Receiver and Editor “Chicago Times.”
_REAL ESTATE A SPECIALTY._
_DRUG ORDERS PROMPTLY FILLED._
Loans Negotiated without Publicity.
“They are very handsome,” said Major Hurlbut, “but I am sorry I did not
have the title of major prefixed to my name. However, I will take that
precaution with the next lot I have printed.”
“Majah Dennett would like to speak with you, sah,” said Martin, the
porter.
“Although I am very busy with this mail, you may show him in,” remarked
Major Hurlbut.
Major Dennett pigeon-toed his way into the new editor’s presence, and
was loftily waved to a chair in which he dropped, and sat with his toes
turned in. Major Hurlbut heaved a weary sigh, ran his fingers through
his hair, and regarded his visitor with a condescending stare.
“This is a busy hour with us editors,” said Major Hurlbut, “therefore I
hope you will state your business as succinctly as possible.”
“I merely called to receive orders,” explained Major Dennett, with an
astonished look.
“Orders for what?” cried Major Hurlbut. “Perhaps you forget, sir, that I
am out of the drug-business, and am an editor. Permit me, sir, to hand
you one of my professional cards.”
“You mistake me, sir,” replied Major Dennett: “I am connected with this
paper, and have been managing editor for many years.”
Major Hurlbut’s manner changed instantly. His cold reserve melted at
once, and he became docile as a sucking-dove.
“My dear major,” he exclaimed cordially, “I am overjoyed to meet you.
Draw your chair closer, and let us converse together upon matters which
concern us both. Each of us has the interests of this great paper at
heart; but I, as the head of the institution, have a fearful
responsibility resting upon my shoulders. It behooves you to assist me;
and, as the first and most important step, I must beg of you to inform
me what is expected of me as an editor. I am willing and anxious to
edit, but how can I?”
Major Dennett undertook to explain a few of the duties which would fall
upon the editor’s shoulders, and would have continued talking all day
had not the venerable Major Andre Matteson been ushered into the room,
thereby interrupting the conversation. Upon being formally introduced to
the new editor, Major Matteson inquired what the policy of “The Times”
would be henceforward touching the tariff, the civil service, the war in
the Soudan, and the doctrine of the transmigration of souls.
“I have not decided fully what the policy of the paper will be in these
minor matters,” quoth Major Hurlbut, “except that we shall favor the
abolition of the tariff on quinine, cochineal, and other drugs and
dyestuffs. I have made up my mind, however, to advocate the opening of a
boulevard in Fleabottom subdivision; and, as you are one of the
editorial writers, Major Matteson, I would like to have you compose a
piece about the folly of extending the Thirtieth-street sewer through
the Bosbyshell subdivision. And you may give the firm of Brown, Jones, &
Co. a raking over, for they have seriously interfered with the sale of
my lots out in that part of the city.”
Major George McConnell and Major Guy Magee filed into the room at this
juncture, and were formally presented to Editor Hurlbut, who looked
impressive, and received them with a dignity that would have done credit
to a pagan court.
“I had hoped to be in a position to boom the city department of the
paper,” said Major Magee; “but I find that three of the reporters are
sick with headache to-day.”
“Sick? What appears to be the matter?” asked the editor.
“I didn’t ask them,” replied Major Magee; “but they said they had
headaches.”
“They should try bromide of potassium, tincture of valerian, and
aromatic spirits of ammonia,” observed Major Hurlbut. “By the way,
whenever any of our editors or reporters get sick, they should come to
me; for I can give them prescriptions that will fix them up in less than
no time.”
“I presume the policy of the paper touching the theatres will remain
unchanged?” inquired Major McConnell.
“That reminds me,” said Major Hurlbut: “who gets the show-tickets?”
“Well, I have attended to that detail heretofore,” replied Major
McConnell.
“We get as many as we want, don’t we?” asked Major Hurlbut.
“Certainly,” said Major McConnell.
“Well, then, we must give the shows good notices,” said the editor:
“and, by the way, I would like to have you leave six tickets with me
every morning; they will come in mighty handy, you know, among my
friends. Do we get railroad-passes too?”
“Yes, all we want,” said Major Dennett.
“I am glad I am an editor,” said Major Hurlbut softly but feelingly.
The foreman came in.
“Shall we set it in nonpareil to-night?” he asked.
“Eh?” ejaculated Editor Hurlbut.
“Does nonpareil go?” repeated the foreman.
“What has he been doing?” inquired Editor Hurlbut.
“The minion is so bad that we ought to put the paper in nonpareil,”
explained the foreman.
