Ohio History Journal

SONG WRITERS OF OHIO.

 

WILL LAMARTINE THOMPSON.

 

Author of " Gathering Shells from the Seashore."

 

C. B. GALBREATH.

The world no longer takes things for granted. The days of

"original research" are upon us. The strenuous quest for the

eternal verities works results at once constructive and icono-

clastic. It reveals marvels and dissipates old illusions.  The

method of the analyst is merciless,-as frigid as justice, as "un-

compromising as truth." Woe to the tradition or the ideal that

rests on sandy foundation.

Theories of beauty in the abstract are older than the science

of ethics. Beauty in the concrete, if it be at all existent, is rela-

tive. We are variously impressed as we view the pages of art

and nature. The things that to-day satisfy the soul with their

sweet harmonies, may pall upon the aesthetic sense to-morrow.

Rare indeed are the things attractive to all eyes and in all seasons

beautiful.

The sentimental Frenchman, so runs the history or the

legend, when his eye beheld the river that forms the southern

boundary of our state, called it La Belle Riviere,--"The River

Beautiful." The hand of man had not marred its banks; indus-

trial civilization had not polluted its waters. It meandered in

stately grandeur through the solitude primeval. We are told

that the Frenchman was mistaken - that even then it was somber

rather than beautiful.

Passing over the varied comments of early explorers and

the fervid tributes of some of our later poets, it may be observed

that the great English novelist, who first visited America in a

somewhat critical mood, found the Ohio "a fine, broad river

always, but in some parts much wider than in others; and then

there is usually a green island, covered with trees, dividing it

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into two streams." In a different strain he describes the shores

on either side:

"The banks are for the most part deep solitudes, overgrown with

trees. * * * For miles, and miles, and miles these solitudes are

unbroken by any sign of human life or trace of human footstep; nor

is anything seen to move about them but the blue jay, whose color is

so bright and yet so delicate, that it looks like a flying flower. At

lengthened intervals a log cabin, with its little space of cleared land

about it, nestles under a rising ground and sends its thread of blue

smoke curling up into the sky. It stands in the corner of the poor field

of wheat, which is full of great unsightly stumps, like earthly butchers'

blocks. * * * The night is dark, and we proceed within the shadow

of the wooded bank, which makes it darker. After gliding past the

somber maze of boughs for a long time, we come upon an open space

where the tall trees are burning. The shape of every branch and twig

is expressed in a deep red glow and as the light wind stirs and ruffles

it, they seem to vegetate in fire. It is such a sight as we read of in

legends of enchanted forests; saving that it is sad to see these noble

works wasting away so awfully, alone."

 

Here we have an impression decidedly gloomy, but sixty

years have wrought changes. Whether our river to-day may

justly claim the title that has graced it so long in song and story

will probably remain an open question.     After the critics have

had their say, however, there are stretches of the stream and its

shores that will still claim something of the tribute of old.

It is not wholly the partiality of early association that selects

as one of these that portion of the river which emerges from

Pennsylvania and flows a few miles westward to a point where

a semicircular sweep turns it toward the south.

While the waters are usually somewhat turbid, the rugged

banks on either side present a pleasing variety of jutting ledge,

sloping woodland, undulating meadows and confluent streams,

bearing from far-off spring-brooks, through narrow valleys,

their tributes of sparkling water.

Even in mid-winter, when fetters of ice hush ripple and roar,

the eye will fondly linger on the widening expanse and bordering

landscapes, robed in vestments of jeweled white. When day

looks down from a cloudless sky, bright tapers gleam and scin-

tillate among the rime-covered twigs of the leafless trees, and

the dark green spruce wears right royally his ermine of snow.

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Song Writers of Ohio.               293

Underneath the quail comes in quest of food, while from the

sheltering boughs the cardinal flits forth in his red glory, and

with flaming crest proudly aloft, pours forth into the waste of

frost and sunshine the challenge of his valiant melody.

When winter departs and the rain and melting snow pour

into the river and its tributaries great volumes of muddy water,

the desolate and gloomy scene revealed by day is wondrously

transformed under the mellow light of the full moon. How the

gilt waves shimmer through the intervening trees! How the

silvery streams thread their way through meadow and ravine to

join the larger flood, while a constant roar echoes through the

chambers of the night like the myriad voices of the far-resound-

ing sea!

