[Dan De Quille, The Flute-Player of the Plains, Salt Lake Tribune, January 1, 1890]

 

THE FLUTE-PLAYER OF THE PLAINS.

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Something of the History of the Mysterious Stranger.

BY DAN DE QUILLE.

            A personage who was quite a mystery to the emigrants who crossed the "Plains" to California in 1852, was the "Flute-Player." Many persons are still living on the Pacific Coast who remember the genial Flute-Player as a character of that season. He traveled on foot and alone across mountains, deserts and plains, halting of nights with any train that he overtook in the evening about camping time, and again, pushing ahead in the morning. On the Plains almost every season there was some one noted among the emigrants as a character or a crank who was heard of and inquired after both in front and rear of the long straggling procession that reached across half the continent. Among them was the "Wheelbarrow Man," the "Handcart Man'' and "The Man with the Cow," but no one felt any particular regard for these men, whereas, the "Flute-Player" delighted all and won all hearts wherever he made his appearance. Happening to know the full and true history of the Flute Player, I give it below as briefly as possible.

PART I.

LITTLE DICK AND THE OLD GERMAN COBBLER.

            In the little village of Palmyra, in the State of Ohio, in 1845, dwelt Dick Richardson, a boy of fifteen who was noted as a flute-playing prodigy. As a child Dick was always singing and was passionately fond of music. When twelve or thirteen years of age an old German shoemaker named Jacob Hess opened a little shop in the village. The old shoemaker was the possessor of a flute on which in his leisure moments he played in a sweet and artistic manner. Little Dick haunted the shop of the old German. The ear of the boy was ravished by the melodious tones of the flute. He would sit as one entranced while old Jacob played. However, it was seldom that the old man could give much time to his loved instrument. He could only devote to it the twilight interval between sundown and dark.

            Every evening Dick was sure to be at the shop to drink in the "concord of sweet sounds," to him heavenly nectar. This attendance and almost idolatrous worship of his art pleased old Jacob. Soon Dick began playing on the flute and revealed such aptitude and talent as quite won the heart of the old shoemaker. Jacob not only allowed the boy to spend all his spare time in the shop at practicing but also took great interest in his progress. Often would the old man lay down his lap-stone and hammer or put aside a half-cobbled shoe and take the flute in order to show the boy how some difficult passage should be rendered; but when the tones of the flute sweetly warbled through the intricate part the old man would encouragingly cry: "Recht so! Recht so!"

            Dick's parents were Quakers, and were supposed in common with most others belonging to the "Society of Friends" to hold music to be one of the vanities of this life. Though Dick's father was not pleased with a taste which he thought liable to lead to idle ways, his mother loved music and in secret comforted her boy.

            Though his mother Dick finally received money with which to buy a note. It was not a costly instrument, but happened to be one that possessed a fine tone. It was kept in secret at the shop of the old cobbler. There of evenings Dick and old Jacob would play together. Of Sundays the pair stole out of the village and wandered away along a forest-shaded creek known as "Indian Isaac's Run," a noted Wyandot brave having been buried on its borders in the early times.  Seated under a tree, with the birds and squirrels for an audience, the old man and boy spent all the pleasant Sundays of the year in playing together.

            So it went on until the old German declared that he could teach the boy nothing more—that the pupil had become master. Even at this time, when Dick was not yet fifteen years of age, he was much inclined to seek out melodies for himself and much of the music he played, particularly when alone, was improvised. He would stroll away into the meadows and the old primitive forests where he would play to the birds, to the breezes in the trees and to the passing clouds.

            At last it chanced one evening when Dick and old Jacob were "at it in full concert," Dick's father was passing by the little shop and looking in was thunderstruck to see that his son was one of the musicians and was deftly fingering what might be ranked as one of the "wind instruments of the world's people."

