Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush (16 page)

“Cum, Mr. H —,” said the music-master, buttoning his great-coat up to his chin, “let us be a-goin.’”

On reaching the spot where we had left the cutter, to our great disappointment, we found only one-half of it remaining; the other half, broken to pieces, strewed the ground. Mr. Browne detained me for another half-hour, in gathering together the fragments. “Now you, Mr. Smith, you take care of the crippled fiddles, while I take care of the bag of oats. The old mare has been trying to hook them out of the cutter, which has been the cause of all the trouble. You, Mr. H—, mount up on the old jade, and take along the bull’s hide, and we will follow on foot.”

“Yes,” said I, “and glad of the chance, for I am cold and tired.”

Not knowing a step of the way, I let Mr. Browne and his companion go a-head; and making a sort of packsaddle of the old hide, I curled myself up on the back of the old mare, and left her to her own pace, which, however, was a pretty round trot, until we reached the outskirts of the town, where, dismounting, I thanked my companions, very insincerely I’m afraid, for my evening’s amusement, and joined my friends at the hotel, who were never tired of hearing me recount my adventures at the singing-school.

I had been obliged to postpone my own concert until the next evening, for I found the borrowed piano such a poor one, and so miserably out of tune, that it took me several hours rendering it at all fit for service. Before I had concluded my task, I was favoured with the company of Mr. Browne, who stuck to me closer than a brother, never allowing me out of his sight for a moment. This persevering attention, so little in
unison with my feelings, caused me the most insufferable annoyance. A thousand times I was on the point of dismissing him very unceremoniously, by informing him that I thought him a most conceited, impertinent puppy; but for the sake of my friend Roberts, who was in some way related to the fellow, I contrived to master my anger. About four o’clock he jumped up from the table, at which he had been lounging and sipping hot punch at my expense for the last hour, exclaiming –

“I guess it’s time for me to see the pee-a-ne carried up to the con-sort room.”

“It’s all ready,” said I. “Perhaps, Mr. Browne, you will oblige me by singing a song before the company arrives, that I may judge how far your style and mine will agree;” for I began to have some horrible misgivings on the subject. “If you will step up stairs, I will accompany you on the piano. I had no opportunity of hearing you sing last night.”

“No, no,” said he, with a conceited laugh; “I mean to astonish you by and by. I’m not one of your common amateurs, no how. I shall produce quite a sensation upon your audience.”

So saying, he darted through the door, and left me to finish my arrangements for the night.

The hour appointed for the concert at length arrived. It was a clear, frosty night, the moon shining as bright as day. A great number of persons were collected about the doors of the hotel, and I had every reason to expect a full house. I was giving some directions to my door-keeper, when I heard a double sleigh approaching at an uncommon rate; and looking up the road, I saw an old-fashioned, high-backed vehicle, drawn by two shabby-looking horses, coming towards the hotel at full gallop. The passengers evidently thought that they were too late, and were making up for lost time.

The driver was an old farmer, and dressed in the cloth
of the country, with a large capote of the same material drawn over his head and weather-beaten face, which left his sharp black eyes, red nose, and wide mouth alone visible. He flourished in his hand a large whip of raw hide, which ever and anon descended upon the backs of his rawboned cattle like the strokes of a flail.

“Get up – go along – waye,” cried he, suddenly drawing up at the door of the hotel. “Well, here we be at last, and jist in time for the con-sort.” Then hitching the horses to the post, and flinging the buffalo robes over them, he left the three females he was driving in the sleigh, and ran directly up to me, –“Arn’t you the con-sort man? I guess you be, by them ere black pants and Sunday-goin’ gear.”

I nodded assent.

“What’s the damage?”

“Half a dollar.”

“Half a dollar? You don’t mean to say that!”

“Not a cent less.”

“Well, it will be
expensive
. There’s my wife and two darters, and myself; and the galls never seed a con-sort.”

“Well,” said I, “as there are four of you, you may come in at a dollar and a half.”

“How; a dollar and a harf! I will go and have a talk with the old woman, and hear what she says to it.”

