odd repetition that is not preludatory, but
thematic. The suite ends with the most poetic scene of all, "At Home,"
which makes a tone poem of Richard Hovey's word-picture of a June
night in Washington. The depicting of the Southern moonlight-balm,
with its interlude of a distant and drowsy negro quartette, reminds
one pleasantly of Chopin's Nocturne (op. 37, No. 1), with its
intermezzo of choric monks, though the composition is Nevin's very own
in spirit and treatment.

In addition to the works catalogued, Nevin has written a pantomime for
piano and orchestra to the libretto of that virtuoso in English, Vance
Thompson; it was called "Lady Floriane's Dream," and was given in New
York in 1898. Nevin has also a cantata in making.

It needs no very intimate acquaintance with Nevin's music to see that
it is not based on an adoration for counterpoint as an end. He
believes that true music must come from the emotions--the intelligent
emotions--and that when it cannot appeal to the emotions it has lost
its power. He says: "Above everything we need melody--melody and
rhythm. Rhythm is the great thing. We have it in Nature. The trees
sway, and our steps keep time, and our very souls respond." In
Wagner's "Meistersinger," which he calls "a symphonic poem with
action," Nevin finds his musical creed and his model.

And now, if authority is needed for all this frankly enthusiastic
admiration, let it be found in and echoed from Karl Klindworth, who
said of Nevin: "His talent is _ungeheures_ [one of the strongest
adjectives in the German language]. If he works hard and is
conscientious, he can say for the musical world something that no one
else can say."

_John Philip Sousa._

[Illustration: Autograph of John Philip Sousa]

[Illustration: JOHN PHILIP SOUSA.]

In common with most of those that pretend to love serious music, a
certain person was for long guilty of the pitiful snobbery of rating
march-tunes as the lowest form of the art. But one day he joined a
National Guard regiment, and his first long march was that
heart-breaking dress-parade of about fifteen miles through the wind
and dust of the day Grant's monument was dedicated. Most of the music
played by the band was merely rhythmical embroidery, chiefly in bugle
figures, as helpful as a Clementi sonatina; but now and then there
would break forth a magic elixir of tune that fairly plucked his feet
up for him, put marrow in unwilling bones, and replaced the dreary
d