            As the old man listened und wondered his heart was softened. He had in his soul a love of music, but knew it not until it was awakened by the soft tones of his son's flute. Long he lingered and listened near the door of the little shop, while Dick, unconscious of his presence, played on.

            When the good old gentleman reached home that evening he related to Rachel his wife the wonderful discovery he had made. Rachel was, of course, also greatly astonished. Was he right sure it was Richard ? Why not have him bring his flute home instead of keeping it in secret at the shop of the old German ? She would so like to hear the boy play. She did not say anything about the score or more times she had herself lingered near the shop of the old cobbler on pleasant summer evenings.

            The next day Dick's flute found place in his father's house. In the evening the mother proudly ushered her son and his flute into the presence of the father in the parlor. At first the boy was somewhat abashed, but being one whose soul was instinct with music, he soon played well and sweetly. The old gentleman very complacently absorbed the soothing melody, and thereafter he almost every evening wanted the "evil spirit within him" charmed away by the notes of his boy's flute.

PART II.

FERNANDO WOOD'S PRESENT—THE IVORY FLUTE AND THE STORY OF THE OLD MUSICIAN.

            About this time (1845), Fernando Wood, long one of the ablest leaders of the Democratic party in Congress, visited the little town of Palmyra. He was only about 33 years of age, but had already served a term in Congress. He was related by marriage to the Richardsons and for several days was the guest of Dick's father. The cultivated New Yorker heard Dick's performances on the flute with undisguised astonishment. Almost every day during his stay he asked the boy to play.

            One day when Mrs. Richardson entered the parlor unseen by Mr. Wood she found him examining Dick's flute and muttering aloud: "Only a common affair—a cheap, common thing ! Remarkable boy—wonderful genius for music !"

            A few weeks after the return of Mr. Wood to his home in New York, there came to Dick a case containing a flute of pure and solid ivory. At the same time there came to Dick's father a long letter from Mr. Wood.

            He said that having seen the flute in the window of a pawnbroker, where it had remained unsold for many months, he determined on hearing his son play that he should have the instrument if it still remained in the window on his return to New York.

            The pawnbroker, Mr. Wood proceeded to say, told him that the flute had belonged to a grave German musician, who was in very bad health and who parted with the instrument as the last and most loved of his earthly possessions shortly before his death. The pawnbroker had heard this old musician play on the flute the saddest, sweetest music that ever reached his ear. It was on the occasion of his parting with it. It was his farewell to his flute. A week later he had heard of the old man's death.

            Of evenings the pawnbroker had heard about his place soft notes that seemed to come from the flute. The sounds were like the low wailing notes of the old musician at the time of his last visit. He had at times found himself moving to the window to watch the flute. It was probably only the wind blowing through the window upon the flute, yet at times it had made him "feel queer." At times, too, he had seen outside upon the glass what seemed to be the shadowy form of the old German artist; but it was probably only some loitering vagrant peering in at the window, yet it made him "feel queer."

PART III.

OLD JACOB AND THE IVORY FLUTE.

            When the old German shoemaker saw the ivory flute for the first time his eyes almost left their sockets. "Ach, Gott !" he cried—"Ach Gott in Himmel ! Ach, mein Lieber, dies ist ein sehr schoner flote !" and he took the instrument into his hands as tenderly as if it had been fabricated of the bones of some saint, instead of the tusks of an elephant. "Bei meiner seele !" cried the old man, as he fingered the many silver keys of the instrument—"bei meiner seele ! It is a thing I believe of the Vaterland." Then the old man tried the flute.

            Each moment he ceased playing to express his admiration. "O," he would cry. "it answers to the faintest breath ! It speaks the very sighs of the soul ! It has been well taught—well taught ! It has been the treasure of some great musician," and again he viewed it over as a holy relic of some musical saint.

