CALIFORNIA 
 
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 LONDON BOOK CO- 
 
 224 W. Broadway 
 Glendale, Calif. 91204 
 
 r^T A AOOQ
 
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 /U.^ 
 
 As He Appeared al ihc Time He Entered the Lecture Field.
 
 r\ 
 
 oV 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 AND 
 
 Best Literary Productions 
 
 OF 
 
 BOB TAYLOR 
 
 Beautifully Illustrated With Views From the Scenes of His 
 Early Life in His Beloved "Happy Valley" 
 
 THE BOB TAYLOR PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 Naihville, Tenn., U. S. A. 
 
 :912
 
 Copyright 1913, by 
 THE BOB TAYLOR PUBLISHING CO.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Pace 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 "A Memory," by DeLong Rice 9 
 
 "THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW." 
 
 Music of a Master 19 
 
 Cherish the Little Ones 22 
 
 Fat Men and Bald-Headed Men 24 
 
 The Violin, the Poet Laureate of Music 24 
 
 The Convict and His Fiddle 25 
 
 A Vision of the Old Field School 25 
 
 The Quilting and the Old Virginia Reel 28 
 
 The Candy Pulling 32 
 
 The Banquet 32 
 
 The Music of Politics 35 
 
 The Two Columns 39 
 
 A Melody for Every Ear 40 
 
 Music is the Wine of the Soul 40 
 
 The Old Time Singing School 42 
 
 The Grand Opera 44 
 
 Music 44 
 
 "THE PARADISE OF FOOLS." 
 
 Man's First Estate 49 
 
 Paradise of Childhood 52 
 
 Paradise of the Barefooted Boy 54 
 
 Paradise of Youth 56 
 
 The Stuttering Youth 57 
 
 Paradise of Home 59 
 
 Bachelor and Widower 61 
 
 Phantoms 62 
 
 The False Ideal 63 
 
 The Circus in the Mountains 64 
 
 The Phantom of Fortune 65 
 
 Qocks 66 
 
 The Panic 67 
 
 Bunk City 68 
 
 Your Uncle 69 
 
 Pessimism and Optimism 69 
 
 Beautiful Pictures Blotted 70
 
 contents 
 
 Page 
 "VISIONS AND DREAMS." 
 
 Multitudinous Dreams 75 
 
 The Happy Long Ago 76 
 
 Ambition's Dream 79 
 
 From the Cave Man to the Kissophone 83 
 
 Dreams of the Beautiful 86 
 
 Visions of Departed Glory 87 
 
 Nature's Musicians 88 
 
 The Fighting Preacher 9° 
 
 Brother Estep and the Trumpet 91 
 
 "Wamper-Jaw" at the Jollification 92 
 
 The Tintinnabulations of the Dinner Bells 93 
 
 Phantoms of the Wine Cup 94 
 
 The Missing Link 95 
 
 Nightmare 95 
 
 Infidelity 96 
 
 The Dream of God 96 
 
 "LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG." 
 
 A Lecture of the Human Heart loi 
 
 "SENTIMENT." 
 
 A Lecture of the Realm of the Soul 125 
 
 "THE OLD PLANTATION." 
 
 A Lecture of the Glory of the Old South 141 
 
 DIXIE. 
 
 A Plea for the South, Mellow as the Mocking Bird's Song 159 
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 A Prose Poem of Rosy Hopes and Shattered Dreams 177 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 A Lecture of the Humor and Pathos of Human Nature 207 
 
 UNCLE SAM. 
 
 An Unfinished Masterpiece 223 
 
 ADDRESSES TENNESSEE CENTENNIAL. 
 
 \ 
 
 Opening 231 
 
 Tennessee and Governor's Day 232 
 
 To the Drummers 235 
 
 Ohio and McKinley Day 237 
 
 Texas Day 238 
 
 Confederate Day 240
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Georgia Day 241 
 
 New Orleans and Louisiana Day 243 
 
 Kentucky and Red Men's Day 246 
 
 Nashville Day 247 
 
 Memphis and Shelby County Day 250 
 
 Irish-American Day 256 
 
 German-American Day 256 
 
 Nebraska and Bryan Day 258 
 
 Chicago and Illinois Day 260 
 
 To Daughters American Revolution 262 
 
 New York Day 263 
 
 Missouri Day 265 
 
 Vermont Day 266 
 
 NOTABLE SPEECHES. 
 
 At Knoxville Carnival 268 
 
 Funeral Oration, Isham G. Harris 271 
 
 Presenting Flag to Fourth Tenn. Volunteers 273 
 
 To Nashville School Children, Presenting Lieut. Hobson 274 
 
 Welcome to Lieut. Hobson and Capt. Maynard 276 
 
 At Dallas Exposition 278 
 
 To the Memory of Zebulon B. Vance 282 
 
 On Andrew Jackson, Before St. Louis-Tennessee Society 282 
 
 At Confederate Reunion, Brownsville, Tenn 293 
 
 Undelivered Speech Prepared for the Campaign of 1912 298 
 
 LOVE LETTERS, 
 
 To Uncle Sam 307 
 
 To the Politicians 309 
 
 To the Boys 312 
 
 To the Girls 316 
 
 To the Bachelors 320 
 
 To the Drummers 324 
 
 To the Fiddlers 327 
 
 To the Fishermen 330 
 
 To the Mothers-in-law 333 
 
 To the Candidates 336 
 
 To the Sweethearts 339 
 
 To the Sportsmen 343 
 
 To the School Teachers 346 
 
 To the Blue and the Gray 349
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Page 
 Robert Love Taylor, as he appeared at the time he entered the 
 
 Lecture field, twenty-one years ago I 
 
 "Robin's Roost," home of Bob Taylor at Johnson City, where most 
 of his literary work was done 8 
 
 House in "Happy Valley," where Bob Taylor was born, showing 
 also the old barn in which the boys held their early debates 72 
 
 Secluded spot on the margin of the Nolachucky, where Bob wrote 
 "The Fiddle and the Bow" 88 
 
 Great ash tree on Alf Taylor's farm, where Bob rehearsed "The 
 Fiddle and the Bow" 136 
 
 Inspiring view of the Nolachucky, looking South from "slick rock".. 152 
 
 Valley of the Nolachucky, where Bob loved to "Serenade the van- 
 ishing covies of quail with smokeless powder and hitless shot" 200 
 
 Quiet grove on farm of Gen. James P. Taylor, where the lecture, 
 "Sentiment," was written 216 
 
 Fields as rich as the Valley of the Nile (on the Nolachucky) 264 
 
 Senator Robert Love Taylor, from one of his latest photographs 280
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Since books were first written, the never-failing Preface 
 has obtruded itself between the banqueter and the banquet — 
 sometimes to whet, sometimes to dull his appetite ; sometimes to 
 boast the richness of the pages that follow, sometimes to irri- 
 gate their dryness with rivers of praise. 
 
 Far different is the mission of this Preface. The excellence 
 of what these pages offer is self-evident, and our excuse for this 
 book is the genius of Bob Taylor. 
 
 We believe that these bright children of his brain should go 
 laughing and singing into every home in the land, and we send 
 them forth to the welcome which awaits them.
 
 Cuts by NashTille Photo & Engraving Co . 
 
 Printed by Cumberland Press 
 
 Nashville, Tennessee
 
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 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 DELONG Rice, Lecture Manager, friend and companion of 
 Senator Taylor for twenty years, ofifers the following tribute to his 
 memory; 
 
 Illumines his lecture career and discloses interesting facts of his 
 marvelous success ; 
 
 Tells how he created "The Fiddle and the Bow'' and crowns him 
 "King of the American Platform;" 
 
 Encores him from the silence of death to speak to us once more : 
 
 "Sweet as honey flowed his stream of speech." 
 
 For twenty years Robert Love Taylor was the most suc- 
 cessful lecturer on the American platform. If all of his audi- 
 ences could be gathered together, they would make a multitude 
 of millions of people. 
 
 This estimate includes the tour in 1895-6 with his brother, 
 Hon. Alfred A. Taylor, in their joint lecture, "Yankee Doodle 
 and Dixie," which, in its splendid balance and reciprocal 
 beauty, was one of the most unique and sensationally success- 
 ful attractions ever presented in America. Differing widely in 
 manner and style, each served as a foil to develop the brilliancy 
 of the other. 
 
 A careful estimate shows the gross earnings of Senator 
 Tavlor's lectures to have run far into the hundreds of thousands 
 of dollars — a sum which, had he hoarded it and invested it, 
 might have easily made him a millionaire. But Bob Taylor's 
 riches were of the soul. 
 
 You ask: What became of his money? It went through 
 the sieve of his great, generous heart for the happiness of those 
 he loved, for the betterment of mankind and the advancement 
 of civilization. Some of it has crossed the oceans to spread 
 the light of religion ; some of it is crooning above the cradles 
 of orphan asylums ; some of it is ministering to the sick in 
 hospitals; some of it is built into the walls of libraries; much 
 of it is standing in bronze and marble grace throughout the 
 South to perpetuate the glory of the Confederate soldier; and 
 still more of it is pointing toward heaven in the gleaming spires 
 (1)
 
 lO INTRODUCTORY 
 
 of churches; not one dollar of it was spent to serve a sordid 
 purpose. 
 
 No more appropriate epitaph could be carved upon the tomb 
 of Robert L. Taylor than this : He loved everybody and every- 
 thing, except money. 
 
 That he was an extraordinary man is a fact which will 
 pass unquestioned into history. As the viewpoints of those 
 who knew him differ, so will their opinions diifer as to the 
 extent of his greatness and the fineness of his genius. In the 
 effort to correctly focus the eyes of the future upon him, truth 
 must inevitably wrangle with error; and, though truth shall 
 prevail, the written page can never do him justice; no analysis 
 can clearly define him. Not even a Shakespeare or a Milton 
 can paint the flavor of a peach or picture the odor of a rose. 
 Poets may sing forever of moonlit rivers, but unless you have 
 looked upon their shimmering silver flowing through hours 
 that belong to dreams, you are a stranger to their beauty. 
 
 Only those who have seen and heard Bob Taylor can enjoy 
 anything approaching a true conception of the man. Like all 
 remarkable men, he followed no guide and walked no beaten 
 road. His success mocked all precedents and defied all rules. 
 Though he occupied for thirty years the throne of fame, his 
 severest dignity was the simplicity of his nature, and love was 
 the sword of his strength. His perennial humor was only the 
 tinsel draping of his power, like the sun-embroidered shawl of 
 mist that wraps Niagara's mighty shoulders. 
 
 This man of marvelous personality was a veritable human 
 magnet. Wherever he chose to cast the zone of his influence 
 the multitudes were drawn to him by the unseen cords of his 
 fascination. An incomparable stump speaker, a brilliant 
 young Congressman, a splendid Governor, he nevertheless 
 soared above these accomplishments and left them far below, 
 for it was on the lecture platform that he found the true des- 
 tiny of his talents and reached the noon of his glory. 
 
 It was in October of 1891 that he determined to leave the 
 harbor of political achievement and set forth on a strange sea. 
 Contemplating its inhospitable waters, he gathered no assur- 
 ance of certain success, for he remembered that beneath its 
 treacherous tides were the sunken hopes of many a statesman.
 
 INTRODUCTORY II 
 
 But, with the buoyant heart of an adventurous mariner, he 
 prepared for the first voyage. He built a ship of wondrous 
 beauty and christened her "The Fiddle and the Bow/' His 
 foreman was inspiration and the muses were his carpenters. 
 Softly moved their invisible planes and saws and silently fell 
 their hammers of fancy. The master whose mind conceived 
 this phantom craft wrought with dubious care, for he knew 
 that she must travel the dead waters of indifference, breast the 
 green waves of envy, and meet the fierce tempests of criticism. 
 Her timbers were as light as the foam of a fairy ocean, and 
 her frame was shaped to the grace of a swan. Her rigging was 
 roped with moonbeams, and her sails were set to catch the winds 
 from a thousand islands of laughter and song. She flew the 
 flag of universal love. Her gunners were cupids and her guns 
 were Cupids' bows. On her deck of sentiment skipped and 
 strolled the spirit of mirth and the soul of pathos, while o'er 
 her keel was spilled the mellow wine of long ago. 
 
 "The Fiddle and the Bow'' was launched in the cold 
 gloom of a December evening in 1891, and when she sailed 
 back home amid the melting ice of March she was blazoned 
 with victory and freighted with gold. 
 
 Bob Taylor's other ships that were launched in the years 
 that followed were masterpieces. All were the bearers of 
 visions as voluptuous and fair as e'er floated in the festivals of 
 Cleopatra above the drowsy currents of the Nile; all returned 
 with cargoes of wealth to their builder, arid all are monuments 
 to his memory; but no vessel ever sailed from the port of his 
 dreams which so completely explored and conquered the vast 
 deep of human emotions as did the firstborn of his genius. 
 
 Having glanced at Bob Taylor's successful advent into the 
 lyceum world, and having briefly studied, by suggestion and 
 allegory, the mould and fibre of his first lecture, let us consider 
 for a moment the temper of the public toward lecturers and the 
 difficulties which confront them. 
 
 The purely educational lecture is the one which was origi- 
 nally intended for the platform, but at the time the lyceum 
 idea began to assert itself in the United States, that class of 
 lecture was far more of a necessity than it is today. This is 
 the age of printed literature. Because a man can pursue the
 
 12 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 classics at bis own fireside and learn from the periodicals of 
 the day the most advanced theories on all current questions, 
 he finds it less necessary and less desirable to spend bis money 
 for instruction from the platform. 
 
 But still less attractive is the lecture which lives only from 
 lips to ear and dies within the hour of its delivery, which leaves 
 no lesson, imparts no knowledge, and gives no stimulus to the 
 nobility of our natures. It is the strong drink of the platform, 
 which buoys us into the garden of false fancy for an instant 
 and then leaves us in dullness and remorse when its temporary 
 effect has flo"wn. 
 
 Behold the two dangers of the platformist! Unsweetened 
 facts and unilluminated figures on the one hand, and superficial 
 nonsense on the other. Happy is the man, and rare, indeed, 
 who can steer his course clear and true between the deadly 
 Scylla of statistical dry dust and the fatal Charybdis of verbal 
 froth. 'Tis in this narrow, though bright and sunny, strait that 
 the jewel of success is found. 
 
 He who would win must be able to interest and fascinate 
 w^hile giving delightful and substantial nourishment to the in- 
 tellect. He must know how to gem the dullest fact with pleas- 
 ing lustre and point the most frivolous joke with lofty purpose. 
 To be a savant is not sufficient. Scholarly attainments are 
 only his raw materials. Though there be folded within his 
 brain the countless pages of a Carnegie library, the voice of his 
 knowledge may rasp the air with discord and the words of his 
 learning may fall from a tuneless tongue. And, even with 
 scholarship and music of speech, he may fail without that other 
 and greatest essential — that quality which, in our ignorance, 
 we sometimes call individuality, sometimes magnetism, some- 
 times personality, always genius. Wherever we meet it we 
 bow before its sceptre, but when we seek to comprehend it, it 
 flees from us like the wraith of a myth. It is as evasive, as 
 intangible and indescribable as the power of electricity which 
 holds the universe in its unseen clutch. It sometimes shows 
 itself in a glance of the eye or flits before us on the wings of a 
 smile. Unapproachable as a spirit, it is the divine dower of an 
 immortal; it is the copyright of a soul.
 
 INTRODUCTORY 13 
 
 It is this bewitching force that weaves the laurels and 
 moulds the crowns of history. It was this mysterious power, 
 softened with love and seasoned with humor, which made Bob 
 Taylor king of the American platform for twenty years. 
 
 It seems but an hour since the sun of his life went do^vn. 
 While yet we linger in the twilight of recollection, before the 
 night of forgetfulness blurs the picture of memory, let us, in 
 imagination, look at him again. We will erect a great audi- 
 torium in the realm of the mind, people it with the phantom 
 forms of those who loved him, and encore him from the silence 
 of death to speak to us once more. 
 
 There he is, in the dressing room, impatiently waiting to 
 begin, absent-minded and uncommunicative to those who have 
 the bad judgment to persist in talking to him while he is mass- 
 ing his faculties for his effort. The glow of intense interest is 
 in his face. He is a general preparing to send his troops to 
 victory. Observing him, a man near by asks if his lecture is 
 to be extemporaneous. Oh, foolish question ! It would be as 
 sensible to ask if ^Napoleon manufactured powder on the thun- 
 dering field of Marengo or moulded cannon balls amid the roar- 
 ing guns of Austerlitz. 
 
 Now the curtain rises on fluttering fans and radiant faces, 
 the eager expectants of a joyous hour. The droning murmur of 
 the multitude is hushed, and many a conversation dies on the 
 lips of whispering lovers. This is the most dangerous moment 
 that comes to a speaker, and the keen sense of our orator feels 
 it. He learns, with a look of satisfaction, that the useless in- 
 troductory speech is to be omitted and that he is to appear un- 
 announced. He does not slouch to the front with tliat unem- 
 barrassed awkwardness and insolent brass so common among 
 successful speakers. Straightening himself to his full height 
 with a quick and springing grace, he advances to the footlights 
 with military precision of step. A gentle wave of applause 
 rolls through the audience, but he gives it no acknowledgment. 
 He does not smile ; he does not bow ; only stands still and waits 
 for quiet. In the extreme straightness of his posture he appears 
 to lean back a little above the waistline. His face is slightly 
 uplifted, and his left hand is raised to rest lightly over his 
 heart. Though perfectly calm, he is not careless. Every nerve
 
 14 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 of concentration is on duty. He does not persecute us with a 
 prelude or bore us with a preamble. The music of his discourse 
 starts with his first word, and his opening sentence thrills us 
 as when a master sw^eeps the strings of his harp in the full flow 
 of its melody. He is no solemn-browed teacher vexing us with 
 major premise and minor premise, and assailing us with logical 
 conclusions. Such matters are left to Socrates and Plato and 
 Aristotle, the crystal fountains of philosophy. He is telling us 
 of things we already know, though we have never known them 
 as we see them now. He opens the doors of an endless picture 
 gallery, and when we step into its enchanted halls, lo ! it is only 
 the old, familiar earth, through v/hich we have walked witli 
 unseeing eyes. Yonder, where we have looked upon ragged 
 cliffs and crags, he shows us the towering mountains, subdued 
 and toned in their gigantic grandeur by the poetic haze of 
 Indian summer. The hills up which we have toiled and the 
 valleys where we have labored are adorned with new-found 
 charms. We learn that the gold of harvest fields is more than 
 a promise of biscuits and pies, and that the foaming beauty 
 of cascade and cataract will quench the thirst of our souls. 
 
 Lashing us to the pinions of his mind, he leaves the picture 
 gallery of earth and soars aloft to where worlds are born, re- 
 veals our weakness and unveils the power of God in the light of 
 wheeling suns. 
 
 Now, on the easy wings of his daring art, he descends from 
 boundless tracts of stars to a thicket of jabbering apes and sings 
 a Simian love song under a cocoanut tree. 
 
 Fresh from zones of comets and astral climes, we are con- 
 vulsed with laughter. He smiles at us while waiting for the 
 storm of mirth to pass, and then leads us back to the happy land 
 of childhood, becomes a boy himself, re-acts the reckless deeds 
 of barefoot days, and convicts us of forgotten crimes, besieges 
 forbidden orchards and throws headlong courage against the 
 red-hot bayonets of charging hornets. He plunders pantries 
 and loots cupboards, and while we laugh and laugh again he 
 wipes his cherry-stained lips upon his ragged sleeve. 
 
 Deftly he closes the gates of the realm of yesterday, and the 
 eyes of merriment are dimmed with tears.
 
 INTRODUCTORY 1$ 
 
 Eve we are aware of it, he wafts us into a new kingdom 
 where every melodious sound is the fragment of an anthem. In 
 the deep forest, cool with shadows and morning dew^, he coaxes 
 from the golden throats of wild birds the sweet concord of bands 
 and choirs; and where the dusk of evening falls on meadow 
 and grove and stream he marshals the voices of the night in 
 grand rehearsal. With master baton he conducts a chorus of 
 crickets and katydids, of beetles and bullfrogs, and all the 
 countless creatures of chirping throats and Avhining wings. 
 
 The end of the lecture is near ; he leaves the scenes of gran- 
 deur and of levity, takes us into the purple chamber of his 
 heart and talks to us of the intimate things of life ; divines, 
 with eyes of love, the dimpling dreams of little babes, and 
 counts the striped marbles of our children, hallows the faces of 
 father and mother, and consecrates the home. 
 
 Eighty minutes have swiftly flowm while he has swept the 
 keys and chords of human sentiment. Applause is clamoring 
 for more, but his finishing note has been struck. He bows and 
 w\alks rapidly off the stage, and the curtain falls, while laughter 
 sighs and pathos smiles. 
 
 O, unique character among men! We salute thee ere we 
 say farewell. INTo mind could soar in beauty's skies with freer 
 flight. Who but thee could drop with grace from flying planets 
 to grimacing monkeys ? Who but thee could hold us spell- 
 bound W'ith discourse on such little things as beetles and frogs 
 and butterflies? Only Shakespeare in all the pages of litera- 
 ture; and in this particular art thou didst outdo him, for in 
 the endless scale of thy matchless voice were all the mimic 
 sounds of forest and field and flowing waters, and thou couldst 
 glorify or distort thy noble face to impersonate whatsoever 
 thou w^ouldst. In thee speechless nature found a voice, and 
 thou didst become the tongue of dumb beauty. Thy like shall 
 not appear; the centuries shall sigh in vain for thy dupli- 
 cate. Would that we could hold and fijj thee here in the fullness 
 of thy wonted pow^er, as a lasting legacy to millions yet to be ; 
 but barren is our wish, for while broken-hearted music sobbed 
 in sacred song above thy open grave, we saw all that earth can 
 claim of thee sink to everlasting rest beneath sheaves and shocks 
 of roses.
 
 "THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 
 
 yy
 
 " THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW." 
 
 MUSIC OF A MASTER. 
 
 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 con- 
 jured — 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 rhythm 
 of the strife below. And in every stroke of the bow fierce light- 
 nings leaped down from their dark pavilions of cloud, and, like 
 armed angels of light, flashed their trenchant blades among the 
 phantom squadrons marshaling 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, plant- 
 ing 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
 
 20 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 from a thousand joyous throats. Mocking birds and linnets 
 thrilled the glad air with their warblings ; goldfinches, 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 croak- 
 ing of crows, the scolding of blue-jays and the melancholy 
 cooing of a dove. The swaying treetops 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 whirl- 
 ing 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's 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 splash- 
 ing 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 
 do%vnward-drooping eyes, that mantling blush, that trembling 
 hand in meek submission pressed, that fluttering heart, that 
 heaving breast, 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.
 
 THE FIDDLE A,ND THE BOW 21 
 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing, 
 Swinging 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 
 cnrly-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 Avas 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 
 drow^sy air, like the sad wails of a lost spirit, fell his woeful 
 voice, 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. 
 
 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 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 daffo- 
 dils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian warwhoop, and 
 with his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in 
 agony to a lounge in the rear. There was "weeping and gnash- 
 ing of teeth." There were hoarse mutterings. There was an 
 angry shaking of the screaming baby, which he had awakened 
 again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm
 
 22 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 blankets of the conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of 
 *'How dare you shake my little baby that way ! ! ! I'll tell Pa 
 tomorrow ! ! !" which instantly brought the trained husband into 
 line again, singing: 
 
 La-e, Lo-e, hush-a-bye baby — dancing the baby ever so high ; 
 
 La-e, Lo-e, hush-a-bye bab)^ — 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 inter- 
 vened ; a little coffin sat by the empty cradle ; the prints of baby 
 lingers w^ere on the windowpanes; the toys were scattered on 
 the floor ; the lullaby was hushed ; the sobs and cries, tlie 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 dimpled 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 woimd the hearts of your 
 children with frowns and the dagger of cruel words, and some- 
 times with a blow? Do you sometimes, in your own meanness 
 and your o^vn peevishness, wish yourself away from their fret- 
 ful cries and noisy sports ? Then think that tomorrow may 
 ripen the wncked wish ! Tomorrow death may lay his icy 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
 
 THE FIDDLE A,ND THE BOW 2$ 
 
 reflected heaven on the soul. Then cherish the little ones ! Ee 
 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, unclouded by sin, 
 untainted by guile. There woman shines, scarcely dimmed b;^ 
 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; 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 ISTapoleon 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 fol- 
 lowed wherever the shadow of the open wings fell. I thought 
 of the blood that flow^ed and the tears that were shed wherever 
 the sword gleamed in his hand. I thought of the human skulls 
 that paved ^N^apoleon'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 wdiere I was born and reared, and sit at its 
 humble hearthstone at night, and in the firelight play the hum- 
 ble rural tunes on the fiddle to my happy children, and bask 
 in the smiles of my sw^eet 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 w^orld," 
 and then, away from home and kindred and country, die at last 
 in exile and in solitude.
 
 24 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR / 
 
 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. Oh, 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-LAUKEATE 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 v/hose silver surf forever breaks in song, forever 
 breaks on valley, hill and crag in ten thousand symphonies. 
 There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in every mel- 
 ody; 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 firstborn 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 vir- 
 tuoso and master; FIDDLE of the untutored in the ideal art. 
 It is the aristocrat of the palace and the hall; it is the demo- 
 crat 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 mag- 
 nificent powers and wonderful creations; it is loved by the 
 millions of the people for its simple melodies.
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 25 
 
 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 val- 
 ueless, 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; he is poor, and all that 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 deso- 
 late and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched, ragged 
 children, crying for bread and waiting and watching for the 
 footsteps of their convict father." Who w^ould not have been 
 touched by such an appeal ? The record was examined ; Christ- 
 mas Eve came; the Governor sat that night at his own happy 
 fireside, surrounded by his happy children, and he played one 
 tune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin 
 in the movmtains 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 ha-da-diddle of his frolicking fiddle 
 called back the happy days of my boyhood ; the old field school- 
 house, with its batten door creaking on wooden hinges, its win- 
 dows innocent of glass, and its great, ya\\Tiing fireplace crack- 
 ing 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 again at the foot of the 
 
 (2)
 
 26 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 hill ; flocks of nimble, noisy boys turned somersaults, and skinned 
 the eat, and ran and jumped half hammond 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 everyivhere — one AVebster's blue-backed element- 
 ary spelling book, one thumb-paper, one stonebruise, one sore 
 toe and Peter Parley's travels. 
 
 The grim old teacher, enthroned on his split-bottom 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 com- 
 missioners visit him and heard them question him as to his 
 system of teaching. They asked him whether, in geography, 
 he taught that the world is round or that the world is 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 sing the never-to-be-forgotten b-a ba's. 
 They sang them in the OLDEW 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 wink- 
 ing at his sweetheart in time of books, for failing to know his 
 lessons, and for various 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, to^vn-
 
 THE FIDDLE AJJD THE BOW 27 
 
 ball, "Antney-over," bull-pen, and knucks — the hand-to-hand 
 engagements with yellow jackets, the Bunker Hill and Brandy- 
 wine battles with bumblebees, the charges on flocks of geese, and 
 the storming of apple orchards and hornets' nests. Then I wit- 
 nessed the old field school exhibition — the WOiSTDERFUL ex- 
 hibition — they call it commencement now. Did you never wit- 
 ness 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 gTound 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 up- 
 ward till he soared out of sight. It was at the ohl field school 
 exhibition that the fiddle and the bow immortalized themselves. 
 When the frowning old teacher advanced on the stage and 
 nodded for silence, instantly there WAS silence in the vast 
 assembly ; and when the corps of country fiddlers — "one of which 
 I was often whom"seated on the stage, hoisted the black flag 
 and rushed into the dreadful charge on "Old Dan Tucker" or 
 "Arkansas Traveler," the spectacle was sublime. Their heads 
 swung time; their bodies rocked time; their feet patted time; 
 their eyes winked time ; their teeth ground time. The whizzing 
 bows and screaming fiddles electrified the audience, who cheered 
 at every brilliant turn in the charge of the fiddlers. The good 
 women laughed for joy; the men winked at each other and 
 popped their fists; it was like the charge of the Old Guard at 
 Waterloo or a battle with a den of snakes. Upon the comple- 
 tion of the grand overture of the fiddlers, the brilliant pro- 
 gramme of the exhibition, which usually lasted all day, opened 
 with "Mary had a little lamb," and it gathered fury until it 
 reached Patrick Henry's "Give me liberty or give me death!" 
 The programme was interspersed with compositions by the 
 girls, from the simple subject of "Flowers," including "Bless-
 
 28 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ings brighten as they take their flight," up to "Every cloud has 
 a silver lining," and it was interlarded with frequent tunes 
 by the fiddlers from early morn till close of day. 
 
 Did you never hear the old field school orator speak? He 
 was not dressed like a United States Senator, but he was 
 dressed with a view to disrobing for bed and completing his 
 morning toilet instantly, both of which he performed during 
 the acts of ascending and descending the stairs. His uniform 
 was very simple. It consisted of one pair of breeches, rolled 
 up to the knees, with one patch on the western hemisphere ; one 
 little shirt with one button at the top, one gallus, and one in- 
 valid straw hat. His straw hat stood guard over his place on 
 the bench while he v\'as delivering his great speech at the ex- 
 hibition. With great dignity and eclat, the old teacher ad- 
 vanced on the stage and introduced him to the expectant audi- 
 ence, and he came forward like a cyclone. 
 
 "The boy stood on the burnin' deck, Avhence all but him had 
 fled — The flames that lit the battle's wreck shone 'round him 
 o'er the dead — Yet beautiful and bright he stood — The boy 
 stood on the burnin' deck — and he wuz the bravest boy that 
 ever lived. His father told him to keep a-standin' there till he 
 told him to git off'n there, and the boy he jist kep a-standin' 
 there — and fast the flames rolled on. The old man went down 
 stairs in the ship to see about sumpen, and he got killed down 
 there, and the boy he didn' know it, and he jist kep' a-standin' 
 there — and fast the flames rolled on. He cried aloud, 'Say, 
 father, say, if YIT my task is done' — but his father wuz dead 
 and couldn't hear 'im, and the boy he jist kep' a-standin' 
 there! — and fast the flames rolled on. They caught like flag- 
 banners in the sky, and at last the ol' biler busted, an' the boy, 
 he went up!" 
 
 At the close of this great speech the fiddle fainted as dead 
 as a herring. 
 
 THE QUILTING AND THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL. 
 
 The old fiddler took a fresh chew of long, green tobacco and 
 rosined his bow. He glided off into "Hop light, ladies, your 
 cake's all dough," and then I heard the watch-dog's honest bark.
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 29 
 
 I heard the guinea's merry "potrack." I heard a cock crow. I 
 heard the din of happy voices in the "big house," and the sizz 
 and songs of boiling kettles in the kitchen. It was an old-time 
 quilting — the May day of the glorious ginger cake and cider 
 era of the American Kepublic, and the needle was mightier than 
 the sword. The pen of Jefferson announced to the world 
 the birth of the child of the ages; the sword of Washington 
 defended it in its cradle, but it would have perished there had 
 it not been for the brave women of that day who plied the needlo 
 and made the quilts that warmed it, and who nursed it and 
 rocked it through the perils of its infancy into the strength of 
 a giant. The quilt was attached to a quadrangular frame sus- 
 pended from the ceiling, and the good women sat around it and 
 quilted the live-long day, and were courted by the swains be- 
 tween stitches. At sunset the quilt was always finished. A cat 
 was then thrown into the center of it, and the happy maiden 
 nearest to whom the escaping kitty-puss passed was sure to be 
 the first to marry. 
 
 Then followed the groaning supper table, surrounded by 
 giggling girls, bashful young men and gossipy old matrons who 
 monopolized the conversation. There was a warm and animated 
 discussion among the old ladies as to what was the most de- 
 lightful product of the garden. One old lady said that "so fur 
 as she was consarned she preferred the "pertnrnip," another 
 preferred the "pertater," another the "cow-cumber," and still 
 another voted "ingern" king. But suddenly a wise-looking old 
 dame raised her spectacles and settled the whole question by 
 observing: "Ah, ladies, you may talk about your turnips and 
 your taters, and your passnips, and other gyardin sass, but the 
 sweetest wedgetable that ever melted on these old gums o' mine 
 is the 'possum." 
 
 At length the feast was ended, the old folks departed, and 
 the fun and frolic began in earnest at the quilting. Old Uncle 
 Ephraim was an old darkey in the neighborhood, distinguished 
 for calling the figures for all the dances for miles and miles 
 around. He was a tall, raw-boned, angular old darkey, with a 
 very bald head and a great deal of white in his eyes. He had 
 thick, heavy lips and a very flat nose. T will tell you a little 
 story of Uncle "Ephraham." He lived all alone in his cabin, as
 
 30 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
   
 
 many of the old-time darkies lived, and his 'possum dog lived 
 with him. One evening old Uncle "Ephraham" came home from 
 his labors and took his 'possum dog into the woods and soon 
 caught a fine, large, fat 'possum. He brought him home and 
 dressed him, and then he slipped into his master's garden and 
 stole some fine, large, fat sweet potatoes ("master's nigger, mas- 
 ter's taters"), and he washed the potatoes and split them and 
 piled them in the oven around the 'possum. He set the oven 
 on the red-hot coals, and put the lid on and covered it with red- 
 hot coals, and then sat down in the corner and nodded and 
 breathed the sweet aroma of the baking 'possum till it was done. 
 Then he set it out into the middle of the floor and took the lid 
 off, and sat down by the smoking 'possum and soliloquized: 
 "Dat's de fines' job o' bakin' 'possum I ever has done in my 
 life, but dat 'possum's too hot to eat yit. I believes I'll jis' lay 
 down heah by 'im an' take a nap while he's coolin', an' maybe 
 I'll dream about eatin' 'im, an' den I'll git up an' eat 'im, an' 
 I'll git de good uv dat 'possum bofe times dat away." So he 
 lay do\\Ti on the floor, and in a moment he was sleeping as none 
 but the old-time darkey could sleep — as sweetly as a babe in its 
 mother's arms. Old Cye was another old darkey in the neigh- 
 borhood prowling around. He poked his head in at "Ephra- 
 ham's" door ajar and took in the whole situation at a glance. 
 Cye merely remarked to himself, "I loves 'possum myself." 
 And he slipped in on his tiptoes and picked up the 'possum and 
 ate him from tip to tail, and piled the bones down by "Ephra- 
 ham." He ate the sweet potatoes and piled the hulls down by 
 the bones ; then he reached into the oven and got his hand full 
 of 'possum grease and rubbed it on "Ephraham's" lips and 
 cheeks and chin, and then folded his tent and silently stole away. 
 At length "Ephraham" awoke. "Sho' nuf, sho' nuf — jist as I ex- 
 pected ; I dremp about eat'n dat 'possum, an' it was de sweetes' 
 dream I ever has had yit !" He looked around, but empty was 
 the oven — "'possum's gone." "Sho'ly to de Lo'd," said "Ephra- 
 ham," "I nuwah eat dat 'possum while I was a-dreamin' 'bout 
 eat'n 'im." He poked his tongue out. "Yes, dat's 'possum 
 grease sho' — I s'pose I eat dat 'possum while I wuz a-dreamin' 
 'bout eat'n 'im, but ef I did eat "im he sets lighter on my con-
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 3I 
 
 stitutioii and has less influence wid me dan any 'possum I ever 
 has eat in my bawn days!" 
 
 Old Uncle "Ephraham" was present at the country dance 
 in all his glory. He was attired in his master's old claw-hammer 
 coat, a very buff vest; a high standing collar, the corners of 
 which stood out six inches from his face ; striped pantaloons 
 that fitted as tightly as a kid glove, and he wore ISTo. 14 shoes. 
 He looked as though he was born to call the figures of the 
 dance. The fiddler was a young man with long legs, a curv- 
 ing back, and a neck of the crane fashion, embellished with an 
 Adam's apple which made him look as though he had made an 
 unsuccessful effort to swallow his own head. But he was a 
 very important personage at the dance. With great dignity he 
 unwound his bandanna handkerchief from his old fiddle and pro- 
 ceeded to tune for the fray. Did you never hear a country 
 fiddler tune his fiddle ? He tuned, and he tuned, and he tuned. 
 He tuned for fifteen minutes, and it was like a melodious frog 
 pond during a shower of rain. At length Uncle "Ephraham" 
 shouted, "Git yo' pardners for a cow-tillion." The fiddler 
 struck an attitude, and after countless yelps from his eager 
 strings he glided off into that sweet old Southern air of "Old 
 Uncle I^ed," as though he were mauling rails or feeding a 
 threshing machine. Uncle "Ephraham" sang the chorus with 
 the fiddle before he began to call the figures of the dance : 
 
 "Lay down de shovel an' de hoe, hoe, hoe — hang up de fiddle an' de bow, 
 For dar's no mo' work for poor ol' Ned — he's gone whar de good 
 niggers go." 
 
 Then, drawing himself up to his full height, he began: 
 "Honor yo' pardnahs! Swing dem co'ners — swing yo' pard- 
 nahs ! Fust couple forward and back ! Half right an' lef ' fru ! 
 Back agin ! Swing dem co'ners ! Swing yo' pardnahs ! ISTex' 
 couple for'd an' back ! Half right an' lef fru ! Back agin ! 
 Swing dem co'ners ! Swin yo' pardnahs ! Fust couple to de 
 right — lady in de center — ban's all aroun' — suh-wing! ]^ex' 
 couple swing! ISTex' couple suh-wing! Suh-wing, suh-wing!" 
 
 About this time an angry lad, who had been jilted by his 
 sweetheart, shied a fresh egg from without, which struck 
 "Ephraham" square between the eyes, broke and landed on his
 
 32 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 upper lip. Uncle "Ephraham" yelled, "Stop de music — stop 
 de dance— let de whole circumstances ob dis occasion come to a 
 stan'still till I finds out who it is a-scram'lin' eggs aroun' heah !" 
 And then the dancing subsided for the candy-pulling. 
 
 THE CANDY-PULLING. 
 
 The sugar was boiling in the kettles, and while it boiled the 
 boys and girls played "snap," and "eleven hand," and "thim- 
 ble," and "blindfold," and another old play which some of our 
 older people will remember — 
 
 "Oh, Sister Phoebe, how merry were we 
 When we sat under the juniper tree, 
 The juniper tree Hi O." 
 
 And when the sugar had boiled down into candy they 
 emptied it into greased saucers, or, as the mountain folks called 
 them, "greased sassers," and set it out to cool ; and when it had 
 cooled each boy and girl took a saucer and they pulled the taffy 
 out and patted it and rolled it till it hung well together, and 
 then they pulled it out a foot long; they pulled it out a yard 
 long, and they doubled it back, and pulled it out, and looped it 
 over, and pulled it out, and when it began to look like gold the 
 sweethearts paired off and consolidated their taffy and pulled 
 against each other. They pulled it out, and doubled it back, and 
 looped it over, and pulled it out ; and sometimes a peachblow 
 cheek touched a bronzed one and sometimes a sweet little voice 
 spluttered out, "You, Jack," and there was a suspicious smack 
 like a cow pulling her foot out of stiff mud. They pulled the 
 candy and laughed and frolicked; the girls got taffy on their 
 hair, the boys got taffy on their chins; the girls got taffy on 
 their waists, the boys got taffy on their coat sleeves. They pulled 
 it till it was as bright as a moonbeam and then they plaited it 
 and coiled it into fantastic shapes and set it out in the crisp air 
 to cool. Then the courting began in earnest. They did not 
 court then as the young folks court now. The young man led 
 his sweetheart back into a dark corner and sat down by her, and 
 held her hand for an hour and never said a word. But it re- 
 sulted next year in more cabins on the hillsides and in the
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 33 
 
 hollows, and in the years that followed the cabins were full of 
 candy-haired children who grew up into a race of the best, 
 the bravest, and the noblest people the sun in heaven ever shone 
 upon. 
 
 In the bright, bright hereafter, when all the joys of all the 
 ages are gathered up and condensed into globules of transcendent 
 ecstasy, I doubt whether there will be anything half so sweet 
 as w^ere the candy-smeared, ruby lips of the country maidens 
 to the jeans- jacketed swains who tasted them at the candy pull- 
 ing in the happy long ago: 
 
 In the happy long ago, 
 
 When I used to draw the bow 
 
 At the old log cabin hearthstone all aglow. 
 
 Oh, the fiddle laughed and sung, 
 
 And the puncheons fairly rung 
 With the clatter of the shoe soles long ago. 
 
 Oh, the merry swings and whirls 
 
 Of the happy boys and girls 
 
 In the good old-time cotillion long ago. 
 
 Oh, they danced the highland fling, 
 
 And they cut the pigeon wing, 
 To the music of the fiddle and the bow. 
 
 But the mischief and the mirth, 
 
 And the frolics 'round the hearth, 
 
 And the flitting of the shadows to and fro. 
 
 Like a dream, have passed away — 
 
 Now I'm growing old and gray, 
 And I'll soon hang up the fiddle and the bow. 
 
 When a few more notes I've made, 
 
 When a few more tunes I've played, 
 
 I'll be sleeping where the snowy daisies grow, 
 
 But my griefs will all be o'er 
 
 When I reach the happy shore, 
 Where I'll greet the friends who loved me long ago. 
 
 Oh, how sweet, how precious to us all are the memories of 
 the happy long ago ! 
 
 THE BANQUET. 
 
 Let us leave the "eggflip" of the country dance and take a 
 boAvl of eggnog at the banquet. It was a modern banquet for 
 men only. Music flowed, w4ne sparkled, the night was far 
 spent, it was in the wee sma' hours. The banquet was given
 
 34 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 by Col. Pimk, Avho was the promoter of a town boom and who 
 had persuaded the banqueters that there were "millions in it." 
 He had purchased some old sedge fields on the outskirts of 
 creation from an old squatter on the domain of Dixie at three 
 dollars an acre, and had stocked them at three hundred dollars 
 an acre. The old squatter was a partner with the Colonel and, 
 with his part of the boodle nicely done up in his wallet, he was 
 present with buoyant hopes and feelings high. Countless yarns 
 were spun. ISTumberless jokes passed 'round the table until, in 
 the ecstasy of their joy, the banqueters rose from the table and 
 clinked their glasses together and sang in chorus : 
 
 "Landlord, fill the flowing bowl 
 
 Until it doth run over; 
 For tonight we'll merry, merry be — 
 For tonight we'll merry, merry be — 
 
 And tomorrow we'll get sober." 
 
 The whole banquet was drunk (as banquets usually are), 
 and the principal stockholders finally succumbed to the music 
 of "old Kentucky Bourbon," and sank quietly to sleep under 
 the table. The last toast on the program was announced. It 
 was a wonderful toast — "our mineral resources!" The old 
 squatter rose, in his glory, about three o'clock in the morning, 
 to respond to this toast, and thus he responded : 
 
 "Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen of the Banquet: I have 
 never made mineralogy a study, nor zoology, nor geology, nor 
 any other kind of " 'ology," but if tha haint m-i-n-e-r-1 in the 
 deestrick which you gen'lmen have jist purchased from me at 
 sitch magnifercent figers, then the imagination of man is a de- 
 ception and a snare. But, gen'lemen, you caint expect to find 
 m-i-n-e-r-1 without plenty uv diggin'. I have been diggin' thar 
 for the past forty year fur it, and haint never struck it yit. I 
 hope you gen'lmen will find it some time endurin' the next forty 
 year." Here, with winks and blinks and clenched teeth, the 
 old Colonel pulled his coat tail. He was spoiling the town 
 boom, but he would not down. He continued in the same elo- 
 quent strain : "Gen'lmen, you caint expect to find m-i-n-e-r-1 
 without plenty uv diggin'. You caint expect to find JSTOTHIN' 
 in this world 'thout plenty uv diggin'. If old Vanderbilt hadn't 
 a-becn persevering in his perticklor kind o' diggin' whar would
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 35 
 
 he be today? He wouldn't now be a rich man, a-ridin' the 
 billers of old ocean in his magnifercent 'yatchett.' If I hadn't 
 a-been perseverin' an' hadn't a-kep on a-diggin', whar would 
 I have been today? I might have been seated like you, 
 gen'lmen, at this stupendous banquet with my pockets full o' 
 watered stock, and some other old American citizen mout have 
 been deliverin' this eulogy on our m-i-n-e-r-1 resources. Gen'lmen. 
 my injunction to you is never to stop diggin'. And while you're 
 a-diggin', cultivate a love for the beautiful, the true and the 
 good. Speakin' of the true an' the beautiful, gen'lmen, let us 
 not forgit woman at this magnifercent banquet. 0, woman, 
 woman, woman ! When the mornin' stars sung together for joy — 
 and woman — God bless 'er. Great God, feller citerzens, caint 
 you understand!" At the close of this gi-eat speech the curtain 
 fell to slow music and there was a panic in land stocks. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF POLITICS. 
 
 There is music all around us — there is music everywhere. 
 There is no music so sweet to the American ear as the music 
 of politics. There is nothing that heats the zeal of a modem 
 patriot to a whiter heat than the prospect of an office. There 
 is nothing that cools it off so quickly as the fading-out of that 
 prospect. 
 
 I stood on the stump in Tennessee as a candidate for Gov- 
 ernor, and thus I cut my eagle loose: "Fellow Citizens: We 
 live in the grandest country in the world. It stretches from 
 Maine's dark pines and crags of snow to where magnolia 
 breezes blow. It stretches from the Atlantic Ocean on the east 
 to the Pacific Ocean on the west," and an old fellow jumped 
 up in my crowd and threw his hat in the air and shouted, "Let 
 her stretch, durn her; hurrah for the Dimocrat party!" 
 
 An old Dutchman had a beautiful boy of whom he was 
 very proud, and he decided to find out the bent of his mind. 
 He adopted a very novel method by which to test him. He 
 slipped into the little fellow's room one morning and placed 
 on his table a Bible, a bottle of whiskey and a silver dollar. 
 "ISTow," said he, "ven dot boy comes in ef he dakes dot dollar 
 he's goin' to be a beeznis man ; of he dakes dot Bible he'll be a
 
 36 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 breacher ; ef he dakes dot whiskey he's no goot, he's going to be 
 a drunkard." And he hid behind the door to see which his son 
 would choose. In came the boy whistling. He ran up to the 
 table and picked up the dollar and put it into his pocket; he 
 picked up the Bible and put it under his arm; he snatched up 
 the bottle of whiskey and took two or three drinks and went out 
 smacking his lips. The old Dutchman poked his head out from 
 behind the door and exclaimed, "Mein Gott, he's goin' to be a 
 bolitician." 
 
 There is no music like the music of political discussion. 1 
 have heard almost a thousand political discussions. I heard 
 the gTeat debate between Blaine and Ben Hill; I heard the 
 angry colloquies between Roscoe Conklin and Lamar; I have 
 heard them on down to the humblest in the land. But I pre- 
 fer to give you a scrap of one which occurred in my own native 
 mountains. It was a race for the Legislature in a mountain 
 county between a straight Democrat and a straight Kepub- 
 lican. The mountaineers had gathered at the county site to 
 witness the great debate. The Eepublican spoke first. He was 
 about six feet two in his socks, as slim as a bean pole, with a 
 head about the size of an ordinary tin cup and very bald, and 
 he lisped. Webster in all his glory in the United States Senate 
 never appeared half so gTeat or half so wise. Thus he opened 
 the debate : 
 
 "F-e-1-l-o-w T-h-i-t-h-i-t-h-e-n-s : I come befo' you today ath 
 a Republikin candidate for to reprethent you in the lower 
 branth of the Legithlature, and, fellow thitithens, ef I thould 
 thay thumpthin' conthernin' my own carreckter I hope you will 
 excuthe me. I sprung from one of the 'umblest cabins in all 
 this lovely land uv thweet liberty and many a mornin' I have 
 jumped out o' my little trundle bed on to the puncheon floor 
 and pulled the thplintertli and the bark off uv the wall of our 
 'umble cabin for to make a fire for my weakly parenth. Fel- 
 low thitithens, I never had no chance. All that I am today I 
 owe to my own exerthions, and that ain't all. When the cloud 
 of war thwept like a bethom uv dethructhion over thith land uv 
 thweet liberty, me and my connecthion thouldered our muthkets 
 and marched forth on the bloody field of battle to fight for
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 37 
 
 your thweet liberty! Fellow thitithens, ef you can trust me 
 in the capathity uv a tholdier, caint you trutht me in the 
 capathity uv the Legithlature ? I ath my ol' Dimicrat com- 
 petitor fur to tell you "whar he wuth when war thuck thith 
 continent from its thenter to its thircumpus ! I have put thith 
 quethion to him on every stump and he's as thilent as an oyther. 
 Fellow thithithens, I am a Republican from principle. I be- 
 lieve in everything the Republican party hath ever done and 
 everything it ever expects to do. Fellow thitithens, I am in 
 favor of a high protective tariff for the protection of our infant 
 industries, which are only a hundred years old, and, fellow 
 thitithens, I am in favor of paying of a pension to every soldier 
 that fit in the Federal army while he lives, and after he's dead 
 I'm in favor of payin' of it to his executor or his adminis- 
 trator!" 
 
 He took his seat amid great applause on the Republican 
 side of the house, and the old Democrat, who was a much older 
 man, came forward like a roaring lion to join issue in the 
 great debate, and thus he "joined" : 
 
 Feller Citerzens: I come afore you as a Dimicrat cander- 
 date for to ripresent you in the lower branch of the house of 
 the Ligislater, an' fust an' fomust hit it becomes my duty fer 
 to tell you whar I stand on the great questons which is now 
 a-agitatin' of the public mind! Fust an' fomust, feller citer- 
 zerns, I am a Dimicrat, inside an' out, up one side an' down 
 tother, independent, defatigally. My competitor axes me whar 
 I wuz endurin' the war. Hit's none of his bizness whar I wuz. 
 He sez he wuz a-fightin' fer yore sweet liberty. If he didn't 
 have no more sense than to stan' before them thar drotted bung- 
 shells an' cannin that's his bizness, an' hit's my bizness whar 
 I wuz. Feller citerzens, I think I've answered him on that 
 pint. 'Row, feller citerzens, I'll tell you what I'm fur. I am 
 in favor of payin' off this here drotted tariff an' stoppin' it, 
 an' I am in favor of coUectin' jist enough of rivenue for to 
 run the Government economical administered, accordin' to Andy 
 Jackson an' the Dimicrat flatform. My competitor never told 
 you that he got wounded endurin' of the war. Whar did he 
 git hit at? That's the pint in this canvass. He got it in the
 
 38 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 back a-leadin' of the revance guard on the retreat — that's whar 
 he got it," This charge precipitated a personal encounter be- 
 tween the candidates and the meeting broke up in a general 
 battle with brackbats and tanbark flying in the air. 
 
 It would be difficult for those reared amid the elegancies and 
 refinements of life in city and town to appreciate the enjoy- 
 ments of the gatherings and merrymakings of the great masses 
 of the people who live in the rural districts of our country. The 
 historian records the deeds of the great; he consigns to fame 
 the favored few but leaves unwritten the "short and simple an- 
 nals of the poor," the lives and actions of the millions. The 
 modern millionaire, as he sweeps through our valleys and around 
 our hills in his palace car, ought not to look with derision on the 
 cabins of America, for from their thresholds have come more 
 brains, and courage, and true greatness than ever emanated from 
 all the palaces in this world. The fiddle, the rifle, the ax and 
 the Bible, the palladium of American liberty, symbolizing music, 
 prowess, labor, and free religion, the four grand forces of our 
 civilization, were the trusty friends and faithful allies of our 
 pioneer ancestry in subduing the wilderness and erecting the 
 great commonwealths of the Republic. Wherever a son of 
 freedom pushed his perilous way into the savage wilds and 
 erected his log cabin, these were the cherished penates of his 
 humble domicile — the rifle in the rack above the door, the ax 
 in the corner, the Bible on the table, and the fiddle, w^ith its 
 streamers of ribbon, hanging on the wall. Did he need the 
 charm of music to cheer his heart, to scatter sunshine and drive 
 away melancholy thoughts ? He touched the responsive strings of 
 his fiddle and it burst into laughter. Was he beset by skulking 
 savages or prowling beasts of prey ? He rushed to his deadly rifle 
 for protection and relief. Had he the forest to fell and the 
 fields to clear? His trusty ax was in his stalwart grasp. Did he 
 need the consolation, the promises and precepts of religion to 
 strengthen his faith, to brighten his hope and to anchor his soul 
 to God and heaven ? He held sweet communion with the dear 
 old Bible. 
 
 The glory and streng-th of the Republic today are jts plain 
 working people.
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 39 
 
 "Princes and lords may flourish and may fade; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made, 
 But an honest yeomanry — a country's pride, 
 When once destroyed can never be supplied." 
 
 Long live the common people of America. Long live the 
 Fiddle and the Bow, the symbols of their mirth and merriment. 
 
 THE TWO COLUMNS. 
 
 Music leads and wooes the human race ever onward, and 
 there are two columns that follow her. One is the happy column, 
 ringing with laughter and song. Its line of march is strewn 
 with roses. It is hedged on either side by happy homes and 
 smiling faces. The other is the column of sorrow, moaning with 
 suffering and distress. I saw an aged mother with her white 
 locks and wrinkled face swoon at the Governor's feet; I saw 
 old men tottering on the staff with broken hearts and tear- 
 stained faces, and I heard them plead for their wayward boys ; 
 I saw a wife and seven children, clad in rags and barefooted, in 
 midwinter, fall upon their knees around him who held the par- 
 doning power ; I saw a little girl climb upon the Governor's knee 
 and put her arms around his neck ; I heard her ask him if he had 
 little girls; then I saw her sob upon his bosom as though her 
 little heart would break and heard her plead for mercy for her 
 poor, miserable, wretched convict father. I saw want and woe 
 and poverty and trouble and distress and suffering and agony 
 and anguish march in solemn procession before the Guberna- 
 torial door, and I said, "Let the critics frown and rail, let this 
 heartless Avorld condemn, but he who hath power and doth not 
 temper justice with mercy will cry in vain himself for mercy 
 on that great day when the two columns shall meet. For, thank 
 God, the stream of happy humanity that rolls on like a gleaming 
 river, and the stream of the suffering and distressed and ruined 
 of this earth, both empty into the same great ocean of eternity 
 and mingle like the waters, and there is a God who shall judge 
 the merciful and the unmerciful."
 
 46 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 THERE IS A MELODY FOR EVERY EAR. 
 
 The multitudinous harmonies of this world differ in pathos 
 and pitch as the stars differ one from another in glory. There 
 is a style for every taste, a melody for every ear. The gabble 
 of geese is music to the goose. The hoot of the hoot-owl is love- 
 lier to his mate than the nightingale's lay. The concert of 
 Signor "Tomasso Cataline" and Mademoiselle "Pussy" awak- 
 eneth the growling old bachelor from his dreams and he throweth 
 his bouquets of bootjacks and superannuated footgear. The 
 peripatetic gentleman from Italy asks no loftier strain than the 
 tune of his hand organ and the jingle of the nickels, "the tribute 
 of the Caesars." The downy-lipped boy counts the explosion of 
 a kiss on the cheek of his darling "Dulcinea del Toboso'' 
 sweeter than an echo from paradise ; and it is said that older 
 folks like its music. The tintinnabulations of the wife's curtain 
 lecture are too precious to the enraptured husband to be shared 
 with other ears. And in the hush of the bedtime hour, when 
 tired daddies are seeking repose in the oblivion of sleep, the un- 
 earthly "bangs" on the grand piano below in the parlor, and 
 the unearthly screams and yells of the budding prima donna, as 
 she sings to her admiring beau: 
 
 "Men may come, and men may go, 
 But I go on forever — evoor — evoor-r-r-r — 
 I go on for evoor — evoor."' 
 
 It is a thing of beauty and a "nightmare" forever. 
 
 MUSIC IS THE WINE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 Music is the wine of the soul. It is the exhilaration of the 
 palace; it is the joy of the humblest home; it sparkles and 
 glows in the banquet hall; it is the inspiration of the church. 
 Music inspires every gradation of himianity, from the orang- 
 outang and the cane-sucking dude with the single eyeglass up 
 to MAN. 
 
 There was a "sound of revelry by night," where youth and 
 beauty were gathered in the excitement of the raging ball. The 
 ravishing music of the orchestra charmed from the street a red- 
 nosed old knight of the demijohn, and, uninvited, he staggered
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 4I 
 
 into the brilliant assemblage and made an effort to get a partner 
 for the next set. Failing in this, he concluded to exhibit his 
 powers as a dancer, and galloped around the hall till he gal- 
 loped into the arms of a strong man who quickly ushered him 
 to the head of the stairs and gave him a kick and a push. He 
 went revolving down to the street below and fell flat of his back 
 in the mud, but "truth crushed to earth wall rise again" ! He 
 rose, and, standing with his back against a lamp-post, he looked 
 up into the faces that were gazing down and said, in an injured 
 tone: "Gentlemen — hie — you may be able to fool some folks, 
 but — hie — ^you can't fool me — hie. I know what made you 
 kick me down them stairs — ^hic, hie. You don't want me up 
 there — that's the reason !" So, life hath its discords as well as 
 its harmonies. 
 
 There was music in the magnificent parlor of a modern Ches- 
 terfield. It was thronged with elegant ladies and gentlemen. 
 The daughter of the happy household was playing and singing 
 Verdi's "Ah, I Have Sighed to Rest Me," the fond mother was 
 turning the pages, the loving father was sighing and resting 
 upstairs, in a state of innocuous desuetude, produced by the 
 music of old Kentucky Bourbon but he could not withstand the 
 power of the melody below. Quickly he donned his clothing. 
 He put his vest on over his coat, put his collar on backside fore- 
 most, buttoned the lower buttonhole of his coat on the top but- 
 ton, stood before the mirror and arranged his hair, and started 
 down to see the ladies and listen to the music. But he stumped 
 his toe at the top of the stairs, and slid do^vn headforemost and 
 turned a somersault into the midst of the astonished ladies. The 
 ladies screamed and helped him to his feet, all crying at once, 
 "Are you hurt, Mr. ^Rickety' — are you hurt ?" Standing with 
 his back against the piano he exclaimed in an assuring tone: 
 "Why — hie — of course not, ladies. Go on with yo' music — hie 
 — that's the way I always come down!" 
 
 Two old banqueters banqueted at a banquet. They ban- 
 queted all night long and kept the banquet up together all the 
 next day after the banquet had ended. They kept up their ban- 
 quet a week after the banquet was over. But they got sep- 
 arated one morning and met again in the afternoon. One of 
 them said, "Good mornin'." The other said, "Good evenin'." 
 
 (3)
 
 42 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 "Why," said one, "It's morning and that's the snn; I've inves- 
 tigated the question." "'No sir-ee," said the other, "you're 
 mistaken, it's late in the evenin, and that's the full moon." They 
 concluded they would have no difficulty about the matter and 
 agreed to leave it to the first gentleman they came to, to settle 
 the question. They locked arms and started down the street 
 together. They staggered on till they came upon another gen- 
 tleman in the same condition hanging on a lamp-post. One of 
 them approached him and said : "Friend — hie — we don't desire 
 to interfere with your meditation — hie — but this gen'lmen says 
 it's mornin', an' that's the sun ; I say it's evenin', that's the full 
 moon — hie. We respectfully ask you — hie — to settle the ques- 
 tion." The fellow stood and looked at it for a full minute, and 
 in his despair replied, "Gentlemen, you'll have to excuse me — 
 hie — I'm a stranger in this town." 
 
 THE OLD-TIME SINGING SCHOOL. 
 
 Did you never hear the music of the old-time singing school ? 
 Oh, who can forget the old schoolhouse that stood on the hill? 
 Who can forget the sweet little maidens with their pink sun- 
 bonnets and checkered dresses — the walks to the spring and the 
 drinks of pure cold water from the gourd ? Who can forget the 
 old-time courtships at the singing school ? When the boy found 
 an opportunity he wrote these tender lines to his sweetheart : 
 
 "The rose is red, the violet's blue — 
 Sugar is sweet, and so are you." 
 
 She read it and blushed, and turned it over and wrote on 
 the back of it: 
 
 "As sure as the vine clings 'round the stump, 
 I'll be your sweet little sugar lump." 
 
 Who can forget the old-time singing master ? The old-time 
 singing master, with very light hair, a dyed mustache, a wart on 
 his left eyelid, and one game leg, was the pride of rural society. 
 He was the envy of man and the idol of woman. His baggy 
 trousers, several inches too short, hung above his toes like the
 
 THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW 43 
 
 inverted funnels of a Cunard steamer. His butternut coat had 
 the abbreviated appearance of having been cut in deep water, 
 and its collar encircled the back of his head like the belts of 
 Jupiter and the rings of Saturn. His vest resembled the aurora 
 borealis, and his voice was a cross between a cane mill and the 
 braj of an ass. Yet beautiful and bright he stood before the 
 ruddy-faced swains and rose-cheeked lassies of the country, 
 conscious of his charms and proud of his great ability. He had 
 prepared, after a long and tedious research of Webster's Un- 
 abridged Dictionary, a speech which he always delivered to his 
 class. 
 
 "Boys and girls," he would say, "Music is a conglomera- 
 tion of pleasing sounds, or a succession or combination of 
 simultaneous sounds, modulated in accordance with harmony. 
 Harmony is the sociability of two or more musical strains. 
 Melody denotes the pleasing combustion of musical and meas- 
 ured sounds as they succeed each other in transit. The ele- 
 ments of vocal music consist of seven original tones, which 
 constitute the diatonic scale, together with its steps and half- 
 steps, the whole being compromised in ascending notes and half 
 notes, thus: 
 
 "Do-ra-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do, 
 Do-si-la-sol-fa-mi-ra-do." 
 
 "!N"ow, the diapason is the ad interium, or interval betwixt 
 and between the extremes of an octavo, according to the dia- 
 tonic scale. The turns of music consist of the appogeaturas, 
 which is the principal note, or that on which the turn is made, 
 together with the note above and the semi-tone below — the note 
 above being sounded first, the principal note next, and the semi- 
 tone below last — the three being performed sticatoly, or very 
 quickly. 'Now, if you will keep these simple propersitions clear 
 in your physical minds, there is no power under the broad 
 canister of heaven which can prevent you from becoming suc- 
 cinctly contaminated with the primary and elementary rudi- 
 ments of music. With these few sanguinary remarks we will 
 now proceed to diagnosticate the exercises of the mornin' hour. 
 Please turn to page thirty-four of the Southern Harmony. 
 (And we turned.) You will discover that this beautiful piece
 
 44 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 of music is written in four-four time, beginning on the down- 
 ward beat. I^ow, take the sound — sol-mi-do. All in unison — 
 one, two, three, sing: 
 
 "Sol-soI-mi-fa-sol-Ia-sol-fa-ra-ra-ra, 
 Ra-mi-f a- ra-mi- fa-sol- fa-mi-do-do-do, 
 Si-do-ra-ra-ra-ra-mi-do-si-do-ra-do-si-la-sol, 
 Si-do-ra-ra-mi-fa-sol-la-sol-fa-mi-do-do-do." 
 
 THE GKAND OPERA. 
 
 I heard a great Italian tenor sing in the grand opera, and 
 O how like the dew on the flowers is the memory of his song. 
 He was playing the role of a broken-hearted lover in the opera 
 of the "Bohemian Girl." I can only repeat it as it impressed 
 me, an humble young man from the mountains who never before 
 had heard the grand opera : 
 
 "When othaer leeps and othaer hairts 
 
 Their tales of luflF shoU tell, 
 In longwige whose excess impairts 
 
 The power they feel so well. 
 There may, perchance, in such a scene, 
 
 Some r-r-r-re-co-lec-tion be 
 Auf days thot halve os hop-pee bean — 
 
 Then you'll re-mem-b-a-e-r me-e-e-e-e — 
 Then you'll re-mem-ba-e-r — 
 You'll r-r-r-re-mem-b-a-e-r-r-r-r me-e-e-e-e." 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 The spirit of music, like an archangel, presides over mankind 
 and the visible creation. Her afflatus, divinely sweet, divinely 
 powerful, is breathed on every human heart, and inspires every 
 soul to some nobler sentiment, some higher thought, some 
 greater action. 
 
 O music! Sweetest, sublimest ideal of omniscience — first- 
 born of God — fairest and loftiest seraph of the celestial hier- 
 archy, muse of the beautiful — daughter of the Universe ! 
 
 In the morning of eternity, when the stars were young, her 
 first grand oratorio burst upon raptured Deity and thrilled the 
 wondering angels. All heaven shouted. Ten thousand times 
 ten thousand jeweled harps, ten thousand times ten thousand
 
 THE FIDDLE A,ND THE BOW 45 
 
 angel tongues caught up the song, and ever since, through all 
 the golden cycles, its breathing melodies, old as eternity yet ever 
 new as the flitting hours, have floated on the air of heaven, lin- 
 gering like the incense of its flowers on plumed hill and shining 
 vale, empurpled in the shadow of the eternal throne. 
 
 The seraph stood with outstretched wings on the horizon of 
 heaven clothed in light, ablaze with gems and, with voice 
 attuned, swept her burning harpstrings, and lo, the blue infinite 
 thrilled with her sweetest note. The trembling stars heard it 
 and flashed their joy from every flaming center. The wheeling 
 orbs that course the crystal paths of space were vibrant with 
 the strain and pealed it back into the glad ear of God. The far- 
 off milky way, bright gulf stream of astral glories, spanning the 
 ethereal deep, resounded with its harmonies, and the star-dust 
 isles, floating in that river of opal, re-echoed the happy chorus 
 from every sparkling strand.
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS
 
 i
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 
 
 MAN^S FIRST ESTATE. 
 
 Have you ever thought of the wealth that perished when 
 Paradise was lost? Have you ever thought of the glory of 
 Eden, the first estate of man ? I think it was the very dream 
 of God, glowing wath ineffable beauty. I think it was rimmed 
 with blue mountains, from whose moss-covered cliffs leaped a 
 thousand glassy streams that spread out in midair, like bridal 
 veils, kissing a thousand rainbows from the sun. I think it 
 was an archipelago of gorgeous colors, flecked with gi*een isles, 
 where the grape-vine staggered from tree to tree as if drunk 
 with the wine of its own purple clusters — where peach and plum 
 and blood-red cherries and every kind of berry bent bough 
 and bush and shone like showered drops of ruby and of pearl. 
 I think it was a wilderness of flowers redolent of eternal spring 
 and pulsing with bird-song, where dappled fawns played on 
 banks of violets, where leopards, peaceful and tame, lounged in 
 copses of magnolias; where harmless tigers lay on snowy beds 
 of lilies, and lions, lazy and gentle, panted in jungles of roses. 
 I think its billowy landscapes were festooned with tangling 
 creepers, bright with perennial bloom and curtained with sweet- 
 scented groves; where the orange and the pomegranate hung 
 like golden globes and ruddy moons. I think its air was softened 
 with the dreamy haze of perpetual summer, and through its 
 midst there flowed a translucent river, alternately gleaming in 
 its sunshine and darkening in its shadows. And there, in some 
 sweet, dusky bower, fresh from the hand of his Creator, slept 
 Adam, the first of the human race, God-like in form and feature. 
 God-like in all the attributes of mind and soul. 'No monarch 
 ever slept on softer, sweeter couch, with richer curtains drawn 
 about him. And as he slept, a face and form, half -hidden, half- 
 revealed, red-lipped, rose-cheeked, white-bosomed, and with 
 tresses of gold, smiled like an angel from the mirror of his 
 dream ; for a moment smiled and so sweetly that his heart almost 
 forgot to beat. And while yet this bright vision still haunted 
 his slumber, with tenderest touch an unseen hand lay open the
 
 50 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 unconscious flesh in his side and forth from the painless wound 
 a faultless being sprang, a being pure and blithesome as the air, 
 a sinless woman, God's first thought for the happiness of man, 
 T think he wooed her at the waking of the morning. I think he 
 wooed her at noontide, down bj the river side or by the spring 
 in the dell. I think he Avooed her at twilight when the moon 
 silvered the palm tree's feathery plumes and the stars looked 
 down and the nightingale sang. And wherever he wooed her I 
 think the grazing herds left sloping hill and peaceful vale to 
 listen to the wooing, and thence, themselves, departed in pairs. 
 The covies heard it and mated in the fields ; the quail wooed his 
 love in the wheat; the robin whistled to his love in the glen: 
 
 "The lark was so brimful of gladness and love, 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky above. 
 That he sang, and he sang, and forever sang he: 
 I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 
 
 Love songs bubbled from the mellow throats of mocking 
 birds and bobolinks; dove cooed love to dove, and I think the 
 maiden monkey, fair "Juliet" of the house of Orangoutang, 
 waited on her cocoanut balcony for the coming of her "Romeo," 
 and thus plaintively sang: 
 
 "My sweetheart's the lovely Baboon — 
 I'm going to marry him soon ; 
 'Twould fill me with joy 
 Just to kiss the dear boy. 
 For his charms and his beauty 
 "I'll sit in the light of the moon, 
 No power can destroy. 
 
 And sing to my darling Baboon, 
 
 When I'm safe by his side 
 
 And he calls me his bride — 
 Oh, my Angel, my precious Baboon." 
 
 All Paradise was imbued with the spirit of love. O that 
 it could have remained so forever! There was not a painted 
 cheek in Eden, nor a bald head, nor a false tooth, nor a bach- 
 elor. There was not a flounce, nor a frill, nor a silken gown, 
 nor a flashy waist with aurora borealis sleeves. There was not 
 a curl paper, nor even a threat of crinoline. Raiment was an 
 afterthought, the mask of a tainted soul born of original sin.
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 5 1 
 
 Beauty was unmarred by gaudy rags; Eve was dressed in sun- 
 shine, Adam was clad in climate. Every rich blessing within 
 the gift of the Almighty Father was poured out from the cornu- 
 copia of heaven into the lap of Paradise. But it was a paradise 
 of fools, because they stained it with disobedience and polluted 
 it with sin. It was the Paradise of Fools because, in the exer- 
 cise of their own God-given free agency, they tasted the for- 
 bidden fruit and fell from their glorious estate. O, what a fall 
 was there ! It was the fall of innocence and purity ; it was the 
 fall of happiness into the abyss of woe; it was the fall of life 
 into the arms of death. It was like the fall of the wounded alba- 
 tross, from the regions of light into the sea ; it was like the fall 
 of a star from heaven to hell. When the jasper gate forever 
 closed behind the guilty pair, and the flaming sword of the 
 Lord mounted guard over the barred portal, the whole life- 
 current of the human race was shifted into another channel, 
 shifted from the roses to the thorns, shifted from joy to sorrow ; 
 and it bore upon its dark and turbulent bosom the wrecked hopes 
 of all the ages. 
 
 I believe they lost intellectual powers which fallen man has 
 never regained. Operating by the consent of natural laws, 
 sinless man would have wrought endless miracles. The mind, 
 winged like a seraph and armed like a thunderbolt, would have 
 breached the very citadel of knowledge and robbed it of its 
 treasures. I think they lost a plane of being only a little lower 
 than the angels ; I believe they lost youth, beauty and physical 
 immortality; I believe they lost the virtues of heart and soul 
 and many of the magnificent powers of mind which made them 
 the images of God, and which would have even brushed aside 
 the now impenetrable veil which hides from mortal eyes the 
 face of Infinite Love, that love which gave the ever-blessed light 
 and filled the earth with music of bird and breeze and sea ; that 
 love whose melodies we sometimes faintly catch, like spirit 
 voices, from the souls of orators and poets; that love which 
 inlaid the arching firmament of heaven with jewels sparkling 
 with eternal fires. 
 
 But, thank God, their fall was not like the remediless fall 
 of Lucifer and his angels, into eternal darkness. Thank God, 
 in this "night of death," hope does see a star. It is the star of
 
 52 LECTURES OF ROBERT L, TAYLOR 
 
 BetMehem. Thank God, "listening love" DOES "hear the 
 rustle of a wing." It is the wing of the resurrection angel. 
 
 The memories and images of Paradise Lost have been im- 
 pressed on every human heart, and every individual of the race 
 has his own ideal of that paradise, from the cradle to the gTave. 
 But that ideal, in so far as its realization in this world is con- 
 cerned, is like the rainbow, an elusive phantom, ever in sight, 
 never in reach, resting ever on the horizon of hope. 
 
 THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD, 
 
 I saw a blue-eyed child, with sunny curls, toddling on the 
 lawn before the door of a happy home. He toddled under the 
 trees, prattling to the birds and playing with the ripening apples 
 that fell upon the ground. He toddled among the roses and 
 plucked their leaves as he would have plucked an angel's wing, 
 strewing their glory upon the green grass at his feet. He chased 
 the butterflies from flower to flower and shouted with glee as 
 they eluded his grasp and sailed away on the summer air. Here 
 I thought his childish fancy had built a paradise and peopled it 
 with dainty seraphim and made himself its Adam. He saw the 
 sunshine of Eden glint on every leaf and beam in every petal. 
 The flitting honeybee, the wheeling junebug,the fluttering breeze, 
 the silvery pulse-beat of the dashing brook sounded in his ear 
 notes of its swelling music. The iris-winged humming bird, 
 darting like a sunbeam to kiss the pouting lips of the upturned 
 flowers was, to him, the impersonation of its beauty, and I said. 
 "Truly, this is the nearest approach in this world to the Paradise 
 of long ago." Then I saw him skulking like a cupid in the 
 shrubbery, his skirts bedraggled and soiled, his face downcast 
 Avith guilt. He had stirred up the Mediterranean Sea in the 
 slop bucket and waded the Atlantic Ocean in a mudpuddle. He 
 had capsized the goslings and shipwrecked the young ducks 
 and drowned the kitten, which he imagined a whale, and I said. 
 "There is the original Adam coming to the surface." "Lo'd 
 bless my soul, jis look at dat chile !" shouted his dusky old nurse, 
 as she lifted him, dripping, from the reeking pond. "What's 
 you bin doin' in dat mudpuddle? Look at dat face an' dem 
 hands an' close all kivered wid mud an' mulberry juice! You
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 53 
 
 I 
 
 bettah not let yo' mammy see you while you's in dat fix ! You'a 
 gwine to ketch it sho' ! You's jis' zackly like yo' fader, allers 
 gittin' into some scrape or nuddah — allers breakin' into some 
 kin' uv devilment — gwine to break into Congrus some o' dese 
 days sho'. Come along wid me dis instinct to de bafftub — I's 
 a-gwine to dispurgate dem close an' 'lucidate some uv dat duyat 
 off'n dat face uv yone, you trifling rascal, you." And so saying, 
 she carried him away, kicking and screaming like a young sav- 
 age in open rebellion, and I said, "There is some more of the 
 original Adam." Then I saw him come forth again, washed 
 and combed and dressed in spotless white, like a young butterfly 
 fresh from its chrysalis. And when he got a chance I saw him 
 slip on his tiptoes into the pantry — 
 
 I heard the clink of glassware, 
 As if a mouse were playing there, 
 
 among the jam pots and preserves. There two little dimpled 
 hands made trip after trip to a rose-colored mouth, bearing 
 burdens of mingling sweets that dripped from cheek and chin 
 and waist and shoes and skirt, subduing the snowy white with 
 the amber of the peach and the purple of the raspberry as he ate 
 the forbidden fruit. Then I watched him glide into the draw- 
 ing-room, there was a crash and a thud in there which quickly 
 brought his frightened mother to the scene only to find the young 
 rascal standing there catching his breath, while streams of cold 
 ink trickled down his drenched bosom, and as he wiped his 
 inky face, which grew blacker with every wipe, the remainder 
 of the ink was pouring from the bottle onto the carpet and 
 making a map of darkest Africa. Then the rear of a small skirt 
 went up over a curly head and the avenging slipper, in lightning 
 strokes, kept time to the music in the air, and I said, "There is 
 Paradise Lost." The sympathizing, half -angry old nurse bore 
 her weeping, sobbing charge to the nursery and there bound up 
 his broken heart and soothed him to sleep with her old-time 
 lullaby : 
 
 "Oh, don't you cry, little baby — Oh, don't you cry no mo', 
 For it hurts ole mammy's feelin's fo' to hear you weepin' so — 
 Why don't dey keep temptation frum de littul ban's an' feet — 
 What makes 'em 'buse de baby case de jam an' zarves am sweet?
 
 54 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 "Oh, de sorrow, tribulations, dat de joys of mortals break — 
 Oh it's heb'n when we slumber — it's trouble when we wake. 
 
 "Oh, go to sleep, my darlin' — now close dem little eyes 
 An' dream ov de shinin' angels an' de blessed Paradise; 
 Oh, dream ov de blood-red roses an' de birds on snowy wing; 
 Oh, dream ov de fallin' wautahs an' de never-endin' spring. 
 
 "Oh, de roses — Oh, de rainbows — Oh, de music's gentle swell, 
 In de dreamland ov little childun, whar de blessed sperrits dwell." 
 
 "Dar now, dar now, he's gone. Bless its little heart, dej 
 treats it like a dog!" And then she tucked him away in the 
 paradise of his childish slumber. The day will come when the 
 South will build a monument to the good old black mammy of 
 the past for the lullabies she has sung. 
 
 I sometimes wish that childhood might last forever; that 
 sweet fairyland on the frontier of life whose skies are first 
 lighted with the sunrise of the soul and in whose bright-tinted 
 jungles the lions and leopards and tigers of passion still peace- 
 fully sleep. The world is disarmed by its innocence, the drawn 
 bow is relaxed, and the arrow is returned to its quiver ; the aegis 
 of heaven is above it, the outstretched wings of mercy, pity, and 
 measureless love. 
 
 PAEADISE OF THE BAREFOOTED BOY. 
 
 I would rather be a barefooted boy, with cheeks of tan and 
 heart of joy, than to be a millionaire and president of a IsTational 
 bank. The financial panic that falls like a thunderbolt wrecks 
 the bank, crushes the banker and swamps thousands in an hour, 
 but the bank which holds the treasures of the barefooted boy 
 never breaks. With his satchel and his books he hies away to 
 school in the morning, but his truant feet carry him the other 
 v.-ay to the mill pond "a-fishin'." And there he sits the livelong 
 day under the shade of the tree, with sapling pole and pinhook 
 and fishes and fishes and fishes, and waits for a nibble of the 
 drowsy sucker that sleeps on his oozy bed, oblivious of the bate- 
 less hook from which he has long since stolen the worm. There 
 he sits and fishes and fishes and fishes, and, like Micawber, 
 waits for something to "turn up." But nothing "turns up" 
 until the shadows of evening fall and warn the truant home.
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 55 
 
 where he is welcomed with a dogwood sprout. Then something 
 does turn up. He obeys the call of the Sunday school bell and 
 goes with solemn face, but e'er the "sweet bye and bye" has 
 died away on the summer air he is in the woodshed playing 
 Sullivan and Corbett with some plucky comrade with the in- 
 evitable casualties of one closed eye, one crippled nose, one pair 
 of torn breeches and one bloody toe. He takes a back seat at 
 church and in the midst of the sermon steals away and hides 
 in the barn to smoke cigarettes and read the story of "One-eyed 
 Pete, the hero of the wild and woolly West." There is eternal 
 war between the barefooted boy and the whole civilized world. 
 He shoots the cook with a blow gun, he cuts the strings of the 
 hammock and lets his dozing grandmother fall to the ground, 
 he loads his grandfather's pipe with powder, he instigates a 
 fight between the cat and the dog during family prayers and 
 explodes with laughter when "pussy" seeks refuge on the old 
 man's back, he hides in the alley and turns the hose on Uncle 
 Ephraim's standing collar as he passes on his way to church; 
 he cracks chestnut burrs with his naked heel ; he robs birds' 
 nests and murders bullfrogs and plays knucks and baseball; 
 he puts assafoetida in the soup and conceals lizards in his 
 father's hat; he overwhelms the family circle with his mag- 
 nificent literarv attainments when he reads from the Bible in 
 what he calls tlie "paslams of David," "Praise ye the Lord with 
 the pizeltry and the harp." 
 
