Chapter V: Prud’homme (3)

So it came to pass that at the very height of his glory, and in the full possession of his powers, an awful retribution came upon the great, strong man. The shame of his splendid life had planted its poisons thick and deep, and the ruin was complete. A cloud fell upon the strong man’s reason, and his majestic frame crumbled and withered with disease. Where, then, were his flatterers, and where the comely sirens that with their false charms had allured him from his hearthstone? At the first warning of impending ruin they disappeared, like sunbeams before the advance of a thunder-cloud. Where was his fame now? where his greatness, the world’s homage, the power of riches? All gone, all dissipated, or, at least, as futile against the hand of divine retribution as the winds that play around the tops of the everlasting hills.

From a living dream whose horrors we may never know, the shattered, enfeebled man awakened one day. The cloud was lifted from his brain; and, ere he went to his last judgment, his eyes looked once more for a short moment upon the woman he had so grievously wronged. _She_, woman that she was! came with forgiveness on her lips, and love in her broken heart, to minister to him in his last moments; to bear him back to the hearthstone he had abandoned. He felt her arms about his neck, and the death-damp on his brow was warmed by her caresses.

_Then_, at last, we may suppose, this mighty wreck—this shattered fabric of human idolatry—saw and felt the incomparable sweetness and grandeur of wifely love. At least, we are told he stretched out his hands to her as though he pleaded for forgiveness. His lips moved; but from them there came no sound, as if inexorable retribution decreed he should not tell that gentle, noble wife how sweetly her love soothed him. But we are told his eyes were fixed steadily upon hers, and we know—yes, we know it well—they spoke tenderly and reverently to her, and pleaded, oh, so earnestly! for her love and compassion. We know, too, that all the love and compassion the dying great man craved was given freely—ay, even before his trembling hands and pleading eyes reached out for it.

Such is thy charity, O godlike womanhood! and in its sweetness and tenderness and purity, God grant we all may live and die!

_Pike’s Peak._

I stood upon the peak amid the air:
Below me lay the peopled, busy earth;
Life, life, and life again was everywhere,
And everywhere were melody and mirth—
Save on that peak, and silence brooded there.

I vaunted then myself, and half aloud
I gloried in the journey I had done:
“Eschewing earth, and earth’s seductive crowd,
I’ve scaled this steep, despite the rocks and sun;
Of such a feat might any man be proud!”

But, as I boasted thus, my burro brayed;
I turned, and lo! a tear was in his eye;
And as I gazed, methought the burro sayed,
“Prithee, who brought you up this mountain high?
Was it _your_ legs or _mine_ the journey made?”

Then moraled I: “The sturdiest peak is fame’s,
And there be many on its very height,
Who strut in pride, and vaunt their empty claims,
While those poor human asses who delight
To place them there have unremembered names!”

_Christian-County Mosquitoes._

Dr. Cyrus Thomas, formerly of Carbondale, but now connected with the national entomological department at Washington, is temporarily in Illinois, investigating the habits of the mosquitoes that infest that magnificent Christian-county waterway, Flat Branch. By a judicious system of bear-traps exposed along the banks of Flat Branch, Dr. Thomas has possessed himself of a number of handsome specimens of Christian-county mosquitoes, and he is enabled therefore to pursue his researches with uncommon accuracy and ease. His investigations have not progressed to that extent, however, that he is able to declare positively that the Christian-county mosquito is an insect, and not a bird: in fact, there are numerous reasons for believing that these curious and ravenous creatures are a species of reptile, provided, by an inscrutable dispensation of nature, with wings. But his researches have developed many interesting and hitherto unknown facts about these remarkable and remorseless nondescripts. In the first place, the Flat-Branch mosquitoes are carnivorous mammals: they nurse their young, and they are provided with incisor and molar teeth for the tearing and masticating of flesh. There is something almost human in the way they wear their beards and mustaches, yet they resemble the equine species in the particular of the spiked shoes with which they are invariably shod when they arrive at maturity, viz., the twenty-first year. In the matter of rearing their young, their habits seem to be like those of the ordinary prairie-chicken, for they retire in the early spring to quiet burrows or corn-fields along Flat Branch, and raise their broods, which have been known to number six hundred souls to one family; in July they become gregarious, and congregate in the timber, roosting in the high trees, and laying waste the human population of the surrounding country. Christian-county huntsmen—notably the Taylorville Sportsman’s Association—employ different methods of capturing these destructive creatures. One way is by means of quail-nets: another is the old way of hunting them with pointer-dogs and gun, in the latter case, buckshot is used, and the heaviest kind of fowling-piece is preferred. But the most popular method of capture is the pitfall,—the same employed to entrap elephants in India. A deep pit is dug, a light covering is thrown over the opening, and on this covering is placed a hindquarter of beef. Attracted thither by the fumes of the meat, the mosquito unsuspectingly steps upon the deceitful pitfall, the slight fabric yields under the leviathan’s weight, and with a sickening groan the winged monster is precipitated into his gloomy prison, from which he is not hoisted by his captors till he is enfeebled by captivity and starvation. In this way thousands of mosquitoes are taken annually by the people of Christian County, who derive a handsome profit from the pelts of the mosquitoes, which are tanned into shoe-leather, and the tusks, which are utilized for those varied purposes to which ivory is usually put. Considering the importance of this industry, it is not strange that the result of Dr. Thomas’s explorations and researches are awaited with a solicitude bordering upon suspense.

