INtheOPERATIC FIELD

INtheOPERATIC FIELDDid I remark in some preceding breath that Allison is more or less “dippy” over music? Well, the statement, though made kindly, is severely and unqualifiedly true and whenever there is “big music” in town I can always find him in a front seat where he won’t miss a single note. This inherent love of music was what first led him to listen by the hour to Henry Waller at the piano and later into setting words to Waller’s big creations. When Philip Sousa was in Louisville five or six years ago and told Allison that the time was ripe to revive “The Ogallallas,” which embraced, he said, some of the finest music he had ever heard, I inquired of Waller’s whereabouts. “Heaven knows!” Allison replied, “And I wish I did, too!” Some years prior to that time they had “lost” each other; that is, Allison lost Waller.Henry Waller was the adopted son of Mrs. Scott Siddons, the English actress and dramatic reader—a famous beauty. He had been an infant prodigy as a pianist, but was overdriven by his father and Mrs. Siddons intervened and bought his freedom. She sent him to Woolwich Academy, the great Royal Artillery and Engineering School of Great Britain, where, curiously enough for a musician, he graduated at the head of his class in mathematics. Waller was a class-mate and friend of the ill-fated Prince Imperial of France, killed by the Zulus, and afterwards spent three years in Franz Liszt’s house as the master’s pupil. Strangely enough, too, Waller’s pianoperformances on the stage were almost mediocre, but to private audiences of those known to be appreciative, he was a tireless marvel. Allison was a frequent visitor at Waller’s quarters and here his idea germinated for an American opera. At that time he had no intention of writing the libretto but, after outlining the plot, at Waller’s urgent request he wrote the scenario. Waller was enthused by Allison, the past master in creating enthusiasm, to a point where he had entered into its spirit and was composing great accompanying music, so there was nothing left for him but to complete the job. While they worked together the mode of procedure was about this: Allison would sketch out an idea and raise Waller to a seventh heaven over some dramatic scene until he struck fire and evolved its musical conception. Whereupon Allison would fit words to the music. So “The Ogallallas” was completed, submitted to The Bostonians, accepted at once, rehearsed in New York, Washington and Chicago, making its first public bow at the Columbia Theatre in the latter city in 1893, where I heard it. The plot is simple enough and is all worked out in the opening conversation of the “Scouts” while waiting for their leader. Here it is:Joe.So, then, you know all about this errand of ours?Wickliffe.As much as you do. I know that General Belcher sent a messenger, asking Deadshot to provide a safe escort for Professor Andover, of Boston, and a party of ladies, to Lone Star Ranch. Andover declined a military escort, but Belcher, notwithstanding the country is quiet, wants us to see them safely through.Joe.Yes, that’s it; but who are Professor Andover and his party?Wickliffe.Boston people; with a mission to regenerate the world, Indians especially.Joe.Well, I should think Deadshot would like his errand. He is a Boston man I’ve always understood.Wickliffe.Yes. He came out here with me ten years ago, just out of college, rich, adventurous and restless. City life was too tame for ArthurCambridge. You know how he took to the life of a scout, and now, under the name of Captain Deadshot, he is the most famous Indian fighter and scout on the plains.A printed coverTitle Page, Book of “The Ogallallas”Imagination could finish the story, but the old, old Beadle Dime Novel of the Scout, the Girl and the Redskins—capture, threatened death, beautiful Indian maidens, villain, hero, heroine and rescue, “You set fire to the girl and I’ll take care of the house”—excellently executed in dialogue and verse, briefly represent the whole thing. The cast of characters in the first night’s production, February 16, 1893, which was widely reviewed and complimented by the critics in next day’s Chicago dailies, was as follows:CAST OF CHARACTERS.Arthur Cambridge, known as Captain DeadshotTom KarlProfessor Andover, a philanthropistH. C. BarnabeeWar Cloud, chief of the OgallallasW. H. McDonaldCardenas, a Mexican banditEugene CowlesMississinewa, medicine man of OgallallasGeorge FrothinghamWickliffe}Scouts{Peter LangBuckskin JoeClem HerschelCommander United States forcesW. A. HowlandEdith, niece and ward of Professor AndoverCamille D'ArvilleMinnetoa, an Indian girlFlora FinlaysonMiss Hepzibah Small, Edith's governessJosephine BartlettKate, friend of EdithLillian HawthorneCosita, a Mexican girlLola HawthorneLaura, friend of EdithGeorgie Newel“Bill” MacDonald, the big baritone, as “War Cloud,” seized the opportunity of his life. He almost ran away with the piece and anyone ever after, who would say “Ogallallas” could get a conversation out of him that would wind up with “that was the greatest stuff ever written.” When costumed and wearing the Chief’s head-dress (old-timers may recall havingobserved it hanging in Harry Ballard’s city room of theChicago Inter-Ocean, at Madison and Dearborn) MacDonald boomed out the War Song of the Ogallallas, he scored the big hit of the opera.WAR SONG OF THE OGALLALLAS.Great is the warrior of the Ogallallas,Fearless his heart is and great is his glory.Lighted my war-fires and hill-tops flamingRed to the skies, arouse all my braves.In the air the swelling war-cry—In the air that swelling cry—Wildest sound to combat calling,Swift the onset in the lust of war.Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Lo! where the warriors, trailing their lances,Sweep o’er the plain upon resistless steeds!There, on the trail, vengeance is launchingSwift as the arrow upon the hated foe.In their hearts the whispered war-cry—In their hearts that wailing cry.Low the sound of vengeance breathing.Ride they boldly in the thrill of war.Low is the cry of the birdAs he chants in the moonlight,Low is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Great are the warriors of the Ogallallas!Strong of arm and fearless of danger,Where wait the foemen—Warriors will meet them where the white sunIs burning on the plain.In the air resounds the war-cry—In the air resounds that cry.Wildest sound to combat calling,Bold the onset of the warriors charge.Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Mr. Barnabee (Professor Andover—dignified, staid and circumscribed; a misogynist if there ever was one) took huge delight in accentuating the satire of his character’s advice to the bevy of school girls in his charge to—BEWARE OF LOVE.Whoever heard of Homer making sonnets to an eye-brow?Or Aristotle singing to a maiden with his lute?Imagine wise old Plato, with his pale and massive high-brow.Wrinkling it by thinking how his love he’d prosecute;Do you think Professor Agassiz learned all he knew by sighing?Or that Mr. Herbert Spencer thought out ethics at a ball?If our own lamented Emerson of love had been a-dying,We never should have heard of his philosophy at all.Can love teach youthful maidens anything at all of Botany?Or Mathematics cause a thrill erotic in the heart?Will flirting give a lady brains—if she hasn’t got any?—Or solve the esoteric problems hid in Ray’s Third Part?You may lose yourself completely in pursuing Etiology,Or safely throw yourself away upon a Cubic Rule;But nowhere else in nature will you find such useless “ology,”As in a man who’s dead in love and makes himself a fool.Quite in contrast, is the delicate little waltz song of Edith’s (Camille D’Arville) in which the ring of the blue bells sounds the gladsomeness of springtime and the intoxication of love.THE BREATH OF MAY.Ah! The breath of May!Never was wineHalf so divine;Never the airAs fresh or as fair.Ah! Delight of May!When every budUpon the treeLays bare its heartTo every bee.Ah! The breath of May.Glowing sunshine everywhereFlings a gleaming, golden snare—Flowers here—And there—Are blowing in May air.Ah! The joy of May!When to the heartLove doth impartAll the delightLove can excite.Ah! The joy of Spring!When every birdHath found its mate,And every heartHath had its sate.Ah! Love is King!Love and music everywhere,Weaving rapture’s joyous snare,Love is here—Is there—Is wafted on May air.Ah! The song of May!How every trillMakes hearts to thrill,And every note’sAleap in our throats.Ah! Sweet lay of love!Story so tender,Old and gray;Yet sing againLove’s roundelay—Ah! Love is King!In greater contrast is the roystering drinking song of Cardenas, the Mexican bandit, who was characterized by Eugene Cowles without in any way overdoing a part easily overdone.CARE’S THE KING OF ALL.Oh, care’s the King of all—A King who doth appal;But shall we who love delight bow before him?Or raise revolting cry—Proclaiming pleasure high,Declare it treason if good men dare adore him?And to this designWe’ll pledge in good wine;Come all and drink and laugh tonight;We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come all with me who love delight.Away, away with care;Come on, come all who dareWith me to banish care in joyous drinking.The night’s for pleasure bought,The day alone for thought—Let all begone who would annoy us thinking.Then come while aboveThe stars wink at love—Come all and drink and laugh tonight.We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come on with me who love delight.Jessie Bartlett Davis was cast for “Minnetoa, an Indian Girl,” but didn’t take the part until Flora Finlayson had made a hit and even then she wanted certain changes made in the finale, which Waller refused.Well, “The Ogallallas” deserved a better fate and probably would have been a go, if there had been tenors enough to carry Waller’s big themes. They were really Grand Opera parts and the average—and better than average—tenor could not continue night after night without breaking down. It was great! Too bad it was so far ahead of the times—and failed.That was Jinx No. 1.††††Allison was everlastingly encouraging Waller to musical creations by exciting his imagination with suggestions and in the end writing the story, although he tried faithfully to find a librettist who, he too modestly believed, might do better work than he. In the end, however, each of the children of his brain came back to its creator. The fact was that Waller couldn’t or wouldn’t work with others. So was conceived “Brother Francesco,” an opera set in a monastery in Italy during the Seventeenth Century, and bringing up a vivid picture of monks, medieval chapels—dark, massive and severe—and the dank scent of deep tragedy. There were but four main characters, a quartette of voices, in “Brother Francesco,” which was in one act of about an hour and ten minutes, the whole story unravelling itself in the public chapel between the ringing of the church bell and the conclusion of the mass of the Benediction of the Holy Virgin. The altar lights have not been lit. Enter Francesco, a novice, to light them. A candle flasheson the altar; then another—and the tale unfolds. Francesco, sorrowing over his lost love, Maria, observes the Father Confessor enter the Confessional and, reminded of his too worldly thoughts, kneels and sings an aria, “The Confession,” in which the tragedy of his life is revealed.THE CONFESSION.All my sins confessing humbly, oh, my father—All my thoughts are ever of my lost Maria.Wondrously fair and so pure was sheWhom I loved ere my heart was dead—When love yet thrilled with tender mystery.Ah, her face! I see it ever—waking, dreaming,Hear her voice in cadence tender, softly speaking.Pure was the love that from heaven aboveFilled my heart with its ardent flameAnd blowed with passion’s thrilling mystery.Our fathers were at strifeAnd we were kept apart.I told Lucretia all andBade her pour my loveInto Maria’s breast.I waited long and thenShe said Maria—falseTo me—was pledged to wedAnother that she loved.That cruel message, father, broke my heart.It was not long until I sawLucretia’s heart—that she could loveWhere false Maria failed. And soIn sympathy we two were wed.The vows had scarce been said—Aye, on the church’s steps—a messengerDid crush a letter in my hand.’Twas but a line, but at the end—Oh God in Heaven! Maria’s name.“I hear that thou art false,” it said,“But I cannot believe“That one who loved as thou didst“Could fail me or deceive.”Ah! suspicion, like a lightning flash,Transfixed me and I heldThe paper to Lucretia’s faceAnd bade her read and tell me all.Upon her knees she fell and whinedThat she had loved me too, and hadDeceived me of Maria’s heart—Ah! God!In that damned moment’s rageI struck her as she knelt—to kill!The wedding guests did drag me offAnd take the knife away. But, Ah!There was one stain of blood it bore,Where, as I struck, it slashed acrossThe dark and faithless cheek of herAnd left it scarred for life. Scarred!When I had meant to kill.All that night I lingered, watching ’neath her window—Saw once more the haunting face of my Maria—Saw her once more—I can see her still!—Fled away and am buried hereIn God’s own house and all unchastened yet.In very irony, it would seem, to the simplicity of his nature, the outpourings of the novitiate’s sorrowing heart have been confessed to his wife, the scarred-faced Lucretia, who inhabits the monastery in the guise of the Father Confessor (not an unknown historical fact) thus in its very inception lending an intense dramatic effect to the story. Now, at the ringing of the bell, the villagers enter the public loft, Maria—his lost love—in the foreground unrecognized either by Francesco or Lucretia, singing an “Ave Maria:”Ave Maria, Mother of Mercy,Thou art our hope, and our sweetness and life.Pray for Francesco, Oh, watch o’er his footsteps;Turn on his sorrow thine eyes sweet and tender.At thy dear feet anguished I fallTo pray for him—For oh! somewhere he’s wandering,Sorrow enduring.Pray for him Mother, oh watch o’er his footsteps.Lost, lost to me, yet so dear to me—Pray for him, oh Mother dear.Ave Maria! Hope of the hopeless!To thy sweet mercy in anguish I cry—Pray for Francesco, my own, my beloved—Pray for him Mother, oh pray for Francesco.Lost, lost to me—oh! loved and lost!Oh Mother dear pray for him.Again the bell rings and the monks pass before the altar with genuflections and sink in their stalls in prayer, while a male chorus chants the Office of the Benediction. During the singing of the anthem, Francesco enters with cowl thrown back and a lighted taper in his hand. He is recognized by Maria and at her exclamations starts to her but is restrained by the Father Confessor now disclosed to him for the first time as his discarded wife. After a trio of great dramatic force, Francesco seizes a dagger drawn by Lucretia to kill him, and stabbing himself, expires in Maria’s arms, while Lucretia, still disguised as the Father Confessor, takes back her place unnoticed among the monks who hold their crosses in horror against the suicide!Waller wrote the entire service in imitation of the sombre Gregorian Mass, and then over the face of this dark background sketched in modern passionate music the lyrical and dramatic lightning of the action. This wonderful conception, both in idea, words and music, was “passed by censors” of the church—that is, Archbishop Corrigan and the Archbishop of Paris bothsaid that while they did not approve of representations of the Church on the stage, it had been done before, and would no doubt be done again. Otherwise there was nothing objectionable in it.Yet when it was produced in Berlin at the Royal Opera, under the wing of Emperor William, even though horribly mutilated by the Public Censor, the Catholic party, (aided and abetted by the musical cabal that has always existed in Berlin), made it the cause of protests against the German Government and Jinx No. 2 came to life in riotous uprisings against it during its three performances. Whereupon it was withdrawn. These simple facts are gleaned from Mr. Waller’s descriptive letters. Jean de Reszke thought so well of “Brother Francesco” that he proposed—nay promised—to have it produced at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. But the old Jinx proceeded to put his No. 3 seal on de Reszke’s voice that year, and he and the opera were heard from no more under the proscenium arch.††††Then there was “The Mouse and the Garter,” a travesty on Grand Opera in two acts that Clarence Andrews was to produce at the opening of the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom-theater. Many has been the pleasurable moment I have had in examining the old “promptbook” in use during rehearsals, for the company was picked, the scenery modeled, the costumes made and the “fancy,” as Allison called it, ready to be staged, when Oscar Hammerstein, who had a contract with Andrews to transfer successes to the old Victoria Theater, blew up in one of his bankruptcies. The Jinx was again monarch of all he surveyed—and Monte-Cristo-like held up four fingers! That old “prompt book” mentioned shows the wear and tear of much use and is filled with odd notes in Allison’s characteristic handwriting. No less interesting were the “Librettist’s Notes on Characters in the Opera and the Business,” dated October 21, 1897, and taken from an old letter-press copy that turned up in our archives. There we find that—The general tone of the performance is to be light, gay, rapid, suggestive and delicate—without a trace of the license of current musical farce. The suggestiveness must naturally arise from the innocent freedom of village life. The whole idea is a travesty of sentimental grand opera, the vocal characters being transposed so far as their fate and actions are concerned.Good stuff! And who were these innocent villagers? Well, there was Tenor Robusto, in love with Soprano and fated to be left at the post; Tenor Di Grazia, his twin brother; Giovanni Baritono, a Soldier of Fortune; Piccolo, an innkeeper; Fra Tonerero Basso, a priest; Signorina Prima Soprano, a bar maid; Signorina Mezzo, also a bar maid, and Signora Contralto, Piccolo’s wife, besides villagers, eight topers, musicians, five couples of rustic brides and grooms, and a dancing bear and his keeper. Let us not forget the mythical mouse and the ribbon from which The Garters were made, though neither appears among the “properties” scheduled by Allison.A sketch of a stage, with typed description and hand-written notesPage from the old Prompt Book “The Mouse and the Garter”Robusto and Soprano flirted. He gave her a ribbon and she promised to marry him. Just a bluff! And then he wanted his ribbon back, but she had already made it into garters, and when he tried to take them by force she boxed him smartly. He got fussy, drank a gallon of gooseberry wine, smoked two cigarettes and making out that he was a great bounder, threatened her with sudden death. Great dialogue! He would have gone to war, only there was no war at the time and anywayhis “mother wouldn’t let him”—the topical number. After smacking Robusto good and plenty before all the villagers, Soprano, who seems to know how to take care of herself, swears that she’ll marry no one unless he has the wit “to get—that! And this!”—the garters. Baritono, Soldier of Fortune, comes on the scene. Lots more bully dialogue and song and then Baritono hears of Soprano’s oath. It’s easy for him and he bides his time—you always have to bide your time—to indicate a point behind Soprano, when she is in a wholly unsuspecting mood, and shout “Ha! A mouse!! A mouse!!!” Village maidens scream and scatter. Soprano, skirts to knees, hurdles into a chair, while Baritono deftly seizes the loose ends of the now visible “lover-knots” and holds aloft the precious talismen. Wedding. Finis!But the Jinx got it.

