What is this life but a whirling tide of pleasure and pain—glowing with
gladness, darkening with grief, leaping with rapture, eddying with tears,
now kissing the smiling cliffs of hope, now dashing against the frowning
crags of fear and then vanishing in the darkness! What would it all be
worth to us unblessed by love and mercy and the milk of human kindness?
What would it all be worth to us bereft of music, that noblest gift of
the soul?
The spirit of music, like an archangel, presides over mankind and the
visible creation. Her afflatus, divinely sweet, divinely powerful, is
breathed on every heart and inspires every soul to some higher thought,
some grander sentiment.
I heard a great master play on his 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 realms of visions
and dreams. The enchanted violin broke out in tumult, and in its music I
thought I heard the rustle of a thousand joyous wings and the burst of
song from a thousand joyous throats; mocking-birds and linnets thrilled
the glad air with warblings; goldfinches, 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, the
scattered coveys’ piping call. I heard the robin’s gay whistle, the
cawing 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.
There was a shifting 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
thought I caught glimpses of snowy arms, voluptuous forms and light,
fantastic slippered feet all whirling 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
among 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, the old, old story—so old and yet so new,
conceived in heaven, first told in Eden, 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! How
well they told of love’s victory won and Paradise regained! And then he
swung her in a grape-vine swing:
“Swinging in the grape-vine swing,
Laughing where the wild birds sing
I dream and sigh
For the days gone by,
Swinging in the grape-vine swing!”
But the violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a
cottage among the elms and oaks and a little curly head toddled at the
door. 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 sunlight of Eden glint on every leaf and
beam in every petal. The flitting honey bee, the whirling June bug, the
fluttering breeze, the silvery pulse beat of the dashing brook, sounded
in his ears 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 childhood
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 face downcast with
guilt, his skirts bedraggled and soiled. He had waded the Atlantic ocean
in the mud puddle, and stirred up the Mediterranean sea in the slop
bucket. He had shipwrecked the young ducks, capsized the goslings, and
drowned the kitten, which he imagined a whale. And I said, there is the
old original Adam coming to the surface.
“Lawd bless my soul, jis look at dat chil’! Look at dat face and dem
hands, all kivered wid mud and mulberry juice! You’s gwine to ketch
it! Jis ’zactly like your fadder,—always gittin’ into some scrape or
nudder—always breakin’ into some kind uv debilment! Gwine to brek into
Congress some uv dese days, sho! Dey can’t keep you out’n it! Come
along wid me dis instinct to de baf tub! I’se gwine to wash dat face uv
yown an’ lucidate some uv dat dirt off’n dem han’s an’ dem clo’es, 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 dressed in spotless white like a young butterfly
fresh from its chrysalis, and when he got a chance, I saw him slip on
his tiptoes into the pantry, and there was the clink of glassware as
though a mouse was 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
skirt and shoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach and
the purple of the raspberry as he ate of the forbidden fruit. Then I saw
him glide into the library and soon there was a crash and a thud in there
which brought a frightened mother into the room only to find the young
rascal 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 onto 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 bound up his broken heart, and soothed him to sleep
with her old-time lullaby:
O, don’t you cry, little baby; don’t you cry no mo’,
For it hurts ole mammy’s feelin’s for to hear you weepin’ so!
Why do dey bring temptation to de little hands and feet?
What makes ’em ’buse de baby, kase de jam and ’zarves am sweet?
O, de sorrows, triberlations, dat de joys of mortals break;
O, it’s heaven when we slumber, it’s trouble when we wake!
O, go to sleep, my darlin’, now close dem little eyes
And dream uv de shinin’ angels an’ de blessed Paradise;
O, dream uv de blood red roses and de birds on snowy wing,
O, dream uv de fallin’ waters and de nebber endin’ spring!
O de roses, O de rainbows! O de music’s gentle swell!
In de dreamland uv little children whar de blessed spirits dwell.
“Dar now, dar now, he’s gone! Bless its little heart! Dey treats it like
a dog. Ole black mammy’s de best friend de chile’s got in de world!” And
then she tucked him away in the Paradise of his childish slumbers.
