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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b09e0a --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61043 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61043) diff --git a/old/61043-0.txt b/old/61043-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 365fffb..0000000 --- a/old/61043-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8660 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Color of a Great City, by Theodore Dreiser - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Color of a Great City - -Author: Theodore Dreiser - -Illustrator: Charles Buckles Falls - -Release Date: December 29, 2019 [EBook #61043] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY - - - - -BOOKS BY - -THEODORE DREISER - - - SISTER CARRIE - JENNIE GERHARDT - THE FINANCIER - THE TITAN - THE GENIUS - A TRAVELER AT FORTY - A HOOSIER HOLIDAY - PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL - THE HAND OF THE POTTER - FREE AND OTHER STORIES - TWELVE MEN - HEY RUB-A-DUB-DUB - A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF - THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY - -[Illustration: The City of My Dreams] - - - - - THE COLOR OF - A GREAT CITY - - THEODORE DREISER - - _Illustrations by_ - - C. B. FALLS - - [Illustration] - - BONI AND LIVERIGHT - PUBLISHERS :: :: NEW YORK - - - - - _Copyright, 1923, by_ - BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC. - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - First Printing, December, 1923 - Second Printing, May, 1924 - - - - -FOREWORD - - -My only excuse for offering these very brief pictures of the City of -New York as it was between 1900 and 1914 or ’15, or thereabout, is -that they are of the very substance of the city I knew in my early -adventurings in it. Also, and more particularly, they represent in -part, at least, certain phases which at that time most arrested and -appealed to me, and which now are fast vanishing or are no more. I -refer more particularly to such studies as _The Bread-line_, _The -Push-cart Man_, _The Toilers of the Tenements_, _Christmas in the -Tenements_, _Whence the Song_, and _The Love Affairs of Little Italy_. - -For, to begin with, the city, as I see it, was more varied and -arresting and, after its fashion, poetic and even idealistic then than -it is now. It offered, if I may venture the opinion, greater social -and financial contrasts than it does now: the splendor of the purely -social Fifth Avenue of the last decade of the last century and the -first decade of this, for instance, as opposed to the purely commercial -area that now bears that name; the sparklingly personality-dotted Wall -Street of 1890–1910 as contrasted with the commonplace and almost bread -and butter world that it is to-day. (There were argonauts then.) The -astounding areas of poverty and of beggary even,--I refer to the east -side and the Bowery of that period--unrelieved as they were by civic -betterment and social service ventures of all kinds, as contrasted with -the beschooled and beserviced east side of to-day. Who recalls Steve -Brodies, McGurks, Doyers Street and “Chuck” Connors? - -The city is larger. It has, if you will, more amazing architectural -features. But has it as vivid and moving social contrasts,--as hectic -and poignant and disturbing mental and social aspirations as it had -then? I cannot see that it has. Rather, as it seems to me, it is duller -because less differentiated. There are millions and millions but what -do they do? Tramp aimlessly, for the most part, here and there in -shoals, to see a ball game, a football game, a parade, a prize-fight, -a civic betterment or automobile exhibition or to dance or dine in a -hall that holds a thousand. But of that old zest that seemed to find -something secret and thrilling in a thousand nooks and corners of the -old city, its Bowery, its waterfront, its rialto, its outlying resorts, -not a trace. One cannot even persuade the younger generation, that -never even knew the old city, to admit that they feel a tang of living -equivalent to what they imagined once was. The truth is that it is not -here. It has vanished--along with the generation that felt it. - -The pictures that I offer here, however, are not, I am compelled -to admit, of that more distinguished and vibrant crust, which my -introduction so far would imply. Indeed they are the very antithesis, -I think, of all that glitter and glister that made the social life -of that day so superior. Its shadow, if you will, its reverse face. -For being very much alone at the time, and having of necessity, as -the situation stood, ample hours in which to wander here and there, -without, however, sufficient financial means to divert myself in any -other way, I was given for the most part to rambling in what to me -were the strangest and most peculiar and most interesting areas I -could find as contrasted with those of great wealth and to speculating -at length upon the phases and the forces of life I then found so -lavishly spread before me. The splendor of the, to me, new dynamic, -new-world metropolis! Its romance, its enthusiasm, its illusions, its -difficulties! The immense crowds everywhere--upon Manhattan Island, -at least. The beautiful rivers and the bay with its world of shipping -that washed its shores. Indeed, I was never weary of walking and -contemplating the great streets, not only Fifth Avenue and Broadway, -but the meaner ones also, such as the Bowery, Third Avenue, Second -Avenue, Elizabeth Street in the lower Italian section and East -Broadway. And at that time even (1894) that very different and most -radically foreign plexus, known as the East Side, already stretched -from Chatham Square and even farther south--Brooklyn Bridge--north to -Fourteenth Street. For want of bridges and subways the city was not, as -yet, so far-flung but for that reason more concentrated and almost as -congested. - -Yet before I was fifteen years in the city, all of the additional -bridges, other than Brooklyn Bridge which was here when I came and -which so completely served to change New York from the thing it was -then to what it is now, were already in place--Manhattan, Williamsburg, -Queens Borough Bridges. And the subways had been built, at least in -part. But before then, if anything, the great island, as I have said, -was even more compact of varied and foreign groups, and one had only -to wander casually and not at any great length to come upon the Irish -in the lower East and West Sides; the Syrians in Washington Street--a -great mass of them; the Greeks around 26th, 27th and 28th Streets on -the West Side; the Italians around Mulberry Bend; the Bohemians in East -67th Street, and the Sicilians in East 116th Street and thereabouts. -The Jews were still chiefly on the East Side. - -Being fascinated by these varying nationalities, and their -neighborhoods, I was given for the first year or two of my stay here -to wandering among them, as well as along and through the various -parks, the waterfronts and the Bowery, and thinking, thinking, thinking -on this welter of life and the difficulties and the strangeness of -it. The veritable tides of people that were forever moving here--so -different to the Middle-West cities I had known. And the odd, or at -least different, devices and trades by which they made their way--the -small shops, trades, tricks even. For one thing, I was often given to -wondering how so many people could manage to subsist in New York by -grinding hand organs alone, or shining shoes or selling newspapers or -peanuts, or fruits or vegetables from a small stand or cart. - -And the veritable shoals and worlds, even, of beggars and bums and -idlers and crooks in the Bowery and elsewhere. Indeed I was more or -less dumbfounded by the numerical force of these and the far cry it -was from them to the mansions in Fifth Avenue, the great shops in -Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street, the world famous banking houses -and personalities in Wall Street, the comfortable cliff-dwellers who -occupied the hotels and apartment houses of the upper West Side and -along Broadway. For being young and inexperienced and penniless, these -economic differences had more significance for me then than they have -since been able to maintain. Yet always and primarily fascinated by -the problem of life itself, the riddle of its origin, the difficulties -seemingly attending its maintenance everywhere, such a polyglot city -as this was, was not only an economic problem, but a strange and -mysterious picture, and I was never weary of spying out how the other -fellow lived and how he made his way. And yet how many years it was, -really, after I arrived here, quite all of ten, before it ever occurred -to me that apart from the novel or short story, these particular scenes -and my own cogitations in connection might possess merit as pictures. - -And so it was that not before 1904--ten years later, really--that I -was so much as troubled to sketch a single impression of all that I -had seen and then only at the request of a Sunday editor of a New York -newspaper who was short of “small local stuff” to fill in between -his more lurid features. And even at that, not more than seven or -eight of all that are here assembled were at that time even roughly -sketched,--_The Bowery Mission_, _The Waterfront_, _The Cradle of -Tears_, _The Track Walker_, _The Realization of an Ideal_, _The Log of -a Harbor Pilot_. Later, however, in 1908 and ’09, finding space in a -magazine of my own--_The Bohemian_--as well as one conducted by Senator -Watson of Georgia, and bethinking me of all I had seen and how truly -wonderful and colorful it really was, I began to try to do more of -them, and at that time wrote at least seven or eight more--_The Flight -of Pigeons_, _Six O’clock_, _The Wonder of Water_, _The Men in the -Storm_, and _The Men in the Dark_. The exact titles of all, apart from -these, I have forgotten. - -Still later, after the opening of the World War, and because I was -noting how swiftly and steadily the city was changing and old landmarks -and conditions were being done away with, I thought it worth while to -bring together, not only all the scenes I had previously published or -sketched, but to add some others which from time to time I had begun -but never finished. Among these at that time were _The Fire_, _Hell’s -Kitchen_, _A Wayplace of the Fallen_, _The Man on the Bench_. And -then, several years ago, having in the meanwhile once more laid aside -the material to the advantage of other matters, I decided that it was -still worth while. And getting them all out and casting aside those I -no longer cared for, and rewriting others of which I approved, together -with new pictures of old things I had seen, i.e., _Bums_, _The Michael -J. Powers Association_, _A Vanished Summer Resort_, _The Push-cart -Man_, _The Sandwich Man_, _Characters_, _The Men in the Snow_, _The -City Awakes_--I finally evolved the present volume. But throughout all -these latest additions I sought only to recapture the flavor and the -color of that older day--nothing more. If they are anything, they are -mere representations of the moods that governed me at the time that I -had observed this material at first hand--not as I know the city to be -now. - -In certain of these pictures, as will be seen, reference is made to -wages, hours and working and living conditions not now holding, or -at least not to the same severe degree. This is especially true of -such presentations as _The Men in the Dark_, _The Men in the Storm_, -_The Men in the Snow_, _Six O’clock_, _The Bread-line_, (long since -abolished), _The Toilers of the Tenements_, and _Christmas in the -Tenements_. Yet since they were decidedly true of that particular -period, I prefer to leave them as originally written. They bear, I -believe, the stamp of their hour. - - THEODORE DREISER. