Chapter II: Part 2

"Aye, for in-doors," coughed Abel Norton; and both conspirators passed out into the cold air. They parted on the door-step. It had stopped snowing.

A wise plan for plotters to follow is that of never referring, even amongst themselves, by word of mouth to the matter they wish kept secret. If each receives his instructions from one source, and acts accordingly, there is a better chance for success and less danger of detection.

The friends of American liberty that had remained banded together in the city for the purpose of supplying Washington with information had adopted this wise plan. Their orders were received from Number One, who was none other than that trusted servant of the King, Rivington, printer by special appointment to his Majesty. This worthy had come to the patriot cause early in the fall. But he was the last man to suspect.

The conspirators were seldom or never seen in one another's company, and some were not even supposed to know the others. The action and discoveries of each, however, were made understood by their system of cipher correspondence. As an instance of the relation, the captain and lieutenant (Rivington and Anderson) were supposed to be on terms of bitter enmity.

The latter was now making all haste to gain the lower part of town. A suspicion had seized him that perhaps everything was not right. When he came to the City Arms he hurried into the coffee-room.

A young officer with a deep bass voice was singing a song full of sighs and apostrophes to some distant fair one.

Mr. Anderson slid into an empty chair and joined in the noise and applause that followed the musical effort. He then turned to his neighbor.

"Ah, Captain Markham," he said, "have you seen our handsome young friend, Lieutenant Frothingham, to-night?"

"I was talking to him less than an hour ago," replied the Captain, who, strange to say, was not in his cups. "He was to return, I take it, from what he said."

Hardly had bespoken the words when the subject of them entered. William's face wore a preoccupied expression, and seeing one of the inn servants, he beckoned him to one side. Mr. Anderson caught the gesture, and noticed that the servant had followed the Lieutenant into the hallway.

If by chance he could have seen what occurred he would have been surprised, for, after a short conversation, the servant departed with three gold pieces clinking in his palm. He had then made his way to the stables and aroused one of the tall young grooms. From the stables he had walked to William's lodgings with a complete suit of the groom's clothing over his arm. It comprised a short jacket and leather gaiters like those worn by the young prisoner at the sugar-house, a good costume for facing the snow.

William entered the room a second time, and seeing Mr. Anderson, dragged a chair across and sat down close to him.

The little schoolmaster drew a secret from a simple nature with as much delight as a keen terrier would draw a badger from his hiding-place.

"What do you think has happened?" he inquired, to see how much the young man knew.

"Concerning what?" answered William, on his guard.

"Concerning the person uppermost in your mind," returned the schoolmaster.

"I hope nothing ill," was William's anxious interruption.

"No, no, perhaps not ill. 'Twas good you warned me."

"It has caused me many sleepless hours," said William. "Let us draw apart, for I must talk freely with you."

They pushed back their chairs, and sought a deserted corner by the open fireplace.

"As a lad," remarked Mr. Anderson, "your brother was not prone to waste words. You are like him. Talk quickly."

"I am betwixt two fires," said the young man--"my duty and my affections, Mr. Anderson. You know me. I love my brother as I love my life, but I serve my--"

"King," suggested the schoolmaster.

"King," repeated William, wondering why he had found it so difficult to say country, as he had intended. "I would die to save my brother's life, I think most honestly," went on the young Lieutenant. "I would that he was free, but I cannot, any more than you, connive at the escape of a prisoner who might bear important news to the enemy. There is nothing wrong in feigning to know naught of his existence, but to aid in his escape I could not. Therefore I told you, and left the matter in your hands, knowing your interest. You think not harshly of me? Pray think how you would feel were you in my position. I feel sometime as if I were not young at all, as if the separation from the brother who is in my heart had aged me far beyond my years, so deeply do I feel it."

"You said that you could trust me with his welfare. Now, prithee, what has brought the subject up in this new light?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson. "Remember that should it be known who he was, and the authorities should find out what a dangerous person had been amongst them, his life would not be worth the dregs in that wine-glass."

William shuddered. "There's a plot to aid in his escape."

"That I know well," returned the schoolmaster. "If it were frustrated and he kept safe, you would rejoice--hey?"

"'Twould be my duty," returned William.

"Have you aught against the calling of a spy?" inquired Schoolmaster Anderson.

William reflected. "If it were base to be one," he replied, "my brother George would have been far from it, that I promise you. A spy risks his life to serve his king--"

"Or country," put in Mr. Anderson. "Ay, he is usually a brave, fearless man, and should not be condemned. He can harm no one but his enemy."

"The stake he plays for is his life," continued William.

"Now the one who spoke to you to-night--" said Mr. Anderson, as if carrying on a train of thought of his own.

"Spoke to me, sir? I said naught concerning that," answered the young man, hastily.

"If he had knowledge who you were--"

"But he mistook me," again interrupted William. "What are you driving at? To whom do you refer?"

"His name has slipped me," replied the schoolmaster. "You may be able to jog my memory. I saw you talking with him a short while ago. I can find out easily."

