In 1882 Margaret Macintyre and Marie Tempest commenced studying under the maestro.

Marie Tempest arrived at the Royal Academy of Music in the Easter term of 1882, and remained there three years under Garcia, carrying off the Bronze, Silver, and Gold Medals of the Institution. The Academy was specially prolific of talent at this time, for among the students during these years were Eleanor Rees, Miss Thudicum, Edward German, Courtice Pounds, and several others who were to attain wide fame in the musical world.

Of her studies under Garcia Miss Tempest told me a couple of very characteristic anecdotes.

When Miss Etherington, as she was in those days, came for her first interview with the maestro (having arrived from a convent in France only a few days before), she was wearing a very tight-fitting dress of Stuart tartan, cut in the Princess style, which showed off her figure to advantage and drew attention to the nineteen-inch waist of which she was the proud possessor.

The assembled girls tittered audibly, and the unfortunate victim slunk out of the room with flaming cheeks.

"He was quite right, though," Miss Tempest concluded; "no one can sing when laced in as tightly as that. I went home, and—well, I've never had a nineteen-inch waist since."

The other episode concerned the Academy weekly concerts. Garcia generally had a pupil singing at these, and would sit in front, nodding, waving his hand, and generally doing his best to establish telepathic communication with the vocalists, that he might inspire them with his spirit. At one of these Marie Tempest was due to sing with orchestra an air from "Ernani," which had been carefully studied under her master.

The conductor waved his hand and the aria was commenced. After a few bars Manuel Garcia began to fidget in his seat, then to frown, and to beat time with his feet. At last the veteran could stand it no longer. He rose from his seat, leapt on to the platform—approaching his eightieth year as he was,—and seized the baton from the conductor's hand, exclaiming, "Mon Dieu! you are ruining my pupil's song. I will conduct it myself."

Alberto Randegger was present at this, and came up to her afterwards, saying, "Miss Etherington, you must undoubtedly go on the stage."

"After that," said Miss Tempest, "I seemed to be on the boards before I knew where I was."

"The first piece in which I appeared was 'Boccacio,' at the Comedy Theatre; from that I went to the Opéra Comique for 'Fay o' Fire,' and then came 'Dorothy,' and—the rest." What a record it has been, that series of triumphs in light opera, concert, and comedy, thus dismissed with a smile and a characteristic shrug of the shoulders as—"the rest"!

Another pupil of Garcia at the Academy about this time was Madame Agnes Larkcom.

Arthur Oswald, now a professor at the Royal Academy of Music, tells me that at one of his lessons he was stopped by Señor Garcia with the word "wrong!" He was surprised, because he felt sure that he had sung the right notes in time and tune, and with careful attention to the words and vocal phrasing. "I will give you five minutes to find out," said Garcia to the puzzled pupil when he asked to be told the fault. At the end of that time the master said, "Voix blanche, voix ouverte, voix horrible."

Nicholl commenced to carry out this very practical test of his powers to the best of his ability. All went well till in an unlucky moment he mentioned the phrase "voice-production," which was the maestro's pet aversion. In an instant Garcia leapt to his feet and banged his fist on the piano. "Mon Dieu! How can you produce a voice? Can you show it to me and say, 'See, here it is. Examine it?' Non! Can you pour it out like molten lead into the sand? Non! There is no such thing as voice-production. Perhaps you mean voice-emission. You do? Eh, bien! Then say so, please."

"Through the good offices of a friend," says another pupil, "I found myself one day in Garcia's room at the London Academy of Music. He was just finishing a lesson, and I was struck at once by the extreme courtesy and patience with which he taught, the charm of his manner, the directness, the common-sense, and uncommon penetration of his remarks.

"'Oh, I have studied philosophy to some extent,' I replied.

"'What do you think of your performance?'

"'But I should like to know your opinion,' I blurted out.

"'No, no,' he answered. 'Tell me what you think of it?'

"So I told him that I thought I had a voice and an ear, but I was afraid I did not succeed in making a strong appeal, and I was sure I did not know how to sing. He laughed. 'Quite right, quite right; you do not sing,' he said."

"Manuel Garcia's science and cleverness," writes another, "enabled him to know at once whether he had to deal with a pupil of promise or not, and unlikely aspirants were not allowed to waste his time and theirs.

