THE SOUL OF SONG. 75 



abandoned fancy. Oh, the magic of that tender touch ! — the thrill of 

 that utterance of soul for soul — the glorious circle of associations 

 kindled into being by the music of those household words by which 

 our mothers sang us to sleep, — by which our sweethearts beguiled the 

 evenings of our wooing, and by which, as age and trouble gather 

 around us, we hope to have for solace in the downward path ! The 

 finishing touch — the completion of the household circle — is this fire- 

 side song; enjoyed but once, it is remembered for ever, and as a 

 frequent pastime it is the purest and most refining antidote to the 

 gilded allurements of gaiety and fashion. Picture the Christmas 

 group sitting round the hearth of blazing logs, where the flames leap 

 up, and up, and flash their ruddy radiance on the ruddier walls, play- 

 ing in strange sparkles and gold drops on the old cornices, and leaving 

 a strange Christmas light upon every happy face assembled there. 

 The song is all that is needed to complete their joy, and that scene, 

 completed by the fireside song, becomes a memory to each one there 

 which none of the detergent vanities of the world will ever annihilate. 

 There can be no limit to the moral beauty of this. Everything which 

 refines the home, which makes it attractive, which endears it by spells 

 and enchantments, and words of love, and songs of gladness, has au 

 effect which abides through life, and gives force and reality to the 

 domestic character, and makes home a haven of refuge from the storms 

 and whirlwinds of the world. Who, but the most abandoned and 

 outcast, can for a moment picture such a scene without calling up from 

 his own circle of associations a hundred memories of dear ones that 

 have passed away, — of others that still linger — linger as if only to 

 love — the joys of the world having all passed from them ; and of 

 others yet in the bloom and flush of life, stepping one by one into the 

 circles of manhood and womanhood, to be cheered by-and-bye with 

 the prattle and the songs of their own babes, and to know how truly 

 home is home when cheered by the breath of song. 



The object of the ballad is to stir the feelings by a gentle appeal, 

 and to lift the heart into its highest region of sympathy and moral 

 beauty, by the blending into one harmonious whole of the simple 

 things around it. The Old Arm-chair ; Oh, Nannie ; and the Evening 

 Bells, have kindled more pure aspirations and left dearer memories 

 behind than all the morceaux of the French and Italian masters that 

 ever were introduced into the boudoir. The ballad is essentially the 

 song of home ; its appeals are direct, and it plays upon the emotions 



