"Walk about Chicago," 1871-1881.

Preface

No apology is needed for bringing out this issue of Walks About Chicago, for the reason that it is done solely in response to an urgent, demand to that effect on the part of the public. The original book was issued in 1871, just before the great fire; and what was left of it was destroyed when Chicago was burned. The sale had been very large from the moment of issue up to the time of the destruction of the city; and ever since there has been a steady demand for the book. The second part, which consisted of letters from various wateringplaces, in the ante-fire edition, has been omitted from the present work, and its place supplied with Walks About Chicago in 1881. In all other respects the book is unchanged.

Chicago, 1883.

F. B. W.

Contents

A Triangular Walk — Nord Seite— Southside— Westside, - - - . - - - - 9

Water- Works and Water-Falls, - - - 22

Court-House Ghost, ----- 27

II

On a certain Wednesday morning of that notable week — week ever notable as the Bussy-Duff y week — many people came out of the mist and centred about the grounds where a certain railroad has not yet erected large and surpassing passenger and ticket buildings. Variety was observable among this crowd. Many looked as if fresh from the arms of sleep. A diffused redness of eyes bore witness to vigils, and mayhap of undue stimulant. There was a noticeable prevalence of breadth of chest. There was likewise a fashionable style of countenance, in the which there were evidences of knuckle inundations that had carried away nose-bridges. Underjaw was there "in force. There was likewise much large mouth, somewhat of an open carpet-sack order.

One who looked over this crowd, that had trickled from out the surrounding mist, could not but reflect upon the vast amount of indignant, and deceived, and outraged wifehood, that existed here and there all over Chicago. What remonstrances must have poured from wifely lips when masculine marriedness timidly asserted its intention of going to the prize-fight! What suspicions must have grown in virtuous bosoms when pater familias arose at the unseasonable hour of six A. M., and asserted that urgent business required an early advent into town!

One prominent atom of social respectability told his astounded partner that he was obliged to go out on an early train to " inspect a mill." Oh, woman! even the question of Bussy versus Duffy could not be discussed without exposing you to man's deceit and machinations.

Large professional and otherwise respectability had assembled in the crowd, and with its high noses and soft, slender hands, toned down the tendency to flatness in snouts, and to bony hugeness in -fists, of the dominant majority, One moving among the crowd, and familiar with the faces of noted characters, could readily discover Brothers Moody and Farwell, Reverends Hatfield and Ryder, Judges Van Buren and Wilson, and many other prominent philanthropists, clergymen and judges, as among the more noted of those who, from motives of delicacy or lack of time, had concluded not to be present.

Nearly all the crowd, being in no particular hurry, determined to wait and ride out on the cars, in place of going a-foot.

III

And it came to happen that, about high twelve or a little thereafter, some thousand or more people, on this particular Wednesday, formed themselves into a hollow square, which, by measurement with a tape-line, from a reporter with a note-book, in one corner, to a gentleman with a broken nose, in the next corner, was four and twenty feet. Dense to extreme were the living walls of this square. Looking from the centre outwards, there seemed four floors of human heads — floors which began somewhere in an inextricable jumble of legs and boots, and rose gradually outward, like an inclined plane. Somewhat resembled these four walls the approaching sides of a hopper in a grist mill — hence, perhaps, why the central operations of the former are called a " mill." So evenly rose these walls or floors of heads, and so dense were they, that, with but little caulking, they would have shed water like a roof.

Close adjoining was a hay-stack. Sheltered under its lee was an object at which a small crowd stared curiously. It bore some resemblance to a man — a sick man. Eyes of a dull, milky color; countenance ashen; and bones of jaw and cheek seeming on the point of bursting through the skin. As if agueish or suffering, the figure lay with its knees drawn up to its chin, and hugged an old overcoat about its form, as if to accumulate a little warmth. A heavy fur cap was drawn over its head; and it rested limp and nerveless, chewing straws abstractedly, as if life were an unwelcome reality. Poor devil!

A little later, and over the heads of the hollow square there comes a-wobbling what looks on its passage like a dead cat flung vigorously upward by the tail. It is an old fur cap, as is seen when it lights. An irregular commotion, cleaving its way through a corner of the hollow square, like a slightly submerged log being pushed up stream. Tremendous hi-hi's, and there is evacuated centreward the limping figure of the hay-stack. His head reveals hair close-cropped, coming down to a triangular point on his forehead, like a colossal saw-tooth. Ears immense, mouth an enormous gash. He shambles across to his corner in a gait which is a mixture of limp in both feet and a dog-trot. Mainly dog-trot, however; for his head bowing awkward acknowledgments to chorused hi-hi's, his slouched shoulders and thrust out arms make him resemble a dog essaying a trot on his hind legs. He seats himself. It is the agueish invalid of the hay-stack. It is the then less renowned, but now the more renowned Bussy.