“It must be understood,” thundered Major Hurlbut, “that no bad minions
will be tolerated on the premises. If there is any minion here who is
dissatisfied, let him quit at once.”
“Then, I am to fire the minion?” asked the foreman.
“No,” said Major Hurlbut, “do not fire him, for that would constitute
arson; discharge him, but use no violence.”
We deeply regret that this astute mandate was followed by an interchange
of sundry smiles, nods, and winks between the foreman and the members of
the editorial staff, which, however, Major Hurlbut did not see, or he
most assuredly would have reproved this unseemly and _mal-apropos_
levity.
And so they talked and talked. And each moment Major Hurlbut became more
and more impressed with the importance and solemnity of the new dignity
he had attained, and each moment he became more and more impressive in
his mien and conversation. And each moment, too, he silently and
devoutly thanked High Heaven that in its goodness and mercy it had
called him to the ennobling profession of journalism.
_The Little Peach._
A little peach in the orchard grew,
A little peach of emerald hue:
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,
It grew.
One day, walking the orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—
Those two.
Up at the peach a club they threw:
Down from the limb on which it grew,
Fell the little peach of emerald hue—
Too true!
John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,—
Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,—
Paregoric too.
Under the turf where the daisies grew,
They planted John and his sister Sue;
And their little souls to the angels flew—
Boo-hoo!
But what of the peach of emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well! its mission on earth is through—
Adieu!
_Learning and Literature._
Mr. J. N. Whiting writes us from New Litchfield, Ill., asking if we can
tell him the name of the author of the poem, of which the following is
the first stanza:—
“The weary heart is a pilgrim
Seeking the Mecca of rest;
Its burden is one of sorrows;
And it wails a song as it drags along,—
’Tis the song of a hopeless quest.”
Mr. Whiting says that this poem has been attributed to James Channahon,
a gentleman who flourished about the year 1652; “but,” he adds, “its
authorship has not as yet been established with any degree of
certainty.” Mr. Whiting has noticed that “The Daily News” is a
“criterion on matters of literary interest,” and he craves the boon of
our valuable opinion, touching this important question. Now, although it
is true that we occasionally deal with obsolete topics, it is far from
our desire to make a practice of so doing. It is natural, that, once in
a while, when an editor gets hold of a catalogue of unusual merit, and
happens to have a line of encyclopædias at hand—it is natural, we say,
that, under such circumstances, an editor should take pleasure in
letting his subscribers know how learnedly he can write about books and
things. But an editor must be careful not to write above the
comprehension of the majority of his readers. If we made a practice of
writing as learnedly as we are capable of writing, the proprietors of
this paper would soon have to raise its price from two cents to five
cents per copy. We say this in no spirit of egotism: it is simply our
good fortune that we happen to possess extraordinary advantages. We have
the best assortment of cyclopædias in seven States, and the Public
Library is only two blocks off. It is no wonder, therefore, that our
erudition and our research are of the highest order. Still, it is not
practicable that we, being now on earth, should devote much time to
delving into, and wallowing among the authors of past centuries.
Ignatius Donnelly has been trying for the last three years to inveigle
us into a discussion as to the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. We
have declined to participate in any public brawl with the Minnesota
gentleman, for the simple reason that no good could accrue therefrom to
anybody. If there were an international copyright law, there would be
some use in trying to find out who wrote these plays, in order that the
author might claim royalties on his works; or, if not the author, his
heirs or assigns forever. Mr. Whiting will understand that we cannot
take much interest in an anonymous hymn of the seventeenth century. It
is enough for us to know that the hymn in question could not have been
written by a Chicago man, for the very good reason that Chicago did not
exist in the seventeenth century; that is to say, it existed merely as
the haunt of the musquash and the mud-turtle, and not as the living,
breathing metropolis of to-day. We have our hands full examining into,
and criticising, the live topics of current times: if we were to spend
our days and nights in hunting up the estray poets and authors of the
seventeenth century, how long would it be before the sceptre of trade
and culture would slip irrecoverably from Chicago’s grasp? Chicago has
very little respect for the seventeenth century, because there is
nothing in it. The seventeenth century has done nothing for Chicago: she
does not even know that this is the greatest hog-market in the world,
and she has never had any commercial dealings with us in any line. If
Chicago doesn’t cut a wider swath in history than the seventeenth
century has, we shall be very much ashamed of her. Of one thing we rest
assured,—nobody will be writing to a newspaper two hundred years hence,
asking the name of “the Chicago man who wrote that exquisite hymn in the
nineteenth century,” beginning,—
“A cultured gent is the packer
Who in this town abides;
He masticates terbacker,
And rolls in gold; last year he sold
A million hams and sides.”