Did I remark in some preceding breath that Allison is more or less “dippy” over music? Well, the statement, though made kindly, is severely and unqualifiedly true and whenever there is “big music” in town I can always find him in a front seat where he won’t miss a single note. This inherent love of music was what first led him to listen by the hour to Henry Waller at the piano and later into setting words to Waller’s big creations. When Philip Sousa was in Louisville five or six years ago and told Allison that the time was ripe to revive “The Ogallallas,” which embraced, he said, some of the finest music he had ever heard, I inquired of Waller’s whereabouts. “Heaven knows!” Allison replied, “And I wish I did, too!” Some years prior to that time they had “lost” each other; that is, Allison lost Waller.

Henry Waller was the adopted son of Mrs. Scott Siddons, the English actress and dramatic reader—a famous beauty. He had been an infant prodigy as a pianist, but was overdriven by his father and Mrs. Siddons intervened and bought his freedom. She sent him to Woolwich Academy, the great Royal Artillery and Engineering School of Great Britain, where, curiously enough for a musician, he graduated at the head of his class in mathematics. Waller was a class-mate and friend of the ill-fated Prince Imperial of France, killed by the Zulus, and afterwards spent three years in Franz Liszt’s house as the master’s pupil. Strangely enough, too, Waller’s pianoperformances on the stage were almost mediocre, but to private audiences of those known to be appreciative, he was a tireless marvel. Allison was a frequent visitor at Waller’s quarters and here his idea germinated for an American opera. At that time he had no intention of writing the libretto but, after outlining the plot, at Waller’s urgent request he wrote the scenario. Waller was enthused by Allison, the past master in creating enthusiasm, to a point where he had entered into its spirit and was composing great accompanying music, so there was nothing left for him but to complete the job. While they worked together the mode of procedure was about this: Allison would sketch out an idea and raise Waller to a seventh heaven over some dramatic scene until he struck fire and evolved its musical conception. Whereupon Allison would fit words to the music. So “The Ogallallas” was completed, submitted to The Bostonians, accepted at once, rehearsed in New York, Washington and Chicago, making its first public bow at the Columbia Theatre in the latter city in 1893, where I heard it. The plot is simple enough and is all worked out in the opening conversation of the “Scouts” while waiting for their leader. Here it is:

Joe.So, then, you know all about this errand of ours?Wickliffe.As much as you do. I know that General Belcher sent a messenger, asking Deadshot to provide a safe escort for Professor Andover, of Boston, and a party of ladies, to Lone Star Ranch. Andover declined a military escort, but Belcher, notwithstanding the country is quiet, wants us to see them safely through.Joe.Yes, that’s it; but who are Professor Andover and his party?Wickliffe.Boston people; with a mission to regenerate the world, Indians especially.Joe.Well, I should think Deadshot would like his errand. He is a Boston man I’ve always understood.Wickliffe.Yes. He came out here with me ten years ago, just out of college, rich, adventurous and restless. City life was too tame for ArthurCambridge. You know how he took to the life of a scout, and now, under the name of Captain Deadshot, he is the most famous Indian fighter and scout on the plains.

Joe.So, then, you know all about this errand of ours?

Wickliffe.As much as you do. I know that General Belcher sent a messenger, asking Deadshot to provide a safe escort for Professor Andover, of Boston, and a party of ladies, to Lone Star Ranch. Andover declined a military escort, but Belcher, notwithstanding the country is quiet, wants us to see them safely through.

Joe.Yes, that’s it; but who are Professor Andover and his party?

Wickliffe.Boston people; with a mission to regenerate the world, Indians especially.

Joe.Well, I should think Deadshot would like his errand. He is a Boston man I’ve always understood.

Wickliffe.Yes. He came out here with me ten years ago, just out of college, rich, adventurous and restless. City life was too tame for ArthurCambridge. You know how he took to the life of a scout, and now, under the name of Captain Deadshot, he is the most famous Indian fighter and scout on the plains.

