“And now with lustre soft the horizon glows;”
or,
“And now fair Phœbus’ shining car draws near;”
or,
“And now with purple pomp the mountains decked.”
Armed with this inspiring effusion the young people are locked up in their little cells with pens, paper, and piano until their work is done.
Twice a day they are let out to feed, but they may not leave the Institute building. Everything brought in for their use is carefully searched lest outside help should be given, yet every day, from six to eight, they may have visitors and invite their friends to jovial dinners, at which any amount of assistance—verbal or written—might be given.
This lasts for twenty-two days, but anyone who has finished sooner is at liberty to go, leaving his manuscript—signed as before—with the secretary.
Then the grave and reverend signors of the jury assemble, having added to their number two members of any other section of the Institute—either engravers, painters, sculptors or architects—anything, in short, but musicians.
You see, they are so thoroughly competent to judge an art of which they know nothing.