THE SINGING LESSON.
BY M. E. SANGSTER.
What an interesting picture they make, the old music master and his young pupil! By his cowled head we see that the teacher is a monk, and we remember to have read in our histories about the convents, where, during the fierce conflicts of the Middle Ages, holy men lived peaceful lives, wrote books, painted pictures, and set beautiful Latin hymns to lovely music. Those times were wild and dark enough. The brave young men who put on the armor of knighthood and rode forth to defend the weak and right the oppressed found plenty to do. Ladies sat in their castles, working endless pieces of tapestry in stitches which have lately been revived. Boys found pleasure in learning all sorts of manly sports. Here and there one would be found who was quiet and gentle, and he would perhaps be taught to read and write, and would be regarded as a wonderful scholar.
From the sweet rapt look on the face of this little chorister we see that he is one of the pure and noble natures which would not care for fighting, or pitching quoits, or rushing along with hawk and hounds. He loves art, and puts his whole soul into its study.
The gray-bearded master has trained many boys, and while kind and tender, is severe in requiring his pupils to do their best. The score on which the boy's eyes are resting is familiar to him through long years of use, and he feels that it is sacred. He shivers with horror when a note is flatted, as it sometimes is by a giddy singer whose ear is not accurate or whose voice is not disciplined.
The little fellow to whom the master is listening so critically while the sweet full tone chords so perfectly with the long-drawn note on the violin will be only one among a multitude of others in the great cathedral. But when the choir uplifts the Te Deum or the Inflammatus with its waves of melody floods every nook and corner of the grand church, one voice untrained and out of tune might mar the harmony.