Chapter III: Preface (3)

The rooms of the Chicago contingent were the resort of the rural _littérateurs_ with “something to read you for your private opinion.” Poets came in from every part of Indiana, and each of these poets had a bundle of original dialect poetry. Mad because they were not billed in the programme of the convention, these inspired creatures insisted upon reading their verses to everybody they met. Mr. Maurice Thompson seems to have been the man who impressed the Chicago visitors most favorably: he was president of the convention, and one of the first things he did was to tell the poets that they were nuisances. As the convention proceeded, and bedlam began to prevail, Mr. Thompson sat quietly in his chair, regarding the scene with an expression of hopelessness and contempt commingled. When the last hours of the convention drew on apace, the poets and authors made a constant tumult for the privilege of reading their poems and things. Of course, there was not time for all to be heard; and the result was, that each tried to make himself or herself heard. The confusion was indescribably ludicrous.

Bill Nye was so disgusted that he retired early from the fray; and so did James Whitcomb Riley; Thompson staid because he had to.

One old lady about seventy-five years of age had prepared a poem; but when she looked in her reticule for the manuscript, she could not find it. Her efforts to recover her lost poem would have been funny had they not been pathetic. She set everybody to looking under the chairs and on the tables for the manuscript; and even the cover of the piano was lifted, in the suspicion that the lost poem might have found its way into that instrument.

“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you!” said one gushing Hoosier _littérateur_ to a Chicago lady, “for you can tell me whether the author of ‘The Humbler Poets’ came down from Chicago with you. I would so like to see him!”

It was a good thing for the gentleman in question that he was a thousand miles away. But there were constant and numerous inquiries after him by poets and poetesses who claimed to have “several little gems” of their own which they felt he would “be glad to add to his collection.”

At first it was determined to hold the next convention in Chicago; but subsequently this determination was reconsidered, and the executive committee was empowered to call the next convention at any place it might choose. One of the Indiana poetesses approached a Chicago visitor, and said triumphantly, “Well, you aren’t goin’ to get it, after all!”

“Get what?”

“The next convention.”

“Well, that is a matter that doesn’t concern me at all,” replied the Chicagoan. “I’m not here representing Chicago: I’ve come simply to report your proceedings for my paper.”

“Oh, yes! I know,” said the poetess; “but Chicago has acted so indifferent about it that she can’t have it now. Why, if they had agreed upon Terry Hut, I’d have risen right up in the convention, and thanked ’em, and bid ’em welcome!”

_The Poet’s Corner._

“M. E. B.”—The only English translation of Goethe’s “Faust” we can recommend is that made by Gen. Zachary Taylor, one of our ex-presidents.

* * * * *

MRS. HANNAH MORE GARDINER, president of the West-Side Browning Club, has suffered a keen bereavement in the demise of her pet poodle, whom she had named Robert, in honor of her favorite poet. While not wishing to invade the sanctity of the gifted lady’s grief, we cannot forbear saying that this lamentable occurrence has cast a gloom over the whole community; and the dispensation seems all the more distressing, since deceased left a numerous infant progeny.

_A Western Boy’s Lament._

I wished I lived away Down East, where codfish salt the sea,
And where the folks have pumpkin-pie and apple-sass for tea.
Us boys who’s livin’ here out West, don’t get more’n half a show:
We don’t have nothin’ else to do but jest to sort o’ grow.

Oh! if I wuz a bird I’d fly a million miles away
To where they feed their boys on pork and beans three times a day;
To where the place they call the Hub, gives out its shiny spokes,
And where the folks—so father says—is mostly women-folks.

_The Story of Xanthippe._

CHICAGO, ILL.

_To the Editor._—I am in a great dilemma, and I come to you for
counsel. I love and wish to marry a young carpenter who has been
waiting on me for two years. My father wants me to marry a literary
man fifteen years older than myself,—a very smart man I will admit,
but I fancy he is _too_ smart for me. I much prefer the young
carpenter, yet father says a marriage with the literary man would give
me the social position he fancies I would enjoy. Now, what am I to do?
What would _you_ do, if you were I?

Yours in trouble,
PRISCILLA.

Listen, gentle maiden, and ye others of her sex, to the story of Xanthippe, the Athenian woman.

Very, very many years ago there dwelt in Athens a fruit-dealer of the name of Kimon, who was possessed of two daughters,—the one named Helen and the other Xanthippe. At the age of twenty, Helen was wed to Aristagoras the tinker, and went with him to abide in his humble dwelling in the suburbs of Athens, about one parasang’s distance from the Acropolis. Xanthippe, the younger sister, gave promise of singular beauty; and at an early age she developed a wit that was the marvel and the joy of her father’s household, and of the society that was to be met with there. Prosperous in a worldly way, Kimon was enabled to give this favorite daughter the best educational advantages; and he was justly proud when at the age of nineteen, Xanthippe was graduated from the Minerva Female College with all the highest honors of her class. There was but one thing that cast a shadow upon the old gentleman’s happiness, and that was his pain at observing that among all Xanthippe’s associates, there was one upon whom she bestowed her sweetest smiles; namely, Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes the plasterer.

“My daughter,” said Kimon, “you are now of an age when it becomes a maiden to contemplate marriage as a serious and solemn probability: therefore I beseech you to practise the severest discrimination in the choice of your male associates, and I enjoin upon you to have naught to say or to do with any youth that might not be considered an eligible husband; for, by the dog! it is my wish to see you wed to one of good station.”

Kimon thereupon proceeded to tell his daughter that his dearest ambition had been a desire to unite her in marriage with a literary man. He saw that the tendency of the times was in the direction of literature: schools of philosophy were springing up on every side, logic and poetry were prated in every household. Why should not the beautiful and accomplished daughter of Kimon the fruiterer become one of that group of geniuses who were contributing at that particular time to the glory of Athens as the literary centre of the world? The truth was, that, having prospered in his trade, Kimon pined for social recognition: it grieved him that one of his daughters had wed a tinker, and he had registered a vow with Pallas that his other daughter should be given into the arms of a worthier man.