A printed coverTitle Page, Book of “The Ogallallas”

Title Page, Book of “The Ogallallas”

Imagination could finish the story, but the old, old Beadle Dime Novel of the Scout, the Girl and the Redskins—capture, threatened death, beautiful Indian maidens, villain, hero, heroine and rescue, “You set fire to the girl and I’ll take care of the house”—excellently executed in dialogue and verse, briefly represent the whole thing. The cast of characters in the first night’s production, February 16, 1893, which was widely reviewed and complimented by the critics in next day’s Chicago dailies, was as follows:

CAST OF CHARACTERS.Arthur Cambridge, known as Captain DeadshotTom KarlProfessor Andover, a philanthropistH. C. BarnabeeWar Cloud, chief of the OgallallasW. H. McDonaldCardenas, a Mexican banditEugene CowlesMississinewa, medicine man of OgallallasGeorge FrothinghamWickliffe}Scouts{Peter LangBuckskin JoeClem HerschelCommander United States forcesW. A. HowlandEdith, niece and ward of Professor AndoverCamille D'ArvilleMinnetoa, an Indian girlFlora FinlaysonMiss Hepzibah Small, Edith's governessJosephine BartlettKate, friend of EdithLillian HawthorneCosita, a Mexican girlLola HawthorneLaura, friend of EdithGeorgie Newel

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

“Bill” MacDonald, the big baritone, as “War Cloud,” seized the opportunity of his life. He almost ran away with the piece and anyone ever after, who would say “Ogallallas” could get a conversation out of him that would wind up with “that was the greatest stuff ever written.” When costumed and wearing the Chief’s head-dress (old-timers may recall havingobserved it hanging in Harry Ballard’s city room of theChicago Inter-Ocean, at Madison and Dearborn) MacDonald boomed out the War Song of the Ogallallas, he scored the big hit of the opera.

WAR SONG OF THE OGALLALLAS.Great is the warrior of the Ogallallas,Fearless his heart is and great is his glory.Lighted my war-fires and hill-tops flamingRed to the skies, arouse all my braves.In the air the swelling war-cry—In the air that swelling cry—Wildest sound to combat calling,Swift the onset in the lust of war.Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Lo! where the warriors, trailing their lances,Sweep o’er the plain upon resistless steeds!There, on the trail, vengeance is launchingSwift as the arrow upon the hated foe.In their hearts the whispered war-cry—In their hearts that wailing cry.Low the sound of vengeance breathing.Ride they boldly in the thrill of war.Low is the cry of the birdAs he chants in the moonlight,Low is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Great are the warriors of the Ogallallas!Strong of arm and fearless of danger,Where wait the foemen—Warriors will meet them where the white sunIs burning on the plain.In the air resounds the war-cry—In the air resounds that cry.Wildest sound to combat calling,Bold the onset of the warriors charge.Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

WAR SONG OF THE OGALLALLAS.

Great is the warrior of the Ogallallas,Fearless his heart is and great is his glory.Lighted my war-fires and hill-tops flamingRed to the skies, arouse all my braves.In the air the swelling war-cry—In the air that swelling cry—Wildest sound to combat calling,Swift the onset in the lust of war.Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Lo! where the warriors, trailing their lances,Sweep o’er the plain upon resistless steeds!There, on the trail, vengeance is launchingSwift as the arrow upon the hated foe.In their hearts the whispered war-cry—In their hearts that wailing cry.Low the sound of vengeance breathing.Ride they boldly in the thrill of war.Low is the cry of the birdAs he chants in the moonlight,Low is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!Great are the warriors of the Ogallallas!Strong of arm and fearless of danger,Where wait the foemen—Warriors will meet them where the white sunIs burning on the plain.In the air resounds the war-cry—In the air resounds that cry.Wildest sound to combat calling,Bold the onset of the warriors charge.Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Great is the warrior of the Ogallallas,

Fearless his heart is and great is his glory.

Lighted my war-fires and hill-tops flaming

Red to the skies, arouse all my braves.

In the air the swelling war-cry—

In the air that swelling cry—

Wildest sound to combat calling,

Swift the onset in the lust of war.

Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Shrill is the cry of the wolf

As he howls in the moonlight,

Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—

Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Lo! where the warriors, trailing their lances,Sweep o’er the plain upon resistless steeds!There, on the trail, vengeance is launchingSwift as the arrow upon the hated foe.In their hearts the whispered war-cry—In their hearts that wailing cry.Low the sound of vengeance breathing.Ride they boldly in the thrill of war.

Lo! where the warriors, trailing their lances,

Sweep o’er the plain upon resistless steeds!

There, on the trail, vengeance is launching

Swift as the arrow upon the hated foe.

In their hearts the whispered war-cry—

In their hearts that wailing cry.

Low the sound of vengeance breathing.

Ride they boldly in the thrill of war.

Low is the cry of the birdAs he chants in the moonlight,Low is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Low is the cry of the bird

As he chants in the moonlight,

Low is the sound of the war-cry—

Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Great are the warriors of the Ogallallas!Strong of arm and fearless of danger,Where wait the foemen—Warriors will meet them where the white sunIs burning on the plain.In the air resounds the war-cry—In the air resounds that cry.Wildest sound to combat calling,Bold the onset of the warriors charge.

Great are the warriors of the Ogallallas!

Strong of arm and fearless of danger,

Where wait the foemen—

Warriors will meet them where the white sun

Is burning on the plain.

In the air resounds the war-cry—

In the air resounds that cry.

Wildest sound to combat calling,

Bold the onset of the warriors charge.

Shrill is the cry of the wolfAs he howls in the moonlight,Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Shrill is the cry of the wolf

As he howls in the moonlight,

Shrill is the sound of the war-cry—

Ogallalla! Ogallalla!

Mr. Barnabee (Professor Andover—dignified, staid and circumscribed; a misogynist if there ever was one) took huge delight in accentuating the satire of his character’s advice to the bevy of school girls in his charge to—

BEWARE OF LOVE.Whoever heard of Homer making sonnets to an eye-brow?Or Aristotle singing to a maiden with his lute?Imagine wise old Plato, with his pale and massive high-brow.Wrinkling it by thinking how his love he’d prosecute;Do you think Professor Agassiz learned all he knew by sighing?Or that Mr. Herbert Spencer thought out ethics at a ball?If our own lamented Emerson of love had been a-dying,We never should have heard of his philosophy at all.Can love teach youthful maidens anything at all of Botany?Or Mathematics cause a thrill erotic in the heart?Will flirting give a lady brains—if she hasn’t got any?—Or solve the esoteric problems hid in Ray’s Third Part?You may lose yourself completely in pursuing Etiology,Or safely throw yourself away upon a Cubic Rule;But nowhere else in nature will you find such useless “ology,”As in a man who’s dead in love and makes himself a fool.

BEWARE OF LOVE.

Whoever heard of Homer making sonnets to an eye-brow?Or Aristotle singing to a maiden with his lute?Imagine wise old Plato, with his pale and massive high-brow.Wrinkling it by thinking how his love he’d prosecute;Do you think Professor Agassiz learned all he knew by sighing?Or that Mr. Herbert Spencer thought out ethics at a ball?If our own lamented Emerson of love had been a-dying,We never should have heard of his philosophy at all.Can love teach youthful maidens anything at all of Botany?Or Mathematics cause a thrill erotic in the heart?Will flirting give a lady brains—if she hasn’t got any?—Or solve the esoteric problems hid in Ray’s Third Part?You may lose yourself completely in pursuing Etiology,Or safely throw yourself away upon a Cubic Rule;But nowhere else in nature will you find such useless “ology,”As in a man who’s dead in love and makes himself a fool.

Whoever heard of Homer making sonnets to an eye-brow?

Or Aristotle singing to a maiden with his lute?

Imagine wise old Plato, with his pale and massive high-brow.

Wrinkling it by thinking how his love he’d prosecute;

Do you think Professor Agassiz learned all he knew by sighing?

Or that Mr. Herbert Spencer thought out ethics at a ball?

If our own lamented Emerson of love had been a-dying,

We never should have heard of his philosophy at all.

Can love teach youthful maidens anything at all of Botany?Or Mathematics cause a thrill erotic in the heart?Will flirting give a lady brains—if she hasn’t got any?—Or solve the esoteric problems hid in Ray’s Third Part?You may lose yourself completely in pursuing Etiology,Or safely throw yourself away upon a Cubic Rule;But nowhere else in nature will you find such useless “ology,”As in a man who’s dead in love and makes himself a fool.

Can love teach youthful maidens anything at all of Botany?

Or Mathematics cause a thrill erotic in the heart?

Will flirting give a lady brains—if she hasn’t got any?—

Or solve the esoteric problems hid in Ray’s Third Part?

You may lose yourself completely in pursuing Etiology,

Or safely throw yourself away upon a Cubic Rule;

But nowhere else in nature will you find such useless “ology,”

As in a man who’s dead in love and makes himself a fool.

Quite in contrast, is the delicate little waltz song of Edith’s (Camille D’Arville) in which the ring of the blue bells sounds the gladsomeness of springtime and the intoxication of love.

THE BREATH OF MAY.Ah! The breath of May!Never was wineHalf so divine;Never the airAs fresh or as fair.Ah! Delight of May!When every budUpon the treeLays bare its heartTo every bee.Ah! The breath of May.Glowing sunshine everywhereFlings a gleaming, golden snare—Flowers here—And there—Are blowing in May air.Ah! The joy of May!When to the heartLove doth impartAll the delightLove can excite.Ah! The joy of Spring!When every birdHath found its mate,And every heartHath had its sate.Ah! Love is King!Love and music everywhere,Weaving rapture’s joyous snare,Love is here—Is there—Is wafted on May air.Ah! The song of May!How every trillMakes hearts to thrill,And every note’sAleap in our throats.Ah! Sweet lay of love!Story so tender,Old and gray;Yet sing againLove’s roundelay—Ah! Love is King!

THE BREATH OF MAY.

Ah! The breath of May!Never was wineHalf so divine;Never the airAs fresh or as fair.Ah! Delight of May!When every budUpon the treeLays bare its heartTo every bee.Ah! The breath of May.Glowing sunshine everywhereFlings a gleaming, golden snare—Flowers here—And there—Are blowing in May air.Ah! The joy of May!When to the heartLove doth impartAll the delightLove can excite.Ah! The joy of Spring!When every birdHath found its mate,And every heartHath had its sate.Ah! Love is King!Love and music everywhere,Weaving rapture’s joyous snare,Love is here—Is there—Is wafted on May air.Ah! The song of May!How every trillMakes hearts to thrill,And every note’sAleap in our throats.Ah! Sweet lay of love!Story so tender,Old and gray;Yet sing againLove’s roundelay—Ah! Love is King!

Ah! The breath of May!Never was wineHalf so divine;Never the airAs fresh or as fair.Ah! Delight of May!When every budUpon the treeLays bare its heartTo every bee.Ah! The breath of May.

Ah! The breath of May!

Never was wine

Half so divine;

Never the air

As fresh or as fair.

Ah! Delight of May!

When every bud

Upon the tree

Lays bare its heart

To every bee.

Ah! The breath of May.

Glowing sunshine everywhereFlings a gleaming, golden snare—Flowers here—And there—Are blowing in May air.

Glowing sunshine everywhere

Flings a gleaming, golden snare—

Flowers here—

And there—

Are blowing in May air.

Ah! The joy of May!When to the heartLove doth impartAll the delightLove can excite.Ah! The joy of Spring!When every birdHath found its mate,And every heartHath had its sate.Ah! Love is King!

Ah! The joy of May!

When to the heart

Love doth impart

All the delight

Love can excite.

Ah! The joy of Spring!

When every bird

Hath found its mate,

And every heart

Hath had its sate.

Ah! Love is King!

Love and music everywhere,Weaving rapture’s joyous snare,Love is here—Is there—Is wafted on May air.

Love and music everywhere,

Weaving rapture’s joyous snare,

Love is here—

Is there—

Is wafted on May air.

