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Updated: May 22, 2025
I love a ringing horn, even the stage-horn now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only memory! the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of youth.
The scream of the steam-whistle has succeeded the old stage-horn, and the iron horse taken the place of those of flesh and blood. Change is written in great glowing letters upon everything. It stands out in blazing capitals everywhere. All things are on the move! Forward! and forward! is the word. And who would, who CAN, stand still amidst the universal rush?
I recall few instances of others so distinguished in station who possessed this power, which has its root, perhaps, after all, in the great master-passion of mortality, the yearning for exalted sympathy, so seldom accorded. This observation of mine was but a glimpse at best, for the winding of the stage-horn was the signal for Mr. Calhoun's departure, and I never saw him more.
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