Total number of minutes 150
Hog-slaughtering capacity per minute 3
Total killing 450
Figures will not lie, because (as was the reason with George) they
cannot. And figures prove to us, that, in the time consumed by five
symphonic numbers, the startling number of four hundred and fifty hogs
could be (and are daily) slaughtered, scraped, disembowelled, hewn, and
packed. While forty or fifty able-bodied musicians are discoursing
Beethoven’s rambling “Eroica,” it were possible to despatch and to dress
a carload of as fine beeves as ever hailed from Texas; and the
performance of the “Sakuntala” overture might be regarded as a virtual
loss of as much time as would be required for the beheading, skinning,
and dismembering of two hundred head of sheep.
These comparisons have probably never occurred to Mr. Thomas or to Mr.
Gericke; but they are urged by the patrons of music in Chicago, and
therefore they must needs be recognized by the caterers to popular
tastes. Chicago society has been founded upon industry, and the culture
which she now boasts is conserved only by the strictest attention to
business. Nothing is more criminal hereabouts than a waste of time; and
it is no wonder, then, that the _crême de la crême_ of our _élite_ lift
up their hands, and groan, when they discover that it takes as long to
play a classic symphony as it does to slaughter a carload of Missouri
razor-backs, or an invoice of prairie-racers from Kansas.
_Opera, Opuses, and Opi._
Mr. Gericke, the kappelmeister of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, called
upon us yesterday, and, with some show of acrimony, asked us what we
meant by calling the symphonies he played “opi.” He, for his part,
insisted that they were opera, and not opi; and what the poor, misguided
fellow said in defence of his theory indicated very clearly that his
education in music had never been brought up to the standard of Chicago
culture. There are three kinds of music compositions: they belong to the
one general family of music, yet each is a distinct class. We divide
them into (1) opera, (2) opuses, and (3) opi. To the first class, or to
the opera, belong such dramatic compositions (set to light music) as
“Evangeline,” “Il Trovatore,” “Chimes of Normandy,” “Lohengrin,”
“Pinafore,” “Rienzi,” “The Mascot,” and “Tannhauser;” and the best-known
producers of these opera are Verdi, Ed Rice, Offenbach, Wagner,
Sullivan, Flotow, Gounod, and Edward Solomon. Among the second class
(the opuses) are to be mentioned the more pretentious and the heavier
compositions, such as “Lucille” and “Zenobia,” and a large number of
other works that have had their origin in the West, and whose appearance
has incited fears that, perhaps, a _renaissance_ of the old Italian
masters was likely to occur in the midst of us. But astrologers assure
us that these portents with which the public is sporadically afflicted
signify simply that music in the Western country is now passing through
its porcine period. As for the opi, they are the heaviest of all music
compositions. They must be a hundred years old, or they are not regarded
as acceptable. No man can perform them until he has become addicted to
the spectacles and onion habits, and even then a certain fineness of
expression is said to be lacking unless to these accomplishments the
performer has added that further accomplishment of enjoying cheeses that
are old enough to vote.
_Chicago the Music Centre._
This is the last week of Mr. Theodore Thomas’s present concert season in
Chicago. After next Saturday night the Exposition Building will be
relegated to oblivion. Mr. Milward Adams will skip out for Saratoga, and
the Thomas orchestra will drift Eastward to resume rehearsals for the
approaching American opera season. Mr. Thomas is deeply gratified with
the result of his labors in Chicago. “There are several music-centres in
this country,” said he last night, “but Chicago is the grandest of them
all. She has responded nobly to my call, and it is my sweetest hope that
she will ever retain her proud pre-eminence among the music-loving
cities of the earth. When I came here six weeks ago, I found the cause
languishing in the midst of you; but the revival of interest in music
set in at once, and I am rejoiced to find my humble efforts crowned with
such glorious fruition. Two negro-minstrel companies are in full blast
at the leading theatres, and a third will be with you next week. These
are the sweetest rewards a man in my profession can hope for. Pecuniary
profit is a secondary consideration: it is a mere _bagatelle_ in the
eyes of the true friend of music, when compared with that calm joy and
that ineffable peace which permeate my bosom when I see that three
negro-minstrel shows are springing into existence in immediate answer to
the demand for higher music which my work in Chicago has created.”
_Still Blooming._
CHICAGO, ILL., April 28.
_To the Editor._—As a gratifying indication that there is in the midst
of us a great and growing interest in literature, will you please note
that Chicago has a Waverley Temperance Coffee House, named in honor of
the famous Scotch novels of the same name? I see, too, that Addison’s
Livery Stable and Wordsworth’s Coal and Kindling Yard are institutions
recently established on the West Side.
Yours truly,
NOCTES AMBROSIANIÆ PHILLIPS.
