*

I am not over-fond of the Promenade Concerts. You have, of course,
everything of the best--the finest music of the world, the finest
English orchestra, and a neat little concert-hall; but somehow there is
that about it that suggests Education. I have a feeling that Sir Henry
is taking me by the hand, training me up in the way I should, musically,
go. And I hate being trained. I don't want things explained to me. The
programme looks rather like "Music without Tears" or "First Steps for
the Little Ones." I know perfectly well what Wagner meant by the
"Tannhaeuser" overture, and what Beethoven wants to say to me in the
Ninth Symphony. I don't want these things pointed out to me, and
sandwiched between information as to when the composer was born, how
long he lived, and how many hundred works he wrote. However, all that
apart, the Promenades are an institution which we should cherish. For a
shilling you can lean against the wall of the area, and smoke, and take
your fill of the best in music. If there is anything that doesn't
interest you, you can visit the bar until it is concluded. The audience
on the Promenade is as interesting as the programme. All types are to be
found here--the serious and hard-up student, the musically inclined
working-man, probably a member of some musical society in his suburb,
the young clerk, the middle-aged man, and a few people who KNOW.

The orchestra is well set, and its pendant crimson lamps and fernery
make a solemn picture in the soft light. The vocalists and soloists are
not, usually, of outstanding merit, but they sing and play agreeably,
and, even if they attempt more than their powers justify them in doing,
they never distress you. Sir Henry Wood's entrance on the opening night
of any season is an impressive affair. As each known member of the
orchestra comes in, he receives an ovation; but ovation is a poor
descriptive for Sir Henry's reception. There is no doubt that he has
done more for music in England than any other man, and his audiences
know this; they regard him almost as a friend.

He is an artist in the matter of programmes. He builds them as a chef
builds up an elaborate banquet, by the blending of many flavours and
essences, each item a subtle, unmarked progression on its predecessor.
He is very fond of his Russians, and his readings of Tchaikowsky seem to
me the most beautiful work he does. I do not love Tchaikowsky, but he
draws me by, I suppose, the attraction of