ji ——




Price (5 Cont. THE



Wi A:Magazine- y of

Musical Literature 4 and



Music. M


tie who to us would sing, Not very far from earth should

soar: m& heavenly Messenger must bring His gospel to our door.

Mary G. Slocum.

Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may


In notes, with many a winding bout

Of linked sweetness long drawn out. Milton.

O Flower of song, bloom on and make forever The world more fair and sweet. Longfellow


__— APRIL, 1895






(Terms for insertion furnished on application to the | Publishers.)


Teacher of Plano for Beginners.

Reasonable Rates.



Teacher of Piano

96 Auburn Ave., City.



Voice, Piano and Guitar,

Residence, 234 Findlay St., Cincinnati, 0.

MRS. & MISS BARNARD, Teachers of Piano

ORGAN, AND GUITAR. 221 Mound St., Cincinnati.


Teacher of Piano 275 Walnut St., City.

MRS. C.H. BENJAMIN, ‘Teacher of Piano, 762 Gilbert Ave., Walnut Hills, Cin’ti.

The Berold-Seiler Music Studio.

Teacher of Piano


Teacher of Piano

427 W. 7th ST., CINCINNATI, O.



600 McMillan 8t., Walnut Hills.

MISS OLIVE HAMER, Teacher of Voice

213 East Fifth St., City.


Teacher of Piano 643 Vine St., Cincinnati.



Vocal and Instrumental Music,

123 W. 7th St., Flat 1, Cincinnati.

MISS L. E. LAYMAN, ‘Feacher of Piano, 43 Crown St., Walnut Hills, Cin'ti.


675 Westminster Ave., Walnut Hills, City.


INSTRUCTIONS ON Mandolin, Violin, Piano, Guitar, Zither, Banjo, and Harmony.

8. E. Cor. 7th and Race Sts., Cincinnati. |

MISS MINA BETSCHER, Mezzo-Soprano. Open for Concert and Oratorio Engagements.

245 Findlay St., Cincinnati, 0.


Teacher of Piano

AND VOICE, 2°75 Walnut Street, CINCINNATI, O.



| 1032 McMillan St., Mt. Auburn, Cin’tl.

MISS AMELIA C. PETTIT, Teacher of Piano

ORGAN, AND HARMONY, Certificate bo of 1511 Eastern Ave.

College of Music.

MISS E. F. PURDY, Teacher of Voice


7 Oak Ave., Walnut Hills.

MANDOLIN, GUITAR and BANJO Taught by a new system; publisher of over fifty selections for guitar and mandolin; 10 cents a copy.

Send stamp for catalogue. J. F. ROACH, Director of Queen City Mandolin Club, 279 W. Seventh St.


Piano and Violin,

138 Laurel St., - Cincinnati.



Piano and Harmony,

95 E. 4th St., Cincinnati.








Open for Engagement for Violin Solo at Concerts.

15 Chestnut St., Cincinnati.


Former Assistant of Prof. A. Shank,

Teacher of Dancing: Deportment

Pupils’ Soiree every Saturday evening. N. E. Cor. SEVENTH and WALNUT Sts., opp. Y. M. C. A.



Piano, Voice and Theory,

293 W. Ninth St., Cincinnati, 0.

EASTER. ee ee A special circular and list of our large and varied stock of mu- sic for Easter will be sent free to anyone desiring the same. Our Easter music for 1895 is espe- cially fine, and consists of solos and anthems for the choir; a responsive service, and a choice collection of carols for the Sun- day-School. ‘Send your address and get the list. CINCINNATI: THE JOHN CHURCH CO.,

CHICAGO: NEW YORK: 200 Wabash Avenue. 13 East 16th Street.



What tidings of reverent gladness are voiced by the bells that ring A summons to men to gather, today, in the courts of the King.

He is risen!” O glorious message! ‘‘ He lives, who once was dead!” And hearts that were heavy with sorrow hear, and are comforted.

We come to our dear Lord’s altar. What brightness greets us there!

The winter’s gloom has vanished, and beauty 1s everywhere.