When spring, "sweet prophetess of the resurrection," walks

the earth, and through the waste reveals her power in the miracle

of bud and bloom, this region feels the spell of her presence, for

she lingers fondly here. From trailing arbutus to budding rose,

there is no break in the procession of flowers. Spring beauty,

violet, anemone, trillium, phlox and columbine nod at the edge

of the wood, while garden and orchard don their garments of

many colors. The deeper pink of the peach yields to a lighter

tint, a more ample and pleasing array, for the world holds noth-

ing in its flowery realm more beautiful or delicately fragrant than

an apple orchard in full bloom.

Here the gentle breezes of June are redolent with the sweet-

ness of locust groves and clover meadows. Her golden billows

roll over fields of ripened grain. Here autumn comes with radi-

ant glories, and orchards bend with fruit, the woodland glows

with russet and gold and crimson; there is a rustle among the

gray shocks of fodder, and the jolly huskers heap high the golden

corn.

These are but a few random glimpses of the year's panorama

on the banks of the "river beautiful," in the first stage of its

course on the border of our own Ohio. With all seasons there is

music from stream and meadow and wood. No marvel here,

but much to inspire melody in a soul attuned to its environment.

In the midst of this region, on the north bank of the river,

stands the flourishing city of East Liverpool. Rising from the

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294       Ohio Arch. and Hist. Society Publications. water's edge up a steep declivity, it commands a picturesque view of three states. When it was yet a small village it became the birthplace of a singer whose music has gone to all lands. Here Will Lamartine Thompson was born November 7, 1847. "A prophet is not without honor save in his own country," so runs the text, frequently verified. Failure to recognize home talent and achievement is due to indifference rather than to in-

tended slight.  Especially is this true in our own state. Our pride has made Ohio birth synonymous with great- ness. The local orator never tires of pointing to the "long line" of "illustrious."  This pardonable bias in favor of what is distinctively our own makes it somewhat difficult to observe conventional limits in speaking of the work and worth of one with whom we claim neighborhood nativity, -a friend who is among the living,  who  has  achieved marked success and who is still at the flood-tide of his career. Will Thompson, as he is

known among his acquaintances, was the youngest son of a family of seven children. His father, Josiah Thompson, was a success- ful merchant, manufacturer and banker, and for two terms a member of the state legislature. His mother, Sarah Jackman Thompson, was devoted to social and charitable work. All the family were lovers of music, but the youngest son alone made it a serious study. As far back as he can remember he was humming tunes. He readily learned to play on instruments and even while a boy was in demand as pianist for local concerts.

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Song Writers of Ohio.                    295

When he was only sixteen years old he composed Darling Minnie

Gray* and Liverpool Schottische, both of which were published.

He was educated in the public schools of the village. Later

he attended Union College, then as now the Mecca for worthy

young men and women in eastern Ohio who aspire to a liberal

education.  In the years 1870-3, he attended the Boston Music

School, where he took a course in piano, organ and harmony.

Near the close of his work here he wrote a song which, when

published, almost immediately attained great popularity.

 

GATHERING SHELLS FROM THE SEASHORE.

The circumstances under which this was written are related

by the author substantially as follows:

"I was attending the Boston Peace Jubilee Musical Festival. It was

gotten up by Gilmore in 1873 and was a wonderful affair. After it was

over I, with a friend, went to Nahant Beach to spend a day, and while

there I sat down on the shore and wrote the song."

 

The words are as follows:

I wandered to-day on the seashore,

The wind and the waves they were low,

And I thought of the days that are gone, Maud,

Many long years ago:

Ah! those were the happiest days of all, Maud,

Not a care nor a sorrow did we know,

As we played on the white pebbled sand, Maud,

Gathering up shells from the shore.

 

* The title of the former indicates a possible partiality of the youth-

ful author for the famous song written by Hanby some years earlier,

but the measure is different. Here is the first stanza:

In a pretty little cottage by the seashore,

Where the ivy and the honeysuckle climb,

Lives the sweetest, the dearest little darling

That ever deigned to charm this heart of mine.

She's as fair and as pure as the lily

And as charming as the beauteous flowers of May.

Oh, I never shall forget my darling Minnie,

I shall never cease to love sweet Minnie Gray.