[_To be continued._]
SOUTHERN
PLATFORM
DEPARTMENT
_Devoted to the interest_
_of_
_The Lyceum of The South._
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Southern Platform]
The Humorous, the Pathetic and the Dramatic.
These are the ruling elements of the platform. Around them are built all
the successes of the Lyceum, and the lack of them is responsible for all
the failures that stand like tombstones, along the route, as we journey
with the truly great.
We are all agreed on the efficacy of humor, and we join without dissent
in lauding the man who has the power to make the world laugh. He is as
much our benefactor as the man whose scholarly and laborious research
solves for us some great scientific problem which sets civilization
forward; for, does he not unlock for us the gates of mirth, and climax a
day of toil with an hour of restful merriment? His side-splitting joke
pays the Doctor’s bill in advance by keeping us well and hearty; it
settles pro tem. the grocer’s bill by making us forget it. His clever
story charms and fascinates us, and we follow him down sunny lanes of
laughter, and through sighing groves of pathos until the cares and
vexations of our busy lives recede from us like a troubled shore. With
the God-like power of genius, he leads us out of the thorn-hedged paths
of everyday life, into the happy garden of the ideal where the flowers
of sentiment bloom perennial, and the song of every bird is a lilted
fragment of the universal chorus of love. This magic garden on the margin
of the dusty field of reality from which we dig our daily bread, is an
oasis to which we may not long repair, but to linger for an hour rests us
from toil and refreshes us for labor. From behind its roses no venomous
serpent is privileged to strike, and from its peaceful skies no hurricane
may swoop down to lay waste. ’Tis there that the eye of despair is
kindled with hope, the brow of care is smoothed with forgetfulness, and
the lips of melancholy are curled with a smile.
All hail to the man of humor and pathos! (He cannot possess one without
possessing the other.) Pathos is but the gentle sister of humor. Her
emotions have no kinship with sorrow; her tears are the trembling jewels
of tender memories, and she has only to dry her eyes to disclose a smile.
Next to humor and pathos, the most important requisite to a successful
career on the platform, is the dramatic element which enables a man to
“suit the action to the word,” and by the subtle power of the actor’s
art, bring us to worship or despise, at his will, the character he
portrays, or the principle he advocates. We hang at highest tension on
the words of such a man, when the same words spoken in a commonplace way,
would send us to sleep in our seats. How often have we seen the beauty of
the Lord’s Prayer marred by some guttural-voiced exhorter who delivered
it as coldly as he would have read a report of the mule market, or the
price of pumpkins! and yet it is said that the great Booth with his
incomparable rendition of this sacred prayer could lead an audience into
the very presence and smile of God. Since time began, the dramatic in art
and literature has received the homage of all people and all nations.
This love of the dramatic sits enthroned alike in the heart of the savage
and the man of letters, the highwayman and the clergyman, the ignoramus
and the intellectual Titan. This strange attribute in the make-up of
humanity is at once a dangerous and a glorious element. Too often it
has nerved the murderer’s hand and steeled the heart of cruelty, but
civilization is the master which is taming it.
In the long gone ages of heartless kings and fawning subjects, when
fierce gladiators met in the death struggle, and the cruel ruler and his
multitudes cheered the ending of a human life, they were but satiating
their unholy love of the dramatic. Before such a picture, the great
common heart of to-day turns sick with horror, but there is another
picture dimmed also with many centuries, which makes the blood leap with
different emotions, and which the future will guard with jealous pride.
It is the dramatic picture of a little band of Christians in the center
of a vast arena, awaiting the approach of the wild beasts which are to
tear their limbs apart, and quietly kneeling in their last prayer. The
dramatic effect of that prayer sent a thrill through all the ages, and
nerved the hearts of the millions who were to follow the martyrs, as no
common incident could have done.
We worship tragedy, and find satisfaction only in thrilling climaxes, and
out of the multitudes of the passing years, history hands us the names of
only a few who have paid the price of deathless fame. The tragic death of
Julius Cæsar magnified his mighty deeds a hundred fold, and the dramatic
but inglorious climax of St. Helena sent the great Napoleon thundering
into history.
[Illustration: