Chapter III (2)

A year ago, and his plumes were red
As the deepest of cardinal hues;
But in the year they’ve changed, ’tis said,
To the bluest of bilious blues!

A year ago, and this beautiful thing
Warbled in careless glee;
But now the tune he is forced to sing,
Is pitched in a minor key.

It’s oh, we sigh, for the times gone by,
When the mugwump lived to laugh—
When, coy and shy, he roosted high,
And couldn’t be caught with chaff.

And it’s oh, we say, for the good old day
Which never again may come—
When the mugwump threaded his devious way,
And whistled his lumpty-tum!

_Condensed Literature._

The enterprising firm of Plankinton, Armour, & Co. announces that it is prepared to meet the demands of the large and constantly increasing demands of our literary public, by putting into the spring market an entirely new line of canned goods, scheduled and classified, in the prominent trade-catalogues as “Condensed Literature.” These ingenious preparations, which promise to become a boon to Western civilization, are so compounded as to serve (each in its proper place) in lieu of that particular kind or branch of literature which may be demanded. There are eleven varieties of these canned goods; to wit, 1, epic poetry; 2, lyric poetry; 3, ancient history; 4, modern history; 5, Grecian romance; 6, Latin romance; 7, German philosophy; 8, English philosophy; 9, English romance; 10, Norse mythology; 11, Chicago belles lettres. If one feels the need of information on any one of these topics, he has but to purchase and consume one of these compounds, and his desire speedily becomes allayed. For instance, when Mr. Jones experiences an appetite for, say, epic poetry, he will pay twenty-five cents for can No. 1, and, having devoured the contents, he will find that appetite temporarily satisfied. Thus, at one and the same time (as the showman says), the cravings of the stomach and the hungerings of the mind are satisfied. The value of this invention cannot be overestimated. In this pushing community of ours, time is money: recognizing this fact, Messrs. Plankinton & Armour have invented and patented this grand device for answering in fifteen minutes, and for twenty-five cents, each and every literary craving which years of reading and study would not satisfy. No home, we think, will be complete without a full line of these goods on its library-shelves.

In addition to the above, and in order to meet the demands of those who have more time at their disposal (such as old people, sentimental spinsters, invalids, and professional writers), this firm is now issuing superb editions of sugar-cured hams, upon the canvas covers of which are published the following works: 1, Arnold’s Light of Asia; 2, Tennyson’s In Memoriam; 3, Helen’s Babies; 4, Lives of Famous Highwaymen and Pirates; 5, Longfellow and Rice’s Evangeline; 6, The Complete Cook Book; 7, Baxter’s Saints’ Rest (religious); 8, Spalding’s Base-Ball Guide; 9, Alice in Wonderland; 10, The Complete Letter Writer; 11, Rand & McNally’s Railroad Guide; 12, Browning’s Poems (selected). In ordering, care should be taken to state the title of the ham required. Illustrated editions, containing handsome wood-cut of the author, can be had at a slight advance; tinted covers, and file for preserving same, twenty-five cents extra.

_Dr. Warner in Chicago._

Local literary circles were thrown into a condition of feverish excitement yesterday by the rumor that Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, a well-known Eastern _littérateur_, had arrived in the city, and was the honored guest of Col. Wirt Dexter, the popular South-Side Boniface. When the rumor first gained circulation, it was discredited by very many, including that cautious and exacting body known as the Chicago Literary Club. Mr. T. Arthur Whiffen, the talented son of the wealthy wholesale fig-dealer, and a member of the club in high standing, refused to believe that Mr. Warner was really in the city.

“As soon as I heard it,” said he, “I stepped around to Dale’s drug-store, and asked the proprietor if he had received any confirmation of the rumor, and he replied in the negative. Mr. Dale is the general Western agent for Mr. Warner’s works; and, as he very pertinently observed, he would have been likely to know if Warner were in this vicinity.”

Later in the day, however, it was learned that Mr. Warner was indeed in the midst of us: in fact, along about three o’clock in the afternoon he was seen bowling down Drexel Boulevard in Mr. Dexter’s elegant St. Bernard dog-cart behind Mr. Dexter’s famous bay gelding, Grover Cleveland. It was stated that Mr. Warner had come to Chicago for the purpose of delivering an address before the Clan-na-Gael on St. Patrick’s Day, the 17th inst., and had chosen as the theme for that address, “The Theory that Ben Jonson Did Not Write Rasselas.” Subsequently, however, it was ascertained that this statement was unfounded. In a conversation with Professor Benjamin F. Lawkins, president of the Emerson Literary Society, and author of the scholarly _brochure_ entitled “The Relations Between Fifteen-Ball Poole and the Librarian of Our Public Library,” it was developed that Mr. Warner had produced the following works: “A Liver Safe Cure,” “Some Golden Remedies,” “Comets and Their Relations to Purgative Pellets,” and “What I Know About Farming.” We are told that Mr. Warner will leave for the Pacific slope in a day or two, but will be in Chicago again during the month of June; and we doubt not, that, upon his return, he will be cordially welcomed and handsomely entertained by our appreciative public.

_An Anxious Inquiry._

CHICAGO, ILL., April 17.

_To the Editor._—You said some time ago that Dr. Charles Dudley Warner, the eminent _littérateur_, and compounder of Warner’s famous safe liver and kidney pills, would visit Chicago on his return from California: can you give me the exact date of his coming? As one deeply interested in Chicago culture, I am anxious to become acquainted with Dr. Warner, and to ascertain from him whether a use of his pills would be likely to facilitate the literary movement in this city.

Yours truly,
ARBA N. JACKSON, V.S.

_A Chip of the Old Block._

Ex-Postmaster-General Frank Hatton has a fourteen-year-old son who resembles his distinguished father in many particulars.

“Pa,” said he the other day, “I’ve made up my mind where I would like to go to college.”

“Aha,” replied his father; “and where is it, my boy?”

