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The Story of a Song.

Perhaps the most popular song ever written was « Ever of Thee. » It is not untrue to say that no song ever had such a sale, and certainly no publisher ever reaped so much profit from a song as did Mr Turner from the publication of « Ever of Thee. » But there is a romance attaching to it which, until now, has not been written. It happened in this way.

On a cold day in January of 1850, the door of Mr Turner's music shop, in the Poultry, London, was nervously opened, and a most unclean and ragged specimen of humanity dragged himself in. He looked as if he had not been washed for months; his beard was unkempt, and dirty, and matted; for boots he wore some folds of filthy rags; and in all he was a specimen of the most degraded class of the community.

One of the clerks said to him: « You get out of here. » Two ladies who happened to be in the shop noticed his woe-begone look, and were about to offer him some money, when a Mr T., a clerk in the establishment, seeing the poor fellow shivering with cold and apparent hunger, pitied him and brought him into the workshop so that he might have a warm-up by the stove. A few minutes after, Mr Turner, the proprietor, came in, and seeing the ragged individual, asked what he wanted, and who allowed him in.

« I did, » said Mr T.: « the poor fellow looked so cold and miserable, I couldn't send him out in this piercing wind without giving him a warm; and, besides, he says he has some business with you. »

« ؟Business with me? »

« Yes, sir. I have a song I should like you to listen to. »

Turner eyed him from head to foot, and then laughed outright.

The miserable-looking object at the stove began to grow uneasy, and begged to be allowed to play the air of his song, which he produced from beneath his rags and handed to the music-publisher. Turner looked at it, and said, « ؟Who wrote this? »

« I did, sir. »

« You! Well, I'll have it played over, and if it's any good, I'll give you something for it. »

« I beg your pardon, sir; I'd prefer to play it for myself. »

« What! ؟you play? Well, bring him up into the piano-room when he gets warm, and we'll humor him. »

In a few minutes the bundle of rags was seated at a concert grand piano, and « Ever of Thee » was played for the first time by its composer, James Lawson.

His listeners were electrified when they heard this dilapidated-looking tramp make the piano almost speak. His touch was marvellous, and his very soul seemed to be at his finger-tips. When he had finished, he turned to his little audience, and said- —

« I'd like to sing it for you, but I have a terrible cold. I haven't been in bed for five nights. I'm hungry, sir, and I feel I could not do it justice. »

Turner was almost dumb with amazement. The air would take; he knew it would be a success, and he decided that this man had a history which perhaps might advertise the song. So he decided to cultivate him, and in flattery, as he thought, pressed him to sing just one stanza. Lawson protested, but finally agreed, and if Turner was amazed when he heard him play, he was positively enraptured when that hungry voice—hungry with love, hungry physically—poured out, in the sweetest of tenors, the first stanza of the song in which his soul lived. It was the story of a lost love, but he cherished it, and as he sung it was easy to see that he lived and breathed only for that love. « Ever of Thee » has never been so sung since. That trial verse made its success, and to the experienced publisher, Mr Turner, it was manifest that he had secured a great song. Addressing Mr T., he said:

« Mr T., take this man along; get him a bath, some decent clothes; in fact, fix him up like a gentleman, and then bring him here, and we shall see about this song. »

T. took him along. He took him to a bath, and while the unclean was being made clean. he bought for him a shirt, a pair of shoes, some socks, collars, cuffs, and underwear. Then he had him shaved. Then they hied to a clothier's, and having removed the rags, Lawson was quickly clad in fine raiment. The change was beginning to tell. Already the tramp seemed to be the guide and treasurer. He was a splendid-looking fellow, and had quite a distinguished appearance. But the hat was still there, until a mirror-like chimney-pot was purchased to complete the make-up. T. laughed when all was finished. He was in his working-clothes, and this unfortunate looked like a duke. The good clothes fitted him, and they suited him and his appearance much too well to continue the assumption that Mr Lawson was a tramp. He was a gentleman all over, and he looked it. T. said to him,

« Mr Lawson, I wish you would go into the shop before me. They won't know you, and it will be such a joke. »

« I don't mind that, Mr T., but ؟ won't you let me have a drink? I want it—please let me have a drink. »

T. refused; he told Lawson that if he wanted a dinner he could have it: but drink he could not have. Finally the two went into the Ship and Turtle dining-rooms, and, over chocolate and sirloin steak, the author of « Ever of Thee » told the following story:

