Will diminish the pang
Of an old man's dream of yore,
When meadows were green
And the brook flowed between
The hills he will climb no more;
But the drink of luck
For the youth of good pluck,
Who can stare in the eye of fate,
Is the good old whiskey of old Kentuck
And invariably straight.
III
So here's to the corn
That is growing this morn
All tasselled and gold and gay!
And the old copper still
In the sour mash mill
By the spring on the turnpike gray!
May the fount of luck
For the man full of pluck
Flow ever without abate
With the good old whiskey of old Kentuck,
And strong and pure and straight.
ENVOY
Old straight whiskey! That is the drink of life--
Consolation, family, friends and wife!
So make your glasses ready,
Pour fingers three, then--steady!
"Here's good luck to Kentucky and whiskey straight!"
* * * * *
No one, like Allison, who has made the newspaper profession a life work,
has failed to study its weak spots and to note its imperfections; or on the
other hand, to grasp its marvelous opportunities for studying the wonderful
mystery of the variations of human nature. In the very essence of things
therefore, he recognizes the human elements in his own profession and does
not hold that the newspaper man is perfect or that it does not harbor types
of black sheep the likes of which may not be found in other flocks. At the
same time nothing raises his gorge quicker than to hear the uninformed or
unthinking deliver themselves, parrot-like, of the formula "that's only a
newspaper lie" or to see some man climb high by the aid of the newspaper
and then kick down the ladder by which he rose. Allison once discussed this
subject skillfully in an address on "Newspaper Men and Other Liars" which
is worth a half-hour of any man's time. The only difficulty would be
experienced in finding a copy, for so far as known, I have the only one
extant. Allison believes and says that by the very nature of his occupation
and training the newspaper man is the least of liars among men and proves
to his own complete satisfaction that the reporter gets his undeserved
reputation for lying from his very impersonality--an impersonality that may
be condemned with perfect safety. Fact, he declares, is a block of granite
that the whole world may see without wrangling over, but once inject the
human interest, with its divided opinions, into the occult mystery of the
printed type and you have the newspaper "lie" in so many of its aspects, an
analysis that leads him to arrive at this rather remarkable deduction:
I might almost define a lie as being the narrative of a human event
that had been printed.
And what about a comparison of those "other" liars with the newspaper man?
Allison makes it very adroitly this way:
Suppose every word that every member of this intelligent and most
respectable audience has said today:--the merchant to his customers
and creditors; the man of leisure to his cronies and companions,
the professional man to his clients; even the ladies to their bosom
friends at tea or euchre--suppose, I say, that every word you had
uttered had been taken down by some marvelous mechanical
contrivance, and should be published verbatim tomorrow morning with
your names attached showing just what each of you had said. What do
you think would happen? I can tell you from observation. You would
likely spend next year explaining, denying, apologizing and
repenting. Suits for slander would appear on the courthouse shelves
as thick as blackberries in August. There would be friendships
shattered, confidences dissipated, feuds established, social
anarchy enthroned and perhaps this admirable club could never hold
another meeting for lack of a quorum of members willing to meet
each other in one room.
Well, browsing time is up! I wish I might open the pages of other gems and
quote from their wit, their satire and their sentiment, but any reference
to Allison's productions must of very necessity touch only the high spots
and besides that--
This volume wouldn't be big enough!
IN _the_ OPERATIC FIELD
Did I remark in some preceding breath that Allison is more or less "dippy"
over music? Well, the statement, though made kindly, is severely and
unqualifiedly true and whenever there is "big music" in town I can always
find him in a front seat where he won't miss a single note. This inherent
love of music was what first led him to listen by the hour to Henry Waller
at the piano and later into setting words to Waller's big creations. When
Philip Sousa was in Louisville five or six years ago and told Allison that
the time was ripe to revive "The Ogallallas," which embraced, he said, some
of the finest music he had ever heard, I inquired of Waller's whereabouts.
"Heaven knows!" Allison replied, "And I wish I did, too!" Some years prior
to that time they had "lost" each other; that is, Allison lost Waller.
Henry Waller was the adopted son of Mrs. Scott Siddons, the English actress
and dramatic reader--a famous beauty. He had been an infant prodigy as a
pianist, but was overdriven by his father and Mrs. Siddons intervened and
bought his freedom. She sent him to Woolwich Academy, the great Royal
Artillery and Engineering School of Great Britain, where, curiously enough
for a musician, he graduated at the head of his class in mathematics.
