is to the musician almost the same as the written name Carl Maria von Weber.

Some of the best examples for illustrating the studies of our great composers are to be found in those compositions which originally formed part of earlier and comparatively inferior works, and which were afterwards incorporated by the composers into their most renowned works. In thus adopting a piece which would otherwise probably have fallen into oblivion, the composer has generally submitted it to a careful revision; and it is instructive to compare the revision with the first conception. Gluck has used in his operas several pieces which he had originally written for earlier works, now but little known. For instance, the famous ballet of the Furies in his 'Orfeo,' is identical with the Finale in his 'Don Juan,' where the rake is hurled into the burning abyss; the overture to 'Armida' belonged originally to his Italian opera, 'Telemacco;' the wild dance of the infernal subjects of Hate, in 'Armida,' is the Allegro of the duel-scene in his 'Don Juan.'

As an instance of adoption from a former work wonderfully improved by reconstruction, may be noticed Handel's Sarabande, in his opera 'Almira,' performed the first time at Hamburg in the year 1705:—

From this Sarabande, Handel, six years later, constructed the beautiful air "Lascia ch'io pianga," in his opera 'Rinaldo,' performed in London in the year 1711:—

Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
e che so-spi-ri,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà.

Il duolo in fran-ga que-ste ri-tor-te
de miei mar-ti-ri sól per pie-tà
de miei so-spi-ri sól per pie-tà.

Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
e che so-spi-ri,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà.

Beethoven's third overture to his opera 'Leonora' (later called 'Fidelio') is a reconstruction of the second. A comparison of these two overtures affords an interesting insight into Beethoven's studies. It must be remembered that Beethoven, not satisfied with the first overture, wrote a second, and subsequently a third, and a fourth. The first three, which are in C major, he wrote when the opera was known by the name of 'Leonora;' and the fourth, which is in E major, when the opera was brought anew on the stage in its revised form under the name of 'Fidelio.' The air of Florestan is indicated in Nos. 1, 2, and 3, composed in 1805 and 1806. No. 2 has the distant trumpet-signal, produced on the stage; and in No. 3 this idea is further carried out; but in No. 4, written in 1814, it is dropped.

A composer who borrows from his former works deserves reproach as little as a person who removes his purse from one pocket into another which he thinks a better place. To borrow from the works of others, as some composers have done, is altogether a different thing. However, it would be unreasonable to regard such a plagiarism as a theft unless the plagiarist conceals the liberty he is taking by disguising the appropriation so as to make it appear a creation of his own. Some inferior musicians display much talent in this procedure. Our great composers, on the other hand, have often so wonderfully ennobled compositions of other musicians which they have thought advisable to admit into their oratorios, operas, or other elaborate works, that they have thereby honoured the original composers of those pieces as well as benefited art. It is a well-known fact that Handel has, in several of his oratorios, made use of the compositions of others. As these adoptions have been pointed out by one or two of Handel's biographers, it may suffice here to allude to them. Beethoven has adopted remarkably little. His employment of popular tunes where they are especially required, as for example in his Battle Symphony, Op. 91, can hardly be regarded as an instance to the contrary. At any rate, popular tunes have frequently been adopted by our great composers for the purpose of giving to a work a certain national character. Weber has done this very effectively in his 'Preciosa.' Gluck, in his 'Don Juan,' introduces the Spanish fandango. Mozart does the same in his 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' twenty-five years later. Here probably Mozart took a hint from Gluck. However this may be, there can be no doubt that Gluck's 'Don Juan' contains the germs of several beautiful phrases which occur in Mozart's 'Don Giovanni.' Even on this account it deserves to be better known to musicians than it is, independently of its intrinsic musical value. A detailed account of it here would, however, be a transgression. Suffice it to state that Gluck's 'Don Juan' is a ballet which was composed at Vienna in the year 1761, twenty-six years before Mozart produced his 'Don Giovanni.' The programme of the former work, which has been printed from a manuscript preserved in the Bibliothèque de l'Ecole Royale de Musique of Paris, shows that it is nearly identical with the scenarium of the latter work. The instrumental pieces, of which there are thirty-one, are mostly short, and increase in beauty and powerful expression towards the end of the work. The justly-deserved popularity in Vienna of Gluck's 'Don Juan' probably induced Mozart to have his 'Don Giovanni' first performed under the title of 'Il Dissoluto Punito,' and the great superiority of this opera may perhaps be the cause of Gluck's charming production having fallen into obscurity.

