"The combination of noises that accompanied your Market street serenade," observed Merrill, "reminds me of a ridiculous incident that occurred one night, when I and my flute were out with Tom Clearnote and Sam Startlem; Clearnote having his Kent bugle, and Startlem making his first public essay on the trombone, which he had taken a fancy to learn. We went to a house in Chestnut street, where there were three charming girls, who we soon saw had all properly disposed themselves for listening at the windows. We commenced with the March in Masaniello. Unfortunately, Sam Startlem, from having a cold, or some other cause, and being but a novice on the trombone, found it impossible to fill the instrument, or to produce any sound but a sort of hollow croak, that went exactly like 'Fire! fire!'—the cry which so often frights our town from its propriety.
"Just then the watchman was passing with a dog that always followed him, and that had a habit of howling whenever he heard the alarm of fire. On meeting the strange sounds, half guttural, half nasal, from Startlem's trombone, he very naturally mistook them for the announcement of a conflagration, and set up his customary yell.[83] In a few minutes, the boys issued from all quarters, according to their practice, by day and by night whenever there is anything to be seen or heard that promises a mob. The supposed cry of fire was reiterated through the street; and spread all round. Presently two or three engines came scampering along, bells ringing, trumpets braying, torches flaring, and men shouting—all running they knew not whither; for as yet the bell of the State House had not tolled out its unerring signal.
"In the general confusion, we thought it best to cease playing, and quietly decamp, being ashamed (for the honour of our musicians) to inform the firemen of the real cause of the mistake; so we gladly stole out of the crowd, and turned into a private street.—But excuse me for interrupting you.—Finish your narrative."
"There is little more to be said," resumed Cavender. "By the time we had afforded sufficient amusement to the market-people, the moon had long since set, and the stars begun to fade. So we all put up our instruments, and wearily sought our dwelling-places;—Harry Fingerley wisely hiring relays of black men to carry home the piano.
"But we have been talking long enough under these trees," continued Cavender; "let us walk up Chestnut street together, and tell me what befell yourself while serenading according to the fashion of Old Castile. Of course, you went first to Miss Osbrook?"
"I did," replied Merrill, smiling, and colouring a little; "and I played and sung for her, in my very best style, several of my very best songs. And I was rewarded by obtaining a glimpse of a graceful white figure at the window, as she half unclosed it, and seeing a white hand (half hidden by a ruffle) resting gently on one of the bars of the Venetian shutter—and as the moon was then shining brightly down, I knew that my divine Emily also saw me.
"From thence I went to the residence of a blooming Quaker girl, who, I understood from a mutual friend, had expressed a great wish for a serenade. She came to the window, and was soon joined by an old nurse, who, I found by their conversation, had been kindly awakened by the considerate Rebecca, and invited by her to come to the front room and listen to the music; on which the half-dozing matron made no comment, but that 'sometimes the tune went away up, and sometimes it went right down.'
"Having commenced with 'The Soldier's Bride,' I was somewhat surprised at the martial propensities of the fair Quakeress, who in a loud whisper to her companion, first wished that Frederick Merrill (for she had at once recognised me) would play and sing 'The Soldier's Tear,' and then 'The Soldier's Gratitude.' When I had accomplished both these songs, I heard her tell the old woman, that she was sure 'The Battle of Prague' would go well on the guitar. This performance, however, I did not think proper to undertake, and I thereupon prepared to withdraw, to the audible regret of the lovely Rebecca.
"As I directed my steps homeward, I happened to pass the house of a young lady whose family and mine have long been somewhat acquainted, and who has acquired (I will not say how deservedly) a most unfortunate sobriquet. At a fancy ball, last winter, she appeared in the character of Sterne's Maria, dressed in a white jacket and petticoat, with vine leaves in her hair, and a flageolet suspended by a green riband over one shoulder. Her mother, a very silly and illiterate woman, announced her as 'Strange Maria'—absurdly introducing her by that title, and saying repeatedly through the evening to gentlemen as well as to ladies—'Have you seen my daughter yet?—Have you seen Strange Maria?—There she is, sitting in that corner, leaning her head upon her hand—it is a part of her character to sit so—and when she is tired, she gets up and dances. She appears to-night as Strange Maria, and it suits exactly, as her name is really Maria. Her aunt, Mrs. Fondlesheep, chose the character for her out of some book, and Madame Gaubert made the jacket.'
"From that night, the poor girl has gone unconsciously by this foolish nickname. And, unfortunately, she is almost as much of a simpleton as her mother, though she was educated at a great boarding-school, and said a great many long lessons.