Gov. Bob. Taylor\'s Tales
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Robert L. Taylor >> Gov. Bob. Taylor\'s Tales
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THERE IS A MELODY FOR EVERY EAR.
[Illustration: THE MID-NIGHT SERENADE.]
The multitudinous harmonies of this world differ in pathos and pitch as
the stars differ, one from another, in glory. There is a style for every
taste, a melody for every ear. The gabble of geese is music to the goose;
the hoot of the hoot-owl is lovlier to his mate than the nightingale's
lay; the concert of Signor "Tomasso Cataleny" and Mademoiselle "Pussy"
awakeneth the growling old bachelor from his dreams, and he throweth his
boquets of bootjacks and superannuated foot gear.
The peripatetic gentleman from Italy asks no loftier strain than the
tune of his hand organ and the jingle of the nickels, "the tribute of
the Caesars."
The downy-lipped boy counts the explosion of a kiss on the cheek of his
darling "dul-ci-ni-a del To-bo-so" sweeter than an echo from paradise;
and it is said that older folks like its music.
The tintinnabulations of the wife's curtain lecture are too precious to
the enraptured husband to be shared with other ears. And in the hush of
the bed-time hour, when tired daddies are seeking repose in the oblivion
of sleep, the unearthly bangs on the grand piano below in the parlor,
and the unearthly screams and yells of the budding prima donna, as she
sings to her admiring beau:
[Illustration: (Sheet Music)]
"Men may come and men may go, but
I go on 'for-ev-oor' 'ev-oor'
I go on 'for-ev-o-o-r' 'e-v-o-o-r'
I go on 'for-ev-oor.'"
It is a thing of beauty, and a "nightmare" forever.
MUSIC IS THE WINE OF THE SOUL.
Music is the wine of the soul. It is the exhileration of the palace;
it is the joy of the humblest home; it sparkles and glows in the
banquet hall; it is the inspiration of the church. Music inspires every
gradation of humanity, from the orangoutang and the cane-sucking dude
with the single eye glass, _up to man_.
There was "a sound of revelry by night," where youth and beauty were
gathered in the excitement of the raging ball. The ravishing music of
the orchestra charmed from the street a red nosed old knight of the
demijohn, and uninvited he staggered into the brilliant assemblage and
made an effort to get a partner for the next set. Failing in this, he
concluded to exhibit his powers as a dancer; and galloped around the
hall till he galloped into the arms of a strong man who quickly ushered
him to the head of the stairs, and gave him a kick and a push; he went
revolving down to the street below and fell flat on his back in the mud;
but "truth crushed to earth will rise again!" He rose, and standing
with his back against a lamp post, he looked up into the faces that were
gazing down, and said in an injured tone: "Gentlemen, (hic) you may be
able to fool some people, but, (hic) you can't fool me, (hic) I know
what made you kick me down them stairs, (hic, hic). You don't want me
up there--that's the reason!" So, life hath its discords as well as its
harmonies.
There was music in the magnificent parlor of a modern Chesterfield.
It was thronged with elegant ladies and gentlemen. The daughter of the
happy household was playing and singing Verdi's "Ah! I have sighed to
rest me;" the fond mother was turning the pages; the fond father was
sighing and resting up stairs, in a state of innocuous desuetude,
produced by the "music" of old Kentucky Bourbon; but he could not
withstand the power of the melody below. Quickly he donned his clothing;
he put his vest on over his coat; put his collar on hind side foremost;
buttoned the lower buttonhole of his coat on the top button, stood
before the mirror and arranged his hair, and started down to see the
ladies and listen to the music. But he stumped his toe at the top of the
stairs, and slid down head-foremost, and turned a somersault into the
midst of the astonished ladies. The ladies screamed and helped him to
his feet, all crying at once: "Are you hurt Mr. 'Rickety'--are you
hurt?" Standing with his back against the piano he exclaimed in an
assuring tone: "Why, (hic) of course not ladies, go on with your music,
(hic) that's the way I always come down----!"
[Illustration: MR. "RICKETY."]