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - FOREWORD ix - - THE CITY OF MY DREAMS 1 - - THE CITY AWAKES 5 - - THE WATERFRONT 9 - - THE LOG OF A HARBOR PILOT 14 - - BUMS 34 - - THE MICHAEL J. POWERS ASSOCIATION 44 - - THE FIRE 56 - - THE CAR YARD 68 - - THE FLIGHT OF PIGEONS 74 - - ON BEING POOR 77 - - SIX O’CLOCK 81 - - THE TOILERS OF THE TENEMENTS 85 - - THE END OF A VACATION 100 - - THE TRACK WALKER 104 - - THE REALIZATION OF AN IDEAL 108 - - THE PUSHCART MAN 112 - - A VANISHED SEASIDE RESORT 119 - - THE BREAD-LINE 129 - - OUR RED SLAYER 133 - - WHENCE THE SONG 138 - - CHARACTERS 156 - - THE BEAUTY OF LIFE 170 - - A WAYPLACE OF THE FALLEN 173 - - HELL’S KITCHEN 184 - - A CERTAIN OIL REFINERY 200 - - THE BOWERY MISSION 207 - - THE WONDER OF THE WATER 216 - - THE MAN ON THE BENCH 219 - - THE MEN IN THE DARK 224 - - THE MEN IN THE STORM 230 - - THE MEN IN THE SNOW 233 - - THE FRESHNESS OF THE UNIVERSE 238 - - THE CRADLE OF TEARS 241 - - WHEN THE SAILS ARE FURLED 244 - - THE SANDWICH MAN 260 - - THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITTLE ITALY 267 - - CHRISTMAS IN THE TENEMENTS 275 - - THE RIVERS OF THE NAMELESS DEAD 284 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - The City of My Dreams _Frontispiece_ - - FACING - PAGE - The City Awakes 6 - - The Waterfront 12 - - The Michael J. Powers Association 48 - - The Fire 58 - - The Car Yard 70 - - The Flight of Pigeons 74 - - Being Poor 78 - - Six O’clock 82 - - Toilers of the Tenements 88 - - The Close of Summer 100 - - The Realization of an Ideal 108 - - The Pushcart Man 114 - - Whence the Song 142 - - A Character 160 - - The Beauty of Life 170 - - A Wayplace of the Fallen 174 - - Hell’s Kitchen 186 - - An Oil Refinery 204 - - The Bowery Mission 210 - - The Wonder of the Water 216 - - The Man on the Bench 220 - - The Men in the Dark 226 - - The Men in the Storm 230 - - The Men in the Snow 234 - - The Freshness of the Universe 238 - - The Cradle of Tears 241 - - Sailors’ Snug Harbor 250 - - The Sandwich Man 264 - - A Love Affair in Little Italy 270 - - Christmas in the Tenements 278 - - - - -THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY - - - - -THE CITY OF MY DREAMS - - -It was silent, the city of my dreams, marble and serene, due perhaps -to the fact that in reality I knew nothing of crowds, poverty, the -winds and storms of the inadequate that blow like dust along the paths -of life. It was an amazing city, so far-flung, so beautiful, so dead. -There were tracks of iron stalking through the air, and streets that -were as cañons, and stairways that mounted in vast flights to noble -plazas, and steps that led down into deep places where were, strangely -enough, underworld silences. And there were parks and flowers and -rivers. And then, after twenty years, here it stood, as amazing almost -as my dream, save that in the waking the flush of life was over it. It -possessed the tang of contests and dreams and enthusiasms and delights -and terrors and despairs. Through its ways and cañons and open spaces -and underground passages were running, seething, sparkling, darkling, a -mass of beings such as my dream-city never knew. - -The thing that interested me then as now about New York--as indeed -about any great city, but more definitely New York because it was -and is so preponderantly large--was the sharp, and at the same time -immense, contrast it showed between the dull and the shrewd, the -strong and the weak, the rich and the poor, the wise and the ignorant. -This, perhaps, was more by reason of numbers and opportunity than -anything else, for of course humanity is much the same everywhere. But -the number from which to choose was so great here that the strong, or -those who ultimately dominated, were so very strong, and the weak so -very, very weak--and so very, very many. - -I once knew a poor, half-demented, and very much shriveled little -seamstress who occupied a tiny hall-bedroom in a side-street -rooming-house, cooked her meals on a small alcohol stove set on a -bureau, and who had about space enough outside of this to take three -good steps either way. - -“I would rather live in my hall-bedroom in New York than in any -fifteen-room house in the country that I ever saw,” she commented -once, and her poor little colorless eyes held more of sparkle and snap -in them than I ever saw there, before or after. She was wont to add -to her sewing income by reading fortunes in cards and tea-leaves and -coffee-grounds, telling of love and prosperity to scores as lowly as -herself, who would never see either. The color and noise and splendor -of the city as a spectacle was sufficient to pay her for all her ills. - -And have I not felt the glamour of it myself? And do I not still? -Broadway, at Forty-second Street, on those selfsame spring evenings -when the city is crowded with an idle, sightseeing cloud of Westerners; -when the doors of all shops are open, the windows of nearly all -restaurants wide to the gaze of the idlest passer-by. Here is the -great city, and it is lush and dreamy. A May or June moon will be -hanging like a burnished silver disc between the high walls aloft. A -hundred, a thousand electric signs will blink and wink. And the floods -of citizens and visitors in summer clothes and with gay hats; the -street cars jouncing their endless carloads on indifferent errands; -the taxis and private cars fluttering about like jeweled flies. The -very gasoline contributes a distinct perfume. Life bubbles, sparkles; -chatters gay, incoherent stuff. Such is Broadway. - -And then Fifth Avenue, that singing, crystal street, on a shopping -afternoon, winter, summer, spring or fall. What tells you as sharply of -spring when, its windows crowded with delicate effronteries of silks -and gay nothings of all description, it greets you in January, February -and March? And how as early as November again, it sings of Palm Beach -and Newport and the lesser or greater joys of the tropics and the -warmer seas. And in September, how the haughty display of furs and -rugs, in this same avenue, and costumes de luxe for ball and dinner, -cry out of snows and blizzards, when you are scarcely ten days back -from mountain or seaside. One might think, from the picture presented -and the residences which line the upper section, that all the world was -inordinately prosperous and exclusive and happy. And yet, if you but -knew the tawdry underbrush of society, the tangle and mat of futile -growth between the tall trees of success, the shabby chambers crowded -with aspirants and climbers, the immense mansions barren of a single -social affair, perfect and silent! - -I often think of the vast mass of underlings, boys and girls, who, -with nothing but their youth and their ambitions to commend them, are -daily and hourly setting their faces New Yorkward, reconnoitering the -city for what it may hold in the shape of wealth or fame, or, if not -that, position and comfort in the future; and what, if anything, they -will reap. Ah, their young eyes drinking in its promise! And then, -again, I think of all the powerful or semi-powerful men and women -throughout the world, toiling at one task or another--a store, a mine, -a bank, a profession--somewhere outside of New York, whose one ambition -is to reach the place where their wealth will permit them to enter and -remain in New York, dominant above the mass, luxuriating in what they -consider luxury. - -The illusion of it, the hypnosis deep and moving that it is! How the -strong and the weak, the wise and the fools, the greedy of heart and of -eye, seek the nepenthe, the Lethe, of its something hugeness. I always -marvel at those who are willing, seemingly, to pay any price--_the_ -price, whatever it may be--for one sip of this poison cup. What a -stinging, quivering zest they display. How beauty is willing to sell -its bloom, virtue its last rag, strength an almost usurious portion of -that which it controls, youth its very best years, its hope or dream -of fame, fame and power their dignity and presence, age its weary -hours, to secure but a minor part of all this, a taste of its vibrating -presence and the picture that it makes. Can you not hear them almost, -singing its praises? - - - - -THE CITY AWAKES - - -Have you ever arisen at dawn or earlier in New York and watched the -outpouring in the meaner side-streets or avenues? It is a wondrous -thing. It seems to have so little to do with the later, showier, -brisker life of the day, and yet it has so very much. It is in the -main so drab or shabby-smart at best, poor copies of what you see done -more efficiently later in the day. Typewriter girls in almost stage or -society costumes entering shabby offices; boys and men made up to look -like actors and millionaires turning into the humblest institutions, -where they are clerks or managers. These might be called the machinery -of the city, after the elevators and street cars and wagons are -excluded, the implements by which things are made to go. - -Take your place on Williamsburg Bridge some morning, for instance, at -say three or four o’clock, and watch the long, the quite unbroken line -of Jews trundling pushcarts eastward to the great Wallabout Market over -the bridge. A procession out of Assyria or Egypt or Chaldea, you might -suppose, Biblical in quality; or, better yet, a huge chorus in some -operatic dawn scene laid in Paris or Petrograd or here. A vast, silent -mass it is, marching to the music of necessity. They are so grimy, so -mechanistic, so elemental in their movements and needs. And later on -you will find them seated or standing, with their little charcoal -buckets or braziers to warm their hands and feet, in those gusty, icy -streets of the East Side in winter, or coatless and almost shirtless -in hot weather, open-mouthed for want of air. And they are New York, -too--Bucharest and Lemberg and Odessa come to the Bowery, and adding -rich, dark, colorful threads to the rug or tapestry which is New York. - -Since these are but a portion, think of those other masses that come -from the surrounding territory, north, south, east and west. The -ferries--have you ever observed them in the morning? Or the bridges, -railway terminals, and every elevated and subway exit? - -Already at six and six-thirty in the morning they have begun to -trickle small streams of human beings Manhattan or cityward, and by -seven and seven-fifteen these streams have become sizable affairs. -By seven-thirty and eight they have changed into heavy, turbulent -rivers, and by eight-fifteen and eight-thirty and nine they are raging -torrents, no less. They overflow all the streets and avenues and every -available means of conveyance. They are pouring into all available -doorways, shops, factories, office-buildings--those huge affairs -towering so significantly above them. Here they stay all day long, -causing those great hives and their adjacent streets to flush with a -softness of color not indigenous to them, and then at night, between -five and six, they are going again, pouring forth over the bridges -and through the subways and across the ferries and out on the trains, -until the last drop of them appears to have been exuded, and they -are pocketed in some outlying side-street or village or metropolitan -hall-room--and the great, turbulent night of the city is on once more. - -[Illustration: The City Awakes] - -And yet they continue to stream cityward,--this cityward. From all -parts of the world they are pouring into New York: Greeks from Athens -and the realms of Sparta and Macedonia, living six, seven, eight, nine, -ten, eleven, twelve, in one room, sleeping on the floors and dressing -and eating and entertaining themselves God knows how; Jews from Russia, -Poland, Hungary, the Balkans, crowding the East Side and the inlying -sections of Brooklyn, and huddling together in thick, gummy streets, -singing in street crowds around ballad-mongers of the woes of their -native land, seeking with a kind of divine, poetic flare a modicum of -that material comfort which their natures so greatly crave, which their -previous condition for at least fifteen hundred years has scarcely -warranted; Italians from Sicily and the warmer vales of the South, -crowding into great sections of their own, all hungry for a taste of -New York; Germans, Hungarians, French, Polish, Swedish, Armenians, all -with sections of their own and all alive to the joys of the city, and -how eager to live--great gold and scarlet streets throbbing with the -thoughts of them! - -And last but not least, the illusioned American from the Middle West -and the South and the Northwest and the Far West, crowding in and -eyeing it all so eagerly, so yearningly, like the others. Ah, the -little, shabby, blue-light restaurants! The boarding houses in silent -streets! The moral, hungry “homes”--how full they are of them and how -hopeless! How the city sings and sings for them, and in spite of them, -flaunting ever afresh its lures and beauties--a city as wonderful and -fateful and ironic as life itself. - - - - -THE WATERFRONT - - -Were I asked to choose a subject which would most gratify my own fancy -I believe I would choose the docks and piers of New York. Nowhere may -you find a more pleasingly encouraging picture-life going on at a -leisurely gait, but going, nor one withal set in a lovelier framework. -And, personally, I have always foolishly imagined that the laborers -and men of affairs connected with them must be the happier for that -connection. It is more than probable that that is not true, but what -can be more interesting than long, heavily-laden piers jutting out into -the ever-flowing waters of a river? And those tall masts adjoining, how -they rock and swing! Whistler had a fancy for scenes like these; they -appealed to his sense of line and background and romance. You can look -at his etchings of collections of boats along