e way
of this purpose in life. He studied all masters. He made a long
journey on foot to Lubeck to hear a great German master play the
organ; and when he heard him, he remained three months an unknown
and secret auditor in the church.

A youth in which a single aim governs life early arrives at the
harvest. Young manhood found Bach court organist in that Athens of
Germany, Weimar. His fame grew until it reached the ears of
Frederick the Great.

"Old Bach has come," joyfully said the King to his musicians, on
learning that the great organist arrived in town.

He became blind in his last years, as did Handel. Ten days before
his death his sight was suddenly restored, and he rejoiced at seeing
the sunshine and the green earth again. A few hours after this
strange occurrence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit. He died at
the age of sixty-eight.

His organ-playing was held to be one of the marvels of Germany. He
made the organ as it were a part of his own soul; it expressed his
thoughts like an interpreter, and swayed other hearts with the
emotions of his own. His oratorios and cantatas were numbered by the
hundred, many of which were produced only on a single occasion. His
most enduring work is the Passion Music.

In 1850 a Bach Society was formed in London, and a revival of the
works of the master followed. Bach wrote five passions, but only one
for two choirs.

To the general audience much of the Passion music, as arranged for
English choral societies, seems too difficult for appreciation; but
the over-choir at the beginning, the expression of suffering and
darkness, and the so-called earthquake choruses, with its sudden and
stupendous effects, impress even the uneducated ear.

The beauty and power of the oratorio as a work of art are felt in
proportion to one's musical training; but as a sublime tone-sermon,
all may feel its force, and dream that the awful tragedy it
represents is passing before them.

[Illustration: A CITY OF THE RHINE.]

THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.

We came to fair Lucerne at even,--
How beauteous was the scene!
The snowy Alps like walls of heaven
Rose o'er the Alps of green;
The damask sky a roseate light
Flashed on the Lake, and low
Above Mt. Pilate's shadowy height
Night bent her silver bow.

We turned towards the faded fane,
How many centuries old!