Central Park Band Concert

Includes program.

“Amid the booming of cannon, fizzing of the fire crackers, shrieks of terrified females, plunging of nervous horses, and general amnesty of all law-breakers, where can a more desirable locality be found than in the beautiful garden of the American metropolis, where grayback sentinels frown down igneus patriotism, whether it takes the form of Roman candles, torpedoes or serpents? Yesterday, that wonderful anniversary, when the American eagle performs all those extraordinary actions ascribed to ‘him’ by loud mouthed orators of ninety-two years standing, the Park (the name Central is superfluous) was aglow with sunshine (ninety degrees Fahrenheit) and visitors. The rural element was prominent among the latter, for strange looking toilets and physiognomies, evidently of Jersey and Westchester manufacture, shone amid the kaleidoscope of linen coats, straw hats, red faces and gaping mouths that surrounded the Mall. . . .   Harvey Dodworth’s baton actually dropped tears, otherwise sweat, as he led his perspiring myrmidons through the mazes of Verdi, Meyerbeer, Donizetti, Suppe and Dodworth. Around his music stand, which in this case might be likened to the boiler deck of a Mississippi steamboat during a race with a rival, thousands squatted on the grass or stood listening to the seductive strains of the inimitable band. There was only one thing open to criticism in the performance, and that was the ophicleide. A meandering stream of liqueous matter, emanating from the eyebrows of the blower of this terrible instrument forced its way into valve and key and retarded, consequently, the tone of the brass affair. . . . and the sharpshooters at Jones’ Wood looked around after every stranger as a fair subject for target practice. And thus the day begun and waned; and the Park Commissioners emerged from parts unknown, with smiling countenances and immaculate vests. So mote it be!”