Waller was a class-mate and friend of the ill-fated Prince Imperial of
France, killed by the Zulus, and afterwards spent three years in Franz
Liszt's house as the master's pupil. Strangely enough, too, Waller's piano
performances on the stage were almost mediocre, but to private audiences of
those known to be appreciative, he was a tireless marvel. Allison was a
frequent visitor at Waller's quarters and here his idea germinated for an
American opera. At that time he had no intention of writing the libretto
but, after outlining the plot, at Waller's urgent request he wrote the
scenario. Waller was enthused by Allison, the past master in creating
enthusiasm, to a point where he had entered into its spirit and was
composing great accompanying music, so there was nothing left for him but
to complete the job. While they worked together the mode of procedure was
about this: Allison would sketch out an idea and raise Waller to a seventh
heaven over some dramatic scene until he struck fire and evolved its
musical conception. Whereupon Allison would fit words to the music. So "The
Ogallallas" was completed, submitted to The Bostonians, accepted at once,
rehearsed in New York, Washington and Chicago, making its first public bow
at the Columbia Theatre in the latter city in 1893, where I heard it. The
plot is simple enough and is all worked out in the opening conversation of
the "Scouts" while waiting for their leader. Here it is:
_Joe._ So, then, you know all about this errand of ours?
_Wickliffe._ As much as you do. I know that General Belcher sent a
messenger, asking Deadshot to provide a safe escort for Professor
Andover, of Boston, and a party of ladies, to Lone Star Ranch.
Andover declined a military escort, but Belcher, notwithstanding
the country is quiet, wants us to see them safely through.
_Joe._ Yes, that's it; but who are Professor Andover and his party?
_Wickliffe._ Boston people; with a mission to regenerate the world,
Indians especially.
_Joe._ Well, I should think Deadshot would like his errand. He is a
Boston man I've always understood.
_Wickliffe._ Yes. He came out here with me ten years ago, just out
of college, rich, adventurous and restless. City life was too tame
for Arthur Cambridge. You know how he took to the life of a scout,
and now, under the name of Captain Deadshot, he is the most famous
Indian fighter and scout on the plains.
[Illustration: _Title Page, Book of "The Ogallallas"_]
Imagination could finish the story, but the old, old Beadle Dime Novel of
the Scout, the Girl and the Redskins--capture, threatened death, beautiful
Indian maidens, villain, hero, heroine and rescue, "You set fire to the
girl and I'll take care of the house"--excellently executed in dialogue and
verse, briefly represent the whole thing. The cast of characters in the
first night's production, February 16, 1893, which was widely reviewed and
complimented by the critics in next day's Chicago dailies, was as follows:
CAST OF CHARACTERS.
Arthur Cambridge, known as Captain Deadshot Tom Karl
Professor Andover, a philanthropist H. C. Barnabee
War Cloud, chief of the Ogallallas W. H. McDonald
Cardenas, a Mexican bandit Eugene Cowles
Mississinewa, medicine man of Ogallallas George Frothingham
Wickliffe } { Peter Lang
Buckskin Joe } Scouts { Clem Herschel
Commander United States forces W. A. Howland
Edith, niece and ward of Professor Andover Camille D'Arville
Minnetoa, an Indian girl Flora Finlayson
Miss Hepzibah Small, Edith's governess Josephine Bartlett
Kate, friend of Edith Lillian Hawthorne
Cosita, a Mexican girl Lola Hawthorne
Laura, friend of Edith Georgie Newel
"Bill" MacDonald, the big baritone, as "War Cloud," seized the opportunity
of his life. He almost ran away with the piece and anyone ever after, who
would say "Ogallallas" could get a conversation out of him that would wind
up with "that was the greatest stuff ever written." When costumed and
wearing the Chief's head-dress (old-timers may recall having observed it
hanging in Harry Ballard's city room of the _Chicago Inter-Ocean_, at
Madison and Dearborn) MacDonald boomed out the War Song of the Ogallallas,
he scored the big hit of the opera.
WAR SONG OF THE OGALLALLAS.
Great is the warrior of the Ogallallas,
Fearless his heart is and great is his glory.
Lighted my war-fires and hill-tops flaming
Red to the skies, arouse all my braves.
In the air the swelling war-cry--
In the air that swelling cry--
Wildest sound to combat calling,
Swift the onset in the lust of war.
Shrill is the cry of the wolf
As he howls in the moonlight,
Shrill is the sound of the war-cry--
Ogallalla! Ogallalla!
Lo! where the warriors, trailing their lances,
Sweep o'er the plain upon resistless steeds!
There, on the trail, vengeance is launching
Swift as the arrow upon the hated foe.
In their hearts the whispered war-cry--
In their hearts that wailing cry.
