Chapter 3

As an active, enthusiastic and successful newspaper man, every time Allison read a novel depicting the reporter as a sharp-featured and half-disreputable young man running about with pencil and note-book in hand and making himself personally and professionally obnoxious, it produced apoplectic tendencies that permanently threatened health and peace of mind. Hence with the characteristic energy devoted to writing, he proceeded to get it out of his system and produced "The Longworth Mystery," published in _Century_,[1] (which it is interesting to note was illustrated by Charles Dana Gibson who then signed himself "C. D. Gibson"), and "The Passing of Major Kilgore," appearing in _Lippincott's_,[2] both depicting newspaper life. When this latter novelette was printed it soothed me so that I had the paper covers protected with more permanent boards and sent it on many pilgrimages from which it safely returned enriched with further messages of thanks to the creator for his good job. Having browsed deeply behind the bindings of many books I have yet to find others written in the first person, where the pronoun "I" is used by the relator so seldom as in either "The Longworth Mystery" or "The Passing of Major Kilgore," the intimacy of the relation the while being maintained very adroitly by the observations of the "City Editor" who tells both stories. Major Kilgore in the latter tale, is financial man on the _Banner_. He is an old school gentleman and profound student of finances who finally goes mad over the study of the market and while dreaming himself possessed of vast wealth, is seeking to further the happiness of others where riches will assist. Of course the denouement shattered many sumptuous air castles but it left the profession the richer by a faithful portrayal. It is in the development of this tale that Allison, ever seeking an opportunity to draw amusement from his friends, created a fine occasion through a reminiscent conversation between Major Kilgore and Colonel Hamilton to inject a famous Southern quartette, Clarence Knowles, Col. John D. Young, James A. Thomas and Col. W. C. Nelson, then in their prime, but who have since passed on to swell the silent throng. Colonel Hamilton is trying to divert Major Kilgore, already showing signs of mental unbalance:

"Some of the fellows we knew in the C. S. A. have had queer luck in the shuffle, Kilgore. You remember Knowles of Georgia? I found him keeping bar in Sacramento. Young of North Carolina, who led that charge at Fredericksburg, is running a restaurant in Colorado; and Thomas, of Tennessee--by the Lord Harry, he killed himself with drink working in a mine in Arizona--had the jim-jams seven times they say and thought his head was a rabbit's nest. Last time I saw you riled, Kilgore, was that night in the trenches at Fredericksburg when Nelson hid your tobacco bag. You wanted to fight him, by the Lord Harry, there and then, but he wouldn't do it--because he said he would rather kill Yankees than gentlemen. And you both agreed to take your chances next day on a fool trial which would fight the Yankees best!"

[1] Century, October, 1889.

[2] Lippincott's January, 1892.

Only one who knows Allison intimately can measure the delight, expressed in chuckles of joy, with which he marked this passage in _Lippincott's_ and mailed copies to the friends he had whimsically pilloried.

* * * * *

When one browses around among Allison's productions he runs across many odd conceits as in "The Ballad of Whiskey Straight" which he declares was "prepared according to the provisions of the Pure Food Law, approved 1906." Whatever quarrel one might have with the subject itself, or the sentiment, he cannot fail to fall a victim to the soft cadences of the rippling rhyme.

THE BALLAD OF WHISKEY STRAIGHT.

I

Let dreamers whine Of the pleasures of wine For lovers of soft delight; But this is the song Of a tipple that's strong-- For men who must toil and fight. Now the drink of luck For the man full of pluck Is easy to nominate: It's the good old whiskey of old Kentuck, And you always drink it straight.

II

A julep's tang Will diminish the pang Of an old man's dream of yore, When meadows were green And the brook flowed between The hills he will climb no more; But the drink of luck For the youth of good pluck, Who can stare in the eye of fate, Is the good old whiskey of old Kentuck And invariably straight.

