When Chicago Was Very Young. Ii

I

WHEN I was about twelve years old I had a cousin visiting me from New York. She apparently lived in a round of fashion, and she was quite scornful of the fact that in Chicago the coachmen wore no livery and all the vehicles and horses were lacking in style. She told me of Fifth Avenue, with its rows of beautiful houses, its streets full of prancing horses and fine vehicles, with a footman and a coachman on every box, and of the pleasure of living amid such grandeur. I rose to the occasion and felt that I too must put on some style, but how to do it was the question.

At that time we owned, as a family, an old, rather battered-looking vehicle which was called a barouche; we had two horses, one rather larger than the other, and both somewhat down in the mouth. Their tails, their one glory, swept the ground, and their manes had not known a comb since they were colts. I particularly remember the barouche because, when I was live years old, I was taken for a drive in it; the horses became frightened and ran away, and my grandmother, with great presence of mind, determined to drop me out of the little window in the back. This did not appeal to me, and I struggled so violently that the horses were finally brought to a standstill before the plan was consummated. Thereafter the barouche always gave me a most uncomfortable feeling.

The most prominent object about our turnout was the coachman; he was a little Irishman named Barney, not over five feet tall — as ugly a man as I have ever seen, although kindly in disposition. He wore, as a general rule, a suit of light-brown tweed with a dash of red in it. His necktie was almost always red, although I am sure he had never heard of an anarchist. He wore a soft felt hat, and as a crowning touch he was almost always smoking a short pipe held deftly in one side of his mouth, but looking as if it might fall out at any moment. Being of a curious and literary turn of mind, he always read the newspaper when the trap was not moving.

On the whole, our equipage was as good as any in town. I should have been satisfied with it for years to come but for the ideas put into my head by the New York cousin. Spurred on by her scornful remarks, I decided to be stylish, and obtained permission from my father to spend my own money for a livery.

I first interviewed Barney and told him that the corner stone of such stylishness would have to be laid by a change of name for him: ‘Barney’ sounded so very plebeian that in the future I should call him ‘Bernard.’ I also told him that thereafter he must call me ‘Miss Louise.’ He objected only slightly to his own change of name, but decidedly and positively refused to call me anything but ‘Lulu’: that was my name, and he was not going to call me anything else. So ‘Lulu’ it had to be, but I hoped that the New York cousin would never hear him.

I told Bernard that it was our duty to raise the standard for vehicles in Chicago, and I finally roused his enthusiasm to such a pitch that he departed to look for a livery, although he hated the word — he said it reminded him of slavery.

At that time a clothing firm in Chicago named Harvey advertised liveries for sale, and Bernard was told to get the nicest and not to spare expense— we were going to dazzle the people of Chicago with our turnout. I could hardly wait for his return. He came into the barn — a curious, comical little figure of an Irishman, simply snowed under with bundles — and said: ‘Lulu, when I seen them liveries with all the colors of the rainbow, I could n’t make up my mind which one you would like the best, and so I got two — one red and one blue.’ He then displayed the fruits of his labor, and the liveries were lovely. One was bright blue with silver buttons, and the other dark red with gold buttons. We decided to keep both liveries, using the blue one on week days and the red one on Sundays and holidays. The hat was a regulation stovepipe, but crowned with the largest cockade I have ever seen. We did not know at the time that cockades were used only by officials who were in the Navy. We were also uncertain about collar and necktie, but decided that the red necktie should be kept for the red livery and a blue one should be worn with the blue.

It was almost a weeping matter to cut the horses’ tails. Bernard said they would die of the flies in the summertime, and he added, ‘I don’t know how I can look them horses in the face again if I cut off their fly-swatters.’ But he did it, keeping the hair from one flowing tail to be used as a switch in case of an emergency. Months later, when we were driving, I exclaimed, ‘Why, Bernard, that horse is losing his tail!’ But Bernard replied, ‘Don’t fret, Lulu — it’s only an extra switch I put on him to make His tail look bushier.’ Whereupon he calmly removed the tail and put it in his pocket.

