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:
[Illustration]
to something like this:
[Illustration]
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:
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: 1.]
[Illustration: 2.]
[Illustration: 3.]
[Illustration: 4.]
[Illustration: 5.]
[Illustration: 6.]
[Illustration: 7.]
[Illustration: 8.]
[Illustration: 9.]
[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]
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.