THE CONCERT IN THE TOWN HALL.
It was the evening of New Year's day, 186--. The leading people, in fact
nearly all the people of the three villages forming the town of
Eastborough, were assembled in the Town Hall at Eastborough Centre. The
evening was pleasant and this fact had contributed to draw together the
largest audience ever assembled in that hall. Not only was every seat
taken, but the aisles were also crowded, while many of the younger
citizens had been lifted up to eligible positions in the wide window
seats of the dozen great windows on three sides of the large hall.
The large attendance was also due in part to the fact that a new and
original musical composition by Mr. Strout, the singing-master, would be
sung for the first time in public. Again, it had been whispered up at
Hill's grocery at Mason's Corner that the young city fellow who was
boarding at Deacon Mason's was going to be present, and this rumor led
to a greatly increased attendance from that village.
The audience was a typical one of such communities at that period;
horny-handed farmers with long shaggy beards and unkempt hair, dressed
in ill-fitting black suits; matronly looking farmers' wives in their
Sunday best; rosy-cheeked daughters full of fun and vivacity and
chattering like magpies; tall, lank, awkward, bashful sons, and
red-haired, black-haired, and tow-headed urchins of both sexes, the
latter awaiting the events of the evening with the wild anticipations
that are usually called forth only by the advent of a circus.
The members of the chorus were seated on the large platform, the girls
being on the right and the fellows on the left. A loud hum of
conversation arose from the audience and chorus, a constant turning over
and rattling of programmes gave a cheerful and animated appearance to
the scene. The centre door at the rear of the platform was opened and
all eyes were turned in that direction, the chorus twisting their necks
or turning half 'round in their seats.
Professor Strout entered and was greeted with a loud burst of applause.
He wore a dress suit that he had hired in Boston, and there was a large
white rose in the lapel of his coat. He was accompanied by Miss Tilly
James, the pianist, who wore a handsome wine-colored silk dress that had
been made for the occasion by the best dressmaker in Cottonton. As she
took her place at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys, she, too,
came in for a liberal round of applause. Professor Strout bowed to the
audience, then turning his back upon them, he stood with baton uplifted
facing the chorus and waiting the advent of the town committee. Every
eye in the audience was fixed upon the programme. It contained the
information that the first number was an opening chorus entitled,
"Welcome to the Town Committee," written and composed by Professor
Obadiah Strout and sung for the first time with great success at the
last annual concert.
The door at the rear of the platform was opened again and Deacon Abraham
Mason, the Rev. Caleb Howe, and Mr. Benoni Hill, the members of the town
committee on singing school, entered. Deacon Mason was accompanied by
Quincy Adams Sawyer, and all eyes were fastened on the couple as they
took their seats at the right of the platform, the Rev. Mr. Howe and Mr.
Hill being seated on the left.
Quincy Adams Sawyer in appearance and dress was a marked contrast to the
stout, hardy, and rugged young farmers of Eastborough. He had dark hair,
dark eyes, and a small black mustache curled at the ends. His face was
pallid, but there was a look of determination in the firmly set jaw,
resolute mouth, and sharp eye. He wore a dark suit with Prince Albert
coat. Upon one arm hung an overcoat of light-colored cloth. He wore
light-brown kid gloves and in one hand carried a light-colored Kossuth
hat.
As soon as the committee and their guest had taken their seats,
Professor Strout tapped upon his music stand with his baton and the
members of the Eastborough Singing Society arose to their feet with that
total disregard of uniformity and unanimity of motion that always
characterizes a body of undrilled performers. Each girl was obliged to
look at her own dress and that of her neighbor to see if they were all
right, while each fellow felt it absolutely necessary to shuffle his
feet, pull down his cuffs, pull up his collar, and arrange his necktie.
Despite the confusion and individual preparations the chorus took the
opening note promptly and sang the "Welcome to the Town Committee" with
a spirit and precision which well merited the applause it received. The
words were not printed on the programme, but they conveyed the idea that
the members of the singing class were very much obliged to the town
committee for hiring a singing-master and paying his salary. Also that
the members of the chorus had studied hard to learn to sing and would do
their best that evening as a return for the favors-bestowed upon them by
the town.
Professor Strout then advanced to the edge of the platform and called
the attention of the audience to the second number upon the programme
which read, "Address by Abraham Mason, Esq." Prof. Strout added that by
special request Deacon Mason's remarks would relate to the subject of
"Education." The Deacon drew a large red bandanna handkerchief from his
pocket, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, blew his nose
vigorously, and then advanced to the centre of the platform near the
music stand.
