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<body>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78956 ***</div>
<div class='tnotes covernote'>
<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>
<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>
</div>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i000.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE AUTHOR AT THE AGE OF 30<br> <br> <span class='small'>[A.D. 1880]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='titlepage'>
<div>
<h1 class='c001'><span class='sc'>Culture’s Garland</span><br> <span class='small'><i>BEING MEMORANDA OF</i></span><br> <span class='large'>THE GRADUAL RISE OF LITERATURE, ART, MUSIC AND SOCIETY IN CHICAGO, AND OTHER WESTERN GANGLIA</span></h1>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
<div><span class='small'>BY</span></div>
<div class='c003'><span class='xlarge'>EUGENE FIELD</span></div>
<div class='c003'><span class='small'>WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY</span></div>
<div class='c003'>JULIAN HAWTHORNE</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figcenter id002'>
<img src='images/i_title.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>BOSTON</div>
<div><span class='sc'>Ticknor and Company</span></div>
<div><span class='blackletter'>211 Tremont Street</span></div>
<div>1887</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
<div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Copyright, 1887, by</span></span></div>
<div><span class='small'>TICKNOR & COMPANY.</span></div>
<div class='c003'><span class='small'><i>All rights reserved.</i></span></div>
<div class='c002'><span class='small'>ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED</span></div>
<div><span class='small'>BY RAND AVERY COMPANY.</span></div>
<div><span class='small'>BOSTON</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_vii'>vii</span>
<h2 class='c004'>PREFACE.</h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_viii'>viii</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_ix'>ix</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>The present little volume comprises mainly a bubbling-forth
of delightful <i>badinage</i> 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: <i><span lang="la">mutato nomine, de te
fabula narratur</span></i>. 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!</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>JULIAN HAWTHORNE.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>June, 1887.</span></p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xi'>xi</span>
<h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>
<table class='table0'>
<tr>
<td class='c008'></td>
<th class='c009'>PAGE</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Kinsley’s Book</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Literature and Art</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_4'>4</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Cooley Poems</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_5'>5</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Judge Cooley’s Denial</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_16'>16</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Literary Notes</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_18'>18</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Doty Mad</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_19'>19</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Chicago Palmistry</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_21'>21</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Marvellous Invention</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_24'>24</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Books and Authors</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_30'>30</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Chicago Hamlets</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_31'>31</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Literary Wayside</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_38'>38</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Beautiful Article of Virtue</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_39'>39</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Shakespeares Identified</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_42'>42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Among the Literati</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_50'>50</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Markeesy di Pullman</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_51'>51</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Literary Laconics</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_58'>58</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>As to the Garter of a Markeesy</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_59'>59</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Emerson in ’Frisco</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_64'>64</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Summer Philosopher</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_66'>66</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Truth about Dante</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_68'>68</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Good Cause</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_76'>76</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Convention of Western Writers</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_77'>77</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Poet’s Corner</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_80'>80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Western Boy’s Lament</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_80'>80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Story of Xanthippe</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_81'>81</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Philadelphia</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_89'>89</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Humanity</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_91'>91</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Baked Beans and Culture</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_92'>92</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xii'>xii</span><span class='sc'>Mr. Isaac Watts, Tutor</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_96'>96</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Revision</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_104'>104</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Official Explanation</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_106'>106</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Yankee Chorus Girls</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_107'>107</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Dixey as a Nemesis</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_109'>109</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Professor Lowell in Chicago</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_113'>113</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Elder’s Fright</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_131'>131</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Ethel’s Christmas Tale</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_135'>135</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Chicago Weather</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_137'>137</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Chicago Christmas Legend</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_138'>138</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Plea for the Classics</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_141'>141</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mlle. Prud’homme’s Book</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_142'>142</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Her Genuine Culture</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_146'>146</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Demand for Condensed Music</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_147'>147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Opera, Opuses, and Opi</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_150'>150</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Chicago the Music Centre</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_151'>151</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Still Blooming</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_152'>152</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Offence</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_153'>153</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Lament</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_155'>155</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Apology</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_156'>156</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A German Personal</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_157'>157</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar” (1)</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_158'>158</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar” (2)</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_163'>163</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Miss Bayle’s Romance</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_168'>168</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Humorist’s Courtship</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_170'>170</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>That One Floating Vote</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_174'>174</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Persian Mission</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_175'>175</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Senator’s Valor</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_179'>179</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Season of New Music</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_182'>182</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Apollo Located</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_184'>184</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>An Exile’s Nuptials</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_185'>185</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Patronize Home Art</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_187'>187</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>An Old Feud</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_189'>189</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Hegira Threatened</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_192'>192</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Spanish Romance</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_197'>197</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>More about Miss Field</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_200'>200</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Kentuckian’s Sagacity</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_202'>202</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Col. Judd’s Narrow Escape</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_203'>203</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xiii'>xiii</span><span class='sc'>A White-House Ballad.—I.</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_206'>206</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>An Editorial Schedule</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_207'>207</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A White-House Ballad.—II.</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_209'>209</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Haskells, Père et Fils</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_210'>210</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A White-House Ballad.—III.</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_211'>211</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>More about Col. Haskell</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_212'>212</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Another New Book</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_213'>213</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Slattery of Boston</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_214'>214</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mme. L’Allemand’s Humor</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_218'>218</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Veteran Actor</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_220'>220</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A White-House Ballad.—IV.</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_221'>221</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Life, Death, and Love</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_222'>222</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Pike’s Peak</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_225'>225</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Christian-County Mosquitoes</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_226'>226</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Dying Soldier</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_228'>228</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>His First Day at Editing</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_229'>229</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Little Peach</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_236'>236</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Learning and Literature</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_237'>237</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Some Famous Apologies</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_240'>240</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Victoria at the Show</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_242'>242</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Farmer’s Advice</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_243'>243</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Chicago German Lyric</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_244'>244</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Works of Sappho</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_245'>245</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>November</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_253'>253</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Novelette</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_254'>254</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Inter-State Commerce Bill Items</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_257'>257</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Wizard of Vermilion</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_258'>258</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Why He was Tardy</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_261'>261</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Base-Ball as a Classic</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_262'>262</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Culled in Helicon</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_265'>265</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Oon Criteek de Bernhardt</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_267'>267</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Oon Conversarzyony Frongsay</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_274'>274</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Fearless Protector</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_277'>277</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Knapp’s Scheme</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_278'>278</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Fine Old Book</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_279'>279</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Stealing our Thunder</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_282'>282</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Lost, Strayed, or Stolen</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_285'>285</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Condensed Literature</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_286'>286</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xiv'>xiv</span><span class='sc'>Dr. Warner in Chicago</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_288'>288</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>An Anxious Inquiry</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_289'>289</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Chip of the Old Block</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_290'>290</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Crown Jewels</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_291'>291</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mr. Goodwin’s Yacht</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_295'>295</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Laudable Scheme</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_297'>297</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Era of Reform</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_298'>298</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Drama Discussed</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_307'>307</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Vale of Cashmere</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_308'>308</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Friend of the Indian</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_309'>309</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Way of the Sex</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_310'>310</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>After Many Years</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_311'>311</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Society Item</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_313'>313</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'><span lang="de">“Die Walküre” und der Boomerangelungen</span></span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_314'>314</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>An Angered Teuton</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_319'>319</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>“<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>” Analyzed</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_320'>320</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Felicitous Toast</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_321'>321</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Farmer Candidate</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_322'>322</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Mummy’s Conundrum</span></td>
<td class='c009'><a href='#Page_325'>325</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='c002 figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_xv.jpg' alt='A simple black-and-white ink illustration depicting a circular necklace or string made of thirteen sausages, with two additional matching links hanging straight down from the bottom center closure.' class='ig001'>
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A CHICAGO LITERARY CIRCLE<br> <br> IN THE SIMILITUDE OF A LAUREL WREATH</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter ph1'>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c010'>
<div>CULTURE’S GARLAND.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Kinsley’s Book.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<i>littérateurs</i>. 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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>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
<i>tutti-frutti</i> ice for one dollar, a dozen <i><span lang="fr">pommes de
terre fraises</span></i> for three dollars, <i><span lang="fr">sauterne frappe</span></i> for
two dollars and a half per gallon, chicken <i><span lang="fr">à la
Rheine</span></i> soup for one dollar per quart, <i><span lang="fr">à la Marengo</span></i>
sauce for two dollars per quart, <i><span lang="fr">fricadelle de foie
gras</span></i> 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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>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,—</p>
<p class='c007'>“Fashions change in modes of eating.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Never appear impatient, and employ the time in agreeable
conversation.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Soup should be eaten carefully.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Never eat with a knife.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Never rise until the meal is finished.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Sit upright, with grace and dignity.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“A fork should be used gracefully.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Do not pick the teeth with the cutlery.”</p>
<p class='c007'>“Do not break the china or glassware unless you expect
to pay double price for it.”</p>
<p class='c006'>These are a few of the pleasant and admirable