Xanthippe was a dutiful daughter; she had been taught to obey her parents; and although her heart inclined to Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes the plasterer, she smothered all rebellious emotions, and said she would try to do her father’s will. Accordingly, therefore, Kimon introduced into his home one evening a certain young Athenian philosopher,—a typical literary Bohemian of that time, one Socrates, a creature of wondrous wisdom and ready wit. The appearance of this suitor, presumptive if not apparent, did not particularly please Xanthippe. Socrates was an ill-favored young man. He was tall, raw-boned, and gangling. When he walked, he slouched; and when he sat down, he sprawled like a crab upon its back. His coarse hair rebelled upon his head and chin; and he had a broad, flat nose, that had been broken in two places by the kick of an Assyrian mule. Withal, Socrates talked delightfully; and it is not hard to imagine that Xanthippe’s pretty face, plump figure, and vivacious manners, served as an inspiration to the young philosopher’s wit. So it was not long ere Xanthippe found herself entertaining a profound respect for Socrates.

At all events, Xanthippe, the Athenian beauty, was wed to Socrates the philosopher. Putting all thought of Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes the plasterer, out of her mind, Xanthippe went to the temple of Aphrodite, and was wed to Socrates. Historians differ as to the details of the affair; but it seems generally agreed that Socrates was late at the ceremony, having been delayed on his way to the temple by one Diogenes, who asked to converse with him on the immortality of the soul. Socrates stopped to talk, and would perhaps have been stopping there still had not Kimon hunted him up, and fetched him to the wedding.

A great wedding it was. A complete report of it was written by one of Socrates’ friends, another literary man, named Xenophon. The literary guild, including philosophers by the score, were there in full feather, and Xenophon put himself to the trouble of giving a complete list of these distinguished persons; and to the report, as it was penned for “The Athens Weekly Papyrus,” he appended a fine puff of Socrates, which has led posterity to surmise that Socrates conferred a great compliment on Xanthippe in marrying her. Yet, what else could we expect of this man Xenophon? The only other thing he ever did was to conduct a retreat from a Persian battle-field.

And now began the trials of Xanthippe, the wife of the literary man. Ay, it was not long ere the young wife discovered, that, of all husbands in the worlds, the literary husband was the hardest to get along with. Always late to his meals, always absorbed in his work, always indifferent to the comforts of home—what a trial this man Socrates must have been! Why, half the time, poor Xanthippe didn’t know where the next month’s rent was coming from; and as for the grocer’s and butcher’s bills—well, between this creditor and that creditor the tormented little wife’s life fast became a burden to her. Had it not been for her father’s convenient fruit-stall, Xanthippe must have starved; and, at best, fruit as a regular diet is hardly preferable to starvation. And while she scrimped and saved, and made her own gowns, and patched up the children’s kilts as best she might, Socrates stood around the streets talking about the immortality of the soul and the vanity of human life!

Many times Xanthippe pined for the amusements and seductive gayeties of social life, but she got none. The only society she knew was the prosy men-folk whom Socrates used to fetch home with him occasionally. Xanthippe grew to hate them, and we don’t blame her. Just imagine that dirty old Diogenes lolling around on the furniture, and expressing his preference for a tub; picking his teeth with his jack-knife, and smoking his wretched cob-pipe in the parlor!

“Socrates, dear,” Xanthippe would say at times, “please take me to the theatre to-night: I do so want to see that new tragedy by Euclydides.”

But Socrates would swear by Hercules, or by the dog, or by some other classic object, that he had an engagement with the rhetoricians, or with the sophists, or with Alcibiades, or with Crito, or with some of the rest of the boys—he called them philosophers, but we know what he meant by that.

So it was toil and disappointment, disappointment and toil, from one month’s end to another’s; and so the years went by.

Sometimes Xanthippe rebelled; but, with all her wit, how could she reason with Socrates, the most gifted and the wisest of all philosophers? He had a provoking way of practising upon her the exasperating methods of Socratic debate,—a system he had invented, and for which he still is revered. Never excited or angry himself, he would ply her with questions until she found herself entangled in a network of contradictions; and then she would be driven, willy-nilly, to that last argument of woman—“because.” Then Socrates—the brute!—would laugh at her, and would go out and sit on the front door-steps, and look henpecked. This is positively the meanest thing a man _can_ do!

“Look at that poor man,” said the wife of Edippus the cobbler. “I _do_ believe his wife is cruel to him: see how sad and lonesome he is.”

“Don’t play with those Socrates children,” said another matron. “Their mother must be a dreadful shiftless creature to let her young ones run the streets in such patched-up clothes.”

So up and down the street the neighbors gossiped—oh! it was very humiliating to Xanthippe.

Meanwhile Helen lived in peace with Aristagoras the tinker. Their little home was cosey and comfortable. Xanthippe used to go to see them sometimes, but the sight of their unpretentious happiness made her even more miserable. Meanwhile, too, Xanthippe’s old beau, Gatippus, had married; and from Thessaly came reports of the beautiful vineyard and the many wine-presses he had acquired. So Xanthippe’s life became somewhat more than a struggle: it became a martyrdom. And the wrinkles came into Xanthippe’s face, and Xanthippe’s hair grew gray, and Xanthippe’s heart was filled with the bitterness of disappointment. And the years, full of grind and of poverty and of neglect, crept wearily on.

Time is the grim old collector who goes dunning for the abused wife, and Time finally forced a settlement with Socrates.

