This noble form these godlike features prove
That, when you shaped his figure for our view,
You sought Olympus, there to look on Jove—
Or else Jove came to earth, and posed for you.
The last poem which Judge Cooley printed was a parody on the old song of
“Dixie.” It was published in the Ann Arbor paper on July 4, 1861; and
from it we take two specimen stanzas:—
“Undimmed shall float that starry banner
Over Charleston and Savannah;
Far away, etc.
And Bunker Hill and Pensacola
Owe alike its mission holy;
Far away, etc.
Then sound the march! We pledge devotion
In our blood on land or ocean;
Far away, etc.
Till every traitor in the nation
Gains a Haman’s elevation.
Far away, etc.”
It seems a pity that such poetic talent as Judge Cooley evinced was not
suffered to develop. His increasing professional duties and his
political employments put a quietus to those finer intellectual
indulgences with which his earlier years were fruitful. Still, we doubt
not that, through all the noble practical service he has rendered to his
country, he has carried the old-time fondness for the muse, and that
now, in the fulness of his distinguished career, he will view without
regret the buds of his poetic genius herein recalled.
_Judge Cooley’s Denial._
In a speech at one of the collegiate suppers, Judge Cooley has taken
occasion to deny that he ever wrote the poems so ably criticised in the
foregoing paper. It is rather late for the judge to come lumbering to
the front with his disclaimer, yet it is possible that he required a
good deal of time to hunt up and examine the back files of his poetical
works. The judge is now about sixty years of age; and his friends assure
us that he has been writing poetry all his life,—not for publication,
but simply for the pleasure he finds in weaving into rhyme the beautiful
fancies of his active imagination. It is estimated by a friend, who has
known him intimately for forty years, that if Judge Cooley’s poems were
collected and printed, they would fill sixteen royal octavo volumes.
These poems, we are told, treat of every theme imaginable, from “To
Niagara Falls by an August Moonlight” to “The Dimple in my Thisbe’s
Arm.” It seems a great pity that the several thousand epics, ballads,
sonnets, roundels, triolets, odes, jigs, etc., which Judge Cooley has
composed and will confess to—it seems a pity, we say, that these
masterpieces are not to be had in collected form for the edification and
instruction of our public. Since we have referred to his Niagara ode, we
will ask what sentiment could be finer than this:—
“See how that Luna pauses in her nocturnal soaring,
To view thee tumbling in thy bed with fierce Gargantuan snoring.”
And what a startling contrast to this sublime treatment do Judge
Cooley’s playful, amorous lines present:—
“Cloanthus sings his Chloe’s tresses,
For Cynthia’s lips Demetus sighs,
And Tityrus in verse addresses
The love that lurks in Julia’s eyes;
Each, on Icarian pinions soaring,
Applauds some ostentatious charm:
But _I’m_ contented with adoring
The dimple in my Thisbe’s arm.”
Yet we find Judge Cooley advising his young friends not to indulge in
poetizing! A man who has made a success in the highest of literary arts
ought to encourage others to follow in his footsteps—ought he not? Or
does the judge want all the glory himself?
_Literary Notes._
“THE SWINE-BREEDER’S STUDBOOK” for 1887 is at hand, and brings its usual
amount of valuable information. Not an unimportant feature of this
volume is the portrait of the magnificent barrow “Chester White King,”
which took the first premium at the Kewanee fair last fall.
* * * * *
SQUIRE ENOS HAPGOOD, who expired by a vicious mule’s kick on the West
Side last Monday, was one of the most prominent patrons of literature in
the West. Before her death, his wife had been a subscriber to “Godey’s
Lady’s Book” for twenty odd years.
_Mr. Doty Mad._
Mr. Henry K. Doty, one of the most prominent citizens, and the leading
hide and pelt dealer, in the North-West, has just returned from a
European tour. He has been absent about four months; and in that time he
has made a visit to every European country, and has become thoroughly
acquainted with the customs, manners, and languages of the different
people. He spent about seventy-five thousand dollars on the trip; but
this could not be called an extravagant sum when one takes into
consideration the superb paintings, statuary, and other works of virtue,
that he brought back with him. In Paris, upon the Roo de Rivoly alone,
he purchased fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of pictures; and in
Brussels he bought several thousand dollars’ worth of those elegant
carpets from which that city derives its name. Mr. Doty says that he was
well treated everywhere except in England. He is specially bitter
against Mr. Phelps, our representative at the court of St. James.
“This man Phelps,” says he, “is a little, dried-up, snobbish Vermont
lawyer, with a soul no bigger than a huckleberry. I dyed my mustache,
and put on my dress-suit and my twenty-thousand-dollar diamond
bosom-pin, and called to see him. A fine specimen he is to represent our
wealth and culture! I don’t believe his clothes cost more than twenty
dollars a suit.
“‘I suppose I ought to call on the queen,’ says I.
“He didn’t say any thing; and I continued, ‘Would you mind introducing
me?’
“‘Really, Mr. Doty,’ says he, ‘I do not feel like presenting an entire
stranger to her Majesty.’
“‘Oh! you needn’t be scared,’ says I, ‘for I carry as big a letter of
credit as any American in London; and when it comes to culture, and that
sort of thing, I can knock the socks off any of your lords and
marqueezies.’
“Well, will you believe it? he had the impudence to shove a printed list
of questions at me.
“‘You will have to answer these on oath before I can tell you whether I
can present you to her Majesty,’ says he.
“I was as mad as a Texas steer. Here are some of the questions: ‘Did you
ever have a grandfather? and, if so, what was his vocation?’ ‘Have you
contracted the tooth-brush habit?’ ‘Are you addicted to the use of the
double negative?’ ‘Spell phthisis, strychnine, and pneumonia.’ Fine
questions these to put to a gentleman worth a cool million! I told him
to go to —— with his queen; and I’m going to have my private secretary
write a letter to the President, complaining of Phelps, and demanding
that he be discharged.”
_Chicago Palmistry._
Mr. Heron-Allen, the handsome and talented young hand-reader, is making
a barrel of money in Chicago. Our most distinguished society leaders are
consulting him, and are delighted with the flattering pictures which he
finds in their dainty palms. It is understood that the enterprising
young professor—who is as ingenious as he is learned—has found it
necessary to invent a system particularly adapted to the requirements of
the average Chicago hand. It would be quite as unfair to judge the
Chicago hand by the ordinary rules of palmistry as it would be to drag
the Shakspearian drama down to the level of criticism required in the
appreciation of a modern horse-play comedy. The truth seems to be, that
the Chicago hand is the ideal one—the realization of the poetic dreams
of the palmister: it is the perfection of every thing—not necessarily a
purely spiritualized hand, but a beautiful and symmetrical combination
or blending of the best features of the human hand.
The line marked A in this accurate exhibit is what Mr. Heron-Allen most
felicitously terms the pork-line. In every Chicago hand, it is distinct
and long. If at the lower end it rounds off toward the ball of the thumb
(the _Mons Prudentiœ_), it is a sure indication that the patient attends
strictly to prudent business methods; that he pursues only the vocation
in which he has embarked, and that he eschews all those gambling
exploits commonly called speculation. If, on the contrary, this
pork-line turns to the outside of the palm (the _Mons Asinorum_), it
indicates positively that the subject is inclined to desultory deals in
wheat, corn, and other fluctuating staples of trade.
