Chapter I: Preface (1)

It has come to pass, I know not how, that what is accepted as American humor has largely become the prey of specialists. When we see the signature of Mark Twain, Bill Nye, Artemus Ward, Bob Burdette, Bret Harte, or any one of a dozen more, we know what kind of humor will accompany the name. Each man has his particular and familiar line, and never diverges from it. But there is something wrong about this. Humor—whatever it used to mean in Ben Jonson’s days—now means something more than the comic eccentricity of an individual. It means the arch smile, half quizzical and half tender, that glimmers upon the countenance of human nature when contemplating its own follies and perversities.

The name of Eugene Field, of the Chicago “Daily News,” though heard for the first time only a few years ago, is already a famous and a favorite name in journalism. He, too, bears the reputation of a humorist: but his humor is not of the conventional order; it has a wider and a loftier scope. He has a gentle yet intrepid heart, a penetrating but broad intellect, and a pen that is at once trenchant and kindly, sensible and imaginative. He is the author of some of the purest and most charming fairy-tales that have been written since Hans Christian Andersen’s time. He has produced poems whose effortless art and tender pathos have brought them to the knowledge of perhaps half the newspaper readers of America; and, withal, he has poured out genuine and spontaneous fun enough to restore that gayety of nations which the death of a certain renowned comedian was said to have eclipsed. Yet, in all his jesting, he has never jested heedlessly or cruelly. If he has laughed at what is foolish, he has honored what is good: if he has unsparingly satirized what is absurd or unworthy in our civilization, he has always reverenced what is sacred and holy in our nature. His is no common mind, and we have as yet seen but a small arc of its complete circle. No man born on this continent is a more robust American than he; no man scents a sham more unerringly, or abominates it more effectively; no man’s ideal of American literature is higher or sounder. And though circumstances have hitherto confined his contributions to that literature within comparatively narrow limits, yet he has given ample indications of vigorous powers and a catholic range. He is sometimes as homely and pithy as a New-England farmer; sometimes as refined and subtle as a French epigrammatist; now he chuckles like a Gargantuan, and again he evinces the artistic grace of a trained poet or romancer. But above all and beneath all he is a man, full of the strength and the richness of human nature, and loving human nature with all his heart, as only a man can.

The present little volume comprises mainly a bubbling-forth of delightful _badinage_ and mischievous raillery, directed at some of the foibles and pretensions of his enterprising fellow-townsmen; who, however, can by no means be allowed to claim a monopoly of either the pretensions or the foibles herein exploited. Laugh, but look to yourself: _mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur_. It is a book which should, and doubtless will, attain a national popularity; but admirable, and indeed irresistible, though it be in its way, it represents a very inconsiderable fraction of the author’s real capacity. We shall hear of Eugene Field in regions of literature far above the aim and scope of these witty and waggish sketches. But, as the wise orator wins his audience at the outset of his speech by the human sympathy of a smile, so does our author, in these smiling pages, establish genial relations with us, before betaking himself to more ambitious flights. If he have half the confidence that his friends have in his power of wing, he will be far aloft ere long; and then, as now, we shall all wish him heartily God-speed!

JULIAN HAWTHORNE.

JUNE, 1887.

CONTENTS.

PAGE
MR. KINSLEY’S BOOK 1
LITERATURE AND ART 4
THE COOLEY POEMS 5
JUDGE COOLEY’S DENIAL 16
LITERARY NOTES 18
MR. DOTY MAD 19
CHICAGO PALMISTRY 21
A MARVELLOUS INVENTION 24
BOOKS AND AUTHORS 30
CHICAGO HAMLETS 31
THE LITERARY WAYSIDE 38
A BEAUTIFUL ARTICLE OF VIRTUE 39
THE SHAKESPEARES IDENTIFIED 42
AMONG THE LITERATI 50
THE MARKEESY DI PULLMAN 51
LITERARY LACONICS 58
AS TO THE GARTER OF A MARKEESY 59
MR. EMERSON IN ’FRISCO 64
A SUMMER PHILOSOPHER 66
THE TRUTH ABOUT DANTE 68
THE GOOD CAUSE 76
THE CONVENTION OF WESTERN WRITERS 77
THE POET’S CORNER 80
A WESTERN BOY’S LAMENT 80
THE STORY OF XANTHIPPE 81
PHILADELPHIA 89
HUMANITY 91
BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE 92
MR. ISAAC WATTS, TUTOR 96
THE REVISION 104
THE OFFICIAL EXPLANATION 106
YANKEE CHORUS GIRLS 107
MR. DIXEY AS A NEMESIS 109
PROFESSOR LOWELL IN CHICAGO 113
MR. ELDER’S FRIGHT 131
ETHEL’S CHRISTMAS TALE 135
CHICAGO WEATHER 137
A CHICAGO CHRISTMAS LEGEND 138
A PLEA FOR THE CLASSICS 141
MLLE. PRUD’HOMME’S BOOK 142
HER GENUINE CULTURE 146
THE DEMAND FOR CONDENSED MUSIC 147
OPERA, OPUSES, AND OPI 150
CHICAGO THE MUSIC CENTRE 151
STILL BLOOMING 152
THE OFFENCE 153
A LAMENT 155
THE APOLOGY 156
A GERMAN PERSONAL 157
COL. ALDRICH’S “LAST CÆSAR” (1) 158
COL. ALDRICH’S “LAST CÆSAR” (2) 163
MISS BAYLE’S ROMANCE 168
A HUMORIST’S COURTSHIP 170
THAT ONE FLOATING VOTE 174
A PERSIAN MISSION 175
A SENATOR’S VALOR 179
A SEASON OF NEW MUSIC 182
APOLLO LOCATED 184
AN EXILE’S NUPTIALS 185
PATRONIZE HOME ART 187
AN OLD FEUD 189
A HEGIRA THREATENED 192
A SPANISH ROMANCE 197
MORE ABOUT MISS FIELD 200
A KENTUCKIAN’S SAGACITY 202
COL. JUDD’S NARROW ESCAPE 203
A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—I. 206
AN EDITORIAL SCHEDULE 207
A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—II. 209
THE HASKELLS, PÈRE ET FILS 210
A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—III. 211
MORE ABOUT COL. HASKELL 212
ANOTHER NEW BOOK 213
MR. SLATTERY OF BOSTON 214
MME. L’ALLEMAND’S HUMOR 218
A VETERAN ACTOR 220
A WHITE-HOUSE BALLAD.—IV. 221
LIFE, DEATH, AND LOVE 222
PIKE’S PEAK 225
CHRISTIAN-COUNTY MOSQUITOES 226
THE DYING SOLDIER 228
HIS FIRST DAY AT EDITING 229
THE LITTLE PEACH 236
LEARNING AND LITERATURE 237
SOME FAMOUS APOLOGIES 240
VICTORIA AT THE SHOW 242
A FARMER’S ADVICE 243
A CHICAGO GERMAN LYRIC 244
THE WORKS OF SAPPHO 245
NOVEMBER 253
A NOVELETTE 254
INTER-STATE COMMERCE BILL ITEMS 257
THE WIZARD OF VERMILION 258
WHY HE WAS TARDY 261
BASE-BALL AS A CLASSIC 262
CULLED IN HELICON 265
OON CRITEEK DE BERNHARDT 267
OON CONVERSARZYONY FRONGSAY 274
A FEARLESS PROTECTOR 277
MR. KNAPP’S SCHEME 278
A FINE OLD BOOK 279
STEALING OUR THUNDER 282
LOST, STRAYED, OR STOLEN 285
CONDENSED LITERATURE 286
DR. WARNER IN CHICAGO 288
AN ANXIOUS INQUIRY 289
A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK 290
THE CROWN JEWELS 291
MR. GOODWIN’S YACHT 295
A LAUDABLE SCHEME 297
THE ERA OF REFORM 298
THE DRAMA DISCUSSED 307
THE VALE OF CASHMERE 308
THE FRIEND OF THE INDIAN 309
THE WAY OF THE SEX 310
AFTER MANY YEARS 311
A SOCIETY ITEM 313
“DIE WALKÜRE” UND DER BOOMERANGELUNGEN 314
AN ANGERED TEUTON 319
“DIE WALKÜRE” ANALYZED 320
A FELICITOUS TOAST 321
THE FARMER CANDIDATE 322
THE MUMMY’S CONUNDRUM 325

