Part 1

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Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales.

"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW,"

"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS",

"VISIONS AND DREAMS."

ILLUSTRATED.

Published by DeLONG RICE & COMPANY. Nashville, Tenn.

COPYRIGHTED, 1896. _All rights reserved by DeLong Rice & Co._

UNIVERSITY PRESS CO., NASHVILLE, TENN.

PREFACE.

This volume presents the first publication of the famous lectures of Governor Robert L. Taylor. His great popularity as an orator and entertainer, and his wide reputation as a humorist, have caused repeated inquiries from all sections of the country for his lectures in book form; and this has given rise to an earlier publication than was expected.

The lectures are given without the slightest abridgment, just as delivered from the platform throughout the country. The consecutive chain of each is left undisturbed; and the idea of paragraphing, and giving headlines to the various subjects treated, was conceived merely for the convenience of the reader.

In the dialect of his characters, the melody of his songs, and the originality of his quaint, but beautiful conceptions, Governor Taylor's lectures are temples of thought, lighted with windows of fun.

DELONG RICE.

Temples of Thought, Lighted with Windows Of Fun.

CONTENTS.

"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW." 9 Cherish the Little Ones 19 Fat Men and Bald-Headed Men 22 The Poet Laureate of Music 23 The Convict and His Fiddle 25 A Vision of The Old Field School 27 The Quilting and the Old Virginia Reel 36 The Candy Pulling 44 The Banquet 48 There is Music All Around Us 53 The Two Columns. 61 There is a Melody for Every Ear 63 Music is the Wine of the Soul 66 The Old Time Singing School 72 The Grand Opera 78 Music 80

"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS." 83 The Paradise of Childhood 90 The Paradise of the Barefooted Boy 98 The Paradise of Youth 104 The Paradise of Home 112 Bachelor and Widower 117 Phantoms 119 The False Ideal 121 The Circus in the Mountains 123 The Phantom of Fortune 128 Clocks 130 The Panic 133 Bunk City 135 Your Uncle 137 Fools 140 Blotted Pictures 143

"VISIONS AND DREAMS." 147 The Happy Long Ago 151 Dreams of the Years to Come 160 From the Cave-man to the Kiss-o-phone 169 Dreams 175 Visions of Departed Glory 178 Nature's Musicians 181 Preacher's Paradise 185 Brother Estep and the Trumpet 189 "Wamper-jaw" at the Jollification 190 The Tintinnabulation of the Dinner Bells 193 Phantoms of the Wine Cup 196 The Missing Link 197 Nightmare 198 Infidelity 200 The Dream of God 201

"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW."

