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Updated: June 23, 2025
We've a violin here." "I'll be more than glad to come," returned their guest. "Music's something I don't have a chance to hear very often." Walking down the beach, he sculled out to his sloop. His animals greeted him, Oliver Cromwell vociferously, the cats with a more reserved welcome. "What d'you make of him?" asked Percy. "Odd stick, isn't he?"
'But after all, Charles said more clearly, 'it doesn't matter about being acclaimed. It's just like making music for deaf people: the music's there; the music's there. And so it doesn't matter very much whether you love me. It's one's weakness that wants that, one's loneliness. I can love you just the same, perhaps better; it's the audience that spoils things. I should think it does!
The Master did not pause; as he played, it seemed as if each tender word and caress of Herman's life was stealing back on music's pinions to soothe the wounds that death had made. "It is the song of our love-life," murmured Eloise. "How full of memories it is what tenderness and harmony and oh! what peace it brings!
And then, really, my child, you must adapt yourself to the words." "I will," Emilia promised; "only, not if they're like iron to the teeth." "My belief is," said Tracy savagely, "that music's a fashion, and as delusive a growth as Cobbett's potatoes, which will go back to the deadly nightshade, just as music will go back to the tom-tom." "What have you called out when I sang to you!"
So from each idle burden free, When summoned by the voice of song, Man soars to spirit-dignity, Receiving force divinely strong: Among the gods is now his home, Naught earthly ventures to approach All other powers must now be dumb, No fate can on his realms encroach; Care's gloomy wrinkles disappear, Whilst music's charms still linger here,
The aristocracy of idleness shall reign no more! A world without a slave. Man shall at last be free! "'A world at peace, adorned by every form of art, with music's myriad voices thrilled, while lips are rich with words of love and truth. A world in which no exile sighs, no prisoner mourns; a world on which the gibbet's shadow shall not fall.
"All the same, I believe she used to feel it when we stood there and watched her and wished her well. I believe she used to remember," Hilda said thoughtfully. "I hope so. Now let's go to some awfully jolly place for dinner before we go home. I could eat all the dinners there are in London to-night. Where shall I tell the driver? The Piccadilly Restaurant? The music's good there."
Miss Warren looked at her from time to time with a strange wistfulness looked as if the matron possessed a serenity and peace that she coveted. "Emily," said Mr. Yocomb, "thee doesn't think music's wicked, does thee?" "No, sir, nor do you either." "What does thee think of that, mother?" "I think Emily converted thee over to her side before she had been here two days."
And then, really, my child, you must adapt yourself to the words." "I will," Emilia promised; "only, not if they're like iron to the teeth." "My belief is," said Tracy savagely, "that music's a fashion, and as delusive a growth as Cobbett's potatoes, which will go back to the deadly nightshade, just as music will go back to the tom-tom." "What have you called out when I sang to you!"
"'Music's ethereal power was given Not to dissolve our clay, But draw Promethean beams from heaven To purge the dross away." "They are fine lines," said my brother, "but I do not see how you apply your argument to the present instance." "I mean," Mr.
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