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 JOURNALISM CLASS OF 1928 
 
 STEWART S. HOWE FOUNDATION 
 
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"STRANGE TO SAY-" 
 
 Recollections of persons and events 
 in New Orleans and Chicago 
 
1 "STRANGE 
 
 TO SAY-" 
 
 Recollections of persons and events 
 
 in New Orleans and Chicago 
 
 by 
 
 Mrs. Carter H. Harrison 
 
 § 
 
 A. Kroch and Son, Publishers 
 Chicago 1949 
 
Copyright, 1949, by 
 A. Kroch and Son, Publishers 
 
 Manufactured in the United States 
 
mi 
 
 To my husband 
 
 Carter H. Harrison 
 
 and our children 
 
 Carter and Edith 
 
Chapter One 
 Youth 
 
 I 
 
 WAS BORN on November 16, 1861, in 
 the land of sunshine and magnolias, in beautiful old Louisiana, 
 on my mother's plantation in Thibodaux la Fourche parish — 
 a beautiful plantation southwest of New Orleans and not far 
 from the Gulf of Mexico. Round the house stood century-old 
 oak trees laden with Spanish moss, that gray seductive moss 
 that contrasts so vividly with the emerald green of the live- 
 oak foliage. Those splendid oaks, hoary with age, always seem 
 a fitting setting for the homes of the proud Southerners. They 
 have a certain dignity and seem to stand aloof with a stern 
 majesty that even the glorious white-blossomed magnolias dare 
 not infringe upon; but those gay white magnolia blossoms 
 with their yellow-crowned centers thrill one with their beauty, 
 too, and flaunt their sweetness on the air throughout the South. 
 And the hedges of white cape jasmine, the bushes of the yellow 
 acacia, and the small tree of the sweet olive challenge one's 
 admiration, while the pink oleander and the wisteria vine with 
 its brilliant purple flowers charm with their beauty. 
 
 But it was not until many years later that I was to learn 
 to appreciate all this loveliness, because soon after my birth 
 my young parents took up their residence in New Orleans. 
 
 The plantation had been bought by my grandfather, Charl- 
 ton Beattie, a native of Kentucky, who broke away from his 
 family's tradition of bookish pursuits to become a planter. 
 So successful was he in Louisiana that he left his children 
 valuable lands. His brother, Dr. Ormond Beattie, stuck to 
 his books, and after many years of teaching at Center Col- 
 lege, Danville, Kentucky, became its president. Many dis- 
 tinguished Kentuckians of today were his students. 
 
2 Youth 
 
 The Beatties in America first spelled the name Beatty. 
 After the war between the North and the South, the Civil 
 War, my uncle changed to the original spelling — Beattie — 
 and became a Republican. 
 
 The Beattie line includes the name of Rudyard Kipling, 
 for the distinguished English writer married a daughter 
 of our cousin, Sara (Beattie) Balestier. Thus the Kipling 
 children share the Beattie blood. 
 
 My mother, Sara, inherited a love of learning. Not only 
 did she speak six languages almost as well as her native 
 tongue, but she was also an accomplished musician. She 
 played the piano and sang beautifully. 
 
 She was one of eight children, but a terrible disaster left 
 only her and a brother, Taylor Beattie, alive of the family 
 while both were still young. At the time Mother was sixteen 
 and in school in New York ; Taylor was nineteen and attend- 
 ing the University of Virginia at Charlottesville. He had 
 joined her in New York to bring her south for the summer. 
 They bought a paper at breakfast and there read of the 
 disaster at Last Island in the Gulf of Mexico. Their father's 
 name headed the list of the lost. 
 
 Last Island was then a fashionable resort for Southerners. 
 Charlton Beattie, his second wife (my step-grandmother) 
 and six children were all at Last Island when a tidal wave 
 struck without warning. My grandfather, then only forty-six, 
 his family and many slaves were all drowned. Mrs. LaFoley, 
 his wife's mother, and his wife's paralyzed father were 
 among the few saved. 
 
 Mrs. LaFoley — a tiny thing — often told the story in my 
 presence, for she lived to be quite old. She was crossing 
 the courtyard at night with her husband, who was being 
 assisted by a slave. She was holding one of her husband's 
 arms while the slave had the other. They were going into 
 the ballroom of the hotel, crossing from a smaller cottage, 
 to attend a ball. Without warning the tidal wave with its 
 huge black volume of water enveloped them. 
 
 Engulfed in the terrible water, they were all floating in 
 an instant in its swirling depths. A huge log struck them 
 as it passed and all clung to it. In the darkness they could 
 
"Strange To Say—" 3 
 
 see nothing but clung tenaciously to what had come their 
 way. Mrs. LaFoley never lost her grip on her husband, but 
 somehow the slave was swept off and was lost. 
 
 After what seemed hours, her husband told her he could 
 no longer maintain his grip on the log. Terrified, she pleaded 
 with him, but he was numb and cold and paralyzed and utter- 
 ly helpless. Still she continued to hold him and passed her 
 arm more firmly around him. She dared not open her eyes, 
 but gradually she became conscious that the log had stopped. 
 It seemed to her they had been hours and hours upon it, 
 but finally when daylight came she saw they really were on 
 land — a sort of mud island, not very big; but at least it 
 was land, though the swirling waters still raged about them. 
 It seemed a miracle that such a tiny wisp of a woman as 
 she was should have been able to hold her husband, who was 
 over six feet in height. Of course, only the fact they were 
 floating in the water made it possible. 
 
 There was no sign of the big island, only wreckage and 
 the dead floating about; and there these two remained for 
 two days and nights before they were rescued. The big island 
 had sunk into the gulf and for years was never seen; but 
 within the last forty years it has appeared again. 
 
 I, with my children, was in New Orleans about forty-five 
 years ago and was invited to spend a weekend at the fashion- 
 able hotel rebuilt on Last Island. Do you wonder that I re- 
 fused? 
 
 Lafcadio Hearn wrote a very beautiful story called "Chita" 
 which is a description of this disaster. He got much informa- 
 tion for that story from my mother, whose scrapbook was 
 filled with descriptions of the tidal wave at Last Island. 
 Mr. Hearn lived in Japan after leaving New Orleans and 
 married a Japanese. A few years ago — after his death — 
 while my husband and I were in Japan, Burton Holmes 
 brought Mr. Hearn's two sons to see us. The boys were 
 entirely Japanese in appearance. 
 
 My father's first ancestor in America was John Ogden, who 
 was granted land in New Jersey and was the Colony's first 
 acting governor. A descendant, Robert Ogden, fell in love 
 with and married Elizabeth Spaight Nash, daughter of a 
 
4 Youth 
 
 governor of North Carolina. About 1770 Robert, a lawyer, 
 took his bride to live in New Orleans. He was the first of 
 my New Orleans ancestors. 
 
 My father was the eldest son of the eldest son for nine 
 generations in an unbroken line who carried the name Robert 
 Ogden. Today my brother Robert's grandson is Robert the 
 twelfth — a remarkable record, perhaps unsurpassed in Amer- 
 ica. My father, Robert Nash Ogden, his father and his 
 grandfather were all lawyers and judges. All sat on the 
 bench in Louisiana, my father in the state court of appeals. 
 
 My father's mother was Frances Nicholson, daughter of 
 John Nicholson of Philadelphia. Her grandfather was a part- 
 ner of Robert Morris and together with Morris helped 
 finance the American Revolution. In a Philadelphia paper 
 I once ran across this description of an old document: 
 
 "On October the 2d, 1780, Benjamin Franklin D.S. Ap- 
 pointment of John Nicholson as Escheator of the Common- 
 wealth of Pennsylvania, with attest of John Trimble for 
 John Armstrong, Secretary, with seal of the Commonwealth 
 — a very fine document. John Nicholson, one of the foremost 
 financiers of his time, played a great part in the American 
 Revolution." 
 
 My husband once said to me : "You are a red-hot Southerner, 
 but do you know that the only drops of Northern blood in 
 our children's veins come through you?" And that is true, 
 for the Harrisons have always been Southerners, from Vir- 
 ginia and Kentucky, whereas my father's ancestors belonged 
 to the North. 
 
 I have portraits of the first Mr. and Mrs. John Nichol- 
 son painted by Charles Peale. They show her to have been 
 a remarkably beautiful grande dame. She was painted hold- 
 ing in her arms one of the most adorable of babies, about 
 eight months old. This child, the second John Nicholson, was 
 my grandmother's father. The portrait of the first John 
 Nicholson shows the face of a splendid and intellectual-look- 
 ing man who, one can easily believe, was a power in his 
 day. These two portraits hung for years as a loan exhibi- 
 tion in the Art Institute of Chicago. 
 
 All of this background is to emphasize that I was born 
 
"Strange To Say—" 5 
 
 into an environment of refinement and culture and that my 
 forebears were worthy, God-fearing people; that they had 
 the public welfare at heart, and that they realized that birth 
 and education alone were not enough to make the man. 
 
 Birth, after all, is only an accident. If one does not ap- 
 preciate that being born to certain advantages only makes 
 one's responsibilities greater, then birth amounts to nothing. 
 The man who is born in poverty and fights his way to the 
 top is certainly greater than the man of achievement who was 
 born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But both are equally 
 worthy, if they get there, for both have fulfilled the laws 
 of humanity — those laws which after all are the laws to 
 improve the human race. 
 
 Now, although the Revolutionary days of which I have 
 just written are pretty far away, they do not seem so far 
 away for this reason: My grandmother, Frances Nicholson 
 (my father's mother), was fourteen when the first John 
 Nicholson died. She knew him well and was devoted to him. 
 A girl of fourteen was practically a woman in those days. 
 She told me much about him and about his beautiful wife 
 (her grandmother), and, of course, it was all very vivid to 
 me — this life of hers in Philadelphia and Washington. This 
 grandmother of mine lived to know my children. So this 
 is why I say that all these things do not really seem so far 
 away. 
 
 Another member of my father's family, his sister, Fanny 
 Ogden, also seems close to me, although I never saw her. 
 My grandmother often told me Fanny's romantic story. John 
 Slidell, of New Orleans, and James Mason were appointed 
 by the Confederacy to go to Europe to enlist aid for its 
 fortunes. The expedition took with it as secretary William 
 Grayson Mann, and he took along his son, of the same name. 
 
 The young man was engaged to Fanny Ogden, and, al- 
 though she was only seventeen, he refused to go without her. 
 So they were married. She was beautiful, spoke French 
 perfectly, and soon won great admiration at the French 
 court. But alas, she died before her twentieth birthday. 
 On my first trip abroad, I visited her grave at Pau. Despite 
 the lapse of time, the French had cared faithfully for her 
 
6 Youth 
 
 grave, and it was beautifully kept. 
 
 I have preserved as a curious example of the ardent and 
 romantic style of our ancestors, a letter written to Fanny 
 by the son or grandson of the famous Governor Claiborne of 
 Louisiana. She had returned it to the writer, as he requested, 
 but his sister, Martha Claiborne, gave it to my aunts, and 
 they in turn gave it to me. The letter reads : 
 
 "My dear Miss Fannie : 
 
 "With a palpitating heart and a trembling hand, I pen 
 you this note. 
 
 "For months past, I have earnestly desired and sought, 
 a private interview with you. A few moments of conversa- 
 tion with you alone, to declare to you the sentiments of respect 
 and admiration; of love and affection which agitate my 
 bosom. But the Fates have been adverse to me. No oppor- 
 tunity has offered itself. If I ride with you, it is when accom- 
 panied by others ; if I visit you, some member of your family 
 is always present. Yesterday I fully expected that the op- 
 portunity I had so long sought was within my grasp; but 
 I was disappointed. I am compelled therefore, to take this 
 method of unbosoming myself, altho' fully conscious of the 
 danger of exciting your displeasure. I trust however you 
 will pardon much to the spirit that animates me, and that 
 on reading this, tho' your heart may not respond to its con- 
 tents, you will acquit me of any other than the purest 
 of motives and most honorable intentions; and that your 
 generous nature will do me the justice to peruse it with 
 a heart unbiased by prejudice. 
 
 "Some three or four years have now elapsed, since I had 
 the pleasure of seeing you for the first time. You were then 
 scarcely on the threshold of womanhood, but young as you 
 were, I saw you — gazed — and loved. From that moment 
 to the present, my heart has been solely and entirely yours. 
 From then till now 
 
 My life has been a task of love, 
 One long, long thought of you.' 
 
 From then till now, with exquisite pleasure, have I watched 
 the gradual unfolding of those charms which now adorn 
 
"Strange To Say—" 7 
 
 you, and with a delight language is too faint to express, 
 witnessed the bright promise of a beautiful childhood more 
 than realized by the grace and loveliness of the perfect woman. 
 
 "I met you prepared to love you. I knew your name, I 
 knew your family to be among the oldest and best in the 
 Union, and that you were preceded by a long line of brilliant 
 and distinguished ancestry without blot or stain upon their 
 escutcheon; I knew your Father and Mother, and esteemed 
 and honored them far more than ordinary acquaintances. 
 Your Brother had long been my nearest and dearest friend, 
 and it was natural for all who were near to him to be dear 
 to me. Fame too had whispered into my willing ear the 
 story of your loveliness, and I longed to see and judge for 
 myself. We met, I found that Rumor for once had failed 
 to exaggerate. I was surprised, dazzled, captivated. Your 
 beauty won. Your grace, amiability and kindness of heart 
 enchained my affections. 
 
 "From the moment I first met you to the present time, 
 my heart has had no other deity to worship. You are my 
 idol; the shrine my soul visits with more than Moslem devo- 
 tion. Not a day — not an hour — nay scarcely a moment 
 passes, that Fancy does not conjure your sweet face before 
 me. Yours is the smile that lingers last with me when I fall 
 asleep, and it too, is the first to greet me on awakening. 
 The rippling waves speak to me of Fannie; the very flowers 
 tell me of my mistress; the songs of birds, the glories of 
 Nature, all £hat is bright and beautiful brings Fannie to my 
 thoughts, and her name is whispered by every passing breeze. 
 
 "Dearest Fannie — permit me so to address you — I am 
 not deceiving you. I do indeed love you. God only knows 
 for you never can how deeply, how devotedly, how purely — 
 
 "For years you have been the pole star of my heart. I have 
 worshipped — adored — you, as second only to my God. In 
 all my dreams of Pride and Ambition, of Success and Pros- 
 perity, I have looked to you as the sharer of my triumphs 
 and the partner of my joys. In visions of misfortune and 
 calamity; of sorrow and defeat, you were the angel that 
 came to comfort me with her caresses, and console with her 
 love. 
 
8 Youth 
 
 "Dearest Fannie, is this cup of happiness to be foregathered 
 from my lips ? Is it only a bright dream, too beautiful to last, 
 or may I, can I hope for its realization? 
 
 "In conclusion, allow me to say, that all I have written I 
 truly and sincerely feel nor seek to flatter you. The smooth 
 tongued flatterer method I despise, and would scorn to stoop 
 to his low tricks if I thought by so doing I could win the bright 
 jewel my heart covets. If you are willing to trust your destiny 
 to me — your hand and heart — to my keeping, and grant 
 me that love which I would cherish dearer than my heart's 
 blood, write me one single line, to assure me of my happiness. 
 But if Fate has decreed otherwise ; and you are destined to be 
 another's and can never be mine, simply return this, and 
 keep sacredly locked within your own bosom the passion I 
 have confided to you ; for I would not have the world witness 
 my mortification, or know the cause of a crushed spirit, and 
 a broken heart. 
 
 "Permit me to subscribe myself, with the greatest respect 
 and devotion, 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "W. H. Claiborne" 
 
 "Anchorage 
 
 "July 21st, 1858" 
 
 When my young parents took up their abode in New Or- 
 leans they were both under twenty-five, both brilliant, but 
 alas, both must have been terribly inexperienced. I was their 
 oldest child; six brothers and one little sister soon followed. 
 I can remember distinctly, that as I grew older, my mother 
 often spoke of our restricted finances; yet for four children 
 she kept four nurses, one nurse for each child. 
 
 To the day of her death (and she lived to be sixty-eight) 
 Mother never could realize that she was not still surrounded 
 by slaves. Kind and fair to all her servants, she still was 
 helpless to wait upon herself, and would ring a bell to call 
 a maid up a flight of stairs to hand her a glass of water. 
 
 Although my parents mixed in the center of society in 
 their city, I want to stress my mother's deep sense of religion. 
 She was a devout Catholic and in many of her writings ex- 
 pressed religion. She wrote a poem for me on my fifteenth 
 
"Strange To Say—' 9 9 
 
 birthday which I have always cherished, an acrostic — but 
 
 it is in reality a beautiful prayer: 
 
 "Even and bright be thy life here below — E 
 
 Darkness and clouds away from thee drifting, D 
 
 Ivies of faith thy pure heart uplifting I 
 
 To Him from whose hands must descend weal or woe. T 
 
 Heavenly blessings be thine evermore! H 
 
 "O swiftly, fly swiftly, ye wings of the air, O 
 
 Glowing with love bear a fond mother's prayer! G 
 
 Down at the footstool of Christ let it rest, D 
 
 Eternally pleading for all that is best. E 
 
 Now and forever my Edith be blest!" N 
 
 In these days of my early youth I can remember being 
 
 waited upon by many servants. Of course, all the slaves had 
 
 been freed. But many of the former slaves remained with us, 
 
 and at my wedding one of the honored seats next to my old 
 
 grandmother was a seat for a fine old colored mammy who 
 
 had nursed my father. My father called her Black Ma in 
 
 contradistinction to his mother, White Ma. And to the day 
 
 of her death she was honored and respected by all of us. 
 
 As I have said, many of our familiar servants had been 
 slaves of my mother's, the only difference being that now 
 mother paid them wages. The family silver was often pawned 
 to pay them, yet it never occurred to either of my parents, 
 poor as they regarded themselves as being, that the retinue 
 of servants could be reduced. Perhaps they felt that former 
 slaves were a family responsibility. Whatever the reason, 
 heirlooms of old silver waiters and fine laces were sacrificed 
 to meet current expenses while my father, who had returned 
 only a few years before from the Confederate army, built 
 up a law practice. 
 
 My earliest recollections are a composite of our life in 
 New Orleans and our summers at Bay St. Louis on Lake 
 Borgne — really on the Gulf of Mexico, for only a string of 
 islands separates the gulf from the gloriously blue waters of 
 Lake Borgne. Our New Orleans home and our summer home 
 were only fifty miles apart. 
 
 The house on Lake Borgne belonged to my grandmother, 
 Mrs. Robert Nash Ogden (Frances Nicholson). It was a 
 
10 Youth 
 
 lovely old place, a three-story, dormer-windowed building with 
 huge red brick pillars, which was beautifully described by 
 George W. Cable in his novel, The Grandissimes. 
 
 Bay St. Louis was a popular resort for New Orleans dwell- 
 ers. Pass Christian and Biloxi lie just beyond it, and that 
 whole coast was a favorite summer resort then just as it is 
 today. 
 
 My parents were accustomed to take their little brood across 
 to Lake Borgne as soon as school closed in New Orleans, 
 and there on the gulf we spent long and happy days. My 
 father commuted from his law offices in the city. On the 
 way to Lake Borgne every summer we passed over the long 
 Rigolets bridge through the great marshes filled with alli- 
 gators and tangled palmetto thickets — a desolate, unearthly 
 sight which no one who has ever seen it can forget. 
 
 Along the route were factories for putting up oysters and 
 shrimps, and many little hotels where fishermen and hunters 
 could spend days. One was kept by a negro woman, Madame 
 Epps, a famous cook and a very fine specimen of her race. 
 Competent and dignified, she cared for her boarders in her 
 clean establishment and made them comfortable. She was 
 said to have been beautiful in her youth, though she gave 
 no evidence of it when I saw her, and was known to have 
 been the mistress of one of New Orleans' famous judges; 
 but he was dead and no reference, of course, was ever made 
 to the former life of Madame Epps. 
 
 My happiest recollections of Bay St. Louis were of the 
 wonderful bathing and swimming and the catching of crabs 
 and fish from the long wharf. With our lines all set, baited 
 with bacon or fat meat, we would lie on the wooden planks 
 awaiting the coming of those fat crabs, and then we scooped 
 them into the net. 
 
 At night we were allowed at certain seasons to go with 
 a torch after soft-shell crabs. Crabs shed their hard shells 
 and for a day or so lie buried in the sand until the soft skin 
 hardens and they can move about again. They come close 
 to the shore to shed their hard shells and form little mounds 
 of sand over themselves for protection. Then it is that the 
 negro boys go out by torchlight and pick up the helpless 
 
"Strange To Say—" 11 
 
 animals and sell them to the markets. 
 
 Lovely picnics in the pine woods were often planned too, 
 and when the colder days of fall appeared we went into the 
 woods to gather fat pine knots to burn on winter days. These 
 round or oblong knots are rich in resin and burn readily, 
 giving out great heat and a splendid flame. 
 
 Sometimes we would spend Christmas at Bay St. Louis and 
 then indeed the days were joyous. Selecting a huge Christ- 
 mas tree, we would gather wild holly, brilliant with red ber- 
 ries, and ground pine for decorations. The celebrations were 
 always held in the dining room on the first floor, filled with 
 cabinets containing lovely cut glass, superbly made in a way 
 which seems to be a lost art. We youngsters understood and 
 repeated with bated breath that the glass had been used 
 on our great-grandparents' table when they had been hosts 
 in Philadelphia to General Lafayette. And with these relics 
 were handsome Sheffield silver platters and silver dishes of 
 many sorts. Stockings for the youngsters, presents wrapped 
 in mysterious packages for everyone; even the colored serv- 
 ants were invited to receive their gifts there first. 
 
 Those were happy times, simple times. We were taught 
 to love the simple things. I can remember well the joy of 
 getting a nice red apple and being told that I could have 
 as many as I wanted because a barrel had come. What child 
 of today would be enthusiastic over that announcement? 
 
 Large candles lighted the rooms for the Christmas festival, 
 huge clear glass globes three to four feet high protecting 
 the candles from the wind. Fine lamps were gaily scattered 
 about the house. We never missed electricity, which, of 
 course, was not used for lighting then. 
 
 The big feast was spread on the huge table. A fat turkey 
 stuffed with chestnuts and cranberries and a whole roasted 
 pig (both raised and killed on the place) were always in- 
 cluded; the big eggnog bowl was flowing, and the men had 
 their mint juleps — sometimes perhaps too many. All of 
 this was Christmas jollity. 
 
 Among the families who came to Bay St. Louis every sum- 
 mer was that of a prominent Frenchman named Dufour, 
 owner of UAbeille, the most influential French paper in New 
 
12 Youth 
 
 Orleans. One of his daughters, Louise, was my great chum, 
 and many hours we used to spend in the pretty summer- 
 houses, called kiosques, on the greensward which lay between 
 the waters of the lake and the hard white road, paved with 
 oyster shells, in front of our yard. These kiosques were a 
 feature of all the homes at Bay St. Louis and Pass Christian. 
 They contained comfortable hammocks and lounging chairs 
 and were well shaded by the big oak trees or magnolias 
 that filled the country. In the heat of the day people gathered 
 in them to play cards or read or doze away the hours. 
 
 Many of these families were intimates. I especially re- 
 member the Mannings and Cluveriuses — Mrs. Cluverius 
 was a Manning — because one of the rollicking Cluverius 
 children whom I had watched playing marbles noisily or 
 flying a kite with delighted yells was to return into my life 
 later on. When the Century of Progress was calling the 
 world's attention to Chicago, this erstwhile young imp, many 
 years younger than I, was one of its most attractive figures. 
 He was Rear Admiral Wat T. Cluverius, and when he ar- 
 rived with his beautiful and charming wife, the daughter 
 of Admiral Sampson, to take command of Great Lakes Naval 
 Training Station, near Chicago, they became so popular that 
 for two years it seemed nothing of importance could be 
 planned without them. 
 
 In the interim, forty-odd years had elapsed, and he had 
 made a name for himself as a brilliant naval officer. He 
 made a record on his ship, the Maine, and today is the only 
 living officer survivor of its sinking at Havana. 
 
 Many of my earliest recollections of the Bay St. Louis 
 days cluster around the negro servants and former slaves 
 who were our nurses and frequent companions. To them 
 and their superstitions, I am told, dwellers there owed the 
 lovely walks made of powdered red brick, which were so 
 bright and glistening after a shower. Such walks made of 
 brick washed with red powder led up to my grandmother's 
 house, and I can still recall their soft, rain-brushed tones. 
 
 The custom was said to have originated with the native 
 African slaves, who laid such walks around their cabins, 
 both because they were beautiful and because many believed 
 
"Strange To Say—" 13 
 
 that they warded off or "killed" the bad luck that voodoo 
 charms caused. Even today red brick walks are customary 
 in New Orleans and Bay St. Louis. Many years later when 
 I was grown I often found myself suddenly remembering 
 them. But while I loved the New Orleans custom, I can- 
 not say as much for the custom in India. There the people 
 wash their pavements, and their houses also, with a black 
 powdered dust that they love and consider very sacred. It 
 is made from the dried dung of the cow, powdered as fine 
 as our face powder. When their homes are all made clean, 
 they sprinkle everything with this black powder ; and I have 
 heard that the women powder themselves with it. For the wo- 
 men it is generally perfumed, and so made more agreeable. I 
 often saw the women in India, after bathing in the sacred 
 pools, dry themselves and then dust on this powder. They 
 thought it made them purer. 
 
 Although our parents were strict in forbidding the serv- 
 ants to tell us about such superstitions, we did hear some 
 and imbibed them — so well that even today I cannot en- 
 tirely forget them. To this day I never put an umbrella on 
 the bed — it's bad luck! And another — when taking off 
 your shoes point them toward the door. Funny, but just un- 
 consciously I do this. Early impressions are always strong, 
 and even after years of education are not always obliterated. 
 
 And oh, how many superstitions those old slaves had! 
 If a bird flew in the window, death was somewhere near. 
 If two persons died in one family, a third would surely die 
 before the end of the year! A howling dog always meant 
 bad luck, disaster of some kind. All of these superstitions 
 the little white child, growing up just after the war, had 
 to try to outlive. I remember one queer expression and often 
 today I use it unthinkingly. We always spoke of the side- 
 walk, the pavement — troittoir in French — as the banquette. 
 
 The negro learned to live like his white masters without 
 losing his superstitions, and like the coat of Joseph they 
 took on many colors. The Queen of the Voodoos was re- 
 garded by them as possessing superhuman strength in such 
 matters — a strength generally used for malicious intent, 
 for the spirit of revenge was found in almost every approach 
 
14 Youth 
 
 or request brought to this ebony goddess. She dressed in 
 fantastic colors and was usually surrounded by from six to 
 eight satellites who, like herself, carried charms and fetishes 
 about their persons, distributing them to all the faithful. 
 
 The negro belief in the baleful influence of these fetishes 
 was, however, sometimes born of the desire for self-pres- 
 ervation and was sometimes developed almost in infancy. 
 If a man quarreled with his sweetheart or she left him, 
 he believed that by procuring her photograph and punching 
 a hole through the breast and burying the picture, he could 
 cause her death by heart disease or any illness he should 
 happen to condemn her to. A nice slow fever was the gen- 
 teel way of invoking the wrath of an angry spirit. 
 
 Woe to the unfortunate who believes that the unseen spirit's 
 evil powers are arrayed against him. He loses his nerve 
 completely. I have seen great husky fellows, who might be 
 considered fearless, turn green at the suggestion of the evil 
 eye upon them. No amount of reasoning assists, and only 
 by more sacrificial offering can they abort or check, by some 
 stronger charm, the evil. 
 
 In my childhood, the Civil War was just over, and, while it 
 freed the negroes from physical bondage, it changed neither 
 their nature nor their creeds. Although voodooism was for- 
 bidden, many of the negroes we knew still practiced it. 
 Their society generally met in the cypress swamps in the 
 outskirts of New Orleans, although the secrets of time and 
 meeting place were carefully kept. 
 
 Stripping themselves, the devotees girded their loins with 
 red handkerchiefs. The king and queen wore blue cords 
 around their waists. The ceremonies began with worship of 
 the snake, which was kept in a box on a sort of altar. A black 
 cat was generally found with them, too. With awful dances 
 and African songs, the frenzied negroes kept up their rites 
 until they fell exhausted. 
 
 Marie Leveau was the greatest of the voodoo queens in 
 New Orleans and she held her followers together with a strong 
 hand. They never questioned her power. Of course, many 
 of her followers could not always reach the far-away cypress 
 swamps for the big meetings, but smaller ones were held 
 
"Strange To Say—" 15 
 
 nearer by. It was remarkable how the news was communi- 
 cated to the servants in the various houses. A girl would be 
 sweeping the porches; she would sing a song giving the 
 news in their peculiar language. The next houseman or 
 maid hearing it would repeat it. The man in the field hear- 
 ing it took up the song, and by nightfall the news had been 
 conveyed to the entire city, telling those who could to go to 
 the swamps where they could attend the terrible ceremonies. 
 
 Voodooism wielded a great power, and masters dreaded it. 
 Many a master was poisoned, and the servants feared a grigri 
 as they feared death. A grigri was a silly object of any kind, 
 but it always meant evil. If a negro found a strange object 
 in his room he feared it was a grigri and immediately rushed 
 with it to Marie Leveau, begging her for a counter grigri to 
 remove the evil spell. For a little money she helped, and 
 in this way the curse was removed. 
 
 The people of New Orleans dreaded this woman's power 
 but they could not break it. Marie Leveau was a handsome 
 mulatto, married and with children, but the cult believed 
 she possessed supernatural powers. 
 
 I was privileged to see something more of voodooism than 
 usually fell to the lot of a white person at that time. This 
 experience occurred while we were staying at my grand- 
 mother's home at Bay St. Louis. Not far from her home 
 was a great marsh where lived an old negress who was 
 high in her communication with the Great Zombi, their 
 snake god. She had promised Celeste, my pretty mulatto 
 nurse, assistance if she brought money and gifts. Celeste 
 had had a quarrel with her lover about a girl and he had 
 left her in anger. She wanted him back. 
 
 It was the fall of the year, when our parents allowed us 
 to go out into the woods for the whole day to gather pine 
 knots. Celeste made plans that on one of these days she 
 would manage to see the old negress, who had already per- 
 formed miracles in assisting her friends. She hoped to get 
 a grigri which would remove the evil spell from some salt 
 she had found sprinkled under her bed and which she was 
 convinced would cause her to waste away and die. 
 
 What to do with her young charge while she spent an 
 
16 Youth 
 
 hour or so with the old negress bothered her. She solved 
 that problem by swearing me to secrecy and taking me along. 
 I was pretty young but Celeste had confidence in my promise 
 and believed me worthy. The negroes were forbidden to tell 
 the children of voodooism, but we never betrayed them, 
 knowing if we did we would never hear any more about it. 
 
 Happy and excited, I accompanied her and about a dozen 
 or so other negroes. The old woman was expecting us, but 
 at first she objected to the white child. It was known that the 
 whites were not believers in the grigri, but as old Black 
 Mammy said to me once, "Honey, if you don't believe, it 
 can't hurt you, but if you do believe, it sure am gwine to 
 get you." 
 
 We were all taken into a room which was dark except 
 for one candle burning on a table covered with a white cloth. 
 A knife, some wax, and a few pins were there beside it. 
 Someone played softly on a drum and presently a low chant- 
 ing began. The old woman advanced into the center of the 
 room, drawing Celeste along. I was placed on a chair and 
 told to keep quiet. The negress suddenly sat down in the 
 middle of the floor, drawing Celeste down, too. Then she 
 bade Celeste strip to her chemise. This done, she took hold 
 of Celeste's hand and bade her repeat some jumbled words. 
 
 With these words, I was told afterwards, the real cere- 
 mony began. This lasted a few minutes until the old woman 
 began swaying and moaning softly. Back and forth she 
 swayed and the moaning became louder. She said suddenly, 
 "The Great Spirit is coming. I hear his footsteps in the air. 
 I know he is nigh. Brethren, beat the drum and sing faster." 
 
 The crowd by this time was getting quite excited. A young 
 negress, in whose charge I had been put, leaned over and said, 
 "Don't be afraid, honey." I whispered, "I'm not afraid." 
 
 By this time the old woman was writhing on the floor as 
 though in pain and moaning terribly. Suddenly she let go 
 Celeste's hand screaming, "The Zombi has seized me. I got 
 to do my work. Where is the wax?" 
 
 An old woman stepped forward, picked up the wax on the 
 table and handed it to her. Then the negress on the floor 
 began molding the wax until it took the shape of a tiny doll. 
 
"Strange To Say—" 17 
 
 Picking up the pins on the table, she stood up, and holding 
 the doll over the lighted candle, she continued to mold and 
 stick the pins in it. Finally, turning to Celeste, she said, 
 "I must have some of your blood." She pricked Celeste's 
 finger with a pin, smeared the figure of the doll with blood 
 and said, "Now take this doll, put it in your rival's bed and 
 sprinkle some of this powder I give you in her shoes, and 
 your rival will die." 
 
 I don't know whether the rival died, but I do know that 
 the lover returned and married Celeste. 
 
 Voodooism lost much of its potency when Marie Leveau 
 died. She is buried in the old St. Louis cemetery in New 
 Orleans and a tomb still bears her name. 
 
 Despite all denials, the negroes in certain sections of the 
 South still practice voodooism and, although difficult, it is 
 not impossible for white people to be admitted to a cere- 
 mony. Now voodooism is so esoteric and remote that the 
 occasional writer may be unjustly suspected of exploiting 
 a dead myth when he tells of some hideous rites he has wit- 
 nessed. But to those of us, children of old Louisiana, who 
 were bred in outward manifestation of the black art and 
 sometimes experienced its actual practice, it was a living 
 reality. Certainly it was a reality so vital to the transplanted 
 African that I know the seventy-five odd years since my youth 
 to be too brief a time for its complete passing. Though my 
 parents lived in the civilized stratum, we children were left 
 a good deal in the company of the old slaves who remained 
 with us at a wage. The negroes exacted our secrecy, but they 
 told us many things. When they practiced voodooism for re- 
 venge on an enemy, they called it Black Heart; when to re- 
 move an evil sent to them, they called it White Heart. 
 
 This is one side, the dark side, of the negro picture. There 
 was another one, and I know no story that illustrates it so 
 well as that of Margot Castellanos. She was in the convent 
 school with me at Bay St. Louis. Perhaps I was attracted 
 to her not only because she was beautiful but because of 
 the tragedy that had come into her life. Her parents, a 
 family of some wealth, had been drowned in the gulf and 
 had left her penniless. But just when her situation was at 
 
18 Youth 
 
 its darkest, she had this letter from a law firm in New 
 Orleans : 
 
 "One of our clients has written and put at your dis- 
 posal sufficient money for your education and an income 
 to support you the rest of your life. Our client, Mme. De 
 Tignonville, stipulates only that you never attempt to 
 see her, and wishes you never to seek her identity." 
 It was in the calm of convent life that I knew Margot. 
 How well I recall the elevating influence of the nuns, the 
 happy routine of Mass and school and embroidery — oh, the 
 endless embroidery, which when finished was given into the 
 skillful hands of Therese Corneau, the old quadroon woman, 
 to launder. 
 
 Once a week the tall and dignified colored woman with 
 the sad face called for the fine work the convent girls had 
 finished; and her deft hands seemed to bring out more per- 
 fectly each leaf and flower. She always brought praline 
 cakes, too — those delicious pralines made with brown sug- 
 ar — and always kept one for Margot. 
 
 Joyous days were those, too, when Father Le Due, the 
 good parish priest at Bay St. Louis, called to bless us all. He 
 was a gentleman of France and he gave his whole life to 
 the village, but his courtly manners were never for a moment 
 forgotten, even among the humblest of his parishioners. 
 
 One day after her convent life was over, while returning 
 from a trip abroad, Margot heard a chance word, a slur 
 upon her mother's name, and discussion of the mystery of 
 the money provided for her. She had written her lawyers 
 many times begging the name of her benefactress, but now 
 she was determined that unless she knew it she would never 
 again accept the gift. At last she was told her benefactress 
 would see her, though the latter was very ill and was in a 
 sanitarium at Bay St. Louis. Margot alighted from the New 
 Orleans train, and was received by her convent priest, Father 
 Le Due. He spoke softly as they walked along the white 
 oyster-shelled road to the convent. 
 
 "I have bad news for you, my daughter. Mme De Tignon- 
 ville died this morning. Her suffering ended today, for in 
 the eyes of God she was a saint. This letter I hand you will 
 
"Strange To Say—" 19 
 
 explain all." 
 
 In the little red-roofed convent where the Mother Superior 
 lovingly embraced her former pupil, Margot opened her let- 
 ter, as Pere Le Due promised to return and take her to the 
 dead woman's side. The letter read : 
 
 "Mile.: I am dying, and your tender heart must for- 
 give me. I am fifty years of age and I look seventy. Thir- 
 ty years ago I was called beautiful for I was almost 
 white. The fatal taint in my blood hardly showed in my 
 youth. I was educated in Paris and treated like a prin- 
 cess. I was young and innocent — God, how innocent 
 I was. I did not dream those charms they fostered might 
 prove chains to bear me down to misery. At eighteen 
 I was brought back. None of my race were worthy to 
 mate with me. I loved unworthily and after years found 
 my marriage was not legal. Then I left his home and 
 fought out my misery alone. In the hospital your mother's 
 soft hands wiped the moisture from my brow and when 
 convalescent she took me to her home, providing employ- 
 ment. Her kindness took the sting from my life. Pride 
 kept me alive. I had plenty of money because my distin- 
 guished father had provided it in my youth, but some- 
 how I just could not use it again, and always since I have 
 earned my bread. After years, learning you were help- 
 less, I felt I could give you the accumulated money, and 
 hoped to die with my secret from all save the priest who 
 confesses me. My deception was because I feared the 
 truth of the taint in my blood would cause you mortifica- 
 tion in accepting what I offered. Forgive and pray for 
 me for I love you dearly ! 
 
 "Alice De Tignonville." 
 Margot's eyes were wet as she finished the letter. What 
 sublime abnegation! What a life this woman had led! She 
 was dead — this martyred soul was free at last, and she, 
 who owed her everything, had never seen her face. She would 
 kneel beside the body and look upon the face ! 
 
 It would be no ordinary face she would see ; of that she felt 
 sure. Whom would this saint resemble? Those years of 
 unselfish devotion would have left an imprint of holiness 
 
20 Youth 
 
 upon her brow! It would be splendid, imposing, a face to 
 inspire great deeds. 
 
 With the gray-haired priest she entered the simple wooden 
 church. She saw as though in a dream four black-robed nuns 
 kneeling in prayer before the catafalque. It stood in the 
 aisle before the altar with lighted candles at the head and 
 feet. The plain coffin looked miserably poor and its ugly 
 lid was leaning against its side. A pale streak of light filter- 
 ing through one of the stained windows overhead fell across 
 the coffin. Was it a halo hovering about God's chosen one? 
 The way had been long and weary, but surely at last she lay 
 crowned with glory in His merciful bosom ! 
 
 Slowly and with trembling fingers Margot lifted the ugly 
 white netting covering the corpse. Bending down, she gazed 
 astonished, first upon the smooth gray hair drawn plainly 
 back from the low forehead, then upon the placid features 
 calm with the added dignity of death. 
 
 But it was not upon a stranger she looked, for the face 
 of the honored dead was one she had known well all her life. 
 Back in the old convent days she had seen it often, and it 
 had grown familiar. Now with the serene calmness of death 
 it met her eyes, and it was not unknown ! The face she looked 
 upon was that of the old quadroon woman, Therese Corneau ! 
 
 One last recollection — and it is a tragic one — of the 
 happy childhood days in my grandmother's home on Lake 
 Borgne. Early one morning I slipped out of bed, escaping 
 from the watchful eyes of my nurse, and ran out into the 
 yard. I was attracted by the sounds of hammering and ap- 
 proached the colored workmen. They were making a long 
 pine box. I had time to observe the strangeness of the box, 
 but my nurse discovered me too soon for me to receive any 
 definite information from the workmen. 
 
 She was very much fussed at what I had seen and told 
 me I was not to speak of it, scolding me roundly for having 
 escaped her watchful eyes. Young as I was, I was alert 
 enough to realize it was something she was afraid to have 
 me mention, and the mystery about it intrigued me more than 
 ever. 
 
 Several years later I learned the facts. The box was a 
 
41 Strange To Say—" 21 
 
 wooden coffin and was to contain the remains of a man killed 
 on my grandmother's place in a duel. That man was killed 
 by Mr. Braughn, my father's law partner, and my father was 
 Mr. Braughn's second. 
 
 Dueling had been forbidden many years before, but the 
 custom — then the only way to preserve a man's honor — 
 still clung to New Orleans and was frequently practiced. 
 
 Mr. Braughn, a charming young man, had been arguing 
 a case in court for my father's firm. The lawyer on the op- 
 posite side, a Frenchman, became objectionable in his lan- 
 guage, and violent words followed on both sides. Finally the 
 Frenchman challenged Mr. Braughn to duel. Now young 
 Braughn had never fought a duel in his life and did not 
 believe in that way of settling things, and at first positively 
 refused to consider that solution of the dispute, but the hot- 
 headed Frenchman, who was an expert marksman and had 
 fought three duels already, insisted that this was the only 
 way to settle the quarrel. 
 
 Gradually, much against his will, young Braughn was 
 brought to believe he would be branded as a coward unless he 
 accepted this way of exonerating himself, and finally, in spite 
 of the pleading of his wife, consented to meet the other man. 
 The laws of Mississippi were more lax in regard to duelling 
 than Louisiana's, though they, too, forbade it. It was decided 
 the place of meeting should be across the state line in Missis- 
 sippi. 
 
 Reluctantly, my father consented to having it back in the 
 pine woods on his mother's place, and Mr. Braughn's friends 
 proceeded to hand him a pistol and see that he practiced 
 with it daily. He never succeeded in hitting the target, but 
 the Frenchman never missed the mark — even blindfolded 
 he could wheel suddenly while removing the bandage and hit 
 the little round spot. Of course, all these preparations for the 
 final event were done in secret. 
 
 Mr. Braughn made his will, perfectly convinced he would 
 be killed, kissed his tearful wife good-by, and departed for 
 the Mississippi woods. The Frenchman's behavior was in 
 marked contrast. He ordered caviar for supper, a cold bottle, 
 and a hot bird. But at the rendezvous in the woods amid 
 
22 Youth 
 
 those glorious yellow pines, the Fates willed otherwise, and 
 as the contestants fired simultaneously, the man who had 
 never once hit the target pierced his opponent's heart with 
 his bullet, while the great marksman's bullet went astray. 
 
 This duel was one of the last fought in Louisiana and 
 Mississippi. Terrible as was this mode of defending one's 
 honor, it was a mode accepted throughout the world for cen- 
 turies. The only way to resent an insult was for a man to 
 take a life or give up his own, for honor's sake. 
 
 My feeling about the duel is that the pistol way of defend- 
 ing one's honor was not as bad as the German way, where 
 two men sat down at a table with two pills between them, 
 one harmless, one a deadly poison. Each man swallowed one 
 pill and both calmly awaited death, which was bound to come 
 to one of them. 
 
 I must speak of the great belief in ghosts that existed 
 in Louisiana and Mississippi in my childhood. Many were 
 the ghosts stories we heard from our colored nurses and 
 despite all contradiction we firmly believed these startling 
 tales. I particularly remember the ghost of Bienville Shell 
 Road in New Orleans. Scared beholders declared that this 
 ghost had been seen often and that horses shied away from 
 it when it appeared. It was a big man with his throat cut 
 from ear to ear. The man had been murdered and found 
 in this condition, and always after his ghost appeared stand- 
 ing in the spot where his body was found. 
 
 Then there was the story of a woman statue in one of the 
 cemeteries deliberately stepping down from its base and 
 walking away rapidly to another tomb. The tale was con- 
 firmed by some people who were driving down the main 
 cemetery road when it happened, and also by two or three 
 grave-diggers. Months later the statue returned to its place. 
 No amount of contradiction changed this story. The statue 
 returned and took her place on the original tomb. There 
 was always a brilliant light, a radiance, about that tomb, so 
 that people avoided passing it. It was a great custom in my 
 youth to visit the cemeteries on Sunday afternoon. It was 
 certainly a gruesome custom, but it was a popular one. The 
 young people gathered there, sat on benches and enjoyed 
 
" Strange To Say—" 23 
 
 the sunshine in these gloomy surroundings. 
 
 I was always interested in the ghost story of General 
 Beauregard's house. It is of course said to be haunted and 
 there are those who claim to have seen the great general 
 many times after his death. The house was usually dark. 
 On rare occasions it suddenly appeared brilliant, generally 
 in the hours just before dawn. The unlit candles burned 
 brightly and suddenly the figure of a small man — General 
 Beauregard was a small man — appeared in the doorway. 
 With dignity he entered a room, walked slowly through, bow- 
 ing and smiling as he passed, and disappeared through an- 
 other door. There are many more tales of haunted houses in 
 my beloved New Orleans, but I have no doubt they have been 
 written often and will continue to be written. I only have 
 wanted to mention a few. 
 
 But one story haunted me in my youth. Was it a ghost 
 story? I thought so then, but its explanation has been found 
 of late, and, strange to say, I find it more thrilling than any 
 ghost story I have ever heard. 
 
 A couple with one child, a boy, lived in Mississippi not 
 far from my grandmother's home. The boy was a handsome 
 youngster, but no one was ever allowed to see him after dark. 
 All servants were dismissed at dark and only returned at day- 
 light. As the boy grew, he was sent to a day school; but 
 always before dusk, in the short day of winter, he was taken 
 home. Many stories were told concerning the boy, who was 
 as intelligent as he was handsome. One old negress claimed 
 she had sneaked back to the place after dark, climbed a lad- 
 der and looked through a window at the sleeping child. All 
 the house was dark except his room. There he was lying with 
 a brilliant light flowing around him. Somehow it had a 
 strange luminosity that frightened the woman who looked. 
 
 Years passed, the boy was grown, but the rigorous rule 
 remained, he was never seen after dark. Then a neighbor 
 declared that one night he saw a very slender figure emerge 
 from the house — a figure like fire and flame — and saw it 
 run like a streak of lightning through a clump of trees and 
 dive into a pond and swim about, while the whole pond lit 
 up with a strange bright light. 
 
24 Youth 
 
 A few years later the boy, now a grown man, died sud- 
 denly. Then, though not until some time after his death, the 
 boy's secret was learned. The country doctor was given per- 
 mission to tell. The boy had possessed in his body phosphorous 
 such as the sea gives to its phosphorescent fish. Only the 
 parents and the doctor knew the secret. During the day the 
 boy's awful trouble — for trouble it surely was — was not 
 apparent, but after dark it became visible. 
 
 This story to me was worse than any ghost story. How- 
 ever, scientists tell us that cases like this boy's have occurred 
 many times, though it is the only case I have ever heard 
 about. 
 
Chapter Two 
 
 New Orleans Days 
 
 M- 
 
 Y CHILDHOOD days in New Orleans, 
 city of sunshine and flowers, are as fresh as yesterday in my 
 mind. I have only to shut my eyes and I am again in that child- 
 hood home, that haven of hospitality. 
 
 The white pillars supporting the broad verandas were often 
 twined with wisteria blossoms for some festival, and even 
 today if I see the glorious purple bloom of that vine I am trans- 
 ported back in thought half a century. 
 
