And now, what are some of the uses to which we apply this noble instrument, this long-suffering piano? When the gentlemen in the dining-room hear that familiar sound upstairs, they know it is time to have tea in the drawing-room. Let us enter the drawing-room after dinner. The daughter of our hostess is rattling away at the keys, and quite ready for a chat at the same time; if conversation comes her way, she can leave the bass out, or invent one, as it is only the "Sonate Pathétique." She has long passed the conscientious stage, when an indifferent or careless performance caused her the least anxiety. She plays her fantasia now as lightly as she rings the bell, not for its own sake, but because it is time for the gentlemen to come up, or for the ladies to begin a little small-talk, or for somebody to make love. When she gets up another sits down, and continues to provide that indispensable stimulant to conversation called "a little music."

It must be admitted that to be a good player is no distinction in English society. It has its reward, no doubt, in the quiet happiness of long hours-hours of loving application; hours of absorption; hours lived in a world of subtle and delicate emotion, such as musical dreamers alone realize; and, above all, real musicians have the luxury of meeting occasionally those who can listen to and understand them. They give, but they also receive. Good players and good listeners are equally happy in each other's society. How seldom they meet in England! how few, even fine amateur pianists, have anything like a musical circle! It is very seldom that a neighborhood can muster the materials for a Mozart or a Beethoven trio, not to say quartet; and seldom that an amateur has the opportunity of playing a concerto of Mendelssohn's with string accompaniments, or any other accompaniment than that of noisy children. or general conversation. But no. Late years have witnessed. some remarkable combinations, which, however indifferent, are often respectfully listened to.

The harmonium and concertina force themselves upon our attention. There are certain perfect forms and perfect players of both these instruments; but we deal not now with the master workmen, the Regondis, the Blagroves, the Tamplins, and the Engels. The same instrument which in the hands of these men is a thing of beauty and delight, is capable of tempting the musical amateur into wild and tuneless excesses! We will put it to any impartial person, Was there ever found in the house of

an amateur a concertina or harmonium in tune with the piano? Was there ever an amateur who could be deterred from playing these instruments together, however discordant the result? When there is a chance of having a duet, people seem to lose all sense of tune. If the concertina is only about a half semitone flat, the lady thinks she can manage. A little nerve is required to face the first few bars, but before "Il Balen" is over not a scruple remains, and the increasing consternation of the audience is only equalled by the growing complacency of the performers.

The same indifference to tune may be observed in the amateur flute and cornet. Each player has his method of treating the piano, which, as he tells you, is only the accompaniment, and must follow him. If the piano is more than a semitone flat or sharp, the flute inquires whether it cannot be tuned to his instrument. The piano replies that the tuner has just been, and asks whether the flute cannot alter his pitch. This ends in the flute trying to unscrew himself a little. Then he sounds a C with the piano thinks it is a little better, unscrews a little more, and asks the piano whether that will do. The piano does not know. Cannot flute get a bit flatter? Not a bit. The heat of the room will make it all right, and then they begin.

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The cornet is not much better, with this exception, that the cornet is generally ready to play alone, anywhere; for there is this peculiarity about him he is never tired of playing, as some people are of hearing, the same tunes over and over again, and, after playing them next door for six months every day, if you ask him to your house, he will play them after dinner in your conservatory, with the same touching expression, and crack exactly in the same place. There is a composure about the flute and the cornet, an unruffled temperament, a philosophical calm, and an absolute satisfaction in their respective efforts, which other musicians may envy, but cannot hope to rival. Other mu sicians feel annoyed at not accomplishing what they attempt; the cornet and the flute tell you at once they attempt what cannot be done.

The organist is disturbed if his organ begins to cipher, the violinist if his string breaks, the pianist if the pedal squeaks; but if the flute is out of tune, or plays octaves by mistake, our friend is easily satisfied after unscrewing and screwing up again; and the cornet, however prone to crack, feels quite happy after putting in a new crook, and fidgeting a little with the pistons.

