s a flower in every song, a love song in every flower;
there is a sonnet in every gurgling fountain, a hymn in every brimming
river, an anthem in every rolling billow. Music and light are twin
angels of God, the first-born of heaven, and mortal ear and mortal eye
have caught only the echo and the shadow of their celestial glories.

The violin is the poet laureate of music; violin of the virtuoso and
master, _fiddle_ of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocrat
of the palace and the hall; it is the _democrat_ of the unpretentious
home and humble cabin. As violin, it weaves its garlands of roses and
camelias; as fiddle it scatters its modest violets. It is admired by the
cultured for its magnificent powers and wonderful creations; it is loved
by the millions for its simple melodies.

THE CONVICT AND HIS FIDDLE.

One bright morning, just before Christmas day, an official stood in
the Executive chamber in my presence as Governor of Tennessee, and
said: "Governor, I have been implored by a poor miserable wretch in
the penitentiary to bring you this rude fiddle. It was made by his own
hands with a penknife during the hours allotted to him for rest. It is
absolutely valueless, it is true, but it is his petition to you for
mercy. He begged me to say that he has neither attorneys nor influential
friends to plead for him; that he is poor, and all he asks is, that when
the Governor shall sit at his own happy fireside on Christmas eve, with
his own happy children around him, he will play one tune on this rough
fiddle and think of a cabin far away in the mountains whose hearthstone
is cold and desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched,
ragged children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for the
footsteps of their father."

Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record was
examined; Christmas eve came; the Governor sat that night at his own
happy fireside, surrounded by his own happy children; and he played one
tune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin in the
mountains was bright and warm; a pardoned prisoner sat with his baby on
his knee, surrounded by _his_ rejoicing children, and in the presence of
_his_ happy wife, and although there was naught but poverty around him,
his heart sang: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;" and
then he reached up and snatched his fiddle down from the wall, and
played "Jordan is a hard road to travel."