He returned to the sleigh, and after chatting for a few minutes with the women, he helped them out, and the four followed me into the common reception room of the inn. The farmer placed a pail of butter on the table, and said with a shrewd curl of his long nose, and a wink from one of his cunning black eyes, “There’s some pretty good butter, mister.”

I was amused at the idea, and replied,
“Pretty good butter!
What is that to me? I do not buy butter.”

“Not buy butter! Why you don’t say! It is the very best article in the market jist now.”

For a bit of fun I said, –“Never mind; I will take your butter. What is it worth?”

“It was worth ten cents last week, mister; I don’t know what it’s worth now. It can’t have fallen, no-how.”

I took my knife from my pocket, and in a very businesslike manner proceeded to taste the article. “Why,” said I, “this butter is not good.”

Here a sharp-faced woman stepped briskly up, and poking her head between us, said, at the highest pitch of her cracked voice, –“Yes, it is good; it was made this morning
express-ly
for the
con-sort.”

“I beg your pardon, madam. I am not in the habit of buying butter. To oblige you, I will take this. How much is there of it?”

“I don’t know. Where are your steelyards?”

“Oh,” said I, laughing, “I don’t carry such things with me. I will take it at your own valuation, and you may go in with your family.”

“‘Tis a bargain,” says she. “Go in, galls, and fix yourselves for the con-sort.”

As the room was fast filling, I thought it time to present myself to the company, and made my entrance, accompanied by that incorrigible pest, the singing master, who, without the least embarrassment, took his seat by the piano. After singing several of my best songs, I invited him to try his skill.

“Oh, certainly,” said he; “to tell you the truth, I am a
leetle
surprised that you did not ask me to lead off.”

“I would have done so; but I could not alter the arrangement of the programme.”

“Ah, well, I excuse you this time, but it was not very polite, to say the least of it.” Then, taking my seat at the piano with as much confidence as Braham ever had, he run his hand over the keys, exclaiming “What shall I sing? I will give you one of Russell’s songs; they suit my voice best. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to favour you by singing Henry Russell’s celebrated song, ‘I
love to roam,’
and accompany myself upon the pee-a-ne-forty.”

This song is so well known to most of my readers, that I can describe his manner of singing it without repeating the whole of the words. He struck the instrument in playing with such violence that it shook his whole body, and produced the following ludicrous effect: –

This performance was drowned in an uproar of laughter, which brought our vocalist to a sudden stop.

“I won’t sing another line if you keep up that infernal noise,” he roared at the top of his voice. “When a fellow does his best, he expects his audience to appreciate his performance; but I allers he’rd as how the folks at W—knew nothing about music.”

“Oh, do stop,” exclaimed an old woman, rising from her seat, and shaking her fist at the unruly company, –“can’t yee’s; he do sing
butiful;
and his voice in the winds do sound so
natural
, I could almost hear them ‘an owling. It minds me of old times, it dew.”

This voluntary tribute to his genius seemed to console and re-assure the singing master, and, stemming with his stentorian voice the torrent of mistimed mirth, he sang his song triumphantly to the end; and the clapping of hands, stamping of feet, and knocking of benches, were truly deafening.

“What will you have now?” cried he. “I thought you would comprehend good singing at last.”

“Give them a comic song,” said I, in a whisper.

“A comic song!
(aloud) Do you think that I would waste
my
talents in singing trash that any jackass could bray? No, sirra, my style is purely
sentimental
. I will give the ladies and gentlemen the
‘Ivy Green.’“

He sang this beautiful original song, which is decidedly Russell’s best, much in the same style as the former one; but, getting a little used to his eccentricities, we contrived to keep our gravity until he came to the chorus, “Creeping, creeping, creeping,” for which he substituted, “crawling, crawling, crawling,” when he was again interrupted by such a burst of merriment that he was unable to crawl any further.

“Well,” said he, rising; “if you won’t behave, I will leave the instrument to Mr. H—, and make one of the audience.”

