Once you get hold of that principle, all other divisions and classifications, such as by race or language or nationality, seem pure foolishness.It is the only true division there is.It is just as true among negroes or wild Indians who never heard of Greece or Jerusalem, as it is among white folks.That is the beauty of it.
It works everywhere, always."
"Try it on me," urged Theron, with a twinkling eye.
"Which am I?"
"Both," said the girl, with a merry nod of the head.
"But now I'll play.I told you you were to hear Chopin.
I prescribe him for you.He is the Greekiest of the Greeks.
THERE was a nation where all the people were artists, where everybody was an intellectual aristocrat, where the Philistine was as unknown, as extinct, as the dodo.
Chopin might have written his music for them.""I am interested in Shopang," put in Theron, suddenly recalling Sister Soulsby's confidences as to the source of her tunes.
"He lived with--what's his name--George something.
We were speaking about him only this afternoon."Celia looked down into her visitor's face at first inquiringly, then with a latent grin about her lips.
"Yes--George something," she said, in a tone which mystified him.
The Rev.Mr.Ware was sitting up, a minute afterward, in a ferment of awakened consciousness that he had never heard the piano played before.After a little, he noiselessly rearranged the cushions, and settled himself again in a recumbent posture.It was beyond his strength to follow that first impulse, and keep his mind abreast with what his ears took in.He sighed and lay back, and surrendered his senses to the mere unthinking charm of it all.
It was the Fourth Prelude that was singing in the air about him--a simple, plaintive strain wandering at will over a surface of steady rhythmic movement underneath, always creeping upward through mysteries of sweetness, always sinking again in cadences of semi-tones.With only a moment's pause, there came the Seventh Waltz--a rich, bold confusion which yet was not confused.