From the censer-cups of the lilies rise scents of myrrh and balm,

And the soul, like a lark, soars heavenward, winged with the Easter psalm

Alleluia! the choir is chanting, like a jubilant, mighty voice;

The Lord is risen!—is risen! Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

From the tomb in which men laid him the stone has been rolled away, And lo! the Christ they sing of is here in our midst today!

O beautiful, beautiful lilies, what truths you typify!

You seemed to die in the autumn, and yet you did not die, And on this Easter morning, while exultant voices sing, You repeat to all men the ean of the miracle of Spring!

O radiant morning of Easter, dawn on all souls today; Let the light of Christ’s glorified presenc~ drive darkness and doubt away. From the lips of the lilies learn we the truth of life and of death, And say, ‘‘ My Redeemer liveth!” with glad and reverent breath. Esen E. Rexroro.


‘THE Visiror regrets its inability to give the whole of this

most interesting story of two faithful lives, but want of space forbids, and it will do the best it can in abridging it for its readers:

The Webb girls had ‘‘led the singin’”’ for forty years in the only church in Waterford. They led it still when Maria was sixty-seven and Ann was sixty-nine years old.

It never seemed to occur to Ann and Maria Webb that their voices must have lost their youthful fullness and fresh- ness and purity when they were old women. Poor old Maria did not seem to know how harsh, and shrill, and dis- cordant her shrieking soprano was, and Ann was heedless or ignorant of her broken, wavering, and husky alto notes. Chey did not know that they sang out of time and tune.

The Webb girls had never taken kindly to modern church music, and it had never commended itself to Elder Stone.

**] don’t call such tunes spiritual,” said Ann, ‘‘an’ | couldn't get up and sing praises in that hip-pi-ty-hop-pi-ty style. | don't believe in preaching agin dancin’ in the pulpit, and then singin’ dancin’ tunes in the pews. It ain’t consistent.”

The pastor of the church, Rev. Elijah Stone, sharing this view, selected the hymns accordingly. They were hymns and tunes one seldom hears now, for this church had not changed its hymn-book for half a century. It was a novel experience to Occasional summer visitors from the city to hear Ann and Maria Webb sing ‘‘ Blow ye the trumpet, blow,” or ‘‘ The old ship of Zion.”

But Elder Stone died, and then with a new and younger minister a change in the makeup of the choir was felt to be necessary. The gossip of the village (there always is one in every village) took special delight in breaking the news (in gossip’s usual considerate way) to the ‘‘ two girls.”

‘*They’re goin’ to have you an’ Ann stop leadin’ the singin’!

Maria dropped into a chair, while Ann, who was seated af her carpet-loom, whirled around suddenly with a half- uttered cry of pain and amazement.


Cincinnati, April, 1895.


Nancy expected a violent outburst of indignation, but there was none from either of the sisters. Their white faces and quivering lips touched the heart of the garrulous old woman, whose indignation had not been feigned.

‘I’m awful sorry for you, girls,”’ she said, ‘‘an’ | think it's a burnin’ shame.”’

**Oh, it’s all right, | guess,” said Ann, in a strange, chok- ing voice. ‘‘If they don’t want us to lead in the singin’ any more,we kin—we—kin—leave the choir.”’

‘It won’t seem like goin’ to meetin’ at all with you an’ M’ria out o’ the choir.”

‘*] hope no one goes to meetin’ just to hear the singin’,”’ replied Ann, gravely. ‘‘What they goin’ to do for a choir?”

‘*Oh, they're goin’ to get up a new one, with Sally Carter at the head of it. She's goin’ to sing solos all by herself every Sunday, an’ duets, as they call ‘em, an’ we're goin’ to have new hymn-books, an’ what they call ‘a service of song’ every Sunday night before preachin’. Oh, they're tearin’ down and buildin’ up agin with a vengeance. Here that Sally Carter ain't even a member of the church.”

It had once come to the ears of the Webb sisters that Sally Carter had ‘‘made fun of their singing,’’ mimicking them at a village party, and that she should supplant them now was hard, indeed, to bear. Maria’s hot indignation soon found voice.

