or Thrasymene, is connected with the Tiber by the rivulet which bears so sanguinary a name. We stayed one day at Fratta-very generally called Umbertidi, to distinguish it from other Frattas in the same region. Fratta is singular in that it does not stand on a height, as do most Italian cities; it is a quiet, old-fashioned town, standing on the level bank of the Tiber, which is here crossed by a wide stone bridge. It has a moated castle falling gradually to decay. Fratta was founded by the miserable remnants of the Roman army after the defeat at Thrasymene. From Fratta the river flows through a plain bounded on each side by low-lying hills; the stream is here narrowed into a mere rivulet, the additions made by its tributaries being, in a great measure, absorbed by its hot pebbly bed as it nears the source. Citta di Castello is the next place of any note-a dull and sleepy little town, with a cathedral dedicated to St. Florida-whoever he or she may have been-and several churches of no great account. The palace of the Vitelli is a magnificent pile, but the once splendid gardens are now little better than a ploughed field. We were shown a collection of paintings, chiefly of saints and church history, in the Palazzo Mancini, which we had the bad taste to care nothing about; but then, I must repeat, neither my husband nor myself is an art critic; we know what pleases us, and that is all. In the time of Pliny-he had a villa not far distant-the river seems to have been navigable in the winter and spring, but he admits that in the summer the channel was so extremely low as scarcely to deserve the name of a river. There is a curious entry in the town chronicles of 1509 of certain sumptuary regulations prescribed by the council, compelling every woman to dress according to the amount of her dowry. Those possessing 110 florins, or anything less, were only allowed to have one gala dress, which was to be of brocade velvet, with a plain skirt of crimson and purple. Peasants were not to use a certain superior cloth for dress, but only for trimming. A little later on jewels were prohibited to matrons under forty; but brides of three years were graciously allowed to wear them. It is a drive of twelve miles from Citta di Castello to Borgo San Sepolcro, through a fertile and well-cultivated plain, with sloping hills to the left, at the foot of which the river runs-a small stream in its white pebbly bed. The road passes through the little village, San Giustino, where there is an old medieval castle, now used as a modern residence. It is surrounded by sturdy walls and towered battlements, and is circled by a dry moat. Borgo San Sepolcro is a quaint little fortress town. Though unimportant in itself, it has some beautiful works of art, and was the birthplace and home of several of the renowned Italian masters; it boasts, too, of a cathedral and some half-dozen churches. About three miles from Borgo, on the lower slopes of the hills, at Passerino, is the site of the Villa of Pliny. We had been advised to drive round by Arezzo, but as we had seen it before, we did not care to make any further detour, now that we were so nearly approaching the end of our "Pilgrimage." So we pressed on to Pieve Santo Stefano, which is only about twenty miles from the source of the Tiber. It once suffered severely through an inundation of the river caused by an enormous landslip, which choked up the bed of the stream. The homely little town runs along the river banks; it derives its chief support from agriculture. This is the last town on the Tiber, as you ascend the river; the first from its source. The rest of our journey lay entirely among the mountains; we accomplished it partly on foot and partly on donkey-back. By a circuitous route we made our way through a dense wood,over a lofty ridge, and on into the depths of an immense beech forest, where we presently found ourselves by the side of a little noisy stream, tumbling from rock to rock; now creeping into a hazel thicket, now rippling, almost hidden, through beds of fern and moss, and anon leaping merrily into the sunshine. Then it splits into numerous little laughing rills-it is difficult to realise that this wild spot is the birthplace of the most classic river of the world! that this is the imperial Tiber, which flows through Rome, through the solemn, lonely Campagna for miles and miles, and finally enters the Mediterranean, at the marshes of Ostia. But so it was ! This was the baby-river, destined in its further course to wash the marbles of the great city that had once been mistress of the world! We left the solitary scene with regret, and after a steep and wearying descent, we found ourselves once more upon easy slopes, following the bed of the babbling stream. We found out afterwards that the Marecchia, which falls into the Adriatic at Rimini, has its source very near to that of the Tiber; hence we must have approached the apex of the watershed