CHAPTER IX

DISTINGUISHED MUSICIANS IN ENGLAND DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

He was not, however, perhaps unfortunately, allowed to remain there long, for after two years he was sent to the Royal Academy of Music in London, which was then a young institution in which the pupils were not only taught music and given an elementary general education, but were, at that period of its history, boarded as well.

It is certainly open to question whether it was a wise step on the part of his relatives to take, seeing that it removed him from a centre where all the surroundings were English—English thought, influence, music and all that goes to mark national characteristics—to one which was, however admirable from many points of view, to say the least, cosmopolitan in character.

A genius so precocious as Bennett would be perfectly capable to assimilate, even at so early an age, the spirit of the ancient school, and this he certainly accomplished to some extent at Cambridge: the fact that it subsequently became subservient to another was, simply, the result of the force of circumstances.

In the end, it cannot be denied that the spirit of German music practically obliterated it, and, while acknowledging the independence of thought that Bennett's music often displays, and which one likes to think may be owing to his Cambridge days, it must be admitted that its similarity in style to that of, above all, Mendelssohn's, detracts from the value that it would otherwise possess.

He remained at the Academy for several years, during which he wrote, among other things of note, two or three pianoforte concertos, the most popular, although not the best, being the one in F. It is related that one of its movements, which attained great popularity, was composed one afternoon when the other students were absent on a holiday excursion. Their delight when, on their return they heard The Barcarole, as it was called, was so great that, as the late Dr. Steggall, for many years Organist of Lincoln's Inn Chapel told me, they carried him in triumph round the concert-room on their shoulders. In 1836 he went to Leipzig to continue his studies, and there came under the immediate influence of Schumann and Mendelssohn.

That his abilities met with sincere appreciation is shown by the eulogistic way in which the former wrote of him in a musical journal he edited.

That Bennett's stay in Leipzig was a successful and even delightful experience, there is no room to doubt; it is, though, open to question whether it did not, to some extent, denationalize him as a musician. Men of his temperament and genius, are peculiarly open to exterior impressions, and going at an age of mental expansion and enthusiasm, everything that happened seems only natural. Blind ourselves, as one willingly would, the fact must be admitted that the German impress remained indelibly stamped on him during his whole life-time. It must in justice be remembered that when he was removed from Cambridge, at the age of ten, all essentially English thought, so far as music is concerned, became as a thing of the past.

He returned to England to remain permanently, after a second visit to Leipzig, in 1842. He was appointed a Professor of Music at the Royal Academy of Music about this time, and was associated with that institution, where his memory is held in just veneration, until he died in 1875.

His work there, in conjunction with composition, became the main occupation of his life. His energies were not, however, wholly confined to it.

He was a pianist of the first order. Indeed, I was told, many years ago by a celebrated pianoforte teacher, that his technique, in exactitude, compared favourably even with that of Mendelssohn himself.

Soon after his final settling in London, he commenced a series of chamber concerts, and continued to present the classical masterpieces of this form of music for about twelve years. It was his enthusiasm alone that accounts for this fact, not public support, for that, he may be said never to have received, to any appreciable extent.

His style was, perhaps, too refined and his tastes too rigidly classical.

In this respect he was, if one may be permitted to say so, somewhat narrow in his outlook. For instance, he could not tolerate Chopin's music, and, as one of them told me, would not permit his pupils to play it in his presence.

He was of a retiring disposition, and the arts of public advertising were as objectionable to him, as they appear to be acceptable to many performers to-day. Again, the rivalry of eminent foreign musicians and the conspicuous patronage they received in high quarters, which naturally aroused public interest in them, militated against his success, and so, feeling that the conditions were unequal, he withdrew from the arena. He was especially great as a player of Bach's music, to which he was intensely attached, and it may be at once admitted that he was entirely lacking in that emotional temperament, which seems to appeal so strongly to the feminine atmosphere that so frequently pervades the public concert-room.

He was essentially a player who most appealed to musicians. His personality must have been a fascinating one, for he aroused even passionate attachment in many of his pupils, and it has often been a source of interest to hear grey-headed men talk of his memory in the language of a lover.

