turning, found the name of my friend,'Miss, New York," a teacher, I judged, of voice-culture. I perused the article again, with double pleasure and interest, and rejoiced to know that "all was well with her." As to this subject of "music or no music as an accompaniment to the reader, from personal experience I can say little. While a student, I studied those popular selections which have the music of the dance for accompaniment. Recently, I have been giving more serious selections and "oneauthor programs.” In one of my Tennyson programs I use a piano accompaniment with the song. "Break, break, break" and it is very pleasing. In my own monologue arrangement of the Dance before the Cardinals, adapted from Longfellow's "Spanish Student," I have the music, 'In Old Madrid," by mandolin and guitar, given as a serenade, while I interpret some of Longfellow's beautiful "love-lines." It is useless to say that it is a pronounced success. much from personal experience. So From observation, I believe much depends upon the personality and qualities of the speaker's voice, the selection of the reader's theme, as well as the theme of the musical composition given, and then the skill of both reader and musician. If all vibrate in harmonious unity, then the effect is enhanced by the combined music of instrument and voice. It is not what is but what seems in dramatic work, that produces the effect," our dear old professor used to say. I have no patience with that reader who believes that the music will "piece out a weak rendition," or with the expression: "Oh, a musical selection always takes." Of such renditions, we might say, Yes, the music takes, but what of the reading? Recently there came under my notice an article which spoke of the "threefold nature of music," and I will quote briefly from it: Music is threefold in its nature. It consists of rhythm, melody, and harmony. Each is an element capable of expression alone, but there is an inseparable relation of brotherhood between t ese component parts, and we can not have true music until all three are carefully and artistically com. bined. All men have the sense of rhythm. and savage tribes express their musical ideas in rhythmic form. The tom-tom is the simplest of all instruments, the most primitive, and is that used by uncivilized, uneducated peoples. Yet the tom tom has a threefold relation, for the blow that is given to it now refers back, in the mind of the player and the listeners, to the blow that preceded and reaches forward to the blow that is to follow; thus present, past, and future are linked together by rhythm. Next in the expression of musical thought comes melody. Its simplest instrument is the lute, and those peoples that have made some slight progress in refinement develop pleasing melodies, characterized by rhythm, upon this instrument. But there is something wanting yet, and widening knowledge invents the lyre. the least complex of all instruments that can interpret harmony. There may be only three strings, but they are tuned into just accord, and harmony has been discovered. Now we can say that music exists in its full threefold relation of rhythm, melody, and harmony. Now I will come to the relation of music to the mind. We are so constituted that we possess a threefold nature. We have will, feeling, and thought. What influence, then, has music upon the mind? What relations have the component parts of music upon the component parts of the mind? Rhythm appeals to the will. The bang-bang-bang of the blacksmith's hammer expresses his will to do and to subdue. There is force in rhythm, dynamic power, but not a trace of thought or of feeling. Melody appeals to thought. The bird-song from the budding bough makes us think of spring. All shades of thought can find expression of melody, from grave to gay, from lively to severe, and the greater the composer the more vital, true and lasting the impression made by his melodic thought. Harmony stirs the feelings. The crash of a full and satisfactory chord thrills with a tremolo of pleasure or of passion along the avenues of feeling. Music in its threefold character appeals powerfully to man's threefold character." The reader's art is threefold in its nature and appeals to the threefold nature of mankind. The voice appeals to the vital and is vital; the subject presented appeals to the mental and is mental; and gesture appeals to the emotive in our natures. Is there not, then, correspondence-rhythm (in music) to the vital in speech; melody to the mental, and harmony to the emotive? Why should not a selection reenforced by this threefold power of music appeal with double force to the threefold nature of mankind, provided both reader and musician interpret the theme in its entirety, and the work is carefully and artistically combined? Not long since I was asked to assist in giving a program at