Mozart's facility of invention was so remarkably great that he can have had but little inducement to borrow from others. Plagiarisms occur but rarely in his works, but are on this account all the more interesting when they do occur. Take for instance the following passage from 'Ariadne of Naxos,' a duodrama by Georg Benda. It is composed to be played by the orchestra while Ariadne exclaims: "Now the sun arises! How glorious!"

Mozart was in his youth a great admirer of this duodrama. He mentions in one of his letters that he carried its score constantly with him. The great air of the Queen of Night in 'Die Zauberflöte,' Act 1, commences thus:—

It is, however, quite possible that Mozart had made Benda's work so thoroughly his own that he borrowed from it in the present instance without being aware of the fact.

Again, Johann Heinrich Rolle published in the year 1779 an oratorio entitled 'Lazarus, oder die Feier der Auferstehung' (Lazarus, or the Celebration of the Resurrection). The second part of this oratorio begins with an introductory symphony, as follows:—

Perhaps Mozart was not acquainted with Rolle's oratorio when he wrote his overture to the 'Zauberflöte,' in the year 1791. The curious resemblance in the two compositions may be entirely owing to the form of the fugue in which they are written.

Moreover, the theme of Mozart's overture to the 'Zauberflöte' resembles also the theme of a Sonata by Clementi which was composed ten years earlier than the overture. In Clementi's Sonata it is as follows:—

In the complete edition of Clementi's pianoforte compositions this Sonata is published with the appended notice that Clementi played it to the Emperor Joseph II. when Mozart was present, in the year 1781. Mozart appears to have been fond of the theme, for he introduces a reminiscence of it into the first movement of his Symphony in D major, dating from the year 1786.

The first chorus in Mozart's 'Requiem' was evidently suggested by the first chorus in Handel's 'Funeral Anthem for Queen Caroline.' The motivo of both is however an old German dirge dating from the sixteenth century, which begins thus:—

Wenn mein Stündlein vor-han-den ist,
und soll hinfahrn mein Stras-se.

and which may have been familiar to Mozart as well as to Handel.

The motivo of the Kyrie Eleison in Mozart's 'Requiem:'—

Chri-ste e-le-
Ky-ri-e e-le ——— i-son! e-

occurs also in Handel's oratorio 'Joseph:'—

We will re -
We will re - joice
Hal - le  -    lu  —   jah!      Hal     —    le -

and in Handel's 'Messiah:'—

And with his stripes we are heal - ed,
And  with His, &c.

Likewise in a Quartet for stringed instruments by Haydn, Op. 20, thus:—

In the solemn phrase of the Commendatore, in 'Don Giovanni,' we have an interesting example of the happy result with which Mozart has carried out ideas emanating from Gluck. In the opera 'Alceste,' by Gluck, the Oracle sings in one tone, while the orchestral accompaniment, including three trombones, changes the harmony in each successive bar, as follows:—

Oracle. Le roi doit mou-rir au-jour-d'hui,
si quelqu'autre au tré-pas ne se liv-re pour lui.

That Mozart was much impressed with the effect of Gluck's idea may be gathered from the circumstance of his having adopted it in 'Don Giovanni,' and likewise, to some extent, in 'Idomeneo.' The Commendatore in 'Don Giovanni' sings, accompanied by trombones:—

Di ri-der fi-n-rai pria dell' au-ro-ra.

Ri-bal-do! au-da-ce! las-cia a'mor-ti la pa-ce!

There can hardly be a greater difference in the styles of two composers than exists in the style of Gluck and that of J. S. Bach. The masterly command of Bach over the combination of different parts according to the rules of counterpoint is just the faculty in which Gluck is deficient. It is on this account especially interesting to observe how Gluck has employed an idea which he apparently borrowed from Bach. The student may ascertain it by carefully comparing the air, 'Je l'implore, et je tremble,' in 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' with J. S. Bach's beautiful gigue in B flat major, commencing:—

Clementi, a pianoforte composer, who has certainly but little in common with Gluck, has for his B minor Sonata dedicated to Cherubini—perhaps his best work—a theme which may be recognised as that of the dance of the Scythians in 'Iphigenia in Tauris.'

Again, Beethoven's style, especially in his later works, is as different from Haydn's as possible; nevertheless we occasionally meet with a phrase in Beethoven's later works which appears to have been suggested by Haydn. For instance, Haydn, in his Symphony in B flat major (No. 2 of Salomon's set) has a playful repetition of a figure of semi-quavers leading to the re-introduction of the theme, thus:—

In Beethoven's famous E minor Quartet, Op. 59, a similar figure leads to the theme, thus:—

A more exact comparison of the two passages than the present short notations permit will probably convince the student of the great superiority of Beethoven's conception. He was one of those rare masters who convert into gold whatever they touch.

