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diff --git a/78956-0.txt b/78956-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ab8e22 --- /dev/null +++ b/78956-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8884 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78956 *** + +[Illustration: + + THE AUTHOR AT THE AGE OF 30 + + [A.D. 1880] +] + + + + + CULTURE’S GARLAND + _BEING MEMORANDA OF_ + THE GRADUAL RISE OF LITERATURE, ART, MUSIC AND SOCIETY IN CHICAGO, AND + OTHER WESTERN GANGLIA + + + BY + + EUGENE FIELD + + WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY + + JULIAN HAWTHORNE + +[Illustration: An ornate shield emblem featuring the stylized, +intertwined monogram letters "T & Co" or "T and C" at the center, framed +by decorative scrollwork, with a rolled scroll or document suspended by +a cord at the top.] + + BOSTON + TICKNOR AND COMPANY + =211 Tremont Street= + 1887 + + + COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY + TICKNOR & COMPANY. + + _All rights reserved._ + + + ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED + BY RAND AVERY COMPANY. + BOSTON + + + + + PREFACE. + + +It has come to pass, I know not how, that what is accepted as American +humor has largely become the prey of specialists. When we see the +signature of Mark Twain, Bill Nye, Artemus Ward, Bob Burdette, Bret +Harte, or any one of a dozen more, we know what kind of humor will +accompany the name. Each man has his particular and familiar line, and +never diverges from it. But there is something wrong about this. +Humor—whatever it used to mean in Ben Jonson’s days—now means something +more than the comic eccentricity of an individual. It means the arch +smile, half quizzical and half tender, that glimmers upon the +countenance of human nature when contemplating its own follies and +perversities. + +The name of Eugene Field, of the Chicago “Daily News,” though heard for +the first time only a few years ago, is already a famous and a favorite +name in journalism. He, too, bears the reputation of a humorist: but his +humor is not of the conventional order; it has a wider and a loftier +scope. He has a gentle yet intrepid heart, a penetrating but broad +intellect, and a pen that is at once trenchant and kindly, sensible and +imaginative. He is the author of some of the purest and most charming +fairy-tales that have been written since Hans Christian Andersen’s time. +He has produced poems whose effortless art and tender pathos have +brought them to the knowledge of perhaps half the newspaper readers of +America; and, withal, he has poured out genuine and spontaneous fun +enough to restore that gayety of nations which the death of a certain +renowned comedian was said to have eclipsed. Yet, in all his jesting, he +has never jested heedlessly or cruelly. If he has laughed at what is +foolish, he has honored what is good: if he has unsparingly satirized +what is absurd or unworthy in our civilization, he has always reverenced +what is sacred and holy in our nature. His is no common mind, and we +have as yet seen but a small arc of its complete circle. No man born on +this continent is a more robust American than he; no man scents a sham +more unerringly, or abominates it more effectively; no man’s ideal of +American literature is higher or sounder. And though circumstances have +hitherto confined his contributions to that literature within +comparatively narrow limits, yet he has given ample indications of +vigorous powers and a catholic range. He is sometimes as homely and +pithy as a New-England farmer; sometimes as refined and subtle as a +French epigrammatist; now he chuckles like a Gargantuan, and again he +evinces the artistic grace of a trained poet or romancer. But above all +and beneath all he is a man, full of the strength and the richness of +human nature, and loving human nature with all his heart, as only a man +can. + +The present little volume comprises mainly a bubbling-forth of +delightful _badinage_ and mischievous raillery, directed at some of the +foibles and pretensions of his enterprising fellow-townsmen; who, +however, can by no means be allowed to claim a monopoly of either the +pretensions or the foibles herein exploited. Laugh, but look to +yourself: _mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur_. It is a book which +should, and doubtless will, attain a national popularity; but admirable, +and indeed irresistible, though it be in its way, it represents a very +inconsiderable fraction of the author’s real capacity. We shall hear of +Eugene Field in regions of literature far above the aim and scope of +these witty and waggish sketches. But, as the wise orator wins his +audience at the outset of his speech by the human sympathy of a smile, +so does our author, in these smiling pages, establish genial relations +with us, before betaking himself to more ambitious flights. If he have +half the confidence that his friends have in his power of wing, he will +be far aloft ere long; and then, as now, we shall all wish him heartily +God-speed! + + JULIAN HAWTHORNE. + + JUNE, 1887. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + MR. KINSLEY’S BOOK 1 + LITERATURE AND ART 4 + THE COOLEY POEMS 5 + JUDGE COOLEY’S DENIAL 16 + LITERARY NOTES 18 + MR. DOTY MAD 19 + CHICAGO PALMISTRY 21 + A MARVELLOUS INVENTION 24 + BOOKS AND AUTHORS 30 + CHICAGO HAMLETS 31 + THE LITERARY WAYSIDE 38 + A BEAUTIFUL ARTICLE OF VIRTUE 39 + THE SHAKESPEARES IDENTIFIED 42 + AMONG THE LITERATI 50 + THE MARKEESY DI PULLMAN 51 + LITERARY LACONICS 58 + AS TO THE GARTER OF A MARKEESY 59 + MR. EMERSON IN ’FRISCO 64 + A SUMMER PHILOSOPHER 66 + THE TRUTH ABOUT DANTE 68 + THE GOOD CAUSE 76 + THE CONVENTION OF WESTERN WRITERS 77 + THE POET’S CORNER 80 + A WESTERN BOY’S LAMENT 80 + THE STORY OF XANTHIPPE 81 + PHILADELPHIA 89 + HUMANITY 91 + BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE 92 + MR. ISAAC WATTS, TUTOR 96 + THE REVISION 104 + THE OFFICIAL EXPLANATION 106 + YANKEE CHORUS GIRLS 107 + MR. DIXEY AS A NEMESIS 109 + PROFESSOR LOWELL IN CHICAGO 113 + MR. ELDER’S FRIGHT 131 + ETHEL’S CHRISTMAS TALE 135 + CHICAGO WEATHER 137 + A CHICAGO CHRISTMAS LEGEND 138 + A PLEA FOR THE CLASSICS 141 + MLLE. PRUD’HOMME’S BOOK 142 + HER GENUINE CULTURE 146 + THE DEMAND FOR CONDENSED MUSIC 147 + OPERA, OPUSES, AND OPI 150 + CHICAGO THE MUSIC CENTRE 151 + STILL BLOOMING 152 + THE OFFENCE 153 + A LAMENT 155 + THE APOLOGY 156 + A GERMAN PERSONAL 157 + COL. ALDRICH’S “LAST CÆSAR” (1) 158 + COL. ALDRICH’S “LAST CÆSAR” (2) 163 + MISS BAYLE’S ROMANCE 168 + A HUMORIST’S COURTSHIP 170 + THAT ONE FLOATING VOTE 174 + A PERSIAN MISSION 175 + A SENATOR’S VALOR 179 + A SEASON OF NEW MUSIC 182 + APOLLO LOCATED 184 + AN EXILE’S NUPTIALS 185 + PATRONIZE HOME ART 187 + AN OLD FEUD 189 + A HEGIRA THREATENED 192 + A SPANISH ROMANCE 197 + MORE ABOUT MISS FIELD 200 + A KENTUCKIAN’S SAGACITY 202 + COL. JUDD’S NARROW ESCAPE 203 + A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—I. 206 + AN EDITORIAL SCHEDULE 207 + A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—II. 209 + THE HASKELLS, PÈRE ET FILS 210 + A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—III. 211 + MORE ABOUT COL. HASKELL 212 + ANOTHER NEW BOOK 213 + MR. SLATTERY OF BOSTON 214 + MME. L’ALLEMAND’S HUMOR 218 + A VETERAN ACTOR 220 + A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—IV. 221 + LIFE, DEATH, AND LOVE 222 + PIKE’S PEAK 225 + CHRISTIAN-COUNTY MOSQUITOES 226 + THE DYING SOLDIER 228 + HIS FIRST DAY AT EDITING 229 + THE LITTLE PEACH 236 + LEARNING AND LITERATURE 237 + SOME FAMOUS APOLOGIES 240 + VICTORIA AT THE SHOW 242 + A FARMER’S ADVICE 243 + A CHICAGO GERMAN LYRIC 244 + THE WORKS OF SAPPHO 245 + NOVEMBER 253 + A NOVELETTE 254 + INTER-STATE COMMERCE BILL ITEMS 257 + THE WIZARD OF VERMILION 258 + WHY HE WAS TARDY 261 + BASE-BALL AS A CLASSIC 262 + CULLED IN HELICON 265 + OON CRITEEK DE BERNHARDT 267 + OON CONVERSARZYONY FRONGSAY 274 + A FEARLESS PROTECTOR 277 + MR. KNAPP’S SCHEME 278 + A FINE OLD BOOK 279 + STEALING OUR THUNDER 282 + LOST, STRAYED, OR STOLEN 285 + CONDENSED LITERATURE 286 + DR. WARNER IN CHICAGO 288 + AN ANXIOUS INQUIRY 289 + A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK 290 + THE CROWN JEWELS 291 + MR. GOODWIN’S YACHT 295 + A LAUDABLE SCHEME 297 + THE ERA OF REFORM 298 + THE DRAMA DISCUSSED 307 + THE VALE OF CASHMERE 308 + THE FRIEND OF THE INDIAN 309 + THE WAY OF THE SEX 310 + AFTER MANY YEARS 311 + A SOCIETY ITEM 313 + “DIE WALKÜRE” UND DER BOOMERANGELUNGEN 314 + AN ANGERED TEUTON 319 + “DIE WALKÜRE” ANALYZED 320 + A FELICITOUS TOAST 321 + THE FARMER CANDIDATE 322 + THE MUMMY’S CONUNDRUM 325 + + +[Illustration: + + A CHICAGO LITERARY CIRCLE + + IN THE SIMILITUDE OF A LAUREL WREATH +] + + + + + CULTURE’S GARLAND. + + + + + _Mr. Kinsley’s Book._ + + +While it is universally conceded that Chicago is rapidly achieving +world-wide reputation as the great literary centre of the United States, +it is distressing to note that local critics are slow to recognize and +to encourage the efforts of Chicago _littérateurs_. We have been plunged +into a most unhappy condition of mind by the continued neglect with +which a recent literary work of our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. H. M. +Kinsley, has been treated by the moulders of literary thought in +Chicago. We do not know whether it is envy that lurks in the bosom of +our literary critics, and instigates them to ignore home industries, but +we do know that for the last three months “The Dial,” “Scandinavia,” +“The Current,” and other hypercritical reviews, have devoted much space +to literature in Norway, France, Italy, Belgium, England, and Prussia, +but have had never a word to say of Mr. Kinsley’s valuable treatise. We +mention this plain truth more in sorrow than in anger. + +Mr. Kinsley’s book, which now lies before us, treats of topics of the +greatest social importance. The introductory pages give a careful +description of Mr. Kinsley’s palatial refectory; and following these are +several chapters upon the prices of viands, upon the lofty dignity of +which (the prices) Mr. Kinsley’s claims to literary recognition would +appear to be based. We learn that we can obtain a quart of Nesselrode +pudding with Maraschino sauce for one dollar and a quarter, a quart of +_tutti-frutti_ ice for one dollar, a dozen _pommes de terre fraises_ for +three dollars, _sauterne frappe_ for two dollars and a half per gallon, +chicken _à la Rheine_ soup for one dollar per quart, _à la Marengo_ +sauce for two dollars per quart, _fricadelle de foie gras_ for +seventy-five cents per pound, etc. This important, not to say necessary, +information is supplemented with a large number of recipes, which should +prove of vast value to the humbler classes in this city. These recipes +give careful instruction as to the compounding of mushroom salads, +terrapin croquettes, bisque of whitebait tongues, fricassee of +canary-birds’ livers, and other viands common to the groaning board of +the metropolitan day-laborer. These recipes are stated in that +idiomatic, direct English which instantly conveys intelligence to the +mind of the reader, and joy ineffable to the soul of the printer at +forty cents per one thousand ems. So much for what we may term the +sordid, worldly, practical part of the book. On the succeeding pages the +versatile author proceeds to treat of weddings, parties, receptions, +etc., and we note with pleasure that the importance of elaborate and +costly refreshments is urged in each instance. But it is in his chapter +on “Etiquette of the Table,” that—if we may be allowed to use the +figure—Mr. Kinsley out-Kinsleys Kinsley. Perchance it was this chapter +that gave our contemporary, “The Dial,” and other critical reviews, +pause. Howbeit, we shall venture to regale our readers with a very few +specimen excerpts,— + + “Fashions change in modes of eating.” + + “Never appear impatient, and employ the time in agreeable + conversation.” + + “Soup should be eaten carefully.” + + “Never eat with a knife.” + + “Never rise until the meal is finished.” + + “Sit upright, with grace and dignity.” + + “A fork should be used gracefully.” + + “Do not pick the teeth with the cutlery.” + + “Do not break the china or glassware unless you expect to pay double + price for it.” + +These are a few of the pleasant and admirable fundamental laws which +author Kinsley lays down for the guidance of his patrons, presumably the +_élite_, the _crême de la crême_, of Chicago. And, possibly with +economic ends in view, Mr. Kinsley warns his readers, “Never eat so much +of any article as to attract attention.” + +So we say we like the book; and, having perused it carefully, we feel +warranted in declaring that it appears to us that none could quit Mr. +Kinsley’s soothing influences without exclaiming, in the historic +language once employed by Ali Baba, “Allah be praised for this +deliverance!” + + + + + _Literature and Art._ + + +WE acknowledge the receipt of a handsome volume entitled “The Trunk +Tragedy: A Complete History of the Murder of Preller and the Trial of +Maxwell.” The author is none other than Judge E. A. Noonan of St. Louis, +a real-estate and house-renting agent, and _littérateur_ of marked +ability. The book is strongly written, and a number of stirring +illustrations by leading local artists give the work a peculiar value. +Bound in paper, with a full-page illustration of the unfortunate victim +on the cover, for the reasonable price of twenty cents, this +_chef-d’œuvre_ should find its way into every home. + + * * * * * + +ANGELO LUDOVICO, the famous Chicago sculptor, has just completed a +bass-relief bust of William Shakespeare, the immortal bard of Avon. The +likeness is a superb one, the artist having made his designs from the +only authentic autograph, now in possession of Mr. Gunther, the +well-known candy-virtuoso. + + + + + _The Cooley Poems._ + + +[Illustration: Judge Thomas M. Cooley] + +Col. Jasper Eastman, one of the oldest and most respected citizens of +Adrian, Mich., sends us twenty-eight poems, which he says were written +by Judge Thomas M. Cooley, the venerable and learned jurist recently +appointed to the Inter-state Commission. These poems, we are told, were +published originally in “The Ann Arbor News,” which paper was owned and +conducted twenty-five years ago by one of Judge Cooley’s most intimate +friends. The period between the publication of the first of these poems +and the publication of the last was eight years (from 1853 to 1861); +and, as they appeared, they were cut out, and pasted into Col. Eastman’s +scrap-book: it is to this old scrap-book that we are indebted for the +specimen gems which we are enabled to put before our readers at this +time. Col. Eastman says, that, while it is generally known among his old +associates that Judge Cooley used to be a great hand for writing poems, +it is not known nor believed outside of that limited circle that the +learned jurist ever did, or ever could, unbend to the muse. “People who +know him to be a severe moralist and a profound scholar,” writes this +old friend, “will laugh you to scorn if you try to make them believe +that Cooley ever condescended to express his fancies in verse. Yet you +will agree with me, I think, when I say that most of the learned men of +all ages _have_ written poetry, and that, therefore, there is no +positive reason why the leading intellect of Michigan should not write +poetry.” + +There is among psychologists a very pronounced belief that the practice +of writing verse serves as the best escape-valve (if we may so term it) +for the emotional nature of man. The emotional nature, albeit it is the +lowest part of man’s intellectual being, is earliest developed in the +race and in the individual. Hence it is the first to spring to the +control of the mind when the intellect is urged in any direction which +prevents his nature having an escape-valve. It has been observed from +the most ancient times, that the severe legislator and moralist has +often exhibited secret vices or peculiarities which were but the +expression of his repressed emotional nature. This repression has +produced, as its resulting rebound, ruthless and horrible crimes; but +very often—even in the cases of illustrious statesmen guilty of +monstrous crimes—_further_ crime has been prevented by an outburst of +the emotional nature in the direction of poetry, which afforded the +escape-valve so imperatively demanded. + +It is very probable that Solon’s occasional pursuit of the art of +poetical composition served to prevent him from falling victim to the +laws he himself made, and enabled him to stand for all time as the stern +moralist. The poetry of the ancient Spartans, Romans, Germans, Saxons, +and Scandinavians did much to preserve those races from the degeneration +which must have resulted had their otherwise repressed emotional natures +not found a vent in song. It was only his devotion to poetry that +prevented Chaucer from becoming the utterly corrupt politician which +such court associations as his made others. Had Edward V. stuck to the +poetry of his early years, his crimes would not have lost the crown to +his descendants. The poetic tendencies of James I. served to prevent his +utterly vicious character from fully demonstrating itself. Francis +Bacon’s secret poetizing kept him from becoming totally depraved by the +court around him. Richelieu’s poetry served to prevent his indulgence in +dangerous methods of satisfying the emotional nature, gave him an +extended lease of life, and in divers ways assisted him in the +accomplishment of his ends. Mazarin’s poetry gave utterance in a healthy +way to an emotionalism which would have been dangerous to repress. The +poetry of the statesmen of the era of the English revolution—Montague, +Somers the jurist, and Harley—saved them the disgrace of finding +satisfaction for their emotional natures in secret excesses, like those +of Jeffreys. Great lawyers, statesmen, and divines—Mansfield, Maule, +Mackintosh, Macaulay, Fox, Burke, Beust, Disraeli, Thiers, Seward, +Webster, Leo XIII.—have recognized that the proper balance of the +intellectual nature required that the emotional nature, repressed by +daily tasks and natural environments, should find an escape-valve in +some honest and healthy direction; and all found it in poetic +composition. + +[Illustration: Judge Cooley] + +But it is not our purpose to seek to explain, or to apologize for, the +poems which Judge Cooley has written: we will say simply, that, +environed as he was by a sternly moral community, his emotional nature +found vent in song, and these songs speak most eloquently for +themselves. + +Those who knew Judge Cooley at that time say that he was “a long, +awkward boy, with big features, moony eyes, a shock of coarse hair, and +the merest shadow of a mustache.” A faded daguerrotype of the young poet +is preserved, and from it we have produced a tolerably fair copy, which +will surely interest the admirers of good verse. It appears that young +Cooley’s first poetical attempts were in the direction of versifications +and paraphrases of the ancients. Fully half the specimens before us are +illustrations of work of this kind, at which the young man exhibited +great proficiency. Here is a bit from Menecrates that is really prime; +it is as good a piece of versification as any done by the more +pretentious dabblers in Greek anthology:— + + OLD AGE. + + When age is absent, we are eager for it; + But when it comes, oh! how we all abhor it! + So, on the whole, we think we like it better + When it is still a debt, and we the debtor. + +In a lighter vein, but with consummate delicacy, and with wonderful +fidelity to the text of Lucian, young Cooley thus pays his respects to + + A CERTAIN FOOL. + + A fool, when plagued by fleas at night, + Quoth, “Since these neighbors so despite me, + I think I will put out the light, + And then they cannot see to bite me!” + +And here is Plato’s famous quatrain to + + ASTER. + + Seeing thee gaze into the night, + I would I were the yonder skies, + That tenderly, dear love, I might + Behold thee with a myriad eyes. + +In the collection before us, there are two Latin poems, showing that the +young poet was quite as felicitous at Latin composition as in +versification in his native tongue. One of these poems is entitled “De +Consuetudine et de Gustibus,” and treats in hexameter the evils of +political methods at that time (1859). The other is a rollicking song +which (a foot-note explains) was sung at the junior class supper at Ann +Arbor, May 14, 1854. We give a specimen stanza:— + + “Nicyllam bellis oculis— + (Videre est amare) + Carminibus et poculis, + Tra la la, tra la la, + Me placet propinare; + Tra la la, tra la la— + Me placet propinare!” + +In 1855 the following poem appeared anonymously in “The Ann Arbor News,” +and at once elicited general attention. N. P. Willis wrote out from New +York to the editor of the “News,” asking the name of the author; and to +this inquiry the editor answered, “A young barrister of this village, +named Thomas M. Cooley.” + + THE DIVINE LULLABY. + + I hear thy voice, dear Lord; + I hear it by the stormy sea + When winter nights are black and wild; + And when affright I call to thee, + It calms my fears, and whispers me, + “Sleep well, my child.” + + I hear thy voice, dear Lord, + In singing winds, in falling snow, + The curfew chime, the midnight bell: + “Sleep well, my child,” it murmurs low, + “The guardian angels come and go— + O child, sleep well!” + + I hear thy voice, dear Lord: + Ay, though the singing winds be stilled, + Though hushed the tumult of the deep, + My fainting heart with anguish chilled, + By thy assuring tone is thrilled— + “Fear not and sleep.” + + Speak on—speak on, dear Lord; + And when the last dread night is near, + With doubts and fears and terrors wild, + Oh, let my soul expiring hear + Only these words of heavenly cheer, + “Sleep well, my child!” + +This beautiful hymn was reprinted far and wide, and was incorporated, we +are told, in “The Golden Harp” series of choice religious lyrics +compiled by Ticknor & Co., Boston, 1857.[1] + +Footnote 1: + + This lullaby has been set to music by Rev. Hon. N. K. Griggs of + Beatrice, Neb. The composer has changed the phraseology of the lullaby + somewhat, “so as to make the tune sing smoothly,” as he says. + +But the most pretentious of Cooley’s poems—with the exception of his +Latin hexameter discourse—was his “Vision of the Holy Grail,” a graceful +imitation of Old English, printed in the holiday edition of “The Ann +Arbor News” in 1856. Although this poem is somewhat longer than we could +wish at this time, when our space is limited, we are fain to make room +for it as a delicately conceived and artistically executed piece of +literature. + + THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL. + + _Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth + To-fill our hearts with heedless mirth + This holy Christmasse time, + But give us of thy heavenly cheere, + That we may hold thy love most deere, + And know thy peace sublime._ + + · · · · · + + Full merry waxed King Pelles court + With yule-tide cheer and yule-tide sport; + And, when the board was spread, + Now wit ye well, twas good to see + So fair and brave a company, + With Pelles at the head. + + “Come hence, Elaine,” King Pelles cried, + “Come hence, and sit ye by my side; + For never yet, I trow, + Have gentle virtues like to thine, + Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine, + Nor shall be nevermo.” + + “Swote sir, my father,” quoth Elaine, + “Me it repents to give thee pain, + Yet tarry I may not; + For I shall soond and I shall die, + If I behold this company, + And see not Launcelot! + + “My heart shall have no love but this— + My lips shall know none others kiss, + Save only, father, thine; + So graunt me leave to seek my bower— + The lonely chamber in the toure, + Where sleeps his child and mine.” + + Then frowned the king in sore despite— + Sais: “May the divell take that knight, + For that the churl hath lied! + A base, unchristian paynim he, + Else, by my beard, he would not be + A recreant to his bride! + + “Oh, I had liefer yield my life + Than see thee the deserted wife + Of traitrous Launcelot! + Yet, an thou hast no mind to stay, + Go with thy damosels away— + Lo, I’ll detain ye not.” + + Her damosels in goodly train, + Back to her chamber led Elaine; + And, when her eyes were cast + Upon her babe, her tears did flow, + And she did wail and wepe as though + Her heart had like to brast. + + The while she grieved, the yule-tide sport + Waxed lustier in King Pelles court, + And louder houre by houre + The echoes of the rout were borne + To where the lady all forlorn + Made moning in the toure. + + “Swete Chryste,” she cried, “ne let me hear + These ribald sounds of yule-tide cheer, + That mock at mine and me; + Graunt that my sore affliction cease, + And give me of the heavenly peace + That comes with thoughts of thee.” + + Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light + Made all that lonely chamber bright; + And o’er the infant’s bed + A spirit hand, as samite pale, + Held sodaine forth the Holy Grail + Above the infants head. + + And from the sacred golden cup + A subtle incense floated up, + And filled the conscious air; + Which, when she breathed, the fair Elaine + Forgot her grief, forgot her pain, + Forgot her sore despair. + + And as the Grails mysterious balm + Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm, + Great mervail twas to see + The sleeping child stretch one hand up, + As if in dreams he held the cup, + Which none mought win but he. + + Through all the night King Pelles court + Made mighty cheer and goodly sport, + Nor never recked the joy + That was vouchsafed that Christmasse-tide + To Launcelots deserted bride, + And to her sleeping boy. + + · · · · · + + _Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth + To-fill our hearts with heedless mirth + This present Christmasse night, + But send among us, to and fro, + Thy Holy Grail, that men may know + The joy with wisdom dight!_ + +It appears that Judge Cooley had, and exhibited ever and anon, a +humorous tendency. His “Lines to a Blue Jay” is as delicate a bit of fun +as we have ever read. It represents the poet addressing a blue jay that +seeks by its querulous carping to keep the poet from plucking plums: +having got possession of the disputed branch, the poet facetiously +concludes,— + + “When I had shooed the bird away, + And plucked the plums, a quart or more, + I noted that the saucy Jay, + Albeit he had naught to say, + Appeared much _bluer_ than before.” + +In one of the poems, entitled “The Unknown Bards,” occurs this quatrain, +which is another fair illustration of Judge Cooley’s skill in dealing +with the anthology of the dead languages:— + + TO PHIDIAS, ON HIS STATUE OF JUPITER. + + This noble form these godlike features prove + That, when you shaped his figure for our view, + You sought Olympus, there to look on Jove— + Or else Jove came to earth, and posed for you. + +The last poem which Judge Cooley printed was a parody on the old song of +“Dixie.” It was published in the Ann Arbor paper on July 4, 1861; and +from it we take two specimen stanzas:— + + “Undimmed shall float that starry banner + Over Charleston and Savannah; + Far away, etc. + And Bunker Hill and Pensacola + Owe alike its mission holy; + Far away, etc. + + Then sound the march! We pledge devotion + In our blood on land or ocean; + Far away, etc. + Till every traitor in the nation + Gains a Haman’s elevation. + Far away, etc.” + +It seems a pity that such poetic talent as Judge Cooley evinced was not +suffered to develop. His increasing professional duties and his +political employments put a quietus to those finer intellectual +indulgences with which his earlier years were fruitful. Still, we doubt +not that, through all the noble practical service he has rendered to his +country, he has carried the old-time fondness for the muse, and that +now, in the fulness of his distinguished career, he will view without +regret the buds of his poetic genius herein recalled. + + + + + _Judge Cooley’s Denial._ + + +In a speech at one of the collegiate suppers, Judge Cooley has taken +occasion to deny that he ever wrote the poems so ably criticised in the +foregoing paper. It is rather late for the judge to come lumbering to +the front with his disclaimer, yet it is possible that he required a +good deal of time to hunt up and examine the back files of his poetical +works. The judge is now about sixty years of age; and his friends assure +us that he has been writing poetry all his life,—not for publication, +but simply for the pleasure he finds in weaving into rhyme the beautiful +fancies of his active imagination. It is estimated by a friend, who has +known him intimately for forty years, that if Judge Cooley’s poems were +collected and printed, they would fill sixteen royal octavo volumes. +These poems, we are told, treat of every theme imaginable, from “To +Niagara Falls by an August Moonlight” to “The Dimple in my Thisbe’s +Arm.” It seems a great pity that the several thousand epics, ballads, +sonnets, roundels, triolets, odes, jigs, etc., which Judge Cooley has +composed and will confess to—it seems a pity, we say, that these +masterpieces are not to be had in collected form for the edification and +instruction of our public. Since we have referred to his Niagara ode, we +will ask what sentiment could be finer than this:— + + “See how that Luna pauses in her nocturnal soaring, + To view thee tumbling in thy bed with fierce Gargantuan snoring.” + +And what a startling contrast to this sublime treatment do Judge +Cooley’s playful, amorous lines present:— + + “Cloanthus sings his Chloe’s tresses, + For Cynthia’s lips Demetus sighs, + And Tityrus in verse addresses + The love that lurks in Julia’s eyes; + Each, on Icarian pinions soaring, + Applauds some ostentatious charm: + But _I’m_ contented with adoring + The dimple in my Thisbe’s arm.” + +Yet we find Judge Cooley advising his young friends not to indulge in +poetizing! A man who has made a success in the highest of literary arts +ought to encourage others to follow in his footsteps—ought he not? Or +does the judge want all the glory himself? + + + + + _Literary Notes._ + + +“THE SWINE-BREEDER’S STUDBOOK” for 1887 is at hand, and brings its usual +amount of valuable information. Not an unimportant feature of this +volume is the portrait of the magnificent barrow “Chester White King,” +which took the first premium at the Kewanee fair last fall. + + * * * * * + +SQUIRE ENOS HAPGOOD, who expired by a vicious mule’s kick on the West +Side last Monday, was one of the most prominent patrons of literature in +the West. Before her death, his wife had been a subscriber to “Godey’s +Lady’s Book” for twenty odd years. + + + + + _Mr. Doty Mad._ + + +Mr. Henry K. Doty, one of the most prominent citizens, and the leading +hide and pelt dealer, in the North-West, has just returned from a +European tour. He has been absent about four months; and in that time he +has made a visit to every European country, and has become thoroughly +acquainted with the customs, manners, and languages of the different +people. He spent about seventy-five thousand dollars on the trip; but +this could not be called an extravagant sum when one takes into +consideration the superb paintings, statuary, and other works of virtue, +that he brought back with him. In Paris, upon the Roo de Rivoly alone, +he purchased fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of pictures; and in +Brussels he bought several thousand dollars’ worth of those elegant +carpets from which that city derives its name. Mr. Doty says that he was +well treated everywhere except in England. He is specially bitter +against Mr. Phelps, our representative at the court of St. James. + +“This man Phelps,” says he, “is a little, dried-up, snobbish Vermont +lawyer, with a soul no bigger than a huckleberry. I dyed my mustache, +and put on my dress-suit and my twenty-thousand-dollar diamond +bosom-pin, and called to see him. A fine specimen he is to represent our +wealth and culture! I don’t believe his clothes cost more than twenty +dollars a suit. + +“‘I suppose I ought to call on the queen,’ says I. + +“He didn’t say any thing; and I continued, ‘Would you mind introducing +me?’ + +“‘Really, Mr. Doty,’ says he, ‘I do not feel like presenting an entire +stranger to her Majesty.’ + +“‘Oh! you needn’t be scared,’ says I, ‘for I carry as big a letter of +credit as any American in London; and when it comes to culture, and that +sort of thing, I can knock the socks off any of your lords and +marqueezies.’ + +“Well, will you believe it? he had the impudence to shove a printed list +of questions at me. + +“‘You will have to answer these on oath before I can tell you whether I +can present you to her Majesty,’ says he. + +“I was as mad as a Texas steer. Here are some of the questions: ‘Did you +ever have a grandfather? and, if so, what was his vocation?’ ‘Have you +contracted the tooth-brush habit?’ ‘Are you addicted to the use of the +double negative?’ ‘Spell phthisis, strychnine, and pneumonia.’ Fine +questions these to put to a gentleman worth a cool million! I told him +to go to —— with his queen; and I’m going to have my private secretary +write a letter to the President, complaining of Phelps, and demanding +that he be discharged.” + + + + + _Chicago Palmistry._ + + +Mr. Heron-Allen, the handsome and talented young hand-reader, is making +a barrel of money in Chicago. Our most distinguished society leaders are +consulting him, and are delighted with the flattering pictures which he +finds in their dainty palms. It is understood that the enterprising +young professor—who is as ingenious as he is learned—has found it +necessary to invent a system particularly adapted to the requirements of +the average Chicago hand. It would be quite as unfair to judge the +Chicago hand by the ordinary rules of palmistry as it would be to drag +the Shakspearian drama down to the level of criticism required in the +appreciation of a modern horse-play comedy. The truth seems to be, that +the Chicago hand is the ideal one—the realization of the poetic dreams +of the palmister: it is the perfection of every thing—not necessarily a +purely spiritualized hand, but a beautiful and symmetrical combination +or blending of the best features of the human hand. + +The line marked A in this accurate exhibit is what Mr. Heron-Allen most +felicitously terms the pork-line. In every Chicago hand, it is distinct +and long. If at the lower end it rounds off toward the ball of the thumb +(the _Mons Prudentiœ_), it is a sure indication that the patient attends +strictly to prudent business methods; that he pursues only the vocation +in which he has embarked, and that he eschews all those gambling +exploits commonly called speculation. If, on the contrary, this +pork-line turns to the outside of the palm (the _Mons Asinorum_), it +indicates positively that the subject is inclined to desultory deals in +wheat, corn, and other fluctuating staples of trade. + +[Illustration: A black-and-white ink illustration of an open, upturned +human right hand, shown from the wrist up. The palm lines are +prominently detailed and labeled with small letters "A", "B", "C", "D", +and "E". The wrist features a gathered shirt cuff with a distinct, +square cufflink.] + +The sand-line is B: it betokens prowess and valor in the execution of +those designs inspired by the pork-line (A). This line (B) is deeply +marked in the average Chicago hand. It is generally conceded, we think, +that in all grades, brands, and departments of business and culture, the +Chicagoan exhibits more sand than is to be found anywhere else on the +surface of the earth. In a great many instances it is so strongly marked +that its shadow is plainly outlined on the back of the hand. + +These two lines—A and B—exhaust what are called the physical lines. Next +comes the intellectual or literary line C. It is this demarcation, broad +and distinct, that causes the wearer to take pleasure in literature, to +join literary clubs, to inquire into the mysteries of summer philosophy, +to subscribe for the local trade weeklies, to buy handsome wall-paper, +and to have the seaside novels rebound in half-calf. If it were not for +this line in our hands, the newsboys would sell mighty few books on our +trains, and Billy Pinkerton would never have become famous as an author. + +The line D is common to the Chicago hand: it argues a fondness for the +fine arts, for music, and for all articles of vertoo—such as +piano-fortes, folding-beds, wax flowers, race-horses, perfumery, $4 +opera, pug dogs, statuary, Browning’s poems, dyspepsia, and lawn tennis. +Of late this art-line has got so deep in a great many Chicago hands, +that it had to be sewed up by a doctor. + +The line E is not found in every instance. It is most commonly met with +among the wealthiest of our cultured people—those whose culture has come +to them with their sudden acquisition of great wealth. It extends about +the wrist, and is clearly marked about three times a day. It is called +the water-line. + + + + + _A Marvellous Invention._ + + +It is narrated, that, once upon a time, there lived a youth who required +so much money for the gratification of his dissolute desires, that he +was compelled to sell his library in order to secure funds. Thereupon, +he despatched a letter to his venerable father, saying, “Rejoice with +me, O father! for already am I beginning to live upon the profits of my +books.” + +Professor Andrew J. Thorpe has invented an ingenious machine which will +be likely to redound to the physical comfort and the intellectual +benefit of our fellow-citizens. We are disposed to treat of this +invention at length, for two reasons: first, because it is a Chicago +invention; and, second, because it seems particularly calculated to +answer an important demand that has existed in Chicago for a long time. +Professor Thorpe’s machine is nothing less than a combination parlor, +library, and folding bedstead, adapted to the drawing-room, the study, +the dining-room, and the sleeping apartment,—a producer capable of +giving to the world thousands upon thousands of tomes annually, and +these, too, in a shape most attractive to our public. Professor Thorpe +himself is of New-England birth and education; and, until he came West, +he was called “Uncle Andy Thorpe.” For many years he lived in New +Britain, Conn.; and there he pursued the vocation of a manufacturer of +sofas, settees, settles, and bed-lounges. He came to Chicago three years +ago; and not long thereafter, he discovered that the most imperative +demand of this community was for a bed which combined, “at one and the +same time” (as he says, for he is no rhetorician), the advantages of a +bed and the advantages of a library. In a word, Chicago was a literary +centre; and it required, even in the matter of its sleeping _apparata_, +machines which, when not in use for bed-purposes, could be utilized to +the nobler ends of literary display. In this emergency the fertile +Yankee wit of the immigrant came to his assistance; and about a year +ago, he put upon the market the ingenious and valuable combination, +which has commanded the admiration and patronage of our best literary +circles, and which at this moment we are pleased to discourse of. + +It has been our good fortune to inspect the superb line of folding +library-bedsteads which Professor Thorpe offers to the public at +startlingly low figures, and we are surprised at the ingenuity and the +learning apparent in these contrivances. The Essay bedstead is a +particularly handsome piece of furniture, being made of polished +mahogany, elaborately carved, and intricately embellished throughout. +When closed, this bedstead presents the verisimilitude of a large +book-case filled with the essays of Emerson, Carlyle, Bacon, Montaigne, +Hume, Macaulay, Addison, Steele, Johnson, Budgell, Hughes, and others. +These volumes are made in one piece, of the best seasoned oak, and are +hollow within throughout; so that each shelf constitutes in reality a +chest or drawer which may be utilized for divers domestic purposes. In +these drawers a husband may keep his shirts or neckties; or in them a +wife may stow away her furs or flannel underwear in summer, and her +white _piqués_ and muslins in winter. These drawers (each of which +extends to the height of twelve inches) are faced in superb tree-calf, +and afford a perfect representation of rows of books, the title and +number of each volume being printed in massive gold characters. The +weight of the six drawers in this Essay bedstead does not exceed twelve +pounds; but the machine is so stoutly built as to admit of the drawers +containing a weight equivalent to six hundred pounds without interfering +with the ease and nicety of the machine’s operation. Upon touching a +gold-mounted knob, the book-case divides, the front part of it descends; +and, presto! you have as beautiful a couch as ever Sancho could have +envied. + +This Essay bedstead is sold for four hundred and fifty dollars. Another +design, with the case and bed in black walnut, the books in _papier +maché_, and none but English essayists in the collection, can be had for +a hundred dollars. + +A British Poets’ folding-bed can be had for three hundred dollars. This +is an imitation of the blue-and-gold edition published in Boston some +years ago. Busts of Shakespeare and of Wordsworth appear at the front +upper corners of the book-case, and these serve as pedestals to the +machine when it is unfolded into a bedstead. This style, we are told by +Professor Thorpe, has been officially indorsed by the poetry committee +of the Chicago Literary Club. A second design, in royal octavo white +pine, and omitting the works of Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, and +Herrick, is quoted at a hundred and fifty dollars. + +The Historical folding-bed contains complete sets of Hume, Gibbon, +Guizot, Prescott, Macaulay, Bancroft, Lingard, Buckle, etc., together +with Haines’s “History of Lake-County Indians” and Peck’s “Gazetteer of +Illinois,” bound in half-calf, and having a storage space of three feet +by fourteen inches to each row, there being six rows of these books. You +can get this folding-bed for two hundred dollars, or there is a second +set in cloth that can be had for a hundred dollars. The Dramatists’ +folding-bed (No. 1) costs three hundred dollars, bound in tree-calf hard +maple, the case being in polished cherry, elaborately carved. The works +included in this library are Shakespeare’s, Schiller’s, Molière’s, +Goethe’s, Jonson’s, Bartley Campbell’s, and many others. Style No. 2 of +this folding-bed has not yet been issued, owing to some difficulty which +Professor Thorpe has had with Eastern publishers; but when the matter of +copyright has been adjusted, the works of Plautus, Euripides, +Thucydides, and other classic dramatists, will be brought out for the +delectation of appreciative Chicagoans. + +The Novelists’ bed can be had in numerous styles. One contains the +novels of Mackenzie, Fielding, Smollett, Walpole, Dickens, Thackeray, +and Scott, and is bound in tree-calf: another, better adapted to the +serious-minded (especially to young women), is made up of the novels of +Maria Edgeworth, Miss Jane Porter, Miss Burney, and the Rev. E. P. Roe. +This style can be had for fifty dollars. But the Novelists’ folding-bed +is manufactured in a dozen different styles, and one should consult the +catalogue before ordering. + +The folding-bed that pleased us most in all Professor Thorpe’s +collection was the one that is called the Chicago Authors’ Own. It is +issued in numerous styles, it being the wish of the manufacturer to +place the boon within the reach of all. This series (if we may so term +it) is made up of the works of Professor William Mathews, Col. George P. +Upton, Col. Franc B. Wilkie, Franklin H. Head, Esq., Isaac E. Adams, the +Rev. George C. Lorimer, Helen Starrett, Frank Gray, Col. Andrew Shuman, +Capt. John Coulter, Michael Ahern, and of the many, many other +_littérateurs_ whose genius has raised Chicago to her enjoyment of the +proudest literary distinction. These works can be had in every style. +The cheapest, which is bound in modest _papier maché_, and includes a +durable husk mattress, costs but twenty dollars; from this minimum the +price runs up to two hundred dollars; and a special order (including +Haines’s “Indian History” and the folio libretto of Pratt’s “Zenobia”) +has recently been filled for a wealthy South-side gentleman of letters, +who paid six hundred dollars for the collection. + +There is no telling to what extent this folding-bed industry may not +reach. As our community grows more and more literary each year, there +will, of course, be an increasing demand for these luxuries, and +accumulating wealth will enable our people to gratify their elevated +tastes. Professor Thorpe seems to be just the man to be at the head of +an industry calculated to pander to the literary instincts of Chicago +folk. He is earnest and enterprising: even now he is at work upon a +folding trundle-bed for children, which will contain a library adapted +to develop proper traits in the young,—such standard books as Watts’s +divine poems, the Rollo series, Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” Cotton +Mather’s “Spiritual Milk for Babes,” etc. + +Speaking of the delights of literary pursuits, the eloquent Cicero once +said, “These things [_studia_] nourish our youth, they fortify us in our +age, they make life beautiful, they afford us a refuge and a solace in +adversity, they delight us at home, they do not hinder our practical +relations with men, _they are with us in our sleep_, they accompany us +upon our journeys, and, even afar from civilization, they grant us +unceasing pleasure.” There were no patent library-beds in Cicero’s time. +There was no Professor Thorpe to unfold the fruit of his Yankee +ingenuity upon Roman civilization. Old Cicero must have had the spirit +of prophecy upon him when he uttered the words we have italicized above. +The propitious gods must have given him an inkling of the Professor +Thorpe that was to be. + + + + + _Books and Authors._ + + +AMONG the articles of virtue recently purchased by our esteemed +fellow-townsman, Mr. Townley J. Morris, is one of the first English +translations of Virgil’s Æneid. This translation was made, we +understand, under the personal supervision of the eminent poet himself. + + * * * * * + +THERE is a current rumor that Judge Thomas M. Cooley, chairman of the +interstate Comus commission, has written a poem entitled “Trunk Lines to +a Railroad System.” + + * * * * * + +CAPT. BEN WINGATE has named his new barge the “Felicia Hemans,” and the +same departed for Saginaw last evening for a cargo of shingles. + + + + + _Chicago Hamlets._ + + +The highly successful engagement which Mr. George C. Miln is playing in +this city at this time, affords us the long-desired opportunity of +paying that tribute of admiration and of respect which the genius of the +eminent Chicago tragedian would seem to merit. We confess that we have +viewed with considerable alarm the homage which certain foreign and +Eastern actors (invading our territory with an audacity amounting almost +to effrontery) have wrung from our populace, which we fear is too ready +to depreciate the paramount work of home-production, and to fly into +ecstasies over less meritorious, but more pretentious, importations. +Recognizing it to be a lamentable truth, that, whether he be an actor or +only a prophet, a man is not without honor save at home,—still we +believe that Mr. Miln’s re-appearance in the city that claims him for +her own will go a long way toward relieving the public mind hereabouts +of that cruel misapprehension, that, when Mr. Miln quitted theology for +theatrics, a good preacher was spoiled for a bad actor. We doubt not +that if they were called upon to testify touching this matter, the large +and enthusiastic church sociables which are crowding the Columbia +Theatre this week, would heartily indorse us when we said that Mr. +Miln’s personations evinced the possession of a genius that is rarely +met with upon the dramatic stage. + +Returning from a provincial tour, as vicissitudinous as it was extended, +and heralded by the encomiums of the discriminating press of such +intelligent communities as Topeka, Leadville, Cheyenne, Des Moines, +Tipton, etc., it beliked Mr. Miln to inaugurate his engagement in +Chicago with a presentation of his favorite tragedy, the _chef d’œuvre_ +of his long list of dramatic successes; namely, the sublime tragedy of +“Hamlet.” Sombre as this play is, it has, nevertheless, become so +popular in this city, that not infrequently are whole scenes of it +enacted in the private theatres of our wealthy citizens; many of our +people have committed to memory the beautiful soliloquies in which it +abounds; our _literati_ have composed ingenious screeds about its +alleged author, and it is about this same author that distinguished +Eastern scholars came here to discourse,—in short, the tragedy of +“Hamlet” has become so well known in Chicago, that he who attempts its +public production must possess rare powers in order to succeed in +winning the public plaudits. + +[Illustration: A high-contrast, black-and-white ink illustration showing +the lower half of an actor. The figure wears dark, heavily silhouetted +breeches or baggy trousers tucked into shoes, while the upper portion +features a distinct, vertically striped pattern .] + +It was Edwin Forrest, we think, who first played “Hamlet” in Chicago. At +that time this was but a ragged town—the rival of St. Louis. The muskrat +and the wagtail snipe then frolicked and disported where now the +palatial residence of George M. Pullman rears its pretentious front; at +that time, too, Uncle Dick Hooley sang topical songs with great _éclat_; +Col. J. H. McVicker flourished as the popular comedian; Dr. Patterson +and Long John Wentworth snowballed each other on the bleak prairie where +Marshall Field’s big wholesale stone fort now stands; and the +untrammelled Indian coped with the buffalo on the rolling waste where +now are to be found the packing-houses, the lard-refineries, and the +rendering-establishments, of our most cultured fellow-townsmen, the +members of the Chicago Literary Club. To this community, as it existed +at that time, Edwin Forrest’s “Hamlet” was a revelation, and a +delightful one. It came as a kind of encouragement to the ambitious, +bustling, noisy Western town. It was a lusty Hamlet,—stout, stubborn, +forceful, and vigorous as a prosperous butcher. It was not the boyish +Hamlet of a Wilson Barrett, nor the melancholy Hamlet of a Booth, nor +the impressive Hamlet of a Lawrence Barrett, nor yet the foundered +Hamlet of an Irving: it was the sturdy, square-toed, honest, +varicose-veined personation of the actor whose greatness is most keenly +appreciated by those who have heard tell of him. + +[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette of a person] + +[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette showing the lower body +and legs of a figure facing left.] + +Mr. Edwin Booth has given Chicago two Hamlets,—the first many years ago, +the second quite recently. His first Hamlet was of the cold-feet order: +it was the particular admiration of young women who ate slate-pencils, +and of men who believed in female suffrage. Having seen this Hamlet +several times, we were convinced, that, if the original Hamlet were in +reality what Mr. Booth represented, he could have been relieved of his +malady by judicious prescriptions of vermifuge. Mr. Booth’s second +Hamlet—the one he now presents—is a much healthier one; a trifle lame +and a trifle slow, perhaps, but still a great improvement upon the +morbid impersonation of twenty years ago. + +[Illustration: A black-and-white ink illustration focusing on a pair of +legs from the thighs down.] + +While Mr. Booth’s dyspeptic Dane was in the height of his popularity, +along came a Frenchman from Alsace—a parley-voo of the name of +Fechter—who startled us with a Hamlet which seemed to be the child of +that heartless, prurient Dutchman Goethe’s imagination. This grotesque +innovation shocked our sensitive optics with gaudy silk tights and +colored hosiery. Yet there were those who professed to admire this +refined blasphemy. Even so famous a critic as Miss Kate Field declared +that Fechter’s Hamlet—the left one—was a poem. But this was many years +ago: at that time Miss Field was a giddy, sentimental girl, just out of +a convent. It is probable that her ideal Hamlet is no longer a +strawberry blonde with Dolly Varden nether garments. + +[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette of a pair of legs from +the upper thighs down. The legs are extended downward in a slight +V-shape, with the left foot pointing outward to the left and the right +foot angled slightly downward.] + +Another Hamlet which we must speak of is Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s; and, to +quote a cant phrase, we speak of it more in sorrow than in anger. We +regard it as a cold, passionless, bloodless Hamlet, with just the +faintest suggestion of bronchitis. It is a self-conscious Hamlet, and a +well-bred Hamlet: it never forgets the “l. u. e.,” nor neglects to +measure off so much carpet to as much heptameter. It is our opinion,—the +result of long and conscientious study,—that the most comfortable time +in the year to hear Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s Hamlet is August; but even +then, in order to insure against the hostile effects of low temperature, +one should be provided with a lap-robe. + +[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette showing a pair of legs +standing slightly apart.] + +Two Hamlets have come over to us from England. The first was Mr. Henry +Irving, who reaped a golden harvest as a reward for his admirable +imitations of the young American comedian, Henry E. Dixey. Of this +gentleman’s Hamlet we have little praise. It was stiff, halting, and +jerky throughout. Perceiving how unevenly it ran, we would not have been +surprised had the spavined Dane interrupted his death-soliloquy with +Gloster’s lines,— + + “Where sits deformity to mock my body + And shape my legs of an unequal size?” + +[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette of a pair of legs.] + +A much more symmetrical Hamlet was Mr. Wilson Barrett’s, yet even this +performance was not without its defects. It was too reposeful, too +undulating, too effeminate in its contours, and too sensuous in its +movement. It was such a Hamlet as, we surmise, would create a profound +sensation among the