 What a thrill we children got as we slipped down the 
 mahogany stairway and peeped into the long parlor to watch 
 the preparations for New Year's Day. That parlor, so typical 
 of New Orleans, was three rooms thrown into one, with 
 arches overhead. The colored butler, assisted by two ebony 
 goddesses — for those negro girls were often mighty pretty — 
 would be arranging the table for the big punch bowl which 
 would hold the frothy eggnog. I have that punch bowl still. 
 As early as eleven in the morning my young mother would 
 be ready to receive visitors and to dispense the delectable 
 eggnog. 
 
 New Orleans in those days was a gracious, fun-loving city. 
 It took its character from the several nations which had 
 helped to found and develop it. The city was founded in 
 1718 by fur traders and became the capital of the French 
 colony in 1722 when Bienville, its governor, moved there from 
 Biloxi. 
 
 Spain held the colony from 1762 to 1800, when the French 
 took it back for a short span of years until it became Amer- 
 ican. It is interesting to see that even today French and 
 Spanish customs prevail in the French quarter, across 
 
 25 
 
26 New Orleans Days 
 
 Canal Street, the dividing line, while on the other side 
 American ways are predominant. But all over the city there 
 is still a mingling of the several languages and customs. 
 
 In my childhood — and perhaps it is the same today — Eng- 
 lish-speaking people of the city interspersed many French 
 expressions in their conversation. Instead of "Too bad" one 
 heard "Tant pis," or "Tant mieux" for "That's fine." 
 
 New Orleans contains many historic monuments, which 
 have been exhaustively described. As I am not writing a 
 history of my native city, I will pass them by. I have always 
 enjoyed the French market, though, for the many good 
 things which we bought there. One of these was the famous 
 file for making gumbo. File is finely ground sassafras root 
 and is used generally in soups and gumbo. I still have it on 
 my dinner table. It was made and sold by Cherokee Indians. 
 They were poor in those days, trying to make a living from 
 roots, but when they were transferred to the Indian Terri- 
 tory in Oklahoma, many became rich from their oil proper- 
 ties. The Cherokees sold file in oddly patterned baskets, now 
 treasured because no more have been made for many years. 
 
 Another sauce sold at the market was called Mansell White. 
 It was flavored with little red peppers and magnolia berries, 
 and a few drops in soup or any dish made of the tiny Missis- 
 sippi River shrimp were considered indispensable. 
 
 Many beautiful spots in the city that I recollect well are 
 now no more. For instance, the delightful Carrolton Gardens 
 with their umbrageous small umbrella trees, where our nurses 
 used to wander with us children, have all been swept away 
 by the mighty Mississippi with its tawny waters. Instead 
 are the strong levees holding at bay the angry flood that 
 sweeps by in its haste to mingle with the blue waters of the 
 gulf. 
 
 But many of the old houses with grilled lace-work balco- 
 nies remain, such as the Locoul house, the home of Laura La- 
 coul, one of my dear friends ; and in that neighborhood you may 
 meet some who still call the sidewalk the "banquette." 
 
 And though the great and fashionable milliner Olympe is 
 no longer there, others have taken her place. And the Stauf- 
 f ers and Leovys and Chaffraixs and Howards and Bohns, 
 
Mrs. John Nicholson 
 
 My Grandmother's Grandmother 
 
 from a painting by Charles Peale 
 
John Nicholson 
 
 My Grandmother's Grandfather 
 
 from a painting by Charles Peale 
 
"Strange To Say—" 27 
 
 or rather their descendants, have found equally good ones. 
 The old opera house so famous in my day is just as popular, 
 and the Capdevielles and Slocombs, the Mehles, Prestons, 
 Scotts, Bohns and Krutschnitts still sit in their loges and 
 listen to the entrancing voices. 
 
 "Banquette" is not the only distinctive word in the New 
 Orleans vocabulary. One of my first recollections is of hear- 
 ing someone say, perhaps to me: "Here is a picayune. Go 
 buy yourself some candy." The picayune was then the small- 
 est coin in circulation, worth five cents, and from this came 
 the custom of calling a stingy man or woman picayunish. 
 
 I certainly remember, too, the word "lagniappe." That 
 word opened my eyes. Whenever I went with a servant to 
 the grocery to make a purchase, she asked and received lagn- 
 iappe. It is the morcau always given a servant or a child 
 after a purchase — perhaps a piece of candy, a few raisins, 
 a cake ; but it is always expected and always accepted. 
 
 I remember, too, that every morning on awakening, when 
 I slept in a room with my parents or in one adjoining, I saw 
 a maid enter their room with two small cups of steaming 
 black coffee. That was brought them every day before they 
 arose. Coffee was taken later in the dining room, but with 
 hot milk. 
 
 Of all the distinctive New Orleans foods, I believe the 
 delicious biscuit glace impressed me most favorably. One can 
 get it elsewhere in various cities now, but it is not the same 
 as I remember. To this day New Orleans biscuits glace 
 taste better to me. Perhaps they have kept the true secret 
 of making it. And the first thing I order today when I re- 
 turn to my native city is biscuit glace. 
 
 Another custom which impressed my childish eyes was eau 
 sucree. Whenever a lady called and sat an hour or so, in- 
 stead of being offered tea or coffee (it is cocktails now), she 
 was offered a cold glass of water with lots of sugar, and en- 
 joyed it as a delicious drink. 
 
 This custom was recalled to me vividly twenty-five years 
 ago during the First World War. A young girl cousin came 
 to visit me in Chicago and asked if she might have an eau 
 sucre*e. I answered yes and, pouring the cold water into a 
 
28 New Orleans Days 
 
 glass, opened the sugar bowl. We had been urged to be care- 
 ful with sugar. Like butter, we just could not get it. What 
 was my horror when I saw that for one glass she emptied 
 the sugarbowl. She put twenty pieces of loaf sugar into 
 the glass of water. Of course, this young girl's father owned 
 a sugar plantation and that in a way accounted for her ex- 
 travagance. 
 
 Many returning from New Orleans question what bagas- 
 se is. It is the sugar cane dried of its juice, and the planters 
 now make use of it for burning in their furnaces. It makes 
 a tremendous blaze and is really a superb sight while burn- 
 ing, for the sparks given off are unusually bright and glow 
 against the darkness in magnificent splendor. For a long 
 time this bagasse was just thrown away, but since it has 
 been utilized by the planters it has saved a large amount 
 of fuel and is therefore very properly considered valuable 
 enough to guard. 
 
 The old scissors grinder passing along, crying out in 
 the street and telling his ability to make scissors new, always 
 attracted the children, and of course the organ grinder with 
 his smart little monkey brought shrieks of delight. 
 
 Every Sunday morning when I was young a delicious 
 cream cheese was served with rich cream for breakfast. 
 The cheeses were round, about an inch in thickness and the 
 size of a coffee-cup saucer. They were sold in individual 
 layers. One was served to each person and with the rich 
 cream and delicious brown sugar with which we covered it, 
 made a delectable dish. I certainly ate mine to the last bit. 
 
 And the pralines, shaped like a small cake, made of brown 
 sugar and pecans, wrapped in a thin white paper and sold 
 by the old negro women who sat on low chairs on the side- 
 walks of New Orleans. Last winter Dr. Gustav Egloff, the 
 dean of petroleum technologists and president of the Amer- 
 ican Institute of Chemists (an outstanding man in the world) , 
 who with his gifted wife has been our neighbor for years, 
 brought me from New Orleans some delicious pralines. And 
 oh, how I did appreciate them! 
 
 Good food and good fun are equally a part of New Orleans 
 life, and good fun in New Orleans reaches its zenith with 
 
44 Strange To Say—" 29 
 
 the famous Mardi Gras festival. The city's inhabitants as 
 well as the guests who fill the hotels throng the streets and 
 give themselves up to pleasures and amusements for days. 
 The great moment is the day and night when the processions 
 with their glamorously decorated floats invade the city. 
 
 One of the finest compliments ever paid me was when the 
 Mardi Gras revelers stole my fairy tales as the theme of 
 floats. It was a big surprise to me — because, of course, 
 Mardi Gras never asks permission — and an even bigger 
 one to my many relatives in the Crescent City. With all 
 their little nephews and nieces, they were watching for King 
 Rex to make his appearance when suddenly they heard a cry 
 "Prince Silverwings" as a float appeared. 
 
 The delighted children saw Prince Silverwings, gorgeously 
 dressed, standing before the crowned Fairy Princess, who 
 was seated in the center of a huge rose under a gaily be- 
 decked canopy. The Prince, as I had told the story, had been 
 banished from fairyland and sent to earth to perform thirty 
 good deeds — one a day — for having fallen asleep in fairy- 
 land while on duty. His good deeds accomplished, he had 
 been allowed to return, and the float showed him in princely 
 attire about to have an audience with his Princess, whom he 
 would soon marry. 
 
 Other floats followed displaying the Ice Queen's palace 
 and the Rainbow maidens dancing and other episodes from 
 my fairy tales. 
 
 But if the Mardi Gras sponsors are regal in the way they 
 appropriate, they are just as regal in the way they make the 
 amende honorable. I have jeweled pins and grateful letters 
 thanking me for what they took, and I also have the pleasure 
 of the memory of having been honored by my childhood 
 city in her gayest moment. 
 
 I was twice a maid of honor to the Queen of the Mardi Gras 
 carnival, once for beautiful Lena Jackson, and once for Annie 
 Howard, daughter of Charles Howard, the man in charge 
 of the famous Louisiana state lottery. I never dreamed in 
 those days that fate would bring Annie and me closer to- 
 gether, for if my husband's father, Carter Harrison, had not 
 been assassinated, Annie would have been his wife and my 
 
30 New Orleans Days 
 
 mother-in-law. Happily we could not see the grimmer visage 
 of the future in those carefree days of going to Mardi Gras 
 balls and watching the wonderful processions. 
 
 Mardi Gras reminds me, though, of a somber though heroic 
 episode. At a Mardi Gras ball soon after I was married I 
 first saw a young married couple, plainly in love. She was 
 beautiful, the man was hardly less attractive. He was the 
 embodiment of youthful vigor. They were a remarkably 
 handsome couple and evidently very popular. 
 
 Many years passed before I returned to the Crescent City. 
 Once more in the midst of a brilliant Rex ball I asked for 
 the young couple. 
 
 "For heavens sake, do not speak of them," my friend an- 
 swered. "Their names are never mentioned here now. To- 
 morrow when we are alone I will tell you their story." 
 
 Maurice Locoul, my friend, was a great hunter, and 
 Louisiana is famous for her hunting grounds. He often sought 
 the marshes where wild turkeys abound and other delicious 
 game is found. Through the marais — the marshlands — the 
 pirogue, a small canoe, is paddled along the tiny streams. 
 The ground is an oozy slime. Even the firmer ground of the 
 surrounding country is unhealthy. At night the white mist 
 rises and brings fever in its wake. It is believed by the ne- 
 groes that ghosts wander after dark, and, of course, after 
 dark no negro will ever be found within miles of the marshes. 
 
 So Maurice was astonished one day to notice amid the 
 scrub palmettos a small cabin with tiny wisps of smoke 
 rising from it. Who would choose such a habitation? Years 
 went by and he grew accustomed to the sight. Stories told by 
 the ignorant villagers, not far away, of a lone white witch 
 and an old negro mammy who came to town on a white mule 
 to buy provisions were all he heard. As for the white witch, 
 she was seen only in the distance. No one ever approached 
 her. 
 
 One day as Maurice was rowing on one of the tiny streams 
 he saw plainly the figure of a man crouching near the shadows 
 of the palmettos. He noticed him particularly because he had 
 heard only that two women lived in the cabin. 
 
 Later in the afternoon a terrific thunderstorm compelled 
 
"Strange To Say—" 31 
 
 him to seek shelter, and he begged the hospitality of the cabin. 
 The negress who opened the door was plainly nervous, but 
 being soaked to the skin and very cold he pushed her aside 
 and entered. 
 
 He saw a woman seated by the window reading. Her hair 
 was snow white and her figure looked stooped, so he sup- 
 posed her old. Startled by his abrupt appearance, she sprang 
 up. He apologized and begged permission to warm himself. 
 The light from the window fell on the woman's face. Amazed 
 and horror-stricken, he staggered forward, for, changed as 
 she was, he recognized her. His heart almost stopped beat- 
 ing. He could hardly stammer out the words : 
 
 "Is it really you? We thought you lived in China! Made- 
 laine, why in God's name are you here in this place of death?" 
 
 "That reason concerns me alone," she answered and started 
 to leave the room. 
 
 "But why, why have you chosen this hideous place, why 
 have you hidden yourself from all who love you ?" 
 
 "Because I had a greater love to sustain me." 
 
 "A greater love," he echoed. 
 
 "Yes, one I love was doomed to death through a long 
 pilgrimage, to be shunned by all. The evil eye was upon us, 
 Maurice. Together we fled. But why have you come to dis- 
 turb us?" Fiercely she pointed to the door. "Go back to 
 your civilization and leave us in peace and, on the honor of 
 our past friendship, do not betray us," and, sobbing, she sank 
 to the floor. 
 
 He was appalled at her words, but before he could reply 
 a door opened. An apparition was on the threshold. A living 
 skeleton was before him, the face as white as paint. Blaz- 
 ing eyes in two sunken hollows seemed the only thing alive 
 about the man. The countenance had in it the fear of death. 
 A hush, like the hush before a storm, fell upon him who saw. 
 Dumb with horror, Maurice Locoul recognized his former 
 friend, the husband, a leper. The wife arose from her knees, 
 running to meet him. The man stopped here with a gesture. 
 
 "There is no escape, Madelaine," he said. "We have come 
 to the end of the road. It was inevitable that one day we 
 should be found. All these wonderful years your love has 
 
32 New Orleans Days 
 
 made of me a coward. I should never have permitted your 
 sublime devotion to sacrifice the breaking of your social ties. 
 But despair and agony made me weak, and at first my horrible 
 disease was not apparent. Now, vanquished by disease, why 
 struggle longer. I know my duty." 
 
 Turning to the man, he said : "Maurice, there is no longer 
 any need for secrecy. Her plea for silence is not necessary, 
 for Madelaine's isolation shall end tonight." 
 
 "Beloved," he said, turning to his wife, "for your sake I 
 will not go to the leper colony we both dread. But pray to 
 your God for me, because I will carry your image in my heart 
 to the foot of His throne tonight !" 
 
 And turning swiftly he entered his room, closing the door 
 behind him. Frozen with horror, she stood silent, unable to 
 move. A pistol shot rang out. Maurice Locoul caught her as 
 she fell. 
 
 My fairy tales had only an adopted connection with the 
 city of my childhood, but one story which I wrote about 
 fifteen years ago came out of my abiding love for the scenes 
 of my youth. New Orleans, as everyone knows, lies in a great 
 crescent-shaped bend of the Mississippi River; and, like all 
 the great rivers of the world — the Nile, the Amazon, etc. — 
 the Mississippi dominates the land through which it flows. 
 
 Down in the beautiful Southland, men can never forget 
 the river, for not only is it a friend that carries their com- 
 merce on its back, but it is also a foe whose devastating power 
 has been felt far too often, especially before the levees were 
 strengthened. 
 
 Right and left it cuts its way, sweeping aside all that 
 stands in its path. Nothing daunts its mighty force. Like 
 the Tiber its tawny color takes on a threatening aspect. 
 As the great stream reaches the South it widens, and rushing 
 rapidly it cuts the land into bayous in Louisiana and creates 
 smaller streams along its path. Always the river dominates 
 the land, and always that land refers to it with pride, but 
 always, too, that land fears it. Like the great monster of old, 
 the Minotaur who demanded beautiful maidens for compensa- 
 tion, the great river takes its toll. Often it would break 
 through all its boundaries, and one might waken far away 
 
"Strange To Say—" 38 
 
 from its natural flow in Arkansas and find it had left behind 
 a lake or a bayou, and then calmly continued on its way in 
 its regular channel, seeking its outlet into the waters of the 
 Gulf of Mexico. 
 
 For many years past, however, we have no longer dreaded 
 these occurrences so much; we control the flow of the water 
 by spillways — fingers, we call them. When the great flood 
 is approaching we are told of its increasing violence as it 
 begins up north. Then these fingers are cut (are "opened," 
 as we say), and the spillways allow the rush of waters to 
 flow into the lands, flooding them, making lakes and bayous, 
 and thus pacifying the monster river until, more calmly, it 
 can continue on its course, and thus reach New Orleans. 
 
 This city is really sixteen feet below the river. Standing 
 on street level there, one cannot see the river; and from the 
 river, one sees only the tops of houses in the city. 
 
 The levees built to confine the river are the city's defense 
 against annihilation by the mighty river. They are not mere 
 ridges of grass and dirt shoved up in a haphazard way along 
 the river bank. The excavation of the land for the levee 
 forms the barrow pit, which lies between the levee and the 
 batture, or shore. When the river is low the barrow pit and 
 batture are high out of water. At high water all are sub- 
 merged and only the strong levee holds back the water from 
 flowing over the land. 
 
 The batture is really part of the river and is owned by the 
 United States. Strange as it seems, there are "batture 
 dwellers." There is a town called Depression Colony between 
 Carrolton Gardens and the protective levees at Jefferson 
 Parish — a ramshackle town of such houses. Its shacks and 
 little cottages are built on stilts, so that the highest flood 
 cannot sweep them away. These houses have little gardens 
 in the batture and chickens and other animals live there. 
 When the flood comes the batture dwellers gather all the 
 animals and put them on the little galleries built around 
 their houses. 
 
 These people gather wood from the willows near their 
 land and make pretty furniture to sell, and they get their 
 food and water from merchants who pass their neighborhood. 
 
34 New Orleans Day* 
 
 Of course, these people pay no rent and are free from taxa- 
 tion, as the government owns the land. 
 
 The reservation of the U. S. Engineers, 2nd New Orleans 
 District, is one of the beauty spots of the New Orleans levee. 
 Here are situated equipment, yards and shops together with 
 several office buildings and beautifully kept grounds, all built 
 above the level on the batture. Government stations are here 
 in charge of dredging, revetment work, levee construction, 
 and so on, for the southern half of Louisiana and the head 
 of the passes. The buildings occupy attractive land on the 
 levee a hundred yards wide and about a mile in length. 
 A ranking United States army officer, usually a colonel, is 
 in charge of the district office. In low water the children 
 have swimming pools in the batture, and as the river is full 
 of fish they catch food for the family and plenty of shrimp. 
 
 Shrimp were plentiful in the old days in the big river along 
 the batture, and in the spring the citizens up country on their 
 plantations, set out shrimp boxes off the bank to catch them. 
 These were baited with cornmeal and cottonseed cake, 
 and I have heard the catch was plentiful and always fine to 
 eat. The river shrimp were much smaller than the lake 
 shrimp and were considered really delicacies. 
 
 As a child, it was my delight to wander along the batture 
 at New Orleans, in the care of a nursegirl, and to listen to 
 the roar of the waters and see them swirl down to the gulf. 
 I also recalled the stories of the river's rages as I heard 
 them from my parents and others in New Orleans, and from 
 such material formed my story of a Mississippi flood. It was 
 called "The Secret of the Great River." Perhaps I may be 
 pardoned if I quote from its opening paragraphs : 
 
 "For days the river had been sullenly whispering. The 
 pretty bayous curling in silver splendor round the marshes, 
 caught the mysterious sound, and repeated it. The deep toned 
 darker waters of the lagoons forced their way silently, but 
 surely, through the thick and gloomy cypress lands to tell it, 
 while the great yellow tiger lilies, and the seductive splendid 
 passion flower (filling the silent places with their beauty) 
 listened in sorrowful silence. 
 
 "The big river cutting its way through gloomy wilderness 
 
"Strange To Say—" 35 
 
 was plainly angry. In mad haste it tore between its two 
 soft banks, and in the wild race angered and furious dug deep 
 into the red clay, so that the bank caved and crumbled at its 
 touch. From the depths of the pitchy black swamp, resting 
 on bottomless ooze, where the endless colonnades of cypresses 
 stand sullenly, and the patches of floating green and yellow 
 rushes conceal serpents great and small; where bats, rac- 
 coons, centipedes, and deadly moccasins hide ; where madden- 
 ing mosquitoes sing in millions, the ominous sound is heard. 
 
 "Over the splendid rice fields, across the gaudy colored 
 sugar cane, through the cotton stalks, the wind carried it. 
 The great oaks groaned, and every lesser thing bowed be- 
 fore the awful news. 
 
 "Have you ever heard it? If not, be grateful, with a great 
 thankfulness, for thunder and rain and lightning are naught 
 in comparison. When that peculiar whispering roar of the 
 mighty Mississippi is heard down in Louisiana, every living 
 thing holds its breath in mortal terror, for all know well what 
 it portends. It may be a minute or an hour, or even days; 
 but the doom is there, the awful flood is bound to come, and 
 naught can stop it. 
 
 "A shiver of consternation runs through the whole country. 
 The rich planter in his luxurious home is appalled. The supper 
 spread in the big dining room stands untouched. Sons and 
 daughters crowd around with white faces, and the beloved 
 wife leans upon his breast in sympathy. Guests stand frozen 
 stiff with a sudden horror of the terrible unknown. The joy- 
 ousness of that careless, happy Southern life has instantly 
 disappeared. In the Crescent City dancing in the splendid 
 salon is hushed. A halt in the cotillion is made while the 
 silence of death passes over the room. One by one the mas- 
 culine half of the company gather apart, while the feminine 
 persuasion with white faces seek in silence their wraps. Slowly 
 and silently, they disperse, seeking their homes there to 
 prepare for the dreaded floods." 
 
 Then I tell my story! It had quite a run; magazines and 
 newspapers copied it many times. What was my pride about 
 two years ago to learn that the University of Louisiana in 
 a collection composed of the best short stories about the state, 
 
36 New Orleans Days 
 
 had this story of mine as the best description of the river's 
 mighty flood. The state had been searching for about one 
 hundred years for such stories. When they wrote me, they 
 had chosen twelve writers, including myself, and had placed 
 my story beside those of Lafcadio Hearn, George W. Cable, 
 Mollie Moore Davis and Grace King. The story was embodied 
 in a book called Louisiana in the Short Story, and a sketch 
 of my life given in the book. Naturally I was pleased and 
 happy at being classed with such writers. 
 
 Mention of George W. Cable's name still embarrasses me 
 slightly. After my marriage I was taken in Chicago to the 
 Fortnightly Club by Mrs. Potter Palmer, who was at that time 
 president of that distinguished club. I was not then a member, 
 though I am now. Mrs. Palmer placed me in a chair as she 
 was about to ascend the platform and preside. She introduced 
 me to her other guest, saying, "He is from your native city, 
 New Orleans/' As a few minutes elapsed before silence was 
 required, we talked a bit. In a sort of patronizing way, I 
 began, "I hear you are from New Orleans." 
 
 "Well," he replied, "I now live in New York, but the better 
 part of my life was spent in your charming city." 
 
 "Oh, you knew the city well then, perhaps you knew my 
 father. He was Judge Robert Ogden," I continued. 
 
 "I knew him very well," he answered. "We were neighbors 
 and great friends." 
 
 "I am so pleased to hear this," I answered. "Do tell me 
 your name." 
 
 "Are you being facetious," he smiled, "or do you really 
 want me to tell my name?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," I answered, "I must have your name." 
 
 "George W. Cable," was the answer. 
 
 You can imagine my chagrin, my embarrassment. He 
 readily forgave me, yet I never could forgive myself. 
 
 Mr. Cable was but one of the many friends whom my 
 parents made in New Orleans. Young as they were when they 
 came there, they took a prominent part in the city's life. 
 Father as a rising young lawyer mixed a bit in politics and 
 through the acquaintance he formed his practice grew by 
 leaps and bounds. 
 
"Strange To Say—" 37 
 
 Mother, who had a lifelong interest in music, was always 
 to be found in the midst of a brilliant coterie that made the 
 opera house its meeting place. That coterie upheld all the 
 Crescent City's traditions for hospitality and brilliance. The 
 friendships they made were lifelong and many have lasted 
 into the generation of my children. 
 
 Mother by rights should have had her hands full with her 
 family. I was the eldest, but she had seven other children, 
 six of them boys. Robert came a year after me, and he was 
 followed by Charlton, Oswald, Hilaire, Ethel, Reid, and a baby 
 who died soon after birth. But life was easier in those days, 
 despite the lack of what we think of as modern conveniences. 
 Even our family's relatively modest purse could afford several 
 nursemaids, and thus my mother had time and energy for 
 social life. 
 
 Among the charming women who came to our house for 
 eggnog on New Year's Day or for other occasions were Mary 
 and Mildred Lee, the daughters of General Robert E. Lee. 
 They long survived him and were frequently in New Orleans. 
 And Jefferson Davis, who lived at Beauvoir, only thirty miles 
 from my grandmother's home at Bay St. Louis, would take 
 the train out from New Orleans with my father when we 
 were at the bay for the summer and would stop for a mint 
 julep at our home, spend an hour or two in conversation, and 
 then take a later train to Beauvoir. 
 
 We frequently exchanged visits with the Davises, particular- 
 ly because Mrs. Davis was such a delightful woman. She was 
 cultivated and genuine in her affections. Jefferson Davis' first 
 wife had died after a few years of marriage and the Mrs. Davis 
 we knew was his second wife. 
 
 Mrs. Davis wrote me a beautiful letter a few days before 
 my marriage in which she said : "I have never met young Carter 
 Harrison but if he belongs to that Virginia family of Harrisons, 
 he can never go wrong, and I believe that in later years he 
 will show to the world that he is an honored member of the 
 clan." I loved that letter and years later when my husband 
 was elected mayor of Chicago I returned it to Mrs. Davis, ask- 
 ing her if it had not been prophetic. We corresponded and 
 remained always in close contact until her death. The Davises' 
 
38 New Orleans Days 
 
 former home is now a home for old soldiers, and whenever I 
 have been in the South I have always made a point of going 
 back to visit it. 
 
 I remember the Davises chiefly perhaps because they were 
 the parents of Winnie Davis. She was very popular among all 
 of the young people. I remember once when she was grown, 
 the young women of New Orleans decided to give her a tea 
 to which only women — girls — were asked. It was a new 
 venture and we all liked it. Just as I was stepping out of my 
 home to attend the reception, I came face to face with a young 
 lawyer from Chicago who was a frequent visitor at our home, 
 William Burry. He often came to New Orleans to argue a case 
 in my father's court and, of course, we saw him often. 
 
 Asking where I was going, he urged that I take him along. 
 It was a daring thing to do, but I did it. He had the time of 
 his life and, of course, was awfully popular as he was the only 
 man present. He met Winnie and was ever after one of her 
 staunch admirers. When Chicago became my home, he and I 
 often reminisced over that day. His lovely and gifted wife, 
 the brilliant Jane King, whom he had so long tried to win, 
 became one of my good friends and for years we met frequently. 
 
 History has written so much of Jefferson Davis that I could 
 tell nothing new about his life. But the affection that lasted 
 between us is dear to my heart, and the thoughts in the many 
 letters (dozens and dozens) exchanged with Mrs. Davis are 
 vividly with me. Unfortunately, in the passing of these long 
 years many of these letters have been lost or destroyed, but 
 the few I still have evidence her love and affection and deep 
 interest in my husband's career. Of his career she spoke fre- 
 quently and always with great pride. Her letters are really 
 too valuable to destroy. I shall give them to some library for 
 safekeeping. She wrote me constantly until her death. Her 
 youngest child, Winnie, was about my age and she thought 
 we were much alike in many ways. Winnie had written a book 
 which when published was favorably commented on, and her 
 mother believed she would find fame in her writings. Alas, 
 Death called her too soon — in her twenties — and Mrs. Davis 
 never recovered from her terrible grief. She was a deeply 
 religious woman, but it took all her courage to continue life 
 
"Strange To Say—** 89 
 
 without her beloved Winnie. 
 
 The two letters I publish are both in deep mourning, the 
 edges marked with wide black bands. Both letters are from 
 Beauvoir, the home in Mississippi. The first was written after 
 Mr. Davis* death, the second after Winnie's. 
 
 BEAUVOIR HOUSE 
 
 11th Jan. 1890 
 My dear Edith: 
 
 I thank you sincerely for your tender letter. It is 
 all too new & dreadful for me to write of but I only 
 wish to say your sympathy & love is very much to 
 me & I am with kind regards to Mr. Harrison. 
 
 Yours 
 V. Jefferson Davis 
 Beauvoir 28th April 1900 
 My dear Edith: 
 
 I was eager to take a look at you yesterday but 
 my face was swollen with crying and I was covered 
 from head to foot with dust, and I could not summon 
 calmness to speak to you. 
 
 I had been looking over some cherished treasures 
 of my Winnie's that moth and rust had corrupted 
 and could not recover from the shock enough to 
 speak a consecutive sentence. If I get through this 
 heartbreak in time to see you in New Orleans, I 
 hope to do so. Breaking up a great household where 
 the tragedies have surpassed the joys in one's life 
 is a fearful foretaste of death, but I think death will, 
 indeed has now lost many of its terrors to me since 
 I have been here. 
 
 I hear of you sometimes and of your handsome 
 husband and the news thank God is always good 
 and cheerful and I am glad for you and proud of 
 your success. 
 
 Always lovingly yours, 
 
 V. Jefferson Davis 
 Some years after our marriage, my husband and I, together 
 with the governor of Illinois, were invited to attend the launch- 
 ing ceremonies for the battleship Illinois, at Newport News, 
 
40 New Orleans Days 
 
 Virginia. Daisy Leiter, who became the Countess of Suffolk, 
 christened the ship and, in spite of the intense heat of the 
 day, it was a great occasion. 
 
 Following the ceremony, Governor Tyler of Virginia invited 
 Mr. Harrison and me to Richmond, for a visit to the ancestral 
 Harrison home on the James River. We had reservations at 
 the Jefferson Hotel. In spite of the fatiguing day, I insisted 
 on visiting the grave of my old friend, Winnie Davis, who had 
 died only two days before. 
 
 While at dinner at the governor's mansion that night, I 
 became violently ill and returned to my room in the hotel. 
 The room was filled with beautiful flowers, so beautiful that, 
 ill as I was, I commented upon them to one of the maids who 
 was undressing me. 
 
 "Oh," said the maid, "they weren't sent over for you. They 
 were left over from the funeral of Miss Winnie yesterday." 
 
 That was too much, especially for one who had been brought 
 dp by superstitious colored nurses. Here I was, ill of ptomaine 
 poisoning, which had carried off my friend, in the same city 
 and surrounded by her funeral flowers. I was sure that I 
 would die if I remained overnight in that room. 
 
 My patient and usually agreeable husband argued that there 
 was no train, no way to leave, but I declared that there must 
 be one if he wanted to keep his wife alive. One was found, 
 leaving at three o'clock in the morning. I was taken aboard, 
 and reached Chicago, where I did not recover for two weeks. 
 
 Famous Confederate leaders were among my father's 
 friends. General Jubal Early, General Beauregard, famous for 
 the Battle of Bull Run, and General William Preston Johnson 
 were frequent visitors to our house. I never knew Judah P. 
 Benjamin, New Orleans' great lawyer who was in many ways 
 the strongest man in the Confederate government, but in my 
 youth I knew his niece, Rebecca Krutschnitt. She was red- 
 haired and white-skinned and at eighteen the most beautiful 
 girl I have ever seen. Her brother Ernest followed in his 
 uncle's profession and lived for many years in Chicago as a 
 railroad president. 
 
 At our home a typical gathering would include perhaps a 
 governor or senator, several judges and lawyers (because of 
 
"Strange To Say—" 41 
 
 my father's profession), some distinguished leader of the 
 Confederacy, and some writer such as Lafcadio Hearn. Hearn 
 came frequently and was always welcome. He lived in New 
 Orleans for many years and there, I suspect, first became 
 impregnated with the beauty and splendor of the world of sun- 
 shine and flowers which he described so lavishly in his later 
 books when he lived in Japan. 
 
 Another who came frequently to our home was my father's 
 first cousin — and adopted brother, for he had lived in my 
 grandfather's family after the death of his father — , the 
 distinguished general, Fred N. Ogden. He quieted many out- 
 breaks in New Orleans after the Civil War, and was decorated 
 by the federal government for his services. His statue stands 
 in one of the parks in New Orleans. At one time he ran for 
 governor, and his opponent on the Republican ticket was my 
 mother's brother, Judge Taylor Beattie. Those were embar- 
 rassing days for the family, but the feeling was relieved by 
 the election of a third man. 
 
 Thinking back over the friends who came to our house and 
 of the houses where we were always welcomed brings to mind 
 a host of names. The Morrises (Isabel was the prettiest girl 
 in New Orleans), the Stauffers, the Leovys, the Capdevielles 
 — gifted and musical (Paul later became mayor of New Or- 
 leans) — the Bohns, the Mehles, the Maginnises, the Denegres, 
 the Breaux, the Scotts, the Locouls, the Chaffraixes, the Del- 
 gados, the Jacksons, the Morris Chews, the Generes, helped 
 form a most interesting society. The Chauffraixes, the Del- 
 gados, the Pughs, the Howards were people of importance 
 and were helping New Orleans forward. 
 
 I remember well when Miss Stauffer and Miss Morris and 
 Miss McStea were the greatest belles of the city. It was a 
 tossup which among them was the most popular. But I always 
 felt Celeste Stauffer carried the palm as the intellectual one 
 of the crowd. She was always studying something new or 
 getting into some clinic in a hospital to find out something 
 scientific. One winter she decided to get together a class 
 of a dozen or less to study Plato and Aristotle. A professor 
 from Tulane was the instructor. What was my surprise to be 
 asked to go in with a cousin, Antoinette Ogden. We were the 
 
42 New Orleans Days 
 
 youngest two in the crowd, but it was a compliment to be 
 considered worthy, so we went. 
 
 I don't know how much Antoinette got out of it. I believe, 
 though, that it did give me a love for serious study, as at that 
 age I was more or less inclined naturally to the glare and 
 glitter of the ballroom and dancing. But the thing I do re- 
 member about that class more than anything else was that 
 one morning Miss Stauffer came in with a superb diamond 
 bracelet that Samuel J. Tilden had sent her as an Easter card. 
 That certainly did impress me more, I fear, than the teachings 
 of the philosophers. 
 
 I remember, too, when one of Boss Tweed's daughters 
 married into the Maginnis family. She was a lovely woman, 
 but because of her father's record, one or two of the older 
 families were inclined to frown upon her. A question she 
 asked at some luncheon when the old and aristocratic families 
 w r ere being quoted still lingers in my memory. She, knowing 
 that these families were poor and feeling the snub she herself 
 was getting — for she had millions — said quietly, "I wonder 
 how much I would have to pay for a quart or two of that 
 blue blood." Not a very graceful remark to make, but she had 
 probably been goaded and was dying for a fling back. 
 
 The doctors of our city were famous. There was Dr. Chopin, 
 who during an epidemic of yellow fever saved many by what 
 he called the wet-sheet treatment. When everything else failed 
 to break the fever, Chopin started the iced-sheet treatment. 
 Of course, at first it seemed too severe — some died — but Dr. 
 Chopin continued, and it was soon evident that his method 
 was a success. Then the two Drs. Scott (brothers) and Dr. 
 Bruns were men of fame, and from all over the country young 
 medical students came to study under them. I know in Chicago 
 several who have attained fame because their studies in New 
 Orleans enabled them to become competent doctors, and after- 
 wards when they went abroad to finish their studies, they 
 felt grateful for the hours spent in New Orleans. One of them, 
 a famous throat and nose specialist in Chicago today, is Dr. 
 Linn McBride. 
 
 The Drs. Bruns, father and son, were outstanding in their 
 work. The son, Harry Dickson Bruns, was only an interne 
 
"Strange To Say—" 43 
 
 then in my youth, but he was the star of our young set and 
 afterwards became a world-famous oculist. 
 
 General Albert Sidney Johnston's son, Preston Johnston, 
 had married a cousin of ours and we saw much of them. Mrs. 
 Johnston had one idiosyncrasy. Never will I forget it. She 
 and her husband were dining with my parents in New Orleans. 
 As we entered the dining room, all laughing and happy, she 
 gave one look at the table, turned deathly white, and promptly 
 fainted. Consternation ensued until her husband explained 
 that the sight of a beautiful red apple, very conspicuous in 
 the epergne of fruit in the center of the table, had been the 
 cause of the swoon. She had this antipathy for apples just 
 as one might have for cats or dogs. The apple once removed, 
 she recovered and the dinner followed without any more 
 unpleasant accidents. After her death, Mr. Johnston married 
 Miss Avery, one of the owners of the Avery salt mines. 
 
 The Von Mysenbugs — Count Von Mysenbug, an Austrian, 
 had married a most charming creature, Louise Von Mysenbug, 
 his cousin — also were friends of ours. She was a superb 
 pianist and, save for her position in the world, would have 
 been famous. Her husband would never allow her to receive 
 remuneration for playing and so her fame remained local. 
 Their oldest son at sixteen was sent back to Germany, so these 
 two charming people, the intimate friends of my parents, were 
 torn asunder with anguish when the war of 1914 came. Their 
 boys who remained in America and fought for America were 
 fighting Max, the beloved, who was heart and soul for Ger- 
 many. He had risen in the Vaterland and had married a niece 
 or cousin of the Crown Princess Cecilia. Of course, he could 
 only be for Germany. Never will I forget my first sight of 
 those dear Von Mysenbugs when I went to New Orleans after 
 the declaration of war. They suffered from both sides. 
 
 My granduncle, Judge Abner Nash Ogden, had a plantation 
 adjoining the Izsnaga plantation, property of a Cuban gentle- 
 man, and through occasional visits there I became the close 
 friend of Emily Izsnaga, youngest of three sisters. The sis- 
 ters were frequently in New Orleans. 
 
 One day Emily and I met an old gypsy and crossed her 
 palm to tell our fortunes. Well do I remember her words. 
 
44 New Orleans Days 
 
 She said to Emily, "You will never marry but you will see 
 much of the world and you will be the associate of kings." 
 To me she continued, "You will marry young and to one who 
 will help make history for his country and who will benefit 
 the world by his influence." 
 
 How we laughed, but not long after, see what happened! 
 Over in England a young man, the Duke of Manchester, had 
 fallen in love with a young girl and wanted to marry her. The 
 family considered it a mesalliance, opposed it violently, and 
 packed him off on a trip to America. Mr. Izsnaga was the 
 Spanish consul in New Orleans, and the young duke brought 
 him a letter of introduction. He was invited to spend a 
 week on the Izsnaga plantation and to meet the family's 
 charming daughters. 
 
 By the end of the week, the young man had contracted 
 typhoid fever. He was a long time recovering and mean- 
 while the family treated him the best they knew how. He 
 very soon forgot his charmer in England and succumbed 
 to the great beauty of Consuelo, the middle sister. 
 
 Consuelo was really a beauty, but like all the Izsnagas 
 she had some eccentric traits. Her old mother, Mrs. Izsna- 
 ga, could be the grande dame on occasion, but she often was 
 seen walking barelegged through the streams in the country, 
 and in those days ladies were much more circumspect than 
 now. Such a thing was not tolerated in good families and 
 she was terribly criticized. Her son married a Vanderbilt, 
 but later was divorced because he never wore socks, etc. 
 
 Beautiful and fascinating Consuela loved to shock society, 
 too. I remember she caused great embarrassment to a young 
 cousin of mine who had asked to be her escort to a neighbor- 
 hood dance. He came for her and as she was heavily cloaked, 
 he could not see her dress. When they reached the party 
 all the girls, discarding their wraps, were in the usual cos- 
 tume of the day — tight-fitting waists and bodices. My 
 cousin's chagrin was terrible when he saw the exquisite 
 Consuelo. She looked like an angel, as she always did, but her 
 dress he could only describe as a voluminous thing like a 
 balloon, a sort of Mother Hubbard gown or a big white 
 nightgown. 
 
"Strange To Say— 9 * 45 
 
 He was horrified, for it made her very conspicuous. He 
 rushed to a friend and begged her to take Miss Consuelo 
 to the dressing room and tie a sash or a ribbon or a string 
 around her waist — anything to confine those flowing lines. 
 Consuelo was difficult to persuade, but finally did consent 
 to the ribbon around the waist. Had she not consented, I be- 
 lieve her escort would have swooned with embarrassment. 
 
 Well, the Duke of Manchester married the lovely Consuelo 
 and despite all remonstrances from England — for his family 
 considered the marriage as much of a mesalliance as the former 
 affair — he refused to give her up. He sat beneath the flower- 
 ing magnolias, breathing in the delicious perfume of the 
 cape jasmine hedges and listening to the mockingbirds, and 
 declared himself radiantly happy with his bride. This went 
 on for a long time, but the young duke was firm in his de- 
 votion and finally he won recognition for his bride from 
 his aristocratic family. They went to England, where she in- 
 stantly proved a great success because of her beauty and 
 charm. If she ever indulged in any further eccentricities, 
 we never heard of them. 
 
 Soon after, she sent for her eldest sister, and this sister 
 became Lady Lister Kaye — the same Lady Lister Kaye 
 who sat close to Queen Mary during the coronation of 
 George VI. Later on, when Emily was grown, she joined her 
 sisters in England. The prophecy of the old gypsy was 
 verified in her case, for soon after her arrival there she 
 was at a house party to which Edward VII came, and she 
 taught him the banjo — she was an expert player. The banjo 
 craze struck England then and it lasted for a long time. 
 She really had precipitated it. Emily has never married but 
 she owns a home in Paris as well as in England and she 
 does mix with the high and mighty of the earth. 
 
 Consuelo's son, the present Duke of Manchester, married 
 a Miss Zimmerman of Cincinnati. Once when he was a small 
 boy he came with his grandmother, old Mrs. Izsnaga, to 
 see me at my father's. Carter, Jr., our son, then a little 
 fellow himself, was quite impressed with the little noble- 
 man's accent, for we in New Orleans have never cultivated 
 the broad a. 
 
46 New Orleans Days 
 
 Among family visitors I remember especially Judge White, 
 afterwards the distinguished chief justice in Washington, 
 whom I had the honor to receive formally when my husband 
 was mayor of Chicago. The chief justice was called to Chicago 
 in connection with his office, and made a speech here. Remem- 
 bering that he had known me so well as a child, he wrote me in 
 advance so that I might not be out of the city when he came. 
 He was a citizen of Louisiana and he and his sister, Miss 
 Sue White, were often at our home. 
 
 Senator Gibson of Louisiana was another friend of my 
 father's, and the friendship between Senator Gibson and 
 Judge White caused the son of Senator Gibson (Preston) 
 to become a member of Chief Justice White's family circle 
 in Washington. When I married, the Gibsons, of course, be- 
 came relatives, because they were near cousins of the Har- 
 risons. 
 
 When our son Carter, Jr., was in college at Yale, he had 
 occasion to write Chief Justice White asking for an open 
 letter for his college paper. Mr. White replied refusing the 
 letter, saying, "I have made it a rule never to write this kind 
 of letter," and adding: "I am particularly sorry to refuse 
 you because I have an inherited affection for you. In the 
 long ago I loved and admired your grandmother. She was 
 the loveliest creature that ever trod the earth." Carter 
 wrote me at once, asking what Mr. White meant. I told him 
 that Mr. White and my mother were neighbors in the coun- 
 try in Louisiana and they had been engaged when she was 
 extremely young. When my mother met my father the en- 
 gagement was broken, but the Whites had always kept their 
 friendship for my parents. 
 
 Dr. Joseph T. Scott was my father's most intimate friend, 
 and through him indirectly I was enabled to have a summer 
 which would make any girl in any age green with envy. 
 Dr. Scott's relative was Mrs. Dent Casey, wife of a federal 
 employee and a sister-in-law of President U. S. Grant's wife. 
 Mrs. Casey had lived in New Orleans, and I had fallen into 
 the habit of calling her Aunt Emma. 
 
 Aunt Emma invited me to spend two months with her 
 in her summer home on Long Island. It was to be my first 
 
"Strange To Say—" 47 
 
 visit North, and I was put under the chaperonage of Miss 
 Ella Violet, another family friend, for the trip. 
 
 Of course, my many Ogden relatives took advantage of 
 my visit to see what I looked like. I spent several days 
 in the Long Island home of the Alfred Wagstaffs, and the 
 Ogden Doremuses (he was a distinguished chemist) also came 
 to take a look at the youngster from the South. 
 
 One day while I was being inspected by a group of the 
 relatives, I asked, to make conversation, "Can you tell me 
 where I can go to Mass on Sunday?" 
 
 A voice from an old gentleman boomed suddenly from the 
 corner: "Good gracious, how did we ever get a Catholic in 
 the Ogden family?" 
 
 I then had to explain to these staunch Protestants that 
 my mother had been a convert and had brought us all up as 
 Catholics, the only ones in the Ogden family since they had 
 come to the New World. But my Protestant relatives were 
 adorable to me. 
 
 On this visit to the Dent Caseys I frequently met Mrs. 
 George A. Custer, widow of the brilliant cavalry general, 
 and with Dora Scott and Bessie Sharp, a niece of the Caseys 
 and Grants, I often went in to New York to visit her where 
 she was then staying. 
 
 Mrs. Custer told us that she had had a premonition of her 
 husband's death. She said she was sitting sewing, some- 
 where in Kentucky where she was visiting, and looked 
 through a window toward the front gate. She saw General 
 Custer unlatch the gate, swing it open and walk toward the 
 house. The vision startled her, for she knew he was at that 
 moment in the Black Hills in Dakota. Later she found that 
 the moment of her vision could have been the moment of 
 his death at the hands of the Indians. 
 
 General and Mrs. Grant, Mrs. Sartoris and the rest of 
 the Grant family, and the Honore boys, Harry and Nat, 
 brothers of Mrs. Potter Palmer whom I was to know later 
 in Chicago, were others I met at the Casey home. General 
 Grant was being discussed then for a third term, and it was 
 decided that he should go to West Point for some sort of 
 
48 New Orleans Days 
 
 celebration. Bessie Sharp, Dora Scott and I decided we 
 were going along. Of course, everyone said we were too 
 young, etc., but when we heard that there was to be a ball 
 at the Military Academy, we would take no refusal. Prayers 
 and tears at last gained the coveted permission. 
 
 Dora's aunt, a Miss Dean, was to chaperon us, and Nat 
 Honore was to attend to all the preliminaries — check bag- 
 gage, arrange the hotel accommodations, and then, after we 
 reached West Point, get someone there to arrange all our 
 dances, for we three girls expected to be rushed by the 
 cadets and we certainly were not disappointed. 
 
 We met General Grant according to arrangement and 
 were with him all the time during the many celebrations 
 on the way tc West Point and after arriving there. He was 
 always nice but I suppose he was hardly conscious of us 
 at all. He was full of his own projects and left us to the 
 care of our chaperon and of Nat Honore, but we were in- 
 vited with him to all the splendid affairs and enjoyed every- 
 thing thoroughly as only girls of that age could. 
 
 But to us the climax would be the ball, where our well- 
 filled cards attested to the fact that we would be dancing 
 every dance. The young officer or cadet appointed to fill a 
 girl's card is supposed to do it thoroughly, and we saw 
 when the cards were returned to us that we were not to be 
 wallflowers. 
 
 Well, the time of our young lives began then and there. 
 We were like all Southern girls, fairly mature and too wise 
 to let the cadets know this was our first ball. 
 
