It is unpleasant and it is hard to think of Billy Boyle’s chop-house as a thing of the past, for that resort has become so closely identified with certain classes and with certain phases of life in Chicago that it seems it must necessarily keep right on forever in its delectable career.  We much prefer to regard its troubles as temporary, and to believe that presently its hospitable doors will be thrown open again to the same hungry, appreciative patrons who for so many years have partaken of its cheer.

When the sheriff asked Billy Boyle the other day where the key to the door was, Billy seemed to feel hurt.  What did Billy know about a key, and what use had he ever found for one in that hospitable spot, whither famished folk of every class gravitated naturally for the flying succor of Billy’s larder?

  “The door never had a key,” said Billy.  “Only once in all the time I
  have been here has the place been closed, and then it was but four
  hours.”

Down in New Orleans there is a famous old saloon called the Sazeraz.  For fifty-four years it stood open to the thirsty public.  Then the City Council passed a Sunday-closing ordinance, and with the enforcement of this law came the discovery that through innocuous desuetude the hinges of the doors to the Sazeraz had rusted off, while the doors themselves had become so worm-eaten that they had to be replaced by new ones.  The sheriff who pounced down on Billy Boyle’s in his official capacity must have fancied he had struck a second Sazeraz, for the lock upon the door was so rusty and rheumatic through disuse that it absolutely refused to respond to the persuasion of the keys produced for the performance of its functions.  We cannot help applauding the steadfastness with which this lock resented the indignity which the official visit of the sheriff implied.

If we were to attempt to make a roster of the names of those who have made the old chop-house their Mecca in seasons of hunger and thirst, we could easily fill a page.  So, although you may have never visited the place yourself, it is easy for you to understand that many are the associations and reminiscences which attached to it.  There was never any attempt at style there; the rooms were unattractive, save for the savory odors which hung about them; the floors were bare, and the furniture was severe to the degree of rudeness.  There was no china in use upon the premises; crockery was good enough; men came there to feed their stomachs, not their eyes.

Boyle’s was a resort for politicians, journalists, artists, actors, musicians, merchants, gamblers, professional men generally, and sporting men specially.  Boyle himself has always been a lover of the horse and a patron of the turf; naturally, therefore, his restaurant became the rendezvous of horsemen, so called.  Upon the walls there were colored prints, which confirmed any suspicion