dudes if it were to appear at the head of the +procession in the grand march in the third act of one of Col. John A. +McCaull’s comic operas. Still, this kind of Hamlet has its admirers; and +as it is called the boy Hamlet, we can at least hope that it will +acquire the sharply defined angles of virility when it has put on the +toga virilis. + +[Illustration: A high-contrast ink illustration showing a lower body and +legs from the waist down in profile, facing left.] + +We prefer not to speak of Miss Anna Dickinson’s Hamlet: we shall be +content to give our readers a picture of it. The creation, as will be +observed, is tolerably symmetrical; and, in spite of those environments +which naturally and properly curtail a complete view of its merits, it +is altogether of the substantial order. + +But all these Hamlets fade into comparative nothingness when we place +them beside Mr. Miln’s Hamlet, and attempt to judge them by those same +rules and specifications and between the very lines which are required +in a fair criticism of Mr. Miln’s genius and art. + +How vividly occurs to us at this moment the heart-cry of Sir Andrew +Aguecheek, “I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg!” Or +these others, quoting old Toby Belch, might say to our Chicago +tragedian, “I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was +formed under the star of a galliard!” + +[Illustration: A high-contrast black-and-white ink illustration of a +pair of legs.] + +’Tis not hyperbole to say, that by as much as these shapely, sentient, +palpitating columns exceed and surpass in grandeur and in beauty those +other misshapen supports which the bard of Avon has stigmatized as +riding-rods, by so much does the genius of our tragedian transcend the +strutting, tottering pretences that are served up by his competitors. +What strength, what decision, what grace, what durability, what +forcefulness, what nobility, do we perceive herein! What breadth of +understanding, what continuity, what power of endurance, what bottom, do +we instantly recognize! And these beauties will continue to expand and +to grow, just as they have in the past, provided that the distance +between one-night stands is not shortened, and the walking holds out +good. We remember, that, when we first saw Mr. Miln’s Hamlet, three +years ago, it was crude and angular: now we behold it rounded out and +symmetrized. This is the blossoming of our friend’s genius: what will +the harvest be? Ah! who can say what a perfect art-picture will be +presented when the whole nature of the actor becomes permeated with, and +symmetrized by, the subtile beauty of that shapely calf? We hail the +prospect with delight, and most cordially do we congratulate Melpomene +thereupon. + + + + + _The Literary Wayside._ + + +DURING the base-ball tourney between Chicago and St. Louis we are +issuing extra editions of “The Daily News,” containing such excellent +reports of the all-important contest as to excite the warmest admiration +in leading literary circles. + + * * * * * + +AT the meeting of the West-Side Literary Lyceum last week, the question, +“Are Homer’s poems better reading than Will Carleton’s?” was debated. +The negative was sustained by a vote of 47 to 5. On this occasion Miss +Mamie Buskirk read an exquisite original poem entitled “Hope; or, The +Milkman’s Dream.” + + * * * * * + +COL. T. WESTON BRIGGS, the well-known real-estate agent, offers his +magnificent private library for sale at four dollars per front foot. + + + + + _A Beautiful Article of Virtue._ + + +Our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. Charles F. Gunther, the well-known +candy-manufacturer, is indefatigable in collecting rare old curiosities. +Not very long ago he discovered a genuine autograph of William +Shakespeare, and he paid five thousand dollars for it; subsequently he +found and bought a volume of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poems containing the +autograph of Dante Alighieri written in a clean, round hand on one of +the fly-pages; but still more recently he has come into possession of a +relic more valuable than all the rest combined—in fact, so highly does +Mr. Gunther prize this latest acquisition, that he freely confesses that +he would not exchange it for an Ossa of caramels piled upon a Pelion of +gum-drops. This relic is an Egyptian mummy, and Mr. Gunther exhibited it +to us the other day. It seems that when Mr. Gunther was in Egypt some +years ago, he fell in with Professor Schliemann, the famous excavator, +archæologist, explorer, etc. At that time the professor was tunnelling +into the pyramids, excavating the sphinx, and pursuing divers other +humorous fads, whims, and crochets. Mr. Gunther took quite a fancy to +the professor, showed him his autograph of Shakespeare, gave him a +recipe for making lemon-taffy, and presented him with a photograph of +McVicker’s theatre before the fire. For these manifestations of +sympathy, Professor Schliemann was deeply grateful, and he promised to +reciprocate in due course of time. + +About a month ago Mr. Gunther was charmed to receive from the professor +an express-package containing a mummy of the first water. Considering +the wear and tear to which it must have been subjected for the last +twenty or thirty centuries, this mummy is in excellent condition. We +shall refer to the mummy as “it,” although Mr. Gunther chooses to call +it “he.” It is not more than three feet in length, and its weight is +perhaps equal to that of a two-dollar box of jujube paste. Its girth +does not exceed twenty-eight inches. Such of its complexion as is +exposed, is of the pronounced hue of chocolate-drops; and the few +strands of hair remaining on the shrivelled scalp are as black and +straight as a stick of licorice. Beginning at the upper part of the +neck, and extending down beyond the toes, are tightly wrapped swathings +of linen which have become begrimed with the dust of many hundreds of +years. Outside the swathings which envelop the breast of this singularly +unappetizing object of _virtu_, appears a broad strip of thin cloth, +upon which is printed a large number of figures, which we supposed might +have been used in ancient times as the advertisement of a zoölogical +garden, but which, Mr. Gunther told us, was in fact a group of Egyptian +hieroglyphics stating in brief the biography of the enclosed deceased. +Mr. Gunther said he could not read the hieroglyphics, but he had asked a +committee of members of the Chicago Literary Club—that quintessence of +local learning and culture—to sit in inquest, as it were, upon this +prehistoric corpse, and to decipher the rude characters emblazoned upon +its pectoral envelopment. Mr. Gunther said that the committee had not +yet made a report, but that, until it did, he would continue to indulge +the belief that the remains were those either of Rameses II. or of +Cambyses I. These persons, he went on to say, were Babylonian kings, who +flourished in that pagan age when every man had several hundred wives,—a +barbaric custom which most men openly denounce, but secretly covet. He +knew that this specimen was a king, because of the evident care that had +been taken to preserve him against the ravages of time; and he was +confident that he was either Rameses II. or Cambyses I., because he had +read recently in a number of the “Candy-Manufacturer’s Journal” that +both these monarchs had been sepultured in one of the pyramids. It was +with a good deal of anxiety, he added, that he awaited either the report +of the Chicago Literary Club committee, or advices from Professor +Schliemann, clearing away the clouds of doubt and mystery now +surrounding the identity of this antique _bric-à-brac_. + + + + + _The Shakespeares Identified._ + + +In the “Florida” of Lucius Apuleius it is narrated that Socrates, having +looked for a long time upon a certain handsome but silent youth, +exclaimed, “Say something, that I may see you.” From this it is inferred +that the grand old philosopher saw not with his eyes, and that he +thought that men were to be considered rather with the rays of the +intellect and with the gaze of the soul. In the practical times of the +present, however, the Socratic theory goes for naught; and humanity, +justified in so doing by the counsel of the law, holds to the opinion of +the soldier mentioned by Plautus as having declared that “one +eye-witness is worth more than ten ear-witnesses.” Therefore, it is +remarkable, we think, that, while the scholars of these days are +searching for clews to the authorship of certain works of antiquity, +none of them has been pleased to accept and to make the most of the +ocular evidence that has come down from remote times and that bears +directly upon these things. + +[Illustration: William Shakespeare] + +Several portraits of the much-discussed William Shakespeare are in +existence: two corresponding closely are the Droeshout engraving and the +Chandos painting. The Droeshout engraving was produced in 1623 in the +first collected edition of the so-called Shakespearian plays; and it was +eulogized by the critics of that time, and accepted as a true likeness +by William Blake, the idealist poet and painter. This engraving +represents Shakspere as an intellectual man with regular but strong +features, a small, shapely mouth, large, speaking eyes, and a wondrous +expanse of forehead. In all the authentic pictures, Shakespeare is +represented as wearing a loose jerkin, about the top of which a broad, +unstarched shirt-collar is turned down in a charmingly _négligé_ +fashion. + +[Illustration: Sir Francis Bacon] + +Of Sir Francis Bacon, so-called, but one portrait has come down to +posterity. The original is now in possession of the British Museum, +having been given to that institution by the Earl of Ripon, whose father +had it from Katherine, Duchess of Marlborough, in payment of a debt. +This portrait would seem to give us the duplicate of the facial features +of Shakespere; the eyes, mouth, nose, and expression being the same, +likewise the cut of the beard, the curl of the mustache, and the style +of wearing the hair. But Bacon is pictured with his hat on,—a prim +affair, worn cocked somewhat to one side,—and a ruffle about his neck, +as was the fashion among courtiers and gentlemen of the Elizabethan +time. It was to Bacon that the ingenious Jonson addressed the lines,— + + “Him ruffs and ribands prettily become, + While at his learning stands the world adumb.” + +Yet in his “Masque of the Roses,” which was performed under royal +auspices, Jonson makes Bacon say,— + + “Beshred me of these silken patches, you will find + A master wit, a wholesome soul, a generous mind: + What need of garters and what use of name + Sith these three fellows do atchieve such fame?” + +[Illustration: Ben Jonson] + +Of Ben Jonson, the author of these lines, there are three authentic +portraits. That which is known as the Dinwiddie portrait is the most +popular. It was made while Jonson was visiting his friend Herbert +Latshawe at that fine old artist’s country-seat near Patmore. Jonson was +then in his sixty-third year, and therefore the portrait is that of a +man considerably beyond the prime of life. Yet, is there any so blind +that he cannot detect under these spectacles the calm, intelligent eyes +of Shakspur and Bacon, and cannot recognize in the other features, the +features delineated in the Droeshout engraving of Shakspere and in the +Marlborough portrait of Bacon? Several years before this picture was +made by Latshawe, Jonson wrote his remarkable play of “The Fox.” In the +course of this play (act 3, scene 1), one of the characters, a literary +man, has this to say:— + + “The gaping world shall see me in my age + Wearing the wit that lumined Shakspere’s page: + Bacon’s big learning, Beaumont’s virgin grace, + And Fletcher’s power shall sit upon my face.” + +[Illustration: Francis Beaumont] + +Francis Beaumont, thus prettily referred to, was a precocious creature. +He is said to have died at the age of twenty-nine; yet during his short +life, he earned so great a reputation as a poet and dramatist, that to +this day he is accorded half the credit of the work which Fletcher +really did. It is narrated that Ben Jonson had so high an opinion of the +young man’s critical genius, that he used to refer his plays in +manuscript to Beaumont for revision, when Beaumont was scarce turned of +twelve. The only portrait of Beaumont is to be found in the collection +of the Duke of Ayrshire: it is in a state of excellent preservation, and +is, perhaps, the handsomest portrait that has come down from the +sixteenth century. It is interesting to compare this picture with those +of Shaxspere, Bacon, and Jonson. Leigh Hunt said, “When he was a boy, +how much the poet of the Elizabethan period must have looked like the +other fellow!” We think so too. Does it require more than a hasty glance +to assure one that, at twenty-eight years of age, William Shakspeare, +Francis Bacon, and rare Ben Jonson must have been the very counterparts +of handsome, gifted, winning Francis Beaumont? + +[Illustration: John Fletcher] + +And how about John Fletcher? Well, there is but one portrait of him, and +that is now in the British Museum. It was painted by a Hollander named +Bruggmarx, and Fletcher was then sixty years old. The face, it will be +noted, is still the face that we have seen in the authentic pictures of +Shakspear, Bacon, and Jonson! An older face, perhaps, but the strong, +inspired features are there, and we are forced to declare it the same +face. The hair is scantier than in the other pictures, but the effect +which is produced by curling the one surviving tuft over and about the +bald cranium so as to give an appearance of hair—this effect, we say, is +artistic. + +In one of his letters which are still preserved for the edification of +posterity, the gifted Walter Raleigh writes, “Right sorely hath her +Majesty the queen been displeased with my lord Bacon for that he hath +caused privily to be made a likeness of himself in the similitude of an +old man, the which being carried to the Green Boar, and therein +exhibited under the divers names of Jonson, Fletcher, Shakesper, and the +like, hath brought a grievous scandal upon the queen, and such sorrow +withal, that, hearing of the same, she did swound, and even now +maintaineth secrecy in her closet, making great moan, and weeping beyond +all measure.” + +[Illustration: Robert Greene] + +Two other so-called British dramatists are entitled to our attention. +One is Robert Greene, and the other is George Peele, of whom capital +portraits have been handed down. Greene is said to have been a +dissipated, rakish fellow, and the picture we have of him would appear +to confirm this story. It is not hard to detect traces of dissipation in +this handsome face: it is such a face as old Ben Jonson might have had, +if, instead of devoting himself to quiet symposiums at the Green Boar +and the Blue Dragon, he had rioted about the slums of London with evil +women. Such a face might William Shakspeare have been favored with if, +instead of invading his neighbors’ preserves with his gum-shoes on, he +had seen fit to debauch his talents in the ale-houses of the British +metropolis. And such a face, too, might “that ponderous sink of +learning,” Francis Bacon, have had, if he had abandoned the writing of +Shakspear’s plays for the pursuit of Robert Greene’s midnight orgies. In +a word, with the exception of the trifling detail of his coiffure, +happy-go-lucky Bob Greene bears a striking personal resemblance to the +other distinguished _littérateurs_ who flourished in his time. And here +is a curious extract from a letter which Greene wrote to his friend +Raleigh shortly after the production of his tragedy of “James IV.” It is +dated in London: “Vastly distraught is my good Anne Hathaway by the evil +rumors that hath gained prevalence in these parts, and that do +grievously belie me in that they make me to be a thief by night. But his +grace hath signed and given into my hands a paper confessing it to be a +libel and his bucks to be properly accounted, whereat methinketh my dame +Anne should be set aright as touching her vexation.” The astute critic, +Malone, wonders how it is that Robert Greene should have been accused of +poaching, the same charge that was preferred against Shakspeare; he +wonders, too, how Anne Hathaway, Shaxpeare’s wife, could be the wife of +Robert Greene also. His wonderment is not amazing. + +[Illustration: George Peele] + +This interesting portrait is of George Peele; and its striking likeness +to the portraits of Bacon, Jonson, Shakspur, Beaumont, Greene, and +Fletcher has been remarked by critics from time immemorial. In short, +the likeness which the pictures of all the dramatists of the Elizabethan +period bear to each other is so marked that we think there is good +reason for believing that Sheksper, Jonson, Beaumont, Greene, Fletcher, +Peele, and Bacon were not different individuals, but one man. + +It is quite true that the scholarly Donnelly and the learned Holmes have +proved to their own satisfaction that Shaxpeare did not write the plays +commonly imputed to Shaikspore; but they have not proved who wrote the +plays commonly imputed to Jonson, Peele, and the other alleged +dramatists of the glorious old days when a lady was designated as a +lousy wench, and when _liaisons_ were made the text of popular society +plays. It seems to us that the pictures of these old dramatists fill +this hiatus, if so we may term it, and these pictures teach us that once +upon a time there was a humorous genius who figured under many names, +who tossed off many plays, and who posed for many portraits. We do not +know his name, but we know that he is variously called Shakspeare, +Bacon, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Peele, and Greene. And we know, too, +that his glory will illumine the world long after wiseacres and +charlatans have abandoned the task of trying to determine his identity. + +The old poet, George Chapman,—he who was the contemporary of these +puzzlingly numerous one,—understood what he was about when he penned +these lines to his friend, Francis Shaxpur:— + + “Or seen in poacher’s guise or courtly robes of satin, + Or read in English verse or tomes of prosy Latin, + Or viewed in chiselled bust (the best the critic thinks it), + Or masking in a daub which some rude Dutchman pinxit— + In all thy verse, prose, portraits, effigies of plaster, + Shines the vast genius of one universal master.” + + + + + _Among the Literati._ + + +IT is reported in high literary circles that the McAfee Refining Company +will take two pages of “The Easter Current” for the purpose of +advertising the excellences of its new brand of leaf-lard. + + * * * * * + +AT the formal dedication of the Blue-Island Avenue toboggan-slide last +Saturday evening, a beautiful poem in imitation of the Pindaric odes was +read by the gifted authoress, Miss Birdie McLaughlin. + + * * * * * + +AMONG the recent additions to the valuable collection of our esteemed +fellow-townsman, N. Hawthorne Smith, is an autograph of Joaquin Miller, +the poet of the Sahara. + + * * * * * + +WE are informed that a Browning Society has been organized by the +inmates of the Cook-County Imbecile Asylum. + + + + + _The Markeesy di Pullman._ + + “Il bianco di cazerni della graze fio bella, + Di teruca si mazzoni quel’ antista Somno della.” + _Petrarch._ + + “He who conduces to a fellow’s sleep, + Should noble fame and goodly riches reap.” + _Tasso._ + + “Sleep mocks at death: when weary of the earth, + We do not die—we take an upper berth.” + _Dante._ + + +Never since the great fire of 1871 has Chicago society been so +profoundly agitated as it was when it became noised about that King +Humbert of Italy had created our esteemed fellow-townsman, Col. George +M. Pullman, a knight of the first water. At first, grave doubts as to +the genuineness of the report were indulged; but when, later in the day, +it became known that the rumor was credited at the headquarters of the +Italian legation, the joy of the public burst all restraints, and +manifested itself in every variety of ebullition. + +Col. Pullman is, we believe, the first citizen of Chicago who has been +honored in so distinguished a manner by royalty. It is true that the +Pshaw of Persia craved the boon of investing the Hon. Frederick H. +Winston with the order of the Yellow Dromedary, but the negotiations +fell through as soon as the eminent American diplomate declined to +advance the pshaw the ten thousand golden pistoles which his serene +majesty expected as an evidence of Mr. Winston’s good faith in the +premises. It is true, also, that there are in the midst of us a number +of royal personages—or perhaps we should say a number of persons of +noble descent. Very many of our Irish citizens are of high +extraction,—descendants of dukes, earls, booyars, barons, and knights, +who for political offences have been exiled from the land of their +nativity. To our certain knowledge, Col. John F. Finerty is a lineal +descendant of Brian Boroihme; and many other fellow-townsmen of ours can +boast ancestries almost as noble. Ex-Senator Millard B. Hereley is one +of the Bourbons from Bourbon co., France; and we could, if we had the +space wherein to tell it, specify who the Duke of Eniscarty, the Earl of +Ballanasloe, the Duke of Cork, etc., are, and by what aliases they are +known to the people of this city. + +In spite of these facts which we have stated, it is true that Mr. +Pullman is the first citizen of Chicago to be recognized and honored by +a crowned head of Europe. As near as we can come to it, Mr. Pullman’s +elevation to knighthood was brought about in this wise: Last year he +made a tour through Italy; and when he reached Naples he called upon +King Humbert, and made a formal complaint touching the railroad +facilities with which his Majesty’s kingdom is, and always has been, +cursed. His Majesty was struck at once with the learning, the eloquence, +the earnestness, the _sang froid_, and the _swaviter in modo_, of the +petitioner; and he besought him to suggest an improvement, if he could, +upon the system of travel then in vogue. Thereupon Mr. Pullman caused to +be made by the Herculaneum and Pompeii Manufacturing Company (limited) a +palace sleeping-coach, which he presented to King Humbert with his +compliments, demanding no recompense for the distinguished gift further +than the privilege of appointing and controlling the porters for said +car. The grateful potentate readily granted this request; for he was +charmed, positively delighted, with the luxurious innovation introduced +by the enterprising American. For the next six months King Humbert did +nothing but travel around: the chances are that he would be travelling +still, if he had not been compelled to suspend operations until after +the Senate voted him another appropriation. At the end of the six +months, the king found himself out of pocket about 1,500,000 lires; and +about this time Mr. Pullman’s porter in Naples, one Giacomo Fiozzo, +began buying corner-lots, and erecting ten-story apartment-buildings on +the principal Neapolitan thoroughfares. Kings, however, are liberal +folk; and well can they afford to be, even when dealing with a Chicago +businessman. So when King Humbert fell to thinking of all the pleasures +(not to say benefits) he had derived from his six months’ experience in +Mr. Pullman’s coach, he paid not even the tribute of a passing thought +to the financial outlay involved, but rather set his wits to work at +inventing some means whereby he might further distinguish the gentleman, +whom he viewed in the light of a benefactor. The result is this +elevation of Mr. Pullman from the ranks of the hoi polloi to the dignity +and the title of a marchese, which, in the Italian tongue, corresponds +to the knighthood of Great Britain, the booyars of Roosha, and the +flambustules of Siam. + +Sig. Pietro Casa del Comma, secretary of the Italian legation in this +city, tells us that when the official communication from his Majesty +reaches Chicago, it will become the duty of the consul at this point to +proceed at once to Mr. Pullman’s palatial residence on Prairie Avenue, +and there, in the presence of the Italian legation, and in the name of +his Catholic majesty, to dub Mr. Pullman a marchese or (as Mr. Pullman +may prefer to be called) a chevalier. Sig. del Comma says that +“marchese” is pronounced “mar-kee-sy,” and that “chevalier” is +pronounced “shee-val-ya:” we are inclined to think that markeesy sounds +just a trifle more bong tong than sheevalya, and we hope that Mr. +Pullman will choose that title. + +After he has been invested with this honor, Mr. Pullman—or, we should +say, the Markeesy Pullman—will be visited by the gardener of the +legation (for this is an old custom), who will present him with a +bouquet, saying, “Io ho l’onore, onorevole signor, di presentarvi le +queste fiori e di gratularvi.” Upon receiving this bouquet, the markeesy +will be expected to hand the simple gardener fifty francs (or ten +dollars), and this is all the money the markeesy will have to pay out +for the honor. By a singular coincidence, the gardener of the Italian +legation in Chicago at this time is one Patrick Murphy, a kinsman of the +late Markeesy di Potata (_née_ Murphy) of San Francisco, who was +elevated from obscurity by the late Pope Pius IX. + +Sig. del Comma tells us furthermore that one of the first things the +Markeesy Pullman will have to do will be to choose a coat-of-arms, for a +markeesy without a coat-of-arms would be an anomaly which the Italian +potentate could not well endure. With a view to relieving the markeesy +of much anxiety and labor, the signor has compiled a coat-of-arms, which +he will submit for the markeesy’s approval and adoption. + +This chaste design represents a shield engrailed, bordured, and vert, +with a supporting figure at each side; the figures are what in the +vernacular of heraldry is called expectant and demandant; the shield +dexter is quartured—that is to say, divided into four berths, or +compartments, which are left blank for posterity to fill; the shield +sinister is decorated with the portraiture of a small feather pillow +issuant, this being the heraldic symbol of luxury and ease; upon this +pillow appears the personification of indefatigable industry and +ceaseless vigilance, rampant, illustrating not only the means by which +the markeesy has achieved his noble ends, but also the still nobler +teaching of the most wise Solomon, who said, “Go to the ant, you +sluggard, or you will go to the dogs.” + +[Illustration: A satirical black-and-white ink illustration of a coat of +arms. The central shield is split vertically down the middle; the left +side features a pillow with a small ant, while the right side is divided +into four horizontal blank bars. Flanking the shield as supporters are +two Black men in caricature style, dressed in railway porter attire. A +flowing banner arches over the top of the shield carrying the Latin +motto "PRO PATRIA CAVALIERE".] + +Above the shield appears a motto, “Pro Patria Caveliere,” which is the +Latin for “For His Country, a Knight;” but the particular beauty of this +motto is, that it can be abridged to P. P. C., and thus be made to serve +a business purpose. + +As we understand it, the Markeesy di Pullman becomes, immediately upon +the acceptance of this title, the local protector, patron, promoter, and +_chaperon_ of Italian art. When Col. J. H. Mapleson comes to Chicago +with his wheezy old cantatrices and spavined tenors, it will be the +markeesy’s duty to go security for advertising, hotel-bills, and +theatre-rent; it will also be the markeesy’s duty to advance Mapleson +and his troupe enough money to take them to St. Louis; this will be a +great boon to our Opera Festival Association, and we presume that the +markeesy will be glad to make the trifling sacrifice for the dignity of +the crown that has honored him. As soon as Mme. Adelina Patti heard of +the rumor of the markeesy’s elevation to the peerage, she sent him a +bouquet by Sig. Nicolini. The markeesy gracefully acknowledged the +compliment in a note made up of polite Italian phrases judiciously +culled from the libretto of “Il Trovatore.” + +The Italian population of Chicago is highly gratified with the +distinguished tribute paid by their monarch to our popular +fellow-townsman. At a meeting of the Societa d’Italia in Poggio’s +restaurant last evening, several speeches were made in eulogy of the +Markeesy di Pullman’s many virtues, his enterprise, his munificence, his +philanthropy, etc. An address to his Majesty King Humbert, +congratulating him upon having recemented the ties which bind Italy and +the United States, was read by Giovanni Bianco, the banana-merchant, and +approved by the meeting: it was ordered that the address be cabled to +his Majesty, provided that the Markeesy di Pullman would pay the toll. + +The effect of the Italian boom has already become apparent in our +literary circles. The leading book-sellers say that incessant have been +the calls for Dante, for Petrarch, and for Tasso, since the news of the +Pullman affair reached Chicago. The markeesy’s portrait in the rooms of +the dancing-class was draped with Italian flags last evening; and +already the caterer at Caveroc’s on Wabash Avenue has invented a new +dish of macaroni, which is entitled macaroni di Pullman. We mention +these trifling details merely to indicate how generally and how deeply +this compliment of royalty to our amiable and gifted townsman is +appreciated by his fellow-citizens. + + + + + _Literary Laconics._ + + +WE understand that Mr. Gunther, the autograph virtuoso, recently paid +two hundred and fifty dollars for an autograph of Dante Alighieri, which +he discovered on the fly-leaf of a volume of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s +poems. + + * * * * * + +MR. MÆCENAS B. FULSOMTONE, the well-known purveyor of green hams, and +president of the Michael Angelo Art Club, has just sent to his London +agent an order for fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of books. The choice +of volumes is left with the agent; the only specification made by Mr. +Fulsomtone being that the books contain plenty of pictures, and be bound +in red morocco. + + + + + _As to the Garter of a Markeesy._ + + +WITHIN the last two days we have received a large number of +communications touching the handsome coat-of-arms which the secretary of +the Italian legation has designed for the marchese di Pullman. Several +of the communications contain comment upon the picture of the +industrious insect represented as sprawling rampant on the feather +pillow in the sinister half of the so-called Pullman shield. One +correspondent says that the insect is not an ant, but a potato-bug; +another declares that it is a busy bee; and still a third maintains that +it is neither a chinch-bug, nor a busy bee, nor yet an ant, but one of +those predatory vampires known (by name only) in polite society as “the +flat-backed militia.” A gentleman, signing his letter “Scholasticus,” +writes that he is deeply learned in heraldic lore, and that he has +studied with increasing pleasure and profit the design submitted by Sig. +Pietro Casa del Comma. He says, however, that he has one important +suggestion to submit, and it is this: That the dexter quartures of the +shield, which have been left blank for posterity to fill, should be +designated as No. 1 upper, No. 1 lower, No. 2 upper, and No. 2 lower. + +The suggestion submitted by “Scholasticus” strikes us most favorably, +and we have sent it around to the Italian legation. As for the +communications of the other correspondents, we have to say this only: +That the form of animal life depicted upon the pillow of the shield was +designed by the artist to represent an ant, the most industrious, the +most frugal, and the most provident, of creatures. It may be that +chinch-bugs and busy bees are in the habit of spending their precious +time gallivanting around over feather pillows, but we have never met +with any of this kind in the course of our travels. On the other hand, +the ant is to be found everywhere, and in every employment. As Aristotle +truly has it,— + + “Whether upon the raging billow, + Or o’er the meads her path be bent, + On buttery shelf or Pullman pillow, + The ant is busy and content. + Full many a bird of rarer beauty + Is heralded by trump of fame: + The ant toils on in line of duty— + And gets there all the same.” + +In connection with this little affair, we will say that a matter of much +more importance than the marchese di Pullman’s coat-of-arms is bothering +us just at present. We are informed that when a man is invested with the +order of knighthood, he is expected to wear a garter upon (or around) +his left leg. We have been devoting some time to an investigation of the +subject of garters, and we think that we are competent to give a pretty +able opinion thereupon. Garters, we maintain, are divided into three +grand divisions or schools. The first is the Elizabethan, the second is +the Boston, and the third is the Reform school. This picture will give a +pretty fair idea of the three:— + +[Illustration: ’roundThree line drawings of legs showing different +styles of historical hosiery: on the left, a loose, wrinkled stocking +held below the knee by a simple garter band; in the middle, a +front-facing leg wearing a mesh-patterned stocking secured by a buttoned +strap below the knee; and on the right, a solid black stocking held up +by a garter suspender.] + +Now, here in Fig. 1 (which is the verisimilitude to the left) is a +tableau of the Elizabethan garter upon the left leg of a knight: we will +suppose the knight to be the marchese di Pullman. The garter encircles +the leg below the knee, and it clasps the leg so tightly as to shut off +the blood-supply from that part of the member below it: the result is, +that the marchese di Pullman’s left calf shrivels and abates, until it +falls to the level of the ankle, and, when that unhappy climax is +reached, it becomes necessary to sew the garter to the hose, else it +will not retain the position required by the etiquette of the court. We +doubt very much whether there could be imagined a more pitiable +spectacle than that of the marchese di Pullman travelling about the +world in his knightly robe, with his right calf normally plump and +shapely, and his left calf all wizened and shrunken under the baleful +effects of the knightly garter. In Fig. 2 (the illustration in the +centre of our design) we have a representation of the marchese’s left +leg adorned with the Boston garter, which we consider a great +improvement upon the garter of the Elizabethan period. This modern +innovation conduces to the development of the muscles in the lower part +of the leg, and at the same time it supports the hose in a most +ingenious manner. It permits the blood to course unimpeded on its way, +thus insuring against cold feet, and proving a very salvation for corns +and bunions. + +The third illustration is of the Reform garter. We hear it highly spoken +of, but we have not looked into its merits. Inasmuch as it is so warmly +recommended by those who have tried it, we think we can safely say that +we hope to see more of it in the future. As we are told, this machine +consists of divers straps and pulleys so ingeniously contrived as to +bring its weight upon no particular part of the body, but to distribute +it (or diffuse it, if you please) over the whole system. One part of it, +as we are told, girds the neck, and the other part holds the hose in a +deathlike grip. This establishes such an immediate and close +relationship between the pedal and the pectoral regions, that, if the +wearer have corns, a palpitation of the heart is likely to ensue, or, if +the wearer’s feet happen to get wet, a sore throat is invariably the +consequence. + +We think, therefore, that, viewed from every stand-point, the Boston +garter has notable advantages over its competitors; and, if we are +called upon, we shall advise the marchese di Pullman to adopt it as the +insignia of his noble office. + + * * * * * + +WE heartily sympathize with our ennobled fellow-townsman, the marchese +di Pullman, in the sorrow entailed upon him by the official announcement +that the Italian olive-crop is almost a total failure this year. Yet +when one accepts the burdensome responsibilities of the peerage, he is +expected to endure with Spartan fortitude the providential dispensations +that remorselessly crush those less honorably fortified. + + * * * * * + +“THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE” is rather late in the day: still, we are glad to +find it lumbering to the front with the venerable information that the +Markeesy Giorgio di Pullman is not entitled to the title of sir. This is +what we said last week. The title which our cultured and opulent +fellow-townsman has, in recognition of his philanthropics, been honored +with, is the Italian title of markeesy, which corresponds with the +English title of sir; but the bearer cannot Anglicize the title: he must +remain a markeesy all the days of his natural life, or until, at least, +he is promoted to some higher dignity. The Markeesy di Pullman +understands this perfectly, and he would not exchange his markeesyship +for the cream and flower of English knighthood. In connection with this +subject, we beg to say that we deeply deplore the existence of a bitter +malice against, and a rancorous envy of, the Markeesy di Pullman in +certain local society circles. The existence of this insidious hostility +was first brought to our knowledge by means of a song composed by a +Chicago poet, and set to music by one of our amateur musicians. The +chorus to this ribald song runs as follows:— + + “When the party is breezy and wheezy, + And palpably greasy, it’s easy + To coax or to wring, + From a weak-minded king, + The titular prize of markeesy.” + + + + + _Mr. Emerson in ’Frisco._ + + +While Ralph Waldo Emerson was on his way to California, several years +ago, he fell in with a gentleman who was altogether so sociable and +chatty that an otherwise tedious journey was rendered as cheerful as you +please. This gentleman’s name was Sackett, and he told Mr. Emerson that +he resided in San Francisco: this was all the information he ventured +concerning himself, but from his conversation Mr. Emerson gathered that +his newly made acquaintance was indeed a gentleman of intelligence and +standing. Mr. Sackett pointed out all the points of interest along the +way, retailed a lot of amusing anecdotes, and, best of all, was an +attentive listener when Mr. Emerson fell to discoursing upon the Is, the +To Be, the Seeming, and other frothy subjects with which his scholarly +and saintly intellect seemed thoroughly conversant. + +The natural consequence was that Mr. Emerson came to the conclusion that +Mr. Sackett was as charming a gentleman as he had ever met with, and it +was in this positive conviction that he accepted Mr. Sackett’s +invitation to dine with him immediately upon their arrival in San +Francisco. The next morning Mr. Emerson was well-nigh paralyzed to find +in all the local papers this startling personal notice: “Professor Ralph +Waldo Emerson, the eminent philosopher, scholar, and poet, is in our +city as the guest of Mr. H. J. Sackett, the well-known proprietor of the +Bush-Street Dime Museum; _matinées_ every half-hour, admission only ten +cents. The double-headed calf and the dog-faced boy this week!” + +Mr. Sackett is now in the amusement business in Chicago, and he refers +to his experience with the sage of Concord as one of the most profitable +strokes of enterprise in his long and active career. + + + + + _A Summer Philosopher._ + + + CHICAGO, ILL. + +_To the Editor._—I cannot express to you how charmed I am to learn +through the columns of your valued paper that the _littérateurs_ and the +thinkers of Chicago are going to have a School of Western Philosophy in +this city early in July. Although I have but recently come from the East +(having resided in Michigan for the last five years), I take a keen +interest in the growth of Western culture; and, knowing the great good +effected by these re-unions whereat sympathetic intellects may revel in +mutual delights, I am exceedingly anxious that this promised School of +Western Philosophy shall eventuate. I was visiting friends in Boston in +1879, and went with my Aunt Holbrook to the first Concord School of +Summer Philosophy. It was then and there that I got my first taste of +the joys which accrue from the scholarly discussion of such subjects as +the Am, the To Be, and the Knowing. The grandest minds of the century +were there,—Emerson, Harris, Sanborn, Alcott, Mrs. Cheney, H. K. Jones, +Wasson, Professor Pierce, Higginson, Dr. Bartol, Harrison G. O. Blake, +Aunt Holbrook, and myself. It was the first and only time I met +Emerson—oh, how I revere that divine man’s memory! He read an essay on +“Memory;” and we hung upon his utterances, as bees cluster at the +swarming. When I was introduced to him, he smoothed my hair kindly, and +murmured, “Sweet child; sweet child.” He was a dreamy, poetic man, and +his saintly thoughts were always amid the clouds of the vast Above. +While he was discoursing of metempsychosis, or carving apple-pie, there +was about him a subtile prescience and an ineffable psychic +consciousness that were beauteous to cognize. Frank Sanborn was another +philosopher-poet who charmed me deeply. I have in my scrap-book his +entire “Address to the Mutability of Things,” and his tender lines in +memory of Emerson’s dead canary-bird, beginning,— + + “Oh! can this mortal ken descry + The Whither thou hast went?” + +I am preparing a voluminous paper on the subject of the immortal +intellects I met at Concord, and criticisms upon the various +philosophies of the same. If I get this work completed by that time, I +would like to read it at the Western School of Summer Philosophy next +July. My well-known maiden effort, “The Chautauqua Cook Book, with Hints +to Young Mothers,” may be cited as an earnest of my capability; and as a +further proof of my acquaintance with the notables of whom I am +treating, I can produce my album in which are inscribed the autographs +of the same. Yours in the Noble work, + + MRS. AMIABLE J. HOLBROOK. + + + + + _The Truth about Dante._ + + +Folco di Ricovero Portinari had a daughter named Beatrice, a comely and +amiable child, who had just turned of nine years when her estimable +father gave a fashionable party to numerous friends in his palatial +Florentine residence. There came to this party, in company of his father +and mother, a lad named Durante Alighieri, himself but a few months +older than little Beatrice. These two children, being the only little +folk at the party, took a fancy to each other, and romped and played +together on this occasion, as any other two children would have played +under similar circumstances. Being somewhat the elder, and considerably +the stronger, of the two, little Durante, or Dante as he was called, had +pretty much his own way; and having robbed little Beatrice of most of +her cake and all her candies, and having threatened to thrash her if she +ever told, Dante declared to his doting parents that he had never before +met with so sweet a little playmate as was this same little Beatrice. + +We are given to understand that from an acquaintance thus made, grew an +affection that endured until death removed the two principals to another +sphere. In fact, the love of Dante for Beatrice has been the theme of +many a sentimental poem and emotional essay. + +The truth, however, is, that although Beatrice lived to be twenty-five +years of age, Dante could at no time, during the sixteen years he +associated with her, convince himself that he loved her well enough to +make her his wife. It was not until he heard of her death that he became +satisfied that he had loved Beatrice with an all-consuming love; and, +having satisfied himself on this point, he began at once to indite +elegiac verse to her memory,—a habit which, we regret to observe, he had +the infinite bad taste to persist in up to the very date of his demise. + +Fortunately, there have been preserved, by the genius of a Bostonian +named Prang, a countless number of copies of a portrait of Beatrice made +several months previous to that estimable maiden-lady’s death; and the +sad beauty of the unhappy woman’s face has appealed to the compassion of +all beholders. This portrait, as we interpret its expression, represents +the patient Beatrice as gazing pensively into space, and wondering when +Dante was going to propose. + +Beatrice had been buried scarcely a year when her heart-broken lover +made up his mind that the best consolation for the loss of one +sweetheart was the procuring of another; and so he began paying his +_devoirs_ to a wealthy and beautiful girl named Gemma Donati, one of the +belles of Florence. While he was courting this bright, pretty, and +unsuspecting lady, however, he continued to indite whining elegies, +sonnets, triolets, quatrains, couplets, etc., to the memory of Beatrice, +the woman who had died of a broken heart because Dante didn’t have spunk +enough to pop the question. We take it for granted that none of these +mortuary verses ever reached the eyes or the ears of Gemma Donati before +she was married. Otherwise, you can depend upon it, she would have given +Mr. Alighieri the mitten he deserved, for she was a proud, spirited +girl. She believed Dante loved her; and believing in him, and trusting +in his love, she went to the altar with him. + +It was not long, however, before Gemma discovered that she had caught a +Tartar. Instead of the bright, happy fellow she had a right to expect in +her bridegroom, she found that Dante was capricious, moody, and +dyspeptic. He had a habit of sitting up late of nights, groaning and +sighing, writing poetry which he industriously hid away from her, but +read to everybody else,—doing, in fine, all manner of things beseeming a +person afflicted with a chronic disorder of the liver and a natural +wrongness of the heart. Truly, an enviable honeymoon it must have been +that poor Gemma passed with this bridegroom of hers! One day, at last, +she found a verse that explained much to her. It was a verse in Dante’s +chirography; and Gemma read the cruel lines, and fell down in a swoon. + + “Fatto era un stagno piu secura e brutto— + O Beatrice! di quel grazzia la citta, + Altro non e dar; + Uno esperto non Gemma e l’opra + Un correger soave un pio sostegno— + Figgo del sperto solle!” + +That night she taxed Dante with having deceived her, and he was mean +enough to accuse her of being jealous. When he discovered that his bride +was hopelessly miserable, he clinched the general cussedness of the +situation by applying himself more diligently than ever before to the +business of composing maudlin poetry to the memory of the defunct old +maid,—“his sainted Beatrice,” as he called her in his miserable dago +hypocrisy. + +This delectable state of affairs continued a number of years; and +meantime, in spite of his devotion to the sacred memory of his “first +and only love in heaven,” Dante contrived to become the father of six +children, one of whom was a girl. This girl should have been named after +her estimable mother; but in order, apparently, to grind the iron even +deeper into his wife’s soul, Dante stole away to a priest’s house with +the baby one day, and had the little creature christened Beatrice. There +seems to have been no end to this man’s indecent cruelty. + +Well, having wrecked his wife’s life, Dante proceeded to make a public +nuisance of himself; and he embarked in politics, and began sloshing +around at a great rate. But dealing with a discriminating and exacting +public is very different from bully-ragging a patient, submissive wife; +and the first thing he knew, Dante was in deep water,—hot water too. He +was banished from the province; and, although he made vigorous and +persistent efforts to get back again, his fellow-townsmen were wise +enough to let the decree stand. Of course Gemma sympathized with her +husband in his troubles, but the burden of these troubles fell rather +upon her; for now it became her duty to provide for the six children +which Dante had left behind when he made his escape. A small part of +Dante’s property she saved from confiscation by claiming it as her +dower; and it was upon this pittance that Gemma reared and educated +their children,—Dante’s and hers. It was a hard struggle, involving +countless sacrifices; but it was a struggle to which Gemma applied +herself courageously, patiently, and grandly,—courageous, patient, noble +woman that she was! + +The biographies that have come down to us are all biographies of Dante. +Therefore we can only surmise at the magnitude of the suffering which +Gemma endured. But we know this, that Gemma brought her six children to +maturity, and that she lived to see them prosperous and honored. During +all the intervening years, it was one continuous fight to make the ends +meet; and every now and then Gemma squeezed out of her paltry savings a +little money to send to her exiled husband. + +Meantime, instead of trying to earn means whereby to contribute to the +support of his family, Dante seems to have devoted all his time to +writing poetry and things calculated to make trouble for the home-folk. +His most pretentious composition was a grotesque production purporting +to be an account of a visit to hell and purgatory. His dyspeptic +stomach, his torpid liver, and his malignant temper, qualified him for a +work of this character; and, having consistently raised —— all his life, +it is not surprising that he should have left to posterity a minute +description of that undesirable locality, and the industries therein +abounding. With the utmost care, Dante drew his pen-pictures of the +infernal regions, and introduced as figures therein all the Florentines +he disliked, particularly those who were likely to be of kindly service +to his wife and his children. At one time, having heard that the noble +Duke della Caseras had advanced Gemma the sum of ten ducats to keep her +and her babies from starving, Dante at once proceeded to represent the +noble duke in hell, with his body submerged in a lake of sulphurous +flame, and his legs sticking up in a preposterous manner. If any citizen +of Florence was good to Dante’s wife, he was promptly put in hell by +Dante himself. In fact, hell, as Dante pictured it, was peopled with men +and women who treated Dante’s wife and children humanely. This made life +rather awkward for Mrs. Alighieri and the rising generation of +Alighieris; but their feelings were not to be considered, so long as Mr. +Alighieri’s demoniacal spite was being gratified. + +Many of the Florentine people whom Dante utilized in this scandalous +manner overlooked his offences in a good-natured way. They regarded +Gemma as a very worthy woman; and they were prepared at all times to do +her kindnesses, no matter how rudely Gemma’s husband treated them in his +spiteful poems. But there were others who refused to take kindly to +Dante’s ungrateful methods. Giovanni Ferato, the baker, was one of +these. “Signora,” said he to Gemma one day, “I have suffered your +account to run for many months. Whenever you came for bread, or called +for rolls, or ordered pie, or sent for cake, I have permitted you to +have them without question; for I knew you were pressed by poverty, and +I thought to do you a kindness. But your husband has paid the debt by +devoting seven lines of blank verse to me and my family, representing us +as floating about in a sea of molten lead, with winged devils shooting +flaming darts into our bodies. You will have to go elsewhere for your +pastry hereafter.” + +Guiseppe Angelo once let Gemma have a load of fagots at half price, +whereupon Dante represented Guiseppe as being nailed down with red-hot +nails to the very floor of hell; while a vulture tore out his entrails, +and devoured them without seasoning. When Gemma went for another load of +fagots, she had to pay a double price. + +In like manner, Torquato Rovera, the cobbler; Michael Levato, the +huckster; Hermozo Bambino, the butcher; and a score of other +tradefolk,—were prejudiced against this modest, amiable, and unoffending +woman. To put the case as mildly as possible, it was, so far as Gemma +was concerned, awkward. + +But of all the mean, despicable things done in Dante’s career of +incomparable meanness, the meanest was his allusion to his wife in the +sixteenth canto of his “Hell.” Heedless of the wrongs he had done her, +and forgetting all her sacrifices for him and for his children, the +jaundiced ingrate left to posterity these lines:— + + “—me, my wife + Of savage temper, more than aught beside, + Hath to this evil brought.” + +Dante died at Ravenna. While he was ill, he wrote his wife a dismal +letter, begging for money: she borrowed three ducats, and sent them to +him. The gold reached him just as he lay at the point of death. He read +the accompanying letter, and groaned. “She does not say who lent her the +money,” he sighed. “Would that I knew his name, that I might put him +with the others in that brimstone pit!” + +Then he raised himself feebly, and said to Pietro Alfieri, his friend, +“Take this gold, and with it pay the printer, who delays too long the +publication of my last poem.” With these words he expired. + +Alfieri took the money to the printer. “Have you a poem here, the work +of Dante Alighieri?” he asked. + +“I have,” said Fernando Pizaro. “There is due upon it three ducats, else +it shall not leave the shop.” + +“Let me see the poem,” demanded Alfieri. + +The printer brought forth the manuscript. It was entitled, “To My +Beatrice in Heaven!” + +“Whistle for your money!” said Alfieri laconically; and he threw down +the manuscript, and walked out of the shop. + +Pietro Alfieri was a man of decency. He sent the three ducats back to +Gemma Alighieri; and with the money the frugal widow bought shirtwaists +for her five boys, and a nice new jersey for her little girl. + + + + + _The Good Cause._ + + +WE understand that our talented fellow-townsman, T. Babbington +Greenleaf, is engaged upon a rhythmical translation of the tripods of +Horace. + + * * * * * + +THE Book-Binders’ Union will give its regular annual ball in Brand’s +Hall immediately after Lent. + + + + + _The Convention of Western Writers._ + + +The Chicago people who went down to Indianapolis last Tuesday, to attend +the convention of Western writers, have returned; and they are telling a +great many amusing stories of their experiences. It would appear that +the convention was not as numerously attended as its promoters had hoped +it would be; the mistake seems to have been in calling a second +convention so soon after the date of the first: once a year is often +enough for authors and poets to get together for consultation. The +Chicago delegates were treated very hospitably; and it is perhaps to +their credit that they took no part in the proceedings, except to stand +around, look dignified, and hear what the other people had to say. + +“So you’re from Chicago, are you?” would be the first question asked. + +“Yes.” + +“What have you written?” + +Here would follow a modest confession, made in tones indicative of +embarrassment. + +“But have you never written any thing for ‘The Current’?” and this +question would be put with an expression of countenance that seemed to +add, “If you _have_, you must be all right; but if you _haven’t_, you +can’t amount to much.” + +The rooms of the Chicago contingent were the resort of the rural +_littérateurs_ with “something to read you for your private opinion.” +Poets came in from every part of Indiana, and each of these poets had a +bundle of original dialect poetry. Mad because they were not billed in +the programme of the convention, these inspired creatures insisted upon +reading their verses to everybody they met. Mr. Maurice Thompson seems +to have been the man who impressed the Chicago visitors most favorably: +he was president of the convention, and one of the first things he did +was to tell the poets that they were nuisances. As the convention +proceeded, and bedlam began to prevail, Mr. Thompson sat quietly in his +chair, regarding the scene with an expression of hopelessness and +contempt commingled. When the last hours of the convention drew on +apace, the poets and authors made a constant tumult for the privilege of +reading their poems and things. Of course, there was not time for all to +be heard; and the result was, that each tried to make himself or herself +heard. The confusion was indescribably ludicrous. + +Bill Nye was so disgusted that he retired early from the fray; and so +did James Whitcomb Riley; Thompson staid because he had to. + +One old lady about seventy-five years of age had prepared a poem; but +when she looked in her reticule for the manuscript, she could not find +it. Her efforts to recover her lost poem would have been funny had they +not been pathetic. She set everybody to looking under the chairs and on +the tables for the manuscript; and even the cover of the piano was +lifted, in the suspicion that the lost poem might have found its way +into that instrument. + +“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you!” said one gushing Hoosier _littérateur_ to +a Chicago lady, “for you can tell me whether the author of ‘The Humbler +Poets’ came down from Chicago with you. I would so like to see him!” + +It was a good thing for the gentleman in question that he was a thousand +miles away. But there were constant and numerous inquiries after him by +poets and poetesses who claimed to have “several little gems” of their +own which they felt he would “be glad to add to his collection.” + +At first it was determined to hold the next convention in Chicago; but +subsequently this determination was reconsidered, and the executive +committee was empowered to call the next convention at any place it +might choose. One of the Indiana poetesses approached a Chicago visitor, +and said triumphantly, “Well, you aren’t goin’ to get it, after all!” + +“Get what?” + +“The next convention.” + +“Well, that is a matter that doesn’t concern me at all,” replied the +Chicagoan. “I’m not here representing Chicago: I’ve come simply to +report your proceedings for my paper.” + +“Oh, yes! I know,” said the poetess; “but Chicago has acted so +indifferent about it that she can’t have it now. Why, if they had agreed +upon Terry Hut, I’d have risen right up in the convention, and thanked +’em, and bid ’em welcome!” + + + + + _The Poet’s Corner._ + + +“M. E. B.”