he went abroad, studied at
Leipsic, and soon after his return became known as a composer of sacred
tunes. He died in Montclair, N.J., 1868.

"I'M NOT ASHAMED TO OWN MY LORD."

The favorite tune for this spiritual hymn, also by Watts, is old
"Arlington," one of the most useful church melodies in the whole realm
of English psalmody. Its name clings to a Boston street, and the
beautiful chimes of Arlington St. church (Unitarian) annually ring its
music on special occasions, as it has since the bells were tuned:

I'm not ashamed to own my Lord
Or to defend His cause,
Maintain the honor of His Word,
The glory of His cross.

Jesus, my God!--I know His Name;
His Name is all my trust,
Nor will He put my soul to shame
Nor let my hope be lost.

Dr. Thomas Augustine Arne, the creator of "Arlington," was born in
London, 1710, the son of a King St. upholsterer. He studied at Eton, and
though intended for the legal profession, gave his whole mind to music.
At twenty-three he began writing operas for his sister, Susanna (a
singer who afterwards became the famous tragic actress, Mrs. Cibber).

Arne's music to Milton's "Comus," and to "Rule Brittannia" established
his reputation. He was engaged as composer to Drury Lane Theater, and in
1759 received from Oxford his degree of Music Doctor. Later in life he
turned his attention to oratorios, and other forms of sacred music, and
was the first to introduce female voices in choir singing. He died March
5, 1778, chanting hallelujahs, it is said, with his last breath.

"IS THIS THE KIND RETURN?"

Dr. Watts in this hymn gave experimental piety its hour and language of
reflection and penitence:

Is this the kind return?
Are these the thanks we owe,
Thus to abuse Eternal Love
Whence all our blessings flow?

* * * * *

Let past ingratitude
Provoke our weeping eyes.

United in loving wedlock with these words in former years was "Golden
Hill," a chime of sweet counterpoint too rare to bury its authorship
under the vague phrase "A Western Melody." It was caught evidently from
a forest bird[10] that flutes its clear solo in the sunsets of May and
June. There can be no mistaking the imitation--the same compass, the
same upward thrill, the same fall and warbled turn. Old-time folk used
to call for it, "Sing, my Fairweather Bird." It lingers in a few of the
twenty- or thirty-years-