TWELVE YEARS LATER.
In the early days of the present century, during which period the
events of this story took place, the education of the lower classes
was of the meagrest description; boys like Jack Shelley, with
intellectual capacities above the level of their own class, had none
of the opportunities afforded at the present day of rising from their
humble position. Jack, indeed, was fortunate in getting hold of Fairy’s
books, which he very soon mastered; but in those times young ladies
were taught very little besides history and geography, and a little
French, and Fairy was not fond of study; she liked French, and she was
fond of poetry; history she hated, and but for Jack her ignorance of
arithmetic would have been pitiable. Her taste for poetry hence fitted
Jack indirectly, for Mr. Leslie gave her a Shakespeare on her tenth
Christmas Day, and from the first day Jack caught sight of it he never
rested till he had saved up enough money to buy himself one, which
was his constant companion on the downs. He was an intense lover of
nature as well as of poetry, and his shepherd’s life helped him in this
respect; for during the long hours he passed daily on the lonely downs,
he had plenty of time for observation of all the birds and animal life
he came across. Sussex is a famous county for rare birds, and the
neighbourhood of Lewes in particular is celebrated in this respect; and
by the time Jack was seventeen he was quite an authority on birds; he
knew all about them, what kinds visited the neighbourhood and at what
seasons; which remained all the year round, and which were only rare
and occasional visitors; which bred there, where their nests were to
be found, how they were made, and how many eggs and of what kind each
species laid; the habits and very often the characters of different
birds—all this he knew.
His drawback was he could not afford to buy any good book on birds—they
were all far beyond his means; but Mr. Leslie had “Bewick,” and one of
Jack’s greatest treats was to go and fetch Fairy, when she spent an
evening at the Rectory, and be allowed half an hour’s study of this
most fascinating book.
But besides natural history and Shakespeare, Jack studied mathematics
on the downs; he bought an old Euclid and an algebra in a book-shop
at Lewes, and these, with his Shakespeare and one or two other books,
he kept in a hole in a chalk-pit on one of the downs; and winter and
summer alike, while the sheep grazed he studied. In winter he walked
up and down to keep his blood in circulation, for it was sometimes so
cold that he would have been frozen had he sat still; but in summer he
stretched himself full length on the short turf in some grey hollow,
where he was in shadow.
In some ways a shepherd’s life suited him; it gave him plenty of
leisure for study; he was his own master from the time he left home
in the grey dawn till he returned at sunset; his duties were light,
he had but to follow the sheep, and his dog did all the hard work;
moreover, he had none of the responsibility—that all fell on John’s
shoulders. Then he liked the loneliness of it. Often for days he met no
one except, perhaps, his father, with the rest of the flock, or Dame
Hursey gathering wool, or some other shepherd; but yet, for all this,
Jack hated the life. He hated it because he felt he had the capacity
in him for doing higher work; he hated it because, though his father
was content to live all the year on the chalky slopes, visiting Lewes
at the two sheep fairs, and occasionally on market days, and on the
fifth of November to see the carnival, he was not; he longed to go
beyond those round-topped mountains, to cross that silver streak of
sea he caught a glimpse of on clear days, to see some of the cities
and places he had read of. Above all, he hated it because he felt it
was an insuperable obstacle between him and Fairy; for whom, from that
day when, as an infant, she had clutched hold of his finger, he had
entertained a romantic and ardent affection.
And then he was very proud; and though it was doubtless very foolish
pride, he was ashamed of being a shepherd. He would not have had his
father, for whom he had the greatest respect, suspect the real secret
reason of his dislike to his occupation for worlds, but there it was
all the same. He knew to have refused to become a shepherd would almost
have broken John Shelley’s heart; and so, for his sake, Jack had never
demurred when it was proposed, but he cherished hopes of some day
rising to a higher calling.
Poor Jack! could he but have known how that longing was to be
fulfilled! But Jack no more than the rest of us could afford to look
into the future, neither had he the power—it was as mercifully veiled
from him as from others. To look back on past sorrows is sad enough;
to look forward to coming ones with the same certainty would be
insupportable.