            When Dick told Jacob what Mr. Wood had written of the former owner, the old man cried: "I knew it—I knew it ! Ach, Gott !— ach, the poor soul ! He was the one that taught the flute—that put the tone into the ivory and gave it life. He taught the flute to know and answer a sigh before it left the heart."*

            As Jacob handed the flute back to Dick after he had thoroughly and critically inspected it he solemnly said: "Ach, mein Leiber, it is the soul of Quantz, Bibock, Trommlitz and Boehm ! In this one flute is all they ever knew or strove for."

            Two years later (1847) Dick found himself settled in Iowa, to which beautiful land of prairies his parents had removed. In this new region the flute was made to discourse merry as well as sweet and melancholy music. The young people found that Dick's flute had power to inspire their heels to move very ably in the dance—could ring out reels and jigs which were characterized by the young settlers as " quick and devilish.'"

            In the new land, too, Dick became a "mighty hunter" of deer and other large game. It was said that by persistent following he could tire out an elk. He was fond of wild adventures on the prairie and sometimes disappeared for weeks—was off, it was said, among the Sioux or Winnebago Indians on some grand hunt.

            In 1852 Dick was 22 years of age, and being "his own man," determined to seek his fortune in the California gold fields. He joined a party of young men who had fitted out an ox

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* Many old flute-players claim to be able to detect something wrong when they take up their own instrument if it has been played on by an indifferent performer, and say it takes some time to get rid of the derangement of the fibers caused by discordant vibrations.

 

team and early in the spring began the long, tedious and perilous journey across the "Plains."  News came back that his party met with all manner of misfortunes.  Some of their cattle was stolen by the Indians, others were poisoned by eating some deadly plant, and the remainder gradually sank exhausted from overwork. It was said—some of the party wrote back to that effect—that finally the wagon was abandoned, guns and all heavy articles were thrown away and it was decided that each man should shift for himself. The Cholera had broken out on the Plains and all were anxious to get beyond reach of the pestilence that was filling hundreds of graves by the roadside in the wilderness.

PART IV.

THE FLUTE-PLAYER OF THE PLAINS.

            About the time that the cholera was at its hight there appeared on the Plains, traveling on foot and alone, a young man who seemed to possess the thews of the Anakim and the sinews of a Titan, with the powers of endurance of a young Sioux Indian. He was able each day to travel nearly twice as fast as the best ox teams and not many horse teams passed him, yet he seemed to be on the Plains merely for pastime. This young man was one who would attract attention anywhere, even among thousands. His form was tall and commanding, his countenance clear and open as the day, and his manner grave but kindly with always a merry twinkle in his eyes that seemed to tell of an internal reserve fund of humor. Though a young man he seemed one whose experience in life had been greater than that of most men of middle age. What there was in his manner that gave this impression it was hard to say, yet wherever he appeared all persons at once and instinctively acknowledged it. Though young in appearance no one thought of him as young and he was deferred to as though he had been a man of fifty.

            The young man carried no baggage or belongings of any kind except an ivory flute. Although he halted of evenings at the camps of emigrants it was seldom that he remained two nights in succession with the same party, and then only through some freak or friendship. He trusted to luck for food and as regarded sleeping accommodations he was quite content to repose upon the ample bosom of mother earth.

            To all who in that memorable year made the journey across the plains this independent traveler was simply known as the "Flute-Player." The owners of fast horse teams who had seen and heard him carried his name ahead, and all along the great overland road the emigrants were told of the wonderful flute player who was coming and would reach there in a day or two. Thus "The Flute-Player of the Plains" became a character who was known along the whole route from the Court-house Rock to the Sink of the Humboldt, and from descriptions of his appearance that had preceded him he was recognized as soon as he came in sight.

            Although at a first glance there seemed something fantastic or jaunty in the dress of the Flute-Player, on closer inspection his garments were seen to be only such as were customarily worn on the Plains at that time, and badly soiled and tattered at that. The peculiarity was in the manner of the man and in his style of adjustment and wearing his raiment. Even without a feather his hat seemed that of a Spanish Don.

