in boston—song-composing—looking for a publisher—how i secured him—i visit providence—i play in the military band—hard up
in those old days of my youth an atmosphere of romance gathered from old novels and dreams still sparkled in my head. i am going to tell of the adventures that followed directly on my boyhood, when before the mast i had crossed the seas with eyes athirst for romance, looking for the wonderful, the beautiful in distant lands, in men and in women, and for that opportunity to perform those mighty, world-thrilling deeds that, alas, i have not even yet performed!
after much wandering in search of wealth and fame, following desperate trouble owing to schemes that failed in australia and the south sea islands, i at length caught typhoid fever in san francisco. with many misgivings i recovered. at last i found myself sitting in a top attic in north america. it was a humble little room, the atmosphere and surroundings the very thing to feed the fire of my aspiring mind, to force one to do better. its one window-pane was broken; the furniture consisted of an old table, a box chair, a candlestick and my extemporised bed on the floor! i was in boston, “the hub of the universe”! my sea-chest and best suit were in pawn in san francisco. my money had almost all gone, and my latest grand passion had faded. i had been practising the violin furiously day and night, for i hoped to become the world’s greatest violinist. yet at heart i still felt triumphant. the world seemed especially mine! one thing only existence lacked—a kindred spirit to stand shoulder to shoulder by my side on some quest for glorious violence, adventurous thrills, voyaging across the uncharted seas of imagination. o too brief, splendid madness of youth!
far below, outside my window, over the city’s stone-slabbed streets, rattled vehicles, and the hurried, endless battalions of yankee citizens passed by, seeking fortune or the grave. gold seemed the incentive to all thrills; human passion, hope and ambition seemed congealed into a mechanical state of steam, electric locomotion, and all that the almighty silver dollars would clink against. i also seemed to have frozen and become a part of the machine which is called civilisation. the songs of sails aloft, the noise of forest winds and soundings across deep waters, had faded from my dreams into a wail of selfishness. imagination is the soul of the universe, and grief is its bible; but, alas, i felt a gross craving for food.
so my ambition to outrival paganini on the violin had subsided from its state of enthusiastic fire and had left in my heart a dull callousness. one intense wish survived: to get a sound pair of boots and a new suit! winter snows were only just melting, and much privation had considerably thinned me. i had done many things which i feel remain best untold. necessity had inspired me with many original and desperate schemes, the latest of which was a determination to compose songs. music hall hits come, have their day, are whistled and sung by the élite and by the street-arab, and suddenly i thought, why should not i supply the public with those rotten melodies? i would do it on original lines and give the american public something new. did they not hail as brand-new old melodies that wellington’s soldiers sung at waterloo and antiquated strains brought over by the passengers of the mayflower with one bar reversed and the title altered.
i would jump from my bed at night and, throwing off my “blanket,” which consisted of half-a-dozen old overcoats which my landlady had lent me, write down inspired strains and next day put them to suitable words, words with those sentimental and lascivious suggestions in them that suit the public taste—for the artist in me had sorrowed and become temporarily gross. i sought money more than the applause of musical critics. boston publishers became familiar with my handwriting. i had about fifty rejected manuscripts with specially printed forms, notices that offered me “their appreciation of my favours, and the editor’s sincere compliments, and by the same post with many regrets they were returning the mss.” at length i thought my name was getting too well known: i was obliged to seek a nom de plume. with characteristic family cautiousness i hit on a name that was already famous in new york musical circles. my youthful innocence had almost passed, and i vaguely felt that to compete with the world i must deliberately stain myself with its contagion. often my heart bristled with schemes as multitudinous as quills on a hedgehog’s hide.
i had composed an attractive melody and had placed suitable words to it, but, notwithstanding my famous nom de plume, “muller,” i had had my manuscripts returned, torn in the post, the editor’s marks indelibly damaging it, and too often a dark stain across the first page that looked suspiciously like editorial tobacco juice.
things began to look serious. i became, if possible, even thinner. my landlady’s politeness became gross; she thumped the door for rent. i was starving and only had a cake of common yellow soap. with the superhuman energy and pluck of aspiring youth i tried again, imitated the latest hit and sent the manuscript to “d—— & co.,” of boston, a small publishing firm in a side street off 6th avenue. i signed it with my nom de plume; the initials differed by one letter from those of the original owner—i thought this necessary to save legal trouble.
i waited three days. the post brought me no letter, so i wrote to the publisher and said:
“dear sirs,—i am an englishman on tour, and a member of the carl rosa opera company’s orchestra. i may have to leave boston at any moment, so, much against my wish, i must worry you for speedy consideration of my manuscript song, dreams of eldorado, which i can get publicly performed in london town when i arrive back.”