[Illustration: A black-and-white ink illustration of an open, upturned
human right hand, shown from the wrist up. The palm lines are
prominently detailed and labeled with small letters "A", "B", "C", "D",
and "E". The wrist features a gathered shirt cuff with a distinct,
square cufflink.]
The sand-line is B: it betokens prowess and valor in the execution of
those designs inspired by the pork-line (A). This line (B) is deeply
marked in the average Chicago hand. It is generally conceded, we think,
that in all grades, brands, and departments of business and culture, the
Chicagoan exhibits more sand than is to be found anywhere else on the
surface of the earth. In a great many instances it is so strongly marked
that its shadow is plainly outlined on the back of the hand.
These two lines—A and B—exhaust what are called the physical lines. Next
comes the intellectual or literary line C. It is this demarcation, broad
and distinct, that causes the wearer to take pleasure in literature, to
join literary clubs, to inquire into the mysteries of summer philosophy,
to subscribe for the local trade weeklies, to buy handsome wall-paper,
and to have the seaside novels rebound in half-calf. If it were not for
this line in our hands, the newsboys would sell mighty few books on our
trains, and Billy Pinkerton would never have become famous as an author.
The line D is common to the Chicago hand: it argues a fondness for the
fine arts, for music, and for all articles of vertoo—such as
piano-fortes, folding-beds, wax flowers, race-horses, perfumery, $4
opera, pug dogs, statuary, Browning’s poems, dyspepsia, and lawn tennis.
Of late this art-line has got so deep in a great many Chicago hands,
that it had to be sewed up by a doctor.
The line E is not found in every instance. It is most commonly met with
among the wealthiest of our cultured people—those whose culture has come
to them with their sudden acquisition of great wealth. It extends about
the wrist, and is clearly marked about three times a day. It is called
the water-line.
_A Marvellous Invention._
It is narrated, that, once upon a time, there lived a youth who required
so much money for the gratification of his dissolute desires, that he
was compelled to sell his library in order to secure funds. Thereupon,
he despatched a letter to his venerable father, saying, “Rejoice with
me, O father! for already am I beginning to live upon the profits of my
books.”
Professor Andrew J. Thorpe has invented an ingenious machine which will
be likely to redound to the physical comfort and the intellectual
benefit of our fellow-citizens. We are disposed to treat of this
invention at length, for two reasons: first, because it is a Chicago
invention; and, second, because it seems particularly calculated to
answer an important demand that has existed in Chicago for a long time.
Professor Thorpe’s machine is nothing less than a combination parlor,
library, and folding bedstead, adapted to the drawing-room, the study,
the dining-room, and the sleeping apartment,—a producer capable of
giving to the world thousands upon thousands of tomes annually, and
these, too, in a shape most attractive to our public. Professor Thorpe
himself is of New-England birth and education; and, until he came West,
he was called “Uncle Andy Thorpe.” For many years he lived in New
Britain, Conn.; and there he pursued the vocation of a manufacturer of
sofas, settees, settles, and bed-lounges. He came to Chicago three years
ago; and not long thereafter, he discovered that the most imperative
demand of this community was for a bed which combined, “at one and the
same time” (as he says, for he is no rhetorician), the advantages of a
bed and the advantages of a library. In a word, Chicago was a literary
centre; and it required, even in the matter of its sleeping _apparata_,
machines which, when not in use for bed-purposes, could be utilized to
the nobler ends of literary display. In this emergency the fertile
Yankee wit of the immigrant came to his assistance; and about a year
ago, he put upon the market the ingenious and valuable combination,
which has commanded the admiration and patronage of our best literary
circles, and which at this moment we are pleased to discourse of.
It has been our good fortune to inspect the superb line of folding
library-bedsteads which Professor Thorpe offers to the public at
startlingly low figures, and we are surprised at the ingenuity and the
learning apparent in these contrivances. The Essay bedstead is a
particularly handsome piece of furniture, being made of polished
mahogany, elaborately carved, and intricately embellished throughout.
When closed, this bedstead presents the verisimilitude of a large
book-case filled with the essays of Emerson, Carlyle, Bacon, Montaigne,
Hume, Macaulay, Addison, Steele, Johnson, Budgell, Hughes, and others.
These volumes are made in one piece, of the best seasoned oak, and are
hollow within throughout; so that each shelf constitutes in reality a
chest or drawer which may be utilized for divers domestic purposes. In
these drawers a husband may keep his shirts or neckties; or in them a
wife may stow away her furs or flannel underwear in summer, and her
white _piqués_ and muslins in winter. These drawers (each of which
extends to the height of twelve inches) are faced in superb tree-calf,
and afford a perfect representation of rows of books, the title and
number of each volume being printed in massive gold characters. The
weight of the six drawers in this Essay bedstead does not exceed twelve
pounds; but the machine is so stoutly built as to admit of the drawers
containing a weight equivalent to six hundred pounds without interfering
with the ease and nicety of the machine’s operation. Upon touching a
gold-mounted knob, the book-case divides, the front part of it descends;
and, presto! you have as beautiful a couch as ever Sancho could have
envied.
This Essay bedstead is sold for four hundred and fifty dollars. Another
design, with the case and bed in black walnut, the books in _papier
maché_, and none but English essayists in the collection, can be had for
a hundred dollars.
A British Poets’ folding-bed can be had for three hundred dollars. This
is an imitation of the blue-and-gold edition published in Boston some
years ago. Busts of Shakespeare and of Wordsworth appear at the front
upper corners of the book-case, and these serve as pedestals to the
machine when it is unfolded into a bedstead. This style, we are told by
Professor Thorpe, has been officially indorsed by the poetry committee
of the Chicago Literary Club. A second design, in royal octavo white
pine, and omitting the works of Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, and
Herrick, is quoted at a hundred and fifty dollars.
The Historical folding-bed contains complete sets of Hume, Gibbon,
Guizot, Prescott, Macaulay, Bancroft, Lingard, Buckle, etc., together
with Haines’s “History of Lake-County Indians” and Peck’s “Gazetteer of
Illinois,” bound in half-calf, and having a storage space of three feet
by fourteen inches to each row, there being six rows of these books. You
can get this folding-bed for two hundred dollars, or there is a second
set in cloth that can be had for a hundred dollars. The Dramatists’
folding-bed (No. 1) costs three hundred dollars, bound in tree-calf hard
maple, the case being in polished cherry, elaborately carved. The works
included in this library are Shakespeare’s, Schiller’s, Molière’s,
Goethe’s, Jonson’s, Bartley Campbell’s, and many others. Style No. 2 of
this folding-bed has not yet been issued, owing to some difficulty which
Professor Thorpe has had with Eastern publishers; but when the matter of
copyright has been adjusted, the works of Plautus, Euripides,
Thucydides, and other classic dramatists, will be brought out for the
delectation of appreciative Chicagoans.
The Novelists’ bed can be had in numerous styles. One contains the
novels of Mackenzie, Fielding, Smollett, Walpole, Dickens, Thackeray,
and Scott, and is bound in tree-calf: another, better adapted to the
serious-minded (especially to young women), is made up of the novels of
Maria Edgeworth, Miss Jane Porter, Miss Burney, and the Rev. E. P. Roe.
This style can be had for fifty dollars. But the Novelists’ folding-bed
is manufactured in a dozen different styles, and one should consult the
catalogue before ordering.