fundamental laws which author Kinsley lays down
for the guidance of his patrons, presumably the
<i>élite</i>, the <i>crême de la crême</i>, 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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>So we say we like the book; and, having perused
<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>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!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Literature and Art.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>We</span> 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 <i>littérateur</i> 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 <i>chef-d’œuvre</i>
should find its way into every home.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Angelo Ludovico</span>, 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Cooley Poems.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='c002 figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_005.jpg' alt='Judge Thomas M. Cooley' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>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 <i>have</i> written
poetry, and that, therefore, there is no positive
reason why the leading intellect of Michigan
should not write poetry.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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—<i>further</i> crime has been prevented by an
outburst of the emotional nature in the direction
of poetry, which afforded the escape-valve so
imperatively demanded.</p>
<p class='c006'>It is very probable that Solon’s occasional pursuit
<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>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.</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_008.jpg' alt='Judge Cooley' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in20'>OLD AGE.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>When age is absent, we are eager for it;</div>
<div class='line in2'>But when it comes, oh! how we all abhor it!</div>
<div class='line'>So, on the whole, we think we like it better</div>
<div class='line in2'>When it is still a debt, and we the debtor.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>In a lighter vein, but with consummate delicacy,
and with wonderful fidelity to the text of Lucian,
young Cooley thus pays his respects to</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in16'>A CERTAIN FOOL.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A fool, when plagued by fleas at night,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Quoth, “Since these neighbors so despite me,</div>
<div class='line'>I think I will put out the light,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And then they cannot see to bite me!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>And here is Plato’s famous quatrain to</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in16'>ASTER.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Seeing thee gaze into the night,</div>
<div class='line in2'>I would I were the yonder skies,</div>
<div class='line'>That tenderly, dear love, I might</div>
<div class='line in2'>Behold thee with a myriad eyes.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Nicyllam bellis oculis—</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="la">(Videre est amare)</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="la">Carminibus et poculis,</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="la">Tra la la, tra la la,</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="la">Me placet propinare;</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="la">Tra la la, tra la la—</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="la">Me placet propinare!</span>”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in10'>THE DIVINE LULLABY.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>I hear thy voice, dear Lord;</div>
<div class='line'>I hear it by the stormy sea</div>
<div class='line in2'>When winter nights are black and wild;</div>
<div class='line'>And when affright I call to thee,</div>
<div class='line'>It calms my fears, and whispers me,</div>
<div class='line in2'>“Sleep well, my child.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>I hear thy voice, dear Lord,</div>
<div class='line'>In singing winds, in falling snow,</div>
<div class='line in2'>The curfew chime, the midnight bell:</div>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>“Sleep well, my child,” it murmurs low,</div>
<div class='line'>“The guardian angels come and go—</div>
<div class='line in2'>O child, sleep well!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>I hear thy voice, dear Lord:</div>
<div class='line'>Ay, though the singing winds be stilled,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Though hushed the tumult of the deep,</div>
<div class='line'>My fainting heart with anguish chilled,</div>
<div class='line'>By thy assuring tone is thrilled—</div>
<div class='line in2'>“Fear not and sleep.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>Speak on—speak on, dear Lord;</div>
<div class='line'>And when the last dread night is near,</div>
<div class='line in2'>With doubts and fears and terrors wild,</div>
<div class='line'>Oh, let my soul expiring hear</div>
<div class='line'>Only these words of heavenly cheer,</div>
<div class='line in2'>“Sleep well, my child!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c013'><sup>[1]</sup></a></p>
<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c006'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. 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.</p>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><i>Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>To-fill our hearts with heedless mirth</i></div>
<div class='line in6'><i>This holy Christmasse time,</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>But give us of thy heavenly cheere,</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>That we may hold thy love most deere,</i></div>
<div class='line in6'><i>And know thy peace sublime.</i></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'> · · · · ·</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Full merry waxed King Pelles court</div>
<div class='line'>With yule-tide cheer and yule-tide sport;</div>
<div class='line in6'>And, when the board was spread,</div>
<div class='line'>Now wit ye well, twas good to see</div>
<div class='line'>So fair and brave a company,</div>
<div class='line in6'>With Pelles at the head.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Come hence, Elaine,” King Pelles cried,</div>
<div class='line'>“Come hence, and sit ye by my side;</div>
<div class='line in6'>For never yet, I trow,</div>
<div class='line'>Have gentle virtues like to thine,</div>
<div class='line'>Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Nor shall be nevermo.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Swote sir, my father,” quoth Elaine,</div>
<div class='line'>“Me it repents to give thee pain,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Yet tarry I may not;</div>
<div class='line'>For I shall soond and I shall die,</div>
<div class='line'>If I behold this company,</div>
<div class='line in6'>And see not Launcelot!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“My heart shall have no love but this—</div>
<div class='line'>My lips shall know none others kiss,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Save only, father, thine;</div>
<div class='line'>So graunt me leave to seek my bower—</div>
<div class='line'>The lonely chamber in the toure,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Where sleeps his child and mine.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>Then frowned the king in sore despite—</div>
<div class='line'>Sais: “May the divell take that knight,</div>
<div class='line in6'>For that the churl hath lied!</div>
<div class='line'>A base, unchristian paynim he,</div>
<div class='line'>Else, by my beard, he would not be</div>
<div class='line in6'>A recreant to his bride!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Oh, I had liefer yield my life</div>
<div class='line'>Than see thee the deserted wife</div>
<div class='line in6'>Of traitrous Launcelot!</div>
<div class='line'>Yet, an thou hast no mind to stay,</div>
<div class='line'>Go with thy damosels away—</div>
<div class='line in6'>Lo, I’ll detain ye not.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Her damosels in goodly train,</div>
<div class='line'>Back to her chamber led Elaine;</div>
<div class='line in6'>And, when her eyes were cast</div>
<div class='line'>Upon her babe, her tears did flow,</div>
<div class='line'>And she did wail and wepe as though</div>
<div class='line in6'>Her heart had like to brast.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The while she grieved, the yule-tide sport</div>
<div class='line'>Waxed lustier in King Pelles court,</div>
<div class='line in6'>And louder houre by houre</div>
<div class='line'>The echoes of the rout were borne</div>
<div class='line'>To where the lady all forlorn</div>
<div class='line in6'>Made moning in the toure.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Swete Chryste,” she cried, “ne let me hear</div>
<div class='line'>These ribald sounds of yule-tide cheer,</div>
<div class='line in6'>That mock at mine and me;</div>
<div class='line'>Graunt that my sore affliction cease,</div>
<div class='line'>And give me of the heavenly peace</div>
<div class='line in6'>That comes with thoughts of thee.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light</div>
<div class='line'>Made all that lonely chamber bright;</div>
<div class='line in6'>And o’er the infant’s bed</div>
<div class='line'>A spirit hand, as samite pale,</div>
<div class='line'>Held sodaine forth the Holy Grail</div>
<div class='line in6'>Above the infants head.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And from the sacred golden cup</div>
<div class='line'>A subtle incense floated up,</div>
<div class='line in6'>And filled the conscious air;</div>
<div class='line'>Which, when she breathed, the fair Elaine</div>
<div class='line'>Forgot her grief, forgot her pain,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Forgot her sore despair.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And as the Grails mysterious balm</div>
<div class='line'>Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Great mervail twas to see</div>
<div class='line'>The sleeping child stretch one hand up,</div>
<div class='line'>As if in dreams he held the cup,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Which none mought win but he.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Through all the night King Pelles court</div>
<div class='line'>Made mighty cheer and goodly sport,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Nor never recked the joy</div>
<div class='line'>That was vouchsafed that Christmasse-tide</div>
<div class='line'>To Launcelots deserted bride,</div>
<div class='line in6'>And to her sleeping boy.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'> · · · · ·</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><i>Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>To-fill our hearts with heedless mirth</i></div>
<div class='line in6'><i>This present Christmasse night,</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>But send among us, to and fro,</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>Thy Holy Grail, that men may know</i></div>
<div class='line in6'><i>The joy with wisdom dight!</i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>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,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When I had shooed the bird away,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And plucked the plums, a quart or more,</div>
<div class='line'>I noted that the saucy Jay,</div>
<div class='line'>Albeit he had naught to say,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Appeared much <i>bluer</i> than before.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in4'>TO PHIDIAS, ON HIS STATUE OF JUPITER.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>This noble form these godlike features prove</div>
<div class='line in2'>That, when you shaped his figure for our view,</div>
<div class='line'>You sought Olympus, there to look on Jove—</div>
<div class='line in2'>Or else Jove came to earth, and posed for you.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>“Undimmed shall float that starry banner</div>
<div class='line'>Over Charleston and Savannah;</div>
<div class='line in2'>Far away, etc.</div>
<div class='line'>And Bunker Hill and Pensacola</div>
<div class='line'>Owe alike its mission holy;</div>
<div class='line in2'>Far away, etc.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Then sound the march! We pledge devotion</div>
<div class='line'>In our blood on land or ocean;</div>
<div class='line in2'>Far away, etc.</div>
<div class='line'>Till every traitor in the nation</div>
<div class='line'>Gains a Haman’s elevation.</div>
<div class='line in2'>Far away, etc.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Judge Cooley’s Denial.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“See how that Luna pauses in her nocturnal soaring,</div>
<div class='line'>To view thee tumbling in thy bed with fierce Gargantuan snoring.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>And what a startling contrast to this sublime
treatment do Judge Cooley’s playful, amorous lines
present:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>“Cloanthus sings his Chloe’s tresses,</div>
<div class='line in2'>For Cynthia’s lips Demetus sighs,</div>
<div class='line'>And Tityrus in verse addresses</div>
<div class='line in2'>The love that lurks in Julia’s eyes;</div>
<div class='line'>Each, on Icarian pinions soaring,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Applauds some ostentatious charm:</div>
<div class='line'>But <i>I’m</i> contented with adoring</div>
<div class='line in2'>The dimple in my Thisbe’s arm.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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?</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Literary Notes.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“<span class='sc'>The Swine-Breeder’s Studbook</span>” 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Squire Enos Hapgood</span>, 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Doty Mad.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>culture! I don’t believe his clothes cost more
than twenty dollars a suit.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘I suppose I ought to call on the queen,’ says
I.</p>
<p class='c006'>“He didn’t say any thing; and I continued,
‘Would you mind introducing me?’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘Really, Mr. Doty,’ says he, ‘I do not feel like
presenting an entire stranger to her Majesty.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘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.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, will you believe it? he had the impudence
to shove a printed list of questions at me.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘You will have to answer these on oath before
I can tell you whether I can present you to her
Majesty,’ says he.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Chicago Palmistry.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>Mons Prudentiœ</i>), it is
a sure indication that the patient attends strictly
to prudent business methods; that he pursues only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>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 <i>Mons
Asinorum</i>), it indicates positively that the subject
is inclined to desultory deals in wheat, corn, and
other fluctuating staples of trade.</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_022.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>instances it is so strongly marked that its shadow
is plainly outlined on the back of the hand.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Marvellous Invention.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>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 <i>apparata</i>, 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>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 <i>piqués</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>This Essay bedstead is sold for four hundred
and fifty dollars. Another design, with the case
and bed in black walnut, the books in <i>papier
maché</i>, and none but English essayists in the collection,
can be had for a hundred dollars.</p>
<p class='c006'>A British Poets’ folding-bed can be had for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>littérateurs</i>
whose genius has raised Chicago to her enjoyment
of the proudest literary distinction. These works
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>can be had in every style. The cheapest, which
is bound in modest <i>papier maché</i>, 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Speaking of the delights of literary pursuits, the
eloquent Cicero once said, “These things [<i>studia</i>]
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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>they do not hinder our practical relations with men,
<i>they are with us in our sleep</i>, 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Books and Authors.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>Among</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>There</span> 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.”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Capt. Ben Wingate</span> has named his new barge
the “Felicia Hemans,” and the same departed for
Saginaw last evening for a cargo of shingles.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Chicago Hamlets.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>genius that is rarely met with upon the dramatic
stage.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>chef d’œuvre</i>
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 <i>literati</i> 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.</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_033.jpg' alt='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 .' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>time, too, Uncle Dick Hooley sang topical songs
with great <i>éclat</i>; 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.</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_034_1.jpg' alt='A high-contrast black silhouette of a person' class='ig001'>
</div>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_034_2.jpg' alt='A high-contrast black silhouette showing the lower body and legs of a figure facing left.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>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.</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_034_3.jpg' alt='A black-and-white ink illustration focusing on a pair of legs from the thighs down.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>convent. It is probable that her ideal Hamlet is
no longer a strawberry blonde with Dolly Varden
nether garments.</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_035_1.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_035_2.jpg' alt='A high-contrast black silhouette showing a pair of legs standing slightly apart.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>“Where sits deformity to mock my body</div>
<div class='line'>And shape my legs of an unequal size?”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_036_1.jpg' alt='A high-contrast black silhouette of a pair of legs.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_036_2.jpg' alt='A high-contrast ink illustration showing a lower body and legs from the waist down in profile, facing left.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>But all these Hamlets fade into comparative
nothingness when we place them beside Mr. Miln’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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!”</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_037.jpg' alt='A high-contrast black-and-white ink illustration of a pair of legs.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>’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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Literary Wayside.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>During</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>At</span> 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.”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Col. T. Weston Briggs</span>, the well-known real-estate
agent, offers his magnificent private library
for sale at four dollars per front foot.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Beautiful Article of Virtue.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>manifestations of sympathy, Professor Schliemann
was deeply grateful, and he promised to reciprocate
in due course of time.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<i>virtu</i>, 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>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 <i>bric-à-brac</i>.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Shakespeares Identified.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_043_1.jpg' alt='William Shakespeare' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>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 <i>négligé</i> fashion.</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_043_2.jpg' alt='Sir Francis Bacon' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>courtiers and gentlemen of the Elizabethan time.
