drinking-song than anything else, and the first solo is pure
_Volkslied_; both of them imbued with a Teutonic flavor that could be
cut with a knife. In Mendelssohn's "Oedipus in Kolonos," however,
the music expresses emotion rather than German emotion, and abounds in
splendors of harmony that are strikingly Wagnerian--in advance.

[Music: Copyright, 1895, by Arthur P. Schmidt.

POSTLUDE TO "OEDIPUS TYRANNUS," BY J.K. PAINE.]

Paine's second chorus describes the imaginary pursuit by Fate of the
murderer of King Laius. It is full of grim fire, and the second
strophe is at first simply terrible with awe. Then it degenerates
somewhat into an arioso, almost Italian. The fourth chorus defends the
oracles from Jocasta's incredulity. It is written almost in march
measure, and is full of robor.

At this point in the tragedy, where it begins to transpire to
Oedipus that he himself was the unwitting murderer and the
incestuous wretch whose exile the oracle demands before dispelling the
plague,--here the divine genius of Sophokles introduces a chorus of
general merriment, somewhat as Shakespeare uses the maundering fool as
a foil to heighten King Lear's fate. No praise can be too high for
Paine's music here. Its choric structure is masterly, its spirit is
running fire. Note, as an instance, the effect at the words "To save
our land thou didst rise as a tower!" where the music itself is
suddenly uplift with most effective suggestion.

The sixth chorus shows the effect of Oedipus' divulged guilt and the
misery of this fool of Fate. The music is an outburst of sheer genius.
It is overpowering, frightening. The postlude is orchestral, with the
chorus speaking above the music. Jocasta has hanged herself, Oedipus
has torn out his own eyes with her brooch. The music is a fitting
reverie on the great play, and after a wild tumult it subsides in a
resigned quietude.

From Greek tragedy to Yankee patriotism is a long cry, yet I think
Paine has not wasted his abilities on his "Song of Promise," written
for the Cincinnati May Festival of 1888. Though the poem by Mr. George
E. Woodberry is the very apotheosis of American brag, it has a
redeeming technic. The music, for soprano solo, mixed chorus, and
orchestra, reaches the very peaks of inspiration. I doubt if any
living composer or many dead masters could grow so epic, as most of
this. In a way it is academic. It shows a little of the influence of
Wagner,--as any decent music should n