And Nick would shout back, rapturously: "Fun, and no mistake! Go on!"

The ice had frozen suddenly, and in clear weather, so that hardly a dash of white broke the extraordinary blackness beneath them, which was splendidly terrifying. To float over what he knew was almost endless depth, as if it were water in a still but liquid state, made Nick's hair curl over, and his heart warm within him. Great gulping reports flew back and forth through the pond, as they scudded on, as though it were laughing, and would soon immerse them in a dangerous smile from its parted surface. Once the young collegian flew toward the center of the pond, wishing to cross by a central route; but somehow he switched aside just in time. Why? Oh, because the ice did not quite reach from shore to shore, so very deep were the waters. Nick guffawed with surprise, and a rejoicing that he still lived. Boom! gulp! went the cracking stretches about them; whir! went the sled; click! went the skates; boom! went the lake, again. The moon was suddenly looking at them, slender and silvery in the immense, sparkling heaven. But Nick could never have enough of such pastime as this. As he sat on his sled, behind the never-tiring youth who faithfully held the cord, he almost believed he had come to a land of magic, and would never cease flying. He reflected that if he put his hand into his pocket, now, to feel Buddha's smooth hooded crown, he would find the sage gone. He could not really be Nick Woolson any more, nor his coat his. "Tired?" called back the young man. Nick gasped with astonishment. "I?not if I know myself!" Which was, as has been seen, by no means a certainty. But expressions mattered less now than usual.

And on they flew. And then they stopped. The young man dropped the sled-cord, and drew a deep breath. Nick laughed. It seemed to indicate just what they both felt so well that the collegian grinned, in a benevolent way.

"This is a perfect cove we 're in," he said. "You sit still, and I 'll show you some patterns." With these words he revolved and revolved, first in one style and then in another, with nervous turns ending in graceful sweeps. Nick's eyes were fastened upon him in a fascinated manner.

All at once a terrible sensation pervaded Nick's being. He no longer had a moment's doubt as to his existing in a downright world, with Buddha Occupying his pocket. He was hungry. And there were two miles and a half of snow to struggle over before he could get anything to eat. He never carried food in his pocket, for a reason easily

"Tired?" again asked the collegian, knowing with the penetration of youth that something had come over Nick.

"Oh, no! But I wish we were at home, and had one of mother's apple-pies!"

"And a good glass of creamy milk, too, would suit me," said the collegian.

“And you ought to try the doughnuts!” Nick exclaimed, as if he were about to hand them across a table.

"And some steaming tea in an old-fashioned tea-cup," added the stranger.

"And Johnny-cake," said Nick.

They might have known better! Two more restless, desperate creatures than they were not to be found anywhere in the vicinity, after calmly calling up before them food that could not really be tasted.

"I think we must be going home, at all events," concluded Nick's companion. Up jumped Nick immediately.

"To my home," he said. "My mother always likes to have me bring my friends home; and she gives them the best she has. I have schoolmates whose mothers never let them invite anybody."

They were well on their way by this time, and Nick's new friend cheerily replied:

"I like you better now than I did to begin with, and you seemed a fine little chap then. Go home to supper with you? I would n't miss it for the world!"

They chatted busily, hardly daring to stop a moment, lest the pangs of famine should make them speechless forever after. Nick's head swam around, until his nose seemed facing the pond, he was in such a faint hurry. His sled was very heavy and cross, and he wished it were good

to eat.

At last it is marvelous how soon that distant time of " at last comes about - Nick shouted: "There's Mother's!" and he ran in at the gate. The stranger followed, bound simply upon honest amusement, and wisely setting aside annoying scruples. The result was that he and every one else were very jolly and sociable.

Mrs. Woolson had been very much frightened, for Nick was particularly careful to be on time for meals, although he never could guess correctly about school-hours. His father had laughed the matter off at supper, and remarked that Nick was growing older, and would soon begin to do all sorts of surprising things. If it were summer-time now, he said, he should have supposed the boy had run away to sea, as he had tried to do himself. But none

of the females of the household were mystified by the good farmer's philosophical behavior, for they knew very well that Mr. Woolson's only son was his daily comfort and delight, and that he was a little anxious at Nick's absence.

When Nick entered out of the bleak evening air, Mrs. Woolson probably had a vague sense of astonishment that a tall figure should be looming up behind him, as if her son had brought his future manhood along, having come across it on his winter ramble. But she would not have greatly minded if Nick had brought twenty men at his back, so long as he came himself, as round and rosy as ever, and merrier than she had seen him in all his life.

