took place. The race between Hopeful and Rarus was the most exciting
of anything which ever took place in those days. About 60,000 people
gathered to see the race.
The blooded Rarus was a tall six-year-old bay trotter of national
fame, from Beldom Brothers' stock farm in California. Hopeful was a
chubby little white pacer, from a farm on the New England hills. He was
twenty-two years old, and had never been on a race track until that
season.
Neither horse had ever lost a race, and while the press, from the
Atlantic to the Rockies, leaned hopefully towards Hopeful, yet they
seemed to think that he was overmatched.
The match was really a strife between the people and the sporting
fraternity, for horse racing throughout the country had become
demoralized to the extent that the gamblers seldom allowed the best
horse to win. Therefore, all the people wanted to see the old farmer,
with his handsome pet, win the race.
It was a delightful October day and not only did the whole city turn
out, but thousands came in from the country, to witness the great
national race which had long been advertised.
Rarus came out first, stepping lively around the mile course and
speeding down past the grandstand, which brought forth applause, for
all admired the Pacific Ranger, who had come to Chicago to win the
laurels of the day.
When Hopeful came out and paced slowly up past the grandstand he
looked one way and the other to those who applauded him with a sort of
confident grin, but when he turned at the north end of the home stretch
and let loose, the people just yelled and roared, while the women acted
as though they would like to hug him in their arms.
When lots were chosen and Hopeful won the pole, there was another
shout, but it was soon followed by a row in the judge's stand, as there
seemed to be a misunderstanding as to who should call time, or give
the word to go, but it was finally settled, and the horses appeared
for probably the most exciting race ever pulled off on the American
continent.
At the word "go" they were off and we all craned our necks as they
shot around the south bend, Hopeful hugging the pole and Rarus laying
on the wheel of his sulky. On the back stretch, Rarus pulled out
endeavoring to pass, and our hearts were in our mouths, while the
little mountaineer elevated his head a trifle and steadily held the big
ranger on the hub until they came under the wire, Hopeful winner, first
in three.
We were still uneasy, for the impression was prevalent that the blooded
animal was a stayer, while Hopeful could not make the second mile as
fast as the first, but he still held the pole, and we argued that if
Rarus had done his best we were all right.
When they came out for the second heat we soon discovered that we were
being jockeyed, for several times they came under the wire, neck and
neck, and yet were called back by the starter, whose neck we wanted to
wring, for we knew he was doing it to fuss, worry and tire our Hopeful.
The last time they were called back, Rarus turned sooner than usual,
and before Hopeful could turn he was at full speed and came under the
wire far ahead and got the word "go," which gave him time to swing in
and take the pole.
A murmur seemed to stifle the friends of Hopeful as the horses swung
into the back stretch, where we hoped to see the pacer try to pass,
but he steadily hung on the hub, as he had done around the south bend,
and continued this all the way around the north bend, when suddenly
his driver pulled him out into the center of the home stretch, and the
great race was on in dead earnest.
We had taken some ladies from the ground into our carriage, so they
could see, while I stepped onto the tire of one wheel with my wife,
Mary's hand on my neck to keep me from falling. In the excitement she
gripped me so hard I can almost feel her hand now.
Our position near the judge's stand gave us a full view of the horses
as they were coming, with Hopeful's head high and his knees far apart.
For a few seconds the silence which seemed to reign was only broken by
the seemingly far away sound of the horses' feet on the soft dirt, but
soon those at the north started a cheer, which wildly broke along the
throng like a wave, as Hopeful steadily poked his nose farther to the
front until Rarus flew up into the air, when the news began flashing
over the wires into the country that Hopeful had won.
Amid the cheers and yells, a ridiculous scene occurred which the
reader should have witnessed to appreciate. Suddenly in the crowd
nearby a gruff voice seemed uttering smothered oaths, while a woman
shouted shrieks of terror, as she suddenly appeared above the throng
sitting on the top of a man's head, he pawing with both hands to try to
get her off, while she was struggling for release.
The cause of this strange episode took place something like this: He
was a burly, cross-eyed Wolverine, from the tall pine tree country,
who came down to bet his hard-earned money on the famous Pacific Coast
trotter. During the excitement someone knocked his glasses off, and in
order for the cross-eyed man to see to find them he had to put his face
near to the ground. She, Mrs. Durgan, a little woman, it seems, when
awfully tickled, was accustomed to spat her hands on her knees and run
backwards while laughing. When she heard Hopeful had won, forgetting
where she was, she indulged in her old habit of running backwards until
she sat on his head.
When he felt her alight he sprang erect and, of course, not being able
to see out or know what was happening, uttered a few excusable oaths.
After the good-natured man had found his spectacles he looked pitifully
at the woman, who was deluged in a flood of tears, and then turning to
me smiled, as he said, "Didn't that beat hell?"