Having loafed around Athens for many years to the neglect of his family, and having obtruded his views touching the immortality of the soul upon certain folk who believed that the first duty of a man was to keep his family from starving to death, Socrates was apprehended on a bench-warrant, thrown into jail, tried by a jury, and sentenced to die.

It was in this emergency that the great, the divine nobility of the wife asserted itself. She had been neglected by this man, she had gone in rags for him, she had sacrificed her beauty and her hopes and her pride, she had endured the pity of her neighbors, she had heard her children cry with hunger—ay, all for _him_; yet, when a righteous fate o’ertook him, she forgot all the misery of his doing, and she went to him to be his comforter.

Well, she could not have done otherwise, for she was a woman.

Where was his philosophy now? where his wisdom, his logic, his wit? What had become of his disputatious and learned associates that not one of them stood up to plead for the life of Socrates now? Why, the first breath of adversity had blown them away as though they were but mist; and, with these false friends scattered like the coward chaff they were, grim old Socrates turned to Xanthippe for consolation. She burdened his ears with no reproaches, she spoke not of herself. Her thoughts were of him only, and it was to his chilled spirit that she alone ministered. Not even the horrors of the hemlock draught could drive her from his side, nor unloose her arms from about his neck; and when at last the philosopher lay stiff in death, it was Xanthippe that bore away his corpse, and, with spices moistened by her tears, made it ready for the grave.

_Philadelphia._

“The Philadelphia News,” which is justly entitled to the great success it enjoys in the field of evening journalism, has published a double paper containing divers opinions of Philadelphia as expressed by certain distinguished men of the country. We are pleased to see what these eminent critics have had to say. But we are surprised that none of them has called attention to the fact that Philadelphia is one of three American cities into which and out of which all railway trains back? The other two cities are Toledo, O., and Atchison, Kan. St. Louis is the only city we know of that can be approached from the civilized world by means only of a tunnel. Philadelphia discounts this underground or woodchuck method by running her railroad-line over the tops of houses; and, as this line is constructed in the shape of a =Y=, all incoming trains back in, and all outgoing trains back out.

Another curiosity in Philadelphia is its railway station. It is the only structure in America that is composed simply of a roof and a basement. All trains come in upon and depart from the roof: cabmen and hack-drivers lie in wait in the basement for travellers descending from the roof.

There are but two topics of conversation indulged by the patriotic Philadelphian. The first is a Clover-Club dinner that _has_ been, and the second is the new City Hall that is going to be. The Clover Club is an erotic social organization, founded with a view to stuffing strangers with terrapin, and then flattening them out with a triphammer. The new City Hall is a hollow square of marble, covered with aerial derricks, and medallions of B. Franklin and W. Penn. It has already cost as many million dollars as the Philadelphian narrator believes you capable of swallowing.

“The Record” office is said to be the finest newspaper building on the continent. The counting-room has a tessellated floor: over the cashier’s desk hangs an oil-painting of the Holstein cow that chased the dog that worried the cat that ate the rat printer. Mr. Singerly, editor of “The Record,” owns this cow. He is very proud of her, and she of him. She can set up more ems of solid brevier milk at one sitting than any other lacteal compositor now on earth.

Philadelphia is the only city in the country where street-car fare is six cents, where New-York papers are sold for seven cents apiece, and where the barbers charge twenty cents for shaving a stranger. It is the only city, too, where Twelfth (as the name of a street) is spelled T-w-e-l-f-v-t-h on the lamp-posts. It is the only city, too, where people scrub their front-steps every morning in the dead of winter, and then sprinkle ashes on the steps to keep folks from slipping down. It is the only city, too, where editors of morning papers go home from work at 4.30 P.M. every day.

Philadelphia is also the only city that has beaten Chicago four straight games at base-ball.

Still, Chicago is hardly in a position to criticise Philadelphia unprejudicedly. Chicago has been so unfortunate as to become the adopted home of three of Philadelphia’s most enterprising sons.

One of these gentlemen is Mr. Joseph C. Mackin, who, owing to circumstances over which he has no control, is temporarily absent from this city.

Another is Mr. Gallagher, who ought to be absent, but isn’t.

The third is Mr. Charles T. Yerkes.

_Humanity._

The big-eyed baby, just across the way,
Longs for the moon, and reaches out to clasp it:
He lunges at the crescent, cold and gray,
And waxes wroth to find he cannot grasp it.

Be hushed, O babe! and give thy grief a rest.
Better, a thousand times, for thee to ponder
Upon the lacteal wealth of mother’s breast,
Than reach for that vain milky way up yonder.

Yet am I like this man of recent birth
That lets a foolish disappointment fret it—
Scorning the sky, I’m reaching for the earth,
And grunt and groan because I do not get it.

_Baked Beans and Culture._

The members of the Boston Commercial Club are charming gentlemen. They are now the guests of the Chicago Commercial Club, and are being shown every attention that our market affords. They are a fine-looking lot, well-dressed and well-mannered, with just enough whiskers to be impressive without being imposing.

“This is a darned likely village,” said Seth Adams last evening. “Everybody is rushin’ ’round an’ doin’ business as if his life depended on it. Should think they’d git all tuckered out ’fore night, but I’ll be darned if there ain’t just as many folks on the street after nightfall as afore. We’re stoppin’ at the Palmer tavern; an’ my chamber is up so all-fired high, that I can count all your meetin’-house steeples from the winder.”

Last night five or six of these Boston merchants sat around the office of the hotel, and discussed matters and things. Pretty soon they got to talking about beans: this was the subject which they dwelt on with evident pleasure.

“Waal, sir,” said Ephraim Taft, a wholesale dealer in maple-sugar and flavored lozenges, “you kin talk ’bout your new-fashioned dishes an’ highfalutin vittles; but, when you come right down to it, there ain’t no better eatin’ than a dish o’ baked pork ’n’ beans.”