the State Asylum for the Insane-or rather for the convalescing patients and the request came for "a selection with musical accompaniment." As I could not respond with such a one, I gave those where the rhythm was marked and where occurred a repetition of a refrain, as in The Spinning-Wheel Song" with its "Round and round, round and round, Drowsily droning with dreary sound, Steady motion the spindle keeps," etc.. and Mammy's Li'l' Boy," with its oft-repeated "Byo baby boy, oh, by." The result was very pleasing to the promoters and gratifying to myself. This, however, may only prove to those opposed to musical selections that it is only the insane who enjoy or admire them. It seems to be the province of one reader to present one theme to the delight and uplifting of his hearers; and that of another, to present the same theme in an entirely different way but with equally good effect. But we are all reaching outward and upward, for better and greater things in our art and profession, and I fully believe that while our ideals will always elude us, nevertheless they are the real things of our life. 1. AT THE GOLDEN DRAGON. BY MINNA IRVING. HITE with the dust of travel as his WHIT horse was white with foam, Once on a time the traveler joyfully hailed it home; But now its guests have departed, and its glory is no more, And the golden dragon is tarnished on the signboard over the door. Elsie sat in its shadow, when the gilded sign was new, The sun was bright on the blossoms, the birds were up in the blue. She saw from the winding highway turn to the door of the inn A youth as fair as Apollo-a youth with a violin. The dew from the branches shaken was bright on his golden hair, His cap was feathered and jeweled like those that the nobles wear, And as Elsie timidly served him-for she was a maiden shy She marked through her silken lashes the blue of his laughing eye. Up on the oaken wainscot the carven Cupids smiled, As he from the lips of Elsie a nectarous kiss beguiled. But they lifted their wings in rapture, and wept for sorrow and sin, When he wakened the wounded spirit that dwelt in the violin. But lo! when the stars of twilight shone through a silver haze, And hearths were lighted, he vanished into the dim wood-ways. He left in her ear a promise of a glad return some day, When birds in the branches builded, and the hawthorn budded in May. Woe for the maiden watching the buds on the hawthorn tree! Shame on the fickle wooer, for never again came he. Snow lay deep on the meadows, blossoms smothered the inn, Weary she grew with waiting the sound of the violin. Turning with tears from her suitors, she sat in her room alone; Woke in the long night-watches and thought of a churchyard stone; Till each of the months in passing braided a silver thread Into her raven tresses, and the hawthorn tree was dead. Like a leaf left over from autumn, soberly clad in brown, It chanced on a festal season she went to a far-off town, And saw in the emperor's carriage the youth who came to the inn, In the time of roses and lilies, and played on the violin. Hope, like the hawthorn, withered, for it is a bitter thing To lay the love of a life-time down at the feet of a king: For he has the love of many and soon does his own grow cold, What though his brow is beauty, and the curls of his hair are gold. Home through the wintry even she went with a footstep slow, Fell ere she reached the threshold, and died in a drift of snow. Dust in the earth is Elsie, but the walls of the ancient inn Echo forever at midnight the wail of a violin. II. CULTURE IN SIX WEEKS. ARY ANN arrived a week ago, and Mwill be with us just six weeks. Mary Ann comes from Iowa, and the object of her visit is to perfect herself in the various polite arts and accomplishments-such as playing the piano, singing, dancing, elocution, graceful carriage of the body à la Delsarte, English literature, the French, German, and Italian languages, palmistry, etc.,-which lend so much grace to one's appearance in the drawing-room, and will enable her to astonish the natives on her return. Mary Ann's arrival was preceded by concisely worded warnings addressed to prominent exponents of the arts named. These warnings were about as follows, a blank being left to indicate the particular art kept in stock by the person addressed: Respected Sir: I shall arrive in your city on or before the 15th inst., to remain six weeks, during which time I desire to take a complete course in. I shall pay cash (in advance, if desired), and shall expect the best quality of instruction obtainable. Respectfully yours, MARY ANN PERKINS." The copy of the above which was addressed to the professor at whose school she desired instruction in the Delsarte System awaited, unopened, his return from Europe, where he had gone to secure instructors in the different branches taught at his conservatory. At the precise moment he tore open the envelope Mary Ann was coming up in the elevator. He read the letter of the aspiring and energetic Western girl, with a pitying smile. 