It was to Bacon that the ingenious Jonson addressed
the lines,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Him ruffs and ribands prettily become,</div>
<div class='line'>While at his learning stands the world adumb.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c014'>Yet in his “Masque of the Roses,” which was performed
under royal auspices, Jonson makes Bacon
say,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Beshred me of these silken patches, you will find</div>
<div class='line'>A master wit, a wholesome soul, a generous mind:</div>
<div class='line'>What need of garters and what use of name</div>
<div class='line'>Sith these three fellows do atchieve such fame?”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_044.jpg' alt='Ben Jonson' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“The gaping world shall see me in my age</div>
<div class='line'>Wearing the wit that lumined Shakspere’s page:</div>
<div class='line'>Bacon’s big learning, Beaumont’s virgin grace,</div>
<div class='line'>And Fletcher’s power shall sit upon my face.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_045.jpg' alt='Francis Beaumont' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>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?</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_046.jpg' alt='John Fletcher' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>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.”</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_047.jpg' alt='Robert Greene' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>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
<i>littérateurs</i> 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.</p>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_048.jpg' alt='George Peele' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>liaisons</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>The old poet, George Chapman,—he who was
the contemporary of these puzzlingly numerous
one,—understood what he was about when he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>penned these lines to his friend, Francis Shaxpur:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Or seen in poacher’s guise or courtly robes of satin,</div>
<div class='line'>Or read in English verse or tomes of prosy Latin,</div>
<div class='line'>Or viewed in chiselled bust (the best the critic thinks it),</div>
<div class='line'>Or masking in a daub which some rude Dutchman pinxit—</div>
<div class='line'>In all thy verse, prose, portraits, effigies of plaster,</div>
<div class='line'>Shines the vast genius of one universal master.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Among the Literati.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>It</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>At</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Among</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>We</span> are informed that a Browning Society has
been organized by the inmates of the Cook-County
Imbecile Asylum.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Markeesy di Pullman.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span lang="it">“Il bianco di cazerni della graze fio bella,</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="it">Di teruca si mazzoni quel’ antista Somno della.”</span></div>
<div class='line in36'><span lang="it"><i>Petrarch.</i></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“He who conduces to a fellow’s sleep,</div>
<div class='line'>Should noble fame and goodly riches reap.”</div>
<div class='line in36'><i>Tasso.</i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Sleep mocks at death: when weary of the earth,</div>
<div class='line'>We do not die—we take an upper berth.”</div>
<div class='line in36'><i>Dante.</i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>been, cursed. His Majesty was struck at once
with the learning, the eloquence, the earnestness,
the <i>sang froid</i>, and the <i>swaviter in modo</i>, 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>(for this is an old custom), who will present
him with a bouquet, saying, “<span lang="it">Io ho l’onore, onorevole
signor, di presentarvi le queste fiori e di gratularvi.</span>”
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
(<i>née</i> Murphy) of San Francisco, who was elevated
from obscurity by the late Pope Pius IX.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>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.”</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_056.jpg' alt='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".' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>As we understand it, the Markeesy di Pullman
becomes, immediately upon the acceptance of this
title, the local protector, patron, promoter, and
<i>chaperon</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>The effect of the Italian boom has already become
apparent in our literary circles. The leading
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Literary Laconics.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>We</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Mr. Mæcenas B. Fulsomtone</span>, 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>As to the Garter of a Markeesy.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>Within</span> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>The suggestion submitted by “Scholasticus”
strikes us most favorably, and we have sent it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>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,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Whether upon the raging billow,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Or o’er the meads her path be bent,</div>
<div class='line'>On buttery shelf or Pullman pillow,</div>
<div class='line in2'>The ant is busy and content.</div>
<div class='line'>Full many a bird of rarer beauty</div>
<div class='line in2'>Is heralded by trump of fame:</div>
<div class='line'>The ant toils on in line of duty—</div>
<div class='line in2'>And gets there all the same.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>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:—</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_061.jpg' alt='’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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>We</span> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>The Chicago Tribune</span>” 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;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When the party is breezy and wheezy,</div>
<div class='line'>And palpably greasy, it’s easy</div>
<div class='line in6'>To coax or to wring,</div>
<div class='line in6'>From a weak-minded king,</div>
<div class='line'>The titular prize of markeesy.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Emerson in ’Frisco.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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; <i>matinées</i> every half-hour,
admission only ten cents. The double-headed
calf and the dog-faced boy this week!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Summer Philosopher.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-r c002'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Chicago, Ill.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><i>To the Editor.</i>—I cannot express to you how
charmed I am to learn through the columns of
your valued paper that the <i>littérateurs</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>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,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Oh! can this mortal ken descry</div>
<div class='line'>The Whither thou hast went?”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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,</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>MRS. AMIABLE J. HOLBROOK.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Truth about Dante.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>devoirs</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>“<span lang="it">Fatto era un stagno piu secura e brutto—</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="it">O Beatrice! di quel grazzia la citta,</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="it">Altro non e dar;</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="it">Uno esperto non Gemma e l’opra</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="it">Un correger soave un pio sostegno—</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="it">Figgo del sperto solle!</span>”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Well, having wrecked his wife’s life, Dante proceeded
to make a public nuisance of himself; and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>then Gemma squeezed out of her paltry savings
a little money to send to her exiled husband.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>tore out his entrails, and devoured them without
seasoning. When Gemma went for another load
of fagots, she had to pay a double price.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in14'>“—me, my wife</div>
<div class='line'>Of savage temper, more than aught beside,</div>
<div class='line'>Hath to this evil brought.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Alfieri took the money to the printer. “Have
you a poem here, the work of Dante Alighieri?”
he asked.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I have,” said Fernando Pizaro. “There is due
upon it three ducats, else it shall not leave the
shop.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Let me see the poem,” demanded Alfieri.</p>
<p class='c006'>The printer brought forth the manuscript. It
was entitled, “To My Beatrice in Heaven!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Whistle for your money!” said Alfieri laconically;
and he threw down the manuscript, and
walked out of the shop.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Good Cause.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>We</span> understand that our talented fellow-townsman,
T. Babbington Greenleaf, is engaged upon a
rhythmical translation of the tripods of Horace.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>The</span> Book-Binders’ Union will give its regular
annual ball in Brand’s Hall immediately after Lent.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Convention of Western Writers.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“So you’re from Chicago, are you?” would be
the first question asked.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“What have you written?”</p>
<p class='c006'>Here would follow a modest confession, made
in tones indicative of embarrassment.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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 <i>have</i>, you must be all right; but if you
<i>haven’t</i>, you can’t amount to much.”</p>
<p class='c006'>The rooms of the Chicago contingent were the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>resort of the rural <i>littérateurs</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Bill Nye was so disgusted that he retired early
from the fray; and so did James Whitcomb Riley;
Thompson staid because he had to.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you!” said one gushing
Hoosier <i>littérateur</i> 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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Get what?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“The next convention.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Oh, yes! I know,” said the poetess; “but Chicago
<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>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!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Poet’s Corner.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Hannah More Gardiner</span>, 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Western Boy’s Lament.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I wished I lived away Down East, where codfish salt the sea,</div>
<div class='line'>And where the folks have pumpkin-pie and apple-sass for tea.</div>
<div class='line'>Us boys who’s livin’ here out West, don’t get more’n half a show:</div>
<div class='line'>We don’t have nothin’ else to do but jest to sort o’ grow.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Oh! if I wuz a bird I’d fly a million miles away</div>
<div class='line'>To where they feed their boys on pork and beans three times a day;</div>
<div class='line'>To where the place they call the Hub, gives out its shiny spokes,</div>
<div class='line'>And where the folks—so father says—is mostly women-folks.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Story of Xanthippe.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='c002'></div>
<blockquote>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Chicago, Ill.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><i>To the Editor.</i>—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
<i>too</i> 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 <i>you</i> do, if you were I?</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yours in trouble,</div>
<div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Priscilla</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class='c005'>Listen, gentle maiden, and ye others of her sex,
to the story of Xanthippe, the Athenian woman.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>At all events, Xanthippe, the Athenian beauty,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>So it was toil and disappointment, disappointment
and toil, from one month’s end to another’s;
and so the years went by.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>can</i> do!</p>
<p class='c006'>“Look at that poor man,” said the wife of Edippus
the cobbler. “I <i>do</i> believe his wife is cruel
to him: see how sad and lonesome he is.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>So up and down the street the neighbors gossiped—oh!
it was very humiliating to Xanthippe.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Time is the grim old collector who goes dunning
for the abused wife, and Time finally forced a
settlement with Socrates.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>It was in this emergency that the great, the
divine nobility of the wife asserted itself. She
<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>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 <i>him</i>; 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Well, she could not have done otherwise, for
she was a woman.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Philadelphia.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“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 <strong>Y</strong>, all incoming trains back in,
and all outgoing trains back out.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>There are but two topics of conversation indulged
by the patriotic Philadelphian. The first
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>is a Clover-Club dinner that <i>has</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>city, too, where editors of morning papers go
home from work at 4.30 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span> every day.</p>
<p class='c006'>Philadelphia is also the only city that has beaten
Chicago four straight games at base-ball.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Another is Mr. Gallagher, who ought to be
absent, but isn’t.</p>
<p class='c006'>The third is Mr. Charles T. Yerkes.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Humanity.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The big-eyed baby, just across the way,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Longs for the moon, and reaches out to clasp it:</div>
<div class='line'>He lunges at the crescent, cold and gray,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And waxes wroth to find he cannot grasp it.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Be hushed, O babe! and give thy grief a rest.</div>
<div class='line in2'>Better, a thousand times, for thee to ponder</div>
<div class='line'>Upon the lacteal wealth of mother’s breast,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Than reach for that vain milky way up yonder.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yet am I like this man of recent birth</div>
<div class='line in2'>That lets a foolish disappointment fret it—</div>
<div class='line'>Scorning the sky, I’m reaching for the earth,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And grunt and groan because I do not get it.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Baked Beans and Culture.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>“That’s so, b’ gosh!” chorussed the others.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Bill Holbrook?” said Mr. Ezra Eastman;
“why, of course I do! Used to live down to
Brimfield, next to the Moses Howard farm.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“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 <i>to</i> ol’ Dock Smith,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>young Dock Brainerd was the smartest doctor that
ever lived.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘Sary,’ says he, ‘wot’s that a-cookin’?’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘Beans,’ says she, ‘beans for dinner.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘Sary,’ says the dyin’ man, ‘I must hev a
plate uv them beans!’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!’ says she: ‘if you
wuz to eat any o’ them beans, it’d kill ye!’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘If I’ve got to die,’ says he, ‘I’m goin’ to die
happy: fetch me a plate uv them beans.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“Waal, Sary she pikes off to the doctors.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘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?’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘Waal, doctor,’ says Dock Smith, ‘what do
you think ’bout it?’</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>“‘He’s got to die anyhow,’ says Dock Brainerd;
‘an’ I don’t suppose the beans’ll make any
diff’rence.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘That’s the way I figger it,’ says Dock Smith:
‘in all my practice I never knew of beans hurtin’
anybody.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘How air you feelin’ now?’ asked Dock Smith.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Bill didn’t say nuthin’: he jest smiled sort uv
peaceful, like, an’ closed his eyes.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘The end hez come,’ said Dock Brainerd sof’ly:
‘Bill is dyin’.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“Then Bill murmured kind o’ far-away, like
(as if he was dreamin’), ‘I ain’t dyin’: I’m dead
an’ in heaven.’</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Isaac Watts, Tutor.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘In heaven above among the blest,</div>
<div class='line in2'>What mortal tongue can tell</div>
<div class='line'>The joys of saints when looking down</div>
<div class='line in2'>On damnèd souls in hell!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>“I don’t believe you really think that this is
‘quaint, simple poetry.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Behold our Prudence in her prime</div>
<div class='line in2'>As meek and fair a dame as any;</div>
<div class='line'>Yet was she tempted in her time,</div>
<div class='line in2'>As tempted are, alas! too many.</div>
<div class='line'>Satin and silken gowns had she,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Feathers and ribbons, plumes and laces,—</div>
<div class='line'>Vain gewgaws fetched across the sea</div>
<div class='line in2'>From divers godless foreign places.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Thereat her foolish, wicked pride</div>
<div class='line in2'>Did vaunt itself to such condition,</div>
<div class='line'>That she did constantly deride</div>
<div class='line in2'>Her gentle tutor’s admonition.</div>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>In vain he reasoned with the maid;</div>
<div class='line in2'>In fashion’s way she strode undaunted;</div>
<div class='line'>And all the more her tutor prayed,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Why, all the more her plumes she flaunted.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>At last, however, waxing sick</div>
<div class='line in2'>Of worldly praise and admiration,</div>
<div class='line'>She felt her quickened conscience prick,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And straightway sought her soul’s salvation.</div>
<div class='line'>And when she saw, through tearful eyes,</div>
<div class='line in2'>How nearly Satan’s darts had missed her,</div>
<div class='line'>She doffed her dazzling flummeries,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And gave them to her younger sister.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>The following lines, said to have been instigated
by Richard Steele, were found in Ralph
Hartopp’s copy-book one morning:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in8'>THE HUMANE LAD.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Why should a naughty, froward boy</div>
<div class='line in2'>The harmless little fly assail,</div>
<div class='line'>Or why his precious time employ</div>
<div class='line in2'>At pulling faithful Rover’s tail?</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>Where’er I go, each living thing</div>
<div class='line in2'>Has its predestined place to fill;</div>
<div class='line'>And naught that moves on foot or wing</div>
<div class='line in2'>Was made for boys to vex or kill.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The little fly, howe’er so frail,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Was made on Rover’s hide to prey;</div>
<div class='line'>And faithful Rover’s honest tail</div>
<div class='line in2'>Was made to brush the flies away.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>So let each bird and beast enjoy</div>
<div class='line in2'>The vain, brief life which God has given,</div>
<div class='line'>Whilst I my youthful hours employ</div>