That was long, long ago. Should the recording angel call the roll today
of those who were there that day, not one in ten would answer, and in a
few years all will be silent. Where have they gone, and will they come
again?
CHICAGO PIETY
Jim Sackley, an Irishman of merited renown, was living in the
neighborhood of Lake Street and Western Avenue, when we arrived in
Chicago. He had been a sort of self-appointed constable of the town of
Cicero, which he said included all the territory west of Western Avenue.
Thompson Brothers at the time were running a general store on Lake
Street and, as they were politically inclined, their store seemed to be
a gathering place for the worthy aspirants of the neighborhood.
One evening Gordon and I were in the store when Tony McGuel, a
gentleman from Cork, came in to announce the death of his wife. We all
huddled around him in sympathy, for we had not even heard that she was
sick. The surroundings of the scene were made all the more pitiful, as
it had taken place just before pay day at the car barns, and he needed
a little assistance financially, so Hiram and Harvey Thompson headed
the subscription list, and soon we had raised quite a respectable sum.
Jim Sackley was there and in just the frame of mind to shed sympathy
copiously, for it was said that one of his near relatives had recently
passed away and he was in communication, at intervals, with the priest,
who was still praying her out of purgatory. Not only this, but Jim,
although not an Irishman himself, for as he had said his children were
all born in this country, yet he had seen the auld sod and, like Joseph
and his kinsmen in Egypt, with a five dollar bill in his hand he fell
on Tony's neck and they kissed and hugged like mother and babe.
Of course, they had both been drinking slightly, which made the tears
flow more freely, which so affected us all that we pulled out our linen
and wiped away the surplus moisture.
After Tony had gone with about $13.00, which Sackley said would only
buy the cheapest coffin, Sackley and Harvey Thompson shaved, put
on clean shirts, and called at the home to view the corpse and, if
necessary, offer prayer, when to their surprise the corpse met them at
the door, and said she did not know where Tony was; the last she heard
of him he was trying to borrow money to attend a wake down on Canal
Street.
[Illustration: EARLY CHICAGO.]
PUBLIC CONVEYANCE
During those days the Chicago Street Railway Company suffered much
through what might be called growing pain. The Randolph Street cars
turned at Union Park over onto Lake Street, as far as Robey, and there
they stopped during the busy hours of morning and evening, only running
to their barns on Western Avenue, when they were not in a hurry.
Their excuse for not running all their cars to Western Avenue was that
they could not afford to carry passengers so far for five cents, as hay
was $5.00 a ton and oats twenty-seven cents per bushel, besides the
public demanded such extravagant service.
The patrons continually murmured about the cars being cold in winter,
so the company filled into each car about a foot of loose straw to keep
feet warm. This did not work, for the ladies' skirts dragged in the mud
and tobacco spittle, and as a result our common council rashly passed
an ordinance requiring the company to heat their cars.
The company's first impression was that it could be done with hot water
bags, which the wise city fathers rejected, so the company turned to
red hot iron. They made receptacles at intervals under the seats, where
they carried hot iron, which they exchanged, the cold for the hot, at
the return of each trip. This could hardly be considered a success, for
if one set over where there was no heat the chills would creep up his
spinal column, while if he sat over a fresh hot slab he was in danger
of being blistered, but the ordinance had been obeyed, and the company
was proud of their West Side horse car line until the cruel hand of
competition disturbed their sweet repose.
A wide awake German by the name of Kolbe bought up the old North Shore
buss line and furnished it with much better horses than the railroad
company were using and started in to carry passengers over the same
route for four-cent fare.
At first the railroad company ignored Mr. Kolbe, but soon reduced their
fare to four cents, and even at that the busses got all the passengers,
for they were driven faster.
Now the fun began. The company ordered their drivers to make the
trip as fast as the omnibusses, or they would be discharged, while
Kolbe gave orders to his drivers to outdo the company. This gave the
passengers, whose destination was State Street, regular joy rides, but
those who attempted to get on or off along the route, took their lives
in their hands. During the heat of excitement, Kolbe dropped the fare
to three cents, which the company followed. Even at this, the more
frisky passengers continued to patronize the buss line, leaving only
a few grandfathers and gentle dames to ride in the cars. This dropped
the fare to two cents, when the company bought Kolbe out, paying him
a fabulous price for his old bus line, in railroad stock, which now
advanced rapidly, and thus the wide awake German made a handsome
fortune.
In 1877 Gordon and I opened up a factory just east of the river, on
Lake Street. In 1882 we sold our homes on West Lake Street, and built
on Washington Boulevard, he at the southwest corner of Albany Avenue,
and I at the southeast corner of Francisco Street.
[Illustration: BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.
RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK,
GEORGE, AMANDA.]
