Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales
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Robert L. Taylor >> Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales
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Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales.
"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW,"
"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS",
"VISIONS AND DREAMS."
ILLUSTRATED.
Published by
DeLONG RICE & COMPANY.
Nashville, Tenn.
COPYRIGHTED, 1896.
_All rights reserved by DeLong Rice & Co._
UNIVERSITY PRESS CO.,
NASHVILLE, TENN.
PREFACE.
This volume presents the first publication of the famous lectures
of Governor Robert L. Taylor. His great popularity as an orator and
entertainer, and his wide reputation as a humorist, have caused repeated
inquiries from all sections of the country for his lectures in book
form; and this has given rise to an earlier publication than was
expected.
The lectures are given without the slightest abridgment, just as
delivered from the platform throughout the country. The consecutive
chain of each is left undisturbed; and the idea of paragraphing, and
giving headlines to the various subjects treated, was conceived merely
for the convenience of the reader.
In the dialect of his characters, the melody of his songs, and the
originality of his quaint, but beautiful conceptions, Governor Taylor's
lectures are temples of thought, lighted with windows of fun.
DELONG RICE.
Temples of Thought,
Lighted with
Windows
Of Fun.
CONTENTS.
"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW." 9
Cherish the Little Ones 19
Fat Men and Bald-Headed Men 22
The Poet Laureate of Music 23
The Convict and His Fiddle 25
A Vision of The Old Field School 27
The Quilting and the Old Virginia Reel 36
The Candy Pulling 44
The Banquet 48
There is Music All Around Us 53
The Two Columns. 61
There is a Melody for Every Ear 63
Music is the Wine of the Soul 66
The Old Time Singing School 72
The Grand Opera 78
Music 80
"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS." 83
The Paradise of Childhood 90
The Paradise of the Barefooted Boy 98
The Paradise of Youth 104
The Paradise of Home 112
Bachelor and Widower 117
Phantoms 119
The False Ideal 121
The Circus in the Mountains 123
The Phantom of Fortune 128
Clocks 130
The Panic 133
Bunk City 135
Your Uncle 137
Fools 140
Blotted Pictures 143
"VISIONS AND DREAMS." 147
The Happy Long Ago 151
Dreams of the Years to Come 160
From the Cave-man to the Kiss-o-phone 169
Dreams 175
Visions of Departed Glory 178
Nature's Musicians 181
Preacher's Paradise 185
Brother Estep and the Trumpet 189
"Wamper-jaw" at the Jollification 190
The Tintinnabulation of the Dinner Bells 193
Phantoms of the Wine Cup 196
The Missing Link 197
Nightmare 198
Infidelity 200
The Dream of God 201
"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW."
[Illustration]
I heard a great master play on the wondrous violin; his bow quivered
like the wing of a bird; in every quiver there was a melody, and every
melody breathed a thought in language sweeter than was ever uttered by
human tongue. I was conjured, I was mesmerized by his music. I thought I
fell asleep under its power, and was rapt into the realm of visions and
dreams. The enchanted violin broke out in tumult, and through the rifted
shadows in my dream I thought I saw old ocean lashed to fury. The wing
of the storm-god brooded above it, dark and lowering with night and
tempest and war. I heard the shriek of the angry hurricane, the loud
rattling musketry of rain, and hail, and the louder and deadlier crash and
roar of the red artillery on high. Its rumbling batteries, unlimbered on
the vapory heights and manned by the fiery gunners of the storm, boomed
their volleying thunders to the terrible rythm of the strife below. And
in every stroke of the bow fierce lightnings leaped down from their dark
pavilions of cloud, and, like armed angels of light, flashed their
trenchant blades among the phantom squadrons marshalling for battle on
the field of the deep. I heard the bugle blast and battle cry of the
charging winds, wild and exultant, and then I saw the billowy monsters
rise, like an army of Titans, to scale and carry the hostile heights of
heaven. Assailing again and again, as often hurled back headlong into
the ocean's abyss, they rolled, and surged, and writhed, and raged, till
the affrighted earth trembled at the uproar of the warring elements.
