SOME MUSINGS FROM THE COUNTRY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2490, 4 December 1901, Page 67

SOME MUSINGS FROM THE COUNTRY.

Dear Emmeline,— Apple blossoms— just apple blossoms— so daintily pink, so sweetly fragrant— the scent floats through the windows, filling the whole house with its fragrance. And the rain ! Hoav gentleit falls with soft plashes on the glad, expectant earth! How restful it sounds in the gathering silence of approaching night ! And, after such rain, what a pleasure to wander past the dripping lilacs, through the radiant orchard, out into the roadways with their wealth of trailing briar, yellow gorse, and opening may — and sweet associations, Memory's treasure trove ; — how many we unconsciously store away, to *be re-rived some future day by the sight o the scent of a tree or flower. What strange associations we link with flowers or with their perfumes! Gorse, the showy, dazzling wanderer, that is to be met with almost everywhere, to me seems incomplete without the sound of a great, waterwheel, turning lazily, under a blue sunshiny sky, beneath the weight of crystal-glistening water, and the drip., drip, of the stray drops from the revolving wheel md the flumings through which the imprisoned waters rush to a melody all their own — a strong, though gliding, restful melody. An echo from the goldfields days of my childhood, it comes with none of the hurry and the rush — the unrest that cEaracterises the goldfklds I have seen since then, with all their up-to-date machinery and dredging material. Poor old water-wheels! Dear, gone romance ! I liked your paper on "Unrest" very i much. Id the country, if the wave of unrest touches vs — and it does at times — we are worse off than those in a town, for our superfluous energy reacts on ourselves for want of a suitable object on which to expend it. Still, I suppose we ,have a certain amount of compensation in Nature's beauties and Nature's music ; and, speaking of music, what a glorious time you have had in Dunedin. How I longed to be there, more especially when one friend talked of the beauties of one j opara, another friend of another, and so^ on, till I felt as if I were missing everything. What a power there is in music; do you not think so? And next to die great composers, the master minds of rhe past centuries, comes the gifted musician, the interpreter of the thoughts and emotions of genius to the outside world of men and women, upon whose heartstrings he has the power to play, to call into being eveiy emotion of which the human heart is capable, from the depths of sorrow and despair to the highest note of human triumph, or happiness. What could be more expressive of the power and the sublimity of music than the following, fiom Browning's "Abt Vogler? — you remember the lines : All through my ke^rs that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, AH ihrough my soul that piaised as its wisli flowed visibly forth, All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth : Had I wntten the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds from cause, Ye know why the forms aie fair, ye hear how the tale is told ; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, Paintei and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled . — But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws that made them, and 10, they are! And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, That out :f three sounds lie frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well : < each cone of our sca'e m itself is nought, It is everywhere in the world— loud, soft, and all is said : Cive it ho me to use! I mix it with two m my thought And, there! vc have heard and seen tonsidci md bow the head! Aad further oa in the rjoemj]

Sorrow is hard to beai and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe , But God has a iew of us whom he whi c peis >n the eai ; The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know. And before closing my letter, may I quote just the last three stanzas of "The Organist," by Lampmin, the exquisite beau 1 y of the lines being my only excuse for the length of my letter and the call on your time : — And she was gone; and all that day The hours crept up and slipped away, And lie sat still, as moveless aa a stone. The night came down, with qtnet stars, And darkened him : in coloured bars Along the shadowy aisle the moonlight shone. And then the master woke and passed His hands across the keys at last, And made the organ moan. The organ shook, the music wept; For sometimes like a wail it crept In broken moamngs down the shadows drear ; And otherwhiles the sound c!id swell, And like a sudden tempest fell Through all the windows, wonderful and cleaT. The people gathered from the street, And filled the chapel seat by seat — They could not choose but hear. And there they sat till dawning light, Noi ever stirred for awe. " To-night The master hath a noble mood," they said. But on a sudden ceased the sound : Like ghosts the people gathered round, And on the keys they fovmd his fallen head. The silent organ had received, The master's broken heart relieved, And he was white and dead. With bsst wishes, from — Yours sincerely,