 But when the ball was at its height we had a terrible 
 calling-down from Nat Honore. He appeared, told us he had 
 worked all evening getting our trunks placed and seeing that 
 accommodations were right, etc., had gone to his room for a 
 brief rest and then came to claim his dances, only to find 
 out the cards were filled and that we had not reserved a 
 single one for him. Imagine how he felt and what he said. 
 
 Really a madder man I never saw, and to the day of his 
 death he resented our treatment. Years after in Chicago 
 when we were in the midst of a pleasant conversation he 
 
"Strange To Say — " 49 
 
 would suddenly think of this West Point experience and 
 begin to upbraid me. It was bad treatment, we all admitted, 
 but he was so angry he would not even listen to reason when 
 we suggested we might get a cadet to give him half a dance. 
 He refused outright and went off to bed, tired and furious. 
 
 Miss Scott met a cadet that night who fell madly in love 
 with her. She became engaged to him. He graduated, a 
 young engineer, the first in his class at West Point, and 
 I think for a long time she expected to marry him. He was 
 a most distinguished young man. What really happened after 
 his graduation to break the engagement I don't know, but 
 it was broken by mutual consent. That brilliant young offi- 
 cer's name was Oberlin Carter, who served a term in prison 
 for a crime he claimed he never committed. 
 
 Dora married Colonel — later General — Carroll Devol, and 
 one of her daughters, my goddaughter, is the wife of the dis- 
 tinguished aviator of World War II, General Brett. Bessie 
 became the wife of Colonel Pettit. 
 
 Years later, my husband and I had a strange experience 
 in far-off Lima, Peru. A charming young woman was pointed 
 out to us as the wife of a capable young engineer who was 
 doing good work in South America. What was our surprise 
 later in the evening to be addressed by the young woman as 
 Aunt Edith and Uncle Carter. 
 
 Her explanation was: "You are doubtless surprised at my 
 addressing you both in such a manner, but for years I lived 
 next door to General and Mrs. Carroll A. Devol in Panama, 
 and the Devol children always speak of you thus and so 
 did we. Tonight, seeing you for the first time, I felt obliged 
 to tell you of it." 
 
 She was the daughter of Dr. Gorgas, the celebrated physi- 
 cian sent with General Goethals and Quartermaster General 
 Devol to clean up Panama. That they did so is a matter 
 of history. 
 
 The Bohns of New Orleans were ranking leaders of society 
 in my day. They were delightful people and the younger 
 element always gathered with pleasure around them. Three 
 girls blessed the home. The oldest one I barely knew; the 
 
50 New Orleans Days 
 
 two younger ones, Leila and Lula, I knew well. The oldest 
 girl was a musician and the finest teacher in the city, a 
 German professor named Weber, was engaged to give her 
 lessons. Professor Weber was as a teacher the desire of all 
 New Orleans, and was therefore a busy man. My mother, 
 a fine musician herself, determined that her only daughter 
 should achieve fame as a singer, and after much persuasion 
 induced Professor Weber to take me as a scholar and train 
 my voice. His consent was gained by promising that I should 
 take his first lesson of the day. And that half -hour was at 
 6:30 A.M. Imagine my consternation and my pleasure to be 
 up and ready for him at that hour. A few weeks persuaded 
 my mother, as it certainly did my teacher, that I would never 
 charm the world in spite of my fine teaching. 
 
 Professor Weber married Miss Bohn, the girl he was teach- 
 ing. But they proved a happy couple. Leila and Lula flashed 
 upon New Orleans and became very popular. They spent 
 many summers in the North, especially around Milwaukee. 
 Leila married a man named Ferguson, of Chicago. They 
 mixed in our aristocratic set, especially with Mrs. George 
 Willetts and a Mrs. Picard (Mrs. Picard was from New Or- 
 leans and her daughter, Paulette, in a third marriage be- 
 came Mrs. Chauncey Blair; he has just died and Paulette 
 is again a widow). Mrs. Ferguson came often to the Uni- 
 versity Club and for a while seemed contented here, but ill- 
 health finally induced her to give up society and her husband 
 bought or rented a hotel in Riverside. He made an apart- 
 ment out of several rooms in the hotel and he and the beau- 
 tiful Leila lived there. They mixed with the Havermeyers, 
 the Silverthornes, the Faurots and the Babsons of Riverside — 
 a distinguished set ; and thereafter she came very little among 
 her Chicago friends. Leila apparently blended very well 
 into the Riverside set. After her husband's death she con- 
 tinued to live in the same apartment and remained in it 
 until she died a few years ago. She always retained her pop- 
 ularity. At her death she willed her sister Lula all her money. 
 It was well given, because Lula was a widow and poor, and 
 had many children dependent upon her — and still lives in 
 New Orleans. 
 
Chapter Three 
 
 A Bride in Chicago 
 
 I 
 
 OFTEN shudder when I think how near- 
 ly I missed being Mrs. Carter Harrison. My introduction to 
 the Harrison family came about through Lina, my future 
 sister-in-law. While visiting New Orleans she was attracted 
 to me by my vivacity and love of gaiety, dancing, music, and 
 all those things that enter into the life of a Southern girl. 
 
 After her return to Chicago, Lina expatiated upon the 
 subject of a Southern girPs life, illustrating her account with 
 me as an example. Her brother Carter, then a sedate, serious 
 and studious young graduate of the law school at Yale Uni- 
 versity, was not at all interested. 
 
 When it was announced that I was coming North to pay 
 his sister a visit, he quietly arranged a fishing trip and left 
 on the day when I was expected. But young girls in that 
 Victorian era, especially Southern girls, were never permitted 
 to travel alone. The chaperon with whom I was to make the 
 trip was delayed for ten days, so that on the very day when 
 he returned from his fishing trip I presented myself at 
 the Harrison mansion. 
 
 But, adhering steadfastly to his resolution, he refused to 
 meet me, until one day I came across him by accident in the 
 hall. Some way his indifference melted at once and present- 
 ly our engagement was announced. After more than a half- 
 century of ideal companionship, haven't I repaid him well 
 for his youthful obstinacy? 
 
 I could not have a church wedding because my bridegroom 
 was not a Catholic. We were married at home by the Bishop 
 of Louisiana. About two hundred friends were present, but 
 because it was a comparatively small affair, I had only one 
 
 51 
 
52 A Bride In Chicago 
 
 bridesmaid, Mary Slaughter, of Chicago, my cousin. There 
 were no groomsmen, and my brother, Oswald Ogden, then 
 about sixteen, stood beside Miss Slaughter, for my husband. 
 Miss Slaughter later married Wentworth Field, a member of 
 the Marshall Field family. Among those present at my wed- 
 ding was Cecile Airey, a life-long friend and next-door 
 neighbor, who would have been one of my bridesmaids if 
 I had had a church wedding. A month later she was married 
 to John M. Parker. 
 
 John Parkers telegram to my husband on Carter's first 
 election to the mayoralty in Chicago is still fresh in my mind : 
 "Congratulations, I am as proud as though I had been elected 
 myself." By then John Parker was well on his way in politics. 
 He later became governor of Louisiana and was nominated 
 with Theodore Roosevelt for the vice-presidency. 
 
 Eleven months after our marriage our first son was born, 
 a beautiful boy, but I was desperately ill and the baby lived 
 only five days. This was our first sorrow, and I am afraid 
 I did not bear it well. I was young — that is my only excuse. 
 Months later a letter from my mother told me that my grief 
 was unnatural and that I must exercise self-control. I can 
 still remember one sentence of her letter which I could not 
 understand and resented: "If God gives you a long life you 
 will live to find out that life is never easy for any of us, 
 and to know that the death of your beautiful baby was only 
 a smile from Heaven." 
 
 But two years later when our second son, Carter, was born 
 we felt that we had been blessed. The awful sting of the loss 
 of our firstborn was softened, though it could never be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 The first year of our married life was passed in the old 
 family home on Ashland Avenue at Jackson Boulevard. 
 There my husband's sister, Lina, welcomed me — she had 
 married Heaton Owsley some four months before our wed- 
 ding — and we lived in the family mansion with Sophie, the 
 youngest child, until the elder Harrison's return. He was 
 making a trip around the world with his son Preston. And 
 the world accused both Lina and Carter of taking advantage 
 
"Strange To Say — " 53 
 
 of his absence to marry. As he was fully aware of their in- 
 tentions before he left, however, these comments did not 
 worry either of them. 
 
 After his return, we both took separate little homes. Our 
 home was just behind his on Marshfield Avenue. We saw 
 him daily but it was a regular rule that we all dined with 
 him every Sunday. He was the soul of hospitality, and many 
 of his friends dropped in for that Sunday noon dinner. Car- 
 ter Harrison FitzHugh, a cousin, never failed to appear and 
 was always welcomed. Until he married he never missed 
 appearing on Sunday. 
 
 When he married Miss Scribner, the family rejoiced with 
 him over finding life-long happiness, but naturally could 
 no longer expect the cousinly visit on Sundays. But Carter 
 Harrison FitzHugh was faithful to the tie of kinship. Though 
 his life broadened in many ways, and social duties called him 
 frequently, he never for one minute forgot that tie. In any 
 serious moment of life that befell the Harrisons he was the 
 first there. Weddings, christenings, debut parties or illness 
 found him always with us. When our great tragedy, the 
 assassination of the senior Harrison came, without a word 
 from anyone he appeared suddenly at the house and took 
 charge of everything. Though we might not have seen him 
 for weeks or even longer, none of us was surprised. It was 
 just natural that he should appear and take charge of things. 
 
 The Harrison home was in the center of a distinguished 
 colony of Kentuckians who had come to Chicago to make their 
 fortunes, and most of them succeeded. Among them were the 
 Henry Wallers and the A.C. and L.H. Badgers. One of the 
 Badger brothers was the father of Mrs. Turlingham Harvey 
 and Mrs. Charles Angell, the latter said to be the prettiest 
 girl in Chicago. Mrs. Robert Henry was another member of 
 the family. H. S. Hayes (Mrs. Frank Fuller's father) was 
 a prominent citizen too, and so were the Rogers', the Win- 
 chester Halls, the Sam J. Walkers and many others whose 
 names escape me. 
 
 Many of these families had moved to the north and south 
 sides before I came to the Windy City, but in 1866, when the 
 elder Harrison bought his Ashland Avenue home from H. H. 
 
54 A Bride In Chicago 
 
 Honore, father of Mrs. Potter Palmer and Mrs. Fred Grant II, 
 they lived near by and they led a gay and delightful life. 
 
 The home, with its spacious rooms and wide halls, was 
 well adapted for hospitality, and with that inborn Kentucky 
 spirit Mr. Harrison extended it. At Christmastime the mak- 
 ing of the black fruit cake kept the feminine members of the 
 family busy stoning and seeding the fruit and chopping nuts 
 and citron. Earlier in the season hams had been made ready, 
 for Mr. Harrison, though living in a busy city, was a farmer 
 at heart and cured all his own hams. A little pig was finally 
 roasted for the big feast and all sorts of delicious food graced 
 his table. Of course, the big bowl of eggnog was at hand 
 and whiskies and wines would be plentiful. 
 
 The young men in the early seventies formed parties for 
 New Year's Day and in big sleighs — for the snow always 
 seemed to come earlier in those days — drove to the numerous 
 houses to call upon the ladies. As they went by with jingling 
 bells and gaily caparisoned horses prancing over the hard 
 white snow, it must have been a brilliant scene indeed. Punch 
 flowed in every house, and at many houses the revelry by 
 night was sometimes alarming, but with watchful parents 
 things were never really bad. Oh, what a pretty custom all 
 that New Year's celebration was. Too bad that it has fallen 
 into disrepute and is never heard of now. 
 
 The William J. Chalmers', the Billy Wilsons and the Gus 
 Campbells were still lingering on the west side when I arrived. 
 But Bishop Whitehouse's family, his sons especially, were 
 cutting a wide swathe in the world's social circle. The Chat- 
 field Taylors had moved. Mrs. Lathrop's New Year's Day 
 musicales were becoming fashionable, as was Mrs. Philip 
 Armour's "at home," but it was Mrs. Potter Palmer who was 
 acclaimed as giving the most perfect of these New Year's 
 festivities. Her palace of a home was well fitted for such 
 things. Priceless paintings with countless treasures adorned 
 the house. Flowers and music made it an enchanting spot, 
 and the beautiful chatelaine with her brilliant smile, presid- 
 ing graciously, received us all with dignity. 
 
 Oh, those never-to-be-forgotten days in the early nineties! 
 Then came the years of dullness when the flowing bowl was 
 
"Strange To Say—" 55 
 
 forbidden and we never dreamed that we would ever have a 
 real New Year again. Now all that is possible once more, and 
 the charming celebrations have been resumed; but I often 
 wish on that day that the sleigh bells with their jingling 
 music might replace the quiet approach of the silenced motor. 
 
 In the early days of my life in Chicago, when we accepted 
 an invitation to dine at seven on the other side of the city, 
 it was necessary to be ready and in the carriage at five o'clock. 
 Our slender purse did not permit us to have a carriage of our 
 own, but Mrs. Moses Wentworth often graciously offered us 
 a seat in hers. 
 
 I recall a dinner with the Chauncey Blairs, who lived south 
 at Forty-eighth Street. After dinner we sat and looked at 
 the treasures which our hostess had collected from here, 
 there and everywhere. There were wonderful rugs and tapes- 
 tries and a large chest filled with other interesting things. 
 
 Who would have time in these strenuous days to while 
 away the hours in this delightful idleness? With the ad- 
 vent of the high-powered motorcar came the rush for every- 
 thing else, and soon we found no time in our busy lives for 
 these lovely hours of leisure after lunch or dinner. Who makes 
 beautiful lace and embroidery today? Or hems dusters to 
 be sold for charity or to help the hospitals? 
 
 There is one memory of those early social events which 
 I can never forget. After luncheon or dinner, the family 
 servants would carry rugs to the porch or the steps, and we 
 would all go outside to enjoy the sunshine and the soft air. 
 It always made me think of the alligators in my native South, 
 which always come out to sun themselves in the late after- 
 noon! 
 
 As an illustration of the simplicity of life in those days, 
 I recall an incident involving my sister-in-law, Mrs. Owsley. 
 She once asked me where I kept my few jewels (wedding 
 gifts chiefly) when I was not wearing them. I replied, "I have 
 a Yale lock on my small bureau drawer and I keep them locked 
 in there." 
 
 "In other words," she said, "you advertise to any thief 
 that drops in that you have precious things concealed, and 
 of course he at once proceeds to open that drawer with tools." 
 
56 A Bride In Chicago 
 
 "But where else would they be safe?" I inquired. 
 
 "You should do as I do with mine," she answered trium- 
 phantly. "I never lock them up. I conceal them each time in 
 a different place. Sometimes I put them on the jamb above 
 the door, or under the corner of a rug, or into the toe 
 of an old shoe flung in a closet. Then I know they are safe 
 and when I want them I just go and get them and no one 
 ever knows where they are kept. I never put them in the same 
 place." 
 
 One day she gave a large card party. Fatigued by the long 
 afternoon, she said to her maid, "I will rest in my room before 
 dressing for dinner." 
 
 The next day she announced that her valuable rings and 
 a pair of costly diamond earrings could not be found. 
 
 "Were your rings still on your fingers and were you still 
 wearing your earrings when you went to your room?" her 
 husband asked. 
 
 She suddenly paled and said: "Now I remember exactly. 
 I sat on the side of the bed, took off my earrings and rings 
 and ran a safety pin through the collection and then leaned 
 over and pinned them all on a lace curtain that was hanging 
 over the back of a chair beside my bed. 
 
 "Goodness gracious," she continued, "that pair of curtains 
 had been sent me from Marshall Field's for approval, but I 
 decided not to keep them and they were returned to the store 
 the next morning." 
 
 She went at once to Marshall Field's store, relating her 
 story. They remembered the return of the box, which they 
 had sent back immediately to the wholesale department, but 
 of course they did not know whether the curtains had been 
 sold again or not. A search was made, the box was found, 
 and all her jewels were pinned on those curtains, perfectly 
 safe. I think that incident must have cured her of that kind 
 of concealment of valuables, for she never said much about 
 it afterwards. 
 
 I remember well the great friendship between the elder 
 Harrison and the elder Fred Winston. General Winston was, 
 of course, a very distinguished man and had represented 
 his country abroad. He was minister to Persia and brought 
 
"Strange To Say — " 57 
 
 much credit to the U.S.A. by his fulfillment of duty there. 
 He and Mr. Harrison had much in common; both were Ken- 
 tuckians, both loved the same things. It was their custom 
 to meet daily at their club or restaurant for lunch. The affec- 
 tion between the two men was handed down another genera- 
 tion, for the general's son, Fred Winston, and the latter's 
 wife were our great friends too. 
 
 When the elder Fred Winston married that lovely belle 
 from New Orleans, Sallie Hughes, our friendship was greater 
 than ever. After his death she married the popular minister, 
 Barney Phillips, and they lived in Washington. 
 
 Mr. Winston had many children. A daughter Marie mar- 
 ried twice, her second marriage being with Victor Elting. 
 Her death just a few years ago saddened us, though her life 
 is perpetuated in our memory by the three splendid sons she 
 left. 
 
 The elder Fred Winston had four sons. Fred, Jr., was 
 corporation counsel under the elder Harrison, and, in spite 
 of his youth, made good. He was a brilliant lawyer and had 
 an equally brilliant wife. For many years he and his pic- 
 turesque wife, Ada, were leaders in Chicago society. Another 
 son, Bertram, married Miss Odell. Dudley Winston, who was 
 nearer by husband's age, married Miss Farwell and became 
 one of my husband's cabinet appointees after my husband be- 
 came mayor. The last son, Ralph, married a charming girl 
 from California whom I still see very often. 
 
 The Fred Winstons, Jr., the Sam Feltons and the John 
 Spoors were a brilliant trio of young couples that could not 
 be ignored in Chicago. Mrs. Spoor was a Southerner and at- 
 tractive in appearance to the day of her death ; it was always 
 a pleasure to look upon her blonde beauty. While our hus- 
 bands were hobnobbing at their clubs, we women were pretty 
 busy attending to the rearing of our children, but we man- 
 aged many dinners and happy evenings at the theatre to- 
 gether. 
 
 While I was still a member of the elder Harrison's house- 
 hold in the early nineties, my husband's father decided that 
 the society ladies of Chicago were having too much of the 
 limelight focused on their social parties. One night at dinner 
 
58 A Bride In Chicago 
 
 he remarked: "I think the men ought to have a fling." So 
 out of a clear sky he decided to hold a big reception, and 
 instead of asking the prominent ladies to support him during 
 the afternoon hours of his tea, he asked all of their husbands ! 
 
 Well, it really did create a furor. He invited Professor 
 Swing, Marshall Field, Philip Armour, Potter Palmer and 
 several other gentlemen whose names escape me. And he 
 did not forget the clergy. He invited Bishop Whitehouse and 
 Father Cashman, a neighbor and friend who was pastor of 
 St. Jarlath's Church. He invited several of the younger men 
 — the buds of the masculine persuasion — Billy Gamble, Ber- 
 nard Rogers, Val LeMoyne, Billy McCluer, to preside. Alas, 
 that all these charming men have already crossed the Great 
 Divide ! 
 
 And the affair went off with a sparkle. Everyone was in- 
 trigued by the invitation and all atwitter to see whether it 
 would work smoothly — and it certainly did. Carriages lined 
 Ashland Avenue and lovely women walked up that red carpet 
 stretched from the door to the gate, eager to see. Never before 
 had such an audacious thing been tried. To find a man pre- 
 siding at the tea table was certainly an innovation, but it was 
 innovation that was attractive. No one refused the invitation ; 
 everybody came, and everyone stayed until the last possible 
 moment. 
 
 Mr. Harrison's party was acclaimed and he received all 
 the publicity that such a stunt in Chicago's society would 
 cause. It was the talk of the town for many a week. 
 
 At this time that great favorite, Johnny Hand and his 
 band, had been a spellbinder at balls and dances for many 
 moons. Affable and courteous, he played such entrancing 
 waltzes, polkas and mazurkas that Chicago feels no one has 
 ever surpassed, or even equaled, him since. He was beloved 
 by old and young and just the sight of him and his splendid 
 orchestra at any affair was enough to insure the young set 
 a most enjoyable evening. He never seemed willing to go 
 home as long as he was asked for "just one more dance." 
 
 I remember that the young people and a few of the young 
 marrieds went once every two weeks to the south side to 
 one of the favorite dancing halls for an evening of pleasure. 
 
 

 
 *v 
 
 Mrs. Robert N. Ogden—My Mother 
 
Robert Nash Ogden — My Father 
 
 Judge of the Louisiana Supreme Court of Appeals 
 
"Strange To Say —" 59 
 
 Johnny Hand always arranged the programmes to suit us; 
 the round and the square dances were given and, of course, 
 we wound up with a cotillion. 
 
 The Misses Small, who had married brothers, the two 
 Moores of Diamond Match fame, were always present, as 
 was Miss Nina Kent, now Mrs. Chandler, and the two young 
 Misses Higginbotham. Alice, the younger, married Joseph 
 Patterson, and the elder married Richard Crane, Jr. Miss 
 Margaret Enders was a member, too, of these dances given 
 every two weeks. 
 
 And one of our most popular beaux was Fred Tuttle, pos- 
 sibly the best-liked beau Chicago ever had. Fred Tuttle 
 could always be depended upon for any emergency, real 
 or fancied. He always led our cotillions or came to our res- 
 cue with some generously planned affair at his hospitable 
 home on Michigan Avenue. That home he occupied until his 
 death, and its doors swung wide many times each year to 
 invite his friends across the threshold. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Henry Tuttle were our friends too. Their 
 daughter, Grace, a wonderful girl (now Mrs. Kent Chandler), 
 and their sons, Emerson and Arthur, have lived up to the 
 family traditions, and as men are doing splendid work in 
 their professions. Emerson as a professor at Yale carved 
 for himself a name in the tower of fame. He was competent 
 and brilliant and lived up to all he professed. His recent 
 death at fifty-five saddened us all. 
 
 Also in the group were Arthur Wheeler, Johnny Kitchen, 
 William Burry, who finally succeeded in marrying the girl 
 he had courted so long — the brilliant Jane King — and the 
 Secor Cunninghams, she the daughter of that stunning woman, 
 Mrs. H. 0. Stone. Chicago can never forget Mrs. Stone. She 
 had a remarkable personality and was the toast of many 
 a dinner as the most delightful hostess in our city. She kept 
 open house, and young and old alike were her guests on 
 Prairie Avenue. 
 
 I found friends in another quarter, too. Biggs, of course, 
 was the fashionable caterer in those days, but the city was 
 large enough to keep another caterer busy, too. This man 
 was a negro named Smiley. Although Biggs' waiters were 
 
60 A Bride In Chicago 
 
 white, Smiley hired members of his own race. Smiley and 
 his wife began in a small way to cater to the fashionable 
 families of Chicago and soon were overwhelmed with orders. 
 
 They deserved their success, for the dishes they furnished 
 were delectable and their ices were the most beautiful things 
 ever served. They were generally in colors — red apples, pink 
 and yellow peaches, lovely colored lobsters with claws (per- 
 fectly done) in ice cream, luscious-looking pineapples, purple 
 and green grapes, all delicious eating. In fact, anything 
 they wished to represent would be produced in ice cream or 
 ices from the perfect molds they cast. 
 
 Smiley was distinctly the rage for several years, and as 
 his trade grew he enlarged his establishment and brought 
 in more colored waiters. I never shall forget a reception 
 on Prairie Avenue. It was either at the Byron Smiths or 
 the Doanes, and as our carriage stopped, the stylish negro 
 who opened the door greeted me with, "Oh, Miss Edith, it 
 certainly am a pleasure to see you in this here town!" In 
 almost the same words the man who opened the house door 
 greeted me. Again as we were shown to a waiting room to 
 remove our wraps a familiar voice welcomed me. And two 
 more such experiences before we reached our hosts caused 
 my husband to say facetiously, "Did you know nothing but 
 colored men in New Orleans?" 
 
 It really was comical to see how many of these darkies 
 I knew. They had been brought from New Orleans by Smiley 
 to assist him and many of them had been well-trained butlers 
 in the families of our relatives and friends in the South. 
 Many of them proved splendid servants, but quite a few, get- 
 ting tired of the gay North, called and asked me to pay their 
 way home, and pretty soon I had to deny their plea of a sud- 
 den death or some other equally surprising reason requiring 
 their return to New Orleans. Always a plausible excuse to 
 borrow money. The word "borrow" was always used, but 
 one never got or expected a return of the cash. 
 
 When the social life of my new home wearied me, I could 
 always find a haven of rest in the home of my relatives, the 
 A. 0. Slaughters. They had given me a warm welcome when 
 I came to Chicago, and at their house I met many charming 
 
"Strange To Say —" 61 
 
 people — the Wallers, the Charles Bregas, the Byron Smiths 
 and the Fields — for the first time. Mr. Slaughter was a 
 prominent and successful business man whose son Rochester 
 and charming daughter-in-law did big-game hunting. Mrs. 
 Rochester Slaughter killed a very fine specimen of Kodiak 
 bear which is now in the Field Museum here. 
 
 Carter and I had both been taught by sensible parents to 
 love the simple things of life, and it was well that we had, 
 for we have never been able to indulge ourselves in many of 
 the costly ones. But we were happy, and proud that our small 
 pocketbook was quite big enough for the necessities of life 
 and for many of its pleasures. 
 
 Most of our friends kept carriages and horses, and drove 
 through the parks for enjoyment, but we found we could 
 have exactly the same pleasures by taking the streetcars. 
 Well do I remember the delight of riding on the front seat of 
 a cable car on a warm summer day. It was bliss; no one in 
 front of us to mar the view, and the car gliding easily along 
 while the breeze blew cool off the lake. We saw Chicago 
 many times that way, for we would ride to the end of the line 
 and often take another car to prolong the pleasure. 
 
 I regret the passing of those old cable cars, but I must 
 admit that there has been no greater progress than in modes 
 of travel. Now we step into a motorcar or a fine new bus 
 to go shopping, but in those days the only convenient way to 
 reach the Loop from the north side, unless one kept a car- 
 riage, was to take the carette. Many of us lived several 
 blocks from the streetcar lines, and the carette route lay 
 between them. True, the old carette was slow. It lumbered 
 heavily down Rush Street, dragged slowly by lazy horses. 
 But it passed near our door, after we had moved to the 
 north side, and on it one always met friends. Inside its nar- 
 row space we could spend a pleasant time gossiping while 
 it dragged along. We were in no hurry, anyway, for the 
 mad rush of today was not yet upon us. If the carette was 
 empty, many a time the driver would wait while I rang a 
 doorbell and left a package. 
 
 Those were leisurely days, when life seemed easy and there 
 was plenty of time to spare. We had the telephone and the 
 
62 A Bride In Chicago 
 
 electric light, and to us it seemed that there was nothing 
 more to be dreamed of. But we had much to learn — the air- 
 plane, the motorcar, radio, television were yet to come. Though 
 the carette was a comfort to us in that day, we can now look 
 back upon its awkward lumbering with a feeling of astonish- 
 ment that we ever found it endurable. Will the next genera- 
 tion look down on the comforts of today? I suppose so. 
 
 While we were still on the west side and before we had a 
 carriage, we often rode with Mr. Harrison, Sr., in an equipage 
 peculiar to the time — a high, two- wheeled cart known as a 
 dos-a-dos. Neither Lina nor I was ever greatly pleased when 
 it came our turn to sit, riding backward, in the rear seat 
 with the driver while Father Harrison and his guest of the 
 moment occupied the front. But life in those days was al- 
 ways an adventure and always we went! 
 
 Years later, in California, I was to have another experience 
 with a dos-a-dos. Mrs. Medill McCormick (Ruth Hanna), 
 later Mrs. Simms, an accomplished horsewoman, invited me 
 and my two children to drive with her through the beautiful 
 Ojai Valley and over the Casitas Pass. I noticed that the 
 farmers along the way did not seem sure whether to be im- 
 pressed or scornful of us. They could not help admiring 
 her horsemanship, but neither could they forebear taunting 
 us as we rode by, with Mrs. McCormick, my daughter and me 
 in the front seat, and Mr. McCormick, my son and the driver 
 in the rear. It was too much for them, but we enjoyed it. 
 
 When Carter, Jr., was born, I inherited $5,000 from a 
 great-uncle. I at once gave it to my husband to invest, but 
 he insisted that I should keep $500 to buy a horse and phaeton. 
 When Mr. Harrison, Sr., offered to keep the horse in his 
 stable and have it cared for and fed at no expense to us, I 
 agreed. The phaeton certainly gave us the greatest pleasure, 
 inasmuch as I could drive about the boulevards daily with 
 my baby and his nurse. It also enabled Carter, the baby and 
 me to spend hours together in the parks on Saturdays and 
 Sundays. 
 
Chapter Four 
 
 Columbian Exposition Days 
 
 A, 
 
 .NYONE who was living in Chicago dur- 
 ing the early 1890's can never forget those days of the city's 
 glory. The period, which I recall so vividly, really began with 
 the opening of the Auditorium in December, 1889. The years 
 which lie between that day and this present hour have given us 
 many fine opera houses and theatres, but then the opening of 
 such an opera house as the Auditorium was indeed an event. 
 Beginning with Adelina Patti, who sang at the opening 
 concert, nearly every important singer in the world has ap- 
 peared there. 
 
 The President of the United States, Benjamin Harrison, 
 our kinsman, was the guest of honor for the Auditorium 
 opening. Hempstead Washburne, of a prominent family, was 
 mayor, but Carter Harrison, Sr., who was soon to be elected 
 to his fifth term as mayor, was a conspicuous figure during 
 the ceremonies. He accompanied President Harrison to the 
 stage and remained with him all evening. 
 
 With my husband and the other members of his family I 
 sat in the audience, and near us sat young William Harrison 
 and his two sisters, the President's nephew and two nieces. 
 The young man, too, felt the thrill of the evening, going back 
 and forth from time to time to the stage. In doing so he 
 contracted a cold which proved first stubborn and then alarm- 
 ing, and we were profoundly saddened at his early death 
 two weeks later. His passing threw his mother and his two 
 sisters upon their own resources. Later one of the sisters 
 was married, and because of the friendship existing between 
 the two families, E. C. Waller, well-known Chicagoan, gave 
 her a beautiful wedding. President Harrison himself then 
 
 63 
 
64 Columbian Exposition Days 
 
 gave them a wonderful wedding trip, including a visit to 
 the White House. 
 
 I may as well pause here to tell the rest of the story, al- 
 though twenty-five years went by before it occurred. On the 
 twenty-fifth anniversary of the opening of the Auditorium, 
 friends of the large hospital which later became Passavant 
 Hospital conceived the idea of celebrating the event, for the 
 double purpose of commemorating the opening and increas- 
 ing the possibilities and efficiency of the hospital. 
 
 It was decided, in so far as possible, to have the same 
 people upon the stage and on the programme who had taken 
 part in the event of a quarter of a century before. President 
 Harrison himself had passed away, but in his stead we had 
 his grandson, the celebrated "Baby" McKee, born in the 
 White House during his grandfather's term in office. We oc- 
 cupied a box, though twenty-five years before, on this exact 
 date, we had had chairs. Mr. McKee sat with us. 
 
 I think it was on the night of the opening of the Auditorium 
 that there came to me a definite and distinct impression that, 
 for me, life had really begun. What the years were to 
 bring I could not know, of course. But always thereafter I 
 had the feeling that whatever evolved out of those years, 
 life would be eventful. Looking backward now I realize that 
 my impression was correct. 
 
 Not a great while later, a second event of equal social 
 and civic importance occurred. Even more vivid than my 
 memory of the opening of the Auditorium is that of the 
 wonderful ball held there, just prior to the opening of the 
 World's Columbian Exposition. Perhaps it may be regarded 
 as the opening social function of that wonderful period in 
 the history of our city. Hempstead Washburne was mayor 
 at the time, but Carter Harrison, Sr., entered almost imme- 
 diately thereafter upon his last term of office, during which 
 he presided over the interests of the city in exposition days. 
 He was again a prominent figure during the festivities. The 
 ball was brilliant beyond words, and a more distinguished 
 throng of the public and social leaders of the world I am sure 
 has never graced our city. Representatives of all the foreign 
 nations, ladies in wonderful gowns and jewels, men in uni- 
 
"Strange To Say —-" 65 
 
 form and immaculate evening attire, many of them wearing 
 brilliant decorations for honorable service, mingled with the 
 throng. There was music and happy laughter, and dancing 
 and pleasure, for the great exposition, now a fait accompli, 
 was soon to open. Once again there came to me the realiza- 
 tion of the beauty and strength of Chicago — her powerful 
 magnetism which was now drawing to her all the nations 
 of the world. 
 
 When it became known that America was planning a 
 world's fair many cities had applied for it. New York wanted 
 it; Boston, Washington, Philadelphia, St. Louis, and San 
 Francisco wanted it; Chicago wanted it. And Chicago got it. 
 It was at this time that our now-familiar battle cry, "I WILL," 
 came into being. It promptly became the motto of our city. 
 Underneath all the controversy in regard to the location of 
 the exposition lay a simple fact. Chicago was the only city 
 which was not only willing but able to put up the twenty 
 million dollars in cash necessary to meet expenses. The ex- 
 position of 1893 is the only one I know which did not go 
 into the hands of a receiver, except, of course, our Century 
 of Progress forty years later. 
 
 The general facts and attending stories of the 1893 World's 
 Fair are, naturally, well known. It is my desire therefore 
 to recall things with which the public did not come in touch. 
 No one who saw it will ever forget the opening day of the 
 exposition. President Grover Cleveland came out to Chicago 
 from Washington to make the opening address, afterwards 
 touching the button which was the signal to run up the flags 
 of every nation on earth. 
 
 In the presidential party were Secretary of State Walter 
 Q. Gresham, Secretary of the Treasury J. G. Carlisle, Sec- 
 retary of the Navy H. A. Herbert, and Secretary of the In- 
 terior Hoke Smith. On the previous day, the Duke of Veragua, 
 a grandee of Spain and a descendant of Columbus, had ar- 
 rived and received a greeting befitting so distinguished a 
 gentleman. 
 
 In addition to the thousands already gathered in the park, 
 the crowded Illinois Central trains running almost momen- 
 tarily into the grounds carried a huge number who, quite 
 
66 Columbian Exposition Days 
 
 by accident, arrived just in time to witness this historic 
 and picturesque event. It was a sight as beautiful as it was 
 bewildering. The great scenic beauty of the surroundings, 
 the green lawns sweeping to far distances, the laughing blue 
 lake, the snow-white buildings, so beautiful in architecture — 
 I have but to close my eyes to see it still. Now, with the 
 passing of the years, it seems like some rare and beautiful 
 pastel or a bit of glorious old tapestry. 
 
 Would we ever be able to see it all? This was the ques- 
 tion we asked ourselves each night when we returned home 
 for a few hours of rest after the strenuous hours of sight- 
 seeing during the day. No soldier ever went forth to war 
 more valiantly than the loyal residents of Chicago went 
 daily to Jackson Park, realizing that the summer would be 
 brief, that the six months of the exposition would pass quick- 
 ly, almost before they were aware. There was a "do or die" 
 look in the eyes of everyone, and during all the period of the 
 exposition the crowds, sometimes so huge as to be terrifying, 
 were friendly, good-natured and happy. 
 
 We are prone to smile when any of our friends begin to 
 reminisce, and we tell them teasingly that when that hour 
 arrives it is a sure sign that they are growing old. However, 
 I would remind you of the words of the poet upon this point, 
 and very true those words are: "Youth is not a thing of 
 years; 'tis a state of mind!" However this may be, staid 
 and sober citizens who had long since reached the so-called 
 years of discretion became roguishly boyish again, saunter- 
 ing idly everywhere, rubbing elbows with those young enough 
 to be their sons and hugely enjoying the experience. Stately 
 dames gave delightful little luncheons and breakfasts in open- 
 air cafes while the younger generation, of age anywhere from 
 two to forty, broke loose and had the time of their lives. 
 
 I often look down the stately Midway, flanked by the 
 dignified, gray-towered buildings of the University of Chi- 
 cago — which, by the way, opened this same year (1893) — 
 and crowned at its western terminus by Lorado Taft's mag- 
 nificent fountain, "Time," and my mind goes back to that 
 same glorious avenue as I saw it first. It was called the Mid- 
 way Plaisance. A wonderful peristyle guarded its eastern 
 
"Strange To Say — " 67 
 
 entrance into the exposition grounds, and above it one read 
 the familiar words, "Ye shall know the Truth, and the Truth 
 shall make you free." Surely this great event in the life of 
 Chicago, bringing together as it did the peoples of the whole 
 world, revealed to many of the earth's unenlightened a Truth 
 which made them free. 
 
 A riotous, rollicking blaze of color and activity was the 
 Midway Plaisance. Here every family lived its own native 
 life, and those who hailed from Africa and the South Sea 
 Islands were certainly in luck. The poor Eskimos and na- 
 tives of Lapland and Greenland sweltered and suffered in 
 their furs until at last one of the tiny Eskimos, born after 
 the mother's arrival in Chicago, succumbed. The authorities 
 of the exposition then requested that they put on lighter 
 clothing. 
 
 Native songs and dances, native games, the Chinese theatre 
 with its continuous and (to us) discordant music — these and 
 other unusual sounds, not forgetting the blare of camels and 
 the bray of donkeys, kept up until the wee sma' hours and 
 rendered the night hideous. But — how we enjoyed every 
 moment of it! 
 
 Daily during the period of the exposition, the great throngs 
 came, saw and were conquered. Almost daily some one of 
 the states or cities, or some large national organization, 
 staged a great day. It was like a kaleidoscope, constantly 
 changing, ever moving, a blazing, colorful panorama, week 
 in, week out. There was not a dull or uninteresting moment, 
 and under and beneath it all was the knowledge that Chi- 
 cago was not only writing but making history. 
 
 Young Chicago assumed the glittering splendor, the rest- 
 less motion of old Europe and older Asia — a thing of which 
 she herself had known nothing before, but which, to a cer- 
 tain extent, has remained with her since. If the other na- 
 tions of the earth learned much by coming to us, we also 
 learned much by having them come. We acquired certain 
 new ideas in art, music, architecture, as well as in living — 
 and, as has been often said, variety is the spice of life. The 
 sight of these people from strange lands stimulated in us 
 the desire to travel to their countries, to see their cities, 
 
68 Columbian Exposition Days 
 
 their native life and customs, to get acquainted with the 
 world. If it did no more, that was enough, for the desire to 
 learn, to know, to experience, is the moving power of life. 
 Without it we accomplish little in this world. 
 
 America has staged other brilliant expositions since 1893, 
 but there was one thing about Chicago's first world's fair that 
 will never come again. Out of that period we evolved into 
 the Age of Machinery, the Age of Power, the mania for speed. 
 In 1893, however, all these were not. The beautiful art and 
 craftsmanship were all distinctly hand made. Instead of 
 bleating automobiles one recalls with a certain pensiveness 
 the handsome and powerful Arabian horses over which tall, 
 dark-eyed Arabs, men of magnificent physique, watched lov- 
 ingly night and day. Electricity, now regarded by many as 
 the power back of all things in the universe, was demonstrated 
 as a commercial possibility for the first time at the Colum- 
 bian Exposition. The St. Louis exposition in 1904, the Pan- 
 American in 1901, the Sesqui-Centennial at Philadelphia — 
 none of these could be compared with the soft beauty, the 
 perfect art, the exquisite coloring which so glorified the Chi- 
 cago World's Fair of 1893. 
 
 One would have to live long to forget the awe and admira- 
 tion of the throng which, as soon as darkness fell, began con- 
 gregating about the electric fountain at the 1893 World's 
 Fair, with its varicolored lights beneath the rippling waters 
 and the spray created by them. It was beautiful, and if 
 today, as we ride along our miles of boulevards, glittering 
 with millions of lights, we feel a bit blase, just pause and 
 remember that from the log cabin to the marble palace was 
 but two generations. 
 
 During the last decade I have traveled far and wide. We 
 have made three complete journeys around the world. I have 
 seen and enjoyed life in every large city, and naturally I 
 have compared each one with Chicago. Always I have re- 
 turned to it happily. I would not live elsewhere if I could. 
 And I think I have never seen in any city anything more 
 beautiful or more striking, anything more dignified and state- 
 ly, than was the Grand Court of Honor at the exposition 
 when it was lighted up at night. It had that perfection which 
 
''Strange To Say —" 69 
 
 characterizes the Taj Mahal, and one experienced the same 
 wordless admiration while standing beside it. Those who 
 saw the famous lighting of the Paris exposition waxed en- 
 thusiastic and claimed that nothing would ever excel it. How- 
 ever, we learned that our Century of Progress did excel 
 it, and showed more wonderful and perfect things than the eye 
 of man had ever before witnessed in the way of artificial 
 light. 
 
 I have always regarded the year 1893 as a turning point 
 for the American woman in general and the Chicago woman 
 in particular. Previous to this time the status of woman in 
 any country was not at all enviable, and one of the first 
 social events of the exposition demonstrated this fact. This 
 was a breakfast given by Mayor Harrison to the Russian 
 representatives of his majesty, the Czar. In deference to the 
 custom of their country, no ladies were invited. 
 
 Together with Mrs. Owsley, Mayor Harrison's elder daugh- 
 ter, and Sophie, his younger one, I stood at a point of van- 
 tage elsewhere in the house and looked upon the glittering 
 scene, and you may rest assured that we made various and 
 sundry remarks on the subject of a country which did not 
 seem eager for its ladies to dine with their men! However, 
 it was a brilliant affair ; the men were splendid in appearance, 
 both those in the uniform of their country and those in 
 civilian dress. 
 
 Greatly in contrast with this, however, was a breakfast 
 given by Mayor Harrison for the Infanta Eulalia. She was a 
 sister of the King of Spain, and Spain had sent to the exposi- 
 tion exhibits of great interest, because they bore upon the 
 discovery of our country. There were reproductions of the 
 three caravels, those tiny, shell-like boats in which Columbus 
 and his followers sailed away in search of a new world, as 
 well as a reproduction of the old La Rabida monastery, in 
 which, after all that he had accomplished, the great explorer 
 died in poverty, a friendless and despised old man. Because 
 the historical significance of the exposition, much honor was 
 shown to the representatives of Spain, and the breakfast 
 given by the mayor was one of these tributes. It, too, was held 
 at the Harrison residence. 
 
70 Columbian Exposition Days 
 
 A brilliant red carpet stretched from the steps to the street, 
 over which the mayor walked when the carriages of the prin- 
 cess and her suite arrived. The house was fashioned after the 
 style of the old Southern plantation homes, with a large hall in 
 the center and rooms opening into it from either side, giving 
 it two wings. In one of these the breakfast was served, the 
 party including, in addition to the princess and her husband, 
 such dignitaries as the Spanish ambassador, the Duke of Vera- 
 gua, Harlow Higinbotham, president of the fair commission, 
 and others — twenty-six in all. Across the hall in the other 
 wing of the house two hundred guests were assembled for the 
 reception to follow the breakfast. On this occasion, however, 
 Mrs. Owsley and I were permitted to act as hostesses. It was 
 a beautiful occasion, and the Infanta, on departing, presented 
 Mayor Harrison with a diamond-studded cardcase as a me- 
 mento of the day. 
 
 It was a third social event, however, which those who par- 
 ticipated in it will never forget. With the approach of the 
 world's fair, the women of Chicago began to do some serious 
 thinking. One day, at a gathering of the Fortnightly Club, 
 the subject came up for discussion. It was decided then and 
 there that a committee should be appointed to wait upon Mayor 
 Harrison and not only request but demand a place in the sun. 
 So effective did this method prove that a short time thereafter 
 Mrs. Potter Palmer was asked by the World's Fair Commis- 
 sion to accept the position of chairman of lady managers of 
 the exposition, thus making her the official hostess of the city 
 during that event. 
 
 Things began to move rapidly. During the months that fol- 
 lowed, the women of America fairly glittered. But an old say- 
 ing has it that there is no rose without its thorn. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer, wishing to show Chicago's royal visitor, the 
 Infanta Eulalia, all the courtesy possible, arranged a beautiful 
 reception, to be followed by a supper in her honor. The recep- 
 tion had been held at the Palmer House in the afternoon ; the 
 ball and supper were to follow at the Palmer residence in Lake 
 Shore Drive that same evening. 
 
 The Infanta, beautifully gowned, was just ready to depart 
 for the scene of the evening when someone chanced to remark 
 
"Strange To Say—*' 71 
 
 in her presence that the hotel where the affair of the afternoon 
 had been held was the property of her hostess of the evening. 
 The Infanta promptly declined to attend, and rumor had it 
 that she made some very discourteous remarks upon the sub- 
 ject. Like many others, she had brought with her to America 
 ideas of life as it is lived in Europe. There the owner of a 
 hotel is "the innkeeper's wife," a person of far less social 
 standing than herself. 
 
 The Spanish ambassador was sent for, and he insisted that 
 she carry out the arrangements for the evening. Finally she 
 consented to attend the ball, but, pleading a headache, took 
 her departure before supper was served. A table of exquisite 
 appointments had been prepared for her and her suite, at 
 which were also to be seated Mr. Higinbotham, Mayor Harri- 
 son and others. Quietly Mrs. Palmer ordered the door to the 
 room closed and the ball went on. 
 
 Chicago has never forgotten, nor has it ceased to resent, this 
 action on the part of the Infanta, who forgot, seemingly, that 
 all Chicago loved and honored Mrs. Palmer and that she her- 
 self was not an individual, but a representative of one of the 
 oldest countries in the world. One is reminded of some brief 
 lines of the poet: "Who drinks his wine today from jeweled 
 cup shall quaff tomorrow from a wooden bowl." 
 
 With the flight of the royal family from Spain and the terri- 
 ble tragedy of its civil war, the Infanta Eulalia lost her pos- 
 sessions and is now living quietly in a convent in Paris. 
 
 During the exposition Chicago enjoyed a blaze of glory. We 
 (with many others, I suppose) formed real friendships in Eu- 
 rope. Through the visit of the Infanta Eulalia we met some 
 years later members of her family. Her sister, Infanta Paz, 
 had married H.R.H. Prince Ludwig of Bavaria. And we became 
 particularly fond of their royal highnesses and of their chil- 
 dren. We traveled through Spain with her royal highness 
 Princess Pilar and her brother Adalbert and his charming 
 wife, Princess Augusta (H. R. H. Augusta, by the way, was a 
 great-granddaughter of the Emperor Franz Joseph of Aus- 
 tria). These three young people write me frequently and 
 generally sign themselves "Your Three Youngsters." We have 
 visited them in Munich and Nymphenburg, where they live, 
 
72 Columbian Exposition Days 
 
 and they have visited us in Paris. 
 
 When the Queen of Roumania came to Chicago she invited 
 us to lunch because of our friendship with this family — her 
 cousins. And we talked of them, but principally of the great 
 Angkor where she wanted to visit and where she knew from 
 Pilar we had been. 
 
 Wonderful as the Columbian Exposition was, filled with all 
 the excitement of beauty and famous personalities, perhaps I 
 shall remember it best for one ultimate surprise it held for me. 
 
 Queen Margaretta of Italy has sent to the fair an exquisite 
 and much-talked-of collection of laces. With it she sent an in- 
 timate friend as her representative. We were delighted to 
 have the rare collection for the exhibition and everyone was 
 eager to show gratitude by entertaining the fair countess who 
 had brought it over. 
 