I saw the awful majesty and might of Jehovah flying on the wings of
the tempest, planting his footsteps on the trackless deep, veiled in
darkness and in clouds. There was a shifting of the bow; the storm died
away in the distance, and the morning broke in floods of glory. Then the
violin revived and poured out its sweetest soul. In its music I heard
the rustle of a thousand joyous wings, and a burst of song from a
thousand joyous throats. Mockingbirds and linnets thrilled the glad
air with warblings; gold finches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled their
happiest tunes; and the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that
rocked in the wind. I heard the twitter of skimming swallows and the
scattered covey's piping call; I heard the robin's gay whistle, the
croaking of crows, the scolding of blue-jays, and the melancholy cooing
of a dove. The swaying tree-tops seemed vocal with bird-song while he
played, and the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus. Then
the violin sounded the hunter's horn, and the deep-mouthed pack of fox
hounds opened loud and wild, far in the ringing woods, and it was like
the music of a hundred chiming bells. There was a tremor of the bow,
and I heard a flute play, and a harp, and a golden-mouthed cornet;
I heard the mirthful babble of happy voices, and peals of laughter
ringing in the swelling tide of pleasure. Then I saw a vision of snowy
arms, voluptuous forms, and light fantastic slippered feet, all whirling
and floating in the mazes of the misty dance. The flying fingers now
tripped upon the trembling strings like fairy-feet dancing on the
nodding violets, and the music glided into a still sweeter strain.
The violin told a story of human life. Two lovers strayed beneath the
elms and oaks, and down by the river side, where daffodils and pansies
bend and smile to rippling waves, and there, under the bloom of
incense-breathing bowers, under the soothing sound of humming bees and
splashing waters, there, the old, old story, so old and yet so new,
conceived in heaven, first told in Eden and then handed down through
all the ages, was told over and over again. Ah, those downward drooping
eyes, that mantling blush, that trembling hand in meek submission
pressed, that heaving breast, that fluttering heart, that whispered
"yes," wherein a heaven lies--how well they told of victory won and
paradise regained! And then he swung her in a grapevine swing. Young
man, if you want to win her, wander with her amid the elms and oaks,
and swing her in a grapevine swing.
"Swinging in the grapevine swing,
Laughing where the wild birds sing;
I dream and sigh for the days gone by,
Swinging in the grapevine swing."
[Illustration: "SWINGING IN THE GRAPEVINE SWING."]
But swiftly the tides of music run, and swiftly speed the hours;
Life's pleasures end when scarce begun, e'en as the summer flowers.
The violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a
cottage amid the elms and oaks and a little curly-head toddled at the
door; I saw a happy husband and father return from his labors in the
evening and kiss his happy wife and frolic with his baby. The purple
glow now faded from the Western skies; the flowers closed their petals
in the dewy slumbers of the night; every wing was folded in the bower;
every voice was hushed; the full-orbed moon poured silver from the East,
and God's eternal jewels flashed on the brow of night. The scene changed
again while the great master played, and at midnight's holy hour, in the
light of a lamp dimly burning, clad in his long, white mother-hubbard,
I saw the disconsolate victim of love's young dream nervously walking
the floor, in his bosom an aching heart, in his arms the squalling baby.
On the drowsy air, like the sad wails of a lost spirit, fell his woeful
voice singing:
[Illustration: (Sheet Music)]
With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by,
Danc-ing the ba-by ev-er so high; with my
La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by
Mam-ma will come to you bye and bye.
It was a battle with king colic. But this ancient invader of the empire
of babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallen
over on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almost
calm in repose, when down went a naked heel square on an inverted tack.
Over went the work table; down came the work basket, scissors and all;
up went the heel with the tack sticking in it, and the hero of the
daffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and with
his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a lounge
in the rear.
[Illustration: A BATTLE WITH KING COLIC.]