“That’s so, b’ gosh!” chorussed the others.

“The truth o’ the matter is,” continued Mr. Taft, “that beans is good for everybody,—’t don’t make no difference whether he’s well or sick. Why, I’ve known a thousand folks—waal, mebbe not quite a thousand; but,—waal, now, jest to show, take the case of Bill Holbrook: you remember Bill, don’t ye?”

“Bill Holbrook?” said Mr. Ezra Eastman; “why, of course I do! Used to live down to Brimfield, next to the Moses Howard farm.”

“That’s the man,” resumed Mr. Taft. “Waal, Bill fell sick,—kinder moped round, tired like, for a week or two, an’ then tuck to his bed. His folks sent for Dock Smith,—ol’ Dock Smith that used to carry round a pair o’ leather saddlebags,—gosh, they don’t have no sech doctors nowadays! Waal, the dock, he come; an’ he looked at Bill’s tongue, an’ felt uv his pulse, an’ said that Bill had typhus fever. Ol’ Dock Smith was a very careful, conserv’tive man, an’ he never said nothin’ unless he knowed he was right.

“Bill began to git wuss, an’ he kep’ a-gittin’ wuss every day. One mornin’ ol’ Dock Smith sez, ‘Look a-here, Bill, I guess you’re a goner: as I figger it, you can’t hol’ out till nightfall.’

“Bill’s mother insisted on a con-sul-tation bein’ held; so ol’ Dock Smith sent over for young Dock Brainerd. I calc’late, that, next _to_ ol’ Dock Smith, young Dock Brainerd was the smartest doctor that ever lived.

“Waal, pretty soon along come Dock Brainerd; an’ he an’ Dock Smith went all over Bill, an’ looked at his tongue, an’ felt uv his pulse, an’ told him it was a gone case, an’ that he had got to die. Then they went off into the spare chamber to hold their con-sul-tation.

“Waal, Bill he lay there in the front room a-pantin’ an’ a-gaspin’, an’ a wond’rin’ whether it wuz true. As he wuz thinkin’, up comes the girl to git a clean tablecloth out of the clothes-press, an’ she left the door ajar as she come in. Bill he gave a sniff, an’ his eyes grew more natural, like: he gathered together all the strength he had, an’ he raised himself up on one elbow, an’ sniffed again.

“‘Sary,’ says he, ‘wot’s that a-cookin’?’

“‘Beans,’ says she, ‘beans for dinner.’

“‘Sary,’ says the dyin’ man, ‘I must hev a plate uv them beans!’

“‘Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!’ says she: ‘if you wuz to eat any o’ them beans, it’d kill ye!’

“‘If I’ve got to die,’ says he, ‘I’m goin’ to die happy: fetch me a plate uv them beans.’

“Waal, Sary she pikes off to the doctors.

“‘Look a-here,’ says she, ‘Mr. Holbrook smelt the beans cookin’, an’ he says he’s got to have a plate uv ’em. Now, what shall I do about it?’

“‘Waal, doctor,’ says Dock Smith, ‘what do you think ’bout it?’

“‘He’s got to die anyhow,’ says Dock Brainerd; ‘an’ I don’t suppose the beans’ll make any diff’rence.’

“‘That’s the way I figger it,’ says Dock Smith: ‘in all my practice I never knew of beans hurtin’ anybody.’

“So Sary went down to the kitchen, an’ brought up a plateful of hot baked beans. Dock Smith raised Bill up in bed, an’ Dock Brainerd put a piller under the small of Bill’s back. Then Sary sat down by the bed, an’ fed them beans into Bill until Bill couldn’t hold any more.

“‘How air you feelin’ now?’ asked Dock Smith.

“Bill didn’t say nuthin’: he jest smiled sort uv peaceful, like, an’ closed his eyes.

“‘The end hez come,’ said Dock Brainerd sof’ly: ‘Bill is dyin’.’

“Then Bill murmured kind o’ far-away, like (as if he was dreamin’), ‘I ain’t dyin’: I’m dead an’ in heaven.’

“Next mornin’ Bill got out uv bed, an’ done a big day’s work on the farm, an’ he hain’t hed a sick spell since. Them beans cured him! I tell you, sir, that beans is,” etc.

_Mr. Isaac Watts, Tutor._

Our valued fellow-townsman, Mr. F. L. Blake, tells us that he was considerably interested by our remarks recently on the subject of Dr. Isaac Watts’s poetry. Such an interest, in fact, did our words awaken, that, upon reading them, Mr. Blake threw aside the paper, went to his book-case, and took down an old volume of Watts’s hymns and poems. He had not read the volume in many years, and sweet were the memories that came to him as he thumbed over the musty pages. “Still,” says he, “I cannot agree with you when you speak of Dr. Watts’s verse as ‘quaint, simple poetry.’ One of the first hymns I struck was a recital of the joys of the redeemed, and I shuddered when I read this stanza:—

“‘In heaven above among the blest,
What mortal tongue can tell
The joys of saints when looking down
On damnèd souls in hell!’

“I don’t believe you really think that this is ‘quaint, simple poetry.’”