_The Offence._
Col. Milward Adams is going to pander to the refined tastes of the
_élite_ of Chicago next week by giving a series of concerts in his
Central Music Hall. The performers he has engaged as his tools in this
laudable enterprise, are that justly famed band of peripatetic minstrels
known as the Boston Symphony Orchestra. This organization consists of
sixty-five performers, and it plays only the most intricate music. A
programme of the three prospective concerts now lies before us; and from
it we learn that the orchestra will interpret at the first concert the
overture of Carl Goldmark’s “Sakuntala,” Wieniawski’s allegro and
andante for violin, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 (“Eroica”), Op. 55;
at the second concert, the overture of Cherubini’s “Anacreon,”
Beethoven’s first movement for the violin, Bach’s adagio and gavotte,
Saint-Saens’s “Danse Macabre,” and Schumann’s symphony in B flat, No. 1,
Op. 38; at the third concert, the overture of Weber’s “Freischuetz,”
Mendelssohn’s andante and finale for the violin, Schubert’s unfinished
Symphony No. 8 in B minor, Brahms’s “Hungarian Dances,” and Wagner’s
vorspiel and liebestod from “Tristan and Isolde.” A special interest
will (or should) attach to the first concert; for it is for that
occasion, as Mr. George Fair tells us, that Beethoven has composed the
eroica symphony which will then be given. We do not know what an eroica
symphony is; but in our most cultured circles, it is believed that
eroica is a misprint for erotica. There will be three soloists (one male
and two female) to give these performances additional _éclat_. These
soloists are very famous ones. The first is Helene Hastreiter, the
pianiste; the second is Timothee Adamowski, the renowned Italian lyric
tenor; and the third is Adele Aus der Ohe, the eminent soprano. Miss Aus
der Ohe is a niece of Chris Von der Ohe, president of the St. Louis
Base-ball Club; and the fact that she is unmarried should forever set at
rest the current rumor that she is the original Ohe mamma. It will be a
great treat to hear this brilliant vocalist, and our public is indebted
to Col. Adams for billing a number of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without
Words” for the gifted young song-bird’s rendition. Mme. Hastreiter has
never before been in Chicago; but her fame has preceded her, and it is
with intense enthusiasm that we await the renowned pianiste’s _début_ in
this great music-centre. As for Sig. Adamowski, he is said to be one of
the most promising robustos on the lyric stage. His real name is Timothy
Adams, and he is a first cousin to our own Milward Adams; but having
been born and reared in Petersburg, Hampden County, Mass., he preferred
to adopt a Russian name for professional uses.
We shall be surprised and pained if these symphony concerts are not
largely attended. Three weeks of Professor Silas G. Pratt’s “Lucille”
has elevated and refined Chicago’s music-taste to a degree—we will not
specify the degree, but we think that it is high enough to render an
appreciation of the symphony concerts a probability.
_A Lament._
The wold is drear, and the sedge is sere,
And gray is the autumn sky,
And sorrows roll through my riven soul
As lonely I sit and sigh
“Good-by”
To the goose-birds as they fly.
With his weird wishbone to the temperate zone
Came the goose-bird in the spring;
And he built his nest in the glorious west,
And sat on a snag to sing—
Sweet thing!—
Or flap his beautiful wing.
But the boom of the blast has come at last
To the goose-bird on the lea;
And the succulent thing, with shivering wing,
Flies down to a southern sea—
Ah me,
That such separation should be!
But it’s always so in this world of woe:
The things that gladden our eye
Are the surest to go to the bugs; and so
We can only wearily sigh
“Good-by”
To the goose-birds as they fly.
_The Apology._
Col. Milward Adams tells us that we got things terribly mixed in our
notice of his symphony concerts yesterday morning. He complains that the
whole business was wrong; but this was not our fault, but the fault of
Col. Adams’s lieutenant, George Fair, who gave us the written notes upon
which we based our article. Of course, it pains us deeply to learn that
we have misrepresented the colonel’s entertainments, and we hasten to
square ourselves upon the record. In the first place, therefore, it
appears that Miss Helene Hastreiter is not a piano-player, but a native
German vocalist from Louisville, Ky. She was the prima donna of the
American Opera Company for a long time; but when Mapleson severed his
connection with the organization, she, too, renounced her allegiance
thereto, and went into the concert profession. She is an extraordinarily
beautiful woman, and the critics agree that her voice is a soprano of
the first water. So far from being a lyric tenor, and a native of
Massachusetts, M. Timothee Adamowski is a Russian booyar and a
piano-forte player of unbridled ferocity and tremendous learning. His
name is pronounced Taymotay, with the accent (a la Frongsay) on the ult,
the penult, and the ante-penult. Col. Adams was particular in giving us
this seemingly trifling detail, because, he said, cultured circles would
appreciate the art of a Taymotay more keenly than that of a Timothy.
This M. Adamowski was born under the shadow of the Kremlin, in Moscow;
and he studied music with Tschktsckffky, the old master whose fugues,
symphonies, and other opi in B minor are unequalled in the gamut of
intricate composition. Our connoisseurs will be glad to learn that in
all his concerts M. Adamowski has none but the sign of Spiegelbaum Bros.
displayed on the piano-forte he uses. This is another little detail that
always adds to the charm of a refined music entertainment.
_A German Personal._
In our valued exchange, the “Baden-Baden Freie Blatter” of Aug. 16, we
find a pleasant reference to Col. Henry Watterson, the distinguished
editor of “The Louisville Courier-Journal.” “On the last night,” says
the “Freie Blatter,” “to the springs down a man came which was the great
statesman from America, and the journalist, Herr Heinrich Watterson.
‘Let me to see the springs,’ said he to the keeper from the place. Then
being shown to her, Herr Watterson cried out, ‘She is the most beautiful
springs which I have set eyes on already. Will you let me to have some
from the water on the side?’”
_Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar”_ (_1_).
Professor W. Thackeray Wilkerson, the well-known _littérateur_ and
dentist of the West Side, calls our attention to a poem that is printed
in the current number of “The Atlantic Monthly.” For the information of
our public we will say that “The Atlantic Monthly” is a magazine
published in Boston, being to that intelligent and refined community
what “The Literary Life” was to Chicago culture before a fourth-ward
constable achieved its downfall with a writ of replevin. “The Atlantic
Monthly” is to the _élite_ of the East what “The Century” is to the hoi
polloi or the kayneel or the protalyrats. The poem in question is
entitled “The Last Cæsar;” and it is from the pen of Col. Thomas Bailey
Aldrich, the editor of “The Atlantic.” Professor Wilkerson tells us that
Col. Aldrich belongs to the same literary clique as Col. J. Russell
Lowell, emeritus professor in the Chicago school of Shakespearian
politics, and Dr. O. Wendell Holmes, author of numerous T. B. Peterson
novels, and composer of the famous Greek poem entitled “The Iliad.” So
it is to be taken for granted that Col. Aldrich is a very cultured and
very affable gentleman; although, so far as we can learn, he has never
done any thing for Chicago.