His pianoforte music contains much that is both beautiful and original in style, the lovely sketches, "Lake," "Millstream" and "Fountain," being the best known and most popular.

The more important chamber compositions include a sestet for piano and strings, a trio, and a sonata for violincello and piano. In 1855, he produced his cantata, "May Queen," at the Leeds Festival, with great success. It contains much delightful music, and, like other of his works, the comparative neglect into which it has fallen, seems perfectly extraordinary. Nine years were to elapse before his great work, "The Woman of Samaria," was to appear at the Birmingham Festival.

If it created no great sensation at the time, that may be accounted for by the fact that he studiously avoided sensational effects. It is, however, characterised by nobility of thought, religious feeling, and perfect grace of expression. Although seldom performed as a whole, the touching quartet, "God is a Spirit," is in general use, and remains a model of beauty and simplicity.

This work, together with his overtures—especially the "Naiades" and "Paradise and the Peri"—and his pianoforte concertos in F and D minor, are the chief compositions on which his fame will principally rest.

Sterndale Bennett founded the Bach Society in 1849. His extraordinary enthusiasm for the works of the great master was a leading characteristic of his life, and was doubtless stimulated by Mendelssohn during his Leipzig days.

He was appointed conductor of the Philharmonic Society in 1856, and Principal of the Royal Academy of Music in 1866.

He was elected to the chair of music of Cambridge University in 1856, and was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1871.

It is difficult as yet to assign Sterndale Bennett's definite place in the history of music.

His genius, if not of the order that sways multitudes, was undoubted, and he seems to form, together with Samuel Sebastian Wesley, the connecting link between Henry Purcell and Sir Edward Elgar.

SIMS REEVES

John Sims Reeves, one of the greatest tenor singers of whom the world has any record, was born in Kent on October 21st, 1822. His genius as a child was early evident. At an age when the average boy is found playing cricket on the village green, as should be, this one was playing the organ at a village church near by.

It is an interesting reflection that, whereas the majority of singers confine their energies to the development of the voice alone, Sims Reeves, from his earliest years, was bent on mastering the mysteries of music—such as harmony and counterpoint.

He succeeded to this extent, that he became a thoroughly sound musician.

In the consideration of his career, this point must ever be borne in mind.

Sims Reeves was not only a singer, but he was a fine and well-instructed musician, and any opinion that he might put forward was entitled to respect, not only from the singer's point of view, but that of a musician whose erudition was unquestionable.

So, when he raised his voice against the abominable pitch that had been introduced into the country through the instrumentality of a foreign, cosmopolitan musician, he had the weight behind him, not only of a distinguished singer, but of a musician perfectly able to maintain the position he had taken up, on grounds both reasonable and logical.

The fact that his opinion, however strongly put forward, had no influence, is not a matter for surprise. In that Victorian period, the English musician was practically an alien in his own country.

Although Sims Reeves was destined to become, perhaps, the greatest of oratorio singers, his earliest successes were made in opera. His "first appearance on any stage"[31] was at Newcastle, when he appeared as the "Gipsy Boy" in "Guy Mannering."

He was soon found, as would naturally arise, in London; Macready, the theatrical monarch of those days, and whose scene of operations was Drury Lane Theatre, attracting him.

Here, on the first occasion that presented itself, he made a success, that those gifted with any sense of perception, could easily see, indicated a great career, and the rising of a great sun in the firmament of music.

It was in Purcell's "King Arthur," and the particular number that was to make him famous was "Come, if you dare." In this connection, it is amusing to note the clashing of the artistic and managerial temperament; both, probably, at their highest expression. Macready insisted that the singer should address his adjuration to the warriors whom he was facing, with his back to the audience. The singer held an entirely opposite view, and wished to sing to the public. The fight was keen, and Sims Reeves apparently gave way.

On the night, however, he adopted an attitude that was not foreseen; pacing the stage sideways, he sang with his voice thrown at the audience, and threatening looks at the "supers," who were amazed at such an exhibition of liberty, and made a success that was not only great, but assured the management of a satisfactory issue to the adventure.

Macready, nevertheless, fined him £5 for disobedience!

He was from this moment recognised as a great singer.