of the Apennines. It is said that in dry weather Rimini may sometimes be discerned from one of the summits on which we stood. Almost at midnight we reached again the ancient town of San Sepolcro, where we were only too thankful to find a plentiful supper and a bed. Two days afterwards we were on our way back to Rome, gladly taking the railroad at Perugia, and finding ourselves the same evening safe and well in our apartments in the now familiar Piazza Spagna. And together we thanked God, who had preserved us from all accident and harm throughout our long and somewhat difficult, and sometimes perilous, Pilgrimage. A MUSICAL EVENING. BY HELEN C. GARLAND. (never "WE are going to hold a Service of Song down in mind what district, inquiring reader) next week," a friend said not long ago. "Will you come with us?" The invitation was accepted, and in due course we found ourselves outside the schools indicated, though, thanks to a cabman who knew as little of his whereabouts as we did, rather later than the appointed hour. Our friends had gone on before, and as we entered we could see them already seated on the platform at the further end of the room. Between them and us a great mass in tervened of restless heads-some bare as befitted the occasion, others crowned by coverings quite regardless of current fashion. Not a wealthy congregation by any means. Poverty, with all its attendant evils, has waged a long battle amongst these scantilyattired men and women. The scars are still plainly visible, though just now there is a look of relief on most faces, as if the burden, borne so patiently, has been laid aside for a brief breathing-space, Everyone is occupied in singing very heartily the familiar hymn, "Knocking! knocking!" time and tane pat in according to each individual taste. A place is found for us, not without some little difficulty, to the left of the platform-a favourable spot for a bird's-eye view of things in general. It is a long, wide room, used for parochial school-training during the week, to judge by the coloured maps hanging against the dingy whitewashed walls. Red banners break the monotony of the brickwork pattern, and their mottoes, raised in white letters, catch the attention of the whole room. The texts are well chosen. "The Son of God loved me, and gave Himself for me" is side by side to the words, "Ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price." And opposite these another verse runs in the same red and white colouring along the whole length of a cross-beam, "Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world." Beneath the banners a temporary platform has been erected. The "stage-arrangements" are simple, consisting merely of a piano, a small table, and two rows of chairs for the singers. The clock already points to eight, that being the hour fixed for proceedings to begin, but a few minutes' grace is given so that room may be made for the late comers, who still stream through the door like a leaking waterspout on a rainy day. It is decidedly a case of "rather too many than none; " but at last all are comfortably settled, and the hymn-books closed for the present. In answer to inquiries made to our next-door neighbour, we are told that this evening is intended to form the initial letter to a Young Women's Institute, a want sadly felt in these parts. "Why, then, invite such a mixed assembly ?" we ask. "Because it attracts general attention to the work. This is the first evening of the kind we have ever held here. Yes, the admittance is all free." It promises well for future evenings, this overcrowded room with its eager, attentive audience. Here and there a few small boys show signs of mutiny against the prevailing order, but they are quickly suppressed by voluntary guardians of the peace. "Christie's Old Organ" has been the theme chosen for this "service," and is conducted and sung entirely by ladies, though there is a clerical bass somewhere in the background, powerful enough to give just the needed "sostenuto" effect. A lady it is, too, who reads the quaint, telling story of "Christie's" adventures, and she does her part in a way that shows it is no new role in her experience. Almost every one must be acquainted with the simple machinery of a Service of Song. A reader, a piano, a practised choir of voices-these are all the requirements to give an immense amount of pleasure, and to sow seed which some day shall yield goodly fruit. These services usually open with a full chorus; then the reader begins the story, and without a break all goes on to the end, reading and singing dovetailing in with one another, forming an effective combination which cannot otherwise be gained. In this instance, "Home, sweet home" at once appeals to the sympathies of the audience. Late-comers, still dropping in, at first disturb the sounds others are bending eagerly forward to catch; but after a few bars, silence is generally well maintained, though