[Illustration]

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 lecturesof Governor Robert L. Taylor. His great popularity as an orator andentertainer, and his wide reputation as a humorist, have caused repeatedinquiries from all sections of the country for his lectures in bookform; and this has given rise to an earlier publication than wasexpected. 

The lectures are given without the slightest abridgment, just asdelivered from the platform throughout the country. The consecutivechain of each is left undisturbed; and the idea of paragraphing, andgiving headlines to the various subjects treated, was conceived merelyfor the convenience of the reader. 

In the dialect of his characters, the melody of his songs, and theoriginality of his quaint, but beautiful conceptions, Governor Taylor'slectures 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 quiveredlike the wing of a bird; in every quiver there was a melody, and everymelody breathed a thought in language sweeter than was ever uttered byhuman tongue. I was conjured, I was mesmerized by his music. I thought Ifell asleep under its power, and was rapt into the realm of visions anddreams. The enchanted violin broke out in tumult, and through the riftedshadows in my dream I thought I saw old ocean lashed to fury. The wingof the storm-god brooded above it, dark and lowering with night andtempest and war. I heard the shriek of the angry hurricane, the loudrattling musketry of rain, and hail, and the louder and deadlier crash androar of the red artillery on high. Its rumbling batteries, unlimbered onthe vapory heights and manned by the fiery gunners of the storm, boomedtheir volleying thunders to the terrible rythm of the strife below. Andin every stroke of the bow fierce lightnings leaped down from their darkpavilions of cloud, and, like armed angels of light, flashed theirtrenchant blades among the phantom squadrons marshalling for battle onthe field of the deep. I heard the bugle blast and battle cry of thecharging winds, wild and exultant, and then I saw the billowy monstersrise, like an army of Titans, to scale and carry the hostile heights ofheaven. Assailing again and again, as often hurled back headlong intothe ocean's abyss, they rolled, and surged, and writhed, and raged, tillthe affrighted earth trembled at the uproar of the warring elements. I saw the awful majesty and might of Jehovah flying on the wings ofthe tempest, planting his footsteps on the trackless deep, veiled indarkness and in clouds. There was a shifting of the bow; the storm diedaway in the distance, and the morning broke in floods of glory. Then theviolin revived and poured out its sweetest soul. In its music I heardthe rustle of a thousand joyous wings, and a burst of song from athousand joyous throats. Mockingbirds and linnets thrilled the gladair with warblings; gold finches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled theirhappiest tunes; and the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle thatrocked in the wind. I heard the twitter of skimming swallows and thescattered covey's piping call; I heard the robin's gay whistle, thecroaking of crows, the scolding of blue-jays, and the melancholy cooingof a dove. The swaying tree-tops seemed vocal with bird-song while heplayed, and the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus. Thenthe violin sounded the hunter's horn, and the deep-mouthed pack of foxhounds opened loud and wild, far in the ringing woods, and it was likethe 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 laughterringing in the swelling tide of pleasure. Then I saw a vision of snowyarms, voluptuous forms, and light fantastic slippered feet, all whirlingand floating in the mazes of the misty dance. The flying fingers nowtripped upon the trembling strings like fairy-feet dancing on thenodding violets, and the music glided into a still sweeter strain. The violin told a story of human life. Two lovers strayed beneath theelms and oaks, and down by the river side, where daffodils and pansiesbend and smile to rippling waves, and there, under the bloom ofincense-breathing bowers, under the soothing sound of humming bees andsplashing waters, there, the old, old story, so old and yet so new, conceived in heaven, first told in Eden and then handed down throughall the ages, was told over and over again. Ah, those downward droopingeyes, that mantling blush, that trembling hand in meek submissionpressed, that heaving breast, that fluttering heart, that whispered"yes, " wherein a heaven lies--how well they told of victory won andparadise regained! And then he swung her in a grapevine swing. Youngman, 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 acottage amid the elms and oaks and a little curly-head toddled at thedoor; I saw a happy husband and father return from his labors in theevening and kiss his happy wife and frolic with his baby. The purpleglow now faded from the Western skies; the flowers closed their petalsin 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 changedagain while the great master played, and at midnight's holy hour, in thelight of a lamp dimly burning, clad in his long, white mother-hubbard, I saw the disconsolate victim of love's young dream nervously walkingthe 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 woefulvoice 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 empireof babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallenover on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almostcalm 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 thedaffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and withhis mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a loungein 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 awakenedagain. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm blankets of theconjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how dare you shake my littlebaby that way!!!! I'll tell pa to-morrow!" which instantly brought thetrained 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, butwhat is home without a baby?

The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the musiceddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffinsat by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the windowpanes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; thesobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feetwere no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped aboveeyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless andcold, 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 fromits flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful andgorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of itsdistant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary, waftingto 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 withfrowns and the dagger of cruel words, and sometimes with a blow?Do you sometimes, in your own peevishness, and your own meanness, wishyourself away from their fretful cries and noisy sports? Then think thatto-morrow may ripen the wicked wish; tomorrow death may lay his handupon a little fluttering heart and it will be stilled forever. 'Tis thenyou will miss the sunbeam and the sweet little flower that reflectedheaven on the soul. Then cherish the little ones! Be tender with thebabes! Make your homes beautiful! All that remains to us of paradiselost, 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 firstwife and mother; the grace, the beauty, the sweetness of the wifelyrelation, the tenderness of maternal affection, the graciousness ofmanner 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 horsewith them; take them on your back and gallop them to town; don't kick upand buck, but be a good and gentle old steed, and join in a hearty horselaugh in their merriment. Take the baby on your knee and gallop him totown; let him practice gymnastics on top of your head and take yourscalp; let him puncture a hole in your ear with his little teeth, andbite off the end of the paternal nose. Make your homes beautiful withyour duty and your love, make them bright with your mirth and yourmusic. 

Victor Hugo said of Napoleon the Great: "The frontiers of kingdomsoscillated on the map. The sound of a super-human sword being drawn fromits scabbard could be heard; and he was seen, opening in the thunder histwo wings, the Grand Army and the Old Guard; he was the archangel ofwar. " And when I read it I thought of the death and terror that followedwherever the shadow of the open wings fell. I thought of the blood thatflowed, and the tears that were shed wherever the sword gleamed in hishand. 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, andsit at its humble hearthstone at night, and in the firelight, play thehumble rural tunes on the fiddle to my happy children, and bask in thesmiles of my sweet wife, than to be the 'archangel of war, ' with myhands stained with human blood, or to make the 'frontiers of kingdomsoscillate on the map of the world, and then, away from home and kindredand 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-headedmen should be the heads of families, because they are always goodnatured, contented and easily managed. There is more music in a fatman's laugh than there is in a thousand orchestras or brass bands. Fat sides and bald heads are the symbols of music, innocence, and meeksubmission. O! ladies listen to the words of wisdom! Cultivate thesociety of fat men and bald-headed men, for "of such is the Kingdom ofHeaven. " 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 sweetis the bosom of night that pillows the world to rest. But sweeter thanthe lips of morning, and sweeter than the bosom of night, is the voiceof music that wakes a world of joys and soothes a world of sorrows. It is like some unseen ethereal ocean whose silver surf forever breaksin song; forever breaks on valley, hill, and craig, in ten thousandsymphonies. There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in everymelody; 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 brimmingriver, an anthem in every rolling billow. Music and light are twinangels of God, the first-born of heaven, and mortal ear and mortal eyehave caught only the echo and the shadow of their celestial glories. 

The violin is the poet laureate of music; violin of the virtuoso andmaster, _fiddle_ of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocratof the palace and the hall; it is the _democrat_ of the unpretentioushome and humble cabin. As violin, it weaves its garlands of roses andcamelias; as fiddle it scatters its modest violets. It is admired by thecultured for its magnificent powers and wonderful creations; it is lovedby the millions for its simple melodies. 

THE CONVICT AND HIS FIDDLE. 

One bright morning, just before Christmas day, an official stood inthe Executive chamber in my presence as Governor of Tennessee, andsaid: "Governor, I have been implored by a poor miserable wretch inthe penitentiary to bring you this rude fiddle. It was made by his ownhands with a penknife during the hours allotted to him for rest. It isabsolutely valueless, it is true, but it is his petition to you formercy. He begged me to say that he has neither attorneys nor influentialfriends to plead for him; that he is poor, and all he asks is, that whenthe Governor shall sit at his own happy fireside on Christmas eve, withhis own happy children around him, he will play one tune on this roughfiddle and think of a cabin far away in the mountains whose hearthstoneis cold and desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched, ragged children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for thefootsteps of their father. "

Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record wasexamined; Christmas eve came; the Governor sat that night at his ownhappy fireside, surrounded by his own happy children; and he played onetune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin in themountains was bright and warm; a pardoned prisoner sat with his baby onhis 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;" andthen he reached up and snatched his fiddle down from the wall, andplayed "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 happydays of my boyhood. The old field schoolhouse with its batten doorscreaking on wooden hinges, its windows innocent of glass, and its great, yawning fireplace, cracking and roaring and flaming like the infernalregions, rose from the dust of memory and stood once more among thetrees. The limpid spring bubbled and laughed at the foot of the hill. Flocks of nimble, noisy boys turned somersaults and skinned the cat andran and jumped half hammon on the old play ground. The grim old teacherstood in the door; he had no brazen-mouthed bell to ring then as we havenow, but he shouted at the top of his voice: "Come to books!!!" And theycame. Not to come meant "war and rumors of war. " The backless benches, high above the floor, groaned under the weight of irrepressible youngAmerica; the multitude of mischievous, shining faces, the bare legs andfeet, swinging to and fro, and the mingled hum of happy voices, spellingaloud life's first lessons, prophesied the future glory of the State. The curriculum of the old field school was the same everywhere--oneWebster's blue backed, elementary spelling book, one thumb-paper, onestone-bruise, one sore toe, and Peter Parley's Travels. 

The grim old teacher, enthroned on his split bottomed chair, lookedterrible as an army with banners; and he presided with a dignity andsolemnity which would have excited the envy of the United States SupremeCourt: I saw the school commissioners visit him, and heard them questionhim 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. Withgreat dignity he replied: "That depends upon whar I'm teachin'. If mypatrons desire me to teach the round system, I teach it; if they desireme to teach the flat system, I teach that. "

At the old field school I saw the freshman class, barefooted and withpantaloons rolled up to the knees, stand in line under the ever upliftedrod, and I heard them sing the never-to-be-forgotten b-a ba's. They sangthem in the _olden_ times, and this is the way they sang: "b-a ba, b-ebe, 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 forthrowing paper wads. I saw a junior compelled to stand on the dunceblock, on one foot--(_a la_ gander) for winking at his sweetheart intime of books, for failing to know his lessons, and for "various andsundry other high crimes and misdemeanors. "

A twist of the fiddler's bow brought a yell from the fiddle, and inmy dream, I saw the school come pouring out into the open air. Thenfollowed the games of "prisoner's base, " "town-ball, " "Antney-over;""bull-pen" and "knucks, " the hand to hand engagements with yellowjackets, the Bunker Hill and Brandywine battles with bumblebees, thecharges on flocks of geese, the storming of apple orchards and hornet'snests, and victories over hostile "setting" hens. Then I witnessed theold field school "Exhibition"--the _wonderful_ "exhibition"--they callit Commencement now. Did you never witness an old field school"exhibition, " far out in the country, and listen to its music? If youhave not your life is a failure--you are a broken string in the harp ofthe universe. The old field school "exhibition" was the parade ground ofthe advance guard of civilization; it was the climax of great events inthe olden times; and vast assemblies were swayed by the eloquence of thebudding sockless statesmen. It was at the old field school "exhibition"that the goddess of liberty always received a broken nose, and thepoetic muse a black eye; it was at the old field school "exhibition"that _Greece_ and _Rome_ rose and fell, in seas of gore, about everyfifteen 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 bowimmortalized themselves. When the frowning old teacher advanced on thestage and nodded for silence, instantly there _was_ silence in the vastassembly; and when the corps of country fiddlers, "one of which I wasoften whom, " seated on the stage, hoisted the black flag, and rushedinto the dreadful charge on "Old Dan Tucker, " or "Arkansas Traveller, "the spectacle was sublime. Their heads swung time; their bodies rockedtime; their feet patted time; the muscles of their faces twitchedtime; their eyes winked time; their teeth ground time. The whizzingbows and screaming fiddles electrified the audience who cheered at everybrilliant turn in the charge of the fiddlers. The good women laughed forjoy; the men winked at each other and popped their fists; it was likethe charge of the Old Guard at Waterloo, or a battle with a den ofsnakes. Upon the completion of the grand overture of the fiddlers thebrilliant programme of the "exhibition, " which usually lasted all day, opened with "Mary had a little lamb;" and it gathered fury until itreached Patrick Henry's "Give me liberty or give me death!!!" Theprogramme was interspersed with compositions by the girls, from thesimple subject of "flowers, " including "blessings brighten as they taketheir flight, " up to "every cloud has a silver lining;" and it wasinterlarded with frequent tunes by the fiddlers from early morn tillclose 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 witha view to disrobing for bed, and completing his morning toilet instantly;both of which he performed during the acts of ascending and descendingthe stairs. His uniform was very simple. It consisted of one pair ofbreeches rolled up to the knees, with one patch on the "westernhemisphere, " one little shirt with one button at the top, one "gallus, "and one invalid straw hat. His straw hat stood guard over his place onthe bench, while he was delivering his great speech at the "exhibition. "With great dignity and eclat, the old teacher advanced on the stage andintroduced him to the expectant audience, and he came forward like acyclone. 

[Illustration: THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL ORATOR. ]

"The boy stood on the burnin' deck whence all but him had fled----Theflames that lit the battle's wreck shown 'round him o'er the dead, yet beautiful and bright he stood----the boy stood on the burnin'deck----and he wuz the bravest boy that ever wuz. His father told him tokeep a-stan'in' there till he told him to git off'n there, and the boyhe jist kep' a stan'in' there----and fast the flames rolled on----Theold man went down stairs in the ship to see about sump'n, an' he gotkilled down there, an' the boy he didn't know it, an' he jist kept astan'in' there----an' fast the flames rolled on. He cried aloud: "sayfather, say, if _yit_ my task is done, " but his father wuz dead an'couldn't hear 'im, an' the boy he jist kep' a stan'in' there----an' fastthe flames rolled on. ----They caught like flag banners in the sky, an'at last the ol' biler busted, an' the boy he went up!!!!!!!!"

At the close of this great speech the fiddle fainted as dead as aherring. 

THE QUILTING AND THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL. 

The old fiddler took a fresh chew of long, green tobacco, and rosinedhis bow. He glided off into "Hop light ladies, your cake's all dough, "and then I heard the watch dog's honest bark. I heard the guinea's merry"pot-rack. " I heard a cock crow. I heard the din of happy voices in the"big house" and the sizz and songs of boiling kettles in the kitchen. It was an old time quilting--the May-day of the glorious ginger cake andcider era of the American Republic; and the needle was mightier than thesword. The pen of Jefferson announced to the world, the birth of thechild of the ages; the sword of Washington defended it in its cradle, but it would have perished there had it not been for the brave women ofthat day who plied the needle and made the quilts that warmed it, andwho nursed it and rocked it through the perils of its infancy, intothe strength of a giant. The quilt was attached to a quadrangular framesuspended from the ceiling; and the good women sat around it and quiltedthe live-long day, and were courted by the swains between stitches. Atsunset the quilt was always finished; a cat was thrown into the centerof it, and the happy maiden nearest to whom the escaping "kitty-puss"passed was sure to be the first to marry. 