“I am very much surprised,” says Professor Wilkerson, “that none of the
critics has pounced upon this Aldrich poem; for it is as bold a piece of
error as I ever met with in the whole course of my existence. The poet
claims to treat of one of the Cæsars: yet it is clear that the subject
of his verses is Louis Napoleon, the late ex-emperor of the French; in
fact, right under the title of his poem, Aldrich has put the figures
1851-1870, with the intention of giving people to understand thereby
that the period of time between these dates is the era, or epoch,—or
whatever you please,—of which he sings.”
This certainly would appear to be as clear as logic.
“Now,” continues Professor Wilkerson, “there is none so lost in the
Egyptian darkness of ignorance as to be unaware of the fact that the
last of the Cæsars died very many centuries before 1851. This is a
historical matter that is determined in text-books used in our public
schools; and if anybody has any doubts on the subject, let him refer to
the ‘Lives of the Twelve Cæsars,’ a series of biographies second only in
thrilling reliability and positive interest to A. T. Andreas & Co.’s
‘Lives of Prominent Chicagoans’ (half-calf, $14 net).”
The professor then told us that the author of this biography (not the
half-calf one) was a Latin gentleman, whose name was Sweetonius. This
Sweetonius seems to have been an Elijah M. Haines sort of fellow: he
lived not for the Is, nor for the To Be, but for the Was. He had a
morbid passion for prowling around in rusty old ruins, and for delving
into old bureau-drawers, after family manuscripts and private letters:
another of his penchants, too, was for sitting around in corners, and
listening to scandals and legends about the ancients; and, upon his
return to his lodgings, he would make memoranda of the same for
elaboration at some future date. On the whole, he appears to have been a
kind of premature Poggio, rather than a Haines; for, while our Haines is
content with the proper historical literature of the meek and lowly
Indian, this man Sweetonius had an appetite for nothing short of the
most flagrant scandals of royalty. In after-years this lamentable
penchant broke out in Kenelm Digby, old Pepys, G. Y. M. Reynolds, and
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.
“In his poem,” says Professor Wilkerson, “the misguided editor of ‘The
Atlantic’ shows a better acquaintance with Paris than with Roman
history. He speaks of the Eleezy (sometimes called the Shongzy Leezy),
the day zonvyleeds, the Sane, the Tweelyrees, and the Plas de la
Concord. Surprisingly enough, he says nothing about the basteel, nor the
boorse, nor the zhardan maybeel, nor the Pier la Shays, nor the
loover—and, what is still more preposterous, he has the effrontery to
write about an alleged Cæsar without even alluding to the Latin quarter!
Now, flippancy is something that people will not tolerate in poetry: the
people of Chicago, at least, will not read with any patience a narrative
that takes a Roman monarch all the way to Paris for no other purpose, we
will say, than that of satisfying the whim of an erratic Boston poet.
What if our own poet, Irving J. Higgins, had tried to play a trick of
this kind when he composed the great lyric which he read at the
unveiling of the corner-stone of the Fairbanks Lard Refinery? What if,
instead of speaking of Apollo as the ‘smiling god of Belvidere, Ill.,’
he had located him in Indiana, or some other heathen community? What if
he had assigned Mercury to one of the suburban packing-houses instead of
to Dale’s drug-store? Would the Chicago public have stood it?”
“But is there not a certain amount of freedom which is allowed to every
poet?”
“There exists in the minds of the vulgar,” said Professor Wilkerson, “a
base idea that a poet has license to prance around about as he pleases;
but true culture accords the poet no such license. There was a time when
poets could commit every sort of—of anarchism—I mean anacreonism—and yet
be regarded as poets. That time has passed: its end came when Chicago’s
output of pork swept the last prop from under the old Elizabethan school
at Cincinnati. Under the new dispensation, poets are compelled to
observe certain rigid rules; and nowadays none can drive his Pegasus
without a snaffle.”
“His Pegasus?”
“That is metaphor. Pegasus is a mythological horse which every poet
mounts when he engages in composition. Riding this horse Pegasus is
called ‘soaring to empyrean realms,’ or ‘achieving Parnassan heights.’
Parnassus was a mountain in Thessaly near the Attic salt-mines: it has
been immortalized by N. P. Willis in his poem of ‘Parnassus and the
Captive.’ The trouble with Col. Aldrich’s poem is, that Col. Aldrich
mounted his Pegasus in Italy in the second century, and immediately let
it gallop away with him over into France and the nineteenth century.
Boston critics may wink at this sort of thing, but we of the West are
too precise to abide it. We discussed this matter at the monthly meeting
of the West-Side Dante Club last Thursday night, and we adopted a
resolution expressing a lack of confidence in Col. Aldrich and Boston.
The only man who voted against the resolution was a young poet named
Algernon Remorse; and he opposed the resolution, because, as he said, he
had just sent ‘The Atlantic Monthly’ a poem on ‘The Last Faro; or, The
Result of a Spring Election in Chicago.’ Algernon explained that he
hoped to have his poem accepted, as he needed the money to buy a
railroad ticket to Omaha.”
_Col. Aldrich’s “Last Cæsar”_ (_2_).
