I heard a street band the other day wrestlin’ with Lange’s Flower Song, and that set me to thinkin’ what a wrestlin’ time poor Lange, the composer of this beautiful piece of music, had of it all his life, and how life got, as poor Artemis Ward used to say, “too many for him” at last.
Lange was a young, good-lookin’ fellow, of good family and good habits; everything was good about him except his luck–that was bad. Things always went wrong with him; even his Flower Song never brought him in anythin’ but a little useless fame. The New York girl he loved didn’t love him, and altogether he got so tired of life that one day he committed suicide, though not one of one thousand who admire his beautiful composition know or care what became of the composer.
In Lange’s case bad luck proved too much for him, but in another case of a man very popular here, who used to be a good deal around old New York, his good luck overpowered him. I allude to Steve Foster, the composer of the “Old Folks at Home” and the real founder of a true American school of music. Foster wrote this song–Old Folks at Home–in three hours, and it has been popular for thirty years. Over half a million of copies were sold of it within five years of its publication, and Foster received nearly $20,000 for his copyright on this one song alone–over $6,000 for each of the three hours’ work. Better pay than Patti, though it took longer to get it, and didn’t do as much good when got, either, for Patti saves her money, and poor Steve Foster spent his lavishly–foolishly, in generosity and dissipation combined, and finally died, I believe, in some hospital.
Christy, the negro minstrel, used to have the credit of writin’ this song, and in fact was entitled to it, legally, for one edition anyway, because he had paid for it. He paid Foster once four hundred dollars in bank bills, on the understandin’ in writing with him and his publishers that his (Christy’s) name was to be printed on one entire edition of “Old Folks at Home,” as author and composer. Nor was this investment all vanity on Christy’s part, either; he got his money back ten times over by the notoriety it gave him.
It ain’t often that any popular work has two people who can claim legally to be its authors at the same time, although this claim, the authorship of Works which they only claim by money, not by brains, is getting to be common. Pauline Markham had an “autobiography” published years ago, which she never wrote a line of, and never saw till in print. Helmbold’s “Am I a Lunatic” contained in all its 150 pages or so, not one line written by Helmbold, and from that time to the present this sort of thing has been getting quite popular.
Barney Williams, when in the burnt cork line, doin’ the negro minstrel business, was the first to make the song of “Villikins and his Dinah,” a favorite with the public. Barney couldn’t sing for a cent, but he was funny, and he made the song a tremendous success.
Burton afterwards took hold of the song and, introduced it in “The Wanderin’ Minstrel,” a piece in which Billy Mitchell had made the hit of his life, equaled only by Burton afterwards.
Burton’s singin’ of “Villikins” was always rewarded with a triple encore, till Burton got tired of singin’ and gettin’ called out. So he wound up “Villikins” in short metre. One night when there was a tremendous house, and everybody was gettin’ ready for the song, Burton sang the first verse, and then came to a dead stop. He put his hand to his head, look confused, and then rushed to the prompter’s side, and had an earnest talk with him apparently. Then when the talk was over, he stepped before the footlights once more and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to say there is a hole in that ballad. I have sung that song so often that I have forgotten it. A copy was, of course, supposed to be unnecessary, and the prompter has assured me there is not a copy in the house. So you must excuse “Villikins” for this evenin’.” The audience thought first, that Burton was foolin’, which, of course, he was, but he looked so perplexed and grieved that the audience finally took it for granted that he really had forgotten that song.
Jim Crow Rice made up in his negro business a song called “Zip Coon,” which was tremendously popular, almost as much so as the Irish melody, “Kathleen Mavourneen.” A good many years ago Mme. Titien’s sang in New York, and one night, among other pieces, she sang, and very finely, “Kathleen Mavourneen.” After the concert a wild-eyed chap, in a very seedy set of clothes, half drunk and all dirty, a regular tramp, rushed up to the famous singer, as she was goin’ to her dressin’-room, and almost wrung her hands off as he thanked her for “singin’ my song.” “Singin’ your song?” said the prima donna. “How do you mean ‘your’ song?” “I am the author of Kathleen Mavourneen, madam,” said the tramp, and he was. He was Crouch himself, who had only got $25 for his song, though his publishers got for it over $30,000.
Two of the most popular of the “old songs” were written in New York, “The Old Oaken Bucket,” by Woodworth, and “Woodman, Spare That Tree,” by Gen. George P. Morris. One Summer was tremendously hot, and Woodworth, who was then livin’ on Greenwich street near the Battery, I believe, suffered from the heat excessively and nearly got the dropsy drinkin’ water. One day he took a tremendously long pull at the water pitcher and that set him thinkin’ of the long cool drinks he used to have at his grandfather’s house in the country out of the old oaken bucket. He set to work and wrote the song, and before night had made himself famous–for this century at any rate–just as Howard Payne made himself immortal In a night by his happy thought of “Home, Sweet Home.”
“A Life on the Ocean Wave” written by Epes Sargent, and now familiar wherever the English language is sung, was written here in New York and shown first to a New York music critic. The critic had some songs of his own on hand and told Sargent that his song would be a failure. It really was a failure, as far as Sargent was concerned, for although the song took, Sargent never got anythin’ for it.
“Ben Bolt,” one of the most popular of the old songs, was written by Thomas Dunn English when a very young man, and was published in the Mirror, edited by Morris & Willis. It became quite popular as a poem, but afterwards when set to music by Nelson Kneass, and introduced by him in a “war piece” called “The Battle of Buena Vista,” made its big hit, and after findin’ its way all over the United States got hold of London, where it became as popular as in New York, and was made the basis of a play. Thousands of dollars were made off the song, by everybody concerned except English, its author.
There is a good deal of difference between bein’ an author and composer and bein’ a publisher, and the difference is generally in favor of the publisher, as the poor lady who wrote “Rock Me to Sleep,” a Mrs. Allen, can testify. Mrs. Allen got $5 for her song and was glad to get it, while the publisher made $3,000 by its sale in two years. Then Mrs. Allen sent him another song, bein’ hard-up, and thinkin’ she had some claim for kindness upon the man who had made 60,000 percent off of her work, but the liberal (!) publisher didn’t think the second song worth even $5, and perhaps it wasn’t–to him.
[Editor’s notes: Two or three generations of white performers in 19th century America specialized in comic song, dance, and joke routines performed in blackface, i.e. “negro minstrels.” Though often immensely talented, these performers perpetuated a horribly racist genre; and at the same time suppressed authentic African-American song and dance and deprived black performers of opportunities to hone their craft.]
