The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1899-07-16
THE MURMUR
OF THE WORLD

Beyond the Alps lies ItalyI Some few OF
us this side the bounding ocean have seen
the worlds most wondrous mountains;
fewer still have looked upon the Italian
plains where flow the Tiber, and
a hundred streams sacred to him who loves
history for the lessons it teaches. Whether
by pass of Saint Bernard, through Mount
Gents or Gothard the traveller goes his
way, Italy burts upon him as the fairest
land under the pathway of the stars From
the sleeps of the historic hills no man with
a soul could look unmoved upon the far
spreading plains of Lembardy, fairest land
the sun kisses as the earth rolls on its way
of the seasons counted by man. Once a
wayfarer known to some of you, my be-
loved, tarrled for a time in a Lombardian
village far from the mad worlds incoherent
cry. He abided for brief space of toll
some, wearisome time with the worthy
mayor, a good winemaker of small degree.
The little vineyard climbed a little hill, and
the little hill was footstool to the mighty
Alps, last and first TO be kissed by the
sun, and for ever crowned by the ice that
passes not the sun warns and heats
through ehangeful seasons as men note
seasons upon this planet as it rolls it's way
in space that is infinite. 1t was little
paradise there where the wayfarer rested
under the vine and the fig tree in a little
section of the earth whereon vine and fig
tree fourished a thousand years before
there was preached a, Sermon on The
Mount or cross was raised upon Calvary.
Through hillside vineyard and placid little
valley ran a murmuring brook, which had
murmured to its little world a million years
as 1t rushed to the embrace of a river that
laughed its way to a that has laughed
upon the bosom of this earth ever since this
earth first received the kisses of the sun.
From the snow that crowned the summit
of the Alps leaped the brook that leaped
down the mountan-side, to grow warmer
it found its way to sunny vineyard and
sunny valley far below. Through the Vine
yard, through the garden the brook was
brmmed between great banks of violets,
and the wayfarer from another cline
looked and listened and dreamed. There
was maiden in the picture In this world
there has never yet been a scene of perfect
human joy without a woman.
Who loves not woman, wine and song.
He lives a fool his whole life long
The maiden of Italy sang in the vineyard,
and the winepress was hard by. She loiter-
ed at the brookside, where the wayfarer
fingered and loved and loved to love and
linger. She was a bronzed Hebe, fleet OF
foot, ous-eyed-lissome, glorious god
dess of the sunniest coolest land: Pene-
lope whose name might have been Ala
bama. The wayfarer, resting and restful
after journeyiIg a thousand leagues, knew
something of her speech, her dangerous
song, but soft words from him were mean
insless to her and no answer could como
from her untutored tongue. Only eyes
could speak, and 'twiXt man and maid the
world around eyes speak a common Ian
guage, and such speech is applauded of the
gods who call one to another from peak to
peak upon the SUBMITS of Olympus. So
fingered he, so loitered she, each pure of
heart, and one unspotted from the world,
by the brim of the pure brook born of the
pure snow that rests for ever upon the
glorious Alpine crown which the bluest sky
bends to salute in the song of the stars.
He lay there upon the grass by the Alpine
born brook; she rested against fig tree.
The brook told it's immortal story; the
birds twittered their little lay; the bees
hummed drowsily. Far off tinkling bells
were heard, and the voices of men and
maidens in the harvest field. Care cast
anchor in the deep of the upper Deep
bluest and beautifulest sky God has given
to poet and painter and dreamer and lover
to adore. Rippled away the laughing
ter, the birds made riot of song, the bees
were busy, and man and maid looked and
lonPed and sighed under the diyine smell of
incomparably divine Italy. They two
spoke no word. Speech would have been
profane, save as it came from the gods
Upon them was the spell that has rested on
man and maid ever since this earth was
peopled, and which is the same in all lands
under the sun. The Saxon lay at her feet
and asked nothing but to lie there unans-
wered of this daughter of antique time.
The jingling bells of loves rollicking jester
swayed-them. The cap of the foo, was
upon The head of each. Gods goodness
marked each with the Sign of the Cross
and the devil of danger passed over the
Alps to the other side of the world.
Time has marked its way in years since
the glad hours spent with the maid in tho
garden where flowed the brook born OF
Italy's sunshine. The Sign of the Cross
rests where it marked, danger is still
upon the worlds other side, and love of
that which is beautiful a5ides. She
is still there beyond the Alps
where lies Italy. and love has found
the way to her pure soul, as it
finds its way to every honest heart known
of the angels of rest and the evangels of
unrest upon this green footstool of the
Most Nigh. And so is taught to us, my
beloved those of us who are truthful and
worthy, that true love of the beautiful and
the righteous leads us into the sunny way
marked for them that are worthy to touch
the fringe OF Truths white garment far
shining to confront error in the face of all
the world. God rest you, fair lady, Aweet-
hearted and noble-God keep you, my gen.
tleman! Error shall not claim you whilst
Time pays its dues of joy and unrest.
The MURMURER.