by Sesh Heri
The crowd stood there watching until the glowing blue cigar that was our airship drifted into a cloud and winked out of sight. Lillie pushed her way through the people until she reached the place where the two men stood who had been speaking. She told them she was with the Daily News and asked if they would state what they had just witnessed for publication. They assented and recounted what they had seen. As they talked, Lillie made notes in a little memorandum book. Others approached and be- gan telling what they saw. Lillie wrote rapidly, taking down their statements and the witnesses’ names and addresses. A policeman approached the crowd on horse back. “You will have to move these carriages,” he said.
The crowd dispersed. Lillie got back in her cab and proceeded toward downtown. As she approached the Daily News building, Lillie began to think about what George Ade had said, and suddenly, now that her anger had cooled, she perceived the wisdom of his words. Perhaps, she thought, a certain degree of caution was called for. If the President denied Lillie’s story, it would com- pletely discredit her. However, if her story were to run in two parts, with the first part consisting of eyewitness accounts of the airship from the citizens of Chicago—it would make it much more difficult for Cleveland to deny the second part: that he, himself, was a passenger on the airship. Lillie decided that she would show the city editor only the first part of the story, and only after it ran on the front page would she spring on him the second part. It was a pretty good plan, or, at least, she thought so at the time. Lillie ordered the cab driver to stop. She had to get out and walk. She was too excited. She paid the driver, and he went on his way.
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Then Lillie was struck with a final link in her plan. Instead of giving her story to the Daily News, she would take it to the Record. This would kill two birds with one stone; Ade was one of the birds, and her editor on the Daily News who had resisted Lillie’s efforts to write “straight” News—was the other. When Lillie entered the office of Harry Yount, city editor for the Chicago Record, Yount was bent over his desk looking at the proofs for the next day’s front page. He looked up. Yount said, “Well, Well, Miss Lillie West, or should I say ‘Amy Leslie?’ To what do I owe this visit?”
Lillie said, “I want to see Charles Dennis.” “He’s not here,” Yount said. “And where is he?” Lillie asked.
“He’s gone home for the night.” Yount replied. “Anything I can do for you?” “Yes. Not print that,” she said, taking the proof sheet out of Yount’s hand. “The hell I can’t,” Yount replied. “Read this,” Lillie said, handing Yount her memorandum book.
Yount began reading Lillie’s notes. After a minute, he said, “This stuff’s crazy. What’s the matter with you, coming in here bothering me with this?” Lillie said, “Read the names of the witnesses.”
Yount ran his eye down the column of witness names, which included addresses. Yount noticed the name of a doctor whom he knew. He picked up his telephone and called the doctor—and the doctor had arrived home just in time to answer his telephone. “Hello, Doc. This is Harry Yount… . I’m doing fine… . The wife’s fine… . Yes, all the children are fine, too. Listen, Doc, I’ve got Amy Leslie here in my office. She just told me a funny story, a crazy story really, and… well, I hate to bother you with it this time of night, but she says you told her you saw an airship tonight… . You did… ? You did… ? You did… ? You didn’t! … You did… . Well, if you did, I’ll be damned… I already am? Well, if you say you saw it, Doc, I believe you… Yes, I believe you saw something… Yes… yes, sir… yes, sir… yes, I know. So you don’t mind us printing your name in the paper and that you say you saw this thing? … You don’t… ? You don’t… ? You don’t? You do! … You don’t… ? In a court of law… ? Well, all right. You’re sure you want to do this… ? Uh-huh… uh-huh… well, all right. If that’s what you want… . All right, thanks, Doc.” Yount hung up. He sat a moment looking at Lillie’s notes. “And you say you saw this thing, too,” Yount said. “Me and half of Chicago,” Lillie said.
“Well,” Yount said, rubbing his chin. He stood up and went to the window and looked up into the sky. “All right,” Yount said, “we’ll print your notes. Just as they are. Especially the names of the witnesses. Give me back that proof sheet.”
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“But if you’re going to print my story, you won’t be needing this,” Lillie said, holding up the front-page proof. “Oh, I’m printing your story,” Yount said, snatching the proof sheet out of her hand. “As an extra. For downtown distribution only.” “But—”
“We’ll gauge the public’s reaction. If it goes over, we’ll run the story again in the next day’s edition. If it doesn’t, we’ll bury it.” “But—”
“Take your notebook down to the Linotype operator and give him this to let him know I give approval.” Yount scribbled a note and handed it to Lillie, then went to the door. “Hey, McCutcheon!” Yount shouted.