Ah! The song of May!How every trillMakes hearts to thrill,And every note’sAleap in our throats.Ah! Sweet lay of love!Story so tender,Old and gray;Yet sing againLove’s roundelay—Ah! Love is King!

Ah! The song of May!

How every trill

Makes hearts to thrill,

And every note’s

Aleap in our throats.

Ah! Sweet lay of love!

Story so tender,

Old and gray;

Yet sing again

Love’s roundelay—

Ah! Love is King!

In greater contrast is the roystering drinking song of Cardenas, the Mexican bandit, who was characterized by Eugene Cowles without in any way overdoing a part easily overdone.

CARE’S THE KING OF ALL.Oh, care’s the King of all—A King who doth appal;But shall we who love delight bow before him?Or raise revolting cry—Proclaiming pleasure high,Declare it treason if good men dare adore him?And to this designWe’ll pledge in good wine;Come all and drink and laugh tonight;We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come all with me who love delight.Away, away with care;Come on, come all who dareWith me to banish care in joyous drinking.The night’s for pleasure bought,The day alone for thought—Let all begone who would annoy us thinking.Then come while aboveThe stars wink at love—Come all and drink and laugh tonight.We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come on with me who love delight.

CARE’S THE KING OF ALL.

Oh, care’s the King of all—A King who doth appal;But shall we who love delight bow before him?Or raise revolting cry—Proclaiming pleasure high,Declare it treason if good men dare adore him?And to this designWe’ll pledge in good wine;Come all and drink and laugh tonight;We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come all with me who love delight.Away, away with care;Come on, come all who dareWith me to banish care in joyous drinking.The night’s for pleasure bought,The day alone for thought—Let all begone who would annoy us thinking.Then come while aboveThe stars wink at love—Come all and drink and laugh tonight.We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come on with me who love delight.

Oh, care’s the King of all—

A King who doth appal;

But shall we who love delight bow before him?

Or raise revolting cry—

Proclaiming pleasure high,

Declare it treason if good men dare adore him?

And to this design

We’ll pledge in good wine;

Come all and drink and laugh tonight;

We’ll clink and we’ll drink,

Nor stop to sigh or think—

Come all with me who love delight.

Away, away with care;Come on, come all who dareWith me to banish care in joyous drinking.The night’s for pleasure bought,The day alone for thought—Let all begone who would annoy us thinking.Then come while aboveThe stars wink at love—Come all and drink and laugh tonight.We’ll clink and we’ll drink,Nor stop to sigh or think—Come on with me who love delight.

Away, away with care;

Come on, come all who dare

With me to banish care in joyous drinking.

The night’s for pleasure bought,

The day alone for thought—

Let all begone who would annoy us thinking.

Then come while above

The stars wink at love—

Come all and drink and laugh tonight.

We’ll clink and we’ll drink,

Nor stop to sigh or think—

Come on with me who love delight.

Jessie Bartlett Davis was cast for “Minnetoa, an Indian Girl,” but didn’t take the part until Flora Finlayson had made a hit and even then she wanted certain changes made in the finale, which Waller refused.

Well, “The Ogallallas” deserved a better fate and probably would have been a go, if there had been tenors enough to carry Waller’s big themes. They were really Grand Opera parts and the average—and better than average—tenor could not continue night after night without breaking down. It was great! Too bad it was so far ahead of the times—and failed.

That was Jinx No. 1.

††††

Allison was everlastingly encouraging Waller to musical creations by exciting his imagination with suggestions and in the end writing the story, although he tried faithfully to find a librettist who, he too modestly believed, might do better work than he. In the end, however, each of the children of his brain came back to its creator. The fact was that Waller couldn’t or wouldn’t work with others. So was conceived “Brother Francesco,” an opera set in a monastery in Italy during the Seventeenth Century, and bringing up a vivid picture of monks, medieval chapels—dark, massive and severe—and the dank scent of deep tragedy. There were but four main characters, a quartette of voices, in “Brother Francesco,” which was in one act of about an hour and ten minutes, the whole story unravelling itself in the public chapel between the ringing of the church bell and the conclusion of the mass of the Benediction of the Holy Virgin. The altar lights have not been lit. Enter Francesco, a novice, to light them. A candle flasheson the altar; then another—and the tale unfolds. Francesco, sorrowing over his lost love, Maria, observes the Father Confessor enter the Confessional and, reminded of his too worldly thoughts, kneels and sings an aria, “The Confession,” in which the tragedy of his life is revealed.

THE CONFESSION.All my sins confessing humbly, oh, my father—All my thoughts are ever of my lost Maria.Wondrously fair and so pure was sheWhom I loved ere my heart was dead—When love yet thrilled with tender mystery.Ah, her face! I see it ever—waking, dreaming,Hear her voice in cadence tender, softly speaking.Pure was the love that from heaven aboveFilled my heart with its ardent flameAnd blowed with passion’s thrilling mystery.Our fathers were at strifeAnd we were kept apart.I told Lucretia all andBade her pour my loveInto Maria’s breast.I waited long and thenShe said Maria—falseTo me—was pledged to wedAnother that she loved.That cruel message, father, broke my heart.It was not long until I sawLucretia’s heart—that she could loveWhere false Maria failed. And soIn sympathy we two were wed.The vows had scarce been said—Aye, on the church’s steps—a messengerDid crush a letter in my hand.’Twas but a line, but at the end—Oh God in Heaven! Maria’s name.“I hear that thou art false,” it said,“But I cannot believe“That one who loved as thou didst“Could fail me or deceive.”Ah! suspicion, like a lightning flash,Transfixed me and I heldThe paper to Lucretia’s faceAnd bade her read and tell me all.Upon her knees she fell and whinedThat she had loved me too, and hadDeceived me of Maria’s heart—Ah! God!In that damned moment’s rageI struck her as she knelt—to kill!The wedding guests did drag me offAnd take the knife away. But, Ah!There was one stain of blood it bore,Where, as I struck, it slashed acrossThe dark and faithless cheek of herAnd left it scarred for life. Scarred!When I had meant to kill.All that night I lingered, watching ’neath her window—Saw once more the haunting face of my Maria—Saw her once more—I can see her still!—Fled away and am buried hereIn God’s own house and all unchastened yet.

THE CONFESSION.

All my sins confessing humbly, oh, my father—All my thoughts are ever of my lost Maria.Wondrously fair and so pure was sheWhom I loved ere my heart was dead—When love yet thrilled with tender mystery.Ah, her face! I see it ever—waking, dreaming,Hear her voice in cadence tender, softly speaking.Pure was the love that from heaven aboveFilled my heart with its ardent flameAnd blowed with passion’s thrilling mystery.Our fathers were at strifeAnd we were kept apart.I told Lucretia all andBade her pour my loveInto Maria’s breast.I waited long and thenShe said Maria—falseTo me—was pledged to wedAnother that she loved.That cruel message, father, broke my heart.It was not long until I sawLucretia’s heart—that she could loveWhere false Maria failed. And soIn sympathy we two were wed.The vows had scarce been said—Aye, on the church’s steps—a messengerDid crush a letter in my hand.’Twas but a line, but at the end—Oh God in Heaven! Maria’s name.“I hear that thou art false,” it said,“But I cannot believe“That one who loved as thou didst“Could fail me or deceive.”Ah! suspicion, like a lightning flash,Transfixed me and I heldThe paper to Lucretia’s faceAnd bade her read and tell me all.Upon her knees she fell and whinedThat she had loved me too, and hadDeceived me of Maria’s heart—Ah! God!In that damned moment’s rageI struck her as she knelt—to kill!The wedding guests did drag me offAnd take the knife away. But, Ah!There was one stain of blood it bore,Where, as I struck, it slashed acrossThe dark and faithless cheek of herAnd left it scarred for life. Scarred!When I had meant to kill.All that night I lingered, watching ’neath her window—Saw once more the haunting face of my Maria—Saw her once more—I can see her still!—Fled away and am buried hereIn God’s own house and all unchastened yet.

All my sins confessing humbly, oh, my father—

All my thoughts are ever of my lost Maria.

Wondrously fair and so pure was she

Whom I loved ere my heart was dead—

When love yet thrilled with tender mystery.

Ah, her face! I see it ever—waking, dreaming,Hear her voice in cadence tender, softly speaking.Pure was the love that from heaven aboveFilled my heart with its ardent flameAnd blowed with passion’s thrilling mystery.

Ah, her face! I see it ever—waking, dreaming,

Hear her voice in cadence tender, softly speaking.

Pure was the love that from heaven above

Filled my heart with its ardent flame

And blowed with passion’s thrilling mystery.

Our fathers were at strifeAnd we were kept apart.I told Lucretia all andBade her pour my loveInto Maria’s breast.

Our fathers were at strife

And we were kept apart.

I told Lucretia all and

Bade her pour my love

Into Maria’s breast.

I waited long and thenShe said Maria—falseTo me—was pledged to wedAnother that she loved.That cruel message, father, broke my heart.

I waited long and then

She said Maria—false

To me—was pledged to wed

Another that she loved.

That cruel message, father, broke my heart.

It was not long until I sawLucretia’s heart—that she could loveWhere false Maria failed. And soIn sympathy we two were wed.

It was not long until I saw

Lucretia’s heart—that she could love

Where false Maria failed. And so

In sympathy we two were wed.

The vows had scarce been said—Aye, on the church’s steps—a messengerDid crush a letter in my hand.’Twas but a line, but at the end—Oh God in Heaven! Maria’s name.

The vows had scarce been said—

Aye, on the church’s steps—a messenger

Did crush a letter in my hand.

’Twas but a line, but at the end—

Oh God in Heaven! Maria’s name.

“I hear that thou art false,” it said,“But I cannot believe“That one who loved as thou didst“Could fail me or deceive.”

“I hear that thou art false,” it said,

“But I cannot believe

“That one who loved as thou didst

“Could fail me or deceive.”

Ah! suspicion, like a lightning flash,Transfixed me and I heldThe paper to Lucretia’s faceAnd bade her read and tell me all.Upon her knees she fell and whinedThat she had loved me too, and hadDeceived me of Maria’s heart—Ah! God!In that damned moment’s rageI struck her as she knelt—to kill!

Ah! suspicion, like a lightning flash,

Transfixed me and I held

The paper to Lucretia’s face

And bade her read and tell me all.

Upon her knees she fell and whined

That she had loved me too, and had

Deceived me of Maria’s heart—Ah! God!

In that damned moment’s rage

I struck her as she knelt—to kill!

The wedding guests did drag me offAnd take the knife away. But, Ah!There was one stain of blood it bore,Where, as I struck, it slashed acrossThe dark and faithless cheek of herAnd left it scarred for life. Scarred!When I had meant to kill.

The wedding guests did drag me off

And take the knife away. But, Ah!

There was one stain of blood it bore,

Where, as I struck, it slashed across

The dark and faithless cheek of her

And left it scarred for life. Scarred!

When I had meant to kill.

All that night I lingered, watching ’neath her window—Saw once more the haunting face of my Maria—Saw her once more—I can see her still!—Fled away and am buried hereIn God’s own house and all unchastened yet.

All that night I lingered, watching ’neath her window—

Saw once more the haunting face of my Maria—

Saw her once more—I can see her still!—

Fled away and am buried here

In God’s own house and all unchastened yet.

