Trials of a Travelling Musician
"The man that hath not music in his soul."
I will say no more. The quotation, though but too true, I is too well
known; but it will serve as the best illustration I can give to the
various annoyances which beset the path of him who is musically
inclined, and whose soul is in unison with sweet sounds. This was my
case. I loved music with all my heart and soul, and in order to give
myself wholly up to my passion, and claim a sort of moral right to enjoy
it, I made it a profession.
Few people have a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the
world than the travelling musician; yet such is the absorbing nature of
his calling, that few make use of it less. His nature is open, easy, and
unsuspecting; pleased with his profession, he hopes always to convey the
same pleasure to his hearers; and though doubts will sometimes cross his
mind, and the fear of ridicule make him awkward and nervous, yet, upon
the whole, he is generally sure of making a favourable impression on the
simple-hearted and generous among his hearers.
The musician moves among his fellow-men as a sort of privileged person;
for who ever suspects him of being a rogue? His first attempt to deceive
would defeat its own object, and prove him to be a mere pretender. His
hand and voice must answer for his skill, and form the only true test of
his abilities. If tuneless and bad, the public will not fail to condemn
him.
The adventures of the troubadours of old, if they were more full of
sentiment and romance than the every-day occurrences that beset the path
of the modern minstrel, were not more replete with odd chances and
ludicrous incident. Take the following for an example of the many droll
things which have happened to me during my travels.
In the summer of 1846 I was making a professional tour through the
United States, and had advertised a concert for the ensuing evening at
the small town of ---, and was busy making the necessary arrangements,
when I was suddenly accosted, as I left the hotel, by a tall, thin,
lack-a-daisical looking man, of a most unmusical and unprepossessing
appearance: "How-do-ye-do? I'm highly tickled to see you. I s'pose you
are going to give an extra sing here--ain't you?"
"Yes; I intend giving a concert here this evening."
"Hem! How much dew you ax to come in? That is--I want to say--what are
you goin' to chearge a ticket?"
"Half a dollar--the usual price."
"How?" inclining his ear towards me, as if he doubted the soundness of
the organ.
"Half a dollar?" repeated I, carelessly.
"Tis tew much. You had better chearge twenty-five cents. If you dew,
you'll have a pretty good house. If you make it twelve and a half cents,
you'll have a _smasher_. If, mister, you'll lower that agin to six and a
quarter cents, you'll have to take a field,--there ain't a house would
hold 'em." After a pause, scratching his head, and shuffling with his
feet, "I s'pose you ginnerally give the profession tickets?"
"Sometimes."
"I'm a _leetle_ in your line myself. Although I'm a shoe-maker by
trade, I leads the first Presbyterian choir upon the hill. I should like
to have you come up, if you stay long enough."
"As that is the case, perhaps you can tell me if I am likely to have a
good house to-night?"
"I kind a reckon as how you will; that is, if you don't chearge tew
much."
"Where shall I get the best room?"
"Well, I guess, you had better try the old meetin' house."
"Thank you. Allow me, sir, to present you with a ticket." I now thought
that I had got rid of him, and amply paid him for the information I had
received. The ticket was for a single admission. He took it, turned it
slowly round, held it close to his eyes, spelt it carefully over, and
then stared at me. "What next?" thought I.
"There's my wife. Well--I s'pose she'd like to come in."
"You wish me to give you a double ticket?"
"I don't care if you dew," again turning the new ticket in his hand;
and, scratching his head more earnestly, he said, "I've one of the
smartest boys you ever seed; he's a fust-rate ear for music; he can
whistle any tune he hears right straight off. Then there's my wife's
sister a-staying with us jist now; she's very fond of music tew."
"Perhaps," said I, losing all patience, "you would prefer a family
ticket?"
"Well; I'd be obliged. It don't cost you any, mister; and if we don't
use it, I'll return it to-morrow."
