Have you listened to far-off and mingling melodies at night--melodies of
things opposed and differing, yet drawn together, in strange places far
from your home? Have you heard a woman wailing over some abominable
sorrow in a dark house, and an organ--before which filthy children dance
fantastically--playing a merry Neapolitan tune in front of it, while the
mutter of scowling men comes from the blazing corner where the gin-palace
faces the night? There you have sorrow, sunshine, crime, singing together
in a great city. Or have you stood in a land not your own, and gleaned
the whisper of an ancient river, the sough of a desert wind, the hoarse
and tuneless song of a black man at a waterwheel, the soprano ballad of
a warbling hotel English lady, and the remote and throbbing roar of a
savage Soudanese hymn and beaten drums from the golden Eastern night?
There you have nature, toil, shrill civilization and war claiming you
with one effort in a sad and sweet country. Or have you, in a bright and
dewy morning, heard the "murmur of folk at their prayers," the drone of a
church organ, and, beyond the hedgerow, two graceless lovers quarrelling,
and an atheist, leaning over the church gate, sneering to his fellow at
the devotion of deluded Sabbath-keepers? There you have love of the
hidden and faith, love of the visible and distrust, hatred of hidden love
and faithlessness, making a symphony for you.
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