Chapter V: Prud’homme (2)

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:—

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._

CHICAGO, ILL.

_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._

THE TYING OF THE TIE.

Now was Sir Grover passing wroth:
“A murrain seize the man,” he quoth,
“Who first invented ties!
Egad, they are a grievous bore,
And tying of them vexeth sore
A person of my size!”

Lo, at his feet upon the floor
Were sprent the neckties by the score,
And collars all awreck;
And good Sir Grover’s cheeks were flame,
And good Sir Grover’s arms were lame,
With wrestling at his neck.

But much it joyed him when he heard
Sir Daniel say, “I fain will gird
Your necktie on for you,
As ’twill not cause you constant fear
Of bobbing round beneath your ear,
Or setting you askew.”

Sir Daniel grasped one paltry tie,
And with a calm, heroic eye
And confidential air
(As who should say, “Odds bobs! I vow
There’s nothing like the knowing how”),
He mounted on a chair.

And whilst Sir Grover raised his chin
(For much he did respect the pin),
Sir Daniel tied the tie,
The which when good Sir Grover viewed,—
Albeit it beliked a dude,—
He heaved a grateful sigh.

JUNE 2, 1886.

_An Editorial Schedule._

It has occurred to us that there could be no better time than the present for a combined strike among newspaper-men for less work and more pay. The employees of the press throughout the country have been painfully aware for a long time that their services are not remunerated as they should be,—that too little pay is doled out to them for too much work. While train-movers and butcher-boys and dirt-shovellers in divers parts of the republic are demanding compensation commensurate with their toil, why should not the meek and lowly journalist turn like the trodden worm, and sting the iron heel that is grinding him in the dust of starvation and obscurity? We are told that a secret order is now being organized among editors and reporters, and that, within a short time, this continent will be convulsed with the most prodigious uprising that has ever taken place between the shores of the Atlantic and the Pacific. The object of this secret, modest, but puissant organization is to better the condition of the practical journalist, and thus directly benefit the universal cause of literature; and we are confidently informed that upon next Fourth of July,—being the hundred and tenth anniversary of this nation’s independence,—the following schedule of weekly wages to be paid editors and reporters will be submitted to the proprietors of American newspapers:—

To editorial writers who “used to know Thurlow Weed and Horace Greeley,” and who wear long beards and no neckties, and who write essays beginning with “We opine,” or with “Albeit” $30 To editorial writers who read “The Nation,” and “The Scientific American” 40 To editorial writers who would like to spend their declining years at the head of an established country weekly 25 To editorial writers who receive mail addressed to “The Hon.,” and who covet a foreign mission 20 To reporters who “know Dana, and have worked on ‘The New-York Sun’” 8 To reporters who say “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to the city editor 12 To critics who discuss “the rendition,” “the mise en scene,” “the floritures, bravuras,” etc. 15 To poets of the “Hope,” “Eternity,” “Spring,” “Banana,” “Stovepipe,” and “Bobtail-Flush” kind 18 To female reporters who seek to demonstrate that a female can do a man’s work 10 For “society” drivel 8 To ex-lawyers, ex-preachers, ex-statesmen, and ex-tradesmen who have been starved into journalism 15 To editorial writers who have held a clerkship in Washington one winter, and are thoroughly acquainted with national politics and the tariff question 20

But we can violate this confidence no further. Suffice it to say, that, when once the grasping monopolists who now hold the journalistic intellect of our country by the throat are compelled to accede to the just demands of brain-labor, pale faces and haggard forms will be banished from our newspaper offices, and affluence will reign where the twin vultures, starvation and penury, now brood in hideous silence.

_A White-House Ballad.—II._

THE KISSING OF THE BRIDE.

And when at last, with priestly pray’r
And music mingling in the air,
The nuptial knot was tied,
Sir Grover, flaming crimson red—
“Soothly, it is my mind,” he said,
“That I salute the bride!”

Whereat upon her virgin cheek,
So smooth, so plump, and comely eke,
He did implant a smack
So lusty that the walls around
Gave such an echo to the sound
As they had like to crack.

No modern salutation this—
No mincing, maudling mugwump kiss
To chill a bride’s felicity;
Exploding on that blushing cheek,
Its virile clamor did bespeak
Arcadian simplicity.

JUNE 2, 1886.