The folding-bed that pleased us most in all Professor Thorpe’s
collection was the one that is called the Chicago Authors’ Own. It is
issued in numerous styles, it being the wish of the manufacturer to
place the boon within the reach of all. This series (if we may so term
it) is made up of the works of Professor William Mathews, Col. George P.
Upton, Col. Franc B. Wilkie, Franklin H. Head, Esq., Isaac E. Adams, the
Rev. George C. Lorimer, Helen Starrett, Frank Gray, Col. Andrew Shuman,
Capt. John Coulter, Michael Ahern, and of the many, many other
_littérateurs_ whose genius has raised Chicago to her enjoyment of the
proudest literary distinction. These works can be had in every style.
The cheapest, which is bound in modest _papier maché_, and includes a
durable husk mattress, costs but twenty dollars; from this minimum the
price runs up to two hundred dollars; and a special order (including
Haines’s “Indian History” and the folio libretto of Pratt’s “Zenobia”)
has recently been filled for a wealthy South-side gentleman of letters,
who paid six hundred dollars for the collection.
There is no telling to what extent this folding-bed industry may not
reach. As our community grows more and more literary each year, there
will, of course, be an increasing demand for these luxuries, and
accumulating wealth will enable our people to gratify their elevated
tastes. Professor Thorpe seems to be just the man to be at the head of
an industry calculated to pander to the literary instincts of Chicago
folk. He is earnest and enterprising: even now he is at work upon a
folding trundle-bed for children, which will contain a library adapted
to develop proper traits in the young,—such standard books as Watts’s
divine poems, the Rollo series, Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” Cotton
Mather’s “Spiritual Milk for Babes,” etc.
Speaking of the delights of literary pursuits, the eloquent Cicero once
said, “These things [_studia_] nourish our youth, they fortify us in our
age, they make life beautiful, they afford us a refuge and a solace in
adversity, they delight us at home, they do not hinder our practical
relations with men, _they are with us in our sleep_, they accompany us
upon our journeys, and, even afar from civilization, they grant us
unceasing pleasure.” There were no patent library-beds in Cicero’s time.
There was no Professor Thorpe to unfold the fruit of his Yankee
ingenuity upon Roman civilization. Old Cicero must have had the spirit
of prophecy upon him when he uttered the words we have italicized above.
The propitious gods must have given him an inkling of the Professor
Thorpe that was to be.
_Books and Authors._
AMONG the articles of virtue recently purchased by our esteemed
fellow-townsman, Mr. Townley J. Morris, is one of the first English
translations of Virgil’s Æneid. This translation was made, we
understand, under the personal supervision of the eminent poet himself.
* * * * *
THERE is a current rumor that Judge Thomas M. Cooley, chairman of the
interstate Comus commission, has written a poem entitled “Trunk Lines to
a Railroad System.”
* * * * *
CAPT. BEN WINGATE has named his new barge the “Felicia Hemans,” and the
same departed for Saginaw last evening for a cargo of shingles.
_Chicago Hamlets._
The highly successful engagement which Mr. George C. Miln is playing in
this city at this time, affords us the long-desired opportunity of
paying that tribute of admiration and of respect which the genius of the
eminent Chicago tragedian would seem to merit. We confess that we have
viewed with considerable alarm the homage which certain foreign and
Eastern actors (invading our territory with an audacity amounting almost
to effrontery) have wrung from our populace, which we fear is too ready
to depreciate the paramount work of home-production, and to fly into
ecstasies over less meritorious, but more pretentious, importations.
Recognizing it to be a lamentable truth, that, whether he be an actor or
only a prophet, a man is not without honor save at home,—still we
believe that Mr. Miln’s re-appearance in the city that claims him for
her own will go a long way toward relieving the public mind hereabouts
of that cruel misapprehension, that, when Mr. Miln quitted theology for
theatrics, a good preacher was spoiled for a bad actor. We doubt not
that if they were called upon to testify touching this matter, the large
and enthusiastic church sociables which are crowding the Columbia
Theatre this week, would heartily indorse us when we said that Mr.
Miln’s personations evinced the possession of a genius that is rarely
met with upon the dramatic stage.
Returning from a provincial tour, as vicissitudinous as it was extended,
and heralded by the encomiums of the discriminating press of such
intelligent communities as Topeka, Leadville, Cheyenne, Des Moines,
Tipton, etc., it beliked Mr. Miln to inaugurate his engagement in
Chicago with a presentation of his favorite tragedy, the _chef d’œuvre_
of his long list of dramatic successes; namely, the sublime tragedy of
“Hamlet.” Sombre as this play is, it has, nevertheless, become so
popular in this city, that not infrequently are whole scenes of it
enacted in the private theatres of our wealthy citizens; many of our
people have committed to memory the beautiful soliloquies in which it
abounds; our _literati_ have composed ingenious screeds about its
alleged author, and it is about this same author that distinguished
Eastern scholars came here to discourse,—in short, the tragedy of
“Hamlet” has become so well known in Chicago, that he who attempts its
public production must possess rare powers in order to succeed in
winning the public plaudits.
[Illustration: A high-contrast, black-and-white ink illustration showing
the lower half of an actor. The figure wears dark, heavily silhouetted
breeches or baggy trousers tucked into shoes, while the upper portion
features a distinct, vertically striped pattern .]
It was Edwin Forrest, we think, who first played “Hamlet” in Chicago. At
that time this was but a ragged town—the rival of St. Louis. The muskrat
and the wagtail snipe then frolicked and disported where now the
palatial residence of George M. Pullman rears its pretentious front; at
that time, too, Uncle Dick Hooley sang topical songs with great _éclat_;
Col. J. H. McVicker flourished as the popular comedian; Dr. Patterson
and Long John Wentworth snowballed each other on the bleak prairie where
Marshall Field’s big wholesale stone fort now stands; and the
untrammelled Indian coped with the buffalo on the rolling waste where
now are to be found the packing-houses, the lard-refineries, and the
rendering-establishments, of our most cultured fellow-townsmen, the
members of the Chicago Literary Club. To this community, as it existed
at that time, Edwin Forrest’s “Hamlet” was a revelation, and a
delightful one. It came as a kind of encouragement to the ambitious,
bustling, noisy Western town. It was a lusty Hamlet,—stout, stubborn,
forceful, and vigorous as a prosperous butcher. It was not the boyish
Hamlet of a Wilson Barrett, nor the melancholy Hamlet of a Booth, nor
the impressive Hamlet of a Lawrence Barrett, nor yet the foundered
Hamlet of an Irving: it was the sturdy, square-toed, honest,
varicose-veined personation of the actor whose greatness is most keenly
appreciated by those who have heard tell of him.
[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette of a person]
[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette showing the lower body
and legs of a figure facing left.]
Mr. Edwin Booth has given Chicago two Hamlets,—the first many years ago,
the second quite recently. His first Hamlet was of the cold-feet order:
it was the particular admiration of young women who ate slate-pencils,
and of men who believed in female suffrage. Having seen this Hamlet
several times, we were convinced, that, if the original Hamlet were in
reality what Mr. Booth represented, he could have been relieved of his
malady by judicious prescriptions of vermifuge. Mr. Booth’s second
Hamlet—the one he now presents—is a much healthier one; a trifle lame
and a trifle slow, perhaps, but still a great improvement upon the
morbid impersonation of twenty years ago.
[Illustration: A black-and-white ink illustration focusing on a pair of
legs from the thighs down.]
