_To the Editor._—Why is it that Western people are so hasty to go daft
over the doings Down East, yet are so slow to recognize and to encourage
meritorious home enterprises? Quite recently, for instance, Chicago and
other Western cities have been all agog over the sale of certain
arteffects of a New-York lady, the widow Morgan, a relict of undoubted
taste, and possessing abundant means wherewith to gratify that taste.
Thousands of dollars went out of the West to purchase certain articles
of the Morgan collection at the recent sale in New York. A wealthy
pork-packer who lives near my house, brought back from the Morgan sale
two “rare pieces of virtue,” as he terms them: one was a cut-glass
potato-salad dish, manufactured in the third century by Ptolomy Dago, a
Spanish stone-cutter of wonderful ingenuity; the other was a superb
oil-painting representing mountaineer life in Holland, and painted by
Beethoven, the famous Italian sculptor. These “articles of virtue” could
not have cost less than twenty thousand dollars. But why go East for
these works of art? I understand that a great art-sale is about to take
place on the West Side; that the rare and costly collection of one of
our wealthiest soap-manufacturers, recently deceased, is about to be
disposed of at auction. Why are the papers, which are so ready to
advertise Eastern art-sales, silent now touching this home enterprise?
Why is our public, ever on the alert to blow in good money for Yankee
notions, so slow to patronize this West-Side slaughter of genuine
rarities? I think Chicago ought to be ashamed of herself; but here is an
excellent opportunity for her to redeem her reputation.
Yours, etc.,
SILAS G. HARDCASTLE.
_An Old Feud._
Indirectly we learn that Col. Hiram Atkins, chairman of the Vermont
Democratic Committee, thinks he has been unfairly dealt with by “The
Daily News.” He complains that the quotations which we gave as coming
from his paper, “The Montpelier Argus and Patriot,” were never printed
in his paper at all: he declares that he never announced that “Squire
Eastman’s tumor has cast a gloom over our little village,” or that “Mrs.
Mehitabel Ranney laid an egg on our table last week,” etc. It is
possible that we have done Col. Atkins an injustice; if so, the
injustice was done unintentionally; and we, lamenting it, do hereby
crave pardon therefor. Col. Atkins is a jovial, enterprising, fair, and
bright man: he is incapable of a mean action. We wish him a big run of
sap every spring, and a powerful harvest of beech-nuts next Michaelmas.
As to the items about Squire Eastman’s tumor, Mrs. Mehitabel Ranney’s
eggs, etc., which we printed, and credited to “The Montpelier Argus and
Patriot,” we received them from Senator Edmunds, with the remark that he
had found them in Atkins’s paper. Edmunds told us that Atkins was a
“fat, pussy man, that sweat twelve months in the year, and wore out two
paper collars every day:” he said that Atkins had pursued him for years,
maliciously and relentlessly, there being no species of base piracy to
which Atkins would not willingly stoop.
Atkins’s demoniacal animosity was incurred, so Edmunds avers, many years
ago, when the two were attending the academy at Rutland. Edmunds, it
appears, was in the senior class when Atkins entered the academy as a
freshman.
At that time the prettiest girl in the school was a Miss Joyful
Higginson, the only daughter of Squire Nathan Higginson of Bennington.
She had a trim figure, black eyes, curly hair, and red cheeks; and when
she got rigged out in one of her new gingham gowns on a Sunday morning,
she was, to use a phrase common in those times, “prettier than a yoke of
father’s steers.” To this Miss Joyful did Edmunds and Atkins pay ardent
but respectful homage, sending her lumps of maple-sugar, and packages of
rose-lozenges, taking her coasting and to picnics on a Saturday, and
showing her, in short, delicate attentions of that nature which seldom
fail to touch the maidenly heart. The fact, however, that Edmunds was
the older of the twain, that he had impressive side-whiskers, and that
he sang a delicious bass in the academy-choir, seems to have made him
more acceptable to Miss Joyful than any of the other young beaux were:
at any rate, Miss Joyful went sliding down hill with Edmunds oftener
than with anybody else, and his gifts of pippins, maple-sugar, lozenges,
nosegays, and the like, appeared to go to the spot which the tokens of
other beaux failed to reach.
The preference which Miss Joyful manifested for young Edmunds set Atkins
into a frenzy of jealous rage; and one night he threw his Livy upon the
floor, trampled upon his Andrew’s Latin Lexicon, and delivered himself
of this volcanic eruption of long-pent-up wrath: “Gol darn that
bewhiskered crittur! I’ll git even with him if I hev ter live ter be ez
old ez Methuselah! With that tarnation bass voice o’ his’n, as hard as
Pharaoh’s heart, and them whiskers the color o’ soft-soap, he hez cut
the rest on us clean out o’ our swaths. It may take an all-fired long
time to do it, but I’m goin’ to, by gosh, knock him higher’n a
meetin’-house steeple afore I git thru’ with him!”