 Mrs. Charles Henrotin, a member of the board of lady man- 
 agers of the fair, invited me to a reception which she was giv- 
 ing for the countess. A few days before the reception I hap- 
 pened to be in my father-in-law's office when the distinguished 
 countess arrived to present her credentials to the mayor. 
 
 Imagine my surprise, to say nothing of hers, when, as our 
 eyes met, we knew each other at once. We had been girls to- 
 gether in New Orleans, and the moment I saw the charming 
 creature, I remembered her as Cora Slocomb, who had made a 
 brilliant marriage with Count Di Brazzia and had gone to 
 Rome to live before I married. She had not known I was living 
 here and, frankly, I had forgotten her Italian name. 
 
 We had both known another New Orleans girl who had been 
 much in the public eye in the last few years. Her name was 
 Cora Urquhart. She had married James Brown Potter and 
 had created consternation in the social world some years be- 
 fore when she read a poem at a social gathering called "Ostler 
 Jo." That poem would be considered innocuous today but in 
 those days — well, the reader was ostracized. She afterwards 
 became a clever actress and recently died in one of her beauti- 
 ful homes on the Riviera. 
 
 Her daughter, Fifi, married a Stillman of New York, later 
 divorced him and is now the wife of Fowler McCormick, a son 
 of Harold and Edith McCormick. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler Mc- 
 
"Strange To Say—" 73 
 
 Cormick live very quietly in Barrington, near Chicago. It was 
 during the World's Fair that Harold McCormick and Edith 
 Rockefeller became engaged, and they were married in 1895. 
 How time does fly ! 
 
Chapter Five 
 Astor Street Days 
 
 A 
 
 FTER the senior Mr. Harrison's tragic 
 death at the hands of an assassin in 1893, we moved to the 
 north side, to a modest house at Schiller and Astor Streets. 
 Young as we were, we had chosen well, for it was a neighbor- 
 hood inhabited by the families who have built Chicago. We 
 made many happy friendships in the twelve years we lived 
 there. 
 
 The Potter Palmers were on the same corner in Lake Shore 
 Drive and we looked across their back yard. The Herman 
 Kohlsaats were in the same block, also on Lake Shore Drive. 
 Their daughter, Pauline, became Mrs. Potter Palmer, Jr. The 
 Franklin McVeagh's back yard, another Lake Shore Drive 
 home, almost touched ours. The H. N. Mays, the Hempstead 
 Washburnes, the George Fishers, the George Meekers, and the 
 Joseph Bowens were all on the same block in Astor Street. 
 Mrs. Bowen still lives there in a beautiful old age and is be- 
 loved by all. Others in the block were Harry Owsley and his 
 beautiful wife, to whom we were related through the marriage 
 of Mr. Owsley's twin brother, Heaton, to my husband's sister 
 Lina ; and the Martyns, with their two lovely children, Hazel 
 and Dorothy. The former was the wife of the famous English 
 painter, John Lavery, and was regarded as one of the most 
 beautiful women in England. Her husband's portraits of her 
 prove that. 
 
 The Cyrus McCormicks and the Robert McCormicks were 
 inherited friends of the family, and living near us were the 
 Sam Jewetts (Mrs. Jewett was a McCormick), John Kerfoot, 
 our family doctor Henry Hooper and Mrs. Hooper, the Charles 
 Spauldings, and our dear friends the Charles Walkers. We 
 
 74 
 
"Strange To Say—" 75 
 
 certainly had an ideal location. We adored it because it gave 
 us all these acquaintances who became friends, and we loved 
 it, too, because it was in this little home that my husband re- 
 ceived word of his first election to the mayoralty. 
 
 Among our friends on the Gold Coast many voted for my 
 husband, but he classed them as a fickle crowd. We liked them 
 all and mixed freely with them, but often a single act of his 
 would cause a change in their affection. They were easily 
 swayed. 
 
 I remember one occasion very well. A large gathering of 
 women were together for a luncheon at one of the big hotels. 
 I was present and Mrs. Henry Hooper said to me : "You know 
 that a lot of the women present really like you and your hus- 
 band, but we have decided that in the coming election, not far 
 away now, we will vote against him. We honestly believe it 
 will be for the good of Chicago. You are both so wonderful 
 that we know you will not misunderstand, so we are telling you 
 in advance." 
 
 I bore it nobly, answering : "I understand perfectly. In reli- 
 gion and surely in politics one should feel independent. I am a 
 Catholic. My husband is not. Isn't that assurance enough that 
 I believe in independence?" 
 
 "Congratulations on your splendid spirit," came the answer. 
 "Then you are not worried by our change of attitude?" 
 
 I replied : "Not in the least, because the vote back of La Salle 
 Street is 20 to 1 that on the Gold Coast. I can assure you my 
 husband feels very confident of his election ! He says that he 
 believes Chicago has gotten Harrisonitis in its blood, and once 
 nominated he will never be defeated." 
 
 They smiled in reply as I continued : "I'd like to tell you a 
 little story — Aesop's. It is called The Elephant and the Gnat.' 
 It was in the heat of a great desert that a tired, almost ex- 
 hausted elephant trudged along wearily. A young gnat pretty 
 well exhausted flew by and lighted on the elephant's ear, say- 
 ing 'He will carry me through this awful heat !' But after rest- 
 ing a bit the gnat was conscience-stricken and whispered to 
 the elephant, 'I feel guilty adding my weight to you in this 
 terrible journey of the desert heat/ And the elephant an- 
 swered, 'Why, goodness, I did not even know you were there !' 
 
76 Astor Street Days 
 
 And we feel when the vote is cast in the spring we will not even 
 notice the absence of the Gold Coast." 
 
 "Oh, what a terrible story, Mrs. Harrison," was the ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 But that is exactly what happened and my husband rode 
 into his office as usual that spring. Once nominated, he has 
 never been defeated. 
 
 In our Astor Street home it became the custom — for we 
 were really quite primitive in those days — at about four 
 o'clock in the afternoon for the housemaid to take a comfort- 
 able rug, spread it out on the front steps — usually an awning 
 covered those steps — and, with a few chairs, arrange the 
 place nicely for members of the house (who had not gone off 
 on a summer vacation) to get outside for a breath of air in the 
 cool of the evening. We had a fine view of Lake Michigan — 
 our nice icebox — and I was generally seated out there after 
 five when my husband returned from his office. 
 
 Everyone in the neighborhood did the same and we frequent- 
 ly exchanged visits at that hour. Somehow these comings-out 
 of the inhabitants always reminded me of my New Orleans 
 and Mississippi days, for all along the lagoons of Louisiana 
 the alligators came out at that hour and lined themselves along 
 the banks in the cool of the evening. 
 
 Along about Christmastime we always received from my 
 father in New Orleans a barrel of oysters in the shell, and 
 those delectable oysters gave us a chance to dispense the hos- 
 pitality that we both enjoyed. Many of the young bloods, such 
 as Val LeMoyne, Billy McCluer, Granville Browning, and 
 Bernard Rogers, were our frequent visitors for dinner, and 
 when the oysters arrived, Billy Gamble appointed himself 
 special chef to dispense our hospitality. The oysters were al- 
 ways baked in the shell and served hot when they burst open. 
 Oh ! The fun of those suppers. 
 
 Among the neighbors were several with whom we became 
 more closely associated in the bonds of friendship and political 
 affairs. Mrs. John Clarke, the lovely mother of Mrs. Hemp- 
 stead Washburne, was one of my first loves in Chicago, and 
 through her we enjoyed association with the Washburnes. Mr. 
 Washburne was always public-spirited and was working con- 
 
"Strange To Say—'* 77 
 
 stantly for the improvement of the city, even after his term of 
 office as mayor of Chicago expired. 
 
 Mr. Kerf oot lived next door to us. He was a real-estate man 
 and later on became comptroller under my husband (in his 
 first administration as mayor). Mr. Kerf oot attained celebrity 
 by a big sign he put up on the lake front after the Chicago fire. 
 The sign read, "Everything is gone from us but courage. That 
 we still have and will keep forever." It caught the city's imag- 
 ination and inspired the people to persevere, and the fact that 
 he had spoken first of courage always distinguished him. 
 
 The Thomas Hindes lived across the street from us and 
 formed one of our intimate set with the Fred Winstons and 
 the John Spoors of North State Street. Lloyd Bowers was an- 
 other near neighbor and never left Astor Street until his great 
 college friend became President of the United States and 
 called him to Washington. That President was William How- 
 ard Taft, and Martha, the daughter of Mr. Bowers, later be- 
 came Mrs. Robert Taft, who came mighty close to getting the 
 nomination on the Republican ticket for President, too. 
 
 Charles Walker became my husband's corporation counsel 
 and was loyalty itself towards the man who had honored him. 
 Mrs. Walker and her daughters were much with us. We were 
 very congenial. She was a great favorite with all who knew 
 her and she went much into society, but she always had time 
 for civic duties and never neglected any task she thought she 
 ought to perform. Mr. Walker's sisters both married English- 
 men and the husband of one of them inherited a title a few 
 years ago. 
 
 Across the street lived the John A. Logans. Their children 
 and mine became friends. Mr. and Mrs. Jack Logan made 
 many friends in Chicago, and Jack Logan's mother, the widow 
 of fighting General John Logan, visited them often, with her 
 daughter, Mrs. Tucker. 
 
 Little Jack Logan, Jr., was a great friend of our son, Carter, 
 Jr., and so when the fine statue of General Logan was to be 
 unveiled on the lake front young Carter was asked to stand 
 with young Jack to unveil it. Of course, Mrs. Logan mere and 
 Mrs. Tucker came to be with the entire family at the great 
 event. We were asked to accompany them and went glady, 
 
78 Astor Street Days 
 
 for it really was a great occasion. The fine statue still stands, 
 a conspicuous monument to the memory of the great fighter. 
 
 But while we were enjoying the friendship of the Logans, 
 my hot-headed Southern relations in New Orleans were squirm- 
 ing a bit over our presence at all the famous doings in honor 
 of General Logan. I remember well a friend wrote, "Can't 
 you find friends who will be more acceptable to your Southern 
 friends than the John Logans?" 
 
 Near the Logans, in the Binderton apartments, lived a fam- 
 ily, the McCutcheons, whom we were proud to call friends. 
 John T., the famous cartoonist, had not then reached the top 
 of the ladder, but his mother and sister and brother, George 
 Barr, the novelist, lived in the neighborhood for many years. 
 
 It was from this apartment that John planned his trip — his 
 big hunt — with President Theodore Roosevelt. This hunt, of 
 course, brought John McCutcheon much publicity, and as he 
 was becoming more and more known for his very splendid 
 cartoons, we felt proud of him. We regarded him as a con- 
 firmed bachelor. For many years he was invulnerable, but af- 
 ter meeting the daughter of one of our most gifted architects 
 — Howard Van Doren Shaw — he succumbed and laid down 
 arms. Mrs. McCutcheon added even more to his popularity, 
 for she developed into the perfect wife and mother. 
 
 Parker Blair and his sister, Margaretta, were often with us. 
 Their parents lived on our block. Their mother was a famous 
 beauty, and Margaretta was a most attractive girl. She later 
 married Governor Cox of Ohio, who got the Democratic nomi- 
 nation for the presidency. His daughter married Lieutenant 
 Rippley of Chicago, who lost his life a year later in the war. 
 
 Young Marshall Field and his brother Henry, too, came 
 often to visit with our children. Their mother, who had been 
 a Miss Huck, was a devout Catholic and brought them fre- 
 quently to the Holy Name Church on the north side and also 
 to see her great friends, the McLaughlins, of Manor House 
 Coffee fame. 
 
 Mrs. Marshall Field, Jr., after her husband's death, married 
 Maldwin Drummond, an Englishman, and lived in England, 
 but after her death she was brought here to be buried, and 
 the telegram asking that arrangements be made for those sad 
 
"Strange To Say — " 79 
 
 services was sent to the McLaughlin family. Henry Field, the 
 son, died after a minor operation, a tonsilectomy. His widow 
 married his cousin, the son of Ethel Field and Mr. Tree (Ron- 
 ald Tree). 
 
 The McLaughlin family has always been prominent. One of 
 the daughters married General Hardin, a distinguished army 
 officer and a delightful man. Amelia McLaughlin made him 
 even more popular. Another daughter married Mr. Mair, and 
 then after his death married the young and distinguished phy- 
 sician, Dr. Thomas Lewis. His personal charm has never been 
 forgotten by his friends, who mourned his untimely death 
 years ago. 
 
 Frederick McLaughlin married the much-talked-of and de- 
 servedly popular Irene Castle. She still holds a magical sway 
 over Chicago, and even in her dancing days was never more 
 beloved than she is now for her benevolent care of unfortunate 
 dogs and her many other kind charities. Miss McLaughlin, 
 the sister of Mrs. Hardin, died a few years ago. 
 
 In addition to all these neighbors and friends, we made more 
 when we joined a group of north siders who gave card parties 
 one evening every fortnight. Among the members were Gen- 
 eral Walter Newberry's two daughters, Mary and Jessica. 
 Jessica was married to Robert McCreary, son of the governor 
 of Kentucky. She was beautiful and she and her husband were 
 popular everywhere in Chicago. Their children were of about 
 the same age as ours, and the families shared a great in- 
 timacy. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Edward Stettinius were another couple who 
 never failed to come to the card parties. Their son, who car- 
 ries on the family name, is the distinguished former president 
 of the United States Steel Company, and has won even greater 
 fame for his place in international affairs. As a youngster we 
 saw him frequently in his parents' home — a quick-witted lad 
 always interested in the euchre games. 
 
 All of us were devotees of euchre. Tric-trac, backgammon, 
 whist, lotto, and checkers were all permitted at these evening 
 parties, but most of us stuck to old-fashioned euchre or to the 
 game called Five Hundred. Bridge, of course, had not yet 
 come in, although duplicate whist, its predecessor, was just 
 
80 Astor Street Days 
 
 being heard of. 
 
 We met at one of the members' homes, and the parties, 
 though simple in the manner of their giving, were a source of 
 great pleasure to us all. But times change, as this story will 
 illustrate. One of our members was ambitious and wealthy. 
 In later years when she had a winter home in Florida she was 
 well known for the manner of her entertainment, which had 
 developed from simplicity to evenings of great elegance. For 
 years she had a butler who really planned all these things for 
 her and carried them off with an ease for which her home 
 became noted. One day the butler fell ill and was removed to 
 a hospital. Of course his employer was much distressed, be- 
 cause he had relieved her so completely of responsibility in 
 getting up her affairs that she missed him dreadfully. 
 
 Anxious to know of his progress, she called at the hospital 
 one morning. The attendant did not recognize her and before 
 admitting her, asked, "Are you his wife?" 
 
 "No," she replied, "but I have been his mistress for two 
 years." 
 
 That waggish Beau Brummel of Chicago, William Gamble, 
 was a member of the euchre club. He won his reputation as a 
 wag by two tremendous hoaxes. He sent two hundred beauti- 
 fully engraved invitations to London and had them mailed 
 back from there to a group of Americans who felt they be- 
 longed to the Four Hundred set. They were invitations to at- 
 tend the ceremonies of the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria. 
 Immeasurably thrilled, many of the recipients immediately 
 made plans to cross the ocean. 
 
 One woman who had received the supposedly royal sum- 
 mons rushed over to Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Rogers, who were 
 dining in some hotel and, showing them the invitation, said 
 exultingly, "I know we owe this honor to a particular friend, 
 
 Lord S , in England, who undoubtedly has procured 
 
 it for us." As Mr. and Mrs. Rogers knew the secret, they could 
 hardly keep a straight face. 
 
 Before this hoax was discovered, Mr. Gamble decided on 
 another coup d'etat. He had spent a lot of money getting up 
 these invitations to the jubilee and, as he was not endowed 
 with a large fortune, he thought of a way to recoup his finances. 
 
"Strange To Say—" 81 
 
 Here is what he did. He called in Mrs. Samuel Chase and 
 me, told us what he wanted to do, and asked our aid. We gave 
 it glady, for the plan really intrigued us. He listed hundreds 
 of prominent names in the large cities — New York, Chicago, 
 New Orleans, Louisville, St. Louis, Cincinnati, San Francisco, 
 Denver, and many other cities. 
 
 Then he wrote a line or two to all these people telling them 
 that they were Hoff aehig, as the Germans say ; that they were 
 highly born and were entitled to invitations to any royal court 
 of Europe, including to the Queen's jubilee and indeed any 
 function royalty would give. This was signed by the "high 
 chamberlain of England, Lord Revilo," stamped with the 
 "Queen's Privy Seal," a gorgeous-looking seal said to belong 
 exclusively to the Queen's house, and sent out by her herald 
 informing the recipients that the Queen recognized their high 
 ancestry. 
 
 This scheme was even a greater success than the one of a 
 few weeks previous. Newspapers published it everywhere, 
 and those who had been cast down by not getting the coveted 
 invitation at first took steps to apply for one now. Each city 
 which had the list was awed by the news. Those named were 
 elated, but many others had hopes still, because the letter 
 stated that many other names were under advisement and that 
 later a few would be added to the list. The news flashed like 
 wildfire around the country and every dinner table made it 
 the great subject of conversation. 
 
 My husband and I went to St. Louis at this time, on an 
 official visit to Mayor and Mrs. Erastus Wells, and well do I 
 remember the hot discussions over this wonderful list of Amer- 
 icans who had just discovered they were entitled to associate 
 with royalty. I became positively worried when I saw the huge 
 proportions the rumor had assumed and the great number of 
 people who were interested and taking it so seriously. Really, 
 though, the whole thing was a scream to those in the secret; 
 those of us who knew were few because of the danger of a leak. 
 
 Well, after a few weeks the identity of "Lord Revilo" was 
 revealed. The whole thing was only an advertisement for the 
 Oliver typewriter — Revilo spelled backwards is Oliver. When 
 the secret was out and the hoax admitted by Billy Gamble, 
 
82 Astor Street Days 
 
 although it was considered about as clever a stunt as was ever 
 gotten up as an ad, he almost had to flee the country. 
 
 But if we had a hand in a hoax, we also had a chance to en- 
 joy the reflected glory of an invitation from royalty which was 
 the real thing. Living two doors from us, next to the Kerf oots, 
 was a dear white-haired woman, Mrs. Cox. We loved and re- 
 spected her. Her son, Ranz Cox, a confirmed bachelor, lived 
 with her and her golden-haired daughter, Jane. A Mr. Angell, 
 too, lived there until his death. 
 
 The Coxes belonged to Chicago aristocracy and were espe- 
 cially intimate with the L. Z. Leiters. Mary Leiter had married 
 Lord Curzon and was living in England. When her distin- 
 guished husband was sent as viceroy to India she accompanied 
 him, of course, as vicereine. No one felt prouder of these hon- 
 ors that had come to this charming Chicago girl than the Cox 
 family. 
 
 When the news came that the great durbar would be given in 
 India and that tremendous honors would be accorded the vice- 
 roy and vicereine as representatives of Queen Victoria, and 
 that all the Cox family had been invited to visit the Curzons 
 and remain as their guests in the palace for the entire visit, 
 we shared — all of Astor Street shared — in the pleasure of 
 the Cox family and helped them in preparations for departure. 
 
 Nothing was talked of for days and weeks but the expected 
 brilliance of that visit. And when Miss Jane invited her best 
 friend, Miss Deshler of Ohio, to accompany them, we talked 
 still more. For Miss Deshler was most attractive, and we felt 
 that, in the close contact of a six months' voyage, that con- 
 firmed bachelor, Ranz Cox, might encounter more danger than 
 is usual in ocean travel. 
 
 And so it happened. When the Cox family returned, Ranz 
 brought her over immediately to see us and announced their 
 engagement. Their marriage followed soon and when two 
 beautiful boys blessed them, their cup of happiness was full. 
 
 What happened in that wonderful visit to the Curzons has 
 been so vividly described in accounts of the durbar that an 
 attempted repetition would be boring. But the recollection of 
 it still lingers in the minds of all of us who partook of it vica- 
 riously through our dear friends. They said that all the jewels 
 
"Strange To Say—" 83 
 
 and gorgeous displays of raiment throughout other parts of 
 the world paled before the splendor of the nabobs in India. 
 Those great maharajas dwelling in that country of the snow- 
 wrapped Himalayas loved to show their possessions, and they 
 bedecked themselves on all possible occasions with magnifi- 
 cence, coming with priceless goods to offer obeisance to the 
 man representing their King or Queen in England. 
 
 This jubilee in honor of Queen Victoria was even more 
 extraordinary in its splendor than usual, and when we were 
 given descriptions of what our friends had seen, we were 
 spellbound with astonishment. 
 
 A very curious and dramatic thing happened in the life of 
 my brother-in-law, Preston Harrison. He was traveling 
 and was in some small town in the West. After supper a 
 young man approached Preston, asking if he were the son of 
 Carter Harrison, and saying, " I read your name on the regis- 
 ter of the hotel and remembered Mr. Harrison had a son of 
 that name." When Preston replied in the affirmative, he con- 
 tinued, "I wonder if you would be willing to shake hands with 
 me?" "Certainly," answered Preston, but the man hesitated, 
 saying, "My name is Prendergast, and wait a moment before 
 you do. I am the brother of the man who killed your father." 
 But as Preston drew back horrified, he continued, "Mr. Harri- 
 son, when that deed was committed no member of your family 
 felt any worse than we did." Preston said the earnestness of 
 the man impressed him and he extended his hand. 
 
 Preston Harrison, who had lived with us since his father's 
 death, had formed an intimacy with Burton Holmes, who was 
 just beginning then to show his beautiful films. We never 
 failed to take the children regularly to see them. Instructive 
 and beautiful, the pictures he showed were always an educa- 
 tion for the old as well as the young, and now, after all these 
 passing years, Burton Holmes is, if it were possible, even more 
 popular than then. 
 
 In our travels in foreign lands we were always coming 
 across something that evidenced the great care and expense 
 Burton Holmes was assuming to show Chicago those pictures. 
 In far-off India, in China, in Java, we met his men taking the 
 pictures he would eventually show us. Burton Holmes was a 
 
84 Astor Street Days 
 
 worker — and the fact that he was so earnest in his efforts to 
 make his films a success is the excellent reason that they are. 
 Today his reward is that his reputation is worldwide. His per- 
 sonality, too — and that of his lovely wife — is charming. We 
 who knew his mother and his grandmother, Mrs. Burton, are 
 very proud of him. 
 
 Harry Gordon Self ridge was another one of Preston Harri- 
 son's cronies, and our neighbor. We were frequently with the 
 Selfridges. Preston was best man at the Selfridge wedding 
 when the lovely and accomplished Rose Buckingham was the 
 bride. 
 
 Rose Buckingham, belonging to a distinguished family, was 
 as lovely in mind as she was in body. I think when she stood 
 beside the harp, which she played beautifully, she was an in- 
 spiration to those who saw her. A great favorite in society, 
 she was generous in contributing her skill on the harp for 
 charitable purposes. She loved her art and was always will- 
 ing to help others. 
 
 She became the friend of Eleanora Duse, and when that 
 wonderful Italian actress was here gave a reception for her 
 at which she asked many of us to receive with her. Duse on 
 this occasion acclaimed one of our young women as the most 
 beautiful girl she had ever seen. This girl was Italia Blair, 
 the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey Blair, our dear friends 
 who lived on Drexel Boulevard on the south side. This reputa- 
 tion stuck to Italia ever after. 
 
 Italia afterwards married Ricardo de Soriana, a Spanish 
 nobleman, and immediately joined King Alphonso and Queen 
 Ena of Spain for their honeymoon. Mrs. Soriana's daughter 
 also married a Spanish nobleman and was widowed when her 
 husband was killed in the Spanish Civil War. Mrs. Blair, 
 Italia's mother, was a fascinating personality. She believed in 
 the occult and for some remarkable reason decided I was 
 psychic. She called me one of her psychic spirits, frequently 
 asking me questions on occult subjects which I could not an- 
 swer, as I knew nothing in the world about occultism. 
 
 I well remember when I wrote my first fairy tale she asked 
 me, "Who is your control?," believing some spirit had insti- 
 gated the stories. I told her I had no control, but wrote any- 
 
"Strange To Say—" 85 
 
 thing that came into my mind. (I often think my husband 
 would have welcomed a control when the papers asked for an 
 interview with me.) Mrs. Blair stated quite frankly that she 
 wrote — and she wrote quite a bit — under a control. He was 
 an East Indian prince and she always put down exactly what 
 he dictated. 
 
 Mention of Mrs. Blair reminds me of two dinners that im- 
 pressed me because they gave two contrasting lessons in gen- 
 uine courtesy. The first, given on the north side by an impor- 
 tant someone, was a delightful affair except for one thing that 
 occurred in the dressing room before I went downstairs. The 
 night was terribly cold, the ground deep in snow and the wind 
 blowing hard. An attractive young woman was in the dress- 
 ing room removing her wraps when the hostess entered hur- 
 riedly, exclaiming, "Oh, Miss , I did not expect you 
 
 tonight." 
 
 "Why," was the answer, "I sent my acceptance." 
 
 "Yes, you did, but as your mother's best friend died two 
 days ago I was sure you would not come, and have filled your 
 place." And the hostess continued, "I have called a cab and 
 you will have to leave." 
 
 And the young lady left. 
 
 To me the scene was inexcusable, absolutely unforgivable, 
 and for that reason I have given no names. 
 
 The other story is delightful, and I love to recollect it. Mrs. 
 H. H. Kohlsaat told it to me one night. She and her husband 
 were descending the stairs at Mrs. Chauncey Blair's to go in to 
 dinner, when Mr. Kohlsaat said to his wife, "Evidently I am to 
 take the hostess in to dinner as I found no card for me in the 
 dressing room." It was customary to give each man a card 
 telling him the lady he would escort to the table. 
 
 Well, dinner was a bit late somehow and it was quite a while 
 before it was announced. In the meanwhile Mrs. Blair had 
 whispered to Mr. Kohlsaat the name of the woman he was to 
 take in — he was not to escort her as he thought. After dinner, 
 as they were leaving, Mrs. Blair said, "Don't forget you are 
 both dining with me next Thursday and no excuse from you 
 will have any weight, for I will cancel the dinner unless you 
 
86 Astor Street Days 
 
 Then they discovered they had come exactly one week in 
 advance of the dinner to which they were invited, and that 
 practically the entire table had had to be changed when they 
 entered the room unexpectedly. For the Herman Kohlsaats 
 were too important a couple to be put in just anywhere, and 
 Mrs. Blair had ordered the table rearranged. 
 
 I love these stories, indicative of two women born and bred 
 in the same environment, but acting differently. 
 
 Mention of snobbishness and true breeding brings to mind 
 a Cinderella story of Chicago society which has had as happy 
 an ending as the legend itself. Many years ago I wrote it out 
 in these words in my diary : 
 
 "Two invitations lie on my desk. I smile as I read them. One 
 of the debutantes hasn't a break in her line of blue blood that 
 I can detect. The other pretty maiden has just one — a great- 
 grandmother who was not exactly to the manner born, but I 
 knew that grandmother and oh, what a fascinating somebody 
 she was. Everybody in my day forgave her her humble birth, 
 for she was the worthiest of us all. 
 
 "These two stems of Chicago's aristocracy who are about 
 to enter this winter's gaiety can be equally proud of their an- 
 cestors. After all, what is blue blood ; if we go back far enough 
 haven't we all descended from Adam and Eve? So what differ- 
 ence does it make? 
 
 "But the lovely grandmother of whom I speak came here as 
 the second wife of a man who was right in the center of our 
 Four Hundred. A few of his intimate friends called on the 
 lovely bride; she was just seventeen; but nearly all of the rest 
 resented his bringing a young girl into their midst who was 
 not a Lady Vere de Vere. 
 
 "He did not seem to mind it much, and the bride certainly 
 minded it not at all. She went her way calm and serene, and 
 it was soon discovered she had engaged teachers to help her 
 reach her husband's heights of intellectuality. Gradually as 
 time passed — for three years elapsed — all recognized the 
 bride had not wasted her time. Her improvement in knowledge 
 of the things that the society world discussed was evident. A 
 few others of that inner circle honored her with visits, and her 
 husband and the few faithful friends who had welcomed her at 
 
"Strange To Say—" 87 
 
 first were visibly pleased. 
 
 "Yet there still remained a few who would not recognize her. 
 They were those who had remained faithful to the memory of 
 one of the haughty leaders of their exclusive set who had lived 
 abroad several years because of an important task to which 
 her husband had been assigned. 
 
 "This great stickler for etiquette forbade the bride being 
 listed on the sacred roll of the Assemblies ! The Assembly Ball 
 — one each winter — was the list of the exclusive circle. Once 
 on that list you could hold your head high indeed, because once 
 on it no one would ever discuss your insignificance again. The 
 lady abroad wrote, 'I will return in time this year to head and 
 lead the ball as I used to do, to stand with the other governors' 
 wives selected to receive.' 
 
 "But somehow, by some slip on somebody's part, the bride 
 and her husband received the coveted invitation, the first they 
 had received since his second marriage, and the bride immedi- 
 ately wrote their acceptance. 
 
 "Then indeed consternation seized many of her real friends, 
 who tried to persuade her not to go. They urged : This wom- 
 an's animosity towards you has often been heard and your ap- 
 pearance at the ball will mean a fatal step, for she has openly 
 declared she will turn her back upon you if you appear. We 
 are quite sure in time we can overcome that feeling because 
 we who know you are now sure you will win her as you have 
 won us all.' 
 
 "But, strange to say, the bride persisted in her determina- 
 tion to go; the thought of that wonderful ball — just as won- 
 derful in those days as it is now — simply fascinated her and 
 she was adamant in her refusal to listen to their arguments. 
 
 "The great night came. The haughty lady had arrived to 
 head the wives of the governors on the reception list. The 
 ballroom of one of the big hotels was a dream of loveliness as, 
 banked with ferns and gorgeous red roses, it awaited guests. 
 The hour had come and every real friend of the venturesome 
 little bride actually shivered in anticipation as to what was 
 going to happen. She had fought her way bravely, studying 
 under teachers to improve, and so far had really won the bat- 
 tle, for her gentle character and lovable disposition had gained 
 
88 Astor Street Days 
 
 her many loyal friends, but friends who were useless in this 
 great emergency. 
 
 'The room was crowded when this particular couple was an- 
 nounced. Every eye in the ballroom was centered upon them. 
 They were halfway across the room, when the wife, saying 
 something to her husband, quit his arm and advanced alone. 
 
 "Good heavens, what was she thinking of, ignoring even his 
 protection? She was a vision of beauty, though, as she ad- 
 vanced, and even those who were not friendly looked upon 
 her with admiration because of her courage. She was smiling 
 as she looked upon her enemy who, though failing to return 
 the smile, gazed steadily upon her as she approached. 
 
 "In audible tones the girl bride began, 'Wait one moment 
 before you condemn me, for I have an important communica- 
 tion to make/ 
 
 "In astonishment, the great lady hesitated, and what was the 
 amazement of the onlookers as the two women stood talking 
 together to see the great lady's face soften as she listened to 
 the message she was receiving. 
 
 "Greater still was the fact that the haughty woman sudden- 
 ly leaned forward and kissed the bride, then taking her hand, 
 she said openly, 'This woman is my friend, my gratitude to her 
 is everlasting, and I am proud to have her by my side/ 
 
 "It was some time before Chicago learned exactly what was 
 the communication that had caused the sudden change which 
 had occurred so dramatically before their eyes. 
 
 "It was this: 'Do you remember some years ago in your 
 country home when the physician said your baby would die 
 unless milk warm from the cows was brought daily? Well, at 
 dawn every morning it was delivered by a small bare-footed 
 girl who ran over a mile to give it to you — I was that girl V " 
 
 Inevitably my recollections of all these neighbors will bring 
 up the subject of our children, for we were a close-knit commu- 
 nity, and our friends' children were the playmates of ours. 
 Most of them went to the Chicago Latin School near by, known 
 to us as the Vickery School because it was presided over by 
 Miss Vickery and Mr. Bates. 
 
 Religion was taught in the home, for we were of many 
 faiths, but — I feel sure — after the same goal. But one of the 
 
"Strange To Say—" 89 
 
 incidents of that time makes me wonder whether the little chil- 
 dren always grasped the full meaning of the catechism and the 
 Bible as we explained them. 
 
 One of our neighbors — he was afterwards in the President's 
 cabinet — sent his children conscientiously to Sunday school, 
 and his wife was just as conscientious about questioning them 
 on their return to discover what they had learned. One day, 
 in great excitement, the youngsters related that they had been 
 instructed that morning in the Crucifixion and that they had 
 learned with sorrow that Christ had been nailed to the Cross. 
 "And, mother/ ' one of them continued, "do you know who did 
 it? Why, teacher said it was the Jewetts!" 
 
 The Jewetts, of course, were our good friends and neighbors 
 and the playmates of all these children. 
 
 The daily newspaper often calls to mind some exploit of the 
 youngsters of the Astor Street neighborhood. For instance, 
 the marriage of Jack Peabody's son. Jack's father, Frank, was 
 a particular chum of my husband, and Jack grew up with our 
 son Carter. I looked at Jack one night, sitting at a big dinner 
 given to honor James Farley, and I thought to myself, "How 
 times do change one!" Here was Jack, a representative of 
 Chicago's young business men, yet, in his youth, what a rascal 
 he was ! 
 
 He was one of a lot of lovable but mischievous rascals, most 
 of them under eight. Well do I remember their names — Henry 
 Hooper, Jesse Spaulding, Gratiot Washburne, McCormick 
 Jewett, Cyrus McCormick, Jr., and Wayne Taylor, later assist- 
 ant secretary of the treasury in Washington. Later when we 
 joined the Huron Mountain Club, other boys joined this clique 
 — Emmerson Tuttle, Dick Bentley, and many others. 
 
 The youngsters had formed a club on North State Street, 
 as boys constantly do, and Henry Hooper was the leader and 
 president. Always up to some harmless jokes, these irrepressi- 
 ble boys kept their parents guessing. But one joke they perpe- 
 trated incensed the mothers and we arose in arms to punish 
 the criminals. 
 
 That master mind, Henry Hooper, with his able committee, 
 decided on what they would do and in the greatest secrecy they 
 arranged and finally succeeded in accomplishing their desire. 
 
90 Astor Street Days 
 
 Each boy was given his instructions, and exactly at the hour 
 designated, did his work. 
 
 It was on a quiet evening about 7 :30 o'clock. All the babies 
 were sound asleep in their cozy cribs, when suddenly the most 
 terrific din of tin pans and drums being beaten arose from al- 
 most every house in the neighborhood. Each anxious parent 
 ran frantically towards each nursery, for the din arose from 
 there. 
 
 Pandemonium reigned and by this time the voices of scream- 
 ing babies were heard. The babies were yelling lustily as the 
 various parents seized their wicked sons who were making the 
 din. Each boy had been instructed to go into the nursery of 
 his house, at about the same moment, when they were sure the 
 nurse would be off duty in another part of the house, and do 
 his stunt. The stunt was, of course, with the terrific beating 
 of the drum to awaken the baby. And they had marked each 
 house before, as did Herod of old. Every house with a baby 
 under two years was sentenced. 
 
 Well, our punishment of these wicked boys was drastic and 
 for a while after they were quiescent. But affairs like the one 
 I have described were quite often encountered. Now all of the 
 aforementioned boys are like Jack Peabody — staid, dignified, 
 reliable business men, and I have no doubt are telling their 
 youngsters, when they are reprimanding them for some par- 
 ticular prank, that they themselves were model youths. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bowen started a school for the neigh- 
 boring children, and Carter, Jr., went daily until he was old 
 enough to enter the Chicago Latin School some years later. 
 Mr. Bowen loved children and frequently stopped and talked 
 to them on his way to his office when he met them going into 
 the school in his home. 
 
 One morning Carter, Jr., came home almost breathless with 
 joy. He had found a pretty little white kitten on the doorstep 
 of the Bowen house. Mr. Bowen told him he could keep it if he 
 could persuade me to put it into the icebox to preserve it. Mr. 
 Bo wen's joke caused a real tragedy in our family, for Carter, 
 Jr., insisted the friendly advice should be carried out and tear- 
 fully resented the fact that I sent the pretty kitten back to its 
 mother in Mr. Bowen's yard. 
 
"Strange To Say—" 91 
 
 Well, we had another cat given us, one we did not have to 
 keep in the icebox. This cat was a beautiful black one with a 
 white face, and was as smart as a whip. We named him Tom- 
 my Backfence, and we had him several years. He belonged to 
 Edith Ogden, our little daughter, but I think Carter, Jr., was 
 just as fond of him. He was certainly smart, and though there 
 were times when I deeply resented taking him out for his daily 
 exercise in the fresh air (when I had to do it) I, too, liked him. 
 
 The children taught Tommy Backfence to play hide-and- 
 seek. They would place him on a chair, duck his head down 
 and then go off and hide. The cat would remain quietly where 
 they had placed him until the children had hidden. They would 
 call out to him to find them and in a second he was bounding 
 up and looking for them. And he sought until they were found, 
 no matter in what part of the house they had hidden. 
 
 A day came when Mrs. Moses Wentworth, my dear friend, 
 gave a children's party for her boys, John and Hunt, and all 
 the neighbors sent their little ones. It was to be a gala occa- 
 sion and much joy pervaded the house. My little Edith ap- 
 peared at the party with her nurse. As the nurse Mary 
 Conrad, still with us after 55 years, removed the child's 
 wraps, she was horrified to see that Edith had removed 
 the wide pink ribbon sash from her fluffy white dress and, in- 
 stead, was wearing a funereal black ribbon. Embarrassed, the 
 nurse wanted to take off the black sash at once, but by this time 
 the children had gathered around, very much intrigued by the 
 stylish color Edith alone was wearing. Mrs. Wentworth stood 
 by and made no comment, but was visibly surprised. 
 
 Edith calmly announced, "My cat died yesterday and I am 
 wearing mourning for it"; and thereupon she received the 
 compassion offered her by her sympathizing friends, who 
 nobly upheld her in her determination to show respect to the 
 dead cat. We really never found out how she accomplished the 
 change of sashes, for the nurse was with her practically all the 
 time she was dressing for the party. 
 
 Edith's independence of mind is illustrated by another inci- 
 dent. When she was about six we were giving a small dinner. 
 Some ten or twelve — among them General Fred Grant, Mrs. 
 Palmer and Father Tom Sherman — were coming. As usual, 
 
92 Astor Street Days 
 
 our youngsters were sent to bed before the dinner. Edith asked 
 whether she might remain up to see Mrs. Palmer, whose beauty 
 and charm had become famed in the city, so that even the chil- 
 dren knew of her. Now Carter, Jr., was always docile about 
 such things and never disputed my orders, but this youngster 
 had a mind of her own even at six and remonstrated and re- 
 sented the orders. When I insisted that she would be put to 
 bed at her usual seven o'clock hour, she flung back her answer 
 with flashing eyes : "It is easy to see you are ashamed of your 
 children for you never allow your guests to see them." 
 
 Another independent youngster was Fanny Locke, daughter 
 of Dr. Clinton Locke of Grace Church. The Lockes, busy as 
 they were with church duties, managed to find time to mix a 
 great deal with the social set. When Fanny made her debut, 
 Mrs. Palmer helped to bring her out. 
 
 For a churchman's daughter, Fanny was a remarkable speci- 
 men, for she was independent, audacious in speech, and de- 
 lighted in shocking her admirers. On one occasion a popular 
 beau of the day, Bernard Rogers, called to take her to a dinner 
 party. Now, though Fanny always wore the conventional 
 evening gown, cut like the ordinary debutante's, her parents 
 insisted that her gown never be cut too low; they felt that 
 dignity was requisite for their daughter. 
 
 On the night of which I speak, Fanny came down to greet 
 her escort and, as he was helping her put on her wrap, said, 
 "Look at my dress and tell me can you see my clavicle?" The 
 young man, ignorant of what the innocent clavicle was, was 
 thrown into a terrified embarrassment ! 
 
 Fanny married twice, and in her second marriage lived in 
 Hollywood and contributed to the film world by some clever 
 writings. 
 
 Living in Astor Street we were across from Mr. Palmer's 
 side yard. Throughout the twelve years we lived there, she 
 proved a good and faithful friend. 
 
 It was her custom to give dinners on Mondays and Thurs- 
 days. My husband and I were frequently asked, but as he 
 was never willing to miss a council meeting we never ac- 
 cepted a Monday night invitation. He did not miss a single 
 council meeting in his five administrations. Mrs. Palmer, 
 
"Strange To Say—" 93 
 
 learning this, asked me, in case she had a sudden regret 
 from a woman, if I would fill the place. Of course, I loved to 
 do it and did quite often. 
 
 One night I had asked our cook — Katie Blonien, a hand- 
 some German girl who lived with us twenty-five years — to 
 come across to bring me home about eleven o'clock. After 
 our return Katie was helping me undress. She commented on 
 the gorgeous dinner table laden with gold plate which Mrs. 
 Palmer's personal maid had let her peep at through a curtain 
 while she awaited me, and continued, "That maid asked many 
 questions of me and what capacity I filled in your house. 
 I replied I was your personal maid. I did your hair, I cared 
 exclusively for your personal wants and did nothing else." 
 
 "Oh, Katie," I answered, "why did you fib like that? You 
 are the best cook in the world but I never had a personal 
 maid." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Harrison," she answered, "how do you think 
 it would sound to say the cook had called for the mayor's 
 wife? I thought you should have had your butler or at least 
 a personal maid. She would just make fun of us and I did 
 not give her the chance." 
 
 So much for family pride, even among our maids. The 
 three of them (our waitress, Dena de Vries, was a beauty) 
 remained with us for more than twenty-five years and when 
 we broke up housekeeping all still kept up their contact 
 with us. One, Mary Conrad, who nursed our children, has 
 been with us over fifty years. 
 
 One morning when Mrs. Palmer took me driving she told 
 me something that had been bothering her for some time. 
 She had received many letters from a woman asking for an 
 interview. Mrs. Palmer was of course too busy a woman 
 to grant interviews promiscuously, and ignored the woman's 
 pleadings. But finally a letter came declaring that the writer 
 was my sister and, knowing of my friendship with Mrs. Pal- 
 mer, felt she had the right to get that interview. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer at once named an hour. What was her 
 astonishment when brought face to face with the applicant 
 to find that the woman was unmistakably of a different class 
 from me. However, she listened to the story. The girl — for 
 
94 Astor Street Days 
 
 she was young — insisted that I was her sister, but having 
 married far beyond my class in life had deserted her, and 
 she now appealed to Mrs. Palmer to compel me to recognize 
 the close relationship. Mrs. Palmer did not believe one word 
 of it, but felt I should be told and all the correspondence 
 given to me. 
 
 The story was a pitiful one. The girl had once worked in 
 my father-in-law's family and had taken a liking to me. 
 After a while she came to believe that this liking she felt 
 for me was love and that I was her full-blooded sister. 
 I had in the meanwhile received many letters from her, 
 claiming the relationship. The end of the story was that 
 the girl was watched and found unsafe to be left at large, 
 for her letters soon became threatening to both Mrs. Palmer 
 and me. She was finally declared insane and was properly 
 placed to be cared for. 
 
 The association of the Potter Palmers and the Harrisons 
 went back many years. Once during the World's Fair in 
 1893, after a wonderful day of sightseeing, the guests of 
 Mayor Harrison dined in one of the large restaurants, dis- 
 cussing the wonders they had seen and expressing to their 
 host their pleasure and gratitude for the hospitality they 
 had received. The table resounded with much laughter at 
 humorous stories and much wit as the joyous party talked. 
 
 Among the diners was Potter Palmer, who was highly 
 amused at the stories to which he listened, and finally ven- 
 tured to tell one himself. He prefaced it by saying, "I am 
 not much of a story teller, but I had an experience on a 
 steamer on the high seas on my last trip that may amuse 
 you. We were sailing along quietly on a bright sunny day, 
 when a woman, quite perturbed, approached me, saying, 
 'Will you be kind enough to tell me what that dark streak 
 far over there along the horizon is?' 
 
 "I answered promptly, 'Why, it is land, Madam/ 
 
 " 'Oh, thank you/ she replied quite enthusiastically 'I am so 
 relieved to hear it, for I just asked another man and he told 
 me it was grease.' (Greece.)" 
 
 I know of no better story to close my recollections of Astor 
 Street than the legend of the unlucky "M's." 
 
" 'Strange To Say—" 95 
 
 It was quite fashionable in those days to go to the horse 
 show and afterwards to return home for a hot supper and 
 a cold bottle. I had had a box at the horse show and asked 
 some friends to join us and finish the evening. Among our 
 guests was Mr. Mysenburg, who lived in our block. 
 
 He was in gay spirits. As he raised his glass to drink 
 a toast, he said, "I start to California tomorrow. Drink to 
 my health in case you never see me again." 
 
 We drank his health laughingly, until he added, "Don't for- 
 get the ghost of Astor Street — and death may follow. Do 
 you realize I am the last M on the block?" 
 
 We were terrified, because for a year a peculiar thing had 
 been whispered — that that particular Astor block was fatal 
 for anyone whose name began with M. Mr. Martyn (Hazel 
 Lavery's father) died first, then Mr. May went, then within 
 six months George Meeker died. The young son of Mr. Mason 
 committed suicide. And so it was true that Mr. Mysenburg 
 was the last living M in the block ! 
 
 It was not a pleasant reminder to us, and we reproached 
 him for giving us that toast and tried to make light of it, 
 but it was a premonition. He never returned from Cali- 
 fornia. He died within two months of drinking that toast. 
 The nature of his death was never disclosed and his body 
 was not brought back to Chicago. He was a most gifted 
 and delightful personality and we all missed him terribly. 
 
 I have a drop of Irish blood in me somewhere, I am sure, 
 because had our name begun with an M I would never have 
 remained peacefully on that block. But we continued to live 
 there for twelve long years and nothing but good luck ever 
 came to us in that nice little house. One day I said to Father 
 Phelan of the Holy Name Cathedral, "Do convert my hus- 
 band." The facetious, red-haired Irishman replied, "The 
 Jesuits had him at Loyola for four years, failing to convert 
 him then ; I think he's beyond redemption." 
 
Chapter Six 
 
 The Gay Nineties 
 
 Wh 
 
 HEN Mrs. George Pullman used to re- 
 ceive at afternoon tea in the beautiful sunlighted crimson 
 room of her lovely old home on Prairie Avenue, I felt that no 
 one could have had a more charming setting. She was always 
 gracious and her guests were always loath to leave. We gen- 
 erally found Robert Lincoln there, sitting in quiet conversation 
 in his favorite corner on a comfortable sofa. Old friends 
 gathered many times a year at Mrs. Pullman's, for she was 
 the soul of hospitality. 
 
 Frequently we were asked to a quiet little dinner and then 
 taken to her box at the opera. Once, when I was trying 
 to be polite, I was quite properly put in my place by my 
 hostess. I was young and I had had proper instincts bred 
 into me in my youth; so as we entered her box and she 
 told me to take the front and most conspicuous place there, 
 I drew back saying, "Oh, Mrs. Pullman, let me sit further 
 back." She said, "You will sit exactly where you are told." 
 And I did. She was accustomed to being obeyed and she un- 
 hesitatingly proved her right to seat her guests. 
 