Professor Wilkerson’s critique upon Col. Thomas B. Aldrich’s “Last
Cæsar” appears to have provoked a great deal of criticism in local
literary circles, and to this criticism our distinguished dramatic
managers have contributed not a little. It is seldom that we pay
attention to the critiques upon critiques appearing in our columns; but
when gentlemen of wealth and culture take exception to matter printed in
this paper, we very properly suffer their objections to be heard. Our
respected fellow-townsman, Col. J. H. McVicker, the veteran theatre
manager, and the oldest “first grave-digger” now on earth, complains
that Professor Wilkerson, so far from correcting the error into which
the poet Aldrich has fallen, involves himself in follies more
labyrinthian than the Boston poet’s.
“It is my lot (whether good or evil, I will not say) to be personally
acquainted with the last Cæsar,” so Col. McVicker remarked yesterday.
“When I say the last Cæsar, I mean the Cæsar who last appeared in
Chicago; and certainly neither Col. Aldrich’s Cæsar nor Professor
Wilkerson’s has been visible in the flesh since the fall of 1885. It was
at that time that the Cæsar of whom I speak appeared upon the stage of
my theatre under the auspices of Lawrence Barrett. It was on a Thursday:
the previous Monday, Barrett had come to me, and had said, ‘Can you get
me a Cæsar for Thursday night? Southburn, who usually takes the part, is
down with a boil on his neck; and, unless I can find a substitute, we
will have to change the bill.’ I told Larry that I hated to disappoint
the public, and that I would find a Cæsar, or die in the attempt. Well,
I found one; and I will venture to say that if he was not the last
Cæsar, he ought to have been. His name (I find upon consulting my old
play-bills) was Terence O’Toole. Previously he had carried a banner in
one of Kiralfy’s spectacles, and had led in the horse in the second act
of ‘The Black Hussar’ at the Columbia Theatre. My stage-manager, Louis
Sharpe, told me that he had known Terence for several years, having
become acquainted with him when he was running the elevator at the
Tremont House, and he said he had made up his mind, then, that Terence
was a rising young man. Louis is a humorist, you know; but I never
suspected that he would take an advantage of me.”
Col. McVicker then proceeded to tell of the ovation of which Mr. O’Toole
was the recipient when he made his _début_ that Thursday night as Cæsar;
but, inasmuch as this performance was criticised in our columns at that
time by a professional hired for that purpose, far be it from us to
supplement that criticism with any remarks now. But we will confirm Col.
McVicker’s assertion that Mr. O’Toole’s was the last Cæsar seen upon the
Chicago stage.
[Illustration: A black-and-white ink illustration of a bearded man in
profile facing left, dressed in a short, pleated classical Greek tunic
with a geometric Greek key pattern along the hem.]
Professor Samuel Kayzer, manager of the Chicago Conservatory of Acting,
calls our attention to an interesting matter—in fact, it is so
interesting that we would fain lay it before the public. The professor
is an accomplished linguist, and he speaks living and dead languages
with equal fluency. He says that in the European colleges and
universities this word “Cæsar” is pronounced “Kayzer,” and that it is
the word from which the Teutonic word “kaiser,” and the Russian “czar,”
or “tsar,” are derived. This pronunciation (viz., Kayzer) has been
accepted, and is taught, in Harvard and in Yale, and in numerous other
fashionable institutions having in view the preparation of our youth for
the solemn duty of spending their fathers’ estates. The State University
of Missouri, and Knox College at Galesburg, Ill., are the only prominent
educational institutions in the country where young men and women are
taught to pronounce “Cæsar” as if it were spelt “Seezur” instead of
“Kayzer.” The preponderance of fashion and wealth is largely in favor of
“Kayzer.”
“Of course,” said the professor, “I make no boast that Col. Aldrich had
me in his mind’s eye when he wrote that poem. He has never met me, nor
is it likely that he has ever heard of me; although, now that this
question is being agitated, I shall mail him a prospectus of my
conservatory, and a programme of our recent engagement at McVicker’s
theatre. Still, you will discover, if you but refer to the city
directory, that I am the only Kayzer in Chicago: therefore, it follows,
consecutively and logically enough, that, to whomsoever Col. Aldrich’s
poem may refer, I am indeed the last Kayzer.”
Our distinguished friend, Col. William F. Poole, city librarian, and
author of the famous “Index of Salem Witches, with Copious Notes,” tells
us that the Sweetonius to whom Professor Wilkerson refers, is a very
unreliable historian, and that, although his book is given in the
catalogue of the public library, it is not issued to any reader who does
not produce a certificate that he has arrived at years of discretion,
and is a member of some church in good standing. Col. Poole says that he
has not read the Aldrich poem, but, for all that, he stands ready to
indorse any thing that Aldrich has written, or will write. Col. Poole is
a great admirer of Eastern _littérateurs_. He comes by this strange
infatuation very naturally; for he himself was born and reared in
Massachusetts, and would never have come West but for his o’erweening
lust for gold. He says that he knew Aldrich when Aldrich was a boy; that
he used to find Aldrich playing marbles on Boston Common, and that,
noting the precocity of the lad, he sought to woo him from his childish
sports, and incline his tender mind to nobler pursuits. Many a time,
Col. Poole says, he has taken the boy Aldrich upon his lap, and there,
under the shade of the gingko-tree, and within a stone’s-throw of the
frog-pond, has he recited to the intent child legends and tales of the
Salem witches, the Roxbury flubdubs, the Chelsea hobgoblins, and other
suburban supernaturals, calculated to insure to a nervous child a
refreshing night’s repose. Of course, that was a good many years ago;
yet Col. Poole claims the credit of having inculcated into the child
those tastes and inclinations upon which the imposing superstructure of
Aldrich’s noble poesy has been reared.
