Spirit of Jefferson. [volume] (Charles Town, Va. [W. Va.]) 1844-1948, 1890-03-25
Sweet Memories OF Departed


Days.
In the following extract from let
ter to- the Baltinorean by Amos
Keeter,'' otherwise our wcII-known
former townsman Mr.. A.. w. Hawks,
written from Pennsylvania, will strike
a pathetic chord in many a heart in
this the writer's native town, where
the characters mentioned will be read
lily recognized:
If this letter should be slightly dis
jointed and unconnected and have a.
sort of maccaroni flavor, you will
please blame it on three Italian play
ers who are in the room beneath me.
One harps on a harp and the other
two do violence to violins.,
The music is not particularly mu-
steal, bat it pierces the ceiling and
the drum of the ear. And although
chicken-hearted way, yet some old
tunes they have been playing have
lset memory to work, and played
strange tricks with my fancy. Even
now they are playing "Old Black
Joe" All where ami?
Back in an old Virginia town, in a
crowded hall, the orchestra consist
ing of three pieces, has played few
bars of the air, and out upon the
stage i see sold Black joe" 1
know my friend, and the burnt cork,
ragged clothes, bent form and totter-
ing gait add very much to the effect,
as in his rich velvetY tones he sings;
Use coming, yes. coming, for my head is
bending low"
And the grass grows green above
his grave, down in old Virginia, and
the voice is hushed on earth, hut
somehow that violin has caught it and
held it. The tune changes and the
tears come all nnbidden as another
half forgotten song co les up into my
lonesome room and peoples it with
old familiar faces. The violin has a
voice and my heart hears it singing:
'When the Roses Come Again"
Where did ] hear that song?
a girl with closed lids is singing in
the dark. She is blind, but like most
blind people her soul is filled with
music. And then a strolling player
is singing it for me. One of my
friends hears him, and Ftlic song be-
comes his own. The room is haunt
ed, oh! friends of my youth, stay
awhile and bring the echoes, happy
echoes of the past with you.
i 1t is Sabbath morning in the old
home church there Isl hush and
then to the tune of 'sWhen the Roses
Come Again. rich, full voice is
singing:
''Tcsus. lover of my seuls
Let me to thy bosom fly"
Dear old walls. of the dear church,
you hold the echoes still. And the
singer is still singing. The violinfst,
all unconscious of what he is. doing,
begins playing "1'he Kiss Waltz. -
Why, its old Jack, the darkey fiddler,
and his two assistants, he is calling
out:
IAN shassay.
''AlI?"
Where are they, the boys Of that
merry party? Scattered all over the
face of the earth. 1 meet some of
them sometimes, and we recall the
Ioid times. They are men and women
now in the hurry and hustle of life.
but after talking awhile we turn back
to the old Virginia shore. | don't
care to dance, lam very happy. back
here in the corner, where voice is
making music for me, and pair of
hig, brown eyes, are beginning to
light up my life. The music dies,
the Italians have stopped. But the
music of that voice still makes my
life melodious and the brown eyes
make the sunlight and the starlight
of my life.
Dear reader, 1 beg your pardon !;
it is not often your Keeter gets into
the pathetic vein, but the head grows
tired Of the ''cap and hells'' some
times, and the heart beneath the mot
tied soul has its aches.