The stranger left me, and I saw no more of him, until I spied him in the
concert-room, with a small family of ten or twelve. Presently, another
man and a dog arrived. Says he to the doorkeeper, "What's a-goin on
here?"
"It's a concert--admission, half-a-dollar."
"I'm not a-goin' to give half-a-dollar to go in here. I hire a pew in
this here church by the year, and I've a right to go in whenever the
door's open." So in he went with his dog.
The evening turned out very wet, and these people happened to form all
my audience; and as I did not feel at all inclined to sing for their
especial benefit, I returned to my lodgings. I learned from my
doorkeeper the next morning, that my friends waited for an hour and a
half for my reappearance, which could not reasonably have been expected
under existing circumstances.
I thought I had got rid of the musical shoemaker for ever, but no such
good luck. Before I was out of my bed, he paid me a visit.
"You will excuse my calling so early," says he, "but I was anxious to
see you before you left the town."
Wishing him at the bottom of the Mississippi, I put on my dressing gown,
and slipped from my bed, whilst he continued his introductory address.
"I was very sorry that you had not a better attendance last night; and
I s'pose that accounted for your leaving us as you did. We were all
kinder disappointed. You'd have had a better house, only the people
thought there was a _leetle_ humbug about this," and he handed me one
of my programmes.
It is well known to most of my readers, that in writing these bills the
name of the composer generally follows the song, particularly in any
very popular compositions, such as
Grand Introduction to Pianoforte .............. HENRY HERTZ.
Life on the Ocean Wave ........................ HENRY RUSSELL.
Old English Gentleman ......................... Melody by MART. LUTHER.
"Humbug!" said I, attempting to take the bill, in order to see that no
mistake had originated in the printing, but my tormentor held it fast.
"Look," said he; "Now where is Henry Hertz; and Henry Russell, where is
he? And the Old English Gentleman, Martin Luther, what has become of
him? The folks said that he was dead, but I didn't believe that, for I
didn't think that you would have had the face to put his name in your
bill if he was."
Thus ended my acquaintance with the enlightened shoemaker of the
Mississippi. I was travelling in one of the western canal boats the same
summer, and was sauntering to and fro upon the deck, admiring the beauty
of the country through which we were passing, when I observed a very
tall, thin-laced, sharp looking man, regarding me with very fixed
attention. Not knowing who or what he was, I was at last a little
annoyed by the pertinacity of this steady stare. It was evident that he
meditated an attack upon me in some shape or other. Suddenly he came up
to me, and extending his hand, exclaimed,--
"Why, Mister H---, is this you? I have not seen you since you gave your
_consort_ at N---; it seems a tarnation long while ago. I thought,
perhaps, you had got blowed up in one of those exploded steam-boats.
But here you are as large as life--and that's not over large neither,
(glancing at the slight dimensions of my figure,) and as ready to raise
the wind as ever. I am highly gratified to meet with you, as I have one
of the greatest songs you ever he'rd to show you. If you can but set it
to music, and sing it in New York city, it will immortalize you, and
immortalize me tew."
Amused at the earnestness with which the fellow spoke, I inquired the
subject of his song.
"Oh, 'tis des-crip-tive; 'tis tre-men-dous. It will make a sensation all
over the Union."
"But what is it about?--Have you got it with you?"
"No--no, mister; I never puts these things down on paper, lest other
folk should find them and steal them. But I'll give you some _idee_
of what it is. Look you, mister. I was going from Syracuse to Rochester,
on the canal-boat. We met on our way a tre-men-dous storm. The wind
blew, and the rain came down like old sixty, and everything looked as
black as my hat; and the passengers got scared and wanted to get off,
but the captain sung out, 'Whew--let 'em go, Jem!' and away we went at
the rate of tew miles an hour, and they could not stop. By and by we
struck a rock, and down we went."
"Indeed!" said I, "that's very unusual in a canal-boat; were any lives
lost?"