"Oh, Mother, I hope you kept supper for us. We've had such a glorious time! But hungry!-oh!" "Nick," whispered his sister Elspeth, who is this?"

66

"Oh, I don't know his name. Mother, I don't know what his name is, but this is a new friend I've met to day, and brought to tea; I told him you were always jolly about my doing so."

Mrs. Woolson was evidently suppressing several emotions, from laughter to ejaculations of dismay; and Elspeth was leaning up against the entry-wall, with eyes fixed upon the new-comer.

"Glad to see you!" said Mr. Woolson, holding out his hand to the collegian as his deep voice reverberated up the stairs and through all the bedrooms (for the house had always been too small for his height and breadth). "We've been a-waitin' for you quite a while, sir!'

Everybody laughed right out,

the first of them had announced Mr. Fairfax's love of old porcelain.

The two famished persons ate and ate; and when they wanted a particularly unwarrantable relay of any good thing on the table, they would spin a wilder yarn than before about their exploits; and then pass their plates; and while Elspeth's gray eyes were stretched at their widest and her mouth was silently opened in admiring delight, she would heap up chicken and butter, or carve a huge ungeometrical portion of apple-pie. And Mrs. Woolson shook the tea-pot frantically for the fifth

"Thank you, sir!" he answered. "That's the best welcome I ever had, for I never deserved any so little. My name is Fairfax, and by profession I am a student, and we 'll tell you the rest when" but, by this time, Elspeth was bustling about and Mrs. Woolson was sitting at the tea-tray. Mr. Fairfax was made to feel perfectly at home, and had his tea from an old-fashioned cup,- one of those which Mrs. Woolson valued as highly as she did the memories of her wedding year; for Nick had rattled out a great many pieces of information instead of breathing (so it seemed), and among

milk-pitcher at Nick's glass so often that, as she said afterward, she "would n't have been inside his jacket for twopence!"

What an evening it was! How Mr. Fairfax was taken into the midst of the Woolson heart, for being the dear, downright, roguish fellow that he was! Nick felt as if he had returned from a long journey. He was never quite the same boy afterward, although his life seemed just the same. But it is good to feel that one has changed. Inside there, where one's thoughts wake up, and sometimes will appear to be a little too much like rows and rows of twins. It was good for Nick

to feel that he cared more for the great pond than he had cared yesterday for swapping strings for empty physic-bottles, which was then the most exciting thing he had experienced. Not that he could ever despise strings and bottles, but he realized that there was something higher and larger than either of those interesting inventions.

When Mr. Fairfax was ready to start back to the village, a fine snow was falling, which was the beginning of a long storm; and Nick never had another chance of stepping upon the pond in winter. But, until he returned to college, Mr. Fairfax often walked to the farm for a chat with the Woolsons. In the whole course of his life

Nick never forgot the pleasures which this young man had brought in his wake. But if he felt that an enchanting outlook had been given, once for all, to his quiet existence through his glimpse of a wonder of nature in company with some one from a gayer sphere than his own, Mr. Fairfax, on his side, often remembered, when feeling lost in the wide world, that he had a true young friend under the apple-trees, whose honest eyes and dauntless figure had once captivated him in the most unexpected way. Two people can not strike hands cordially,-- without a shadow of disagreeable and not gain from each other something, and, perhaps, even the most treasured influence of their lives.

reserve,

X.-WAGNER.

WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER was born at Leipzig, May 22, 1813. Great as critic, poet, and musician, the life of no composer offers a more fascinating history than does his, from the moment that his mission first shaped itself in his mind until the final triumph of his hopes.

