particular happened, except that at one of them the ladies threw flowers
down to us. Afterwards, Dick Doubletongue proposed our going into Market
street to serenade two very pretty girls, the daughters of a wealthy
tradesman, who, being an old-fashioned man, persevered in the
convenience of living in the same house in which he kept his store.
Unluckily, it was the night before market-day. We began with 'Life let
us cherish,' which Dick assured us was a special favourite with the
young ladies--and our music soon aroused the market-people, some of whom
were sleeping in their carts that stood in the street, others, wrapped
in coverlets, were bivouacking on the stalls in the market-house, to be
ready on the spot for early morning. They started up, jumped down,
gathered around us, and exclaimed--'Well, did ever!'--'Now, that's what
I call music!'--'There, Polly, there's the right sort of fiddling for
you!'--'Well, this beats _me_!'--'Law, Suz!--how they do play it
up!'--and other equally gratifying expressions. And one woman called out
to her husband--'Here, daddy, take up the baby, and bring him out of the
cart, and let him hear some music-playing, now he has a chance.' So the
baby was brought, and daddy held him close up to the flute-players, and
the baby cried, as all babies should do when they are taken up in the
night to hear music.
"To crown all, the concert was joined by a dozen calves, who awoke from
their uneasy slumbers in the carts, and began bleating in chorus; and by
the crowing of various fowls, and the quacking of various ducks that
were tied by the legs in pairs, and lying under the stalls. Every moment
fresh market-carts came jolting and rattling over the stones, and we
would have gone away at the conclusion of 'Life let us cherish,' only
that Dick begged us to remain till we saw some indications of the
ladies being awake and listening to us--a circumstance always gratifying
to serenaders. While we were in full performance of 'The Goddess Diana,'
we saw a light in a room up stairs, a window was opened, and there
appeared at it two young ladies, who had evidently taken the trouble to
arrange their hair, and attire themselves very becomingly in pink gowns
and white collars, for the purpose of doing honour to the musicians and
themselves. After this, we could do no less than play another of their
favourites. When it was finished, we bowed up to the window, and they
curtsied down to us, and the market-women approved, saying--'Law, now,
if that a'n't pretty!--all making their manners to one another!--well,
if we a'n't in luck to-night!'"
"The combination of noises that accompanied your Market street
serenade," observed Merrill, "reminds me of a ridiculous incident that
occurred one night, when I and my flute were out with Tom Clearnote and
Sam Startlem; Clearnote having his Kent bugle, and Startlem making his
first public essay on the trombone, which he had taken a fancy to learn.
We went to a house in Chestnut street, where there were three charming
girls, who we soon saw had all properly disposed themselves for
listening at the windows. We commenced with the March in Masaniello.
Unfortunately, Sam Startlem, from having a cold, or some other cause,
and being but a novice on the trombone, found it impossible to fill the
instrument, or to produce any sound but a sort of hollow croak, that
went exactly like 'Fire! fire!'--the cry which so often frights our town
from its propriety.
"Just then the watchman was passing with a dog that always followed him,
and that had a habit of howling whenever he heard the alarm of fire. On
meeting the strange sounds, half guttural, half nasal, from Startlem's
trombone, he very naturally mistook them for the announcement of a
conflagration, and set up his customary yell.[83] In a few minutes, the
boys issued from all quarters, according to their practice, by day and
by night whenever there is anything to be seen or heard that promises a
mob. The supposed cry of fire was reiterated through the street; and
spread all round. Presently two or three engines came scampering along,
bells ringing, trumpets braying, torches flaring, and men shouting--all
running they knew not whither; for as yet the bell of the State House
had not tolled out its unerring signal.
[Footnote 83: Fact.]
"In the general confusion, we thought it best to cease playing, and
quietly decamp, being ashamed (for the honour of our musicians) to
inform the firemen of the real cause of the mistake; so we gladly stole
out of the crowd, and turned into a private street.--But excuse me for
interrupting you.--Finish your narrative."
"There is little more to be said," resumed Cavender. "By the time we had
afforded sufficient amusement to the market-people, the moon had long
since set, and the stars begun to fade. So we all put up our
instruments, and wearily sought our dwelling-places;--Harry Fingerley
wisely hiring relays of black men to carry home the piano.