the Thames at London and -see how keenly he must have felt the beauty of what he saw. Networks -of ropes and spars; stout, stodgy figures of half-idle laborers; -delicious, comforting, homey suggestions of houses and spires behind; -and then the water. - -How the water sips and gurgles about these stanchions and spiles and -hulls! You stand on the shore or on the hard-cobbled streets of the -waterfront, crowded with trucks and cars, and you realize that the -too, too solid substance of which they are composed is to be here for -years. But this water at your feet, this dark, silent current sipping -about the boats and rocking them, the big boats and the little boats, -is running away. Here comes a chip, there goes a wisp of straw. A -tomato box comes leisurely bobbing upon the surface of the stream, -and now a tug heaves into view, puffing and blowing, and then a great -“liner” being towed to her dock. And then these nearer boats fastened -here--how they rest and swing in the summer sunshine! No rush, no -hurry. Only slow movement. Yet all are surely and gradually slipping -away. In an hour your ship will be a mile or two farther down stream. -In a day or two or three your liner will be once more upon the bosom of -the broad Atlantic or, later even, the Pacific. The tug you saw towing -it will be pulling at something else, or you will find it shoving its -queer stubby nose into some quaint angle of the waterside, hardly -earning its skipper’s salt. Is it not a delicious, lovely, romantic -picture? And yet with the tang of change and decay in it too, the -gradual passing of all things--yourself--myself--all. - -As for the vast piers on the shores of the Hudson, the East River, the -Jersey side and Brooklyn and Staten Island, where the liners house -themselves, I cannot fancy anything more colorful. They come from all -ports of the world, these big ships. They bring tremendous cargoes, -not only of people but of goods, and they carry large forces of men, -to say nothing of those who assist them to load and unload. If you -watch any of the waterfronts to and from which they make their entry -and departure you will find that you can easily tell when they are -loading and unloading. The broad, expansive street-fronts before these -piers are crowded with idling men waiting for the opportunity to work, -the call of duty or of necessity. And it is an interesting crowd of men -always, this, imposingly large on occasion. Individually these men are -crude but appealing, the kind of man that is usually and truly dubbed -a workingman. They have in the main, rough, quaint, ambling figures, -and rougher, ruder hands and faces. Some of them are black from having -shoveled in the holds of vessels or passed coal (coal-passers is their -official title), and some are dusky and strawy from having juggled -boxes and bales, but they are men who with a small capacity for mental -analysis are taking things exactly as they find them. They are not even -possessed of a trade, unless you would call the art of piling boxes -and bales under the direction of a foreman a trade. Apparently they -have no sense of the sociologic or economic arrangement of life, no -comprehension of the position which they occupy in the affairs of the -world. They know they are laborers and as such subject to every whim -and fancy of their masters. They stand or sit like sheep in droves -awaiting the call of opportunity. You see them in sun or rain, on -hot days and cold ones, waiting here. Sometimes they jest, sometimes -they talk, sometimes they sit and wait. But the water with which they -are so intimately connected, from which they draw their subsistence, -flows on. I have seen a vain, self-conscious foreman come out from one -of these great pier buildings and with a Cæsar-like wave of his hand -beckon to this man and that. At his sign a dozen, a score of men would -rise and look inquiringly in his direction, dumb and patient like -cattle. And then he would pick this one and that, wavering subtly over -his choice, pushing aside this one, who was not quite strong enough, -perhaps, or agile enough, laying a hand favoringly on that, and then -turning eventually and leaving the remaining members of the group dumb -but a little disappointed. Invariably they seemed to me to be a bit -bereaved and neglected, sorry that they could not help themselves, but -still willing to wait. I have sometimes thought that cattle are better -provided for, or at least as well. - -But from an artistic and natural point of view the scene has always -fascinated me. Is it morning? The sun sparkles on the waters, the wind -blows free, gulls wheel and turn and squeal, white flecks above the -water, swarms of vehicles gather with their loads, life seems to move -at a smart clip. Is it noon? A large group of men is to be seen idling -in the sun, blue-jacketed, swarthy-faced, colorful against the dark -background of the piers. Is it night? The lanterns swing and rock. -There is darkness overhead and the stars. - -[Illustration: The Waterfront] - -I sometimes think no human being ever lived who caught more -significantly, more sweetly, the beauty of the waterfront than the -great Englishman, Turner. When one looks at his canvases, rich in their -gold of sunshine, their blue of sky, their haze of moisture, one feels -all that the sea really presents. This man understood, as did Whistler, -only he translated his mood in regard to it all into richer colors, -those gorgeous golds, reds, pinks, greens, blues. And he had a greater -tenderness for atmosphere than did Whistler. In Whistler one misses -more than the bare facts, albeit deliciously, artistically, perfectly -presented. In Turner one finds the facts presented as by nature in her -balmiest mood, and idealized by the love and affection of the artist. -You have seen “The Fighting Téméraire,” of course. It is here in New -York harbor any sunny afternoon. The wind dies down, the sun pours in a -golden flood upon the east bank from the west, the tall elevator stacks -and towering chimneys of factories on the west shore give a beauty -of line which no artist could resist. Up the splashing bosom of the -river, trembling silver and gold in the evening light, comes a great -vessel. Her sides stand out blackly. Her masts and funnels, tinged -with an evening glow of gold, burn and shimmer. Against a magnificent, -a radiant sky, where red and gold clouds hang in broken patches, she -floats, exquisitely penciled and colored--“The Fighting Téméraire.” You -would know her. Only it is now the Hudson and not the Thames. - -The skyline, the ship masts, the sun, the water, all these are alike. -The very ship is the same, apparently, and the sun drops down as it -did that other day when his picture was painted. The stars come out, -the masts rock, swinging their little lamps, the water runs sipping -and sucking at the docks and piers. The winds blow cool, and there is -silence until the morning. Then the waterfront assumes its quaint, -delicious, easy atmosphere once more. It is once more fresh and free. -So runs its tide, so runs its life, so runs our very world away. - - - - -THE LOG OF A HARBOR PILOT - - -An ocean pilot-boat lay off Tompkinsville of an early spring afternoon, -in the stillest water. The sun was bright, and only the lightest wind -was stirring. When we reached the end of the old cotton dock, an -illustrator and myself, commissioned by a then but now no more popular -magazine, there she was, a small, two-masted schooner of about fifty -tons burden, rocking gently upon the water. We accepted the services -of a hawking urchin, who had a canoe to rent, and who had followed us -down the main street in the hope of earning a half-dollar. He led the -way through a hole in a fence that enclosed the street at the water end -and down a long, stilted plank walk to a mess of craft and rigging, -where we found his little tub, and pushed out. In a few minutes we had -crossed the quiet stretch of water and were alongside. - -[Illustration] - -Like all pilot-boats, the _Hermann Oelrichs_ was built low in the -water, so that it was easy to jump aboard. Her sails were furled -and, from the quiet prevailing, one might have supposed that the -crew had gone into the village. No sound issued until we reached the -companionway. Then below we could see the cook scraping cold ashes -out of a fireless stove. He was cleaning the cabin and putting things -to rights before the pilots arrived. He accepted our intrusion with a -friendly glance. - -“Captain Rierson told us to come aboard,” we said. - -“All right, sir. Stow your things in any one of them bunks.” - -We went about this while the ashes were taken out and tossed overboard. -When the cook returned it was with a bucket and brush, and he attacked -the oilcloth on the floor industriously. - -“Cozy little cabin, this, eh?” - -“Yes, she’s a comfortable little boat,” replied the cook. “These pilots -take things purty comfortable. She’s not as fast as some of the boats, -but she’s all right in rough weather.” - -“Do you encounter much rough weather?” - -“Well, now and again,” answered the cook, with the vaguest suggestion -of a twinkle in his eye. “It’s purty rough sometimes in winter.” - -“How long do you stay out?” - -“Sometimes three, sometimes five days, sometimes we get rid of all -seven pilots the first day--there’s no telling. It’s all ’cording to -how the steamers come in.” - -“So we may be out a week?” - -“About that. Maybe ten days.” - -We went on deck. It was warm and bright. Some sailors from the -fore-hatch were scrubbing down the deck, which dried white and warm as -fast as they swabbed off the water. Wide-winged gulls were circling -high and low among the ships of the harbor. On Staten Island many a -little curl of smoke rose from the chimneys of white cottages. - -That evening the crew of five men kept quietly to their quarters and -slept. The moon shone clear until ten, when the barometer suddenly fell -and clouds came out of the east. By cock-crow it was raining, and by -morning it was drizzling and cold. - -The pilots appeared one after another. They came out to the edge of -the cotton wharf through the mist and rain, and waved a handkerchief -as a signal that a boat should be sent ashore for them. One or two, -failing to attract the immediate attention of the crew, resorted to the -expedient of calling out: “Schooner, Ahoy!” in voices which partook of -some of the stoutness of the sea. - -“Come ashore, will you?” they shouted, when a head appeared above deck. - -No sooner were they recognized than the yawl was launched and sent -ashore. They came aboard and descended quickly out of the rain into -the only room (or cabin) at the foot of the companionway. This was at -once their sitting-room, dining-room, bedroom, and every other chamber -for the voyage. Here they stowed their satchels and papers in lockers -beneath their individual sleeping berths. Each one sought out a stout -canvas clothes bag, which all pilots use in lieu of a trunk, and began -to unpack his ship’s clothes. All took off their land apparel and -dressed themselves in ancient seat-patched and knee-worn garments, -which were far more comfortable than graceful, and every one produced -the sailor’s essential, a pipe and tobacco. - -Dreary as was the day overhead, the atmosphere of the cabin changed -with their arrival. Not only was it soon thick with the fumes of many -pipes, but it was bright with genial temper. Not one of the company of -seven pilots seemed moody. - -“Whose watch is it?” asked one. - -“Rierson’s, I think,” was the answer. - -“He ain’t here yet.” - -“Here he comes now.” - -At this a hale Norwegian, clean and hard as a pine knot, came down the -companionway. - -“My turn to-day, eh? Are we all here?” - -“Ay!” cried one. - -“Then we might as well go, hey?” - -“Ay! Ay!” came the chorus. - -“Steward!” he called. “Tell the men to hoist sail!” - -“Ay! Ay! sir!” answered the steward. - -Then were rattlings and clatterings overhead. While the little company -in the cabin were chatting, the work on deck was resulting in a gradual -change, and when, after a half-hour, Rierson put his head out into -the wind and rain above the companionway, the cotton docks were far -in the rear, all but lost in the mist and drizzle. All sails were up -and a stiff breeze was driving the little craft through the Narrows. -McLaughlin, the boatman and master of the crew, under Rierson, was at -the wheel. Already we were being rocked and tossed like a child in a -cradle. - -“Who controls the vessel,” I asked of him, “while the pilots are on -board?” - -“The pilots themselves.” - -“Not all of them?” - -“No, not all at one time. The pilot who has the watch has full control -for his hours, then the next pilot after him, and so on. No pilot is -interfered with during his service.” - -“And where do we head now?” - -“For Sandy Hook and the sea east of that. We are going to meet