Then followed the groaning supper table, surrounded by gigglinggirls, bashful young men and gossipy old matrons who monopolized theconversation. There was a warm and animated discussion among the oldladies as to what was the most delightful product of the garden. One old lady said, that so "fur" as she was "consarned, " she preferredthe "per-turnip"--another preferred the "pertater"--another the"cow-cumber, " and still another voted "ingern" king. But suddenly a wiselooking old dame raised her spectacles and settled the whole question byobserving: "Ah, ladies, you may talk about yer per-turnips, and yourpertaters, and your passnips and other gyardin sass, but the sweetestwedgetable that ever melted on these ol' gums o' mine is the 'possum. "

At length the feast was ended, the old folks departed and the fun andfrolic began in earnest at the quilting. Old uncle "Ephraham" was an olddarkey in the neighborhood, distinguished for calling the figures forall the dances, for miles and miles around. He was a tall, raw-boned, angular old darkey with a very bald head, and a great deal of white inhis eyes. He had thick, heavy lips and a very flat nose. I will tellyou a little story of uncle "Ephraham. " He lived alone in his cabin, as many of the old time darkeys lived, and his 'possum dog lived withhim. One evening old uncle "Ephraham" came home from his labors andtook his 'possum dog into the woods and soon caught a fine, large, fat 'possum. He brought him home and dressed him; and then he slippedinto his master's garden and stole some fine, large, fat sweetpotatoes--("Master's nigger, Master's taters, ") and he washed thepotatoes and split them and piled them in the oven around the 'possum. He set the oven on the red hot coals and put the lid on, and coveredit with red hot coals, and then sat down in the corner and nodded andbreathed the sweet aroma of the baking 'possum, till it was done. Thenhe set it out into the middle of the floor, and took the lid off, andsat down by the smoking 'possum and soliloquized: "Dat's de fines' jobob bakin' 'possum I evah has done in my life, but dat 'possum's toohot to eat yit. I believes I'll jis lay down heah by 'im an' take a napwhile he's coolin', an' maybe I'll dream about eat'n 'im, an' den I'llgit up an' eat 'im, an' I'll git de good uv dat 'possum boaf timesdat-a-way. " So he lay down on the floor, and in a moment he was sleepingas none but the old time darkey could sleep, as sweetly as a babe inits mother's arms. Old Cye was another old darkey in the neighborhood, prowling around. He poked his head in at "Ephraham's" door ajar, andtook in the whole situation at a glance. Cye merely remarked to himself:"I loves 'possum myself. " And he slipped in on his tip-toes and pickedup the 'possum and ate him from tip to tail, and piled the bones down bysleeping "Ephraham;" he ate the sweet potatoes and piled the hulls downby the bones; then he reached into the oven and got his hand full of'possum grease and rubbed it on "Ephraham's" lips and cheeks and chin, and then folded his tent and silently stole away. At length "Ephraham"awoke--"Sho' nuf, sho' nuf--jist as I expected; I dreampt about eat'ndat 'possum an' it wuz de sweetest dream I evah has had yit. " He lookedaround, but empty was the oven--"'possum gone. " "Sho'ly to de Lo'd, "said "Ephraham, " "I nuvvah eat dat 'possum while I wuz a dreamin' abouteat'n 'im. " He poked his tongue out--"Yes, dat's 'possum grease sho, --Is'pose I eat dat 'possum while I wuz a dreamin' about eat'n 'im, but efI did eat 'im, he sets lighter on my constitution an' has less influencewid me dan any 'possum I evah has eat in my bo'n days. "

Old uncle "Ephraham" was present at the country dance in all his glory. He was attired in his master's old claw-hammer coat, a very buff vest, a high standing collar the corners of which stood out six inches fromhis face, striped pantaloons that fitted as tightly as a kid glove, andhe wore number fourteen shoes. He looked as though he were born to callthe figures of the dance. The fiddler was a young man with long legs, a curving back, and a neck of the crane fashion, embellished with anAdam's apple which made him look as though he had made an unsuccessfuleffort to swallow his own head. But he was a very important personageat the dance. With great dignity he unwound his bandana handkerchieffrom his old fiddle and proceeded to tune for the fray. 

Did you never hear a country fiddler tune his fiddle? He tuned, and hetuned, and he tuned. He tuned for fifteen minutes, and it was like amelodious frog pond during a shower of rain. 

At length uncle "Ephraham" shouted: "Git yo' pardners for acow-tillion. "

The fiddler struck an attitude, and after countless yelps from his eagerstrings, he glided off into that sweet old Southern air of "Old UncleNed, " as though he were mauling rails or feeding a threshing machine. Uncle "Ephraham" sang the chorus with the fiddle before he began to callthe figures of the dance:

 "Lay down de shovel an' de hoe--hoe--hoe, hang up de fiddle an' de bow, For dar's no mo' work for poor ol' Ned--he's gone whar de good niggahs go. "

Then, drawing himself up to his full height, he began! "Honah yo'pardnahs! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! fust couple for'd an'back! half right an' leff fru! back agin! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo'pardnahs! nex' couple for'd an' back! half right and leff fru! back agin!swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! fust couple to de right--lady inde centah--han's all around--suhwing!!!--nex' couple suhwing!!! nex'couple suhwing!!! suh-wing, suh-wing, suh-wing!!!!!!"

[Illustration: UNCLE "EPHRAHAM" CALLING THE FIGURES OF THE DANCE. ]

About this time an angry lad who had been jilted by his sweetheart, shied a fresh egg from without; it struck "Ephraham" square between theeyes and broke and landed on his upper lip. Uncle "Ephraham" yelled:"Stop de music--stop de dance--let de whole circumstances of disoccasion come to a stan' still till I finds out who it is a scram'lineggs aroun' heah. "

And then the dancing subsided for the candy-pulling. 

THE CANDY PULLING

The sugar was boiling in the kettles, and while it boiled the boys andgirls played "snap, " and "eleven hand, " and "thimble, " and "blindfold, "and another old play which some of our older people will remember:

 "Oh! Sister Phoebe, how merry were we, When we sat under the juniper tree-- The juniper tree-I-O. "

And when the sugar had boiled down into candy they emptied it intogreased saucers, or as the mountain folks called them, "greasedsassers, " and set it out to cool; and when it had cooled each boy andgirl took a saucer; and they pulled the taffy out and patted it androlled it till it hung well together; and then they pulled it out a footlong; they pulled it out a yard long; and they doubled it back, andpulled it out; and when it began to look like gold the sweetheartspaired off and consolidated their taffy and pulled against each other. They pulled it out and doubled it back, and looped it over, and pulledit out; and sometimes a peachblow cheek touched a bronzed one; andsometimes a sweet little voice spluttered out; "you Jack;" and there wasa suspicious smack like a cow pulling her foot out of stiff mud. Theypulled the candy and laughed and frolicked; the girls got taffy on theirhair--the boys got taffy on their chins; the girls got taffy on theirwaists--the boys got taffy on their coat sleeves. They pulled it tillit was as bright as a moonbeam, and then they platted it and coiled itinto fantastic shapes and set it out in the crisp air to cool. Then thecourting in earnest began. They did not court then as the young folkscourt now. The young man led his sweetheart back into a dark cornerand sat down by her, and held her hand for an hour, and never saida word. But it resulted next year in more cabins on the hillsides andin the hollows; and in the years that followed the cabins were full ofcandy-haired children who grew up into a race of the best, the bravest, and the noblest people the sun in heaven ever shone upon. 

In the bright, bright hereafter, when all the joys of all the ages aregathered up and condensed into globules of transcendent ecstacy, I doubtwhether there will be anything half so sweet as were the candy-smeared, ruby lips of the country maidens to the jeans-jacketed swains who tastedthem at the candy-pulling in the happy long ago. 

(Sung by Gov. Taylor to air of "Down on the Farm. ")

 In the happy long ago, When I used to draw the bow, At the old log cabin hearthstone all aglow, Oh! the fiddle laughed and sung, And the puncheons fairly rung, With the clatter of the shoe soles long ago. 

 Oh! the merry swings and whirls Of the happy boys and girls, In the good old time cotillion long ago! Oh! they danced the highland fling, And they cut the pigeon wing, To the music of the fiddle and the bow. 

 But the mischief and the mirth, And the frolics 'round the hearth, And the flitting of the shadows to and fro, Like a dream have passed away-- Now I'm growing old and gray, And I'll soon hang up the fiddle and the bow. 

 When a few more notes I've made, When a few more tunes I've played, I'll be sleeping where the snowy daises grow. But my griefs will all be o'er When I reach the happy shore, Where I'll greet the friends who loved me long ago. 

Oh! how sweet, how precious to us all are the memories of the happy longago!

[Illustration: THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL. ]

THE BANQUET. 

Let us leave the "egg flip" of the country dance, and take a bowl ofegg-nog at the banquet. It was a modern banquet for men only. Musicflowed; wine sparkled; the night was far spent--it was in the wee sma'hours. The banquet was given by Col. Punk who was the promoter of a townboom, and who had persuaded the banqueters that "there were millionsin it. " He had purchased some old sedge fields on the outskirts ofcreation, from an old squatter on the domain of Dixie, at three dollarsan acre; and had stocked them at three hundred dollars an acre. The oldsquatter was a partner with the Colonel, and with his part of the boodlenicely done up in his wallet, was present with bouyant hopes andfeelings high. Countless yarns were spun; numberless jokes passed 'roundthe table until, in the ecstacy of their joy, the banqueters rose fromthe table and clinked their glasses together, and sang to chorus:

 "Landlord, fill the flowing bowl Until it doth run over; Landlord fill the flowing bowl Until it doth run over; For to-night we'll merry merry be, For to-night we'll merry merry be, For to-night we'll merry merry be; And to-morrow we'll get sober. "

The whole banquet was drunk (as banquets usually are), and the principalstockholders finally succumbed to the music of "Old Kentucky Bourbon, "and sank to sleep under the table. The last toast on the programme wasannounced. It was a wonderful toast--"Our mineral resources:" The oldsquatter rose in his glory, about three o'clock in the morning, torespond to this toast, and thus he responded:

"Mizzer Churman and Gent-tul-men of the Banquet: I have never mademineralogy a study, nor zoology, nor any other kind of 'ology, ' butif there haint m-i-n-e-r-l in the deestrick which you gent-tul-menhave jist purchased from me at sitch magnifercent figers, then theimagernation of man is a deception an' a snare. But gent-tul-men, youcaint expect to find m-i-n-e-r-l without plenty uv diggin'. I have beendiggin' thar for the past forty year fur it, an' haint never struck ityit, I hope you gen-tul-men will strike it some time endurin' the nextforty year. " Here, with winks and blinks and clinched teeth, the oldColonel pulled his coat tail; he was spoiling the town boom. But hewould not down. He continued in the same eloquent strain: "Gent-tul-men, you caint expect to find m-i-n-e-r-l without plenty uv diggin. ' Youcaint expect to find nothin' in this world without plenty uv diggin'. There is no excellence without labor gent-tul-men. If old Vanderbilthadn't a-been persevering in his pertickler kind uv dig-gin', whar wouldhe be to-day? He wouldn't now be a rich man, a-ridin' the billers of oldocean in his magnifercent 'yatchet. ' If I hadn't a-been perseverin', an' hadn't a-kep on a-dig-gin' an' a-diggin, whar would I have beento-day? I mout have been seated like you gent-tul-men, at thisstupenduous banquet, with my pockets full of watered stock, and someother old American citizen mout have been deliverin' this eulogy on ourm-i-n-e-r-l resources. Gent-tul-men, my injunction to you is never tostop diggin'. And while you're a-diggin', cultivate a love for thebeautiful, the true and the good. Speakin' of the beautiful, the true, and the good, gent-tul-men, let us not forgit woman at this magnifercentbanquet--Oh! woman, woman, woman! when the mornin' stars sung togetherfor joy--an' woman--God bless 'er----Great God, feller citerzens, caintyou understand!!!!"

[Illustration: THE BANQUET. ]

At the close of this great speech the curtain fell to slow music, andthere was a panic in land stocks. 

THERE IS MUSIC ALL AROUND US. 

There is music all around us, there is music everywhere. There is nomusic so sweet to the American ear as the music of politics. There isnothing that kindles the zeal of a modern patriot to a whiter heat thanthe prospect of an office; there is nothing that cools it off so quicklyas the fading out of that prospect. 

I stood on the stump in Tennessee as a candidate for Governor, and thusI cut my eagle loose: "Fellow Citizens, we live in the grandest countryin the world. It stretches

 From Maine's dark pines and crags of snow To where magnolia breezes blow;

It stretches from the Atlantic Ocean on the east, to the Pacific Oceanon the west"--and an old fellow jumped up in my crowd and threw his hatin the air and shouted: "Let 'er stretch, durn 'er--hurrah for theDimocrat Party. "

An old Dutchman had a beautiful boy of whom he was very proud; andhe decided to find out the bent of his mind. He adopted a very novelmethod by which to test him. He slipped into the little fellow's roomone morning and placed on his table a Bible, a bottle of whiskey, anda silver dollar. "Now, " said he, "Ven dot boy comes in, ef he dakes dotdollar, he's goin' to be a beeznis man; ef he dakes dot Bible he'llbe a breacher; ef he dakes dot vwiskey, he's no goot--he's goin' tobe a druenkart. " and he hid behind the door to see which his son wouldchoose. In came the boy whistling. He ran up to the table and picked upthe dollar and put it in his pocket; he picked up the Bible and put itunder his arm; then he snatched up the bottle of whiskey and took two orthree drinks, and went out smacking his lips. The old Dutchman poked hishead out from behind the door and exclaimed: "Mine Got--he's goin' to bea bolitician. "

There is no music like the music of political discussion. I have heardalmost a thousand political discussions. I heard the great debatebetween Blaine and Ben Hill; I heard the angry coloquies between RoscoeConkling and Lamar; I have heard them on down to the humblest in theland. But I prefer to give you a scrap of one which occurred in my ownnative mountains. It was a race for the Legislature in a mountain county, between a straight Democrat and a straight Republican. The mountaineershad gathered at the county site to witness the great debate. TheRepublican spoke first. He was about six feet two in his socks, as slimas a bean pole, with a head about the size of an ordinary tin cup andvery bald, and he lisped. Webster in all his glory in the United StatesSenate never appeared half so great or half so wise. Thus he opened thedebate:

"F-e-l-l-o-w T-h-i-t-i-t-h-e-n-s: I come befo' you to-day ath aRepublikin candidate, fer to reprethent you in the lower branch uvthe Legithlachah. And, fellow thitithens, ef I thould thay thumpthinconthernin' my own carreckter, I hope you will excuthe me. I sprung frumone of the humbletht cabins in all thith lovely land uv thweet liberty;and many a mornin' I have jumped out uv my little trundle bed onto thepuncheon floor, and pulled the splinterth and the bark off uv the wallof our 'umble cabin, for to make a fire for my weakley parenth. Fellowthitithenth, I never had no chanthe. All that I am to-day I owe to myown egtherthionth!! and that aint all. When the cloud of war thwept likea bethom of destructhion over this land uv thweet liberty, me and myconnecthion thouldered our musketh and marched forth on the bloodybattlefield to fight for your thweet liberty! Fellow thitithenth, if youcan trust me in the capathity uv a tholjer, caint you trust me in thecapathity uv the Legithlature? I ask my old Dimocrat competitor for totell you whar he wath when war shook thith continent from its thenter toits circumputh! I have put thith quethtion to him on every stump, andhe's ath thilent ath an oysthter. Fellow citithenth, I am a Republikinfrom printhiple. I believe in every thing the Republikin Party hasever done, and every thing the Republikin Party ever expecthts to do. Fellow thitithenth, I am in favor of a high protective tarriff for theprotecthion of our infant induthtreth which are only a hundred yearthold; and fellow thitithenth, I am in favor of paying of a penthun toevery tholjer that fit in the Federal army, while he lives, and afterhethe dead, I'm in favor of paying uv it to hith Exthecutor or hithAdminithtrator. "

He took his seat amid great applause on the Republican side of thehouse, and the old Democrat who was a much older man, came forwardlike a roaring lion, to join issue in the great debate, and thus he"joined:"

"Feller Citerzuns, I come afore you as a Dimocrat canderdate, fur toripresent you in the lower branch of the house of the Ligislator. Andfust and fomust, hit becomes my duty fer to tell you whar I stand on thegreat queshtuns which is now a-agitatin' of the public mind! Fust an'fomust, feller citerzuns, I am a Dimocrat inside an' out, up one sidean' down tother, independent defatigly. My competitor axes me whar I wuzendurin' the war--Hit's none uv his bizness whar I wuz. He says he wuza-fightin' fer yore sweet liberty. Ef he didn't have no more sense thanto stand before them-thar drotted bung-shells an' cannon, that's hisbizness, an' hit's my bizness whar I wuz. I think I have answered himon that pint. 

"Now, feller citerzuns, I'll tell you what I'm fur. I am in favor uvpayin' off this-here drotted tariff an' stoppin' of it; an' I'm in favorof collectin' jist enuf of rivenue fur to run the Government ekernomicaladministered, accordin' to Andy Jackson an' the Dimocrat flatform. Mycompetitor never told you that he got wounded endurin' the war. Whar didhe git hit at? That's the pint in this canvass. He got it in the back, a-leadin' of the revance guard on the retreat--that's whar he got it. "

This charge precipitated a personal encounter between the candidates, and the meeting broke up in a general battle, with brickbats and tanbark flying in the air. 

It would be difficult, for those reared amid the elegancies andrefinements of life in city and town, to appreciate the enjoyments ofthe gatherings and merry-makings of the great masses of the people wholive in the rural districts of our country. The historian records thedeeds of the great; he consigns to fame the favored few; but leavesunwritten the short and simple annals of the poor--the lives and actionsof the millions. 

The modern millionaire, as he sweeps through our valleys and around ourhills in his palace car, ought not to look with derision on the cabinsof America, for from their thresholds have come more brains and courageand true greatness than ever eminated from all the palaces of thisworld. 

