Year: 1875

/ ful Young man, anu, although Tie dIleI-
noon was hot, and we were busy as a
book-agent trying to get into heaven, his
respectful, apologetic manner disarmed
our wrath, and drove the storm-cloud
that was gathering on Our alabaster brow.
We paused right in the midst of death
less sentiment, and cooled the glow of
genius that was upon us 1--WE were writ
ing puff of Mrs. Soothlow's Winding
Syrup, and asked the young man in, and
begged him to sit down. He obeyed, and
planted the end of his backbone on the
extreme edge of a chair that we felt ner-
vous lest the scanty grip he had on his
seat should lose its hold and dash him
PROSTATE to the mating. We saw by
the way he came into the room that he
had never entered an editorial sanctum
before, because he knocked at the door,
and took off his hat when he came in,
and said, "Good afternoon, sir," instead
of kicking the door open, splitting on the
stove, and yelling, "HellO, stealin' edi-
torials, hay?" at the top of his lungs.
We mentally blessed the young man for
his innocence, and even relaxed from
our professional dignity sufficiently to
assure him that it was extremely warm,
an act of gracious condescension on our
part which overwhelmed the young man
with grateful confusion, and he blushed
and stammered out that " it was, indeed,
very chilly, ur-ah-haw-yes, yes, quite
so, thank YOU" Ahd we frOwned him
into silence, or he would be plodding
through the mazes of that snarl yet.


Then we glanced ominously at a roll of
manuscript under his arm, and in those
bland, patronizing tones we are prone to
assume with aspiring young authors prior
to tearing out their lungs with a nail
grab, and rending their quivering bodies
limb from limb, we asked. inquirlngly,
what we could do for him, and stealthily
reached for the nail grab.


He said, while his tender face was suf-
fused with bushes, that he had nothing
that we could publsh-we pushed the
nail grab back to its place-but he had
come to ask our kind advice. He was a
musician, a vocalist, and in a humble
way composer. He had written a bal
lad, only simple little thing, but before
sending it 10 a music house for publica-
ton he thought he would let us hear it,
as we were 50 accustomed to dramatic
and musical criticism, and then we would
frankly tell him our opinion of his abil-
tiles, and what we thought of his pros
poets for the lyric stage.


We were charmed; the idea of having
a local musical protege to bolster up,
and puff, and write, and lie about, made
us break out in smiles like fat baby
with prickly heat. We promised to deal
candidly with him and asked him if he
had his music with him.


Yes, he had; he thought that perhaps
if it wasn't incOnyenient-that is, if
if


Oh yes, we said, we would be delighted.
We would lock the door so that no one
could disturb us, and he could sing few
bars, or stanza or two, just to give us
an idea of his skill and style in compo-
sition and execution.


Then the timid young man took his
position in the farther corner of the
room and began to unroll his manuscript.


You will understand" he said, apo
logetically, " that although the music is
quite complete ana arranged, yet vi"
words need a little final polishing and
revision. You see," he explained, i
write poetry little, and have written
the words as well as the music to this,
my maiden ballad ! am aware that it
is far from perfect, and in your criticism
please remember that it is my first eff
fort"


We smiled encouragingly, and he put
his left hand in the breast of his vest,
held his music at arms length in his
right hand, laid his head little to one
side and began in a very altitulinous
voice.


"Dar-"


Hem" he said, in some confusion,
that was a little high"


He was right. 1t was about l20 de-
grees in the shade. We are no judge of
the human voice, else. He started
again.


Darl-oh no, that isn't it either
Dar-oh yes, now have il"


And away he went, in rich some-kind-
ofa tone,