“To Vassar,” said the precocious child.

“Humph!” ejaculated the proud father: “darned if I wouldn’t like to go there myself!”

* * * * *

We understand that Professor Thomas DeQuincey Smythe, the gifted _littérateur_ who edited the famous Chicago edition of Browning’s poems, with copious notes, has recently invented a wonderful powder for removing fleas from pet cats and dogs.

_The Crown Jewels._

Considerable interest (not to say excitement) has been manifested here in Chicago during the sale of the crown jewels in Paris. There is vast wealth in our most cultured circles; and this wealth, we are gratified to note, is being invested quite largely in articles de virtue, such, for instance, as oil-paintings, St. Bernard dogs, statuary, trotting-horses, tally-ho coaches, upright piano-fortes, Egyptian mummies, crown jewels, Shakespearian autographs, bicycles, and coats-of-arms. Some years ago one of our most prominent citizens (a gentleman of wealth and sand) went to Europe for the express purpose of buying the Venus de Milo; but when he came to see the statue, he refused to pay the price demanded, for the very good reason that the goods were damaged. But he did not return empty-handed: on the contrary, he brought back with him from New York the finest line of Rogers statuette groups you ever clapped eyes on. He told us at the time, that he could have bought a genuine Raphael prima donna for thirty thousand dollars, but had concluded to get along with one of Prang’s Beatrices: on the whole, he rather preferred the Beatrice for two reasons,—first, because he did not go much on opera, anyway; and, second, because his wife belonged to a Dante club, and would like to have a picture of her favorite poet’s lady-love in her drawing-room. The famous peachblow vase, for which an Eastern liquor-dealer paid eighteen thousand dollars, would surely have come to Chicago if it had not been so expensive. There was a deep-seated desire among our better classes to have it in the midst of us; but there happened to be an unfortunate flurry in the pork-market just at the time the Morgan sale took place, and the consequent depression in local cultured circles was such that the coveted article de virtue was allowed to go to Baltimore. The truth of the matter is,—and there is no use denying it,—that Chicago is taking a powerful interest in art. It was only last month that Col. N. K. Fairbank had his portrait painted by Michael Angelo. The distinguished artist called at the colonel’s office, and told him he was hard pressed for money, and would paint his portrait at a very reasonable cash-price. Col. Fairbank had some doubts about his being the original Angelo, but these doubts were removed when the artist showed him the original written contract he made for decorating St. Peter’s.

About three weeks ago, the agents of several wealthy Chicagoans sailed for Paris to be present at the sale of the crown jewels. It was understood that this was to be a sheriff’s sale of the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, pearls, and other gems seized on a writ of attachment under a first mortgage from the unhappy Eugenie, relict of Louis Napoleon, late emperor of the French. The sale, as advertised, was to occur at the Hotel de Veal, and was to be conducted on a strictly cash basis. Among the articles listed were brooches, garlands, pendants, flowerets, bracelets, garters, necklaces, tiaras, briolettes, rings, crosses, talismans, lockets, medallions, etc., indefinitely. At the present time, there are, undoubtedly, more diamonds and other precious stones in Chicago than in all the rest of this country combined. On State Street on almost any pleasant afternoon, you can see thousands of beautiful women doing their shopping in superb costumes positively resplendent with diamonds of the first water and the thirty-second magnitude. In short, culture has reached that point in the midst of us, that no lady is received into our most refined circles unless she wears fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds when she goes marketing. Naturally, therefore, our bong tong were upon the kee veev when they heard of the mammoth sheriff’s sale of crown jewels in Paris. Moses Jacobson, the Dearborn-street connoisseur, was despatched to France at once by a Prairie-avenue syndicate; and he carried with him a cart blonch to buy as many diamonds and valuables as he thought would add to the intellectual and personal charms of his employers’ wives and daughters. No sooner did they hear of this, than a number of prominent millionnaires on Michigan Avenue made up a pool, and hired Abraham Levy, the Monroe-street connoisseur, to follow Mr. Jacobson, and to outbid him at the Hotel de Veal sale. Presently the West Side and the North Side waked up, and betimes Wabash Avenue and other fashionable localities became enthused; to make short of a long and thrilling story, there cannot be fewer than a dozen representatives of Chicago culture in Paris at this time, each struggling for possession of those crown jewels. We feel pretty confident that the Frenchmen will not be able to impose upon these representatives; for, if there is one thing which a Chicagoan understands better than he does pork and belles lettres, it is diamonds. When he gets his hands on a stone of unusual lustre, the first thing he does is to draw his tongue across it, to assure himself that it isn’t alum: then he turns it around, to see if there is any tinfoil back of it. If the stone endures these tests, the Chicagoan will pay the handsomest market-price for it; for, as we have frequently remarked with pride, the truly cultured Chicagoan is a man of enterprise and sand. It will not surprise us at all if the Chicago agents now in Paris come back with a box-car load of crown jewels.