There was "weeping and gnashing of teeth;" there were hoarse mutterings;
there was an angry shake of the screaming baby, which he had awakened
again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm blankets of the
conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how dare you shake my little
baby that way!!!! I'll tell pa to-morrow!" which instantly brought the
trained husband into line again, singing:
"La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, dancing the baby ever so high,
With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, mamma will come to you bye and bye."
The paregoric period of life is full of spoons and midnight squalls, but
what is home without a baby?
The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the music
eddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffin
sat by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the window
panes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; the
sobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feet
were no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped above
eyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless and
cold, and two little dimpled hands were folded upon a motionless breast.
The vibrant instrument sighed and wept; it rang the church bell's knell;
and the second story of life, which is the sequel to the first, was told.
Then I caught glimpses of a half-veiled paradise and a sweet breath from
its flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful and
gorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of its
distant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary, wafting
to the bosom of God an infant spirit; a string snapped; the music ended;
my vision vanished.
The old Master is dead, but his music will live forever.
CHERISH THE LITTLE ONES.
Do you sometimes forget and wound the hearts of your children with
frowns and the dagger of cruel words, and sometimes with a blow?
Do you sometimes, in your own peevishness, and your own meanness, wish
yourself away from their fretful cries and noisy sports? Then think that
to-morrow may ripen the wicked wish; tomorrow death may lay his hand
upon a little fluttering heart and it will be stilled forever. 'Tis then
you will miss the sunbeam and the sweet little flower that reflected
heaven on the soul. Then cherish the little ones! Be tender with the
babes! Make your homes beautiful! All that remains to us of paradise
lost, clings about the home. Its purity, its innocence, its virtue,
are there, untainted by sin, unclouded by guile. There woman shines,
scarcely dimmed by the fall, reflecting the loveliness of Eden's first
wife and mother; the grace, the beauty, the sweetness of the wifely
relation, the tenderness of maternal affection, the graciousness of
manner which once charmed angel guests, still glorify the home.
If you would make your homes happy, you must make the children happy.
Get down on the floor with your prattling boys and girls and play horse
with them; take them on your back and gallop them to town; don't kick up
and buck, but be a good and gentle old steed, and join in a hearty horse
laugh in their merriment. Take the baby on your knee and gallop him to
town; let him practice gymnastics on top of your head and take your
scalp; let him puncture a hole in your ear with his little teeth, and
bite off the end of the paternal nose. Make your homes beautiful with
your duty and your love, make them bright with your mirth and your
music.
Victor Hugo said of Napoleon the Great: "The frontiers of kingdoms
oscillated on the map. The sound of a super-human sword being drawn from
its scabbard could be heard; and he was seen, opening in the thunder his
two wings, the Grand Army and the Old Guard; he was the archangel of
war." And when I read it I thought of the death and terror that followed
wherever the shadow of the open wings fell. I thought of the blood that
flowed, and the tears that were shed wherever the sword gleamed in his
hand. I thought of the human skulls that paved Napoleon's way to St.
Helena's barren rock, and I said, 'I would rather dwell in a log cabin,
in the beautiful land of the mountains where I was born and reared, and
sit at its humble hearthstone at night, and in the firelight, play the
humble rural tunes on the fiddle to my happy children, and bask in the
smiles of my sweet wife, than to be the 'archangel of war,' with my
hands stained with human blood, or to make the 'frontiers of kingdoms
oscillate on the map of the world, and then, away from home and kindred
and country, die at last in exile and in solitude.'
FAT MEN AND BALD-HEADED MEN.
It ought to be the universal law that none but fat men and bald-headed
men should be the heads of families, because they are always good
natured, contented and easily managed. There is more music in a fat
man's laugh than there is in a thousand orchestras or brass bands.
Fat sides and bald heads are the symbols of music, innocence, and meek
submission. O! ladies listen to the words of wisdom! Cultivate the
society of fat men and bald-headed men, for "of such is the Kingdom of
Heaven." And the fat women, God bless their old sober sides--they are
"things of beauty, and a joy forever."
THE VIOLIN, THE POET LAUREATE OF MUSIC.
