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But the song's only a part of it. There must aye be a story to be told, and a character to be portrayed, and studied, and interpreted. I always accept a song that appeals to me, even though I may not think I can use it for a long time to come. Good ideas for songs are the scarcest things in the world, I've found, and I never let one that may possibly suit me get away from me.
With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory; One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down.
For all poets since the time of AEschylus, who could not write until he was too drunken to walk, have been most readily seduced by whatever stimulus most tended to heighten their imaginings; so that for the sake of a song's perfection they have freely resorted to divers artificial inspirations, and very often without evincing any undue squeamishness. . . . I spoke of AEschylus.
Clocks in the house were striking midnight. In the dining-room the company had now taken to drinking in earnest, cheering and singing loyal songs, and through the open door whirled gusts of women's laughter, and I heard the thud of guitar-strings echo the song's gay words.
Yes, I grow'd up in slavery times. I used to carry tubs of clothes down to the old spring house, there was plenty of water, and I'se washed all the clothes there. Me and my sisters used to wash and sing and we had a good time. I can't remember much of the ole song's its been so long ago. I had two brothers, and they jined the war and fought in the army. One was named Harry and 'tother Peter.
Blear-eyed, the poet recalls the poem's sunrise, straightens himself with the old pride, is held again by the splendour which forecasts the about-to-be-steadier glory of day, and even with the recalling he shrinks together before what he knows was a false dawn. There was never a day. The song's note never sang itself at all. Hester looked up with that wistfulness which so draws me.
If the poorest nature in the world responds with the tune to the mightiest master's song, he knows, if not another echo should come back, that he has uttered a true cry. But Ginevra had not received it, and being therefore of her own mind, and not of the song's, was critical. It is of the true things it does not, perhaps cannot receive, that human nature is most critical.
But his rhythm was getting away from him and his rhymes petered out and he stopped, laughing while around him men clamored for more. "Oh, there'll be a tale to tell when Twisty sails back," he conceded. "But until he's under way there's no tale to tell and so what's the use of talk? A song's better; walk her up, Twisty, old mate." Barlow's impatience flared out into irritation.
But the charm lay not in any POINT, but rather in the inspired vitality, the hearty, genuine outpouring of the whole the real and yet truly ideal humanity of all her singing. That is what has won the world to Jenny Lind; it is that her whole soul and being goes out in her song, and that her voice becomes the impersonation of that song's soul if it have any, that is, if it BE a song.
My own hand-writing shaking so bad, I could not make a fair copy fit for the lady. Mr. H. Mr. Gallagher, don't plunge farther in falsehood you know the truth is, that song's not yours. Christy. Why, then, by all Mr. H. Stop, stop, Mr. Gallagher stop, I advise you. Christy. Why, then, I won't stop at any thing for the song's my own. Mr.
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