_Mr. Goodwin’s Yacht._

Mr. Nat C. Goodwin, the comedian, has gained twenty pounds in weight since his last visit to Chicago five months ago. He says that life on the Massachusetts beach has wrought this marked improvement in his health and appearance: he has done nothing all summer, but cruise around in his yacht, mingle his handsome form with the billows of the Atlantic, eat clams, and drink bilge-water. Mr. Goodwin is a honored member of the famous Hull Yacht Club of Boston, and the experiences of his yacht have been so numerous that they would fill tomes to overflowing. His yacht is, not inappropriately, named “The Sinker;” and it is justly considered the most remarkable craft on the Atlantic coast. Whenever Mr. Goodwin sets sail in it, his Boston friends buy pools on the chances of his ever showing up again. It is worthy of note, that the chances of his never returning are invariably the favorite in the pools. Mr. Goodwin tells us, and we are inclined to believe him, that his yacht is the only sailing-vessel in American waters that can jump a fence. He says, that whenever he leaves the Boston wharf, and heads “The Sinker” for the mighty expanse of brine due east, every tug in the harbor gets up steam, and gives chase; it seeming to be a friendly rivalry among the tugs to see who will earn the ten dollars, and the honor of convoying “The Sinker” back into port, when it staves a hole in its hold, or splits its mizzen-mast, or loses its boom, or disables its rudder, or meets with any one of the misfortunes which appear to be inevitable when Mr. Goodwin is in practical command. “When I have my new yacht built,” says Mr. Goodwin, “I shall have it constructed upon ingenious plans which are the result of a long and eventful experience. It will be so devised and built as to be capable of shutting up like an accordion whenever it strikes a rock or a sand-bar. In this way all disaster will be averted, and I will be spared the humiliation and expense of liquidating the damages which now attend every cruise of ‘The Sinker.’ The log of this unfortunate vessel reveals the startling fact, that although ‘The Sinker’ actually sailed only sixty-two miles last summer, the cost for repairs exceeded three thousand dollars.” Mr. Goodwin said he was amazed to discover that William H. Crane, the actor, had such a large reputation in the West for nautical prowess. He was free to confess that Crane was a very indifferent yachtsman, and he seriously doubted whether Crane had ever been out of sight of Bunker-hill Monument in all of his much-vaunted ocean experience. “This man Crane,” says Goodwin, “is an interloper: he talks very glibly about mainstays and jibs and ‘to leeward’ and ‘aft’ and ‘hard-a-port,’ but he knows absolutely nothing about practical marine-service. I had him out with me ten minutes in ‘The Sinker’ one afternoon last August; and, when they fished him out of the water with boat-hooks, he cried like a baby, and vowed he would never again test the faith of the bounding billows. Stuart Robson is the sailor of the two,—a regular old salt; but of course he is getting too advanced in years to enter into aquatic sports with enthusiasm.” Mr. Goodwin said Mr. Crane was enjoying more robust health now than ever before. In a year or two we might expect to see him waddling around with a ponderous abdomen, carrying a big cane, and talking sententiously about “the young men in the profession.”

_A Laudable Scheme._

Mrs. Antoinette J. Bascomb, Professor Tremaine Lomax, and Mr. T. Boileau Ransome, have been delegated by the Browning Club of Blue Island to formulate a plan for a Western School of Summer Philosophy, to be held in Kumpf’s Grove, near Sixteen-mile Creek, next August. It is the sense of the club that such a school, conducted largely on the plan of the Concord summer retreat for the feeble-minded, would redound largely to the intellectual reputation of the West; but, in order to throw about the enterprise a practical atmosphere, it is intended to devote the financial proceeds of this series of picnics to the building of a new roller-skating rink on Madison Street.

_The Era of Reform._

Having eaten a hearty breakfast of corn-beef hash and johnny-cake, President Cleveland put on his hat and overcoat, and strode toward the front-door of the White House.

“Your excellency,” cried Secretary Lamont, “where are you going at this early hour of the morning? It is hardly five o’clock.”

“I am going for a short walk,” replied the President. “I will be back by half-past seven,—in plenty of time to read the paper, look over my mail, write a proclamation or two, and make out a list of nominations before the Senate convenes. I am going around to the various departments to see if my cabinet officers have caught the spirit of the administration, and have returned to the Arcadian simplicity of the Jacksonian epoch.”

And with these words, President Cleveland opened the front-door, and issued forth into the raw, chilly air of the March morning. The brisk breeze blowing from the south-east bore to his ears the faint echo of the din of hammers busily employed in the distant navy-yard at the good work of restoring American sovereignty on the waters of the globe. The lights in the Treasury Department were dim; yet every room was lighted up, and it was evident that all hands were at work, in accordance with Secretary Manning’s order that all employees of the civil service should report for duty at half-past four A.M. every week-day. President Cleveland entered the Treasury building, and asked the janitor where Col. Manning was to be found.

“He is down in the vaults, counting the money,” said the janitor; “and he cannot be disturbed.”

Mr. Cleveland expostulated, and was compelled to disclose his identity before the janitor would listen to him. But, being satisfied at last that the visitor really was the President, the janitor conducted him through devious passages, down winding stairways, and under curious moats, until finally the labyrinthine vaults were reached. Here, surrounded by piles of shining gold and silver pieces, sat the Secretary of the Treasury, counting the national hoard by the dim light of a candle.

“I am sorry you came,” said the secretary to the President; “for I really have so much work to do, that I have no time to talk.”

Then Mr. Cleveland observed that Col. Manning was attired in naught but an undershirt, his trousers, and a pair of high-heeled boots.

“Good!” thought the President. Then he said aloud, “But where is the gas, Dan? and why are you using this wretched tallow-dip?”

“I have had the gas-meter taken out of the building,” said the secretary, “and have returned to the good old democratic simplicity of candles. By this means, the sum of ninety thousand dollars will be saved to the country annually.”

“And what are you doing now?” asked the President.

“Counting the money in the Treasury,” replied Col. Manning. “I intend to know for myself whether any peculations have been indulged in by my Republican predecessors. Already I have discovered a number of questionable things. For instance, I have found the tail-feathers pulled out of a large number of the eagles on the 1877 coinage of twenty-dollar gold-pieces, and I intend to trace the burglarious outrage to its uttermost until the guilty party is brought to justice.”

“That is right,” said the President; and as he walked away, he felicitated himself and his country upon having secured the co-operation of such an honest, fearless patriot as the Albany journalist.

In the State Department, too, the tawdry gas-fixtures had been removed, to make way for the unostentatious candle. Owing to a dimness of vision, however, Secretary Bayard was compelled to use a kerosene-lamp; and this stood upon his white-pine table, emitting a fragrance which the rose of Sharon might have envied. Bayard wore no collar nor tie. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the President observed that the shirt was a woollen one; only to preserve the necessary dignity on state occasions, the secretary wore a white celluloid bosom; but otherwise his attire was rigidly plain.