"I dote on eddikation," he began; "it makes the taxes high; I've lived
in this town man and boy more'n fifty year and I never saw them anythin'
but high." A general laugh greeted this remark. "But when I'm in town
meetin' I allus votes an aye to make our schools as good as those found
in neighborin' towns, and none of them are any too good. For my
political actions I'm proud to give my grounds, for I never cast a vote
that I was ashamed to give my reasons for." A burst of applause followed
this declaration.
"Years back when I was young, we had no modern notions. We had to be
satisfied with the three R's, Readin', 'Ritin', and 'Rithmetic, and
larnin' was dealt out in rather meagre potions, 'bout three months in
the winter after the wood was cut, sawed and split, and piled up in the
wood-shed. We allus had to work in the summer, make hay and fill the
barn in, and not till winter come could get a speck of larnin,' and then
it took most of our time to pile wood into the stove and settle our
personal accounts with the teacher." An audible titter ran through the
audience at this sally. "And yet when I was young, though this community
was rather behind in letters, no people in the land could say they were
our betters. But now the world is changed, we live without such
grubbin', learn Latin, French, and Greek, how to walk Spanish, talk
Dutch, draw picters, keep books, fizziology, and lots of other 'ologies
and much piano drubbin'. Now what brought this about? I think I have a
notion; you know the immergrants from about every country under the sun
have piled across the ocean. They've done the diggin' and other rough
work and we've thruv on their labor. I have some ready cash. Mr. Strout
comes 'round and gets some of't every year, and likewise my neighbor
has some put aside for a rainy day." Many of the audience who probably
had nothing laid aside glanced at the well-to-do farmers who had the
reputation of being well fixed as regards this world's goods. "Perhaps
I'm doin' wrong, but I would like my darter to know as much as those
that's likely to come arter. But if the world keeps on its progress so
bewild'rin' and they put some more 'ologies into the schools together
with cabinet organs and fife and drum, I'm afraid it will cost my darter
more than it did me to eddikate her childrin."
A storm of applause filled the hall when the Deacon concluded his
remarks. As he resumed his chair, Quincy handed him a tumbler of water
that he had poured from a pitcher that stood upon a table near the
piano. This act of courtesy was seen and appreciated by the audience and
a loud clapping of hands followed. At the commencement of the Deacon's
speech, the Professor had left the platform, for it gave him an
opportunity for an intended change of costume, for which time could be
found at no other place on the programme. It was a marvellous rig that
he wore when he reappeared. A pair of white duck pantaloons, stiffly
starched, were strapped under a pair of substantial, well-greased,
cowhide boots. The waistcoat was of bright-red cloth with brass buttons.
The long-tailed blue broad-cloth coat was also supplied with big brass
buttons. He wore a high linen dickey and a necktie made of a small silk
American flag. On his head he had a cream-colored, woolly plug hat and
carried in his hand a baton resembling a small barber's pole, having
alternate stripes of red, white, and blue with gilded ends.
[Illustration: IT WAS A MARVELLOUS RIG THAT HE WORE WHEN HE REAPPEARED.]
The appearance of this apparition of Uncle Sam was received with cries,
cheers, and loud clapping of hands. The Professor bowed repeatedly in
response to this ovation, and it was a long time before he could make
himself heard by the audience. At last he said in a loud voice:
"The audience will find the words of number three printed on the last
page of the programme, and young and old are respectfully invited to
jine in the chorus."
A fluttering of programmes followed and this is what the audience found
on the last page, "Hark! and Hear the Eagle Scream, a new and original
American national air written, composed, and sung for the first time in
public by Professor Obadiah Strout, author of last season's great
success, 'Welcome to the Town Committee,'"
I.
They say our wheat's by far the best;
Our Injun corn will bear the test;
Our butter, beef, and pork and cheese,
The furriner's appetite can please.
The beans and fishballs that we can
Will keep alive an Englishman;
While many things I can't relate
He must buy from us or emigrate.
CHORUS:
Raise your voices, swing the banners,
Pound the drums and bang pianners;
Blow the fife and shriek for freedom,
'Meriky is bound to lead 'em.
Emigrate! ye toiling millions!
Sile enuf for tens of billions!
Land of honey, buttermilk, cream;
Hark! and hear the eagle scream.
II.
In manufactures, too, we're some;
Take rubber shoes and chewing gum;
In cotton cloth, and woollen, too,
In time we shall outrival you;
Our ships with ev'ry wind and tide,
With England's own will sail beside,
In ev'ry port our flag unfurled,
When the Stars and Stripes will rule the world.
CHORUS:
III.