We plaited the horses’ manes and tied them with red ribbon. There was no way of finding out (because my cousin had gone back to New York) whether this was stylish or not, but it seemed gay and appropriate, and I was so excited the first day the horses and carriage were ordered around to the front door that I could hardly wait to see them. Bernard was a magnificent figure. As soon as he arrived at the front of the house, attired in his blue livery and his cockade, he arose slowly from his seat and extracted from underneath it his pipe and a newspaper, with which he proceeded to amuse himself. When I explained to him about making a smart appearance in front of the shops and told him that the pipe and newspaper would have to be relegated to the past, he became so cross and whipped the horses so unmercifully that I was compelled to remonstrate.

I felt that on my first drive down Michigan Avenue in such splendor I wanted to try not to look above any acquaintance I might meet, and I was reminded of a story my grandmother had told me about a friend of hers who, in the early days, owned a victoria and a pair of horses, and at the same time had a new green-silk dress. The first time she went out attired in the dress and sitting in the victoria, in order not to have her townsfolk feel that she was proud and ‘stuck-up’ she purchased a bag of peanuts and ate them as she passed through the streets, carelessly throwing the shells right and left, to show that she could still enjoy common things.

II

About this time came the great Chicago fire. I was spending the winter in New York, and our first knowledge of it was a telegram from my father saying: ‘Chicago a mass of ruins; everything gone; I am safe.’ On Fifth Avenue that day I saw large wagons driving up and down the street with signs saying, ‘Give us clothes for the fire sufferers.’ I can remember how doors opened and people ran out, throwing clothing of all kinds into the wagons. Later, when I returned to Chicago, my father met me at the station. I did not know him, for he was unshaven and had a fairly long beard; he wore no overcoat, but had an old shawl over his shoulders. As we neared Chicago we passed large coalyards where great piles of coal were still burning. When we entered the city what struck me particularly was that we could see all over it — there was nothing to obstruct the view except an occasional chimney rising amid the ruins. There was not a house standing on the South Side north of Harrison Street, and not one on the North Side from the River to the Lake, until Lincoln Park was reached, with the exception of Mahlon Ogden’s house, where the Newberry Library now stands.

Our own house on Michigan Avenue was not burned, but it was full of people who had come to us for shelter. They were sleeping forty or fifty on the floor. The city was under martial law, General Sheridan in command. Most of the people in the city had not had their clothes off for a long time; some of them were patrolling the streets and alleys looking for incendiaries, of whom there were many about. The people at my house were eating up my pet bantams and cheerfully saying they did not mind their toughness. Our horses and my pony were doing good service in taking the people out to the country.

My father told us his story of the fire: how he was asleep in the house of a friend on the North Side; but, hearing the fire bells, he got up and saw that there was a great conflagration on the Southwest Side. The wind was blowing a gale, and even then the sparks were falling all about the house. He dressed, woke some of the neighbors, and told them to watch out for their roofs; then he went over town with his host, the president of the bank of which he was cashier. They reached Washington Street and started on a run for the bank, which was at the corner of Washington and LaSalle Streets. Flakes of fire were falling on the street, the courthouse opposite was in flames, and the building in the rear of the bank was a burning mass. My father rushed into the building and found the two bank watchmen at their posts; with revolvers in their hands they rushed to the vaults and tried to open them. The combination was set on the word ‘Oats,’ and the president of the bank said in a grim way, ‘If my horse were here he could find this combination quicker than I.’ It seemed to them an age before the lock was set and the vault door opened. My father stepped inside, threw open the door of the safe, took from it all the currency, which was in packages, and removed several boxes of valuable securities; they then locked the vault and rushed for the street, where there had been a tremendous change in the few moments they had been in the bank. The fire was all over their heads, the air full of burning brands, the heat intense. With their hats crushed down over their faces, their coat collars turned up, and boxes containing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of securities in each hand, they rushed up the street, a watchman with a revolver keeping close to each one.