The fiddle, the rifle, the axe, and the Bible, symbolizing music, prowess, labor, and free religion, the four grand forces of ourcivilization, were the trusty friends and faithful allies of ourpioneer ancestry in subduing the wilderness and erecting the greatCommonwealths of the Republic. Wherever a son of freedom pushed hisperilous way into the savage wilds and erected his log cabin, these werethe cherished penates of his humble domicile--the rifle in the rackabove the door, the axe in the corner, the Bible on the table, and thefiddle with its streamers of ribbon, hanging on the wall. Did he needthe charm of music, to cheer his heart, to scatter sunshine, and driveaway melancholy thoughts, he touched the responsive strings of hisfiddle and it burst into laughter. Was he beset by skulking savages, orprowling beasts of prey, he rushed to his deadly rifle for protectionand relief. Had he the forest to fell, and the fields to clear, histrusty axe was in his stalwart grasp. Did he need the consolation, thepromises and precepts of religion to strengthen his faith, to brightenhis hope, and to anchor his soul to God and heaven, he held sweetcommunion with the dear old Bible. 

The glory and strength of the Republic today are its plain workingpeople. 

 "Princes and Lords may flourish and may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But an honest yeomanry--a Country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied;"

Long live the common people of America! Long live the fiddle and thebow, the symbols of their mirth and merriment!

THE TWO COLUMNS. 

Music wooes, and leads the human race ever onward, and there are twocolumns that follow her. One is the happy column, ringing with laughterand song. Its line of march is strewn with roses; it is hedged on eitherside by happy homes and smiling faces. The other is the column ofsorrow, moaning with suffering and distress. I saw an aged mother withher white locks and wrinkled face, swoon at the Governor's feet; I sawold men tottering on the staff, with broken hearts and tear stainedfaces, and heard them plead for their wayward boys. I saw a wife andseven children, clad in rags, and bare-footed, in mid-winter, fall upontheir knees around him who held the pardoning power. I saw a littlegirl climb upon the Governor's knee, and put her arms around his neck;I heard her ask him if he had little girls; then I saw her sob upon hisbosom as though her little heart would break, and heard her plead formercy for her poor, miserable, wretched, convict father. I saw want, and woe, and poverty, and trouble, and distress, and suffering, andagony, and anguish, march in solemn procession before the Gubernatorialdoor; and I said: "Let the critics frown and rail, let this heartlessworld condemn, but he who hath power and doth not temper justice withmercy, will cry in vain himself for mercy on that great day when the twocolumns shall meet! For, thank God, the stream of happy humanity thatrolls on like a gleaming river, and the stream of the suffering anddistressed and ruined of this earth, both empty into the same greatocean of eternity and mingle like the waters, and there is a God whoshall judge the merciful and the unmerciful!"

THERE IS A MELODY FOR EVERY EAR. 

[Illustration: THE MID-NIGHT SERENADE. ]

The multitudinous harmonies of this world differ in pathos and pitch asthe stars differ, one from another, in glory. There is a style for everytaste, 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'slay; the concert of Signor "Tomasso Cataleny" and Mademoiselle "Pussy"awakeneth the growling old bachelor from his dreams, and he throweth hisboquets of bootjacks and superannuated foot gear. 

The peripatetic gentleman from Italy asks no loftier strain than thetune of his hand organ and the jingle of the nickels, "the tribute ofthe Cęsars. "

The downy-lipped boy counts the explosion of a kiss on the cheek of hisdarling "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 tothe enraptured husband to be shared with other ears. And in the hush ofthe bed-time hour, when tired daddies are seeking repose in the oblivionof sleep, the unearthly bangs on the grand piano below in the parlor, and the unearthly screams and yells of the budding prima donna, as shesings 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 thebanquet hall; it is the inspiration of the church. Music inspires everygradation of humanity, from the orangoutang and the cane-sucking dudewith the single eye glass, _up to man_. 

There was "a sound of revelry by night, " where youth and beauty weregathered in the excitement of the raging ball. The ravishing music ofthe orchestra charmed from the street a red nosed old knight of thedemijohn, and uninvited he staggered into the brilliant assemblage andmade an effort to get a partner for the next set. Failing in this, heconcluded to exhibit his powers as a dancer; and galloped around thehall till he galloped into the arms of a strong man who quickly usheredhim to the head of the stairs, and gave him a kick and a push; he wentrevolving 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 standingwith his back against a lamp post, he looked up into the faces that weregazing down, and said in an injured tone: "Gentlemen, (hic) you may beable to fool some people, but, (hic) you can't fool me, (hic) I knowwhat made you kick me down them stairs, (hic, hic). You don't want meup there--that's the reason!" So, life hath its discords as well as itsharmonies. 

There was music in the magnificent parlor of a modern Chesterfield. It was thronged with elegant ladies and gentlemen. The daughter of thehappy household was playing and singing Verdi's "Ah! I have sighed torest me;" the fond mother was turning the pages; the fond father wassighing and resting up stairs, in a state of innocuous desuetude, produced by the "music" of old Kentucky Bourbon; but he could notwithstand 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, stoodbefore the mirror and arranged his hair, and started down to see theladies and listen to the music. But he stumped his toe at the top of thestairs, and slid down head-foremost, and turned a somersault into themidst of the astonished ladies. The ladies screamed and helped him tohis feet, all crying at once: "Are you hurt Mr. 'Rickety'--are youhurt?" Standing with his back against the piano he exclaimed in anassuring 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 nightlong, and kept the banquet up together all the next day after thebanquet had ended. They kept up their banqueting a week after thebanquet was over. But they got separated one morning and met againin 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'remistaken, it's late in the evenin' an' that's the full moon. " Theyconcluded they would have no difficulty about the matter, and agreed toleave it to the first gentleman they came to to settle the question. They locked arms and started down the street together; they staggeredon till they came upon another gentleman in the same condition, hangingon a lamp post. One of them approached him and said: "Friend (hic) wedon't desire to interfere with your meditation, (hic) but this gen'lmansays it's mornin' an' that's the sun; I say it's evenin' an' that's thefull 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 despairreplied:

"Gen'lmen, (hic) you'll have to excuse me, (hic) I'm a stranger in thistown!"

[Illustration: AFTER THE BANQUET. ]

THE OLD TIME SINGING SCHOOL. 

Did you never hear the music of the old time singing school? Oh! who canforget the old school house that stood on the hill? Who can forget thesweet little maidens with their pink sun bonnets and checkered dresses, the walks to the spring, and the drinks of pure, cold water from thegourd? Who can forget the old time courtships at the singing school?When the boy found an opportunity he wrote these tender lines to hissweetheart:

 "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 masterwith very light hair, a dyed mustache, a wart on his left eyelid, andwith one game leg, was the pride of our rural society; he was the envyof man and the idol of woman. His baggy trousers, several inches tooshort, hung above his toes like the inverted funnels of a Cunardsteamer. His butternut coat had the abbreviated appearance of havingbeen cut in deep water, and its collar encircled the back of his headlike the belts of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn. His vest resembledthe aurora borealis, and his voice was a cross between a cane milland the bray of an ass. Yet beautiful and bright he stood before theruddy-faced swains and rose-cheeked lassies of the country, consciousof his charms, and proud of his great ability. He had prepared, after along and tedious research of Webster's unabridged dictionary, a speechwhich 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 pleasingsounds, or a succession or combernation of simultaneous sounds modulatedin accordance with harmony. Harmony is the sociability of two or moremusical strains. Melody denotes the pleasing combustion of musical andmeasured sounds, as they succeed each other in transit. The elementsof vocal music consist of seven original tones which constitute thediatonic scale, together with its steps and half steps, the whole beingcompromised 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 betweenthe extremes of an octave, according to the diatonic scale. The turnsof music consist of the appoggiatura which is the principal note, orthat on which the turn is made, together with the note above and thesemi-tone below, the note above being sounded first, the principal notenext and the semi-tone below, last, the three being performed sticatoly, or very quickly. Now, if you will keep these simple propersitions clearin your physical mind, there is no power under the broad canister ofheaven which can prevent you from becoming succinctly contaminated withthe primary and elementary rudiments of music. With these few sanguinaryremarks we will now proceed to diagnosticate the exercises of themornin' hour. Please turn to page thirty-four of the Southern harmony. "And we turned. "You will discover that this beautiful piece of music iswritten in four-four time, beginning on the downward beat. Now, take thesound--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 likethe dew on the flowers is the memory of his song! He was playing therole 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 themountains 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 thevisible creation. Her afflatus, divinely sweet, divinely powerful, isbreathed on every human heart, and inspires every soul to some noblersentiment, 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 thebeautiful, daughter of the Universe!

In the morning of eternity, when the stars were young, her first grandoratorio burst upon raptured Deity, and thrilled the wondering angels;all heaven shouted; ten thousand times ten thousand jeweled harps, tenthousand times ten thousand angel tongues caught up the song; and eversince, through all the golden cycles, its breathing melodies, old aseternity, yet ever new as the flitting hours, have floated on the airof heaven. The Seraph stood, with outstretched wings, on the horizonof heaven--clothed in light, ablaze with gems; and with voice attuned, swept her burning harp strings, and lo! the blue infinite thrilled withher sweetest note. The trembling stars heard it, and flashed their joyfrom every flaming center. The wheeling orbs that course their pathsof light were vibrant with the strain, and pealed it back into theglad ear of God. The far off milky way, bright gulf-stream of astralglories, spanning the ethereal deep, resounded with its harmonies, andthe star-dust isles floating in that river of opal, re-echoed the happychorus from every sparkling strand. 

[Illustration]

"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS. "

Have you ever thought of the wealth that perished when paradisewas lost? Have you ever thought of the glory of Eden, the firstestate of man? I think it was the very dream of God, glowing withineffable beauty. I think it was rimmed with blue mountains, from whosemoss-covered cliffs leaped a thousand glassy streams that spread out inmid-air, like bridal veils, kissing a thousand rainbows from the sun. I think it was an archipelago of gorgeous colors, flecked with greenisles, where the grapevine staggered from tree to tree, as if drunkwith the wine of its own purple clusters, where peach, and plum, andblood-red cherries, and every kind of berry, bent bough and bush, and shone like showered drops of ruby and of pearl. I think it wasa wilderness of flowers, redolent of eternal spring and pulsing withbird-song, where dappled fawns played on banks of violets, whereleopards, peaceful and tame, lounged in copses of magnolias, whereharmless tigers lay on snowy beds of lilies, and lions, lazy andgentle, panted in jungles of roses. I think its billowy landscapeswere festooned with tangling creepers, bright with perennial bloom, and curtained with sweet-scented groves, where the orange and thepomegranate hung like golden globes and ruddy moons. I think its air wassoftened with the dreamy haze of perpetual summer; and through its midstthere flowed a translucent river, alternately gleaming in its sunshineand darkening in its shadows. And there, in some sweet, dusky bower, fresh from the hand of his Creator, slept Adam, the first of the humanrace; God-like in form and feature; God-like in all the attributes ofmind and soul. No monarch ever slept on softer, sweeter couch, withricher curtains drawn about him. And as he slept, a face and form, halfhidden, half revealed, red-lipped, rose-cheeked, white bosomed and withtresses of gold, smiled like an angel from the mirror of his dream; fora moment smiled, and so sweetly, that his heart almost forgot to beat. And while yet this bright vision still haunted his slumber, withtenderest touch an unseen hand lay open the unconscious flesh in hisside, and forth from the painless wound a faultless being sprang; abeing pure and blithesome as the air; a sinless woman, God's firstthought for the happiness of man. I think he wooed her at the waking ofthe 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, whenthe moon silvered the palm tree's feathery plumes, and the stars lookeddown, and the nightingale sang. And wherever he wooed her, I think thegrazing herds left sloping hill and peaceful vale, to listen to thewooing, and thence themselves, departed in pairs. The covies heard itand mated in the fields; the quail wooed his love in the wheat; therobin 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 andbobolinks; dove cooed love to dove; and I think the maiden monkey, fair"Juliet" of the House of Orang-outang, waited on her cocoanut balconyfor 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 haveremained so forever! There was not a painted cheek in Eden, nor a baldhead, nor a false tooth, nor a bachelor. There was not a flounce, nora frill, nor a silken gown, nor a flashy waist with aurora borealissleeves. There was not a curl paper, nor even a threat of crinoline. Raiment was an after thought, the mask of a tainted soul, born oforiginal sin. Beauty was unmarred by gaudy rags; Eve was dressed insunshine, Adam was clad in climate. 

Every rich blessing within the gift of the Almighty Father was pouredout from the cornucopia of heaven, into the lap of paradise. But itwas a paradise of fools, because they stained it with disobedienceand polluted it with sin. It was the paradise of fools because, in theexercise of their own God-given free agency, they tasted the forbiddenfruit and fell from their glorious estate. Oh, what a fall was there! Itwas the fall of innocence and purity; it was the fall of happiness intothe abyss of woe; it was the fall of life into the arms of death. It waslike the fall of the wounded albatross, from the regions of light, intothe sea; it was like the fall of a star from heaven to hell. When thejasper gate forever closed behind the guilty pair, and the flamingsword of the Lord mounted guard over the barred portal, the wholelife-current of the human race was shifted into another channel; shiftedfrom the roses to the thorns; shifted from joy to sorrow, and it boreupon its dark and turbulent bosom, the wrecked hopes of all the ages. 

I believe they lost intellectual powers which fallen man has neverregained. Operating by the consent of natural laws, sinless man wouldhave wrought endless miracles. The mind, winged like a seraph, and armedlike a thunderbolt, would have breached the very citadel of knowledgeand robbed it of its treasures. I think they lost a plane of being onlya little lower than the angels. I believe they lost youth, beauty, andphysical immortality. I believe they lost the virtues of heart and soul, and many of the magnificent powers of mind, which made them the imagesof God, and which would have even brushed aside the now impenetrableveil which hides from mortal eyes the face of Infinite Love; that Lovewhich gave the ever-blessed light, and filled the earth with music ofbird, and breeze, and sea; that Love whose melodies we sometimes faintlycatch, like spirit voices, from the souls of orators and poets; thatLove which inlaid the arching firmament of heaven with jewels sparklingwith eternal fires. But thank God, their fall was not like theremediless fall of Lucifer and his angels, into eternal darkness. ThankGod, in this "night of death" hope _does_ see a star! It is the star ofBethlehem. Thank God, "listening Love" _does_ "hear the rustle of awing!" It is the wing of the resurrection angel. 

The memories and images of paradise lost have been impressed on everyhuman heart, and every individual of the race has his own ideal of thatparadise, from the cradle to the grave. But that ideal in so far as itsrealization in this world is concerned, is like the rainbow, an elusivephantom, ever in sight, never in reach, resting ever on the horizon ofhope. 

THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD. 

I saw a blue-eyed child, with sunny curls, toddling on the lawn beforethe door of a happy home. He toddled under the trees, prattling to thebirds and playing with the ripening apples that fell upon the ground. He toddled among the roses and plucked their leaves as he would haveplucked an angel's wing, strewing their glory upon the green grass athis feet. He chased the butterflies from flower to flower, and shoutedwith 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 itwith dainty seraphim and made himself its Adam. He saw the sunshineof Eden glint on every leaf and beam in every petal. The flittinghoney-bee, the wheeling June-bug, the fluttering breeze, the silverypulse-beat of the dashing brook sounded in his ear notes of its swellingmusic. The iris-winged humming-bird, darting like a sunbeam, to kiss thepouting lips of the upturned flowers was, to him, the impersonation ofits beauty. And I said: Truly, this is the nearest approach in thisworld, to the paradise of long ago. Then I saw him skulking like acupid, in the shrubbery, his skirts bedraggled and soiled, his facedowncast with guilt. He had stirred up the Mediterranean Sea in the slopbucket, and waded the Atlantic Ocean in a mud puddle. He had capsizedthe goslings, and shipwrecked the young ducks, and drowned the kittenwhich he imagined a whale, and I said: _There_ is the original Adamcoming to the surface. 

[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD. ]

"Lo'd bless my soul! Jist look at dat chile!" shouted his dusky oldnurse, as she lifted him, dripping, from the reeking pond. "What's youbin 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' mammysee you while you's in dat fix. You's gwine to ketch it sho'. You's jistzackly like yo' fader--allers git'n into some scrape or nuddah, allersbreakin' into some kind uv devilment--gwine to break into congrus someuv dese days sho'. Come along wid me dis instinct to de baff tub. I'sa-gwine to dispurgate dem close an' 'lucidate some uv dat dirt off'ndat face uv yone, you triflin' rascal you!" And so saying, she carriedhim 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 himcome forth again, washed and combed, and dressed in spotless white, likea 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 madetrip after trip to a rose-colored mouth, bearing burdens of minglingsweets that dripped from cheek, and chin, and waist, and skirt, andshoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach, and thepurple of the raspberry, as he ate the forbidden fruit. Then I watchedhim 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 findthe young rascal standing there catching his breath, while streams ofcold ink trickled down his drenched bosom. And as he wiped his inkyface, which grew blacker with every wipe, the remainder of the ink waspouring from the bottle down on the carpet, and making a map of darkestAfrica. Then the rear of a small skirt went up over a curly head and theavenging slipper, in lightning strokes, kept time to the music in theair. And I said: _There_ is "_Paradise Lost_. " The sympathizing, halfangry old nurse bore her weeping, sobbing charge to the nursery andthere bound up his broken heart and soothed him to sleep with her oldtime 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 likea dog. " And then she tucked him away in the paradise of his childishslumber. 