"No; listen," said William. And then he told of his meeting with Abel Norton, and the conversation in the doorway, omitting, however, entirely the reference to the boat.

When he had finished Mr. Anderson replied. "This is interesting news to me," he said; "but it was not to this strange person that I referred. It was to your neighbor at the table, Captain--what's his name?--over there, who had been talking to you before you left. So that was an adventure on the street? What are you going to do?"

William saw that he had been trapped into telling what he had better, perhaps, have kept quiet. "I have been ordered to the forces at the north," he said, confused.

"Indeed?" replied Schoolmaster Anderson. "Success to you. I judged that you were not a kind to idle in tavern parlors, or your regiment one to grow stale in barracks."

"But I am going alone," said William, entrapped again.

"Ah!" said the schoolmaster; "much better, mayhap; changes are oft for the best." A roar of laughter from the table attracted his attention. "Come, we are missing all the gayety," he said. And slipping his arm through William's, he strolled up and joined the group, who were listening to a red-faced adjutant relating a story of being lost in an Irish bog.

When William looked around a moment or so later the schoolmaster had disappeared.

He had slipped away unnoticed, and his nimble feet were flying up the road. He swung about the corner into Vine Street. The sentry at the door of the prison was fast asleep, his heavy head resting on his folded arms. The schoolmaster ducked adroitly underneath him and opened the door; he crossed the court-yard to the prison entrance, and pulled the bell. There was a stirring within, and the jailer stood there unsteadily, half asleep, with a blanket thrown about his shoulders.

"What want you now?" he asked.

"The prisoner on the second floor," said Schoolmaster Anderson. "His Lordship would have him examined. Know you whether he has a birth-mark on his cheek?"

"I don't know or care," answered the jailer.

"'Tis to decide a wager," said the little man, clicking his heels together, "and if he has not one, half of it is for yourself. You remember the inspection the other day?"

"Ay," said the jailer. "Is the bet for a large amount?"

"Wait until you hear," laughed the schoolmaster. "I saw it plainly. Come, let us up, I say."

But now the jailer took a sudden turn. "I would not have him disturbed. I have a kindly feeling for the lad."

"What, turning soft-hearted?" answered the schoolmaster, who had already pushed half up the stairway. He picked up a lantern from the wall.

"Leave the poor lad alone," said the jailer, gruffly.

By this time the sound of Mr. Anderson's heels was echoing down the corridor. He held the lantern above his head, and a look of astonishment spread over his features.

He retraced his steps to where the jailer stood, leaning against the wall, his hands outstretched for support.

"You may save your pity and your solicitude," said Mr. Anderson, banging up the lantern. "There will be some reckoning made for this condition of affairs to-night."

"What? What?" stammered the jailer.

"Mark what I say," went on the schoolmaster, looking the other squarely in the face with his twinkling ferretlike eyes. "Your prisoner has escaped. You careless sluggard!"

Of course all this requires an explanation.

It had been a momentous day for the prisoner in the little cell. The signal, as agreed upon in another cipher letter which had been smuggled in to him, was this: If the bars were ready to be misplaced he would put two crusts of bread outside the doorway of his cell; if for any reason the time should be postponed, only one would be placed on the flagging. Some one on an ostensible visit to another part of the jail would be on the lookout for this simple sign. It happened that just before this visit was paid, the under jailer, unseen, swept away one of the crusts of bread, so the signal appeared to read for the following night.

The bars, however, were ready to be removed. It would take but a slight exertion to make a hole large enough for him to draw his body through. But how to escape from the door below or to pass the sentry at the gateway?

When the second jailer appeared early in the evening, George stopped him and handed him five golden guineas. "Have a feast at my expense," he said. "Share it with the people here who have been so good to me; to-day is my birthday." (This was a fact, and, for that reason, William's as well.) "Listen, also; go you to Fraunce's Tavern and buy four bottles of the best Lone Star Madeira. Present them to the head prison-keeper with the compliments of an officer. Pretend you do not know from whom they come. He might not accept them from a prisoner in his care."

Probably the man had never held so much gold in the grasp of his dirty fingers before. He fairly grovelled. "Lord bless you, sir, leave me to do the lying," he said.

George's last generous offer had almost proved his undoing, for shortly after dark he had heard the sounds of carousing and some merriment from the jailer's quarters. The sentry at the head of the stairs had disappeared, and the sound of the file biting away the last remaining bits of steel would have been audible were it not for the clamor below. He was about to push the loosened iron out when a wheezy voice humming a snatch of a song was heard coming down the corridor. It was the head jailer.

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,"

he chanted thickly. "I can be generous as well as other folk. I am not a hard man. My guest of honor must drink with me." In an instant he was before the doorway. "Here's a good health to you, my unknown friend. Long live the King!" With that the jailer wavered unsteadily and tossed off a glass of Madeira.

George feared that he was about to be discovered, and pretended sleep; but this was all the visit amounted to, for soon he heard the heavy footsteps lumber down the stairway, still protesting that it was not "a flint heart."