—The only English translation of Goethe’s “Faust” we can +recommend is that made by Gen. Zachary Taylor, one of our ex-presidents. + + * * * * * + +MRS. HANNAH MORE GARDINER, president of the West-Side Browning Club, has +suffered a keen bereavement in the demise of her pet poodle, whom she +had named Robert, in honor of her favorite poet. While not wishing to +invade the sanctity of the gifted lady’s grief, we cannot forbear saying +that this lamentable occurrence has cast a gloom over the whole +community; and the dispensation seems all the more distressing, since +deceased left a numerous infant progeny. + + + + + _A Western Boy’s Lament._ + + I wished I lived away Down East, where codfish salt the sea, + And where the folks have pumpkin-pie and apple-sass for tea. + Us boys who’s livin’ here out West, don’t get more’n half a show: + We don’t have nothin’ else to do but jest to sort o’ grow. + + Oh! if I wuz a bird I’d fly a million miles away + To where they feed their boys on pork and beans three times a day; + To where the place they call the Hub, gives out its shiny spokes, + And where the folks—so father says—is mostly women-folks. + + + + + _The Story of Xanthippe._ + + CHICAGO, ILL. + + _To the Editor._—I am in a great dilemma, and I come to you for + counsel. I love and wish to marry a young carpenter who has been + waiting on me for two years. My father wants me to marry a literary + man fifteen years older than myself,—a very smart man I will admit, + but I fancy he is _too_ smart for me. I much prefer the young + carpenter, yet father says a marriage with the literary man would give + me the social position he fancies I would enjoy. Now, what am I to do? + What would _you_ do, if you were I? + + Yours in trouble, + PRISCILLA. + + +Listen, gentle maiden, and ye others of her sex, to the story of +Xanthippe, the Athenian woman. + +Very, very many years ago there dwelt in Athens a fruit-dealer of the +name of Kimon, who was possessed of two daughters,—the one named Helen +and the other Xanthippe. At the age of twenty, Helen was wed to +Aristagoras the tinker, and went with him to abide in his humble +dwelling in the suburbs of Athens, about one parasang’s distance from +the Acropolis. Xanthippe, the younger sister, gave promise of singular +beauty; and at an early age she developed a wit that was the marvel and +the joy of her father’s household, and of the society that was to be met +with there. Prosperous in a worldly way, Kimon was enabled to give this +favorite daughter the best educational advantages; and he was justly +proud when at the age of nineteen, Xanthippe was graduated from the +Minerva Female College with all the highest honors of her class. There +was but one thing that cast a shadow upon the old gentleman’s happiness, +and that was his pain at observing that among all Xanthippe’s +associates, there was one upon whom she bestowed her sweetest smiles; +namely, Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes the plasterer. + +“My daughter,” said Kimon, “you are now of an age when it becomes a +maiden to contemplate marriage as a serious and solemn probability: +therefore I beseech you to practise the severest discrimination in the +choice of your male associates, and I enjoin upon you to have naught to +say or to do with any youth that might not be considered an eligible +husband; for, by the dog! it is my wish to see you wed to one of good +station.” + +Kimon thereupon proceeded to tell his daughter that his dearest ambition +had been a desire to unite her in marriage with a literary man. He saw +that the tendency of the times was in the direction of literature: +schools of philosophy were springing up on every side, logic and poetry +were prated in every household. Why should not the beautiful and +accomplished daughter of Kimon the fruiterer become one of that group of +geniuses who were contributing at that particular time to the glory of +Athens as the literary centre of the world? The truth was, that, having +prospered in his trade, Kimon pined for social recognition: it grieved +him that one of his daughters had wed a tinker, and he had registered a +vow with Pallas that his other daughter should be given into the arms of +a worthier man. + +Xanthippe was a dutiful daughter; she had been taught to obey her +parents; and although her heart inclined to Gatippus, the son of +Heliopharnes the plasterer, she smothered all rebellious emotions, and +said she would try to do her father’s will. Accordingly, therefore, +Kimon introduced into his home one evening a certain young Athenian +philosopher,—a typical literary Bohemian of that time, one Socrates, a +creature of wondrous wisdom and ready wit. The appearance of this +suitor, presumptive if not apparent, did not particularly please +Xanthippe. Socrates was an ill-favored young man. He was tall, +raw-boned, and gangling. When he walked, he slouched; and when he sat +down, he sprawled like a crab upon its back. His coarse hair rebelled +upon his head and chin; and he had a broad, flat nose, that had been +broken in two places by the kick of an Assyrian mule. Withal, Socrates +talked delightfully; and it is not hard to imagine that Xanthippe’s +pretty face, plump figure, and vivacious manners, served as an +inspiration to the young philosopher’s wit. So it was not long ere +Xanthippe found herself entertaining a profound respect for Socrates. + +At all events, Xanthippe, the Athenian beauty, was wed to Socrates the +philosopher. Putting all thought of Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes +the plasterer, out of her mind, Xanthippe went to the temple of +Aphrodite, and was wed to Socrates. Historians differ as to the details +of the affair; but it seems generally agreed that Socrates was late at +the ceremony, having been delayed on his way to the temple by one +Diogenes, who asked to converse with him on the immortality of the soul. +Socrates stopped to talk, and would perhaps have been stopping there +still had not Kimon hunted him up, and fetched him to the wedding. + +A great wedding it was. A complete report of it was written by one of +Socrates’ friends, another literary man, named Xenophon. The literary +guild, including philosophers by the score, were there in full feather, +and Xenophon put himself to the trouble of giving a complete list of +these distinguished persons; and to the report, as it was penned for +“The Athens Weekly Papyrus,” he appended a fine puff of Socrates, which +has led posterity to surmise that Socrates conferred a great compliment +on Xanthippe in marrying her. Yet, what else could we expect of this man +Xenophon? The only other thing he ever did was to conduct a retreat from +a Persian battle-field. + +And now began the trials of Xanthippe, the wife of the literary man. Ay, +it was not long ere the young wife discovered, that, of all husbands in +the worlds, the literary husband was the hardest to get along with. +Always late to his meals, always absorbed in his work, always +indifferent to the comforts of home—what a trial this man Socrates must +have been! Why, half the time, poor Xanthippe didn’t know where the next +month’s rent was coming from; and as for the grocer’s and butcher’s +bills—well, between this creditor and that creditor the tormented little +wife’s life fast became a burden to her. Had it not been for her +father’s convenient fruit-stall, Xanthippe must have starved; and, at +best, fruit as a regular diet is hardly preferable to starvation. And +while she scrimped and saved, and made her own gowns, and patched up the +children’s kilts as best she might, Socrates stood around the streets +talking about the immortality of the soul and the vanity of human life! + +Many times Xanthippe pined for the amusements and seductive gayeties of +social life, but she got none. The only society she knew was the prosy +men-folk whom Socrates used to fetch home with him occasionally. +Xanthippe grew to hate them, and we don’t blame her. Just imagine that +dirty old Diogenes lolling around on the furniture, and expressing his +preference for a tub; picking his teeth with his jack-knife, and smoking +his wretched cob-pipe in the parlor! + +“Socrates, dear,” Xanthippe would say at times, “please take me to the +theatre to-night: I do so want to see that new tragedy by Euclydides.” + +But Socrates would swear by Hercules, or by the dog, or by some other +classic object, that he had an engagement with the rhetoricians, or with +the sophists, or with Alcibiades, or with Crito, or with some of the +rest of the boys—he called them philosophers, but we know what he meant +by that. + +So it was toil and disappointment, disappointment and toil, from one +month’s end to another’s; and so the years went by. + +Sometimes Xanthippe rebelled; but, with all her wit, how could she +reason with Socrates, the most gifted and the wisest of all +philosophers? He had a provoking way of practising upon her the +exasperating methods of Socratic debate,—a system he had invented, and +for which he still is revered. Never excited or angry himself, he would +ply her with questions until she found herself entangled in a network of +contradictions; and then she would be driven, willy-nilly, to that last +argument of woman—“because.” Then Socrates—the brute!—would laugh at +her, and would go out and sit on the front door-steps, and look +henpecked. This is positively the meanest thing a man _can_ do! + +“Look at that poor man,” said the wife of Edippus the cobbler. “I _do_ +believe his wife is cruel to him: see how sad and lonesome he is.” + +“Don’t play with those Socrates children,” said another matron. “Their +mother must be a dreadful shiftless creature to let her young ones run +the streets in such patched-up clothes.” + +So up and down the street the neighbors gossiped—oh! it was very +humiliating to Xanthippe. + +Meanwhile Helen lived in peace with Aristagoras the tinker. Their little +home was cosey and comfortable. Xanthippe used to go to see them +sometimes, but the sight of their unpretentious happiness made her even +more miserable. Meanwhile, too, Xanthippe’s old beau, Gatippus, had +married; and from Thessaly came reports of the beautiful vineyard and +the many wine-presses he had acquired. So Xanthippe’s life became +somewhat more than a struggle: it became a martyrdom. And the wrinkles +came into Xanthippe’s face, and Xanthippe’s hair grew gray, and +Xanthippe’s heart was filled with the bitterness of disappointment. And +the years, full of grind and of poverty and of neglect, crept wearily +on. + +Time is the grim old collector who goes dunning for the abused wife, and +Time finally forced a settlement with Socrates. + +Having loafed around Athens for many years to the neglect of his family, +and having obtruded his views touching the immortality of the soul upon +certain folk who believed that the first duty of a man was to keep his +family from starving to death, Socrates was apprehended on a +bench-warrant, thrown into jail, tried by a jury, and sentenced to die. + +It was in this emergency that the great, the divine nobility of the wife +asserted itself. She had been neglected by this man, she had gone in +rags for him, she had sacrificed her beauty and her hopes and her pride, +she had endured the pity of her neighbors, she had heard her children +cry with hunger—ay, all for _him_; yet, when a righteous fate o’ertook +him, she forgot all the misery of his doing, and she went to him to be +his comforter. + +Well, she could not have done otherwise, for she was a woman. + +Where was his philosophy now? where his wisdom, his logic, his wit? What +had become of his disputatious and learned associates that not one of +them stood up to plead for the life of Socrates now? Why, the first +breath of adversity had blown them away as though they were but mist; +and, with these false friends scattered like the coward chaff they were, +grim old Socrates turned to Xanthippe for consolation. She burdened his +ears with no reproaches, she spoke not of herself. Her thoughts were of +him only, and it was to his chilled spirit that she alone ministered. +Not even the horrors of the hemlock draught could drive her from his +side, nor unloose her arms from about his neck; and when at last the +philosopher lay stiff in death, it was Xanthippe that bore away his +corpse, and, with spices moistened by her tears, made it ready for the +grave. + + + + + _Philadelphia._ + + +“The Philadelphia News,” which is justly entitled to the great success +it enjoys in the field of evening journalism, has published a double +paper containing divers opinions of Philadelphia as expressed by certain +distinguished men of the country. We are pleased to see what these +eminent critics have had to say. But we are surprised that none of them +has called attention to the fact that Philadelphia is one of three +American cities into which and out of which all railway trains back? The +other two cities are Toledo, O., and Atchison, Kan. St. Louis is the +only city we know of that can be approached from the civilized world by +means only of a tunnel. Philadelphia discounts this underground or +woodchuck method by running her railroad-line over the tops of houses; +and, as this line is constructed in the shape of a =Y=, all incoming +trains back in, and all outgoing trains back out. + +Another curiosity in Philadelphia is its railway station. It is the only +structure in America that is composed simply of a roof and a basement. +All trains come in upon and depart from the roof: cabmen and +hack-drivers lie in wait in the basement for travellers descending from +the roof. + +There are but two topics of conversation indulged by the patriotic +Philadelphian. The first is a Clover-Club dinner that _has_ been, and +the second is the new City Hall that is going to be. The Clover Club is +an erotic social organization, founded with a view to stuffing strangers +with terrapin, and then flattening them out with a triphammer. The new +City Hall is a hollow square of marble, covered with aerial derricks, +and medallions of B. Franklin and W. Penn. It has already cost as many +million dollars as the Philadelphian narrator believes you capable of +swallowing. + +“The Record” office is said to be the finest newspaper building on the +continent. The counting-room has a tessellated floor: over the cashier’s +desk hangs an oil-painting of the Holstein cow that chased the dog that +worried the cat that ate the rat printer. Mr. Singerly, editor of “The +Record,” owns this cow. He is very proud of her, and she of him. She can +set up more ems of solid brevier milk at one sitting than any other +lacteal compositor now on earth. + +Philadelphia is the only city in the country where street-car fare is +six cents, where New-York papers are sold for seven cents apiece, and +where the barbers charge twenty cents for shaving a stranger. It is the +only city, too, where Twelfth (as the name of a street) is spelled +T-w-e-l-f-v-t-h on the lamp-posts. It is the only city, too, where +people scrub their front-steps every morning in the dead of winter, and +then sprinkle ashes on the steps to keep folks from slipping down. It is +the only city, too, where editors of morning papers go home from work at +4.30 P.M. every day. + +Philadelphia is also the only city that has beaten Chicago four straight +games at base-ball. + +Still, Chicago is hardly in a position to criticise Philadelphia +unprejudicedly. Chicago has been so unfortunate as to become the adopted +home of three of Philadelphia’s most enterprising sons. + +One of these gentlemen is Mr. Joseph C. Mackin, who, owing to +circumstances over which he has no control, is temporarily absent from +this city. + +Another is Mr. Gallagher, who ought to be absent, but isn’t. + +The third is Mr. Charles T. Yerkes. + + + + + _Humanity._ + + The big-eyed baby, just across the way, + Longs for the moon, and reaches out to clasp it: + He lunges at the crescent, cold and gray, + And waxes wroth to find he cannot grasp it. + + Be hushed, O babe! and give thy grief a rest. + Better, a thousand times, for thee to ponder + Upon the lacteal wealth of mother’s breast, + Than reach for that vain milky way up yonder. + + Yet am I like this man of recent birth + That lets a foolish disappointment fret it— + Scorning the sky, I’m reaching for the earth, + And grunt and groan because I do not get it. + + + + + _Baked Beans and Culture._ + + +The members of the Boston Commercial Club are charming gentlemen. They +are now the guests of the Chicago Commercial Club, and are being shown +every attention that our market affords. They are a fine-looking lot, +well-dressed and well-mannered, with just enough whiskers to be +impressive without being imposing. + +“This is a darned likely village,” said Seth Adams last evening. +“Everybody is rushin’ ’round an’ doin’ business as if his life depended +on it. Should think they’d git all tuckered out ’fore night, but I’ll be +darned if there ain’t just as many folks on the street after nightfall +as afore. We’re stoppin’ at the Palmer tavern; an’ my chamber is up so +all-fired high, that I can count all your meetin’-house steeples from +the winder.” + +Last night five or six of these Boston merchants sat around the office +of the hotel, and discussed matters and things. Pretty soon they got to +talking about beans: this was the subject which they dwelt on with +evident pleasure. + +“Waal, sir,” said Ephraim Taft, a wholesale dealer in maple-sugar and +flavored lozenges, “you kin talk ’bout your new-fashioned dishes an’ +highfalutin vittles; but, when you come right down to it, there ain’t no +better eatin’ than a dish o’ baked pork ’n’ beans.” + +“That’s so, b’ gosh!” chorussed the others. + +“The truth o’ the matter is,” continued Mr. Taft, “that beans is good +for everybody,—’t don’t make no difference whether he’s well or sick. +Why, I’ve known a thousand folks—waal, mebbe not quite a thousand; +but,—waal, now, jest to show, take the case of Bill Holbrook: you +remember Bill, don’t ye?” + +“Bill Holbrook?” said Mr. Ezra Eastman; “why, of course I do! Used to +live down to Brimfield, next to the Moses Howard farm.” + +“That’s the man,” resumed Mr. Taft. “Waal, Bill fell sick,—kinder moped +round, tired like, for a week or two, an’ then tuck to his bed. His +folks sent for Dock Smith,—ol’ Dock Smith that used to carry round a +pair o’ leather saddlebags,—gosh, they don’t have no sech doctors +nowadays! Waal, the dock, he come; an’ he looked at Bill’s tongue, an’ +felt uv his pulse, an’ said that Bill had typhus fever. Ol’ Dock Smith +was a very careful, conserv’tive man, an’ he never said nothin’ unless +he knowed he was right. + +“Bill began to git wuss, an’ he kep’ a-gittin’ wuss every day. One +mornin’ ol’ Dock Smith sez, ‘Look a-here, Bill, I guess you’re a goner: +as I figger it, you can’t hol’ out till nightfall.’ + +“Bill’s mother insisted on a con-sul-tation bein’ held; so ol’ Dock +Smith sent over for young Dock Brainerd. I calc’late, that, next _to_ +ol’ Dock Smith, young Dock Brainerd was the smartest doctor that ever +lived. + +“Waal, pretty soon along come Dock Brainerd; an’ he an’ Dock Smith went +all over Bill, an’ looked at his tongue, an’ felt uv his pulse, an’ told +him it was a gone case, an’ that he had got to die. Then they went off +into the spare chamber to hold their con-sul-tation. + +“Waal, Bill he lay there in the front room a-pantin’ an’ a-gaspin’, an’ +a wond’rin’ whether it wuz true. As he wuz thinkin’, up comes the girl +to git a clean tablecloth out of the clothes-press, an’ she left the +door ajar as she come in. Bill he gave a sniff, an’ his eyes grew more +natural, like: he gathered together all the strength he had, an’ he +raised himself up on one elbow, an’ sniffed again. + +“‘Sary,’ says he, ‘wot’s that a-cookin’?’ + +“‘Beans,’ says she, ‘beans for dinner.’ + +“‘Sary,’ says the dyin’ man, ‘I must hev a plate uv them beans!’ + +“‘Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!’ says she: ‘if you wuz to eat any o’ them +beans, it’d kill ye!’ + +“‘If I’ve got to die,’ says he, ‘I’m goin’ to die happy: fetch me a +plate uv them beans.’ + +“Waal, Sary she pikes off to the doctors. + +“‘Look a-here,’ says she, ‘Mr. Holbrook smelt the beans cookin’, an’ he +says he’s got to have a plate uv ’em. Now, what shall I do about it?’ + +“‘Waal, doctor,’ says Dock Smith, ‘what do you think ’bout it?’ + +“‘He’s got to die anyhow,’ says Dock Brainerd; ‘an’ I don’t suppose the +beans’ll make any diff’rence.’ + +“‘That’s the way I figger it,’ says Dock Smith: ‘in all my practice I +never knew of beans hurtin’ anybody.’ + +“So Sary went down to the kitchen, an’ brought up a plateful of hot +baked beans. Dock Smith raised Bill up in bed, an’ Dock Brainerd put a +piller under the small of Bill’s back. Then Sary sat down by the bed, +an’ fed them beans into Bill until Bill couldn’t hold any more. + +“‘How air you feelin’ now?’ asked Dock Smith. + +“Bill didn’t say nuthin’: he jest smiled sort uv peaceful, like, an’ +closed his eyes. + +“‘The end hez come,’ said Dock Brainerd sof’ly: ‘Bill is dyin’.’ + +“Then Bill murmured kind o’ far-away, like (as if he was dreamin’), ‘I +ain’t dyin’: I’m dead an’ in heaven.’ + +“Next mornin’ Bill got out uv bed, an’ done a big day’s work on the +farm, an’ he hain’t hed a sick spell since. Them beans cured him! I tell +you, sir, that beans is,” etc. + + + + + _Mr. Isaac Watts, Tutor._ + + +Our valued fellow-townsman, Mr. F. L. Blake, tells us that he was +considerably interested by our remarks recently on the subject of Dr. +Isaac Watts’s poetry. Such an interest, in fact, did our words awaken, +that, upon reading them, Mr. Blake threw aside the paper, went to his +book-case, and took down an old volume of Watts’s hymns and poems. He +had not read the volume in many years, and sweet were the memories that +came to him as he thumbed over the musty pages. “Still,” says he, “I +cannot agree with you when you speak of Dr. Watts’s verse as ‘quaint, +simple poetry.’ One of the first hymns I struck was a recital of the +joys of the redeemed, and I shuddered when I read this stanza:— + + “‘In heaven above among the blest, + What mortal tongue can tell + The joys of saints when looking down + On damnèd souls in hell!’ + +“I don’t believe you really think that this is ‘quaint, simple poetry.’” + +Few men have been more read and less understood than Dr. Isaac Watts. He +was in many particulars a remarkable man. Old Sam Johnson described him +as a little man not more than five feet tall, with an austere +expression, and a deep, resonant voice. Watts was always more or less of +a valetudinarian. He was unwise enough at the age of twenty-five to hire +himself to Sir John Hartopp of Stoke-Newington as tutor to Sir John’s +children—a lad named Ralph, aged sixteen, and a girl named Delia, aged +eighteen. The care which this engagement involved so seriously impaired +Watts’s health that he was never thereafter a robust man. Ralph Hartopp +was a wild boy; and Delia, the girl, appears to have been a rather +flippant miss. There dwelt in Stoke-Newington, at this time, one Richard +Steele, a reckless but bright fellow, who fell in love with Delia +Hartopp, and by his attentions gave Tutor Watts grave uneasiness; for +Watts recognized in Steele a “godless young man, given over to the +vanities and frivolities of the world.” Steele had a friend named +Addison,—Joseph Addison,—a taciturn young man, who exhibited a fondness +for sitting around in ale-houses and at street-corners, merely for the +purpose of watching people, and of hearing them talk. This Addison had +one ambition, and that was to print a satirical daily paper in London; +and he calculated that when his friend Steele married Sir John Hartopp’s +daughter, Sir John himself would advance the capital necessary to set +Steele and Addison up in the newspaper business. So, in his quiet, +unobtrusive way, Addison helped Steele with his wooing of Sir John’s +pretty daughter. + +We can imagine how grievously Steele and Addison tormented Tutor Watts: +both were shrewd and witty, had seen much of the world, and were keen +satirists of human character. When it got to them that Watts was in the +habit of writing “religious and moral poems for the better guidance and +wiser admonition” of his pupils, they set themselves to writing poems +too; and these poems they cast in Watts’s way, and right often was the +good man grievously scandalized thereby. One of these poems, which +appears to have been the work of Steele and Addison conjointly, has come +down to posterity under the ostentatious title of “The Redemption of +Mistress Prudence told in Rhyme for the Better Understanding of Our +Sovereign Beauty, the Fair Delia.” These lines, thus addressed to Delia +Hartopp, were as follow:— + + “Behold our Prudence in her prime + As meek and fair a dame as any; + Yet was she tempted in her time, + As tempted are, alas! too many. + Satin and silken gowns had she, + Feathers and ribbons, plumes and laces,— + Vain gewgaws fetched across the sea + From divers godless foreign places. + + Thereat her foolish, wicked pride + Did vaunt itself to such condition, + That she did constantly deride + Her gentle tutor’s admonition. + In vain he reasoned with the maid; + In fashion’s way she strode undaunted; + And all the more her tutor prayed, + Why, all the more her plumes she flaunted. + + At last, however, waxing sick + Of worldly praise and admiration, + She felt her quickened conscience prick, + And straightway sought her soul’s salvation. + And when she saw, through tearful eyes, + How nearly Satan’s darts had missed her, + She doffed her dazzling flummeries, + And gave them to her younger sister.” + +It is narrated that these verses shocked Tutor Watts beyond all telling, +and we can believe it. Sir John Hartopp was a jolly old fellow, +immensely proud of his children, and confident that, after the wildness +natural to youth toned down, they would be a credit to their family. So +Sir John simply laughed at these verses and others that poor Watts +brought to him as the work of “those evil-minded young men.” It appears +that the conscientious tutor got very little sympathy from his employer. + +The following lines, said to have been instigated by Richard Steele, +were found in Ralph Hartopp’s copy-book one morning:— + + THE HUMANE LAD. + + Why should a naughty, froward boy + The harmless little fly assail, + Or why his precious time employ + At pulling faithful Rover’s tail? + + Where’er I go, each living thing + Has its predestined place to fill; + And naught that moves on foot or wing + Was made for boys to vex or kill. + + The little fly, howe’er so frail, + Was made on Rover’s hide to prey; + And faithful Rover’s honest tail + Was made to brush the flies away. + + So let each bird and beast enjoy + The vain, brief life which God has given, + Whilst I my youthful hours employ + In works that fit the soul for heaven. + +Yet, however much Dick Steele and his friend enjoyed the business of +satirizing Tutor Watts’s poems, they occasionally let slip verse that +not only served to assuage the tutor’s anger, but also redounded to +their own credit. It was Watts’s custom to take his pupils for a walk +every pleasant day, and during these walks he was wont to discourse upon +profitable topics. The following lines, written under date of July 21, +1697, are supposed to have been addressed to Ralph and Delia Hartopp by +Tutor Watts; but Dr. Johnson pronounces them “clearly the work of Joseph +Addison:”— + + A NOONTIDE HYMN. + + Come, gentle pupils, let us kneel + Beneath this tree upon the sod, + And, mindful of our sin, appeal + Unto the good and gracious God. + + Look out upon the fruitful wold, + And see the ripening grain upraise + Its bursting tops of green and gold + Unto the sky in silent praise. + + The winds are hushed, the fields are still, + The brooks that babbled sink to rest: + A holy reverence seems to thrill + Creation’s vast, responsive breast. + + It is the solemn noontide hour, + When grateful Nature everywhere + Acknowledges the heavenly power + In one still, universal prayer. + + So let us kneel upon the sod, + And, with his works before our face, + Commend our souls anew to God, + And crave his sanctifying grace. + +At another time, in evident imitation of Watts’s style,—though the +imitation is not particularly clever,—Steele framed an evening hymn, the +original manuscript of which is still preserved, we believe, among the +Hartopp collection in the British Museum:— + + AN EVENING HYMN. + + Pardon the evil I have done + To thee, O Lord! this day: + Vouchsafe thy blessed peace to one + Who seeks the heavenly way. + + As turns the truant to his home, + When sore and sick is he, + So, penitent and weak, I come, + And give my soul to thee. + + ’Tis thine, dear Lord; and, if thou wilt, + Protect it through this night; + Or, cleansing it of all its guilt, + Take it to realms of light. + + Though o’er the sea and on the land + The raging storms may sweep, + Rocked in the hollow of thy hand + Shall I securely sleep. + + I may not know another day, + Nor see the morrow’s sun: + Still, clinging to thy knees, I pray, + “Father, thy will be done.” + +Verses of this kind were not objectionable in the eyes of Tutor Watts, +but we can imagine how outraged he felt when he discovered that the +following stanzas were being circulated in Stoke-Newington as a poem +from his pen:— + + THE MERCIFUL LAD. + + Through all my life the poor shall find + In me a constant friend, + And on the weak of every kind + My mercy shall attend. + + The dumb shall never call on me + In vain for kindly aid, + And in my hands the blind shall see + A bounteous alms displayed. + + In all their walks the lame shall know + And feel my goodness near, + And on the deaf will I bestow + My gentlest words of cheer. + + “’Tis by such pious works as these— + Which I delight to do— + That men their fellow-creatures please, + And please their Maker too.” + +Well, to make a long story short, Isaac Watts broke down at last under +the pressure brought to bear upon him by Sir John Hartopp’s good-natured +indifference, Ralph’s recklessness, Delia’s giddiness, Dick Steele’s +wit, and Joe Addison’s humor. He went to Sir John one day, and in a +husky, weary voice said, “Good-by, Sir John: I’m off by next coach.” He +was tired, sick, discouraged. He sought and found refuge in the house of +a hospitable and wealthy friend, and there he abode for the rest of his +life. He never again served as tutor; but he lived to see his old +pupils, Ralph and Delia, become proper and pious members of society. +Subsequently, too, his relations with Steele and Addison became of the +friendliest character; and, when “The Spectator” rose to popularity in +London, Dr. Watts not infrequently contributed to its columns. Delia +Hartopp did not marry Steele, after all, but a Nottinghamshire gentleman +named Mulgrave. + +Most of Dr. Watts’s hymns were written, as we understand, during the +later years of his life. He was such a prolific writer that much of his +work was necessarily indifferent. But his hymns have, as a whole, been +admired by the severest and most eminent critics; and they have been +read and sung by people of all classes for many, many years. We think +that they have come to be almost a part of the Protestant faith. + +It is probable that Watts’s “Divine and Moral Songs for the Young” will +live as long as English literature survives. We can conceive of no +seismic phenomenon capable of obliterating the two poems, “How doth the +little busy bee,” and “Let dogs delight to bark and bite;” and we have +yet to read a tenderer bit of religious verse than Watts’s cradle-hymn, +“Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber.” + +Touching the stanza which Mr. Blake quotes for our consideration, we +will say that it _is_ quaint and simple. Its meaning is clear, and its +language is forcible: it expresses in four lines what the average modern +poet could not or would not tell in ten times four lines. Yet we do not +believe that Dr. Watts wrote it. + + + + + _The Revision._ + + +Upon consulting his notes again, we venture to say that Mr. Julian +Hawthorne will find that what the Hon. James Russell Lowell did really +say was this:— + +“The queen? Oh, yes! I have the highest admiration, respect, and +veneration for her. Imagine, if you can, a woman in the prime of life, +in full possession of those physical charms, those personal graces, and +those intellectual accomplishments, which enthrall every beholder; a +woman of commanding height, of willowy, lissome figure, panther-like in +her movements, with a voice like the tones of an Æolian harp, and a +laughter like the tinkling exuberance of a sylvan cascade—picture to +yourself such a being, and you will have a fair idea of the gifted and +beautiful lady who directs, and who for many years will continue to +direct, the destinies of the august British Empire. + +“Of her talented and amiable young son, I have formed the most pleasing +impression. Though still a mere boy, he carries upon his slender +shoulders the massive head and thoughtful brain of a ripened statesman. +Naturally of a studious and contemplative turn, the prince has from +childhood eschewed those temptations which beset royal youth; and, as he +blossoms into manhood, his expanding character holds out to his loving +country the sweetest and most flattering promises. + +“Be sure, Julian, to send me six copies of the paper containing these +observations.” + +Since, according to Mr. Lowell’s card, the Hawthorne interview was +substantially correct in other particulars, we think that Mr. Hawthorne +should give the distinguished interviewee the benefit of this revised +version of the interviewee’s remarks about the queen and her son. + + + + + _The Official Explanation._ + + One night aside the fire at hum, + Ez I wuz settin’ nappin’, + Deown frum the lower hall there come + The seound uv some one rappin’. + The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he,— + Julian I think his name wuz,— + Uv course, he feound a friend in me, + Not knowin’ what his game wuz. + + An’ ez we visited a spell, + Our talk ranged wide an’ wider; + An’ ef we struck dry subjects—well, + We washed ’em deown with cider. + Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru + My system, an’ a-playin’ + Upon my tongue, I hardly knew + Just what I wuz a-sayin’. + + I kin remember that I spun + A hifalutin’ story, + Abeout the Prince uv Wales, an’ one + Abeout old Queen Vic_to_ry. + But, sakes alive! I never dreamed + The cuss would get it printed— + (By that old gal I’m much esteemed, + Ez she hez often hinted). + + Oh, if I had that critter neow, + You bet your boots I’d larn him + In mighty lively fashion heow + To walk the chalk, gol darn him! + Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine + The breach grows wide an’ wider; + An’, by the way, it’s my design + To give up drinkin’ cider. + _Hosea Biglow._ + + + + + _Yankee Chorus Girls._ + + +Col. William H. Foster, the manager of the Boston Ideals, tells us that +his principals do not cost him so much worry and vexation as his +chorus-girls do. “It is admitted,” says he, “that my chorus-girls are +the prettiest on the operatic stage this year. I selected them with +great care, and made these three conditions the basis upon which that +selection was made: First, each candidate had to be under nineteen years +of age; second, each had to weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds, and +less than a hundred and sixty pounds; third, each had to agree to +subsist on the diet prescribed by me. I have eleven girls in my chorus, +and I venture to say they are the cream and flower of New-England +beauty. I suffer them to eat but three meals a day.—Their breakfasts +consist of hulled corn or oatmeal, rare beefsteak, and graham bread. For +dinner they eat boiled mutton with boiled potatoes and Hubbard squash, +or corned beef and cabbage, or pork and beans; and their only dessert is +pumpkin-pie or apple-pie. Their suppers consist of smoked halibut, dried +beef, graham bread, dried-apple sauce, cold doughnuts, and cookies. I +watch them all the time lest some foolish admirer sends them candy or +fruit, two godless luxuries which I never countenance. The consequence +of my jealous care is, that my chorus-girls are plump, rosy, and +vigorous, the paragons of girlish beauty. I shall never forget the scene +that took place the night we opened this season in Syracuse, N.Y. +Barnabee came off the stage after the first act, looking like a boy of +nineteen. His eyes were afire, his cheeks were flushed, his step was +bounding, and a joyous smile wreathed his face. + +“‘In Heaven’s name, Foster,’ said he, ‘how can I ever thank you,—how can +I express to you my gratitude for the inestimable boon you have +conferred upon me!’ + +“‘What do you mean?’ I asked, aghast; for his unusual excitement alarmed +me. + +“‘Look at me,’ said he. ‘Scrutinize me closely, and search me well. I am +an old man. Age has frosted my sparse locks, chilled my blood, and +traced furrows in my cheeks. For twenty-three years I have been +identified with this Boston Ideal Company; and for twenty-three years +have I groped my way around among the sphinxes, the obelisks, the +ivy-mantled towers, and the grand old ruins, of ancient female history. +So inured had I become to this hardship, that it came like second nature +to me to weave my arms about relics, and to sing impassioned sonnets in +the dull, cold ears of survivors of the silurian epoch. To-night, +however, when I clasped in my embrace, in view of an enthusiastic +public, the female to whom my serenade had been addressed, I found her +not the mossy reminiscence I expected, but a living, breathing, +palpitating girl, with rosebud lips and peachy cheeks. Instantly I +experienced a blissful change percolating through my being. For +twenty-three years I had felt like a government mule hauling a load of +pig-iron, but now I feel like a two-year-old colt behind a band of +music. Don’t you think, Foster, that McDonald needs a rest? I believe I +would like to sing his _rôles_ for the balance of the season.’” + + + + + _Mr. Dixey as a Nemesis._ + + +Mr. Henry E. Dixey is the owner of a St. Bernard dog that weighs, +perhaps, three hundred pounds; and, after the fashion of the lamb that +was platonically attached to Mary, this dog accompanies Mr. Dixey +wherever Mr. Dixey goes. Twice across the ocean and all over this +continent makes Prince the most extensive traveller of the canine kind. +Day before yesterday Mr. Dixey and his leviathan dog were having a romp +through the four or five rooms occupied by the Clan Dixey at the Hotel +Richelieu. First, Mr. Dixey would shut the dog up in the folding-bed, +and hide himself in the wardrobe: then the dog would break away from the +folding-bed, and begin a hunt for Dixey, humorously tipping over tables +and chairs, as humorously breaking the crockery, and still more +humorously accompanying his labors with volcanic vocal eruptions +expressive of fear, hope, anticipation, joy, etc. This play lasted for +about an hour; Mrs. Dixey sitting in the front-room meanwhile, smiling +contentedly, and thinking to herself how much better it was for Henry to +be passing a quiet afternoon at home than to be frittering away his time +in the company of frivolous men about town. But Mme. Patti, whose +apartments at the Richelieu are located directly under the Dixey rooms, +must have thought differently: for while Mr. Dixey and his dog were in +the midst of their genial sport,—or, we might say, while the festivities +were at their height,—there came a knock at the door; and Mme. Patti’s +maid Hortense, looking like one of the Two Orphans, presented this +message: “Mme. Patti complemongs Mme. Dix-_see_, and will Mme. Dix-_see_ +have ze goodness to make her leetle boy stop to play wiz ze dog?” + +Mr. Dixey was highly indignant. He did not care so much for himself, but +the insult to the dog was one he could scarcely brook. Next morning, as +he lay in his bed, he became cognizant of an angelic voice soaring in +song,—a voice so heavenly that it tarried not in the porches of his ear, +but penetrated to the innermost recesses of Mr. Dixey’s very soul, and +filled his whole being with an ecstasy of ineffable delight. + +“Ida, my dear,” called Mr. Dixey to his wife, who was sewing in the +adjoining room. + +“What is it, Henry?” she answered. + +“You’re in unusually good voice this morning, my dear,” said Mr. Dixey. +“I don’t know when I’ve heard you sing so pleasantly.” + +“Why, Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Dixey. “_I’ve_ not been singing. That was +Mme. Patti you heard. She is practising Proch’s variations; and isn’t it +just too lovely?” + +But there was a cold, meaningful glitter in Mr. Dixey’s eye as he +straightway arose from his bed, donned his trousers, and put on one of +his red Hibernian wigs. A few moments later, when, in answer to a brutal +knock, Mme. Patti opened the door of her parlor, the incomparable +song-bird’s sloe-like orbs beheld what seemed to be a gaunt, raw +Irishman standing in the portal. “Misther Dixey’s compliments to yees, +mum,” said this hulking apparition; “and wad yees moind sthopping the +tra-la-la-loo, mum, till Misther Dixey have a bit av slape?” + + * * * * * + +MR. JAMES R. LOWELL, a Boston writer whose poems give promise of a +brilliant future for the author, will visit Chicago next week as the +guest of one of our most enterprising citizens, whose reduction in the +price of green hams is noted in our advertising columns. + +Mr. James Russell Lowell will be cordially welcomed and hospitably +entertained by the people of Chicago. Our citizens have always had the +kindliest feelings for the Boston people, and they have ever been +prepared to pay the tribute of their respect to the distinguished son +whom Boston delights to honor. Chicago feels a special interest in Mr. +Lowell at this particular time, because he is perhaps the foremost +representative of the enterprising and opulent community which within +the last week has secured the services of one of Chicago’s honored sons +for the base-ball season for 1887. The fact that Boston has come to +Chicago for the captain of her base-ball nine has re-invigorated the +bonds of affection between the metropolis of the Bay State and the +metropolis of the mighty West: the truth of this will appear in the +hearty welcome which our public will give Mr. Lowell next Tuesday. + + * * * * * + +OUR enterprising fellow-townsmen, the proprietors of the Home +Restaurant, have added to their popular dinner bill of fare, a new viand +entitled _Beans à la Lowell_, a delicate compliment to the distinguished +poet now visiting among us. + + * * * * * + +IN justice to Mr. James Russell Lowell, it should be said that his +lecture upon “Richard III.” last Tuesday afternoon did not refer to +Richard J. Oglesby, our honored governor. + + + + + _Professor Lowell in Chicago._ + + +The presence of Mr. James Russell Lowell has given Chicago a tremendous +boom as a literary centre. In literary circles this boom is not spoken +of as a boom, but as an impetus—impetus being a word of such classic +pedigree as to render it preferable to the lowly and vulgar word boom. +This impetus first became apparent last Saturday afternoon, when one of +the distinguished members of the Chicago Literary Club—a manufacturer of +linseed-oil—happened to call at the business office of another +distinguished member of the club, a wholesale dealer in hides and pelts. + +“I see by the papers,” said the first _littérateur_, “that James Russell +Lowell is going to be in town next week.” + +“Lowell? Lowell?” queried the second _littérateur_, as if he were trying +to place the name. “Oh, yes! I remember—the author of ‘The One-Hoss +Shay’!” + +“Yes: he’s going to read a poem in Central Music Hall next Tuesday,” +explained the first _littérateur_, “and it has occurred to me that we +ought to elect him an honorary member of the club.” + +“Well,” said the second _littérateur_, “we’ll think about that—there’s +no special hurry. You know, we have to be a little careful about taking +up with every stranger that comes along: however, we’ll talk it over at +the next meeting. Here, you Jim, go up on the back roof, and drag in +them calf-pelts out of the rain!” + +Since Mr. Lowell’s address last Tuesday afternoon, we have taken pains +to mingle pretty freely with the recognized literary folk of the town, +and we have been mightily interested in the opinions that are expressed +of Mr. Lowell and his work. We are told at the house of A. C. McClurg & +Co., that during the last forty-eight hours there has been a terrific +demand for Lowell’s books. One order came from a wealthy pork-packer, +and was for “Lowell’s works in binding to match my ‘Vues de Paris.’” +Another order was for Lowell’s books, provided the whole set cost more +than a hundred dollars. These little incidents pleased us greatly, +because they evidence that there is springing up among our people a +choice, a discriminating, an exacting taste, which demands only the best +works of an author. + +“Last evening,” said two board-of-trade men, “we had the pleasure of a +long talk with Mr. Lowell. We were fully prepared to create a favorable +impression; for in anticipation of meeting him, and following the +example of our other fellow-townsmen, we had secured a complete line of +Mr. Lowell’s poems and essays, and had been feeding upon them for a +fortnight. Much to our disappointment, however, Mr. Lowell appeared +disinclined to traverse the poetic and misty vistas of the past with us; +and when we contrived—with consummate art and ineffable subtilty, as we +fondly imagined—to introduce into our introductory remarks an apt +quotation from ‘Hosea Biglow,’ he dampened our ardor by adverting to the +location of Chicago, its salubrious climate, and the immense volume of +its trade. Mr. Lowell said that he had driven about the city a good +deal, had been charmed with the beauty of our avenues, the extent and +embellishments of our commons, the magnitude of our pond, and +hospitality of our citizens. He said that he had visited the +packing-houses on the South Side, and that he was convinced that the +Western methods of flaying and disembowelling live-stock had its +advantages over the conventional New-England way of removing the +bristles of a pig with an iron candlestick. At one of the +rendering-establishments the proprietor received the distinguished poet +with great cordiality. After escorting him about the place, and +acquainting him with the delicate details of the art, this hospitable +host conducted Mr. Lowell to the private office, and insisted upon +opening a case of champagne. To make the situation all the more +comfortable for his guest, the host remarked pleasantly, ‘We always +whoop it up to you newspaper men; for, like as not, when you get back +home, you’ll write us up.’” + +Another gentleman who called on Mr. Lowell was a Mr. Elisha K. Robbins, +who represented that he was organizing a club which he wanted to call +the James Russell Lowell Literary and Debating Lyceum. He sought Mr. +Lowell’s sympathy with the enterprise to the extent of a donation of +twenty-five dollars. Mr. Lowell was really very much embarrassed; he +sympathized heartily with the scheme suggested, and he appreciated very +keenly the compliment which Mr. Robbins and his associates were +ambitious to confer; but he was compelled to inform Mr. Robbins in the +most delicate manner possible, that, in the hurry and excitement of +starting upon his Western tour, he had carelessly left his wallet on the +_escritoire_ in his room at home. Mr. Robbins so heartily shared Mr. +Lowell’s regret at this awkward occurrence, that, at a meeting of his +accomplices last evening, he formally moved that “this organization be, +and hereby is, named the Julian Hawthorne Literary Club.” + +It were useless to deny that many of our citizens were much disappointed +at the change which substituted a lecture on “Richard III.” for a +political address. We heard several of our most cultured fellow-townsmen +say that Dick Oglesby could talk all around Lowell: one of our most +influential citizens—a wholesale liquor-dealer—remarked, “I have heard +’em all now,—Lowell and Logan, and Gin’ral Palmer and all of ’em; but +for real eloquence and scholarship, give me Carter H. Harrison in a +spring campaign, every time!” + +Austin Fisher, the well-known art-connoisseur, and dealer in leaf-lard, +said, “This man Lowell is a scholar and a nice gentleman—there’s no +denying _that_; but, do you know, after all, I think I prefer Bill Nye.” + +Col. Ben Higgins, the owner of Prairie Belle, Sly Boots, and other noted +flyers, thought that Mr. Lowell’s address was an outrage. “The club is +very indignant,” he said. “We were all there in our best harness, and we +expected that the race would come off as advertised. Of course, we were +mad when we found that the programme had been changed. The event was +billed as a mile-and-a-quarter dash; and it was, in fact, only a +best-three-in-five trot, and slow at that!” Col. Higgins went on to say +that Mr. Lowell had offended all the leading turfmen in Chicago by +choosing to talk about Shakespeare when he had agreed to come here and +make an oration on the Washington Park Club. + +The theatrical people, too, are berating Mr. Lowell for having +maintained that Shakespeare did not write “Richard III.” “If the +governor were here,” said Mr. Horace McVicker yesterday, “you can just +bet he’d have a card in all the papers, doing Mr. Lowell up in great +shape! The governor is a great admirer of Shakespeare: when he was but +four years old, he played one of the little princes in ‘Richard III.’” + +Manager R. M. Hooley was the only theatrical man who approved the Lowell +theory. “I remember having experimented with ‘Richard III.’ once on a +time,” said he. “It was about three years ago that George Edgar brought +a company to my theatre, and tried to convince me that Shakespeare wrote +‘Richard III.’ After he had tried it for two weeks, I paid +railroad-fares for the whole crowd back East. After Mr. Lowell’s lecture +the other afternoon, I walked up to the platform, and grasped Mr. +Lowell’s hand. ‘You have told the truth,’ said I: ‘I know how it is +myself, for I have been there.’” + +Mr. T. Percy Bottom-Jones, one of our wealthiest and most cultured +citizens, tells us that he entertained Mr. Lowell at dinner the other +evening; and, from the description Mr. Bottom-Jones gives, we judge that +the entertainment was in every way worthy of Chicago’s reputation. “We +had eighteen courses,” says Mr. Bottom-Jones, “and the whole spread cost +me in the neighborhood of seven thousand dollars. Lowell seemed to be +particularly pleased with the sherry. ‘I must compliment you,’ he said, +‘upon the nice discrimination you have evinced in your choice of +sherries: this is simply delicious.’