'Oh, these Americans, these Americans!" he said. "Well, what have these Americans done now?" inquired Miss Whitney, his assistant, who was a descendant of Ethan Allen and proud of it. "Why, they are always insisting on a complete course of something in six weeks. Over in Europe now "But we are not in Europe now," interrupted Miss Whitney; we are in a good deal better country. What does your applicant want in six weeks?" "A complete course of Delsarte. Think of it! Mary Ann Perkins desires to begin with Delsarte and finish him in six weeks!" At that moment Mary Ann entered the office. Are you Prof. Samuel Johnson?” she asked, addressing that gentleman, who rose and bowed. "Well, I am Mary Ann Perkins. You received my letter, I presume?" Mr. Johnson said that, having only that day returned from Europe, where he had been to engage, etc., etc., he had just that moment finished reading Miss Perkins's letter. "Then you know what I require,” said Mary Ann, drawing off her gloves. "We will begin at once, if you please, as my time is limited. It is now ten o'clock. At eleven I have an engagement with my French teacher, at one I am expected by my piano instructor, from three to four I shall be employed with my vocal master, and from that time until six I shall be dancing, reciting, and reading Chaucer. My evenings will be devoted to a course of lectures on the literature of the Elizabethan period. So I will call at ten precisely every day. Kindly conduct me to the teacher of Delsarte?" 44 "Miss Whitney," said Mr. Johnson, as he retired to his private office, you will please take charge of Miss Perkins." Then the professor shut his door and bolted it on the inside. He did not reappear until nearly an hour after Mary Ann had departed. Miss Whitney saw before her a brightlooking girl, whose every other aspect savored unmistakably of life in a country town. Her posture was abnormally erect. One of her shoulders was higher than the other, and both were thrown back till every effect of natural flexibility and grace was destroyed. Mary Ann also toed in a little and carried her hands with the palms forward. But she was undeniably bright and knew no such word as fail. "And so," said her teacher, assuming her most imposing Queen Elizabeth attitude, "you desire a complete course of Delsarte in six weeks. If you were persevering you might get it in six years." "Well,” replied Mary Ann, not in the least abashed, "you can surely teach a person something in six weeks?" "Oh, yes; you can learn to keep your shoulders on a level." "That's what I am here for." "And to stand erect and yet allow each portion of the body to remain flexible and in its natural position." That is exactly what I most wish to learn," said Mary Ann, earnestly. " And you might improve some in the manner in which you use your hands." "I am satisfied," said Mary Ann. us begin at once.' " .. · Let There was no nonsense about Mary Ann. She was a utilitarian, with a capital U. If she could learn in six weeks to carry herself with grace and elegance, she would not give a snap of her finger whether she has absorbed Delsarte from the ground up, or merely touched the hem of his garment. And she made up her mind to succeed in the face of the sarcasm of the professors, with their lingo about life being short and art long. Mary Ann had determined to take her elocution of Prof. Josephus. She found him in the act of hurling large chunks of "Julius Cæsar at a small boy, who exhibited every indication of extreme Ah, yes; I comprehend," the professor interrupted-and again Mary Ann was oblivious to professional scorn of the most withering character. "Ah, yes, you vant ze easy conversation. Vell, you go and find one teachair of ze Meisterschaft System and you learn ze French language-oh, you learn him splendid in seex veeks!" So Mary Ann took up the Meisterschaft System, in which she made such rapid progress that after six lessons she could "polly voo" quite fluently. When, at the end of the six weeks, she returned to her home, her improved appearance was the talk of the town. Her position as belle was no longer disputed by the eldest Jones girl. Her piano playing and her singing, her elocution, her palmistry, her knowledge of defunct poets, and her drawing provoked general admiration. It was her Meisterschaft French, however, that astonished the natives. At the table it no longer was: "Please pass the cheese,' but "Donny maw lee fromage, see voo play." Never again did she ejaculate: "How beautiful!" but "Say too see kong pew vwar de plew bow." All her "good evenings" were "bong swors," and all her "good days "bong jours." But it all went in her rustic home magnificently. Mary Ann had scores of