Now was the time. George pushed the bars gently, and they came off without much trouble. He laid them on the quilt, and drew himself through the aperture, then he tiptoed carefully down the steps.

A ray of light from a room to the right showed that the door was partly ajar. He looked inside. The jailer was fast asleep. Before him on the table wore three empty bottles of Madeira. A heavy military cloak hung from a peg at one side, and a huge three-cornered hat above it. George throw the cloak about his shoulders and placed the hat upon his head. It came down over his ears. He drew the bolt of the big front door and stepped out under the stars--for it had ceased snowing--and into the court-yard. The only entrance was guarded by a man leaning on his musket.

How to pass him was the question. But as the young fugitive drew nearer he perceived that the tall soldier was fast asleep. He was leaning on one side of the door with his foot propped against a post on the other. His leg made a barrier.

Making his body as small as possible, George essayed to stoop under the outstretched leg; but his shoulder jostled the sentry, and he awoke. George recognized the ex-corporal.

"Well, well, McCune," he said, shaking the man roughly; "asleep at your post, man! It will never do!"

The sentry drew himself up as best he could, and his musket snapped to a present. "Pardon me, Lieutenant," he said. "Do not report me, or I will get the lash." The poor fellow trembled as he spoke.

"Let it not occur again," said George, "and I will see."

"May the saints bless you, sir!" said the sentry thickly, as he watched the figure of his supposed officer disappearing about the corner. It was at this moment that Anderson and William were holding their talk at the tavern.

At eleven o'clock a small boat jumped about under the rafters at the end of Striker's wharf. A man with a boat-hook held it securely against the pier head.

"'Tis time he were coming," he said to another behind.

At that moment a soft hail was heard, and a young man bent over the edge of the timbers. In an instant he had lowered himself into the boat, the oars were manned, and it had swept out into the swirling tide of the river.

Hardly had it disappeared when another figure of the same size and general appearance came on a quick walk to the water's edge. He hailed softly, looking under the pier.

There was no answer, or no boat in sight. The cloaked figure then turned about and hurried back to the eastward.

Had something gone amiss?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

MYSTERIES OF STAGE SCENERY.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

You have taken off your overcoat and made yourself as comfortable as possible in an angular little folding-chair that never was intended to give any human being a minute's comfort. The orchestra has crashed through the last measures of the overture. The footlights are turned up; the auditorium lights are turned down; the curtain rises. You see a beautiful valley, winding away among very purple mountains till it loses itself in the crimson of the glowing sunset. The sky is as luminous as if it were nature itself, and you are almost tempted to believe that the rear wall of the theatre has been removed, and that you are looking out at something real. Presently you notice a few soft fleecy clouds drifting across the sky. The crimson fades gradually, and the pale gray of a brief twilight follows. The sky grows darker and darker, and presently you see the twinkle of a single star, then another and another. And now a gentle greenish glow begins to pervade the scene. It increases in power till the stage is flooded with the bright refulgence of a summer moon. The whole thing is beautifully managed, and is most realistic.

Calciums, Cloud-machine, Lycopodium Torch, Red Fire, and Steam-box in Operation.]

But after a time the moonlight fades out, and leaves behind it a threatening gloom. A dull distant peal of thunder proclaims the approach of a storm. There is a flash of lightning. The storm breaks. Peal upon peal of crashing thunder rends the sky. The wind howls and shrieks, and the sharp cut of the driving rain is distinctly heard. The curtain falls at the end of the act, and you rub your eyes and wonder if you have been dreaming or have really seen these things on a wooden stage.

The next act shows a scene in the forest, and as the sunlight filters through the rustling leaves, the dancing shadows on rock and trunk are plainly seen. Again the scene changes. This time it is a fire. The stage is filled with flames and smoke and the crash of falling timbers. You are almost tempted to believe that the house is really afire. But the same old curtain comes down at the end, and only a strong smell of powder reminds you of what you have seen. In the last act of this surprising play the hero and heroine, converted into disembodied spirits, go to the heavenly regions on a winged horse; and you see them, glowing with supernatural light, go flying across the deep blue sky. You leave the theatre in a state of wonder.

How is it all done?

Of course I have been imagining a play in which many different effects were combined; but nevertheless you have seen these illusions, though not all in the same play.

Spectral appearances are often managed nowadays with a stereopticon. For instance, in _Siegfried_ there is a scene in the forest in which the music of the opera is supposed to depict the rustling of the leaves. In order to heighten the effect of this scene it is customary to produce the illusion of the flickering of the sunlight caused by the waving foliage. This is done by means of movable glasses, something like the arrangement of a kaleidoscope without the variety of colors. The white light is thrown through these moving glasses, and the audience sees the waving shadows, as if caused by sunlight filtering through wind-shaken leaves. In the last act of _Die Walküre_ the sisters of Brünnhilde are heard coming through the air to their customary place of assembly to the wild measures of the "Ride of the Valkyries." It is also necessary that they should be seen. This necessity is fulfilled by the stereopticon. A picture of a Valkyr maid mounted on her steed is thrown on the dark drop-curtain at the back of the stage, and is made to pass from the upper left-hand corner down to the lower right-hand corner. By keeping the power of the light at a moderate pitch, the picture is prevented from being too hard and definite. Again, when the sisters, fleeing before the angry Wotan, depart in a body, a picture representing the group passes from the lower right-hand corner to the upper left-hand corner, while the stormy music of the "Ride" dies away. The effect is very fine indeed.