Strong, however, in the consciousness of unusual gifts, he determined to test his powers on the Continent, and went to Paris. After a short stay there, he proceeded to Italy, where, after a few lessons from Mazzucato, he made his appearance as "Edgardo" in "Lucia di Lammermoor."

His success was great. The Italians, who have an abnormal love of the tenor voice, received him with acclamations, and his tour through the Italian cities was a triumphant progress. On his return to England, he was received as an "Italian" singer, and doubts were expressed as to his ability to sing oratorio music.

His first appearance in England, after his foreign experiences, was, again, in opera, as "Edgardo." Berlioz was conducting, and wrote thus: "Reeves has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as it is possible to sing in this frightful English language."

His first appearance in oratorio was made on February 10th, 1848, at Exeter Hall, in Handel's "Judas Maccabeus." All doubts were soon allayed as to his ability to interpret Handel's music.

It had been generally expressed that his success in opera made it improbable that he could succeed, to an equal degree, in gaining the affections of the English people in oratorio, their most loved medium of expression in music.

His success was immediate and triumphant. At the conclusion of "Sound an alarm," a scene of enthusiasm occurred that had never, previously, been known at an oratorio performance.

It set a mark on his career.

From that moment he was recognised as the greatest interpreter of Handel; and from that pinnacle of fame no subsequent singer has been able to move him. His popularity became immense. At every great music festival his appearance was regarded as a necessity, and, until his final refusal to sing at the artificial pitch that had been introduced by Costa, his interpretations of all the great masterpieces of oratorio music were looked forward to as things of national interest.

Sims Reeves was a great singer, and like most great artists, had idiosyncrasies. On one occasion, Sir Arthur Sullivan (then Mr., and a young man) went down to his beautiful place at Norwood, to play over the music written for him, in a forthcoming production. He heard it through, and then said, "My dear Arthur, the music is quite beautiful, but it would be difficult to say for what voice it was written." Certain passages had to be revised to suit him.

That this would, naturally, be done, all those who knew Sullivan's character would easily understand.

Sims Reeves continued to be, for many years, the idol of the British public, and it is only just to say that he deserved the distinction, being as he was, a man of sterling character, and one whose ideals were ever high.

MADAME NORMAN-NERUDA (LADY HALLÉ)

Wilma Neruda was born at Brünn, Moravia, in 1839. The family from which she came had been long famous in musical history. The story of her precocious genius reads, even to-day, as something akin to the marvellous. When she was about four years of age, her father, as the late Frantz Neruda told me, made her a miniature violin, more with a view to her amusement than with any contemplation of serious results.

It was not long, however, before he became conscious that in this little daughter, he possessed a treasure, and one that was likely to prove a moving element in musical history.

That his judgment was justified, events too have shown.

At that time, strange as it may seem now, the idea of a woman-violinist was not only foreign to public instinct, but was even contrary to the general sense of propriety!

Her fame, notwithstanding, rapidly increased in local circles, and it was not long before she was taken by her father to play before a great Church dignitary, not only to gain his patronage, but, through it, to allay any prejudice that might be aroused by so unusual a spectacle.

The interview was entirely successful, the Cardinal having heard her, saying, "One whom God has so blessed should play ever to His Eternal Glory." Her progress was so astonishing that her father took her, in 1846, to Vienna, where she made her first public appearance, at the age of seven.

The sensation her playing produced was phenomenal, and soon all Europe was eager to hear the wonder-child.

A grand tour was the natural result, during which she performed in the principal cities of Germany, and arrived in London in May, 1849. On June 11th she appeared at a Philharmonic concert, where she played a concerto by De Beriot, the child being then ten years old.

The enthusiasm with which she was received is a matter of history.

Her next important experience was a prolonged tour in Russia, of which she ever retained vivid memories. Many were happy, some lugubrious, and the one she most cherished was a cordial reception given to her by the Imperial family at St. Petersburg.

Her next scene of triumph was Paris. She arrived there in 1864, and made her first appearance at one of the Pasdeloup concerts—the most important organisation of the kind in France—with a success that was, as she often said in after life, perfectly bewildering.

It is not difficult to imagine it.

