As I write this I see before my mind's eye the crowded Boston Music Hall on the evening of the last concert of the season '83-84. The first number on the programme was Schumann's overture to Manfred, which opens with an impetuous “forte” phrase, syncopated, quick, and requiring a very decided, strong down-beat. I had raised my baton to attention and—except the garland of flowers which friendly hands had wound around my desk nothing seemed to indicate an unusual state of things—was just on the point of letting it come down with a will, when—shall I ever forget the peculiar sensation it gave me—I saw, as in a dream, the leader and, with him, the whole orchestra rise to their feet, and before I could realise what was happening, the familiar, affecting strain of “Auld Lang Syne” filled the vast hall, played by those dear fellows of the orchestra and sung by the audience, which I noticed, in turning round bewildered and embarrassed, had risen too. I was touched to a degree, far too much so for thinking of speaking.