A CHICAGO LITERARY CIRCLE

IN THE SIMILITUDE OF A LAUREL WREATH
]

CULTURE’S GARLAND.

_Mr. Kinsley’s Book._

While it is universally conceded that Chicago is rapidly achieving world-wide reputation as the great literary centre of the United States, it is distressing to note that local critics are slow to recognize and to encourage the efforts of Chicago _littérateurs_. We have been plunged into a most unhappy condition of mind by the continued neglect with which a recent literary work of our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. H. M. Kinsley, has been treated by the moulders of literary thought in Chicago. We do not know whether it is envy that lurks in the bosom of our literary critics, and instigates them to ignore home industries, but we do know that for the last three months “The Dial,” “Scandinavia,” “The Current,” and other hypercritical reviews, have devoted much space to literature in Norway, France, Italy, Belgium, England, and Prussia, but have had never a word to say of Mr. Kinsley’s valuable treatise. We mention this plain truth more in sorrow than in anger.

Mr. Kinsley’s book, which now lies before us, treats of topics of the greatest social importance. The introductory pages give a careful description of Mr. Kinsley’s palatial refectory; and following these are several chapters upon the prices of viands, upon the lofty dignity of which (the prices) Mr. Kinsley’s claims to literary recognition would appear to be based. We learn that we can obtain a quart of Nesselrode pudding with Maraschino sauce for one dollar and a quarter, a quart of _tutti-frutti_ ice for one dollar, a dozen _pommes de terre fraises_ for three dollars, _sauterne frappe_ for two dollars and a half per gallon, chicken _à la Rheine_ soup for one dollar per quart, _à la Marengo_ sauce for two dollars per quart, _fricadelle de foie gras_ for seventy-five cents per pound, etc. This important, not to say necessary, information is supplemented with a large number of recipes, which should prove of vast value to the humbler classes in this city. These recipes give careful instruction as to the compounding of mushroom salads, terrapin croquettes, bisque of whitebait tongues, fricassee of canary-birds’ livers, and other viands common to the groaning board of the metropolitan day-laborer. These recipes are stated in that idiomatic, direct English which instantly conveys intelligence to the mind of the reader, and joy ineffable to the soul of the printer at forty cents per one thousand ems. So much for what we may term the sordid, worldly, practical part of the book. On the succeeding pages the versatile author proceeds to treat of weddings, parties, receptions, etc., and we note with pleasure that the importance of elaborate and costly refreshments is urged in each instance. But it is in his chapter on “Etiquette of the Table,” that—if we may be allowed to use the figure—Mr. Kinsley out-Kinsleys Kinsley. Perchance it was this chapter that gave our contemporary, “The Dial,” and other critical reviews, pause. Howbeit, we shall venture to regale our readers with a very few specimen excerpts,—

“Fashions change in modes of eating.”

“Never appear impatient, and employ the time in agreeable
conversation.”

“Soup should be eaten carefully.”

“Never eat with a knife.”

“Never rise until the meal is finished.”

“Sit upright, with grace and dignity.”

“A fork should be used gracefully.”

“Do not pick the teeth with the cutlery.”

“Do not break the china or glassware unless you expect to pay double
price for it.”

These are a few of the pleasant and admirable fundamental laws which author Kinsley lays down for the guidance of his patrons, presumably the _élite_, the _crême de la crême_, of Chicago. And, possibly with economic ends in view, Mr. Kinsley warns his readers, “Never eat so much of any article as to attract attention.”

