he centre is the best proof of
Chicago's hopefulness, are many miles of waste ground, covered only
with broken fences and battered shanties. And, as they raise their heads
through the murky fog, these sky-scrapers wear a morose and sullen
look. If they are not mere lumps, their ornament is hideously heavy and
protrusive. They never combine, as they combine in New York, into an
impressive whole. They clamour blatantly of their size, and that is
all. And if the city be hideously aggressive, what word of excuse can be
found for the outskirts, for the Italian and Chinese quarters, for the
crude, new districts which fasten like limpets upon the formless mass
of Chicago? These, to an enduring ugliness add a spice of cruelty and
debauch, which are separate and of themselves.

In its suggestion of horror Chicago is democratic. The rich and the poor
alike suffer from the prevailing lack of taste. The proud "residences"
on the Lake Shore are no pleasanter to gaze upon than the sulky
sky-scrapers. Some of them are prison-houses; others make a sad attempt
at gaiety; all are amazingly unlike the dwelling-houses of men and
women. Yet their owners are very wealthy. To them nothing is denied that
money can buy, and it is thus that they prefer to express themselves
and their ambitions. What, then, is tolerable in Chicago? Lincoln Park,
which the smoke and fog of the city have not obscured, and the grandiose
lake, whose fresh splendour no villainy of man can ever deface. And at
one moment of the day, when a dark cloud hung over the lake, and the sun
set in a red glory behind the sky-scrapers, each black, and blacker
for its encircling smoke, Chicago rose superior to herself and her
surroundings.

After ugliness, the worst foe of Chicago is dirt. A thick, black, sooty
dust lies upon everything. It is at the peril of hands begrimed that
you attempt to open a window. In the room that was allotted to me in
a gigantic hotel I found a pair of ancient side-spring boots, once
the property, no doubt, of a prominent citizen, and their apparition
intensified the impression of uncleanness. The streets are as untidy as
the houses; garbage is dumped in the unfinished roadways; and in or out
of your hotel you will seek comfort in vain. The citizens of Chicago
themselves are far too busy to think whether their city is spruce or
untidy. Money is their quest, and it matters not in what circumstances
they pursue it. The avid type is universal and insisten