‘*Let ’em git Sally Carter,’’ she said, ‘‘an’ let her screech out her solos if they want her to. | guess Ann an’ me kin live if we don’t lead the singin’ no more; that’s all I've got to say. If 1 couldn't sing any better’n that Sally Carter, 'd—"’

‘«Come, come, Maria, don't say anything un-Christian, or anything you'll be sorry for afterward,’ said Ann. ‘‘I reckon the pastor’ll be around to see us about it.”

When young Mr. Dale called during the day the Webb sisters received him with a degree of dignity and courtesy he had not thought them capable of. Ann herself broached the subject of the change in the choir.

‘*It's all right,’ she said, calmly. ‘‘We ain't no wish to be stumblin’ blocks in the way of the buildin’ up of the cause of Zion in this church and among this people; an’ if others kin sing better’n we kin, an’ the church'll be helped dy their singin’, we're glad to give way. We kin see that even ina little thing like this we might be keepin’ the gospel from havin’ free course here in Waterford, so we're ready to give up. "Tastes Dale had been led to expect words of angry protest and reproach, and this gentle speech of Ann’s touched and rebuked him. He said something about this being the ‘‘right spirit,”” and about the sisters deserving their well-earned rest from choir duties, when Ann said:

‘We ain't never felt it any hardship to sing unto the Lord. We've done it for the glory of His name, an’ if we ain't done it as well as some might, we've done the best we could. It ain't never been any hardship.”

But it was a hardship, a cruel hardship, to be asked to give up this lifelong labor of love and duty. Pastor Dale realized suddenly, as he had never realized before, how dear this serv- ice was to these simple, unworldly old singers, and he went away humbled and rebuked. * * *

Sally Carter went by the Webb house Saturday evening on her way to the choir-rehearsal at the church. It was not yet dark. Ann Webb was standing at her gate.

‘*Good evening, Sally,” said Ann.

‘‘Good evening, Miss Webb,” replied Sally, and went quickly on her way.

nee ——_ nn


Sally was a very pretty girl, the prettiest in Waterford, and she had a very sweet and pure soprano voice. She was fun- loving and impulsive, and thoughtless as such persons usu- ally are. She had mimicked and made fun of the Webb girls’ singing, but she had not done so in any spirit of malice. Her mother and Maria Webb had been girls together, and the dearest of friends. Maria had been with Mrs. Carter when she died. Sally suddenly remembered this. She remem- bered a good many things she had not thought of before. So many other things had occupied her time and mind dur- ing the past week that she had not thought much about how the Webb girls would feel over her supplanting them in the choir. But she thought of nothing else all the way to the church, after she had seen Ann Webb. Ann’s pale, solemn face haunted Sally. Maria had come to the open door of the little house with a face sadder and paler even than Ann's, and Maria had a solemnly reproachful look that went right to Sally's heart. She was heedless and impulsive, but she had a very tender heart, after all.

The others who had been chosen to sing with Sally were waiting for her at the church. They were all young, like Sally, and they met her with a great deal of chattering and laughing, to which Sally did not respond with her usual gayety. She looked up toward the singers’ gallery. There, side by side, were the two chairs in which the Webb girls had sat for forty years. Sally remembered how they had stood there in the little gallery, and sung so tenderly over her beloved mother’s coffin.

‘*You ain’t half singing, Sally Carter,” said Lucy Leake, when they began their rehearsal. ‘‘Old Ann Webb could sing most as good as that; won't she glare at you tomorrow when you get up to lead in her place? | declare | wouldn't want to be in your shoes! They say the Webb girls feel awful.”

Sally choked suddenly, and began coughing very hard, with her handkerchief to her face.

‘*Well, | don’t care,” said Hetty Rice, ‘‘it just 7s rather hard on the Webb girls to be pushed out like this when they've sung here for forty years, and their grandfather Webb built this church almost entirely with his own money, and their mother and father sung here all their lives. It just we// be hard. Ann and Maria to sit in any place but up here in the singers’ gallery on these two chi 4irs! I’m real sorry for them.’

‘*They say they don’t care,” said Ben Leake.

