USA > Illinois > Cook County > Chicago > Biographical Sketches of Some of the Early Settlers of the City Chicago Part 1 > Part 2
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"Put down Doctor Maxwell as a Butcher," quoth Col. Swift.
"And Dick Swift as a Barber!" (i. c., Money-lender- shaver) was the ready retort of the Physician.
In this way all trouble was overcome and the ball was large-immense, enthusiastic, and enjoyable. It was, how- ever, the final gasp of general sociability, and the united Chicago of the old was known nevermore. But to return to the subject proper.
The face of Doctor Maxwell was in keeping with his ponderous frame. It was broad, massive, pleasant, and beaming with mirth-the last being the key-note of his character. It had. like his person Falstaffian breadth, and depth, and proportion. He was constantly upon the qui vir'e for objects of merriment, was a
" Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun, Who relished a joke and rejoiced in a pun."
Even at the most solemn times it was next to impossible for him to keep the bubbles from rising to the surface-the gas of frivolity from escaping. Nature had cast him in the mould of "Sir John," and study and love of the character had perhaps tinged his own until it had grown to resemble the would-be lover of Madame Ford and "sweet Mistress Page."
I know such was the charge against him-that he ever aped the burly guzzler of sack and fancied himself the suc- cessful rival of the wonderful creation of Shakespeare. Granted that the charge was true, the idiosyncrasy was perfectly harmless. But the Doctor cared little for such insinuations, though he could be "testy" at times and
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PHILIP MAXWELL, M.D.
pour out the vials of his wrath like the bursting forth of a volcano. He was contented to go along "larding the lean earth," enjoying a laugh, no matter at whose expense. and making merry at life, come in what shape it might, though the sunshine and shadows in such lives are very marked. But, for the most part, he was remarkably genial,-feeling his own weaknesses as well as those of others; and, in his limited sphere, was a very "king of misrule." If he had made the peculiarities of Falstaff a study, and reproduced them in his daily walk and conversation, it was without malice to others- on the contrary, for their amusement.
As a rule, he carried sunshine in his face and heart and a quilp upon the end of his tongue-was at his richest. when he could get a good joke upon his brother professors of the curative art-STUART, EGAN. AND ELDRIDGE-when firing double shotted guns and entire batteries at a time at the Faculty of Rush Medical College-and what stories the old wooden office in Clark Street could tell were speech given and had it not long since been dust and ashes.
Perhaps the highest relish of the Doctor was humbug- ging the credulous with Munchausen stories, equalling any of the "Fat Knight." Instances of this rise thickly as memory turns back to the man and the past is vividly pict- ured again. But one must suffice. though the temptation to fill pages is great :
On a bitter morning in early winter, he entered a hotel. drank a glass of water (he was habitually temperate), rub- bed his hands complacently and discoursed pompously upon the merits of bathing.
"Surely," exclaimed one of the loungers around the glowing stove, "you have not been bathing this cold morn- ing?“
".Of course I have-swimming, Sir, swimming," was the answer.
"Where Doctor?"
· In the lake."
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PHILIP MAXWELL, M.D.
"The lake? Impossible! It must be frozen along the shores."
"Yes-certainly-yes, but I make it a practice of going in every morning as long as my weight will break the ice;' and he departed leaving his hearers puzzled as to the truth of the story-and which did not contain a particle of it.
It was Doctor Maxwell who made the sweeping and far from complimentary criticism upon the late Edwin Forrest. Although already published let me introduce it here in brief:
The "great tragedian" was playing his first engagement in Chicago, had finished for the night, was going to his hotel down the street immediately preceded by the Doc- tor and his party. His opinion was asked and the answer given in such boisterous tones that Forrest could not fail to have heard it - "A brute force and native stupidity actor!" Whether just or not, it was his opinion, and the world was never kept in doubt as to what he thought.
There was much in the character and mannerism of Dr. Maxwell that reminds me very forcibly of the Lawrence Baythorn of Dicken's "Bleak House" more than Falstaff. There was the same bluff, hearty, brusque fashion of greet- ing-the same noisy explosions-the same extravagant ex- pressions and denunciations-the same tremendous bursts of laughter-the same ferocious threatening-and the same tender heart breathing within the massive breast that would turn aside for fear of trampling on a worm, even while breathing tornadoes of wordy wrath and hurling wordy thunderbolts of wholesale destruction. But these things (when not uttered and acted in jest, as was frequently the case, served the more to clear the sky; and the man-whom a stranger might have looked upon as bloodthirsty-was as kind in reality, as incapable of doing harm as a child-a singular combination of Baythorn and Falstaff.
