or his temple, and the forty thousand which
accompanied the Psalms of David. Jubal played his Magrepha; Pythagoras
came with his Monochord; Plato listened to the music of the spheres; the
priests of Joshua blew seven times upon their Shofars or Rams-Horns. And
the walls of Jericho fell.

To this came a challenging blast from the terrible horn of Roland--he of
Roncesvalles. The air had the resonance of hell, as the Guatemalan
Indians worshipped their black Christ upon the plaza; and naked Istar,
Daughter of Sin, stood shivering before the Seventh Gate. Then a great
silence fell upon Stannum. He saw a green star drop over Judea, and
thought music itself slain. The pilgrims with their Jews-harps dispersed
into sorrowful groups; blackness usurped the sonorous sun: there was no
music upon all the earth and this tonal eclipse lasted long. Stannum
heard in his magic mirror the submerged music of Dufay, Ockeghem,
Josquin Depres and Orlando di Lasso, Goudimel and Luther; the cathedral
tones of Palestrina; the frozen sweetness of Arezzo, Frescobaldi,
Monteverde, Carissimi, Tartini, Corelli, Scarlatti, Jomelli, Pergolas,
Lulli, Rameau, Couperin, Buxtehude, Sweelinck, Byrd, Gibbons, Purcell,
Bach: with their Lutes, Monochords, Virginals, Harpsichords,
Clavicytheriums, Clavichords, Cembalos, Spinets, Theorbos, Organs and
Pianofortes and accompanying them was an army, vast and formidable, of
all the immemorial virtuosi, singers, castrati, the night moths and
midgets of music. Like wraiths they waved desperate ineffectual hands
and made sad mimickings of their dead and dusty triumphs.... Stannum
again heard the Bach Chromatic Fantasia which seemed old yet very new.
In its weaving sonant patterns were the detonations of the primeval
world he had left; and something strangely disquieting and feminine. But
the man in Bach predominates, subtle, magnetic and nervous as he is.

A mincing, courtly old woman bows low. It is Haydn, and there is
sprightly malice in his music. The glorious periwigged giant of Halle
conducts a chorus of millions; Handel's hailstones rattle upon the pate
of the Sphinx. "A man!" cries Stannum, as the heavens storm out their
cadenced hallelujahs. The divine youth approaches. His mien is excellent
and his voice of rare sweetness. His band discourses ravishing music.
The tone is there, feminized and graceful; troupes of stage players in
paint and furbelows give startling pictures of rakes and fantastics. An
orchestra