Low the sound of vengeance breathing.
Ride they boldly in the thrill of war.
Low is the cry of the bird
As he chants in the moonlight,
Low is the sound of the war-cry--
Ogallalla! Ogallalla!
Great are the warriors of the Ogallallas!
Strong of arm and fearless of danger,
Where wait the foemen--
Warriors will meet them where the white sun
Is burning on the plain.
In the air resounds the war-cry--
In the air resounds that cry.
Wildest sound to combat calling,
Bold the onset of the warriors charge.
Shrill is the cry of the wolf
As he howls in the moonlight,
Shrill is the sound of the war-cry--
Ogallalla! Ogallalla!
Mr. Barnabee (Professor Andover--dignified, staid and circumscribed; a
misogynist if there ever was one) took huge delight in accentuating the
satire of his character's advice to the bevy of school girls in his charge
to--
BEWARE OF LOVE.
Whoever heard of Homer making sonnets to an eye-brow?
Or Aristotle singing to a maiden with his lute?
Imagine wise old Plato, with his pale and massive high-brow.
Wrinkling it by thinking how his love he'd prosecute;
Do you think Professor Agassiz learned all he knew by sighing?
Or that Mr. Herbert Spencer thought out ethics at a ball?
If our own lamented Emerson of love had been a-dying,
We never should have heard of his philosophy at all.
Can love teach youthful maidens anything at all of Botany?
Or Mathematics cause a thrill erotic in the heart?
Will flirting give a lady brains--if she hasn't got any?--
Or solve the esoteric problems hid in Ray's Third Part?
You may lose yourself completely in pursuing Etiology,
Or safely throw yourself away upon a Cubic Rule;
But nowhere else in nature will you find such useless "ology,"
As in a man who's dead in love and makes himself a fool.
Quite in contrast, is the delicate little waltz song of Edith's (Camille
D'Arville) in which the ring of the blue bells sounds the gladsomeness of
springtime and the intoxication of love.
THE BREATH OF MAY.
Ah! The breath of May!
Never was wine
Half so divine;
Never the air
As fresh or as fair.
Ah! Delight of May!
When every bud
Upon the tree
Lays bare its heart
To every bee.
Ah! The breath of May.
Glowing sunshine everywhere
Flings a gleaming, golden snare--
Flowers here--
And there--
Are blowing in May air.
Ah! The joy of May!
When to the heart
Love doth impart
All the delight
Love can excite.
Ah! The joy of Spring!
When every bird
Hath found its mate,
And every heart
Hath had its sate.
Ah! Love is King!
Love and music everywhere,
Weaving rapture's joyous snare,
Love is here--
Is there--
Is wafted on May air.
Ah! The song of May!
How every trill
Makes hearts to thrill,
And every note's
Aleap in our throats.
Ah! Sweet lay of love!
Story so tender,
Old and gray;
Yet sing again
Love's roundelay--
Ah! Love is King!
In greater contrast is the roystering drinking song of Cardenas, the
Mexican bandit, who was characterized by Eugene Cowles without in any way
overdoing a part easily overdone.
CARE'S THE KING OF ALL.
Oh, care's the King of all--
A King who doth appal;
But shall we who love delight bow before him?
Or raise revolting cry--
Proclaiming pleasure high,
Declare it treason if good men dare adore him?
And to this design
We'll pledge in good wine;
Come all and drink and laugh tonight;
We'll clink and we'll drink,
Nor stop to sigh or think--
Come all with me who love delight.
Away, away with care;
Come on, come all who dare
With me to banish care in joyous drinking.
The night's for pleasure bought,
The day alone for thought--
Let all begone who would annoy us thinking.
Then come while above
The stars wink at love--
Come all and drink and laugh tonight.
We'll clink and we'll drink,
Nor stop to sigh or think--
Come on with me who love delight.
Jessie Bartlett Davis was cast for "Minnetoa, an Indian Girl," but didn't
take the part until Flora Finlayson had made a hit and even then she wanted
certain changes made in the finale, which Waller refused.
Well, "The Ogallallas" deserved a better fate and probably would have been
a go, if there had been tenors enough to carry Waller's big themes. They
were really Grand Opera parts and the average--and better than
average--tenor could not continue night after night without breaking down.
It was great! Too bad it was so far ahead of the times--and failed.
That was Jinx No. 1.
