Democratic Sentinel, Volume 6, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 October 1882 — THE MADDENED QUILLDRIVER. [ARTICLE]

THE MADDENED QUILLDRIVER.

Night brooded over the scene a habit that night has between the hours of sunset and sunrise. During those hours the sun rarely shines in our latitude, and night has everything its own way, with a clear field to it-elf. Godfrey Stiehlpen sat at his table in the sanctum of the Morning Tamboree, his idle p -ncil in his listless fingers, and his aching head resting upon one weary hand. The solitary bell in a distant steeple bad just tolled 1 a. in. There was a famine of copy on the hook, and the echoes of the clamors of inappeasable compositors came nimhlirig ip ghostly cadences down the speaking-tuhe, and once the sarcastic tones of the foreman’s voice penetrated the dismal sanctum, conveying to Mr. Stiehlpen the entirely-superfluous information that this “was not an afternoon paper,” and furthermore that he “would like to go to press before the men went to dinner.” Mr. Stiehlpen sighed heavily, and in an abstracted manner turned over the closely-written pages of his notedoook. For twenty-two years lie bad sat at that table and praised everything that ever came within fifty miles of Shawneetown. Horses, bird-dogs, new houses, minstrel troupes, new goods, lectures, eminent citizens, big radishes, tall corn, long jumps, speeches, brass bunds, imported cows, line waltzers, • new roadwagons, fancy gates, concerts, fairs, hops and debating societies. He had noted the uprising of the eminent citizen, and observed liis lying down; lie watched liis coming and going, and tonight he was weary. He had written up two speeches, a social hop, a S9OO horse, an imported pig, a new fence, a big egg, a seventeen-pound tumor, a lecture, and here was a concert to be written up. He knew what a delicate matter this was. He knew that woe waited upon his footsteps if he failed to notice each performer at length and in perfect detail. Wrath and denunciations hovered above his head, ready to fall in one destroying deluge if lie said anybody sang or played better than anybody else. How" could lie meet the father of the young lady who wore the most expensive dress on the stage, and yet got a notice four lines shorter than the shoemaker’s daughter, who had nothing in the w orld but her voice to commend her at all to public notice? How could he look Miss Uppevcea in tlie face when in liis description of her exquisite rendition of “Monastery Bells” he forgot, or perhaps with malice aforethought intentionally omitted, to mention the cost of the diamonds? He sighed as he remembered how often he had been through all this, and here it was 1 o’clock in the morning, his hand was tired and his head ached, and tlie notes of liis 11 tli concert w ere still echoing in his brain, and were waiting on t}ie pages of his own note-hook for his own transcription. He rose, and dragged from its dusty shelf an old bound volume of tlie“Taui--1 oree,” looked over some of his old reports, with a view of changing the dates and names, and using them over, to save time and trouble, as he had often done before. But liis head was heavy, and the concert of the previous evening differed in so many respects from all its predecessors that he was forced to abandon his labor-saving scheme, so dear to the heart of the ambitious and painstaking reporter. “ I have praised people for twentytwo years,” he muttered, again seating himself at liis.table, “and I am tired.of it. I am not in the praising humor tonight, I sigh for something new-. My longing soul aspires to originality. I had rather abuse a man a column than puff him ten lines. I will write up these notes in a style that will have, at least, the merit of originality, and will please everybody who doesn’t find his name in the paper to-morrow.” His pencil flew over the sheets of paper like a walking match; the sarcastic utterance of the foreman ceased, the distant clamor of the intel igent compositors was hushed, and only now and then the muffled groans that came sadly down the speaking-tube told that some printer was endeavoring to decide whether a blot, a long waving line, two dots and a dash was “commencement,” “communion,” “incineration,” or “emancipation.” Mr. Stiehlpen laughed hoarsely as he heard the groans “Howl for copy, will you?” he chuckled defiantly. “I’ll give you copy that will make your hearts ache.” And he wrote more wildly than ever, and only said, “Ha, ha!” when word came that the distracted proof-reader in the next room had hanged himself. **** • * * Next morning, while Godfrey Stiehlpen slept, the Tamboree was opened at a thousand happy breakfast tables, and joy was turned into mourning, as, amid weeping and wailing and guashing of teeth, the first thing the subscribers read was as follows: A Phantom Hoss. —Ben Harrigan came all the way to onr office last evening to tell us that he had just received an imported invertebrate thoroughbred from England, a magnificent stepper, with a record of 2:25, that cost him S9OO. Warnock, at whose stables this matchless wonder is housed, informs us that it is a Maxall county horse, 17 years old, and worth about S2O for lady’s driving. It seems to us Harrigan lies worse as he draws nearer the grave. After tliis came the annexed paragraph : Cheap Pi<j. —Farmer • Thistlepod dragged us seven blocks through the scorching sun yesterday down to a

