That there were sweet and heavenly harmonies hovering and quavering in that mountain cove that ever-blessed night in the happy long ago, is certain, but whence came they? Was it really the whippoorwill? And even if it were, and its song was of that doleful, screeching soul-rending stridulance that startles ghosts and gives haunts the creeps was it not sweet music to the only ear that heard it?
Might it not have been the soul of the fiddle stirred by a mountain breeze to life, getting itself in tune with the frantic transports of the heart against which it lay? They say a soundpost sometimes comes to life, and that all the tuneful sprites that burrow and buzz in the vibrant caverns of a fiddle are set a-humming and a-thrumming when Cupid peeps in at the slit. Who can tell but that this might have been the mellifluous sound that ravished my ear then and is raising such a hullabulloo now?
That there was heavenly music in the air that night I take it none will dare dispute, and that the heart of that care-free swain trudging up the echoless cove to swing corners with love the live-long night and lave and slosh his soul in rapturous revels, was tuned to catch its faintest twang and magnify into pealing orchestras of roaring symphonies, and whooping, heavenly harmonies, all living souls will surely admit. What wonder then, that in the tumultuous union of chromatic confusion, when all the lyrics were raving mad with ecstasy, that the croaking of a whippoorwill might have been taken for an angel’s harp or the twittering of a catbird?
Thus much for speculation! Thus much in tribute to the harmonies! And now I come to hurl the cold truth slap into the faces of my critics and bid them make the most of it!
The types did do me wrong, aided by some unmeant pencil slip along the line between this cushioned sanctum and the cobwebbed den where sits and broods and rends his hair, a careworn proofreader with genius in his dreamy eye and smut upon his classic nose. What I did write was changed, transmogrified, warped, varied, and subverted.
I mentioned not the whippoorwill. I never heard one sing then, since, or before; at any season, time, or place. I heard a ravishing song that might have wrought my very soul to ecstasy, but as plain as pen can make it, I wrote it then and there, “raccoon.”
I am a King. My realm hath no boundary lines; the world is my kingdom. I stamp my foot upon the earth and jostle the universe. The sun gives light for my pleasure, and the timid stars tremble in my presence. The oceans are my highways, and the mountains are my temples on whose purple domes I love to stand and throw kisses at the angels, or look down and view with rapture, the peaceful flocks that graze and sleep on a thousand sunny hillsides. All the fruited and flowered landscapes that swing between the seas are my royal hanging gardens, and I walk in the glow of their glory, and rest in the gloam of their sweet solitudes. All the springs that bubble there are mine, and all the bright streams that leap from cliff to crag, and from crag to shadowy gorge are my wandering minstrels singing to me of flowers born to blush unseen, and speckled trout that glint and glance in a thousand brimming pools. All the wild deer that spring from shady copse and tangled coverts at the sound of the hunter’s horn are my imperial game, and for my princely sport. The sly old fox in his red uniform gaily leads the royal band, and plays drum major for my bellowing hounds and for me. The glossy herds come lowing from green pastures, fragrant with the breath of clover blossoms, burdened with milk for me, and the bees sweeten my lips with honey, stolen from the lips of the flowers. The hills unfold their purple mysteries to herald my glory, and the valleys flaunt their banners of gold and shout, “Long live the King!” I love to while away the dreamy summer hours in the cool, green groves that curtain the glimmering fields, where all the joyous wings that brush the air come fluttering to my leafy bowers, and all the birds that sing warble their sweetest notes for me.
I am a King. I dwell in the palace of love, by the brawling brook of laughter, on the brink of the river of song. And so are all the sons and daughters of Adam equal Kings and Queens with me, whose hearts beat time to nature’s music, and whose souls are in love with the beautiful. There is a crown of sunshine for every brow by day; a coronet of stars by night. The angels of light hover above us all, and arch the heavens with the rainbow of hope for all, and bring from the vapory vineyards of the clouds, the sparkling champagne of pure crystal water to bless the lips of all. All the delightful dreams that spread their wings above the horizon of the heart, all the glorious thoughts that fly out from the heaven of the brain, all the jubilees of joy that crowd the circling hours of mortal life are the regal gifts of God to mankind—the royal heritage of all. There are songs sweeter than were ever sung; there is beauty which defies even the brush of a Raphael, for you and for me, and for us all.