Jack’s seventeenth birthday was a glorious day, and before the sun was
high in the horizon, he, and Fairy, and the two other boys were on
their way to the seaside, with their dinners in a basket. They were
all in high spirits, for a holiday was a rare thing indeed for Jack,
and Willy was nearly always at sea, so it was a treat to have him with
them, especially to Jack, whose favourite brother Willy was. Moreover,
when Willy was there, he would be sure to take Charlie away for part of
the day, and leave Jack and Fairy together, and this was a thing to be
very thankful for in Jack’s opinion, for he considered Charlie a little
nuisance, and had always been very jealous of his brotherly affection
and friendship for Fairy. One thing in particular annoyed Jack; Charlie
always kissed Fairy every night when he went to bed—a thing neither he
nor his father ever ventured to do, nor had Willy ever done so since he
came back from sea; but Charlie kissed her every night in the coolest
way; and when Jack remonstrated with his mother, as he sometimes did
about it, Mrs. Shelley only laughed and said as they were foster
brother and sister, and both still mere children, it was quite natural.
But this day was destined to be a very happy one for Jack; he was the
hero of it, and Fairy gave herself up to making it as pleasant for him
as possible. Her present had delighted him greatly, so he started in
his happiest mood. He was lucky, too, and found a nest of a Cornish
chough in the chalky cliffs, with five little birds, one of which Jack
took home alive and made a great pet of; then, as they neared Newhaven,
he shot a water-ousel with his catapult, to add to his collection of
stuffed birds found in the neighbourhood. Jack was a charming companion
on a country walk; he knew every bird they came across, and his delight
and excitement when they saw a rare or scarce bird was charming to
witness. A flight of crossbills, or a ring-ousel, was a delightful
incident to Jack; and when, in the evening at Newhaven, he actually
descried a stormy petrel skimming over the surface of the sea in its
usual business-like way, as if all the affairs of the nation depended
on it, his delight was unbounded. He had had a glorious birthday, he
declared—only one little shadow was cast across it on their way home,
when, as they reached the top of the down, at the foot of which lay
the shepherd’s house, they met Dame Hursey. Now Jack never could bear
Dame Hursey to approach Fairy! He always connected her in some way or
other, how, he did not exactly know, with Fairy’s arrival, and he had
a very shrewd suspicion that the old wool-gatherer knew far more than
anyone else about Fairy’s parentage. One thing was certain—she was
most curious about the child, and never met either Jack or his father
without talking about her, and trying to find out something about her;
and if she could only speak to Fairy herself, she was quite happy; but
this Jack never suffered her to do if he could prevent it; and seeing
her coming he now tried to hurry Fairy home before Dame Hursey could
catch them up.
“Hi, man, Jack Shelley, stop a minute, will you, and let me have a look
at the little lass?” shouted Dame Hursey in her broad Sussex brogue,
and Jack, much against his will, was obliged to stop.
“Poor old woman, Jack; she can’t do us any harm; why shouldn’t we stop
and speak to her?” said Fairy, who did not keep her pretty manners for
the other sex only, but was just as anxious to charm an old woman like
Dame Hursey, and be as courteous to her as she would have been to Mr.
Leslie or any of the people she met at the Rectory.
“Well, you are fair enough for a princess. We shall have the prince
coming one of these fine days and carrying you off,” said Dame Hursey,
holding the little slender fingers Fairy tendered her in her horny old
palm, and gazing with her piercing black eyes, bright now in spite of
her seventy odd years, at the child’s fair face.
“I hope not; I am very happy here,” said Fairy, laughing.
“But you don’t belong here for all that; you look as much out of your
place here as a black-faced horned sheep would among John Shelley’s
flock of Southdowns.”
“We must be going, Fairy. See, the sun is setting,” said Jack,
impatiently.
“Ah, it is no use your frowning about it, Jack Shelley. You may take
her away now, but you mark my words, as sure as my name is Hursey, the
prince will come and carry the fairies’ child away one of these days,
in spite of all you can say or do to the contrary,” persisted the old
woman, as Jack led Fairy off, feeling very much annoyed at her words.
“Old witch,” muttered Jack.
“Poor old thing! she means well, Jack,” laughed Fairy.
“I almost think she has meant mischief to you, Fairy, ever since
that day after you first came to us, and I was left at home to watch
Charlie, while mother took you to Mr. Leslie. I remember as well as
if it were yesterday; she came in while you were gone, and ransacked
the place to look for your clothes and things. If you had been in the
cradle instead of Charlie, I am sure she would have stolen you.”
“Oh, Jack, how absurd you are! Well, at any rate, I am too big to be
stolen now, so you might let me be civil to her.”
“Civil you can be, but, Fairy, promise me you will never go to her
cottage, nor stop talking to her when you are alone,” said Jack.
“Well, I promise. I am not at all anxious to go to her very dirty hut,
and mother very seldom lets me go out alone, except to and from the
Rectory.”