Few men have been more read and less understood than Dr. Isaac Watts. He was in many particulars a remarkable man. Old Sam Johnson described him as a little man not more than five feet tall, with an austere expression, and a deep, resonant voice. Watts was always more or less of a valetudinarian. He was unwise enough at the age of twenty-five to hire himself to Sir John Hartopp of Stoke-Newington as tutor to Sir John’s children—a lad named Ralph, aged sixteen, and a girl named Delia, aged eighteen. The care which this engagement involved so seriously impaired Watts’s health that he was never thereafter a robust man. Ralph Hartopp was a wild boy; and Delia, the girl, appears to have been a rather flippant miss. There dwelt in Stoke-Newington, at this time, one Richard Steele, a reckless but bright fellow, who fell in love with Delia Hartopp, and by his attentions gave Tutor Watts grave uneasiness; for Watts recognized in Steele a “godless young man, given over to the vanities and frivolities of the world.” Steele had a friend named Addison,—Joseph Addison,—a taciturn young man, who exhibited a fondness for sitting around in ale-houses and at street-corners, merely for the purpose of watching people, and of hearing them talk. This Addison had one ambition, and that was to print a satirical daily paper in London; and he calculated that when his friend Steele married Sir John Hartopp’s daughter, Sir John himself would advance the capital necessary to set Steele and Addison up in the newspaper business. So, in his quiet, unobtrusive way, Addison helped Steele with his wooing of Sir John’s pretty daughter.

We can imagine how grievously Steele and Addison tormented Tutor Watts: both were shrewd and witty, had seen much of the world, and were keen satirists of human character. When it got to them that Watts was in the habit of writing “religious and moral poems for the better guidance and wiser admonition” of his pupils, they set themselves to writing poems too; and these poems they cast in Watts’s way, and right often was the good man grievously scandalized thereby. One of these poems, which appears to have been the work of Steele and Addison conjointly, has come down to posterity under the ostentatious title of “The Redemption of Mistress Prudence told in Rhyme for the Better Understanding of Our Sovereign Beauty, the Fair Delia.” These lines, thus addressed to Delia Hartopp, were as follow:—

“Behold our Prudence in her prime
As meek and fair a dame as any;
Yet was she tempted in her time,
As tempted are, alas! too many.
Satin and silken gowns had she,
Feathers and ribbons, plumes and laces,—
Vain gewgaws fetched across the sea
From divers godless foreign places.

Thereat her foolish, wicked pride
Did vaunt itself to such condition,
That she did constantly deride
Her gentle tutor’s admonition.
In vain he reasoned with the maid;
In fashion’s way she strode undaunted;
And all the more her tutor prayed,
Why, all the more her plumes she flaunted.

At last, however, waxing sick
Of worldly praise and admiration,
She felt her quickened conscience prick,
And straightway sought her soul’s salvation.
And when she saw, through tearful eyes,
How nearly Satan’s darts had missed her,
She doffed her dazzling flummeries,
And gave them to her younger sister.”

It is narrated that these verses shocked Tutor Watts beyond all telling, and we can believe it. Sir John Hartopp was a jolly old fellow, immensely proud of his children, and confident that, after the wildness natural to youth toned down, they would be a credit to their family. So Sir John simply laughed at these verses and others that poor Watts brought to him as the work of “those evil-minded young men.” It appears that the conscientious tutor got very little sympathy from his employer.

The following lines, said to have been instigated by Richard Steele, were found in Ralph Hartopp’s copy-book one morning:—

THE HUMANE LAD.

Why should a naughty, froward boy
The harmless little fly assail,
Or why his precious time employ
At pulling faithful Rover’s tail?

Where’er I go, each living thing
Has its predestined place to fill;
And naught that moves on foot or wing
Was made for boys to vex or kill.

The little fly, howe’er so frail,
Was made on Rover’s hide to prey;
And faithful Rover’s honest tail
Was made to brush the flies away.

So let each bird and beast enjoy
The vain, brief life which God has given,
Whilst I my youthful hours employ
In works that fit the soul for heaven.

Yet, however much Dick Steele and his friend enjoyed the business of satirizing Tutor Watts’s poems, they occasionally let slip verse that not only served to assuage the tutor’s anger, but also redounded to their own credit. It was Watts’s custom to take his pupils for a walk every pleasant day, and during these walks he was wont to discourse upon profitable topics. The following lines, written under date of July 21, 1697, are supposed to have been addressed to Ralph and Delia Hartopp by Tutor Watts; but Dr. Johnson pronounces them “clearly the work of Joseph Addison:”—

A NOONTIDE HYMN.

Come, gentle pupils, let us kneel
Beneath this tree upon the sod,
And, mindful of our sin, appeal
Unto the good and gracious God.

Look out upon the fruitful wold,
And see the ripening grain upraise
Its bursting tops of green and gold
Unto the sky in silent praise.

The winds are hushed, the fields are still,
The brooks that babbled sink to rest:
A holy reverence seems to thrill
Creation’s vast, responsive breast.

It is the solemn noontide hour,
When grateful Nature everywhere
Acknowledges the heavenly power
In one still, universal prayer.

So let us kneel upon the sod,
And, with his works before our face,
Commend our souls anew to God,
And crave his sanctifying grace.

At another time, in evident imitation of Watts’s style,—though the imitation is not particularly clever,—Steele framed an evening hymn, the original manuscript of which is still preserved, we believe, among the Hartopp collection in the British Museum:—

AN EVENING HYMN.

Pardon the evil I have done
To thee, O Lord! this day:
Vouchsafe thy blessed peace to one
Who seeks the heavenly way.

As turns the truant to his home,
When sore and sick is he,
So, penitent and weak, I come,
And give my soul to thee.

’Tis thine, dear Lord; and, if thou wilt,
Protect it through this night;
Or, cleansing it of all its guilt,
Take it to realms of light.

Though o’er the sea and on the land
The raging storms may sweep,
Rocked in the hollow of thy hand
Shall I securely sleep.

I may not know another day,
Nor see the morrow’s sun:
Still, clinging to thy knees, I pray,
“Father, thy will be done.”

Verses of this kind were not objectionable in the eyes of Tutor Watts, but we can imagine how outraged he felt when he discovered that the following stanzas were being circulated in Stoke-Newington as a poem from his pen:—

THE MERCIFUL LAD.