<div class='line in2'>In works that fit the soul for heaven.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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:”—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in8'>A NOONTIDE HYMN.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Come, gentle pupils, let us kneel</div>
<div class='line in2'>Beneath this tree upon the sod,</div>
<div class='line'>And, mindful of our sin, appeal</div>
<div class='line in2'>Unto the good and gracious God.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>Look out upon the fruitful wold,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And see the ripening grain upraise</div>
<div class='line'>Its bursting tops of green and gold</div>
<div class='line in2'>Unto the sky in silent praise.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The winds are hushed, the fields are still,</div>
<div class='line in2'>The brooks that babbled sink to rest:</div>
<div class='line'>A holy reverence seems to thrill</div>
<div class='line in2'>Creation’s vast, responsive breast.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>It is the solemn noontide hour,</div>
<div class='line in2'>When grateful Nature everywhere</div>
<div class='line'>Acknowledges the heavenly power</div>
<div class='line in2'>In one still, universal prayer.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>So let us kneel upon the sod,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And, with his works before our face,</div>
<div class='line'>Commend our souls anew to God,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And crave his sanctifying grace.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in8'>AN EVENING HYMN.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Pardon the evil I have done</div>
<div class='line in2'>To thee, O Lord! this day:</div>
<div class='line'>Vouchsafe thy blessed peace to one</div>
<div class='line in2'>Who seeks the heavenly way.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>As turns the truant to his home,</div>
<div class='line in2'>When sore and sick is he,</div>
<div class='line'>So, penitent and weak, I come,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And give my soul to thee.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>’Tis thine, dear Lord; and, if thou wilt,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Protect it through this night;</div>
<div class='line'>Or, cleansing it of all its guilt,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Take it to realms of light.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Though o’er the sea and on the land</div>
<div class='line in2'>The raging storms may sweep,</div>
<div class='line'>Rocked in the hollow of thy hand</div>
<div class='line in2'>Shall I securely sleep.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I may not know another day,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Nor see the morrow’s sun:</div>
<div class='line'>Still, clinging to thy knees, I pray,</div>
<div class='line in2'>“Father, thy will be done.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in8'>THE MERCIFUL LAD.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Through all my life the poor shall find</div>
<div class='line in2'>In me a constant friend,</div>
<div class='line'>And on the weak of every kind</div>
<div class='line in2'>My mercy shall attend.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The dumb shall never call on me</div>
<div class='line in2'>In vain for kindly aid,</div>
<div class='line'>And in my hands the blind shall see</div>
<div class='line in2'>A bounteous alms displayed.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>In all their walks the lame shall know</div>
<div class='line in2'>And feel my goodness near,</div>
<div class='line'>And on the deaf will I bestow</div>
<div class='line in2'>My gentlest words of cheer.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>“’Tis by such pious works as these—</div>
<div class='line in2'>Which I delight to do—</div>
<div class='line'>That men their fellow-creatures please,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And please their Maker too.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Touching the stanza which Mr. Blake quotes
for our consideration, we will say that it <i>is</i> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Revision.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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:—</p>
<p class='c006'>“The queen? Oh, yes! I have the highest
admiration, respect, and veneration for her. Imagine,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Be sure, Julian, to send me six copies of the
paper containing these observations.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Official Explanation.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>One night aside the fire at hum,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Ez I wuz settin’ nappin’,</div>
<div class='line'>Deown frum the lower hall there come</div>
<div class='line in2'>The seound uv some one rappin’.</div>
<div class='line'>The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he,—</div>
<div class='line in2'>Julian I think his name wuz,—</div>
<div class='line'>Uv course, he feound a friend in me,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Not knowin’ what his game wuz.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>An’ ez we visited a spell,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Our talk ranged wide an’ wider;</div>
<div class='line'>An’ ef we struck dry subjects—well,</div>
<div class='line in2'>We washed ’em deown with cider.</div>
<div class='line'>Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru</div>
<div class='line in2'>My system, an’ a-playin’</div>
<div class='line'>Upon my tongue, I hardly knew</div>
<div class='line in2'>Just what I wuz a-sayin’.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I kin remember that I spun</div>
<div class='line in2'>A hifalutin’ story,</div>
<div class='line'>Abeout the Prince uv Wales, an’ one</div>
<div class='line in2'>Abeout old Queen Vic<i>to</i>ry.</div>
<div class='line'>But, sakes alive! I never dreamed</div>
<div class='line in2'>The cuss would get it printed—</div>
<div class='line'>(By that old gal I’m much esteemed,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Ez she hez often hinted).</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Oh, if I had that critter neow,</div>
<div class='line in2'>You bet your boots I’d larn him</div>
<div class='line'>In mighty lively fashion heow</div>
<div class='line in2'>To walk the chalk, gol darn him!</div>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine</div>
<div class='line in2'>The breach grows wide an’ wider;</div>
<div class='line'>An’, by the way, it’s my design</div>
<div class='line in2'>To give up drinkin’ cider.</div>
<div class='line in36'><i>Hosea Biglow.</i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Yankee Chorus Girls.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘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!’</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘What do you mean?’ I asked, aghast; for
his unusual excitement alarmed me.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>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 <i>rôles</i> for the balance
of the season.’”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Dixey as a Nemesis.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>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-<i>see</i>, and will Mme. Dix-<i>see</i> have ze goodness to
make her leetle boy stop to play wiz ze dog?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>“Ida, my dear,” called Mr. Dixey to his wife,
who was sewing in the adjoining room.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What is it, Henry?” she answered.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Why, Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Dixey. “<i>I’ve</i>
not been singing. That was Mme. Patti you
heard. She is practising Proch’s variations; and
isn’t it just too lovely?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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?”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Mr. James R. Lowell</span>, 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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Our</span> enterprising fellow-townsmen, the proprietors
of the Home Restaurant, have added to their
popular dinner bill of fare, a new viand entitled
<i><span lang="fr">Beans à la Lowell</span></i>, a delicate compliment to the
distinguished poet now visiting among us.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>In</span> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Professor Lowell in Chicago.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I see by the papers,” said the first <i>littérateur</i>,
“that James Russell Lowell is going to be in town
next week.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Lowell? Lowell?” queried the second <i>littérateur</i>,
as if he were trying to place the name. “Oh,
yes! I remember—the author of ‘The One-Hoss
Shay’!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes: he’s going to read a poem in Central
Music Hall next Tuesday,” explained the first <i>littérateur</i>,
“and it has occurred to me that we ought
to elect him an honorary member of the club.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well,” said the second <i>littérateur</i>, “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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>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.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>Another gentleman who called on Mr. Lowell
was a Mr. Elisha K. Robbins, who represented that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>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 <i>escritoire</i> 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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>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
<i>that</i>; but, do you know, after all, I think I
prefer Bill Nye.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>Manager R. M. Hooley was the only theatrical
<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>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.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>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!’”</p>
<p class='c006'>“What did Mr. Lowell say to that?” we asked.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>This brought to mind very vividly the lines of
Paulinas Varro, the Latin poet:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Mæcenas is a model host,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Who, o’er his viands nice,</div>
<div class='line'>Is wont to name each dish, and boast</div>
<div class='line in2'>Its quality and price.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Writing</span> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>so</i> much; for we’ve all read your
poetry, and we know you can be ever so funny
when you try!”</p>
<p class='c006'>Another genial imbecile, who wore about twenty
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>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
<i>chef d’œuvre</i>; 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>We</span> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>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 <i>littérateur’s</i> 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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>One of the most cultured gentlemen in Chicago
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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-<i>lad</i>.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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-<i>lading</i>’
me!”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>To</span> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>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.’”’</p>
<p class='c006'>When Col. Lowell lectured on “The American
Richard of Politics III.,” in this city last month,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>The</span> 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,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>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 <i>littérateur</i> has scribbled the following
venomous quotation from an ancient satire:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Oh! when I think of what I am,</div>
<div class='line in4'>And what I used to was,</div>
<div class='line'>I think I gave myself away</div>
<div class='line in4'>Without sufficient cause.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Col. James Russell Lowell</span> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the Chicago gentleman:
“I have had many a happy hour with Sand.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“You knew George Sand, then?” asked Col.
Lowell, with an expression of surprise.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>“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.”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>It</span> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Elder’s Fright.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘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”?’</p>
<p class='c006'>“Crucifying my soul with these agonizing interrogations,
I survived, rather than lived, the six
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>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:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='c006'>“‘<i>To A. P. T. Elder, Chicago Patent, Ill.</i>—Nothing
burned except the back-stoop and the rear-eaves.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘R. E. C.’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Professor Elbridge G. Smith</span>, 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“But how came you,” we asked, “to say that
Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote the ‘Iliad’?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, didn’t he write it?” inquired Mr. Elder.</p>
<p class='c006'>“No, sir,” we thundered, for we were deeply
mortified. “Homer wrote it.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes, that’s it—that’s the name,” cried Mr.
Elder: “I acknowledge the mistake. Homer was
the name I meant: <i>he</i> was the feller who sent me
the telegram.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Ethel’s Christmas Tale.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='c002'></div>
<blockquote>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Chicago, Ill.</span>, Dec. 2.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><i>To the Editor.</i>—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.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yours truly,</div>
<div class='line in16'>H. G. B.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<h3 class='c016'>A CHRISTMAS STORY.</h3>
<p class='c017'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Alas!” Mrs. Jamison said, as she pressed her
hungry babe to her bosom: “I fear we shall have
no turkey to-morrow.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Why not, mother?” asked Robin, a bright lad
of fourteen.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Mrs. Jamison wept bitterly, and so did the
children.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Oh, if Henry were only here!” moaned Mrs.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Children,” said the big man in kind tones,
“why do you weep?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Alas!” said Lucy: “you have sat on our bag
of eggs.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes, sir,” said Lucy.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>“Father, father!” cried Lucy, throwing herself
into her father’s arms.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Chicago Weather.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>To-day, fair Thisbe—winsome girl!—</div>
<div class='line in2'>Strays o’er the meads where daisies blow,</div>
<div class='line'>Or, ling’ring where the brooklets purl,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host</div>
<div class='line in2'>Of amorous suitors in her train,</div>
<div class='line'>Comes like a goddess forth to coast,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Or skate upon the frozen main.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>To-day, sweet posies mark her track,</div>
<div class='line in2'>While birds sing gayly in the trees:</div>
<div class='line'>To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack</div>
<div class='line in2'>Defies the piping polar breeze.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>So Doris is to-day enthused</div>
<div class='line in2'>By Thisbe’s soft, responsive sighs,</div>
<div class='line'>And on the morrow is confused</div>
<div class='line in2'>By Thisbe’s cold, repellent eyes.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Chicago Christmas Legend.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Gold—gold! I must have gold!” he cried
incessantly.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>A far-off look came into Mr. Barton’s lack-lustre
eyes.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well?” he uttered inquiringly.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Tell me, papa,” cried Eugenia, “tell me, will
Santa Claus come this year?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I think I can safely say, that, unless he intends
to break his record, he will not,” replied Mr.
Barton promptly.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Alas!” sighed Eugenia; and with this she
hung her beautiful golden head.</p>
<p class='c006'>Mr. Barton regretted that he had cast a gloom
over the child’s hopes. He sought to explain his
seeming harshness.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Why <i>should</i> Santa Claus come?” he asked
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“True,” said Eugenia: “I had not thought of
that. Forgive me, dear papa, if, in my puerile
heedlessness, I have caused you pain!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Santa Claus!” she cried.</p>
<p class='c006'>The man smiled pleasantly with that part of his
personality that was exposed to the rigorous temperature
of the editor’s home.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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>I
knew</i> you would come!”</p>
<p class='c006'>Again the exposed surface of the fur-clad
stranger wrinkled into a smile.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>brought to pour out into our grateful laps at
last?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Plea for the Classics.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A Boston gentleman declares</div>
<div class='line in2'>By all the gods, above, below,</div>
<div class='line'>That our degenerate sons and heirs</div>
<div class='line in2'>Must let their Greek and Latin go!</div>
<div class='line'>Forbid, O Fate! we loud implore,</div>
<div class='line in2'>A dispensation harsh as that—</div>
<div class='line'>What! wipe away the sweets of yore—</div>
<div class='line in2'>The dear “<i>Amo, amas, amat</i>”?</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The sweetest hour the student knows,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Is not while poring over French,</div>
<div class='line'>Or when, in harsh Teutonic throes,</div>
<div class='line in2'>He writhes upon collegiate bench:</div>
<div class='line'>’Tis when on roots and <i>kais</i> and <i>gars</i></div>
<div class='line in2'>He feeds his soul, and feels it glow,</div>
<div class='line'>Or when his mind transcends the stars</div>
<div class='line in2'>With “<i>Zoa mou, sas agapo!</i>”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>So give our bright, ambitious boys</div>
<div class='line in2'>An inkling of these pleasures too—</div>
<div class='line'>A little smattering of the joys</div>
<div class='line in2'>Their old but knowing fathers knew;</div>
<div class='line'>And let them sing—whilst glorying that</div>
<div class='line in2'>Their sires so sang, long years ago—</div>
<div class='line'>The songs “<i>Amo, amas, amat</i>,”</div>
<div class='line in2'>And “<i>Zoa mou, sas agapo!</i>”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mlle. Prud’homme’s Book.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='c002'></div>
<blockquote>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Washington, D.C.</span>, Mai 3.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><span lang="fr"><i>M. le Redacteur</i>,—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.</span></p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>V. Prud’homme.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>littérateurs</i> have to be reviewed
before the oovrays of outside <i>littérateurs</i>
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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>many of our leading <i>savants</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>not</i> 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 <i>voyageurs</i>
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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>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 <i>chic</i> and <i>hog</i>, meaning the live (or piquant
or frisky) hog. This, of course, is the literal
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>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”?</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Her Genuine Culture.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>There is no longer any doubt that Chicago is
the literary centre of the country. Adam Forepaugh
says so.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Demand for Condensed Music.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>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</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“<i>SYMPHONIES FOR BUSY PEOPLE!</i></div>
<div class='line in4'><i>THE OLD MASTERS EPITOMIZED!</i>”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>Now, here was this concert, night before last.
