'
"You know his portrait in my sitting room. When it was brought
home and he discovered it on the wall, he looked at it from
different angles, and then came across to me with a wound and a
grievance: 'Why have you put that thing there? How can you, who
have me, tolerate such a looking object as that? See the meanness
in his face! See how used up he is and how sick of life! See what
a history is written all over him--his crimes and disgraces! And
you can care for him when you have _me_, your Brown.' After I am
dead, I expect him to publish a memorial volume entitled
'Reminiscences of the late Judge Ravenel Morris, By his former
Friend, afterward his Valet, _Taurus-Canis_.'"
The long drowsing days of summer had come. Business was almost
suspended; heat made energy impossible. Court was not in session,
farmers were busy with crops. From early morning to late afternoon
the streets were well-nigh deserted.
Ravenel Morris found life more active for him during this idlest
season of his native town. Having no business to prefer, people
were left more at leisure to talk with him; more acquaintances sat
fanning on their doorsteps and bade him good night as he passed
homeward. There were festivals in the park; and he could rest on
one of the benches and listen to the band playing tunes. He had
the common human heart in its love of tunes. When tunes stopped,
music stopped for him. If anything were played in which there was
no traceable melody, when the instruments encountered a tumult of
chords and dissonances, he would exclaim though with regretful
toleration:
"What are they trying to do now? What is it all about? Why can't
music be simple and sweet? Do noise and confusion make it better
or greater?"
One night Barbee had him serenaded.
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