The Crown Jewels.

Considerable interest (not to say excitement) has been manifested here in Chicago during the sale of the crown jewels in Paris. There is vast wealth in our most cultured circles; and this wealth, we are gratified to note, is being invested quite largely in articles de virtue, such, for instance, as oil-paintings, St. Bernard dogs, statuary, trotting-horses, tally-ho coaches, upright piano-fortes, Egyptian mummies, crown jewels, Shakespearian autographs, bicycles, and coats-of-arms. Some years ago one of our most prominent citizens (a gentleman of wealth and sand) went to Europe for the express purpose of buying the Venus de Milo; but when he came to see the statue, he refused to pay the price demanded, for the very good reason that the goods were damaged. But he did not return empty-handed: on the contrary, he brought back with him from New York the finest line of Rogers statuette groups you ever clapped eyes on. He told us at the time, that he could have bought a genuine Raphael prima donna for thirty thousand dollars, but had concluded to get along with one of Prang’s Beatrices: on the whole, he rather preferred the Beatrice for two reasons,—first, because he did not go much on opera, anyway; and, second, because his wife belonged to a Dante club, and would like to have a picture of her favorite poet’s 292lady-love in her drawing-room. The famous peachblow vase, for which an Eastern liquor-dealer paid eighteen thousand dollars, would surely have come to Chicago if it had not been so expensive. There was a deep-seated desire among our better classes to have it in the midst of us; but there happened to be an unfortunate flurry in the pork-market just at the time the Morgan sale took place, and the consequent depression in local cultured circles was such that the coveted article de virtue was allowed to go to Baltimore. The truth of the matter is,—and there is no use denying it,—that Chicago is taking a powerful interest in art. It was only last month that Col. N. K. Fairbank had his portrait painted by Michael Angelo. The distinguished artist called at the colonel’s office, and told him he was hard pressed for money, and would paint his portrait at a very reasonable cash-price. Col. Fairbank had some doubts about his being the original Angelo, but these doubts were removed when the artist showed him the original written contract he made for decorating St. Peter’s.

About three weeks ago, the agents of several wealthy Chicagoans sailed for Paris to be present at the sale of the crown jewels. It was understood that this was to be a sheriff’s sale of the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, pearls, and other gems seized on a writ of attachment under a first mortgage from the unhappy Eugenie, relict of Louis Napoleon, late emperor of 293the French. The sale, as advertised, was to occur at the Hotel de Veal, and was to be conducted on a strictly cash basis. Among the articles listed were brooches, garlands, pendants, flowerets, bracelets, garters, necklaces, tiaras, briolettes, rings, crosses, talismans, lockets, medallions, etc., indefinitely. At the present time, there are, undoubtedly, more diamonds and other precious stones in Chicago than in all the rest of this country combined. On State Street on almost any pleasant afternoon, you can see thousands of beautiful women doing their shopping in superb costumes positively resplendent with diamonds of the first water and the thirty-second magnitude. In short, culture has reached that point in the midst of us, that no lady is received into our most refined circles unless she wears fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds when she goes marketing. Naturally, therefore, our bong tong were upon the kee veev when they heard of the mammoth sheriff’s sale of crown jewels in Paris. Moses Jacobson, the Dearborn-street connoisseur, was despatched to France at once by a Prairie-avenue syndicate; and he carried with him a cart blonch to buy as many diamonds and valuables as he thought would add to the intellectual and personal charms of his employers’ wives and daughters. No sooner did they hear of this, than a number of prominent millionnaires on Michigan Avenue made up a pool, and hired Abraham Levy, the Monroe-street connoisseur, 294to follow Mr. Jacobson, and to outbid him at the Hotel de Veal sale. Presently the West Side and the North Side waked up, and betimes Wabash Avenue and other fashionable localities became enthused; to make short of a long and thrilling story, there cannot be fewer than a dozen representatives of Chicago culture in Paris at this time, each struggling for possession of those crown jewels. We feel pretty confident that the Frenchmen will not be able to impose upon these representatives; for, if there is one thing which a Chicagoan understands better than he does pork and belles lettres, it is diamonds. When he gets his hands on a stone of unusual lustre, the first thing he does is to draw his tongue across it, to assure himself that it isn’t alum: then he turns it around, to see if there is any tinfoil back of it. If the stone endures these tests, the Chicagoan will pay the handsomest market-price for it; for, as we have frequently remarked with pride, the truly cultured Chicagoan is a man of enterprise and sand. It will not surprise us at all if the Chicago agents now in Paris come back with a box-car load of crown jewels.

295