too cold, and in the summer the sunshine | writers: the flora of the region, its minwas too brilliant, on his Northern isl-eralogy, the Indians and their history, and, for mystical thoughts. At present, the lost grave of Father Marquette (in through Tita's recitation, his mind was these later days said to have been found), occupied with a poor fisherman's family the legends of the fur-trading times, the over on the mainland, to whom on the existing commerce of the lakes, the fishmorrow he was going to send assistance.eries, and kindred subjects were mixed The three boys came around on the outside, and peered through the windows to see whether the lesson was finished. Anne ordered them back by gesture, for they were bareheaded, and their little faces red with the cold. But they pressed their noses against the panes, glared at Tita, and shook their fists. "It's all ready," they said, in sepulchral tones, putting their mouths to the crack under the sash, "and it's a pudding. Tell her to hurry up, Annet." But Tita's murmuring voice went steadily on, and the Protestant sister would not interrupt the little Catholic's recitation; she shook her head at the boys, and motioned to them to go back to the kitchen. But they danced up and down to warm themselves, rubbed their little red ears with their hands, and then returned to the crack, and roared in chorus, "Tell her to hurry up; we shall not have time to eat it." "True," said Père Michaux, overhearing this triple remonstrance. "That will with discussions kept up with fellow Latin and Greek scholars exiled at far-off Southern stations, with games of chess played by letter, with recipes for sauces, and with humorous skirmishing with New York priests on topics of the day, in which the Northern hermit often had the | best of it. A hurrah in the kitchen, an opening of doors, a clattering in the hall, and the boys appeared, followed by old Pierre, bearing aloft a pudding enveloped in steam, exhaling fragrance, and beautiful with raisins, currants, and citron-rarities regarded by Louis, Gabriel, and André with eager eyes. "But it was for your dinner," said Anne. "It is still for my dinner. But it would have lasted three days, and now it will end its existence more honorably in one,” replied the priest, beginning to cut generous slices. 'I shall recite it, then, at the next les-ments being long readings from some reson, and learn besides as much more; and the interruption was not of my making, but a crime of those sacrilegious boys," said Tita, gathering her books together. The boys, seeing Père Michaux rise from his chair, ran back around the house to announce the tidings to Pierre; the priest came forward to the window. "That is the mail-train, is it not?" said Anne, looking at a black spot coming up the Strait from the east. "It is due," said Père Michaux; "but the weather has been so cold that I hardly expected it to-day." He took down a spy-glass, and looked at the moving speck. 66 Yes, it is the train. I can see the dogs, and Denis himself. I will go over to the village with you, I think. I expect letters." Père Michaux's correspondence was large. From many a college and mission station came letters to this hermit of the North, on subjects as various as the ligious book in her corner, murmured generally half aloud, to the exasperation of Miss Lois when she happened to be present, Miss Lois having a vehement dislike for "sing-song." Indeed, the little, soft, persistent murmur sometimes made even Anne think that the whole family bore their part in Tita's religious penances. But what could be said to the child? Was she not engaged in saving her soul? The marks being at last all set down, she took her share of pudding to the fire, and ate it daintily and dreamily, enjoying it far more than the boys, who swallowed too hastily; far more than Anne, who liked the simplest food. The priest was the only one present who appreciated Pierre's skill as Tita appreciated it. "It is délicieux," she said, softly, replacing the spoon in the saucer, and leaning back against the cushions with half-closed eyes. "Will you have some more, then ?" said Anne. Tita shook her head, and waved away | mail-train advancing rapidly from the her sister impatiently. east in a straight line. "She is as thorough an epicure as I "Denis is determined to have a good am," said the priest, smiling; "it takes supper and sleep to-night," said Père Miaway from the poetry of a dish to be ask-chaux; "no camp to make in the snow ed to eat more. this evening." Some minutes later the mail-train passed, the gaunt old dogs which drew the sledge never even turn It was now time to start homeward, and Père Michaux's sledge made its appearance, coming from a little islet near by.ing their heads to gaze at the party, but Old Pierre would not have dogs upon his shores; yet he went over to the other island himself every morning, at the expense of much time and trouble, to see that the half-breed in charge had not neglected them. The result was that Père Michaux's dogs were known as far as they could be seen by their fat sides, the only rotundities in dog-flesh within a circle of five hundred miles. Père Michaux wished to take Tita with him in his sledge, in order that Anne might ride also; but the