LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2289, 3 August 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE STRANGE PIANIST. In 1858 there was a little camp about tan miles from Pioche, occupied by upwards of about 300 miners, every one of whom might have packed his prospecting implements, and left for more inviting fields any time before sunset. When the day was over these men did not rest from tbo’r labors, like the honest NawEngland agriculturist, but sing, danced, gambled and shot cash other, as the mood seized them. One evening the report spread along the main street (which was the only street) that three men had been killed at Silver Reef, and that the bodies were coming in. Presently a lumbering old conveyance labored np the hill, drawn by a couple of horses well worn out with their pull. The cart con tained a good siz d box, and no sooner did its outlines become visible through the glimmer of a stray light here and there, than it began to affect the idlers. Death always enforces respect, and even though no oue had caught sight of the remains, the crowd gradually became subdued and when the horses came to a standstill the cart was immediately surrounded. The driver however was not in the least impressed with the .solemnity of hit commission. He began to pry np the lid, got a board off, and then pulled off some old rags. A strip of something dark, like rosewood, presented itself, ‘Eastern coffins, by thunder!’ said several, and the crowd looked quite astonished. Presently the whole of the box cover was off, and the teamster, clearing away the packing, revealed to the astonished group the top of something which puzzled all alike. Had a dozen dead men been in the box, their presence in the camp could not have occasioned half the excitement that the arrival of that lovely piano caused. By the next morning it was known that the instrument was to grace a hurdy-gurdy saloon owned by Tom Goskin, the loading gambler in the place. It took nearly a week to gat this wonder on its legs, and the owner was the proudest individual In the State. It rose gradnally from a recumbent to an upright position, amid a confusion of tongues, after the manner cf the Tower of Babel. Of course everybody knew just how snob an instrument should be put up. One knew where the ‘ off hind leg ’ should go, and another was posted on the front piece.’ Scores of men came to the place every day to assist, and all took the liveliest interest la it. It was at last in condition for business. • It’s been showing its teeth all the week. Wa’d like to have it spit out something,’ Alas! there wasn’t a man to ba found who conld play upon the instrument. Goskin began to realise that he had a losing speculation on his hands. He had a fiddler, and a Mexican who thrummed a guitar. A pianist wonld have made hia orchestra completa. One day a three-card monte player told a friend confidentially that he conld ‘ knock any amount of music ont of a piano, if he only had it alone a few minutes to get his hand in.’ The report spread about the camp, but on baing questioned he vowc d that he didn’t know a note of music. It was noted, however, as a suspicious circumstance, that he often hung about the instrument, and looked npon It longingly, like a hungry man gloating over a beefsteak in a restaurant window. There was no doubt but that this man had music in his soul, perhaps In his fingers’-ends, but did not dare to make a trial of hia strength after the rules of harmony had suffered so many years of neglect. So the fiddler kept on with his jigs, and the greasy Mexican pawed his discordant guitar, but no man had the nerve to tonch that piano. There were doubtless scores of men in the camp who would have given ten ounces of gold dust to have been half an hour alone with it, but every man’s nerve shrank from the jeers which the crowd wonld shower upon him should his first attempt prove a failure. It got to be generally understood that the hand which first essayed to draw music from the keys must not slouch its work.

It was Christmas eve, and Goskin, according to his custom, had decorated bis gambling hell with sprigs of mountain cedar and a shrub whose crimson berries did not seem a bad imitation of English holly. The piano was covered with evergreens, and all that was wanting to completely fill the cap of Goskin’s contentment was a man to play that piano. * Christmas night and no piano pounder, ’ be said, * This 1s a nice country for a Christian to live In.’ Getting a piece of paper, he scrawled the words—s 20 Reward To a compliant Fianer Flayer. This he stuck up on the music rack, and, though the inscription glared at the frequenters of the room until midnight, it failed to draw any musician from his shell. So the merry making went on ; the hilarity grew apace. Men danced and song to the musio of the squeaky fiddle and wom-out guitar, as the jolly crowd within tried to drown the howling of the storm without. Suddenly they became aware of the presence of a white-haired man, crouching near the fireplace. His garments—such as were left —were wet with melting snow, and he had a half-starved, hslf-crazed expression, He held his thin, trembling hands toward the fire, and the light of the blazing wood made them almost transparent 1 He looked about him once in a while, as If in search of something, and his presence cast such a chill over the place that gradually the sound of revelry was hushed, and it seemed that this waif of the storm had brought in with it all the gloom and coldness of the warring elements, Goskln mixed up a cup of egg-nogg, advanced and remarked cheerily—- * Here, stranger, brace up 1 This Is the real stuff.’ The man drained the cup, smacked bis Ups and seemed more at home. ‘ Been prospecting, eh ? Ont in the mountains—caught in the storm ? lively night, this !’ * Pretty bad,’ said the man. ‘Must feel pretty dry.’ The man looked at bis steaming clothes and laughed, aa if Goskin’a remark was a sarcasm. * How long out ?’ * Four days.’ ‘ Hungry V The man rose up, and, walking over to the Innoh counter, fell to work npon some roast beef, devouring it like any wild animal would have done. As meat, and drink, and warmth began to permeate the stranger, he seemed to expand and lighten np. Bis features lost their pallor, and he grew more and more content with the idea that ho was not in the grave. As he underwent these changes, the people abont him got merrier and happier, and threw off the temporary feeling of depression which he had laid npon them. ‘Do you always have your placs decorated like this ?’ ho finally asked of Goskin. ‘This is Christmas Eve,’ was the reply. The stranger was startled. ‘ December 21th, sure enough.’ ‘ That’s the way 1 put it up, pa’d.’ * When I was in England I always kept Christmas. But I had forgotten that this was the night. I’ve been wandering abont the mountains until I’ve lost tracks of the feasts of the church.’ Presently his eye fell upon the piano. * Where’s the player? ’ he asked. * Never had any,’ said Goskln, blushing at the confession. * I used to play when I was young, ’ Goskin almost fainted at the admission. * Stranger, do tackle it, and give us a tunc! Nary a man in the camp ever had the nerve to wrestle with that music-box.’ Hia pulse beat faster, for he feared that the man would refuse. * I’ll do the best I can,’ he said. There was no stool, but seizing a candlebox, he drew it up and seated himself before the instrument. It only required a few seconds for a hush to come over the room ‘ That old coon Is going to give the thing a rattle.’

