The Bolivar bulletin. (Bolivar, Tenn.) 1888-1946, 1899-07-21
En- ROUTE, April "A, 1899.


pressions which / received from dog
wood sprout or twig of a weeping will
low, when l was barefooted boy, are
the impressions which were made upon
my young mind and heart by the i'd
dlers. The tunes they used to play got
tangled in my memory and they are just
as vivid there today as are the faces l
used to know and the incidents and
happenings of the happy days gone
by.
i can see Polk Scott and Sam Rowe
just as plainly now as 1 actually saw
them when l was a ten-year-old lad at
the old log schoolhOuse that stood by
the bubbling spring. They played at
the exhibition" at the close of our
school; and l have never heard any
sweeter music since. Sans big brown
whisl<ers rolled and tumbled in ecstacy
on his fiddle, as he rocked to and fro,
with half-closed eyes, and, with whiz-
zing bow, reveled in the third heaven
OF 'Arkansaw Traveller" Folks black
mustache swayed and Topped like a
ravens wings, as he scared amid the
grandcurs of "Natchez Under the Hill"
They were the ''Pegininis' of the
mountains: they were the ''Ole Bulls
of our humble society; they were the
royal "Remenyis" of our rural, rollicA-
ing festivities; they were big-hearted
and genial; they were noble fellows,
and 50 are all fiddlers to this good day.
Their melodies were the echoes of ma
lures sweet voices. In every sweep of
the bow there was the drumming of n
pheasant OF the cacKle of hen or the
call of Bob White or the trill of
thrush. Sometimes l could hear a
whip-poor-will sing; sometimes, a wild
goose quack; and, panther yell; now
and then the cats would fight, and the
music was always mellow with moon
shine"
When / grew little larger / used to
slip out from under the smiling roof of
home, sweet home" and cut the
pigeon wing with the rosy-cheeked
mountain girls, until it seemed that my
very sou, was in my heels. | still have
FOND recollections of every fiddler who
played at the oId-time country dance;
and when hear those sweet old tunes,
even now it is difficult for me to keep
my soul above my socks.
So far as l am concerned, l am a
wOrshiper at the shrine of music. The
classics of Mozart and Mendelssohn are
grand and glorious TO me, but | cannot
be persuaded to turn my back on the
classics of the plain country fddlers.
The cd country tunes were handed
down from the days of the Revolution,
and every one OF them breathes the
spirit of liberty; every old jig is an echo
from the flintlocll rifles and shrill flies
of Bunker Hill: every ''hornpipe" is
refrain from Kings Mountain; ''Old
Granny Rattletrap" is a Declaration of
Independence; Jennie, Put the Kittle
On bOils over with freedom; jay
bird Settin' on a Swingin' Limb was
George Washington's 'favoright;" and
Gray Eagle" was Thomas Jefferson's
Leather Brooches" was
the Marseilles hymn of the old heroes
who lived in the days of Davy Crockett.
No wonder the fiddlers are so pa
triotic and brave. l never saw a real,
genuine fiddler who would not fight:
but, mind you, l have quit fiddling.
When l grew large enough to cast |
sleeps eyes at the girls, when love be- !
gan to tickle my heart and the blood of
the violets got into my veins, l began to
draw the bow across the vibrant strings |
of the fiddle to give vent to my feelings, !
and poured my spirit out through my
fingers by the bucketful. / snapped |
a.,
to one; exchanged clogs for compli- !
and jigs for signs and senti- |
mental ordinations. No ordinary |
mortal ever felt the raptures of d fid-
der; the fiddle is his bride, and the |
honeymoon lasts forever.
! fiddled and ] fiddled and l fiddled, |
until youth bloSsomed into manhood, |
and still | fiddled and / fiddled. Poll |
LicIans sneered at me as a fiddler, but |
The girls said it was no harm, and the |
boys voted while | fiddled, and the fid- |
lie won. There is always some old |
sour and tuneless hypocrite abusing
and denOuncing ''us fiddlers." l have |
heard them say that they never saw a |
fiddler who was ANY account, and l |
pave known good men who sincerely |
believed that fiddlers were dangerous
% communities. There never was /
greater error of opinion. There is no
more harm in wiggling the fingers than
here is in wagging the tongue, and
here is a great deal more religion in
rood, law-abiding fiddle than there is
n some folks who outlaw that divine
music in it than there is in some hymns
have heard sung by old dyspeptics
Who denouncc ic. Music is music,
whether il be the laughter and song of
he fiddle or the melodies of the human
'oicc; music Is the halleluiah of the
oul, whether it comes through fiddle
trings or vocal chords. Happy is the
lomc in which fiddles and fiddlers
Iwell. and nearest to heaven is the
hurch where tiddlers and singers blend
heir music in hymns of praise to AL
mighty God.
l have heard cultivated musicians
augh at the country fiddler, and call
lis tunes rag music" but the law of
governs in this realm, as
ven as III every V'hSL' III lhS COuutIJ
iddlers laugh just as heartily at the
ublimest efforts Of high-class mu-
icians. Neither can understand the
ther. To the noteless and untutored
ddler the Crandest efforts of the
reatest orchestra are the senseless
ieroglyphics of sound: to the cultured
ar the simple melodies which dance
ut from the bosom of the fiddle and
he soul Of the fiddler are but the ridicu-
1us buzzings of bumblebee discord. t.;