_More about Col. Haskell._
Capt. Ebenezer Holbrook, one of the oldest and most respected citizens
of Waltham, Mass., happens to be in Chicago at the present time on a
visit to his son, who is engaged in business here. He tells us that he
read with deep interest our article upon Col. Haskell of “The Boston
Herald,” and his son, William E. Haskell, who has just been appointed a
major upon the military staff of the governor of Minnesota. Capt.
Holbrook says that the Haskells have always been noted for their
fondness for, and adaptability to, military life. As far back as 1723,
old Elizur Haskell (the great-grandfather of the Minnesota editor) led
the company of Massachusetts militia which proceeded against the Indians
then encamped near Deerfield, and routed them after a most bloody
battle. It was during this historic fray that King Philip, the bravest
of the Indian chieftains in New England, engaged in a hand-to-hand
combat with Elizur Haskell. Finding the sturdy Puritan too much for him,
the discreet savage made his escape to the fastnesses of that mountain
near the Connecticut River which is now known as Mount Sugarloaf; and to
this day, a singularly romantic chain of rocks on the summit of this
hill is called “King Philip’s Seat,” for it is here that the dusky
chieftain found refuge after his unsuccessful skirmish with Elizur
Haskell. Capt. Holbrook says that old Elizur’s son, Joshua Haskell, was
the best wrestler in Massachusetts for twenty years; that on account of
his prowess in this science, he was elected colonel of the Second
Regiment of Massachusetts Militia, which distinction he enjoyed
continuously until, at a town-meeting in Boston in the fall of 1785, he
was thrown best two in three by Zephaniah Newton, son of Squire Newton
of Worcester. The “Haskell Book,” compiled by J. Hancock Haskell of
Hartford, Conn., shows that, within the last two hundred years, there
have been four generals, sixteen colonels, eleven majors, and
twenty-eight captains, in the Haskell family, of which number none has
ever perished upon the field of battle.
_Another New Book._
Local literary circles will be pleased to learn that the “Art
Epicurean,” a new work from the pen of Mr. H. M. Kinsley, the
restaurateur, has just been issued to the trade. This toothsome volume,
which is calculated to cater to the higher instincts and tastes of the
cultured palate, is illustrated with choice cuts of Mr. Kinsley’s
business-house; and, as poetry always gives an agreeable flavor to every
kind of literary work, the talented author has interlarded or sandwiched
his work with rare old tenderlines from the best poets.
_Mr. Slattery of Boston._
It was our singularly happy fortune to meet with a number of
distinguished Massachusetts gentlemen last week. Professional duties
constantly bring us into association with people from all over the
country, but never before the felicitous occasion to which we now refer
had we been accorded the inestimable boon of meeting and conversing with
leading representatives of the intelligence and the culture of the grand
old Bay State. It appears that these gentlemen whom we met last week,
came all the way from Massachusetts to investigate the drainage of that
beautiful suburban monarchy conducted by our esteemed fellow-townsman,
George M. Pullman. They were members of the Massachusetts Legislature,
and had been authorized as a committee to visit Chicago with a view to
learning a few facts about the system of drainage in vogue hereabout. As
soon as it became known that they had arrived in the midst of us, our
hospitable citizens bestirred themselves to contribute to the
entertainment of the distinguished delegation. It is to Dr. DeWolf, our
popular city physician, that we are indebted for the honor of becoming
acquainted with the Massachusetts embassy. Dr. DeWolf gave the
distinguished party a formal dinner at the Grand Pacific Hotel last
Saturday afternoon, and (as one of the local guests invited to bask in
the sunlight of the Massachusetts statesmen’s smiles, and to quaff the
nectar of the Massachusett’s statesmen’s wit, sentiment, and logic) it
became our ever-to-be-remembered but melancholy fortune to sit at table
next to the Hon. E. J. Slattery of Framingham, Mass. Certain facial
contours, features, and expressions of this honorable person—to say
nothing of his habit of eating with his knife—aroused a suspicion that
we had met Mr. Slattery before (and it was around the Chicago polls, we
thought), but we have since then concluded that it was not Mr. Slattery,
but several persons who looked like him that we had met. The New-England
vernacular, as spoken by Mr. Slattery, was different from what we had
expected to hear. There was a richness and a furriness about it that
reminded us of red flannel a yard wide and an inch thick; and what
excited our surprise (if not admiration) was the discovery that,
although Mr. Slattery had come all the way from Massachusetts to
investigate Illinois drainage, Mr. Slattery seemed to care little, and
to know less, about that exceedingly useful and interesting system. To
be more explicit, Mr. Slattery appeared to be disinclined to converse on
the drainage subject, and to be inclined to discuss the wrongs of Erin,
and the subversion of Queen Victoria’s iron heel. From this
representative Massachusetts gentleman’s remarks, which were too
forcible for publication in our conservative columns, we gathered in our
feeble way that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was on the threshold
of a war with England—that it required but the firebrand of Mr.
Slattery’s eloquence to kindle the flame which was to raze the throne of
the haughty Guelphs to its nethermost underpinning. Still, this matter
did not particularly interest us; and taking advantage of the lull in
the conversation, occasioned by Mr. Slattery’s exploiting with his
jack-knife in his mouth, we adroitly changed the drift of the discourse
by observing, that, of all the distinguished living sons of
Massachusetts we most desired to meet, the one particular distinguished
son was the Hon. James Russell Lowell, whereupon Mr. Slattery shocked us
greatly by saying that Mr. Lowell was not “worth a ——!” We replied
deferentially, that we had always had a faint but lingering impression
that Mr. Lowell was revered and beloved by the people of Massachusetts;
but Mr. Slattery corrected that impression by saying that Mr. Lowell
couldn’t be elected road-overseer in his (Slattery’s) district. Mr.
