THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
of residence was at that time a typical Western town in every sense—a business street pretty compactly built, filled with stores, work-shops, taverns and a few drinking-saloons; the dwellings somewhat scattered, most of them surrounded with little garden plots, with modest beginnings of ornamentation and arrangements for comfort. The population was a medley of various nationalities, native Americans from New York State or New England being few in comparison with the Germans, Irish, Bohemians, Danes, French. The German element predominated. There were no people among them that might have been called very poor, and only few that possessed more than a moderate share of wealth. The number of well-educated persons was not large, but there were none entirely illiterate. And as is usually the case in new settlements, there was no lack of quaint characters. All these elements mingled together on an equal and friendly footing, all hoping to rise in fortune and social advantages, none despairing because they had not as much as others, and everyone listened to who had anything sensible to say. There were few efforts at ambitious display. I remember only the wife of a well-to-do business man, a native American, who would appear on horseback dressed in a red velveteen riding habit and a gorgeously plumed hat, the horse's head being decorated with a wreath of flowers. She was good-naturedly laughed at and forgiven. We had a singing society to which everybody having a voice and a somewhat musical ear belonged. Rehearsals and concerts were held in a public hall and were directed by a local piano teacher. My wife, sister, and an aunt—the last educated in music—were all among the performers. I remember especially one of the concerts at which the air in the hall grew hot and, when the singers wished to moisten their lips, a boy appeared with a pail of water and a tin dipper which was handed around to the merry
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