n every sense big in quality; marks the bitterness of "Oh, What Comes
over the Sea," the wailing Gaelic sweetness of the "Irish Love Song,"
and the fiery passion of "Betrayed," highly dramatic until its rather
trite ending. "Nameless Pain" is superb. Her "Lament" I consider one
of the greatest of songs, and proof positive of woman's high
capabilities for composition. Miss Lang has a harmonic individuality,
too, and finds out new effects that are strange without strain.

[Music: GHOSTS.

Words by Munkittrick.

MARGARET RUTHVEN LANG.

Out in the misty moonlight, the first snow flakes I see,
As they frolic among the leafless boughs of the apple tree.
Faintly they seem to whisper, as round the boughs they wing;
"We are the ghosts of the flowers who died in the early spring,
Who died in the early spring."

Copyright, 1889, by Arthur P. Schmidt & Co.]

"My Turtle Dove," among the "Five Norman Songs," in fearlessness and
harmonic exploration shows two of the strongest of Miss Lang's traits.
Her _recherches_ harmonies are no pale lunar reflection of masculine
work. Better yet, they have the appearance of spontaneous ease, and
the elaborateness never obtrudes itself upon the coherence of the
work, except in a few such rare cases as "My Native Land," "Christmas
Lullaby," and "Before My Lady's Window." They are singable to a degree
unusual in scholarly compositions. To perfect the result Miss Lang
chooses her poems with taste all too rare among musicians, who seem
usually to rate gush as feeling and gilt as gold. Her "Oriental
Serenade" is an example of weird and original intervals, and "A Spring
Song," by Charlotte Pendleton, a proof of her taste in choosing words.

Her opus 32 is made up of two songs, both full of fire and
originality. Opus 33 is a captivating "Spring Idyl" for the piano, for
which she has also written a "Revery," of which the exquisiteness of
sleep is the theme. The music is delicious, and the ending is a rare
proof of the beautiful possibilities of dissonance.

Personally, I see in Miss Lang's compositions such a depth of
psychology that I place the general quality of her work above that of
any other woman composer. It is devoid of meretriciousness and of any
suspicion of seeking after virility; it is so sincere, so true to the
underlying thought, that it seems to me to have an unusual chance of
interesting attention and stirring emotions increasingly with the
years.

An interes