Through all my life the poor shall find
In me a constant friend,
And on the weak of every kind
My mercy shall attend.

The dumb shall never call on me
In vain for kindly aid,
And in my hands the blind shall see
A bounteous alms displayed.

In all their walks the lame shall know
And feel my goodness near,
And on the deaf will I bestow
My gentlest words of cheer.

“’Tis by such pious works as these—
Which I delight to do—
That men their fellow-creatures please,
And please their Maker too.”

Well, to make a long story short, Isaac Watts broke down at last under the pressure brought to bear upon him by Sir John Hartopp’s good-natured indifference, Ralph’s recklessness, Delia’s giddiness, Dick Steele’s wit, and Joe Addison’s humor. He went to Sir John one day, and in a husky, weary voice said, “Good-by, Sir John: I’m off by next coach.” He was tired, sick, discouraged. He sought and found refuge in the house of a hospitable and wealthy friend, and there he abode for the rest of his life. He never again served as tutor; but he lived to see his old pupils, Ralph and Delia, become proper and pious members of society. Subsequently, too, his relations with Steele and Addison became of the friendliest character; and, when “The Spectator” rose to popularity in London, Dr. Watts not infrequently contributed to its columns. Delia Hartopp did not marry Steele, after all, but a Nottinghamshire gentleman named Mulgrave.

Most of Dr. Watts’s hymns were written, as we understand, during the later years of his life. He was such a prolific writer that much of his work was necessarily indifferent. But his hymns have, as a whole, been admired by the severest and most eminent critics; and they have been read and sung by people of all classes for many, many years. We think that they have come to be almost a part of the Protestant faith.

It is probable that Watts’s “Divine and Moral Songs for the Young” will live as long as English literature survives. We can conceive of no seismic phenomenon capable of obliterating the two poems, “How doth the little busy bee,” and “Let dogs delight to bark and bite;” and we have yet to read a tenderer bit of religious verse than Watts’s cradle-hymn, “Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber.”

Touching the stanza which Mr. Blake quotes for our consideration, we will say that it _is_ quaint and simple. Its meaning is clear, and its language is forcible: it expresses in four lines what the average modern poet could not or would not tell in ten times four lines. Yet we do not believe that Dr. Watts wrote it.

_The Revision._

Upon consulting his notes again, we venture to say that Mr. Julian Hawthorne will find that what the Hon. James Russell Lowell did really say was this:—

“The queen? Oh, yes! I have the highest admiration, respect, and veneration for her. Imagine, if you can, a woman in the prime of life, in full possession of those physical charms, those personal graces, and those intellectual accomplishments, which enthrall every beholder; a woman of commanding height, of willowy, lissome figure, panther-like in her movements, with a voice like the tones of an Æolian harp, and a laughter like the tinkling exuberance of a sylvan cascade—picture to yourself such a being, and you will have a fair idea of the gifted and beautiful lady who directs, and who for many years will continue to direct, the destinies of the august British Empire.

“Of her talented and amiable young son, I have formed the most pleasing impression. Though still a mere boy, he carries upon his slender shoulders the massive head and thoughtful brain of a ripened statesman. Naturally of a studious and contemplative turn, the prince has from childhood eschewed those temptations which beset royal youth; and, as he blossoms into manhood, his expanding character holds out to his loving country the sweetest and most flattering promises.

“Be sure, Julian, to send me six copies of the paper containing these observations.”

Since, according to Mr. Lowell’s card, the Hawthorne interview was substantially correct in other particulars, we think that Mr. Hawthorne should give the distinguished interviewee the benefit of this revised version of the interviewee’s remarks about the queen and her son.

_The Official Explanation._

One night aside the fire at hum,
Ez I wuz settin’ nappin’,
Deown frum the lower hall there come
The seound uv some one rappin’.
The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he,—
Julian I think his name wuz,—
Uv course, he feound a friend in me,
Not knowin’ what his game wuz.

An’ ez we visited a spell,
Our talk ranged wide an’ wider;
An’ ef we struck dry subjects—well,
We washed ’em deown with cider.
Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru
My system, an’ a-playin’
Upon my tongue, I hardly knew
Just what I wuz a-sayin’.

I kin remember that I spun
A hifalutin’ story,
Abeout the Prince uv Wales, an’ one
Abeout old Queen Vic_to_ry.
But, sakes alive! I never dreamed
The cuss would get it printed—
(By that old gal I’m much esteemed,
Ez she hez often hinted).

Oh, if I had that critter neow,
You bet your boots I’d larn him
In mighty lively fashion heow
To walk the chalk, gol darn him!
Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine
The breach grows wide an’ wider;
An’, by the way, it’s my design
To give up drinkin’ cider.
_Hosea Biglow._

_Yankee Chorus Girls._

Col. William H. Foster, the manager of the Boston Ideals, tells us that his principals do not cost him so much worry and vexation as his chorus-girls do. “It is admitted,” says he, “that my chorus-girls are the prettiest on the operatic stage this year. I selected them with great care, and made these three conditions the basis upon which that selection was made: First, each candidate had to be under nineteen years of age; second, each had to weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds, and less than a hundred and sixty pounds; third, each had to agree to subsist on the diet prescribed by me. I have eleven girls in my chorus, and I venture to say they are the cream and flower of New-England beauty. I suffer them to eat but three meals a day.—Their breakfasts consist of hulled corn or oatmeal, rare beefsteak, and graham bread. For dinner they eat boiled mutton with boiled potatoes and Hubbard squash, or corned beef and cabbage, or pork and beans; and their only dessert is pumpkin-pie or apple-pie. Their suppers consist of smoked halibut, dried beef, graham bread, dried-apple sauce, cold doughnuts, and cookies. I watch them all the time lest some foolish admirer sends them candy or fruit, two godless luxuries which I never countenance. The consequence of my jealous care is, that my chorus-girls are plump, rosy, and vigorous, the paragons of girlish beauty. I shall never forget the scene that took place the night we opened this season in Syracuse, N.Y. Barnabee came off the stage after the first act, looking like a boy of nineteen. His eyes were afire, his cheeks were flushed, his step was bounding, and a joyous smile wreathed his face.