“I only wish she did; here I have to go out with Fairy whenever she
chooses, whether I like or not,” put in Charlie.
“But you always do like,” said Fairy, at which Jack frowned ominously.
The next week Willy went to sea, and the others were left at home for
the summer, except Fairy, who went to the seaside with the Leslies
for a fortnight in September, the longest fortnight Jack ever spent.
While she was away, Mrs. Shelley took the opportunity of warning Jack
about his growing jealousy of Charlie, which was daily becoming more
apparent, and she flattered herself when Fairy came back that her words
had had some effect, until a little incident occurred to show her she
was mistaken.
One evening in November, as Jack was coming down the High-street
of Lewes, whither he had had to accompany his father, much against
his will, to the last sheep fair, he saw a large bird flying slowly
overhead. He followed it down a by-street, and saw it was getting lower
and lower, evidently tired, until at last it sunk exhausted on the
ground, a few paces from Jack, who secured it without much difficulty.
It was a wild goose come southwards for the winter, and, being
exhausted either for want of food or by its long journey, had become
separated from its companions. By its black, snake-like head and neck,
and the smallness of its size in comparison with other geese, Jack
recognised it at once as a Brent goose, and taking it up in his arms he
ran home in triumph with his prize, which soon revived after being fed.
He clipped its wings and put it with the rest of the poultry, where it
soon became quite at home, and attached itself to Charlie, who always
fed it, and constantly followed him about the premises, sometimes even
into the house.
For some reason or other Fairy took a dislike to this bird; she
declared it looked like an evil spirit, and she was sure it would bring
ill-luck to them. She could not bear to see it about the garden, and
often begged Charlie in Jack’s hearing to keep it shut up with the rest
of the poultry. Charlie, however, delighted in having found a way of
teasing Fairy, and partly on that account, partly because he was really
fond of the bird, he encouraged it to follow him wherever he went.
One morning Charlie came in to breakfast in the greatest distress—the
Brent goose was gone; he had searched the premises, but could not see a
sign of it.
“I am very glad of it. Horrid bird, with its snaky head and neck! I
hated it,” said Fairy.
“Have you done anything with it, Fairy? Do you know where it is?”
asked Charlie.
“Ask Jack,” laughed Fairy; and that was all Charlie could get out of
her.
Jack was on the downs with the sheep, and would not be home till
evening, so Charlie spent the day in searching the neighbourhood for
the Brent goose, but in vain; and when Jack came home Charlie’s first
words were, “The Brent goose is lost, Jack.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Jack.
“I tell you it is; I have been all over the country looking for it, and
I can’t find it anywhere.”
“You didn’t go to the Pells, I suppose, did you?” asked Jack.
The Pells is the public garden of Lewes—a paddock, with a piece of
ornamental water, on which live a beautiful collection of wild ducks,
belonging to the town.
“No, I forgot that; how stupid of me! It is too dark to go now,” said
Charlie.
“And no use either, though the goose is there; I have given it to the
town,” said Jack.
“What a shame, when I was so fond of it! you only did it to spite me,”
cried Charlie, ready to burst into tears, only he was too big to cry
about a goose.
“I didn’t do it to spite you; I sent it away because Fairy hated it,
and you were always teasing her about it. If you want to see it you can
go to the Pells every day if you like and look at it, but I won’t have
Fairy teased about it.”
“You won’t have Fairy teased, indeed! Why, she is much more my sister
than yours; you have nothing to do with her; I am her foster-brother,”
broke out Charlie.
For a moment Jack hesitated, and Charlie put up his arm to ward off the
blow he seemed to expect, but on second thought Jack only turned on his
heel, and with a bitter laugh muttered contemptuously, “Get out of my
way, and don’t talk such stuff, you little idiot.”
They never understood each other, these two brothers. While Charlie
thought Jack a book-worm who encroached upon his relationship with
Fairy, Jack thought Charlie an idle little boy, not over clean, who
would never be anything more than a labouring man to the end of his
days, and who had the impertinence to consider himself on an equality
with Fairy. With Willy Jack got on much better, though Willy was no
cleverer than Charlie, nor any fonder of study; but then he never
roused his eldest brother’s jealousy in the way Charlie did. Mrs.
Shelley, who understood her eldest son better than anyone else did,
always tried to ward off any collisions between the boys, and if that
were impossible, took Jack’s part, which always had the effect of
mollifying him at once. On this occasion she had heard the squabble
between the boys, and as Jack went upstairs to change his clothes
before helping Fairy with her lessons, she persuaded Charlie, who had
been tramping about the country the whole day, to go to bed before Jack
reappeared, promising to bring him up some supper.