 It was in her home, of course, that I learned to admire 
 and to know her family, the gay and gifted Harriet and the 
 lovely Mrs. Frank Lowden. Our friendship with the dis- 
 tinguished governor of Illinois and his family began there 
 and has never failed, and I hope it never will. Our affection 
 for the Lowden family continues, and lovely Florence Lowden 
 Miller (the replica of her mother) is very dear to us. 
 
 Many a laugh I had later with the governor when I was 
 writing my fairy tales for my youngsters. He said to me 
 one day, "I certainly dread the day you publish a new fairy 
 
 96 
 
"Strange To Say—" 97 
 
 tale. Woe to me if I forget to bring that book home the day 
 it is published, and worse still, I have to bring one home 
 for each child. They refuse to be tied down to one. You 
 see, I am more interested in your husband's literature as 
 mayor, his messages to his council, but my family aren't. 
 They just drop Mr. Harrison's literature around anywhere. 
 I generally have to search for it, but yours — well, you are 
 popular in the Lowden family." I used to gloat over my 
 husband when the governor told me these things. 
 
 Chicago is mighty proud of the men she lent to Wash- 
 ington, and of others too. All of us well remember the his- 
 toric impasse which existed for so many days at the Repub- 
 lican convention while General Leonard Wood and Frank 0. 
 Lowden contended for the nomination for President. Chi- 
 cago came near to providing the next occupants of the 
 White House at this time, and personally I have always re- 
 gretted that the lovely, charming and gracious Mrs. Lowden 
 could not have been our first lady, a position she would 
 have filled so well. 
 
 Beautiful Prairie Avenue housed many other families of 
 distinction in the early nineties. Many intellectuals and many 
 music lovers dwelt within its narrow precincts. 
 
 The beautiful house built by the distinguished architect 
 Richardson was the home of the Glessners. I always admired 
 the buildings designed by Richardson. The one mentioned, 
 the Franklin McVeagh house on Lake Shore Drive, the 
 Charles Howard Library in New Orleans, my native city, 
 the Marshall Field wholesale house — these buildings were 
 always a joy to the eye. 
 
 The Glessners were great music lovers and their box at 
 the symphony — then the Thomas concerts — was never 
 empty. The hospitality of their home was proverbial. Beau- 
 tiful dinners and luncheons were frequent, and men and 
 women who were prominent in advancing the interests of 
 the city were always found there. The discussions touched 
 on civic affairs as well as books and music and the progress 
 in the world. One was always sure of an interesting hour at 
 the Glessner table. In those days I believe we were fonder 
 of arguments than we are today. At any rate, we did argue 
 
98 The Gay Nineties 
 
 a great deal, for all of us present were not always of the 
 same opinions, yet those arguments never led to disagree- 
 able disputes. 
 
 The Glessners were popular and their friends dropped in 
 from all parts of the world. I remember one of their guests 
 once caused me a little embarrassment. I was in the foyer 
 at Orchestra Hall in the intermission of the concert when 
 Mrs. Glessner stepped out with a man, saying, "Here is an 
 old friend of yours from California." 
 
 I greeted the man with pleasure, adding, "It was with 
 sorrow I read of your wife's death six months ago. You 
 were both so cordial to me in California, I felt a personal 
 loss in her death." 
 
 He answered, "Yes, her loss was a terrible one. We had 
 had a long and very happy life together, and it just seemed 
 impossible for me to adjust myself to her death." 
 
 While we were commiserating thus, the Glessner box 
 opened again and an extremely pretty young woman stepped 
 out smiling. The man took her by the arm, saying, "You 
 know I have married again and this is my wife." Can you 
 imagine my feelings? just try! 
 
 The Glessners were only one of the Chicago families which 
 made the Theodore Thomas concerts possible. From these 
 concerts stemmed Chicago's musical reputation and our pres- 
 ent-day symphony orchestra, led so brilliantly and so long 
 by Dr. Frederick Stock. Among the important patrons of 
 the Thomas concerts, besides the Glessners, were the Aldises, 
 the Henry Blairs, the Chauncey Keeps, the Hermann Pea- 
 bodys, the Charles Hamills, the Louis Laflins, and the Philo 
 Otises. All these patrons came forward generously, but I 
 think that the Bryan Lathrops were the most enthusiastic. 
 When Mr. Lathrop died he left a fortune to be given to the 
 concerts after his wife's death. 
 
 If there were space to recall the story of our brilliant 
 musical seasons, our opera and our concerts, the names of a 
 legion of Chicagoans would grace it. One woman, however, 
 I must mention — the late Mrs. Rockefeller McCormick, whose 
 benefactions were so far-reaching. Without her, Chicago might 
 never have had seasons of brilliant and beautiful opera. 
 
"Strange To Say — " 99 
 
 Because of the enormous expense connected always with the 
 production of opera, and the importation of high-priced for- 
 eign singers, the opera season could not be made a financial 
 success. But Mrs. McCormick never failed to guarantee the 
 annual deficit. She and Harold McCormick were magnificent. 
 They were the fairy godparents of the opera. No one ever can 
 dispute that. Except for them, who so bravely and generously 
 sponsored it, there would be no opera today. 
 
 Personally, Mrs. McCormick was a very brilliant woman 
 and greatly beloved by her friends. She was generous to a 
 fault, but believed that, if she helped others, they should 
 show gratitude in some way. She belonged to a certain cult 
 which exacted a return for services. If a man or woman 
 were too poor to pay, then some other act of gratitude was 
 asked. Mrs. McCormick practiced her profession and for 
 certain hours daily remained in her office like any professional. 
 
 She believed firmly in the transmigration of souls and de- 
 clared she had lived in a former life. For instance, one night 
 at her dinner table when I was describing our visit to Tutank- 
 hamen's tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, she in- 
 terrupted, saying, "How well you are describing what you 
 saw. It is all so vivid to me because I was Tutankhamen's 
 wife." 
 
 Can you imagine the consternation that followed her an- 
 nouncement? But she adhered to her statement and went 
 on to tell of many incidents in her life when she was the 
 Queen of Egypt. Now this sounds like an impossible state- 
 ment to be made by a normal woman, but Mrs. McCormick 
 was so brilliant, so learned, so well-informed that we could 
 only class her as normal. Yet she certainly clung to her be- 
 lief and very often referred to it in the most matter-of-fact 
 way. There is no question in the minds of her friends that, 
 though they declared their belief in her being normal, she 
 did possess certain idiosyncrasies. But with all of her pecu- 
 liarities, she had the kindliest spirit in the world and I never 
 heard of her making an unkind speech about anyone. 
 
 All the McCormick family has contributed largely to Chi- 
 cago's growth, and my contact with many of them gave me 
 pleasure. Mrs. Cyrus McCormick, the first wife, was a bride 
 
100 The Gay Nineties 
 
 when I was — we were married in the same year. She was a 
 radiant blonde and a fine friend. Her two sons, Cyrus, Jr., 
 and Gordon, were friends of my children, for my husband 
 and Cyrus were boys together. 
 
 Another member of the clan, Mrs. Hamilton McCormick, 
 an Englishwoman, endeared herself to Chicago from the first 
 moment of her arrival. Everyone loved her, and I often 
 thought that if a vote were taken at that time to choose the 
 most popular woman in Chicago, her name would have been 
 the one. 
 
 My husband and Hamilton McCormick carried on a friend- 
 ly feud from childhood, and whenever Mrs. McCormick want- 
 ed to create a laugh she asked me to tell the story. When the 
 boys were very young, Carter was playing in the yard. He 
 spied Hamilton sitting on the fence between the homes and 
 eating a saucer of ice cream. It was a hot day and young 
 Carter thought it would be nice of Hamilton to share the 
 ice cream with his boy friend, but Hamilton refused to give 
 him even a sip. And Carter then and there declared he would 
 get even with Hamilton some day, and ever after when he got 
 the chance, he referred to it. 
 
 Another McCormick, Chauncey, is president of the Art 
 Institute, and thus is carrying on the family tradition of 
 contributing to the cultural life of the city. His wife, Marion, 
 is the daughter of my own intimate and dear friend, Mrs. 
 Charles Deering. 
 
 In my tributes to those who have advanced our musical 
 life, I would not wish to omit the name of Samuel Insull. 
 Mr. InsulFs life story reads like a fairy tale. He possessed 
 the Midas touch; all his affairs prospered. Whatever he did 
 immediately brought him great returns; his stocks were 
 quoted daily, and he lived with the luxury of an emperor. 
 
 For various reasons my husband never bought a single 
 one of his investments, but that fact did not militate against 
 our personal liking for Mr. Insull. He had charm — none 
 who met him will ever deny that — and he did much for Chi- 
 cago. For years he and his tiny, exquisite wife were the 
 center of our social set. Young as she was at marriage, 
 Mrs. Insull had already attained popularity in several roles 
 
"Strange To Say — " 101 
 
 as an actress, and throughout her regimen in Chicago she 
 never refused to assist at any performance for charity. She 
 was a delight to the eye; her vivid coloring and her whole 
 appearance evidenced that she possessed fire and flame. Her 
 memory, for her roles was prodigious, and I assure you we 
 never ceased giving her the praise which was her just due. 
 
 Our social contacts always gave us pleasure. I remember 
 once at a luncheon table Mrs. Insull said to me suddenly, 
 "I hear you have been criticizing me." 
 
 "How?" I asked. 
 
 She said, "Well, you told someone I was a regular spitfire." 
 
 For a minute I was aghast! If I ever had made the re- 
 mark it was in a spirit of impulsiveness, and it certainly was 
 not nice of the woman who heard it to have repeated it. But 
 I recovered my presence of mind while Mrs. Insull was talk- 
 ing and replied, "Well, would you rather I had said you were 
 fire and flame?" 
 
 Her face changed into a smile as she answered, "Yes, I 
 would have much preferred that expression." 
 
 Thoroughly alive to all about her, Mrs. Insull was a bril- 
 liant woman, well matched to the man she had married. Noth- 
 ing escaped her; quick to see, quick to criticize, still she 
 was quick to understand and to forget. We were always 
 friends, and though we differed on many subjects, none re- 
 gretted her going more than I. 
 
 No matter what criticism is ever made of the Insulls, re- 
 member he went down with his ship. He never deserted it as 
 those Eastern financiers did. He believed he was telling the 
 public the truth when he said his ventures would all be 
 successful. And he proved this thoroughly when the crash 
 came, for his holdings and his wife's and his son's were all 
 in his ventures. They went down too. All who suffered in 
 his losses should remember that about him. Many of us who 
 knew him admired him even more in the days of his failure 
 than in his days of prosperity. 
 
 His son and grandson live here, as does Mrs. Insull. Of 
 course, she lives very differently now. In the past, when her 
 husband was considered almost an uncrowned king, she lived 
 in splendor. 
 
102 The Gay Nineties 
 
 But in spite of all the misfortune that has overtaken the 
 family, in spite of the tremendous loss of power and wealth, 
 there must be a satisfaction too in remembering and seeing 
 much that Samuel Insull left to Chicago. His love of music 
 made him generous in his gifts to assist it and his continuance 
 of the opera here after the Harold McCormicks resigned was 
 proof of his sincere love for it. He spared neither time nor 
 money and he continued the good work by building the Opera 
 House. Had he not come to Chicago's help at the crucial time 
 when it seemed that the opera simply could not continue, we 
 would have no opera today. 
 
 Many a young opera singer is glad of the chance Mr. In- 
 sull gave her to make good. I personally happen to know of 
 many a youngster he helped to success in other fields. He once 
 told me that a note from someone asking him to consider a 
 youngster and give him a chance was always given attention. 
 He tried always to grant the request. 
 
 "Alas," he continued, "most of those I place fail me. Not 
 up to what I expect, for I do expect hard work ; but occasion- 
 ally one pans out to perfection, like the one you sent me," and 
 he named the one. That boy went from one dollar a day to 
 the top. He is now one of the vice-presidents of a big cor- 
 poration, and I believe at a salary of more than twenty thou- 
 sand a year. 
 
 The boy I speak of, Francis Mettenet, certainly deserved 
 all the success he has attained, for he inherited great abil- 
 ity from his wonderful mother, Marie Mettenet. This woman 
 in her youth had been deserted by her husband and left with 
 an infant boy and a girl. Gifted and educated, a graduate of 
 the Sorbonne, she put her shoulder to the wheel and began 
 to gain her own living. I found out her capability and suc- 
 ceeded in placing her as French teacher in a private school 
 where she received a large salary. Many of the excellent 
 French scholars turned out from that splendid school owe 
 their knowledge of the language to her. She has earned 
 enough to live comfortably on her income and watch with 
 pride the fine position her son occupies today. 
 
 Her daughter, too, owes her success to the wonderful moth- 
 er who deprived herself through all those long, hard years 
 
"Strange To Say — " 103 
 
 of work to fit both her children for fine positions in life. The 
 daughter is now teaching French in a splendid school in 
 California. Madame lived with us many years and we, like 
 all the other friends who know her, appreciate her worth and 
 love her. 
 
 Chicago's art lovers have been as faithful as the devotees 
 of music. For instance, I could dwell on the gifts of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Frank Logan to the city. Mrs. Logan was a famous 
 beauty, but even in her youth she shared the serious in- 
 terests of her splendid husband, who loved to give and help 
 in all things pertaining to the progress of Chicago. 
 
 And who has contributed more to the interest of the Art 
 Institute than Mrs. James Ward Thorne with her exquisite 
 miniature rooms of early American Art? They are perfect 
 in detail and have been shown in many parts of the world 
 besides Chicago, and always acclaimed. Yes, Chicago has 
 much to be proud of in her women, who can stand beside the 
 truly great men of this city. 
 
 Who did more in her life for art than Kate Buckingham? 
 How generous she was and how modest! Even with a well 
 filled purse, she oftentimes sacrificed a bit of personal com- 
 fort to do something she wished for the public. Once in- 
 terested in what she thought would be a public benefit, she 
 denied herself to make it a success. 
 
 We know well of one young musician who could never 
 have gone to the top in opera — as he has done — without 
 her aid. She gave him European training for the stage, and 
 afterwards watched his success with intense pride. Her face 
 was aglow with pleasure whenever he sang here at the opera. 
 The Buckingham Fountain, which was a gift from her, gives 
 Chicago such pleasure. Who ever sees it playing, with its 
 millions of crystal drops flashing in the sunlight or beneath 
 the magical electric lights, but breathes a prayer of gratitude 
 to the woman who made Chicago this splendid gift? 
 
 And with it all she was so modest — the following story 
 illustrates it. As all this city knows, she had given mag- 
 nificent gifts to the Art Institute. Had she never given any- 
 where else except to the Art Institute, her name would go 
 down in our history as a benefactor's. 
 
104 The Gay Nineties 
 
 Miss Buckingham frequently spent hours at the institute 
 and sometimes went into the basement for lunch. There it 
 is customary to get a card as you go in, have it punched as 
 you pick up food, and then when you finish pay for it all 
 at the cashier's desk. Well, one day she picked up a cup of 
 tea and a roll — all she wanted. She had forgotten to take 
 a ticket as she passed in and no one noticed her. When ready 
 to leave she approached the cashier to pay for her tea and 
 roll. The girl looked at her in astonishment and asked for 
 the ticket. On being told she had none, the cashier said, "And 
 you expect me to take your word for the fact you had nothing 
 else to eat? How do I know you are telling me the truth? 
 How do I know you are not just cheating the house out of a 
 dollar or more?" 
 
 Gravely, Miss Buckingham received the reprimand and 
 apologized for not sticking to the rules. Finally the cashier 
 reluctantly accepted the amount Miss Buckingham offered, 
 but added, "Never do such a thing again. I really ought not 
 to let you go out of this room without a more thorough in- 
 vestigation of what you have eaten." 
 
 I wonder what that girl would have thought if she had 
 known that the woman she was abusing had just given the 
 city a million-dollar fountain. But the truly great are always 
 modest, aren't they? And then, too, a sense of humor saves 
 us. Miss Buckingham told this story with delight. 
 
 The Arthur Eddys were another couple who loved art and 
 music. Both were personally most agreeable, and were gen- 
 erous in entertaining in their home. Mr. Eddy had been 
 painted by Whistler and modeled in bronze by Rodin, but he 
 went modern in art. He bought the "Nude Descending the 
 Stairs" and was a great collector of modernistic paintings. 
 He created quite a furor in the world of art, and for a time 
 his name was prominent in any art discussion. Mr. Eddy was 
 really ahead of his time ; for today many of his once radical 
 paintings hang in the Art Institute. He was an able lawyer 
 too, and he wrote a book on law that was used as a textbook 
 at Harvard. Besides all this, his novels and plays were quite 
 the vogue. 
 
 Many of my recollections of the Marshall Field family seem 
 
"Strange To Say — " 105 
 
 to be connected with weddings. Chronologically, the first of 
 these was the elopement of Preston Gibson with Minna Field, 
 a niece of the department-store king. Preston was twenty- 
 one, Minna was seventeen and in school in New York. I had 
 been married some years when this elopement occurred, but 
 never shall I forget it. 
 
 My husband and I were dining with Marshall Field that 
 night at one of his brilliant dinners. Young as I was, I was 
 taken in by Mr. Field and placed on his right because of 
 etiquette — my husband was mayor of Chicago. I noticed 
 that Mr. Field was distinctly worried and I guessed the cause. 
 He had just had the news of the elopement. Being a bit 
 fussed at his apparent absorption, I began imprudently, 
 "I see you are trying to get into our family again." 
 
 He turned quickly and flashed back, "Have you any con- 
 nection with this marriage?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "Preston Gibson is a cousin of my 
 husband." 
 
 "Well," he replied, "that is the first good thing I have 
 heard of him." 
 
 My remark had been prompted by the fact that just a 
 few weeks before A. 0. Slaughter's only daughter had been 
 married to Wentworth Field. The Slaughters were my rela- 
 tives. 
 
 Preston and Minna Gibson spent their early married life 
 here and I saw much of them. Once when Mrs. Richardson 
 of New Orleans — for whose husband Preston's brother, 
 Richardson, was named — and Edith Longfellow, daughter 
 of the poet, stopped between trains and dined with us, I 
 asked Minna and Preston to meet them. 
 
 Preston was a great mimic and that night at the table, I 
 am sorry to say, he kept us in peals of laughter by his re- 
 marks. Mrs. Richardson was very deaf, and though he was 
 really devoted to her, he would say things about her which 
 were irresistible ; fortunately she could not hear them. 
 
 The son of Preston Gibson and Minna Field took his 
 mother's maiden name and is now known as Henry Field, and 
 with his charming second wife is living here. Chicago is 
 proud of the splendid work he is doing for the Natural His- 
 
106 The Gay Nineties 
 
 tory Museum. 
 
 The second wedding I recall vividly in this connection was 
 that of Ethel, Marshall Field's only daughter, to Arthur Tree, 
 the son of Lambert Tree. They had one son who afterwards 
 married the widow of his cousin, Henry Field. They live in 
 Virginia. Ethel was one of the most beautiful girls Chicago 
 ever had, but she was only seventeen when she was mar- 
 ried. Can you wonder that the marriage did not last? I re- 
 member thinking, as I watched her in her wedding dress, 
 "What a pity she is so young !" After the separation she 
 married Earl Beatty of England, and left two other sons by 
 him. 
 
 One of the most charming members of the group associated 
 with the Fields was Mrs. Dibblee, sister of the elder Mrs. 
 Marshall Field and mother of Mrs. Sprague. Mrs. Dibblee's 
 charm was not only in her physical beauty, although she was 
 one of the loveliest women I ever saw, but also in the life 
 she led. She was beloved by all who knew her and her char- 
 acter was written plainly on her lovely face. I value the 
 times when she and I would meet on walks in Lincoln Park 
 and finish our strolls together. 
 
 A beautiful stone house built by the Bordens stands on Lake 
 Shore Drive. And I have often thought that if the walls 
 of that old house could speak, they could tell many a tale 
 which would fit into the social history of the city. Its first 
 chatelaine, a gentle and serious-minded woman, was especial- 
 ly cordial to me when I came here as a bride. She had known 
 the family into which I married many years, and so her 
 friendly feeling for me was quite natural. Soon after my 
 marriage, she invited me to lunch and I arrived to find about 
 a dozen women gathered in her spacious rooms with their 
 then unobstructed view of the blue lake. 
 
 After greetings and introductions were made and before 
 lunch was announced, Mrs. Borden said: "Oh, Mrs. Har- 
 rison, do you know the great physician?" 
 
 Now it happened that I had just returned from a doctor's 
 office where I had consulted him on a minor ailment, and so 
 I replied quickly, "Indeed, I do; I have been talking with 
 him." 
 
"Strange To Say — " 107 
 
 "And what did he say?" she queried. 
 
 "Oh, he told me I was in splendid condition, and that I 
 need not come again for days." 
 
 "I am surprised at that advice," she continued. "You should 
 call upon him many times daily." 
 
 "I'm afraid he would be too busy to receive me," I re- 
 plied, "and besides, I don't believe my pocketbook would al- 
 low it." 
 
 "Of whom are you speaking?" 
 
 "Why, Dr. Frank Billings," I answered. 
 
 She said, "I meant of course the Great Physician on High." 
 
 For a moment I was too embarrassed to reply. Then she 
 turned to the women saying, "Let us kneel in prayer before 
 going to the dining room." And we all did ! 
 
 Now this may sound strange, but it seems that Mrs. Bor- 
 den belonged to a school or cult of which, I afterwards 
 learned, many of my friends were also members. It was her 
 idea that in this way she could convert many to her belief, 
 and not knowing I had any special faith she had given me 
 this opportunity to embrace hers. But once learning that a 
 friend had a religious belief, she never intruded again. 
 
 All this was long before her two children, John and Mary, 
 had taken their places in the great world. Mary married an 
 Englishman, a Mr. Turner, and following her divorce from 
 him became the wife of General Edward Louis Spears of the 
 British army. Her life in London has been very full, and we 
 have read her novels with a deep pleasure, the deeper be- 
 cause we knew her when she was a child. 
 
 John, too, has had an interesting and colorful life, and 
 he himself greatly increased the fortune he inherited. In the 
 midtwenties, when he had the yacht Northern Light built for 
 the now famous exploring expedition to Arctic Wrangel 
 Island, he was considered one of the richest young men in 
 town. Mr. and Mrs. Rochester Slaughter went on that trip, 
 and Mrs. Slaughter killed the huge Kodiak bear that is now 
 at the Field Museum. That was after his marriage to Court- 
 ney Letts Still well (now the wife of the ambassador from the 
 Argentine, Senor Felipe de Espil), following his divorce 
 from his first wife, the present Mrs. John Alden Carpenter, 
 
108 The Gay Nineties 
 
 who was Ellen Waller, daughter of the pioneer James Wal- 
 lers, and member of a clan which has left its imprint on 
 Chicago history. She makes her home in the great gray stone 
 mansion built by the William Bordens, with her second hus- 
 band, Mr. Carpenter (another descendant of a famous Chi- 
 cago family) , although I believe the house is now the property 
 of her two Borden daughters, Mrs. Robert Pirie and Mrs. 
 Adlai Stevenson. 
 
 The presidential election in November, 1948 left the world 
 breathless with surprise. The Republicans were confident, 
 but President Truman walked in in a victory that was truly 
 amazing. For many reasons, his brilliant victory brought 
 gladness to us. For the man who was elected governor of 
 Illinois, Adlai Stevenson, is a close relative of mine and his 
 wife is a cousin of my husband's. So we are still carrying 
 on our Democratic promise to be true to our party. 
 
 The Stevenson family is famous in Illinois history. The 
 first Adlai Stevenson — the governor's grandfather — was 
 vice-president of the United States under Grover Cleveland. 
 The governor undoubtedly remembers what my husband's 
 paper did for his grandfather when he was nominated for 
 that high honor. Vice-President Stevenson was married to 
 my mother's cousin. And the present Mrs. Adlai Stevenson, 
 as I have said, is the daughter of John Borden and his first 
 wife, Ethel Waller Borden, and the Wallers are my husband's 
 relatives. 
 
 Indeed our ties with the Stevensons are many. The gov- 
 ernor's great-aunt (the sister of his grandmother and so 
 also a cousin of my mother's) was Mrs. Matthew Scott, the 
 longtime president of the D.A.R. Those two sisters were al- 
 ways held in affectionate regard by me, their kinswoman, 
 and because of the relationship I have followed with warm 
 interest the lives of their descendants. 
 
 One of Mrs. Scott's daughters married Carl Vrooman, and 
 with him has done much religious work, which led to their 
 affiliation with the Oxford Movement in England and in this 
 country. Another daughter married a distinguished army 
 officer, Charles Bromwell. Mrs. Bromwell has visited us many 
 times, and I often returned her visits in Honolulu, where her 
 
"Strange To Say — " 109 
 
 husband was stationed for many years. Their son Scott mar- 
 ried Mari Smith, granddaughter of Byron Smith and daughter 
 of Solomon Smith, the banker. 
 
 On my first visit to Chicago, in my teens, I fell heir to 
 love for the Byron Smiths. They were dear friends of my 
 cousins, the Arthur Slaughters, and were like members of 
 the family. Ever since I have loved the Smith sons and their 
 wives. Always we have been intimate friends, and after my 
 young cousin Scott Bromwell married the Byron Smiths' 
 granddaughter Mari the intimacy became even more pro- 
 nounced. Scott Bromwell is, like his cousin Adlai Steven- 
 son, a Lake Forester. 
 
 Scott's beautiful sister Mildred married the youngest offi- 
 cer in the British navy, Sir Sydney Bailey, commander of 
 the Hood and later an admiral. Though Sir Sydney was not 
 aboard the Hood when she was destroyed by the Germans, 
 her loss hastened his death, which occurred soon after. Lady 
 Bailey has continued to live in England since her husband's 
 death, and both her children are being educated there. The 
 title in the Bailey family belonged to her husband's eldest 
 brother, but the present king bestowed a new title on Mildred's 
 husband. Lady Bailey and her mother, Mrs. Bromwell, are 
 both in America at present and attended Governor Steven- 
 son's inauguration. 
 
 Adlai's sister, Mrs. Ernest L. Ives, whose husband's work 
 in the diplomatic service has taken her to many countries 
 to live, is, I hear, back to live permanently in America with 
 her husband and family, now that he has retired, after thirty 
 years, from the service. They will spend most of their time 
 on their South Carolina farm at Southern Pines. Thus Mrs. 
 Ives has come the whole cycle, back to the South whence her 
 grandmother, who was Miss Letitia Green of Kentucky, came 
 originally. 
 
 Governor Stevenson's connection with the Smiths of Lake 
 Forest will strengthen his hold on Chicago, for the dis- 
 tinguished Smiths of the Northern Trust Bank are held in 
 great respect by all. And in mentioning the Smiths I cannot 
 refrain from naming a member of the firm, one of its vice- 
 presidents, Charles M. Nelson. He is receptive and so co- 
 
110 The Gay Nineties 
 
 operative — a most capable and efficient member of the bank, 
 and one to whom I am very grateful for the many favors 
 he has done for me and my husband. Many a time he has 
 straightened out a snarl of some kind and helped us to con- 
 tinue our amicable relations with the bank. 
 
 Both the James Wallers, parents of Mrs. Carpenter, and 
 the J. Robert Wallers were intimate friends of ours. J. Rob- 
 ert Waller was comptroller under my husband. His wife 
 was a Kentuckian and was much loved. James Waller and 
 his wife were equally welcome at our house, and we saw much 
 of them. 
 
 Down on Bayou La Fourche where I was born the sugar 
 plantation is still owned by members of my uncle's family, 
 Judge Beattie. Judge Beattie often sent me the delicious 
 syrups he made and the brown sugar I was so fond of. The 
 planters, of course, make different grades of syrup, from 
 thick molasses to the very delicate sirop de batrie. All of 
 these are delicious on the breakfast table with hot griddle 
 cakes. Some of them never get farther than one day's travel 
 because they are too perishable. The one the planters keep 
 for themselves is called cuite and is a thick and especially 
 delectable syrup, but if kept over thirty-six hours it turns 
 into sugar. I could never have the cuite I liked so well sent 
 to me here, but I often did get the sirop de batrie and always 
 regarded it as especially fine. 
 
 One Christmas a small keg of this delicious syrup arrived. 
 I made up my mind to share it with a few particular friends 
 and, filling a half-dozen quart bottles, I wrapped them and 
 tied with pretty ribbons, and sent them around. All liked the 
 gift and wrote me in praise of it. Mrs. Potter Palmer said, 
 "Rarely have we had anything more delicious on our break- 
 fast table," and others wrote equally nice notes ; but the note 
 that capped the climax came from Mrs. James Waller. 
 
 Mrs. Waller wrote : "You are a friend indeed. James has 
 been ill with an awful cold for a long time. Nothing helped 
 his terrible cough. All medicines failed, and we were in 
 despair. Finally your welcome bottle arrived. He took the 
 syrup faithfully for four days. And now he has no cough! 
 Can you imagine how grateful we are for your thought of 
 
"Strange To Say — " 111 
 
 us?" 
 
 At the time of our son Carter's wedding to the daughter 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cook of Trenton, New Jersey, the 
 Wallers decided it would be a nice time to give a house party 
 at their summer home at Coolidge Point in Maine. We were, 
 of course, to be in the East for our son's wedding, and the 
 Wallers were nice enough to want us at their house party, 
 which was to be given in honor of President and Mrs. Wilson. 
 Mr. Waller had been a college chum of the President, and the 
 party at Coolidge Point was to be a reunion. 
 
 Months in advance the party was planned, and all the 
 guests accepted with alacrity. It was a pleasure and an 
 honor to receive the invitation to meet one's President and 
 his wife. But one cannot always count on the future. We were 
 in the midst of the festivities of our son's wedding when the 
 news of Mrs. Wilson's death reached us. She had been ill 
 for many months, but her death had not been expected. Of 
 course the President canceled his acceptance of the Waller in- 
 vitation but the Wallers insisted that all the other guests 
 come, and we went. 
 
 At the dinner table one night I sat next to the son of 
 the poet Longfellow and was delighted at the opportunity 
 to clear up a long-disputed question between my husband and 
 myself. It was this. When I was an infant Longfellow wrote 
 a tiny verse and I was told it was written for me : 
 "She who comes to me and pleadeth 
 In the lovely name of Edith 
 Will not fail for what is wanted. 
 Edith means the Blessed; therefore 
 All that she may wish or care for 
 Will when best for her be granted." 
 This verse had been sent to my grandmother by Long- 
 fellow's sister, Mrs. Greenleaf of Boston, who was my grand- 
 mother's — Frances Nicholson's — roommate at school and 
 remained her lifelong friend. Mrs. Greenleaf wrote, "This 
 verse is written for your little granddaughter Edith." Now 
 Longfellow had a daughter Edith and therefore my Doubting 
 Thomas of a husband disputed the story. Well, Mr. Long- 
 fellow reassured me that night and told me the verse was 
 
112 The Gay Nineties 
 
 written for me. 
 
 We were also invited frequently to the beautiful Riverside 
 home of the E. C. Wallers. It impressed me for many reasons. 
 Frist, their hospitality was always acclaimed, and second, 
 those who ate their Sunday dinners could never forget them. 
 Such white asparagus, mushrooms, strawberries and broiled 
 chicken were never surpassed anywhere. And, of course, 
 all these things were raised on the Waller place. No one ever 
 refused an invitation unless he had a previous engagement, 
 and then the Wallers were generous enough to repeat the in- 
 vitation. Those dinners seemed to be an epoch in the lives 
 of people fortunate enough to be included in the list of friends. 
 
 This home on the Des Plaines River, with its glorious trees, 
 flowering roses and softest of green grass, was always at 
 its best during the spring and summer just when the delicious 
 white asparagus was ripening. One always met many friends 
 there, for the enormous dinner table was generally set for 
 from twenty to fifty. 
 
 I remember going there once with Mr. and Mrs. Henry Rob- 
 bins, he a famous lawyer and she one of our loveliest and 
 most gifted women. President of the Fortnightly and the 
 Colonial Dames, two most aristocratic clubs, she was an honor 
 to all of us, and I often sat enraptured just watching her 
 preside so gracefully at the many public functions her im- 
 portant positions entailed. 
 
 Today the four daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Robbins are 
 carrying on the graceful tradition of their parents; for 
 Mrs. Hopkins — whose first marriage was with a boy I loved 
 and whose parents I admired, Kenneth Goodman, a boy des- 
 tined for big things in the literary world but who gave up 
 his life in the service of his country and died in the late 
 war — is one of our bright young society women. Mrs. Frank 
 Hibbard, who has been president of the fashionable Casino, 
 is as able and as lovely as her sister. Mrs. Isaac was the titian- 
 haired Isabel Robbins. And the lovely baby of the family is 
 the charming Mrs. William Odell, Jr. 
 
 Southerners are quick to claim relationship, and I am 
 proud to call two lovely women in this city my cousins — the 
 Withers girls, Mrs. Clive Runnells and Mrs. Laurence Ar- 
 
"Strange To Say —" 113 
 
 mour. Both are dear to me. I see more perhaps of Mrs. Ar- 
 mour, as she lives in Lake Forest. Laurence Armour has a 
 right to be proud of his beautiful wife and fine son. 
 
 Strange that my knowing the Cudahy family — the packers 
 of Chicago — and my affection for two of them, Miss Mary 
 Cudahy and her sister, began in California. My husband, then 
 mayor of Chicago, telegraphed me that orders from the White 
 House had come to him to entertain the Archbishop of Tra- 
 janapolis. As the archbishop was in Pasadena, I was told 
 to entertain him. The Misses Cudahy and their mother came 
 at once to my rescue and stood with me at the reception I 
 gave the Archbishop. With them too stood other friends — 
 Mrs. Alphonso Taft and Mrs. William Edwards, the mother 
 and sister of President William Howard Taft, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Arthur Eddy of Chicago. The marriage of Florence 
 Cudahy to Vaughn Spalding accentuated my affection, and 
 since then many others of the Cudahy clan have commanded 
 my admiration. 
 
 And among all these friends, from Mrs. Pullman to the 
 many Wallers, I am proud to include one who became per- 
 haps the most intimate with my husband, a man who, un- 
 like many of the families I have mentioned, arrived in Chi- 
 cago with only a few dollars in his pocket and by sheer abil- 
 ity rose to the very top. He is Oscar F. Mayer, now one of 
 the big packers, with plants in Chicago and in Madison, Wis- 
 consin. His Wisconsin plant is even larger than the one in 
 Chicago. He is today probably one of the most prominent 
 Americans of German extraction in the city. Chicago is 
 proud of him, and we are proud of our friendship with him 
 and his delightful family. 
 
 His daughters have married Americans, one of them being 
 the fine pianist, Edward Collins. His son, Oscar G. Mayer, 
 has followed in the footsteps of his distinguished father. 
 Oscar G. Mayer has been president of the Packers Association 
 and is a trustee of the University of Illinois. 
 
 We have had many delightful German-born friends, for 
 Chicago is the third-largest German city in the world. All 
 of our German friends are staunch Americans, devoted to 
 this country where freedom reigns, and it is with genuine 
 
114 The Gay Nineties 
 
 pride we count upon them. Among those we hold especially 
 dear are the Eitels, of restaurant fame. Six of these young 
 men came over to make a fortune and in accomplishing that 
 have become classed among our best citizens. Robert and 
 Emil Eitel often show us, in some fine program in one of 
 their restaurant shows, pictures of the old Germany we were 
 all fond of. Our late postmaster, Ernest Kruetgen, and his hand- 
 some musical wife are other Germans of whom we are proud, 
 and there are many more of the same kind in this big city. 
 
 The secrets of the two world wars have been written so 
 frequently that I shall only dwell upon them lightly in bring- 
 ing my book up to date. In our sixty-one years of life to- 
 gether we have lived through two wars. Although when the 
 First World War broke out my husband was quite along in 
 his fifties and had done a big work in this city in his five 
 mayoralty terms, he felt the urge of duty and determined 
 to give all his time and energies to his country in its great 
 emergency. 
 
 Mr. Harrison accepted the Red Cross offer to take charge 
 of their hospitals in Toul, France, as a captain. He paid all 
 his own expenses and besides contributed largely to the or- 
 ganization. He refused all higher jobs to remain with the 
 doughboys and the girls at Toul, and his book shows the 
 marvelous work he accomplished in France. It gives evidence 
 of the fine efficiency he was able to maintain. His crowded 
 hospitals were splendidly run, and letters from all over the 
 United States, England and France testify to what he 
 achieved. Anyone who is interested in the Red Cross and its 
 splendid work in World War I has only to read the book in 
 which he describes it. 
 
 My husband returned after the war just in time for the 
 birth of our oldest grandson, Cyrus E. Manierre, Jr., who 
 did his bit in the Second World War. Cyrus graduated from 
 West Point in 1942 and at the age of twenty-four was made 
 a lieutenant colonel and assigned special work in France. He 
 accomplished much before he was taken prisoner by the Ges- 
 tapo. Our daughter's second son, William R. Manierre II, 
 arrived in the world nearly four years after his brother. 
 He left Yale suddenly at less than eighteen to enter the war. 
 
"Strange To Say — " 115 
 
 He made remarkable records in the examinations for the 
 flying corps, was soon accepted as a flyer and was in the 
 midst of the war on D-Day, when he was nineteen. William 
 has the Distinguished Flying Cross. Like all our brave boys, 
 my grandsons have asked me not to mention what they did 
 nor the honors bestowed on them, and I am trying to respect 
 their wishes. Both boys came home and are happily married. 
 William is the father of a glorious boy, now eight months old. 
 A very remarkable thing happened to these two boys in 
 the war. We considered it an epic. The story came over the 
 radio on Christmas night. We had received news that both 
 boys were missing — taken prisoner by the Germans at differ- 
 ent places — and we believed them dead. On Christmas night 
 Germany reported her success to the world via radio. The 
 speaker said: "We are winning the war, and in reporting 
 this I will tell you a curious thing that happened today. We 
 had stopped for lunch, and two trainloads of prisoners were 
 in the dining room for the meal. Suddenly we thought wild 
 Indians had broken loose. One of the prisoner officers rose 
 from his table shouting, 'I see my brother at the next table/ 
 and immediately the two young men fell into an embrace. It 
 was the first time they had met during the war. The names 
 of these two young men are — " How we thrilled as he pro- 
 nounced those dear names! It seemed a Christmas gift from 
 on high. The sight of the brothers' meeting, the German an- 
 nouncer continued, was so touching that the tenderhearted 
 Germans decided not to separate them. And so the two boys, 
 who had been destined for different prisons, were put into the 
 same prison, and for ten months shared captivity. 
 
Chapter Seven 
 Presidents and Others 
 
 I 
 
 .T HAS been my good fortune to have 
 known nine presidents, and to have been associated with some 
 of them in their informal moments. Two of these, Presidents 
 Hayes and Grant, I was presented to in my childhood. During 
 the senior Mr. Harrison's mayoralty, I was privileged to meet 
 Grover Cleveland and our kinsman, Benjamin Harrison. Later 
 I was to know Presidents William McKinley and Theodore 
 Roosevelt, and in more recent years, Woodrow Wilson, William 
 Howard Taft and Franklin D. Roosevelt. 
 
 I am a Harrison only by courtesy, but I love the clan and 
 they have accepted me on the same terms. President Ben- 
 jamin Harrison's daughter, Mrs. James McKee, was a beauti- 
 ful girl, and after my marriage we were very intimate. She 
 was popular and was always treated with distinction wher- 
 ever she went. Her father and great-grandfather had both 
 served as Presidents of the United States. 
 
 Once while visiting her in New York we were lunching 
 with some of her acquaintances. Mary McKee was seated at 
 the hostess' right, while Mrs. Gary, the wife of the head of 
 the U. S. Steel Corporation, was at the hostess' left. 
 
 Mrs. Gary said, "Mrs. McKee, do give me your address. 
 I am going to call on you." 
 
 The reply came, "I live at such and such a number west 
 of the Park." The Park divides east and west in New York 
 City. East is high-priced and west less expensive. 
 
 Mrs. Gary said, "Oh, you live west of the Park. I never 
 have known any one on the west side." 
 
 Quick as a flash came Mrs. McKee's answer : "Well, strange 
 to say, my ancestors were too busy making history ever to 
 make money." 
 
 116 
 
"Strange To Say — " 117 
 
 I thought that a pretty good comeback. We have never 
 known of a very rich Harrison, though I have never heard 
 of a pauper either. When Mary's father died, he left under 
 $75,000, which is hardly considered a fortune. 
 
 President McKinley my husband and I received when he 
 came to Chicago, accompanied (as always) by Mrs. McKinley, 
 to whom he never failed to show the utmost devotion. As 
 all the world knows, Mrs. McKinley's health gradually de- 
 clined after the birth of their only child (who did not live) , 
 and as the years passed she became less and less the com- 
 panion whom every great man in public life so greatly needs. 
 Nevertheless, to the end of his life, he showed her an unfail- 
 ing devotion and usually took her with him wherever he went. 
 Her broken mind, doubtless still upon her own child, caused 
 her to say to me pathetically, "I am not glad to see you be- 
 cause you have not brought your children." 
 
 Later came the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo at 
 which it had been planned that Chicago should be represented. 
 Mr. Harrison and I were ready to go East when the news 
 came that the President had been assassinated. I have al- 
 ways liked to remember President McKinley, perhaps not so 
 much as a splendid statesman and dignitary, but as a devoted 
 husband and a charming family man. 
 
 His fate recalls an association with another martyred Pres- 
 ident, an incident which was perhaps the most embarassing 
 of my life. At the time, I was staying in California with 
 my son, who was ill. I cannot say what the reason was, but 
 I had been literally beset with people coming to the door 
 asking for help. They became so annoying that at last it got 
 on my nerves. I had only one maid. Many of the household 
 tasks therefore devolved upon me. 
 
 One morning when I had already answered the bell per- 
 haps a dozen times it rang again. Stepping to the door, I saw 
 two women dressed in deep mourning. Thinking that they 
 had come for the same purpose, I said somewhat petulantly, 
 "Well, who are you, and what do you wish?" 
 
 The memory of that moment is still overwhelming. A gen- 
 tle voice replied, "I am Mrs. James A. Garfield [the widow of 
 our slain President] and I have merely come to call upon 
 
118 Presidents And Others 
 
 you!" 
 
 When I had apologized profusely she assured me that she 
 understood and was not offended. But when anybody asks 
 me about my most embarrassing moment I have no difficulty 
 whatsoever in remembering it. 
 
 That she forgave me and became my friend ever after was 
 evidenced that winter when she received with me at a recep- 
 tion I gave for a distinguished prelate from Portugal, the 
 Archbishop of Trajanapolis, who was in this country on an 
 important mission for the Catholic Church, bringing letters 
 asking that he be received with honor. The President of the 
 United States entertained him in Washington and many others 
 followed suit. 
 
 At the reception I gave, besides Mrs. Garfield, the mother of 
 a future President stood with me — Mrs. Alphonse Taft, 
 mother of William Howard Taft. Her daughter, Mrs. William 
 A. Edwards of Los Angeles, helped me to receive, too. 
 
 Our relations and religion are given us at birth ; our friends 
 we choose for ourselves, irrespective of politics or religion. 
 
 Through the Edwards family, we came to know the Tafts 
 and to enjoy a long friendship with them. It came about this 
 way. As a child, our son Carter was frail in health, and each 
 year I went with him to California. A search for the best 
 medical adviser resulted in the selection of Dr. Edwards, whose 
 wife was the only sister of President Taft. At the Edwards' 
 house I met also the future President's mother, then getting 
 along in years, and on several occasions I brought her back 
 with me to her home when I was returning to Chicago. 
 
 Mr. Taft was just then beginning to be talked about as a 
 presidential possibility, and on one of these trips I said to his 
 mother, "You have just as great a son in the West as you have 
 in the East" — a remark which pleased her very much. We 
 have always regarded Dr. Edwards as a miracle man, remem- 
 bering the restored health of our son. 
 
 During the campaign when Mr. Taft was elected, I was once 
 more in California. The Democrats had again put up their 
 favorite son, William Jennings Bryan, and back in Chicago 
 my husband was campaigning for him with all his might. A 
 great deal of joking and badinage passed between the Ed- 
 
"Strange To Say —" 119 
 
 wardses and myself during these weeks. One day when my 
 daughter Edith and I were spending a week with them, Dr. 
 Edwards said, "If Carter Harrison doesn't stop talking I know 
 how we can get even with him. We'll just poison his wife and 
 daughter !" 
 
 At last the campaign came to a close. I was back at my hotel 
 in Pasadena when the news came that Mr. Taft had been 
 elected. I was pondering what I should say to the Edwardses 
 about his success when there came a knock at the door and a 
 telegram was handed in. It was from them, and it read : "Aw- 
 fully sorry your Bill was not elected. Powerful glad ours 
 was!" 
 
 One more episode concerning President Taft must be re- 
 corded. Each year the Irish Fellowship Club of Chicago gives 
 a dinner and ball which is attended by all the prominent peo- 
 ple of Irish descent who live here and at which the speaker is 
 always someone of national or international repute. 
 
 On this occasion the speaker was President Taft. I was se- 
 lected to lead the ball with him. After his election he had sent 
 me a splendid picture of himself, on which he had written, 
 "To my mother's friend, my sister's friend, my friend." I 
 cherished it highly, so much so that when President Taft came 
 to Chicago I told him that I had spent every cent of my allow- 
 ance, past, present and to come, for a beautiful frame in which 
 to place it, and I invited him to have lunch with me the next 
 day that he might see it. 
 
 Without a flicker of change on his countenance he assured 
 me solemnly that it would be impossible. It was imperative 
 that he return immediately to Washington. Somewhat crest- 
 fallen, I took my place with him at the dinner table. When the 
 President was introduced he began by saying : "I never could 
 understand why you Chicagoans just keep on electing and re- 
 electing Carter Harrison as your mayor. Tonight, for the first 
 time, I have learned the truth. It is because of his Irish wife !" 
 
 There was a roar of laughter, of course, and when it had 
 subsided, he turned to me and said, "You see, Mrs. Harrison, 
 you are not the only one who has kissed the Blarney stone!" 
 
 And it was true, for he had a quick and acute wit. One day 
 I referred to some event in his career, saying, "It was at the 
 
120 Presidents And Others 
 
 time of your first nomination." Quick as a flash he replied, 
 "Mrs. Harrison, that is the only nomination I ever mention." 
 Which was, after all, a pleasant way to hide his disappointment 
 at his defeat by Woodrow Wilson after his second nomination. 
 
 President Taft's secretary of war was a Chicagoan and a 
 good friend of purs, Jacob McGavick Dickinson. A native of 
 Mississippi, he was graduated from Columbus College, in Ten- 
 nessee, and did postgraduate work in law in Germany and 
 France. A strong Democrat, he was Cleveland's choice for at- 
 torney general, and later acted as counsel for the Illinois Cen- 
 tral and the Louisville and Nashville railroads. It was the 
 latter connection which brought him to Chicago to live. 
 
 Mr. Taft heard Judge Dickinson argue in the federal courts 
 and was greatly impressed with his learning. For that reason 
 he took the unusual step of inviting a Democrat into his cabinet. 
 
 Judge Dickinson, his charming wife and three sons — John, 
 Henry, and McGavick, Jr. — soon found a place in Chicago 
 society. With all the hospitality for which the South is noted, 
 their home soon became a favorite rendezvous for their friends. 
 Everyone loved this fine couple. Both became members of our 
 little euchre club on the north side. 
 
