worth recording. Every one knows his operas, such as Faust and Romeo and Juliet, and his orchestral pieces, such as the charming Funeral March of a Marionnette, but his sacred music (which I think is his finest) is less known.

After I had left the choir of Old Trinity Church, New York, our much-loved director, A. H. Messiter, was about to celebrate his twenty-fifth year as organist and choirmaster of Trinity, and to mark the occasion a hundred men, tenors, baritones, and bassos, who, as boys, had sung in his choir, resolved to celebrate the anniversary. Having obtained the consent of the rector, Dr. Morgan Dix, they chose a Mass by Gounod, written for adult male voices, and they had it arranged for the communion service of the Episcopal church. I was one of the hundred singers invited to participate, but I could not do so for two reasons which I may classify under the headings a and b; a, I had to be in Paris on that date, and b, my voice was gone and I couldn't sing anyhow! But I resolved to do what I could for our choirmaster. Arrived in Paris I learned that Gounod was "visible" at two o'clock in the afternoon, but only by previous appointment. I was warned to write to him in French and that it had become usual to address him as Maître. So I wrote to the great man and stated my case: I said that I applied to him for a few lines written by his own hand, congratulating the organist and choirmaster of Old Trinity on the occasion of his thirtieth anniversary of directorship of the famous choir; I said that Dr. Messiter

was the first man in America who had made Gounod's sacred music known to all the churches outside the Catholic, and that I could assure him that in music Messiter was an artist and that, personally, he was a gentleman. I added that I would call at his house the following day in the hope of receiving a favorable response to my request. When I arrived there I was told that the master would receive me and that I would find him in his music room. I was ushered into a room as big as a chapel and I saw that the whole end of it, from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall, was filled with a great organ. At the At the organ the master was seated, and I remember that he was dressed in a suit of dark brown velvet and wore on his head a toque or cap of the same material. He did not quit his seat, but he said to me in French: "You are the gentleman from New York," and pointing to a table he added, "There is your letter." Gounod continued, “But I do not like the Americans; they steal my music." I answered that this was true, but I assured him that the choir of Old Trinity never stole his music, because they always sang it from his own copyright edition. "Ah, c'est bien," said Gounod, and then, looking at his watch, he told me that in four minutes he expected the visit of a friend who was to take him in his carriage for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. He added: "For four minutes I am at your service; what shall I play for you?" Reflecting for a moment, I answered: "Four minutes, master; then play me that instrumental introduction, before the

voices come in, to the Credo of your Saint Cecilia Mass." Then, for the first time, the old gentleman shuffled off his seat, came and gripped me by the hand, and said: "Vous aimez ce morceau là; je l'aime moi-même!" (You like that piece? I like it myself!) Then he went back to his organ and played what I had asked for, superbly, and just as he had finished, his friend arrived and took him away. I never saw Gounod again.

Having strayed so far away from my subject in this chapter, I shall end it by straying still farther, for I shall bring on the scene a famous heavyweight prize-fighter. We must not think that the ancient days of knight-errantry are dead, when a knight became the champion of any helpless person, man or woman. The Irish have a phrase, "a whole man" and a great pugilist must be just that, at least on the physical side. In the summer of 1909 I took a steamer from England, on my seventy-ninth passage across the Atlantic. Our first meal on the steamer was the one o'clock lunch. Seats had been assigned to the passengers, but the printed list of their names was not yet ready and in consequence nobody knew anybody. I was placed near the end of a long table, the seat to my left being vacant. At the end of the table, quite near me, there sat a big, broad-shouldered, sandy-haired man, whose nose (like that of Michael Angelo and of Thackeray) had been damaged. At my right hand sat a young lady, and opposite me sat a very angry-eyed man of about sixty. While I

was chatting, quietly enough, with the young lady, the man opposite shouted out, "Oh, hold your tongue!" and to the young lady he said, "Don't listen to that old fool!"

I was puzzled by such an unwarranted aggression by a total stranger, but I decided to "make haste slowly" in preventing its repetition; so I did nothing at that time. At the seven o'clock dinner, just as I had taken my place at the table, the big sandy-haired man came to me and said that as there was a vacant chair to my left he would like to occupy it during our voyage if I did not object. Of course I answered that I would be very glad to have his company, and down he sat beside me. My enemy opposite had evidently taken a strong dislike to me, I know not why, but he was again gratuitously rude. After the dinner an incident occurred which resulted in insuring to me the peace and quiet which an inoffensive passenger is entitled to while traveling on a steamer. The Big Fellow strode up to my enemy and said to him: "See here! You have been very rude, at the table, to my friend Mr. Keppel, and I cannot see that he has given you any offense. Now, if this should happen again I warn you that you will have to reckon with me." "You," said the other, "who are you?" My champion went close to my enemy and said with quiet significance, "My name is Bob Fitzsimmons.