inbound -European steamers.” - -The man at the wheel, McLaughlin, was a clean athletic young chap, with -a straight, full nose and a clear, steady eye. In his yellow raincoat, -rubber boots and “sou’wester” he looked to be your true sea-faring man. -With the little craft plunging ahead in a storm of wind and rain and -over ever-increasing billows, he gazed out steadily and whistled an -airy tune. - -“You seem to like it,” I remarked. - -“Yes,” he answered. “It’s not a bad life. Rather cold in winter, but -summer makes up for it. Then we’re in port every fifth or sixth day on -an average. Sometimes we get a night off.” - -“The pilots have it better than that?” - -“Oh, yes; they get back quicker. The man who has the first watch may -get back to-day, if we meet a steamer. They might all get back if we -meet enough steamers.” - -“You put a man aboard each one?” - -“Yes.” - -“How do you know when a steamer wants a pilot?” - -“Well, we are in the track of incoming steamers. There is no other -pilot-boat sailing back and forth on this particular track at this -time. If a steamer comes along she may show a signal for a pilot or she -may turn a little in our direction. Either way, we know she wants one. -Then we lay to and wait until she comes up. You’ll see, though. One is -likely to come along at any time now.” - -The interior of the little craft presented a peculiar contrast to -storm and sea without. In the fore compartment stood the cook at his -stove preparing the midday meal. Sailors, when no orders were called -from above, lay in their bunks, which curved toward the prow. The pots -and pans of the stove moved restlessly about with the swell. The cook -whistled, timbers creaked, the salt spray swished above the hatch, and -mingled odors of meats and vegetables combined and thickened the air. - -In the after half of the boat were the pilots, making the best of idle -time. No steamer was sighted, and so they lounged and smoked. Two -or three told of difficulties on past voyages. Two of the stoutest -and jolliest were met in permanent conflict over a game of pinochle. -One read, the others took down pillows from the bunks, and spreading -them out on the wide seat that lined two sides of the room, snored -profoundly. Nearly all took turns, before or after games, or naps, at -smoking. Sometimes all smoked. It was observable that no “listener” -was necessary for conversation. Some talked loudly, without a single -person heeding. At times all talked at once in those large imperious -voices which seem common to the sea. The two old pilots at cards never -halted. Storms might come and storms might go; they paused only to -renew their pipes. - -At the wheel, in tarpaulin and sou’wester, McLaughlin kept watch. Sea -spray kept his cheeks dripping. His coat was glassy with water. Another -pilot put his head above deck. - -“How are we heading?” - -“East by no’.” - -“See anything?” - -“A steamer, outbound.” - -“Which one?” - -“The _Tauric_.” - -“Wish she was coming in!” concluded the inquirer, as he went below. - -We kept before the wind in this driving way. All the morning and all -the afternoon the rain fell. The cook served a wholesome meal of -meats and vegetables, and afterwards all pipes were set smoking more -industriously than ever. The two old pilots renewed their cards. Every -one turned to trifling diversions, with the feeling that he must get -comfort out of them. It was a little drowsy, a little uncomfortable, -a little apt to make one long for shore. In the midst of the lull the -voice of the man at the wheel sounded at the companionway. - -“Steamer on the port bow! Pilot-boat Number Nine! She’s hailing us.” - -“Well, what does she want?” - -“Can’t make out yet.” - -One and all hastened on deck. On our left, in the fog and rain, tossed -a little steamer which was recognized as the steam pilot-boat stationed -at Sandy Hook. She was starboarding to come nearer and several of her -pilots and crew were at her rail hailing us. As she approached, keener -ears made out that she wanted to put two men aboard us. - -“We don’t want any more men aboard here,” said one. “We’ve got seven -now.” - -“No!” said several in chorus. “Tell ’em we can’t take ’em.” - -“We can’t take any more,” shouted the helmsman, in long-drawn sounds. -“We’ve got seven aboard now.” - -“Orders to put two men aboard ye,” came back over the tumbling waters. -“We’ve a sick man.” - -“Don’t let ’em put any more men aboard here. Where they goin’ to -sleep?” argued another. “One man’s got to bunk it as it is, unless we -lose one pretty soon.” - -“How you goin’ to help it? They’re puttin’ their men out.” - -“Head away! Head away! They can’t come aboard if you head away!” - -“Oh, well; it’s too late now.” - -It was really too late, for the steamer had already cast a yawl and -the two men, together with the crew, were in it and heading over the -churning water. All watched them as they came alongside and clambered -on. - -They were Jersey pilots who had been displaced on the other boat -because one of their number had been taken sick and more room was -needed to make him comfortable. He was thought to be dying, and must be -taken back to New York at once, and his condition formed the topic of -conversation for the rest of the day. - -Meanwhile our schooner headed outward, with nothing to reward her -search. At five o’clock there was some talk of not finding anything -before morning. Several advised running toward Princess Bay on Staten -Island and into stiller water, and as the minutes passed the feeling -crystallized. In a few minutes all were urging a tack toward port, and -soon it was done. Sails were shifted, the prow headed shoreward, and -gradually, as the track of the great vessels was abandoned, the waters -became less and less rough, then more and more quiet, until finally, -when we came within distant sight of Princess Bay and the Staten Island -shore, the little vessel only rocked from side to side; the pitching -and churning were over. - -It was windy and cold on deck, however, and after the crew had dropped -anchor they remained below. There was nothing to do save idle the time. -The few oil lamps, the stove-fire and the clearing away of dishes after -supper, gave the cabin of the fore-and-aft a very home-like appearance. - -Forward, most of the sailors stretched in their bunks to digest their -meal. There were a few magazines and papers on the table, a few decks -of cards and a set of checkers. It was interesting to note the genial -mood of the men. One might fancy oneself anywhere but at sea, save for -the rocking of the boat. It was more like a farmhouse kitchen. One -little old sailor, grizzled and lean, had only recently escaped from -a Hongkong trader, where he had been sadly abused. Another was a mere -boy, who belonged to Staten Island. He had been working in a canning -factory all winter, he said, but had decided to go to sea for a change. -It was not his first experience; this alternating was a regular thing -with him. The summer previous he had worked as cook’s scullion on one -of the other pilot-boats; this summer he was a sailor. - -The Staten Islander had the watch on deck from ten to twelve that -night. By that time the rain had ceased and the lights on the distant -shore were visible, glimmering faintly, it seemed good to be on deck. -The wind blew slightly chill and the waters sipped and sucked at the -prow and sides. Coming above I chatted with the young sailor. - -“Do you like sea life?” I asked him. - -“There ain’t much to it.” - -“Would you rather be on shore?” - -“Well, if I didn’t have to work so hard.” - -“You like one, then, as well as the other?” - -“Well, on shore the hours are longer, but you get your evenings and -Sundays. Out here there ain’t any hour your own, but there’s plenty -days when there’s nothin’ doin’. Some days there ain’t no wind. -Sometimes we cruise right ahead without touchin’ the sails. Still, it’s -hard, ’cause you can’t see nobody.” - -“What would you do if you were on shore?” - -“Oh, go to the show.” - -It developed that his heart yearned for “nights off.” The little, -bright-windowed main street in New Brighton was to his vision a kind of -earthly heaven. To be there of an evening when people were passing, to -loaf on the corner and see the bright-eyed girls go by, to be in the -village hubbub, was to him the epitome of living. The great, silent, -suggestive sea meant nothing to him. - -After a while he went below and tumbled in and McLaughlin, the boatman, -took the turn. In the cabin most of the pilots had gone to bed. Yet the -two old salts were still at pinochle, browbeating each other, but in a -subdued tone. All pipes were out. Snores were numerous and long. - -At dawn the pilot whose turn it was to guide the next steamer into -New York took the wheel. We sailed out into the east and the morning, -looking for prey. It came soon, in the shape of a steamer. - -“Steamer!” called the pilot, and all the other pilots turned out and -came on deck. The sea to the eastward, whither they were looking, was -utterly bare of craft. Not a sail, not a wisp of smoke! Yet they saw -something and tacked ship so as to swing round and sail toward it. Not -even the telescope revealed it to my untrained eyes until five minutes -had gone by, when afar off a speck appeared above the waters. It came -on larger and larger, until it assumed the proportions of a toy. - -With the first announcement of a steamer the pilot who was to take this -one in gave the wheel to the pilot who was to have the next one. He -seemed pleased at getting back to New York so soon. While the ship was -coming forward he went below and changed his clothes. In a few minutes -he was on deck, dressed in a neat business suit and white linen. His -old clothes had all been packed in a grain sack. He had a bundle of New -York papers and a light overcoat over his arm. - -“How did you know that steamer wanted a pilot?” I asked him. - -“I could tell by the way she was heading.” - -“Do you think she saw you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Can you always tell when a steamer so far off wants a pilot?” - -“Nearly always. If we can’t judge by her course we can see through the -telescope whether she has a signal for a pilot flying.” - -“And when you go aboard her what will you do?” - -“Go to the bridge and direct her course.” - -“Do you take the wheel or do any work?” - -“Not at all.” - -“What about your breakfast?” - -“I’ll take that with the officers of the deck.” - -“Do you always carry a bundle of papers?” - -“Sure. The officers and passengers like to get early news of New York. -Sometimes the papers are pretty old before we hand them out, but -they’re better than nothing.” - -He studied the approaching steamer closely through the glass. - -“The _Ems_,” he said laconically. “Get the yawl ready, boys.” - -Four sailors went to the lee side and righted the boat there. The great -vessel was plowing toward us at a fine rate. Every minute she grew -larger, until at half a mile she seemed quite natural. - -“Heave the yawl,” called the man at the wheel. - -Over went the boat with a splash, and two men after and into it. They -held it close to the side of the schooner until the departing pilot -could jump in. - -“Cast loose!” said the man at the wheel to the men holding the rope. - -“Ay! Ay! sir!” they replied. - -“Good-by, Billie,” called the pilots. - -“So long, boys,” he cried back. - -Our schooner was moving swiftly away before the wind. The man in the -yawl pulled out toward where the steamer must pass. Already her engines -had stopped, and the foam at her prow was dying away. One could see -that a pilot was expected. Quite a crowd of people, even at that early -hour, was gathered at the rail. A ladder of rope was hanging over the -side, almost at the water’s edge. - -The little yawl bearing the pilot pulled square across the steamer’s -course. When the vessel drifted slowly up, the yawl nosed the great -black side and drifted back by the ladder. One of the steamer’s crew -threw down a rope, which the oarsman of the yawl caught. This held the -yawl still, close to the ladder, and the pilot, jumping for a good -hold, began slowly to climb upward. No sooner had he seized the rope -ladder than the engines started and the steamer moved off. The little -yawl, left alone like a cork on a thrashing sea, headed toward us. The -schooner tacked and came round in a half circle to pick it up, which -was done with safety. - -This was a busy morning. Before breakfast another ship had appeared, -a tramp steamer, and a pilot was dressing to board her. Down the fore -hatch could be seen the cook, frying potatoes and meat, and boiling -coffee. The change in weather was pleasing to him, too, for he was -singing as he clattered the dishes and set the table. In the cabin the -pipes of the pilots were on, and the two old salts were at pinochle -harder than ever. - -Another pilot left before