Two old banqueters banqueted at a banquet. They banqueted all night
long, and kept the banquet up together all the next day after the
banquet had ended. They kept up their banqueting a week after the
banquet was over. But they got separated one morning and met again
in the afternoon. One of them said: "Good mornin':" The other said:
"Good evenin'!" "Why;" said one, "It's mornin' an' that's the sun;
I've investigated the queshtun." "No-sir-ee," said the other, "You're
mistaken, it's late in the evenin' an' that's the full moon." They
concluded they would have no difficulty about the matter, and agreed to
leave it to the first gentleman they came to to settle the question.
They locked arms and started down the street together; they staggered
on till they came upon another gentleman in the same condition, hanging
on a lamp post. One of them approached him and said: "Friend (hic) we
don't desire to interfere with your meditation, (hic) but this gen'lman
says it's mornin' an' that's the sun; I say it's evenin' an' that's the
full moon, (hic) we respectfully ask you (hic) to settle the question."
The fellow stood and looked at it for a full minute, and in his despair
replied:
"Gen'lmen, (hic) you'll have to excuse me, (hic) I'm a stranger in this
town!"
[Illustration: AFTER THE BANQUET.]
THE OLD TIME SINGING SCHOOL.
Did you never hear the music of the old time singing school? Oh! who can
forget the old school house that stood on the hill? Who can forget the
sweet little maidens with their pink sun bonnets and checkered dresses,
the walks to the spring, and the drinks of pure, cold water from the
gourd? Who can forget the old time courtships at the singing school?
When the boy found an opportunity he wrote these tender lines to his
sweetheart:
"The rose is red; the violet's blue--
Sugar is sweet, and so are you."
She read it and blushed, and turned it over and wrote on the back of it:
"As sure as the vine clings 'round the stump,
I'll be your sweet little sugar lump."
Who can forget the old time singing master? The old time singing master
with very light hair, a dyed mustache, a wart on his left eyelid, and
with one game leg, was the pride of our rural society; he was the envy
of man and the idol of woman. His baggy trousers, several inches too
short, hung above his toes like the inverted funnels of a Cunard
steamer. His butternut coat had the abbreviated appearance of having
been cut in deep water, and its collar encircled the back of his head
like the belts of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn. His vest resembled
the aurora borealis, and his voice was a cross between a cane mill
and the bray of an ass. Yet beautiful and bright he stood before the
ruddy-faced swains and rose-cheeked lassies of the country, conscious
of his charms, and proud of his great ability. He had prepared, after a
long and tedious research of Webster's unabridged dictionary, a speech
which he always delivered to his class.
[Illustration: THE SINGING MASTER DELIVERING HIS GREAT SPEECH.]
"Boys and girls," he would say, "Music is a conglomeration of pleasing
sounds, or a succession or combernation of simultaneous sounds modulated
in accordance with harmony. Harmony is the sociability of two or more
musical strains. Melody denotes the pleasing combustion of musical and
measured sounds, as they succeed each other in transit. The elements
of vocal music consist of seven original tones which constitute the
diatonic scale, together with its steps and half steps, the whole being
compromised in ascending notes and half notes, thus:
Do re mi fa sol la si do--
Do si la sol fa mi re do.
Now, the diapason is the ad interium, or interval betwixt and between
the extremes of an octave, according to the diatonic scale. The turns
of music consist of the appoggiatura which is the principal note, or
that on which the turn is made, together with the note above and the
semi-tone below, the note above being sounded first, the principal note
next and the semi-tone below, last, the three being performed sticatoly,
or very quickly. Now, if you will keep these simple propersitions clear
in your physical mind, there is no power under the broad canister of
heaven which can prevent you from becoming succinctly contaminated with
the primary and elementary rudiments of music. With these few sanguinary
remarks we will now proceed to diagnosticate the exercises of the
mornin' hour. Please turn to page thirty-four of the Southern harmony."
And we turned. "You will discover that this beautiful piece of music is
written in four-four time, beginning on the downward beat. Now, take the
sound--sol mi do--All in unison--one, two, three, _sing_:
[Illustration: (Sheet Music)]
Sol sol, mi fa sol, la sol fa, re re re, re mi fa
Re mi fa, sol fa mi, do do do--
Si do re, re re re, mi do si do, re do si la sol,
Si do re, re mi fa sol la, sol fa mi, do do do."
