sical evening" rarely means anything beyond a group of cultivated amateurs, who have more intensity and real feeling, as a rule, than musical education or experience. Reminiscences at this point are embarrassing in their richness, but some seem to me typical, about some there was an air which characterized them, even as they passed, with a sense of permanency. I think I never can see Cadogan Gardens and the beautiful house of Mr. Felix Moscheles without recalling a certain evening when half the musical and literary and artistic world of London were gathered there. The studio, with its rich draperies, old oak carvings, and varied effects in light, shade, and color, formed a harmonious background for the moving or tranquil groups. Around the piano clustered the usual circle of musiciansSarasate, with his violin; Mlle. Redeker's tall lithe figure and mobile face, carved against a rich drapery of old gold; Janotha at the piano, her fingers moving with the grace and deftness of her teacher. Into this group comes Georg Henschel's strong figure and dark face; presently it is his voice sounding, and there is rapt silence among the auditors while he sings his famous "Zwei Grenadiers." It is almost

MANTEL-PIECE IN STUDIO OF FELIX MOSCHELES.

ness of such a scene. The house is a curious, rambling building, with oddly shaped rooms opening into each other; the doorways wide, and effective with rich-hued draperies; here and there a stained-glass window throws luminous color upon the painted or carved ceilings, the quaint furniture, or innumerable "bits" in china, carving, or drapery; a succession of rich contrasts is found at every turn, while from no point would a sketch be ineffective. Moreover, at musical or art gatherings in London there has sprung up of late years a pretty fashion of suiting dress among women to the occasion and surroundings, so that almost the air of a fancy ball is given to these parties, and the strangest, softest colors-pomegranate, old gold, and Queen's blue-are used in rich combinations, thus emphasizing the artistic effects of such a studio as Felix Moscheles's. In one corner of the room, above an old cabinet, is the bust of Mendelssohn, which was a legacy to his godson Felix, and among the many musical treasures of the room I came one day upon a little book which Mendelssohn gave Felix at his christening, and which has since served to record all sorts of musical associations. On the fly-leaf Mendelssohn had sketched the elder Moscheles's house in LondonChester Place, 8; then came a bit of a waltz composed for the lad; souvenirs of the Schumanns, Rossini, Thalberg, Spohr, Malibran, Landseer, and dozens of others follow, most of them including bits of autograph music or comic sketches; but among them is one sad page upon which Chopin's dying hand had feebly traced a few words in pencil, the signature, CHOPIN, being wavering and pathetic in its indistinctness. This little book is but one of the art treasures perpetually turning up in that studio, to which, while the artist's brush goes on, the greatest musicians of the day come and go with friendly informality.

They all know their way to the house just opposite-the gray house whose doorway opens into a cheerful hall, with rooms full of soft color and the brightest associations, and where the musician's widow, Charlotte Moscheles, lives, about her clustering the musical associations of half a century. To her Beethoven sent messages in his last hour; to her Mendelssohn came "as to one who could soothe" him; to her Walter Scott wrote verses; Malibran

reverence as well as love. Speaking of Mendelssohn one day, Madame Moscheles reverted to his amusing characteristics, to his odd, quaint forms of speech, which are impossible to translate; he would use them with amusing force, and a manner which, in spite of incongruity, made them seem precisely the words for the occasion, although in repeating them all significance might be taken away. Souvenirs of Moscheles and Mendelssohn fill the house in Sloane Street with fragrances of the past. In the inner drawing-room hangs Moscheles's portrait; there also is the small desk on which Mendelssohn wrote much of his famous music; there are the sketches of his studio and Moscheles's in Leipsic; there the silver laurel wreath which Leipsic placed upon Moscheles's

his pencillings at the great Birmingham Festival, whence he sent back to Chester Place a humorous record of events. Moscheles is represented leading the orchestra. There are all sorts of ridiculous suggestions, such as the bonnet of one devotedly attentive auditor, scraps of music with comical significance, a "view" of his famous cravat as it appeared at Birmingham, the pudding they had for dinner, Moscheles's umbrella, and any number of absurd caricatures of the whole affair. His pencil seemed to carry him away completely into the region of comical suggestions, and whatever could be twisted into fun gave him his theme. About these pages linger so much of Mendelssohn's gay, gentle spirit that we seem almost to conjure up his presence, and we can read

ence.