 His father took him to town one day and said to him : "!^^ow, 
 John, I want you to stay here on the corner with the wagon 
 and watch these potatoes while I go round the square and see 
 if I can sell them. Don't open your mouth, sir, while I am 
 gone; I'm afraid people will think you're a fool." While the 
 old man w^as gone the merchant came out and said to John: 
 "What are those potatoes worth, my son ?" John looked at him 
 and grinned. "What are those potatoes worth, I say?" asked 
 the merchant. John still looked at him and grinned. The mer- 
 chant turned his heel and said, "You're a fool," and went back 
 into his store. When the old man returned John shouted, "Pap, 
 they found it out and I never said a word." 
 
 His life is an endless chain of pranks and pleasures. Look 
 how the brawling brook pours do^vn the steep declivities of the
 
 56 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 mountain gorge. Here it breaks into purls and silvery foam, 
 there it dashes in rapids, among brown boulders, and yonder it 
 tumbles from the gray crest of a precipice. Thus, forever laugh- 
 ing, singing, rollicking, romping, till it is checked in its mad 
 rush and spreads into a still, smooth mirror, reflecting the in- 
 verted images of rock and fern and wild flower and tree and 
 sky. It is the symbol of the life of a barefoot 3d boy. His 
 quips and cranks, his whims and jollities and jocund mischief 
 are but the effervescences of exuberant young life, the wild 
 music of the mountain stream. 
 
 If I were a sculptor I would chisel from the marble my 
 ideal of the monumental fool. I would make it the figure of a 
 man with knitted brow and clenched teeth beating and bruising 
 his barefooted boy in the cruel endeavor to drive him from the 
 paradise of his childish fun and folly. If your boy will be a 
 boy, let him be a boy still, and remember that he is following 
 the paths which your feet have trodden, and will soon look back 
 upon its precious memories, as you now do, with the aching 
 heart of a careworn man. 
 
 "Oh, I love the dear old farm, and my heart grows young and warm 
 
 When I wander back to spend a single day. 
 There to hear the robins sing in the trees around the spring 
 
 Where I used to watch the happy children play. 
 Oh, I hear their voices yet, and I never shall forget 
 
 How their faces beamed with childish mirth and glee; 
 But my heart grows old again, and I leave the spot in pain, 
 
 When I call them and no answer comes to me." 
 
 THE PARADISE OF YOUTH. 
 
 If childhood is the sunrise of life, youth is the heyday of 
 life's ruddy June. It is the sweet solstice in life's early Sum- 
 mer, which puts forth the fragrant bud and blossom of sin e'er 
 its bitter fruits ripen and turn to ashes on the lips of age. It 
 is the hajDpy transition period, when long legs and loose joints 
 and verdant awkwardness first stumble on the vestibule of man- 
 hood. Did you never observe him shaving and scraping his pim- 
 pled face till it resembled a featherless goose, reaping nothing 
 but lather and dirt and a little intangible fuzz? That is the 
 first symptom of love. Did you never observe him wrestling with
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 57 
 
 a pair of boots, two numbers too small, as Jacob wrestled with 
 the angel? That is another symptom of love. His calloused 
 heel slowly and painfully yields to the pressure of his per- 
 spiring paroxysms until his feet are folded like fans and driven 
 home in the pinching leather, and as he sits at church with 
 them hid under the bench, his uneasy squirms are symptoms of 
 the tortures of the infernal regions, and the worm that dieth 
 not; but that is only the penalty of loving. When he begins 
 to wander through the fragrant meadows and talk to himself 
 among the buttercups and clover blossoms it is a sure sign that 
 the golden shaft of the winged god has sped from its bended 
 bow. Love's archer has shot a poisoned arrow which wounds 
 but never kills. The sweet venom has done its work. The fever 
 of the amorous wound drives the red currents bounding through 
 his veins and his brain now reels with the delirium of the tender 
 passion. His soul is wrapped in visions of dreamy black eyes 
 peeping out from under raven curls and cheeks like gardens of 
 roses. To him the world is transformed into a blooming Eden 
 and she is its only Eve. He hears her voice in the sound of the 
 laughing waters, the fluttering of her heart in the Summer 
 Evening's last sigh that shuts the rose, and he sits on the bank 
 of the river all day long and writes poetry to her. Thus he 
 writes : 
 
 "As I sit by this river's crystal wave, 
 Whose flow'ry banks its waters lave, 
 Methinks I see in its glassy mirror 
 A face which to me than life is dearer — 
 Oh, 'tis the face of my Gwendolin, 
 As pure as an angel free from sin; 
 It looks info mine with one sweet eye, 
 While the other is turned to the starry sky — 
 Could I the ocean's bulk contain, 
 Could I but drink the watery main, 
 I'd scarce be half as full of the sea 
 As my heart is full of love for thee !" 
 
 THE STUTTERING YOUTH. 
 
 One bright summer day a rural youth took his sweetheart 
 to a Baptist baptizing, and, in addition to his verdancy and his 
 awkwardness, he stuttered most distressingly. The singing be- 
 gan on the bank of the stream and he left his sweetheart in the 
 buggy in the shade of a tree near by and wandered alone in the 
 
 (4)
 
 58 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 crowd. Standing unconsciously among those who were to be 
 baptized, the old parson mistook him for one of the converts 
 and seized him by the arm and marched him into the water. 
 He began to protest. "Ho-ho-hold on, parson, y-y-y-you're ma- 
 ma-making a m-m-mistake !" "Don't be alarmed my son, come 
 right in," said the parson. And he led him to the middle of the 
 stream. The poor fellow made one final desperate effort to 
 explain. "P-p-p-parson, 1-1-1-let me explain!" but the parson 
 coldly said, "Close you mouth and eyes, my son," and he 
 soused him under the water. After he was thoroughly baptized 
 the old parson led him to the bank, the muddy water trickling 
 down his face. He was dyked in his new seersucker suit, and 
 when the sun struck it it began to draw up. The legs of his 
 pants drew up to his knees, his sleeves drew up to his elbows, 
 his little sackcoat yanked up under his arms. As he stood 
 there trembling and shivering, a good sister approached him 
 and, taking him by the hand, said, "God bless you, my son, 
 how do you feel ?" Looking in his agony at his blushing sweet- 
 heart behind her fan he replied in his anguish, "I fee-fee-fee- 
 fee-feel like a d-d-d-d-d-durned f-f-fool." 
 
 Thus he lives and loves and writes poetry by day and tosses 
 on his bed at night, like the restless sea, and dreams and dreams 
 and dreams until, in the ecstasy of his dreams, he grabs a pillow. 
 
 If I were called upon to drink a toast to life's happiest period 
 I would hold up the sparkling wine and say, "Here is to youth, 
 that sweet seidlitz-powder period, when two souls with scarcely 
 a single thought meet and blend in one! When a voice, half 
 gosling, half calliope, rasps the first sickly confession of puppy- 
 love into the ear of a blue-sashed maiden at the picnic in the 
 grove. But when she returns his little greasy photograph, ac- 
 companied by a little perfumed note, expressing the hope that 
 he will think of her only as a sister, his paradise is wrecked 
 and his puppy-love is swept into the limbo of things that were, 
 the schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour. But wait till the 
 shadows have a little longer grown. Wait till the young lawyer 
 comes home from college, spouting Blackstone, and Kent, and 
 Kam on facts. Wait till the young doctor returns from the
 
 THE PARADISE OF l-OOLS 59 
 
 university, with his whiskers and his diploma, to tread the paths 
 of glory "which lead but to the grave." Wait till society gives 
 welcome in the brilliant ball and the swallowtail coat and patent 
 leather pumps whirl with the decollette and white slippers till 
 the stars are drowning in the light of morning. Wait till the 
 graduate staggers from the giddy hall in full evening dress, 
 singing as he staggers: 
 
 "After the ball is over, after the break of morn, 
 After the dancers' leaving, after the stars are gone; 
 Many a heart is aching; if we could read them all, 
 Many the hopes that are vanished, after the ball." 
 
 It is then that "somebody's darling" has reached the full 
 tide of his glory as a fool. 
 
 THE PAKADTSE OF HOME. 
 
 How rich would be the feast of haj^piness in this beautiful 
 world of ours could folly end with youth. But youth is only 
 the first act in the "comedy of errors." It is the pearly gate that 
 opens to the real paradise of fools. 
 
 "Its pleasures are like poppies spread — 
 You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 
 Or like the snowfall on the river — 
 A moment white, then melts forever." 
 
 Whether it be the child at its mother's knee or the man of 
 maturer years, whether it be the banker or the beggar, the prince 
 in his palace or the peasant in his hut, there is in every heart 
 the dream of a happier lot in life. 
 
 I heard the sound of revelry at the gilded club, where a 
 hundred hearts beat happily. There were flushed cheeks and 
 thick tongues and jests and anecdotes around the banquet 
 spread. There were songs and poems and speeches. I saw an 
 orator rise to respond to a toast to "Home, sweet home," and 
 thus he responded: 
 
 "Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen: John Howard Payne 
 touched millions of hearts when he sang, 'Mid pleasures and 
 palaces though we may roam, be it ever — hie — so humble, there's
 
 60 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 no place like home.' But as for me, gentlemen, give me the pleas- 
 ures an' the palaces — give me liberty or give me death! ISTo 
 less beautifully expressed are the tender sentiments expressed 
 in the tender verse of Lord Byron, 
 
 ' 'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home — 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, 
 And look brighter when we come ;' 
 
 but as for me, gen'lmen, I would — hie — rather hear the barkin' 
 of a Gatlin' gun than to hear the watchdog's honest bark this 
 minute. I would rather look into the mouth of a cannon than 
 to look into the eyes that are now waiting to mark my coming 
 at this delightful hour of three o'clock in the mornin'." 
 
 Then he launched out on the ocean of thought like a mag- 
 nificent ship going to sea. And when the night was far spent 
 and the orgies were over and the lights were blown out at the 
 club, I saw him enter his own sweet home in his glory — entered 
 it like a thief, with his boots in his hands; entered it singing 
 softly to himself : 
 
 "I'm called the little gutter-pup — sweet little gutter-pup — 
 
 Though I could never tell why — hie — 
 Yet still I'm called gutter-pup — sweet little gutter-pup— 
 Poor little gutter-pup — I.' — hie. 
 
 unconscious of the presence of the white figure that stood at the 
 head of the stairs, holding up a lamp like Liberty enlightening 
 the world, and as a tremulous voice called him to the judgment 
 bar the door closed behind him on the Paradise of a Fool, and 
 he sneaked up the steps muttering to himself, "What shad-ders 
 we are — hie — what shad-ders we pursue." Then I saw him 
 again in the morning reaping temptation's bitter reward in the 
 agonies of his drunk-sick, and, like Mark Twain's boat in a 
 
 storm. 
 
 "He heaved and sot, and sot and heaved, 
 And high his rudder flung; 
 And every time he heaved and sot, 
 A mighty leak he sprung." 
 
 If I were a woman with a husband like "that" I would 
 £.11 him so full of Keely's cliloride of gold that he would jingle
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 6l 
 
 as he walks and tinkle as he talks, and have a fit at every mention 
 of the Silver Bill. 
 
 The biggest fool that walks on God's footstool is the man 
 who destroys the joy and peace of his own sweet home, for if 
 Paradise is ever regained in this world it must be in the home. 
 If its dead flowers ever bloom again, they must bloom in the 
 happy hearts of home. If its sunshine ever breaks through the 
 clouds, it must break forth in the smiling faces of home. If 
 heaven ever descends to earth and angels tread its soil, it must 
 be in the sacred precincts of home. That which heaven most ap- 
 proves is the pure and virtuous home, for around it lingers all 
 the sweetest memories and dearest associations of mankind, 
 upon it hangs the hopes and happiness of the nations of the 
 earth, and above it shines the ever-blessed star that lights the 
 way back to the Paradise that was lost. 
 
 BACHELOK AND WIDOWEK. 
 
 I saw a poor old bachelor live all the days of his life in sight 
 of Paradise — too cowardly to put his arm around it and press 
 it to his bosom. He shaved and primped and resolved to marry 
 every day in the year for forty years, but when the hour for 
 love's duel arrived, when he stood trembling in the presence of 
 rosy cheeks and glancing eyes, and beauty shook her curls and 
 gave the challenge, his courage always oozed out, and he fled 
 ingloriously from the field of honor. 
 
 Far happier than the bachelor is old Uncle Rastus in his 
 cabin, when he holds Aunt Dinah's hand in his and asks. 
 "Who's sweet ?" and Aunt Dinah drops her head on his shoulder 
 and answers, "Bofe uv us." A thousand times happier is the 
 frisky old widower with his pink bald head, his wrinkles and 
 his rheumatism, who 
 
 "Wires in, and wires out, 
 And leaves the ladies all in doubt 
 As to what is his age, and what he is worth, 
 And whether or not he owns the earth." 
 
 He "toils not, neither does he spin," yet Solomon in all Ma 
 glory was not more popular with the ladies. He is as light-
 
 62 LECTURES OF KOBICRT L. TAYLOR 
 
 hearted as "Mary's little lamb." He is acquainted with every 
 hog path in the matrimonial Paradise and knows all the nearest 
 cuts to the "sanctum sanctorum" of woman's love. But his 
 jealousy is as cruel as the grave. Woe unto the bachelor who 
 dares to cross his path. 
 
 An old bachelor in my native mountains once arose in 
 church to give his experience in the presence of his old rival who 
 was a vddower, and with whom he was at daggers' points in the 
 race to win the affections of one of the "sisters" in Zion. Thus 
 the pious old bachelor spoke: "Bretheren, this is a beautiful 
 world. I love to live in it just as well today as I ever did in 
 my life. And the saddest thought that ever crossed this old 
 brain of mine is that in a few short days at best these old eyes 
 will be glazed in death and I'll never get to see my loved ones 
 in this world any more," and his old rival shouted from the 
 amen corner, "Thank God!" 
 
 PHANTOMS. 
 
 In every brain there is a bright phant( !ii realm, where fan- 
 cied pleasures beckon from distant shores, but when we launch 
 our barks to reach them they vanish and beckon again from still 
 more distant shores. And so, poor fallen man pursues the 
 ghosts of Paradise as the deluded dog chases the shadows of 
 flying birds in the meadow. The painter only paints the 
 shadows of beauty on his canvas, the sculptor only chisels its 
 lines and curves from the marble, and the sweetest melody is 
 but the faint echo of the wooing voice of music. 
 
 We stumble over the golden nuggets of contentment in pur- 
 suit of the phantoms of wealth, and what is wealth ? It cannot 
 purchase a moment of happiness. Marble halls may open wide 
 their doors and offer her shelter, but happiness will flee from a 
 palace to dwell in a cottage. We crush under our feet the 
 roses of peace and love in our eagerness to reach the illuminated 
 heights of glory, and what is earthly glo?y?
 
 TllE PARADISE OF FOOLS 63 
 
 "He who ascends to mountain tops shall find the 
 
 Loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind must look down 
 
 On the hate of those below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Around him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 
 Contending tempests on his naked head." 
 
 I saw a comedian convulse thousands with his delineations 
 of the weaknesses of humanity in the inimitable "Rip Van Win- 
 kle." I saw him make laughter hold its sides as he imper- 
 sonated the coward in "The Rivals," and I said, "I would rather 
 have the power of Joseph Jefferson to make the world laugh and 
 to drive care and trouble from weary brains and sorrow from 
 heavy hearts than to wear the blood-stained laurels of military 
 glory or to be President of the United States, burdened with 
 bonds and gold, and overwhelmed with the double standard and 
 three girl babies. 
 
 THE FALSE IDEAL. 
 
 It is the false ideal that builds the "Paradise of Pools." 
 It is the eagerness to achieve success in realms we cannot reach 
 which breeds more than half the ills that curse the world. 
 
 If all the fish eggs were to hatch and every little fish be- 
 came a big fish, the oceans would be pushed from their beds 
 and the rivers would be eternally "dammed" — with fish, but 
 the whales and sharks and sturgeons and dog fish and eels and 
 snakes and turtles make three meals every day in the year on 
 fish and fish eggs. If all the legal spawn should hatch out law- 
 yers the earth and the fullness thereof would be mortgaged for 
 fees and mankind would starve to death in the effort to pay off 
 "the aforesaid and the same." If the entire crop of medical 
 eggs should hatch full-fledged doctors, old "skull and cross- 
 bones" Mould hold high carnival among the children of men, 
 and the old sexton would sing: 
 
 "I gather them in — 
 I gather them in." 
 
 If I could get the car of the young men who pant after 
 politics, as the hart panteth after the water brook, I would ex-
 
 64 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 hort them to seek for honors in some other way, for "Jordan is 
 a hard road to travel." The poet has beautifully said, "How 
 like a mounting devil in the heart is the unreined ambition. 
 Let it once but play the monarch and its haughty brow glows 
 with a beauty that bewilders thought and unthrones peace for- 
 ever. Putting on the very pomp of Lucifer, it turns the heart 
 to ashes, and with not a spring left in the bosom for the spirit's 
 lip, we look upon our splendor and forget the thirst of which 
 we perish." 
 
 THE CIECUS IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 I saw a circus in a mountain town. The mountaineers 
 swarmed from far and near and lined the streets on every hand 
 with open mouth and bated breath as the grand procession, with 
 band and clown and camels and elephants and lions and tigers 
 and spotted horses paraded in brilliant array. The excitement 
 was boundless when the crowd rushed into the tent, and they 
 left behind them a surging mass of humanity unprovided with 
 tickets and destitute of the silver half of the double standard, 
 and screamed with laughter at the clown, and cheered the girl 
 in tights, and applauded the acrobats as they turned somersaults 
 Their interest rose to white heat as the audience within shouted 
 over the elephant. But temptation whispered in the ear of a 
 gentleman in tow breeches, and he stealthily opened his long- 
 bladed knife and cut a hole in the canvas. A score of others 
 followed suit and held their sides and laughed at the scenes 
 within. But as they laughed a showman slipped inside, armed 
 with a policeman's "billy." He quietly sidled up to the hole 
 where a peeper's nose made a knot on the inside. "Whack" 
 went the "billy" — there was a loud grunt and old "tow breeches" 
 spun 'round like a top and cut the "pigeon wing," while his 
 nose spouted blood. "Whack" went the "billy" again and old 
 "Hickory Shirt" turned a somersault backwards and rose 
 "a-runnin'." The last "whack" fell like a thunderbolt on the 
 Roman nose of a half-drunk old settler from away up at the 
 head of the creek. He fell flat on his 1 ack, quivered for a mo- 
 ment and then sat up and clapped his hand to his bleeding nose. 
 a,iLd ir^ his bewilderment exclaimed, "Wellj I'll be durned — ^hel-
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 6$ 
 
 lo there, stranger," he shouted to a bystander, "whar wuz you 
 at when the lightnin' struck the show?" Then I saw a row 
 of bleeding noses at the branch nearby, taking a bath, and each 
 nose resembled a sore hump on a camel's back. 
 
 So it is around the gTeat arena of political fame and power. 
 "Whack" goes the "billy" of popular opinion, and politicians, 
 like old "Tow Breeches," spin 'round with the broken noses of 
 misguided ambition and disappointed hope. In the heated cam- 
 paign many a would-be Webster lies down and dreams of the 
 triumph that awaits him on the morrow, but he wakes to find it 
 only a dream, and when the votes are counted his bird hath flown 
 and he is in the condition of the old Jew. An Englishman, an 
 Irishman, and a Jew hung up their socks together on Christmas 
 Eve. The Englishman put his diamond pin in the Irishman's 
 sock, the Irishman put his watch in the sock of the English- 
 man ; they slipped an egg into the sock of the Jew. "And did 
 you git ennything ?" asked Pat in the morning. "Oh, yes," said 
 the Englishman, "I received a fine gold watch, don't you know." 
 "And what did you get, Pat ?" "Begorra, I got a foine diamond 
 I^in." "And what did you get, Jacob?" said the Englishman 
 to the Jew. "Veil," said Jacob, holding up the egg, "I got a 
 shicken, but it got avay before I got up." 
 
 THE PHANTOM OF FORTUNE. 
 
 I would not clip the wings of noble, honorable aspiration. 
 I would not bar and bolt the gate to the higher planes of thought 
 and action where truth and virtue bloom and ripen into glorioas 
 fruit. There are a thousand fields of endeavor in the world, 
 and happy is he who labors where God intended him to labor. 
 
 The contented plowman who whistles as he rides to the field 
 and sings as he plows, and builds his little Paradise on the farm, 
 gets more out of life than the richest Shylock on earth. 
 
 The good old spectacled mother in Israel, with her white 
 locks and beaming face, as she works in her sphere, visiting the 
 poor, nursing the sick, and closing the eyes of the dead, is more 
 beautiful in her life and more charming in her character than 
 the loveliest queen of society who ever chased the phantoms of 
 Pleasure in the ballroQm,
 
 66 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 The humblest village preacher who faithfully serves his God, 
 and leads his pious flock in the paths of holiness and peace, is 
 more eloquent and plays a nobler part than the most brilliant 
 infidel who ever blasphemed the name of God. 
 
 The industrious drummer, who travels all night and toils all 
 day to win comfort for wife, and children, and mother, and 
 sister, is a better man and a far better citizen than the most suc- 
 cessful speculator on Wall Street who plays with the fortunes of 
 his fellow man as the wolf plays with the lamb or as the cyclone 
 plays with the feather. Young ladies, when the time comes 
 to marry say "yes" to the good-natured, big-hearted drummer, 
 for he is a spring in a desert, a straight flush in a weary hand, 
 a "thing of beauty and a joy forever," and he will never be at 
 home to bother you. 
 
 CLOCKS. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes says, "Our brains are seventy-year 
 
 clocks. The angel of life winds them up once for all, closes the 
 
 case, and gives the key into the hand of the resvirrection angel." 
 
 And when I read it I thought what a stupendous task awaits the 
 
 angel of the resurrection when all the countless millions of old 
 
 rickety, rusty, worm-eaten clocks are to be resurrected, and 
 
 wiped, and dusted, and repaired for mansions in the skies! 
 
 There will be every kind and character of clock and clockwork 
 
 resurrected on that day. There will be the Catholic clock with 
 
 his beads, and the Episcopalian clock with his ritual. There 
 
 will be an old clock resurrected on that day wearing a broadcloth 
 
 coat buttoned up to the throat, and when he is wound up he 
 
 will go off with a whizz and a bang. He will get up out of the 
 
 dust shouting "hallelujah!" and he will proclaim "sanctifica- 
 
 tion" and "falling from grace" and "baptism by sprinkling 
 
 and pouring" as the only true doctrine by which men shall go 
 
 sweeping through the pearly gate into the new Jerusalem. And 
 
 he will be recognized as a Methodist preacher, a little noisy, a 
 
 little clogged with chicken feathers, but ripe for the kingdom 
 
 of heaven. 
 
 There will be another old clock resurrected on that day, 
 dressed like the former, but a little stiffer and straighter iu the
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS (fj 
 
 back, and armed with a pair of gold spectacles and a manu- 
 script. When he is wound up he will break out in a cold sepul' 
 chral tone with, firstly, "foreordination" ; secondly, "predes- 
 tination," and, thirdly, "the final perseverance of the saints." 
 And he will be recognized as a Presbyterian preacher, a little 
 blue and frigid, a little dry and formal, but one of God's own 
 elect, and he will be labeled for Paradise. 
 
 There will be an old Plardshcll clock resurrected with throat 
 whiskers and wearing a shad-bellied coat and flap breeches. And 
 when he is wound up a little and a little oil is squirted into his 
 old wheels, he will swing out into space on the wings of the 
 gospel with, "My Dear Beloved Bretheran-ah : I was a-ridin' 
 along this mornin' a-tryin' to study up somethin' to preach 
 to this dying congregation-ah ; and as I rid up by the old mill 
 pond-ah, lo and behold ! there was an old snag a-stickin' up out 
 of the middle of the pond-ah, and an old mud turtle had dim 
 up out uv the water and was a-settin' up on the old snag a-sunnin' 
 uv himself-ah; and lo! and behold-ah, when I rid up a leetle 
 nearer to him-ah, he jumped off the snag 'ker chug' into the 
 water, and thereby pro^'ing the doctrine of immersion-ah." 
 
 Our brains are clocks and our hearts are the pendulums. 
 If we live right in this world when the resurrection day shall 
 come the Lord God will polish the wheels and jewel the bear- 
 ings and crown the casements with stars and with gold. And 
 the pendulums shall be harps encrusted with precious stones. 
 They shall swing to and fro on angel wings, making music in 
 the ear of God and flashing His glory through all the blissful 
 cycles of eternity ! 
 
 THE PANIC. 
 
 Happy is the man who lives within his means and who is 
 contented with the legitimate rewards of endeavor. The dread- 
 ful panic that checks the progress of civilization and paralyzes 
 the commerce of the world is the death angel that follows specu- 
 lation. Everything is staked and hazarded on contingencies 
 that are as baseless as the fabric of a dream. The day of set- 
 tlement comes and nobody is able to settle. The borrower is 
 powerless to meet his note in the bank, the banker is powerless
 
 68 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 to pay his depositors, and confidence is stampeded like a herd 
 of cattle. The timid and suspicious old farmer catches the 
 wild note of alarm, and deserting his plow and sleepy steers 
 in the field, he mounts his mule and urging him on with pound- 
 ing heels, rushes pellmell to the bank and, with bulging eyes, 
 demands his money. The excitement spreads like fire. The 
 blacksmith leaves his anvil, the carpenter his bench and the 
 tailor his goose. The tanner deserts his hide and the shoemaker 
 throws down his last to save his all. The mason, with his 
 trowel in his hand, rushes from the half-finished wall. Pat 
 drops his hod between heaven and earth and slides down the 
 ladder muttering, "Oi'll have me money or oi'U have blood." 
 The fat, phlegmatic Dutchman, dozing behind his bar, wakes to 
 the situation and waddles down the street, pufiing and blowing 
 like an engine, and muttering, "Mein Gott in Himmel, mein 
 debosit ish boosdet !" And thus they make the run on the bank, 
 gathering about it like the hosts of Armageddon. The bottom 
 drops out and millionaires go under like the passengers of a 
 wrecked steamer. 
 
 ''bunk city.'''' 
 
 Did you never pass the remains of a "boom" town in your 
 travels ? Did you never gaze upon the remains of "Bunk City," 
 where but yesterday all was life and bustle, and today it looks 
 like the ruins of Babylon? The empty streets for miles and 
 miles around are laid off and dug up in streets, and look like 
 they had been struck with ten thousand streaks of chain light- 
 ning. Standing here and there are huge frames, holding up 
 mammoth signboards, bearing the names of land companies, 
 but the land companies are gone. Plalf -driven nails are left to 
 rust in a few old skeleton buildings and the brick lies unmor- 
 tared in half-finished walls, and tenantless houses stand here 
 and there like the ghosts of buried hope. Down by the river 
 stands the furnace, grim and silent as the extinct crater of Popo- 
 catepetl, and the great hotel on the hill looks like the Tower of 
 Babel two thousand years after the confusion of tongues. The 
 last of the speculators, with his blue nose and his old battered 
 plug hat, which resembles an accordion that has been yanked 
 by a cyclone, stands on the corner and contemplates his old sedge
 
 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 69 
 
 fields which have shrunk in value from one hundred dollars a 
 front foot to one dollar for a hundred "front acres/' and bale- 
 fully sings a new song : 
 
 "After the boom is over, after the panic's on, 
 After the fools are leavin, 
 After the money's gone. 
 
 Many a bank is 'busted,' if we could see in the room — 
 Many a pocket is empty — after the boom." 
 
 ""your uncle/' 
 
 An impecunious speculator once flooded a town with hand 
 bills and posters containing this announcement, "Your Uncle 
 is Coming." The streams of passers-bj looked at the billboards 
 and wondered what it meant. The speculators rented the thea- 
 ter and one day a new flood of hand bills and posters made this 
 announcement, "Your Uncle is Here." He gave orders to his 
 stage manager to raise the curtain exactly at eight o'clock. The 
 speculator himself stood in the door and received the admission 
 fees and then disappeared. In their curiosity to see the per- 
 formance of "Your Uncle," the villagers filled every seat in the 
 theater long before the hour for the performance arrived. The 
 curtain rose at the appointed hour and lo! on a board in the 
 center of the stage, was a card bearing this announcement in 
 large letters, "YOUR UNCLE IS GONE." 
 
 What a splendid illustration of modern speculation and its 
 willing victims who are so easily led into the "Paradise of 
 Fools." 
 
 PESSIMISM AND OPTIMISM. 
 
 But why mourn and brood over broken fortunes and the 
 calamities of life? Why tarry in the doldrums of pessimism, 
 with never a breeze to catch your limp and drooping sails and 
 waft you on a joyous wave ? Pessimism is the nightmare of the 
 world. It is the prophet of famine, pestilence and human woe. 
 It is the apostle of the devil, and its mission is to impede the 
 progress of civilization. It denounces every institution estab- 
 lished for human development as a fraud. It stigmatizes law 
 as the machinery of injustice. It sneers at society as hollow- 
 hearted corruption and insincerity. It brands politics as a 
 reeking mass of rottenness and scoflFs at morality as the tinsel
 
 70 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 of sin. Its disciples are those who rail and snarl at everything 
 that is noble and good, to whom a joke is an assault and battery, 
 a laugh is an insult to outraged dignity, and the provocation of a 
 smile is like passing an electric current through the facial 
 muscles of a corpse. 
 
 God deliver us from the fools who seek to build their para- 
 dise on the ashes of those they have destroyed. God deliver us 
 from the fools whose lifework is to cast aspersions upon the 
 motives and characters of the leaders of men. I believe the 
 men who reach high places in politics are, as a rule, the best 
 and brainiest men in the land, and upon their shoulders rest the 
 safety and well-being of the peace-loving. God-fearing millions. 
 I believe the world is better today than it ever was before. 
 
 I believe in the refinements of modern society, its elegant 
 accomplishments. Its intellectual culture and its conceptions of 
 the beautiful are glorious evidences of our advancement toward 
 a higher plane of being. I think the superb churches of today, 
 with the glorious harmonies of their choral music, their great 
 pipe organs, their violins and cornets, and their gTand sermons, 
 full of heaven's balm for aching hearts, are expressions of the 
 highest civilization that has ever dawned upon the earth. I be- 
 lieve each successive civilization is better and higher and grander 
 than that which preceded it, and upon the shining rungs of this 
 ladder of evolution our race will finally climb back to the Para- 
 dise that was lost. I believe that the society of today is better 
 than it ever was before. I believe that human government is 
 better and nobler and purer than it ever was before. I believe 
 the church is better and stronger and is making grander strides 
 toward the conversion of the world and the final establishment 
 of the kingdom of God on earth than it has ever made before. I 
 believe that the biggest fools in this world are the advocates and 
 disseminators of infidelity, the would-be destroyers of the Para- 
 dise of God. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL PICTURES BLOTTED. 
 
 I sat in a great theater at the ISTational Capital. It was 
 thronged with youth and beauty, old age and wisdom. I saw a 
 man, the image of his God, stand upon the stage and I heard 
 him speak. His gestures were the perfection of grace, his voice
 
 THE PARADISE Of FOOLS 71 
 
 was music and his language was more beautiful than I had 
 ever heard from mortal lips. He painted picture after picture 
 of the pleasures, and joys, and sympathies of home. He en- 
 throned love and preached the gospel of humanity like an angel. 
 Then I saw him dip his brush in ink and blot out the beautiful 
 pictures he had painted. I saw him stab love dead at his feet. 
 I saw him blot out the stars and the sun and leave humanity 
 and the universe in eternal darkness and eternal death. I saw 
 him, like the serpent of old, worm himself into the paradise of 
 human hearts and, by his seductive eloquence and the subtle 
 devices of his sophistry, inject his fatal venom, under whose 
 blight its flowers faded, its music was hushed, its sunshine was 
 darkened, and the soul was left a desert waste, with only the new- 
 made graves of faith and hope. I saw him, like a lawless, 
 erratic meteor, without an orbit, sweep across the intellectual 
 sky, brilliant only in his self-consuming fire, generated by fric- 
 tion with the indestructible and eternal truths of God. That 
 man was the archangel of modern infidelity, and I said, "How 
 true is holy writ which declares, "The fool hath said in his 
 heart, there is no God." 
 
 Tell me not, O infidel, there is no God, no heaven, no hell. 
 
 "A solemn murmur in the soul tells of a world to be, 
 As travelers hear the billows roll before they reach the sea." 
 
 Tell me not, O infidel, there is no risen Christ; 
 
 When every earthly hope hath fled, 
 When angry seas their billows fling, 
 
 How sweet to lean on what He said, 
 How firmly to His cross we cling. 
 
 What intelligence less than God could fashion the human 
 body? What motive power is it, if it is not God, that drives 
 that throbbing engine, the human heart, with ceaseless, tireless 
 stroke, sending the crimson streams of life bounding and cir- 
 cling through every vein and artery ? Whence, and what, if not 
 of God, is this mystery we call mind ? What is this mystery we 
 call the soul ? What is it that thinks, and feels, and knows, and 
 acts? O, who can comprehend, who can deny the divinity that 
 stirs within us! God is everywhere and in everything. His 
 mystery is in every bud and blossom, and leaf and tree, in every
 
 72 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 rock and hill and vale and mountain, in every spring and rivu- 
 let and river. The rustle of his wing is in every zephyr, its 
 might is in every tempest. He dwells in the dark pavilions of 
 every storm cloud. The lightning is his messenger and the 
 thunder is his voice. His awful tread is in every earthquake 
 and on every angry ocean; and the heavens above us teem with 
 his myriads of shining witnesses ; the universe of solar systems, 
 whose wheeling orbs course the crystal paths of space, proclaim 
 through the dread halls of eternity the glory, and power, and 
 dominion of the All-Wise, Omnipotent and Eternal God.
 
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 VISIONS AND DREAMS 
 
 (5)
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 
 
 MULTITUDINOUS DREAMS. 
 
 The infinite wisdom of Almighty God has made a plane of 
 intelligence and a horizon of happiness for every being in the 
 universe, from the butterfly to the archangel. Every plane has 
 its own horizon, narrowest and darkest on the lowest level but 
 broad as the universe on the highest. Man stands on that won- 
 drous plane where mortality and immortality meet. Below him 
 is animal life, lighted only by the dim lamp of instinct ; above 
 him is spiritual life, illuminated by the light of reason and the 
 glory of God. Below him is this old material world of rock and 
 hill and vale and mountain, above him is the mysterious world 
 of the imagination, whose rivers are dreams, whose continents 
 are visions of beauty and upon whose shadowy shores the surfs 
 of phantom seas forever break. 
 
 We hear the song of the cricket on the hearth and the joyful 
 hum of the bees among the poppies; we hear the light-winged 
 lark gladden the morning with her song and the silver-throated 
 thrush warble in the tree top. What are these and all the sweet 
 melodies we hear but echoes from the realm of visions and 
 dreams ? 
 
 The humming bird, that swift fairy of the rainbow, fluttering 
 down from the land of the sun when June scatters her roses 
 northward, and poising on wings that never weary, kisses the 
 nectar from the waiting flowers ; how bright and beautiful is the 
 horizon of his little life. How sweet is the dream of the covert 
 in the deep mountain gorge to the trembling, panting deer in his 
 flight before the himter's horn and the yelping hounds. How 
 dear to the heart of the weary ox is the vision of green fields and 
 splashing waters. And when the cows come home at sunset, 
 fragrant with the breath of clover blossoms, how rich is the 
 feast of happiness when the frolicsome calf bounds forward to 
 the flowing udder, and with his walling eyes reflecting Avhole 
 acres of calf heaven and his little tail wiggling in speechless 
 bliss, he draws his evening meal from nature's commissariat.
 
 76 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 The snail lolls in his shell and thinks himself a king in the 
 grandest palace in the world. And how brilliant is the horizon 
 of the firefly when he winks his other eye ! 
 
 The red worm delves in the sod and dines on clay. He makes 
 no after-dinner speeches, he never responds to a toast, but 
 silently revels on in his dark banquet halls under the dank vio- 
 lets or in the rich mould by the river. But the red worm never 
 reaches the goal of his "visions and dreams" until he is trium- 
 phantly impaled on the fishhook of the barefooted boy, who sees 
 other visions and dreams other dreams of fluttering suckers in 
 shining streams. And O, there is no thrill half so rapturous 
 to the barefooted boy as the thrill of a nibble ! 
 
 Two darkeys sat on a rock on the bank of the river fishing. 
 One was an old darkey, the other was a boy. The boy got a 
 nibble, his foot slipped and he fell headlong into the surging 
 waters and began to float out to the middle of the stream, sink- 
 ing and rising and strangling and crying for help. The old 
 man hesitated on the rock for a moment, then he plunged in 
 after the drowning boy, and after a desperate struggle landed 
 his companion safely on shore. A passer-by ran up to the old 
 darkey and patted him on the shoulder and said, "Old man, that 
 was a noble deed in you to risk your life that way to save that 
 good-for-nothing boy." "Yes, boss," mumbled the old man, "I 
 was obliged to save dat nigger, he had all de bate in his pocket." 
 
 THE HAPPY LONG AGO. 
 
 jSTot long ago I wandered back to the scenes of my boyhood, 
 on my father's plantation on the bank of the river, in the beau- 
 tiful land of my native mountains. I rambled again in the 
 pathless woods with my rifle on my shoulder. I sat on the old 
 familiar logs amid the falling leaves of Autumn and heard the 
 squirrels bark and shake the branches as they jumped from tree 
 to tree. I heard the katydid sing and the whippoorwill, and the 
 deep basso-profundo of the bullfrog on the bank of the pond. 
 I heard the drumming of a pheasant and the hoot of a wise 
 old owl away over in "Sleepy Hollow." I heard the tinkling of 
 bells on the distant hills, sweetly mingling with the happy 
 chorus of the song birds in their evening serenade. Every living
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS ']^ 
 
 creature seemed to be chanting a hymn of praise to its God, 
 and as I sat there and listened to the weird, wild harmonies, a 
 vision of the past opened before me. I thought I was a boy 
 again and played around the cabins of the old-time darkies and 
 heard them laugh and sing and tell their stories as they used to 
 long ago. My hair stood on ends again (I was afflicted with 
 hair when I was a boy), and the chills played up and do%vn my 
 back when I remembered old Uncle Rufus' story of the panthers. 
 He said: "Many years ago Mos Jeems wuz a-gwyne along de 
 path by de graveyard, late in de evenin', an' bless de Lo'd, all of 
 a sudden he looked up an' dar was a painter crouchin' down 
 befoah 'im, pattin' de groun' wdd 'is tail an' ready to spring. 
 Mos Jeems wheeled to run, an' bless de Lor'd dar was anudder 
 painter, crouchin' an' pattin' de groun' wid his tail in de path 
 behin' him an' ready to spring. An' bofe ov dem painters sprung 
 at de same time right toards Mos Jeemses head; Mos Jeems 
 jumped to one side an' dem painters come togedder in de air. 
 An' dey wuz a-gwyne so fast an' dey struck each udder with sieh 
 turble ambition dat instid ov comin' dowTi, dey went up. An' 
 bless de Lo'd Mos Jeems stood dar an' watched dem painters 
 go on up an' up an' up till dey went clean out o' sight, a-fightin'. 
 An' bless de Lo'd de hair wuz a-fallin' for three days, which 
 fulfills de words ob de scripchah, whar it reads, 'De young men 
 shall dream dreams an' de ole men shall see visions.' " 
 
 I remembered the tale Uncle Solomon used to tell about the 
 first convention that was ever held in the world. He said : "It 
 wuz a convenchun ov de animils. Brudder fox wuz dar, an' 
 brudder wolf, an' brudder rabbit, an' all de rest ov de animil 
 kingdom wuz geddered togedder fur to settle some questions 
 concarnin' de happiness ov de animil kingdom. De first ques- 
 tion dad riz befoah de convenchun wuz how dey should vote. 
 Brudder coon he took de floah an' moved dat de convenchun vote 
 by raisin' der tails, whereupon brudder 'possum riz wid a grin 
 ov disgust an' said, 'Mr. Chaiahman, I's unanimous opposed tQ 
 dat moshun ! Brudder Coon wants Vlis convenchun to vote by 
 raisin' der tails, kaze Brudder Coon's got a ring-striped an' 
 streaked tail an' wants to show it befo' de convenchun. Brud- 
 der Coon knows dat de 'possum is afflicted wid an ole black, 
 rusty tail, an' I consider dat moshun an insult to de 'possum
 
 78 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 . ... . , 
 
 • ■■■:'§ 
 
 race, an' besides dat, Mr. Chaialiman, of you passes dis raoshiin 
 fur to vote by raisin' yo' tails, de billygoat's already voted." 
 
 I sometimes think that Uncle Solomon's homely story of the 
 goat would be a splendid illustration of some of our modern 
 politicians. It is difficult to tell which side of the question they 
 are on. 
 
 I remember the yarn Uncle Yaddie once spun at the ex- 
 pense of Uncle Rastus. Rastus looked sour, and said, "You 
 bettah not go too fur, I'll tell about dem watermillions what dis- 
 appeared frum Mos Landon's watermillion patch." But Uncle 
 Yaddie was undismayed by the threatened attack upon his own 
 record, and he said: "Some time ago Rastus concluded to go 
 into de egg bizness an' he prayed to de Lo'd to send 'im some 
 hens, but somehow^ or nudder de hens nebber come, an' den he 
 prayed to de Lo'd to send him after de hens, an' lo an' behold, 
 nex' mo'nin' his lot wuz full o' chickens." He said: "Rastus 
 fixed de nestiz an' waited an' waited fo' de hens to lay, but 
 somehow er nudder de hens wouldn't lay dat summer at all, 
 an' Rastus kep' gittin' madder an' madder till one day de ole 
 rooster hopped up on de porch an' begun to flop his wings an' 
 crow. Rastus looked at him sideways an' muttered, 'Yes, flop- 
 pin' yo' wings an' crowin' aroun' heah like an ole fool an' you 
 can't lay a egg to save yo' life.' " 
 
 The darkies fell over on the floor and everybody laughed 
 except Rastus, but to appease his wrath Uncle Yaddie rolled 
 out a big "watermillion" from under the bed, which lighted 
 up the face of the fro\vning old darkey with smiles, and as the 
 luscious red pulp melted away in his mouth he cut the "pigeon 
 wing" in the middle of the floor and sang like a mocking bird : 
 
 "Oh. de honeymoon am sweet, 
 De chicken am ^ood, 
 
 De 'possum it am very, very fine; 
 Btit .eive me, oh. give me — 
 Oh. how T wish you would — 
 
 Dat watermilh'on hangin* on de vine!" 
 
 Then old Uncle N'ewt resined his bow and the welkin rang 
 with the music of the fiddle. There I sat in the old familiar 
 woods and dreamed of the happy long ago, until a gang of 
 blackbirds spluttering in a neighboring tree top woke me. And
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 79 
 
 wliea I rose from the log and threw myself into the shape of 
 an interrogation point, and touched the trigger, at the crack of 
 my rifle old bullfrog shot into the pond, the hoot owl scooted into 
 his castle in the trunk of an old hollow tree, the blackbirds cut 
 the asymptote of a hyperbolical curve in the air, the squirrel fell 
 to the ground at my feet with a bullet through his brain and 
 there was silence. Silence in the frog })ond, silence in the trees, 
 silence in "Sleepj^ Hollow," silence all around me. I shouldered 
 my rifle and wended my way back to the old homestead on the 
 bank of the river and silence was there. The voices of the 
 happy long ago were hushed. The old-time darkies were sleep- 
 ing on the hill close by the spot where my father sleeps. The 
 moss-covered bucket was gone from the well. The old barn sheds 
 had creeled, the old house where I was born was silent and 
 deserted. 
 
 As I looked upon these scenes of my earliest recollection I 
 was softened and subdued into a sweet, pensive sorrow, which 
 only the happiest and holiest associations of bygone years can 
 call into being. 
 
 There are times in our lives when grief lies heaviest on the 
 soul, when memory weeps, when gathering clouds of mournful 
 melancholy pour out their floods and drown the heart in tears. 
 
 O, beautiful isle of memory, lighted by the morning star 
 of life, where the roses bloom by the door, where the robins 
 sing among the apple blossoms, where bright waters ripple in 
 eternal melody! There are echoes of songs that are sung no 
 more, tender words spoken by lips that are dust, blessings from 
 hearts that are still ! There's a useless cradle and a broken doll, 
 a sunny tress and an empty garment folded away! There's a 
 lock of silvered hair and an unforgotten prayer, and mother 
 is sleeping there! 
 
 ambition's dream. 
 
 Under the shades of the sycamores on my father's old farm 
 I used to dream of the years to come. I looked through a vista 
 blooming with pleasures, fruiting with achievements and beau- 
 tiful as the cloud-isles of the sunset. The siren Ambition sat 
 beside me and fired my young heart with her prophetic song. 
 She dazzled me and charmed me and soothed me into sweet,
 
 8o LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 fantastic reveries. She touclied me and bade me look into the 
 wondrous future. The bow of promise spanned it. Hope was 
 enthroned there and smiled like an angel of light. Under that 
 shining arch lay the goal of mj fondest aspirations. Visions of 
 wealth and laurels and applauding thousands crowded the hori- 
 zon of my dream. I saw the capitol of the Republic, that white- 
 columned Pantheon of Liberty, lifting its magnificent pile from 
 the midst of the palaces and parks, the statues and monuments 
 of the most beautiful city in the world. Infatuated with this 
 vision of earthly glory I bade adieu to home and its dreams, 
 seized the standard of a great political party and rushed into 
 the turmoil and tumult of the heated campaign. Unable to 
 bear the armor of a Saul, I went forth to do battle armed with 
 a fiddle, a pair of saddlebags, a plug horse and the eternal truth. 
 There was the din of conflict by day on the hustings, there was 
 the sound of revelry by night in the cabins. The midnight stars 
 twinkled to the music of the merry fiddle and the hills re- 
 sounded with the clatter of dwindling shoe soles as the mountain 
 lads and lassies danced the hours away in the good old-time 
 Virginia reel. I rode among the mountain fastnesses like the 
 knight of the woeful figure, mounted on my prancing "Rozi- 
 nante," everywhere charging the windmill of the opposing 
 party, and wherever I drew rein the mountaineers swarmed from 
 far and near to witness the bloodless battle of the contending 
 candidates in the arena of joint discussion. My learned com- 
 petitor, bearing the shield of "protection to American labor," 
 and armed to the teeth with mighty argument, hurled himself 
 upon me with the fury of a lion. His blows descended like 
 thunderbolts, and the welkin rang with cheers when his lance 
 went shivering to the center. His logic was appalling, hi? 
 imagery was sublime. His tropes and similes flashed like the 
 draT^Ti blades of charging cavalry, and with a flourish of trum- 
 pets his grand eifort culminated in a splendid tribute to the 
 Republic, crowned with Goldsmith's beautiful metaphor: 
 
 "As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form 
 Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though 'round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head."
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 8l 
 
 I received the charge of the enemy with poised lance and 
 visor down. I deluged the tall cliff under a flood of "mountain 
 eloquence," which poured from my patriotic lips like molasses 
 pouring from the bunghole of the universe. I mounted the 
 American eagle and soared among the stars. I scraped the skies 
 and cut the black illimitable far out beyond the orbit of Uranus, 
 and I reached the climax of my triumphant flight with a hyper- 
 bole that eclipsed Goldsmith's metaphor, unhorsed the foe and 
 left him stunned upon the field. Thus I soared : 
 
 "I stood upon the seashore and with a frail reed in my hand 
 I wrote in the sand, ^My country, I love thee!' A mad wave 
 came rushing by and wiped out the fair impression. Cruel wave, 
 treacherous sand, frail reed, I said, I hate ye ! I'll trust ye no 
 more, but with a giant's arm I'll reach to the coast of Norway 
 and pluck its tallest pine and dip it in the crater of Vesuvius and 
 write upon the burnished heavens, 'My country, I love thee!' 
 and I'd like to see any 'durned' wave rub that out!" 
 
 Between the long intervals of argument my speech grinned 
 with anecdotes like a basket full of 'possum heads. The fiddle 
 played its part. The people did the rest, and I carved upon 
 the tombstone of the demolished knight these tender words: 
 
 "Tread softly 'round this sacred heap — 
 It guards ambition's restless sleep, 
 Whose greed for place ne'er did forsake him — 
 Don't mention office, or you'll wake him." 
 
 I reached the goal of my visions and dreams under that 
 colossal dome whose splendors are shadowed in the broad river 
 that flows by the shrine of Mt. Vernon. I sat amid the con- 
 fusion and uproar of the parliamentary struggles of the lower 
 branch of the Congress of the United States. "Sunset" Cox, 
 with his beams of wit and humor, convulsed the HoTise and 
 shook the galleries. Alexander Stephens, one of the last tot- 
 tering monuments of the glory of the old South, still lingered 
 on the floor, where, in bygone years, the battles of his vigorous 
 manhood were fought. I saw in the Senate an assemblage of 
 the gi'andest men since the days of Webster and Clay. Conkling, 
 the intellectual Titan, the Apollo of manly form and grace, 
 thundered there. The "Plumed Knight," that gi'and incarna-
 
 82 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 tion of mind and magnetism, was at the zenith of his glory. 
 Edmunds and Zack Chandler and the brilliant and learned 
 jurist, Mat Carpenter, were there. Thurman, "the noblest 
 old Koman of them all," was there with his famous bandanna 
 handkerchief. The immortal Ben Hill, the idol of the South, 
 and Lamar, the gifted orator and highest type of Southern 
 chivalry, were there. Garland and Morgan and Harris and 
 Coke were there, and Beck with his sledge-hammer intellect. 
 It was an arena of opposing gladiators more magnificent and 
 majestic than was ever witnessed in the palmiest days of the 
 Roman Empire. There were giants in the Senate in those 
 days, and when they clashed shields and measured swords in 
 debate the Capitol trembled and the E'ation thrilled in every 
 nerve. 
 
 But how like the ocean's ebb and flow are the restless tides 
 of politics. These scenes of grandeur and glory soon dissolved 
 from my view like a dream. I "saved the country" for only 
 two short years. My competitor proved a lively corpse. He 
 burst forth from the tomb like a locust from its shell and came 
 buzzing to the National Capitol with "war on his wings." I 
 went buzzing back to the mountains to dream again under the 
 sycamores, and there a new ambition was kindled in my soul. A 
 new vision opened before me. I saw another capitol rise on 
 the bank of the Cumberland, overshadowing the tomb of Polk 
 and close by the Hermitage, where reposes the sacred dust of 
 Andrew Jackson, and I thought if I could only reach the exalted 
 position of Governor of the old Volunteer State I would then 
 have gained the sum of life's honors and happiness. But lo! 
 another son of my father and mother was dreaming there under 
 the same old sycamores. We had dreamed together in the same 
 trundle bed and often kicked each other out. Together we had 
 seen visions of pumpkin pie and pulled hair for the biggest slice. 
 Together we had smoked the first cigar and together learned to 
 play the fiddle. But now the dreams of our manhood clashed. 
 Relentless fate had decreed that "York must contend with Lan- 
 caster" in the "war of the roses," and with flushed cheeks and 
 throbbing hearts we eagerly entered the field, his shield bearing 
 the red rose, mine the white. It was a contest of principles free 
 from the wormwood and gall of personalities, and when the mul-
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 83 
 
 titude of partisans gathered at the hustings, a white rose on 
 every Democratic bosom, a red rose on every Republican breast, 
 in the midst of a wilderness of flowers, there was many a tilt 
 and many a loud huzzah. But when the clouds of war had 
 cleared away I looked upon the drooping red rose on the bosom 
 of the vanquished knight and thought of the first speech my 
 mother ever taught me : 
 
 "Man's a vapor, full of woes — 
 Cuts a caper — down he goes !" 
 
 The white rose triumphed, but the shadow is fairer than the 
 substance. The pathway of ambition is marked at every mile 
 with the grave of some sweet pleasure, slain by the hand of 
 sacrifice. It bristles with thorns planted by the fingers of envy 
 and hate, and as we climb the rugged heights, behind us lie our 
 bloody footprints, before us tower still greater heights, scarred 
 by tempests and wrapped in eternal snow. Like the Edelweiss 
 of the Alps, ambition's pleasures bloom in the chill air of per- 
 petual frost, and he who reaches the summit will look down with 
 longing eyes on the humbler plain of life below and wish his 
 feet had never wandered from its warmer sunshine and sweeter 
 flowers. 
 
 FKOM THE CAVE MAN TO THE "kISS-OPHONE."" 
 
 But let us not forget that it is better for us and better for 
 the world that we dream, and that we tread the thorny paths, 
 and climb the weary steeps, and leave our bloody tracks behind 
 in the pursuit of our dreams. For in their extravagant con- 
 ceptions lie the germs of human government and invention and 
 discovery; and from their mysterious vagaries springs the mo- 
 tive power of the world's progress. Our civilization is the evo- 
 lution of dreams. The rude tribes of primeval men dwelt in 
 caves until some unwashed savage dreamed that damp caverns 
 and unholy smells were not in accord with the principles of 
 hygiene. It dawned upon his MIGHTY intellect that one flat 
 stone would lie on top of another, and that a little mud, aided 
 by Sir Isaac E'ewton's law of gravitation, would hold them to- 
 gether, and that walls could be built in the form of a quadrangle. 
 Here was the birth of architecture. And thus from the magical
 
 84 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 dreams of this unmausoleumed barbarian was evolved the home 
 • — the best and sweetest evolution of man's civilization. 
 
 John Howard Payne touched the tenderest chord that 
 vibrates in the great heart of all humankind when he gave to 
 immortality his song of "Home, Sweet Home," and thank God 
 the grand mansions and palaces of the rich do not hold all the 
 happiness and nobility of this world. There are millions of 
 humble cottages where virtue resides in the warmth and purity 
 of vestal fires and where contentment dwells like perpetual 
 summer. 
 
 The Antediluvians plowed with a forked stick, with one 
 prong for the beam and the other for the scratcher ; and the 
 plowboy and his sleepy ox had no choice of prongs to hitch to. 
 It was all the same to Adam whether "Buck" was yoked to the 
 beam or the scratcher. But some noble Cincinnatus dreamed of 
 the burnished plowshare, genius wrought his dream into steel, 
 and now the polished Oliver chill slices the earth like a hot 
 knife plowing a field of Jersey butter, and the modern gang 
 plow, bearing upon its wheels the gloved and umbrella'd leader 
 of the Populist party, plows up the whole face of the earth in a. 
 single day. 
 
 What a wonderful workshop is the brain of man ! Its noise- 
 less machinery cuts and carves and moulds in the imponder- 
 able material of ideas. It works its endless miracles through 
 the brawny arm of labor and the deft fingers of skill, and the 
 world moves forward by its magic. Aladdin rubbed his lamp 
 and the shadowy genii of fable performed impossible wonders. 
 The dreamer of today rubs his fingers through his hair and the 
 genii of his intellect work miracles which eclipse the m-ost ex- 
 travagant fantasies of the "Arabian Nights." A dreamer saw 
 the imprisoned vapor throw open the lid of a teakettle, and, lo! 
 a steam engine came pufiing from his brain. And now many 
 a huge monster of Corliss — beautiful as a vision of Archimedes 
 and smooth in movement as a wheeling planet — sends its thrill 
 of life and power through mammoth plants of humming ma- 
 chinery. The fiery courser of the steel-bound track shoots over 
 hill and plain like a midnight meteor through the fields of 
 heaven, outstripping the wind. A dreamer carried about in his 
 brain a great leviathan. It was launched upon the billows, and
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 85 
 
 like some colossal swan the palatial steamship now sweeps in 
 majesty througli the blue wastes of old ocean. 
 
 Six hundred years before Christ some old Greek discov- 
 ered electricity by rubbing a piece of amber, and, unable to 
 grasp the mystery, he called it soul. His discovery slept for 
 more than two thousand years until it awoke in the dreams of 
 Galvani and Volta and Benjamin Franklin. In the morning 
 of the nineteenth century the sculptor and scientist, Morse, saw 
 in his dreams phantom lightnings leap across continents and 
 oceans, and felt the pulse of thunder beat as it came bounding 
 ov0r threads of iron that girdled the earth. In each throb he 
 read a human thought. The electric telegraph merged from his 
 brain like Minerva from the brow of Jove, and the world re- 
 ceived a fresh baptism of light and glory. 
 
 In a few more years we will step over the threshold of the 
 twentieth century. What greater wonders will the dreamers 
 yet unfold ? It may be that another magician, greater even 
 than Edison, the "Wizard of Menloe Park," will rise up and 
 coax the very laws of nature into easy compliance with his 
 unheard-of dreams. I think he will construct an electric rail- 
 way in the form of a huge tube and call it the "electro-scoot," 
 and passengers will enter it in New York and touch a button 
 and arrive in San Francisco two hours before they started. I 
 think a new discovery will be made by which the young man of 
 the future may stand at his "kiss-o-phone" in Xew York and 
 kiss his sweetheart in Chicago with all the delightful sensations 
 of "the aforesaid and the same." I think some Leibig will re- 
 duce foods to their last analysis, and, by an ultimate concen- 
 tration of their elements, will enable the man of the future to 
 carry a year's provisions in his vest pocket. The sucking dude 
 will store his rations in the head of his cane, and the commis- 
 sary department of a whole army will consist of a mule and a 
 pair of saddlebags. A trainload of cabbage will be transported 
 in a sardine box and a thousand fat Texas cattle in an oyster 
 can. Power will be condensed from a forty-horse engine 
 to a quart cup. Wagons will roll by the power in their axles, 
 and the cushions of our buggies will cover the force that propels 
 them. The armies of the future will fight with chained light-
 
 86 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ning, and the battlefield will become so hot and unhealthy 
 that 
 
 "He who fights and runs away" 
 Will never fight another day. 
 
 Some dreaming Icarus will perfect the flying machine, and 
 upon the aluminum wings of the swift Pegasus of the air the 
 light-hearted society girl will sail among the stars, and 
 
 "Behind some dark cloud, where no one is allowed, 
 Make love to the man in the moon." 
 
 The rainbow will be converted into a Ferris wheel ; all men 
 will be bald-headed ; the women will run the government — and 
 then I think the end of time will be near at hand. 
 
 DEEAMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 I heard a song of love, and tenderness, and sadness, and 
 beauty sweeter than the song of a nightingale. It was breathed 
 from the soul of Robert Burns. I heard a song of deepest pas- 
 sion surging like the tempest-tossed waves of the sea. It was 
 the restless spirit of Lord Byron. I heard a mournful melody 
 of despairing love — full of that wild, mad, hopeless longing of 
 a bereaved soul which the midnight raven mocked at with that 
 bitterest of all words — "JSTevermore." It was the weird thren- 
 ody of the brilliant but ill-starred Poe, who, like a meteor, 
 blazed but for a moment, dazzling a hemisphere, and then went 
 out forever in the darkness of death. 
 
 Then I w-as exalted and lifted into the serene sunlight of 
 peace as I listened to the spirit of faith pouring out in the songs 
 of our own immortal Longfellow. 
 
 With Milton I walked the scented isles of long-lost Paradise 
 and caught the odor of its bloom and the swell of its music. 
 He led me through its rose brakes, and under the vermilion and 
 flame of its orchids and honeysuckles, down to the margin of 
 the limpid river, where the waterlilies slept in fadeless beauty 
 and the lotus nodded to the rippling waves ; and there, under 
 a bridal arch of orange blossoms, cordonned by palms and many- 
 colored flowers, I saw a vision of bliss and beauty from which 
 Satan turned away with an envy that stabbed him with pangs
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 87 
 
 unfelt before in hell. It was earth's first visiou of wedded love. 
 
 But the horizon of Shakespeare was broader than them all. 
 There is no depth which he has not sounded, no height which 
 he has not measured. He walked in the gardens of the intel- 
 lectual gods and gathered sweets for the soul from a thousand 
 unwithering flowers. He caught music from the spheres and 
 beauty from ten thousand fields of light. His brain was a 
 mighty loom. His genius gathered and classified ; his imagina- 
 tion spun and wove. The flying shuttle of his fancy delivered 
 to the warp of wisdom and philosophy the shining threads spun 
 from the fibres of human hearts and human experience, and 
 with his wondrous woof of pictured tapestries he clothed all 
 thought in the bridal robes of immortality. His mind was a 
 resistless flood that deluged the w^orld of literature with his 
 glory. The succeeding poets are but survivors as by the ark, 
 and, like the ancient dove, they gather and weave into garlands 
 only the "flotsam and jetsam" of beauty which floats on the 
 bosom of the Shakespearean flood. 
 
 O, Shakespeare, archangel of poetry! The light from thy 
 wings drowns the stars and flashes thy glory on the civilizations 
 of the whole world ! 
 
 "Unwearied, unfettered, unwatched, unconfined, 
 Be my spirit like thee in the world of the mind — 
 No leaning for earth e'er to weary its flight. 
 But fresh as thy pinions in regions of light." 
 
 All honor to the poets, and philosophers, and painters, and 
 sculptors, and musicians of the world! They are its honey 
 bees, its song birds, its carrier doves, its ministering angels. 
 
 VISIONS OF DEPARTED GLORY. 
 
 I walked with Gibbon and Hume through the sombre halls of 
 the past, and caught visions of the glory of the classic republics 
 and empires that flourished long ago and whose very dust is 
 still eloquent with the story of departed greatness. The spirit 
 of genius lingers there still like the fragrance of roses faded 
 and gone.
 
 88 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 I thought I heard the harp of Pindar and the impassioned 
 song of the dark-eyed Sappho. I thought I heard the lofty 
 epic of the blind Homer rushing on in the red tide of battle, and 
 the divine Plato discoursing like an oracle in his academic 
 shades. 
 
 The canvas spoke and the marble breathed when Apelles 
 painted and Phidias carved. 
 
 I stood with Angelo and saw him chisel his dreams from 
 the marble. I saw Raphael spread his visions of beauty in im- 
 mortal colors. I sat under the spirit of Paganini's power; the 
 flow of his melody turned the very air to music. I thought I 
 was in the presence of Divinity as I listened to the warbles 
 and murmurs and the ebb and flow of the silver tides from his 
 violin, and I said: Music is the dearest gift of God to man. 
 The sea, the forest, the field and the meadow are the very foun- 
 tain heads of music. I believe that Mozart, and Mendelssohn, 
 and Schubert, and Verdi, and all the great masters caught their 
 sweetest dreams from nature's musicians. I think their richest 
 airs of mirth and gladness and joy were stolen from the purling 
 rivulet and the rippling river. I believe their grandest in- 
 spirations were born of the tempest and the thunder and the 
 rolling billows of the angry ocean. 
 
 nature's musicians. 
 
 I sat on the grassy brink of a mountain stream in the gath- 
 ering twilight of evening. The shadowy woods around me be- 
 came a great theatre. The greensward before me was its stage. 
 The tinkling bell of a passing herd rang up the curtain, and I 
 sat there all alone in the hush of the dying day and listened to 
 a concert of nature's musicians who sing as God has taught 
 them to sing. The orchestra opened with a grand flourish. The 
 katydid led off with a trombone solo ; the cricket chimed in with 
 his E flat cornet; the bumblebee played on his violincello, and 
 the jaybird laughed with his piccolo; the jar-fly clashed hig 
 tinkling cymbal, and the woodpecker rattled his kettle drum. 
 The music swelled to grandeur with the deep bass horn of the 
 big black beetle, and sank into soulful sweetness with the oriole's 
 leading violin. The mocking bird's flute brought me to tears
 
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 VISIONS AND DREAMS 89 
 
 of rapture, and the screech owl's fife made me want to fight. 
 The tree-frog blew his alto horn, and the locust jingled his tam- 
 bourine. The tide of melody rolled along like a sparkling river, 
 but the buzzard lowered his baton and the music sank into a 
 soft and gentle flow, when Signor "Bullefroggio," the world- 
 renowned basso, hopped upon the stage and sang a melody from 
 the new opera of "Visions and Dreams" — "Eocked in the cra- 
 dle of the deep — jugger-um." Then the renowned tenor, Ilerr 
 Von "Grasshopper," appeared on the stage with a hop, skip, and 
 a jump and rendered his difiicult but merry lines, composed in 
 his honor by his admiring friend, Professor Turkey Gobbler. 
 But while he sang Professor Gobbler slipped up behind him 
 with open mouth and Ilerr Von Grasshopper vanished from the 
 footlights forevermore. 
 
 In the midst of the concert, from a neighboring field, a 
 mountain swain homeward on his weary plow horse passed. 
 The plodding steps and jingling chains kept time to the music 
 of the orchestra in sweet accompaniment with the plowman as 
 he sang his simple love song: 
 
 " 'Way down in some lonesome valley, in some lonesome place, 
 Whur the night bird doth whistle, his notes to increase, 
 I'll think of purty Saro', whose waist are so neat, 
 For I want no better pastime than to be with my sweet." 
 
 Then I saw a lassie standing among the Hollyhocks. The 
 youth had paused before the door of a happy mountain home. 
 I saw him slip his arm around "something," and heard a suspi- 
 cious smack, like the squeak of a new boot. The lassie vanished 
 in the cabin, the lad vanished over the hill, and as he vanished 
 he swung his hat in the shadows and continued to sing. And 
 the birds inclined their heads to listen to his song as it died 
 away on the drowsy summer air. 
 
 That night I slept in a mansion. But I closed my eyes on 
 "garnished rooms to dream of meadows and clover blooms" 
 and love among the hollyhocks. ViTiile I dreamed I was sere- 
 naded by a band of mosquitoes, and this is the song they sang 
 above my pillow: 
 
 "Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber — 
 Holy angels guard your bed — 
 Heavenl}' 'skeeters' without number 
 Buzzing 'round your old bald head." 
 
 (6)
 
 90 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 THE FIGHTING PREACHER. 
 
 There is no land on earth which has produced such quaint 
 and curious characters as the great mountainous regions of the 
 South, and yet no country has produced nobler or brainier 
 men. 
 
 When I was a barefooted boy my grandfather's old grist 
 mill was the Mecca of the mountaineers. They gathered there 
 on the rainy days to talk politics and religion, and to drink 
 "mountain dew," and fight. Adam Wheezer was a tall, 
 spindle-shanked old settler, as dark as an Indian, and he wore 
 a broad, hungry grin that always grew broader at the sight of 
 a fat sheep. The most prominent trait of Adam's character, 
 next to his love of mutton, was his bravery. He stood in the 
 mill one day with his empty sack under his arm, as usual, when 
 Bert Linch, the bully of the mountains, with an eye like a 
 game rooster's, walked up to him and said: "Adam, you've 
 bin a-slanderin' of me, an' I'm a-gwine to give you a thrashin'." 
 He seized Adam by the throat and backed him under the meal 
 spout. Adam opened his mouth to squall and it spouted meal 
 like a whale. He made a surge for breath and liberty and 
 tossed Bert away like a feather. Then he shot out of the mill 
 door like a rocket, leaving his old, battered plug hat and one 
 prong of his coat tail in the hands of the enemy. He ran 
 through the creek and knocked it dry as he went. He made a 
 bee line for my grand father's house, a quarter of a mile away, 
 on the hill. He burst into the sitting-room, covered with meal 
 and panting like a bellowsed horse, frightening my grandmother 
 almost into hysterics. The old lady screamed and shouted, 
 "What in the world is the matter, Adam?" Adam replied, 
 "That there 'durned' Bert Linch is down yonder a-tryin' to raise 
 a fuss with me." 
 
 But every dog has his day. Brother Billy Patterson 
 preached from the door of the mill on the following Sunday. 
 It was his first sermon in that "neck of the woods," and he 
 began his ministrations with a powerful discourse, hurling his 
 anathemas against Satan and sin and every kind of wickedness. 
 He denounced whiskey. He branded the bully as a brute and a 
 moral coward, and impersonated Bert, having witnessed his bat-
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS QI 
 
 tie with Adam. This was too much for the champion. He re- 
 solved to "thrash" Brother Patterson, and in a few days they met 
 at the mill. Bert squared himself and said: "Parson, you had 
 your turn last Sunday — it's mine today. Pull off that broad- 
 cloth an' take your medicine. I'm a-gwine to suck the marrow 
 out'n them ol' bones o' yourn." The pious preacher pleaded for 
 peace, but without avail. At last he said: "Then if nothing 
 but a fight will satisfy you, will you allow me to kneel down 
 and say my prayer before we fight?" "Oh, yes, that's all right, 
 parson," said Bert. "But cut your prayer short, for I'm a-gwine 
 to give you a good, sound thrashin'." The preacher knelt and 
 thus began to pray: "Oh, Lord, thou knowest that when I 
 killed Bill Cummings, and John Brown, and Jerry Smith, and 
 Levi Bottles that I did it in self-defense. Thou knowest, O 
 Lord, that when I cut the heart out of young Sliger and strewed 
 the ground with the brains of Paddy Miles that it was forced 
 upon me, and that I did it in great agony of soul. And now. 
 O Lord, I am about to be forced to put in his coffin this poor, 
 miserable wretch who has attacked me here today. O Lord, 
 have mercy upon his soul and take care of his helpless widow 
 and orphans when he is gone." And he rose whetting his knife 
 on his shoe sole and singing: 
 
 "Hark from the tomb a doleful sound — 
 Mine ears attend the cry." 
 
 But when he looked around Bert was gone. There was noth- 
 ing in sight but a little cloud of dust, far up the road, following 
 in the wake of the vanishing champion. 
 
 BROTHER ESTEP AND THE TRUMPET. 
 
 During the great revival which followed Brother Patterson's 
 first sermon and effective prayer, the hour for the old-fashioned 
 Methodist love feast arrived. Old Brother Estep, in his enthu- 
 siasm on such occasions, sometimes "stretched his blanket." It 
 was his glory to get up a sensation among the brethren. He 
 rose and said : "Brethren, while I was a walkin' in my gyardin^ 
 late yisterday evenin', a meditatin' on the final eend of the
 
 92 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 world, I looked up an' I seed Gabriel raise his silver trumpet, 
 which was about fifty feet long, to his blazin' lips, and I beam 
 him give it a toot that knocked me into the fence corner an' 
 shuck the very taters out'n the ground." "Tut-tut," said the 
 old parson. "Don't talk that way in this meeting. We all know 
 you didn't hear Gabriel blow his trumpet." The old man's wife 
 jumped to her feet to help her husband out, and said: "Now, 
 parson, you set down. Don't you dispute John's word that 
 awav — he mout a-hearn a toot or two." 
 
 ''WAMPER-JAW''' AT THE JOLLIFICATION. 
 
 The sideboard of those good old times would have thrown 
 the Prohibition candidate of today into spasms. It sparkled 
 with cut glass decanters full of the juices of corn and rye and 
 apple. The old 'Squire of the mill "deestrict" had as many 
 sweet buzzing friends as any flower garden or cider press in 
 Christendom. The most industrious bee that sucked at the 
 'Squire's sideboard was old "Wamper-Jaw." His mouth reached 
 from ear to ear and was inlaid with huge gums as red as ver- 
 milion, and when he laughed it had the appearance of lightning. 
 
 On the triumphant day of the 'Squire's re-election to his 
 great office, when every thing was lovely and "the goose hung 
 high," he was surrounded by a large crowd of his fellow-citizens ; 
 and Thomas Jefferson, in his palmiest days, never looked 
 grander than did the 'Squire on this occasion. He was attired 
 in his best suit of homespun — the choicest product of his wife's 
 dye pot. His immense vest, with its broad, luminous stripes, 
 checked the rotundity of his ample stomach like the lines of 
 latitude and longitude, and resembled a half-finished map of 
 the United States. His blue jeans coat covered his body as the 
 waters cover the face of the great deep, and its huge collar en- 
 circled the back of his head like belts of light around a planet. 
 
 The 'Squire was regaling his friends with his latest side- 
 splitting jokes. Old "Wamper-Jaw" threw himself back in his 
 chair and exploded with peal after peal of laughter. But sud- 
 denly he looked around and said: "Gentulmen, my jaw's flew 
 out'n jint." His comrades seized him and pulled him all over 
 the yard trying to get it back. Finally old "Wamper-Jaw"
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 93 
 
 mounted his mule and with pounding heels rode like Tarn 
 O'Shanter to the nearest doctor, who lived two miles away. The 
 doctor gave his jaw a mysterious yank and it popped back into 
 socket. "Wamper-Jaw" rushed back to join in the festivities 
 at the 'Squire's. The glasses were filled again, another side- 
 splitting joke was told, and another peal of laughter went 
 'round, when "Wamper-Jaw" threw his hand to his face and 
 said: "Gen-tul-men, she's out agin!" There was another hasty 
 ride for the doctor. But in the years that followed "Wamper- 
 Jaw" was never known to laugh aloud. On the most hilarious 
 occasions he merely showed his gums. 
 
 THE TINTINNABrLATION OF THE DINNER BELLS. 
 
 How many millions dream on the lowest plains of life ! 
 How few ever reach the highest, and, like stars of the first mag- 
 nitude, shed their light upon the pathway of the marching cen- 
 turies! What multitudes there are whose horizons are lighted 
 with visions and dreams of the flesh-pots and soup bowls, whose 
 Fallstafiian aspirations never rise above the fat things of this 
 earth, and whose ear flaps are forever inclined forward, listen- 
 ing for the dinner bells: 
 
 "The bells, bells, bells— 
 
 What a world of pleasure their harmony foretells — 
 
 The bells, bells, bells— bells, bells, bells— 
 
 The tintinnabulation of the dinner bells." 
 
 In my native mountains there once lived one of these old 
 gluttonous dreamers. I think he was the champion eater of the 
 world. Many a time I have seen him at my grandfather's table, 
 and the viands and batter-cakes vanished "like the baseless 
 fabric of a vision" — he left "not a wreck behind" — but one day, 
 in the voracity of his sharklike appetite, he unfortunately un- 
 dertook too large a contract for the retirement of an immense 
 slice of ham. It scraped its way doAvn his esophagus for about 
 two inches and lodged as tightly as a bullet in a rusty gun. His 
 prodigious Adam's apple suddenly shot up to his chin, his eyes 
 protruded, and his purple neck craned and shortened by turns 
 like a trombone in full blast. He scrambled from the table and
 
 94 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 pranced about the room like a horse with blind staggers. My 
 grandfather sprang at him and dealt him blow after blow in 
 the back which sounded like the blows of a mallet on a dry hide, 
 but the ham Avouldn't budge. The old man ran out into the 
 yard and seized a plank about three feet long and rushed into 
 the room with it drawn. "Now, William," said he, "get down 
 on your all-fours." William got down. "Now, William, when 
 I hit, you swallow." He hit and it poi)pcd like a Winchester 
 rifle. William shot into the corner of the room like a shell 
 from a mortar, but in a moment he was seated at his place at 
 the table again with a broad grin on his face. "Is it down, 
 William?" shouted the old man. "Yes, Mr. Haynes, the 
 'durned' thing's gone — please pass the ham." 
 
 I thought how vividly that old glutton illustrated the fools 
 who, in their efforts to gulp down the sensual pleasures of this 
 world, choke the soul, and nothing but the clapboard of hard 
 experience, well laid on, can dislodge the ham and restore the 
 equilibrium. 
 
 PHANTOMS OF THE WINE CUP. 
 
 A little below the glutton lies the plane of the drunkard, 
 whose visions and dreams are bounded by the horizon of a still- 
 tub. "A little wine for the stomach's sake is good," but in the 
 trembling hand of a drunkard every crimson drop that glows in 
 the cup is crushed from the roses that once bloomed on the 
 cheeks of some helpless woman; every phantom of beauty that 
 dances in it is a devil; and yet millions quaff, and, with a hide- 
 ous laugh, go staggering to the grave. 
 
 Were you never regaled with the story of the midnight vision 
 of the drunkard ? His friends carried him home and laid him 
 on his bed, and procured a monkey and tied it to the foot of 
 the bed. In the dead hours of the night he awoke from his 
 stupor and discovered the monkey crouching before him. Then, 
 reaching around for his revolver, he remarked: "If you are a 
 monkey, you're in a devil of a fix — hie. If you ain't a monkey — 
 hie — I'm in a devil of a fix."
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 95 
 
 THE MISSING LINK. 
 
 A little below the plane of the flrnnkard is the dnde — that 
 missing link between monkey and man, whose dream of happi- 
 ness is a single eyeglass, a kangaroo strut, and three hours of 
 conversation without a sensible sentence ; whose only conception 
 of life is to splurge, and flirt, and spend his father's fortune. 
 Out of the fullness of his heart his mouth singeth : 
 
 "I'm a dandy — I'm a swell — 
 Just from college — can't you tell? 
 I'm the beau of every belle — 
 I'm the swellest of the swell. 
 
 "I'm the king at all the balls— 
 I'm a prince in banquet halls. 
 My daddy's rich — they know it well — 
 I'm the swellest of the swell." 
 
 NIGHTMARE. 
 
 Unhappily for us all, in the world of visions and dreams 
 there is a dark side to human life. Here have been dreamed 
 out all the crimes which have steeped our race in shame since 
 the expulsion from Eden, and all the wars that have cursed man- 
 kind since the birth of historv. Alexander the Great was a 
 monster whose sword drank the blood of a conquered world. 
 Julius Caesar marched his invincible armies, like juggernauts, 
 over the necks of fallen nations. ISTapoleon Bonaparte rose with 
 the morninsr of the nineteenth centurv and stood like some 
 frightful comet on its troubled horizon. Distraught with the 
 dream of conquest and empire, he hovered like a god on the 
 verge of battle. Kings and emperors stood aghast. The sun of 
 Austerlitz was the rising sun of his glory and power, but it went 
 down veiled in the red clouds of Waterloo, and l^apoleon the 
 Great, uncrowned, unthroned, and stunned by the dreadful shock 
 that annihilated the Grand Army and the Old Guard, wan- 
 dered aimlessly about on the lost field in the gloom that palled 
 a fallen empire, as Hugo describes him, "the somnambulist of 
 a vast shattered dream."
 
 96 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 INFIDELITY. 
 
 It is in the desert of evil, where virtue trembles to tread, 
 where hope falters and where faith is crucified, that the infidel 
 dreams. To him all there is of heaven is bounded by this little 
 span of life ; all there is of pleasure and love is circumscribed 
 by a few fleeting years; all there is of beauty is mortal; all 
 there is of intelligence and wisdom is in the human brain; all 
 there is of mystery and infinity is fathomable by human rea- 
 son; and all there is of virtue is measured bv the relations of 
 man to man. To him all must end in the "tongueless silence 
 of the dreamless dust," and all that lies beyond the grave is a 
 voiceless shore and a starless sky. To him there are no prints 
 of deathless feet on its echoless sands, no thrill of immortal 
 music in its joyless air. He has lost his God, and, like some 
 fallen seraph flying in rayless night, he gropes his way on 
 flagging pinions, searching for light where darkness reigns, for 
 life where death is king. 
 
 THE DEEAM OF GOD. 
 