But it is not the object here to give a list of the similarities and adaptations which are traceable in the works of different musical composers. Such a list would fill a volume, even if composers of secondary rank, who are often great borrowers, were ignored. For the present essay a few examples must suffice, especially as others will probably occur to the reflecting reader.

Some insight into the studies of our great composers may also be obtained by comparing together such of their operas or other elaborate vocal compositions with instrumental accompaniment as are founded on the same subject. Note, for instance, the love-story of Armida, taken by the compilers of the various librettos from the episode of Rinaldo and Armida in Tasso's 'Gerusalemme Liberata.' The story had evidently a great attraction for the musical composers of the eighteenth century. There have been above thirty operas written on it, several of which it might now be difficult to procure, nor would an examination of them perhaps repay the trouble. However, the operas on the subject composed by Lulli, Gluck, Graun, Handel, Traetta, Jomelli, Naumann, Haydn, Sarti, Cimarosa, Rossini, Sacchini, etc., would suffice for the purpose. Thus also, a comparison of several compositions depicting a storm—most of our masters have written such a piece—elicits valuable hints for the musical student. Compare, for instance, with each other the storms in Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' Haydn's 'Seasons,' Beethoven's 'Sinfonia Pastorale,' Cherubini's 'Medea.'

Even arrangements may illustrate the studies. Take, for instance, the arrangements of Vivaldi's violin concertos by J. S. Bach. It is, however, but seldom that eminent composers have occupied themselves with arranging the works of others. Instructive examples of this kind are therefore rare.

It is recorded of some composers that they were in the habit of founding their instrumental works on certain poetical ideas. Haydn is said to have done this almost invariably. Schindler, in his biographical notices of Beethoven, states that the two pianoforte Sonatas, Op. 14, of Beethoven, were explained to him by the composer as representing a dialogue between two lovers. When Schindler asked the meaning of the motivo of the C minor Symphony,

Beethoven exclaimed, "Thus Fate knocks at the gate!" And being requested by Schindler to supply him with the key to the Sonatas in D minor, Op. 31, and in F minor, Op. 57, Beethoven's answer was: "Read Shakespeare's 'Tempest!'" Beethoven probably resorted to such replies merely to satisfy troublesome inquirers somewhat resembling the inquisitive gentleman in Washington Irving's 'Tales of a Traveller,' who "never could enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell." Several of the titles of Beethoven's instrumental compositions ('Pastoral Sonata,' 'Moonlight Sonata,' 'Sonata appassionata,' etc.) did not originate with the composer, but were given to the pieces by the publishers to render them more attractive to the public. The title of his sonata Op. 81, 'Les Adieux, l'Absence et le Retour,' emanates however from Beethoven himself. This is noteworthy inasmuch as it has brought the advocates of descriptive music into an awkward dilemma. They found in this sonata an unmistakable representation of the parting and ultimate reunion of two ardent lovers,—when, unhappily for them, Beethoven's autograph manuscript of the sonata was discovered, in the library of Archduke Rudolph, bearing the inscription (in German), "The Farewell, Absence, and Return of His Imperial Highness the Venerated Archduke Rudolph."

A similar subject is treated by J. S. Bach, in a capriccio for the harpsichord, entitled, 'On the Departure of a very dear Brother,' in which the different movements are headed as follows:—"No. 1. Entreaty of friends to put off the journey.—No. 2. Representation of the various accidents which might befall him.—No. 3. General lament of friends.—No. 4. Entreaty being of no avail, the friends here bid farewell.—No. 5. Air of the postillion.—No. 6. Fuga in imitation of the post-horn."

This is but a modest essay in tone-painting compared with a certain production by Johann Kuhnau, a predecessor of Bach, who depicted entire biblical stories in a set of six sonatas for the clavichord, which were published in Leipzig in the year 1700. Each sonata is prefaced by a programme, which informs the player what is meant by the several movements—a very necessary proceeding. The stories depicted are from the Old Testament. One of the sonatas is entitled, 'Jacob's Marriage;' another, 'Saul cured by David's Music;' another, 'The Death of Jacob;' and so on. To show how far Kuhnau ventures into detailed description, the explanation printed with the sonata called 'Gideon' may find a place here. It runs as follows:—"1. Gideon mistrusts the promises made to him by God that he should be victorious.—2. His fear at the sight of the great host of the enemy.—3. His increasing courage at the relation of the dream of the enemy, and of its interpretation.—4. The martial sound of the trombones and trumpets, and likewise the breaking of the pitchers and the cry of the people.—5. The flight of the enemy and their pursuit by the Israelites.—6. The rejoicing of the Israelites for their remarkable victory."