I heard a great master play on the wondrous violin; his bow quivered like the wing of a bird; in every quiver there was a melody, and every melody breathed a thought in language sweeter than was ever uttered by human tongue. I was conjured, I was mesmerized by his music. I thought I fell asleep under its power, and was rapt into the realm of visions and dreams. The enchanted violin broke out in tumult, and through the rifted shadows in my dream I thought I saw old ocean lashed to fury. The wing of the storm-god brooded above it, dark and lowering with night and tempest and war. I heard the shriek of the angry hurricane, the loud rattling musketry of rain, and hail, and the louder and deadlier crash and roar of the red artillery on high. Its rumbling batteries, unlimbered on the vapory heights and manned by the fiery gunners of the storm, boomed their volleying thunders to the terrible rythm of the strife below. And in every stroke of the bow fierce lightnings leaped down from their dark pavilions of cloud, and, like armed angels of light, flashed their trenchant blades among the phantom squadrons marshalling for battle on the field of the deep. I heard the bugle blast and battle cry of the charging winds, wild and exultant, and then I saw the billowy monsters rise, like an army of Titans, to scale and carry the hostile heights of heaven. Assailing again and again, as often hurled back headlong into the ocean's abyss, they rolled, and surged, and writhed, and raged, till the affrighted earth trembled at the uproar of the warring elements. I saw the awful majesty and might of Jehovah flying on the wings of the tempest, planting his footsteps on the trackless deep, veiled in darkness and in clouds. There was a shifting of the bow; the storm died away in the distance, and the morning broke in floods of glory. Then the violin revived and poured out its sweetest soul. In its music I heard the rustle of a thousand joyous wings, and a burst of song from a thousand joyous throats. Mockingbirds and linnets thrilled the glad air with warblings; gold finches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled their happiest tunes; and the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that rocked in the wind. I heard the twitter of skimming swallows and the scattered covey's piping call; I heard the robin's gay whistle, the croaking of crows, the scolding of blue-jays, and the melancholy cooing of a dove. The swaying tree-tops seemed vocal with bird-song while he played, and the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus. Then the violin sounded the hunter's horn, and the deep-mouthed pack of fox hounds opened loud and wild, far in the ringing woods, and it was like the music of a hundred chiming bells. There was a tremor of the bow, and I heard a flute play, and a harp, and a golden-mouthed cornet; I heard the mirthful babble of happy voices, and peals of laughter ringing in the swelling tide of pleasure. Then I saw a vision of snowy arms, voluptuous forms, and light fantastic slippered feet, all whirling and floating in the mazes of the misty dance. The flying fingers now tripped upon the trembling strings like fairy-feet dancing on the nodding violets, and the music glided into a still sweeter strain. The violin told a story of human life. Two lovers strayed beneath the elms and oaks, and down by the river side, where daffodils and pansies bend and smile to rippling waves, and there, under the bloom of incense-breathing bowers, under the soothing sound of humming bees and splashing waters, there, the old, old story, so old and yet so new, conceived in heaven, first told in Eden and then handed down through all the ages, was told over and over again. Ah, those downward drooping eyes, that mantling blush, that trembling hand in meek submission pressed, that heaving breast, that fluttering heart, that whispered "yes," wherein a heaven lies--how well they told of victory won and paradise regained! And then he swung her in a grapevine swing. Young man, if you want to win her, wander with her amid the elms and oaks, and swing her in a grapevine swing.

"Swinging in the grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing; I dream and sigh for the days gone by, Swinging in the grapevine swing."

But swiftly the tides of music run, and swiftly speed the hours; Life's pleasures end when scarce begun, e'en as the summer flowers.

The violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a cottage amid the elms and oaks and a little curly-head toddled at the door; I saw a happy husband and father return from his labors in the evening and kiss his happy wife and frolic with his baby. The purple glow now faded from the Western skies; the flowers closed their petals in the dewy slumbers of the night; every wing was folded in the bower; every voice was hushed; the full-orbed moon poured silver from the East, and God's eternal jewels flashed on the brow of night. The scene changed again while the great master played, and at midnight's holy hour, in the light of a lamp dimly burning, clad in his long, white mother-hubbard, I saw the disconsolate victim of love's young dream nervously walking the floor, in his bosom an aching heart, in his arms the squalling baby. On the drowsy air, like the sad wails of a lost spirit, fell his woeful voice singing:

With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by, Danc-ing the ba-by ev-er so high; with my La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by Mam-ma will come to you bye and bye.

It was a battle with king colic. But this ancient invader of the empire of babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallen over on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almost calm in repose, when down went a naked heel square on an inverted tack. Over went the work table; down came the work basket, scissors and all; up went the heel with the tack sticking in it, and the hero of the daffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and with his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a lounge in the rear.

There was "weeping and gnashing of teeth;" there were hoarse mutterings; there was an angry shake of the screaming baby, which he had awakened again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm blankets of the conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how dare you shake my little baby that way!!!! I'll tell pa to-morrow!" which instantly brought the trained husband into line again, singing:

"La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, dancing the baby ever so high, With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, mamma will come to you bye and bye."

The paregoric period of life is full of spoons and midnight squalls, but what is home without a baby?

The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the music eddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffin sat by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the window panes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; the sobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feet were no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped above eyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless and cold, and two little dimpled hands were folded upon a motionless breast. The vibrant instrument sighed and wept; it rang the church bell's knell; and the second story of life, which is the sequel to the first, was told.

Then I caught glimpses of a half-veiled paradise and a sweet breath from its flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful and gorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of its distant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary, wafting to the bosom of God an infant spirit; a string snapped; the music ended; my vision vanished.

The old Master is dead, but his music will live forever.

CHERISH THE LITTLE ONES.

