garian gypsy selection, for the adaptation of which he assumed the credit, though he told me with evident vexation that a man named Joachim had also made an arrangement of the same airs, which he was proclaiming all over Europe as the only genuine one.

At another concert during this period I heard the famous Ole Bull, the diamond in the end of whose violin bow still flashes in my mind's eye. I recall the wizard's slender figure and long white hair and his somewhat antiquated style of dress coat and neckcloth. Ever since, I have rather curiously connected this vision with Paganini, his world-renowned predecessor.

My uncle John also took me to my first opera. How I loved him for it! We heard Clara Louise Kellogg, that charming lady who was to be one of my artistic friends many years later, sing in "Martha" and subsequently in other parts. I shall always remember the exquisite silvery tones of Joseph Maas, the English tenor whose career was cut short all too soon by death. The operas sung by Miss Kellogg's company, "Mignon," "The Bohemian Girl," "Faust," and kindred works, were done in our good English language, and brought fame to all concerned.

I also became well acquainted - from the distance of the "peanut" gallery - with members of the RichingsBernard opera company, and I heard the fascinating Zelda Seguin as Carmen, one of the best it has ever been my pleasure to hear, and Charles Santley, the celebrated English barytone, in Zampa." Who would have thought that I was to have Zelda Seguin acting with me, and be privileged to sing on many a program with Charles Santley?

During my years in college, my opportunities for education through music and the drama were largely to remain outside the prescribed curriculum. Among the impedimenta which I took from Moorestown to Haverford was my beloved zither, which I played upon when occasion offered in spare moments. I had not counted upon the strict authorities at Haverford forbidding such harmless music as was made upon this rather primitive instrument; but to my great chagrin I was soon informed that music was against the rules, and that if I must needs play at all, I would have to do so off the college grounds. I therefore packed my zither in its little case and took it over to the Haverford station on the Pennsylvania Railway where, through the kindness of the ticket seller, I was enabled to keep it, and where I went daily to practice. I never took it back to the college. Indeed when I began to hear something of other music I deemed practice upon it almost a waste of time, it was so limited in its scope; though for social occasions I was not unwilling to show my skill and perform such selections as I knew at sociables, Sunday-school concerts, and the like, during the holidays when I was entertaining and being entertained among my young friends.

The scarcity of musical opportunities naturally tended to cause me to seek elsewhere that diversion which my nature so craved. As naturally as a duck goes to the water, I endeavored to make the acquaintance of people who were musical. I was advised to go to a large hall in Vine Street where there was a stage upon which a variety performance was carried on during the evening, when Teutonic families gathered for their supper and beer, and where a young German barytone could be heard singing to his own accompaniment at the piano.

I often went to hear this singer, Max Heinrich by name, and from that remarkable artist obtained my first introduction to the greatest song writers of the world: Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Brahms, while pieces rendered in the English language flashed upon my ear, and all this brought a message new and strange to me. I recognized in it what I needed, and straightway determined to make the acquaintance of this Heinrich and to learn from him, if possible, some of the songs which I had heard him sing. This led me into contact with a great artist, from whom I afterward gleaned a knowledge of many things of value to me in my profession, and I am glad to say that Max Heinrich remained my friend until the day of his death.

He told me about his early career - he was only a young man himself at the time, and I was but eighteen. He said he had had an opportunity to sing in the Royal Opera at Berlin, that his voice had been brought to the attention of the old Emperor William, and that he had received a command to go and sing in private for his Majesty. He confessed to me, however, that when the evening arrived, he, having pawned his dress coat and being unable to find the wherewithal to release it, was playing billiards with some companions when an emissary came from the Palace looking for Heinrich, and excitingly demanding his attendance, saying that the Emperor and members of his party were waiting to hear him. Heinrich, however, declined to go, as he was not able to dress for the occasion - indeed, he could not be admitted in his ordinary clothes to the presence of royalty in the drawing-room of the Palace. And so, regretfully and with a shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the court messenger. But he said to me, "I vas a damned fool, as usual."

After that, Heinrich told me, he went concertizing through Germany; made a little money, kept some of it and, after wandering with Hungarian gypsies, he, himself, the most delightfully wandering of all the wanderers, found his way to America about 1873 and deposited what savings he had in the bank of Jay Cooke, which failed soon after, and Heinrich found himself stranded. Το keep body and soul together, he sang in the beer hall of which I have spoken.

Not long after, Heinrich became the bass soloist in the choir of the Roman Catholic Cathedral on Logan Square, where the organist was Michael H. Cross, whom I afterward knew intimately for many years, and who told me that one day after service a young German came up into the organ loft, asking "Do you vant a singer?" Mr. Cross said, "What can you sing?" He replied, "I vill sing at sight anything you gif me." Cross handed him a difficult barytone solo from a mass, playing the accompaniment, while Heinrich rendered the number to his entire satisfaction, obtaining the position and remaining at the cathedral for several years.

Fortunately for me, there came to live at Haverford one Ellis Yarnall and his English wife, a rare couple indeed, whose house was filled with books and pictures, and whose eldest daughter was a good pianist and sang nicely herself. She and her mother introduced me to old English songs, in which I at once began to revel. I have used them ever since, deeming them to be of the highest quality in their class and in no wise inferior to music of other nations merely because they happen to be in the English language and by English composers, who, strangely enough, were not by many persons considered the equals of those born on the other side of the English Channel. It turned out that I, who could not be kept away from music, and vocal music in particular, influenced the young men about me who, notwithstanding the fact that they were of Quaker blood, were just as apt to enjoy music and to sing as those who belonged to other religious denominations. A little glee club was formed before I left Haverford and it was but a short time after my graduation that the authorities, some of the elder of whom had passed away, came to the conclusion that musical instruments might be permitted to the students, who at once began to bring guitars, banjos, and mandolins to the college, to the good, I doubt not, of every one of the student body; though music was not taught then at Haverford, nor has it ever become part of the curriculum.

Years later I was privileged to give at my Alma Mater several concerts, which were partly made up of the songs I had learned from Max Heinrich and the Yarnalls. These concerts were largely attended and were the first that had ever been heard at Haverford.

In that early part of my experience I remember well hearing the celebrated Emma Abbot in "Paul and Virginia" and one or two other things. The fact that she introduced "Home, Sweet Home" into any opera at her own sweet will did not interfere with the enjoyment of her performances by the audiences of that time; indeed they rather looked for the familiar strains, expecting them before they wended their way to their own sweet homes.

For all my enjoyment of the people that I heard in my youth, nothing could compare with the real thrill that I received one afternoon when, going to one of these very performances, I heard a girl singing up an alley. This unseen, unknown woman had indeed a God-given voice.