III

So here's to the corn That is growing this morn All tasselled and gold and gay! And the old copper still In the sour mash mill By the spring on the turnpike gray! May the fount of luck For the man full of pluck Flow ever without abate With the good old whiskey of old Kentuck, And strong and pure and straight.

ENVOY

Old straight whiskey! That is the drink of life-- Consolation, family, friends and wife! So make your glasses ready, Pour fingers three, then--steady! "Here's good luck to Kentucky and whiskey straight!"

* * * * *

No one, like Allison, who has made the newspaper profession a life work, has failed to study its weak spots and to note its imperfections; or on the other hand, to grasp its marvelous opportunities for studying the wonderful mystery of the variations of human nature. In the very essence of things therefore, he recognizes the human elements in his own profession and does not hold that the newspaper man is perfect or that it does not harbor types of black sheep the likes of which may not be found in other flocks. At the same time nothing raises his gorge quicker than to hear the uninformed or unthinking deliver themselves, parrot-like, of the formula "that's only a newspaper lie" or to see some man climb high by the aid of the newspaper and then kick down the ladder by which he rose. Allison once discussed this subject skillfully in an address on "Newspaper Men and Other Liars" which is worth a half-hour of any man's time. The only difficulty would be experienced in finding a copy, for so far as known, I have the only one extant. Allison believes and says that by the very nature of his occupation and training the newspaper man is the least of liars among men and proves to his own complete satisfaction that the reporter gets his undeserved reputation for lying from his very impersonality--an impersonality that may be condemned with perfect safety. Fact, he declares, is a block of granite that the whole world may see without wrangling over, but once inject the human interest, with its divided opinions, into the occult mystery of the printed type and you have the newspaper "lie" in so many of its aspects, an analysis that leads him to arrive at this rather remarkable deduction:

I might almost define a lie as being the narrative of a human event that had been printed.

And what about a comparison of those "other" liars with the newspaper man? Allison makes it very adroitly this way:

Suppose every word that every member of this intelligent and most respectable audience has said today:--the merchant to his customers and creditors; the man of leisure to his cronies and companions, the professional man to his clients; even the ladies to their bosom friends at tea or euchre--suppose, I say, that every word you had uttered had been taken down by some marvelous mechanical contrivance, and should be published verbatim tomorrow morning with your names attached showing just what each of you had said. What do you think would happen? I can tell you from observation. You would likely spend next year explaining, denying, apologizing and repenting. Suits for slander would appear on the courthouse shelves as thick as blackberries in August. There would be friendships shattered, confidences dissipated, feuds established, social anarchy enthroned and perhaps this admirable club could never hold another meeting for lack of a quorum of members willing to meet each other in one room.

Well, browsing time is up! I wish I might open the pages of other gems and quote from their wit, their satire and their sentiment, but any reference to Allison's productions must of very necessity touch only the high spots and besides that--

This volume wouldn't be big enough!

IN _the_ OPERATIC FIELD

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 piano performances 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 Arthur Cambridge. 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.

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 Deadshot Tom Karl Professor Andover, a philanthropist H. C. Barnabee War Cloud, chief of the Ogallallas W. H. McDonald Cardenas, a Mexican bandit Eugene Cowles Mississinewa, medicine man of Ogallallas George Frothingham Wickliffe } { Peter Lang Buckskin Joe } Scouts { Clem Herschel Commander United States forces W. A. Howland Edith, niece and ward of Professor Andover Camille D'Arville Minnetoa, an Indian girl Flora Finlayson Miss Hepzibah Small, Edith's governess Josephine Bartlett Kate, friend of Edith Lillian Hawthorne Cosita, a Mexican girl Lola Hawthorne Laura, friend of Edith Georgie 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 having observed it hanging in Harry Ballard's city room of the _Chicago 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 everywhere Flings a gleaming, golden snare-- Flowers here-- And there-- Are blowing in May air.

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.

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 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 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 flashes on 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 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 above Filled my heart with its ardent flame And blowed with passion's thrilling mystery.

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 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 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 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."

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 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 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:"