 Mrs. Dickinson in the kindness of her heart believed that 
 good food kept one happy, and she practiced what she preached, 
 for many a time when I was obliged to go to California on 
 account of the health of Carter, Jr., her basket of fried chicken 
 and corn dodgers, which always awaited us at the train, de- 
 lighted the children and the grownups. 
 
 Judge Dickinson was the most genial of hosts and delighted 
 in telling countless stories with a fine touch of humor. We 
 often wondered where he gleaned so many and how his re- 
 markable memory retained them, because he seldom repeated 
 his stories. 
 
 Mr. Dickinson hesitated before accepting the high honor 
 of Secretary of War, because he was not possessed of much of 
 the world's goods and living in Washington was expensive. 
 Somehow, honest politicians never do attain wealth. He held 
 a family consultation as to what his reply should be. He had 
 been accustomed to contribute largely to the support of certain 
 members of his family, and said frankly that his contribution 
 
"Strange To Say — " 121 
 
 would have to stop if he went to Washington, for it would take 
 all he had to live there properly. The family's advice, however, 
 was unanimous in urging his acceptance. They all felt he could 
 not afford to decline the honor, and agreed to manage without 
 his further assistance. 
 
 Our relations with the Theodore Roosevelts were not so 
 close, nor always so friendly. When Mr. Harrison was for a 
 fourth time to be elected mayor, his Republican opponent was 
 Graeme Stewart, his most intimate friend and as fine and hon- 
 orable man as ever lived. During the campaign, Theodore 
 Roosevelt, then President, chose to appear in Chicago for an 
 address. We resented this because, although it was announced 
 that the President would take no part in the mayoralty fight, 
 his coming could not help but be of advantage to the Repub- 
 lican party. However, Carter was elected. When he appeared 
 at home later, I congratulated him. He said sadly, "No con- 
 gratulations tonight for me. I am thinking of Graeme." 
 
 Well, as I said, we felt a bit keenly over Mr. Roosevelt's 
 appearance in Chicago at that time, and I assure you the feel- 
 ings were not kindly, especially on my part. 
 
 But I should like to tell the sequel to that story. In 1918 war 
 was upon us. I was doing war work at Garden City, New York, 
 where our son, Carter, Jr., was a young engineer for the Fly- 
 ing Corps. My husband was traveling through the West in- 
 specting camps for the government. Both of us still harbored 
 a small feeling of resentment against Teddy Roosevelt for mix- 
 ing in Illinois politics, but when I read of the death of young 
 Roosevelt, the flyer (almost the first to fall during the war) , 
 and learned how the former President and Mrs. Roosevelt were 
 bearing up under their great sorrow — bearing the loss of 
 their son in a manner to command the admiration of the world 
 — I could not resist my impulse to tell them how I felt. 
 
 The papers had been dwelling on the fact that because of the 
 thousands of letters of sympathy they were receiving, the 
 Roosevelts could not reply except through the papers. What 
 was my astonishment when, within three days, I received a 
 note from Mr. Roosevelt expressing thanks for my sympathy 
 and saying, "Your letter gave us extreme satisfaction and was 
 doubly welcomed because in the same mail one came to us from 
 
122 Presidents And Others 
 
 your husband in Calif ornia." 
 
 Lest it appear that a Democratic mayor and his wife had 
 only Republican friends, I should explain that many distin- 
 guished Democrats have been our guests and friends. One of 
 those Democratic occasions gave me an illustration of what 
 Shakespeare refers to as the "insolence of office." 
 
 President Woodrow Wilson had come to Chicago to make an 
 address. At the time Mr. Harrison was quite ill, confined to his 
 bed at home, and as if this were not sufficient, our only daugh- 
 ter had undergone an operation for appendicitis two days be- 
 fore and was in St. Luke's Hospital. 
 
 When I returned from seeing her on the afternoon of Mr. 
 Wilson's arrival, Mr. Harrison told me that comment had al- 
 ready been made upon the fact that he had not been among 
 the Democratic leaders who had greeted the President at the 
 train. I could not but see that he wished very much for me to 
 attend the evening meeting at the Auditorium, knowing that 
 we should both be conspicuous by our absence, and although I 
 never felt less like doing such a thing, I went. 
 
 The President made a wonderfully fine address, and the sec- 
 ond Mrs. Wilson, who accompanied him, looked lovely, greeted 
 me cordially and invited me to remain in her box. On the fol- 
 lowing morning I found myself a target for criticism. Com- 
 ment upon the "heartlessness" displayed by Mrs. Harrison 
 who, wearing her beautiful evening gown and jewels, attended 
 the meeting while both her husband and her daughter were 
 known to be seriously ill, reached me without delay. It had 
 furnished my critics with a delightful subject and an excellent 
 opportunity ! 
 
 Such opportunities come frequently in the life of anyone who 
 by political position or otherwise is in the public eye. Usually 
 they involve matters of taste, as was vividly illustrated for me 
 at the time of the visit to Chicago early in this century of Prince 
 Henry of Prussia, brother of the former German Kaiser. 
 
 Now Chicago's Four Hundred, like New York's, has a self- 
 appointed group which claims the right to dictate the social 
 activities of the city. So, putting it on the grounds of my youth 
 and inexperience — I was rather young then — the female 
 element of this body came to offer me advice. One of the ladies 
 
"Strange To Say — " 123 
 
 went so far as to say that if I felt nervous over the affair, she 
 would be glad to stand by my husband's side at the Chicago 
 reception for the prince. The mayor, as the city's representa 
 tive, would have that honor, instead of the governor of the 
 state. 
 
 This naturally brought the mayor's wife into the glittering 
 limelight. It was most disturbing. The discussion waxed hot, 
 but through it all I stuck to my determination to stand with 
 my husband. After all, I had not come from the washtub ! My 
 forebears had been worthy Americans and I had been taught 
 to fill with dignity any position in which I might be placed. 
 
 A receiving line was decided upon — some two hundred 
 deep — and we alone stood forward. This was done so as not 
 to cause jealousy by inviting anyone to stand with us, the only 
 exception being Governor and Mrs. Tanner. Some of the mem- 
 bers of the Four Hundred were so chagrined at the decision of 
 the committee appointed to decide the places in the receiving 
 line that one or two pleaded illness and did not appear. 
 
 Arthur J. Eddy, Allison Armour, Fred Tuttle, Honore Pal- 
 mer, etc., decided these momentous questions. 
 
 The question was brought up, "Should a curtsy be made to 
 the prince or just a plain handshake or bow?" My husband 
 decided it — I fear against the will of the majority. He said 
 that, if abroad, we would adhere exactly to the custom of any 
 country in which we were visiting, but that in America he be- 
 lieved we should receive the prince with a bow, showing him 
 exactly the same respect we would give to the President of the 
 United States. And that is what we did. 
 
 Naturally it was up to everyone present to curtsy or bow as 
 he or she chose. In Europe he should have gone to the prince's 
 carriage door when he alighted, but here in America he awaited 
 him in the ballroom of the great Auditorium Theatre. 
 
 I bubbled with laughter at the comments in the papers the 
 day after the Prince Henry ball. Many of that receiving line 
 made the curtsy and everyone noticed them, of course. One 
 paper said, "Mrs. Harrison was very natural, and it was re- 
 freshing to see her dignified bow to the prince among all those 
 bobbing corks." 
 
 In 1896, just before Mr. Harrison became mayor, a brilliant 
 
124 Presidents And Others 
 
 figure flashed across the political horizon in the person of young 
 William Jennings Bryan. Mr. Harrison's interest in him then 
 was not in any way connected with his future possibilities, but 
 was owing to the fact that the old Chicago Times, a fine news- 
 paper in its day, owned by the Harrison family, was distrib- 
 uted at meetings where Mr. Bryan spoke. It was thus that Mr. 
 Harrison learned to know him, long before his active career 
 began as a public figure. 
 
 Mr. Bryan's eloquent and dramatic "Cross of Gold and 
 Crown of Thorns" speech delivered at the Democratic conven- 
 tion in 1896 gave him the nomination for the presidency and 
 made him one of the most conspicuous figures in American 
 history. When he made that speech, I was seated near him on 
 the platform with Mrs. Potter Palmer. He took the house by 
 storm. Pandemonium followed. Handkerchiefs and canes 
 were raised in approval; hurrahs and shrieks were heard in 
 praise. For ten minutes or more the Coliseum in Chicago was 
 a madhouse. 
 
 It was, of course, a remarkable experience. Mrs. Bryan con- 
 fided to me later that that speech had been planned for years. 
 Mr. Bryan added to it and altered it as time passed, but actual- 
 ly it was the same speech. He was ready, whenever the oppor- 
 tunity came, to spring it on the public; and, once given, the 
 public never forgot it. 
 
 Remember that though Mr. Bryan never reached his goal — 
 the coveted presidency of the United States — he was nomi- 
 nated three times for that high post. This in itself was a mag- 
 nificent honor, an honor that history can never ignore. Mr. 
 Bryan's name will always be preserved in the annals of Amer- 
 ica by his tremendous personality ! 
 
 Whenever he came to Chicago, we saw him intimately and 
 frequently drove around with him when he made his speeches. 
 He was always popular and the crowds apparently loved him 
 after defeat as much as they did before. 
 
 On the morning after President Wilson was elected, I had a 
 visit from Mr. Bryan, who was on his way to Washington. 
 With him came former Mayor Dunne, who had just been 
 elected governor of Illinois. I remember Mr. Bryan was pleased 
 when I said to him that he had received more votes each of the 
 
"Strange To Say — " 125 
 
 three times he had been defeated than President Wilson had 
 received for his election. 
 
 Mr. Harrison had gone somewhere for a rest after his stren- 
 uous work, so I was alone when these two distinguished men 
 called, sat and talked with me for a long time in our modest 
 home. We talked of many things — politics, of course — and 
 naturally dwelt a good deal on the brilliancy and quick repartee 
 of Mr. Bryan, who never failed to flash back a fine answer to 
 any question hurled at him. 
 
 Without thinking, I said impulsively to Mr. Bryan, "You cer- 
 tainly possess the gift of gab." In a second I realized my awful 
 mistake and, quickly, before he fully realized or grasped my 
 terrible break, I continued, "Of course, you understand what 
 I am trying to convey to you, that you possess the silver 
 tongue." Instantly his face cleared of the slight frown that had 
 formed on it. But it had certainly been a close call for me. 
 
 Once when Mr. Bryan was to speak in Chicago, Mrs. Bryan 
 was ill and she asked me if I would take her place beside him 
 on the platform. I did and faced a very large audience. It was 
 at a women's luncheon and the invitations stated that Mrs. 
 Bryan would stand beside him and would meet the guests af- 
 terwards. 
 
 As I helped receive the women, it was explained who I was 
 and why I was there, but one very deaf old guest evidently did 
 not understand and went away convinced she had shaken the 
 hand of Mrs. Bryan. Ever after, though I tried to explain, she 
 insisted on calling me Mrs. Bryan. 
 
 When Mr. Bryan was living in Washington as secretary of 
 state, our daughter took a trip in South America with Miss 
 Catherine Barker and her chaperon. I picked up the morning 
 paper and read of a "revolution" in the very place where they 
 were staying. I was terrified and as I could not disturb Mr. 
 Harrison, who was ill, I thought of Mr. Bryan and wired him. 
 He promptly got busy, to such an extent that Miss Harrison 
 was "paged" almost all over South America. When it became 
 known that the secretary of state of the United States had been 
 inquiring for her, the South American Four Hundred took 
 notice. Many social affairs resulted for her and her trip was a 
 pleasurable event. Later when Mr. Harrison was better, I told 
 
126 Presidents And Others 
 
 all this to him. He remarked dryly, "I wonder that you did not 
 wire the President himself. Why stop with the secretary of 
 state?" 
 
 When the Times, which first introduced us to Mr. Bryan, 
 was sold to H. H. Kohlsaat, it began the long series of changes 
 of name, through consolidations, which eventually brought it 
 into the property now known as the Herald American, owned 
 by William Randolph Hearst. 
 
 Mr. Hearst in those days came frequently to Chicago, usual- 
 ly for some event sponsored by his newspapers. I used to sit in 
 a box with Mrs. Hearst and their attractive little boys. Mrs. 
 Hearst was a very beautiful woman — and is today, for the 
 years sit lightly upon her — and she has commanded the re- 
 spect of the public by her dignified life and her many charities. 
 
 One evening at a dinner given on the Gold Coast in honor of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hearst, to which we had gone with the Samuel 
 Insulls, guests like ourselves, it was suddenly suggested that 
 we go to the Saddle and Cycle Club. No sooner said than done. 
 It was at the Saddle and Cycle that I discovered a new aspect 
 of Mr. Hearst's character. I had known that he was a power in 
 the land through his ability to sway men by the capacity of his 
 brain, but that night I learned that he had a power over wom- 
 en, too, for he proved to be a perfect dancer. 
 
 In regard to Governor Dunne, also, I have an interesting 
 memory. He was once a candidate for the nomination for 
 mayor against my husband. During the campaign I said to 
 Mr. Harrison one night, "Don't be discouraged. I will pray for 
 your nomination and" — turning to our six-year-old daughter 
 — "so will Edith." A few days later I remembered the moment 
 and asked Edith whether she had done it. I was quite startled 
 at her reply. She said : "No, I couldn't. Every time I tried to 
 pray I could see the ten little Dunne children in a row praying 
 for their father's nomination. I didn't think I had a chance !" 
 
 Great events, like great men, had a way of coming into our 
 life, even at our own dinner table. One night we were giving 
 a party. Among the guests were Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Aldis, 
 Mrs. Potter Palmer, Mr. and Mrs. Heaton Owsley, General 
 Brook (in command of the Great Lakes division of the army) 
 and Mrs. Brook, who were known familiarly to their friends 
 
Mayor of Chicago 
 Carter H. Harrison at 36 
 
"Strange To Say —" 127 
 
 as "the Babbling Brooks," and Father Sherman, a distin- 
 guished Catholic priest and son of William Tecumseh Sher- 
 man, the Civil War general. 
 
 The telephone rang and Mr. Harrison left the table. We all 
 seemed to sense that something significant was in the message. 
 For weeks the unrest in Cuba and her attempt to persuade the 
 United States to interfere had been the subject of much con- 
 versation. When Mr. Harrison returned we learned that the 
 United States battleship Maine had been blown up in Havana 
 harbor. We knew that this meant war. 
 
 The next few weeks fairly bristled with events. Scattered 
 all over the Pacific coast, the Pacific fleet under command of 
 Admiral Dewey had been quietly ordered to assemble at Hong- 
 kong, where the ships were to be provisioned, refueled and 
 supplied with ammunition. Meanwhile the Spanish fleet had 
 entered Manila Bay. What would Dewey do if the blockade 
 proved effective? On the last day of April, Dewey reached 
 Manila. While the Spaniards were not looking, he ran the 
 blockade, entered the bay, and on the morning of May 1 opened 
 a terrific fire and in a very short time won a brilliant and de- 
 cisive victory. 
 
 Then followed a period of absolute silence. All the world 
 wondered and all America worried. But finally the truth 
 dawned upon us even before the news came. Dewey himself 
 had cut the cable, thus stopping all communication until his 
 own correct report of the affair could be sent to Hongkong to 
 be relayed from there to Washington. 
 
 Admiral Dewey had some flags which had been on his ship, 
 the Olympia, and he gave them to us. We afterwards presented 
 them to the Chicago Historical Society. 
 
 During the trying days when all America was wondering 
 whether we could keep out of the war in Europe, the First 
 World War, we were dinner guests of Colonel Daniel Mc- 
 Carthy, an army officer stationed in Chicago. The McCarthys 
 with their son Daniel, Jr., and their daughter, Gertrude, had 
 become our good friends soon after they came to Chicago. 
 
 On this particular night, while we were at dinner, the 
 answer to our perplexities came. It came in the form of a 
 telegram from General Pershing, stating that President Wil- 
 
128 Presidents And Others 
 
 son had ordered him to take three other officers and go abroad 
 at once as leader of the American Expeditionary Forces, and 
 adding that he (Pershing) had selected Colonel McCarthy to 
 accompany him. Colonel McCarthy was to be quartermaster 
 general of all the forces. We were told the news under promise 
 of secrecy — a thrilling communication. 
 
 Colonel McCarthy left immediately, joined General Persh- 
 ing and the two other officers, and within two days sailed on 
 the Baltic. It was quite a while later that the news was given 
 to the public; but we knew that night that we were entering 
 the war. These four men were the first to cross to Europe. 
 Because Pershing remained in England for some particular 
 work, Colonel McCarthy was the first American army officer to 
 put foot in France. 
 
 His daughter has carried on the family tradition of helping 
 make history for her country. A popular and beautiful girl, 
 she decided to marry a charming and brilliant man, Jefferson 
 Caffery, who is now serving us as American ambassador in 
 Paris. So much has been written lately of his excellency and 
 his beautiful wife that I hesitate to add anything more. We 
 are proud of them both and we expect even greater things of 
 the ambassador. Our affection for them is heightened by the 
 fact that Mrs. Caffery is the godmother of our grandson, 
 Lieutenant Colonel Cyrus E. Manierre, Jr. 
 
 Daniel McCarthy, Jr., married a lovely young woman and 
 they have two splendid boys who bid fair to continue the good 
 work of the family in making America proud of them. 
 
Chapter Eight 
 Purely Personal 
 
 S 
 
 OUTHERN girls have the reputation 
 — or did have in my day — of being rather lazy, lying around 
 in hammocks, not caring for the long walks and exercise that 
 their Northern sisters take. Naturally, our warm climate in 
 New Orleans fostered this inclination, but somehow, even in 
 those days, I was pretty active. The afternoon siesta never 
 appealed much to me. Instead of sleeping, I would be reading 
 or writing. 
 
 When our two children, Carter and Edith Ogden, were old 
 enough to enjoy fairy tales, they began to criticize the punish- 
 ment always imposed on the wicked people — maybe the old 
 witch did deserve being burned on the red-hot stove, but they 
 insisted it was too severe a punishment according to our reli- 
 gious teachings of forgiveness. 
 
 Thus I got into the habit of softening the stories a bit, and 
 really that was the beginning of my writing fairy stories for 
 them. I knew Mrs. John Clark quite well and she took them 
 to her son-in-law, Richard Harding Davis. He had just at- 
 tracted great attention by sending across the world a messen- 
 ger with his engagement ring to Louise. He advised me to keep 
 on writing and I prized his advice and took it. 
 
 I was impelled to do something, to work! I could not stay 
 idle. So during the many hours my husband was busily en- 
 gaged I occupied my time in writing children's books and, of 
 course, helping all I could in civic affairs. 
 
 All together, as I count them up, I wrote six books of fairy 
 tales, published by the Chicago firm of McClurg, and eight 
 travel books and novels. One novel, The Lady of the Snows, 
 a story of the Northwest Mounted Police, was beautifully 
 filmed by the Essanay Company of Chicago. 
 
 129 
 
130 Purely Personal 
 
 As I became known for my fairy tales, the newspapers some- 
 times took occasion to pun upon the titles of several of the bet- 
 ter known ones, and occasionally they even pointed their puns 
 at my husband's administration. One of my titles which 
 seemed to appeal to them was The Star Fairies and another, 
 Prince Silverwings. One morning one of the leading journals 
 began : "Mrs. Carter Harrison enchants the children with her 
 Star Fairies but Mr. Harrison too has a few Star Fairies who 
 are not always so enchanting. We refer to his big six-foot po- 
 licemen who guard the street corners and protect us. Some- 
 times they make us pretty mad when they hustle us across the 
 traffic." Another article carried headlines, "Prince Leaden 
 Heels — A story not by Mrs. Carter Harrison." And it was 
 the story of the north side carette. 
 
 Besides writing my books, I was eager to turn my energies 
 into money-making channels. Neither my husband nor I had 
 a private fortune, and political office, honestly administered, 
 brings small financial satisfactions. Furthermore, we were on 
 terms of friendship and social intercourse with families, some 
 of whom I have mentioned, who were all far wealthier than 
 we were. 
 
 When that gifted speaker, Dudley Crafts Watson, asked me 
 to take his place on the radio, I was delighted, for I knew radio 
 paid well. The program was sponsored by the Charles A. 
 Stevens store. My voice was accepted and after the tests I was 
 given the job. Mr. Stevens, the head of the store, was pleased 
 and I was retained a long time. I was allowed to choose my 
 subjects, and I spoke generally of our travels and experiences. 
 I remember Mr. Stevens said to me, "If you will just promise 
 to get the thousand concubines of the Maharaja of Kapurthala 
 for Stevens' store as customers, I will engage you at a fine 
 sum on our regular payroll for life." I did not get the concu- 
 bines, but kept the work and for many months felt I was really 
 contributing handsomely to the family exchequer. 
 
 More recently I have lectured at the Art Institute at the rec- 
 ommendation of Dr. Watson. I was proud to have his endorse- 
 ment, for he has an immense following all over the United 
 States and Canada. In my lectures I have shown only the in- 
 teresting pictures taken by my husband whose pride has al- 
 
"Strange To Say—" 131 
 
 ways been in his camera. We have superb pictures of the 
 American Indians which, because that race is fast disappear- 
 ing, we feel are invaluable. I assure you I am mighty proud 
 of his pictures. I told him once if he ever gave up politics he 
 could make a living in two ways — with his camera, for his 
 pictures on our western Indians are quite famous ; or as a bar- 
 tender. Our pictures on India and the Far East I showed for 
 years at The Art Institute. I wonder if any of my readers can 
 remember when we drank pousse-cafe. This was served in 
 a tiny glass as long and narrow as my middle finger. Into 
 that glass he poured seven liqueurs — the colors of the rain- 
 bow — and they went in perfectly without mixing; and that 
 is why I said he could be a bartender, for I never knew any- 
 one else who could do it successfully. With others, the liqueurs 
 always mixed together. 
 
 A few years ago the opportunity to make another sort of 
 public appearance came my way. I had a call from the office 
 of the Chicago Tribune, saying that a personal request had 
 been made by the publisher, Colonel R. McCormick, that I 
 should be a sponsor of a fashion show which the newspaper 
 had planned. I had known Colonel McCormick in his youth, 
 and had known his mother well and admired her. Although we 
 have been far apart politically, his newspaper was one of those 
 which we read every day. 
 
 Naturally I was pleased, but I said to myself : "Colonel Mc- 
 Cormick has certainly been too generous in his memories." For 
 the show was to be a great affair and I, out of all the women 
 in Chicago, had been chosen to be held up as the leader of 
 fashion in the late 1890's. I was to be called beautiful, the best 
 dresser, the leader of styles. 
 
 Personal vanity — even at my age — might be willing to 
 concede the first, because when I look at my pictures of those 
 days, I fairly weep at the change in the photographs of today. 
 But alas, I never could have been the best-dressed woman of 
 that day ; our slender purse could never have afforded it. And 
 as to leadership, why was I the only one of that set that had 
 no claim to leadership ; I thought I was perhaps the most in- 
 significant. 
 
 So, despite the feeling of pleasure that I had been chosen 
 
132 Purely Personal 
 
 out of so many more prominent women, I felt I had to decline, 
 and besides, I added, "A stronger reason still exists ; I am un- 
 der contract for a rival paper." At the further insistence of 
 the Tribune, however, I asked permission of the paper to ac- 
 cept. To my amazement, the request was granted at once. 
 They said : "The fact that the Tribune wants you is a compli- 
 ment to us, because you are writing for us. We strongly advise 
 you to accept the offer." 
 
 So I did ; I was the sponsor ; I attended all the meetings ; I 
 talked over the radio for them and did all the Tribune wished, 
 while I was still a writer for the Herald Examiner. It really 
 was an astonishing situation, but the Tribune appreciated it 
 and later sent me a handsome check. 
 
 As a result of my writing and other activities of a similar 
 nature I became a member of several widely known Chicago 
 clubs, and they in turn have been a stimulus to me. The first 
 of these was the Forthnightly, established by Mrs. Daughitt 
 in 1873 for women interested in writing and cultural pursuits. 
 The second was the Friday Club, formed in 1888, the year of 
 my arrival in Chicago, by Mrs. Charles Henrotin. 
 
 I was proposed by my cousin, Mrs. Adlai Stevenson, for the 
 Colonial Dames. My membership in it was the occasion for 
 one of Mr. Harrison's favorite jokes. 
 
 In order to become a member of this exclusive group, one's 
 credentials, both past and present, must be undeniable and 
 beyond criticism. In looking up my ancestry, as is required for 
 this purpose, I encountered an obstacle. The destruction of a 
 courthouse, long, long ago, made it impossible for me to get 
 access to certain records which had been filed there. The thing 
 I particularly needed was the verification of the marriage of 
 my great-great-grandmother, who eloped. My own mother's 
 indignation when she received a telegram from me asking 
 whether she was sure of the facts in regard to my great-great- 
 grandmother's marriage is a thing I shall long remember. 
 Finally Mr. Harrison, in his droll way, said, "Do not be so dis- 
 turbed about it. If you are not well-born, rest assured that 
 your children are !" 
 
 As I mentioned before, I tried to give all the time I could 
 spare from my household to civic duties. I was always inter- 
 
"Strange To Say—" 133 
 
 ested in children and was constantly at St. Vincent's Orphan 
 Asylum, on whose doorstep the little unwanted strangers are 
 left so frequently by some despairing mother. These poor lit- 
 tle unfortunates, brought into the world by foolish girls and 
 boys (generally unmarried), would perish except for the kind 
 ministrations of the nuns. The nuns, so faithful in their work, 
 were often in despair as to how they could continue their mis- 
 sion. They are dependent on charity, and magnificent as Chi- 
 cago has always been in her charitable gifts, they were often 
 forgotten, because after all they were only one group among 
 perhaps hundreds that asked to be supported. 
 
 One day a nun, the head of the asylum, asked me if I would 
 head the list to get the city council to give them a yearly sti- 
 pend to keep up their good work. As my husband was mayor, 
 naturally they felt I would carry much weight in heading their 
 petition. 
 
 Gladly I consented, but when I spoke to my husband he said, 
 wisely : "I do not want your name on the list at all. It is a most 
 worthy request, but you are a Catholic, and this is for a Catho- 
 lic institution. Go out and get Mrs. John Harlan [her husband 
 was in the council] , Mrs. Dudley Winston, Mrs. Chatfield Tay- 
 lor, and all the other Protestant women you can find to head 
 the list, and then add some prominent Catholic names." This 
 I did, but my name was never on the list. 
 
 All of Chicago knew of the splendid work St. Vincent's was 
 doing, and that irrespective of color or creed all the little waifs 
 were received and cared for by the nuns. The council at once 
 listened to the request and gave the asylum an annuity of 
 $5,000. And to this day St. Vincent's still enjoys that sum. It 
 is just a drop in the bucket, but it does help. And I am very 
 proud of having been the means of accomplishing this, for al- 
 though my name never appeared, it was entirely my work. 
 
 Sympathy with the unfortunate and suffering is a duty, but 
 I can recall an instance when I seemed to be the only one on 
 whom the duty fell. After spending a strenuous week in New 
 York City, I managed to get a lower berth to Chicago on a very 
 crowded train. Congratulating myself, I determined to take 
 an early supper and go to bed soon, and have a quiet night. 
 Uhomme propose et Dieu dispose. How little I dreamed what 
 
134 Purely Personal 
 
 awaited me ! 
 
 As I entered the coach I saw three people occupying the seat 
 that was mine — a young man and a girl, and with them an 
 elderly man who was apparently sick, for I heard them admon- 
 ishing him to be careful to take his pills and to sleep quietly, 
 assuring him that the next day he would arrive at Battle Creek 
 Sanitarium and would receive fine treatment and very soon 
 be a well man. The old gentleman seemed to have no confidence 
 in what they were telling him, for tearfully he urged them not 
 to leave him, saying, "I am a very sick man ; you have no right 
 to send me off alone." But the train was about to start and 
 apparently heartlessly he was left by my side. 
 
 After their departure he said, "Lady, I cannot climb into an 
 upper berth and my nephew and his wife had no right to leave 
 me alone." I felt sorry for him, but I was pretty nervous my- 
 self and in no condition to proffer him my lower ; however, I 
 tipped the porter heavily and induced him to ask some younger 
 man to change with the sick man. The porter succeeded and, 
 after I was sure I would not be bothered any longer by the 
 poor old fellow, I felt more cheerful. Giving orders to have my 
 berth ready for the night, I went in to supper. 
 
 I was hardly seated when my elderly friend, apparently also 
 cheered by the exchange of berths, joined me, sat down beside 
 me, and asked me what I thought would be a healthy supper for 
 him. Sure that I would not see him again, I suggested a baked 
 apple and a glass of milk. When I arose from the table, the 
 waiter asked if I was paying for the gentleman's dinner, but 
 I promptly answered, "No." 
 
 I got to bed early, promising myself a quiet night. I slept 
 soundly for awhile, but was suddenly awakened by terrible 
 screams and the noise of someone struggling in the corridor 
 and a loud voice calling for the lady in lower 9. "Get her to 
 come to me, I am dying." The porter came for me and I strug- 
 gled into my wrapper and aided the porter to get the old man 
 back into his bed. "Save me, oh save me," he was screaming. 
 "Where are your pills?" I retorted, and as he handed them to 
 me I opened the bottle and thrust several into his mouth, while 
 the porter gave him a glass of water. 
 
 "Am I dying?" he questioned. "No," I answered quickly; 
 
"Strange To Say —" 135 
 
 "already you are improving. The pills are helping and soon 
 you will be all right." But in truth he was pallid as death and 
 struggling for breath. By this time the whole sleeping coach 
 was aroused, and one woman, putting her head out of her 
 berth, said, "Why did you not take the drawing room for your 
 husband if he is so sick? Why did you bring him in here to 
 disturb us all?" 
 
 "My husband I" I cried, "Why I never saw this man before. 
 I entered this car but I am human — he is suffering and no one 
 else has a spark of generosity in their make-up that I see, so 
 it falls upon me to help him." 
 
 Well, perhaps the pills did him some good. He began to look 
 a little better, but implored me not to leave him, so I sat beside 
 him and with the aid of the porter did calm him. I learned 
 that he was a writer on Harper's Bazaar, had been employed 
 by them for years; that a few months before when he had 
 broken in health, they sent him to his nephew and niece in 
 New York City to be nursed back to health ; and that he was 
 still on the magazine's payroll. 
 
 "But, alas," he continued, "they put me in a hospital to be 
 cured and I was placed by mistake in the maternity ward, 
 where the cries of the mothers giving birth to the babies, and 
 the cries later of the babies, did not improve my health. I got 
 more nervous, so now they are sending me to Battle Creek." 
 
 I did my best and remained with him practically until he 
 got off the train. Naturally I told him my name, and he wrote 
 me many letters, and so did his nephew and niece. And my 
 story had a happy ending, for after many weeks he did recov- 
 er entirely and resumed his work on the magazine. I have al- 
 ways felt that I did a pretty good deed that night, and even if 
 I did lose a whole night's sleep, I restored confidence to one poor 
 unfortunate who was almost in despair until I met him. But I 
 went to bed for two weeks when I reached home. My husband 
 remarked, "Too bad you did not stop for a rest cure at Battle 
 Creek yourself." 
 
 Often during my husband's mayoralty, when I was busy on 
 committees, I would telephone my home and order dinner for 
 twelve, and with competent servants would only enter the din- 
 ing room with our guests. One occasion I remember well. My 
 
186 Purely Personal 
 
 husband arrived at home before I did and discovered the salt 
 cellars unfilled. He filled them himself and reproached me for 
 not knowing it. The waitress later discovered (fortunately) 
 that they were filled with sugar and rectified the mistake. 
 
 Carter belonged to the old school. His mother washed all the 
 cut glass herself the morning after a dinner party. I refused 
 to wash it, because the deft fingers of a modern waitress had 
 been taught to do it better. And I always remembered the 
 story that a cousin — now a dignified judge — told me: Once 
 when he was four years old he was seated in a highchair watch- 
 ing his mother wash her precious crystal. She dropped a dish 
 and broke it, and then suddenly turned and slapped him, say- 
 ing, "Why are you watching me?" He added: "I loved my 
 mother, but I really never forgave her for the supreme injus- 
 tice of that act." And so I refused to wash our cut glass ! 
 
 In March, 1925, 1 consented to head the women's chapter of 
 the Red Cross membership campaign under James Forgan, 
 and at the same time was elected a member of the Board of 
 Directors. I had an able secretary and went into office with 
 the full determination to do my best. I feel sure that I did not 
 disappoint Mr. Forgan, for all my petitions and letters re- 
 ceived a most favorable response. 
 
 Of course, my husband's name was a great help ; even if the 
 request was to be refused, I felt assured that the recipient of 
 the letter would at least read it. In this thought I was quite 
 right. Later I discovered that I could be especially influential 
 in interesting Catholic clubs. I put the first Catholic club in 
 Chicago on the Red Cross list. Of course, many Catholics had 
 been members before, but after that many more came in. 
 
 After I resigned the job — I was going with my husband on 
 a long trip to Europe and the Orient — Mrs. McKinlock took 
 my place. That she made good is a matter of history. Her 
 work has always been and always will be considered a splendid 
 record for the Red Cross. 
 
 When we entered the First World War in 1917, much respon- 
 sibility fell upon women. With many others, I did my part and 
 earned my cap and apron in service for the Red Cross, while 
 my husband was abroad in the same organization. 
 
 I recall in that connection one of the worst moments of my 
 
" Strange To Say—" 137 
 
 life. I came down one night in the Parkway Hotel, where we 
 still live, to find that I could not buy a newspaper. All had been 
 sold, the vendor told me. I tipped a boy and sent him outside 
 for one, but with the same result — no newspaper. I suspected 
 nothing, but got the day's news through friends, who told me 
 they had discarded their evening papers. Isn't it a wonder that 
 I didn't suspect anything even then? While I was sitting after 
 dinner with a few friends, a woman, a stranger to me, rushed 
 up and asked, "Is it true your husband was fatally shot?" 
 
 Every newspaper had recorded it in headlines — "Our Car- 
 ter Shot and Badly Injured." Of course, my friends up-braided 
 the stranger for blurting out the news ; but she took it calmly 
 and said, "Well, she had to hear it sometime." The whole hotel 
 had generously entered into the secret of concealing the report 
 until it could be verified. And about midnight the United Press 
 telephoned that as far as they could learn, my husband's ve- 
 hicle had been hit but he was uninjured. By the next day the 
 truth was known : that he had not been hit by the shot, which 
 had lodged in the motor. 
 
 Our young girls, after the war started, showed plainly that 
 blood is a royal heritage. Many of them had been reared in 
 luxury and all had had many comforts in life. Yet they had to 
 give them up, and without a murmur they did so. The young 
 women I knew — Betty Hoyt, Lolita Armour, Grace Tuttle, 
 Libby Farwell, Anna Boyle Manierre, and many like them — 
 all took up war work. They gladly gave up luxuries to buy 
 sweaters and warm socks for the boys on the other side. Those 
 who did not enter the Red Cross rooms knitted and knitted. 
 One would never before have suspected them of such indus- 
 triousness. 
 
 And after the war they felt they never again could give up 
 work entirely. Many entered shops to earn salaries, and those 
 who could afford it gave their services free to some good cause. 
 But everyone continued to do what the war experience had 
 taught them. 
 
 Our own daughter was not an exception. Finding, because 
 of necessity, that she must now earn her own living, she opened 
 a shop in Lake Forest and sold women's clothes. Mrs. Manierre 
 has made the shop a great success. She really loves her work 
 
138 Purely Personal 
 
 and the Lake Forest people welcomed the gem of a building 
 (for it is charming in design) as a much-needed thing in their 
 midst. It is a practical gift to Lake Forest, and its lovely con- 
 tents are always a pleasure to examine. 
 
 These young women, our daughters, were also taught much 
 by the depression, and their experience will never let them 
 settle down again to an idle life of pleasure. All are working 
 in some way. Many are Girl Scouts, others work for the shut- 
 ins or for service clubs, and doing their bit they find keener 
 pleasure in their leisure hours. For the work stimulates them 
 to a greater enjoyment by the knowledge that they have ac- 
 complished something worth while. 
 
 During the years of Mr. Harrison's official life the great 
 woman's club movement in America reached its zenith, and in 
 Chicago is one of the oldest and most influential of these clubs, 
 the Chicago Woman's Club, with its nearly two thousand mem- 
 bers and now with its own beautiful building on Michigan 
 Avenue. Much of the good legislation, both in the state of Illi- 
 nois and in the city of Chicago, had its inception in the wom- 
 en's clubs. To the lessening of the power of the social evil, the 
 women of all ages have lent their aid, but with little success 
 until the last half -century. 
 
 Here in Chicago, after the women's clubs were in full swing, 
 they threw the weight of their influence against evil once 
 more. Calling upon Mayor Harrison, they asked his aid. There 
 is no Chicagoan interested in the welfare of our city who does 
 not remember the closing, by Mr. Harrison's order, of the no- 
 torious Everleigh Club. So powerful were the influences, so 
 great the financial assets behind this club that closing it was 
 no easy task. Yet it was done. 
 
 Many and important also were the city improvements dur- 
 ing these years. In the crowded districts, children's play- 
 grounds began to appear. These, too, were suggested and at 
 first sponsored by the women's clubs, Mr. Harrison always 
 concurring and doing all that he could to further their plans. 
 Beautiful hospitals were erected for women and children, such 
 as the Children's Memorial Hospital, the Lying-in Hospital, 
 and the great wing for children in the new Cook County Hos- 
 pital. This great shelter for the sick and suffering poor came 
 
"Strange To Say—" 139 
 
 also into being while Mr. Harrison was mayor. Who does not 
 remember the dark, dingy, ill-equipped Cook County Hospital 
 which preceded it? 
 
 Many, and vitally necessary, were the shelters for women 
 and children which followed in swift succession — homes for 
 crippled children, for destitute children, for deficient and de- 
 linquent children, the Detention Home. These years saw also 
 the creation of such organizations as the Infant Welfare 
 League, the Legal Aid Society, the Child Conservation League, 
 the Children's Bureau and, finally, the Court of Domestic Re- 
 lations. And back of them all, the power and influence of 
 woman! Only one who lived in Chicago when none of these 
 things existed can even faintly realize what a change they have 
 wrought. 
 
 In every great city the problem of child conservation is a 
 huge one. Who can ever forget the condition of the congested 
 districts in Chicago when that now famous and always unusual 
 personality, Miss Jane Addams, appeared in our midst and 
 took up residence at Hull House ? Those were the days of long 
 hours and a wage of less than a dollar a day, of hard-working 
 mothers and necessarily neglected children. 
 
 Happily, many of these conditions have now been removed, 
 but their effect long remained and finally resulted in the estab- 
 lishment, during Mr. Harrison's first term of office, of one of 
 the most vital of our institutions, the Juvenile Court. As a 
 matter of fact, the whole court system was readjusted. The old 
 justice courts disappeared, giving way to our present mu- 
 nicipal Court. 
 
 In the case of the children, the problem was particularly 
 difficult. The hardened offender against the law is one thing. 
 The potential criminal is quite another. By the creation of the 
 Juvenile Court — and it was the first child's court in the world 
 — Chicago made the attempt to live up to her belief that if a 
 city takes care of the boys, the men will take care of them- 
 selves. 
 
 A revolution in education was started in the same years. 
 Not only was there Miss Adda.ms' work at Hull House, but 
 Ella Flagg Young, when she was superintendent of schools, 
 succeeded in keeping most of our children in school through the 
 
140 Purely Personal 
 
 eighth grade. 
 
 Of course, with the Francis Parker School, we became fa- 
 miliar with one of the major experiments in American educa- 
 tion. According to the system in vogue in this radically differ- 
 ent school, the teacher must interest the child. I recall we de- 
 bated whether she might not be too interesting, so that, when 
 the child moved along a grade and fell into the hands of a less 
 interesting teacher, he might lose interest himself. But the 
 school seems to have vindicated itself, for it is as popular today 
 as it was then, especially with the pupils. 
 
 Another principle of the Parker School, which I once saw 
 put to practice in an unforeseen way, was that a pupil who ad- 
 mitted his error voluntarily was forgiven at once. 
 
 Mrs. Sam Jewett was giving a children's party. The table 
 was decorated with small baskets of candy at each place, one 
 for each child. It had been whispered along the lines as the 
 little guests entered the dining room what they would find. As 
 they sat down, it was observed every basket was empty. Not 
 a piece of candy in sight ! Consternation on the part of the hos- 
 tess, who asked who took the candies. 
 
 A nice, manly little voice said, "I did. I knew it was wrong, 
 but mother said if I did wrong and confessed it, it would be 
 all right." And the boy, a Parker pupil, was blissfully sure it 
 would be. But we wondered whether his solution satisfied the 
 other children. 
 
 It was at the John Hays Hammonds one summer — oh so 
 long ago! — that we watched what seemed a miracle — well, 
 it was a miracle. Their son was just beginning to get his big 
 reputation for managing his boat way out across the ocean by 
 wireless, by remote control. We sat before the little house he 
 called his office, and he demonstrated clearly how well he could 
 manage that craft miles away. It moved or stopped at his 
 command. The son had inherited all his father's great engi- 
 neering ability and though so young he proved how easily he 
 was going to win the admiration of his country — which he 
 certainly did later when he offered his discovery to our gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 The older Hammond's life has been so frequently written 
 and is so well known that I shall not dwell on how narrowly he 
 
"Strange To Say —" 141 
 
 escaped death during the Boer War. He was in Africa repre- 
 senting the United States in some engineering matter, was 
 convicted unjustly and sentenced to be killed, but was finally 
 given fifteen years' imprisonment instead and a $125,000 fine. 
 Then he returned to the United States. The Hammonds lived 
 in New York. They had a home on the Atlantic coast, where we 
 visited them and saw the gifted son who bore the same name 
 as the father demonstrate his brilliant work. Both father and 
 son were graduates of Yale. 
 
 In old age one is inclined to talk too much. But in approach- 
 ing the end of this chapter, I find I could have said more. I have 
 neglected to praise so many of our fine doctors. Young boys 
 they were when I came to Chicago — Dr. Capps, Dr. George H. 
 Coleman, Dr. Lester Frankenthal, Jr., Dr. Selim McArthur, 
 Dr. Ira Tresley the oculist, and many others like them. These 
 youngsters have been attaining reputations that bear evi- 
 dence to their skill, and many have become our personal 
 friends. Dr. Oliver Ormsby, the famous skin specialist, was 
 in his teens when I first saw him. He stands today at the 
 top of the ladder. 
 
 Dr. Linn McBride is another hard-working man who, though 
 still very young, is pre-eminent for treatment of the throat 
 and nose. I must not forget Dr. Annette Washburne, daughter 
 of Mayor Hempstead Washburne. She has risen to the very 
 top and has attained a remarkable position in the medical pro- 
 fession. Her work is outstanding. Though she now lives in 
 Wisconsin, her native Chicago still claims her. Chicago is 
 proud of all these brilliant ones, and proud too of many others 
 whom I have no space to mention individually. 
 
 We are proud of our dental staff, who lead the world and are 
 so often quoted in Europe. And we are particularly proud of 
 our own dentist, Dr. Micklethwait, who leads them all in his 
 fine work. 
 
 Though I belong, and always will belong, to the regular 
 school of medicine, I have (with the full consent of my doc- 
 tors) gone for twenty-five years to a well-known osteopath for 
 relief from pain and aching limbs — Dr. Sam V. Robuck, 
 whose marvelous hands perform miracles. I am grateful for 
 his treatments and have confidence in his skill. 
 
142 Purely Personal 
 
 Now and then a woman comes along whom everyone likes. 
 Well, I have found her — Bertha Baur. She is a power in the 
 Republican party. I am devoted to her ; she is capable, consci- 
 entious and a good friend. But since I am a staunch Democrat 
 I tease her quite often for belonging to the "wrong party." 
 Many of her party have asked her to run for mayor of Chi- 
 cago. Should that honor ever come to her, what would this 
 great city do? We will just wait and see. 
 
 For some years Mrs. Charles Dempster and I have had a 
 great deal in common through our visit to the Far East. Both 
 of us have seen Angkor and have been fascinated by its mag- 
 nificent ruins and very interesting history, and we have spent 
 much time in discussing it and in looking at the splendid pic- 
 tures of its ruins. Still as charming as when she was Miss 
 May Gillette, Mrs. Dempster is the center of an interesting 
 coterie, and her individuality makes her the star of every 
 gathering. She has lately had a terrible sorrow in the loss of 
 her husband, but like the brave woman she is she tells her 
 friends that she will not burden them with her grief. 
 
 The marriage less than a year ago of Anna Wrenn Fulton 
 came as a great surprise to all who know and love her. Her 
 parents, Mr. and Mrs. Everts Wrenn, were our lifelong friends, 
 and we have known the attractive Anna since her babyhood. 
 When her husband died, very suddenly, her devotion to her 
 children led us to believe that she would never marry again. 
 But on her way home from Europe last year she met on the 
 boat a man who swept her off her feet, an Englishman, Doug- 
 las Williams, who writes for an English syndicate. A few 
 weeks after their meeting their engagement was announced, 
 and now she is again a very happy married woman. 
 
 I find as I grow older that my clubs grow more interesting, 
 as at our age my husband and I decline all evening invitations. 
 This is easily explained because at the Symphony Orchestra 
 and at my clubs — and I belong to many — I get all the news 
 of the day. The Fortnightly, the Friday, the Catholic Women's 
 Club and the Alliance Franchise are all filled with the latest 
 news. Add to that the Casino, the Tavern, and the University 
 Club, all brimful of news — what more could I want? The 
 presidents of these various clubs and many of the members 
 
"Strange To Say—" 143 
 
 are highly distinguished and we take pride in all the work they 
 are doing. 
 
 It is impossible in a book as short as this to mention their 
 various gifts, but if you are interested just read a list of 
 their members, and you will be surprised to find how many 
 of these names are familiar to you. Many of these club mem- 
 bers are brilliant in their own right, and many have famous 
 husbands who have very distinguished records — Laird Bell 
 and his notable work abroad ; John Carpenter and his splendid 
 musical talent; Harry Dumbaugh and Henry Tenney with 
 their fine records in law; Richard Bentley, who did such ad- 
 mirable work in the last year. 
 
 Lovely Mrs. Bentley is president of one of the clubs I have 
 mentioned. Another member is Naomi Donnelley, whose bro- 
 ther owns the famous Donnelley printing plant and edits and 
 gives away yearly to friends, who prize them for their beauty 
 and contents, one of the world-known "Lakeside Classics." 
 
 Mrs. Eric Oldberg is a member of the Fortnightly, and how 
 grateful I am to that famous physician, her husband, who this 
 winter operated on a nerve in my husband's face and relieved 
 him of the terrible tic douloureux. Dr. Oldberg, by the way, is 
 a vice-president of the Symphony Orchestra, inheriting his 
 love of music from his father, who was a fine musician. The 
 distinguished Dr. Frederick Schreiber of Detroit also helped 
 my husband. 
 
 The beloved Claire Dux (Mrs. Charles Swift) is a brilliant 
 member of the Fortnightly, as is Mrs. Frederick Upham, whose 
 husband was a leader in Republican politics and wielded great 
 power. Mrs. Upham's box at the Republican convention was 
 always filled with distinguished people, and the memory of 
 their charming hostess is still fresh in the minds of those who 
 were fortunate enough to occupy it. 
 