I think some of the best professional music I have ever heard in England has been in those private circles alluded to: in houses to which the artists go with friendly freedom, bringing their impulse and inclination to play or sing, as they do not always before an expected audiGoing in one day to one of the notably musical drawing-rooms in London, we came upon a scene which had the power of certain transient influences to inscribe itself upon mind and memory. The room was one of those luxurious ones which you enter from a quiet-looking exterior in Mayfair. There was a balcony gay with flowers, and above it a pink awning. This formed the background for the sober splendor of the room, for the piano, drawn out somewhat, and the figure of a man of thirty-five, with a large head and full German face, who was playing. A second glance, and we recognized the conductor of a Saturday before at the Crystal Palace-Herr Max Bruch, one of the most noted German composers of the day. He was playing one of his own unpublished compositions. There was a full descriptive chorus, and he gave us explanations at intervals, ending finally by singing the last part in a deep voice, while his fingers worked marvels upon the keys. He had come over to England to lead some of his latest compositions; and he talked freely about German music and its influences. His strong figure, majestic playing, and impassioned singing remained a pleasant memory in the musical associations of a certain year; and one likes to recall him as he talked, moving about the exquisite room, now standing sharply defined against the pink lights of the balcony, now leaning over the piano, illustrating his words by chance chords or swift cadenzas, now pausing in his most fervid phrases to stroke the hair of a little child at his knee; all this furnishes even a better picture of the man than the day when he led his music at the Crystal Palace, and received an ovation from audience, orchestra, and singers. Social music among the busy workers in the London season furnished various associations. One of the most tuneful must always be a certain day at Henschel's, when a famous company gathered in his drawing-room in Chandos Street.

love to flock; and going in one day last summer, we heard the sound of violins being tuned, and found in the crowded room a space cleared for a quintette composed of the greatest musicians then in London. They had assembled to read a concerto of Moscheles which had never before been played in England. Presently the music rose, silencing all other sounds, bearing down even the associations or suggestions of the present, for it was music written in Moscheles's vigormusic full of his strength and sweetness, written for no popular sentiment, no common approbation. Perhaps thirty years divided its composition from this day when the little party in Chandos Street produced it-his pupil, Henschel, grown into manhood and fame, his wife listening with her children and grandchildren about her-but it carried the message of the past to an understanding present. What a precious legacy the masters in this art can leave! Time, change, death, can not write "Finis" to the purposes and workings of their lives.

When the quintette was ended, the little circle of musicians broke up. Several gathered about one of Henschel's guests, George Eliot, whose criticisms were eagerly looked for. Presently there came through the crowd a young man with a fine face, so wonderfully like the pictures of Malibran we were hardly surprised to learn it was her son-Charles de Beriot, the pianist. He played, accompanying Sarasate's violin, into which a wild mournfulness seemed to have penetrated that day. Later, when many of the guests had gone, after Henschel had sung half a dozen of his matchless German songs, the violinist began again, playing as he surely never had before the public. Some one near us-an old musician-said that only Paganini, to his knowledge, ever accomplished certain feats upon the violin which distinguish Sarasate's playing. It was nearly dusk, the English summer dusk, when this party finally broke up, the deep German voices mingling with softer English ones in friendly greetings as one after another took leave. A cordial bond of brotherhood is established among these German musicians. They move about, talk, laugh, link arms, with a sort of caressing freedom, and their intercourse seems to be tinged by a childish forgetful

professional who "induces conversation" by the tenderest of Mendelssohn's Lieder at an evening party. The difference in this respect between England and Germany is, that in the former it is considered "uncultivated" not to play at least a little, and in the latter it is considered unpardonable to play at all, if badly. Not only is there in England a multitude of mediocre performers, but they command an amount of interested attention which seems marvel

lous to the look.

er-on. People

ness of all that constitutes the sterner realities of existence.

Whether it is that music has become simply more fashionable, recreative, or better understood in England, it is hard to say, but certain it is that music of some sort is considered a social necessity. Would, indeed, it were not so; for then one might be spared the infliction of amateur music, which is in about as deplorable a condition here as can well be imagined.

Music is invariably taught every pupil in every school-room, and the result is that instead of cultivating taste, it desecrates fine sound, and the young student who drones through Beethoven and Mozart as a duty, never learns to appreciate either. Practice and simple listening have two absolutely different effects upon an unmusical mind; but unfortunately every one in England to-day "plays" and "sings," whether it be a young lady at a country house, whiling away a dull hour with sound, if not sentiment, or an embryo

in society who have no more authority for singing than for proclaiming themselves acrobats will gravely produce sounds intended for the finest oratorio music; for almost every young woman in English society sings something from the Messiah or Elijah, and directly a ballad becomes popular, no voice in the kingdom refuses to sing it "by request." Hence it is that amateur music is apt to be entirely unendurable, and while it remains at its present low ebb, the standard of musical taste and feeling in the drawing-room must be an uncultured one. Here and there, of course, one finds admirable amateur musicians: some societies-notably one called The Wanderers-bring not only zeal and enthusiasm but high merit into their work, and amateur choral singing in England has reached an unquestionable position. The Yorkshire societies are the finest, but all over England we find companies, large and small, who unite perseverance to good taste, and give the most creditable performances.

I remember well a scene in a small Devonshire town where, among the low