A Story of Mendelssohn

1895

It is related of Mendelssohn at a public dinner, at which ladies were present, and where he was surrounded by a chorus of aggressive women clamoring for his autograph, that he allowed himself to be victimized with good nature until finally a fleshy matron of mature years handed him her card. Whether with malice prepense or not, it is not stated, but the composer wrote upon the card the music and words from Haydn's "Creation." "And God created great whales." This brought the autograph hunting to an end, and Mendelssohn was allowed to go on with his dinner. — San Francisco Argonaut.


In the Wrong Office

Caller — We are very rich, and we wish to marry our daughter to a count, a marquis or a duke.
Clerk (with dignity) — You are in the wrong office. This is a matrimonial agency. You will find the International Purchasing agency two doors to the left. — New York Weekly.


Trivia

The first bits of India rubber that were sold in London for erasers brought about 75 cents a cubic inch.

Loaves of bread charred to a mass of black coal have been taken from the Pompeiian ovens.

Cochituate, Mass., was named from an Indian word meaning the place of the falls.

Sympathetic Painter

1895

The language of hints is Greek to children, as a rule, and they interpret it after a simple fashion of their own.

"Where have you been all the morning, Dick?" inquired Mrs. Sampson of her 10-year-old son.

"I've been down by the old sawmill watching a man paint a picture," replied Dick, whose chubby countenance was decorated with paint of various colors.

"I am afraid you must have bothered him," said Mrs. Sampson as she began to scrub her son's besmirched features.

"No'm, I didn't bother him a bit," said Dick in a moment's intermission between the applications of soap and water. "He was interested in me. I could tell by the way he talked."

"What did he say?" inquired Mrs. Sampson.

"He looked at his watch," replied Dick, "and told me he knew it was 'most my dinner time. He knew a boy of my age must be hungry, be said, for he'd been a boy himself." — Youth's Companion.


Offenbach and Beethoven

When Offenbach was at Ems at the flood tide of his popularity, he was presented to old Emperor William. "I know you are a foreigner by naturalization," said the kaiser, "but Germany is proud of you nevertheless, for, if I am not mistaken, you were born in Bonn."

"No, sire," was Offenbach's answer, "I am from Cologne. The other man was born in Bonn." The "other man" was Beethoven.


Bedticking Reins

Strong and pretty reins for children may be made of bedticking. Cut a piece 3 inches wide and fold together, sewing firmly. Work the white lines in fancy stitches with colored wools, and across the front piece fasten small bells.

"Poor and Old and Only in Way," Song of Music Master Was Prophecy

1920

Years ago Carl Raymond, the old music master of Chicago, wrote a song by this name:

"I'm Poor and Old, and Only in the Way."

Today Raymond is poor and old and he says he's only in the way. His home is wherever he hangs his hat. He has had riches and fame; now he has but memories. Sometimes he plays the piano in a little restaurant on a Chicago avenue.

Just now he's in the county hospital — broke and friendless. Weakly reclining on a hospital bed, he repeated words from one of his songs:

As we walk down the street,
How, how often do we meet
Some poor old man whose life is naught but woes;
And with age his form is bent,
In his pockets not a cent,
And for shelter he does not know where to go.
With relations by the score
Who turn him from their door
And, sneering, in the street just pass him by;
If you ask why 'tis done,
He'll answer you and say:
"I'm poor and old and only in the way."

As the old fellow's voice died away he said sadly: "That's my life in a nutshell. I never thought when I wrote those words that some day I would apply them to myself."

Raymond was born eighty-one years ago in the shadow of Bunker Hill monument, the son of a banker. At 16 he enlisted in the Mexican War. After peace was declared he became an intermittent correspondent for the New York Herald. Then came the Civil War and he joined the colors again. In 1857 he came to Chicago. All this time he was writing songs — hundreds of them, including "Just One Girl," "There Are No Friends but the Old Friends" and "Passing Away Beyond the Clouds."

"But now I'm thru," he said sadly. "You see, I'm poor and old and only in the way."

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Aug. 7, 1920, p. 1.

A Hit That Went Begging

1901

The death of Sir Arthur Sullivan recently recalls an offer that composer once made an American manager that was refused, which, had it been other wise, would have made him an independent fortune.

The manager was George Holland, who at the time was directing the Grand Avenue theater, in Philadelphia. When "Pinafore" was running in London, Mr. Holland happened to be there and one night met Gilbert and Sullivan at the Garrick club. They asked him what he thought the opera would do in America, and Mr. Holland promptly replied that he feared its refined satire would not be appreciated in this country and after some further talk flatly refused at offer of $500 for the exclusive American rights.

Subsequently "Pinafore" was brought to America by another manager and presented at Kiralfy's theater, now the Broad Street theater, Philadelphia, and, as Holland had predicted, played originally to empty benches. Soon after this, however, the tide turned in its favor, and those who read do not have to be reminded of its subsequent record.