"He was always careful to avoid making his pupils self-conscious by too many explanations. In one case he found a simple way of teaching chest-voice to a girl. 'Do you know how a duck speaks?' Señor Garcia asked her. 'Imitate it, please.'

"With much giggling, to which he listened patiently, she tried to obey, 'Quack, quack.'

"'Good! Now turn this into a singing note; sing one tone lower in the same manner, and one more.'"

A simple enough device, which spared him and his pupil much vexation.

His knowledge of the human voice and his power of detecting its faults were equally marvellous. He had a pupil who, by singing higher than her natural range, had strained her voice, and it was necessary that she should avoid singing anything in a high register. Once only she disobeyed him, and on entering his room the next day she was greatly surprised that the master's face was flushed with anger. At once he reproached her for having sung soprano. She pleaded guilty. "But how did you know?"

The pupil's singing was much admired, for few besides herself and her master could detect that anything was amiss with her voice. She was not inclined, therefore, to realise the importance of his decision, and after a few months' work she cheerfully accepted an invitation to spend the winter abroad. When she informed him of this he bade her farewell, saying that it would be perfectly useless for her to come back to him, because, when accepting her as a pupil, his condition was—"One year's uninterrupted study."

Time has proved that he was right. After a few years she began to lose her high notes rapidly, and soon her voice was completely gone.

I have already alluded to the maestro's hatred of the tremolo. In this connection an old pupil has sent me the following note:—

"I was going through the various exercises in the book, 'Hints on Singing,' and one day, after I had been studying some little time, there came the usual query, 'What is the next exercise we come to?' 'The shake,' I replied promptly, and added, 'Shall I take that?' The maestro gave a quiet smile as he answered, 'Well, no, I think not. You shake quite enough for the present. We will pass on to the following one. With this gentle rebuke at the tremolo, of which I had not as yet been able to get rid, he went on to tell me how he had been at the opera a few nights before, 'and, Mon Dieu, what tremolo! I could have howled like a dog as I listened.'"

Not only had Manuel Garcia a remarkably accurate ear, but he possessed the gift of "absolute pitch," a fact shown by the following anecdote. A friend called to see him one afternoon, and the conversation turned upon the question of pitch. Garcia shook his head reproachfully when the visitor, who was some seventy years his junior, stated that he could not tell what a note was by ear.

THE five years preceding the celebration of Manuel Garcia's ninetieth birthday are principally noteworthy for two episodes, which I will leave Mr Hermann Klein to relate, since he was intimately connected with both.

The first took place during the summer of 1892.

"In the midst of this abnormally busy season, M. Maurel elected to deliver a lecture at the Lyceum Theatre on 'The Application of Science to the Arts of Speech and Song.' This duly came off, and its main feature proved to be an exceedingly virulent tirade against the coup de la glotte. This would not have mattered much had it not happened that Manuel Garcia himself was present, and had to 'possess his soul in patience,' while M. Maurel executed some ridiculous imitations of what he considered to be the indispensable vocal concomitants of the coup de la glotte,—a term derided only by certain Paris teachers who have misunderstood and misdirected its use.

"When the lecture was over, however, I offered him the columns of 'The Sunday Times' as a medium for replying to M. Maurel's assertions.

"On the spur of the moment he accepted, and sent a short account of the lecture, written in his own terse and trenchant manner. Then thinking better of it, he decided not to take any personal part in the discussion, and requested me not to print his copy.

"This threw the onus of reply upon me, and the answer proved so far effectual that M. Maurel was moved to make a protest in other London papers against any contradiction of his 'scientific argumentation,' save by M. Garcia himself, and not even then unless supported by something beyond 'simple denial.'

"Accordingly, the maestro then consented to write a letter to 'The Sunday Times,' confirming the statement that he had found M. Maurel's illustrations of the coup de la glotte 'extremely exaggerated,' but declining that gentleman's invitation to discuss the subject-matter of his lecture, and adding that it would be utterly impossible to argue upon theories which still remain to be revealed."

Some two months after this—that is to say, in the May of 1894—Hermann Klein received a letter from the veteran teacher, who a few days before had attended a dinner given at his house in honour of Paderewski, the other invited guests being Sir Arthur Sullivan, Sir Joseph Barnby, Sir A. C. Mackenzie, Signor Piatti, and other prominent musicians. The maestro, it may be mentioned, had never heard Paderewski play in private before, and was so enchanted when the latter sat down at the piano, that he remained listening to the music till past midnight. "A worthy successor to Rubinstein." This was his criticism of Paderewski's genius.