breakfast, and after he was gone another -steamer appeared, this time the _Paris_. It looked as though we would -soon lose all our pilots and have to return to New York. After the -pilot had gone aboard the _Paris_, however, the wind died down and we -sailed no more. Gradually the sea grew smoother, and we experienced a -day of perfect idleness. Hour after hour the boat rocked like a cradle. -Seagulls gathered around and dipped their wings in charming circles. -Flocks of ducks passed northward in orderly flight, honking as they -went. A little land-bird, a poor, bedraggled sparrow, evidently blown -to sea by adverse winds, found rest and salvation in our rigging. -Now it was perched upon the main boom, and now upon the guy of the -gaff-topsail, but ever and anon, on this and the following day it could -be seen, sometimes attempting to fly shoreward, but always returning -after a fruitless quest for land. No vessel appeared, however. We -merely rocked and waited. - -The sailors in the forecastle told stories. The pilots in the rear -talked New York politics and criminal mysteries. The cook brewed and -baked. Night fell upon one of the fairest skies that it is given us -earthlings to behold. Stars came out and blinked. The lightship at -Sandy Hook cast a far beacon, but no steamer took another pilot that -day. - -Once during the watch that night it seemed that a steamer far off to -the southeastward was burning a blue light, the signal for a pilot. -The man at the wheel scanned the point closely, then took a lighted -torch made of cotton and alcohol and circled it slowly three times in -the air. No answering blue light rewarded him. Another time there grew -upon the stillness the far-off muffled sound of a steamer’s engine. You -could hear it distinctly, a faint “Pump, pump, pump, pump, pump.” But -no light could be seen. The signal torch was again waved, but without -result. The distinct throb grew less and less, and finally died away. -Some of the pilots commented as to this but could not explain it. They -could not say why a vessel should travel without lights at night. - -At midnight a little breeze sprang up and the schooner cruised about. -In one direction appeared a faint glimmer, which when approached, -proved to be the riding light of a freight steamer at anchor. All was -still and dark aboard her, save for two or three red and yellow lights, -which gleamed like sleepless eyes out of the black hulk. The man at the -wheel called a sailor. - -“Go forward, Johnnie,” he said, “and hail her. See if she wants a -pilot.” - -The man went to the prow and stood until the schooner drew quite near. - -“Steamer, ahoy!” he bellowed. - -No answer. - -“Steamer, ahoy!” he called again. A light moved in the cabin of the -other vessel. Finally a voice answered. - -“Want a pilot?” asked our sailor. - -“We have one,” said the dim figure, and disappeared. - -“Is it one of the pilots of your association that they have?” I asked. - -“Yes; they couldn’t have any other. They probably picked him up from -one of our far-out boats. Every incoming steamer must take a pilot, you -know. That’s the law. All pilots belong to this one association. It’s -merely a question of our being around to supply them.” - -It turned out from his explanation that the desire of the pilots to get -a steamer was merely to obtain their days off. When a pilot brings in a -steamer it is not likely that he will be sent out again for three days. -Each one puts in about the same number of days a month, and all get the -same amount of pay. There is no rivalry for boats, and no loss of money -by missing a steamer. If one boat misses her, another is sure to catch -her farther in. If she refuses to take a pilot the Government compels -her owners to pay a fine of fifty dollars, the price of a pilot to take -her in. - -On the third day now breaking we were destined to lose another pilot. -It was one of the two inveterate pinochlers. - -That night we anchored off Babylon, Long Island, in the stillest of -waters. The crew spent the evening lounging in their bunks and reading, -while the remaining pilots amused themselves as usual. Two of them -engaged for a time in a half-hearted game of cards. One told stories, -but with the departure of so many the spirits of the company drooped. -There was no breeze. The flap-flap of the sails went on monotonously. -Breakfast came, and then nine o’clock, and still we rocked in one -spot. Then a steamer appeared. As usual, it was announced long before -my untrained eyes could discern it. But, with the first word, the -remaining valiant pinochler went below to pack. He was back in a few -minutes, very much improved in spirits and appearance. - -“Does she starboard any?” he asked the man at the wheel. - -The latter used the telescope and then said: - -“Don’t seem to, sir.” - -“Think she sees us?” - -“Can’t tell, sir,” said the boatman gravely. - -“Spec’ we’d better fire the gun, eh?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“You strip the gun. I’ll take the wheel.” - -So a little gun--a tiny cannon, no less--was made ready and while it -was being put in place at the lee rail, Germond, the oldest of the -pilots, came on deck and took the wheel. - -“Going to fire the gun, eh?” he observed, in deep bass tones. - -“Yes,” said the pinochler. - -“Well, that’s right. Blaze away.” - -The boatman, who had superintended the charging of the gun, now pulled -a wire attached to a cap and the little cannon spat out a flame with a -roar that shook the boat. - -“Do they do this often?” I asked the footman. - -“Not very. When fogs are on and boats can’t find us it comes in handy. -There’s hardly any use in this case. I guess she sees us.” - -Germond, at the wheel, seemed to enjoy playing warship, for he called -out: “Fire again, Johnnie!” - -“Won’t she turn?” asked the restless pinochler. - -“Don’t seem to.” - -“Then,” said he, and cast a droll look of derision upon the midget -cannon and the immense steamer, “sink her!” - -With the third shot, however, we could see the steamer begin to turn, -and in a little while she was headed toward us. We could not move -and so we waited, while the anxious pinochler walked the deck. Long -before she was near he ordered the yawl ready, and when she was yet -three-quarters of a mile off, cast over and jumped aboard. He seemed -somewhat afraid the yawl would not be seen, and so took along with -him a pilot flag, which was a square of blue cloth fastened to a long -bamboo pole. This he held aloft as the men rowed, and away they went -far over the green sea. - -The cook served coffee at three, and was preparing supper when another -steamer was sighted. She came up rapidly, a great liner from Gibraltar, -with a large company of Italians looking over the rail. - -“No supper for you,” said Germond. “You’ll have to eat with the Dagos.” - -“Oh, I don’t mind,” returned the other, smiling. “I want to get back to -New York.” - -Just before supper, and when the sun was crimsoning the water in the -west, a “catspaw” came up and filled our sails. The boat moved slowly -off. At supper Germond announced: - -“Well, I go now.” - -“Is there a steamer?” - -“No, but I go on the other pilot-boat. I see her over there. The last -man always leaves his boat and goes on one with more men. That allows -this boat to go back for another crew.” - -“Do you get the first steamer in, on the other boat?” - -“Yes, I have the first turn.” I understood now why our crew, at the -outset, objected to any pilots being taken on our boat. It delayed -the return of those on board to New York. “Steward!” called Germond, -finally, “tell one of the men back there to run up a signal for the -other boat.” - -“Ay! Ay! sir!” called back the steward. - -At half after six the other pilot-boat drew near and Germond packed his -sea clothes and came up on deck. - -“Well, here she is, boys,” he said. “Now I leave you.” - -They put out the yawl and he jumped in. When he had gone we watched him -climbing aboard the other schooner. - -“Now for New York!” exclaimed McLaughlin, the boatswain, and master of -the crew in the absence of any pilot. - -“Do we sail all night?” - -“To get there by morning we’ll have to.” - -All sails were then hoisted, and we bore away slowly. Darkness fell. -The stars came out. Far away the revolving light of the Highlands -of Navesink was our guide. Far behind, the little pilot-boat which -had received Germond was burning a beacon for some steamer which had -signaled a blue light. Gradually this grew more and more dim, and the -gloom enveloped all. - -We sat with subdued spirits at the prow, discussing the dangers of -the sea. McLaughlin, who had been five years in the service, told of -accidents and disappearances in the past. Once, out of the night had -rushed a steamer, cutting a boat such as ours in two. One pilot-boat -that had gone out two years ago had never returned. Not a stick or -scrap was found to indicate what had become of her fifteen men. He -told how the sounding of the fog-horns had chilled his heart the first -year of his service, and how the mournful lapping of the waters had -filled him with dread. And as we looked and saw nothing but blackness, -and listened and heard nothing but the sipping of the still waters, it -did seem as though the relentless sea merely waited its time. Some day -it might have them all, sailor and cook, and where now were rooms and -lockers would be green water and strange fishes. - -That night we slept soundly. A fine wind sprang up, and when morning -came we were scurrying home over a thrashing sea. We raced past Sandy -Hook and put up the bay. By eight o’clock we were at the Narrows, with -the Battery in sight. The harbor looked like a city of masts. After the -lonely sea it seemed alive with a multitude of craft. Tugs went puffing -by. Scows and steamers mingled. Amid so much life the sea seemed safe. - - - - -BUMS - - -Whenever I think of them I think of the spectacle that genius of -the burlesque world of my day, Nat Wills, used to present when, in -fluttering rags and tatters, his vestless shirt open at the breast, -revealing no underwear, his shoes three times too big, and torn and -cracked, a small battered straw hat, from a hole in which his hair -protruded, his trousers upheld by a string, and that indefinable smirk -of satisfaction of which he was capable flickering over his dirty and -unshaven face he was wont to strike an attitude worthy of a flight -of oratory, and exclaim: “Fifteen years ago to-day I was a poor, -dispirited, broken-down tramp sitting on a bench in a park, not a shirt -to my back. Not a decent pair of shoes on my feet. A hat with a hole in -it. No money to get a shave or a bath or a place to sleep. No place to -eat. Not a friend in the world to turn to. My torn and frayed trousers -held up by a string. Yet” (striking his chest dramatically) “look at me -now!” And then he would lift one hand dramatically, as much as to say, -“Could any change be greater?” - -The humor was not only in the contrast which his words implied and -his appearance belied, but in a certain definite and not unkindly -characterization of the bum as such, that smug and even defiant -disregard of the conventions and amenities which characterizes so many -of them and sets them apart as a species quite distinct from the body -social--for that they truly are. And for that very reason they have -always had a peculiar interest for me, even a kind of fascination, -such as an arrestingly different animal might have for others. And -here in the great city, from time to time I have encountered so many -of them, suggesting not poverty or want but a kind of devil-may-care -indifference and even contempt for all that society as we know it -prizes so highly--order, cleanliness, a job, a good suit of clothes, -marriage, children, respected membership in various orders, religion, -politics--anything and everything that you will. And yet, by reason of -their antithesis and seeming antipathy to all this, interesting. - -For, say what you will, it does take something that is not social, -and most certainly independent, either in the form of thought or -temperament, to permit one to thus brazenly brave the notions and -the moods, to say nothing of the intellectual convictions, of those -who look upon the things above described as essential and permanent. -These astonishingly strange men, with their matted hair over their -eyes, their dirty skins, their dirty clothes, their large feet encased -in torn shoes, their hats with holes in them and their hair actually -protruding--just as though there were rules or conventions governing -them in the matter of dress. Along railroad tracks and roads outside -the large cities of the country I have seen them (curiously enough, I -have never seen a woman tramp), singly or in groups, before a fire, -the accredited tin can at hand for water, a degenerate pail brought -from somewhere in which something