Do you sometimes forget and wound the hearts of your children with frowns and the dagger of cruel words, and sometimes with a blow? Do you sometimes, in your own peevishness, and your own meanness, wish yourself away from their fretful cries and noisy sports? Then think that to-morrow may ripen the wicked wish; tomorrow death may lay his hand upon a little fluttering heart and it will be stilled forever. 'Tis then you will miss the sunbeam and the sweet little flower that reflected heaven on the soul. Then cherish the little ones! Be tender with the babes! Make your homes beautiful! All that remains to us of paradise lost, clings about the home. Its purity, its innocence, its virtue, are there, untainted by sin, unclouded by guile. There woman shines, scarcely dimmed by the fall, reflecting the loveliness of Eden's first wife and mother; the grace, the beauty, the sweetness of the wifely relation, the tenderness of maternal affection, the graciousness of manner which once charmed angel guests, still glorify the home.

If you would make your homes happy, you must make the children happy. Get down on the floor with your prattling boys and girls and play horse with them; take them on your back and gallop them to town; don't kick up and buck, but be a good and gentle old steed, and join in a hearty horse laugh in their merriment. Take the baby on your knee and gallop him to town; let him practice gymnastics on top of your head and take your scalp; let him puncture a hole in your ear with his little teeth, and bite off the end of the paternal nose. Make your homes beautiful with your duty and your love, make them bright with your mirth and your music.

Victor Hugo said of Napoleon the Great: "The frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map. The sound of a super-human sword being drawn from its scabbard could be heard; and he was seen, opening in the thunder his two wings, the Grand Army and the Old Guard; he was the archangel of war." And when I read it I thought of the death and terror that followed wherever the shadow of the open wings fell. I thought of the blood that flowed, and the tears that were shed wherever the sword gleamed in his hand. I thought of the human skulls that paved Napoleon's way to St. Helena's barren rock, and I said, 'I would rather dwell in a log cabin, in the beautiful land of the mountains where I was born and reared, and sit at its humble hearthstone at night, and in the firelight, play the humble rural tunes on the fiddle to my happy children, and bask in the smiles of my sweet wife, than to be the 'archangel of war,' with my hands stained with human blood, or to make the 'frontiers of kingdoms oscillate on the map of the world, and then, away from home and kindred and country, die at last in exile and in solitude.'

FAT MEN AND BALD-HEADED MEN.

It ought to be the universal law that none but fat men and bald-headed men should be the heads of families, because they are always good natured, contented and easily managed. There is more music in a fat man's laugh than there is in a thousand orchestras or brass bands. Fat sides and bald heads are the symbols of music, innocence, and meek submission. O! ladies listen to the words of wisdom! Cultivate the society of fat men and bald-headed men, for "of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." And the fat women, God bless their old sober sides--they are "things of beauty, and a joy forever."

THE VIOLIN, THE POET LAUREATE OF MUSIC.

How sweet are the lips of morning that kiss the waking world! How sweet is the bosom of night that pillows the world to rest. But sweeter than the lips of morning, and sweeter than the bosom of night, is the voice of music that wakes a world of joys and soothes a world of sorrows. It is like some unseen ethereal ocean whose silver surf forever breaks in song; forever breaks on valley, hill, and craig, in ten thousand symphonies. There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in every melody; there is a flower in every song, a love song in every flower; there is a sonnet in every gurgling fountain, a hymn in every brimming river, an anthem in every rolling billow. Music and light are twin angels of God, the first-born of heaven, and mortal ear and mortal eye have caught only the echo and the shadow of their celestial glories.

The violin is the poet laureate of music; violin of the virtuoso and master, _fiddle_ of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocrat of the palace and the hall; it is the _democrat_ of the unpretentious home and humble cabin. As violin, it weaves its garlands of roses and camelias; as fiddle it scatters its modest violets. It is admired by the cultured for its magnificent powers and wonderful creations; it is loved by the millions for its simple melodies.

THE CONVICT AND HIS FIDDLE.

One bright morning, just before Christmas day, an official stood in the Executive chamber in my presence as Governor of Tennessee, and said: "Governor, I have been implored by a poor miserable wretch in the penitentiary to bring you this rude fiddle. It was made by his own hands with a penknife during the hours allotted to him for rest. It is absolutely valueless, it is true, but it is his petition to you for mercy. He begged me to say that he has neither attorneys nor influential friends to plead for him; that he is poor, and all he asks is, that when the Governor shall sit at his own happy fireside on Christmas eve, with his own happy children around him, he will play one tune on this rough fiddle and think of a cabin far away in the mountains whose hearthstone is cold and desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched, ragged children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for the footsteps of their father."

Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record was examined; Christmas eve came; the Governor sat that night at his own happy fireside, surrounded by his own happy children; and he played one tune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin in the mountains was bright and warm; a pardoned prisoner sat with his baby on his knee, surrounded by _his_ rejoicing children, and in the presence of _his_ happy wife, and although there was naught but poverty around him, his heart sang: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;" and then he reached up and snatched his fiddle down from the wall, and played "Jordan is a hard road to travel."

A VISION OF THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL.

Did you never hear a fiddler fiddle? I have. I heard a fiddler fiddle, and the hey-dey-diddle of his frolicking fiddle called back the happy days of my boyhood. The old field schoolhouse with its batten doors creaking on wooden hinges, its windows innocent of glass, and its great, yawning fireplace, cracking and roaring and flaming like the infernal regions, rose from the dust of memory and stood once more among the trees. The limpid spring bubbled and laughed at the foot of the hill. Flocks of nimble, noisy boys turned somersaults and skinned the cat and ran and jumped half hammon on the old play ground. The grim old teacher stood in the door; he had no brazen-mouthed bell to ring then as we have now, but he shouted at the top of his voice: "Come to books!!!" And they came. Not to come meant "war and rumors of war." The backless benches, high above the floor, groaned under the weight of irrepressible young America; the multitude of mischievous, shining faces, the bare legs and feet, swinging to and fro, and the mingled hum of happy voices, spelling aloud life's first lessons, prophesied the future glory of the State. The curriculum of the old field school was the same everywhere--one Webster's blue backed, elementary spelling book, one thumb-paper, one stone-bruise, one sore toe, and Peter Parley's Travels.

The grim old teacher, enthroned on his split bottomed chair, looked terrible as an army with banners; and he presided with a dignity and solemnity which would have excited the envy of the United States Supreme Court: I saw the school commissioners visit him, and heard them question him as to his system of teaching. They asked him whether, in geography, he taught that the world was round, or that the world was flat. With great dignity he replied: "That depends upon whar I'm teachin'. If my patrons desire me to teach the round system, I teach it; if they desire me to teach the flat system, I teach that."

At the old field school I saw the freshman class, barefooted and with pantaloons rolled up to the knees, stand in line under the ever uplifted rod, and I heard them sing the never-to-be-forgotten b-a ba's. They sang them in the _olden_ times, and this is the way they sang: "b-a ba, b-e be, b-i bi-ba be bi, b-o bo, b-u bu-ba be bi bo bu."

I saw a sophomore dance a jig to the music of a dogwood sprout for throwing paper wads. I saw a junior compelled to stand on the dunce block, on one foot--(_a la_ gander) for winking at his sweetheart in time of books, for failing to know his lessons, and for "various and sundry other high crimes and misdemeanors."

A twist of the fiddler's bow brought a yell from the fiddle, and in my dream, I saw the school come pouring out into the open air. Then followed the games of "prisoner's base," "town-ball," "Antney-over;" "bull-pen" and "knucks," the hand to hand engagements with yellow jackets, the Bunker Hill and Brandywine battles with bumblebees, the charges on flocks of geese, the storming of apple orchards and hornet's nests, and victories over hostile "setting" hens. Then I witnessed the old field school "Exhibition"--the _wonderful_ "exhibition"--they call it Commencement now. Did you never witness an old field school "exhibition," far out in the country, and listen to its music? If you have not your life is a failure--you are a broken string in the harp of the universe. The old field school "exhibition" was the parade ground of the advance guard of civilization; it was the climax of great events in the olden times; and vast assemblies were swayed by the eloquence of the budding sockless statesmen. It was at the old field school "exhibition" that the goddess of liberty always received a broken nose, and the poetic muse a black eye; it was at the old field school "exhibition" that _Greece_ and _Rome_ rose and fell, in seas of gore, about every fifteen minutes in the day, and,

The American eagle, with unwearied flight, Soared upward and upward, till he soared out of sight.