—‘Well, it ought to be,’ says I; +‘for I paid sixteen dollars a bottle for it!’” + +“What did Mr. Lowell say to that?” we asked. + +“Say?” echoed Mr. Bottom-Jones. “He didn’t say any thing; but you never +saw a more surprised-looking man in all your born days.” + +This brought to mind very vividly the lines of Paulinas Varro, the Latin +poet:— + + “Mæcenas is a model host, + Who, o’er his viands nice, + Is wont to name each dish, and boast + Its quality and price.” + +We do not know how this epigram will impress others; but, taking it with +the results of our daily observations, it goes a long way toward +convincing us that (to indulge in a pardonable metaphor) the mantle of +the most luxurious, the most fastidious, and the most refined, of grand +old Roman times has fallen, so to speak, upon the shoulders of the +representatives of Chicago wealth and culture. + + * * * * * + +WRITING to us upon one of his bill-heads, a prominent member of the +Chicago Literary Club takes us severely to task for “indulging in +unseemly sarcasm and untimely levity at the expense of Mr. Lowell and +those cultured Chicagoans who are seeking to create a healthy literary +atmosphere in the West.” Our correspondent goes on to set up a defence +of Mr. Lowell’s lecture last Tuesday afternoon, as if a defence were +necessary! He says that we should remember that any utterance coming +from Mr. Lowell is worth listening to; that to the study of the subject +which he treated last Tuesday, Mr. Lowell devoted much time, and that +Chicago ought to regard it as a high compliment that Mr. Lowell had +prepared especially for her edification a discourse at once so scholarly +and so eloquent, and necessarily involving so much time, patience, and +discrimination in its preparation. + +Our correspondent’s burning words would have great weight with us did +they not come to us written upon a sheet whose prefatory printed matter +informs us that the writer is the proprietor of a soap-manufactory. We +decline to take kindly to that atmosphere, literary or otherwise, which +a soap-factory is likely to create. As far as regards the suggestion +that we have aimed sarcasms at Mr. Lowell, we will say that there is no +truth in it; and touching the allegation that Mr. Lowell wrote his +Shakespeare lecture especially for the edification of the Chicagoans, we +will say that there is no truth in that, either. + +We have before us a copy of “The Boston Evening Transcript” of last +Wednesday; and in it we find a scholarly, thoughtful, and elegant +editorial, entitled “Mr. Lowell in Chicago.” We quote a few lines:— + +“While Mr. Lowell’s praises were being sounded here yesterday, Mr. +Lowell himself was creating a great deal of discussion at Chicago by +suddenly changing the topic of his address before the Union League Club +from a political to a literary one, and talking about the authorship of +‘Richard III.,’ instead of American politics. No doubt, it is quite +natural that there should be a good deal of disappointment expressed at +the change of programme, since, in lieu of a piquant and healthy +political sensation, Mr. Lowell gave his audience a critical address, +which had already been delivered at Edinburgh; but he had looked the +ground over, and doubtless had reason to believe that he did wisely in +altering his programme.” + +This is startling information: it gives us to understand, as distinctly +as if we had been hit with a club, that, so far from serving up to us a +specially prepared discourse, Mr. Lowell regaled us with a chestnut—and +a Scotch one, at that! We regard it as the severest joke ever played +upon our community. + +Speaking of jokes reminds us of a little incident that is being told of +the experience Mr. Lowell had at a dinner given in his honor the other +evening. A wealthy patron of the arts and sciences wanted to entertain +the distinguished poet in fine style, and he invited in all his rich +neighbors to help him do the hospitable act. As soon as Mr. Lowell +entered the parlors, and was presented to the company, one of the +ladies, giggling and gushing, said, in those tones peculiar to giddy +female idiocy, “O Mr. Lowell! we’ve been anticipating this pleasure _so_ +much; for we’ve all read your poetry, and we know you can be ever so +funny when you try!” + +Another genial imbecile, who wore about twenty thousand dollars’ worth +of big, vulgar diamonds, smilingly assured Mr. Lowell, that, although +she had never met him before, she had always felt as if she were well +acquainted with him; “for,” she added, “my maiden name was Bigelow.” + +In its editorial discussion of Mr. Lowell’s lecture, “The Boston +Transcript” says that the distinguished critic has obtained his +heterodox opinions touching the genuineness of “Richard III.” from a +study of the folio edition. This strikes us as a plausible explanation +of the instigation of the melancholy heresy which Mr. Lowell has +disseminated in the midst of us. From a scholarly gentleman who is +regarded hereabouts as an authority in literary quotations, we learn +that the so-called folio edition of Shakespeare’s works is the most +palpable fraud ever put upon the market. Its proof-reading alone, so +says our informant, is so loose and incorrect as to render the work a +bane to admirers of proper orthography and correct punctuation. Among +the Chicago people, the most popular edition of Shakespeare is that sold +on our trains and at all news-stands for fifty-five cents net. The folio +edition costs eight dollars; and we agree with this scholarly gentleman +who tells us about it, that a man must be a pitiful idiot indeed to pay +eight dollars for a volume of Shakespeare when he can get a great deal +better edition for fifty-five cents net. One of the beauties of the +Chicago edition of Shakespeare’s works is the numerous elegant +engravings, made from designs of local artists. The picture of “Margaret +Mather in the Tomb of the Capulets under the Management of J. M. Hill” +is said by local art connoisseurs and critics to be a _chef d’œuvre_; +and one of the finest iambic tetrameter poems we ever read was inspired +by a view of that superb engraving representing that distinguished +member of the Citizens’ Association, Col. J. H. McVicker, disguised as +the first grave-digger. We have heard the pictures of Tom Keene as +“Hamlet,” Master Walker Whitesides as “Richard III.,” George C. Miln as +“Romeo,” and N. S. Wood, the boy-actor, as “Lear,”—these portraitures we +have heard spoken of as masterpieces. It is impossible, we think, that +an edition embellished with such works of art should be supplanted by an +edition whose typographical incorrectness is so violent as to be the +surest and quickest cause of ophthalmia. + + * * * * * + +WE have not said any thing about it before, because we surmised that +Col. James Russell Lowell’s cup of bitterness was quite full enough +without having any more rue and gall poured into it. The fact remains, +however, that the Union League Club is not the only Chicago club that +feels aggrieved at Col. Lowell. The Chicago Literary Club has a +grievance against Lowell,—at least we infer so from divers and sundry +bitter invectives which we have heard fired at Col. Lowell by certain +distinguished members of that organization. It seems that a formal +invitation to visit the club was sent to Lowell some time before he came +to Chicago. It was supposed, that, being a literary man himself, he +would naturally feel like identifying himself to a degree with the +literary characters of this metropolis. It was believed that an +association, however brief, with the intellect and culture of our +Literary Club, would reinvigorate, refresh, and re-inspire the Boston +poet,—in a word, it was, if we mistake not, purely a charitable motive +that prompted the Chicago Literary Club to signify to Col. Lowell its +willingness to have him commingle with it while he was in this city. +Instead of viewing this dainty boon in the proper light, Col. Lowell +appears to have regarded it much as he would the cheap effort of a +country debating-club, or a commonplace literary lyceum, to get some +notoriety out of his patronage. At any rate, he returned a very prompt +and equally decisive negative answer to the invitation; and this is why +the giant literary intellects of Chicago are so very hostile to Col. +Lowell just now. It is far from our intention to be drawn into this +unhappy complication; but we cannot forbear giving it as our opinion, +that, without the co-operation of the Chicago Literary Club, Col. Lowell +will find a literary life hardly worth living. + +In our most refined society circles, Col. James Russell Lowell’s recent +visit to Chicago is still being discussed with a good deal of relish; +and a number of amusing stories are leaking out concerning the eminent +Boston _littérateur’s_ experiences in this city. One of our most +beautiful and accomplished belles (the eighteen-year-old daughter of a +wealthy distiller) is assuring the large circle of her admirers that she +doesn’t think Col. Lowell is half as bright a man as he has the credit +of being. “I wath introduthed to him at the rethepthion,” says she, “and +he indulged in a few commonplatheth until he found out that I uthed to +live in Kentucky. Then he thaid, ‘I wonder whether you ever knew my +friend Baker of Kentucky: he uthed to be a particular friend of mine, +and I’ve often wondered what ever became of him.’—‘Baker?’ thays I, ‘let +me thee,—I am acquainted with theveral gentlemen named Baker: what ith +hith firtht name?’—‘It ithn’t pothible you could have known him,’ thaid +Mr. Lowell: ‘I hadn’t thought of it before, but he’th been dead +thirty-theven yearth.’ Now, did you ever hear any thing quite tho thilly +ath that? I’d have been real provoked if I’d thought he wath quithing +me, but he looked tho theriouth that I made up my mind he wathn’t very +thmart; and, ath thoon ath I could get away, I went off to the +thupper-room with Tham Thawyer.” + +One of the most cultured gentlemen in Chicago society was invited to +meet Col. Lowell at a dinner given by a South-Side friend. He arrived +very late, and was so profuse and so persistent in his apologies as to +make himself really offensive. + +“Oh! never mind, my dear sir,” said the genial host in a consoling tone; +“it is all right; you’ve arrived in time for the sal-_lad_.” + +The host’s patronizing tone and air deeply offended the tardy guest. +Telling his club-friends about the circumstance next day, he exclaimed, +in a voice full of contempt and scorn, “The idea of that —— bowlegged +Michigan farmer’s ‘sal-_lading_’ me!” + + * * * * * + +TO the Lowell literature that is flooding the Western country at the +present time, Col. Horace Rublee, the distinguished editor of “The +Milwaukee Sentinel,” contributes an interesting page, reminiscent in +character. “It was in 1855,” says Col. Rublee, “that Col. Lowell visited +Milwaukee: he was then in the prime of his intellectual and physical +manhood, and to this day I can remember with what pride I introduced him +to the large and enthusiastic audience which had assembled in Turner +Hall to hear his eloquent and thoughtful address on Early English +ballads. This lecture was conducted under the auspices of the Milwaukee +Lecture Lyceum Bureau. In those days, lectures were all the rage, and +none but the very best talent was employed. The week after Lowell’s +appearance here, Bayard Taylor came with his lecture on ‘The Rhine;’ and +Lowell remained in town just for the sake of having a visit with his +bright young friend. Taylor must have been about thirty years of age, +and he was as brilliant and as companionable a fellow as you could +expect to meet. Well, Lowell and Taylor had a great time together; and +as I knew the town pretty well, and was inclined to be somewhat coltish +myself in those days, it was my good fortune to be chosen as the third +member of the party. Every night we would go around to Schimpfermann’s +Hall, and sit there, drinking beer, and telling stories, until nearly +morning. Lowell was a great hand for Yankee stories, and Taylor could +mimic the German dialect and Irish brogue most artistically. As for me, +I did most of the singing,—for I had a fine baritone voice in those +days; and when it came to the chorus, Taylor would help me out with his +deep, mellow bass, and Lowell would chip in with his clear, ringing, +bird-like tenor. The last night they were in town (ah, how distinctly I +remember it!), we all met at Schimpfermann’s; and—how it came about, I +don’t know—we got into a game of ten-pins. I was an old hand at it, and +so was Taylor; but Lowell had never played before. Well, Taylor beat the +first game with 215 pins, I followed with 187, and Lowell brought up the +rear with 96. He was a preposterously bad player, but he was so earnest +and so solemn about it that we didn’t dare laugh at him. We played away +until eight o’clock in the morning. In six hours Taylor had rolled 3,136 +pins, my score was 2,944, and Lowell’s was 1,082. I am able to give the +figures, because I wrote them on the back of a daguerrotype that Lowell +had made of himself that morning before he started away on the train. It +lacked an hour of train-time; and we went up into Bumblegarten’s +gallery, and had our pictures taken just as we looked when we got +through that five hours’ bowling-match. I have the daguerrotype still, +and would not part with it for the wealth of a Midas. Lowell was pretty +well played out, poor fellow! but he did not make any complaint. When he +reached St. Louis, however, he wrote me a pathetic letter, full of +scholarly reference and classical allusion. ‘I am as sore,’ said he, ‘as +if I had engaged with the Pythian monster, or had been drawn on the +Procrustean bed: not a muscle in all my anatomy that does not ache, nor +a joint that is not as stiff as the senile Anchises. What Simothean balm +is there for me, and where is there a Mnestheus to restore me? I am, in +short, reduced to such a condition that neither Pisistratus nor the +afflicted son of Ægeus would envy me; and I have changed the subject of +my St. Louis lecture from that of ‘Italian Literature’ to that of ‘The +Fall of Ilium.’”’ + +When Col. Lowell lectured on “The American Richard of Politics III.,” in +this city last month, Col. Rublee came down from Milwaukee to renew +acquaintance with him. They got together one evening in Col. Wirt +Dexter’s back parlor, and talked about the old Grecian and Latin poets +until daylight. Neither gentleman could sing as well as he used to; but +in his travels abroad, Col. Lowell had picked up a number of jocose +Horatian odes and mirthful classic stories, which he recited with +exceeding zest; and Col. Rublee kept up his end of the conversation by +narrating the many humorous tales and sketches he had heard at Madison +during the sessions of the Wisconsin Legislature,—all which Col. Lowell +enjoyed mightily, and made memoranda of, that he might repeat them to +his family physician, a Dr. Holmes, whom he credited with being a fellow +of hearty appreciation and keen wit. + + * * * * * + +THE Chicago Literary Club is still feeling very unkindly toward Col. +James Russell Lowell because that eminent Bostonian declined to visit +the club during his sojourn in Chicago. Every preparation had been made +to give the poet a cordial welcome; and several of the most eloquent +members had prepared speeches abounding in quotations from the old +Greek, Latin, and Hindoo poets, and full of that classic allusion and +mythological lore so pleasing to Col. Lowell’s cultured taste. One of +the most scholarly members had written an essay on “The Pork Industry in +Ancient Athens,” and another had prepared a poem, “Dante:” in short, +Col. Lowell would have been astonished at the learning and the culture +that would have manifested themselves had he but accepted the club’s +invitation. It is said that Col. Lowell took an unjust prejudice against +the club, because, having met and having engaged in conversation with +one of the members thereof, he was shocked to hear him say that he had +always supposed that Sappho was a kind of tooth-paste. But, be this as +it may, the club is hostile to Col. Lowell now; and upon the colonel’s +picture in the club-room, some sarcastic linseed-oil _littérateur_ has +scribbled the following venomous quotation from an ancient satire:— + + “Oh! when I think of what I am, + And what I used to was, + I think I gave myself away + Without sufficient cause.” + + * * * * * + +COL. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL tells the story that one of the gentlemen he +met in Chicago had a great deal to say of his travels in Europe. Col. +Lowell remarked that he greatly enjoyed the French literature, and that +George Sand was one of his favorite authors. + +“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the Chicago gentleman: “I have had many a happy +hour with Sand.” + +“You knew George Sand, then?” asked Col. Lowell, with an expression of +surprise. + +“Knew him? Well, I should rather say I did,” cried the Chicago man; and +then he added as a clincher, “I roomed with him when I was in Paris.” + + * * * * * + +IT is understood that the private dinners given to Mr. Lowell during his +stay here have called for an expenditure of not less than forty thousand +dollars. Yet there are carping critics who say that Chicago is not a +great literary centre. + + + + + _Mr. Elder’s Fright._ + + +“No words can express the agony of mind I suffered for six hours +yesterday,” said Mr. A. P. T. Elder, publisher of “Literary Life.” “I +would not for untold millions go through the ordeal again. I had come +down to my palatial office, and was sitting in a rosewood rocker, with +my patent-leather boots resting gracefully on the cherry desk before me, +when my private secretary (who had been setting type, and sweeping out +the office) brought me my morning paper. I noticed that his face looked +pale; but it did not startle me, for I recollected that he sometimes +washed it. But when my eye—in fact, my two eyes—fell upon the paper, my +printer’s—no, I mean my secretary’s—pallor was explained. With my blood +freezing in my veins, I read that Miss Cleveland’s house at Holland +Patent had been attacked by flames, and had well-nigh fallen prey to the +devouring element. Then I remembered that I had forwarded to Miss +Cleveland a large bulk of manuscript,—poems, essays, criticisms, +advertisements, and other contributions to our magazine,—and I shrieked +with horror when it occurred to me that this treasure might have been +destroyed by the fire-fiend. More dead than alive, I hastened to the +telegraph-office, and sent a despatch to Miss Cleveland, begging her to +advise me at once whether that precious hoard was safe, or had been +wrested from immortality by the demon of the flames. For six hours I +received no answer, and during that time I suffered the most exquisite +tortures. + +“‘What will the world say,’ I asked myself, ‘when it learns that it has +lost these inestimable intellectual boons? Will not posterity hold me up +to eternal scorn for having jeoparded the literary welfare of this +country, by consigning to careless hands the product of Western genius? +If this wealth of literature, this cream of poesy, and this flower of +prose, be destroyed, how will I be able to bear up under the +lamentations of a continent that awaits, with feverish expectations and +anxious heart-throbbings, the October number of “Literary Life”?’ + +“Crucifying my soul with these agonizing interrogations, I survived, +rather than lived, the six hours that elapsed between the sending of my +telegram and the receipt of an answer. I tore open the telegram that +came at last, and read its welcome tidings as follows:— + + “‘_To A. P. T. Elder, Chicago Patent, Ill._—Nothing burned except the + back-stoop and the rear-eaves. + + “‘R. E. C.’ + +“I have been receiving congratulatory telegrams all day from such +literary men as George Sand, George Eliot, Charles Egbert Haddock, and +Oliver Wendell Holmes, author of Holmes’s ‘Iliad:’ I also hold in my +hand at this moment a kind telegram from Messrs. Laflin & Rand, +publishers of the ‘New-York Powder Magazine.’ But nothing has +recompensed me for the suffering I endured during those six hours of +waiting. It was a narrow escape, and I hope the literary world will +appreciate it as well as the torture I experienced in its behalf.” + + * * * * * + +PROFESSOR ELBRIDGE G. SMITH, instructor in English literature, and +professor of elocution, honored us with a call yesterday for the purpose +of pointing out what he called “a remarkable error, or series of +errors,” we made yesterday. He referred to that part of our interview +with Mr. A. P. T. Elder, the scholarly editor of “Literary Life,” +wherein George Sand, George Eliot, and Charles Egbert Haddock are spoken +of as literary men; and wherein, furthermore, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes +is said to be the author of Holmes’s “Iliad.” Professor Smith assures us +that Sand, Eliot, and Craddock were not men at all, but women; the first +two being now deceased, and the third having taken up her permanent +abode in a St. Louis suburb. “As for Holmes,” said the professor, “he +may have translated the ‘Iliad,’ but he certainly did not compose it; +the author of that majestic epic having lived so many centuries ago, +that the exact time is not known.” We referred these corrections to Mr. +Elder, and asked him what he meant by filling our valuable space with +blundering statements that were likely to hold us up to the scorn and +the derision of society. He declared most solemnly that he had never had +so base a purpose in view; and he expressed deep regret that he had left +the telegrams from George Sand, George Eliot, and Mr. Craddock in the +pocket of his other coat at home. + +“But how came you,” we asked, “to say that Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote +the ‘Iliad’?” + +“Well, didn’t he write it?” inquired Mr. Elder. + +“No, sir,” we thundered, for we were deeply mortified. “Homer wrote it.” + +“Yes, that’s it—that’s the name,” cried Mr. Elder: “I acknowledge the +mistake. Homer was the name I meant: _he_ was the feller who sent me the +telegram.” + + + + + _Ethel’s Christmas Tale._ + + CHICAGO, ILL., Dec. 2. + + _To the Editor._—My little daughter Ethel, who is only eleven years + old, has written a Christmas story, which I send to you, in the hope + that you will recognize in it some indication of latent literary and + imaginative talent. + + Yours truly, + H. G. B. + + + A CHRISTMAS STORY. + +It was a sad sight to see Mrs. Jamison and her little family gathered +about the fire one Christmas Eve, for she had been a widow for twenty +years. Yes, twenty years before had Mr. Jamison, her husband, set sail +on a ship for a foreign land, and nevermore had been heard of. The snow +was falling fast, and the wind was howling without. + +“Alas!” Mrs. Jamison said, as she pressed her hungry babe to her bosom: +“I fear we shall have no turkey to-morrow.” + +“Why not, mother?” asked Robin, a bright lad of fourteen. + +“Listen,” said Mrs. Jamison. “I have only thirty cents left. To-day I +pawned my jewels, and thus we are cast upon the mercy of the cold +world.” + +Mrs. Jamison wept bitterly, and so did the children. + +“Oh, if Henry were only here!” moaned Mrs. Jamison. Henry was Mr. +Jamison’s name before he was lost at sea, never, never to return. By and +by Mrs. Jamison said, “Put on your fur cape, Lucy, and take this thirty +cents, and go down to the grocery-store, and buy one dozen eggs. It is +all the money I have; but the eggs will allay our hunger, and keep the +wolf from the door another day.” + +So Lucy, who was a beautiful girl of fifteen, put on her fur cape; and +Robin went with her. Having bought the eggs, each of them took an apple +when Mr. Sinclair, the kind-hearted grocer, was not looking; and with +joyous hearts they rode home in the street-car. While Lucy was eating +her apple, she put the bag of eggs on the seat; and suddenly a big man +entered the car, and sat down on the bag. Then Lucy began to cry, and +Robin too. + +“Children,” said the big man in kind tones, “why do you weep?” + +“Alas!” said Lucy: “you have sat on our bag of eggs.” + +“Never mind the eggs,” said the man. “But, tell me, have I not heard +that voice before, and have I not seen those features? Is your name Lucy +Jamison?” + +“Yes, sir,” said Lucy. + +“Then look upon me, child,” cried the man, “and tell me if you do not +know me. Has time and sorrow changed me so that my children do not know +me?” + +“Father, father!” cried Lucy, throwing herself into her father’s arms. + +It was indeed Mr. Jamison. He had been wrecked on a lone island for +twenty years; but a passing ship picked him up, and brought him home. He +was very rich; and, oh, what a happy meeting it was for Mrs. Jamison and +the children! They had turkey for dinner, and cranberries, and lived in +peace all the rest of their lives. + + + + + _Chicago Weather._ + + To-day, fair Thisbe—winsome girl!— + Strays o’er the meads where daisies blow, + Or, ling’ring where the brooklets purl, + Laves in the cool, refreshing flow. + + To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host + Of amorous suitors in her train, + Comes like a goddess forth to coast, + Or skate upon the frozen main. + + To-day, sweet posies mark her track, + While birds sing gayly in the trees: + To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack + Defies the piping polar breeze. + + So Doris is to-day enthused + By Thisbe’s soft, responsive sighs, + And on the morrow is confused + By Thisbe’s cold, repellent eyes. + + + + + _A Chicago Christmas Legend._ + + +Gabriel Barton was an editor. After years of patient toil and continuous +self-denial he had succeeded in amassing as large a competency of boys +and girls as you could expect to find in a monogamic community. + +Yet Gabriel was not content. Instead of being thankful for the blessings +with which his family-board was surrounded three times a day, he pined +for other boons which he did not possess. He yearned ever for gold,—that +insidious canker that gnaws the soul beyond reparation, and leaves a +dark, indelible stain on the proudest escutcheons. + +“Gold—gold! I must have gold!” he cried incessantly. + +His strange demeanor was the occasion of grievous perplexity to his +wife; for Estelle Barton was a simple, unaffected woman, ill acquainted +with the selfish nature and ways of the cold world. + +“But why, dear husband,” she asked, “why clamor for the unattainable? Be +satisfied with what we have; ’tis humble, I know; but so long as our +nine children are in good health, and so long as the water-tax is not +due, we surely shall not perish of thirst. Would this sordid gold you +crave deepen the color in our darlings’ cheeks, or better the quality of +the nourishment we drink? Prithee, be content.” + +But, alas! Estelle Barton’s wise words weighed naught with Gabriel. +Ceaselessly he yearned for debasing lucre; and his morbid appetite made +him thin and pale, and brought a faltering into his gait, and a +tremulousness into his voice. + +One bitter cold Christmas Eve little Eugenia Barton, the nine-year-old +daughter and the senior child of the family, asked pleadingly, “Papa, do +you not know what day to-morrow is?” + +Gazing into the depths of the child’s innocent blue eyes, Mr. Barton +said, “How came you to know, child, that my note fell due to-morrow?” + +“Nay, papa,” interposed Eugenia, “I did not know it. But surely you +cannot have forgotten! To-morrow is Christmas—Christmas, papa! the +gladdest, merriest day in all the year!” + +A far-off look came into Mr. Barton’s lack-lustre eyes. + +“Well?” he uttered inquiringly. + +“Tell me, papa,” cried Eugenia, “tell me, will Santa Claus come this +year?” + +“I think I can safely say, that, unless he intends to break his record, +he will not,” replied Mr. Barton promptly. + +“Alas!” sighed Eugenia; and with this she hung her beautiful golden +head. + +Mr. Barton regretted that he had cast a gloom over the child’s hopes. He +sought to explain his seeming harshness. + +“Why _should_ Santa Claus come?” he asked bitterly. “Haven’t the +neighbors got through lending us what we need? Where, in all this great +but heartless city, can we expect to borrow any thing to hang up?” + +“True,” said Eugenia: “I had not thought of that. Forgive me, dear papa, +if, in my puerile heedlessness, I have caused you pain!” + +That night Eugenia sobbed herself to sleep on the sofa with a volume of +old files tucked around her shivering form. How long she slept, we will +not presume to say. But the golden sunbeams of the early Christmas morn +were dancing through the window-frames, and floating o’er the hardwood +floor, when she awoke. A man stood before her,—a man clad in habiliments +of fur. Eugenia uttered a cry of joy. + +“Santa Claus!” she cried. + +The man smiled pleasantly with that part of his personality that was +exposed to the rigorous temperature of the editor’s home. + +“O Santa Claus!” said Eugenia, “I knew you would come: we’ve been +waiting for you year after year until the rest had given you up, but +I—_I knew_ you would come!” + +Again the exposed surface of the fur-clad stranger wrinkled into a +smile. + +“Thank you for coming,” continued Eugenia. “I knew that my faith in you +would be rewarded. So tell me, dear Santa Claus, what gifts—what wealth +of beauteous things—have you brought to pour out into our grateful laps +at last?” + +The strange, fur-clad figure stood still a moment, as if dazed; then +drew a bit of coin from the mysterious depths of his shaggy robe, and +tossed it to the anxious child. + +“There’s a nickel for you, little un,” he said; and his tones betokened +a kindly heart. “But, bless you, I’m not Santa Claus: I’m the +constable!” + + + + + _A Plea for the Classics._ + + A Boston gentleman declares + By all the gods, above, below, + That our degenerate sons and heirs + Must let their Greek and Latin go! + Forbid, O Fate! we loud implore, + A dispensation harsh as that— + What! wipe away the sweets of yore— + The dear “_Amo, amas, amat_”? + + The sweetest hour the student knows, + Is not while poring over French, + Or when, in harsh Teutonic throes, + He writhes upon collegiate bench: + ’Tis when on roots and _kais_ and _gars_ + He feeds his soul, and feels it glow, + Or when his mind transcends the stars + With “_Zoa mou, sas agapo!_” + + So give our bright, ambitious boys + An inkling of these pleasures too— + A little smattering of the joys + Their old but knowing fathers knew; + And let them sing—whilst glorying that + Their sires so sang, long years ago— + The songs “_Amo, amas, amat_,” + And “_Zoa mou, sas agapo!_” + + + + + _Mlle. Prud’homme’s Book._ + + WASHINGTON, D.C., Mai 3. + + _M. le Redacteur_,—D’apres votre article dans la New-York Tribune, + copie du Chicago News, je me figure que les habitants de Chicago ayant + grand besoin d’un systeme de prononciation francaise, je prends la + liberte de vous envoyer par la malle-poste le No. 2 d’un ouvrage que + je viens de publier; si vous desirez les autres numeros, je me ferai + un plaisir de vous les envoyer aussi. Les emballeurs de porc ayant peu + de temps a consacrer a l’etude, vu l’omnipotent dollar, seront je + crois enchantes et reconnaissants d’un systeme par lequel ils pourront + apprendre et comprendre, la langue de la fine Sara, au bout de trente + lecons, si surtout Monsieur le redacteur vent bien au bout de sa plume + spirituelle leur en indiquer le chemin. Sur ce l’auteur du systeme a + bien l’honneur de le saluer. + + V. PRUD’HOMME. + + +This is a copy of a pleasant letter we have received from a +distinguished Washington lady: we do not print the accentuations, +because the Chicago patwor admits of none. A literal rendering of the +letter into English is as follows: “From after your article in ‘The +New-York Tribune,’ copied from ‘The Chicago News,’ I to myself have +figured that the inhabitants of Chicago having great want of a system of +a pronunciation French, I take the liberty to you to send by the +mail-post the number two of a work which I come from to publish: if you +desire the other numbers, I to myself will make the pleasure of to you +them to send also. The packers of porkers, having little of time to +consecrate to the study (owing to the omnipotent dollar), will be, I +believe, enchanted and grateful of a system by the which they may learn +and understand the language of the clever Sara, at the end of thirty +lessons, especially if Mister the editor will at the end of his pen +witty to them thereof indicate the road. Whereupon the author of the +system has much the honor of him to salute,” etc. + +We have not given Mdlle. Prud’homme’s oovray that conscientious study +and that careful research which we shall devote to it just as soon as +the tremendous spring rush in local literature eases up a little. The +recent opening up of the Straits of Mackinaw, and the prospect of a new +railroad-line into the very heart of the dialectic region of Indiana, +have given Chicago literature so vast an impetus, that we find our +review-table groaning under the weight of oovrays that demand our +scholarly consideration. Mdlle. Prud’homme must understand (for she +appears to be exceedingly amiable) that the oovrays of local +_littérateurs_ have to be reviewed before the oovrays of outside +_littérateurs_ can be taken up. This may seem hard, but it cannot be +helped. Still, we will say that we appreciate, and are grateful for, the +uncommon interest which Mdlle. Prud’homme seems to take in the +advancement of the French language and French literature in the midst of +us. We have heard many of our leading _savants_ and scholiasts +frequently express poignant regret that they were unable to read “La Fem +de Fu,” “Mamzel Zheero Mar Fem,” and other noble old French classics +whose fame has reached this modern Athens. With the romances of +Alexandre Dumas, our public is thoroughly acquainted, having seen the +talented James O’Neill in Monty Cristo, and the beautiful and +accomplished Grace Hawthorne (“Only an American Girl”) in Cameel; yet +our more enterprising citizens are keenly aware that there are other +French works worthy of perusal—intensely interesting works, too, if the +steel engravings therein are to be accepted as a criterion. + +We doubt not that Mdlle. Prud’homme is desirous of doing Chicago a +distinct good; and why, we ask in all seriousness, should this gifted +and amiable French scholar _not_ entertain for Chicago somewhat more +than a friendly spirit, merely? The first settlers of Chicago were +Frenchmen; and, likely as not, some of Mdlle. Prud’homme’s ancestors +were of the number of those Spartan _voyageurs_ who first sailed down +Chicago River, pitched their tents on the spot where Kirk’s soap-factory +now stands, and captured and brought into the refining influences of +civilization Long John Wentworth, who at that remote period was frisking +about on our prairies, a crude, callow boy, only ten years old, and only +seven feet tall. Chicago was founded by Jean Pierre Renaud, one of the +original two orphans immortalized by Claxton & Halevy’s play in thirteen +acts of the same name. At that distant date it was any thing but +promising; and its prominent industries were Indians, muskrats, and +scenery. The only crops harvested were those of malaria, twice per +annum,—in October and in April,—but the yield was sufficient to keep the +community well provided all the year round. Certain dabblers in +etymology have argued that the name “Chicago” was derived from an Indian +word meaning “a skunk.” There is in the Sioux dialect, we believe, a +word “She-Kag,” literally meaning Cat-that-Perfumes. Other alleged +scholars insist that the name of our fair city is derived from the Crow +Indian word “Chee-kar-goh,” meaning “wild onion,” an exotic that is said +to have bloomed hereabouts in the early times. But this whole matter, +which is revived every now and then to our discredit by envious and +ribald writers, has been set at rest in Howden’s “History of Illinois,” +vol. i. p. 289 (we think Howden is the name: at any rate, it will serve +the purpose of giving people to understand that we know what we’re +talking about). Howden, who was a conscientious student, and painstaking +historian, asserts (and we believe him) that the early French settlers +gave to this town the name of Chicago, and that the name is derived from +the two French words _chic_ and _hog_, meaning the live (or piquant or +frisky) hog. This, of course, is the literal meaning; but the subtile +idea of old Jean Pierre Renaud and his fellow-tramps (if so we may term +his distinguished coparceners), was to imply that Chicago was a living, +bustling reality,—a community made up, if you please, of people now on +earth. Even at that early day the hog was the national bird of the +mighty West; and how proper it was that the founders of Chicago should +couple indissolubly with the name of this metropolis the name of that +proud animal that has served as the noble foundation upon which the vast +superstructure of our wealth, our art, and our culture has been reared. +Did their inspired eyes not see in this sagacious and graceful +association what old Sam Johnson, puttering about at the auction in +Thrale’s brewery, called “the potentiality of acquiring riches beyond +the dreams of avarice”? + + + + + _Her Genuine Culture._ + + +There is no longer any doubt that Chicago is the literary centre of the +country. Adam Forepaugh says so. + +“I had three times as many people under my canvas every day last week,” +says he, “than I had in Boston; and I turned away about three thousand +people every night. I know what I am talking about when I say that for +genuine git-up-and-git culture, Chicago beats the world!” + + + + + _The Demand for Condensed Music._ + + +There is a general belief that the mistake made by the managers of the +symphony concert in Central Music Hall night before last was in not +opening the concert with Beethoven’s “Eroica,” instead of making it the +last number on the programme. We incline to the opinion, however, that, +in putting the symphony last, the managers complied with the very first +requirement of dramatic composition. This requirement is to the effect +that you must not kill all your people off in the first act. + +There doubtless are a small number of worthy people who enjoy these old +symphonies that are being dragged out of oblivion by glass-eyed Teutons +from Boston. It may argue a very low grade of intellectuality, +spirituality, or whatsoever you may be pleased to call it; but we must +confess in all candor, that, much as we revere Mr. Beethoven’s memory, +we do not fancy having fifty-five-minute chunks of his musty opi hurled +at us. It is a marvel to us, that, in these progressive times, such +leaders as Thomas and Gericke do not respond to the popular demand by +providing the public with symphonies in the nutshell. We have +condensations in every line except music. Even literature is being +boiled down; because in these busy times, people demand a literature +which they can read while they run. We have condensed milk, condensed +meats, condensed wines,—condensed every thing but music. What a joyous +shout would go up if Thomas or Gericke would only prepare and announce + + “_SYMPHONIES FOR BUSY PEOPLE! + THE OLD MASTERS EPITOMIZED!_” + +What Chicago demands, and what every enterprising and intelligent +community needs, is the highest class of music on the +“all-the-news-for-two-cents” principle. Blanket-sheet concertizing must +go! + +Now, here was this concert, night before last. Two hours and a half to +five numbers! Suppose we figure a little on this subject:— + + EXHIBIT A—SYMPHONY. + + Total number of minutes 150 + Total number of pieces 5 + Minutes to each piece 30 + + + EXHIBIT B—TRADE. + + Total number of minutes 150 + Hog-slaughtering capacity per minute 3 + Total killing 450 + +Figures will not lie, because (as was the reason with George) they +cannot. And figures prove to us, that, in the time consumed by five +symphonic numbers, the startling number of four hundred and fifty hogs +could be (and are daily) slaughtered, scraped, disembowelled, hewn, and +packed. While forty or fifty able-bodied musicians are discoursing +Beethoven’s rambling “Eroica,” it were possible to despatch and to dress +a carload of as fine beeves as ever hailed from Texas; and the +performance of the “Sakuntala” overture might be regarded as a virtual +loss of as much time as would be required for the beheading, skinning, +and dismembering of two hundred head of sheep. + +These comparisons have probably never occurred to Mr. Thomas or to Mr. +Gericke; but they are urged by the patrons of music in Chicago, and +therefore they must needs be recognized by the caterers to popular +tastes. Chicago society has been founded upon industry, and the culture +which she now boasts is conserved only by the strictest attention to +business. Nothing is more criminal hereabouts than a waste of time; and +it is no wonder, then, that the _crême de la crême_ of our _élite_ lift +up their hands, and groan, when they discover that it takes as long to +play a classic symphony as it does to slaughter a carload of Missouri +razor-backs, or an invoice of prairie-racers from Kansas. + + + + + _Opera, Opuses, and Opi._ + + +Mr. Gericke, the kappelmeister of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, called +upon us yesterday, and, with some show of acrimony, asked us what we +meant by calling the symphonies he played “opi.” He, for his part, +insisted that they were opera, and not opi; and what the poor, misguided +fellow said in defence of his theory indicated very clearly that his +education in music had never been brought up to the standard of Chicago +culture. There are three kinds of music compositions: they belong to the +one general family of music, yet each is a distinct class. We divide +them into (1) opera, (2) opuses, and (3) opi. To the first class, or to +the opera, belong such dramatic compositions (set to light music) as +“Evangeline,” “Il Trovatore,” “Chimes of Normandy,” “Lohengrin,” +“Pinafore,” “Rienzi,” “The Mascot,” and “Tannhauser;” and the best-known +producers of these opera are Verdi, Ed Rice, Offenbach, Wagner, +Sullivan, Flotow, Gounod, and Edward Solomon. Among the second class +(the opuses) are to be mentioned the more pretentious and the heavier +compositions, such as “Lucille” and “Zenobia,” and a large number of +other works that have had their origin in the West, and whose appearance +has incited fears that, perhaps, a _renaissance_ of the old Italian +masters was likely to occur in the midst of us. But astrologers assure +us that these portents with which the public is sporadically afflicted +signify simply that music in the Western country is now passing through +its porcine period. As for the opi, they are the heaviest of all music +compositions. They must be a hundred years old, or they are not regarded +as acceptable. No man can perform them until he has become addicted to +the spectacles and onion habits, and even then a certain fineness of +expression is said to be lacking unless to these accomplishments the +performer has added that further accomplishment of enjoying cheeses that +are old enough to vote. + + + + + _Chicago the Music Centre._ + + +This is the last week of Mr. Theodore Thomas’s present concert season in +Chicago. After next Saturday night the Exposition Building will be +relegated to oblivion. Mr. Milward Adams will skip out for Saratoga, and +the Thomas orchestra will drift Eastward to resume rehearsals for the +approaching American opera season. Mr. Thomas is deeply gratified with +the result of his labors in Chicago. “There are several music-centres in +this country,” said he last night, “but Chicago is the grandest of them +all. She has responded nobly to my call, and it is my sweetest hope that +she will ever retain her proud pre-eminence among the music-loving +cities of the earth. When I came here six weeks ago, I found the cause +languishing in the midst of you; but the revival of interest in music +set in at once, and I am rejoiced to find my humble efforts crowned with +such glorious fruition. Two negro-minstrel companies are in full blast +at the leading theatres, and a third will be with you next week. These +are the sweetest rewards a man in my profession can hope for. Pecuniary +profit is a secondary consideration: it is a mere _bagatelle_ in the +eyes of the true friend of music, when compared with that calm joy and +that ineffable peace which permeate my bosom when I see that three +negro-minstrel shows are springing into existence in immediate answer to +the demand for higher music which my work in Chicago has created.” + + + + + _Still Blooming._ + + + CHICAGO, ILL., April 28. + +_To the Editor._—As a gratifying indication that there is in the midst +of us a great and growing interest in literature, will you please note +that Chicago has a Waverley Temperance Coffee House, named in honor of +the famous Scotch novels of the same name? I see, too, that Addison’s +Livery Stable and Wordsworth’s Coal and Kindling Yard are institutions +recently established on the West Side. + + Yours truly, + NOCTES AMBROSIANIÆ PHILLIPS. + + + + + _The Offence._ + + +Col. Milward Adams is going to pander to the refined tastes of the +_élite_ of Chicago next week by giving a series of concerts in his +Central Music Hall. The performers he has engaged as his tools in this +laudable enterprise, are that justly famed band of peripatetic minstrels +known as the Boston Symphony Orchestra. This organization consists of +sixty-five performers, and it plays only the most intricate music. A +programme of the three prospective concerts now lies before us; and from +it we learn that the orchestra will interpret at the first concert the +overture of Carl Goldmark’s “Sakuntala,” Wieniawski’s allegro and +andante for violin, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 (“Eroica”), Op. 55; +at the second concert, the overture of Cherubini’s “Anacreon,” +Beethoven’s first movement for the violin, Bach’s adagio and gavotte, +Saint-Saens’s “Danse Macabre,” and Schumann’s symphony in B flat, No. 1, +Op. 38; at the third concert, the overture of Weber’s “Freischuetz,” +Mendelssohn’s andante and finale for the violin, Schubert’s unfinished +Symphony No. 8 in B minor, Brahms’s “Hungarian Dances,” and Wagner’s +vorspiel and liebestod from “Tristan and Isolde.” A special interest +will (or should) attach to the first concert; for it is for that +occasion, as Mr. George Fair tells us, that Beethoven has composed the +eroica symphony which will then be given. We do not know what an eroica +symphony is; but in our most cultured circles, it is believed that +eroica is a misprint for erotica. There will be three soloists (one male +and two female) to give these performances additional _éclat_. These +soloists are very famous ones. The first is Helene Hastreiter, the +pianiste; the second is Timothee Adamowski, the renowned Italian lyric +tenor; and the third is Adele Aus der Ohe, the eminent soprano. Miss Aus +der Ohe is a niece of Chris Von der Ohe, president of the St. Louis +Base-ball Club; and the fact that she is unmarried should forever set at +rest the current rumor that she is the original Ohe mamma. It will be a +great treat to hear this brilliant vocalist, and our public is indebted +to Col. Adams for billing a number of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without +Words” for the gifted young song-bird’s rendition. Mme. Hastreiter has +never before been in Chicago; but her fame has preceded her, and it is +with intense enthusiasm that we await the renowned pianiste’s _début_ in +this great music-centre. As for Sig. Adamowski, he is said to be one of +the most promising robustos on the lyric stage. His real name is Timothy +Adams, and he is a first cousin to our own Milward Adams; but having +been born and reared in Petersburg, Hampden County, Mass., he preferred +to adopt a Russian name for professional uses. + +We shall be surprised and pained if these symphony concerts are not +largely attended. Three weeks of Professor Silas G. Pratt’s “Lucille” +has elevated and refined Chicago’s music-taste to a degree—we will not +specify the degree, but we think that it is high enough to render an +appreciation of the symphony concerts a probability. + + + + + _A Lament._ + + The wold is drear, and the sedge is sere, + And gray is the autumn sky, + And sorrows roll through my riven soul + As lonely I sit and sigh + “Good-by” + To the goose-birds as they fly. + + With his weird wishbone to the temperate zone + Came the goose-bird in the spring; + And he built his nest in the glorious west, + And sat on a snag to sing— + Sweet thing!— + Or flap his beautiful wing. + + But the boom of the blast has come at last + To the goose-bird on the lea; + And the succulent thing, with shivering wing, + Flies down to a southern sea— + Ah me, + That such separation should be! + + But it’s always so in this world of woe: + The things that gladden our eye + Are the surest to go to the bugs; and so + We can only wearily sigh + “Good-by” + To the goose-birds as they fly. + + + + + _The Apology._ + + +Col. Milward Adams tells us that we got things terribly mixed in our +notice of his symphony concerts yesterday morning. He complains that the +whole business was wrong; but this was not our fault, but the fault of +Col. Adams’s lieutenant, George Fair, who gave us the written notes upon +which we based our article. Of course, it pains us deeply to learn that +we have misrepresented the colonel’s entertainments, and we hasten to +square ourselves upon the record. In the first place, therefore, it +appears that Miss Helene Hastreiter is not a piano-player, but a native +German vocalist from Louisville, Ky. She was the prima donna of the +American Opera Company for a long time; but when Mapleson severed his +connection with the organization, she, too, renounced her allegiance +thereto, and went into the concert profession. She is an extraordinarily +beautiful woman, and the critics agree that her voice is a soprano of +the first water. So far from being a lyric tenor, and a native of +Massachusetts, M. Timothee Adamowski is a Russian booyar and a +piano-forte player of unbridled ferocity and tremendous learning. His +name is pronounced Taymotay, with the accent (a la Frongsay) on the ult, +the penult, and the ante-penult. Col. Adams was particular in giving us +this seemingly trifling detail, because, he said, cultured circles would +appreciate the art of a Taymotay more keenly than that of a Timothy. +This M. Adamowski was born under the shadow of the Kremlin, in Moscow; +and he studied music with Tschktsckffky, the old master whose fugues, +symphonies, and other opi in B minor are unequalled in the gamut of +intricate composition. Our connoisseurs will be glad to learn that in +all his concerts M. Adamowski has none but the sign of Spiegelbaum Bros. +displayed on the piano-forte he uses. This is another little detail that +always adds to the charm of a refined music entertainment. + + + + + _A German Personal._ + + +In our valued exchange, the “Baden-Baden Freie Blatter” of Aug. 16, we +find a pleasant reference to Col. Henry Watterson, the distinguished +editor of “The Louisville Courier-Journal.” “On the last night,” says +the “Freie Blatter,” “to the springs down a man came which was the great +statesman from America, and the journalist, Herr Heinrich Watterson. +‘Let me to see the springs,’ said he to the keeper from the place. Then +being shown to her, Herr Watterson cried out, ‘She is the most beautiful +springs which I have set eyes on already. Will you let me to have some +from the water on the side?’” + + + + + _Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar”_ (_1_). + + +Professor W. Thackeray Wilkerson, the well-known _littérateur_ and +dentist of the West Side, calls our attention to a poem that is printed +in the current number of “The Atlantic Monthly.” For the information of +our public we will say that “The Atlantic Monthly” is a magazine +published in Boston, being to that intelligent and refined community +what “The Literary Life” was to Chicago culture before a fourth-ward +constable achieved its downfall with a writ of replevin. “The Atlantic +Monthly” is to the _élite_ of the East what “The Century” is to the hoi +polloi or the kayneel or the protalyrats. The poem in question is +entitled “The Last Cæsar;” and it is from the pen of Col. Thomas Bailey +Aldrich, the editor of “The Atlantic.” Professor Wilkerson tells us that +Col. Aldrich belongs to the same literary clique as Col. J. Russell +Lowell, emeritus professor in the Chicago school of Shakespearian +politics, and Dr. O. Wendell Holmes, author of numerous T. B. Peterson +novels, and composer of the famous Greek poem entitled “The Iliad.” So +it is to be taken for granted that Col. Aldrich is a very cultured and +very affable gentleman; although, so far as we can learn, he has never +done any thing for Chicago. + +“I am very much surprised,” says Professor Wilkerson, “that none of the +critics has pounced upon this Aldrich poem; for it is as bold a piece of +error as I ever met with in the whole course of my existence. The poet +claims to treat of one of the Cæsars: yet it is clear that the subject +of his verses is Louis Napoleon, the late ex-emperor of the French; in +fact, right under the title of his poem, Aldrich has put the figures +1851-1870, with the intention of giving people to understand thereby +that the period of time between these dates is the era, or epoch,—or +whatever you please,—of which he sings.” + +This certainly would appear to be as clear as logic. + +“Now,” continues Professor Wilkerson, “there is none so lost in the +Egyptian darkness of ignorance as to be unaware of the fact that the +last of the Cæsars died very many centuries before 1851. This is a +historical matter that is determined in text-books used in our public +schools; and if anybody has any doubts on the subject, let him refer to +the ‘Lives of the Twelve Cæsars,’ a series of biographies second only in +thrilling reliability and positive interest to A. T. Andreas & Co.’s +‘Lives of Prominent Chicagoans’ (half-calf, $14 net).” + +The professor then told us that the author of this biography (not the +half-calf one) was a Latin gentleman, whose name was Sweetonius. This +Sweetonius seems to have been an Elijah M. Haines sort of fellow: he +lived not for the Is, nor for the To Be, but for the Was. He had a +morbid passion for prowling around in rusty old ruins, and for delving +into old bureau-drawers, after family manuscripts and private letters: +another of his penchants, too, was for sitting around in corners, and +listening to scandals and legends about the ancients; and, upon his +return to his lodgings, he would make memoranda of the same for +elaboration at some future date. On the whole, he appears to have been a +kind of premature Poggio, rather than a Haines; for, while our Haines is +content with the proper historical literature of the meek and lowly +Indian, this man Sweetonius had an appetite for nothing short of the +most flagrant scandals of royalty. In after-years this lamentable +penchant broke out in Kenelm Digby, old Pepys, G. Y. M. Reynolds, and +Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. + +“In his poem,” says Professor Wilkerson, “the misguided editor of ‘The +Atlantic’ shows a better acquaintance with Paris than with Roman +history. He speaks of the Eleezy (sometimes called the Shongzy Leezy), +the day zonvyleeds, the Sane, the Tweelyrees, and the Plas de la +Concord. Surprisingly enough, he says nothing about the basteel, nor the +boorse, nor the zhardan maybeel, nor the Pier la Shays, nor the +loover—and, what is still more preposterous, he has the effrontery to +write about an alleged Cæsar without even alluding to the Latin quarter! +Now, flippancy is something that people will not tolerate in poetry: the +people of Chicago, at least, will not read with any patience a narrative +that takes a Roman monarch all the way to Paris for no other purpose, we +will say, than that of satisfying the whim of an erratic Boston poet. +What if our own poet, Irving J. Higgins, had tried to play a trick of +this kind when he composed the great lyric which he read at the +unveiling of the corner-stone of the Fairbanks Lard Refinery? What if, +instead of speaking of Apollo as the ‘smiling god of Belvidere, Ill.,’ +he had located him in Indiana, or some other heathen community? What if +he had assigned Mercury to one of the suburban packing-houses instead of +to Dale’s drug-store? Would the Chicago public have stood it?” + +“But is there not a certain amount of freedom which is allowed to every +poet?” + +“There exists in the minds of the vulgar,” said Professor Wilkerson, “a +base idea that a poet has license to prance around about as he pleases; +but true culture accords the poet no such license. There was a time when +poets could commit every sort of—of anarchism—I mean anacreonism—and yet +be regarded as poets. That time has passed: its end came when Chicago’s +output of pork swept the last prop from under the old Elizabethan school +at Cincinnati. Under the new dispensation, poets are compelled to +observe certain rigid rules; and nowadays none can drive his Pegasus +without a snaffle.” + +“His Pegasus?” + +“That is metaphor. Pegasus is a mythological horse which every poet +mounts when he engages in composition. Riding this horse Pegasus is +called ‘soaring to empyrean realms,’ or ‘achieving Parnassan heights.’ +Parnassus was a mountain in Thessaly near the Attic salt-mines: it has +been immortalized by N. P. Willis in his poem of ‘Parnassus and the +Captive.’ The trouble with Col. Aldrich’s poem is, that Col. Aldrich +mounted his Pegasus in Italy in the second century, and immediately let +it gallop away with him over into France and the nineteenth century. +Boston critics may wink at this sort of thing, but we of the West are +too precise to abide it. We discussed this matter at the monthly meeting +of the West-Side Dante Club last Thursday night, and we adopted a +resolution expressing a lack of confidence in Col. Aldrich and Boston. +The only man who voted against the resolution was a young poet named +Algernon Remorse; and he opposed the resolution, because, as he said, he +had just sent ‘The Atlantic Monthly’ a poem on ‘The Last Faro; or, The +Result of a Spring Election in Chicago.’ Algernon explained that he +hoped to have his poem accepted, as he needed the money to buy a +railroad ticket to Omaha.” + + + + + _Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar”_ (_2_). + + +Professor Wilkerson’s critique upon Col. Thomas B. Aldrich’s “Last +Cæsar” appears to have provoked a great deal of criticism in local +literary circles, and to this criticism our distinguished dramatic +managers have contributed not a little. It is seldom that we pay +attention to the critiques upon critiques appearing in our columns; but +when gentlemen of wealth and culture take exception to matter printed in +this paper, we very properly suffer their objections to be heard. Our +respected fellow-townsman, Col. J. H. McVicker, the veteran theatre +manager, and the oldest “first grave-digger” now on earth, complains +that Professor Wilkerson, so far from correcting the error into which +the poet Aldrich has fallen, involves himself in follies more +labyrinthian than the Boston poet’s. + +“It is my lot (whether good or evil, I will not say) to be personally +acquainted with the last Cæsar,” so Col. McVicker remarked yesterday. +“When I say the last Cæsar, I mean the Cæsar who last appeared in +Chicago; and certainly neither Col. Aldrich’s Cæsar nor Professor +Wilkerson’s has been visible in the flesh since the fall of 1885. It was +at that time that the Cæsar of whom I speak appeared upon the stage of +my theatre under the auspices of Lawrence Barrett. It was on a Thursday: +the previous Monday, Barrett had come to me, and had said, ‘Can you get +me a Cæsar for Thursday night? Southburn, who usually takes the part, is +down with a boil on his neck; and, unless I can find a substitute, we +will have to change the bill.’ I told Larry that I hated to disappoint +the public, and that I would find a Cæsar, or die in the attempt. Well, +I found one; and I will venture to say that if he was not the last +Cæsar, he ought to have been. His name (I find upon consulting my old +play-bills) was Terence O’Toole. Previously he had carried a banner in +one of Kiralfy’s spectacles, and had led in the horse in the second act +of ‘The Black Hussar’ at the Columbia Theatre. My stage-manager, Louis +Sharpe, told me that he had known Terence for several years, having +become acquainted with him when he was running the elevator at the +Tremont House, and he said he had made up his mind, then, that Terence +was a rising young man. Louis is a humorist, you know; but I never +suspected that he would take an advantage of me.” + +Col. McVicker then proceeded to tell of the ovation of which Mr. O’Toole +was the recipient when he made his _début_ that Thursday night as Cæsar; +but, inasmuch as this performance was criticised in our columns at that +time by a professional hired for that purpose, far be it from us to +supplement that criticism with any remarks now. But we will confirm Col. +McVicker’s assertion that Mr. O’Toole’s was the last Cæsar seen upon the +Chicago stage. + +[Illustration: A black-and-white ink illustration of a bearded man in +profile facing left, dressed in a short, pleated classical Greek tunic +with a geometric Greek key pattern along the hem.] + +Professor Samuel Kayzer, manager of the Chicago Conservatory of Acting, +calls our attention to an interesting matter—in fact, it is so +interesting that we would fain lay it before the public. The professor +is an accomplished linguist, and he speaks living and dead languages +with equal fluency. He says that in the European colleges and +universities this word “Cæsar” is pronounced “Kayzer,” and that it is +the word from which the Teutonic word “kaiser,” and the Russian “czar,” +or “tsar,” are derived. This pronunciation (viz., Kayzer) has been +accepted, and is taught, in Harvard and in Yale, and in numerous other +fashionable institutions having in view the preparation of our youth for +the solemn duty of spending their fathers’ estates. The State University +of Missouri, and Knox College at Galesburg, Ill., are the only prominent +educational institutions in the country where young men and women are +taught to pronounce “Cæsar” as if it were spelt “Seezur” instead of +“Kayzer.” The preponderance of fashion and wealth is largely in favor of +“Kayzer.” + +“Of course,” said the professor, “I make no boast that Col. Aldrich had +me in his mind’s eye when he wrote that poem. He has never met me, nor +is it likely that he has ever heard of me; although, now that this +question is being agitated, I shall mail him a prospectus of my +conservatory, and a programme of our recent engagement at McVicker’s +theatre. Still, you will discover, if you but refer to the city +directory, that I am the only Kayzer in Chicago: therefore, it follows, +consecutively and logically enough, that, to whomsoever Col. Aldrich’s +poem may refer, I am indeed the last Kayzer.” + +Our distinguished friend, Col. William F. Poole, city librarian, and +author of the famous “Index of Salem Witches, with Copious Notes,” tells +us that the Sweetonius to whom Professor Wilkerson refers, is a very +unreliable historian, and that, although his book is given in the +catalogue of the public library, it is not issued to any reader who does +not produce a certificate that he has arrived at years of discretion, +and is a member of some church in good standing. Col. Poole says that he +has not read the Aldrich poem, but, for all that, he stands ready to +indorse any thing that Aldrich has written, or will write. Col. Poole is +a great admirer of Eastern _littérateurs_. He comes by this strange +infatuation very naturally; for he himself was born and reared in +Massachusetts, and would never have come West but for his o’erweening +lust for gold. He says that he knew Aldrich when Aldrich was a boy; that +he used to find Aldrich playing marbles on Boston Common, and that, +noting the precocity of the lad, he sought to woo him from his childish +sports, and incline his tender mind to nobler pursuits. Many a time, +Col. Poole says, he has taken the boy Aldrich upon his lap, and there, +under the shade of the gingko-tree, and within a stone’s-throw of the +frog-pond, has he recited to the intent child legends and tales of the +Salem witches, the Roxbury flubdubs, the Chelsea hobgoblins, and other +suburban supernaturals, calculated to insure to a nervous child a +refreshing night’s repose. Of course, that was a good many years ago; +yet Col. Poole claims the credit of having inculcated into the child +those tastes and inclinations upon which the imposing superstructure of +Aldrich’s noble poesy has been reared. + + * * * * * + +NEW literature just received: “The Dial,” “The Grocer’s Criterion,” “The +Hide and Leather Journal,” “The Packer’s Monthly Garland,” “The South +Water Street Review,” “The Hyde Park Herald,” “The Elite News,” “The +Blue Island Voice and Optic,” “The Tanner’s Guide,” “The South Chicago +Bouquet of Friendship,” “The Shingle and Clapboard Review,” and “The +Wheat and Grain Journal.” For sale at all book-stores. + + + + + _Miss Bayle’s Romance._ + + +Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. send us a circular announcing that they are +upon the eve of publishing a volume entitled “Miss Bayle’s Romance,” the +same recounting the exploits of “a Miss Bayle and her family—all of +Chicago—among the effete aristocracy of the Old World.” When Eastern +publishers say “the Old World,” they mean Europe; although there are +reasons for suspecting, that, in point of fact, Europe is no older than +any other part of the globe. “This novel,” the circular continues, +“which is reported to be the work of _a hand well known in literature_, +has been considered important enough to be the subject of some +cablegrams to the press.” Now, if “Miss Bayle’s Romance” were the work +of a Chicago _littérateur_, we would not be in any harrowing doubt as to +the authorship. Chicago _littérateurs_ deal in a refreshingly candid and +open-handed way: in all our voluminous city directory, there is no +person (male or female) of the name of Anon. “A hand well known in +literature” is an ambiguous phrase,—that is to say, it is ambiguous in +the national, broad sense; but here in Chicago, “a hand well known in +literature” is the horny, warty, but honest hand, which, after years of +patient toil at skinning cattle, or at boiling lard, or at cleaning +pork, has amassed a competence sufficient to admit of its master’s +triumphant reception into the _crême de la crême_ of Chicago culture. We +fancy that this “Miss Bayle” is a myth, and that her “romance” is simply +the invention of some envenomed Eastern scribbler who has become tainted +with the leprosy of Eastern culture, which envies Chicago her output of +pork, beef, wheat, lard, and other fruits of a refined civilization. + + * * * * * + +COL. ALVA EUGENE DAVIS, the handsome and talented proprietor of “The +Current,” says that the Eastern _littérateurs_ are a very snobbish set. +He called on the business editor of “The Century” magazine while he was +in New York, and had some trouble in identifying himself. “The Current,” +“The Current,” repeated “The Century” business-manager with a puzzled +expression on his literary countenance. “Really, I cannot locate that +paper—pray tell me where is it published?” Of course Col. Davis got as +hot as a cooking-stove right away. “Well, if you don’t know where ‘The +Current’ is published, you must be a —— of a _littérateur_,” said he; +and then he added, “And you must be a d——d queer sort of a +business-manager too, for you’ve been advertising in ‘The Current’ for +the last two years.” “The Century” man thought this was such a good +joke, that he took Col. Davis up into the editorial department, and +introduced him to the young reporters who write the war reminiscences. + + + + + _A Humorist’s Courtship._ + + +The venerable Phocion Howard, who probably knows more about Illinois and +her people than any other human being does, claims to have been the +discoverer of Robert J. Burdette, the humorist whose reputation is now +world-wide. Col. Howard was editor of a small paper at Peoria when he +became acquainted with Burdette. The latter was then a very young man, +and he enjoyed the name of being as wild and as harum-scarum a fellow as +ever woke up a sleepy community. But Col. Howard saw something more than +the mere mischief in the boy; and, calling him into the office one day, +he gave him a long talk, and wound up by asking him to go to work on the +paper. This was Burdette’s start in literary work. On one of the bluffs +back of Peoria lived an old justice of the peace,—sturdy and grim,—who +had a bright and pretty daughter. With this daughter, Burdette fell in +love; and great was his rapture when he learned, in time, that his +affection was reciprocated by the young lady. But the sturdy squire +guarded his daughter with an austere and jealous eye, and vast was his +rage when he beheld the young reporter swinging on the front-gate at +least three evenings per week. The squire saw no good in the boy; and at +last he declared in good round terms that the boy must keep away from +that particular house on the bluff, else perchance the coroner might be +called to sit on the mangled remains of a promising journalist that had +been cut off in the flower of his youth. This pronunciamento, which +would seem to have been emphasized by the important fact that the +choleric squire kept a gun swung up on his cottage-wall, and well filled +with formidable slugs—this pronunciamento, we say, inspired in the +bosoms of the daughter and her lover the most grievous emotions; and it +was not long ere they mutually declared that an heroic step must be +taken toward abating the poignant anguish which the squire’s harsh +declaration imposed. Therefore the two met one afternoon, and, +proceeding unostentatiously to another justice of the peace, were +married in less time than you could say a _paternoster_. This, however, +they recognized as only the beginning of the struggle by which the +Gordian knot was to be untied or cut; but Burdette’s ingenuity and valor +were equal to the rest of the task. He stepped into the post-office, and +said to one of his friends there employed, “Charlie, I want to go +hunting this afternoon: will you lend me your gun?” + +“Certainly,” replied his friend; and he handed out as fine a +double-barrelled breech-loader as ever you clapped eyes on. + +“Is it loaded?” inquired Burdette. + +“Yes,” said the friend. + +“What kind of shot?” asked Burdette. + +“Duck-shot,” replied the friend. + +“Well, I guess that’ll do,” said Burdette. “I’ll stop in as I go down +the street, and get some more ammunition of the same kind.” + +So, with the gun on his shoulder, and a smile on his face, Burdette +rejoined his bride on the street outside. Arm in arm the two toiled up +the bluff toward the testy old squire’s residence, Burdette stopping +every now and then to see whether his battery was in working-order. It +was well-nigh dusk when the truant couple marched into the bride’s home. +The testy squire sat in his favorite rocking-chair, grimly reading an +evening paper. You can perhaps imagine his amazement when, upon looking +up, he beheld Burdette boldly intrude into his presence with the object +of his affection on one arm, and a double-barrelled gun on one shoulder. + +But, with all his testiness, it was to the squire’s credit that he +possessed a fair share of that always admirable and frequently +serviceable quality called discretion. This quality asserted itself at +this critical moment. Instead of exploding the volcanic fires which had +been pent up in his paternal bosom, he calmly laid down his evening +paper, scrutinized the twain before him, and in an unruffled tone +remarked, “Well?” + +All will agree that this was the shrewdest thing the testy squire could +have done under the circumstances; for it is universally admitted by +authorities on rhetorical tactics, that the simple word “well,” when +uttered with the proper inflection and at the proper moment, serves as +an invincible and incomprehensible skirmish-line. But the happy +bridegroom was on this occasion fully equal to the task of meeting the +testy squire’s rhetorical skirmish-line—all of which goes to prove that +a shotgun in the hand is worth ten thousand “wells” in rhetoric. + +“Carrie and I have been getting married,” said Burdette, looking the +squire straight in the eyes; “and now I want to know what you are going +to do about it?” + +If the squire’s calmness but a moment before had been admirable, it was +now phenomenal. The announcement of his daughter’s marriage did not seem +to even ruffle his temper. He put his paper aside quietly, and glanced +out of the window musingly; and he put his tongue in his cheek, and +appeared to be absorbed in thought. + +“You’d better go down and help your mother get supper, Carrie,” said the +squire at last; “and as for you, Robert, sit down, and make yourself at +home. I want to get better acquainted with you if you’re my son-in-law.” + +So much for the courtship and marriage of our most popular humorist. Of +the happy wedded life that succeeded, we all have heard. The girl became +a devoted wife; and it is not hard for those who have felt the ennobling +influence of woman’s love to believe Mr. Burdette when he says that the +little woman whom he called wife—whose spiritual beauty we all +admired—with whose physical sufferings we all sympathized, and whose +death we all deplored—we believe Mr. Burdette when he says that she was +indeed the best and sweetest inspiration in his life and of his work. + + + + + _That One Floating Vote._ + + Down at the town av Springfield, phwhere our statesmin congregate + To draw their wages twicet a month to git John Logan bate, + The Dimmycrats is tremblin’ and a sweatin’ wid dismay + On account av O’Shea. + + The all av thim is solid for our horizontal Bill, + And the all av thim is solid for reform and office—shtill + The all av thim is worried to anticipate the play + Contem_pla_ted by O’Shea. + + Bill Morrison shtands _here_, and Logan he shtands _there_, + And whin the wotes is even, there’s a tie bechune the pair; + But whin it comes to wotin’, can innybody say, + Phwhere the divil is O’Shea? + + + + + _A Persian Mission._ + + +In “The New-York World” we find this remarkable editorial paragraph: +“Mr. Winston, our new minister to Persia, has had himself appointed a +brigadier-general of Illinois militia in order that he may be able to +shine at the shah’s resplendent court in a gorgeous uniform. We need a +minister to Persia about as much as we need a consular agent at the +north pole; but, inasmuch as we are carrying on the tomfoolery, we +might, as by special enactment, authorize our representative at Teheran +to appear in the full dress of a Choctaw chief. Something variegated and +humorous in that line would be likely to make an impression on the +shah’s mind.” + +We are amazed to find a democratic paper speaking in these terms of one +of the most distinguished appointments that has been made to our +diplomatic service. Yet we think the gross misrepresentation comes +merely from misinformation. Gen. Winston’s magnificent record as a +citizen and soldier demands an explanation of these things. + +We are reliably informed, that, when President Cleveland took his seat +as executive of this republic, he cast his eagle eye abroad over all the +land, and allowed each of the eminent statesmen to pass before him in +review, as candidates for the Persian mission; that after months of +careful, earnest study, inspired by the sincerest patriotism, President +Cleveland made up his mind, that, in all the country, there was one man +pre-eminently qualified for this high and responsible office; that the +name of that man was Frederick H. Winston. + +We are reliably informed that President Cleveland sent privily for Gen. +Winston, and informed him of his selection for the Persian mission; that +Gen. Winston demurred, alleging that his ambition beckoned him not in +the direction of diplomatic exploits; that it was only by personal and +constant importunities, and by presenting the matter to him in the light +of a patriotic duty, that the president succeeded in overcoming Gen. +Winston’s superhuman modesty, and inducing him to accept the mission. + +We are reliably informed, that, as soon as he heard of Gen. Winston’s +appointment to the court of Persia, Gov. Oglesby said to himself, “Now +is the time for me to bestow upon this great and good man some official +recognition of his distinguished civic and military services; but how +shall I do so best? A commission as notary public would not avail, +because the benighted Persian pagans know naught of the notary system; +nor, for similar reason, would a commission as grain-inspector, or +humane-society agent, or State veterinary agent, or insane-asylum +commissioner, or soldiers’-home trustee. No,” thought Gov. Oglesby, “I +must bestow upon this human paragon some distinction, honor, mark, +title, and decoration that will not only be in keeping with his exalted +career at home, but also give to him a certain lustre and bedazzling +brilliancy in the eyes of the heathen among whom he is soon to exploit +most featly. So, therefore, I will create him a brigadier-general; and I +will invest him with the ever-to-be-revered authority to wear high +top-boots and spurs, as well as gilt buttons, gold epaulets, and a +cocked hat withal.” + +We are reliably informed that Gov. Oglesby had to wrestle rhetorically +three whole days and nights with Gen. Winston before the latter was +induced to accept the proffered military decoration, and that even then +a squad of militia had to be called out and put on a war-footing before +Winston could be induced to go to his tailor to be measured for a suit +of regimentals; that even when he did go to said tailor, a corporal and +four soldiers had to guard the doors and windows lest the super-modest +general should repent his errand, and privily effect his escape from the +prick-louse. + +We are reliably informed, that, upon calmer and maturer reflection, the +embryotic diplomate travailed much in spirit, and groaned, and by the +advice of the spirits of Jefferson and Jackson, which did visit him in +dreams and visions, finally made up his mind that he would have done +with this matter of display, which was opposed in spirit and in truth to +the traditions and practices of democracy; that he did so advise Gov. +Oglesby, the press, and the public at large, and that if he _did_ accept +the regimentals from the tailor, and order them to be packed among his +official effects, it was merely for the purpose of exhibiting them in +Persia as a specimen of American handiwork. + +We are reliably informed, that, at a sumptuous feast tendered to the +departing, citizen-soldier-diplomate by such exalted social, +intellectual, and political stars as Johnnie Hand, Emil Hoechster, +Charlie Felton, J. J. Curran, Austin J. Doyle, Charlie Kern, John +Mattocks, P. Dudley, W. M. Devine, and other representatives of the +cream and flower of native and naturalized gentility, there did prevail +an eloquent and piteous protest against the harsh decree of fate which +was about to remove from the midst of them the pole-star, the central +sun, the inspiration of this incomparable galaxy. So poignant was the +grief marking this lachrymose event, that, ill content with the +restraining powers of prose and poetry, one of the distinguished chief +mourners, to wit, Charlie Kern, did essay the subtile influence of song +to alter Gen. Winston’s intention of going abroad. + +We are reliably informed, that, having heard Mr. Kern sing, Gen. Winston +became more fixed in his patriotic determination to leave his country. + +Of Gen. Winston’s eternal fitness for the Persian mission, we have no +doubt. Since his appointment he has made a close study of Persia, its +history, literature, language, people, customs, etc. Hearing that Persia +was the land of the date and palm, he took no rest until he had secured +the very latest editions of Hayden’s “Dictionary of Dates,” and Fowler’s +“Guide to Palmistry.” Having devoured these standard works, as well as +an unabridged edition of the “Arabian Nights,” he is, beyond compare, +deeply learned in Persian lore. + +And who that has beheld him; who that has studied his methods; who that +is acquainted with his high and mighty career in the forum, on the mart, +upon the field of carnage; who that has seen that undaunted integrity, +that unselfish patriotism, that sweet philosophy, and that heroic valor, +which have characterized every act and utterance in his life; who, in +fine, that knows this good and great man,—will deny that his career in +that pagan land, to which he goes anon, promises to redound to his own +glory, and to the advantage of the government, which, by his +distinguished service, he places under renewed obligations? + + + + + _A Senator’s Valor._ + + +It is interesting to read and to study the opinions of different +newspapers touching the Hon. John J. Ingalls, senior senator from +Kansas. The truth is, that no public man is more generally misunderstood +than is Senator Ingalls. By this we mean that a vast majority of the +writers who have occasion to write about Senator Ingalls, really do not +know him at all. Senator Ingalls is, in fact, a tender, gentle, lovable +man. He is exceedingly sentimental, as emotional as a woman, as +guileless as a child. He loves nature, and to commune with nature’s +quiet, subtile influences. Every day he takes long walks in Washington; +he is the most tireless pedestrian in Congress; he is acquainted with +all the woodland strolls on the Virginia side, and oftentimes his +rambles take him far into rural Maryland. There is a peace, a +tranquillity, a simplicity about this man’s private life that is as +remarkable as it is beautiful; yet, oh, how grievously he is misjudged! + +Illustrative of his humane tenderness, a story is told of a +characteristic incident of Senator Ingalls’s visit to Colorado some +years ago. He undertook to walk from Leadville to Golden, a mighty +distance across the mountains. His friends warned him of the dangers +that beset travellers of that mountain fastness, but Senator Ingalls +laughed them to scorn. + +“I have my penknife with me,” he answered. “It will suffice to protect +me, I venture.” + +Proceeding on his lonely journey, the senator held sweet communion with +the giant trees, the gnarled rocks, the tawdry wild-flowers, and the +chattering magpies that greeted him from this side and from that; and +his soul contemplated through his reverential ocular orbs the awful +grandeurs of the eternally snow-clad hills that rose beyond these hills, +and heard the songs the storm-clouds sang. + +Floating placidly, so to speak, upon this pleasant sea of thought, the +senator strode along for many a league, until finally, all of a sudden, +he distinctly beheld coming down the mountain-road toward him, a +monstrous grizzly bear,—an ursine megatherium, whose fur bristled, whose +eyes emitted sparks, whose claws rattled, and whose fangs gnashed, as he +scuttled along the mountain-road. In Senator Ingalls’s place at that +supreme moment, any other man less humane, less tender than he, would +have reached instinctively for his penknife, with which to have assailed +the shaggy monster, and to have made him pay for his temerity with his +life. But not so with Senator Ingalls. “Go thy way, poor devil!” he +murmured softly, paraphrasing Uncle Toby. “Go thy way, poor devil. This +mountain pathway is wide enough for me and thee!” + +And with this humane sentiment, Senator Ingalls crawled into a hollow +tree at the roadside, and waited there until the grizzly bear had passed +by, and was well on his way toward the bee-hive in a pine-tree near +Crazy-Horse Gulch. + + + + + _Season of New Music._ + + +The Mapleson Italian Opera Company is billed to appear here shortly, and +the programme for the first week is announced with a considerable +flourish. We do not hesitate to say that the music-loving public of +Chicago has a rich treat in store. Col. Mapleson is indeed a +conscientious, painstaking caterer. He is indefatigable in his efforts +to provide his patrons with a new and pleasing variety of musical works, +and he is constantly introducing to American audiences the freshest and +best talent of foreign countries. During his first week in Chicago he +will produce the following entirely new operas, composed and written +especially for this American tour of Her Majesty’s Opera Company: +“Faust,” “Lucia di Lammermoor,” “Manon,” “Fra Diavolo,” “Carmen,” and +“La Traviata.” For the second week we are promised “La Girla Bohemiana” +(a beautiful new opera by a clever Irishman named Balfe), “Il +Trovatore,” “La Favorita,” “Les Huguenots,” “I Puritani,” “Norma,” and a +pleasing light opera entitled “Martha.” The eminent ladies and gentlemen +who are to interpret the leading _rôles_ of these charming new works, +are Mme. Minnie Hauk, Mdlle. Dotti, Mme. Lillian Nordica (a lineal +descendant of Frank Mayo’s popular play), Mme. Lablache, Sig. Ravelli, +Sig. De Falco, Sig. Del Puente, Sig. Cherubini, and Sig. Giannini. None +of these great artists has ever appeared in Chicago before: they have +been fresh culled, so to speak, from the best musical parterres in +Europe, where they have bloomed without competition for the last +century. Mr. John McConnell, manager of the Columbia Theatre, has +invented a beautiful design for a three-sheet poster announcing the +Mapleson season. He showed it to us last evening. It is somewhat as +follows:— + +[Illustration: A satirical, hand-lettered performance schedule titled +"GRAND ITALIAN OPERA. FIRST WEEK." It lists the days from Monday through +Saturday, substituting the names of the operas and the featured singers +(preceded by "Mme." or "Mlle.") with small drawings of hazelnuts. The +text below reads: "Assisted by a superb company of [hazelnuts] and an +able corps de ballet including all the most noted terpsichorean +[hazelnuts] of the century."] + + + + + _Apollo Located._ + + +They say, that, just by way of killing time that hung heavy on his +hands, Col. Henry Davis, jun., visited the Corcoran Art Gallery in +Washington last Monday. When he returned to the hotel, he had a great +story to tell of his experiences. + +“Bill,” said he to Congressman Springer, “I have been putting in a +couple of hours inspecting the shef doovers of the old masters.” + +“Ah?” said Springer. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.” + +“Amazingly,” continued Davis. “You didn’t know I was a good deal of an +art connozher, did you?” + +“I can easily believe you,” answered Springer; “for I have always +admired your delicate refinement and graceful discrimination.” + +“I ran across one statute that paralyzed me,” said Davis. “It was a +perfect fac-smile of myself without my clothes on.” + +“What could it have been?” asked Springer. + +“When I get back to Illinois,” said Davis, “I’m going to hunt up the +original; for me and him are as much alike as two peas. He lives at +Belvidere!” + +“Boone County?” + +“Yes; Belvidere, Boone County, Ill. His name is Apollo.” + + + + + _An Exile’s Nuptials._ + + +The Hon. Millard B. Hereley is about to do the wisest act in all his +busy and useful career. He is going to be married. On the 10th instant +he will lead to the hymeneal altar Miss Hannah, daughter of our esteemed +fellow-townsman, Col. Daniel Murphy, who resides at 202 Oak Street. The +bride-elect is a beautiful and accomplished young lady, in every +particular qualified to adorn the home, and serve as the best +inspiration of a bright, ambitious, and honorable man. To her and to him +we extend our heartiest congratulations upon the event which is to bind +them together indissolubly. + +Knocking the tops off champagne-bottles yesterday, Senator Hereley +vouchsafed to a select crowd of personal friends the information, that, +immediately after the solemnization of their marriage, his bride and he +would start upon a six-weeks’ tour through the orange-groves of +Louisiana and the everglades of Florida. + +“A number of my ancestors, exiled from France a century ago,” said he, +“lie buried in the old cemetery just beyond the fortifications at St. +Augustine. I hear that no monument marks the last resting-place of the +Duc de Troiville, my maternal great-grandfather. If, upon investigation, +I find this to be the case, I shall erect a suitable slab appropriately +inscribed. In New Orleans I have numerous relations among the old French +and Creole families: in fact, I may in all modesty confess that in the +neighborhood of the French market my name has become a household word.” + +“Is it true,” we asked, “that the news of your approaching nuptials has +created a stir in foreign circles?” + +“In Germany, France, and Spain,—yes,” replied Senator Hereley. “Germany +watches with unabating interest the movements of every titled Frenchman +abroad, and probably will continue to do so until the _intente cordiale_ +between France and Prussia has been fully restored. France takes an +interest in my career because I am closely allied by blood with the +aristocracy of that country; and Spain is interested in me for the +reason that many of the Hereleys fled from Normandy to Madrid after the +fall of the empire, and are now united by marriage with the oldest and +noblest families in Castile and Aragon. + +“I have already received,” continued Senator Hereley, “messages of +congratulation from the Duc d’Orleans, Marshal Castiglione, Sir François +de Cavagnac, the Duc d’Ormeil, Prince Bourbon de Bonsoir, ex-Queen +Isabella, President Grèvy, De Freycine, Queen Regent Christina, the Duc +de Ganda, and other royal and eminent personages. I am expecting a good +many elegant presents, the most pleasing of which will be a +congratulatory memorial in a diamond-studded gold case from the council +of my native village in Normandy. Mme. Judic and Mme. Aimee, two +country-women of mine, have sent me handsome remembrances in the shape +of an old-gold toothpick, and a Dresden china shaving-mug.” + +“But don’t these things awaken in your bosom a longing to return to the +honors, titles, and estates which await you in your native land?” + +“Not at all,” replied Senator Hereley. “I love this glorious republic, +and am as truly enlisted in her cause as if I had been born upon her +soil. The glamour of titles and estates beyond the sea has no charms for +me, and my union with a fair daughter of this republic shall re-affirm +and emphasize with ecstasy my loyalty to the home of my adoption!” + + + + + _Patronize Home Art._ + + + CHICAGO, ILL. + +_To the Editor._—Why is it that Western people are so hasty to go daft +over the doings Down East, yet are so slow to recognize and to encourage +meritorious home enterprises? Quite recently, for instance, Chicago and +other Western cities have been all agog over the sale of certain +arteffects of a New-York lady, the widow Morgan, a relict of undoubted +taste, and possessing abundant means wherewith to gratify that taste. +Thousands of dollars went out of the West to purchase certain articles +of the Morgan collection at the recent sale in New York. A wealthy +pork-packer who lives near my house, brought back from the Morgan sale +two “rare pieces of virtue,” as he terms them: one was a cut-glass +potato-salad dish, manufactured in the third century by Ptolomy Dago, a +Spanish stone-cutter of wonderful ingenuity; the other was a superb +oil-painting representing mountaineer life in Holland, and painted by +Beethoven, the famous Italian sculptor. These “articles of virtue” could +not have cost less than twenty thousand dollars. But why go East for +these works of art? I understand that a great art-sale is about to take +place on the West Side; that the rare and costly collection of one of +our wealthiest soap-manufacturers, recently deceased, is about to be +disposed of at auction. Why are the papers, which are so ready to +advertise Eastern art-sales, silent now touching this home enterprise? +Why is our public, ever on the alert to blow in good money for Yankee +notions, so slow to patronize this West-Side slaughter of genuine +rarities? I think Chicago ought to be ashamed of herself; but here is an +excellent opportunity for her to redeem her reputation. + + Yours, etc., + SILAS G. HARDCASTLE. + + + + + _An Old Feud._ + + +Indirectly we learn that Col. Hiram Atkins, chairman of the Vermont +Democratic Committee, thinks he has been unfairly dealt with by “The +Daily News.” He complains that the quotations which we gave as coming +from his paper, “The Montpelier Argus and Patriot,” were never printed +in his paper at all: he declares that he never announced that “Squire +Eastman’s tumor has cast a gloom over our little village,” or that “Mrs. +Mehitabel Ranney laid an egg on our table last week,” etc. It is +possible that we have done Col. Atkins an injustice; if so, the +injustice was done unintentionally; and we, lamenting it, do hereby +crave pardon therefor. Col. Atkins is a jovial, enterprising, fair, and +bright man: he is incapable of a mean action. We wish him a big run of +sap every spring, and a powerful harvest of beech-nuts next Michaelmas. + +As to the items about Squire Eastman’s tumor, Mrs. Mehitabel Ranney’s +eggs, etc., which we printed, and credited to “The Montpelier Argus and +Patriot,” we received them from Senator Edmunds, with the remark that he +had found them in Atkins’s paper. Edmunds told us that Atkins was a +“fat, pussy man, that sweat twelve months in the year, and wore out two +paper collars every day:” he said that Atkins had pursued him for years, +maliciously and relentlessly, there being no species of base piracy to +which Atkins would not willingly stoop. + +Atkins’s demoniacal animosity was incurred, so Edmunds avers, many years +ago, when the two were attending the academy at Rutland. Edmunds, it +appears, was in the senior class when Atkins entered the academy as a +freshman. + +At that time the prettiest girl in the school was a Miss Joyful +Higginson, the only daughter of Squire Nathan Higginson of Bennington. +She had a trim figure, black eyes, curly hair, and red cheeks; and when +she got rigged out in one of her new gingham gowns on a Sunday morning, +she was, to use a phrase common in those times, “prettier than a yoke of +father’s steers.” To this Miss Joyful did Edmunds and Atkins pay ardent +but respectful homage, sending her lumps of maple-sugar, and packages of +rose-lozenges, taking her coasting and to picnics on a Saturday, and +showing her, in short, delicate attentions of that nature which seldom +fail to touch the maidenly heart. The fact, however, that Edmunds was +the older of the twain, that he had impressive side-whiskers, and that +he sang a delicious bass in the academy-choir, seems to have made him +more acceptable to Miss Joyful than any of the other young beaux were: +at any rate, Miss Joyful went sliding down hill with Edmunds oftener +than with anybody else, and his gifts of pippins, maple-sugar, lozenges, +nosegays, and the like, appeared to go to the spot which the tokens of +other beaux failed to reach. + +The preference which Miss Joyful manifested for young Edmunds set Atkins +into a frenzy of jealous rage; and one night he threw his Livy upon the +floor, trampled upon his Andrew’s Latin Lexicon, and delivered himself +of this volcanic eruption of long-pent-up wrath: “Gol darn that +bewhiskered crittur! I’ll git even with him if I hev ter live ter be ez +old ez Methuselah! With that tarnation bass voice o’ his’n, as hard as +Pharaoh’s heart, and them whiskers the color o’ soft-soap, he hez cut +the rest on us clean out o’ our swaths. It may take an all-fired long +time to do it, but I’m goin’ to, by gosh, knock him higher’n a +meetin’-house steeple afore I git thru’ with him!” + +This malignant threat was uttered fifty-eight years ago; and ever since +then, so Senator Edmunds tells us, Hiram Atkins has had but one grand +end in view,—the annihilation of George F. Edmunds. The episode of Miss +Joyful Higginson was simply one of the pretty idyls of youth. In 1838 +Joyful married Leander Merrick, the popular young man who drove the +stage for a great many years between Brattleboro and Townsend. + + + + + _A Hegira Threatened._ + + +There was a great stir in Chicago yesterday, and it was all on account +of the remarkable speech which Mr. Gladstone delivered in the British +House of Commons Thursday afternoon. No sooner was the independence of +Ireland assured, than the leaders of the Irish party in Chicago began +making preparations to return to the beloved Emerald Isle beyond the +sea. The news that these distinguished gentlemen contemplated departure +from scenes which they had graced with their presence for many years, +spread like a wildfire, and produced a sensation that can be described +only by the adjective prodigious. Bands of music paraded the principal +streets, discoursing a _repertoire_ made up of such inspired gems as +“Wearing of the Green,” “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” and +“Croppies, Lie Down.” + +Col. John F. Finerty, ex-member of Congress, and editor of our esteemed +contemporary, “The Citizen,” spent most of the day in his private +apartments, packing his valise, and disposing of the personal effects he +did not wish to take back to Ireland with him. “I shall leave for home +at once,” he said. “This country has become effete. It is subservient to +British gold, and has no longer any appreciation of personal honesty and +individual merit. Now that Ireland is to be an independent nation, it is +my purpose to return to her venerated soil, and to claim the titles and +estates which properly descend to me from a long line of lordly +ancestors. You may not be aware of it,—for with unflinching assiduity I +have concealed the fact,—but I am the thirty-eighth Lord of Tipperary; +and I am about to lay claim to the magnificent estates at +Ballyclerahan.” + +Mr. John F. Scanlan said he had made arrangements for a passage on the +steamship “Aurania,” which would sail from New York early in May. “Our +triumph,” said he, “has been long delayed; but, Heaven be praised, it +has come at last! When once I have set foot on my native soil, you will +hear no more of John F. Scanlan; but Baron Ballingarry will dawn upon +Europe as one of the peerage of Ireland. Ballingarry, you must +understand, is a charmingly romantic estate in Munster County, twelve +miles north of Kilmeedy, fifteen miles south of Rathkeale, and twenty +miles west of Beuree. Upon a gentle elevation stands the baronial castle +which my forefathers erected during the historic reign of Brian +Boroihuee, and it is of this ancestral domain that I propose to possess +myself. I hear that a St.-Louis man, known as John D. Finney, claims to +be the heir-apparent to this baronetcy; but I shall show him that I can +handle a blackthorn quite as nimbly as the best of bogtrotters.” + +Mr. J. J. Fitzgibbon said he was the Duke of Ballaghadereen, a beautiful +estate in the county of Mayo. It was his ambition to spend his declining +years in enjoyment of those lordly pleasures of which he had long been +deprived, but which now were about to be restored to him by the efforts +of Mr. Gladstone, the British premier. + +Mr. William McClure claimed to be the long-missing heir to the earldom +of Armagh, with a moss-covered castle, and a dreamy expanse of peat-bog, +awaiting him at Loughall, one of the most picturesque spots in all +Ireland. He said he was making preparations to return to his native +land, and to claim every thing in sight. + +The Hon. Patrick Sanders admitted, that, having wound up an active but +brief American career, he was getting ready to start back to Ireland, +where he meant to lay claim to the dukedom of Dripsey, in county Cork, +only a few miles south of the famous Blarneystone. “Such is my +self-abnegation,” said he, “that, if I perceived any desire on the part +of the Chicago people to retain me, I would cheerfully abandon every +claim to the Irish peerage which awaits me, and would devote myself to +the service of humanity in this city. But there is a lack of interest in +me hereabouts; and I shall therefore proceed shortly to the country +where, I am sure, my ability and my philanthropy will be appreciated. +The evening of my life shall be devoted to teaching the simple tenantry +of my ducal estates the sward-dance of our ancestors: and it is barely +possible that I shall put in operation a scheme I have long +contemplated; namely, the colonization of Dripsey with Italian +emigrants.” + +It was learned, either from the gentlemen themselves, or from equally +reliable authorities, that the following distinguished citizens of +Chicago were on the eve of departure to the sod which they venerate as +their common mother:— + +Michael Hannigan, claimant to the titles and estates of Denis, sixteenth +Duke of Stradbally, in the county Leinster. + +Thomas E. Moran, heir-presumptive to the earldom of Knockcroghery, in +the county Roscommon, including the extensive peat-privileges at +Athleague. + +John M. Dunphy, Baron Gortaroo, with the ancestral castle in county +Cork, overlooking Youghal Bay, near Knockadoon Head. + +Sam Steele (formerly Welsh, but now Irish), claimant to the dukedom of +Londonderry, said to have been conquered in the thirteenth century by +the Welsh invader, Llewellyn Llnllth. + +Michael W. Ryan, Lord Malin More, with a castle on the western coast of +county Donegal, enjoying fine privileges for conger eel and finnan +haddie fisheries. + +Richard Pendergast, heir-apparent to the earldom of Belgooly, in county +Cork, twelve miles south of Templemichael. + +Edward J. McPhelim, said to be the long-lost heir to the baronetcy of +Kilcullen, enjoying a magnificent ancestral castle on lake Liffey, in +county Kildare, within five minutes’ walk of the famous rocky road to +Dublin. + +Thomas O’Neill (a lineal descendant of the great Hugh O’Neill), Duke of +Coleraine, claiming the magnificent estates near Lough Foyle, in +Londonderry. + +Timothy D’Arcy, Baron Knock, with a grand old castle of mediæval +architecture on the river Shannon, one of the most beautiful estates in +the county Clare. + +James Sullivan, Duke of Tyrone, claiming the old manor and estate at +Beltrim, yielding enormous rents. + +Alexander Kirkland claims the dukedom of Kerry, which involves large and +valuable estates in the Kenmare-river and Bantry-bay districts; but +Kirkland’s claim is disputed by Vincent B. Kelly, who alleges that _he +himself_ is the lawful duke, and that Kirkland is simply a Scotch +interloper, who hails from the Frith of Forth, and who is known at home +as the Laird o’ Killiekrankie. + +There is a rumor that Joseph Medill becomes, by the Gladstone act, sole +heir to that magnificent riparian privilege known as the Giants’ +Causeway in Antrim; but it is doubtful whether that distinguished +gentleman will, for this giant legacy, relinquish the large interests he +has acquired in the country of his adoption. + + + + + _A Spanish Romance._ + + +There is not an iota of truth in “The Philadelphia News” rumor that Miss +Kate Field is about to be married to a Western journalist. Miss Field +will never wed; and the secret of her celibacy is to be found in a +singularly sad and romantic tale which has never yet, we think, been put +in print. + +Some years ago Miss Field made a visit to Spain with a view to +acquainting herself with certain old Castilian legends which she desired +to make literary use of. She took with her many letters of introduction +to Spanish grandees, among them a letter to Marshal Serrano. This +wealthy and influential nobleman received her most cordially, and +entertained her at his castle in Madrid for several weeks; his wife, a +sister of the Comte de Paris (now deceased), being particularly charmed +by the vigor of Miss Field’s intellect, and the insinuating grace of her +manners. It happened, that, during her stay at Serrano Castle, the +beautiful young American met, among other Spanish noblemen, the young +Alvaredo Lopez y Jesus de Ratz, one of the wealthiest, handsomest, and +bravest scions of Spanish royalty. He was a hidalgo of the thirty-second +magnitude, heir-apparent to the dukedom of Aragon, and, what was +considered better than all else, he possessed large political influence, +and stood high in the favor of the dominant party. Alvaredo Lopez de +Ratz fell a willing victim to the personal and intellectual charms of +the fascinating American girl; and with that precipitancy peculiar to +the impassioned sons of stately old Spain, he avowed his love at the +second meeting. Somewhat startled by the suddenness of his fervid +declaration, though not insensible to his exceeding eligibility, Miss +Field coyly employed those evasive, Fabian arts which so admirably +beseem her sex, and which render a beautiful girl all the more beautiful +in the opinion of mankind. So, therefore, Alvaredo set himself bravely +to the task of melting the marble heart of the proud American at whose +imperious feet he had incontinently cast down his heart, his titles, his +hopes, his all. Day after day he weaved sonnets to her eyes and hair, or +pursued her with sighings and avowals: night after night he lingered +beneath her window, blending his rich baritone voice in amorous +serenades with the throbbing tones of his mandolin or lute. + +One day, Miss Field, accompanied by the young Alvaredo Lopez de Ratz, +went to the amphitheatre to witness a bull-fight, the same being a +celebration of the feast of St. Isadore. When they reached the place, +they found that their seats were on the other side of the amphitheatre; +and to save time, they thought to cut across the arena, the combat not +yet having begun. Scarcely, however, had they reached the centre of the +arena, when, by some fatal blunder, the door to the bull-pen was thrown +open, and out rushed a monstrous Andalusian bull, lashing his tail +wildly, pawing the earth, and bellowing fiercely. + +“Suave mio! suave mio!” (“Save me! save me!”) cried Miss Field, in tones +that would have wrung the most callous heart. + +“Carissima mia,” answered Alvaredo Lopez de Ratz, “te suavo spezza!” +(“Dearest, I will save thee!”) + +Then, drawing his stiletto, the brave young lover threw himself between +the infuriated bull and the red parasol which Miss Field had unfurled, +and behind which she stood, pale, shrieking, trembling. While the bull +gored at Alvaredo Lopez de Ratz, that valiant young nobleman carved and +whittled the shaggy monster’s frothing nostrils right dexterously: +meantime, divers picadors, matadors, and cavaliers hastened to the +rescue of Miss Field, who was borne insensible from the arena. + +But what of Alvaredo Lopez y Jesus de Ratz? Alas! his gored and lifeless +remains, mutilated beyond recognition, were raked up and gathered +together after the matadors had slain the infuriate bull. A braver man +was never borne from the battle-field on two-score and ten dust-pans! + +Ever since that tragedy, Miss Field has disdained the advances of the +masculine sex. Pondering ever on the fate of her young Spanish suitor, +she never hears an impassioned avowal that she does not droop her pretty +head, and regretfully murmur, “Ratz!” + + + + + _More about Miss Field._ + + +Miss Kate Field, who is to lecture in this city next Thursday evening, +is in many respects a most remarkable woman. None of her sex possesses +to so marked a degree every feminine charm, coupled with an intellectual +vigor that is certainly masculine. Miss Field’s life has been a romantic +one. She was born (about thirty years ago) in New Orleans, and was +educated in the Convent de St. Genevieve, near that city. When sixteen +years of age she was sent to Europe to “finish off;” but, while +travelling in Sicily, she was seized by brigands, who demanded seventy +thousand livres for her ransom. This sum was paid by the family of the +young girl, after she had been a captive for six weeks, during which +time she acquired a thorough acquaintance with the Italian language, and +obtained a complete knowledge of the customs of the banditti. A +narrative of her experience in the Sicilian fastnesses appeared in “El +Banano Napoli” (1865), and is now regarded as a model of Italian +romance. In 1867 Miss Field visited Spain as the guest of Signora +Serrano; and it was at this time that she was wooed by the young Marquis +Miguel Maria Jesus del Ratz, whose melancholy and tragic death, while +attending a bull-fight in Madrid, has already been detailed in these +columns. This was the one love-affair of Miss Field’s life; but the case +of Manrico Bolero, the chief of the banditti who abducted the fair girl, +deserves more than passing mention. It appears that while she was a +captive, this Bolero became deeply sensible of the personal and mental +charms of young Kate: his suit was vain, however, the conscientious girl +refusing to become the bandit’s bride. After she was ransomed, the image +of her beauty, and the recollection of her goodness and her wit, so +preyed upon the mind of the brigand, that he forsook his godless +occupations, distributed his ill-gotten gains among the poor, became an +inmate of a monastery, and even now, under the name of Brother Felix, +devotes his remaining days to Benedictine piety, and the manufacture of +a well-known cordial of the same name. + +Miss Field returned to her native land in the spring of 1883, and since +that time has published numerous books, written and delivered several +lectures, and superintended a number of social reforms, calculated to +alleviate the sufferings of, and to emancipate from political bondage, +the feminine sex. The failure of her philanthropic movement in New York +some years ago, whereby she sought to introduce a female-suspender +system, which would supersede the odious female garter—this failure, we +say, was due wholly to the duplicity of the one man whom, with many +other noble women, she had admitted into a business partnership. But +since that unfortunate—though none the less praiseworthy—venture, +prosperity has attended the earnest little lady. Her literary work has +brought her handsome returns, her lectures have been highly profitable; +and certain investments in Washington real-estate have been so +fortunate, that she is now quoted by the leading commercial agencies +among the wealthy women of America. + + + + + _A Kentuckian’s Sagacity._ + + +Col. William M. Haldeman, proprietor of “The Louisville +Courier-Journal,” has a very poor opinion of Henry Watterson’s business +capacity. The other day he opened one of Watterson’s editorial +correspondences, dated Paris. He handed it to the cashier to send up to +the editorial rooms. + +“What is it?” asked the cashier. + +“A letter from Watterson,” answered Haldeman: “I haven’t read it, but +it’s a long one about ‘The Latin Quarter.’” + +“The Latin Quarter? What’s that?” asked the cashier, with his mouth +agape, and his eyes hanging out on his cheeks. + +“I’m —— if I know,” said Haldeman; “but, if Watterson got it in change, +I’ll bet fifty to one that it’s a twenty-cent piece.” + + + + + _Col. Judd’s Narrow Escape._ + + +The Hon. S. Corning Judd, our able non-partisan postmaster, has returned +from the South, where he has been travelling for several weeks. Although +his rheumatic pains have reduced his weight somewhat, he is the picture +of health; and his sojourn in Florida appears to have been one continued +round of excitement. He tells us of a marvellous adventure he had in +Florida. He says that when he reached Thomasville, he fell in with his +old friend, Col. J. H. McVicker, who inveigled him into going +alligator-hunting one day. A negro guide volunteered to conduct them to +an old bayou which had not been visited by white men for many years, and +which was actually alive with alligators. Col. McVicker was armed with a +Louis Sharpe’s rifle; and Col. Judd had the reliable old pepper-box +pistol, with which he used to perform prodigies of valor in Southern +Illinois during the civil war; so the twain felt tolerably secure. The +darkey guide piloted them along through a lone wood, over a deserted +rice-field, and through a luxuriant orange-grove, until they came to a +slimy pool that lay sequestered among the orange, banana, and palm +trees. Myriads of alligators swarmed upon the banks of this pool, and +the party paused to observe the ingenious manner in which the monstrous +reptiles secured their food. Of course, so far away from the haunts of +civilization, these alligators were not able to diet upon dogs, cats, +sheep, calves, pickaninnies, and other carnivorous prey, but were +compelled to subsist wholly upon vegetables and fruits. While Col. +McVicker and Col. Judd watched them, they saw the alligators poise +themselves on their scaly snouts, and with magnificent sweeps of their +long tails knock down the red oranges and yellow bananas from the tall +trees o’erhead. It was observed that not less than a barrel of bananas +and a bushel of oranges satisfied the average alligator; whereas in +other parts of the South, the very largest alligator has been known to +be sated with a moderately plump six-year old negro child. Eager for the +combat, Col. McVicker rested his old reliable Louis Sharpe’s rifle on +the stump of a hemlock, drew a bead on the biggest alligator in range, +and blazed away. The unerring ball sped like lightning toward its +victim, and struck the alligator on his massive forehead; but, so far +from wounding the miserable reptile, it rebounded again, and buried +itself to the depth of eight inches in the bark of a palm-tree near by. +While Col. McVicker was reloading, Col. Judd popped away at the +alligators with his relic of the civil war, and the alligators seemed to +regard this as a species of delightful humor. However, one old alligator +bethought himself of a device whereby he might circumvent the +assailants: he cautiously circled around through the orange-grove, and +came up behind the two Chicago sportsmen as they lay in ambush. Then, +all at once, Col. Judd felt himself nipped rudely by the legs; and the +next thing he knew, he was being scuttled off toward the slimy pool, +between the remorseless jaws of the monster alligator. His struggles +were vain; and what increased his horror of death was the hideous +thought that he was about to be cut off in the very flower of his career +as postmaster at Chicago. Deaf to his piteous entreaties, the alligator +trundled his human prey down into the pool; and there the twain +floundered about, amid the green slime and malarious ooze. Catching a +fleeting glimpse of his friend McVicker in the crotch of an orange-tree, +Col. Judd threw him a farewell kiss with his mud-stained hand. Then the +alligator rolled Col. Judd under his tongue, and chewed on him a brief +spell with his cruel fangs. But presently the alligator stopped chewing. + +“My friend,” said the alligator hesitatingly, “I hate to disappoint you, +but I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go ashore.” + +Col. Judd listened: a new hope dawned in his bosom. + +“The truth is,” continued the alligator, “I’ve been raised on a +vegetable diet; but for years I have heard a great deal about that +appetizing and palatable delicacy called human blood. I hoped to get a +sample of this delicacy in you, but I find that I misplaced my +confidence. Being somewhat of a dyspeptic, I hardly think that skin and +bones would sit well on my stomach, with the fruit I have already eaten +to-day. So, if you are so disposed, you may crawl out and go ashore.” + + + + + _A White-House Ballad.