sometimes very much a

Ck of Ages, Cleft for Me!" till the organist stamps the
pedal with indignation, and the leader of the tune gets

red in the face and swears. Certainly
anything that makes a man swear is wrong--ergo,
congregational singing is wrong.
"Quod erat demonstrandum;" which, being translated, means
"Plain as the nose on a man's face." What right have people to sing who
know nothing about rhythmics, melodies, dynamics?
The old tunes ought to be ashamed
of themselves when compared with our modern beauties.
Let Dundee, and Portuguese Hymn, and Silver Street
hide their heads beside what we
heard not long ago in a church--just where I shall

not tell. The minister read the hymn beautifully. The organ
began, and
the choir sang, as near as I could understand, as follows:
Oo--aw--gee--bah Ah--me--la--he O--pah--sah--dah Wo--haw--gee-e-e-e. My
wife, seated beside me, did not like the music.

But I said: "What beautiful sentiment! My dear, it is a pastoral. You
might have known that from 'Wo-haw-gee!' You have had your taste ruined
by attending the Brooklyn Tabernacle." The choir repeated the last line
of
the hymn four times. Then the prima donna leaped on to the first
line, and slipped, and fell on to the second, and that broke and let
her through into the third. The
other voices came in to pick her up, and
got into a grand wrangle,
and the bass and the soprano had it for about

n, 54 Constellations, S

Ow the vertical if the Earth were motionless. Experiment, frequently repeated, shows a slight deviation to the East, of the plumb-line that marks the vertical. We more especially observed this at the Pantheon
du rin

ew more alert, though, wh

Instead of fire and lamp. Poppy did not like to look about
her, she knew it was not polite to do so, but her eye fell on the
dresser with its lovely china, and the blue bowl of primroses

and moss and ivy leaves on the little black table, and thought it all
more perfect even than she had

imagined. Guard, as though feeling
he was too large for the small room, went over and sat close against
the wall

by the window, shedding around him genial smiles in return for
all the
attentions lavished
on him. Anne was despatched for milk and biscuits; and while he was
gone Mademoiselle inquired for Esther, and how
she got home, politely hoping they had not been very anxious. "Yes, we
were;
we were very anxious, thank you," said Poppy, half absently. She was
looking at her hostess, and thinking of the story she had
heard of her. It seemed so wonderful that after going through such
terribl

trumpet! Oh,

F it be possible! Soc. And to hold converse with the Clouds, our
divinities?
Strep. By all means. Soc. (with great solemnity). Seat yourself, then,
upon the sacred couch. Strep. Well, I am seated! Soc. Take, then, this
chaplet. Strep. For what purpose a chaplet? Ah me! Socrates, see that
you do not sacrifice me like Athamas! Strep. No; we do all these to
those who get initiated. Strep. Then what shall I gain, pray? Soc. You
shall become in oratory a tricky knave, a thorough rattle, a subtle
speaker. But keep quiet. Strep. By Jupiter! You will not deceive me;
for if I am besprinkled, I shall become

fine flour. Soc. It becomes the old man to speak words
of good omen, and to hearken to my prayer. O sovereign King,
immeasurable Air, who keepest the earth suspended, and through bright
Aether, and ye august goddesses, the Clouds, sending thunder and
lightning,
arise, appear in the air,
O mistresses, to your deep thinker! Stre

darted from his couch, And stopped the othe

Yself outliv'd: Almost an age thou hast surviv'd: Some who their day
had scarce begun. Others beneath their noon-tide sun-- Time's deepest
lines engrave thy brow, And dost

thou hesitate to go? Idiot,

what warning would'st thou have? One foot already in the grave: Sight,
hearing, feeling, day by day, Sunk gradual
in a long decay. I blame myself for my neglect; Thou'st not a moment to
expect!"
When failing nature warns, the sage Sees death a refuge from old age;
And rising from life's lengthened feast, Willing retires, a sated
guest. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PAINTER. When candid critics
deign to blame Their index points the road to fame, But when dull fools
your works admire, Throw them at once into the fire. In Rome there
dwelt, in days of yore, A painter deep in graphic lore. His
touch was firm, his outline true, And every rule full well he
knew. A Mars he pai

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