leader is supposed to indicate to his singers or players the part of the measure then in progress, and the amplitude, extent or vigor of the motion may give some idea as to the quantity of tone desired. It is, in many cases, past comprehension how the singer is to perceive the leader's intention, owing to carelessness on his part or to mannerisms which obscure his meaning.
One conductor describes a circle through the air and expects his choristers to sing in correct common time; another has a beat that transforms everything into down-up-down-up, until one wonders why an automatic pump-handle couldn't fill his place. One leader will be cool and collected; and another will fly all to pieces, keeping one on the verge of expectancy, as one is when awaiting an explosion of some piece of fireworks.
We may see one conductor flapping his hands at his singers to indicate something (the singers are supposed to know what, but the audience do not), while another meekly raises his hands as if to give his benediction to all before him. One will hold his baton as gingerly between thumb and first finger as though it were made of straw; another will let it rest against the side of his hand as though it were a pen with which he was inscribing on the vibrating air his ideas as to the effect he would make on the ears of his auditors; still another will grasp his stick firmly and securely, as though he were master of his forces and knew it.
In too many cases the motions of the conductor cease to have any particular meaning and become, as Mark Twain says, mere "ornamental beckoning." We have seen conductors hit themselves on the head in their frantic efforts to "mark time," but such a mishap is small compared with that which befell a celebrated French composer.
Lully, in conducting a Te Deum before Louis XIV, in celebration of that monarch's recovery from a severe illness, found that his orchestra was getting a little uncertain as to the time; he became excited, and in making