For gold and silver, man and woman,
For things that's raided, made, dug, or human,
'Meriky's the coming nation;
She's-bound to conquer all creation!
Per'aps you call this brag and bluster;
No, 'taint nuther, for we muster
The best of brain, the mighty dollar;
We'll lead on, let others foller.
CHORUS:
Professor Strout sang the solo part of the song himself. The singing
society and many of the audience joined in the chorus. Like many
teachers of vocal music, the Professor had very little voice himself,
but he knew how to make the best possible use of what he did possess.
But the patriotic sentiment of the words, the eccentric make-up of the
singer his comical contortions and odd grimaces, and what was really a
bright, tuneful melody won a marked success for both song and singer.
Encore followed encore. Like many more cultured audiences in large
cities the one assembled in Eastborough Town Hall seemed to think that
there was no limit to a free concert and that they were entitled to all
they could get. But the Professor himself fixed the limit. When the song
had been sung through three times he ran up the centre aisle of the
platform and facing the audience, he directed the chorus, holding the
variegated baton in one hand and swinging his woolly plug hat around
his head with the other. At the close, amid screams, cheers, and
clapping of hands, he turned upon his heel, dashed through the door and
disappeared from sight.
The next number upon the programme was a piano solo by Miss Tilly James.
Nothing could have pleased her audience any better than the well-known
strains of the ever popular "Maiden's Prayer." In response to an encore
which Quincy originated, and dexterously led, Miss James played the
overture to Rossini's "William Tell" without notes. A fact which was
perceived by the few, but unnoticed by the many.
At the close of these instrumental selections, the Professor reappeared
in evening costume and again assumed the directorship of the concert.
Robert Wood had a ponderous bass voice, which if not highly cultivated
was highly effective, and he sang "Simon the Cellarer" to great
acceptation. Next followed a number of selections sung without
accompaniment by a male quartette composed of Cobb's twins, who were
both tenors, Benjamin Bates, and Robert Wood. This feature was loudly
applauded and one old farmer remarked to his neighbor, who was evidently
deaf, in a loud voice that was heard all over the hall, "That's the kind
of music that fetches me," which declaration was a signal for another
encore.
The singing society then sang a barcarolle, the words of the first line
being, "Of the sea, our yacht is the pride." It went over the heads of
most of the audience, but was greatly appreciated fey the limited few
who were acquainted with the difficulties of accidentals, syncopations,
and inverted musical phrases.
According to the programme the next feature was to be a duet entitled
"Over the Bridge," composed by Jewell and sung by Arthur Scates and Miss
Lindy Putnam. The Professor stepped forward and waved his hand to quiet
the somewhat noisy assemblage.
"The next number will have to be omitted," he said, "because Mr. Scates
is home sick abed. The doctor says he's got a bad case of quinsy," with
a marked emphasis on the last word, which, however, failed to make a
point. "In response to requests, one verse of 'Hark! and Hear the Eagle
Scream' will be sung to take the place of the piece that's left out."
While the Professor was addressing the audience, Quincy had whispered
something in Deacon Mason's ear which caused the latter to smile and nod
his head approvingly. Quincy arose and reached the Professor's side just
as the latter finished speaking and turned towards the chorus. Quincy
said something in a low tone to the Professor which caused Mr. Strout to
shake his head in the negative in a most pronounced manner. Quincy spoke
again and looked towards Miss Putnam, who was seated in the front row,
and whose face wore a somewhat disappointed look.
Again the Professor shook his head by way of negation and the words, "It
can't be did," were distinctly audible to the majority of both singing
society and audience, at the same time a look of contempt spread over
the singing-master's face. Quincy perceived it and was nettled by it. He
was not daunted, however, nor to be shaken from his purpose, so he said
in a loud voice, which was heard in all parts of the hall: "I know the
song, and will sing it if Miss Putnam and the audience are willing."
With a smile upon her face, Miss Putnam nodded her acquiescence. All the
townspeople had heard of Quincy's liberality in providing a hot supper
for the sleighing party the night before, and cries of "Go ahead! Give
him a chance! We want to hear him!" and "Don't disappoint Miss Putnam,"
were heard from all parts of the hall. The Professor was obliged to give
in. He sat down with a disgusted look upon his face, and from that
moment war to the knife was declared between these champions of city and
country civilization.
Mr. Sawyer went to the piano, opened Miss James's copy of the music and
placed it upon the music rack before her, saying a few words to her
which caused her to smile. Quincy then approached Lindy, opened her
music at the proper place and passed it to her. Next he took her hand
and led her to the front of the platform. These little acts of courtesy
and politeness, performed in an easy, graceful, and self-possessed
manner, were seen by all and won a round of applause.
