JOHN IN CHICAGO.
EARLY in July, having visited various sections of Iowa, I started one
evening for Chicago, where I arrived next morning about daylight—the
distance from Wilton being a little over two hundred miles.
Chicago is styled the “Garden City,” because handsome private gardens
are attached to many of the residences. There are other cities, however,
which, for the same reason, are equally entitled to the sobriquet.
Chicago is much the largest city of the north-west. It has sprung up
faster than any other, and has now a population of about two hundred and
ten thousand. It is situated in North-eastern Illinois, on the shore of
Lake Michigan. It is one of the liveliest cities in the country, and
must always be the largest city of the Mississippi Valley, except Saint
Louis, which will naturally stand number one, on account of the numerous
advantages of its position.
An appropriate sobriquet for Chicago, I think, would be “City of
Boards”—because it is built chiefly of boards. Most of the houses are
frame buildings, weather-boarded; the sidewalks are nearly all composed
of thick pine boards; and the streets are paved with the “Nicholson
pavement.” The sidewalks are raised some feet above what was once the
original height of the ground, leaving many dirty caverns beneath—an
arrangement highly gratifying to the rats. The rat population of Chicago
is supposed to amount to about one hundred to each inhabitant of the
_genus homo_, which would make their whole number about twenty-one
millions. As Josh Billings remarks, “This shows at a glance how many
waste rats there is.” They are very playful, especially about eleven
o’clock, when one is going home from the theater. One night, returning
from Crosby’s Opera House, I counted all I saw on my way to my
lodging-house. I had but three or four squares to go, however, and
therefore only counted eighteen. Of these, I succeeded in knocking only
two over with my cane, by way of amusement.
As I had done in Cincinnati and Saint Louis, I hired a lodging-room, and
took my meals at a restaurant. The room was a very good one, in a house
on Dearborn street, opposite the Post office.
I spent some weeks quite pleasantly in the “Garden City,” during which,
the only very funny thing that happened to me, was my nearly getting
drowned in Lake Michigan. My love of rowing led to this. On a beautiful
moonlight evening, two young ladies, and a young gentleman who lived in
the same house, went down with me to the lake, and we hired a row-boat.
We seated ourselves comfortably in the boat—I taking the oars—glided
away from the shore, and were soon outside of the breakwater, where the
full moon, rising in the eastern sky, made an endless path of quivering
and shining silver over the limpid waves. The air was still, balmy and
pleasant on the water. But the wind had been blowing that day, the
waters were agitated, and the waves rolled considerably. When we were
two miles from shore, we lay-to for a time; and while the waves rocked
us about, in a playful manner, the two young ladies and the gentleman—I
never sing—sung a beautiful song, which, the murmuring of the lake
blending with it, and the beauty of the evening, rendered quite
enchanting. When they ceased singing, one of the young ladies said:
“I wonder if I could row?”
“I have no doubt of it,” I responded; “did you ever try it?”
“No, never.”
“Then,” I rejoined, “it is possible you are an excellent rower, and have
never given yourself an opportunity to discover it. Will you try it?”
“I’m afraid,” she said, timidly.
“Nothing to fear,” I urged; “the oars are stationary in the row-locks,
and you cannot lose them. Moreover, there is no wind or tide, and the
boat cannot run away with you.”
Thus encouraged, she said, “I believe I’ll try it.”
“Then let us exchange seats,” said I.
“Well.”
She was sitting aft, and as we moved to exchange seats, we awkwardly
attempted to pass each other on the same side of the boat thus throwing
too much weight on the port gunwale, and destroying the equilibrium of
the boat and all the crew. Just then, too, a fine fresh, unusually large
wave came rolling along. The lady caught at the side of the boat as she
lost her balance, but missed it, and pitched out! The boat dipped; the
wave swept over, nearly filling it with the pure waters of the lake; and
a wild scream of terror from the other lady lent interest to the scene.
I seized the unfortunate one in time, dragged her into the boat and
called quickly to the gentleman to go to bailing, and never mind the
price of hats. He wore a fine silk castor that held a gallon or so, and
it was refreshing to see the way he began bailing with it. I hastily
turned the head of the boat toward the waves, and we rose with the next
one. Managing to keep her straight with one oar, I took my “beaver” in
the other hand, and went to bailing for dear life. Meantime, the two
ladies were trembling with terror, one of them coughing, sneezing and
strangling, too—and uttering brief impromptu prayers, such as “Lord,
save us!” and the like.
I assured them there was not the slightest danger—that the water was not
deep there anyhow, that I could reach the bottom with an ordinary
poker—I meant by jumping out and diving with it, though—and I succeeded
in restoring their nerves to something like composure.
As we were all soaking wet, from top to toe—and especially the young
lady who had taken an involuntary dive into the deep-green waters—we
began to steer for the “Garden City:” which we reached with thankful
hearts, wet clothes and hats utterly ruined.
As the others stepped out of the boat before me, I observed that, with
the exception of my person, it was entirely empty, and said:
“Where in the deuce is my crutch?”
“Isn’t it in the boat?” responded the young gentleman, who stood on the
shore.
I will never forget the picture he presented, as he stood there in the
moonlight. His ruined hat was on his head, and it had lost all its
stiffening, the nap was no longer sleek, smooth and shiny, but was
rumpled and crooked, and stuck out in all directions; while the now
pliable crown was crushed down till it rested on his cranium, like a wet
dishcloth laid on the top of his head, and looked as though it had been
beaten down by a terrific hail-storm. The dull, lifeless, lead-like way
in which his garments hung about him may be imagined.
“Your crutch?” said he. “Can it be possible that it fell out when the
boat tipped?”
“Blazes!” I exclaimed. “How will I get home?”
I might have hopped all the way—four squares—but that novel mode of
locomotion would have attracted public attention and placed me in an
undignified light.
“Here it is,” said one of the girls, laughing. “I took it out when I
left the boat.” And, much to my relief and delight, she handed it to me.
The other young lady also handed me my cane, which she had picked up on
leaving the boat.
You had better believe I was glad, if you are fond of being correct in
your opinion, for I was just making up my mind to row out upon the Lake
again, and look for my crutch, as I thought it possible I might find it
floating about somewhere. I would have had a wide bit of territory to
canvass.