er classes, primitive forms of manner and expression remain untouched. There was a choral society in the place, composed of the young people of those indefinable grades of society which float in and out of the classes generalized as "middle," and going to one of their rehearsals on a certain wet evening, we found a picture worthy of Albert Dürer. The company had assembled in a large old-fashioned room, where deep corners were in shadow, the window-panes dark and wet, the candle-light flickering against old oak walls, and centring in spots of light here and there, where a group of faces, músicbooks, and desks were revealed. In one of these we saw the conductor on his platform, with a swaying baton, the music of no less a work than Judas Maccabæus open before him. The singers were ranged in classified groups beyond and about him, and they sang with a common impulse of harmony and good taste. Now and then, as the director paused to explain the finer meanings of the music, it was interesting to observe the faces turned toward him with almost reverent attention. Some estimate of the composer's intention seemed to be present in each mind, and the singing was always renewed with an added verve and intelligence. The final appearance of the rector and his curate (they hovered, two long shadowy figures, in the background) completed the picture, giving it just that touch which English country scenes require a suggestion of clerical surveillance and approval.

In the midst of so much music devoted to secular purposes, we must listen for the strains from the cathedral choirs. The Norwich services were but a passing glimpse into this dignified region of quaint sorg and anthem. Exeter furnished us with solemn memories, and at Westminster we were fortunate enough to see the workings of a genuine choir school.

I know not what combination of scene and harmony is fairer than the interior of an old English cathedral on a spring or summer day; even in winter enough of glory fills the nave and transept, enough of color flows from the rich stained glass upon the carvings and pale-hued splendors of centuries ago to make the scene a picture; but in summer-time, when one walks through a cathedral close, full, as it always is, of such rich soft fragrances,

across the velvet lawn, past glimpses of the "bishop's palace," stately and sumptuous, with its red brick, ivy mantles, and garden beds, into the cool dim silence of the cathedral, there is reached a sense of fitting preparation for the music which presently fills every space. The choirboys come in, headed by the vicars choral-men-singers engaged for the services

and take their places on either side in the carved oak stalls, behind which their boyish figures and faces rise with a certain quaint solemnity. Much of the service is chanted by them. There is always the hymn and anthem at the end, chosen for each day by the cathedral precentor— a clergyman whose duty it is to select suitable music for the week, and give it in to the organist, who practices the boys daily. The service over, there is a formality in the mode of leaving the choir: the boys troop out, their white surplices fluttering past the columns and down the aisle, while the organ rolls forth in some solemn voluntary.

Americans frequently marvel at the perfection to which English church choirs have been brought, but the secret of success lies in the keeping together all the official links which bind the cathedral life; dean and canon, organist and school-master, all live in the shadow of the close, and where, as at Westminster, there is a perfect choir school, the boys are lodged and boarded for the years of their service, as well as taught.

Leaving Westminster Abbey by a side door, the other day, we passed down the cloister beneath which the old abbots lie buried, here and there catching glimpses of the court-yard, and finally reaching a low oak doorway, upon which the name of the Abbey organist, Dr. Bridge, is inscribed. Here, in one of the oldest parts of the cathedral, he lives, having a room near by for practice, with a good organ and rows of upright desks. Further on, down the cloister, we came to the schoolroom, still maintained by the judicious master, Mr. Shiel, for the use of the older boys, although the choir-house stands just without the precincts. It is a room full of old associations for those Westminster choir-boys; over the chimney-piece is a queer old picture of Purcell-a quaint little figure in a surplice, with primly folded hands, and standing before an open hymnbook. The mantel-board was taken from Purcell's house, and on every side some

THE SHAD AND THE ALEWIFE.

A

WAY from the immediate coast there seems to be little known of the life of the fisherman. Very many would refuse to consider his vocation as one of the industrial pursuits; and, in fact, the prevailing opinion echoes the reflection upon the earlier fishermen of our race in a wellknown text-book of history, where it is stated that "they supported a joyless existence by means of fishing." With Plautus's waggish Trachalio, the people would be quite ready to accost them, "Hallo, you thieves of the sea, clam-diggers, and fish-hookers! Starveling generation, how is it with you? how fast are you perishing?" There could scarcely be a more unjust sentiment sustained against a class of men, for, in the pursuit of our day, there are toil and dangerous adventure, weary watching and hardship enough. There are, too, hopes and enjoyments, a strong fascination, and not seldom large investments and considerable profits. The life has its charm in its adventure, and its ever offering what is, with few exceptions, a delusive hope of fortune. It is in intimate contact with Nature, and affords a continual realization of her power that those who live inland, housed within

strong walls, rarely conceive. Even encountering rough weather possesses a charm, for to the man who holds the wheel in his hands, and turns his face resolutely to the storm, with a determined purpose to do his work, resisting fatigue and the temptation for repose and comfort, there is an inward consciousness of moral force, and a manly pride in his ability to endure and suffer. The wild play of nature stirs the blood, and its experience is often enjoyment rather than hardship.

In every month of the year, in our North American waters, the fishermen ply their trade; they go far up in the rivers, along the shores of the Great Lakes, out from the coves and harbors of the coast into the open sea and the great sounds and bays, riding the surf and waves, facing the driving rains and the darkness, pushing their boats in the ice and bewildering snowstorms, and living in their sledge-shanties through the winter on the frozen lakes.

Although a wide variance in intelligence and character exists in the different regions, yet, from the needed self-reliance in their conflict with the elements, a stronger individuality is common among them than in the subordinated sailor or the journeyman mechanic. Get into their confidence, so that talk will flow unrestrained

We are to turn away somewhat from this encounter of stormy waves and winds to the summer fishing for the shad and the alewife within the rivers and far up the bays. Here, for the most part, the nets are manned with the freedmen, as the larger fisheries for these species are in the Atlantic tributaries of the Southern States.

In these Southern waters the alewife (Pomolobus pseudo-harengus, Wils., Gill) is only known as the "herring." Its size and a good deal of its general appearance would induce this mistaken application of the name, and doubtless was made by the earliest colonists. A Mr. John Gilpin having seen this fish in the waters of our Southern coast, published in 1786 a dissertation "On the Annual Passage of Herrings." In this paper he attempts to show "that it is the same scoole which is found at different times about Britain and in America,......shifting their climate with the sun." Mr. Gilpin traces their track in the Atlantic for each month, on each side of the ocean, in mid-ocean, and along the

the most extensive fisheries. The shad, using the word for all representatives of the genus, is found in the waters of both oceans. A species enters the rivers of England and the Continent, and the samlai of China ascends the Yang-tze-kiang over a thousand miles. The Alosa musica is found on the coasts of Bolivia and Chili. It takes its specific name because of its supposed power to emit melodious sounds. Lieutenant J. M. Gillis, the commander of the United States astronomical expedition in 1852, writes of this strange phenomenon: "One correspondent wrote me: 'The night I stopped at Caldera I went at half past eleven o'clock to hear the submarine music, and I confess it has astonished me. Though the position is neither graceful nor comfortable, on lying down in the boat and placing your ear upon the bottom, you hear it to perfection. I stuck to it for a long time, and was charmed indeed. It has now been pretty well ascertained that it comes from fish, which gather in great numbers on a quiet and retired spot of the bay; and as each one produces a single note, the most soft and charming harmony results, resembling the Eolian harp nearer than anything to which I can compare it. we suppose the sounds to be produced by fish, that will also account for the different localities where they are heard.""

If