“‘In Heaven’s name, Foster,’ said he, ‘how can I ever thank you,—how can I express to you my gratitude for the inestimable boon you have conferred upon me!’

“‘What do you mean?’ I asked, aghast; for his unusual excitement alarmed me.

“‘Look at me,’ said he. ‘Scrutinize me closely, and search me well. I am an old man. Age has frosted my sparse locks, chilled my blood, and traced furrows in my cheeks. For twenty-three years I have been identified with this Boston Ideal Company; and for twenty-three years have I groped my way around among the sphinxes, the obelisks, the ivy-mantled towers, and the grand old ruins, of ancient female history. So inured had I become to this hardship, that it came like second nature to me to weave my arms about relics, and to sing impassioned sonnets in the dull, cold ears of survivors of the silurian epoch. To-night, however, when I clasped in my embrace, in view of an enthusiastic public, the female to whom my serenade had been addressed, I found her not the mossy reminiscence I expected, but a living, breathing, palpitating girl, with rosebud lips and peachy cheeks. Instantly I experienced a blissful change percolating through my being. For twenty-three years I had felt like a government mule hauling a load of pig-iron, but now I feel like a two-year-old colt behind a band of music. Don’t you think, Foster, that McDonald needs a rest? I believe I would like to sing his _rôles_ for the balance of the season.’”

_Mr. Dixey as a Nemesis._

Mr. Henry E. Dixey is the owner of a St. Bernard dog that weighs, perhaps, three hundred pounds; and, after the fashion of the lamb that was platonically attached to Mary, this dog accompanies Mr. Dixey wherever Mr. Dixey goes. Twice across the ocean and all over this continent makes Prince the most extensive traveller of the canine kind. Day before yesterday Mr. Dixey and his leviathan dog were having a romp through the four or five rooms occupied by the Clan Dixey at the Hotel Richelieu. First, Mr. Dixey would shut the dog up in the folding-bed, and hide himself in the wardrobe: then the dog would break away from the folding-bed, and begin a hunt for Dixey, humorously tipping over tables and chairs, as humorously breaking the crockery, and still more humorously accompanying his labors with volcanic vocal eruptions expressive of fear, hope, anticipation, joy, etc. This play lasted for about an hour; Mrs. Dixey sitting in the front-room meanwhile, smiling contentedly, and thinking to herself how much better it was for Henry to be passing a quiet afternoon at home than to be frittering away his time in the company of frivolous men about town. But Mme. Patti, whose apartments at the Richelieu are located directly under the Dixey rooms, must have thought differently: for while Mr. Dixey and his dog were in the midst of their genial sport,—or, we might say, while the festivities were at their height,—there came a knock at the door; and Mme. Patti’s maid Hortense, looking like one of the Two Orphans, presented this message: “Mme. Patti complemongs Mme. Dix-_see_, and will Mme. Dix-_see_ have ze goodness to make her leetle boy stop to play wiz ze dog?”

Mr. Dixey was highly indignant. He did not care so much for himself, but the insult to the dog was one he could scarcely brook. Next morning, as he lay in his bed, he became cognizant of an angelic voice soaring in song,—a voice so heavenly that it tarried not in the porches of his ear, but penetrated to the innermost recesses of Mr. Dixey’s very soul, and filled his whole being with an ecstasy of ineffable delight.

“Ida, my dear,” called Mr. Dixey to his wife, who was sewing in the adjoining room.

“What is it, Henry?” she answered.

“You’re in unusually good voice this morning, my dear,” said Mr. Dixey. “I don’t know when I’ve heard you sing so pleasantly.”

“Why, Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Dixey. “_I’ve_ not been singing. That was Mme. Patti you heard. She is practising Proch’s variations; and isn’t it just too lovely?”

But there was a cold, meaningful glitter in Mr. Dixey’s eye as he straightway arose from his bed, donned his trousers, and put on one of his red Hibernian wigs. A few moments later, when, in answer to a brutal knock, Mme. Patti opened the door of her parlor, the incomparable song-bird’s sloe-like orbs beheld what seemed to be a gaunt, raw Irishman standing in the portal. “Misther Dixey’s compliments to yees, mum,” said this hulking apparition; “and wad yees moind sthopping the tra-la-la-loo, mum, till Misther Dixey have a bit av slape?”

* * * * *

MR. JAMES R. LOWELL, a Boston writer whose poems give promise of a brilliant future for the author, will visit Chicago next week as the guest of one of our most enterprising citizens, whose reduction in the price of green hams is noted in our advertising columns.

Mr. James Russell Lowell will be cordially welcomed and hospitably entertained by the people of Chicago. Our citizens have always had the kindliest feelings for the Boston people, and they have ever been prepared to pay the tribute of their respect to the distinguished son whom Boston delights to honor. Chicago feels a special interest in Mr. Lowell at this particular time, because he is perhaps the foremost representative of the enterprising and opulent community which within the last week has secured the services of one of Chicago’s honored sons for the base-ball season for 1887. The fact that Boston has come to Chicago for the captain of her base-ball nine has re-invigorated the bonds of affection between the metropolis of the Bay State and the metropolis of the mighty West: the truth of this will appear in the hearty welcome which our public will give Mr. Lowell next Tuesday.

* * * * *

OUR enterprising fellow-townsmen, the proprietors of the Home Restaurant, have added to their popular dinner bill of fare, a new viand entitled _Beans à la Lowell_, a delicate compliment to the distinguished poet now visiting among us.