This malignant threat was uttered fifty-eight years ago; and ever since
then, so Senator Edmunds tells us, Hiram Atkins has had but one grand
end in view,—the annihilation of George F. Edmunds. The episode of Miss
Joyful Higginson was simply one of the pretty idyls of youth. In 1838
Joyful married Leander Merrick, the popular young man who drove the
stage for a great many years between Brattleboro and Townsend.
_A Hegira Threatened._
There was a great stir in Chicago yesterday, and it was all on account
of the remarkable speech which Mr. Gladstone delivered in the British
House of Commons Thursday afternoon. No sooner was the independence of
Ireland assured, than the leaders of the Irish party in Chicago began
making preparations to return to the beloved Emerald Isle beyond the
sea. The news that these distinguished gentlemen contemplated departure
from scenes which they had graced with their presence for many years,
spread like a wildfire, and produced a sensation that can be described
only by the adjective prodigious. Bands of music paraded the principal
streets, discoursing a _repertoire_ made up of such inspired gems as
“Wearing of the Green,” “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” and
“Croppies, Lie Down.”
Col. John F. Finerty, ex-member of Congress, and editor of our esteemed
contemporary, “The Citizen,” spent most of the day in his private
apartments, packing his valise, and disposing of the personal effects he
did not wish to take back to Ireland with him. “I shall leave for home
at once,” he said. “This country has become effete. It is subservient to
British gold, and has no longer any appreciation of personal honesty and
individual merit. Now that Ireland is to be an independent nation, it is
my purpose to return to her venerated soil, and to claim the titles and
estates which properly descend to me from a long line of lordly
ancestors. You may not be aware of it,—for with unflinching assiduity I
have concealed the fact,—but I am the thirty-eighth Lord of Tipperary;
and I am about to lay claim to the magnificent estates at
Ballyclerahan.”
Mr. John F. Scanlan said he had made arrangements for a passage on the
steamship “Aurania,” which would sail from New York early in May. “Our
triumph,” said he, “has been long delayed; but, Heaven be praised, it
has come at last! When once I have set foot on my native soil, you will
hear no more of John F. Scanlan; but Baron Ballingarry will dawn upon
Europe as one of the peerage of Ireland. Ballingarry, you must
understand, is a charmingly romantic estate in Munster County, twelve
miles north of Kilmeedy, fifteen miles south of Rathkeale, and twenty
miles west of Beuree. Upon a gentle elevation stands the baronial castle
which my forefathers erected during the historic reign of Brian
Boroihuee, and it is of this ancestral domain that I propose to possess
myself. I hear that a St.-Louis man, known as John D. Finney, claims to
be the heir-apparent to this baronetcy; but I shall show him that I can
handle a blackthorn quite as nimbly as the best of bogtrotters.”
Mr. J. J. Fitzgibbon said he was the Duke of Ballaghadereen, a beautiful
estate in the county of Mayo. It was his ambition to spend his declining
years in enjoyment of those lordly pleasures of which he had long been
deprived, but which now were about to be restored to him by the efforts
of Mr. Gladstone, the British premier.
Mr. William McClure claimed to be the long-missing heir to the earldom
of Armagh, with a moss-covered castle, and a dreamy expanse of peat-bog,
awaiting him at Loughall, one of the most picturesque spots in all
Ireland. He said he was making preparations to return to his native
land, and to claim every thing in sight.
The Hon. Patrick Sanders admitted, that, having wound up an active but
brief American career, he was getting ready to start back to Ireland,
where he meant to lay claim to the dukedom of Dripsey, in county Cork,
only a few miles south of the famous Blarneystone. “Such is my
self-abnegation,” said he, “that, if I perceived any desire on the part
of the Chicago people to retain me, I would cheerfully abandon every
claim to the Irish peerage which awaits me, and would devote myself to
the service of humanity in this city. But there is a lack of interest in
me hereabouts; and I shall therefore proceed shortly to the country
where, I am sure, my ability and my philanthropy will be appreciated.
The evening of my life shall be devoted to teaching the simple tenantry
of my ducal estates the sward-dance of our ancestors: and it is barely
possible that I shall put in operation a scheme I have long
contemplated; namely, the colonization of Dripsey with Italian
emigrants.”
