fife from his bag, and began to play. Immediately all the children in town, between four and twelve years, came forth from their houses and followed him through the streets, out of town, to the foot of a mountain, and there the fifer and his followers disappeared forever. The parents wept and wailed, but all was in vain.

But we need not go back to the days of antiquity, or ancient legends, to find examples of the magic power of music. Every body has heard of the Ranz des Vaches, which makes the children of Switzerland homesick unto death when they hear it in foreign lands, and led so many of the old Swiss Guard of the Bourbons in France to commit suicide, that at last the playing of the air by military bands had to be strictly prohibited. Nor must we forget the importance which all great generals attach to the effect of good music on their men, so that even the present ruler of France has been compelled to reinstate the regimental bands which, in a moment of economical zeal, had been partly abolished. Few men are insensible to the influence of quick, lively music; it drives the blood faster through the veins, and rouses the most sluggish heart. Shakespeare called even the drum the great maker of courage, and history has more than is flattering to our race to tell of the blood shed by men acting under the impulse given by the Marseillaise. Nevertheless, not all men are equally susceptible to the charms of music; but, where it is not, as often must be the case, purely the fault of the ear, it draws upon the unlucky man in popular estimation, at least, the wellknown stigma, that

The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. St. Augustine, from whom more Christian charity might have been expected, accounts such insensible persons accursed; but the example of great and otherwise richly-endowed men has taught us to seek the explanation rather in some organic defect. It is even a question, whether too great susceptibility is not,

perhaps, the more serious misfortune. Some persons cannot hear certain notes, or, at least, certain melodies, without being moved to tears; and even the health of others has been affected by one or the other instrument. Rousseau speaks of a lady who never heard music without having hysterics, and a wellknown composer was cured of a dangerous fever by being forced to play some of his own compositions. The physicians of insane asylums are fully familiar with the effects of music on their unfortunate patients, and employ it largely in their efforts to calm the more excitable sufferers. In the Middle Ages a number of diseases were considered curable by music, including stupidity. Occasionally this opinion rested upon mere superstition, as when Batisto Porta seriously states that a flute of hellebore cured dropsy, and one of poplar-wood was good for rheumatism; but when we are told that St. Vitus' dance can be cured, perhaps homœopathically, by dancing-music, there is at least a grain of truth in the popular fancy. The air prescribed in such cases is generally the Tarantella — a name derived from the poisonous spider, whose bite was in olden times believed to be the cause of the terrible disease. When the latter was endemic in Italy, bands of musicians would wander up and down the peninsula, offering their services to the afflicted; now both the disease and the method of curing it have nearly fallen into oblivion.

The influence which music has on us is mainly exercised through the nervous system; hence children, with their delicate, excitable nerves, are most easily impressed by it, lulled to sleep by a simple lullaby, or frightened to death by a sudden cry. Montaigne's father appreciated this so fully, that he ordered his son to be awaked in the morning by pleasing music, hoping thus to prepare his mind for the day's work with cheerfulness and clearness. But grown men are not less open to the happy influences of music; a hearty song, a rhythmic beating of the drum, or a clear

clanging of trumpets, are great helps on a long, weary march, as even keep ing step relieves the fatigue considerably. Workmen hoisting heavy weights, and sailors raising the anchor, sing to ease their task; and the negro, in the cornfield or the sugar-mill, is never happy unless he can shout his favorite melodies.

Even animals are not insensible to the effects of musical sounds, and their susceptibility rises in exact proportion to their general development. Birds, the legitimate musicians of Nature, learn the song of their parents, as well as those of other birds, and even sounds produced by men or instruments; some sing alone, others in concert with friends. Among the larger animals the horse is most easily taught to adapt his movements to music, and a good circus rarely fails to have a thoroughbred mare who waltzes to perfection. This talent was not unknown to the ancients, among whom a tradition was current that the Sybarites had their horses taught dancing by flute-players, especially employed for the purpose. One of these musicians, indignant at being ill-treated, deserted to the enemies and persuaded them to declare war on Sybaris, promising them an easy victory. He enlisted among them a band of flute-players, whom he taught the favorite airs of the Sybarites, and when the two armies stood in battle array opposite each other, he ordered his band to play these melodies. Thereupon the horses of the Sybarites began to dance merrily, and, in the disorder, their masters were easily overpowered, and totally routed. Even stupid-looking oxen learn to value the cheering effects of a flute or a violin, as many a pioneer in the Far West has experienced; and the Arab, crossing the desert on his camel, induces the almost exhausted animal to make a last effort by singing as loud as he can.

Dogs have a strange but varied susceptibility for music, as Buffon already observed. Some are passionately fond of certain instruments, and come running up in all haste when they see the preparations for a concert. Others,

again, cannot bear them, and suffer miserably when they are played; they raise a terrible howl, and try to hide in the remotest corner. Still others have a strong antipathy against certain sounds only, and poodles and King Charles' spaniels are said to be especially opposed to the higher notes of a violin.

The elephant is, in spite of his unwieldy size and apparently inactive ear, a great lover of music; he not only learns to move in time, but even to accompany the drum and the flute with certain inarticulate sounds. Buffon once caused a series of experiments to be made, in order to ascertain, at least, the individual taste of an elephant in the Jardin des Plantes. Simple melodies, played on the violin, seemed to give him great pleasure, while the variations made, apparently, no impression; but when a horn-player gave him a favorite air of those days, Charmante Gabrielle, he became very much excited, danced on his huge legs, and made even an effort to accompany the music with a few grunts; at last he put his trunk into the open end of the instrument, as if to draw out the music itself, and then caressed the player most tenderly, to show him his gratitude.

Plutarch and Pliny abound with anecdotes concerning this love of music found among animals. The story of Arion and his dolphin is universally known, and the Middle Ages have added largely to the number of similar fables. More reliable are modern accounts of occasional effects produced by music. Such is the well-authenticated story of a village musician, who returned late at night, somewhat tipsy, from a wedding, and fell, on his way through a dark forest, into a pit dug for wolves. The unfortunate man, becoming instantly sober, found that he was not alone in the pit, and instinctively seized his violin. The wolf did not like the music, crept into the farthest corner, and howled piteously. The poor fiddler, seeing that his life depended on his music, played indefatigably till day broke, but, alas! with it broke also one of his strings after the other! When, at last,

help came, he was playing, like Paganini, on a single string, and was so exhausted that the people who drew him up thought he had died in the process.

Of the lower animals serpents are most famous for their love of music, which has led to their being regularly trained, by such means, to dance and to obey the orders of their masters. Lizards share this fondness with them, and in the South, and especially in the West Indies, negroes can at all times lure them from their hiding-places by gently whistling. Even hideous spiders have an ear for music. Michelet tells of one of them the following touching story: the famous violinist, Berthome, owed his early successes mainly to the strict seclusion in which he was kept as a child. He had but one companion in his solitude, whose existence no one suspected -a small spider. At first it kept close to a corner of the wall; then it advanced gradually upon the desk where the music lay, from thence to the boy himself, and finally upon the deft arm that wielded the bow. There it listened, all attention, a deeply-moved, sympathizing amateur, representing a whole assembly. This is all an artist needs, in order to feel that his soul has a companion. Unfortunately, one day, the boy's stepmother brought a stranger into the room; she saw the sentimental spider at its post; a blow with the

slipper annihilated the assembly. The boy fainted, was laid up for three months, and his life was saved with difficulty.

Such are some of the sounds which we hear, and such the remarkable effects which they produce upon men and animals. The manner in which these impressions are made is still a mystery; we do not know how sounds-mere waves of the air-can actually produce passions, soothe the excited and heal the diseased mind. The main agent is, in all probability, not the sound itself, but the rhythm, which may be separated from the former as the outline of a drawing may be seen without the coloring. Familiar airs, it is well known, may be divined by merely drumming, as it were, the rhythm on a window-pane. Certain motions of inanimate nature produce, hence, the same effect as music. The cascade that falls from a steep rocky height, the brook running merrily between sandy banks, or the waves which restlessly beat against the sea-shore, affect the soul like visible music. We can sit for hours watching the waves as they come, one by one, and ever try to catch each other without success. Their rhythmical change produces a happy, soothing effect upon the mind, and teach us the power of regular, well-ordered motions upon the eye as well as upon the ear.

PAUL'S WOOING.

PAUL did not know whether he was in the body or out of it. He had but one consciousness-this: that he had seen her-been near to her-spoken with her; that her eyes had looked up to his, full of a gentle kindnessyea, more than a kindness-were they not full of an unspeakable sympathy? He had seen her, he had been near her. Now, his only desire was to see her, to be near her, again.

"Why are you so still? If you are happy in the Lord, I should think you would say something," said Tilda to Eirene the next morning, as the great Moloch of a wagon once more went on crunching roots and branches beneath it through the woods before sunrise. "It wasn't my way, when I received the evidence. I was so happy, I couldn't keep quiet. But you are different" (in a tone of disparagement).

"Yes," said Eirene, in a voice too far away to be reached by Tilda's reproof.

A few hours later, as she stood in her old place at work in the factory, John Mallane came to her side, and asked her if she had enjoyed the camp-meeting. When she answered that she had, he asked her if she didn't feel the need of a little vacation. "I noticed, several weeks ago, that you were looking very tired," he said. "If you would like to go home for three or four weeks, you can, and your wages may go on."

แ Oh, Mr. Mallane,” she exclaimed, in an effusion of gratitude, "that would be too much; the others-"

"Never mind the others," he interrupted; "they are no concern of yours. If you would like to go, I think it will be better all around. You certainly

need the rest."