How sweet are the lips of morning that kiss the waking world! How sweet
is the bosom of night that pillows the world to rest. But sweeter than
the lips of morning, and sweeter than the bosom of night, is the voice
of music that wakes a world of joys and soothes a world of sorrows.
It is like some unseen ethereal ocean whose silver surf forever breaks
in song; forever breaks on valley, hill, and craig, in ten thousand
symphonies. There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in every
melody; there is a flower in every song, a love song in every flower;
there is a sonnet in every gurgling fountain, a hymn in every brimming
river, an anthem in every rolling billow. Music and light are twin
angels of God, the first-born of heaven, and mortal ear and mortal eye
have caught only the echo and the shadow of their celestial glories.
The violin is the poet laureate of music; violin of the virtuoso and
master, _fiddle_ of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocrat
of the palace and the hall; it is the _democrat_ of the unpretentious
home and humble cabin. As violin, it weaves its garlands of roses and
camelias; as fiddle it scatters its modest violets. It is admired by the
cultured for its magnificent powers and wonderful creations; it is loved
by the millions for its simple melodies.
THE CONVICT AND HIS FIDDLE.
One bright morning, just before Christmas day, an official stood in
the Executive chamber in my presence as Governor of Tennessee, and
said: "Governor, I have been implored by a poor miserable wretch in
the penitentiary to bring you this rude fiddle. It was made by his own
hands with a penknife during the hours allotted to him for rest. It is
absolutely valueless, it is true, but it is his petition to you for
mercy. He begged me to say that he has neither attorneys nor influential
friends to plead for him; that he is poor, and all he asks is, that when
the Governor shall sit at his own happy fireside on Christmas eve, with
his own happy children around him, he will play one tune on this rough
fiddle and think of a cabin far away in the mountains whose hearthstone
is cold and desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched,
ragged children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for the
footsteps of their father."
Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record was
examined; Christmas eve came; the Governor sat that night at his own
happy fireside, surrounded by his own happy children; and he played one
tune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin in the
mountains was bright and warm; a pardoned prisoner sat with his baby on
his knee, surrounded by _his_ rejoicing children, and in the presence of
_his_ happy wife, and although there was naught but poverty around him,
his heart sang: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;" and
then he reached up and snatched his fiddle down from the wall, and
played "Jordan is a hard road to travel."
A VISION OF THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL.
Did you never hear a fiddler fiddle? I have. I heard a fiddler fiddle,
and the hey-dey-diddle of his frolicking fiddle called back the happy
days of my boyhood. The old field schoolhouse with its batten doors
creaking on wooden hinges, its windows innocent of glass, and its great,
yawning fireplace, cracking and roaring and flaming like the infernal
regions, rose from the dust of memory and stood once more among the
trees. The limpid spring bubbled and laughed at the foot of the hill.
Flocks of nimble, noisy boys turned somersaults and skinned the cat and
ran and jumped half hammon on the old play ground. The grim old teacher
stood in the door; he had no brazen-mouthed bell to ring then as we have
now, but he shouted at the top of his voice: "Come to books!!!" And they
came. Not to come meant "war and rumors of war." The backless benches,
high above the floor, groaned under the weight of irrepressible young
America; the multitude of mischievous, shining faces, the bare legs and
feet, swinging to and fro, and the mingled hum of happy voices, spelling
aloud life's first lessons, prophesied the future glory of the State.
The curriculum of the old field school was the same everywhere--one
Webster's blue backed, elementary spelling book, one thumb-paper, one
stone-bruise, one sore toe, and Peter Parley's Travels.
The grim old teacher, enthroned on his split bottomed chair, looked
terrible as an army with banners; and he presided with a dignity and
solemnity which would have excited the envy of the United States Supreme
Court: I saw the school commissioners visit him, and heard them question
him as to his system of teaching. They asked him whether, in geography,
he taught that the world was round, or that the world was flat. With
great dignity he replied: "That depends upon whar I'm teachin'. If my
patrons desire me to teach the round system, I teach it; if they desire
me to teach the flat system, I teach that."
