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`Music has charms,' unquestionably; we have great authority
for defending the proposition against all challengers. What a
disquisition we might write upon such a text! but we will not
venture upon abstractions. Let us rather apply to facts, and
inquire to what amount of effort and sacrifice music not absolutely
perfect will induce unsophisticated people to submit; what
departures from all-compelling habit will seem tolerable when music
is the object; what momentous results may follow when the concord
of sweet sounds (aided by the pitch-pipe,) has waked up all the
tenderness that ventures to sojourn in the breast of the stout
backwoodsman.

People in the country never go in search of music. It comes to
them; not from the `sweet south,' but from the yellow orient, (the
land of pumpkins,) in the shape of lank youths, of aspect faintly
clerical, wearing black coats on which the rime of age has begun to
settle, and `excellent white' bosoms, curiously wrought—`welked
bosoms,' indeed, perhaps typical of the wounds and scars left by
the cruel archer who is so busy at singing schools. These
`professors'—a name which they often assume with peculiar
propriety—generally carry their breadwinners with them, in the

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sole shape of a stout pair of lungs, and a flexile organ—nasal organ
we mean—habituated to the modulation of sound. He who brings
a flute takes rank accordingly; the happy possessor of a bassviol
can afford to beard the minister himself in the choice of tunes.
These last do not often enlighten the woodland and prairie regions:
they haunt the larger towns, where dignity may hope to find a soil
wherein to flourish.

The arrival of the first singing-master in our village was a
crisis. The fine arts then dawned upon us, and a genial excitement
was the due result. What was ordinary business, except as it
earned leisure or money—sweeping and dusting, unless to get the
square-room in order for a call—churning, but to make butter for a
tea-visit which might happen? The girls flew about, as somebody
irreverently says, `like geese before a storm;' the young men
looked black as the storm itself, when they thought of the formidable
competition that now threatened their influence. Meanwhile,
Mr. Fasole was sitting on the counter at the store, telling great
things of himself, and asking questions about the neighborhood.
The news went by nature's own telegraph, and the remotest corner
of the town knew in ample time of the singing-school we were
to have at B—.

The school-house was crowded the very first night, and lighted
on the individual principle, that is, by each member bringing
his own candle. The candlesticks were mostly extemporary—a
block of wood with a hole in it, or a little knot of paper, or
a scooped turnip—to be held in the hand during the whole
evening, since they were not made to stand. The candles seemed,
indeed, rather made to run; at least that was what they did, most
uncontrollably; but the absorbing interest of the moment was such,
that the inconvenience was hardly noticed. Mr. Fasole appeared in

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the awful desk, his vermilion head looming out from the blackboard
behind him, like the rising moon in the dark sky of autumn.
Before him lay a pile of singing-books, which he informed the
assembly,—in the course of a few preliminary remarks on music in
general and his own music especially,—he had brought with him,
merely for their convenience, at one dollar each. At this stage,
those who had brought with them Sacred Choirs, and Singer's
Assistants, and Vocal Harmonists, that had been heir-looms in the
family long before the emigration, looked somewhat blank, and
sighed. But Mr. Fasole went on, showing such science, such taste,
such utter contempt for all other methods than his own, that the old
books disappeared, one by one; dissolving, perhaps, like the candles,
but at any rate becoming invisible.

When the class came to be formed, the dollar singing-book
proved like a huge rock in the track of a railway; there was no
getting over it or round it; it must be tunnelled right through, but
how? Would the scientific man take corn,—would he accept
shingles,—would butter do,—would eggs pass current? Could the
dollar be paid in board or lodging, or washing or sewing? `An
order on the store,'—`my cloth at the fulling-mill,'—`that lot of
yarn,'—`our cosset lamb,'—`a panful of maple sugar,'—such were
the distincter sounds that rose above the chorus, as each claimed to
be excused from paying cash down. Mr. Fasole was wise; he
accepted a composition in every case in which he had not privately
satisfied himself that the money would be forthcoming at the last
pinch, and the class came to order for the first lesson.