"But we have been talking long enough under these trees," continued
Cavender; "let us walk up Chestnut street together, and tell me what
befell yourself while serenading according to the fashion of Old
Castile. Of course, you went first to Miss Osbrook?"
"I did," replied Merrill, smiling, and colouring a little; "and I played
and sung for her, in my very best style, several of my very best songs.
And I was rewarded by obtaining a glimpse of a graceful white figure at
the window, as she half unclosed it, and seeing a white hand (half
hidden by a ruffle) resting gently on one of the bars of the Venetian
shutter--and as the moon was then shining brightly down, I knew that my
divine Emily also saw _me_.
"From thence I went to the residence of a blooming Quaker girl, who, I
understood from a mutual friend, had expressed a great wish for a
serenade. She came to the window, and was soon joined by an old nurse,
who, I found by their conversation, had been kindly awakened by the
considerate Rebecca, and invited by her to come to the front room and
listen to the music; on which the half-dozing matron made no comment,
but that 'sometimes the tune went away up, and sometimes it went right
down.'
"Having commenced with 'The Soldier's Bride,' I was somewhat surprised
at the martial propensities of the fair Quakeress, who in a loud whisper
to her companion, first wished that Frederick Merrill (for she had at
once recognised me) would play and sing 'The Soldier's Tear,' and then
'The Soldier's Gratitude.' When I had accomplished both these songs, I
heard her tell the old woman, that she was sure 'The Battle of Prague'
would go well on the guitar. This performance, however, I did not think
proper to undertake, and I thereupon prepared to withdraw, to the
audible regret of the lovely Rebecca.
"As I directed my steps homeward, I happened to pass the house of a
young lady whose family and mine have long been somewhat acquainted, and
who has acquired (I will not say how deservedly) a most unfortunate
_sobriquet_. At a fancy ball, last winter, she appeared in the character
of Sterne's Maria, dressed in a white jacket and petticoat, with vine
leaves in her hair, and a flageolet suspended by a green riband over one
shoulder. Her mother, a very silly and illiterate woman, announced her
as 'Strange Maria'--absurdly introducing her by that title, and saying
repeatedly through the evening to gentlemen as well as to ladies--'Have
you seen my daughter yet?--Have you seen Strange Maria?--There she is,
sitting in that corner, leaning her head upon her hand--it is a part of
her character to sit so--and when she is tired, she gets up and dances.
She appears to-night as Strange Maria, and it suits exactly, as her name
is really Maria. Her aunt, Mrs. Fondlesheep, chose the character for her
out of some book, and Madame Gaubert made the jacket.'
"From that night, the poor girl has gone unconsciously by this foolish
nickname. And, unfortunately, she is almost as much of a simpleton as
her mother, though she was educated at a great boarding-school, and said
a great many long lessons.
"I took my seat on the marble carriage-step in front of the house, and
the moon having declined, I played and sung 'Look out upon the stars, my
love.' Soon after I commenced, I saw a window in the second story thrown
open, and the literal Maria doing exactly as she was bid, in earnestly
surveying the stars--turning her head about that she might take a view
of them in every direction.
"I then began the beautiful serenading song of 'Lilla, come down to me,'
with no other motive than that of hearing myself sing it. At the
conclusion of the air, the front door softly opened, and Strange Maria
appeared at it, dressed in a black silk frock, with a bonnet and shawl,
and carrying a bundle under her arm.
"She looked mysterious, and beckoned to me. I approached her, somewhat
surprised. She put the bundle into my hands, and laying her finger on
her lips, whispered--'All's safe--we can get off now--I have just had
time to put up a change of clothes, and you must carry them for me.'
"'My dear Miss Maria,' said I, 'what is it you mean? Excuse me for
saying that I do not exactly comprehend you.'
"'Now, don't pretend to be so stupid,' was the damsel's reply; 'did you
not invite me in the song to come down and run away with you? You sung
it so plain that I heard every word. There could not be a better
opportunity, for ma's in the country, and there is never any danger of
waking pa.'
"'Really, Miss Maria,' said I, 'allow me to say that you have totally
misunderstood me.'
"'No such thing,' persisted the young lady. 'Did I not hear you over and
over again say, "Lilla, come down to me?" Though I never was allowed to
see a play or read a novel, I am not such a fool that I cannot
understand when people want to run away with me. By Lilla you of course
meant me, just as much as if you had said Maria.'