* * * * *
NEW literature just received: “The Dial,” “The Grocer’s Criterion,” “The
Hide and Leather Journal,” “The Packer’s Monthly Garland,” “The South
Water Street Review,” “The Hyde Park Herald,” “The Elite News,” “The
Blue Island Voice and Optic,” “The Tanner’s Guide,” “The South Chicago
Bouquet of Friendship,” “The Shingle and Clapboard Review,” and “The
Wheat and Grain Journal.” For sale at all book-stores.
_Miss Bayle’s Romance._
Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. send us a circular announcing that they are
upon the eve of publishing a volume entitled “Miss Bayle’s Romance,” the
same recounting the exploits of “a Miss Bayle and her family—all of
Chicago—among the effete aristocracy of the Old World.” When Eastern
publishers say “the Old World,” they mean Europe; although there are
reasons for suspecting, that, in point of fact, Europe is no older than
any other part of the globe. “This novel,” the circular continues,
“which is reported to be the work of _a hand well known in literature_,
has been considered important enough to be the subject of some
cablegrams to the press.” Now, if “Miss Bayle’s Romance” were the work
of a Chicago _littérateur_, we would not be in any harrowing doubt as to
the authorship. Chicago _littérateurs_ deal in a refreshingly candid and
open-handed way: in all our voluminous city directory, there is no
person (male or female) of the name of Anon. “A hand well known in
literature” is an ambiguous phrase,—that is to say, it is ambiguous in
the national, broad sense; but here in Chicago, “a hand well known in
literature” is the horny, warty, but honest hand, which, after years of
patient toil at skinning cattle, or at boiling lard, or at cleaning
pork, has amassed a competence sufficient to admit of its master’s
triumphant reception into the _crême de la crême_ of Chicago culture. We
fancy that this “Miss Bayle” is a myth, and that her “romance” is simply
the invention of some envenomed Eastern scribbler who has become tainted
with the leprosy of Eastern culture, which envies Chicago her output of
pork, beef, wheat, lard, and other fruits of a refined civilization.
* * * * *
COL. ALVA EUGENE DAVIS, the handsome and talented proprietor of “The
Current,” says that the Eastern _littérateurs_ are a very snobbish set.
He called on the business editor of “The Century” magazine while he was
in New York, and had some trouble in identifying himself. “The Current,”
“The Current,” repeated “The Century” business-manager with a puzzled
expression on his literary countenance. “Really, I cannot locate that
paper—pray tell me where is it published?” Of course Col. Davis got as
hot as a cooking-stove right away. “Well, if you don’t know where ‘The
Current’ is published, you must be a —— of a _littérateur_,” said he;
and then he added, “And you must be a d——d queer sort of a
business-manager too, for you’ve been advertising in ‘The Current’ for
the last two years.” “The Century” man thought this was such a good
joke, that he took Col. Davis up into the editorial department, and
introduced him to the young reporters who write the war reminiscences.
_A Humorist’s Courtship._
The venerable Phocion Howard, who probably knows more about Illinois and
her people than any other human being does, claims to have been the
discoverer of Robert J. Burdette, the humorist whose reputation is now
world-wide. Col. Howard was editor of a small paper at Peoria when he
became acquainted with Burdette. The latter was then a very young man,
and he enjoyed the name of being as wild and as harum-scarum a fellow as
ever woke up a sleepy community. But Col. Howard saw something more than
the mere mischief in the boy; and, calling him into the office one day,
he gave him a long talk, and wound up by asking him to go to work on the
paper. This was Burdette’s start in literary work. On one of the bluffs
back of Peoria lived an old justice of the peace,—sturdy and grim,—who
had a bright and pretty daughter. With this daughter, Burdette fell in
love; and great was his rapture when he learned, in time, that his
affection was reciprocated by the young lady. But the sturdy squire
guarded his daughter with an austere and jealous eye, and vast was his
rage when he beheld the young reporter swinging on the front-gate at
least three evenings per week. The squire saw no good in the boy; and at
last he declared in good round terms that the boy must keep away from
that particular house on the bluff, else perchance the coroner might be
called to sit on the mangled remains of a promising journalist that had
been cut off in the flower of his youth. This pronunciamento, which
would seem to have been emphasized by the important fact that the
choleric squire kept a gun swung up on his cottage-wall, and well filled
with formidable slugs—this pronunciamento, we say, inspired in the
bosoms of the daughter and her lover the most grievous emotions; and it
was not long ere they mutually declared that an heroic step must be
taken toward abating the poignant anguish which the squire’s harsh
declaration imposed. Therefore the two met one afternoon, and,
proceeding unostentatiously to another justice of the peace, were
married in less time than you could say a _paternoster_. This, however,
they recognized as only the beginning of the struggle by which the
Gordian knot was to be untied or cut; but Burdette’s ingenuity and valor
were equal to the rest of the task. He stepped into the post-office, and
said to one of his friends there employed, “Charlie, I want to go
hunting this afternoon: will you lend me your gun?”
“Certainly,” replied his friend; and he handed out as fine a
double-barrelled breech-loader as ever you clapped eyes on.
“Is it loaded?” inquired Burdette.
“Yes,” said the friend.
“What kind of shot?” asked Burdette.
“Duck-shot,” replied the friend.
“Well, I guess that’ll do,” said Burdette. “I’ll stop in as I go down
the street, and get some more ammunition of the same kind.”
So, with the gun on his shoulder, and a smile on his face, Burdette
rejoined his bride on the street outside. Arm in arm the two toiled up
the bluff toward the testy old squire’s residence, Burdette stopping
every now and then to see whether his battery was in working-order. It
was well-nigh dusk when the truant couple marched into the bride’s home.
The testy squire sat in his favorite rocking-chair, grimly reading an
evening paper. You can perhaps imagine his amazement when, upon looking
up, he beheld Burdette boldly intrude into his presence with the object
of his affection on one arm, and a double-barrelled gun on one shoulder.