‘‘Don't care!” exclaimed Hetty; ‘‘my mother was over there today, and she says Maria Webb has grown ten years older this week. I guess they do care. They can’t help caring. They feel just dreadful !”’

Ben Leake had begun to make some reply to this when Sally Carter suddenly burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

‘“‘It zs too bad,” she cried between her sobs, when the other singers had gathered quickly around her. ‘‘ Poor old Ann, and poor old Maria Webb! It’s a wicked shame for us to be making them feel so. | cou/dn't get up and sing be- fore them tomorrow. Oh, | couldn't, | couldn't! | saw poor old Ann on my way here, and she looked so miserable and so sad! They're two as good old women as ever breathed the breath of life, and I—I—-I'm not good at all. I'm wicked and mean to /fhink of wanting to take their places, and | won't do it, | won't, | won't!”

rhe other girls were tearful now. Big Ben Leake, who was desperately in love with Sally, looked very solemn.

Suddenly Sally jumped to her feet.

‘I tell you what we'll do! We'll all go down to the Webb girls’ house and tell them we want them to take their old places in the choir, and we'll sing in the chorus if they want us to, or only with the congregation. It’s what we ought to do. Come on, let’s go right off and tell them so!”

Ten minutes later the new choir of the Waterford church silently entered the Webb girls’ gate. It had grown dark suddenly. Ann had gone into the house and the door was

closed. But the windows were open, and through the closed blinds they could hear the wheezy notes of Ann's old melo- deon. She was gently touching its yellow keys, and two old voices were singing:

‘* On Jordan’s stormy banks | stand, And cast a wishful eye To Canaan’s fair and happy land, Where my possessions lie.”

The two old voices and the wheezy notes of the old melo- deon died away into silence. Sally Carter knocked lightly on the door; Ann opened it. The young people filed into the house.

‘*O Miss Ann, Miss Maria,” began Sally, quickly, and al- most hysterically, ‘‘we want you to come back to the choir to take your old places. e'll sing with you if you'll let us, but we want you to take your old places and lead the singing. It wouldn't be Waterford Church without you. Nothing can induce me to take your place as soprano, Miss Maria. I'm sorry | ever thought of such a thing. We're going around to tell Mr. Dale that we don’t intend to take your places, so you'll have to come back, or there won't be anyone to lead the singing.”

So Ann and Maria Webb stood in their old places on the following Sunday, and sang as usual, but their voices were broken and husky, and their eyes were full of tears, although there were smiles on their faces. Sally Carter and the other younger singers sat with the congregation; but it had been arranged that they should rehearse with the Webb girls and all sing together on the following Sunday.

When the next Sunday came Ann and Maria Webb were singing the songs of Paradise, and Sally Carter, tearful and heavy-eyed, sang brokenly over their coffins in the little church in Waterford. Ann had taken a heavy cold early in the week, pneumonia suddenly developed, and on Friday she died. ‘here had always been heart trouble in the fam- ily, and when they told Maria that Ann was dead she gave a little gasping cry, pressed her hand to her heart, and spoke no more, and the two old singers went on their way together, rejoicing and singing, to the open portal of the Cate Beau- tiful.


H's pupil and successor was Giovanni Maggini, working

probably between 1590 and 1640. His violins were not great improvements on those of his teacher. Attention was directed to Maggini’s productions by De Beriot, who used one of his fiddles in concert work. Being played by so great an artist, the price of this make was increased con- siderably.

It is to the old town of Cremona, in Lombardy, north Italy, that we must look for the culmination of violin- making. Cremona was, in those days, a center of musical and artistic activity. Numerous wealthy monasteries in the neighbor- hood afforded ample financial encouragement to musi- cians, artists and instrument-makers. This circumstance,


combined with another equally favorable, the ample supply of the proper material in the immediate neighborhood, gave full scope to the Cremona school of violin-makers. Cremona, at this time a populous city of some four miles in circumference, was quite an ancient place. The time of its founding is unknown. It flourished before,the Christian

nie —- ma aa

era, and was for some time the home of Virgil, and is men- tioned by him in one of bis poems.