His parents were people in moderate circumstances; his father, a policeman, died when the child was a baby. His step-father, Ludwig Geyer, an actor and painter, wished to make a painter of little Richard, but the child showed no taste for that art. Geyer died when Richard was in his seventh year, and when his mother told him that his step-father had hoped he would be something, he was much moved, and as he himself relates, "then I too thought I should be something." When he was nine, he went to school, where he was the despair of the teacher who instructed him in music; he paid no attention to his practicing, but seized every opportunity of repeating the melodies that he had heard, especially those of "Der Freischütz," which had already kindled his powerful imagination. Ancient history, mythology, Greek and Latin were his favorite studies, but his heart was really in none of these, for he had a secret aim which absorbed all his thoughts and feelings he was a poet! In his eleventh year, he won a prize for the best poem on a dead schoolmate, and soon after this he translated the first twelve books of the Odyssey. He taught himself English, and immediately became so absorbed

in Shakespeare that he decided to write a tragedy. For two long years he toiled, and during this period he contrived to kill off forty-two people in his drama. He was forced to relent, however, and to recall them as ghosts in the last act in order to have performers enough to play the parts. Meantime he had left Dresden, where he had been living, and entered a school at Leipzig, but he had so neglected his studies for musical composition, that he was put back a class; this so discouraged him that he gave himself entirely to his tragedy. When he had nearly finished it, he first heard Beethoven's music. This had so strong an influence over him that he determined to set his tragedy to music, and purchased a book on thorough-bass to prepare himself for his task. So fascinated did he become with the study, that he determined to be a poet no longer, but that music should have the devotion of his life. When his family learned of his tragedy, they were much troubled, for they felt it was the cause of his backwardness at school; but when they found him to be writing music, they were in despair, for they believed it to be nothing more than a fancy, and that it might do the boy great harm. He was not to be discouraged, however, and composed in secret. But at last he was placed under the instruction of Theodore Weinlig, a man steeped in the spirit of "Father Bach," who put him through a six months' study of counterpoint. Now he learned and loved Mozart, but Beethoven's wonderful strains held his heart by day and night.

In 1834, he accepted a position as conductor in the

Magdeburg theater, where he only remained a year. Filled with the music of Beethoven's symphonies, most of what he heard seemed dull and trivial, and he determined to write an opera; he worked with the greatest enthusiasm, and in 1839 he started for Paris to produce his "Rienzi." In company with his wife he embarked on a sailing vessel bound for London; the voyage was long and tedious, doubly so to Wagner, whose heart was beating with love for his opera, and who could scarcely wait to hear it sung. While on the sea his thoughts ran largely on the legend of the "Flying Dutchman "- the man who is doomed to wander forever over the sea, an exile from home and all he holds most dear. The story fascinated Wagner, for he too felt far from home. Arriving at Paris, he found that it was impossible to have his opera produced, even though Meyerbeer interested himself in it. After many struggles and disappointments, he felt there was no hope for him in Paris, and his heart turned again to Germany. A deep longing for the fatherland possessed him; he determined to write a great work, which should be worthy to be sung there. As he sought for a subject on which to found his opera, he remembered the story of the "Flying Dutchman." He took this for his theme, and into it he poured all the homesickness of his own soul. While composing it, he was obliged to support himself by writing popular operettas, but he was content to do this, for he was working with a high purpose. After finishing the work, he sent it to Leipzig and Munich, where it was rejected. Great as this blow was to him, he was somewhat encouraged on hearing that his "Rienzi," through Meyerbeer's influence, had been accepted at Berlin. He now set out for Germany, and as he looked down into the Rhine the tears swam in his eyes, and "poor artist as I was," he says, "I swore to be true to the fatherland." His life shows how true he was to his vow. His one dream and ambition was to build up German art. The German stage had long played only French and Italian operas, but he determined to give it a German opera, that the country which had produced a Bach, a Mozart, and a Beethoven should no longer turn to any other country for its opera. He reached Germany filled with this high resolve; this alone he determined to live for- if need be, to die for. In 1842 "Rienzi," and in 1843 "Tannhauser," were given at Dresden; but, though they were received at first with great enthusiasm, the public neither appreciated nor understood them, and Wagner felt there was no hope for him even in the German theater. The aim of the stage was not high, indeed, it had no aim; and Wagner, in disgust at its frivolity, wrote a series of articles against it, which drew upon him a bitter opposition,

and gained him many enemies. In the revolution of 1848, he was obliged to flee from Berlin and seek a refuge in Paris. While there, Liszt - who was living at Weimar-secured the production there of Wagner's "Lohengrin," and Wagner now no longer felt the pang of exile, for his opera had found a home on German soil. And soon a greater happiness was to be his. On his return to Germany, King Ludwig had just ascended the throne of Bavaria; and one of the first acts of the young prince was to hold out a helping hand to Wagner. He bade him write, and assured him of the royal protection and help,-a royal promise, and royally kept; for, from that time, the prince and the musician were the closest friends. Wagner took up his residence at Munich, where he devoted himself to writing, and determined to build a theater of his own, for only in such a house could his operas be correctly interpreted. To under

stand why this was necessary, we must glance at some of Wagner's views on art.