is being cooked over a fire. And -on occasion, as a boy, I have found them asleep in the woods, under -a tree, or in some improvised hole in a hay or straw stack, snoring -loudly or resting as only the just and the pure in heart should rest. - -But here in the great city I have always thought them a little strange -and out of place. They consort so poorly with the pushing, eager, -seeking throngs. And arrayed as they are, and as unkempt and unwashed, -not even the low-priced lodging houses of the Bowery would receive -them, and most certainly they would not pay the price of fifteen or -twenty cents which would be required to house them, even if they had -it. They are not of that kidney. And as for applying to a police -station at any time, it were better that they did not. In bitter -weather an ordinary citizen might do so with safety and be taken care -of, but these, never. They would be driven out or sent to the Island, -as the work-house here is called. Their principal lodging resource in -times of wintry stress appears to be some grating covering a shaft -leading to an engine room of some plant operative the night through, -from which warm air pours; or some hallway in a public building, or the -ultra-liberal and charitable lodging house of some religious mission. -Quite often on an icy night I have seen not a few of them lying over -the gratings of the subway at Fourteenth Street and at other less -conspicuous points, where, along with better men than themselves, -they were trusting to the semi-dry warm air that poured up through to -prevent death from freezing. But the freeze being over, they would go -their ways, I am sure, and never mend them from any fear of a like -experience. - -And it is exactly that about them which has always interested me. For, -by and large, I have never been able to feel that they either craved or -deserved the need of that sympathy that we so freely extend to others -of a less sturdy and different character. In truth, they are never as -poor physically and nervously as many of those who, though socially -fallen, yet appear to be better placed in the matter of clothes, food -and mood. They are, in the main, neither lean nor dispirited, and they -take life with too jaunty an air to permit one to be distressed about -them. They remind me more of gulls or moles, or some different and -unsocial animal that still finds in man his rightful prey or source -of supply. And I am positive that theirs is a disposition, either -inherited or made so by circumstances, which has not too much chemic -opposition to their lackadaisical state, that prefers it even to some -other forms of existence. Summer or winter I have seen them here and -there, in the great city, but never in those poorer neighborhoods, -frequented by those who are really in need, and always with the air -of physical if not material comfort hovering about them, and that in -the face of garments that would better become an ashcan than a man. -The rags. The dirt. And yet how often of a summer’s evening have I not -seen them on the stones of doorways and the planks of docks and lumber -yards, warm and therefore comfortable, resting most lazily and snoring -loudly, as though their troubles or irritations, whatever they were, -were far from them. - -And in these same easier seasons have I not seen them making their -way defiantly or speculatively among the enormous crowds on the -principal streets of the city, gazing interestedly and alertly into -the splendid shopwindows, and thinking what thoughts and contemplating -what prospects! It is not from these that the burglars are recruited or -the pickpockets, as the police will tell you. And the great cities do -not ordinarily attract them; though they come, occasionally, drawn, I -suppose, by the hope of novelty, and interested, quite as is Dives in -Egypt or India, by what they see. Now and then you will behold one, as -have I, being “ragged” by one of those idle mischievous gangs of the -city into whose heartless clutches he has chanced to fall. His hat will -be seized and pulled or crushed down over his eyes, his matted hair -or beard pulled, straws or rags or paper shoved between his back and -his coat and himself made into a veritable push-ball or punching-bag -to be shoved here and there, before he is allowed to depart. And -for no offense other than that he is as he is. Yet whether they are -spiritually outraged or depressed by this I would not be able to say. -To me they have ever appeared to be immune to what would spiritually -degrade and hence torture and depress another. - -Their approach to life, if anything, appears to be one of hoyden -contempt for conventional processes of all kinds, a kind of parasitic -indifference to anything save their own comfort, joined with a not -unadmirable love for the out-of-doors and for change. So often, as -I have said, I have seen them about the great city, asleep in the -cool recesses of not-much-frequented doors and passageways, and in -lumberyards and odd corners, anywhere where they were not likely to be -observed. And my observation of them has led me to conclude that they -do not feel and hence do not suffer as do other and more sensitive men. -They are not interested in material prosperity as such, and they will -not work. If any one has ever seen one with that haunted look which -at times characterizes the eye of those who take life and society so -desperately and seriously, and that betokens one whom life is able to -torture, I have yet to hear of it. - -But what an interesting and amazing spectacle they present, and what -amusing things are to be related of them! I personally have seen a -group of such rowdies, such as characterize some New York street -corners even to this day pouring wood-alcohol on one of these fellows -whom they chanced to find asleep, and then setting fire to it in order -to observe what would be the effect of the discovery by the victim of -himself in flames. And subsequently pursuing him down the street with -shouts and ribald laughter. On another occasion, in Hudson Street, the -quondam home of the Hudson Dusters, I have seen six or eight of such -youths pushing another one such about, carrying him here and there by -the legs and arms and tossing him into the air above an old discarded -mattress, until an irate citizen, not to be overawed himself, and of -most respectable and God-fearing mien, chose to interfere and bring -about a release. And in another part of this same good city, that part -of the waterfront which lies east of South Ferry and south of Fulton -Street, I have seen one such most persistently and thoroughly doused by -as many as ten playful wags, all in line, yet at different doors, and -each discharging a can or a bucket of water upon the fleeing victim, -who sought to elude them by running. But, following this individual -to see what his mood might be, I could not see that he had taken the -matter so very much to heart. Once free of his pursuers, he made his -way to a dock, where, seated behind some boxes in the sun, he made -shift to dry himself and rest without appearing to fret over what had -occurred. - -On one occasion I remember standing on the forward end of a ferry boat -that once plied between New York and Jersey City, the terminal of one -of the great railways entering the city, when one of these peculiar -creatures took occasion to make his very individual point of view -clear. It was late afternoon, and the forerunners of the homeward -evening rush of commuters were already beginning to appear. He was -dirty and unkempt and materially degraded as may be, but not at all -cast down or distrait. On the contrary. Having been ushered to the -dock by a stalwart New York policeman and put on board and told never -to return on pain of arrest, he was still in an excellent mood in -regard to it all. Heigh-ho! The world was not nearly so bad as many -made out. His toes sticking out, the ragged ends of his coat flapping -about him, a wretched excuse for a hat on his head, he still trotted -here and there, a genial and knowing gleam in his eye, to say nothing -of a Mona Liza-like leer about his mouth. He surveyed us all, kempt -and worthy exemplars of the proprieties, with the air of one who says: -“Well, well! Such decent and such silly people. All sheep who know only -the conventional ways and limitations of the city and nothing else, -creatures who look on me as a wastrel, a failure and a ne’er-do-well. -Nevertheless, I am not as hopeless or as hapless as they think, the -sillies.” And to make this clear he strode defiantly to and fro, -smirking now on one and now on another, and coming near to one and -again to another, thereby causing each and every one to retreat for -the very simple reason that the odor of him was as unconventional as -himself. - -Finding himself thus evaded and rather scorned for this procedure, he -retired to the forward part of the deck for a time and communed with -himself; but not for long. For, deciding after all, I presume, that -this was a form of defeat and that he was allowing himself to be unduly -put upon or outplaced, at least, by conventionalists, for whom he had -absolutely no respect, he whirled, and surveying the assembled company -of commuters who had by now gathered in a circle about him, like sheep -surveying some unwonted spectacle, he waved one hand dramatically and -announced: “I’m a dirty, drunken, blue-nosed bum, and I don’t give a -damn! See? See? I don’t give a damn!” and with that he caroled a little -tune, whistled, twiddled his fingers at all of us, did a light gay -step here and there, and then, lifting his torn coat-tails, shook them -defiantly and contemptuously in the face of all of us. - -There were of course a few terrified squeaks from a few horrified and -sanctified maidens, old and young, who retreated to the protection of -the saloon behind. There were also dark and reproving frowns from a -number of solid and substantial citizens, very well-dressed indeed, who -pretended not to notice or who even frowned on others for noticing. -Incidentally, there were a few delighted and yet repressed squeals from -various youths and commonplace nobodies, like myself, and eke a number -of heavy guffaws from more substantial citizens of uncertain origin and -who should have, presumably, known better. - -Yet, after all, as I told myself, afterward, there was considerable to -be said for the point of view of this man, or object. It was at least -individual, characterful and forceful. He was, decidedly, out of step -with all those about him, but still in step, plainly, with certain -fancies, moods, conditions more suited to his temperament. Decidedly, -his point of view was that of the box-car, the railroad track, the -hay-pile and the roadside. But what of it? Must one quarrel with a crow -for being a crow, or with a sheep for being a sheep? Not I. - -And in addition, to prove that he really did not care a damn, and that -his world was his own, once the gates were lifted he went dancing -off the boat and up the dock, a jaunty, devil-may-care air and step -characterizing him, and was soon lost in the world farther on. But -about it all, as it seemed to me, there was something that said to -those of us who were left in the way, that he and his kind were -neither to be pitied nor blamed. They were as they were, unsocial, -unconventional, indifferent to the saving, grasping, scheming plans -of men, and in accord with moods if not plans of their own. They will -not, and I suspect cannot, run with the herd, even if they would. And -no doubt they taste a form of pleasure and satisfaction that is as -grateful to them as are all the moods and emotions which characterize -those who are so unlike them and who see them as beings so utterly to -be pitied or foresworn. At least I imagine so. - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE MICHAEL J. POWERS ASSOCIATION - - -In an area of territory including something like forty thousand -residents of the crowded East Side of New York there dwells and rules -an individual whose political significance might well be a lesson to -the world. - -Stout, heavy-headed and comfortably constituted, except in the matter -of agility, he walks; and where he is not a personal arbiter he is at -least a familiar figure. Not a saloon-keeper (and there is one to every -half-block) but knows him perfectly and would be glad to take off his -hat to him if it were expected, and would bring him into higher favor. -Not a street cleaner or street division superintendent, policeman -or fireman but recognizes him and goes out of his way to greet him -respectfully. Store-keepers and school children, the basement barber -and the Italian coal-dealer all know who is meant when one incidentally -mentions “the boss.” His progress, if one might so term his daily -meanderings, is one of continual triumph. It is not coupled with -huzzahs, it is true, but