united states military music—the roger williams park—indians—rhode island scenery and amusements—yankees—experiences—a miner from california

in providence i made friends with a military band conductor. he was a jolly customer, hard up but good-natured and humorous, a real american bandmaster of the old convivial school, kind at heart and fond of good whisky. his greatest virtue was a commonplace one: he would always pay you back anything he borrowed, but unfortunately he was hard up and could not do so. he had every excuse for this, for, as elsewhere, bandsmen, indeed musicians in general, were supposed to be able to live on melody and royalties that might arrive in some remote future. i worked for him, borrowed my comrade’s clarionet and secured a position in the military band. it played in roger williams park, performing on the usual holidays and on sunshiny evenings.

american conductors believe in vigour and fire when they perform, and sacrifice artistic pianissimo to force and go: on the march the bands lift you off your feet through the lilt of the music. the characteristic go-ahead of the yankees is finely illustrated by the music they perform, and the military bands swing the population along as they march down the streets: men, women and children instinctively fall into line. a pied-piper-of-hamelin fever seizes hold of the citizens; the whole population is suddenly on the march as the band goes by. i played in the band on the fourth of july, a day celebrated by fireworks and gun-firing. americans go mad on that date, wear masks and do other hideous things; it’s a kind of guy fawkes celebration.

the roger williams park is partly wild and partly cultivated, and artistically laid out with gardens and miniature landscapes that in summer-time are a paradise of flowers. various kinds of tropical-looking trees abound, in scattered clumps that are haunted at sunset with bright, roving eyes: for springing from bough to bough jump swarms of big, wild, grey squirrels; their brush tails, a foot long, stick up as they jump. the children are their boon companions, and come miles with lumps of cake and bread to feed their tiny, soft playmates; for they are as tame as white mice, spring down from bough to bough and sneak a peanut off your hand, turn, brush your face with their tails and are gone! in a second they are sitting on a skyward twig nibbling away at your gift, safe against the blue sky. i found a nest of them at pawtucket falls, a wild, beautiful spot near rhodes. as i was looking at the fluffy youngsters the mother arrived and, to my astonishment, chased me away.

at pawtucket falls, too, i met a group of travelling indians, menagerie people i think, en route for somewhere. fenimore cooper and other indian tales still interested me, so i talked to them and spoke to “bull face,” a grave-looking chief, tawny and wrinkled with years, and clothed in a heavy brown blanket which swarmed with fleas. he spoke english as well as i did; but the south sea island breeds are far removed from the indian tribes, both by blood and habit. i never sought his tribe again. i also saw indians camping at ochee springs; real indians they were, with squaws attending to their wants as they blinked their eyes and gazed scornfully on the onlookers. smoking their calamets, dressed in tribal fashion, they inspired me with curiosity. i cannot say that the women were as handsome as i expected, for they had stolid, broad, reddish-brown faces and expectorated frequently as they sucked clay pipes. a pretty little papoose tugged at its mother’s breast, and did not look unlike a south sea island baby, excepting that its forehead was high and receding, and it had an impertinent european look. the women carry their suckling babes in a basket on their back: when the babe finishes pulling at the breast it crawls into the basket behind and goes to sleep until the next meal. i saw the papooses of another tribe too; the children looked like little wrinkled old men, and you might have thought that they were small authors sitting on their bundles of unaccepted manuscript, so worried did they look.

providence is a spacious city; english towns are in the shade compared to it, and seem overcrowded and gloomy. the streets are wide; terraced store buildings on each side tower to the skies. piazzas shade the pavements and the citizens from scorching sunlight and rain. america has built her cities on the improved plans of the old world, and so has an advantage over london and our provincial towns. room to breathe in is the natural birthright of america. extensive parks, rushing rivers, and relics of primeval scenery surround the city, and divide the suburbs for miles and miles.

no sign of poverty is betrayed by the well-dressed crowds that chatter cheerfully up and down the main streets; street-arabs are unknown. a mile end woman of london town in rags, with bruised nose and eyes, walking down the street would create a sensation in providence, and their weekly papers would devote an article to the distressing incident.

brilliantly lit saloons shine in the evening streets, and regiments of laughing youths and girls hurry to the various depots, bound for the ferry-boats on moonlight trips down the rivers. the bars are closed on sunday, but men trust men, and more sly rum is drunk on sunday than weekdays. niggers with ebony faces mingle with the white population, wearing white collars which support their ears: a shabby nigger has never been seen in providence. if you shoot a nigger and do not kill him you are in danger of getting six months in the state prison for wasting shot and powder!

many of the characters you meet in american cities remind you of englishmen, but you can never really forget that you are in america. no true yankee with self-respect allows you to quash his opinion. nothing on earth can beat providence, boston, or any state you happen to be in. they will argue for ever; and if you at length say anything that has indisputable conviction in it, a true yankee will squirt a stream of tobacco juice with the deliberate intention of not missing you.

things of this kind worry you for a while, but you soon fall into their ways, and if you are smart can outrival them on their own ground; but you have got to be smart. to tell the truth, americans have good reason to be proud of their states, and really have plenty to blow about.

literary critics have hinted that bret harte discovered his characters in his own imagination. i can on oath dispute that fact. grim mr billy goat whiskers, who fought in the north and south wars, draws his munificent pension, chews tobacco and dwells in providence to-day. you do not meet him everywhere, but he is to be met.

in the grog saloons old miners from california told me their experiences, drew from their pockets photographs of gold nuggets and of gold claims that revealed small white dots in the far background—the tombstones of men who had thwarted them! they were innocent-looking enough, these men scarred with wounds, tropic heat and bad rum. they followed the various occupations that suited aged heroes. one old miner from alaska suddenly arrived in providence quite penniless. his name was cargo. walking down z—— street, he spied the name of cargo over a sign-writer’s shop, walked straight in, spat on the floor, called the “boss,” and tried to make him believe he was the ancestor of the family of cargo, and the rightful owner of the business. he was immovable. they expostulated with him; he would not go, so they gave him a job and thus saved legal proceedings in the high courts of the state, and the expense of regiments of lawyers who would dispute the true owner’s claim to his business.

providence is full of reminiscent men who tell of adventures that are wide and wonderful.

if you are disinclined to go to the theatre you can always go into a bar and in peace and comfort sit within earshot of some grog-nosed hero of the old school, and find subject matter to outrival the romance of fiction. you must take good care not to let the old fellow know you are listening, otherwise he leaves facts alone and, with ill-concealed pride, makes your blood congeal with vivid descriptions of old days, murder and despair, or your mouth water for a breath of the fortunes that knocked around ere you were born.