 It seems to me I could go on indefinitely with the list of our 
 members and their husbands who are helping Chicago go for- 
 ward. Just a few words about the Alliance Franchise, and I 
 am through ! 
 
 This French club is distinguished for the ability of its mem- 
 bers. Its presidents have added to its glory — Mrs. James 
 Hamilton Lewis, Mrs. Charles Dewey, Mrs. Hamilton McCor- 
 
144 Purely Personal 
 
 mick, Mrs. Cragg, and now Mrs. Conlon. Of course the real 
 president is Robert McCormick, whose untiring work over 
 many years has made us most grateful to him. He has been 
 ably assisted by many of the members, too numerous to name, 
 but I cannot forget the brilliant Mrs. Moise Dreyfus, who has 
 been honored with high decorations by the French govern- 
 ment. Mrs. Dreyfus has never refused any task laid upon her, 
 and her charming personality aids her to get for the club 
 whatever she goes after. 
 
 Then that delightful Mrs. Wolf, who is my age — our birth- 
 days are on almost the same day. She is called my twin, but 
 she carries her age so well and is so handsome that it is im- 
 possible to believe she is as old as I am. And there is Mrs. 
 Laura Fuller, whose untiring work has helped the club greatly, 
 and Mrs. Thomas Hinde of Astor Street, who has been a mem- 
 ber for many years and has been so faithful in her devotion to 
 the club. I should have to name every member to do justice to 
 the splendid accomplishments of the Alliance. All are enthu- 
 siastic for its welfare, all have contributed largely to its suc- 
 cess, and done so with such modesty. 
 
 I have striven in my book to avoid reference to my husband's 
 political career, except where it actually involved me. He has 
 written his own story and told the public what he has done. I 
 do mention one or two rare occasions on which I may have 
 helped him a little — but so little that I hesitated even to speak 
 of it. Still, I could not entirely conceal my trifling participation 
 in what he was accomplishing. 
 
 This last election, which made Martin W. Kennelly mayor of 
 Chicago, interested us both very much. Here was a man who 
 had carved out a splendid and worthy career and had climbed 
 to the very top by sheer ability, and my husband, though a 
 very old man, determined he would lend all the power he could 
 to help Martin Kennelly win the mayoralty. He felt that he 
 could not make speeches, but he said : "I will attend your meet- 
 ings and accept with a bow of thanks any votes I can get for 
 you." And so he did. Chicago appreciated my husband's atti- 
 tude and I know Mayor Kennelly did too. All the papers of 
 course were full of my husband's work, but I shall quote only 
 one mention of it — the article by Mr. Charles Wheeler, so 
 
"Strange To Say—** 145 
 
 dramatic and so brilliantly told : "25,000 at Stadium Roar for 
 Kennelly ! "Harrison Nearly Steals the Show. 
 
 "The men and women who packed the Stadium last night 
 to do homage to Martin Kennelly witnessed a memorable 
 scene — one that probably will never be enacted again. With 
 all the lights out, a single floodlight from the high gallery 
 was focused on a figure on the stage. IT WAS CARTER H. 
 HARRISON. The five-times mayor whose 87 years' life-span 
 embraces the significant events in Chicago's history, stood 
 erect like a marble statue. The audience rose as a single 
 person. The applause seemed different from the usual dem- 
 onstration of this nature — it seemed to express veneration 
 and gratitude — the voice of a great city returning thanks 
 to its benefactor and first citizen." When my husband left 
 the Internal Revenue office, where he served 12 years, Mr. 
 Nigel Campbell took charge, a very efficient and brilliant man. 
 
Chapter Nine 
 
 A Century of Progress 
 
 o 
 
 UR Century of Progress Exposition was 
 surely a dream of loveliness. The remembrance of it will live 
 forever in the minds of those who saw it. As long as we live 
 we will talk of the Fair, and our children will tell their chil- 
 dren and so the great story of what Chicago accomplished in 
 the worst years of the depression will be handed down. For 
 when we entered the portals of the exposition, no matter how 
 depressed we might be, a fairy wand swept our troubles from 
 our minds and, for a few hours at least, we were in fairyland. 
 
 From the moment at dusk when the light from the star 
 Arcturus set the other lights going in the Fair, we were in 
 a land of enchantment. How many hundreds of years before 
 was it that that light had left Arcturus? Well, we caught it 
 through the famous Yerkes Observatory and through other 
 observatories, and we held it to light simultaneously the 
 Century of Progress. Night after night we sat and watched 
 it give us that superb illumination, and after the lights were 
 well on we moved about in a dream of pleasure until the 
 closing hour compelled us to leave. 
 
 Who can ever forget those curious, mysterious, windowless 
 buildings, filled with wonders of the world? Or the awe- 
 inspiring lighting at night when those long colored fingers 
 of electricity stretched in rainbow rays across the grounds 
 and showed the way to their treasures? That wonderful 
 fountain alone — the largest I believe ever made — was worth 
 the trip just to see it. At night when its various colors burst 
 upon our view, charming us, filling us with delight at its 
 fairylike glow, pointing out the sky ride or flashing us the 
 sight of that jewel of a building, the Chinese Temple, brought 
 
 146 
 
"Strange To Say—" 147 
 
 from China and given to Chicago to admire by Vincent Bendix, 
 it seemed as if nothing the world had to show could be more 
 enchanting. That same glorious fountain lighted the lagoons 
 with a radiance that was almost unearthly, bringing the 
 charm of the tiny boats floating in the waters into a new 
 sort of beauty. Its glow dominated the grounds, stretching 
 far and wide, touching with added splendor even the inde- 
 scribably beautifully designed building brought to us by 
 Henry Ford. That building, with its marvelous work showing 
 the development of the motor-car and filled with the marvelous 
 equipment that the Ford engineers and workmen explained 
 to the public, topped all, I believe, in popularity. 
 
 Mr. Ford had provided some lovely rooms made comfortable 
 with lounges and easychairs and he generously opened them 
 frequently to the public with small suppers, and, of course, 
 his pavilion of music held the crowds nightly. One night I 
 remember we were enjoying the music when an icy wind 
 swept across the lake. Immediately servitors from the building 
 brought out soft gray wool blankets to wrap us in. 
 
 And we must never forget, all hail to the master minds, 
 Rufus Dawes, Charles Peterson, and Major Lohr, who with 
 their committees and many other loyal citizens gave us the 
 Century of Progress — those who dreamed a dream and made 
 it come true ! Though the depression had hit us in the after- 
 math of the war, in the midst of it was born the great Century 
 of Progress. These men had the inspiration. Of course, many 
 others came to their assistance, for without that the gigantic 
 project could never have been accomplished. But those three 
 names stand out in bright figures whenever we mention that 
 great event. 
 
 Rufus Dawes was appointed president of the undertaking, 
 and how well he did his job is known throughout the world. 
 His charming lady — the first lady of the Century of Progress 
 — ably supported him. She was a marvel to us all. Always 
 gracious, always capable through the long hours when she 
 must, of necessity, keep receiving the distinguished and the 
 important of the earth, I never saw her show the slightest 
 fatigue or boredom. She was truly and absolutely a perfect 
 hostess, and Chicago was deeply grieved at her death three 
 
148 A Century of Progress 
 
 years ago! 
 
 The world came to Chicago at that time and for two sum- 
 mers we held its interest, and there is no doubt in the minds 
 of those who saw it that Mr. Dawes and his associates brought 
 great honor to the city. The hours were long, the duties were 
 many, but President Dawes and his committee were patient 
 and capable and were willing to give all their hours to the 
 great requirements of that time. 
 
 In my small way I tried to help them. For the two years 
 the Fair lasted I was hostess of the Illinois Host House in 
 the grounds. It was one of the most inspired of the World's 
 Fair buildings, that white structure, designed by Herrick 
 Hammond on modernistic lines with classic overtones. 
 
 When Governor Henry Horner selected me to represent him 
 and to be hostess in that beautiful Illinois Host House at the 
 Century of Progress, I was naturally thrilled. To be chosen 
 from among all the women of the state to fill this position was 
 an honor indeed. And each time I walked down that magnifi- 
 cent avenue, that triumphal arch of brilliantly colored flags 
 to reach my destination, I was thrilled anew. 
 
 In the Illinois Host House we exhibited the priceless Abra- 
 ham Lincoln collection, to which Governor Horner had added 
 so largely. Collecting letters of Lincoln was the governor's 
 hobby, and when he was the able and dignified judge of the 
 Probate Court, long before he was sent to Springfield, he was 
 using all his spare moments to gather a priceless Lincoln 
 collection of his own. Our governor lent all this precious store 
 of documents to the Host House, and when it was added to 
 the famous collection of the state of Illinois it was a powerful 
 attraction to the public. Thousands came daily to see it, came 
 in such numbers that we were obliged to appeal to the police 
 to help us maintain order. It seemed to me that every man, 
 woman and child in Chicago wanted to see that collection. 
 When you remember the millions who came to us, you can 
 picture a little our consternation until four fine young police- 
 men were stationed to take command at our doors and allow 
 only a certain number to enter at a time. 
 
 Another feature contributing to the popularity of the Illi- 
 nois Host House was that in all this glorious Century of 
 
"Strange To Say—" 149 
 
 Progress, with its multitude of attractions, not a single build- 
 ing contained so commodious and fine an auditorium as ours. 
 It had been splendidly planned with comfortable seats and 
 artistic lighting, and it soon gained a reputation that was 
 well deserved. It was filled daily to capacity by the most 
 delightful programs, asked for weeks in advance by vari- 
 ous important societies. We gave it freely and without charge, 
 for the governor wished it used by the public. We only 
 reserved the right to accept or reject for its occupancy, for 
 we wanted only dignified presentations in it. 
 
 But we had it occupied daily. The finest musicals, lectures, 
 plays, receptions, dances representing the various nations — 
 all were held here. The house was never used as a dance 
 hall — we did not give it for such purposes, Marchese and 
 Marchesa Guglielmo Marconi came there as our guests, and 
 with them the Dante Alighieri Society. When the Italian 
 flyers landed right at our door, we had them as guests too, 
 with Count Potenziani and Count Castrucchio, the popular 
 Italian consul-general who lived in Chicago many years. Of 
 course, we had the much loved consul-general of France, Rene 
 Weiller (and his wife), many times, and the French Com- 
 mission and practically all other distinguished foreigners 
 from all over the world. 
 
 The Fair kept open house. Mr. and Mrs. Rufus Dawes were 
 entertaining daily. General and Mrs. Parker — he in com- 
 mand of Fort Sheridan — were our frequent guests. He, as 
 our army representative, had much to do. Admiral Wat T. 
 Cluverius and his wife, the daughter of Admiral Sampson, 
 were always present at any affair of importance. He was in 
 command of the naval base at Great Lakes, and when he was 
 not helping to do the honors at the Century of Progress, he 
 was entertaining at his lovely home at Great Lakes. 
 
 I think all Chicago put its best foot forward to entertain 
 the visitors who came to us. We were all eager that they 
 should remember not only the scientific and other remarkable 
 products of the whole world which we had invited them to 
 see, but also that they should think of us as a cordial people. 
 
 With my able assistants, Mrs. Paul Steinbrecher, Mrs. Her- 
 bert Stem, and, later, Mrs. Endyfed Williams, I believe we 
 
150 A Century of Progress 
 
 helped earn a reputation of cordiality for Chicago. 
 
 The Illinois Host House was particularly proud of an inter- 
 view in which Mrs. Franklin Roosevelt, who had often been 
 our guest, was asked what had interested her most at the 
 Century of Progress. She replied: "Three things stand out 
 in my mind as of tremendous interest: The Art Institute 
 with its glorious pictures, the Alaskan dogs here on exhibit, 
 and that beautiful Illinois Host House with the Lincoln 
 exhibit." 
 
 From all the welter of experiences and personalities en- 
 countered in my work at the Host House, several incidents 
 still come readily to mind. 
 
 One day an important French delegation was to be enter- 
 tained, so important that the governor came to join me in 
 Chicago to receive them. When I was to welcome them, I 
 addressed them in French. The governor did not know that 
 I spoke the language and was duly surprised. Again, later, 
 when Governor Lehman of New York and his distinguished 
 delegation arrived, I found that some of them preferred the 
 German language and I spoke to them in that. 
 
 In a way, perhaps, I was not badly equipped to receive 
 many who did not speak English well. Once when visiting in 
 England I was made aware of the fact that I had had a good 
 education. My husband and I were in a music hall in London 
 when I was annoyed by a couple next to me engaged in a lively 
 discussion. They were both married, but not to each other, 
 and one had failed to keep an appointment. The man evidently 
 was much worried as he became aware of the fact I under- 
 stood what was said. He told his companion: "The woman 
 next to you understands all you say. Speak French. Being 
 an American, she won't understand." 
 
 I became indignant at the fact that he thought all Americans 
 ignorant and, looking squarely at him, replied: "I speak 
 French, German, Spanish, and Italian. If you prefer me to 
 be ignorant of your conversation, you might try Chinese or 
 some Indian dialect. Of those languages I am still ignorant." 
 
 My husband, who overheard me, was surprised at my 
 audacity. The couple must have shared his surprise, for 
 almost immediately afterwards they left their seats. 
 
"Strange To Say — ' 151 
 
 On another occasion while at the Illinois Host House I was 
 told that a woman with a pretty daughter was awaiting me 
 in the receiving room. She had said she would not leave 
 without my seeing her. 
 
 As she greeted me, she said: "Mrs. Harrison, here is my 
 daughter whose life you saved." 
 
 "How?" I exclaimed. "I have no recollection of it." 
 
 "It was many years ago," she answered, "but still it is a 
 fact that you saved her life. Have you forgotten Sanibel 
 Island?" 
 
 I still regarded them both with amazement. I could not 
 place them. Had she been swimming in those lovely waters 
 off the coast of Florida? Had I snatched her from drowning? 
 Sanibel, where the tarpon with the glistening rainbow scales 
 are found; where fishermen come from all over the world to 
 catch these famous fish, only to toss them back into the blue 
 depths again — for always, even after the long hours of fight- 
 ing, these game fish (if caught) are restored to their native 
 element, never kept or eaten. What had I done at Sanibel 
 Island to deserve the praise of this lady and her child? Then 
 I remembered. 
 
 Yes, I had saved her life, but after all I had really done 
 nothing. I had heard that a woman with a very sick child 
 had been told that unless a quart of milk a day was procurable, 
 the child would die. Everything possible had been tried un- 
 successfully. The one milkman on the island had pledged to 
 his customers all the milk he had, even going without it in 
 his own family. The mainland was too far away. Cows did 
 not do well on the island; the climate was fatal to them. 
 
 Everyone else with me was terribly upset over the news 
 of the sick youngster. It would be days before any milk could 
 be procured. 
 
 I set my mind to working and at last evolved a plan, but 
 would it succeed? I watched for the milkman and asked him 
 whether he would let me accompany him on his round of 
 deliveries. He consented, but added, "Lady, there is not a 
 chance. Not a drop of milk can be gotten." 
 
 Here is what I did. I asked each customer, after telling of 
 the sick baby, "Would you be willing to allow the milkman 
 
152 A Century of Progress 
 
 to take from your daily quart of milk one tablespoon to help 
 the sick baby?" 
 
 Each woman said, "Oh, yes, we would not miss one table- 
 spoon," and thus I got the milk and thus the child recovered. 
 And now here was this beautiful, blooming young girl, smiling 
 at me. 
 
 It was a well-known fact that the Century of Progress was 
 a success when Chicago decided to carry it on for another year. 
 All were delighted, of course, that the city had made a success 
 of it, but I was not so sure I was pleased when I heard that 
 Governor Horner intended to ask me again to preside over 
 the Illinois Host House. 
 
 That I had succeeded in my job was evidenced by the 
 numerous letters about my efficiency which were received. 
 Appointing me again was indeed an honor, but in spite of 
 that there were many drawbacks. It was a strenuous position. 
 I was responsible for everything. Not an order could go 
 through without my consent, and I was at the Host House 
 practically all the time. 
 
 I had, of course, Mrs. Railey, who took my place when it 
 was impossible for me to receive guests, but I was seldom 
 absent. Mrs. Railey was given a handsome sum for her work, 
 but my work was purely honorary. I also had two stenogra- 
 phers or secretaries, who received high pay for their services. 
 All entertainments were paid for, too. 
 
 They also allowed me to send in the bill if I took a cab for 
 my duties — I had no car of my own — but I seldom took a 
 cab. I was accustomed to riding in buses and in the street- 
 cars, and I continued to do so at my own expense, and rarely 
 sent in a bill for current expenses. So after all, delightful as 
 some part of my work proved to be in receiving and meeting 
 distinguished and charming people from all over the world, 
 still many of my duties were irksome, and as I said it was 
 a strenuous job. 
 
 All my friends advised me to ask for a handsome salary. 
 With that determination in my mind I told my husband I 
 would not accept the second year's appointment as hostess 
 unless I received an adequate compensation for my services. 
 
 When I returned from my interview with Governor Horner, 
 
"Strange To Say — " 153 
 
 of course the first question asked by my better half was, "Did 
 you accept?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I did." 
 
 "And what is to be your salary?" 
 
 Shamefacedly, I said, "Nothing, it is a purely honorary 
 position." 
 
 "Well," he answered, "how about your determination not 
 to accept it as an honorary job?" 
 
 With reluctance, I said: "The governor showed me many 
 letters — he received over two hundred — from women all 
 over the state saying he should not give it to me a second 
 time; I had had it long enough and that many others in the 
 state were capable of filling the position with equal honor and 
 deserved it. It was his duty, etc., to consider the woman 
 writing as worthy of it. 
 
 "Honestly, I was shocked to find among the letters the 
 names of many of my friends who had, with hypocrisy, been 
 urging me to ask for a salary and telling me they wished I 
 would remain in the position. Between my indignation at 
 these letters from my so-called friends and the persuasion of 
 the governor to accept his offer, I yielded eagerly and accepted 
 the position for the second time." 
 
 My husband laughed heartily and with dry humor re- 
 marked: "It is really amusing how the governor worked his 
 plan and got your acceptance. If the truth were really known, 
 I believe he was afraid to appoint another woman. You see, 
 out of 200 who wanted a turn at it, had he appointed another, 
 the other 199 would have been angry. Yes, he was wise to 
 show you those letters. And though I concede you managed 
 your job splendidly and will continue to manage it well, there 
 is no doubt in my mind that some other woman in the state 
 might do as well if appointed." 
 
 Well, I was stirred anyway to do my best in the second 
 term and I feel assured I succeeded. Mr. Dawes publicly 
 honored me with a bronze medal in appreciation for what I 
 did, and the Century of Progress endorsed many of the letters 
 they received about my work and forwarded them to me. 
 
 Professor James Weber Linn of the University of Chicago 
 was my safety valve during all my term of office. He repre- 
 
154 A Century of Progress 
 
 sented Governor Horner and advised me about many things. 
 He certainly kept me in a good humor by repeating compli- 
 mentary things about me that came his way. I really loved my 
 work too, in spite of the fatigue I often endured, and even 
 though I received no salary, what of it? I had never received 
 a salary for the work I did for my husband during his terms 
 as mayor of Chicago. Why should I want it for serving a 
 governor of the state? So I went along the even tenor of 
 my way and did the job as best I could. 
 
 The thanks of the state for my work were gracefully ex- 
 pressed in the following letter: 
 "Mrs. Carter H. Harrison 
 
 2100 Lincoln Park West, 
 Chicago, Illinois 
 "Dear Mrs. Harrison: 
 
 "The Illinois State Commission for A Century of Progress, 
 and in particular, Governor Horner, Chairman of the Com- 
 mission, wish me to offer you, in the name of the Commission, 
 most sincere thanks for your devotion and your accomplish- 
 ments as head of the Executive Committee of the Honorary 
 Hostesses. 
 
 "Many if not all the official duties in connection with A 
 Century of Progress in general were admirably performed, 
 but none, the Commission feels, more effectively than the 
 complicated and important duties which you assumed without 
 ostentation and carried to complete success without other 
 reward than gratitude and honor. For two years you sacri- 
 ficed your time and gave your strength without stint. The 
 result was, the Commission thinks, in its field and of its kind 
 a triumph. You made the Illinois Host House a center of 
 intelligence, of entertainment, and of hospitality unequaled on 
 the grounds of the Exposition. Fifteen million people are 
 grateful to they do not know whom, and the Commission, with 
 full knowledge of the details of the performance, is grateful 
 to you. 
 
 "I have the honor to be, 
 
 "Respectfully yours, (Signed) Jas. Weber Linn 
 "Secretary to the Commission." 
 "Fourteenth December, 
 "1934." 
 
"Strange To Say — ' 155 
 
 As a footnote to these recollections of the 1933-34 Fair, I 
 should like to mention that Alfred Granger's book about Chi- 
 cago, written just before the Century of Progress year, 
 contained one piece of misinformation. 
 
 Mr. Granger stated that I was a daughter of William B. 
 Ogden, the first mayor of Chicago, and that the blood of that 
 worthy and able gentleman runs in the veins of my son, 
 Carter, Jr. He further informed visitors to the Fair who 
 read his book that the blood of William B. Ogden, mingled 
 with that of his father and grandfather Harrison — both 
 mayors too — marked Carter, Jr., for a place in the political 
 world. 
 
 Now while my family name was Ogden, as I have told, and 
 I am related to the distinguished William Ogden, the relation- 
 ship is not very close. I have had the pleasure of knowing 
 the daughter of Mahlon Ogden, who was a brother of William 
 Ogden. She was Mrs. Frederick West. When I first moved 
 to the north side, I met Mrs. West's mother, one of the love- 
 liest women I have ever seen. She gave a tea for me in her 
 Lake Shore Drive home and introduced me as "my kinswoman 
 from the South." 
 
 Mrs. West, with whom I have often joked about the con- 
 fusion of our relationship, unveiled a portrait of her uncle 
 at the Century of Progress. 
 
Chapter Ten 
 
 Being a Mayor's Wife 
 
 A 
 
 PUBLIC official cannot avoid bringing his 
 business home with him. He lives in the light of public favor, 
 so that his wife and family perforce share with him his aspi- 
 rations, his triumphs and his defeats. It is only natural then 
 that I knew some of the temptations of office and that I took 
 pride in the solid achievements of Mr. Harrison's terms as 
 mayor. 
 
 For years Mr. Harrison felt that our glorious Lake Michi- 
 gan was being ignored. Her many possibilities for providing 
 pleasure during the heat of the summer created in him a 
 vision of our now beautiful bathing beaches. His selection as 
 a starting point was the Clarendon Beach, and the superb 
 building placed there soon demonstrated that his vision was 
 not only beautiful but practical and useful as well. 
 
 He was also justly proud of the creation of the Tuberculosis 
 Sanitarium, which was done under his administration, and 
 the man he placed there, Dr. Sachs (whose unhappy death by 
 suicide following his removal by the next administration sad- 
 dened the whole city), won fame, not only for himself but 
 for our city. Miles and miles of the wonderful boulevards 
 which now encircle our city were built during the years of 
 which I write, to say nothing of the replacement of many of 
 the old swinging bridges by the safer and more substantial 
 ones which now span the river. 
 
 And speaking of the river, while our city was gradually 
 emerging from her swaddling clothes many public-spirited 
 citizens and all departments of the city were steadily co- 
 operating to build a greater and more beautiful Chicago. 
 Just as the County Board had replaced the old Cook County 
 
 156 
 
"Strange To Say — " 157 
 
 Hospital with the present finely equipped building, so did the 
 Sanitary Commission bring about during Mr. Harrison's 
 mayoralty the construction of the drainage canal. Who does 
 not remember the old Chicago River, ill-smelling, sluggish, 
 slow of current and unattractive as it was before the canal 
 was built, reversing the course of the stream and causing it 
 to flow into the Mississippi, thus making it a unit in the 
 Lakes-to-the-Gulf Deep Waterway? 
 
 Furthermore, I cannot forbear to recall that during the 
 twenty-two years of official service of the two Mayors Har- 
 rison, Chicago had no unpaid policemen, no unpaid firemen, 
 no unpaid engineers, no unpaid schoolteachers, no wasted 
 millions of the citizens' tax money, no exorbitant taxes, no 
 public utilities scandals, no insurance frauds, no decrepit bank 
 management with the attendant barnacles of "holding com- 
 panies," no bankrupt city hall, no gangsters, no disgraceful 
 city government. All these things have come since the Har- 
 risons, father and son, went out of office. 
 
 I am — naturally, I think — proud of my husband's service 
 and his father's to our city. And because I am just myself 
 and can never be any other, I have a love for all things edu- 
 cational and cultural. I think the thing which gives me the 
 greatest thrill today is to drive along one of our beautiful 
 boulevards leading to the southwest to a spot near which, 
 we are told, the frail French priest, Pere Marquette, spent 
 the winter of 1674, nearly three hundred years ago, in a rude 
 log hut, but where stands now a dignified and spacious build- 
 ing over the entrance to which I read, "The Carter Harrison 
 Technical High School," erected by the Board of Education 
 in his father's memory during my husband's term of office 
 as mayor. Other memorials of my husband's years of service 
 may be more ornate, more elaborate, more costly, but none 
 can be more important, or, to me, more satisfying ! 
 
 It was easy for me to remember the temptations of office, 
 because I was young, full of enthusiasm, and I certainly did 
 love the good things of life. We were far from wealthy and 
 could not afford many of the luxuries possessed by many of 
 our friends. It was often hard for me to sit beside them and 
 see how easily they spent money and to watch their delight 
 
158 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 in spending it. 
 
 As I have mentioned previously, I was eager to make money 
 honorably. One day what appeared to be a chance came my 
 way. I said to myself, "Surely this is legitimate and this time 
 I shall say nothing to my husband until I can place a very 
 handsome check in his hands." So I did all my planning 
 without his knowledge. 
 
 I had been approached by one of the heads of a book concern 
 and told that my fairy tales had pleased them and they wanted 
 one book — because of its fine stories and its excellent English 
 — to incorporate in the schoolbooks. The publisher assured 
 me it would pay me $18,000 to $20,000 a year for many years. 
 Now, where was the harm here? None I could see. 
 
 After several talks with the publisher, I consented. The 
 contract was drawn up. I was to sign it the next day, and I 
 smiled to myself at the surprise I would give my better half. 
 But the night before the contract was to be brought me, again 
 that old conscientious feeling arose. I was so sure there was 
 no harm in it, and I was confident. Why not tell Carter? 
 He could find no flaw and was going to be just as pleased as 
 I that I could make a handsome sum of money by my book. 
 
 So I told him. And then, the deluge! Can I ever forget it? 
 It overcame me. I was terrified. What on earth had I done — 
 rather was I about to do? 
 
 It was my last effort to keep a secret from him. He made 
 me telephone at once to say the contract would not be signed, 
 and I did not sign. He told me that had I signed it, I would 
 have blasted his being elected mayor of Chicago again, and 
 he was planning to ask for that honor the following year. 
 
 Had I received the money, it would have counted against 
 him — a bribe while he was in office to put one of my books 
 into the public schools of Chicago. I told the book concern 
 that my husband had told me: "After I am out of office — 
 and I won't run forever — if they make this offer to you, I 
 should be mighty glad to have you accept." But he added, "I 
 am sure they never will offer it then." 
 
 And they never did. 
 
 As the wife of the mayor, I had, of course, a multitude of 
 things to do. Numbers of people approached me for my 
 
Mrs. Carter H. Harrison 
 
 During The Century of Progress Exposition 
 
 19SS 
 
Mr. and Mrs. Carter H. Harrison 
 
 at the 60th Anniversary of their wedding 
 
"Strange To Say—" 159 
 
 influence with my husband. I saw many, but from the highest 
 to the lowest I was a bit disgusted with one thing : All, whether 
 rich or poor, seemed to feel that influence was to be bought. 
 The thought of an honest mayor who would listen to an honest 
 tale of woe was impossible to find; some form of bribery 
 always cropped up. 
 
 Among the papers I occasionally found, after the departure 
 of the visitor, perhaps a $100-bill, sometimes several $100- 
 bills. And when I returned the money I was answered with, 
 "Oh, I was told the job I wanted was worth that much and 
 I was willing to pay for it." 
 
 But one trick almost caught me; I saw no harm in it, and 
 at first was very pleased. A good friend and fine business 
 man said to me, "If you will find out what your husband will 
 do about a certain thing that is coming up before him in the 
 council, I can make you a very big lot of money. Remember, 
 I am not interested in which way he votes, I do not care 
 whether it is for or against the bill. I just want to know 
 what he will do. It is equally interesting to me either way. 
 He will vote conscientiously as, of course, he always does," 
 he added. "The only thing that interests me is to know in 
 which way he does vote. Either way I can make the money." 
 
 I thought that fair enough and I found out what he wanted 
 to know, but somehow I just felt I could not tell him without 
 my husband's knowledge. When I told Mr. Harrison he 
 laughed out loud and said, "A new form of bribery." 
 
 One man my husband had admired was a United States 
 President, but when he learned that that President had allowed 
 friends to make money in this way his admiration ceased. 
 "I will never allow my office to be used in such a way," he told 
 me. 
 
 So I never made the money. 
 
 One morning I looked out of the window of our home to 
 see a superb broughham with a spanking pair of the best 
 blooded horses in front of the door. A note handed me ex- 
 plained they were mine and that the stable had been paid to 
 keep them in perfect condition with driver and all other 
 costs covered for two years. I ran down and examined my 
 gift. The beautiful robes had my initials embroidered on 
 
160 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 them. 
 
 It certainly was a princely gift, but alas, was it a welcome 
 one? That was the question, and I knew it was not. So the 
 gift was very properly declined. Later a gorgeous diamond 
 necklace was sent to me, and after that many beautiful pres- 
 ents of this kind found their way to me. Naturally nothing 
 was accepted, and finally in disgust the donor went openly 
 to Mr. Harrison and asked, "Is there nothing we can send 
 Mrs. Harrison that she will be allowed to keep ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," replied my facetious better half, "send her a 
 dozen American beauties. She won't return them." 
 
 One morning as I opened the door to take my two young- 
 sters out for a walk in Lincoln Park — we lived just a 
 block from it — William Lorimer, a prominent and very in- 
 fluential politician, stepped in to see my husband. After greet- 
 ing me, he said, "Mrs. Harrison, why do you live in this quiet 
 little home? You should be out on the Lake Shore Drive and 
 living as a woman in your position should." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Lorimer, we can't afford any more luxury than 
 we are now enjoying, and truth to tell I think we have a 
 charming home. You, like many others, think my husband 
 has a lot of money." 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't," he answered. "I know exactly what he 
 has, but if you will say the word I will see that you are put 
 on the Gold Coast and have plenty to live on there." 
 
 He honestly believed that in politics it was the right thing 
 to take money for influence! 
 
 The mayor's salary at that time was exactly $7,000 a year. 
 It should have been $25,000 a year. That was the way Mr. 
 Lorimer argued, I suppose, but no inducement ever convinced 
 Carter Harrison that he should take more for his job than 
 the salary he had accepted. 
 
 He even carried this spirit into the small things of office. 
 One afternoon I went to the City Hall to come home with 
 Mr. Harrison. I had with me three letters, and I asked his 
 secretary to stamp and mail them for me. The secretary, 
 Charles Fitzmorris, stopped putting stamps on office mail and 
 got the stamps for my letters from another box. 
 
 "Why did you do that," I questioned. "Why not put two 
 
"Strange To Say—'* 161 
 
 cents on each from those stamps on your table?" 
 
 "Because," he answered, "Mr. Harrison never uses the city 
 stamps for his private mail." 
 
 "Oh," I said, turning to Carter, "couldn't Chicago give me 
 six cents?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," quickly came the reply, "but remember that that 
 six cents is really stolen because the city does not pay for your 
 private mail." 
 
 "Surely the city could afford to give me six cents," I said. 
 
 "Of course, easily, but why be contented with stealing six 
 cents when I can get you a million, at least, if you want it?" 
 
 Charles Fitzmorris was not only my husband's secretary 
 but he was a valued friend of the family. My first knowledge 
 of him went back to my girlhood days in New Orleans, for 
 one of my friends there, Bessie Bisland, was chosen by a 
 newspaper to make a trip around the world in an effort to 
 beat Nellie Bly. With her went Fitzmorris, then a reporter 
 for the Hearst paper in Chicago. Afterwards Fitzmorris be- 
 came city comptroller under William Hale Thompson. Years 
 later I ran into Bessie Bisland, then a Mrs. Wetmore of New 
 York, in Tokyo, when we were guests of the ambassador, 
 Charles Warren, and his wife. She was still beautiful, and 
 was writing a life of Lafcadio Hearn. 
 
 My husband was frequently praised at public meetings and 
 called a "Daniel come to judgment." One night after one of 
 these eulogistic talks had been heard, he said to me, "Do you 
 know I just get bored when a minister of the gospel gets up 
 and pays me all these compliments for just doing my duty. 
 I am afraid that some day I am just going to flare up and 
 tell him a few things." 
 
 "Well, what will you tell him?" I asked. 
 
 He looked a little sheepish and said, "One thing I can hon- 
 estly say, 'I don't deserve your compliments because frankly 
 I have never had a temptation.' I don't know how other men 
 would feel or have felt in my position, but I was born with 
 a conscience. I am entitled to my salary as mayor of Chicago 
 and if I take a single penny more, I have stolen it." 
 
 And those were the lines he acted upon. He did what he 
 thought was the right thing for the city and he was never 
 
162 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 even tempted to do aught else, so he claimed he deserved no 
 credit for his many good acts. 
 
 If the temptations were frequent, so were the opportunities 
 to use our energies for good. A letter which came some years 
 ago will illustrate how often a small act of kindness has an 
 influence which could never have been anticipated at the time. 
 The letter tells its own story : 
 
 "Sept. 9, 1928 
 "Mrs. Carter Harrison, 
 "Chicago, 111., 
 "My dear Mrs. Harrison: 
 
 "The desire to write you this letter has been with me for 
 many years. It should have been written long ago when a pen 
 did not tremble in my fingers, making resort to the type- 
 writer not necessary. It may be the urge to write you is unre- 
 sistible in this beautiful spot where my few weeks of holiday 
 have been spent. The starry sky at night, the sun on the 
 blue waters of the lake, on the mountains and in the trees, 
 making fantastic shadows of the leaves and branches on the 
 ground by day, remind me of your fairy stories and take the 
 timidity of writing to you away. Once, seven or eight years 
 ago when in Chicago, I thought perhaps you might let me see 
 you and tell you that which I shall write to you now. At that 
 time, someone in Mr. Harrison's office told me over the phone 
 that you were in Florida. 
 
 "What I want to tell you, Mrs. Harrison, is that you were 
 the instrument of our dear Lord in bringing to me the great- 
 est joy and happiness of my life in aiding me to fulfill my 
 desire and ambition in the proper raising of my children. 
 This is my second letter to you. The first to which you re- 
 sponded so nobly was written over a quarter of a century ago. 
 This was in 1897, just after Mr. Harrison had been inaugu- 
 rated Mayor of Chicago for the first time. As Mr. Harrison 
 afterwards wrote me, the letter reached you one morning at 
 the breakfast table. 
 
 "My position in the health department had been held for 
 two years under Mayor Swift and due to political suasion 
 our new mayor had dismissed me to install the choice of a 
 friend. The letter asked your intercession for the sake of 
 
"Strange To Say —" 163 
 
 my little fatherless ones and God bless you for saying some- 
 thing to Mr. Harrison to which he gave heed and created a 
 place for me in the laboratory until a Civil Service examina- 
 tion was given for my original place. Then I had the great 
 pleasure of being the first woman placed in any position 
 under Civil Service in Chicago. This position was mine for 
 twenty-two years and six months. Now my retirement gives 
 me a pension. 
 
 "It is about what you helped me to accomplish and the end- 
 less good you did at the breakfast table that I want and ever 
 have wanted you to know — My dear Mrs. Harrison, it first 
 gave me courage to face the world and all the trials that 
 came in life, to make a good, comfortable home for my chil- 
 dren; to raise them in the right way, and to achieve my de- 
 sire to give them college educations. My daughter in her 
 last year at college married and now lives in Minneapolis; 
 is a good wife and darling mother of two dear girls. 
 
 "My son had seven years at the University of Chicago fin- 
 ishing his college course and taking his law course there. He 
 graduated in law with the first class in that college. After 
 teaching law in Cornell at Ithaca, N. Y., for two years, he 
 was called to Stanford, where he has been a member of the 
 law faculty for twenty-one years. 
 
 "I do not want to seem to be egotistical, Mrs. Harrison, but 
 you have so great and deep a part, as the real founder and 
 promotor of what has come from your kindness, that I do 
 want you to know just what has been the result of your dear 
 act in the long ago. So you will pardon details. Walter, my 
 son, was called to Washington during the war to help estab- 
 lish the legal department of the War Trade Board. Perhaps 
 Mr. Harrison may know he is considered an authority on 
 international law, and was lately appointed by Harvard a 
 member of some association of international law. What he 
 has done could never have been achieved without your kind- 
 ness to me in the past. 
 
 "God bless you and give you every happiness and grant 
 your wish as you granted mine. If this letter seems an intru- 
 sion, forgive me for sending it. Some place I once read of 
 your saying that one of your happinesses in life was to know 
 
164 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 that you had helped or been of service to someone. You can 
 know and be assured that your great service to me was im- 
 measurable, covering the need at the time rendered and 
 stretching out over the days and years of the future and not 
 yet ended. 
 
 "I want to thank Mr. Harrison, too, for his kindness to 
 me. He was very considerate of me in every way and my 
 prayers of thanksgiving go out to him that all blessings may 
 be his. 
 
 "Could I have talked to you I should, perhaps, have not 
 refrained from citing the many acts of kindness told me by 
 friends that Mr. Harrison did to make my position more 
 secure and more pleasant. These acts he has no doubt long 
 ago forgotten, but they will ever be in my memory of him. 
 I have many pictures of you cut from newspapers which I 
 keep as a talisman. Among others which I have, Mrs. Har- 
 rison, is one taken with the brother of the Kaiser. If I thought 
 you did not have one and cared for it, I should be glad to send 
 it to you. 
 
 "May the dear Lord bless and keep you both safe in his 
 care is the prayer of 
 
 "Yours most gratefully, 
 
 (signed) Dollie Brough Bingham, 
 735 Homer ave., 
 Palo Alto, Calif." 
 
 Speaking of gratitude and money reminds me that I am 
 always finding money which, like the bribes that have been 
 offered me, I can never keep. One time some years ago, I was 
 in Marshall Field's waiting for a package, when I found my- 
 self holding a dirty but very fat purse. 
 
 Impulsively, I turned to the woman next me and asked 
 whether it was hers. She replied "No," but quickly another 
 woman near by said, "What did you find?" But I had recov- 
 ered my senses and I asked, "What did you lose?" 
 
 An usher appeared asking me to hand it to him, saying that 
 that is customary. By this time I had found that the purse 
 was heavy with gold and decided I would hold it myself, so 
 I replied, "I will give my name and if the owner claims it she 
 will get it ; otherwise I shall keep it until she is heard from." 
 
"Strange To Say — " 165 
 
 He accompanied me to the desk and this was declared satis- 
 factory. 
 
 Within a few minutes after reaching my hotel, a plaintive 
 voice on the phone said, "I got on my knees and thanked God 
 when I heard you had my purse." 
 
 In a few minutes the woman called and identified^ the 
 purse. She was evidently poor, and I said, "But how in the 
 world could you have this much money?" It was more than 
 $2,000. 
 
 She replied: "My daughter and son and I work. We had 
 all drawn all we had saved and I was going down to make 
 the last payment on the home we own. On the way I stopped 
 at Field's for some embroidery and left the purse on the 
 counter where you picked it up." 
 
 "My, what carelessness," I thought. She then offered me 
 $100. Naturally, I explained to her the only reason I had kept 
 the money was because I wanted to feel sure she would get it 
 in its entirety and not have to give anyone anything for 
 finding it. 
 
 A few days after as I was stepping into a cab to go to Cali- 
 fornia, she was standing there with a small package in her 
 hand. She said, "I heard you say you were leaving for Cali- 
 fornia at this hour, and I have knitted you a pair of pink 
 slippers to match the pink negligee you wore when I saw 
 you." 
 
 Of course I accepted them and loved them ever afterwards. 
 
 On another occasion, a woman sitting on the bus beside me 
 got up, leaving a handsome pocketbook. At first I did not see 
 it, but a woman across the way leaned over and took it. 
 
 Then I awoke and said, "Why do you take my pocketbook?" 
 
 "Oh," she said, "is it yours?" 
 
 "Certainly," I said, and she handed it back. 
 
 Then I opened it and found it belonged to Mrs. Valentine, 
 the sister of Mrs. Patrick Valentine. A card giving her ad- 
 dress was in the pocketbook, together with many big bills. I 
 decided to keep the pocketbook and inform the owner. 
 
 I got her after much difficulty, for her daughter was on the 
 telephone trying to reach the bus station to tell of the loss. 
 I finally induced the telephone company to interrupt the con- 
 
166 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 versation, saying I had the purse. She came for it at once 
 and was very grateful. 
 
 She said she had only been allowed to enter the United 
 States on condition of a large deposit pledging herself to sup- 
 port herself, otherwise she could not enter. She had lived in 
 Scotland and because of the war wanted to come here. 
 
 So much for the past. As a refuge from the cares of 
 politics, and in more recent years as a vacation home, we be- 
 came members of a delightful club at Huron Mountain, Mich- 
 igan, which was started many years ago by some Detroiters 
 and one or two people from Chicago. It soon became tremen- 
 dously popular for the few privileged members and their 
 families. We were happy when invited to join, and in our 
 fifty years' membership we have missed only two summers 
 there. We love the seclusion and privacy of our Huron Moun- 
 tain Club and we guard it jealously. That is why the world 
 seldom hears of us. 
 
 Yet we are not idle. So far we have not given a President 
 to the United States, but remember, we are young. With our 
 limited membership of only fifty, we have given an ambassa- 
 dor — Charles B. Warren, of Detroit, who was ambassador 
 to Japan and afterwards to Mexico. Another member, Edgar 
 Bancroft, was sent to Japan as ambassador and died there. 
 Jacob M. Dickinson was secretary of the treasury, and Don 
 Dickinson from Detroit was in the Cabinet, too. We have had 
 still another in the Cabinet from Detroit, Secretary of the 
 Navy Edward Denby.* Another member is a much talked of 
 Senator from Pennsylvania, Senator Reed, and we have 
 many other distinguished men, such as doctors of national 
 reputation and presidents of banks, and we have Henry Ford, 
 who has done so much for the world and is the most modest 
 of all our members. 
 
 No matter how scattered the members are, each summer 
 they try to return for a few weeks at least to this secluded 
 paradise. There on the shores of Lake Superior, with its sharp 
 red sandstone cliffs jutting out to contrast with the crystal 
 waters, so clear that the tiniest pebble is visible twenty feet 
 below, and where the mirages by day and the mysterious 
 
 ♦Alas, these members have died, and so has Henry Ford. 
 
"Strange To Say—" 167 
 
 Northern Lights by night enchant, we live the life of sim- 
 plicity. Our cabins are not ostentatious and one common club- 
 house furnishes the meals. It is an ideal life to wander through 
 those great Michigan woods, walking through cathedral aisles 
 under the huge Norway pines — those woods untouched by 
 beaten roads for motors — and to listen to the soughing of 
 the trees in the wind or the song of the birds, crossing the 
 pretty lakes (we own ten of them exclusively) in small row- 
 boats and dropping a line in to catch fish. 
 
 The charming coterie of members from Chicago and from 
 Detroit, with equally fine ones from Pennsylvania, New York 
 and Ohio, is already going into the third generation. And 
 with children and grandchildren about us, we feel we can well 
 call ourselves one big family. 
 
 The Huron Mountain Club is a hotbed of Republicanism, 
 as the names I have mentioned, as well as those of such Chi- 
 cago fellow members as the Henry Tuttles, George A. Car- 
 penter and his wife, the former Harriet Isham, Victor Elting, 
 the Cyrus Bentleys, the Shortalls, the Harry Dunbaughs, the 
 Laird Bells and the Albert Farwells, will indicate. 
 
 Now I am a staunch Democrat, inheriting my politics from 
 my Southern ancestry and confirming it by marriage, so our 
 fellow members have had their share of fun with me, espe- 
 cially over my weakness for elephants. My rooms have always 
 been decorated with all sorts and sizes of them. Somehow I 
 never could care for the Democratic emblem, the donkey, but 
 naturally, surrounded as I was by these charming and splen- 
 did Republicans, all of whom I admire, many of whom I love, 
 I felt obliged to flaunt my donkey and proclaim my politics in 
 this Republican nest. 
 
 All of the women at the club were present at our cabin 
 one afternoon to hear a reading by one of the members. Very 
 conspicuously on the center table stood my good-sized don- 
 key. All gathered about, but suddenly in the midst of the 
 interesting reading I became distracted. I could not hear a 
 word because I looked up and could hardly believe my eyes. 
 The donkey had disappeared, and in its place stood a very 
 handsome black ebony elephant with long white ivory tusks. 
 
 I could not interrupt the reader, nor did I care to disturb 
 
168 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 the listeners, but as soon after as possible I asked about my 
 donkey. No one had seen it ; everyone was quite innocent over 
 its disappearance. It was a mystery until the last guest had 
 departed. Then that really villainous Harriet Isham Carpen- 
 ter* pulled it out from behind a sofa pillow where she had 
 hidden it and gave it to me. 
 
 The late Ashley Pond, of Detroit, a world-famous lawyer, 
 and his brilliant daughter, Florence, who inherits his mind, 
 were members. Our president was Mr. Longyear, with his 
 fine brother, Dr. Longyear. The Laird Bells, Mayor Hemp- 
 stead Washburne'sf sons, and the famous Dr. Annette, the 
 psychiatrist, the Farwells, the Harrises and such numerous 
 new clans as the Wesley and Arthur Dixons — my husband 
 and I love them all, but we miss those earlier members, the 
 Shortalls, the Christys, the Sterlings and the William Hamil- 
 tons. Dr. Tappy, our oldest member, still lives, and popular 
 James Turner's wife is among us. Many others too numerous 
 to mention are members. 
 
 Among us was man so well known that I hesitate to speak 
 of him because he was very modest and disliked to be dis- 
 cussed — Henry Ford. He and Mrs. Ford were much loved by 
 us all and I would not discuss him except that in a book of my 
 own life I may perhaps be forgiven for referring to the effect 
 that Mrs. Ford has had on me. She loves the simple life, as 
 her husband did, and is very modest, but she is a great reader 
 and the books she chooses are always worth while. In the 
 years I have known her she has had a great influence upon 
 my choice of books. When she occasionally sends me one I 
 find it so absorbing, so full of interest I wonder I have not had 
 it before. Consequently I often consult her upon buying books ; 
 she just loves to make people happy. Her word was law to 
 her beloved Henry. They both loved dancing and when we 
 were invited to accompany them sometimes to look at their 
 lumber camps and schools we nearly always ended up, after 
 a nice lunch, with a dance with the schoolchildren and their 
 parents, and both Mr. and Mrs. Ford danced with them. He 
 was as slender as a sapling and in spite of his age — he was 
 
 *Mrs. Carpenter died several months ago. 
 
 fMr. Longyear and Mayor Washburne have left us. 
 
''Strange To Say—" 169 
 
 eighty-four — he was as light as a feather. Sometimes in 
 walking he saw a fallen tree or log lying across the road ; run- 
 ning forward he would spring lightly over it, as lightly as his 
 grandson could. 
 
