 The Cavalcade of America, presented by DuPont. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Basil Reisdale speaking for DuPont. The story of tonight's Cavalcade is the story of the man who could well fit the title of America's Balladmaker. 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 in his contemporaries, Stephen Foster died of 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. 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 of the time, no one sat at the head or foot of the table. Those places were reserved for two porters. At one end of the table, a picture of George Washington, at the other one of Lafayette. Thirteen prepared formal toasts were drawn, one for each state of the original union. And it failed 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 reason 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, Mr. Fenton. That isn't just like a man. Excuse me, Marge Foster, the doctor wants to see you in the house right away. Oh, yes, yes, if you'll excuse me. Certainly, William, certainly. Let us know right away. You know, Mr. Fenton, I'll never forget the time when Maya 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 need space for enough stars, but she couldn't be expected to see that far ahead. But as I was saying... It's a boy! It's a boy! What did you say? It's a boy, and Mr. Foster is alright. An eight-pound boy. 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. The boy born into the world that memorable 4th 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 him the only music she knew. And yet as Stephen grew older, she was surprised and could not understand his strange aptitude at making tunes and setting him down on paper. To a father who spent his days in the hustling, bustling 1840s, music was a woman's pastime. A man's worked with the building of this 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, ma'am. And keep that scarf wrapped around your neck. It's a long way to Cincinnati. Oh, ma'am, Stephen's a man. Now he can take care of himself. Sure, I'll be head of the firm of Irwin and 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. Goodbye. Goodbye, ma'am. Goodbye. Goodbye. Cincinnati Stephen Foster worked hard for the firm of Irwin and 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 Melodian Hall, he called on William Rock, a menstrual performer who affected long curves. The meeting took place in Rock's dressing room. Come in. Foster. Yes. Well, my name is Stephen Foster. Yes. Well. Well, I wish you'd sing one of my songs. Hmm. Write songs, will you? Well, I'm really a bookkeeper. It's my brother's firm. Perhaps you've heard of him, Irwin and Foster. Oh, yes. Well, do I remember purchasing tickets there from a cell from a troop. That was for our southern tour. So you're going into trade, eh? Bookkeeper. Hmm. Deadly dull, deadly. Hope you'll survive it. Well, I didn't choose bookkeeping for a career. Oh, well. It was a songwriter you're talking on my level, young fellow. Songs of 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 materials. Songwriters nowadays are terrible, young man, terrible. It's called Oh, Susanna. Oh. Not exactly in the Mr. Lime, 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. Not bad. The frame is quite a little. 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 laugh they're supposed to. I tell you what I'll do, though. I'll have one of the boys try it out with a show. Thank you, Mr. Roark. Oh, don't mention it, young man. Any time you've got another song, boy, just ask for Billy Roark at the stage door. The one and only Minstrel Singer. If there were mistakes in Stephen Forster's bookkeeping that week at Irwin and Forster, it was understandable. And on Saturday afternoon, he stood in the wings of Melodian Hall, as Roark's black-faced Minstrels went through their paces. I tell you, Mr. Bowen, what do you think of a singing tonight? A singing tonight? Well, it's all right, Jeff. He's doing it all behind the scenes. A new comic song, all together, rendered by our singing star, Mr. Tinker of the Sable House. Don't you dare, Susanna, don't you cry. Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me. I've come from there to bury with my angel of undies. 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 fight her, this dog will slowly die. And when I'm dead and buried, Susanna, don't you cry. Well, Susanna reflected the spirit of America before the Civil War. Millions sang it, great handlers on the levees, workers on the railroad, pioneers forging westward in colored wagons, but only a few knew that it was written by Stephen Collins Foster, for whom bookkeeping was becoming daily more arduous. Something had happened to Stephen. He didn't hang around feathers anymore. After supper in clean color, 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 Irwin and Foster, four, seven, thirteen, twenty-three, thirty, two, four, nine, seventeen, and eight is, uh, seventeen and eight, seventeen and eight. Oh, uh, hello, brother. Well, Stephen, 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. What's it giving 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, Stephen. 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. It 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 copper brokerage business. This is no time to be fooling around with song, Stephen. There's work to be done. Perhaps you're right, darling. But it isn't fair to Jane either. I'll ask her and if she says yes, I'll settle down and make good. I promise. It was a soft summer evening in July 1850, when Stephen pulled the doorbell of the McDowell mansion. Old Joe, the family man's servant, admitted him. Oh, Marce Stevens. Evening, Joe. How are you? Well, Marce Stevens. Is Janey in the library? Yes, sir, but that's right. Don't bother doing that to me. I'll go right in surprise. Well, come along. Well, Joe, you're feeling better these days, I hope. Well, sometimes it's hard to keep going, Marce Stevens. When you get to be my age, you're putting near the other side anyway. Well, I'm surprised to hear you talk like that, Joe. Of course, that's a good talk, Marce Stevens. Well, soon to see you and all the folks I love the most. But Marce Stevens, Joe, I'm going to tell you something. I've got to be a fine upstanding businessman from now on for Janey's sake. I'm not going to write any more songs. No more songs? No more songs, Marce Stevens? Oh, sorry to get that. Well, maybe I'll write just one more for you, Joe. Well, thank you, sir. But listen, Marce Stevens, you mustn't do... No, what's the matter with you, Joe? Now, here we are. Shh, shh, shh. All right, now, I want to surprise Janey. Janey! Oh. Oh, this is... Well, 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 definitely 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 at her ice cream social at all, because he likes ice cream. Uh, you know, likes ice cream. Yes, yes, sir. Steven, will you put that book down? Uh, reading. Here, Miss Lawrence. 