But Mrs. Shelley could not be always at her boy’s heels to keep the
peace between them, and as Jack grew into manhood she watched with
anxious heart his growing passion for Fairy, and his increasing
jealousy of his youngest brother. Under any circumstances his love for
Fairy would have made her tremble for him, though at present Fairy was
such a child it was impossible to say how she might feel in the future
with regard to Jack; but Mrs. Shelley thought it far more probable the
child would meet someone at the Leslies than that she would choose
Jack, whom she had known all her life, and whom she seemed to regard
as an elder brother. But when added to this Jack’s jealousy of Charlie
grew side by side with his love, like an ugly poisonous weed by the
side of a beautiful flower, Mrs. Shelley, in spite of the comfort and
joy Fairy was to her, often regretted having taken her in, though, as
she told herself, she really did not know what else could she have done.
A few days after the Brent goose was sent to the Pells, Fairy, on
coming back from the Rectory at four o’clock, found she had left one of
her books behind her, and as Charlie was not to be found, being in all
probability at the Pells, paying an afternoon visit on his goose, Fairy
with some difficulty persuaded Mrs. Shelley to let her go back to the
Rectory alone, declaring she would be home again before dark.
She reached the Rectory safely, got her book, and was just passing the
Winter-bourne, about ten minutes’ walk from the shepherd’s house, when,
rather to her annoyance, Dame Hursey suddenly appeared from a by-lane
and stopped her.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Hursey; I must not stop, it is getting so dark;
mother will be frightened,” said Fairy, trying to pass the old woman,
mindful of her promise to Jack, and secretly rather nervous at her
encounter with the old wool-gatherer in this lonely spot, and in the
gathering gloom of a November evening.
“Mother, indeed! You have a grander lady for your mother than Mrs.
Shelley ever saw the like of, proud as she and her son Jack may be, I
am thinking; but never mind that—one of these fine days Dame Hursey may
tell you some news that will open those pretty eyes of yours, till they
will look bigger than ever. Tell me, child, you can read writing, of
course, can’t you?” said Dame Hursey, pulling aside her coarse apron,
and fumbling among the folds of her tattered linsey skirt for her
pocket.
“Yes, I can read and write too; but I really must be going home; it is
getting so late,” said Fairy.
“Wait a minute, child; I am not going to keep you long. I want you to
read a letter for me I had from my son this morning; maybe there is
something in it I should not care for just everyone to know; I have
been on the look out for John Shelley or gentleman Jack all day, but
I have missed them somehow, and I can’t read writing myself. Ah! here
it is at last,” producing a letter from the bottom of a very capacious
pocket filled with some very incongruous articles—a few coppers, a
piece of cheese, a thimble, a sock she was knitting, some corks, and
various other odds and ends too numerous to mention.
Fairy took the letter, and by Dame Hursey’s instructions read it aloud.
It ran as follows:—
“Dear Mother,
“I am just home from Australia, but I am going back there again at
once. First, I want to see you, as I think you can tell me something I
want to know, so will you meet me on the top of Mount Harry at three
o’clock next Saturday afternoon? I shall be there, and, if you are
living, I shall expect you. Till then I am your affectionate son,
“GEORGE.”
“Is that all? Every word of it?” asked Dame Hursey, fixing her black
eyes on the child.
“Yes. Shall I read it again?” said Fairy.
“No. Next Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, on the top of Mount
Harry. I shall be there safe enough. Thank you, my pretty one; I shan’t
forget that one good turn deserves another. Good-night,” and the old
wool-gatherer dived into a lane, and was out of sight before Fairy
had recovered her astonishment, when she took to her heels and fled
breathless to Mrs. Shelley, who was anxiously watching at the gate for
her.
(_To be continued._)
NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.
NOVELLO, EWER, AND CO.
_Beethoven’s Songs._ Vol. I. With both the German words and an English
version. By the Rev. Dr. Troutbeck, to whom we are indebted for so
many excellent translations of words to music.—This truly valuable
collection, including such specimens as “Adelaide,” “The Glory of God
in Nature,” popularly known as “Creation’s Hymn,” will be eagerly
sought for by all singers; particularly when we mention that the
twenty-six songs may be purchased for eighteenpence.
