"His lunch invariably consisted of the same simple fare—some sponge-cakes and a pint of milk, which would be fetched from a baker close by by my younger brother Charles. I asked Señor Garcia once if he did not feel hungry long before dinner, teaching as he did all day on such slender diet. 'No,' he answered, 'I don't feel half the discomfort from waiting that I should if I took a hearty meal in the middle of the day and then tried to teach immediately afterwards. Besides, I don't really need it. Most singers and teachers of singing eat more than they should. A man with moderate teeth, such as I have, can grow old on sponge-cake and milk!' And he lived for more than thirty years after that to prove the truth of his remark.
"At this time he had entered on his seventieth year, but in appearance was not past fifty. He had a light buoyant step, always walked quickly, and had a keen observant eye, which, when he spoke, would light up with all the fire and animation of youth. His dark complexion and habit of rapid gesticulation bespoke his southern origin. He was at home in Spanish, Italian, English, and French, but preferred the last. His modesty was remarkable. He could rarely be induced to talk of himself, but was firm in his opinions. In argument he was a close reasoner, and would be either a doughty opponent or a warm advocate; the middle line never attracted.
"His activity during the Bentinck Street period was amazing. Except on his Academy days he taught at the house from morning till night, and never seemed to know the meaning of the word fatigue. As to relaxation or recreation, I never knew him to indulge in any, save on the extremely rare occasions when I could persuade him to attend an operatic performance or some special concert, such as one at the Crystal Palace, when Anton Rubinstein conducted his own endless 'Ocean' symphony. His criticisms on these events were a delight to listen to. He was, I remember, immensely enthusiastic over Rubinstein's performance of his concerto in D minor; but the symphony bored him terribly, and he would gladly have left before the end came. The only concerts that he attended regularly were the Philharmonic (to which he was for many years a subscriber) and those of the Royal Academy students, at which some pupil of his own almost invariably appeared. At the latter concerts I used often to sit beside him, and it was wonderful to watch his animated face as, with suppressed energy, his hand moved in response to the rhythm of the music. He seemed to be trying to infuse into the singer some of the magnetism of his own irresistible spirit.
"Manuel Garcia was one of the most inspiring teachers that ever lived. All of his distinguished pupils, from Jenny Lind downwards, have dwelt upon his extraordinary faculty for diving deep into the nature of those who worked with him, and arousing their temperamental qualities to the highest degree of activity. His profound knowledge of his art, his familiarity with all the great traditions, and the absolute authority with which he spoke, combined to awaken a measure of confidence and admiration such as no other maestro di canto could possibly command.
"Even when annoyed he was seldom abrupt or impatient. His voice had gone, but he would employ its beaux restes to impart an idea for the proper emission of a note or phrasing of a passage. His sounds never failed to convey the desired suggestion. Though his own voice trembled with the weight of years, he never brought out a pupil with the slightest tremolo: moreover, he was never guilty of forcing a voice. His first rule was ever to repress the breathing power, and to bring it into proper proportion with the resisting force of the throat and larynx.
"Among the aspirants who came to study at Bentinck Street were several whose names yet enjoy universal reputation.
"He always played his own accompaniments for teaching, and in the 'Seventies' was a very fair pianist. He had at that time a Russian pupil, an excellent baritone, with whom he was fond of taking part in duets for four hands. They used to play Schubert's marches, &c., whenever the master could find time (which was not very often); and at the end of a delightful half-hour of this recreation he would exclaim, 'What fine practice for my stiff old fingers! How I wish I could get more of it!'