  By ALICE C. JENNINGS. [When Paganini once rose to amuse a crowded auditory with his music, he found that his violin had been removed, and a coarser instrument substituted for it. Explaining the trick, he said to the audience, “Now I will show you that the music is not in my violin, but in me.”—Chautauquan for December, 1882.] An artist once, whose magic could command That sound its deepest secrets should unfold, Had found his instrument by evil hand Exchanged for one of meaner, coarser mould. Yet, like the clashing tongue of vibrant bells, The hindrance but a greater power revealed. “See, I will show thee that the music dwells In me, and not the instrument I wield.” He turns, and sweetly, grandly, at his call, The violin its richest music flings. The instrument is naught—the player all— The power is in the touch, and not the strings. A coarse, rude instrument, this world, at best: Its strings made tense by selfishness and pride; If by its discords music be expressed, The music in our fingers must reside. Remember this: in tune keep heart and hand, And to earth’s music thou shalt hold the key, And from its discords sweetest tones command, Unknown and unimagined, save by thee. decorative line
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