of this steamboat flirtation afterwards, after I had grown older and was married.
"Oh, he always had good taste," said the ready "Prince John," who should have written his own memoirs.
We stopped at a little, mean, muddy town known as Chicago. The mayor, "William B. Ogden, came down to the boat and drove us up to a beautiful villa in the heart of the town. It was surrounded by trees and quite redeemed the otherwise barren outlook. That site is now so covered with bricks and mortar that I have never even attempted to identify it during my subsequent visits to that magnificent town. There he was laying the foundations of the great fortune which is now enjoyed by his descendants; there he built an undying memorial of himself — the man of energy, accomplishments, and a kind heart.
I saw Niagara on my way home, and nearly tumbled off Table Rock. We went up there in a mist, and I got very wet. I remember my father was so angry with me that he would not speak to me all the way to Albany. I sat shivering in my wet garments, and quivering with a sense of injustice, for it had not been my fault at all that Niagara was wet.
But when I was taken in the night with a chill, followed by a fever, he forgave. In a few days we were at home, and my mother was taking care of me and looking over my stained and spoiled dresses. I was thought to be ready for a very stern governess, who proceeded to wring out of me all ideas of superiority, airs of having seen the world, and visions of past joy. I went through all that New England could do to impress me with the idea that I was a miserable sinner.
Had it not been for books I should wish to forget