            Each evening when the young man came to where trains of emigrants had turned aside from the road and pitched their camp for the night, he would stroll up to that fire about which was soon the largest and merriest group.

            Seating himself, he would soon begin cracking such dry jokes as would set all in a roar, he alone maintaining a face of imperturbable gravity. This introduction would be followed by a song or two and finally the flute would be produced. If they had not recognized him before, all about the camp fire would then shout: "The Flute-Player ! Hurrah, the Flute-Player of the Plains !"

            Then the flute-player feasted. Nothing in the camp was too good for him. When supper was over there would often be a dance—if the ground was suitable—the young people from a score of wagons gathering in about the principal camp fire. When morning came and the flute-player announced his intention of pushing ahead, he often found it difficult to get away from the friends of the previous night.

            Provisions were free for as long as he might choose to remain with the party, and all manner of offers were made him; even in some instances good wages and very light work, but with a last tune or a farewell song the flute-player would stride away to be seen no more by those of that particular camp.

            The people on the Plains had many discouragements that season and the flute-player came to them as a herald crowned with the star of hope and promise. His flute and his songs gave him not merely a hearty but a really enthusiastic welcome wherever he made his appearance, his singing was peculiar, and as wonderful as his flute-playing. He was what a certain old German in Ohio would have called a genuine "Tonkunstler." Every word was uttered as distinctly as though spoken by a trained orator, and there was besides the melody a peculiar emphasis or delicately marked expression of appropriate feeling in leading passages—whether merry or tearful—which made the meaning of the words still plainer. This seemed to be accomplished by means of a slight but skillful modulation of the voice, after the manner of the practical and artistic actor. Very few of his songs were such as were known. Where he got them no one was able to say. They seemed peculiar to himself and were probably his own. Some of them were the thought of the moment and though rude had much meaning for the people on the Plains.

            Half a dozen wagons would be creeping through the desert sands, with oxen "lolling" under the hot winds and no water near for the thirsty stock, but such as was bitter and poisoned with alkali. While the little train of weak ones that flocked together as "birds of a feather," moaned and murmured and creaked along, a bright-faced young man would suddenly appear among the dolorous people and his voice would ring out—

                        "Though the sands and the winds and the waters are our foes,

                        And the red man lurks in the willows where the green grass grows,

                        Above in the blue of the sky there's a smile for us still,

                        And ahead is a land of gold and rest and health for the ill.

 

                        Then let us the sands and the winds and the waters defy,

                        And where he lurks in the willows let the red man die,

                        For there's hope for us all in the smile that's above in the blue,

                        And there's luck in the land ahead for the brave and the true !"

            "The Flute-Player !" "Hurrah, the Flute-Player !" would then be the cry. The train would halt for a tune or two, and then the musician would push on in his own way, followed by the good wishes and blessings of the cheered and again hopeful party. On such occasions even the sick and the old and infirm crawled to the front of their wagons to listen, to gaze upon and to thank the flute-player.

PART V.

THE EMIGRANT WOMAN'S DEATH.

            One afternoon a sorrowful party was encamped near the head of the Humboldt, where bright water sparkled among rushes and willows or lay dark and cool in the shade of bordering cane grass and aspen groves. On a couch in the shade of a spreading cottonwood tree lay a dying woman. The woman began her journey as a bride and would end it as a bride—the bride of Death. Men, women and children were gathered about the couch, all feeling their helplessness on such an occasion and the sadness of death far away in the wide, spreading wilderness.

            The woman had once apparently escaped from the clutches of the prevailing pestilence, but had suffered a relapse. The husband was worn out with watching and seemed stunned and bewildered when told that his wife would not that night be alive. Some were wishing that a train would come up in which was a doctor. Some wished for a minister and others hoped for both.