_The Dying Soldier._

His listening soul hears no echo of battle,
No pæan of triumph, nor welcome of fame;
But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,
And softly he murmurs her idolized name;
And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging,
As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;
He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—
And Nellie is coming from over the sea.

While each patriot’s hope stays the fulness of sorrow,
While our eyes are bedimmed, and our voices are low,
He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow,
Like an angel come back from the dear long ago.
Ah! what to him now is a nation’s emotion?
And what for our love or our grief careth he?
A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,
And Nellie is coming from over the sea!

MARCH, 1884.

_His First Day at Editing._

Yesterday morning Mr. Horace A. Hurlbut took formal possession of “The Chicago Times,” in compliance with the mandate of justice making him receiver of that institution. Bright and early he was at his post in “The Times” building; and the expression that coursed over his mobile features as he lolled back in the editorial chair, and abandoned himself to pleasing reflections, was an expression of conscious pride and ineffable satisfaction.

“I have now attained the summit and the goal of earthly ambition,” quoth Mr. Hurlbut to himself. “Embarking in the drug-business at an early age, I have progressed through the intermediate spheres of real estate, brokerage, and money-lending, until finally I have reached the top round of the ladder of fame, and am now the head of the greatest daily newspaper on the American continent. I expect and intend to prove myself equal to the demands which will be made upon me in this new capacity. I have my own notions about journalism,—they differ somewhat from the conventional notions that prevail, but that is neither here nor there; for, as the dictator of this great newspaper, I shall have no difficulty in putting my theories into practice.”

“Here’s the mornin’ mail, major,” said the office-boy, laying innumerable packages of letters and circulars on the table before Mr. Hurlbut.

“Why do you call me major?” inquired Mr. Hurlbut, with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh! we always call the editors majors,” replied the office-boy. “Major Dennett made that a rule long time ago.”

“It is not a bad idea,” said Major Hurlbut; “for it gives one a dignity and prestige which can never maintain among untitled civilians. So this is the morning mail, is it?”

Major Hurlbut picked up one of the letters, scrutinized the superscription, heaved a deep sigh, picked up several other letters, blushed, frowned, and appeared much embarrassed.

“Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether there are any reporters about this office by the names, or aliases, or nom de plume, or pseudonym, of ‘M 33,’ and ‘X 14,’ or ‘S 5,’ or ‘G 38’? I find numerous letters directed in this wise, and I mistrust that some unseemly work is being done under cover of these bogus appellations. I will make bold to examine one of these letters.”

So Major Hurlbut tore open one of the envelopes, and read as follows:—

“G 38, Times Office: I have a nice, quiet, furnished room. Call after
eight o’clock P.M., at No. 1143 Elston Road.”

“As I suspected,” cried Major Hurlbut, with a profound groan. “Under these strange pseudonyms, the reporters of this paper are engaging in a carnival of vice! But the saturnalia must end at once. From this moment ‘The Times’ becomes a moral institution. I shall ascertain the names of these reporters, and have them peremptorily discharged!”

“H’yar’s a package for you, sah,” said the dusky porter, Martin Lewis, entering, and placing a small bundle before Major Hurlbut.

“Ah, yes! I see,” quoth the major. “They are the new cards I ordered last Saturday. We editors have to have cards, so as to let people know we are editors.”

With this philosophic observation, the major opened the bundle, and disclosed several hundred neat pasteboard cards, printed in red and black as follows:—

HORACE A. HURLBUT,

Receiver and Editor “Chicago Times.”