_The Haskells, Père et Fils._

It will delight the venerable editor of “The Boston Herald” to learn that his son, Will E. Haskell, has been commissioned a member of the military staff of the governor of Minnesota, with the title of major. As we learn by reference to Lossing’s “Field-Book of the Massachusetts Militia,” Haskell _père_ himself is a soldier, having been commissioned a captain of militia as far back as 1844. In this same reliable volume we read that “on July 4, 1847, the Cambridge Israel Putnam Fusileers, under command of Capt. Haskell, elicited rapturous huzzas by the alacrity and precision of their evolutions and manœuvres during the general training on Boston Common” (vol. iii. p. 268). As we understand it, young Major Haskell’s military promotion will not necessarily involve service upon the field of battle. Minnesota is now in a condition of peace, and is likely to remain so. All that will be expected of Major Haskell will be the purchase of a suit of regimentals, a roan gelding, and a fine sword: upon state occasions, the major will have to wear these regimentals and this sword, and will have to ride the roan gelding to and fro through the streets of Minnesota’s capital, bearing sealed orders to and from his excellency the governor, and bestowing ineffably fascinating smiles upon the throngs of admiring ladies. Young Major Haskell is a handsome man, and it makes us tremble to think of the increased powers and the illimitable possibilities with which his regimentals will invest his native pulchritude.

_A White-House Ballad.—III._

THE PASSING OF THE COMPLIMENT.

Eftsoons the priest had made his say,
The courtly knights and ladies gay
Did haste from every side,
With honeyed words, and hackneyed phrase,
And dainty smiles, withal, to praise
Sir Grover’s blushing bride.

Outspake the courtly Sir Lamar,
“Of all fair brides, you, lady, are
The fairest I have seen:
Not only of this castle grand,
But of all hearts throughout the land,
Are you acknowledged queen!”

Whereat the Lady Frances bowed;
And rapturous murmurs in the crowd
Did presently attest,
That, of the chestnuts uttered there,
This chestnut was without compare—
Foredating all the rest.

JUNE 2, 1886.

_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._

THE PIE.

King Grover at his table round
Sate feasting once, and there was sound
Of good things said and sly;
When, presently, King Grover spake:
“A murrain seize this futile cake!
Come, Daniel, pass the pie!”

Then quoth Sir Daniel, flaming hot,
“Pie hath not been in Camelot
Since Arthur was our king;
Soothly, I ween, ’twere vain to make
Demand for pie where there is cake,
For pie’s a ribald thing!”

“Despite King Arthur’s rash decree,
Which ill-beseemeth mine and me,”
King Grover answered flat,
“I will have pie three times a day,—
Let dotards cavil as they may,—
And _pumpkin_-pie, at that!”

Then, frowning a prodigious frown,
Sir Daniel pulled his visor down,
And, with a mighty sigh,
Out strode he to the kitchen, where
He bade the varlet slaves prepare
Three times each day a pie.

Thenceforth King Grover was content,
And all his reign in peace was spent;
And when ’twas questioned why
He waxed so hale, and why the while,
The whole domain was free from guile,
He simply answered, “Pie!”

_Life, Death, and Love._

A man whose greatness had brought him fame and wealth lay on his death-bed. A woman clasped his hands, and with her kisses, and words of love, strove to soothe his dying agonies.

Many years ago this man and this woman were made husband and wife, and side by side they started upon life’s journey. Youth, love, and hope gave them strength. No other possessions had they, yet the future was full of promise.

The man gloried in his majestic manliness. Health made him a marvel of noble beauty. His frame was of iron, his muscles were of steel, and his brain was clean and vigorous as the sturdy heart that throbbed in his rugged breast. Success—which is another term for wealth and fame—came to him as certainly as it always does to the brave and strong. Who was there that did not admire the manliness of his art?

But in the years that followed this success, the man neglected the woman, his wife. Dazzled by the glory of his triumphs, his eyes were blind to the beauty, the loyalty, and the sweetness of her love. Perhaps he thought the woman whom the sturdy, unknown youth had taken to his heart was unworthy to share the fruits of the great and honored man’s conquests. But he put her away: in all charity let it be said the wrong came not from an evil heart, but from the false glitter by which an unparalleled prosperity blinded his eyes, and turned his head.

To this wrong succeeded a greater. Women who knew not the sweetness and sacredness of purity, openly and wantonly gloried in his unholy homage. And into this popular idol’s life, there crept a shame that meant inevitable and irretrievable ruin.

Who counted the tears, who heard the agonized prayers, of the heart-broken wife in all the years of this proud, strong man’s exaltation? That divine, almighty Power that has written in every human bosom this eternal truth,—that he who puts a stain upon his hearthstone, and violates a wifely love, shall pay a sure and dreadful penalty.