So we say we like the book; and, having perused it carefully, we feel warranted in declaring that it appears to us that none could quit Mr. Kinsley’s soothing influences without exclaiming, in the historic language once employed by Ali Baba, “Allah be praised for this deliverance!”

_Literature and Art._

WE acknowledge the receipt of a handsome volume entitled “The Trunk Tragedy: A Complete History of the Murder of Preller and the Trial of Maxwell.” The author is none other than Judge E. A. Noonan of St. Louis, a real-estate and house-renting agent, and _littérateur_ of marked ability. The book is strongly written, and a number of stirring illustrations by leading local artists give the work a peculiar value. Bound in paper, with a full-page illustration of the unfortunate victim on the cover, for the reasonable price of twenty cents, this _chef-d’œuvre_ should find its way into every home.

* * * * *

ANGELO LUDOVICO, the famous Chicago sculptor, has just completed a bass-relief bust of William Shakespeare, the immortal bard of Avon. The likeness is a superb one, the artist having made his designs from the only authentic autograph, now in possession of Mr. Gunther, the well-known candy-virtuoso.

_The Cooley Poems._

Col. Jasper Eastman, one of the oldest and most respected citizens of Adrian, Mich., sends us twenty-eight poems, which he says were written by Judge Thomas M. Cooley, the venerable and learned jurist recently appointed to the Inter-state Commission. These poems, we are told, were published originally in “The Ann Arbor News,” which paper was owned and conducted twenty-five years ago by one of Judge Cooley’s most intimate friends. The period between the publication of the first of these poems and the publication of the last was eight years (from 1853 to 1861); and, as they appeared, they were cut out, and pasted into Col. Eastman’s scrap-book: it is to this old scrap-book that we are indebted for the specimen gems which we are enabled to put before our readers at this time. Col. Eastman says, that, while it is generally known among his old associates that Judge Cooley used to be a great hand for writing poems, it is not known nor believed outside of that limited circle that the learned jurist ever did, or ever could, unbend to the muse. “People who know him to be a severe moralist and a profound scholar,” writes this old friend, “will laugh you to scorn if you try to make them believe that Cooley ever condescended to express his fancies in verse. Yet you will agree with me, I think, when I say that most of the learned men of all ages _have_ written poetry, and that, therefore, there is no positive reason why the leading intellect of Michigan should not write poetry.”

There is among psychologists a very pronounced belief that the practice of writing verse serves as the best escape-valve (if we may so term it) for the emotional nature of man. The emotional nature, albeit it is the lowest part of man’s intellectual being, is earliest developed in the race and in the individual. Hence it is the first to spring to the control of the mind when the intellect is urged in any direction which prevents his nature having an escape-valve. It has been observed from the most ancient times, that the severe legislator and moralist has often exhibited secret vices or peculiarities which were but the expression of his repressed emotional nature. This repression has produced, as its resulting rebound, ruthless and horrible crimes; but very often—even in the cases of illustrious statesmen guilty of monstrous crimes—_further_ crime has been prevented by an outburst of the emotional nature in the direction of poetry, which afforded the escape-valve so imperatively demanded.

It is very probable that Solon’s occasional pursuit of the art of poetical composition served to prevent him from falling victim to the laws he himself made, and enabled him to stand for all time as the stern moralist. The poetry of the ancient Spartans, Romans, Germans, Saxons, and Scandinavians did much to preserve those races from the degeneration which must have resulted had their otherwise repressed emotional natures not found a vent in song. It was only his devotion to poetry that prevented Chaucer from becoming the utterly corrupt politician which such court associations as his made others. Had Edward V. stuck to the poetry of his early years, his crimes would not have lost the crown to his descendants. The poetic tendencies of James I. served to prevent his utterly vicious character from fully demonstrating itself. Francis Bacon’s secret poetizing kept him from becoming totally depraved by the court around him. Richelieu’s poetry served to prevent his indulgence in dangerous methods of satisfying the emotional nature, gave him an extended lease of life, and in divers ways assisted him in the accomplishment of his ends. Mazarin’s poetry gave utterance in a healthy way to an emotionalism which would have been dangerous to repress. The poetry of the statesmen of the era of the English revolution—Montague, Somers the jurist, and Harley—saved them the disgrace of finding satisfaction for their emotional natures in secret excesses, like those of Jeffreys. Great lawyers, statesmen, and divines—Mansfield, Maule, Mackintosh, Macaulay, Fox, Burke, Beust, Disraeli, Thiers, Seward, Webster, Leo XIII.—have recognized that the proper balance of the intellectual nature required that the emotional nature, repressed by daily tasks and natural environments, should find an escape-valve in some honest and healthy direction; and all found it in poetic composition.

But it is not our purpose to seek to explain, or to apologize for, the poems which Judge Cooley has written: we will say simply, that, environed as he was by a sternly moral community, his emotional nature found vent in song, and these songs speak most eloquently for themselves.

Those who knew Judge Cooley at that time say that he was “a long, awkward boy, with big features, moony eyes, a shock of coarse hair, and the merest shadow of a mustache.” A faded daguerrotype of the young poet is preserved, and from it we have produced a tolerably fair copy, which will surely interest the admirers of good verse. It appears that young Cooley’s first poetical attempts were in the direction of versifications and paraphrases of the ancients. Fully half the specimens before us are illustrations of work of this kind, at which the young man exhibited great proficiency. Here is a bit from Menecrates that is really prime; it is as good a piece of versification as any done by the more pretentious dabblers in Greek anthology:—

OLD AGE.

When age is absent, we are eager for it;
But when it comes, oh! how we all abhor it!
So, on the whole, we think we like it better
When it is still a debt, and we the debtor.

In a lighter vein, but with consummate delicacy, and with wonderful fidelity to the text of Lucian, young Cooley thus pays his respects to

A CERTAIN FOOL.

A fool, when plagued by fleas at night,
Quoth, “Since these neighbors so despite me,
I think I will put out the light,
And then they cannot see to bite me!”

And here is Plato’s famous quatrain to

ASTER.

