LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 611, 3 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

‘BACHELOR BEN.’ Some three years ago I was a severe sufferer from chronic impecuniosity. I occupied at this time the responsible but by no means lucrative position of second master in a London day school; and as my income from this its only fource amounted to something less than sixty pounds per annum, it may be readily surmised that J. found it a matter of some difficulty to keep the wolf from the door. Indeed, in my particular case the joining of the proverbial two cuds was a task of Herculean dimensions, and one which 1 should never have ha i the courage to tackle but for the fact of my daily living in hopes of ‘ something turning up.’ My only consolation was that I had not to work particularly hard for my pittance, but had plenty of leisure time on my hands, and 1 at length awoke to the conviction that 1 certainly ought to try and secure some extra employment for the unoccupied hours at my disposal. No sooner had this idea entered my mind than 1 proceeded to act upon it, and for the next few weeks I did my very utmost to attain the end I had in view. I entered my name at three agencies, consulted influential friends in all quarters, answered innumerable advertisements culled from the morning papers ; in fact, left no stone unturned in order to bring in the required extra grist to the mill. About this tune I went one night to a bache’or’s parly, and while returning therefrom with a friend, who lived in the same direction as myself, I unbosomed myself to him concerning my pelf-lacking condition. He at once proceeded to advise me thus : ‘ Why, my good sir,’ he exclaimed, ‘ don’t you turn your comic-song writing powers to some account ? Those things you sang tonight were your own, were they not ?’ i replied in the affirmative. ‘ Well, then,’said he, ‘l’m surprised you don’t try and sell some of them to the music-hall singers : they’d jump to buy them of you. Look at the stuff they’re obliged to put up with. You’d get a guinea or two for every one of yours, if you only went the right way to work. There’s a wrinkle for you, my dear fellow ; carry it out. ’ Now I must candidly admit that I entertained at this period a very high opinion of my comic-song-writing abilities. I had tested my effusions at private parties and at Penny Readings, and as they had always turned up trumps, I saw no reason why they should not be equally successful on the music hall stage. Hence I. caught eagerly at my friend’s suggestion. Agu nca a song! and I could easily write half a dozen a week. Phew ! it fairly made my mouth water to think of it. But—and here came the rub how were the said guineas to be secured? I knew next to nothing of music halls and the singers who figured therein, and my friend had admitted that he was in this last respect no better off than myself. What, then, wa to be done? How was Ito get my concoctions laid before those ‘ corniques ’ who might be disposed to purcb se them ? I hit upon and thought over a g od many schemes to bring about this much-desired result, but all s-jemed likely to prove equally ineffectual. At last I came to the conclusion that Iwoirldnot depend upon myown resources in the matter, but would take counsel’s opinion—viz, go to some person familiar with the question, and fathfully follow out the course which he should suggest. Now, having determined to ask advice on the subject, the question was to whom should 1 make application. One who had written accepted comic ditties would alone bo worth consulting, but unfortunately I did not number among my acquaintances any snob lucky individual. At last I bethought me that 1 was on speaking terms with a Mr Turn Rogers, a gentleman who occupied the post of chairman at the Rutland Music Hall, lie must, I argued, having filled this position for many years, bo well acquainted, not only with comic song singers, but also with those who concocted the productions which they sang. I could not, T felt assured, do better than apply to blur, if irot for actual advice, at any rate for an iutrduuction to somejone competent to give it. Accordingly, a few nights after 1 had thought of Mr Rogers, I made rny way to his table at Rutland, and was lucky enough to meet with a vacant seat thereat. Mr Rogers, a stout burly man, with a red face and a bald bead, was at this juncture in the full swing of business. He was smoking an enormous cigar, and having knocked down the lady professional who had just quitted the stage for another song, he was in the act of finishing what had once been a jorum of whisky hot. I seized upon this golden opportunity, and almost before I bad done exchanging greetings with Mr Rogers, had ordered a waiter to replenish the empty glass. H c was now mine as long as the tumbler lasted, so, the sim shining, I lost no time in making my hay. In the intervals of the performance I put my case to Mr Rogers, and requested the benefit of his experience. .

‘ You could not do better,’ said he, wh< n I had finished, 4 than apply to Frank R( dmond—he’s the very man you want; if your songs are worth anything, which I should suppose from what I know of you that they are’ (here Mr Rogers took a hearty pull at his whisky), ‘he will compose melodies for them, and then dispose of them for you. He happens to be here to-night; he cams to hear Kate Hellish sing that song, “ Rainbow Nell,” which she has just given ; that’s his music. You had better see him at once ;he is one of the first writers and composers of the day. There he is, the tall fellow with the moustache and pc^-jacket, standing against the supper-room bar.’ 4 But,’ I remonstrated, ‘ I don’t know him ; who’ll introduce —’ 4 A glass of ale or three of Irish warm will,’ said Mr Rogers. 4 ln any case of introduction to a member of the music-hall profession, whether male or female, the best M.C.—in fact the M.C.—is a drinkable congenial to the taste of a person whose acquaintance is sought. You try Redmond; he’ll do the business for you.’ And here Mr Rogers, finishing his whisky at a gulp, telegraphed an invitation for his table to a friend whom he perceived struggling through the labyrinth of the stalls. I proceeded to the supper-room, and for a short time occupied myself in taking stock of Mr Redmond. He was a lanky individual, about thirty years of age, and as to his aspect, of unquestionable seediness. He was just then engaged in an animated discussion with a gentleman whose blackened face showed that he was in the 4 nigger’ line of business. Idr Redmond, I noticed, kept his back as close as possible to the bar-c unter ; this peculiarity on his part, coupled with the fact that he ever and anon gave his rather short pea-jacket a downward jerk, led me to the conclusion that those of his garments which we never mention were not well fitted for gaslight inspection. In the course of a few minutes the negro gentleman took his departure, and then I made my approaches. 4 I suppose, Mr Redmond,’ said I, ‘that you wrote 44 Rainbow Nell” expressly for Miss Mellish ?’ 4 Yes,’ replied he at once, ' yes ; how did you like it 1 Think it went down well ? My music and words too. ’ 4 1 thought it went capitally,’ said I. 4 1 like the chorus very much, it’s sure to become popular ; but I’m just going to refresh the inner man —will you join me?’ 4 With pleasure,’ exclaimed Mr Redmond promptly. 4 I’ll take a drop of pale brandy warm. You haven’t got any tobacco about you, have you ? I find I’ve left my pouch at home.’ I tendered my pouch, and the ordered liquor appearing, Mr Redmond waxed animated and confidential, and our acquaintance progressed apace. After plying him with another ‘three penn’orth,’ I proceeded to business. I told him, quite in a casual way, that 1 had written a comic song, which I was vain enough to fancy ought to be sung, and I should esteem it a favour if he would cast his eyes over it, and inform me, if he thought it wo r th its salt, what steps I should take in order to get it mated to a melody and produced. (To be continued.)