Beautiful Dreamer

By Sarah Taylor

"This is an interesting biography of the great songwriter Stephen Foster...The reader will learn much about Foster's life, family, and times in which he was living. Through stories from his Uncle Struthers, we learn about the Revolutionary War and the songs that were played then. During Stephen's life, we learn about the prohibition, and the unrest leading up to and after the beginning of the Civil War. We watch as Stephen, rejected by West Point, goes instead to Cincinnati to begin his dreams of publishing music." - Reedsy

 

"Before I read this book, I was of the opinion that biographies are often boring. Well, I have tried some before but quit them midway. But let me tell you, Beautiful Dreamer is unlike them all!

It deals with strong themes, which are sure to string up deep emotions in the reader." - Book And Brook

 

Quiet and dreamy-eyed, Stephen Foster wants nothing more than to be a musician in a world where boys are supposed to grow up and go into business, like the family hero, his older brother William. Even though he can play the flute perfectly from the age of six, his family's expectations of a traditional profession drive him to Cincinnati, where he works at his older brother Dunning's warehouse. While in Cincinnati, he publishes his first great hit at the age of twenty-one, "Oh! Susanna." With Firth, Pond and Company, the best New York publisher, to sell his songs and E.P. Christy, among the greatest of minstrel performers, to sing them, Stephen is sure he can make songwriting his business. He turns out hits like "Old Folks at Home" and "My Old Kentucky Home, Good Night," songs that Frederick Douglass said "awaken the sympathies for the slave," as if his life depends on it. With the Civil War approaching and personal tragedies striking, it does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Taylor
• Release date: Jul 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201294540

Sarah Taylor

Sarah Taylor has a BA in History and an MSLS. She enjoys reading and writing about history, playing piano, and going on park walks with her dog. You may find her at https://beautifuldreamerdotcom.wordpress.com and Goodreads at https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21550493.Sarah_Taylor.

Book preview

Prologue

Dear Friends and Gentle Hearts—January 9, 1864

I have an idea for another song, I told my friend, George Cooper, and showed him a scrap of paper from my pocketbook with Dear Friends and Gentle Hearts written on it. We’re partners in a music business that I call a song factory. He writes the poetry and I the music, and we already have a couple of similar titles, When Dear Friends Are Gone and When Old Friends Were Here.

That could work, Steve. He sat beside me in my room at the New England Hotel. Another song I’d started, Kiss Me Dear Mother Ere I Die, was also waiting for me in the dresser drawer. Who did you have in mind for the song? George asked.

I hadn’t thought about that yet. Perhaps friends like George in New York or old friends from Pittsburgh. Or possibly my parents and my sister, Charlotte, who died long ago. Maybe my ma or my sister Charlotte. They were gentle hearts.

Chapter One

Hail Columbia—May 1828 to May 1833

I barely remember my sister, Charlotte Susanna. She was nineteen when she died, and I was three. I remember her blue eyes dancing and the shine of her red hair when she played on our neighbor’s piano since we couldn’t afford one of our own. My ma and the neighbors clapped when she finished her song. I was only two years old when she left, so I have to rely on what my ma, Eliza Clayland Foster, and my pa, William Barclay Foster, told me about her when I was older. At age eighteen, Charlotte visited Pa’s relatives, the Barclays in Louisville, Kentucky, and his cousins, the Rowans in Bardstown, Kentucky. Cousin Atkinson Hill Rowan was quite taken with her. Charlotte didn’t feel the same, and she returned to Louisville, embarrassed, after refusing his offer of marriage. Ma wrote to Charlotte to encourage her to have Cousin Hill make her another offer, but he was pretty upset with her, and he never proposed to her again.

While Charlotte was in Louisville, the bank foreclosed on our house, the White Cottage. Pa served as the Quartermaster and Commissary of the United States Army but lost all his money sending supplies on personal credit to General Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans after the War of 1812. The government never paid him for the supply order. This, I suspect, is why Charlotte didn’t want to return home. I don’t remember much about the White Cottage, except for Lieve, the Haitian servant, bringing in the milk, and Ann Eliza, my sixteen-year-old sister, letting me pluck on her guitar. But Charlotte remembered the White Cottage. Pa eventually persuaded Charlotte to come to our new house on Water Street to help Ma with our new little brother, baby James. Everyone enjoyed having Charlotte home. She sat with baby James and me while we played together, and she helped Ma keep house. My sisters stayed up late together, talking with each other, but the new house was not the White Cottage.