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CHORUS:

Gathering up the shells from  the seashore,

Gathering up the shells from the shore;

Ah! those were the happiest days of all, Maud,

Gathering up the shells from the shore.

 

Oh, don't you remember the day, Maud?

The last time we wandered by the shore?

Our hearts were so joyous and gay, Maud,

For you promised to be mine evermore:

Then the shells they were whiter than ever,

And the bright waves were lovelier than before,

The hours were but moments to us, Maud,

Gathering up shells from the shore.

 

But now we are growing up in years, Maud,

Our locks are all silvered and gray,

Yet the vows that we made on the shore, Maud,

Are fresh in our memories to-day:

There still is a charm in those bright shells,

And the sound of the deep ocean's roar,

For they call back the days that we spent, Maud,

Gathering up shells from the shore.

 

The writer of this composition was fortunate alike in the

choice of words and music. He took it and three others, Drift-

ing With the Tide, My Home on the Old Ohio, and Under the

Moonlit Sky, to a well-known publisher in Cleveland and offered

all for one hundred dollars. He was told that the price was too

high for an unknown author: that such material could be had

in abundance free of charge; that the four pieces were not worth

at the outside more than twenty-five dollars.    After thinking

over the matter for some time, the young composer decided to

hold his manuscripts. Later he went to New York City on a

business trip for his father. Here he arranged for the publica-

tion of his songs, determining to undertake the management of

sales himself.

His natural business tact was no small factor in the success

scored by his earliest publications.   Rightly concluding that

Gathering Shells From the Seashore had distinctive merit, he

sent copies of it to various minstrel organizations. From one of

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Song Writers of Ohio.                   299

the best known in the country he received a large order.¹ He

then sent copies to musical periodicals and newspapers. To each

he attached a printed slip containing a brief notice of the song

and the statement that it was used by the Crancross and Dixie

Minstrels. This was so carefully and concisely worded, that it

was usually reproduced in full. Soon orders began to come in

from  many sources.   The presses were put in motion and for

months they were kept running night and day to meet the demand.

In less than a year the Cleveland publisher and dealer who had

refused to pay one hundred dollars for the manuscripts had turned

over to the author in profits more than a thousand dollars.

Gathering Shells From the Seashore was sung almost everywhere.

From this initial venture his financial returns were most grati-

fying.

DRIFTING WITH THE TIDE.

Another of his early songs was quite successful and still

retains much of its former favor. The reader will readily recog-

nize the words of Drifting With the Tide:

We are floating on the ocean,

Drifting, drifting with the tide;

Far from home and far from kindred,

O'er the boundless sea we ride.

Giant waves, like wondrous mountains,

Rise and fall with solemn sound;

On we glide through foaming fountains

On we're drifting, ocean-bound.

 

CHORUS:

We are floating on the ocean,

Drifting, drifting with the tide;

We are drifting on the ocean,

Floating away, away.

 

We are floating on the ocean,

Drifting, drifting with the tide;

Not a ray of cheering sunlight,

Not a friendly hand to guide.

1John L. Crancross, of The Crancross and Dixie Minstrel Company,

of Philadelphia, first introduced the song on the stage. Many other

companies soon began to sing it.

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Driving winds, with note of terror.

Sweep across the maddened wave;

Soon we'll sink with plunge and quiver,

For no earthly hand can save.

 

We are floating on the ocean,

Drifting, drifting with the tide;

But a loving hand above us,

Deigns our floating bark to guide.

Waves of trouble rise before us,

But our boat goes safely o'er;

Trusting in our worthy Captain,

Soon we'll reach the other shore.

 

MY HOME ON THE OLD OHIO.

Although not written while he was abroad, this lay reveals

a dominant sentiment of the composer. Under all skies he has

been a loyal Ohioan. In simple, unadorned measure he sings

My Home on the Old Ohio:

Far away on the banks of the old Ohio,

Down where the silver maples grow,

Where the river runs deep in the broad, green valley,

Oh, there's where I lived, long ago.

Ah, well I remember the old cottage home,

By the side of the long, grassy lane;

How oft I have wished for the moment to come,

When I'll stand in my old home again.

 

 

CHORUS:

Then carry me back to the old Ohio,

Back to my own cottage home

On the banks of the river,

'Neath the green, weeping willow

Let me linger, and nevermore roam.