A hackman stood on the corner of Dearborn Street. He was told his hack was wanted. He refused; a hundred dollars and then two hundred were offered, and he could not resist the bribe. The men jumped in and were soon at the house of a friend on Michigan Avenue near Twenty-second Street, where they deposited their valuables. Then it dawned upon them that they must at once get to the North Side if they would save the women and children in the house where my father was visiting. The hackman had gone; they ran down Michigan Avenue from Twenty-second Street to Sixteenth Street, woke up a livery-stable man, secured another hack, and started down Michigan Avenue. It was an exciting ride. The driver was told to run his horses, that life and death were struggling together and that everything the president of the bank held most dear was at stake. My father said that, with his head out of the window, he cried, swore, and entreated in the same breath. When the hack reached Van Buren Street it looked impossible to go down Michigan Avenue, but there proved to be more smoke than flame. The horses did not want to go on, but they were whipped through, and finally came in sight of Rush Street’s wooden bridge, still standing but just beginning to burn. The other bridges had already gone, the great elevators on the North Side were in flames, and, during the time my father had been to the bank and down to Twenty-second Street, the fire had burned from the South Side far over to the North Side.

They finally reached the house of the bank president, hurried to the stable, got out the horses, which they turned loose, and then went into the house and got the women and children. The fire was almost upon them; the wind was blowing a tremendous gale; great burning brands were falling everywhere, even on the horses and carriage. Into the one hack in front of the door were put children and grown people, eleven in all; the driver, the bank president, and my father went on the box. After going a short distance they stopped to pick up an old woman who had rheumatism and was unable to walk. They finally went west on North Avenue to the West Side, then to the extreme South Side. It was a frightful night and my father was as black as a chimney-sweep, his eyes scorched by the heat and his clothing burned in many places.

A little later General Sheridan caused some buildings on Michigan Avenue to be blown up and the flames were stopped. The timely aid sent by the surrounding cities prevented any suffering for food. St. Louis had seven carloads of provisions in Chicago before the fire ceased burning. The depression which existed a day or two following the fire was intense. No one knew whether bank vaults were burned or not; everyone felt that he was ruined; but after a day or two confidence gradually increased, and by the time I returned to Chicago people were hopeful and cheerful, looking forward to the time when the city would arise from its ashes and be greater than ever before.

III

Everything was very simple after the fire. I was quite satisfied with the stylish appearance of our turnout during the next five or six years, until my New York cousin visited me again. She had now become a very elegant young lady and said she never went out in New York without a footman on the box to open the door and to take her card in when she called. I felt that I must have a footman. My father told me to go ahead and get one if I wanted him, so I advertised. Unfortunately I did not call him a ' footman,’ but a ' groom.’ The first gentleman who appeared was a long, lanky youth from Southern Illinois, who said he had long wanted to be a groom and have a wife, and he offered his services. I was much embarrassed and tried to explain that the groom I wanted was not a husband; he departed much disappointed. I eventually hired a pale and anæmic youth, with a long golden moustache, whose name was Cornelius. To me this name sounded stylish and elegant. I did not want to go to the expense of a new livery, so I had him wear the red one (bought for Bernard before the fire, but still preserving its pristine freshness), and the two men presented a pleasantly variegated appearance on the box, one in red and one in blue. I could n’t find a cockade for Cornelius’s hat as large as the one Bernard had, but thought this was of no importance.

The first day they drove around together I invited my mother to go for a drive and make some calls. It was a hot day in summer and I said to her: ‘It will be nice to have Cornelius ring the bell and take in our cards, and when we come out he can find our carriage for us.’ When we left the front door our turnout was a marvelous sight. The horses, with their manes tied up in red ribbons, seemed to have taken on an added splendor. Cornelius and Bernard in red and blue were quite startling, and my mother and I, attired in our best clothes, felt that we looked very smart.

We called at a house and found the lady at home. When we came out I looked for Cornelius; he was not to be found. I walked half a block in the hot sun one way — no Cornelius; half a block in the sun another way — no Cornelius. Finally, on my third trip, I espied the carriage a block away under a tree, both men on the box, Bernard smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, Cornelius smoking a cigar and reading a novel. I had to poke him in the back with my parasol before I could attract his attention. I felt then that I had a great work of reform to accomplish.