In the _Flying Dutchman_ there is a view of the sea in the first scene, and a gale of wind is supposed to be blowing. The audience sees thin, gray, filmy scud scurrying across the sky from the beginning of the scene until the gale ends. This is also a stereopticon effect, and is produced by passing properly painted glasses across the opening of the lens. These few instances will give the reader some idea of the part which the stereopticon now plays in the illusions of the stage. It cannot be said that the results are always satisfactory, and, no doubt, in the course of time a better plan will be introduced.

One of the most familiar and beautiful effects produced upon the stage is the change from day to night or from night to day. The former, owing to the conditions surrounding stage illusions, is the more striking, and is that most frequently seen. In order to produce this effect the rearmost piece of scenery is a "drop," which is made about double the height of the ordinary scenes. This drop is painted to represent sky. The lower half is colored with the bright tints of the sunset, and these gradually blend in the middle of the drop into the subdued shades of a moonlit night. Sometimes the setting sun itself is shown, and this is effected by cutting a circular hole in the drop, pasting a piece of red muslin over the back of it, and putting a light behind it. The drop is now hung so that the lower half alone is visible. Now the scenery of the distance is painted upon a separate piece, which is "profiled"--that is, the irregular line made by trees, houses, mountains, etc., is cut out with a circular saw. This profile piece is set about four feet in front of the sky drop. Some six or eight feet further toward the front is hung what is called a cut-gauze drop, though this is sometimes omitted, especially if the view at the rear embraces an expanse of water. If it is woods, however, the cut-gauze drop is always used. This drop has sides and a top of canvas, painted as the case requires. The open central part is filled with stout gauze netting, which gives a charming aerial effect to the distance.

Now all is ready for the sunset except the lights, which are arranged thus: Behind the profile a row runs across the stage to throw its light on the lower part of the sky drop. The top part is illuminated by the border lights. A similar arrangement is made in front of the profile, while the foreground depends for its light on the borders and footlights. In all new theatres these are electric lights in three circuits. One circuit consists of lights with white globes, another red, and the third green. For broad daylight effects the white are used. In the scene we are describing, beginning with sunset, the red circuit is turned on. Calcium-lights with red glasses are stationed at the sides of the stage, and thus the whole scene is suffused with a glow of red light. The change from sunset to moonlight is effected by slowly and imperceptibly lowering the sky drop. As the sun disappears behind the distant hills the red "mediums," as they are called, are turned off and the green ones gradually turned on. When the night sky has fairly got down to its place the green mediums are all turned on at full force, and green glasses are placed in front of the calciums. The stage appears now to be flooded with moonlight. Of course the moon cannot be shown, for it would naturally be too far toward the audience. I was once in a theatre where the sun went down behind a mountain, and in half a minute the moon rose in the very same place. And the strangest part of it was that the audience did not pay any attention to this astounding freak of nature.

Man up in the Flies producing flickering Sunlight.]

The change from moonlight to sunrise is, of course, effected by simply reversing the process just described. Either one of these changes may be rendered more effective by certain additions. For instance, in the sunset part of the drop all the spaces between the clouds may be cut out. Muslin is then pasted over these openings, and is painted to represent the sky between the clouds. By placing lights behind this muslin a beautiful transparent sky is produced, and by gradually changing the color and intensity of the light as the sun goes down the appearance of the scene is made very realistic. This method is seldom employed, except in plays in which the scenic effects are an important element. A moonlit river is made also by cutting out the canvas, putting in muslin, and lighting it from the rear.

Moonrise is produced with a sky drop, cut out between the clouds, as in the case of the sunset just described, and a "moon-box." This moon-box is simply a box with a circular hole cut in one side of it. Over this hole is pasted a piece of white muslin, and inside the box is a light. The box is placed behind the muslin sky drop, with the hole against the drop. The light is turned on, and the moon is drawn slowly upward by wires. Of course the illuminated face of the moon shows through the muslin, and disappears when it passes behind the thick canvas clouds. By having another piece of muslin painted red, and imperceptibly fading to white in its upper part, the orb of night can be made to appear red at the horizon, and gradually change to pale yellow as it floats upward, just as it does on a summer night. A few floating clouds may be added to the general effect by hanging in front of the sky drop a gauze drop with a few muslin clouds sewn on it, and moving the whole slowly. These matters charm the eye and create an illusion when they are skilfully managed.

