Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1889-11-07
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

OF SONG WRITERS.
From the Philadelphia Times.
One gloomy day in January, 1864, two
men were going cropping around in the
dead house of the Bellevue Hospital, a
hideous place. Finally coffin was drag
ged from under several others and the
lid removed. That's him." said the
rough attendant. Yes, there lay all that
was mortal of Stephen Collins Foster,
the sweetest song writer that America
ever produced.
The body was fearfully emaciated and
a cash in the throat was evidence that
he had tried to end his weary life by
suicide He had been brought to the
hospital from wretched room in Wash
ington street, near the Battery, suffering
from hunger and cold and the wound he
had made, and in two days was dead,
thus ending his life, like his prototype,
Edgar Allen Poe, in the pauper ward of
hospital.
Foster was born in Pittsburgh, July 4,
1926. He had only common school
education and became clerk in an iron
foundry. Although passionately fond
of music, he had neither perseverance
or force of character enough to study the
notes thoroughly and to the last, al
though always practicing on the piano,
could not play at sight. 1t was his hab-
it to write out the words of his songs
with many reyisions and then pick out
on the piano tune to suit him, and so
retentive was his ear and memory that
he could carry the melody until it was
technically set to music. A young IT.
ishman named Shanly, an excellent mu-
sician, who lived in Allegheny City,
when not on tramp, used to do this for
Foster. He, too, was hapless child of
song and died in the AImshouse here.
Foster published his first song, "Open
Thy Lattice, Love-" in 1912. and got $5
for it. From this on to 1858 his career
was prosperous, and he made his repu-
tation worldwide as the writer of 80,
Susannah," "Uncle Ned" and "Old
Folks at Home" George Christy paid
him $500 for the latter. "Old Black
Joe" was his last negro melody Then
he tried higher flight, composing SEN
timental songs, such as "My Old Ken
lucky Home" "Nellie Bly,. and the best
of his melodies of this class, "Come
Where My Love Lies Dreaming" At
this time he was in receipt of an income
of not less than s., 800 per annum from
royalties on his song, and his invention
seemed inexhaustible But he was sur
rounded by crowd of sycophants that
spent his money and led him into ex-
cesses that finally broke him down.
He was married and had one child,
a daughter, whom he passionately loved,
but his wife became weary of his ex-
cesseS and left him, and henceforth his
downward course was fearfully rapid
He sought inspiration in the bottle, and
only composed when he wanted money
to fill what he termed "his best friend"
His subsequent career can best be told
by one who was with him to the sad
ending. This gentleman is at present a
resident of Philadelphia and these are
his words: 81 am printer and was ac-
quainted with Foster in 1857 when /
worked on the Enquirer. He was liv-
ing in Cincinnati then. He was help
less, harmless fellow, more like woman
than man. His only vice was his love
for liquor, and his habitual associates
were not calculated to reform him in
this respect. Although not a trained
musician he could bring melody out of
L
his fingers and humming snatches of
songs and so he composed.
"In 1860 went to New York to work
on the Times. One cold, gusty night in
March l was coming up Greenwich St.
from the Battery and stopped in a gro
Gerry and liquor store to get glass of
cider. The proprietor was a German
named Halb. 1t was rather rough in
side, but l could hear behind a partition
the tinkling notes of a piano marvellous
ly out of tune. The German laughed
as he said: "That's poor fellow what
makes songs for living and he uses my
piano. l stepped back, curious to see
the song writer. A thin little man was
bending over the instrument, striking
out chords and humming to himself. 1
knew him at once-It was Stephen C.
Foster-but how changed. He was fair
ly wasted away, and his clothing was
tattered and filthy, with shattered low
shoes and no stockings, and this is
March. His story was soon told.
"1 am. utterly lost, without a friend
in the world, and l believe am losing
my mind and then he began to cry. 1t
was a painful sight; 1 got him away
gave him some money, and left him at
Duane street. He went towards the
river.
II hunted him up again and again,
with the same result. If gave him
money to buy shirt, he drank it. He
ate nothing; several times, finding him
shiyering in the morning, took him to
a restaurant, but he wanted a cup of
coffee only. Once L found him in a
Cherry street den, surrounded by muir
derous-looking ruffians. He was playing
the fiddle and two 1ongshoremen were
dancing to the music. At length l
missed him, ahd after much inquiry
found his lodging houSe-a terrible
place on West street. The keeper was
a powerful Irish woman and she said:
'Ah, the poor, little man, he tried to kill
himself and is in the Ballyvoo Hospital.
The copper took him there When 1
got there Foster was dead. His rela-
tives reclaimed his body, and he lies in
cemetery in his native city, and his
epitaph should be: Iife's fitful fever
DER, he sleeps WELL"
BUCKLEN'S ARNICA SALVE.
ILL., l.o-4 Cn1..e, -. IL. ---o..1I e.. o.