Still earlier, in the seventeenth century, Dieterich Buxtehude depicted in seven suites for the clavichord, 'The Nature and Qualities of the Planets;' and Johann Jacob Frohberger, about the same time, composed for the harpsichord a 'Plainte, faite à Londres, pour passer la mélancolie,' in which he describes his eventful journey from Germany to England—how in France he was attacked by robbers, and how afterwards in the Channel, between Calais and Dover, he was plundered by Tunisian pirates. Frohberger composed also an allemande intended to commemorate an event which he experienced on the Rhine. The notation is so contrived as to represent a bridge over the Rhine. Mattheson is said to have cleverly introduced into one of his scores, by means of the notation, the figure of a rainbow. Such music one must not hear; enough if one sees it in print. It deserves to be classed with the silent music mentioned in Shakespeare's 'Othello,' Act III., Scene 1:—

"Clown.—But, masters, here's money for you: and the General so likes your music, that he desires you, for love's sake, to make no more noise with it.

"First Musician.—Well, sir, we will not.

"Clown.—If you have any music that may not be heard, to't again: but, as they say, to hear music the General does not greatly care.

"First Musician.—We have none such, sir.

"Clown.—Then put your pipes in your bag, for I'll away: go, vanish into air; away!"

It may afford satisfaction to the lover of descriptive music to imagine he hears in certain choruses by Handel the leaping of frogs, the humming of flies, or the rattling of hailstones; but the judicious admirer of these compositions values them especially on account of their purely musical beauties. These may in a great measure be traced to euphony combined with originality. Music must be above all things melodiously beautiful. Our great composers bore this in mind, or acted upon it as a matter of course; hence the fascinating charms of their music. The euphony does not depend upon the consonant harmony prevailing in the composition; if this were the case, music would be the more euphonious the fewer dissonant chords it contains, and the major key would be more suitable for euphony than the minor key, since the major scale is founded upon the most simple relation of musical intervals yielding concords. However, our finest compositions contain numerous dissonant chords; and many—perhaps most—are in the minor key. Some of our great composers have certainly written more important works in minor than in major keys. Mozart, in those of his compositions which are in major keys, often manifests extraordinary inspiration as soon as he modulates into a minor key.

Remarkably devoid of euphony are the compositions of some musicians who, having taken Beethoven's last works as the chief models for their aspirations, have thereby been prevented from properly cultivating whatever gift they may naturally possess for expressing their ideas melodiously and clearly. Moreover, they talk and act as if affected originality, or far-fetched fancies, constituted the principal charm of a composition. Not less tedious are the works of some modern composers who possess no originality, but who write very correctly in the style of some classical composer. There has been published a vast amount of such stale and unprofitable productions. Music, to be interesting, must possess some quality in a high degree. If it is very good, it is just what it ought to be; if it is very bad, one can honestly condemn it, and leave it to its fate. But music which is neither very good nor very bad—which deserves neither praise nor blame, and which one cannot easily ignore because it is well meant—this is the most wearisome. And often how long such productions are! The composers show with many notes that they have felt but little, while our great composers show with but few notes that they have felt much.

An inferior composer has, however, not unfrequently a better chance of becoming soon popular than a superior one. The latter is likely to be properly appreciated only by a few unbiassed judges—at least during his earlier career—while the former may possess qualities which at once please the uncultivated taste, and the voice of the unrefined majority may silence the voice of the few whose opinion is correct. If you become acquainted with a celebrated musician, you will perhaps find that he is not so talented as you expected; and if you become acquainted with a musician of no reputation, you will perhaps find that he is much more talented than you expected. Diffidence is apt to be mistaken for want of ability. Even some of our deepest thinkers, on acknowledging that they did not understand a certain subject, have been set down by ignorant people as dunces.

Composers who have made good studies sometimes write ingenious contrivances or "learned music," instead of inventing a beautiful melody. They are apt to introduce fugues into their works when they are short of ideas or at a loss how to proceed. Even our great composers have done this occasionally, when their power of invention began to flag. But they were careful, when resorting to mere head-work, to use it only in places most appropriate; and they generally succeeded in imparting to it some musical charm.

Always striving to attain a higher degree of perfection, they were in fact students all their lifetime. The more they learnt, the clearer they saw that they had much to learn, and that time was precious to them. Beethoven on his death-bed was studying the scores of Handel's oratorios, and Mozart to the end of his life investigated the intricate works of Johann Sebastian Bach.