 I have wondered a thousand times if an infidel ever looked 
 through a telescope. The universe is the dream of God and the 
 heavens declare his glory. There is our mighty sun, robed in 
 the brightness of his eternal fires, and with his planets forever 
 wheeling around him. Yonder are Mercury and Venus, and 
 there is Mars, the ruddy globe, whose poles are white with snow, 
 and whose other zones seem dotted with seas and continents. 
 Who knows but that his roseate color is only the blush of his 
 flowers ? Who knows but that Mars may now be a Paradise, in- 
 habited by a blessed race, unsullied by sin, untouched by death ? 
 There is the giant orb of Jupiter, the champion of the skies, 
 belted and sashed with vapor and clouds; and Saturn, haloed 
 with bands of light and jeweled with eight ruddy moons ; and 
 there is Uranus, another stupendous world, speeding on in the 
 prodigious circle of his tireless journey around the sun; and 
 yet another orbit cuts the outer rim of our system, and on its 
 gloomy pathway the lonely Neptune walks the cold, dim soli- 
 tudes of space. In the immeasurable depths beyond appear
 
 VISIONS AND DREAMS 97 
 
 millions of suns so distant that their light could not reach us in 
 a thousand years. There, spangling the curtains of the black 
 profound, shine the constellations that sparkle like the crown 
 jewels of God. There are double and triple and quadruple 
 suns of different colors commingling their gorgeous hues and 
 flaming like archangels on the frontier of stellar space. If we 
 look beyond the most distant star, the black walls are flecked 
 with innumerable patches of filmy light, like the dewy gos- 
 samers of the spider's loom that dot our fields at morn. What 
 beautiful forms we trace among those phantoms of light — cir- 
 cles, and ellipses, and crowns, and shields, and spiral wreaths of 
 palest silver — and what are they ? Did I say phantoms of light ? 
 The telescope resolves them into millions of suns, standing out 
 from the oceans of white-hot matter that contains the germs of 
 countless systems yet to be; and so far removed from us are 
 these suns that the light which comes from them to us has been 
 speeding on its way for more than two million years. What is 
 that white belt we call the Milky Way which spans the heavens 
 and sparkles like a Sahara of diamonds ? It is a river of stars ; 
 it is a gulf stream of suns, and if each of these suns holds in 
 his grasp a mighty system of planets, as ours does, how many 
 multiplied millions of worlds like our own are now circling in 
 that innumerable concourse? Oh, where are the bounds of this 
 Divine conception? Where ends this dream of God? And is 
 there no life and intelligence in all this throng of spheres ? Are 
 there no sails on those far-away summer seas, no wings to cleave 
 those crystal airs, no forms divine to walk those radiant fields ? 
 Are there no eyes to see those floods of light, no hearts to share 
 with ours that love which holds all those mighty orbs in place ? 
 It cannot be, it cannot be ! Surely there is a God ! If there is 
 not, life is a dream, human experience is a phantom, and the 
 universe is a flaunting lie.
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER. AND 
 
 SONG
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER, AND SONG 
 
 I am a King. My realm hath no boundary lines ; the world 
 is my kingdom. I stamp my foot upon the earth and jostle the 
 universe. The sun gives light for my pleasure, and the timid 
 stars tremble in my presence. The oceans are my highways, and 
 the mountains are my temples, on whose purple domes I love to 
 stand and throw kisses at the angels, or look down and view 
 with rapture the peaceful flocks that graze and sleep on a thou- 
 sand sunny hills. All the fruited and flowered landscapes that 
 swing between the seas are my royal hanging gardens, and I 
 walk in the glow of their glory and rest in the gloam of their 
 sweet solitudes. All the springs that bubble there are mine, and 
 all the bright streams that leap from cliff to crag and from crag 
 to shadowy gorge are my wandering minstrels singing to me 
 of flowers born to blush unseen, and speckled trout that glint and 
 glance in a thousand brimming pools. All the wild deer that 
 spring from shady copse and tangled covert at the sound of 
 the hunter's horn are my imperial game and for my princely 
 sport. The sly old fox in his red uniform gaily leads the royal 
 band, and plays drum major for my bellowing hounds and for 
 me. The glossy herds come lowing from green pastures, fra- 
 grant with the breath of clover blossoms, burdened with milk 
 for me; and the bees sweeten my lips with honey, stolen from 
 the lips of the flowers. The hills unfold their purple mysteries 
 to herald my glory, and the valleys flaunt their banners of gold 
 and shout: "Long live the King!" I love to while away the 
 dreamy summer hours in the cool, green groves that curtain the 
 glimmering fields, where all the joyous wings that brush the 
 air come fluttering to my leafy bowers, and all the birds that 
 sing warble their sweetest notes for me. 
 
 I am a King. I dwell in the palace of love, by the brawling 
 brook of laughter, on the brink of the river of song. And so 
 are all the sons and daughters of Adam equal Kings and Queens 
 with me, whose hearts beat time to Nature's music and whose 
 souls are in love with the beautiful. There is a crown of sun-
 
 102 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 shine for every brow by day, a coronet of stars by night. The 
 angels of light hover above us all, and arch the heavens with 
 the rainbow of hope for all, and bring from the vapory vineyards 
 of the clouds the sparkling champagne of pure crystal water to 
 bless the lips of all. All the delightful dreams that spread their 
 wings above the horizon of the heart, all the glorious thoughts 
 that fly out from the heaven of the brain, all the jubilees of 
 joy that crowd the circling hours of mortal life, are the regal 
 gifts of God to mankind — the royal heritage of all. There are 
 songs sweeter than were ever sung, there is beauty which defies 
 even the brush of a Raphael, for you and for me and for us all. 
 
 I saw the Morning, with purple quiver and crimson bow, 
 stand tiptoe on the horizon and shoot sunbeams at the vanishing 
 darkness of night. Then I saw her reach up and gather the stars 
 and hide them in her bosom, and then bend down and tickle 
 the slumbering world with straws of light till it woke with laugh- 
 ter and with song. A thousand bugle calls from the rosy fires 
 of the east heralded her coming; a thousand smiling meadows 
 kissed her garments as she passed, and ten thousand laughing 
 gardens waved their flower flags to greet her; the heart of the 
 deep forest throbbed a tribute of bird song, and the bright 
 waters rippled a melody of welcome. Young life and love, 
 radiant with hope and sparkling with the dewdrops of exultant 
 joy, came hand in hand, tripping and dancing in her shining 
 train, and I wished that the morning might last forever. 
 
 I saw the Evening hang her silver crescent on the sky, and 
 rival the splendor of the dawn with the glory of the twilight; 
 I saw her fill her dipper full of dewdrops and her basket full of 
 dreams, and then wrap the shadows around her, and, with a 
 lullaby on her lips, rock the weary world to rest; then I saw 
 her slip back to the horizon of the morning and steal the stars 
 again. The gardens furled their flower flags, and the meadows 
 fell asleep ; the songs of the deep forest melted into sighs, and 
 the melancholy waters whispered a pensive good-night to the 
 drowsy birds and sleepy hollows. Life and Love, with a halo of 
 departing day upon their brows and the starlight tangled in 
 their hair, walked arm in arm among the gathering shadows 
 and wove all the sweet memories of the morning into their happy
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG TO3 
 
 evening song, and I wished that the evening might never end. 
 So, 
 
 The mornings come, the evenings go, 
 Till raven locks turn white as snow; 
 The evenings go, the mornings come, 
 Till hearts are still and lips are dumb; 
 The morning steals the stars in vain. 
 For evening steals them back again. 
 
 The mornings are the rapturous thoughts of God ; the even- 
 ings are His glorious dreams. We think within His thoughts, 
 and dream within His dreams. The sun and stars are His 
 mighty looms on which he weaves the lights and shadows that 
 tint the earth and sky with colors divine. But let those looms 
 of light for a moment stop, let their blissful shuttles cease to 
 fly, and instantly this beautiful world of ours, with all its bloom 
 and beauXy blighted, with all its mirth and music hushed, would 
 lie naked and dead on the cold bosom of eternal night. 
 
 So it is with human life. It hath its spirit looms and its 
 throbbing shuttles forever delivering to the warp and woof of 
 hope and memory the shining threads of human kindness, and 
 weaving them into gossamer webs of love around our hearts 
 and in our homes. Every tender word we speak, every blessing 
 we bestow, is a thread of sunshine woven into somebody's life; 
 and all the smiles and sympathies which come to us from other 
 hearts are threads of light and love woven into our own. But 
 let the loom of love for a moment stop, let its blissful shuttle 
 cease to fly, and that moment happiness will lie dead on the 
 hea^'thstone and laughter will perish among the roses at the 
 door. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, I have named my speech "Love, 
 Laughter and Song," because they are the all in all of life, 
 taking root in the heart, blossoming in beauty on the lips, and 
 breathing the fragrance of happiness in every home. 
 
 All men are Kings, but Love is King of Kings. His impe- 
 rial chariot rumbles over the cobblestones of human hearts, 
 and the sighing millions are his worshipers. Wealth bows its 
 haughty head before his throne and pays penance w^ith jewels 
 and gold; labor bends the reverent knee and counts its beads 
 of sweat ; commerce folds its snowy wings and kneels on the bil- 
 lows in mute but eloquent adoration ; and art chisels down the
 
 104 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 oold, white prison walls of shapeless marble, and leads dumb 
 beauty forth, a breathless prayer to Love. 
 
 Love is the only despot against whose tyranny no nation 
 ever rebels ; his yoke is the twining of tender arms, and the crack 
 of his whip is a guileless kiss. Love is a regal anarchist; he 
 climbs the ladder of laughter and throws bombshells of mirth 
 into the palace of the heart. Love is a royal minstrel ; he scales 
 the harp strings of song and serenades the soul. Love rides 
 on the wings of butterflies, and, with his silken lariat, lassoes 
 strolling lovers and leads them down among the golden-rods and 
 clover blossoms. The dimples in the chin of Mirth are the tell- 
 tale tracks of Love, and he lurks among the roses that bloom 
 on Beauty's cheek. 
 
 Love is an anarchist; Love is a King; 
 Love is a minstrel; Love loves to sing; 
 Love is a banker; Love is a tramp; 
 Love loves the palace, and Love loves the camp ; 
 Love loves the timid, and Love loves the bold; 
 Love loves the children, and Love loves the old; 
 Love loves the moonlight where hearts verflow; 
 Love loves the sweetheart, and Love loves the beau. 
 
 O, what a wonderful magician, and what a tyrant King is 
 Love, the King of Kings ! 
 
 Look at the careworn faces in the offices and counting rooms 
 and on the business marts of the world ; look out yonder at the 
 millions in the factories and fields, with beaded brows and 
 knotted muscles and calloused hands, coining thought into gold 
 and sweat into silver. There is a mighty power moving on those 
 restless tides. They are sowing and reaping for the helpless and 
 the innocent. Love hath written his name in every heart, and 
 in every life there is a love story. [N'ow look yonder in the pur- 
 ple glow of eventide. How the millions dissolve and vanish 
 among the shadows ! The law of the King has been obeyed, and 
 labor finds its sweet reward in the palace of Love, by the brawl- 
 ing brook of laughter, on the brink of the river of song. 
 
 But, O, how soon the palace crumbles ! And how surely the 
 vibrant streams run dry when Labor leaves his task undone or 
 Toil takes his gold to other shrines !
 
 Love, laughter and song 105 
 
 If you would keep the loom of love in motion, you must be 
 a flying shuttle of industry by day and spend your evenings at 
 home. The shuttle delivers the thread; you must deliver the 
 bread, and grease the bobbins with butter. 
 
 The shuttle is always in its place. Art thou, O King? 
 When the light is smiling thorugh the window out into the 
 darkness, and thy home is ringing with the laughter and song 
 of children within, art thou there to laugh and sing with them ? 
 And when the baby cries in the dead hours of the night, dost 
 thou meekly wear thy yoke of love and walk the floor and 
 sweetly sing to thy screaming progeny ? What dost thou sing, 
 O King, as thou walkest? Is this the song? 
 
 "Baby, baby, dance, my darling baby! 
 Down he goes, up he goes. 
 
 Ninety times as high as the moon ! 
 Baby, baby, dance, my darling baby ! 
 You shall dine on cake and wine, 
 
 And eat with a silver spoon — " 
 
 "Confound that rocker!" 
 
 Alas! too often thou art found where the sherry glows and 
 champagne flows, and the night is very, very merry, O King ! 
 
 I saw a truant old gentleman vanish from his labors to a 
 carousal one evening, and that night he went home as drunk as 
 a lord, with unsteady steps and slow, dreading the storm within, 
 and softly singing to himself as he went: 
 
 "I wish my wife was an angel, far, far away." 
 
 The Queen of the household, who had been nursing her rage, 
 met him at the door with a face like a drawn tomahawk ; and the 
 clock struck one and she struck two as he entered. "How dare 
 you come home to me at this hour of the night?" she shouted, 
 in her anger. 
 
 "Why, my dear, it was jis' ten o'clock when I left prayer 
 meetin', an' I come right straight home." 
 
 "Yes, prayer meeting! You look like prayer meeting! 
 Look at the hands on the dial of that clock; it has just struck 
 one!" 
 
 (7) ......
 
 I06 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 "Well, now, madam," he said, "if you propose to believe a 
 durned little dollar-and-a-half clock before you'll believe your 
 husband, that's all right; but I shall certainly think that I 
 have not found the amiable spirit in this palace of love which 
 I expected to find on my arrival." 
 
 And the thread of love popped, and the loom stopped for 
 several hours. 
 
 An uncrowned old King went to his little palace one night 
 under the influence of King Alcohol, as usual. His unhappy 
 wife let him in the door and burst into tears and said : "Hus- 
 band, why do you come home every night in this drunken con- 
 dition?""^ 
 
 "Why," he said, "my dear, you are so pretty that I jist nat- 
 urally love to look at you double!" 
 
 I saw a little slippered and skirted dream of beauty with 
 sunny curls, peeping out from under the tiny hanging garden 
 of a summer hat, and romping and frollicking in the ecstasy of 
 life's happy morning. Her cheeks were full of roses, her lips 
 were full of laughter, and her heart was full of song. The 
 little winged god of love stood tiptoe on the horizon of her 
 delightful eyes and shot golden arrows at throbbing hearts ; and 
 all who came within range of those arrows fell dead — in love. 
 The morning never kissed a face more beautiful; the evening 
 never folded in its arms a fairer form. Her life was an end- 
 less chain of sunshine and pleasure. She flitted like a fairy 
 among the poppies and pansies, and read poems and love stories 
 under the spreading trees, or, with her happy companions, 
 shouted with girlish glee, and gathered ferns and violets and 
 wove them into garlands among the twittering bluebirds and 
 tinkling cow bells down by the riverside in the deep-tangled 
 wildwood. 
 
 And when the sylvan carnival of the day had ended and 
 darkness brooded like a gentle spirit over the world, there were 
 lights in the window^s and luminous lanterns on the lawn. I saw 
 a jubilant throng of dreams in summer dresses, and do^vny- 
 lipped dreamers in pantaloons assemble and crowed around her, 
 with hearts attuned to the lyrics of love and levity and faces 
 all aglow with joy. Then I saw her sweep the vibrant harp 
 strings beneath the smiling roof of home and tangle its tender
 
 Love, laughter and song 107 
 
 chords with the tremulous tones of flute and violin and the 
 notes of mellow voices until heaven descended to earth and 
 angels seemed to sing. Cupid danced in every eye, and laughter 
 s^\alng corners with every song. 
 
 But the music turned a somersault into the whirlpool of 
 mirth when the door suddenly opened, and old Uncle Rastus 
 appeared in full evening dress, with bows and smiles and all 
 the pompous airs of a lord to the manner born. There was 
 eloquence in the old man's voice when he said : " 'Sense me, 
 childrun; but I thought I heard de angels sing, an' I jist 
 concluded I would 'lucidate some juicy tunes from de straw- 
 berry patch and cunjer a few frozen songs from de ice cream 
 freezer to melt on yo' lips an' mingle wid de hallelujahs uv yo' 
 music while yo' is a-jinin' in de jubilation of dis most melodious 
 occasion." And there was the clapping of hands for Uncle 
 Rastus, the ebony song of the pantry, the king of the old plan- 
 tation, the white-headed memory of a civilization that died long 
 ago. Then there was the rustling of silks and the coupling of 
 arms, and the love-sick parlor reluctantly tossed its bouquet 
 of youth and beauty to the jealous and impatient dining room, 
 where Uncle Rastus and his dusky subordinates darted hither 
 and thither like blackbirds among the lilies, bearing ponderous 
 waiters burdened with creams, and berries, and kisses, and lady 
 fingers, and all the delightful accompaniments of a birthday 
 party in June. It was, indeed, a melodious occasion, and "all 
 went merry as a marriage bell" until the delicious delicacies 
 evaporated into sweet memories; then the tired and disgusted 
 dining room threw the giggling bouquet out into the lap of the 
 lawn, where love sought the shadows, and laughter played hide- 
 and-seek with the lanterns dimly burning. But lawn parties 
 are like plays. They require the rapid shifting of the scenes to 
 give variety to the entertainment and jewel the passing hours 
 with pleasure. And so the harp quivered again, and the glad 
 leaves trembled, and the stars twinkled, and the young folks 
 flocked from among the shadows to join in a medley of songs 
 which rose and fell on the air like the chiming of distant bells, 
 until the music charmed Uncle Rastus from the wreck of berries 
 and creams as the candle charms the moth.
 
 I08 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ''Lo'd bless my soul ! Jis' look at dat chile wid dat harp in 
 'er han'!" he shouted, as the melody died away. "De snows 
 of seventy winters is on dis ol' head of mine; but when she 
 sweeps dem strings, she strikes all de chords of dis ol' heart 
 an' makes me young ag'in. De blossoms of eighteen summers 
 is on 'er cheeks tonight, but it seems only yistiddy when she 
 was a little baby gal playin' aroun' de knees of my ol' wife, 
 Chloe, who sleeps out yonder on de hill close by de spot whar 
 ol' mistis sleeps. Don't you remember, honey, how yo' ol' black 
 mammy used to take you on her lap an' tell you stories about 
 de ol' bugger man till yo' little eyes got big as sassers? An' 
 don't you remember how she used to make rabbits for yo' out uv 
 de handkerchief, an' fro' shadows on de wall wid her ban's, 
 an' sing de ol'-time lullabies, an' rock you to sleep on 'er 
 bosom every night? Dey ain't no mo' black mammies now; 
 dem happy days is gone; an' yit, ever since Chloe died, honey, 
 I'se been a-rockin' yo' in de purple cradle uv my heart. But 
 de ol' worn-out cradle's a-gwyne to stop rockin' some uv dese 
 days. Some uv dese days de chariot of de Lo'd's gwjme to swing- 
 low, an' den yo' Uncle Rastus is gwyne home to de ol' white 
 folks an' to Chloe." And he bowed his head and softly sang: 
 
 "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home; 
 Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home." 
 
 And I think there was a tear stain on the cheek of Merriment 
 that night. 
 
 But the dewdrops of the evening cannot last long in the 
 presence of the morning. A thoughtless lad from the outer rim 
 of the crowd threw a very ripe tomato. It struck Uncle Rastus 
 square on the upper lip and stuck. The old man walled his 
 eyes a few times and shouted with great dignity: "Lookey 
 hear, young man ! I's a great mind to carry dis heah 'madus 
 jist whar it sets an' show it to yo' father!" This untimely 
 incident came Avithin a hair's breadth of eliminating Uncle 
 Rastus from the revelry of the evening ; but a few more quarters 
 pacified the old man, and, yielding to the clamors of the eager 
 throng, he agreed to "dismember de occasion wid a few varia- 
 tions uv de programme, jis' to please dat chile wid de harp in 
 'er ban'." "Childun," he began, "dis is a strange ol' world we 
 lives in. De poor gits rich, an' de rich gits poor; de lean gits
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG IO9 
 
 fat, an' de fat gits lean ; de young gits old, an' de old has to die 
 to git out iiv de way; some quits weepin' to laugh, an' some 
 quits laughin' to weep; an' it's jis' like Uncle Remus's story uv 
 de fox an' de wolf. Brudder Fox went to de well one night to 
 git 'im a drink of water. It was one uv dese here kind uv 
 wells what has a pulley over it, an' a chain over de pulley, 
 wid buckets on boaf ends uv de chain; an' when one bucket 
 goes up, de other goes down. Brudder Fox, he jumped into de 
 bucket what was up to git him a drink, an' down went de 
 bucket wid him; an' dar he viiiz paddlin' aroun' screamin' for 
 help in de bottom uv de well. Brudder Wolf was a-prowlin' 
 around,, an' he heard Brudder Fox a-screamin', an' he poked 
 his head over de well an' asked Brudder Fox what he was 
 a-doin' do^vn. dar. 'Fishin' !' shouted Brudder Fox. 'Dis hear 
 well's full uv fish.' Brudder Wolf say: 'I loves fish myself.' 
 'Well, den,' Brudder Fox say, ^git in dat bucket, Brudder Wolf, 
 an' come down.' Brudder Wolf hopped into de bucket an' 
 started down, an' Brudder Fox hopped in his bucket an' started 
 up ; an' as dey passed on de halfway ground, Brudder Fox say 
 to Brudder Wolf, wid a grin: ^\h, Brudder Wolf, dis world 
 goes 'roun' an' 'roun', and some goes up an' some goes down.' 
 An' dat's de way it is wid courtship, childrun. De young man 
 what goes prowlin' aroun' de hearts uv de girls had better be 
 keerful about gittin' in de bucket, case dar's liable to be a fox 
 in de well, an' somebody's a-gwyne to git dro^vnded sho'. It's 
 jist 'zactly in love like it is wid religion an' politics. Dis world 
 goes 'roun' an' 'roun', an' some goes up an' some goes do\vn," 
 And Uncle Rastus looked very wise as he continued : "Dar's a 
 wonderful correspondence 'twixt de animal kingdom an' de 
 human race. De lion is de king uv de forest, an' de man dat 
 corresponds to de lion is king among men ; de hog breaks into de 
 garden an' roots up all de flowers, an' dar's folks jis' like de hog 
 — dey breaks into the garden of de heart an' roots up all de 
 flowers uv happiness; den dar's some like de billy goat — alius 
 a-gittin' mad an' buttin' dey heads ag'in' de wall ; an' dar's some 
 like de yaller dog — all bark an' no bite; an' den, ag'in, dar's 
 some like de bear — you better lef him alone, case he's a-gwyne 
 to hurt you sho'.'*
 
 no LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 And to illustrate this proposition, Uncle Rastiis told the 
 story of Uncle Nicodemus and the bear. He said: "Uncle 
 Nicodemus was a-wipin' out his ol' rifle one day, an' Aunt Dina 
 said to him : 'What you a-gwyne to do, ISTicodemus V 'AVhat I 
 gwyne to do ? I'se a-gwyne out heah in de woods an' fetch you 
 a bear for supper.' 'Yes, you's a-gwyne to fetch me a bear; 
 you'll do scrimpscious well ef you fetches me a rabbit or a 
 'possum.' An', sho' nuf," he said, "Uncle ISTicodemus went out 
 into de woods; an', to his distonishment, he met a bear, an' 
 blazed away at 'im wid his ol' rifle an' wounded 'im, an' de 
 infuriated animal tuck after Uncle Nioodemus, an' de ol' man 
 come out of de w^oods shoutin' at de top of 'is voice : 'Open de 
 door, Dina; open de door!' Aunt Dina opened de door, an' 
 ^icodemus darted in, an' she slammed it to, an' den fell over 
 on de bed screamin' like a pant'er an' laughin' like she was 
 a-gwyne into fits. As soon as Uncle Nicodemus could git 'is 
 bref, he riz up an' said: 'What's you laughin' at, Dina?' 
 'Bless de Lo'd!' Aunt Dina said. 'Nicodemus said he was a- 
 gwyne to fetch me a bear, an' de bear fotch him !' De chickens 
 will come home to roost," said the old man. "Yes, sir, de 
 chickens will come home to roost." 
 
 "Well, which do you like the best — the white chicken or the 
 black chicken — Uncle Rastus ?" interrupted a mischievous lad 
 in the crowd. 
 
 "Well, it's dis way, childun," said the old man, with a grin. 
 "De white chicken is de easiest chicken to locate on de roost 
 after dark, but de black chicken is de easiest hid after you gits 
 'im. I believes I prefers de black Langshang." 
 
 "N^ow sing us an old-time darky song!" shouted the revelers, 
 and this is the song he sang: 
 
 "Nicodeimis, the slave, was of African birtli, 
 
 And he lived long ago very old. 
 He was reckoned as part of the salt of the earth, 
 
 And was bought for a bag full of gold. 
 'Twas his last sad request when we laid him to rest 
 
 In de trunk of an old hollow tree, 
 Wake me up in de morn at de broke of de day; 
 
 Wake me up to de great jubilee. 
 Dar's a good time comin'; it's almost here; 
 
 'Twas long, long, long on de way. 
 Oh, run and tell Elijah to wake Unc Pomp! 
 Meet me at de gum tree down in de swamp, 
 
 And wake Nicodemus today !"
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG III 
 
 Uncle Rastus vanished, but the looms of love wove on, and 
 the shuttles of laughter and song never ceased to fly until the 
 lamps went out in the windows and the lanterns were dark on 
 the la^vn. 
 
 The clock struck two, and the boys went home with the girls 
 in the morning. 
 
 The scene changed. I heard the tolling of distant bells. 
 The evening of death had stolen the stars of hope from the 
 bosom of the morning; the angels had slipped in under the 
 smiling roof and stolen a gentle spirit ; the hands that swept the 
 harp strings were cold, the lips that sang Avere silent, and the 
 dazed and desolate youth who had won her heart and promise 
 true left the grave in despair to drink his sorrow away. He 
 drank until his face grew purple and fortune melted away; 
 he drank until his body trembled and his clothing crumbled into 
 rags; he drank until a frenzied old father drove his idol from 
 the door of home; and the mournful years rolled on. The 
 scene changed again. A tramp aimlessly plodded his weary 
 way out in the wide, wide world, with no shelter but the sky, 
 no friend but Mother Earth. 
 
 Did you ever see a tramp tramping by and pausing at your 
 door to beg a benediction — not of love, but of bread ? "What 
 cared this wandering boy for love ? His heart was in the grave. 
 He was the "somnambulist of a shattered dream;" he was a 
 romance in rags, a seedy poem, a tattered song, crumpled by the 
 hand of fate and thrown into the waste basket of oblivion. His 
 life was an endless stroll, and he was the smile of many a 
 haymow and the sweet forget-me-not of many a kitchen ; he was 
 the fragrant touch-me-not of the woodpile and the garden. He 
 stood knee deep in the snow of winter and sang: "Summer 
 days will come again." He toiled over the cross-ties in the heat 
 of the summer's sun and sighed for icebergs and crags of snow. 
 
 He sidled up one bright afternoon to the home of a good 
 old sister in Israel, and humbly asked for something to eat. 
 The old lady passed him out a large slice of cold lightbread, and 
 solemnly said: "Young man, I give you this for humanity's 
 sake." "Well, madam," he said, "for the Lord's sake put a little 
 butter on it."
 
 112 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 He halted at a farmhouse one rainy day and proposed to 
 kill all the rats on the place for his dinner, "Very well," said 
 the farmer; "it's a bargain." He called his neighbors in to see 
 the killing. The tramp ate for an hour; and when he had 
 finished, he called for a spade. Seating himself in the middle 
 of the room, he raised the spade over his shoulder and shouted : 
 "Now fetch on your rats !" 
 
 He stopped at an old fellow's door and told him he was a 
 dentist, and smilingly proposed to put a good set of teeth in a 
 fresh apple pie for nothing. 
 
 He hove to at a cross-roads tavern, leading a pug dog which 
 he had kidnapped on his way. He was a superb ventriloquist, 
 and offered to make the dog talk for a good warm supper for 
 both. "All right," said the tavern keeper, "but be sure you 
 make him talk, for I have a cowhide here which sometimes 
 talks when tramps undertake to fool me." The tramp smiled 
 and ate, while the dog ate from a waiter at his feet. He looked 
 down at his dog and said: "How do you like your supper. 
 Carlo ?" And he threw his voice into the mouth of the dog and 
 made him say: "Plenty of bone, but not much meat." The 
 hands of the lookers-on were lifted in astonishment. "How 
 much will you take for that dog?" eagerly asked the tavern 
 keeper. "I don't want to sell him," replied the tramp, busily 
 eating. "I'll give you fifty dollars for him," said the tavern 
 keeper. The tramp dropped his knife and fork, and feigned to 
 weep, and said with a sigh: "You will have to take him, old 
 man. Fifty dollars is a fortune to me, but I would almost 
 rather die than to part with my dog." The money was counted 
 out. The tramp handed the tavern keeper the string and started 
 for the door. The dog undertook to follow, but the tavern 
 keeper held tight to the string. The tramp threw his voice 
 back into the mouth of the dog as he departed and made him 
 say: "You've sold me, have you?" "Yes, Carlo," said the 
 tramp ; "we must part ; good-by, good-by." "All right," said the 
 dog; "I'll get even with you both; I'll never speak another 
 durned word while this old fool's got me." And the chuckling 
 tramp vanished in the darkness. 
 
 His fifty dollars melted away that night, and he next dropped 
 anchor in a little town and walked into a little grocery store,
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG 113 
 
 where they sold whisky also, and called for a dime's worth of 
 cheese and crackers. The groceryman cut off the cheese and 
 handed him the crackers. He looked at them a minute, and 
 said: "Will you please take the cheese and crackers back 
 and let me have a drink of whisky in their stead ?" "Certainly," 
 said the groceryman ; and he set the bottle out on the counter. 
 The tramp poured a tumbler half full and drank it down, and 
 started out. "Hold on," said the groceryman; "you haven't 
 paid for that whisky." "Yes I did. Didn't I give you back 
 the cheese and crackers ?" "Well, but you didn't pay me for the 
 cheese and crackers," said the groceryman. "I never got 'em, did 
 I ?" said the tramp. "That's so," said the puzzled groceryman ; 
 "you can go, but I don't care to trade any more with you, my 
 friend." 
 
 And the tramp tramped on in the dusty road, which led him 
 out through the skirting woods and down by shadowy fields of 
 blue grass, where Shorthorns gTazed and race horses cantered 
 and played. On he tramped by thrifty farms and farmhouses, 
 until the moon rose and silvered his tatters and rags, and the 
 Evening unfurled her "bonnie blue flag" that bears a million 
 stars; on he tramped, listening to the katydid's lonesome song 
 and many a watchdog's honest bark, catching glimpses now and 
 then of lights in the darkness, and shrinking back when startled 
 birds darted from the bushes by the roadside; on he tramped, 
 until at length he halted in the shadow of a tree before the 
 door of a happy country home, and, looking through the open 
 window into the lighted room, he saw Love and Contentment 
 with smiling faces, rocking to and fro, while Laughter and 
 Song rolled and tumbled on the floor. It was a mirror maze of 
 memory reflecting upon his eyes and soul the scenes of his own 
 happy childhood, too bright, too beautiful, to last ; and he stood 
 there weeping and sobbing in the night, like a lost spirit peering 
 through the lighted window of heaven. 
 
 O, memory, memory, thou hast power to lift the veil and let 
 the spirit look and listen ; but thou canst not lead us back into 
 the fairyland of vanished years. All thy songs are phantoms; 
 all thy faces and forms are dreams. The melancholy tramp was 
 only looking, and listening, and dreaming ; and while he dreamed 
 he heard the soft strains of a love song floating out like the
 
 114 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 incense of flowers on the summer air, which thrilled him and 
 seemed to call him with its melody. He slipped under the 
 shadow of another tree, and, looking through the parlor win- 
 dow, beheld a lover, with face all aglow, bending over a beau- 
 tiful girl, Avho played and sang to him, and this was the sweet 
 refrain : 
 
 "Oh, tell me. do you love me? 
 For that's the sweetest story ever told." 
 
 The wretched listener gathered up the corner of his frazzled 
 coat and wiped another flood of tears from his swollen eyes, as 
 he thought of lips that were dust, and a heart that was still, 
 and songs that were sung no more; and he hid himself behind 
 the tree as the lovers came out and walked, hand in hand, to the 
 gate ; and the lad vanished, and as he vanished he swung his hat 
 in the shadows and sang back to her his happy love song : 
 
 "Light of my life, the apple of my eye, 
 
 I love you, I love you. 
 Through nodding pines the gentle zephyrs sigh: 
 
 I love 3'ou, I love you. 
 Dancing through the grassy meadows where the butterflies swing, 
 Laughing through the leafy woodlands where the happy birds sing, 
 Fairies from the hills and hollows the sweet echoes bring: 
 
 I love you, I love you." 
 
 The very air was drunk with love; the tipsy stars danced; 
 the maudlin moonbeams stumbled over a fleecy cloud and fell 
 sprawling on the dreamy hills; the homeless and friendless 
 tramp disappeared among the trees and there was silence. But 
 still the years rolled on, and the scene changed again. 
 
 Eelentless fate led me into this drama of sorrow; destiny 
 touched me, and I could not resist its power. I was called to 
 labor among the confused tongues of contention in the Babel of 
 politics. The brawling brook of laughter was turned into a 
 brook of tears, and the river of song became a river of sighs. 
 I became a servant to trouble and sorrow — a servant to the 
 harrowing cares of State. 
 
 I saw Love enter the g-ubernatorial door to plead for Love 
 one day ; and the old mother sat and wept in the presence of the 
 Governor, while the aged father told the story of a love that
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG II5 
 
 was wrecked long ago, a life that was ruined, and a lover that 
 wandered away with the death wound in his heart. Then I 
 heard him tell the story of a tramp whose journey had ended at 
 last within the prison walls, and I went out with them and stood 
 at the gate of hell. I looked in and saw the ghastly stripes of 
 shame and the pallid faces of crime moving to and fro, laboring 
 under the lash of justice and shrinking from the scorn of their 
 fellow man. I entered and looked again. There was not a smile 
 nor a single peal of laughter, but a melancholy ghost of song 
 still lingered behind the iron bars to comfort languishing love. 
 I saw children of tender age in that vortex of living death, 
 and I said, "Hell was not made for children;" and I dragged 
 them out and delivered them to their mothers. I saw youths 
 who had committed crime in the heat of passion, dying in dis- 
 grace ; and I dragged them out and sent them home — some 
 with a new hope, and some to die. I saw repentant men who 
 had suffered long enough, and I dragged them out and gave 
 them to their wives and children. I saw the erstwhile tramp, 
 the romance in rags, the tattered song, now the striped doxology 
 of a misspent life. Two trembling hands pointed to him. I 
 turned to the old folks and said, "His crime was not great, and 
 you are old and feeble ;" and I dragged him out and left them 
 weeping upon his bosom. 
 
 I saw ten thousand outstretched hands and heard ten thou- 
 sand cries for help, and the critics raised their bristles, and the 
 scandal mongers showed their teeth and said, "You shall not;" 
 but Love said, "You shall," and Humanity said, "You must ;" 
 and I did. And then I shifted my burden to other shoulders, 
 and — lo !— I was a King again ; and I dragged myself out of 
 the Babel of politics and returned home to my wife and children. 
 
 But the sun still shines and the stars still tremble ; old Babel 
 still babbles; this world goes round and round, and still the 
 tides of humanity ebb and flow. 
 
 What is life but a whirling tide of pleasure and pain, glow- 
 ing with gladness, darkening with grief, leaping with rapture, 
 eddying with tears, now caressing the smiling cliffs of hope, 
 now dashing against the frowuing crags of fear, and then van- 
 ishing in the darkness ?
 
 Il6 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 How sweet it would be if Love, in his shadow boat, with 
 silent oars and sails unseen, could be our only convoy to guide us 
 among the islands of happiness, where we might drop anchor in a 
 thousand harbors of laughter and song ! But — alas ! — every sea 
 is green with the sails of envy, and every air is black with the 
 flags of merciless pirates, who grapple with the shadow boat, 
 and drag us from the deck, and dash us among the coral reefs of 
 sorrow and destruction. No man is safe on this tide of life 
 who sails far out to sea. It is best to hug the shore, and, when 
 the storms come, to anchor in some peaceful bay until the waters 
 are calm and the skies are blue. 
 
 I saw an old farmer's happy children twine their little arms 
 about his neck in the morning ; that was the sunrise of love ; 
 and he went smiling and singing to the fields. I saw them gTeet 
 him at the gate in the evening and cover his sunburnt face 
 with kisses; that was the sweet reward of labor and of love, 
 and heaven was reflected in his heart and in his home. He was 
 one of the contented millions who hug the humble and happy 
 shore of obscurity, unconscious of the great political and finan- 
 cial battles that are daily waged far out on the raging sea of 
 Avealth and power. He had reached the meridian of life within 
 the narrow circle of a rural tiller of the soil, in utter ignorance 
 of the struggles and turmoils of the outside world. But des- 
 tiny touched him at last, and led him away from his little 
 palace of love to be a delegate in a great convention in a dis- 
 tant city. His brand-new Sunday coat was wonderfully and 
 fearfully made; it covered his body as the waters cover the 
 face of the great deep ; and there was blue jeans enough in his 
 pantaloons to bull the wool market; and, with his oilcloth 
 satchel and faded umbrella, he boarded the cars and started 
 on his pilgrimage; and soon, with a great throng of his fellow- 
 delegates, he went plunging out of the darkness into the mighty 
 city, which glowed and fiashed with a million electric lights, as 
 if the angels had spilt a basket of stars. He was deafened with 
 its roar and dazzled with its glory. He heard the symphonies of 
 business and pleasure, and the rattle and rumble of street cars 
 and innumerable vehicles passing hither and thither and brush- 
 ing each other like bees in a hive, and he wondered if they did 
 all their hauling after night. He was lost in the midst of a
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG 117 
 
 vast multitude, and he whispered to a delegate that he "felt 
 like a needle in a haystack;" and finally he dragged himself 
 out of the multitude and landed in the crowded rotunda of a 
 ten-story hotel, "slightly disfigured, but still in the ring." He 
 saw a hundred guests register on the book of arrivals, and con- 
 cluded to try his hand ; and when he had registered his name, he 
 bent over the counter and asked the clerk confidentially what 
 they charged for board. "From five to fifteen a day," was the 
 reply. "Which ?" "From five to fifteen dollars a day, sir, ac- 
 cording to the location of your room." His mouth flew wide 
 open in speechless amazement. "Do you wish a room ?" asked 
 the clerk. "No, sir." "Supper?" "l^o sir." "Breakfast?" 
 "No, sir." "Well, what do you want ?" Haven't you registered 
 here on our book of arrivals?" "Well," said the old man, "I 
 believe I'll jist arrive." And he seized his satchel and slipped 
 out in search of a boarding-house. 
 
 The great convention assembled; and there was the music 
 of bands, and the flaunting of handkerchiefs, and the floating of 
 flags, and the shouting of enthusiastic thousands when the can- 
 didate for President was named. Then there was the clinking 
 of glasses and revelry everywhere. But the old delegate from 
 the humble palace of love was unaccustomed to the flowing 
 bowl ; and as the cocktails and toddies flowed, he began to get 
 rich and boisterous, and finally went staggering down the street, 
 arm in arm with a fellow-delegate, both yelling like panthers, 
 and swearing they could whip the whole city of Chicago. But 
 the scene soon changed, and they were quietly sleeping behind 
 the iron bars in the station house. The next morning when 
 their friends went down to rescue the lost sheep of Israel, they 
 peeped through the bars and saw the old man sitting up on his 
 bunk of straw, sweetly singing an old, familiar song : 
 
 "Little Bo-peep, he's lost his sheep, 
 And don't know where to find 'em. 
 Let 'em alone, and they'll come home, 
 
 With their tails hanging down behind 'em — " 
 
 "I wish I was in Dixie; look away, look away; 
 In Dixie's land I'll take my stand, to live and die for Dixie ; 
 Look away, look away, look away down South in Dixie — " 
 
 "Hurrah for Jeff Davis, by gosh !"
 
 Ilg LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 This song and exclamation aroused his fellow-delegate, who 
 was a stuttering gentleman from Maine, and they instantly en- 
 gaged in a hand-to-hand fight ; but there were no casualties, and 
 "Yankee Doodle and Dixie" were soon parted, and made friends, 
 and went arm in arm into the police court. 
 
 The stuttering delegate was put on trial first. "What is 
 your name ?" asked the frowning judge. "S-S-S-S-Smith." The 
 judge turned around to the captain of the police and asked: 
 "What is this man charged with. Captain?" "I don't know, 
 Your Honor," said the captain, "but I think he is charged with 
 soda pop." 
 
 The old son of Dixie came next. "What is your name?" 
 asked the judge. "Plain Smith, Your Honor, with not so 
 many 's's' as old Soda Pop Smith puts in his'n." And the two 
 Smiths treated the city government to a couple of ten-dollar 
 bills, and disappeared in the multitude, arm in arm, softly sing- 
 ing together as they went: 
 
 "Little Bo-peep, he's lost his sheep. 
 And don't know where to find 'em. 
 Let 'em alone, and they'll come home. 
 
 With their tails hanging down behind 'em." 
 
 This song was a prophecy of happiness, for soon the con- 
 vention dissolved, and the two Smiths parted and went whirling 
 away in opposite directions, unheralded and unsung, but bound 
 for "home, sweet home." And when at length the old delegate 
 from Dixie, with his satchel and umbrella, approached his little 
 palace of love in the gloaming, the frogs croaked "howdy do," 
 and the trees nodded and whispered "howdy do," and the old 
 mill wheel creaked "howdy do," and the whole face of the earth 
 around him seemed to smile and say "howdy do." And home 
 was never half so sweet to him as on that happy evening when 
 the little arms were twined about his neck again, and again his 
 face was covered with kisses, and he sat in the firelight, in the 
 presence of his happy wife, and sang to his baby on his knee: 
 
 "Little Bo-peep, he lost his sheep. 
 
 And didn't know where to find him. 
 He let him alone, and he's come home, 
 With his tail a-hangin' down behind 'im."
 
 Love, laughter and song 119 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, it was a sad day when Satan found 
 his way to earth and climbed over the garden wall. The juice 
 of a single apple has kept this world staggering for six thou- 
 sand years, and it is still on the same old spree. Ever since 
 paradise was lost our race has been drunk with folly, and "little 
 Bo-peep" is always losing his sheep, and don't know where to 
 find 'em. Sometimes they come home with a song, sometimes 
 with a sigh, sometimes with an open countenance, sometimes 
 with a sheepish look, but always with a 'plausible tale hanging 
 down behind 'em. 
 
 The uppermost thought in the human brain is pleasure. 
 Pleasure is the tempter of mankind. It distills in the veins 
 of youth the blood of the violets and lilies, and makes him 
 drimk with the desire to dance the golden hours of life away. 
 
 Look at the floods of light and color glowing in the ball- 
 room; listen to the rapturous flow of mirth and music, and the 
 rustling of silks and ribbons in the whirling and floating mazes 
 of the delightful german. How graceful ! How beautiful ! 
 How radiant with joy! How full of the phantoms and en- 
 chanting dreams of exuberant young life ! It is the bright 
 stream of youth leaping from cliffs of laughter and song to 
 happy vales of pleasure, and breaking into pearls of folly and 
 the silvery foam of frivolity; it is the drunken hiccoughs of 
 hilarity; it is the delirium tremens of pleasure. 
 
 Now turn away from the whirling of society swells and 
 belles under brilliant chandeliers, and take a peep at the country 
 dance, where blazing pine knots flicker and shine on buxom 
 maids and rollicking men. See the fiddler tune his fiddle for 
 the fray; and when all is ready, he gives a few sweeps of his 
 bow across the eager strings, whose weird notes resemble the 
 mingled melodies of wild geese and yelping hounds ; and then, 
 throwing himself back, he darts like forked lightning into an 
 old-time tune called "Shake That Little Foot, Sally Ann :" 
 
 '"Oh, where are you going, Sally Ann? 
 I'm going to the weddin' fast as I can. 
 Shake that little foot, Sally Ann." 
 
 Seeing the swinging of his bow with his body to and fro, 
 keeping "time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme," with the 
 clatter of dwindling shoe soles on the floor. How gleeful, and
 
 120 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 how glad! How thoughtless and free! It is the overflow of 
 soul, a cloudburst of fun, a thunderstorm of merriment; it is 
 rural society on a tear ; Mary's little lambs are at play. 
 
 If youth were the only period of mortal life, human exist- 
 ence would be a perpetual laugh and an endless song. This 
 giddy planet is its whirling symbol, with black-haired Night 
 and beautiful Day forever swinging corners and waltzing 
 among the stars. But there'll come a time, young ladies and 
 gentlemen, when you will waltz to other music and dance to 
 other tunes; there'll come a time when the lambs will cease 
 to play, and the blood of the violets and lilies will be con- 
 verted into the corn juice and hard cider of cold reality; there'll 
 come a time when you will be compelled to swing corners with 
 the broom handle or the hoe, with the cares of the kitchen or 
 the duties of the office, and there will be plenty of vinegar mixed 
 with your sugar and honey. All your ideals of life will change, 
 and other dreams will fill your anxious hearts. They may 
 be no higher than the tramp's dream of butter on his bread, 
 or they may be the dreams of a IN'apoleon who will some day 
 make nations shudder and the frontiers of kingdoms oscillate 
 on the map. But whatever they may be, your bread will many a 
 time fall buttered side down, and many a time your plans will 
 meet with their Waterloo. 
 
 Whether it be youth ever tipsy with pleasure, or manhood 
 intoxicated with the spirit of ambition, or old age tottering 
 around in the stupor of memory, all are drunk with folly and 
 doomed to disappointments innumerable. 
 
 A lawyer said to his client: "There is only one way out 
 of your trouble. You must play insane ; and when a question 
 is asked you in court, you must make this sign and whistle. 
 [Whistle.] A plea of insanity was promptly entered, and the 
 trial proceeded, and at length the prisoner was put on the wit- 
 ness stand. "What is your name ?" asked the lawyer. [Whis- 
 tle.] "Are you the defendant in this case ?" [Whistle.] The 
 court rapped on the bench and said: "You must answer the 
 question, sir." [Whistle.] The physicians pronounced the 
 prisoner insane, and a verdict was rendered accordingly. The 
 lawyer took his client to his office, and they had a triumphant 
 laugh together over the victory. "JSTow," said the lawyer, "I
 
 LOVE, LAUGHTER AND SONG 121 
 
 have acquitted you, and I want my fee; it is only twenty-five 
 dollars." His client stood and looked at him a moment and 
 made only one reply: [Whistle.] And victory was swallowed 
 up in wrath. The lawyer paid dear for his whistle, and his 
 bread fell buttered side down. 
 
 An overbearing lawyer once shouted to an old lady whom he 
 was examining on the witness stand: "Madam, please confine 
 yourself to the facts!" The old lady turned around to him and 
 said: "Well, sir, you are no gentleman; that's a fact." 
 
 An old darky walked into his office one morning and said: 
 "Boss, I's a-gwyne to have a lawsuit wid Jones about a cow, an' 
 I wants to state de facts jist as dey is, an' den I wants to know 
 whedder you can gain de case an' what you is a-gwyne to charge 
 fer de fee." "All right, Rastus," said the lawyer; "I will be 
 honest with you; state your case." It took Rastus an hour to 
 detail the facts in the controversy, and the lawyer put his 
 thumbs in the armholes of his vest and said: "Rastus, if I 
 don't gain that case I will never go into the courthouse again, 
 and I will only charge you ten dollars." Uncle Rastus began 
 to wall his eyes and back out of the office. " 'Sense me, boss," 
 he said ; "but you can't win no case for me sho'." "How dare 
 you, then, come into my office and consume my time in this 
 manner ?" stormed the angry lawyer. "Well, boss," said Uncle 
 Rastus, "it's dis way: I tol' you Jones' side uv de case to git 
 de troof." And there were books and bottles whizzing in the air, 
 and Uncle Rastus had business on the horizon. 
 
 And so it is with every profession and vocation in life. Man 
 is "of few days, and full of trouble." 
 
 An old doctor examined his patient one afternoon and coldly 
 said to him : "You are dying, sir. Have you any wish to ex- 
 press before you pass over the river ?" "Yes," said the patient, 
 feebly; "I wish I had employed another doctor." 
 
 The world loves us if we succeed ; it despises us if we fail. 
 It piles ice around its benefactors, and gives the meed of praise 
 to genius only when genius is in the grave. But what do words 
 of praise avail to lift the shadows from a path no longer pressed 
 by weary feet? Why fill the hands of the dead with flowers 
 which vou have withheld from the living? Who would not 
 rather have one smile, one tender word today, than to know 
 
 (8)
 
 122 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 that a million roses M'ould be heaped upon his coffin ? Who 
 would not rather live and dream among the flowers of love than 
 to sleep the dreamless sleep beneath a "wilderness of flowers" ? 
 
 Then whv not let the Gulf Stream of love flow on ? For its 
 warm current breathes upon the icy shores of mortal life and 
 makes them blossom with laughter and song. Love is the soul 
 of the beautiful, the true and the good; it is all there is of 
 happiness. 
 
 But "the course of true love never did run smooth." Listen 
 to my tale of woe. An absent-minded old bachelor once fell in 
 love with a beautiful girl and instantly prepared for battle with 
 the flounced and powdered enemy. At first his plans worked 
 well, and he was about to win a great victory over all the swells 
 in town; but an accident happened which changed his destiny 
 and wrecked his hopes of conquest and happiness. The church 
 bell rang one bright Sabbath morning, and he knew that his idol 
 would be there, and he diked himself in faultless style and 
 curled his sorrel moustache till it looked like the tail of a pug. 
 The excitement of the occasion made him more absent-minded 
 than ever, and he waited until the worshipers had assembled 
 and then walked down the aisle in triumph, the observed of all 
 observers, with his overcoat hanging on his arm; but the maiden 
 looked at his overcoat and blushed, the preacher looked at it and 
 smiled, and the congregation looked at it and broke into laugh- 
 ter; and the old bachelor looked down, and it was his every- 
 day pantaloons. His hope exploded like a bubble in the air, 
 and he dropped the garment and flew.
 
 SENTIMENT
 
 SENTIMENT 
 
 As unto the world the light is, so unto the soul is sentiment. 
 
 Light is the angel of the beautiful. It unveils the universe 
 and reveals to mortal eyes its glory. Its flight is in every 
 firmament, its pulse beat is in the trembling stars. It dips its 
 wings in the ocean and sprinkles the earth with dew and rain. 
 It bursts through the rifted storm and kisses the falling rain- 
 drops and its colors lie in a band of glory on the bosom of the 
 cloud. It weaves the shining texture of blade and leaf and 
 adorns the fields and builds the solemn temples of the forest. 
 It finds a mirror of enchantment in every glassy streamlet, and 
 we look down on fantastic visions of phantom rocks and ferns 
 and wild flowers and trees and floating clouds. The sky is its 
 palette, the world is its canvas. Its touch is the touch of 
 divinity. It paints its miracles of colors in land and sea and 
 hangs in the distant air the gossamer veil of dreamy haze that 
 softens the landscape and wraps the rugged mountains. 
 
 Sentiment is the ministering angel of life. Its warmth and 
 light are in every thought, its wings flutter in every dream. It 
 sheds its sweet influences on every pathway and smoothes and 
 softens every pillow. It hangs a bow in every cloud and sets a 
 star on every horizon. Its morning is a smile ; its noon is a joy ; 
 its evening a tear. It sweeps the harpstrings of human hearts 
 and they thrill with every human passion. It steals a poem 
 from a rose, a song from a bird, a melody from a brook. It 
 gathers a whisper from the winds, a sigh from the sea, a prayer 
 from the stars. It catches music from the lips of the morning 
 and sombre beauty from the jewelled night. It touches all the 
 tender chords of feeling and exalts the soul to higher planes of 
 liappiness. It flows like a flood of light through the poetry of 
 Milton, and we tread upon the violets of Eden — the Adams and 
 Eves of love's first morning. 
 
 It built the ideals and shaped the dreams of Shakespeare 
 and made his "Romeo and Juliet" the oracle of love in whose 
 divine presence all the world are lovers. It touched the harp
 
 126 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 of Burns and warmed his genius into the floAver of song whose 
 fragrance will linger forever on the honnie banks and braes of 
 Ayr. It is the mirrow of the beautiful in the stream of life 
 reflecting all the shores and all the heavens of thought. 
 
 I stood before a great painting and was awed and charmed 
 by the glory of the master's art. He touched the canvas with 
 his pencil, and lo! Paradise sprang from the dust of long ago 
 and lived again. 
 
 I saw the wondrous work of the sculptor's chisel. He 
 dreamed and modeled and dreamed again till his breathing 
 dream of beauty stepped forth from the cold, dull marble. 
 
 I saw the wizard of the bow turn his violin into a thing of 
 passion. It laughed and wept and sang; it hoped and de- 
 spaired and sobbed like a child ; it pleaded like a lover and sighed 
 like a maiden. It echoed from the battle field of love the drum- 
 beat of fluttering hearts, the clash of tender arms and the sweet 
 musketry of kisses, and then fainted away into whispers like 
 the summer evening's last sigh that shut the rose. 
 
 I saw Blaine play on. the passions of men as the child plays 
 with its toys, and Lamar thrill the hearts of his countrymen 
 with his imagery and his eloquence. They were the plumed 
 knights of opposing sentiments and won the plaudits of the 
 world with their magnetism and their power. 
 
 I saw an actor charm thousands with his inspirations and his 
 songs. His actions were the perfection of grace, and his voice 
 was music. He portrayed the sunny side of life and floated like 
 a dream in the "Shadow Dance." It was a burst of sentiment. 
 
 I heard the divine Patti sing. In every note there was the 
 rapture of love and the pathos of tears ; in every trill there was 
 a warbling bird, and in every swell the dim shadow tones of an 
 invisible harp. I drifted on the silver tide of her song. It 
 ebbed and flowed and broke into spray on the shining rocks and 
 dashed its surfs on golden sands. I was tossed to and fro on 
 every passion known and felt on earth and in heaven ! And I 
 said, what would thi-^ life be worth to us bereft of sentiment? 
 Banish it from the world and you might as well banish the 
 light, for the world Avould be a desert. The sweetest note would 
 lose its melody, the fairest flower its language, and all nature 
 would be as dead to music as the tongueless grave.
 
 SENTIMENT 127 
 
 Sentiment holds the key that unlocks the gates of every para- 
 dise and opens the door of every heaven. 
 
 I saw June unbar a gate of roses and the sweet-scented 
 morning came forth from the pavilion of enamored night, bear- 
 ing in her girdle of light the keys to a thousand heavens. I 
 saw her kindle a sun in every dewdrop and wake the dreamy 
 hills into laughter and song. T caught the odor of honey- 
 suckles and the note of a lark as it rose exultant from the 
 meadow, I saw the glimmer of painted wings and heard the 
 Iium of teeming bees rich with the spoils of plundered beauty. 
 I heard the red bird sound his lute and the thrush trill his 
 madrigals of love in a tangled tree top. I heard the oriole ring 
 his silver bells in the dusky chambers of the forest. I saw the 
 green trail of a winding river and heard the low murmur of its 
 joyous waters dashing among the rocks of distant rapids. I 
 heard the gleeful shouts and splashes of noisy boys at the swim- 
 ming hole under the spreading elms. An old-time darkey went 
 hobbling by with his cup of bait and his fishing pole. The wine 
 of June got tangled in his veins, and he tangled his song with 
 the honey song of the bees — 
 
 "Oh, my Hannah lady, 
 
 I do ah love ah you ; 
 Dey ain't no baby ; 
 
 So good and ah true. 
 In Louisiana I could die 
 If you was only nigh. 
 Tell me, Hannah lady, 
 
 Whose black baby is ah you." 
 
 And he cut the pigeon wing in the clover and then sat down 
 on a bumble bee. It invited him to rise, and he rose. And it 
 was difficult for him to tell which was the warmer, the June 
 in his heart or the June in the bumble bee. 
 
 I saw a love-sick lad meet his sweetheart down in the shady 
 lane and take her girlish hand in his and kiss her under the 
 locust bloom. A jaybird sat on a swinging limb and he winked 
 at me and I winked at him. It carried me back thirty Junes 
 to the happy days when I was the Komeo of many a shady lane. 
 Then I saw a sturdy farmer leave his happy wife at the gate, 
 and as he went to the field I heard him sing back to her a swept 
 ]ove son^ — :
 
 128 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 "Oh, when the silver threads replace the gold, 
 I'll love you, darling, as of old, 
 And kiss the cheek where bloomed the rose 
 Ere life had crept so near its close." 
 
 The snows that never melt may fall on loving heads, but 
 there's no snow on loving hearts, 'tis always summer there. 
 
 Under an arbor of morning-glories by a little cottage on the 
 hill sat an old man with his bride of fifty years. He put his 
 arm around her and smoothed her wrinkled brow, and as they 
 looked with dim eyes upon the shadowy vale below she sang 
 to him with faltering voice : 
 
 "We'll sleep together at the foot, John Anderson, my Jo !" 
 
 O, beautiful dream-maker, voluptuous June, enchantress of 
 the sun, Eden-builder of the world! There is a magic in thy 
 touch which melts the icicles in the veins of age and makes the 
 tropic blood of youth run roses. 
 
 I drifted into town in the gathering twilight of evening just 
 in time to witness the overflow of sentiment in the closing hours 
 of the high school. 
 
 The streets were bustling with merry crowds, and I heard 
 the laughter of children and the music of a band. I heard the 
 chiming of bells, and a throng of happy schoolgirls sang their 
 college song on the campus — 
 
 "Oh, listen to the bells 
 
 How merrily they ring! 
 They're chiming sweet farewells 
 
 While joyfully we sing 
 Tra-la-la ! 
 Oh, listen to the bells. 
 Oh, hear the college yells. 
 Hip, hip, hurrah — rah, rah ! 
 Three cheers for ma and pa — 
 Oh, listen to the music of the bells." 
 
 And when the audience had assembled I looked upon a vast 
 sea of smiling faces and sparkling jewels. There were bald 
 heads, reverend and rosy, upon whose polished domes no fly 
 could light watliout imperiling his neck, and no mosquito could 
 look without a watering proboscis. There were doting mothers 
 and fond aunts armed with smelling bottles and ready to weep
 
 SENTIMEiNT I29 
 
 or faint as the occasion might require. There were old fathers 
 with gold-headed canes and whiskers glossy and gray. There 
 was the solemn array of spectacled professors, male and female, 
 austere and terrible as a galaxy of the gods. Then I saw a 
 legion of white slippered fairies flushed with excitement, but 
 lithe and beautiful as the poet's dream, and the air palpitated 
 with painted fans and heaving bosoms. The grave old Presi- 
 dent ascended his throne, and there was silence. The plump- 
 armed music teacher took her seat at the grand piano. There 
 was a burst of alleged music, and the light of sentiment began 
 to shine. There were essays and recitations mingled with solos, 
 duets, quartetts and choruses galore. Did you never hear a 
 frightened schoolgirl read her composition? If you have not, 
 you have never quafl'ed at the fount of sentiment. The old presi- 
 dent announced "Miss Felicia Rosebud," subject, "Flowers." 
 And there floated out before the footlights a little blue-sashed 
 cloud of white organdy with a fluttering heart in it. Her timid 
 eyes were the envy of the stars, and her lips would have tempted 
 the bees to jilt the jealous poppies. She held up her trembling 
 manuscript and thus gasped out her little bouquet of flowers : 
 
 "When this beautiful world of ours had rolled out from the 
 dark and warring elements of chaos, a white-winged angel floated 
 down from the purple hills of heaven and scattered the fragrant 
 flowers. And when our first parents fell from their high estate 
 the sad, sighing winds gathered up the tiny seeds and wafted 
 them beyond the barred portal of Paradise lost, to spring up and 
 bloom again to cheer our hearts and gladden our eyes with their 
 fragTance and beauty and to pout their sweet lips to be kissed 
 by the first golden rays of the morning sun. What is more 
 beautiful than the modest little violets opening their glad blue 
 eyes to greet the spring and the dew-besprinkled morning- 
 glories pointing their purplo bugles toward the sky as if to 
 sound a reveille to slumbering summer? How lovely is the 
 stately rose, and how bright and heavenly are the daisies with 
 their snowy petals and hearts of gold. How charming are the 
 lilies of the valley. There is nothing more delightful than to 
 stroll through the meadow and down by the little babbling brook 
 where the bluebells and buttercups reflect their images in the 
 clear running water and where the birds make music in many a
 
 130 LECTURES OF ROl'.ERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 shady bower. Then let us cherish the flowers, the beautiful 
 flowers, for they are the emblems of purity and innocence. 
 They speak to us the langTiage of love and happiness. And 
 now, dear schoolmates, the flowers of June have come to tell us 
 that we must part. 
 
 "The saddest word ever spoken is farewell. That word is 
 trembling on our lips tonight. But mingling with our tears as 
 we leave these classic halls is the sweet consolation that the 
 white-winged angel of memory will attend us through the com- 
 ing years and keep ever fresh and green in our hearts the happy 
 associations of our schoolgirl days. Farewell, farewell!" 
 
 The climax of the brilliant program was the annual 
 address to the graduating class, delivered by the Hon. T. Jeffer- 
 son Shadd, on "The SAveets of Life." Col. Shadd had gathered 
 some of his sweets and many of his bitters in the realm of 
 politics. He had been defeated in every race for thirty years, 
 and his only badge of honor was a dislocated hip contributed 
 by a brickbat in a political row. But since his retirement, 
 which dated from the last election, he had devoted much time 
 to meditation and literary research w^ith the view of entering 
 the lecture field. And he seized the present opportunity to 
 plume his oratorical pinions for future use. The old president 
 introduced him and he limped forward and began to soar : 
 
 "Young Ladies, Sweet Ladies of the Female High School : I 
 speak but the truth when I say that this is the proudest hour of 
 my life. Of all the honors showered upon me in my long and 
 eventful career this is the richest and the grandest. Of all the 
 high privileges I have ever enjoyed this is the most bewilderingly 
 delightful ! I deem all my ambitions satisfied and all my labors 
 rewarded in the rare and radiant pleasure of this glorious occa- 
 sion. This is an honor for which chivalry would have broken 
 lances in the perilous tournaments of the past. The victorious 
 knight crowned one queen, but I cro^vn twenty queens of love 
 and beauty in this august presence this evening. I twine the 
 laurel and the rose for twenty beauteous brows and bow the 
 knee at the shrine where every noble knight has bowed. Did I 
 call you sweet ladies ? From such a symposium of transcendent 
 charms and adorable graces who would withhold the tender 
 appellatioj} ? Breathes there a man pp dead to love, so insensible
 
 SENTIMENT I3I 
 
 to kniglitly sentiment as to withhold from woman that esteem 
 which confesses her to be the sum and substance of all life's 
 sweets! If all the flowers that ever bloomed in Paradise and 
 that have glorified the circling centuries ever since should pour 
 their mellifluous sweets upon man deprived of woman, his life 
 would still be sour, absolutely sour! And if all the roses of 
 earth should fade and wither today, man would not feel 
 the loss while woman survived! Young ladies, I congratulate 
 you on this occasion. You have spread a feast of intellectual 
 sweets that would have maddened the ancient gods with envy. 
 You have touched the golden lyre with a deftness and brilliancy 
 undreamed of by the muses ! You have ended your joyous days 
 of chrysalis and caterpillar in these classic halls, you have eaten 
 the honeyed leaves from the tree of knowledge and left it bare ! 
 And vou are now about to go forth as radiant butterflies into 
 the glorious June of life! A thousand gardens of happiness 
 flaunt their nectared flowers and invite you to come ! Go, young 
 ladies, go ! And may you live to taste the sweets of fifty Junes 
 to come!" 
 
 He took his seat amid tears of delight and storms of applause, 
 and the band played "Little Annie Rooney." 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, what would life be worth to us bereft 
 of sentiment ! Who would blow out the light of love or quench 
 the music and the dream of hope and memory? Who would 
 strip youth of its romance or steal from age its reminiscences ? 
 My old grizzly friend, what would you take for the fond recol- 
 lections of your boyhood ? When you first entered the arena of 
 intellectual combat within the sacred halls of the debating 
 society to which I belonged, compelling each debater to occupy 
 the floor for not less than three full minutes under penalty of 
 fine and everlasting disgrace. A popular question for discussion 
 was this : "Resolved, That the dog is more useful to man than 
 the gun." The name of the leader on the affirmative was called, 
 and thus he shook the earth with his arguments : 
 
 "Mr. President and Gentlemen of the Society: The ques- 
 tion for discussion tonight is, Svhich is the most useful to man, 
 the dog or the gim V I'm on the affirmative. I say the dog is 
 the most useful. (How much time vi got?) It stands to reason 
 that the dog is the most useful. 'Now, Mr, President, suppos'n
 
 132 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 you go a himtin' an' you jump a rabbit an' you pull down on 
 him an' your old gun busts and kills you instead of the rabbit 1 
 Does a dog ever bust? (How much time vi got?) Mr. Presi- 
 dent, the gun's a dangerous thing. It's like the old woman 
 said — it's dangerous without lock, stock or barrel, for her hus- 
 band whipped her with the ram-rod. (How much time vi got?) 
 Mr. President, suppos'n a burglar is breakin' into your house. 
 Don't you have to load your old g-un ? Mr. President, the dog's 
 always loaded. (How much time vi got?) Therefore, Mr. 
 President, the dog is the most useful. I leave the question with 
 vou." 
 
 Then the champion of the negative was called upon the floor. 
 Thus he unlimbered his battery: 
 
 "Mr. President and Gentlemen: I am on the negative side 
 of this question. It's a serious question. I say the gun is the 
 most useful. An' why do I say the gun is the most useful? 
 (Plow much time vi got?) Suppos'n, Mr. President, you go 
 into the woods and want to kill a squirrel on the top of an oak 
 or hickory? Can a dog climb a tree? 'No, sir, you have to 
 shoot him out with your gun. (How much time vi got?) Mr. 
 President, suppos'n a man Avants to steal everything you've got ? 
 Won't he pizen your dog? But, Mr. President, he can't pizen 
 your gTin. (H'ow much time vi got ?) Of course, the gim is 
 the most useful. What are you goin' to do if there comes a war ? 
 Are you goin' to turn into a dog to fight? Mr. President, I 
 thank you for your kind attention." 
 
 The judges decided that the arguments were evenly balanced 
 and that it was a "dog fall." 
 
 The watery jointed boy in the debating society lacks confi- 
 dence in his wings. But wait until he becomes a Sophomore in 
 the university — then watch the eagle soar. I saw a Soph, circle 
 upward above the most distant stars and sail far out in space 
 beyond the ratiocination of man, on the "The Ruins of Time." 
 I can only give you a feather out of his wing. 
 
 "The ruins of time, the ruins of time ! They are vast as the 
 creation and old as the stars ! Time, the venerable of the ages, 
 the hoary monarch of the scythe and hour glass, is slowly but 
 surely digging the grave of the universe. His tremendous 
 forces of destruction are silently working changes in the physics
 
 SENTIMENT 133 
 
 of the spheres that point to universal death. Aye, the very 
 phmetary spaces are filled with the dust of disintegrating worlds ! 
 Star after star has forever disappeared from the glittering stage 
 of the heavens within the memory of ephemeral man. The 
 mighty suns, those magnificent archangels of light that 
 illuminate the deep profounds of the illimitable are slowly 
 dying, dying, dying. The fiery hearts of their children, the 
 planetary orbs, are slowdy cooling, cooling, cooling into the chill 
 of inexorable death! The period must come in the history of 
 the universe when its immeasurable spaces now so glorious and 
 so tranquil with light and law and cosmic order shall feel the 
 shock of an awful cataclysm in the wreck of matter and the 
 crush of worlds. Time marks a limit in the life of matter, and 
 God has written limit on the wrinkled brow of Time, whose 
 tottering footstep must end in a grave on the silent shore of the 
 eternities." And when he got through there wasn't a hair on 
 my head. 
 
 But alas! how fade the colors of the rising morn. How 
 gray and sombre grow the shadow^s under the passing clouds of 
 noon. How soon we drift away from the florid young orator 
 and the budding essayist into the broA\ai and sober hues of the 
 man and the woman. Their stilted efl[usions and flamboyant 
 oratory are often the outcroppings of genius. The sentimental 
 schoolgirl of the commencement who bubbles over about the 
 flow^ers may some day bring society prostrate at her feet by her 
 goodness of heart and beautiful character. The downy lipped 
 Soph, who encompasses the universe in his oratorical flights 
 may yet hold in his grasp the affairs and destiny of a nation. 
 As the gate of youth closes behind us and its music dies away, 
 other gates open just ahead and we hear the din of real life 
 and see the world in another light. Our thoughts unfold into 
 the full leaf of midsummer, and our loves and hopes and ambi- 
 tions are in full bloom. Sentiment is to the soul what light is 
 to nature. Light passes through a prism, and, lo! its seven 
 colors stand forth like seven angels — the alphabet of the beau- 
 tiful. So sentiment passes through the prism of the heart and 
 reveals all its colors in human character, l^atural objects tear 
 asunder and reflect certain rays of light and absorb all the rest. 
 The result is color. The leaf reflects the green ray and absorbs
 
 134 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 the other six — the leaf is therefore green. One flower absorbs 
 the rays except the red; another absorbs all but the yellow. 
 They are, therefore, red or yellow according to the rays they 
 reflect. The infinite combinations of the reflected rays give 
 every hue and tint and shade of color which we see in field and 
 forest every day. And so in every imagination there is an ideal, 
 in every heart a dream of happiness — a dominating sentiment 
 which is reflected in the words and actions of every-day life. 
 Sometimes the sentiment is reflected in the stomach, and the 
 goal of happiness is in a banquet. 
 
 To the man who lives to eat the science of gastronomy is a ro- 
 mance and the bill of fare a poem. The chimes of the dinner bell 
 are more melodious than the music of Mendelssohn. The gilded 
 dining hall, with its silver plate and immaculate linen, is a vision 
 of heaven, and the incense of the cuisine is sweeter than a breath 
 of June. As the war horse sniffs the battle from afar, and the 
 wild boar whets his tusks for the combat, so the fat man sniffs 
 and whets for the festive board. The horizon of his dream is 
 full of "canvas backs" and "blue-wings ;" its waters swarm with 
 pompanos and terrapin, and its landscape is blatant with fat 
 and juicy flocks. His countenance is a sunrise of sentiment, and 
 his laughter is like the twinkling bubbles of a pot of mutton. 
 
 O, ladies, cherish him and nourish him, and thus perpetuate 
 his heavenly temper ! As the farmer f atteneth the lamb for the 
 feast, so fatten ye your husbands that their souls may be fit 
 meat for the Master's use. 
 
 But there is a paradise of liquid sentiment where fragrant 
 bottles smile and luscious demijohns give forth delicious odors. 
 The schoolgirl gathers her inspiration from the flowers, the 
 Sophomore from the stars, the poet from the fabled muses ; but 
 the Bacchanalian dreamer imbibes his happiness from the Ely- 
 .sian spirits that glow in amber juices of corn and rye. He is a 
 poet without verse, for his sublimated imagery is beyond the 
 grasp of language, and his timorous ideality is as thin as the tail 
 of a comet through which we see the stars. In his florid imagina- 
 tion he soars " 'mid pleasures and palaces" and usually steers 
 clear of "home, sweet home." In his rhapsodic moments of ex- 
 hilaration he rises from poverty to wealth and from weakness 
 to power. He could buy the universe and carry the world on
 
 SENTIMENT 135 
 
 his back. The reason for the existence of such a character is 
 unfathomable, unless his nose is intended to be a red buoy above 
 the sunken rocks and shoals of life to warn the unwary against 
 sure destruction. 
 
 The most beautiful example of this wealth-producing power 
 of old rye is embodied in an old story I used to hear : 
 
 A one "galloused" fellow from Hard Scramble met his 
 friend in town one day and said: '"Well, they say you're goin' 
 back to Texas." "Yes, I'm just starting." "Do you think 
 you'll see my brother out there ?" "O, yes, I'll see your brother. 
 I'm goin' to his town." "T wish you'd tell him, if you please, 
 that if he is ever goin' to help me, now is the time. I haven't 
 got a thing in the world." "All right," said his friend. "Let's 
 go in and take a drink." 
 
 After they had imbibed together a few times, old "one gallus" 
 said: "If you see my brother, tell him I'm doin' very well — - 
 I'm makin' money." "All right," said his friend. "Come in 
 and let's take another drink." Finally they separated, and when 
 the Texas man was boarding the train the erstwhile poor man 
 staggered up to the platform and shouted: "Say, if you see 
 my brother out there, tell him if he needs anything, by gosh, to 
 let me know." 
 
 An old poet of the flowing bowl came down the village 
 street one bright afternoon swearing he could climb a thorn tree 
 a hundred feet high with a wildcat under each arm and never 
 get a scratch. But the next morning he appeared with a band- 
 age over one eye and a blue knot on his nose and his right arm 
 in a sling. "Hello!" shouted one of his pals, "I thought you 
 could climb a thorn tree a hundred feet high and never get a 
 scratch ?" "Yes," he said in a subdued tone, "but I got this 
 comin' down !" 
 
 A gentleman went home one night "about three sheets in the 
 wind" and said to his patient wife, "I'm not feelin' very well 
 this evenin' — I fear I'm not goin' to live long." "Yes, my 
 dear," she said, "I think if you would drink less whiskey you 
 would lengthen your days." "That's so, my dear; that's so. 
 I tried it last Sunday, and it was the longest day I ever spent." 
 
 A belated old farmer reached home one cold, frosty night 
 "as drunk as a lord" and concluded he would crawl in bed with
 
 136 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 the children ; but he made a mistake and crawled into the kennel 
 in the chimney corner outside and went to sleep with his setter 
 dog and her litter of pups. Toward morning he was half 
 awakened by the pups crawling over him and scratching his face 
 with their little paws, and he mumbled out, "Children, for the 
 Lord's sake, quit kickin' the kiver off your father !" 
 
 Thus, ladies and gentlemen, the character of the drunkard 
 quenches every other sentiment, and, like his nose, reflects only 
 the red. lie is indigenous to every soil. He blossoms in every 
 clime. He is the ever-blooming carnation in the conservatory 
 of mankind. We cannot conceal our true colors. They shine 
 in all we say and in everything we do. 
 
 The turfman thinks "horse," talks "horse," and laughs the 
 "horse laugh." A horse stands hitched in his thoughts by day, 
 and often a nightmare gallops through his dreams. 
 
 Sentiment moves in the sweet impulses of charity. 
 
 Did you ever enter the door of poverty to help and to bless ? 
 
 There was a heaven in the basket on your arm and in that coin 
 
 you slipped into the fevered hand of the sufferer on the pallet 
 
 of straw. You kindled a heaven in every little hungTy heart 
 
 huddled around the dying embers on the hearth, and you saw 
 
 it shine through dirt and rags and glow in the tears of gratitude. 
 
 That was pure and holy sentiment ! Did you ever see want and 
 
 misery shining in a cold and cheerless hovel ? The white wing 
 
 of mercy was in the flour you sent, and that ton of coal was the 
 
 stored sunlight of sentiment. Did you ever carry a cup of pure, 
 
 fresh milk to the squalid cradle of a famishing child and put 
 
 it to its shrivelled lips ? That was the milk of human kindness ! 
 
 Did you ever go where the bloom of wealth had fallen and 
 
 false and fickle friendship had fled to other fields and flowers? 
 
 There was a sunburst of hope in the check and cancelled 
 
 mortgage you laid on the table, and new joy blossomed in broken 
 
 hearts when you said: "True friendship is always the same 
 
 in the sunshine and in the shadow," That was the royal purple 
 
 of sentiment. One bright summer morning a good old-time black 
 
 mammy stood in my presence as Governor of Tennessee and 
 
 said: "Governor, I wants my ole man." "Where is your old 
 
 man?" I asked. "He's out yonder in de penitentiary, dat's 
 
 whar he is, sah." "What is he in the penitentiary for ?" "Well,
 
 ^tmr - -i 
 
 $:• 
 
 
 : f. 
 
 '■n , 
 
 Great Ash Tree on Alt' Taylor's Farm. Where Hub Rehear>ed 
 
 Fiddle and the Bow.'" 
 
 The
 
 SENTIMENT 137 
 
 boss, I'se gwine to tell you de trufe. We had our gran'chillun 
 livin' wid us, an' an' times wus liard, an' we got out of meat, 
 an' de chillun was hungry, an' de ole man slipped out one night, 
 stole two middling of meat — yes, sah, dat's what dey put him 
 dar fur. Dey put him in fur free years, sah. Yes, sah, dey sho' 
 did." "How long has he been in ?" I asked. "Jis one yeah, boss, 
 jis one yeah; an' he ain't no count in dar an' he ain't 
 no count outside, an' I can't see why dey wants to keep him." 
 "Well," I said, "if he isn't any account inside and he isn't any 
 account outside, what do vou want with him?" "What does T 
 want wid him, did vou ax what I want's wid him ? We're out 
 o' meat agin, dat's what I wants wid him." I agreed with the 
 old soul that one year was long enough for two "middlins" of 
 meat, and as she departed with a pardon in her hand there was 
 music in her voice when she said : "Boss, ef I never sees you 
 any mo' in dis world, I hopes we'll meet up yonder whar de 
 meat never gives out and whar the chilluns never gets hongry." 
 That was the very middling meat of sentiment. 
 
 (9)
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 
 
 I sat on a balcony in a great city by the sea. I looked down 
 on the bustling streets below and beheld every phase of char- 
 acter and every grade and condition of life mixing and mingling 
 together in that great mart of modem civilization. I saw youth 
 and beauty chasing the rainbows and butterflies of pleasure, and 
 old age shambling along, bent under the crushing weight of 
 years. I saw exultant hope peer over the shoulder of despair, 
 and radiant joy pass and touch the black veil of sorrow. I saw 
 the anarchist rub against the money king, and the Quaker jostle 
 the clown. I saw the Christian brush the infidel, and the Gentile 
 elbow the Jew. I saw eager thrift and impatient competition 
 flit by like wing-footed Mercuries, and close at their heels sharp- 
 faced and lynx-eyed avarice rushed on in hot pursuit of the 
 gilded god of Mammon. I saw enterprise seizing opportunity 
 by the forelock, and success throwing back mock kisses at the 
 pouting lips of disappointment. I saw pride and vanity flash 
 their jewels and flaunt their silken skirts in the tear-stained 
 face of humility, and the chariot of Dives throw contemptuous 
 dust from its glittering wheels on the tattered garments of 
 Lazarus. I saw ambition battling for power, greed struggling 
 for wealth, and poverty begging for bread. 
 
 I heard the rumbling of heavy wheels and the clatter of 
 countless hoofs on the stony streets. I heard the footfalls of 
 the moving throngs, and the murmur of multitudinous voices 
 like the eternal roar of ocean waves breaking on rock-bound 
 shores. 
 
 There was a little green park close by where art and nature 
 mingled in the beautiful gifts of statue, and fountain, and leaf, 
 and tree, and flower, and it was touched by the white pavements 
 of a broad and splendid avenue. There I saw a swarthy min- 
 strel from the classic land of Italy playing on his street piano, 
 around which a hundred pale and fragile children tripped and 
 danced, keeping time with nimble feet to melodies stolen from 
 the sunshine of Italian skies. A little farther away a band of 
 troubadours from the dreamy hills of Castile played softer airs
 
 142 LECTURES OF ROBERT L, TAYLOR 
 
 on softer strings of lute and viol and sweet guitar, while a dark- 
 ejed senorita sang a Spanish serenade and then received the 
 silver dimes in her tinkling tambourine. 
 
