“A month later and we should see the herdsmen,” remarked Spruner.  “The leader of the herd marches in front with a large bell suspended from his neck by a handsome leathern band; the others follow, some with garlands of flowers and straps of embroidered leather, with milking pails suspended between the horns.”

Before nightfall, occasional streaks of sunshine shot across the mountain.  It did not last, however, and when we reached our stopping-place, it was raining below and snowing above us.

The next morning our road dropped into a ravine, bringing something to admire at every turn.  Leaving our course, we visited the Cascade of Horsfall, the beauty of which amply repaid us for the delay it cost.  That night we slept at Herisau, the largest town in the Canton, and here I was to part with Spruner.  There was no difficulty in reaching the lower valley.  With many shakes of the hand, and “May God’s blessing be upon you,’” we parted:  one to take the railroad to Zurich, the other back to his household charms, and the work he had chosen.

A Night In The Cathedral.

Franz Hoffner’s father was kappelmeister; and the old cathedral with its grained arches and cloistered aisles resounded with rare music, as the organist took his seat, and run his fingers over the keys with the careless ease of one who knows not only to control, but to infuse something of his own spirit into the otherwise senseless machine before him.  Under his inspiration it became a living, breathing form; lifting the hearts of worshippers, and giving them glimpses of what is hereafter to be obtained.

Herr Hoffner was a rare musician; but, alas, musicians are no exception to the rule:  the wheel is always turning; one goes up and another goes down.  A new star had risen.  Court belles and beauties grew enthusiastic.  The elector’s heart was touched; his influence was asked.  “Herr Hoffner has been here long enough,” it was said.  There was a twinge of the electoral conscience.

Herr Hoffner went to his house a ruined man; and the new favorite, Carl Von Stein, played upon the keys so dear to the heart of the old organist.

Herr Hoffner had a wife and two lovely children; and one would suppose that he could live in the beautiful cottage the elector had given him, independent of the favorite.  But no; deprived of his old instrument all else was lost to him.  For hours would he sit before his humble door, heedless of his wife’s entreaties or the childish prattle of Franz and Nanette; his eye riveted on the old cathedral, and his hands playing nervously, as though cheating himself with the idea he was still at the organ.  Then roused by a sudden inspiration, he would rush to the piano and play till his hands dropped from mere exhaustion.

Franz and Nanette loved music, and they could play skilfully, but they were all too young to be of service; and thus they lived cut off from all outward influences befitting their age; loving music above everything else, and yearning for the time when they could go out and win for their father, as he had once done for them.