The founder of the Cremona school of violin-makers was Andrew Amati, but concerning him little can be said. To quote Mr. Hart, ‘‘These men, like their brothers in art, the painters in olden times, began to live when they were dead, and their history thus passed without record.” Amati was born about 1520. His instruments do not show an advance on those of wo my da Salo, of Brescia, though it is possible that Amati was his pupil.


Andrew had two sons, Anthony and Jerome, of which the latter was by far the more original. These brothers worked together contemporaneously with Da Salo, and though their violin labels bear the names of both, the connoisseur can ac- curately distinguish the works of the one from the other. Jerome’s violins show an appreciable advance in grace and beauty of form, as well as in volume of tone.

The highest point of perfection reached by the Amati fam- ily was attained by Jerome’s son, Nicholas, who lived be- tween 1596 and 1684. Taking the model of the previous Amatis he improved it in proportions, in finish, and in power and intensity of tone. The design he finally adopted, after years of experiment, though modified by his successor, Stradivarius, associated beauty and elegance of outline with great sweetness of tone. His materials were chosen with careful discrimination, and his workmanship showed the master hand.

The culmination of Nicholas Amati’s work was in a large model, which, from its superior excellence, has been called the ‘‘Amati grand.” It was on this model that Stradivarius, in all probability a pupil of Amati, reached the apex of the violin-maker'’s art.

Antonius Stradivarius (1644 or '49—1737) is a name be- fore which all true lovers of the violin or its music bow with admiration. In his works the violin took its final shape, and the chief efforts of violin-builders of modern times have been to copy his design and to rediscover his secrets. The model today is as he left it—as Mr. Payne says, ‘‘the most accomplished maker can invent nothing better, and the dull- est workman, following his model, can make a tolerable fid- dle.”

Stradivarius found in the ‘‘Amati grand” a model, the general princi-

les of which were correct; and tak- ing this design of his teacher as his basis, his own inventive genius and originality found the weak places and made them perfect. In detail, these improvements consisted in lowering the arch and flattening the curve; in strengthening the frame- work, 7. ¢., the corner blocks and ribs; in finding the true inclination of the sound holes; in straighten- ing the scroll, and in fixing the shape of the bridge, this latter im- provement alone being of sufficient value to have made him famous.

The thirty years following 1698 was the period most productive of Stradivarius’ best instruments. The latter portion of his life showed


Jesu) and Antonius Stradi-

some deterioration in the quality of


his workmanship, but this might be expected, perhaps, in the work of a man who stood at his bench till nearly four- score years and ten. There still exists one or more of his violins, bearing the date 1736.

Of the hundreds of instruments turned out by Stradivarius in his seventy years of work, only about two hundred are known to exist at this day, while others, perhaps, remain in obscurity. To some of the best of his violins have been given names, such as ‘‘ Messiah,” ‘‘ Dolphin,” ‘‘Maid,”’ and ‘*King,’”’ and by these names they are known to the violin world.

Stradivarius’ instruments were highly appreciated during his lifetime, and many were the orders he executed at good prices for titled heads. This, with his activity and industry, brought him a fortune that made him the envy of his neigh- bors.

His energies were not confined to violins, tenors and basses, but guitars, lutes, lyres, and mandolins came from his busy hand; and not only the instruments, but their fittings and cases were made with the utmost care and ar- tistic skill.

Of him Longfellow beautifully says:

The instrument on which he played Was in Cremona’s workshop made,

By a great master of the past, Ere yet was lost the art divine; Fashioned of maple and of pine,

That in Tyrolean forests vast

Had rocked and wrestled with the blast; Exquisite was it in design,

A marvel of the lutist’s art, Perfect in each minutest part;

And in its hollow chamber thus, The maker from whose hands it came Had written his unrivaled name,

