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full choral blast from tenor, bass, and treble, the magical effect was complete. There were, no doubt, many present who came expressly to "hear the music," and the knowledge of this fact inspired the artists with a desire to do themselves justice. It is true some of the old people did not like the concatenation of sounds. These, however, were considered behind the age, and the opinion of such as worthy of small respect in the onward "march of improvement." They were swept away in their slender opposition by the force of public opinion, if not by a whirlwind of sound. At any rate, Death was fast removing them, one by one, while their deaf ears were becoming sealed to such annoyance. It was to the great surprise of the Rector that the choir one day struck upon the Te Deum, which he had been hitherto accustomed to read, and through various turns, and windings, and repetitions, they discoursed upon it for a full half hour. It was, however, the last time that they so distinguished themselves before the musical world. There was no piece of cathedral composition which the choir at St. Bardolph's did not consider themselves competent to perform, and had they been allowed their own way, would have sung the sermon, and made more out of the Amen than any other part. Mr. Hivox had indeed composed something original out of the theme of an Awmen, full fifteen minutes long, and we are sure that when it was finished no hearer of sound judgment but would have instinctly ejaculated with his whole heart, Awmen! But the triumph of all the voices was in some of the fugue tunes, in which they emulated to interrupt and outstrip each other, as in the one hundred and thirty-third psalm:

"True love is like that precious oil
Which poured on Aaron's head,

Ran down his beard, and o'er his robes
Its costly moisture shed."

In the prodigious effort of this performance the ear-splitting combination of the several voices hardly bore a resemblance to that oily current poured on Aaron's head, and which—

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ran down his beard-his-down

his robes-its costly moist-his beard

ure shed-his-cost-his robes-his robes-ure shed

I-t-s c-o-s-t-l-i-e mois-ture-- -shed."

It was this very composition, similarly performed, that the late Bishop

Seabury on one of his visitations was asked his opinion, and his reply was that he had paid no attention to the music; but that his sympathies were so much excited for poor Aaron that he was afraid that he would not have a hair left. A most appropriate and humorous reply on the part of the good bishop. And this, it must be remembered, was at a time when the "divine Cecilia came" to these benighted realms. A taste for the vocal art began to be fostered in the western world, and especially in the parts adjacent to the Long Island Sound, and various books on sacred music were put forth by professors of renown, and the science had just begun to repudiate a nasal twang. Is it to be wondered that when a clergyman sometimes in the performance of his duty must needs become maestro to keep the big-chested gentry of singers in order, that they should lend the compass of their voices to swell the cry of unpopularity which may be raised against him? If he would court favor, let him court the music of the proligent bass, have no sympathy for the beard of Aaron, and throw his own voice from the chancel-end into the overpowering Hallelujah-chorus. If the church has no organ, then let him defer to the opinion of the bassoon, and dance attendance on the jigging airs of the profane fiddle. So there shall be one discord less.


In the new construction of a more ambitious choir at St. Bardolph's there was one acknowledged element of discord of which it was hard to get rid of. This was a matter which had long taxed the ingenuity of the members; but as it was of an exceedingly delicate nature there was no individual found with sufficient tact or boldness to suggest a plan, or, if so, to carry it into execution. The fact is, that Miss Valeary would continue to sing, and Miss Valeary was no longer what she once She was now an ancient maid, with all the characteristics of the lone and melancholy order to which she was attached. Her once plump throat had become sadly shrivelled, for the chin and throat, as well as the brow itself, bear the marks of mediæval time with such distinctness that no deep-cut tomb-stone can tell a truer tale. So had her voice insensibly deteriorated from a somewhat brisk and sparkling shrillness to a lamentable screech. Still the little lady, from the force of habit, when Sunday came was punctual at her post, and though conscious that she sang not with her former ease, yet in the goodness of heart she exerted herself more strenuously than ever. And she did in truth and sincerity believe that she was no unimportant element of that choir, of which she had been a member for so many years. That her assistance was no longer desired was a thought which had never come to her in dreams. That it was even indispensable was what she innocently believed. Hence she was always present at rehearsals, and actually screeched from a sense of duty, when if she had consulted her own desires she would have long since retired from so conspicuous and invidious a post. But although the task had been at first disagreeable, and in the modesty of her nature she had shrunk from its performance, she had gradually trained herself to perform it. She did not hear the remarks which were made because she had recently become a little deaf; and she did not see the winks and sly glances in the choir, when she ventured upon the higher notes of the gamut, because she had begun to wear glasses and her eyes were a little dim. The other vocalists were profoundly vexed