She was possessed of a technique that could hardly be surpassed, and a genius equally remarkable, a constitution that defied fatigue, and an enthusiasm that years of incessant work such as she was destined to experience, did not dull.

There is little doubt that her great powers were displayed, at this time, in their most dazzling splendour.

In May, 1869, Madame Norman-Neruda—as she had become known through her marriage with the Swedish composer—visited London again, and the event proved to be decisive, little as she thought it, as to her future career. She came to play at a Philharmonic concert, but was prevailed upon to stay through the summer, so that she should inaugurate, in the autumn, a new era in the history of the "Popular Concerts"—an institution that had been established ten years previously by the eminent firm of Chappell and Co., with the late Mr. Arthur Chappell as director. The main feature was the performance of classical chamber music.

The event may be justly described as historic. Her success was absolute and convincing. The fact that a woman was seen "leading" a quartet of performers that embraced the greatest players that Europe could produce, was one of intense significance.

One great result was not long in showing itself. The violin soon became fashionable in a girl's hands, and from a fashion it has degenerated into a rage.

To her lasting fame, Wilma Neruda was the first to demonstrate, under conditions that were often discouraging and sometimes forbidding, that a woman could, in this form of art, hold her own with the greatest of male exponents.

Madame Norman-Neruda was a woman of extraordinary strength of character. Austere in manner and of cold demeanour, as she undoubtedly was, in any direction that her sane judgment pointed out as worthy, she was capable of generosity that was, at once, spontaneous and noble.

Her most prominent characteristic was, I think, intellectuality. She could not, it must be admitted, "suffer fools gladly."

Had she desired a motto, a very appropriate one would have been "Odi profanum vulgus."[32]

From that eventful year of her life, 1869, Madame Norman-Neruda spent the greater part of her time in England, devoting the spring and winter to the Chappell, Hallé, Philharmonic and other important concerts, with occasional visits to the Continent to play at functions of exceptional interest.

Her career in England is so well known that it is not necessary to dwell at any length on it here. Suffice it to say that her work was incessant, and that hers was, soon, a familiar figure on every concert platform throughout the length and breadth of the country. It is not difficult to imagine that the constant travelling would provide occasional and novel experiences; one of them Lady Hallé related to me.

She, with Sir Charles Hallé, was on her way, in the north, to fulfil an engagement, when a severe snowstorm came on, which soon hindered the progress of the train. They arrived at the place of their destination an hour after the time appointed for the concert. The snow was so deep on the ground that no conveyance was available, and there was no alternative to making their way, on foot, to the hall.

Once arrived there, Sir Charles proceeded to the platform to offer explanations to the patiently waiting audience. It was not necessary. Everything was understood, and he retired amid much cheering.

When Lady Hallé appeared she received such an ovation, doubtless expressive of sympathy and admiration, that as the concert progressed the unpleasant experience soon faded from her mind. Unhappily, however, an attack of bronchitis was the result; a form of illness that she suffered from, intermittently, for many years, and of which she eventually died.

Lady Hallé (by which title Madame Norman-Neruda came to be generally known in her latest years of residence in England, through her marriage with Sir Charles Hallé in 1888) was, notwithstanding outward appearances, not only capable of enjoying but engendering simple fun, as her friends well knew.

She was, for instance, full of joy and gaiety when Christmas-time was coming and the Christmas tree in near prospect. I do not think that Charles Dickens himself exceeded her in love for that beautiful and touching festival. It was then that she gave full vent to a nature that teemed with kindness and generosity. Few who were privileged to see it could forget the suppressed excitement with which she led her guests, family and household, to the room where the Christmas tree was ablaze in all its glory. On it was sure to be found some present, large or small, for every one.

One Christmas I well remember, I had recently returned from America, where I had acquired the habit of drinking iced-water.

My refusing claret had been a constant source of banter from Sir Charles and Lady Hallé, and more boisterous expressions from my friends, Ludwig and Waldemar Neruda, Lady Hallé's sons, on the occasions of my dining with them.

My present proved to be a purse. When I took it, Lady Hallé called out, clapping her hands, "Open it." This, of course, we did. It contained a Swedish gold coin, and a sheet of notepaper on which was written, "The future Mrs. Ernest Ford. The secret revealed. Why Mr. Ford became a teetotaler!"