We know not what Mr. Hullah's success may be among the
cockneys, but with us, `music for the million' is a serious matter.
Contortions dire and sad grimace, and sounds as when a flock of
much maligned birds, disturbed from their resting-place by the

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road-side, revenge themselves by screaming at the interloper—all
were there. But not a muscle of the teacher's face showed that he
was the conscious possessor of ears. With looks of unperturbed
gravity, he gave the signal to begin—to stop—to stop—to stop
again, and begin again. He himself led the panting host, his chin
buried deep in his stock, and his eyebrows raised as if to be out of
the way of the volume of sound that issued from the mouth that
opened like an oyster below. This laborious diligence soon
rendered an intermission necessary, and as it had been agreed to do
all things with great order and propriety, the master announced that
the company were to keep their seats, while water (much needed)
should be brought to them; which was done accordingly—the
school-pail and tin cup being carried round by one of the stoutest
youths, and the refreshing beverage distributed amid much tittering
and some pretendedly accidental spillings by the giddier members.

Part second proceeded on a more moderate scale. Some little
exhaustion was felt, and the candles being slender, were failing even
faster than the strength of the company. Joe Deal's burnt down to
his fingers unawares, as he was leaning over to talk to Sarah Giles;
and his not very polite or well-considered exclamation thereupon
was reprehended with severe dignity by the professor. This caused
something of a hiatus in the performance, and it was almost
hopeless to restore the order that had reigned before the intermission.
The allotted time had not elapsed, however, and a smart
rap on the desk recalled public attention. All bent assiduously over
the book, and the harmony was about to be renewed, when Ansel
Green, who was always an unlucky fellow, set his own huge shock
of hair on fire, and illuminated the room with a blaze that reached
nearly to the ceiling.

This naturally finished the first meeting; for not only did the

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accident create the `most admired disorder,' but the piteous look,
and diving self-abstraction of poor Ansel, brought out irrepressible
and continuous laughter that was too much even for Mr. Fasole;
though as soon as he could compose his countenance, he assured the
company that nothing was more common than for people to burn
off all their hair in learning to sing, though he did not think it was
necessary.

The fame of our singing-school spread far and wide, and each
return of the regular evening brought recruits from distant parts,
whose ambition had been awakened by the great accounts industriously
circulated of the success of Mr. Fasole. Some of these recruits
were by no means raw, and they brought with them settled opinions
on certain points connected with church-singing, by no means
agreeable to Mr. Fasole. Strange perversion of human nature, that
makes discord but too often the result of harmony! Sharps, flats,
and naturals are amiable in their place, but in musical quarrels how
they jangle! Old tunes and new tunes, particular metres, and
minor chords, quick and slow, false and true, everything was theme
for difference. It was believed, actually, that one of the new-comers
was a singing master in disguise, so `cunning of fence' did he show
himself in all matters relating to the due effect of church music.
Poor Mr. Fasole's face grew anxious, till his very hair looked faded,
at this invasion of his prerogative. When he could not refute, he
sneered; when outgeneralled, he attempted revenge; but, as in all
cases, the more angry he grew, the worse his cause prospered. People
took sides, as a matter of course, and the wise chose the side
whose leader seemed coolest.

But fortune interfered in favor of the lawful occupant of the
ground. It came to light, that the insidious foe who had troubled
our `piping times of peace,' was not only a singing-master, but a

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married man! a person who had really nothing interesting about
him, and who had, from the mere pedagogical infirmity of loving to
dictate, taken the trouble to come over and spoil our sport! The
faithful grew louder than ever in their praises of Mr. Fasole; the
neutrals gave in their allegiance, and even the opposition slipped as
quietly as possible back to their old position, striving, by extra
docility, to atone for a short defection. For once legitimacy
triumphed, and renewed zeal showed itself in utter disregard of the
dripping of candles, or even the scorching of hair.

The prettiest girl that attended our singing-meetings was Jane
Gordon, the only daughter of a Scotchman who had lately bought
a farm in the neighborhood. She was a fair and gentle damsel,
soft-spoken and down-looking, but not without a stout will of her
own, such as, they do say, your very soft-spoken people are apt to
have. Indeed, we may argue that to be able at all times to command
one's voice down to a given level, requires a pretty strong will,
and more self-possession than impetuous people ever can have; and
it is well known that blusters are easier governed than anybody
else. Jane Gordon had light hair, too, which hasty observers are
apt to consider a sign of a mild and complying temper; but our
dear Jane, though a good girl, and a dutiful daughter, had had a
good deal of trouble with old Adam, and given her sober parents a
good deal too.

