T
the com J. i.
&!
THE PASSING SHOW.
"art thrust upon us from all quarters
this week. You nee an international
Well, Souea is in uwn, the great and committee of artists or aa one nsws
oniy John Phillip. Oae does not have to paper put it "a committee of interna
read the papers to know that. In every tional artist?," has been here judging the
dry goods store jou htnr the orchestra pictures from all over the world that
that is kept for the diversion of shop- are to be exhibited in the Carnegie gallery
pers plaing "Tha Stars and Stripes next month and deciding which shall
Forever." Every newsboy on Fifth hive Carnegie's $5,000 prizer Of csurse
avenue whistles "El Capitan" all day the awards will not be announced yet,
long to the accompaniment of "Naw that comes off November 3rd, when An
York W-6-r-l-d.'' Every lad in town drew Carnegie you see I put Andiow
as he hurries to see bis best girl in the first and President McKinley, who
evening hums 'I Too Was Born in owes Andrew half a million dollars
Arcadia" as he hastens on his joyous worth of votes and knows it, and all
way. The town is possessed of Sousa, Ihe rest of the push will bo here,
full of him, and half a million people Too committee is made up of the fol
are unconsciously two-stepping to lowing gentlemen: Winslow Homer, of
"Washington Poet." Ho has been here Scarborough, Me.; E. U. farbell, of
a week, plajingdown at the Exposition Boston; William M.Chase, ofNew York;
every night and giving dinners and Will H. Low, of New York; Miss Cecilia
luncheons to the newspaper fraternity Beaux, Edwin Lord Weels, of Paris;
every day. He is just the same genial John M. Swan, of London; John La
gentleman. I see no change in him ex- Farge.ofNew York; Frank Davcneck,
cept that that wide white part on tbo of Covington, Ky., and Frank W. Ben
top of bis head has grown eo wide and son, o! Salem, Mass.
so white that it can not be called a part I was lucky enough to be invited to a
at all any more. Like Caesar he begins dinner given for these gentlemen, and I
to need a laurel wreath to cover his basely bribed the hostess to aek Mr.
Low to take me to dinner. Not because
he was Will H. Low, but because be
was R'b3rt Louis Stsvanson's dearest
and nearest friend, the man to whom
"The Wrecker" was dedicated. In the
head, for when a man's hair begins to
depart from him even the seductions of
glory can not hold it and fame is as
ineffectual as hair restorers. Well, I
know of no man of music in America
who has been growing laurels more words of an immortal poet he
rapidly these last eight years than th;8 "Talked of many things;
same Johtj Philip Sousa. Indeed I am
inclined to think that be is the only
man who has written music that is
characteristically American. Of couise
it is all "popular music" as the phrase
goes, but that is tho music that lives,
that music of the people. What is
' Cavcleria Rusticana" but a melange of
Of seas and ships and sealing wax,
Of cabbages and kings."
That is not quoted correctly, and I
know Eomeone in Lincoln who will
catch me up on it, but never mind.
When a seasonable opportunity came
I quoted a phrase or t:vo of some verses
that Stevenson once wrote to Mr. Low,
eyesionispidie. 1 saw my Dreaic in a
moment The personal pain and sense
or Ics3 were acute stitl after three years.
I apologizoi simply and directly. He
saiJ he hoped he had not been rude,
the folk music of sDuthern Italy? What Thegenial dinneitable expression left his
gives Bizet's "Cannon" its persistent faCi in a moment, he gave me a pene
vitality but that old Spnaish waltz song trating look and then dropped his gravo
MUIUU IB 11 D b.liliai I1IUIIJ i uuci a BlICCl
song of Seville, mind you, that many a
pretty cigar girl has sung to many a
young sjld.er. So I really cannot see
that, it is against Mr. Sousa that his
music terms ana tingles with tne but that tho subject was too painful a
nervous vivacity of the Ameiican people, 0De for a dinner pai ty. I said no more,
that it is bursting with national lire, but he inconsistently would talk of
Nor is it quite fatal to his reputation nothing else that evening. Tho name
ss a composer that the newsboys once mentioned was not to be forgotten,
whistle bis marches everywhere There "The sad fart of it." ho remarked, "is
is music, juBt as there is poetry, which that tLe world really never cot tho
appeals alike to the many and tho few. heart of Louij. I have lived in many
in which primitive virility of the theme countries and known many men, but the
is not dissipated by abstruse develop- personal charm of that woman-man was
roent nor buried under technicalities of
treatment. That is the music that
lives in people's hearts which is, on thu
whole, a safer placo to put it than in
tho sweetest experience I have bad on
personality and quite froze up at the
mention of his family. I could see he
did not love the hoard of stepsons and
ponderous folios. I honestly believe that stepgrandsons that lived on that one
sousa 8 marcnes will become classics in
the same sense that the Stauss waltzes
have. When all is said they are quite
irresistible. I wish wo could have a
small war or two, that would bring out
tho fellow's mettle. When I saw Rud
yard Kipling last summer he mentioned
Sousa as one of the men whose work
delighted him. and said he was always
wanting to write verses t tho tune of
tho "Liberty Bell." And just the other
day Sousa told mo that Kipling was the
most musical poet of his time and that
ho was going to set tome of his
"Barrick Room Ballads" to music.