Holland himself, who is authority for the statement, says that had he accepted he could have amassed an almost colossal fortune out of the one piece. Just another case of missing the tide. — Cincinnati Enquirer.

A Better Record-Book

1904

The shrewd comment of a Lancashire blacksmith, whose wits had not been dulled by over-education, is quoted by the Cornhill Magazine. It may be suggestive to students in our universities who spend the lecture hours in scribbling notes instead of listening and understanding.

The clerk in charge of a farriery class held by the county council at Preston, England, gave a stalwart blacksmith a notebook and pencil.

"Wot's this 'ere book for?" asked toe man.

"To take notes," replied the clerk.

"'Notes?' Wot sort o' notes?"

"Why, anything that the lecturer says that you think important and want to remember you make a note of in the book."

The Lancashireman looked scornful. "Oh!" said he. "Anything I want to remember I must make a note of in this 'ere book, must I? Then wot do you think my blooming yed's for?"


For A Dog's Ear

Rossini lived before the day of special pleas for the dog, but he was sufficiently in advance of his time to recognize the equality if not the superiority of his own favorite beast.

The Gentleman's Magazine says that the late Sir Arthur Sullivan made Rossini's acquaintance in Paris.

One morning when Sullivan called to see him he found the composer trying over a piece of music.

"What is that?" asked Sullivan.

"It's my dog's birthday," Rossini replied, gravely, "and I write a little piece for him every year."

Girls Travel On "Nerve"

Oct. 1910

Two Oklahoma Young Women Start Out Without Money on a Three-Years' Trip

Chicago. — "We are going around the world on our own endeavors and nerve for educational purposes and to see if two women can work their way in such an undertaking," said Miss Olive Adair and Miss Oralee List, two young women from Tulsa, Okla., who arrived at the Congress hotel, Chicago, from St. Louis, on the first part of their long journey.

They wore broad white satin sashes, with the words, in black letters, "Around-the-World Girls From Tulsa, Oklahoma," and their suitcases and traveling bags were decorated in similar manner. They wore light tan traveling gowns and black turbans. "We are going to make a tour of the world," they said, "and will earn our passage."

Miss List is a composer of music, and Miss Adair is a singer and a writer of short stories. "We started without one cent of money, earning our fare to Kansas City by singing on the streets and selling papers."

Wagner As a Humorist

1903

How the Master Responded to a London Critic's Suggestion

Richard Wagner was not a man to whom one would naturally ascribe the faculty of ready joking. It is not from the creator of the serious, somber "Flying Dutchman" or the composer of the half mystical, half religious, opera "Parsifal" that one would expect cheerful pranks at the expense of other people. Nevertheless an instance is on record of how the great tone painter of Baireuth played a very funny trick on a newspaper and probably a good many of the readers accustomed to relying on what it said. It was in the fifties. Wagner, then still climbing the ladder of fame, was conducting the Philharmonic concerts in the British metropolis for a season.

Being, as he remained to the end, a very ardent admirer of Beethoven and, in fact, knowing that master's nine symphonies by heart, he selected several of them for performance in the said series of concerts. The first time, then, that Wagner conducted a Beethoven symphony in London the public received the rendition kindly enough, but the next morning a certain newspaper with a very large circulation came out with a rather severe criticism. The author of "Lohengrin" was in cold print but in unreserved terms scolded for directing a symphony by the immortal Beethoven without the score in front of him. Such a proceeding, to which London was unaccustomed, was sheer presumption, so ran the criticism, and, after further uncomplimentary remarks, the great and influential journal advised young Heir Wagner to use a score when he conducted a Beethoven symphony again.

Well, soon Herr Wagner did, this time with a book of music before him on the desk. He was seen to turn over the leaves with a certain amount of regularity too. His reward came the next day in the form of a commendatory article in the aforesaid newspaper which praised him for a very much better interpretation of Beethoven than his last, due, of course, to the suggested use of the score, whereupon Wagner announced the fact that the score in front of him the previous evening was that of Rossini's opera, "The Barber of Seville," turned upside down. — Collier's Weekly.

The Boy Organist — Mozart

1874

Mozart's first experience of a large organ was in the monastery of a little town on the banks of the Danube. He was then only six years old, and in company with his father had left his home in Salzburg, and started upon a long course of travel.

All day long they had been sailing down that majestic river, past crumbling ruins, frowning castles, cloisters hidden away among the crags, towering cliffs, quiet villages nestled in sunny valleys, and here and there a deep gorge that opened back from the gliding river, its hollow distance blue with fathomless shadow, and its loneliness and stillness stirring the boy's heart like some dim and vast cathedral.

The company of monks with whom they had been traveling that day were at supper in the refectory of the cloister, when father Mozart took Wolfgang into the chapel to see the organ.