"'On my honour,' I expostulated, 'you are entirely mistaken. Only permit
me to explain'--
"'Nonsense,' interrupted the lady; 'the song was plain enough. And so I
got ready, and stole down stairs as quickly as possible. Alderman
Pickwick always sits up late at night, and rises before day to write for
the newspapers. He lives just round the corner, and never objects to
marry any couple that comes to him. So let's be off.'
"'I entreat you,' said I, 'to listen to me for one moment.'
"'Did you bring a ring with you?' continued the fair eloper, whose
present volubility surprised me no less than her pertinacity, having
hitherto considered her as one of the numerous young ladies that are
never expected to talk.
"'A ring!' I repeated; 'you must pardon me, but I really had no such
thought.'
"'How careless!' exclaimed Maria. 'Don't you know that plain rings are
the only sort used at weddings? I wish I had pulled one off the window
curtain before I came down. I dare say, Squire Pickwick would never
notice whether it was brass or gold.'
"'There is no need of troubling yourself about a ring,' said I.
"'True,' replied she, 'Quakers get married without, and why should not
we? But come, we must not stand parleying here. You can't think, Mr.
Merrill, how glad I am that you came for me before any one else. I would
much rather run away with you, than with Mr. Simpson, or Mr. Tomlins, or
Mr. Carter. Pa' says if ever he does let me marry, he'll choose for me
himself, and I have no doubt he'll choose some ugly fright. Fathers are
such bad judges of people.'
"'Miss Maria,' said I, 'you mistake me entirely, and this error must be
rectified at once. I must positively undeceive you.'
"At that moment, the door half opened--a hand was put out, and seizing
the arm of Maria, drew her forcibly inside. The door was then shut, and
double locked; and I heard her receding voice, loudly exclaiming--'Oh!
pa'--now, indeed, pa'--who'd have thought, pa', that you were listening
all the time!'
"I stood motionless with joy and surprise at this opportune release--and
I recollected that once during our scene on the door-step, I had thought
I heard footsteps in the entry.
"Presently the father put his head out of his own window and said to
me--'Young man, you may go, I have locked her up.'--I took him at his
word and departed, not a little pleased at having been extricated in so
summary a way from the dilemma in which the absurdity of Strange Maria
had involved me."
* * * * *
About a week after this conversation, Cavender inquired of his friend,
who was visiting him at his office, if he had again been out solus on a
serenading excursion.
"No," replied Merrill, "I have had enough of that nonsense. There is no
better cure for folly, and particularly for romantic folly, than a good
burlesque; and I find I have been parodied most ridiculously by that
prince of fools, old Pharaby, the bachelor in an auburn wig and corsets,
that lives next door to Miss Osbrook. This said Pharaby assumes a
penchant for my opposite neighbour, the rich and handsome young widow,
Mrs. Westwyn. Taking a hint from my serenading Emily Osbrook, but far
outdoing me, he has every night since presented himself under the
windows of the fair widow, and tinkled a guitar--which instrument he
professes to have learned during a three months' consulship in one of
the Spanish West India Islands. He plays Spanish, but sings Italian; and
with a voice and manner to make Paggi tear his hair, and Pucci drop down
dead.
"Mrs. Westwyn, whom I escorted home last evening from a visit to Miss
Osbrook, was congratulating herself on the appearance of rain; as it
would of course prevent her from being disturbed that night by her usual
serenader, the regularity of whose musical visitations had become, she
said, absolutely intolerable.
"About twelve o'clock, however, I heard the customary noise in front of
Mrs. Westwyn's house, notwithstanding that the rain had set in, and was
falling very fast. I looked out, and beheld the persevering inamorato
standing upright beneath the shelter of an umbrella held over his head
by a black man, and twitching the strings of his guitar to the air of
'Dalla gioja.' I was glad when the persecuted widow, losing all
patience, raised her sash, and in a peremptory tone, commanded him to
depart and trouble her no more; threatening, if he ever again repeated
the offence, to have him taken into custody by the watchman. Poor
Pharaby was struck aghast; and being too much disconcerted to offer an
apology, he stood motionless for a few moments, and then replacing his
guitar in its case, and tucking it under his arm, he stole off round the
corner, his servant following close behind with the umbrella. From that
moment I abjured serenades."