The incident is quite trivial, but it certainly gives a glimpse into the character of a truly great and noble woman, that would be little suspected by those who knew her only as an outstanding figure in public life.

It is only natural to suppose that Lady Hallé was a constant recipient of appeals for advice from young aspirants, eager to emulate, in however humble a degree, her career.

She was ever open to them, and her judgment, sane and tried, was freely at their disposal. The last years of her life were, unhappily, darkened by the deaths of her two sons; that of the former, tragically, on the Alps; the other, after long suffering, in Brünn.

If for no other achievement, Wilma Neruda would go down to history as one of the notable women who indicated a new career for her sex. But she did more. She left behind her a fame that time itself will not easily efface.

SIR CHARLES HALLÉ

Of the many thousands of German musicians who, since the days of Handel, have made their home in England, Charles Hallé was, from many points of view, the most interesting personality. He was a man of culture, and his varied experiences in many countries, which he sometimes would describe delightfully to a circle of friends, naturally added to the interest that his charm of manner, and known greatness as a musician, always inspired.

When he left his native town of Hagen, in Westphalia, in 1836, for that, in those days, Mecca of musicians, Paris, he must have felt supreme confidence in his powers, although only seventeen years of age, knowing that he would find there rivals as formidable as Chopin, Liszt and Thalberg. This did not deter him. He had been used to playing in public from infancy, had known nothing but success; his pianoforte playing as a child still had evoked the wondering praise of no less a man than Spohr, and, probably, knowing that his style was so essentially different from that of these great artists, he determined to make the daring venture.

He made it successfully. He was received with great kindness by every one, but especially by Cherubini. This great musician, who was then head of the Conservatoire, took the greatest interest in the young German pianist, whom he constantly invited to his house, and never seemed to tire of hearing him play the Beethoven sonatas which, strange as it sounds now, he was hearing, as Sir Charles Hallé told me many years afterwards, for the first time.

Indeed, I have often heard Sir Charles speak of the astonishing ignorance of German music, even that of Beethoven, which existed in France at that time.

It proved to be, however, a fortunate thing for him, since, as soon as he had established his chamber concerts with the express intention of introducing the best of German classics of this description, he not only quickly gained a clientèle of cultured amateurs, but they speedily became a rendezvous of the most celebrated musicians in Paris.

The success of these concerts continued to increase until 1848, when the revolution forced him to seek shelter for his wife and children in England.

The years that Sir Charles Hallé spent in Paris were memorable ones in his life. Not only did he enjoy the friendship of Chopin, Georges Sand, Listz, Thalberg, and others of great fame, but there, too, he met Richard Wagner who was, at the time in poverty, ekeing out an existence, by means of drudgery that is painful to think of.

Among the many friendships that Sir Charles made there was one, in particular, that he greatly prized, and which was destined to last a life-time—that of Stephen Heller, perhaps the most popular writer for the piano known to lady amateur pianists, at least of the past generation.

Soon after arriving in England, Sir Charles Hallé settled in Manchester, where the large German colony resident there at once rallied to him. He, immediately, commenced a series of chamber concerts, on the same lines as those he had established so successfully in Paris; the subscriptions were eagerly taken up by his compatriots, and it was not long before they were firmly established on a financial basis; and this, together with the teaching connection that he speedily gained, proved sufficient to relieve him of any financial anxiety.

These things, however satisfactory, by no means satisfied either his ambitions or his energies, which were prodigious.

He gave pianoforte recitals in London, Manchester and Bath—in which city he once thought of taking a house—which soon became regular institutions.

It was not long before he organised a permanent orchestra in Manchester, to be followed, so soon as it was on a firm basis, by a permanent choir.

Thus were started the "Manchester concerts," later to become known, and widely celebrated, as the "Hallé concerts."

It would be difficult to over-estimate the services that Sir Charles Hallé rendered to England, through this medium alone. As year followed year, so did one masterpiece after another find its way to Manchester, to meet the reception that only these northern enthusiasts know how to accord. To them, whether it were the work of a modern master, or a hitherto unknown work of Handel, the result was ever the same, granted that it touched their highly emotional sensibilities.

