"No, not incomprehensible," said her nephew. "Ask any fellow here. He'll explain it fast enough. All public works are jobberies. If the streets were freshly paved to-morrow, in all these cities, it would be so badly done—so much money would be made out of them—that they would be as bad as ever next year."
"Abominable!" said Mrs. Frampton, with energy.
"Besides that," he continued, "this particular city is regarded by most Americans—especially New-Yorkers—as a 'Sleepy Hollow.' Miss Pie, who is a Philadelphian, told me she had been puzzled to see herself spoken of in some paper as the only female citizen who suffered from insomnia. Then she remembered the vile aspersion, which of course she denied. She was awfully good fun, that little woman. She gave me the idea of a middle-aged Puck, eh? Puck was a sexless sort of a being, I fancy."
The Stratford Hotel, where they stayed one night, met with great favor at Mrs. Frampton's hands; and so did the Auditorium, at Chicago, in contradistinction to others, on the road, which shall be nameless. The manner of serving every meal in the public room of these latter hostelries, all the dishes being pitched simultaneously in a semicircle of saucers round the consumer, was exasperating.
"Pray, do you expect me to devour fish, pudding, entrées, meat, and all those unknown vegetables at one and the same time? Why on earth can't you bring them separately?" she demanded of the astonished negro waiter.
Then the inevitable pitcher of ice-water which came up each time she rang her bell was another offence. She marvelled greatly as she looked down the long crowded dining-room, and saw only this same ice-water or tea being drunk at dinner by stalwart men. Any delusions, however, which she might have had as to their "total abstinence" were soon dispelled. Whenever she passed through the public hall, she saw some of these men at the bar; they were not then drinking tea or ice-water.
The party stayed three days at Chicago, and were duly impressed with its vastness, the massiveness of the business portion of the city, the length and extraordinary diversity of architecture of its boulevards. Some of the least pretentious houses, and notably those by Richardson, were good, and gave a pleasant impression of happy home life, without ostentation. But many appeared to have been built regardless of any known principle, save that of endeavoring to out-do your neighbor. The classic and Gothic styles here take hands, and might almost be said to dance a cancan together, as they assuredly have never been seen to do before. These jokes in stone and marble of every hue are like a child's design for a palace, striking up spikes into the sky, and jumbling together turrets and pillars, porticoes and machicolated walls, in a fashion which Mordaunt declared entitled it to be called "the Porcine, or Bristle-on-end" style of architecture.
Of course he went to witness the assassination of the hogs, and, watch in hand, counted sixteen despatched in one minute, while the ladies spent the morning at the Art Museum, and found, with wonder and delight, many of the gems of the Demidoff Collection, which they remembered in the Villa San Donato, at Florence. It seemed a curious illustration of the Chicago mind, munificent of everything but its time, and jealous for the city's reputation, that, while willing to expend large sums on such acquisitions as these, it had not leisure to arrange and exhibit them properly. Mrs. Frampton observed to a wealthy and acute citizen, to whom she brought a letter, that it was a pity such treasures were not seen to more advantage. His reply was characteristic:
"Well, you see, we business men are making money all the time. It is a race in which one is very soon left out of the running. If I go to Europe for three months I have to look pretty sharp to keep my place, I can tell you, when I return. Time enough to build galleries and all that by and by."
This reminded Grace of a saying of Mr. Laffan's, "You must make the man before you can make the statue."