John T. McCutcheon looked up from his drawing board where he was working on a pen and ink sketch. “Take a look at this story Miss West brought in,” Yount said, holding up Lillie’s notebook.
McCutcheon came over, nodded to Lillie, and took her notebook from Yount’s hand.
“How have you been?” McCutcheon asked Lillie. “Just fine, Mac,” Lillie said. He began reading Lillie’s account.
“Is this supposed to be a Jules Verne satire?” McCutcheon asked.
“No!” Yount said. “ The people on that list are real! I know the doctor, and he just confirmed the story to me over the telephone. I want you to drop what you’re doing and work up a sketch of the airship. Make it a big cigar f lying through clouds. But don’t get too fancy. This is no joke. It’s News.” McCutcheon scratched the back of his head. “What’s the matter?” Yost asked. McCutcheon shrugged, “It just seems far-fetched.” “Miss Leslie says she saw it,” Yost said. “George saw it, too,” Lillie said to McCutcheon. “Ade?” Yost asked.
Lillie nodded. “He was there.”
Yost laughed, “Oh, boy! You hear that McCutcheon? Your buddy Ade saw it, too. Still think it’s far-fetched?” McCutcheon shrugged again.
“Get to work on the sketch. And make it snappy,” Yost said. “Do I get a by-line?” Lillie asked.
“Amy Leslie Chases Airships?” Yount asked. “Doesn’t sound right. Maybe we should use your real name. I don’t know. Never mind about that now.”
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Yount took the notebook away from McCutcheon, gave it back to Lillie, and said, “Just get this notebook down to the compositors. I’ll be down there in a few minutes myself.” Lillie started off.
Yount called after her, “If your story goes over with the public, then we’ll see about a by-line.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Pesterin’ and Persistin’
Well, then he got on his troubles again, and mourned and grumbled about the way he was treated, and couldn’t seem to git over it, and especially people’s saying the ship was f limsy. He scoffed at that, and at their saying she warn’t simple and would always be getting out of order. Get out of order! That graveled him; he said that she couldn’t no more get out of order than the solar sister.
— Huck, Tom Sawyer Abroad
George Ade’s earliest memory was of sitting on a fence in Kentland, Indiana, and looking up at a blur of illumination in the night sky. He was watching the city of Chicago, eighty miles to the north, burning up in a most efficient and business-like way. It was 1871, and Ade was five years old. Perhaps George Ade watching Chicago go up in flames like that forged the first link in a chain of destiny that would pull him to the city by the great lake, and make him forever a part of that place, no matter where he would go, no matter what he would do.
George Ade was born February 9th, 1866 in the town of Kentland. His father was the cashier for the town’s bank. Upon graduating high school, Ade lit out for Purdue University. There he excelled at watching football games and pulling practical jokes with his fraternity brothers of Sigma Chi. Somehow, by some unknown process, he le
arned enough by 1887 to become commencement speaker for his graduating class. His speech was “The Future of Letters in the West.” After graduating, Ade went to work for Newspapers in Lafayette. These paid mostly in meal tickets to a cheap restaurant which was a heavy advertiser.
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Then Ade began working for a patent medicine company in Purdue. His job was writing Newspaper and catalogue advertising. Ade’s literature was stirring and persuasive, and it was more—it was on a high moral plain. It set the lofty goal for itself of reforming the whole world. Its primary doctrine was that the whole world is born diseased, and because of this we are all desperately in need of patent medicines of various sorts. Some of us need certain kinds, some of us need others. But all of us need some kind, and most of us need all kinds, and need them not just everyday but several times a day—and in quantity.