there is a far deeper and more vital sentiment -aroused, a feeling of reverence due a master. - -I have in mind a common tenement residence in a crowded and sometimes -stifling street in this vicinity, where at evening the hand-organs play -and the children run the thoroughfare by thousands. Poor, compact; rich -only in those quickly withering flowers of flesh and blood, the boys -and girls of the city. It is a section from which most men would flee -when in search of rest and quiet. The carts and wagons are numerous, -the people are hard-working and poor. Stale odors emanate from many -hallways and open windows. - -Yet here, winter and summer, when evening falls and the cares of his -contracting business are over for the day, this individual may be seen -perched upon the front stoop of his particular tenement building or -making a slow, conversational progress to the clubhouse, a half-dozen -doors to the west. So peculiar is the political life of the great -metropolis that his path for this short distance is blockaded by dozens -who seek the awesome confessional of his ear. - -“Mr. Powers, if you don’t mind, when you’re through I would like a word -with you.” - -“Mr. Powers, if you’re not too busy, I want to ask you a question.” - -“Mr. Powers--” how often is this simple form of request made into his -ear. Three hours’ walking, less than three hundred feet--this tells -the story of the endless number that seek to buttonhole him. “Rubbing -something offen him,” is the way the politicians interpret these -conversations. - -Being a big man with a very “big” influence, he is inclined to be -autocratic, an attitude of mind which endless whispered pleas are -little calculated to modify. Always he carries himself with a reserved -and secret air. There is something uncompromising about the wide mouth, -with its long upper lip, the thin line of the lips set like the edge of -an oyster shell, the square, heavily-weighted jaw beneath, which is -cold and hard. Yet his mouth is continually wrinkling at the corners -with the semblance of a smile, and those nearest as well as those -farthest from him will tell you that he has a good heart. You may take -that with a grain of salt, or not, as you choose. - -I had not been in the district very long before I saw in the windows of -nearly every kind of store a cheaply-printed placard announcing that -the annual outing of the Michael J. Powers Association would take place -on Tuesday, August 2d, at Wetzel’s Grove, College Point. The steamer -_Cygnus_, leaving Pier 30, East River, would convey them. Games, -luncheon and dinner were to be the entertainment. Tickets five dollars. - -Any one who has ever taken even a casual glance at the East Side would -be struck by the exorbitance of such a charge as five dollars. No one -would believe for an instant that these saving Germans, Jews and other -types of hard-working nationalities would willingly invest anything -over fifty cents in any such outing. Times are always hard here, the -size of a dollar exceedingly large. Yet there was considerable stir -over the prospective pleasure of the day in this district. - -“Toosday is a great day,” remarked my German barber banteringly, when I -called on the Saturday previous to get shaved. - -“What about Tuesday?” - -“Mr. Powers holds his picnic. Der will be some beer drunk, you bet.” - -“What do you know about it? Do you belong to the association?” - -“Yes. I was now six years a member alretty. It is a fine association.” - -“What makes them charge five dollars? There can’t be very many around -here who can afford to pay that much.” - -“Der will be t’ree t’ousand, anyway,” he answered, “maybe more. -Efferybody goes. Mr. Powers say ‘Go,’ den dey go.” - -“Oh, Mr. Powers makes you go, does he?” - -“No,” he replied conservatively. “It is a nice picnic. We haf music, a -cubble of bands. Der is racing, schwimming, all de beer you want for -nodding, breakfast und dinner, a nice boat ride. Oh, we haf a good -time.” - -“Do you belong to Tammany?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Hold any office under Mr. Powers?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Well, why do you go, then? There must be some reason.” - -“I haf de polling place in my back room,” he finally admitted. - -“How much do you get for that?” - -“Sixty-five dollars a year.” - -“And you give five of that back for a ticket?” - -He smiled, but made no reply. - -It was on Monday that the German grocer signified his intention of -going. - -“Do all of you people have to attend?” I inquired. - -“No,” he replied, “we don’t have to. There will be somebody there from -most of the stores around here, though.” - -“Why?” - -“Ask Mr. Powers. There’ll be somebody there from every saloon, -barbershop, restaurant and grocery in the district.” - -“But why?” - -“Ho,” he returned, “it’s a good picnic. Mr. Powers looks mighty fine -marching at the head. They say he is next after Croker now.” - -Among the petty dealers of the neighborhood generally could be found -the same genial acceptance of the situation. - -“Dat is a great parade,” said a milk dealer to me. “You will see -somet’ing doing if you are in de distric’ dat night. Senators walk -around just de same as street cleaners; police captains, too.” - -I thought of the condescension of these high-and-mighties deigning to -walk with the common street cleaners, coerced into line. - -“Are you going?” I asked. - -“Yes.” - -“Want to go?” - -“Oh, it’s good enough.” - -“What do you think of Powers?” - -“He is a great man. Stands next to Croker. Wait till you see de -procession dat goes by here.” - -[Illustration: The Michael J. Powers Association] - -This was the point, the procession. Any such rich material evidence -of power was a sufficient reason for loyalty in the minds of these -people. They worship power. None know it better than these particular -individuals who lead them. The significance of forcing so many to -march, coming thus rapidly home to me, I dropped around to the district -Tammany club on the afternoon and evening preceding this eventful -day. The palatial chambers of the district leader in the club are -his arena, and on this particular evening these same were the center -of much political activity. Signs of the power of which I had heard -and seen other evidences were here renewed before my eyes. Arranged -in a great meeting-chamber, the political hall of the club, were -tables and counters, behind which were standing men who, as I learned -immediately afterward, were of high standing in the district and -city organization. Deputy commissioners of the water department, the -department of highways, of sewers; ex-State senators, ex-assemblymen, -police sergeants, detective sergeants, aldermen, were all present and -all doing yeoman service. - -Upon the tables were immense sheets, yards in diameter, with lists of -names. Back of the tables were immense piles of caps, badges and canes. -As fast as the owners of the names on the list appeared their names -were checked and their invitation cards, which they threw down cheerily -upon the table in company with a five-dollar bill, were marked paid and -passed back for further use. At the other tables these cards were then -good for a cap, a cane, and two badges, all of which the members were -expected to wear. - -Energetic as were the half-dozen deputy commissioners, police -sergeants, detective sergeants, ex-assemblymen and the like, who -labored at this clerical task without coats or vests, they were no -match for the throng of energetic Tammanyites who filed in and out, -carrying their hats and canes away with them. Hundreds of clerks, -precinct captains, wardmen, street-cleaners, two-thousand-dollar-a-year -clerks, swarmed the spacious lobby and greeted one another in that -perfunctory way so common to most political organizations. The -“Hellos,” “Well, old mans,” “Well, how are things?” and “There goes” -were as thick and all-pervading as the tobacco smoke which filled the -rooms. Tammanyites in comfortable positions of all degrees moved about -in new clothes and squeaky shoes. Distinct racial types illustrated -how common is the trait of self-interest and how quick are the young -Germans, Irish and Jews to espouse some cause or profession where -self-interest and the simultaneous advancement of the power of some -particular individual or organization are not incompatible. Smilingly -they greeted one another, with that assumption of abandon and good -fellowship which was as evidently assumed for the occasion as could be. -In the case of many it was all too plain that it was an effort to be as -bright and genial as they appeared to be. However, they had mastered -the externals and could keep a straight face. How hard those straight -mouths could become, how defiant those narrow protruding jaws, only -time and a little failure on some one’s part would tell. - -While the enthusiasm of this labor was at its highest Mr. Powers put -in an appearance. He was as pictured. On this occasion, his clothes -were plain black, his necktie black, his face a bright red, partially -due to a recent, and very close shave. He moved about with catlike -precision and grace, and everywhere politicians buttonholed or bowed to -him, the while he smiled upon every one in the same colorless, silent -and decidedly secret way. - -“Mr. Powers, we’re going to run out of caps before long,” one official -hurried forward to say. - -“Dugan has that in charge,” he replied. - -“I guess we’ll have a full attendance,” whispered another of those high -in his favor. - -“That’s good.” - -While he was sitting in his rosewood-finished office at one side of the -great room dozens of those who had come from other districts to pay -their respects and buy a ticket looked in upon him. - -“I’ll be with you in the morning, Michael,” said a jolly official from -another district. - -“Thank you, George,” he replied smiling. “We’ll have a fine day, I -hope.” - -“I hope so,” said the other. - -Sitting about in their chairs, some of the older officials who had come -to the club on this very special occasion fell into a reflective mood -and dug up the conditions of the past. - -“Do you remember Mike as an alderman, Jerry?” - -“I do. There was none better.” - -“Remember his quarrel with Murtha?” - -“Aye! He was for taking no odds from anybody those days.” - -“Brave as a lion, he was.” - -“He was.” - -“There’s no question of his nerve to-day.” - -“None at all.” - -“He’s a good leader.” - -“He is.” - -“How did Powers ever come to get his grip upon the district?” I -inquired of an old office-holder who was silently watching the buzzing -throng in the rooms before him. - -“He was always popular with the boys,” he answered. “Long before the -fortieth was ever divided he was popular with the boys of one section -of it. Creamer was leader at that time.” - -“Yes, but how did he get up?” - -“How does anybody get up?” he returned. “He worked up. When he was -assistant mechanic in the Fire Department, getting a hundred and twenty -a month, he gave half of it away. Anybody could get money off him; that -was the trouble. I’ve known him as a lad to give seventy-seven dollars -away in one month.” - -“Who was he, that he should distribute money so freely?” - -“Captain of two hundred, of course. He wasn’t called upon to spend his -own money, though.” - -“And that started him?” - -“He was always a smart fellow,” returned the speaker. “Creamer liked -him. Creamer was a fighter himself. Mike was as brave as a lion. When -they divided the district he got John Kelly to give Powers the other -half. He did it, of course, because he could trust Powers to stand with -him. But he did it, just the same.” - -“Kelly was head of Tammany Hall then?” - -“He was.” - -While we were talking a cart-driver or street-cleaner made his way -through the broad street-door towards the private office where so many -others were, taking off his hat as he did so and waiting respectfully -to one side. Dozens of young politicians were trifling about. The -deputy commissioner of highways, the assistant deputy tax commissioner, -the assistant deputy of the department of sewers, and others were -lounging comfortably in the chief’s room. Three or four black-suited, -priestly-looking assistants from the office of the chief of police were -conferring in that wise, subtle and whispering way which characterizes -all the conversation of those numerous aspirants for higher political -preferment. - -Some one stalked over to the waiting newcomer and said: “Well?” - -“Is Mr. Powers here this evening?” - -At the sound of his name the leader, who was lounging in his -Russia-leather chair within, raised his head, and seeing the figure in -the reception area, exclaimed: - -“Put on your hat, old man! No one is expected to put off his hat here. -Come right in!” - -He paused, and as the street-sweeper approached he turned lightly to -his satellites. “Get the hell out of