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JOHN J. BROWN.
My introduction to the subject of this brief memoir was so peculiar and striking that it could not be forgotten, par- ticularly when taken in connection with the man-one al- most sui generis. It must have occurred very soon after his advent in the Garden City, for I had never seen or even heard of him.
I was returning late one evening from a visit to a sick friend. There was a wild storm abroad. Clouds were flying in tumultuous confusion, driven by the fierce North- wind; rain was falling heavily; the lake was lashed into foam and tossing in great billows upon the shore; the thun- der was booming and crashing, and ever and anon the light- ning played around with dazzling and fitful fury. It was not such a night as one would willingly be abroad, and I was breasting and struggling against the elemental war up Michigan Avenue, in the vicinity of Randolph Street, when a more than usually terrific burst of thunder caused me to pause-a vivid flash of lightning to glance anxiously around and I saw a man standing upon the lake-side of the Avenue gesticulating fiercely, and in the lull that followed, I could distinctly hear him talking to himself.
Curiosity could not be repressed. I fancied it must be one insane; and, forgetting the storm and darkness, the fearful pealing of the thunder, the rain, and the dangerous play of the lightning, I crossed and drew near to his side. And as I did so, there came to my ears the well-known words of Byron :
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JOHN J. BROWN.
" The sky is changed ! and such a change! Oh! night, And storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, V'et lovely in your strength, as in the light Of a dark eye is woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who called to her aloud!"
Who could be quoting poetry at such a time and in such a situation? If curiosity had been aroused before, it stood toptoed now. I drew back, thrilling with a strange fear. and waited for the next flash to reveal form and feature. When it came, I looked upon a stranger who would have impressed himself upon any assembly. The picture rises before me now, weird almost as then, when the background was foaming and hissing waters, and black chaos of sky. and the shadows following the flashes eerie ones.
The figure was tall, angular, slightly bent, and wrapped in a cloak; the face sallow, somewhat hollow, with high cheek bones, and eyes deep set, heavily browed and lashed. and with more than usual power of focusing and penetrat- ing. The head was held firmly, straight, defiantly, and covered with long, leonine hair, blown fitfully about by the wind. The voice sonorous and emphatic.
That man was John J. Brown, a newly arrived lawyer, as I came later to know, and the impression of him then re- ceived (almost boy as I was) without doubt ever after colored my view of his character, and something of it may linger even now, despite the dust and iconoclastic power of so many years.
John J. Brown was naturally a retiring, misanthropic man. The lenses through which he looked at life seemed- to be ever clouded -- the glimpses of sunshine rare. Whether his nature was naturally morbid-whether "untoward circum- stances had made it so, I never had the means of knowing : but that he was uncommonly shy and sensitive, and ever
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JOHN J. BROWN.
looked at the darkest side. I am of opinion will not be questioned. He lacked, perhaps, the rebound, the recu- perative power to recover from a blow or loss : and he made its sting deeper by brooding upon it. As a boy, I think this must have been the case-as a man, standing breast-high and proud-headed in genius. learning, and eloquence among his fellows it certainly was so; and none who knew him will deny the assertion. "Knew him " I have said : but were there any who did so? I doubt it very much- doubt if he ever had any intimate associates-any to whom he fully unbosomed himself to whom he revealed his inner heart and the motives that were the mainspring of his actions. And if the olden mythological fables had in them aught of truth, it was Pluto that hovered about his cradle. and Niobe and Melpomene that were his attendant spirits through life.
This gave a sombre coloring to almost his every act and thought. The shadows were so dense behind the sunrays that they could never be entirely hidden -- the gold not suf- ficiently bright to effectually curtain the gloom. In all his forensic efforts this was apparent (at least to my mind ), and the highest flights of fancy seemed to be made with wings against which beat the rain. But, notwithstanding this. they were of great power, legal acumen, and sound law. His mind in this respect was singularly critical and analyti- cal. The very things that militated against general socia- bility and the power of self-forgetfulness-in drinking in the perfume of the flower, unmindful of the cruel thorn and poisoned root, gave him the more taste and ability for research-more concentration of mind upon the salient points he intuitively and keenly appreciated, and ever after retained ; and this was so, not alone in the law, but in all he read- history, poetry, philosophy, theology -and the most apropos quotations were ever at his command.