to have the effect of their execution marred. At last, as no one would volunteer to act alone, they resolved to share the responsibility, and actually appointed a committee of three to wait upon Miss Valeary. She was practicing on an old piano when they arrived, and she rose to meet them with a chirping cheerfulness. In order to pave the way to the disagreeable business, and introduce the subject of music, they asked her to play, and Miss Valeary performed an antique piece, called in antique Latin, Dolce Domum. Then she inquired whether the choir had selected any new chaunts for the festival of Christmas.

"It was on some such subject that we called," said the big-chested Mr. Tubingen.

"Indeed!" said the narrow-chested Miss Valeary, her eyes sparkling with animation, and swinging her reticule as she turned upon the bench and looked into the abashed faces of the formidable trio. They all hemmed and hawed like the choral file in a gallery when the leader has struck his pitch fork on the blunt end.

"I have heard our last Sunday's performance highly praised," said she. "Yes," said Mr. Tubingen, interrogatively.

"Indeed I have. I have been practising a new chaunt composed by the organist of St. John's, in the city, which has been much admired. If you like, we will try it."

"We hope that Miss Valeary will not be offended," said Mr. Tubingen. "Oh, no," said Mr. Decorus, the tenor.

"We have all frequently remarked that no one in the congregation feels a deeper interest in the music than Miss Valeary," said Mr. Hivox, the alto.

The little lady looked a little disconcerted, and cast a sharp, penetrating glance upon the delegation.

"We are fully aware that you will do any thing for the interest of the church," said Mr. Tubingen.

"We have not entertained the least doubt of that," said Mr. Decorus. 'Most undoubtedly," remarked Mr. Hivox.

"To be sure, I will," added Miss Valeary.

"It has been a matter of remark," proceeded Mr. Tubingen, "well it has only lately-well, yes I may say, not for a length of time-but only recently-it has been, no doubt, it has been-I think I may say mainly-I don't know-I kind of think".

"People have got to be so very fastidjus," said Mr. Decorus. "And so very critical," added Mr. Hivox.

"Indeed!" said Miss Valeary.

"Yes," replied Mr. Tubingen.

"Yes," said Mr. Decorus.

"Yes," said Mr. Hivox.

"Gentlemen, you need not be afraid to say what you wish," remarked the scrutinizing lady, who had by this time become aware of the confusion of the trio.

"We knowed that you would not be offended," said the gallant Mr. Tubingen, squeezing with his big paw the little hand of the little lady, which was full of rings.

"How you hurt me," said the offended Miss Valeary.

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Tubingen.

"Will you explain yourself?" exclaimed the lady, with peremptory tone, and with flashing eyes, almost transfixing the speaker.


'A-yes-ma'am-we are sorry-we do not speak for ourselves," said Mr. Tubingen.

"Not at all," said Mr. Decorus and Mr. Hivox.

"Have I given any offence?" said Miss Valeary.

"None at all-none in the least-none whatever-far from it-on the contrary"-exclaimed all three, with intensity.

"What then?" said the little lady.

"It is a subject which we feel the greatest delicacy in approaching," said Mr. Tubingen, the speaker, "but it may not be unevident to Miss Valeary that Miss Valeary's voice-which is, I may say-on ordinary occasions in a room-at the social meeting-so creditable to Miss Valeary-does not so fully-that is, I may say-highly as we think of it— so adequately-kind of chord with the present composition of the choir to do that justice to Miss Valeary which Miss Valeary's voice-in the opinion of good judges, is-so—so—so- -highly cap'ble of on the part of Miss Valeary!"