“Yes, I am very busy,” said Mr. Bayard, “and I have been hard at work since three o’clock this morning. Having abolished the three hundred typewriters and forty-eight stenographers formerly employed in this department, I have my hands full answering the letters. Here,” he continued, as he wearily laid his pale hand on a mass of crumpled sheets of paper, “here are letters from Queen Victoria, King William, Dom Pedro, Kalakaua, Alfonzo, the Czar, Taing-ho, Gen. Barrios, the Ahkoond of Swet, the Emir of Bagdool, the Begum of Mysore, and a hundred other potentates, which must be answered before the noon-mail goes out.”

In the Navy Department, Secretary Whitney was not to be found. Over a work-bench in one corner of the room leaned a boy, contemplating with awe and admiration the model of a patent canal-boat, which calmly floated on the bosom of a tub of cistern-water.

“Can you tell me where to find the Secretary of the Navy?” sternly demanded the President, who was evidently pained to see one of the lad’s years idling in this manner.

“Dunno,” replied the boy, “but guess he’s in the gymnasium over ’cross the hall.”

President Cleveland stepped across the hall, and opened a door on which was pasted a sheet of paper bearing the written legend “Private.” Yes, there was the Secretary of the Navy, attired in a sleeveless jersey and a pair of white cotton drawers, and engaged at pulling vigorously at a rowing-machine.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed President Cleveland. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Learning the business,” replied Secretary Whitney, between pulls. “I am determined to acquaint myself with every detail of the marine and navy service. My arms have grown an inch and a half in ten days. Bill Chandler knew nothing about the minutiæ of the department, and I am resolved to put his administration to the blush. I am learning to swim, and I go to the natatorium twice a day to take lessons.”

As the President strolled toward the War-Department offices, his bosom heaved with emotions of exultation.

“How admirably have I chosen my associates!” he murmured. “On every hand I find irrefutable evidence that the spirit of my administration has infused every subordinate and co-ordinate branch.”

On the walls of the war-office were divers chromos and lithographic prints of Hannibal, Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon, Israel Putnam, Zachary Taylor, Andrew Jackson, Winfield Scott Hancock, and other great generals; also a framed daguerrotype of old Admiral Crowninshield, in the costume of an honorary member of the Hull Yacht Club of Boston. Armed soldiers paced to and fro over the sanded floor, or studied the maps of the Sioux, Ute, and Modoc reservations, which were spread out on the varnished deal tables. When President Cleveland inquired where Secretary Endicott was, one of the gloomy sentinels pointed in the direction of an inner room; and thither the President drifted. A surprising spectacle greeted him as he entered. Secretary Endicott, clad only in a blouse and trousers of army blue, and wearing a fatigue-cap, stood at one end of the room, holding a cavalry pistol in both hands, and firing at a target at the other end of the room. The target consisted of the head of a barrel, upon which uncertain rings had been described with white chalk. “Bang!” went the big pistol, and the recoil threw the Secretary of War into the President’s arms.

“It is all-fired strange,” explained the secretary, “but I have fired over two hundred cartridges at that gol-darned target, and I hain’t hit it once. I’m a mighty poor shot,—don’t believe I could hit the side of a meetin’-house,—but I’m goin’ to keep on tryin’ till the country owns up I’m the gol-darnedest best cabinet officer they had since Uncle Crowninshield was on deck.”

Then the secretary sat down on the corner of the table, and ate his modest luncheon of nutcakes and cheese, while the President talked with him about the troubles on the Oklahoma border.

“By the way,” said the President, picking up a cartridge from the pile that lay on the floor, “have you been using these all the time?”

“Yes,” replied the secretary, mopping the powder-dust and perspiration from his undaunted brow. “I’ve fired more’n three hundred of ’em this mornin’.”

“Then, it’s no wonder you haven’t hit the target,” said the President, with an amused chuckle; “for, my dear fellow, these are blank cartridges!”

“Well, I swow!” exclaimed the secretary. “You don’t say so!”

President Cleveland chuckled to himself all the way over to the Post-Office Department. But he was proud of his war-secretary, just the same. Endicott was honest and earnest: that was the kind of man the era of reform demanded.

A beautiful young woman, wearing a calico dress, was carrying a three-hundred-pound mail-sack filled with letters through the hall.

“Is Secretary Vilas in?” inquired the President.

“No, sir,” answered the beautiful being in the calico, as she hurried along with the mail-sack.

President Cleveland was shocked: he had never suspected that Vilas would be the first to grow remiss in his duties. With anguish in his soul, the President entered the Attorney-General’s office. It was in full blast. The subordinates were ranged in two semicircles about Gen. Garland, who, in his shirt-sleeves, was propounding questions upon matters which concerned the intelligent conduct of the department. “What is replevin?” “What is the jurisdiction of a Missouri justice of the peace?” “Explain the difference between _de jure_ and _de facto_.” “What is a _posse comitatus_, and wherein does it differ from the Arkansas possum?” “What is a change of venue?” These and similar interrogatories did the learned Attorney-General put to his class; and the President was pleased to hear that the responses came quickly, and for the greater part were correct.

“I will not interrupt them,” thought the President; so he retired noiselessly, and slipped over to the Interior Department. All was commotion here, and Secretary Lamar was busiest of the busy.

“We have been hard at work since daylight,” said the secretary. “You see, I have not had time to brush my hair, or comb my beard: in fact, I was in such a hurry that I came down-town with my night-cap on. As Horace said, ‘_De juvente pluribus noctantur_;’ and in the words of the old Greek philosopher, ‘_Kai telos epithalmos gar gignosko_.’”

