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 110Dixey, 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.

111“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.

112Mr. 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.

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