Two hours and a half to five numbers! Suppose
we figure a little on this subject:—</p>
<table class='table1'>
<tr><td class='c018' colspan='2'>EXHIBIT A—SYMPHONY.</td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Total number of minutes</td>
<td class='c009'>150</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Total number of pieces</td>
<td class='c009'>5</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Minutes to each piece</td>
<td class='c009'>30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'> </td>
</tr>
<tr><td class='c018' colspan='2'>EXHIBIT B—TRADE.</td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Total number of minutes</td>
<td class='c009'>150</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Hog-slaughtering capacity per minute</td>
<td class='c009'>3</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Total killing</td>
<td class='c009'>450</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>crême de la crême</i> of our
<i>élite</i> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Opera, Opuses, and Opi.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>renaissance</i> of the old Italian
masters was likely to occur in the midst of us.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Chicago the Music Centre.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>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 <i>bagatelle</i>
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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Still Blooming.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-r c002'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Chicago, Ill.</span>, April 28.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><i>To the Editor.</i>—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.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yours truly,</div>
<div class='line in6'><span class='sc'>Noctes Ambrosianiæ Phillips</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Offence.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>Col. Milward Adams is going to pander to
the refined tastes of the <i>élite</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>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 <i>éclat</i>. 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
<i>début</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Lament.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The wold is drear, and the sedge is sere,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And gray is the autumn sky,</div>
<div class='line'>And sorrows roll through my riven soul</div>
<div class='line in2'>As lonely I sit and sigh</div>
<div class='line in8'>“Good-by”</div>
<div class='line in2'>To the goose-birds as they fly.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>With his weird wishbone to the temperate zone</div>
<div class='line in2'>Came the goose-bird in the spring;</div>
<div class='line'>And he built his nest in the glorious west,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And sat on a snag to sing—</div>
<div class='line in8'>Sweet thing!—</div>
<div class='line in2'>Or flap his beautiful wing.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>But the boom of the blast has come at last</div>
<div class='line in2'>To the goose-bird on the lea;</div>
<div class='line'>And the succulent thing, with shivering wing,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Flies down to a southern sea—</div>
<div class='line in8'>Ah me,</div>
<div class='line in2'>That such separation should be!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>But it’s always so in this world of woe:</div>
<div class='line in2'>The things that gladden our eye</div>
<div class='line'>Are the surest to go to the bugs; and so</div>
<div class='line in2'>We can only wearily sigh</div>
<div class='line in8'>“Good-by”</div>
<div class='line in2'>To the goose-birds as they fly.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Apology.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A German Personal.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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?’”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar”</i> (<i>1</i>).</h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>Professor W. Thackeray Wilkerson, the
well-known <i>littérateur</i> 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 <i>élite</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I am very much surprised,” says Professor
<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>This certainly would appear to be as clear as
logic.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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).”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“But is there not a certain amount of freedom
which is allowed to every poet?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>poets are compelled to observe certain
rigid rules; and nowadays none can drive his
Pegasus without a snaffle.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“His Pegasus?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar”</i> (<i>2</i>).</h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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:
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Col. McVicker then proceeded to tell of the
ovation of which Mr. O’Toole was the recipient
when he made his <i>début</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>that Mr. O’Toole’s was the last Cæsar seen upon
the Chicago stage.</p>
<div class='figright id003'>
<img src='images/i_165.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>littérateurs</i>. 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>New</span> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Miss Bayle’s Romance.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>a
hand well known in literature</i>, 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 <i>littérateur</i>, we
would not be in any harrowing doubt as to the
authorship. Chicago <i>littérateurs</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>of its master’s triumphant reception into the <i>crême
de la crême</i> 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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Col. Alva Eugene Davis</span>, the handsome and
talented proprietor of “The Current,” says that
the Eastern <i>littérateurs</i> 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 <i>littérateur</i>,”
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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Humorist’s Courtship.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>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
<i>paternoster</i>. 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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Certainly,” replied his friend; and he handed
out as fine a double-barrelled breech-loader as ever
you clapped eyes on.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Is it loaded?” inquired Burdette.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes,” said the friend.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What kind of shot?” asked Burdette.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>“Duck-shot,” replied the friend.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>That One Floating Vote.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Down at the town av Springfield, phwhere our statesmin congregate</div>
<div class='line'>To draw their wages twicet a month to git John Logan bate,</div>
<div class='line'>The Dimmycrats is tremblin’ and a sweatin’ wid dismay</div>
<div class='line in8'>On account av O’Shea.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The all av thim is solid for our horizontal Bill,</div>
<div class='line'>And the all av thim is solid for reform and office—shtill</div>
<div class='line'>The all av thim is worried to anticipate the play</div>
<div class='line in8'>Contem<i>pla</i>ted by O’Shea.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Bill Morrison shtands <i>here</i>, and Logan he shtands <i>there</i>,</div>
<div class='line'>And whin the wotes is even, there’s a tie bechune the pair;</div>
<div class='line'>But whin it comes to wotin’, can innybody say,</div>
<div class='line in8'>Phwhere the divil is O’Shea?</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Persian Mission.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>that he did so advise Gov. Oglesby, the
press, and the public at large, and that if he <i>did</i>
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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>We are reliably informed, that, having heard
Mr. Kern sing, Gen. Winston became more fixed
in his patriotic determination to leave his country.</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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?</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Senator’s Valor.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I have my penknife with me,” he answered.
“It will suffice to protect me, I venture.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Season of New Music.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>rôles</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>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:—</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_183.jpg' alt='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."' class='ig001'>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Apollo Located.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Bill,” said he to Congressman Springer, “I
have been putting in a couple of hours inspecting
the shef doovers of the old masters.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Ah?” said Springer. “I hope you enjoyed
yourself.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Amazingly,” continued Davis. “You didn’t
know I was a good deal of an art connozher, did
you?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I can easily believe you,” answered Springer;
“for I have always admired your delicate refinement
and graceful discrimination.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I ran across one statute that paralyzed me,”
said Davis. “It was a perfect fac-smile of myself
without my clothes on.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“What could it have been?” asked Springer.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Boone County?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes; Belvidere, Boone County, Ill. His name
is Apollo.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>An Exile’s Nuptials.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Is it true,” we asked, “that the news of your
approaching nuptials has created a stir in foreign
circles?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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 <i>intente cordiale</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Patronize Home Art.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-r c002'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Chicago, Ill.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><i>To the Editor.</i>—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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>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.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yours, etc.,</div>
<div class='line in4'>SILAS G. HARDCASTLE.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>An Old Feud.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>for years, maliciously and relentlessly, there being
no species of base piracy to which Atkins would
not willingly stoop.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>nosegays, and the like, appeared to go to the spot
which the tokens of other beaux failed to reach.</p>
<p class='c006'>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Hegira Threatened.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>repertoire</i>
made up of such inspired gems as “Wearing
of the Green,” “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,”
and “Croppies, Lie Down.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Mr. J. J. Fitzgibbon said he was the Duke of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<p class='c006'>Michael Hannigan, claimant to the titles and
estates of Denis, sixteenth Duke of Stradbally, in
the county Leinster.</p>
<p class='c006'>Thomas E. Moran, heir-presumptive to the earldom
of Knockcroghery, in the county Roscommon,
including the extensive peat-privileges at Athleague.</p>
<p class='c006'>John M. Dunphy, Baron Gortaroo, with the
ancestral castle in county Cork, overlooking
Youghal Bay, near Knockadoon Head.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Richard Pendergast, heir-apparent to the earldom
of Belgooly, in county Cork, twelve miles
south of Templemichael.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>Thomas O’Neill (a lineal descendant of the
great Hugh O’Neill), Duke of Coleraine, claiming
the magnificent estates near Lough Foyle, in
Londonderry.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>James Sullivan, Duke of Tyrone, claiming the
old manor and estate at Beltrim, yielding enormous
rents.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>he himself</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Spanish Romance.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Suave mio! suave mio!” (“Save me! save
me!”) cried Miss Field, in tones that would have
wrung the most callous heart.</p>
<p class='c006'>“<span lang="it">Carissima mia</span>,” answered Alvaredo Lopez de
Ratz, “<span lang="it">te suavo spezza!</span>” (“Dearest, I will save
thee!”)</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>never hears an impassioned avowal that she does
not droop her pretty head, and regretfully murmur,
“Ratz!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>More about Miss Field.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Kentuckian’s Sagacity.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What is it?” asked the cashier.</p>
<p class='c006'>“A letter from Watterson,” answered Haldeman:
“I haven’t read it, but it’s a long one about
‘The Latin Quarter.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>“The Latin Quarter? What’s that?” asked the
cashier, with his mouth agape, and his eyes hanging
out on his cheeks.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Col. Judd’s Narrow Escape.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“My friend,” said the alligator hesitatingly,
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I’ll have
to let you go ashore.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Col. Judd listened: a new hope dawned in his
bosom.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A White-House Ballad.—I.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in8'>THE TYING OF THE TIE.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Now was Sir Grover passing wroth:</div>
<div class='line'>“A murrain seize the man,” he quoth,</div>
<div class='line in4'>“Who first invented ties!</div>
<div class='line'>Egad, they are a grievous bore,</div>
<div class='line'>And tying of them vexeth sore</div>
<div class='line in4'>A person of my size!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Lo, at his feet upon the floor</div>
<div class='line'>Were sprent the neckties by the score,</div>
<div class='line in4'>And collars all awreck;</div>
<div class='line'>And good Sir Grover’s cheeks were flame,</div>
<div class='line'>And good Sir Grover’s arms were lame,</div>
<div class='line in4'>With wrestling at his neck.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>But much it joyed him when he heard</div>
<div class='line'>Sir Daniel say, “I fain will gird</div>
<div class='line in4'>Your necktie on for you,</div>
<div class='line'>As ’twill not cause you constant fear</div>
<div class='line'>Of bobbing round beneath your ear,</div>
<div class='line in4'>Or setting you askew.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Sir Daniel grasped one paltry tie,</div>
<div class='line'>And with a calm, heroic eye</div>
<div class='line in4'>And confidential air</div>
<div class='line'>(As who should say, “Odds bobs! I vow</div>
<div class='line'>There’s nothing like the knowing how”),</div>
<div class='line in4'>He mounted on a chair.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And whilst Sir Grover raised his chin</div>
<div class='line'>(For much he did respect the pin),</div>
<div class='line in4'>Sir Daniel tied the tie,</div>
<div class='line'>The which when good Sir Grover viewed,—</div>
<div class='line'>Albeit it beliked a dude,—</div>
<div class='line in4'>He heaved a grateful sigh.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>June 2, 1886.</span></p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>An Editorial Schedule.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>submitted to the proprietors of American newspapers:—</p>
<table class='table1'>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>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”</td>
<td class='c019'>$30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To editorial writers who read “The Nation,” and “The Scientific American”</td>
<td class='c019'>40</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To editorial writers who would like to spend their declining years at the head of an established country weekly</td>
<td class='c019'>25</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To editorial writers who receive mail addressed to “The Hon.,” and who covet a foreign mission</td>
<td class='c019'>20</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To reporters who “know Dana, and have worked on ‘The New-York Sun’”</td>
<td class='c019'>8</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To reporters who say “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to the city editor</td>
<td class='c019'>12</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To critics who discuss “the rendition,” “the mise en scene,” “the floritures, bravuras,” etc.</td>
<td class='c019'>15</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To poets of the “Hope,” “Eternity,” “Spring,” “Banana,” “Stovepipe,” and “Bobtail-Flush” kind</td>
<td class='c019'>18</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To female reporters who seek to demonstrate that a female can do a man’s work</td>
<td class='c019'>10</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>For “society” drivel</td>
<td class='c019'>8</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To ex-lawyers, ex-preachers, ex-statesmen, and ex-tradesmen who have been starved into journalism</td>
<td class='c019'>15</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>To editorial writers who have held a clerkship in Washington one winter, and are thoroughly acquainted with national politics and the tariff question</td>
<td class='c019'>20</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c006'>But we can violate this confidence no further.
