path: root/78956-0.txt

*** 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 ***