young girl declined with a smile, saying that she liked the walk. "Do not wait for us, sir," she said; "your dogs can go much faster than ours." But the priest preferred to make the journey in company with them; and they all started together from the house door, where Pierre stood in his red skull-cap, bowing farewell. The sledges glided down the little slope to the beach, and shot out on the white ice, the two drivers keeping by the side of their teams, the boys racing along in advance, and Anne walking with her quick elastic step by the side of Père Michaux's conveyance, talking to him with the animation which always came to her in the open air. The color mounted in her cheeks; with her head held erect she seemed to breathe with delight, and to rejoice in the clear sky, the cold, the crisp sound of her own footsteps, while her eyes followed the cliffs of the shore-line crowned with evergreens --savage cliffs which the short summer could hardly soften. The sun sank toward the west, the air grew colder; Tita drew the furs over her head, and vanished from sight, riding along in her nest half asleep, listening to the bells. The boys still ran and pranced, but more, perhaps, from a sense of honor than from natural | hilarity. They were more exact in taking their turns in the sledge now, and more slow in coming out from the furs upon call; still, they kept on. As the track turned little by little, following the line of the shore, they came nearer to the keeping straight on, having come in a direct line, without a break, from the point, ten miles distant. The young dogs in Antoine's team pricked up their ears, and betrayed a disposition to rush after the mail-train; then René and Lebeau, after looking around once or twice, after turning in their great paws more than usual as they walked, and holding back resolutely, at length sat deliberately down on their haunches, and stopped the sledge. "And thou art entirely right, René, and thou too, Lebeau," said old Antoine. To waste breath following a mail-train at a gallop is worthy only of young-dog silliness." So saying he administered to the recreant members of the team enough chastisement to make them forget the very existence of mail-trains, while René and Lebeau waited composedly to see justice done; they then rose in a dignified manner and started on, the younger dogs following now with abject humility. As they came nearer the village the western pass opened out before them, a long narrow vista of ice, with the dark shore-line on each side, and the glow of the red sunset shining strangely through, as though it came from a tropical country beyond. A sledge was crossing down in the westa moving speck; the scene was as wild and arctic as if they had been travelling on Baffin Bay. The busy priest gave little attention to the scene, and the others in all the winters of their lives had seen nothing else: to the Bedouins the great desert is nothing. Anne noted every feature and hue of the picture, but unconsciously. She saw it all, but without a comment. Still, she saw it. She was to see it again many times in after-yearssee it in cities, in lighted drawing-rooms, in gladness, and in sorrow, and more than once through a mist of tears. Later in the evening, when the moon was shining brightly, and she was on her way home from the church-house with Rast, she saw a sledge moving toward the northern point. "There is Père Mi chaux, on his way home," she said. | ment of certain bits of wood, which are planed, filed, saw-cut, scratched, sand-pa- "I don't believe you understand your- be quite within the scope of a good patself; girls seldom do." "Why?" "Let me beg you not to fall into the power of that uncomfortable word, Annet. Walters says women of the world never use it. They never ask a single question." "But how can they learn, then?" "By observation," replied young Pronando, oracularly. SOME GREAT VIOLINS. tern-maker, but a really fine violin, such as a great soloist will accept, one perfect throughout the whole register, one that responds to the least touch of the finger, that makes a pure and unalloyed sound, with the tone quality, whether you just touch it, or rasp it with your bowwell, that is nothing less than a chefd'œuvre. Why, there are only four people to-day in the world who can turn you out such an instrument. The quality of tone must come first; the looks of the violin are secondary. Here is The grand old IN Pavia, many years ago, a great soloist Ole Bull's Gaspar di Salo. had printed on his concert bills, "Paganini farà sentire il suo violino." Discarding the florid style of concert programmes, this sentence, literally translated, would mean, “Paganini will cause his violin to be heard." But taking sentire in its more primitive sense, the head-line might thus be rendered, "Paganini will make his violin be felt." Does this not sound like homage paid by a musician to his instrument? That finely organized cerebral tissue, that marvellous digital dexterity, that muscular power, all these gifts Paganini was conscious of possessing, yet in his estimation that box of wood with its catgut strings demanded a recognition, and had to be individualized. If there came to greet his performance great salvos of applause, so much was due to his brain and