While Mr. Booth’s dyspeptic Dane was in the height of his popularity,
along came a Frenchman from Alsace—a parley-voo of the name of
Fechter—who startled us with a Hamlet which seemed to be the child of
that heartless, prurient Dutchman Goethe’s imagination. This grotesque
innovation shocked our sensitive optics with gaudy silk tights and
colored hosiery. Yet there were those who professed to admire this
refined blasphemy. Even so famous a critic as Miss Kate Field declared
that Fechter’s Hamlet—the left one—was a poem. But this was many years
ago: at that time Miss Field was a giddy, sentimental girl, just out of
a convent. It is probable that her ideal Hamlet is no longer a
strawberry blonde with Dolly Varden nether garments.
[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette of a pair of legs from
the upper thighs down. The legs are extended downward in a slight
V-shape, with the left foot pointing outward to the left and the right
foot angled slightly downward.]
Another Hamlet which we must speak of is Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s; and, to
quote a cant phrase, we speak of it more in sorrow than in anger. We
regard it as a cold, passionless, bloodless Hamlet, with just the
faintest suggestion of bronchitis. It is a self-conscious Hamlet, and a
well-bred Hamlet: it never forgets the “l. u. e.,” nor neglects to
measure off so much carpet to as much heptameter. It is our opinion,—the
result of long and conscientious study,—that the most comfortable time
in the year to hear Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s Hamlet is August; but even
then, in order to insure against the hostile effects of low temperature,
one should be provided with a lap-robe.
[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette showing a pair of legs
standing slightly apart.]
Two Hamlets have come over to us from England. The first was Mr. Henry
Irving, who reaped a golden harvest as a reward for his admirable
imitations of the young American comedian, Henry E. Dixey. Of this
gentleman’s Hamlet we have little praise. It was stiff, halting, and
jerky throughout. Perceiving how unevenly it ran, we would not have been
surprised had the spavined Dane interrupted his death-soliloquy with
Gloster’s lines,—
“Where sits deformity to mock my body
And shape my legs of an unequal size?”
[Illustration: A high-contrast black silhouette of a pair of legs.]
A much more symmetrical Hamlet was Mr. Wilson Barrett’s, yet even this
performance was not without its defects. It was too reposeful, too
undulating, too effeminate in its contours, and too sensuous in its
movement. It was such a Hamlet as, we surmise, would create a profound
sensation among the dudes if it were to appear at the head of the
procession in the grand march in the third act of one of Col. John A.
McCaull’s comic operas. Still, this kind of Hamlet has its admirers; and
as it is called the boy Hamlet, we can at least hope that it will
acquire the sharply defined angles of virility when it has put on the
toga virilis.
[Illustration: A high-contrast ink illustration showing a lower body and
legs from the waist down in profile, facing left.]
We prefer not to speak of Miss Anna Dickinson’s Hamlet: we shall be
content to give our readers a picture of it. The creation, as will be
observed, is tolerably symmetrical; and, in spite of those environments
which naturally and properly curtail a complete view of its merits, it
is altogether of the substantial order.
But all these Hamlets fade into comparative nothingness when we place
them beside Mr. Miln’s Hamlet, and attempt to judge them by those same
rules and specifications and between the very lines which are required
in a fair criticism of Mr. Miln’s genius and art.
How vividly occurs to us at this moment the heart-cry of Sir Andrew
Aguecheek, “I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg!” Or
these others, quoting old Toby Belch, might say to our Chicago
tragedian, “I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was
formed under the star of a galliard!”
[Illustration: A high-contrast black-and-white ink illustration of a
pair of legs.]
’Tis not hyperbole to say, that by as much as these shapely, sentient,
palpitating columns exceed and surpass in grandeur and in beauty those
other misshapen supports which the bard of Avon has stigmatized as
riding-rods, by so much does the genius of our tragedian transcend the
strutting, tottering pretences that are served up by his competitors.
What strength, what decision, what grace, what durability, what
forcefulness, what nobility, do we perceive herein! What breadth of
understanding, what continuity, what power of endurance, what bottom, do
we instantly recognize! And these beauties will continue to expand and
to grow, just as they have in the past, provided that the distance
between one-night stands is not shortened, and the walking holds out
good. We remember, that, when we first saw Mr. Miln’s Hamlet, three
years ago, it was crude and angular: now we behold it rounded out and
symmetrized. This is the blossoming of our friend’s genius: what will
the harvest be? Ah! who can say what a perfect art-picture will be
presented when the whole nature of the actor becomes permeated with, and
symmetrized by, the subtile beauty of that shapely calf? We hail the
prospect with delight, and most cordially do we congratulate Melpomene
thereupon.
_The Literary Wayside._
DURING the base-ball tourney between Chicago and St. Louis we are
issuing extra editions of “The Daily News,” containing such excellent
reports of the all-important contest as to excite the warmest admiration
in leading literary circles.
* * * * *
AT the meeting of the West-Side Literary Lyceum last week, the question,
“Are Homer’s poems better reading than Will Carleton’s?” was debated.
The negative was sustained by a vote of 47 to 5. On this occasion Miss
Mamie Buskirk read an exquisite original poem entitled “Hope; or, The
Milkman’s Dream.”
* * * * *
COL. T. WESTON BRIGGS, the well-known real-estate agent, offers his
magnificent private library for sale at four dollars per front foot.
_A Beautiful Article of Virtue._
Our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. Charles F. Gunther, the well-known
candy-manufacturer, is indefatigable in collecting rare old curiosities.
Not very long ago he discovered a genuine autograph of William
Shakespeare, and he paid five thousand dollars for it; subsequently he
found and bought a volume of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poems containing the
autograph of Dante Alighieri written in a clean, round hand on one of
the fly-pages; but still more recently he has come into possession of a
relic more valuable than all the rest combined—in fact, so highly does
Mr. Gunther prize this latest acquisition, that he freely confesses that
he would not exchange it for an Ossa of caramels piled upon a Pelion of
gum-drops. This relic is an Egyptian mummy, and Mr. Gunther exhibited it
to us the other day. It seems that when Mr. Gunther was in Egypt some
years ago, he fell in with Professor Schliemann, the famous excavator,
archæologist, explorer, etc. At that time the professor was tunnelling
into the pyramids, excavating the sphinx, and pursuing divers other
humorous fads, whims, and crochets. Mr. Gunther took quite a fancy to
the professor, showed him his autograph of Shakespeare, gave him a
recipe for making lemon-taffy, and presented him with a photograph of
McVicker’s theatre before the fire. For these manifestations of
sympathy, Professor Schliemann was deeply grateful, and he promised to
reciprocate in due course of time.
About a month ago Mr. Gunther was charmed to receive from the professor
an express-package containing a mummy of the first water. Considering
the wear and tear to which it must have been subjected for the last
twenty or thirty centuries, this mummy is in excellent condition. We
shall refer to the mummy as “it,” although Mr. Gunther chooses to call
it “he.” It is not more than three feet in length, and its weight is
perhaps equal to that of a two-dollar box of jujube paste. Its girth
does not exceed twenty-eight inches. Such of its complexion as is
exposed, is of the pronounced hue of chocolate-drops; and the few
strands of hair remaining on the shrivelled scalp are as black and
straight as a stick of licorice. Beginning at the upper part of the
neck, and extending down beyond the toes, are tightly wrapped swathings
of linen which have become begrimed with the dust of many hundreds of
years. Outside the swathings which envelop the breast of this singularly
unappetizing object of _virtu_, appears a broad strip of thin cloth,
upon which is printed a large number of figures, which we supposed might
have been used in ancient times as the advertisement of a zoölogical
garden, but which, Mr. Gunther told us, was in fact a group of Egyptian
hieroglyphics stating in brief the biography of the enclosed deceased.