It was learned, either from the gentlemen themselves, or from equally
reliable authorities, that the following distinguished citizens of
Chicago were on the eve of departure to the sod which they venerate as
their common mother:—
Michael Hannigan, claimant to the titles and estates of Denis, sixteenth
Duke of Stradbally, in the county Leinster.
Thomas E. Moran, heir-presumptive to the earldom of Knockcroghery, in
the county Roscommon, including the extensive peat-privileges at
Athleague.
John M. Dunphy, Baron Gortaroo, with the ancestral castle in county
Cork, overlooking Youghal Bay, near Knockadoon Head.
Sam Steele (formerly Welsh, but now Irish), claimant to the dukedom of
Londonderry, said to have been conquered in the thirteenth century by
the Welsh invader, Llewellyn Llnllth.
Michael W. Ryan, Lord Malin More, with a castle on the western coast of
county Donegal, enjoying fine privileges for conger eel and finnan
haddie fisheries.
Richard Pendergast, heir-apparent to the earldom of Belgooly, in county
Cork, twelve miles south of Templemichael.
Edward J. McPhelim, said to be the long-lost heir to the baronetcy of
Kilcullen, enjoying a magnificent ancestral castle on lake Liffey, in
county Kildare, within five minutes’ walk of the famous rocky road to
Dublin.
Thomas O’Neill (a lineal descendant of the great Hugh O’Neill), Duke of
Coleraine, claiming the magnificent estates near Lough Foyle, in
Londonderry.
Timothy D’Arcy, Baron Knock, with a grand old castle of mediæval
architecture on the river Shannon, one of the most beautiful estates in
the county Clare.
James Sullivan, Duke of Tyrone, claiming the old manor and estate at
Beltrim, yielding enormous rents.
Alexander Kirkland claims the dukedom of Kerry, which involves large and
valuable estates in the Kenmare-river and Bantry-bay districts; but
Kirkland’s claim is disputed by Vincent B. Kelly, who alleges that _he
himself_ is the lawful duke, and that Kirkland is simply a Scotch
interloper, who hails from the Frith of Forth, and who is known at home
as the Laird o’ Killiekrankie.
There is a rumor that Joseph Medill becomes, by the Gladstone act, sole
heir to that magnificent riparian privilege known as the Giants’
Causeway in Antrim; but it is doubtful whether that distinguished
gentleman will, for this giant legacy, relinquish the large interests he
has acquired in the country of his adoption.
_A Spanish Romance._
There is not an iota of truth in “The Philadelphia News” rumor that Miss
Kate Field is about to be married to a Western journalist. Miss Field
will never wed; and the secret of her celibacy is to be found in a
singularly sad and romantic tale which has never yet, we think, been put
in print.
Some years ago Miss Field made a visit to Spain with a view to
acquainting herself with certain old Castilian legends which she desired
to make literary use of. She took with her many letters of introduction
to Spanish grandees, among them a letter to Marshal Serrano. This
wealthy and influential nobleman received her most cordially, and
entertained her at his castle in Madrid for several weeks; his wife, a
sister of the Comte de Paris (now deceased), being particularly charmed
by the vigor of Miss Field’s intellect, and the insinuating grace of her
manners. It happened, that, during her stay at Serrano Castle, the
beautiful young American met, among other Spanish noblemen, the young
Alvaredo Lopez y Jesus de Ratz, one of the wealthiest, handsomest, and
bravest scions of Spanish royalty. He was a hidalgo of the thirty-second
magnitude, heir-apparent to the dukedom of Aragon, and, what was
considered better than all else, he possessed large political influence,
and stood high in the favor of the dominant party. Alvaredo Lopez de
Ratz fell a willing victim to the personal and intellectual charms of
the fascinating American girl; and with that precipitancy peculiar to
the impassioned sons of stately old Spain, he avowed his love at the
second meeting. Somewhat startled by the suddenness of his fervid
declaration, though not insensible to his exceeding eligibility, Miss
Field coyly employed those evasive, Fabian arts which so admirably
beseem her sex, and which render a beautiful girl all the more beautiful
in the opinion of mankind. So, therefore, Alvaredo set himself bravely
to the task of melting the marble heart of the proud American at whose
imperious feet he had incontinently cast down his heart, his titles, his
hopes, his all. Day after day he weaved sonnets to her eyes and hair, or
pursued her with sighings and avowals: night after night he lingered
beneath her window, blending his rich baritone voice in amorous
serenades with the throbbing tones of his mandolin or lute.