—I._ + + + THE TYING OF THE TIE. + + Now was Sir Grover passing wroth: + “A murrain seize the man,” he quoth, + “Who first invented ties! + Egad, they are a grievous bore, + And tying of them vexeth sore + A person of my size!” + + Lo, at his feet upon the floor + Were sprent the neckties by the score, + And collars all awreck; + And good Sir Grover’s cheeks were flame, + And good Sir Grover’s arms were lame, + With wrestling at his neck. + + But much it joyed him when he heard + Sir Daniel say, “I fain will gird + Your necktie on for you, + As ’twill not cause you constant fear + Of bobbing round beneath your ear, + Or setting you askew.” + + Sir Daniel grasped one paltry tie, + And with a calm, heroic eye + And confidential air + (As who should say, “Odds bobs! I vow + There’s nothing like the knowing how”), + He mounted on a chair. + + And whilst Sir Grover raised his chin + (For much he did respect the pin), + Sir Daniel tied the tie, + The which when good Sir Grover viewed,— + Albeit it beliked a dude,— + He heaved a grateful sigh. + + JUNE 2, 1886. + + + + + _An Editorial Schedule._ + + +It has occurred to us that there could be no better time than the +present for a combined strike among newspaper-men for less work and more +pay. The employees of the press throughout the country have been +painfully aware for a long time that their services are not remunerated +as they should be,—that too little pay is doled out to them for too much +work. While train-movers and butcher-boys and dirt-shovellers in divers +parts of the republic are demanding compensation commensurate with their +toil, why should not the meek and lowly journalist turn like the trodden +worm, and sting the iron heel that is grinding him in the dust of +starvation and obscurity? We are told that a secret order is now being +organized among editors and reporters, and that, within a short time, +this continent will be convulsed with the most prodigious uprising that +has ever taken place between the shores of the Atlantic and the Pacific. +The object of this secret, modest, but puissant organization is to +better the condition of the practical journalist, and thus directly +benefit the universal cause of literature; and we are confidently +informed that upon next Fourth of July,—being the hundred and tenth +anniversary of this nation’s independence,—the following schedule of +weekly wages to be paid editors and reporters will be submitted to the +proprietors of American newspapers:— + + To editorial writers who “used to know Thurlow Weed and Horace + Greeley,” and who wear long beards and no neckties, and who write + essays beginning with “We opine,” or with “Albeit” $30 + To editorial writers who read “The Nation,” and “The Scientific + American” 40 + To editorial writers who would like to spend their declining years + at the head of an established country weekly 25 + To editorial writers who receive mail addressed to “The Hon.,” and + who covet a foreign mission 20 + To reporters who “know Dana, and have worked on ‘The New-York Sun’” 8 + To reporters who say “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to the city editor 12 + To critics who discuss “the rendition,” “the mise en scene,” “the + floritures, bravuras,” etc. 15 + To poets of the “Hope,” “Eternity,” “Spring,” “Banana,” + “Stovepipe,” and “Bobtail-Flush” kind 18 + To female reporters who seek to demonstrate that a female can do a + man’s work 10 + For “society” drivel 8 + To ex-lawyers, ex-preachers, ex-statesmen, and ex-tradesmen who + have been starved into journalism 15 + To editorial writers who have held a clerkship in Washington one + winter, and are thoroughly acquainted with national politics and + the tariff question 20 + +But we can violate this confidence no further. Suffice it to say, that, +when once the grasping monopolists who now hold the journalistic +intellect of our country by the throat are compelled to accede to the +just demands of brain-labor, pale faces and haggard forms will be +banished from our newspaper offices, and affluence will reign where the +twin vultures, starvation and penury, now brood in hideous silence. + + + + + _A White-House Ballad.—II._ + + + THE KISSING OF THE BRIDE. + + And when at last, with priestly pray’r + And music mingling in the air, + The nuptial knot was tied, + Sir Grover, flaming crimson red— + “Soothly, it is my mind,” he said, + “That I salute the bride!” + + Whereat upon her virgin cheek, + So smooth, so plump, and comely eke, + He did implant a smack + So lusty that the walls around + Gave such an echo to the sound + As they had like to crack. + + No modern salutation this— + No mincing, maudling mugwump kiss + To chill a bride’s felicity; + Exploding on that blushing cheek, + Its virile clamor did bespeak + Arcadian simplicity. + + JUNE 2, 1886. + + + + + _The Haskells, Père et Fils._ + + +It will delight the venerable editor of “The Boston Herald” to learn +that his son, Will E. Haskell, has been commissioned a member of the +military staff of the governor of Minnesota, with the title of major. As +we learn by reference to Lossing’s “Field-Book of the Massachusetts +Militia,” Haskell _père_ himself is a soldier, having been commissioned +a captain of militia as far back as 1844. In this same reliable volume +we read that “on July 4, 1847, the Cambridge Israel Putnam Fusileers, +under command of Capt. Haskell, elicited rapturous huzzas by the +alacrity and precision of their evolutions and manœuvres during the +general training on Boston Common” (vol. iii. p. 268). As we understand +it, young Major Haskell’s military promotion will not necessarily +involve service upon the field of battle. Minnesota is now in a +condition of peace, and is likely to remain so. All that will be +expected of Major Haskell will be the purchase of a suit of regimentals, +a roan gelding, and a fine sword: upon state occasions, the major will +have to wear these regimentals and this sword, and will have to ride the +roan gelding to and fro through the streets of Minnesota’s capital, +bearing sealed orders to and from his excellency the governor, and +bestowing ineffably fascinating smiles upon the throngs of admiring +ladies. Young Major Haskell is a handsome man, and it makes us tremble +to think of the increased powers and the illimitable possibilities with +which his regimentals will invest his native pulchritude. + + + + + _A White-House Ballad.—III._ + + + THE PASSING OF THE COMPLIMENT. + + Eftsoons the priest had made his say, + The courtly knights and ladies gay + Did haste from every side, + With honeyed words, and hackneyed phrase, + And dainty smiles, withal, to praise + Sir Grover’s blushing bride. + + Outspake the courtly Sir Lamar, + “Of all fair brides, you, lady, are + The fairest I have seen: + Not only of this castle grand, + But of all hearts throughout the land, + Are you acknowledged queen!” + + Whereat the Lady Frances bowed; + And rapturous murmurs in the crowd + Did presently attest, + That, of the chestnuts uttered there, + This chestnut was without compare— + Foredating all the rest. + + JUNE 2, 1886. + + + + + _More about Col. Haskell._ + + +Capt. Ebenezer Holbrook, one of the oldest and most respected citizens +of Waltham, Mass., happens to be in Chicago at the present time on a +visit to his son, who is engaged in business here. He tells us that he +read with deep interest our article upon Col. Haskell of “The Boston +Herald,” and his son, William E. Haskell, who has just been appointed a +major upon the military staff of the governor of Minnesota. Capt. +Holbrook says that the Haskells have always been noted for their +fondness for, and adaptability to, military life. As far back as 1723, +old Elizur Haskell (the great-grandfather of the Minnesota editor) led +the company of Massachusetts militia which proceeded against the Indians +then encamped near Deerfield, and routed them after a most bloody +battle. It was during this historic fray that King Philip, the bravest +of the Indian chieftains in New England, engaged in a hand-to-hand +combat with Elizur Haskell. Finding the sturdy Puritan too much for him, +the discreet savage made his escape to the fastnesses of that mountain +near the Connecticut River which is now known as Mount Sugarloaf; and to +this day, a singularly romantic chain of rocks on the summit of this +hill is called “King Philip’s Seat,” for it is here that the dusky +chieftain found refuge after his unsuccessful skirmish with Elizur +Haskell. Capt. Holbrook says that old Elizur’s son, Joshua Haskell, was +the best wrestler in Massachusetts for twenty years; that on account of +his prowess in this science, he was elected colonel of the Second +Regiment of Massachusetts Militia, which distinction he enjoyed +continuously until, at a town-meeting in Boston in the fall of 1785, he +was thrown best two in three by Zephaniah Newton, son of Squire Newton +of Worcester. The “Haskell Book,” compiled by J. Hancock Haskell of +Hartford, Conn., shows that, within the last two hundred years, there +have been four generals, sixteen colonels, eleven majors, and +twenty-eight captains, in the Haskell family, of which number none has +ever perished upon the field of battle. + + + + + _Another New Book._ + + +Local literary circles will be pleased to learn that the “Art +Epicurean,” a new work from the pen of Mr. H. M. Kinsley, the +restaurateur, has just been issued to the trade. This toothsome volume, +which is calculated to cater to the higher instincts and tastes of the +cultured palate, is illustrated with choice cuts of Mr. Kinsley’s +business-house; and, as poetry always gives an agreeable flavor to every +kind of literary work, the talented author has interlarded or sandwiched +his work with rare old tenderlines from the best poets. + + + + + _Mr. Slattery of Boston._ + + +It was our singularly happy fortune to meet with a number of +distinguished Massachusetts gentlemen last week. Professional duties +constantly bring us into association with people from all over the +country, but never before the felicitous occasion to which we now refer +had we been accorded the inestimable boon of meeting and conversing with +leading representatives of the intelligence and the culture of the grand +old Bay State. It appears that these gentlemen whom we met last week, +came all the way from Massachusetts to investigate the drainage of that +beautiful suburban monarchy conducted by our esteemed fellow-townsman, +George M. Pullman. They were members of the Massachusetts Legislature, +and had been authorized as a committee to visit Chicago with a view to +learning a few facts about the system of drainage in vogue hereabout. As +soon as it became known that they had arrived in the midst of us, our +hospitable citizens bestirred themselves to contribute to the +entertainment of the distinguished delegation. It is to Dr. DeWolf, our +popular city physician, that we are indebted for the honor of becoming +acquainted with the Massachusetts embassy. Dr. DeWolf gave the +distinguished party a formal dinner at the Grand Pacific Hotel last +Saturday afternoon, and (as one of the local guests invited to bask in +the sunlight of the Massachusetts statesmen’s smiles, and to quaff the +nectar of the Massachusett’s statesmen’s wit, sentiment, and logic) it +became our ever-to-be-remembered but melancholy fortune to sit at table +next to the Hon. E. J. Slattery of Framingham, Mass. Certain facial +contours, features, and expressions of this honorable person—to say +nothing of his habit of eating with his knife—aroused a suspicion that +we had met Mr. Slattery before (and it was around the Chicago polls, we +thought), but we have since then concluded that it was not Mr. Slattery, +but several persons who looked like him that we had met. The New-England +vernacular, as spoken by Mr. Slattery, was different from what we had +expected to hear. There was a richness and a furriness about it that +reminded us of red flannel a yard wide and an inch thick; and what +excited our surprise (if not admiration) was the discovery that, +although Mr. Slattery had come all the way from Massachusetts to +investigate Illinois drainage, Mr. Slattery seemed to care little, and +to know less, about that exceedingly useful and interesting system. To +be more explicit, Mr. Slattery appeared to be disinclined to converse on +the drainage subject, and to be inclined to discuss the wrongs of Erin, +and the subversion of Queen Victoria’s iron heel. From this +representative Massachusetts gentleman’s remarks, which were too +forcible for publication in our conservative columns, we gathered in our +feeble way that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was on the threshold +of a war with England—that it required but the firebrand of Mr. +Slattery’s eloquence to kindle the flame which was to raze the throne of +the haughty Guelphs to its nethermost underpinning. Still, this matter +did not particularly interest us; and taking advantage of the lull in +the conversation, occasioned by Mr. Slattery’s exploiting with his +jack-knife in his mouth, we adroitly changed the drift of the discourse +by observing, that, of all the distinguished living sons of +Massachusetts we most desired to meet, the one particular distinguished +son was the Hon. James Russell Lowell, whereupon Mr. Slattery shocked us +greatly by saying that Mr. Lowell was not “worth a ——!” We replied +deferentially, that we had always had a faint but lingering impression +that Mr. Lowell was revered and beloved by the people of Massachusetts; +but Mr. Slattery corrected that impression by saying that Mr. Lowell +couldn’t be elected road-overseer in his (Slattery’s) district. Mr. +Slattery said that Mr. Lowell had never done any thing but sit around +all his life, and write poetry—very bad poetry, too—poetry that couldn’t +hold a candle to Thomas Moore’s songs. Furthermore, Mr. Slattery said, +that, although he had lived in Massachusetts a good many years, he had +never read a line of Mr. Lowell’s poetry, and, what was worse, he never +would. Another member of the Massachusetts Legislature said that he had +come to this country from Holland twenty years ago; that he had never +read Mr. Lowell’s poetry; that he had no use for Lowell, anyway. With +that, Mr. Slattery and his colleague fell to denouncing Mr. Lowell so +roundly, that, in our confusion, we protested that we didn’t refer to +the man Lowell, but to the town Lowell, where they make shoes by the +cord. + +The result of our meeting these eminent Massachusetts representatives, +who are presumed to reflect the sentiments of their communities, was a +solemn conviction that we had overestimated the worth of quite a number +of New-England people—men who perhaps were good enough and bright enough +in their day, but who had faded into insignificance beneath the scrutiny +of these later times. When we heard Mrs. Stowe stigmatized as “a crank +who wrote a book about a naygur,” and old Dr. Holmes described as “one +of them Harvard professors who never threw an honest shovelful of +dirt,”—when we heard these things, we felt that we were indeed the +victim of a misplaced confidence. But, even feeling so, we could not +help regretting having learned the truth; and much as we revere the wit, +the learning, and the culture of Mr. Slattery, and of Mr. Slattery’s +colleague from Amsterdam, we would fain protest against the habit into +which Massachusetts appears to be drifting; namely, that of sending out +broadcast these bold and unanswerable iconoclasts, whose delight is in +the demolition of our popular idols. + + + + + _Mme. L’Allemand’s Humor._ + + +A young medical practitioner of this city, who had occasion to deal +professionally with one of the principals of the National Opera Company +a few weeks ago, tells the following capital story of Mme. Pauline +L’Allemand. It appears that when the company was in Chicago, the +management owed Mme. L’Allemand considerable back salary, much to the +charming song-bird’s mental perturbation. It appears also, that, as one +of the collateral schemes of the opera management, it was proposed to +give a grand concert in Washington, and at this concert it was +determined that L’Allemand should figure as the star attraction. To this +proposition, the gifted lady cheerfully assented; but when Mr. Jaffray, +the treasurer of the company, came to her, and asked her what numbers +she was going to sing at the concert, she declined to say until her back +salary had been paid to her. Thereupon Mr. Jaffray told her that he +would attend to that little detail right away; but it must have slipped +his memory, for madam caught no glimpse of the much-desired money. + +In a few days, however, Mr. Jaffray hove in sight with another request +for madam to give him the names of the songs she intended to contribute +to the Washington concert; but madam said, “No money, no songs.”—“Quite +true,” said Mr. Jaffray smilingly: “I’ll go right away, and have that +matter attended to.” + +Time sped on, but the back salary came not. One evening Jaffray sought +Mme. L’Allemand again. “By ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” said he, “I +must have that memorandum of songs for the Washington concert. There is +no time to spare.” + +“Very well,” answered L’Allemand: “the list will be ready at that hour +if my check is.” + +“I will see that the check is forthcoming,” said Mr. Jaffray. + +But the appointed hour brought neither Mr. Jaffray nor the check. +Whereupon Mme. L’Allemand wrote and sent the following note:— + + “MR. JAFFRAY,—The delay in the coming of the salary due me has led me + to select for the Washington concert three numbers peculiarly + appropriate to my condition of mind and purse. You can announce that + Mme. L’Allemand will sing,— + + WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN _Locke_ + WAITING _Jaffray_ + WHAT SHALL THE HARVEST BE? _Thurber_ + + “Hoping that these selections will please both management and public, + I am respectfully yours, + + “PAULINE L’ALLEMAND.” + + + + + _A Veteran Actor._ + + +Major Horace McVicker tells an amusing story of the veteran Frank Rea, +who is, perhaps, the oldest actor now on earth. About four years ago, +Rea came on from Denver, and took up his abode in New York. He was aged +and old-fashioned, but his ambition was as big as ever; and he +undertook, with intense enthusiasm, every suburban engagement that was +offered him by kindly disposed managers and theatrical bureaus. One time +he was sent down to Sunbury, Penn., with a scrub-company, to give the +natives a season of melodrama; and Rea himself was cast as the first old +man. After the first night’s performance, Rea, accompanied by one of his +fellow-actors, strode into one of the Sunbury saloons, and advanced +toward the bar with the inevitable precision and unfaltering intrepidity +of Mary Queen of Scots going to execution. Laying a dime down upon the +counter, he inquired of the barkeeper, in impressive tones, “Tell me, my +good sir, what will that buy?” + +“That,” answered the barkeeper, riveting his basilisk gaze upon the +weather-beaten coin, “that will buy one glass of whiskey, or two glasses +of beer.” + +The old actor looked searchingly into his companion’s face as if he +hoped to discover there some relief from the perplexity which surged in +tumultuous billows through his bosom. Then he heaved a deep sigh, and, +turning again to the mercenary Ganymede, he said, in the profound basso +voice of a seventeenth-century tragedian, “That being the case, give us +one glass of beer, and _half_ a glass of whiskey!” + + + + + _A White-House Ballad.—IV._ + + + THE PIE. + + King Grover at his table round + Sate feasting once, and there was sound + Of good things said and sly; + When, presently, King Grover spake: + “A murrain seize this futile cake! + Come, Daniel, pass the pie!” + + Then quoth Sir Daniel, flaming hot, + “Pie hath not been in Camelot + Since Arthur was our king; + Soothly, I ween, ’twere vain to make + Demand for pie where there is cake, + For pie’s a ribald thing!” + + “Despite King Arthur’s rash decree, + Which ill-beseemeth mine and me,” + King Grover answered flat, + “I will have pie three times a day,— + Let dotards cavil as they may,— + And _pumpkin_-pie, at that!” + + Then, frowning a prodigious frown, + Sir Daniel pulled his visor down, + And, with a mighty sigh, + Out strode he to the kitchen, where + He bade the varlet slaves prepare + Three times each day a pie. + + Thenceforth King Grover was content, + And all his reign in peace was spent; + And when ’twas questioned why + He waxed so hale, and why the while, + The whole domain was free from guile, + He simply answered, “Pie!” + + + + + _Life, Death, and Love._ + + +A man whose greatness had brought him fame and wealth lay on his +death-bed. A woman clasped his hands, and with her kisses, and words of +love, strove to soothe his dying agonies. + +Many years ago this man and this woman were made husband and wife, and +side by side they started upon life’s journey. Youth, love, and hope +gave them strength. No other possessions had they, yet the future was +full of promise. + +The man gloried in his majestic manliness. Health made him a marvel of +noble beauty. His frame was of iron, his muscles were of steel, and his +brain was clean and vigorous as the sturdy heart that throbbed in his +rugged breast. Success—which is another term for wealth and fame—came to +him as certainly as it always does to the brave and strong. Who was +there that did not admire the manliness of his art? + +But in the years that followed this success, the man neglected the +woman, his wife. Dazzled by the glory of his triumphs, his eyes were +blind to the beauty, the loyalty, and the sweetness of her love. Perhaps +he thought the woman whom the sturdy, unknown youth had taken to his +heart was unworthy to share the fruits of the great and honored man’s +conquests. But he put her away: in all charity let it be said the wrong +came not from an evil heart, but from the false glitter by which an +unparalleled prosperity blinded his eyes, and turned his head. + +To this wrong succeeded a greater. Women who knew not the sweetness and +sacredness of purity, openly and wantonly gloried in his unholy homage. +And into this popular idol’s life, there crept a shame that meant +inevitable and irretrievable ruin. + +Who counted the tears, who heard the agonized prayers, of the +heart-broken wife in all the years of this proud, strong man’s +exaltation? That divine, almighty Power that has written in every human +bosom this eternal truth,—that he who puts a stain upon his hearthstone, +and violates a wifely love, shall pay a sure and dreadful penalty. + +So it came to pass that at the very height of his glory, and in the full +possession of his powers, an awful retribution came upon the great, +strong man. The shame of his splendid life had planted its poisons thick +and deep, and the ruin was complete. A cloud fell upon the strong man’s +reason, and his majestic frame crumbled and withered with disease. +Where, then, were his flatterers, and where the comely sirens that with +their false charms had allured him from his hearthstone? At the first +warning of impending ruin they disappeared, like sunbeams before the +advance of a thunder-cloud. Where was his fame now? where his greatness, +the world’s homage, the power of riches? All gone, all dissipated, or, +at least, as futile against the hand of divine retribution as the winds +that play around the tops of the everlasting hills. + +From a living dream whose horrors we may never know, the shattered, +enfeebled man awakened one day. The cloud was lifted from his brain; +and, ere he went to his last judgment, his eyes looked once more for a +short moment upon the woman he had so grievously wronged. _She_, woman +that she was! came with forgiveness on her lips, and love in her broken +heart, to minister to him in his last moments; to bear him back to the +hearthstone he had abandoned. He felt her arms about his neck, and the +death-damp on his brow was warmed by her caresses. + +_Then_, at last, we may suppose, this mighty wreck—this shattered fabric +of human idolatry—saw and felt the incomparable sweetness and grandeur +of wifely love. At least, we are told he stretched out his hands to her +as though he pleaded for forgiveness. His lips moved; but from them +there came no sound, as if inexorable retribution decreed he should not +tell that gentle, noble wife how sweetly her love soothed him. But we +are told his eyes were fixed steadily upon hers, and we know—yes, we +know it well—they spoke tenderly and reverently to her, and pleaded, oh, +so earnestly! for her love and compassion. We know, too, that all the +love and compassion the dying great man craved was given freely—ay, even +before his trembling hands and pleading eyes reached out for it. + +Such is thy charity, O godlike womanhood! and in its sweetness and +tenderness and purity, God grant we all may live and die! + + + + + _Pike’s Peak._ + + I stood upon the peak amid the air: + Below me lay the peopled, busy earth; + Life, life, and life again was everywhere, + And everywhere were melody and mirth— + Save on that peak, and silence brooded there. + + I vaunted then myself, and half aloud + I gloried in the journey I had done: + “Eschewing earth, and earth’s seductive crowd, + I’ve scaled this steep, despite the rocks and sun; + Of such a feat might any man be proud!” + + But, as I boasted thus, my burro brayed; + I turned, and lo! a tear was in his eye; + And as I gazed, methought the burro sayed, + “Prithee, who brought you up this mountain high? + Was it _your_ legs or _mine_ the journey made?” + + Then moraled I: “The sturdiest peak is fame’s, + And there be many on its very height, + Who strut in pride, and vaunt their empty claims, + While those poor human asses who delight + To place them there have unremembered names!” + + + + + _Christian-County Mosquitoes._ + + +Dr. Cyrus Thomas, formerly of Carbondale, but now connected with the +national entomological department at Washington, is temporarily in +Illinois, investigating the habits of the mosquitoes that infest that +magnificent Christian-county waterway, Flat Branch. By a judicious +system of bear-traps exposed along the banks of Flat Branch, Dr. Thomas +has possessed himself of a number of handsome specimens of +Christian-county mosquitoes, and he is enabled therefore to pursue his +researches with uncommon accuracy and ease. His investigations have not +progressed to that extent, however, that he is able to declare +positively that the Christian-county mosquito is an insect, and not a +bird: in fact, there are numerous reasons for believing that these +curious and ravenous creatures are a species of reptile, provided, by an +inscrutable dispensation of nature, with wings. But his researches have +developed many interesting and hitherto unknown facts about these +remarkable and remorseless nondescripts. In the first place, the +Flat-Branch mosquitoes are carnivorous mammals: they nurse their young, +and they are provided with incisor and molar teeth for the tearing and +masticating of flesh. There is something almost human in the way they +wear their beards and mustaches, yet they resemble the equine species in +the particular of the spiked shoes with which they are invariably shod +when they arrive at maturity, viz., the twenty-first year. In the matter +of rearing their young, their habits seem to be like those of the +ordinary prairie-chicken, for they retire in the early spring to quiet +burrows or corn-fields along Flat Branch, and raise their broods, which +have been known to number six hundred souls to one family; in July they +become gregarious, and congregate in the timber, roosting in the high +trees, and laying waste the human population of the surrounding country. +Christian-county huntsmen—notably the Taylorville Sportsman’s +Association—employ different methods of capturing these destructive +creatures. One way is by means of quail-nets: another is the old way of +hunting them with pointer-dogs and gun, in the latter case, buckshot is +used, and the heaviest kind of fowling-piece is preferred. But the most +popular method of capture is the pitfall,—the same employed to entrap +elephants in India. A deep pit is dug, a light covering is thrown over +the opening, and on this covering is placed a hindquarter of beef. +Attracted thither by the fumes of the meat, the mosquito unsuspectingly +steps upon the deceitful pitfall, the slight fabric yields under the +leviathan’s weight, and with a sickening groan the winged monster is +precipitated into his gloomy prison, from which he is not hoisted by his +captors till he is enfeebled by captivity and starvation. In this way +thousands of mosquitoes are taken annually by the people of Christian +County, who derive a handsome profit from the pelts of the mosquitoes, +which are tanned into shoe-leather, and the tusks, which are utilized +for those varied purposes to which ivory is usually put. Considering the +importance of this industry, it is not strange that the result of Dr. +Thomas’s explorations and researches are awaited with a solicitude +bordering upon suspense. + + + + + _The Dying Soldier._ + + His listening soul hears no echo of battle, + No pæan of triumph, nor welcome of fame; + But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle, + And softly he murmurs her idolized name; + And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging, + As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee; + He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing— + And Nellie is coming from over the sea. + + While each patriot’s hope stays the fulness of sorrow, + While our eyes are bedimmed, and our voices are low, + He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow, + Like an angel come back from the dear long ago. + Ah! what to him now is a nation’s emotion? + And what for our love or our grief careth he? + A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean, + And Nellie is coming from over the sea! + + MARCH, 1884. + + + + + _His First Day at Editing._ + + +Yesterday morning Mr. Horace A. Hurlbut took formal possession of “The +Chicago Times,” in compliance with the mandate of justice making him +receiver of that institution. Bright and early he was at his post in +“The Times” building; and the expression that coursed over his mobile +features as he lolled back in the editorial chair, and abandoned himself +to pleasing reflections, was an expression of conscious pride and +ineffable satisfaction. + +“I have now attained the summit and the goal of earthly ambition,” quoth +Mr. Hurlbut to himself. “Embarking in the drug-business at an early age, +I have progressed through the intermediate spheres of real estate, +brokerage, and money-lending, until finally I have reached the top round +of the ladder of fame, and am now the head of the greatest daily +newspaper on the American continent. I expect and intend to prove myself +equal to the demands which will be made upon me in this new capacity. I +have my own notions about journalism,—they differ somewhat from the +conventional notions that prevail, but that is neither here nor there; +for, as the dictator of this great newspaper, I shall have no difficulty +in putting my theories into practice.” + +“Here’s the mornin’ mail, major,” said the office-boy, laying +innumerable packages of letters and circulars on the table before Mr. +Hurlbut. + +“Why do you call me major?” inquired Mr. Hurlbut, with an amused twinkle +in his eyes. + +“Oh! we always call the editors majors,” replied the office-boy. “Major +Dennett made that a rule long time ago.” + +“It is not a bad idea,” said Major Hurlbut; “for it gives one a dignity +and prestige which can never maintain among untitled civilians. So this +is the morning mail, is it?” + +Major Hurlbut picked up one of the letters, scrutinized the +superscription, heaved a deep sigh, picked up several other letters, +blushed, frowned, and appeared much embarrassed. + +“Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether there are any reporters about this +office by the names, or aliases, or nom de plume, or pseudonym, of ‘M +33,’ and ‘X 14,’ or ‘S 5,’ or ‘G 38’? I find numerous letters directed +in this wise, and I mistrust that some unseemly work is being done under +cover of these bogus appellations. I will make bold to examine one of +these letters.” + +So Major Hurlbut tore open one of the envelopes, and read as follows:— + + “G 38, Times Office: I have a nice, quiet, furnished room. Call after + eight o’clock P.M., at No. 1143 Elston Road.” + +“As I suspected,” cried Major Hurlbut, with a profound groan. “Under +these strange pseudonyms, the reporters of this paper are engaging in a +carnival of vice! But the saturnalia must end at once. From this moment +‘The Times’ becomes a moral institution. I shall ascertain the names of +these reporters, and have them peremptorily discharged!” + +“H’yar’s a package for you, sah,” said the dusky porter, Martin Lewis, +entering, and placing a small bundle before Major Hurlbut. + +“Ah, yes! I see,” quoth the major. “They are the new cards I ordered +last Saturday. We editors have to have cards, so as to let people know +we are editors.” + +With this philosophic observation, the major opened the bundle, and +disclosed several hundred neat pasteboard cards, printed in red and +black as follows:— + + HORACE A. HURLBUT, + + Receiver and Editor “Chicago Times.” + + _REAL ESTATE A SPECIALTY._ + + _DRUG ORDERS PROMPTLY FILLED._ + + Loans Negotiated without Publicity. + +“They are very handsome,” said Major Hurlbut, “but I am sorry I did not +have the title of major prefixed to my name. However, I will take that +precaution with the next lot I have printed.” + +“Majah Dennett would like to speak with you, sah,” said Martin, the +porter. + +“Although I am very busy with this mail, you may show him in,” remarked +Major Hurlbut. + +Major Dennett pigeon-toed his way into the new editor’s presence, and +was loftily waved to a chair in which he dropped, and sat with his toes +turned in. Major Hurlbut heaved a weary sigh, ran his fingers through +his hair, and regarded his visitor with a condescending stare. + +“This is a busy hour with us editors,” said Major Hurlbut, “therefore I +hope you will state your business as succinctly as possible.” + +“I merely called to receive orders,” explained Major Dennett, with an +astonished look. + +“Orders for what?” cried Major Hurlbut. “Perhaps you forget, sir, that I +am out of the drug-business, and am an editor. Permit me, sir, to hand +you one of my professional cards.” + +“You mistake me, sir,” replied Major Dennett: “I am connected with this +paper, and have been managing editor for many years.” + +Major Hurlbut’s manner changed instantly. His cold reserve melted at +once, and he became docile as a sucking-dove. + +“My dear major,” he exclaimed cordially, “I am overjoyed to meet you. +Draw your chair closer, and let us converse together upon matters which +concern us both. Each of us has the interests of this great paper at +heart; but I, as the head of the institution, have a fearful +responsibility resting upon my shoulders. It behooves you to assist me; +and, as the first and most important step, I must beg of you to inform +me what is expected of me as an editor. I am willing and anxious to +edit, but how can I?” + +Major Dennett undertook to explain a few of the duties which would fall +upon the editor’s shoulders, and would have continued talking all day +had not the venerable Major Andre Matteson been ushered into the room, +thereby interrupting the conversation. Upon being formally introduced to +the new editor, Major Matteson inquired what the policy of “The Times” +would be henceforward touching the tariff, the civil service, the war in +the Soudan, and the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. + +“I have not decided fully what the policy of the paper will be in these +minor matters,” quoth Major Hurlbut, “except that we shall favor the +abolition of the tariff on quinine, cochineal, and other drugs and +dyestuffs. I have made up my mind, however, to advocate the opening of a +boulevard in Fleabottom subdivision; and, as you are one of the +editorial writers, Major Matteson, I would like to have you compose a +piece about the folly of extending the Thirtieth-street sewer through +the Bosbyshell subdivision. And you may give the firm of Brown, Jones, & +Co. a raking over, for they have seriously interfered with the sale of +my lots out in that part of the city.” + +Major George McConnell and Major Guy Magee filed into the room at this +juncture, and were formally presented to Editor Hurlbut, who looked +impressive, and received them with a dignity that would have done credit +to a pagan court. + +“I had hoped to be in a position to boom the city department of the +paper,” said Major Magee; “but I find that three of the reporters are +sick with headache to-day.” + +“Sick? What appears to be the matter?” asked the editor. + +“I didn’t ask them,” replied Major Magee; “but they said they had +headaches.” + +“They should try bromide of potassium, tincture of valerian, and +aromatic spirits of ammonia,” observed Major Hurlbut. “By the way, +whenever any of our editors or reporters get sick, they should come to +me; for I can give them prescriptions that will fix them up in less than +no time.” + +“I presume the policy of the paper touching the theatres will remain +unchanged?” inquired Major McConnell. + +“That reminds me,” said Major Hurlbut: “who gets the show-tickets?” + +“Well, I have attended to that detail heretofore,” replied Major +McConnell. + +“We get as many as we want, don’t we?” asked Major Hurlbut. + +“Certainly,” said Major McConnell. + +“Well, then, we must give the shows good notices,” said the editor: +“and, by the way, I would like to have you leave six tickets with me +every morning; they will come in mighty handy, you know, among my +friends. Do we get railroad-passes too?” + +“Yes, all we want,” said Major Dennett. + +“I am glad I am an editor,” said Major Hurlbut softly but feelingly. + +The foreman came in. + +“Shall we set it in nonpareil to-night?” he asked. + +“Eh?” ejaculated Editor Hurlbut. + +“Does nonpareil go?” repeated the foreman. + +“What has he been doing?” inquired Editor Hurlbut. + +“The minion is so bad that we ought to put the paper in nonpareil,” +explained the foreman. + +“It must be understood,” thundered Major Hurlbut, “that no bad minions +will be tolerated on the premises. If there is any minion here who is +dissatisfied, let him quit at once.” + +“Then, I am to fire the minion?” asked the foreman. + +“No,” said Major Hurlbut, “do not fire him, for that would constitute +arson; discharge him, but use no violence.” + +We deeply regret that this astute mandate was followed by an interchange +of sundry smiles, nods, and winks between the foreman and the members of +the editorial staff, which, however, Major Hurlbut did not see, or he +most assuredly would have reproved this unseemly and _mal-apropos_ +levity. + +And so they talked and talked. And each moment Major Hurlbut became more +and more impressed with the importance and solemnity of the new dignity +he had attained, and each moment he became more and more impressive in +his mien and conversation. And each moment, too, he silently and +devoutly thanked High Heaven that in its goodness and mercy it had +called him to the ennobling profession of journalism. + + + + + _The Little Peach._ + + A little peach in the orchard grew, + A little peach of emerald hue: + Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew, + It grew. + + One day, walking the orchard through, + That little peach dawned on the view + Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue— + Those two. + + Up at the peach a club they threw: + Down from the limb on which it grew, + Fell the little peach of emerald hue— + Too true! + + John took a bite, and Sue took a chew, + And then the trouble began to brew,— + Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,— + Paregoric too. + + Under the turf where the daisies grew, + They planted John and his sister Sue; + And their little souls to the angels flew— + Boo-hoo! + + But what of the peach of emerald hue, + Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? + Ah, well! its mission on earth is through— + Adieu! + + + + + _Learning and Literature._ + + +Mr. J. N. Whiting writes us from New Litchfield, Ill., asking if we can +tell him the name of the author of the poem, of which the following is +the first stanza:— + + “The weary heart is a pilgrim + Seeking the Mecca of rest; + Its burden is one of sorrows; + And it wails a song as it drags along,— + ’Tis the song of a hopeless quest.” + +Mr. Whiting says that this poem has been attributed to James Channahon, +a gentleman who flourished about the year 1652; “but,” he adds, “its +authorship has not as yet been established with any degree of +certainty.” Mr. Whiting has noticed that “The Daily News” is a +“criterion on matters of literary interest,” and he craves the boon of +our valuable opinion, touching this important question. Now, although it +is true that we occasionally deal with obsolete topics, it is far from +our desire to make a practice of so doing. It is natural, that, once in +a while, when an editor gets hold of a catalogue of unusual merit, and +happens to have a line of encyclopædias at hand—it is natural, we say, +that, under such circumstances, an editor should take pleasure in +letting his subscribers know how learnedly he can write about books and +things. But an editor must be careful not to write above the +comprehension of the majority of his readers. If we made a practice of +writing as learnedly as we are capable of writing, the proprietors of +this paper would soon have to raise its price from two cents to five +cents per copy. We say this in no spirit of egotism: it is simply our +good fortune that we happen to possess extraordinary advantages. We have +the best assortment of cyclopædias in seven States, and the Public +Library is only two blocks off. It is no wonder, therefore, that our +erudition and our research are of the highest order. Still, it is not +practicable that we, being now on earth, should devote much time to +delving into, and wallowing among the authors of past centuries. +Ignatius Donnelly has been trying for the last three years to inveigle +us into a discussion as to the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. We +have declined to participate in any public brawl with the Minnesota +gentleman, for the simple reason that no good could accrue therefrom to +anybody. If there were an international copyright law, there would be +some use in trying to find out who wrote these plays, in order that the +author might claim royalties on his works; or, if not the author, his +heirs or assigns forever. Mr. Whiting will understand that we cannot +take much interest in an anonymous hymn of the seventeenth century. It +is enough for us to know that the hymn in question could not have been +written by a Chicago man, for the very good reason that Chicago did not +exist in the seventeenth century; that is to say, it existed merely as +the haunt of the musquash and the mud-turtle, and not as the living, +breathing metropolis of to-day. We have our hands full examining into, +and criticising, the live topics of current times: if we were to spend +our days and nights in hunting up the estray poets and authors of the +seventeenth century, how long would it be before the sceptre of trade +and culture would slip irrecoverably from Chicago’s grasp? Chicago has +very little respect for the seventeenth century, because there is +nothing in it. The seventeenth century has done nothing for Chicago: she +does not even know that this is the greatest hog-market in the world, +and she has never had any commercial dealings with us in any line. If +Chicago doesn’t cut a wider swath in history than the seventeenth +century has, we shall be very much ashamed of her. Of one thing we rest +assured,—nobody will be writing to a newspaper two hundred years hence, +asking the name of “the Chicago man who wrote that exquisite hymn in the +nineteenth century,” beginning,— + + “A cultured gent is the packer + Who in this town abides; + He masticates terbacker, + And rolls in gold; last year he sold + A million hams and sides.” + + + + + _Some Famous Apologies._ + + +Mr. George Riddle, the promising young actor, who is Miss Kate Field’s +cousin, has written an open letter of apology to the Boston press. It +appears that Mr. Riddle made his _début_ upon the Boston stage about +three weeks ago, and was very coldly received by the public and the +critics. Before leaving the city, he sent a saucy letter to the local +newspapers, informing the Boston people that they could go to thunder, +and declaring that he would never again return to Boston in his +professional capacity. Coming to think the thing over, however, Mr. +Riddle concluded to apologize; and he has done so in very manly words. +It almost kills some men to make an apology, but in very many instances +it is the handsome and noble thing to do. If Mr. Riddle thinks that he +ought to apologize for having played an engagement in Boston, and if he +is sincerely sorry for it—why, all that we can say is, that he has done +the manly thing in that apology. Greater men than Mr. Riddle have made +mistakes, have recognized the folly thereof, and have apologized +therefor. Ajax, for instance, defied the lightning once upon a time: he +actually girt on his shield, took up his sword, and went out into a +pelting storm, for the declared purpose of hurling opprobrious epithets +at the electric fluid. He invited the press-reporters to be present; and +he stood around in the rain for an hour or two, using very wicked old +Greek language, and catching a very bad cold in his mucous membrane. +Meanwhile the storm continued, and the lightning went right along doing +business at the old stand. Next morning the sky was cloudless: the rain +had refreshed all nature, and the air was full of the gratitude of +flower and foliage. Ajax had been drinking camomile-tea all night, and +he stepped out of his tent with his wife’s shawl tied around his head. +Raising his grand, Hellenic countenance heavenward, he cried hoarsely, +yet in tones of sincere contrition, “O light-dig, I have gub to +abologize; dow if you will gure be of this gold in by head, we will be +frieds agaid.” + +There was another man, of the name of Canute, who had been so flattered +by his courtiers that he imagined he was omnipotent. He had a +proscenium-box erected on the seashore, and thereinto he ascended; and, +in the presence of as many people as would fill our base-ball park three +times, he called out to the sea to quit rolling up on the pebbly beach. +No sooner, however, had he uttered this command, than a breaker of +unusual size broke over the proscenium-box, ruining the furniture, and +soaking Canute so thoroughly that he had great difficulty in getting off +his underclothes. The next day Canute sent a written apology to the sea; +and, as an earnest of his contrition, he ordered about fourscore of his +courtiers to be bound to the tails of wild horses, as was a custom in +those merry old times. + + + + + _Victoria at the Show._ + + +Buffalo Bill’s Wild-West Show has met with a tremendous triumph in +London, and people of all conditions, ages, and sizes have rushed to see +it. The Prince of Wales set the fashion by attending the first +performance, and by lavishing smiles of approval upon Minnewaha, the +alleged Indian princess, who is advertised as the daughter of a fiery, +untamed Sioux chief named Drink-Heart’s-Blood, but who is really the +seventh child of an Omaha journeyman tailor. When this young woman gets +on her paint and feathers and wampum and things, she really presents a +very aboriginal appearance; and we do not wonder that she sells over +seventy dollars’ worth of bead bags to the British noblemen _per diem_. +At the breakfast-table the other morning, Queen Victoria announced that +she was going to the show that afternoon: she had heard Wales talking +about it, and she proposed to take it in on her own account. So she +went, and had a charming time. That evening Col. James Russell Lowell +called upon her, and she asked him if he had been to see Buffalo Bill +yet. + +“No, queen,” answered the colonel; “but I passed through his town on my +way to Chicago last winter.” + +“Well, now, do you know,” said her majesty frankly, “that I suspected as +much to-day when I was talking with one of the Indian ladies. She was +very strangely dressed, and was really very homely. I invited her into +my presence, and asked her how she thought our people compared with +American civilization. Then I asked, ‘Did you ever read any of Col. +Lowell’s poems?’ and when she said, ‘Humph! me no read—me heap kill,’ I +just made up my mind that she couldn’t have very much social standing at +home.” + +“Pardon me, queen,” said Col. Lowell, “if I remain dumb on this subject. +The lady to whom you refer may be a member of the Chicago Union League +Club; and that, you know, is a very delicate matter with me.” + + + + + _A Farmer’s Advice._ + + +“What kind of threshing-machine do you use on your farm?” inquired a +Knox-county farmer of Farmer Carter Harrison last week. “To tell you the +truth,” replied the modern Cincinnatus, “I have not had any use for one +for a long time. My children are all nearly grown. I formerly used the +smooth side of a hairbrush; but if I felt the need of one now, I fancy I +would use a trunk-strap.” + + + + + _A Chicago German Lyric._ + + + DER NIEBELRUNGEN UND DER SCHLABBERGASTERFELDT. + + I. + + Ein Niebelrungen schlossen Gold + Gehabt gehaben Ritcher weiss; + Ein Schlabbergasterfeldt zum Sold + Gehaben Meister treulich heiss. + “Ich dich! Ich dich!” die Maedchen tzwei— + “Ich dich!” das Niebelrungen drei. + + + II. + + Die Turnverein ist lieb und dicht + Zum Fest und lieben kleiner Geld; + Der Niebelrungen picht ein Bricht + Und hitt das Schlabbergasterfeldt! + “Ich dich! Ich dich!” die Maedchen schreit— + Und so das Schlabbergaster deit. + + + III. + + Ach! weh das Niebelrungen spott— + Ach! weh das Maedchen Turnverein— + Und unser Meister lieben Gott— + Ach! weh das Wienerwurst und Wein. + Ach! weh das Bricht zum kleiner Geld— + Ach! weh das Schlabbergasterfeldt! + + + + + _The Works of Sappho._ + + +It would be hard to say whether Chicago society is more deeply +interested in the circus which is exhibiting on the lake-front this +week, than in the compilation of Sappho’s complete works just published +in London, and but this week given to the trade in Chicago. As we +understand it, Sappho and the circus had their beginning about the same +time: if any thing, the origin of the circus antedated Sappho’s birth +some years, and has achieved the more wide-spread popularity. In the +volume now before us, we learn that Sappho lived in the seventh century +before Christ, and that she was at the zenith of her fame at the time +when Tarquinius Priscus was king of Rome, and Nebuchadnezzar was +subsisting on a hay-diet. It appears that, despite her wisdom, this +talented lady did not know who her father was; seventeen hundred years +after her demise, one Suidas claimed to have discovered that there were +seven of her father; but Herodotus gives the name of the gentleman most +justly suspected as Scamandronymus. Be this as it may, Sappho married a +rich man, and subsequently fell in love with a dude who cared nothing +for her; whereupon the unfortunate woman, without waiting to compile her +writings, and without even indicating whom she preferred for her +literary executor, committed suicide by hurling herself from a high +precipice into the sea. Sappho was an exceedingly handsome person, as we +see by the engraving which serves as the frontispiece of the work before +us. This engraving, as we understand, was made from a portrait painted +from life by a contemporaneous old Grecian artist, one Alma Tadema. + +Still, we could not help wondering, as we saw the magnificent pageant of +Forepaugh’s circus sweep down our majestic boulevards and superb +thoroughfares yesterday; as we witnessed this imposing spectacle, we +say, we could not help wondering how many people in all the vast crowds +of spectators knew that there ever was such a poetess as Sappho, or how +many, knowing that there was such a party, have ever read her works. It +has been nearly a year since a circus came to town; and in that time +public taste has been elevated to a degree by theatrical and operatic +performers, such as Sara Bernhardt, Emma Abbott, Murray and Murphy, +Adèle Patti, George C. Miln, Helena Modjeska, Fanny Davenport, and +Denman Thompson. Of course, therefore, our public has come to be able to +appreciate with a nicer discrimination and a finer zest the intellectual +_morceaux_ and the refined tidbits which Mr. Forepaugh’s unparalleled +aggregation offers: this was apparent in the vast numbers and in the +unbridled enthusiasm of our best citizens gathered upon the housetops +and at the street-corners along the line of the circus procession. So +magnificent a display of silks, satins, and diamonds has seldom been +seen: it truly seemed as if the fashion and wealth of our city were +trying to vie with the splendors of the glittering circus pageant. In +honor of the event, many of the stores, public buildings, and private +dwellings displayed banners, mottoes, and congratulatory garlands. From +the balcony of the palatial edifice occupied by one of our leading +literary clubs, was suspended a large banner of pink silk, upon which +appeared the word “Welcome” in white; while beneath, upon a scroll, was +an appropriate couplet from one of Robert Browning’s poems. When we +asked one of the members of this club why the club made such a fuss over +the circus, he looked very much astonished; and he answered, “Well, why +not? Old Forepaugh is worth over a million dollars, and he always sends +us complimentaries whenever he comes to town!” + +We asked this same gentleman if he had read the new edition of Sappho’s +poems. We had a good deal of confidence in his literary judgment and +taste, because he is our leading linseed-oil dealer; and no man in the +West is possessed of more enterprise and sand than he. + +“My daughter brought home a copy of the book Saturday,” said he, “and I +looked through it yesterday. Sappho may suit some cranks; but as for me, +give me Ella Wheeler or Will Carleton. I love good poetry: I’ve got the +finest-bound copy of Shakespeare in Illinois, and my edition of +Coleridge will knock the socks off any book in the country. My wife has +painted all the Doray illustrations of the Ancient Marine, and I +wouldn’t swap that book for the costliest Mysonyay in all Paris! + +“I can’t see where the poetry comes in,” he went on to say. “So far as I +can make out, this man Sapolio—I mean Sappho—never did any sustained or +consecutive work. His poems read to me a good deal like a diary. Some of +them consist of one line only, and quite a number have only three words. +Now, I will repeat five entire poems taken from this fool-book: I +learned them on purpose to repeat at the club. Here is the first:— + + “‘Me just now the golden-sandalled Dawn.’ + +“That’s all there is to it. Here’s the second:— + + “‘I yearn and seek.’ + +“A third is complete in— + + “‘Much whiter than an egg;’ + +and the fourth is,— + + “‘Stir not the shingle,’ + +which, I take it, was one of Sapphire’s juvenile poems addressed to his +mother. The fifth poem is simply,— + + “‘And thou thyself, Calliope,’ + +which, by the way, reminds me that Forepaugh’s calliope got smashed up +in a railroad accident night before last,—a circumstance deeply to be +regretted, since there is no instrument calculated to appeal more +directly to one versed in mythological lore, or more likely to awaken a +train of pleasing associations than the steam-calliope.” + +A South-Side packer, who has the largest library in the city, told us +that he had not seen Sappho’s works yet, but that he intended to read +them at an early date. “I’ve got so sick of Howells and James,” said he, +“that I’m darned glad to hear that some new fellow has come to the +front.” + +Another prominent social light (a brewer) said that he had bought a +“Sappho,” and was having it bound in morocco, with turkey-red trimmings. +“I do enjoy a handsome book,” said he. “One of the most valuable volumes +in my library, I bought of a leading candy-manufacturer in this city. It +is the original libretto and score of the ‘Songs of Solomon,’ bound in +the tanned pelt of the fatted calf that was killed when the prodigal son +came home.” + +“I have simply glanced through the Sappho book,” said another +distinguished representative of local culture; “and what surprised me, +was the pains that has been taken in getting up the affair. Why, do you +know, the editor has gone to the trouble of going through the book, and +translating every darned poem into Greek! Of course, this strikes us +business-men of Chicago as a queer bit of pedantry.” + +The Hon. Elijah M. Haines says that Sappho was an Indian chief of one of +the original Chicago tribes, and founder of the Ancient Order of Red +Men. “I have never looked into this book you mention,” says he; “but I +presume to say that there’s nothing new in it. We are digging up marble +slabs at Kaskaskia every week or two, and they all have Sapphic poems on +them; but what is there in the poetry business? There is more +philanthropy and business in one reliable recipe for curing hams than in +the longest epic poem ever written.” + +The scholarly and courtly editor of “The Weekly Lard Journal and +Literary Companion,” Professor A. J. Lyvely, criticised Sappho very +freely as he stood at the corner of Clark and Madison Streets, waiting +for the superb gold chariot drawn by twenty milk-white steeds, and +containing fifty musicians to come along. “Just because she lived in the +dark ages,” said he, “she is cracked up for a great poet; but she will +never be as popular with the masses of Western readers as Ella Wheeler +and Marion Harland are. All of her works that remains to us are a few +fragments, and they are chestnuts; for they have been printed within the +last ten years in the books of a great many poets I could name, and I +have read them. We know very little of Sappho’s life. If she had +amounted to much, we would not be in such ignorance of her doings. The +probability is, that she was a society or fashion editor on one of the +daily papers of her time,—a sort of Clara-Belle woman, whose naughtiness +was mistaken for a species of intellectual brilliancy. Sappho was a +gamey old girl, you know. Her life must have been a poem of passion if +there is any truth in the testimony of the authorities who wrote about +her several centuries after her death. In fact, these verses of hers +that are left, indicate that she was addicted to late suppers, to loose +morning-gowns, to perfumed stationery, and to hysterics. It is ten to +one that she wore flaming bonnets and striking dresses; that she talked +loud at the theatres and in public generally; and that she chewed gum, +and smoked cigarettes, when she went to the races. If that woman had +lived in Chicago, she would have been tabooed.” + +The amiable gentleman who reads manuscripts for Rand, McNally, & Co., +says that Sappho’s manuscripts were submitted to him a year ago. “I +looked them over, and satisfied myself that there was nothing in them; +and I told the author so. He seemed inclined to dispute me, but I told +him I reckoned I understood pretty well what would sell in our literary +circles and on our railroad-trains.” + +But while there was a pretty general disposition to criticise Sappho, +there was only one opinion as to the circus-parade; and that was +complimentary. For the nonce, we may say, the cares and vexations of +business, of literature, of art, and of science, were put aside; and our +populace abandoned itself to a hearty enjoyment of the brilliant pageant +which appealed to the higher instincts. And, as the cage containing the +lions rolled by, the shouts of the enthusiastic spectators swelled above +the guttural roars of the infuriate monarchs of the desert. Men waved +their hats, and ladies fluttered their handkerchiefs. Altogether, the +scene was so exciting as to be equalled only by the rapturous ovation +which was tendered Mdlle. Hortense de Vere, queen of the air, when that +sylph-like lady came out into the arena of Forepaugh’s great circus-tent +last evening, and poised herself upon one tiny toe on the back of an +untamed and foaming Arabian barb that dashed round and round the sawdust +ring. Talk about your Sapphos and your poetry! Would Chicago hesitate a +moment in choosing between Sappho and Mdlle. Hortense de Vere, queen of +the air? And what rhythm—be it Sapphic, or choriambic, or Ionic a +minore—is to be compared with the symphonic poetry of a shapely female +balanced upon one delicate toe on the bristling back of a fiery, untamed +palfrey that whoops round and round to the music of the band, the +plaudits of the public, and the still, small voice of the dyspeptic gent +announcing a minstrel show “under this canvas after the performance, +which is not yet half completed”? If it makes us proud to go into our +book-stores, and see thousands upon thousands of tomes waiting for +customers; if our bosoms swell with delight to see the quiet and +palatial homes of our cultured society overflowing with the most +expensive wallpapers and the costliest articles of virtue; if we take an +ineffable enjoyment in the thousand indications of a growing refinement +in the midst of us,—vaster still must be the pride, the rapture, we feel +when we behold our intellect and our culture paying the tribute of +adoration to the circus. Viewing these enlivening scenes, why may we not +cry in the words of Sappho, “Wealth without thee, Worth, is a shameless +creature; but the mixture of both is the height of happiness”? + + + + + _November._ + + The night is dark and the night is cold, + And the wind blows fierce and strong: + And the rich man sits in his castle old; + He drinks his wine, and he counts his gold, + As the night goes frowning along, along, + And the night wind sings its song. + + The wind speeds out to the withered lea, + Afar from the urban throng, + Where the poet abideth in poverty: + Nor castle, nor wine, nor gold, hath he, + But he heareth the night wind’s song—its song + As the night goes frowning along. + + Oh! give me no castles, proud and old, + Nor honors that station brings; + Give me no plenty of wine and gold; + But give me the soul, when the nights are cold, + To hear what the night wind sings and sings + As it rustles its voiceful wings. + + + + + _A Novelette._ + + +“Sing me the old song!” + +The words rang out clear and bell-like upon the mellow September air, +and coquetted with the autumnal zephyrs that ruffled the cerulean bosom +of the mighty lake. It was night. The moon rolled proudly through the +azure heavens, bathing the landscape in a shimmer of silvery sheen, and +tipping the dark waters of Chicago River with a wavy, tremulous light. +The nightingale throbbed his melodious plaints upon the hushed air; the +crickets chirped tunefully in the hedge; and every thing afar and near +bespoke the poetry of that sweet time dedicate to slumber and repose. + +“Sing me the old song!” + +There was a pleading querulousness in the tones that betokened William +Bross’s anguish and heartache. The words were wrung from a soul in which +pride and anger and sorrow battled for the ascendency. William Bross was +the prototype of manly beauty. But now his supple limbs quivered with +agony; his brave bosom heaved with tumultuous emotions; his ambrosial +locks, brushed back by the hand of despair from his high white forehead, +revealed features strikingly handsome, but, oh! so cruelly marked by the +ravages of mental woe. What great grief was it that gnawed like a +canker-worm at the vitals of this good and valorous young man? what +secret anguish preyed upon his pure, clean white soul, that ever and +anon he stretched forth his pale, quivering hands, and cried, in tones +that would have melted an adamantine heart, “Sing me the old song”? + +The imperious beauty, Joseph Medill, was not indifferent to the charms +of the handsome and chivalric knight kneeling there. Between the two the +tenderest sentiments had existed for many years, and ’twere vain to +imagine that any passing zephyr of doubt or discontent could rend apart +two hearts that for so long a time had throbbed in unison. Joseph +Medill’s thoughts went back to the happy hours, the tender conferences, +the mutual vows, the sweet obligations, the endearing scenes, the +blissful episodes, of the past; and his beautiful bosom heaved, and his +large, liquid, fathomless eyes filled with tears, and his ripe red lips +quivered, as he momentarily pondered upon that pathetic panorama, and +then gazed upon the limp and pleading object at his feet. + +“Sing me the old song!” + +Yes, Joseph Medill had not forgot that song,—the dear old song William +Bross had taught him to sing when years ago they had wandered hand in +hand through the primeval forests and tangled jungles where now a +teeming, busy city stands. It was the song that Joseph Medill had sung +through all the years of his existence since first he met the knightly +William Bross, and learned of him that wondrous melody: it was the same +sweet song, which, speeding from Joseph Medill’s tuneful lips, had +spread like a subtile perfume afar and wide, had wooed every human ear, +and awakened a response in every human breast. + +But now for weary weeks that song had been hushed. A chilling, icy cloud +had come between Joseph Medill and William Bross. Half regretfully, yet +firmly, Joseph had plucked from his soul the cadences of that harmonious +strain, and refused to sweep his waxen, taper fingers across the golden +strings of his dulcet lyre. For weary weeks William had brooded o’er his +sorrow: for dismal days had he nursed in bitter silence his grewsome +grief and unavailing anguish. But, tortured to desperation, he had come +at last to implore a reconciliation, and the mercy of that sweet song +again. + +“What song mean you?” inquired the imperious Joseph Medill, bestowing +upon the kneeling William a look of melting tenderness that bespoke a +relenting mood. + +“What song? What other song but that which you, and you alone, have sung +so pathetically and so divinely all these years?” + +The imperious Joseph turned his beautiful face away, as if to conceal +the emotion that perturbed his delicately chiselled features. + +In another moment, William Bross had sprung to his feet, had clasped +Joseph Medill in his arms, and was straining him to his breast. + +“Sing me the old song,” he whispered hotly in Joseph’s shell-like ear, +“the old, sweet song about free trade.” + + + + + _Inter-State Commerce Bill Items._ + + +The lightning-express train on the Illinois and Iowa route came in last +night, three weeks overdue. The report that it had ivy and moss growing +on the driving-wheels of its locomotive is not true. + + * * * * * + +J. Arthur Simpson, city agent of the Topeka and Tophet short line, who +has been visiting Joe Bedee and Jake Aull in Omaha for a week, returned +home yesterday with a beautiful seal-brown taste in his mouth. + + * * * * * + +Projectors of railway enterprises are cordially invited to come to +Chicago, and to investigate our inducements. We have in the midst of us +lands, riparian privileges, terminal facilities, a city council, and +other advantages which are for sale at preposterously low figures. +Before going elsewhere, give us a trial. + + * * * * * + +The community will be deeply shocked to hear that by the explosion of +his lantern on train No. 11, last evening, genial Conductor Jerseybingle +lost the left lobe of his whiskers; also the distinguished wart he had +always worn on his right nostril. For some inexplicable reason, the +Posey Grand Trunk line seems to have had a long run of bad luck lately. + + + + + _The Wizard of Vermilion._ + + +While the great billiard tournament was in progress in Chicago, Col. Joe +Mann came up from Danville, and saw Maurice Vignaux play his remarkable +game. Maurice saw Col. Mann among the spectators, and was so much +pleased with his appearance that he asked for an introduction. The +result was, that Maurice and Joe got pretty thick, and Maurice gave Joe +a good many valuable pointers on “the gentleman’s game.” When Col. Mann +got back to Danville, he had a good deal to say about billiards; and he +talked so loud, that at last Col. Phocion Howard challenged him to a +series of match-games of 15-ball pool. The tournament took place last +Saturday night; and it was witnessed by the wealth, fashion, and beauty +of Vermilion County. The Hon. William H. Calhoun was referee; and he +sends us a full report of the tournament, with diagrams of several of +the more remarkable shots. We regret that we have not space for this +full report and all these diagrams. We print a few of the latter, in +order that our readers may know to what an extraordinary height the +billiard-art has risen in the provinces. + +[Illustration: A top-down line diagram of a rectangular pool table +showing six pockets, a cue ball with an arrow indicating its trajectory, +and a triangular rack of fifteen object balls. Solid black lines map out +complex geometric angles and bounce paths across the table cushions.] + +[Illustration: A top-down line diagram of a vertical pool table layout. +An arrow points to a cue ball moving toward the upper left corner +pocket, while a curved line tracks a ball flying completely off the +top-right edge of the table, striking one of the spectators full in the +nose.] + +This represents the remarkable around-the-table shot made by Col. Howard +at the beginning of the first game. The balls were bunched on the spot +at the lower end of the table, and Howard led off to break the +combination. His cue, not being properly chalked, did not strike the +ball full. The ball, therefore, barely touched the maroon-colored ball +at the apex of the group, glanced to the left, cushioned to the right, +carromed thence to the right cushion, thence to the left across the +table, and then shot across into the pocket at the confluence of the +right hand and upper rails at the head of the table amid loud applause. + +[Illustration: A top-down line diagram of a rectangular pool table with +six pockets. On the left side of the table, a pool cue strikes a cue +ball, creating a small, messy impact scribble. From the hit, a wavy, +curved line traces the erratic path of the ball across the green, ending +at a small, solid black circle.] + +Here we have an extraordinary play made by Col. Mann near the close of +the second game. He desired to put the yellow ball in the lower +left-corner pocket: to do this, required a long reach across the table; +bridges being barred, under the rules of the Danville Billiard +Association. Col. Mann overreached himself, and gave his cue-ball such +an unusual impetus that it rapidly described two acute angles, bounced +across the table and over the right rail, and struck one of the +spectators full in the nose. This very properly was accounted one of the +marvellous shots of the tourney; and the referee shook hands with Col. +Mann, and complimented him in high terms. At the close of the third +game, Col. Mann made a remarkable massay shot, the like of which had +never before been witnessed in Vermilion County. There were but two +balls (the speckled one and the dark-blue) on the table, and Col. Mann +determined to try one of the massays Mr. Vignaux had taught him. The +dark-blue lay within the 14-inch line, and the speckled ball just +outside: the thing was, to tick the speckled one, chassez around it, and +strike the dark-blue hard enough to send it into the middle pocket of +the left rail. This required a good deal of what is called “English” by +the Vermilion-county experts. Col. Mann reached over the table, held his +cue perpendicularly over the cue-ball, had jabbed it fiercely down—just +as Mr. Vignaux had told him to do. The massay was perfect; but, after +striking the cue-ball, the cue glanced to the bed of the table, and +ploughed up about three cubic inches, or fifteen dollars’ worth, of the +cloth. + +This ended the tournament; and the championship was awarded to Col. +Howard, who is now familiarly known as the “Wizard of the +Vermilion-county cue.” + + + + + _Why He was Tardy._ + + +Mr. Ruggles of the Michigan Central road tells of a funny dream he had +the other night. He had been eating stewed terrapin at Caveroc’s; and +when he finally got to sleep, he dreamed that he had died, and was +knocking at the jasper gate of heaven. + +“Who’s there?” demanded St. Peter. + +“O. W. Ruggles of Chicago,” was the reply. + +“Let me see,” said St. Peter, looking over his books, “let me see; when +did you die?” + +“Last week Tuesday,” said Ruggles. + +“A week ago!” cried the saint, “seems to me you’ve been a long time on +the way.” + +“Well, you can’t blame me for it,” protested Mr. Ruggles; “for under the +old system, there’d have been no trouble; but this interstate commerce +law is seriously interrupting travel.” + + + + + _Base-Ball as a Classic._ + + +“The St. Paul Globe” must not be too severe on the class of people whom +it stigmatizes as base-ball cranks; for base-ball is our national game, +and it includes among its admirers many of the wisest and the best of +our citizens. Love of the game of ball is no new thing: it is as old as +history itself. It is a pity that old Izaak Walton knew nothing of the +sport; for how he would have enjoyed it, and how charmingly he would +have written of it! It is a particularly desirable game, because it +calls into, and keeps in, the open air a large number of people who +otherwise would remain cramped up indoors. It is the enemy—call it +rival, if you please—of billiards and other house-sports, and we are +heartily glad that it is so successful. It has charms not only for those +who participate in it, but also for those who are spectators simply; and +it is rapidly acquiring those scientific excellences which will +ultimately place it far above other athletic sports. A certain class of +writers (who cannot know what they are talking about) inveigh against +what they are pleased to term the “ball-craze;” and the circumstance +that Mike Kelly recently got a large sum of money for leaving the +Chicago to join the Boston club, is dished up in every style to prove +that these are degenerate times, and that humanity is on the highway to +idiocy. But the truth of the matter is, ball-playing isn’t made nearly +so much of as it was many centuries ago, when even Homer delighted to +weave its praises into his immortal verse. Athens had its Mike Kelly. Of +course, he was not as good a man as our own Mike Kelly is; but the world +was comparatively young then, and we think we can safely say that +Aristonicus the Carystian was a worthy representative of our national +game at that time. At any rate, Aristonicus won the admiration of King +Alexander; and his majesty was not satisfied until he had bought +Aristonicus’s release from the Carystian Club, and had signed him with +the Athens White Buskins. The sum which Alexander paid for this release +is said to have been four didrachms and three tetrobolons, a prodigious +price for those days, but a comparatively small amount for modern times. +Money was scarce then: if the cashier of an Athenian bank had tried to +abscond with four dollars’ worth of money, he would have required thirty +elephants and sixteen four-horse chariots to transport the coin. The +money which King Alexander paid for Aristonicus’s release was equivalent +to a dollar and twenty-five cents in our money; but it was esteemed such +an extravagant sum at that time, that the contemporary press of Thrace +pounced upon it, and paraded it as an instance of preposterous +profligacy. But his majesty felt more than repaid for the investment: +his ball-club won the championship, and held it until the death of +Aristonicus. This famous player became very popular with the Athenians: +they made him a free man, and they erected a statue to him! Now, just +imagine the Boston people erecting a Monson granite statue to Mike Kelly +on the banks of the frog-pond in Boston Common,—ay, and under the very +shade of the classic gingko-tree! + +Demoxenus, who seems to have been the Browning of Athenian poesy, has +left us this word-picture of the Grecian ball-player,—to be more +explicit, a picture of the third-base man of the Athens White Buskins:— + + “The youth I saw was playing ball,— + Seventeen years of age, and tall; + From Cos he came; and well I wot + The gods looked kindly on that spot, + For when he took the ball, or threw it, + So pleased were all of us to view it, + We all cried out. So great his grace, + Such frank good-humor in his face, + That, every time he spoke or moved, + All felt as if that youth they loved. + Had I staid long, most sad my plight + Had been to lose my wits outright; + And even now, the recollection + Disturbs my senses’ calm reflection.” + +It appears, however, that, even among the ancients, there were those who +thought that too much attention was being paid to ball-playing. One of +the grumblers was a person of the name of Chærephanes, who, +notwithstanding his blatant and persistent decrying of the sport, was in +the habit of attending every game to which he could get a free pass. +This inconsistency irritated the alleged base-ball cranks of Athens; and +one day, while a match-game was in progress in the park at the base of +the Acropolis, Demoteles, who appears to have been the Baby Anson of the +White Buskins aforementioned, addressed Chærephanes rather testily. +“Tell me, O Chærephanes! how comes it, that, not liking this game, you +are always on hand whensoever you can get a free pass?” To him +Chærephanes responded, “Because I enjoy seeing you boys play it, think +not that I approve the game.” + + + + + _Culled in Helicon._ + + +Here is an important literary item which we find in the current number +of “The Chicago Indicator:” “W. S. Crouse of Mitchell, Dak., has given a +chattel mortgage for eighty-five dollars.” + + * * * * * + +It pains us to note that our local literary boom has suffered somewhat +of a set-back in the violent interest which, all of a sudden, is being +taken in the subject of drainage. It were much better, we think, if +these twin arts could go together hand in hand. + + + + + _Oon Criteek de Bernhardt._ + + +The re-appearance of Sara Bernhardt in the midst of us has, of course, +set our best society circles into a flutter of excitement; and we have +been highly edified by the various criticisms which we have heard passed +upon that gifted woman’s performance of “Fedora” night before last. All +these criticisms have flavored of that directness, that frankness, and +that rugged discrimination, which are so characteristic of true Western +culture. Col. J. M. Hill, the esteemed lessee of the Columbia Theatre, +told us some weeks ago that his object in securing a season of Bernhardt +was to give a series of entertainments which would appeal for +appreciation and for patronage to the intellectuality of our _crême de +la crême_, and which would be several degrees above the comprehension of +the hoi polloi. We noticed last Monday evening that the hoi polloi were +not on hand to welcome the eminent French artiste; and we were ineffably +pained to notice, too, that the _crême de la crême_ was very meagrely +represented. This amazed as well as pained us: if Sara Bernhardt cannot +pack the Columbia at Col. Hill’s popular prices, who, by the memory of +Racine and Molière! who—we ask in all solemnity—who can? And what amazed +us, furthermore,—perhaps we should say what _shocked_ us,—was the +exceeding frigidity with which the select few of our _crême de la crême_ +received the superb bits of art which Sara Bernhardt threw out, much as +an emery-wheel emits beauteous vari-colored sparks. + +“Zis eez awful!” exclaimed Sara to her stage-manager, as she came off +the stage after the first act of “Fedora.” “Ze play eez in Russia, but +ze audiongce eez in ze circle polaire!” + +It strikes us that Sara was pretty nearly correct; but for the date on +the play-bill, we might have surmised that our French friends were +performing amid surroundings of the glacial period. + +“Ze play eez ‘Fedora,’” said Sara to M. le General Carson, _entre acte_, +“ze artiste eez Bernhardt, and ze audiongce eez ‘Les Miserables!’” + +M. le General came right out, and told this to distinguished friends in +the lobby. He said it was a bong mo; but young Horace McVicker, who once +conducted a Paris-green manufactory in California, and therefore is an +accomplished French scholar, corrected M. le General by alleging that +Sara’s witticism was not a bong mo, but a judy spree. + +The Markeesy di Pullman applauded the famous actress a great deal after +he had once located her. In order to make sure of doing the proper +thing, he applauded every woman that appeared on the stage; and by the +time the second act was fairly under way, he was able to identify the +“cantatreese” (as he called her) by the color of her hair. “But,” he +remarked to his friend, M. le Colonnel Potter Palmer, later in the +evening, “I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like her as well as I do +Patti; and as for this man Sardoo”— + +“Sardoo? Who’s he?” interrupted M. le Colonnel Palmer. + +“Why, he’s the man who wrote this piece,” said the markeesy; “and he +doesn’t hold a candle to our Italian poets, Danty and Bockashyo.” + +“I don’t know any thing about such things,” said M. le Colonnel Palmer +meekly. “As for myself, I like to be amused when I go to a show; and I +presume I’d like this woman very much if I could see her in one of the +fine old English comedies, such as the ‘Bunch of Keys,’ or the ‘Rag +Baby.’” + +Now, while these two distinguished personages were aware that the play +was “Fedora,” there were many in the auditorium who had not very clear +convictions on this point. M. Thomas J. Hooper, the prominent +linseed-oil manufacturer (whose palatial residence on Prairie Avenue is +the Mecca of our most cultured society),—M. Hooper, we say, sat through +three acts without dreaming that the play was “Fedora.” + +“I like Clara Morris better in this _rôle_,” said he to M. T. Desplaines +Wiggins, one of the vice-presidents of the Chicago Literary Club. + +“But, my dear fellow,” said M. Wiggins, in a tone of expostulation, +“Clara Morris never played the part.” + +“Never played Cameel?” cried M. Hooper. “Why, bless you, man, I seen her +do it right here in this theatre!” + +“But this isn’t Cameel,” said M. Wiggins: “it’s Feedorer.” + +“Well, now, I’ll bet you fifty it’s Cameel,” said M. Hooper, calmly but +firmly. + +M. Wiggins covered the wager, and M. Billy Lyon decided in favor of +Wiggins and Fedora. + +“I knew I was right,” exclaimed M. Wiggins triumphantly, “for I saw it +on the programme.” + +M. Hooper was very much put out. “You don’t pronounce that word right, +anyway,” he muttered sulkily. + +“What word?” demanded M. Wiggins hotly. + +“That word programmay,” said M. Hooper. “It’s French; and it isn’t +program, but programmay.” + +They wagered fifty dollars on it between them, and referred it to M. +Jean McConnell. + +“At popular prices, it’s program,” said M. McConnell; “but during this +engagement, it’s programmay, sure.” + +So M. Hooper squared himself financially; and M. Wiggins went down to +his seat in the parquettay, muttering something that sounded very like a +profane and inexcusable rhyme for program. + +But, as we have hinted above, M. Hooper was not the only one in the +audience who was unsettled as to what the play was, and what it was all +about. Throughout the auditorium, messieurs, mesdames, and mademoiselles +were sadly bothered to know whether it was Cameel, or Faydorah, or +Tayodorah, or Fru-Fru, or some other morso from the Bernhardt +repertevoi. M. James M. Billings, the prominent restaurateur, told his +family that the bill had been changed, and that the piece was “Jennie +Saper.” + +“Why, no, ’taint, pa,” protested Mdlle. Billings: “it’s ‘Faydorah.’” + +“Now, look here, Birdie,” said M. Billings sternly. “I know what I’m +talking about. As we were comin’ in, I asked one of the men in the entry +what the piece was, and he said ‘Jennie Saper;’ and he knew, for he was +a Frenchman.” + +“Our seats,” said M. T. Frelinghuysen Boothby, “were so far back, that +we had difficulty in making out what Burnhart said; but from what I +_did_ hear, I would judge that she spoke better English than Rhea: at +any rate, I could understand her better than I ever could Rhea.” + +M. le Colonnel Fitzgerald confessed to being disappointed. “It may be my +fault, however,” said he: “for I am very rusty in my French, having paid +no attention to it since I visited Montreal in the summer of 1880. I +brought my ‘French Conversations’ along with me to-night, but it was of +no assistance to me. I hadn’t got half through the first scene in the +first act, when Fedora was dying in the last act. This was slow +business. Of course, there were a good many words and phrases that were +familiar, such as, ‘voyla,’ ‘toot sweet,’ ‘tray be-yen,’ ‘mercee,’ +‘pardong,’ ‘bong zhour,’ and ‘wee wee.’ You can depend upon it, that, +whenever I heard these old friends, I applauded with the nicest and the +heartiest discrimination.” + +Now, all these criticisms and features (and there were many, many more +such) interested us—or, at least, they entertained us. But we were +grieved to discover a disposition (shall we say a pongshong?) on the +part of the audience to compare Bernhardt’s Fedora with Fanny +Davenport’s. To institute any such comparison would be a sore injustice +to both ladies. Bernhardt and Davenport represent two very different +dramatic schools: one is the school of avoirdupois, and the other is +essentially so different that it must be estimated only under the +accepted rules of troy weight. To be more explicit, we will say, that, +while you would properly weigh Miss Davenport’s art on a hayscales, you +must use a more delicate machine if you would seek to learn the true +magnitude and concinnity of Bernhardt’s art. It is quite true that to +both Fedoras the same amount of practical appreciation is paid here in +Chicago. When Miss Davenport played Fedora at the Columbia Theatre last +January, she was applauded rapturously by 2,000 delighted tradesfolk at +50 cents apiece: now Bernhardt comes along with her subtile +impersonation, and does business to 333⅓ of the _crême de la crême_ of +our pork-packers at $3 per head. You see that the box-office receipts +are the same in both instances: it would be impossible, therefore, to +compare the merits of each actress by the amount of money derived from +the performance of each. + +It is far from our purpose to institute any invidious comparisons +between these two gifted women: each excels in her way; and the way of +the one is as far from the way of the other as the beauties of a +fat-stock show are removed from the beauties of a floral display. If +there is in Fanny’s art a breadth and a weight that remind us of the +ponderous thud of a meat-axe, there is (it must also be confessed) in +Sara’s art a daintiness and an insinuation that remind us of the covert +swish of a Japanese paper-knife. Horace has explained this very +difference in that charming ode wherein he tells of Næera, who, “with +ruddy, glowing arm, holds out an earthen cup of goat’s milk,” while, on +the other hand, Lydia extends to the parched poet a silver flagon, +“filled to the brim with old Falernian chilled with snow.” Now, there is +no doubt in our mind that Horace chose the Falernian; but we are not all +Horaces; and we presume to say, that, as between goat’s milk at popular +prices, and Falernian at war-rates, a vast majority of Chicagoans would +choose the former. + +“The last act was a great disappointment,” said one of our most cultured +beef-canners. “It is there that Davenport gets away with this French +woman. Why, Davenport’s tussle with that young Rooshan is the grandest +piece of art I ever saw! she just tears around and horns the furniture +like a Texas steer in a box-car.” + +George Bowron, leader of the orchestra at the Columbia, says that he +knew, just as soon as he saw the score of the incidental music, that +Bernhardt’s Fedora was very unlike Davenport’s. + +“Bernhardt’s score,” says he, “is interspersed throughout with +‘pianissimo,’ ‘con moto,’ and ‘andante.’ On the other hand, the music of +Davenport’s Fedora is in big black type, and every other bar is labelled +‘forte’ or ‘fortissimo;’ and our trombone-player blew himself into a +hemorrhage last January, trying to keep up with the rest of the +orchestra in the death-struggle in the last act.” + +We can see that Bernhardt labors under one serious disadvantage, and +that is the fact that her plays are couched in a foreign language. We +asked Col. J. M. Hill why Sardoo did not write his plays in English, and +he said he supposed it was because Sardoo was a Frenchman. This may be +all very well for Paris, but we opine that it will not do in Chicago. +What protection has a Chicago audience in a case of this kind? What +assurance have we, that, while we are admiring this woman’s art, the +woman herself is not brazenly guying and blackguarding us in her absurd +foreign language? + +Now, we would not seek to create the impression that Sardoo’s work is +not meritorious: on the contrary, we are free to say, and we say it +boldly, that we recognize considerable merit in it. We fancy, however, +that Sardoo is not always original: we find him making use of a good +many lines that certainly were not born of his creative genius. As we +remember now, Sardoo introduces into his dialogue the very +“pardonnez-moy,” the very “mong-du,” and the very “too zhoors,” which we +hear every day in our best society; and will he have the effrontery to +deny that he has stolen from us—ay, brazenly stolen from us—the very +“wee-wee” which is the grand commercial basis upon which Chicago culture +stands and defies all competition? + +Oh, how glad—how proud—Chicago is that Bronson Howard and William +Shakespeare and Charley Hoyt, and her other favorite dramatists, have +been content to put their plays in honest but ennobling Anglo-Saxon! + + + + + _Oon Conversarzyony Frongsay._ + + +The Bernhardt engagement has brought out all the French scholars in +Chicago. Never before had we suspected that there were so many able +linguists in the midst of us. Gen. Stiles, we have just discovered, +speaks French like a native of Paris (Edgar County). He attended the +“Frou-Frou” performance last evening with his friend Judge Prendergast. +The judge is a proficient Greek and Latin scholar; but he knows little +of French, his vocabulary being limited to such phrases as “fo par,” +“liaison,” “kelky shoze,” and “olly bonnur:” so Gen. Stiles had to +explain the play to him as it progressed last evening. + +“Now what is she saying?” the judge would ask. + +“She said, ‘Good-evening,’” the general would answer. + +“Does ‘bung swor’ mean ‘good-evening’?” the judge would inquire. + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, what rot!” the judge would exclaim; and then a dude usher in one of +Willoughby & Hill’s nineteen-dollar dress-suits would teeter down the +aisle, and warn the gentlemen not to whisper so loud. + +Presently Col. William Penn Nixon, the gifted editor of “The +Inter-Ocean,” came along, and slipped into the seat next to Gen. Stiles. +He had an opera-glass, and he levelled it at once at Bernhardt’s red, +red hair. + +“Do you speak French?” asked Gen. Stiles in the confidential tone of a +member of the Citizens’ Committee. + +“Oony poo,” said Col. Nixon guardedly. + +“Vooley voo donny moy voter ver de lopera?” asked the general, motioning +toward the opera-glass. + +“See nay par zoon ver de lopera!” protested the colonel. “Say lay +zhoomels.” + +“Mong doo! What do I want of zhoomels?” cried Gen. Stiles. “Zhoomels is +twins!” + +“Par bloo!” said Col. Nixon: “it is not twins, it is opera-glasses.” + +“You’re all wrong, William,” urged the general. “The French idiom is +‘the glass of the opera.’ ‘Ver’ is glass, and ‘de lopera’ is of the +opera.” + +“I have heard them called lornyets,” suggested Judge Prendergast, in the +deferential tone of a young barrister seeking a change of venue. + +“Well, I don’t know what the general’s opera-glass is,” said Col. Nixon; +“but this one of mine is a ‘lay zhoomels.’” + +“Call it what you please,” replied the judge: “it is de tro as far as I +am concerned, until the corpse de bally makes its ontray.” + +“I thought you didn’t speak French,” said Gen. Stiles, turning fiercely +upon the judge. + +“Oh, well!” the judge explained apologetically, “I’m not what you and +the colonel would call oh fay—I’m a june primmer at the business; but +when the wind is southerly, I reckon I can tell a grizet from a +garsong.” + +Chicago society is still in considerable doubt as to where Bernhardt +should be located in the artistic scale. A good many of the _élite_ +think that her Fedora is second to Fanny Davenport’s, and there are very +many others who prefer Clara Morris’s Camille. We notice that the +popular inquiry in cultured circles is, “Have you been to see +Bernhardt?” not, “Have you been to hear Bernhardt?” + +“Oh, you don’t know how I enjoyed Bayernhayerdt the other evening!” +exclaimed one of our most beautiful and accomplished belles. “Her +dresses are beautiful, and they do say she is dreadfully naughty!” + + + + + _A Fearless Protector_. + + +At the rehearsal of “Frou-Frou” in the Columbia Theatre last Thursday +noon, Col. J. M. Hill, the urbane lessee, stood in the lobby chatting +with Miss Bernhardt; and, while they were thus chatting, a card bearing +the name of a strange gentleman was handed to the eminent actress. Miss +Bernhardt took the card, scrutinized it, and exclaimed in her pretty +French way, “Sacre bleue! Who eez zis gentilhomme? I haf not ze honaire +to know him.” + +Noticing the lady’s dilemma, Col. Hill, with characteristic gallantry, +was not slow in coming to her rescue. + +“Have no fear, madam,” said he to Miss Bernhardt, “have no fear while I +am by your side. Go back, young man, to him who sent you, and ask him if +his intentions are honorable.” + + + + + _Mr. Knapp’s Scheme._ + + +Mr. Thomas J. Knapp, manager of the Elgin Opera-House, returned home +last evening very much disgusted. He had been in Chicago a week, trying +to arrange for one night of Bernhardt in Elgin. + +“Our town,” says he, “is the best one-night stand in Illinois. Our +watch-factory employs ten thousand hands, and we have the best society +in the West. It would pay this French woman to stop over a night with +us.” + +“Why doesn’t she?” + +“The manager wants a guaranty of five thousand dollars,” says Mr. Knapp, +“and I wouldn’t give it. I was willing to raise the price of seats to +seventy-five cents, and we would have packed the house! But Bernhardt +wants the earth,—or at least her manager does. You see, her expenses +would be light,—virtually nothing. In the first place, she wouldn’t have +had any hotel-bill to pay.” + +“No hotel-bill? Why, how’s that?” + +“No, none at all: I had made all the arrangements to have her stop with +the minister.” + + + + + _A Fine Old Book._ + + +There has come into our hands a small volume which we value very much as +illustrating the degree of proficiency to which Boston had attained in +1842. At that time, Boston was about two hundred years older than +Chicago now is. This volume, consisting of sixty-three pages, is +entitled “Boston Common;” and it bears the imprint of William D. Ticknor +and H. B. Williams. The latter gentleman appears to have been the +compiler of the work; and he treats of the formation of the Common, the +sky over the Common, the liberty-tree, the old elm, the frog-pond, +booths around the Common, the National Lancers, Hollis-street steeple, +the iron fence, fountains on the Common, the gingko-tree, cows on the +Common, etc. The compilation is done very cleverly, and betrays a fine +literary taste, and sound literary judgment. Here and there are +introduced apt poetical quotations,—one from Homer, one from Robert +Treat Paine, and two from Dr. Isaac Watts. We will make a few excerpts +at random, from this pleasing work, for the edification of our readers:— + +“The iron fence and brick sidewalk which surround the Common are noble +monuments of public enterprise, and of the energy of American +mechanics.” + +“Since the day when Elder Oliver’s horse had the exclusive right of +pasturage in the Common, there has been various legislation on the +subject of admitting the cows to feed there. The gradual and now entire +disappearance of the cow from our streets, is a sure sign of the triumph +of artificial life over primitive manners.” + +“The gingko-tree is enclosed by a slight paling. This species of tree is +common in Japan.... It lives and thrives, while the family in whose +ancient enclosure it once grew has shared the common destiny of families +in this land.... The gingko-tree has left the family enclosure, and +grows on the Common. We perceive in this fact a correspondence with that +law of republicanism which scatters the names and the wealth of rich men +into the great community; or, if they are preserved for a while, allows +their continuance, and concedes to them a voluntary regard, even as the +gingko-tree, in its careful preservation, is permitted to hold an +honorable place amongst the public trees. This particular tree is the +object of an interest in which a degree of sadness mingles with respect, +at the thought of changes which,” etc. + +Here is an interesting paragraph: “The Common with its varied surface is +admirably fitted for military exhibitions.... The National Lancers, a +company of able-bodied men, mounted on fine-looking horses, each lance +bearing a red flag, and the mounted musicians adding not a little to the +life and novelty of the moving show, are a most interesting sight. A +knowledge of the effectiveness of their weapon mingles a little dread +with our feelings of admiration. The lance rests in a socket on the +stirrup: when a charge is made, the lance, remaining in the socket, is +dropped into a horizontal position, and, being so held, the horse is +urged against the enemy, and thus the whole power of the animal is +thrown into the lance, which is thereby capable of transfixing an +assailant with irresistible force.” + +At the time this elegant passage was written, the present editor of “The +Boston Herald,” the venerable Col. Haskell (father of the editor of “The +Minneapolis Tribune,” now in Europe on a bridal tour), was captain of +the Lancers; and the lance he used to carry may still be seen in the +Boston Museum, hanging on the wall beside the sword of Bunker Hill. + +The perusal of this book, “Boston Common,” has awakened in us the hope +that some enterprising Chicagoan will do a similar work for this city by +writing a history and description of Dearborn Park. This park is the +oldest in the city, having been laid out when Long John Wentworth was a +rosy-cheeked lad, only nine years old, and only eight feet tall. We +cannot say that it has improved with age: it has no frog-pond, nor any +old elm, nor any gingko-tree. But it reeks with associations, and we +think that some local _littérateur_ ought to compile these associations +into a tome. + + + + + _Stealing Our Thunder._ + + +Boston has been making a great palaver over her “Longfellow memorial +readings.” These readings were given in the Boston Dime Museum last +Thursday, and the persons who participated were as follows: Col. J. R. +Lowell, the Shakespearian lecturer; Mr. Mark Twain, the Missouri +humorist; Mr. W. D. Howells, the New-York novelist; Mr. G. William +Curtis, the New-Jersey Mugwump; the Rev. E. Everett Hale, editor of “The +Lending Hand;” Col. Thomas B. Aldrich, editor of “The Atlantic Monthly;” +Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, the eminent surgeon; Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, +mother of Miss Maud Howe; the venerable John G. Whittier, author of the +New-Hampshire idyl, “Joaquin Miller;” and Col. T. Wentworth Higginson, +the friend of the late James T. Fields. “The Boston Globe” publishes the +pictures of these _littérateurs_, and we observe that five of them +(including Mrs. Howe) part their hair in the middle. But this is neither +here nor there. What we wish to say, and what we wish the public at +large to believe, is, that Boston stole this idea of giving +memorial-fund readings: she stole it from Chicago. Two months ago, a +movement was set on foot in this city to secure a fund for the purpose +of erecting on the lake-front a splendid monument to the memory of “The +Literary Life,” that never-to-be-forgotten literary journal, which, +under the inspired genius of Rose Elizabeth Cleveland, waxed and waned +in the midst of us one all-too-brief year ago. Professor Henry T. +Bosbyshell, analytical chemist for Byers & Co., the eminent +soap-manufacturers, conceived the laudable plan of securing this +monument-fund by giving in Central Music Hall a grand symposium at which +Chicago _littérateurs_ would read from their original works. The date +fixed for this unique performance was May 28; and the following local +authors were bespoken, and promised to participate:— + +Professor H. T. Bosbyshell, author of “American Soaps Analyzed,” “The +Secret of Perfuming Revealed,” “The Boss Baking Powder,” and “How to +Remove Paint Stains.” + +Col. T. Shelby Sothers, author of the “Chicago Directory for 1859,” “The +Travellers’ Guide to Chicago,” “Compendium of Railroad Information,” and +“Chicago Trade Statistics for 1883.” + +Professor William Mathews, author of “How to get on in the World.” + +Miss Tryphena Cora Swartwout, author of “West-Side Poems,” “Ode to the +Chicago River and Other Sonnets,” “An Analysis of Browning,” and “A +Complete Cook Book.” + +Col. Peter G. Hobby, author of “The New Baconian Theory; or, A Modern +Method of Smoking Sidemeats.” + +Mr. Wellington Boothkins, author of “Handbook of Etiquette; or, Ten +Years a Chicago Clubman,” and “A Review of the Linseed-Oil Trade in the +West.” + +Mrs. Martha W. Lester-Tubbs, author of “The Dawn of Chicago Literature,” +“The Mother’s Companion,” and compiler of “Epics of the Hennepin +Valley.” + +Professor Thomas O’B. Swigert, author of “The Art of Composition; or, +The Manufacture of Press-Rollers Made Easy.” + +Mr. DeLancey Morris Sowerby, author of “Noctes Ambrosianæ; or, Ten +Nights in the Chicago Literary Club,” and compiler of “The Record of the +Chicago Races for 1886.” + +Mrs. Minerva