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, I'm... Good evening, Miss Jane. Thank you, sir. Really, Steven, Mr. Collins, the one of our up-and-coming young lawyers. Now, Jeannie, you listen to me. I want your answer, yes or no. My answer? Steven, what? Yes or no. Yes, yes, Steven. Jeannie, I'm not much good, but I'll try to make you happy. I'll give you everything I can. Oh, I love you, Jeannie. 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 much. Some months after they were married for a belated honeymoon, Jeannie and Steven boarded the river packets in New Orleans, down the Ohio to the Mississippi, down past Carol, past Natchez and Vicksburg, down to New Orleans. Floating on the broad tranquil waters, moving slowly down to the sea, their love steeped itself in the calm, rich beauty of the old South. The night birds, the boat whistles, the churning paddle wheels, and the songs of the steeper doors rolling the great veils of cotton wove themselves into haunting melodic in the mind of Steven Foster. Oh, so very happy. I think this is the loveliest night of all time. The moon's almost full, isn't it? Like the end of a song. The song I'm going to write some day about all this. 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 men like me in business. Particularly now, I... I read the other day where... You would hate it, wouldn't you? Maybe. A little, sometimes. I must go back to you, neither the real world, back to Erwin and Foster, back to book people. Steven, what would happen to Erwin and Foster? Maybe success. Maybe death will pay you, right? But Susanna would have made a lot of money if I'd handled it right. I can write other good songs. We'd have a living, anyway. Zini. 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 you to E.P. Christy, a prominent mystery singer of the day. Hope I'm not intruding, Mr. Christy. That's all, Father. Well, 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. Well, I'm sorry. It's your word. I called at the Petey River at first, down in Florida, the Swanee, and I changed it way down upon the Swanee River. I tried several publishers, but they weren't interested. Mr. Christy, since I quit Erwin and Foster, I'm desperate. I've got to get my songs published. You... Well, you can put your own name down as the composer, Mr. Christy. Yeah, I could. Then after a while, my own name would appear. I'll give you $15 for the public to think I'm the composer. I'm sure First and Prime will publish a song. You'll get two cents for every copy sold. Man, here's the 15. Here's the bargain or not? Very well, Mr. Christy. It's a bargain. Within a month, the whole nation was singing all folks at home. The song beginning with the words was way down upon the Swanee River. But on the title page was printed the name of E.P. Christy as its author. First it 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 faithful 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, Tray. But the death of old dog Tray left Stephen Foster alone. The death of Trayn Foster in New York. Songs by Stephen Foster kept appearing. But no one knew that Stephen Foster was ruining his life. And going his full-on 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? That's a sad-looking fellow. He was sitting down there every night. Oh, him. That's Steve Foster. Foster? Same name as the songwriter, right? Oh, that's who he is. And your name is Lincoln. Go over there. You show you a nice, brand-new song. He's always got a flame in his pocket. Yeah? Go on, go on. You're safe. Are you Stephen Foster? Well, 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? But... it did. I never know why things happened. I wanted so much to do something for Jeanie. To give her a good life. All gone. Jeanie's gone. I remember the night... Joe let me in. Oh, Black Joe. He's gone, too. You mean, one in the song? Oh, they're all in the song. Maybe I have done something for them. Maybe the song's all last. The scenes are beautiful. They... They die. There's a face. Flowers. It's... It's a beautiful melody. That... Well, maybe... people didn't have time to bother with someone who couldn't do anything but... write songs. There was something much more important. Then just 75 years ago last Friday, a police reporter was checking in his stuff with the night editors of the New York newspaper. Have you got anything, Billy? Gang fight in the Lansing 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. Yeah? Something he'd written. Dear friends and gentle heart. Probably read it someplace. Shall I write it up? No, no, I don't think so. But you'd better give me something on the fire at a warehouse. Ben 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. 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 Wonder World of Chemistry developed an important new product, crystal clear, leucite plastic, made from coal, air and water. It molds so accurately that it has 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 outlined 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% 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. Buticite 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% 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%. 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. 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 weekend, at the same time, good night and best wishes from DuPont. The Columbia Broadcasting System. The Columbia Broadcasting System