The Rutland daily globe. [volume] (Rutland, Vt.) 1873-1877, 1873-11-15

navian land. Her voice was like the birds
no, not like the birds. Did ever bird, or
indeed aught in all the universe of Cod
not gifted with the divine aiflucncc we call
soul, ever pour forth strains like those
which fell upon the ears of the thousands
who rapturously listened that Saturday af-
ternoon, when the Swedish cantatrice
stood before them for the first time?
The woman was idealized by the throng
through the songs she sung. She was, for
the time, the embodied spirit of melody,
and they worshipped accordingly.
AS poor, mad Ophelia, she thrilled them
into plying silence till she closed when
the applause broke forth, and then, when
she came out and the sad, sweet pathos of
the cold Folks At Home, arose and float
ed on the air above their heads, the whole
vast audience was wild with enthusiasm,
and called again and again, till she appear
ed once more, and this time with the i'm
mortal sweetness of "Homc, Sweet Home"
quivering upon her lips. If the audience
was wild before, what word will express
their boundless enthusiasm when the mel
ody rose higher and higher, with exquisite
bird-like trills and quavcrs, and then died
So sweetly, so gently, so tcnderly away,
that, for an instant after the last notes had
faded into silence, it seemed as il the throng
were spell-bound then many whose eyes,
perhaps, had long been strangers to tears,
were borne along by the emotions of the
moment, and wondered to find their own
sight dim with the unaccustomcd moisture;
handkerchiefs were waved, and not a few
sprang to their feet, while floral offerings
rained upon the stage.
The crowd adored the singer, but the
song, with its tender meaning, was already
in their souls, and the marvellous voice had
but given it utterance, had quickened into
beautiful life, the slumbering IDEAL and the
answering chord in the hearts of those
thousands, gave a responsive thrill.
1t was not the consummatc art of the
rendering that very afternoon, the singer
had displayed far higher arts than it was
possible to exhibit in these simple melodies
which so took her audience by storm. Nor
do think there was any lack of appre-
citation on the part of her hearers of the
finest touches Of the artistic, and the sub
FINEST height to which she attained but
there is a power in sweet and simple mel
odies, especially if these are found mar
ried to words, which of themselves, often
have power to penetrate into the inncrmost
recesses of a mans nature, and even to
draw from the rock in the desert, a limpid
stream, which sways the soul with n
force, high art must forever covet in vain.
Happy is that one who possesses the God
given power to touch with magical fingers,
this finest and tendcrest, and tune-fulest
chord in all the human soul
The author of CLONE, Sweet Home, q
was homeless wanderer upon the face of
the earth, drifting hither and ththcr, com
posing his immortal Lyric, while in a near
ly starving state in Partisan attic. What
is there in those simple lines to stir the
emotion SO deeply, but the passionate cry,
''thc longing hunger Of the soul for the
rest, the peace, and the love Of home p
No matter what our homes may be no
matter if we never knew home, we, each
and all hold deep in onr hnorte, a,hno"i
edged or unconfessed, beautiful ideal of
home. May it not be the faint, traditional,
or inherited memory, or the dim, uncertain
shadow of Eden lost Who can tell?
But we do not always require a Nilsson
to interpret to us our songs of home and
if we did most surely we could not have
her yet we can seize upon this very
element of human nature to assist us in
raising the homes we have, up nearer an d
nearer TO the pure ideal which is nothing
more nor less than Eden itself, but Eden
in which the trail of the serpent is not
found
Where there exists that strange and sub
tie recognition of the harmony in sweet
sounds, which we call the ear for music, |
know of nothing more calculated to bind
the members of the household together
than music itself To me it seems wise
regulation, which makes the study of vocal
music a part of the course in the common
schools of many Of our large cities and
towns. A piano is an expensive luxury,
granted, that is to begin with but where
the taste for music exists, it is often cheap
enough, paying for itself thousand times ;
not in gold it may be, but in something. a
thousand times more precious than gold.
Shall tell you how?
A piano, any musical instrument, worthy
the name, is moral force Not indeed if
it is simply opened when company comes,
and the daughter of the family takes her
seat and dashes off a half dozen rattlinr
waltzes, meaningless and expressonless
enough, just to hear the empty compli-
ments of foolish people who know no more
about music than about Sansllrit. But let
the family be gathered about the instru-
ment, at which one of their numbers is
seated, and let all be in the habit of Joining
their voices in the simple harmonies which
all can sing, and watch the effect, and il
you do not agree with me in declaring it a
moral force, then am mistaken.
For what were the voice and the appre-
ciative ear given if not to be cultivated,
even with all our other faculties?
How many melodous voices are seldom
or never heard breaking into song, just tor
the want of little training and encourage
ment.
Doubtless the piano with its magical hal-
monies evoked by skillfnl fingers, or called
forth as a gentle undercurrent to bear up
the human voice, has held many restless
one chained to its side, who otherwise
would have gone out from the shadow of
home into the broad ways of the world,
which are the WAYS of death