two days later, to my great delight, i received a letter asking me to call on d—— & co. re my manuscript. the very thought of my song reaching engraving and print thrilled me; that i should be published in america at another man’s expense seemed impossible! a vanderbilt-like feeling pervaded my being. i pawned my violin, paid my landlady a week’s rent and gave the little blue-eyed daughter twenty-five cents to buy sweets with. i could have sung with joy. next morning at ten-thirty i was to be at the publisher’s office. by night the reaction set in. i became suspicious. suppose it was all a ruse! for had i not borrowed a famous name? a thousand thoughts haunted me; my musical ability seemed nil. i had no talent. i hummed my melodies over; they seemed ridiculously tuneless. there was no doubt about it: the boston publishers had seen through my scheme, had held a solemn council, and most probably would be waiting in that office to pounce upon me and charge me with my duplicity, and then god knows what they might do. on the floor all night the old overcoats moved and moved as i restlessly turned in my bed. i was numbed with awful suspicions and possible contingencies. i rose haggard and wretched, and against all my usual instincts sought a saloon and drank twenty-five cents’ worth of rum. with renewed courage i prepared to risk all. at ten o’clock i walked past a brass-plated door with d—— & co. on it. three times i passed it and then, walking crabwise, i went in. a little man with a skull-cap on got up and welcomed me. i hurriedly glanced round; the ambushed publishers of my imagination faded as the girl typewriter yawned and clicked away. my erstwhile gloom blossomed to monstrous hopes. negotiations commenced. “what did i usually ask for my work?” he demanded. i blushed and hastily wiped my nose. “will fifty dollars do?” i answered. i eventually got five dollars for the song as a preliminary payment on royalties to come. such royalties! one cent on each copy sold after the first ten thousand advertisement copies had been given away and the second one thousand had repaid the actual expenses of the publication and engraving. afterwards, too, i found out that to engrave a song of four plates cost the publisher five dollars. i trembled as i clutched the green five-dollar bill. “will he alter his mind?” was my chief thought. “does he think i am the great muller?” the publisher broke in on my thoughts. “place your name there,” he said, and i signed the imposing agreement, four times the length of my manuscript song.
readjusting his skull-cap and wiping his spectacles, he began to examine my signature. the weather was cold, but i started to perspire. was he comparing my signature with muller’s? it was an awful thought, and with a sickly farewell i bolted!
hurrying down the main street, i longed to get out of sight with the dollars, but i heard a shout behind me; my assumed name was loudly called: i turned; my heart sank. i nearly fainted: the publisher was running after me. i clutched my money, determined to resist. the new greatness thrust upon me by the sale of my song still remained with me. i could not humiliate my pride and run, though i longed to do so. with his little skull-cap askew, he stood puffing in front of me! i gave one glance to warn him not to get too near my person, and heard him saying: “oh, excuse me, mr muller, i suppose you will be in boston long enough to correct the proof?”
in a dream i reached my room, packed up my brush and comb, got my violin out of pawn and left boston for providence, where my brother lived, who had left england years before. to my great regret i found, when i arrived, that he was away in california. no one seemed to know when he would return. i could not force my way into his bachelor rooms, and so i was once more on the rocks.
i became acquainted with a young swede who was musical and played the clarionet. together we fixed up a small orchestra, went out to play at dances and so just managed to exist. we hired a large room in a hall near the hoyle buildings in westminster street; made our own furniture out of meat tubs and our beds of old overcoats. my violin, with coats doubled on it, made an excellent pillow. with our heads side by side on it we slept as soundly as though we were in the australian bush. i spent hours each day, and sometimes worked far into the night, practising my violin and reading the lives of great musicians and writers.
my brother, a crack violinist and a well-known journalist in the states, did not return for four or five months, and in the meantime our orchestra failed. my friend and i lived for a time on the free lunches of the grog saloons. north american saloon owners do not allow their customers to starve while they supply them with alcoholic poison, which is, however, fifty per cent. better than english spirit. for americans are both humane and practical. they know that dead men do not buy rum, so the bars at luncheon hours steam with hot frankforts, plates of cold meat, cheese and biscuits, provided without any charge to their customers. the honesty of providence is illustrated by one fact alone—if you buy ten cents’ worth of whisky they hand you a glass and the bottle, that you may help yourself. in london, australia and the south seas the grog-keeper would be ruined in a week if he ran his business on those lines! you seldom see a woman in a grog saloon, and never drunk in the streets.
eventually i secured several jobs at concert halls. the pay was small, but, though other work was to be had, my temperament strongly objected to anything that needed muscular power. to tell the truth, i was ambitious. i longed to raise myself out of the ordinary ruck of things. however, when my swedish friend got a job out at pawtucket, digging post-holes, the high wages tempted me and i too started work there. together we toiled for three weeks. then once more i started composing, and had several pieces of dance music accepted in my own name. i arranged them as pianoforte solos, and one or two for the violin and piano.
when the weather got warm i sometimes went out to fort hill, on the seekonk river. the prairie-land of rhode island survives in variegated patches of miles of beautiful scenery, with rushing rivers, and landscapes dotted by wooden homesteads that remind one of new zealand and the australian bush-land.