The President applauded the enthusiasm which prevailed. Outside the pension office several hundred one-armed and wooden-legged veterans were seeking admittance: inside the office the crowd of old soldiers was still greater. Standing on tiptoe, and peering over the crowd, the President could see the pension commissioner, Gen. Black, hard at work handing out bags of money to the crippled pensioners.

“’Tis well,” said President Cleveland, smiling. Then he went back to the Post-Office Department, but Vilas was not there. This was a severe blow,—an awful shock. President Cleveland brooded over it, and the tears came into his eyes. As he passed the Department of Agriculture, he saw the commissioner in the garden, watering the tulips, and pruning the young rhubarb-plants. This sight cheered him somewhat; but still the President brooded over Vilas’s absence from his post of duty, and he indulged in the most melancholy reflections until he nearly reached home,—yes, till he had come to the White-House gate. Then a cheery whistle startled him from his sad revery. Looking up, he beheld Secretary Vilas tripping gayly down the walk, carrying a leathern bag, and whistling a merry air from “Falka.”

“I have just left a bundle of letters with Lamont for you,” said Vilas.

“How do you happen to be here, instead of at your post of duty?” inquired the President gloomily.

“Why, when I got down to the office at four o’clock this morning,” explained Vilas, “I found one of our men sick; so I concluded to carry his route for him myself to-day.”

A few moments later, President Cleveland, having removed his coat, collar, and necktie, seated himself at his desk in the White House, and was ready for work.

“Daniel,” said he to his private secretary, “I feel encouraged, for I have irrefutable evidence that my cabinet is _en rapport_ with the administration. The republic has indeed entered upon an era of Arcadian simplicity.”

_The Drama Discussed._

Our esteemed fellow-townsman, Egbert Jamieson, Esq., had a remarkably pleasant interview with President Cleveland the other day. The President was in his best mood, and he produced a favorable impression upon his gifted visitor.

“Col. Lamont tells me,” said Mr. Cleveland, “that you are a dramatic author.”

“Ah!” replied Mr. Jamieson, blushing, “I do not know that I would call myself one, although it is true that in leisure moments I have tossed off a comedy or two.”

“I would like to read your works,” said Mr. Cleveland cordially. “When I was living in Buffalo, and had more time than I have now, I used to go to the theatre quite often. I saw Matilda Heron play ‘Camille’ in 1859; and, although the lady appeared to be suffering with a severe cold at the time, I don’t know when I have witnessed a more satisfactory performance. I have also seen Joseph Winkle in ‘Rip Van Jefferson,’ and Mark Twain in Mulberry Raymond’s play of ‘Millions In It.’ I am naturally fond of the drama, and I read Shakespeare, Sheridan, Jonson, and other dramatists every now and then; but I never had the pleasure of meeting with your works.”

“My dramatic work,” explained Mr. Jamieson modestly, “belongs to the modern school: do you like the modern school? have you heard that piece of Dixey’s yet?”

“Yes, often, often,” answered Mr. Cleveland. “The Marine Band plays it every Saturday afternoon, and I fancy it mightily; although I am averse to what might be called sectional or partisan music.”

Thus in pleasant discourse did the President and Mr. Jamieson pass as profitable an hour as ever fell to the lot of two agreeable gentlemen. When Mr. Jamieson returned to Willard’s Hotel, an anxious friend asked him whether Cleveland had promised him the attorneyship he was after.

“Well, no, I can’t say that he has,” said Mr. Jamieson; “but there is a good deal of satisfaction in knowing that the administration and I are _en rapport_ on the subject of the drama.”

_The Vale of Cashmere._

When the Hon. F. H. Winston, our minister to Persia, heard that President Cleveland had married without letting him know any thing about it, he was deeply mortified. He brooded in grim silence while his dragoman, Prince von Schierbrand, read aloud the official report of the wedding.

“Hold on a minute,” he cried, interrupting the prince at one point in his perusal: “read that last sentence again.”

“‘The bride wore a tulle veil bedecked with orange-blossoms,’” repeated the dragoman slowly and with emphasis.

“Good enough for her!” ejaculated the great diplomate, smiling with diabolical satisfaction. “If they’d only let me into the secret, with my influence here at court, I could have sent the bride the veil of cashmere; and I’ll bet _that_ would have beaten the rest of her _trousseau_ all hollow!”

_The Friend of the Indian._

As President Cleveland was proceeding from the east front of the Capitol, after the inauguration ceremonies yesterday, among the vast throng that surrounded him with congratulatory words was a very neat-looking gentleman wearing a dark-brown overcoat, black kid gloves, and a shiny plug hat, and carrying an umbrella in a nice new silk cover.

“How do you do, Mr. President?” exclaimed the neat-looking gentleman cordially.

“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Mr. Cleveland.

“Can I see you a moment privately?” inquired the neat-looking gentleman, attempting to draw the new President to one side.

“Really, sir, it is impossible to grant your request just at this moment,” said Mr. Cleveland, stanchly maintaining his ground.

“You seem to have forgotten me,” persisted the neat-looking gentleman: “I am Erskine M. Phelps, president of the Iroquois Club.”

“I can do nothing for you just at this moment,” replied Mr. Cleveland; “but you can depend upon it, I was sincere when I declared in my speech to-day that you Indians should be fairly and honestly treated.”

_The Way of the Sex._

One morning in May, as the doodle-bug lay
In her cavern a fathom down under the ground,
The poodle-dog came, and he murmured her name,
And the doodle-bug’s heart gave a rapturous bound.
“O doodle, dear doodle!”
Soft murmured the poodle:
“What now, Mr. Poodle?”
Responded the doodle.
Then he told her his love, did the amorous poodle.

But the doodle-bug said, with a toss of her head,
“What stocks, bonds, or moneys, I pri’thee have you?”
But the poodle replied, “I have nothing beside
My beautiful fleece and a heart that is true.”
“Well, then, Mr. Poodle,”
Retorted the doodle,
“I’m not such a noodle,
To wed a kiudle
Who hasn’t a boodle”—
And she gave him the mitten, the frugal Miss Doodle.