** Antonius Stradivarius.”

But there are other makers that demand our attention, and we must leave this, from the violin lover's standpoint, the most attractive of men simply stopping for a quo- tation from Dr. Joachim, than whom there is no better authority on this subject. Says he: ‘‘None of the celebrated makers exhibit the union of sweet- ness and power in so pre- eminent a degree as Giu- seppe Guarnerius (del

varius, and | must pro- nounce for the latter as my chosen favorite. * * * Stradivarius had the more unlimited capacity for ex- pressing the most varied accents of feeling.” Contemporaneous with Stradivarius was a family named Guarnerius, one of whom, Joseph (168 3- ARABIAN L’EUD THE PRECURSOR OF THE LUTE 1745), achieved great fame from the excellence of his instruments. This man, in order to distinguish his works from those of a cousin bearing the same name, generally added to his name on the tickets inserted in his instruments the cross and the letters ‘‘I. H. S.” These are supposed to be the initials of some reli- gious society of which he was a member. From this addi- tion to his name he is known as Guarnerius ‘‘del Jesu.” His grandfather, Andrew, was a pupil of Nicholas Amati, but the instruments of the elder Guarnerius and those of three of his descendants are not particularly noticeable; the fourth, Joseph, ‘‘del Jesu,"” whom | have mentioned above, turned out.some violins which were almost the equals of Stradivarius when at his best.

ener sinesirt- annette ee eee mrenerr


His model was not quite so large nor the middle bouts quite so long as with Stradivarius, but the shape is most elegant, and no fault could be found with the wood or var- nish. It is even said that some of his best specimens are more pleasing to the eye than those of Stradivarius.

But during his later years there was a remarkable change. The wood became defective, the work careless and the var- nish poor. The exact cause for this decadence is not known, although a very pretty story is frequently told, which, fortunately for the reputation Joseph, seems to be founded more on fancy than on fact.

The story runs that he was an impecunious and idle ras- cal, and that he was imprisoned for some unknown cause; also that the jailor’s daughter supplied him with rude tools and material, and bought the varnish from various makers who were in the enjoyment of their liberty.

This would have made a pretty good story as it was, but the romancers have added additional details. This fair dam- sel, so we are told, taking pity on Joseph’s condition, took out the completed fiddles and hawked them about, selling them for whatever was offered, and buying with the pro- ceeds necessities and comforts for the prisoner.

Unfortunately for the story, the ar- chives of Cremona make no record of a prisoner named Guarnerius, and for an idle man he turned out a re- markable number of valuable violins. This tale has ob- tained so much credence that the rougher of the “del Jesu” ~fiddles are called ‘‘Prison Josephs.”

It must have been a peculiar combination of circumstances that led him to send out inferior violins at this time of life, but the above story is admirably concocted to fill the niche.

Another peculiar thing is, that after this poor work he made at least one violin, the excellence of which has hardly been equaled, save by Stradivarius. This is the one played so long and loved so dearly by Paganini, and at his death bequeathed to his native city, Genoa, where it still lies in its glass case. This noble instrument was made in 1743, and its maker died two years afterward.

Stradivarius’ best pupil was Charles Bergonzi. He worked during the thirty years following 1720, and for a short time occupied Stradivarius’ house, after the death of the latter. But few of his violins are in existence, and these fall short of his great master’s model.

These, then, were the names that formed the great quar- tette of Cremonese violin-makers: Nicholas Amati, Antonius Stradivarius, Joseph Guarnerius, I. H. S., and Charles Ber- gonzi.

There were several other prominent pupils of Stradivarius, and a host of imitators and self-constituted pupils; but as it is my purpose to mention only the most prominent makers, | must recommend those desirous of pursuing further this interesting study to one of the several exhaustive volumes that are devoted to the subject, wherein even the minor copyist receives ample treatment. English, German and French writers have collected much information on this subject, but it seems to have been neglected by American writers. Probably the slight demand has been amply met by the foreign authors.

(To be continued.)



T= generations sat in the soft glow of the deep crim-

son lamp-shade that mellowed everything in the little parlor. There was one daughter seated at the piano, sing- ing sweet and low; she most of all was glorified by the ruddy rays from the translucent paper that fell over her. There was the mother, and beside her sat the mother's mother, near the circumference of the halo, the one listening with a glow of pride, the other to whom the girl’s voice was new—the grandmother was a visitor at the house—listening as one who hears a voice calling in a lonesome place. She sat there thinking, thinking, thinking, did this dear old soul, of a day when she, too, had sat at the piano herself, so proudly, and had sung the tender ballads of that bygone day with a voice full of passion, a deep contralto voice, one that touched the heart in its most sacred depths, when the strong, clear notes were struck, and then broke into a plead- ing tremolo in the upper register.

