strong energetically waving arm, the poor
conductor had not his voice so much under
command as might have been desired.
Without going intolerably out of tune, the
pitch fell, and fell. And at the end of the
piece the whole choir was flat, and Ettiswil
received but a faint and feeble tribute of
applause. Still it had not been a disgraceful
failure. Other choirs were flat. The thing
might be borne.

But, behold, when Zurich comes forward
at the very end of the list, Zurich also
sings, " Evening-shine in the Woods," by
Schmölzer! Zurich sends no hard-handed
herdsmen or farmers. Zurich is represented
by superior persons in black satin waistcoats
and gold spectacles! (The preponderance
of spectacles, by-the-way, in the entire
mass of performers, is remarkable.) Zurich
is thirty strong, or so. Zurich boasts a
conductor who has nothing to do but
conduct. Lastly, Zurich possesses a tenor,
slim, black-haired, gentleman-like, and with
an exquisitely true and sympathetic voice!
And just this very Zurich, with its
incontestable and overwhelming advantages,
must needs pitch upon the identical partsong
of tiny, rustic Ettiswil, and invite
invidious comparisons!

It is hard. It is almost cruel. But
when Zurich has sung (and sung, it must
be said, very admirably), and is recalled
vociferously to repeat the strain, who so
hearty, who so rapturous, who so unfeignedly
delighted as the men of Ettiswil?

It was almost pathetic; the thing was
so unmistakably genuine. Hand-clappings
may easily be insincere. Shouts of
approbation are not necessarily loyal in proportion
to their loudness. But the rapt attention,
the honest pleasure, the unconscious self-
forgetting smiles on those coarse-featured
faces, could not be simulated. No doubt
Ettiswil was sorry to be beaten; but equally
without doubt was it, that Ettiswil heartily
admired its victorious rivals, and enjoyed
their skill.

It was curious to observe, both in the
instance of Zurich, and in that of the Cecilia
Society of Lucerne, how mental and social
culture, if it did not improve physical gifts,
at least rendered the use of them so certain
and masterful, as to surpass without an
effort the attempts at competition of the
mere material animal. The men of Zurich
were lawyers, doctors, clerks, tradesmen:
men who passed many hours in sedentary
occupation, shut up within the walls of a
town. The men of Ettiswil were herdsmen,
ploughmen, farmers: men who imbibed
pure oxygen from morning to night: who
rose with the lark and couched with the
lamb. And yet compare the voices of the
two choirs. The Zurich voices were full,
resonant, true. The Ettiswil voices were
rough, hard, uncertain. .

Again: the "mixed choir" of Huttwil,
consisting half of men, half of women, was
naturally compared with the Cecilia Society
of Lucerne; also composed of equal
numbers of male and female singers. The women
of Huttwil were mere peasants. They wore
the sort of costume already described;
black petticoat, velvet bodice, silver chains,
and the rest. The female Cecilians were—
we do not know with accuracy the social
status of the pleasing-looking young ladies
who sang on this occasion, but it may at
least be said without offence or fear of
contradiction, that they, one and all, led
domestic, quiet, household lives. Listen to
the two. Huttwil does not sing out of
tune; but it is harsh, screamy, and worn
in tone. Yes: truly, worn. Do you seek
for freshness, roundness, purity of quality?
You will find these charming characteristics
in the throats of the white-muslined,
kid-gloved town maidens; not in those of
the dwellers on upland pastures, or by the
margin of sweet waters where the daintiest
airs of heaven bring the souls of flowers on
their impalpable wings.

The contest is over. We strangers have
no means of ascertaining to whom the palm
of victory is awarded; but we all leave
St. Xavier, declaring that if Zurich be not
triumphant, it ought to be.

The crowd pours out of the church. The
organ sounds joyfully. The great fan in
the pulpit is resolved into its component
parts, and the banners flutter out at the
portal. The brass band strikes up, and the
choirs are marched in procession through
the town again.

Later in the evening we cross to the
opposite side of the lake to that on which
the Fest-hütte stands, and stroll dreamily
along. A glorious mellow August sun
shines down over the magnificent
panorama. Alp over Alp transfigured with
the splendours of the dying day, melt in
the distance into ethereal, cloud-like shapes
of snow, rose-tinted. Village windows
flame redly from beneath their beetling
gables. The level sunbeams pierce thick
forest foliage with their burnished javelins;
and the reaches of green meadow stretching
softly into the lake, are touched with
gold, and glow with the peculiar hue of
some lustrous Indian beetle.