[Illustration: BEATING TIME.]
THE GRAND OPERA.
[Illustration: THE GRAND OPERA SINGER.]
I heard a great Italian Tenor sing in the Grand Opera, and Oh! how like
the dew on the flowers is the memory of his song! He was playing the
role of a broken-hearted lover in the opera of the "Bohemian Girl."
I can only repeat it as it impressed me--an humble young man from the
mountains who never before had heard the _Grand Opera_:
[Illustration: (Sheet Music)]
"When ethaer-r-r leeps and ethaer-r-r hairts,
Their-r-r tales auf luff sholl tell,
In longwidge whose ex-cess impair-r-r-ts.
The power-r-r-r they feel so well,
There-r-r-e may per-haps in-a such a s-c-e-n-e
Some r-r-re-co-lec-tion be,
Auf days thot haive as hop-py bean--
Then you'll-a r-r-r-re-mem-b-a-e-r-r-r me-e-e,
Then you'll-a r-re-mem-b-a-e-r-r,
You'll-a r-re-mem-ber a-me-e-e!!"
MUSIC.
[Illustration]
The spirit of music, like an archangel, presides over mankind and the
visible creation. Her afflatus, divinely sweet, divinely powerful, is
breathed on every human heart, and inspires every soul to some nobler
sentiment, some higher thought, some greater action.
O music, sweetest, sublimest ideal of Omniscience, first-born of God,
fairest and loftiest Seraph of the celestial hierarchy, Muse of the
beautiful, daughter of the Universe!
In the morning of eternity, when the stars were young, her first grand
oratorio burst upon raptured Deity, and thrilled the wondering angels;
all heaven shouted; ten thousand times ten thousand jeweled harps, ten
thousand times ten thousand angel tongues caught up the song; and ever
since, through all the golden cycles, its breathing melodies, old as
eternity, yet ever new as the flitting hours, have floated on the air
of heaven. The Seraph stood, with outstretched wings, on the horizon
of heaven--clothed in light, ablaze with gems; and with voice attuned,
swept her burning harp strings, and lo! the blue infinite thrilled with
her sweetest note. The trembling stars heard it, and flashed their joy
from every flaming center. The wheeling orbs that course their paths
of light were vibrant with the strain, and pealed it back into the
glad ear of God. The far off milky way, bright gulf-stream of astral
glories, spanning the ethereal deep, resounded with its harmonies, and
the star-dust isles floating in that river of opal, re-echoed the happy
chorus from every sparkling strand.
[Illustration]
"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS."
Have you ever thought of the wealth that perished when paradise
was lost? Have you ever thought of the glory of Eden, the first
estate of man? I think it was the very dream of God, glowing with
ineffable beauty. I think it was rimmed with blue mountains, from whose
moss-covered cliffs leaped a thousand glassy streams that spread out in
mid-air, like bridal veils, kissing a thousand rainbows from the sun.
I think it was an archipelago of gorgeous colors, flecked with green
isles, where the grapevine staggered from tree to tree, as if drunk
with the wine of its own purple clusters, where peach, and plum, and
blood-red cherries, and every kind of berry, bent bough and bush,
and shone like showered drops of ruby and of pearl. I think it was
a wilderness of flowers, redolent of eternal spring and pulsing with
bird-song, where dappled fawns played on banks of violets, where
leopards, peaceful and tame, lounged in copses of magnolias, where
harmless tigers lay on snowy beds of lilies, and lions, lazy and
gentle, panted in jungles of roses. I think its billowy landscapes
were festooned with tangling creepers, bright with perennial bloom,
and curtained with sweet-scented groves, where the orange and the
pomegranate hung like golden globes and ruddy moons. I think its air was
softened with the dreamy haze of perpetual summer; and through its midst
there flowed a translucent river, alternately gleaming in its sunshine
and darkening in its shadows. And there, in some sweet, dusky bower,
fresh from the hand of his Creator, slept Adam, the first of the human
race; God-like in form and feature; God-like in all the attributes of
mind and soul. No monarch ever slept on softer, sweeter couch, with
richer curtains drawn about him. And as he slept, a face and form, half
hidden, half revealed, red-lipped, rose-cheeked, white bosomed and with
tresses of gold, smiled like an angel from the mirror of his dream; for
a moment smiled, and so sweetly, that his heart almost forgot to beat.