* * * * *
Allison was everlastingly encouraging Waller to musical creations by
exciting his imagination with suggestions and in the end writing the story,
although he tried faithfully to find a librettist who, he too modestly
believed, might do better work than he. In the end, however, each of the
children of his brain came back to its creator. The fact was that Waller
couldn't or wouldn't work with others. So was conceived "Brother
Francesco," an opera set in a monastery in Italy during the Seventeenth
Century, and bringing up a vivid picture of monks, medieval chapels--dark,
massive and severe--and the dank scent of deep tragedy. There were but four
main characters, a quartette of voices, in "Brother Francesco," which was
in one act of about an hour and ten minutes, the whole story unravelling
itself in the public chapel between the ringing of the church bell and the
conclusion of the mass of the Benediction of the Holy Virgin. The altar
lights have not been lit. Enter Francesco, a novice, to light them. A
candle flashes on the altar; then another--and the tale unfolds. Francesco,
sorrowing over his lost love, Maria, observes the Father Confessor enter
the Confessional and, reminded of his too worldly thoughts, kneels and
sings an aria, "The Confession," in which the tragedy of his life is
revealed.
THE CONFESSION.
All my sins confessing humbly, oh, my father--
All my thoughts are ever of my lost Maria.
Wondrously fair and so pure was she
Whom I loved ere my heart was dead--
When love yet thrilled with tender mystery.
Ah, her face! I see it ever--waking, dreaming,
Hear her voice in cadence tender, softly speaking.
Pure was the love that from heaven above
Filled my heart with its ardent flame
And blowed with passion's thrilling mystery.
Our fathers were at strife
And we were kept apart.
I told Lucretia all and
Bade her pour my love
Into Maria's breast.
I waited long and then
She said Maria--false
To me--was pledged to wed
Another that she loved.
That cruel message, father, broke my heart.
It was not long until I saw
Lucretia's heart--that she could love
Where false Maria failed. And so
In sympathy we two were wed.
The vows had scarce been said--
Aye, on the church's steps--a messenger
Did crush a letter in my hand.
'Twas but a line, but at the end--
Oh God in Heaven! Maria's name.
"I hear that thou art false," it said,
"But I cannot believe
"That one who loved as thou didst
"Could fail me or deceive."
Ah! suspicion, like a lightning flash,
Transfixed me and I held
The paper to Lucretia's face
And bade her read and tell me all.
Upon her knees she fell and whined
That she had loved me too, and had
Deceived me of Maria's heart--Ah! God!
In that damned moment's rage
I struck her as she knelt--to kill!
The wedding guests did drag me off
And take the knife away. But, Ah!
There was one stain of blood it bore,
Where, as I struck, it slashed across
The dark and faithless cheek of her
And left it scarred for life. Scarred!
When I had meant to kill.
All that night I lingered, watching 'neath her window--
Saw once more the haunting face of my Maria--
Saw her once more--I can see her still!--
Fled away and am buried here
In God's own house and all unchastened yet.
In very irony, it would seem, to the simplicity of his nature, the
outpourings of the novitiate's sorrowing heart have been confessed to his
wife, the scarred-faced Lucretia, who inhabits the monastery in the guise
of the Father Confessor (not an unknown historical fact) thus in its very
inception lending an intense dramatic effect to the story. Now, at the
ringing of the bell, the villagers enter the public loft, Maria--his lost
love--in the foreground unrecognized either by Francesco or Lucretia,
singing an "Ave Maria:"
Ave Maria, Mother of Mercy,
Thou art our hope, and our sweetness and life.
Pray for Francesco, Oh, watch o'er his footsteps;
Turn on his sorrow thine eyes sweet and tender.
At thy dear feet anguished I fall
To pray for him--
For oh! somewhere he's wandering,
Sorrow enduring.
Pray for him Mother, oh watch o'er his footsteps.
Lost, lost to me, yet so dear to me--
Pray for him, oh Mother dear.
Ave Maria! Hope of the hopeless!
To thy sweet mercy in anguish I cry--
Pray for Francesco, my own, my beloved--
Pray for him Mother, oh pray for Francesco.
Lost, lost to me--oh! loved and lost!
Oh Mother dear pray for him.
Again the bell rings and the monks pass before the altar with genuflections
and sink in their stalls in prayer, while a male chorus chants the Office
of the Benediction. During the singing of the anthem, Francesco enters with
cowl thrown back and a lighted taper in his hand. He is recognized by Maria
and at her exclamations starts to her but is restrained by the Father
Confessor now disclosed to him for the first time as his discarded wife.
After a trio of great dramatic force, Francesco seizes a dagger drawn by
Lucretia to kill him, and stabbing himself, expires in Maria's arms, while
Lucretia, still disguised as the Father Confessor, takes back her place
unnoticed among the monks who hold their crosses in horror against the
suicide!