I have spoken of his hair being long and tawny as the mane of a lion. It was so in fact, was very noticable and
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JOHN J. BROWN.
first called attention. But it was his eyes that unwaveringly fixed it, for, at times, when his soul was fully aroused, they literally appeared to burn. I use the term advisedly, and can find none more appropriate. When indulging in his wonderful and bitter powers of sarcasm; when forgetful of self, and the ebb and flood of sorrowful waves, in the mas- tery of his subject-when all the shadows were exorcised. his eyes gleamed with a strange phosphorescent light and exerted a strong, subtle, magnetic power that was not to be resisted. In that respect, he was very like Rufus Choate. of whom it has been said, "no one could report if they looked at him""' The same thing was, in a great measure, true of John J. Brown, as I learned by experience when attempt- ing to reproduce his words upon paper, during a celebrated trial. I watched the speaker and forgot pencil and paper !
Looking calmly back now, after a decade and more have passed, I am inclined to believe his greatest power was in scathing denunciation and intense bitterness. I would not be understood that such was the natural status of his mind. for I do not believe it. On the contrary, I had occasion to know that the milk of human kindness had not soured within his veins, and there was much of the gentleness and tenderness of woman in his composition. But he was un- doubtedly the great master of withering and remorseless irony when aroused, of satirical and scornful gibe then at the Chicago Bar-of sarcasm that when given full rein had something almost sardonic in it. To this end, his vehe- ment gestures, his eyes, his tall, flexible person, and his leonine hair, all added emphasis, and woe to those upon whom the razorlike edge of his tongue fell when unbridled.
Two particular instances drift up from the depths of memory. The first is that of the trial of Rev. Wm. F. Walker, elsewhere mentioned :
The opening of his speech was calm, graceful, even beau- tiful. He said, "I did not expect to be present at this trial. I thought the blue waves of the lake would have
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JOHN J. BROWN.
rolled and sparkled between me and it." But as he pro- gressed, as he fully gave himself up to the subject he warmed, grew deeper, stronger in thought, more forcible in imagery, his nerves quivered, his hair was disordered, and his eyes flashed as burning steel. Any looker on must have been reminded of the gathering and bursting of a storm. And when at its height it was terrible. When he , pictured the manufacturing of the "patchwork slanders"- of those professing the broadest humanity and Christianity, coming "to the altar with the word of God in their hands and the devil in their hearts" -- when he hurled wholesale scorn and infamy upon their heads-when he spoke of their "supreme and besotted ignorance and worse than heathenish bigotry" he rose to such an altitude of invective that few who had awakened his wrath could remain, and even the ordinary listener felt a shivering awe and dread.
The second time was in a strictly legal encounter. and with foemen worthy of his steel :
One of his antagonists he (figuratively ) held up by his long hair, so that all could see him, and painted him in such colors as made even the fiends appear more just and pure --- made him act the most vile monster possible with humanity -- cut so deeply that the audience could not but pity. Turning from the fierce wirlwind of denunciation, he addressed the other in low and measured tones-reminded him of his position in the Church, and saying: "I have no words for him. The reproof must come from a higher source, even from the God he pretends to worship," he fixed him with his eyes, and opening a bible read the most bitterly appropriate chapter contained between its lids.
They had raised the lion, and having felt the full weight of his claws and power of his teeth, paid dearly for their attack.
I know it was customary to compare John J. Brown with Justin Butterfield in this respect, but I never thought the comparison tenable. Butterfield was a man of undoubted
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JOHN J. BROWN.
power of retaliation, and legal knowledge, but he lacked (in my judgment) the keenness of Brown. Were I to in- dulge in a simile, I should say, that, while from his heavy blows he might have been Richard, his rival was the Sala- din-the one would crush with a gigantic battle-axe, the other cut to the heart with a blade of Toledo temper.