We continued partners until 1885, when we dissolved, he remaining at
the old stand and I starting in the same line on Lake Street, just west
of State Street, where through damage by water from an adjacent fire, I
lost heavily and made a bad failure. Soon I picked up again and in 1890
bought the northwest corner of Washington Boulevard and Curtis Street,
and erected a six-story factory and began manufacturing on a more
extensive scale.
MY ATHLETIC EXPLOITS
I mention with pride the physical strength and agility with which I
was born, and which sustains me still. Equestrianship came into vogue
in western cities in about 1885, and was kept up until bicycles came
out. At one period I kept four saddle horses for the use of my family.
Like other horse fanciers, I carried it to the extreme. For over two
years, summer and winter, wet or dry, I mounted my pet horse, Deacon,
at four o'clock in the morning, and rode ten to thirty miles before
breakfast. I also had a vicious horse--Blackhawk--who objected to the
saddle, which I took out occasionally, just for the fun. Often with
me in the saddle he would rear up and come over on his back, which,
when I felt him going, I would swing around and land on my feet, then
mount him again when he was springing up. When I gave him the spurs
he would kick, only to get the spurs again when his heels came down,
and sometimes we both went over the sidewalk into the ditch, which I
enjoyed, for I never got hurt.
In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and
mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son,
Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should
try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching
me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the
wheel against the curbstone.
That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me a lesson in the dark, and
the next day I could ride--that was if all the gates were closed--but
when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to
the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were
scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I
was trying to do.
About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer
cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of
Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take.
Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel
where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my
legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over
head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either
the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route
home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my
son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly
declined, but now I wish I had it.
MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUN
My son, Arthur, then famous as one of the long distance riders of
the west, got up a party of about twenty aspirants to take over the
100-mile Elgin and Aurora course at a breakneck speed. I was not fitted
for such a run, but I fell in and we were all off at about five o'clock
in the morning.
The wind blew almost a gale in our faces and before we reached Elgin
all had dropped out but Walton Aborn, Jim Carroll, Billy Push, Arthur
and myself.
Down the Fox River Arthur increased the pace to that extent that Billy
threw himself into the shade of a barn and refused to budge, so we left
him there.
On the home run from Aurora, Jim Carroll declared his intention not to
alight, as was customary at the S. Hill, but ride his wheel down, a
feat which Arthur told him no fatigued rider should attempt.
We fell back and let him lead, and held our breath as he shot out of
sight around the first corner at a thirty-mile pace.
When we turned the corner hoping to see Jim far away across the
Skunkamunk Valley, we discovered a swath in the roadside down through
the underbrush, briers and brambles nearly to the foot of the hill. At
the end of the swath under an immense heap of rubbish we found Jim and
his wheel, he blinking like a toad under a harrow.
[Illustration: OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE
SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.
LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR
ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.]
Jim groaned and grunted and finally told us he did not think he
was dead, but his back was probably broken. We soon had him on his
feet with his wheel righted and was pleased to learn that, with the
exception of the few tufts of hair and chunks of hide left in the trail
where he had slidden down, he was the same man, only his eyes were so
full of gravel that he could not see.
He now proposed to take a bath in the creek in order to find out just
how much skin he had left on his body. For this purpose he attempted to
crawl under the barbed wire fence, into which his clothes got caught
in such a way that he could neither raise up nor let down, back out or
push forward, work his pants off, or keep his shirt on.
When we began to laugh and roar, Jim began to swear and cry, and said
if we would go on about our own business he would get out and come home
when he got good and ready.
Now there were only three of us, and Arthur lit out, leaving Walton and
myself to come as fast as we could. We got into a mixup and both took
headers over our wheels, when we sung out to Arthur to come back and
help us.
When he returned I showed deep regret that my wheel was broken, for,
of course, I was not much tired, but when he pronounced both wheels
in good running order, I felt awfully, for I would have given most
anything for an excuse to go no farther.
Arthur now encouraged us by saying he would run on a while and then
wait for us, so we took it steady, and in some way got past him. Then
we sat down in the shade and waited, for we did not want to report at
the club house that we had left him in the country, for fear they would
blame us. We finally started on and came slowly, stopping in every
shade, waiting for Arthur, until we reached Garfield Park, where we
met Minnie, my eldest daughter, with Dr. Chamberlain, her husband,
and Alberta, my next, with her husband, George Carlson, together with
several other neighbors, all riding their wheels, who laughed at us and
said Arthur arrived home about three hours before.
[Illustration: CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN
INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY
NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.]
ARTHUR'S AND WALTON'S LONG RUN
The next summer Arthur and Walton made their famous ride through to
Crystal Lake, Conn. Here is an outline of their exploit, which was
considered a great achievement, considering the rainy weather and the
rough roads they encountered between Chicago and Toledo and between
Silver Creek and Memphis, N. Y.
Here I reproduce the letters which Arthur sent back while on the road:
Perrysburg, Ohio, June 17, 1896.