One day, Miss Field, accompanied by the young Alvaredo Lopez de Ratz,
went to the amphitheatre to witness a bull-fight, the same being a
celebration of the feast of St. Isadore. When they reached the place,
they found that their seats were on the other side of the amphitheatre;
and to save time, they thought to cut across the arena, the combat not
yet having begun. Scarcely, however, had they reached the centre of the
arena, when, by some fatal blunder, the door to the bull-pen was thrown
open, and out rushed a monstrous Andalusian bull, lashing his tail
wildly, pawing the earth, and bellowing fiercely.
“Suave mio! suave mio!” (“Save me! save me!”) cried Miss Field, in tones
that would have wrung the most callous heart.
“Carissima mia,” answered Alvaredo Lopez de Ratz, “te suavo spezza!”
(“Dearest, I will save thee!”)
Then, drawing his stiletto, the brave young lover threw himself between
the infuriated bull and the red parasol which Miss Field had unfurled,
and behind which she stood, pale, shrieking, trembling. While the bull
gored at Alvaredo Lopez de Ratz, that valiant young nobleman carved and
whittled the shaggy monster’s frothing nostrils right dexterously:
meantime, divers picadors, matadors, and cavaliers hastened to the
rescue of Miss Field, who was borne insensible from the arena.
But what of Alvaredo Lopez y Jesus de Ratz? Alas! his gored and lifeless
remains, mutilated beyond recognition, were raked up and gathered
together after the matadors had slain the infuriate bull. A braver man
was never borne from the battle-field on two-score and ten dust-pans!
Ever since that tragedy, Miss Field has disdained the advances of the
masculine sex. Pondering ever on the fate of her young Spanish suitor,
she never hears an impassioned avowal that she does not droop her pretty
head, and regretfully murmur, “Ratz!”
_More about Miss Field._
Miss Kate Field, who is to lecture in this city next Thursday evening,
is in many respects a most remarkable woman. None of her sex possesses
to so marked a degree every feminine charm, coupled with an intellectual
vigor that is certainly masculine. Miss Field’s life has been a romantic
one. She was born (about thirty years ago) in New Orleans, and was
educated in the Convent de St. Genevieve, near that city. When sixteen
years of age she was sent to Europe to “finish off;” but, while
travelling in Sicily, she was seized by brigands, who demanded seventy
thousand livres for her ransom. This sum was paid by the family of the
young girl, after she had been a captive for six weeks, during which
time she acquired a thorough acquaintance with the Italian language, and
obtained a complete knowledge of the customs of the banditti. A
narrative of her experience in the Sicilian fastnesses appeared in “El
Banano Napoli” (1865), and is now regarded as a model of Italian
romance. In 1867 Miss Field visited Spain as the guest of Signora
Serrano; and it was at this time that she was wooed by the young Marquis
Miguel Maria Jesus del Ratz, whose melancholy and tragic death, while
attending a bull-fight in Madrid, has already been detailed in these
columns. This was the one love-affair of Miss Field’s life; but the case
of Manrico Bolero, the chief of the banditti who abducted the fair girl,
deserves more than passing mention. It appears that while she was a
captive, this Bolero became deeply sensible of the personal and mental
charms of young Kate: his suit was vain, however, the conscientious girl
refusing to become the bandit’s bride. After she was ransomed, the image
of her beauty, and the recollection of her goodness and her wit, so
preyed upon the mind of the brigand, that he forsook his godless
occupations, distributed his ill-gotten gains among the poor, became an
inmate of a monastery, and even now, under the name of Brother Felix,
devotes his remaining days to Benedictine piety, and the manufacture of
a well-known cordial of the same name.
Miss Field returned to her native land in the spring of 1883, and since
that time has published numerous books, written and delivered several
lectures, and superintended a number of social reforms, calculated to
alleviate the sufferings of, and to emancipate from political bondage,
the feminine sex. The failure of her philanthropic movement in New York
some years ago, whereby she sought to introduce a female-suspender
system, which would supersede the odious female garter—this failure, we
say, was due wholly to the duplicity of the one man whom, with many
other noble women, she had admitted into a business partnership. But
since that unfortunate—though none the less praiseworthy—venture,
prosperity has attended the earnest little lady. Her literary work has
brought her handsome returns, her lectures have been highly profitable;
and certain investments in Washington real-estate have been so
fortunate, that she is now quoted by the leading commercial agencies
among the wealthy women of America.