I spoke of a moonlit river. Sometimes you see in the theatre a river or a bay which does not simply lie calmly luminous under the rays of the stage moon, but which sparkles with dancing ripples. This is a very pretty stage effect, and is by no means difficult to produce. The position of the moon having been determined, the next thing is to make what Mr. Howard Pyle so gracefully describes as the "moon path." Beginning at the upper edge of the water, a number of irregular holes are cut in the scene. These are then covered on the back with muslin, and the whole is painted over to represent water. Behind these holes is placed an endless sheet of canvas, passing around two cylinders of wood, one at the top and the other at the bottom. The lower cylinder has a crank by which the sheet is turned. In the sheet are cut a number of holes similar to those in the scene. A strong light is now placed between the two sides of the sheet. When the crank is turned the flashing of the light from the moving holes in the sheet through the stationary ones in the scene produces a fine ripple. It is necessary to turn the crank so that the front part of the sheet is always ascending, because in this way the holes through which the light flows pass upward, and that makes the mimic waves seem to dance upward toward the sky. Sometimes the man who turns the crank becomes tired, and the audience is surprised to see the ripples go by fits and starts. For this reason an electric motor is better, or a steam attachment, if such a thing can be had in the theatre. The moonlit sky above the waters may be improved by the addition of a few twinkling stars, and these are easily enough produced by hanging large spangles on bent pins. The slightest tremor of the drop will cause them to shake, and the flashing of the light which they reflect produces the illusion of twinkling.

STUDYING TO BE MUSICIANS.

Some agreeable writer, whose name I have forgotten, said that there was no art which had so many devotees as music, and none of which there was such widespread ignorance. If I should say that there must be in the city of New York not less than 50,000 girls engaged in learning how to play upon the piano, I should perhaps astonish some of the readers of this paper, yet it is my firm belief that these figures are much too small. Such institutions as the National Conservatory of Music and the New York College of Music have each from 600 to 800 piano students, and there are some thirty smaller conservatories in the city. The number of private pupils is enormous, and one often wonders whether it can be possible that Americans are so fond of music that every family contains a student. The truth is, however, that nine-tenths of the girls who study the piano--I had almost said study music, but they do not do that--are actuated not by a love of music, but simply by a desire to possess an accomplishment. These young women are quite contented if they can acquire sufficient technical skill to perform a few brilliant, showy pieces in such a manner as to surprise their friends. There are a few, of course, who learn to play the piano because they are really fond of music, and desire to be able to give themselves artistic pleasure. And there are a few others who are studying seriously in the hope of becoming fine artists, capable of delighting the public, or, at the worst, of becoming professors in conservatories. Even then they are not much worse off than the great artists of the concert stage, for it is only once in a generation that a man like Paderewski arises, who can earn hundreds of thousands of dollars. Most of the noted pianists are compelled to teach in order to make a living, for concert engagements are not numerous. Their devotion to their art is the result of a deep and absorbing love for it, which must be its own reward.

Life in the music schools of New York is by no means as picturesque as life in the art schools, so charmingly described by Mr. Ralph; but it is interesting, and it has a remarkable jargon of its own, quite unintelligible to the non-musical person. The girls--the boy students are very few--flock to the New York schools from the entire surrounding country. Every morning train brings them from Newark, Paterson, Elizabeth, Yonkers, Tarrytown, Nyack, Greenwich, and other outlying towns and cities, where, indeed, good teachers may often be found, but not the advantage of conservatory systems. The New York girls come in street cars, in carriages with liveried coachmen, and on foot, for the students are of all classes. It is an inspiriting sight to see them trooping in on a stormy winter morning, with their heavy wraps, their snow-covered furs, their stout overshoes, their arms full of music, their cheeks full of roses, and their eyes dancing with the glow of exercise. Then there is the usual chatter about the lessons as they assemble in the waiting-room.

"Oh, I don't believe I shall ever manage that queer passage in the bass--the one where the chord of five notes is, don't you know?"

"Yes, I had that sonata last year; but, my dear, it's child's play to the Schumann piece I have now."

"Oh, dear!" says another, drearily, "I do wish that Bach had never lived. I'm sure I can't see anything pretty in his eternal fugues."

"Well, I don't think they're any worse than these Deppe two-finger exercises."

"Wait till you begin counterpoint, dear," says another, consolingly.

And then the bell strikes, and off they all go, still chattering, to the various class-rooms or lesson-rooms. A few minutes later the conservatory becomes a dreadful babel of confused sounds. Down in the basement some one is groaning out an organ fugue by Thiele, with a great clattering of heels on the pedals. On the first floor the sight-reading class is droning angularly a part song by Weinzierl in the large room, while in the apartment next to them the "gold medal" pupil is pounding Schumann's Etudes Symphoniques into sounding brass without any tinkling of cymbals. Upstairs one young woman is pursuing the uneven sopranos of her way up and down the scale, a boy is playing a violin étude in several kinds of pitch, and a dozen girls are hammering out their semi-weekly allowance of Bach, Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, and Chopin all at once. The teachers--German, Polish, Russian, French, Italian, occasionally American--sit, stand, or pace the floor, according to their temperaments, and correct, guide, and urge gently or excitably as the case may be.