"What! all sorts?" inquired Cavender.
"All," replied Merrill--"both gregarious and solitary. The truth is, I
this morning obtained the consent of the loveliest of women to make me
the happiest of men, this day three months; and therefore I have
something else to think of than strumming guitars or blowing flutes
about the streets at night."
"I congratulate you, most sincerely," said Cavender, shaking hands with
his friend; "Miss Osbrook is certainly, as the phrase is, possessed of
every qualification to render the marriage state happy. And though I and
my other associates in harmony have not so good an excuse for leaving
off our musical rambles, yet I believe we shall, at least, give them up
till next summer--and perhaps, by that time, we may have devised some
other means of obtaining the good graces of the ladies."
"But apropos to music," continued Cavender; "if I can obtain my sister's
permission, I will show you a letter she received some time since from a
young friend of hers with whom she is engaged in a whimsical
correspondence under fictitious names, somewhat in imitation of the
ladies of the last century. Both girls have been reading the Spectator,
and have consequently taken a fancy to the Addisonian plan of
occasionally throwing their ideas into the form of dreams or visions;
addressing each other as Ariella Shadow and Ombrelina Vapour."
Cavender then withdrew to his sister's parlour, and in a few minutes
returned with the letter, which he put into Merrill's hand, telling him
to read it while he finished looking over some deeds that had been left
with him for examination.
Merrill opened the letter, and perused its contents, which we will
present to our readers under the title of
A DREAM OF SONGS.
MY DEAR OMBRELINA,
Last evening, on my return from Melania Medley's musical party,
where nothing was played or sung that had been out more than two or
three weeks, I could not but reflect on the fate that attends even
the most meritorious compositions of the sons of song: honoured for
awhile with a short-lived popularity, and then allowed to float
down the stream of time unnoticed and forgotten--or only remembered
as things too entirely _passé_ to be listened to by "_ears
polite_"--or even mentioned in their presence. It is true that as
soon as a song becomes popular it ceases to be fashionable; but is
not its popularity an evidence of its merit, or at least of its
possessing melody and originality, and of its sounds being such as
to give pleasure to the general ear? Who ever heard a dull and
insipid tune played or sung in the streets, or whistled by the
boys?
Falling asleep with these notions in my head, they suggested a
dream in which I imagined myself visited by impersonations of
almost innumerable songs, many of which had been "pretty fellows in
their day," but have now given place to others whose chief
characteristic is that of having no character at all.
The following outline may give you, dear Ombrelina, a slight idea
of my vision, making due allowance for the confusion, incoherence,
and absurdity that are always found in those pictures that
imagination, when loosened from the control of reason, presents to
the mind's eye of the slumberer.
"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls," being mistress of a
handsome and spacious mansion in a fine romantic country, whose
hills and woodlands sloped down towards the ocean. I seemed to be
duly prepared for the reception of a numerous party of visiters,
whom I recognised intuitively, as soon as I saw them, for the
heroes and heroines of certain well-known songs--also being
familiar with the characters of many of them from my intimate
acquaintance with Aunt Balladina's old music-books.
The earliest of my guests were some much-esteemed friends,
descendants of the "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"--they wore "The
Tartan Plaidie" and "The White Cockade"--and they looked as if they
had all been "Over the Water to Charlie." I felt particularly
honoured by the presence of that gallant chieftain, "Kinloch of
Kinloch," who, for the express purpose of making me a visit, had
relinquished for a time his grouse-shooting excursions "O'er the
moor among the heather"--had given up his musings on "The banks and
braes o' Bonnie Doon," and bade for awhile "Adieu, a heartwarm fond
adieu" to "The Birks of Aberfeldy."
Next arrived the ancient laird "Logie o' Buchan;" and then "Auld
Robin Gray" came tottering along supported by his pensive daughter
Alice, and by "Duncan Gray," his laughter-loving son, well known
among the lasses as "The Braw Wooer." The Gray family took their
seats at "The Ingle Side," where old "John Anderson" and his wife
had already established themselves close together in two
arm-chairs. "Logie o' Buchan" joined them; but his habits being
somewhat taciturn, it was not till they talked of "Auld lang syne"
that he was induced to mingle in the conversation--yet the ice once
broken, he was as merry in his reminiscences as either of his
companions.