J. Peabody, the Calumet poetess, whose nautical poems, +“Will Henry Come when Navigation Opens?” and “Aboard the Three-Mast +Schooner when the Shingle Crop Comes In,” are sung in every Chicago +household. + +Col. James Russell Lowell was let into this secret when he was here last +February; and it is probable that he went right back to Boston, and +betrayed the whole scheme. It is very aggravating to have our original +ideas snapped up in this piratical manner by the conscienceless Yankees; +but we hope that our _littérateurs_ will stick to their programme, and +show the false Bostonians that here, in the home of the muses, and in +this wallow (if we may so term it) of culture, we can prepare and +execute a literary programme which will put the presumptuous Bostonians +to the blush. We can do this, too, without calling on Missouri, New +York, New Jersey, and New Hampshire for help. + + + + + _Lost, Strayed, or Stolen._ + + Oh! what has become of the mugwump bird + In this weather of wind and snow? + And does he roost as high as we heard + He roosted a year ago? + + A year ago, and his plumes were red + As the deepest of cardinal hues; + But in the year they’ve changed, ’tis said, + To the bluest of bilious blues! + + A year ago, and this beautiful thing + Warbled in careless glee; + But now the tune he is forced to sing, + Is pitched in a minor key. + + It’s oh, we sigh, for the times gone by, + When the mugwump lived to laugh— + When, coy and shy, he roosted high, + And couldn’t be caught with chaff. + + And it’s oh, we say, for the good old day + Which never again may come— + When the mugwump threaded his devious way, + And whistled his lumpty-tum! + + + + + _Condensed Literature._ + + +The enterprising firm of Plankinton, Armour, & Co. announces that it is +prepared to meet the demands of the large and constantly increasing +demands of our literary public, by putting into the spring market an +entirely new line of canned goods, scheduled and classified, in the +prominent trade-catalogues as “Condensed Literature.” These ingenious +preparations, which promise to become a boon to Western civilization, +are so compounded as to serve (each in its proper place) in lieu of that +particular kind or branch of literature which may be demanded. There are +eleven varieties of these canned goods; to wit, 1, epic poetry; 2, lyric +poetry; 3, ancient history; 4, modern history; 5, Grecian romance; 6, +Latin romance; 7, German philosophy; 8, English philosophy; 9, English +romance; 10, Norse mythology; 11, Chicago belles lettres. If one feels +the need of information on any one of these topics, he has but to +purchase and consume one of these compounds, and his desire speedily +becomes allayed. For instance, when Mr. Jones experiences an appetite +for, say, epic poetry, he will pay twenty-five cents for can No. 1, and, +having devoured the contents, he will find that appetite temporarily +satisfied. Thus, at one and the same time (as the showman says), the +cravings of the stomach and the hungerings of the mind are satisfied. +The value of this invention cannot be overestimated. In this pushing +community of ours, time is money: recognizing this fact, Messrs. +Plankinton & Armour have invented and patented this grand device for +answering in fifteen minutes, and for twenty-five cents, each and every +literary craving which years of reading and study would not satisfy. No +home, we think, will be complete without a full line of these goods on +its library-shelves. + +In addition to the above, and in order to meet the demands of those who +have more time at their disposal (such as old people, sentimental +spinsters, invalids, and professional writers), this firm is now issuing +superb editions of sugar-cured hams, upon the canvas covers of which are +published the following works: 1, Arnold’s Light of Asia; 2, Tennyson’s +In Memoriam; 3, Helen’s Babies; 4, Lives of Famous Highwaymen and +Pirates; 5, Longfellow and Rice’s Evangeline; 6, The Complete Cook Book; +7, Baxter’s Saints’ Rest (religious); 8, Spalding’s Base-Ball Guide; 9, +Alice in Wonderland; 10, The Complete Letter Writer; 11, Rand & +McNally’s Railroad Guide; 12, Browning’s Poems (selected). In ordering, +care should be taken to state the title of the ham required. Illustrated +editions, containing handsome wood-cut of the author, can be had at a +slight advance; tinted covers, and file for preserving same, twenty-five +cents extra. + + + + + _Dr. Warner in Chicago._ + + +Local literary circles were thrown into a condition of feverish +excitement yesterday by the rumor that Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, a +well-known Eastern _littérateur_, had arrived in the city, and was the +honored guest of Col. Wirt Dexter, the popular South-Side Boniface. When +the rumor first gained circulation, it was discredited by very many, +including that cautious and exacting body known as the Chicago Literary +Club. Mr. T. Arthur Whiffen, the talented son of the wealthy wholesale +fig-dealer, and a member of the club in high standing, refused to +believe that Mr. Warner was really in the city. + +“As soon as I heard it,” said he, “I stepped around to Dale’s +drug-store, and asked the proprietor if he had received any confirmation +of the rumor, and he replied in the negative. Mr. Dale is the general +Western agent for Mr. Warner’s works; and, as he very pertinently +observed, he would have been likely to know if Warner were in this +vicinity.” + +Later in the day, however, it was learned that Mr. Warner was indeed in +the midst of us: in fact, along about three o’clock in the afternoon he +was seen bowling down Drexel Boulevard in Mr. Dexter’s elegant St. +Bernard dog-cart behind Mr. Dexter’s famous bay gelding, Grover +Cleveland. It was stated that Mr. Warner had come to Chicago for the +purpose of delivering an address before the Clan-na-Gael on St. +Patrick’s Day, the 17th inst., and had chosen as the theme for that +address, “The Theory that Ben Jonson Did Not Write Rasselas.” +Subsequently, however, it was ascertained that this statement was +unfounded. In a conversation with Professor Benjamin F. Lawkins, +president of the Emerson Literary Society, and author of the scholarly +_brochure_ entitled “The Relations Between Fifteen-Ball Poole and the +Librarian of Our Public Library,” it was developed that Mr. Warner had +produced the following works: “A Liver Safe Cure,” “Some Golden +Remedies,” “Comets and Their Relations to Purgative Pellets,” and “What +I Know About Farming.” We are told that Mr. Warner will leave for the +Pacific slope in a day or two, but will be in Chicago again during the +month of June; and we doubt not, that, upon his return, he will be +cordially welcomed and handsomely entertained by our appreciative +public. + + + + + _An Anxious Inquiry._ + + + CHICAGO, ILL., April 17. + +_To the Editor._—You said some time ago that Dr. Charles Dudley Warner, +the eminent _littérateur_, and compounder of Warner’s famous safe liver +and kidney pills, would visit Chicago on his return from California: can +you give me the exact date of his coming? As one deeply interested in +Chicago culture, I am anxious to become acquainted with Dr. Warner, and +to ascertain from him whether a use of his pills would be likely to +facilitate the literary movement in this city. + + Yours truly, + ARBA N. JACKSON, V.S. + + + + + _A Chip of the Old Block._ + + +Ex-Postmaster-General Frank Hatton has a fourteen-year-old son who +resembles his distinguished father in many particulars. + +“Pa,” said he the other day, “I’ve made up my mind where I would like to +go to college.” + +“Aha,” replied his father; “and where is it, my boy?” + +“To Vassar,” said the precocious child. + +“Humph!” ejaculated the proud father: “darned if I wouldn’t like to go +there myself!” + + * * * * * + +We understand that Professor Thomas DeQuincey Smythe, the gifted +_littérateur_ who edited the famous Chicago edition of Browning’s poems, +with copious notes, has recently invented a wonderful powder for +removing fleas from pet cats and dogs. + + + + + _The Crown Jewels._ + + +Considerable interest (not to say excitement) has been manifested here +in Chicago during the sale of the crown jewels in Paris. There is vast +wealth in our most cultured circles; and this wealth, we are gratified +to note, is being invested quite largely in articles de virtue, such, +for instance, as oil-paintings, St. Bernard dogs, statuary, +trotting-horses, tally-ho coaches, upright piano-fortes, Egyptian +mummies, crown jewels, Shakespearian autographs, bicycles, and +coats-of-arms. Some years ago one of our most prominent citizens (a +gentleman of wealth and sand) went to Europe for the express purpose of +buying the Venus de Milo; but when he came to see the statue, he refused +to pay the price demanded, for the very good reason that the goods were +damaged. But he did not return empty-handed: on the contrary, he brought +back with him from New York the finest line of Rogers statuette groups +you ever clapped eyes on. He told us at the time, that he could have +bought a genuine Raphael prima donna for thirty thousand dollars, but +had concluded to get along with one of Prang’s Beatrices: on the whole, +he rather preferred the Beatrice for two reasons,—first, because he did +not go much on opera, anyway; and, second, because his wife belonged to +a Dante club, and would like to have a picture of her favorite poet’s +lady-love in her drawing-room. The famous peachblow vase, for which an +Eastern liquor-dealer paid eighteen thousand dollars, would surely have +come to Chicago if it had not been so expensive. There was a deep-seated +desire among our better classes to have it in the midst of us; but there +happened to be an unfortunate flurry in the pork-market just at the time +the Morgan sale took place, and the consequent depression in local +cultured circles was such that the coveted article de virtue was allowed +to go to Baltimore. The truth of the matter is,—and there is no use +denying it,—that Chicago is taking a powerful interest in art. It was +only last month that Col. N. K. Fairbank had his portrait painted by +Michael Angelo. The distinguished artist called at the colonel’s office, +and told him he was hard pressed for money, and would paint his portrait +at a very reasonable cash-price. Col. Fairbank had some doubts about his +being the original Angelo, but these doubts were removed when the artist +showed him the original written contract he made for decorating St. +Peter’s. + +About three weeks ago, the agents of several wealthy Chicagoans sailed +for Paris to be present at the sale of the crown jewels. It was +understood that this was to be a sheriff’s sale of the diamonds, rubies, +emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, pearls, and other gems seized on a writ +of attachment under a first mortgage from the unhappy Eugenie, relict of +Louis Napoleon, late emperor of the French. The sale, as advertised, was +to occur at the Hotel de Veal, and was to be conducted on a strictly +cash basis. Among the articles listed were brooches, garlands, pendants, +flowerets, bracelets, garters, necklaces, tiaras, briolettes, rings, +crosses, talismans, lockets, medallions, etc., indefinitely. At the +present time, there are, undoubtedly, more diamonds and other precious +stones in Chicago than in all the rest of this country combined. On +State Street on almost any pleasant afternoon, you can see thousands of +beautiful women doing their shopping in superb costumes positively +resplendent with diamonds of the first water and the thirty-second +magnitude. In short, culture has reached that point in the midst of us, +that no lady is received into our most refined circles unless she wears +fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds when she goes marketing. +Naturally, therefore, our bong tong were upon the kee veev when they +heard of the mammoth sheriff’s sale of crown jewels in Paris. Moses +Jacobson, the Dearborn-street connoisseur, was despatched to France at +once by a Prairie-avenue syndicate; and he carried with him a cart +blonch to buy as many diamonds and valuables as he thought would add to +the intellectual and personal charms of his employers’ wives and +daughters. No sooner did they hear of this, than a number of prominent +millionnaires on Michigan Avenue made up a pool, and hired Abraham Levy, +the Monroe-street connoisseur, to follow Mr. Jacobson, and to outbid him +at the Hotel de Veal sale. Presently the West Side and the North Side +waked up, and betimes Wabash Avenue and other fashionable localities +became enthused; to make short of a long and thrilling story, there +cannot be fewer than a dozen representatives of Chicago culture in Paris +at this time, each struggling for possession of those crown jewels. We +feel pretty confident that the Frenchmen will not be able to impose upon +these representatives; for, if there is one thing which a Chicagoan +understands better than he does pork and belles lettres, it is diamonds. +When he gets his hands on a stone of unusual lustre, the first thing he +does is to draw his tongue across it, to assure himself that it isn’t +alum: then he turns it around, to see if there is any tinfoil back of +it. If the stone endures these tests, the Chicagoan will pay the +handsomest market-price for it; for, as we have frequently remarked with +pride, the truly cultured Chicagoan is a man of enterprise and sand. It +will not surprise us at all if the Chicago agents now in Paris come back +with a box-car load of crown jewels. + + + + + _Mr. Goodwin’s Yacht._ + + +Mr. Nat C. Goodwin, the comedian, has gained twenty pounds in weight +since his last visit to Chicago five months ago. He says that life on +the Massachusetts beach has wrought this marked improvement in his +health and appearance: he has done nothing all summer, but cruise around +in his yacht, mingle his handsome form with the billows of the Atlantic, +eat clams, and drink bilge-water. Mr. Goodwin is a honored member of the +famous Hull Yacht Club of Boston, and the experiences of his yacht have +been so numerous that they would fill tomes to overflowing. His yacht +is, not inappropriately, named “The Sinker;” and it is justly considered +the most remarkable craft on the Atlantic coast. Whenever Mr. Goodwin +sets sail in it, his Boston friends buy pools on the chances of his ever +showing up again. It is worthy of note, that the chances of his never +returning are invariably the favorite in the pools. Mr. Goodwin tells +us, and we are inclined to believe him, that his yacht is the only +sailing-vessel in American waters that can jump a fence. He says, that +whenever he leaves the Boston wharf, and heads “The Sinker” for the +mighty expanse of brine due east, every tug in the harbor gets up steam, +and gives chase; it seeming to be a friendly rivalry among the tugs to +see who will earn the ten dollars, and the honor of convoying “The +Sinker” back into port, when it staves a hole in its hold, or splits its +mizzen-mast, or loses its boom, or disables its rudder, or meets with +any one of the misfortunes which appear to be inevitable when Mr. +Goodwin is in practical command. “When I have my new yacht built,” says +Mr. Goodwin, “I shall have it constructed upon ingenious plans which are +the result of a long and eventful experience. It will be so devised and +built as to be capable of shutting up like an accordion whenever it +strikes a rock or a sand-bar. In this way all disaster will be averted, +and I will be spared the humiliation and expense of liquidating the +damages which now attend every cruise of ‘The Sinker.’ The log of this +unfortunate vessel reveals the startling fact, that although ‘The +Sinker’ actually sailed only sixty-two miles last summer, the cost for +repairs exceeded three thousand dollars.” Mr. Goodwin said he was amazed +to discover that William H. Crane, the actor, had such a large +reputation in the West for nautical prowess. He was free to confess that +Crane was a very indifferent yachtsman, and he seriously doubted whether +Crane had ever been out of sight of Bunker-hill Monument in all of his +much-vaunted ocean experience. “This man Crane,” says Goodwin, “is an +interloper: he talks very glibly about mainstays and jibs and ‘to +leeward’ and ‘aft’ and ‘hard-a-port,’ but he knows absolutely nothing +about practical marine-service. I had him out with me ten minutes in +‘The Sinker’ one afternoon last August; and, when they fished him out of +the water with boat-hooks, he cried like a baby, and vowed he would +never again test the faith of the bounding billows. Stuart Robson is the +sailor of the two,—a regular old salt; but of course he is getting too +advanced in years to enter into aquatic sports with enthusiasm.” Mr. +Goodwin said Mr. Crane was enjoying more robust health now than ever +before. In a year or two we might expect to see him waddling around with +a ponderous abdomen, carrying a big cane, and talking sententiously +about “the young men in the profession.” + + + + + _A Laudable Scheme._ + + +Mrs. Antoinette J. Bascomb, Professor Tremaine Lomax, and Mr. T. Boileau +Ransome, have been delegated by the Browning Club of Blue Island to +formulate a plan for a Western School of Summer Philosophy, to be held +in Kumpf’s Grove, near Sixteen-mile Creek, next August. It is the sense +of the club that such a school, conducted largely on the plan of the +Concord summer retreat for the feeble-minded, would redound largely to +the intellectual reputation of the West; but, in order to throw about +the enterprise a practical atmosphere, it is intended to devote the +financial proceeds of this series of picnics to the building of a new +roller-skating rink on Madison Street. + + + + + _The Era of Reform._ + + +Having eaten a hearty breakfast of corn-beef hash and johnny-cake, +President Cleveland put on his hat and overcoat, and strode toward the +front-door of the White House. + +“Your excellency,” cried Secretary Lamont, “where are you going at this +early hour of the morning? It is hardly five o’clock.” + +“I am going for a short walk,” replied the President. “I will be back by +half-past seven,—in plenty of time to read the paper, look over my mail, +write a proclamation or two, and make out a list of nominations before +the Senate convenes. I am going around to the various departments to see +if my cabinet officers have caught the spirit of the administration, and +have returned to the Arcadian simplicity of the Jacksonian epoch.” + +And with these words, President Cleveland opened the front-door, and +issued forth into the raw, chilly air of the March morning. The brisk +breeze blowing from the south-east bore to his ears the faint echo of +the din of hammers busily employed in the distant navy-yard at the good +work of restoring American sovereignty on the waters of the globe. The +lights in the Treasury Department were dim; yet every room was lighted +up, and it was evident that all hands were at work, in accordance with +Secretary Manning’s order that all employees of the civil service should +report for duty at half-past four A.M. every week-day. President +Cleveland entered the Treasury building, and asked the janitor where +Col. Manning was to be found. + +“He is down in the vaults, counting the money,” said the janitor; “and +he cannot be disturbed.” + +Mr. Cleveland expostulated, and was compelled to disclose his identity +before the janitor would listen to him. But, being satisfied at last +that the visitor really was the President, the janitor conducted him +through devious passages, down winding stairways, and under curious +moats, until finally the labyrinthine vaults were reached. Here, +surrounded by piles of shining gold and silver pieces, sat the Secretary +of the Treasury, counting the national hoard by the dim light of a +candle. + +“I am sorry you came,” said the secretary to the President; “for I +really have so much work to do, that I have no time to talk.” + +Then Mr. Cleveland observed that Col. Manning was attired in naught but +an undershirt, his trousers, and a pair of high-heeled boots. + +“Good!” thought the President. Then he said aloud, “But where is the +gas, Dan? and why are you using this wretched tallow-dip?” + +“I have had the gas-meter taken out of the building,” said the +secretary, “and have returned to the good old democratic simplicity of +candles. By this means, the sum of ninety thousand dollars will be saved +to the country annually.” + +“And what are you doing now?” asked the President. + +“Counting the money in the Treasury,” replied Col. Manning. “I intend to +know for myself whether any peculations have been indulged in by my +Republican predecessors. Already I have discovered a number of +questionable things. For instance, I have found the tail-feathers pulled +out of a large number of the eagles on the 1877 coinage of twenty-dollar +gold-pieces, and I intend to trace the burglarious outrage to its +uttermost until the guilty party is brought to justice.” + +“That is right,” said the President; and as he walked away, he +felicitated himself and his country upon having secured the co-operation +of such an honest, fearless patriot as the Albany journalist. + +In the State Department, too, the tawdry gas-fixtures had been removed, +to make way for the unostentatious candle. Owing to a dimness of vision, +however, Secretary Bayard was compelled to use a kerosene-lamp; and this +stood upon his white-pine table, emitting a fragrance which the rose of +Sharon might have envied. Bayard wore no collar nor tie. He was in his +shirt-sleeves, and the President observed that the shirt was a woollen +one; only to preserve the necessary dignity on state occasions, the +secretary wore a white celluloid bosom; but otherwise his attire was +rigidly plain. + +“Yes, I am very busy,” said Mr. Bayard, “and I have been hard at work +since three o’clock this morning. Having abolished the three hundred +typewriters and forty-eight stenographers formerly employed in this +department, I have my hands full answering the letters. Here,” he +continued, as he wearily laid his pale hand on a mass of crumpled sheets +of paper, “here are letters from Queen Victoria, King William, Dom +Pedro, Kalakaua, Alfonzo, the Czar, Taing-ho, Gen. Barrios, the Ahkoond +of Swet, the Emir of Bagdool, the Begum of Mysore, and a hundred other +potentates, which must be answered before the noon-mail goes out.” + +In the Navy Department, Secretary Whitney was not to be found. Over a +work-bench in one corner of the room leaned a boy, contemplating with +awe and admiration the model of a patent canal-boat, which calmly +floated on the bosom of a tub of cistern-water. + +“Can you tell me where to find the Secretary of the Navy?” sternly +demanded the President, who was evidently pained to see one of the lad’s +years idling in this manner. + +“Dunno,” replied the boy, “but guess he’s in the gymnasium over ’cross +the hall.” + +President Cleveland stepped across the hall, and opened a door on which +was pasted a sheet of paper bearing the written legend “Private.” Yes, +there was the Secretary of the Navy, attired in a sleeveless jersey and +a pair of white cotton drawers, and engaged at pulling vigorously at a +rowing-machine. + +“Well, I declare!” exclaimed President Cleveland. “What on earth are you +doing?” + +“Learning the business,” replied Secretary Whitney, between pulls. “I am +determined to acquaint myself with every detail of the marine and navy +service. My arms have grown an inch and a half in ten days. Bill +Chandler knew nothing about the minutiæ of the department, and I am +resolved to put his administration to the blush. I am learning to swim, +and I go to the natatorium twice a day to take lessons.” + +As the President strolled toward the War-Department offices, his bosom +heaved with emotions of exultation. + +“How admirably have I chosen my associates!” he murmured. “On every hand +I find irrefutable evidence that the spirit of my administration has +infused every subordinate and co-ordinate branch.” + +On the walls of the war-office were divers chromos and lithographic +prints of Hannibal, Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon, Israel Putnam, Zachary +Taylor, Andrew Jackson, Winfield Scott Hancock, and other great +generals; also a framed daguerrotype of old Admiral Crowninshield, in +the costume of an honorary member of the Hull Yacht Club of Boston. +Armed soldiers paced to and fro over the sanded floor, or studied the +maps of the Sioux, Ute, and Modoc reservations, which were spread out on +the varnished deal tables. When President Cleveland inquired where +Secretary Endicott was, one of the gloomy sentinels pointed in the +direction of an inner room; and thither the President drifted. A +surprising spectacle greeted him as he entered. Secretary Endicott, clad +only in a blouse and trousers of army blue, and wearing a fatigue-cap, +stood at one end of the room, holding a cavalry pistol in both hands, +and firing at a target at the other end of the room. The target +consisted of the head of a barrel, upon which uncertain rings had been +described with white chalk. “Bang!” went the big pistol, and the recoil +threw the Secretary of War into the President’s arms. + +“It is all-fired strange,” explained the secretary, “but I have fired +over two hundred cartridges at that gol-darned target, and I hain’t hit +it once. I’m a mighty poor shot,—don’t believe I could hit the side of a +meetin’-house,—but I’m goin’ to keep on tryin’ till the country owns up +I’m the gol-darnedest best cabinet officer they had since Uncle +Crowninshield was on deck.” + +Then the secretary sat down on the corner of the table, and ate his +modest luncheon of nutcakes and cheese, while the President talked with +him about the troubles on the Oklahoma border. + +“By the way,” said the President, picking up a cartridge from the pile +that lay on the floor, “have you been using these all the time?” + +“Yes,” replied the secretary, mopping the powder-dust and perspiration +from his undaunted brow. “I’ve fired more’n three hundred of ’em this +mornin’.” + +“Then, it’s no wonder you haven’t hit the target,” said the President, +with an amused chuckle; “for, my dear fellow, these are blank +cartridges!” + +“Well, I swow!” exclaimed the secretary. “You don’t say so!” + +President Cleveland chuckled to himself all the way over to the +Post-Office Department. But he was proud of his war-secretary, just the +same. Endicott was honest and earnest: that was the kind of man the era +of reform demanded. + +A beautiful young woman, wearing a calico dress, was carrying a +three-hundred-pound mail-sack filled with letters through the hall. + +“Is Secretary Vilas in?” inquired the President. + +“No, sir,” answered the beautiful being in the calico, as she hurried +along with the mail-sack. + +President Cleveland was shocked: he had never suspected that Vilas would +be the first to grow remiss in his duties. With anguish in his soul, the +President entered the Attorney-General’s office. It was in full blast. +The subordinates were ranged in two semicircles about Gen. Garland, who, +in his shirt-sleeves, was propounding questions upon matters which +concerned the intelligent conduct of the department. “What is replevin?” +“What is the jurisdiction of a Missouri justice of the peace?” “Explain +the difference between _de jure_ and _de facto_.” “What is a _posse +comitatus_, and wherein does it differ from the Arkansas possum?” “What +is a change of venue?” These and similar interrogatories did the learned +Attorney-General put to his class; and the President was pleased to hear +that the responses came quickly, and for the greater part were correct. + +“I will not interrupt them,” thought the President; so he retired +noiselessly, and slipped over to the Interior Department. All was +commotion here, and Secretary Lamar was busiest of the busy. + +“We have been hard at work since daylight,” said the secretary. “You +see, I have not had time to brush my hair, or comb my beard: in fact, I +was in such a hurry that I came down-town with my night-cap on. As +Horace said, ‘_De juvente pluribus noctantur_;’ and in the words of the +old Greek philosopher, ‘_Kai telos epithalmos gar gignosko_.’” + +The President applauded the enthusiasm which prevailed. Outside the +pension office several hundred one-armed and wooden-legged veterans were +seeking admittance: inside the office the crowd of old soldiers was +still greater. Standing on tiptoe, and peering over the crowd, the +President could see the pension commissioner, Gen. Black, hard at work +handing out bags of money to the crippled pensioners. + +“’Tis well,” said President Cleveland, smiling. Then he went back to the +Post-Office Department, but Vilas was not there. This was a severe +blow,—an awful shock. President Cleveland brooded over it, and the tears +came into his eyes. As he passed the Department of Agriculture, he saw +the commissioner in the garden, watering the tulips, and pruning the +young rhubarb-plants. This sight cheered him somewhat; but still the +President brooded over Vilas’s absence from his post of duty, and he +indulged in the most melancholy reflections until he nearly reached +home,—yes, till he had come to the White-House gate. Then a cheery +whistle startled him from his sad revery. Looking up, he beheld +Secretary Vilas tripping gayly down the walk, carrying a leathern bag, +and whistling a merry air from “Falka.” + +“I have just left a bundle of letters with Lamont for you,” said Vilas. + +“How do you happen to be here, instead of at your post of duty?” +inquired the President gloomily. + +“Why, when I got down to the office at four o’clock this morning,” +explained Vilas, “I found one of our men sick; so I concluded to carry +his route for him myself to-day.” + +A few moments later, President Cleveland, having removed his coat, +collar, and necktie, seated himself at his desk in the White House, and +was ready for work. + +“Daniel,” said he to his private secretary, “I feel encouraged, for I +have irrefutable evidence that my cabinet is _en rapport_ with the +administration. The republic has indeed entered upon an era of Arcadian +simplicity.” + + + + + _The Drama Discussed._ + + +Our esteemed fellow-townsman, Egbert Jamieson, Esq., had a remarkably +pleasant interview with President Cleveland the other day. The President +was in his best mood, and he produced a favorable impression upon his +gifted visitor. + +“Col. Lamont tells me,” said Mr. Cleveland, “that you are a dramatic +author.” + +“Ah!” replied Mr. Jamieson, blushing, “I do not know that I would call +myself one, although it is true that in leisure moments I have tossed +off a comedy or two.” + +“I would like to read your works,” said Mr. Cleveland cordially. “When I +was living in Buffalo, and had more time than I have now, I used to go +to the theatre quite often. I saw Matilda Heron play ‘Camille’ in 1859; +and, although the lady appeared to be suffering with a severe cold at +the time, I don’t know when I have witnessed a more satisfactory +performance. I have also seen Joseph Winkle in ‘Rip Van Jefferson,’ and +Mark Twain in Mulberry Raymond’s play of ‘Millions In It.’ I am +naturally fond of the drama, and I read Shakespeare, Sheridan, Jonson, +and other dramatists every now and then; but I never had the pleasure of +meeting with your works.” + +“My dramatic work,” explained Mr. Jamieson modestly, “belongs to the +modern school: do you like the modern school? have you heard that piece +of Dixey’s yet?” + +“Yes, often, often,” answered Mr. Cleveland. “The Marine Band plays it +every Saturday afternoon, and I fancy it mightily; although I am averse +to what might be called sectional or partisan music.” + +Thus in pleasant discourse did the President and Mr. Jamieson pass as +profitable an hour as ever fell to the lot of two agreeable gentlemen. +When Mr. Jamieson returned to Willard’s Hotel, an anxious friend asked +him whether Cleveland had promised him the attorneyship he was after. + +“Well, no, I can’t say that he has,” said Mr. Jamieson; “but there is a +good deal of satisfaction in knowing that the administration and I are +_en rapport_ on the subject of the drama.” + + + + + _The Vale of Cashmere._ + + +When the Hon. F. H. Winston, our minister to Persia, heard that +President Cleveland had married without letting him know any thing about +it, he was deeply mortified. He brooded in grim silence while his +dragoman, Prince von Schierbrand, read aloud the official report of the +wedding. + +“Hold on a minute,” he cried, interrupting the prince at one point in +his perusal: “read that last sentence again.” + +“‘The bride wore a tulle veil bedecked with orange-blossoms,’” repeated +the dragoman slowly and with emphasis. + +“Good enough for her!” ejaculated the great diplomate, smiling with +diabolical satisfaction. “If they’d only let me into the secret, with my +influence here at court, I could have sent the bride the veil of +cashmere; and I’ll bet _that_ would have beaten the rest of her +_trousseau_ all hollow!” + + + + + _The Friend of the Indian._ + + +As President Cleveland was proceeding from the east front of the +Capitol, after the inauguration ceremonies yesterday, among the vast +throng that surrounded him with congratulatory words was a very +neat-looking gentleman wearing a dark-brown overcoat, black kid gloves, +and a shiny plug hat, and carrying an umbrella in a nice new silk cover. + +“How do you do, Mr. President?” exclaimed the neat-looking gentleman +cordially. + +“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Mr. Cleveland. + +“Can I see you a moment privately?” inquired the neat-looking gentleman, +attempting to draw the new President to one side. + +“Really, sir, it is impossible to grant your request just at this +moment,” said Mr. Cleveland, stanchly maintaining his ground. + +“You seem to have forgotten me,” persisted the neat-looking gentleman: +“I am Erskine M. Phelps, president of the Iroquois Club.” + +“I can do nothing for you just at this moment,” replied Mr. Cleveland; +“but you can depend upon it, I was sincere when I declared in my speech +to-day that you Indians should be fairly and honestly treated.” + + + + + _The Way of the Sex._ + + One morning in May, as the doodle-bug lay + In her cavern a fathom down under the ground, + The poodle-dog came, and he murmured her name, + And the doodle-bug’s heart gave a rapturous bound. + “O doodle, dear doodle!” + Soft murmured the poodle: + “What now, Mr. Poodle?” + Responded the doodle. + Then he told her his love, did the amorous poodle. + + But the doodle-bug said, with a toss of her head, + “What stocks, bonds, or moneys, I pri’thee have you?” + But the poodle replied, “I have nothing beside + My beautiful fleece and a heart that is true.” + “Well, then, Mr. Poodle,” + Retorted the doodle, + “I’m not such a noodle, + To wed a kiudle + Who hasn’t a boodle”— + And she gave him the mitten, the frugal Miss Doodle. + + + + + _After Many Years._ + + +At the panorama of the Battle of Shiloh in this city a few days ago, a +small, shrivelled-up man made himself conspicuous by going around the +place snivelling dolorously. He did not appear to be more than five feet +high. He was dressed all in black, and his attenuated form and gray +whiskers gave him a peculiarly grotesque appearance. He seemed to be +greatly interested in the panorama; and, as he moved from one point of +view to another, he groaned and wept copiously. A tall, raw-boned man +approached him: he wore gray clothes and a military slouch hat, and he +had the general appearance of a Missourian away from home on a holiday. + +“Reckon you were at Shiloh, eh, stranger?” asked the tall, raw-boned +man. + +“Yes,” replied the small, shrivelled-up man, “and I shall never forget +it: it was the toughest battle of the war.” + +“I was thar,” said the tall, raw-boned man; “and my regiment was drawn +up right over yonder where you see that clump of trees.” + +“You were a rebel, then?” + +“I was a Confederate,” replied the tall, raw-boned man; “and I did some +right smart fighting among that clump of trees that day.” + +“I remember it well,” said the small, shrivelled-up man, “for I was a +Federal soldier; and the toughest scrimmage in all that battle was just +among that clump of trees.” + +“Prentiss was the Yankee general,” remarked the tall, raw-boned man; +“and I’d have given a pretty to have seen him that day. But, dog-on me! +the little cuss kept out of sight, and we uns came to the conclusion he +was hidin’ back in the rear somewhar.” + +“Our boys were after Marmaduke,” said the small, shrivelled-up man; “for +he was the rebel general, and had bothered us a great deal. But we could +get no glimpse of him: he was too sharp to come to the front, and it was +lucky for him too.” + +“Oh, but what a scrimmage it was!” said the tall, raw-boned man. + +“How the sabres clashed, and how the minies whistled!” cried the small, +shrivelled-up man. + +The panorama brought back the old time with all the vividness of a +yesterday’s occurrence. The two men were filled with a strange yet +beautiful enthusiasm. + +“Stranger,” cried the tall, raw-boned man, “we fought each other like +devils that day, and we fought to kill. But the war’s over now, and we +ain’t soldiers any longer—gimme your hand!” + +“With pleasure,” said the small, shrivelled-up man; and the two clasped +hands. + +“What might be your name?” inquired the tall, raw-boned man. + +“I am Gen. B. M. Prentiss,” said the small, shrivelled-up man. + +“The —— you say!” exclaimed the tall, raw-boned man. + +“Yes,” re-affirmed the small, shrivelled-up man; “and who are you?” + +“I,” replied the tall, raw-boned man, “I am Gen. John S. Marmaduke.” + + + + + _A Society Item._ + + +The observed of all observers at the opera last evening was Mrs. Col. +Henry J. Bowers, the beautiful and accomplished wife of Col. Henry J. +Bowers, general manager of the Fond du Lac Narrow Gauge. Mrs. Bowers, +accompanied by Miss Cecilia Muggins of Grand Rapids, her queenly niece, +occupied proscenium-box B, and won universal admiration, not more by the +nice discrimination with which she approved the performance, than by the +superb toilet in which she was attired. Mrs. B. is the daughter of Peter +Muggins, the millionnaire pork-packer of Omaha, who came to this country +forty years ago a poor lad, and engaged in commerce as a driver on the +Illinois and Michigan Canal. Before her marriage, she was the belle of +her native town; and since that auspicious event, she has been the +acknowledged queen of the _recherche_ social circle in which she moves. + + + + + _“Die Walküre” und der Boomerangelungen._ + + +There is a strange fascination about Herr Wagner’s musical drama of “Die +Walküre.” A great many people have supposed that Herr Sullivan’s opera +of “Das Pinafore” was the most remarkable musical work extant, but we +believe the mistake will become apparent as Herr Wagner’s masterpiece +grows in years. We will not pretend to say that “Die Walküre” will ever +be whistled about the streets, as the airs from “Das Pinafore” are +whistled: the fact is, that no rendition of “Die Walküre” can be +satisfactory without the accompaniment of weird flashes of fire; and it +is hardly to be expected that our youth will carry packages of +lycopodium, and boxes of matches, around with them, for the sole purpose +of giving the desired effect to any snatches from Herr Wagner’s work +they may take the notion to whistle. But in the sanctity of our homes, +around our firesides, in the front-parlor, where the melodeon or the +newly hired piano has been set up, it is there that Herr Wagner’s name +will be revered, and his masterpiece repeated o’er and o’er. The +libretto is not above criticism: it strikes us that there is not enough +of it. The probability is, that Herr Wagner ran out of libretto before +he had got through with his music, and therefore had to spread out +comparatively few words over a vast expanse of music. The result is, +that a great part of the time the performers are on the stage is devoted +to thought, the orchestra doing a tremendous amount of fiddling, etc., +while the actors wander drearily around, with their arms folded across +their pulmonary departments, and their minds evidently absorbed in +profound cogitation. As for the music, the only criticism we have to +pass upon it is, that it changes its subject too often: in this +particular it resembles the dictionary,—in fact, we believe “Die +Walküre” can be termed the Webster’s Unabridged of musical language. +Herr Wagner has his own way of doing business. He goes at it on the +principle of the twelfth man, who holds out against the eleven other +jurors, and finally brings them around to his way of thinking. For +instance, in the midst of a pleasing strain in B natural, Herr Wagner +has a habit of suddenly bringing out a small reed-instrument with a big +voice (we do not know its name), piped in the key of F sharp. This small +reed-instrument will not let go: it holds on to that F sharp like a +mortgage. For a brief period the rest of the instruments—fiddles, +bassoons, viols, flutes, flageolets, cymbals, drums, etc.—struggle along +with an attempt to either drown the intruder, or bring it around to +their way of doing business; but it is vain. Every last one of them has +to slide around from B natural to F sharp, and they do it as best they +can. Having accomplished its incendiary and revolutionary purpose, the +small reed-instrument subsides until it finds another chance to break +out. It is a mugwump. + +Die Walkuren, as given us by the Damrosch Company, are nine stout, +comely, young women, attired in costumes somewhat similar to the armor +worn by Herr Lawrence Barrett’s Roman army in Herr Shakespeare’s play of +“Der Julius Cæsar.” Readers of Norse mythology may suppose that these +weird sisters were dim, vague, shadowy creatures; but they are mistaken. +Brunnhilde has the _embonpoint_ of a dowager, and her arms are as robust +and red as a dairymaid’s. As for Gerhilde, Waltraute, Helmwige, and the +rest, they are well-fed, buxom ladies, evidently of middle age, whose +very appearance exhales an aroma of kraut and garlic, which, by the way, +we see, by the libretto, was termed “mead” in the days of Wotan and his +court. These Die Walkuren are said to ride fiery, untamed steeds; but +only one steed is exhibited in the drama, as it is given at the +Columbia. This steed, we regret to say, is a restless, noisy brute, and +invariably has to be led off the stage by one of das supes, before his +act concludes. However, no one should doubt his heroic nature, inasmuch +as the cabalistic letters “U. S.” are distinctly branded upon his left +flank. + +The Sieglinde of the piece is Fraulein Slach, a young lady no bigger +than a minute, but with wonderful powers of endurance. To say nothing of +Hunding’s persecutions, she has to shield Siegmund, elope with him, +climb beetling precipices, ride Brunnhilde’s fiery, untamed steed, +confront die Walkuren, and look on her slain lover, and, in addition to +these prodigies, participate in a Græco-Roman wrestling-match with an +orchestra of sixty-five pieces for three hours and a half. Yet she is +equal to the emergency. Up to the very last she is as fresh as a daisy; +and, after recovering from her swooning-spell in the second act, she +braces her shoulders back, and dances all around the top notes of the +chromatic scale with the greatest of ease. She is a wonderful little +woman, is Fraulein Slach! What a wee bit of humanity, yet what a volume +of voice she has, and what endurance! + +Down among the orchestra people sat a pale, sad man. His apparent +lonesomeness interested us deeply. We could not imagine what he was +there for. Every once in a while he would get up and leave the +orchestra, and dive down under the stage, and appear behind the scenes, +where we could catch glimpses of him practising with a pair of +thirty-pound dumb-bells, and testing a spirometer. Then he would come +back and re-occupy his old seat among the orchestra, and look paler and +sadder than ever. What strange, mysterious being was he? Why did he +inflict his pale, sad presence upon that galaxy of tuneful revellers? +What a cunning master the great Herr Wagner is! For what emergency does +he not provide? It was half-past eleven when the third act began. Die +Walkuren had assembled in the dismal dell,—all but the den Walkure, +Brunnhilde. Wotan is approaching on appalling storm-clouds, composed of +painted mosquito-bars and blue lights. The sheet-iron thunder crashes; +and the orchestra is engaged in another mortal combat with that +revolutionary mugwump, the small reed-instrument, that persists in +reforming the tune of the opera. Then the pale, sad man produces a large +brass horn, big enough at the business end for a cow to walk into. It is +a fearful, ponderous instrument, manufactured especially for “Die +Walküre” at the Krupp Gun Factory in Essen. It has an appropriate name: +the master himself christened it the boomerangelungen. It is the +monarch, the Jumbo of all musical dinguses. The cuspidor end of it +protrudes into one of the proscenium-boxes. The fair occupants of the +box are frightened, and timidly shrink back. Wotan is at hand. He comes +upon seven hundred yards of white tarletan, and fourteen pounds of +hissing, blazing lycopodium! The pale, sad man at the other end of the +boomerangelungen explains his wherefore. He applies his lips to the +brazen monster. His eyeballs hang out upon his cheeks, the veins rise on +his neck, and the lumpy cords and muscles stand out on his arms and +hands. Boohoop, boohoop!—yes, six times boohoop does that brazen +megatherium blare out, vivid and distinct, above all the other sixty +instruments in the orchestra. Then the white tarletan clouds vanish, the +blazing lycopodium goes out, and Wotan stands before the excited +spectators. Then the pale, sad man lays down the boomerangelungen, and +goes home. That is all he has to do: the six sonorous boohoops, +announcing the presence of Wotan, is all that is demanded of the +boomerangelungen. But it is enough: it is marvellous, appalling, +prodigious. Whose genius but Herr Wagner’s could have found employment +for the boomerangelungen? We hear talk of the sword motive, the love +motive, the Walhalla motive, and this motive, and that; but they all +shrink into nothingness when compared with the motive of the +boomerangelungen. + + + + + _An Angered Teuton._ + + +A gentleman living out on Franklin Street sends the following +communication to this paper, under date of March 12:— + + “_To the Editor._—Your to-day’s edition brings an article on ‘The + Walküre.’ Are you aware of the fact that your daily issue is, + according to your own statement, nearly a hundred and fifty thousand? + You ought to expect that out of these hundred and fifty thousand, at + least fifteen hundred will read your paper. Now, how can you, in the + face of this number, print the monstrous pollutions of a Lausbub, who + sat down and described his voluptuous ignorance in a manner which + ought to drive the blush of shame to his face, if he has any? There is + no use going into the details of his work: they, as well as it, are + simply disgusting. I would excuse any _gentleman_ who does not like + Wagner’s music, for saying so in a gentleman-like manner; but a man of + the standing of your correspondent, whose expressions are printed in a + paper of the standing of ‘The Daily News,’—I expect without + control,—such a man, if he really be the brute he attempts to make out + of himself, ought to be tortured to death by Wagner’s music, and the + smell of garlic of ‘The Walküre.’ I write this to you as an expression + of my disgust,” etc. + + + + + _“Die Walküre” Analyzed._ + + +Professor Eliphalet J. Snodgrass, emeritus professor of æsthetic +chemistry at Chicago University, has analyzed the specimen of Wagner’s +“Die Walküre” we sent him last Wednesday morning, and he finds that this +inspired work of the great German master is composed of the following +proportionate parts:— + + Libretto 06 + String-music 12 + Wind-music 15 + Motives 25 + Bass-drums and cymbals 14 + Lycopodium and sheet-iron thunder 13 + Flapdoodle, flubdub, and imagination 15 + ——— + Total 100 + +This chemical analysis is confirmed, we understand, by the numerous +musical critics of the Chicago press, who have surveyed the performance +of “Die Walküre” at the Columbia this week, with quadrants, theodolites, +and tuning-forks, in the parquette circle. We are not sure but what a +study of these critics, as they appear under full headway at an opera, +is more profitable than a study of the performance on the stage. At +least, an observation of their methods teaches us the means by which the +human mind can arrive at perfection in the art of musical criticism. + + + + + _A Felicitous Toast._ + + +“May your shadow never grow less!” was the singularly felicitous toast +which Major M. P. Handy, president of the Clover Club, proposed to Miss +Sara Bernhardt at a Philadelphia banquet the other evening. + + + + + _The Farmer Candidate._ + + +Farmer Carter H. Harrison, the Democratic candidate for governor, went +out to the State Fair yesterday in his honest old lumber-wagon, drawn by +a couple of steers. He was received with intense enthusiasm by the +simple country-folk, who seem to regard him as the modern Cincinnatus. +Much to his chagrin, however, the sturdy old farmer discovered, through +the shrewd tactics of the Hon. John W. Bunn, chairman of the State +Republican Executive Committee, the fair had assumed the air and +appearance of a Blaine and Logan ratification meeting. There were Jim +Blaine squashes, John Logan pumpkins, Plumed Knight butter, Black Jack +preserves, Magnetic pears, Mulligan potatoes, to say nothing of the +cattle, sheep, swine, horses, mules, goats, roosters, drakes, and +ganders that bore the inspiring names of Blaine, Logan, Black Eagle, +Pride of Maine, Our James, Eloquent John, Little Rock Jim, Sunstroke, +etc. In a word, it was evident that the determination on the part of +Bunn, and other Republican managers, to give none of the premiums to any +exhibiter who was not a reliable Republican, had converted the State +Fair into a mammoth Republican ratification meeting. Farmer Harrison’s +bosom was perturbed by the contending emotion of wounded pride, +righteous indignation, horror, and scorn. His eagle eyes flashed, and an +ominous scowl clouded his sunburned brow. He determined to do something +at once that would counteract the effect of this infamous trickery, and +confound the conscienceless Republican managers upon their own +vantage-ground. So he approached one of the stock-stalls, where a +guileless-looking old rustic was lazily chewing tobacco, and watching +over a fine, fat specimen of the bovine kind. + +“Ah, my good friend,” said Farmer Harrison, in his oiliest tones, “what +a superb animal that is!” + +“Yes,” replied the rustic, “a very clever critter.” + +“What do you call him?” inquired Farmer Harrison. “Do you call him Jim +Blaine?” + +“Naw,” replied the rustic. + +“Logan or Oglesby?” asked Farmer Harrison. + +“Naw.” + +“Perhaps you have named him the Plumed Knight, or Black Eagle, or Uncle +Dick?” suggested the farmer candidate. + +“Naw,” said the rustic: “’tain’t got no name ’t all.” + +“I thought not,” cried Farmer Harrison. “There was an indescribable +something about your appearance, my good friend,—a certain candor, +dignity, and valor,—that told me, ‘This man is no tool of the corrupt +ringsters who are now attempting to foist themselves upon the honest +yeomanry of Illinois.’ Your erect figure, your manly face, your hearty +voice, and your ingenious manner, bespeak your independence of all the +subtle influences of corruption. You are a Democrat, sir,—a grand old +Jacksonian Democrat,—unless your honest looks belie you!” + +“Waal, I am, by gosh!” said the rustic earnestly. + +“Now, I’ve a proposition to make to you,” said Farmer Harrison softly, +“and it is this: you name this noble animal after me, and placard him +‘Carter H. Harrison,’ and I’ll do something for you after I’m elected +governor.” + +“Waal, now, gov’ner,” said the rustic, confused like, “I’m drefful +sorry, but I can’t conscientiously do it.” + +“What!” cried Farmer Harrison. “Do you mean to say that you, an old +Jacksonian Democrat, decline to perform this simple duty at a moment +when the hand of corruption is outstretched to throttle our fair +republic? Do you mean to say that in this emergency and at this supreme +moment you refuse to name this sleek brute ‘Carter H. Harrison,’ and +thereby redeem this State Fair from eternal ignominy?” + +“Now, really, gov’ner, I can’t,” persisted the rustic. + +“And why not?” demanded Farmer Harrison. + +“I don’t care to say: I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s.” + +“Speak out, old man,” cried Farmer Harrison. “‘Hew to the line, let the +chips fall where they may.’ At this moment, let there be no +equivocation, no hesitation, no concealment: speak out, old man, that +your answer may be recorded, and go thundering down the ages!” + +“Waal, then,” said the venerable rustic, “if you insist upon knowin’ my +reason, I can’t do it, ’cause the critter’s a heifer!” + + + + + _The Mummy’s Conundrum._ + + +A floating item tells us that Omaha is the cheapest place in the country +to die in. But why die in Omaha, when one can live as cheap in St. +Louis, and at the same time serve all the purposes of being dead in +other localities? It is related by one of our most reliable citizens, +who has travelled much abroad, that he once visited the catacombs of +Rome. Deep in the bowels of the earth, surrounded by the mouldy +skeletons of other centuries, and oppressed by the weird gloom of the +labyrinth of the dead, the traveller abandoned himself to solemn +reflections. + +“This, then,” said he, half aloud, “this is the city of the dim, +mysterious past—the vast charnel-house in which the glory, the flower, +the cream, the ambition, of other generations crumble to dust! Grim +mocker of mortality—genius of oblivion! this granary of human clay is +thy cherished and supreme abode!” + +To this apostrophe, a musty mummy of the time of Nero the violinist, +raising himself rheumatically from his couch in a mouldy niche, replied, +“Stranger, I reckon you’ve never been in St. Louis, Mo.” + + +[Illustration: THE END.] + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● The author appeared to dislike the use of apostrophes to indicate + possession in poetry and did not alter them. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=. + ● Images without captions use the HTML alt text supplied by the + transcriber in place of a caption. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78956 *** |