Seeing thee gaze into the night,
I would I were the yonder skies,
That tenderly, dear love, I might
Behold thee with a myriad eyes.

In the collection before us, there are two Latin poems, showing that the young poet was quite as felicitous at Latin composition as in versification in his native tongue. One of these poems is entitled “De Consuetudine et de Gustibus,” and treats in hexameter the evils of political methods at that time (1859). The other is a rollicking song which (a foot-note explains) was sung at the junior class supper at Ann Arbor, May 14, 1854. We give a specimen stanza:—

“Nicyllam bellis oculis—
(Videre est amare)
Carminibus et poculis,
Tra la la, tra la la,
Me placet propinare;
Tra la la, tra la la—
Me placet propinare!”

In 1855 the following poem appeared anonymously in “The Ann Arbor News,” and at once elicited general attention. N. P. Willis wrote out from New York to the editor of the “News,” asking the name of the author; and to this inquiry the editor answered, “A young barrister of this village, named Thomas M. Cooley.”

THE DIVINE LULLABY.

I hear thy voice, dear Lord;
I hear it by the stormy sea
When winter nights are black and wild;
And when affright I call to thee,
It calms my fears, and whispers me,
“Sleep well, my child.”

I hear thy voice, dear Lord,
In singing winds, in falling snow,
The curfew chime, the midnight bell:
“Sleep well, my child,” it murmurs low,
“The guardian angels come and go—
O child, sleep well!”

I hear thy voice, dear Lord:
Ay, though the singing winds be stilled,
Though hushed the tumult of the deep,
My fainting heart with anguish chilled,
By thy assuring tone is thrilled—
“Fear not and sleep.”

Speak on—speak on, dear Lord;
And when the last dread night is near,
With doubts and fears and terrors wild,
Oh, let my soul expiring hear
Only these words of heavenly cheer,
“Sleep well, my child!”

This beautiful hymn was reprinted far and wide, and was incorporated, we are told, in “The Golden Harp” series of choice religious lyrics compiled by Ticknor & Co., Boston, 1857.[1]

Footnote 1:

This lullaby has been set to music by Rev. Hon. N. K. Griggs of
Beatrice, Neb. The composer has changed the phraseology of the lullaby
somewhat, “so as to make the tune sing smoothly,” as he says.

But the most pretentious of Cooley’s poems—with the exception of his Latin hexameter discourse—was his “Vision of the Holy Grail,” a graceful imitation of Old English, printed in the holiday edition of “The Ann Arbor News” in 1856. Although this poem is somewhat longer than we could wish at this time, when our space is limited, we are fain to make room for it as a delicately conceived and artistically executed piece of literature.

THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL.

_Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth
To-fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This holy Christmasse time,
But give us of thy heavenly cheere,
That we may hold thy love most deere,
And know thy peace sublime._

· · · · ·

Full merry waxed King Pelles court
With yule-tide cheer and yule-tide sport;
And, when the board was spread,
Now wit ye well, twas good to see
So fair and brave a company,
With Pelles at the head.

“Come hence, Elaine,” King Pelles cried,
“Come hence, and sit ye by my side;
For never yet, I trow,
Have gentle virtues like to thine,
Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine,
Nor shall be nevermo.”

“Swote sir, my father,” quoth Elaine,
“Me it repents to give thee pain,
Yet tarry I may not;
For I shall soond and I shall die,
If I behold this company,
And see not Launcelot!

“My heart shall have no love but this—
My lips shall know none others kiss,
Save only, father, thine;
So graunt me leave to seek my bower—
The lonely chamber in the toure,
Where sleeps his child and mine.”

Then frowned the king in sore despite—
Sais: “May the divell take that knight,
For that the churl hath lied!
A base, unchristian paynim he,
Else, by my beard, he would not be
A recreant to his bride!

“Oh, I had liefer yield my life
Than see thee the deserted wife
Of traitrous Launcelot!
Yet, an thou hast no mind to stay,
Go with thy damosels away—
Lo, I’ll detain ye not.”

Her damosels in goodly train,
Back to her chamber led Elaine;
And, when her eyes were cast
Upon her babe, her tears did flow,
And she did wail and wepe as though
Her heart had like to brast.

The while she grieved, the yule-tide sport
Waxed lustier in King Pelles court,
And louder houre by houre
The echoes of the rout were borne
To where the lady all forlorn
Made moning in the toure.

“Swete Chryste,” she cried, “ne let me hear
These ribald sounds of yule-tide cheer,
That mock at mine and me;
Graunt that my sore affliction cease,
And give me of the heavenly peace
That comes with thoughts of thee.”

Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light
Made all that lonely chamber bright;
And o’er the infant’s bed
A spirit hand, as samite pale,
Held sodaine forth the Holy Grail
Above the infants head.

And from the sacred golden cup
A subtle incense floated up,
And filled the conscious air;
Which, when she breathed, the fair Elaine
Forgot her grief, forgot her pain,
Forgot her sore despair.

And as the Grails mysterious balm
Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm,
Great mervail twas to see
The sleeping child stretch one hand up,
As if in dreams he held the cup,
Which none mought win but he.

Through all the night King Pelles court
Made mighty cheer and goodly sport,
Nor never recked the joy
That was vouchsafed that Christmasse-tide
To Launcelots deserted bride,
And to her sleeping boy.

· · · · ·

_Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth
To-fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This present Christmasse night,
But send among us, to and fro,
Thy Holy Grail, that men may know
The joy with wisdom dight!_

It appears that Judge Cooley had, and exhibited ever and anon, a humorous tendency. His “Lines to a Blue Jay” is as delicate a bit of fun as we have ever read. It represents the poet addressing a blue jay that seeks by its querulous carping to keep the poet from plucking plums: having got possession of the disputed branch, the poet facetiously concludes,—

“When I had shooed the bird away,
And plucked the plums, a quart or more,
I noted that the saucy Jay,
Albeit he had naught to say,
Appeared much _bluer_ than before.”