 All our married lives our greatest happiness has been found 
 with our children, and now in our old age they have given us 
 grandchildren to add to this happiness. Their two families 
 complete our lives. 
 
 Our son, Carter H. Harrison, the sixth of that name, has 
 no son, but four lovely daughters. The eldest, Lucy, married 
 a young engineer, Kevin McLoughlin, a lieutenant commander 
 in the navy, who did fine work in the Pacific during the war 
 and is now back in his former work in New York. Edith, the 
 second daughter, went off to England as a Red Cross girl, was 
 sent to serve in a squadron stationed there, and in five months 
 had married the lieutenant colonel. They have presented us 
 with our first great-grandchild, named for his father, Lieu- 
 tenant Colonel Peter J. Rooney and now a second son, Carter 
 H. Harrison Rooney. Caryl, the third daughter, married 
 George Swope, an able young engineer who shows great 
 promise. And Joan, the youngest daughter, married last 
 June while in Europe. Her husband is Richard Stevenson, as 
 fine a young man as we have ever met, a descendant of the 
 well-known Farwells. Both George and Richard did their bit 
 in the war. The two families now live in Lake Forest. We are 
 as fond of all these young men as we are of their wives. 
 
 Our son Carter is head of a stock and bond brokerage com- 
 pany bearing his name. This came about through our friend- 
 ship with the Myron Herricks of Cleveland. He was governor 
 of his state and later ambassador to France. While we were 
 with them one day, Mr. Herrick said to me: "What is your 
 son's name? If it is Carter, I want him." 
 
 I was amazed and answered : "For goodness' sake, what do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "Just this," he replied. "We are opening a branch here in 
 Chicago. My son will be in it. Your husband's name and that 
 of his father stand for straight dealing here, and if your son 
 bears the name it will mean much to us." 
 
 "But, Mr. Herrick," I said, "Carter is young and knows 
 
170 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 nothing about stocks and bonds." 
 
 "That is all right," was the reply, "we will teach him." 
 
 And he did. Carter studied the business in New York and 
 entered the firm. When the firm left Chicago later on, it turned 
 over its good will to Carter, Jr., and the firm took his name, 
 Carter H. Harrison. 
 
 Governor and Mrs. Herrick were our good friends from the 
 time of the 1916 Republican convention here. We generally- 
 picked them up at their hotel at a stated hour each morning 
 and took them to the Upham box at the Coliseum. As the 
 crowds were so great at the downtown hotels, the Herricks 
 were pleased at our offer to take them to the convention, for 
 it was at times difficult to get a cab. Afterwards in Paris, 
 where he went as our ambassador, we often spoke of these 
 convention days. 
 
 Governor Herrick used to twit me about an incident to 
 which he was a witness. One winter the Doge's Court was 
 represented here at the Art Institute, and the magnificence 
 of that spectacle was a sight never to be forgotten by those 
 who saw it. European and Oriental courts were selected at 
 their most colorful dates. I was asked to hold the court of 
 Louis XVI and was Marie Antoinette, with James B. Waller 
 as my king. Many historical figures could be introduced, even 
 if not actually in the court of that day. Richelieu was repre- 
 sented by Judge Barton Payne and the Duchess du Barry 
 walked with him. She was Mrs. Henry Robbins. 
 
 All the young bloods of the day — Walter Kirk and the 
 others — were in our magnificent pageant, and all the lovely 
 girls. All looked their best with white wigs, painted cheeks 
 and black beauty spots to accentuate their color. 
 
 A few days after, at a luncheon, where Governor and Mrs. 
 Herrick were present, Mrs. John Clarke leaned over and said 
 in an audible voice, "Mrs. Harrison, you were a beauty that 
 night." 
 
 Quite puffed up with the compliment, I replied, "Thank you, 
 but did you notice Mrs. Rose Chatfield Taylor? As the Oriental 
 Queen Semiramis, she was beautiful too." 
 
 "Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Clarke. "But then she is beautiful 
 all the time." 
 
"Strange To Say — " 171 
 
 I don't know which of these remarks of Mrs. Clarke's im- 
 pressed me more, but I certainly remember the one that im- 
 pressed Governor Herrick, for he never failed to remind me 
 of it every time we met afterwards. 
 
 Our daughter Edith, as I have mentioned, is the proprietor 
 of a Lake Forest shop. Her marriage to Edson Manierre, the 
 son of William R. Manierre, member of a pioneer Chicago 
 family (the Manierres always worked for the good of Chicago 
 and he for many years was a valued alderman) went on the 
 rocks. But separated as Edith and Edson were, they were 
 held together by their love for and pride in their two sons. 
 After two years apart, they were reunited, but could not find 
 happiness together and again separated. 
 
 In many respects Edith's life has paralleled that of Cathe- 
 rine Barker, her dear friend and roommate at Briarcliff School 
 in New York. Of course, there was a great difference in their 
 wealth, for Catherine was an heiress, but under the wise 
 guardianship of James Forgan she was taught to be sensible 
 about money and lived simply. 
 
 I remember once when Catherine was spending a week with 
 us. She was about fifteen, and she wanted a beautiful diamond 
 watch that she had seen. She asked her guardian whether she 
 could afford it. 
 
 His reply was: "You can afford practically anything, but 
 should you buy it and then after a while find it does not give 
 you the pleasure you expected, you will have thrown away 
 your money. My advice is to think it over and if at the end of 
 three months you still desire it, buy it." 
 
 She did exactly that, and she bought the watch and loved it. 
 But she was equally conscientious about everything else, and 
 thought well and long before she spent much. 
 
 Mr. Forgan very wisely said: "When she comes into her 
 great fortune at the age of twenty-five, I think she should have 
 had some experience in spending it. If she has no experience 
 until then, she will waste it and commit many mistakes." 
 
 Catherine became the wife of Howard Spaulding, an inti- 
 mate friend of our daughter's husband. After several years, 
 during which they had no children, they were divorced, and 
 she found a congenial life companion in Charles Hickox, well- 
 
172 Being A Mayor's Wife 
 
 known in insurance. They have found complete happiness to- 
 gether, and with four lovely children, two adorable little girls 
 and now twin boys, they feel eternally blessed. 
 
 After over sixty years of married life, I feel that I prefer 
 the apparently now unfashionable teaching that marriage is 
 a serious thing. We were brought up to believe that marriage 
 was for always, so that I cannot get accustomed to that easy 
 way of discussing such a serious step as divorce. When I hear 
 someone lightly say: "Well, divorce is their only solution. 
 They have really been too long together/' that always shocks 
 me. 
 
 Too long together ! In the early years of our marriage I once 
 said to my husband, "I have such a nice comfortable feeling 
 about our marriage. You know we can never get a divorce." 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh," I continued, "I am a Catholic and we just could not 
 be divorced." 
 
 "But I am not," he answered, "so you had better begin 
 watching your step." 
 
 It is not religion that keeps couples together. Men and 
 women won't stick together for religion alone, but religion 
 does help. It teaches one to bear and forbear, and thus keeps 
 alive the love that brought them together. 
 
 I know I made no mistake in choosing the man I did and I 
 hope he feels he chose wisely in selecting me. The young 
 people of today choose too hurriedly, confident that the divorce 
 court is always there and that they can always go out free and 
 happy. I wonder ! 
 
 In the early nineties, two beautiful young women appeared 
 in Chicago society and took us all by storm. Mrs. Ogden 
 Armour and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Philip Armour, Jr. Mrs. 
 Ogden Armour, with flashing black eyes and a creamy-white 
 complexion, was not more attractive than Mrs. Philip, Jr., 
 with her golden locks and sparkling blue eyes. Both these 
 young women took a prominent place in society. The position 
 and wealth of their husbands enabled them to do much good. 
 They were both capable and never shirked what they consid- 
 ered their duty. They were a remarkable pair, and were 
 nearly always together. I have been devoted to both these 
 
"Strange To Say—" 173 
 
 young women always, although they were far younger than 
 I, and we have always continued our friendship. 
 
 Mrs. Philip Armour married again after her husband's 
 death, and is now Mrs. Patrick Valentine. She is as attractive 
 as ever with her slender figure and lovely skin. She and Lolita 
 Armour seem even more beautiful to me now than as girls. 
 Age has softened their beauty, of course, but it has added 
 something, too, to their faces w 7 hich shows even though they 
 are nearing old age — a beauty which is evidence of the lives 
 they have led. Their birthdays are still far ahead but mine, 
 alas, has just passed eighty-six. Both of them stand beside me 
 with a supreme smile and call me young. 
 
 Once every year each one of us gives a lunch and that lunch 
 is sacred to the three of us. We never miss it. Lolita's love 
 for Mrs. Dunham brings her in it — she is the baby of the 
 crowd — and my love for my only bridesmaid and cousin, Mrs. 
 Wentworth Field, includes Ler. So the five of us get together 
 always during the winter and no one else is invited. And what 
 good times we do have together ! 
 
Chapter Eleven 
 Seeing the World 
 
 I 
 
 N 1917 — the war was still on in Europe 
 though we had not yet entered it — my husband and I decided 
 to travel a bit. We had long looked forward to this pleasure, 
 but while he was in the mayoralty the exigencies of office pre- 
 vented any such plans. 
 
 Though Europe was out of the question, we felt that six 
 months spent in beautiful South America would be of deep 
 interest. I have published a book, Below the Equator, giving 
 a complete account of our fascinating trip there, so I will not 
 bore anyone with a repetition of it. 
 
 We loved every minute of that six months. We crossed 
 the Andes six times. We saw Cuzco and studied the remains 
 of those magnificent monuments of the Inca civilization which 
 even today continues to astonish the world. We spent a week 
 in La Paz in Bolivia and we sailed over the blue waters of 
 Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable body of water in the 
 world — about 14,000 feet. 
 
 It was here in South American in beautiful Arequipa with 
 its superb view of El Misti, snow-crowned and kingly in the 
 distance, that our beloved Harriet Monroe died. She was tak- 
 ing the trip that she had so long planned and talked about, 
 but it was too great a strain on her heart, and, in perhaps one 
 of the most beautiful spots on the earth, the great call came 
 to her. 
 
 She will long be remembered in Chicago. Modest, quiet, but 
 oh, so capable, with such uplifting thoughts, with such high 
 ideals, she led us all through her charming magazine Poetry 
 to the heights. And there often we dwelt on Parnassus, for- 
 getful of a sordid world. Harriet Monroe's work will live. 
 
 174 
 
"Strange To Say—" 175 
 
 Like the pebble dropped in the clear pool, her beautiful 
 thoughts in poetry have gone out in widening circles to reach 
 the remotest corners of the globe. I have heard of her in 
 India at Tagores, in England, in Indo-China ; and throughout 
 Europe, Harriet Monroe and what she did for her public will 
 never be forgotten. 
 
 Argentina and Brazil were not neglected in our travels. We 
 came back to the United States when we entered the war, just 
 at the time that that German Count von Luckner was sinking 
 the vessels off the South American coast, but sinking them 
 without loss of a single life. He was courteous in the extreme, 
 stopped a vessel, took the passengers off, put them safely on 
 another boat or kept them on his own, sent them below to 
 drink champagne and fine wines while he was sinking their 
 ship. He said to the various captains he took aboard, "This is 
 war. I am only doing my duty as you would probably do yours, 
 but I know it will not be a pleasant sight to see your ship 
 sunk, so why remain on deck?" Count von Luckner after- 
 wards came to Chicago and lectured, told of his varied ex- 
 periences and proved to be a really charming person. 
 
 One experience in beautiful Brazil made me laugh. We 
 took an early train from Rio de Janeiro to Petropolis, to spend 
 the day there seeing the cotton mills and the summer homes 
 of the many citizens of Rio who live many months there in the 
 cool climate. After a ride through the mountains covered with 
 orchids and the rich verdure that all writers of Brazil dwell 
 upon, we reached the city. We spent hours riding about, then, 
 dismissing our cab, determined to walk about and to catch our 
 return train to Rio. 
 
 After a while we discovered we were lost and did not know 
 in what direction the station lay. Now we both speak French, 
 German, pretty fair Spanish and Italian, yet we knew no Por- 
 tuguese. A crowd had gradually assembled around us, much 
 interested, I suppose, in the numerous languages we were 
 using. Of course, not understanding us, they made no re- 
 sponse. My husband in despair said, "We have only about 
 twenty minutes left to catch that train and what in the world 
 are we to do? It is the last train today back to Rio and here 
 we are stranded for the night/' 
 
176 Seeing The World 
 
 "If you will allow me," I said, "I will get the direction you 
 want in a minute." 
 
 Rather contemptuously, he replied, "I don't believe it pos- 
 sible, but go ahead and prove your superior wisdom." And 
 I did and I got the train. 
 
 It was simple after all. Here is what I did. I suddenly 
 began running up and down puffing like an engine and mak- 
 ing whistling noises. It was a game I had often played with 
 our children. The crowd understood, roared with laughter 
 and pointed the way. So much for woman's wit. 
 
 When the United States declared war, we hurried back. 
 Mr. Harrison, as I have mentioned previously, volunteered 
 his services, and, after making a survey of army camps in 
 this country for the federal government, was sent to France 
 as a Red Cross officer. 
 
 At Toul he had fourteen base hospitals containing 22,000 
 wounded soldiers under his supervision. For his efficient work 
 he was later decorated with the rosette of the Legion of Honor 
 by the French government. The presentation, made by the 
 French consul general, M. Weiller, at the Parkway Hotel, was 
 celebrated with a breakfast for five hundred guests attended 
 by our friends and many notable Chicagoans of French 
 descent. 
 
 A year or so after the end of the First World War we re- 
 sumed our travels, making three complete trips around the 
 world, one of fourteen months, and the other two of about 
 nine months each. We had met many distinguished men and 
 women who visited Chicago and had often been hosts to them. 
 When we began our world wanderings we found that we were 
 by no means forgotten by them. Invitations were showered 
 upon us to visit, in their own homes, many of these high and 
 mighty personalities. 
 
 When we were in Indian we visited the Maharaja of Kapur- 
 thala as his guests. I realized then that the maharaja was 
 really an older friend than I at first thought, because at twenty 
 he came to the Columbian World's Exposition. He had a reti- 
 nue of servants and was entertained by my father-in-law, 
 the mayor at that time. We met him, of course, but I did not 
 remember it when we ran across him many years later. The 
 
"Strange To Say—" 177 
 
 maharaja is very handsome, splendidly educated, speaks many 
 languages, and even then — in 1893 — was quite a man of the 
 world. The rich mines of Oudh in the Himalayas yield their 
 treasures to him, making him one of India's richest potentates. 
 He is allowed five legal wives and as many concubines as he 
 wishes. 
 
 How little I dreamed in 1893 that later in life we would 
 meet him and visit him in India. But we did. On our second 
 world trip we ran across Kapurthala on the Atlantic steamer, 
 and I hate to admit he was reading one of my books describ- 
 ing his life in India, where we had been, but I only knew 
 of his life by records. One thing I said was that he had a 
 thousand concubines. 
 
 He heard we were on the ship, asked for an introduction, 
 and smilingly called my attention to the paragraph, adding, 
 "You must have confused my wives with the number of my 
 horses." My confusion was great, but in spite of it we be- 
 came friends. 
 
 The maharaja has a palace in Paris in the Bois de Boulogne, 
 and spends his summers there. We dined with him often, 
 meeting distinguished people in his home, and afterwards 
 spent a week with him in his beautiful Kapurthala at the foot 
 of the snow-crowned Himalayas, where we drove behind his 
 trotting camels or rode on his elephants with their gorgeous 
 trappings. There I met his first wife, the maharanee, a beau- 
 tiful and accomplished woman, and all of his five children — 
 one daughter, who was the toast of Europe because of her 
 beauty, and four sons. 
 
 No one can enter his domain except by invitation, and his 
 special car met us after we left the Delhi Express. Under 
 the bright stars a prince of the realm took us on the mahara- 
 ja's private railroad to the palace. 
 
 At dinner that next night we felt as though we were in the 
 Arabian Nights. The brilliantly lighted palace, the young 
 princesses — wives of his sons — superbly gowned in their 
 native dress and bejewelled with the tiny painted symbol on 
 the forehead to denote rank, were wonderful. The men donned 
 their native dress, too, and wore turbans for the occasion. 
 The conversation in English or French — for it frequently 
 
178 Seeing The World 
 
 varied — was as delightful as though we were at some fine 
 dinner in Chicago. 
 
 After dinner we had coffee in the big salon and the young 
 people grouped around — some sitting on the floor — with 
 musical instruments, and played charming Indian music. The 
 maharanee with the other wives, however, were all in purdah, 
 heavily veiled, and did not appear at the dinner. The young- 
 sters had been given European educations and were as free 
 to come and go as young Americans. 
 
 The maharanee, however, gave me a morning's interview 
 and I sat with her another night in the movies where she 
 broke all precedents and decided to meet my husband. 
 
 With all our delightful intercourse, we realized how far 
 apart we were. A single illustration will prove this. The 
 maharaja's eldest son, the tickaranee, had a beautiful wife 
 and four lovely daughters, but no son. Their religion insists 
 upon a son if they are to be saved. After ten years of happily 
 married life, the son was told to take a second wife. 
 
 The maharaja said to me : "In your country with your re- 
 ligions this is a very simple thing. One just gets a divorce 
 and remarries, but we in India have a much greater respect 
 for religion than you. We hold religion of over a thousand 
 years old as first always; so my son can never divorce his 
 first wife. She always must hold her honored place, but he 
 can take others. In fact, his religion demands it, and we never 
 divorce our wives." 
 
 I thought of Kipling's "East is East and West is West and 
 never the twain shall meet." This enlightened, delightful man, 
 so like a well-bred European, regarded our religion with con- 
 tempt. 
 
 But, other worlds, other ways, and we must accept puzzling 
 or amusing incidents when traveling. I recall once, while I 
 was sitting in the intense heat of India in the lightest of 
 deshabille, that I saw suddenly standing beside me one big 
 black he chambermaid (always a he there) who had come to 
 clean the room. He had entered so silently I had no time even 
 to snatch a shawl beside me to throw over me. However, I 
 comforted myself with the thought that no matter how little 
 I had on, I had on more than he, 
 
"Strange To Say—" 179 
 
 Nor can I ever forget the lovely and intelligent woman who 
 was asked why she had never visited America. She replied, 
 "I have always been afraid to come to America." 
 
 "Afraid? Of what?" 
 
 "You have such terrible birds in your country," she said. 
 
 Knowing that something was amiss, she was questioned 
 further and was assured that we had no death-dealing birds 
 in this country. It proved to be an instance of the vagaries of 
 our English language, which sometimes provides us with two 
 words which, while spelled alike, mean two entirely different 
 things. For the woman went on to express her astonishment, 
 saying, "That is strange. Why, I read in one of the papers 
 not long ago that two men had been terribly mangled in a 
 warehouse in Chicago by a crane !" 
 
 Another of the royal visitors to Chicago had been Prince 
 Pu Lun of China. At the time of his coming he was the heir- 
 apparent to the Chinese throne, although the old empress- 
 dowager later deposed him, taking in his stead the son of her 
 lover. So picturesque were these visiting Orientals that their 
 every move was watched with interest. 
 
 One evening, after entertaining him and his suite, we at- 
 tended the theatre, and while we sat in the boxes, it was 
 observed that the prince frequently removed the small black 
 silk skull cap which he wore, decorated with the yellow but- 
 ton which told those who understood the custom of his coun- 
 try that he was of the royal family. One of the ladies inquired 
 why he did it. The reply amused us very much. We were told, 
 "I think it is because he is warm!" Seeing our amusement, 
 the prince asked what had caused it, and was told. 
 
 Twenty years later at a dinner in Pekin I found myself 
 once more face to face with Prince Pu Lun, who promptly 
 asked, "How is the Chicago lady who inquired why I removed 
 my cap?" So much for the proverbial length and accuracy of 
 the Chinese memory ! 
 
 In the Philippines we were the guests of General and 
 Mrs. Leonard Wood. He was at the time governor general of 
 the islands, and they made our stay with them enjoyable. 
 One evening while we were dining with them at his residence, 
 the Malacanan palace in Manila, one of those extraordinary 
 
180 Seeing The World 
 
 coincidences which occasionally come into our lives happened 
 to me. 
 
 I had known a boy in New Orleans, a member of a fine old 
 Southern family and a playmate of my brothers. At the age of 
 seventeen, his whole nature seemed to change. He became 
 irritable, fought with his friends without provocation, and 
 frequently became morbid. His physicians, puzzled by his 
 condition, learned that when he was twelve, he had struck 
 his head on a rock while diving and had been unconscious 
 for hours. 
 
 Suspecting that his changed character was caused by a 
 brain injury, the doctors took him to Philadelphia, where a 
 noted surgeon decided to trepan his skull. We were worried 
 about him because this was a dangerous operation, but hoped 
 that he would be restored to health. He remained in Phila- 
 delphia under observation for some time, but we lost track 
 of him, because he enlisted for the Spanish American War 
 and did not return home. Later his parents received word 
 that he had been killed. 
 
 That night in Manila I saw across the table from us a re- 
 markably handsome middle-aged man. I kept stealing glances 
 at him, for his face attracted me at once. There was some- 
 thing very familiar about it. I had the feeling I had seen him 
 before. I was informed that he was a retired army officer, 
 had resigned some years before because his enormous interests 
 demanded all his time. 
 
 Dinner was over; all the women had assembled in the big 
 salon while the men lingered over their cigars. When they 
 
 joined us, Colonel T came directly to me, asking if I 
 
 would care to see the brilliant lighting of the river which was 
 like fairyland from the palace window. But we did not look 
 at the famous lights, for he said abruptly: "You recognized 
 me, I saw it in your eyes." 
 
 I nodded, but "Why," I asked, "did you let us think you 
 dead?" 
 
 "It is what I still desire to be thought, as the boy you knew, 
 but let me tell you about it tomorrow," and he did. 
 
 He had gone to war under an assumed name, advanced 
 rapidly for bravery and had given out the news of his death. 
 
"Strange To Say—" 181 
 
 Determined to forget his past, he went to the Philippines. 
 His beautiful wife alone knew his story, for his parents had 
 died. 
 
 "I am not ashamed of my story, which was written in all the 
 medical journals of the day," he said, "for I was reborn then, 
 and I became another man after the trepanning. So why should 
 I or the world remember that other creature?" 
 
 Another of our visitors in Chicago had been Governor Dole 
 of the Hawaiian Islands. Years later we again encountered him 
 while on a visit to Honolulu. When we met this time he said, 
 "But this can't be the same Mrs. Harrison, looking so young?" 
 etc. My self-esteem rose tremendously at his compliment, but 
 alas, it fell again when I related the episode to my husband. He 
 remarked, "It is most gratifying, of course, to receive such com- 
 pliments. The pathetic thing is that you believe them !" 
 
 As a result of our travels and of my writing about them, I 
 was decorated by the French government with the Palmes Aca- 
 demiques. Later the young emperor of Annam, Bai Dai, be- 
 stowed upon me the Kim Boi, his highest decoration. 
 
 I had met the young monarch when he was twelve while 
 he was on a voyage from France, where he had been in school, 
 back to his country to be crowned. I was tremendously inter- 
 ested in him and taught him a few words of English. His king- 
 dom was under the protectorate of France, which built a lovely 
 palace in Paris for him to live in and educated him as a French- 
 man. He finished his schooling in France, married and is reign- 
 ing in his own country. There he is supreme unless he should 
 do something contrary to the interests of France. 
 
 My husband and I have traveled much, and have seen a great 
 many wonders and known interesting people ; but always our 
 hearts have been faithful to Chicago, the home of my husband's 
 birth and my adopted one ! Never would we live elsewhere, even 
 if we could. 
 
 Last year, suddenly out of a clear sky, my husband, nearly 
 eighty-eight years old, announced that he was going to Europe 
 alone, as he wished to pick up some Lautrec lithographs and 
 some of Matisse and Daumiers and others of worth, to give to 
 the Art Institute. Consternation prevailed and I said, "I will 
 accompany you." 
 
182 Seeing The World 
 
 "Oh, no," he replied, "you are too old to travel." 
 
 "Well," I answered, "I am two and a half years younger 
 than you." 
 
 "True," he replied, "but a woman cannot do what a man can, 
 and I would much prefer to have you remain comfortably in 
 this hotel. I will only be gone two months and I would feel 
 happier if I knew you were calm and quiet here." 
 
 Can you imagine my answer? I just would not submit and 
 said boldly, "After sixty years together I do not need your 
 permission to accompany you. I shall just go along without 
 your permission." 
 
 Our children, hearing of this discussion about going to 
 Europe, got busy and announced that we were both too old 
 to be trusted alone so far away, and it was decided that our 
 daughter, Mrs. Manierre, would go with us. Much talk back 
 and forth, but the women were victorious and accompanied 
 him abroad. Although he accepted our company with reluc- 
 tance, I will say when he found there was no escape for him 
 he treated us mighty well. 
 
 We took a slow boat, the De Grasse, for we wanted a lot of 
 sunshine on the trip. Alas, we got no sun anywhere last 
 summer. We sailed the last of May and had our same beautiful 
 rooms at the Lutetia Hotel where we have often stayed before. 
 Though these delightfully situated rooms got all the sunshine 
 that ever came to Paris last June and July, nothing but oc- 
 casional splashes of that glorious golden light ever reached us. 
 It rained daily and stormed with high winds most of the time, 
 and it was as cold as ice. There is never any heat anyway in 
 the hotels at that season of the year, and though we wrapped 
 ourselves in heavy furs, we were chilled to the bone all the 
 time. Everyone in Paris wore heavy clothing and the poor 
 little flower woman who sat so faithfully across the street 
 with her lovely blooming roses, her feet resting in a charcoal 
 burner with a brilliant fire to keep her warm, must have felt 
 like an iceburg. 
 
 The ambassador to France, Jefferson Caffery, and Mrs. 
 Caffery received us with open arms. Mrs. Caffery is like my 
 own daughter and treated us as though she were. Her cables 
 for Christmas and birthdays always come to us. As I have 
 
"Strange To Say— 1 * 183 
 
 already mentioned, she is the godmother of our oldest grand- 
 son, Cyrus Manierre, and her father, Colonel Daniel McCarthy, 
 and her mother were our intimate friends. She stands beside 
 her capable and brilliant husband, beautiful and charming, 
 and is recognized as filling her duties in an amazing way. Not 
 only her very attractive appearance has won the French, but 
 her capabilities in filling every duty required in her important 
 position are remarkable. Fortunately, she enjoys perfect 
 health and all the many calls upon the ambassador's wife 
 she can and does fill with ease and charm. The Cafferys 
 entertain and are entertained all the time, and she never shows 
 fatigue. 
 
 We were at the embassy constantly, but alas, with the 
 weather and our combined age, we fell ill — as all Paris did 
 in June — with bad colds. The dinner the ambassador planned 
 and gave especially for us, we never attended. Both my daugh- 
 ter and husband were in the hospital at Neuilly, he with bron- 
 chial pneumonia, and our daughter lost her voice completely. 
 The lovely dinner went on without us. 
 
 I said to the doctor attending us at the hotel, "I am eighty- 
 five and have a temperature of 101. Why don't you take me 
 to the hospital? I am a sick woman." 
 
 "You are," he said, "very sick and very old, but you are 
 not as sick as they. I have to give them penicillin and won't 
 give it except in the hospital. I do not think you are as sick 
 as they, and will let you stay in bed in the hotel." So I did. 
 A pretty bleak few days, but we all got well. Dr. Mayers of the 
 Neuilly Hospital, an American from Indianapolis and a very 
 capable young man, did a fine job. 
 
 Everyone reaching Paris last summer had more or less our 
 experience. All fell sick and were made most uncomfortable 
 by the stormy weather. Mrs. Charles Goodspeed and Mrs. 
 Thorne Donnelley and others came about then, and all will 
 testify to what I am saying. 
 
 But the end of the trip was delightful. We had dinners at 
 the embassy and other places, and lunches and teas and cock- 
 tails, and we did enjoy ourselves after all, though at first it 
 did look as if the two old people might be brought home in 
 coffins. But we came back in good health and in lively spirits. 
 
184 Seeing The World 
 
 We have not dared say too much to our daughter, Mrs. Man- 
 ierre, who went abroad to protect us and was the first taken 
 to the hospital! 
 
 My husband accomplished what he went for, brought home 
 many fine lithographs, and the Art Institute accepted every- 
 thing, which pleased him immensely, showing his taste had 
 been good. He particularly liked a Renoir and loves to go to 
 see it, for the Institute has kept it hung ever since he gave it. 
 Our paintings were given to the Art Institute some years ago. 
 
 Though we have been married sixty-one years, I am still 
 surprised at the many things my husband does. He never 
 realizes his age and, in a way, I don't realize mine either. He 
 generally accomplishes all he sets his mind to do, and does 
 not brook interference. 
 
 This I realize fully, yet in Paris the combination of wife 
 and daughter must have influenced him, though he declares 
 it did not. He told our son, Carter, Jr., the other day, "Do 
 you know your sister Edith has developed so many traits of 
 your mother, some very disagreeable ones ; for instaonce, they 
 both were determined to make me do things they wanted me 
 to do, but I just did not do them. I did what I pleased and was 
 not influenced in the slightest degree by what they said. I 
 did exactly what I pleased in Paris." I then whispered to my 
 son that we had really controlled many of his movements by 
 confiding in the doctor, who helped us by advising Mr. Harri- 
 son. After all, you see, a woman's way is God's way. But to 
 sum it all up, we had a delightful two months abroad and in 
 the last enjoyable part just simply forgot the first very dis- 
 agreeable illness we had suffered. 
 
 We hurried home from Europe last year to spend our Au- 
 gust, as usual, in our delightful cabin at Huron Mountain, 
 Michigan. As in the years before, beautiful birds visited us, 
 filling the trees with delightful music, and the deer in which 
 the woods abound often come to our door begging for food. 
 But last summer we had a few surprise visitors who were not 
 welcome. Papa and Mama Bear came too close. 
 
 Far back in the woods an occasional bear had been seen by 
 a wanderer, and even a wildcat or species of panther, but the 
 club thought it was safe. But one night I opened my kitchen 
 
"Strange To Say—" 185 
 
 door to the back porch to put something in the icebox, and 
 came face to face with a huge black monster who had over- 
 turned the garbage pail and was raiding the icebox. With a 
 growl at me he continued his work. He ate pounds of bacon 
 sent us by Mr. Oscar Mayer and finished with a fine basket 
 of fruit given us by Mayor Kennelly of Chicago. Jars of 
 butter, dozens of eggs, bowls of milk — all went down his maw. 
 How that bear ate it all I don't know. He even swallowed all 
 the stones of the peaches, because we could not find any in 
 the remains he left on the floor. Everything was ruined and in 
 an awful mess. 
 
 Other members of the club had similar experiences and none 
 of us were happy over it. State authorities came from Mar- 
 quette, fifty miles away, saying that when bears lost their fear 
 of man they were dangerous and must be killed, so the govern- 
 ment had to kill a few. I hate to see wild life destroyed, but 
 we were helpless. The farmers were losing all their crops. The 
 bears were destroying everything and even bending the trees 
 to get the apples on them. The cubs with their shiny black 
 fur were lovely to see as they scampered up a tree at sight 
 of us, but we realized that they too would be dangerous in a 
 year. Horrible to realize, life always preys on life — animals 
 kill each other ; birds murder other birds ; squirrels and chip- 
 munks fight and kill. And so we, too, had to destroy. It was 
 dangerous not to do so. 
 
 While of course it is a glorious thing to travel, to see the 
 world, to come in contact with various races and different 
 peoples, we felt that the greatest happiness lay always in our 
 home, surrounded by children and friends. Yet old Mother 
 Earth still possesses many spots that we have not seen, and the 
 wanderlust, even in our old age, is still upon us. Had we the 
 leisure and the opportunity we would surely travel again. 
 But even if this be denied us, it is wonderful to sit as we do 
 in the twilight of life and realize we have seen so much. We 
 look back through the mists of memory to such spots as Ang- 
 kor the Great; such scenes as the sunrise in the Himalayas 
 looking across at Mount Everest. But always in this conglom- 
 eration of impressions and thoughts born of travel, many 
 questions arise to bother me, which I should love to hear 
 
186 Seeing The World 
 
 answered. 
 
 By what magic method may the white nations of the earth 
 discover the secret to preserve the black and yellow races from 
 that swift degeneracy which, as history has taught us, fol- 
 lows ever in the wake of so-called civilization? One cannot 
 travel afar without realizing that the burdens of our sins lie 
 heavily upon us. Once this was not so true of America as it 
 was of Europe, because our colonial problem was not so great. 
 But since our last war questions are before us about the 
 peoples of the East and the Far East. How will we handle 
 them? 
 
 I came to live in Chicago because of the Harrisons. In my 
 happy life with my husband, if I have accomplished anything 
 worthy, it is his companionship and influence that have en- 
 abled me to do so. Without him I could have done little. 
 Although I am proud of my own ancestors, I feel proud also 
 that I have been one of the Harrisons and that some day I 
 shall lie down among them for my eternal rest. 
 
 It is a surprising and comforting fact that in our old age 
 my husband and I have still around us many contemporaries 
 with whom we can enjoy life. And we, the really old, enjoy 
 life as much as we did in youth. We still have our clubs, the 
 opera, the symphony, and other interests, and the health and 
 energy to make use of them. 
 
 As I look back, it seems to me that I have neglected to men- 
 tion the names of many worthy and delightful Chicagoans 
 with whom our lives came in contact. For this I hope they 
 will forgive me. Of those whom we are fortunate enough 
 still to see, I can mention only a few in passing: Mrs. 
 Joseph Bowen, Colonel and Mrs. Langhorne, Mrs. Cyrus 
 Bentley, Mrs. John Shortall, Mrs. Joseph Coleman, Mrs. E. C. 
 Waller, Mrs. Thomas Hinde, Mr. Frank Magie, T. E. Quisen- 
 berry, Peggy and Jack Murphy, Mr. and Mrs. Ricords, 
 Mrs. Silas Strawn, Mrs. Charles Spalding, the gifted Mrs. Her- 
 man Kohlsaat (who comes occasionally to visit her daughter, 
 Pauline Palmer — Mrs. Bertram Winston) , Miss Margaret En- 
 ders, Mrs. Phelps Hoyt, Mrs. E. W. Ryerson, Mrs. Sam Chase, 
 Mrs. Harry Howard (still so beautiful), Mrs. Charles Hosmer 
 Morse (a brilliant conversationalist and a discriminating 
 
"Strange To Say—" 187 
 
 book collector whose delightful book, The Unknown Friends, 
 is a worthy contribution to Civil War literature). 
 
 Until recently we had both Mr. and Mrs. Secor Cunning- 
 ham among us. Now he is gone after sixty blessed years of 
 married life. I can remember being seated in the parlor of 
 my parents' home in New Orleans with the man I was about 
 to marry, when he told me that he had just heard that young 
 Althea Stone, beautiful and only sixteen, had eloped with 
 Secor Cunningham, who was not much older. We felt the 
 youngsters had been rash, but how they did surprise us ! They 
 have been the admiration of all who knew them and they 
 had the pleasure of watching their children, grandchildren 
 and great-grandchildren grow up. 
 
 Perhaps all these I have mentioned are years younger than 
 I, but the next group of friends are our juniors by at least 
 several years. Among them is the delightful Mrs. John 
 Crerar, who decided in her seventies to finish her life with 
 Dr. Metz and asked her dear friend, Mrs. Patrick Valentine, 
 to be her matron of honor at the wedding, and now lovely 
 Mrs. David Cook has just been married to Mr. Sam Colt, 
 both in their seventies. 
 
 May Lester Armour Valentine, as lovely today as in her 
 blonde girlhood beauty, said to me the other day : "Mrs. Har- 
 rison, you are the wonder of the age! You keep flaunting 
 your years upon us but we can't believe you because you neither 
 look nor act them." What a charming fibber, but how I do love 
 her flattery! 
 
 Mrs. William Greenley, Mrs. Wentworth Field, Mrs. Potter 
 Palmer, Jr., the two stunning Higinbotham girls, Mrs. Rich- 
 ard Crane, Jr., and her sister, Mrs. Patterson, Mrs. Philip 
 Swift, Mrs. Frances Manierre, Mrs. Alfred Hamill, Mrs. 
 James Hopkins, Mrs. Howell Erminger and the Paul Well- 
 ings — these are still youngsters, comparatively, but we greet 
 one another as old friends. Real affection and love do not 
 change, and some of these youngsters were dear to us in their 
 teens, and so were their parents and grandparents. 
 
 In this changing world life comes and goes, but love lives 
 on forever. The world is interesting and beautiful. We are 
 still young with it — my husband and I — and we rejoice in its 
 
188 Seeing The World 
 
 glamor and still glory in its victories. We have weathered 
 storms, we have reveled in brilliant sunshine, and we have 
 gloried in belonging to that noble company of friends who 
 have surrounded us. 
 
 For the last thirty years we have been living at the Park- 
 way Hotel, where our efficient manager, Mr. William Miller, 
 makes us feel very comfortable. We have a delightful view 
 of Lincoln Park and from a distance can feast our eyes on 
 ever changing Lake Michigan. 
 
 Some interesting neighbors occupy suites in the hotel and 
 their hobbies bring us together. One of them, Mr. Fritz 
 Ernst, never tires of showing us his lovely collection of ivory 
 carvings and Japanese woodcuts. 
 
 After having visited many famous places all over the world 
 I arrived at the conclusion that for us America is the country 
 in which to live and Chicago the only city. Always we are 
 glad to be again within sight of our Lake Michigan, to look 
 across its sweep of waters, to hear its waves break across 
 our waterfront and to listen to the rumble of our ever grow- 
 ing city. 
 
 In a storm the wind shrieks out a thunderous welcome or, 
 with the sun smiling, blue waters greet us. 
 
Index 
 
 Alliance Franchise, 142, 143-44 
 Apples, story of allergy to, 43 
 Armour family, 64. 112-13, 172-73 
 Auditorium, opening of, 63, 64 
 
 Badger, A. C. and L. H., families, 63 
 
 Bailey, Lady, 109 
 
 Barker, Catherine, 125, 171-72 
 
 Baur, Bertha, 142 
 
 Beattie family, 1, 2, 3, 110 
 
 Blair, Chauncey, family, 50, 55, 78, 84-86 
 
 Borden family, 106 ff. passim 
 
 Bryan, William Jennings, 118, 124-25 
 
 Buckingham, Kate, 108-4 
 
 Cable cars, 61 
 
 Cable, George W., 10, 86 
 
 Caffery, Mr and Mrs. Jefferson, 128, 182-83 
 
 Card parties on Astor Street, 79-80 
 
 Carpenter, John Alden, family, 107-8, 143 
 
 Casey, Mrs. Dent, 46 ff. 
 
 Cat, Harrison children's, 89-90 
 
 Century of Progress Exposition, 65, 146 ff. 
 
 Chicago : clubs, 142 f . ; juvenile court, 139 ; 
 
 physicians, 141 ; progress in, 138 ff., 
 
 156-57 
 Chicago Woman's Club, 138 
 Children's pranks on Astor Street, 88-90 
 "Cinderella" story, 86-88 
 "Clavicle" story, 92 
 Cleveland, Grover, 65, 116 
 Cluverius, Wat T., 12, 149 
 Columbian Exposition, 64 ff. 
 Cox family, 82 
 Cudahy family, 113 
 Custer, Mrs. George A., 47 
 
 Davis, Jefferson, family, 37-40 
 
 Dawes. Mr. and Mrs. Rufus, 147-48, 149, 
 
 153 
 Dewey, Admiral, 127 
 Dickinson, Jacob Mc G., family, 120-21 
 Duel at Lake Borgne, 20-22 
 Duke of Manchester, 44-45 
 Dunne, Governor, 124, 126 
 
 Eddy, Arthur, family, 104 
 Edwards. William A., family, 118-19 
 Emperor Bai Dai of Annam, 181 
 
 Field, Marshall, family, 52, 61, 78, 79. 
 
 104 ff. passim 
 Field, Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth, 52, 105. 
 
 173 
 Ferguson, Leila Bonn, 50 
 
 FitzHugh, Carter Harrison, 53 
 Fitzmorris, Charles, 160, 161 
 Ford, Mr. and Mrs. Henry, 147, 168-69 
 Francis Parker School, 140 
 
 Gamble, William, 80-82 
 
 Garfield, Mrs. James A., 117-18 
 
 Ghosts in New Orleans, 22-24 
 
 Gibson, Preston, 105 
 
 Glessner family, 97-98 
 
 Grant, Ulysses S., 46-48 passim, 116 
 
 Hammond, John Hays, family, 140-41 
 
 Hand, Johnny, 58-59 
 
 Hanna, Ruth, 62 
 
 Harrison, Benjamin, 63-64 
 
 Harrison, Carter, Sr., 29, 52-53, 54. 56. 
 64 ; assassin of, 83 ; his dos-a-dos, 62 ; 
 entertains Russians, 69 ; reception with 
 men presiding, 57-58 
 
 Harrison, Carter : becomes mayor, 75-76 ; 
 campaigns for Kennelly, 144-45 ; fills 
 salt cellars, 136 ; a photographer, 130-31 ; 
 progress during mayoralty, 138 ff., 
 156 f. ; in World War I, 114, 121, 136-37, 
 176 
 
 Harrison, Carter, Jr., 46, 62, 77, 89, 111, 
 118, 121, 169-70 
 
 Harrison, Mrs. Carter: ancestry, 1-10 
 passim, 37, 47, 52, 132, 155; at Art 
 Institute ball, 170; on Astor Street, 74; 
 buys phaeton, 62 ; and cut glass, 136 ; 
 claimed as "sister" by insane woman, 
 93-94 ; dislikes divorce, 172 ; finds pocket- 
 books, 164-66; first visit North, 46-48; 
 friends in youth, 40 ff. ; gets milk for 
 baby, 151-52; in Hawaii, 181; heads 
 Red Cross campaign, 136 ; helps man on 
 train, 133-35 ; hostess at Century of 
 Progress, 148 ff. ; and languages, 150, 
 174; lectures at Art Institute, 130; let- 
 ter from widow she helped, 162-64 ; mar- 
 riage, 61 ff. ; meets boy known in child- 
 hood, 180-81 ; meets girlhood friend, now 
 countess, 72 ; music lessons, 50 ; and 
 negro waiters, 60 ; on radio, 130 ; refuses 
 bribes, 158-60 ; sponsors fashion show, 
 131-32; teased by Republicans, 167-68; 
 tells story from Aesop, 75-76 ; trip to 
 Europe (1947), 181 ff . ; trip to India, 
 176 ff.; trip to Philippines, 179 f . ; trip 
 to South America, 174 ; in World War I, 
 136; writings by, 29, 32, 34-36, 97, 
 129-30 
 
Index 
 
 Harrison, Edith, 91-92, 122, 125. See 
 
 Manierre, Mrs. Edson 
 Harrison, Lina, 61. See Owsley, Mrs. 
 
 Heaton 
 Harrison, Preston, 88-84 
 Hearn, Lafcadio, 3, 86 
 Hearst, William Randolph, family, 126 
 Hinde, Thomas, family, 77 
 Holmes, Burton, 3, 83-84 
 Hoax of "Lord Revilo," 80-82 
 Honore, Harry and Nat, 47, 48-49 
 Hooper, Henry, family, 74, 89-90 
 Huron Mountain Club, 89, 166 ff. ; bears 
 
 at, 184-85 
 
 India, 13, 130, 176-78 
 Infanta, Eulalia, 69-71 passim 
 Insull, Samuel, family, 100-2 
 Izsnaga family, 43-45 
 
 Kennelly, Martin, 144-45, 185 
 Kohlsaat, H. H., family, 74, 85-86, 126 
 Kruetgen, Ernest, family, 114 
 
 Lake Borgne, 9 ff. 
 Last Island, 2-3 
 Leper, story of, 30-32 
 Locke, Fanny, 92 
 Logan family, 77-78, 103 
 Longfellow, poem by, 111-12 
 Lowden, Frank, family, 96-97 
 Luckner, Count von, 175 
 
 "M's," unlucky, 94-95 
 McCarthy, Daniel, family, 127 
 McCormick family, 62, 72, 73, 74, 99-100 
 McCormick, Mrs. Fowler, 72 
 McCormick, Robert, 131, 144 
 McCormick, Mrs. Rockefeller, 73, 98-99, 
 
 102 
 McCutcheon, John T., 78 
 McKee: "Baby," 64; Mrs. James, 116-17 
 McKinley, William, 116-17 
 McLaughlin family, 78-79 
 Maharajah of Kapurthala, 130, 176-78 
 Mardi Gras, 29-30 
 
 Margot and mulatto benefastress, 17-19 
 Mayer, Oscar F., 113, 185 
 Manierre, Cyrus, Jr., and William R., 11, 
 
 114-15 
 Manierre, Mrs. Edson, 137-88, 171, 182, 
 
 184 
 Mettenet family, 102-3 
 Monroe, Harriet, 174-75 
 Negroes, 9; superstitions of, 13-17 
 
 New Orleans (1860-80), 1 ff . ; cookery, 
 26-28; levees, 33-84; mixed customs, 25- 
 26 ; physicians, 42 ; society, 40 ff., 49 
 
 Nicholson family, 4-5 
 
 Ogden family, 3-5, 47, 155 
 
 Ogden, Fanny, 5-8 
 
 Ogden, Sara Balestier, 2, 8-10, 37, 52; 
 
 poem by, 9 
 Owsley, Mrs. Heaton, 62, 55-56, 69, 70, 74 
 
 Palmer, Mrs. Potter, 36, 64, 70, 74, 92-94, 
 
 110, 124 
 Phosphorescent boy, 23-24 
 Prince Henry of Prussia, 122-23 
 Prince Ludwig of Bavaria, 71-72 
 Prince Pu Lun, 179 
 Pullman, Mrs. George, 96 
 
 Queen of Roumania, 72 
 
 Roosevelt, Theodore, 116, 121-22 
 
 St. Vincent's Orphanage, 133 
 
 Scott, Matthew, family, 108 f. 
 
 Slaughter family, 52, 60-61, 105, 107 
 
 Smith, Byron, family, 109 
 
 Snobbishness, story to illustrate, 86-88 
 
 South America, 49, 174 
 
 Spoor, John, family, 57 
 
 Stevens, Charles A., 130 
 
 Stevenson, Adlai, family, 108-9, 132 
 
 Taft, William Howard, 77, 116, 118-20; 
 
 mother of, 114, 118 
 Thome, Mrs. James Ward, 103 
 Tuttle family, 59 
 Tweed, Boss, daughter of, 42 
 
 Upham, Mrs. Frederick, 143 
 
 Von Mysenbug, Count and Countess, 43 
 Voodoo, 13-17 
 
 Washburne: Hempstead, 68, 64, 74, 76-77; 
 
 Annette, 141 
 Waller families, 58, 68, 
 
 112 
 Watson, Dudley Crafts, 130 
 West Point, ball at, 48-49 
 White, Chief Justice, 46 
 Whitehouse, Bishop, 54, 58 
 Wilson, Woodrow, 111, 116, 
 Winston, Fred, family, 56-57, 
 World War 1, 127-28, 186-37 
 World War II, 114-15 
 
 77, 108, 110-11, 
 
 122. 
 
 77 
 
 124