* * * * *

IN justice to Mr. James Russell Lowell, it should be said that his lecture upon “Richard III.” last Tuesday afternoon did not refer to Richard J. Oglesby, our honored governor.

_Professor Lowell in Chicago._

The presence of Mr. James Russell Lowell has given Chicago a tremendous boom as a literary centre. In literary circles this boom is not spoken of as a boom, but as an impetus—impetus being a word of such classic pedigree as to render it preferable to the lowly and vulgar word boom. This impetus first became apparent last Saturday afternoon, when one of the distinguished members of the Chicago Literary Club—a manufacturer of linseed-oil—happened to call at the business office of another distinguished member of the club, a wholesale dealer in hides and pelts.

“I see by the papers,” said the first _littérateur_, “that James Russell Lowell is going to be in town next week.”

“Lowell? Lowell?” queried the second _littérateur_, as if he were trying to place the name. “Oh, yes! I remember—the author of ‘The One-Hoss Shay’!”

“Yes: he’s going to read a poem in Central Music Hall next Tuesday,” explained the first _littérateur_, “and it has occurred to me that we ought to elect him an honorary member of the club.”

“Well,” said the second _littérateur_, “we’ll think about that—there’s no special hurry. You know, we have to be a little careful about taking up with every stranger that comes along: however, we’ll talk it over at the next meeting. Here, you Jim, go up on the back roof, and drag in them calf-pelts out of the rain!”

Since Mr. Lowell’s address last Tuesday afternoon, we have taken pains to mingle pretty freely with the recognized literary folk of the town, and we have been mightily interested in the opinions that are expressed of Mr. Lowell and his work. We are told at the house of A. C. McClurg & Co., that during the last forty-eight hours there has been a terrific demand for Lowell’s books. One order came from a wealthy pork-packer, and was for “Lowell’s works in binding to match my ‘Vues de Paris.’” Another order was for Lowell’s books, provided the whole set cost more than a hundred dollars. These little incidents pleased us greatly, because they evidence that there is springing up among our people a choice, a discriminating, an exacting taste, which demands only the best works of an author.

“Last evening,” said two board-of-trade men, “we had the pleasure of a long talk with Mr. Lowell. We were fully prepared to create a favorable impression; for in anticipation of meeting him, and following the example of our other fellow-townsmen, we had secured a complete line of Mr. Lowell’s poems and essays, and had been feeding upon them for a fortnight. Much to our disappointment, however, Mr. Lowell appeared disinclined to traverse the poetic and misty vistas of the past with us; and when we contrived—with consummate art and ineffable subtilty, as we fondly imagined—to introduce into our introductory remarks an apt quotation from ‘Hosea Biglow,’ he dampened our ardor by adverting to the location of Chicago, its salubrious climate, and the immense volume of its trade. Mr. Lowell said that he had driven about the city a good deal, had been charmed with the beauty of our avenues, the extent and embellishments of our commons, the magnitude of our pond, and hospitality of our citizens. He said that he had visited the packing-houses on the South Side, and that he was convinced that the Western methods of flaying and disembowelling live-stock had its advantages over the conventional New-England way of removing the bristles of a pig with an iron candlestick. At one of the rendering-establishments the proprietor received the distinguished poet with great cordiality. After escorting him about the place, and acquainting him with the delicate details of the art, this hospitable host conducted Mr. Lowell to the private office, and insisted upon opening a case of champagne. To make the situation all the more comfortable for his guest, the host remarked pleasantly, ‘We always whoop it up to you newspaper men; for, like as not, when you get back home, you’ll write us up.’”

Another gentleman who called on Mr. Lowell was a Mr. Elisha K. Robbins, who represented that he was organizing a club which he wanted to call the James Russell Lowell Literary and Debating Lyceum. He sought Mr. Lowell’s sympathy with the enterprise to the extent of a donation of twenty-five dollars. Mr. Lowell was really very much embarrassed; he sympathized heartily with the scheme suggested, and he appreciated very keenly the compliment which Mr. Robbins and his associates were ambitious to confer; but he was compelled to inform Mr. Robbins in the most delicate manner possible, that, in the hurry and excitement of starting upon his Western tour, he had carelessly left his wallet on the _escritoire_ in his room at home. Mr. Robbins so heartily shared Mr. Lowell’s regret at this awkward occurrence, that, at a meeting of his accomplices last evening, he formally moved that “this organization be, and hereby is, named the Julian Hawthorne Literary Club.”

It were useless to deny that many of our citizens were much disappointed at the change which substituted a lecture on “Richard III.” for a political address. We heard several of our most cultured fellow-townsmen say that Dick Oglesby could talk all around Lowell: one of our most influential citizens—a wholesale liquor-dealer—remarked, “I have heard ’em all now,—Lowell and Logan, and Gin’ral Palmer and all of ’em; but for real eloquence and scholarship, give me Carter H. Harrison in a spring campaign, every time!”

Austin Fisher, the well-known art-connoisseur, and dealer in leaf-lard, said, “This man Lowell is a scholar and a nice gentleman—there’s no denying _that_; but, do you know, after all, I think I prefer Bill Nye.”

Col. Ben Higgins, the owner of Prairie Belle, Sly Boots, and other noted flyers, thought that Mr. Lowell’s address was an outrage. “The club is very indignant,” he said. “We were all there in our best harness, and we expected that the race would come off as advertised. Of course, we were mad when we found that the programme had been changed. The event was billed as a mile-and-a-quarter dash; and it was, in fact, only a best-three-in-five trot, and slow at that!” Col. Higgins went on to say that Mr. Lowell had offended all the leading turfmen in Chicago by choosing to talk about Shakespeare when he had agreed to come here and make an oration on the Washington Park Club.