_After Many Years._

At the panorama of the Battle of Shiloh in this city a few days ago, a small, shrivelled-up man made himself conspicuous by going around the place snivelling dolorously. He did not appear to be more than five feet high. He was dressed all in black, and his attenuated form and gray whiskers gave him a peculiarly grotesque appearance. He seemed to be greatly interested in the panorama; and, as he moved from one point of view to another, he groaned and wept copiously. A tall, raw-boned man approached him: he wore gray clothes and a military slouch hat, and he had the general appearance of a Missourian away from home on a holiday.

“Reckon you were at Shiloh, eh, stranger?” asked the tall, raw-boned man.

“Yes,” replied the small, shrivelled-up man, “and I shall never forget it: it was the toughest battle of the war.”

“I was thar,” said the tall, raw-boned man; “and my regiment was drawn up right over yonder where you see that clump of trees.”

“You were a rebel, then?”

“I was a Confederate,” replied the tall, raw-boned man; “and I did some right smart fighting among that clump of trees that day.”

“I remember it well,” said the small, shrivelled-up man, “for I was a Federal soldier; and the toughest scrimmage in all that battle was just among that clump of trees.”

“Prentiss was the Yankee general,” remarked the tall, raw-boned man; “and I’d have given a pretty to have seen him that day. But, dog-on me! the little cuss kept out of sight, and we uns came to the conclusion he was hidin’ back in the rear somewhar.”

“Our boys were after Marmaduke,” said the small, shrivelled-up man; “for he was the rebel general, and had bothered us a great deal. But we could get no glimpse of him: he was too sharp to come to the front, and it was lucky for him too.”

“Oh, but what a scrimmage it was!” said the tall, raw-boned man.

“How the sabres clashed, and how the minies whistled!” cried the small, shrivelled-up man.

The panorama brought back the old time with all the vividness of a yesterday’s occurrence. The two men were filled with a strange yet beautiful enthusiasm.

“Stranger,” cried the tall, raw-boned man, “we fought each other like devils that day, and we fought to kill. But the war’s over now, and we ain’t soldiers any longer—gimme your hand!”

“With pleasure,” said the small, shrivelled-up man; and the two clasped hands.

“What might be your name?” inquired the tall, raw-boned man.

“I am Gen. B. M. Prentiss,” said the small, shrivelled-up man.

“The —— you say!” exclaimed the tall, raw-boned man.

“Yes,” re-affirmed the small, shrivelled-up man; “and who are you?”

“I,” replied the tall, raw-boned man, “I am Gen. John S. Marmaduke.”

_A Society Item._

The observed of all observers at the opera last evening was Mrs. Col. Henry J. Bowers, the beautiful and accomplished wife of Col. Henry J. Bowers, general manager of the Fond du Lac Narrow Gauge. Mrs. Bowers, accompanied by Miss Cecilia Muggins of Grand Rapids, her queenly niece, occupied proscenium-box B, and won universal admiration, not more by the nice discrimination with which she approved the performance, than by the superb toilet in which she was attired. Mrs. B. is the daughter of Peter Muggins, the millionnaire pork-packer of Omaha, who came to this country forty years ago a poor lad, and engaged in commerce as a driver on the Illinois and Michigan Canal. Before her marriage, she was the belle of her native town; and since that auspicious event, she has been the acknowledged queen of the _recherche_ social circle in which she moves.

_“Die Walküre” und der Boomerangelungen._

There is a strange fascination about Herr Wagner’s musical drama of “Die Walküre.” A great many people have supposed that Herr Sullivan’s opera of “Das Pinafore” was the most remarkable musical work extant, but we believe the mistake will become apparent as Herr Wagner’s masterpiece grows in years. We will not pretend to say that “Die Walküre” will ever be whistled about the streets, as the airs from “Das Pinafore” are whistled: the fact is, that no rendition of “Die Walküre” can be satisfactory without the accompaniment of weird flashes of fire; and it is hardly to be expected that our youth will carry packages of lycopodium, and boxes of matches, around with them, for the sole purpose of giving the desired effect to any snatches from Herr Wagner’s work they may take the notion to whistle. But in the sanctity of our homes, around our firesides, in the front-parlor, where the melodeon or the newly hired piano has been set up, it is there that Herr Wagner’s name will be revered, and his masterpiece repeated o’er and o’er. The libretto is not above criticism: it strikes us that there is not enough of it. The probability is, that Herr Wagner ran out of libretto before he had got through with his music, and therefore had to spread out comparatively few words over a vast expanse of music. The result is, that a great part of the time the performers are on the stage is devoted to thought, the orchestra doing a tremendous amount of fiddling, etc., while the actors wander drearily around, with their arms folded across their pulmonary departments, and their minds evidently absorbed in profound cogitation. As for the music, the only criticism we have to pass upon it is, that it changes its subject too often: in this particular it resembles the dictionary,—in fact, we believe “Die Walküre” can be termed the Webster’s Unabridged of musical language. Herr Wagner has his own way of doing business. He goes at it on the principle of the twelfth man, who holds out against the eleven other jurors, and finally brings them around to his way of thinking. For instance, in the midst of a pleasing strain in B natural, Herr Wagner has a habit of suddenly bringing out a small reed-instrument with a big voice (we do not know its name), piped in the key of F sharp. This small reed-instrument will not let go: it holds on to that F sharp like a mortgage. For a brief period the rest of the instruments—fiddles, bassoons, viols, flutes, flageolets, cymbals, drums, etc.—struggle along with an attempt to either drown the intruder, or bring it around to their way of doing business; but it is vain. Every last one of them has to slide around from B natural to F sharp, and they do it as best they can. Having accomplished its incendiary and revolutionary purpose, the small reed-instrument subsides until it finds another chance to break out. It is a mugwump.