Many examples from different composers might have been cited in support of the opinions advanced in this essay. But, not to lengthen it unnecessarily, only a few examples, referring to such of our composers as are universally acknowledged to be truly great, have been selected. No doubt many more will occur to the reflecting reader, if he is familiar with our classical compositions.

Decorative Rule
SUPERSTITIONS CONCERNING BELLS.

A wonderful bell is mentioned by Abraham à Sancta Clara, who so forcibly preached during the latter half of the seventeenth century; and some account of the same bell is given by Montano in his 'Historische Nachricht von denen Glocken,' published in the year 1726. Montano says that "it may be seen at Vililla, a small town in the kingdom of Arragon." When this bell was being cast, one of the thirty pieces of silver for which the arch-traitor Judas Iscariot delivered up Jesus Christ to the chief priests, was melted down with the metal, which had the effect of causing the bell to sound occasionally by itself without being touched, especially before the occurrence of some great national calamity, such as a disastrous issue of a warlike expedition, or the death of a king. In the year 1601, Montano records, it continued to ring by itself for three days unintermittingly,—viz., from Thursday the 13th of June until Saturday the 15th; but whether it had some particular reason for this extraordinary procedure, or whether it was merely actuated by some capricious impulse, we are not informed by the learned writer.

Spain appears to have been pre-eminently favoured with such miraculous bells. This is perhaps not to be wondered at considering that miracles occur most frequently in countries where the people are best prepared to accept them.

A lamentable misunderstanding occasioned by a little house-bell is recorded by Grimm as having occurred in a German town; but we are not informed of the name of the town, nor of that of the citizen in whose house it occurred. The inmates of the house, with the exception of the mistress, heard distinctly the sound of the bell, and were quite certain that no one had touched it. Moreover, a few days afterwards, they heard it a second time. The master of the house, a strong and healthy man, made up his mind at once that this omen portended the decease of his wife, who was keeping her bed, very much reduced indeed. He forbade the servants to tell their mistress what had occurred, lest it might frighten her and hasten her dissolution. The state of suspense, after the bell had given warning the second time, lasted for about six weeks, when suddenly—the husband died, and the wife became better! Even after the widow had married again, the bell rang by itself on several occasions; and whenever this happened, there was sure to be a death in the house—sooner or later.[29]

PROTECTIVE BELL-RINGING.

The notion that the tinkling and clanging of bells is a safeguard against the influence of evil spirits, so common among Christian nations, evidently prevailed also with the ancient Egyptians. Some little hand-bells with representations of Typhon have been found in Egyptian tombs, and are still preserved. The Hebrew high-priests had bells attached to their garments, and the reason assigned to this usage, given in Exodus xxviii., verse 35, is: "His sound shall be heard when he goeth into the holy place before the Lord, and when he cometh out, that he die not." Whatever may be the right interpretation of this sentence—there are more than one—it cannot but remind us of the use made by the ancient Egyptians of the Sistrum, the tinkling sounds of which were considered indispensable in religious ceremonies. Nay, what is more remarkable, the sistrum is still in use, being employed by the priests of a Christian sect in Abyssinia; while the Copts, in Upper Egypt, who are likewise Christians, shake in their religious performances a tinkling instrument of metal, called marâoueh, avowedly for the purpose of keeping off the Evil One. Moreover, the Shamans, in Siberia, when preparing themselves for performing incantations, and for prophesying, dress themselves in garments to which are attached tinkling and rattling appendages. Likewise the "medicine men," or prophets of the American Indians, when they engage in sorcery and invocation of spirits, employ, if not tinkling metal, at least dried and rattling seed-pods, loose bills of certain water birds, gourds containing pebbles, and similar contrivances.

The old belief, even at the present day not uncommon, that bell-ringing on the approach of a thunderstorm, and during its continuance, is a protection against lightning, may not unfrequently have been conducive to a deplorable accident, since the current of air produced by the swinging of a bell is more likely to attract the electric fluid than, as is supposed, to drive it away. In Prussia the old and cherished custom of ringing bells during a thunderstorm was wisely forbidden by Frederick the Great, in the year 1783, and his ordinance directed the prohibition to be read in all the churches of the kingdom.

SIGNIFICANT SOUNDS OF BELLS.

The erroneous opinion that an admixture of silver with the bell-metal, consisting of copper and tin, greatly improves the sound of the bell, is very common.

