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FAVORITE SONGS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME. |
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The following tribute to the memory of the late Matthew Arbuckle, whose magic cornet made his name a household word with millions, will doubtless waken a responsive echo in the heart of every one who was privileged to know that brilliant artist and kindly, courteous gentleman: " Half-a-dozen years ago," writes a lady, one of his pupils, " an old cornet hung upon the wall of my home, and it somehow happened that I tried it 'to see how it would go.' By a little per�sistence I got a tone, and finally became fascin�ated with the noise I could produce, and, working -away as much as the neighborhood would endure without complaints to the police, I got some mastery. |
The performance was horrible, of course, but one April day I appeared at Mr. Arbuckle's door in New York, a petitioner for lessons. I remember how kindly he received me; how he gave me courage at once by commending my poor attempt at' Robin Adair,' so that he could know what I could do and where to be�gin with me. I remember the next three months of his helpfulness,his patience,his encouragement, his hopefulness; how he put no limit to the' hour's lesson' we had bargained for, and often entertained and helped me a whole afternoon, sometimes taking his cornet, and, forgetting all the world else, giving me his won�derful rendering of delightful airs and ballads. I re- |
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COME, CHEERFUL COMPANIONS. |
Vive la Compagnie. |
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-member, too, his comical running to the corner of the Toom and hiding his face when I had my lesson poorly, and how he would look over his shoulder laughing at me and shouting: ' Try it again,' and when the work was done to his satisfaction, how proud and glad and happy he seemed. He was every inch a gentleman; in every fibre a musician. He gave me music arranged by his own hand; he selected and tested a cornet for me, and all the' crooks' and' mutes' and mouthpieces, and every other appliance of a cornelist's outfit, and there was nothing he could do, by instruction and ad�vice, that he left undone. - A country girl of fourteen, alone in the great city so far as kindred were concerned, |
he bade me welcome to his home. His wife was almost & mother to me, his daughter a friend indeed. I want to say how good he was, how true to his art, how kind, sweet-tempered, big-hearted�a noble man m every thing.
Christopher NoRTH,a lover of nature, never said a truer or a wiser thing than this, in his Soliloquy on the j Seasons:�' Turn from the oracles of man, still dim even / in their clearest response�to the oracles of God, which are never dark. Bury all your books when you feel the night of skepticism gathering around you; bury them all, powerful though you may have deemed their spell to illuminate the unfathomable; open your Bible, and all the spiritual world will be as bright as the day." |
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