The date is September 5th, Thursday, and today I’m traveling from Jakarta to Bali in Indonesia. 

Today is the birthday of Robert Fergusson, Scottish poet. 

He enrolled at the University of St Andrews in Scotland in 1765 at the age of about 15. While there, Fergusson narrowly escaped expulsion, made important connections and honed his writing skills. When his father passed away in 1768  he moved back home to help support his mother. 

He got involved in the bohemian scene in Edinburgh and began contributing poems to a small weekly periodical. He wrote poems both in English and “Scots.” 

Scottish bard Robert Burns cites Fergusson as a major influence on his own work, inspiring him to write in both English and “Scots” as well. Burns even paid for a new headstone for Fergusson’s burial plot. 

Fergusson achieved his legacy in a very short time - he died in 1775 at the age of 24. He was involuntarily sent to a mental hospital after a fall left him with a concussion. He lasted just a few weeks at the asylum. (Perhaps his sudden and suspicious death helped bring attention to his work?)

And today is the birthday of Amy Beach, American composer and pianist. 

Although Amy was something of a child prodigy, her parents tried not to indulge her too much in her desire to perform, believing that seceding to her demands would spoil her. They did allow her to receive proper training as she matured, and her career as an exacting pianist began when she was just 16 with a performance at the Boston Music Hall. 

In 1885 at age 18, Amy married 42-year-old Dr. H.H.A. Beach. It was his second marriage. Dr. Beach was apparently encouraging toward Mary in her music, but ultimately the union stunted the growth of her performance career. At the time, it was frowned upon for married women to perform musically unless for charity’s sake. Amy Beach then turned her attention toward composing. 

Beach’s composing ability was largely self-taught. Dr. Beach disapproved of her having a private tutor, and so Mrs. Beach read as many books as she could on the subject. Her first score came in 1892 with a public performance of her Mass in E-flat Major. It was a hit with critics who compared Beach to Bach. 

Beach’s Gaelic Symphony was her next piece. It was the first symphony composed and published by an American woman. The Boston Symphony gave a performance of the piece in 1896. The symphony gained her a reputation as an unofficial “one of the boys” of the unofficial Second New England School and the sixth member of the Boston Six. Four years later, Beach performed as the pianist in her own Piano Concerto with the Boston Symphony. 

The success of her compositions saw Amy performing more. Beach performed her own compositions in Boston, Philadelphia, New York, and Chicago to delighted audiences. 

With the death of Dr. Beach in 1910 and her mother several months later, Amy sank into a depression. She headed for Europe hoping to distract herself. 

While in Europe, she recovered from her melancholia and began to play and compose again. She was a favorite in Germany and wrote numerous compositions there. However, she wouldn’t have access to them until 1929 when her suitcase which had been confiscated at her departure in 1914 (the start of WWI), was finally released to her. 

Returning to America, Beach published more of her compositions and received a decent income off the sales of her work. Later in life she then turned toward mentorship, hoping to help other female musicians, composers, and conductors make their way through the changing music scene.

Amy Beach passed away in 1944 at the age of 77. 

A Burlesque Elegy

Robert Fergusson

On the Amputation of a Student’s hair, before his Orders.

O sad catastrophe! event most dire!

   How shall the loss, the heavy loss, be borne? 

Or how the muse attune the plaintive lyre, 

   To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn? 

Say, ye who can divine the mighty cause 

   From whence this modern circumcision springs, 

Why such oppressive and such rigid laws 

   Are still attendant on religious things?

Alas, poor Strephon ! to the stern decree 

   Which prunes your tresses, are you doom'd to yield? 

Soon shall your caput, like the blasted tree, 

   Diffuse its faded honours o'er the field. 

Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell, 

   And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay; 

For, hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell; 

   This hour bespeaks the barber on his way. 

O razor! yet thy poignant edge suspend; 

   O yet indulge me with a short delay; 

Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend, 

   Ere his proud locks are scatter'd on the clay. 

Ere the huge wig, in formal curls array'd 

   With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face; 

Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid 

   To banish lustre from the sacred place. 

Mourn, O ye zephyrs! for, alas! no more 

   His waving ringlets shall your call obey!

For, ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore,

   Since Strephon's locks are scatter'd on the clay. 

Amanda, too, in bitter anguish sighs, 

   And grieves the metamorphosis to see. 

Mourn not, Amanda, for the hair that lies

   Dead on the ground shall be revived for thee. 

Some skilful artist of a French frizeur, 

   With graceful rinklets shall thy temples bind, 

And cull the precious relics from the floor, 

   Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind. 

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.