fingers, but then a certain portion of the vivas was to be allotted to the violin. Violin making in its perfection is one of the most difficult of callings. It is apparently nothing more than the adjust master has just put it on the table before me. The violin is still warm from the nervous hand of the performer, and its final vibration has not yet ceased. Though I remember that adage, “Love me, love my dog," and trusting to be always in the good graces of Ole Bull, I think this Gaspar di Salo is as ugly a violin as I ever saw. Its outline is uneven; on its face the varnish is of an ugly brown; on the back it is much better. If the wildest of violin virtuosi, those who go for looks, were to see this violin hanging in a pawnbroker's shop in Chatham Street, they would pass it by without a second look. I examine it more closely. I have been delighted with its masculine, robust sound. I am, as far as my ears go, positive it has the great tone quality. I call on my reasoning faculties, and argue over the instrument, just as if, in an archæological study, I wanted to get at the idea of some primitive shape. I soon find that something which this violin has impressed on all future makers of violins. The master plays the instrument for me again and again. I may not like it quite as much as an Amati I am intimately acquainted with, but I am delighted with its amazing tone. Just as Ole Bull says "It is not so loud, but reaches so far." I must respect it, for I am positive that, made some time between 1560 and 1610, this violin laid down the rule of tone quality which we have loved from that time until now. as when it was made. It once belonged to Dancla, a well-known professor of the Conservatoire. Inside is the label: "Nicolaus Amati. Cremona. Hieronymus, Fil ac Antonium Nepos fecit 1661." I do not always lay great stress on labels, for there is nothing easier than to counterfeit these bits of paper, but this one is authentic every way. Even if the ticket were wanting, the violin would be an Amati. It is the most graceful of instruments, and though in constant use, is admirable for its purity and limpidity of tone. These Amatis were a whole family of violin mak distinguished. Amati necks and scrolls may be copied with advantage, and the illustration shows their peculiar grace. To obtain my Straduarius was no easy task. I never was aware before I undertook violin tracking that there were so many "Strads" in New York—at least in the opinion of violin players. When I noted down the number of professionals and amateurs who had "Strads," I became for a while almost sure that some time toward the close of the seventeenth century Anthony Straduarius must have commenced shipping his violins by the crateful to America. I soon narrowed down my list from hundreds to ten, and of these ten I had to expunge from my list nine, until but one was left. This notable instrument, which the illustration shows, is a Simon Pure Straduarius, and belongs to H. C. Havemeyer, Esq., of New York. I suppose its date is of about 1700. Somehow or other Straduarius has fallen from grace within the last fifteen years, and why I can not tell. He lived to be past ninety, and possibly in his old age some one else made violins for him, and they were not good. I am indebted to Ole Bull for the photographs of his Gaspar di Salo, which has certainly a more distinguished history than any other instrument in the world. Gaspar di Salo made it, and Benvenuto Cellini carved the scroll. This is the vio-ers, and of them all Nicholas was the most lin known for years as the Treasury violin of Innspruck. I have read innumerable descriptions of this violin, in the preparation of this article, and must declare that all accounts of the instrument are deficient, because the examination was made through the glass of a case. This Gaspar di Salo is the acme of work, and is absolutely perfect in all its details. Mechanical execution combined with art can not go further. Its varnish is peculiar, very light, uniform, and there are no dark shades on it. From the ornamentation on it one would think it to be undersized, and it has been so described; but it is quite a full model. Its preservation is perfect. The carved head has been daintily colored. Had viols been in vogue when the Queen of Sheba came to Solomon, and had the king the musical accomplishments of David, he would have played her a serenade on it. Violin enthusiasts get crazed about old scrolls. Did they see this Benvenuto head, with its graceful carving, why, then their delirium might be forgiven. I suppose it was made about 1590. Ole Bull made his début in the United States with this noted instrument, but it is, perhaps, too delicate for constant concert work. I can not call it a parade violin. I heard it many years ago. I rather object to mentioning values, as the prices of violins are not quotable like stocks, but I think that if Ole Bull were to ask $10,000 for this Gaspar di Salo-Benvenuto Cellini, a telegraphic dispatch from a certain city in the United States would beat by two weeks or so the half-dozen offers of purchase which would come from England. I offer what I believe to be the best type of the Nicholas Amati in the United States. It is the property of Dr. S. B. Tuthill, of