_REAL ESTATE A SPECIALTY._

_DRUG ORDERS PROMPTLY FILLED._

Loans Negotiated without Publicity.

“They are very handsome,” said Major Hurlbut, “but I am sorry I did not have the title of major prefixed to my name. However, I will take that precaution with the next lot I have printed.”

“Majah Dennett would like to speak with you, sah,” said Martin, the porter.

“Although I am very busy with this mail, you may show him in,” remarked Major Hurlbut.

Major Dennett pigeon-toed his way into the new editor’s presence, and was loftily waved to a chair in which he dropped, and sat with his toes turned in. Major Hurlbut heaved a weary sigh, ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded his visitor with a condescending stare.

“This is a busy hour with us editors,” said Major Hurlbut, “therefore I hope you will state your business as succinctly as possible.”

“I merely called to receive orders,” explained Major Dennett, with an astonished look.

“Orders for what?” cried Major Hurlbut. “Perhaps you forget, sir, that I am out of the drug-business, and am an editor. Permit me, sir, to hand you one of my professional cards.”

“You mistake me, sir,” replied Major Dennett: “I am connected with this paper, and have been managing editor for many years.”

Major Hurlbut’s manner changed instantly. His cold reserve melted at once, and he became docile as a sucking-dove.

“My dear major,” he exclaimed cordially, “I am overjoyed to meet you. Draw your chair closer, and let us converse together upon matters which concern us both. Each of us has the interests of this great paper at heart; but I, as the head of the institution, have a fearful responsibility resting upon my shoulders. It behooves you to assist me; and, as the first and most important step, I must beg of you to inform me what is expected of me as an editor. I am willing and anxious to edit, but how can I?”

Major Dennett undertook to explain a few of the duties which would fall upon the editor’s shoulders, and would have continued talking all day had not the venerable Major Andre Matteson been ushered into the room, thereby interrupting the conversation. Upon being formally introduced to the new editor, Major Matteson inquired what the policy of “The Times” would be henceforward touching the tariff, the civil service, the war in the Soudan, and the doctrine of the transmigration of souls.

“I have not decided fully what the policy of the paper will be in these minor matters,” quoth Major Hurlbut, “except that we shall favor the abolition of the tariff on quinine, cochineal, and other drugs and dyestuffs. I have made up my mind, however, to advocate the opening of a boulevard in Fleabottom subdivision; and, as you are one of the editorial writers, Major Matteson, I would like to have you compose a piece about the folly of extending the Thirtieth-street sewer through the Bosbyshell subdivision. And you may give the firm of Brown, Jones, & Co. a raking over, for they have seriously interfered with the sale of my lots out in that part of the city.”

Major George McConnell and Major Guy Magee filed into the room at this juncture, and were formally presented to Editor Hurlbut, who looked impressive, and received them with a dignity that would have done credit to a pagan court.

“I had hoped to be in a position to boom the city department of the paper,” said Major Magee; “but I find that three of the reporters are sick with headache to-day.”

“Sick? What appears to be the matter?” asked the editor.

“I didn’t ask them,” replied Major Magee; “but they said they had headaches.”

“They should try bromide of potassium, tincture of valerian, and aromatic spirits of ammonia,” observed Major Hurlbut. “By the way, whenever any of our editors or reporters get sick, they should come to me; for I can give them prescriptions that will fix them up in less than no time.”

“I presume the policy of the paper touching the theatres will remain unchanged?” inquired Major McConnell.

“That reminds me,” said Major Hurlbut: “who gets the show-tickets?”

“Well, I have attended to that detail heretofore,” replied Major McConnell.

“We get as many as we want, don’t we?” asked Major Hurlbut.

“Certainly,” said Major McConnell.

“Well, then, we must give the shows good notices,” said the editor: “and, by the way, I would like to have you leave six tickets with me every morning; they will come in mighty handy, you know, among my friends. Do we get railroad-passes too?”

“Yes, all we want,” said Major Dennett.

“I am glad I am an editor,” said Major Hurlbut softly but feelingly.

The foreman came in.

“Shall we set it in nonpareil to-night?” he asked.

“Eh?” ejaculated Editor Hurlbut.

“Does nonpareil go?” repeated the foreman.

“What has he been doing?” inquired Editor Hurlbut.

“The minion is so bad that we ought to put the paper in nonpareil,” explained the foreman.