So that, by and by, when is was whispered that Jane Gordon was
certainly in love with Mr. Fasole, and that Mr. Fasole was at least
very attentive to Jane Gordon, the old people felt a good deal
troubled. They were prudent, however, and only watched and
waited, though quite determined that an itinerant singing-master
should not carry off their treasure, to be a mere foot-ball of Fortune,
and have.

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nor house nor ha',
Nor fire, nor candle-light.
And at every singing-meeting the intimacy between Mr. Fasole and
his fair pupil became more apparent, and the faces of the unappropriated
damsels longer and longer. The district-schoolmaster, that
winter, was a frightful old man, with a face like a death's-head, set
off by a pair of huge round-eyed spectacles, so he was out of the
question, even if he had not had a wife and family to share his
sixteen dollars a month. The store-keeper, Squire Hooper's partner,
had impudently gone off to the next town for a wife, but a few
weeks before; and a young lawyer who talked of settling among
us as soon as there was anything to do—(he had an eye on the
setting-back of the mill-pond, we suspect)—did nothing but smoke
cigars and play checkers on the store-counter, and tell stories of the
great doings at the place he had been haunting before he came
among us. So the dearth of beaux was stringent, mere farmer-boys
being generally too shy to make anything of, until they have bought
land and stock, when they begin to look round, with a business eye,
for somebody to make butter and cheese. Mr. Fasole, with his knowing
air, and a plentiful stock of modest assurance, reigned paramount,
`the cynosure of neighboring eyes.' He `cut a wide swath,' the
young men said, and it may be supposed they owed him no good
will.

How matters can remain for any length of time in such an explosive
state without an eruption, let philosophers tell. Twice a week,
for a whole, long, Western winter, did the singing-school meet
regularly at the school-house, and practise the tunes which were to
be sung on Sunday; and every Sunday did one or two break-downs
attest that improvement in music could not have been the sole
object of such persevering industry. Sometimes a bold bass would

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be found finishing off, for a bar or two, in happy unconsciousness that
its harmonious compeers had ceased to vibrate. Then again, owing
to the failure, through timidity or obliviousness, of some main stay,
the whole volume of sound would quaver away, trembling into
silence or worse, while the minister would shut his eyes, with a look
of meek endurance, and wait until Mr. Fasole, frowning, and putting
on something of the air with which we jerk up the head of a stumbling
horse, could get his unbroken team in order again. Jane Gordon
was not very bright at singing, perhaps because she was suffering
under that sort of fascination which is apt to make people stupid;
and she was often the `broken tooth and foot out of joiut' at whose
door these unlucky accidents were laid by the choir. Mr. Fasole
always took her part, however, and told the accuser to `look at
home,' or hinted at some by-gone blunder of the whole class, or
declared that Miss Jane evidently had a bad cold—not the first
time that a bad cold has served as an apology for singing out of
time.

The period for a spring quarterly meeting of one of the leading
denominations now drew nigh, and a great gathering was expected.
Ministers from far and near, and a numerous baptism in the pond,
were looked for. Preparations of all sorts were set on foot, and
among the rest, music `suited to the occasion.' The choice of `set
pieces' and anthems, and new tunes, gave quite a new direction and
spur to the musical interest; but Mr. Fasole and Jane Gordon were
not forgotten. There was time to watch them, and sing too.
Through the whole winter, the singing-master thought proper to
see Miss Gordon home, except when it was very cold or stormy,
when he modestly withdrew, with an air which said he did not
wish his attentions to seem particular. It had become quite a trick
with the young men to listen by the roadside, in order to ascertain

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whether he did not pop the question somewhere between the school-house
and Mr. Gordon's; but the conclusion was, that either he was
too discreet to do it, or too cunning to let it be heard, for nothing
could ever be distinguished but the most ordinary talk. Nothing
could be more obvious, however, than that, whatever were Mr. Fasole's
intentions, poor Jane was very much in earnest. She lost all
her interest in the village circle, and, too honest and sincere for concealment,
only found her spirits when the fascinating singing-master
appeared.—He had the magnetizer's power over the whole being of
the pupil. The parents observed all this with the greatest uneasiness,
and remonstrated with her on the imprudence of her conduct, but
in vain. They reminded her that no one knew anything about the
singing-master, and that he very probably had at least one wife
elsewhere, although it was past the art of man to betray him into
any acknowledgement of such incumbrance; but Jane was deaf to
all caution, and evidently only waited for the votary of music to
make up his mind to ask, before she should courtesy and say yes.

