I have talked with deaf persons about their conception of heaven. What will be the physical sensation when what we call “life” is finally stolen away? I have given much thought to that. Most deaf people tell me without hesitation that, according to their great hope and belief, some great burst of music will suddenly be borne in upon them when:
“The casement slowly grows a glimmering square.”
They can conceive of no greater joy or reward; no existence more sublime than that which is filled with the noblest music.
Partial compensation for the longing and its denial comes with the music that we hear in dreams. The brain treasures up the desires of our waking hours, and attempts to satisfy them during sleep. I knew of a man who had lived a wild, sunny life in the open air. He was thrown into prison unjustly, and was held in a dark cell for weeks. He was able to endure this because, as he said, he had for years “soaked up all possible sunshine.” The sun’s energy had been “canned in his system,” and it carried him through his trouble. So may the deaf man be cheered after he enters the silent world if in his youth he was able to “soak up” his full share of music. It was my privilege as a boy to serve as “supe” or stage-hand at a theater, where I heard most of the great operas. The memory of that music has remained with me all through these long years. Sometimes I am tempted to sing one of those wonderful songs to my children. I presume there are few objects more ridiculous to a musician than a deaf man trying to sing. My people may well smile at my painful efforts (though the children do not, until they become worldly-wise), but they will never understand unless they become exiled to the silent land what such remembered music really means. But I must wait for dreams, wherein all outside conventions and inhibitions are thrown off, to give me the perfect rendition of remembered melodies.
There was an old farmer who used to scold his daughter because she would spend five dollars of her money for an occasional trip to the city, where she could hear famous singers.
“Why,” said he, “what nonsense, what folly to spend five dollars for only two short hours of pleasure.”
But he did not realize that the money was paying for a memory which would remain with the girl all her life. I would, if I could, have a child soak his soul full of the noblest music that human power can give him.
In a fair analysis of the situation even the advantages of being deaf to music should be stated. I am not asked to listen while little Mary plays her piece on the piano. No one primes little Tommy to sing “Let me like a soldier fall” for my benefit. I am not required to render any opinion regarding the musical ability of those hopefuls. I am told that such musical criticism has developed some most remarkable liars, chiefly, I fancy, among the young men who are particularly interested in little Mary’s older sister. I am also informed that some of the singing to which you must listen is rather calculated to rouse the savage breast than to soothe it. Once I spent the night at a country house where, long after honest people should have been abed, a company of young men drove out from town to serenade the young lady daughter. I slept through it all, from “Stars of the Summer Night” to “Good Night, Ladies!” The father of the serenaded one was a very outspoken business man, whose word carried far, and he assured me that I was to be envied, for the “quartette of calves” kept him awake for hours. He wanted someone to give them more rope. “Why,” said this critical parent, “you should have heard these softheads sing ‘How Can I Bear to Leave Thee?’ I tried to make them understand that I could let them leave without turning a hair.” Hand organs beneath the window, German bands blowing wind, wandering minstrels of all kinds, may start waves of more or less harmonious sound afloat, so that my sensitive friends go about with fingers at their ears, while I have the pleasure of imagining that it is angel music. But at the end of all this satisfactory reasoning I shrug my shoulders and begin to figure what I would give if I could go back through the years to one of the old “sings” in my uncle’s kitchen. How I should like to bring back the night when the stranger from Boston sang “Jesus, Lover of My Soul” to that beautiful air from “Norma.”
However, if I could have my choice tonight of all the music I have ever heard, I should go back to that lonely farmhouse beside the marsh. The neighbors have come over the hill for a Sunday night “sing.” No lamps are needed, for there is a fine blaze in the fireplace. There is snow outside, and creepy, crackling sounds from the frost are in the timbers; the moonlight sparkles over all. One of the girls sits at the little melodeon. I’d give—well, what can a man give—to hear old Uncle Dwelly Baker sing “Rest for the Weary.” I can see him now sitting in the big rocking-chair by the window. How his bald head and his white whiskers shine in the moonlight! His eyes are shut, his spectacles have been pushed to the top of his head. He rocks and rocks, singing:
“On the other side of Jordan,