The letter ran as follows:—

Hermann Klein answered the questions in person, and thus quickly discovered the nature of the scheme that was afoot.

"For several weeks in succession I went to 'Mon Abri' regularly, to aid him in the work. On two points he insisted—namely, the 'catechism' form of the text, and the title, 'Hints on Singing,' which I candidly confessed I did not care for. Otherwise any little suggestion that I made was cordially agreed to. He was very careful about the signing of the contract with the publishers (Messrs Ascherberg), and on this point wrote as follows:—

"Three months later the printing was finished, and early in September the proofs began to come to hand. We were both away from London when I received this missive:—

"The question of a preface now came up. The maestro was somewhat averse to providing one, but ultimately he yielded to the desire of the publisher, who was naturally anxious that the 'Hints' should contain everything calculated to arouse attention. He wrote only a few lines, however, and I had to persuade him to add more. He also decided to include a reproduction of the well-known woodcut of himself using the laryngoscope by the light of an oil-lamp, and a couple of laryngoscopic mirrors (half-size), which by some mistake nearly came to being omitted. With the proofs he took infinite pains, and wrote me several notes about them, of which the following deserve quotation:—

"By the middle of October the work was complete and ready for the press. However, a delay occurred, in consequence of the necessity for waiting until an American edition had been printed and published in accordance with copyright requirements. The dear old master grew a trifle impatient, although he knew the cause:—

"Acknowledging another notice of the book:—

Here Mr Klein's contribution ends.

Two months after the publication of 'Hints on Singing' the subject of our memoir completed his ninetieth year, and with this the feeling was borne in upon him that at last he might enter on a less strenuous life.

Accordingly in the following September he relinquished his professorship, and membership on the Committee of Management at the Royal Academy of Music, and thereby severed a connection of nearly half a century. Already a middle-aged man when he first took up his work at the Academy under Cipriani Potter, he saw him succeeded as Principal in turn by Charles Lucas, Sterndale Bennett, Sir George Macfarren, and finally Sir Alexander Mackenzie, who was holding the position at the time of his retirement. Allowing for a possible break of a month or two, Señor Manuel Garcia was actively engaged in teaching singing at Tenterden Street for the long period of forty-seven years. The Chevalier Alberto Randegger, who was his colleague on the staff for the greater part of this time, sent me the following letter:—

"Although Señor Garcia and myself have been good colleagues for many years at the R.A.M., he was, as you know, so reserved, modest, and retiring that very, very few people were by him allowed to approach or frequent his society on very intimate terms."

With 1875, the year after Sarasate's début, we find three events worthy of note. There took place the first performance in London of "Lohengrin," with Albani as Elsa, Cotogni as Telramund, and Nicolini in the title part. Then in the following September the Carl Rosa Opera Company appeared in the capital for the first time at the Princess's Theatre. Lastly, during the season there was heard at Drury Lane a young Polish singer, who met with emphatic success in baritone parts such as Don Giovanni, Nevers, Valentine, and Almaviva. He appeared then under the name of "De Reschi": eventually he was to return and take the town by storm as Jean de Rezké.

Two years later we hear of the début of Gerster, and of Gazarré, a Spanish tenor, who bridges over the interval between the retirement of Mario and the advent of his famous successor.

In this year, moreover, Richard Wagner came to England to take part in the series of Wagner Festival concerts, which had been arranged with a view to paying off the debt on the new theatre at Bayreuth.

The receipts for the first two or three nights were miserable, and Mapleson had to resort to the same sort of expedients as in "Faust" for securing an enthusiastic reception, knowing that after a few nights it would be sure to become a favourite.

"It was no easy matter for a performance at the opera to satisfy the maestro in these days," writes Hermann Klein; "the singing rarely pleased him in comparison with the part. Upon my reminding him that 'Carmen' had been nearly a failure at the Opéra Comique in Paris three years before—'I know,' he replied; 'and the poor composer died of a broken heart three months later. That is the way France generally treats rising talent, including her own. I place little value on the opinion of Paris about a new work.'

During the same year the Gatti brothers gave a series of Promenade Concerts at Covent Garden, with Sullivan conducting.