 

Oh, 'twas there in the fields and broad, verdant meadows,

I wandered with playmates that I loved;

'Mid the perfumes of flowers and sweet fragrant blossoms,

Where the birds sing so sweetly, we roved;

But long, long ago all my playmates were gone,

One by one 'neath the flowers they have lain;

On the banks of the river, 'neath the green, weeping willow

I shall ne'er see their dear forms again.

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Song Writers of Ohio.                     301

 

Many long years have passed since I stood by the river,

And said "Goodbye, my happy home;"

Oh, 'twas sad, sad to part with the scenes I loved dearly,

And start o'er the cold world to roam;

Take me back, take me back to the dear old farm,

Where the fields teem with ripe, golden grain;

For my heart is still longing for my home by the river,

Take me back, and I'll ne'er roam again.

 

THE OLD TRAMP.

Who that lived through them does not recall the troublous

times of 1876-7, when business was at a stand-still, the presidency

in the air, the railroad men on a strike and thousands of the

unemployed on the tramp. And who does not remember the

song - on the lips alike of sturdy workman and street urchin-

celebrating the sadly picturesque character to be met on almost

every public highway? We were not a little surprised in looking

over a collection of sheet music to find that this old favorite was

written by our own Thompson.      Here it is:

I'm only a poor old wanderer,

I've no place to call my home;

No one to pity me, no one to cheer me,

As friendless and sadly I roam.

 

 

CHORUS:

Only a poor old wanderer,

I've no place to call my home;

No one to pity me, no one to cheer me,

As friendless and sadly I roam.

 

I tramp, tramp along though I'm weary,

No rest through the long, long day;

Through the rain and the snow, I must tramp to and fro,

For I've no place in shelter to stay.

How I wish for a place by the fireside,

For the night is so dark, cold and damp;

Vacant places I see, but there's no room for me,

For I'm only a poor old tramp.

Long ago I was peaceful and happy,

With dear, loving friends ever near;

But now they are gone, and I'm left all alone,

With no one my pathway to cheer.

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IN LIGHTER VEIN.

While our bard seldom essays the humorous, he has given

us enough to show that he can be simply and exquisitely pleasant,

if he so desires. One of the following selections will be remem-

bered by many in connection with first efforts at the piano. The

other, though not so widely known, will not, on that account be

less heartily appreciated.

 

MY FIRST MUSIC LESSON.

My Ma she took it in her head that I should learn to play

On the organ and piano in the most newfangled way;

So to the teacher we did go, with lesson book in hand,

Determined I should music know, its mysteries understand.

 

 

CHORUS:

This exercise I then went through,

As all beginners have to do,

I sang so high that my voice broke down,

And I drove the neighbors out of town.

 

My teacher showed me A and B, and F sharp, G and D;

Said I, "Dear teacher, is that all? Don't we play on X and Z?"

He showed me clefs, and staffs and bars, I thought 'twould next be rails,

And the little things he called the notes, were like drum-sticks with tails.

 

I warbled high: said he, "You're sharp, just come a little down;"

My Ma chimed in and said, "You're right, she's the sharpest girl in town."

"Now, teacher, what's this little scroll ?" "Why that, my dear's a rest."

I jumped up from my music stool (Spoken) and I've been resting ever

since.

 

MY SWEETHEART AND I WENT FISHING.

My sweetheart and I went fishing,

In the merry month of May;

Along the brook with bait and hook,

We wound our happy way,

Till by and by we spied a place

O'erhung with verdant boughs,

'Twas just the place for catching fish

And making loving vows.

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Song Writers of Ohio.                     303

 

CHORUS:

Then we caught the little fishes,

And we whispered loving wishes,

Along the brook, with bait and hook,

In the merry month of May.

Ah, happy the moments, all the livelong day,

Fishing with my sweetheart, in the month of May.

Said I, "Little sweetheart, listen,

While I tell my happy wish!

I'd give my earthly riches all,

If I could be a fish.

I'd turn aside from every bait,

Until I came to thine;

Oh what a pleasure to be caught

By sweetheart's hook and line."

The fish we caught that May-day,

We shall ever dearly prize;

But sweetheart caught the largest one,

In fact, 'twas just my size;

And now I am the happiest fish,

That ever took the bait;

And sweetheart dear is ever near,

My happy, loving mate.

 

PATRIOTIC SONGS.