 I saw an Irish policeman, radiant with red hair and re- 
 splendent in his brass buttons and long-tailed coat of blue, 
 swinging his shining billy in his strong right hand, proudly 
 Avalking his beat on the square in front of me, and he seemed 
 the most important personage in all that motley throng. I savr 
 him collar a tough, and club a pickpocket, and save a child who 
 fell under a dray ; I saw him gallantly make way for the ladies 
 to pass, and kindly lead a feeble old man over the crowded 
 crossing. I saw him bow to all the sports and politicians as 
 they passed. 
 
 Then the martial melodies of military bands came floating 
 on the sultry air, and there was a great tumult, for do^vn the 
 avenue I saw eager crowds gathering everywhere along the side- 
 walks, filling every door and packing in every window to wit- 
 ness the brilliant parade of Tammany. Louder and stronger 
 the tumult rose as the silent and solemn old chief went by in his 
 slow-moving carriage, and there was the flaunting of flags and 
 flouting of handkerchiefs and a storm of huzzahs all along the 
 line as ten thousand Tammany Tigers from the political jungles 
 of New York kept time to the music that flowed from a hundred 
 silver horns. 
 
 I saw every extreme of society and every striking contrast 
 of virtue and vice, hope and fear, joy and sorrow, of wealth and 
 rags, of glory and shame — I saw these pass like phantoms be- 
 fore me. 
 
 I left the balcony of the palace and loitered along the teem- 
 ing thoroughfares. I saw opulence lolling in elegant ease and 
 feasting and drinking in luxurious dining halls and rich cafes, 
 while ragged children, with hungry looks and watering mouths, 
 stood without and gazed through the broad and plated windows. 
 I saw gilded saloons, magnificent with crystal and silver and 
 gold, and hung with costly paintings, where wine flowed like 
 ruby fountains, and liquors old and mellow enticed and tempted 
 alike the prosperous and the poor, the learned and the unlearned, 
 the philosopher and the fool, the youth in his teens and totter- 
 ing old age. There I saw statesmen drink bumpers with ward
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 143 
 
 politicians, and perfumed and dainty swells clink glasses with 
 brawny and sw^aggering champions of the prize ring; there 
 many an innocent boy just from the old plantation, with his 
 mother's last kiss still warm on his lips and his father's bene- 
 diction still fresh in his heart, poured out his first libation to 
 the god of wine and entered the world of sin through the beau- 
 tiful gate of temptation. 
 
 The scene changed, and I wandered, half bewildered, down 
 the avenue. There I saw unguarded youth, charmed by the 
 meretricious glances of fallen beauty and lured into the silken 
 web of tinseled sin, where remorseless guilt feeds on the pol- 
 luted husks of ruined and blighted hearts, and I thought of 
 the story of the spider and the fly. 
 
 The scene changed again, and I entered a temple dedicated 
 to the fickle goddess of chance. I heard the click of the roulette 
 wheel, and the rattle of poker chips, and the clink of golden 
 coin. It was the sound of the clods on the coffin of fortune. I 
 heard half-uttered groans from quivering lips, and hoarse mut- 
 terings and muffled oaths from the clenched teeth of despera- 
 tion. I saw Augiiish hovering there, silent and tense, like a 
 brooding angel, and beside her stood pale and haggard Ruin, 
 with drawn dagger pointed at his own heart, and he said : "Fare- 
 well, O blissful dream of happiness; farewell to the sweet mem- 
 ories of a mother's kisses and a mother's prayers." 
 
 The day died into the night, the night vanished before the 
 light of a beautiful Sabbath morning, and I entered a temple 
 of the living God. Its broad aisles shone with the elite of the 
 metropolis, and the soft, rich radiance of the costumed worship- 
 ers was like a dream of patrician wealth and glory. The sanctu- 
 ary was redolent of flowers, and the vast assemblage sat mo- 
 tionless under the eloquence of the great divine as he wielded 
 the keen-edged sword of the Spirit, now a gospel Mars, piercing 
 shields and cleaving helmets ; now an Olympian Jove, hurling 
 thunderbolts that were forged in heaven ; and then out from the 
 golden pipes of the great organ the seraph of music fluttered 
 on the air and bore me upward on his outstretched wings to the 
 crystal heights of song till my raptured soul caught glimpses 
 of the jew^el walls of the Eternal City.
 
 144 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 The sacred pageant dissolved and I explored the slums of 
 that city by the sea. I walked amid the squalid tenements of 
 poverty and sin, unillumined by hope, unhallowed by love, and 
 where even mercy trembles to tread. I saw manhood crushed 
 in the coils of debauchery, and motherhood degraded into the 
 depths of shame, but as there are pearls in the filthiest of 
 streams, so God's jewels are sometimes hidden in the reeking 
 cesspools of humanity. 
 
 In one of these tenements of crime a child lay dying on a 
 pallet of rags. Her white hand clenched a flower. The roses 
 had vanished from her cheeks, and there was nothing left but 
 withered lilies. The blessed sunshine crept through the nar- 
 row canon of the street and hung enthralled in her golden hair, 
 and the sky above had left its blue and its stars in her innocent 
 eyes. Divine love had set its aureole of glory about her tender 
 life, and the lowest outcast caressed her and the vilest lips spoke 
 blessings upon her head. All who looked on the solemn scene 
 bowed in silence to this majesty in rags. Did I say majesty? 
 Was not this the royal death chamber of God's elect, and was 
 not this little bed of rags the jeweled couch of an angel ? Was 
 it not the coronation scene of an immortal soul ? There was a 
 sigh, a gasp, and the storm of life was hushed forever; and as 
 the sinless spirit took its flight I thought I caught faint swells 
 of music from another world; I thought I heard the rustle of 
 invisible wings. 
 
 I looked upon these shifting scenes of life in that city by 
 the sea, and I dreamed of the old plantation far away, where 
 the sk}^ is blue above and the earth below is green — where peace 
 dwells in the quiet vales and contentment sings among the 
 hills. 
 
 I wondered why thousands would languish in crowded alleys, 
 when nature is beckoning them away to her landscapes of beauty, 
 where the wild flowers bloom and the sunshine plays "hide and 
 seek" with the shadows through the long surmuer days. 
 
 I wondered why the toiling millions would dwell amid the 
 stench and blackened walls of misery and be slaves to heartless 
 masters, when untouched fields and cooling springs invite the 
 happy home, and the virgin soil still waits for the plowman and 
 his merry song.
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 145 
 
 I wondered why helpless children should be doomed to die 
 in polluted hovels when green meadows bid them come and 
 chase the butterflies among the clover blossoms, and the bloom- 
 ing hills call them hither to romp and play where the happy 
 birds sing, and the brawling brooks leap and laugh down the 
 dusky hollows. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, there is a halo of glory about every 
 beautiful city which charms us all. There is an inspiration in 
 every statue and marble column. Every dome is the embodi- 
 ment of a thought, and every glittering spire lends enchantment 
 to the view. 
 
 We delight to listen to the chiming of bells and the music 
 of industry. We are bewildered by the numberless fads and 
 fashions of society, and dazzled by the brilliancy of the drama 
 and the opera. We love to walk among the creations of art and 
 in the atmosphere of literature and culture. We love to go 
 where poetry mingles its rhythmic flow with the prose of life, 
 and where sculpture and painting gladden our eyes and thrill 
 our hearts. Yet what are all the achievements of human art 
 compared with the prodigal glories of the natural world ? What 
 are the potted plants that perfume the palace hall compared with 
 rural flower gardens that scent the evening gale? What are 
 the pent-up parks compared with the countless shady dells ? 
 What are domes to mountains, and spires to peaks, and what 
 are burnished towers compared with a thousand templed hills 
 that shake from their leafy boughs the dewdrops of the morn- 
 ing? 
 
 Let the Avizards of finance meet in their gorgeous club rooms 
 to sip and smoke and shuffle the cards of fortune, but give me 
 a fisherman's tent and a fisherman's luck on the bank of a moon- 
 lit river, where hearts are trumps and souls overflow with song 
 and story. 
 
 What is a thrill of victory on the stock exchange compared 
 to the joy a fisherman feels when a game trout strikes his baited 
 hook, and the good reel sings as he gives him line, and the fish- 
 ing rod bends and the waters splash ? And what eloquent words 
 escape his lips when he thinks he has landed the fish, and his line 
 gets tangled among the limbs ten feet above his head, and he 
 sees his panting prize dangle for a moment in the air, and then,
 
 146 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 with a farewell flutter, bid him good evening as he drops back 
 into the water and darts away like an arrow ? 
 
 Did you ever hear the story of five fishermen who lived to- 
 gether in a cabin on the banks of a Southern river ? The only 
 sleeping arrangements they had were two quilts. They all slept 
 together on one and covered with the other, and in the night, 
 when one wished to turn over, he shouted "Spoon !" and they all 
 turned over together. One day one of the boys went out alone 
 to shoot fish. He climbed a tree on the bank and crawled out 
 on a limb over the stream, and lay there, looking down, waiting 
 for a trout to come in sight ; but his position was so comfortable 
 that he Avent to sleep, and a mischievous fellow, passing by, 
 knowing the habit of the fishermen when they wanted to turn 
 over, shouted "Spoon!" at the top of his voice; the sleeping fish- 
 erman instantly turned over and fell ten feet "kersplash" into 
 the water. 
 
 Did you ever hear the tale of Mark Antony, the funeral 
 orator of Rome and the Romeo of the ISTile ? He went angling 
 in Egypt one day on the royal barge with the beautiful Cleo- 
 patra, and he fished and fished, unrewarded by a nibble, imtil 
 the hours grew dull and heavy; but the cunning queen con- 
 ceived a plan to change her lover's luck, and unfolded the scheme 
 to a slave, and the slave secretly dived from the larboard side 
 of the boat and hung a dried herring on the general's hook and 
 then gave his line a vigorous pull. "By Jupiter," shouted 
 Mark Antony, "I have hooked a monstrous fish." "Take care, 
 my lord, and give him line, lest he drag thee into the sea," cried 
 the dark-eyed queen as she chuckled behind her fan. 
 
 "By the gods, that fish shall flounder on thy deck, or 1 shall 
 flounder beneath the waves," cried the impetuous Roman. He 
 squared himself and gave a mighty jerk, but fell sprawling on 
 his back at the feet of the laughing queen, and when he looked 
 up and saw nothing but a little dried herring dangling among 
 the ropes above him, he blandly smiled and dryly said: "He 
 was a monstrous fish while biting, but between his bite and my 
 jerk he has wonderfully shriveled, but he's the oldest-looking 
 fish and he has the loudest smell of any fish that ever perfumed 
 the royal barge."
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 147 
 
 And so many an ambitious Antony sits in the stock ex- 
 change of the great city and drops his hook in the sea of specu- 
 lation, and he fishes and fishes with his little wad of hard- 
 earned cash until some shrewd manipulator, just to change his 
 luck, takes the little wad off and gives the line a heavy pull, and 
 when our guileless Antony thinks he has hooked a million, he 
 jerks and falls at the feet of fickle fortune and finds dangling in 
 the air above him only the dried herring of a shriveled hope, 
 and there is nothing left but the aged look of an empty purse 
 and the smell of a dream that is vanished. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, environment is the great moulder of 
 human thought and human character. It gives shape to all our 
 ideals of the beautiful and all our dreams of happiness. 
 
 The environments of brick and mortar which wall in the 
 mighty cities of the world develop genius and stimulate activity 
 in a thousand vocations of life, but they contract the ideals of 
 men to the circumference of a dollar, and shape their dreams 
 of happiness to all the gilded forms of artificial pleasure which 
 money alone can buy. 
 
 Such environments quicken the brain and give it power to 
 grasp colossal problems, and fret continents with lines of steel, 
 and weave the web of civilization around the golden thrones of 
 money kings; but they chill the nobler and better impulses of 
 the heart and make it cold and indifferent to the pure and beau- 
 tiful sentiments of life. 
 
 Did you ever watch a bevy of city swells and society belles 
 swinging and whirling under the flaming chandeliers until the 
 coat tails of the swells jDopped like whip-crackers and the skirts 
 of the belles flapped like the sails of a schooner in a high wind ? 
 That was a piping gale of urban pleasure. 
 
 Did you ever attend a g-reat reception in the heart of the 
 metropolis ? It was a gorgeous scene of icicles and spectacles, 
 and broadcloth and jeweled skeletons, arrayed in white slippers 
 and rarest silks of richest colors ; and the icicles and the spec- 
 tacles bowed to the skeletons, and the skeletons bowed to the 
 icicles and the spectacles; and the skeleton and the icicles and 
 the spectacles talked of their bicycles and tricycles, and discussed 
 various articles, and drank champagne and sherry, and got very 
 merry, and wound up with oysters and dill pickles; and the
 
 148 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 icicles and the spectacles got in their vehicles and went home 
 with the girls in the morning. That was the cream of urban 
 civilization. 
 
 Did you ever gaze on a gaudy throng of bald-headed ApoUos 
 and painted Minervas walling their eyes in speechless rapture 
 before the garrish lights of the grand opera ? How the fans and 
 ribbons fluttered, and the side whiskers swayed and spluttered, 
 as the shrieking harmonies of Wagner shook the crowded audi- 
 torium ! That was the tuneless pandemonium of urban environ- 
 ment. 
 
 The lover of a modem female lawyer began to plead with 
 her one day for her heart and hand, but she motioned him away 
 and sternly said: "Put your proposition in waiting, sir; I 
 haven't time to listen to an oral arcimient todav," 
 
 "I understand," said the old-fashioned woman, ''that your 
 children are studying for professions." "Yes," said the new 
 woman, "my daughter is reading medicine and my son is going 
 to be a dressmaker." 
 
 An old man lay on his deathbed in that city by the sea, and 
 the doctor bent over him and said, "You are dying, sir. You 
 will soon meet the King of Terrors. Are you afraid to meet 
 him ?" "ISTo," said the feeble patient ; "I'm not a bit afraid to 
 meet him ; I've been living with the Queen of Terrors for forty 
 years." 
 
 That very same day a masculine old woman, wearing short 
 skirts and a man's hat, walked into the telegraph office in that 
 city by the sea and telegraphed her brother down on the old 
 plantation: "My husband died this morning. Loss fully cov- 
 ered by insurance." 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, I would rather be a worshiper at 
 nature's shrine, with my cheeks and hands all tanned by the 
 summer's sun and my heart as light as the wing of a bird; I 
 would rather watch a peaceful flock graze among the hills, and 
 gather luscious fruits from bending boughs and purple grapes 
 from staggering vines, than to dwell in that city by the sea, 
 among the awful inequalities of life — where the fruits of artifi- 
 cial pleasure turn to ashes on the lips. 
 
 I would rather wake from my restful slumbers in a cottage 
 doA\Ti on the old plantation, when the morning is hanging her
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 149 
 
 banners of purple and gold on the eastern sky, and take down 
 my hunter's horn and call my eager fox hounds to the chase 
 deep in the gloomy woods of autumn, or gather up my fishing 
 tackle in the afternoon and go angling for speckled trout in the 
 brimming pools of the mountain brooks, or trolling for bass and 
 salmon in the w^hirling eddies of the river, than to join the 
 hungry throngs who crowd the streets of that city by the sea in 
 the wild pursuit of the almighty dollar. 
 
 When I speak of the old plantation I mean the peaceful 
 realms of rural life far from the maddening strife of men, 
 whether they be the broad and fertile fields of the rich or the 
 himable cabins of the poor, with only gardens and springs, and 
 with roses blooming at the door. 
 
 I mean the sunlit hills and the dreamy dells of the country, 
 where God curtains the earth with blade and leaf and flower, 
 and festoons the winding streams with spreading trees and 
 tangling vines. 
 
 I mean the environments of the farm, where Art is born and 
 Literature drinks at the fountain of the beautiful, and where 
 INTature rocks the cradles of poets and orators. It is not always 
 a paradise, yet it is always beautiful. Its skies are not always 
 clear and calm, yet the sunshine is brightest after the storm, 
 and, like God's love and mercy, it is free to all. 
 
 Serpents crawl among its fairest flowers, and every bee that 
 gathers honey there has a sting. It has its thistles and its 
 thorns, and there are graveyards and trials and tribulations 
 down on the old plantation. Yet it is the storehouse of senti- 
 ment, and in its sweet solitudes the angels of peace and happi- 
 ness forever dwell. 
 
 There was a wedding one night far down the peaceful val 
 ley, and in the years that followed I saw a half dozen curly- 
 headed girls romping around their mother's knee and a half 
 dozen noisy boys diving like didappers and swimming like 
 ducks down at the old swimming hole, or fishing in the eddies, 
 or yelling, or running rabbits in the briar field. They were 
 the fruits of the union of the plow boy and the milk maiden, 
 and I shouted, "Three cheers for the Union!" because I knew 
 that the great majority of the men who succeed and distinguish 
 themselves in the world are eountrv-bred, and but for the brawn
 
 150 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 and brain and the fresh blood that flows in from the old planta- 
 tion, the grass would soon grow green in the streets of that city 
 by the sea. 
 
 If you want to make a man of your boy and give him 
 muscle and brain and constitution, take him away from the 
 environments of the sweltering city and turn him loose on the 
 farm, and let him caper among the bull-bats and billy goats, 
 and let him convert himself into a circus and turn somersaults 
 and tumble in the air like a straw hat in a cyclone ; let him 
 carry his big toe in a sling, and climb up and straddle the comb 
 of the barn room and yell like an Indian, or explore the bottom 
 of the well in search of bull frogs. It will give him nerve and 
 spirit. 
 
 Let him mix up in a dog light, and shiver lances with a 
 butting ram, and play Mazeppa on the back of a yearling 
 steer. It will teach him the lessons of courage and self- 
 confidence. 
 
 Let him venture where angels dare not tread. His grand- 
 mother may have hysterics every day, and his mother may wear 
 mourning in anticipation of the final tragedy, hut fear not — 
 you can't kill him. 
 
 Let him put red pepper in the cat's mouth, and flash gim- 
 powder under the dog's nose, and stampede the calf with his 
 mother's parasol. 
 
 Let him sew up the leg of his slumbering father's pantaloons, 
 and hide under the sofa when his big sister's beau calls, and 
 put asafoetida in the soup, and receive a "thrashing" every 
 hour, for it will imbue him with the doctrine of eternal punish- 
 ment. 
 
 Let him learn to be ISTature's lover and gather her songs in 
 his heart and hang upon her lips like a smitten cupid. 
 
 Let him daily keep tryst with her in the sunny field and 
 silent woods, and pillow his head on her bosom by the babbling 
 brook, where the blue bells kiss the marigolds in the love- 
 whispering breeze, and dream away the golden hours to the 
 sweet lullabies of the robin and the bob-o-link. 
 
 Let him walk in her sequestered lanes where the hawthorn's 
 overarching bloom is melodious with red birds and amorous 
 with doves.
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 15 1 
 
 Let him go where the tangled glades are splashed with red 
 buds and the dogwood blossoms star with white the leafy robes 
 of May, where the rabbits waltz by moonlight and the catbird 
 sings his sweetest song, for in him some day may awake the 
 muse of a greater Milton or the harp of a sweeter Burns. 
 
 Like a poet Avithout a muse, or an Apollo without eloquence, 
 like a fireless jewel, or an unkindled star, is the man who has 
 never felt the touch of TTature in his soul. For what is human 
 art but the mimicry of IsTature, and what is Nature but the 
 art of God ! 
 
 What brush has ever painted the poppy as the sunbeam's 
 pencil paints it? 
 
 What beauty of the artist's painted dream 
 Is not more deftly imaged in the stream, 
 Where rocks and trees and bending skies, 
 Inverted by its mirror, downward rise. 
 
 Does his ear long for harmony? — the very hills are thrones 
 of music. Does his eye crave the beautiful ? — April carpets 
 the meadows with violets, and June damasks his cottage wall 
 with roses; the morning sows the fields with orient pearls, and 
 the evening glorifies the sunset skies with a thousand shattered 
 rainbows. 
 
 Autumn slows the bounding pulse of Summer with the 
 kindly touch of death, and, lo! she falls to sleep on a funeral 
 pyre of colors as gorgeous as a dream of heaven. 
 
 Then Winter comes with silent tread, 
 And on his heart lays Autumn's head, 
 And on her heart his jeweled hand. 
 And stills that heart forever. 
 Then o'er her rears a spotless tomb. 
 
 As from the vales her requiem swells, 
 And wreathes it from his magic loom 
 
 With crystal immortelles. 
 
 It is here that the unfettered and impressionable boy re- 
 ceives his first and best inspirations of thought and senti- 
 ment. 
 
 It is here that his fancy takes wings and makes its first 
 flights into the bright realm of dreams.
 
 152 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 It is here that he is first aroused by the call of glory, and 
 kneels before ITature's majesty and receives her royal stroke of 
 knighthood. 
 
 The great civilizations of the past were born and nurtured 
 in the lap of husbandry. That rich agriculture born of the 
 Nile nursed the empire of the Pharaohs into civic greatness, 
 whose mighty ruins remain today the eloquent witnesses of a 
 glory that marked the very daAAOi of history. The harp of 
 Orpheus and the Pandean pipes played by shepherds and farm- 
 ers in the beautiful land of the Aegean sounded that natal song 
 of a civilization whose soul has inspired and animated the 
 poetry and eloquence, the arts and arms of all succeeding cen- 
 turies. 
 
 There was once a civilization in the land of my nativity 
 more brilliant than any that ever flourished in all the tide of 
 time. About its ruins there clings a romantic story of vanished 
 dreams made holier and sweeter by lips that are hushed and. 
 hearts that now are dust, and there is nothing left but the 
 memory of its departed glory, lingering among its tombstones 
 and monuments, like the fragrance of flowers that are faded 
 and gone. It ruled from a throne of living ebony and made 
 the world its tributary. It opened the floodgates of wealth and 
 deluged the world with gold. Its realm was the sunny South, 
 the paradise of the cotton and the sugar cane, kept by the dusky 
 Adams and Eves of toil; and amid its magnolia-scented laby- 
 rinths of shade walked the chivalry and beauty of a lordly 
 race. 
 
 It was a proud and imperial civilization, but, like great 
 Caesar, it foil with an hundred gaping wounds, and its bleed- 
 ing corpse dissolved into ashes long ago on the funeral pile 
 of war. 
 
 I would not stir your hearts to pity nor recall those gaping 
 wounds tonight; but rather let me lift the veil of memory and 
 give you a glimpse of the golden days of the old plantation 
 before our Caesar fell. 
 
 There, half hidden in the groves of live oaks and magnolia 
 trees, where the mocking birds chuckled and laughed, and the 
 twittering bluebirds built their nests, stood the white-columned
 
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 tHE OLD PLANTATION I $3 
 
 mansion of the master, where life reached the high tide of 
 baronial splendor. 
 
 And stretching away to the horizon were the snowy cotton 
 fields, alive with the toiling slaves, who, without a single care 
 to burden their hearts, sang as they toiled from early morn till 
 close of day. 
 
 Every sunrise of summer was greeted by the laughter and 
 songs of the darkies as they scattered in gangs and went forth 
 in every direction to begin the labors of the day, and the music 
 floated back to the mansion to sweeten the morning dreams of 
 the drowsy lords and ladies who still rested on their pillows. 
 The negToes of that day were the most musical and the most 
 humorous race of people who ever lived in the world, and they 
 wove a melody into every task they performed; every leisure 
 hour was filled with their mirth and their merriment, and they 
 were imbued with the spirit of the Christian religion, and were 
 firm believers in the providence of Almighty God. There was 
 not an infidel among those millions of slaves. 
 
 I sat on the veranda of an old plantation home in the gath- 
 ering twilight of evening and listened to the chiming of the 
 distant village bells and the responsive hymn of the weary 
 negroes as they came flocking homeward from the cotton 
 fields singing. 
 
 The negro quarters around the mansion were the shrines of 
 innocent pleasure, where the dusky revelers gathered every 
 night, with banjo and fiddle, to play, and pat, and sing, and 
 dance away the long, happy hours. 
 
 I have heard them play and sing until the very heavens 
 seemed to turn into sheets of music ; every star w- as a note and 
 every constellation was a song. I have seen them dance until 
 the smoke and pleasure of the bonfire sprung corners with the 
 moonbeams in the air. I have heard them laugh until the 
 ripening corn grinned through the shuck and the tickled chest- 
 nut burrs spread their mouths and chuckled. The old darkies 
 and the kinky-headed pickaninnies formed a circle around the 
 dancers, and all patted and sang together, keeping time with the 
 music of the fiddle. 
 
 I have heard them hum to flying shuttles and the clank of 
 drumming battens, and beat time to the music of whirling bob- 
 
 (10)
 
 154 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 bins, and the great banks of cotton and wool melted away like 
 snow in June, and then reappeared in ponderous bolts of jeans 
 and linsey. 
 
 And then I have seen them in the sewing room and heard 
 the snip of shears, and the grating of thimbles, and the sighing 
 of thread till the last garment was finished and the black bodies 
 were made proof against the cold and the chilling blasts of 
 winter. 
 
 And then, in the dreamy days of autumnal glory, when its 
 gold was on the forest and the mellow sun poured amber on the 
 russet fields, I have watched my mother as she sat by the win- 
 dow in her big arm chair knitting for her slaves. The rhythmic 
 movement of her graceful fingers was visible music; it was 
 enchantment; it was magic in yarn, and the big white ball cut 
 capers on the floor. 
 
 And her needles danced like witches. 
 
 And those nimble fingers flew 
 As they deftly threw the stitches, 
 
 And the great white stocking grew. 
 
 But as each autumn came and went I saw new silver in her 
 hair and new lines of coming age in her beautiful face, and 
 her lovelit eyes grew dim ; and then at last, with my old black 
 mammy, they buried her on the hill, and my father, too, is sleep- 
 ing there. 
 
 Whatever may have been said by lecturers or novelists to 
 the contrary, the old-time Southern darkey was the happiest be- 
 ing on the Lord's green earth. He took no thought of the 
 morrow, what he should eat or what he should drink, and not a 
 wave of trouble rolled across his lazy heart. He was as prone 
 to idleness as the sparks are to fly upward, and when his master 
 caught him napping in the field, he turned ashey and protested 
 that he was the sickest negi'o in the world. 
 
 One day an old-time planter, who was a lawyer as well, 
 came home from court and found his darkies lounging about 
 and sleeping under the shade of the trees, and he sternly called 
 them around him, with a thunderstorm on his brow, and harshly 
 said : "If you lazy, good-for-nothing niggers don't quit loung- 
 ing and sleeping around here and get up and go to work, I will 
 quit practicing law and let you all starve to death."
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 155 
 
 A lazj old darky got married one night and gave the 
 preacher a string of fish for tying the knot. In about two 
 months the preacher met him and said : "Rastus, how are you 
 and Aunt Dinah getting along?" "Well, boss," Uncle Rastus 
 said, "I wish to de Lawd I had et dem fish." 
 
 An ambitious old negro concluded he would go into the egg 
 business and make some money on the outside, and he visited 
 the neighboring chicken roosts by moonlight and procured some 
 fine hens and a rooster ; but somehow or other the hens wouldn't 
 lay, and the old darky was very much discouraged. He was 
 sitting in front of his cabin one evening, when the old rooster 
 hopped up on the porch and flopped his wings and crowed. The 
 old man looked at him and said: "Yes, flopping your wings 
 and crowing around here like an old fool, and you can't lay an 
 egg to save your life." 
 
 Uncle Rastus met Uncle Nicodemus one day and said: 
 "Nicodemus, do you 'spoze any of de 'postles wuz cullud?" 
 "I'se not sho 'bout dat, Rastus," said Nicodemus, "but I'se 
 powerful sho dat Simon Peter ^vuz no nigger, 'cause ef he had 
 been, dat rooster neber would a-crowed three times." 
 
 Old Uncle Ephraim's wife died, and the old man moaned, 
 and yelled, and shouted, and finally jumped in the grave and 
 wanted to be buried with her, but a big, stout darky jerked 
 him out and held him. The old man looked around in his wrath 
 and said : "Turn me loose, nigger, and go 'way f um here ; you 
 neber did lak to see me enjoy myse'f." 
 
 Uncle Rastus was a preacher, and his master was also a 
 preacher. He couldn't read a word in the book, and was, there- 
 fore, compelled to rely on his master for his texts. 
 
 He shuffled into the mansion one Saturday evening and 
 said: "Excuse me, master, but what is yo' text gwine to be 
 for tomorrow, ef you please, sir ?" 
 
 "It is this, Rastus," the old man said, " 'And the multi- 
 tudes came unto him and he healed them of divers diseases.' " 
 
 Uncle Rastus thanked his master and bowed himself out, 
 and next morning he rose before his congregation and said : "My 
 congregation, I'se got de dangerousest text 'twixt the lids of the 
 Bible. It is dis: 'And de multitudes came unto him and he 
 healed dem of divers diseases.' Mark de words of de text:
 
 156 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 'Divers diseases.' Now, according to dis here text, disease is 
 in de world — de yaller fever kills hits thousands, and de small- 
 pox hits tens of thousands. Sometimes dese earthly doctors can 
 cuore de yaller fever ef dey gits to it in time. Sometimes dey 
 can cuore de smallpox, but, in the language of de text, ef you 
 takes de divers you's done dead right now ! Nobody but de Lord 
 can cuore de divers." 
 
 The queens of the mansions were perfect types of Caucasian 
 beauty, and they were wooed and won under arbors of 
 Marechal Niels and among the cape jasmines by men as proud 
 and courtly as ever shivered lances in the romantic days when 
 loiighthood was in flower. 
 
 They lived in ease and luxury, and each day was a link in 
 the golden chain of pleasure.
 
 DIXIE
 
 DIXIE 
 
 When the angels of the Lord had laid out and completed the 
 second paradise on earth, which I think the cherubim and sera- 
 phim named the beautiful Land of Dixie — when they had rested 
 under the shade of its trees and bathed in its crystal waters, and 
 breathed the perfume of its flowers, they spread their wings 
 on its mellow air and mounted upward toward the skies. They 
 hung a rainbow on the clouds, and, pursuing its gorgeous arch- 
 way northward over hill and vale and mountain, and across the 
 Potomac and the Ohio, they alighted to tie its other end to earth, 
 and behold there lay stretched out before them another empire of 
 transcendent beauty, and lo! they made a third paradise and 
 called it the Land of Yankee Doodle, Ever since that dav the 
 rainbow has rested with one end on Dixie, and the other end on 
 Yankee Doodle, and its radiant arch overshadows a race of the 
 bravest men, and the most beautiful women that the sun in 
 heaven ever shone upon. 
 
 Every patriotic American citizen loves and honors every inch 
 of soil that lies between the two ends of that rainbow, and should 
 any foreign foe set foot upon our shores all the sons of the 
 South would spring to arms, and shoulder to shoulder with all 
 the sons of the N^orth, they would rush into battle, keeping step 
 to the music of the martial airs of Yankee Doodle and Dixie. 
 
 But Mason and Dixon's line is still there. Law cannot 
 abolish it. The terrible struggle which put Yankee Doodle on 
 the pension list and Dixie on crutches could not wipe it out. 
 It is still there. Geographically we are one — in the pride of our 
 ancestry and the glory of American achievement we are one. 
 But in climate, in production of the soil, in thought, sentiment, 
 and taste, in manners, customs and prejudices we are twain. 
 Mason and Dixon's line is still there, and there it will remain 
 as long as the Yankee says, "You hadn't ought to do it," and 
 the Southerner says, "I've done done it." But the sectional 
 line which separates them, and which was once a bloody chasni. 
 is now only the great dividing line between cold bread and hot 
 biscuits.
 
 l6o LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 But still we are fraternal, and who will prophesy an end to 
 our fraternity as long as "Yankee Doodle" fattens from the 
 hopper of high protective tariff and "Dixie" generously fills the 
 hopper — as long as "Yankee Doodle" gets the fat and "Dixie" 
 gets the fraternity. 
 
 It is beautifully illustrated by the two old darkies who 
 bought a cow in partnership and rented a pasture to keep her in. 
 But Uncle Yank persisted in milking the cow and appropriating 
 all the milk. Uncle Dick poked his head over the fence one 
 evening while Yank was milking away. "How's dis, Brudder 
 Yank; didn't we bought dat cow in partners, half and half?" 
 "Yas, sah, dat's right." "Well, den, how is it you's a-gittin' all 
 de milk ?" Yank rose with fire in his eyes. "Lookey heah, nig- 
 gah, I's dun 'lected fuh to choose which end ob de cow I takes. 
 I takes de hine half ob de cow. Now walk yoahself away from 
 hear and go to work and git up somethin' to feed youah end ob 
 de cow and quit youah nullifyin' and a secedin' frum de com- 
 pact." 
 
 But let me whisper a secret in the ear of "Yankee Doodle." 
 "Dixie" is smiling on the West, and the West is squeezing 
 "Dixie's" hand, and we may yet have the equilibrium of gov- 
 ernment which will give to each section a fair division of the 
 milk. 
 
 The scenes may shift, and the conditions of today may 
 change tomorrow, for it is the community of interests which 
 rules the destinies of Nations. 
 
 The perpetuity of the Republic depends upon the peace and 
 harmony of the sections and upon the equal distribution of the 
 fat to all alike. We must recognize the fact that there are and 
 always will be sectional lines. 
 
 An old politician once shouted from the stump: "Fellow 
 Citizens : I know no North, I know no South, I know no East. 
 I know no West," and a barefooted boy yelled from the gallery, 
 "You'd better go an' study gog-er-fey." 
 
 I think the boy was right. I believe in sectional lines. I 
 believe they are the very safeguards of the Republic. The Mis- 
 sissippi River is a sectional line which marks the eastern boun- 
 dary of the great West. The Potomac and the Ohio constitute 
 the boundary line between the North and the South, and each
 
 DIXIE l6l 
 
 of these great sections thus divided is a column of strength and 
 power in the triple-pillared Temple of the Union. 
 
 Yonder stretches the i^orth and the East, glittering with 
 spired cities, crowded with busy millions, singing the songs of 
 progress with the spindle and the loom, and groaning with 
 wealth and politics. It is the emporium of universities and 
 prizefighters. It is the colossal pillar around which flourishes 
 a civilization whose triumphs are the triumphs of cultured brain 
 and cunning hand, and whose statesmanship and codfish com- 
 mand the admiration of the world. 
 
 "Beyond the shining trail of the 'Father of Waters,' 
 'Where Sunset's radiant gates unfold 
 On rising marts and sands of gold,' " 
 
 looms the mighty pillar of the West, around whose base there lies 
 another vast empire of territory, and under whose shadow has 
 leaped into life a new and marvelous civilization, gold-crowned 
 and silver-sandaled, holding in its right hand the sheaves of 
 peace and plenty and in its left hand the funnel-shaped cloud. 
 The snoAvcapped Rockies are its w^atchtowers and the tornado is 
 its carrier dove. 
 
 But fairer than the Land of Yankee Doodle, and richer than 
 the prairied West is the empire of my ovm sweet Sunny South, 
 the land of flowers and tears, of beauty and of sorrows, the land 
 of griefs and broken columns. With all its sufferings it is still 
 the garden of the gods, where all the verdure and bloom of 
 "Paradise Lost" have found a home. Around this majestic 
 pillar of our Union there breathes still another proud civiliza- 
 tion, whose brow is wreathed with the laurel and the lily, whose 
 bloody sword is sheathed, and whose face is turned toward the 
 morning. 
 
 Behold, then, this imperial triumvirate of the Western Hem- 
 isphere — this mighty trinity of empires, unfettered by tyrants, 
 undaunted by kings. "Wherever the eagles lead them with forces 
 joined the planet will tremble and the Nations of the earth 
 must quail. 
 
 Thus the American Union is divided into three great sec- 
 tions and the sections into States, and these sections and States, 
 with all their varieties of climate, and fruit and flower, and
 
 l62 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 landscape and river, and lake and mountain, blending with the 
 innumerable variations of thought and feeling, and loves, and 
 hopes, and memories, make up one gi'and sweet song of National 
 harmony. 
 
 It would not do for our country to be all North nor all 
 South. It would not be good for the seasons to be all winter 
 nor all summer. 
 
 Sectional lines are the landmarks of diversity, and diversity 
 is the law of the universe. It kindles the stars into flame and 
 makes them glitter like islands of light in the blue ocean of the 
 sky. It makes the rain to fall, and the streams to run, and the 
 winds to blow, and the sun to shine. It wraps the North in 
 mantles of snow and ice. It robes the West in the splendors of 
 the setting sun. It weaves all the colors of the rainbow into 
 pictured tapestries and clothes the South in garments of peren- 
 nial beauty. Diversity has given to the land of Yankee Doodle 
 the heaviest purse and to the West the broadest territory. But 
 who will chide me for loving the land of Dixie best. 
 
 I love it best because it is my native land. I believe not in 
 sectional lines, but in sectional patriotism which loves home 
 better than any other spot on earth. I would despise the Yankee 
 who does not love the rocks and hills of New England better 
 than all the roses and palms and dreamy landscapes of the whole 
 South. I would loathe the Westerner who does not believe that 
 sixteen pounds of silver is as good as one pound of gold, es- 
 pecially if he owns a silver mine. 
 
 But I love the land of Dixie best. There the mocking bird 
 warbles his sweetest song and the darkies still sing their old 
 time melodies and hunt the 'possum and the coon. There 
 the queenly peach flushes with crimson when the sun doth kiss 
 her cheek, and by her side the princely apple glows with deepest 
 red ; and there the orange and the magnolia bloom except when 
 blighted by a frost from the land of Yankee Doodle. There the 
 pear and the plum and the cherry and every kind of berry bend 
 bough and bush like showers of ruby and of pearl. There the 
 hills are festooned with tangling vines embossed with purple 
 grapes that hang in clusters like a million crystal globes filled 
 with blushing wine, and bananas with melting pulp of honey, 
 and pineapples within whose purplish cones cool fountains of
 
 DIXIE 163 
 
 delicious juices flow. There are cantaloupes yielding luscious 
 meats of salmon hue, and huge watermelons with pulps of deep 
 carnation flowing with glory-hallelujah. PomegTanates hang 
 like ruddy moons and lemons like golden globes, and sometimes 
 a "nigger" hangs, away down South in Dixie. 
 
 I would not be offensively sectional, but God has made the 
 South the best. He has poured out his floods of sunshine upon 
 her valleys and dimpled her green hills with shadowy coves, 
 where gay birds flutter and sing and bright waters ripple in eter- 
 nal melody. The sun rises on Yankee Doodle and sets on the 
 West, but he is at the full meridian of his glory, away down 
 South in Dixie. 
 
 When Columbus dropped anchor in the tropic sea, and the 
 new world loomed full on his view, he little dreamed that he 
 had discovered the frontier of the beautiful land of Dixie. 
 
 I think if he had anchored in sight of the frozen shores of 
 Yankee Doodle he would have immediately shifted sails and 
 made a bee line for Spain, and there, on bended knees, declared 
 to the astonished Isabella that he had discovered the Korth Pole, 
 and that it wore sidewhiskers and spectacles. When Cortez 
 and De Soto entered the wilderness of America, throbbing with 
 gaudy wings and ringing with wild music, no wonder they 
 dreamed of the El Dorado, whose sands were gold and whose 
 pebbles were precious stones. They were exploring the beautiful 
 land of Dixie. I think if they had dropped anchor in Buzzard's 
 Bay, when the immortal Joseph Jefferson was in his prime, he 
 would have greeted them there with his famous toast, "Here's to 
 your good health and your families — may you all live long and 
 prosper," and they would have abandoned their search for the 
 El Dorado and baited their hooks with gold bugs and wasted 
 their lives angling for silversides, as the sage of Gray Gables now 
 angles. 
 
 Ponce de Leon, alias "Pontha-daily-o^\^l," searched for the 
 fountain of youth away down South in Dixie. I think he found 
 it, for down among the bananas and oranges at St. Augustine, 
 in Florida, there is a monument to his memory. It is the Hotel 
 "Pontha-daily-o\\Ti," where the sickly sons and daughters of 
 Yankee Doodle now restore their youth at ten dollars a "pontha" 
 and fifty dollars a "daily-own." The fountain of youth is surely
 
 164 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 there, for a native told me he was riding along one morning and 
 he saw the oldest looking man on earth standing in the chimney 
 comer crying. He said he asked him what was the matter, and 
 the old fellow said his father had whipped him for "sassin' " his 
 grandfather. 
 
 Dixie is the richest country in the world. Her sugar planta- 
 tions are rich enough to sweeten the tooth of Yankee Doodle for 
 a thousand years, bounty or no bounty. She is rimmed and 
 ribbed with inexhaustible mines of ore that have never been 
 touched by the miner's pick nor jarred by his dynamite. And 
 she is skirted with primeval forests of timber trees that lift 
 their lofty tops among the clouds and crowd each other for 
 hundreds of miles in one continuous park where the axe haa 
 never gleamed. 
 
 Yankee Doodle may boast that the aurora borealis is only the 
 reflection of the fires of her furnaces and factories, but the shoot- 
 ing stars are only the shadows of the race horses of Tennessee 
 and Kentucky, and the milky way is but the picture on the 
 sky of the cotton fields of Dixie. 
 
 Great and mighty is the Niagara of Yankee Doodle, which 
 leaps from its lofty precipice and roars like an eternal storm, but 
 there is a river whose volume is mightier than a thousand 
 Niagaras and w^hose waters are as warm as a summer's day. It 
 flows noiseless as the sunlight for more than three thousand 
 miles through the cold and turbulent waters of the ocean, waft- 
 ing upon its miraculous current warmth and health and life to 
 half the world. It weaves for England a chaplet of verdure and 
 flowers, it crowns green Erin with the shamrock and the rose, 
 and flings a mantle of perpetual beauty on the vine-clad hills 
 of France. Its soft airs linger about the Orkney Isles and make 
 them a cluster of sunny jewels in the midst of inhospitable 
 northern seas. And, still bearing in its bosom that kindlier 
 nature born of brigliter climes, it breathes in mercy on shores 
 that touch the frozen zone. 
 
 It is the wondrous Gulf Stream, the vehicle of the sun's life- 
 giving power, that rolls out in majesty from the Southern shore 
 of Dixie. 
 
 1^0 wonder the invincible armies of the North argued so elo- 
 quently with the sword to prevent the divorce of Dixie from
 
 DIXIE 
 
 t6i 
 
 this Union. For as unto the crown the jewels are, so unto the 
 Nation is Dixie. She is the red and white of the American 
 flag, and some of the blue. She is the dimple in the cheek 
 of the Goddess of Liberty, and most of the cheek. She is the 
 diamond pin in the shirt bosom of Yankee Doodle. 
 
 Talk not to me of the ISTew South. There is no l^sTew South. 
 Whoever heard of a new North or a new West? We are not 
 ashamed of the old South. We are not ashamed of the grandest 
 race of men and women who ever lived on the earth and who 
 were the heart and soul of the old South. 
 
 We are not ashamed of Mt. Vernon and Monticello and the 
 Hermitage — we are not ashamed of Shiloh and Mission Ridge 
 and Chickamauga and Murfreesboro and Atlanta and Gettys- 
 burg. We are not ashamed of the history of the old South. 
 There is no New South. It is the old South resurrected from 
 the dead with the prints of the nails still in its hands and the 
 scar of the spear still in its side. 
 
 The blood of chivalry still runs in the veins of its people 
 and may God forbid that there ever shall be a New South. The 
 virtue and honor and courage of tlie old South are good enough 
 for me. 
 
 There are new elements of Southern civilization, just as 
 there are new elements in the civilizations of the North and 
 the West. The emancipation of the negi-o race has illuminated 
 the South with the modern colored gentlemen, just as the eman- 
 cipation of muscle has adorned the North and the West with the 
 immortal names of Sullivan and Corbett. But I am loath to 
 believe that Sullivan is an improvement on Daniel Webster or 
 that Corbett outshines Abraham Lincoln. And I fear that the 
 modem colored gentleman has thrown but little light on the 
 labor problem of the South, for as soon as he begins to learn 
 "hie, haec, hoc," it's goodbye "gee, whoa, haw, buck." 
 
 I know that there are new elements of civilization, but I 
 doubt if the world will ever see another civilization as brilliant 
 as that which perished with the downfall of slavery. 
 
 Where is the old-time Southerner who would banish it from 
 his memory ? Slavery is dead, and I thank God for it, but I 
 never shall forget the visions I have seen of the cotton fields.
 
 l66 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 stretching away to the horizon, alive with toiling negroes, who 
 sang as they toiled from early morn till close of day. 
 
 I never shall forget the white-columned mansions rising in 
 cool, spreading groves, where the roses bloomed, and the orange 
 trees waved their sprays of sno^vy blossoms, and the gay palms 
 shook their feathery plumes. 
 
 I have seen pomp and pride revel in banquet halls and feast 
 on the luxuries of every zone. I have heard the soft, voluptuous 
 swell of music, where youth and jeweled beauty swayed and 
 floated in the mazes of the misty dance under glittering chan- 
 deliers. There I have seen the lords and ladies of the plantation, 
 mounted on their thoroughbreds, fleet as the wind, dash away 
 and vanish like phantoms in the forest in pursuit of the fleeing 
 fox, where the music of the running hounds rose and fell and 
 fell and rose from hill to hollow and from hollow to hill like 
 the chiming of a thousand bells. Cotton was king and sat upon 
 the ebony throne of slavery. Every day was a link in the golden 
 chain of pleasure. It was a superb civilization which produced 
 statesmen the peers of Webster and Seward and Sumner, ora- 
 tors more eloquent than Everett or Wendell Phillips, and soldiers 
 as great as ever marched to battle. 
 
 The negro quarters around the mansion were lighted by 
 night with bonfires and the hills resounded with the music of 
 the banjo and the fiddle, and the merry songs and laughter of 
 the older darkies, as they circled around the dusky young 
 dancers, and whiled away the long summer evenings. 
 
 I have heard them play and sing until the very stars seemed 
 to twinkle to their music. I have seen them dance until the 
 smoke and flame of the bonfires swung corners with the moon- 
 beams in the air. I have heard them laugh till the big ripe 
 ears of corn grinned through the shuck and the trees shook with 
 laughter till they shed their leaves. I have heard them preach 
 till the earth trembled. 
 
 A pompous old planter walked into the mansion one bright 
 morning and preferred charges against Uncle Rastus for lar- 
 ceny. His poultry yard had been raided and there wasn't a 
 chicken left on the roost to tell the tale. The track of the thief 
 corresponded with Uncle Rastus' l^o. 14 shoe, and there was 
 hurrying to and fro and great excitement among the darkies.
 
 DIXIE 167 
 
 The penalty in such cases was thirty-nine lashes. The overseer 
 came forward and tested his whip by popping it in the air a few 
 times and Rastus cut the pigeon wing behind his old mistress. 
 His young master, just home from law school, pushed through 
 the crowd of frightened darkies demanded a fair trial for 
 Uncle Rastus. The pompous old neighbor good-naturedly agreed 
 to sit as judge with the old master in the case, and the faces 
 of the two old judges beamed with admiration as the young 
 la^vyer summed up the evidence in his masterly argument. 
 There were sobs from the old black mammy and the young 
 mistress as he pointed to the gray hairs of his weeping old client 
 and alluded to the precious memories of the past when the old 
 man had carried him on his back and entertained him with his 
 stories and his songs. The two old judges looked at each other 
 and nodded when the young Demosthenes held up a 'possum and 
 said, "May it please the court, here is the well-filled thief; this 
 is the grinning robber, this rusty-tailed terror of the chicken 
 roost. Pass judgment upon him, sentence him to death, and 
 I promise that before tomorrow's sun shall rise Uncle Rastus 
 will execute the judgment of the court and send him to that 
 bourne from which no 'possum has ever returned." 
 
 At the close of this overwhelming appeal the two old judges 
 declared him innocent of the charge and pronounced the sen- 
 tence of death upon the head of the 'possum. 
 
 Uncle Rastus smacked his lips and disappeared behind the 
 corncrib in charge of the condemned prisoner. The young law- 
 yer followed the old darky and chucked him in the side and 
 said, "Uncle Rastus, I have cleared you, and now I want to 
 know the truth — did you or did you not steal those chickens ?" 
 
 "Well, marster, I'll tell you de trufe — I always had de im- 
 pression dat I 'liminated dem chickens tell I heard yo' speech." 
 And he mounted his mule, rejoicing over his deliverance from 
 the whippingpost, and he went to the field singing 
 
 "King David, play on yo' harp — halle-Iu. 
 Halle-lu-jah, King David, play on yo' harp, halle-lu." 
 
 Another pillar of the old-time Southern civilization was 
 th« old-time plantation mule, who could buck like a broncho 
 and kick a hole in the universe.
 
 I 68 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 The dinner horn tooted one bright summer day and there 
 was rejoicing in the cotton field. A fragrant old darkey said to 
 his son, "Ephraham, git on dat mule and ride him to de house." 
 ^'Excuse me, fodder," replied Ephraim, "dat mule flung me over 
 a apple tree yis-tiddy and I isn't a-gwyne to have any more con- 
 gulgions wid 'im." "Oh, well, den, stan' back, yo' ole daddy can 
 ride him ; I 'spise to see a nigger afeard of a mule," and the old 
 man mounted. The mule threw himself into the shape of a 
 rainbow and gave a few bucks. The old man shot into the air 
 and came down with a crash. His head plowed the ground like 
 a shell from a Krupp gun and he got up rubbing the dirt out of 
 his eyes and nose, and said, "Now, you see, my son, dat's de way 
 — whenever you see he's a-gwyne a-throw you jist git off." 
 
 And thus the enjoyments and wealth and glory of the impe- 
 rial white masters, and the songs and sermons and mirth and 
 merriment of the slaves mingled together like the joyous waters 
 of a sparkling river. 
 
 The outside world can never know the true relation of master 
 and slave. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was an indictment of the 
 many for the cruelties of a few. It was a novel which inflated 
 mole hills into mountains. There were cruelties almost as heart- 
 less as the cruelties of 'New England when the witches were 
 burned at the stake, but they were exceptions to the rule. The 
 master was kind to his slaves, and history does not record such 
 devotion as that which was exhibited by the slave himself when 
 he stood guard at the door by night and worked in the field by 
 day, to protect and feed the white women and children of the 
 South while his master was far away on the battle field, fighting 
 for the perpetuation of slavery. 
 
 Let me whisper again in the ear of Yankee Doodle: The 
 South taught this benighted race faith in the living God, and 
 I believe they will yet bear the gospel of Christ to Africa and 
 wake the dark continent from the slumber of ages. 
 
 Not long ago I buried one of the last of our old family dar- 
 kies. He had been a preacher for fifty years. W^hen I was a 
 child he often led me, together with my brothers, to his meet- 
 ings. He had never learned the art of reading. But many a 
 time have I seen him rise in the pulpit and say : "My conger- 
 gashun, you'll find my text somewhar 'twixt de lids of de Bible
 
 DIXIE 169 
 
 whar it reads, 'Yo must be born agan and agan.' " And then he 
 would warm up with his theme until he plunged out far beyond 
 the ratiocination of man. During the last twenty years of 
 his life he made sight drafts upon my treasury and my ward- 
 robe, just as thousands of old-time darkies still make drafts 
 upon their former masters in the South, and they are always 
 honored. When I was a candidate, Uncle Rufus was a Demo- 
 crat. When my brother was a candidate, he was a Republican, 
 When we were candidates against each other, he was neutral. 
 The old man came one evening and sat with me in the twilight 
 under the trees, and our minds wandered back together to the 
 happy days of the past when he was a slave and I was a bare- 
 footed boy. He reviewed many a ghost story he used to tell us 
 in the firelight around the hearthstone of his cabin in the happy 
 long ago. And there was many a joke and jest and merry peal 
 of laughter. But as the shadows thickened around us the old 
 darkey grew serious. He spoke tenderly of my father and 
 mother, and his old wife, and all the old folks who had gone 
 before. With tearful eyes he left me. But he paused as he 
 departed, and leaned upon his staff and said : 
 
 "You may not see me again. I has had two visions of de 
 chariot of de Lord descending from heaven to bear me away. 
 The next time it comes your Uncle Rufus is a-gAvyne home." 
 And as he hobbled away in the darkness I thought I heard a 
 song: 
 
 "Swing low sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home. 
 Swing low sweet chariot — coming for to carry me home." 
 
 I never saw him again. Before a week had passed the 
 chariot swung low, the faithful old servant stepped in, and was 
 caught up into heaven. 
 
 As I looked upon him for the last time, with the dews of 
 life's evening condensing on his brow and the shadows of death 
 falling around him, his simple words of faith in God were more 
 beautiful to me than the most impassioned eloquence that ever 
 fell from the lips of the brilliant Ingersoll. 
 
 The time will come when the South will build a monimient 
 
 to the old-time black man-servant for his fidelity and devotion 
 (11)
 
 170 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 to his master, and to the old-time black mammy for the lullabies 
 she has simg. 
 
 But these relations have been severed. The hurricane of 
 civil war fell upon the land. The ebony throne of slavery was 
 swept away, the white-columned mansions were shattered by 
 shot and shell, and billions of wealth dissolved and vanished 
 in flame and smoke. The Union staggered, the century reeled. 
 The South lost all, but the purest and proudest type of the Anglo- 
 Saxon race stood erect and defiant amid its charred and black- 
 ened ruins, the flower of his country dead at his feet, the earth 
 red beneath him, the skies black above him. His sword was 
 broken, his country crushed ; but without a throne he was 
 no less a ruler. Though his palace had perished, he was no less 
 a king. Magnificent in the gloom of defeat, he was still a master. 
 Has he not mastered poverty ? Has he not triumphed over ad- 
 versity and rebuilt the ruined South ? 
 
 Look at Atlanta, rising like a seraph from the dying embers 
 of war, and Knoxville spreading her wings among the mountains, 
 and iNashville enthroned amid her great universities and col- 
 leges. 
 
 Go and stand upon the crown of old Lookout Mountain and 
 look down upon Chattanooga, blooming in the battle field below 
 like a fresh and beautiful flower blossoming in the huge foot- 
 print of death. 
 
 If our stricken people had sat down in despair at the sepul- 
 chre of their dead there would now be no thrifty Birmingham, 
 the miracle almost of a day ; Richmond on the James would be 
 only a sorrowful memory, and Memphis would lie dead on the 
 bank of the Mississippi like the crumbled ruins of ancient 
 Memphis. 
 
 But money is mightier than the sword, brains are better than 
 bullets, and we are winning back the prestige and glory of the 
 old South — not with the weapons of war, but with the keen- 
 edged implements of peace. 
 
 I speak for the South when I say that we are tired of the 
 criminations and recriminations of the grave and reverend luna- 
 tic about the war, and Southern outrage, and the negro problem. 
 We have grown-up men, high in church and state, learned in 
 letters, the fathers of families, and with fortunes already made.
 
 DIXIE 171 
 
 who cannot remember the war. Southern outrage is the inven- 
 tion of buzzard orators, phthisicy lecturers and politicians, to 
 keep the two sections of our country apart. There is no negro 
 problem, except as to how we shall improve his condition and 
 make him a better citizen. It is the gold and silver problem 
 which confronts us all, white and black. It is the iron and 
 coal problem, the cotton problem, the grain and stock problem, 
 the manufacturing problem, and the educational problem. 
 
 There is only one race problem which is engaging our 
 thought and our energy, and that is the race between Yankee 
 Doodle and Dixie for industrial supremacy, and we are solving 
 that problem with muscle and sweat and money and brains. 
 
 Yankee Doodle may smile and think it not much of a race, 
 but I warn them to keep their spurs in the flank and their eyes 
 on the wire, for as sure as the Lord reigneth, who built the 
 chained mountains of iron and buried the measureless beds of 
 coal in Dixie, the rival they despise today will show them a clean 
 pair of heels tomorrow. 
 
 We will distance them on the home stretch as effectually as 
 the old Rebel soldier once distanced the Yankees. His horse's 
 name was Bill and he said he was the fastest "boss" in Mor- 
 gan's Cavalry, and he kept him for "prudential" reasons. He 
 saddled old Bill and rode out beyond the lines one day on a 
 foraging expedition. And all at once he said he saw the Yan- 
 kees coming. They opened fire on him and he wheeled and 
 called on Bill to "git out of the wilderness." But he couldn't 
 get him out of a lope, and he said he thought it was the slowest 
 lope he ever saw in his life. He popped both spurs into Bill and 
 calarruped him with his sword, but Bill wouldn't go out of a 
 lope. The old fellow got away from the Yankees, he knew not 
 how, and rode safely into camp. But he said he got to studying 
 about it that night (Bill had never gone back on him before) and 
 he went back next day and measured and Bill had jumped forty- 
 two feet every jump. 
 
 Yankee Doodle may think Dixie is only going in a lope, 
 but she's jumping forty-two feet every jump. 
 
 But I trust in God that the rivalries of the future will be 
 the struggles of peace and not of war. The hand of secession
 
 172 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 will never be lifted up again. The danger now lies on the other 
 side of Mason and Dixon's line. 
 
 The mailed hand of centralized power is reaching too far 
 across the lines of states. The red hand of anarchy too often 
 threatens with the torch. Gold plays too deep and strong a part. 
 If the Eepublic ever falls it will fall as Caesar fell, under the 
 dome of the National Capitol, and the bloody hands of its own 
 Brutus and Cassius will brandish the smoking daggers. If that 
 dark day shall ever come, the South will be the Antony to 
 snatch liberty from the clutches of treason. 
 
 If you ask me why the South will be the Antony, I answer : 
 It is the only section which has the pure American blood. I 
 answer that anarchy cannot live on Southern soil. They will 
 make its neck pop like a new saddle with the same rope that 
 breaks the necks of the despoilers of their homes. 
 
 Let us all strive to preserve the harmony of the sections 
 and the equilibrium of the Government. Sectional patriotism 
 is glorious, but sectional hatred is and always has been the 
 lion in the pathway of our national progress. 
 
 Mason and Dixon's line is still there, but it is no longer 
 the yawning chasm of death which once swallowed up the best 
 and bravest of all the sections. 
 
 Time has closed its bloody lips and now it is the red scar of 
 honor across the breast of the Republic which marks the unity of 
 our once divided country. 
 
 Time has furled the battle flags and smelted the hostile guns. 
 Time has torn down the forts and leveled the trenches and rifle 
 pits on the bloody field of glory, where courage and highborn 
 chivalry on prancing chargers once proudly rode the front with 
 shimmering epaulets and bright swords gleaming; where thou- 
 sands of charging bayonets at uniform angles reflected thou- 
 sands of suns ; where the shrill fife screamed and the kettledrum 
 timed the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of the shining batallions 
 as the infantry deployed into battle line and disappeared in the 
 seething waves of smoke and flame; where double-shotted bat- 
 teries unlimbered on the bristling edge of battle, and hurled 
 their fiery vomit into the faces of the reeling columns; where 
 ten thousand drawn sabres flashed and ten thousand cavalry
 
 DIXIE 173 
 
 hovered for a moment on the flank and then rushed to the dread- 
 ful revelry. 
 
 The curtain has dropped long ago upon these mournful 
 scenes of carnage, and time has beautified and comforted and 
 healed until there is nothing left of war but graves and gar- 
 lands and monuments and precious memories. 
 
 Blow ! bugle, blow ! but thy shrillest notes can never again 
 call the matchless armies of Grant and Lee to the carnival of 
 death. 
 
 Let the silver trumpets sound the jubilee of peace and rend 
 the air with the music of Yankee Doodle. Let the veterans shout 
 who wore the blue. Let them kiss the silken folds of the gor- 
 geous ensign of the Republic and fling it to the breeze and sing 
 the N^ational hymn: 
 
 "Oh, the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave." 
 
 Let the veterans bow who wore the gray and with uncovered 
 heads salute the ISTational flag. It is the flag of the inseparable 
 Union. Let them clasp hands with the brave men who wore 
 the blue and rejoice with them, for time hath adorned the 
 ruined South and robed her fields in richer harvests and gilded 
 her skies with brighter stars of hope. 
 
 But who will scorn or frown to see the veterans of hei 
 shattered armies, scattered now like solitary oaks in the midst 
 of a fallen harvest, hoary with age and covered with scars, some 
 times put on the old, worn and faded gray, and unfurl for a 
 little while that other banner, the riddled and blood-stained stars 
 and bars. To look upon it and weep over it and press it to their 
 bosoms, for it is hallowed with recollections touching as the sol- 
 dier's last tear on the white bosom of his manhood's bride, tender 
 as his last farewell. 
 
 They followed it amid the earthquake-throes of Shiloh, 
 where Albert Sydney Johnston died. They followed it amid the 
 floods of living fire at Chancellorsville, where Stonewall Jack- 
 son fell. They saw it flutter in the gloom of the wilderness, 
 where the angry divisions and corps rushed upon each other and 
 clinched and fell and rolled together in the bloody mire.
 
 174 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 They rallied around it at Gettysburg, where it waved above 
 the bayonets, mixed and crossed on those dread heights of des- 
 tiny. 
 
 They saw its faded colors flout defiance for the last time at 
 Appomattox, and then go do^vn forever in a flood of tears. 
 
 Then who will upbraid them if they sometimes bring it to 
 the light, sanctified and glorified as it is by the blood and tears 
 of the past, and wave it again in the air and sing once more 
 their old war song: 
 
 "Hurrah, hurrah, for Southern rights hurrah ! 
 Hurrah for the bonnie bUie flag that bears a single star."
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 
 
 One bright summer morning, when I was a barefooted coun- 
 try boy, I stole my mother's washbowl and my father's new 
 clay pipe out into the back yard and blew soap bubbles in the 
 air. As they floated away in the sunlight, reflecting in irides- 
 cent colors the images of earth and sky, I could not restrain 
 a yell of delight, for I imagined I was creating a universe of 
 worlds and sending them out into space all aglow with ineffable 
 beauty. I dreamed I saw castles of gold in their emerald groves 
 and bright wings cleaving their crystal airs. I dreamed I saw 
 countless sails on their far-away summer seas, and in the 
 ecstasy of my dream I pulled off my cap and shouted for joy as 
 the glories of each new bubble fell upon my eyes. 
 
 But when I broke the washbowl and felt the tropical strokes 
 of my mother's slipper on the equator of my anatomy as I laid 
 on her lap with my face do^vnward, my dream exploded amid 
 the splash of soapsuds and the wreck of worlds, and there was 
 a hot time in the back yard that day. But pity followed her 
 wrath as the dew follows the burning heat of the sun, and, with 
 a mother's love, which so soon forgives, she took me in her 
 loving arms and brushed away my tears and pressed me to her 
 throbbing heart; and, sobbing there, I fell asleep. 
 
 Little did I then dream that this childish experience was 
 the symbol of all human life ; for do we not blow soap bubbles 
 and break washbowls from the cradle to the grave ? l^ow while 
 I blow a few tonight for your amusement and entertainment, 
 if it shall be my misfortime to break the washbowl of your 
 patience and waste my soapsuds on the desert air, I trust that 
 these ugly men who have come here under duress will suffer in 
 silence, and that the ladies — God bless them! — will spare the 
 slipper and in pity press me to their loving hearts. 
 
 Then lend me your ears, as the fox said to the goose, and I 
 will bear you away in triumph and make your feathers fly and 
 your bones bleach in my den of dreams. Is not human life a 
 den of dreams full of goose feathers and bleaching bones ? Is 
 not the human brain a bucket in a well of dreams?
 
 178 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Let me tell you a story of Uncle Rastiis and his philosophy 
 of Br'er 'Possum and Br'er Wolf as he unwound it to a bare- 
 footed boy down in his cabin at the foot of the hill. He said : 
 
 "Br'er 'Possum went to de well to git him a drink uv water. 
 It wuz one uv dese here kind uv wells wid a pulley over it an' a 
 chain over de pulley, wid a bucket on each end, so dat as one 
 bucket went down de udder cum up, an' vussey-visah. Br'er 
 'Possum jumped in de bucket dat wuz up to git him a drink, an' 
 lo and behold, it went down wid 'im ; an' dar he wuz in de bot- 
 tom uv de well, a-paddlin' around, screamin' fur he'p. 
 
 "Br'er Wolf, he trotted down to de well to git him a drink, 
 an' he heerd Br'er 'Possum a-yellin', an' he peep down in de 
 well an' ax Br'er 'Possum what he's doin' down dar. 
 
 " 'Fishin' !' Bre'er 'Possum shouted back. 'Dis here well's 
 full uv fish, Br'er Wolf; cum down here.' So Br'er Wolf 
 jumped in de bucket dat wuz up an' started down. Br'er 'Pos- 
 sum, he jumped into de bucket dat wuz down in de well an' 
 started up; an' as he passed Br'er Wolf about de middle uv 
 de well, he grinned an' said: 
 
 " 'Ah ! Br'er Wolf, dis world goes roun' an' round', 
 An' some goes up an' some goes down !' " 
 
 What a splendid illustration of the dreams of men ! For 
 whether it be the child at its mother's knee or the man of 
 maturer years, 
 
 "The world goes roun' an' roun', 
 
 Sometimes we're up an' sometimes we're down." 
 
 We are a race of dreamers, and we pass from the miracle 
 of birth to the miracle of death, building castles in the air. 
 
 We build them not of granite and marble, but of the impon- 
 derable materials quarried from the brain and the heart, and 
 we fashion them into our ideals of the beautiful. They are our 
 dreams of happiness. 
 
 We are the inhabitants of two worlds. One is the old, mate- 
 rial world, which is the home and heritage of our bodies — the 
 banquet hall of the senses, in whose back yard of sunshine and 
 shadow we blow soap bubbles and break the washbowl of Na-
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 179 
 
 ture's laws until she lays us across her lap and pounds us with 
 her avenging slipper, and then, at last, she takes us gently in 
 her loving arms and we fall asleep forever on her bosom. The 
 other is the dream world of the soul, where Love wakes and 
 Hope hangs a rainbow on the cloud ; where Fancy takes wing 
 and Music opens the windows of heaven ; where Science, with 
 golden keys, unlocks the doors of mystery and Art unveils the 
 beautiful. In this fantastic world of dreams all human progress 
 begins, all civilizations are born. In its fields we gather every 
 flower of sentiment and every sheaf of thought, and out of it? 
 hidden mines we bring the jewels of discovery and invention to 
 adorn the soul and enrich every station in human life. In it, 
 wherever we turn, the angels of happiness beckon to us from 
 every horizon of light. Their wings flutter in every stream of 
 life and break the sunshine into stars. They dance on every 
 hilltop and mountain crest of promise, and we pursue their van- 
 ishing forms through many a wilderness of trouble, where the 
 lions and tigers of passion crouch and spring and where frown- 
 ing crags of peril block our way ; we follow them through many 
 a dark and dismal swamp of sorrow, spanning chasms of doubt 
 with cables of hope and rivers of tears with bridges of dreams ; 
 we follow them through all the myriad paths of duty and en- 
 deavor — paths which ever and anon break out into strange and 
 mysterious lands of the beautiful, where, footsore and weary, 
 we rest in some sweet castle in the air. It may be a dream of 
 childhood, on the brink of the river of Song, where no blight 
 ever touches the blossoming fields, no storm ever tosses the glit- 
 tering tides. It may be a dream of youth, where lazy flocks 
 bleat and browse and happy birds tangle their roundelays with 
 the yodel of the shepherd boy in many a dusky hollow of de- 
 light, where swirling brooks leap from faraway purple cliffs of 
 laughter and come romping and frolicking through flowery 
 meads and scented groves and break into pearls and the silvery 
 foam of pleasure at our feet. It may be a dream of old age, 
 where phantom keels, with tinted sails, come floating down to 
 us from the distant Isle of Memory; and we loiter in cooling 
 shades with old loves, and see once more the glorified faces of 
 long ago, and feel the touch of vanished hands and the rapturous 
 thrill of kisses from lips that now are dust.
 
 l8o LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 And — O ! — one feast of the soul in the blissful Aidenn of a 
 dream, one smile that parts the lips of Joy, one tear that 
 trembles in the eye of Love, one swooning note from the river 
 of Song, is reward enough for every drop of sweat that trickles 
 from the brow of Anguish and every bloody track that Suffering 
 leaves on the rugged trail of life. 
 
 Let us not forget that Happiness is the ultimate object of 
 all human action, and that Hope and Love are the angels that 
 lead us on toward the misty summits of the future. And are 
 not the victories worth the struggle ? 
 
 Who would not press through the piercing thorns of strife 
 to pluck a flower of triumph ! Who would not cross swords with 
 Adversity to win the jeweled hand of Fortune! Who would 
 not dare the desert waste of death to taste the sweets of glory! 
 Who would not bear the burdens and heartaches of the day for 
 one evening in the sacred dream castle of home, where the 
 vestal fires of virtue burn and where confiding innocence gives 
 welcome with heaving bosom and tender arms ! 
 
 Home, sweet home, the blessed shrine of precious memories ! 
 The very word rings with laughter and echoes with song. It 
 glows with love and breathes the name of mother, the sweetest 
 name ever spoken by mortal tongue. Is it not the open gate of 
 paradise ? Is it not the vestibule of heaven ? Is it not glo- 
 rious, after all, to live in this beautiful world and face the 
 storms that rise dark o'er the way? Does not the burnished 
 crest of the cloud reflect in golden arcs the splendors of the 
 sun? And do not the angels hang a rainbow on its bosom? 
 When the angry furies of tempest rush out from the vapory 
 vaults and harness their thunder-clad steeds to the chariot of 
 the winds, does not Love -whisper on the Galilee of every 
 troubled heart: "Peace, be still?" 
 
 "WTien Sin and Temptation slip into the paradise of the heart 
 and break the spell of a beautiful dream, does not Hope lead 
 us into the Eden of another dream ? Does not all IN'ature around 
 us glow and throb with dreams ? When Winter folds his tent 
 of snow and silently steals away, O, how sweet are the lips of 
 Spring! I have seen her kiss the naked earth, and the hills 
 shouted for joy and built their castles of leaf and tree and 
 flower, and the valleys woke as from the dead and put on gar-
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR l8l 
 
 ments of the lily and the rose. There's a poem in the garden 
 when the tulips drink the dew and the crimson poppies blow; 
 theres' a volume of romantic beauty in the woodlands when 
 the wild flowers bloom ; there is music in the meadow when the 
 chorus of a thousand larks, on thrilling wing, is tangled with 
 the passion song of bobolink in the purple of the dawn. 
 
 I have seen the world turn somersaults of joy when Summer 
 touched the vernal fields and turned them into seas of sunset 
 gold, and the air was full of melody and the forest broke out 
 into laughter and song, and everywhere there was but one sweet 
 story told ; it was the old, old story of love. I heard it at noon- 
 tide when the redbird turned the thicket into music and the 
 oriole warbled to his mate in the tree top as they built their 
 swinging castle in the air. I heard it where the mocking bird 
 chuckled and laughed in the gathering twilight of evening and 
 the katydid crooned in the orchard and the cricket sang on the 
 hearth, and there was the laughter of happy children on the 
 lawn, and down under the old oak tree the sweethearts were 
 swinging and singing: 
 
 "Let the world ebb, let the world flow 
 Sweeter the hour, sooner to go; 
 Swing, swing, now high, now low, 
 Lazily, dreamily to and fro." 
 
 And there was the sound of a kiss in the swing as they 
 swung. 
 
 "And the doves in the old oak tree overhead 
 
 Cooed and billed, and billed and cooed ! 
 And Uncle Rastus kissed Aunt Dinah, and said 
 
 He was sho' hoodooed, sho' hoodooed ! " 
 
 And the stars came out on the balcony of heaven and winked 
 at the man in the moon. 
 
 What is this world but a beautiful swing, where all the 
 sweet stories of love are told — a shadowy swing full of laughter 
 and tears, a dreamy old swing that sweeps between two eterni- 
 ties pushed by the hand of Destiny ? We swing out of darkness 
 into the light, and then into darkness again —
 
 1 82 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 "From snowdrift to flower, 
 From sunshine to shower," 
 
 through the changing seasons of the vanishing years; longing 
 for joys that will never come; coveting power we can never 
 reach ; striving for glory we can never win ; consumed with 
 ambition, overwhelmed with desire, delirious with passion, and 
 racked with pain ; hoping and fearing, sighing and dreaming, 
 gathering garlands that wither and die, growing weaker and 
 weaker as the fatal swing sways to and fro, until at last the 
 candle flickers in the socket and shadows and silence hover 
 about our pillows, the dreams of life dissolve, and tomorrow a 
 new generation will laugh and weep in the swing. They will 
 come into the world as we came — helpless and ignorant, won- 
 dering at the mysteries of shape and substance, of shadow and 
 change ; and the kind old Stork will tenderly lay them in loving 
 arms, and toss to each one, as she did to us, a little knot of 
 dreams to unravel until they are strong enough to enter the 
 football game of real life. 
 
 Look how the dimpled baby, with heaven in his eyes, kicks 
 and coos and flutters in his cradle, reaching after the flowers 
 on the mantel or the pictures on the wall, and holding out his 
 chubby hands to grasp the sunshine that streams through the 
 window as if it were an angel's wing! 
 
 What is this world to him but a vision of the beautiful- — a 
 tinted castle in the air? Lured by light and color and follow- 
 ing with startled eyes the forms that come and go; kissed and 
 pinched and petted and almost devoured by the cannibals of 
 love, he soon grows weary of his little knot of dreams and frets 
 and squirms upon his pillow until his eyelids grow heavy as 
 he lingers there on the sweet frontier of slumber. 
 
 Now look how the fond young mother, with dainty foot upon 
 the rocker, lulls him with her cradle song into the fairyland of 
 dreams — that blissful land where the angels dwell, far away 
 among the stars ! 
 
 One blissful hour he lingers there among the starry castles 
 of the sky, when — lo! — he wakes with startled eyes again and 
 cracks the welkin with lusty yells for his castle in the Milky 
 Way.
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 1 83 
 
 "And so he sleeps and wakes and squalls. What then? 
 He sleeps and wakes and squalls again ! " 
 
 Sometimes trying to swallow his fists and sometimes his little 
 pink toes, running the gauntlet of hives, croup, colic, measles, 
 and the jabs of safety pins, till finally he crawds out of his cradle 
 to play with painted toys and tumble down the stairs and bump 
 his nose and stump his toes, yelling between bumps and bump- 
 ing between yells, until he sheds his kilts and his front teeth and 
 jumps into knee breeches, to be his father's irrepressible outlaw 
 and his mother's darling savage ; riding stick horses through the 
 mudpuddle and then through the house, just to leave his trail ; 
 tying firecrackers to tlie dog's tail and setting them off with 
 matches, just to see him run and to hear him yelp; throwing 
 mice among the ladies, just to see them stand with elevated 
 skirts on the sofas and the chairs ; hiding toad frogs in his sis- 
 ter's slippers before she rises in the morning, just to hear her 
 scream ; filling his grandfather's pipe with gimpowder, just 
 to see it flash when the old man starts to smoke; 
 
 "Always hungry, always eating. 
 
 Always dirty, always bad; 
 Every day his crimes repeating, 
 
 Always dodging from his dad. 
 
 "Always scouting, always scheming, 
 
 Always happy everywhere; 
 Always shouting, always dreaming, 
 
 Building castles in the air." 
 
 "How many are twice twenty, my son ?" asked his teacher. 
 But he scratched his head and couldn't tell. 
 
 "Well," said the teacher, "suppose your father should come 
 home tonight and give your mother two twenty-dollar bills, what 
 would she have?" 
 
 "She'd have a fit!" 
 
 The good old preacher patted him on the head and said: 
 "My son, be a good boy, and always honor the gray hairs of the 
 old." 
 
 "Well," said the boy, "that's all right; but pa don't; he 
 dyes his whiskers."
 
 184 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 His father became feeble, and was thorougbly examined by 
 the doctor. "Why," said the doctor, "you have no organic 
 trouble whatever; you are only weak and debilitated; and 1 
 prescribe for you a stiff hot toddy every morning." 
 
 "0, no!" said the old man. "I can't do that. I never took 
 a drink of whisky in my life. I despise the accursed stuff. And. 
 besides that, I wouldn't have my wife and little boy to see me 
 take a drink for ten thousand dollars." 
 
 "But," said the doctor, "you must take it. Get a glass of 
 hot water every morning and tell them you are going to shave, 
 pour the whisky into it and drink it down, and they will never 
 know it." 
 
 In about three weeks the boy went in a dead run for the 
 doctor. 
 
 "What's the matter now ?" said the doctor. 
 
 "We want you to come and see pa; he's losin' his mind; 
 he shaves six or seven times a day!" 
 
 O, spare the slipper and be patient with your little bouncing 
 laugh and bounding yell, for he will bound away from you 
 soon enough ! If the world does not claim him, the angels will; 
 and then you will know the meaning of the Hoosier poet's 
 storv : 
 
 "Here's his ragged roundabout, 
 Turn the pockets inside out; 
 See, his penknife, lost to use, 
 Rusted shut with apple juice. 
 Here, with marbles, top, and string, 
 Is his deadly devil sling, 
 With its rubber, limp at last. 
 As the sparrows of the past ! 
 Beeswax, buckles, leather straps, 
 Bullets, and a box of caps — 
 Not a thing of all, I guess, 
 But betrays some waywardness; 
 
 "Here's the little coat, but— O!— 
 Where is he we've censured so? 
 Don't you hear us calling, dear? 
 Back! come back, and never fear; 
 You may wander where you will, 
 Over orchard, field and hill;
 
 Castles in the air 185 
 
 You may kill the birds, or do 
 Anything that pleases you ! 
 Ah, this empty coat of his ! 
 Every tatter worth a kiss, 
 Every stain as pure instead 
 As the white stars overhead ; 
 And the pockets — homes were they 
 Of the little hands that play 
 Now, no more; but, absent, thus 
 Beckon us." 
 
 Be tender with the boy; for if the angels do not take him. 
 Nature will soon lead him away from his toys and his marble? 
 and his childish fun and frolic, and they will soon be to him 
 only precious memories. 
 
 He will soon dream and sigh in Cupid's castle in the air. 
 on the boundary line of real life. His gosling voice will soon 
 oscillate between a fife and a bass drum, and his upper lip 
 will soon be sprinkled with hair, and he will be eager for the 
 fray. He said to his first sweetheart as he entered the parlor 
 one evening: "I'm going to kiss you before I leave this house." 
 And she pouted her lips and answered: "Leave this house in- 
 stantly !" 
 
 I cannot repress a little story of my youth : 
 
 When I was a gay country boy in my teens and my jeans, 
 I was as green as gTeen could be — I was as green as turnip 
 greens. And I had two cronies who were just as green as I, 
 if not a little greener. But we were in that dreamy period of 
 watery-jointed sentimentality which comes in the life of every 
 boy. The world to us was a honeysuckle, and we were in search 
 of honey. Three little girls who had once lived in the neigh- 
 borhood were our sweethearts from babyhood. But their father, 
 who was a prosperous merchant, had long since moved to the 
 city — a hundred miles away — and we had not seen our little 
 "tootsey wootseys" for years and years; but the report came 
 back to us that they still loved us and wished us to visit them. 
 And so, with butternut suits and squeaking boots and our little 
 wool hats with brims pushed up in front, we boarded the cars 
 and were soon primping and perspiring within five blocks of 
 the flounced and powdered enemy. One of my chums had a 
 
 (12)
 
 1 86 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 bull's-eye watch about the size of a saucer, and we kept our eyes 
 on its hands and our ears on its ticks until the hour for action 
 arrived. We felt that we were not dressed well enough, and so 
 we entered a store and each bought a pair of kid gloves to match 
 the color of our little ribbon neckties. One bought white ; 
 another, green ; and I took "yaller." It took us an hour and a 
 half to get them on ; and when we buttoned them over our wrists 
 it stopped the circulation, and our hands swelled and our fin- 
 gers strutted, and we walked up the street with our fingers 
 strutting out and our boots squeaking until they could have 
 been heard a quarter of a mile. 
 