Charlotte wanted to return to Louisville, so she and Ann Eliza left for Kentucky almost as soon as Charlotte came home. They stayed until Cousin Sally Barclay and her daughters fell ill with bilious fever. Pa asked for Ann Eliza to return home but for Charlotte to stay to take care of the Barclays, which he said later was a mistake. Charlotte also fell ill with bilious fever, and her boat couldn’t come home because of the weather. Whenever anyone asked me where she was, I said, Down the river, stuck in the mud. It was true. In her last letter, she said, The weather has been extremely warm, and we had a great deal of rain. Cousin Hill, who came up to Louisville to be with her, sent a tear-stained letter after she died about how peaceful she looked. She was only nineteen years old. The Barclays recovered, but Cousin Hill never married and died four years later of cholera.

The following year, baby James died, too. It took Ma a long time to recover. I didn’t remember, but Ann Eliza and Henrietta, my third-oldest sister, said Ma used to sit about listlessly in her chair, and only the Bible and the Church saved her. She finally said it was God’s will and began to accept James’s and Charlotte’s death. I’m not sure. Why would any god do that?

We had to move on before Ma was ready. We lived in rented houses, visited family friends, or broke up the family altogether. Once, when I was five, we even lived with a religious community, where Ann Eliza met and married someone from school, Edward Buchanan, who was training to be a minister. We then moved to a rented house near the Federal Street Bridge in Allegheny Town, on the North Side of smoky Pittsburgh.

While we lived there, Ma took me to visit Smith and Mellor’s Music Store when I was six. W.C. Peters, who taught my sisters music, worked there and greeted us at the shop's door. Good afternoon, Mrs. Foster, he said. He wore a hat and had a large, dark mustache.

Good afternoon. Ma turned to me. Stephy, this is Mr. Peters. Mr. Peters, this is my youngest, Stephen.

Does he play an instrument? Mr. Peters asked.

He wants to play every one he sees.

The shop was full of instruments, harmonicas, music boxes, and woodwinds, and I wandered over to the counter, where there were several flutes. Ma called me over, but I already picked up a simple-looking flute called a flageolet and studied the stops on it. Placing all my fingers on the holes, I blew a C. I found the other notes and played a few scales before starting to play Hail, Columbia, played every year on the Fourth of July, my birthday. Ma, Mr. Peters, and everyone else in the shop stopped to watch as I played. When I finished, they burst into applause. I’d never had a real audience before, besides my family.

That was perfect, Mr. Peters told me. It’s a wonder someone your age can play as well as you can. He needs to take music lessons, he told Ma. That talent can’t be wasted. We have an opening now—

Perhaps, when he’s older, Ma said, her smile fading. Ann Eliza and Henrietta had to quit lessons because Ma and Pa couldn’t afford it, and I wouldn’t be able to start. But we would like to buy him his very own instrument. I perked up at that; Ma had put aside enough money for that, at least.

If you insist. Mr. Peters looked disappointed as Ma handed him a shiny black and silver-keyed instrument, a clarinet, which he rang up at the counter.

But Ma beamed as she handed me the clarinet. I’m proud of you, she told me, her dark eyes bright. That was better than any applause.

After supper, Ma told everyone about the music store and my performance. My sister, Henrietta, whom everyone called Etty, was the first to speak. She was fourteen, dark-eyed, and a good piano player. We should play something together.

Are you going to learn to play ‘The Three Rogues,’ Stephy? Pa’s blue eyes twinkled. He preferred rough songs to popular music and never missed an opportunity to play his favorite song.

Pa took out his fiddle and started singing, his voice rough and laughing:

In the gold old Colony days

When we were under the King

Three roguish chaps

Fell into mishaps

Because they could not sing.

The first he was a miller,

The second he was a weaver,

And the third, he WERE

A little tail-ER,

Three roguish chaps together.

The miller he stole corn,

The weaver he stole yarn,

And the little tail-OR

Stole broadcloth FOR

To keep these three little rogues warm.

The miller got drown’d in his dam,

The weaver got hung in his yarn,

And the devil clapped his CLAW

On the little tail-AW

With the broadcloth under his arm!

My brother, Morrison, called Mit and three years older than I was, and I laughed and clapped our hands, always delighting in Pa’s playing that song. Dunning, who was twelve and had red hair like Pa, said, Sing it again, Pa.

Even Lieve, the Haitian servant, smiled a little as she cleaned up the few potatoes and turnips leftover from supper. As little money as my family had, we still managed to afford servants, who had even less.

I don’t think we’re going to play that, are we, Stephy? Henrietta asked. She liked sentimental music better.

