The Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Basil Ryasdale speaking for DuPont. The story of tonight's cavalcade is the story of the man who could well fit the title of America's ballad maker. He was Stephen Foster, gentle, shy Stephen Foster, who has given America many of the songs she loves best. Stephen Foster touched life and found song, song which has become a heritage and tradition in America's cavalcade. In the eyes of those who lived as his contemporaries, Stephen Foster died a failure. In the hearts of those who have lived since, he has been as meaningful as the sun, as needful as the full mellow moon. Gentle Stephen Foster, who taught America to sing. The narrator and chronicler of the Cavalcade of America, Thomas Chalmers. The summer of 1826. On July 4th it was an exuberant nation that celebrated the 50th anniversary of its declaration of independence. In a grove behind a rambling white cottage in Lawrenceville, just outside Pittsburgh, the friends and neighbors of William B. Foster were gathered for a holiday feast. And according to a custom at the time, no one sat at the head or foot of the table. Those places were reserved for two portraits. At one end of the table, a picture of George Washington, and the other one of Lafayette. Thirteen prepared formal toasts were drunk, one for each state of the original union. And it fell to William Foster to propose the second. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a toast to Lafayette, distinguished friend of America and of universal liberty. And now, I know you won't mind, I would like to propose another toast. A toast to my wife, who, for reasons you all understand, could not be here this noon. Tell me, William, have you picked out a name yet? Well, if it's a boy, we thought we'd name him for our neighbor's little boy, Stephen Collins. And if it's a girl, Mr. Foster? Well, I really hadn't thought of that possibility, Mrs. Templin. That isn't just like a man. Excuse me, Mark Foster, Dr. Foster, she and the house right away. Oh, yes, yes, if you'll excuse me. Certainly, William, certainly. Now, let us know right away. You know, Mrs. Templin, I'll never forget the time when my first boy was born. I hope this one's a girl, just to show you men. Well, our country's flag was designed by a woman. Of course, Betsy Ross didn't leave space for enough stars, but she couldn't be expected to see that far ahead. But as I was... It's a boy! It's a boy! A boy! What did she say? It's a boy, and Mrs. Foster is all right. An eight-pound boy. Well, just as I thought. Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast to Stephen Collins Foster, born on the 50th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. May he one day be President of the United States. Stephen Collins Foster! The boy born into the world that memorable Fourth of July was a shy, gentle child, staying much to himself, content of an evening to fall asleep beside his mother, as she played and sang hymns, the only music she knew. And yet as Stephen grew older, she was perplexed and could not understand a strange aptitude at making tunes and setting them down on paper. To a father who spent his days in the hustling bustling 1840s, music was a woman's pastime. A man's work was the building of his new nation. Young men were going west, so one day in 1847, on a dock beside a river packet, 21-year-old Stephen Foster kissed his mother goodbye and gravely shook the hand of his father. Take good care of yourself, Stephen. I will, Maura. And keep that scarf wrapped around your neck. It's a long way to Cincinnati. No, Maura, Stephen's a man. Now he can take care of himself. Sure, why, I'll be head of the firm if I want him foster in no time. Not if your brother Dunning can help it. You better remember at first that you're just a bookkeeper. I've written him to show you no favors. Goodbye, Maura. Goodbye, Dad. I've got to go. In Cincinnati, Stephen Foster worked hard for the firm of everyone in Foster. He was a good bookkeeper, but while he worked, figures turned into the notes of melodies continually singing in his mind. Then one night after a performance at Melodion Hall, he called on William Rock, a minstrel performer who affected long curves. The meeting took place in Rock's dressing room. Come in. Mr. Rock? Yes. Well, my name is Stephen Foster. Yes, well? Well, I wish you'd sing one of my songs. Hmm, write songs, do you? Well, I'm really a bookkeeper. It's my brother's firm. Perhaps you've heard of them, Erwin and Foster? Oh, yes. Well, do I remember purchasing tickets there from a cell from a troupe. That was for our Southern tour. So you're going into trade, eh? Bookkeeper. Deadly, dull, deadly. Hope you'll survive it. Well, I didn't choose bookkeeping for a career. Oh, well, as a songwriter, you're talking on my level, young fellow. Songs are my business. Rock, stable, harmonious. Have you got that song with you? Yes. It's not worked over much. Well, I'm always looking for new material. Songwriters nowadays are terrible, young man, terrible. It's called O Susanna. Oh, not exactly in the minstrel line, but let me see it. Well, the first time it was ever sung was at Andrew's Eagle Ice Cream Saloon over in Pittsburgh. Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm. Not bad. Frame has quite a lilt. Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm. Say, it's a catchy piece of note juggling at that. Do you think an audience would really like it? Well, I don't know. These comic songs don't always get the laughs they're supposed to. I'll tell you what I'll do, though. I'll have one of the boys try it out in the show. Thank you, Mr. Ror. Oh, don't mention it, young man. Any time you've got another song, boy, just ask for Billy Rorke at the stage door. The one and only minstrel singer. If there were mistakes in Stephen Foster's bookkeeping that week at Irwin and Foster, it was understandable. And on Saturday afternoon, he stood in the wings of Melodion Hall as Rorke's black-faced minstrels went through their paces. Now tell me, Mr. Bones, what do you think of his singing tonight? He's singing tonight, but it's all right, Jip. He's doing it on the high link. And now a new comic song, Oh, Tudara, rendered by our singing star, Mr. Tinkler of the Sable House. I come from Mali, Bambi with my bangle on my knee. I'm far away, Louisiana, back to La Bodicee. It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry. The sun's so hot I throw to death. Oh, Susanna, don't you cry. Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me. I come from Mali, Bambi with my bangle on my knee. Oh, when I get to New Orleans, I look around and round. And when I find Susanna, I fall right on the ground. But if I do not find her, this stock will surely die. And when I'm dead in Paris, Susanna, don't you cry. Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me. I come from Mali, Bambi with my bangle on my knee. Yeah! Oh, Susanna reflected the spirit of America before the Civil War. The Americans sang it, freight handlers on the levees, workers on the railroad, pioneers forging westward in covered wagons. But only a few knew that it was written by Stephen Collins Forster, for whom bookkeeping was becoming daily more arduous. Something had happened to Stephen. He didn't hang around theaters anymore. After supper in clean collar, a bouquet of flowers in his hand, he'd go calling on a young lady named Jane McDowell. One day early in 1849 in the office of Owen and Forster. Four, seven, thirteen, twenty-three, twenty-two, five, nine, seventeen, and eight is, uh, 17 and eight, 17 and eight. By the ring, the zingy weather lines the bubble hair. Oh, uh, hello, brother. Well, Stevie, busy? Well, I'm afraid my mind was wandering there for a minute. Oh, what's the trouble? You're in love? No, no, of course not. Just, well, tunes keep running through my head. They seem to crowd everything else out. Well, you were doing very well at this job for a while. I thought you'd given up this songwriting. I know that it's not fair to you when you've given me this chance to make good in business, but I just can't seem to keep my mind on the figures. I don't know what it is. I think there's something more ailing you than songwriting, Stevie. Come on now. You're in love with Jane McDowell, aren't you? Well, what if I am? Well, you know what the question is. You might as well say it and get it over with. Take yourselves a nice honeymoon and come back here ready for business. I tell you, Stevie, the possibilities for a young man like you are unlimited in this country today. Look at your brother Morrison. Not 30 yet and already successful in the cop and brokerage business. This is no time to be fooling around with songs, Steven. There's work to be done. Perhaps you're right, Dunning. It isn't fair to Jane either. I'll ask her, and if she says yes, I'll settle down and make good, Dunning. I promise. It was a soft summer evening in July 1850 when Steven pulled the doorbell of the McDowell mansion. Old Joe, the family man servant, admitted him. Oh, Marshal Steven. Evening, Joe. How are you? Marshal Steven, I... Is Janie in the library? Yes, sir, but that's... Don't bother to announce me. I'll go right in and surprise her. I'll come along. Well, Joe, you're feeling better these days, I hope? Well, sometimes it's hard to keep going, Marshal Steven. When you get to be my age, you're putting me at the other side anyway. Why, surprised to hear you talk like that, Joe. Oh, good talk, Marshal Steven. Well, soon to see all the folks I love the most. But, Marshal Steven... Joe, I'm going to tell you something. I've got to be a fine, upstanding businessman from now on for Janie's sake. I'm not going to write any more songs. No more songs, Marshal Steven? Oh, sorry to hear that. Well, maybe I'll write just one more for you, Joe. Well, thank you, sir. But listen, Marshal Steven, you must know... What's the matter with you, Joe? Now, here we are. Quiet now. I want to surprise Janie. Janie! Oh, this is... Well, Steven, I'm sorry. Really, I am. I didn't realize you were going to call tonight. Steven, you know Mr. Richard Collins. How do you do, sir? It's deadly confusing. Oh, think nothing of it, Miss Jane, I