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This is all! and yet the way

Marked by Him who loves thee best; Secret of a happy day,

Secret of His promised rest.

THE UNFAILING ONE. He who hath led will lead

All through the wilderness; He who hath fed will feed ;

He who hath blessed will bless; He who hath heard thy cry

Will never close His ear;
He who hath marked thy faintest sigh,

Will not forget thy tear.
He loveth always, faileth never ;
So rest on Him to-day, forever.
He who hath made thee whole

Will heal thee day by day;
He who hath spoken to thy soul

Hath many things to say ;
He who hath gently taught

Yet more will make thee know;
He who so wondrously hath wrought

Yet greater things will show.
He loveth always, faileth never ;
So rest on Him to-day, forever,

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HAWEIS, Hugh REGINALD, an English clergyman and general writer, born at Egham, Surrey, April 3, 1838. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, receiving the degree of M.A. in 1864. After filling two curacies, he was appointed rector of St. James's Church, Marylebone, and afterward of St. James's, Westminster. In 1868 he became editor of Cassell s Magasine. He is the author of Music and Morals, Thoughts for the Times, Speech in Season, Current Coin, Arrows in the Air, American Humorists, Poets in the Pulpit, Picture of Paul the Disciple, The Conquering Cross, and other works. In 1867 he married Miss Mary Eliza Joy, the daughter of the artist, Thomas Musgrave Joy, and herself an artist. She is also the author of Chances for Children (1877); The Artist of Beauty (1878), a collection of papers published some years previously in St. Paul's Magazine, The Art of Dress (1879); The Art of Decoration (1881); Beautiful Houses (1882), and Life of Sir Morell Mackenzie (1893).

MUSICAL PERTURBATIONS.

The laws which regulate the effect of music upon the listener are subject to many strange perturbations. Unless we admit this to be the case, and try and detect the operation of certain irregular influences, we shall be at a loss to understand why, if music really has its own planes as well as progressions of emo

tion, gay music should make us sad, and solemn music should sometimes provoke a smile. Musical perturbations are sometimes due to the singer, player, or conductor-sometimes to the listener A magical prolongation of single notes here and there, until the vulgarity of the rhythm be broken-a pause, a little appogiatura, even a smile—and the original melody, such as we may know it to be, is changed and sublimated into the high expression of a high individuality. But the perturbations in the natural effect of the music which come from the listener are even more numerous and perplexing. They proceed chiefly from association and memory.

Memory is the great perturber of musical meaning. When memory is concerned, music is no longer itself ; it ceases to have any proper plane of feeling; it surrenders itself wholly, with all its rights to memory, to be the patient, stern, and terrible exponent of that recording angel. What is it? Only a few trivial bars of an old piano-forte piece-Murmures du Rhone, or Pluie des Perles. The drawing-room window is open, the children are playing on the lawn, the warm morning air is charged with the scent of lilac blossom. Then the ring at the bell, the confusion in the hall, the girl at the piano stops, the door opens, and one is lifted in, dying or dead. Years, years ago! but passing through the streets, a bar or two of the Murmures du Rhone brings the whole scene before the girl, now no longer a girl, but a middle-aged woman, looking back to one fatal summer morning. The enthusiastic old men, who invariably turned out in force whenever poor Madame Grisi was advertised to sing in her last days, seemed always deeply affected. Yet it could hardly be at what they actually heard- no, the few notes recalled the most superb soprano of the age in her best days ; recalled, also, the scenes of youth forever faded out, and the lights of youth quenched in the gray mists of the dull declining years. It was worth any money to hear even the hollow echo of a voice which had power to bring back, if only for a moment, the "tender grace of a day that was dead."-Music and Morals.

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