A Frenchman in America Part 30

"Well, I don't know," I said hesitatingly. "Who is the other?"

"Oh, that's all right," said the clerk, "you may set your mind at rest on that subject."

"Very well," I replied, "I will take that bed."

At about ten o'clock, as I was preparing to go to bed, my bedroom companion entered. It was a frontier man in full uniform: Buffalo Bill hat, leather leggings, a belt accommodating a couple of revolvers--no baggage of any kind.

I did not like it.

"Hallo, stranger," said the man, "how are you?"

"I'm pretty well," I replied, without meaning a word of it.

The frontier man undressed, that is to say, took off his boots, placed the two revolvers under his pillows and lay down.

I liked it less and less.

By and by, we both went to sleep. In the morning we woke up at the same time. He rose, dressed--that is to say, put on his boots, and wished me good-morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MY ROOM-MATE.]

The hall porter came with letters for my companion, but none for me. I thought I should like to let that man know I had no money with me. So I said to him:

"I am very much disappointed. I expected some money from New York, and it has not come."

"I hope it will come," he replied.

I did not like that hope.

In the evening, we met again. He undressed--you know, went to sleep, rose early in the morning, dressed--you know.

The porter came again with letters for him and none for me.

"Well, your money has not come," he said.

"I see it has not. I'm afraid I'm going to be in a fix what to do."

"I'm going away this morning."

"Are you?" I said. "I'm sorry to part with you."

The frontier man took a little piece of paper and wrote something on it.

"Take this, my friend," he said; "it may be useful to you."

It was a check for a hundred dollars.

I could have gone down on my knees, as I refused the check and asked that man's pardon.

I lectured in Brooklyn to-night, and am off to the West to-morrow morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

CINCINNATI--THE TOWN--THE SUBURBS--A GERMAN CITY--"OVER THE RHINE"--WHAT IS A GOOD PATRIOT?--AN IMPRESSIVE FUNERAL--A GREAT FIRE--HOW IT APPEARED TO ME, AND HOW IT APPEARED TO THE NEWSPAPER REPORTERS.

_Cincinnati, March 7._

My arrival in Cincinnati this morning was anything but triumphal.

On leaving the car, I gave my check to a cab-driver, who soon came to inform me that my valise was broken. It was a leather one, and on being thrown from the baggage-van on the platform, it burst open, and all my things were scattered about. In England or in France, half a dozen porters would have immediately come to the rescue, but here the porter is practically unknown. Three or four men belonging to the company gathered round, but, neither out of complaisance nor in the hope of gain, did any of them offer his services. They looked on, laughed, and enjoyed the scene. I daresay the betting was brisk as to whether I should succeed in putting my things together or not. Thanks to a leather strap I had in my bag, I managed to bind the portmanteau and have it placed on the cab that drove to the Burnet House.

Immediately after registering my name, I went to buy an American trunk, that is to say, an iron-bound trunk, to place my things in safety. I have been told that trunk makers give a commission to the railway and transfer baggagemen who, having broken trunks, recommend their owners to go to such and such a place to buy new ones. This goes a long way toward explaining the way in which baggage is treated in America.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MY BROKEN VALISE.]

On arriving in the dining-room, I was surprised to see the gla.s.ses of all the guests filled with lemonade. "Why," thought I, "here is actually an hotel which is not like all the other hotels." The lemonade turned out to be water from the Ohio River. I could not help feeling grateful for a change; any change, even that of the color of water. Anybody who has traveled a great deal in America will appreciate the remark.

Cincinnati is built at the bottom of a funnel from which rise hundreds of chimneys vomiting fire and smoke. From the neighboring heights, the city looks like a huge furnace, and so it is, a furnace of industry and activity. It reminded me of Glasgow.

If the city itself is anything but attractive, the residential parts are perfectly lovely. I have seen nothing in America that surpa.s.ses Burnet Wood, situated on the bordering heights of the town, scattered with beautiful villas, and itself a mixture of a wilderness and a lovely park. A kind friend drove me for three hours through the entire neighborhood, giving me, in American fashion, the history of the owner of each residence we pa.s.sed. Here was the house of Mr. A., or rather Mr.

A. B. C, every American having three names. He came to the city twenty years ago without a dollar. Five years later he had five millions. He speculated and lost all, went to Chicago and made millions, which he afterward lost. Now again he has several millions, and so on. This is common enough in America. By and by, we pa.s.sed the most beautiful of all the villas of Burnet Wood--the house of the Oil King, Mr. Alexander Macdonald, one of those wonderfully successful men, such as Scotland alone can boast all the world over. America has been a great field for the display of Scotch intelligence and industry.

After visiting the pretty museum at Eden Park, a museum organized in 1880 in consequence of Mr. Charles W. West's offer to give $150,000 for that purpose, and already in possession of very good works of art and many valuable treasures, we returned to the city and stopped at the Public Library. Over 200,000 volumes, representing all the branches of science and literature, are there, as well as a collection of all the newspapers of the world, placed in chronological order on the shelves and neatly bound. I believe that this collection of newspapers and that of Washington are the two best known. In the public reading-room, hundreds of people are running over the newspapers from Europe and all the princ.i.p.al cities of the United States. My best thanks are due to Mr.

Whelpley, the librarian, for his kindness in conducting me all over this interesting place. Upstairs I was shown the room where the members of the Council of Education hold their sittings. The room was all topsy-turvey. Twenty-six desks and twenty-six chairs was about all the furniture of the room. In a corner, piled up together, were the cuspidores. I counted. Twenty-six. Right.

After thanking my kind pilot, I returned to the Burnet House to read the evening papers. I read that the next day I was to breakfast with Mr. A., lunch with Mr. B., and dine with Mr. C. The _menu_ was not published. I take it for granted that this piece of intelligence is quite interesting to the readers of Cincinnati.

My evening being free, I looked at the column of amus.e.m.e.nts. The first did not tempt me, it was this:

THE KING OF THE SWAMPS.

_The Only and the Original._

ENGLISH JACK.

THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE FROG MAN.

He makes a frog pond of his stomach by eating living frogs. An appet.i.te created by life in the swamps. He is so fond of this sort of food that he takes the pretty creatures by the hind legs, and before they can say their prayers they are inside out of the cold.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE KING OF THE SWAMPS."]