[Illustration: OLD BLACK "MAMMY. "]

The day will come when the South will build a monument to the good oldblack mammy of the past for the lullabies she has sung. 

I sometimes wish that childhood might last forever. That sweet fairyland on the frontier of life, whose skies are first lighted with thesunrise of the soul, and in whose bright-tinted jungles the lions, andleopards, and tigers of passion still peacefully sleep. The world isdisarmed by its innocence, the drawn bow is relaxed, and the arrow isreturned to its quiver; the Ęgis of Heaven is above it, the outstretchedwings 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 joythan to be a millionaire and president of a National bank. The financialpanic that falls like a thunderbolt, wrecks the bank, crushes thebanker, and swamps thousands in an hour. But the bank which holds thetreasures of the barefooted boy never breaks. With his satchel and hisbooks he hies away to school in the morning, but his truant feet carryhim the other way, to the mill pond "a-fishin'. " And there he sits thelivelong day under the shade of the tree, with sapling pole and pinhook, and fishes, and fishes, and fishes, and waits for a nibble of thedrowsy sucker that sleeps on his oozy bed, oblivious of the baitlesshook from which he has long since stolen the worm. There he sits, andfishes, and fishes, and fishes, and like Micawber, waits for somethingto "turn-up. " But nothing turns up until the shadows of evening fall andwarn 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 diedaway on the summer air, he is in the wood shed playing Sullivan andCorbett 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 ofthe sermon steals away and hides in the barn to smoke cigarettes andread the story of "One-eyed Pete, the Hero of the _wild_ and _woolly_West. " There is eternal war between the barefooted boy and the wholecivilized world. He shoots the cook with a blow-gun; he cuts the stringsof the hammock and lets his dozing grandmother fall to the ground; heloads his grandfather's pipe with powder; he instigates a fight betweenthe cat and dog during family prayers, and explodes with laughter whenpussy seeks refuge on the old man's back. He hides in the alley andturns the hose on uncle Ephraim's standing collar as he passes on hisway to church, he cracks chestnut burrs with his naked heel; he robsbirds' nests, and murders bullfrogs, and plays "knucks" and "base-ball. "He puts asafetida in the soup, and conceals lizzards in his father'shat. He overwhelms the family circle with his magnificent literaryattainments when he reads from the Bible in what he calls the "pasalmsof David"--"praise ye the Lord with the pizeltry and the harp. "

[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF THE BAREFOOTED BOY. ]

His father took him to town one day and said to him: "Now John, I wantyou to stay here on the corner with the wagon and watch these potatoeswhile I go round the square and see if I can sell them. Don't open yourmouth sir, while I am gone; I'm afraid people will think you're a fool. "While the old man was gone the merchant came out and said to John: "Whatare those potatoes worth, my son?" John looked at him and grinned. "Whatare those potatoes worth, I say?" asked the merchant. John still lookedat him and grinned. The merchant turned on his heel and said: "You're afool, " and went back into his store. When the old man returned Johnshouted: "Pap, they found it out and I never said a word. "

His life is an endless chain of pranks and pleasures. Look how thebrawling brook pours down the steep declivities of the mountain gorge!Here it breaks into pearls and silvery foam, there it dashes in rapids, among brown bowlders, and yonder it tumbles from the gray crest of aprecipice. Thus, forever laughing, singing, rollicking, romping, tillit is checked in its mad rush and spreads into a still, smooth mirror, reflecting the inverted images of rock, and fern, and flower, and tree, and sky. It is the symbol of the life of a barefooted boy. His quips, and cranks, his whims, and jollities, and jocund mischief, are but theeffervescences of exuberant young life, the wild music of the mountainstream. 

If I were a sculptor, I would chisel from the marble my ideal of themonumental fool. I would make it the figure of a man, with knitted browand clinched teeth, beating and bruising his barefooted boy, in thecruel endeavor to drive him from the paradise of his childish fun andfolly. If your boy _will_ be a boy, let him be a boy still. And rememberthat he is following the paths which your feet have trodden, and willsoon look back upon its precious memories, as you now do, with theaching heart of a care-worn man. 

[Illustration: THE WILD MUSIC OF THE MOUNTAINS. ]

(Sung to the air of Down on the Farm. )

 Oh, I love the dear old farm, and my heart grows young and warm, When I wander back to spend a single day; There to hear the robins sing in the trees around the spring, Where I used to watch the happy children play. Oh, I hear their voices yet and I never shall forget How their faces beamed with childish mirth and glee. But my heart grows old again and I leave the spot in pain, When I call them and no answer comes to me. 

THE PARADISE OF YOUTH. 

[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF YOUTH. ]

If childhood is the sunrise of life, youth is the heyday of life's ruddyJune. It is the sweet solstice in life's early summer, which puts forththe fragrant bud and blossom of sin e'er its bitter fruits ripen andturn to ashes on the lips of age. It is the happy transition period, when long legs, and loose joints, and verdant awkwardness, first stumbleon the vestibule of manhood. Did you never observe him shaving andscraping his pimpled face till it resembled a featherless goose, reapingnothing but lather, and dirt, and a little intangible fuzz? That is thefirst symptom of love. Did you never observe him wrestling with a pairof boots two numbers too small, as Jacob wrestled with the angel? Thatis another symptom of love. His callous heel slowly and painfully yieldsto the pressure of his perspiring paroxysms until his feet are foldedlike fans and driven home in the pinching leather; and as he sits atchurch with them hid under the bench, his uneasy squirms are symptoms ofthe tortures of the infernal regions, and the worm that dieth not; butthat is only the penalty of loving. When he begins to wander through thefragrant meadows and talk to himself among the buttercups and cloverblossoms, it is a sure sign that the golden shaft of the winged god hassped from its bended bow. Love's archer has shot a poisoned arrow whichwounds but never kills. The sweet venom has done its work. The fever ofthe amorous wound drives the red current bounding through his veins, andhis brain now reels with the delirium of the tender passion. His soul iswrapped in visions of dreamy black eyes peeping out from under ravencurls, and cheeks like gardens of roses. To him the world is transformedinto a blooming Eden, and _she_ is its only Eve. He hears her voice inthe sound of the laughing waters, the fluttering of her heart in thesummer evening's last sigh that shuts the rose; and he sits on the bankof the river all day long and writes poetry to her. Thus he writes:

 "As I sit by this river's crystal wave, Whose flow'ry banks its waters lave, Me-thinks I see in its glassy mirror, A face which to me, than life is dearer. Oh, 'tis the face of my Gwendolin, As pure as an angel, free from sin. It looks into mine with one sweet eye, While the other is turned to the starry sky. Could I the ocean's bulk contain, Could I but drink the watery main, I'd scarce be half as full of the sea, As my heart is full of love for thee!"

Thus he lives and loves, and writes poetry by day, and tosses on his bedat night, like the restless sea, and dreams, and dreams, and dreams, until, in the ecstacy of his dream, he grabs a pillow. 

One bright summer day, a rural youth took his sweetheart to a Baptistbaptizing; and, in addition to his verdancy and his awkwardness, hestuttered most distressingly. The singing began on the bank of thestream; and he left his sweetheart in the buggy, in the shade of a treenear by, and wandered alone in the crowd. Standing unconsciously amongthose who were to be baptized, the old parson mistook him for one of theconverts, and seized him by the arm and marched him into the water. Hebegan to protest: "ho-ho-hold on p-p-p-parson, y-y-y-you're ma-ma-makin'a mi-mi-mistake!!!" "Don't be alarmed my son, come right in, " said theparson. And he led him to the middle of the stream. The poor fellow madeone final desperate effort to explain--"p-p-p-p-parson, l-l-l-l-let meexplain!" But the parson coldly said: "Close your mouth and eyes, myson!" And he soused him under the water. After he was thoroughlybaptized the old parson led him to the bank, the muddy water tricklingdown his face. He was "diked" in his new seersucker suit, and when thesun struck it, it began to draw up. The legs of his pants drew up to hisknees; his sleeves drew up to his elbows; his little sack coat yanked upunder his arms. And as he stood there trembling and shivering, a goodold sister approached him, and taking him by the hand said: "God blessyou, my son, how do you feel?" Looking, in his agony, at his blushingsweetheart behind her fan, he replied in his anguish: "I fe-fe-fe-feell-l-l-l-like a d-d-d-d-durned f-f-f-f-fool!"

[Illustration: THE SEERSUCKER YOUTH AT THE BAPTIZING. ]

If I were called upon to drink a toast to life's happiest period, I would hold up the sparkling wine, and say: "Here is to youth, thatsweet, Seidlitz powder period, when two souls with scarcely a singlethought, meet and blend in one; when a voice, half gosling, halfcalliope, rasps the first sickly confession of puppy love into theear of a blue-sashed maiden at the picnic in the grove!" But when shereturns his little greasy photograph, accompanied by a little perfumednote, expressing the hope that he will think of her only as a sister, his paradise is wrecked, and his puppy love is swept into the limboof things that were, the school boy's tale, the wonder of an hour. 

But wait till the shadows have a little longer grown. Wait till theyoung lawyer comes home from college, spouting Blackstone, and Kent, andRam on facts. Wait till the young doctor returns from the university, with his whiskers and his diploma, to tread the paths of glory, "thatlead but to the grave. " Wait till society gives welcome in the brilliantball, and the swallow-tail coat, and the patent leather pumps whirl withthe decollette and white slippers till the stars are drowning in thelight of morning. Wait till the graduate staggers from the giddy hall, in full evening dress, singing as he staggers:

 "After the ball is over, after the break of morn, After the dancer's leavin', after the stars are gone; Many a heart is aching, if we could read them all-- Many the hopes that are vanished, after the ball. "

[Illustration: AFTER THE BALL. ]

It is then that "somebody's darling" has reached the full tide of hisglory as a fool. 

THE PARADISE OF HOME. 

How rich would be the feast of happiness in this beautiful world ofours, could folly end with youth. But youth is only the first act inthe "Comedy of Errors. " It is the pearly gate that opens to the realparadise of fools. 

 "It's pleasures are like poppies spread-- You seize the flower, its bloom is shed, Or like the snowfall on the river-- A moment white then melts forever. "

Whether it be the child at its mother's knee or the man of mature years, whether it be the banker or the beggar, the prince in his palace or thepeasant in his hut, there is in every heart the dream of a happier lotin life. 

I heard the sound of revelry at the gilded club, where a hundred heartsbeat happily. There were flushed cheeks and thick tongues and jests andanecdotes around the banquet spread. There were songs and poems andspeeches. I saw an orator rise to respond to a toast to "Home, sweethome, " and thus he responded:

"Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen: John Howard Payne touched millions ofhearts when he sang:

 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. 

But as for me, gentlemen, give me the pleasures an' the palaces--give meliberty, or give me death. No less beautifully expressed are the tendersentiments expressed in the tender verse of Lord Byron:

 "'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark Bay deep mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, And look brighter when we come. "

But as for me, gentlemen, I would rather hear the barkin' of a gatlin'gun than to hear the watch dog's honest bark this minute. I would ratherlook into the mouth of a cannon than to look into the eyes that are nowwaitin' to mark my comin' at this delightful hour of three o'clock inthe morning. "

Then he launched out on the ocean of thought like a magnificent shipgoing to sea. And when the night was far spent, and the orgies wereover, and the lights were blown out at the club, I saw him enter his ownsweet home in his glory--entered it, like a thief, with his boots in hishands, --entered it singing softly to himself:

 "I'm called little gutter pup, sweet little gutter pup, Though I could never tell why--(hic), Yet still I'm called gutter pup, sweet little gutter pup, Poor little gutter pup--I--(hic). "

He was unconscious of the presence of the white figure that stood atthe head of the stairs holding up a lamp, like liberty enlighteningthe world, and as a tremulous voice called him to the judgment bar, thedoor closed behind him on the paradise of a fool, and he sneaked up thesteps, muttering to himself, "What shadows we are--(hic)--what shadowswe pursue. " Then I saw him again in the morning, reaping temptation'sbitter reward in the agonies of his drunk-sick; and like Mark Twain'sboat in a storm, "He heaved and sot, and sot and heaved, And high his rudder flung, And every time he heaved and sot, A mighty leak he sprung. "

If I were a woman with a husband like "that, " I would fill him so fullof Keely's chloride of gold that he would jingle as he walks and tinkleas he talks and have a fit at every mention of the silver bill. 

The biggest fool that walks on God's footstool is the man who destroysthe joy and peace of his own sweet home; for, if paradise is everregained in this world, it must be in the home. If its dead flowersever bloom again, they must bloom in the happy hearts of home. If itssunshine ever breaks through the clouds, it must break forth in thesmiling faces of home. If heaven ever descends to earth and angels treadits soil, it must be in the sacred precincts of home. That which heavenmost approves is the pure and virtuous home. For around it linger allthe sweetest memories and dearest associations of mankind; upon it hangthe hopes and happiness of the nations of the earth, and above it shinesthe ever blessed star that lights the way back to the paradise that waslost. 

[Illustration: RETURNING FROM THE CLUB. ]

BACHELOR AND WIDOWER. 

I saw a poor old bachelor live all the days of his life in sight ofparadise, too cowardly to put his arm around it and press it to hisbosom. He shaved and primped and resolved to marry every day in the yearfor forty years. But when the hour for love's duel arrived, when hestood trembling in the presence of rosy cheeks and glancing eyes, andbeauty shook her curls and gave the challenge, his courage always oozedout, and he fled ingloriously from the field of honor. 

Far happier than the bachelor is old Uncle Rastus in his cabin, when heholds Aunt Dina's hand in his and asks: "Who's sweet?" And Dina dropsher head over on his shoulder and answers, "Boaf uv us. "

A thousand times happier is the frisky old widower with his pink baldhead, his wrinkles and his rheumatism, who

 Wires in and wires out, And leaves the ladies all in doubt, As to what is his age and what he is worth, And whether or not he owns the earth. 

He "toils not, neither does he spin, " yet Solomon, in all his glory wasnot more popular with the ladies. He is as light-hearted as "Mary'slittle lamb. " He is acquainted with every hog path in the matrimonialparadise and knows all the nearest cuts to the "sanctum sanctorum" ofwoman's heart. But his jealousy is as cruel as the grave. Woe unto thebachelor who dares to cross his path. 

An old bachelor in my native mountains once rose in church to give hisexperience, in the presence of his old rival who was a widower, and withwhom he was at daggers' points in the race to win the affections of oneof the sisters in Zion. Thus the pious old bachelor spake: "Brethren, this is a beautiful world. I love to live in it just as well to-day asI ever did in my life. And the saddest thought that ever crossed thisold brain of mine is, that in a few short days at best, these old eyeswill be glazed in death and I'll never get to see my loved ones in thisworld any more. " And his old rival shouted from the "amen corner, ""_thank God!_"

PHANTOMS. 

In every brain there is a bright phantom realm, where fancied pleasuresbeckon from distant shores; but when we launch our barks to reach them, they vanish, and beckon again from still more distant shores. And so, poor fallen man pursues the ghosts of paradise as the deluded dog chasesthe shadows of flying birds in the meadow. 

The painter only paints the shadows of beauty on his canvas; thesculptor only chisels its lines and curves from the marble; the sweetestmelody is but the faint echo of the wooing voice of music. 

We stumble over the golden nuggets of contentment in pursuit of thephantoms of wealth, and what is wealth? It can not purchase a moment ofhappiness. Marble halls may open wide their doors and offer her shelter, but happiness will flee from a palace to dwell in a cottage. We crushunder our feet the roses of peace and love in our eagerness to reach theilluminated heights of glory; and what is earthly glory?

 "He who ascends to mountain tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 'Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head. "

I saw a comedian convulse thousands with his delineations of theweaknesses of humanity in the inimitable "Rip Van Winkle. " I saw himmake laughter hold its sides, as he impersonated the coward in "TheRivals;" and I said: I would rather have the power of Joseph Jefferson, to make the world laugh, and to drive care and trouble from weary brainsand sorrow from heavy hearts, than to wear the blood-stained laurels ofmilitary glory, or to be President of the United States, burdened withbonds and gold, and overwhelmed with the double standard, and three girlbabies. 

THE FALSE IDEAL. 

