fingers.

"'I have always supposed,' said Perley, 'that he was only floating with
the rest; you see the orchestra behind him.'

"'Floating after those women with their arms up? No, he isn't.'

"'What is he doing?'

"It's riding over him--the orchestra. He can't master it. Don't you
see? It sweeps him along. He can't help himself. They come and come.
How fast they come! How he fights and falls! Oh, I know how they
come! That's the way things come to me; things I could do, things I
could say, things I could get rid of if I had the chance; they come in
the mills mostly; they tumble over me just so; I never have the chance.
How he fights! I didn't know there was any such picture in the world.
I'd like to look at that picture day and night. See! Oh, I know how
they come!'

"'Miss Kelso--' after another silence, and still upon her knees before
the driving dream and the restless dreamer. 'You see, that's it.
That's like your pretty things. I'd keep your pretty things if I was
you. It ain't that there shouldn't be music anywhere. It's only that
the music shouldn't ride over the master. Seems to me it is like
that.'"

SCHUBERT.

In the Waehring cemetery in Vienna three monuments of varying design
stand side by side. The central one honours Mozart, the name of
Beethoven is inscribed upon the second, and the last bears that of
Franz Schubert. Schubert died aged but thirty-one, in 1828, the year
after Beethoven had passed beyond. He had the greatest reverence for
the sublime master, and on the day before his own death spoke of him in
a touching manner in his delirium. Schubert was one of the
torch-bearers at the grave of Beethoven, and after the funeral went
with some friends to a tavern, where he filled two glasses of wine.
The first he drank to the memory of the great man who had just been
laid to rest, and the other to the memory of him who should be first to
follow Beethoven to the grave. In less than two years he himself lay
beside him.

Schubert, in his youth, once asked a friend, after the performance of
some of his own songs, whether he thought that he (Schubert) would ever
become anything. His friend replied that he was already something. "I
say so to myself, sometimes," said Schubert, "but who can do anything
after Beethoven?" At a later day he said of the master, "Mozart stands
in the same relation to him as Schiller does to Shakespeare. Schiller
is already understood, Shakespe