Waller wrote the entire service in imitation of the sombre Gregorian Mass,
and then over the face of this dark background sketched in modern
passionate music the lyrical and dramatic lightning of the action. This
wonderful conception, both in idea, words and music, was "passed by
censors" of the church--that is, Archbishop Corrigan and the Archbishop of
Paris both said that while they did not approve of representations of the
Church on the stage, it had been done before, and would no doubt be done
again. Otherwise there was nothing objectionable in it.
Yet when it was produced in Berlin at the Royal Opera, under the wing of
Emperor William, even though horribly mutilated by the Public Censor, the
Catholic party, (aided and abetted by the musical cabal that has always
existed in Berlin), made it the cause of protests against the German
Government and Jinx No. 2 came to life in riotous uprisings against it
during its three performances. Whereupon it was withdrawn. These simple
facts are gleaned from Mr. Waller's descriptive letters. Jean de Reszke
thought so well of "Brother Francesco" that he proposed--nay promised--to
have it produced at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. But the old Jinx
proceeded to put his No. 3 seal on de Reszke's voice that year, and he and
the opera were heard from no more under the proscenium arch.
* * * * *
Then there was "The Mouse and the Garter," a travesty on Grand Opera in two
acts that Clarence Andrews was to produce at the opening of the
Waldorf-Astoria ballroom-theater. Many has been the pleasurable moment I
have had in examining the old "prompt book" in use during rehearsals, for
the company was picked, the scenery modeled, the costumes made and the
"fancy," as Allison called it, ready to be staged, when Oscar Hammerstein,
who had a contract with Andrews to transfer successes to the old Victoria
Theater, blew up in one of his bankruptcies. The Jinx was again monarch of
all he surveyed--and Monte-Cristo-like held up four fingers! That old
"prompt book" mentioned shows the wear and tear of much use and is filled
with odd notes in Allison's characteristic handwriting. No less interesting
were the "Librettist's Notes on Characters in the Opera and the Business,"
dated October 21, 1897, and taken from an old letter-press copy that turned
up in our archives. There we find that--
The general tone of the performance is to be light, gay, rapid,
suggestive and delicate--without a trace of the license of current
musical farce. The suggestiveness must naturally arise from the
innocent freedom of village life. The whole idea is a travesty of
sentimental grand opera, the vocal characters being transposed so
far as their fate and actions are concerned.
Good stuff! And who were these innocent villagers? Well, there was Tenor
Robusto, in love with Soprano and fated to be left at the post; Tenor Di
Grazia, his twin brother; Giovanni Baritono, a Soldier of Fortune; Piccolo,
an innkeeper; Fra Tonerero Basso, a priest; Signorina Prima Soprano, a bar
maid; Signorina Mezzo, also a bar maid, and Signora Contralto, Piccolo's
wife, besides villagers, eight topers, musicians, five couples of rustic
brides and grooms, and a dancing bear and his keeper. Let us not forget the
mythical mouse and the ribbon from which The Garters were made, though
neither appears among the "properties" scheduled by Allison.
[Illustration: _Page from the old Prompt Book
"The Mouse and the Garter"_]
Robusto and Soprano flirted. He gave her a ribbon and she promised to marry
him. Just a bluff! And then he wanted his ribbon back, but she had already
made it into garters, and when he tried to take them by force she boxed him
smartly. He got fussy, drank a gallon of gooseberry wine, smoked two
cigarettes and making out that he was a great bounder, threatened her with
sudden death. Great dialogue! He would have gone to war, only there was no
war at the time and anyway his "mother wouldn't let him"--the topical
number. After smacking Robusto good and plenty before all the villagers,
Soprano, who seems to know how to take care of herself, swears that she'll
marry no one unless he has the wit "to get--that! And this!"--the garters.
Baritono, Soldier of Fortune, comes on the scene. Lots more bully dialogue
and song and then Baritono hears of Soprano's oath. It's easy for him and
he bides his time--you always have to bide your time--to indicate a point
behind Soprano, when she is in a wholly unsuspecting mood, and shout "Ha! A
mouse!! A mouse!!!" Village maidens scream and scatter. Soprano, skirts to
knees, hurdles into a chair, while Baritono deftly seizes the loose ends of
the now visible "lover-knots" and holds aloft the precious talismen.
Wedding. Finis!
But the Jinx got it.
[Illustration: A PIRATICAL BALLAD
SONG FOR BASS OR DEEP BARITONE
WORDS BY YOUNG E. ALLISON.
MUSIC BY HENRY WALLER.]
BALLAD _of_ DEAD MEN