But, with all his testiness, it was to the squire’s credit that he
possessed a fair share of that always admirable and frequently
serviceable quality called discretion. This quality asserted itself at
this critical moment. Instead of exploding the volcanic fires which had
been pent up in his paternal bosom, he calmly laid down his evening
paper, scrutinized the twain before him, and in an unruffled tone
remarked, “Well?”
All will agree that this was the shrewdest thing the testy squire could
have done under the circumstances; for it is universally admitted by
authorities on rhetorical tactics, that the simple word “well,” when
uttered with the proper inflection and at the proper moment, serves as
an invincible and incomprehensible skirmish-line. But the happy
bridegroom was on this occasion fully equal to the task of meeting the
testy squire’s rhetorical skirmish-line—all of which goes to prove that
a shotgun in the hand is worth ten thousand “wells” in rhetoric.
“Carrie and I have been getting married,” said Burdette, looking the
squire straight in the eyes; “and now I want to know what you are going
to do about it?”
If the squire’s calmness but a moment before had been admirable, it was
now phenomenal. The announcement of his daughter’s marriage did not seem
to even ruffle his temper. He put his paper aside quietly, and glanced
out of the window musingly; and he put his tongue in his cheek, and
appeared to be absorbed in thought.
“You’d better go down and help your mother get supper, Carrie,” said the
squire at last; “and as for you, Robert, sit down, and make yourself at
home. I want to get better acquainted with you if you’re my son-in-law.”
So much for the courtship and marriage of our most popular humorist. Of
the happy wedded life that succeeded, we all have heard. The girl became
a devoted wife; and it is not hard for those who have felt the ennobling
influence of woman’s love to believe Mr. Burdette when he says that the
little woman whom he called wife—whose spiritual beauty we all
admired—with whose physical sufferings we all sympathized, and whose
death we all deplored—we believe Mr. Burdette when he says that she was
indeed the best and sweetest inspiration in his life and of his work.
_That One Floating Vote._
Down at the town av Springfield, phwhere our statesmin congregate
To draw their wages twicet a month to git John Logan bate,
The Dimmycrats is tremblin’ and a sweatin’ wid dismay
On account av O’Shea.
The all av thim is solid for our horizontal Bill,
And the all av thim is solid for reform and office—shtill
The all av thim is worried to anticipate the play
Contem_pla_ted by O’Shea.
Bill Morrison shtands _here_, and Logan he shtands _there_,
And whin the wotes is even, there’s a tie bechune the pair;
But whin it comes to wotin’, can innybody say,
Phwhere the divil is O’Shea?
_A Persian Mission._
In “The New-York World” we find this remarkable editorial paragraph:
“Mr. Winston, our new minister to Persia, has had himself appointed a
brigadier-general of Illinois militia in order that he may be able to
shine at the shah’s resplendent court in a gorgeous uniform. We need a
minister to Persia about as much as we need a consular agent at the
north pole; but, inasmuch as we are carrying on the tomfoolery, we
might, as by special enactment, authorize our representative at Teheran
to appear in the full dress of a Choctaw chief. Something variegated and
humorous in that line would be likely to make an impression on the
shah’s mind.”
We are amazed to find a democratic paper speaking in these terms of one
of the most distinguished appointments that has been made to our
diplomatic service. Yet we think the gross misrepresentation comes
merely from misinformation. Gen. Winston’s magnificent record as a
citizen and soldier demands an explanation of these things.
We are reliably informed, that, when President Cleveland took his seat
as executive of this republic, he cast his eagle eye abroad over all the
land, and allowed each of the eminent statesmen to pass before him in
review, as candidates for the Persian mission; that after months of
careful, earnest study, inspired by the sincerest patriotism, President
Cleveland made up his mind, that, in all the country, there was one man
pre-eminently qualified for this high and responsible office; that the
name of that man was Frederick H. Winston.
We are reliably informed that President Cleveland sent privily for Gen.
Winston, and informed him of his selection for the Persian mission; that
Gen. Winston demurred, alleging that his ambition beckoned him not in
the direction of diplomatic exploits; that it was only by personal and
constant importunities, and by presenting the matter to him in the light
of a patriotic duty, that the president succeeded in overcoming Gen.
Winston’s superhuman modesty, and inducing him to accept the mission.
We are reliably informed, that, as soon as he heard of Gen. Winston’s
appointment to the court of Persia, Gov. Oglesby said to himself, “Now
is the time for me to bestow upon this great and good man some official
recognition of his distinguished civic and military services; but how
shall I do so best? A commission as notary public would not avail,
because the benighted Persian pagans know naught of the notary system;
nor, for similar reason, would a commission as grain-inspector, or
humane-society agent, or State veterinary agent, or insane-asylum
commissioner, or soldiers’-home trustee. No,” thought Gov. Oglesby, “I
must bestow upon this human paragon some distinction, honor, mark,
title, and decoration that will not only be in keeping with his exalted
career at home, but also give to him a certain lustre and bedazzling
brilliancy in the eyes of the heathen among whom he is soon to exploit
most featly. So, therefore, I will create him a brigadier-general; and I
will invest him with the ever-to-be-revered authority to wear high
top-boots and spurs, as well as gilt buttons, gold epaulets, and a
cocked hat withal.”
We are reliably informed that Gov. Oglesby had to wrestle rhetorically
three whole days and nights with Gen. Winston before the latter was
induced to accept the proffered military decoration, and that even then
a squad of militia had to be called out and put on a war-footing before
Winston could be induced to go to his tailor to be measured for a suit
of regimentals; that even when he did go to said tailor, a corporal and
four soldiers had to guard the doors and windows lest the super-modest
general should repent his errand, and privily effect his escape from the
prick-louse.