"No, my dear, the accent on the second beat, and the pedal taken after it, and held over to the first beat of the next bar."

"Ach! You, dere! You play mit your knuckle! Vat is dat? Bay, bay; hit de bay!"

"Ah, mon enfant! You sing wiz ze troat vide oppen, so--ba-a-a-ah. Is it not? Vell, I vish you sing viz ze glottis a lettle pinch, so--bu-u-u-uh. Now, sing."

And the unhappy pupil closes her throat up, as if she had a sort of artistic croup, and tries to force her voice through by main strength. In the mass of pupils in the conservatory there are always twenty or thirty who are studying seriously, with the hope of making artistic careers for themselves. These do not simply study the pianos or singing; they study music, which is a vastly more laborious undertaking. For once a week there is the lesson in harmony, which is one of the driest and most discouraging topics in the world. Yet no one can be said to know anything about music who does not understand harmony. Just think of it--harmony, counterpoint and fugue, form, theory, composition, instrumentation, sight-reading, history of music. Those are the subjects which the educated musician must know, and they are all taught in the regular music-schools. Harmony is the science of chords, you know. The teacher explains the laws by which the various intervals are governed, leading the pupil step by step till he has advanced from a simple "resolution" like this:

to something like this:

Then comes that wonderful art of counterpoint, culminating in the building of a grand and complex composition out of two little phrases, called subject and answer, which flash and frown one against the other like lightnings against a blue-black sky. The student has to learn all about form--how a symphony is constructed from the humble beginning of a simple motive like this:

Furthermore, he must study instrumentation, and learn how the small army of voices in the modern orchestra are to be used. He must know their compass, their capacity for fast performance, the notes upon which it is possible to make trills, the keys in which they stand, and, above all, the character of the writing best suited to them. And again, he must be acquainted with the history of his art, for without it he is quite ignorant of the purposes of the composers whose works he attempts to perform. What a light it throws upon the correct interpretation of Mozart to know that in his day smoothness, finish, and a singing tone were the requisites of good playing. What a valuable thing it is for the pupil to know that Mozart desired to have the passages flow like oil, and that he was opposed to all decided violations of the time. What a flood of illumination it throws on all music to know the meaning of the three great periods of musical history, polyphonic, classic, and romantic. These subjects are taught to classes by lectures and special teachers; but it is a sufficient evidence of the light-mindedness with which most pupils approach, music that not more than five per cent. of the conservatory students enter these classes. The composition classes, of course, are only for very advanced students. Indeed, in Dr. Antonin Dvoràk's composition class at the National Conservatory several well-known composers are to be found.

And what do the music students outside of their study and practice hours? You can see them by the dozen at concerts and at the opera. They are especially conspicuous at the matinée entertainments. They have a school-girlish look, coupled with an air of wisdom, and they devote great attention to pianists' hands and arms. If the student is an aspiring young vocalist, she uses her opera-glass continually. I said to one of them at an opera matinée once,

"Why do you constantly watch Madame Lehmann through your opera-glass?"

"Well," she replied, "my teacher says that I must keep my tongue flat, because all good singers do, and I'm trying to see how Madame Lehmann holds hers."

"And how does she?"

"I can't see it all; I believe she has swallowed it."

Another said to me:

"I am watching Mr. Paderewski's wrists. My teacher says I must keep my wrists up, and there he goes every few minutes and lets his drop below the key-board."

"Perhaps when you are as far advanced as Mr. Paderewski," I suggested, "your teacher will allow you to do as you please with your wrists."

It takes time and devotion to make a good musician. I know that Mr. Paderewski is in the habit of practising from four to six hours a day, in addition to the performance of his long and difficult concert programmes, in order to preserve the skill which he acquired by long and wearisome labor. Even the men who play in the orchestras spend several hours each day in practice, for fingers will grow stiff and awkward unless they are used constantly.

FALCONRY, OR "HAWKING."

BY ZITELLA COCKE.

The training of hawks was a recognized profession in the last century. There were men who devoted their lives to it, and drew immense salaries for their labor. Louis XIII., who was devoted to this sport, and always rode out with his falconer and falcon for a hunt before going to mass in the morning, paid his trainer by the day a sum which seemed fabulous. Poor Louis XVI. did not care for the sport, and dismissed trainers and falcons from his service as an unnecessary expense.

So much time and pains were taken in the training of these birds that it was the occasion of a regular technical language, understood only by those who were versed in the art and the sport. Training the bird was called "manning it." Jesses were part of the bird's equipment, and consisted of narrow strips of strong leather fastened to its leg, by which it could be held when not on the hunt. Flat gold or silver rings called "varvels" were attached to the end of these jesses, with the owner's name and address written upon them. Bells were frequently tied to the leg of the bird, so that when it flew out of sight it could be traced by sound of the bell. To teach the bird to do what was called "jumping to the fist" was a great art, and took great time and care to accomplish. And a pretty sight it must have been--a sight quite worthy of being portrayed in Queen Matilda's embroidered tapestry--to see the bird, eager and impatient, about to spring to its master's fist. The graceful motion could not, of course, be represented in a picture, but as we imagine it, we cannot wonder that hunting with hawks was even more fascinating than hunting with hounds. And then to see it spring from the gauntleted fist into the air, and soar far away until it became a mere speck in the sky, yet never forgetting its resting-place, and returning to it after a flight of many a mile.