admirers and imitators, and the next year the rustics left town by hundreds for a six weeks' course in the city that had so reincarnated Mary Ann. III. JENNY AND I. BY FRANK L. STANTON. ENNY and I were lovers J Many and many a year, Poor as I be-but Jenny gave me The gold of her moonlight hair; And I said: "Too ragged a lover To wed with the winsome witch!" But she bent her head, with her lips o' red, And kissed me and made me rich. Jenny and I were lovers, Yonder-in storm and fair; But her blue-bright eyes made the summer skies, And her smile the spring o' the year Poor as a wayside beggar. With her tresses around me curled, Like veins o' gold in the rugged mould, I was richer than all the world! OU BY FRANKLIN A. PEAKE. You may talk about your cities An' your theatres an' ball, I s'pose it's mighty nice in town But they ain't no use a-talkin', I've heer'd folks tell of street parades, Of circuses an' sich, Of lectures, too, an' concerts you Can hear, if you be rich; An' the mighty sights an' scenes they be To take a feller's eye; But they ain't no use a-talkin', For 'tain't half so nice, I know, As walkin' with my own sweetheart, No, sir-ee-Bob! I'll tell you what I think: I'll never live in none your towns You may live there, if you want to, sir But they ain't no use a-talkin', The country is the place for me, Twas there I met Susanna Lee A-lookin' awful shy. She was standin' in red clover, With a thumpin' 'neath my vest. Oh, there's nothin' half so good, I know, As sweet old country air, Chuck full of all that's healthful, With the smell of blossoms rare The apples an' the peaches An' the cherries an' the plums; With the bird 'at 'mong 'em hums. If I'm walkin' with my own sweetheart, While standin' in the clover red, I took her little hand, An' lookin' in her eyes, I said- An' then-it might 'a' not been right- And oh, it set my heart a-clickin' so, She waited just a moment more, As walkin' with my own sweethearts, keep solemn way forward, like a stately herd of buffaloes, who march on across the prairie, disdaining to notice the wolves which snarl around their track. But in vain. One of the four great_galliasses is already riddled with shot. The fleet has to close round her, or Drake and Hawkins will sink her; in effecting which manoeuver, the "principal galleon of Seville," in which are a host of blue-blooded dons, runs foul of her neighbor, carries away her foremast, and is, in spite of Spanish chivalry, left to her fate. This does not look like victory, certainly. So ends the first day; not an English ship, hardly a man, is hurt. On the third day the wind shifts to the north, and blows clear and cool off the whitewalled downs of Weymouth Bay. The Spaniards turn and face the English. The English go to the westward again; but it is only to return on the opposite tack. Now begins a series of manoeuvers, each fleet trying to get the wind of the other; but the struggle does not last long, and ere noon the English fleet have slipped close-hauled between the Armada and the land, and are coming down upon them right before the wind. And now begins a fight most fierce and fell; and fight they did confusedly, and with variable fortunes: while, on the one hand, the English manfully rescued the ships of London, which were hemmed in by the Spaniards; and, on the other side, the Spaniards as stoutly delivered Recalde, being in danger. Never was heard such thundering of ordnance on both sides. The Spaniards, however, for the most part flew over the English without harm. The English ships, being far the lesser, charged the enemy with marvelous agility; and having discharged their broadsides, flew forth presently into the deep, and leveled their shot directly, without missing, at those great and unwieldy Spanish ships. Night falls upon the floating volcano; and morning finds them far past Purbeck, with the white peak of Freshwater ahead, and pouring out past the Needles, ship after ship, to join the gallant chase. For now from all havens, in vessels fitted out at their own expense, flock the chivalry of England. Spain has staked her chivalry in that mighty cast: not a noble house of Aragon or Castile but has lent a brother or a son. So, with variable fortune, the fight thunders on the livelong afternoon, beneath the virgin cliffs of Freshwater; while myriad seafowl rise scraming up from every ledge, and spot with their black wings the snowwhite wall of chalk; and the lone shepherd hurries down the slopes above to peer over the dizzy edge, and forgets the wheat-ear fluttering in his snare, while he gazes, trembling, upon glimpses of tall masts and gorgeous flags, piercing at times the leaguebroad veil of sulphur-smoke which welters far below. Meanwhile, the cliffs are lined with pikemen and musketeers and by every countryman and groom who can bear arms, led by their squires and sheriffs, marching east |