We are reliably informed, that, upon calmer and maturer reflection, the
embryotic diplomate travailed much in spirit, and groaned, and by the
advice of the spirits of Jefferson and Jackson, which did visit him in
dreams and visions, finally made up his mind that he would have done
with this matter of display, which was opposed in spirit and in truth to
the traditions and practices of democracy; that he did so advise Gov.
Oglesby, the press, and the public at large, and that if he _did_ accept
the regimentals from the tailor, and order them to be packed among his
official effects, it was merely for the purpose of exhibiting them in
Persia as a specimen of American handiwork.
We are reliably informed, that, at a sumptuous feast tendered to the
departing, citizen-soldier-diplomate by such exalted social,
intellectual, and political stars as Johnnie Hand, Emil Hoechster,
Charlie Felton, J. J. Curran, Austin J. Doyle, Charlie Kern, John
Mattocks, P. Dudley, W. M. Devine, and other representatives of the
cream and flower of native and naturalized gentility, there did prevail
an eloquent and piteous protest against the harsh decree of fate which
was about to remove from the midst of them the pole-star, the central
sun, the inspiration of this incomparable galaxy. So poignant was the
grief marking this lachrymose event, that, ill content with the
restraining powers of prose and poetry, one of the distinguished chief
mourners, to wit, Charlie Kern, did essay the subtile influence of song
to alter Gen. Winston’s intention of going abroad.
We are reliably informed, that, having heard Mr. Kern sing, Gen. Winston
became more fixed in his patriotic determination to leave his country.
Of Gen. Winston’s eternal fitness for the Persian mission, we have no
doubt. Since his appointment he has made a close study of Persia, its
history, literature, language, people, customs, etc. Hearing that Persia
was the land of the date and palm, he took no rest until he had secured
the very latest editions of Hayden’s “Dictionary of Dates,” and Fowler’s
“Guide to Palmistry.” Having devoured these standard works, as well as
an unabridged edition of the “Arabian Nights,” he is, beyond compare,
deeply learned in Persian lore.
And who that has beheld him; who that has studied his methods; who that
is acquainted with his high and mighty career in the forum, on the mart,
upon the field of carnage; who that has seen that undaunted integrity,
that unselfish patriotism, that sweet philosophy, and that heroic valor,
which have characterized every act and utterance in his life; who, in
fine, that knows this good and great man,—will deny that his career in
that pagan land, to which he goes anon, promises to redound to his own
glory, and to the advantage of the government, which, by his
distinguished service, he places under renewed obligations?
_A Senator’s Valor._
It is interesting to read and to study the opinions of different
newspapers touching the Hon. John J. Ingalls, senior senator from
Kansas. The truth is, that no public man is more generally misunderstood
than is Senator Ingalls. By this we mean that a vast majority of the
writers who have occasion to write about Senator Ingalls, really do not
know him at all. Senator Ingalls is, in fact, a tender, gentle, lovable
man. He is exceedingly sentimental, as emotional as a woman, as
guileless as a child. He loves nature, and to commune with nature’s
quiet, subtile influences. Every day he takes long walks in Washington;
he is the most tireless pedestrian in Congress; he is acquainted with
all the woodland strolls on the Virginia side, and oftentimes his
rambles take him far into rural Maryland. There is a peace, a
tranquillity, a simplicity about this man’s private life that is as
remarkable as it is beautiful; yet, oh, how grievously he is misjudged!
Illustrative of his humane tenderness, a story is told of a
characteristic incident of Senator Ingalls’s visit to Colorado some
years ago. He undertook to walk from Leadville to Golden, a mighty
distance across the mountains. His friends warned him of the dangers
that beset travellers of that mountain fastness, but Senator Ingalls
laughed them to scorn.
“I have my penknife with me,” he answered. “It will suffice to protect
me, I venture.”
Proceeding on his lonely journey, the senator held sweet communion with
the giant trees, the gnarled rocks, the tawdry wild-flowers, and the
chattering magpies that greeted him from this side and from that; and
his soul contemplated through his reverential ocular orbs the awful
grandeurs of the eternally snow-clad hills that rose beyond these hills,
and heard the songs the storm-clouds sang.
Floating placidly, so to speak, upon this pleasant sea of thought, the
senator strode along for many a league, until finally, all of a sudden,
he distinctly beheld coming down the mountain-road toward him, a
monstrous grizzly bear,—an ursine megatherium, whose fur bristled, whose
eyes emitted sparks, whose claws rattled, and whose fangs gnashed, as he
scuttled along the mountain-road. In Senator Ingalls’s place at that
supreme moment, any other man less humane, less tender than he, would
have reached instinctively for his penknife, with which to have assailed
the shaggy monster, and to have made him pay for his temerity with his
life. But not so with Senator Ingalls. “Go thy way, poor devil!” he
murmured softly, paraphrasing Uncle Toby. “Go thy way, poor devil. This
mountain pathway is wide enough for me and thee!”
And with this humane sentiment, Senator Ingalls crawled into a hollow
tree at the roadside, and waited there until the grizzly bear had passed
by, and was well on his way toward the bee-hive in a pine-tree near
Crazy-Horse Gulch.