And this glove, or gauntlet, upon the hand of the falconer, and sometimes the monarch, was an important feature of the equipment. It was made of thick buckskin, and the royal gauntlets were wondrously adorned with gold and silver threads, and even jewels, set in forms of flowers and family crests. The bird itself often wore a helmet bedecked with plumes and jewels, to be removed, however, when it was pluming itself for flight. The call to the hawk was a spirited cry--"Yo-ho-hup--yohup--yohup"; and another, "Helover--helow--helow--helover."

When the bird was taken out and exercised, with a view to keeping him in good physical condition, as well as in thorough acquaintance with the various things taught him by his trainer, it was called "weathering."

The distance accomplished by these birds in a short time seems almost incredible, and this circumstance alone would make them a terror to their victims. Few birds could compete with the falcon. Its flight was as rapid as it was untiring, keeping always a little above the victim, and swooping down upon it in such a way as to make resistance impossible. In the air the heron itself was unable to resist his assailant, but if the two fell to the earth the heron had the advantage, and the falcon rarely escaped without losing one or both eyes. It was the eye always at which the heron aimed. A German Duke is said to have wept bitterly when his favorite falcon, falling to the earth with a heron in his talons, lost both of its eyes in the encounter which took place on the ground.

Lovers of dogs insisted that the hawk came to the "lure" only--the "lure" being the feed which constitutes a part of the training--and was never actuated by an affection for its master. But lovers of falconry declare the falcon to be capable of warm and lasting affection. A Colonel Johnson, of the Rifle Brigade, was ordered to Canada with his battalion. He had devoted much time and expense to the "manning," or training, of two falcons, and he took them with him across the Atlantic. During the voyage, after feeding them, he would fly them every day. Sometimes they sailed far out of sight, but always returned to the master. One evening, after a longer flight than usual, one of the falcons returned alone; the other, the chief favorite, was missing. Colonel Johnson made up his mind that he would never see his falcon again, but one day, after the arrival of the regiment in America, he saw a paragraph in a Halifax newspaper announcing that the captain of an American schooner had in his possession a fine hawk, which had suddenly made its appearance on board his ship during his passage from Liverpool. Colonel Johnson believed this bird to be his much-prized falcon, and obtaining leave of absence, started in pursuit of it. He went to Halifax, saw the captain of the schooner, and asked permission to see the bird. The captain refused the request, "guessed" that he would keep the bird himself, and asserted his disbelief in the Englishman's story. Colonel Johnson proposed that his claim to the ownership of the bird should be put to the test by an experiment. It was this: Colonel Johnson was to be admitted to an interview with the hawk, which had shown no partiality for any person since its arrival in the New World, and had repelled the caresses of its new owner. If at this meeting it exhibited unequivocal signs of recognition such as would convince the by-standers that Colonel Johnson was its original master, the American captain was to surrender all claim to it. Several Americans present admitted this test to be perfectly reasonable, and the captain was persuaded to acquiesce. He went up stairs, and returned with the falcon. The door was hardly opened before the bird jumped from the captain's fist and perched upon the shoulder of its long-lost master, rubbing its head against his cheek, taking hold of his buttons and champing them playfully in its beak, and evincing by every way in its power its delight and affection. The verdict was unanimous. Even the hard-hearted captain relented, and the falcon was restored to its rightful owner.

PUTTING THE SIXTEEN-POUND SHOT.

From instantaneous Photographs taken of W. O. Hickok, Inter-collegiate Champion.

Although putting the shot and throwing the hammer are events usually performed by the same man in an athletic competition, it is a fact, nevertheless, that the two things do not go well together. The hammer develops the pulling muscles in the back and arms, while the shot, on the other hand, develops the pushing muscles.

At one time Hickok, the present inter-collegiate champion, devoted himself exclusively to the shot, and soon got himself into such form that he could put 45 feet at any trial. Then he started in to practise with the hammer, and found his best throw measured only 110 feet--his best former record being one hundred and forty odd. He kept on systematically working then at both weights, but he soon noticed that the shot went down as the hammer went up, so that in a month he could scarcely do 40 feet. At the next inter-collegiate contest he put the shot 44 feet, which he considered a lucky performance--and it was--although before training for the hammer event for the same contest he had put over 45 feet.

To become successful in this event requires long and persistent work, just as in hammer-throwing. Shot-putting is a great science to develop, and it usually takes several years before an athlete can really become proficient in the event. The beginner must first strengthen his arms, giving particular attention to the development of the triceps and deltoids. This is best accomplished by work on the parallel bars, and by pounding a bag, as in boxing. The latter exercise cultivates swiftness. Sprinting is also an important exercise for a shot-putter, for it teaches him to be quick and light on his feet--a most important feature of the general preparation.