 Far out among the hills where we lived there was no such 
 a thing as a doorbell. And soon there was a tapping as of some 
 one loudly rapping, rapping hard upon the door ; and the silken, 
 sad, uncertain rustling of our sweethearts' skirts within thrilled 
 us and filled us with fantastic terrors no mortal ever felt before. 
 But open swung the heavy door, when we began to execute our 
 studied and practiced bows, and the century reeled as we paused 
 in the hall. It was only a pause, for in our excitement we made 
 a rush to the parlor and flung ourselves into three chairs in the 
 most distant corner, and sat there blushing and perspiring in 
 front of three sofas far away in another corner, occupied 
 by three little slippered and skirted dreams of beauty, who 
 beckoned and begged us to come across ; but we only answered 
 the challenge with more blushes and more perspiration. We had 
 discovered that the little country sweethearts had grown up into 
 refined and cultured young ladies, with not a single trace of the 
 unsophisticated children we used to know. And so we grinned 
 and answered their questions in monosyllables, with more 
 blushes and more perspiration until the paper collar of one of 
 my cronies came in two, and he sprang to his feet and broke 
 for the hall, closely followed by his two demoralized and com- 
 pletely routed comrades ; and, amid the appeals of the girls, 
 we opened wide the oaken door. With many a flirt and flutter, 
 not the least obeisance made we, not a minute stopped or stayed 
 we ; but we flew as never birds had flown before — out into the 
 tempest and the night's Plutonian shore — and the velvet violet 
 carpet, with the lamplight gloating o'er, our feet have pressed — 
 ah, nevermore!
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 1 87 
 
 The first battle of life is on the perilous field of love around 
 Cupid's castle in the air. And there is no peace until some 
 fair maiden's heart is stormed and taken and she surrenders 
 unconditionally to the knight of the grapevine swing, when two 
 souls will heave a single sigh, two hearts will swing as one. And 
 so the trouble begins in the romantic swing of a dream. He sees 
 a little brown cot with a willowy form of beauty in it, somewhere 
 in the love-embowered future. 
 
 "She builds her rosy castle in the air, 
 And its corner stone is a solitaire." 
 
 Is there any dream in life half so sweet as this? Is there 
 any castle half so fair ? Is it not the springtime of the heart — 
 the full-blown rose of happiness ? 
 
 How glorious the world would be if youth could last for- 
 ever! 
 
 "Yet — ah ! — that spring should vanish with the rose, 
 That youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close ! " 
 
 Ah, that the thunder heads of trouble should rise to darken 
 life's happy morning! For when the solemn vows are spoken 
 at the altar and they start in real life together, we know there 
 is walking ahead of him and worrying waiting for her. His 
 little knot of dreams may unwind in the presidential chair; it 
 may untangle into a plow line. Hers may be woven into the 
 silken gowns of a social queen; it may unravel in a washtub. 
 
 But if Fate clips a man's pinions and casts his lot on the 
 humblest plane of life, let him be a hero there, and add the 
 wealth of a good name to the sum of human happiness ; for it is 
 the climax of folly to grieve for stations we cannot attain and 
 for pleasures we cannot enjoy. It is glorious to aspire, but it 
 is cowardly to shoot the arrows of envy at those above us; and 
 yet we all carry the arrows and the bow, and many an unoffend- 
 ing wing is broken by some heartless vandal who himself is 
 powerless to fly in the higher firmaments of happiness. 
 
 Ah, we forget that humanity is only a link in the endless 
 chain of life, and that there is a horizon of intelligence for 
 every individual of the race, which defines his field of endeavor.
 
 l88 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 And we forget that happiness may be as full and complete on 
 the smallest and narrowest horizon as it is on the broadest 
 and the grandest ; and does not Nature teem with lessons to rivet 
 this truth on every brain and impress it on every heart? 
 Is not the little fish that flutters along the shore among the tinted 
 shells in his shallow world of rippling waves as happy as the 
 whale, whose throne is the billow and whose empire is the 
 ocean? Is not the flea, whose tent is a shirt, as happy on an 
 itching back as the elephant that performs in the circus ? And 
 is not the divine mosquito as vain of her voice as Patti is of 
 hers ? And as she buzzes above your pillow on a quiet summer 
 evening, is she not singing to that frolicsome flea an old war 
 song: 
 
 "Hurrah, hurree!" says the skeeter to the flea; 
 
 "Hurrah, hurree! We'll sing a jubilee. 
 
 You bite him on the back 
 
 And I'll bite him on the knee, 
 
 As I go buzzing through Georgia!" 
 
 Is not that radiant star we call Venus, which we sometimes 
 see dancing in the dusk above the horizon, as beautiful as the 
 setting sun is glorious ? Is not the monkey in his native cocoa- 
 nut castle in the air as important in his own estimation and as 
 fond of his sweet little chimpanzee as the modern society swell 
 who shakes his ambrosial locks and softly sings to his "gazelle" 
 a little snatch from a love song ? 
 
 "My little chimpanzee, 
 You're all this world to me; 
 A branch I'll find for thee 
 In my old family tree. 
 
 "No monkey shine for me; 
 A wedding fine there'll be 
 In high society, 
 In Zanzibar." 
 
 And surely that barefooted boy who blows soap bubbles 
 and breaks washbowls in the back yard would not give one 
 hour of his boyish sports and pleasures for three terms as Gov-
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 189 
 
 emor of his State. Nor would that impecunious youth in the 
 swing exchange his little armful of heaving organdie and 
 quivering ribbons, 
 
 "With face as fair and lips as sweet 
 As when the lilies and the roses meet," 
 
 for two seats in the United States Senate. 
 
 Surely the plo"v\anan that homeward plods his weary way to 
 find rest and curtain lectures from his wife and the pandemo- 
 nium of a cabin full of children is as happy in his humble 
 sphere as the millionaire, with his engines pufRng and tooting 
 through the icebergs of his heart, with his restless days, his 
 sleepless nights, his society wife, and no children at all to yell 
 around him and pull his leg and tousle his whiskers. 
 
 There is happiness enough for us all if we would only 
 recognize it when we meet it. There is contentment enough 
 if we would only be contented. 
 
 If life is only a dream, why not make it a joyful dream? 
 If you laugh and the world laughs with you, why not keep 
 it always laughing ? If you weep, why not weep alone ? Why 
 ask the world to blubber Avith you ? If you stumble and break 
 your dream, pocket the pieces with a smile, and blow another 
 bubble in the air, and get on it and float away in the sunlight 
 of laughter and song. If Fortune forbids you a palace, be 
 contented to dwell in Paradise Alley and tell as much of the 
 truth as you can. Keep your eyes wide open by day and don't 
 talk in your sleep. 
 
 An old-time darkey was closing his sermon one night in 
 Paradise Alley, and Uncle Rastus, who had been playing cards 
 the night before, was seated in the amen corner sound asleep, 
 dreaming of his favorite game. The old preacher said : 
 
 "We \vill now close dis meetin' wid pra'r, an' we will ax 
 Br'er Rastus to lead." 
 
 Uncle Rastus suddenly aroused from his slumber and shout- 
 ed : "It hain't my lead ; I jist dealt !" 
 
 Aunt Dinah came home from meeting in Paradise Alley with 
 one of her eyes badly swollen.
 
 1 90 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 "What is de matter wid dat eye, Dinah?" asked Uncle 
 l^icodemus. 
 
 "Well, sah, dar wuz a great big nigger 'oman shouted to- 
 night, named Chloe, an' she come down de aisle uv de church 
 slingin' her arms powerful keerless an' struck me right i-n de 
 eye an' knocked me senseless. She nebber stopped to ax my 
 'pologies, but jis' kep' on shoutin' — she doan like me nohow. 
 I'se gwine ter shout myself nex' Sunday night, an' I'se a-gwine 
 ter put a razzer in my bosom, an' I'se gwine ter shout in de 
 direction uv dat nigger." 
 
 Let us all remember as we pass through this vale of tears 
 that if we don't take care of ourselves, nobody else in this world 
 will take care of us. 
 
 A shrewd and wily horse trader asked an old farmer one 
 day, down in Paradise Alley, the price of his old sorrel horse. 
 The farmer told him, and warned him that the horse had two 
 grievous faults. "One of them is this," said the old man: 
 "when you turn him loose in the pasture, you can't catch him." 
 Said the horse trader: "That's all right; I'll keep him up. 
 What is the other ?" "I'll not tell you," said the old farmer, 
 "until after you have paid for him." The trade was quickly 
 made. "Now, what is the other fault ?" asked the horse trader. 
 "Well," said the old farmer, "he ain't worth a durn after you 
 catch him." And so it is with most of the pleasures of this 
 world ; they are not worth the trouble of catching them. The 
 greatest happiness we get out of life lies in contentment with our 
 lot and in honest, hard work, for it is the law of God. 
 
 Love kisses us from the unconscious dust into conscious 
 being, and endows us with the powers of mind and soul to dream, 
 each in his own firmament, and to search for happiness, each 
 within his own horizon — some for science and some for art, some 
 to command and some to execute, some to think and some to 
 labor with their hands — differing all as one star differeth from 
 another in glory, yet all designed to be harmonious for the 
 fulfillment of the sublime dream of God. 
 
 We are not all born for the learned professions. We cannot 
 all sail our kites above the tall timber. We cannot all fly in 
 the higher firmaments. And what a dangerous thing it is to 
 rise to dizzy heights on somebody else's wings!
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR I9I 
 
 The birds of the work! held a convention once to see which 
 conld fly the highest. The blackbird was there, and the blue- 
 bird and the woodpecker, and all the feathered creation was 
 assembled to settle the question as to who should be king of the 
 air. The word was given, and the swarms of birds began to 
 circle upward. But the eagle cut a broader circle than the 
 rest, and up and up and up he soared, imtil at last he stood 
 trembling on poised wings in midair and gave a scream of 
 triumph far above the highest bird of them all. But he heard 
 a chirp above him and looked around, and — lo! — a tomtit had 
 nestled under his feathers on his back, and was chirping out: 
 "I am higher than you are, Mr. Eagle ; / am king of the 
 air!" And the old eagle reached around with his beak and 
 pulled him off and let him drop to earth ; and from that day to 
 this the tomtit has never roosted higher than the top rail of 
 a fence. 
 
 Young man, if the Lord has made you a tomtit, be con- 
 tented with your little worm among the cedar berries and apple 
 blossoms, and don't try to soar with the eagles ; if you are a 
 woodcock, roost low and keep your eye on the hawk ; if you are 
 a bat, take to your hole when the owls are in the air ; if you arc 
 a robin, sing in your own cherry tree. 
 
 There is more music in a mocking bird's tliroat than in all 
 the ravens that ever blackened the sky; there is more laughter 
 and song in the humblest cottage, where the roses bloom by the 
 door and love abides within, than in all the palaces of this 
 w^orld where love is not ! The sweetest song birds do not sing 
 above the clouds, nor do they build their nests among the crags. 
 I would rather be a dove in the world of dreams and fly close 
 to the meadow and the stream than to be a vulture among the 
 Alps, preying upon the helpless and the innocent ! What's the 
 use to fret and frowTi under the tree of knowledge if your pole 
 is too short to knock the highest persimmon ? What's the use 
 to peck and claw at the Temple of Fame because you cannot 
 roost on its dome ? What's the use to curse the fish of Fortune 
 because you can't get a bite? You are fishing in deep water, 
 and your line is too short. Move down to the shoals among 
 the chubs and suckers, where you belong, and enjoy yourself, or 
 steal away to some smaller stream. Remember that speckled
 
 192 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 trout do not swim in the mighty river, but glint and glance in 
 the crystal pools of the mountain brook under the laurel bloom. 
 Be a leader in your own firmament. Blow your bubbles 
 according to the size of your pipe and the quality of your soap- 
 suds, and be sure you don't break the washbowl. Don't try to 
 fly your little feeble kite among the high snags of glory. There 
 are persimmons of honor enough for us all and fish of Fortune 
 enough; there is room for every wing in the glorious realm of 
 dreams. 
 
 Are you poor? Thank God, poverty cannot fetter the soul! 
 Rags cannot humble the intellect. Destiny may have made 
 you a slave, but rejoice in the dream that in your cabin there 
 may be a fledgeling that will some day rise above Adversity and 
 fly away to the summer land of Prosperity ; and, in his triumph. 
 Happiness will bubble in your own heart like a spring. If you 
 bear the burden faithfully for the sake of love and duty, every 
 pain will turn into a pleasure and every agony into a joy. We 
 all have as much trouble as we can bear, but heaven despises the 
 miserable wretch who unloads his woes like a skunk wherever he 
 goes and makes humanity hold its nose with his putrid stories 
 of sad misfortune, hard times, and the cold realities of this un- 
 friendly world. Heaven despises a walking nightmare and 
 calamity howler. Let us remember that life is not real; it is 
 only the symbol of reality; it is the shadow of the substance; 
 it is a mysterious castle in the air built of dreams — dreams 
 which prophesy immortality. Let us sit steady in the boat, 
 for we are floating down a river of dreams. We dream, and all 
 Nature dreams with us. When the frosty winds begin to whis- 
 per of approaching winter, what makes the swallows circle up- 
 ward and southward take their flight? Are they not dreaming 
 of softer skies that bend above the land of the orange and the 
 palm ? Are they not building castles of sunshine around the 
 gorgeous Ponce de Leon, where the migratory snobs of the blue 
 feather flock, or among the groves of Palm Beach where soft 
 billows kiss the sands and swallow-tailed Yankees fly high ? 
 
 And when the snows of winter melt away, what makes the 
 orchards and the meadows bloom ? Are they not building fra- 
 grant castles in the air? Who are those winged minstrels that 
 sing among the apple blossoms? Are they not dreaming of
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 193 
 
 happiness ? What makes the prodigal June fill the world with 
 blossoms and the Frost King of Autumn flaunt his banners 
 of purple and gold in the face of the sun ? Are they not dream- 
 ing of the beautiful? Do we not drink music from the bub- 
 bling fountains of the air and cull the dreams of God from 
 the epic poems that lie scattered all around us? Does not all 
 life aspire to God, and does not every plant and flower teach us 
 to dream within our own spheres? 
 
 We cannot all be ISTewtons and Keplers, Miltons and Shake- 
 speares, Calhouns and Websters; but we can be great in the 
 spheres for which God created us. 
 
 If the wrecked hopes and shattered dreams that strew the 
 pathway of mankind teach us anything, it is that discontent- 
 ment with our lot and the envy of spirits that soar above us are 
 the serpents that destroy the Edens of so many human hearts. 
 We forget that whoever enters the lists for the laurel wreath 
 of renown must bare his head for a crown of thorns and pre- 
 pare to drink of the bitter cup which Sorrow has pressed to the 
 lips of genius in every age. 
 
 There never was a victory won in this world that did not 
 cost human suffering; there never was a pearl of truth that was 
 not the price of agony. Socrates taught the immortality of the 
 soul, and a cup of hemlock was the reward of his dream ; Paul 
 preached it, and was paid with the dungeon and death ; Christ 
 demonstrated it, and perished on the cross that our fallen race 
 might taste the sweets of eternal life and eternal happiness. All 
 the blessings we enjoy have come to us through blood and tears. 
 
 Brave old Gutenberg invented movable type under the lash 
 of injustice, and even in the face of exile and death ; and what 
 floods of light have flowed from his dream of the printing press ! 
 What rivers of knowledge ! What Niagaras of happiness ! 
 
 The wisdom and experience, the philosophy and learning, 
 of every land and every clime are ours. Every library is a 
 treasure house of wisdom and experience, and every book is a 
 volume of dreams. We open them and turn the leaves, and the 
 shadows of vanished centuries pass before our eyes. We look 
 across the continent of two thousand years and behold Phidias 
 standing like a god and dreaming in marble among the columns 
 of the Parthenon. Lo, Galileo conjures his dreams into a lens
 
 194 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 and unveils new heavens above to the astonished gaze of all 
 mankind ; conjures his dreams into another lens and reveals 
 new firmaments below us— each drop of water a world, each 
 cubic foot of earth and air a universe teeming with energy and 
 panting with life ! 
 
 There is Herschel looking through the telescope and dis- 
 covering innumerable suns of many colors never dreamed of 
 before — white and yellow and ruby and emerald suns — vast sys- 
 tems of flaming orbs, moving in every conceivable direction, yet 
 all in eternal harmony, until the shining pageant melts away 
 into patches of filmy light on the dark profound beyond. Lo. 
 Columbus, amid the mutiny of his men and the dangers of 
 imknown seas, discovers a new world, which is to be the birth- 
 place of human liberty and whose stalwart sons shall lead the 
 old world into the light of a new and grander civilization ! 
 
 Yonder is Dante painting the horrors of seven hells and 
 still dreaming of his angelic Beatrice in song that will never 
 die; and Raphael dreaming in colors and calling forth his 
 charming phantoms of light and shadow on the canvas to set 
 the whole world to dreaming; and Liszt and ]\Iozart and Men- 
 delssohn and Handel and Haydn and Beethoven and Paganini 
 dreaming in harmony, and with nimble fingers tripping and 
 dancing on ivory keys or deftly touching the strings of harp 
 or violin, building castles of music in the air and bearing our 
 souls away to their misty halls of melody, where the gates of 
 heaven stand ajar, and we listen to the symphonies stolen from 
 the seraphim and cherubim of God. 
 
 But look how the sword of some Alexander the Great gleams 
 on every leaf and stains almost every page with human blood ! 
 Look how the grim specter of some Napoleon rises on the hori- 
 zon of war and then vanishes in the darkness of disaster — "the 
 somnambulist of a vast shattered dream !" 
 
 I would rather be a Stephenson in history, liarnessing steam 
 power to the imperial car of civilization, than to be a Caesar, 
 with some Antony standing above my corpse, with my bloody 
 mantle in his hand, and saying to the horrified multitude : 
 
 "See what a rent the envious Casca made ! 
 Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; 
 And as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
 Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it!"
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 195 
 
 I would rather be a Franklin or an Edison, holding the light- 
 nings like chained hounds crouching and cowering at mj feet, 
 than to be a George the Third, with the crowTi of an empire 
 upon my brow and the boot of George Washington under my 
 coat tail. 
 
 I would rather be an Agassiz, interpreting the mind of God 
 and wrenching his secrets out from his cabinet of rocks or tear- 
 ing away the veil of mystery from the hidden wonders of earth 
 and air, than to be Edward VII., tearing my shirt in South 
 Africa, or the President of the United States, snagging my 
 pants on a bolo in the Philippines. 
 
 We turn the pages and read and wonder at the bubbles the 
 world has blown and the washbowls it has broken and the soap 
 it has wasted. All that we gather from the vanished past is a 
 harvest of dreams, a few golden sheaves of thought, a few echoes 
 of music from harp strings that are broken, a few lines and 
 curves of beauty traced on dismantled walls and fallen columns. 
 a few deeds of chivalry to tell the story of some departed Don 
 Quixote charging the windmill of earthly glory and some de- 
 voted Sancho Panza hugging the jackass of Fame. 
 
 Where are all the triumphs of the N'ations that now are 
 dust? Where are all their dreams of happiness? And the 
 dreamers — O, where are they ? 
 
 Ask the pilgrim waters of the Nile: Where are Egypt's 
 pride and glory? Where are Thebes and Memphis? Tell us. 
 O Nile, where is old Pharaoh and his plagues of locusts and 
 lice, his showers of grasshoppers and his frogs on a thousand 
 hills ? Where is the royal maiden who went out to swim and 
 hung her clothes on a hickory limb and ran up on Moses in the 
 bulrushes ? Where is Joseph and his "corner" on com ? And 
 where, O where, is beautiful Cleopatra, who cornered Mark 
 Antony on the Wall street of love and, when the panic came, 
 took snake "pizen" and skipped by the light of the moon to the 
 Canada of the great unknown ? And the Nile will ripple with 
 laughter as it murmurs back the answer: "Look upon the 
 Sphinx and the pyramids and ga.-e upon the mummies ; for all 
 that is left of Egypt's castles in the air is a 'rag, a bone, and a 
 hank o' hair'!"
 
 196 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Then turn another leaf in the dream book of time, and ask 
 the wind that once whistled through the whiskers of ancient 
 Greece: Tell us, O Classic Breeze, where are all those white- 
 robed dreamers who once flocked on the Aegean shores ? Where 
 are Pericles and Socrates, Demosthenes and Euripides, Thucyd- 
 ides and Aristophanes, and all that long list of immortal "eses" 
 who dipped and dyed and shook their wings in literature and 
 philosophy long ago? Where is Hippocrates, and where is 
 Damocles? Where is Diogenes, that wise old gander who car- 
 ried a lantern around in broad daylight hunting for an honest 
 man — that solemn old gander who hissed at Alexander: "Why 
 don't you get out of my sunshine ?" 
 
 "Are all these mighty Hellenes 
 
 Now in the heaven of blissful ease, 
 
 At rest from fools and flies and fleas, 
 
 Beyond the shining Pleiades? 
 
 And the wind will wheeze across the seas; 
 
 There's nothing left of these old geese 
 
 But a few tail feathers and a spot of Greece." 
 
 Now turn another leaf and let the curtain rise on Rome. 
 
 O, K-rome! R-rome! R-rome! Who ground thy frowning 
 walls of Aurelian and Honorus into snuff ? Who pulverized thy 
 Forum Magnum and Forum Transitorium ? Who pounded thy 
 palaces and statues and triumphal arches into dust and made 
 phosphate of thy Pantheon, where once thy proud Caesars bowed 
 their jeweled heads before the gods ? Whose foot tramped on 
 thy amphitheaters and made pulp of thy gladiators ? Who dis- 
 solved thy shouting multitudes into ashes and snatched thy seven 
 hills baldheaded ? O, R-rome, thou didst drain the poison cup 
 of unsanctified power and stagger off the planet! Thy dreams 
 are bursted bubbles, thy glory is a broken bowl ! 
 
 Woe unto the nation that wabbles out of the orbit of right- 
 eousness! Woe unto the man who staggers away from the 
 problems which God intended him to solve! There is no room 
 in the glorious castle of civilization for idle brains and idle 
 hands. We are not all born for intellectual endeavor, and this 
 is the snag on which so many kites get hung. It is the shady 
 summer resort of Laziness, which imagines it has brains. We
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 197 
 
 are all striving to dodge the plow handles. The prayer is not, 
 "Where shall I labor, O Lord?" but: "O God, how shall I 
 escape the plow handles ?" The dread of the corn field has driven 
 many an idiot to the pulpit and the bar and many a fool into 
 politics. 
 
 A gawky boy expressed it when he boasted: "My mamma 
 says I'm a-goin' to live without workin'." "How so ?" said his 
 company. "Why, she says I'm goin' to be a politician." 
 
 A lazy, good-for-nothing WTetch read an advertisement pro- 
 posing to any one who would inclose a dollar to reveal the 
 secret of how to get through life without work. The dollar 
 was promptly sent, and in due time he received a card, on which 
 were these words : 
 
 "Go out in the woods and hang yourself." 
 
 I have seen young men who would lose sleep all night sere- 
 nading their sweethearts and were too lazy to get up early 
 enough in the morning to make fires for them after they had 
 married them. 
 
 "Uncle Rastus," said the Colonel, "you promised to begin 
 this work today. What's the matter ?" 
 
 "Well, boss," said Uncle Rastus, "I'se got a mighty tired 
 feelin' dis morning', an' I'se been sot back in beginning, an' I 
 jis' 'eluded I'd put it off till nex' week." 
 
 "Why," said the Colonel, "this is Monday." 
 
 "Well, I knows dat's so, boss; but de mornin's half gone, 
 an' it's only a few days till Friday, an' dat's bad luck, an' I 
 sho' ain't gwine to work on a Sunday; an' so I jis' 'eluded to 
 wait till I gets a good fresh start nex' week, sah." 
 
 Work is the only antitoxin for human woe, it is the only 
 hope of happiness in this world and of eternal happiness when 
 we shall have passed from the shadow to the substance, from 
 the dream to the reality. 
 
 The microbe of indolence is the great destroyer not only of 
 men, but of nations. It breaks down the tissue of every rap- 
 turous dream and stills the heart of every laudable ambition. It 
 is the bacillus of Poverty and the germ of Corruption and 
 Crime. 
 
 When Caius Gracchus infused it into the blood of the 
 Roman Empire by the free distribution of corn among his peo-
 
 198 LECTURES Of ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 pie, which had been extorted from conquered nations around 
 him, under the delusion that he was promoting the welfare and 
 happiness of his country, he did not dream that he was giving 
 Rome a torpid liver which would finally "turn her toes to the 
 daisies." O, that he could have reigned in old Kentucky, 
 
 "Where life itself in sluices 
 Flows in mellow, amber juices, 
 And the corn is full of kernels, 
 And the Colonels full of corn ;" 
 
 where the beauty of the women intoxicates the soul ; where the 
 trim and dashing thoroughbreds move like meteors, with their 
 tails over the moon and their chins over the stars, and the men 
 go like they were shot — out of a gun. 
 
 An old Tennessee Colonel went staggering down the street 
 one night full of corn, and saw the moon rise in her glory, and 
 he suddenly paused and looked her full in the face and said: 
 
 "Hie, you needn't be laugh'n' at me ; you get full yourself 
 once a month!" 
 
 An old Virginia Colonel, whose wife broke loose in a storm 
 of wrath every time he came home late full of corn, slipped in 
 one night, with his boots in his hand, and entered her room and 
 found her sleeping sweetly there. Silently he sat down in the 
 middle of the floor and hoisted his umbrella, and remained silent 
 till she awoke and raised up on her elbow and shouted: "For 
 the land's sake. Colonel, what are you doin' ?" 
 
 "Nothing, my dear — just waiting for the storm." 
 
 In about two seconds the umbrella was in shreds, and the 
 Colonel slept in the barn that night, dreaming of earthquakes 
 and cyclones. 
 
 An old Carolina Colonel, one cold, frosty morning, found 
 his way to a stillhouse, and, knowing the proprietor well, said: 
 
 "William, I never was as nigh dead in my life. I laid in a 
 fence corner all night last night with an overdose of corn, and 
 I'm almost froze, and I'm on the verge of paralysis. For the 
 Lord's sake, give me a good toddy as quick as you can, or I'll die 
 in fifteen minutes."
 
 CASTLES IN THE Alft 109 
 
 William had two little goats that had got separated, and one 
 of them was running around the stillhouse bleating for the 
 other ; and he turned and said to the Colonel : 
 
 "If you'll bleat right pretty like that goat, I'll give you a 
 tumbler full of good old corn." 
 
 The Colonel said: 
 
 "William, I'm nothing but an old drunkard ; but before I'll 
 humiliate myself by bleatin' like a durn goat fur a drink of 
 liquor, I'll die right here." 
 
 "All right," William said. "Catch my horse, Rastus ; I must 
 go to town: 
 
 The Colonel said: 
 
 "William, don't devil an old man that way. Let me have 
 one. I'll die before I'll bleat." 
 
 William put his foot in the stirrup and said : "Colonel, are 
 you goin' to town ?" 
 
 "O," said the Colonel, "please, William, let me have a 
 drink; I'm dying! No use talkin' about my bleatin'." 
 
 "Good mornin', Colonel!" shouted William, as he vaulted in 
 the saddle and started in the direction of town. 
 
 The Colonel first looked at William and then at the goat, 
 and said: 
 
 "Bla-ha-hal! Durn you!!!" 
 
 And soon the world was full of music, for the Colonel was 
 full of corn. 
 
 But liquid corn is not the main question involved in this 
 discussion, although it is a siren that wooes but to destroy; 
 for its excessive use makes it the energy of hell that sets the 
 brain on fire and burns all the beautiful castles of love and 
 hope and happiness into ashes and swells the ranks of idleness 
 and floods the world with tears. 
 
 God pity the man who has brain power and does not dream 
 on the right side of life, and who does not do his part in the 
 great hive of human endeavor! 
 
 The wealth of ages is our heritage — wealth of which count- 
 less generations have dreamed and in the struggle for which 
 unnumbered millions have suffered and died; the wealth of 
 liberty and law that makes every home the castle and palace of a 
 prince and Qxerj citizen a sovereign; the wealth of the library
 
 ^06 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 to enlighten ns and of tlic Christian religion to guide us; the 
 wealth of opportunity to utilize not only our own, but the dreams 
 of all who have dreamed before us, and to work in harmony for 
 the upbuilding of our race. 
 
 It is the province of unfettered Thought to invent and dis- 
 cover, of Art to design, and of Labor to execute; and when this 
 triumvirate of power moves the whole world moves with it. It 
 is this imperial triumvirate that pulls down the hills and drags 
 forth their treasures; that makes the ax gleam in the forest 
 and the plowshare flash in the furrow ; that makes the dynamite 
 thunder among the cliffs and the furnaces flame with melting 
 ores. It is the union of hearts and the union of hands that 
 builds bridges and launches ships and heaves the domes and 
 spires of civilization in the air above the sheaves and shocks of 
 plenty. 
 
 John Howard Payne touched the tenderest chord that 
 vibrates in the great throbbing heart of all humankind when he 
 gave to the world his song of "Home, Sweet Home," for within 
 the heaven of its four blessed walls the first bright and buoyant 
 soap bubbles of hope are blown and about its sacred hearth- 
 stones are built the love-illumined castles of memory. 
 
 What is man but a mystery of mud and mind, a miracle 
 of dust and dream, a spirit bird in a cage of clay, brother to 
 the parrot, akin to the angels, forever beating his wings against 
 the prison bars of flesh and bone, and crying out in plaintive 
 tones from the cradle to the grave, "Polly wants a cracker!" 
 forever praying to the Lord to take poor Polly home; but let 
 the grim messenger come and with skeleton hand begin to un- 
 latch the door, and instantly Brother Parrot will drop from his 
 perch and plead with trembling voice : 
 
 "Oh, please let poor Polly stay a little longer !" 
 
 What a strange infatuation of the jewel for its casket, of 
 the spirit for its crumbling castle in the air ! What a marvelous 
 alliance of music and muscle, of love with ligament, and of 
 soul with common clay! But banish the castle-building power 
 of the mind of man, take away the soul and make him only an 
 animal, and the humblest creatures around him are his su- 
 periors. In length of life the camel and the swan become, com- 
 pared to him, Methuselahs ; in size and strength the ox and the
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 201 
 
 elephant become Samsons and Goliaths; the hound can out- 
 smell him, the deer can outrun him, the granddaddy-long-legs 
 can outleap him, the eagle and condor can outsee him — except 
 when it comes to searching for a dollar. He can then outsee 
 all the eagles and condors in the world. 
 
 Did you ever watch an ant drag a dead grasshopper to his 
 little hotel on the European plan ? If man had the strength of 
 an ant in proportion to his size, he could lay hold of the pillars 
 of the Capitol at Washington and instantly adjourn Congress 
 to meet beyond this vale of tears in the summer land of song. 
 He could roll the dome of St. Peter's up the steps of Vesuvius 
 and tumble it into the crater. 
 
 A Jeffries in the prize ring sets the sporting world agog 
 when he puts some Fitzsimmons or Corbett to sleep in fifteen 
 brutal rounds ; but I have seen a mad hornet in a blackberry 
 patch knock out a meddlesome boy with a single blow delivered 
 straight from his business end, and the boy got up and ske- 
 daddled, w^ith a knot on his head, and the hornet returned in 
 triumph, with blood on his glove, to his swinging castle in 
 the air. 
 
 And yet this union of dirt and divinity, this marriage of 
 mortality to immortality, makes man next to the noblest work 
 of God. Woman is the noblest, thank the Lord; but man em- 
 braces woman, and the twain are the highest types of this glori- 
 ous creation. 
 
 When this world of ours had rolled out from among the 
 dark and warring elements of chaos, and the hand of Almighty 
 Power had stamped the face of infant nature with ineffable 
 beauty, it was then the Lord God himself built castles in the 
 air and dreamed of a ruler for the land and the sea ; and, mak- 
 ing himself the model, he fashioned an image out of the un- 
 conscious dust and called it man. The young earth offered her 
 purest marbles, her finest gold; yet he passed these by and 
 chose the ignoble clay. Never was matter exalted to such a 
 station by such an artist in all the tide of time; for when he 
 had given it the last divine touches of majesty and glory, he 
 left it not as Praxiteles left his image of the lovely Aphrodite — 
 cold, insensate marble still — nor as Michaelangelo left his 
 beautiful David, which he could not inspire with the music 
 
 (13)
 
 202 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 I 
 
 and the dream ; but the Divine Sculptor breathed upon his mas- 
 terpiece, and, lo! it awoke, and the warm, red tides leaped 
 and throbbed through every vein ; the springs of action quick- 
 ened in every muscle ; the subtle currents of vital force flashed 
 and thrilled through every nerve ; the sightless eyes received the 
 focused light and looked out on the dazzling splendors of earth 
 and sky; the dull, immobile features glowed with the divinity 
 of soul and thought — and the first likeness of the living God 
 stepped forth a living man. 
 
 Filled with wonderment, he walked in a garden of peren- 
 nial bloom and strayed by a crystal river. It was an Eden 
 untainted by sin, untouched by death — a poem of light and color, 
 a lyric of love and melody, an open volume fragrant with the 
 dreams of God, whose numbers, smooth as the rhythm of the 
 tripping hours, murmured in all its joyous waters, bubbled in 
 every feathered throat, fluttered in every painted wing and 
 trembled in every leaf and flower. 
 
 The soft air was aflame with gorgeous wings and resonant 
 with rapturous songs for the happiness of earth's first son. 
 Tigers, lithe and sinuous, crouched and purred their pleasures 
 at his feet; lions licked his fondling hand; and spotted fawns 
 and snow-white lambs gamboled the daisied fields around him. 
 The great giraffe, bending his neck, browsed the tree tops below, 
 and then, towering like the Matterhorn, poked his little head 
 between the stars and nodded to the music of the spheres. The 
 grotesque antics of the puzzled elephant, in his bewildered 
 efforts to determine whether he had two tails or two trunks, 
 plunged Adam into a fit of laughter, which spread throughout 
 all Paradise. 
 
 "The gray monkey grinned in the cocoanut tree, 
 And the meadow lark chuckled in the clover; 
 
 The grasshopper giggled and winked at the flea, 
 While the kangaroo laughed all over. 
 
 All Eden rang with a weird, wild laugh, 
 
 Which lasted the livelong day; 
 They laughed and they laughed till the big giraffe 
 Led the two-tailed elephant away."
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR 2O3 
 
 1 
 
 But this excess of mirth and joy around him, and this prodi- 
 gality of beauty, with none to share it, turned his laughter into 
 signs and tortured him with a vague and discontented longing 
 for another self. In his dreams by night, in his reveries by day, 
 he caught glimpses of a being so fair that even the angels must 
 fall down and worship at her feet. He apostrophized her love- 
 liness in every rose, her purity in every lily, her modesty in 
 every violet. If he loitered under the great palms he heard her 
 sigh in every passing zephyr, her w'hisper in every rustling leaf ; 
 if he wandered by the stream where the spreading willow^s hung 
 their green Niagaras above the placid waters, he looked down 
 and saw her smiling from a mirrored heaven and heard her 
 laughter rippling forth from every tinkling wave. 
 
 If he sat at eventide in some sweet, dusky bower, listen- 
 ing to the waking orchestra of the night, he felt the charm of 
 her presence in the twilight's witchery and beheld her love-lit 
 eyes in every liquid star. And while he walked and wandered 
 he was ever building castles in the air. 
 
 But one bright, smiling morning the smiling Adam woke 
 and found his smiling Eve, and life to them was one perpetual 
 smile until, in an evil hour, they were tempted to change their 
 diet, and the angels led them out and made them the children 
 of sorrow. But Paradise lost did not mean the destruction of 
 its images and memories in the brain of man, nor did it crush 
 his power to dream. 
 
 They w-ent from Eden into a strange, new world, and, with 
 God-given imagination, they filled its Avaste places with bril- 
 liant, beautiful castles in the air.
 
 TEMPTATION
 
 TEMPTATION 
 
 Temptation is the gi'eat disturber of the universe. It is the 
 only evil that ever entered the kingdom of heaven. We are told 
 in Holy Writ that it kindled the spirit of Lucifer into flame, 
 and he drew about him a countless host of immortal spirits, 
 cherubim and serapliim — the tallest angels of light — and, with 
 his burning eloquence, persuaded them to throw off allegiance 
 to Almighty God and rally around the standard of rebellion 
 against his throne. l>ut scarcely had they drawn their flaming 
 swords and uncovered their awful batteries when the live thun- 
 ders of his infinite wrath smote and shattered their shining 
 ranks and hurled them headlong from the battlements of heaven 
 into the black vault of outer darkness, where life forever dies 
 and death lives forever. 
 
 And we are told that when this beautiful planet of ours 
 had rolled out from chaos and the hand of Almighty Power had 
 stamped it with ineffable beauty, and Paradise first blushed in 
 the presence of its admiring God, the fallen archangel, con- 
 sumed with the ambition for revenge, mounted upward through 
 the gloom in search of the new-born world to accomplish the 
 fall of man with the subtle tongue of temptation. And when 
 this dreadful work was done, I think he laughed with derision 
 as the weeping exiles from the smiles of God looked back from 
 the flame that laid in ashes earth's first and only habitation of 
 perfect peace and happiness ; I think he laughed in triumph at 
 the youth and beauty he had destroyed and the ruin he had 
 wrought; for, looking down through the coming centuries, he 
 knew that the fountain he had corrupted would pour out 
 millions of tainted souls to be subject to his power; and when 
 he saw the shadow of death dancing on the horizon of the future, 
 he took wing and dropped like a falling star into the abyss of 
 eternal night. 
 
 Ever since that awful day he has been in perpetual warfare 
 with the angels of light for supremacy over man, arguing with 
 reason till reason staggers from her throne, and with virtue till 
 virtue hesitates and falls. Like some malevolent spider of the
 
 208 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 spirit world, he weaves and forever weaves with invisible fila- 
 ments his fatal nets and snares and spreads them all along the 
 pathway of every human life. He is the very divinity of evil, 
 veiling himself in everything that charms the intellect and fasci- 
 nates the soul. Like the siren, he sings his song in every heart. 
 
 To nations he is no less a menace and destroyer. Like some 
 invisible cobra, he twines himself in every capitol and lies in 
 wait for governments. He is the most eloquent sophist that 
 ever beguiled a Senate or a House of Lords, concealing his 
 poison in the very lilies of chaste speech and clothing corrup- 
 tion in the livery of immaculate love. He is the chief procurer 
 in the commerce of shame. He is the ambassador of hell in the 
 court of humanity. 
 
 There is your history — go and read it. Every volume is a 
 story of temptation ; every page is a picture of the fall of man. 
 There in the shadows of the sombre past is Alexander the Great 
 riding like death on the pale horse over the necks of fallen 
 nations and compelling the world to pay tribute to his sword; 
 there he is sheathing that sword in tears because there are no 
 more worlds to conquer; and there is Satan filling the goblet to 
 the brim and pressing it to his imperial lips, and the greatest 
 warrior of all history yielding at last to the temptation of a 
 draft of wine and staggering off the planet. 
 
 ISTow look again, and there is Julius Caesar turning away 
 from love and the sweet allurements of pleasure to climb the 
 rugged steeps of glory ; there is no boundary line to his empire ; 
 the world is at his feet; but there is temptation holding up a 
 crown and beckoning to him from the forum; and just as he 
 proudly walks down the marble hall to seize it there is a flash 
 of daggers around him, a gasp, a sigh and a bloody mantle, 
 and amid the tumult and consternation of the Roman Senate 
 death snatches Caesar's laurels from his brow and robs him of 
 his crown. 
 
 There Caesar lies, a fallen god, 
 Two thousand years beneath the sod. 
 The lizards creep where once he bled, 
 And ravens croak above his head. 
 Oh, Rome is dust ! Her glory gone ! 
 Temptation still goes marching on.
 
 TEMPTATION 209 
 
 N'ow turn another frowning leaf, and there is the tempter 
 firing the heart of the Corsican lieutenant and urging him on 
 in that meteoric career of splendid conquest which sweeps the 
 flower of the world into the grave and blanches the cheeks of 
 kings. But when the clouds have lifted from Waterloo and 
 the roar of battle is hushed, there is nothing left but a faded 
 lily and a broken sword, and there is the unthroned jSTapoleon, 
 like an eagle chained to a rock in a distant sea, looking back 
 toward France o'er the waste of waters, and dreaming of an 
 empire that is lost to him forever. 
 
 There is your history — go and read it, page by page — and 
 what is it all but a vast, shattered dream — a few echoes of 
 music from harpstrings that are broken — a few bursts of elo- 
 quence from lips that now are dust — a few lines and curves of 
 beauty traced on dismantled walls and fallen columns — the 
 sound of an imperial sword being drawn — a blinding flash — a 
 puff of smoke — a stream of blood — and temptation standing 
 there in the dusk of vanished years writing his name on the 
 tombstones of fallen nations. 
 
 What are all the myths that come to us out of the dark and 
 distant past but fantastic tales of the tempter blowing out the 
 light of hope and love and poisoning the springs of human hap- 
 piness? 
 
 And so he flies from age to age, sleepless as the stars of 
 night, hovering over every pillow, awaiting the exit of the angel 
 of dreams, and then slipping in through the opening portals 
 of consciousness to whisper sweet promises of the coming day ; 
 and the waking world rises from two billion couches and rushes 
 through the myriad gates of enchantment to seize the treasures 
 that glitter and glow in the phantom world of the imagination. 
 Above one gate there hangs a crown of glory, and the trumpet 
 of fame sounds within, calling Ambition to the battle field of 
 politics. And, oh ! what a battle field it is ! It is the conflict 
 of contending spirits, where the descending sword of intellect 
 cleaves the helmet of passion, and the keen lance of logic pierces 
 the armor of ignorance; where deadly shafts of ridicule are 
 hurled against shimmering shields of rhetoric, and flying darts 
 of wit and humor perforate the frowns of dignity. It is the
 
 2IO LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 plash of ideas and policies of government. It is the combat of 
 principles. It is the universal struggle of mankind for power. 
 
 But when the din of the bewildering strife has lulled into 
 silence and the shouts and huzzahs of the multitudes have died 
 away, there are no lifting clouds of smoke revealing heaps of 
 dead and dying men. But far more pitiful are the heaps of 
 dead hopes and dying dreams ; far more pathetic than the limp- 
 ing stragglers of a routed army are crippled aspirations dodging 
 behind trees of profanity, and bruised and battered ambitions 
 seeking refuge in the wilderness of reform. Far more solemn 
 than the Red Cross litters bearing the wounded from the field 
 of glory is the long line of wounded feelings returning on 
 stretchers to the shades of private life, with a hole in his rep- 
 utation and his pride in a sling. 
 
 In these imperial days, when frenzied politics and frenzied 
 finance go hand in hand together; when honor and reason are 
 forgotten in the wild rush for gold and the power and position 
 which it buys, who can dam and dyke the corrupting flood of 
 aggregated wealth and keep it in its channel ? Who can build 
 a system of laws broad enough and strong enough to prevent its 
 glittering tides from sloshing into our capitol and finally drown- 
 ing the republic? 
 
 Has not the beautiful science of free government been re- 
 duced to the most subtle and exquisite art that ever scuttled a 
 state or sunk a nation? I mean the art of modern machine 
 politics — the art of conjuring the wealth of the country out 
 of the hands of the sleeping sovereigns without waking them ; the 
 art of clipping Samson's hair w^hile he sleeps ; the art of con- 
 verting a free government into an empire in the name of 
 Almighty God. Is it not the black art of temptation in ten 
 thousand different forms ? Sometimes it slips into a caucus or 
 a convention, and sometimes into the temple of justice, and 
 even into the halls of legislation, and whispers one magic word 
 into the ear of listening power, and, lo ! in the twinkling of an 
 eye majorities are changed to minorities, and minorities to ma- 
 jorities. It whispers one magic word and opinions and con- 
 victions upon great principles and policies of government are 
 reversed in an hour. That magic word is "Money." Oh, won-
 
 TEMPTATION 211 
 
 drous word of marvelous power — Money ! Oh, ravishing syno- 
 nym of earthly glory, so full of the music and the dream — 
 Money ! 
 
 In it are visions of frescoed halls in shady groves resplend- 
 ent with matchless forms of grace that breathe in the sculptured 
 marble and the painted canvas. Oh, sweet evangel of the beauti- 
 ful — "Money!" In it are reflected the stolen fires of the stars 
 flashing in diamond pins, and the crimson glow of sunset skies 
 set in gold ; in it are banquet spreads, with crimson streams of 
 wine and amber seas of sour mash — old and mellow liquors 
 whose beaded billows forever break on fragi-ant shores of mint. 
 The humble men who wield the pick in the dark and perilous 
 mine are forgotten ; the calloused hands that swing the hammer 
 and the axe are lost in the shuffle, and the enthusiastic multi- 
 tudes who but yesterday twined the laurel wreath about their 
 brows are overshadowed by the gold-crowned god of Mammon. 
 Corruption taps the sugar tree of our national wealth and glory 
 with a golden hatchet, and the conspirators boil the sap into 
 sugar in the dead hours of the night with the lanterns dimly 
 burning. But old Hickory Shirt is not invited to the candy- 
 pulling — nor Dr. Honesty, nor Esq. Patriotism, nor any of the 
 old folks at home — Colonel Reform and General Welfare are 
 excluded from the feast of treason, and the flow of sap, and the 
 division of the spoils. "On with the orgies!" cries exultant 
 Temptation. "Let joy be unconfined !" And there is the clink 
 of brimming glasses in the very shadow of the Capitol, and 
 there is the jingle of golden eagles as they rise from the jingling 
 table and sing the national hymn. 
 
 I would scorn to be a pessimist on the platform, but I can- 
 not repress the impulse to point to the shadow of human liberty 
 lengthening toward the east. Has not our Constitution been 
 interpreted to death ? And is not all power slipping away from 
 the American people ? Has not Samson been shorn of his locks 
 while yet he slumbers with the ballot in his hand ? Is not the 
 Rip Van Winkle of popular government lost in the Adirondacks 
 of prosperity ? Has he not drunk too deep from the jug of in- 
 difference? Is he not sleeping too long on his rights? And 
 will be not some day rise from his trance to find the gunstock
 
 212 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 of sovereignty rotted from the barrel at his side and nothing 
 but the skeleton of happiness lying at his feet ? 
 
 But what doth wealth and power care 
 For Samson when he's lost his hair? 
 The tears are vain that Rip doth shed; 
 He slept too long; his dog is dead. 
 Thus states are shorn and nations weep 
 For crimes committed while they sleep. 
 
 Did you ever hear the story of the pilot and his peril ? There 
 was once a great overflow of the Mississippi River. In places 
 it was forty miles wide. The faithful j)ilot stood at his wheel 
 night and day to keep the steamer in the channel and save her 
 from destruction. He stood there at his post until he was ex- 
 hausted and almost dead from loss of sleep ; and finally he 
 called Uncle Ephraim, who was his roustabout, to come and take 
 the wheel. The old darkey took it and waited for instructions. 
 "'Now, Uncle Ephraim," said the pilot, "do you see the ISTorth 
 Star yonder ?" "Yas, suh, I sees de :N'o'th Star." "Well, keep 
 the nozzle of the boat square to the ISTorth Star while I sleep a 
 little, and there'll be no danger of accident." "All right, boss ; I 
 sho will keep her dar." But when the old man took his eyes 
 off the I^orth Star and looked up again, all stars looked alike to 
 him, and when the pilot woke the boat was away out in the 
 country and Uncle Ephraim was guiding her around rocks and 
 hills and sandbars, and the pilot shouted : "You old fool, didn't 
 I tell you to keep the nozzle of this boat square to the North 
 Star?" "Yas, suh, you sho did, but, boss, you'se been asleep 
 heep longer'n you thinks you is. We's done passed the No'th 
 Star two hours ago," 
 
 I believe there is manhood enough and virtue enough to 
 keep the keel of our national hope and glory in the channel, but 
 the fear is in the heart of the thinking world that we have 
 passed the N'orth Star of safety, and that, though we are gliding 
 smoothly now, God knows how soon we will be dashed to pieces 
 among the rocks and hills of temptation. I shall not discuss 
 these rocks and hills tonight, but will name only a few: One 
 is class legislation; another is imperialism; another is the uni- 
 versal extravagance of the American people ; another is the gov- 
 ernment in the whiskey business. On the eve of every great
 
 TEMPTATION 2I3 
 
 election retrenchment and reform are on the lips of the govern- 
 ment, but when the election is over and the danger of defeat 
 is past, the revelry begins again and the crimes against liberty 
 are forgotten. 
 
 Old Uncle ISTicodemiis fell sick in his cabin one day away 
 down South in Dixie, He grew more feverish and feeble every 
 hour, and finally he called his old wife to his bedside, and, with 
 a tremulous voice, said: "Dinali, dis is my las' sickness. I'se 
 a gwine to die, sho." Aunt Dinah bent over him with stream- 
 ing eyes and said : "Nicodemus, has yo' made peace wid de 
 Lawd ?" "]^o, Dinah ; I'se been tryin' to pray to de Lawd all 
 mawnin' to forgive my sins, but eber time I tries to pray dem 
 blankets and quilts and things I'se been stealin' aroun' in de 
 neighborhood gits right up in de air and spreads out, and de 
 good Lawd won't heah my pra'r. I wish you would fold 'em 
 all up and send 'em home as quick as you kin. You knows whar 
 I got 'em." "Dat's right," Aunt Dinah said; "I'll fold 'em 
 all up and sen' George Washington to ketch de mule, and I'll 
 sen' 'em all back right now." 
 
 And she went to work folding up the blankets and quilts, 
 and Uncle Xicodemus fell into a sweet sleep. And just as Aunt 
 Dinah was getting ready to send the things home the old man 
 woke and feebly said: "Dinah, come heah!" She rushed to 
 him and said, "What's de matter now, honey?" "Dinah, has 
 you sent dem quilts and blankets and things home ?" "'No, 
 honey, but I'se got 'em all ready; now, don't worry yo'self." 
 "Oh, Dinah, if you isn't sent 'em, don't be too quick about it ; I 
 feels a little better." 
 
 And so it is with the shifting lights and shadows and chang- 
 ing scenes of politics — the moment the fear of retribution van- 
 ishes and a new lease of power is assured, the spirit of reform 
 takes wings and a call comes from the throne, "Oh, Dinah, come 
 heah. If you isn't sent dem quilts and blankets home, don't 
 sen' 'em ; I feels a little better." 
 
 If I could get the ear of the young men of my country I 
 would whisper soft and low to them : There is no easy way of 
 life, but the hardest, darkest and most dangerous way of all lies 
 in the turbulent realm of politics. For it is a cold and heart-
 
 214 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 less struggle to the end, and many a brave and brilliant knight 
 passes out with a hole in his valor and his pride in a sling. 
 
 Every candidate is a walking petition and a living prayer, 
 and every officeholder is a lion — until just before the next elec- 
 tion — then he is a lamb. Today he has the world by the tail 
 and a down-hill pull; tomorrow it gets away from him and 
 leaves him gazing into space with only the tail feathers of his 
 glory dangling in his hands. There is nothing sure in politics 
 but temptation. 
 
 Two old members of the Legislature from away up at the 
 head of the creek roomed together in the capital city of my 
 native State. They were both church members, but both loved 
 liquor, and the habit of both was to rise before daylight, say 
 their prayers and take their morning dram. John rose very 
 early one morning, and, groping around in the darkness, stum- 
 bled over the legs of William, who was on his knees silently say- 
 ing his prayer. William stopped in the middle of his prayer 
 and said: "John, you will find the liquor there in the w^asli- 
 stand drawer — Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from 
 evil — John, for the Lord's sake don't drink it all — For thine 
 is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever — John, 
 hand me that bottle — google, google, google — Amen." And 
 the devil cut the pigeon wing in the purple of the dawn. 
 
 The multitudinous ideals of happiness that light up the 
 brain of man are as different in degree and form as the constel- 
 lations that light the heavens above us. In one it is an office ; 
 in another, a bag of gold; in another, the drama; in another; 
 wine and the social function; in another, a laurel wreath of 
 glory and dominion over men. But in all it is only a rapturous 
 dream, a filmy bubble wathin whose filmy walls tempta- 
 tion tunes his fiddle and the world dances to the music. But 
 the leader of the dance is that king of all the evil passions that 
 heave the human breast — the unfettered lust for gold. It is 
 the Shylock of every age. It is the ISTero of every civilization. 
 It rides rough-shod over love, and mercy, and liberty, and law. 
 Its imperial banner floats in every mart of business and over 
 every capitol. The golden gate of greed through which the na- 
 tions rush each day in search of the shrine of fortune towers 
 high above all other gates of enchantment.
 
 TEMPTATION 215 
 
 Wealth is the supreme temptation of mankind. The church 
 of God is tinged with the color of gold. Gold rings in the very 
 laughter and song of the social realm. The eyes of politics are 
 jaundiced with it; and I think if our republic could be lifted 
 up to the celestial abode of the blest, we would dig up the golden 
 streets of the new Jerusalem in three hours and levy a tariff 
 on the harps of the angels for the protection of American in- 
 dustry. 
 
 Look how the temptations of our great commercial centers 
 are depopulating the country. Look how the toiling millions are 
 pouring out of the fields into the factories and shops and all 
 the arteries of trade. And why ? It does not pay to plow — it is 
 no longer profitable to sow and reap. Everybody is scrambling 
 for a salary or a contract. In every brain there is an iron mine 
 or a furnace — in every heart a pile of wealth and a palace. The 
 angels of happiness no longer beckon from the landscape and 
 the stream, nor call from the sweet solitudes among the hills, but 
 they stand tiptoe on the burnished domes and glittering spires 
 of the city and the town with bags of gold in their hands, and 
 the eager throngs assemble there to climb after them on a thou- 
 sand ladders of dreams. 
 
 But the dream ladders break, 
 
 And the air castles fall, 
 And down tumbles happiness, 
 
 Honor and all. 
 
 If I were an artist I would paint a composite picture of 
 crime. I would lay the scene in the heart of the great metrop- 
 olis. I would paint a living stream of hurrying humanity surg- 
 ing and jostling to and fro, and scorning and spurning and 
 trampling the helpless down in the hot pursuit of shadows. I 
 would paint infatuated luxury flaunting her silken skirts in the 
 hungry face of penury. 
 
 I would paint a panorama of the palatial salon gorgeous 
 with wealth and resonant with the uproar of pleasure. I would 
 paint pride and powdered vanity winding off the figures of 
 the german and keeping time in a sort of runic rhyme to 
 the voluptuous swells of some sweet melody. I would paint 
 the manly form of a clerk in the bank down the way, with 
 flushed cheeks and beaming eyes, leading the dance with an
 
 2l6 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 heiress of fortune. But it takes a golden key to open the door 
 of the four hundred, for it means the opera and the wine party, 
 with a little poker on the side, and a hundred demands for 
 money which only the rich can afford. Then I would paint a 
 scene in the bank dovm the way — I would paint the gay clerk 
 in a quandary and the tempter pointing to the cash drawer and 
 a whisper in his heart — a few crisp hills for a day or two, with 
 the ledger fixed to conceal it, and the embarrassment will be 
 bridged. Of course he will put it back — of course he will — 
 but his heart almost chokes him as he takes it. Don't you 
 worry — he'll make it all right with the bank — why, certainly! 
 
 But emergencies increase as the hours fly, and he fixes the 
 books again and again and again until at last the sensation of 
 his crime is about to burst into flame — and then I would paint 
 him trying to quench it in a gambling hell, in the vain ed- 
 deavor to retrieve his losses and put the money back in the 
 drawer; and finally I would paint him rising from the fatal 
 game with swollen face and blood-shot eyes, and staggering 
 back into the shadows with the muzzle of a revolver pressed to 
 his throbbing temple. And I would paint the exultant tempter 
 smiling and bowing from the burnished crest of a vanishing 
 cloud. 
 
 Did you ever hear the story of the drummer and the mock- 
 ing bird ? He said he was lured into a game of poker — it was 
 only a little game with gentlemen, but before the clock struck 
 twelve they had won every dollar he had in the world. He 
 pulled off his watch and put it up, and they won it in a jiffy; 
 he pulled off his little diamond stud, and they won that; and 
 about two o'clock in the morning he went to his room feeling 
 like the woodcock when the owl struck him — a perfect gentle- 
 man, but a little short of feathers — and he concluded that he 
 would sleep off his trouble. He said: "People say a mocking 
 bird can't talk, but it can talk as good as anybody when it 
 wants to." For just as he was dozing off a mocking bird in a 
 bough at his window began to chuckle and laugh and mock him 
 in his anguish, and, as near as he could remember, it went 
 this way :
 
 CO 
 
 lU 
 
 
 o 
 
 > 
 o 
 
 O!
 
 TEMPTATION 217 
 
 "Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle; 
 Deal 'em, deal 'em; 
 Two pair, two pair, two pair; 
 Three aces, three aces, three aces; 
 Oh, Lord; Oh, Lord!" 
 
 And the dreamer threw the cover and lit upon the floor. 
 And he shouted to the mocker, "I've heard you laugh before !" 
 And through the open window went a bottle and a shoe, 
 And the mocker emigrated, but he chuckled as he flew; 
 And he lighted in a maple, and he shook his little head. 
 As he whistled to the drummer, and this is what he said : 
 "Shuflle, shuffle, shuffle." 
 
 The Persian poet sipped his wine and sang, "I myself am 
 heaven and hell." Was he not a philosopher? And did he not 
 touch a responsive chord in every human heart ? For where is 
 the brain that has not throbbed with a thrill of heaven when 
 some pure thought was born? And where is the bosom that 
 has not heaved with the heaven of joy when the wing of an 
 angel fluttered in some rapturous dream ? And yet where is 
 the spirit that has not writhed in the hell of a giiilty conscience ? 
 And the soul that has not swooned in the hell of remorse? T 
 myself am heaven and hell, and so are we all. And the conflict 
 between good and evil never ends. Whoever sides Avith the 
 angels of light and clings to the pure and beautiful things of 
 life is greater than ISTapoleon, for he has driven temptation 
 from the field and the gates of heaven stand ajar. Whoever 
 lines up with the angels of darkness and delivers love and virtue 
 and honor into the black arms of lust and the other vicious pas- 
 sions is nothing more nor less than a walking devil and a 
 breathing hell. 
 
 Look around you in every-day life and behold the mirror 
 maze of heaven and hell. There is exultant youth in the 
 thoughtless race after the receding rainbows of forbidden pleas- 
 ures that hang in the mist of dreams — the tinseled rainbows of 
 sin — the tempter's triumphal arches — his gates of many colors 
 that open to the innocent and close behind the guilty. 
 
 And there is wild-eyed speculation running over slow and 
 plodding business, not fascinated with the gorgeous colors of 
 the social phantom, but bent on finding the bag of gold that 
 lies at the end of the rainbow. 
 
 (14)
 
 2l8 LECTURES OF ROBERT L, TAYLOR 
 
 And there is Dryden's hypocrite with holy leer, "Soft smil- 
 ing and demurely looking down, but hid the dagger underneath 
 the gown." 
 
 The hypocrite is the devil's dromedary, and bears more bur- 
 dens of obloquy and contempt for the privilege of going to hell 
 than the humblest Christian bears for the hope of reaching 
 heaven. 
 
 Yonder in the shadows of a wretched hovel is the half- 
 starved form of an aged miser, 
 
 "Who views his coffers with suspicious eyes 
 Unlocks his gold and counts it till he dies." 
 
 Yonder goes green-eyed envy with his bosom full of serpents 
 and scowling hatred thirsting for revenge. Yonder come 
 Mistress Gossip and Madam Scandal, "the foulest whelps of 
 sin," breathing slanders everywhere, and "at every word a rep- 
 utation dies." 
 
 "Long-breathed talkers, minion lispers, 
 Cutting honest throats by whispers." 
 
 There goes the maudlin drunkard staggering toward his 
 desolate home. There are no yesterdays to him nor tomorrows. 
 All there is of time is today. All there is of hope and memory 
 are drowned in the billows of rum. How long till he will drown 
 himself ? His family would not shed a tear, nor his neighbors ; 
 but old Skull and Cross-Bones counts a gentleman preserved in 
 alcohol a hard prize to win. 
 
 But the lump is always leavened by the smiling faces of 
 piety and purity, and sturdy men and women of character and 
 honor, forever winding in and out through the delirious excesses 
 and dissipations of mortal life, and even in the bosom of the 
 most degraded wretch where temptation has done his worst, 
 there is still a spark of heaven. 
 
 The greatest bulwark of civilization is the beautiful in- 
 fluence of pure and virtuous womanhood. And yet how deadly 
 that influence is to human happiness when launched on the side 
 of wrong ! Satan himself could not reach the heart of man until 
 the forbidden fruit was offered by a woman. There she stood,
 
 TEMPTATION 219 
 
 1 
 
 the fairest, purest, loveliest thing that God ever made, with a 
 glow of beauty in her face that eharmed the very angels, and 
 how easily she led him to his fall. Perhaps it was only a 
 languishing look and the nod of a sweet poised head. Perhaps 
 the slightest beckon of a dimpled hand that drew him obedient 
 to the tree, ready to barter for a love sigh the happiness of a 
 coming world. The mere suggestion of a smile, a scarce seen 
 pouting of the lips, a soft appeal from lovelit eyes, so tender 
 and yet so terrible with persuasive eloquence that a single glance 
 could slay a race of men. What wonder then that Adam fell — 
 what wonder that men have been falling ever since and will be 
 to the end ! 
 
 What means that perspiring host of noisy men over yonder 
 at the courthouse? A convention has assembled to name a 
 standard bearer. Patriots have met to record the righteous will 
 of a sovereign people, but the details of the convention have been 
 worked out the night before by a few accommodating politicians, 
 and a pale-faced statesman, with the smell of many beers upon 
 his breath, selected to preside over their deliberations by the 
 pug-nosed boss of the realm, who poses as the custodian of the 
 people's power. The delegates believe that it is their convention, 
 but a motion made by a sovereign not in the ring is instantly 
 caught upon the jagged prong of a pre-arranged point of order 
 and pitched over the parliamentary fence into the muck pile of 
 oblivion. 
 
 The fair-haired Chairman paints the murky air with reeking 
 rhetoric and perfumes it with patriotic platitudes, and the 
 sweating delegates wrestle desperately with Reed's Rules of 
 Order and there is a fierce and furious eruption of inflamed 
 grammar and rasping oratory and pandemonium reigns supreme 
 in the convention. Motions come thick and fast, only to be 
 stabbed and laid upon the table. The deadly point of order, 
 that ruthless insti-ument of parliamentary torture, gleams like 
 the sword of Damocles and cleaves argaiments asunder. Resolu- 
 tions are born to be murdered, and multiplied deceased amend- 
 ments choke and dam the current of the convention like rotten 
 driftwood in a stagnant stream. Patronage is the watchword
 
 220 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 and graft the shibboleth ; offices for the ring and legislation for 
 the trust. 
 
 There in the surging crowd is a prosperous old farmer 
 whose cribs at home are running over with plenty, and content- 
 ment abides at his hearthstone. He has sung through the sum- 
 mer days as he plowed and slapped the lines on his lazy mule ; 
 but temptation only yesterday whispered down the corn rows 
 and offered him an office, and he stopped and leaned upon his 
 plow and turned the matter over in his mind, and then he 
 unhitched the traces and, mounting old Beck, he left his crop 
 and hastened tx) the convention. The ring stuffs him with praise 
 and liquid adulation until he begins to realize his greatness and 
 that he was born for loftier things than happiness. They nomi- 
 nate him by acclamation ; and amid the shouting and the yelling 
 he struts with awful dignity to the reverberating forum and 
 stands there stroking his throat whiskers until the tumult has 
 quieted down, and then he opens up and pours forth his elo- 
 quence.
 
 UNCLE SAM 
 
 This unfinished masterpiece is an eloquent testimonial to the marvel- 
 ous versatility of Senator Taylor. He was the Cicero of modern orators, 
 the Michaelangelo of word painters. He was an actor and a humorist, 
 but he had an abiding ambition to add to his life productions a lecture of 
 more serious tenor, touching upon the great characters of history and the 
 tragedies which have marked the rise and fall of nations. It was that 
 ambition that led him to begin the preparation of this lecture, entitled 
 "UNCLE SAM." But before he had time to unfold it from his brain he 
 fell asleep.
 
 UNCLE SAM 
 
 Away back yonder in the dying hours of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, when monarchs held their sway beyond the seas, and when 
 the spirit of revolution had sounded the tocsin of war upon our 
 own shores, there strode out from the smoke and flamo of 
 Bunker Hill a colossal figure that stood on the horizon of human 
 hope, casting his shadow around the world. His eaglolike 
 visage was surmounted with a bell-crowned plug hat of fur, and 
 his chin Avhiskers swept down like the tail of a comet over a 
 vest bespangled with stars ; his claw-hammer coat was as blue 
 as the sky, and his tight-fitting pantaloons of red and white 
 stripes were held down with straps under his boots. The earth 
 trembled under his tread, and the angels named him Uncle 
 Sam. 
 
 This battle-born apparition was no accident — no trick of 
 fancy, no wandering, aimless ghost. He was the embodiment of 
 a universal dream which had played dimly and fitfully through 
 ages of slumbering liberty. He was the culmination of a world's 
 ideal. Behind his high resolve was the yearning of centuries, 
 and from his falcon eye flashed the fierceness of a warring god. 
 His mission was one of deepest tragedy — to smite with equal- 
 ity's sword the armed and brazen front of Tyranny. Through 
 the long, long years democracy had dwelt only in the heart of 
 man, but now it had suddenly leaped to his brain and was be- 
 coming vital with method and force. The principle of man's 
 equality is as old as history, but how feebly has it manifested 
 itself. Its radiance glinted for a moment on the spears of 
 Alexander's soldiers in the burning desert, when their godlike 
 king disdainfully cast upon the sand the last cup of water which 
 might have preserved his life because there was not enough for 
 every man. It fluttered with awful prophecy in Caesar's vic- 
 torious banners on the fateful plains of Pharsalia when the 
 remnant of his diminished legions, drawn from the common 
 people, marched forth to shatter Pompey's mighty host, rep- 
 resenting the wealth, aristocracy, awd power of Rome. It sank
 
 224 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 into blackest night amid the bloody orgies of Nero's reign, and 
 through the turbulent ages that followed it flickered but dimly. 
 In Shakespeare's dramas it found matchless tongues to sing to 
 the very stars the dire deeds of heartless monarchs. It haloed 
 the immortal Cromwell's head, and shone with warning above 
 the death warrant of Charles the First ; but the great Cromwell 
 could not bequeath his spirit to those who followed him, and so 
 kings vaulted to the human saddle and rode again — rode madly 
 into the eighteenth century and on into the twilight of its 
 evening. 
 
 As this widely scattered caravan of kings and cavalcade of 
 lords moved on into that epoch-making period, they smiled at 
 the audacity of our gaunt hero looming above the discord of 
 battle. Victory had not yet settled upon him, but determina- 
 tion that never yields had measured itself in the length of his 
 firm, set jaws ; and had these mighty rulers been wise astrologers 
 they could have read a fearful prophecy from the stars that 
 sprinkled his garments. Sad was the plight of mankind on that 
 uncommon day as "Uncle Sam," a new figure in the ages, was 
 straightening himself in the thunder of battle to begin his march 
 into history. 
 
 Russia, land of cruel Cossacks and frozen whiskers, under 
 the reign of Catherine the Great, was carving the "stuffing" out 
 of Turkey and "poling" the life out of Poland. 
 
 Prussia was purring like a feasted tiger over the wide realm 
 which the genius of the great Frederick had acquired by the 
 might of his sword. 
 
 Austria was bowed under the iron will of Maria Theresa. 
 
 Spain, ancient battleground of the Romans and the Car- 
 thagenians, blasted relic of the Inquisition, was ruled by Charles 
 the Third, who was striving in vain to lift the weight of her 
 sins. 
 
 Italy, prostrate and dismembered, was paying tribute to 
 her despoilers. 
 
 Little Japan, cloistered amid her cherry blossoms, was wor- 
 shiping Buddha and the sun. 
 
 China, the yellow giant of the Orient, was dozing in the 
 opium smoke of a strange and paradoxical civilization.
 
 UNCLE SAM 225 
 
 Egypt was a conquered province sweating under the yoke of 
 Turkey. Egypt, once a gorgeous empire rising from beyond 
 the remotest records of time — land where the music of harp and 
 flute was heard two thousand years before they wooed the glit- 
 tering halls of Solomon's temple — Egypt, the mother of un- 
 solved wonders — for four thousand years the shifting football 
 of political aggression, kicked back and forth by the ruthless 
 boot of war — the most fertile spot on earth — rich trophy of 
 despoiling despots — plundered garden of vanquished tyrants, 
 
 Mexico was marching with her face to the ground, pricked 
 by the bayonets of Spanish dominion. The wonderful but 
 barbaric civilizations of the Toltecs and the Aztecs had passed 
 like visions of blood, and the rainbow of republican promise 
 hung not yet upon the clouds of her future. 
 
 France, unhappy country, was blindly approaching a vortex 
 of slaughter and death which would melt the cold heart of his- 
 tory to pity. 
 
 England was the mightiest force among the nations. From 
 Gibraltar's frowning brow her guns scowled upon all Europe, 
 while her fleets and squadrons swept every sea ; she was driving 
 the entering wedge of conquest into India's golden rim; she 
 had bayonetted France out of Canada and pushed the frontiers 
 of her American colonies westward to the waters of the Missis- 
 sippi. Boundless was her dream of dominion and bottomless 
 was the treasure chest of her greed. 
 
 So were the nations faring on June lY, 1Y75. The divine 
 right of kings seemed as fixed as the stars. The cold glory of 
 imperial cro^^ms lighted the skies of the fading century, while 
 the darkness of poverty and misery fell in the shadow of every 
 throne. The doctrine of equality was the essence of treason, 
 and political dungeons, like black cancers, disfigured the fair 
 bosom of the earth. But a new era was about to dawn. 
 
 On the wings of imagination let us go back one hundred and 
 thirty-five years, and, standing with "Uncle Sam" on the crest 
 of Bunker Hill, we may look upon the most remarkable array 
 of characters ever born in a single age. 
 
 There is Washington, in the forty-third year of his life, 
 standing in the foreground, as, indeed, he must forever stand; 
 and by his side is Jefferson, only thirty-two years old, yet com-
 
 226 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 passing in his brain the eternal chart of human rights and all 
 the principles of popular government. 
 
 Alexander Hamilton, still in his 'teens, is rising, brilliant aa 
 a star, to meet Jefferson in a clash of ideas that will shake the 
 new republic to its center. 
 
 Beyond the ocean we see the young nobleman, Lafayette, 
 moving in the splendor of the French court. He, too, is in his 
 'teens, but in his soul the Titans of liberty are holding council, 
 and we shall see him again, riding in the belt of flame which 
 shall encircle the field of Yorktown. 
 
 Old Ben Franklin, the Nestor of wisdom and philosophy 
 in the new world, has already coaxed the lightning from the 
 clouds and winged his name with electricity. 
 
 Playing about the door of a Southern cabin is Andrew Jack- 
 son, eight years old. His hair is coarse, his face is thin, but 
 his deep-set eyes are the windows of courage. 
 
 On a far-away island in the Mediterranean, where tall 
 mountains rise to pour their cataracts into the sea, and where 
 the kneeling hills are sweet with the fragrance of flowering 
 vines, behold the young l^apoleon, a child at his mother's knee. 
 Pensive and silent, he is not like other children, even as he is 
 not to be like other men. Mark him well, for from the brain 
 unfolding behind that pallid brow shall spring an empire. Look 
 wonderingly on those little feet, for they are already setting 
 forth for that summit of renown where but two men have left 
 their footprints since the flight of time began. Think not upon 
 him only as the tyrant which prejudiced and jealous history 
 shall paint him, for when that delicate hand shall grasp the 
 sword that is yet immolded, its might will smite the walls of 
 patriots' prisons, and the doors of their dungeons shall fly 
 open. 
 
 What a troupe of actors are moving behind the scenes in 
 ill-fated France, where the curtain is soon to rise on the maddest 
 tragedy in the annals of men ! 
 
 Young Louis the Sixteenth is not dreaming of the guillo- 
 tine and the lime pit ; and his beautiful queen recks not that her 
 fair head shall be chopped from her shoulders.
 
 UNCLE SAM 227 
 
 The lion-headed Mirabeau is only twenty-six, and his giant 
 intellect has not yet settled to the task of inspiring the French 
 Revolution. 
 
 Robespierre is only seventeen, and his name is not yet 
 the synonym of horror. 
 
 Marat is vending medicine and writing a book in the city 
 of Paris, while Charlotte Corday, who is to plunge the dagger 
 into his heart, is a happy child of seven summers, playing over 
 the green fields of ISTormandy. 
 
 Alas ! we shall see all these again ; and future ages shall see 
 them through a mist of blood. 
 
 We turn our eyes to England and we see the venerable Pitt 
 and the younger Pitt; and Charles Fox is rising, limiinous as 
 the sun. There is Edmund Burke, the greatest orator since 
 Demosthenes; and yonder, under a spreading tree, is old John 
 Wesley preaching to a multitude. 
 
 The mountains and hills and valleys and lakes and rivers 
 of Scotland are not yet made immortal in story and song, for 
 that baby of four years toddling in the shadow of old "Ben 
 Lomond" is Walter Scott, and that boy of sixteen whistling up 
 and down the "bonny banks of Ayr" is Robert Burns. 
 
 Such were the conditions of the nations of the earth in the 
 year of our Lord 1776. The American Revolution continued 
 with unabated fury until, after seven years, in the hardest and 
 most imequal battle ever fought in the prize ring of war. Uncle 
 Sam caught John Bull Avith a right swing to the jaw at York- 
 town and sent him crashing through the ropes and staggering 
 backward across the sea ; and then strutted out before the aston- 
 ished nations the champion fighter of the Avorld. 
 
 In the short space of our national life we have wrought 
 miracles of invention and discovery which have revolutionized 
 the world and advanced civilization a thousand years in a 
 single century. The vast wilderness has melted away, and the 
 new continent now swings between the seas like a huge hang- 
 ing garden of the beautiful. The old stage coach and covered 
 wagon were consigned to oblivion when the steam engine came 
 pufiing out of the brain of American genius, and the old sail- 
 boat was relegated to the rear when the mighty steamship went 
 gliding over the billows burdened with
 
 228 LECTURES OF ROBERT L, TAYLOR 
 
 Poor Romeos and rich Juliettes, 
 Young lunatics and old suffragettes, 
 
 with every kind of fortune hunter, and with the hunters of wild 
 beasts. If Robert Fulton, the great inventor of steam power, 
 could rise up from the dust today and witness the evolution of 
 his dreams ; if he could see the great squadrons of warships with 
 their mighty engines churning the seas into foam, and the busy 
 fleets of peace swarming every harbor; if he could have stood 
 in ISTew York two years ago and have seen the great steamship 
 Kaiserine come steaming into port with an ex-President of the 
 United States upon her deck fresh from the wilds of Africa, 
 standing with one foot upon a hippopotamus and another on a 
 rhinoceros, with a hyena under each arm and a python in his 
 pocket, leaving the lion still nursing her fears and the widowed 
 wart hog still rooting in tears, I think the great inventor would 
 have instantly embarked on some invisible Kaiserine, and when 
 the nozzle touched the distant shore of the spirit world he 
 would have stood on her phantom deck and shouted to the ap- 
 plauding angels : "I am particularly glad to see you again — 
 I am £^ee-lighted." 
 
 American genius wrought another miracle, and with that 
 strange spirit of the air gathered up all the stories of hope and 
 love in every land and under every sky and whispered them 
 around the world. The telegraph put the tattling nations lip 
 to ear, and the telephone made billions smile, and frown, and 
 laugh, and weep. 
 
 If old Ben Franklin could come to the earth again and see 
 the development of the spark which he caught with his kite from 
 the storm cloud, I think he would seize some invisible telephone 
 and call up the angel at the pearly gate and say, "Give me 
 Morse. 'Hello, Morse ! Can you slip away from Paradise and 
 come down on a starbeam and spend an hour with me on earth ? 
 My discovery and your invention are enlightening the world. 
 Tell Thomas Jefferson the whole country is going Democratic' "
 
 ADDRESSES 
 
 While Senator Robert L. Taylor was serving his third term 
 as Governor of Tennessee, the State celebrated the one hun- 
 dredth anniversary of its admission into the Union. This Ten- 
 nessee Centennial was celebrated at l^ashville, Tennessee, be- 
 ginning May 1, 1897, and lasting for several months. It de- 
 volved on him as "Centennial Governor" to welcome distin- 
 guished visitors from other States and deliver addresses on 
 important occasions. His speeches created so much enthusiasm 
 at the time, and were so favorably commented on by the press 
 and the people, it has been decided to include them in this vol- 
 ume, with some other notable speeches.
 
 ADDEESS DELIVERED O^ THE OPENING DAY, 
 
 MAY 1, 1897. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 The first century in the history of the Commonwealth of 
 Tennessee, glorious with the deeds of heroes and rich with 
 achievements in all the arts of peace, has been garnered in 
 eternity; and as I stand here to join you in this jubilee the 
 stirring scenes of a hundred eventful years pass in review be- 
 fore me. I see the blue smoke curling heavenward from the 
 rude cabins of the pioneers, and hear the first song of civiliza- 
 tion along the banks of the Watauga. I see the red glare in 
 the sky at night proclaiming the approach of torch and toma- 
 hawk. I see the peerless "Bonnie Kate," like a frightened 
 mountain fawn, outstripping the painted warriors in her race 
 for life; and amid the flames and smoke from Deckard rifles, 
 which baffle the savage foe, I see her scale the parapets of the 
 beleaguered fort and fall fainting into the arms of John Sevier. 
 I see a thousand coon-skin caps gathering at Sycamore Shoals, 
 and a thousand rifles reflecting a thousand sparkling images of 
 the rising sun. I see a thousand stalwart mountaineers suddenly 
 vanish into the forest, and now I see them emerge around the 
 base of King's Mountain. Winding upward toward its sum- 
 mit like a serpent of fire, they pour their withering volleys into 
 the faces of the foe. The brave redcoats fall like the leaves of 
 autumn, the battle is won, and the tide of the Revolution is 
 turned. The scene changes, and now I see the ax gleaming in 
 the hands of these sturdy men; the forest falls, and fruitful 
 fields spread westward from the mountains to the Mississippi. 
 A new State is carved from the heart of the wilderness, the 
 sixteenth star glorifies the flag of the Union, and Tennessee 
 is bom. 
 
 The years roll on, and the young republic of civil liberty 
 gives birth to a new republic of thought. Men like Jefferson 
 and Jackson rise up and revolutionize the political ideas of the 
 world; men like Franklin, and Fulton, and Morse, and Howe,
 
 232 LECTURES OF ROBERT L, TAYLOR 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 and Hoe, and Whitney, and Bell, and Tesla, and Edison, open 
 up new highways for the march of civilization. 
 