Suffice it to say, that, when once the grasping
<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A White-House Ballad.—II.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in6'>THE KISSING OF THE BRIDE.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And when at last, with priestly pray’r</div>
<div class='line'>And music mingling in the air,</div>
<div class='line in4'>The nuptial knot was tied,</div>
<div class='line'>Sir Grover, flaming crimson red—</div>
<div class='line'>“Soothly, it is my mind,” he said,</div>
<div class='line in4'>“That I salute the bride!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Whereat upon her virgin cheek,</div>
<div class='line'>So smooth, so plump, and comely eke,</div>
<div class='line in4'>He did implant a smack</div>
<div class='line'>So lusty that the walls around</div>
<div class='line'>Gave such an echo to the sound</div>
<div class='line in4'>As they had like to crack.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>No modern salutation this—</div>
<div class='line'>No mincing, maudling mugwump kiss</div>
<div class='line in4'>To chill a bride’s felicity;</div>
<div class='line'>Exploding on that blushing cheek,</div>
<div class='line'>Its virile clamor did bespeak</div>
<div class='line in4'>Arcadian simplicity.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>June 2, 1886.</span></p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Haskells, Père et Fils.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>père</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A White-House Ballad.—III.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in4'>THE PASSING OF THE COMPLIMENT.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Eftsoons the priest had made his say,</div>
<div class='line'>The courtly knights and ladies gay</div>
<div class='line in4'>Did haste from every side,</div>
<div class='line'>With honeyed words, and hackneyed phrase,</div>
<div class='line'>And dainty smiles, withal, to praise</div>
<div class='line in4'>Sir Grover’s blushing bride.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Outspake the courtly Sir Lamar,</div>
<div class='line'>“Of all fair brides, you, lady, are</div>
<div class='line in4'>The fairest I have seen:</div>
<div class='line'>Not only of this castle grand,</div>
<div class='line'>But of all hearts throughout the land,</div>
<div class='line in4'>Are you acknowledged queen!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Whereat the Lady Frances bowed;</div>
<div class='line'>And rapturous murmurs in the crowd</div>
<div class='line in4'>Did presently attest,</div>
<div class='line'>That, of the chestnuts uttered there,</div>
<div class='line'>This chestnut was without compare—</div>
<div class='line in4'>Foredating all the rest.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>June 2, 1886.</span></p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>More about Col. Haskell.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Another New Book.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Slattery of Boston.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mme. L’Allemand’s Humor.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>smilingly: “I’ll go right away, and have that matter
attended to.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Very well,” answered L’Allemand: “the list
will be ready at that hour if my check is.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I will see that the check is forthcoming,” said
Mr. Jaffray.</p>
<p class='c006'>But the appointed hour brought neither Mr.
Jaffray nor the check. Whereupon Mme. L’Allemand
wrote and sent the following note:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='c006'>“<span class='sc'>Mr. Jaffray</span>,—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,—</p>
<table class='table1'>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>When My Ship Comes In</span></td>
<td class='c009'><i>Locke</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Waiting</span></td>
<td class='c009'><i>Jaffray</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='sc'>What Shall the Harvest Be?</span></td>
<td class='c009'><i>Thurber</i></td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c006'>“Hoping that these selections will please both management
and public, I am respectfully yours,</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“PAULINE L’ALLEMAND.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Veteran Actor.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>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 <i>half</i> a glass of
whiskey!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A White-House Ballad.—IV.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in12'>THE PIE.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>King Grover at his table round</div>
<div class='line'>Sate feasting once, and there was sound</div>
<div class='line in4'>Of good things said and sly;</div>
<div class='line'>When, presently, King Grover spake:</div>
<div class='line'>“A murrain seize this futile cake!</div>
<div class='line in4'>Come, Daniel, pass the pie!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Then quoth Sir Daniel, flaming hot,</div>
<div class='line'>“Pie hath not been in Camelot</div>
<div class='line in4'>Since Arthur was our king;</div>
<div class='line'>Soothly, I ween, ’twere vain to make</div>
<div class='line'>Demand for pie where there is cake,</div>
<div class='line in4'>For pie’s a ribald thing!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Despite King Arthur’s rash decree,</div>
<div class='line'>Which ill-beseemeth mine and me,”</div>
<div class='line in4'>King Grover answered flat,</div>
<div class='line'>“I will have pie three times a day,—</div>
<div class='line'>Let dotards cavil as they may,—</div>
<div class='line in4'>And <i>pumpkin</i>-pie, at that!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Then, frowning a prodigious frown,</div>
<div class='line'>Sir Daniel pulled his visor down,</div>
<div class='line in4'>And, with a mighty sigh,</div>
<div class='line'>Out strode he to the kitchen, where</div>
<div class='line'>He bade the varlet slaves prepare</div>
<div class='line in4'>Three times each day a pie.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Thenceforth King Grover was content,</div>
<div class='line'>And all his reign in peace was spent;</div>
<div class='line in4'>And when ’twas questioned why</div>
<div class='line'>He waxed so hale, and why the while,</div>
<div class='line'>The whole domain was free from guile,</div>
<div class='line in4'>He simply answered, “Pie!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Life, Death, and Love.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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?</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>an evil heart, but from the false glitter by which
an unparalleled prosperity blinded his eyes, and
turned his head.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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. <i>She</i>, 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.</p>
<p class='c006'><i>Then</i>, 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>was given freely—ay, even before his trembling
hands and pleading eyes reached out for it.</p>
<p class='c006'>Such is thy charity, O godlike womanhood! and
in its sweetness and tenderness and purity, God
grant we all may live and die!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Pike’s Peak.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I stood upon the peak amid the air:</div>
<div class='line in2'>Below me lay the peopled, busy earth;</div>
<div class='line'>Life, life, and life again was everywhere,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And everywhere were melody and mirth—</div>
<div class='line'>Save on that peak, and silence brooded there.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I vaunted then myself, and half aloud</div>
<div class='line in2'>I gloried in the journey I had done:</div>
<div class='line'>“Eschewing earth, and earth’s seductive crowd,</div>
<div class='line in2'>I’ve scaled this steep, despite the rocks and sun;</div>
<div class='line'>Of such a feat might any man be proud!”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>But, as I boasted thus, my burro brayed;</div>
<div class='line in2'>I turned, and lo! a tear was in his eye;</div>
<div class='line'>And as I gazed, methought the burro sayed,</div>
<div class='line in2'>“Prithee, who brought you up this mountain high?</div>
<div class='line'>Was it <i>your</i> legs or <i>mine</i> the journey made?”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Then moraled I: “The sturdiest peak is fame’s,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And there be many on its very height,</div>
<div class='line'>Who strut in pride, and vaunt their empty claims,</div>
<div class='line in2'>While those poor human asses who delight</div>
<div class='line'>To place them there have unremembered names!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Christian-County Mosquitoes.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Dying Soldier.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>His listening soul hears no echo of battle,</div>
<div class='line in2'>No pæan of triumph, nor welcome of fame;</div>
<div class='line'>But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And softly he murmurs her idolized name;</div>
<div class='line'>And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging,</div>
<div class='line in2'>As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;</div>
<div class='line'>He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—</div>
<div class='line in2'>And Nellie is coming from over the sea.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>While each patriot’s hope stays the fulness of sorrow,</div>
<div class='line in2'>While our eyes are bedimmed, and our voices are low,</div>
<div class='line'>He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Like an angel come back from the dear long ago.</div>
<div class='line'>Ah! what to him now is a nation’s emotion?</div>
<div class='line in2'>And what for our love or our grief careth he?</div>
<div class='line'>A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And Nellie is coming from over the sea!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>March, 1884.</span></p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>His First Day at Editing.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Here’s the mornin’ mail, major,” said the office-boy,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>laying innumerable packages of letters and
circulars on the table before Mr. Hurlbut.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Why do you call me major?” inquired Mr.
Hurlbut, with an amused twinkle in his eyes.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Oh! we always call the editors majors,” replied
the office-boy. “Major Dennett made that
a rule long time ago.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>So Major Hurlbut tore open one of the envelopes,
and read as follows:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='c006'>“G 38, Times Office: I have a nice, quiet, furnished room.
Call after eight o’clock <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>, at No. 1143 Elston Road.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p class='c006'>“As I suspected,” cried Major Hurlbut, with a
profound groan. “Under these strange pseudonyms,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“H’yar’s a package for you, sah,” said the dusky
porter, Martin Lewis, entering, and placing a small
bundle before Major Hurlbut.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>With this philosophic observation, the major
opened the bundle, and disclosed several hundred
neat pasteboard cards, printed in red and black as
follows:—</p>
<div class='border'>
<div class='lg-container-b c020'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in12'><span class='large'>HORACE A. HURLBUT,</span></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in14'>Receiver and Editor “Chicago Times.”</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><i>REAL ESTATE A SPECIALTY.</i></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in4'><i>DRUG ORDERS PROMPTLY FILLED.</i></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in8'>Loans Negotiated without Publicity.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Majah Dennett would like to speak with you,
sah,” said Martin, the porter.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>“Although I am very busy with this mail, you
may show him in,” remarked Major Hurlbut.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“This is a busy hour with us editors,” said Major
Hurlbut, “therefore I hope you will state your
business as succinctly as possible.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I merely called to receive orders,” explained
Major Dennett, with an astonished look.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“You mistake me, sir,” replied Major Dennett:
“I am connected with this paper, and have been
managing editor for many years.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Major Hurlbut’s manner changed instantly. His
cold reserve melted at once, and he became docile
as a sucking-dove.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Major George McConnell and Major Guy Magee
<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Sick? What appears to be the matter?”