As to legal requirements, John J. Brown stood high. His mind was a treasure-house as was shown during the brief time he taught a law school. Had his natural tem- perament been different-had his health been better-had life been more roseate, he would, as the years rolled on, have made for himself a high and honored name. But he never mingled much with his fellows; and it was only when inter- ested and awakened in the argument of a case that he re- vealed what he truly was-only then that the shadow was ever lifted from heart and brain.
The particulars of his death were not familiar to me. I have a faint recollection of some mystery shrouding it -- that his soul found the Nepenthe. the "surcease from sor- row" otherwise than surrounded by loving hearts. Be that as it might, his life appeared to be a fitful one, and May he sleep well! More sunny natures have gone before, and have followed him, but no stronger, no more legal, none more intense have taken their places in the green tent "whose curtains never outward swing." Aye, and in the younger ranks of his profession who can claim the place he left vacant? When some one shall write at length the his- tory of the Bar of Chicago, upon its highest page will be found the name of John J. Brown. Peace, eternal peace to his ashes.
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RICHARD L. WILSON.
The name of Richard L. Wilson was so long and inti- mately connected with the Chicago Fournal that it is familiar as "household words", not only to the olden time readers of that paper, but to. all who dwelt in the City. County, and it might almost be said, State.
His personal popularity, as well as his political influence, was widespread and universally admitted. although it was an impossibility for any one occupying the position he held to be without enemies. Yet these came from tilts in the arena of politics far more (if not entirely) than any other cause. For what he thought right he labored manfully- wielded a caustic pen, and threw hot-shot directly into the camp of the enemy, regardless of the consequences. But it was the cause, not the individual, he would cripple-the batteries he would unmask and silence-the rifle-pits he would cause to surrender, not the men of which they were composed. He believed the salvation of the country de- pended upon Henry Clay and the Whig Party; and it would have been very difficult for a "trumpet-tongued angel" to have convinced him to the contrary, for his was a positive nature.
To those who stood out of the reach of the flying splin- ters and débris, it was amusing to see how he would de- molish the long " leaders" of his antagonists with a few words. As a writer of short, pithy, pointed paragraphs I never knew his equal among the Chicago editorial fraterni- ty. This was his forte, and in it he resembled PRENTICE, of the Louisville Fournal, more than any other of his day.
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RICHARD L. WILSON.
If grape-shot, and canister, and shrapnel were fired by broadsides, he answered with a single shot from a well- aimed rifled gun, which caused more havoc than all their noise and wholesale missiles. "Grandpa Dutch" might fire column after column of "double-leaded " matter at his head, and " Dick " would send back three lines that would drive even "Banks' BANKS! BANKS !" from the brain of the old gentleman, for a time at least.
In this, more than any other way, he made his editorial power felt, though he was sometimes tempted to indulge in it to excess, with regard to the Democrat, and its elongated proprietor, and laughingly own that he might as well have attempted to perforate the thick skin of a rhinoceros with mustard seed. It was, however, a favorite pastime with all the knights of the quill of the day-did no harm-served as a"safety valve, and "Long John" continued to wax fat and rich and carry the Congressional district in his breeches pocket the same as before.
Save for these pointed squibs that generally pierced through the armor of his antagonist as if it had been but silken folds, Mr. Wilson (to the best of my knowledge) indulged but little in authorship, though famous for writ- ing toasts, and good ones, for public dinners. The only instance of his "book making" that came under my obser- vation was "Short Ravelings from a Long Yarn" -- a story of Spanish life and adventure, and even that, I believe, was "licked into shape" by another. But Mr. Wilson furnished the data, supervised. and was entitled to the lion's. share of the credit.
As I have already stated, long articles were not either his forte or his propensity. His spirit was too restless for such drudgery. It was with him aim and fire. He could not patiently still-hunt-could not follow a long trail Ind- ian-like to secure a scalp. His nature was too ardent-he leaped over boundaries too rapidly for any such plodding, and if an enemy he was an open one. Every fibre of his-
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RICHARD L. WILSON.
soul would have scorned lurking in ambush, striking with- out giving an opportunity of defense, stabbing from behind the back in the dark. Such things were altogether foreign to his nature. If impulsive he was honorable; if prone to criticise, just.