The firm establishment of this great and justly celebrated institution, was the act of his life that was fraught with the most lasting consequences, and the one that will, in all probability, live longest in public memory.

After his death, in 1895, Dr. Richter was, an interregnum passed over, appointed to fill his place.

The long association, musically, of Sir Charles Hallé, and the great violinist, Madame Norman-Neruda (who in after years became his wife) is too well known to need dwelling on. Suffice it to say that their joint recitals became, in course of time, annual features in the musical events of every town of importance throughout the country. Sir Charles Hallé had an absolute genius for organisation, as the many and great undertakings, so successfully carried through, and so permanent in their character, prove. He was not only the moving spirit in them, but, wonderful as it is to think, he attended to the minutest details of them all, and, in doing so, probably eclipsed the efforts of half-a-dozen ordinary secretaries.

He was a great pianist and a great conductor. His temperament was inclined intellectually, rather than in the direction of emotion. This was, doubtless, the reason that gave rise to the popular impression that he was cold and unsympathetic in disposition.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. That his tastes, so far as music is concerned, were rigidly and unyieldingly classical, there is no room for doubt. His sympathies were not, as regards modern developments, elastic. One great charm of his character was absolute honesty.

For instance, he never believed in an English School of Music.

"Englishmen? Yes," he once said to me, "Great soldiers, great poets, great statesmen, but—musicians, no. You lost all that when Purcell died."

Had he lived till to-day, I have not the slightest doubt that he would have changed his views on the subject; but, after all, he was only voicing a very generally held opinion.

With the extreme developments of modern times he was not altogether in sympathy, and I should think that same conservatism, would fairly express his attitude on the subject of musical progress.

Sir Charles Hallé was a man of superb physique, and his health right up to the end was wonderful, considering the strenuous life he led.

I remarked to him one day, "It seems to me perfectly extraordinary, seeing that you must spend at least half your life on the railway, that you escape trouble with your nerves. What with the incessant hurrying to catch trains——" He interrupted me with, "Ah, but you see, I never do that. I make it a rule to be at the station twenty minutes before the train starts. It is to that fact I attribute my immunity from nerves, as you express it."

I, shortly after this conversation, had practical experience not only of this, but of another remarkable feature in the life of a truly remarkable man.

I never knew anyone so absolutely intolerant of doing nothing. Rest was to him, emphatically, change of occupation. For instance, I have known him, when on a Sunday morning he had no pressing work that called for his attention, to devote his time to the making of a score of a string quartet from the parts that the performers had been using, shortly before, while rehearsing for the next day's "Monday Popular concert."

One can only characterise this as a very superfluity of strenuousness.

My other experience happened in this manner: Sir Charles was on the point of performing, at Manchester, a little known, in fact, entirely neglected, oratorio of Handel's, "Theodora," and he asked me to go down there with him and hear it.

The invitation was one that, I, naturally enough, accepted with keen pleasure, anticipating as actually happened, a very pleasant and interesting experience.

Exactly at the appointed time (Sir Charles had been particularly insistent on this point) I was on the platform, at Euston, and found him pacing up and down in front of the train. Directly he saw me, he motioned to the guard, who unlocked the door of a reserved compartment, which we immediately entered. It had been scarcely relocked, when he produced a pack of cards, and we, at once, proceeded to play the old German game of "sechs-und-sechzig," of which he was very fond.

When, twenty minutes or so later, the train steamed out of the station, we were both so absorbed, that neither of us noticed the fact, and it was only after we had gone a considerable distance on our journey, that I, at least, realised it.

Sir Charles Hallé's leisure time was so limited—the railway carriage was, to all intents and purpose, his office for conducting business correspondence—that he had little opportunity for playing games, so, with characteristic forethought, he seized upon the occasion, and I am glad to know, quite enjoyed the experience.

I well remember how surprised we both were, when we found ourselves in Manchester. It was, certainly, the shortest of such journeys that I can remember.

The performance of Handel's oratorio was to me a memorable one, not so much on account of the music, which in comparison with that of the "Messiah," "Israel in Egypt" or "Judas Maccabeus," seemed rather uninteresting, the magnificent singing of the choir and soloists, or the splendid playing of the orchestra, as the absolute enthusiasm displayed by Sir Charles Hallé in its direction.