 I see the vast wilderness of America, the dominion of sav- 
 age Indian and wild beast, yielding to the brain and prowess of 
 the Anglo-Saxon race until forty-five stars on our national flag 
 symbolize the strength and power and unity of the greatest re- 
 public this world has ever known. I see the achievements of a 
 thousand years crowded into a single century. 
 
 If our fathers, who died a hundred years ago, could come 
 back from "the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust" and 
 see the miracles that have been wrought ; if they could see their 
 children talking across the ocean and sweeping across continents 
 in palace cars swifter than the swiftest wing; if they could see 
 the modern reapers sweeping like phantom ships through seas 
 of sunset gold, and hear the music of the harvest song ; if they 
 could catch glimpses of the myriads of cities and towns and 
 country homes which are the habitations of seventy millions of 
 people ; if they could look upon this beautiful White Centennial 
 City, rising like a beautiful dream here in the heart of Ten- 
 nessee, under whose wings the nations of the earth are gather- 
 ing to join us in this glorious jubilee, I doubt not they would 
 shout for joy and sing with us : "Praise God, from whom all 
 blessings flow." 
 
 ADDEESS ON TENNESSEE AND GOVERNOK'S DAY, 
 
 JUNE 1, 1897. 
 
 This is the natal day of Tennessee. This day one hundred 
 and one years ago the sixteenth child of the Union was bom. 
 No flag ever floated over a fairer land. History does not 
 record the deeds of braver men, and poets have never sung of 
 women more beautiful than those of Tennessee. When I am 
 in the North I sigh for the warmer sunshine and sweeter flowers 
 of Tennessee; when I am in the far South I sigh to rest me 
 again in the cool shades of my native Tennessee mountains, 
 where the balmy breezes blow and where bright streams fall 
 from lofty heights and sing to the rivers and the rivers sing on 
 to the sea.
 
 ADDRESSES 233 
 
 Tennessee lies on the happiest lines of latitude and longitude 
 that girdle the globe. It lies on the dividing line between the 
 North and the South, and it combines the climate and products 
 of both. I sometimes think that when the Lord God Almighty 
 banished Adam and Eve from Paradise, loath to destroy its 
 glories and its beauties, he transferred them all to Tennessee; 
 and here, amid its luscious fruits and gorgeous flowers, I greet 
 this happy throng and give them a hearty welcome to the birth- 
 day party of the fairest queen in all the loyal sisterhood of 
 States. 
 
 I would not wound the heart of any other State, but this is 
 Tennessee Day and I am a Tennessean. I believe in local 
 patriotism, which loves home better than any other spot on 
 earth. I love Tennessee better than any other State in the 
 Union because it is my home. 
 
 But I must not forget my delightful duty. I must not for- 
 get the pleasing proprieties of this glorious occasion. My duty 
 is to welcome, with opens arms, in the name of Tennessee, our 
 guests — especially the ladies. The proprieties of the occasion 
 demand that, while we pay tribute to Tennessee, we must give 
 honor and praise and glory to the great Commonwealths whose 
 distinguished sons and daughters have come to join us in our 
 jubilee. Although the first month of our great exposition, like 
 the first happy hour of the banquet, has passed away, the festivi- 
 ties have only begun. Only the first course has been served. 
 The viands and delicious herbs, the rapturous wines, the kisses, 
 the cakes and creams — all come today. For North Carolina, 
 cakes and creams and kisses ; for South Carolina, creams, kisses 
 and cakes; and for all the other States represented here today, 
 kisses, and cakes, and creams, and kisses, and kisses, and kisses ; 
 and for each and every one, old and young, big and little, rich 
 and poor alike, a genuine, old-fashioned Tennessee welcome. 
 
 The past, with all its discoveries and all its glorious achieve- 
 ments, lies spread out here before us in epitome. Who can tell 
 what another century will unfold ? I think I see a vision of the 
 future opening before me. I see triumphs in art and achieve- 
 ments in science undreamed of by the artisans and philosophers 
 of the past. I see the sun darkened by clouds of men and 
 
 (16)
 
 234 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 women flying in the air. I see throngs of passengers entering 
 electric tubes in New York and emerging in San Francisco two 
 hours before they started. I see the gloved and umbrellaed 
 leaders of the Populist party sitting in their horseless carriages 
 and singing the harvest song, while the self-adjusting, automatic 
 reapers sweep unattended through the fields, cutting and bind- 
 ing and shocking the golden grain. I see swarms of foreign 
 pauper dukes and counts kissing our American millionaire girls 
 across the ocean through the kissophone. I see the women 
 marching in bloomers to the ballot box and the men at home 
 singing lullabies to the squalling babies. I see every Repub- 
 lican in America drawing a pension, every Democrat holding 
 an office, and every "cullud pusson" riding on a free pass ; and 
 then I think the millennium will be near at hand. 
 
 But I am again about to forget my duty ; I am again about 
 to forget the proprieties of the occasion. My duty is to wel- 
 come our distinguished guests, and the rules of the occasion are 
 to make them happy. 
 
 South Carolina, the land of the brave and true ! God pours 
 out his floods of sunshine upon her hills and fields. In her 
 shady coves the mocking bird sings his sweetest song, and bright 
 waters ripple in eternal melody. 
 
 But who will chide me if I speak tenderly of North Caro- 
 lina, the mother of Tennessee ? We love her for the history she 
 has made; we love her for the statesmen she has produced; we 
 love her for her heroes, whose names shall live forever in song 
 and story; we love her for the sake of her orators and poets, 
 who have enriched the literature of the world ; we love her be- 
 cause our people are bound to her people by the sacred ties of 
 blood, and because her sons and the sons of Tennessee have 
 suffered and died together on many a battle field.
 
 ADDRESSES 235 
 
 ADDKESS TO THE DRUMMERS ON NATIONAL TRAV- 
 ELERS' PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION DAY, 
 JUNE 4, 1897. 
 
 Gentlemen of the Travelers' Protective Association: 
 
 In the name of the whole State of Tennessee, in the name 
 of every man, woman and child in it, I welcome you today 
 with all the cordiality contained in that one word — "welcome." 
 You are traveling men, but you have never traveled over a land 
 where welcomes grew more luxuriantly than in the beautiful 
 land we call Tennessee. You have seen much of this world, 
 but you have never beheld a spot where you were more welcome 
 than the capital city of Tennessee, where every heart throb is a 
 welcome to your coming and where every breath will be a sigh 
 of sorrow when you leave us. 
 
 If welcomes were flowers, I would give every traveling man 
 in America an armful of American Beauties; I would pin on 
 every lapel a cape jessamine, and Nashville would be a wilder- 
 ness of bouquets today. 
 
 If human hearts were banquet halls, I would welcome every 
 traveling man to mine. I would banquet them on milk and 
 honey — the milk of human kindness and the honey of human 
 happiness ; and they should drink deep of the wine of brotherly 
 love. If my heartstrings were harp strings, I would make the 
 music for the traveling men which the angels made for the first 
 happy pair in the Paradise of long ago. If my words could be 
 coined into silver and gold, I would give every traveling man 
 ten thousand dollars a year at the ratio of sixteen to one. 
 
 The traveling men are the advertising agents of all the goods 
 and wares of mankind. They are the advance guards of Gen- 
 eral Prosperity, but I fear they are now temporarily cut off 
 from the main column by the forces of General Hard Times. 
 
 The world does not appreciate the traveling men. They are 
 the very lifeblood of our civilization ; they are political econo- 
 mists ; they are politicians ; they are diplomats ; they are expert 
 accountants ; they are lawyers ; they are working men. 
 
 The traveling man can labor all day with his hands and his 
 head, and then put on the swallow-tail and patent leathers in 
 the evening, and, with his song and sweet converse, charm the
 
 236 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 most refined circles of fashionable society. He is the thermom- 
 eter and barometer of nations. When prosperity follows in hia 
 wake, the nations are prosperous; when hard times drive him 
 home, it is a sure sign of poverty among the masses. 
 
 I love the drummer for his versatility; I love him for the 
 sacrifices he has made and for the happiness he has given to the 
 world. The women love the drummer, not only because he is 
 brave and gallant and genial, but because he is as graceful in 
 overalls as in the swallow-tail ; and, above all, they love him for 
 the happy homes he has made. 
 
 Distance lends enchantment to the view; and, therefore, the 
 wives and sweethearts of the drummers are constantly enchanted 
 by their husbands and their beaux. 
 
 Be it said to the honor of the craft that there is less drunken- 
 ness among those who carry the grip than in any other profes- 
 sion under the sun, except the preachers. If I were a young 
 lady, I would marry a drummer, not only because he moves the 
 world with his snap, and grip, and push, but because he is the 
 prettiest thing on God's footstool. 
 
 If I were a sculptor, I would chisel from the marble my ideal 
 of a man. I would make it the figure of a drummer with hia 
 grip. If I were a painter, I would paint a picture of Jacob's 
 ladder, and upon its golden rungs I would paint the angelic 
 form of a drummer ascending and descending with the best 
 line of harps on the market to sell to the inhabitants of the 
 celestial world. 
 
 God bless the drummers! They are the personification of 
 Christian endeavor, and all they need is pink tights and gauze 
 wings to make them equal to the cherubim and seraphim. Who 
 can imagine a vision more sublime than innumerable drummers 
 flying through the air, with their gripsacks in their hands, div- 
 ing and snorting among the clouds like porpoises in midocean? 
 
 "The drummer wears no golden wings ; 
 Round this merry world he swings, 
 Sweetly laughs and softly sings, 
 Sells his goods and wares and things."
 
 ADDRESSES 237 
 
 ADDKESS OX OHIO AND M'KINLEY DAY, JUNE 
 
 11, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 With uncovered heads and patriotic pride we welcome the 
 President of the United States and all who accompany him to 
 the warm, throbbing heart of Dixie. 
 
 It has been whispered abroad that we have too much sun- 
 shine in the South, and that its effect is to render the people 
 lazy and thriftless. It is believed by millions of misguided 
 men who dwell in our Northern suburbs, especially in the rural 
 States of Ohio, Michigan and New York, that, in this warm 
 southern climate, energy evaporates. But our honored guests 
 shall see today a complete refutation of the soft impeachment. 
 They shall see the triumphs of our brain and bra\\m and the 
 tangible evidences of our activity. And some of them who saw 
 our ruined country thirty years ago will certainly appreciate 
 the fact that we have wrought miracles. If they will only look, 
 they shall be living witnesses of the victories we have won. 
 
 The grass now grows green where but a few years ago Death 
 sat on the pale horse beckoning the Blue and the Gray to the 
 opening grave, and the roses now bloom where heroes once bled. 
 
 In this land of battle fields and monuments ; in this land of 
 memories, touching as the soldier's last tear on the white bosom 
 of his manhood's bride ; in this land of beauty and of sorrow, 
 where the white tents of armies once shrouded the hills, new 
 cities have been built in a quarter of a century ; and this splendid 
 industrial exposition, which is a prophecy of our glory and 
 power in the future, now blossoms like a beautiful flower in the 
 track of war, and is a token of eternal peace and brotherhood 
 between the two sections. 
 
 Tennessee clasps hands with Ohio today, and the North and 
 the South are one and inseparable. Mason and Dixon's line is 
 still there; but, thank God, it is no longer the open mouth of 
 death which once swallowed up the best and bravest sons of the 
 Nation. Time has closed its bloody lips, and now it is the red 
 scar of honor across the breast of the Republic which marks the 
 unity of our once divided country.
 
 238 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 We greet our guests with the ardent hope that every hour 
 of their mingling with our people may be as sweet as a song 
 and delightful as a glass of sparkling wine. 
 
 I believe in these industrial expositions. They are the flowera 
 of progTess ; they are the bouquets of civilization ; they are the 
 garlands of peace gathered from the gardens of human brains 
 and human hearts ; and they only bloom in the most enlightened 
 centers of the world. They deserve the encouragement of the 
 rulers of nations, because they are the conservators of peace and 
 good-will among men. 
 
 I congratulate my State, and the South, and the whole coun- 
 try, upon the fact that the ruler of the greatest Nation in the 
 world, accompanied by the first lady in the land, and by mem- 
 bers of his Cabinet, and others who are distinguished in the 
 councils of the I^ation, prompted by their loyal zeal for the 
 happiness of the people and the development of our wealth, have 
 stolen away from the patriotic pilgrims who still linger in Wash- 
 ington, pining for the President's autograph, to listen to the 
 music of Southern progress and see the salvation of the Lord. 
 
 I pledge them the honor of Tennessee that while they re- 
 main in our borders the tariff question shall be outlawed by our 
 hospitality and the money question shall be strangled by our 
 courtesy; and when they depart from us we will pin upon the 
 lapels of the President and each one of his party a sweet forget- 
 me-not. 
 
 ADDEESS OP WELCOME BY GOVERI^OR TAYLOR, 
 ON TEXAS DAY, AT TENNESSEE CEN- 
 TENNIAL, JUNE 23, 1897. 
 
 As the Centennial Governor of the "Volunteer State," in the 
 name of our two million of people, I give a cordial welcome to 
 Texas. There is not another State in the Union better loved by 
 Tennesseans than the great Empire State of Texas. And why 
 should Tennesseans not love Texas ? We are inseparably bound 
 together by the ties of blood. Tennessee gave Texas old Sam 
 Houston to lead the little republic into the sisterhood of States, 
 and Tennessee gave Texas Da\^ Crockett to teach Texans how
 
 ADDRESSES 239 
 
 to die for their country. A long list of names whose statesman- 
 ship in peace and whose valor in war have added to the glory 
 of this republic has been given by this old mother of great men to 
 that State, which will soon be the richest, the most prosperous, 
 and the most powerful in the Federal Union. 
 
 I know whereof I speak, for mine eyes have seen its glory. 
 I have seen Texas from Texarkana to Galveston and from Mar- 
 shall to Wichita Falls. I have felt the warmth of its sunshine 
 and the rigor of its blizzards. An old Texan once told me it was 
 the quickest climate in the world. He said that an old farmer 
 was driving along one day ; his team was composed of oxen ; and 
 it was so hot that one of the oxen fell dead from sunstroke, and, 
 while he was skinning him, the other one froze to death. 
 
 I have looked out upon the rolling prairies of Texas in the 
 springtime, when the prairie flowers were in bloom, and thought 
 I was sailing through the scented isles of the long-lost Paradise. 
 There I have sailed and sailed and sailed across landscapes of 
 gorgeous beauty, and through cross-timbers of gorgeous length, 
 until I landed upon a typical Texas sand bank, where the fleas 
 are so thick that the engineer pulls his train up and has the flat 
 cars loaded with sand ; and when he gets to the place where the 
 sand has to be unloaded, he gives his engine a toot or two and 
 the whole thing hops off. 
 
 And then from the sand bank of fleas I have dashed through 
 archipelagoes of fruits and flowers, and over almost boundless 
 fields of coal and exhaustless mines of iron, until I was lost in 
 her great pine forests, which could furnish timber enough for 
 the whole world for a thousand years without making a gap in 
 the forest. I have found my way out of her timber and trav- 
 eled for a week at a time through the cotton fields, which pro- 
 duce a bale per acre, and the acres are innumerable. I have 
 looked out upon her vast landscapes of oats and corn until T 
 wished I were a horse or a Texas steer, with all the privileges 
 of the aforesaid and the same. 
 
 I am glad to welcome this delegation of Texans to Ten- 
 nessee, where the horses jump further than old Bill ever jumped, 
 and where the women are as beautiful as Mahomet's vision of 
 heaven. Tennessee is specially glad to receive to her bosom 
 the last surviving member of the Confederate Cabinet, whose
 
 240 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 name will live forever in the history of his country — John H. 
 Reagan — whom Tennessee loaned to Texas, and whom Texas has 
 loved too well to ever return the loan. I trust that the evening 
 of his life may be calm and beautiful, and that the twilight 
 may reach far into the twentieth century. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen of the "Lone Star State," we welcome 
 you to our hearts and homes. 
 
 ADDEESS OF WELCOME TO THE EX-CONFED- 
 
 EEATES, AT EX-COIv^FEDERATE REUNION, 
 
 ON CONFEDERATE DAY, JUNE 24, 1897. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 Why need I say welcome to the men of the South ? Every 
 heart in Tennessee throbs welcome to you, and every loyal home 
 smiles a welcome. I think if I could draw back the veil which 
 separates immortality from this vale of tears you would see a 
 vision of your old comrades, who have answered to the roll 
 call of eternity, crowding the air, and you would hear them 
 shout: "Welcome, thrice welcome!" 
 
 I love to live in the land of Dixie, under the soft Southern 
 skies, where Summer pours out her flood of sunshine and 
 showers and the generous earth smiles with plenty. I love to 
 live on Southern soil, where the cotton fields wave their white 
 banners of peace and the wheat fields wave back their banners 
 of gold from the hills and valleys which were once drenched with 
 the blood of heroes. I love to breathe the Southern air that 
 comes filtered through jungles of roses, whispering the story of 
 Southern deeds of bravery. I love to drink from Southern 
 springs and Southern babbling brooks, which once cooled the 
 lips of Lee and Jackson and Forrest and Gordon, and the worn 
 and weary columns of brave men who wore the gray. I love 
 to live among Southern men and women, where every heart is 
 as warm as the Southern sunshine and every home is a temple 
 of love and liberty. 
 
 I love to listen to the sweet old Southern melodies, which 
 touch the soul and melt the heart and awaken to life ten thou-
 
 ADDRESSES 24I 
 
 sand precious memories of the happy long ago, when the old- 
 time darkies used to laugh and sing and when the old-time black 
 "mammy" soothed the children to slumber with her lullabies. 
 But — O ! — the music that thrills me most is the melody that 
 died away on the lips of many a Confederate soldier as he sank 
 into the sleep that knows no waking : 
 
 "I'm glad I am in Dixie." 
 
 Look yonder at those flashing domes and glittering spires; 
 look at the works of art and all the fabrics and pictured tapes- 
 tries of beauty ; look what Southern brains and Southern hands 
 have wrought; see the victories of peace we have won, all rep- 
 resented within the white columns of our great industrial expo- 
 sition, and you will receive an inspiration of the old South, 
 and you will catch glimpses of her future glory. 
 
 I trust in God that the struggles of the future will be the 
 struggles of peace and not of war. 
 
 ADDKESS ON GEORGIA DAY, JUNE 26, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 Day after day and week after week we have watched with 
 joy the tides of humanity ebb and flow through the gates of this 
 beautiful White City. 
 
 Today a bright wave comes rolling up from Georgia, bearing 
 upon its crest the eloquent and irrepressible Governor of that 
 glorious Commonwealth and his gorgeous staff of Colonels, 
 and a bevy of as beautiful women as the sun in heaven ever 
 shone upon. N'o tide more welcome has ever yet swept through 
 our gates, and w^e gi-eet our honored guests with smiles and sun- 
 shine and music, and with all the warmth and gladness of our 
 Southern hearts and all the hospitality of our homes. It is a 
 beautiful time for Georgia to visit Tennessee. It is the time 
 when Spring pillows her head in the lap of Summer and is 
 lulled to sleep among the roses and honeysuckles by the music 
 of the happy harvest song; it is the time when the souls of 
 lovers melt together in a single thought and their hearts beat 
 in unison to the rapturous melody of love ; it is the time when
 
 242 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 the happy children love to chase the butterflies among the pop- 
 pies ; it is the time when the cows come home in the evening 
 fragrant with the breath of clover blossoms; it is the time 
 when the humming bird hums and the woodpecker drums and 
 the bumblebee bumbles around. 
 
 Here amid these busy scenes of life, amid the temples of 
 hope and memory, where prophecies of the future blossom 
 among the triumphs of the past, we welcome the sons and 
 daughters of Georgia, the land of monuments and memories, 
 the land whose thought and genius have enriched the literature 
 of the world — Georgia, the home of Robert Toombs, the intel- 
 lectual giant of the old South ; and Alexander Stephens, the idol 
 of the country ; and old Ben Hill, the gTand incarnation of mind 
 and magnetism; and Howell Cobb, the true and great; and 
 Gordon, the thunderbolt of war and the evangel of peace; 
 and Grady, whose genius blazed but for a moment, like a bril- 
 liant star, and then disappeared forever, ere he had reached 
 the full meridian of his glory. No State in this Union has 
 furnished more brains than Georgia, no State has furnished 
 more courage. If our industrial exposition is a triumph, we 
 must not forget that Georgia opened the way two years ago 
 with the first great international exposition ever held in the 
 South. 
 
 I think that Georgia was the original Garden of Eden and 
 Atlanta was its jasper gate. I think that it is still the love- 
 jasper gate. I still think that it is the loveliest flower in the 
 Southern bouquet, except this "daisy" which we call Tennessee. 
 Georgia is the land of peaches and pears, and watermelons with 
 brittle pulps of deep carnation, and cotton and persimmons, and 
 'possums and sweet potatoes. It is the land where the grapevine 
 gets drunk on the wine of its own purple clusters and staggers 
 around over whole plantations, and fills to the brim the flow- 
 ing bowls of Majors and Colonels. It is the land of literature 
 and culture. Politeness grows on the trees and good manners 
 bloom in every home. 
 
 Down in Rome a pompous old justice of the peace used to 
 yell at the darkies when they entered his court : "Take off your 
 hat!" And he had a parrot in the room which learned to yell: 
 "Take off your hat !" An old darkey entered one day when the
 
 ADDRESSES 243 
 
 'Squire wds out, and the parrot yelled at him : "Take off your 
 hat I" 
 
 The darky looked around in astonishment. The parrot 
 yelled at him again: ''Take off your hat!" The darkey re- 
 moved his hat and bowed to the parrot and said : "Excuse me, 
 boss ; I thought you was a bird." 
 
 If ever I leave Tennessee, I will go to Georgia to live. God 
 bless Georgia! 
 
 ADDRESS ON NEW ORLEANS AND LOUISIANA DAY, 
 
 AUGUST 10, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 Our doors and arms and hearts are open wide today to re- 
 ceive wuth joyous welcome the brave men and fair women of the 
 sun-crowned Commonwealth of Louisiana. I have stood here 
 day after day giving welcome to Governors, Presidents, Cabi- 
 nets, brotherhoods, to youth and old age, and to the beauty and 
 chivalry of the nation ; but the storehouse of our hospitality is 
 still full, and w^e have reserved the warmest and tenderest wel- 
 come for Louisiana, the w^hite-bosomed, sugar-lipped queen of 
 the South, upon -whose fair brow, like a jeweled crown, glitters 
 the Crescent City, "The Paree of La Belle Louisiana" — New 
 Orleans, the joy and pride, and the only city in the wide, wide 
 world, in the estimation of every son of a Pelican. 
 
 Our brightest flowers bloom today for Louisiana, and she 
 shall listen to music as soft and sweet as "summer evening's 
 latest sigh that shuts the rose." Every foot of Tennessee soil 
 shall be under her dominion, and she shall be ruler in our 
 capital and in our hearts; every form of beauty and all these 
 gems of thought and fruits of labor lie spread out here at the 
 feet of Louisiana for her pleasure and enjoyment today; and 
 these domes and turrets and snowy gables shall blaze with a 
 million lights for her tonight; and she shall look upon the 
 gorgeous scene and wonder if the angels have spilt a basket 
 of stars.
 
 244 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 There has always been a tender tie between Louisiana and 
 Tennessee, ever since "Old Hickory" marched his Tennesseans 
 to iSTew Orleans and at a single blow prostrated the lion of 
 England at the feet of the American eagle and punctuated the 
 last hour of English rule in America with a bloody period. 
 The tie grew stronger when Louisiana's noblest and bravest 
 son, "Old Rough and Ready" Zachary Taylor, led our Tennessee 
 volunteers heart to heart and hip to hip with the volunteers of 
 Louisiana to glory and to victory on the bloody fields of Mexico. 
 The tie grew stronger still when the flower of Louisiana and the 
 flower of Tennessee put on the gray and fought and died together 
 under the Stars and Bars of Dixie. 
 
 We know the story of Louisiana's valor and chivalry. It is 
 blended with the fame and glory of Tennessee's heroes on the 
 most pathetic page of history. We know the part that was 
 played by the Washington Artillery in the awful drama of 
 war. The grave of every gallant soldier of that peerless legion 
 who fell in the struggle is a volume within itself of wild and 
 thrilling adventure. It may be a forgotten grave, unmarked 
 and lost forever from mortal eyes ; yet wherever it is, it cradles 
 the dust of as knightly a knight as ever died in battle, and I 
 think the angels of God hover about it, keeping watch until 
 the resurrection morning. All honor to the heroic dead, and 
 may God bless and prosper the living ! 
 
 This splendid exposition is not only an object-lesson which 
 reveals to the world the triumphs of our courage and energy 
 and the glory of our material wealth, but it is the loadstar which 
 attracts the people of every section hither; and these great 
 gatherings wipe out sectional lines and provincial prejudices 
 and give birth to a better and broader citizenship throughout 
 the length and breadth of our country. It brings the veterans 
 of war together to live over again the dark and dreadful days 
 that tried men's souls and to tell forgotten stories which were 
 once told around the camp fires long ago. It brings the young 
 together to talk about the happy tomorrows, and the glorious 
 years that are to come, and to whisper to each other, not the 
 stories of war, but that other story which was first told in Eden, 
 then handed down through all the ages — "the old, old story of 
 love."
 
 ADDRESSES 245 
 
 Young ladies of this brilliant Louisiana legion, have you 
 never heard the story of love, and have you never told it back 
 again to some shipA\Tecked brother ? If you have not, beware. 
 There are young men, handsome as Apollo, here, and bald- 
 headed bachelors, and widowers, and gondolas, and the light oi 
 the moon, all within the confines of this beautiful White City; 
 and I doubt not that before your fair forms and sweet faces 
 shall vanish from our midst you will hear mingling w'ith the 
 soft music of bands and the gentle splash of oars on the silvery 
 waters a song as low and sweet as the song of the dying swan. 
 
 [Here Governor Taylor sang:] 
 
 "O, tell me that you love me, 
 For that's the sweetest story ever told !" 
 
 And you must tell him ! If you don't tell him, there will be 
 several bald-headed sw^ans lying dead around the lake in the 
 morning. But I hope you will listen to his song, and that our 
 handsome Tennesseans, and especially my Colonels, or at least 
 some of them, may win the hands and hearts of some of these 
 fair Louisianians, and that we may thus have some more happy 
 homes in Tennessee. And who will deny that the safety of the 
 State must rest in its happy homes ? Whether it be youth or 
 old age, the bachelor or the benedict, the business man or the 
 professional, the millionaire or the humblest toiler in the land, 
 there is in every heart the pride of country and the love of 
 home. 
 
 This splendid Centennial Jubilee of the ''Volunteer State" 
 is the celebration of the victories we have won for our country 
 and the peace and blissful pleasures which have blessed our 
 homes; and with patriotic pride we welcome our guests to the 
 richest, most picturesque and most beautiful Commonwealth 
 ever carved out of the wilderness, and to the sweetest homes 
 this side of heaven.
 
 246 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ADDRESS ON KENTUCKY RED MEN'S DAY, AUGUST 
 
 12, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 The almost numberless tribes of North American red men 
 have vanished from the face of the earth in little more than 
 a century, and the great herds of antelope and elk and buffalo 
 have vanished with them and gone forever to the happy hunt- 
 ing groimd. 
 
 The story of the destruction of this noble race is the saddest 
 story ever told. How they came in possession of this continent 
 is a mystery of the ages, but how they lost it is a revelation. 
 They lost it as the old man lost his chicken during the war. 
 He started to town one day with an old rooster under his arm 
 to sell, and as he passed through the camp the soldiers tackled 
 him for a game of seven-up for that old rooster. The old man 
 agreed to take a hand and put up his rooster as stakes. The 
 game was played and the soldiers won. The old man mounted 
 his horse and started home, but after he had ridden a few 
 miles a thought struck him, and he wheeled and galloped back 
 to the camp and demanded his rooster. "Did we not fairly 
 win?" asked the soldiers. "Yes," said the old man, "you won 
 my rooster fa'r; but what in the devil did you have up ag'in' 
 him?" 
 
 The soldiers cocked the guns and presented arms, and the 
 old man vanished forevermore. 
 
 Civilization has won from the red man this continent, but 
 what did civilization have up against it? 
 
 Nevertheless, the game is won ; the red man is gone, and the 
 continent is ours. 
 
 The establishment of this Improved Order of Red Men, 
 which I have the honor to welcome today, is a beautiful tribute 
 to the noble traits of character which belonged to that vanished 
 race. 
 
 Gentlemen of the Improved Order of Red Men, I give you a 
 cordial greeting to this exposition. I will permit you to wear 
 your war paint and feathers on this occasion; but if you get 
 too gay on the "Streets of Cairo" and frighten our women and 
 children with your faces and your warwhoop as you "shoot the
 
 ADDRESSES 247 
 
 chute," I shall instantly turn my Gatlin guns upon you and 
 give to the world a practical illustration of the process by which 
 your noble predecessors vacated this continent. 
 
 But I do not mean to intimate that your presence is as 
 dangerous to "white folks" as if old Sitting Bull or Red Cloud 
 were on the warpath among us, for I doubt not that every ''John 
 Smith" in your noble order who has not already been captured 
 and conquered by some fair "Pocahontas" is now prowling 
 around the premises of some old "Powhatan," eager to be 
 pierced through the heart by an arrow from Cupid's bow; for 
 a race of white men whose prowess can vanquish a race of red 
 men and then in turn be conquered and held in perpetual 
 captivity by the smiles and tears of a race of fair and innocent 
 women, can always be trusted beyond the reach of the rifle, 
 and this is glorious proof that love is mightier than either the 
 pen or the sword. 
 
 White man give Big Injun welcome — heap welcome ! 
 
 ADDRESS O^ NASHVILLE DAY, SEPTEMBER 
 
 11, 1897. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 Our matchless Centennial Jubilee, sparkling with laughter 
 and song, murmuring with the music of bands, bubbling with 
 the gleeful babble of happy humanity, rippling with the hum of 
 machinery, dashing in the sunshine and splashing in the shad- 
 ows, still rolls on like the bright waters of a peaceful stream 
 winding its way to the sea ; and it bears upon its shining bosom 
 the flotsam of beauty and the foam of mirth and merriment. 
 
 Many a squadron of gaudy craft, flying the fluttering em- 
 blems of liberty and peace, have floated by, with silken sails and 
 joyous crews, like a phantom ship on a river of dreams. 
 
 But today the flagship Nashville, freighted with eternal love 
 and bright hopes and sweet memories, and cordonned by painted 
 keels of pleasure, gaily leads the van, the fairest galley of 
 the fleet.
 
 248 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 The women upon her deck are queens, beautiful as Cleo- 
 patra and chaste as Caesar's wife. Her men are kings, suscep- 
 tible as Mark Antony, but brave as Caesar. 
 
 Nashville is the Alexandria of the Cumberland, the Rome 
 of the "Volunteer State," the Athens of the southern half of 
 iSTorth America. She is the cradle of orators, the home of states- 
 men, the paradise of newspaper editors, in whose columns every 
 morning the blood of Abel is on the hands of Cain, and every 
 afternoon the Banner is hoisted, and there are fragments of 
 Governors and other outlaws by the "Bashette." And the Ameri- 
 can gets there just the same. Nashville is the central city of 
 the central State of the central South, and she produces the best 
 of everything that is great and glorious. She is the nursery of 
 blooded horses. I have read the biographies of the swiftest 
 racers in the world that were fleet as the wind; but the sons 
 and daughters of Luke Blackburn and Iroquois say to the wind 
 what Uncle Rastus said to the rabbit: "Git out uv de way 
 heah, an' let somebody run whut hin run !" Her politicians are 
 also reckless of wind ; and with a good purse hung on the wire, 
 a flash of lightning is an ox team compared to them. 
 
 I have seen magicians shake empty bags, and — lo ! — in the 
 twinkling of an eye they were full of gold. I marveled much 
 at this until I learned that a Nashville politician can shake 
 a full bag, and — lo! — in the twinkling of an eye it is empty. 
 In view of what I know of Southern opportunities, I wonder 
 at the famous words of Horace Greeley: "Go West, young 
 man." I wonder still more that he did not say to the ancient, 
 back-number politician: "Go South, Methuselah, and run for 
 office!" 
 
 If you ask me what Nashville has ever done that was great, 
 I answer that it is the only city in the world that ever had an 
 Andrew Jackson and a James K. Polk ; and it is the only city 
 in history that ever inaugurated a world's fair on its own 
 hook and triumphed, just as "Old Hickory" triumphed, by the 
 power of native genius and energy. 
 
 Tennessee and the South will reap a golden harvest of rich 
 results from this exposition, and the name of Thomas and 
 Lewis and all the splendid corps of men and women who have
 
 ADDRESSES 249 
 
 wrought with them will be the synonyms of courage and success 
 to the rising generations. 
 
 Let us all rejoice in this triumph, but let us not forget that 
 it is only the prophecy of the glorious possibilities of the future. 
 and to realize its blessings will cost a century of merited effort. 
 The question for Nashville and Tennessee and the whole South 
 to solve is not whether we have climate, and water power, and 
 timber, and lead, and zinc, and copper, and silver, and soil as 
 rich as the valley along the Nile; the Lord God solved that 
 question when he made the world; but the problem for us to 
 settle is the problem of courage and energy to develop and utilize 
 the w^onderful elements of wealth and to make our country the 
 richest country and our people the greatest and most pros- 
 perous people on the face of the earth. I do not believe that 
 any politician or statesman was ever the advance guard of 
 prosperity; but an intelligent, industrious citizenship, encour- 
 aged by just laws and stimulated by a liberal government, back- 
 ing honest endeavor with a sufficient volume of money to meet 
 the demands of increasing business and increasing population, 
 will always foster contentment and happiness in the homes of the 
 poor, as well as the rich, and will insure the perpetuity of the 
 government itself. 
 
 There is every condition here for the upbuilding of a mighty 
 city, teeming with a million busy people, and this splendid expo- 
 sition is an example of how it may be done. The South is the 
 Klondike of America, without the perils of ice and snow, and it 
 is here that the great fortunes of the future are to be made. 
 
 It will cost many long, weary years of toil to wun back the 
 billions we lost by the verdict of war, but the day will come 
 when Dixie will be herself again. 
 
 God bless Nashville and Tennessee and our whole country ! 
 
 (16)
 
 250 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ADDRESS ON MEMPHIS AND SHELBY COUNTY 
 DAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1897. 
 
 The "Queen City" of the Cumberland gladly greets this 
 royal throng of Memphians and the sons and daughters of 
 Shelby County today, and gives them welcome, thrice welcome, 
 to the shrine of Southern hope and glory. 
 
 This greeting is not with cold and formal bows of strangers, 
 nor with the deceitful smiles that conceal the agony of the 
 millionaire's puffed-up family when they see their country kins- 
 folk, with oilcloth satchels and squeaking shoes, coming to spend 
 a month at the Centennial ; but it is with warm and rapturous 
 welcome, as when twin sisters meet to celebrate the natal day of 
 mother and to share alike her blessings and benedictions. 
 
 And why should not Nashville and Memphis meet to cele- 
 brate together, not only the birthday of Tennessee, but the 
 triumphs and achievements of her sons and daughters in the 
 first hundred years of her life ? The glory of King's Mountain 
 is Tennessee's glory, and it is the heritage of every Tennessean. 
 The victory of New Orleans is Tennessee's victory, for the sons 
 of Tennessee bought it with their blood and bequeathed it to the 
 world as the priceless legacy of liberty. Old Nolachucky Jack 
 was Tennessee's John Sevier. Old Hickory was Tennessee's 
 Andrew Jackson. The Lone Star of Texas rose when 
 Tennessee's mighty Sam Houston drew his sword, and Ten- 
 nessee gave to Texas the peerless Davy Crockett. The thunder- 
 bolts that shattered the armies of Mexico at Monterey, Che- 
 pultepec and Buena Vista were Tennessee's thunderbolts. 
 
 Every page in the nation's history has been enriched by the 
 deeds of Tennesseans. If the second century of Tennessee's life 
 is as prolific of brains and courage as the first has been, what 
 power can prevent this matchless Commonwealth from stepping 
 to the front as the advance guard of progress and civilization ? 
 
 I do not reflect upon the old leaders in business, in the pro- 
 fessions, and in the field of politics when I say that the twen- 
 tieth century demands new men of modern mold and fresher 
 thought to grapple with the problems which confront mankind. 
 
 Most of the old leaders of the South have crossed over the 
 river and are resting under the shade of the trees in the paradise
 
 ADDRESSES 25! 
 
 of God. Only a little while ago I stood in Memphis at the tomb 
 of a statesman. I saw clods fall upon his coffin, and I dropped 
 a tear on the grave of Tennessee's great war Governor and her 
 brilliant and faithful Senator, and I knew that the star that 
 led us in war and peace had set forever. If Harris had lived 
 a hundred years he would never have been a back-number 
 politician. He was one of the few great men of earth whose 
 mind old age could not rust and whose courage and devotion to 
 his country the weight of years could not crush. 
 
 As I looked upon the face of the dead, which I had so often 
 seen all aglow with life, I was softened into a sorrow unutter- 
 able. Honor sat upon his brow, truth still lingered upon his 
 lips; but the light of day had fled from his eyes; the shadows 
 of the long, long night had fallen around him ; Death had whis- 
 pered, "Peace," and hushed the storms of life. I would not 
 tear a single leaf from the laurel wreaths of glory that encircle 
 the brows of the few old soldiers and statesmen w4iO still linger 
 among us like grand old oaks in the midst of a fallen forest; 
 but — ! — it is beautiful to see an old man, covered with honors, 
 retired from public office, surrounded by loving friends, linger- 
 ing in the twilight of life, like a long summer evening, to be 
 blessed by his own generation and emulated by those who follow. 
 
 In greeting Memphis and Shelby County upon this auspi- 
 cious occasion, we only give them welcome to the feast of 
 reason and flow^ of soul to which they themselves have contrib- 
 uted. We are only giving welcome to home folks and bidding 
 them feel at home 'mid these pleasures and palaces. I have 
 read of the dead city of Memphis on the Xile. I think its 
 greatness and grandeur have all been transferred to the live 
 city of Memphis on the Mississippi. 
 
 Memphis is the emporium of commerce, the greatest inland 
 cotton market in the world. She is a city of bankers and 
 merchants. Her lawyers can argue the blue out of the sky. Her 
 triumvirate of great daily newspapers exemplify the different 
 shades of popular opinion. One Heralds the news with a sil- 
 very trumpet; another Appeals to the people with Conuolyan 
 eloquence ; and still another flashes its own views like a Scimitar. 
 
 Memphis, like all great metropolitan cities, loves variety. 
 Sometimes she gives five thousand Democratic majority, and
 
 252 LECTURES Of ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 sometimes she carries by the skin of her teeth. Memphis is the 
 paragon of enterprise, but now and then she enjoys a sensation. 
 Her genius long ago banished yellow fever from her borders, 
 not with antidotes and nostrums, but with floods of pure crystal 
 water, spouting from her artesian wells, and with her new sys- 
 tem of drainage, which has made her one of the most healthful 
 spots in the world. 
 
 Her contribution to this splendid exposition is unique and 
 beautiful. Yonder, close to the Parthenon, stands her Pyramid, 
 silent and solemn as a pyramid of Egypt; but it is not the habi- 
 tation of mummies; within its slanting walls it is rich with 
 the flowers of thought and the fruits of labor, and it is alive 
 with the busy hum of modern civilization. 
 
 When I look upon the scene which greets us all today my 
 heart beats with a quick pulsation of pride that I am a Ten- 
 nessean and a son of the South. It is a glorious scene. It is the 
 bow of promise which spans the future of my country, and in 
 the vista beyond the angel of hope beckons our people to a new 
 era of prestige and power and to the paradise of permanent 
 peace and prosperity. 
 
 ADDKESS ON IRISH-AMERICAN DAY, SEPTEMBER 
 
 21, 1897. 
 
 If I were a sculptor, I would chisel from the marble my ideal 
 of a hero, I would make it the figure of an Irishman, sacri- 
 ficing his hopes and his life on the altar of his country, and I 
 would carve on its pedestal the name of Emmet. 
 
 If I were a painter, I would make the canvas eloquent with 
 the deeds of the bravest people who ever lived, whose proud 
 spirit no power can ever conquer, and whose loyalty and devo- 
 tion to the home of free government no tyrant can ever crush : 
 and I would write under the picture, ''Ireland." 
 
 If I were a poet, I would melt the world to tears with the 
 pathos of my song. I would touch the heart of humanity with 
 the mournful threnody of Ireland's wrongs and Erin's woes. I 
 would weave the shamrock and the rose into garlands of glory 
 for the Emerald Isle, the land of martyrs and memories, the 
 cradle of heroes, the nursery of liberty.
 
 ADDRESSES 253 
 
 Tortured in dungeons and murdered on scaffolds, robbed of 
 the fruits of their sweat and toil, scourged by famine and plun. 
 dercd by the avarice of heartless povrer, driven like the leaves 
 of autumn before the keen winter winds, this sturdy race of 
 Erin's sons and daughters have been scattered over the face of 
 the earth, homeless only in the land of their nativity, but princes 
 and lords in every other land where merit is the measure of the 
 man. 
 
 Where is the battle field that has not been glorified by Irish 
 courage and baptized with Irish blood ? And where is the free 
 country whose councils have not been strengthened by Irish 
 brains and whose wealth has not been increased by Irish brawn ? 
 
 Wherever the flag of war flutters the spirit of Irish chivalry 
 is there, panting for the battle and eager for the charge. Whether 
 it be Wellington leading the allied armies at Waterloo, or ^ey 
 following the eagles of France; whether it be Sam Houston 
 crushing the armies of Santa Anna at San Jacinto, or Davy 
 Crockett courting death at the Alamo; whether it be Andrew 
 Jackson at New Orleans, or Stonewall Jackson at Chancellors- 
 ville; whether it be Phil Sheridan in the saddle riding like a 
 god of war in the thickest of the fight, or Pat Cleburne leading 
 a forlorn hope and dying at the cannon's mouth on the breast- 
 works of the foe, it is the same intrepid, unconquerable spirit 
 of sublime courage which flows like a stream of inspiration 
 from the heart of old Ireland to fire the souls of the world's 
 greatest leaders and to burn forever on the altars of liberty. 
 
 ^Vherever the banner of peace is unfurled over the progres- 
 sive English-speaking nations of the earth, this same irresistible 
 Celtic blood has ever been present, shaping the destinies of em- 
 pires and republics. 
 
 It warmed the heart of Edmund Burke, whose brain was a 
 mighty loom which wove tapestries of glory for England and 
 for mankind. It inspired the souls of Swift and Sheridan, 
 whose dream will linger in English literature forever, like the 
 fragrance of roses that are faded and gone. It lighted up the 
 brain of Oliver Goldsmith, who broke out in songs sweeter than 
 the song of the nightingale. It kindled the soul of Tom Moore 
 into flame, and, like an angel of light from the realms of dreams, 
 he swept the burning strings of Erin's harp, and — lol — the
 
 254 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 whole world thrilled with its melodj. The body of Tom Moore 
 was dust long ago, but his spirit lives in his songs and breathes 
 hope in every Irish heart and happiness in every Irish home. 
 If I were asked why our Southern people are so impulsive, I 
 should answer: It is not so much the effect of the climate as 
 it is the predominance of Irish blood in our veins. It was 
 this that fired the Irish heart of Patrick Henry to preach 
 secession from English wrath and the power of English arms; 
 it was this that nerved our Irish-American President, James 
 K. Polk to have Mexico thrashed before breakfast; it was this 
 that woke the lion in the Irish bosom of John C. Calhoun, and 
 impelled him to thimder the doctrine of State's rights under the 
 Constitution ; and it was this which finally put the North on the 
 pension list and the South on crutches. 
 
 An Irishman was once shipwrecked at sea, and floated on a 
 broken spar to the shore of a strange island. He dragged him- 
 self, half dead, from the water, and confronted one of the 
 natives. 
 
 "And have you a government here?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the native. 
 
 "Well, then, begorra, I'm ag'in itl" 
 
 The Irish impulse is, first, the achievement of liberty, and, 
 next, the determination to accomplish, at all hazards, whatever 
 he undertakes to do. 
 
 An Irishman once came from Cork to America and hired 
 himself to a farmer. The farmer gave him a box of axle grease 
 and ordered him to go and grease the wagon. In about three 
 hours Pat returned, weary and dripping with sweat. 
 
 ""Where have you been, sir ?" asked the farmer. 
 
 "Oi've bin ghreasin' the wagon. Your Honor." 
 
 "And did you get it greased ?" asked the farmer. 
 
 '^is, sor; I got it ghreased all over except the things the 
 wheels run on. I couldn't get to thim." 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, my Irish impulse is about to plunge 
 me into digression. I am about to grease this glorious occasion 
 all over, except the things the wheels run on. The delightful
 
 ADDRESSES 255 
 
 task assigned to me is to give welcome, in the name of the 
 Commonwealth of Tennessee, to this splendid gathering of Irish- 
 Americans. 
 
 I am especially pleased to perform this task, because Irish 
 blood runs in my veins. My great-grandmother was an Irish 
 woman, and spoke the Irish brogue ; her pigs grunted Irish, and 
 her turkey gobblers strutted like Irish policemen and gobbled 
 in the Irish tongue; and she had an old "nager," and he wag 
 Irish, too. 
 
 I am proud of the opportunity to give you welcome, because 
 I am proud of my Irish blood ; but I am prouder still that we 
 are all American citizens, for under the ample folds of our jflag 
 the accident of birth is neither the passport to power nor a bar 
 to the highest positions of trust and honor. 
 
 Lincoln began life as a rail splitter ; Grant, as a humble tan- 
 ner; Andrew Johnson, as an apprentice to a tailor; and Gar- 
 field, as a mule driver on a towpath in Ohio. But these chil- 
 dren of poverty all rose to the presidency of the republic. I 
 have heard it said that such men as these were self-made, but 
 it is not true. God Almighty made them and gave them their 
 glorious opportunities in this land of democracy and liberty. 
 There is only one self-made man in this Union of whom I have 
 knowledge, and that is Dr. Mary Walker — and she is Irish, too. 
 I trust my Irish- American friends will pardon me for leav- 
 ing out of this short address the long list of Irish names whose 
 noble deeds have illuminated all the pages of American history. 
 It is enough to say that without our Irish names the sky of 
 our national glory w^ould lose half of its stars; and yet how 
 can I give you a complete welcome without giving utterance 
 in the same breath to the names of Grady and Father Kyan — 
 Grady, the impassioned Southern orator, whose eloquence calmed 
 the spirit of sectional hate and wooed the nation into the fond 
 embrace of fraternal love and peace; Grady, who, like the 
 morning star, blazed for a moment on the horizon, and was 
 then lost forever from mortal eyes in the light of God's eternal 
 day; Eathcr Kyan, our own Irish hero and poet-priest, whose 
 mournful melodies of despairing love for the cause that was 
 lost and for the flag that was furled forever still melts the hearts
 
 256 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 of grizzly veterans of the South to the tenderness of childhood ; 
 Father Ryan, the Tom Moore of Dixie, whose spirit shall keep 
 watch over the folded Stars and Bars until the morning of the 
 resurrection. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, again I give vou welcome, thrice 
 welcome. 
 
 ADDRESS ON GERMAIsT-AMERICAN DAY, OCTOBER 
 
 6, 1897. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 ISTot long ago I stood here amid a thousand fluttering flags 
 and greeted a gi-eat throng of Irish-American citizens. The 
 red, white and blue, mingled with Irish green, seemed to kiss 
 the harp of Erin and eagerly caress it, as if to conjure its silent 
 strings until they should breathe the soul of music here as they 
 breathed it long ago in Tara's hall. 
 
 Today the gorgeous colors of Germany and America blend 
 together as one flag, emblematic of the fraternity of the great 
 empire and the republic and symbolizing the truth that these 
 two mighty nations are bound together by the sacred ties of 
 blood. 
 
 God bless the Fatherland, the beautiful land of the Rhine, 
 around whose castles and templed hills there is a halo of glory 
 which the touch of years cannot dim nor the blighting breath of 
 passing centuries destroy! The great rulers of Germany have 
 inscribed their names high up in the temple of fame, her states- 
 men have never been eclipsed, her armies are walls of bristling 
 steel, and her navy is a floating magazine of death. She is the 
 home of literature and the fountain of music; her universities 
 are the beacon lights of advanced learning ; her philosophers and 
 orators, her composers and poets, are the evangels of God, who 
 have led mankind upward to higher planes of thought and a 
 broader horizon of happiness. 
 
 On this horizon I see the figure of Martin Luther, like an 
 archangel, parting the clouds of gloom and revealing to a suf- 
 fering world the light and hope of immortality. I hear the 
 faint swells of distant miisic breaking on shadowy shores like
 
 ADDRESSES 257 
 
 the silver surf of some ethereal ocean, and see the glorified faces 
 and forms of old Beethoven and Mozart and Mendelssohn and 
 Schubert and Handel and Wagner and Liszt, reveling in the 
 bright world of dreams, catching melodies from the spheres and 
 incense for the soul from the harp strings of heaven. I see 
 Humboldt and Kant and Virchow, scaling the dizzy heights of 
 philosophy and opening new mines of intellectual wealth for 
 coming generations. I hear the songs of Goethe and Schiller, 
 pouring their flood of sorrow and hope and love into the hearts 
 and homes of all who cherish the beautiful. I see the nationa 
 of the earth tremble with terror as Frederick the Great and his 
 victorious armies sweep like phantoms of fury across the bloody 
 plain. 
 
 I hear the rumbling of an earthquake ; I hear the thunder- 
 ings of artillery and the roar of musketry ; and amid the smoke 
 and flame of battle I see old Von Moltke, the thunderbolt of 
 Germany, shattering the armies of France at Sedan. I see a 
 mighty upheaval, which breaks the line of kingdoms and prin- 
 cipalities forever and establishes the German Empire as one 
 of the first powers of the world. I see the Emperor, William 
 L, upon his throne ; and proudly in the front stands Bismarck, 
 the iron prince, whose genius and devotion to his country have 
 rendered him immortal. I see still another star rising now 
 above the harizon. It is the star of the dashing young emperor, 
 William II., leading Germany, I trust, into a new century of 
 peace and happiness. 
 
 I see these visions of glory passing in review like a pano- 
 rama before me, and then I remember that the best blood of this 
 heroic people runs in the veins of my countrymen, commingling 
 with the best blood of almost every civilized nation under the 
 sun ; and I do not wonder that the union of all these vital ele- 
 ments of strength and power has given birth to a new and 
 stronger race of people and developed a new and grander civili- 
 zation here in the heart of this new world. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, the horizon of America's future is all 
 aglow with hope and promise. The times are blossoming with 
 opportunities grander than were ever dreamed of in the cen- 
 turies that are gone ; and there will yet ripen a har^Tst of states- 
 men, and warriors, and philosophers, and poets, and musicians,
 
 258 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 whose triumphs will drown the triumphs of the past as the ris- 
 ing sun drowns the stars of night in the light of the morning. 
 We will have Bismarcks greater than the Bismarck of Ger- 
 many, and Ilumboldts deeper and broader than Germany's 
 Humboldt, and from this German-American blood will spring 
 poets whose songs will be sweeter than the songs of Goethe and 
 Schiller. The air of America will yet be turned into music 
 by our own German-American Mozarts and Mendelssohns and 
 Schuberts as we go marching on. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, you are welcome. 
 
 ADDRESS 0:N^ NEBRASKA AND BRYAN DAY, 
 
 OCTOBER 8, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 I never tire of the word "welcome." There is a world of 
 meaning in it when it comes from the heart. It means more 
 than we can express ; and, therefore, I have condensed a whole 
 volume of greetings into a single word, and that word is "wel- 
 
 come." 
 
 I have gathered welcomes from a million hearts in Ten- 
 nessee, and have pressed them into a perfumed bombshell of 
 smiles and kisses. I light the fuse and toss it from my lips; 
 it explodes above this beautiful audience and scatters in the 
 air a million sweet forget-me-note, and they come floating down 
 and fall into the hearts of all who love their homes and their 
 country. 
 
 Tennessee weaves garlands of welcome for Nebraska's dis- 
 tinguished Governor and a laurel of welcome for Bryan, the 
 morning star of the people's hope, who, triumphant in defeat, 
 still calmly looks into the frowning face of centralized power and 
 warns it that it shall not "press a crown of thorns on labor's 
 brow, nor crucify mankind on a cross of gold." 
 
 But I would not mar the pleasure of this delightful hour, 
 nor would I forget the proprieties of this grand occasion, by 
 piercing golden hearts with silver arrows. And yet when the
 
 ADDRESSES 259 
 
 silver-tongued leader of the cause of human rights and human 
 happiness comes among us, how can we repress our politics, 
 and how can we silence the song: 
 
 "Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
 As Bryan goes marching on 1" 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, music is the wine of the soul, and 
 human hearts are the purple clusters from which it is pressed. 
 If I could, I would pour out my heart in song today, and Ne- 
 braska should drain the brimming cup. 
 
 We love l^ebraska for the men she has produced ; we love 
 her for her enterprise and progress ; but we love her best of all 
 because she is the home of Bryan. 
 
 Yesterday I saw the rough riders of the world in the sad- 
 dle, led by the king of the world's horsemen; and as I sat in 
 the crowded amphitheater and beheld with swimming head the 
 marvelous feats of these matchless equestrians in the arena be- 
 low, I could scarcely keep from rising to my feet and throwing 
 my hat in the air and shouting: "Hurrah for Nebraska, the 
 land of statesmen and horsemen — Bryan with his silver lariat 
 lassoing the bulls and bears of Wall Street, and Cody riding 
 swifter than the s%viftest wind and shooting the stars out of 
 their sockets !" 
 
 And as I stand here to-day and look into the face of Ne- 
 braska's splendid Governor, I wonder what it is in the soil 
 along the Platte that develops so many noble men. 
 
 The truth is that the mighty West, with its vast fields of 
 wheat, waving like fields of sunset gold, and its broad land- 
 scapes, rich with ripening corn, is not only the bread producer 
 of the nation, but it is a brain producer as well ; and in tho 
 future it will surely link its shield with the shield of the South, 
 and the twain shall be one, battling for a government "of the 
 people, for the people, and by the people ;" and happiness shall 
 dwell in the homes of the poor as well as the rich, and the sun- 
 light of prosperity will dawn on our country and peace will 
 reign supreme.
 
 260 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 God bless the West and the East and the North and the 
 South ! God bless our whole country ! 
 
 Again I toss bouquets of welcome to our distinguished 
 guests, and greet them, every one, with the hope that every 
 hour of their stay among us will be crowded with pleasures 
 which will ripen at length into precious memories. 
 
 ADDEESS ON CHICAGO AND ILLINOIS DAY, 
 OCTOBER 9, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladles and Gentlemen: 
 
 I have just got in a new supply of welcomes. I have gath- 
 ered them, fresh and fragrant, from the hearts of the people 
 of Tennessee. I gave away a million to Nebraska yesterday, 
 and I have a million left today for Illinois. I had a half million 
 extra for your distinguished Governor; but, like our hopes of 
 his coming, they have wilted. We regret the absence of the 
 Governor of Illinois, but our disappointment is more than com- 
 pensated by the presence of the bold and fearless young Mayor 
 of Chicago and his distinguished party, whom we will honor 
 as warmly as though there were a hundred Governors here. And 
 in this connection I propose to mingle politics with my welcome 
 just long enough to nominate Mayor Harrison, of Chicago, for 
 Governor of Illinois, provided he will stick to the Chicago plat- 
 form. 
 
 Now that I have performed this pleasant duty, I will pro- 
 ceed with my welcome. Do you see out yonder those white- 
 columned palaces ? They are yours today, and you are welcome 
 to them. Do you see there the only Egyptian pyramid this 
 side of the Nile and the only perfect Parthenon ever built since 
 the magnificent original crumbled into ruins at Athens? Take 
 them, with a thousand welcomes. Have you looked in upon the 
 evidence of our recovery from the blighting flames of war, our 
 products of brain and brawn, the flowers of our thought and the 
 fruits of our fields, the wealth of our forests and mines ? They 
 are yours to enjoy today, and you are a thousand times wel- 
 come to them.
 
 ADDRESSES 261 
 
 Have you seen our beautiful women, red-lipped, rose-cheek- 
 ed, in whose roguish eyes whole regiments of Cupids lie in 
 ambush, with drawn bows and poisoned arrows ? Capture them 
 if you can, young gentlemen, and welcome, heap welcome ! Per- 
 haps if you cannot capture them, they may capture you and 
 keep you here, and you will be welcome. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen of the City of Chicago, the great 
 benefit you will derive from your visit to us will be the informa- 
 tion you will gain as to the successful management of an expo- 
 sition. It is true that you had a World's Fair, which was a very 
 fair affair, but it is only fair to say that the Tennessee Cen- 
 tennial is the greatest fair this side of Jordan. 
 
 But if this declaration offends our honorable guests, we 
 cheerfully withdraw it, and give Chicago the praise for having 
 had the greatest exposition ever held on either side of Jordan, 
 so far as we know. 
 
 But I must not forget that my theme today is "Welcome." 
 We know the history of the State whose representatives are 
 here to join us in the celebration of the birth of our State. I 
 have seen Illinois in her beauty and glory. I have looked out 
 from the windows of her Pullman palaces on her fertile farms 
 dotted with happy homes. I have swept through her pros- 
 perous towns and beheld her great metropolis, with its glit- 
 tering spires and shining domes, teeming with busy millions 
 in pursuit of fortune and pleasure. I have seen the stars twin- 
 kle to the music of her machinery, while the smoke from her 
 factories swung corners with the moonbeams in the air, and 
 I have pondered on her progress and development. But when I 
 read the history of the men she has produced and developed, 
 and when I come in contact with the spirit of her people, and 
 when I meet such representatives of her energy and govern- 
 ment as these who surround me today, the mystery of her great- 
 ness is solved. 
 
 I greet this throng of Illinoisans with a hearty welcome, ant^ 
 I trust the honor they have done us and the help they have 
 sriven us will be links of steel to bind Tennessee and Illinois 
 together in the bonds of inseparable friendship and brotherhood 
 forever.
 
 2&2 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN 
 REVOLUTION, OCTOBER 10, 1897. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 The Daughters of the Revolution are the daughters of lib- 
 erty. Every drop of blood in their veins is royal blood. Their 
 heritage is the continent, and they have dominion over man and 
 beast — especially man. 
 
 A nation without heroes is a nation without a history, and 
 a nation without a history is a nation without patriotism, and 
 must fall. The heroes of the world have opened the way for 
 the triumphant march of civilization, and the nation whose peo- 
 ple are proud of their heroic ancestry will always produce 
 heroes. 
 
 The examples set by our Revolutionary fathers have never 
 been improved upon ; and as long as we emulate and cherish the 
 history they made, as long as we glory in the inheritance of 
 their blood and preserve the traditions of their valor in war 
 and their virtues in peace, so long will America be the shrine 
 of patriotism and the citadel of liberty. 
 
 The glorious object of your organization, as the Daughters 
 of the American Revolution, is to keep the fires which were 
 kindled by Washington and his heroes forever burning brightly 
 on the hearthstones and upon the altars of our hearts. The 
 women who lived and suffered in that dark day were as truly 
 heroic as their husbands; and in their self-sacrifice, their mod- 
 esty, their devotion to home, and their efforts to make it para- 
 dise for the men who fought the battles and tilled the fields and 
 wielded the ballot, they bequeathed a glorious example to the 
 Daughters of the Revolution. 
 
 I congratulate you upon your success in awakening a deeper 
 and stronger interest in the history of the greatest struggle 
 that was ever fought. The results of that struggle have changed 
 the destiny of the human race, and have advanced civilization 
 beyond the brightest dreams of those who won the victories. 
 
 Upon the foundations which they built and cemented with 
 their blood and tears our great republic has been established, and 
 in order to perpetuate its blessings we must maintain the sacred-
 
 ADDRESSES 263 
 
 ness of home and the purity of public office. We must be true 
 to our history by remaining true to our heroes. 
 
 Daughters of the American Revolution, it would be irony 
 for me to say that you are welcome here today. Rather let me 
 say: God bless you; you are welcome everywhere, and on all 
 occasions, to all the rights you want, and to do as you please. 
 I surrender Tennessee and Nashville and the Centennial to 
 rulers of the world, and count myself a happy man in being 
 accorded the privilege of remaining one of your loyal subjects. 
 
 ADDRESS OX XEW YORK DAY, OCTOBER 12, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 'New York is the "Empire State" of the Union. She is the 
 heavy end of Xorth America ; she is the great, throbbing heart of 
 the republic, and every time she throbs the life current of the 
 nation flows back and forth through the arteries of commerce 
 and trade ; she is the mighty whale of the Western Hemisphere; 
 which swallows all the Jonahs who come within her reach ; she 
 is the stupendous Colossus of the world, leading in thought and 
 straddling in politics. 
 
 The City of Xew York is a perpetual exposition of the 
 triumphs of thought and industry, and one of her grandest 
 products is men. She is the paradise of millionaires, and en- 
 joys a considerable sprinkling of poor folks. 
 
 Xew York is not only great in wealth, great in population, 
 great in all the elements of civilization, but she is great in the 
 knowledge of where the green pastures lie. Her relations with 
 the South remind me of an old story which has been often told. 
 Two darkies sat on the bank of a river fishing. One was an 
 old darky ; the other was a boy. The boy got a nibble, his foot 
 slipped, and he fell headlong into the surging waters. The old 
 darky hesitated a moment and then plunged in after the drown- 
 ing boy. He seized him by the hair and swam for the shore. 
 There was a terrific struggle, but finally the old man succeeded 
 in landing his half-dro^^^led charge. A passer-by who witnessed 
 the scene ran up and patted old Rastus on the back and said: 
 '•Old man, that was a noble deed in you to risk your life in
 
 264 Lectures of Robert l. taylor 
 
 that way to save the life of that trifling boy." "Yes, boss," 
 said Uncle Rastus, "I was 'bliged to save that nigger; he had 
 all de bait in his pocket!" 
 
 We love the old brother, and we open our hearts and our 
 bottles to the distinguished Lieutenant-Governor and every son 
 of the proud Commonwealth, and every breath of the air they 
 shall breathe while among us shall be burdened with a welcome 
 from our people. But all of our sweetest smiles and tenderest 
 words we reserve for the fair women of the delegation, the mem- 
 ory of whose visit will be to our people like the dew on the 
 flowers long after they have departed. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, it is believed by our brethren of the North 
 that our people here in the South are not as vigorous as we 
 should be; that we lack the snap and push necessary for the 
 quick and permanent growth and development of our country. 
 But they forget that we can raise three crops of potatoes in our 
 soil in a single season ; that our cotton grows without persuasion ; 
 that we can fatten our hogs on acorns and pasture our cattle 
 the year round. They forget that our persimmon trees yield 
 tons of persimmons per annum, and that the 'possums hang like 
 sugar lumps of "glory hallelujah" from the bending limbs of 
 the aforesaid and the same. 
 
 They forget that we can labor half the time and rest the 
 other half, and live better and happier than any other people 
 on the face of the earth. 
 
 I think that if we could get our 'New York friends to see 
 the point and furnish the money to develop us, we could soon 
 pay the expense of the whole government, feed and clothe the 
 entire United States, have money left to throw at the birds, 
 and rest all the time. 
 
 There is one branch of business in which we are as vigorous 
 as our Northern brethren, and that is politics. Our annual crop 
 of politicians is equal to the annual crop of cotton bales — not 
 in weight, but in numbers. Now and then we are blessed with 
 a statesman, for many are called and but few are chosen. We 
 produce more Majors and Colonels in time of peace than any 
 other country in the world, and sometimes we raise a little 
 of that sulphurous article which begins with "h" and ends with 
 an "eU."
 
 
 § 
 
 O 
 <LI 
 
 1> 
 
 > 
 
 ■J 
 
 .-3 
 
 2 
 
 « 
 
 # 
 
 LiSi£ 
 
 MHta
 
 ADDRESSES 265 
 
 But, Mr. Chairman, whatever the difference between the 
 North and the South may be in climate, in wealth, in condi- 
 tions and environments, we are all one people, with common 
 hopes and a common destiny; and may God bless our people 
 of every section ! 
 
 Again I implore you to feel that you are welcome to the 
 capital of the "Old Volunteer State." 
 
 ADDEESS ON MISSOURI DAY, OCTOBER 16, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 The glorious old Commonwealth of Tennessee opened her 
 doors last May and invited the world to her birthday party. 
 The boys and girls, both old and young, have been swinging cor- 
 ners ever since to the music of cornets and fiddles, and I have 
 stood here and called the figures until I have grown baldheaded 
 with delight. I have pulled taffy with Presidents and Gov- 
 ernors; I have danced with the Woman's Board, and drunk a 
 few bumpers with the W. C. T. U., and painted the to^vn green 
 with the Irish. 
 
 I have whispered, "Ich liehe du/' to the Germans ; I have 
 eaten dog and danced the war dance with the Red Men and the 
 IToochee-coochee with the drummers, until the clock of time has 
 struck two, reminding us that the festivities will soon be over 
 and that the music of our Centennial Jubilee will soon die 
 away forever. But before the cock crows for day I lead Mis- 
 souri, the sweetest and fairest maiden at the dance, back into 
 a dark corner and sit do^\^l by her, and I will hold her hand 
 until Governor Stephens calls for "coffee and pistols for two." 
 
 But why should not Tennessee love Missouri and hold Mis- 
 souri's hand ? I made a speech in Springfield a few years ago 
 to five thousand Tennesseans and their descendants of South- 
 west Missouri. I have clasped hands with Tennesseans through- 
 out the length and breadth of the State, and wherever Ten- 
 nesseans have settled on the soil of Missouri it has blossomed 
 like the rose. The finest cattle I ever saw were in Missouri ; 
 the finest hogs that grunt, grow and grunt in Missouri. There 
 
 (17)
 
 266 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 are no richer fields on earth ; there is no fairer land. St. Louis ia 
 an ideal city, Missouri is my ideal of a State, and Governor 
 Stephens is the diamond pin on the shirt bosom of the West. 
 Long may he sparkle in the light of the people's smiles and 
 long may the people smile while he sparkles, so that there will 
 be nothing but smiles and sparkles and sparkles and smiles until 
 the angels shall steal him away to sparkle forever in the bright, 
 bright Missouri of the sweet by and by. 
 
 I have seen political pantaloons as large and coats as broad 
 and ample, but Missouri wears the biggest Vest of any State 
 in the Union. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, for every gallon of mud and water 
 in the Missouri River there is a welcome in Tennessee for the 
 sons and daughters of Missouri, for every bushel of wheat there 
 is a blessing, and for every ear of corn a benediction. Fo» 
 every glorious shower Missouri sends us we send her back a 
 burst of sunshine. 
 
 I think the greatest achievement that our splendid exposi- 
 tion has accomplished is the establishment of stronger ties of 
 friendship between the States of the Union and the strengthen- 
 ing of our love and devotion for our country. I believe in the 
 brotherhood of mankind; and the nearer we approach it the 
 nearer we shall come to universal peace and universal happiness ; 
 for the fruit of peace is happiness, and happiness is the ultimate 
 object of human thought and human labor. 
 
 Again I give greetings to the distinguished representatives 
 of our sister State and bid them be happy on Tennessee soil, and 
 may God bless our whole country with peace and happiness! 
 
 ADDRESS 01^ VERMONT DAY, OCTOBER 18, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 About a third of a century ago we gave Vermont a very 
 warm welcome to Dixie. We threw her bouquets from the can- 
 non's mouth, and she acknowledged the compliment with a 
 tongue of fire, which was not only eloquent, but persuasive. 
 
 But, thank God, the greetings of civil strife are forever 
 behind us, and we are about to step over the threshold of a new
 
 ADDRESSES 267 
 
 century, a reunited people, with the ]!s'orth and the South clasp- 
 ing hands and pledging to each other eternal friendship and 
 brotherhood. 
 
 Tennessee greets Vermont today, not with bombshells and 
 bayonets, but wdth blessings and benedictions; not with the 
 bugle blast of battle, but with the melodies of peace; not with 
 smoke and fire, but with sugar and firewater; not with cold steel, 
 but with hot biscuit and Southern hospitality. Our distin- 
 guished guests may not find themselves surrounded here with all 
 the comforts and elegancies which the great wealth of New 
 England provides for them at home, but they will find warm 
 hearts and cordial welcomes everywhere and good will and fra- 
 ternal feeling among our people. 
 
 I pledge them, further, that they shall see a revelation here. 
 They shall be the witnesses of our triumphs in peace, as they 
 were of our valor in war. They shall see how the South has 
 arisen from her ashes by the courage and energy of her citizen- 
 ship. "We will show them within the gates of this White City 
 the epitome of our history and the prophecy of our future 
 wealth and glory. If I could, I would escort the splendid Gov- 
 ernor of Vermont and his delightful party all over the South, 
 that they might see the victories we are winning along all the 
 lines of industry and the harvests we are reaping in every field 
 of labor, so that they might sit down around their New England 
 firesides, when winter locks them in, and think of our sunny 
 Southern skies and our snowy cotton fields, stretching away 
 to the horizon, alive with toiling negroes, gathering the fleecy 
 crop and singing the old-time plantation songs as they used 
 to sing them long ago; that they might think of our increasing 
 wealth and population, of our wonderful progress in education, 
 and of our universal loyalty to the Christian religion; that they 
 might remember us as a law-abiding, liberty-loving people, loyal 
 to the government and in the Union to stay. And then they 
 might, perhaps, determine to bid adieu to the icicles and bliz- 
 zards and Boston baked beans of New England and cast their 
 lot in the beautiful land of Majors and Colonels, where the 
 magnolias bloom and the mocking birds sing, and where sun- 
 shine and salvation are free.
 
 268 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 But since I cannot show them the whole South, it gives me 
 more pleasure than I can express to receive them and to wel- 
 come them to the garden spot of the Western Hemisphere, my 
 o\vn, my native land — Tennessee. 
 
 ADDRESS ON GOVERNOR'S DAY, AT THE STREET 
 
 FAIR AND TRADE CARNIVAL AT KNOX- 
 
 VILLE, OCTOBER 13, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Cliaii'man, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 I have gladly broken away from the capital of the State to 
 join in Knoxville's jubilee. 
 
 I have deserted the festivities of the Centennial to mingle 
 for a day with people I love better than all other people and to 
 participate with them in their carnival of peace. I have 
 watched with increasing pride and pleasure the wonderful evi- 
 dences of our country's growth and development, blossoming 
 within the white walls of our great exposition at Nashville. 
 But the flowers and fruits of thought and labor, which delight 
 me most, are blossoming and ripening here today within the 
 granite walls of my native mountains. They delight me most 
 because they bloom and ripen at the door of home. 
 
 To every man who has a heart, home is the dearest, sweetest 
 spot on earth. Home is our shelter from the storms of life. 
 Its voices are the echoes of love. Its smiles are the shadows of 
 heaven. The touch of loving lips, the tender twining of arms 
 about our neck, the mirth and music of home, are all that is 
 left us of the Paradise that vanished like a shattered dream from 
 mortal eyes and mortal hearts long ago. 
 
 I do not know why it is, but the mountaineer loves his home, 
 be it ever so humble, with a stronger devotion than any other 
 type of the human race. Though he may roam " 'mid pleasures 
 and palaces," the image of his native rocks and rills and tem- 
 pled hills, and the memories of the friendships and loves, and 
 the rifle and the liberty of the forest, which gladdened his youth. 
 will appear in his dreams by night and linger in his thoughts 
 by day.
 
 ADDRESSES 269 
 
 For twenty years I have wandered in the wide, wide world. 
 I have witnessed triiunphs of modern civilization which almost 
 blinded me; I have viewed the mighty cities of this conti- 
 nent, ablaze with lights and teeming with anxious millions in 
 search of happiness ; I have sat in banquet halls under the glow 
 of glittering chandeliers, where music flowed, and wine sparkled, 
 and laughter melted into maudlin song; I have seen pomp and 
 pride and haughty wealth and jeweled beauty parade in splendor 
 before their worshipers; I have sat in the national council and 
 heard the voice of eloquence rise and fall like the tempest- 
 tossed waves of the sea; I have three times worn the highest 
 honor in the gift of the people in my native State; but there 
 is only one retreat where I have ever found rest from the flat- 
 tery of hollow hearts — rest from the ingratitude of politics, 
 rest from the thorns of ambition, rest from the struggles of life, 
 rest from the allurements of earthly glory ; that retreat is my 
 humble home, nestling far up among the shadows of the moun- 
 tains, where the bees gather honey from the poplar blossoms, 
 where the voices of happiness echo in the sweet solitudes, and 
 where brawling brooks, leaping from lofty heights, break into 
 pearls and silvery foam and ripple on to the rivers in eternal 
 melody. 
 
 I have seen States broader in territory and larger in wealth, 
 but none that can boast of braver men or fairer women than 
 ours. I have seen greater cities, but none more hospitable 
 than ours. Taken altogether, I do not think there is a State 
 under the American sky that can compare with ours, 
 
 Tennessee is the sixteenth daughter of the Goddess of Lib- 
 erty ; and when she was born a new star rose and blazed so bright- 
 ly on the American flag that the other stars turned pale in the 
 presence of her beauty, and the stripes reddened with the deeper 
 crimson and flouted the glad air with joy. She has grown up 
 to be the loveliest princess of the South. She pillows her head 
 on her own shadowy mountains, the stars pin back the curtains 
 of the blue sky above her, and the angels peep through and smile 
 at her delight, as she tucks her snowy wrapper to her knees 
 and dabbles her dimpled feet in the bright waters of the Missis- 
 sippi. !No wonder the outside world has fallen in love with 
 Tennessee, for she is the sweetest little darling in the family.
 
 270 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 All the old baldheaded States in the Union have made love 
 to her this summer, and kings and princesses have sent her 
 tender messages. But all the wealth of the East and all the 
 broad empire of the West could not buy the heart and hand of 
 Tennessee. She is the bride of Tennesseans, who would spill the 
 last drop of their blood in defense of her honor and for the 
 protection of her name. 
 
 When I read the history of Tennessee and the glorious 
 record she has made in a single century I almost wish I could 
 live through the coming century to witness the triumphs which 
 await her. This great valley of East Tennessee will be a glit- 
 tering chain of cities and splendid towns for two hundred and 
 fifty miles, and the sky of night will be red with the reflection 
 of light from her furnaces and factories, and she will be the 
 center of population and the richest country in the world. She 
 will sit on her seven hundred hills, and Knoxville will be the hub 
 of her glory. Gay Street will reach from Clinton to Maryville. 
 The University of Tennessee will be the greatest institution of 
 learning on the continent, and there will be a carnival every day 
 in the year except the holy Sabbath. Tatom will send out a 
 million copies of the Daily Tribune. Eule will be an angel, the 
 women will vote, and I think the millennium will be near at 
 hand. 
 
 It is not so much wealth and mineral development that con- 
 stitutes the greatness of a State as it is the brain and heart of 
 those who make wealth and build States. It is not so much 
 what we have, but what we are, that will give to our history 
 its enduring luster and impress our greatness on coming genera- 
 tions. 
 
 Eiches will perish and even our cities will crumble into 
 ruins, but our patrotism and love of truth and our noble deeds 
 for country and humanity will survive the wreck of nations. 
 
 I bow to the prophet of the Smokies and to all the glittering 
 hosts that follow him, and I trust that his advent here at the 
 threshold of the twentieth century will herald the dawn of a 
 new era of happiness and prosperity for Knoxville and for this 
 beautiful land of the mountains.
 
 ADDRESSES 27 1 
 
 ADDRESS AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICES OF HON. 
 
 ISHAM G. HARRIS, IN THE AUDITORIUxM AT 
 
 MEMPHIS, TENK, NOVEMBER 21, 1897. 
 
 Mr. Chairman J Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 I come to drop a flower of love and reverence on the grave 
 of Isham G. Harris in the name of the State which he served 
 so long and so v^'ell. If all the noble deeds he has done for his 
 country and for his fellow man were flowers, I could gather a 
 million roses from the hearts of Tennesseans tonight. What- 
 ever else may be said of him, he was an honest man. His heart 
 was the temple of truth, and his lips were its oracles. He loved 
 his native land, and loyalty to duty was his creed. He lived a 
 long and stormy life; he died a hero. 
 
 The summons came to him in the triumphant hour of the 
 State, when the Centennial bells were ringing out the old cen- 
 tury and ringing in the new. In the glorious noontide of Ten- 
 nessee's joyful jubilee, when the trumpets of peace were pouring 
 out the soul of music on the summer air, he heard the solemn 
 call of another trumpet, which dro\\Tied all the melodies of this 
 world. He saw the shadow of an invisible wing sweep across his 
 pillow, a pallor came over his face, his heart forgot to beat, 
 there w^as only a gasp, a sigh, a whispered, ''I am tired," and 
 tired eyelids were drawn like purple curtains over tired eyes, 
 tired lips were closed forever, tired hands were folded on a 
 motionless breast. 
 
 The mystery of life was veiled in the mystery of death. 
 ^AHiat is life? What is death? Today we hear a bird singing 
 in the tree top ; they tell us that is life. Tomorrow the bird lies 
 cold and stiff at the root of the tree; it will sing its song no 
 more ; they tell us that is death. A babe is born into the world ; 
 it opens its glad eyes to the light of day and smiles in the face 
 of its loving mother; and they tell us that is life. The child 
 w^anders from the cradle into the sweet fairyland of youth, and 
 dreams among its flow^ers. But soon youth wakes into manhood,, 
 and his soul is afire with ambition. He rushes into the strug- 
 gles of real life, and wins his w'ay from the log cabin to the 
 gubernatorial chair. The lightnings begin to leap from the
 
 272 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 gathering clouds of war, tlie thunders begin to fall around him ; 
 but he stands like a lion at his post; and when the dreadful shock 
 at Shiloh comes, where the flower of Tennessee are rushing to 
 glorj and the grave, through the rifted smoke I see him kneeling 
 on the bloody field, with the peerless Albert Sidney Johnston 
 dying in his arms. 
 
 At last his flag goes down in blood and tears ; he is exiled 
 from his country. But the clouds soon clear away, and he 
 returns in triumph, to be clothed by the people with greater 
 power than ever before and to sit like an uncrowned king in the 
 highest council of the nation until his raven locks turn white as 
 snow. 
 
 But the scene shifts again; and as we are called from our 
 revelry to stand around the coffin of our matchless Senator, 
 there are tearstains on the cheeks of merriment and mourning 
 muffles mirth. They tell us that is death. The song of the 
 bird is the soul of melody, and the laughter of the child is the 
 melody of the soul. 
 
 The joys of youth are the blossoms of hope. Manhood gath- 
 ers the golden fruits. But death robs the bird of its song, and 
 steals laughter from the lips of childhood. Death plucks the 
 blossom of youth and turns the golden fruits of manhood to 
 ashes on the lips of age. 
 
 Poor bird, is there no brighter clime where thy sweet spirit 
 shall sing forever in the tree of life ? Poor child, is there no 
 better world where the soul shall wake and smile in the face 
 of God ? Poor tired man, is it all of life to live ? Is it all of 
 death to die ? Is there not a heaven where thy tottering age 
 shall find immortal youth and where immortal life shall glorify 
 thy face? It must be so; it must be so. 
 
 Somewhere beyond this world there is infinite power and 
 eternal life. The blessed Christ, who whispered "Peace" to the 
 troubled waters of Galilee, has whispered "Peace" to the trou- 
 bled soul of the departed Senator. There his tired eyes have 
 opened to the light of a blissful immortality.
 