And while yet this bright vision still haunted his slumber, with
tenderest touch an unseen hand lay open the unconscious flesh in his
side, and forth from the painless wound a faultless being sprang; a
being pure and blithesome as the air; a sinless woman, God's first
thought for the happiness of man. I think he wooed her at the waking of
the morning. I think he wooed her at noon-tide, down by the riverside,
or by the spring in the dell. I think he wooed her at twilight, when
the moon silvered the palm tree's feathery plumes, and the stars looked
down, and the nightingale sang. And wherever he wooed her, I think the
grazing herds left sloping hill and peaceful vale, to listen to the
wooing, and thence themselves, departed in pairs. The covies heard it
and mated in the fields; the quail wooed his love in the wheat; the
robin whistled to his love in the glen;
"The lark was so brim-full of gladness and love,
The green fields below him--the blue sky above,
That he sang, and he sang, and forever sang he:
I love my Love, and my Love loves me."
Love songs bubbled from the mellow throats of mocking-birds and
bobolinks; dove cooed love to dove; and I think the maiden monkey, fair
"Juliet" of the House of Orang-outang, waited on her cocoanut balcony
for the coming of her "Romeo," and thus plaintively sang:
[Illustration: JULIET.]
(Sung to the air of My Sweetheart's the Man in the Moon.)
"My sweetheart's the lovely baboon,
I'm going to marry him soon;
'Twould fill me with joy
Just to kiss the dear boy,
For his charms and his beauty
No power can destroy."
"I'll sit in the light of the moon,
And sing to my darling baboon,
When I'm safe by his side
And he calls me his bride;
Oh! my Angel, my precious baboon!"
[Illustration: ROMEO.]
All paradise was imbued with the spirit of love. Oh, that it could have
remained so forever! There was not a painted cheek in Eden, nor a bald
head, nor a false tooth, nor a bachelor. There was not a flounce, nor
a frill, nor a silken gown, nor a flashy waist with aurora borealis
sleeves. There was not a curl paper, nor even a threat of crinoline.
Raiment was an after thought, the mask of a tainted soul, born of
original sin. Beauty was unmarred by gaudy rags; Eve was dressed in
sunshine, Adam was clad in climate.
Every rich blessing within the gift of the Almighty Father was poured
out from the cornucopia of heaven, into the lap of paradise. But it
was a paradise of fools, because they stained it with disobedience
and polluted it with sin. It was the paradise of fools because, in the
exercise of their own God-given free agency, they tasted the forbidden
fruit and fell from their glorious estate. Oh, what a fall was there! It
was the fall of innocence and purity; it was the fall of happiness into
the abyss of woe; it was the fall of life into the arms of death. It was
like the fall of the wounded albatross, from the regions of light, into
the sea; it was like the fall of a star from heaven to hell. When the
jasper gate forever closed behind the guilty pair, and the flaming
sword of the Lord mounted guard over the barred portal, the whole
life-current of the human race was shifted into another channel; shifted
from the roses to the thorns; shifted from joy to sorrow, and it bore
upon its dark and turbulent bosom, the wrecked hopes of all the ages.
I believe they lost intellectual powers which fallen man has never
regained. Operating by the consent of natural laws, sinless man would
have wrought endless miracles. The mind, winged like a seraph, and armed
like a thunderbolt, would have breached the very citadel of knowledge
and robbed it of its treasures. I think they lost a plane of being only
a little lower than the angels. I believe they lost youth, beauty, and
physical immortality. I believe they lost the virtues of heart and soul,
and many of the magnificent powers of mind, which made them the images
of God, and which would have even brushed aside the now impenetrable
veil which hides from mortal eyes the face of Infinite Love; that Love
which gave the ever-blessed light, and filled the earth with music of
bird, and breeze, and sea; that Love whose melodies we sometimes faintly
catch, like spirit voices, from the souls of orators and poets; that
Love which inlaid the arching firmament of heaven with jewels sparkling
with eternal fires. But thank God, their fall was not like the
remediless fall of Lucifer and his angels, into eternal darkness. Thank
God, in this "night of death" hope _does_ see a star! It is the star of
Bethlehem. Thank God, "listening Love" _does_ "hear the rustle of a
wing!" It is the wing of the resurrection angel.
The memories and images of paradise lost have been impressed on every
human heart, and every individual of the race has his own ideal of that
paradise, from the cradle to the grave. But that ideal in so far as its
realization in this world is concerned, is like the rainbow, an elusive
phantom, ever in sight, never in reach, resting ever on the horizon of
hope.
THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD.
I saw a blue-eyed child, with sunny curls, toddling on the lawn before
the door of a happy home. He toddled under the trees, prattling to the
birds and playing with the ripening apples that fell upon the ground.
He toddled among the roses and plucked their leaves as he would have
plucked an angel's wing, strewing their glory upon the green grass at
his feet. He chased the butterflies from flower to flower, and shouted
with glee as they eluded his grasp and sailed away on the summer air.
Here I thought his childish fancy had built a paradise and peopled it
with dainty seraphim and made himself its Adam. He saw the sunshine
of Eden glint on every leaf and beam in every petal. The flitting
honey-bee, the wheeling June-bug, the fluttering breeze, the silvery
pulse-beat of the dashing brook sounded in his ear notes of its swelling
music. The iris-winged humming-bird, darting like a sunbeam, to kiss the
pouting lips of the upturned flowers was, to him, the impersonation of
its beauty. And I said: Truly, this is the nearest approach in this
world, to the paradise of long ago. Then I saw him skulking like a
cupid, in the shrubbery, his skirts bedraggled and soiled, his face
downcast with guilt. He had stirred up the Mediterranean Sea in the slop
bucket, and waded the Atlantic Ocean in a mud puddle. He had capsized
the goslings, and shipwrecked the young ducks, and drowned the kitten
which he imagined a whale, and I said: _There_ is the original Adam
coming to the surface.
[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD.]
"Lo'd bless my soul! Jist look at dat chile!" shouted his dusky old
nurse, as she lifted him, dripping, from the reeking pond. "What's you
bin doin' in dat mud puddle? Look at dat face, an' dem hands an' close,
all kivvered wid mud an' mulberry juice! You bettah not let yo' mammy
see you while you's in dat fix. You's gwine to ketch it sho'. You's jist
zackly like yo' fader--allers git'n into some scrape or nuddah, allers
breakin' into some kind uv devilment--gwine to break into congrus some
uv dese days sho'. Come along wid me dis instinct to de baff tub. I's
a-gwine to dispurgate dem close an' 'lucidate some uv dat dirt off'n
dat face uv yone, you triflin' rascal you!" And so saying, she carried
him away, kicking and screaming like a young savage in open rebellion,
and I said: _There_ is some more of the original Adam. Then I saw him
come forth again, washed and combed, and dressed in spotless white, like
a young butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. And when he got a chance,
I saw him slip on his tip-toes, into the pantry;
I heard the clink of glassware,
As if a mouse were playing there,
among the jam pots and preserves. There two little dimpled hands made
trip after trip to a rose-colored mouth, bearing burdens of mingling
sweets that dripped from cheek, and chin, and waist, and skirt, and
shoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach, and the
purple of the raspberry, as he ate the forbidden fruit. Then I watched
him glide into the drawing room. There was a crash and a thud in there,
which quickly brought his frightened mother to the scene, only to find
the young rascal standing there catching his breath, while streams of
cold ink trickled down his drenched bosom. And as he wiped his inky
face, which grew blacker with every wipe, the remainder of the ink was
pouring from the bottle down on the carpet, and making a map of darkest
Africa. Then the rear of a small skirt went up over a curly head and the
avenging slipper, in lightning strokes, kept time to the music in the
air. And I said: _There_ is "_Paradise Lost_." The sympathizing, half
angry old nurse bore her weeping, sobbing charge to the nursery and
there bound up his broken heart and soothed him to sleep with her old
time lullaby:
[Illustration: PARADISE LOST.]