The quarterly meeting came on, and Squire Hooper's big barn
was filled to overflowing. A long platform had been erected for
the ministers, and rough seats in abundance for the congregation;
but every beam, pin, and `coign of vantage,' was hung with human
life, in some shape or other. Such a gathering had not been seen in
a long while. In front was placed Mr. Fasole, with Jane Gordon
on his left hand. White was his bosom, (outside,) and fiery red
his hair and face, as he wrought vehemently in beating time, while
he sent out volumes, not to say whole editions, of sound. One
could not but conclude that every emotion of his soul must find
utterance in the course of the morning's performance, if Jane Gordon
only listened aright, which she seemed very well disposed to do.
But the concluding hymn was to be the crowning effort. It

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abounded in fugues—those fatal favorites of country choirs, and had also
several solos, which Mr. Fasole had assigned to Jane Gordon, in
spite of the angry inuendoes of other pretenders. He had drilled
her most perseveringly, and, though not without some misgivings,
had succceded in persuading himself, as well as his pupil, that she
would get through these `tight places' very well, with a little help
from him.

When the whole immense assembly rose to listen while the
choir performed this `set piece,' it was with a sound like the rushing
of many waters, and poor Jane, notwithstanding the whispered
assurances of the master, began to feel her courage oozing out, as
woman's courage is apt to do just when it is most wanted. She
got through her portion of the harmony with tolerable credit; but
when it came to the first solo, it was as if one did take her by the
throat, and the sounds died away on her lips. Dread silence ensued,
but in a moment, from the other side of the barn, seemingly from a
far distant loft, a female voice, clear, distinct, and well trained, took
up the recreant strain, and carried it through triumphantly. Then
the chorus rose, and, encouraged by this opportune aid, performed
their part to admiration—so well, indeed, and with so much enthusiasm,
that they did not at first miss the leading of Mr. Fasole.
When the solo's turn came, they had time to look round: and while
the distant voice once more sent its clear tones meandering among
the rafters and through the mows and out of the wide doors, all the
class turned to look at the master. There he stood—agape—astare—
pale—spiritless—astonished—petrified; his jaw fallen, his nose
pinched in, his eyes sunken and hollow and fixed in wild gaze on
the dim distance whence issued the potent sound, while poor Jane's
fascinated optics gazed nowhere but on him. But before note could
be taken of their condition, the chorus must once more join in the

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last triumphant burst, for the new auxiliary had inspired them like
a heavenly visitant, and they could not attend to sublunary things.
They finished in a perfect blaze of glory, the unknown voice sounding
far above all others, and carrying its part as independently as
Mr. Fasole himself could have done.

`What is the matter with the singing-master?' `Has he got a
fit?' `Is he dying?' was whispered through the crowd as soon as
the meeting was dismissed. `Bring water—whiskey—a fan—oh
goodness! what is to be done?'

`Let me come to him,' said a powerful voice just at hand; and,
as the crowd opened, a tall, masculine woman, of no very prepossessing
exterior, made her way to the fainting Orpheus.

`Jedediah!' she exclaimed, giving a stout lift to the drooping
head; `Jedediah! don't you know your own Polly Ann?'

It was Mrs. Fasole—a very promising scholar whom the unhappy
teacher had married at the scene of former labors, somewhere in the
interior of Illinois, hoping to find her a true help-meet in the professional
line. But, discovering to his cost that she understood only
one kind of harmony, and that not of the description most valuable in
private, he had run away from her and her big brothers, and hoped,
in the deep seclusion of still newer regions, to escape her for ever,
and pass for that popular person, an agreeable bachelor. Whether
he was really villain enough to have intended to marry poor Jane
too, we cannot know, but we will charitably hope not; though we
are not sure that wantonly to trifle with an innocent girl's affections
for the gratification of his vanity was many shades less culpable.
The world judges differently, we know, since it makes one offence
punishable by law, while the other is considered, in certain circles,
rather a good joke than otherwise. But the singing-master and his
fearful spouse disappeared, and those who had not joined the class

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exulted; while, as far as public demonstration went, we could not
see but the singing at meeting fell back to very nearly the old mark,
under the auspices of old deacon Ingalls, who has for many years
been troubled with a polypus in his nose.

Jane Gordon is a much more sensible girl than she was two years
ago, and looks with no little complacency upon Jacob Still, a neighbor's
son, who boasts that he can turn a furrow much better than he
can a tune.

p626-320

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