For some time prior to the late Republican convention there were spasmodic attempts on the part of certain papers to “boom” Joseph W. Drexel, formerly and familiarly known as “Joe” Drexel, of Madison avenue, as the Republican candidate for Governor of the State of New York. This Drexel boom has now been put in its little bed, but they tell a good story of Drexel himself which ought not to be forgotten. Joe originally hailed, like all the Drexels, from Philadelphia, which is, like Stephen A. Douglas used to say of Vermont, “one of the best places to get away from,” and his early days are still remembered in Philadelphia, where they never forget anybody.
His chief hobby was music. He had a good ear for melody and he fancied himself and inspired maestro. He made it a point to “go for” all the “musical people” who ever got into Philadelphia, and as he had a good deal of money and gave good suppers at Bob Harmer’s, Petrie’s, and elsewhere, he was always well received in musical circles. It would have been a wonder if he hadn’t.
At first he thought he had a tenor voice, but his friends didn’t agree with him on that point, and he wisely changed his mind. But he really could play the fiddle, and he played it for all it was worth. He bought a superb old instrument, a genuine Stradivarius, and used to go visitin’ in the evenin’, carryin’ the fiddle under his arm, in an elaborately carved case. Drexel and his fiddle got to be inseparable Institutions among the girls. One was never seen without the other.
One of the ex-sheriffs of Philadelphia then lived in Marshall street, and he had three pretty daughters; one of ‘em–the youngest, of course–being a positive beauty. With this young lady Joseph fell desperately in love, and attempted to fiddle himself into her affections–with a tolerable degree of success. But Joseph had a rival–the son of a jeweler–a musical rival, too, but not a rival fiddler; for the jeweler’s son played upon an even more familiar and harrowin’ musical instrument–the pianoforte. If the fiddle, like Saul, has slain its thousands, the piano, like David, has slain its tens of thousands. So you can imagine the condition of the young lady who had to endure ‘em both. There was no Bergh in those days–no society for the prevention of cruelty to animals–so the pretty young daughter of the ex-sheriff had no redress, no alleviation of her evenin’ agonies–fiddle, piano–piano, fiddle. What with the young man who played on the one and the young man who played on the other, her life became a burden at eighteen.
Nor did she suffer alone–none of us do–her sisters had to suffer with her, and the old folks, too, had to agonize. That is, the old lady had to–in her attempt to matronize her daughters in her parlor–but, with the man’s usual luck, the ex-sheriff could, and did, escape both fiddle and piano by the simple expedient of attendin’ two and three times a week a “primary meetin’.” It is a blessed thing sometimes to be a politician.
The neighbors of the ex-sheriff, too, had to take their share of the musical plethora. For both Drexel and his rival played their instruments so earnestly and fervently, as if to prove by their instrumentation their affection, that families living on the side of the block would and did enjoy (!) the piano and the fiddle almost as much as the fair but fated cause of all this harmony herself–especially in the warm months (and about seven months of the twelve are “warm” in Philadelphia), when the windows are open.
But time brings its own remedy for everythin’, and at last the ex-sheriff’s daughter not only got able to endure here music (!) but got able to partly modify and control it. For, in the course of time, by a sort of tacit agreement, it got to be agreed, between the rival musicians, that whoever got to the ex-sheriff’s hospitable mansion first in the evenin’ should have the full benefit of his enterprise for that evenin’. It was the early bird that was to catch the fair worm for the evenin’. It was arranged that whoever called first should at once proceed to play upon his favorite instrument of torture and thus give notice of his havin’ taken possession to his “hated rival” who, hearin’ the sound that indicated his rival’s triumph, would take the hint and reframe from callin’ that particular evenin’. This arrangement worked pretty well for the young lady, as it limited her to one kind of misery per night, but it was hard on the rivals, for in order to get the advantage of each other they each got through their supper (they take “dinner” in the middle of the day in Philadelphia) as soon as possible and hurried to the ex-sheriff’s abode as eagerly as if they were expectin’ to be appointed a deputy under him. And, as Joe Drexel was always lazy, even in love, it almost always happened that the jeweler’s son got inside of the house before him, leaving Joe with his fiddle case, which was as heavy as it was handsome, on the outside.
“Joe” stood this sort of thing two or three weeks or so. He even took the trouble on several distinct occasions to get his supper an hour earlier than was customary. Once he did without his supper altogether, and on another occasion he even, in the most sprightly and undignified manner, ran right after supper to the ex-sheriff’s. But he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, have stood this sort of thing long–not even for the ex-sheriff’s daughter. At the same time he resolved to come out first best. So he, with characteristic shrewdness, “put up a job” and carried it out successfully.
For two or three weeks every night, no matter how early he reached the neighborhood of the ex-sheriff’s, the jeweler’s son heard the fiddle bein’ played within the mansion as a sign “that blanked Drexel” was inside. He manfully kept to his implied compact and walked away each time; but still he wondered how on earth it was that Drexel had got so wide awake, and had evinced so much activity as thus constantly and persistently to get ahead of him.
One evenin’ the jeweler’s son determined to make a sure thing of it and circumvent the fiddler, so he didn’t go home at all, didn’t take any supper, but hung around the ex-sheriff’s house till the family had barely finished “tea.” When, just as in the proud consciousness of gettin’ ahead for once, and, perfectly certain that this time, at least, Drexel was not inside, he pulled the doorbell, he heard the sound of a fiddle. Great Scott! could Drexel have been stayin’ to tea? At any rate there was the confounded signal of his presence, there was the fiddle–there was no mistakin’ that. There was no help for it, and with a weary sigh the discomfited pianist was walkin’ away, when, to his utter amazement, lookin’ up, he saw Drexel, Joe Drexel, his rival, not in the house, but on the street–approachin’ him and with his fiddle case under his arm. He could hardly believe his senses. Like old Frank Brower, the negro minstrel, he felt tempted to exclaim, “Do my ears deceive my eyesight?” He had just heard Joe Drexel with his fiddle inside, yet here he saw Joe Drexel with his fiddle outside. Which was the true and bona fide Joseph, or were there two Drexels, or had the one and only Joseph Drexel been playin’ a trick on him? Light began to break upon the jeweler’s son, and he determined to penetrate the mystery. He accompanied–he insisted on accompanyin’ his rival to his lady love’s. Here the mystery came out. The young son of the ex-sheriff, the only brother of the three young ladies, “her” pet brother, who had been coaxed and bribed by the lazy but ingenious Joe to represent him, was found playin’ on a fiddle “with intent to deceive.”
There was a little scene and a slight explosion but all is fair in love, war and fiddlin’, and the jeweler’s son never played the piano again in the mansion of the ex-sheriff.
[Editor’s notes: Joseph W. Drexel (1833-1888) was still alive when this column was published, and never bothered to confirm or dent the anecdote, so there is a chance it might be true–although it is not repeated in any other source I’ve been able to find.
Drexel amassed a huge collection of musical instruments, which he donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Had also had a large library of works on music, that eventually found a home at the New York Public Library.]