At the old field school I saw the freshman class, barefooted and with
pantaloons rolled up to the knees, stand in line under the ever uplifted
rod, and I heard them sing the never-to-be-forgotten b-a ba's. They sang
them in the _olden_ times, and this is the way they sang: "b-a ba, b-e
be, b-i bi-ba be bi, b-o bo, b-u bu-ba be bi bo bu."
I saw a sophomore dance a jig to the music of a dogwood sprout for
throwing paper wads. I saw a junior compelled to stand on the dunce
block, on one foot--(_a la_ gander) for winking at his sweetheart in
time of books, for failing to know his lessons, and for "various and
sundry other high crimes and misdemeanors."
A twist of the fiddler's bow brought a yell from the fiddle, and in
my dream, I saw the school come pouring out into the open air. Then
followed the games of "prisoner's base," "town-ball," "Antney-over;"
"bull-pen" and "knucks," the hand to hand engagements with yellow
jackets, the Bunker Hill and Brandywine battles with bumblebees, the
charges on flocks of geese, the storming of apple orchards and hornet's
nests, and victories over hostile "setting" hens. Then I witnessed the
old field school "Exhibition"--the _wonderful_ "exhibition"--they call
it Commencement now. Did you never witness an old field school
"exhibition," far out in the country, and listen to its music? If you
have not your life is a failure--you are a broken string in the harp of
the universe. The old field school "exhibition" was the parade ground of
the advance guard of civilization; it was the climax of great events in
the olden times; and vast assemblies were swayed by the eloquence of the
budding sockless statesmen. It was at the old field school "exhibition"
that the goddess of liberty always received a broken nose, and the
poetic muse a black eye; it was at the old field school "exhibition"
that _Greece_ and _Rome_ rose and fell, in seas of gore, about every
fifteen minutes in the day, and,
The American eagle, with unwearied flight,
Soared upward and upward, till he soared out of sight.
It was at the old field school "exhibition" that the fiddle and the bow
immortalized themselves. When the frowning old teacher advanced on the
stage and nodded for silence, instantly there _was_ silence in the vast
assembly; and when the corps of country fiddlers, "one of which I was
often whom," seated on the stage, hoisted the black flag, and rushed
into the dreadful charge on "Old Dan Tucker," or "Arkansas Traveller,"
the spectacle was sublime. Their heads swung time; their bodies rocked
time; their feet patted time; the muscles of their faces twitched
time; their eyes winked time; their teeth ground time. The whizzing
bows and screaming fiddles electrified the audience who cheered at every
brilliant turn in the charge of the fiddlers. The good women laughed for
joy; the men winked at each other and popped their fists; it was like
the charge of the Old Guard at Waterloo, or a battle with a den of
snakes. Upon the completion of the grand overture of the fiddlers the
brilliant programme of the "exhibition," which usually lasted all day,
opened with "Mary had a little lamb;" and it gathered fury until it
reached Patrick Henry's "Give me liberty or give me death!!!" The
programme was interspersed with compositions by the girls, from the
simple subject of "flowers," including "blessings brighten as they take
their flight," up to "every cloud has a silver lining;" and it was
interlarded with frequent tunes by the fiddlers from early morn till
close of day.
[Illustration: MUSIC OF THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL EXHIBITION.]
Did you never hear the juvenile orator of the old field school speak?
He was not dressed like a United States Senator; but he was dressed with
a view to disrobing for bed, and completing his morning toilet instantly;
both of which he performed during the acts of ascending and descending
the stairs. His uniform was very simple. It consisted of one pair of
breeches rolled up to the knees, with one patch on the "western
hemisphere," one little shirt with one button at the top, one "gallus,"
and one invalid straw hat. His straw hat stood guard over his place on
the bench, while he was delivering his great speech at the "exhibition."
With great dignity and eclat, the old teacher advanced on the stage and
introduced him to the expectant audience, and he came forward like a
cyclone.
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