In the Italian and French operas, which, until Wagner's day, had been played throughout Germany, the whole stress is laid on the arias which the various artists are to sing. People go to such an opera to be amused, and, after hearing it, give no thought to the libretto nor to the composer, but talk only of the singers' voices; the opera itself is of little consequence; the people are only concerned with the singers. The artists themselves look upon the operas simply as opportunities to show their voices to the best possible advantage.

Wagner believed that an opera should have a noble aim. So in everything he has given us, there is some divine struggle going on between the characters of right and wrong, in which the right triumphs. As the contest progresses, we ourselves are lost in the characters before us, our noblest feelings are aroused and strengthened. Wagner believed, furthermore, that the subject and words of an opera were not less important than the music; and he has expended as much of his own spirit in writing the librettos of his operas as he has poured into his music. No note of the music is for show; every one interprets some word or idea that is in the words; and every thought and act of the character is interpreted in the music, even if it be so insignificant a circumstance as jumping up a bank or running down a flight of steps. The performers, too, are expected to love their work, and to sink themselves in their parts; they must cease to be themselves and be the characters they represent. So that in one of Wagner's operas, every one, down to the smallest person connected with it, is necessary to its production; poet, musician, artists, orchestra,—all are great, for each can say, "but for me this could not be !" In order to accomplish his ideas, Wagner decided to build in the heart of Germany a theater in which a yearly festival should be held, and where German opera should be sung by German artists, so that the people who came thither from all Germany should know at last that Germany, too, had its opera. He addressed a circular to all in sympathy with him, for help; Wagner societies were formed throughout Germany and other countries for the purpose of contributing money to his project; and, in 1872, the corner-stone was laid at Bayreuth, with an address by Wagner and a perfect rendering of the Ninth Symphony. In 1876, the theater was finished, and at last the great composer had carried out all his aims. The theater is very plain; there is no ornamentation within to distract the eye from the stage, and everything is sacrificed to the opera itself.

Wagner now settled at Bayreuth in a beautiful house given him by the King of Bavaria. Within, one is constantly reminded of the composer's work; a beautiful frieze in one of the halls is covered with pictures from his opera of the "Niebelungen"; his dogs were called Frigga, Freya, and Wotan, after characters in his works, and a son was named Siegfreid, after one of his

famous heroes.

In

In 1882 Wagner's last opera was produced. this opera of "Parsifal," his aims are carried to the highest point; the opera is religious in its tone, and those who listened to it felt as if they were listening to a religious service. So thoroughly was this Wagner's intention that he left explicit injunctions that nowhere outside of Bayreuth should the opera be produced. In the summer of 1882, he took a trip through Italy; while at Venice he complained of feeling ill, and suddenly died of heart disease, February 13, 1883.

Few in any art have had a loftier or nobler career than Richard Wagner. Had he not been a great musician he would undoubtedly have been a poet; but music took him to herself. With noble aims, he battled against all that was low and false in art. Though tried by poverty and persecution, he remained faithful to his highest convictions. He was one of the rare souls who

"Thought it happier to be dead,

To die for beauty than live for bread."

In reading the lives of these masters "From Bach to Wagner," we find there are a few threads that bind them all together. Perhaps that which has impressed us most deeply is the sorrow that most of them were called on to suffer. And yet through all, how loyal they remained to their art, cherishing it like the very lamp of life when all else was dark about them! To Beethoven it was friends, to Mozart it was food, to Schubert it was life. So far from feeling that genius gave them a right to shirk labor, they thought it laid them under bonds to dedicate their lives to it-from Bach, who has taught every musician who succeeded him, to Wagner, who felt that he had a message for the whole world. Nor can we who wish to interpret the music of such men succeed solely by drudging at the piano, great as that toil is, but we must throw our whole heart into the music. "Play as you feel," said Chopin; but if one feels nothing, how can one really play? So we must cultivate ourselves in every direction, educating ourselves in every department of study, and in music especially by hearing the best music rendered by the best performers, by listening to the symphonies and solos at the Symphony and Philharmonic concerts or rehearsals, the oratorios given by Oratorio Societies, and the operas as we may have the opportunity. It were worth all this and more, far more, to draw music from the piano.