It is the false ideal that builds the "Paradise of Fools. " It is theeagerness to achieve success in realms we cannot reach, which breedsmore than half the ills that curse the world. If all the fish eggs wereto hatch, and every little fish become a big fish, the oceans would bepushed from their beds, and the rivers would be eternally "dammed"--withfish; but the whales, and sharks, and sturgeons, and dog-fish, and eels, and snakes, and turtles, make three meals every day in the year on fishand fish eggs. If all the legal spawn should hatch out lawyers, theearth and the fullness thereof would be mortgaged for fees, and mankindwould starve to death in the effort to pay off the "aforesaid and thesame. " If the entire crop of medical eggs should hatch out full fledgeddoctors, old "Skull and Cross Bones" would hold high carnival among thechildren of men, and the old sexton would sing:

 "I gather them in, I gather them in. "

If I could get the ear of the young men who pant after politics, as thehart panteth after the water brook, I would exhort them to seek honorsin some other way, for "Jordan is a hard road to travel. "

The poet truly said: "How like a mounting devil in the heart is theunreined ambition. Let it once but play the monarch, and its haughtybrow glows with a beauty that bewilders thought and unthrones peaceforever. Putting on the very pomp of Lucifer, it turns the heart toashes, and with not a spring left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, we look upon our splendor and forget the thirst of which we perish. "

THE CIRCUS IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

[Illustration: THE CIRCUS IN THE MOUNTAINS. ]

I saw a circus in a mountain town. The mountaineers swarmed from farand near, and lined the streets on every hand with open mouth and batedbreath, as the grand procession, with band, and clown, and camels, and elephants, and lions, and tigers, and spotted horses, paraded inbrilliant array. The excitement was boundless when the crowd rushedinto the tent, and they left behind them a surging mass of humanity, unprovided with tickets, and destitute of the silver half of the doublestandard. Their interest rose to white heat as the audience withinshouted and screamed with laughter at the clown, and cheered the girlin tights, and applauded the acrobats as they turned somersaults overthe elephant. But temptation whispered in the ear of a gentleman in towbreeches, and he stealthily opened his long bladed knife and cut a holein the canvas. A score of others followed suit, and held their sides andlaughed at the scenes within. But as they laughed a showman slippedinside, armed with a policeman's "billy. " He quietly sidled up to thehole where a peeper's nose made a knot on the tent on the inside. "Whack!" went the "billy"--there was a loud grunt, and old "TowBreeches" spun 'round like a top, and cut the "pigeon wing, " while hisnose spouted blood. "Whack!" went the "billy" again, and old "HickoryShirt" turned a somersault backwards and rose "a-runnin'. " The last"whack" fell like a thunderbolt on the Roman nose of a half drunk oldsettler from away up at the head of the creek. He fell flat on his back, quivered for a moment, and then sat up and clapped his hand to hisbleeding nose and in his bewilderment exclaimed: "Well I'll be durned!hel-lo there stranger!" he shouted to a bystander, "whar wuz you _at_when the lightnin' struck the show?" Then I saw a row of bleeding nosesat the branch near by, taking a bath; and each nose resembled a sorehump on a camel's back. 

[Illustration: "WHACK!" WENT THE "BILLY!"]

So it is around the great arena of political fame and power. "Whack!"goes the "billy" of popular opinion; and politicians, like old "TowBreeches, " spin 'round with the broken noses of misguided ambition anddisappointed hope. In the heated campaign many a would-be Webster liesdown and dreams of the triumph that awaits him on the morrow, but hewakes to find it only a dream, and when the votes are counted hislittle bird hath flown, and he is in the condition of the old Jew. An Englishman, an Irishman and a Jew hung up their socks together onChristmas Eve. The Englishman put his diamond pin in the Irishman'ssock; the Irishman put his watch in the sock of the Englishman; theyslipped an egg into the sock of the Jew. "And did you git onny thing?"asked Pat in the morning. "Oh yes, " said the Englishman, "I received afine gold watch, don't you know. And what did you get Pat?" "Begorra, I got a foine diamond pin. " "And what did you get, Jacob?" said theEnglishman to the Jew. "Vell, " said Jacob, holding up the egg. "I gota shicken but it got avay before I got up. "

THE PHANTOM OF FORTUNE. 

I would not clip the wings of noble, honorable aspiration. I would notbar and bolt the gate to the higher planes of thought and action, wheretruth and virtue bloom and ripen into glorious fruit. There are athousand fields of endeavor in the world, and happy is he who laborswhere God intended him to labor. 

The contented plowman who whistles as he rides to the field and sings ashe plows, and builds his little paradise on the farm, gets more out oflife than the richest Shylock on earth. 

The good old spectacled mother in Israel, with her white locks andbeaming face, as she works in her sphere, visiting the poor, nursing thesick, and closing the eyes of the dead, is more beautiful in her life, and more charming in her character, than the loveliest queen of societywho ever chased the phantoms of pleasure in the ballroom. 

The humblest village preacher who faithfully serves his God, and leadshis pious flock in the paths of holiness and peace, is more eloquent, and plays a nobler part than the most brilliant infidel who everblasphemed the name of God. 

The industrious drummer who travels all night and toils all day to wincomfort for wife, and children, and mother, and sister, is a better man, and a far better citizen, than the most successful speculator on WallStreet, who plays with the fortunes of his fellow-man as the wolf playswith the lamb, or as the cyclone plays with the feather. 

Young ladies, when the time comes to marry, say "yes" to the good-natured, big-hearted drummer. For he is a spring in a desert, a straight flush ina weary hand, a "thing of beauty and a joy forever, " and he will neverbe at home to bother you. 

CLOCKS. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes says: "Our brains are seventy year clocks. Theangel of life winds them up once for all, closes the case, and gives thekey into the hand of the resurrection angel. " And when I read it Ithought, what a stupendous task awaits the angel of the resurrection, when all the countless millions of old rickety, rusty, worm-eaten clocksare to be resurrected, and wiped, and dusted, and repaired, for mansionsin the skies! There will be every kind and character of clock andclockwork resurrected on that day. There will be the Catholic clock withhis beads, and the Episcopalian clock with his ritual. There will bean old clock resurrected on that day wearing a broadcloth coat buttonedup to the throat; and when he is wound up he will go off with a whizzand a bang. He will get up out of the dust shouting, "hallelujah!" andhe will proclaim "_sanctification!_" and "_falling from grace!_" and"_baptism by sprinkling and pouring!_" as the only true doctrine bywhich men shall go sweeping through the pearly gate, into the newJerusalem. And he will be recognized as a Methodist preacher, a littlenoisy, a little clogged with chicken feathers, but ripe for the Kingdomof Heaven. 

There will be another old clock resurrected on that day, dressedlike the former, but a little stiffer and straighter in the back, and armed with a pair of gold spectacles and a manuscript. When he iswound up he will break out in a cold sepulchral tone with, firstly:"_foreordination!_" secondly: "_predestination!_" and thirdly: "_thefinal perseverance of the saints!_" And he will be recognized as aPresbyterian preacher, a little blue and frigid, a little dry andformal, but one of God's own elect, and he will be labeled for Paradise. 

There will be an old Hard-shell clock resurrected, with throat whiskers, and wearing a shad-bellied coat and flap breeches. And when he is woundup a little, and a little oil is squirted into his old wheels, he willswing out into space on the wings of the gospel with: "My Dear BelovedBrethren-ah: I was a-ridin' along this mornin' a-tryin' to study upsomethin' to preach to this dying congregation-ah; and as I rid up bythe old mill pond-ah lo and behold! there was an old snag a stickingup out of the middle of the pond-ah, and an old mud turtle had climup out uv the water and was a settin' up on the old snag a sunnin' uvhimself-ah; and lo! and behold-ah! when I rid up a leetle nearer tohim-ah, he jumped off of the snag, 'ker chugg' into the water, therebyproving emersion-ah!"

Our brains _are_ clocks, and our hearts are the pendulums. If we liveright in this world, when the Resurrection Day shall come, the Lord Godwill polish the wheels, and jewel the bearings, and crown the casementswith stars and with gold. And the pendulums shall be harps encrustedwith precious stones. They shall swing to and fro on angel wings, makingmusic in the ear of God, and flashing His glory through all the blissfulcycles of eternity!

THE PANIC. 

Happy is the man who lives within his means, and who is contented withthe legitimate rewards of endeavor. The dreadful panic that checks theprogress of civilization and paralyzes the commerce of the world, is thedeath angel that follows speculation. Everything is staked and hazardedon contingences that are as baseless as the fabric of a dream. The dayof settlement comes and nobody is able to settle. The borrower ispowerless to meet his note in the bank; the banker is powerless to payhis depositors, and confidence is stampeded like a herd of cattle. Thetimid and suspicious old farmer catches the wild note of alarm, anddeserting his plow and sleepy steers in the field, he mounts his mule, and urging him on with pounding heels, rushes pell-mell to the bank, andwith bulging eyes, demands his money. The excitement spreads like fire. The blacksmith leaves his anvil, the carpenter his bench, and the tailorhis goose. The tanner deserts his hide, and the shoemaker throws downhis last to save his all. The mason with his trowel in his hand, rushesfrom the half-finished wall; Pat drops his hod between heaven and earthand slides down the ladder, muttering: "Oi'll have me moaney or _Oi'll_have blood!" The fat phlegmatic Dutchman, dozing behind his bar, wakesto the situation and waddles down the street, puffing and blowing likean engine, and muttering: "Mine Got in Himmel--mine debosit ishboosted!" And thus they make the run on the bank, gathering about itlike the hosts of Armageddon. The bottom drops out, and millionairesgo under like the passengers of a wrecked steamer. 

"BUNK CITY. "

Did you ever pass the remains of a "boom" town in your travels? Did younever gaze upon the remains of "Bunk City, " where but yesterday all waslife and bustle, and to-day it looks like the ruins of Babylon? Theempty fields for miles and miles around are laid off and dug up instreets, and look like they had been struck with ten thousand streaksof chain lightning. Standing here and there are huge frames holding upmammoth sign boards, bearing the names of land companies, but the landcompanies are gone. Half driven nails are left to rust in a few oldskeleton buildings, the brick lies unmortared in half finished walls, and tenantless houses stand here and there like the ghosts of buriedhope. Down by the river stands the furnace, grim and silent as theextinct crater of Popocatepetl; and the great hotel on the hill lookslike the tower of Babel two thousand years after the confusion oftongues. The last of the speculators, with his blue nose and his oldbattered plug hat which resembles an accordion that has been yanked bya cyclone, stands on the corner and contemplates his old sedge fieldswhich have shrunk in value from one hundred dollars a front foot, to one_dollar for a hundred front acres_, and balefully sings a new song:

 "After the boom is over, after the panic's on, After the fools are leavin', after the money's gone, Many a bank is "busted, " if we could see in the room, Many a pocket is empty, after the boom. "

"YOUR UNCLE. "

[Illustration: COMING. ]

An impecunious speculator once flooded a town with handbills and posterscontaining this announcement: "Your Uncle is coming. " The streams ofpassers-by looked at the bill boards and wondered what it meant. Thespeculator rented the theatre, and one day a new flood of handbills andposters made this announcement: "Your Uncle is here. " He gave ordersto his stage manager to raise the curtain exactly at eight o'clock. The speculator himself stood in the door and received the admission feesand then disappeared. In their curiosity to see the performance of "YourUncle, " the villagers filled every seat in the theatre long before thehour for the performance arrived. The curtain rose at the appointedhour, and lo! on a board, in the center of the stage, was a card bearingthis announcement in large letters: "_Your Uncle is gone. _"

What a splendid illustration of modern speculation and its willingvictims who are so easily led into the "Paradise of Fools!"

[Illustration: GONE. ]

FOOLS. 

But why mourn and brood over broken fortunes and the calamities of life?Why tarry in the doldrums of pessimism, with never a breeze to catchyour limp and drooping sails and waft you on a joyous wave? Pessimism isthe nightmare of the world. It is the prophet of famine, pestilence, andhuman woe. It is the apostle of the Devil, and its mission is to impedethe progress of civilization. It denounces every institution establishedfor human development as a fraud. It stigmatizes law as the machinery ofinjustice; it sneers at society as hollow-hearted corruption andinsincerity; it brands politics as a reeking mass of rottenness, andscoffs at morality as the tinsel of sin. Its disciples are those whorail and snarl at everything that is noble and good, to whom a joke isan assault and battery, a laugh is an insult to outraged dignity, andthe provocation of a smile is like passing an electric current throughthe facial muscles of a corpse. 

God deliver us from the fools who seek to build their paradise on theashes of those they have destroyed. God deliver us from the fools whoselife work is to cast aspersions upon the motives and characters of theleaders of men. I believe the men who reach high places in politicsare, as a rule, the best and brainiest men in the land, and upon theirshoulders rest the safety and well-being of the peace-loving, God-fearing millions. 

I believe the world is better to-day than it ever was before. I believethe refinements of modern society, its elegant accomplishments, itsintellectual culture, and its conceptions of the beautiful, are gloriousevidences of our advancement toward a higher plane of being. 

I think the superb churches of to-day, with the glorious harmonies oftheir choral music, their great pipe organs, their violins and cornets, and their grand sermons, full of heaven's balm for aching hearts, areexpressions of the highest civilization that has ever dawned upon theearth. I believe each successive civilization is better, and higher, andgrander, than that which preceded it; and upon the shining rungs of thisladder of evolution, our race will finally climb back to the Paradisethat was lost. I believe that the society of to-day is better than itever was before. I believe that human government is better, and nobler, and purer, than it ever was before. I believe the Church is stronger andis making grander strides toward the conversion of the world and thefinal establishment of the Kingdom of God on earth, than it ever madebefore. 

I believe that the biggest fools in this world are the advocates anddisseminators of infidelity, the would-be destroyers of the Paradiseof God. 

A BLOTTED PICTURE. 

I sat in a great theatre at the National Capital. It was thronged withyouth, and beauty, old age, and wisdom. I saw a man, the image of hisGod, stand upon the stage, and I heard him speak. His gestures were theperfection of grace; his voice was music, and his language was morebeautiful than I had ever heard from mortal lips. He painted pictureafter picture of the pleasures, and joys, and sympathies, of home. Heenthroned love and preached the gospel of humanity like an angel. ThenI saw him dip his brush in ink, and blot out the beautiful picture hehad painted. I saw him stab love dead at his feet. I saw him blot outthe stars and the sun, and leave humanity and the universe in eternaldarkness, and eternal death. I saw him like the Serpent of old, wormhimself into the paradise of human hearts, and by his seductiveeloquence and the subtle devices of his sophistry, inject his fatalvenom, under whose blight its flowers faded, its music was hushed, itssunshine was darkened, and the soul was left a desert waste, with onlythe new made graves of faith and hope. I saw him, like a lawless, erratic meteor without an orbit, sweep across the intellectual sky, brilliant only in his self-consuming fire, generated by friction withthe indestructible and eternal truths of God. 

[Illustration: INFIDELITY. ]

That man was the archangel of modern infidelity; and I said: How trueis holy writ which declares, "the fool hath said in his heart, there isno God. "

Tell me not, O Infidel, there is no God, no Heaven, no Hell!

 "A solemn murmur in the soul tells of a world to be, As travelers hear the billows roll before they reach the sea. "

Tell me not, O Infidel, there is no risen Christ!

 When every earthly hope hath fled, When angry seas their billows fling, How sweet to lean on what He said, How firmly to His cross we cling!

What intelligence less than God could fashion the human body? Whatmotive power is it, if it is not God, that drives that throbbing engine, the human heart, with ceaseless, tireless stroke, sending the crimsonstreams of life bounding and circling through every vein and artery?Whence, and what, if not of God, is this mystery we call the mind? Whatis this mystery we call the soul? What is it that thinks and feels andknows and acts? Oh, who can comprehend, who can deny, the Divinity thatstirs within us!

God is everywhere, and in everything. His mystery is in every bud, andblossom, and leaf, and tree; in every rock, and hill, and vale, andmountain; in every spring, and rivulet, and river. The rustle of Hiswing is in every zephyr; its might is in every tempest. He dwells in thedark pavilions of every storm cloud. The lightning is His messenger, andthe thunder is His voice. His awful tread is in every earthquake and onevery angry ocean; and the heavens above us teem with His myriads ofshining witnesses. The universe of solar systems whose wheeling orbscourse the crystal paths of space proclaim through the dread halls ofeternity, the glory, and power, and dominion, of the all-wise, omnipotent, and eternal God. 

"VISIONS AND DREAMS. "

[Illustration]

The infinite wisdom of Almighty God has made a plane of intelligence, and a horizon of happiness, for every being in the universe, fromthe butterfly to the archangel. And every plane has its own horizon, narrowest and darkest on the lowest level, but broad as the universeon the highest. Man stands on that wondrous plane where mortality andimmortality meet. Below him is animal life, lighted only by the dim lampof instinct; above him is spiritual life, illuminated by the light ofreason and the glory of God. Below him is this old material world ofrock, and hill, and vale, and mountain; above him is the mysteriousworld of the imagination whose rivers are dreams, whose continents arevisions of beauty, and upon whose shadowy shores the surfs of phantomseas forever break. 