assure you. Yes, well, as I was about to say, Miss Jane... Jeff, that is, Mr. Jeffrey Williams, said to me... Oh, but Ronald wouldn't have been of her ice cream social at all, because he likes ice cream. You know, likes ice cream. Yes, yes. Steven, will you put that book down? Reading. Jane o'clock, Miss Janie. That late? Oh, then it's time a gentleman retires. Good night, Miss Jane. Thank you for an unusually charming evening. Good night, Mr. Collins. Going my way, sir? Steven! Well, good evening, Miss Jane. This way, Marshal. Thank you, Joe. Really, Steven, Mr. Collins is one of our up-and-coming young lawyers. Now, Janie, you listen to me. I want your answer, yes or no. My answer? Steven, what... Yes or no? It's yes, Steven. Janie... Well, I'm not much good, but I'll try to make you happy. I'll give you everything I can. I know you will, Steven. Oh, I love you, Janie. I loved you from the first moment I saw you. Your hair and your hands. So little, soft. Oh, dingy dear, I love you so. Some months after they were married for a belated honeymoon, Janie and Steven boarded the River Packet to New Orleans. Down the Ohio to the Mississippi, down past Cairo, past Natchez and Vicksburg, down to New Orleans. Floating on the broad tranquil waters moving slowly down to the sea, their lives were filled with joy and joy. The night birds, the boat whistles, the churning paddle wheels, and the songs of the stevedores rolling the great bales of cotton, wove themselves into haunting melodies in the mind of Steven Foster. Happy, darling? Oh, so very happy. Happy, darling. Happy, darling. Happy, darling. Happy, darling. Happy, darling. Happy, darling. Happy, darling. I think this is the loveliest night of all time. The moon's almost full, isn't it? It's like the end of a song. A song I'm going to write someday, out of all that. Oh, you'll be proud of me for writing that song, darling. You'll... Oh. Steven, what's the matter? I forgot what I promised Dunning. No more songs. I'm a married man now. I've got to concentrate on business. Would you mind that so much? Of course not. There's a great future for a man like me in business. Particularly now. I read the other day... You would hate it, wouldn't you? Maybe a little, sometimes. I must go back, Jimmy, to the real world. Back to Irwin and Foster. Back to bookkeeping. What would happen if you didn't go back to Irwin and Foster? Maybe success. Maybe ghastly failure. But Susanna would have made a lot of money if I'd handled it right. And I can write other good songs. We'd have a living anyway. Jeannie. Yes, Steven? Would you stay by me? Oh, Steven. Steven Foster never went back to bookkeeping. He finished the song he'd begun on their river trip. It was a good one. He took it to E.P. Christie, a prominent minstrel singer of the day. I hope I'm not intruding, Mr. Christie. That's all, Foster. What have you got for me? Another song? Well, it may not be what you want at all. It's not a comic song. All right, play it for me. Well, shall I sing it, too? The words are rather important. All right, all right. Only get started. Way down upon the spawning river, far, far away, Death where my heart and turning ever, Death where the old folk stay, All up and down the whole creation, Badly I roam, Still longing for the old plantation, And for the old folk at home. All the world, then sad and weary, Everywhere I roam. Oh, darling, how my heart grows weary, Far from the old folk at home. Mm-hmm. Not bad. You like it? Yeah, I think I do. Oh, I hope that you would. I called it the Petey River at first, and then I heard of a river down in Florida, the Suwannee, and I changed it way down upon the Suwannee River. I tried several publishers, but they weren't interested. Mr. Christie, since I quit Irwin and Foster, I'm desperate. I've got to get my songs published, and you... Well, you can put your own name down as a composer, Mr. Christie. Yeah, I thought I could. I'll have. Then after a while, my own name would appear. I'll tell you what, Foster. I'll give you $15 for the public to think I'm the composer, and I'm sure First and Pond will publish the song. You'll get two cents for every copy sold. Here's the 15. Is it a bargain or not? Very well, Mr. Christie. It's a bargain. Within a month, the whole nation was singing all folks at home, the song beginning with the words, Way down upon the Suwannee River. But on the title page was printed the name of E.P. Christie as its author. In the years that followed, Stephen Foster was to write other successful songs and be credited during his lifetime with their authorship. But he was never to forget that one fatal mistake. And for the rest of his life, he became a virtual wanderer, unable to maintain his home, often friendless, forsaken by all except his faithful dog, Trey. But the death of old dog Trey left Stephen Foster alone. And the song which he wrote about Trey brought him enough money for train fare to New York. Songs by Stephen Foster kept appearing, but no one knew that Stephen Foster was ruining his life and going his forlorn way each shattered night back to the frightful