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.