A Tale of Music Mountain

A Tale of Mountain Music

by Manuel S. Miller

     It sometimes seems that certain persons are born to have stories told about them.  I truly believe that the Reverend Zeb Twitchell was indeed one of these remarkable people.

He was born and brought up over Stockbridge Common way nearly two hundred years ago.  After a few false starts in his extreme youth, he eventually became a Methodist minister and preached in a number of churches in this area including the church in Lympus.  He became highly esteemed in the Conference and was honored in many ways. 

Before entering the ministry he had been a school teacher and also, being a gifted violinist, he derived great enjoyment as well as some extra income from playing at local gatherings and dances.  Of course, after he took up preaching he naturally stopped playing for dances as the Methodists of those long ago days took a very dim view of such goings on.  But Zeb couldn’t resist picking up the violin occasionally in the privacy of his home and giving forth with some very “un-churchly” tunes. 

Of course, people going by his house were bound to hear him playing and some found fault.  In the course of time word got thought to the Presiding Elder that something was going to have to be done about the Reverend Zeb and his fiddle. 

The next time the Presiding Elder came to Lympus for a Quarterly Conference he called Zeb to one side—out in back of the horse-sheds where they could be sure of privacy—and then proceeded to lay the matter on the line.  He started in, “Brother Twitchell, before taking up a very personal matter with you, I want to tell you that your ministry here in Lympus has been very grateful and that you are personally well thought of by the members of the Conference, so I hope you won’t misunderstand me when I say that this violin playing has got to stop; and I mean S-T-O-P!  Why, I have even been told that some mischievous people over camp Brook way have been passing the story around among superstitious folk, that this violin of yours is not an ordinary instrument but is actually the ‘Devil’s Lute’ and that it is sure to bring evil to you and everyone associated with you.”  Zeb had been expecting something of this sort but he found it hard to take such bitter condemnation of his beloved violin and its music which he had always thought of as a proper vehicle for the expression of the natural joy of good people on such occasions as the marriage of young folks, the harvesting of crops, the raising of barns, and the warming of new homes.  And that is what Zeb told the Presiding Elder, adding that he was of the opinion that the consignment to the devil of all sprightly tunes was a mistake that church people would some day come to regret. 

The Presiding Elder was a man of mature years and an understanding heart and he found it easy to believe that Zeb’s soul had yearnings that only the music of his violin could satisfy.  So, after giving the matter some thought, he made the following proposal to Zeb, “Supposing we could find a remote place up on the side of the mountain, at least a mile from human habitation, and you were permitted to play the violin from dark to dawn on one night of each year, what night would you choose?”

 That was a hard question to answer but Zeb came up with a good choice.  He said, “Well, of all the occasions which have a seasonal connection, I think I like the corn huskings best.  I would choose some clear, balmy night during the corn harvest.  In those days everybody in Lympus raised corn, good old-fashioned field corn.  They had it ground at the mill and it was an important part of their food, year ‘round. 

The Presiding Elder was pleased at the choice and he held out his hand to Zeb.  “It’s a deal, but don’t breathe a word to a soul.”

In the days that followed, Zeb scouted out a cozy little shelf up on the flank of Lympus Mountain.  And he walked to and from it many times so he could find his way there by the dimmest moonlight.  The summer passed and the bright September days ripened up the corn.  Finally the time came that Zeb had been waiting for.  As soon as it got dark he took his violin up to his mountain nook, rosined up his bow, and played and played and played. 

Now we all know Lympus is famous for its echoes.  There is a place up the road a little way from here where you can hear the ticking of an alarm clock for a quarter of a mile, I am told.  So it was not strange that a lone traveler passing over the old road which used to skirt the base of the mountain, late that night, should hear violin music bright and clear although the road at no point came within a half mile of the place where Reverend Zeb was blissfully fiddling his tunes. 

Some time later that night the traveler banged on the door of the tavern down at Lilliesville and excitedly told a strange tale of music on the mountain road.  The innkeeper tried to quiet him by explaining about the effects of moonlight and night air at high altitudes, but he didn’t quiet down much until he was given a mug of hot peppered rum.  Then, gasping for breath, he allowed himself to be led off to bed. 

Of course, before the next day was over, the story had spread up and down the valley.  But was more or less discounted as just an innkeeper’s yarn.  In the several years that followed, a number of farm folk in the upper valley who had occasion to step out into their yards late at night at that time of year -–possibly to investigate a noise in the chicken coop or a barking dog—would hear the violin music as described by the lone traveler.  Naturally, the Lympus people talked about this.  And being intelligent folk, it didn’t take them long to guess what was going on—it was the Reverend Zeb playing his violin and maybe he was telling them it was time to get in their corn.  Of course they couldn’t talk to him about his night-time violin playing because they were quite sure he would have to stop if a public issue was made of it. 

So it went on, year after year.  The Reverend Zeb Twitchell did well in the ministry.  He was assigned to large and important churches and even became Presiding Elder of the Danville District.  But he never neglected to come back to Lympus Mountain when the corn was ready to pick.  And all these years it seemed to the people of Lympus that the corn bore better than ever before.  The ears were large and well filled out and the kernels were hard and bright. 

The day came when the Reverend Zeb Twitchell was called to his reward.  On a hot, hazy late summer afternoon the tall corn waved gently in the fields of Lympus as his old friends and neighbors, their children and grandchildren laid him lovingly to rest. 

They all knew that his violin was stilled, but could the good folk of Lympus be blamed for stepping out into their back yards late at night when the corn stood ripe in the fields, and listening for the sound of distant music?  And strangest of all, nobody was surprised when they heard the rollicking notes of Zeb’s violin coming down from Lympus Mountain true and clear as ever.

And the story goes that as long as corn was raised in Lympus, the sound of the violin could be heard on the mountain at harvest time. 

Bethel Historical Society Editor’s note:

Manuel S. Miller (1908-1994) was a well-respected citizen of Bethel whose contributions to the community spread over a number of areas—he was an inventor, businessman, church elder, historian, and dedicated family man.  “A Tale of Mountain Music” was presented by Mr. Miller at summer service at the Lympus Church in 1976.  For more information about the Bethel Historical Society, please visit their website found at:     http://bethelvt.com

I would like to extend my thanks to the Bethel Historical Society for giving me permission to reprint this article.    –Linda Lunna   2012

 

 

Supplementary Information about A Tale of Music Mountain

Zeb Twitchell was a real person.  He was born about 1800 in the hill country of the upper White River Valley in Vermont.  There is no reason to believe that his formal education extended beyond a few winter terms in District School, but by the time he entered the ministry in his early thirties he had developed into a cultured and gifted man.  One thing we are told about him is that he had a great sense of humor and that as a young man he liked nothing better than to tell robust yarns which were inevitably climaxed with peals of soul-satisfying laughter by all listeners.

Lympus, at the time of the story, was a small farming community nestled in a     mountain hollow in a remote section of the towns of Bethel and Stockbridge, Vermont.  It received its strange little name because it lay in the shadow of a massive but gently sloping and heavily wooded mountain to which the surveyors, who ran the first lines in this region, gave the name Mountain Olympus.  This, of course, was soon shortened to “Lympus.”

Farming is no longer a way of life there, as the lay of the land does not lend itself to the efficient use of modern agricultural machinery.  But people still live there, it is still called Lympus, and outlanders are still thrilled at the sense of mysterious beauty which pervades this delightful place.  ---M.S. M.