Fifty years ago that grand dame’s voice had thrilled hearts now dust, or worse than dust—hearts that were numb to tender things—and there was borne in the burthen of her songs one message, that of love—even before her heart had known its meaning her voice had spoken love. The voice of the girl sitting at the piano was like her grandmother's had been. It hunted chords in the hearts of those who heard her and set them pulsing in echo to her own sweet longing that could find no words. God only knows what long silent, rusted chords she touched with her resonant voice, did this child in her grandmother’s soul.

She sang the simple ballads of the day—‘‘Last Night,” ‘*The Clang of the Wooden Shoon,” ‘‘Marguerite,”’ and as she sang, her mother, to whom the singing was an old story, slipped out of the room, taking all her years with her, per- haps, and left them together—together even in youth that sees visions. The young shall see visions, and the old shall dream dreams, saith the prophet. But when, by some magic of a voice or some alchemy of the soul, old age, which has dreamed dreams, sees in one vivid flash of light the dreams of the past as visions—there is wegee?

The girl under the crimson lamp-shade turned idly from leaf to leaf in her portfolio and sang by piecemeal. The elder woman only asked that she keep on singing. She only asked to hear that voice, her own voice, to the ve quaver on C. And her dreams were all but visions, and life was all but youth again. There had been a wild song, one that the hearer did not know, and the chorus sobbed out:

‘* Oh, is it forever,

Love, that we must sever?

Oh, Love, will you never Come back again?”

And the story that the song told ot was of two lovers who had met under the roses, and had known ‘‘the love of a day, the love of a life.” What a whirl of fancies the singing of the child sent through the aged brain! The music did not cease. The girl recalled a sweet old song, a peaceful, sorrowful ditty our grandmothers sang:

‘Could you come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness I knew, I'd be faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas tender and true.”

The girl sang on until she thought she had tired her grandmother, and then, whirling around on the stool, she said gayly:

‘‘Well, grandma, how do you like it? Haven't | im-

proved in ten years!” , oe She arose as she said this, and without even waiting for a

reply, as is the way of careless, thoughtless youth, she left the room humming:

‘Now all men beside are to me like shadows, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.”

The girl went to her mother, who she knew was attend- ing to some duties of the household. The words ‘‘all men like shadows” ran through the aged woman’s head when the girl left the room, and she was thankful for the child’s thoughtlessness which had left her alone for a moment. The spell of the pleading song was upon her. Her life was turned backward. Young faces smiled at her. She seemed as bold as youth—‘his shy old woman, who two hours be- fore had been afraid to protest against the overcharge of a cabman. She heard her daughter's step, and the child's in the room above her, and thrilled with the mesmeric enchant- ment of the song, she became wrapped in a consuming longing to try if she could not sing the old song again.

She tiptoed about the room, and closing the doors, and looking over behind her she circled to the piano.

She wished to sing out loud something that was in her heart; to put it into words and let it come from her lips. She believed that to say the aching words would ease a throb- bing in her heart. She could not at first bring herself to be- gin the song, so she fumbled among the keys, pretending to hunt for the air, and said the words of the first stanza to herself in silence. She touched the pianissimo pedal of the instrument. Then, as her hands upon the keys passed to the second bar she moaned:

** | lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas tender and true.”

And when she heard the horrid croak of her own voice she remembered—everything. God pitied her and sent her two great tears—tears that were of youth that had been kept sacred through all the years.—Kansas City Star.




At all the religious services in the Sistine Chapel during

Passion Week guests are admitted only on invitation, to be procured by the help of magnates of one sort and another, and these must appear in ordinary evening dress of dark color, or in uniform, ladies wearing upon their heads only black veils. This rule is to be kept strictly.