_A Kentuckian’s Sagacity._
Col. William M. Haldeman, proprietor of “The Louisville
Courier-Journal,” has a very poor opinion of Henry Watterson’s business
capacity. The other day he opened one of Watterson’s editorial
correspondences, dated Paris. He handed it to the cashier to send up to
the editorial rooms.
“What is it?” asked the cashier.
“A letter from Watterson,” answered Haldeman: “I haven’t read it, but
it’s a long one about ‘The Latin Quarter.’”
“The Latin Quarter? What’s that?” asked the cashier, with his mouth
agape, and his eyes hanging out on his cheeks.
“I’m —— if I know,” said Haldeman; “but, if Watterson got it in change,
I’ll bet fifty to one that it’s a twenty-cent piece.”
_Col. Judd’s Narrow Escape._
The Hon. S. Corning Judd, our able non-partisan postmaster, has returned
from the South, where he has been travelling for several weeks. Although
his rheumatic pains have reduced his weight somewhat, he is the picture
of health; and his sojourn in Florida appears to have been one continued
round of excitement. He tells us of a marvellous adventure he had in
Florida. He says that when he reached Thomasville, he fell in with his
old friend, Col. J. H. McVicker, who inveigled him into going
alligator-hunting one day. A negro guide volunteered to conduct them to
an old bayou which had not been visited by white men for many years, and
which was actually alive with alligators. Col. McVicker was armed with a
Louis Sharpe’s rifle; and Col. Judd had the reliable old pepper-box
pistol, with which he used to perform prodigies of valor in Southern
Illinois during the civil war; so the twain felt tolerably secure. The
darkey guide piloted them along through a lone wood, over a deserted
rice-field, and through a luxuriant orange-grove, until they came to a
slimy pool that lay sequestered among the orange, banana, and palm
trees. Myriads of alligators swarmed upon the banks of this pool, and
the party paused to observe the ingenious manner in which the monstrous
reptiles secured their food. Of course, so far away from the haunts of
civilization, these alligators were not able to diet upon dogs, cats,
sheep, calves, pickaninnies, and other carnivorous prey, but were
compelled to subsist wholly upon vegetables and fruits. While Col.
McVicker and Col. Judd watched them, they saw the alligators poise
themselves on their scaly snouts, and with magnificent sweeps of their
long tails knock down the red oranges and yellow bananas from the tall
trees o’erhead. It was observed that not less than a barrel of bananas
and a bushel of oranges satisfied the average alligator; whereas in
other parts of the South, the very largest alligator has been known to
be sated with a moderately plump six-year old negro child. Eager for the
combat, Col. McVicker rested his old reliable Louis Sharpe’s rifle on
the stump of a hemlock, drew a bead on the biggest alligator in range,
and blazed away. The unerring ball sped like lightning toward its
victim, and struck the alligator on his massive forehead; but, so far
from wounding the miserable reptile, it rebounded again, and buried
itself to the depth of eight inches in the bark of a palm-tree near by.
While Col. McVicker was reloading, Col. Judd popped away at the
alligators with his relic of the civil war, and the alligators seemed to
regard this as a species of delightful humor. However, one old alligator
bethought himself of a device whereby he might circumvent the
assailants: he cautiously circled around through the orange-grove, and
came up behind the two Chicago sportsmen as they lay in ambush. Then,
all at once, Col. Judd felt himself nipped rudely by the legs; and the
next thing he knew, he was being scuttled off toward the slimy pool,
between the remorseless jaws of the monster alligator. His struggles
were vain; and what increased his horror of death was the hideous
thought that he was about to be cut off in the very flower of his career
as postmaster at Chicago. Deaf to his piteous entreaties, the alligator
trundled his human prey down into the pool; and there the twain
floundered about, amid the green slime and malarious ooze. Catching a
fleeting glimpse of his friend McVicker in the crotch of an orange-tree,
Col. Judd threw him a farewell kiss with his mud-stained hand. Then the
alligator rolled Col. Judd under his tongue, and chewed on him a brief
spell with his cruel fangs. But presently the alligator stopped chewing.
“My friend,” said the alligator hesitatingly, “I hate to disappoint you,
but I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go ashore.”
Col. Judd listened: a new hope dawned in his bosom.
“The truth is,” continued the alligator, “I’ve been raised on a
vegetable diet; but for years I have heard a great deal about that
appetizing and palatable delicacy called human blood. I hoped to get a
sample of this delicacy in you, but I find that I misplaced my
confidence. Being somewhat of a dyspeptic, I hardly think that skin and
bones would sit well on my stomach, with the fruit I have already eaten
to-day. So, if you are so disposed, you may crawl out and go ashore.”
_A White-House Ballad.—I._