In very irony, it would seem, to the simplicity of his nature, the outpourings of the novitiate’s sorrowing heart have been confessed to his wife, the scarred-faced Lucretia, who inhabits the monastery in the guise of the Father Confessor (not an unknown historical fact) thus in its very inception lending an intense dramatic effect to the story. Now, at the ringing of the bell, the villagers enter the public loft, Maria—his lost love—in the foreground unrecognized either by Francesco or Lucretia, singing an “Ave Maria:”

Ave Maria, Mother of Mercy,Thou art our hope, and our sweetness and life.Pray for Francesco, Oh, watch o’er his footsteps;Turn on his sorrow thine eyes sweet and tender.At thy dear feet anguished I fallTo pray for him—For oh! somewhere he’s wandering,Sorrow enduring.Pray for him Mother, oh watch o’er his footsteps.Lost, lost to me, yet so dear to me—Pray for him, oh Mother dear.Ave Maria! Hope of the hopeless!To thy sweet mercy in anguish I cry—Pray for Francesco, my own, my beloved—Pray for him Mother, oh pray for Francesco.Lost, lost to me—oh! loved and lost!Oh Mother dear pray for him.

Ave Maria, Mother of Mercy,

Thou art our hope, and our sweetness and life.

Pray for Francesco, Oh, watch o’er his footsteps;

Turn on his sorrow thine eyes sweet and tender.

At thy dear feet anguished I fall

To pray for him—

For oh! somewhere he’s wandering,

Sorrow enduring.

Pray for him Mother, oh watch o’er his footsteps.

Lost, lost to me, yet so dear to me—

Pray for him, oh Mother dear.

Ave Maria! Hope of the hopeless!

To thy sweet mercy in anguish I cry—

Pray for Francesco, my own, my beloved—

Pray for him Mother, oh pray for Francesco.

Lost, lost to me—oh! loved and lost!

Oh Mother dear pray for him.

Again the bell rings and the monks pass before the altar with genuflections and sink in their stalls in prayer, while a male chorus chants the Office of the Benediction. During the singing of the anthem, Francesco enters with cowl thrown back and a lighted taper in his hand. He is recognized by Maria and at her exclamations starts to her but is restrained by the Father Confessor now disclosed to him for the first time as his discarded wife. After a trio of great dramatic force, Francesco seizes a dagger drawn by Lucretia to kill him, and stabbing himself, expires in Maria’s arms, while Lucretia, still disguised as the Father Confessor, takes back her place unnoticed among the monks who hold their crosses in horror against the suicide!

Waller wrote the entire service in imitation of the sombre Gregorian Mass, and then over the face of this dark background sketched in modern passionate music the lyrical and dramatic lightning of the action. This wonderful conception, both in idea, words and music, was “passed by censors” of the church—that is, Archbishop Corrigan and the Archbishop of Paris bothsaid that while they did not approve of representations of the Church on the stage, it had been done before, and would no doubt be done again. Otherwise there was nothing objectionable in it.

Yet when it was produced in Berlin at the Royal Opera, under the wing of Emperor William, even though horribly mutilated by the Public Censor, the Catholic party, (aided and abetted by the musical cabal that has always existed in Berlin), made it the cause of protests against the German Government and Jinx No. 2 came to life in riotous uprisings against it during its three performances. Whereupon it was withdrawn. These simple facts are gleaned from Mr. Waller’s descriptive letters. Jean de Reszke thought so well of “Brother Francesco” that he proposed—nay promised—to have it produced at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. But the old Jinx proceeded to put his No. 3 seal on de Reszke’s voice that year, and he and the opera were heard from no more under the proscenium arch.

††††

Then there was “The Mouse and the Garter,” a travesty on Grand Opera in two acts that Clarence Andrews was to produce at the opening of the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom-theater. Many has been the pleasurable moment I have had in examining the old “promptbook” in use during rehearsals, for the company was picked, the scenery modeled, the costumes made and the “fancy,” as Allison called it, ready to be staged, when Oscar Hammerstein, who had a contract with Andrews to transfer successes to the old Victoria Theater, blew up in one of his bankruptcies. The Jinx was again monarch of all he surveyed—and Monte-Cristo-like held up four fingers! That old “prompt book” mentioned shows the wear and tear of much use and is filled with odd notes in Allison’s characteristic handwriting. No less interesting were the “Librettist’s Notes on Characters in the Opera and the Business,” dated October 21, 1897, and taken from an old letter-press copy that turned up in our archives. There we find that—

The general tone of the performance is to be light, gay, rapid, suggestive and delicate—without a trace of the license of current musical farce. The suggestiveness must naturally arise from the innocent freedom of village life. The whole idea is a travesty of sentimental grand opera, the vocal characters being transposed so far as their fate and actions are concerned.

Good stuff! And who were these innocent villagers? Well, there was Tenor Robusto, in love with Soprano and fated to be left at the post; Tenor Di Grazia, his twin brother; Giovanni Baritono, a Soldier of Fortune; Piccolo, an innkeeper; Fra Tonerero Basso, a priest; Signorina Prima Soprano, a bar maid; Signorina Mezzo, also a bar maid, and Signora Contralto, Piccolo’s wife, besides villagers, eight topers, musicians, five couples of rustic brides and grooms, and a dancing bear and his keeper. Let us not forget the mythical mouse and the ribbon from which The Garters were made, though neither appears among the “properties” scheduled by Allison.

A sketch of a stage, with typed description and hand-written notesPage from the old Prompt Book “The Mouse and the Garter”

Page from the old Prompt Book “The Mouse and the Garter”

Robusto and Soprano flirted. He gave her a ribbon and she promised to marry him. Just a bluff! And then he wanted his ribbon back, but she had already made it into garters, and when he tried to take them by force she boxed him smartly. He got fussy, drank a gallon of gooseberry wine, smoked two cigarettes and making out that he was a great bounder, threatened her with sudden death. Great dialogue! He would have gone to war, only there was no war at the time and anywayhis “mother wouldn’t let him”—the topical number. After smacking Robusto good and plenty before all the villagers, Soprano, who seems to know how to take care of herself, swears that she’ll marry no one unless he has the wit “to get—that! And this!”—the garters. Baritono, Soldier of Fortune, comes on the scene. Lots more bully dialogue and song and then Baritono hears of Soprano’s oath. It’s easy for him and he bides his time—you always have to bide your time—to indicate a point behind Soprano, when she is in a wholly unsuspecting mood, and shout “Ha! A mouse!! A mouse!!!” Village maidens scream and scatter. Soprano, skirts to knees, hurdles into a chair, while Baritono deftly seizes the loose ends of the now visible “lover-knots” and holds aloft the precious talismen. Wedding. Finis!

But the Jinx got it.

Click to play music.Title Page from 'A Piratical Ballad', song for Bass or Deep BaritoneFirst page of sheet musicSecond page of sheet musicThird (and last) page of sheet music

Click to play music.