 ADDRESSES 273 
 
 ADDRESS ON PRESENTING A ELAG TO THE 
 EOURTII TENNESSEE VOLUNTEERS, NOVEM- 
 BER, 1898, AT KNOXVILLE. 
 
 The most striking and picturesque figure in all history is 
 that of a lean and sinewy old man, with long hair and chin 
 whiskers, and wearing an old-fashioned plug hat. His pan- 
 taloons are in stripes of red and white, and his blue swallowtail 
 coat is bespangled with stars. He is the personification of the 
 United States, and we call him Uncle Sam. 
 
 He is the composite of the wildcat and the cooing dove, the 
 lion and the lamb, and "summer evening's latest sigh that shuts 
 the rose." He is the embodiment of all that is most terrible. 
 The world stands appalled at his wonderful power and bows 
 in admiration to his matchless magnanimity. 
 
 He is the tallest figure on this mundane sphere, and when 
 he steps across the continent and sits do^\Ti on Pike's Peak and 
 snorts in his handkerchief of red, white and blue, the earth 
 quakes and the monarchs tremble on their thrones. From the 
 peaceful M'alks of life he can mobolize a mighty army in sixty 
 days, and in ninety days he can destroy a powerful navy and 
 demolish an empire. He is boss of the Western Hemisphere. 
 Sheriff of Cuba, Justice of the Peace of Porto Rico, and guar- 
 dian ad litem of the Philippine Islands. He is as brave as 
 Caesar and as meek as Moses. 
 
 He is as fierce as a tiger and as cool as a cucumber. He 
 wears the tail feathers of the eagle of France in his hat and the 
 scalp of Mexico in his belt. He laughs at the roar of the Rus- 
 sian bear, and is ahvays ready for a schooner of German beer. 
 
 All that is left of Spain is her "honah," since her combat 
 with Uncle Sam. No longer the lion of England roars at our 
 door, but the twain now stand together for liberty and hu- 
 manity. 
 
 Officers and soldiers of the Fourth Tennessee Volunteers, 
 you are a part of Uncle Sam, and in the name of seventy millions 
 of his nephews and nieces, and especially in the name of his 
 favorite kinsfolk in this beautiful city, I present you this flag. 
 Behold its beautiful colors! The red-lipped girls of Tennessee 
 have kissed it, and, lo! these crimson stripes! They have
 
 274 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 pressed it to their innocent hearts, and, lo, these stripes of snow ! 
 Tour mothers, and wives, and sisters, and sweethearts have 
 looked upon it and sanctified it with their prayers and bless- 
 ings, and, lo, this azure field of radiant stars, the symbol of 
 hope and love, and tokens of truth and loyalty! Take these 
 gorgeous colors from these loving hands, and God bless you. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SCHOOL CHILDREN OF NASH- 
 VILLE ON THE OCCASION OF THE VISIT OF 
 LIEUT. HOBSON AND CAPT. MAYNARD 
 TO THAT CITY, DECEMBER 16, 1898. 
 
 Your Majesties, My Little Kings and Queens: 
 
 I stand in your royal presence today with uncovered head 
 to present to you two of your renowned subjects who have come 
 to pay homage to Your Majesties. 
 
 I address you as kings and queens because you are mon- 
 archs of our homes and rulers of our hearts. You are the auto- 
 crats of the breakfast table and the dinner table and the supper 
 table, and you are the terror of your grown-up sisters and their 
 sweethearts. You are the Czars and Czarinas of the hearth- 
 stones, and all the old daddies and mammies are your willing 
 slaves. But your yoke is easy, for it is the twining of tender 
 arms ; your burden is light, for it is the burden of love. 
 
 Two heroes come to you, fresh from seas of glory, to re- 
 ceive the laurel wreath of your blessings and benedictions. One 
 of them unbottled the first bombshell of the war with Spain from 
 the frowning deck of the gunboat Nashville; the other bottled 
 up the enemy with the Merrimac in Santiago Bay. 
 
 They are both corkers and uncorkers. They are the cork- 
 screws of Uncle Sam, and that's what's the matter with Spain. 
 
 Tennessee and Alabama are proud of their noble sons, and 
 every patriotic bosom heaves a welcome to them. Every little 
 heart that beats in this dimpled sea of mirth and beauty throbs 
 a welcome to our heroes ; every sunny curl and raven lock waves 
 a greeting ; every bright eye beams with love and gratitude.
 
 ADDRESSES 275 
 
 No SAveeter tribute was ever paid to men than that which 
 comes sparkling and bubbling from the innocent soul of child- 
 hood. No wonder the Savior said, ''Suffer little children to 
 come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom 
 of heaven." 
 
 Tennessee gives her first welcome to her distinguished 
 guests through the lips of her little children, because it is the 
 purest and best. She welcomes them with love, laughter and 
 song. 
 
 When I was a barefooted boy I used to study the pictures 
 of battles and listen to the stories of heroic deeds until my 
 cheeks burned with excitement and my heart went flippity-flop. 
 I would have given all my treasures of marbles and toys and 
 everything else, dowTi to the patches on my breeches and the 
 rag on my sore toe, to be a hero. And, sure enough, my oppor- 
 tunity came. When the Civil War burst upon our country, I 
 was a ten-vear-old lad, and had never heard a harsher sound 
 than a hen cackle or the hoot of an owl. But at the age of 
 twelve I became a hero and lost my hair in the battle of Tay- 
 lor's Ford, on the bank of the beautiful Watauga River. W^hen 
 I discovered the enemy approaching I pulled off my little wool 
 hat and "hit the dim and shadowy distance like Nancy Hanks," 
 and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth. 
 
 Who knows but that if Captain Maynard and Lieutenant 
 Hobson, at the age of twelve and under those circumstances, had 
 met the foe, they would have broken my record as a running 
 hero ? But the fears of childhood vanish from the heart of the 
 man; and while the valor of my manhood was "born to blush 
 unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air," the courage of 
 these two young men has been witnessed and applauded by the 
 whole world. 
 
 The struggle with Spain was short and decisive. Our splen- 
 did navy, manned by them and their gallant comrades, hovered 
 like a storm cloud on the horizon and burst upon the foe, and 
 there was nothing left but the burning wrecks of Spain's battle- 
 ships and her army rolling back in dismay and defeat. 
 
 Captain Maynard and Lieutenant Hobson, I present you a 
 bouquet of rosebuds — the children of Tennessee.
 
 276 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ADDRESS OF WELCOME TO LIEUTEN-ANT HOBSON 
 
 AND CAPTAIN MAYNARD ON THEIR VISIT 
 
 TO NASHVILLE, DECEMBER 16, 1898. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 The ejes of the Avhole world are turned upon this great re- 
 public of civil liberty as, in its marvelous strength and power, 
 it pulls do^Mi the flags of monarchies all around its borders 
 and glorifies the islands of the sea with its own broad stripes 
 and bright stars. 
 
 The great powers of the earth are wondering how a nation 
 of such proportions and a government of such resistless force 
 could be developed within the circle of a single century. They 
 see old theories of government exploded here, old creeds shrink- 
 ing before the religion of Christ, and old philosophies vanishing 
 like the mist of morning before the sunlight of a new and glori- 
 ous civilization ; but the story has not half been told. If I could 
 draw back the curtain of the future, I would show to these won- 
 dering nations still greater triumphs and still more marvelous 
 achievements ; I would show them America controlling the trade 
 of the world; I would show them American commerce spread- 
 ing its white wings above the billows and flying from ocean to 
 ocean through the peaceful portals of the Nicaraguan Canal; I 
 would show them Cuba, the weeping child of the sea, burst- 
 ing into laughter and song in the loving arms of liberty, and 
 Porto Rico, the blushing beauty of the Atlantic, smiling be- 
 neath the folds of the American flag. But beyond Cuba and 
 Porto Rico I seek not to penetrate the veil. On the Philippines 
 I would let the curtain fall. 
 
 The glory of our nation is the blossoming of freedom, and 
 freedom sprang from the blood of heroes. No wonder we twine 
 the laurel wreath and turn the air into music; no wonder we 
 greet, with open arms and overflowing hearts, our heroes when 
 they come. 
 
 Whenever we shall forget the sacrifices they have made and 
 the suffering they have endured ; whenever we shall cease to 
 scatter flowers over the graves of the dead and weave garlands 
 for the living; whenever we shall grow weary of honoring the 
 scars of valor and applauding the knightly courage of men who,
 
 ADDRESSES 277 
 
 for the sake of humanity, face death at the cannon'3 mouth, our 
 glory will fade and freedom will perish among its wor- 
 shipers. 
 
 Tonight the feet of heroes are pressing the sacred soil of 
 Tennessee — sacred because it is sanctified with the blood of as 
 brave men as ever faced a foe. One of these heroes was born 
 on this soil but while yet in his youth destiny led him from 
 his native mountains to win his laurels on the ocean wave, and 
 the first shot of the war with Spain was fired by a Tennessean 
 from the frowning deck of the gunboat which bears the name of 
 Nashville. 
 
 Captain Maynard, Tennessee welcomes you to her warm, 
 throbbing heart, as a proud old mother receives her darling 
 boy. 
 
 Lieutenant Hobson, I wish I could spin the feelings of our 
 people into shining threads and weave them into words to ex- 
 press our admiration of your courage and our love to you. There 
 is only an imaginary line between Tennessee and Alabama. 
 Alabama's sons are Tennessee's sons, and Tennessee's boys are 
 Alabama's boys. 
 
 Tennessee would fight any day for Alabama, and I know 
 that Alabama would fight for Tennessee. We are all one people, 
 and the honor of one State is the glory of the other. I hope 
 that Tennessee's gallant Maynard and Alabamans brave Hobson 
 will live through many years to come to enjoy the blessings 
 and benedictions of all the people of our whole country; and 
 when they die and their bodies shall be buried out of sight — 
 like the IMerrimac — I hope their spirits will be wafted to heaveu 
 on the shining deck of the spirit boat Nashville. 
 
 "Come to the bridal chamber, death ; 
 Come to the mother, when she feels 
 For the first time her firstborn's breath ; 
 Come in consumption's ghastlj- form. 
 The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm — 
 
 And thou art terrible; 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 Hath won the battles of the free, 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 The thanks of millions yet to be."
 
 278 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ADDRESS AT THE STATE INDUSTRIAL EXPOSI- 
 TION AT DALLAS, TEXAS, NOVEMBER, 1897. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 Did you ever rise from your slumber early enough to wit- 
 ness the dawn of day, when the Morning comes forth from her 
 palace in the sun and unfurls her banners of light on tlie 
 horizon and hides the morning star in her bosom? That is 
 the emblem of the glory of Texas. How many times have you 
 sat on your veranda in the hush of the dying day and watched 
 the cloud isles of twilight drifting in seas of sunset gold ? That 
 is the symbol of the harvest time in Texas, and the Milky Way 
 is the shadow on the heaven of her cotton fields ; and the angels 
 dip water from the artesian wells with the dipper of stars which 
 hangs on the sky, and the man in the moon is the shining pic- 
 ture of Governor Culberson. 
 
 I have thought many times that I would make a pilgrimage 
 across Texas from her eastern line to her western boundary, but 
 her domain was too wide and life was too short. The engine 
 always fainted from exhaustion; tarantulas got in the whisky, 
 and I sighed to rest me again in the bosom of Dallas — Dallas, the 
 beautiful butterfly of the Southwest, under whose bright wings 
 the broad prairies bloom with perpetual peace and plenty. 
 
 I can understand why so many longing eyes turn to Texas 
 and why so many weary hearts sigh for rest in Dallas. One is 
 an empire of glory, and the other is the glory of the empire. 
 
 Texas is the largest waffle on the griddle of North America. 
 She is sweetened with the honey of happiness pouring from 
 the bunghole of prosperity and buttered with pure Democracy, 
 Woe to the prince or potentate who sticks a fork in Texas! 
 Mexico tried it once and bent double with a spell of San 
 Jacinto. 
 
 The honey of Texas is poison to tyrants, and her bees sting 
 to death the invaders of her soil ; but to those who love her and 
 are loyal to the lone star that lights the pathway of her destiny, 
 her cities, and towns, and hamlets, and homes are beehives of 
 hospitality, rich with the honeycomb of smiles and welcomes. 
 
 The land of Jackson sends greetings to the land of Houston. 
 May God bless Tennessee and may God bless Texas ! When I
 
 ADDRESSES 279 
 
 was a barefooted boy away up among the mountains, where 
 Nature sings her sweetest song and brawling brooks laugh in 
 the sunshine and dance in the shadows, I used to sit on the 
 bank of the river and watch the caravans of covered wagons 
 creeping like mammoth snails, with their shells on their backs, 
 southward to the wilderness of Texas. I did not dream then 
 that the ragged, rosy-cheeked children who crowded under the 
 wagon covers were the prophecies of the wealth and power and 
 glory of the greatest empire that was ever born on this conti- 
 nent. JBut so it was. The caravans landed their precious freight 
 in the wilds of Texas. The blue smoke began to curl upward 
 from the cabins of the pioneers ; the burnished plowshare began 
 to slice the broad prairies like a hot knife slicing a conti- 
 nent of Jersey butter; the reaper, like a phantom ship, began 
 to sweep across amber seas of grain ; the Texans w^ho had read 
 Milton's "Paradise Lost" began to talk about Paradise re- 
 gained; the little ragged, candy-haired children grew up into 
 a race of the fairest women and the bravest men that the sun 
 in heaven ever shone upon ; they married the sons and daugh- 
 ters of the heroes wdio had won the independence of Texas, and 
 there were more cabins on the prairie, and another generation 
 w^as born whose valor and strength have given increased power 
 to this mighty Commonwealth. 
 
 The spirit of the Alamo glorifies the brow of manhood, and 
 the blood of San Jacinto warms the heart of courage and red- 
 dens the cheek of beauty here today. The dark-visaged demon 
 of savage hate which once lighted the torch and brandished the 
 scalping knife and spread its flaming wings on the horizon ha? 
 vanished from Texas forever. The white-crested billows of 
 Mexican wrath w'hich once rolled up from the south and then 
 rolled back again, crimsoned wath blood, were calmed long ago, 
 and the angel of peace is hovering over the land. 
 
 Texas and Tennessee worship together and rejoice as one 
 people in the triumphs of the past and the promises of the 
 future. 
 
 A new era of industrial growth and intellectual develop- 
 ment is breaking like the glory of the morning upon us. The 
 symphonies and hallelujahs of our Centennial Jubilee at Nash- 
 ville are still falling like the soft waves of a summer ocean upon
 
 280 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 the glad hills of Tennessee, and the reviving South is listening 
 with unutterable rapture to the great industrial song of Texas ; 
 and the symphonies and hallelujahs of Tennessee and the tri- 
 umphant songs of Texas are mingling in one grand anthem of 
 praise to God, like the joyous waters of many rivers that meet 
 and flow together and sing on to the sea. I have stood on the 
 platform of the great auditorium, amid the statues, and col- 
 umns, and domes, and pyramids of our splendid Exposition at 
 home, and I have welcomed a million people to the bosom of my 
 own. native State. There I have watched sectional lines melt 
 away ; there I have seen sectional ignorance enlightened and sec- 
 tional hate disarmed ; there I have seen sectional prejudice trans- 
 formed into national pride and patriotism; there I have seen 
 the Korth and East look with astonishment upon our progress 
 and our miraculous recovery from the ruins of war, and I have 
 heard them pledge their eternal friendship and fraternal love; 
 there I have seen the West come to do us honor, and then go 
 away to her rich farms and contented homes with new and hap- 
 pier memories of our people and with new and better ideas of 
 our country ; there I have seen our own sweet, sunny South 
 drain the brimming cup of joy and return to her cotton bales, 
 and fruits, and flowers with new luster in her eye and new 
 hope in her heart; there I have witnessed a sure and steady 
 step toward the universal brotherhood of man. May God grant 
 that the light of such a morning may soon break upon this world. 
 But I have stolen away from the festivities of old Tennessee 
 in the evening of her great jubilee to swing corners with Texas, 
 the dark-eyed queen of the South. The greatest grievance which 
 we have against Texas lies in the fact that we have loaned her 
 thousands of our bravest men and loveliest women and she has 
 never returned our jewels except upon the requisition of the 
 Governor, when Tennessee has tenderly sung to Texas "Oh, 
 where is my wandering boy tonight ?" 
 
 My wandering friends from Tennessee, when I go back to 
 the land of your nativity and view the blue mountains in the 
 springtime and summer, which change to bouquets of purple 
 and gold in autumn, to billows of snow in winter; when I 
 watch with ecstasy the shining streams dashing down through 
 the valleys ; when I feel the cold breath of the shadowy gorges
 
 Senator Robert Love Taylor, from One of His Latest Photographs.
 
 ADDRESSES 28 1 
 
 npoii my brow; when T wander among the green hills and 
 quench my thirst from bubbling springs and feast my soul upon 
 the beauty of gorgeous landscapes, and look down through glassy 
 waters and behold a bending sky as soft and blue and radiant 
 with trembling stars as that which bends above, I wonder what 
 mysterious power it is that charms our people from such a land. 
 But when I cross the border of this cloudless, happy clime, 
 where a new world reveals its charms to mankind and invites 
 the caresses of ambition and the homage of honest endeavor, 
 and where opportunities illuminate the palaces of fortune and 
 the temple of fame, the mystery is solved. \Vhen I look upon 
 your colleges and universities and your magnificent cities and 
 towns, and behold there the unmistakable evidence of thrift and 
 the rapid transitions from poverty to prosperity; when I look 
 into the smiling faces of your people and see the shadows of 
 heaven in every smile, I almost feel a pang of regret that I am 
 not a Texan, for surely this is the land of promise to those who 
 dream of the glory of wealth and the splendor of fortune. To 
 the farmer it is the garden of Eden ; to the politician it is pump- 
 kin pie ; to the lawyer it is a large slice of the aforesaid and the 
 same ; to the doctor it is full of the paths of glory that lead but 
 to the grave ; to the merchant it is Klondike ; and to the preacher 
 it is "glory hallelujah." 
 
 'Not long ago I swimg around the circle in Texas, and I dis- 
 covered that Tennesseans were either holding all the offices or 
 were smiling with sweet prospects of the aforesaid and the same. 
 About every other man I met had been safely inducted into the 
 golden slippers of official power ; and when I confronted the old, 
 familiar Tennessee grin, almost invariably this conversation 
 passed between us : 
 
 "Hello, old fellow ! When did you come to Texas ?" 
 "About two years ago," quoth he. 
 "And how are you getting along ?" queried T. 
 "Powerful fine," he answered, amid his smiles. 
 "And what are you doing here ?" I asked. 
 "Gosh, I am County Judge!" 
 
 (18)
 
 282 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 But, ladies and gentlemen, if I should recount the long list 
 of heroes and statesmen who came to your State from the grand 
 old Commonwealth which I represent here today, I am sure that 
 you would agree with me that Tennessee is entitled to the honors 
 which she receives from Texas. 
 
 I congratulate your people upon this magnificent exhibition 
 of the fruits of your industry and the products of your soil, and 
 trust that as the years roll by you will grow in population and 
 wealth and power until Texas shall be not only the pride of the 
 South, but of the whole country. 
 
 ADDEESS AT THE UI^VEILING OF THE MONUMENT 
 TO THE MEMOEY OF HOK ZEBULON B. 
 
 VANCE, MAY 10, 1898, AT ASHE- 
 VILLE, N. C. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 I come to join you in paying the last tribute of honor and 
 love to a man whose life was a burst of sunshine to his people 
 and a blessing to his country. 
 
 When Zebulon B. Vance was born, the angels smiled, his 
 mother pressed him to her bosom and smiled; and when he 
 began to toddle from the door of his happy home, prattling to 
 the birds and chasing the butterflies from flower to flower, all 
 who saw him smiled; and soon smiles burst into laughter and 
 followed in his footsteps and cheered him all along the journey 
 of life, from the hiunble cottage among the Carolina hills to 
 the magnificent capital of the republic, where he sat in the 
 highest council of the nation, crowned with honors and blessed 
 with the love and confidence of the State which he so grandly 
 and nobly represented, until Death entered the Senate Chamber 
 and laid his icy hand upon the throbbing heart of mirth and 
 turned laughter into tears. 
 
 Never again will his people be entranced by his eloquence ; 
 never again will the enraptured multitude listen to the music 
 of his voice ; never again will solemn Senators turn away from 
 their dignity to delight in the glow of his genial spirit. The
 
 ADDRESSES 283 
 
 warmth of joy has departed from his lips and the light of life 
 has vanished from his eyes. The star that once shed glory on 
 the "Old N"orth State" has set forever. A coffin, a winding 
 sheet and six feet by two of Mother Earth, a monument and 
 precious memories are all that is left of the orator and actor, 
 the humanitarian, the statesman and patriot, the pride of his 
 countrymen, the idol of his country. 
 
 The book of his destiny is sealed; his pilgrimage between 
 the two eternities has ended in the tomb. The angel of death 
 has stopped the pendulum that vibrated in his bosom, but let us 
 rejoice in the hope that his soul now swings to and fro on angel 
 wings in the paradise of God. 
 
 It would be presumptuous folly for me to parade in your 
 presence today the noble traits of his character and the thrilling 
 events of his life which have enriched the history of his State 
 and made his name immortal. They are thoroughly kno^vn 
 to all. 
 
 When I was a barefooted boy, romping among the hills of 
 Tennessee, the first news of his fame and the tidings of his mar- 
 velous campaigns used to come floating over the mountains and 
 rippling with laughter into the homes of our people. The boys 
 learned his yarns and rolled on the floor with merriment; the 
 old ladies sat at the fireside and cackled at his anecdotes, and 
 the sturdy old farmers listened to his stories in the fields and 
 stopped their plows to laugh. His name was on the lips of all 
 as the Apostle of Sunshine and the Disciple of Human Happi- 
 ness. No power ever checked the triumphal march of the 
 young mountaineer to the glorious destiny which awaited him. 
 ISTo political foe ever withstood his wit, and humor, and logic, 
 and matchless eloquence. They were his passports to the Legis- 
 lature and to Congress while yet a youth in his twenties; and 
 as he grew older his power developed, his wings grew stronger, 
 and he became one of the leading spirits of his section. Hi^ 
 popularity was unparalleled, his influence was invincible, and 
 he sat at last as the great war Governor of Xorth Carolina until 
 the war ended, when the doors of the United States Senate 
 opened to receive him, where he served his people faithfully 
 until the day of his death.
 
 284 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 I 
 
 Through all his long and brilliant career his love of hu- 
 manity never waned and his devotion for his country never 
 cooled. Always ready with a charming story to tell, always 
 quick at repartee, always brimful of fun, he was the great 
 laugh-producer and side-splitter of the South ; and yet his logic 
 was as convincing as the sword of Stonewall Jackson at Manas- 
 sas or as the guns of Dewey at Manila. He was as honest as 
 Davis, as humorous as Lincoln, as eloquent as Daniels, as true 
 to the hopes that perished at Appomattox as Gordon and For- 
 rest, and afterwards as loyal to the Union as Wheeler and Lee, 
 who now wear the blue. 
 
 Senator Vance was a splendid thinker and a statesman of 
 rare ability; but he always looked on the bright side of things, 
 and no music was half so sweet to him as the songs and laughter 
 of the merry throng of country folks who gathered about him 
 on every occasion with shouts and hallelujahs to while away the 
 happy hours. And thus his busy life was spent in adding to 
 the sum of human happiness. 
 
 There is a prevailing opinion in the world that those who 
 have the power to make others laugh, and who dare to light 
 temples of thought with windows of fun, are weak and shallow 
 and ought not to wield the scepter of the ruler or sit in the 
 councils of a nation. But I have never been able to fathom the 
 wisdom of such philosophy. I do not believe that a heart of ice 
 is always the badge of a mighty brain. I do not believe that a 
 frowning brow is always the token of wisdom. It is true that 
 some great men frown, but all who frown are not great. It is 
 equally true that a few great men laugh, but it must be confessed 
 that all who laugh are not great. But I would rather trust my 
 life and liberty in the hands of a laughing fool than in the 
 hands of a frowning tyrant. 
 
 IvTations do not suffer when their rulers sincerely smile and 
 govern with love and mercy ; but God pity the land whose ruler 
 frowns and rules with an iron rod, and God pity the ruler him- 
 self, for the harvest of his frowns is death. 
 
 The frowns of Caesar made nations quake; but the harvest 
 of his frowns was daggers, concealed under the cloaks of shud- 
 dering Romans, until the blood of Caesar dripped from the blade 
 of treason in the corridor of the Roman Capitol.
 
 ADDRESSES 285 
 
 Napoleon frowned and the world trembled; but bis frowns 
 were only the prophecies of Waterloo, which left the flower of 
 France lying dead in pools of blood, while the uncrowned and 
 unthroned I^apoleon wandered aimlessly on the battle field, the 
 "somnambulist of a vast, shattered dream." 
 
 The life of Washington eclipses the glory of Caesar, and the 
 beautiful reign of Victoria outshines the romantic record of 
 Napoleon's rise and fall. 
 
 Bismarck was called the "Iron Prince," but it cost broken 
 hearts and libations of blood to build the throne and cement the 
 empire of Germany. Glory encircles the brow of Bismarck, 
 and yet the humblest German peasant who scatters sunshine 
 with his songs and dries the tears of sorrow with his smiles will 
 sleep sweeter tonight in his humble cot than the "Iron Prince" 
 in his castle. I have come to believe that happiness does not 
 often dwell in a palace, for the bubbling soul of laughter does 
 not sit upon the throne of the king, and from the mirthless heart 
 of a tyrant the milk of human kindness never flows. 
 
 W^here there is no laughter, there is no genuine love; where 
 there is no love, life is a desert of evil ; where virtue trembles 
 to tread, where hope falters, where happiness is crucified, music 
 is banished from its joyless air, and all that lies beyond is a 
 voiceless shore and a starless sky. 
 
 Laughter, and love, and hope, and happiness are the com- 
 panions of pleasure, the patrons and allies of civilization, the 
 handmaids of religion, the evangels of God. They are the guar- 
 dian angels of every Christian home, the guiding star of every 
 nation's destiny. They fondle the child in its cradle ; they 
 linger with frolicsome youth; they minister to struggling man- 
 hood and soothe the pillow of age. 
 
 I would rather be the humblest among those who have given 
 hope to the hopeless and happiness to the distressed of my race 
 than to live in history as a conqueror with my hands stained 
 with innocent blood ; I would rather have my name written 
 among those who have loved their fellow man than to wear the 
 laurels that encircle the brow of the "Iron Prince;" I would 
 rather sleep in some quiet churchyard, unknown and unremem- 
 bered, save by those in whose hearts I have scattered seeds of 
 kindness and upon whose lips I have conjured smiles of joy,
 
 286 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 « 
 
 than to be confined in a sarcophagus of gold, with desolate homes 
 as my monuments and widows and orphans as living witnesses 
 of my glory. 
 
 There is a mighty stream, whose waters are as warm as a 
 summer's day, which flows noiselessly as the sunshine through 
 the turbulent waters of the ocean. It carries on its heaving cur- 
 rent health and warmth and life to half the world. It weaves 
 for England a chaplet of verdure and flowers, it cro%vns green 
 Erin with the shamrock and rose, and flings a mantle of per- 
 petual beauty on the vine-clad hills of France. Its soft airs 
 linger around the Orkney Isles and make them a cluster of 
 sunny jewels in the midst of inhospitable seas ; and, still bearing 
 in its bosom that kindlier nature born of brighter climes, it 
 breathes in mercy on shores that touch the frozen one. It is the 
 majestic Gulf Stream, the vehicle of the sun's life-giving power. 
 It is the smile of God upon the waters which warms the seas 
 and makes the earth blossom like the rose. 
 
 It is the symbol of the lives of men like him whose memory 
 we honor today — men whose warm and genial spirits meet and 
 mingle together like the waters of the Gulf Stream and flow on 
 through the cold and troubled ocean of life, weaving chaplets of 
 joy for the brow of humanity, crowning our race with blessings, 
 flinging the mantle upon mankind, and breathing hope and hap- 
 piness to the whole world. It is the glorious Gulf Stream of 
 generous souls which has given to civilization its flower gardens 
 of literature, its verdure and bloom of poetry and rapturous 
 music, its humanity, its liberty and its religion. 
 
 Its warm breath woke the Grecian civilization into life, which 
 gave to immortality the "Iliad" of Homer and the songs of 
 Sappho ; it inspired the wonderful art of Phidias and the burn- 
 ing eloquence of Demosthenes ; it moved upon the mighty brain 
 of Plato, who turned the lens of philosophy and reason toward 
 heaven and caught glimpses of the only true and living God ; it 
 kissed sun-crowned Italy and encircled the Roman Empire with 
 a halo of glory; it impelled Michaelangelo to chisel dreams 
 from the marble, and Raphael to spread his visions of beauty 
 and immortal colors upon the canvas; it touched the beautiful 
 land of the Rhine, and Mozart and Mendelssohn and Schubert 
 and all the great masters of the Fatherland turned the air into
 
 ADDRESSES 287 
 
 music and made joyous the homes and hearts of every land with 
 its warbles and murmurs and the ebb and flow of its silver 
 tides; it made France the nursery of genius in poetry, in elo- 
 quence, in sculpture and in painting. 
 
 Old England received its glorious baptism and gave to the 
 world "Paradise Lost" and "Hamlet" and the richest literature 
 in all the tide of time. It warmed the hearts of pioneers in the 
 wilderness of the ISTew World, and the stars twinkled to the 
 music of the fiddle and the bow in the log cabins of our fathers, 
 and thus it cheered them on from camp to cottage, and from 
 cottage to mansion, from forest to waving fields, and from 
 waving fields to mighty cities, until it set the world ablaze with 
 light. Liberty was born and the great republic rose beautiful 
 as the dream of Pericles, magnificent as the temple of the gods. 
 The joyous tide of immortal spirts who have fashioned and 
 molded our institutions and directed our country in the path 
 of its glorious destiny is sweeping on to eternity. ISTo sweeter 
 spirit ever mingled in its flood than that which stole away from 
 the temple of dust which now lies coffined in the shadow of this 
 beautiful monument. He lived, and loved, and laughed, and 
 labored for his people and for humanity. He planted the flow- 
 ers of mirth and joy in the hearts of others, and labored on 
 imtil the winter of age w^hitened his head with the snow that 
 never melts ; but there was no snow upon his heart ; 'twas always 
 summer there. 
 
 The name of Zebulon B. Vance is a household word among 
 the old ; it is the glorious heritage of the young. 
 
 Sleep on, child of genius, in the grave where loving hands 
 have laid thee ! 
 
 "Unwearied, unfettered, unwatched, unconfined. 
 Be my spirit like thee, in the world of the mind, 
 No yearning for earth e'er to weary its flight, 
 But fresh as thy pinions in regions of light."
 
 288 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 ADDKESS AT ST. LOUIS. MO., ON JANUARY 8, 1898, 
 
 BEFORE "THE ST. LOUIS TENNESSEE 
 
 SOCIETY." 
 
 Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 A little more than a century ago a young man came out of 
 his father's log cabin on the border of the Palmetto State, and, 
 mounting his race horse and followed by his pack of yelping 
 hounds, plunged into the forest and vanished from the scenes 
 of his childhood and the sweet associations of his youth. 
 
 How long he tarried on the way we know not ; but after his 
 departure we first find him in the little village of Morganton, 
 among the hills of the "Old North State," studying the profes- 
 sion of law, and then plunging again into the trackless forest. 
 
 Far up among the North Carolina mountains there is a 
 spring bubbling up from the earth which spreads into a still, 
 smooth mirror, reflecting the inverted images of rock, and fern, 
 and wild flower, and tree, and sky, where the panther used to 
 come and drink and then lie in ambush among the laurel and 
 the ivy and watch for the thirsty deer. 
 
 I think the pilgrim youth and his weary steed and panting 
 hounds paused here to rest. I think he kneeled down and drank 
 and reclined under the shade of the trees and dreamed of the 
 glorious future. The spring gathers volume from the springs 
 that bubble up around it until the brawling brook pours down 
 the steep declivities of the mountain gorges and spreads out into 
 the majestic Tennessee River in the valley below, and the Ten- 
 nessee sweeps into the Ohio, and the Ohio flows into the Mis- 
 sissippi, and the Mississippi rolls on to the sea — emblematic of 
 the destiny of the youth who drank from the spring and dreamed 
 there among his hounds at the fountain-head of the mighty 
 river. 
 
 But little did the world know that the wandering dreamer 
 at the lonely spring in the Avilderness was at the fountain-head 
 of a career which would some day change the destinies of na- 
 tions; little did the savage Indian tribes of the South know, as 
 they brandished the tomahawk and torch in the face of civiliza- 
 tion, that a young chieftain, whose sword would prove more ter- 
 rible than the resistless floods of a hundred angry rivers, would
 
 ADDRESSES 289 
 
 soon follow the shining trail of waters westward to sweep them 
 from the planet ; little did the haughty British monarch know, 
 as he sat upon his throne in the Old World amid the pomp and 
 pageantry of imperial power and glory, that an eagle would 
 soon swoop do^vn from the mountains in the ISTew World to 
 grapple with the invading lion, and that liberty's uncrowned 
 king, enthroned in the saddle, would soon strike a blow at l^evf 
 Orleans which would send the power of the British Empire reel- 
 ing backward from the American shore. 
 
 While the young hero still rested there at the spring, un- 
 conscious of the glory that awaited him, I think he watched the 
 pilgrim waters dashing westward over the gray cliffs and van- 
 ishing in the shadows below, and I think he heard them mur- 
 muring a prophecy of broader streams beyond, winding lazily 
 through gorgeous landscapes and rich valleys, worthy to become 
 the habitation of the areatest American who ever lived. But 
 while he watched and hoped and dreamed, I think he heard the 
 rustling of the leaves and saw an antlered buck emerge from the 
 honeysuckles and sniff the air for a moment, and then, as quick 
 as thought, dash away into the forest. I think he leaped into 
 the saddle and blew his hunter's horn, which woke the sleeping 
 pack; and instantly the hunter and his eager hounds were hot 
 upon the trail, and the music of the chase rose and fell and fell 
 and rose from hollow to hill and from hill to hollow like the 
 music of a hundred chiming bells. Down the roaring stream 
 for miles and miles bounded the trembling deer, leaping over 
 rocks, springing through shoals and swimming the whirling 
 eddies in the vain endeavor to elude the bellowing pack, which 
 followed with smoking mouths in full cry, closer and closer 
 behind him. And when the shadows of the evening began to 
 lengthen, I think the child of nature and of destiny kindled 
 his camp fire on the gi-assy brink of the beautiful Watauga, 
 and, with his jaded hounds, feasted that night on venison. 
 
 Not far from where he slumbered the town of Jonesboro 
 nestles among the green hills. It is the oldest town in Tennessee. 
 It was a metropolis before St. Louis was ever dreamed of, and 
 its old log courthouse was a temple of justice before the bound- 
 ary lines of Missouri were ever on the map of the world. Here 
 the young immigrant lawyer began his wonderful career in
 
 290 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Tennessee, He entered the little village on his journey, and 
 lived in it more than a year, and practiced law and joined in the 
 manly sports of the mountaineers. But the mountains cannot 
 hold the rivers; neither could they hold the restless spirit of 
 Andrew Jackson. 
 
 There was another pilgrimage from Jonesboro to the set- 
 tlement on the Cumberland where now gleam and glitter the 
 domes and spires of Nashville, the beautiful capital of Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 The war of the Revolution had been fought and won. The 
 yoimg republic was extending its dominion westward. Slowly, 
 but surely, wild beast and savage Indian were retreating toward 
 the setting sun before the advancing Saxon and Celt, overawed 
 and overmatched by their brain and brawn. It was here among 
 these perilous environments that the sublime powers of Andrew 
 Jackson began to wake like the live thunders of the gathering 
 storm. It was then the heart of the wilderness; it is now the 
 heart of the South ; it is the warm, throbbing heart of Tennessee 
 and Tennessee is the heart of the Western Hemisphere. Ten- 
 nessee lies on the happiest lines of latitude and longitude which 
 girdle the globe; she lies on the dividing line between the two 
 great agricultural regions of the world. On the south are the 
 tropical fruits and flowers and cotton fields, where labor toils 
 and sings and tosses the snowy bales by the millions into the 
 lap of commerce ; on the north are the fruits and cereals of the 
 ISTorth Temperate Zone, where industry smiles and pours its 
 streams of amber and gold into the garners of nations. But 
 Tennessee combines them both. The pecans of the South fall 
 among the hickorynuts of the l^orth on her soil; the magnolia 
 blooms in the same grove where the Northern apple ripens ; the 
 Georgia plum w^ooes the blushing peach of Delaware ; corn and 
 cotton, blue grass and wheat, all grow in adjoining fields; while 
 the mocking bird and the snowbird sing and chatter together 
 on bough and bush away down in Tennessee. 
 
 I sometimes think that when Civilization first peeped over 
 the Alleghanies and looked down upon the gorgeous landscape 
 below, she shouted back to the advancing hosts : "Lo, this is 
 Paradise regained !" Is it any wonder, then, that this beauty 
 spot on the face of the earth long ago became the shrine of
 
 ADDRESSES 29 1 
 
 heroes and statesmen ? Is it any wonder that the star of des- 
 tiny guided the peerless Jackson here to live and die? 
 
 The world knows the romantic history of this wonderful 
 man. It is not for me to repeat it here today. His life was 
 full of storms. He was the thunderbolt of war, but his battles 
 were all fought for liberty and human happiness. He was the 
 rugged type of the rugged times in which he figured and of 
 the rugged men whom he led to victory and to glory. 
 
 AVhether we view him in the fox chase or deer hunt or at 
 the horse race, where he was king, or whether we view him 
 entering the rude courthouse at Gallatin as United States District 
 Attorney, and signalizing his advent to public life by thrashing 
 a band of outlaws who refused to be tried and compelling them 
 to submit to the sentence of the court, or as judge, leaving the 
 bench at Jonesboro and collaring the defiant Bean, who had 
 bluffed the sheriff and his posse, or whether we contemplate 
 him gathering his stalwart Tennessee volunteers around him 
 and marching through the perils and dangers of the wilderness 
 to drive the fierce Indian tribes to the sea, or at ISTew Orleans, 
 guarding the Legislature with a regiment in his rear, while he 
 met the British in the front and hurled them back across the 
 sea, he was the same invincible, unconquerable spirit who shat- 
 tered every opposition which confronted him in life. He was as 
 powerful in the arena of politics as he was terrible on the 
 battle field. ]^o foe, however formidable, could cope with him ; 
 no maneuver, however brilliant, could check his triumphal march 
 to the highest office in the world. 
 
 Like a giant, he strode into the White House and sat 
 down in the presidential chair, and, lifting his bony hand toward 
 heaven, while his hair stood on his head like the mane of a 
 lion, he postponed the Civil War for a quarter of a century 
 with the exclamation: "By the Eternal, the Union must and 
 shall be preserved !" 
 
 But "Old Hickory" has passed away. The hand that once 
 wielded the sword for country and liberty was dust long ago. 
 But the dominion of the republic for which he fought now 
 stretches 
 
 "From Maine's dark pines and crags of snow, 
 To where magnolia breezes blow,"
 
 292 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 and touches the two great oceans that divide the world. But 
 where are the policies of government -w^hich he cherished and 
 defended? Where is the equal and exact justice to all, with 
 special privileges to none? Where are the powers and privi- 
 leges of States to manage and control their own domestic affairs ? 
 Where is the protection of the people against the oppression of 
 combined power and aggregated wealth ? Where is the ideal of 
 Abraham Lincoln: "A government of the people, for the peo- 
 ple, and by the people?" 
 
 Have we not drifted away from the splendid safeguards and 
 bulwarks of government which were established by our fathers ? 
 Andrew Jackson bridled the money power, but the money power 
 has long since slipped the bridle. Andrew Jackson curbed the 
 encroachments of centralization, but centralization has taken 
 the bit in its teeth and broken the curb, and is now plunging 
 madly toward absolute monarchy. The policies of our modern 
 government have given the power to a few men to fix the price 
 of meat and bread at the cost of production to those who pro- 
 duce, only to raise it at their own sweet will to those who con- 
 sume. A few men control the arteries of trade. A few manu- 
 facturers live on the juice of protection, and the juice of pro- 
 tection is the sweat and blood of the people. Money has be- 
 come a mystery to the millions, and is manipulated by the gi-eat 
 financiers as the magician manipulates the coin. He holds it 
 up and says, "Look, gentlemen, look; now you see it, and now 
 you don't see it;" and when the people feel in their pockets, 
 their last dollar is gone. 
 
 Too often the door to high and honorable positions can only 
 be opened with a key of gold. 
 
 Andrew Jackson never dreamed of a government by injunc- 
 tion, but now the Federal power can throw the lariat of a re- 
 straining order and hobble a sovereign State and paralyze the 
 enforcement of its laws. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, from my earliest childhood I was taught by 
 my now sainted father and mother to believe in the religion 
 of Christ and to pray to the Creator of the universe for his 
 mercy and his blessings. I would that I could persuade the 
 American people to get down on their knees tonight and fer- 
 vently breathe this prayer: "O God, give our country another 
 Andrew Jackson!"
 
 ADDRESSES 293 
 
 ADDKESS TO THE OLD CONFEDERATES AT THE 
 
 CONFEDERATE REUNION AT BROWNSVILLE, 
 
 TENN., IN AUGUST, 1902. 
 
 Time in its tireless flight has brought us again to the full leaf 
 and flower of another summer. The grass grows green about 
 the dust of heroes, the roses twine once more about their tombs, 
 and the morning glories point their purple bugles toward the 
 sky as if to sound a reveille to our immortal dead. Another 
 year, with its sunshine and its shadows, its laughter and its 
 tears, its sowing and its reaping, its cradle songs and funeral 
 hymns, now lies between us and that dark day at Appomattox 
 when the star of Southern hope went down and the flag of South- 
 ern chivalry was furled forever. Another year has added whiter 
 locks to the temples of those old soldiers who wore the gray, and 
 deeper furrows to their brows; and they now stand among us 
 like solitary oaks in the midst of a fallen forest, hoary with 
 age, covered with scars, and glorious as the living monuments 
 of Southern manhood and Southern courage. 
 
 But we are not yet far enough away from that awful struggle 
 to forget the bloody hills of Shiloh, where Albert Sidney John- 
 ston died, and the fatal field of Chancellorsville, where Stonewall 
 Jackson fell; we are not yet far enough away to forget the 
 frowning heights of Gettysburg, where Pickett's charging lines 
 rushed to glory and the grave ; we are not yet far enough away to 
 forget Murfreesboro, Missionary Ridge, and Chickamauga, and 
 the hundred other fields of death and courage, where the flower of 
 the South, the bravest of the best and the truest of the true, 
 fought for the cause they thought was right and died for the land 
 they loved ; we are not yet far enough away to forget the agony 
 and the tears of a nation that was crushed when the shat- 
 tered armies of Lee and Johnston — weary, half-starved, bare- 
 footed, and in rags — stacked their arms in the gloom of defeat 
 and left the field of valor, overwhelmed and overpowered, yet 
 undaunted and unconquered. When time has measured off a 
 thousand years, the world will not forget the sufferings and the 
 sacrifices of the brave men who so freely gave their fortimes and 
 shed their blood to preserve the most brilliant civilization that 
 ever flourished in any land or in any age.
 
 294 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Historians will some day sit down on our battle field and 
 write true history — history that will surpass the wildest dreams 
 of fancy that were ever woven into fiction ; and poets will linger 
 among our graves and sing sweeter songs than were ever sung 
 before; for each monument is within itself a volume of wild 
 and thrilling adventure, and every tombstone tells a story touch- 
 ing as the soldier's last tear on the white bosom of his man- 
 hood's bride, tender as his last farewell. 
 
 I would not utter a word of bitterness against the men who 
 wore the blue. They fought and died under the old flag to per- 
 petuate the Union, and they were men worthy of Southern 
 prowess and Southern valor. I would not, if I could, rob Grant 
 the great and noble chieftain, of his fame and glory. Every 
 Southern soldier ought to stand with uncovered head when his 
 name is spoken; for when all was lost, in the darkest and sad- 
 dest moment of Southern history, he was magnanimous to Lee 
 and his famished and shattered army. Along the blue lines of 
 the triumphant foe, when the unhappy Confederates marched 
 between them and laid down their guns, there was no shout of 
 victory nor flourish of trumpets, but only silence and tears of 
 sympathy. 
 
 When the conflict had ended, the Confederate soldier proud- 
 ly stood among the blackened walls of his ruined country, mag- 
 nificent in the gloom of defeat, and still a hero. His sword 
 was broken, his home was in ashes, the earth was red beneath 
 him, the sky was black above him. He had placed all in the 
 scales of war, and had lost all save honor; but he did not sit 
 down in despair to weep away the passing years. 
 
 His slaves were gone, but he was still a master. Too proud 
 to pine, too strong to yield to adversity, he threw down his mus- 
 ket and laid his willing but unskilled hands upon the waiting 
 plow. He put away the knapsack of war and turned his face 
 toward the morning of peace. He abandoned the rebel yell to 
 enter the forum and the courtroom and the hustings; he gave 
 up the sword to enter the battles of industry and commerce; 
 and now, in little more than a third of a century, the land of 
 desolation and death, the land of monuments and memories, has 
 reached the springtime of a grander destiny, and the sun shines 
 bright on the domes and towers of new cities built upon the
 
 ADDRESSES 295 
 
 ashes of the old, and the cotton fields wave their white banners 
 of peace, and the fields of wheat wave back their banners of 
 gold. 
 
 Who can portray the possibilities of a country that has pro- 
 duced the Lees and Jacksons and the brilliant Gordon and the 
 dashing Joe Wheeler, who is as gallant in the blue as he was 
 glorious in the gray, and the impetuous and immortal Bedford 
 Forrest, the Marshal Ney of the Confederacy? Who can por- 
 tray the possibilities of a country which has produced the stal- 
 wart and sinewy men of the rank and file, who followed the 
 Stars and Bars through the smoke and flame of every desperate 
 battle and stepped proudly into history as the greatest fighters 
 the world has ever known — a country so richly blessed, not only 
 with brave men and beautiful women, but whose blossoming 
 hills and fertile valleys are so generous and kind, whose moun- 
 tains are burdened with coal and iron and copper and zinc and 
 lead enough to supply the world for a thousand years, whose 
 virgin forests yet stand awaiting and sighing for the woodman's 
 ax, and whose winding rivers flow clear and cool and make music 
 as they go ? It is the beautiful land of love and liberty, of sun- 
 shine and sentiment, of fruits and flowers, where the grape- 
 vine staggers from tree to tree as if drunk with the wine of its 
 own purple clusters, where peach and plum and blood-red 
 cherries and every kind of berry bend bough and bush and glow 
 like showered drops of rubies and pearls. It is the land of the 
 magnolia and the melon, the paradise of the cotton and the cane. 
 
 They tell us now that it is the new South ; but the same old 
 blood rims in the veins of these veterans, and the same old 
 spirit heaves their bosoms and flashes in their eyes ; the same 
 old soldiers who wielded the musket long ago are nursing their 
 grandchildren on their knees and teaching them the same old 
 lessons of honor and truth and the same old love of liberty ; the 
 mocking bird sings the same old songs in the same old tree, and 
 the brooks laugh and leap down the same old hollows. It is the 
 same old South, and we are the same old Southern people. 
 
 "There may be skies as blue, but none bluer; 
 There may be hearts as true, but none truer."
 
 296 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 It is the same old land of the free and the same old home of the 
 brave. It is the same old South resurrected from the dead. 
 
 Within the borders of this fair land of Dixie the finest oppor- 
 tunities for investment and the richest fields for enterj)rise ever 
 known in the Western Hemisphere are now open to all who wish 
 to come and help us to make it blossom like the rose. A new de- 
 velopment has already begun. Thirty years ago there was not 
 a factory in South Carolina ; today she is spinning and Aveaving 
 more cotton than she raises and is second only to Massachusetts 
 in the manufacture of cotton goods; and North Carolina and 
 Georgia have made eaual progress with South Carolina in this 
 new idea of making the South not only the leader in agricul- 
 ture, but also in converting our raw material into finished arti- 
 cles of commerce and trade, and thus saving to our section count- 
 less millions of wealth. In the mountains of Southwestern 
 Virginia, Southeastern Kentucky, East Tennessee, North Ala- 
 bama, where the sunshine plays hide and seek with the shadows 
 and where many rivers are born, there is a beautiful valley six 
 hundred miles in length and from one to thirty miles wide. Until 
 a quarter of a century ago the principal product of that country 
 was children. The people did not realize that the north rim of 
 the valley was almost an unbroken vein of coal and that the 
 South was an exhaustless bed of iron, and they placed but little 
 value on the vast parks of timber where the ax had never gleam- 
 ed; but now the dynamite has just begim to jar the silent hills 
 and the forests have just begun to fall. Birmingham is making 
 the sky of night red with the glare of her furnaces, and all the 
 way up the valley to the new city of Roanoke new furnaces are 
 being lighted and new industries are developing; and Hunts- 
 ville, Decatur, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Johnson City, and Bris- 
 tol, on the line, will soon be great manufacturing centers, where 
 the pig iron and the logs of hardwood that are now being shipped 
 away to be converted into finished articles will pass through our 
 own mills, and we will cease to be the fools we have been 
 in the past, buying furniture made in foreign cities out of our 
 own timber, and all the implements of agriculture made from 
 our own iron. 
 
 Until twenty years ago the sons of Mississippi, Louisiana, and 
 Arkansas were contented to sit on their verandas and watch the
 
 ADDRESSES 297 
 
 "nigger" and his lazy mule in the cotton field and listen to the 
 melodies of the old plantation ; but now the mills of Mississippi 
 are beginning to mingle their music with these melodies, and the 
 marshes of Louisiana are being converted into rice fields, and she 
 is making enough sugar today to sweeten the tooth of the world. 
 Arkansas is building factories and opening her mines and min- 
 eral wealth and sawing down her great forests of pine. At tlie 
 close of the Civil War Texas was a wilderness, but now the howl 
 of the wolf has given place to the whistle of the engine and the 
 whoop of the Indian has been hushed by the music of machinery. 
 From Texarkana to El Paso prosperous cities and towns have 
 sprung up like prairie flowers where the wild horse once gal- 
 loped and the buffalo grazed, and great geysers of coal oil have 
 solved the fuel problem. 
 
 In the full development of this new idea of transforming 
 our raw material into finished goods lies our hope of regaining 
 our prestige and power in the management of national affairs, 
 and of winning back billions of wealth which were wiped out 
 by the destroying angel of war. God grant that our beloved old 
 South may be as happy in reaping the golden harvest of pros- 
 perity in the years to come as she has been brave and true 
 through the suffering and woes of adversity in the sorrowful 
 years of the past. 
 
 And now, my grizzled old friends who once wore the gray, 
 in the name of the young men I congi-atulate you upon havijig 
 lived to see the dawn of a brighter day for your battle-scarred 
 and war-swept country. You must soon answer to the roll call 
 of eternity and join your comrades on the other side. I give 
 you the pledge of your sons that they will ever defend the 
 record you have made and themselves live up to the traditions of 
 their fathers. In the name of our women, both young and old, 
 I implore the blessing of the Lord upon you, and pray that as 
 the dews of life's evening are condensing on your brows and the 
 shadows of the long, long night are gathering about you, you may 
 linger long in the twilight, with loving hands to lead you and 
 loving hearts to bless. 
 
 (tt)
 
 298 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 UNDELIVERED SPEECH PREPARED FOR THE CAM- 
 PAIGN OF 1912. 
 
 Fellow-Citizens : 
 
 The ceaseless flight of the circling years has brought us 
 to the close of another quadrennial cycle, and we stand face to 
 face with another great political struggle in America. 
 
 All is well for the National Democracy in 1912. God grant 
 that all may be well for the Democracy of Tennessee. 
 
 There are none who breathe this prayer so fervently as those 
 who have given the strength of their manhood and all they ever 
 had to its service. It is the pride of my life, as I approach the 
 winter of age, that I belong to that company. 
 
 Thirteen times I have borne its banner from the mountains 
 to the Mississippi, proclaiming its principles to the people. 
 
 Twelve times I bore it to victory. 
 
 But in 1910 the old party was "dissevered, discordant, bel- 
 ligerent, and rent with civil feuds," and I felt it my supreme 
 duty to leave the Senate and appeal to my divided party to lay 
 down their animosities and sheathe their tongues of bitterness 
 and fight once more together in a common cause. I knew it 
 was a perilous step, but 
 
 I threw my hat in the ring, 
 
 I threw myself in the fray, 
 
 I thought I could settle the thing. 
 
 But the harmony band wouldn't play. 
 
 They fought among themselves with their horns, and old 
 Democrats clubbed their guns on each other all along the battle 
 line. 
 
 It was my thirteenth campaign, and thirteen is the unlucky 
 number. 
 
 I soon discovered that I was attempting to lead thirteen 
 different brands of Democracy to victory. 
 
 But when I fell at last, bleeding, at thirteen places, with 
 thirteen rents in the old standard as it trailed in the dust of 
 disaster, it looked to me like thirteen hells had broken loose in 
 Georgia and thirteen Hoopers were elected Governor of Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 Fellow-citizens, you may call me superstitious if you will.
 
 ADDRESSES 299 
 
 But I was hoodooed in 1910, 
 And I'll never be hoodooed agam. 
 
 I would spend the day in a fence corner before I would 
 occupy room 13 in a palace; I would sit up all night in the 
 smoker before they could get me in section 13 on a sleeper. 
 And let me give you a buckeye of wisdom to carry around in 
 your pockets, boys; I will give it to you in rhyme: 
 
 When the world turns against you, 
 
 And the people get mean, 
 There is somewhere about you 
 
 That number thirteen. 
 
 But what's the use to mourn over wrecked hopes and shat- 
 tered dreams? What's the use to weep over spilt milk and 
 the broken fiddle strings of harmony in 1910 ? 
 
 The past is dead, let it bury its dead. The present is ours 
 with plenty of cream, and the fiddle of old-time Democracy is 
 strung again. 
 
 The future is before us with glorious opportunities beckon- 
 ing from its misty summit, and all we have to do is to climb. 
 The God of ISTations will do the rest. 
 
 I am not here to shed tears over the grave of my thirteenth 
 campaign, but rather to enter the fourteenth with hallelujahs 
 on my lips, and to rejoice with you in the prospect of a complete 
 Democratic triumph in Tennessee, and the election of a Demo- 
 cratic President of the United States of America. 
 
 I am not here as an agitator, but as a peace-maker, and to 
 join in the effort to allay the spirit of factional strife which has 
 so long disturbed the tranquillity of our people and to stop the 
 forest fires of passion which have licked the very skies and well- 
 nigh driven the old Volunteer State into the turbulent sea of 
 Republicanism. 
 
 We cannot blame the Republicans for fanning the flames of 
 Democratic factionalism ; it is their only hope in Tennessee, 
 
 They have skillfully played the game and we now have a 
 Republican Governor in our State Capitol, and every depart- 
 ment of the Commonwealth is teeming witli Republican office- 
 holders. Does the Government at Washington, presided over 
 by President Taft, differ from our State Government with 
 Hooper at the helm ?
 
 300 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Have our people embraced the doctrine and policies which 
 they have so long condemned as destructive to our free institu- 
 tions ? 
 
 Have they deserted the sacred things for which their fathers 
 fought and died ? Have they turned their backs on the living 
 principles of personal liberty and the inalienable right of every 
 State in the Union to control its own domestic affairs, unmo- 
 lested by the Federal Government or by any other power under 
 the sun? 
 
 If they have, they are aiding and abetting in the destruction 
 of the best Government ever conceived by the brain of man, and 
 putting to open shame the State that gave them birth. 
 
 Fellow-Citizens, we must face conditions as they exist and 
 prepare to meet the last great struggle for the supremacy of 
 Democratic ideals and Democratic Government, not only in Ten- 
 nessee but in the Nation; and I come today to appeal to the 
 people to turn away from the storm-swept forum of passion and 
 listen to the voice of reason. 
 
 A Republican Governor is in our Capitol and we are com- 
 pletely under Republican rule in the land of Andrew Jackson. 
 
 But where is that millennium of law and order that was to 
 dawn upon the State when the "Good Angels" came into power ? 
 
 Where are all those reforms that were to blossom on the 
 trees and shed their fragrance on the desert air ? 
 
 Where is that ladder of Utopian dreams set up by this mod- 
 ern Jacob, and reaching from earth to heaven, with spirits of 
 the blest ascending and descending, bearing baskets of Repub- 
 lican promises to Democratic Tennessee? 
 
 These miracles were wrought on the imaginations of men for 
 political purposes. The promised blessings never came and they 
 never will come till we have universal peace, universal religion 
 and the universal brotherhood of man. 
 
 But, fellow citizens, it is not my purpose now to engage in 
 the discussion of questions which will soon be debated by can- 
 didates for the Legislature and for Governor and for other high 
 offices in the State. 
 
 I have been five years in the Senate. It is not a bed of roses, 
 but it is the best job I ever had. It has not made me rich with 
 bags of gold, but it is the highest position of trust and honor
 
 ADDRESSES 301 
 
 in the gift of my State, and I prize that above all the sordid 
 wealth of this world. 
 
 I have not stood on a pedestal of greatness and glory, I have 
 never played to the galleries, but I have been faithful and true 
 to the people, and I bring all the victories I have won in the 
 past, and all the things I have stood for in the Senate and lay 
 them at your feet, and pray that the lightning may strike me 
 again. 
 
 My political opponents smile on me between campaigns, but 
 the moment I go into a canvass for glory and a crown. 
 
 Their smiles are frozen into frowns, 
 And daggers underneath their gowns 
 Impatient, wait for sudden use, 
 And Satan turns the goblins loose 
 When I'm a candidate. 
 
 But watch me, boys, this time! I didn't have any chance 
 at all before — only nineteen days to fight in. If I could have 
 had but thirteen more, I would have made thirteen the unlucky 
 number for Mr. Hooper. But I'm loaded now for the scrimmage 
 and my gun is seven feet long. 
 
 I am weighted dovm with revolvers and bowie knives a 
 plenty. My blessed Red Xecks and the boys from town and the 
 drummers from everywhere are spoiling for the fight, and we 
 can whip an army of wildcats before breakfast. The wolves of 
 Republicanism and the goblins of special privilege must hunt for 
 tall timber, must take to the swamps and marshes, for we are 
 going to have a mighty snake-killing in Tennessee. 
 
 "We are like the old farmer from away up at the head of the 
 creek who diked himself in his brand new shad-belly coat and 
 flap breeches and joyfully went to the circus. He viewed the 
 lions and tigers, and laughed himself into spasms at the pranks 
 and jokes of the clown. 
 
 And finally he visited the sideshow where there was a large 
 glass cage full of snakes of every variety. He looked at it a 
 moment and then seized a handspike that lay at his feet, and 
 with one tremendous blow shattered the glass into atoms, and 
 then let in on the snakes. The crowd "skeedaddled" in a jiffy, 
 and the showman ran in and shouted, "What in the thunder
 
 302 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 are you doing ?" And the old man shouted back as lie finished 
 the job, "By gosh, I always kills 'em wherever I finds 'em." 
 
 It is funny to me to see the Republican leaders attempting 
 to play the same old game, to capture the State from Democracy. 
 
 It is an unparalleled exhibition of unblushing gall, but when 
 the campaign is over I think they will be in the condition of 
 the old darkey who boarded the train one cold, drizzly day. The 
 good warm car made him drowsy and his head reclined on the 
 back of the seat and he slept like a log, with his mouth wide 
 open and his big red tongue lolling full on the view. A drum- 
 mer passing through observed it, and he reached into his vest 
 pocket and pulled out a ten-grain capsule of quinine and 
 emptied in on the old man's tongue. Uncle Ephraim awoke and 
 began to work his lips in anguish, and when the conductor came 
 through the car taking up the tickets, the old man asked in a 
 frightened tone, "Boss, is you got a doctor on dis train?" "I 
 don't know; are you sick?" "Yes, suh, I's pow'ful sick.'* 
 "What's the matter with you?" "Well, suh, from the way it 
 tastes, my gall's busted." 
 
 We are the champion snake-killers and gall-busters of the 
 world, and they can't keep us down, boys; they can't keep us 
 down. 
 
 We are like the old mule that fell into the well. They 
 couldn't get him out, and concluded they would cover him up 
 and fill up the well, but every time they dumped in a load of 
 dirt, the old mule climbed up on it, and he climbed and he 
 climbed until he finally walked out of the well in triumph and 
 went browsing around in the green pastures and by the still 
 waters. 
 
 But here I am splashing and diving again in the old swim- 
 ming hole of humor, which has cost me so many sound "thrash- 
 ings" with the dogwood sprout of criticism. 
 
 I couldn't keep out of the old mill pond when I was a boy ; 
 I can't keep out of it now. They say I am not serious enough 
 to sit in the councils of the ISTation, and that there is not dignity 
 enough in my bearing. That may be true, but sometimes I have 
 lucid intervals, and all the time I am true to the people. The 
 leopard cannot change his spots, neither can I repress that 
 fountain of good cheer that bubbles in my heart like a spring.
 
 ADDRESSES 3O3 
 
 It has always been my supreme delight to conjure smiles 
 to the lips of trouble, and the sweetest music that ever fell on 
 my ears is the melody of laughter. 
 
 I have my own philosophy on that subject. I do not believe 
 tliat a frowning brow is always the badge of a statesman ; I do 
 not believe that a heart of ice is a token of love and devotion 
 to our country. 
 
 But let that all pass, and let us splash and dive for a little 
 while into weightier matters, Avhich involve the safety of the 
 Republic and the perpetuity of its institutions. You have a 
 right to know what I have been doing. 
 
 You look to me like an audience of interrogation points. 
 You want to know what are the fruits of my five years' service 
 in the Senate, but I have no apples of gold in pictures of silver 
 to hold up to your admiring gaze. 
 
 My fruit is not entirely ripe yet and I fear if I give you 
 too much of it today it might leave you in the condition of the 
 members of a city church choir who indulged in half green 
 persimmons just before services, and they drew up their mouths 
 and puckered their lips till they had to whistle the doxology. 
 
 I must beg for time for my persimmons to ripen. The 
 frost of a Republican majority has fallen on them, and they 
 will not be sweet and luscious until the sunlight of a victorious 
 Democracy shines into the Senate chamber. 
 
 AVhile we are battling to win a National Victory, let us not 
 forget that Tennessee must be rescued from the Republicans. 
 The Democratic party has done too much for Tennessee for us 
 to surrender her to her enemies now. Out of the chaos and 
 tears of reconstruction Democracy has lifted us. 
 
 Time has smoothed down to a common level the mounds 
 that once swelled above the breasts of fallen heroes, and from 
 the rich red rain that poured from their veins has covered 
 the cruel gashes of fraternal strife with multitudinous mantles 
 of grass and leaf, and tree and flower ; where ignorance groped 
 and poverty sat in mourning, the blessed light of education is 
 breaking upon the hills and filtering through the forests, and 
 falling like the sunshine into the humblest homes, and coimtless 
 schoolhouses filled with happy children are the babbling testi- 
 monials of Democratic rule in Tennessee.
 
 304 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Villages have budded into towns, and towns have blos- 
 somed into cities; and huge mountains that once leaned, silent 
 and solemn, like ragged paupers against the skies, now chuckle 
 with the miner's pick and explode with the grim laughter of 
 dynamite as they open their hearts and give up their treasures. 
 
 Where sullen armies once pitched their tents, a thousand 
 fields are now tented with shocks of grain, and where the minnie 
 ball whistled its tune of death in the air, the quail now whistles 
 "Bob White" to his mate in the shade of the old apple tree.
 
 LOVE LETTERS
 
 LOVE LETTERS 
 
 TO UNCLE SAM. 
 
 "Kobin's Eoost/' Johnson City, Tenn., 
 
 January 1, 1899. 
 Dear Uncle Sam: 
 
 As one of your numerous nephews, I am exceedingly anxious 
 for your welfare. You have always been represented to me 
 as a very tall and lean old star-spangled gentleman, with a 
 fur plug hat and chin whiskers. I very much fear that you 
 are going too far away from home on your gunning expedi- 
 tions. It is true the game you are after is tempting, and nobody 
 doubts your ability to bag it; but I implore you, old man, to 
 look to your health and happiness. You are not as young as 
 you were a hundred years ago, and you have never left home 
 for sport before. The meat under Cuba's wing may be sweet, 
 and no doubt the drumstick of Porto Rico would be delicious ; 
 at any rate, you have them in your grasp and seem to be pre- 
 paring for the feast, with the Philippines for dessert ; but I do 
 not really believe that you ought to indulge in Manilla ice 
 cream, and I am sure that Aguinaldo pudding will sour on your 
 stomach. All of these foreign dishes will give you nightmare, 
 as sure as you are born. Why not be content to sit down to 
 your own hog and hominy, and turnip greens, and canvasbacks, 
 and beef, and venison, and 'possum, and pumpkin pie, and 
 political punch ? 
 
 I am aw^are that it is always the ambition of a lean man 
 to expand, and I am persuaded that you are just a little bit 
 envious of John Bull's colonial corpulency and British pre- 
 ponderosity. No doubt you are now dreaming of the day when 
 your luminous-striped vest will encircle your rotund stomach 
 like the belts of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn; but let me 
 remind you that fat men snore and have gout and sometimes 
 keel over with apoplexy.
 
 308 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 Uncle Sam, you are a daisy. Two years ago you were for 
 contraction by a large majority; now you are tearing your 
 shirt for expansion. I suppose that while you are contracting 
 and expanding you will take a notion after awhile to stretch 
 yourself to your full length on the western hemisphere, until 
 the mosquitoes shall roost on your big toe at Cape Horn, while 
 icebergs form on your whiskers in Alaska. It may be all right, 
 and you have about seventy-five millions of nephews and nieces 
 who are for you, right or wrong ; but some of us hope that you 
 won't get too big for your breeches ; or, rather, that your breeches 
 won't get too small for you. We don't want you to become 
 too gay, and we are opposed to your attending too many ban- 
 quets, such as you have been reveling in ever since last April. 
 We think the jubilee of peace is far better for your liver than 
 the banquet of war. But all these little hints are prompted 
 by love and veneration and solicitude for your good name and 
 your glory. I would not wound your feelings for a box of 
 Havanas or a hogshead of Honolulus ; but I confess with blushes 
 that there are about seventy four millions, nine hundred and 
 seventy-five thousand of your kinfolks who have good ground 
 for complaint. We see the stars twinkling and the eagles flap- 
 ping their wings on the shoulders of your heroes ; we see the girls 
 smothering them with kisses, and we all sigh for a few smothers. 
 Our complaint is that we cannot all wear stars or eagles, and 
 therefore we cannot have "equal blessings to all, with exclusive 
 privileges to none." Not long ago I saw the city of Nashville 
 open her arms and press two of your heroes to her bosom. One 
 was Captain Maynard, of the United States gunboat Nashville, 
 who fired the first gim of the war with Spain; the other was 
 Lieutenant Hobson, who set an example of daring and courage 
 for the generations to follow. If you could have seen the 
 laughing and shouting bouquet of seven thousand little school 
 children who greeted them in our great auditorium at high 
 noon; if you could have heard them sing the National airs 
 and keep time with waving flags, you would have agreed with 
 me that there is nothing left of Mason and Dixon's line, except 
 that it is now only the dividing line between cold bread and hot 
 biscuits ; if you could have heard the storm of applause from old 
 and young which greeted them in the evening, you would have
 
 LOVE LETTERS 3O9 
 
 waved your old bandanna in the air and joined in the glorious 
 jubilee; if you could have heard the explosions of the rosy bomb- 
 shells that burst in kisses on their cheeks, no doubt you would 
 have rushed into the thickest of the fight. If you could have 
 heard our speeches of welcome, you would have fainted as 
 dead as a mackerel from exhaustion. But the banquet "in 
 the wee sma' hours" capped the climax. We had greeted our 
 noble guests with compliments and speeches and the clapping of 
 hands through the day, but at the banquet we gave them welcome 
 with smoking quails and pompanoes, and this, that, and the 
 other; and there was popping of corks, and effervescing and 
 sparkling, and a good time in the old town that night. We 
 bade a reluctant farewell to Captain First Shot and Lieutenant 
 Merrimac, and went to bed feeling that we were citizens of the 
 greatest country in the world, and all heroes. 
 
 Good-by, Uncle Sam; take care of your health and chin 
 whiskers. Remember me kindly to the American eagle, give 
 my love to the Goddess of Liberty, and may we all live long 
 and prosper. Robert L. Taylor. 
 
 TO THE POLITICIANS. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City, Tenn., 
 
 February 1, 1899. 
 My Dear, Sweet Old Angels: 
 
 With tearful eyes and breaking heart I leave your shining 
 ranks. My tears are tears of gladness; my heart is breaking 
 with joy. 
 
 Somehow or other we have never flocked together in the 
 paradise of politics. You wanted me to blow your trumpet, 
 but I preferred the mellower notes and softer tones of the old- 
 time fiddle of the people. I am aware that the good, old- 
 fashioned popular airs which thrilled the hearts of our fathers 
 are not in favor now with your angelic Majesties. Our country 
 is keeping step to the modern boom-de-ya of ring politics, and 
 waltzing to the earth-cracking and sky-rending music of modem 
 political "Vogners." Our statesmanship now trips the light
 
 310 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 fantastic toe in the latter-day gold-standard "german" and the 
 imperial expansion "skirt dance," at the expense of the people 
 and the peril of the Nation. 
 
 Common folks cannot understand this so-called high-class 
 music, nor the figures of these new-fangled dances, and, there- 
 fore, they are in a condition which is beautifully illustrated by 
 a tale I used to hear before politics snatched me baldheaded. 
 At an old-time country dance, the fiddlers resined their bows 
 and took their places on the platform. The floor manager rose 
 and imperiously shouted: "Get your partners for a cotillion! 
 All you ladies and gentlemen who wear shoes and stockings 
 will take your places in the center of the room; all you ladies 
 and gentlemen who wear shoes and no stockings will take your 
 places immediately behind them ; and you barefooted crowd must 
 jig it around in the corners." You dear old politicians wear the 
 shoes and stockings, while we, the people, are the barefooted 
 crowd. But I beg that you will believe me sincere when I say 
 that I am contented with the corners, for there is more sincerity 
 and genuine happiness there than I have ever found in the 
 center. Many a time I have seen a hundred and eighty pounds 
 of unadulterated treachery in one pair of shoes, and a whole 
 armful of slippered and skirted insincerity in a single pair of 
 stockings. I have swung corners with ingratitude and hypocrisy 
 until I whizzed in the air and my coat tails popped like a whip 
 cracker. Who has not? I have danced in the same set with 
 M. "Boozard" and Signer "Carioncrow." So has every man 
 who ever entered the political ballroom. But I was always so 
 awkward and so unfortunate as to be continually stepping on 
 somebody's political corns and ambitious bunions; and there- 
 fore I was in the midst of perpetual "ouch," and the recipient 
 of innumerable tender compliments and affectionate daggers; 
 and now, 
 
 If you could see my mortal scars, 
 The fleshy records of my jars, 
 You'd think I'd spent my life in wars 
 Where whips, fists, clubs, and stones 
 Wage endless strife with flesh and bones.
 
 LOVE LETTERS 3II 
 
 But I have vanished from the center of politics to the warm 
 corner of a happy home ; and I find rest and sympathy here un- 
 der the outstretched wings of my native mountains. Who 
 could not find rest and happiness in a land like this ? "The 
 foot of man has never trod the sod of any spot on earth where 
 purer fountains gem the hills, and brighter streams, falling 
 from loftier heights, wind their shining ways through greener, 
 sweeter, lovelier vales." Heaven never smiled on landscapes 
 more beautiful, and the eagles never soared under softer skies 
 than those which bend above the sun-painted cliffs and peaceful, 
 happy valleys of my own East Tennessee. 
 
 To the jaded politician who has grovTi weary of fishing 
 for votes and angling for suckers, there is surcease of sorrow 
 here in the brawling brooks of the mountains, where the genuine 
 speckled trout plays hide and seek with the sunshine in the 
 shoals, or sleeps in the darkening eddies, under the fragrant 
 bloom of the overhanging honeysuckles. To the overworked 
 public servant upon whose head the snows that never melt have 
 too soon fallen, these bright, leaping, laughing, dashing, buoyant 
 mountain rivers are the symbols of youth and the synonyms of 
 happiness. On their grassy brinks he may sit and listen to the 
 singing of his reel and the swish of his line, and watch the 
 game black bass as he leaps up out of the middle of the stream, 
 with the hook in his mouth, and flashes in the sunlight, and then 
 darts back to make the reel sing and the line swish again. Or, 
 if he wishes a diversity of sport and pleasure, I will loan him 
 one of my shotguns and a pair of my leggings, and we will leave 
 the trout and bass in the brook and brimming river and follow 
 my brace of beautiful Llewellyn bird dogs, "Fiddle" and "Bow," 
 into the fields, and serenade the vanishing coveys with chilled 
 shot and smokeless powder. In such a life in such a land 
 there is no snow upon the heart ; 'tis always summer there. Do 
 you politicians say that you have no time to waste in such un- 
 profitable sports? So said I for twenty years; but I have dis- 
 covered that there is more profit in it, both to the pocket and the 
 soul, than in the phantom-fishing and shadow-chasing sports of 
 politics. There is no meat so sweet as the boneless sides of the 
 speckled trout, and a smoking quail on toast is a joy forever; 
 but you cannot eat the political sucker, nor can you digest the
 
 312 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 game jou bag in politics. It is true that the science of govern- 
 ment is a "wonderful field for the energies of the brain. There 
 is room in its air for every wing; but croaking crows fly above 
 the mocking birds, and pitiless hawks circle to dizzy heights, 
 only to swoop down and strangle the song of the linnet or bury 
 his talons in the heart of the dove. It hath its aAvful altitudes 
 of glory, but merciless condors hover there ; and he who reaches 
 the icy summit will look down on the humbler plane of life 
 below, and wish his feet had never wandered from its warmer 
 sunshine and sweeter flowers. I am now basking in the warmer 
 sunshine and reveling among the sweeter flowers ; and if politics 
 shall ever stand before me again and ask what it can do for 
 me, I will say to it what Diogones said to Alexander the Great : 
 "Please get out of my sunshine." 
 
 O, give the laurels to heroes, the glory to the great, 
 Palaces and power to the heads of State ; 
 But give me love and laughter — my children round my knee, 
 In my happy cottage, O, that's the life for me ! 
 
 RoBT. L. Tayloe. 
 
 TO THE BOYS. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City^ Tenn., 
 
 February 6, 1899. 
 My Dear Chums: 
 
 The happiest period of human life is youth; and the hap- 
 piest specimen of youth is a big, healthy, awkward, watery- 
 jointed, frollicking boy, with his heart full of dreams, and his 
 head full of schemes, and his pockets full of apples and things. 
 He is a bouncing laugh and a bounding yell. He is the beloved 
 bandit of every mother's heart and the delightful outlaw of every 
 old daddy's home. 
 
 What cares he for painted walls, and garnished rooms, and 
 velvet rugs, and pictured tapestries, and pastelles, and water 
 colors, and crayons in frames of gilt and gold? What cares 
 he for frescoed halls, and polished floors, and stairways of 
 mahogany? What cares he for all the chandeliers that shine,
 
 LOVE LETTERS 313 
 
 SO he has liberty to romp on the green carpets of the meadows 
 and hills, under heaven's flaming chandelier, and a place to sleep 
 in the lumber room, among the cobwebs and old, dusty trunks, 
 where his rest is as sweet as though he were pillowed on the 
 couch of a king, with silken curtains drawn about him ? What 
 cares he for champagne and sherry, if he can lie down and drink 
 from the bubbling spring, or hear the corks of laughter pop, and 
 listen to the wild melodies of nature's songs that sparkle in his 
 soul? What cares he for "consomme," so he can get plenty 
 of soup? What cares he for "sirloin," so he has beef to eat? 
 What cares he for "roast prairie chicken," so he gets chicken ? 
 W^hat cares he for all the "a la's" and "de la's" and "au juses" 
 of the up-to-date menu ? They are "vanity and vexation of 
 spirit" to him, in comparison with a good old-fashioned, well- 
 cooked, big-dish home dinner, steaming like an engine, and 
 tempting his appetite with the mingling aromas of boiled cab- 
 bage and stewed turnips, and mashed potatoes, and smoking 
 biscuit, and com dodgers dodging behind the golden battlements 
 of fresh country butter, with big white pitchers sweating on the 
 outside of cold buttermilk, and pumpkin pies laughing all over 
 the table? 
 
 If I wish to find a sure enough boy, I do not search for him 
 in the parlor, but in the pantry. I do not expect to find him in 
 the drawing-room, but in the dining-room. He does not lurk 
 in the library, but in the back yard with his game chickens 
 and white rabbits and Billygoats, or in the fields, shouting and 
 shooting in the glorious company of his faithful dogs. The 
 reason is that a boy loves his stomach better than poems and 
 pictures; he loves nature better than art. The truth is, he is 
 nature's child; and the child loves to play close to the warm, 
 throbbing heart of his mother. 
 
 Nature furnishes him mud puddles to wade in, and swim- 
 ming holes to swim in, and stones to throw, and birds to throw 
 at, and hills to coast on, and streams to fish in, and sunshine to 
 warm in, and shade to cool in, and fruits and berries of every 
 kind to eat, and "Molly Cottontails" to hunt, and a thousand 
 other joys which bless his life. 
 
 But soon the hour comes when nature must wean her boy, 
 and lead him out of her nursery into the sweet gardens of fancy 
 
 (20)
 
 314 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 and tlie green fields of poetry, which lie on the frontier of cold 
 facts — the border land of reality. To prepare him for his future 
 career, she first touches his vocal cords and changes his voice 
 from the tone of the fife to the mellifluous notes of a bass viol, 
 and puts a little hair on his upper lip, and whispers one word 
 in his heart, which, in the twinkling of an eye, changes his 
 dreams and his destiny. That word is "love." What a world 
 of beauty it unfolds to him ! And how sudden is his transition 
 from the mud puddle to the bath tub ; from the "Molly Cotton- 
 tail" to the "Molly Curly-head;" from frolics in the haymow 
 to meditation among the buttercups and clover blossoms; from 
 yells to love songs ; from unrestrained laughter to sickly smiles ; 
 from text-books to novels; from novels to the opera; from the 
 opera to strolls in the moonlight; and from the moonlight to 
 lamplight in the parlor, where he sits behind closed doors in 
 executive session, and holds her hand for an hour and never 
 says a word ! 
 
 The world is a bouquet of flowers to the boy whose heart 
 is full of love. 
 
 When I was a gay country boy in my jeans and my teens, 
 I was as green as the green, green grass, and innocent as Mary's 
 little lamb. I had two cronies who were equally as green as 
 I ; and we had a good right to be green. The fields in which 
 we played together were green, the trees that shaded us were 
 green, the woodlands around us were green, and we were all very 
 fond of turnip greens. But we had seen the sunshine love the 
 green fields into harvests of gold, aad kiss the green mountains 
 until they turned purple w'ith joy and pouted their crimson 
 lips to be kissed again ; and in our jeans, and amid our greens, 
 we sighed for love and kisses. 
 