occasionally broken by the babies, who thus make known their appreciation of the sentiment. How strange it is that this well-worn air never fails to make its mark! Judging from what we see, home must be anything but "sweet" to some of these poor creatures. Yet every face involuntarily softens as the song goes by, and although a few hours later words and blows may be exchanged with impartial liberality, a fragment of the air may steal across ashamed memories, and suggest a "heal-all" remedy. Really "musical" music is attached to this story. One melody catches the fancy at once; it has the motion of a shower-shaken bough swaying lightly in the April sunshine, and bears the refrain, "There's nothing bright but heaven," which is good to hear. Another, we may call it the keynote of the service, also lingers long in the memory. "There is a city bright, Closed are its gates to sin; Can ever enter in." Such words as these are as good as some condensed sermons, and rather better than others. The singers themselves form not the least interesting part of the programme to-night. What a contrast to some wearers of cheap finery and untidy "fringes" in the seats below are these refined, educated faces! The " Mildmay" bonnets and veils only serve as a sombre background in many cases for the fair freshness of the girlish features. Between the deaconess dresses is sprinkled more secular garb. The chief singer is amongst the latter, although decorated by a blue ribbon. She is a young girl, with a face that might escape notice in a crowd, but cannot easily be forgotten, once seen as we see it to-night, singing with the very soul of music shining through the dark uplifted eyes, that are rarely bent to the printed score in her hand. She is as utterly absorbed in her part as any heroine on a histrionic stage, a slight intensity of colour alone denoting any nervousness. Her voice is sweet, falltoned, good for leadership, marking time and emphasis well. She sustains her solo without the least hesitation when once or twice the accompaniment falters, and sings one or two verses unassisted by any cue beyond her own correct ear. Every word is heard distinctly through the quiet room, and once irrepressible murmurs of Beautiful! beautiful! break out from some listeners be hind us. The points of the story are readily seized by the people, written as it is to meet the wants of this especial class. Their mirth is awakened by the unwitting, delicate sarcasm of Christie's answer when asked by the doctor what is the matter with his friend-“I don't know, sir; that's why I sent for you! And they fully enter into the poor old organ-grinder's doubt of the superiority of harps over barrel-organs in a future existence. The crisis of the narrative, old Treffy's death, causes great sensation, and in the hush that follows, the hymn is taken up, "There is a green hill far away," set to Gounod's exquisite music. We have heard these words many a time in concert and drawingroom, interspersed between love songs and fanciful ditties, but never before has it seemed to find so fitting a niche. "What is the upshot of these remarks ?" someone may ask. "Go, and do thou likewise." Our people must be amused. If they are not given wholesome recreation (and think what that word implies), they will seek other kinds of their own flavouring. The cry we hear so often nowadays is, "Educate the masses!" How are we going to do it? Their intense love of music gives us one side of the answer from their own point of view; the musical training, which is considered so indispensable for English girls of a higher grade, gives us the other. Unite these two, and we shall have a formidable weapon wherewith to close the doors of music-halls and other places of doubtful repute. As we have hinted, nothing is easier than to arrange these simple entertainments. Everyone now is musical, or has musical friends; a little time, a little patience, and the thing is done. And the contrast between singing for a purpose such as this and singing for mere amusement in a drawing-room is great indeed. Most of us have experienced the cost of a "musical evening" spent amongst those who can well afford the luxury of a good conThe audience, sometimes coldly critical, or merely supercilious; the conventional "Thank you" which cert. "Half-reveals and half-conceals the thought within:" the wish to outshine others; the longing, when conversation flows easily over instrumental music, that one were playing quietly alone and could stop or go on as one pleased; the "faint praise," or, worse than all, affected appreciation-these are too oft-repeated phases, the dark side, it is true, of social converse, but existing none the less. And, meanwhile, a rich harvest of gratitude-lasting, it may be, far into eternity-waits for those who will condescend to put in their sickle and reap. AN EMPTY NEST. BY M. S. MACRITCHIE. It only seems like yestereve, and now my hair is white, |