Gov. Bob. Taylors Tales | Page 4

at its humble hearthstone at night, and in the
firelight, play the humble rural tunes on the fiddle to my happy children,
and bask in the smiles of my sweet 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 world, and then, away from
home and kindred and country, die at last in exile and in solitude.'

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. O! 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 LAUREATE 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 whose silver surf forever
breaks in song; forever breaks on valley, hill, and craig, in ten thousand
symphonies. There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in every
melody; 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 first-born 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 virtuoso and
master, fiddle of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocrat of the
palace and the hall; it is the democrat 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 magnificent powers and wonderful creations; it is loved by the
millions for its simple melodies.

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
valueless, 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; that he is poor, and all 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 desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched, ragged
children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for the footsteps of
their father."
Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record was
examined; Christmas eve came; the Governor sat that night at his own
happy fireside, surrounded by his own happy children; and he played
one tune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin in
the mountains 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 hey-dey-diddle of his frolicking fiddle called back the happy days
of my boyhood. The old field schoolhouse with its batten doors
creaking on wooden hinges, its windows innocent of glass, and its great,
yawning fireplace, cracking and roaring and flaming like