In addition to these things he should, of course, constantly work at putting the shot--in the gymnasium in winter, and on the field in the open-weather months. Let me say right here to the beginner, always use a 16-lb. shot. Shun a 12-lb. shot as you would a shuttle-cock. If you feel you are not strong enough to use the regulation weight, do not under any consideration go into training for the event. Wait until you are strong enough. There is plenty of time. The shot is an event that only strong and well-developed young men should indulge in--and if you feel you are not strong enough to handle sixteen pounds, you had better devote your energies to some other branch of athletics. The man who works with a 12-lb. shot is like the boy who prepared for entering the cavalry by riding assiduously on merry-go-rounds. In other words, practice with a lighter weight is a waste of time; you will have to learn all over again when you take up the regulation 16-lb. shot.

The shot is put from a seven-foot circle, along four feet of the circumference of which is placed a board four inches high. This is the so-called front of the circle, and the put is measured from this board to the nearest mark made in the ground by the shot. A fair put is one that has been made without any part of the competitor's body having touched in front of the circle or on the board before the measurement is made. A put is counted a foul if the competitor steps over the front half of the circle or on the board before the measurement of his put has been made--and the foul counts as a trial. Therefore be sure to remain in the circle until the field judge has measured and registered your put.

The careful athlete will always spare his right arm as much as he can. For instance, when he picks up the shot he will hold it in his left hand, and he will do the same while he steps into the circle and gets his footing. After this has been secured he will roll the shot over into his right palm--as shown in illustration No. 3 on the opposite page--and then he is ready to start.

Assuming as easy a position as possible, let the shot be well balanced in the right hand. Do not grip it tightly. In starting off, as shown in the fourth illustration, place the whole weight of the body upon the right leg, holding your left arm forward as a balance. Then take a quick hop with the right leg, all the time keeping the shot as near the shoulder as possible. Upon alighting after the hop, touch your left foot to the ground--and it ought to fall very close to the board rim. This is the position shown in the sixth illustration. The seventh shows the next movement, which is the transposition of the feet.

The correct attitude for getting across the circle on this hop is crouching. Then, as soon as your left foot touches ground, you bring it swiftly backward, throwing the entire right side of the body forward; and you turn half around, so that the right shoulder will be in the exact direction in which the shot is to be put. After the impetus upward has been given by the legs and body, shoot the arm outward with all the force at your command, the motion being just such a one as you would make with the clinched fist against the sparring-bag. This motion--the change of feet, the lift, the turn, the thrust--is a very rapid one, but the photographs illustrate it very well in the last two pictures of the series. Furthermore, this movement must be perfectly uniform from beginning to end, with no jerks and hitches; but it takes long practice to acquire a perfect smoothness.

The shot must be allowed to leave the hand easily, and the forward effort of the put must be so regulated that the equilibrium of the performer will be maintained. The perfect performer allows his body to bend forward just to that point where, should he go half an inch further, he would be forced to step out of the ring.

The beginner should practise with the shot for a good period every-day. He should work until he begins to feel tired, but after he has become master of the event--say in a year or so--he need practise but two or three times a week, and he will find that his form and powers are thus best retained.

In England the university athletes put the shot from a ten-foot square instead of a seven-foot circle. This gives them a certain advantage over American athletes, for they get a longer run, and thus more speed, and hence a greater momentum at the end. Hickok can put the shot from two to three feet farther from a ten-foot square than he can from a seven-foot circle, and with practice he believes that he could do even better. If an unlimited run, or series of hops, were allowed, the record for putting the shot would certainly be much greater than it is at present; but there is no doubt that the average form of athletes who take part in this event would be very much lower than it is now with the present scientific restrictions.

The first important indoor games of the season were held on Saturday, February 8th, in the Eighth Battalion Armory by the Barnard School. There were ten events on the programme, all of which were open, and a cup was offered to the visiting school winning the greatest number of points. This trophy went to Berkeley, who took two firsts and one second, and still, no doubt, retained something up her sleeve.

The Barnard team captured six firsts and two seconds, and showed that there is plenty of strong material in the school from which to develop a promising team for out-door work in the spring. All the events were interesting to watch, there being no handicaps, and the junior races were especially good, being rather more "for blood," perhaps, than the others, and being always a better field for surprises, as new material of an unknown quantity is continually appearing there.

Four records were broken, and the little fellows did most of the figure-smashing. W. S. Hipple, who made such a good showing against Kilpatrick last fall, defeated Irwin-Martin in the quarter-mile run, and then lowered the half-mile in-door record, made by Martin two years ago, from 2 m. 14-2/5 sec. to 2 m. 5 sec.! The time of the man who finished second to Hipple was 2 m. 19-4/5 sec. Beldford lowered the record for the mile. He took the lead from the start, but had a sharp tussle with Manuel of Pingry's toward the end, beating him in by only a few yards in 4 m. 54-2/5 sec.