asked the editor.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I didn’t ask them,” replied Major Magee;
“but they said they had headaches.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I presume the policy of the paper touching
the theatres will remain unchanged?” inquired
Major McConnell.</p>
<p class='c006'>“That reminds me,” said Major Hurlbut: “who
gets the show-tickets?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, I have attended to that detail heretofore,”
replied Major McConnell.</p>
<p class='c006'>“We get as many as we want, don’t we?” asked
Major Hurlbut.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Certainly,” said Major McConnell.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, then, we must give the shows good
notices,” said the editor: “and, by the way, I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes, all we want,” said Major Dennett.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I am glad I am an editor,” said Major Hurlbut
softly but feelingly.</p>
<p class='c006'>The foreman came in.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Shall we set it in nonpareil to-night?” he asked.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Eh?” ejaculated Editor Hurlbut.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Does nonpareil go?” repeated the foreman.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What has he been doing?” inquired Editor
Hurlbut.</p>
<p class='c006'>“The minion is so bad that we ought to put the
paper in nonpareil,” explained the foreman.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Then, I am to fire the minion?” asked the
foreman.</p>
<p class='c006'>“No,” said Major Hurlbut, “do not fire him,
for that would constitute arson; discharge him,
but use no violence.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>mal-apropos</i> levity.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Little Peach.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A little peach in the orchard grew,</div>
<div class='line'>A little peach of emerald hue:</div>
<div class='line'>Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,</div>
<div class='line in28'>It grew.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>One day, walking the orchard through,</div>
<div class='line'>That little peach dawned on the view</div>
<div class='line'>Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—</div>
<div class='line in28'>Those two.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Up at the peach a club they threw:</div>
<div class='line'>Down from the limb on which it grew,</div>
<div class='line'>Fell the little peach of emerald hue—</div>
<div class='line in28'>Too true!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,</div>
<div class='line'>And then the trouble began to brew,—</div>
<div class='line'>Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,—</div>
<div class='line in28'>Paregoric too.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Under the turf where the daisies grew,</div>
<div class='line'>They planted John and his sister Sue;</div>
<div class='line'>And their little souls to the angels flew—</div>
<div class='line in28'>Boo-hoo!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>But what of the peach of emerald hue,</div>
<div class='line'>Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?</div>
<div class='line'>Ah, well! its mission on earth is through—</div>
<div class='line in28'>Adieu!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Learning and Literature.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“The weary heart is a pilgrim</div>
<div class='line in2'>Seeking the Mecca of rest;</div>
<div class='line'>Its burden is one of sorrows;</div>
<div class='line'>And it wails a song as it drags along,—</div>
<div class='line in2'>’Tis the song of a hopeless quest.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>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,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>“A cultured gent is the packer</div>
<div class='line in4'>Who in this town abides;</div>
<div class='line in2'>He masticates terbacker,</div>
<div class='line'>And rolls in gold; last year he sold</div>
<div class='line in4'>A million hams and sides.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Some Famous Apologies.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>début</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Victoria at the Show.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>per diem</i>. 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“No, queen,” answered the colonel; “but I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>passed through his town on my way to Chicago
last winter.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Farmer’s Advice.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Chicago German Lyric.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">DER NIEBELRUNGEN UND DER SCHLABBERGASTERFELDT.</span></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in20'>I.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Ein Niebelrungen schlossen Gold</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="de">Gehabt gehaben Ritcher weiss;</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Ein Schlabbergasterfeldt zum Sold</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="de">Gehaben Meister treulich heiss.</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">“Ich dich! Ich dich!” die Maedchen tzwei—</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">“Ich dich!” das Niebelrungen drei.</span></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in20 c002'>II.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Die Turnverein ist lieb und dicht</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="de">Zum Fest und lieben kleiner Geld;</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Der Niebelrungen picht ein Bricht</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="de">Und hitt das Schlabbergasterfeldt!</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">“Ich dich! Ich dich!” die Maedchen schreit—</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Und so das Schlabbergaster deit.</span></div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in20 c002'>III.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Ach! weh das Niebelrungen spott—</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="de">Ach! weh das Maedchen Turnverein—</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Und unser Meister lieben Gott—</span></div>
<div class='line in2'><span lang="de">Ach! weh das Wienerwurst und Wein.</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Ach! weh das Bricht zum kleiner Geld—</span></div>
<div class='line'><span lang="de">Ach! weh das Schlabbergasterfeldt!</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Works of Sappho.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>morceaux</i>
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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>“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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘Me just now the golden-sandalled Dawn.’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>“That’s all there is to it. Here’s the second:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘I yearn and seek.’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>“A third is complete in—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘Much whiter than an egg;’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c014'>and the fourth is,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘Stir not the shingle,’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c014'>which, I take it, was one of Sapphire’s juvenile
poems addressed to his mother. The fifth poem
is simply,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“‘And thou thyself, Calliope,’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>strikes us business-men of Chicago as a queer bit
of pedantry.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>But while there was a pretty general disposition
to criticise Sappho, there was only one opinion as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>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”?</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>November.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The night is dark and the night is cold,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And the wind blows fierce and strong:</div>
<div class='line'>And the rich man sits in his castle old;</div>
<div class='line'>He drinks his wine, and he counts his gold,</div>
<div class='line in2'>As the night goes frowning along, along,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And the night wind sings its song.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The wind speeds out to the withered lea,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Afar from the urban throng,</div>
<div class='line'>Where the poet abideth in poverty:</div>
<div class='line'>Nor castle, nor wine, nor gold, hath he,</div>
<div class='line in2'>But he heareth the night wind’s song—its song</div>
<div class='line in2'>As the night goes frowning along.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Oh! give me no castles, proud and old,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Nor honors that station brings;</div>
<div class='line'>Give me no plenty of wine and gold;</div>
<div class='line'>But give me the soul, when the nights are cold,</div>
<div class='line in2'>To hear what the night wind sings and sings</div>
<div class='line in2'>As it rustles its voiceful wings.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Novelette.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“Sing me the old song!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Sing me the old song!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>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”?</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Sing me the old song!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What song mean you?” inquired the imperious
Joseph Medill, bestowing upon the kneeling
William a look of melting tenderness that bespoke
a relenting mood.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What song? What other song but that which
you, and you alone, have sung so pathetically and
so divinely all these years?”</p>
<p class='c006'>The imperious Joseph turned his beautiful face
away, as if to conceal the emotion that perturbed
his delicately chiselled features.</p>
<p class='c006'>In another moment, William Bross had sprung
to his feet, had clasped Joseph Medill in his arms,
and was straining him to his breast.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>“Sing me the old song,” he whispered hotly in
Joseph’s shell-like ear, “the old, sweet song about
free trade.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Inter-State Commerce Bill Items.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Wizard of Vermilion.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_259_1.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<div class='figleft id003'>
<img src='images/i_259_2.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>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.</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>
<img src='images/i_260.jpg' alt='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.' class='ig001'>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Why He was Tardy.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Who’s there?” demanded St. Peter.</p>
<p class='c006'>“O. W. Ruggles of Chicago,” was the reply.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Let me see,” said St. Peter, looking over his books,
“let me see; when did you die?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Last week Tuesday,” said Ruggles.</p>
<p class='c006'>“A week ago!” cried the saint, “seems to me
you’ve been a long time on the way.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Base-Ball as a Classic.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>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:—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“The youth I saw was playing ball,—</div>
<div class='line'>Seventeen years of age, and tall;</div>
<div class='line'>From Cos he came; and well I wot</div>
<div class='line'>The gods looked kindly on that spot,</div>
<div class='line'>For when he took the ball, or threw it,</div>
<div class='line'>So pleased were all of us to view it,</div>
<div class='line'>We all cried out. So great his grace,</div>
<div class='line'>Such frank good-humor in his face,</div>
<div class='line'>That, every time he spoke or moved,</div>
<div class='line'>All felt as if that youth they loved.</div>
<div class='line'>Had I staid long, most sad my plight</div>
<div class='line'>Had been to lose my wits outright;</div>
<div class='line'>And even now, the recollection</div>
<div class='line'>Disturbs my senses’ calm reflection.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Culled in Helicon.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Oon Criteek de Bernhardt.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>crême de la crême</i>, 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 <i>crême de la crême</i>
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 <i>shocked</i> us,—was the exceeding frigidity with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>which the select few of our <i>crême de la crême</i> received
the superb bits of art which Sara Bernhardt
threw out, much as an emery-wheel emits beauteous
vari-colored sparks.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Ze play eez ‘Fedora,’” said Sara to M. le General
Carson, <i>entre acte</i>, “ze artiste eez Bernhardt,
and ze audiongce eez ‘Les Miserables!’”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>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”—</p>
<p class='c006'>“Sardoo? Who’s he?” interrupted M. le Colonnel
Palmer.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I like Clara Morris better in this <i>rôle</i>,” said he
to M. T. Desplaines Wiggins, one of the vice-presidents
of the Chicago Literary Club.</p>
<p class='c006'>“But, my dear fellow,” said M. Wiggins, in a
tone of expostulation, “Clara Morris never played
the part.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>“Never played Cameel?” cried M. Hooper.
“Why, bless you, man, I seen her do it right here
in this theatre!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“But this isn’t Cameel,” said M. Wiggins: “it’s
Feedorer.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, now, I’ll bet you fifty it’s Cameel,” said
M. Hooper, calmly but firmly.</p>
<p class='c006'>M. Wiggins covered the wager, and M. Billy
Lyon decided in favor of Wiggins and Fedora.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I knew I was right,” exclaimed M. Wiggins
triumphantly, “for I saw it on the programme.”</p>
<p class='c006'>M. Hooper was very much put out. “You don’t
pronounce that word right, anyway,” he muttered
sulkily.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What word?” demanded M. Wiggins hotly.</p>
<p class='c006'>“That word programmay,” said M. Hooper.
“It’s French; and it isn’t program, but programmay.”</p>
<p class='c006'>They wagered fifty dollars on it between them,
and referred it to M. Jean McConnell.</p>
<p class='c006'>“At popular prices, it’s program,” said M.
McConnell; “but during this engagement, it’s
programmay, sure.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Why, no, ’taint, pa,” protested Mdlle. Billings:
“it’s ‘Faydorah.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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 <i>did</i> hear,
I would judge that she spoke better English than
Rhea: at any rate, I could understand her better
than I ever could Rhea.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>and does business to 333⅓ of the <i>crême
de la crême</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“The last act was a great disappointment,” said
<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>guying and blackguarding us in her absurd foreign
language?</p>
<p class='c006'>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?</p>
<p class='c006'>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!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Oon Conversarzyony Frongsay.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>The Bernhardt engagement has brought out all
the French scholars in Chicago. Never before had
we suspected that there were so many able linguists
<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Now what is she saying?” the judge would
ask.</p>
<p class='c006'>“She said, ‘Good-evening,’” the general would
answer.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Does ‘bung swor’ mean ‘good-evening’?” the
judge would inquire.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Do you speak French?” asked Gen. Stiles in
the confidential tone of a member of the Citizens’
Committee.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>“Oony poo,” said Col. Nixon guardedly.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Vooley voo donny moy voter ver de lopera?”
asked the general, motioning toward the opera-glass.</p>
<p class='c006'>“See nay par zoon ver de lopera!” protested
the colonel. “Say lay zhoomels.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Mong doo! What do I want of zhoomels?”
cried Gen. Stiles. “Zhoomels is twins!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Par bloo!” said Col. Nixon: “it is not twins,
it is opera-glasses.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I have heard them called lornyets,” suggested
Judge Prendergast, in the deferential tone of a
young barrister seeking a change of venue.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, I don’t know what the general’s opera-glass
is,” said Col. Nixon; “but this one of mine
is a ‘lay zhoomels.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I thought you didn’t speak French,” said Gen.