We hear the song of the cricket on the hearth, and the joyous hum ofthe bees among the poppies; we hear the light-winged lark gladden themorning with her song, and the silver-throated thrush warble in thetree-top. What are these, and all the sweet melodies we hear, but echoesfrom the realm of visions and dreams?

The humming-bird, that swift fairy of the rainbow, fluttering down fromthe land of the sun when June scatters her roses northward, and poisingon wings that never weary, kisses the nectar from the waiting flowers;how bright and beautiful is the horizon of his little life! How sweet isthe dream of the covert in the deep mountain gorge, to the trembling, panting deer in his flight before the hunter's horn and the yelpinghounds! How dear to the heart of the weary ox is the vision of greenfields and splashing waters! And down on the farm, when the cows comehome at sunset, fragrant with the breath of clover blossoms, how richis the feast of happiness when the frolicsome calf bounds forward to theflowing udder, and with his walling eyes reflecting whole acres of "calfheaven" and his little tail wiggling in speechless bliss, he draws hisevening meal from nature's commissariat. The snail lolls in his shelland thinks himself a king in the grandest palace in the world. And howbrilliant is the horizon of the firefly when he winks his "other eye!"

The red worm delves in the sod and dines on clay; he makes no after-dinnerspeeches; he never responds to a toast; but silently revels on in hisdark banquet halls under the dank violets or in the rich mould by theriver. But the red worm never reaches the goal of his visions and dreamsuntil he is triumphantly impaled on the fishhook of the barefooted boy, Who sees other visions and dreams other dreams, Of fluttering suckers in shining streams. 

And Oh, there is no thrill half so rapturous to the barefooted boy asthe thrill of a nibble! Two darkies sat on a rock on the bank of ariver, fishing. One was an old darkey; the other was a boy. The boy gota nibble, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong into the surging watersand began to float out to the middle of the stream, sinking, and rising, and struggling, and crying for help. The old man hesitated on the rockfor a moment; then he plunged in after the drowning boy, and after adesperate struggle, landed his companion safely on shore. A passer-byran up to the old darkey and patted him on the shoulder and said: "Oldman, that was a noble deed in you, to risk your life that way to savethat good-for-nothing boy. " "Yes boss, " mumbled the old man, "I wasobleeged ter save dat nigger, he had all de bate in his pocket!"

THE HAPPY LONG AGO. 

Not long ago I wandered back to the scenes of my boyhood, on myfather's old plantation on the bank of the river, in the beautiful landof my native mountains. I rambled again in the pathless woods with myrifle on my shoulder. I sat on the old familiar logs amid the fallingleaves of autumn and heard the squirrels bark and shake the branchesas they jumped from tree to tree. I heard the katydid sing, and thewhip-poor-will, and the deep basso-profundo of the bullfrog on the bankof the pond. I heard the drumming of a pheasant and the hoot of a wiseold owl away over in "Sleepy Hollow. " I heard the tinkling of bells onthe distant hills, sweetly mingling with the happy chorus of the songbirds in their evening serenade. Every living creature seemed to bechanting a hymn of praise to its God; and as I sat there and listenedto the weird, wild harmonies, a vision of the past opened before me. I thought I was a boy again, and played around the cabins of the oldtime darkies, and heard them laugh and sing and tell their stories asthey used to long ago. My hair stood on ends again (I was afflicted withhair when I was a boy), and the chills played up and down my back when Iremembered old Uncle Rufus' story of the panthers. He said: "Many yearsago, Mas. Jeems was a-gwine along de path by de graveyard late in deevenin', an' bless de Lo'd, all of a sudden he looked up, an' dar was apainter crouchin' down befo' 'im, a-pattin' de ground wid his tail, an'ready to spring. Mas. Jeems wheeled to run, an' bless de Lo'd, dar wasannudder painter, crouchin' an' pattin' de groun' wid his tail, in depath behind him, an' ready to spring. An' boaf ov dem painters sprung atde same time, right toards Mas. Jeemses head; Mas. Jeems jumped to oneside. An' dem painters come to-gedder in de air. An' da was a-gwine sofast, an' da struck each udder wid sitch turble ambition dat instid ovcomin' down, da went up. An' bless de Lo'd, Mas. Jeems stood dar an'watched dem painters go on up, an' up, an' up, till da went clean outo' sight a-fightin'. An' bless de Lo'd, de hair was a-fallin' for threedays. Which fulfills de words ob de scripchah whar it reads, 'De youngmen shall dream dreams, an' de ol' men shall see visions. '"

[Illustration: THE MUSIC OF THE OLD PLANTATION. ]

I remembered the tale Uncle Solomon used to tell about the firstconvention that was ever held in the world. He said: "It wuz aconvenchun ov de animils. Bruder Fox wuz dar, an' Brudder Wolf, an'Brudder Rabbit, an' all de rest ov de animil kingdom wuz gedderedtogedder fur to settle some questions concarnin' de happiness ov deanimil kingdom. De first question dat riz befo' de convenchun wuz, how da should vote. Brudder Coon, he took de floah an' moved dat deconvenchun vote by raisin' der tails; whereupon Brudder Possum riz wida grin ov disgust, an' said: 'Mr. Chaiahman, I's unanimous opposed todat motion: Brudder Coon wants dis couvenchun to vote by raisin' dertails, kase Brudder Coon's got a ring striped an' streaked tail, an'wants to show it befo' de convenchun. Brudder Coon knows dat de 'possumis afflicted wid an ole black rusty tail, an I consider dat moshun aninsult to de 'possum race; an' besides dat, Mr. Chaiahman, if you passesdis moshun for to vote by raisin yo' tails, de Billy-Goat's alreadyvoted!'"

I sometimes think that Uncle Solomon's homely story of the goat wouldbe a splendid illustration of some of our modern politicians. It isdifficult to tell which side of the question they are on. 

[Illustration: THE HAPPY LONG AGO. ]

I remembered the yarn Uncle Yaddie once spun at the expense ofUncle Rastus. Rastus looked sour and said: "You bettah not go too fur;I'll tell about dem watermillions what disappeared frum Mas. Landon'swatermillion patch. " But Uncle Yaddie was undismayed by the threatenedattack upon his own record, and said: "Some time ago Rastus concluded togo into de egg bizness, an' he prayed to de Lo'd to send him some hens, but somehow or nudder de hens never come; an' den he prayed to de Lo'dto send him after de hens, an' lo! an' behold! nex' mornin' his lot wusfull ov chickens. Rastus fixed de nestiz, an' waited, an' waited fur dehens to lay, but somehow or nudder de hens wouldn't lay dat summer atall; an' Rastus kep git'n madder an' madder, till one day de ole roosterhopped up on de porch an begun to flop his wings an' crow. Rastus lookedat him sideways, an' muttered, 'Yes! floppin' yo' wings an' crowin'aroun' heah like an ole fool, an' you caint lay a egg to save yo' life!'"

The darkies fell over in the floor, and every body laughed exceptRastus. But to appease his wrath, Uncle Yaddie rolled out a big"watermillion" from under the bed, which lighted up the face of thefrowning old Rastus with smiles, and as the luscious red pulp meltedaway in his mouth, he cut the "pigeon wing" in the middle of the floor, and sang like a mocking bird:

 "Oh, de honeymoon am sweet, De chicken am good, De 'possum, it am very very fine, But give me, O, give me, Oh, how I wish you would! Dat watermillion hanging' on de vine!"

Then old Uncle Newt rosined his bow, and the welkin rang with the musicof the fiddle. 

There I sat in the old familiar woods and dreamed of the happy long ago, until a gang of blackbirds, spluttering in a neighboring treetop wokeme. And when I rose from the log and threw myself into the shape of aninterrogation point, and touched the trigger, at the crack of my rifleold bullfrogg shot into the pond; the hoot-owl "scooted" into his castlein the trunk of an old hollow tree; the blackbirds cut the "asymptote ofa hyperbolical curve" in the air; the squirrel fell to the ground at myfeet, with a bullet through his brain, and there was silence--silence inthe frog pond; silence in the trees; silence in "Sleepy Hollow;" silenceall around me. 

I shouldered my rifle and wended my way back to the old homestead on thebank of the river and silence was there. The voices of the happy longago were hushed. The old time darkies were sleeping on the hill, closeby the spot where my father sleeps. The moss-covered bucket was gonefrom the well. The old barn sheds had "creeled. " The old house whereI was born was silent and deserted. 

As I looked upon these scenes of my earliest recollection, I wassoftened and subdued into a sweet pensive sorrow, which only thehappiest and holiest associations of by-gone years can call into being. There are times in our lives when grief lies heaviest on the soul; whenmemory weeps; when gathering clouds of mournful melancholy pour outtheir floods and drown the heart in tears. 

Oh, beautiful isle of memory, lighted by the morning star of life! wherethe roses bloom by the door, where the robins sing among the appleblossoms, where bright waters ripple in eternal melody! There are echoesof songs that are sung no more; tender words spoken by lips that aredust; blessings from hearts that are still. There's a useless cradle, and a broken doll; a sunny tress, and an empty garment folded away;there's a lock of silvered hair, and an unforgotten prayer, and _mother_is sleeping there!

DREAMS OF THE YEARS TO COME. 

[Illustration: AMBITION'S DREAM. ]

There, under the shade of the sycamores, on my father's old farm, I usedto dream of the years to come. I looked through a vista blooming withpleasures, fruiting with achievements, and beautiful as the cloud-islesof the sunset. The siren, ambition, sat beside me and fired my youngheart with her prophetic song. She dazzled me, and charmed me, andsoothed me, into sweet fantastic reveries. She touched me and bade melook into the wondrous future. The bow of promise spanned it. Hope wasenthroned there and smiled like an angel of light. Under that shiningarch lay the goal of my fondest aspirations. Visions of wealth, and oflaurels, and of applauding thousands, crowded the horizon of my dream. I saw the capitol of the Republic, that white-columned pantheon ofliberty, lifting its magnificent pile from the midst of the palaces, and parks, the statues, and monuments, of the most beautiful city inthe world. Infatuated with this vision of earthly glory, I bade adieuto home and its dreams, seized the standard of a great political party, and rushed into the turmoil and tumult of the heated campaign. Unable tobear the armor of a Saul, I went forth to do battle armed with a fiddle, a pair of saddlebags, a plug horse, and the eternal truth. There was thedin of conflict by day on the hustings; there was the sound of revelryby night in the cabins. The mid-night stars twinkled to the music of themerry fiddle, and the hills resounded with the clatter of dwindling shoesoles, as the mountain lads and lassies danced the hours away in thegood old time Virginia reel. I rode among the mountain fastnesses likethe "Knight of the woeful figure, " mounted on my prancing "Rozenante, "everywhere charging the windmill of the opposing party, and whereverI drew rein the mountaineers swarmed from far and near to witness thebloodless battle of the contending candidates in the arena of jointdiscussion. My learned competitor, bearing the shield of "protection toAmerican labor, " and armed to the teeth with mighty argument, hurledhimself upon me with the fury of a lion. His blows descended likethunderbolts, and the welkin rang with cheers when his lance wentshivering to the center. His logic was appalling, his imagery wassublime. His tropes and similes flashed like the drawn blades ofcharging cavalry, and with a flourish of trumpets, his grand effortculminated in a splendid tribute to the Republic, crowned withGoldsmith's beautiful metaphor:

 "As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm; Though 'round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. "

I received the charge of the enemy "with poised lance, and visor down. "I deluged the tall cliff under a flood of "mountain eloquence" whichpoured from my patriotic lips like molasses pouring from the bung-holeof the universe. I mounted the American eagle and soared among thestars. I scraped the skies and cut the black illimitable far out beyondthe orbit of Uranus, and I reached the climax of my triumphant flightwith a hyperbole that eclipsed Goldsmith's metaphor, unthroned the foe, and left him stunned upon the field. Thus I soared:

"I stood upon the sea shore, and with a frail reed in my hand, I wrotein the sand, 'My Country, I love thee;' a mad wave came rushing by andwiped out the fair impression. Cruel wave, treacherous sand, frail reed;I said, 'I hate ye I'll trust ye no more, but with a giant's arm, I'llreach to the coast of Norway, and pluck its tallest pine, and dip itin the crater of Vesuvius, and write upon the burnished heavens; 'MyCountry, _I love thee_! And I'd like to see _any_ durned wave rub thatout!!'"

Between the long intervals of argument my speech grinned with anecdoteslike a basketfull of 'possum heads. The fiddle played its part, thepeople did the rest, and I carved upon the tombstone of the demolishedKnight these tender words:

 "Tread softly 'round this sacred heap, It guards ambition's restless sleep; Whose greed for place ne'er did forsake him, Don't mention office, or you'll wake him!"

I reached the goal of my visions and dreams under that collossal domewhose splendors are shadowed in the broad river that flows by the shrineof Mt. Vernon. I sat amid the confusion and uproar of the parliamentarystruggles of the lower branch of the Congress of the United States. "Sunset" Cox, with his beams of wit and humor, convulsed the house andshook the gallaries. Alexander Stephens, one of the last totteringmonuments of the glory of the Old South, still lingering on the floor, where, in by-gone years the battles of his vigorous manhood were fought. I saw in the Senate an assemblage of the grandest men since the daysof Webster and Clay. Conkling, the intellectual Titan, the Apollo ofmanly form and grace, thundered there. The "Plumed Knight, " that grandincarnation of mind and magnetism, was at the zenith of his glory. Edmunds, and Zack Chandler, and the brilliant and learned Jurist, Mat. Carpenter, were there. Thurman the "noblest Roman of them all" was therewith his famous bandana handkerchief. The immortal Ben Hill, the idolof the South, and Lamar, the gifted orator and highest type of Southernchivalry were there. Garland, and Morgan, and Harris, and Coke, werethere; and Beck with his sledge-hammer intellect. It was an arena ofopposing gladiators more magnificent and majestic than was everwitnessed in the palmiest days of the Roman Empire. There were giantsin the Senate in those days, and when they clashed shields and measuredswords in debate, the capitol trembled and the nation thrilled in everynerve. 

But how like the ocean's ebb and flow are the restless tides of politics!These scenes of grandeur and glory soon dissolved from my view like adream. I "saved the country" for only two short years. My competitorproved a lively corpse. He burst forth from the tomb like a locust fromits shell, and came buzzing to the national capital with "war on hiswings. " I went buzzing back to the mountains to dream again under thesycamores; and there a new ambition was kindled in my soul. A newvision opened before me. I saw another capitol rise on the bank of theCumberland, overshadowing the tomb of Polk and close by the Hermitagewhere reposes the sacred dust of Andrew Jackson. And I thought if Icould only reach the exalted position of Governor of the old "VolunteerState" I would then have gained the sum of life's honors and happiness. But lo! another son of my father and mother was dreaming there under thesame old sycamore. We had dreamed together in the same trundle-bed andoften kicked each other out. Together we had seen visions of pumpkin pieand pulled hair for the biggest slice. Together we had smoked the firstcigar and together learned to play the fiddle. But now the dreams of ourmanhood clashed. Relentless fate had decreed that "York" must contendwith "Lancaster" in the "War of the Roses. " And with flushed cheeks andthrobbing hearts we eagerly entered the field; his shield bearing thered rose, mine the white. It was a contest of principles, free from thewormwood and gall of personalities, and when the multitude of partisansgathered at the hustings, a white rose on every Democratic bosom, a redrose on every Republican breast, in the midst of a wilderness of flowersthere was many a tilt and many a loud huzzah. But when the clouds of warhad cleared away, I looked upon the drooping red rose on the bosom ofthe vanquished Knight, and thought of the first speech my mother evertaught me:

 "Man's a vapor full of woes, Cuts a caper--down he goes!"

The white rose triumphed. But the shadow is fairer than the substance. The pathway of ambition is marked at every mile with the grave of somesweet pleasure slain by the hand of sacrifice. It bristles with thornsplanted by the fingers of envy and hate, and as we climb the ruggedheights, behind us lie our bloody footprints, before us tower stillgreater heights, scarred by tempests and wrapped in eternal snow. Likethe edelweiss of the Alps, ambition's pleasures bloom in the chill airof perpetual frost, and he who reaches the summit will look down withlonging eyes, on the humbler plain of life below and wish his feet hadnever wandered from its warmer sunshine and sweeter flowers. 

FROM THE CAVE-MAN TO THE "KISS-O-PHONE. "

But let us not forget that it is better for us, and better for theworld, that we dream, and that we tread the thorny paths, and climbthe weary steeps, and leave our bloody tracks behind in the pursuitof our dreams. For in their extravagant conceptions lie the germsof human government, and invention, and discovery; and from theirmysterious vagaries spring the motive power of the world's progress. Our civilization is the evolution of dreams. The rude tribes of primevalmen dwelt in caves until some unwashed savage dreamed that damp cavernsand unholy smells were not in accord with the principles of hygiene. It dawned upon his _mighty_ intellect that one flat stone would lie ontop of another, and that a little mud, aided by Sir Isaac Newton's lawof gravitation, would hold them together, and that walls could be builtin the form of a quadrangle. Here was the birth of architecture. Andthus, from the magical dreams of this unmausoleumed barbarian wasevolved the home, the best and sweetest evolution of man's civilisation. 