Die Walkuren, as given us by the Damrosch Company, are nine stout, comely, young women, attired in costumes somewhat similar to the armor worn by Herr Lawrence Barrett’s Roman army in Herr Shakespeare’s play of “Der Julius Cæsar.” Readers of Norse mythology may suppose that these weird sisters were dim, vague, shadowy creatures; but they are mistaken. Brunnhilde has the _embonpoint_ of a dowager, and her arms are as robust and red as a dairymaid’s. As for Gerhilde, Waltraute, Helmwige, and the rest, they are well-fed, buxom ladies, evidently of middle age, whose very appearance exhales an aroma of kraut and garlic, which, by the way, we see, by the libretto, was termed “mead” in the days of Wotan and his court. These Die Walkuren are said to ride fiery, untamed steeds; but only one steed is exhibited in the drama, as it is given at the Columbia. This steed, we regret to say, is a restless, noisy brute, and invariably has to be led off the stage by one of das supes, before his act concludes. However, no one should doubt his heroic nature, inasmuch as the cabalistic letters “U. S.” are distinctly branded upon his left flank.

The Sieglinde of the piece is Fraulein Slach, a young lady no bigger than a minute, but with wonderful powers of endurance. To say nothing of Hunding’s persecutions, she has to shield Siegmund, elope with him, climb beetling precipices, ride Brunnhilde’s fiery, untamed steed, confront die Walkuren, and look on her slain lover, and, in addition to these prodigies, participate in a Græco-Roman wrestling-match with an orchestra of sixty-five pieces for three hours and a half. Yet she is equal to the emergency. Up to the very last she is as fresh as a daisy; and, after recovering from her swooning-spell in the second act, she braces her shoulders back, and dances all around the top notes of the chromatic scale with the greatest of ease. She is a wonderful little woman, is Fraulein Slach! What a wee bit of humanity, yet what a volume of voice she has, and what endurance!

Down among the orchestra people sat a pale, sad man. His apparent lonesomeness interested us deeply. We could not imagine what he was there for. Every once in a while he would get up and leave the orchestra, and dive down under the stage, and appear behind the scenes, where we could catch glimpses of him practising with a pair of thirty-pound dumb-bells, and testing a spirometer. Then he would come back and re-occupy his old seat among the orchestra, and look paler and sadder than ever. What strange, mysterious being was he? Why did he inflict his pale, sad presence upon that galaxy of tuneful revellers? What a cunning master the great Herr Wagner is! For what emergency does he not provide? It was half-past eleven when the third act began. Die Walkuren had assembled in the dismal dell,—all but the den Walkure, Brunnhilde. Wotan is approaching on appalling storm-clouds, composed of painted mosquito-bars and blue lights. The sheet-iron thunder crashes; and the orchestra is engaged in another mortal combat with that revolutionary mugwump, the small reed-instrument, that persists in reforming the tune of the opera. Then the pale, sad man produces a large brass horn, big enough at the business end for a cow to walk into. It is a fearful, ponderous instrument, manufactured especially for “Die Walküre” at the Krupp Gun Factory in Essen. It has an appropriate name: the master himself christened it the boomerangelungen. It is the monarch, the Jumbo of all musical dinguses. The cuspidor end of it protrudes into one of the proscenium-boxes. The fair occupants of the box are frightened, and timidly shrink back. Wotan is at hand. He comes upon seven hundred yards of white tarletan, and fourteen pounds of hissing, blazing lycopodium! The pale, sad man at the other end of the boomerangelungen explains his wherefore. He applies his lips to the brazen monster. His eyeballs hang out upon his cheeks, the veins rise on his neck, and the lumpy cords and muscles stand out on his arms and hands. Boohoop, boohoop!—yes, six times boohoop does that brazen megatherium blare out, vivid and distinct, above all the other sixty instruments in the orchestra. Then the white tarletan clouds vanish, the blazing lycopodium goes out, and Wotan stands before the excited spectators. Then the pale, sad man lays down the boomerangelungen, and goes home. That is all he has to do: the six sonorous boohoops, announcing the presence of Wotan, is all that is demanded of the boomerangelungen. But it is enough: it is marvellous, appalling, prodigious. Whose genius but Herr Wagner’s could have found employment for the boomerangelungen? We hear talk of the sword motive, the love motive, the Walhalla motive, and this motive, and that; but they all shrink into nothingness when compared with the motive of the boomerangelungen.

_An Angered Teuton._

A gentleman living out on Franklin Street sends the following communication to this paper, under date of March 12:—

“_To the Editor._—Your to-day’s edition brings an article on ‘The
Walküre.’ Are you aware of the fact that your daily issue is,
according to your own statement, nearly a hundred and fifty thousand?
You ought to expect that out of these hundred and fifty thousand, at
least fifteen hundred will read your paper. Now, how can you, in the
face of this number, print the monstrous pollutions of a Lausbub, who
sat down and described his voluptuous ignorance in a manner which
ought to drive the blush of shame to his face, if he has any? There is
no use going into the details of his work: they, as well as it, are
simply disgusting. I would excuse any _gentleman_ who does not like
Wagner’s music, for saying so in a gentleman-like manner; but a man of
the standing of your correspondent, whose expressions are printed in a
paper of the standing of ‘The Daily News,’—I expect without
control,—such a man, if he really be the brute he attempts to make out
of himself, ought to be tortured to death by Wagner’s music, and the
smell of garlic of ‘The Walküre.’ I write this to you as an expression
of my disgust,” etc.