“It must be understood,” thundered Major Hurlbut, “that no bad minions will be tolerated on the premises. If there is any minion here who is dissatisfied, let him quit at once.”

“Then, I am to fire the minion?” asked the foreman.

“No,” said Major Hurlbut, “do not fire him, for that would constitute arson; discharge him, but use no violence.”

We deeply regret that this astute mandate was followed by an interchange of sundry smiles, nods, and winks between the foreman and the members of the editorial staff, which, however, Major Hurlbut did not see, or he most assuredly would have reproved this unseemly and _mal-apropos_ levity.

And so they talked and talked. And each moment Major Hurlbut became more and more impressed with the importance and solemnity of the new dignity he had attained, and each moment he became more and more impressive in his mien and conversation. And each moment, too, he silently and devoutly thanked High Heaven that in its goodness and mercy it had called him to the ennobling profession of journalism.

_The Little Peach._

A little peach in the orchard grew,
A little peach of emerald hue:
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,
It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—
Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw:
Down from the limb on which it grew,
Fell the little peach of emerald hue—
Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,—
Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,—
Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew,
They planted John and his sister Sue;
And their little souls to the angels flew—
Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well! its mission on earth is through—
Adieu!

_Learning and Literature._

Mr. J. N. Whiting writes us from New Litchfield, Ill., asking if we can tell him the name of the author of the poem, of which the following is the first stanza:—

“The weary heart is a pilgrim
Seeking the Mecca of rest;
Its burden is one of sorrows;
And it wails a song as it drags along,—
’Tis the song of a hopeless quest.”

Mr. Whiting says that this poem has been attributed to James Channahon, a gentleman who flourished about the year 1652; “but,” he adds, “its authorship has not as yet been established with any degree of certainty.” Mr. Whiting has noticed that “The Daily News” is a “criterion on matters of literary interest,” and he craves the boon of our valuable opinion, touching this important question. Now, although it is true that we occasionally deal with obsolete topics, it is far from our desire to make a practice of so doing. It is natural, that, once in a while, when an editor gets hold of a catalogue of unusual merit, and happens to have a line of encyclopædias at hand—it is natural, we say, that, under such circumstances, an editor should take pleasure in letting his subscribers know how learnedly he can write about books and things. But an editor must be careful not to write above the comprehension of the majority of his readers. If we made a practice of writing as learnedly as we are capable of writing, the proprietors of this paper would soon have to raise its price from two cents to five cents per copy. We say this in no spirit of egotism: it is simply our good fortune that we happen to possess extraordinary advantages. We have the best assortment of cyclopædias in seven States, and the Public Library is only two blocks off. It is no wonder, therefore, that our erudition and our research are of the highest order. Still, it is not practicable that we, being now on earth, should devote much time to delving into, and wallowing among the authors of past centuries. Ignatius Donnelly has been trying for the last three years to inveigle us into a discussion as to the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. We have declined to participate in any public brawl with the Minnesota gentleman, for the simple reason that no good could accrue therefrom to anybody. If there were an international copyright law, there would be some use in trying to find out who wrote these plays, in order that the author might claim royalties on his works; or, if not the author, his heirs or assigns forever. Mr. Whiting will understand that we cannot take much interest in an anonymous hymn of the seventeenth century. It is enough for us to know that the hymn in question could not have been written by a Chicago man, for the very good reason that Chicago did not exist in the seventeenth century; that is to say, it existed merely as the haunt of the musquash and the mud-turtle, and not as the living, breathing metropolis of to-day. We have our hands full examining into, and criticising, the live topics of current times: if we were to spend our days and nights in hunting up the estray poets and authors of the seventeenth century, how long would it be before the sceptre of trade and culture would slip irrecoverably from Chicago’s grasp? Chicago has very little respect for the seventeenth century, because there is nothing in it. The seventeenth century has done nothing for Chicago: she does not even know that this is the greatest hog-market in the world, and she has never had any commercial dealings with us in any line. If Chicago doesn’t cut a wider swath in history than the seventeenth century has, we shall be very much ashamed of her. Of one thing we rest assured,—nobody will be writing to a newspaper two hundred years hence, asking the name of “the Chicago man who wrote that exquisite hymn in the nineteenth century,” beginning,—

“A cultured gent is the packer
Who in this town abides;
He masticates terbacker,
And rolls in gold; last year he sold
A million hams and sides.”