So | did as other tourists did—hired my dress-coat at a neighboring tailor’s, put on my most respectable gloves, then took my stand on the chill stone stairway at one o'clock, waiting for the doors that would open when they got ready, we were told. After an hour had been whiled away in contemplating the steel helmets, with their long plumes of white horsehair, worn by the Pope’s Guards, ad- miring somewhat misgivingly the harlequin uniform of short jackets and tight trousers, as they shone with alternate stripes of white, yellow, blue, and green, up and down the whole length, and curiously wondering what use they could or would make of their lengthened steel-pointed halberds, in case some of us who before long were so uncomfortably huddled up there at the opening, which would not open, should see fit to charge. At last, with a drum-and-fife band, some platoons of French infantry were marched into the building; in a few moments these were ranged all along the way into the royal saloon, actually lining the staircase upon either side.

Then at last the signal was given, and away up the hun- dred slippery stone steps rushed two hundred men in swal- low-tailed coats. They had shivered all this while at the gates, and now they ran with a helter-skelter rapidity which made many a decorous soldier smile in those silent files be- tween which the absurd gantlet was passed. He who had the best lungs for breath was the man that entered in. And ever since John was distanced by Peter in his speed for the


Sepulcher, there have always been a few who were better than others at that kind of thing.

The Sistine Chapel is divided across its entire length by a high railing. The interior compartment is reserved for the Pope and cardinals. The exterior, accommodating not far from five or six hundred of the visitors, is without any fixed sittings except in one portion; that is occupied by ladies ex- clusively. It was my good fortune to fine one place to stand in, close by the barrier, so that I could have a full open view of all which occurred. The singers were in a gallery at just the convenient distance for listening. So, congratulating myself upon my fortunate prospects, | had nothing to do but wait tranquilly for an exhausting series of hours, to be endured before the music began.

In order to understand the peculiar effect of this exercise many things besides the ‘‘ Miserere”’ itself are to be consid- ered. A double impression is to be produced; so, while the singers are carrying on in an exquisite strain of melody and harmony the spiritual experience of individual repentance, all around outside in the vast hall a sort of ingeniously con- structed dramatic performance is going on, representing a picturesque suggestion of our Lord’s crucifixion; for the words which the singers utter are those of the fifty-first Psalm—the cry of King David after he had committed his great sin in the murder of Uriah. We have previous to this, however, a series of chants, fifteen other Psalms in their order, called in a general way the Lamentations. All this is simply personal and spiritual to the believer, and comes naturally out of the teachings of the Lenten season. But the ‘‘ Miserere” is given upon good Friday, the anniversary of our Lord’s crucifixion. So the singular mingling of two things in one helps to render the service uniquely impress- ive; it is penitence in full view of the Redeemer’s cross.

A triangle of lighted candles is placed out in the space in full view of the guests; this is declared to signify the great Lights of Apostolic history, together with the three Marys. When a candle is put out with an extinguisher on a long pole, as is done every time any one of the Lamentations is finished, that signifies that the luminaries of this wretched and cursed world are failing. But the candle which repre- sents Jesus Christ, the great Light of the world, is at the apex, and remains the longest; so it is kept aflame while the rest slowly and in turn disappear. During all these hours the wonderful music keeps moving on; it is sorrow for sin that the choir sing, it is Jesus’ suffering for sin that the pantomime below is showing. One's mind carries a perfectly clear understanding of both, and the inner feeling is like a communion experience, in a measure—repentant grief before the cross.

Meantime the twilight is approaching, and the room be- gins to waver a little as the few rays flicker in through the casements. The open glare of day is gone, and the shad- ows play fantastically on the area all about you. Living beings and life-size figures in paintings, weirdly blended, appear on the walls above and below. You are heavily im- pressed in despite of yourself. You begin to apprehend some serious catastrophe. Your mind grows superstitiously sensitive concerning the fate of the last Light of the race, every time one of those candles is extinguished. Will the total darkness come on now, and where will men be when Christ is dead? And the strain of singing floats on over- head.

At this point in the service the Pope and the cardinals swiftly leave their places, and coming out upon the floor kneel in