A MUSICAL SAILOR.
The Washington correspondent of the New York Sun tells an odd story about a well-known violinist of that city. He says that the young man was shipped at Gibraltar by the executive officer of a vessel of our Mediterranean squadron as a landsman, the vessel having been short-handed on account of the return to this country of a large number of short-time men. As a landsman he did his work up to the top notch. He suffered a good deal of ridicule uncomplainingly. His messmates joked him because when he shipped his hair was chopped off in the back after the Russian muzhik fashion, and because he was generally a funny sight in the bluejacket "government-straight" uniform. Through it all the Pole was bland and smiling. He kept his bright-work well polished, and it was not found necessary to hale him to the mast when he returned from shore liberty.
One Sunday afternoon at Villefranche, when the Pole had been a landsman for about a month, an Irish marine, lolling below in one of the berth-deck alcoves, took it into his head to "break out" a really fine old violin which he possessed, upon which, to the intense misery of the whole ship's company fore and aft, he was accustomed at long intervals to saw "The Rose of Kildare," "The Rakes o' Mallow," "Bonnie Lakes o' Killarney," "Wind that shakes the Bailey," "The Meeting of the Waters," etc. These tunes the marine butchered outrageously; but being a mellow, complaisant Hibernian, he could not see anything wrong with his own music, and enjoyed it greatly. When he made the first scrape of his bow on this Sunday afternoon the Pole, who was on the spar-deck, was observed to cock up his ears and to betray some degree of excitement. He went below, and for a few minutes he nervously watched the big marine saw on the fine instrument. Then he impulsively reached out for the violin. The Irishman was so overcome with astonishment that he gave up the violin to the Pole without a word. Then followed an hour of music such as probably had never been heard on a man-of-war in the United States navy. To the writer it sounded every whit as beautiful as the performances of Sarasate, Ysaye, Remenyi, Joachim, Wilhelmj, and the rest of the masters of the bow who have inspired millions. This awkward, simple-looking Polish landsman was a violin virtuoso. He had not played two minutes before the officer of the deck had his head poked through a deck-light listening. There was a general exodus of officers from ward and mess rooms within five minutes. They all came forward with astonished expressions, and stood in the alcove taking in the Pole's music. All of the men who could get anywhere near the alcove crowded down the ladders. Pretty soon, unheralded even by an "Attention!" so enwrapped were officers and men, the commanding officer, who had heard the music from his cabin, tiptoed into the alcove. He remained until the musician was through. Absolute silence prevailed. There seemed positively nothing in the way of formidable violin technique that the Pole could not do. His bowing was dazzling. His chords were wonderful. His tones were perfect; his pathos so heart-rending that it made tough old tars gasp. He made it appear that playing triple chords up around the bridge of a violin was the simplest thing in life. At the conclusion of a Chopin Nocturne an officer weakly asked him to play the "Rhapsodie Hongroise." The Pole attacked the composition as Liszt used to attack it on the piano—with the pure fire and fury of inspiration. When he finally handed the violin back to the marine, who was in a stupefied condition, the man went forward and the officers aft without a word.
The Pole polished no more bright-work. A new place, unofficial, but not the less dignified and important, was created for him aboard the ship. He became musician to the commanding officer. It was a soft berth, such as even a haughty admiral's cox'un might have desired. The Pole's sole duty was to take the marine's violin into the cabin and play for the solace of the ship's commander. The commanding officer flouted some of his officers who suggested that so fine a musician as the Pole should be transferred to the flag-ship's band. He wouldn't hear of such a thing. He went ashore at Genoa and bought for the Pole a fine violin. When he had guests of distinction aboard the ship he would send for the Pole to entertain them, and the visitors went away marvelling. Once in a while, as a particular favor, the skipper would lend the Pole to his officers for a ward-room musical. The musician never got a higher rate officially than that of landsman, for there was nothing aboard the ship that the commanding officer would let him do, for fear he would injure his hands, but as a landsman he had absolutely no duties to perform such as fell to the lot of the other men of his rating. When his time was up, last August, the ship's Captain tried hard to induce the Pole to ship over, but he obdurately, and quite sensibly, declined. He was paid off in New York, and he came straight to Washington, where he has some well-to-do relatives, and hung out his sign as a violin-teacher. He has more pupils than he can teach, and more money than he ever dreamed of possessing. He resolutely refuses to say anything about his record, or to state how and where he got his musical education.
A FAST TRANSPORT-SHIP.
One of the proudest achievements of the American clipper-ships that we have to look back on is that of the famous Lightning, built by Donald McKay for the English firm of James Bain & Co. The McKay clippers were known all over the world, and England recognizing their merit, many orders were sent from that country. The Lightning was employed during the Sepoy uprising in India to carry troops and stores to Calcutta, and when she spread her snowy sails in the Downs and fairly had the bone in her teeth, she showed as neat a pair of heels to the steamer transports as any captain could wish for. It is on record that she beat the steamers every passage, and that not a sailing vessel under the British flag could keep way with her sailing side by side.