The sight of a man at the piano was something so unusual that even the faro-dealer, who was about to take in a 50 dollar bet on the fray, paused, and did not reaoh for the money. Men stopped drinking, with the glasses at their lips. Conversation appeared

to have been strnck with a sort of paralysis, and cards were no longer shuffled. The old man brushed back his long whit? locks, looked up to the ceiling, half closed his eyes, and in a mystic sort of reverie passed his fingers over the keys. Re touched but a single note, yet the sound thrilled the room. It was the key to his improvisation, and as ha wove his chords together the music laid its spell upon every ear and heart. He felt his way along the keys, like a mao treading uncertain paths ; bat ho gained confidence as he progressed, and presently bent to his work like a master. The instrument was not in exact.tune, but the ears of his audience, through long disuse, did not detect anything radically wrong. They heard a succession of grand chords, a suggestion of paradise, melodies here and there, and it was enough. * Sea him counter with his left 1’ said an old rough, enraptmed. ‘ He calls the turn every time on the upper end of the board,’ responded a man with a stack of chips in bis hand. The player wandered off into the old ballads they had heard at home. All the sad, and melancholy, and touching songs, that came up like dreams of childhood, this unknown player drew from the keys. His hands kneaded their hearts like dough, and squeezed out the tears as from a wet sponge. As the strains flowed one upon the other, they saw their homes of the long ago reared again ; they were playing once more where the apple blossoms sank through the soft air to join the violets on the green turt cf the old New England States. They saw the glories of the Wisconsin maples and the hazs of the Indian summer blending their hues together ; they saw the heather of the Scottish hills, the white cliffs of Briton, and heard the sullen roar of the sea, as it beat upon their memories vaguely. Then came all the old Christmas carols, such as they had sung in ohnroh thirty years before; the subtle music that brings up the glimmer of wax tapers, the solemn shrines, the evergreen, holly, mistletoe and surplioed choirs. Then the remorseless performer planted his first stab in every heart with ‘ Home, Sweet Homo.’ When the player ceased the crowd slunk from him. There was no more revelry and devilment left In his audience. _ Each man wanted to sneak off to his cabin and write the old folks a letter. The day was breaking when the last man left hie place, and the player, laying his head down on the piano, fell asleep. ‘ I say, pard,’ said Goskln, * don’t you want a little rest ?’ * I feel tired,’ the old man said. ‘ Perhaps yen’ll let me rest here for the matter of a day or so. ’ He walked behind the bar, where some old blankets were lying, and stretched himself upon them, * I feel pretty sick. I guess I won’t last long. I’ve got a brother down in the ravine —his name’s Driscoll. He don’t know I’m here. Can you get him before morning? I’d like to see his face before I die.’ Goskin started up at the mention of the name. He knew Driscoll well. ‘He your brother 1 I'll have him here In half an hour.’ As he dashed out into the storm the musician pressed his hand to his side and | groaned. Goskln heard the word * Hurry!’ and sped down the ravine to Driscoll’s csbln. It was quite light in the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was as pale as death. ‘My God ! I hope he’s alive 1 I wronged him when we lived in England, twenty years ago.’ , They saw the old man had drawn the blankets over his face. The two stood a \ moment, awed by the thought that he might be dead. Goskin lifted the blanket, i and pulled h down astonished. There was no one there. | * Gone ! ’cried Driscoll, wildly. ‘ Gone ! ’ echoed Goskin, pulling out bis cash drawer, ‘ Ten thonsand dollars in the sack, and the Lord knows how much loose . change In the drawer I ’ j The next day the boys got oat, followed a horse’s track through the snow, and lost them In the trail leading toward Pioche. There was a man missing from the camp. L It was the three-card monte man, who used to deny point-blank that he conld play the scale. One day they found a wig of white hair, and called to mind when the • stranger’ ’ had pushed those locks back when he looked I toward the ceiling for Inspiration on the b night of Dec. 21, 1861,