Slattery said that Mr. Lowell had never done any thing but sit around
all his life, and write poetry—very bad poetry, too—poetry that couldn’t
hold a candle to Thomas Moore’s songs. Furthermore, Mr. Slattery said,
that, although he had lived in Massachusetts a good many years, he had
never read a line of Mr. Lowell’s poetry, and, what was worse, he never
would. Another member of the Massachusetts Legislature said that he had
come to this country from Holland twenty years ago; that he had never
read Mr. Lowell’s poetry; that he had no use for Lowell, anyway. With
that, Mr. Slattery and his colleague fell to denouncing Mr. Lowell so
roundly, that, in our confusion, we protested that we didn’t refer to
the man Lowell, but to the town Lowell, where they make shoes by the
cord.
The result of our meeting these eminent Massachusetts representatives,
who are presumed to reflect the sentiments of their communities, was a
solemn conviction that we had overestimated the worth of quite a number
of New-England people—men who perhaps were good enough and bright enough
in their day, but who had faded into insignificance beneath the scrutiny
of these later times. When we heard Mrs. Stowe stigmatized as “a crank
who wrote a book about a naygur,” and old Dr. Holmes described as “one
of them Harvard professors who never threw an honest shovelful of
dirt,”—when we heard these things, we felt that we were indeed the
victim of a misplaced confidence. But, even feeling so, we could not
help regretting having learned the truth; and much as we revere the wit,
the learning, and the culture of Mr. Slattery, and of Mr. Slattery’s
colleague from Amsterdam, we would fain protest against the habit into
which Massachusetts appears to be drifting; namely, that of sending out
broadcast these bold and unanswerable iconoclasts, whose delight is in
the demolition of our popular idols.
_Mme. L’Allemand’s Humor._
A young medical practitioner of this city, who had occasion to deal
professionally with one of the principals of the National Opera Company
a few weeks ago, tells the following capital story of Mme. Pauline
L’Allemand. It appears that when the company was in Chicago, the
management owed Mme. L’Allemand considerable back salary, much to the
charming song-bird’s mental perturbation. It appears also, that, as one
of the collateral schemes of the opera management, it was proposed to
give a grand concert in Washington, and at this concert it was
determined that L’Allemand should figure as the star attraction. To this
proposition, the gifted lady cheerfully assented; but when Mr. Jaffray,
the treasurer of the company, came to her, and asked her what numbers
she was going to sing at the concert, she declined to say until her back
salary had been paid to her. Thereupon Mr. Jaffray told her that he
would attend to that little detail right away; but it must have slipped
his memory, for madam caught no glimpse of the much-desired money.
In a few days, however, Mr. Jaffray hove in sight with another request
for madam to give him the names of the songs she intended to contribute
to the Washington concert; but madam said, “No money, no songs.”—“Quite
true,” said Mr. Jaffray smilingly: “I’ll go right away, and have that
matter attended to.”
Time sped on, but the back salary came not. One evening Jaffray sought
Mme. L’Allemand again. “By ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” said he, “I
must have that memorandum of songs for the Washington concert. There is
no time to spare.”
“Very well,” answered L’Allemand: “the list will be ready at that hour
if my check is.”
“I will see that the check is forthcoming,” said Mr. Jaffray.
But the appointed hour brought neither Mr. Jaffray nor the check.
Whereupon Mme. L’Allemand wrote and sent the following note:—
“MR. JAFFRAY,—The delay in the coming of the salary due me has led me
to select for the Washington concert three numbers peculiarly
appropriate to my condition of mind and purse. You can announce that
Mme. L’Allemand will sing,—
WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN _Locke_
WAITING _Jaffray_
WHAT SHALL THE HARVEST BE? _Thurber_
“Hoping that these selections will please both management and public,
I am respectfully yours,
“PAULINE L’ALLEMAND.”
_A Veteran Actor._
Major Horace McVicker tells an amusing story of the veteran Frank Rea,
who is, perhaps, the oldest actor now on earth. About four years ago,
Rea came on from Denver, and took up his abode in New York. He was aged
and old-fashioned, but his ambition was as big as ever; and he
undertook, with intense enthusiasm, every suburban engagement that was
offered him by kindly disposed managers and theatrical bureaus. One time
he was sent down to Sunbury, Penn., with a scrub-company, to give the
natives a season of melodrama; and Rea himself was cast as the first old
man. After the first night’s performance, Rea, accompanied by one of his
fellow-actors, strode into one of the Sunbury saloons, and advanced
toward the bar with the inevitable precision and unfaltering intrepidity
of Mary Queen of Scots going to execution. Laying a dime down upon the
counter, he inquired of the barkeeper, in impressive tones, “Tell me, my
good sir, what will that buy?”
“That,” answered the barkeeper, riveting his basilisk gaze upon the
weather-beaten coin, “that will buy one glass of whiskey, or two glasses
of beer.”
The old actor looked searchingly into his companion’s face as if he
hoped to discover there some relief from the perplexity which surged in
tumultuous billows through his bosom. Then he heaved a deep sigh, and,
turning again to the mercenary Ganymede, he said, in the profound basso
voice of a seventeenth-century tragedian, “That being the case, give us
one glass of beer, and _half_ a glass of whiskey!”
_A White-House Ballad.—IV._