the festivals, requesting him to assume an important part in a work with which he was entirely unfamiliar. Being an excellent reader he was able to go immediately to the dress rehearsal, where he carried through his part without a mistake, a feat the accomplishment of which would have been almost impossible to any one else in England.

This led to Mr. Shakespeare's frequent engagement as tenor at the principal English musical festivals. His taste did not, however, lead him to enjoy public singing; and, as his voice was very light in quality, it was not long before he gave up all participation in concerts and devoted his entire time to teaching.

It was at this period that I fell in with the master whose name, of course, had attracted me. As I learned from himself he came from the Warwickshire family from which the dramatist had sprung; indeed "Shakey," as we called him, bore a marked resemblance to the bust of Shakespeare in the church at Stratford-on-Avon; yet he laid no claim to direct descent from the poet, and was quick to laugh out of court the Teutonic contention that he was of German origin.

Shakespeare's name as a teacher is quite as highly thought of and as widely known in the United States as it is in England, where he had many competitors, and where his musicianly and extremely careful method of teaching was less the vogue than that preferred by many artists who sought the advice of masters who were not themselves vocalists, who did not know the classics well, whose stock in trade was the popular ballads of the day. Shakespeare, on the contrary, inculcated a love for the classics, and nothing else found acceptance in his studio. Having taught his pupils how to sing, he educated them in the literature of song, and in the manner of rendering such selections as fitted their individual voices. In fact he taught us the three essentials: how to sing, what to sing, and how to sing it!

Informing Shakespeare of my intention to study in Italy for the concert stage in England, he urged me to study there with him at once. I preferred, however, to do as I had planned, and I am glad that I did so, desirous as I was to obtain more knowledge of French, German, and Italian.

At the Birmingham Festival, before leaving England, I met B. J. Lang, the celebrated conductor of Boston. I had known him in America and he had heard that I intended to make a career of music. At that time grand opera was looming large in New York, and he greeted me with the question, "Why have you chosen oratorio?" I explained to him that I knew no opera, owing to my mother's dislike of that phase of music. But he still persisted, assuring me that opera was the thing. "Oratorio," said he, "is only opera spoiled." Amusing and possibly true; but according to my wont, after satisfying myself as to the right course to pursue, despite Mr. Lang's and Shakespeare's advice, I went my way to Florence, where I put myself under Maestro Vannuccini.

CHAPTER VII

SERIOUS STUDY BEGINS

For sure no minutes bring us more content
Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent.
-John Pomfret.

WHEN the celebrated actor Sir Johnston ForbesRobertson was last in America, he reminded me of my visit to him in England in 1886. After forwarding a letter of introduction, I had called at his studio - he is a painter as well as an actor - telling him during our conversation that I was about to go to Italy, but would before long appear upon the boards in London. He listened attentively and assured me that I should not find it an easy thing to do. He had been upon the stage since his youth, had mingled with artists and with the most distinguished actors and musicians of his day; he had lately been taken into Henry Irving's company, where he was highly esteemed; and yet he was far from standing where he wished to be.

Referring to that time he said: "I thought when you had gone: 'Poor fool! he little knows what there is in store for him, brought up in Philadelphia with no musical or artistic antecedents, not being able to play the piano, knowing no one and having no pull in London; yet he is going to try it. Poor fool!" Turning to some one who sat with us, he suddenly said, "Yet, by gad, he came back and did it!" As a matter of fact, that is what happened.

Five years from that time I was back in London and on the stage under the best of auspices; and that is why this book is being written, for I want those who follow me to know just how it came about that I have accomplished whatever I have done, and to realize that nothing can be done at all unless one sets out to do it oneself, relying upon nobody at all, yet scorning no assistance. Every aid for advancement must, of course, be seized, but for all the aid that may be extended, no one can accomplish anything if he himself lacks the inner urge that animates all who do things in the world, even to the salmon that rush against the current up the most torrential streams, struggling through rapids, leaping waterfalls. Though thousands die in the attempt, yet some succeed and get to the wished-for haven and spawning ground, where they are at peace. Thus they accomplish what the inner impulse of their nature prompts them to do, and by paths they know not, through ways never traversed before, they reach their goal through the guidance of that Providence to whom the rise of the artist and the fall of the sparrow are one.

Upon leaving London I went to Florence by way of San Remo on the Italian Riviera, and there, on Ash Wednesday in the spring of 1887, occurred one of those dreadful convulsions of nature that leave puny man weak, trembling, and helpless before the majesty of Nature and the power of Nature's God. Never shall I forget the horror of being aroused in the early morning by the whole earth quaking in a manner that reminded me of nothing so much as a dog shaking a rat to death. Imagine the Hound of Heaven with the earth in His teeth!

Thousands of persons were killed or maimed for life in those two shocks, which took place about five minutes apart and reduced to ruin scores of villages which had for centuries withstood the ravages of time. Fortunately, my hotel was strongly built and suffered no material damage. But how heart-rending it was to see, as I did upon the relief expeditions in which I took part, the ruined towns surrounded by mediæval walls, still standing to be sure, but concealing behind their ramparts and ancient defenses the havoc wrought among the defenseless! In most of these places the devout had been at early mass, during which the earthquake shook the churches so dreadfully that the heavy masonry of the roofs fell in, burying the congregations, though leaving the priest unhurt beneath the half dome over the chancel.

In one place I remember the story of an aged cleric, who stood serene, and lifted up his voice among the shrieks of the dying and injured, saying, " My children, I baptized you when you entered this sinful world, I now absolve you as you leave it for Paradise."

I have loved Italy from the time I first visited it and am particularly fond of the Italian Lakes; indeed who is not? The Plains of Lombardy had a fascination for me so great that it seemed as if I had frequented that part of the world in some former state of existence. I fancy that every one feels that he should like to be in that locality for ever, and therefore has a sort of reflex mental action; for many consider they have been there before.

On the day of my arrival in Florence I noticed a tall old man, bare-headed and with flowing hair and beard, carrying a beautiful little girl upon his shoulder as he went about the streets. Every one turned to look at the quaint but charming sight of the happy child and the equally happy grandfather, who turned out to be the