"Is that it?" said the lady, bursting into an offended cachination. "You have been a long time coming to it. Put your minds perfectly at rest, gentlemen. So long as I live, if it be a hundred years, you shall never suffer annoyance on my account. I will listen to your melodies, though they should happen to come through the nose," she said, looking smilingly at Mr. Tubingen. And with that she jerked out of her seat, and began to arrange flowers in a vase with dainty judgment.

The committee bungled out of the room immediately. "A hundred years!" said Mr. Hivox, the alto, with witty cruelty, as they walked along; "If she lives a little longer, the if will be out of the question." As this was uttered, all three joined in an admirably-executed laughing chorus-to which Miss Valeary was only a listener.

After they had gone, she was in a state of nervous agitation, and flitted about with the agility of a grasshopper. She arranged her tidy French bonnet on her head, and with her cheeks in a high state of inflammation, and her little eyes full of eagerness, passed out of the gate with trepidation, and speaking to no one whom she met, arrived out of breath at the head-quarters for all sorrowing, complaining souls, the Village Rectory. Admitted into the study, she sat down, and with many sobs and sighs and pitiable inflections, in the midst of drowning floods and with a hystericky abruptness, told the story of her wrongs.

THE WONDERS OF NATURE.-The Cocoy queen beetle is about an inch and a quarter in length, and what is wonderful to relate, she carries by her side, just above her waist, two brilliant lamps, which she lights up at pleasure with the solar phosphorus furnished her by nature. These little lamps do not flash and glimmer, like that of the fire-fly, but give as steady a light as the gas-light, exhibiting two perfect spheres, as large as a minute pearl, which affords light enough in the darkest night to enable one to read print by them. On carrying her into a dark closet in day-time she immediately illuminates her lamps, and instantly extinguishes them on coming again into the light.



"Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction." Is. 48: 10.

WHEN we return from the grave of a fellow being we always bear in our minds some prominent circumstance of that person's life. We say or think: We have buried a rich man, a poor man, a useful or useless man; some feature of the person's life comes up to view more prominently than another.

When our thoughts revert to her whom we have borne to the grave, how naturally do we say, We have buried a sufferer! She was for years, long years, emphatically a sufferer-day and night a sufferer. Little did those who passed along the street know of the pains that were endured in quiet within. Little did those who enjoyed sweet sleep at night realize her painful watchings and wakings.

She was a sufferer; and those sufferings were greatly sanctified to her soul's good. In her experience was fulfilled the divine declaration : "Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction."

Gold and silver are found, not in a pure state, but mixed with dross. This dross is so fully one with the metal that it must pass through & severe fiery process, before the metal is pure. Nor is it fit for use until it is thus purified and refined.

This is a picture of the life of grace in the soul. It is the gold of glory amid the dross of sin. It must pass through a fiery trial—a furnace of affliction-before it is pure and fit for heaven.

It is the plain testimony of scripture, and it ought not to seem strange to us, that the way to life lies through tribulation. We naturally lie in sin, are captive in its power: no wonder that we should have to rise to life, and freedom, through sighs, and groans, and anguish.

Our Saviour's life is, in this respect, a true picture of the life of a saint. It commenced in sorrow and ended in joy; first the cross and the pain, then the crown and the glory. Through night into daythrough death into life-through pains into peace. This is the king's royal road-this is the way that ends well!

The world reverses the divine order. They have first the joy and then the sorrow-first the day and then the night-here the crown and there the shame. The world cries: Hail Dives in purple, and power, and prosperity, and pride! Christianity says, Hail Lazarus, in poverty and pain. "Wo unto you that laugh now, for ye shall weep then."

"I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction." These words show mercy and love which lie in affliction. God says: "I have chosen

us the

Funeral thoughts on the death of Mrs. Maria Kuhns, for many years a great


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