And now as the boy gazed with something of awe upon the great instrument looming up in the shadows of the great empty church, his face lit up with serene satisfaction, and every motion and attitude of the little figure expressed a wondering reverence. What tones must even now be slumbering in those mighty pipes? Tones which, if once awakened, could give utterance to all that voiceless beauty which the day's scenes had showed him — life and death, present and past; the peaceful river and the deserted ruin; the sunshine unfailing and the unfailing shadow at its side.

"Father," said the boy, "explain to me those pedals at the organ's feet, and let me play?"

Well pleased, the father complied. Then Wolfgang pushed aside the stool, and when father Mozart had filled the great bellows, the elfin organist stood upon the pedals, and trod them as though he had never needed to have their management explained.

How the deep tones woke the somber stillness of the old church. The organ seemed some great uncouth creature, roaring for very joy at the caresses of the marvelous child.

The monks, eating their supper in the refectory, heard the tones and dropped knife and fork in astonishment. The organist of the brotherhood was among them; but never had he played with such power and freedom. They listened; some grew pale; others crossed themselves; till the prior rose up, summoned all his courage, and hastened in the chapel. The others followed, but when they looked up into the organ-loft, lo! there was no form of any organist to be seen, though the deep tones still massed themselves in new harmonies, and made the stone arches thrill with their power.

"It is the devil himself," cried the first one of the monks, drawing closer to one of his companions, and giving a second look over his shoulder into the darkness of the aisle.

"It is a miracle," said another. But when the oldest of their number mounted the stairs to the organ front, he stood petrified with amazement. There stood the tiny figure, treading from pedal to pedal, and at the same time clutching the keys above with his little hands, gathering handfuls of those wonderful chords as if they were violets, and flinging them out into the solemn gloom behind him. He heard nothing, saw nothing besides; his eyes beamed like stars, and his whole face lighted with impassioned joy. Louder and fuller rose the harmonies, streaming forth in swelling billows, till at last they seemed to reach a sunny shore, on which they broke; and then a whispering ripple of faintest melody lingered a moment in the air, like the last murmur of a wind harp, and all was still.

Famous Composer Found His Bride in a Tomb

1915

Romance in Life of a Famous Venetian Composer — Sister Substituted Herself in Coffin

Benedetto Marcello, one of the most famous Venetian composers, fell in love with a beautiful girl named Leonora Manfritto, who married Paolo Seranzo, a Venetian noble. She died in a short time after her marriage, a victim of the harsh and jealous treatment of her husband.

Her body was laid out in state in one of the churches, and her lover actually succeeded in stealing the corpse and conveying it to a ruined crypt in one of the islands, and here he sat day and night by his lost love, singing and playing to her, as though by the force of his art he could recall her to life, says the London Telegraph.

Leonora had a twin sister, Eliade, who was so like her that her closest friends could scarcely distinguish them. One day Eliade heard a singer in a gondola singing so exquisitely that she traced the gondola to the deserted island, and then she learned later the fate of her sister's corpse and the identity of Marcello. Aided by a servant, Eliade substituted herself for her sister's body, and when Marcello returned and called Leonora to awake he did not ask in vain, for apparently she rose alive from her coffin. Marcello, when he found out the delusion, was quite satisfied and married Eliade, but his happiness was short lived, as he died a few years afterward.

—New Smyrna Daily News, New Smyrna Beach, Florida, October 29, 1915, page 4.

Forgotten "Good-by, Dolly Gray" Composer All But Forgotten

1922

Meteoric Careers

Who today remembers the name of Paul Barnes? It took the tragic news of his death, blind, insane and destitute, to recall him to a generation to which his talents had no longer an appeal.

Yet his song, "Good-by, Dolly Gray," not so long ago, was a national war song. In the stirring days of '98 it was whistled and hummed and vamped and soloed and barber-shop-chorused and orchestraed and military- banded in camp and field and city by thousands of the boys in blue; it was a gentle solace to mothers in quiet cottage homes, a farewell token from many a young soldier on has way to Cuba or the Philippines.

Just a wisp of melody and a scrap of verse — pleasing and popular for the moment because it struck the keynote of a sentimentally aroused patriotism — entirely out of tune with the jazz and tension of the present day.

Such, however, is the inevitable fate of those whose talents are only for their own time and place. They have hitched their wagon to a meteor, not to a fixed star. Like the skyrocket, they burst into sudden splendor, and their fate is that of the rocket. The way of the artist is hard, especially of him who has but one arrow in his quiver. For him who persists in using bows and arrows in the days of rapid firing guns, of course the case is hopeless.

What shall be written over the tomb of the singer who gave the world "Dolly Gray" at a time when it was hungry for such poetic food? Surely something kindlier than the old cynical Latin inscription, "Sic transit gloria mundi!" — Los Angeles Times.

—The Nebraska State Journal, Lincoln, Nebraska, June 11, 1922, page 10.