"Bill," said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), "give me a lift. I am
on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it's a
special order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry
Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab
would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad,
poetic, mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning. You are
the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the
Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet
below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can't put New York into a
note unless it's better indorsed than that. But give me an idea of
what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and
far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous
crash of the chords of the day's traffic, the laughter and music
of the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the rag-time, the
weeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press
agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo
of the strawberry vender and the covers of _Everybody's Magazine_,
the whispers of the lovers in the parks--all these sounds must go
into your Voice--not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an
essence made; and of the essence an extract--an audible extract, of
which one drop shall form the thing we seek."
"Do you remember," asked the poet, with a chuckle, "that California
girl we met at Stiver's studio last week? Well, I'm on my way to see
her.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25