solitude of his room on the Bowery. One night in 1861 in the back room of a grog shop. Hey, Mike. Who is that? Oh, that's a sad-looking fellow. I see him sitting down there every night. Oh, him. That's Steve Foster. Foster? Same name as the songwriter, right? Well, that's who he is. And your name is Lincoln. Go over there. He'll show you a nice brand new song. He's always got a flame in his pocket. Yeah? Go on, go on. You'll see. Pardon me. Are you Stephen Foster? Why, yes. How did you know? Never mind that. I want to shake your hand, that's all. Thank you. Thank you very much. I don't understand it. How did it happen? How could it have happened? It happened? Well, it did. You never know why things happen. I wanted so much to do something for Jeannie. To give her a good life. But it's all gone. Jeannie's gone. I remember the night Joe let me in. Oh, Black Joe. He's gone too. You mean the one in the song? Oh, they're all in the song. Maybe I have done something for them. Maybe the songs will last. The things are beautiful. They die. There's a face, flowers, a beautiful melody. Maybe people didn't have time to bother with someone who couldn't do anything but write songs. There was something much more important. For three years it was the same story. Then just 75 years ago last Friday, a police reporter was checking in his stuff with the night editor of the New York newspaper. Have you got anything Billy? Gang fight in Delancey Street. Warehouse on fire on North River. Not much either place. But this may be something. A fellow named Stephen Foster died in Bellevue Hospital. Stephen Foster? Who was he? I don't know. They found a purse on him with 38 cents in it. There was a slip of paper. Yes? Something he'd written. Dear friends and gentle hearts. Probably read it some place. Shall I write it up? No, no I don't think so. But you'd better give me something on the fire at the warehouse. Dear friends and gentle hearts. So passed from this world Stephen Collins Foster. And as long as song lives in the human heart, the melodies of Stephen Foster will never be forgotten. Melodies that have become folk songs in the cavalcade of America. This is Basil Rysdale again and I have good news and a safety headline tonight. Death rate on highways reduced 33 and one third percent in three years. Just three years ago January, the Automotive Safety Foundation organized a campaign to save human life. Tonight it looks back on a year which, according to all estimates, will show nearly 8,000 lives saved as against 1937. And it carries me back to my wonder world of chemistry and the part it played in helping to save human life. Not so very long ago, men working in the DuPont's wonder world of chemistry developed an important new product. Crystal clear lucite plastic made from coal, air, and water. It molds so accurately that it's been made into remarkable roadside reflectors. And when you are traveling at night, you and your family, these reflectors placed on posts pick up your headlights and reflect back the light like diamonds in a sunbeam. They outline the road a mile ahead of your car. They were first used last spring on a highway in Michigan. And I am told that in 26 weeks, accidents were reduced by 60 percent as compared with the previous year. And now 17 other states are using them to save human life. But the wonder world of chemistry is never satisfied, which brings me to another achievement of chemistry, the newest development in safety glass. Now safety glass is a sandwich, a sheet of transparent plastic between two plates of glass. And DuPont chemists now offer an even better layer for that sandwich, butacite plastic. More stretch, more flexibility, it takes a heavier blow to break this new safety glass. And it holds whatever glass is broken more tightly. Why, I've seen a pane of this better glass smashed into fine bits and then rolled up like a rug and the glass held in place. And the march toward greater safety touches tires, too. You know what excessive heat does to an automobile tire. You know what blowouts may mean. For 10 years, DuPont men and engineers in the rubber industry have been working to conquer it. The new heat inside a tire may run as high as 250 degrees Fahrenheit. And under such terrific heat, ordinary cords may lose up to 50 percent of their normal tensile strength. Then, to withstand that heat, DuPont developed a new rayon cord, cordura rayon, made from cotton linters. These rayon cords are affected only 10 or 15 percent. Heat resistant, safety. Technical, no, it's romance. And those figures on safety prove how each day finds us coming closer and closer to the goal, safety for everyone. The goal of men who work in a wonder world of chemistry, who live by a great tradition, expressed in a DuPont pledge, better things for better living through chemistry. Next week, the story of a man who stands as one of the greatest inventors of any age, Alexander Graham Bell, will be presented by the Cavalcade of America. Until next week, then, at the same time, good night and best wishes from DuPont. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.