John Howard Payne touched the tenderest chord that vibrates in thegreat heart of all humankind when he gave to immortality his song of"Home, Sweet Home;" and thank God, the grand mansions and palaces of therich do not hold all the happiness and nobility of this world. Thereare millions of humble cottages where virtue resides in the warmth andpurity of vestal fires, and where contentment dwells like perpetualsummer. 

The antediluvians plowed with a forked stick, with one prong for thebeam and the other for the scratcher; and the plow boy and his sleepyox had no choice of prongs to hitch to. It was all the same to Adamwhether "Buck" was yoked to the beam or the scratcher. But some nobleCincinnatus dreamed of the burnished plowshare; genius wrought his dreaminto steel and now the polished Oliver Chill slices the earth like ahot knife plowing a field of Jersey butter, and the modern gang plow, bearing upon its wheels the gloved and umbrella'd leader of the PopulistParty, plows up the whole face of the earth in a single day. 

What a wonderful workshop is the brain of man! Its noiseless machinerycuts, and carves, and moulds, in the imponderable material of ideas. It works its endless miracles through the brawny arm of labor, and thedeft fingers of skill, and the world moves forward by its magic. Aladdinrubbed his lamp and the shadowy genii of fable performed impossiblewonders. The dreamer of to-day rubs his fingers through his hair and thegenii of his intellect work miracles which eclipse the most extravagantfantasies of the "Arabian Nights. "

A dreamer saw the imprisoned vapor throw open the lid of a teakettle, and lo! a steam engine came puffing from his brain. And now many a hugemonster of Corliss, beautiful as a vision of Archimedes and smooth inmovement as a wheeling planet, sends its thrill of life and powerthrough mammoth plants of humming machinery. The fiery courser of thesteel-bound track shoots over hill and plain, like a mid-night meteorthrough the fields of heaven, outstripping the wind. 

A dreamer carried about in his brain a great Leviathan. It was launchedupon the billows, and like some collossal swan the palatial steamshipnow sweeps in majesty through the blue wastes of old ocean. 

Six hundred years before Christ, some old Greek discovered electricityby rubbing a piece of amber, and unable to grasp the mystery, he calledit soul. His discovery slept for more than two thousand years until itawoke in the dreams of Galvani, and Volta, and Benjamin Franklin. In themorning of the nineteenth century the sculptor and scientist, Morse, sawin his dreams, phantom lightnings leap across continents, and oceans, and felt the pulse of thunder beat as it came bounding over threads ofiron that girdled the earth. In each throb he read a human thought. Theelectric telegraph emerged from his brain, like Minerva from the brow ofJove, and the world received a fresh baptism of light and glory. 

In a few more years we will step over the threshold of the twentiethcentury. What greater wonders will the dreamers yet unfold? It may bethat another magician, greater even than Edison, the "Wizzard of MenloePark, " will rise up and coax the very laws of nature into easy compliancewith his unheard-of dreams. I think he will construct an electricrailway in the form of a huge tube, and call it the "electro-scoot, "and passengers will enter it in New York and touch a button and arrivein San Francisco two hours before they started! I think a new discoverywill be made by which the young man of the future may stand at his"kiss-o-phone" in New York, and kiss his sweetheart in Chicago with allthe delightful sensations of the "aforesaid and the same. " I think someLiebig will reduce foods to their last analyses, and by an ultimateconcentration of their elements, will enable the man of the future tocarry a year's provisions in his vest pocket. The sucking dude willstore his rations in the head of his cane, and the commissary departmentof a whole army will consist of a mule and a pair of saddlebags. A trainload of cabbage will be transported in a sardine box, and a thousand fatTexas cattle in an oyster can. Power will be condensed from a fortyhorse engine to a quart cup. Wagons will roll by the power in theiraxles, and the cushions of our buggies will cover the force that propelsthem. The armies of the future will fight with chain lightning, and thebattlefield will become so hot and unhealthy that, "He who fights and runs away Will never fight another day. "

Some dreaming Icarus will perfect the flying machine, and upon thealuminium wings of the swift Pegassus of the air the light-heartedsociety girl will sail among the stars, and

 "Behind some dark cloud, where no one's allowed, Make love to the man in the moon. "

The rainbow will be converted into a Ferris wheel; all men will be baldheaded; the women will run the Government--_and then I think the end oftime will be near at hand_. 

DREAMS. 

I heard a song of love, and tenderness, and sadness, and beauty, sweeterthan the song of a nightingale. It was breathed from the soul of RobertBurns. I heard a song of deepest passion surging like the tempest-tossedwaves of the sea. It was the restless spirit of Lord Byron. 

I heard a mournful melody of despairing love, full of that wild, mad, hopeless longing of a bereaved soul which the mid-night raven mocked atwith that bitterest of all words--"Nevermore!" It was the weird threnodyof the brilliant, but ill-starred Poe, who, like a meteor, blazed butfor a moment, dazzling a hemisphere, and then went out forever in thedarkness of death. 

Then I was exalted, and lifted into the serene sunlight of peace, asI listened to the spirit of faith, pouring out in the songs of our ownimmortal Longfellow. 

With Milton I walked the scented isles of long lost Paradise, and caughtthe odor of its bloom, and the swell of its music. He led me throughits rose brakes, and under the vermilion and flame of its orchids andhoneysuckles, down to the margin of the limpid river, where the waterlilies slept in fadeless beauty, and the lotus nodded to the ripplingwaves; and there, under a bridal arch of orange blossoms, cordoned bypalms and many-colored flowers, I saw a vision of bliss and beauty fromwhich Satan turned away with an envy that stabbed him with pangs unfeltbefore in hell! It was earth's first vision of wedded love. 

But the horizon of Shakespeare was broader than them all. There is nodepth which he has not sounded, no height which he has not measured. He walked in the gardens of the intellectual gods and gathered sweetsfor the soul from a thousand unwithering flowers. He caught music fromthe spheres, and beauty from ten thousand fields of light. His brain wasa mighty loom. His genius gathered and classified, his imagination spunand wove; the flying shuttle of his fancy delivered to the warp ofwisdom and philosophy the shining threads spun from the fibres of humanhearts and human experience; and with his wondrous woof of picturedtapestries, he clothed all thought in the bridal robes of immortality. His mind was a resistless flood that deluged the world of literaturewith its glory. The succeeding poets are but survivors as by the ark, and, like the ancient dove, they gather and weave into garlands onlythe "flotsam" of beauty which floats on the bosom of the Shakespeareanflood. 

Oh, Shakespeare, archangel of poetry! The light from thy wings drownsthe stars and flashes thy glory on the civilizations of the whole world!

 "Unwearied, unfettered, unwatched, unconfined, Be my spirit like thee, in the world of the mind; No leaning for earth e'er to weary its flight; But fresh as thy pinions in regions of light. "

All honor to the poets and philosophers and painters and sculptors andmusicians of the world! They are its honeybees; its songbirds; itscarrier doves, its ministering angels. 

VISIONS OF DEPARTED GLORY. 

[Illustration]

I walked with Gibbon and Hume, through the sombre halls of the past, andcaught visions of the glory of the classic Republics and Empires thatflourished long ago, and whose very dust is still eloquent with thestory of departed greatness. The spirit of genius lingers there stilllike the fragrance of roses faded and gone. 

I thought I heard the harp of Pindar, and the impassioned song of thedark-eyed Sappho. I thought I heard the lofty epic of the blind Homer, rushing on in the red tide of battle, and the divine Plato discoursinglike an oracle in his academic shades. 

The canvas spoke and the marble breathed when Apelles painted andPhidias carved. 

I stood with Michael Angelo and saw him chisel his dreams from themarble. 

I saw Raphael spread his visions of beauty in immortal colors. 

I sat under the spirit of Paganini's power. The flow of his melodyturned the very air into music. I thought I was in the presence ofDivinity as I listened to the warbles, and murmurs, and the ebb and flowof the silver tides, from his violin. And I said: Music is the dearestgift of God to man. The sea, the forest, the field, and the meadow, arethe very fountain heads of music. 

I believe that Mozart, and Mendelssohn, and Schubert, and Verdi, and allthe great masters, caught their sweetest dreams from nature's musicians. I think their richest airs of mirth, and gladness, and joy, were stolenfrom the purling rivulet and the rippling river. I believe theirgrandest inspirations were born of the tempest, and the thunder, and therolling billows of the angry ocean. 

NATURE'S MUSICIANS. 

[Illustration]

I sat on the grassy brink of a mountain stream in the gathering twilightof evening. The shadowy woodlands around me became a great theatre. Thegreensward before me was its stage. 

The tinkling bell of a passing herd rang up the curtain, and I sat thereall alone in the hush of the dying day and listened to a concert ofnature's musicians who sing as God hath taught them to sing. The firstsinger that entered my stage was Signor Grasshopper. He mounted amullein leaf and sang, and sang, and sang, until Professor TurkeyGobbler slipped up behind him with open mouth, and Signor Grasshoppervanished from the footlights forevermore. And as Professor TurkeyGobbler strutted off my stage with a merry gobble, the orchestra openedbefore me with a flourish of trumpets. The katydid led off with atrombone solo; the cricket chimed in with his E. Flat cornet; thebumblebee played on his violoncello, and the jay-bird, laughed with hispiccolo. The music rose to grandeur with the deep bass horn of the bigblack beetle; the mocking bird's flute brought me to tears of rapture, and the screech-owl's fife made me want to fight. The tree-frog blewhis alto horn; the jar-fly clashed his tinkling cymbals; the woodpeckerrattled his kettledrum, and the locust jingled his tambourine. The musicrolled along like a sparkling river in sweet accompaniment with theoriole's leading violin. But it suddenly hushed when I heard a rippleof laughter among the hollyhocks before the door of a happy countryhome. I saw a youth standing there in the shadows with his arm around"something" and holding his sweetheart's hand in his. He bent forward;lip met lip, and there was an explosion like the squeak of a new boot. The lassie vanished into the cottage; the lad vanished over the hill, and as he vanished he swung his hat in the shadows, and sang back to herhis happy love song. 

[Illustration: LOVE AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS. ]

Did you never hear a mountain love song? This is the song he sang:

 "Oh, when she saw me coming she rung her hands and cried, She said I was the prettiest thing that ever lived or died. Oh, run along home Miss Nancy, get along home Miss Nancy, Run along home Miss Nancy, down in Rockinham. "

The birds inclined their heads to listen to his song as it died away onthe drowsy summer air. 

That night I slept in a mansion; but I "closed my eyes on garnishedrooms to dream of meadows and clover blooms, " and love among thehollyhocks. And while I dreamed I was serenaded by a band of mosquitoes. This is the song they sang:

[Illustration]

 "Hush my dear, lie still and slumber; Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly 'skeeters without number Buzzing 'round your old bald head!!!"

PREACHER'S PARADISE. 

There is no land on earth which has produced such quaint and curiouscharacters as the great mountainous regions of the South, and yet nocountry has produced nobler or brainier men. 

When I was a barefooted boy my grandfather's old grist mill was theMecca of the mountaineers. They gathered there on the rainy days totalk politics and religion, and to drink "mountain" dew and fight. Adam Wheezer was a tall, spindle-shanked old settler as dark as anIndian, and he wore a broad, hungry grin that always grew broader at thesight of a fat sheep. The most prominent trait of Adam's character, nextto his love of mutton, was his bravery. He stood in the mill one daywith his empty sack under his arm, as usual, when Bert Lynch, the bullyof the mountains, with an eye like a game rooster's, walked up to himand said: "Adam, you've bin a-slanderin' of me, an' I'm a-gwine to giveyou a thrashin'. " He seized Adam by the throat and backed him underthe meal spout. Adam opened his mouth to squall and it spouted meallike a whale. He made a surge for breath and liberty and tossed Bertaway like a feather. Then he shot out of the mill door like a rocket, leaving his old battered plug hat and one prong of his coat tail in thehands of the enemy. He ran through the creek and knocked it dry as hewent. He made a bee line for my grandfather's house, a quarter of a mileaway, on the hill. He burst into the sitting-room, covered with meal andpanting like a bellowsed horse, frightening my grandmother almost intohysterics. The old lady screamed and shouted: "What in the world is thematter, Adam?" Adam replied: "That there durned Bert Lynch is downyander a-tryin' to raise a fuss with me. "

But every dog has his day. Brother Billy Patterson preached from thedoor of the mill on the following Sunday. It was his first sermon inthat "neck of the woods, " and he began his ministrations with a powerfuldiscourse, hurling his anathemas against Satan and sin and every kind ofwickedness. He denounced whiskey. He branded the bully as a brute and amoral coward, and personated Bert, having witnessed his battle with Adam. This was too much for the champion. He resolved to "thrash" BrotherPatterson, and in a few days they met at the mill. Bert squared himselfand said: "Parson, you had your turn last Sunday; it's mine to-day. Pull off that broadcloth an' take your medicine. I'm a-gwine to suckthe marrow out'n them ole bones o' yourn. " The pious preacher plead forpeace, but without avail. At last he said: "Then, if nothing but a fightwill satisfy you, will you allow me to kneel down and say my prayerbefore we fight?" "O yes, that's all right parson, " said Bert. "But cutyer prayer short, for I'm a-gwine to give you a good sound thrashin'. "

The preacher knelt and thus began to pray: "Oh Lord, Thou knowest thatwhen I killed Bill Cummings, and John Brown, and Jerry Smith, and LeviBottles, that I did it in self defense. Thou knowest, Oh Lord, that whenI cut the heart out of young Sliger, and strewed the ground with thebrains of Paddy Miles, that it was forced upon me, and that I did it ingreat agony of soul. And now, Oh Lord, I am about to be forced to put inhis coffin, this poor miserable wretch, who has attacked me here to-day. Oh Lord, have mercy upon his soul and take care of his helpless widowand orphans when he is gone!"

And he arose whetting his knife on his shoe-sole, singing:

 "Hark, from the tomb a doleful sound, Mine ears attend the cry. "

But when he looked around, Bert was gone. There was nothing in sight buta little cloud of dust far up the road, following in the wake of thevanishing champion. 

[Illustration]

BROTHER ESTEP AND THE TRUMPET. 

During the great revival which followed Brother Patterson's firstsermon and effective prayer, the hour for the old-fashioned Methodistlove feast arrived. Old Brother Estep, in his enthusiasm on suchoccasions sometimes "stretched his blanket. " It was his glory to getup a sensation among the brethren. He rose and said: "Bretheren, whileI was a-walkin' in my gyardin late yisterday evenin', a-meditatin' onthe final eend of the world, I looked up, an' I seed Gabrael raise hissilver trumpet, which was about fifty foot long, to his blazin' lips, an' I hearn him give it a toot that knocked me into the fence corneran' shuck the very taters out'n the ground. "

"Tut, tut, " said the old parson, "don't talk that way in this meeting;we all know you didn't hear Gabrael blow his trumpet. " The old man'swife jumped to her feet to help her husband out, and said: "Now parson, you set down there. Don't you dispute John's word that-away--He mouta-hearn a toot or two. "

"WAMPER-JAW" AT THE JOLLIFICATION. 

The sideboard of those good old times would have thrown the prohibitioncandidate of to-day into spasms. It sparkled with cut glass decantersfull of the juices of corn, and rye, and apple. The old Squire of themill "Deestrict" had as many sweet, buzzing friends as any flower gardenor cider press in Christendom. The most industrious bee that sucked atthe Squire's sideboard was old "Wamper-jaw. " His mouth reached from earto ear, and was inlaid with huge gums as red as vermilion; and when helaughed it had the appearance of lightning. On the triumphant day of theSquire's re-election to his great office, when everything was lovely and"the goose hung high, " he was surrounded by a large crowd of his fellowcitizens, and Thomas Jefferson, in his palmiest days, never lookedgrander than did the Squire on this occasion. He was attired in hisbest suit of homespun, the choicest product of his wife's dye pot. His immense vest with its broad luminous stripes, checked the rotundityof his ample stomach like the lines of latitude and longitude, andresembled a half finished map of the United States. His blue jeans coatcovered his body as the waters cover the face of the great deep, andits huge collar encircled the back of his head like the belts of lightaround a planet. 

The Squire was regaling his friends with his latest side-splittingjokes. Old "Wamper-jaw" threw himself back in his chair and explodedwith peal after peal of laughter. But suddenly he looked around andsaid: "Gen-tul-men, my jaw's flew out'n jint!"