[Illustration]
_Liederkreis._ The opus 39. By Schumann.—A circle of twelve songs,
many well known to you. Amongst them we find the “Frühlingsnacht,”
“Mondnacht,” “In der Fremde,” and other lovely poems.
_Six Duets._ For soprano and contralto. By F. H. Cowen.—Form a most
charming volume, and are published at the same moderate price and in
the same excellent form, with clear type and careful editing.
_Six Vocal Duets_, for the same voices. By Oliver King, a rising
composer, may also be warmly recommended.
_Ten Songs._ By George J. Bennett, a youthful Academy student. Settings
of words by Robert Burns. Are all most fresh and delightful, and add to
a reputation which this hard-working young composer has already firmly
established.
_Three volumes of Piano pieces_, by Fritz Spindler, a well-known
pianoforte teacher and composer in Dresden (forming numbers
of Novello’s Pianoforte Albums), are most useful and artistic
contributions to our store of light piano music. The transcriptions of
subjects by Wagner are very good.
FORSYTH BROTHERS.
_Scales and Arpeggios._ By Harvey Löhr.—These excellent studies
are systematically fingered, and contain many useful hints towards
improving the pianist’s technique.
JOSEPH WILLIAMS.
_The Star of our Love._ By F. H. Cowen.—A graceful, well-written song,
to words by the late Hugh Conway, whose little books have created so
much excitement lately. Compass D to E or F to G.
_Clouds_, and _I love you too well_. Two more songs by the same eminent
composer. Published in one or two keys.
_Three Songs._ Words and music by W. A. Aikin.—Very simple and
effective.
_The Ride of Fortune_ (founded on Shakespeare’s lines, “There is a
tide in the affairs of men,” &c.). By Charles A. Trew.—An excellent
contralto song.
_Operatic Fantasias._ For violin, with piano accompaniment. By F.
Davidson Palmer Mus.Bac.—Judging from _Il Trovatore_, the number
before us, these fantasias should be often used for concerts and other
entertainments, where a faithful transcription of operatic melodies is
required, untrammelled by too many cadenzas and fireworks for the solo
instrument.
_La Figlia del Reggimento._—This selection is also to be commended. It
is for two violins and piano, and arranged by John Barnard.
_Sarabande_ (ancien style). Pour piano. Par Henri Roubier. _Idée
Dansante._ For piano. By Percy Reeve.—Two dances above the average,
graceful and musicianly.
WILLIAM CZERNY.
_Partita_, in D minor. For violin and piano. By Hubert Parry.—A
scholarly work, made up of six sections:—Maestoso, Allemande, Presto,
Sarabande, two Bourrées, and a Passepied in Rondo form. One might
almost call it a Sonatina of many movements. The partita differs from
the suite in not being restricted to dances only.
_Je l’aimerai toujours._ An easy piano piece for beginners. Composed by
François Behr.
_Intermezzo-Minuet._ A short entr’acte for piano. By G. Bachmann.—This
smoothly-written morceau is included in Czerny’s orchestral series as a
string quartett.
_Adoration._ A meditation upon Bach’s 7th “Small Prelude.” By Oscar
Wagner.—Arranged for piano and violin, or flute or violoncello, with
organ and additional strings, upon the model of Gounod’s similar work,
but scarcely so interesting, and certainly not so spontaneous in
melodic treatment. It is also arranged as an “O Salutaris Hostia” for
voice, violin, piano, and organ or harmonium.
_Stars of the Summer Night._ By Edouard Lassen.
_My All-in-all._ By Theodor Bradsky.—Both these songs have violin
obbligatos, in which the chief fault appears to be that the violin
never rests, not even for a bar.
_Happy Days._ A touching song. By poor Max Schröter. Compass C to F.
PHILLIPS AND PAGE.
_For ever with the Lord!_ Sacred song. By Gounod.—A new song by Gounod
needs only to be mentioned to engage the attention of our readers.
Gounod has been happier in his setting of other English hymns, such as
the “Green hill far away” and the “King of Love my Shepherd is.” But
there are some lovely points in this. It is published in keys suitable
to all voices, both as a solo and a duet, and it also appears in anthem
form for four voices and organ.
J. AND J. HOPKINSON.
_She Noddit to Me._ A song that bids fair to become most popular. The
words by A. Dewar Willock.—Describe the delight of a Scotch body at
receiving a “special bow” from the Queen as she passed her cottage
on the Deeside. The music is by J. Hoffmann, and it is dedicated by
special permission to Her Majesty.
_The Crusader._ A stirring baritone song. By Theo. Bonheur.
