THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
over my feet. Efforts to scare them away proved unavailing. I sought another curbstone, but the rats were there too. At last a policeman hove in sight. For a minute he seemed to be in doubt as to whether he should not take me to the station-house; but having heard my story he finally consented to show me an inn where he thought I would find shelter. But there, too, every guest-room was occupied. They had just one bed free, which I might have, if I wished, but it was in a room without a window, a sort of large closet. I was tired enough to take anything. But an inspection of the bed by candle-light utterly discouraged every thought of undressing. I spent the rest of the night on a chair and hailed daylight with great relief.
Chicago was then a city of about 65,000 inhabitants. The blockhouse of old Fort Dearborn was still standing and remained so for several years. Excepting the principal public edifices, hotels, and business houses, and a few private residences, the town was built of wood. The partly unpaved and partly ill-paved streets were extremely dusty in dry, and extremely muddy in wet weather. I noticed remarkably few attempts to give dwelling houses an attractive appearance. The city had, on the whole, what might be called an unhandsome look. During my short visit I heard many expressions of exceedingly sanguine anticipation as to the future of the place—anticipations which have since proved hardly sanguine enough. But at that time there were also doubters. “If you had been here a year ago,” a friend said to me, “you might have invested money in real estate to great advantage. But it is too late now.” Everybody seemed very busy—so busy, indeed, that I was almost afraid to claim anybody's time and attention.
From Chicago I went to Wisconsin, and there I found an atmosphere eminently congenial. Milwaukee, with a population much smaller than that of Chicago, had received rather
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