His comrades seized him and pulled him all over the yard trying to getit back. Finally old "Wamper-jaw" mounted his mule, and with poundingheels, rode, like Tam O'Shanter, to the nearest doctor who lived twomiles away. The doctor gave his jaw a mysterious yank and it popped backinto socket. "Wamper-jaw" rushed back to join in the festivities at theSquire's. The glasses were filled again; another side-splitting joke wastold, another peal of laughter went 'round, when "Wamper-jaw" threw hishand to his face and said: "Gen-tul-men, she's out agin!!!" There wasanother hasty ride for the doctor. But in the years that followed;"Wamper-jaw" was never known to laugh aloud. On the most hilariousoccasions he merely showed his gums. 

[Illustration: "WAMPER-JAW. "]

THE TINTINNABULATION OF THE DINNER BELLS. 

How many millions dream on the lowest planes of life! How few ever reachthe highest and like stars of the first magnitude, shed their light uponthe pathway of the marching centuries! What multitudes there are whosehorizons are lighted with visions and dreams of the flesh pots and soupbowls, --whose Fallstaffian aspirations never rise above the fat thingsof this earth, and whose ear flaps are forever inclined forward, listening for the dinner bells!

 "The bells, bells, bells! What a world of pleasure their harmony foretells! The bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells! The tintinnabulation of the dinner bells!"

In my native mountains there once lived one of these old gluttonousdreamers. I think he was the champion eater of the world. Many a time Ihave seen him at my grandfather's table, and the viands and battercakesvanished "like the baseless fabric of a vision, "--he left not "a wreckbehind. " But one day, in the voracity of his shark-like appetite, heunfortunately undertook too large a contract for the retirement of animmense slice of ham. It scraped its way down his rebellious esophagusfor about two inches, and lodged as tightly as a bullet in a rusty gun. His prodigious Adam's apple suddenly shot up to his chin; his eyesprotruded, and his purple neck craned and shortened by turns, like atrombone in full blast. He scrambled from the table and pranced aboutthe room like a horse with blind staggers. My grandfather sprang at himand dealt him blow after blow in the back, which sounded like the blowsof a mallet on a dry hide; but the ham wouldn't budge. The old man ranout into the yard and seized a plank about three feet long, and rushedinto the room with it drawn. 

"Now William, " said he, "get down on your all-fours. " William got down. "Now William, when I hit, you swallow. " He hit, and it popped like aWinchester rifle. 

William shot into the corner of the room like a shell from a mortar, butin a moment he was seated at his place at the table again, with a broadgrin on his face. "Is it down William?" shouted the old man. "Yes, Mr. Haynes, the durned thing's gone, --please pass the ham. "

[Illustration: "WHEN I HIT, YOU SWALLOW. "]

I thought how vividly that old glutton illustrated the fools who, intheir effort to gulp down the sensual pleasures of this world, choke thesoul, and nothing but the clap-board of hard experience, well laid on, can dislodge the ham, and restore the equilibrium. 

PHANTOMS OF THE WINE CUP. 

[Illustration]

A little below the glutton lies the plane of the drunkard whose visionsand dreams are bounded by the horizon of a still tub. "A little wine forthe stomach's sake is good, " but in the trembling hand of a drunkard, every crimson drop that glows in the cup is crushed from the roses thatonce bloomed on the cheeks of some helpless woman. Every phantom ofbeauty that dances in it is a devil; and yet, millions quaff, and witha hideous laugh, go staggering to the grave. 

[Illustration]

THE MISSING LINK. 

A little below the plane of the drunkard is the dude, that missing linkbetween monkey and man, whose dream of happiness is a single eye-glass, a kangaroo strut, and three hours of conversation without a sensiblesentence; whose only conception of life is to splurge, and flirt, andspend his father's fortune. 

"Out of the fullness of his heart his mouth singeth:"

 "I'm a dandy; I'm a swell. Just from college, can't you tell? I'm the beau of every belle; I'm the swellest of the swell. 

 I'm the King of all the balls, I'm a Prince in banquet halls. My daddy's rich, they know it well, I'm the swellest of the swell. "

NIGHTMARE. 

Unhappily for us all, in the world of visions and dreams, there is adark side to human life. Here have been dreamed out all the crimes whichhave steeped our race in shame since the expulsion from Eden, and allthe wars that have cursed mankind since the birth of history. Alexanderthe Great was a monster whose sword drank the blood of a conqueredworld. Julius Cęsar marched his invincible armies, like juggernauts, over the necks of fallen nations. Napoleon Bonaparte rose with themorning of the nineteenth century, and stood, like some frightful comet, on its troubled horizon. Distraught with the dream of conquest andempire, he hovered like a god on the verge of battle. Kings and emperorsstood aghast. The sun of Austerlitz was the rising sun of his glory andpower, but it went down, veiled in the dark clouds of Waterloo, andNapoleon the Great, uncrowned, unthroned, and stunned by the dreadfulshock that annihilated the Grand Army and the Old Guard, "wanderedaimlessly about on the lost field, " in the gloom that palled a fallenempire, as Hugo describes him, "the somnambulist of a vast, shattereddream. "

INFIDELITY. 

It is in the desert of evil, where virtue trembles to tread, where hopefalters, and where faith is crucified, that the infidel dreams. To him, all there is of heaven is bounded by this little span of life; all thereis of pleasure and love is circumscribed by a few fleeting years; allthere is of beauty is mortal; all there is of intelligence and wisdom isin the human brain; all there is of mystery and infinity is fathomableby human reason, and all there is of virtue is measured by the relationsof man to man. To him, all must end in the "tongueless silence of thedreamless dust, " and all that lies beyond the grave is a voiceless shoreand a starless sky. To him, there are no prints of deathless feet on itsecholess sands, no thrill of immortal music in its joyless air. 

He has lost his God, and like some fallen seraph flying in raylessnight, he gropes his way on flagging pinions, searching for light wheredarkness reigns, for life where Death is King. 

THE DREAM OF GOD. 

[Illustration]

I have wondered a thousand times, if an infidel ever looked through atelescope. The universe is the dream of God, and the heavens declareHis glory. There is our mighty sun, robed in the brightness of hiseternal fires, and with his planets forever wheeling around him. Yonderis Mercury, and Venus, and there is Mars, the ruddy globe, whose polesare white with snow, and whose other zones seem dotted with seas andcontinents. Who knows but that his roseate color is only the blush ofhis flowers? Who knows but that Mars may now be a paradise inhabited bya blessed race, unsullied by sin, untouched by death? There is the giantorb of Jupiter, the champion of the skies, belted and sashed with vaporand clouds; and Saturn, haloed with bands of light and jeweled witheight ruddy moons; and there is Uranus, another stupendous world, speeding on in the prodigious circle of his tireless journey around thesun. And yet another orbit cuts the outer rim of our system; and on itsgloomy pathway, the lonely Neptune walks the cold, dim solitudes ofspace. In the immeasurable depths beyond appear millions of suns, sodistant that their light could not reach us in a thousand years. There, spangling the curtains of the black profound, shine the constellationsthat sparkle like the crown jewels of God. There are double, and triple, and quadruple suns of different colors, commingling their gorgeous huesand flaming like archangels on the frontier of stellar space. If welook beyond the most distant star, the black walls are flecked withinnumerable patches of filmy light like the dewy gossamers of thespider's loom that dot our fields at morn. What beautiful forms we traceamong those phantoms of light! circles, and elipses, and crowns, andshields, and spiral wreaths of palest silver. And what are they? DidI say phantoms of light? The telescope resolves them into millions ofsuns, standing out from the oceans of white hot matter that contain thegerms of countless systems yet to be. And so far removed from us arethese suns, that the light which comes to us from them to-night has beenspeeding on its way for more than two million years. 

What is that white belt we call the milky way, which spans the heavensand sparkles like a Sahara of diamonds? It is a river of stars: it isa gulf stream of suns; and if each of these suns holds in his grasp amighty system of planets, as ours does, how many multiplied millionsof worlds like our own are now circling in that innumerable concourse?

Oh, where are the bounds of this divine conception! Where ends thisdream of God? And is there no life and intelligence in all this throngof spheres? Are there no sails on those far away summer seas, no wingsto cleave those crystal airs, no forms divine to walk those radiantfields? Are there no eyes to see those floods of light, no hearts toshare with ours that love which holds all these mighty orbs in place?

It cannot be, it cannot be! Surely there is a God! If there is not, life is a dream, human experience is a phantom, and the universe isa flaunting lie!

 * * * * *

[Illustration: Syrup of Figs]

 ONE ENJOYS

 Both the method and results when Syrup of Figs is taken; it is pleasant and refreshing to the taste, and acts gently yet promptly on the Kidneys, Liver, and Bowels, cleanses the system effectually, dispels colds, headaches, and fevers and cures habitual constipation. Syrup of Figs is the only remedy of its kind ever produced, pleasing to the taste and acceptable to the stomach, prompt in its action and truly beneficial in its effects, prepared only from the most healthy and agreeable substances, its many excellent qualities commend it to all and have made it the most popular remedy known. 

 Syrup of Figs is for sale in 50 cent bottles by all leading druggists. Any reliable druggist who may not have it on hand will procure it promptly for any one who wishes to try it. Do not accept any substitute. 

 CALIFORNIA FIG SYRUP CO. 

 San Francisco, Cal. Louisville, Ky. New York, N. Y. 

 * * * * *

 VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY, DEPARTMENT OF DENTISTRY

 NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE. 

 A purely dental school--a training school for dentists--does what it claims to do, as the results show. Regular Session will begin Oct. 5th; ends March 31, 1898. Post-graduate and Practical Courses, also. 

 FOR INFORMATION, ADDRESS DR. W. H. MORGAN, Dean, 211 N. HIGH ST. 

 * * * * *

[Illustration: Balmer's Magnetic Inhaler]

 A MAGIC CURE . .. FOR . .. 

 Catarrh, Asthma, Hay Fever, La Grippe, Sore Throat, etc. 

 A positive preventive and cure for all germ diseases. A quick cure for colds. Used and praised by over a million Americans. 

 One minute's trial will convince you of its wonderful merit. Endorsed by leading physicians. Every one guaranteed. Money refunded if not satisfied. Will last two years and can be refilled by us for 20 cents in stamps. Thousands have been sold under guarantee. It speaks for itself. Show it and it sells itself. Price 50 cents postpaid. Stamps taken. 

 AGENTS WANTED. Send 50 cents for one Inhaler and ask for wholesale prices to agents. Address

 BAPTIST AND REFLECTOR, NASHVILLE, TENN. 

 * * * * *

[Illustration]

 NEW SOUTHERN HOTEL, CHATTANOOGA, TENN. 

 Centrally located. Newly furnished. First-class in all respects. Best ventilated and the best fire protection of any house in the city. Prompt and polite service. Rates $2. 50 to $3. 00. Commercial rates to travelling men. Special rates to excursions of five and upwards. 

 W. O. PEEPLES, MANAGER. 

 * * * * *

 THE SOUTH'S LEADING JEWELERS. 

 STIEF JEWELRY CO. 208 & 210 Union St. , Nashville, Tenn. 

 Direct Importers of Fine DIAMONDS. Dealers in Watches, Jewelry, and Fancy Goods. 

 We are strictly "Up-to-Date" in designs, with quality and prices guaranteed. Write for our illustrated Catalogue, if unable to call and see us. Special attention given to all mail orders. 

 _JAMES B. CARR, Manager. _

 LARGEST JEWELRY HOUSE IN THE SOUTH. 

 * * * * *

 HIGHEST AWARD. 

 STARR PIANOS

 WORLD'S FAIR, 1893. 

 BUY DIRECT AND SAVE MONEY. 

 America's leading manufacturers and dealers. Branches in leading cities of U. S. 

 FACTORIES: RICHMOND, IND. 

 JESSE FRENCH PIANO & ORGAN CO. , NASHVILLE, TENN. 

 * * * * *

Artistic Home Decorations. 

 We can show you effects never before thought of, and at moderate prices, too. 

 Why have your house decorated and painted by inferior workmen, when you can have it done by skilled workmen--by artists--for the same price?

 If you intend decorating, if only one room, call to see what we are doing, and for whom. 

 * * * * *

TAPESTRY PAINTING. 

 2, 000 tapestry painting to choose from. 38 artists employed, including gold medalists of the Paris Salon. Send 25 cents for compendium of 140 studies. 

WALL PAPER. 

 New styles, designed by gold medal artists. From 10 cents per roll up. Will give you large samples if you will pay expressage. A large quantity of last year's paper, $1 and $2 per roll; now 10 c. And 25 c. 

DECORATIONS. 

 Color schemes--designs and estimates submitted free. Artists sent to all parts of the world to do every sort of decorating and painting. We are educating the country in color-harmony. Relief, stained glass, wall paper, carpets, furniture, draperies, etc. Pupils taught. 

DECORATIVE ADVICE. 

 Upon receipt of $1, Mr. Douthitt will answer any question on interior decorations--color-harmony and harmony of form, harmony of wall coverings, carpets, curtains, tiles, furniture, gas fixtures, etc. 

 * * * * *

 JOHN F. DOUTHITT, AMERICAN TAPESTRY DECORATIVE CO. 286 FIFTH AVENUE, near 30th St. , NEW YORK. 

 * * * * *

Artistic Home Decorations. 

 * * * * *

MANUAL OF ART DECORATIONS. 

 The art book of the century. 200 royal quarto pages. 50 superb full-page illustrations (11 colored) of modern home interiors and tapestry studies. Price, $2. If you want to be up in decoration, send $2 for this book. Worth $50. 

SCHOOL. 

 Six 3-hours tapestry painting lessons, in studio, $5. Complete written instruction by mail, $1. Tapestry paintings rented; full-size drawings, paints, brushes, etc. , supplied. Nowhere, Paris not excepted, are such advantages offered pupils. New catalogue of 125 studies, 25 cents. Send $1 for complete instruction in tapestry painting and compendium of 140 studies. 

TAPESTRY MATERIALS. 

 We manufacture tapestry materials superior to foreign goods, and half the price. Book of samples, 10 cents. Send $1. 50 for 2 yards No. 6, 50-inch goods, just for a trial order; worth $3. All kinds of Drapery to match all sorts of Wall Papers, from 10 c. Per yard up. THIS IS OUR GREAT SPECIALTY. 

GOBLIN PRINTED BURLAPS. 

 Over 100 new styles for wall coverings, at 25 cents per yard, 36 inches wide, thus costing the same as wall paper at $1 per roll. 240 kinds of Japanese lida leather paper, at $2 per roll. 

GOBLIN ART DRAPERY. 

 Grecian, Russian, Venetian, Brazilian, Roman, Rococo, Dresden, Festoon, College Stripe, Marie Antoinette, Indian, Calcutta, Bombay, Delft, Soudan. 

 In order that we may introduce this line of new art goods, we will send one yard of each of 50 different kinds of our most choice patterns for $7. 50. 

 * * * * *

 JOHN F. DOUTHITT, AMERICAN TAPESTRY DECORATIVE CO. 286 FIFTH AVENUE, near 30th St. , NEW YORK. 

 * * * * *

 Free tuition. We will give one or more free scholarships in every county in the U. S. Write us. 

 Positions Guaranteed _Under reasonable conditions_. .. . 

 Will accept notes for tuition or can deposit money in bank until position is secured. Car fare paid. No vacation. Enter at any time. Open for both sexes. Cheap board. Send for free illustrated catalogue. 

 Address J. F. DRAUGHON, Pres't, at either place. 

 Draughon's Practical Business Colleges, NASHVILLE, TENN. , GALVESTON AND TEXARKANA, TEX. 

 Bookkeeping, Shorthand, Typewriting, etc. The most thorough, practical and progressive schools of the kind in the world, and the best patronized ones in the South. Indorsed by bankers, merchants, ministers and others. Four weeks in bookkeeping with us are equal to twelve weeks by the old plan. J. F. Draughon, President, is author of Draughon's New System of Bookkeeping, "Double Entry Made Easy. "

 Home study. We have prepared, for home study, books on bookkeeping, penmanship and shorthand. Write for price list "Home Study. "

 Extract. "PROF. DRAUGHON--I learned bookkeeping at home from your books, while holding a position as night telegraph operator. " C. E. LEFFINGWELL, Bookkeeper for Gerber and Ficks, Wholesale Grocers, South Chicago, Ill. 

 (_Mention this paper when writing. _)

 * * * * *

Young People. 

 FREE: $20. 00 IN GOLD, Bicycle, Gold Watch, Diamond Ring, or a Scholarship in Draughon's Practical Business College, Nashville, Tenn. , Galveston or Texarkana, Tex. , or a scholarship in most any other reputable business college or literary school in the U. S. Can be secured by doing a little work at home for the Youths' Advocate, an illustrated semi-monthly journal. It is elevating in character, moral in tone, and especially interesting and profitable to young people, but read with interest and profit by people of all ages. Stories and other interesting matter well illustrated. Sample copies sent free. Agents wanted. Address Youths' Advocate Pub. Co. , Nashville, Tenn. 

 [Mention this paper. ]