What he meant by the statement that her going would make it better all around, John Mallane did not explain.

Had he so chosen he might have done it, by the fact that, an hour before, he had submitted to a very unmerciful attack from Mrs. Tabitha.

"You will go on deaf and blind, John Mallane, till that girl is tied to the family. You don't realize it; but I tell you, even now, there is no living with Paul because she is out of the house." And she went on waxing more and more enraged at every word she uttered, until her husband ended it with his usual, "Well, well, Tabitha, what do you want done?"

"I want you to send her home as straight as she can go; and, if you listen to me, you will never let her come back."

"To do that would be too cruel," he replied; "but I will give her a vacation while Paul is at home, if you say so, mother."

"I do say so." And she would have said a great deal more, but she knew that John Mallane "had put his foot down," and that it was perfectly useless to make further demands.

That evening, at twilight, Paul sat on the door-step, smoking his cigar in a very uneasy state of mind. He did not know what to do with himself. Every impulse in him impelled him to walk over to the little house across the street, and yet he compelled himself to remain where he was.

"Haven't I said every thing to her that I have a right to say?" he asked himself. "I told her what she had done for me—what she could do for me; asked her to be my friend. Of course, there is nothing more to be said.”

But this conclusion did not soothe him any. He felt an insane desire just to see her again.

"If I could only sit down where she is, if I didn't say a word, I should be contented," he ejaculated mentally, as

he sent some sudden whiffs of smoke into the air. Just then he heard Seth Goolve's gate close with a ring. It was Tilda Stade, who shut it sharply for his benefit. She saw him distinctly, sitting there smoking, and the triumph in her breast would not be denied, for Eirene walked by her side with a satchel in her hand. She was going to Hilltop on the evening train, and Tilda was her body-guard to the station. If Paul could have seen the expression of her face as she turned toward the gate, while she passed swiftly on the other side of the street, he would have read, 66 Come, if you dare;" and, seeing it, would very likely have dared, if only out of defiance of his implacable enemy. But Tilda's glance of ire expended itself in the dimness. He did not see it, yet he started with the impulse to go after them.

"What's the use, while that dragon is with her?" he thought; and he settled back on the door-step, and puffed away on his cigar in profound thought.

The afternoon of the next day Eirene sat by the open window of her own room at Hillside. Language is too poor to portray the beatitude of spirit which seemed to pervade and glorify her. To be at home-to be free—no dinging bell to command her to toil for how many blessed weeks! The sense of escape, of freedom, filled her with a joy too keen to be real. Was the weary summer, the ten hours' toil, the stifling chamber, a vanished dream? Or was this a dream -that, once more alone, at liberty, she looked forth on the beloved woods of her childhood, in all their August pomp, as they held their green crowns in the still blue air? The clouds, in great piles of fleecy cumuli, rested on the mountain-tops, or in snowy fleets sailed slowly on and on, and were lost in infinite distance. Eirene watched them as they went, and her sight drooped midway in the ocean of air; it seemed so vast, after the strip of sky which had bounded her summer. The wide earth was at rest, with its fruits ripening on its heart. With what eager delight Eirene counted the harvests-the apples yel

lowing and reddening in the hillside orchard-the corn with its pale green tassels-the meadow just under the window, running down to the river, now a broad field of tobacco. Was there ever before such a field of tobacco, with its languid, aromatic leaves, and flowers of amber? No; such leaves as these had never before ripened in Massachusetts' sunshine, Eirene felt sure. She leaned from the window, and tried to count every stately flowering stalk. She grew exultant over the unthought-of numbers of their waving ranks. Already she saw them lying slain beneath the September sun; saw the green leaves stacked and counted, golden-brown, in the barn; saw the trader from Busyville, who had bought it, lay the gleaming dollars on the sitting-room table-and Hillside was redeemed! Had Eirene been older, wiser, more of a philosopher, she might have estimated the probable harm which would be done to human nerves through the narcotic forces of this innocent-looking field of green and amber. But, personally, she had never seen any of the evil results born of the intoxicating plant. This field of tobacco-what did it not promise the heart of love and the imagination of youth, as both went on building dreams in the summer air! With no debt on the Hillside farm, poverty would be impossible. Her father --she saw him with head erect at last; no more shrinking away from loudvoiced Farmer Stave. He had a new hat and a new buggy; and MugginsMuggins had retired to browse through a millennium of bliss in a field of clover, never again to be implored to "Get up." There is a new horse-a horse not unlike one she has seen arch his neck and dart away from the gate of the white house under the maples at Busyville, though she is unconscious of any relationship between the animals. Her mother has a new gown-the black silk gown which Mary Vale has so long meekly and hopelessly desired. Pansy is resplendent in another new frock, this time as pink as the June roses. Win is in college; and she-Eirene-is