We may note here a piece of theatrical news. In December Ellen Terry first appeared at the Lyceum under Irving's management, taking the part of Ophelia in that memorable production of "Hamlet." 1879 sees the Italian Opera season given under Ernest Gye (whose father had died from the effects of a gun accident in the previous December), and the superb Jean Lassalle is added to the company. Concert-goers find an interesting fact in this year in the establishment of the famous Richter Concerts. These were the outcome of the Wagner Festival of two years before, and were announced for this preliminary season as a series of three "Orchestral Festival Concerts."

With 1880 comes the début of the great basso, Edouard de Rezké, as Indra in "Le Roi de Lahore."

Next year Anton Rubinstein was in London for the production of his opera, "The Demon."

"Early in the year a troupe had been formed by Herr Neumann for the purpose of performing 'Der Ring des Nibelungen' in the leading cities of Germany, Austria, Holland, England, and Italy. The months of May and June were chosen for the London visit, and Her Majesty's Theatre was engaged. In all, four cycles of the tetralogy were given. The casts included not a few of the famous artists who had taken part in the initial performance of the 'Ring' at Bayreuth in 1876—among them Niemann, Unger, the Vogls, Hill, Schlosser, and Lilli Lehmann (who sang 'Woglinde,' 'Helmwige,' and the 'Bird' music); with Reicher-Kindermann as Brunhilde, while Anton Seidl conducted."

During the same month Herr Pollini arranged with Augustus Harris for a series of performances at Drury Lane, by the entire troupe of the Hamburg Opera House, and with the very popular Viennese chef d'orchestre, Hans Richter, as conductor.

The Hamburg artists comprised at the time several who were to earn world-wide reputations.

In 1883 there are two new productions at Covent Garden, Boito's "Mefistofele" and Ponchielli's "La Gioconda." Then, again, Joseph Maas makes his début in Grand Opera as Lohengrin, while Carl Rosa inaugurates his first season at Drury Lane, and brings to a hearing two new operas by English composers,—the "Esmeralda" of Goring Thomas and the "Colomba" of Sir Alexander Mackenzie.

In 1884, the year of Sir Michael Costa's death, the great names are Patti, Albani, Lucca, Tremelli, and Edouard de Rezké.

In the next year Mapleson is once more in command, and the season closes with the presentation of a diamond bracelet to Adelina Patti, in commemoration of her twenty-fifth consecutive season at Covent Garden.

In 1886 Ella Russell made her début, while both the Abbé Liszt and Rubinstein paid their last visits to England. It was on this visit that Rubinstein gave that wonderful series of seven historical concerts at the St James's Hall, which realised no less than £6000 gross receipts.

The Jubilee year is noteworthy for the advent of Augustus Harris into operatic management, for we find him giving a season at Drury Lane for which he has secured a new tenor, Jean de Rezké, then practically unknown to London audiences. The artist opened in "Aïda," and obtained a complete triumph.

In 1889, the year of Carl Rosa's death, we have two important events. "Romeo et Juliette" is given in French, instead of Italian, with a superb cast, of which the star parts are taken as follows:—

Moreover, in July, Jean de Rezké takes part for the first time in an Italian version of "Die Meistersinger," with this cast:—

Before leaving 1891 we must note the Covent Garden season, where a very remarkable collection of artists appeared, who must have compared favourably with those whom Garcia had heard half a century before. The new-comers included Emma Eames, Sybil Sanderson, Van Dyck, and Plançon; while in the company were the de Rezkés, Lassalle, Maurel, Ravelli, and Montarid; Melba, Nordica, Albani, Zélie de Lussan, Rolla, Bauermeister, Giulia Ravogli, and Mme. Richard.

Nor must one pass over Signor Lago's venture of an Italian season, embarked on during the autumn of 1891 at the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was notable chiefly for the first production in England of Pietro Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana." In the première, which was conducted by Arditi, Marie Brema made her début in opera as Lola, while the cast was made up with—

In 1893, the year of Gounod's death, opera lovers at Covent Garden made the acquaintance of the younger school of Italian composers in Mascagni and Leoncavallo. The former first appeared at Covent Garden on June 19, when he conducted "L'Amico Fritz" with Calvè, De Lucia, Pauline Joran, and Dufriche. "Pagliacci" was given, with Melba as Nedda and De Lucia as Canio, while Ancona gave a magnificent rendering of the famous prologue.