"Oh, don't you cry little baby, Oh, don't you cry no mo',
For it hurts ol' mammy's feelin's fo' to heah you weepin' so.
Why don't da keep temptation frum de little han's an' feet?
What makes 'em 'buse de baby kaze de jam an' zarves am sweet?
Oh, de sorrow, tribulations, dat de joys of mortals break,
Oh, it's heb'n when we slumber, it's trouble when we wake.
Oh, go to sleep my darlin', now close dem little eyes,
An' dream uv de shinin' angels, an' de blessed paradise;
Oh, dream uv de blood-red roses, an' de birds on snowy wing;
Oh, dream uv de fallin' watahs an' de never endin' spring.
Oh, de roses, Oh, de rainbows, Oh, de music's gentle swell,
In de dreamland uv little childun, whar de blessed sperrits dwell."
"Dar now, dar now, he's gone. Bless its little heart, da treats it like
a dog." And then she tucked him away in the paradise of his childish
slumber.
[Illustration: OLD BLACK "MAMMY."]
The day will come when the South will build a monument to the good old
black mammy of the past for the lullabies she has sung.
I sometimes wish that childhood might last forever. That sweet fairy
land on the frontier of life, whose skies are first lighted with the
sunrise of the soul, and in whose bright-tinted jungles the lions, and
leopards, and tigers of passion still peacefully sleep. The world is
disarmed by its innocence, the drawn bow is relaxed, and the arrow is
returned to its quiver; the AEgis of Heaven is above it, the outstretched
wings of mercy, pity, and measureless love!
THE PARADISE OF THE BAREFOOTED BOY.
[Illustration]
I would rather be a barefooted boy with cheeks of tan and heart of joy
than to be a millionaire and president of a National bank. The financial
panic that falls like a thunderbolt, wrecks the bank, crushes the
banker, and swamps thousands in an hour. But the bank which holds the
treasures of the barefooted boy never breaks. With his satchel and his
books he hies away to school in the morning, but his truant feet carry
him the other way, to the mill pond "a-fishin'." And there he sits the
livelong day under the shade of the tree, with sapling pole and pin
hook, and fishes, and fishes, and fishes, and waits for a nibble of the
drowsy sucker that sleeps on his oozy bed, oblivious of the baitless
hook from which he has long since stolen the worm. There he sits, and
fishes, and fishes, and fishes, and like Micawber, waits for something
to "turn-up." But nothing turns up until the shadows of evening fall and
warn the truant home, where he is welcomed with a dogwood sprout. Then
"sump'n" _does_ turn up. He obeys the call of the Sunday school bell,
and goes with solemn face, but e'er the "sweet bye and bye" has died
away on the summer air, he is in the wood shed playing Sullivan and
Corbett with some plucky comrade, with the inevitable casualties of
_one_ closed eye, _one_ crippled nose, _one_ pair of torn breeches and
_one_ bloody toe. He takes a back seat at church, and in the midst of
the sermon steals away and hides in the barn to smoke cigarettes and
read the story of "One-eyed Pete, the Hero of the _wild_ and _woolly_
West." There is eternal war between the barefooted boy and the whole
civilized world. He shoots the cook with a blow-gun; he cuts the strings
of the hammock and lets his dozing grandmother fall to the ground; he
loads his grandfather's pipe with powder; he instigates a fight between
the cat and dog during family prayers, and explodes with laughter when
pussy seeks refuge on the old man's back. He hides in the alley and
turns the hose on uncle Ephraim's standing collar as he passes on his
way to church, he cracks chestnut burrs with his naked heel; he robs
birds' nests, and murders bullfrogs, and plays "knucks" and "base-ball."
He puts asafetida in the soup, and conceals lizzards in his father's
hat. He overwhelms the family circle with his magnificent literary
attainments when he reads from the Bible in what he calls the "pasalms
of David"--"praise ye the Lord with the pizeltry and the harp."
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