Dear Father:--
Walton and I were very much surprised at the end of our first day's
ride at Mishawaka, Ind., to read in the Tribune so much about your
winning the 100-mile race over all the crack Illinois bicycle riders.
The paper was shown us by our friends at Mishawaka, and at first we
thought there was a mistake that father had won the closely contested
race, but Walton said: "No use talking, Uncle Merrick is fast--but it
is not all in his legs; it is his indomitable will power that wins."
Then we pictured to ourselves the occasion and "he 55 years old," said
I. "Well, God gave him a strong constitution, and he has taken care of
it."
Batavia, N. Y., June 19, 1896.
Dear Folks at Home:--
This letter is especially for mother, Minnie and Bertie, while the
ones about bicycle riding go to father.
We are stopping here at Uncle John's at Batavia, and the rest is very
welcome. We were mighty tired and this is the first day we have had a
chance to rest since we left home.
I tell you, mother, I have a couple of fine cousins in Carrie and Ida.
I don't think Walton will ever forget Ida's kindness. He was so sore
from riding his wheel that when he got here he couldn't sit down. He
had to sleep standing, but Ida made him the dandiest pillow and sewed
it on to his bicycle saddle, so poor Walton is all right now.
We are going to see Grandmother Hoyt at Elba tomorrow. You know it is
only six miles north. Well, mother, the Hoyts are all in good standing
around here, and I feel mighty proud of you all. Aunt Alida seems
young as ever, and the bloom of youth is on her cheek. But, say, you
would think I was writing a novel, wouldn't you?
Uncle John and I sat up nearly all night, and he certainly told
me some very interesting things about the Hoyts and Deweys, and
many incidents of you in your childhood days, when you lived in
Rochester, before you came to Pine Hill. He says the childhood home
of Grandfather Hoyt was at Hudson, on the Hudson River, and that his
family came from Danbury, Connecticut. Grandmother Hoyt was a Dewey
from Ohio, and her father was from Watertown, N. Y., whose ancestors
sprang from the Herkimer County Mohawk Dutch.
Now, why can't we claim a connecting link, for we all know that my
great grandfather, John Richardson's brother, Gershom, moved from
Stafford, Connecticut, to Watertown, N. Y., and I have heard father
say that he, Warren Richardson, my grandfather, with some other men,
walked up to Watertown one winter, over 300 miles, and staid a month
or so with their cousins. They were a large family.
[Illustration: NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE.]
I wish Uncle John lived where I could see him often. He is so full of
information on all subjects, that I just love to talk with him. It
made me laugh when he told me about how you, Ellen Wilder, Mary Robe
and Mary Raymond, actually carried old Pine Hill by storm several
winters.
Then he got to talking about the war and I really cried when he
described the battle of Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864. Just think
of it, four brothers--John, Sylvester, and the twins, Edwin and
Edward--standing there at daylight waiting for the order to charge the
enemy's breast works. Uncle John said that they all thought it meant
death. Colonel Porter must have been a brave man; he stood in front
and said, "Boys, this is our last charge, but we are going to obey
orders." He unwisely wore his uniform in leading; Uncle John said that
he hadn't gone thirty feet before he was pierced with seven or eight
bullets.
Uncle John was captured and sent to Salisbury prison for nearly two
years. When he came out his mother said he looked like a monkey. He
only weighed seventy-nine pounds. Sylvester was shot in the thigh,
Edwin was shot through the lungs, and poor Edward; we have never heard
from him. Wasn't that an awful price for your family to pay for the
Union? Uncle said "that from 1,900 of us boys of that 22d New York
Heavy Artillery, over 600 were killed in half an hour, and at the next
roll call at Reams Station, only nineteen men of the regiment answered
the call."
Well, I can't write any more. Walton has already gone to bed and we
have got to start at four o'clock tomorrow morning. We expect to visit
Uncle Sherman at Rochester tomorrow. We are in the best of spirits,
and the way we have been going so far we ought to make Connecticut in
about twelve or thirteen days from Chicago.
Walton and I are awfully proud of father for winning the Century from
all the fast boys of the Cycling Club, but we don't pride ourselves on
these short spurts. Our specialty is thousand-mile affairs, and if he
wants to race us he has got to race the whole thousand. Good night.
Your loving son, Arthur.
Rochester, N. Y., June 21, 1896.
Dear Father:--
We called on our Uncle Sherman Richardson, and he was very proud of
us, introducing us to many of his friends, saying that the blood in
our veins was the same as ran in his, and that showed the kind of
stuff his family was made of. I received your letter at Cleveland,
telling us about your century run, and advising us to reserve our
strength until we reached your time of life. It naturally stiffened
our backbone for the remaining part of our ride.
Memphis, N. Y., June 24, 1896.
Dear Father:--