Mr. Gunther said he could not read the hieroglyphics, but he had asked a
committee of members of the Chicago Literary Club—that quintessence of
local learning and culture—to sit in inquest, as it were, upon this
prehistoric corpse, and to decipher the rude characters emblazoned upon
its pectoral envelopment. Mr. Gunther said that the committee had not
yet made a report, but that, until it did, he would continue to indulge
the belief that the remains were those either of Rameses II. or of
Cambyses I. These persons, he went on to say, were Babylonian kings, who
flourished in that pagan age when every man had several hundred wives,—a
barbaric custom which most men openly denounce, but secretly covet. He
knew that this specimen was a king, because of the evident care that had
been taken to preserve him against the ravages of time; and he was
confident that he was either Rameses II. or Cambyses I., because he had
read recently in a number of the “Candy-Manufacturer’s Journal” that
both these monarchs had been sepultured in one of the pyramids. It was
with a good deal of anxiety, he added, that he awaited either the report
of the Chicago Literary Club committee, or advices from Professor
Schliemann, clearing away the clouds of doubt and mystery now
surrounding the identity of this antique _bric-à-brac_.
_The Shakespeares Identified._
In the “Florida” of Lucius Apuleius it is narrated that Socrates, having
looked for a long time upon a certain handsome but silent youth,
exclaimed, “Say something, that I may see you.” From this it is inferred
that the grand old philosopher saw not with his eyes, and that he
thought that men were to be considered rather with the rays of the
intellect and with the gaze of the soul. In the practical times of the
present, however, the Socratic theory goes for naught; and humanity,
justified in so doing by the counsel of the law, holds to the opinion of
the soldier mentioned by Plautus as having declared that “one
eye-witness is worth more than ten ear-witnesses.” Therefore, it is
remarkable, we think, that, while the scholars of these days are
searching for clews to the authorship of certain works of antiquity,
none of them has been pleased to accept and to make the most of the
ocular evidence that has come down from remote times and that bears
directly upon these things.
[Illustration: William Shakespeare]
Several portraits of the much-discussed William Shakespeare are in
existence: two corresponding closely are the Droeshout engraving and the
Chandos painting. The Droeshout engraving was produced in 1623 in the
first collected edition of the so-called Shakespearian plays; and it was
eulogized by the critics of that time, and accepted as a true likeness
by William Blake, the idealist poet and painter. This engraving
represents Shakspere as an intellectual man with regular but strong
features, a small, shapely mouth, large, speaking eyes, and a wondrous
expanse of forehead. In all the authentic pictures, Shakespeare is
represented as wearing a loose jerkin, about the top of which a broad,
unstarched shirt-collar is turned down in a charmingly _négligé_
fashion.
[Illustration: Sir Francis Bacon]
Of Sir Francis Bacon, so-called, but one portrait has come down to
posterity. The original is now in possession of the British Museum,
having been given to that institution by the Earl of Ripon, whose father
had it from Katherine, Duchess of Marlborough, in payment of a debt.
This portrait would seem to give us the duplicate of the facial features
of Shakespere; the eyes, mouth, nose, and expression being the same,
likewise the cut of the beard, the curl of the mustache, and the style
of wearing the hair. But Bacon is pictured with his hat on,—a prim
affair, worn cocked somewhat to one side,—and a ruffle about his neck,
as was the fashion among courtiers and gentlemen of the Elizabethan
time. It was to Bacon that the ingenious Jonson addressed the lines,—
“Him ruffs and ribands prettily become,
While at his learning stands the world adumb.”
Yet in his “Masque of the Roses,” which was performed under royal
auspices, Jonson makes Bacon say,—
“Beshred me of these silken patches, you will find
A master wit, a wholesome soul, a generous mind:
What need of garters and what use of name
Sith these three fellows do atchieve such fame?”
[Illustration: Ben Jonson]
Of Ben Jonson, the author of these lines, there are three authentic
portraits. That which is known as the Dinwiddie portrait is the most
popular. It was made while Jonson was visiting his friend Herbert
Latshawe at that fine old artist’s country-seat near Patmore. Jonson was
then in his sixty-third year, and therefore the portrait is that of a
man considerably beyond the prime of life. Yet, is there any so blind
that he cannot detect under these spectacles the calm, intelligent eyes
of Shakspur and Bacon, and cannot recognize in the other features, the
features delineated in the Droeshout engraving of Shakspere and in the
Marlborough portrait of Bacon? Several years before this picture was
made by Latshawe, Jonson wrote his remarkable play of “The Fox.” In the
course of this play (act 3, scene 1), one of the characters, a literary
man, has this to say:—
“The gaping world shall see me in my age
Wearing the wit that lumined Shakspere’s page:
Bacon’s big learning, Beaumont’s virgin grace,
And Fletcher’s power shall sit upon my face.”
[Illustration: Francis Beaumont]
Francis Beaumont, thus prettily referred to, was a precocious creature.
He is said to have died at the age of twenty-nine; yet during his short
life, he earned so great a reputation as a poet and dramatist, that to
this day he is accorded half the credit of the work which Fletcher
really did. It is narrated that Ben Jonson had so high an opinion of the
young man’s critical genius, that he used to refer his plays in
manuscript to Beaumont for revision, when Beaumont was scarce turned of
twelve. The only portrait of Beaumont is to be found in the collection
of the Duke of Ayrshire: it is in a state of excellent preservation, and
is, perhaps, the handsomest portrait that has come down from the
sixteenth century. It is interesting to compare this picture with those
of Shaxspere, Bacon, and Jonson. Leigh Hunt said, “When he was a boy,
how much the poet of the Elizabethan period must have looked like the
other fellow!” We think so too. Does it require more than a hasty glance
to assure one that, at twenty-eight years of age, William Shakspeare,
Francis Bacon, and rare Ben Jonson must have been the very counterparts
of handsome, gifted, winning Francis Beaumont?
[Illustration: John Fletcher]
And how about John Fletcher? Well, there is but one portrait of him, and
that is now in the British Museum. It was painted by a Hollander named
Bruggmarx, and Fletcher was then sixty years old. The face, it will be
noted, is still the face that we have seen in the authentic pictures of
Shakspear, Bacon, and Jonson! An older face, perhaps, but the strong,
inspired features are there, and we are forced to declare it the same
face. The hair is scantier than in the other pictures, but the effect
which is produced by curling the one surviving tuft over and about the
bald cranium so as to give an appearance of hair—this effect, we say, is
artistic.
In one of his letters which are still preserved for the edification of
posterity, the gifted Walter Raleigh writes, “Right sorely hath her
Majesty the queen been displeased with my lord Bacon for that he hath
caused privily to be made a likeness of himself in the similitude of an
old man, the which being carried to the Green Boar, and therein
exhibited under the divers names of Jonson, Fletcher, Shakesper, and the
like, hath brought a grievous scandal upon the queen, and such sorrow
withal, that, hearing of the same, she did swound, and even now
maintaineth secrecy in her closet, making great moan, and weeping beyond
all measure.”