"No, but we were all dreadfully sceared and covered with mud. I sat down
by the _en-gine_ till I got dry, and then I wrote my pome. I will repeat
what I can to you, and what I can't I will write right off when I gets
hum.--Hold on--hold on--" he continued, beating his forehead with the
back of his hand, as if to awaken the powers of memory--"I have it
now--I have it now,--'tis tre-men-dous--"
"Oh Lord, who know'st the wants of men,
Guide my hand, and guide my pen,
And help me bring the truth to light,
Of that dread scene and awful night,
Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu.
There was Mister Cadoga in years a-bud,
Was found next morning in tew feet mud;
He strove--he strove--but all in vain,
The more he got up, he fell down again.
Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu."
The poet paused for a moment to gain breath, evidently overcome by
the recollection of the awful scene. "Is not that bee-u-tiful?" he
exclaimed. "What a fine effect you could give to that on the pee-a-ne,
humouring the keys to imitate his squabbling about in the mud. Let me
tell you, mister, it would beat Russell's 'Ship on Fire' all hollow."
Wiping the perspiration from his face, he recommenced--
"The passengers rushed unto the spot,
Together with the crew;
We got him safe out of the mud,
But he had lost his shoe.
Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu."
I could not listen to another line of this sublime effusion, the
passengers who had gathered around us drowning his nasal drawl in a
complete roar of laughter. Seeing that I was as much infected as the
rest, the poet turned to me, with an air of offended dignity,--
"I don't take the trouble, mister, to repeat any more of my _pomes_ to
you; nor do I take it kind at all, your laughing at me in that ere way.
But the truth is, you can't comprehend nor appreciate anything that is
sublime, or out of the common way. Besides, I don't think you could set
it to music; it is not in you, and you can't fix it no-how."
This singular address renewed our mirth; and, finding myself unable to
control my inclination to laugh, and not wishing to hurt his feelings, I
was about to leave him, when the man at the helm sung out, "Bridge!"
The passengers lowered their heads to ensure their safety--all but my
friend the poet, who was too much excited to notice the signal before
he came in contact with the bridge, which sent him sprawling down the
gangway. He picked himself up, clambered up the stairs, and began
striding up and down the deck at a tremendous rate, casting from time to
time indignant glances at me.
I thought, for my part, that the man was not in his right senses, or
that the blow he had received had so dulled his bump of caution, that he
could no longer take care of himself; for the next moment he stumbled
over a little child, and would have been hurt severely if I had not
broken his fall, by catching his arm before he again measured his length
on the deck. My timely assistance mollified his anger, and he once more
became friendly and confidential.
"Here, take this piece of poetry, Mister H---, and see if you can set _it_
to music. Mind you, it is none of mine; but though not _quite_ so good, it
is som'at in my style. I cut it out of a newspaper down East. You are
welcome to it," he continued, with a patronizing nod, "that is, if you
are able to do justice to the subject."
I took the piece of dirty crumpled newspaper from his hand; and, struck
with the droll quizzing humour of the lines, I have preserved them ever
since. As I have never seen them before or since, I will give you them
here.
To The Falls Of Niagara.
"I wonder how long you've been roarin'
At this infernal rate;
I wonder if all you've been pourin'
Could be cipher'd on a slate.
"I wonder how such a thunderin' sounded
When all New York was woods;
'Spose likely some Injins have been drownded,
When the rains have raised your floods.
"I wonder if wild stags and buffaloes
Have stood where now I stand;
Well--s'pose being scared at first, they stubb'd their toes;
I wonder where they'd land.
"I wonder if that rainbow has been shinin'
Since sun-rise at creation;
And this waterfall been underminin'
With constant spatteration.
"That Moses never mention'd ye--I've wonder'd,
While other things describin';
My conscience!--how ye must have foam'd and thunder'd
When the deluge was subsidin'!
"My thoughts are strange, magnificent, and deep,
When I look down on thee;--
Oh, what a glorious place for washing sheep
Niagara would be!