Patriotism and politics often have little in common, but in

Ohio they seem to flourish in close proximity. Even the most

radical Democrat will forgive Thompson for writing a Protective

Tariff March when it is remembered that he is a son of the city

of East Liverpool, far-famed for Republican majorities and the

manufacture of pottery.    He will be forgiven freely when it is

understood that personally he takes little interest in politics and

that he has written songs that breathe the broader and deeper

sentiment of patriotism. The second of those here given is one

of his latest productions, having been published in 1904:

 

GOD SAVE OUR UNION.

God save our Union,

May it ever stand;

Watch o'er our happy land,

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Through day and night,

Be thou our guiding star;

Protect us with Thy power,

Shield us, for Thine we are,

Oh, guide us aright.

 

God save our Union,

May truth and right prevail;

Tyrants and despots fail,

Bind treason's hand.

Father, we look to Thee,

Keep us forever free,

Our preservation be,

O God, bless our land.

 

God save our Union,

Prosper our glorious land;

One firm, united band,

Happy and free.

Angel of holy peace,

May wars and tumults cease,

Friendship and love increase,

Throughout land and sea.

 

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.

Soldier, to arms, hear the country's call,

There's war in the air, we must fight or fall

The trumpet is sounding, the battle is near,

But our gallant army has nothing to fear.

 

CHORUS:

Shoulder to shoulder, together, boys,

Musket to musket, with cheer and noise;

To arms! to arms! prepare for the war!

The call of the bugle comes from afar.

 

Good-bye, my sweetheart, good-bye, home,

Your soldier is off, he must march and roam;

We love you our darlings, more than you know,

But, when there is war, to the front we must go.

 

We fight not for empire, we fight not for fame,

We fight for our homes and our country's name;

Columbia, Columbia, the land of the free,

Our homes and our dear ones, we battle for thee.

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Song Writers of Ohio.                     305

 

The sun never shone on a land more free,

This God given country's for you and me;

Beloved by our fathers, beloved by us all,

The soldier is honored who honors thy call.

 

OTHER SECULAR SONGS.

From a long list of secular songs of almost equal merit, the

following have been selected.

 

THE MIDNIGHT FIRE ALARM.

'Tis midnight, and the sleeper

Lies dreaming, free from care;

But anon his dreams are broken,

By sounds on the midnight air,

Strange sounds like a hissing serpent,

Or the roar of a mighty stream;

Then the fire alarm is sounded,

And the sleeper awakes from his dream.

 

CHORUS:

Hark! Hark! do you hear those mournful cries?

See! see! yonder light across the skies!

Now the fire bells are ringing,

Now the loud alarm is sounding,

See, the lightning flames are flashing,

Sound the midnight fire alarm.

 

The fireman, quick to action,

Like magic springs to his place,

The engines rush by madly

Like dragons of fire at race, -

The sound of the wheels on the pavement,

The noise of the swelling crowd,

The shouts of men at duty,

And the ringing of bells long and loud.

The glaring flames grow hotter,

And wave their wings on high;

The flying sparks grow brighter,

And paint the midnight sky.

This demon of fierce destruction

Knows naught but a tyrant's harm;

Oh God, protect and save us

From the midnight fire alarm.

Vol. XIV.- 20.

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UNDER THE MOONLIT SKY.

Under the fair moonlight,

When the bright stars are shining,

Wandering where the shadows gather,

Happy you and I.

Long, long ago in youth, Maud,

Happiest hours of life, Maud,

Under the moonlit sky.

 

CHORUS:

Oh, gently the moonbeams fall,

Softly the night winds sigh,

Bright, happy hours of love and joy,

Under the moonlit sky.

 

Under the quiet moon, Maud,

'Twas such a glorious evening,

When I spoke of love so tender,

Love for only thee.

Brighter the moonbeams fell, Maud,

Brighter the stars did sparkle,

Brighter my heart's high hopes,

Brighter my life to me.

 

Under the same old moon, Maud,

Under the same bright light,

Years roll on and still we wander,

Happy you and I.

Though we are old and gray, Maud,

Though we've not long to stay, Maud,

Still we'll be young and gay,

Under the moonlit sky.

 

I AM KING O'ER THE LAND AND THE SEA.

I am king o'er the land and the sea,

My power reaches out o'er the realm;

The good ship of state never fears for her fate,

When my hand rests secure at the helm.