In one of the poems, entitled “The Unknown Bards,” occurs this quatrain, which is another fair illustration of Judge Cooley’s skill in dealing with the anthology of the dead languages:—

TO PHIDIAS, ON HIS STATUE OF JUPITER.

This noble form these godlike features prove
That, when you shaped his figure for our view,
You sought Olympus, there to look on Jove—
Or else Jove came to earth, and posed for you.

The last poem which Judge Cooley printed was a parody on the old song of “Dixie.” It was published in the Ann Arbor paper on July 4, 1861; and from it we take two specimen stanzas:—

“Undimmed shall float that starry banner
Over Charleston and Savannah;
Far away, etc.
And Bunker Hill and Pensacola
Owe alike its mission holy;
Far away, etc.

Then sound the march! We pledge devotion
In our blood on land or ocean;
Far away, etc.
Till every traitor in the nation
Gains a Haman’s elevation.
Far away, etc.”

It seems a pity that such poetic talent as Judge Cooley evinced was not suffered to develop. His increasing professional duties and his political employments put a quietus to those finer intellectual indulgences with which his earlier years were fruitful. Still, we doubt not that, through all the noble practical service he has rendered to his country, he has carried the old-time fondness for the muse, and that now, in the fulness of his distinguished career, he will view without regret the buds of his poetic genius herein recalled.

_Judge Cooley’s Denial._

In a speech at one of the collegiate suppers, Judge Cooley has taken occasion to deny that he ever wrote the poems so ably criticised in the foregoing paper. It is rather late for the judge to come lumbering to the front with his disclaimer, yet it is possible that he required a good deal of time to hunt up and examine the back files of his poetical works. The judge is now about sixty years of age; and his friends assure us that he has been writing poetry all his life,—not for publication, but simply for the pleasure he finds in weaving into rhyme the beautiful fancies of his active imagination. It is estimated by a friend, who has known him intimately for forty years, that if Judge Cooley’s poems were collected and printed, they would fill sixteen royal octavo volumes. These poems, we are told, treat of every theme imaginable, from “To Niagara Falls by an August Moonlight” to “The Dimple in my Thisbe’s Arm.” It seems a great pity that the several thousand epics, ballads, sonnets, roundels, triolets, odes, jigs, etc., which Judge Cooley has composed and will confess to—it seems a pity, we say, that these masterpieces are not to be had in collected form for the edification and instruction of our public. Since we have referred to his Niagara ode, we will ask what sentiment could be finer than this:—

“See how that Luna pauses in her nocturnal soaring,
To view thee tumbling in thy bed with fierce Gargantuan snoring.”

And what a startling contrast to this sublime treatment do Judge Cooley’s playful, amorous lines present:—

“Cloanthus sings his Chloe’s tresses,
For Cynthia’s lips Demetus sighs,
And Tityrus in verse addresses
The love that lurks in Julia’s eyes;
Each, on Icarian pinions soaring,
Applauds some ostentatious charm:
But _I’m_ contented with adoring
The dimple in my Thisbe’s arm.”

Yet we find Judge Cooley advising his young friends not to indulge in poetizing! A man who has made a success in the highest of literary arts ought to encourage others to follow in his footsteps—ought he not? Or does the judge want all the glory himself?

_Literary Notes._

“THE SWINE-BREEDER’S STUDBOOK” for 1887 is at hand, and brings its usual amount of valuable information. Not an unimportant feature of this volume is the portrait of the magnificent barrow “Chester White King,” which took the first premium at the Kewanee fair last fall.

* * * * *

SQUIRE ENOS HAPGOOD, who expired by a vicious mule’s kick on the West Side last Monday, was one of the most prominent patrons of literature in the West. Before her death, his wife had been a subscriber to “Godey’s Lady’s Book” for twenty odd years.

_Mr. Doty Mad._

Mr. Henry K. Doty, one of the most prominent citizens, and the leading hide and pelt dealer, in the North-West, has just returned from a European tour. He has been absent about four months; and in that time he has made a visit to every European country, and has become thoroughly acquainted with the customs, manners, and languages of the different people. He spent about seventy-five thousand dollars on the trip; but this could not be called an extravagant sum when one takes into consideration the superb paintings, statuary, and other works of virtue, that he brought back with him. In Paris, upon the Roo de Rivoly alone, he purchased fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of pictures; and in Brussels he bought several thousand dollars’ worth of those elegant carpets from which that city derives its name. Mr. Doty says that he was well treated everywhere except in England. He is specially bitter against Mr. Phelps, our representative at the court of St. James.

“This man Phelps,” says he, “is a little, dried-up, snobbish Vermont lawyer, with a soul no bigger than a huckleberry. I dyed my mustache, and put on my dress-suit and my twenty-thousand-dollar diamond bosom-pin, and called to see him. A fine specimen he is to represent our wealth and culture! I don’t believe his clothes cost more than twenty dollars a suit.

“‘I suppose I ought to call on the queen,’ says I.

“He didn’t say any thing; and I continued, ‘Would you mind introducing me?’

“‘Really, Mr. Doty,’ says he, ‘I do not feel like presenting an entire stranger to her Majesty.’

“‘Oh! you needn’t be scared,’ says I, ‘for I carry as big a letter of credit as any American in London; and when it comes to culture, and that sort of thing, I can knock the socks off any of your lords and marqueezies.’

“Well, will you believe it? he had the impudence to shove a printed list of questions at me.

“‘You will have to answer these on oath before I can tell you whether I can present you to her Majesty,’ says he.

“I was as mad as a Texas steer. Here are some of the questions: ‘Did you ever have a grandfather? and, if so, what was his vocation?’ ‘Have you contracted the tooth-brush habit?’ ‘Are you addicted to the use of the double negative?’ ‘Spell phthisis, strychnine, and pneumonia.’ Fine questions these to put to a gentleman worth a cool million! I told him to go to —— with his queen; and I’m going to have my private secretary write a letter to the President, complaining of Phelps, and demanding that he be discharged.”