_Some Famous Apologies._

Mr. George Riddle, the promising young actor, who is Miss Kate Field’s cousin, has written an open letter of apology to the Boston press. It appears that Mr. Riddle made his _début_ upon the Boston stage about three weeks ago, and was very coldly received by the public and the critics. Before leaving the city, he sent a saucy letter to the local newspapers, informing the Boston people that they could go to thunder, and declaring that he would never again return to Boston in his professional capacity. Coming to think the thing over, however, Mr. Riddle concluded to apologize; and he has done so in very manly words. It almost kills some men to make an apology, but in very many instances it is the handsome and noble thing to do. If Mr. Riddle thinks that he ought to apologize for having played an engagement in Boston, and if he is sincerely sorry for it—why, all that we can say is, that he has done the manly thing in that apology. Greater men than Mr. Riddle have made mistakes, have recognized the folly thereof, and have apologized therefor. Ajax, for instance, defied the lightning once upon a time: he actually girt on his shield, took up his sword, and went out into a pelting storm, for the declared purpose of hurling opprobrious epithets at the electric fluid. He invited the press-reporters to be present; and he stood around in the rain for an hour or two, using very wicked old Greek language, and catching a very bad cold in his mucous membrane. Meanwhile the storm continued, and the lightning went right along doing business at the old stand. Next morning the sky was cloudless: the rain had refreshed all nature, and the air was full of the gratitude of flower and foliage. Ajax had been drinking camomile-tea all night, and he stepped out of his tent with his wife’s shawl tied around his head. Raising his grand, Hellenic countenance heavenward, he cried hoarsely, yet in tones of sincere contrition, “O light-dig, I have gub to abologize; dow if you will gure be of this gold in by head, we will be frieds agaid.”

There was another man, of the name of Canute, who had been so flattered by his courtiers that he imagined he was omnipotent. He had a proscenium-box erected on the seashore, and thereinto he ascended; and, in the presence of as many people as would fill our base-ball park three times, he called out to the sea to quit rolling up on the pebbly beach. No sooner, however, had he uttered this command, than a breaker of unusual size broke over the proscenium-box, ruining the furniture, and soaking Canute so thoroughly that he had great difficulty in getting off his underclothes. The next day Canute sent a written apology to the sea; and, as an earnest of his contrition, he ordered about fourscore of his courtiers to be bound to the tails of wild horses, as was a custom in those merry old times.

_Victoria at the Show._

Buffalo Bill’s Wild-West Show has met with a tremendous triumph in London, and people of all conditions, ages, and sizes have rushed to see it. The Prince of Wales set the fashion by attending the first performance, and by lavishing smiles of approval upon Minnewaha, the alleged Indian princess, who is advertised as the daughter of a fiery, untamed Sioux chief named Drink-Heart’s-Blood, but who is really the seventh child of an Omaha journeyman tailor. When this young woman gets on her paint and feathers and wampum and things, she really presents a very aboriginal appearance; and we do not wonder that she sells over seventy dollars’ worth of bead bags to the British noblemen _per diem_. At the breakfast-table the other morning, Queen Victoria announced that she was going to the show that afternoon: she had heard Wales talking about it, and she proposed to take it in on her own account. So she went, and had a charming time. That evening Col. James Russell Lowell called upon her, and she asked him if he had been to see Buffalo Bill yet.

“No, queen,” answered the colonel; “but I passed through his town on my way to Chicago last winter.”

“Well, now, do you know,” said her majesty frankly, “that I suspected as much to-day when I was talking with one of the Indian ladies. She was very strangely dressed, and was really very homely. I invited her into my presence, and asked her how she thought our people compared with American civilization. Then I asked, ‘Did you ever read any of Col. Lowell’s poems?’ and when she said, ‘Humph! me no read—me heap kill,’ I just made up my mind that she couldn’t have very much social standing at home.”

“Pardon me, queen,” said Col. Lowell, “if I remain dumb on this subject. The lady to whom you refer may be a member of the Chicago Union League Club; and that, you know, is a very delicate matter with me.”

_A Farmer’s Advice._

“What kind of threshing-machine do you use on your farm?” inquired a Knox-county farmer of Farmer Carter Harrison last week. “To tell you the truth,” replied the modern Cincinnatus, “I have not had any use for one for a long time. My children are all nearly grown. I formerly used the smooth side of a hairbrush; but if I felt the need of one now, I fancy I would use a trunk-strap.”

_A Chicago German Lyric._

DER NIEBELRUNGEN UND DER SCHLABBERGASTERFELDT.