|
THERE is a delightful Oriental superstition, my dear
“Moonshine,” which declares that on the
last day every artist will be called upon to endow each
of his creations with a soul. I should be the last one
to feel perfect confidence in denying the possibility
of such a fancy, or in affirming that only living beings
can have real personality. I prefer to believe with
the Greeks that every stream and tree has its own indwelling
divinity, a spiritual as well as a material identity,
bestowed upon it by the Creator to be the informing
principle of its growth and beauty. Why, then, may we
not think that the creative work of men’s hands
is imbued with a similar essence, — that every
abode, like every shrine, is pervaded by its distinct
and individual tutelary presence? [Page v]
At the very writing of your name
in the inditing of this dedication, you seem something
more than a mere house of wood in the green forest.
I seem to myself to be addressing a beloved friend,
sure of sympathetic hearing and an appreciative understanding
of my fanciful enthusiasm such as are not always accorded
us by our fellow mortals. How shall I account for this
magical delusion?
What loving heart first dreamed you, — what mastery
made the dream come true? No mere fortuitous industry,
I am sure, could have created your sightly structure
of wood and nails, mortar and bricks and coloured stain.
For beauty is never an accident, nor charm and loveliness
the results of reckless chance. Every sill and rafter,
every board and beam in your roof and walls, had brave
life through long years of sun and rain, of winds and
frost upon the mountainside, before it was chosen by
destiny for a place in your builded beauty. And now,
as you stand in your serene silence, I doubt not, all
[Page vi] the strength of mounting
sap and maturing sun that went into the growth of your
fibre and grain persists and prevails to lend you fragrance
and endurance still.
But
whence came to you the supreme gift of personality?
What benign power wrought you into such friendliness
of shape and hue? What inspiration devised you restful
tints and generous mould? By what conjury arose your
serviceable spaciousness with its dignified repose;
and how came you to be blessed with that rare additional
quality which few habitations can boast, a quality akin
to human temperament, an atmosphere and distinction
all your own? Surely at the prompting of happy and unselfish
impulses you must have been designed, a place of rest
for the friend, and inspiration even for the stranger!
And when at last your latch-string was hung out, and
the fire of hospitality lighted upon your ample hearth,
what alluring spirit of welcome radiated from your open
door, impalpably as the moonshine for which you were
named.
[Page vii]
In summer you are never closed,
but the sweet air of the hills blows balmily through
your quiet seclusion all day long, whispering its enchantments
of peace; while at dusk, from your deep verandas, dreamful
watchers behold the great frail rose-gold moon appear
at the end of the Kaaterskill clove and pour its calm
splendour along the purple mountains.
In
the long months of snow, when your windows are secured
against the tempest, and your dwellers have migrated
to their winter’s work, what reveries must be
yours! You must see again in remembrance the faces that
have thronged about your board and fire. In your rooftree
must lurk reverberations of laughter, reëchoes
of song, and the lovely strains of imperishable music.
The pine of your floor must be tempered and mellowed
by the rhythm of many feet that have trodden it in masque
and merrymaking, in festivity, and in the daily course
of kindly life. Shall you not for ever recall one memorable
twilight, [Page viii] when an enraptured
player at the piano, rendering and improvising as only
a great artist can, filled you with golden harmonies,
as if your solemn mountain walls and streams had at
last found interpretation and voice, while his hearers
sat enthralled under the wizardries of sound? Shall
you not always remember the suppers at the green table,
when night is near its meridian, when the company lingered
over their glasses, with toasts and tales and mirth
and toasts again and more unextinguishable mirth, until
at last lanterns were lit, and in twos and threes the
merrymakers took their way through the silent forest
to their lighted cabins among the hemlock shadows? Can
you forget a famous cakewalk, when seventy couples assembled,
marshalled by the very Muse of Comedy herself, garbed
like a happy Hottentot, conducting, with unsurpassed
spirit and gaiety through the ceremonious Rite of the
Cake, a tatterdemalion gang of gaudy disguised revellers,
hilariously competing for the coveted prize; [Page
ix] and the judges, — a row of gray-haired
dignitaries sitting aloft in Rembrandt relief behind
gallery rail and candlelight, while the motley swirl
danced to a finish before them!
In
contrast to this scene, you surely remember certain
afternoon gatherings of a sober sort, when luminous
discussions were held of art or philosophy or other
high theme, and were gaily prolonged over tea and cigarettes.
You must ever fondly treasure the memory of many mornings
filled with the sound of immortal poetry, — the
frailties of Fra Lippo Lippi, the stirring Song of the
Banjo, the lofty Masque of Taliesen, the terrible Ballad
of Reading Gaol, or the moving tragedy of Sohrab and
Rustum, read as poetry is rarely heard nowadays. As
a crowning joy of recollection, do you not often live
over that evening when poetry was illustrated with tableaux
vivants, — incomparable pictures of Keat’s
Meg Merrilies, fantastically tall and wise as she leaned
upon her stick; of Browning’s Contemporary, keen
of nose yet kind [Page x] of eye, in
peaked hat and wide ruff, with dog at heels; and of
Malyn of the Mountains, a radiant young reality more
lovely than the poet’s fancy!
In
these solitary winter watches, too, I dare say you recherish
your various comforts and treasures, and recall the
friend associated with each of them, though some of
your intimates have journeyed to the other side of the
world, and some have gone beyond. There stands the chair
of the Princely Friend, who chose it because it invited
him to throw his leg over the arm as he smoked; this
one is the gift of the most democratic of aristocrats,
the Gentlest of Radicals. In what cushioned seat by
the fire a dear Grandmother used to doze and dream,
or, with unquenchable spirit in her sparkling eye, tell
endless stories to the insatiable children in her lap.
Here is the chamber reserved for a certain vagabond;
that is the corner dedicated to another. On this convenient
balcony overhanging the ravine the magician of all your
luxuries, alert [Page xi] for fresh
adventure, expects one day to alight from his private
air-ship. From yon cosy nook behind the door, the Judge
ever cheerily invites his friends to “live long
and prosper.” While from the playroom overhead
a baby voice is heard passing sentence on an offending
tin soldier: “You stole three pigs and a hundred
cannons, and you’ll have to stay in prison all
your life!” So your guest-rooms and galleries
ever throng with happy presences, once made welcome,
never to be dispossessed.
O
unforgettable “Moonshine,” this book is
like yourself, made of different elements, divers thoughts
and moods and fancies. Many of its essays were written
within your shade, and but for the leisure and inspiration
you afforded could never have been written at all. I
beg you, therefore, not for any merit of its own, to
give it room upon the shelves in your poets’ corner,
that when other guests shall come, other hands open
your door, other voices be heard exclaiming over the
wonder [Page xii] of your prospect,
it may bear slight but unequivocal witness of one wayfarer’s
gratitude for all the solace and refreshment you have
been so lavish to bestow. B.C.
[Page
xiii]
|