_“Die Walküre” Analyzed._

Professor Eliphalet J. Snodgrass, emeritus professor of æsthetic chemistry at Chicago University, has analyzed the specimen of Wagner’s “Die Walküre” we sent him last Wednesday morning, and he finds that this inspired work of the great German master is composed of the following proportionate parts:—

Libretto 06
String-music 12
Wind-music 15
Motives 25
Bass-drums and cymbals 14
Lycopodium and sheet-iron thunder 13
Flapdoodle, flubdub, and imagination 15
———
Total 100

This chemical analysis is confirmed, we understand, by the numerous musical critics of the Chicago press, who have surveyed the performance of “Die Walküre” at the Columbia this week, with quadrants, theodolites, and tuning-forks, in the parquette circle. We are not sure but what a study of these critics, as they appear under full headway at an opera, is more profitable than a study of the performance on the stage. At least, an observation of their methods teaches us the means by which the human mind can arrive at perfection in the art of musical criticism.

_A Felicitous Toast._

“May your shadow never grow less!” was the singularly felicitous toast which Major M. P. Handy, president of the Clover Club, proposed to Miss Sara Bernhardt at a Philadelphia banquet the other evening.

_The Farmer Candidate._

Farmer Carter H. Harrison, the Democratic candidate for governor, went out to the State Fair yesterday in his honest old lumber-wagon, drawn by a couple of steers. He was received with intense enthusiasm by the simple country-folk, who seem to regard him as the modern Cincinnatus. Much to his chagrin, however, the sturdy old farmer discovered, through the shrewd tactics of the Hon. John W. Bunn, chairman of the State Republican Executive Committee, the fair had assumed the air and appearance of a Blaine and Logan ratification meeting. There were Jim Blaine squashes, John Logan pumpkins, Plumed Knight butter, Black Jack preserves, Magnetic pears, Mulligan potatoes, to say nothing of the cattle, sheep, swine, horses, mules, goats, roosters, drakes, and ganders that bore the inspiring names of Blaine, Logan, Black Eagle, Pride of Maine, Our James, Eloquent John, Little Rock Jim, Sunstroke, etc. In a word, it was evident that the determination on the part of Bunn, and other Republican managers, to give none of the premiums to any exhibiter who was not a reliable Republican, had converted the State Fair into a mammoth Republican ratification meeting. Farmer Harrison’s bosom was perturbed by the contending emotion of wounded pride, righteous indignation, horror, and scorn. His eagle eyes flashed, and an ominous scowl clouded his sunburned brow. He determined to do something at once that would counteract the effect of this infamous trickery, and confound the conscienceless Republican managers upon their own vantage-ground. So he approached one of the stock-stalls, where a guileless-looking old rustic was lazily chewing tobacco, and watching over a fine, fat specimen of the bovine kind.

“Ah, my good friend,” said Farmer Harrison, in his oiliest tones, “what a superb animal that is!”

“Yes,” replied the rustic, “a very clever critter.”

“What do you call him?” inquired Farmer Harrison. “Do you call him Jim Blaine?”

“Naw,” replied the rustic.

“Logan or Oglesby?” asked Farmer Harrison.

“Naw.”

“Perhaps you have named him the Plumed Knight, or Black Eagle, or Uncle Dick?” suggested the farmer candidate.

“Naw,” said the rustic: “’tain’t got no name ’t all.”

“I thought not,” cried Farmer Harrison. “There was an indescribable something about your appearance, my good friend,—a certain candor, dignity, and valor,—that told me, ‘This man is no tool of the corrupt ringsters who are now attempting to foist themselves upon the honest yeomanry of Illinois.’ Your erect figure, your manly face, your hearty voice, and your ingenious manner, bespeak your independence of all the subtle influences of corruption. You are a Democrat, sir,—a grand old Jacksonian Democrat,—unless your honest looks belie you!”

“Waal, I am, by gosh!” said the rustic earnestly.

“Now, I’ve a proposition to make to you,” said Farmer Harrison softly, “and it is this: you name this noble animal after me, and placard him ‘Carter H. Harrison,’ and I’ll do something for you after I’m elected governor.”

“Waal, now, gov’ner,” said the rustic, confused like, “I’m drefful sorry, but I can’t conscientiously do it.”

“What!” cried Farmer Harrison. “Do you mean to say that you, an old Jacksonian Democrat, decline to perform this simple duty at a moment when the hand of corruption is outstretched to throttle our fair republic? Do you mean to say that in this emergency and at this supreme moment you refuse to name this sleek brute ‘Carter H. Harrison,’ and thereby redeem this State Fair from eternal ignominy?”

“Now, really, gov’ner, I can’t,” persisted the rustic.

“And why not?” demanded Farmer Harrison.

“I don’t care to say: I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s.”

“Speak out, old man,” cried Farmer Harrison. “‘Hew to the line, let the chips fall where they may.’ At this moment, let there be no equivocation, no hesitation, no concealment: speak out, old man, that your answer may be recorded, and go thundering down the ages!”

“Waal, then,” said the venerable rustic, “if you insist upon knowin’ my reason, I can’t do it, ’cause the critter’s a heifer!”

_The Mummy’s Conundrum._

A floating item tells us that Omaha is the cheapest place in the country to die in. But why die in Omaha, when one can live as cheap in St. Louis, and at the same time serve all the purposes of being dead in other localities? It is related by one of our most reliable citizens, who has travelled much abroad, that he once visited the catacombs of Rome. Deep in the bowels of the earth, surrounded by the mouldy skeletons of other centuries, and oppressed by the weird gloom of the labyrinth of the dead, the traveller abandoned himself to solemn reflections.

“This, then,” said he, half aloud, “this is the city of the dim, mysterious past—the vast charnel-house in which the glory, the flower, the cream, the ambition, of other generations crumble to dust! Grim mocker of mortality—genius of oblivion! this granary of human clay is thy cherished and supreme abode!”

To this apostrophe, a musty mummy of the time of Nero the violinist, raising himself rheumatically from his couch in a mouldy niche, replied, “Stranger, I reckon you’ve never been in St. Louis, Mo.”

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● The author appeared to dislike the use of apostrophes to indicate possession in poetry and did not alter them. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=. ● Images without captions use the HTML alt text supplied by the transcriber in place of a caption.