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.