The old church at Krempe, in Holstein, possessed formerly a bell of extraordinary sonorousness, which, people say, contained a great deal of silver. When this bell was being cast, the people brought silver coins and trinkets to be thrown into the fusing metal, in order to ensure a very fine tone. The avaricious founder had a mind to retain these valuable offerings for himself, so he put them aside. But, during his temporary absence, the apprentice took all the silver and threw it into the melting mass. When, on the master's return, his apprentice told him that he had applied the silver to the purpose for which it was presented by the donors, the master waxed angry, and slew the lad. Now, when the bell was cast, and hung in the tower of the church, its sound proved indeed most sonorous, but also very mournful; and whenever it was rung it distinctly sounded like "Schad' um den Jungen! Schad' um den Jungen!" ("Pity for the lad! Pity for the lad!")

The church-bell at Keitum, on the Isle of Silt, in the North Sea, off the coast of Denmark, distinctly says "Ing Dung!" which are the names of two pious spinsters at whose expense the old bell-tower of the church was erected long ago. There exists an old prophecy in the place that, after the bell shall have fallen down and killed the finest youth of the island, the tower will likewise fall, and will kill the most beautiful girl of Silt. A fine youth was actually killed by the fall of the bell in the year 1739; and since that time the young girls of Silt are generally very timid in approaching the tower, for each one thinks that she may be the destined victim.

The good people of Gellingen, in the district of Angeln, on the borders of Denmark, once ordered two bells to be cast for them in the town of Lübeck. These bells were brought by water to Schleimünde; but as ill-luck would have it, one of them fell into the sea and was lost. Now, whenever the remaining bell is being rung, it distinctly proclaims, of which everyone may convince himself, "Min Mag ligger i ä Minn!" ("My companion lies in the Schleimünde!")[30]

The church at Dambeck, in Mecklenburg-Schwerin, is so very old that the oldest inhabitants of the place affirm that its outer walls, which only are now remaining, were built before the deluge. The tower with the bells is sunk in the Lake Müritz; and in olden time people have often seen the bells rising to the surface of the water on St. John's Day. One afternoon some children, who had carried the dinner to their parents labouring in an adjacent field, stopped by the lake to wash the napkins. These little urchins saw the bells which had risen above the water. One of the children, a little girl, spread her napkin over one of the bells for the purpose of drying it; the consequence was that the bell could not descend again. But though all the rich people of the town of Röbel came to secure the bell for themselves, they were unable to remove it, notwithstanding that they brought sixteen strong horses to draw it from the place. They were still unsuccessfully urging the horses, when a poor man happened to pass that way from the fields with a pair of oxen. The man, seeing what the rich people were about, at once told them to put their horses aside; he then yoked his pair of oxen to the bell, and said: "Nu met God foer Arme un Rieke, all to gelieke!" ("Now with the help of God, alike for poor and rich.") Having pronounced these words, he drove the bell without the least difficulty to Röbel, where it was soon hung in the tower of the new church. Whenever a really poor man dies in Röbel, this bell is tolled for him free of charge, and it distinctly says "Dambeck! Dambeck!"[31]

A hundred other instances could be noticed of church-bells being said to pronounce some sentence referring to a remarkable incident which occurred in very remote time. The people, in reciting these sentences, generally imitate the sound of the bell, which of course, greatly heightens the effect of the story. Switzerland is especially rich in such old and cherished traditions.

Every true-born Briton is familiar with the prophetic words chimed by the bells of Bow Church to Whittington on his return to London, which signified to him that he was destined to fill one of the highest posts of honour to which an Englishman can aspire. Some people scout the tradition, bluntly saying, "I don't believe a word of it!" Others reply, "Only just prove that it is a myth, and I shall not believe it any longer, of that I am quite certain."

BAPTIZED BELLS.

Baptized bells are still by many people believed to possess marvellous powers. In Roman Catholic countries the large church bells are most frequently named after particular saints. The baptism, or the dedication to a saint, as the case may be, is performed with solemn ceremonies. The words of consecration pronounced by the priest are "May this bell be sanctified and consecrated in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, in honour of Saint ——." A real baptism does not always take place, but the solemn consecration resembles so closely a baptismal ceremony that it is not surprising the people should generally regard it as such; neither is it surprising that with these exhibitions there should still prevail many superstitious notions relating to miraculous bells.

The uneducated man in Lithuania believes that a newly-cast church bell emits no sound until it has been consecrated and baptized; and the sound of a baptized bell, he fancies, frightens away all sorcery, and even the devil. Moreover, the Lithuanians have a poetical and beautiful conception, according to which the souls of the deceased are floated on the sounds of baptized bells into Heaven.[32]

If we look back a century or two, we meet with popular traditions implying that baptized bells were regarded by many persons much as living beings. Take, for instance, the following story, recorded by Montano:—"When the French, anno 1677, in their cruel madness held possession of the town of Deux-Ponts (or Zweibrücken), they took the bell from the church-tower and endeavoured to destroy it by knocking it to pieces. This they were, however, unable to accomplish. They, therefore, made a large fire, upon which they placed the bell with the intention of melting it. All the military officers stood by to watch the process. How great was their surprise when they saw that the tortured bell begin to sweat blood! The highest officer took his handkerchief, stained it with the blood, and sent it to the King of France; for he thought it possible that, without this irrefragable evidence, neither the king nor anyone else would believe the miracle."

The Swiss preserve some curious traditions respecting baptized bells. They have even had a medal struck commemorating some miracle which occurred when the Pope sent such a blessed bell to the canton of Valais. Moreover, all the bells of the Roman Catholic churches in Switzerland wander annually to Rome for the purpose of confession. They leave on Thursday in Passion Week, and return on the following Saturday; at any rate, there is no bell-ringing during the time indicated. Rochholz says that it is a usual custom in Switzerland to have sponsors at the baptismal ceremony of a church-bell, to dress the bell for the occasion in a garment called "Westerhemd;" to pronounce the Creed in its name; and to sprinkle it with holy water. All these rites were, for instance, observed in the village of Ittenthalen situated in the valley of Frickthal, canton Aargau, where the new bell received not only the name of the godmother, but also was presented by her with a baptismal gift of 200 francs.[33]

Unbaptized bells have, according to accounts from various countries, often proved troublesome, and instances are mentioned of their having flown out of towers, several miles distance through the air, and having fallen into a pond believed to be bottomless. In Moringen, a small town south of Hanover, is a bottomless pond called "Opferteich" ('Pond of Sacrifice') near which, according to an old tradition, the pagan ancestors of the people of Moringen used to offer sacrifice. A bell which through some neglect had not received the rite of baptism, flew into the pond, where it is said to be chained fast and guarded by a ferocious dog. Another unbaptized bell was carried by an awful storm from the church of Grone, a village not far from Moringen, a long distance through the air, and sunk into a pond, where it rests on a table covered with black. At least, a diver, whom the peasants engaged to recover it, reported that he had seen it so placed. But when they sent the diver down a second time, provided with a rope to secure the bell, they found, on drawing up the rope, the diver and not the bell fastened to it, and he was dead.[34]

In a morass near the town of Lochen, in Holland, are two ponds of stagnant water, in which the Evil One has hidden two fine bells which, many years ago, he suddenly carried off from the church-tower of Lochen, as they had not been baptized. These bells are still heard by the people, tolling every year on Christmas Eve precisely at twelve o'clock. The Dutch call these two ponds "Duivelskolken."[35]

INSCRIPTIONS ON CHURCH BELLS.

The inscriptions on church bells are sometimes so quaint, and in some countries so characteristic, that a collection of them would probably be amusing. Take, for instance, the following English specimens, in which the names of the donors are immortalised:—

On a bell at Alderton are the words:—

"I'm given here to make a peal,
And sound the praise of Mary Neale."

And on a bell at Binstead:—

"Doctor Nicholas gave five pounds,
To help cast this peal tuneable and sound."

An alarm-bell in the church of Sherborne, cast in the year 1652, bears the inscription:—

"Lord, quench this furious flame!
Arise, run, help, put out the same!"

On the bell which emits the highest sound in the peal of St. Mary's, at Devizes, are the words:—

"I am the first, altho' but small,
I will be heard above you all."

St. Helen's Church, at Worcester, possesses a set of eight bells, cast in the time of Queen Anne, with inscriptions recording the victories gained in her reign.

A recent traveller in Iceland saw in a village of that country a church-bell which had the inscription in the German language:—

"Aus dem Feuer bin ich gegossen,
Hans Meyer in Kopenhagen hat mich geflossen, Anno 1663."[36]

recording that it had been cast, more than two hundred years ago, by a German founder residing in Denmark. The great bell in the cathedral at Glasgow contains a statement of its having been cast in the year 1583, in Holland, and recast in the year 1790 in London; and a bell in the cathedral of St. Magnus, at Kirkwall, Orkney, records that it was sent to Amsterdam to be recast in the year 1682. Still more frequent than historical statements are scriptural sentences and religious admonitions.

The Burmese, in order to protect a newly-cast bell from being defiled by their European aggressors, have hit upon the expedient of supplying it with a threatening sentence. The bell is in a Buddhist temple at Moulmein. Besides an inscription in Burmese characters it has a sentence in bad English running thus:—

"This bell is made by Koonalinnguhjah the priest, and the weight 600 viss. No one body design to destroy this bell. Moulmein, March 30, 1855. He who destroyed this bell, they must be in the great heell and unable to coming out."

THE CHURCH BELLS BANISHING THE MOUNTAIN-DWARFS.

Curious traditions are still found among the country people in Sweden, Denmark, Germany and some other European countries, of mountain-dwarfs, and suchlike mysterious inhabitants of the country, having been forced to emigrate on account of the bell-ringing. To note one instance:—

In Holstein, people say, a large number of mountain-dwarfs, greatly troubled by the sounds of the many new church-bells introduced, made up their mind to leave the country. Accordingly, having arranged their affairs, they set out in a body and travelled northwards until they came to the River Eider, at a place where there is a ferry. It was late in the night when a knock at the door aroused the ferryman from his sleep. He thought he must have been dreaming; for, it had never happened that anybody had called him up in the middle of the night to be ferried over the river. He therefore took no notice of it, and soon fell asleep again. But after awhile he was awakened by the sound of another knock at the door; and this time he felt sure he had not been dreaming. So he dressed himself quickly, and opened the house-door to see who was there. But, strange enough, he saw no one at the door; and when he called out in the dark, inquiring who wanted him, he got no reply. Then he thought the best thing he could do would be to go to bed again. However, he had scarcely taken his coat off, when there came a bang at the door which quite startled him, so loud it was. Taking up a bludgeon from a corner of the room, and putting on his hat, he at once went out of the house to scrutinise the place.

He had gone only a few steps in the direction towards the river, when to his great surprise he saw before him in a field a multitude of gray-looking dwarfs, who moved restlessly to and fro like ants when you open an ant-hill. Presently one of them, a very old fellow with a long white beard, approached the ferryman and requested him to convey the whole company over the Eider.

"You will be duly paid for your services," said the pigmy with the long beard. "Only place your hat upon the bank of the river for our people to throw the money into as they enter the boat."

The ferryman did as he was desired; but he would rather not have had anything to do with these people. The boat was soon crowded with them. They scrambled about everywhere like insects, and he had to make the passage several times before he had carried them all over to the opposite bank of the river. He observed that each of them threw what appeared to be a grain of sand into the hat; but this he did not mind—thinking only how glad he should be when he had got rid of them all. In fact, he did not trust them, especially as the fellow with the long beard informed him that they were compelled to migrate to some other part of the world on account of the church bells and the hymn-singing, which they could not put up with any longer.

When the ferryman had carried over the last load of the little emigrants, he saw that the whole field near the place where he had landed them was glittering with lights, which flitted about in every direction. The little wanderers had all of them lighted their lanterns. But when he had returned to the bank near his house, and came to take up his hat, how he opened his eyes! Certainly he had never been so surprised in all his life. The hat was full of gold!

He joyfully carried the treasure into his house, and was immensely rich ever after. In short, this simple man became in no time one of the most respectable gentlemen in the country, and died actually worth thousands of pounds.

THE EXPULSION OF PAGANISM IN SWEDEN.

If the reader should ever happen to visit Lagga, a parish in the south-west of Sweden, the people will point out to him an enormously large stone which a giant once threw at a church, and in which the marks of his strong fingers are still discernible. It was, Afzelius says, a common practice with giants in Sweden to hurl stones at the churches, but they never hit them. Moreover, the sound of the church bell was very hateful to them. Near Lagga is a mountain celebrated as the former domicile of a giant, who lived there until the time of the Reformation, when the church of the place was provided with bells. One morning the dejected giant addressed a peasant from Lagga, whose name was Jacob, and who happened to be at the foot of the mountain. "Jacob!" said the giant in a subdued tone of voice, "come in, Jacob, and eat of my stew!"

But Jacob, alarmed at the kind invitation, replied rather hesitatingly: "Sir, if you have more stew than you can consume, you had better keep the rest for to-morrow."

Upon this sensible advice, the dejected giant complained: "I cannot stay here even till to-morrow! I am compelled to leave this place because of the constant bell-ringing, which is quite insupportable!"

Whereupon Jacob, getting a little courage, asked him: "And when do you intend to come back again?"

The dejected giant, hearing himself thus questioned, ejaculated whiningly: "Come back again? Oh! certainly not until the mount has become the bottom of the sea, and the sea itself arable and fertile land; if this should ever happen, then I may perhaps come back again."