Title Page from 'A Piratical Ballad', song for Bass or Deep Baritone

First page of sheet music

Second page of sheet music

Third (and last) page of sheet music

BALLADofDEAD MENIf Young Allison is vain of anything he has done I have yet to hear such an expression from him. He just writes things and tucks them away in odd corners and it has devolved upon me to collect them and keep them. So it is that, while not a literary executor—because Allison, thank God, is scandalously healthy and I am making no professions—it falls to my satisfied lot to be a literary collector in a certain sense—if he who gathers and preserves and gloats over the brain products of others may thus be described. That is why, treasured among my earthly possessions—scant enough, the good Lord knows, but full of joy and satisfaction to me—are extensive lead-pencil manuscript memoranda in Allison’s writing showing the painstaking stages by which “Fifteen Dead Men,” characterized by James Whitcomb Riley as that “masterly and exquisite ballad of delicious horrificness,” reached its perfection. Under whatever name it may be sung, be it “The Ballad of Dead Men,” or “On Board the Derelict” or “Derelict,” it is a poem big enough to fix the Jewel of Fame firmly over the author’s brow.Away back in the Allison strain somewhere must have been a bold buccaneer, for who else but the descendant of a roystering, fighting, blood-letting pirate could have seen the “scuppers glut with a rotting red?” Through all the visible mildness of his deep and complex nature there surely runs a blood-thirsty current, in proof of whichI submit this single paragraph from certain confessions†† The Delicious Vice. Pages 23-24. First Series, 1907.of his:With character seared, abandoned and dissolute in habit, through and by the hearing and seeing and reading of history, there was but one desperate step left. So I entered upon the career of a pirate in my ninth year. The Spanish Main, as no doubt you remember, was at that time upon an open common just across the street from our house, and it was a hundred feet long, half as wide and would average two feet in depth. I have often since thanked Heaven that they filled up that pathless ocean in order to build an iron foundry upon the spot. Suppose they had excavated for a cellar! Why during the time that Capt. Kidd, Lafitte and I infested the coast thereabout, sailing three “low, black-hulled schooners with long rakish masts,” I forced hundreds of merchant seamen to walk the plank—even helpless women and children. Unless the sharks devoured them, their bones are yet about three feet under the floor of that iron foundry. Under the lee of the Northernmost promontory, near a rock marked with peculiar crosses made by the point of the stiletto which I constantly carried in my red silk sash, I buried tons of plate, and doubloons, pieces of eight, pistoles, Louis d’ors, and galleons by the chest. At that time galleons somehow meant to me money pieces in use, though since then the name has been given to a species of boat. The rich brocades, Damascus and Indian stuffs, laces, mantles, shawls and finery were piled in riotous profusion in our cave where—let the whole truth be told if it must—I lived with a bold, black-eyed and coquettish Spanish girl, who loved me with ungovernable jealousy that occasionally led to bitter and terrible scenes of rage and despair. At last when I brought home a white and red English girl, whose life I spared because she had begged me on her knees by the memory of my sainted mother to spare her for her old father, who was waiting her coming, Joquita passed all bounds. I killed her—with a single knife thrust, I remember. She was buried right on the spot where the Tilden and Hendricks flag pole afterwards stood in the campaign of 1876. It was with bitter melancholy that I fancied the red stripes on the flag had their color from the blood of the poor, foolish, jealous girl below.So it is, naturally enough, that to Allison, “Treasure Island” is thene plus ultraand composite of all pirate stories, and this marvel of delight he called to Waller’s attention while they were incubating “The Ogallallas.” No sooner had Waller read it than the quatrain of Old Billy Bones took possessionof him and converted itself into music. The two of them, as so many other thousands had done, bewailed the parsimony of Stevenson in the use and development of the grisly suggestion and Waller declared that if Allison would complete the verse he would set it to music. That same night Allison composed three ragged but promising verses, at white heat, while walking the floor in a cloud of tobacco smoke of his own making. Next morning he gave them to Waller, who by night had the score and words married and a day later the finished product went forward to Wm. A. Pond & Co., and was published under the title of “A Piratical Ballad”†† A Piratical Ballad. Song for Bass or Deep Baritone. Words by Young E. Allison; Music by Henry Waller; New York. Published by William A. Pond & Co. Copyright 1891. [See pages65-68.]. Note that these initial verses are described as “ragged” and in this I am also quoting Allison himself who in our various chats on his reminiscence of “Treasure Island” has often given them this characterization. Be that as it may these three verses were the foundation for the perfect six that were to emerge after several years more of intermittent but patient development and labor.A PIRATICAL BALLAD.Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done for the rest—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The mate was fixed by the bo’s’n’s pike,The bo’s’n brained with a marlinspike,And cookey’s throat was marked belikeIt had been grippedBy fingers ten.And there they lay,All good dead men—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Fifteen men all stark and cold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Their eyes popp’d wide and glazed and bold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The skipper lay with his nob in goreWhere the scullion’s axe his cheek had shore,And the scullion he was stabbed times four.And there they lay,And the soggy skiesRained all day longOn the staring eyes—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Fifteen men of the Vixen’s list—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!All gone down from the devil’s own fist—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!We wrapped ’em all in a mainsail’s fold,We sewed at the foot a bit of gold,And we heaved ’em into the billows cold.The bit was putAs snug’s could be,Where’t ne’er will botherYou nor me—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!This is the requiem of the Fifteen Dead Men that Eugene Cowles would sing so effectively in his booming bass after rehearsals of “The Ogallallas.” It must have been great!Allison felt that he had done little justice to an idea full of great possibilities and made a number of revisions during the polishing process until it was raised to five verses. I have the original manuscript†† Reproduced infacsimile.of the first revision of “A Piratical Ballad” unearthed from a cubby-hole in an old desk of his to which I fell heir, the only change being in the title to “A Ballad ofDead Men,” the elimination of one of the concluding lines “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum” from the refrain of each verse, (it had been added originally to fit the musical cadence), and the strengthening of the final verse by the substitution of—With willing heartsAnd a Yo-heave-hoOver the sideTo the sharks below.Many will no doubt recall “The Philosophy of Composition”†† Stone & Kimball Edition. Vol. 6; page 31.by Edgar Allen Poe, and those who by some mischance have missed it, can spend a delightful hour in the perusal of what, beyond the least doubt, is the most skillful analysis of poetic composition ever written, even though it fails to carry conviction that “The Raven” was ever produced by the formula described. Poe declared that—… most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition; and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought, at the true purposes seized only at the last moment, at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view, at the fully matured fancies discarded as unmanageable, at the cautious selections and rejections, at the painful erasions and interpolations—in a word at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene shifting, the step ladders and demon traps, the cock’s feather, the red paint and the black patches, which in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred constitute the properties of the literaryhistrio.And so he proceeds to detail how he composed “The Raven.” First he decided on a length of about one hundred lines that could be read at one sitting; on beauty as its province; on sadness as its tone; on a variation of the application of the refrain—it remaining for the most part unvaried—to obtain what hetermed “artistic piquancy;” proceeding only at that stage to the composition of the last verse as the first step. All this of course has little to do with “Derelict” and yet I cannot but see a sort of analogy of effect by processes wholly divergent, particularly as Allison once told me that the central idea of the last verse for consigning the bodies to the deep was ever in his mind and that this verse was first projected, although its development was the most difficult and its perfection did not come until later. So much for that! In the five verses he had arrived approximately at a consummation of the sea burial, the introduction very properly repeating the quatrain of Billy Bones before concluding:We wrapped ’em all in a mains’l tight,With twice ten turns of a hawser’s bight,And we heaved ’em over and out of sight—With a yo-heave-ho!And a fare-you-well!And a sullen plungeIn the sullen swell—Ten fathom-lengths of the road to hell—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!While this composition is fine and tight as a drum in poetic meter and conception, the real perfection was not arrived at until he made it “Ten fathomsdeep onthe road to hell.” In the five-verse revision a part of the last verse as it appeared in “A Piratical Ballad” went into the second, a part of the second verse was shifted to the third and a fourth was added to give an implied reason for the riot of death in an inferred quarrel over the “chest on chest full of Spanish gold, with a ton of plate in the middle hold.” Strangely enough all these shifts and additions do not appear to have altered the sentiment in the least and at times I am amazed, in reading over old versions,that I do not appreciably miss certain lines and ideas that seem vital to the finished product.Shortly after the five verses had been privately printed for his friends on a single slip, Allison conceived the rather daring idea of injecting the trace of a woman on board the Derelict which up to this time he had very closely developed in the Stevensonian spirit. While there was no woman in “Treasure Island,” he proved to himself by analysis that his new thought would do no violence to Stevenson’s idea, because Billy Bones’ song was a reminiscence ofhis own pastand not of Treasure Island. Hence the trace of a woman, skillfully injected, might be permissible. Here, too, his analysis gave him the melancholy tone—of which Poe speaks as so highly desirable—greatly accentuated by doubt of whether she was “wench” or “maid,” and a further possible incentive for the extermination of the whole ship’s list. This verse†† Reproduced infacsimile.has undergone little change since the woman trace was first injected:More we saw, through the stern-light screen—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Chartings ondoubt where a woman had been—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,With a dagger-slot in the bosom spotAnd the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.Now whether wenchOr a shuddering maid,She dared the knifeAnd she took the blade.By God! She was stuff for a plucky jade—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!There were certain niceties of word adjustment to follow as for instance the substitution of “a thin dirk-slot” for “adagger-slot,” the word “thin” carrying a keen mental impression of a snaky, hissing sound-sensation as the idea unfolded of the dirk slipping through the flimsy fabric of the shift, cast on the bunker cot to remain the silent evidence of the tragedy. The very acme of touches came in the punctuation†† Reproduced infacsimile.of the concluding lines—pauses that emphasize with so much ingenuity the very question that lends the speculatively mournful cadence to the whole:Or was she wench ...Or some shuddering maid...?That dared the knifeAnd that took the blade!And as a cap-sheaf came the thought of differentiating the whole verse†† Reproduced infacsimile.by an Italicized setting! That is almost the last word of the conception of poet-printer.The dogged persistency that Allison applied to the completion of this masterpiece has always won my deepest admiration. And the admiration of many others too, for this poem, first publicly printed in the LouisvilleCourier-Journal, has been reprinted in one form or another, in almost every newspaper in the country and has an honored place in many scrap books. What great and painstaking effort was encompassed in its composition only one can know even partly who has been privileged to “peep behind the scenes” at the “properties of the literaryhistrio”—the manuscript notes and memoranda, a few of which accompany this volume infacsimile.

If Young Allison is vain of anything he has done I have yet to hear such an expression from him. He just writes things and tucks them away in odd corners and it has devolved upon me to collect them and keep them. So it is that, while not a literary executor—because Allison, thank God, is scandalously healthy and I am making no professions—it falls to my satisfied lot to be a literary collector in a certain sense—if he who gathers and preserves and gloats over the brain products of others may thus be described. That is why, treasured among my earthly possessions—scant enough, the good Lord knows, but full of joy and satisfaction to me—are extensive lead-pencil manuscript memoranda in Allison’s writing showing the painstaking stages by which “Fifteen Dead Men,” characterized by James Whitcomb Riley as that “masterly and exquisite ballad of delicious horrificness,” reached its perfection. Under whatever name it may be sung, be it “The Ballad of Dead Men,” or “On Board the Derelict” or “Derelict,” it is a poem big enough to fix the Jewel of Fame firmly over the author’s brow.

Away back in the Allison strain somewhere must have been a bold buccaneer, for who else but the descendant of a roystering, fighting, blood-letting pirate could have seen the “scuppers glut with a rotting red?” Through all the visible mildness of his deep and complex nature there surely runs a blood-thirsty current, in proof of whichI submit this single paragraph from certain confessions†† The Delicious Vice. Pages 23-24. First Series, 1907.of his:

With character seared, abandoned and dissolute in habit, through and by the hearing and seeing and reading of history, there was but one desperate step left. So I entered upon the career of a pirate in my ninth year. The Spanish Main, as no doubt you remember, was at that time upon an open common just across the street from our house, and it was a hundred feet long, half as wide and would average two feet in depth. I have often since thanked Heaven that they filled up that pathless ocean in order to build an iron foundry upon the spot. Suppose they had excavated for a cellar! Why during the time that Capt. Kidd, Lafitte and I infested the coast thereabout, sailing three “low, black-hulled schooners with long rakish masts,” I forced hundreds of merchant seamen to walk the plank—even helpless women and children. Unless the sharks devoured them, their bones are yet about three feet under the floor of that iron foundry. Under the lee of the Northernmost promontory, near a rock marked with peculiar crosses made by the point of the stiletto which I constantly carried in my red silk sash, I buried tons of plate, and doubloons, pieces of eight, pistoles, Louis d’ors, and galleons by the chest. At that time galleons somehow meant to me money pieces in use, though since then the name has been given to a species of boat. The rich brocades, Damascus and Indian stuffs, laces, mantles, shawls and finery were piled in riotous profusion in our cave where—let the whole truth be told if it must—I lived with a bold, black-eyed and coquettish Spanish girl, who loved me with ungovernable jealousy that occasionally led to bitter and terrible scenes of rage and despair. At last when I brought home a white and red English girl, whose life I spared because she had begged me on her knees by the memory of my sainted mother to spare her for her old father, who was waiting her coming, Joquita passed all bounds. I killed her—with a single knife thrust, I remember. She was buried right on the spot where the Tilden and Hendricks flag pole afterwards stood in the campaign of 1876. It was with bitter melancholy that I fancied the red stripes on the flag had their color from the blood of the poor, foolish, jealous girl below.

So it is, naturally enough, that to Allison, “Treasure Island” is thene plus ultraand composite of all pirate stories, and this marvel of delight he called to Waller’s attention while they were incubating “The Ogallallas.” No sooner had Waller read it than the quatrain of Old Billy Bones took possessionof him and converted itself into music. The two of them, as so many other thousands had done, bewailed the parsimony of Stevenson in the use and development of the grisly suggestion and Waller declared that if Allison would complete the verse he would set it to music. That same night Allison composed three ragged but promising verses, at white heat, while walking the floor in a cloud of tobacco smoke of his own making. Next morning he gave them to Waller, who by night had the score and words married and a day later the finished product went forward to Wm. A. Pond & Co., and was published under the title of “A Piratical Ballad”†† A Piratical Ballad. Song for Bass or Deep Baritone. Words by Young E. Allison; Music by Henry Waller; New York. Published by William A. Pond & Co. Copyright 1891. [See pages65-68.]. Note that these initial verses are described as “ragged” and in this I am also quoting Allison himself who in our various chats on his reminiscence of “Treasure Island” has often given them this characterization. Be that as it may these three verses were the foundation for the perfect six that were to emerge after several years more of intermittent but patient development and labor.

A PIRATICAL BALLAD.Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done for the rest—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The mate was fixed by the bo’s’n’s pike,The bo’s’n brained with a marlinspike,And cookey’s throat was marked belikeIt had been grippedBy fingers ten.And there they lay,All good dead men—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Fifteen men all stark and cold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Their eyes popp’d wide and glazed and bold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The skipper lay with his nob in goreWhere the scullion’s axe his cheek had shore,And the scullion he was stabbed times four.And there they lay,And the soggy skiesRained all day longOn the staring eyes—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Fifteen men of the Vixen’s list—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!All gone down from the devil’s own fist—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!We wrapped ’em all in a mainsail’s fold,We sewed at the foot a bit of gold,And we heaved ’em into the billows cold.The bit was putAs snug’s could be,Where’t ne’er will botherYou nor me—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

A PIRATICAL BALLAD.

Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done for the rest—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The mate was fixed by the bo’s’n’s pike,The bo’s’n brained with a marlinspike,And cookey’s throat was marked belikeIt had been grippedBy fingers ten.And there they lay,All good dead men—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Fifteen men all stark and cold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Their eyes popp’d wide and glazed and bold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The skipper lay with his nob in goreWhere the scullion’s axe his cheek had shore,And the scullion he was stabbed times four.And there they lay,And the soggy skiesRained all day longOn the staring eyes—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Fifteen men of the Vixen’s list—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!All gone down from the devil’s own fist—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!We wrapped ’em all in a mainsail’s fold,We sewed at the foot a bit of gold,And we heaved ’em into the billows cold.The bit was putAs snug’s could be,Where’t ne’er will botherYou nor me—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The mate was fixed by the bo’s’n’s pike,

The bo’s’n brained with a marlinspike,

And cookey’s throat was marked belike

It had been gripped

By fingers ten.

And there they lay,

All good dead men—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men all stark and cold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Their eyes popp’d wide and glazed and bold—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!The skipper lay with his nob in goreWhere the scullion’s axe his cheek had shore,And the scullion he was stabbed times four.And there they lay,And the soggy skiesRained all day longOn the staring eyes—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men all stark and cold—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Their eyes popp’d wide and glazed and bold—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The skipper lay with his nob in gore

Where the scullion’s axe his cheek had shore,

And the scullion he was stabbed times four.

And there they lay,

And the soggy skies

Rained all day long

On the staring eyes—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of the Vixen’s list—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!All gone down from the devil’s own fist—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!We wrapped ’em all in a mainsail’s fold,We sewed at the foot a bit of gold,And we heaved ’em into the billows cold.The bit was putAs snug’s could be,Where’t ne’er will botherYou nor me—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of the Vixen’s list—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

All gone down from the devil’s own fist—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

We wrapped ’em all in a mainsail’s fold,

We sewed at the foot a bit of gold,

And we heaved ’em into the billows cold.

The bit was put

As snug’s could be,

Where’t ne’er will bother

You nor me—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

This is the requiem of the Fifteen Dead Men that Eugene Cowles would sing so effectively in his booming bass after rehearsals of “The Ogallallas.” It must have been great!

Allison felt that he had done little justice to an idea full of great possibilities and made a number of revisions during the polishing process until it was raised to five verses. I have the original manuscript†† Reproduced infacsimile.of the first revision of “A Piratical Ballad” unearthed from a cubby-hole in an old desk of his to which I fell heir, the only change being in the title to “A Ballad ofDead Men,” the elimination of one of the concluding lines “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum” from the refrain of each verse, (it had been added originally to fit the musical cadence), and the strengthening of the final verse by the substitution of—

With willing heartsAnd a Yo-heave-hoOver the sideTo the sharks below.

With willing hearts

And a Yo-heave-ho

Over the side

To the sharks below.

Many will no doubt recall “The Philosophy of Composition”†† Stone & Kimball Edition. Vol. 6; page 31.by Edgar Allen Poe, and those who by some mischance have missed it, can spend a delightful hour in the perusal of what, beyond the least doubt, is the most skillful analysis of poetic composition ever written, even though it fails to carry conviction that “The Raven” was ever produced by the formula described. Poe declared that—

… most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition; and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought, at the true purposes seized only at the last moment, at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view, at the fully matured fancies discarded as unmanageable, at the cautious selections and rejections, at the painful erasions and interpolations—in a word at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene shifting, the step ladders and demon traps, the cock’s feather, the red paint and the black patches, which in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred constitute the properties of the literaryhistrio.

And so he proceeds to detail how he composed “The Raven.” First he decided on a length of about one hundred lines that could be read at one sitting; on beauty as its province; on sadness as its tone; on a variation of the application of the refrain—it remaining for the most part unvaried—to obtain what hetermed “artistic piquancy;” proceeding only at that stage to the composition of the last verse as the first step. All this of course has little to do with “Derelict” and yet I cannot but see a sort of analogy of effect by processes wholly divergent, particularly as Allison once told me that the central idea of the last verse for consigning the bodies to the deep was ever in his mind and that this verse was first projected, although its development was the most difficult and its perfection did not come until later. So much for that! In the five verses he had arrived approximately at a consummation of the sea burial, the introduction very properly repeating the quatrain of Billy Bones before concluding:

We wrapped ’em all in a mains’l tight,With twice ten turns of a hawser’s bight,And we heaved ’em over and out of sight—With a yo-heave-ho!And a fare-you-well!And a sullen plungeIn the sullen swell—Ten fathom-lengths of the road to hell—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

We wrapped ’em all in a mains’l tight,

With twice ten turns of a hawser’s bight,

And we heaved ’em over and out of sight—

With a yo-heave-ho!

And a fare-you-well!

And a sullen plunge

In the sullen swell—

Ten fathom-lengths of the road to hell—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

While this composition is fine and tight as a drum in poetic meter and conception, the real perfection was not arrived at until he made it “Ten fathomsdeep onthe road to hell.” In the five-verse revision a part of the last verse as it appeared in “A Piratical Ballad” went into the second, a part of the second verse was shifted to the third and a fourth was added to give an implied reason for the riot of death in an inferred quarrel over the “chest on chest full of Spanish gold, with a ton of plate in the middle hold.” Strangely enough all these shifts and additions do not appear to have altered the sentiment in the least and at times I am amazed, in reading over old versions,that I do not appreciably miss certain lines and ideas that seem vital to the finished product.

Shortly after the five verses had been privately printed for his friends on a single slip, Allison conceived the rather daring idea of injecting the trace of a woman on board the Derelict which up to this time he had very closely developed in the Stevensonian spirit. While there was no woman in “Treasure Island,” he proved to himself by analysis that his new thought would do no violence to Stevenson’s idea, because Billy Bones’ song was a reminiscence ofhis own pastand not of Treasure Island. Hence the trace of a woman, skillfully injected, might be permissible. Here, too, his analysis gave him the melancholy tone—of which Poe speaks as so highly desirable—greatly accentuated by doubt of whether she was “wench” or “maid,” and a further possible incentive for the extermination of the whole ship’s list. This verse†† Reproduced infacsimile.has undergone little change since the woman trace was first injected:

More we saw, through the stern-light screen—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!Chartings ondoubt where a woman had been—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,With a dagger-slot in the bosom spotAnd the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.Now whether wenchOr a shuddering maid,She dared the knifeAnd she took the blade.By God! She was stuff for a plucky jade—Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

More we saw, through the stern-light screen—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Chartings ondoubt where a woman had been—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,

With a dagger-slot in the bosom spot

And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.

Now whether wench

Or a shuddering maid,

She dared the knife

And she took the blade.

By God! She was stuff for a plucky jade—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

There were certain niceties of word adjustment to follow as for instance the substitution of “a thin dirk-slot” for “adagger-slot,” the word “thin” carrying a keen mental impression of a snaky, hissing sound-sensation as the idea unfolded of the dirk slipping through the flimsy fabric of the shift, cast on the bunker cot to remain the silent evidence of the tragedy. The very acme of touches came in the punctuation†† Reproduced infacsimile.of the concluding lines—pauses that emphasize with so much ingenuity the very question that lends the speculatively mournful cadence to the whole:

Or was she wench ...Or some shuddering maid...?That dared the knifeAnd that took the blade!

Or was she wench ...

Or some shuddering maid...?

That dared the knife

And that took the blade!

And as a cap-sheaf came the thought of differentiating the whole verse†† Reproduced infacsimile.by an Italicized setting! That is almost the last word of the conception of poet-printer.

The dogged persistency that Allison applied to the completion of this masterpiece has always won my deepest admiration. And the admiration of many others too, for this poem, first publicly printed in the LouisvilleCourier-Journal, has been reprinted in one form or another, in almost every newspaper in the country and has an honored place in many scrap books. What great and painstaking effort was encompassed in its composition only one can know even partly who has been privileged to “peep behind the scenes” at the “properties of the literaryhistrio”—the manuscript notes and memoranda, a few of which accompany this volume infacsimile.

IF THEREisCONTROVERSY!If any one in this wide, old world, after reading the wealth of evidence in this little volume, still thinks Young E. Allison did not write “Derelict,” let him come to me like a man and say so and I’ll give him a good swift stab in the eye, with my eye, and say: “You don’t want to be convinced.” This includes the editor ofThe New York Times Book Review. When he made an egregious blunder by stating that “Derelict” was an unskilled sailor’s jingle, a wave of protest reached him. He then printed Walt Mason’s letter describing the poem as a work of art and altered his editorial characterization of it to “famous old chanty.” In the same breath he wrote that it was not likely that Mr. Allison was the author—but why not likely? It is plain that somebody must have written it. Nobody else’s name had ever been associated with it. TheTimesman had nobody to suggest as the author. Why, then, maintain that Mr. Allison was not the author? His sole reason is that the “Bowdlerized” and bastard version which he printed had beencopied from a manuscript written into an old book printed in 1843! What does the ink say about dates? What do the pen marks say? Great gods and little fishes! If ever I shall desire to antiquitize a modernity I’ll copy it into an old book and send a transcript to that delightful Babe of the Woods ofThe New York Times Book Review.WhenRubric, a Chicago magazine venture of attractiveness, but doomed in advance to failure, published Allison’spoem under the title “On Board the Derelict,” I detached three sets of the eight illustrated and illuminated pages on which it was printed, had the sheets inlaid in hand-made paper and neatly bound. This was accomplished with the sage advice of my old playmate, Frank M. Morris, the bookman of Chicago. One of these volumes was made for Mr. Allison, (so that he would surely have at least one copy of his own poem), a second was for my bookish friend, James F. Joseph, then of Chicago and now of Indianapolis, and a third was for my own library. The mere fact that Allison was five years autographing my particular copy has no bearing whatever in this discussion, but leads me to say that I felt amply repaid in the end by this very handsome inscription on the fly-leaf:This Volume,No. 1of the limited private edition of “On Board the Derelict,” is for the private delight of my dear friend,Champion Ingraham Hitchcock,the publisher and designer thereof—appreciative guide, counselor and encourager of other excursions into “the higher altitudes,”—with all love and long memoryChristmas, 1906.Young E. Allison.Well, because “Derelict” was a delight and Allison my friend, I gave awayRubricsby the score and, among others, saw that a copy went to Wallace Rice, literatus—and Chicago book reviewer—to whom I owe an everlasting debt of gratitude for precious moments saved by good advice on modern stuff not to read. In presenting “Derelict,” theRubricpublishers left an impression that the poem had but then been completed†† See letter to “The New York Times Book Review”.for its pages. I knew better; Wallace had read itbefore, in whole or in part and raised a question. It so worked upon me that later I decided to submit it to Allison himself. Sometimes we do things, and know not why, that have a very distinct later and wholly unexpected bearing upon situations, and when the opportunity for this volume arose, the memory that I had saved Allison’s penciled reply came over me. A patient search had its reward. Here is the letter†† Reproduced infacsimile.written with the same old lead pencil on the same old spongy copy paper:Louisville Feb. 22, 1902.Dear Hitch:My supposition is that theRubricfolks misunderstood or have been misunderstood. The Dead Man’s Song was first written about 10 years ago—3 verses—and Henry Waller set it to music & it was published in New York. The version for the song did not exhaust it in my mind and so I took it up every now & then for 4 or 5 years and finally completed it. A very lovely little girl who was visiting my wife helped me to decide whether I should write in one verse “a flimsy shift” or “a filmy shift” or other versions, and her opinion on “flimsy” decided me. She is the only person that ever had anything to do with it—as far as I know! What hypnotic influences were at work or what astral minds may have intervened, I know not. But I have always thought I did it all. It was not much to do, except for a certain 17th Century verbiage and grisly humor.I am glad you still believe I wouldn’t steal anybody else’s brains any more than I would his money. Waller wrote splendid singing music to it which Eugene Cowles used to bellow beautifully.With best love, as always,Y. E. A.That this narrative may be complete, the articles and comment that appeared inThe New York Times Book Revieware reproduced, together with a letter to the editor written by the author of this volume, which, neither acknowledged nor published by him, obtained wide circulation throughThe Scoop,†† Issue of October 10, 1914.amagazine issued every Saturday by The Press Club of Chicago. It was quite characteristic of Allison to decline the very urgent requests of many friends to jump into the arena and make a claim for that which is his own creation and in coming to a negative decision, his reasons are probably best expressed in a letter to Henry A. Sampson, who himself writes poetry:Yours of the 5th containing wormwood from theN. Y. Times(and being the 11th copy received from loving friends) is here.Jealous! Jealous! Just the acute development on your part of the ordinary professional jealousy. Merely because I have at last found my place amongst those solitary and dazzling poets, Homer and Shakespeare, who, also, it has been proved, did not write their own stuff, but found it all in folk lore and copied it down.Well, damn me, I can’t help my own genius and do not care for its products because I can always make more, and I compose these things for my own satisfaction.I, with Shakespeare and Homer, perceive the bitter inefficacy of fighting the scientific critics. Walt Mason saw the versification was artful instead of “bungling and crude,” but theTimescritic knows a copy out of a “chanty book” when he sees it.I envy your being unpublished. You do not have to bleed with me and Homer and Bill. I feel the desiccating effects of my own dishonor. I grow distrustful. I wonder ifyouwroteyourpoems. You refused to publish. Were you, astute and keen reader of auguries, afraid of being found out? Who writes all these magnificent things that me and Homer and Bill couldn’t and didn’t write?No, I don’t owe it to my friends to settle this. I’d a sight rather plead guilty and accept indeterminate sentence than to waste time on my friends. I’ve got ’em or I haven’t. And I want to convince enemies by a profound and dignified sneak.From one who has had dirt done him.MantelliniLouisville, Oct. 6, 1914.