The works of two English composers were also produced during the season,—Isidore de Lara's "Amy Robsart" and Villiers Stanford's "Veiled Prophet."

With 1894 there are two novelties added to the repertoire,—Verdi's "Falstaff" and Puccini's "Manon Lescaut"; while the English Jubilee is celebrated of Joseph Joachim and Alfredo Piatti.

With 1895, the year in which Manuel Garcia concludes his ninetieth year, Adelina Patti returns to Covent Garden for a few more performances, and Jean de Rezké makes a temporary absence during the season, for the first time for eight years.

IN commencing this chapter I must apologise for the personal tone, which is almost unavoidable, since I am giving purely personal reminiscences of the years of study that I spent under Manuel Garcia.

It was early in the May of 1895 that my mother (Antoinette Sterling) took me up to see her old master, in order that he might give his decision as to the advisability of my entering the musical profession.

When we had driven out to his house on Shoot-up-hill, we rang the bell, and a maid came to the door. "Is Señor Garcia well enough to see us? If he is sleeping, do not disturb him. We can wait till he is rested." The servant raised her eyebrows in slight wonderment. "Mr Garcia is out gardening, Madame. I will tell him of your arrival."

He was short of stature, a little bent with age, frail-looking perhaps, but wiry. His eyes were bright and piercing, his profile clear-cut and distinguished. He had an olive complexion, a gift of his native Spain which fifty years of London fog and de-oxygenised air had been unable to take from him.

His white hair was partially covered by a red skull-cap, and his moustache was closely cut. He spoke in rapid tones, yet with absolute distinctness of clear enunciation.

Every word gave proof of that keen interest which he felt in all that was going on around him. In expression, voice, and gesture there was an amazing alertness, vigour, and mental activity which few men of seventy could equal, fewer still surpass. His conversation gave evidence of the fire of youth, tempered with the tolerance of old age.

A more intimate acquaintance with the great teacher revealed further qualities which made him loved, nay, worshipped, by all his pupils. Loyal and staunch, he had an old-world courtesy, a charm of manner, and a patience which was quite remarkable.

When Manuel Garcia had heard me sing he asked a few penetrating questions. Then he turned to my mother and said that he would take me as a pupil: he thought, however, that it would be better for me to wait a year before starting work.

There was something almost uncanny in being told by a man ninety years of age to come back in twelve months and commence singing-lessons. But seeing and hearing him, one could not doubt that he would be ready and waiting at the appointed time.

Nor was the supposition wrong. In the first week of April of the following year, when he was approaching his ninety-second birthday, the first lesson took place. From that time on, my studies continued under his care and guidance until April 1900, when he was in his ninety-sixth year. In this I had the honour of being the last pupil to be regularly trained by him for the musical profession with the full four-years' course of tuition.

That he should have been able to continue teaching at all at such an age is sufficiently astonishing. That during those years he should have postponed lessons through indisposition upon only some three or four occasions gives a still keener insight into the extraordinary life led by him as a nonagenarian.

Almost more surprising is it that he should have continued to carry on his correspondence. Many a long letter was received from him during those years; while on one occasion he actually wrote out the entire music of an Italian aria, "Liete voci," giving his own elaborations of the original melody.

When he had been singing thus one day he laughed and said, "I cannot sing any more. You see how the voice trembles. That, you must not imitate. The tremolo is an abomination—it is execrable. Never allow it to appear, even for a moment, in your voice. It blurs the tone and gives a false effect. Many French singers cultivate it, and I will tell you why."

"Did you not hear? No? Then I will tell you how I did it. Throughout the music I sang the least shade flat. The result you observed."

And now a few words as to Manuel Garcia's Method of Teaching.

He always impressed on singers and teachers alike that the Art of Singing was not voice-production, a term which he loathed, but guidance in voice-emission.

His Method may be perhaps summed up in the doctrine that it was not a method—in the sense that he had no hard and fast rules,—his object always being to make each pupil sing in the way most natural and involving the least effort. He was careful to impress on one the fact that any visible effort took away from the charm of the singer. If one gave too free play to the lungs, and sang beyond oneself, he would remark, "You must not forget the advice my father gave me: 'Do not let anybody see the bottom of your purse; never spend all you possess, nor have it noticed that you are at your last resource.'"

