The Milan exchange. (Milan, Gibson County, Tenn.) 1874-1978, 1874-10-29
JOHN ST. GEORGE.


JOHN ST. GEORGE must have laughed
when he found he was dead
A shocking thing to write? Oh, yes.
dare say. But look you Suppose from
the dawn of your earliest intelligence
your whole life had been possessed by a
beautiful aspiration and golden hope.
Suppose that with increasing knowledge
and years there grew apace in your soul,
until it turned itself around the very roots
Of your being, the belief that il was your
mission on earth to work out that beluti-
ful aspiration and realize the golden hope.
Well, what then? Would that make
anybody laugh when he found he was
dead? Truly, no. But that is not all. !
have read that sometimes the desert trav-
eler lifts up his eyes and sees, only a little
way beyond, glorious landscape of living
greenness, with fountains and streams of
crystal water and shade trees. His eye
brightens with hope; his parched lips al
ready seem to lave i'm the sweet water. He
lashes anew the patient beast that carries
him. and rushes frantically forward. All
day he urges himself across the sands, full
of a hope which grows fainter as the shad-
Ows lengthen, until at the going down of
the sun the glorious mirage disappears al
together, and the fainting traveller is far
ther away from the sweet fountains and
the shade trees than he was in the morn
ing.
Suppose you fix your eye on the golden
hope so far beyond and above you.
Through weary years and years you toll
with all your might, and strain every
nerve to work out your aspiration. You
labor like a bond slave, while others stop
sometimes to play; you are awake and at
work while Others sleep; yOu push on
lo hot xKrhi nfl 10
rest, and at last-what then? When the
shadows lengthen, and the darkness falls, |
and you are too weary ever to work any
more, YOU are further from the beautiful
aspiration than you were i'm the dawn the
golden hope has vanished, and you can no
longer see it at ali, because your eyes are
so blinded by the unwept tears of disap-
pointment. Would YOU not rejoice to lav
the burden down, and be away with the
dead? If there were no life hereafter,
death would be a blessed rest: if there
were hereafter, then i'm the blessed new
life you might be free from the weight
which has clogged you here-yea, i'm that
blessed hereafter you might still win the
golden hope which had vanished from
your fainting eyes here.
So | say John st. George must have
laughed when he found he was dead.
He hadn't laughed much for ten years be-
fore that, poor sonl So if he was ever to
laugh again through the whole course of
his eternity. iC must have been after he
was dead. Jolly enough he was, too,
when he was boy, and he always had his
joke with the best of them. until after his
marriage. Then he "settled down."
He was a musical composer in humble
way. Nothing great or grand you know,
like the old masters and those. He wasn't
l-a IN rarnf1
who write fashionable Italian opera. He
was only a simple, humble COMPOSER of
ballad music and dance waltZes, pretty
enough in their way. and sweet enough,
all Of them. Nothing more than that,
though when you listened attentively TO
his later songs at times a strange Quiver
would run through the tender. graceful
melody, almOsta discord it seemed there, |
which was faint suggestion Ofsomething |
inefiably powerful and profound, of a
thought struggling TO shape itself into |
sound inetfably beyond and above the |
smooth gliding ballad notes.
John st. George had his dream, like all |
the rest of us, God pity us
He was handsome. merry and popular. |
and found good sale for all his music. |
Oughtto have been happy, oughtn't he,
according to all human judgment? SO he
was, but we are laying bare the secret
thoughts of the young mans soul, now.
He was happy enough i'm the enjoyment of
the present good; but happier still in the
thought of the future which should be
better-the thought of the song which he
should one day write. That was the
dream of John St. George. He had a friend
who was a poet, a fair-haired enthusiast
that never wrote verses wherein trees
rhymed with breeze. In his confidential
Inhf caf1 f, ha
sometimes:
Write me the words of my song
The ancient Orphiclegendi is always in my
mind, Eugene. Apollo himself gave Or
pheuS a golden Tyre, and taught him TO
play it. Therefore the singer moved
through the forests and enchanted wild
beasts; the good ship ArgO heard him and
glided softly down into the sea {;
the moving rocks which would have
crushed the ship heard his enchanted Tyre, |
and were fixed in their places, and the |
ship moved on in safety; next the |
SloeplesS Cslchian dragon which guarded |
the golden fleece heard the music of the |
divine singer, and was sOothed to slumbcr. |
o, Eugene, Nobody knows it, but some /
day shall write a song. When [ have |
lived enough and learned enough. My
song shall draw tears from ladies' eyes. |
and make world-hardened men re-ive, !
while they hear il, the chivalrOuS and ten
der dreams of their youth. My song shall
be song of everlastin. youth. Children
shall hear it and laugh; old people shall
listen and weep, because of all the remem-
branceS of the sweet, vanished time which
it recalls; and it shall enchant all the
world into being young again, with the
noblest part of youth. That shall be nay
song, Eugene, and you are to write the
words of it."
"NOw, speaking of that Orphic legend" |
said Eugene, you've forgotten the end |
ing of it, haven't you? Orpheus treated
with contempt the Thacian women, who
were devoteeS of Bacchus; and for revenge
one day, in the midst of wild orgy. these
crazy Bacchanalian creatures laid hold on
the divine singer and tore him all TO pieces.
To be sure. the muses. collected the frag-
ments of him and buried them at the foot
of Olympus, and the nightingale sang
lovingly over his grave, but that was only
poor consolation for being torn limb from
limb by pack of frenZied lady drunkards.
Notice what the Interpretation thereof is.
Orpheus, the disciple of Apollo, represents
pure intellect; the gross. crazy Bacchantes
are the mere pleasures of the senses. In
tellect is torn to pieces and destroyed by
the senses at last. Beware of the ending,
St George
"Fol-de-rol"' said John St. George.
St. George was a wonderful performer
on the piano, and a good singer besides. |
He belonged to the ST. Cacilian Musical
Society. One afternoon some members of
the society thought it would be fine
thing to run up TO the pretty little neigh
boring city of Y and serenade some of
their acquaintances-the family of the
Mavor of the town among the rest. The
MAYORS daughter was the handsomeSt
young lady in the State, people said. John
ST. George went with the other yeung
men. not TO serenade the Mayors daugh-
ter particularly, because he had neverseen
her. Moreover, he did not care especially
for handsome young ladies. But John
st. George was the best and rarest of So
cial spirits, so the young men begged him
TO go with them.
They spun merTily along in the train to-
ward ". laughing, joking and humming
the airs wherewith they were to enchant
the y. ans. Suddenly 81. George leaned
forward to the next seat and very carefully