_Season of New Music._
The Mapleson Italian Opera Company is billed to appear here shortly, and
the programme for the first week is announced with a considerable
flourish. We do not hesitate to say that the music-loving public of
Chicago has a rich treat in store. Col. Mapleson is indeed a
conscientious, painstaking caterer. He is indefatigable in his efforts
to provide his patrons with a new and pleasing variety of musical works,
and he is constantly introducing to American audiences the freshest and
best talent of foreign countries. During his first week in Chicago he
will produce the following entirely new operas, composed and written
especially for this American tour of Her Majesty’s Opera Company:
“Faust,” “Lucia di Lammermoor,” “Manon,” “Fra Diavolo,” “Carmen,” and
“La Traviata.” For the second week we are promised “La Girla Bohemiana”
(a beautiful new opera by a clever Irishman named Balfe), “Il
Trovatore,” “La Favorita,” “Les Huguenots,” “I Puritani,” “Norma,” and a
pleasing light opera entitled “Martha.” The eminent ladies and gentlemen
who are to interpret the leading _rôles_ of these charming new works,
are Mme. Minnie Hauk, Mdlle. Dotti, Mme. Lillian Nordica (a lineal
descendant of Frank Mayo’s popular play), Mme. Lablache, Sig. Ravelli,
Sig. De Falco, Sig. Del Puente, Sig. Cherubini, and Sig. Giannini. None
of these great artists has ever appeared in Chicago before: they have
been fresh culled, so to speak, from the best musical parterres in
Europe, where they have bloomed without competition for the last
century. Mr. John McConnell, manager of the Columbia Theatre, has
invented a beautiful design for a three-sheet poster announcing the
Mapleson season. He showed it to us last evening. It is somewhat as
follows:—
[Illustration: A satirical, hand-lettered performance schedule titled
"GRAND ITALIAN OPERA. FIRST WEEK." It lists the days from Monday through
Saturday, substituting the names of the operas and the featured singers
(preceded by "Mme." or "Mlle.") with small drawings of hazelnuts. The
text below reads: "Assisted by a superb company of [hazelnuts] and an
able corps de ballet including all the most noted terpsichorean
[hazelnuts] of the century."]
_Apollo Located._
They say, that, just by way of killing time that hung heavy on his
hands, Col. Henry Davis, jun., visited the Corcoran Art Gallery in
Washington last Monday. When he returned to the hotel, he had a great
story to tell of his experiences.
“Bill,” said he to Congressman Springer, “I have been putting in a
couple of hours inspecting the shef doovers of the old masters.”
“Ah?” said Springer. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“Amazingly,” continued Davis. “You didn’t know I was a good deal of an
art connozher, did you?”
“I can easily believe you,” answered Springer; “for I have always
admired your delicate refinement and graceful discrimination.”
“I ran across one statute that paralyzed me,” said Davis. “It was a
perfect fac-smile of myself without my clothes on.”
“What could it have been?” asked Springer.
“When I get back to Illinois,” said Davis, “I’m going to hunt up the
original; for me and him are as much alike as two peas. He lives at
Belvidere!”
“Boone County?”
“Yes; Belvidere, Boone County, Ill. His name is Apollo.”
_An Exile’s Nuptials._
The Hon. Millard B. Hereley is about to do the wisest act in all his
busy and useful career. He is going to be married. On the 10th instant
he will lead to the hymeneal altar Miss Hannah, daughter of our esteemed
fellow-townsman, Col. Daniel Murphy, who resides at 202 Oak Street. The
bride-elect is a beautiful and accomplished young lady, in every
particular qualified to adorn the home, and serve as the best
inspiration of a bright, ambitious, and honorable man. To her and to him
we extend our heartiest congratulations upon the event which is to bind
them together indissolubly.
Knocking the tops off champagne-bottles yesterday, Senator Hereley
vouchsafed to a select crowd of personal friends the information, that,
immediately after the solemnization of their marriage, his bride and he
would start upon a six-weeks’ tour through the orange-groves of
Louisiana and the everglades of Florida.
“A number of my ancestors, exiled from France a century ago,” said he,
“lie buried in the old cemetery just beyond the fortifications at St.
Augustine. I hear that no monument marks the last resting-place of the
Duc de Troiville, my maternal great-grandfather. If, upon investigation,
I find this to be the case, I shall erect a suitable slab appropriately
inscribed. In New Orleans I have numerous relations among the old French
and Creole families: in fact, I may in all modesty confess that in the
neighborhood of the French market my name has become a household word.”
“Is it true,” we asked, “that the news of your approaching nuptials has
created a stir in foreign circles?”
“In Germany, France, and Spain,—yes,” replied Senator Hereley. “Germany
watches with unabating interest the movements of every titled Frenchman
abroad, and probably will continue to do so until the _intente cordiale_
between France and Prussia has been fully restored. France takes an
interest in my career because I am closely allied by blood with the
aristocracy of that country; and Spain is interested in me for the
reason that many of the Hereleys fled from Normandy to Madrid after the
fall of the empire, and are now united by marriage with the oldest and
noblest families in Castile and Aragon.
“I have already received,” continued Senator Hereley, “messages of
congratulation from the Duc d’Orleans, Marshal Castiglione, Sir François
de Cavagnac, the Duc d’Ormeil, Prince Bourbon de Bonsoir, ex-Queen
Isabella, President Grèvy, De Freycine, Queen Regent Christina, the Duc
de Ganda, and other royal and eminent personages. I am expecting a good
many elegant presents, the most pleasing of which will be a
congratulatory memorial in a diamond-studded gold case from the council
of my native village in Normandy. Mme. Judic and Mme. Aimee, two
country-women of mine, have sent me handsome remembrances in the shape
of an old-gold toothpick, and a Dresden china shaving-mug.”
“But don’t these things awaken in your bosom a longing to return to the
honors, titles, and estates which await you in your native land?”
“Not at all,” replied Senator Hereley. “I love this glorious republic,
and am as truly enlisted in her cause as if I had been born upon her
soil. The glamour of titles and estates beyond the sea has no charms for
me, and my union with a fair daughter of this republic shall re-affirm
and emphasize with ecstasy my loyalty to the home of my adoption!”
_Patronize Home Art._