He had scarcely taken his seat, when the farmer from whom I had bought the butter forced his way up to the piano. Says he, “There’s that pail; it is worth ten cents and a half. You must either pay the money, or give me back the pail. –(Hitching up his nether garments) –“I s’pose you’ll do the thing that’s right.”

“Oh, certainly, there are twelve and a half cents.”

“I hav’nt change,” said he, with a knowing look.

“So much the better; keep the difference.”

“Then we’re square, mister,” and he sank back into his place. “Did he pay you the money?”

I heard the wife ask in an anxious tone. “Yes, yes; more than the old pail was worth by a long chalk. I’d like to deal with that chap allers.”

I now proceeded with the concert. The song of the drowning child saved by the Newfoundland dog, drew down thunders of applause. When the clamour had a little subsided, a tall man rose from his seat at the upper end of the room, and, after clearing his throat with several loud hems, he thus addressed me, –“How do you do, Mr. H—? I am glad, sir, to make your acquaintance. This is my friend, Mr. Derby,” drawing another tall man conspicuously forward before all the spectators. “He, tew, is very happy to make your acquaintance. We both want to know if that dog you have been singing about belongs to you. If so, we should be glad to buy a pup.” He gravely took his seat, amid perfect yells of applause. It was impossible to be heard in such a riot, and I closed the adventures of the evening by giving out “ ‘Hail, Columbia,’ to be sung by all present.” This
finale
gave universal satisfaction, and the voice of my friend the singing-master might be heard far above the rest.

I was forced, in common politeness, to invite Mr. Browne, to partake of the oyster supper I had provided for my friends from W—. “Will you join our party this evening, Mr. Browne?”

“Oh, by all manner of means,” said he, rubbing his hands together in a sort of ecstasy of anticipation; “I knew that you would do the thing handsome at last. I have not tasted an i’ster since I sang at Niblo’s in New York. But did we not come on famously at the con-sort? Confess, now, that I beat you holler. You sing
pretty
well, but you want confidence. You don’t give expression enough to your voice. The applause which followed my first song was tremendous.”

“I never heard anything like it, Mr. Browne. I never expect to merit such marks of public approbation.”

“All in good time, my
leetle
friend,” returned he, clapping me familiarly on the shoulder. “Rome was not built in a day, and you are a young man – a very young man – and very
small
for your age. Your voice will never have the volume and compass of mine. But I smell the i’sters: let’s in, for I’m tarnation hungry.”

Gentle reader! you would have thought so to have seen him eat. My companions looked rather disconcerted at the rapidity with which they disappeared within his capacious jaws. After satisfying his enormous appetite, he washed down the oysters with long draughts of porter, until his brain becoming affected, he swung his huge body back in his chair, and, placing his feet on the supper-table, began singing in good earnest, – not one song in particular, but a mixture of all that had appeared in the most popular Yankee song books for the last ten years.

I wish I could give you a specimen of the sublime and the ridiculous, thus unceremoniously huddled together. The effect was so irresistible, when contrasted with the grave exterior of the man, that we laughed until our sides ached at his absurdities. Exhausted by his constant vociferations, the musician at length dropped from his chair in a drunken sleep upon the floor, and we carried him into the next room and put him to bed; and, after talking over the events of the evening, we retired about midnight to our respective chambers, which all opened into the great room in which I held the concert.

About two o’clock in the morning my sleep was disturbed by the most dismal cries and groans, which appeared to issue from the adjoining apartment. I rubbed my eyes, and sat up in the bed and listened, when I recognized the well-known voice of the singing master, exclaiming in tones of agony and fear –“Landlord! landlord! cum quick. Somebody
cum. Landlord! landlord! there’s a man under my bed. Oh, Lord! I shall be murdered! a man under my bed!”

As I am not fond of such nocturnal visitors myself, not being much gifted with physical strength or courage, I listened a moment to hear if anyone was coming. The sound of approaching footsteps along the passage greatly aided the desperate effort I made to leave my comfortable pillow, and proceed to the scene of action. At the chamber door I met the landlord, armed with the fire-tongs and a light.

“What’s all this noise about’?” he cried in an angry tone.