Play the butterfly song.

Henrietta brought out her guitar. She strummed I’d Be a Butterfly and sang, "Living, a rover, Dying while fair things are fading away," while I found the notes for it on my clarinet, hardly missing a single one.

You play pretty well already, Stephy. It’s hard to believe you just got that today, Henry, my seventeen-year-old, dark-eyed brother, said. I spent the rest of the night playing it.

A few mornings later, Pa’s and Ma’s voices drifted from the dining room downstairs. I can’t keep them together, Pa said, his voice tired.

Let’s think about it, Ma replied. The older boys can get jobs and help with expenses. That way, you don’t have to worry about keeping them together. I asked my brothers, and they’re more than happy to let Etty and Stephy stay with them for a while. Mit can go to Ann Eliza’s until we’re back.

Pa sighed. It’s better than nothing, I suppose.

I ran out of the boys’ bedroom. They were going to make us leave again.

Good morning, Stephy, Ma said as I came into the dining room.

I don’t want to leave, I said and grabbed her arm.

Don’t worry, Stephy. We’re only leaving for a little while. You and Etty get to come with me on a steamboat to Kentucky to visit your uncles, and we’ll travel to Cincinnati to see our friends, the Cassillys.

I nodded. Ma and Pa weren’t breaking up the family.

Chapter Two

Come Rest in This Bosom—May 1833

The steamboat Napoleon stopped in the harbor of Augusta, Kentucky, the Ohio River swelling under it and the stars winking at Ma, Henrietta, and me as we filed off the boat. The gas lights illuminated the white buildings of the town almost as much as the stars did. Uncle Joseph and Uncle John, Ma’s brothers, greeted us as we reached the landing. Welcome, Eliza, Uncle Joseph told Ma, hugging her. How was your trip?

It was pleasant, she said. The captain took good care of us, and I met one of our neighbors on the boat.

Wonderful. I’m glad you had a nice time.

How are Etty and Stephy? Uncle John asked us, hugging Henrietta and ruffling my hair. I hid behind Henrietta’s skirt. I was always a little shy of people I didn’t know well.

We’re well, Henrietta said, but a little tired. She yawned.

Then we should get you to bed as soon as possible. Uncle John picked up some of the luggage, and Uncle Joseph the rest. They led the way into town, the streets quiet without anyone in them, a bell somewhere ringing eleven times. Uncle Joseph and Uncle John continued talking with Ma about the trip, but my head began to droop; we couldn’t reach Uncle Joseph’s house fast enough.

Here we are. Uncle Joseph set down the luggage and unlocked the front door of his Dutch Colonial house, white but almost yellow in the glow of the streetlamp. He and Uncle John carried the bags upstairs, setting them down in the guest bedroom. There were two beds, a larger one for Ma and Henrietta and a smaller one for me, and I wasted no time lying down on it.

He must be tired, Uncle Joseph said.

Stephy, don’t fall asleep yet. Ma touched my arm. Tell your uncles goodnight.

Goodnight, Uncle John said from the doorway, smiling. I’ll come back by tomorrow.

Goodnight, Henrietta and I said. Uncle John closed the door behind him, and I must’ve fallen asleep as soon as my head reached the pillow.

We had more for breakfast the next morning than I was ever used to having at home. Ma and Pa usually had toast and sometimes coffee or tea to fill up the empty spots, but Uncle Joseph had everything—tea, toast with jelly, ham, eggs. I devoured it as if I’d never eaten anything else like it again. Don’t eat so quickly, Stephy, Ma told me. Breakfast is delicious, Joseph, she added to my uncle. Who do I have to thank for the cooking?

Uncle Joseph seemed uncomfortable. I’m able to keep a servant or two. Kentucky might be a slave state, but I don’t hold with the practice.

I wasn’t sure. Slavery isn’t legal in Pennsylvania, Ma said delicately, but some of our relatives in the South have slaves. Pa’s cousins, the Rowans in Kentucky, kept many slaves.

Slavery shouldn’t be allowed in the North or the South. The Declaration says all men are created equal. When will that include slaves?

Ma was silent for a moment. No one spoke this way in our own house. Pa praised President Andrew Jackson any chance he could, but he didn’t spare any words on slavery, and Ma knew when to keep quiet.

Hopefully, this country will one day live up to the ideals of all men being created equal, Ma said. Until then, everyone is equal before God.