They go together ss did Heine and
Schubert, those two, sort of by first
intention. Sousa seems to have done
in military music very much what Kip-
poor stricken genius. Of Stevenson's
work he said more than I could write in
a week, though he agreed with me that
bis manner was greater than his matter
and his art alone his inspiration. But
the strange part of Lis conversation was
tho way in which he spoke. He is the
IhirJ man I have met who knew
Stephenson personally, and ic is the
sne with them all. At the mention of
his name strong men melt and becomo
tender as bereaved women. Nothing in
lifo'seems to till the sense of personal
loss they will carry It their graves with
them. What was there in this man to
make men love him so, I wonder? Just
here I will quote a few lines of some
verses he wrote to Low only a short time
before that ill-starred day in December
ling has done in military verse. He has when lnat cunning was stilled forever.
caught the big joy of war. He has got
exultant gaiety of arms. He has
caught the tramp of moving e quadronp,
the eagerness of lh bat'lo steed fjr the
fray, the triumphant smile on the djing
lio3 of victors and all the dash and
esprit and reckless gallantry of modern
war. They are the kind of marches an
Old Guard could die to right joyously,
the "Honor and Arms" sort of thing.-
La t week I called Pittsburg an art
less city. Heavens! if we haven't had other artists of that august assemblages
"In wet wood and miry lane,
Still we pant and pound in vain;
Still with leaden foot we chase
Waning pinion, fainting face;
Still with gray hair we stumble oa,
Till, behold, the vision gone!
Where hath fleeting beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.
Life a over, life was gay:
We have come the primrose way."
I will not attempt to speak of the
Edwin Lord Week's accent alone would
deserve a column, and Cecilia Beam's
dinner gown deserves a whole Counir.it
She paints such pretty clothes, I wonder
why sho wears such awful ones.
Tho next day Mr. Low smuggled me
into the gallery where tho public and
particularly that part of the public
vihich follows my occupation are not
yet admitted. I wantod to speak with
him about the only picture of
Bougueroau's I admire, the picture of a
little peasant girl which was bought and
brought to Pittsburg years ago. He
said, 'O yee, I remember well. Bou
guereau asked me if I had seen any
thingof his bonne enfant the last time
I wa in Paris. O yes. it's good too
good to be repeated, by him at least.
He did that years ago when he was a
young fellow and poor enough to be
eincere."
That was all I wanted to know. I
should like to own that picture, but you
would never know it was a Bouguereau.
I never saw anything else of his at all
like it. It is just a little brown peasant
girl sitting on a hillside, with her
clothing stained with the Juice of the
vintago and a basket of grapes in her
lap. Sho has nothing of the flashing,
unnatural perfection of the Bouguereau
'omen, nothing of that gleaming skin,
that virgical, sex-less flesh tint that has
made him famous and hateful. On the
contrary the is brown, quite brown, and
evm a little dirty. She is not of the
half world of Paris, but a child of the
soil, very near to the earth. Her little
bare feet are in the wet grass and her
tees are curled under a little from the
chill of the dew. Her coarse little
hands are crossed in her lap, and her
eyea are looking wistfully into the dis
tance; sadly, almost aa if she looked into
the years to come and saw the shameful
success that awaited the man who
created her. For she was done Jong
ago, before Bouguereau began to paint
forgamblicg balls and bar-keepers and
Americans.
I wonder if sometimes, as he sits in
his magnificent studio in Paris, with its
miles and miles of gleaming canvasses,
its hundreds of white limbs and perfect
curves, he doe not sicken of the hateful
tint that has made him what he is, and
close his eyes for a moment and long for
this little brown peasant girl, painted by
a hopeful boy in the days of the long
ago, before be was successful and rich
and famous and despised, and I wonder
if he does not almost yearn to be that
honest boy again.
Helax. helas,le$ jours iVautrefoitt!
WILL A CATHER.
Pittsbcimi.Pa.
K
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