Culture’s Garland BEING MEMORANDA OF THE GRADUAL RISE OF LITERATURE, ART, MUSIC AND…

PREFACE.

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 viiiintellect, 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 ixevinces 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!

June, 1887.

CONTENTS.

A CHICAGO LITERARY CIRCLE IN THE SIMILITUDE OF A LAUREL WREATH

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.

2Mr. 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. 3On 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 4it 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 6scholar,” 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 7of 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, 8statesmen, 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 9great 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:—

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

And here is Plato’s famous quatrain to

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 10is 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:—

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.”

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]

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.

15It 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,—

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:—

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:—

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 17come 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:—

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

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.