Here in Ade’s advertisements were not only the usual castor oils and liver pills, but exotic purgatives, guaranteed muscle builders, and the very latest blood purifiers. The pinnacle of this literature was Ade’s advertisement for a nicotine addiction cure he named with poetic aptness “No-Tobac.” This prod- uct, Ade wrote, was guaranteed to “slay the smoking habit.” To vivify and drive home this claim, Ade had his college friend, John T. McCutcheon, draw an illustration of a Roman soldier putting his sword to a dragon labeled “Smok- ing Habit.” The advertisement guaranteed results only if the customer followed the directions, the first of which was “discontinue use of tobacco.” Despite the moral elevation of Ade’s patent medicine literature, it did not completely fulfill his literary aspirations. So in 1890, Ade joined his fraternity brother, McCutcheon, in the city of Chicago. Ade and McCutcheon located in a delightfully situated “hall-bedroom” on Peck Court. It was on the third f loor up from the ground, in the back, and was a spacious twelve by ten feet, and those dimensions made it very convenient. If you needed anything, you didn’t have to get up and go get it, you just had to reach for it; usually you didn’t even have to straighten out your arm. And it was the perfect abode for the aspiring artist and man of letters: there was nothing in that room to distract the mind from the contemplation of artistic and literary aspirations. In fact, there was nothing in that room at all—except two beds, two chairs, and an ancient desk decorated with a jack-knife. How- ever, from his window, Ade had a most picturesque view to the west. Just outside his window sill stood a neatly stacked heap of empty beer and whiskey bottles. Beyond the bottles lay an artistically arranged pile of discarded boxes and crates covered with a delicate patina of mold and slime. Beyond this verdant landscape, rose a small hill of colorful bric-a-brac, donated shoes and corsets, slightly damaged dishware, and generous portions of meals from tables around the neighborhood. This hill was a particular favorite of stray dogs and pigs. Further away, beyond the hill, and beyond dainty walls of soot covered brick, Ade could see a row of chimneys with their black smoke blotting out all view of the sky. And far away, in the ruddy half-light of the setting sun, Ade could, on a very clear day, barely glimpse the smoky silhouette of the Polk Street Station tower. It was an inspiring view; that is, it inspired Ade to find another view.
Ade applied to what was then the Chicago Morning News, which later became the Chicago Record. The city editor said, “If you can prove you’re not a college man, you might be able to get into the advertising department and make forty dollars a week.” But Ade said he wanted to “keep tabs on the human race.” So he took a cub reporter’s position for twelve dollars a week. His first assignment was the daily weather report. Ade told me, “I tackled that assignment with the same enthusiasm I would have had if I had been covering the elopement of an archbishop with a chorus girl.” Ade’s enthusiasm was rewarded. The manag- ing editor of the Chicago Record, Charles Dennis, began giving Ade a variety of assignments: reporting on baseball games, horse races, and politics. Then Ade’s stories started hitting the front page—the Homestead Strike, the Democratic Convention of 1892, and “the fight of the century” in New Orleans between “Gentleman Jim” Corbett and “the Boston Strongboy” John L. Sullivan.
Ade did so well with these assignments that he was given the run of the city. He was to report on anything and everything as he saw fit. He and McCutcheon would scour the city of Chicago from north to south, east to west, Ade writing, McCutcheon illustrating what was written. They would find News in the ho- tels, in the slums, in the finest mansions, in the police station houses, in the freak shows of the dime museums, in the factories, and in the slaughterhouses. In 1892 Charles Dennis gave Ade a special assignment covering the World’s Fair. He was to have his own column on the same page as Eugene Field’s “Sharps and Flats.” It was to be entitled “All Roads Lead to the Fair.” John T. McCutcheon was to illustrate it. It was some time along here that Ade made the acquaintance of Miss Lillie West. The particulars of their first meeting I do not know, but I imagine that their paths crossed somewhere in the offices of the Record where Ade was employed, or the Daily News where Miss West was employed. The Record was the morning edition of the Daily News, so the connection between Mr. Ade and Miss West probably began in one office or the other. Although there were nine or so daily Newspapers in Chicago at that time, most of the reporters for those nine all knew each other. So it was inevitable then that Miss Lillie West, the only woman reporter in Chicago, would come to the attention of Mr. George Ade, probably the only reporter of the male species who could truly appreciate a woman reporter. I seem to have the impression from what I have been told that the friend- ship of George Ade and Lillie West grew by a gradual and natural series of steps, that neither took a great, sudden passion for the other, but that both gradually and unconsciously began taking a growing liking for the other. These two had a great deal in common. Both had talent with the pen; both loved the theatre and its bold effects; both had an eye for detail and the ability to dis- cover the remarkable in the unremarkable.