The amateur violin is seldom heard in mixed society. If

good, as he usually is, he is fastidious about accompanyists, still more sensitive about conversation, and won't play. If bad, nobody cares to ask him. However, most of us have come across a fine violin amateur, and enjoyed his playing as much as, perhaps more than, that of many professional artists. It is difficult to speak of the bad violin player without being thought censorious; but we all know the shriek of a slate pencil on a slate, and how bad and wanton little boys use it to torment governesses. Better that than the scratch of a greasy bow on a bad fiddle; and better, too, the boy than the man, for the boy knows he is bad and can be stopped, but the absorbed violinist knows not, neither can he be told, neither can he be stopped.

It is difficult to explain the ascendency which the violin gains over the minds of its votaries for good or for evil. It can boast of two distinct types of admirers, between which, as between two poles, all the others may be said to vibrate. There is the man with one bad fiddle, who plays much and miserably, and there is the man who cannot play a note, but has collected a room full of splendid violins, most of which remain unstrung. But we must not dwell on this tempting subject. We proceed to notice the lowest form of the solo instrumentalist.

It is the amateur who plays by ear. Ladies will often gratify you by playing a little of Chopin "by ear"- that means, as much as they can recollect of the tune with any kind of bass. It would be well for all young musicians to remember that it is never safe to attempt Chopin, Mendelssohn, and, above all, Schumann, by heart, without a most careful previous study of the notes, and the regular process of committing a piece to memory: even when once learned, the notes should be occasionally used to refresh the memory and insure accuracy.

The difficulty of expressing or reproducing in notes a given musical idea is greater than at first sight appears. A piece of music is heard, it rings in your ears, you try to learn it, or you sit down and try to play it. If you have little musical culture, merely natural taste and a good ear, you will soon satisfy yourself, and you will say, "That is exactly the tune I heard." Probably it is only an imperfect suggestion of what you have heard. There is sure to exist a gap between it and the original piece. When the subject happens to be good music, even small deviations are fatal to the composer's thought, and a slight change will suffice to vulgarize a theme, just as in poetry a word transposed may destroy the power of a fine line. Who

does not see that a note transposed, or left out, or altered, is as fatal to a phrase as the following rearrangement, lately made in our hearing, of one of Mrs. Browning's lines is to the beauty of that line. The verse stands:

"O supreme love! chief misery,

The sharp regalia are for thee."

As improved in quotation

"O love supreme! chief misery,

The sharp regalia are for thee."

Of course, there can be no harm in a general way of singing and playing by ear to amuse one's self; but how troublesome it is on some occasions to hear people sing and play for your entertainment their so-called reproductions of the opera or classical music, most musicians know very well. But it is not easy to convince them of this; and the poor critic has generally to retire sad and wounded; in short, he is voted a rude, ill natured, or eccentric kind of person, and is hummed and strummed out of court.

ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS.

HAWKINS, ANTHONY HOPE, a popular English writer of fiction known by his pen-name of " Anthony Hope," was born in Hackney, February 9, 1863. He studied law and began the practice of his profession at the age of twenty-four. His first two ventures in "A Man of Mark" (1889), and "Father Stafford" (1890), were unsuccessful. He then wrote a number of short stories for the "St. James Gazette," some of which were republished in a volume entitled "Sport Royal" (1893). His first success was "Mr. Witt's Widow" (1892). This was followed by "A Change of Air" (1893); "The Dolly Dialogues;" "Half a Hero; ""The Prisoner of Zenda; ""The God in the Car;" "The Indiscretion of the Duchess," and "Secret of Wardale Court" (1894); and "Chronicles of Count Antonio" (1895); and "A Little Wizard" and "Phroso" (1896). In 1897 Mr. Hawkins made a tour of America.

SPORT ROYAL.

AN EXTRACT FROM THE JOURNALS OF JULIUS JASON, ESQUIRE.

HEIDELBERG seems rather a tourist-ridden, hackneyed sort of place to be the mother of adventures. Nevertheless, it is there that my story begins. I had been travelling on the Continent, and came to Heidelberg to pay my duty to the Castle, and recruit in quiet after a spell of rather laborious idleness at Homburg and Baden. At first sight, I made up my mind that the place would bore me, and I came down to dinner at the hotel looking forward only to a bad dinner and an early bed. The room was so full that I could not get a table to myself, and, seeing one occupied only by a couple of gentlemanly looking men, I made for it, and took the third seat, facing one of the strangers, a short, fair young man, with a little flaxen mustache and a soldier-like air, and having the other, who was older,