My subjects are slaves to my own gracious will,

I am king of the bond, and the free

Come and go at my call, for I'm ruler of all,

Hail the king o'er the land and the sea.

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Song Writers of Ohio.                  307

 

I am king o'er the land and the sea,

My power there is none to withstand.

I have only to speak or to sign a decree

And my will is the law of the land;

I have treasures at hand and I've gold to command,

What more could my heart wish to be;

My banner's unfurled, and I'm known o'er the world,

As the monarch o'er land and o'er sea.

 

One is tempted to quote further. The words, of course,

without the music, convey a very inadequate impression of the

song. Especially is this true of the well-known "Come Where

the Lilies Bloom, with its numerous and beautiful refrains. "I

wrote it," says the author, "as I sat in my little boat one after-

noon at Chautauqua Lake while my companion rowed through

the lily beds. The surroundings generally suggest my themes."

The Denman-Thompson Quartette in the "Old Homestead" sang

this song for more than five hundred consecutive nights in New

York City.

SACRED SONGS.

The list of sacred songs is a long one and includes several

that have enjoyed more than national popularity. The first of

the two here selected, Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling has

gone to almost every land and has found expression in every lan-

guage in which Christian music is sung. It has been published

in the Hawaiian tongue and has enjoyed the favor of those

sturdy latter-day Puritans - the Boers of South Africa.

 

SOFTLY AND TENDERLY JESUS IS CALLING.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,

Calling for you and for me.

See, on the portals He's waiting and watching,

Watching for you and for me.

 

 

CHORUS:

Come home, come home,

Ye who are weary, come home;

Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,

Calling, 0 sinner, come home!

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Why should we tarry when Jesus is pleading,

Pleading for you and for me?

Why should we linger and heed not his mercies,

Mercies for you and for me?

 

Time is now fleeting, the moments are passing,

Passing from you and from me;

Shadows are gathering, death warnings coming,

Coming for you and for me.

 

0 for the wonderful love He has promised,

Promised for you and for me,

Tho' we have sinned, He has mercy and pardon,

Pardon for you and for me.

THE HARVEST TIME IS PASSING BY.

The fading flowers and autumn leaves,

With all their wondrous beauty,

They tell us life is passing by,

This life so full of duty.

Each falling leaflet tells us plain,

As on life's road we're wending,

The harvest time is passing by,

The summer days are ending.

 

0 traveler through this busy world,

One moment stop and ponder,

Was thy great mission here Below

For naught but gain and squander?

See how the wasted moments fly!

Not one returns for mending;

The harvest time is passing by,

The summer days are ending.

 

The days and months and years gone by,

Should be to us a warning,

To point our faces toward the sky,

Before the Judgment morning.

Then nerve the arm for glorious work,

The grain is ripe and bending;

The harvest time is passing by,

The summer days are ending.

Then turn to good the fleeting hours,

Each duty now attending,

The harvest time is passing by,

The summer days are ending.

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Song Writers of Ohio.               309

 

HIS WORK.

Something remains to be said in regard to Thompson's

aims and methods. He began with songs for the many. After

completing his studies abroad, he wrote a few instrumental

pieces of the "classic" order. "But," he says, "as I had already

been before the public as a writer of popular songs, my business

instincts told me I had better stick to writing music for the

masses. Since then my aim has been to write good, elevating

music, with words and melodies pure and clean, but not so difficult

as to be beyond the ability of the masses." Here we have his

purpose set forth very clearly.

His method he explains in his usual modest and direct way.

"How do you go about writing a song?" asked a friend.

Opening a folio of manuscripts he replied:

"You see here perhaps fifty or more manuscripts in various

degrees of completion. Most of them are unfinished, and some

merely contain the idea or theme. Others, you see, are almost

ready for publication. I carry with me always a pocket memo-

randum, and no matter where I am, at home or hotel, at the store

or in the cars, if an idea or theme comes to me that I deem

worthy of a song, I jot it clown in verse, and as I do so the

music simply comes to me naturally, so I write words and music

enough to call back the whole theme again any time I open it.

In this way I never lose it."

"But how do you get the music in your mind without going

to the instrument?"

"That is hard to explain to any but a musician. The music

comes to my mind the same as any other thought. As I write the

words of a song, a fitting melody is already in my mind, and as

I jot down the notes of the music I know just how it will sound.

