Thus Louis learned a modicum concerning music. A very trifle, to be sure. For he lived in Puritan New England where large utterances of joy and faith in the Earth, of faith in Life, of faith in Man, were few and far between.
Nevertheless he had now definitely entered the cultural world, within which were the blest, without which were the damned. The world of intellectual dissection, surgery and therapeutics; the world of theory, of conjecture, of analysis and synthesis; the world of Idea, of Abstraction, of tenuity, of minute distinctions and nuances, filled with its specific belief in magic, its own superstitions, its aberrations, its taboos, denials and negations, and yet equally a world of vast horizons, of eagle-eyed range, of immense powers of ethereal flight to the far and the near, seeking the stars to know them, seeking the most minute to know it, searching the invisible to inquire what may be there, ever roaming, ever inquiring, inquisitive, acquisitive, accumulating a vast fund of the how and why, wherewith to record, to construct, to upbuild; and yet, withal, in giant service to the willful power of Imagination without whose vitalizing spark it could not stir; while in the fullness of its strength it can no more than carry on the heart’s desire.
The living relationship of Intellect and Instinct has far too long been overlooked. For Intellect is recent, and neuter, and unstable in itself, while Instinct is primordial and procreant: It is a power so vast, so fathomless, so omnipresent, that we ignore it; for it is the vast power of all time that sleeps and dreams; it is that power within whose dream we dream—even as in our practical aspect, our hard headed, cold-blooded, shrewd, calculating suspicious caution we are most obviously dreamers of turbid dreams, for we have pinned our faith to Intellect; we gaze in lethal adoration upon a reed shaken by the wind.
About this time flamboyantly arose Patrick Gilmore with his band and his World Jubilee. Then Louis discovered there had been in existence music quite other than oratorio, hymn, sentimental songs of the hoi polloi and burnt-cork minstrels, or the classic grindings of the hurdy-gurdy.
He found it refreshing and gay, melodious above all. When he heard full bosomed Parepa sing in coloratura, he could scarcely keep his seat; never was such soprano heard in oratorio, and when the elder Strauss like a little he-wren mounted the conductor’s stand, violin in hand, and dancing, led the orchestra through the lively cadence of the Blue Danube, Louis thought him the biggest little man on earth; and when it came to the “sextette” from Lucia, Louis roared his approval and listened just as eagerly to the inevitable encore. And the “Anvil Chorus”—oh, the Anvil Chorus! And so on, day by day, night by night from glorious beginning to glorious end. He had heard the finest voices in the world, great orchestral outpourings, immense choruses. But he was, above all, amazed at the power of the single voice, when trained to perfection of control. He felt again with delight its unique quality, its range, its fluency, its flexibility, its emotional gamut, its direct personal intimate appeal; he felt a soul, a being, in the single voice, the heartful, the perfect instrument whereby to interpret and convey every state of feeling and of thought; and he was glad indeed.
This blossoming of music exotic to all he had known hitherto, made him glad, made him gay, relaxed his sobriety, refreshed his outlook on life. It filled him with a new consciousness of beauty; of a beauty that seemed free and debonair, like a swan in the pool, like rain on the roof, like roses on a garden wall, with groves, and a turquoise sky; like bold and joyous horses, saying ha! ha!—and like unto furtive gentle creatures of wood and stream, and like curling breakers when close by, or the tossing of trees in a hearty gale.
More excitement: Came the great conflagration of 9 and 10 November, 1872. Louis saw this terror from its trifling beginning—a small flame curling from the wooden cornice of a building on the north side of Summer street. There were perhaps a half dozen persons present at the time. The street was night-still. It was early. No fire engine came. Horses were sick, “epizootic” was raging. Engines must be drawn by hand. All was quiet as the small flame grew into a whorl and sparks shot upward from a glow behind; the windows became lighted from within. A few more people gathered, but no engine came. Then began a gentle purring roar. The few became a crowd but no engine came. Glass crackled and crashed, flames burst forth madly from all windows, and the lambent dark flames behind them soared high, casting multitudes of sparks and embers abroad, as they cracked and wheezed. The roof fell, the floors collapsed. A hand-drawn engine came, but too late. The front wall tottered, swayed and crumbled to the pavement, exposing to view a roaring furnace. It was too late. The city seemed doomed. With this prelude began the great historic fire. Louis
