Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush Page 10

  I remember, about three years ago, going with my husband to hear the lecturers of a person who called himself Professor R—. He had been lecturing for some nights running at the Mechanics’ Institute for nothing, and had drawn together a great number of persons to hear him, and witness the strange things he effected by mesmerism on the persons of such of the audience who wished to test his skill. This would have been but a poor way of getting his living. But these American adventurers never give their time and labour for nothing. He obtained two dollars for examining a head phrenologically, and drawing out a chart; and as his lectures seldom closed without securing him a great many heads for inspection, our disinterested professor contrived to pocket a great deal of money, and to find his cheap lectures an uncommonly profitable speculation.

  We had heard a great deal of his curing a blacksmith of tic-douloureux by mesmerizing him. The blacksmith, though a big, burly man, had turned out an admirable clairvoyant, and by touching particular bumps in his cranium, the professor could make him sing, dance, and fight all in a breath, or transport him to California, and set him to picking gold. I was very curious to witness this man’s conduct under his alleged mesmeric state, and went accordingly. After a long lecture, during which the professor put into a deep sleep a Kentuckian giant, who travelled with him, the blacksmith was called upon to satisfy the curiosity of the spectators. I happened to sit near this individual, and as he rose to comply with the vociferous demands of the audience, I shall never forget the sidelong knowing glance he cast across the bench to a friend of his own; it was, without exception, the most intelligent telegraphic despatch that it was possible for one human eye to convey to another, and said more plainly than words could –“You shall see how I can humbug them all.” That look opened my eyes completely to the farce that was acting before me, and entering into the spirit of the scene, I must own that I enjoyed it amazingly. The blacksmith was mesmerised by a look alone, and for half an hour went on in a most funny manner, keeping the spectators with their eyes open, and in convulsions of laughter. After a while, the professor left him to enjoy his mesmeric nap, and chose another subject, in the person of a man who had lectured a few nights before on the science of mnemonics, and had been disappointed in a very scanty attendance.

  After a decent time had elapsed, the new subject yielded very easily to the professor’s magic passes, and fell into a profound sleep. The mesmerizer then led him, with his eyes shut, to the front of the stage, and pointed out to the spectators the phrenological development of his head; he then touched the bump of language, and set the seeming automaton talking. But here the professor was caught in his own trap. After once setting him going, he of the mnemonics refused to hold his tongue until he had given, to his weary listeners, the whole lecture he had delivered a few nights before. He pranced to and fro on the platform, declaiming in the most pedantic voice, and kept us for one blessed hour before he would suffer the professor to deprive him of the unexpected opportunity thus afforded him of being heard. It was a droll scene: the sly black-smith in a profound fox’s sleep – the declaimer pretending to be asleep, and wide awake all the time and the thin, long-faced American, too wise to betray his colleagues, but evidently annoyed beyond measure at the trick they had played him.

  I once went to hear a lecture at the Mechanics’ Institute, delivered by a very eccentric person, who styled himself the Hon. James Spencer Lidstone – the Great Orator of the West. My astonishment may be guessed better than described, when he gave out for the subject of his lecture –“Great women, from Eve down to Mrs. M—.” Not wishing to make myself a laughing-stock to a pretty numerous audience, I left the room. Going up the street next morning, a venerable white-haired old man ran after me, and pulling me by the shawl, said, “Mrs. M—, why did you leave us last night? He did you justice – indeed he did. You should have stayed and heard all the fine things he said of you.”

  Besides scientific lecturers, Canada is visited by singers and musicians of every country, and of every age and sex – from the celebrated Jenny Lind, and the once celebrated Braham, down to pretenders who can neither sing nor play, worth paying a York shilling to hear. Some of these wandering musicians play with considerable skill, and are persons of talent. Their life is one of strange vicissitudes and adventure, and they have an opportunity of making the acquaintance of many odd characters. In illustration of this, I will give you a few of the trials of a travelling musician, which I took down from the dictation of a young friend, since dead, who earned a precarious living by his profession. He had the faculty of telling his adventures without the power of committing them to paper; and, from the simplicity and truthfulness of his character, I have no doubt of the variety of all the amusing anecdotes he told. But he shall speak for himself in the next chapter.

  A MAY-DAY CAROL.

  “There’s not a little bird that wings

  Its airy flight on high,

  In forest bowers, that sweetly sings

  So blithe in spring as I.

  I love the fields, the budding flowers,

  The trees and gushing streams;

  I bathe my brow in balmy showers,

  And bask in sunny beams.

  “The wanton wind that fans my cheek,

  In fancy has a voice,

  In thrilling tones that gently speak –

  Rejoice with me, rejoice!

  The bursting of the ocean-floods,

  The silver tinkling rills,

  The whispering of the waving woods,

  My inmost bosom fills.

  “The moss for me a carpet weaves

  Of patterns rich and care;

  And meekly through her sheltering leaves

  The violet nestles there.

  The violet! – oh, what tales of love,

  Of youth’s sweet spring are thine!

  And lovers still in field and grove,

  Of thee will chaplets twine.

  “Mine are the treasures Nature strews

  With lavish hand around;

  My precious gems are sparkling dews,

  My wealth the verdant ground.

  Mine are the songs that freely gush

  From hedge, and bush, and tree;

  The soaring lark and speckled thrush

  Discourse rich melody.

  “A cloud comes floating o’er the sun,

  The woods’ green glories fade;

  But hark! the blackbird has begun

  His wild lay in the shade.

  He hails with joy the threaten’d shower,

  And plumes his glossy wing;

  While pattering on his leafy bower,

  I hear the big drops ring.

  “Slowly at first, but quicker now,

  The rushing rain descends;

  And to each spray and leafy bough

  A crown of diamonds lends.

  Oh, what a splendid sight appears!

  The sun bursts forth again;

  And, smiling through sweet Nature’s tears,

  Lights up the hill and plain.

  “And tears are trembling in my eyes,

  Tears of intense delight:

  Whilst gazing upward to the skies,

  My heart o’erflows my sight.

  Great God of nature! may thy grace

  Pervade my inmost soul;

  And in her beauties may I trace

  The love that form’d the whole!”

  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, 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 travellin
g 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 shoemaker 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 tomorrow.”

  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-faced, 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, –