[Illustration: Robert Greene]
Two other so-called British dramatists are entitled to our attention.
One is Robert Greene, and the other is George Peele, of whom capital
portraits have been handed down. Greene is said to have been a
dissipated, rakish fellow, and the picture we have of him would appear
to confirm this story. It is not hard to detect traces of dissipation in
this handsome face: it is such a face as old Ben Jonson might have had,
if, instead of devoting himself to quiet symposiums at the Green Boar
and the Blue Dragon, he had rioted about the slums of London with evil
women. Such a face might William Shakspeare have been favored with if,
instead of invading his neighbors’ preserves with his gum-shoes on, he
had seen fit to debauch his talents in the ale-houses of the British
metropolis. And such a face, too, might “that ponderous sink of
learning,” Francis Bacon, have had, if he had abandoned the writing of
Shakspear’s plays for the pursuit of Robert Greene’s midnight orgies. In
a word, with the exception of the trifling detail of his coiffure,
happy-go-lucky Bob Greene bears a striking personal resemblance to the
other distinguished _littérateurs_ who flourished in his time. And here
is a curious extract from a letter which Greene wrote to his friend
Raleigh shortly after the production of his tragedy of “James IV.” It is
dated in London: “Vastly distraught is my good Anne Hathaway by the evil
rumors that hath gained prevalence in these parts, and that do
grievously belie me in that they make me to be a thief by night. But his
grace hath signed and given into my hands a paper confessing it to be a
libel and his bucks to be properly accounted, whereat methinketh my dame
Anne should be set aright as touching her vexation.” The astute critic,
Malone, wonders how it is that Robert Greene should have been accused of
poaching, the same charge that was preferred against Shakspeare; he
wonders, too, how Anne Hathaway, Shaxpeare’s wife, could be the wife of
Robert Greene also. His wonderment is not amazing.
[Illustration: George Peele]
This interesting portrait is of George Peele; and its striking likeness
to the portraits of Bacon, Jonson, Shakspur, Beaumont, Greene, and
Fletcher has been remarked by critics from time immemorial. In short,
the likeness which the pictures of all the dramatists of the Elizabethan
period bear to each other is so marked that we think there is good
reason for believing that Sheksper, Jonson, Beaumont, Greene, Fletcher,
Peele, and Bacon were not different individuals, but one man.
It is quite true that the scholarly Donnelly and the learned Holmes have
proved to their own satisfaction that Shaxpeare did not write the plays
commonly imputed to Shaikspore; but they have not proved who wrote the
plays commonly imputed to Jonson, Peele, and the other alleged
dramatists of the glorious old days when a lady was designated as a
lousy wench, and when _liaisons_ were made the text of popular society
plays. It seems to us that the pictures of these old dramatists fill
this hiatus, if so we may term it, and these pictures teach us that once
upon a time there was a humorous genius who figured under many names,
who tossed off many plays, and who posed for many portraits. We do not
know his name, but we know that he is variously called Shakspeare,
Bacon, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Peele, and Greene. And we know, too,
that his glory will illumine the world long after wiseacres and
charlatans have abandoned the task of trying to determine his identity.
The old poet, George Chapman,—he who was the contemporary of these
puzzlingly numerous one,—understood what he was about when he penned
these lines to his friend, Francis Shaxpur:—
“Or seen in poacher’s guise or courtly robes of satin,
Or read in English verse or tomes of prosy Latin,
Or viewed in chiselled bust (the best the critic thinks it),
Or masking in a daub which some rude Dutchman pinxit—
In all thy verse, prose, portraits, effigies of plaster,
Shines the vast genius of one universal master.”
_Among the Literati._
IT is reported in high literary circles that the McAfee Refining Company
will take two pages of “The Easter Current” for the purpose of
advertising the excellences of its new brand of leaf-lard.
* * * * *
AT the formal dedication of the Blue-Island Avenue toboggan-slide last
Saturday evening, a beautiful poem in imitation of the Pindaric odes was
read by the gifted authoress, Miss Birdie McLaughlin.
* * * * *
AMONG the recent additions to the valuable collection of our esteemed
fellow-townsman, N. Hawthorne Smith, is an autograph of Joaquin Miller,
the poet of the Sahara.
* * * * *
WE are informed that a Browning Society has been organized by the
inmates of the Cook-County Imbecile Asylum.
_The Markeesy di Pullman._
“Il bianco di cazerni della graze fio bella,
Di teruca si mazzoni quel’ antista Somno della.”
_Petrarch._
“He who conduces to a fellow’s sleep,
Should noble fame and goodly riches reap.”
_Tasso._
“Sleep mocks at death: when weary of the earth,
We do not die—we take an upper berth.”
_Dante._
Never since the great fire of 1871 has Chicago society been so
profoundly agitated as it was when it became noised about that King
Humbert of Italy had created our esteemed fellow-townsman, Col. George
M. Pullman, a knight of the first water. At first, grave doubts as to
the genuineness of the report were indulged; but when, later in the day,
it became known that the rumor was credited at the headquarters of the
Italian legation, the joy of the public burst all restraints, and
manifested itself in every variety of ebullition.
Col. Pullman is, we believe, the first citizen of Chicago who has been
honored in so distinguished a manner by royalty. It is true that the
Pshaw of Persia craved the boon of investing the Hon. Frederick H.
Winston with the order of the Yellow Dromedary, but the negotiations
fell through as soon as the eminent American diplomate declined to
advance the pshaw the ten thousand golden pistoles which his serene
majesty expected as an evidence of Mr. Winston’s good faith in the
premises. It is true, also, that there are in the midst of us a number
of royal personages—or perhaps we should say a number of persons of
noble descent. Very many of our Irish citizens are of high
extraction,—descendants of dukes, earls, booyars, barons, and knights,
who for political offences have been exiled from the land of their
nativity. To our certain knowledge, Col. John F. Finerty is a lineal
descendant of Brian Boroihme; and many other fellow-townsmen of ours can
boast ancestries almost as noble. Ex-Senator Millard B. Hereley is one
of the Bourbons from Bourbon co., France; and we could, if we had the
space wherein to tell it, specify who the Duke of Eniscarty, the Earl of
Ballanasloe, the Duke of Cork, etc., are, and by what aliases they are
known to the people of this city.
In spite of these facts which we have stated, it is true that Mr.