More semblance of dead cat flopping into ring, more convolutions and wriggles in human wall, more hi-hi's, and the then more renowned, but now less renowned, Duffy. Not a beauty is Mr. Duffy, any more than his vis-a-vis, Mr. Bussy. But a difference, nevertheless. Less slouch, less mouth, less ears. A long face, short upper lip, prominent nose, some front teeth somewhere lost on some former similarity, close-cropped hair, mild gray eyes, a skin with a dash of color in it, and a semi-anxious, semi-equable expression — such, Duffy.

Adjoining to and hovering about Mr. Duffy, a Colossus, like an elephant reared to the perpendicular, and clad fashionably. In the vast shoulders, bull-neck, little, cunning eyes, and small nose, one recognizes the giant bruiser, McCoole. Diagonally across, and doing the planetary about the invalid of the hay-stack, is a good looking, medium sized gentleman, in full suit of black, with plug hat and natty cane. His black hair is elaborately parted; his chest is round and full; his nose immense; his eyes small, black, and piercing; his countenance full, pleasant, and open. He looks like a foreman in a machine shop. It is Joe Coburn, who supposes himself the foremost mauler in existence. Some other lesser lights in parti-colored shirts, and the outlines of the picture are sufficiently complete.

IV

They all feel sorry for poor Bussy. He looks like an old man in feeble health. He sits bent forward, with his clasped fingers holding his knees. Duffy sits erect, calmly surveying the crowd, and curiously his opponent. Bussy looks furtively at Duffy and the crowd, like a penned dog reconnoitering for a hole through which, with dropped tail, he may escape imagined turpentine, tin kettles, and maltreatment.

There is a peeling of old coats. Then old pants follow suit. Then knitted vests, ragged undershirts, and multifarious underwear; and Bussy and Duffy stand in spiked shoes and tight-fitting drawers. Bussy still slouched, Duffy erect.

Some body says, " Time." In a fraction of a second two figures, naked to the hips, confront each other in the centre of the four-cornered "ring," The agueish figure of the invalid of the hay-stack has suddenly become transformed. The slouch has left his shoulders. Well balanced on his legs, he stands with expanded chest, and head well thrown back. All over his arms and breast appear knobs of muscle. Poised like a statue, he seems to have suddenly become the impersonation of power. A smile just lifts his upper lip enough to disclose a row of white, even teeth. Into his dull, milky eyes there seems flowing a white, sinister light.

Duffy, the favorite, stands easily. His body is round, his limbs slender. He seems more like a grayhound than a bulldog — built more for the chase than for conflict. With his longer arms and taller form, he seems to possess an advantage over his shorter opponent.

Their eyes are fastened each upon the other. The naked arms work unceasingly, and the two bodies move about as if seeking some vulnerable approach. A moment later and two arms shoot forward like lightning; then a clinch, a fierce tugging and intertwining, and the two forms go down together. Two men rush from each of two corners; two pick up and carry one-half of the struggling mass to one corner, and two take the remainder to the other. Seated each upon the knee of his second, the panting contestants gaze eagerly at each other. Two bright-red spots have suddenly flashed upon the ashen forehead of Bussy. Duffy sits unmarked and calmly complacent. The battle is opened. In thirty seconds it will be resumed.

Thirty minutes have passed. Upon Duffy there are no marks save here and there upon his body red spots, which look as if blistered. Bussy's left eye is entirely closed. A dark, pulpy mass overhangs it like a cliff. Blood trickles from his cheek bones, his mouth, and neck.

Despite this, Bussy is not hideous — not even repellant. As he faces his antagonist, his single eye blazes with a determination that transfigures him. He is no more a pummeled, unsightly bruiser, but a hero. Amidst the foam and blood on his swollen lips, there plays a smile, a reflex of endurance, which lightens and softens his whole face like a halo.

Hereabouts lies the savage fascination of the scene. Curious as it may seem, there is just a touch of the sublime about that battered, swollen face, with its blazing eye, and lambent smile touching up the distorted and foam-colored lips.

Absorbed in the antagonism of the contest, the spectators feel no pity for the tremendous punishment. It may even be believed that the men do not feel it themselves at the moment. In the excitement, the fierce struggles, the alternating hopes and fears, pain is forgotten.

"While there was a dash of the sublime, there was a touch of the pitiful. It was at the moment when, torn from each other's grasp and seated upon the knees of their seconds, each turned panting to see how the other stood the battle; and one could read the plainly expressed hope that the terrific struggle which had just ended had also finished the endurance of the other. Each time, before the veil of blood was wiped away from the eye of Bussy, he would interrogate the condition of his opponent for signs of exhaustion. And now many times during the hard struggle did Duffy scan with eager anxiety the opposite corner for some evidence that the contest was about ended !