_The Goblin._ A cynical poem, set to music by Gustav Ernest, whose
clever works we have before noticed.
E. ASCHERBERG AND CO.
_The Winged Chorister._ The music by Pinsuti.—The chorister in question
(although there is a harmonium part) is not a dying choir boy, but a
robin which has got into the church by some means, and whose “pure,
clear notes,” it is suggested, “would harmonise our coarser tones, and
bear them straight to Heaven.” Our recollection of the robin’s note,
easily imitated by tapping two pennies together, hardly carries out
this lofty idea!
_Let us Wander by the Sea_, and _The Merry Summer Time_. Two duets for
soprano and contralto. By our much lamented countryman, Henry Smart,
whose delicate fancy has in so many ways enriched English music.—The
edition before us is ruined, as far as outward appearance goes, by
vulgar drawings on the covers.
_Aubade Française._ A most elegant serenade in the purely French style.
By M. de Nevers.—Very suitable for a light tenor voice.
_Gavotte des Oiseaux._ A bright little dance for pianoforte. By G.
Bachmann.
F. PITMAN.
_The Musical Monthly._—This last year’s number is as extraordinary
a shillingsworth as ever, containing, in the midst of much that is
unworthy, several good old English airs, some of Mendelssohn’s songs
without words, five songs from the _Bohemian Girl_, of Balfe’s, some
good Scotch songs, etc., etc.
* * * * *
We have also received an advance copy of No. 1 of the “Violin Soloist,”
well got up, and containing ten or twelve good solos. It is to be
brought out monthly at a penny per number.
_Canadian March._ For Piano. Solo and duet, and for every other
imaginable combination. Composed by Carl Litolff.
NORTH OF ENGLAND SCHOOL FURNISHING COMPANY.
_150 Exercises and Questions in the Elements of Music._ By I. L.
Jopling, L.R.A.M.—Most thorough and searching test questions,
systematically and exhaustively treated. This little book will prove of
great help in preparing for the elementary examinations of the various
colleges and academies. It is to be used after studying Mr. Davenport’s
primer.
THE LONDON MUSIC PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Six songs by Erskine Allon to words by Sir Thomas Wyatt, who died in
1542.—All that Mr. Allon writes is interesting. In these songs the
accompaniments are as full of charm as the melodies are of quaint
character and grace.
C. KING.
Shakesperian Sketches, for Pianoforte, by Frank Adlam.—Clever
illustrations of passages and scenes in Shakespeare’s plays.
BOOSEY AND CO.
_The Choralist_: 269, “Waiting for the Spring.” 270, “A Winter
Serenade.”—Two capital four-part songs by J. S. Mitchell.—267, “Come,
Lassies and Lads.”—A masterly arrangement in four parts of the good old
seventeenth-century ditty.
_Cavendish Music Books._—In No. 101 we have a selection of American
pieces. To those who wish to know what our cousins on the other side of
the Atlantic are doing in musical composition, we advise a perusal of
this selection. It proves that, at any rate in this kind of art work,
we are more “go-ahead” than they are.
_The Sweet old River._ Song by Sydney Smith.—A smoothly written song,
published in C and E flat.
_Dreams._ Song by Cecile S. Hartog.—Miss Hartog’s compositions are
exceptionally good, and far above the average ballad.
_The Wide, Wide Sea._—One of the best songs that Stephen Adams has
written. Compass, B flat to E flat, or C to F.
_In the Chimney Corner._ By F. H. Cowen.—A song of the Behrend type,
but higher in conception, and rather more hopeful in tone.
_Go, Pretty Rose._ Duet in canon. By Marzials.—We recommend this duet
to all who have sung and admired his other canon, “My true love hath
my heart.” It is a most elegant canon, and very melodious and bright
withal.
STANLEY LUCAS AND CO.
_Grave and Corno._ By Joseph Gibbs (1744), and air and jigg by Richard
Jones (17th century). All for violin and piano.—These really good and
interesting relics of old English composition have been revived by Herr
Peiniger, who has arranged a piano part from the figured basses. Just
as we admire the case of an organ, so may we speak of the admirable
covers to these pieces. They are in excellent taste.
_Five Pictures on a Journey._ By F. W. Davenport.—Well written and
suggestive piano pieces.
_Episodes for the Piano._ By Frederick Westlake.—We have received No.
1, Prelude, and feel sure that the others equally well sustain the
reputation of this esteemed professor of the Royal Academy.
EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.
A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.
BY JAMES MASON.