The duet was beautifully sung. Quincy had a fine well-trained tenor
voice, while Miss Putnam's mezzo-soprano was full and melodious and her
rendition fully as artistic as that of her companion. One, two, three,
four, five, six encores followed each other in quick succession, in
spite of Professor Strout's endeavors to quell the applause and take up
the next number. The ovation given earlier in the evening to Professor
Strout was weak in comparison with that vouchsafed to Quincy and Lindy
when they took their seats. In vain did the Professor strive to make
himself heard. Audience and chorus seemed to be of one mind. The
Professor, his face as red as a beet, turned to Ezekiel Pettengill and
said:
"That was a mighty impudent piece of business, don't you think so?"
"They're both mighty fine singers," Ezekiel responded in a rather
unsympathetic tone.
Quincy realized that something must be done to satisfy the demands of
the now thoroughly excited audience. Going to Miss James, he asked her a
question in a low voice, in reply to which she nodded affirmatively. He
next sought Miss Putnam and evidently asked her the same question,
receiving a similar answer. Then he led her forward, and she sang the
opening part of "Listen to the Mocking Bird." After they had sung the
chorus it was repeated on the piano and Quincy electrified the audience
by whistling it, introducing all the trills, staccatos, and roulades
that he had heard so many times come from under Billy Morris's big
mustache at the little Opera House on Washington Street, opposite Milk,
run by the Morris Brothers, Johnny Pell, and Mr. Trowbridge, and when he
finished there flashed through his mind a pleasant memory of Dr. Ordway
and his Aeolians. An encore was responded to, but the tumult still
continued. Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said:
"Ain't it a cussed shame to spoil a first-class concert this way?"
"He's a mighty fine whistler," replied Ezekiel in the same tone that he
had used before.
Finally to quiet their exuberance Quincy was obliged to say a few words,
which were evidently what the audience was waiting for.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the hour is getting late and there is
another number on the programme. Miss Putnam is tired and I shall have
to wet my whistle before I can use it again. I thank you for your kind
indulgence and applause."
This little speech pleased the audience. It was down to their level,
with "no sign of stuckupativeness about it," as one country girl
remarked to her chum. Quincy bowed, the audience laughed, and quiet was
restored.
The Professor had fidgeted, fumed, and fussed during Quincy's occupancy
of the platform. He now arose with feelings impossible to express and
took up his baton to lead the closing chorus. He brought it down with
such a whack upon the music stand that it careened, tottered, and fell
to the platform with a crash. Tilly James leaned over and whispered to
Huldy Mason: "The Professor seems to have a bad attack of Quincy, too."
And the two girls smothered their laughs in their handkerchiefs. If the
singing society had not been so well acquainted with the closing chorus
the Professor certainly would have thrown them out by his many mistakes
in beating time. The piece was a "sleighride" song. The Professor forgot
to give the signal for the ringing of the sleigh bells, but the members
of the singing society did not, and their introduction, which was
unexpected by the audience, to use a theatrical term, "brought down the
house." The number was well rendered, despite the manifest defects in
leadership. The concert came to a close.
Deacon Mason and his wife, accompanied by their daughter, Huldy, and
Rev. Mr. Howe, occupied a double sleigh, as did Hiram, Mandy, and Cobb's
twins. Another double-seated conveyance contained Mr. and Mrs. Benoni
Hill, their son, Samuel, and Miss Tilly James. Quincy also had
accommodations for four in his sleigh, but its only occupants were Miss
Putnam and himself. Abner Stiles sat on the front seat of another
double-seated sleigh, while the Professor and Ezekiel were on the back
one; the remainder of the Mason's Corner folks occupied the big barge
which had been used for the sleigh ride the night before.
The barge led the procession to Mason's Corner, followed by the vehicles
previously mentioned and scores of others containing residents of
Mason's Corner, whose names and faces are alike unknown. By a strange
fatality, the sleigh containing the Professor and Ezekiel was the last
in the line. Ezekiel was inwardly elated that Mr. Sawyer had gone home
with Lindy instead of with Deacon Mason's party. Strout's bosom held no
feelings of elation. He did not seem to care whether the concert was
considered a success or not. He had but one thought in his mind, and
that was the "daring impudence of that city feller." Turning to Ezekiel,
he said:
"I'll get even with that city chap the next time I meet him. As I said
last night, Pettengill, this town ain't big enough to 'hold both on us
and one on us has got to git."
As he said this, he leaned back in the sleigh and puffed his cigar
savagely while Ezekiel was wondering if Huldy was thinking half as much
about him as he was about her.