_Some Famous Apologies._
Mr. George Riddle, the promising young actor, who is Miss Kate Field’s
cousin, has written an open letter of apology to the Boston press. It
appears that Mr. Riddle made his _début_ upon the Boston stage about
three weeks ago, and was very coldly received by the public and the
critics. Before leaving the city, he sent a saucy letter to the local
newspapers, informing the Boston people that they could go to thunder,
and declaring that he would never again return to Boston in his
professional capacity. Coming to think the thing over, however, Mr.
Riddle concluded to apologize; and he has done so in very manly words.
It almost kills some men to make an apology, but in very many instances
it is the handsome and noble thing to do. If Mr. Riddle thinks that he
ought to apologize for having played an engagement in Boston, and if he
is sincerely sorry for it—why, all that we can say is, that he has done
the manly thing in that apology. Greater men than Mr. Riddle have made
mistakes, have recognized the folly thereof, and have apologized
therefor. Ajax, for instance, defied the lightning once upon a time: he
actually girt on his shield, took up his sword, and went out into a
pelting storm, for the declared purpose of hurling opprobrious epithets
at the electric fluid. He invited the press-reporters to be present; and
he stood around in the rain for an hour or two, using very wicked old
Greek language, and catching a very bad cold in his mucous membrane.
Meanwhile the storm continued, and the lightning went right along doing
business at the old stand. Next morning the sky was cloudless: the rain
had refreshed all nature, and the air was full of the gratitude of
flower and foliage. Ajax had been drinking camomile-tea all night, and
he stepped out of his tent with his wife’s shawl tied around his head.
Raising his grand, Hellenic countenance heavenward, he cried hoarsely,
yet in tones of sincere contrition, “O light-dig, I have gub to
abologize; dow if you will gure be of this gold in by head, we will be
frieds agaid.”
There was another man, of the name of Canute, who had been so flattered
by his courtiers that he imagined he was omnipotent. He had a
proscenium-box erected on the seashore, and thereinto he ascended; and,
in the presence of as many people as would fill our base-ball park three
times, he called out to the sea to quit rolling up on the pebbly beach.
No sooner, however, had he uttered this command, than a breaker of
unusual size broke over the proscenium-box, ruining the furniture, and
soaking Canute so thoroughly that he had great difficulty in getting off
his underclothes. The next day Canute sent a written apology to the sea;
and, as an earnest of his contrition, he ordered about fourscore of his
courtiers to be bound to the tails of wild horses, as was a custom in
those merry old times.
_Victoria at the Show._
Buffalo Bill’s Wild-West Show has met with a tremendous triumph in
London, and people of all conditions, ages, and sizes have rushed to see
it. The Prince of Wales set the fashion by attending the first
performance, and by lavishing smiles of approval upon Minnewaha, the
alleged Indian princess, who is advertised as the daughter of a fiery,
untamed Sioux chief named Drink-Heart’s-Blood, but who is really the
seventh child of an Omaha journeyman tailor. When this young woman gets
on her paint and feathers and wampum and things, she really presents a
very aboriginal appearance; and we do not wonder that she sells over
seventy dollars’ worth of bead bags to the British noblemen _per diem_.
At the breakfast-table the other morning, Queen Victoria announced that
she was going to the show that afternoon: she had heard Wales talking
about it, and she proposed to take it in on her own account. So she
went, and had a charming time. That evening Col. James Russell Lowell
called upon her, and she asked him if he had been to see Buffalo Bill
yet.
“No, queen,” answered the colonel; “but I passed through his town on my
way to Chicago last winter.”
“Well, now, do you know,” said her majesty frankly, “that I suspected as
much to-day when I was talking with one of the Indian ladies. She was
very strangely dressed, and was really very homely. I invited her into
my presence, and asked her how she thought our people compared with
American civilization. Then I asked, ‘Did you ever read any of Col.
Lowell’s poems?’ and when she said, ‘Humph! me no read—me heap kill,’ I
just made up my mind that she couldn’t have very much social standing at
home.”
“Pardon me, queen,” said Col. Lowell, “if I remain dumb on this subject.
The lady to whom you refer may be a member of the Chicago Union League
Club; and that, you know, is a very delicate matter with me.”
_A Farmer’s Advice._
“What kind of threshing-machine do you use on your farm?” inquired a
Knox-county farmer of Farmer Carter Harrison last week. “To tell you the
truth,” replied the modern Cincinnatus, “I have not had any use for one
for a long time. My children are all nearly grown. I formerly used the
smooth side of a hairbrush; but if I felt the need of one now, I fancy I
would use a trunk-strap.”
_A Chicago German Lyric._