I write the different parts of the harmony and the whole piece

is rehearsed in mind; I hear the blending of the different voices

and know just how each part will sound in its harmonic relations

to the other parts. Of course, to do this intelligently, one must

have a knowledge of the science of harmony, as there are rules

governing the harmonic relations of sounds just as arbitrary as

the rules of mathematics."

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310       Ohio Arch. and Hist. Society Publications.

 

About one year ago the writer met Thompson at his place

of business in East Liverpool. The conversation drifted to his

work. When told of a proposed sketch of his life he said:

"Certainly, I have no objection if you think the matter of

sufficient importance to print. I shall be pleased to answer any

questions, but I would prefer not to write anything in the nature

of a personal sketch. I frequently get requests to do that, and

while it would probably be all right to comply, I have an aversion

to autobiography."

"Are you at present composing?" he was asked.

"Recently I have not done much. Perhaps I have been living

a little too leisurely. I ought to be making use of my time, how-

ever. This thought has led me to take up the pen again."

Here he opened a table drawer, took out a few sheets of

manuscript and said:

"I am writing a military song, Shoulder to Shoulder."

He read one of the stanzas and hummed a few bars of the

music.

"I think, perhaps, it has some merit," said he, "but you can-

not always tell. A little thing sometimes makes a song or

spoils it."

BUSINESS CAREER.

This song writer, it is a pleasure to record, has made a

goodly fortune from his work. Blest with rare business judg-

ment, he has made every one of his compositions pay. Some,

of course, have been much more profitable than others: but in

the aggregate the returns have been large.

"Yes," he admitted, "the music trade papers sometimes speak

of me as the 'millionaire song writer,' which, of course, is over-

doing it," he added with a smile.

Inquiries directed to those whose judgment ought to be

good, however, led to the conclusion that our friend in this, as

in some other matters, was over modest. At all events, his work

has brought him a fortune of which any composer or literary

man might well be proud. It is doubtful if there is living in this

country to-day a writer whose compositions have had so wide a

sale. In addition to scores of songs published separately, he has

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Song Writers of Ohio.               311 issued in book form "Thompson's Class and Concert," "Thomp- son's Popular Anthems," and "The New Century Hymnal." Each of these has passed through a number of editions. His music store at East Liverpool has little to distinguish it from like establishments in other cities. The volume of busi- ness is large, however. Thompson himself exercises general su- pervision only. The details are left to subordinates. About fourteen years ago he married Miss Elizabeth John- son, of Wellsville, O. He spends his time very pleasantly, migrating like the birds of passage, with the change of seasons.

The winters are passed in Savannah, Ga., where he enjoys the society of congenial spirits who have come to know and appre- ciate his pleasing and substantial qualities. Through the sum- mer and early autumn months he resides in his native county. His country home near East Liverpool is a model of comfort and convenience. He frequently goes to the city and mingles freely with the people who are very generally acquainted with him, but who do not appreciate the fact that he is the author of many of the most popular songs of America. He is an active worker in the church. His faith is broad and tolerant. He stands for temperance, order and all that consti-

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312       Ohio Arch. and Hist. Society Publications. tutes good citizenship. Politics has no attractions for him, and he has never been a place seeker. He now fills most acceptably the only office that he ever held. He is president of the Board of Trustees of the local Carnegie Library. Through the summer he visits the library frequently and delights to browse among the shelves and note the progress of the work. He is interested especially in the wide circulation of books and draws the attention of the visitor to the fact that they go to almost every family of the city. And an interesting city this is, by the way. Here are the largest potteries in the United States. By water and rail finely decorated wares are shipped to all parts of the Union. The huge kilns, as they send their great columns of smoke into the clear sky, present an imposing scene. From shady lawns at places of vantage on the hill may be viewed an irregular array of roofs, with church spires proportionately numerous; busy streets, branching in many directions; the glittering river bordered on one side by rails over which the "iron horses" glide at frequent intervals, and crossed by a bridge that communicates with the beautiful farm lands beyond. Around is the music of industry, the rattle of machinery, the roar of transmuting fires, the shriek of factory whistles, a hoarse voice from the steamboat below, echoing among the hills. The local minstrel began by writing Liverpool Schottische. Will he not add to his rich repertoire a song that shall fittingly celebrate his native city?

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