_Chicago Palmistry._

Mr. Heron-Allen, the handsome and talented young hand-reader, is making a barrel of money in Chicago. Our most distinguished society leaders are consulting him, and are delighted with the flattering pictures which he finds in their dainty palms. It is understood that the enterprising young professor—who is as ingenious as he is learned—has found it necessary to invent a system particularly adapted to the requirements of the average Chicago hand. It would be quite as unfair to judge the Chicago hand by the ordinary rules of palmistry as it would be to drag the Shakspearian drama down to the level of criticism required in the appreciation of a modern horse-play comedy. The truth seems to be, that the Chicago hand is the ideal one—the realization of the poetic dreams of the palmister: it is the perfection of every thing—not necessarily a purely spiritualized hand, but a beautiful and symmetrical combination or blending of the best features of the human hand.

The line marked A in this accurate exhibit is what Mr. Heron-Allen most felicitously terms the pork-line. In every Chicago hand, it is distinct and long. If at the lower end it rounds off toward the ball of the thumb (the _Mons Prudentiœ_), it is a sure indication that the patient attends strictly to prudent business methods; that he pursues only the vocation in which he has embarked, and that he eschews all those gambling exploits commonly called speculation. If, on the contrary, this pork-line turns to the outside of the palm (the _Mons Asinorum_), it indicates positively that the subject is inclined to desultory deals in wheat, corn, and other fluctuating staples of trade.

The sand-line is B: it betokens prowess and valor in the execution of those designs inspired by the pork-line (A). This line (B) is deeply marked in the average Chicago hand. It is generally conceded, we think, that in all grades, brands, and departments of business and culture, the Chicagoan exhibits more sand than is to be found anywhere else on the surface of the earth. In a great many instances it is so strongly marked that its shadow is plainly outlined on the back of the hand.

These two lines—A and B—exhaust what are called the physical lines. Next comes the intellectual or literary line C. It is this demarcation, broad and distinct, that causes the wearer to take pleasure in literature, to join literary clubs, to inquire into the mysteries of summer philosophy, to subscribe for the local trade weeklies, to buy handsome wall-paper, and to have the seaside novels rebound in half-calf. If it were not for this line in our hands, the newsboys would sell mighty few books on our trains, and Billy Pinkerton would never have become famous as an author.

The line D is common to the Chicago hand: it argues a fondness for the fine arts, for music, and for all articles of vertoo—such as piano-fortes, folding-beds, wax flowers, race-horses, perfumery, $4 opera, pug dogs, statuary, Browning’s poems, dyspepsia, and lawn tennis. Of late this art-line has got so deep in a great many Chicago hands, that it had to be sewed up by a doctor.

The line E is not found in every instance. It is most commonly met with among the wealthiest of our cultured people—those whose culture has come to them with their sudden acquisition of great wealth. It extends about the wrist, and is clearly marked about three times a day. It is called the water-line.

_A Marvellous Invention._

It is narrated, that, once upon a time, there lived a youth who required so much money for the gratification of his dissolute desires, that he was compelled to sell his library in order to secure funds. Thereupon, he despatched a letter to his venerable father, saying, “Rejoice with me, O father! for already am I beginning to live upon the profits of my books.”

Professor Andrew J. Thorpe has invented an ingenious machine which will be likely to redound to the physical comfort and the intellectual benefit of our fellow-citizens. We are disposed to treat of this invention at length, for two reasons: first, because it is a Chicago invention; and, second, because it seems particularly calculated to answer an important demand that has existed in Chicago for a long time. Professor Thorpe’s machine is nothing less than a combination parlor, library, and folding bedstead, adapted to the drawing-room, the study, the dining-room, and the sleeping apartment,—a producer capable of giving to the world thousands upon thousands of tomes annually, and these, too, in a shape most attractive to our public. Professor Thorpe himself is of New-England birth and education; and, until he came West, he was called “Uncle Andy Thorpe.” For many years he lived in New Britain, Conn.; and there he pursued the vocation of a manufacturer of sofas, settees, settles, and bed-lounges. He came to Chicago three years ago; and not long thereafter, he discovered that the most imperative demand of this community was for a bed which combined, “at one and the same time” (as he says, for he is no rhetorician), the advantages of a bed and the advantages of a library. In a word, Chicago was a literary centre; and it required, even in the matter of its sleeping _apparata_, machines which, when not in use for bed-purposes, could be utilized to the nobler ends of literary display. In this emergency the fertile Yankee wit of the immigrant came to his assistance; and about a year ago, he put upon the market the ingenious and valuable combination, which has commanded the admiration and patronage of our best literary circles, and which at this moment we are pleased to discourse of.

It has been our good fortune to inspect the superb line of folding library-bedsteads which Professor Thorpe offers to the public at startlingly low figures, and we are surprised at the ingenuity and the learning apparent in these contrivances. The Essay bedstead is a particularly handsome piece of furniture, being made of polished mahogany, elaborately carved, and intricately embellished throughout. When closed, this bedstead presents the verisimilitude of a large book-case filled with the essays of Emerson, Carlyle, Bacon, Montaigne, Hume, Macaulay, Addison, Steele, Johnson, Budgell, Hughes, and others. These volumes are made in one piece, of the best seasoned oak, and are hollow within throughout; so that each shelf constitutes in reality a chest or drawer which may be utilized for divers domestic purposes. In these drawers a husband may keep his shirts or neckties; or in them a wife may stow away her furs or flannel underwear in summer, and her white _piqués_ and muslins in winter. These drawers (each of which extends to the height of twelve inches) are faced in superb tree-calf, and afford a perfect representation of rows of books, the title and number of each volume being printed in massive gold characters. The weight of the six drawers in this Essay bedstead does not exceed twelve pounds; but the machine is so stoutly built as to admit of the drawers containing a weight equivalent to six hundred pounds without interfering with the ease and nicety of the machine’s operation. Upon touching a gold-mounted knob, the book-case divides, the front part of it descends; and, presto! you have as beautiful a couch as ever Sancho could have envied.