The tone was then to be directed to the front of the mouth, and here the consonants were made, but these latter were not to interfere with the flow of sound or cause any jerkiness. When a phrase was commenced the tone was to flow on evenly, smoothly, steadily, with greater or less sustaining power as desired, until the end was reached. He would further explain something of the theory of registers, and the causes of various kinds of tones, good and bad. Finally, before telling the pupil to make his first tones, he would impress on him this: "If you do not understand anything perfectly, ask me at once, and I will endeavour to clear up the point and show you how to get over the difficulty. And remember that we must have the knowledge to guide the emission of the voice with our brains. When the tone has once been emitted it is too late to correct a fault. We must be aware beforehand exactly what we are going to do. We must know what is right and how to do it. That is the secret."

The famous coup de la glotte, or shock of the glottis, with which his name is associated, has often been misapplied from ignorance of its real object, which was to secure that the vocal cords were closed at the commencement of the tone, and that there was consequently no preliminary escape of the breath. How far his methods, which also included the imparting of a remarkable grasp of every phase of vocal expression, were successful, is to be gathered from the list of his direct or indirect pupils, which, as we have seen, includes a great many of the most prominent representatives in the world of song.

It was in the same spirit, too, that he would speak of his efforts as a teacher. "I only tell you how to sing, what tone is good, what faults are to be avoided, what is artistic, what inartistic. I try to awaken your intelligence, so that you may be able to criticise your own singing as severely as I do. I want you to listen to your voice, and use your brain. If you find a difficulty, do not shirk it. Make up your mind to master it. So many singers give up what they find hard. They think they are better off by leaving it, and turning their attention to other things which come more easily. Do not be like them.

"Many singers do the opposite. They burst into tears because they find a thing too hard. Do not be afraid to face a difficulty. Make up your mind to conquer it. I only direct you. If you do a thing badly, it is your fault, not mine. If you do it well, all praise to you, not to me. I show pupils how to sing, and the proper way to study. Suppose some one meets me out of doors and says, 'Can you tell me the way to Hampstead Heath?' I answer, 'I will walk there with you.' We set out, and I keep by his side, saying, 'This is the street we have to pass through. Do not turn down there. That goes in the wrong direction. Follow my instruction, and you will arrive at your destination. I know the road well.' If he takes the wrong turning, that is his fault, not mine. I cannot prevent him from going off into the slums. I can only say 'Do not go there—that is wrong.' He must follow my advice or not, as he chooses. Again, if we come to a very steep hill, and he says, 'I can't climb that. It is too difficult. Let us not go up—I am tired'; I can only reply, 'If you wish to reach the Heath, you must climb it. There is no other way of getting to your destination.' But if he is lazy, and will not mount it by his own endeavour, I cannot lift him and carry him upon my shoulders."

Wagner's compositions never attracted Manuel Garcia. The heavy orchestration of the German music did not appeal to him, though he raised no objection to going through Wolfram's song, "O Star of Eve," in the Italian version, "O tu bel astro incantator." "Tannhäuser" was written in a lyrical style: one shudders to think what he would have said to anything like Wotan's "Abschied."

When one day I told the maestro that I had decided to devote my whole attention in the future to teaching, he at once sat down and wrote a letter of recommendation, though in his ninety-eighth year,—a typical example of his kindness and thought for the benefit of others.

It was an inestimable advantage to hear him teach singers of various capacities. During the period I was under him I had the privilege of hearing him give many lessons; for though I was the last pupil to receive the full four years' training, he was still teaching a few specially favoured amateurs,—in most cases the children or grand-children of former pupils.

His ear was most accurate and unerring, while he was exceedingly quick of observation, and equally ready with a helpful remark, given in precise terms, a simile, a little anecdote, or even a slight gesture or a look.

His works mark an epoch in a branch of human knowledge which one day may be called a science. They deserve to be most carefully studied by any one who wishes to gain a clear insight into that interesting subject—the human voice. They are the fruit of a great mind and of wonderful experience, written in a very lucid style, simple and terse, full of interest to the musician as well as to the voice trainer.

He expounds his views fearlessly but modestly, with logical cogency. Nearly every page bears evidence how cautious, discerning, and progressive a teacher he was.

As showing the importance which Manuel Garcia attached to poetic interpretation of all vocal music, I give three quotations from his 'Hints on Singing,' the extracts being taken from the section headed "Preparation of a piece."