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I do not know exactly when Lillie West was born. She has never been anxious to divulge that information. It has always been my impression that she was born some time after the War Between the States, making her about the same age as George Ade. But others have told me that she was born before the War. George Ade has told me that he believes she was born about 1860, though even he does not know that for a fact. All I can say is that when I knew her, she seemed young, exceedingly young—younger than I ever was, and I was once very young. Lillie West was also beautiful: a petite blond-haired, blue- eyed enchantress. She was one of those women who would turn the heads of all the gentlemen who passed by her on the street. This kind of beauty is never entirely physical, but relates more to a projection of personality, energy, and intelligence, a projection always felt as an over-all impression, never a mere awareness of some detail of face or form. I do know that Lillie—and I will call her that from here on out, for that’s the name she preferred when I knew her—I do know that Lillie was born in West Burlington, Iowa. Her father was a merchant, and, for a brief while, I under- stand, a Newspaper publisher. During her girlhood she attended private schools in Missouri and Indiana. Her main course of study was vocal music. After graduation, she went to Europe for private tutoring and then came back to America to attend the Chicago Conservatory of Music.
Some time in the mid-1880s her history becomes a bit more definite. It was then that she achieved some fame among lovers of operettas. She played the role of Fiamatta in Edmond Andran’s operetta La Mascotte. Sometime along then she married one Harry Brown, a fellow player and the comedian of the company. She and her husband toured America for the next several years and had one son, Francis Albert. In 1889 young Francis, aged four, died of diphtheria while Lillie was per- forming in Gustave A. Kerker’s Castle’s in the Air and Harry Brown was out on a drinking spree. Such a double tragedy of death and betrayal would have destroyed many another woman—or man. But it seems that Lillie, grief-stricken though she was at the time, drew from some wellspring of strength deep within herself. She
quit the stage and went back to Chicago, and, with the help of her mother, obtained a divorce. Also with her mother’s encouragement, Lillie sought out work as a writer. She submitted a piece of writing to a reader’s contribution column in the Chicago Daily News entitled “What One Woman Thinks,” and signed it “Amy Leslie.” H. Ten Eyck White, who was then managing editor of the Daily News, found her article so striking that he engaged her to write dramatic criticisms. Lillie found a rebirth of body and soul as “Amy Leslie.” She was not merely a capable drama critic, but an exceptional one. She knew what she was writing about, because she had once done it herself, and done it better than many of the performers she was reviewing. This is rare with a drama critic. Most of
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them have never set foot on a stage and only know how things are “from the front of the house.” I was once that kind of drama critic in San Francisco. I would review plays by the wholesale method, seeing a little of this one, a little of that, so that by evening’s end I would have “reviewed” four or five plays. I would never see the end of any one of them. What I didn’t see, I would make up in my review. I never had to worry about discrepancies, because no one ever read any of my reviews. For a year or two Lillie was satisfied with her work and her life. But about 1892 she began wanting to do something more than write drama reviews. As a concession to her constant requests to cover “real” news, her editor made her “Woman’s Correspondent” for the World’s Fair.
Lillie decided she would create a book out of her articles about the World’s Fair in the hope that this would show the editors that she could write some- thing besides drama reviews. She also started going about the city taking notes of everything she saw and experienced. Often she would encounter Ade and McCutcheon who were out looking for a story of their own. Somewhere along the way, Ade started taking Lillie along when McCutcheon and he were out covering a story. This gradually turned into just Ade and Lillie taking buggy rides alone out to Lincoln Park on Sundays. Something was happening be- tween Lillie and Ade, but neither would name it to the other. It grew as an unspoken understanding. Then in the fall of 1892 a grand “Exposition Ball” was held in Chicago’s Auditorium Building. It was the beginning of celebrations for the World’s Fair. All of Chicago society turned out, led by Mrs. Bertha Palmer and General Nelson Miles. In the great hall, John Phillip Sousa played the “Coronation March.” Of course Ade, McCutcheon, and “Amy Leslie” were there to observe as reporters. But perhaps it was these three among all the rest who seemed the most at home in “society.” Ade, especially, carried himself through the crowd with a grace so light and easy that one might have easily supposed that he was the son of old money and certainly not a sixty dollars a week Newspaper reporter whose father was a small town bank clerk. One person was particularly taken with Ade: a debutante whose father Ade had long been attempting to interview. Ade saw his chance and asked the young lady if he might have the honor of a waltz. She accepted and the two of them f loated across the floor. Afterwards, Ade took the young lady to a se- cluded corner of the ballroom in the hope that he might obtain through her an interview with her father. The young lady was fresh from an eastern finishing school where she had been sent by her parents to reform her wild ways, and she mistook Ade’s intentions. Somewhere in the conversation she glanced about, believed she saw no one looking, stood upon tip-toes, grabbed Ade’s lapels, and fire-branded Ade’s lips with her own. It was at that exact moment