"And oh, what a tremendous water power
Is wash'd over its edge;
One man might furnish all the world with flour,
With a single privilege.
"I wonder how many times the lakes have all
Been emptied over here;
Why Clinton did not feed the grand Canal
Up here--I think is queer.
"The thoughts are very strange that crowd my brain,
When I look up to thee;
Such thoughts I never expect to have again,
To all eternity."
After reading the lines, I begged my friend to excuse me, as I wanted
to go below and take a nap. I had not been long in the cabin before he
followed me. To get rid of him I pretended to be asleep. After passing
me two or three times, and leaning over me in the most inquisitive
manner, until his long nose nearly went into my eye, and humming a
bow-wow tune in my ear to ascertain if I were really napping, he turned
from me with a dissatisfied grunt, flung himself into a settee, and not
long after was puffing and blowing like a porpoise. I was glad of this
opportunity to go on deck again, and "I left him alone in his glory."
But, while I was congratulating myself on my good fortune, I found him
once more at my side.
Good heavens! how I wished him at the bottom of the canal, when he
commenced telling me some _awful_ dream he had had. I was too much
annoyed at being pestered with his company to listen to him, a
circumstance I now rather regret, for had his dreams been equal to
his poetry, they certainly must have possessed the rare merit of
originality; and I could have gratified my readers with something
entirely out of the common way.
Turning abruptly from him, I entered into conversation with another
gentleman, and quite forgot my eccentric friend until I retired for the
night, when I found him waiting for me in the cabin.
"Ho, ho, mister,--is that you? I was afear'd we had put you ashore.
What berth are you goin' to take?"
I pointed to No. 4.
"Then," said he, "would you have any objection to my locating in the
one above you, as I feel a _leetle afear'd?_ It is so awful dark
out-doors, and the clouds look tre-mend-ous black, as if they'd be
a-pourin' all night. The reason why I prefer the upper berth is this,"
he continued confidentially; "if we should fall in with a storm, and all
go to the bottom, I should have a better chance of saving myself. But
mind you, if she should sink I will give you half of my berth, if you'll
come up."
I thanked him for his offer, and not being at all apprehensive, I told
him that I preferred staying where I was. Soon after I retired, hoping
to sleep, but I had not calculated on the powers of annoyance possessed
by my quondam friend. I had just laid myself comfortably down, when I
felt one of his huge feet on the side of my berth. Looking out, I espied
him crawling up on all-fours to his place of security for the night. His
head had scarcely touched the pillow before he commenced telling me some
long yarn; but I begged him, in no very gentle tone, to hold on till the
morning, as I had a very severe headache, and wanted to go to sleep.
I had fallen into a sort of doze, when I thought I heard some one
talking in a low voice close to my ear. I started into a sitting
posture, and listened a moment. It was pitch dark; I could see nothing.
I soon, however, discovered that the mysterious sounds proceeded from
the berth above me. It was my friend reciting, either for my amusement
or his own, the poem he had favoured me with in the morning. He was
apparently nearly asleep, and he drawled the half-uttered sentences
through his nose in the most ludicrous manner. He was recapitulating
the disastrous condition of Mr. Cadoga:--
"There was Mister Ca-do-ga--in years a-bud--
Next morning--tew--feet--mud--
He strove--he--but--in vain;
The more he fell--down--he got up--a-g-a-in.
Ri--tu--ri--tu."
Here followed a tremendous snore, and I burst into a prolonged fit of
laughter, which fortunately did not put a stop to the sonorous bass of
my companion overhead, whose snoring I considered far more tolerable
than his conversation.
Just at this moment the boat struck the bank, which it frequently does
of a very dark night, which gave the vessel such a shock, that it broke
the cords that secured the poet's bed to the beam above, and down he
came, head foremost, to the floor. This accident occasioned me no small
discomfort, as he nearly took my berth with him. It was fortunate for me
that I was awake, or he might have killed me in his descent; as it was,
I had only time to throw myself back, when he rushed past me with the
speed of an avalanche, carrying bed and bed-clothes with him in one
confused heap; and there he lay upon the floor, rolling and roaring like
some wild beast caught in a net.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wonder where I is; what a tre-men-dous storm--what
a dreadful night--not a soul can be saved,--I knew it--I dreampt it all.