freight depot to see his new S2OO imported pig. Marshall Henry afterward told us that it was a pig that had been in pound for three weeks, and Thistlepod only paid $2 for it. It is the genuine prairie-schooner breed, with a snout thirty-eight inches long, and can jump a stake-aqd-rider fence without touching a hoof. Thistlepod has always been notorious for keeping miserable stock. The usual eulogistic “personal” paragraph was supplanted by the following: Personal. —Old Archie Mclntosh left town last evening to the great delight of all his acquaintances —he has no friends—for a j trip to Mud Lake. He left a note for us, stating that he was going for his health. This means a two weeks’ drank. We wonder who lent him enough money to get out of town? But the crowning glory of the Morning Tamboree w-as the concert notice. It read as follows: Grand Concert. —The regular annual exhibition of good clothes and bad music, that has grown to be a feature <uf the musical xvorld in Shawneefown, came off last evening at tlie Opera House. Every seat in the halt was taken, for onr patient community has become accustomed to this infliction, and submits to it without a murmur four or five times a year, very much as they take quinine in the spring. Those people who came stamping in late, as usual, after the Shawneefown style, are to be congratulated this time, as" they escaped hearing the “Arion Quartette” sing “Here in Cool Grot.” It it due to the “Arion Quartette,” however, to say thi-t was not the worst singing of the evening. The audience thought it certainly would he the worst; and so, indeed, it was, until 1 iter in the eve: ing the same quartette butchered "Come Where my Love Lies Dreaming. ” It was dreadful beyond description, and the deafening applause which followed it only testified the great joy of the audience on being assured that the “Arion Quartette” would sing no move that evening. M ss Abigail McGinnessy rendered a recitative and aria, by Cappola, in tlie manner that lias long ago become so sadly familiar to our suffering people, and is always a source of profound embarrassment to the accompanist, who floundered along last night in the patient but vijin hope of getting even with the singer somewhere by scrambling across lots, and beading her off'in some unusu 'lly-prolonged run. But I his was impossible, and singer and accompanist ■ were never within six bars of each other during the whole of the alleged performance. Mr. Poundaway, the timehonored accompanist in all these affairs, by tlie way, did even worse than usual last evening. We are pained to notice that his lnbit of playing oil the edge of the piano, two inches away from the keys, grows upon li : m, and lie should either change his drinks or his vocation. •Mr.-. Bangalon played “Monastery Bells,” as usual. It was disguised under a French name in the programme; but every one knows what is coming after Mrs. Bangalon finally gets the piano moved into. precisely the right place—which is always just where it stood before she had moved it the first time, and, after seating licrself for tlie fiftieth time, finally concludes to remain seated. Mrs. Bangalon’s unvarying liabit of wearing lier gloves to the piano and occupying seven minutes in removing them, is not ari affectation. It is an act of mercy, and gives the people nearest the door an opportunity to slip out before she begins to play. The reporters of the city press used to go out at this time; but, since Bangalon lias taken to standing at the door to watch refugees, they have, with excellent taste and better judgment, abandoned the custom, and silently swallowed their full cup of misery. As Mrs. Bangalon loft the stage," Joab Grabey, who was asleep in the gallery, fell off liis chair, and, mistaking the noise for an encore, Mrs. Bangalon returned and pounded out the “Maiden’s Prayer.” Somebody ought to kill that man Grabey. “Professor” Sownpost played a violin solo—De Beriot’s “ Seventh Air. ” Everybody was grateful that lie didn’t try tlie eighth. The professor dresses like a waiter, and handles a fiddle like a graduate from a side-show. He is in great demand at all the dances down at Wyseker's Branch and the Sassafras Bottoms, and it is believed, in fact, that all his musical education was acquired at Dan Coseman’s store, at the old ford, on Clymer’s creek. He is trying to get ujj a class in this city, and, if this man attempts to teach our boys to play the fiddle as he does, he ought to be lynched. And he will be, if the Tam-, boree has