Pullman is the first citizen of Chicago to be recognized and honored by
a crowned head of Europe. As near as we can come to it, Mr. Pullman’s
elevation to knighthood was brought about in this wise: Last year he
made a tour through Italy; and when he reached Naples he called upon
King Humbert, and made a formal complaint touching the railroad
facilities with which his Majesty’s kingdom is, and always has been,
cursed. His Majesty was struck at once with the learning, the eloquence,
the earnestness, the _sang froid_, and the _swaviter in modo_, of the
petitioner; and he besought him to suggest an improvement, if he could,
upon the system of travel then in vogue. Thereupon Mr. Pullman caused to
be made by the Herculaneum and Pompeii Manufacturing Company (limited) a
palace sleeping-coach, which he presented to King Humbert with his
compliments, demanding no recompense for the distinguished gift further
than the privilege of appointing and controlling the porters for said
car. The grateful potentate readily granted this request; for he was
charmed, positively delighted, with the luxurious innovation introduced
by the enterprising American. For the next six months King Humbert did
nothing but travel around: the chances are that he would be travelling
still, if he had not been compelled to suspend operations until after
the Senate voted him another appropriation. At the end of the six
months, the king found himself out of pocket about 1,500,000 lires; and
about this time Mr. Pullman’s porter in Naples, one Giacomo Fiozzo,
began buying corner-lots, and erecting ten-story apartment-buildings on
the principal Neapolitan thoroughfares. Kings, however, are liberal
folk; and well can they afford to be, even when dealing with a Chicago
businessman. So when King Humbert fell to thinking of all the pleasures
(not to say benefits) he had derived from his six months’ experience in
Mr. Pullman’s coach, he paid not even the tribute of a passing thought
to the financial outlay involved, but rather set his wits to work at
inventing some means whereby he might further distinguish the gentleman,
whom he viewed in the light of a benefactor. The result is this
elevation of Mr. Pullman from the ranks of the hoi polloi to the dignity
and the title of a marchese, which, in the Italian tongue, corresponds
to the knighthood of Great Britain, the booyars of Roosha, and the
flambustules of Siam.
Sig. Pietro Casa del Comma, secretary of the Italian legation in this
city, tells us that when the official communication from his Majesty
reaches Chicago, it will become the duty of the consul at this point to
proceed at once to Mr. Pullman’s palatial residence on Prairie Avenue,
and there, in the presence of the Italian legation, and in the name of
his Catholic majesty, to dub Mr. Pullman a marchese or (as Mr. Pullman
may prefer to be called) a chevalier. Sig. del Comma says that
“marchese” is pronounced “mar-kee-sy,” and that “chevalier” is
pronounced “shee-val-ya:” we are inclined to think that markeesy sounds
just a trifle more bong tong than sheevalya, and we hope that Mr.
Pullman will choose that title.
After he has been invested with this honor, Mr. Pullman—or, we should
say, the Markeesy Pullman—will be visited by the gardener of the
legation (for this is an old custom), who will present him with a
bouquet, saying, “Io ho l’onore, onorevole signor, di presentarvi le
queste fiori e di gratularvi.” Upon receiving this bouquet, the markeesy
will be expected to hand the simple gardener fifty francs (or ten
dollars), and this is all the money the markeesy will have to pay out
for the honor. By a singular coincidence, the gardener of the Italian
legation in Chicago at this time is one Patrick Murphy, a kinsman of the
late Markeesy di Potata (_née_ Murphy) of San Francisco, who was
elevated from obscurity by the late Pope Pius IX.
Sig. del Comma tells us furthermore that one of the first things the
Markeesy Pullman will have to do will be to choose a coat-of-arms, for a
markeesy without a coat-of-arms would be an anomaly which the Italian
potentate could not well endure. With a view to relieving the markeesy
of much anxiety and labor, the signor has compiled a coat-of-arms, which
he will submit for the markeesy’s approval and adoption.
This chaste design represents a shield engrailed, bordured, and vert,
with a supporting figure at each side; the figures are what in the
vernacular of heraldry is called expectant and demandant; the shield
dexter is quartured—that is to say, divided into four berths, or
compartments, which are left blank for posterity to fill; the shield
sinister is decorated with the portraiture of a small feather pillow
issuant, this being the heraldic symbol of luxury and ease; upon this
pillow appears the personification of indefatigable industry and
ceaseless vigilance, rampant, illustrating not only the means by which
the markeesy has achieved his noble ends, but also the still nobler
teaching of the most wise Solomon, who said, “Go to the ant, you
sluggard, or you will go to the dogs.”
[Illustration: A satirical black-and-white ink illustration of a coat of
arms. The central shield is split vertically down the middle; the left
side features a pillow with a small ant, while the right side is divided
into four horizontal blank bars. Flanking the shield as supporters are
two Black men in caricature style, dressed in railway porter attire. A
flowing banner arches over the top of the shield carrying the Latin
motto "PRO PATRIA CAVALIERE".]
Above the shield appears a motto, “Pro Patria Caveliere,” which is the
Latin for “For His Country, a Knight;” but the particular beauty of this
motto is, that it can be abridged to P. P. C., and thus be made to serve
a business purpose.
As we understand it, the Markeesy di Pullman becomes, immediately upon
the acceptance of this title, the local protector, patron, promoter, and
_chaperon_ of Italian art. When Col. J. H. Mapleson comes to Chicago
with his wheezy old cantatrices and spavined tenors, it will be the
markeesy’s duty to go security for advertising, hotel-bills, and
theatre-rent; it will also be the markeesy’s duty to advance Mapleson
and his troupe enough money to take them to St. Louis; this will be a
great boon to our Opera Festival Association, and we presume that the
markeesy will be glad to make the trifling sacrifice for the dignity of
the crown that has honored him. As soon as Mme. Adelina Patti heard of
the rumor of the markeesy’s elevation to the peerage, she sent him a
bouquet by Sig. Nicolini. The markeesy gracefully acknowledged the
compliment in a note made up of polite Italian phrases judiciously
culled from the libretto of “Il Trovatore.”
The Italian population of Chicago is highly gratified with the
distinguished tribute paid by their monarch to our popular
fellow-townsman. At a meeting of the Societa d’Italia in Poggio’s
restaurant last evening, several speeches were made in eulogy of the
Markeesy di Pullman’s many virtues, his enterprise, his munificence, his
philanthropy, etc. An address to his Majesty King Humbert,
congratulating him upon having recemented the ties which bind Italy and
the United States, was read by Giovanni Bianco, the banana-merchant, and
approved by the meeting: it was ordered that the address be cabled to
his Majesty, provided that the Markeesy di Pullman would pay the toll.
The effect of the Italian boom has already become apparent in our
literary circles. The leading book-sellers say that incessant have been
the calls for Dante, for Petrarch, and for Tasso, since the news of the
Pullman affair reached Chicago. The markeesy’s portrait in the rooms of
the dancing-class was draped with Italian flags last evening; and
already the caterer at Caveroc’s on Wabash Avenue has invented a new
dish of macaroni, which is entitled macaroni di Pullman. We mention
these trifling details merely to indicate how generally and how deeply
this compliment of royalty to our amiable and gifted townsman is
appreciated by his fellow-citizens.
_Literary Laconics._
WE understand that Mr. Gunther, the autograph virtuoso, recently paid
two hundred and fifty dollars for an autograph of Dante Alighieri, which
he discovered on the fly-leaf of a volume of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s
poems.
* * * * *
MR. MÆCENAS B. FULSOMTONE, the well-known purveyor of green hams, and
president of the Michael Angelo Art Club, has just sent to his London
agent an order for fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of books. The choice
of volumes is left with the agent; the only specification made by Mr.
Fulsomtone being that the books contain plenty of pictures, and be bound
in red morocco.
_As to the Garter of a Markeesy._
WITHIN the last two days we have received a large number of
communications touching the handsome coat-of-arms which the secretary of
the Italian legation has designed for the marchese di Pullman. Several
of the communications contain comment upon the picture of the
industrious insect represented as sprawling rampant on the feather
pillow in the sinister half of the so-called Pullman shield. One
correspondent says that the insect is not an ant, but a potato-bug;
another declares that it is a busy bee; and still a third maintains that
it is neither a chinch-bug, nor a busy bee, nor yet an ant, but one of
those predatory vampires known (by name only) in polite society as “the
flat-backed militia.” A gentleman, signing his letter “Scholasticus,”
writes that he is deeply learned in heraldic lore, and that he has
studied with increasing pleasure and profit the design submitted by Sig.
