testify that they were no better and no worse than might have been expected.
Soloists appear at these moving-picture concerts. I have heard them sing the Cardinal's air from La Juive, Son lo spirito che nega from Mefistofele, Una voce poco fà, Il est doux, il est bon from Hérodiade, and the Polacca from Mignon. I have heard them play Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen, Liszt's piano concerto in E flat, Saint-Saëns's Le Cygne, Tchaikovsky's B flat minor piano concerto, Grieg's piano concerto, and Bruch's arrangement for cello of the Kol Nidrei. These soloists are by no means all amateurs or broken-down opera singers. The first violin of the band in one of the New York electrical picture houses, who frequently appeared there in the rôle of virtuoso, was engaged by the Chicago Orchestra to fill a similar chair, and Percy Grainger, himself, played one week at the Capitol Theatre. It takes no great stretch of the imagination to foresee that, in the not too far-distant future, Pablo Casals, Harold Bauer, Elena Gerhardt, Eva Gauthier, and, probably, even Geraldine Farrar, will have hearings under these happy auspices.
There is no doubt in my mind, as a matter of fact, that the cut and dried Carnegie Hall type of concert, formal and forbidding, is bound to disappear in favour of this warmer and more