Oh Lord! we shall all go to the bottom, and find eternity there--Captain
captain--where be we?"
Here a child belonging to one of the passengers, awakened by his
bellowing, began to cry.
"Oh, dear! Some one else sinking.--Captain--captain--confound him!
I s'pose he's drownded, like the rest. Thank heaven! here's something to
hold on to, to keep me from sinking;" and, clutching at the table in the
dark, he upset it, and broke the large lamp that had been left upon it.
Down came the broken glass upon him in a shower which, doubtless, he
took for the waves breaking over him, for he raised such a clatter with
his hands and feet, and uttered such doleful screams, that the
passengers started simultaneously from their sleep,--
"What's the matter? is that man mad or drunk?" exclaimed several voices.
The gentleman beneath the bed-clothes again groaned forth,--"We are
all lost. If I once get upon dry land, you'll never catch me in a
canal-boat agin."
Pitying his distress I got up, groped my way to the steward's berth, and
succeeded in procuring a light. When I returned to the cabin, I found
the poet lying on the floor, with the table upon him, and he holding it
fast with both hands, crying vehemently, "I will never let go. I will
hang on to the last."
"You are dreaming," said I; "come, get up. The cords of your bed were
not strong enough to hold you, and you have got a tumble on to the
floor; nothing else is the matter with you."
As I ceased speaking the vessel again struck the bank, and my friend, in
his eagerness to save himself, upset me, light and all. I again upset
all the small pieces of furniture in my reach, to the great amusement of
the passengers, who were sitting up in their berths listening to; and
laughing at our conversation. We were all once more in the dark, and I
can assure my readers that my situation was everything but comfortable,
as the eccentric gentleman had hold of both my legs.
"You foolish fellow," cried I, kicking with all my might to free myself.
"There is no harm done; the boat has only struck again upon the bank."
"Where is the bank?" said he, still labouring under the delusion that he
was in the water. "Give me a hold on it. If I can only get on the bank I
shall be safe."
Finding it impossible to convince him how matters really stood, I left
him to unroll himself to his full dimensions on the floor, and groping my
way to a sofa, laid myself down once more to sleep.
When the passengers met at the breakfast-table, the poor poet and his
misfortunes during the night gave rise to much quizzing and merriment,
particularly when he made his appearance with a black eye, and the skin
rubbed off the tip of his nose.
One gentleman, who was most active in teasing him, cried out to
me,--"Mr. H---, do try and set last night's adventures to music, and
sing them this evening at your concert. They would make a _tre-men-dous
sensation_, I assure you."
The poet looked daggers at us, and seizing his carpet-bag, sprang to
the deck, and from the deck to the shore, which he fortunately reached
in safety, without casting a parting glance at his tormentors.
The Mountain Air.
"Rave not to me of your sparkling wine;
Bid not for me the goblet shine;
My soul is athirst for a draught more rare,
A gush of the pure, fresh mountain air!
"It wafts on its currents the rich perfume
Of the purple heath, and the honied broom;
The golden furze, and the hawthorn fair,
Shed all their sweets to the mountain air.
"It plays round the bank and the mossy stone,
Where the violet droops like a nun alone;
Shrouding her eyes from the noon-tide glare,
But breathing her soul to the mountain-air.
"It gives to my spirits a tone of mirth--
I bound with joy o'er the new-dress'd earth,
When spring has scatter'd her blossoms there,
And laden with balm the mountain air.
"From nature's fountain my nectar flows,
'Tis the essence of each sweet bud that blows;
Then come, and with me the banquet share,
Let us breathe together the mountain air!"