I can’t hold with the argument that slaves will only be free after death. If God created everyone equal, He would want everyone to be able to be equal and, most of all, free before entering His Kingdom. Our current president does not help. Andrew Jackson brought slaves to Washington for the first time since John Quincy Adams. I wish Henry Clay had won the election last year; he has a more moderate position towards slavery. Andrew Jackson defeated Henry Clay, the Kentucky State Senator, in the Election of 1832.

President Jackson has done some good, Ma said. He stopped last year’s Nullification Crisis; South Carolina had no right to pass a state act that they could nullify federal law. Senator Clay isn’t completely blameless, either. He owns several slaves. South Carolina passed the South Carolina Act of Nullification in 1832 to avoid federal laws in response to a tariff they believed unfair to the South, causing the Nullification Crisis.

Henrietta glanced between Ma and Uncle Joseph, and I kept my head down. I didn’t want Ma and her brother to argue.

Jackson’s handling of the crisis angered many in the South, Uncle Joseph said. He wanted to use armed troops against South Carolina. Clay reached a compromise without resorting to force; he would make a better president. Andrew Jackson is too hot-blooded.

Be that as it may, President Jackson has helped the common people. He’ll help us get the money back the federal government owes William for sending supplies to the Battle of New Orleans.

Your husband puts an extraordinary amount of faith in Andrew Jackson, was all Uncle Joseph said.

Through the silence, singing drifted outside from the hill:

The time draws nigh when you and I

Are to be separated;

But this doth grieve, our hearts to leave

Each other to be parted;

But let us see eternity,

And meet the saints with joy,

Our sighings o’er, we’ll part no more

But reign with Christ in glory.

Where’s that music coming from? I asked. The songs seemed sad, and I loved listening to spirituals. The melodies left a profound effect on me, always remaining with me and joining with the strains of music in my own mind.

The African Methodist Episcopal Church, Uncle Joseph said, the one on the hill. They sing up there every day and every night.

Can we go there? Lieve took me to the AME Church in Pittsburgh all the time. We sang the songs on the way to and from church, and I learned to play them once I owned a flute, sometimes improvising new notes or bars.

May, Ma corrected me, and I don’t think we need to go there now. I’m sure Uncle Joseph is very busy. My shoulders slumped. I could go at home, but not here.

I do have a class to teach at one. Natural Philosophy. Uncle Joseph pushed back his chair. I’m available until then if you’d like to see the town.

May we visit Augusta College? Henrietta asked. I’d like to see a girls’ college. Uncle Joseph was the president of Augusta College.

Of course. We can go now if you’d like.

Why anyone wanted to visit a school was beyond me. I never liked school, not since I was five years old at infant school with my older brother Morrison. The teacher, Mrs. Harvey, handed us copies of the New England Primer, which included lessons as fitting for infants as a man burning at the stake. When she asked me to read the alphabet, I ran screaming the entire mile home.

I would like to, said Henrietta, who was a much better student.

It was decided. After breakfast, we walked up to Augusta College, a large brick schoolhouse topped by a bell, and several teachers greeted Uncle Joseph as we entered. This is the elocution room, Uncle Joseph said as we passed, students standing and practicing recitations. This is the composition room, where students sat, their pencils scratching over the page under the watchful eye of the teacher. The students learn Latin and Greek here. The pupils stood inside, reciting in a foreign language. And this is the Natural Philosophy room for the seniors. Uncle Joseph beamed proudly as we passed his room.

I wish I could go to school here, Henrietta said. Everyone must be learning so much.

I’m sure there are exemplary schools in Pittsburgh, Uncle Joseph said. I take it you’re a good student?

Yes. School isn’t as much fun without my sisters, but I still like it.

Good. How about you, Stephy? Uncle Joseph turned to me as we left the school.

I shook my head. I don’t like school. Why did we have to go to school to learn to read and write when we could learn just as well at home?

He’s not a bad student, Ma said quickly. He—prefers being out-of-doors.

You could study to be a doctor, Uncle John said, coming towards us from down the street. I didn’t want to be a doctor; I wanted to play music.

John, I’m glad you came to join us. Ma smiled at him.

I thought I might find you here before Joseph’s class, and I was right.

What would you like to do before then? Uncle Joseph asked, checking his watch. I still have a little time before then.

Let’s see the town, Henrietta suggested before I could ask to visit the church on the hill.

We wandered up and down Main Street, the buildings brick and decorated with painted signs on the sides like Dry Goods or Apothecary. Men in top hats held their arms out for ladies in bonnets, their servants or their slaves behind them, and children ran up and down the street playing hoops and dodging carriages. Horses stood silently