the guitar from a woman, and I learned to strum on the banjo from my pal Will Chamberlain, who had given me some notion of chords on the piano. His parents were not Quakers; not they! - and under their hospitable roof my youthful eyes and ears were opened to many things which the larger world smiles upon. My mother, I am sure, thought all music a wile of the Evil One, the stage a snare for every foot, old or young, and the combination, as in opera, something too appalling to contemplate. She had once been to an opera, and the ballet shocked her beyond expression!

Yet even as a boy I could not believe there was essential wrong in either music or the drama; the only wrong lay in their debasement, their unworthy presentation or immoderate and inconsiderate use. In this last respect I am in entire agreement with Fox and the early Quakers, who formed their estimates on the excesses of the Restoration Period.

I often journeyed from Moorestown to Philadelphia on Saturday, to hear an occasional concert, or perhaps to go to a matinée to see some celebrated actor in a good play; poor music, poor plays, and poor acting I held in as little favor then as I do now. It was at the Academy that my delighted ear first heard "Pat" Gilmore and his band play the "William Tell" overture and similar popular music. Theodore Thomas, whom I was afterward to know so well and with whom I was to sing so frequently, gave me my first acquaintance with the symphonies of Beethoven, Schubert, and many others. I shall never forget the rhythm in the beat of his right arm or the dignity and grace of the movements of his left hand as he modulated the strains of his orchestra.

On summer evenings in Philadelphia I used to listen to such open-air concerts and music as could be found in those days, chiefly in the German districts of the city, where small orchestras were to be heard in the beer gardens. It was in one of these that I first heard the Hungarian violinist, Remenyi, whose acquaintance I sought. The principal piece that I recall he played was a Hun