Later on I bought myself a twowheeled cart where the driver and groom sat dos-à-dos. By this time my groom was wearing top boots, and I had great difficulty in getting men willing to wear what they called ‘only their underdrawers’ with boots over them. On one occasion I was delighted to engage a little German, and when I told him he would have to wear top boots he said he always wore them and had a pair of his own. I was much pleased, but the first time he brought the trap around to the door I found to my horror that he had on a pair of Hessian boots which came up to his waist.

Another time my groom told me he would have to have a pair of trees to put his breeches on to dry after they had been washed, because they shrank so badly. I was quite indignant at the idea of this expenditure, and asked him why he could not let them dry on him. He was so provoked at my asking him thus to ‘catch his death of cold’ that he gave notice at once.

My dogcart attracted much attention — so much, indeed, that every little boy who saw it threw something at it to show his appreciation. Stones and rotten eggs were not at all uncommon, and at one time I was two days in bed from being struck in the ear by a stone. Naturally I found it rather difficult to get a man who was willing to risk his life as my footman. On one occasion when my man was driving with me across the Rush Street Bridge, he asked, ‘Are you going over town, Miss?’ I haughtily replied, ‘I certainly am,’ whereupon he said, ‘I am not going with you; you may take my livery, but you cannot take me.’ With that he got off the cart (on the bridge), pulled off his coat, flung it into the back of the cart, took off his hat and pitched it after the coat, removed each glove, then collar and necktie, and left me driving away with the empty husk — the livery but not the man. It was a humiliating experience. I was greeted with jeers from those who witnessed the incident, and there were cheers for the groom ‘who would not be made a slave.’

It seemed almost a necessity to have a second person on the box in these early days, because when you gave an entertainment it was not considered stylish, or even civil, to send an invitation through the mails. It had to be delivered in person, not merely sent by a messenger; moreover it was not considered the thing to have the invitations engraved, printed, or typed — they had to be written by hand. Before giving a party whole days were spent in writing invitations and stacking them up in boxes by streets; then the hostess drove around with the invitations, and they were delivered by a footman or messenger who sat on the box with the coachman.

It was quite an undertaking to entertain when I was young. The invitations having been sent out, the next thing to do was to clean the house very thoroughly. No matter how clean it had been, it must be cleaned because you were going to have company. First the large Nottingham lace curtains were taken down and carefully washed. As we did not have any curtain-stretchers, they were pinned down to the carpets in every hall and bedroom in the house. The curtains had points and each point had three pins, which were an endless chore to put in; my knees were sore and my hands ached from pressing them, and there was an odor of starch and general cleanliness throughout the house.

In every room where curtains were pinned to the floor it was possible to walk only by putting one foot in front of the other down little aisles between the curtains. I used to pretend that the curtains were the water and the little aisles the land; occasionally I slipped and a dirty shoe went into the curtain, when the spot had to be washed out and the curtain stretched down again.

Then the crystal chandeliers had to be washed. Mounted on a stepladder, I carefully took down every little dangler (amounting in my estimation to several million) and handed it to my mother. She washed it in hot suds, carefully breathed upon it and polished it with a chamois, then handed it back to me. I received each one in turn, breathed on it, polished it with a chamois, and hung it on the chandelier. This was a great undertaking and took more patience than I possessed. When I was told I could have a party I sometimes wondered if the pleasure I got out of it was worth the washing of the crystal chandeliers.

Finally came the day of the party. We arose at six o’clock, because all the food had to be prepared at home — caterers’ food was not then considered either good or stylish. The oysters were carefully looked over to be sure there were no shells; the chicken and celery for the salad were cut in little squares — it was almost a heinous offense to have one piece larger than another. A large, perfectly new washtub was bought for the mixing of the salad. Bernard, grown quite fat and puffing from exercise, froze freezer after freezer of ice cream; we made rolls and sponge cake, and as we toiled in the kitchen Cornelius struggled with heavy canvas which he tacked down over the carpets, afterward donning his livery and, with white gloves on his hands, opening the door for the expected guests.

During the afternoon there were many inquiries such as, ‘Is this a large enough party to wear a dress suit?’ or ‘Shall girls wear party dresses?’ or ‘Shall we arrive promptly at eight o’clock?’ Finally, when eight o’clock came and the guests began to arrive, those of us who had worked to get the house clean and the supper ready were so tired we could hardly stand up.

