Public Ledger

SWEET SWIMMERS.

Fair Females in the Chicago Natatorium.

[Chicago Inter-Ocean.]

Pretty! Funny! Yes. One can say a hearty amen to that as they take a peep into the Chicago Natatorium, where forty of the feminine sex may be seen disporting themselves in the soft green water of Lake Michigan. Forty fair women, of all ages, and fair under difficulties.

The world at large has a sort of visionary idea that in the sad sea waves woman is a lovely thing, a sort of conglomeration of gleaming white limbs, floating tresses, and coral lips. The mythical notions that rise from fairy lore suggest beautiful mermaids combing their hair with golden combs, or comparing their piscatory appendages in graceful abandon; sweet naiads luring with silvery song the sailor down to their palaces under the sea. or witching, mischievous nixies. who make a whirlpool for some unlucky mariner.

Artists and poets vie with each other in pencil and pen pictures of lovely young maidens laying their white limbs in some secluded, leafy spot, with only the sun and the butterflies for spectators, or to note the wealth of golden locks that invariably cover them like a veil.

This is romance; reality is what? Forty females clad in flannel, of such diverse hues that it suggests the cutting up of Joseph's historic coat for the purpose. A wealth or deficiency of hair, alike concealed under a cap of oiled silk, that conveys a rather ghastly effect, and nothing is left of the ideal save bare limbs shining in the sunlight, that gleams through the skylight above. There is not much scope for beauty in the dress cut after Mrs. Swisshelm's favorite pattern; it is only sensible, modest and comfortable; but what with its severe simplicity, and the action of the water upon pearl powder and rouge, with the total extinction of capillary attractions, one is inclined to think old Ben Johnson would not, were he here, indulge in a repetition of his sentiment:

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, half as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

People nowadays would call a woman of such a toilet a sloven.

So much for looks, now for the lesson.

The presiding spirit of the scene is Dr. Jansen, who, by the way, taught the Misses Bennett, of New York. The doctor presides over the tank like Neptune o'er the briny waves, and, clad in a suit of white linen and straw hat, reminds one, as he guides with a long pole some awkward beginner, of an anxious fisherman's summoning spirits from the vasty deep. His assistants are two bright little brunettes. Misses Annie and Bertha Kadish, who dressed in jaunty suits of blue flannel, show inexhaustible patience over the fears and efforts of new-comers, and some of them are comical enough. Take, for instance, "one young lady who is very, very plump, weight 180 pounds. After being taught the motion, a life-preserver is clasped around her ample waist, and she is bidden to 'strike out.'"

She tries, but in vain; preserver and adipose tissue are against it, and, struggle as she will, feet and arms refuse to go down.

"You will have to shove her down with a stick," laughs her long, lean sister, who is beginning to swim like a fish.

"But," says the earnest proprietor, "it people may have a hard time to learn, but afterward theirs is the advantage."

Just then is heard a tremendous splash, nothing is to be seen, but in a moment up crops through the waves, looking, with her golden hair and white skin, like a great water lily, a handsome blonde. She has jumped a distance of thirty feet plumb into the water, and now she swims back like a duck, runs up the ladder, and dives down head first; up again in a second, flops over on her back, and floats about for a rest.

Starting from the steps, cutting the water with long and graceful strokes, comes a young married lady, a scholar of last summer. A pair of beautiful arms, white and hard with muscle, and perfect limbs, carry her to the center of the tank, where a swing is suspended from the ceiling. She climbs into it, and starting it in motion, goes on until the long ropes are in a horizontal line. All are wondering what will come, when up go her heels over her head, and like a ball she drops into the green water. A splash, a silence, and here she is, an aquatic Johnny-jump-up, laughing and breathless. Then she races through the tank with two other proficients, and to the uninitiated it looks somewhat like a game of leap-frog. More scampering up stairs and off spring-boards follows, and then a pause as a beginner enters the water.

A young and fashionable lady, with a preponderance of vanity and a rather affected modesty. Show her bare feet and ankles! Never: so over them go a pair of striped hose. Put one of those hideous oilskin caps on! Catch her doing it ! No. no; it will hide the curly locks over her forehead. So, after an elaborate toilet, she submits to the broad swimming belt being fastened around her dainty waist, and then she is requested to walk down the steps into the water, a rope through a pulley being attached to the belt so that by no possibility can she sink. But no. she knows she will drown, and it takes considerable persuasion to induce her to release her hold upon the railing. When this is done the body floats easily to a reclining position, the mouth remaining above water; but in this instance the young woman's fears return, she gives a flop, a scream, and gets her mouth full of water. Now, be it known, a rule of the Natatorium is, "no spitting allowed in the water." In the agonies of death some people would not forget decorum, and so it is in this instance. rather than spit, the unfortunate sufferer is almost strangled. The "Saratoga waves" are also demolished.

After learning the motions with the aid of a belt the life-preserver is put on, and the scholar allowed to go alone through the evolutions. One lady goes through the unparalleled feat of standing on her head, but is promptly reduced to proper position by her astonished comrades.

A pretty young mother came into the tank, while the writer was present, holding in her arms a little one of two years, and skimming through the water as a bird does the air, holding the baby in her arms crowing and laughing. When the clock struck one the morning session came to a close, with the Misses Kadish donning their bathing suites, and going through a series of brilliant evolutions that showed them to be accomplished and graceful swimmers. One leaves the place, not only entertained, but feeling he or she has seen a mode of exercise not only amusing but healthy and blood-stirring.