 The sweethearts of our childhood, like little birds, had long 
 since flown from the mountain to live in a neighboring city, and 
 the report came to us like an echo from paradise that they still 
 remembered us, and loved us, and washed that we might come. 
 So, with butternut suits, and squeaking boots, and our little 
 wool hats with brims pushed up in front, we boarded the cars ; 
 and soon we were primping, and blacking, and brushing, and 
 perspiring in the hotel, within five squares of the flounced and 
 powdered enemy. At length an immense bull's eye watch in
 
 LOVE LETTERS 3I5 
 
 the trembling hands of one of my comrades announced that 
 the hour for action had arrived, and we reconnoitered the 
 crowded streets, "wondering, fearing, donbting, dreaming 
 dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." Far out in the 
 country from whence we had come there was no such thing 
 as a doorbell, and suddenly there was a tapping, as of some 
 one loudly rapping, rapping hard upon the door; and "the 
 silken, sad, uncertain rustling" of our sweethearts' skirts within 
 "thrilled us, filled us with fantastic terrors" we had never felt 
 before. Our hearts leaped to our throats when the heavy-paneled 
 oak door swimg back on noiseless hinges, and the "century 
 reeled" w^hen we paused in the hall under the brilliant chande- 
 lier, where we put into execution our studied and practiced 
 bows. Then there was a rush for three chairs in the farthest 
 corner of the parlor, into which we dropped with a thud, blush- 
 ing and perspiring in front of three sofas in the opposite 
 corner, which were half occupied by three little slippered and 
 skirted dreams of beauty who beckoned and persuaded and 
 coaxed us to come across ; but we answered the challenge with 
 more blushes and more grins and perspiration. The cause of our 
 dreadful embarrassment was our appalling discovery that our 
 sweethearts had evolved into cultured and refined young society 
 ladies, with not a single trace of the country girls we used to 
 know left, either in dress, conversation or appearance ; while 
 we had grown up green and unsophisticated, and, if possible, 
 more awkward than ever. In the midst of our struggle to re- 
 gain our equilibrium the door opened again, and in stepped 
 three elegantly dressed young gentlemen, who were evidently 
 the beaux of our erstwhile sweethearts. The city swell always 
 has supreme eontemj)t for a country boy, especially in the game 
 of love. These young men laughed in our faces when we again 
 put into execution our studied and practiced bows, and they 
 gracefully sat do^vn by the girls and began to pour out great 
 sluices of nonsense. They were kind enough, however, to fire 
 a few questions at us, to which we replied in monosyllables, and 
 with more perspiration, which ran do"wn our cheeks like the 
 rain, until the paper collar of one of my cronies came in two ; 
 and he instantly sprang to his feet and broke for the door, closely 
 followed by his two demoralized and completely routed com-
 
 3l6 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 rades; and amid the protestations and appeals of the young 
 ladies to remain longer, we made a rush for the street and 
 vanished forevermore. 
 
 The years rolled on, and we all found congenial spirits closer 
 home, who made our hearts Edens and our firesides paradise. 
 
 One of my cronies became a splendid business man and 
 private secretary to the Governor of a great State; the other 
 became a judge ; while the city swells who laughed in the faces 
 of the innocent country lads were long since lost in the shuffle, 
 and have never been heard of among those who have succeeded 
 in the world. 
 
 I would not say aught to discourage the boys who dwell in 
 the cities and towns, for they have ten thousand advantages 
 which a country boy never dreams of. The cities and towns 
 are the emporiums of art and science, and the great schools of 
 polytechnics and mechanical training; but the country is the 
 nursery of poets and statesmen. I have seen something of life 
 in both, and my observation has been that the country is the 
 place to raise a boy, where the green hills and beautiful land- 
 scapes broaden his views, and where the great mountains point 
 upward toward God. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 ROBEET L. TaYLOE. 
 
 TO THE GIRLS. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/^ Johnson City^ Tenn.^ 
 
 March 1, 1899. 
 My Dear Little Sweethearts: 
 
 The prettiest thing I ever saw wore dresses; the sweetest 
 thing I ever surveyed had a mouth like a crimson bow, and two 
 bright eyes that looked like two little heavens with angels in 
 'em; and the happiest thing I ever beheld wore slippers and 
 tripped like a fairy on the horizon of life's blissful morning. 
 When I add the dress, and mouth, and eyes, and slippers all 
 together, I have the sum of beauty, sweetness, brightness and 
 happiness ; and that is you. I never see you that I do not think
 
 LOVE LETTERS 317 
 
 of rosebuds, and music, and love; and why should I not think 
 of them? Rosebuds are the prophecies of full-blown beauty, 
 music is the incense of the soul, and love is the soul itself. 
 
 In every human breast there is a little throbbing world, 
 ruddy as the planet Mars, and far more wonderful. It hath 
 but one continent, upon whose purple shores the crimson tides 
 of life forever ebb and flow, measuring off the circling years 
 of time. We call this little world the human heart. It is 
 the paradise of love. Its ruby gates are guarded by the sera- 
 phim of virtue and truth ; and in the rapturous hours of girl- 
 hood no wings ever cleave its crystal air but angel wings ; within 
 its blissful bowers no voices are ever heard but the voices of 
 happiness. The heart of an innocent girl is a little palpitating 
 world of mirth and merriment, untainted by guile, unclouded 
 by sin. It hath its fragrant rose brakes, where beautiful dreams 
 wake and heave the bosom with joy ; it hath its bubbling springs 
 of laughter and its rippling rivers of song ; and here love trans- 
 forms itself into a little winged god, with shining quiver and 
 silver bow, and flies away to the heaven of the eyes, from whose 
 fields of light he finds wanton sport in shooting poisoned arrows 
 at all the hearts that chance to come within his range. 
 
 Do you want me to tell you how you may know when a boy 
 has been hit with one of Cupid's arrows? He begins to shave 
 his pimpled face, and make a desperate effort to sprout a mus- 
 tache; he begins to wear collars bigger than his shirt and a 
 necktie like a morning-glory; he has his trousers creased every 
 day, and his patent leathers polished ; he has a dreamy look, and 
 blushes whether he will or no ; he feels like a culprit, and dare 
 not look you straight in the eyes, lest you discover his secret 
 thought ; he cannot refrain from sending boxes of caramels, and 
 French candies, and fruits in season. The effect of tne amorous 
 wound is blood poison, producing temporary insanity, followed 
 by softening of the brain. 
 
 The young merchant and his clerks let business languish 
 while they play the game of hearts; the young law^-ers turn 
 away from text-book^ to file their first bills in the chancery of 
 love, only to be demurred out of court; the young doctor cures 
 his patients with neglect, while he prescribes affectionate elixirs 
 to his darling "Dul-ci-ne-a del Toboso;" the town swell nicks
 
 3l8 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 his horse's tail and buys a new buggy, and when he has tucked 
 his hallucination close by his side under the silver spray of his 
 new lap robe, there is a ripple of laughter, a crack of the whip, 
 and instantly a silk shirt waist and a cutaway coat "hit the 
 dim and shadowy distance like Nancy Hanks." 
 
 But it is the law of God that through the sacred portals 
 of a true girl's heart only one spirit can pass at a time, to mate 
 with her spirit in the Eden of love; and it is for her, and her 
 alone, to say: "Come in, sweet angel; come in." If the spirit 
 who enters is pure and noble and good and true and con- 
 genial with her ideals, and generous to her whims, then there 
 will be 
 
 Two souls with but a single thought, 
 Two hearts that beat as one ; 
 
 and no matter how dark are the clouds of sorrow that lower, no 
 matter how thick are the troubles of life that gather, the roses 
 of love will bloom on and the fountains of happiness will flow to 
 the grave. But — alas ! — too often the disguised spirit of a brute 
 is admitted, and then the heart is Eden blighted; it is love's 
 paradise lost. 
 
 Did you never see a fair young girl wed a hog and tenderly 
 pat him on the jowl, and did you never hear her call him 
 "Darling ?" I have ; and she wasn't my wife, either. Did you 
 never read in Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream," how 
 the deluded Titania wove garlands of flowers for the brow of an 
 ass ? I have seen it done many a time in actual life. 
 
 It is common for girls to link their precious lives with good 
 looks and good clothes, rather than with heart and brains. 
 
 I drop these little hints in order to warn our girls who have 
 not vet embarked in the heart business to first know the truth 
 before they admit the spirit: for it is a sad spectacle to see a 
 woman's heart become a pigpen, or a mule stall, or the plaything 
 of an idiot. There is only one sadder scene in this world, and 
 that is where a noble young man with splendid possibilities 
 wakes up and finds himself the husband of a silly girl without 
 any heart at all, and has his pinions clipped by a sloven or a 
 scolding wife. There is a great deal of talk about the "new" 
 woman in these latter days. The "old" woman is good enough
 
 LOVE LETTERS 3 19 
 
 for me ; but it matters not whether she is old or new, if the little 
 purple planet in her bosom is all right and its gates are well 
 guarded. 
 
 If a woman has thoughts, let them fly; there is room 
 enough in the intellectual air for every wing. If she can ^vrite, 
 let her have the ink bottle ; give her a pen and foolscap "a-plen- 
 ty." If she must make a living by her o^vn endeavors, either of 
 body or mind, let her have the largest liberty, and let every man 
 take off his hat to her ; but, for the Lord's sake, girls, keep out 
 of politics ; and, above all things, if you have a home, make it 
 bright and beautiful. Let no pleasure come between you and 
 its hearthstone ; let no ambition lure you from its door ; let it be 
 the sun, around which two hearts, at least, shall wheel in perfect 
 peace and harmony, blossoming in its light, and making it a 
 complete planetary system of happiness in the universe of 
 love. 
 
 Go slow, my dears, and take the advice of your mothers. 
 Be sure to cultivate the traits of character which all true men 
 adore. Modesty stands first ; gentleness next ; thoughtfulness for 
 the comfort and pleasure of others, next; kindness, next; and 
 •so on down the line. If you get a chance, study art and music ; 
 and while you sweep the piano keys, don't forget to learn how 
 to sweep with the broom ; while you paint pictures, don't forget 
 to learn to make pies. Know ye that the road to a man's heart 
 is through his stomach, and the path to his soul leads through 
 his eyes. If you would reach both, you must have tidy rooms 
 and an inviting table. If you want to be loved (and you do), 
 be lovable. It won't do to be ''perfectly lovely" one day, and 
 perfectly hateful the next. There is nothing so beautiful as an 
 even temper, provided it is a good temper. One good, sweet, 
 Christian woman in a neighborhood is worth more to that com- 
 munity than fifty-two sennons, for she is a living sermon the 
 year round. 
 
 The world cannot do without you, girls ; but before it claims 
 you, let me whisper a word in your ears. Have all the fun you 
 can. Giggle and laugh as much as you please. Dance, and 
 skip, and romp, and hop until your heart goes "flippity flop," 
 and the blood eddies in your cheeks like the roses that bloom in 
 the spring tra la. Extract every drop of sweetness out of every
 
 320 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 passing hour. Sleep and dream, and wake and dream again. 
 Be happy now, for the clouds of sorrow will lower some day, 
 and some day the troubles of real life will come. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Robert L. Taylor. 
 
 TO THE BACHELOR. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City, Tenn., 
 
 March 15, 1899. 
 My Dear Old Solitary: 
 
 Who mends your socks ? Do you sew on your own buttons ? 
 How long does it take you to thread the needle? Why don't 
 you brush the cobwebs out of your soul, and straighten up, and 
 get a good wife to do all of these things for you ? What pleasure 
 do you find in playing the game of solitaire? Hearts are 
 trumps, and you cannot play a happy game in this world without 
 a partner. It is not good that man should live alone. The world 
 owes you a rib, and you ought to have your old ribs cracked 
 if you don't collect the debt. 
 
 Why don't you rig up your matrimonial tackle, old boy, and 
 go angling for a "frau?" Your old pantaloons look mighty 
 lonesome hanging there in that dusty wardrobe without some 
 calico to keep them company. Your room is a poor paradise 
 without a fair Eve to adorn it. I know what is the matter with 
 you; you are afraid of grocery bills, and dry goods bills, and 
 doctor bills, and curtain lectures, and the overthrow of your 
 independence and freedom of speech, or else you are afraid to 
 "pop the question," and thus lose many a golden opportunity by 
 simply looking at her and grinning like a basketful of 'possum 
 heads. Perhaps you have "popped the question" and got "No" 
 for an answer, but remember that "there are as good fish in the 
 sea as were ever caught," and remember that she is somewhere 
 in this wide, wide world "waiting for thee, darling." 
 
 Comb the feathers out of your whiskers, and put a little 
 bear's oil on your hair, if you have any hair, and spruce up. 
 Don't expect her to court you, but do the courting yourself.
 
 LOVE LETTERS 321 
 
 Press your suit gradually ; and when jou see she is determined 
 to "kick," "kick" first, for then is the time above all other times 
 to show jour independence. A true woman loves an independent 
 man next to money. 
 
 Are you accumulating a fortune? If so, for whom? Did 
 you never hear "Private" John Allen's story of the division of 
 an old bachelor's estate ? When they were dividing it out among 
 his kinsfolk, one disgruntled relative felt that he hadn't received 
 his just proportion, and complainingly said, "I sometimes wish 
 the old man hadn't died." 
 
 If you are poor, you need a good woman to help you get 
 rich; if you are rich, you need a good woman to help you get 
 poor. In either case she is a success. 
 
 For a man to pass through the world without a helpmeet 
 is a strange philosophy to me; and yet I have seen men with 
 as noble hearts as ever throbbed, full of splendid sentiment, and 
 in love with the beautiful, live out their days in single wretched- 
 ness. 
 
 Bacherlordom is a habit; the longer indulged in, the harder 
 to break, until its victim is so infatuated with it that it seems 
 impossible to quit. He becomes "sot" in his ways, and all the 
 frills, and bangs, and bustles, and gaudy shirt waists, and 
 flowered and feathered hats Avhich the milliner's art can fashion, 
 and all the bewitching glances and persuasive smiles which 
 beauty can bestow move him not ; neither do they unmove him. 
 
 One of the attendant misfortunes of a bachelor is absent- 
 mindedness. I once heard of an absentminded bachelor who 
 bought a pair of new gloves, and went home with them and 
 astonished his nephews and nieces by throwing the gloves in the> 
 fire and spitting on the bed. Of course he intended to spit 
 in the fire and throw his gloves on the bed. The best way to 
 cure absent-mindedness is to get a live, wide-awake, talking 
 wife, whose tongue will be a constant reminder to you, and soon 
 teach you to think the right way. 
 
 If all men should foUow your plan of life, what would 
 become of society and civilization ? All the homes that now 
 glow with the light of love and ring with the laughter and song 
 of children would soon be transformed into the silent and sour 
 domiciles of old maids and just such old things as you. I do
 
 322 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 not mean to speak harsHy or to wound your feelings, but only to 
 show you the error of your way. 
 
 If you would enjoy life, you must have a happy home ; and 
 if you would have a happy home, it must glow with happy 
 smiles and ring with happy voices ; and happy hands must keep 
 it neat and clean and plant flowers at the door. 
 
 "Home is not merely four square walls, 
 
 Though with pictures hung and gilded; 
 Home is where affection calls, 
 
 Filled with shrines the heart hath builded. 
 Home — go watch the faithful dove 
 
 Sailing through the heaven above us. 
 Home is where there's one to love ; 
 
 Home is where there's one to love us;" 
 
 I have no doubt you will turn up your nose and charge me 
 with sentimentality. I plead guilty to the soft impeachment. 
 I am sentimental, and I have but little respect for the man who 
 is not. It is the soul of religion and patriotism ; it is the life- 
 blood of all good society ; it is the essence of love. Every soul 
 that ever found its way from earth to heaven was wafted there 
 on the wings of sentiment; every brave spirit who ever faced 
 death for his country was led by sentiment to the battle field; 
 every beautiful picture is a sentiment reflected from the heart 
 on the canvas ; and every creation of the sculptor's chisel is the 
 silent image of a sentiment. What power is it which leads the 
 bride and groom to the altar to seal their vows ? It is the pure 
 sentiment of love. What is it which makes home and life and 
 the world beautiful ? It is sentiment. A\'Tiat are the flowers 
 but the fragrant sentiments of God ? What are the brawling 
 brooks and rippling rivers but the laughter and song of the 
 waters? What are laughter and song but sentiment? 
 
 My wifeless friend, somewhere in thy heart there is an 
 angel sentiment sleeping. I appeal to you, in the name of re- 
 ligion, and patriotism, and society, and love, to awaken it, and 
 let it fly out in search of its kindred sentiment ; and it will not 
 be long until broadcloth and white swiss shall float down the aisle 
 of the crowded church together, and a new book of thy destiny 
 shall be opened, revealing mysteries which thou hast never 
 dreamed of before. Loneliness will quit thee there, and thou 
 shalt walk in sentiment and newness of life.
 
 LOVE LETTERS 323 
 
 Behold the widower, with his pink bald head, his wrinkles, 
 and his rheumatism! 
 
 He wires in and wires out, 
 And leaves the ladies all in doubt 
 As to what is his age, what he is worth, 
 And whether or not he owns the earth. 
 
 He is the most popular man of any age who moves in 
 society. Always light-hearted and gay, he knows all the nigh 
 cuts to the hearts of the fair. He is the "beautifulest" ant in the 
 sugar bowl, and always gets his share of the sugar; he is the 
 swiftest old colt on the turf of love; he leaves you at the first 
 quarter post ; he passes the swellest of the swell in the first half 
 mile, and comes in on the home stretch with his nozzle over the 
 moon and his tail over the stars, a winner in a walk. His power 
 lies in sentiment. 
 
 You are as good-looking as he, and are endowed with as 
 much good sense. Why don't you study him and learn the art 
 of courting? It is the law of nature that all life shall mate, 
 therefore you are disobeying the law of nature. I think nature 
 is wiser than you, and you ought to think so, too ; and now that 
 the beautiful springtime has come, follow the example of "Bob 
 White," and begin to whistle for your mate. It will soon be 
 time for the billing and cooing of the doves. Bill and coo ye. 
 
 Longfellow was not only a poet, but a philosopher, when 
 
 he said: 
 
 As unto the bow the cord is. 
 
 So unto the man is woman ; 
 
 Though she bends him, she obeys him; 
 
 Though she draws him, yet she follows; 
 
 Useless each without the other. 
 
 I am sure you need a little bending, as well as some mend- 
 ing and somebody to follow you, especially when you are out late 
 at night. I am equally sure that you are useless without the 
 other. 
 
 Couple up, get your mate, claim your bride, and begin to 
 live. In the delightful cotillon of married life, give your 
 partner your right hand and swing halfway round. Swing, 
 
 swing, swing 
 
 Yours in the swing, 
 
 KOBEKT L. TaYLOE.
 
 324 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 TO THE DRUMMERS. 
 
 En Route, April 10, 1899. 
 My Dear Fellow-Travelers: 
 
 It is said that birds of a feather flock together. I am glad 
 to be once more able to put on the plumage of a "traveling man," 
 and to flock with the commercial nightingales again. What am 
 I but a drummer ? You sing in your flight of things to eat and 
 things to wear; I sing of "the stuff that dreams are made of." 
 You sell soap ; I peddle sentiment. You deal in dry goods ; I 
 deal in notions, but sometimes my goods are dry. You carry 
 hardware; I use a few augers in my trade. You worry the 
 flesh; I crucify the spirit. Your wares are "of the earth, 
 earthy;" mine are of the wind, windy. 
 
 So here we drummers go, drumming and humming, and 
 loving and laughing and singing. 
 
 Puffing and blowing, 
 Fiddling and bowing, 
 Sampling and showing, 
 Hearts overflowing, 
 Going, going, going— gone! 
 
 We are always gone, but our "goneness" is beneficial to our 
 families in more ways than one. "Distance lends enchantment 
 to the view," and thus our wives and children and sweethearts 
 have fewer opportunities to view our un enchantments. It is the 
 only way we have to keep the loom of love in motion with a 
 little New York Exchange about once a month, and we always 
 receive blessings and benedictions in exchange for "the aforesaid 
 and the same." There is nothing so necessary to the comfort 
 of a family as cash. It has been thoroughly demonstrated by 
 actual experience that our loved ones cati do without us better 
 than they can do without cash; and, besides, we are never at 
 home to "iDother 'em." There is another good thing in this 
 "goneness" — we are at work. There is no doubt but that "an 
 idle brain is the devil's workshop," and it might be added that 
 idle hands are his drmnmers. But the real, genuine drummers 
 are the gray matter of commerce, the nerve of trade; they are 
 the active principle of business ; their industry and energy shut 
 the devil oxit of their brains and bring the angels of happiness
 
 LOVE LETTERS 32$ 
 
 to many a heart and many a home. They are the song birds of 
 civilization, the carrier doves of peace and groceries and general 
 furnishing goods; they are the honeybees of thrift, and the 
 merchants are their buttercups and clover blossoms; they are 
 the angels of comfort and joy, and they carry in their grip- 
 sacks samples of all the seasons. 
 
 If I were a sculptor, I would chisel from marble my ideal 
 of progress. I would make it the form and figure of a drummer 
 with his gripsack in his hand — "loaded for bear." 
 
 I once heard a man sneer at the drummers, and I said to 
 him: "Sir, what are we all, in every profession and vocation 
 of life, but drummers ?" The politician drums for votes with 
 the drumstick of the American eagle; the preacher drums for 
 souls with hallelujahs and the beautiful story of love; the 
 farmer drums the earth and his lazy mule for bread ; the lawyer 
 drums the jury for his fees; the doctor dnmis for health; the 
 railroad drums for passengers; the hotel drums for guests; the 
 lecturer drums "just for fun," and the devil drums us all. The 
 best drummer is the preacher, the best-dressed drummer is the 
 drummer, and the best-looking drummer is the lecturer. 
 
 There is another class of drummers which I was about to 
 forget; they are the editors who drum for hides and scalps. I 
 am especially indebted to this peculiar class of drummers for 
 my bald head, but — thank the Lord — I still have some of my 
 hide left; and yet, when I leave the field of politics and come 
 out on the road with the sure enough drummers, the editors 
 always drum for me and fill my life with happiness until I for- 
 get my political wounds and love the quill drivers still. 
 
 But returning to the smiling subject of this epistle, I wish 
 to say all the good things I can for the drummers, because they 
 deserve much more than they receive. They are the thermome- 
 ters of prosperity and depression. When I see the drummers 
 busy in the day and laughing in the hotels at night, and smoking 
 and spinning yarns, I know that times are good and money is in 
 circulation, and that the country is in good condition ; but when 
 I see the drummers droop and look sour and talk sour ; when I 
 see them but few and far between on the road, then I know 
 that money is scarce and that hard times hangs like a pall of 
 gloom over the land. The best sign of prosperity which I have
 
 326 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 seen lately is the fact that, with the return of the robins and 
 
 bluebirds, the drummers are swarming like bumblebees among 
 
 the fragrant bloom of springtime; and I am swarming with 
 
 them, and receiving my share of the honey. 
 
 The drummer watches the brow of the merchant. If it is 
 
 dark and cloudy, he knows that his prospect for a big sale is bad. 
 
 In my trade, I watch for the brow of the skies ; and if it is dark 
 
 and cloudy, I feel very sad. There is nothing which gives the 
 
 lecturer the nightmare so surely and completely as a rainy night ; 
 
 there is nothing that kills a drummer so dead as a drought ; and 
 
 thus 
 
 "This world goes roun' and roun'," 
 Sometimes we're up, sometimes we're down. 
 
 But I feel sure that we get along about as well as other folks. 
 Human life, both high and low, is a game of seesaw from the 
 cradle to the grave. The best thing for a drummer to do is to be 
 contented with his lot until he finds the gap down leading to a 
 better lot; the best way to find the gap down is to hunt for it; 
 the best way to hunt for it is to work and think, and save 
 a little of what you get each month. The first speech my mother 
 ever taught me was this: 
 
 Little drops of water, little grains of sand, 
 Make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land. 
 
 Save your sand, boys, and bottle up some of your silver dewdrops 
 for the future, for "there'll come a time some day" when you 
 will need both. The more you save the sooner you can find 
 rest and happiness ; and isn't this, after all, your dream ? If I 
 could look into every drummer's heart, I would find one hope 
 blossoming there cherished above all others; it is for the day 
 when he may no longer carry the gripsack. One of the sweetest 
 things Byron ever said was this: 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Robert L. Taylor.
 
 LOVE LETTERS 327 
 
 TO THE FIDDLERS. 
 
 En Route, April 24, 1899. 
 My Dear Fellow-Sawyers: 
 
 Experience teaelies ns that first impressions are the more 
 lasting. Next to the impressions Avhich I received from a dog- 
 wood sprout or twig of a weeping willow, when I was a bare- 
 footed boy, are the impressions which were made upon my yoimg 
 mind and heart by the fiddlers. The tunes they used to play 
 got tangled in my memory and they are just as vivid there today 
 as are the faces I 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 I actually saw them when I 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 I have never 
 heard any sweeter music since. Sam's big brown whiskers 
 rolled and tumbled in ecstasy on his fiddle, as he rocked to and 
 fro, with half-closed eyes, and, with whizzing bow, reveled in 
 the third heaven of "Arkansas Traveler." Polk's black mustache 
 swayed and flopped like a raven's wings, as he soared amid the 
 grandeurs of "Natchez Under the Hill." 
 
 They were the "Paganinis" of the mountains ; they were the 
 "Ole Bulls" of our humble society; they were the royal "Re- 
 menyis" of our rural, rollicking festivities; they were big- 
 hearted and gonial ; they were noble fellows, and so are all 
 fiddlers to this good day. Their melodies were the echoes of 
 nature's sweet voices. In every sweep of the bow there was the 
 drumming of a pheasant or the cackle of a hen or the call of 
 Bob White or the trill of a thrush. Sometimes I could hear a 
 whippoorwill sing; sometimes a wild goose quack, and a pan- 
 ther yell ; now and then the cats would fight, and the music was 
 always mellow with "moonshine." 
 
 When I grew a little larger I 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 soul was in my heels. I still have fond recollections of 
 every fiddler who played at the old-time country dance; and
 
 328 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 when I hear those sweet old tunes, even now it is difficult for me 
 to keep my soul above my socks. 
 
 So far as I am concerned, I am a worshipper at the shrine 
 of music. The classics of Mozart and Mendelssohn are grand 
 and glorious to me, but I cannot be persuaded to turn my back 
 on the classics of the plain country fiddlers. The old 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 flintrock rifles and shrill fifes of Bunker 
 Hill ; every "hornpipe" is a refrain from King's Mountain ; 
 "Old Granny Rattletrap" is a Declaration of Independence; 
 "Jennie, Put the Kittle On," boils over with freedom ; "Jaybird 
 Settin' on a Swingin' Limb" was George Washington's "favo- 
 right," and "Gray Eagle" was Thomas Jefferson's masterpiece ; 
 "Leather Breeches" was the Marseillaise hymn of the old heroes 
 who lived in the days of Davy Crockett. 
 
 No wonder the fiddlers are so patriotic and brave. I never 
 saw a real, genuine fiddler who would not fight ; but, mind you, 
 I have quit fiddling. 
 
 When I grew large enough to cast sheep's eyes at the girls, 
 when love began to tickle my heart and the blood of the violets 
 got into my veins, I began to draw the bow across the vibrant 
 strings of the fiddle to give vent to my feelings, and I poured 
 my spirit out through my fingers by the bucketful. I swapped 
 spirit for smiles at the ratio of sixteen to one ; I exchanged 
 clogs for compliments, and jigs for sighs and sentimental ex- 
 clamations. No ordinary mortal ever felt the raptures of a 
 fiddler; the fiddle is his bride, and the honeymoon lasts for- 
 ever. 
 
 I fiddled and I fiddled and I fiddled, until youth blossomed 
 into manhood, and still I fiddled and I fiddled. Politicians 
 sneered at me as a fiddler; but the girls said it was no harm, 
 and the boys voted while I fiddled, and the fiddle won. There 
 is always some old sour and tuneless hypocrite abusing and 
 denouncing "us fiddlers." I have heard them say that they 
 never saw a fiddler who was "any account," and I have known 
 good men who sincerely believed that fiddlers were dangerous to 
 communities. There never was a greater error of opinion. 
 There is no more harm in wiggling the fingers than there is in
 
 LOVE LETTERS 329 
 
 wagging the tongue, and there is a great deal more religion 
 in a good, law-abiding fiddle than there is in some folks who 
 outlaw that divine instrument. There is infinitely more music 
 in it than there is in some hymns I have heard sung by old 
 dyspeptics who denounce it. Music is music, whether it be the 
 laughter and song of the fiddle or the melodies of the human 
 voice; music is the hallelujah of the soul, whether it comes 
 through fiddlestrings or vocal chords. Happy is the home in 
 which fiddles and fiddlers dwell, and nearest to heaven is the 
 church where fiddlers and singers blend their music in hymns 
 of praise to Almighty God. 
 
 I have heard cultivated musicians laugh at the country 
 fiddler, and call his tunes "rag music;" but the law of com- 
 pensation governs in this realm, as well as in every other, for 
 the country fiddlers laugh just as heartily at the sublimest 
 efforts of high-class musicians. Neither can understand the 
 other. To the noteless and untutored fiddler the grandest efforts 
 of the greatest orchestra are the senseless hieroglyphics of sound ; 
 to the cultured ear the simple melodies which dance out from 
 the bosom of the fiddle and the soul of the fiddler are but the 
 ridiculous buzzings of bumblebee discord. 
 
 But there is no reason why the virtuoso and the fiddler 
 should fall out. Let the nightingale sing in his realm, and let 
 the cricket sing in his. We will all play together on golden 
 fiddles in the "sweet by and by." 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Robert L. Taylor. 
 
 (21)
 
 330 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 TO THE FISHERMEN. 
 
 En Route, May 8, 1899. 
 Dear Brethren: 
 
 The blissful days of spring have come, 
 
 The gladdest of the year, 
 Of purpling hills and fragrant bloom, 
 
 And rivers bright and clear. 
 
 The banks of the brooks are green ; the boughs of the trees 
 bend down; the trout are fluttering in the streams below, and 
 the birds are nesting above. The bees are humming among the 
 flowers ; the forests are singing ; the waters are laughing, and all 
 the world is radiant with joy. Love rides on every passing 
 breeze and lurks in every flower. 
 
 It is nature's sweet resurrection and beauty reigns supreme. 
 
 What a glorious time to resurrect the fishing tackle from its 
 dusty tomb in the lumber room, and the red worm from his 
 slimy sepulcher under the sod, and to impale him on the hook 
 and send him diving after suckers. What a glorious time to 
 camp and frolic on the margin of the frollicking stream, with 
 skillets and lard, and streaked and striped country bacon, and 
 plenty of onions and corn bread, and good butter and eggs, and 
 fiddles to play, and "niggers" for cooks ; big fat trout frying in 
 the pan, black coffee simmering in the pot, and "snake medi- 
 cine" in the "chist!" It is the Eden of the seasons; it is the 
 heaven of life. 
 
 What a joy to linger by the fishing hole. 
 And lazily hold your fishing pole, 
 
 and wait for the fish to bite! What a delightful thrill is the 
 thrill of a nibble! And when you hook a two-pound bass and 
 eagerly undertake to land him high and dry, what beautiful 
 thoughts pass through your brain and what eloquent figures of 
 speech escape from your lips when your line gets tangled among 
 the limbs ten feet above your head, and you see your fluttering 
 prize dangle for a moment in the air, and then, with a farewell 
 flounce, bid you good evening as he drops back into the water 
 and darts away like an arrow! This is a splendid illustration 
 of the feelings of a candidate for political office who is sure
 
 LOVE LETTERS 331 
 
 of his election. He sees victory dangling for a moment in the 
 air, and then, with a farewell flounce, it gets away from him, 
 and there is "weeping and gnashing of teeth." 
 
 Fishing is the greatest sport in the world. There is nothing 
 so exhilirating to the nervous system as the shock of a "jerk," 
 and there is nothing so relaxing as the sight of a vanishing perch 
 with your broken hook in his mouth. There is also a great 
 deal of relaxation in sitting on a snag five hours with bated 
 breath and baited hook waiting for an exhilaration which never 
 comes. I have known gentlemen to engage in this sort of 
 relaxation all day long, and save their reputation as fishermen 
 only by buying a string of the finny tribe from some old dusky 
 wizard of the piscatorial art, and then swearing in camp that 
 they did it "with their little red worms." This is another illus- 
 tration of the success of some statesmen. 
 
 The ultima thule of happiness is the sweet expectancy of a 
 laughing and yarning gang of fishermen advancing to the fish- 
 ing ground in the morning with buckets full of minnows, and 
 hands full of tackle and pockets full of cigars and tobacco and 
 "sich like." 
 
 Poets may sing of banquets in gilded halls where all the 
 mingled sweets of the culinary art are heaped upon the table, 
 and where fairies glint like speckled trout in the crimson depths 
 of wine, and painted devils dance in the amber floods of "corn" 
 and "rye;" but give me a fisherman's lunch and a fisherman's 
 appetite beneath the spreading tree down by the riverside in the 
 deep-tangled wildwood, where the waters murmur at my feet 
 and birds make music all the day. Let the red-nosed revelers 
 sip their wine and chuckle over the triumph of their trusts and 
 combines, but give me a drink of sparkling water from the cold 
 mountain spring and liberty among the hills. Let the men of 
 millions have their pleasure in their palaces ; I envy them not ; 
 let them pass the gilded hours bowing and scraping on velvet 
 carpets and lolling on silken sofas ; but give me the pleasure of 
 the reel and line, and let me bow and scrape on nature's rich 
 carpet of green, among the redbuds and honeysuckles, and loll 
 on the moss-covered logs amid violets and bluebells near the 
 bend of the river, where the cranes bow and scrape to the 
 tadpoles, and the bullfrog sings his sweetest song. Let histo-
 
 332 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 rians tell of the glory of heroes bringing home their spoils from 
 conquered lands, but give me a triumphal march to my own 
 happy home with a beautiful string of fish. The hero will roll 
 and tumble at night with horrible dreams of blood and death, 
 
 Did you ever hear the old story of the family of five 
 but I will sleep like a baby, and dream of trout four feet long, 
 brothers who lived in a cabin ? The only sleeping arrangements 
 they had were two quilts; they all slept together on one, and 
 covered with the other, and in the night when one wished to 
 turn over he shouted "spoon" to the rest, and they all turned 
 at once. One day one of the boys went to the river to shoot 
 fish; he climbed a tree on the bank and crawled out on a limb 
 over the stream and lay there looking down and watching for a 
 scaly victim to shoot at ; but his position was so comfortable 
 that he went to sleep, and a mischievous fellow passing by, know- 
 ing the habit of the family, shouted "spoon" at the top of his 
 voice ; the sleeping fisherman immediately whirled over and fell 
 ten feet splashing into the water. The best way to insure a 
 string of fish is to keep wide awake when you are fishing. 
 
 I used to hear another story of a crowd of jolly fishermen 
 who went into a camp in the heart of a wilderness. A solemn 
 agreement was entered into to the effect that each one of the 
 party should take his turn cooking, and it was further agreed 
 that the first man who complained of the quality of the cooking 
 should be compelled to cook throughout the remainder of the 
 outing or be expelled from the camp; none of the party knew 
 anything about cooking, and finally one day when the "rashens" 
 were in bad shape, there was nothing but some rusty bacon and 
 wilted beans for dinner. All of the party ate and made faces, 
 but one of them suddenly forgot and said: "These are the 
 nastiest beans I ever tasted, but I like 'em." The last clause 
 saved him. 
 
 I have seen this sort of thing occur in politics many a time ; 
 it very frequently happens that the people have to swallow un- 
 savory things and preserve their party loyalty by protesting that 
 they "like 'em." 
 
 The best medicine for nervous strain and overwork is a 
 fishing rod and plenty of bait. The world has gone mad on the 
 subject of money-getting and glory-winning. I love the clink
 
 LOVE LETTERS 333 
 
 of the dollar myself, but only for what it will buy, and to help 
 "some shipwrecked and forlorn brother;" I like a little tinge 
 of glory, too, but not at the expense of the happiness of others. 
 I would rather catch a fish than get a dollar any day; I would 
 rather be a live fisherman than a dead Caesar; I would rather 
 wade in water than to wade in blood ; I would rather wage war 
 on fish than on the Philippines; I would rather have a fisher- 
 man's luck than to be the commander of the late Spanish navy ; 
 therefore I beseech you, brethren, to be steadfast and abide in 
 peace and your gum boots. It is my intention to join you soon. 
 I have been fishing for suckers all the spring; I now propose 
 to catch some trout. Keep a place for me in the tent and save 
 me a seat on the rock ; don't catch all the fish before I get there. 
 
 Trust in the Lord and keep your feet dry, if possible ; don't 
 swear, or you will catch no fish. 
 
 Yours while the fish swim and the waters flow, 
 
 Robert L. Taylor. 
 
 TO THE MOTHERS-IJ^-LAW. 
 
 Your Majesties: 
 
 I have always had great charity for the mistakes of Adam, 
 because he had no mother-in law to curb him. If she had been 
 there the forbidden fruit would not have been eaten. All the 
 world would now^ be paradise ; the women would still be dressing 
 in sunshine, and the men would still be clad in climate. All the 
 ills we now endure are the fruits of sin ; all sin is the outgro\vth 
 of the first transgression, and the first transgression was com- 
 mitted because there was no mother-in-law in Eden to forbid it. 
 Satan would have kept his distance if Adam had been a son- 
 in-law ; and even after man had fallen, the Lord saw that he was 
 prone to fall still lower, and so he provided the third person, 
 singular, and named her "mother-in-law," to be his guardian 
 angel and watch him day and night. But it has been the habit 
 of malicious men from time immemorial to speak disrespectfully 
 of the dear old spectacled angels and to refer to them as the 
 embodiment of tyranny and the personification of terror.
 
 334 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 I once heard of a man who said that his principal posses- 
 sions in this world were an appetite and a mother-in-law, and 
 that he had never been able to satisfy either. 
 
 A crowd of boys dragged a cannon down to the river one 
 Fourth of July and began to celebrate the anniversary of the 
 Declaration of Independence by firing across the stream. A 
 man came running, with his hat off and his hair floating in the 
 air, shouting at the top of his voice : "Stop shooting, boys ; for 
 the Lord's sake, stop shooting!" "What do you wish us to 
 stop shooting for ?" asked the boys ; and, with a voice trembling 
 with fear, he shouted back to them: "My mother-in-law got 
 droMTied there yesterday, and I am afraid you will raise her." 
 
 I have frequently heard it said of sad and subdued-looking 
 men, as I have passed along in life, that they were suffering 
 with a bad case of mother-in-law. It has come to pass almost 
 everywhere that if the maternal ancestor of the wife even sug- 
 gests to the husband in the tenderest tones of voice and the 
 most affectionate language that he ougJit not to do a thing, he is 
 sure to do it, out of fear of public opinion; or if she urges 
 him to do a thing, he leaves it undone to prove to the world that 
 he is not ^T)ossed" by his mother-in-law. All this abuse and all 
 these vicious attacks on the mothers of our wives are mean and 
 contemptible, and a direct reflection upon our wives them- 
 selves. The sweetest and purest and best woman I ever saw, 
 except my mother and my wife, is my mother-in-law. Her life 
 has been a sacrifice to the comfort and happiness of her children, 
 and so it is with most mothers-in-law. In nine cases out of ten 
 it could be appropriately and truthfully said that she is suffer- 
 ing from a bad case of son-in-law. If a man is unkind, or even 
 neglectful of his wife, he is pretty sure to hear from the 
 mother-in-law; that is right. If he fails to provide for his 
 family, she has a right to look at him over the top of her 
 spectacles and make the king's English crack like a cowhide 
 around his ears ; if he wantonly spends his evenings away from 
 his own fireside and comes home with snakes in his boots, she 
 has a right to "stick her nose in his business" and her fists in 
 his face, and it is her divine right to "lay down the law" to 
 him.
 
 LOVE LETTERS 335 
 
 T think it is a glorious thing for society that weak-minded 
 and guilty men are afraid of their mothers-in-law. Otherwise, 
 many a home would be turned into Hades, and many a sweet 
 and gentle spirit would be einished ; many a family of little 
 children would suffer, and many a son-in-law who now walks 
 in "the straight and narrow path" would be a worthless vaga- 
 bond in the gutters and the slums of earth. 
 
 The mother-in-law is the conservator of the peace, and not 
 its disturber, as many bad men would make it appear. She 
 is the Goddess of Liberty enlightening the little world within 
 the four walls of home ; she is the Minerva of the hearthstone ; 
 Jove is enthroned upon her brow, and the Furies sleep in her 
 eyes. Woe betide the son-in-law who transgresses the law of 
 Jove! for then the righteous Furies wake and leap like forked 
 lightnings into the face of the transgressor, and he is left in the 
 condition of the man who went out West. News came back to 
 his father: "Your son is dead." The old man telegraphed 
 immediately, "Send me his remains," and received this reply: 
 "They hain't no remains ; a cyclone struck him." 
 
 But to the man who does his faithful duty to his family, 
 his country and his God, the mother-in-law is a "thing of beauty 
 and a joy forever." She nurses his children and cares for 
 them, she stays with them at night while he and his wife are at 
 the party; she nurses him w^hen he is sick and makes him 
 swallow his medicine on time, and cuts off all communication 
 with the outside world till he is well again. If his creditors 
 become too numerous and annoying, she stands guard at the 
 door and hedges it about with fire and brimstone. She is the 
 cornerstone of the church and the leader of the "Ladies' Aid 
 Society;" she is the president of the "Busy Bees" and the re- 
 cording secretary of the "Daughters of the Revolution ;" she is 
 the grand regent of the "Daughters of the Confederacy" and the 
 sponsor of the "Grand Army of the Republic ;" she presides 
 over all sewing circles and knits socks for the circuit riders; 
 she is the secretary of war in every neighborhood and the com- 
 mander in chief in every home; she is the foundation of civil- 
 ized society, for society could not exist without families, and 
 there could be no legitimate family without a mother-in-law; 
 she is the grandmother of orators, poets, scholars, heroes and
 
 336 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 statesmen. Then let us cherish our mother-in-law and be tender 
 with her; let every husband fall at her feet and shout: "Great 
 is Diana of the Ephesians!" Let us give her praise and honor 
 and glory, for in dealing with her "discretion is the better part 
 of valor." 
 
 My advise to every bachelor is to get a mother-in-law; and 
 to every widower, to get two mothers-in-law. Take up the white 
 man's burden, old boys; take up the white man's burden; join 
 the happy band of benedicts and learn to sing sweet lullabies 
 and "Home, Sweet Home." 
 
 God pity the homeless and childless and mother-in-lawless 
 man! He does not know what the twining of tender arms 
 means; he has never felt that rapture which fills the heart of 
 the father and husband and son-in-law when he crosses the 
 threshold of home and hears the sweet voices of welcome there. 
 The laughter and songs of little children, blood of his blood and 
 flesh of his flesh, have never been tangled with his life. He is a 
 living disappointment, and his very existence has soured on his 
 stomach. 
 
 ]^o man is safe on this tide of life without a mother-in-law. 
 
 Dear old guardians of our wives and our homes, with un- 
 covered head I bow to you and subscribe myself, sincerely and 
 faithfully, 
 
 One of your sons-in-law, 
 
 ROBEET L. TaYLOE. 
 
 TO THE CANDIDATE. 
 
 En Route, June 12, 1899. 
 Dear Children of Hope: 
 
 You have my sincere commiseration and tender sympathy. 
 
 Thorns are hid among the flowers, 
 
 Along the path you tread, 
 Thorns are in the passing hours, 
 
 And thorny is your bed. 
 
 You are "in the hands of your friends," and they are quietly 
 working up your boom. Like Caesar, you are swearing you
 
 LOVE LETTERS 337 
 
 don't want the crown, but you smile graciously on your Antonies, 
 who are offering it. The more you refuse, the more they press 
 you to receive it and save your country from wreck and ruin. 
 You are nervous and reticent; you fear the daggers of Brutus 
 and Cassius. While your friends are tossing their hats in the 
 air and shouting, "Vive la Candidate !" the low and vulgar are 
 "tellin' a pack of tales" on you. They whisper around that you 
 are weak in the upper story; that you are not altogether "the 
 clean thing sweetened ;" that you are deceitful and totally un- 
 reliable; they call you "hog" and "buzzard" and "mangy cur;" 
 the newspapers skin you from head to foot, and the little whip- 
 per-snapper politicians make carrion of your good name. You 
 dare not defend yourself, lest you be branded as a bully. All 
 you can do is to smile and fight, not with guns, but with wind. 
 There are "sweet prospects, sweet birds and sweet flowers" 
 before you, dear candidate. Millions of churches just completed 
 need new bells, and the committee will soon wait on you for a 
 donation, and you must "ante up" the "dough;" there are 
 also millions of church organs unpaid for, and of course the 
 candidate must bear his share of the burden; book agents 
 will darken your horizon, and it is your duty to carry a fountain 
 pen to facilitate subscription work ; campaign borrowers will 
 haunt you, softly whispering in your ear : "Sweet spirit, hear 
 my prayer." You must be ready to go security and sign every 
 kind of bond for "your friends;" you must not wince when 
 some enthusiastic fool grasps you by the hand and twists it 
 and squeezes it until you can hear the bones pop ; you must go 
 into ecstasies of laughter when your intoxicated fellow-citizen 
 stops you on the street and puts his arm around your neck and 
 blows your ear full of corn whisky and tobacco juice, while he 
 whispers to you a silly yarn which he has told you a dozen 
 times before; you must provide yourself with Sunday school 
 speeches, picnic addresses, commencement orations, Fourth of 
 July pyrotechnics, flaming eulogies on Thomas Jefferson, after- 
 dinner talks at dollar banquets, apostrophes to "The Press," ex- 
 temporaneous speeches for conventions, tributes to music, flights 
 of eloquence on the influence of women, bouquet acceptances, and 
 side-splitting anecdotes for men only; you must have all these 
 on your tongue — yea, verily, at its very end; you must carry
 
 338 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 an affidavit face, and when you tell political lies, do it with a 
 clear conscience, else the muddy look in your eyes will convict 
 you. The greatest blessing in politics is to possess the hide of 
 a rhinoceros, thorn-proof and dagger-defying; and if you have 
 a kind heart, encase it with steel and hedge it around with 
 frowns and dignity. There is nothing like dignity as a protec- 
 tion to the candidate who has no brains. Throw sympathy to the 
 dogs, if you would be "great;" it is looked upon by politicians 
 as a sign of weakness ; and if you have gratitude in your heart, 
 strangle it, for the v/ord "gratitude" is not in the "bright lexi- 
 con" of politics. Stern old Andrew Johnson drove center when 
 he said : "Gratitude is a lively sense of favors to come." When 
 James G. Blaine was told that a certain prominent gentleman 
 was opposing him in his canvass, he said, with a twinkle in his 
 eye: "I am surprised to hear that, for I cannot remember 
 that I ever did him a favor." But I think Mr. Blaine went a 
 little too far, because when I was in politics I found in my 
 humble career many men who appreciated honors conferred 
 upon them, and who have been as true and faithful and kind to 
 me in the evening as they were in the morning; and yet in my 
 little sphere I have had my little Brutuses. 
 
 Of course somebody has to save the country, and it might 
 as well be you as any other patriot. I saved it for twenty 
 years, but I now respectfully decline to save it any longer — 
 mind you, I am not playing Caesar; I am only an humble 
 citizen. In my State we have both Caesar and Pompey, but I 
 cannot prophesy whether it will be the red or the bald which 
 will roll from the block. It is likely they will profit by the 
 history of Rome and divide the empire and its glory. 
 
 There are many grave and vital questions which are now 
 confronting the American people, and our candidates will be 
 called upon to speak out upon them all, and the people 
 must speak at the ballot box or liberty will perish among 
 its worshipers. The day is rapidly approaching when there 
 will not be a drummer on the road. Hundreds of thou- 
 sands of good men who are now making an honest living by 
 honest work will soon be thrown out of employment, because the 
 trusts are localizing business ; hundreds of thousands of laborers 
 will be laid off, because the trusts are crushing the small manu-
 
 LOVE LETTERS 339 
 
 facturers ; thousands of merchants now in the jobbing business 
 will soon wake up without a job because the trusts will order the 
 retail merchants to buy directly from the manufacturers. The 
 coil of the serpent is tightening. The day will soon dawn when 
 no man will dare to enter politics who does not wear the collar 
 of a trust; and the trusts will not only control business, but 
 politics, in this land of liberty. The trust will manage all cam- 
 paigns, and the candidate will be absolutely independent of the 
 people. All he will have to do when elected will be to draw 
 his salary and shout: "Long live the trusts!" Our country is 
 looking for candidates of courage today — men who will dare to 
 sever the head of the serpent from its body, men upon whom the 
 people can rely and upon whose shoulders must rest the duty 
 of saving the republic. I hope you will prove yourself the man 
 we are looking for. 
 
 Very truly, your fellow-citizen, 
 
 Egbert L. Tatloe. 
 
 TO THE SWEETHEARTS. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City^ Tenn., 
 
 June 24, 1899. 
 Dear Sweethearts: 
 
 I wish that life might always be as sweet to you as it is 
 today, and that the world might ever be as bright and beautiful. 
 For you the flowers are in full bloom, and the air is burdened 
 with songs for your delight. Laughter is on your lips, and 
 love gladdens your hearts and fills them with emotion which no 
 tongue can express. To you every grove is a paradise on earth, 
 and every grapevine swing is a sylvan chariot. To you the 
 humming birds and butterflies are the cherubim and seraphim 
 of the meadows. All the springs that bubble among the purple 
 hills, and all the brooks that leap over the rocks and eddy 
 among the shadows, sing to you of love. All things material 
 become spiritual, and you live in the bright world of fancy 
 where rivers of dreams flow through phantom landscapes of 
 ineffable beauty. In this bright realm there is only room for
 
 340 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 two — two sweethearts hand in hand and heart to heart, two 
 souls with but a single thought. No intruders are welcome 
 there ; solitude and silence are to you "like apples of gold in pic- 
 tures of silver." Every smile is a seventh heaven, every loving 
 look a glimpse of immortality, and every moment an eternity 
 of happiness. 
 
 I wish I could tell you how you feel. I know, but cannot 
 express it. You rise from your slumbers in the morning and 
 feel sick, but it is a different kind of sickness from any you 
 ever experienced ; you are sick, but it is a sort of sweet flutter 
 about your heart, and a sweet, sickening, honey-like aching of 
 your brain. It is an indefinable wish which makes yon nervous 
 and absent-minded. Your soul is constantly slopping over with 
 poetic thoughts which you cannot imprison within the narrow 
 confines of human language; your heart is a poplar blossom of 
 emotions, and your head is a beehive of sweet thoughts; your 
 appetite has deserted you, and you are "pale around the gills ;" 
 your spirit feels a lasso around its neck, which draws you out 
 through the gate and down under the trees to the spot where you 
 have met each other a thousand times. Now you are happy ; not 
 a wave of trouble rolls across your peaceful breast ; and "that's 
 what's the matter with Hannah," and that's what's the matter 
 with Hiram. It is a delightful spell of hallucination. He is the 
 "Hal," and she is the "Lucy;" and when "Hal" meets "Lucy" 
 what else could there be but hallucination? To his eyes her 
 ribbons are streaks of light, and to his ears the "swish" of her 
 skirt is like unto the rustling of angel's wings. To her the fuzz 
 on his upper lip is a poem, and his bestudded shirt front and 
 high-standing collar cover a multitude of sins. To him she is 
 a bundle of sweetness ; to her he is a beegum of honey. To him 
 earth is a clover blossom ; to her the stars are a bunch of daisies. 
 To both all nature is heaven, and all of life is tomorrow. 
 
 Dream on, O sweet sweethearts ! Dream in the leafy bowers 
 of youth ; dream in the moonlight of romance ; dream in the 
 sunshine of sentiment in the fruited and flowered gardens of 
 exuberant young life. Dream while yet you dwell among the 
 opium-scented poppies of life in the careless, happy realm of 
 sweethearts. Dream on, nor seek to wake too soon; for the 
 flowers will shed their bloom at your feet, the leaves will wither
 
 LOVE LETTERS 34 I 
 
 and fall around you, and the spring and summer of love's young 
 dream will soon pass away. The ideal will melt into the real; 
 the daisies and clover blossoms will soon be hay, and the silked 
 and tasseled com will soon turn to fodder and "roas'n ears." 
 Where now the happy twain are wont to stroll down among the 
 daffodils and pansies, he will soon be strolling between the plow- 
 handles, in the new-made furrow, breathing the sweet aroma of 
 the new-plowed ground, and dreaming of corn dodgers in the 
 fall. She will desert her balcony to bend over the washtub 
 on the back porch, and while she washes his studless and collar- 
 less linen, she will sadly sing: 
 
 What peaceful hours I once enjoyed — 
 How sweet their memory still! 
 
 The shadows will soon be reserved, and all of life will be yester- 
 day, except the house rent, and grocery bills, and taxes, which 
 will be due tomorrow. Today he has red hair and white teeth ; 
 tomorrow he will have white hair and no teeth. Today she has 
 blue eyes and red lips; tomorrow she will have blue lips and 
 red eyes. 
 
 Dream on, O SAveet sweethearts ! Your dreams are now 
 perfumed with joy and tinted with hope ; but you will wake to 
 the realities of beefsteak and onions and the struggle for hash. 
 Dream on, and rejoice in the companionship of the linnets and 
 orioles; you will soon prefer the society of your pigs and 
 chickens, and the bleating of your sheep and billy goats. 
 
 Many things which now seem sweet will soon turn sour. 
 You will go oiit of the ideal into the real. But no matter if 
 the flowers fade and beauty vanishes; no matter if the phan- 
 toms of youth take wings, and all its fleeting pleasures evapo- 
 rate ; no matter if cares and troubles come ; no matter if your 
 heads turn gray, and the crow's feet gather at the corners of 
 your eyes, and your brows become wrinkled, and your cheeks 
 colorless and your bodies bent; if your love is true love now, 
 you will still be sweethearts as tender and true in the evening 
 of life as you were in its blissful morning, and you will walk 
 arm in arm among the gathering shadows and weave all the 
 sweet memories of youth into the happy twilight song of tot- 
 tering old age. When love like this dwells in the heart, how
 
 342 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 sweet and beautiful are the lives of the sweethearts, and what a 
 glorious exemplification of the truth that ''life is indeed worth 
 living!" 
 
 When I hear a man railing at his wife, or a woman tonguing 
 her husband, I know that sweethearts have turned sour, and I 
 can see the wisdom of God in providing the "tongueless silence 
 of the dreamless dust." I have heard it said that matches are 
 made in heaven, but there is not a word of truth in the saying. 
 Matches are always made on earth. If they were made in 
 heaven, there would never be an ill-matched couple ; there would 
 never be an incompatible marriage, there would never be a 
 brutal husband or a brawling wife. There would be but little 
 of hell on earth. Every home would be an Eden, and every 
 heart a paradise. 
 
 My advice to sweethearts is this: If your tempers clash 
 and your temperaments are not congenial, if you quarrel before 
 you marry, you can set it down as a certainty that you will 
 quarrel, and maybe fight, after marriage ; and if you quarrel and 
 fight after marriage, you might as well be in that land "where 
 they never shovel snow." Hell after death will be nothing 
 new to you. 
 
 Find a congenial spirit. If you are in love with your sweet- 
 heart only because she is beautiful, you will find that your love 
 will be of "but a few days and full of trouble," for beauty is 
 only skin deep and soon fades. If you are in love with your 
 sweetheart for symmetry of form and grace of motion, so has 
 the tiger symmetry of form, and it is a very graceful mover. 
 The loveliest specimen of flesh and blood, without a gentle 
 spirit and a lovable soul, is only a "rag and a bone and a hank 
 of hair." Life is elyseum to congenial spirits ; it is "ehellium" 
 to uncongenial spirits. 
 
 Sweethearts, choose your partners; and I hope and pray 
 that you may not be disappointed in your choice. 
 
 Good-by, sweethearts, good-by. 
 
 Yours lovingly, Robt. L. Tayloe.
 
 LOVE LETTERS 343 
 
 TO THE SPORTSMEN. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City, Tenn., 
 
 July 8, 1899. 
 Dear Princes of Pleasure: 
 
 You are men after my own heart. Next to my wife and 
 children, I love my horses and my dogs ; next to the fiddle and 
 the bow, I prize my guns and my fishing rods; and above all 
 associations except those of home, I prefer your society. There 
 is no music like the music of the chase ; there is no excitement 
 equal to it. When the wild deer springs from shady copse or 
 tangled covert, and the eager pack open in full cry, you take 
 the "buck ager" and tremble on the stand in the gap of the 
 mountains. You hear the music rise and fall and fall and rise 
 from hollow to hill and from hill to hollow, like the chiming 
 of distant bells; louder and louder it rises; nearer and nearer 
 it comes; you turn pale and quiver from head to foot; your 
 pulse rises to a hundred and twenty a minute; you hear the 
 quick rustling of leaves a hundred yards away; you catch a 
 glimpse of something bounding by you like a rubber ball ; you 
 jump around like a chicken with its head cut off; your arms 
 take the palsy, and you pull the trigger and shoot a hole in 
 the sky. The bellowing hounds go sweeping by you like a 
 whirlwind; you wipe the beads of sweat from your brow, and 
 lie dovsTi under the shade of the trees to "cuss" and cool. Then 
 you hear the crack of a Winchester a half mile down the hol- 
 low; the music suddenly hushes; you rise and run; you hear 
 the exultant yell of your companion, and there is venison in 
 camp for supper, and smoking after supper, and lies, and ex- 
 planations, and excuses; and then there is sleep full of dreams 
 and nightmares and visions of vanishing deer all night long. 
 
 But the deer hunt is rapidly becoming a thing of the past 
 in almost every section of America. We have been no more 
 merciful to the gamest game of the forest than to the poor 
 Indian ; they have gone together to the "happy hunting ground." 
 It is a pity that our lawmakers have so completely and uni- 
 versally neglected to give us wholesome laws for the protection 
 of our game. In their eagerness to protect the cities and towns 
 they have forgotten the country, both man and beast ; and they
 
 344 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 still continue to forget. Our great forests are disappearing 
 with the Indian and the deer. If our statesmen would give 
 more attention to the protection of timber and game, and less 
 to the upbuilding of privileged classes and the cultivation of 
 trusts, our people would have more health, wealth and happi- 
 ness. 
 
 But there is one sly old individual of the forest and field 
 which still lives in spite of the politicians, the world, the flesh, 
 and the devil, and he is the irrepressible and unextinguishable 
 fox, who still continues to dress in his red uniform, and who 
 still delights to play drum major for our yelping hounds and 
 for us. Did you never rise from your beds at the break of 
 day, when the frost was on the pumpkin and the air was crisp 
 and cool; and did you never mount your prancing horse and 
 sound your hunter's horn and listen to your howling and whin- 
 ing hounds as they gathered around you, anxious to join in the 
 glorious jubilee; and did you never hear the sound of other 
 horns in the distance, simimoning you to the meeting place down 
 at the end of the lane by the skirting woods ? Of course you 
 have, and you galloped away with joy ; and just when the morn- 
 ing was hanging her banners of purple and gold on the sky, and 
 the forest was throbbing a tribute of welcome to her; just as 
 the glad world was waking with laughter and song, old "Drum" 
 and "Fife" opened on the point of the hill just above you, 
 "Bugle" gave a few quick and shrill yelps, and the hounds 
 huddled and struck the trail. Old "Trombone" led off with a 
 solo, "Queen" chimed in with her E flat cornet, old "Basso" 
 thundered an accompanying blast, and all the band began to 
 play. "Beauty" laughed with her piccolo, "Sport" and "Speck" 
 blew the tenor horns, "Blue" and "Black" and "Tan" played 
 the alto, and there were flutes, and fiddles, and flageolets, and 
 triangles, and tambourines, and tinkling cymbals galore. There 
 were fluttering hearts and quivering leaves, and the hills fairly 
 shook with the chorus. The wily fox circled and swung around 
 the ridges, and the music circled and swung close at his heels. 
 Joy was unconfined, and the flying melody filled the air like the 
 incense of wild flowers. The echoes caught up the strain and 
 passed it round from cliff to cliff until the beams of the rising 
 sun danced in the tree tops and swung corners with the shadows
 
 LOVE LETTERS 345 
 
 below. At ten o'clock there was a fox skin hanging in your 
 barn, you were eating breakfast at home, and your tired hounds 
 were panting in the kennel. 
 
 Whether it be hunting the deer, or chasing the fox, or shoot- 
 ing out the eye of a squirrel on the highest limb of the tallest 
 tree, or courting the coveys in the fields, or flirting with the fish 
 in the streams, the life of the sportsman is glorious. Nature 
 reveals her charms to him, and he learns to love her more and 
 more for her kindness and her beauty. His memory is not an 
 old, dingy garret full of cobwebs; it is a continent ever fresh 
 and green with landscapes, skirted with cooling woods and 
 traversed with sparkling streams. He is not forever moaning 
 and groaning over a skeleton in his closet ; he is shouting after 
 live meat in the forest. He is not dreaming of gold in a little 
 old, dirty, sin-stained, spit-spotted counting-room; but he is 
 dreaming of the antlered buck, or a bear at bay, and listening 
 for the rustle of the wild turkey's wings, and drinking in the 
 melodies of the deep tangled wildwood. He is not the som- 
 nambulist of roast lamb, and rich croquettes, and frozen egg- 
 nog, walking and screaming at midnight in the tenth story of 
 some fashionable hotel, with lace curtains parted and the win- 
 dow up, but he is the wide-awake and yelling follower of the 
 feathered phantoms of the stubble and the specters that crouch 
 and spring in the deep solitudes of the mountains. 
 
 Poets mirror nature in their songs, and painters make the 
 canvas glow with its reflected lights and shadows; but the 
 sportsman sees, and hears, and touches the very substance of 
 the poet's song, and walks among the lights and the shadows 
 which inspire the painter's dreams. 
 
 Next to the chase and the bird hunt, I like the clay pigeon 
 shoot. We have a gun club in our to^\^l, They are all good 
 fellows, and I am training them to be pretty good on the wing. 
 My object is to bring these amateurs to such a state of efficiency 
 in the winging art as will enable them to amuse me in a match, 
 and I have strong hopes of success after a season or two of hard 
 work. Some of the young men are very promising; some of 
 them are all promises and no "pro formances." The name 
 of our organization is "The Johnson City Barn Door Club," 
 The qualifications for membership are that the candidates must 
 
 (22)
 
 346 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 be able to bit a barn door and cough up a $5 bill. We find it 
 difficult to get a quorum. We use tbe genuine smokeless powder 
 and hitless shot, also breathless pigeons ; but we are a little band 
 of busy bees, and propose to some day vanquish the champions 
 of the world. 
 
 Finally, brethren, these outdoor sports are good for both 
 body and soul. They give us muscle and mental vigor; they 
 broaden our chests and our views of life ! they lengthen our 
 days and lighten our troubles. They are far better than our 
 modern society amusements, which womanize man and manize 
 woman. 
 
 As I have just received a note from a prominent member 
 of the "Johnson City Barn Door Club" informing me that our 
 treasurer has absconded, and summoning me to the chase, I must 
 hie away to the woods. Farewell. 
 
 RoBT. L. Taylor. 
 
 TO THE SCHOOL TEACHERS. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City^ Tenn., 
 
 July 24, 1899. 
 Dear Pedagogues : 
 
 I wonder if you are not happy today in your peaceful im- 
 munity from books and slates and chalk and blackboards and 
 cold facts and figures and queries from every grade of intelli- 
 gence and every shade of curiosity ; I wonder if you do not feel 
 like birds just out of a cage — unfettered and unconfined, with 
 whole firmaments of freedom to fly in and whole forests of rest 
 to dream in. 
 
 Through all the weary months you have been teaching the 
 young idea how to shoot, and I am sure that when the last 
 lesson was recited, and the last sentimental essay was read, and 
 the last oration illuminated the horizon on commencement day, 
 it was a moment of unutterable happiness to you ; I am sure 
 that when the college doors closed behind you and you started 
 in search of the old, familiar haunt of summer, to swing in 
 grapevine swings and lounge on lazy lawns, you could scarcely
 
 LOVE LETTERS 347 
 
 restrain the impulse to swing your hats in the air and shout: 
 "Hurrah for Old Vacation!" 
 
 The summer outing is the bright oasis in the life of the pro- 
 fessor. It hath groves of recreation and gardens of pleasure; 
 it hath fountains of laughter and brooks of song; it is a breath- 
 ing spell for the tired spirit; it is a bed of roses for the weary 
 brain. I always feel like bowing with uncovered head in the 
 presence of the school teacher. The stone-cutter chisels the rock 
 from the quarry; the teacher cuts and carves and moulds in the 
 imponderable material of mind and soul. The architect builds 
 the chiseled stone into massive walls and erects mansions for the 
 physical man, but the teacher builds temples of knowledge and 
 palaces of thought. None but the noble and the pure in heart 
 should be allowed to teach, because their works endure forever. 
 Mind touches mind, either to beautify or to pollute; character 
 touches character, either to adorn or to blacken; soul touches 
 soul, either to bless or to blur. 
 
 It is not only the province of the teacher to lead the child in 
 the paths of knowledge, but it is also in his power to inspire 
 honesty and to impress the principles of truth and virtue. A 
 community blessed with good teachers is sure to be blessed with 
 an enlightened and worthy citizenship. 
 
 I think there has been more progress in education in the 
 last half a century than in any other realm of endeavor. The 
 standards are higher than the old standards, and the methods 
 are superior to the old methods. Our institutions of learning 
 are working wonders. They are the blossoming of a higher and 
 a better civilization, and on this rock rests the safety of the 
 republic. Xo country in the world has so rapidly advanced in 
 the building of schoolhouses and in the increase of educational 
 facilities as the South. We have universities not more than a 
 third of a century old which are already the pride of our people 
 and the glory of our country. Our colleges have increass'd in 
 number and influence; our public schools are spreading every- 
 where, and it is now only in th6 most remote and poverty- 
 stricken sections where even the poorest children have not the 
 opportunity to taste the sweets of knowledge. 
 
 We are in the race for educational supremacy. Our N'orth- 
 ern brethren have had about a century the start of us, and they
 
 348 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 laugh in our faces and comment on the ignorance of our people. 
 I have seen published in the magazines of the North accounts of 
 plays and novels portraying our murder of the "King's Eng- 
 lish." Only a little while ago I saw in one of their periodicals 
 the pictures of the actors and actresses who are amusing inno- 
 cent audiences with a play purporting to represent the illiteracy 
 of the South. It is the superlative of slander and the acme of 
 assininity. I have lived in the South forty-eight years, and T 
 have never heard the most ignorant person say "we-uns." We 
 have our provincialisms ; so has every section its peculiar provin- 
 cialisms. I have heard Bostonians say: "You hadn't ought 
 to do it." This is no sweeter to the ear than the Southerner's 
 expression: "I've done done it." The Philadelphian says 
 "wat" for "what." This sounds as funny to us as when an 
 illiterate man from a Southern district planks down a broad 
 "which ?" when he fails to catch a question propounded to him. 
 Many people right in the shadow of Harvard College say "to 
 hum," which, being translated, means "at home." I might 
 name a long string of "sich," but I "hain't" got time. 
 
 I repeat that the ISTorth has a hundred years the start of us 
 in this educational race ; but I warn them to keep their eyes on 
 the wire and their spurs in the flank, for as sure as the Lord 
 reigneth the country they laugh at today will show them its 
 heels tomorrow ; for, in the language of one of our distinguished 
 Southern teachers, "Literature loves a lost cause." There never 
 was a truth more beautifully expressed. Poets have already 
 begun to sing among our broken columns. Oratory still lives 
 to immortalize the deeds of Southern heroes and to scatter the 
 lilies of love over their graves. Authors will yet rise to write 
 among our monuments and to thrill the gi'eat heart of all 
 humankind with the story of the grandest civilization this world 
 ever saw. 
 
 The South will some day blossom like the rose in art and 
 literature and in all the elements of intellectual as well as ma- 
 terial wealth. Then she will clasp hands with an enlightened 
 North, and the twain shall walk together as one in perfect peace 
 and unity. 
 
 There is a glorious field of labor already ripe for our teach- 
 ers; let them enter it and reap the golden harvest. The clus-
 
 LOVE LETTERS 349 
 
 ters are purple in the vineyards ; let them enter and gather for 
 the wine press. The hills of the future are abloom with oppor- 
 tunities; let them climb to the heights and pluck the flowers. 
 We have proved in the past that we have the material out of 
 which statesmen are made; that we have the soil where presi- 
 dential timber has grown. We have the same sunshine which 
 warmed the hearts of our fathers, and we have the same blood 
 which was shed on a hundred battle fields; and nothing can 
 prevent us from being as mighty in peace as we have been brave 
 in war. 
 
 Teachers, take our children and train them for the future. 
 Adieu. 
 
 RoBT. L. Taylor. 
 
 TO THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 
 
 "Robin's Roost/' Johnson City^ Tenn., 
 
 September 22, 1899. 
 To the Blue and the Gray: 
 
 Dear Old Veterans of the Unhappy Past : Not long ago I 
 received an invitation to be present and answer to the toast, "The 
 Southern Patriot," at a banquet to be given to the President of 
 the United States and other distingiaished guests on the occa- 
 sion of the reunion of the Blue and the Gray to be held in Evans- 
 ville, Ind., on October 10-13; and since I am deprived of that 
 pleasure, I have concluded to write you a short love letter. 
 
 A patriot is a citizen who loves his country, whether he lives 
 in the North or in the South ; therefore every man who honor- 
 ably wore the blue and every man who honestly wore the gray 
 in that struggle which tried the souls of men was a patriot. The 
 Bine won ; the Gray lost ; but the boldness of the Blue and the 
 gallantry of the Gray placed us in history as a nation of heroes. 
 There can be no brighter prophecy of a glorious future for our 
 country than the fraternizing ef the brave men who fought 
 each other under opposing flags long ago. It is too late now to 
 argue questions which were settled by the sword; it is too late 
 to get hot under the collar and shout "Traitor !" across Mason
 
 350 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 aud Dixon's line. Criminations and recriminations are very 
 poor balm for old sores. The Union can exist in name only if 
 we remain divided by sectional prejudice and sectional ani- 
 mosity. We must have the union of hearts and the union of 
 hands to perpetuate the republic forever. Fraternal relations 
 and fraternal feelings must exist between the States and the sec- 
 tions if we would preserve the institutions established by our 
 fathers. I believe that these relations of brotherhood between 
 the North and the South are being strengthened more rapidly 
 and more thoroughly now than ever before. The shedding of 
 blood once separated us ; the shedding of blood is reuniting us. 
 
 When President McKinley, a little more than a year ago, 
 issued his proclamation calling for volunteers to fight a foreign 
 foe under a tropical sun, Tennesseans toed the mark side by side 
 with the boys of Indiana and Pennsylvania and Ohio, ready 
 and willing to follow the broad stripes and bright stars of the 
 old flag wherever it might float in battle, and, if need be, to die 
 with their brethren of the ISTorth under its ample folds. Grant 
 and Leo were in camp together, Lawton and Wheeler led at 
 Santiago, and Tennesseans bled on San Juan Hill. What bet- 
 ter proof of her loyalty to the Union could the South give than 
 when she sent her sons into its armies to suffer and shed their 
 blood for its triumph and its glory ? 
 
 It is not the niunber of people that makes nations great, else 
 China would be the greatest nation on the face of the earth to- 
 day; it is not prowess that preserves empires from decay, else 
 Rome would have lived forever; it is not genius, else the dust 
 of the Parthenon would not now mingle with the dust of Gre- 
 cian art, and we might still be enchanted with the songs of some 
 dark-eyed Sappho and charmed with the Iliad of some modern 
 Homer. It is the virtue and patriotism of the people and their 
 faith in Almighty God which uphold governments and lengthen 
 the paths of their glory. It seems to me that the God of nations 
 is guiding us anS shaping our destiny. We have the numbers 
 and the prowess and the genius; and if we will Only continue 
 to fraternise aud clierish the spirit of national patriotisni) we 
 will yet realize our dreams of liberty enlight<?ning the world, 
 and the mighty deeds of the past will be drowned in the light 
 of our future glory as the stars are drowned in the light of the
 
 LOVE LETTERS 351 
 
 morning. Let us fraternize in deed and in truth, never again, 
 I trust, with the sword in fraternal war, but through all the 
 future in fraternal peace and brotherhood. 
 
 The Blue visited the South once uninvited, and the Grav 
 showed them some of our Southern mineral resources in the 
 shape of muskets and cannons. The Gray now invites the Blue 
 to come hither and see our mountains of crude metal which we 
 are manufacturing into pig iron, to be converted into plowshares 
 and reapers instead of muskets and bayonets. What we want 
 now is not the blood of the Blue, but their money. The South 
 panteth after their pocketbooks even as the hart panteth after 
 the water brook. The Gray boys once swapped the Blue boys 
 tobacco for coffee; they are now anxious to exchange coal and 
 iron and timber lands for cash. They once built forts; they 
 now want factories. They once greeted Dewey with grape and 
 canister; they are now eager to welcome the hero of Manila 
 with grape juice and decanters. They stand among the tomb- 
 stones of their comrades, true to their dead for what they were, 
 yet loyal to the Union for what it is. They kneel among their 
 monuments to kiss the Stars and Bars in their devotion to the 
 glorious past; they rise to salute the Stars and Stripes and to 
 pledge their devotion to the Union through all the glorious 
 future. The hands that once wielded the sword and the musket 
 have built a new civilization on the ashes of the old. I do not 
 mean to say that there is a new South, but the grand old South 
 rejuvenated by its own matchless courage and industry. Where 
 once the angry columns met and clinched and rolled together 
 in the bloody mire, new cities have sprung up, like beautiful 
 flowers blossoming in the huge footprints of war. Where once 
 curled the white smoke of hostile guns in phantom towers and 
 columns, high above the dead and dying heroes of the Blue and 
 the Gray, now the gay cotton fields wave their white handker- 
 chiefs of peace in flirtation with the bashful fields of corn, and 
 the big, ripe ears grin among the fodder blades and sigh: 
 "Oh, shucks!" 
 
 My ideal of a Southern patriot is the man who bravely wore 
 the gray until his flag went down in tears and blood at Appo- 
 mattox, and then accepted the decision of war in good faith and 
 went home to become a loyal American citizen and to rebuild
 
 352 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 his desolated country. My ideal of a Northern patriot is the 
 man who bravely wore the blue until the struggle was over, and 
 then laid aside the paraphernalia of war and went home to help 
 restore not only the union of the States, but the fraternal rela- 
 tions of the sections. My ideal of American patriotism is the 
 reunion of the Blue and the Gray for the purpose of cementing 
 all sections of our common country together forever. Let the 
 veterans in gray mingle the Eebel yell with the shouts of the 
 veterans in blue in giving a national welcome to the great ship- 
 smasher and navy-sinker of the world; let the dew sparkle on 
 the Northern hills and glitter on every Southern flower ; let the 
 dewdrops of joy moisten the eyes of valor and quiver on the 
 cheeks of beauty ; let the whole continent be dewey with delight 
 when Dewey comes sailing home. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 RoBT. L. Taylor. 
 
 FAREWELL ADDRESS UPON RETIREMENT FROM 
 
 OFFICE OF GOVERNOR AT THE END 
 
 OF HIS THIRD TERM. 
 
 On January 16, 1899, on the occasion of his retiring from 
 the high office of Governor and of the inauguration of the 
 Governor-elect, Benton McMillin, Governor Taylor delivered 
 his farewell address before the joint convention of the General 
 Assembly in the Hall of Representatives at the Capitol. Mr. 
 President Waddell presented Governor Taylor to the audience. 
 He was received with hearty cheers, and spoke as follows : 
 
 "Mr. Speaker, Ladies and Gentlemen — I am about to 
 shuffle off this mortal coil of politics and fly away to the heaven 
 of my native mountains, where I may think and dream in peace, 
 safe from the sickening sting of unjust criticism, safe from the 
 talons of some old political vulture, safe from the slimy kiss 
 and the keen dagger of ingratitude. I do not mean to say that 
 all politicians are vultures or that they are all hypocrites or 
 assassins, for the great majority of our public men are upright 
 and honest and worthy of the confidence reposed in them by the 
 
 f
 
 LOVE LETTERS 353 
 
 people; yet there are black wings in the political firmament, 
 and reptiles crawl and hiss in every capitol ; but — thank God ! — 
 the live thunders of eternal truth always clear the atmosphere, 
 and the heel of justice will surely bruise the serpent's head. 
 
 "I do not retire from this office with the rankling of dis- 
 appointment and chagrin in my bosom, but, rather, as one who 
 retires from labor to rest, from war to peace, from trouble to 
 happiness. I do not retire the somnambulist of a shattered 
 dream, but with all the buds of hope bursting into bloom and 
 all the bowers of the future ringing with melody. I am con- 
 tented with my lot in life. Three times I have worn the laurel 
 wreath of honor, twined by the people of my native State, and 
 that is glory enough for me. 
 
 "While I believe the good in politics outweighs the bad, yet 
 how thorny is the path and how unhappy the pilgrimage to him 
 who dares do his duty ! There are no flowers except a few bou- 
 quets snatched from the graves of fallen foes ; there is no happi- 
 ness except the transient thrill of cruel triimiph, which passes 
 like a shadow across the heart. 
 
 "Every honest man who runs for office is a candidate for 
 trouble, for the fruits of political victory turn to ashes on the 
 lips. To me there is nothing in this world so pathetic as a can- 
 didate. He is like a mariner without a compass, drifting on the 
 tempest-tossed waves of uncertainty, between the smiling cliffs 
 of hope and the frowning crags of fear. He is a walking peti- 
 tion and a living prayer; he is the pack-horse of public senti- 
 ment ; he is the dromedary of politics ; and even if he reaches 
 the goal of his ambition, he will soon feel the beak of the \ailture 
 in his heart and the fang of the serpent in his soul. I am no 
 longer a candidate. Never again will I be inaugurated into 
 public office. The ark of my humble public career now rests on 
 the Ararat of private life, and I stand on its peaceful summit 
 and look down on the receding flood of politics. The dove of 
 my destiny has brought me an olive branch from happier fields, 
 and I go hence to labor and to love. I take with me a heart full 
 of gratitude and a soul full of precious memories — gratitude to 
 the people for their unwavering confidence in me ; precious mem- 
 ories of my friends who have been kind and true. The record 
 that I have made is an open book to all. I am willing to live
 
 354 LECTURES OF ROBERT L. TAYLOR 
 
 by that record ; I am willing to die by it ; for whatever mis- 
 takes I may have committed, I have kept steadily in view the 
 honor of the State and the happiness of the people. 
 
 "As I have already presented my views on public questions 
 in my recent message to the General Assembly, I deem it un- 
 necessary to further discuss them on this happy occasion — 
 happy to our new Governor, happy to you, happy to me, happy 
 to us all. It only remains for me to bid you all an affectionate 
 and final farewell, and to express the prayer that the Christ 
 who died for love and mercy's sake will guide our Chief Execu- 
 tive and all who shall follow him in the paths of peace and love 
 and baptize them with the spirit of mercy. Farewell, farewell !" 
 
 Turning to Mr. McMillin, Governor Taylor said: "And 
 now, Benton McMillin, you have given your hand and heart to 
 Tennessee. I pronounce you man and wife, and may the 
 Lord have mercy on your soul !"
 
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