IV

Chicago was a delightful summer watering-place. When hot weather came the drawing-room was moved to the front steps. It was a poverty-stricken family that did not have its stoop rug put out every evening at dark, on which the younger members of the family sat and talked while the elders occupied rocking-chairs in the vestibule.

About this time there was a craze for archery. It was said to be a noble sport which came down to us from Merrie England, and I was enraptured with it. I bought myself a very large bow, so large I could hardly manage it; a quiver full of dangerous-looking arrows; an arm guard, to prevent my skinning my arm; a finger and a thumb guard; a rakish little cap which made me think I looked like Robin Hood; and a tartan skirt, which I thought the proper costume. And I decided to give an archery party. There was a place at the north of the house suitable for a target, and space enough to shoot a long distance. One sultry afternoon guests began to arrive; I led them forth to the side yard where the target was set up. They tried to pull my bow, but their aim went very wild, and finally, as I had had a good deal of practice, I modestly took the bow to show what I could do. I had three arrows, two of which missed the target; one managed to hit the end of it. A little girl who was acting as my factotum kindly ran toward the target to bring back the arrows, but one was not to be found. The target was just in front of a small yard where the family cow was taking her siesta. Imagine my dismay when the factotum, after looking over the fence, came back screaming, ‘The other arrow is in the cow!’ After that I did not take so much interest in archery, which seemed to me to be a very old-fashioned sport.

One of the great social events of the year was the celebration of New Year’s Day. Every man, young or old, from the callow youth to the aged beau, made calls on that day. Hacks were pressed into service, and these rickety vehicles would disgorge often as many as eight callers. It was the custom for four or five girls to receive together, but the day began early. There was only one hairdresser on the North Side at that time, so it was difficult to secure her. I remember rising at 5 A. M. to have my hair dressed with a mass of puffs, feeling very sleepy, and trying to get another nap before breakfast. Then there was the making of chicken salad, the roasting of turkeys, the mixing of eggnog, the setting of the table, and the getting everything ready for the visitors. They began to arrive at 10 A. M. and continued until 10 P. M., a steady stream ascending the steps of almost every house in town. Each girl kept a list of her visitors and brought it forth in triumph the following day, to show how many calls she had received. If there was a death in the family a small basket tied with white ribbon hung on the bell-knob, and into this basket cards were dropped by the callers.

Sleigh-rides were very popular at this time — not the ‘twosing’ cutter, but long, low, racy-looking sleighs filled with hay and a mass of buffalo robes. They were packed with people to an almost unbelievable extent. We sat on the seats, on the sides, on the hay, on each other’s laps, and we usually drove north to the house of a friend for a supper and a dance. The following invitation lingers in my memory: —

The Mrs. Hubbard referred to in the above invitation was Mrs. Elijah K. Hubbard, who lived just northwest of the Park on Diversey Avenue. This was considered a long sleigh-ride; so long, in fact, that it was necessary to stop for a time in order to rest the horses.

In spite of all the fatigue in getting up entertainments of this kind, I am sure that everyone had a better time than at modern entertainments where the only trouble involved is interviewing musicians and caterers, and I am convinced that the most fashionable parties given in Chicago now do not compare for pure enjoyment with the parties given after the fire by the most fashionable club of Chicago, called ‘The Cinders.’ This club met in Martine’s Hall on Chicago Avenue, and everyone who was fortunate enough to secure an invitation to it had a most delightful time. We were,perhaps, rather countrified in those days, but we prided ourselves on knowing how to do the correct thing, and we were all a bit shocked at one big private supper-party to have quill toothpicks passed with the coffee, each toothpick bearing the inscription ‘Presented by Kingsley,’ the caterer who had furnished the entertainment.

After all, if we were countrified, we had certain standards and ideals which we all tried to live up to and which certainly made for sterling character and sound citizenship. There was no liquor served at any of the parties given in Chicago in these early days, and a young man seen under the influence of it was never invited anywhere again.

Perhaps if, in the midst of our present wild rush after pleasure, we gave a thought to those early days and adopted some of the standards then in vogue, we might have just as good a time, and some of the tragedies in our social life might be averted.