If any one in this wide, old world, after reading the wealth of evidence in this little volume, still thinks Young E. Allison did not write “Derelict,” let him come to me like a man and say so and I’ll give him a good swift stab in the eye, with my eye, and say: “You don’t want to be convinced.” This includes the editor ofThe New York Times Book Review. When he made an egregious blunder by stating that “Derelict” was an unskilled sailor’s jingle, a wave of protest reached him. He then printed Walt Mason’s letter describing the poem as a work of art and altered his editorial characterization of it to “famous old chanty.” In the same breath he wrote that it was not likely that Mr. Allison was the author—but why not likely? It is plain that somebody must have written it. Nobody else’s name had ever been associated with it. TheTimesman had nobody to suggest as the author. Why, then, maintain that Mr. Allison was not the author? His sole reason is that the “Bowdlerized” and bastard version which he printed had beencopied from a manuscript written into an old book printed in 1843! What does the ink say about dates? What do the pen marks say? Great gods and little fishes! If ever I shall desire to antiquitize a modernity I’ll copy it into an old book and send a transcript to that delightful Babe of the Woods ofThe New York Times Book Review.

WhenRubric, a Chicago magazine venture of attractiveness, but doomed in advance to failure, published Allison’spoem under the title “On Board the Derelict,” I detached three sets of the eight illustrated and illuminated pages on which it was printed, had the sheets inlaid in hand-made paper and neatly bound. This was accomplished with the sage advice of my old playmate, Frank M. Morris, the bookman of Chicago. One of these volumes was made for Mr. Allison, (so that he would surely have at least one copy of his own poem), a second was for my bookish friend, James F. Joseph, then of Chicago and now of Indianapolis, and a third was for my own library. The mere fact that Allison was five years autographing my particular copy has no bearing whatever in this discussion, but leads me to say that I felt amply repaid in the end by this very handsome inscription on the fly-leaf:

This Volume,No. 1of the limited private edition of “On Board the Derelict,” is for the private delight of my dear friend,Champion Ingraham Hitchcock,the publisher and designer thereof—appreciative guide, counselor and encourager of other excursions into “the higher altitudes,”—with all love and long memoryChristmas, 1906.Young E. Allison.

This Volume,

No. 1

of the limited private edition of “On Board the Derelict,” is for the private delight of my dear friend,

Champion Ingraham Hitchcock,

the publisher and designer thereof—appreciative guide, counselor and encourager of other excursions into “the higher altitudes,”—with all love and long memory

Christmas, 1906.

Young E. Allison.

Well, because “Derelict” was a delight and Allison my friend, I gave awayRubricsby the score and, among others, saw that a copy went to Wallace Rice, literatus—and Chicago book reviewer—to whom I owe an everlasting debt of gratitude for precious moments saved by good advice on modern stuff not to read. In presenting “Derelict,” theRubricpublishers left an impression that the poem had but then been completed†† See letter to “The New York Times Book Review”.for its pages. I knew better; Wallace had read itbefore, in whole or in part and raised a question. It so worked upon me that later I decided to submit it to Allison himself. Sometimes we do things, and know not why, that have a very distinct later and wholly unexpected bearing upon situations, and when the opportunity for this volume arose, the memory that I had saved Allison’s penciled reply came over me. A patient search had its reward. Here is the letter†† Reproduced infacsimile.written with the same old lead pencil on the same old spongy copy paper:

Louisville Feb. 22, 1902.Dear Hitch:My supposition is that theRubricfolks misunderstood or have been misunderstood. The Dead Man’s Song was first written about 10 years ago—3 verses—and Henry Waller set it to music & it was published in New York. The version for the song did not exhaust it in my mind and so I took it up every now & then for 4 or 5 years and finally completed it. A very lovely little girl who was visiting my wife helped me to decide whether I should write in one verse “a flimsy shift” or “a filmy shift” or other versions, and her opinion on “flimsy” decided me. She is the only person that ever had anything to do with it—as far as I know! What hypnotic influences were at work or what astral minds may have intervened, I know not. But I have always thought I did it all. It was not much to do, except for a certain 17th Century verbiage and grisly humor.I am glad you still believe I wouldn’t steal anybody else’s brains any more than I would his money. Waller wrote splendid singing music to it which Eugene Cowles used to bellow beautifully.With best love, as always,Y. E. A.

Louisville Feb. 22, 1902.

Dear Hitch:

My supposition is that theRubricfolks misunderstood or have been misunderstood. The Dead Man’s Song was first written about 10 years ago—3 verses—and Henry Waller set it to music & it was published in New York. The version for the song did not exhaust it in my mind and so I took it up every now & then for 4 or 5 years and finally completed it. A very lovely little girl who was visiting my wife helped me to decide whether I should write in one verse “a flimsy shift” or “a filmy shift” or other versions, and her opinion on “flimsy” decided me. She is the only person that ever had anything to do with it—as far as I know! What hypnotic influences were at work or what astral minds may have intervened, I know not. But I have always thought I did it all. It was not much to do, except for a certain 17th Century verbiage and grisly humor.

I am glad you still believe I wouldn’t steal anybody else’s brains any more than I would his money. Waller wrote splendid singing music to it which Eugene Cowles used to bellow beautifully.

With best love, as always,

Y. E. A.

That this narrative may be complete, the articles and comment that appeared inThe New York Times Book Revieware reproduced, together with a letter to the editor written by the author of this volume, which, neither acknowledged nor published by him, obtained wide circulation throughThe Scoop,†† Issue of October 10, 1914.amagazine issued every Saturday by The Press Club of Chicago. It was quite characteristic of Allison to decline the very urgent requests of many friends to jump into the arena and make a claim for that which is his own creation and in coming to a negative decision, his reasons are probably best expressed in a letter to Henry A. Sampson, who himself writes poetry:

Yours of the 5th containing wormwood from theN. Y. Times(and being the 11th copy received from loving friends) is here.Jealous! Jealous! Just the acute development on your part of the ordinary professional jealousy. Merely because I have at last found my place amongst those solitary and dazzling poets, Homer and Shakespeare, who, also, it has been proved, did not write their own stuff, but found it all in folk lore and copied it down.Well, damn me, I can’t help my own genius and do not care for its products because I can always make more, and I compose these things for my own satisfaction.I, with Shakespeare and Homer, perceive the bitter inefficacy of fighting the scientific critics. Walt Mason saw the versification was artful instead of “bungling and crude,” but theTimescritic knows a copy out of a “chanty book” when he sees it.I envy your being unpublished. You do not have to bleed with me and Homer and Bill. I feel the desiccating effects of my own dishonor. I grow distrustful. I wonder ifyouwroteyourpoems. You refused to publish. Were you, astute and keen reader of auguries, afraid of being found out? Who writes all these magnificent things that me and Homer and Bill couldn’t and didn’t write?No, I don’t owe it to my friends to settle this. I’d a sight rather plead guilty and accept indeterminate sentence than to waste time on my friends. I’ve got ’em or I haven’t. And I want to convince enemies by a profound and dignified sneak.From one who has had dirt done him.MantelliniLouisville, Oct. 6, 1914.

Yours of the 5th containing wormwood from theN. Y. Times(and being the 11th copy received from loving friends) is here.

Jealous! Jealous! Just the acute development on your part of the ordinary professional jealousy. Merely because I have at last found my place amongst those solitary and dazzling poets, Homer and Shakespeare, who, also, it has been proved, did not write their own stuff, but found it all in folk lore and copied it down.

Well, damn me, I can’t help my own genius and do not care for its products because I can always make more, and I compose these things for my own satisfaction.

I, with Shakespeare and Homer, perceive the bitter inefficacy of fighting the scientific critics. Walt Mason saw the versification was artful instead of “bungling and crude,” but theTimescritic knows a copy out of a “chanty book” when he sees it.

I envy your being unpublished. You do not have to bleed with me and Homer and Bill. I feel the desiccating effects of my own dishonor. I grow distrustful. I wonder ifyouwroteyourpoems. You refused to publish. Were you, astute and keen reader of auguries, afraid of being found out? Who writes all these magnificent things that me and Homer and Bill couldn’t and didn’t write?

No, I don’t owe it to my friends to settle this. I’d a sight rather plead guilty and accept indeterminate sentence than to waste time on my friends. I’ve got ’em or I haven’t. And I want to convince enemies by a profound and dignified sneak.

From one who has had dirt done him.

Mantellini

Louisville, Oct. 6, 1914.

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