« I was once rich, Mr T. You know what I am now. You were astonished to hear me play the piano so well. That little song has been the only companion from which I have gained any comfort for the past twelve months. It brought back to me the days when I was rich, loved, looked up to, and happy. Of course, it has its sad side for me. But the memory of what it recals is the dearest thing in my existence. »

T. interrupted him at this point, and indicated that it was growing late.

« Please bear with me, » rejoined his companion, « Let me tell you how and why I composed the little song. Two years ago, I met a girl in Brighton. If God ever allowed one of his angels to come on earth, she was that one. I adored her. She seemed to return the affection. I escorted her everywhere, was at her beck and call morn, noon, and night, and it was currently believed that Miss Blank and I were engaged. I had to return to London on business, and when I went back to Brighton she was gone.

« Three months afterwards I met her at a ball. She had just finished a waltz with a tall good-looking man, and was promenading the hall on his arm. She recognized me. But when I said '؟How do you do, Miss Blank?' she quickly replied —

« 'I'm well, Mr Lawson, but I am surprised to hear you call me Miss Blank. When you left Brighton so suddenly, I thought I should never see you again. You left no address, never called again, and—well—I am married.'

« '؟To whom?' I gasped.

« 'To Mr Prize,' she replied, pointing at the same time to the gentleman with whom she had been dancing.

« That ended my life. My Marie, my dream, was gone. I left the hall, went to a low gambling place, and in drink and gambling endeavored to kill my grief. It lasted but a little time, for in four months I was penniless. Then came my trial. The men who had played with me shunned me. My friends shut their doors, and a few days later my last sovereign was gone. I was utterly stranded, homeless, and unhappy as it would be possible to make a human being. For nights I slept in the cabmen's coffee-houses; then I was considered a nuisance, and some doorstep served me for a bed. I pawned every trinket, decent suit of clothes—everything, and finally I spent three months in a work-house under an assumed name.

« It was there that the presence of Marie haunted me again. One day—Christmas day—we were at dinner. Several rich people came to distribute among us such gifts as tobacco and warm clothing. I was hungry, and did not look at the visitors, when suddenly a voice I knew said to me, 'My good man, ؟which would you prefer—some warm clothing, or some pipes and tobacco?' I looked up—it was Marie. I rushed from the table out into the fields, and there I was found, hours afterwards, insensible.

« In my bed there in that workhouse hospital, I wrote the words of the song you heard me sing to-day. Then I got well, and, sick of the life, I left the place and became night-watchman at some new buildings they were putting up in Aldersgate-street. While there the music of my song came to me. I got a scrap of manuscript music-paper, and jotted it down, and for a time I was happy. My old friends often passed me at night, happy and careless, little dreaming that James Lawson was the poor night-watchman who answered their indolent questions. Often, when all was still, I poured out my soul in this little song, and after a while the street-boys used to come and listen to me. It pleased them—to me it brought back the memory of a dead love and a ruined life.— But you are tiring of my story. There is little more to tell.

« I could not endure the solitary meditation on my past. I again began to drink. I lost my situation, and as a last resort I thought that perhaps my little song was worth a few shillings, and brought it to Mr Turner. »

At this the poor fellow burst into tears. When he was himself again, they went out, and a few minutes afterwards Mr Turner, addressing Lawson, said:

« Mr Lawson, here is a half-sovereign. It will be enough to get your supper and a decent room to-night. To-morrow morning I want you to call here, and I will give you a good position in my warehouse. As for your song, remember this—if you will keep sober I will pay you a good royalty; but if you spend this money in drink, not another penny will you get. »

Lawson left the shop, and did not make his appearance for five days. Then he was in a condition almost as bad as when he page 12first entered it. His vest was gone, his boots were exchanged for old ones; his hat was—well, an apology for a hat. His coat (an old one) was buttoned tightly round his collarless neck, and his face was unkempt and unshaven—as unclean as before. Mr Turner looked at him. He did not even speak to him. The smell of stale rum told him all he needed to know. He took half-a-crown from his pocket, handed it to Lawson, and turned on his heel. Addressing Mr T. he said, « If this man comes here again, put him out. »

The composer left the shop, and heaven only knows what his fate has been. Certain it is that he never called at Turner's again.

Men, women, and children of every color and clime sing the song of the tramp, Lawson. And the composer and his sad life are forgotten and unrecognized in the dear old song, « Ever of Thee. »