Pietro Casa del Comma. He says, however, that he has one important
suggestion to submit, and it is this: That the dexter quartures of the
shield, which have been left blank for posterity to fill, should be
designated as No. 1 upper, No. 1 lower, No. 2 upper, and No. 2 lower.
The suggestion submitted by “Scholasticus” strikes us most favorably,
and we have sent it around to the Italian legation. As for the
communications of the other correspondents, we have to say this only:
That the form of animal life depicted upon the pillow of the shield was
designed by the artist to represent an ant, the most industrious, the
most frugal, and the most provident, of creatures. It may be that
chinch-bugs and busy bees are in the habit of spending their precious
time gallivanting around over feather pillows, but we have never met
with any of this kind in the course of our travels. On the other hand,
the ant is to be found everywhere, and in every employment. As Aristotle
truly has it,—
“Whether upon the raging billow,
Or o’er the meads her path be bent,
On buttery shelf or Pullman pillow,
The ant is busy and content.
Full many a bird of rarer beauty
Is heralded by trump of fame:
The ant toils on in line of duty—
And gets there all the same.”
In connection with this little affair, we will say that a matter of much
more importance than the marchese di Pullman’s coat-of-arms is bothering
us just at present. We are informed that when a man is invested with the
order of knighthood, he is expected to wear a garter upon (or around)
his left leg. We have been devoting some time to an investigation of the
subject of garters, and we think that we are competent to give a pretty
able opinion thereupon. Garters, we maintain, are divided into three
grand divisions or schools. The first is the Elizabethan, the second is
the Boston, and the third is the Reform school. This picture will give a
pretty fair idea of the three:—
[Illustration: ’roundThree line drawings of legs showing different
styles of historical hosiery: on the left, a loose, wrinkled stocking
held below the knee by a simple garter band; in the middle, a
front-facing leg wearing a mesh-patterned stocking secured by a buttoned
strap below the knee; and on the right, a solid black stocking held up
by a garter suspender.]
Now, here in Fig. 1 (which is the verisimilitude to the left) is a
tableau of the Elizabethan garter upon the left leg of a knight: we will
suppose the knight to be the marchese di Pullman. The garter encircles
the leg below the knee, and it clasps the leg so tightly as to shut off
the blood-supply from that part of the member below it: the result is,
that the marchese di Pullman’s left calf shrivels and abates, until it
falls to the level of the ankle, and, when that unhappy climax is
reached, it becomes necessary to sew the garter to the hose, else it
will not retain the position required by the etiquette of the court. We
doubt very much whether there could be imagined a more pitiable
spectacle than that of the marchese di Pullman travelling about the
world in his knightly robe, with his right calf normally plump and
shapely, and his left calf all wizened and shrunken under the baleful
effects of the knightly garter. In Fig. 2 (the illustration in the
centre of our design) we have a representation of the marchese’s left
leg adorned with the Boston garter, which we consider a great
improvement upon the garter of the Elizabethan period. This modern
innovation conduces to the development of the muscles in the lower part
of the leg, and at the same time it supports the hose in a most
ingenious manner. It permits the blood to course unimpeded on its way,
thus insuring against cold feet, and proving a very salvation for corns
and bunions.
The third illustration is of the Reform garter. We hear it highly spoken
of, but we have not looked into its merits. Inasmuch as it is so warmly
recommended by those who have tried it, we think we can safely say that
we hope to see more of it in the future. As we are told, this machine
consists of divers straps and pulleys so ingeniously contrived as to
bring its weight upon no particular part of the body, but to distribute
it (or diffuse it, if you please) over the whole system. One part of it,
as we are told, girds the neck, and the other part holds the hose in a
deathlike grip. This establishes such an immediate and close
relationship between the pedal and the pectoral regions, that, if the
wearer have corns, a palpitation of the heart is likely to ensue, or, if
the wearer’s feet happen to get wet, a sore throat is invariably the
consequence.
We think, therefore, that, viewed from every stand-point, the Boston
garter has notable advantages over its competitors; and, if we are
called upon, we shall advise the marchese di Pullman to adopt it as the
insignia of his noble office.
* * * * *
WE heartily sympathize with our ennobled fellow-townsman, the marchese
di Pullman, in the sorrow entailed upon him by the official announcement
that the Italian olive-crop is almost a total failure this year. Yet
when one accepts the burdensome responsibilities of the peerage, he is
expected to endure with Spartan fortitude the providential dispensations
that remorselessly crush those less honorably fortified.
* * * * *
“THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE” is rather late in the day: still, we are glad to
find it lumbering to the front with the venerable information that the
Markeesy Giorgio di Pullman is not entitled to the title of sir. This is
what we said last week. The title which our cultured and opulent
fellow-townsman has, in recognition of his philanthropics, been honored
with, is the Italian title of markeesy, which corresponds with the
English title of sir; but the bearer cannot Anglicize the title: he must
remain a markeesy all the days of his natural life, or until, at least,
he is promoted to some higher dignity. The Markeesy di Pullman
understands this perfectly, and he would not exchange his markeesyship
for the cream and flower of English knighthood. In connection with this
subject, we beg to say that we deeply deplore the existence of a bitter
malice against, and a rancorous envy of, the Markeesy di Pullman in
certain local society circles. The existence of this insidious hostility
was first brought to our knowledge by means of a song composed by a
Chicago poet, and set to music by one of our amateur musicians. The
chorus to this ribald song runs as follows:—
“When the party is breezy and wheezy,
And palpably greasy, it’s easy
To coax or to wring,
From a weak-minded king,
The titular prize of markeesy.”
_Mr. Emerson in ’Frisco._
While Ralph Waldo Emerson was on his way to California, several years
ago, he fell in with a gentleman who was altogether so sociable and
chatty that an otherwise tedious journey was rendered as cheerful as you
please. This gentleman’s name was Sackett, and he told Mr. Emerson that
he resided in San Francisco: this was all the information he ventured
concerning himself, but from his conversation Mr. Emerson gathered that
his newly made acquaintance was indeed a gentleman of intelligence and
standing. Mr. Sackett pointed out all the points of interest along the
way, retailed a lot of amusing anecdotes, and, best of all, was an
attentive listener when Mr. Emerson fell to discoursing upon the Is, the
To Be, the Seeming, and other frothy subjects with which his scholarly
and saintly intellect seemed thoroughly conversant.
The natural consequence was that Mr. Emerson came to the conclusion that
Mr. Sackett was as charming a gentleman as he had ever met with, and it
was in this positive conviction that he accepted Mr. Sackett’s
invitation to dine with him immediately upon their arrival in San
Francisco. The next morning Mr. Emerson was well-nigh paralyzed to find
in all the local papers this startling personal notice: “Professor Ralph
Waldo Emerson, the eminent philosopher, scholar, and poet, is in our
city as the guest of Mr. H. J. Sackett, the well-known proprietor of the
Bush-Street Dime Museum; _matinées_ every half-hour, admission only ten
cents. The double-headed calf and the dog-faced boy this week!”
Mr. Sackett is now in the amusement business in Chicago, and he refers
to his experience with the sage of Concord as one of the most profitable
strokes of enterprise in his long and active career.
_A Summer Philosopher._