Brooklyn, and is just as perfect I come now to violins made by Giuseppe Antonius Guarnerius. Joseph, it is said, had Straduarius for a master, and Joseph profited thereby. But genius is eccentric, and Guarnerius took to drink, and made the superbest violins when he was sober, and the meanest ones when he was tipsy. But if you ever do get a Giuseppe Guarnerius, made when he was in a normal condition, you have the choicest instrument, according to my belief, that ever was made. I venture to say that the traditions of the violin maker's art had not been lost. When Vuillaume died in France in 1873, a great master luthier passed away. I thought then that there was no man who could take his place. Some years ago, however, I insisted that we had a very wonderful violin maker in the United States. Such an announcement caused some little surprise, and although not held then exactly to task for such an opinion, what I had written was much commented upon. Since that time -1878-I am happy to state that my judgment has not only received the corroboration of the most distinguished foreign instrumentalists who have come to this country, but that leading experts who write on these topics, and know about what they write, have confirmed my opinion. It may be that special ingenuity in tool making has helped in the task, but I must put aside this purely material portion of violin making, and insist that Mr. W. E. Colton never could have made his instruments without absolute familiarity with the tone qualities of all the great violins of the world. It is possible for a self-taught artist to paint a picture, even if he has never seen an old master, but a violin maker who has never heard the instruments of Italy can not create the sound of the Cremonese or Brescians. Without having listened to the nightingale, it were folly for any one to try and invent this bird-song. Does this maker dare to turn out a violin that looks as new as a loaf of fresh bread? Such is the stupidity of public opinion that the musical world will have and must have a violin that shall look three hundred years old. What is good about a violin is its age, people think, and I suppose this idea could never be displaced by any amount of reasoning. quality of sound-that precise tone quality that I have been harping about. These violins are not only "those eye violins" Mr. Charles Reade writes about so cleverly in his Lost Art Revived, but they are ear violins. My pictures of violins would not be complete if I did not give an illustration of a Colton instrument, a strict copy of a Guarnerius, owned by Mr. H. Havemeyer, of New York. Some one might ask me, "How can you tell whether American instruments are up to the Italian standards ?" My answer would be quite a practicable one. Here is a standard, an Amati, a Steiner, and a Guarnerius. If you have the ear, and one of these old violins is played upon, all you have to do is to listen. Then try the American violin, and if it is not as good in sound, why, reject it. As to the material differences, the imitative art, neither you nor I can find that out. The biography of the instrument is written on its face. Here is the beginner's careless work, where the novice hammered on it, and tripped over the violin with his bow. Here are the marks when the strings were overstretched and flew in twain, and | dragged the knot, making furrows and scars. Just here is where hundreds of wet or greasy or unshaven jowls have moistened, soaked, or scratched the righthand top, or where millions of slidings of hands have used up the marrow of the wood. That split! That is where it crossed the Apennines, and case and violin were splintered by the kick of a mule. When the performer was playing a serenade in Venice, a rival came, and used a bludgeon and beat down the musicians, and that splintering came from it. is where the mice gnawed into its edge, when the violin was put to rest and forgotten for twenty-five years, for the owner was one of the king's violin players, and had his head cut off on that account. Here is where the former possessor of the instrument went mad from overwork and privation, and dashed the violin on the floor in his frenzy. Here is where the artist's much-loved children, in an unlucky moment, played the mischief with That Of course, then, these Colton violins are old. Unless they looked as old as time, outside, musical wiseacres might not appreciate them; but, inside, he refuses to tamper with his violin. Outside, they are of the time of Henry of Navarre; inside, of the period of President Hayes. I defy any human being, even those keen and astute English, French, or German violin sellers, to determine the difference between an instrument fashioned yesterday in Brooklyn and one made in Cre-it. Here are all the traces of an existence mona in 1700. Shape, color, varnish, from all the shades of yellow to glorious red, are found in these instruments. The trick of age is perfect. With these Brooklyn violins, it is not the old looks alone which please the connoisseur, but it is their great of three hundred years; all that, either comic or tragic, must happen to any violin during a long lapse of time--and a month ago this instrument was only in the rough blocks of wood! That brave old Gaspar di Salo, the |