I was born on April 11, 1819, at the moment when the church bells began to ring in Easter Morn, as my dear mother often told me in after years. Curiously enough, Easter Sunday fell every eleven years on April 11 until I was fifty-five years old, but will not do so again during my lifetime. Hagen, in Westphalia, where I saw the light, was then a little town with from 4,000 to 5,000 inhabitants. My father, Frederick Hallé, originally from Arolsen, in the principality of Waldeck, was organist of the principal church, and “musik director,” which means that he conducted the concerts, for, although the town was so small, there were concert societies there of no little importance. My father, besides, gave innumerable lessons in singing, as well as on almost every instrument. He had a charming tenor voice, and was a first-rate performer on the piano, the organ, the violin, and the flute. His activity was not restricted to Hagen alone, for when concerts were given in neighbouring towns, such as Iserlohn, Limburg, Dortmund, Schwelm, and others, he was generally invited to conduct them; and was known far and wide as a remarkable wit, many of his clever sayings being quoted for years. He was handsome, most winning in appearance, and nothing could equal the enthusiasm with which he cultivated his art, to which I owe the love, the adoration of music which has never left me during my long life.