This Essay bedstead is sold for four hundred and fifty dollars. Another design, with the case and bed in black walnut, the books in _papier maché_, and none but English essayists in the collection, can be had for a hundred dollars.

A British Poets’ folding-bed can be had for three hundred dollars. This is an imitation of the blue-and-gold edition published in Boston some years ago. Busts of Shakespeare and of Wordsworth appear at the front upper corners of the book-case, and these serve as pedestals to the machine when it is unfolded into a bedstead. This style, we are told by Professor Thorpe, has been officially indorsed by the poetry committee of the Chicago Literary Club. A second design, in royal octavo white pine, and omitting the works of Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, and Herrick, is quoted at a hundred and fifty dollars.

The Historical folding-bed contains complete sets of Hume, Gibbon, Guizot, Prescott, Macaulay, Bancroft, Lingard, Buckle, etc., together with Haines’s “History of Lake-County Indians” and Peck’s “Gazetteer of Illinois,” bound in half-calf, and having a storage space of three feet by fourteen inches to each row, there being six rows of these books. You can get this folding-bed for two hundred dollars, or there is a second set in cloth that can be had for a hundred dollars. The Dramatists’ folding-bed (No. 1) costs three hundred dollars, bound in tree-calf hard maple, the case being in polished cherry, elaborately carved. The works included in this library are Shakespeare’s, Schiller’s, Molière’s, Goethe’s, Jonson’s, Bartley Campbell’s, and many others. Style No. 2 of this folding-bed has not yet been issued, owing to some difficulty which Professor Thorpe has had with Eastern publishers; but when the matter of copyright has been adjusted, the works of Plautus, Euripides, Thucydides, and other classic dramatists, will be brought out for the delectation of appreciative Chicagoans.

The Novelists’ bed can be had in numerous styles. One contains the novels of Mackenzie, Fielding, Smollett, Walpole, Dickens, Thackeray, and Scott, and is bound in tree-calf: another, better adapted to the serious-minded (especially to young women), is made up of the novels of Maria Edgeworth, Miss Jane Porter, Miss Burney, and the Rev. E. P. Roe. This style can be had for fifty dollars. But the Novelists’ folding-bed is manufactured in a dozen different styles, and one should consult the catalogue before ordering.

The folding-bed that pleased us most in all Professor Thorpe’s collection was the one that is called the Chicago Authors’ Own. It is issued in numerous styles, it being the wish of the manufacturer to place the boon within the reach of all. This series (if we may so term it) is made up of the works of Professor William Mathews, Col. George P. Upton, Col. Franc B. Wilkie, Franklin H. Head, Esq., Isaac E. Adams, the Rev. George C. Lorimer, Helen Starrett, Frank Gray, Col. Andrew Shuman, Capt. John Coulter, Michael Ahern, and of the many, many other _littérateurs_ whose genius has raised Chicago to her enjoyment of the proudest literary distinction. These works can be had in every style. The cheapest, which is bound in modest _papier maché_, and includes a durable husk mattress, costs but twenty dollars; from this minimum the price runs up to two hundred dollars; and a special order (including Haines’s “Indian History” and the folio libretto of Pratt’s “Zenobia”) has recently been filled for a wealthy South-side gentleman of letters, who paid six hundred dollars for the collection.

There is no telling to what extent this folding-bed industry may not reach. As our community grows more and more literary each year, there will, of course, be an increasing demand for these luxuries, and accumulating wealth will enable our people to gratify their elevated tastes. Professor Thorpe seems to be just the man to be at the head of an industry calculated to pander to the literary instincts of Chicago folk. He is earnest and enterprising: even now he is at work upon a folding trundle-bed for children, which will contain a library adapted to develop proper traits in the young,—such standard books as Watts’s divine poems, the Rollo series, Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” Cotton Mather’s “Spiritual Milk for Babes,” etc.

Speaking of the delights of literary pursuits, the eloquent Cicero once said, “These things [_studia_] nourish our youth, they fortify us in our age, they make life beautiful, they afford us a refuge and a solace in adversity, they delight us at home, they do not hinder our practical relations with men, _they are with us in our sleep_, they accompany us upon our journeys, and, even afar from civilization, they grant us unceasing pleasure.” There were no patent library-beds in Cicero’s time. There was no Professor Thorpe to unfold the fruit of his Yankee ingenuity upon Roman civilization. Old Cicero must have had the spirit of prophecy upon him when he uttered the words we have italicized above. The propitious gods must have given him an inkling of the Professor Thorpe that was to be.

_Books and Authors._

AMONG the articles of virtue recently purchased by our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. Townley J. Morris, is one of the first English translations of Virgil’s Æneid. This translation was made, we understand, under the personal supervision of the eminent poet himself.

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THERE is a current rumor that Judge Thomas M. Cooley, chairman of the interstate Comus commission, has written a poem entitled “Trunk Lines to a Railroad System.”

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CAPT. BEN WINGATE has named his new barge the “Felicia Hemans,” and the same departed for Saginaw last evening for a cargo of shingles.

_Chicago Hamlets._

The highly successful engagement which Mr. George C. Miln is playing in this city at this time, affords us the long-desired opportunity of paying that tribute of admiration and of respect which the genius of the eminent Chicago tragedian would seem to merit. We confess that we have viewed with considerable alarm the homage which certain foreign and Eastern actors (invading our territory with an audacity amounting almost to effrontery) have wrung from our populace, which we fear is too ready to depreciate the paramount work of home-production, and to fly into ecstasies over less meritorious, but more pretentious, importations. Recognizing it to be a lamentable truth, that, whether he be an actor or only a prophet, a man is not without honor save at home,—still we believe that Mr. Miln’s re-appearance in the city that claims him for her own will go a long way toward relieving the public mind hereabouts of that cruel misapprehension, that, when Mr. Miln quitted theology for theatrics, a good preacher was spoiled for a bad actor. We doubt not that if they were called upon to testify touching this matter, the large and enthusiastic church sociables which are crowding the Columbia Theatre this week, would heartily indorse us when we said that Mr. Miln’s personations evinced the possession of a genius that is rarely met with upon the dramatic stage.

