This is a copy of a pleasant letter we have received from a
distinguished Washington lady: we do not print the accentuations,
because the Chicago patwor admits of none. A literal rendering of the
letter into English is as follows: “From after your article in ‘The
New-York Tribune,’ copied from ‘The Chicago News,’ I to myself have
figured that the inhabitants of Chicago having great want of a system of
a pronunciation French, I take the liberty to you to send by the
mail-post the number two of a work which I come from to publish: if you
desire the other numbers, I to myself will make the pleasure of to you
them to send also. The packers of porkers, having little of time to
consecrate to the study (owing to the omnipotent dollar), will be, I
believe, enchanted and grateful of a system by the which they may learn
and understand the language of the clever Sara, at the end of thirty
lessons, especially if Mister the editor will at the end of his pen
witty to them thereof indicate the road. Whereupon the author of the
system has much the honor of him to salute,” etc.
We have not given Mdlle. Prud’homme’s oovray that conscientious study
and that careful research which we shall devote to it just as soon as
the tremendous spring rush in local literature eases up a little. The
recent opening up of the Straits of Mackinaw, and the prospect of a new
railroad-line into the very heart of the dialectic region of Indiana,
have given Chicago literature so vast an impetus, that we find our
review-table groaning under the weight of oovrays that demand our
scholarly consideration. Mdlle. Prud’homme must understand (for she
appears to be exceedingly amiable) that the oovrays of local
_littérateurs_ have to be reviewed before the oovrays of outside
_littérateurs_ can be taken up. This may seem hard, but it cannot be
helped. Still, we will say that we appreciate, and are grateful for, the
uncommon interest which Mdlle. Prud’homme seems to take in the
advancement of the French language and French literature in the midst of
us. We have heard many of our leading _savants_ and scholiasts
frequently express poignant regret that they were unable to read “La Fem
de Fu,” “Mamzel Zheero Mar Fem,” and other noble old French classics
whose fame has reached this modern Athens. With the romances of
Alexandre Dumas, our public is thoroughly acquainted, having seen the
talented James O’Neill in Monty Cristo, and the beautiful and
accomplished Grace Hawthorne (“Only an American Girl”) in Cameel; yet
our more enterprising citizens are keenly aware that there are other
French works worthy of perusal—intensely interesting works, too, if the
steel engravings therein are to be accepted as a criterion.
We doubt not that Mdlle. Prud’homme is desirous of doing Chicago a
distinct good; and why, we ask in all seriousness, should this gifted
and amiable French scholar _not_ entertain for Chicago somewhat more
than a friendly spirit, merely? The first settlers of Chicago were
Frenchmen; and, likely as not, some of Mdlle. Prud’homme’s ancestors
were of the number of those Spartan _voyageurs_ who first sailed down
Chicago River, pitched their tents on the spot where Kirk’s soap-factory
now stands, and captured and brought into the refining influences of
civilization Long John Wentworth, who at that remote period was frisking
about on our prairies, a crude, callow boy, only ten years old, and only
seven feet tall. Chicago was founded by Jean Pierre Renaud, one of the
original two orphans immortalized by Claxton & Halevy’s play in thirteen
acts of the same name. At that distant date it was any thing but
promising; and its prominent industries were Indians, muskrats, and
scenery. The only crops harvested were those of malaria, twice per
annum,—in October and in April,—but the yield was sufficient to keep the
community well provided all the year round. Certain dabblers in
etymology have argued that the name “Chicago” was derived from an Indian
word meaning “a skunk.” There is in the Sioux dialect, we believe, a
word “She-Kag,” literally meaning Cat-that-Perfumes. Other alleged
scholars insist that the name of our fair city is derived from the Crow
Indian word “Chee-kar-goh,” meaning “wild onion,” an exotic that is said
to have bloomed hereabouts in the early times. But this whole matter,
which is revived every now and then to our discredit by envious and
ribald writers, has been set at rest in Howden’s “History of Illinois,”
vol. i. p. 289 (we think Howden is the name: at any rate, it will serve
the purpose of giving people to understand that we know what we’re
talking about). Howden, who was a conscientious student, and painstaking
historian, asserts (and we believe him) that the early French settlers
gave to this town the name of Chicago, and that the name is derived from
the two French words _chic_ and _hog_, meaning the live (or piquant or
frisky) hog. This, of course, is the literal meaning; but the subtile
idea of old Jean Pierre Renaud and his fellow-tramps (if so we may term
his distinguished coparceners), was to imply that Chicago was a living,
bustling reality,—a community made up, if you please, of people now on
earth. Even at that early day the hog was the national bird of the
mighty West; and how proper it was that the founders of Chicago should
couple indissolubly with the name of this metropolis the name of that
proud animal that has served as the noble foundation upon which the vast
superstructure of our wealth, our art, and our culture has been reared.
Did their inspired eyes not see in this sagacious and graceful
association what old Sam Johnson, puttering about at the auction in
Thrale’s brewery, called “the potentiality of acquiring riches beyond
the dreams of avarice”?
_Her Genuine Culture._
There is no longer any doubt that Chicago is the literary centre of the
country. Adam Forepaugh says so.
“I had three times as many people under my canvas every day last week,”
says he, “than I had in Boston; and I turned away about three thousand
people every night. I know what I am talking about when I say that for
genuine git-up-and-git culture, Chicago beats the world!”
_The Demand for Condensed Music._
There is a general belief that the mistake made by the managers of the
symphony concert in Central Music Hall night before last was in not
opening the concert with Beethoven’s “Eroica,” instead of making it the
last number on the programme. We incline to the opinion, however, that,
in putting the symphony last, the managers complied with the very first
requirement of dramatic composition. This requirement is to the effect
that you must not kill all your people off in the first act.
There doubtless are a small number of worthy people who enjoy these old
symphonies that are being dragged out of oblivion by glass-eyed Teutons
from Boston. It may argue a very low grade of intellectuality,
spirituality, or whatsoever you may be pleased to call it; but we must
confess in all candor, that, much as we revere Mr. Beethoven’s memory,
we do not fancy having fifty-five-minute chunks of his musty opi hurled
at us. It is a marvel to us, that, in these progressive times, such
leaders as Thomas and Gericke do not respond to the popular demand by
providing the public with symphonies in the nutshell. We have
condensations in every line except music. Even literature is being
boiled down; because in these busy times, people demand a literature
which they can read while they run. We have condensed milk, condensed
meats, condensed wines,—condensed every thing but music. What a joyous
shout would go up if Thomas or Gericke would only prepare and announce
“_SYMPHONIES FOR BUSY PEOPLE!
THE OLD MASTERS EPITOMIZED!_”
What Chicago demands, and what every enterprising and intelligent
community needs, is the highest class of music on the
“all-the-news-for-two-cents” principle. Blanket-sheet concertizing must
go!
Now, here was this concert, night before last. Two hours and a half to
five numbers! Suppose we figure a little on this subject:—