The music seemed to arouse all that was masterful and compelling in him. His personality dominated everything, and I never saw him on any other occasion so obviously moved as he was that night. His love of the music of Handel was, from his earliest years, passionate, as that of Beethoven, and, in a less degree, Berlioz, became in later years.

On the way back to his house, observing that he showed evident signs of fatigue, I forbore to speak, but he suddenly said, "Well, what do you think of it?" I replied, "Sir Charles, it was perfectly splendid, and, if not a liberty, may I say, that your conducting was simply magnificent?" The words read, in print, perhaps, exaggerated and extravagant. I can only say that I simply voiced my feelings at the moment.

He leaned back in the carriage, saying:

"Thanks. That is something," and after a pause, "The work has been long and—arduous." However, on arriving at his home, he soon regained his usual serenity, when, after a light supper, he lit a cigar.

In the course of conversation, I said, "Will you tell me, Sir Charles, if it was simply the result of philosophical reflection, or some incident, that made you determine on the 'twenty minutes before the train' rule?"

He replied, "It was, certainly, the result of an accident that occurred to me, many years ago, in Manchester; but at the same time, I think there is much philosophy in it. I was being driven to the station to catch a train to the north, with a band rehearsal and concert before me. My carriage suddenly stopped, and, looking out to see what was the matter, I found that, owing to some work on the road, we were hopelessly blocked. I seized my bag, and running all the way to the station, was just in time to enter the train as it was starting. In fact, had the guard not recognised me, I should have lost it."

"Well, Sir Charles," I said, "with such possibilities constantly facing you, it was, as Sam Weller said to Mr. Pickwick, 'the prudentest resolution as you could come to.'"

"It has," he answered, "made all the difference between misery and comfort, in such a life of incessant travelling as mine." We continued talking into, I am afraid, the early hours of the morning, when an old domestic entering the room, on some pretext or another, Sir Charles who was just commencing, "However, there was one occasion," immediately rose from his chair, and saying, "it is late, we must go to bed," made preparations for that event. The story was never told.

On the return journey, the same game occupied our attention, Sir Charles remarking as we entered our compartment, "Now, I am going to win back what you got from me coming down." The feat was not a considerable one, but the zest with which he threw himself into the effort, the absolutely boyish joy he exhibited, was a thing that I can never forget. He did not succeed. When, saying "good-bye" to him, as he entered his carriage, after our arrival in London, he remarked, "But I am going to get that half-crown back; you will see."

Sir Charles Hallé was, in every sense, a remarkable man. Judged from any standpoint, he appears as one destined to make his mark in history.

As a pianist, on no less an authority than Hans Von Bülow, he is to be regarded as one of the greatest exponents of Beethoven.

As a conductor, his memory is equally secure. That the scene of his greatest achievements happened to be England, is, as we know, a matter of accident. But it is equally certain that wherever fate had decided that his lot should be cast, his name would be carried down in history, as a man of great endowments, noble character, and one of those whose existence enriches humanity.

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN

Sir Arthur Sullivan's disposition was a happy one—in other words, it was bright and sparkling. Blessed with a sense of humour that enabled him to look out on the world with invariable cheerfulness, he passed his days in an atmosphere of serenity that might well be the envy of all who knew him. It was only natural, for he was a veritable child of fortune.

Most men, and, emphatically, most musicians, have to experience years of struggle or strenuous work, before they attain to fame, or, in the jargon of the day, "arrive."

Not so, Arthur Sullivan.

The fates took too much care of him to subject their favourite to anything so unpleasant or distressing!

His childhood was happy; at school he was a universal favourite, and as a student at Leipzig, he passed some of the most pleasant years of his life.

When he returned to England in 1861, he brought with him several manuscript compositions, one of which proved to be a veritable torch that was destined to light his way to fame—and fortune. It was his music to Shakespeare's "Tempest."

He was, of course, well-known in musical circles through his being the winner of the Mendelssohn scholarship, so there was no difficulty in arranging for its performance. This took place at the Crystal Palace, under the direction of the late Sir August Manns, in April, 1862.