            Finally a man was descried on foot and alone, steadily striding down along the bank of the stream, and all eyes were turned toward him. As the footman drew near he was seen to be as brown as an Indian and his clothing, tattered and torn, flapped in the wind.           On his arrival in the camp the stranger at once approached the couch and gazed sadly upon the pinched and pallid features of the dying woman.  He was asked by some one whether he were either a physician or a minister of the gospel, for men of all professions were then to be seen on the Plains who were quite as shabbily dressed as the one before them.

            On hearing a negative answer, the husband cried: "Oh, it is hard—hard to see my poor wife die with none of the surroundings of civilization or solaces of religion!"

            "I am not one who has an ordained right to either preach or pray," said the stranger, "but I will do what I can to comfort and soothe the poor woman."

            To the astonishment of all, he then produced a flute and began fitting the parts together. "My friends," said he, "it has always seemed to me that music is a small part of Heaven that by the goodness of God has been permitted to find a place on earth for the assuagement of the woes and ills of mortals."

            Then, laying aside his old slouched hat, the stranger seated himself on the ground near the couch.  For some moments he gazed on the white face of the dying woman, who lay motionless with closed eyes and apparently unconscious of all that was passing, then he placed his flute to his lips and breathed into it what seemed to be a gentle call to some invisible spirit.

            At the first low, sweet, inquiring tones of the flute the woman smiled and opened her eyes.  She then signed to be propped up on her couch and her head being supported on pillows she eagerly drank in the silver-toned notes that rose and fell like the sweet breathings of gentle breezes on aeolian strings.

            All in the camp drew near and stood about in a silent circle. Almost in awe they remarked the rapt look of the dying woman and the earnest face of the inspired flutist seated beside the head of her couch. The men uncovered their heads as though they were in some holy place, and the cheeks of the women ran with tears.

            As the musician continued, the woman closed her eyes as if to shut out all but the soothing tones the flute breathed forth, and with a smile on her lips she lay motionless as marble, and as white.

            This flute told the whole story of the pilgrimage on the Plains; the parting with loved ones at home; the bright anticipations of all at setting out; the beginning of troubles, hopes and fears, and finally the sorrows of all mortals here below, with the joys of the dwellers in the realms above.

            When at last the music ceased, the woman opened her eyes and turning her head with an effort gazed in apparent wonder at the personage seated by her couch. In a moment, however, she smiled and held out her hand. The flute-player gently clasped the thin fingers, then laid the hand back upon the dying woman's breast.

            The musician was about to rise when by a great effort the woman in a faint voice said: "Again, please."

            The flutist gazed upward for a moment toward the deep blue of the sky, as though seeking inspiration from above, then from his instrument came sweet and happy notes that seemed to speak of all trouble ended, with naught for the future forever but peace, rest and the bliss of the regions of the blest.

            Toward the close of his improvisation the notes of the flute-player grew lower and lower, as though he were soothing a child to sleep. Sometimes they for a moment ceased altogether, then began again fainter and farther away until at last there was only heard a soft, melodious sighing as of an aeolian harp somewhere in the air above. Then the musician ceased. Laying his flute across his lap he took one of the woman's thin hands and pressed his fingers upon the wrist. Rising to his feet he stood and gazed for a moment down at the while face resting upon the couch, then turning to the husband who was standing nearby he said: "My friend, your wife is dead !"

            "Dead !" groaned the husband, "Oh, no; it cannot be ! She will again revive !"

            "Yes, she will revive," said the flute-player; "she has already revived—revived never again to die. My friend, her soul knew not when earth-born melody ended and that of heaven began."

                        "And at last when we've both friends and foes forgiven,

                        The pains, the ills we've wept through here shall turn to joy in Heaven !"

            With the last words the flutist passed from among those standing about the camp, and with swift strides pursued his way down the river bank, a lone and striking figure in the red light of the declining sun.

            "Mother, was that a preacher ?" asked a little girl.

            "No, my daughter," said the mother, "it was only the Flute-Player of the Plains."