More than fifty years since a violoncellist, who was distinguished for his discernment and the desire to encourage rising talent, gave to a young composer, who, though making his mark, was still little known, and quite in the struggling stage, a commission to write some small works for the violoncello, with pianoforte accompaniment. The means of the violoncellist were but limited, and the honorarium was probably of no great amount, though I feel sure the principle was acted on that “the labourer is worthy of his hire.” But it was the young composer's first commission, and right proudly did he go home that day at having a commission to write anything at all on any terms. The works produced were twelve Ariettes and three Rondos, very fresh and charming, although little known now. It was from a business point of view the commencement of a long, honourable, and though chequered and marked by many disappointments which had to be patiently borne, an eminently successful career as a composer. He looked back to it and referred to it with grateful recollection of the timely recognition and kindly held out helping hand. The appreciative violoncellist passed away forty years ago, but the young composer lived on, with recognition of his powers gradually accorded to him, and with increasing honour and acknowledgment, not only by his own countrymen, but wherever music is known throughout the world. He also has passed away full of years, and by a pleasant, though melancholy co-incidence, by quite the reverse of what is sometimes termed the irony of events, the son of that violoncellist has been honoured with the commission to offer the first publicly spoken tribute to the memory of him whom his father was one of the first to recognise. The violoncellist was Henry Joshua Banister, remembered by very few here, but remembered with respect and honour; the composer was George Alexander Macfarren, and the tribute offered with great diffidence this evening is offered with a desire to be in sympathy with the old injunction—“Thine own friend and thy father's friend forsake not,” or, as one may justifiably amplify it, “forget not,” for he to whom my father was a friend, was a friend to me all along his professional course, and it is peculiarly grateful to me that in consideration of these facts I have had entrusted to me this task, one of the greatest professional honours ever conferred upon me.
