On the head of the figure of Victory at the arsenal, there sat a pigeon with glossy plumage--Although without eye-glasses, I could see the figure quite distinctly.
The evening afforded me pure delight--the purest I ever knew, or, as I firmly believe, ever will know.
Mozart's "Magic Flute" was performed at the theater.
I went there with my little pitchman. We sat in the uppermost tier. I saw no one, although the crowded house must have contained many whom I knew. All my senses were held captive by music's magic spell.
It is past midnight. My little pitchman and I are stopping at a teamster's inn. I cannot rest until I put my feelings into words.
Mozart's "Magic Flute" is one of those immortal creations that dwell in purest ether, in a region beyond the passions and struggles of mankind. I have often heard the text objected to as puerile, but, at that height, all action, all understanding, all personages, all surroundings, must needs be allegorical. All that is hard and narrow is cast aside, and man becomes a bird, his life pure and natural, full of love and wisdom. The childlike or childish character of the text is singularly true to nature. It is only the blasé who can find it dull and insipid.
It is Mozart's last dramatic work, and in it he appears at his best, in all the fullness of his genius, as if already transfigured. His various figures pass before him in review, created anew, as it were; less fixed and individualized, but all the more pure and ethereal. Using the word in its best sense, there is something supernatural in the way in which he has here gathered and combined the chords that else were scattered, into one harmonious whole.
The opening chorus of priests is the march of humanity, and the "O Isis!" is full of the sunshine of blissful peace. This is the fabled paradise--a life above this, in the free ether, beyond the reach of storm or tempest; a region to which music alone can transport us.
For hours, I felt as if thus transported, and know not how I descended again. Thoughts without number hover about me. This music breathes a spirit of noble, self-conscious repose, and is free from all oppressed humility. It is a life that can never fade; nay, it is the odor of ripened fruit.