any influence in musical circles. It was as good as a circus to hear Madame Parapluie sing “Robert, toi quo j’aime.” If tlie old lady’s lungs were as big as her feet she might sing more and wheeze less. As it is, candor compels us to say that a case of asthma weighing 217 pounds is no artistic addition to a concert. Miss Uppercea played the same old “Improvisation” she began playing in these concerts eighteen years ago. It lasts about as well as her diamonds, and changes about as little. It is time she had it published, and improvised something new. Jim Thurlow came out and sang his unchanging “Ah, so fair.” The agony of the audience during this time of trial was fairly insupportable. His high notes are greatly admired, bee .use his voice always breaks into a thin falsetto squeak on them, and he can’t make so much noise as he can on his best chest tones. If Jim had been born dumb, or liis audience deaf, tlie world would be much happier. Some time he will go away from home and sing, and the Judge will give him sixty days for it. Still this would not be extravagant. His singing is worth it; every day of it. The only excuse for putting Miss Maltby on the programme, every time there is a concert in Shawmetown, is that her father is_ worth SBO,OOO and owns the biggest brewery in Low-ell county. With a voice, musical education and general ability about up to tlie grade of “Baby Mine,” she sang her old stand-by last night, the “Spinning-wlieel Song” from “Faust.” If Marguerite could have sung it as Miss Maltby sang it, it would have saved the poor child a world of trouble. It would have scared Faust, Mephistopheles and the whole gang of them out of the country. There is more music in Mr. Maltby’s bung-starters than there is in his daughter. Mueh has lieretofoi’e been said in these columns about Miss Maltby’s beautyt While the spirit of truth is upon us we are free to admit that she is pretty—in the dark. Mr. Bellows sang “Oh, ye Tears.” Mr. Bellows has a rich baritone voice—a wheelbarrow tone, that is. Unfortunately for his effort last evening, nobody knew he was singing until he finished the butchery of art and bowed himself off the stage. Everybody thought he was just trying his voice. If ever his voice is tried, it will be convicted on its own evidence. James H. Blowson and Elbert Hafut sang “Larboard Watch.” It is a great pity these young men are not aware that their mouths were made.to catch flies rather than for singing. Hafut’s voice is so like a fog-horn that he may be pardoned for a tendency to sing marine songs; but aside from a plea of natural -depravity and fiendish misanthropy there is no excuse whatever for

Our readers will be delighted to learn that this is the last concert of the season, and a man can go to the Opera House in safety for the next six months. The receipts of the pandemonium were $430, and Old Hardwich, proprietor of the hall, with his accustomed rapacity, gobbled nearly one-fourth of that sum for the use of an old barn that looks shabby in comparison with a sec-ond-rate market-house. Six of the thickest-headed young men in Shaw neetown, in borrowed dress-coats, acted as ushers, and acted most wretchedly at that. ' Taken altogether, m it was the dreariest occasion that has bored a long-suffering community since the concert that preceded it. * - * * * * * At the office of the Tamboree people waited for Mr. Stiehlpen, but he did not come. As the day wore away men sought him at his lodgings, but he was not there. All that the ticketagent at the station could tell was that when he bought his ticket for San Antonio, Tex., Mr. Stiehlpen stated that he had been appointed United States Minister to that port, and had been ordered to proceed thither and enter upon his duties at once, and that in all likelihood he would not retui n to this country unti 1 the Peruvian troubles were all settled. They never saw him again. But long long after he had disappeared, mocking Blowsou’s attempting to sing in public. These misguided young men were down on the programme for a second atrocity, but it was omitted at the urgent request of the audience. The piano used at this massacre was the same jingling old harpsichord from the music store of Jingle, Jangle & Co., that has appeared for a free puff at all local outrages of a musical nature for the past twenty years. Last year this enterprising house traded off the old dulcimer for a slver watch; but the man who got the alleged piano brought it back, paid $7 forfeit and got his watch, and, we suppose, all future concerts in Shawneetown will be haunted by this venerable nightmare until the police interfere. hut annonymous postal-cards used to come to the members of the “Mendelssohn Chorus Society of Shawneetown,” asking them to sing him something easy. And oft as they read them the vocalists choked a rising sigh, and as tliev thought of the absent reporter, wished that, wherever he was, the earth might open and swallow him up.— B. J. Burdette. •