Of what his position would have been in the late un- happy fratricidal struggle no one who knew him will for a moment question. It could have been but one thing, and into the side he espoused he would have thrown himself body and soul. A divided country would never have been tolerated by him, even in thought. The Union, as he looked upon it, was ever to be a unit, and rested upon a foundation as lasting as time.
His patriotism was shown in the fatal rejoicing that crip- pled him for the remainder of his life. The news of the battle of Buena Vista, that sent an electric thrill through the land, stirred his breast to its lowest depths. He threw himself into the ranks of those who celebrated the victory -was the moving and master-spirit: but the premature explosion of the cannon used left a terrible personal record. And it showed, too, the iron nerve of the man-a will almost matchless in firmness-a scorn of physical suffering unparalelled-a power to endure that was beyond belief.
I was among the first to reach him, after the accident. having been a looker on at but a little distance. I helped to carry him into the Sherman House, and, consequently. know of what I write. To describe his injuries here would not only be useless, but create doubt. No one, who did not see him, would believe a man could be so mangled and live. It was a sight that made many a heart sick, and many a strong nature grow faint. This was the case with his regular physician. He attempted the necessary surgery. shook like an aspen, and was forced to give up the task to another. And during the lengthy ordeal, one of most terrible suffering, Mr. Wilson lay, with compressed lips uttered no groan -never spoke of what he was so hero
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RICHARD L. WILSON.
ically enduring, save once. As a · large, ragged splinter of the ramrod was being removed from its place under and intertwisted with the biceps muscles of the right arm, he said, in answer to a question of a friend: "Yes, that hurts." That was all: and. taken as a whole, it was a masterly in- stance of patient endurance a literal triumph of mind over matter. And this same indomitable will and nerve enabled him to soon again resume his duties: but the injuries ever after affected him and sapped his life.
Mr. Wilson was a genial companion and a true friend, was liberal beyond his means when his sympathies were enlisted, and never stopped to coldly count the cost of a favor.' There was nothing selfish or phlegmatic about him. Every action sprang from the dictates of a manly-beating heart, and the faults (if they can justly so be called) that always cling to such men were attributable to the mental combination -to the actual necessity of excitement and ac- tion-to the never letting "I dare not wait upon I would," to (in practical life at least) the Napoleonic motto that --. "the end justifies the means"- to the more than usual social element-to a remarkably vivid appreciation of the humorous -- to his peculiar surroundings- to the association into which he was forced-to the age in which he lived.
Sportsmen of the days of Richard I .. Wilson will remem- ber him with pleasure. He was a keen lover of the gun and skilful in its use. If prairie chickens arose within rea- sonable distance, it was bad for the chickens! Had his early life been different, he would have enjoyed, as only such enthusiasts can enjoy, living with nature in her wildest moods and made his mark as hunter, pioneer, even "Indian fighter," for fear was not a component part of his being. He was the life of the camp fire as he was foremost in quest of game, and though he never "strung rhymes" had much of the poetic, and saw all that was beautiful. in sky, water, woodland, and treeless plain. Glimmerings of this crop out in the little book I have mentioned, and it was
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RICHARD L. WILSON.
when afar from the haunts of men that it shone the bright- est, sparkled the most brilliantly, rather than when weary and chafed by the editorial harness. Then he gave loose rein to his thoughts. flung aside the rare power of conden- sation that made his newspaper paragraphs mosaics of terse pointednes --- indulged freely in anecdote, and jest. and repartee-gave graphic descriptions of hunter's life that spiced to perfection the birds broiling upon the glow- 'ing coals. Then, also, he showed as. he never did at any other time, the wealth of his imagination. the power (if trained) to throw off page after page of brilliant matter-to make a remarkably readable book. That he never did was often a wonder to his friends. It might have come with his years (if spared) had it not been for the accident that made penmanship severe labor, and despite his buoyant heart and resolute will must have left a legacy of shadows. That he did not is to be regretted. It could not have been otherwise than valuable and interesting.
Mr. Wilson was an ardent admirer of and believer in the destiny of Chicago. He always predicted for it a bright and glorious future, and he foresaw something of it ; great- ness. Not all - perhaps not one tithe. Who could ? There was no prophetic ken keen enough, no imagination sufficiently vivid to grasp the possibilities when the terrible baptism and purification of fire should have been perfect.
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