Returning from a provincial tour, as vicissitudinous as it was extended, and heralded by the encomiums of the discriminating press of such intelligent communities as Topeka, Leadville, Cheyenne, Des Moines, Tipton, etc., it beliked Mr. Miln to inaugurate his engagement in Chicago with a presentation of his favorite tragedy, the _chef d’œuvre_ of his long list of dramatic successes; namely, the sublime tragedy of “Hamlet.” Sombre as this play is, it has, nevertheless, become so popular in this city, that not infrequently are whole scenes of it enacted in the private theatres of our wealthy citizens; many of our people have committed to memory the beautiful soliloquies in which it abounds; our _literati_ have composed ingenious screeds about its alleged author, and it is about this same author that distinguished Eastern scholars came here to discourse,—in short, the tragedy of “Hamlet” has become so well known in Chicago, that he who attempts its public production must possess rare powers in order to succeed in winning the public plaudits.

It was Edwin Forrest, we think, who first played “Hamlet” in Chicago. At that time this was but a ragged town—the rival of St. Louis. The muskrat and the wagtail snipe then frolicked and disported where now the palatial residence of George M. Pullman rears its pretentious front; at that time, too, Uncle Dick Hooley sang topical songs with great _éclat_; Col. J. H. McVicker flourished as the popular comedian; Dr. Patterson and Long John Wentworth snowballed each other on the bleak prairie where Marshall Field’s big wholesale stone fort now stands; and the untrammelled Indian coped with the buffalo on the rolling waste where now are to be found the packing-houses, the lard-refineries, and the rendering-establishments, of our most cultured fellow-townsmen, the members of the Chicago Literary Club. To this community, as it existed at that time, Edwin Forrest’s “Hamlet” was a revelation, and a delightful one. It came as a kind of encouragement to the ambitious, bustling, noisy Western town. It was a lusty Hamlet,—stout, stubborn, forceful, and vigorous as a prosperous butcher. It was not the boyish Hamlet of a Wilson Barrett, nor the melancholy Hamlet of a Booth, nor the impressive Hamlet of a Lawrence Barrett, nor yet the foundered Hamlet of an Irving: it was the sturdy, square-toed, honest, varicose-veined personation of the actor whose greatness is most keenly appreciated by those who have heard tell of him.

Mr. Edwin Booth has given Chicago two Hamlets,—the first many years ago, the second quite recently. His first Hamlet was of the cold-feet order: it was the particular admiration of young women who ate slate-pencils, and of men who believed in female suffrage. Having seen this Hamlet several times, we were convinced, that, if the original Hamlet were in reality what Mr. Booth represented, he could have been relieved of his malady by judicious prescriptions of vermifuge. Mr. Booth’s second Hamlet—the one he now presents—is a much healthier one; a trifle lame and a trifle slow, perhaps, but still a great improvement upon the morbid impersonation of twenty years ago.

While Mr. Booth’s dyspeptic Dane was in the height of his popularity, along came a Frenchman from Alsace—a parley-voo of the name of Fechter—who startled us with a Hamlet which seemed to be the child of that heartless, prurient Dutchman Goethe’s imagination. This grotesque innovation shocked our sensitive optics with gaudy silk tights and colored hosiery. Yet there were those who professed to admire this refined blasphemy. Even so famous a critic as Miss Kate Field declared that Fechter’s Hamlet—the left one—was a poem. But this was many years ago: at that time Miss Field was a giddy, sentimental girl, just out of a convent. It is probable that her ideal Hamlet is no longer a strawberry blonde with Dolly Varden nether garments.

Another Hamlet which we must speak of is Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s; and, to quote a cant phrase, we speak of it more in sorrow than in anger. We regard it as a cold, passionless, bloodless Hamlet, with just the faintest suggestion of bronchitis. It is a self-conscious Hamlet, and a well-bred Hamlet: it never forgets the “l. u. e.,” nor neglects to measure off so much carpet to as much heptameter. It is our opinion,—the result of long and conscientious study,—that the most comfortable time in the year to hear Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s Hamlet is August; but even then, in order to insure against the hostile effects of low temperature, one should be provided with a lap-robe.

Two Hamlets have come over to us from England. The first was Mr. Henry Irving, who reaped a golden harvest as a reward for his admirable imitations of the young American comedian, Henry E. Dixey. Of this gentleman’s Hamlet we have little praise. It was stiff, halting, and jerky throughout. Perceiving how unevenly it ran, we would not have been surprised had the spavined Dane interrupted his death-soliloquy with Gloster’s lines,—

“Where sits deformity to mock my body
And shape my legs of an unequal size?”

A much more symmetrical Hamlet was Mr. Wilson Barrett’s, yet even this performance was not without its defects. It was too reposeful, too undulating, too effeminate in its contours, and too sensuous in its movement. It was such a Hamlet as, we surmise, would create a profound sensation among the dudes if it were to appear at the head of the procession in the grand march in the third act of one of Col. John A. McCaull’s comic operas. Still, this kind of Hamlet has its admirers; and as it is called the boy Hamlet, we can at least hope that it will acquire the sharply defined angles of virility when it has put on the toga virilis.

We prefer not to speak of Miss Anna Dickinson’s Hamlet: we shall be content to give our readers a picture of it. The creation, as will be observed, is tolerably symmetrical; and, in spite of those environments which naturally and properly curtail a complete view of its merits, it is altogether of the substantial order.

But all these Hamlets fade into comparative nothingness when we place them beside Mr. Miln’s Hamlet, and attempt to judge them by those same rules and specifications and between the very lines which are required in a fair criticism of Mr. Miln’s genius and art.

How vividly occurs to us at this moment the heart-cry of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, “I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg!” Or these others, quoting old Toby Belch, might say to our Chicago tragedian, “I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard!”