passioned speech, from its initiation to its close, without passing up or down the musical scale one tone. However, in all plaintive and deeply pathetic moods of mind, we find, on investigation, that the slides of the voice are one-half as long as they are in ordinary discourse. This unconscious slide of the voice on the minor chord, as exhibited in the plaintive cry of the child, or the weeping utterance of the bereaved mother, is the chief characteristic of voice necessary to the expression of all pathetic selections.*

The student should now select one of the pieces given under this head, and endeavor to secure the effects which must follow from a careful application of the foregoing suggestions.

It will be found of great service in the acquirement of the semitonic slide, to practice the musical scale, and oftentimes the sympathetic study of a piece, thoroughly saturated with pathetic emotion, is the best aid in the acquisition of the characteristics of voice necessary to the effective rendition of this important class of selections.†

SELECTION FROM ENOCH ARDEN

He called aloud for Miriam Lane, and said,
"Woman, I have a secret-only swear,
Before I tell you swear upon the book,
Not to reveal it till you see me dead."
"Dead," clamor'd the good woman; "hear him talk!
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round."
"Swear," added Enoch, sternly, on the book."
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
Then Enoch, rolling his gray eyes upon her,

It may be well to note that this pathetic slide is not measured by a half tone in all cases, but follows the voice in all its movements up and down the scale on the third, fifth and octave, always vanishing, however, on a minor chord.

† Exercises on the vowels should constantly be used, or the vowel sounds in the selections you are rendering. Prolong each vowel with as pure and even a tone as possible, in order that the vocal organs may be trained to the manufacture of the clearest musical sounds, thereby ridding the voice of all harsh and unpleasant qualities. Evenness and steadiness of tone can only be secured by perfect control in the management of the breath.

"Did you know Enoch Arden, of this town?"
"Know him?" she said; "I knew him far away.
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he."
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her:
"His head is low, and no man cares for him.
I think I have not three days more to live;
I am the man." At which the woman gave
A half incredulous, half hysterical cry.
"You Arden, you! nay,― sure he was a foot
Higher than you be." Enoch said again,
"My God has bow'd me down to what I am;
My grief and solitude have broken me;
Nevertheless, know you that I am he

Who married - but that name has twice been changed ---
I married her who married Philip Ray.

Sit, listen!" Then he told her of his voyage,
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears,
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly
To rush abroad, all round the little haven,
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes.
But, awed and promise-bounden, she forbore,
Saying only," See your bairns before you go!
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose,
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
A moment on her words, but then replied:
"Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
But let me hold my purpose till I die.
Sit down again; mark me and understand,
While I have power to speak. I charge you now,
When you shall see her, tell her that I died
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
Save for the bar between us, loving her
As when she laid her head beside my own.
And tell my daughter, Annie, whom I saw
So like her mother, that my latest breath
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.

And tell my son that I died blessing him.
And say to Philip that I blessed him, too;
He never meant us anything but good.
But if my children care to see me dead,
Who hardly knew me living, let them come,
I am their father; but she must not come,
For my dead face would vex her after-life.
And now there is but one of all my blood
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:
This hair is his; she cut it off and gave it,
And I have borne it with me all these years,
And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
My babe in bliss: wherefore, when I am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her;
It will, moreover, be a token to her

That I am he."

He ceased; and Miriam Lane
Made such a voluble answer, promising all,
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her,
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again

She promised.

Then; the third night after this,
While Enoch slumber'd, motionless and pale,
And Miriam watched and dozed at intervals,
There came so loud a calling of the sea
That all the houses in the haven rang.

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad,

Crying, with a loud voice, "A sail! a sail!

I am saved!" And so fell back and spoke no more.

So passed the strong, heroic soul away.

-Lord Tennyson.

LONGING FOR HOME

A song of a boat:

There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote,

And the foam was white in her wake like snow,

And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow
And bent like a wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow;

I marked her course 'til a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,

And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;

And my thoughts all day were about the boat
And my dreams upon the pillow.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short:-

My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.

Long I looked out for the lad she bore,
On the open desolate sea,

And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me -

A song of a nest:

Ah me!

There was once a nest in a hollow;
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim.
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you, hear my song of a nest,

For it is not long:

You shall never light, in a summer quest,

The bushes among

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah happy, happy I!

Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown,
They spread out their wings to fly.

O, one after one they flew away
Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,
And I wish I was going, too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,
And the land where my nestlings be;

There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me

Ah me.

Jean Ingelow.

CONNOR

"To the memory of Patrick Connor; this simple stone was erected by his fellow-workmen."

Those words you may read any day upon a white slab in a cemetery not many miles from New York; but you might read them an hundred times without guessing at the little tragedy they indicate, without knowing the humble romance which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust of one poor humble man.

In his shabby frieze jacket and mud-laden brogans, he was scarcely an attractive object as he walked into Mr. Bawne's great tin and hardware shop one day, and presented himself at the counter with an

"I've been tould ye advertized for hands, yer honor."

'Fully supplied, my man," said Mr. Bawne, not lifting his head from his account book.