Stiles, turning fiercely upon the judge.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>Chicago society is still in considerable doubt as
to where Bernhardt should be located in the
artistic scale. A good many of the <i>élite</i> 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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Fearless Protector</i>.</h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Noticing the lady’s dilemma, Col. Hill, with
characteristic gallantry, was not slow in coming to
her rescue.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Knapp’s Scheme.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Why doesn’t she?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“No hotel-bill? Why, how’s that?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“No, none at all: I had made all the arrangements
to have her stop with the minister.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Fine Old Book.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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:—</p>
<p class='c006'>“The iron fence and brick sidewalk which surround
the Common are noble monuments of public
enterprise, and of the energy of American
mechanics.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Since the day when Elder Oliver’s horse had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>littérateur</i>
ought to compile these associations into a tome.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Stealing Our Thunder.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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 <i>littérateurs</i>, 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>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 <i>littérateurs</i> 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:—</p>
<p class='c006'>Professor H. T. Bosbyshell, author of “American
Soaps Analyzed,” “The Secret of Perfuming Revealed,”
“The Boss Baking Powder,” and “How
to Remove Paint Stains.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Professor William Mathews, author of “How
to get on in the World.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Col. Peter G. Hobby, author of “The New
Baconian Theory; or, A Modern Method of Smoking
Sidemeats.”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Mrs. Martha W. Lester-Tubbs, author of “The
Dawn of Chicago Literature,” “The Mother’s
Companion,” and compiler of “Epics of the
Hennepin Valley.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Professor Thomas O’B. Swigert, author of “The
Art of Composition; or, The Manufacture of
Press-Rollers Made Easy.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>littérateurs</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Lost, Strayed, or Stolen.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Oh! what has become of the mugwump bird</div>
<div class='line in2'>In this weather of wind and snow?</div>
<div class='line'>And does he roost as high as we heard</div>
<div class='line in2'>He roosted a year ago?</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A year ago, and his plumes were red</div>
<div class='line in2'>As the deepest of cardinal hues;</div>
<div class='line'>But in the year they’ve changed, ’tis said,</div>
<div class='line in2'>To the bluest of bilious blues!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A year ago, and this beautiful thing</div>
<div class='line in2'>Warbled in careless glee;</div>
<div class='line'>But now the tune he is forced to sing,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Is pitched in a minor key.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>It’s oh, we sigh, for the times gone by,</div>
<div class='line in2'>When the mugwump lived to laugh—</div>
<div class='line'>When, coy and shy, he roosted high,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And couldn’t be caught with chaff.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And it’s oh, we say, for the good old day</div>
<div class='line in2'>Which never again may come—</div>
<div class='line'>When the mugwump threaded his devious way,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And whistled his lumpty-tum!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Condensed Literature.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Dr. Warner in Chicago.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>Local literary circles were thrown into a condition
of feverish excitement yesterday by the rumor
that Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, a well-known
Eastern <i>littérateur</i>, 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>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 <i>brochure</i> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>An Anxious Inquiry.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-r c002'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Chicago, Ill.</span>, April 17.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c006'><i>To the Editor.</i>—You said some time ago that
Dr. Charles Dudley Warner, the eminent <i>littérateur</i>,
and compounder of Warner’s famous safe liver and
kidney pills, would visit Chicago on his return
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>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.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yours truly,</div>
<div class='line in4'>ARBA N. JACKSON, V.S.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Chip of the Old Block.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>Ex-Postmaster-General Frank Hatton has
a fourteen-year-old son who resembles his distinguished
father in many particulars.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Pa,” said he the other day, “I’ve made up my
mind where I would like to go to college.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Aha,” replied his father; “and where is it, my
boy?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“To Vassar,” said the precocious child.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Humph!” ejaculated the proud father: “darned
if I wouldn’t like to go there myself!”</p>
<hr class='c011'>
<p class='c006'>We understand that Professor Thomas DeQuincey
Smythe, the gifted <i>littérateur</i> 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Crown Jewels.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>Mr. Goodwin’s Yacht.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Laudable Scheme.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Era of Reform.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Your excellency,” cried Secretary Lamont,
“where are you going at this early hour of the
morning? It is hardly five o’clock.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>all employees of the civil service should report for
duty at half-past four <span class='fss'>A.M.</span> every week-day. President
Cleveland entered the Treasury building, and
asked the janitor where Col. Manning was to be
found.</p>
<p class='c006'>“He is down in the vaults, counting the
money,” said the janitor; “and he cannot be
disturbed.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>Then Mr. Cleveland observed that Col. Manning
was attired in naught but an undershirt, his trousers,
and a pair of high-heeled boots.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Good!” thought the President. Then he said
aloud, “But where is the gas, Dan? and why are
you using this wretched tallow-dip?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>By this means, the sum of ninety thousand dollars
will be saved to the country annually.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“And what are you doing now?” asked the
President.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Dunno,” replied the boy, “but guess he’s in
the gymnasium over ’cross the hall.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>jersey and a pair of white cotton drawers, and
engaged at pulling vigorously at a rowing-machine.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, I declare!” exclaimed President Cleveland.
“What on earth are you doing?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>As the President strolled toward the War-Department
offices, his bosom heaved with emotions
of exultation.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>“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’.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Well, I swow!” exclaimed the secretary.
“You don’t say so!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>A beautiful young woman, wearing a calico
dress, was carrying a three-hundred-pound mail-sack
filled with letters through the hall.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Is Secretary Vilas in?” inquired the President.</p>
<p class='c006'>“No, sir,” answered the beautiful being in the
calico, as she hurried along with the mail-sack.</p>
<p class='c006'>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?”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>“What is the jurisdiction of a Missouri justice of
the peace?” “Explain the difference between <i>de
jure</i> and <i>de facto</i>.” “What is a <i>posse comitatus</i>,
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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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, ‘<i>De juvente
pluribus noctantur</i>;’ and in the words of the old
Greek philosopher, ‘<i>Kai telos epithalmos gar gignosko</i>.’”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>“’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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I have just left a bundle of letters with Lamont
for you,” said Vilas.</p>
<p class='c006'>“How do you happen to be here, instead of
at your post of duty?” inquired the President
gloomily.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>“Daniel,” said he to his private secretary, “I
feel encouraged, for I have irrefutable evidence
that my cabinet is <i>en rapport</i> with the administration.
The republic has indeed entered upon an
era of Arcadian simplicity.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Drama Discussed.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Col. Lamont tells me,” said Mr. Cleveland,
“that you are a dramatic author.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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 <i>en
rapport</i> on the subject of the drama.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Vale of Cashmere.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>while his dragoman, Prince von Schierbrand, read
aloud the official report of the wedding.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Hold on a minute,” he cried, interrupting the
prince at one point in his perusal: “read that last
sentence again.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“‘The bride wore a tulle veil bedecked with
orange-blossoms,’” repeated the dragoman slowly
and with emphasis.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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 <i>that</i> would have
beaten the rest of her <i>trousseau</i> all hollow!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Friend of the Indian.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“How do you do, Mr. President?” exclaimed
the neat-looking gentleman cordially.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Mr. Cleveland.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Can I see you a moment privately?” inquired
the neat-looking gentleman, attempting to draw
the new President to one side.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>“Really, sir, it is impossible to grant your
request just at this moment,” said Mr. Cleveland,
stanchly maintaining his ground.</p>
<p class='c006'>“You seem to have forgotten me,” persisted the
neat-looking gentleman: “I am Erskine M. Phelps,
president of the Iroquois Club.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Way of the Sex.</i></h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>One morning in May, as the doodle-bug lay</div>
<div class='line in2'>In her cavern a fathom down under the ground,</div>
<div class='line'>The poodle-dog came, and he murmured her name,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And the doodle-bug’s heart gave a rapturous bound.</div>
<div class='line in10'>“O doodle, dear doodle!”</div>
<div class='line in10'>Soft murmured the poodle:</div>
<div class='line in10'>“What now, Mr. Poodle?”</div>
<div class='line in10'>Responded the doodle.</div>
<div class='line'>Then he told her his love, did the amorous poodle.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>But the doodle-bug said, with a toss of her head,</div>
<div class='line in2'>“What stocks, bonds, or moneys, I pri’thee have you?”</div>
<div class='line'>But the poodle replied, “I have nothing beside</div>
<div class='line in2'>My beautiful fleece and a heart that is true.”</div>
<div class='line in10'>“Well, then, Mr. Poodle,”</div>
<div class='line in10'>Retorted the doodle,</div>
<div class='line in10'>“I’m not such a noodle,</div>
<div class='line in10'>To wed a kiudle</div>
<div class='line in10'>Who hasn’t a boodle”—</div>
<div class='line'>And she gave him the mitten, the frugal Miss Doodle.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>After Many Years.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Reckon you were at Shiloh, eh, stranger?”
asked the tall, raw-boned man.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes,” replied the small, shrivelled-up man,
“and I shall never forget it: it was the toughest
battle of the war.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“You were a rebel, then?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I was a Confederate,” replied the tall, raw-boned
man; “and I did some right smart fighting
among that clump of trees that day.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I remember it well,” said the small, shrivelled-up
<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>man, “for I was a Federal soldier; and the
toughest scrimmage in all that battle was just
among that clump of trees.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Oh, but what a scrimmage it was!” said the
tall, raw-boned man.</p>
<p class='c006'>“How the sabres clashed, and how the minies
whistled!” cried the small, shrivelled-up man.</p>
<p class='c006'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“With pleasure,” said the small, shrivelled-up
man; and the two clasped hands.</p>
<p class='c006'>“What might be your name?” inquired the tall,
raw-boned man.</p>
<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>“I am Gen. B. M. Prentiss,” said the small,
shrivelled-up man.</p>
<p class='c006'>“The —— you say!” exclaimed the tall, raw-boned
man.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes,” re-affirmed the small, shrivelled-up man;
“and who are you?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“I,” replied the tall, raw-boned man, “I am
Gen. John S. Marmaduke.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Society Item.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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
<i>recherche</i> social circle in which she moves.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i><span lang="de">“Die Walküre” und der Boomerangelungen.</span></i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>There is a strange fascination about Herr
Wagner’s musical drama of “<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>.” A
great many people have supposed that Herr Sullivan’s
opera of “<span lang="de">Das Pinafore</span>” 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 “<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>” will ever be
whistled about the streets, as the airs from “Das
Pinafore” are whistled: the fact is, that no rendition
of “<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>” 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>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 “<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>” 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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>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 <i>embonpoint</i> 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.</p>
<p class='c006'>The Sieglinde of the piece is Fraulein Slach, a
young lady no bigger than a minute, but with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>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!</p>
<p class='c006'>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?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>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 “<span lang="de">Die
Walküre</span>” 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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>An Angered Teuton.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>A gentleman living out on Franklin Street
sends the following communication to this paper,
under date of March 12:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='c006'>“<i>To the Editor.</i>—Your to-day’s edition brings
an article on ‘<span lang="de">The Walküre</span>.’ Are you aware of
the fact that your daily issue is, according to your
own statement, nearly a hundred and fifty thousand?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>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 <i>gentleman</i>
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 ‘<span lang="de">The
Walküre</span>.’ I write this to you as an expression
of my disgust,” etc.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>“<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>” Analyzed.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>Professor Eliphalet J. Snodgrass, emeritus
professor of æsthetic chemistry at Chicago University,
has analyzed the specimen of Wagner’s “<span lang="de">Die
Walküre</span>” we sent him last Wednesday morning,
and he finds that this inspired work of the great
<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>German master is composed of the following proportionate
parts:—</p>
<table class='table1'>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Libretto</td>
<td class='c009'>06</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>String-music</td>
<td class='c009'>12</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Wind-music</td>
<td class='c009'>15</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Motives</td>
<td class='c009'>25</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Bass-drums and cymbals</td>
<td class='c009'>14</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Lycopodium and sheet-iron thunder</td>
<td class='c009'>13</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>Flapdoodle, flubdub, and imagination</td>
<td class='c009'>15</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'><hr></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c021'>Total</td>
<td class='c009'>100</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c006'>This chemical analysis is confirmed, we understand,
by the numerous musical critics of the
Chicago press, who have surveyed the performance
of “<span lang="de">Die Walküre</span>” 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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>A Felicitous Toast.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>“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.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Farmer Candidate.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Ah, my good friend,” said Farmer Harrison, in
his oiliest tones, “what a superb animal that is!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Yes,” replied the rustic, “a very clever critter.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“What do you call him?” inquired Farmer
Harrison. “Do you call him Jim Blaine?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Naw,” replied the rustic.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Logan or Oglesby?” asked Farmer Harrison.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Naw.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Perhaps you have named him the Plumed
Knight, or Black Eagle, or Uncle Dick?” suggested
the farmer candidate.</p>
<p class='c006'>“Naw,” said the rustic: “’tain’t got no name ’t all.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>corruption. You are a Democrat, sir,—a grand
old Jacksonian Democrat,—unless your honest
looks belie you!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Waal, I am, by gosh!” said the rustic earnestly.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Waal, now, gov’ner,” said the rustic, confused
like, “I’m drefful sorry, but I can’t conscientiously
do it.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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?”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Now, really, gov’ner, I can’t,” persisted the
rustic.</p>
<p class='c006'>“And why not?” demanded Farmer Harrison.</p>
<p class='c006'>“I don’t care to say: I don’t want to hurt your
feelin’s.”</p>
<p class='c006'>“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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>man, that your answer may be recorded, and go
thundering down the ages!”</p>
<p class='c006'>“Waal, then,” said the venerable rustic, “if you
insist upon knowin’ my reason, I can’t do it, ’cause
the critter’s a heifer!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c004'><i>The Mummy’s Conundrum.</i></h2>
</div>
<p class='c005'>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.</p>
<p class='c006'>“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!”</p>
<p class='c006'>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.”</p>
<div class='c002 figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_326.jpg' alt='A simple black-and-white line drawing of a wooden gallows structure. It consists of a horizontal crossbeam supported by two vertical side posts with diagonal corner braces. A rope hangs from the center of the crossbeam, terminating in a noose, with the rest of the rope trailing down toward the right post.' class='ig001'>
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE END.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c003'>
</div>
<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>
<div class='chapter ph2'>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c010'>
<div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<ul class='ul_1 c002'>
<li>Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
</li>
<li>The author appeared to dislike the use of apostrophes to indicate possession in
poetry and did not alter them.
</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78956 ***</div>
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