Robin Gray reminded the laird of Buchan of his elopement with that
extreme blonde the "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," who, when
only "Within a mile of Edinburgh," had given him the slip and ran
off with "Jockey to the Fair." The laird retaliated by laughing at
Robin for having been one of the six-and-thirty suitors of that
ugliest of heiresses, "Tibby Fouller o' the Glen." John Anderson
was made to recollect his having been deserted in his youth by the
beautiful but mercenary "Katrine Ogie," who afterwards became
"Roy's wife of Aldivalloch," and in taking the carle and leaving
her Johnnie, furnished another illustration of the fallacy of the
remark, "Oh! say not woman's heart is bought."
These old stories were at first very amusing, but they continued so
long and with so many episodes and digressions, that we at length
discovered "We were a' noddin." Finally they were interrupted by
the arrival of "Bonnie Jean," "The Lass of Patie's Mill," "Bessie
Bell and Mary Gray," and other "Flowers o' the Forest," who were
following that gay deceiver "Robin Adair," himself a verification
of the well-known fact that "Though love is warm awhile, soon it
grows cold."
Robin Adair, whose mind, after all, seems to have run chiefly on
balls and plays (a visit to Paris having quite spoiled him for the
society of "The Braes of Balquither"), had first made love to the
unfortunate "Highland Mary," and then gayly and heartlessly quitted
her with that useless piece of advice which nobody ever took, "Sigh
not for love." Next he paid his devoirs to "Jessie the flower o'
Dumblane," as he met her one morning "Comin' thro' the rye." And he
had subsequently entered into a flirtation with "Dumbarton's bonny
Belle"--a young lady whose literary and scientific achievements had
lately procured for her the unique title of "The Blue Bell of
Scotland." But it was whispered in the most authentic circles that
she had recently frightened him away by asking him that puzzling
question "Why does azure deck the sky?"
Yet, however the follies and inconstancies of Robin Adair might
have rendered him a favourite with the ladies (who often tapped him
with their fans, saying, "Fly away pretty moth"), he did not seem
to be held in equal esteem by his manly compatriots. On his
presuming to clap "Young Lochinvar" on the shoulder, and accost him
as "Friend of my soul," that high-spirited chieftain immediately
proceeded to "Draw the sword o' Scotland," with a view of
chastising his familiarity. But "Swift as the flash," Robin eluded
the blow, and danced out of the room singing "I'd be a Butterfly."
At the desire of several of the ladies, I accompanied them to the
veranda to look at the prospect of the beautiful surrounding
country, and our attention was soon arrested by notes of distant
music.
"What airy sounds!" was our unanimous exclamation; and we almost
fancied that they must have proceeded from the "Harp of the winds,"
till presently we heard the tramp of horses, and beheld a numerous
company descending by its circuitous path the hill that rose in
front of the house. As "I saw them on their winding way," I had no
difficulty in recognising each individual of the troop.
Foremost came "The Baron of Mowbray" mounted on his "Arab Steed,"
and accompanied by a "Captive Knight" whom he had rescued from a
Saracen prison, and I soon discovered that it was "Dunois the young
and brave." Dunois was followed by his accomplished but wilful
page, "The Minstrel Boy," who, having broken his harp in a fit of
spite, was obliged to substitute an inferior instrument, and to
strike "The Light Guitar," which he retained as "The Legacy" of a
"Gallant Troubadour" who had fallen beside him in battle, and of
whose untimely fate he had sent notice to his "Isabelle" by a
"Carrier Pigeon."
Behind the youthful minstrel strode a "Happy Tawny Moor" performing
powerfully on "The Tartar Drum."
"The Young Son of Chivalry" brought with him a beautiful damsel
whom he had found in a "Bower of Roses by Bendameer's Stream"--and
whose eyes, resembling those of "The Light Gazelle," identified her
as "Araby's Daughter." "Rich and rare were the gems she wore;" and
she had testified her readiness to "Fly to the Desert" with her
bravo Dunois; to glide with him "Thro' icy valleys," in the wilds
of Siberia; or to accompany him even across "The sea--the sea--the
open sea." No music would have sounded so sweetly in her ear as
"The Bridemaid's Chorus," and she would willingly have given all
her pearls and diamonds in exchange for "The plain gold ring."