You, sir, are a poet as I am a
musician,--by a natural predisposition; and your poetry is true as is
my music because it is simple; for what is Truth but Simplicity, that
which touches the soul, the heart, the emotions rather than the cold,
reasoning intellect, since poetry, but more especially music, is a
direct appeal to and expression of, the emotion? Do you agree?"
"Why, sir," answered the Tinker, shaking his head a little sadly, "I
don't know aught about music, d'ye see--"
"Fiddlestick, man! You are full of music. Who has not heard leaves
rustle in the wind, or listened to the babble of a brook; yet to the
majority they are no more than what they seem--rustling leaves, a
babbling brook--but to you and me these are an inspiration, voices of
Nature, of God, of the Infinite, urging us to an attempt to express
the inexpressible--is it not so?"
"Why, my lord," quoth the Tinker, chafing blue chin with knife-handle,
"since you put it that way I--I fancy--"
"Of course you do!" nodded his lordship. "Take yonder stream: to you
it finds a voice to speak of the immemorial past; to me it is the
elemental music of God. As it sings to-day so has it sung to countless
generations and mayhap, in earth's dim days, taught some wild
man-monster to echo something of its melody and thus perchance came
our first music. What do you think?"
"'Tis a wonderful thought, sir, but I should think birds would be
easier to imitate than a brook--"
"Possibly, yes.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277