here, now, and let this man have -a chance,” he said quickly, the desire to be genial with all being -apparent. The deputies came out of the room smiling and the old man was -ushered in. - -“Now, Mr. Cassidy,” I heard him begin, but slowly he moved around to -the door and closed it. The conversation was terminated so far as we -listeners from without were concerned. Only the profuse bowing of -the old man as he came out, the “Thank ye, Mr. Powers, thank ye,” -repeated and repeated, gave any indication as to what the nature of the -transaction might have been. - -While such incidents were passing the evening for some, the great crowd -of ticket-purchasers continued. Hundreds upon hundreds filed in and -out, some receiving a nod, some a mere glance of recognition, some only -a scrutiny of a very peculiar sort. - -“Are these all members of the club?” I asked of a friend, an -ex-assemblyman and now precinct captain in the block in which I voted. - -“They’re nearly all members of the district organization,” he replied. - -“How many votes do you claim to control?” - -“About five thousand.” - -“How many votes are there in the district?” - -“Ten thousand.” - -“Then you have fully half the votes assured before election-time rolls -around?” - -“We’ve got to have,” he replied significantly. “There’s no going into a -fight under Powers, unless he knows where the votes are. He won’t stand -for it.” - -While sitting thus watching the proceedings, the hours passed and the -procession thinned down to a mere handful. By midnight it looked as if -all were over, and the leader came forth and quietly took his leave. - -“Anything more, Eddie?” he asked of a peaked-face young Irishman -outside his office door. - -“Nothing that I can think of.” - -“You’ll see to the building?” he asked the deputy commissioner of taxes. - -“It’ll look like a May party in the morning, Chief.” - - - - -THE FIRE - - -It is two o’clock of a sultry summer afternoon in one of those -amazingly crowded blocks on the East Side south of Fourteenth Street, -which is drowsing out its commonplace existence through the long and -wearisome summer. The men of the community, for it may as well be -called a community since it involves all that makes a community, and -that in a very small space, are away at work or in their small stores, -which take up all of the ground floors everywhere. The housewives are -doing their shopping in these same stores--groceries, bakeries, meat -and fish markets. From the streets which bound this region people are -pouring through, a busy host, coming from what sections of the city -and the world and going to what sections of the city and the world no -one may divine. Wagons rattle, trucks rumble by with great, creaking -loads, a slot conduit trolley puts a clattering car past every fifteen -or twenty seconds. The riffraff of life fills it as full as though it -were the center of the world. Children, since there is no school now, -are playing here. The streets are fairly alive with a noisy company -of urchins who play at London Bridge and My Love’s Lover, and are -constantly getting in the way of one another and of every one else who -chances to pass this way. - -Suddenly, in the midst of an almost wearisome peace, comes the cry -of fire. It comes from the cleanly depths of Number 358, in the -middle of this block, where one Frederick Halsmann, paint-dealer and -purveyor of useful oils to the inhabitants of this neighborhood, has -apparently been busy measuring out a gallon of gasoline. He has been -doing a fairly thriving business here for years, the rejuvenation of a -certain apartment district nearby having brought him quite a demand for -explosive and combustible oils, such as naphtha, gasoline and benzine, -to say nothing of turpentine and some other less dangerous products, -all of which he has stored in his basement. There is a law against -keeping more than twenty gallons of any kind of explosive oil in a -store or the basement of a store, but this law, like so many others of -the great city, enjoys its evasions. What is the law between friends? - -All the same, and at last, a fire has broken out--no one ever knows -quite how. A passing stranger notes smoke issuing from a grating in -front of the store. He calls the attention of Mr. Halsmann to it, -but even before that the latter has seen it. He starts to descend an -outside stairway leading to his particular basement but is halted by a -terrific explosion which knocks him and some strangers down, shatters -the windows in his own and other stores four or five numbers away, and -tears a hole in the floor of his store through which his paints, a -counter, a cash register and some other things begin to tumble. He is -too astounded to quite grasp it all but recovering his feet he begins -to shout: “Maria! Maria! Come quick! And the children! Come out! Come -down!” - -But his cries come too late. He has scarcely got the words out of his -mouth when a second explosion, far more violent than the first, tears -up the floor and the stairs leading to his home and throws the lurid -fire into the rooms above. It smashes the glass in the front windows -of stores across the street and blows a perfect hurricane of fire in -the same direction. People run, yelling and screaming, a hundred voices -raising the cry of “Fire!” - -“My God! My God!” cries an old Jewish butcher over the way. He is -standing in front of his store wringing his hands. “It is Halsmann’s -store! Run quick!” This to a child near him. Then he also runs. An idle -policeman breaks for the nearest fire alarm box, and the crowds of the -neighboring thoroughfares surge in here until the walks and the paving -stones are black with people. A hundred heads pop out of neighboring -windows. A thousand voices take up the cry of “Fire!” - -From the houses adjoining, and even in this one, for the upper floors -have not yet been completely shattered, people are hurrying. A woman -with a child on the third floor is screaming and waving her free -hand frantically. A score of families in the adjoining buildings are -gathering their tawdry valuables together and hastening into the -street. Some policemen from neighboring beats, several from the back -rooms of saloons, come running, and the fight to obtain a little order -in anticipation of the fire engines begins. - -[Illustration: The Fire] - -“Get back there!” commands Officer Casey, whose one idea of natural -law in a very unspiritual world is that all policemen should always -be in front where they can see best. He begins pushing hard at the -vitals of a slender citizen whose curiosity is out of all proportion to -his strength. “Get back, I say! Ye’d think ye owned the earth, the way -ye’re shovin’ in here. Get back!” - -“Give ’em a crack over the sconce,” advises Officer Rooney, who can -see no use in wasting time bandying words. “Back with ye! I’ll not be -tellin’ ye twice. Back!” And he places a brawny shoulder so as to do -the utmost damage in the matter of crushing bones. It is rather good -fun for a policeman who only a moment before was wondering what to do -with his time. - -In the meanwhile the flames are sweeping upward. In the basement, -where gasoline sat by kerosene, and naphtha by that, the urge of the -flames is irresistible. Already one small barrel and a five-gallon -measure of gasoline have gone, sacrificing to its concentrated force -the lives of Halsmann’s wife and child. Now, a large half-barrel -having been reached, the floors to the third level are ripped out by -a terrifying crash that shatters the panes of glass in the windows in -the next block and Plumber Davidson, on the third floor of the house -next door, running to get his pocketbook out of a kitchen drawer and a -kit of tools he had laid down before putting his head out of the front -window, is seen to be caught and pinioned, and slaughtered where he -stands. Street-sweeper Donnelson’s wife, a stout slattern of a woman, -who had run with many agonized exclamations to a cradle to pick up her -little round-headed Johnnie and then to the mantel to grab a new clock, -is later found in the basement of the same building, caught midway -between the iron railing of a stair and a timber. Mrs. Steinmetz, the -Jewish peddler’s wife, of the fourth floor, is blown to the ceiling -from her kitchen floor, and then, tumbling down, left unconscious on a -stretch of planking, from which later she is rescued. - -Outside, on the ground below, the people are gazing in terror and -intense satisfaction. Here is a spectacle for you, if you please, here -the end of a dull routine of many days. The fire-god has broken loose. -The demon flame is trying his skill against the children of men and the -demon water. He has caught them unawares. He has seized upon the place -where the best of their ammunition is stored. From his fortress in -the cellar he is hurling huge forks of flame and great gusts of heat. -Before him now men and women stand helpless. White-faced onlookers gaze -upward with expressions of mingled joy and pain. - -Clang! Clang! Clang! - -And the wail of a siren. - -And yet another. - -And yet another. - -They announce the men of the Fortieth Hook and Ladder Company, of the -Twenty-seventh Hook and Ladder and Fire Patrol, of the Thirty-third -Engine and Hook and Ladder Company, and the Fifty-first Engine and Hose -Company, down through a long list of stations covering an area of a -half-dozen square miles. - -In the midst of the uproar about the burning building, the metallic cry -of this rescuing host is becoming more and more apparent. From every -section they come, the glistening surfaces of their polished vehicles -and implements shining in the sun, the stacks of their engines -issuing volumes of smoke. Fire boxes drop fiery sparks as they speed -past neighboring corners, the firemen stoking as they come. Groups of -hook-and-ladder handlers are unhooking and making ready their ladders. -Others, standing upright on their careening vehicles, are adjusting -rubber coats and making ready to invade the precincts of danger at -once. The art of balancing on one foot while tugging at great coils of -hose that are being uncoiled from speeding vehicles is being deftly -illustrated. These men like this sort of thing. It is something to -do. They are trained men, ready to fight the fire demon at a moment’s -notice, and they are going about their work with the ease and grace of -those who feel the show as well as the importance of that which they -do. Once more, after days of humdrum, they are the center of a tragedy, -the cynosure of many eyes. It is exhilarating thus to be gazed at, as -any one can see. They swing down from their machines in front of this -holocaust with the nonchalance of men going to a dinner. - -And the police reserves, they are here now too. This indifferent block, -so recently the very heart of humdrum, is now the center of a great -company of policemen. The regular width of the street from side to -side and corner to corner has been cleared and is now really parked -off by policemen pushing back the gaping and surging throng. There are -cries of astonishment as the onrushing flames leap now from building -to building, shouts of “Stay where you are!” to helpless women and -children standing in open windows from which the smoke is threatening -to drive them; there are great, wave-like pushings forward and -recedings, as the officers, irritated by the eagerness of the crowd, -endeavor to hold it in check. - -“McGinnity and six men to the roof of 354!” comes the bellowing cry of -a megaphone in the hands of a battalion chief. - -“Hennessy and Company H, spread out the life net!” - -“Williams! Williams! You and Dubo scale the walls quick! Get that woman -above there! Turn your hose on there, Horton, turn your hose on! Where -is Company B? Can’t you people get in line for the work here?” - -The assurance of the firemen, so used to the petty blazes that could be -extinguished in half an hour by the application of a stream or two of -water, has been slightly shaken by the evidence of the explosive nature -of the material stored in the basement of this building. The sight of -people hurrying from doorways with their few little valuables gathered -up in trembling arms, or screaming in windows from which the flames -and smoke have fairly shut off rescue, is, after all, disconcerting to -the bravest. While the last explosion is shooting upward and outward -and flames from the previously ignited ones are bursting through the -side walls of adjoining structures and cutting off escape for a score, -the firemen are loosing ladders and hose from a dozen still rolling -vehicles and setting about the task of rescuing the victims. Suddenly a -cask of kerosene, heated to the boiling point in the seething cauldron -of the cellar, explodes, throwing a shower of blazing oil aloft -which descends as a rain of fire. Over the crowd it pours, a licking, -death-dealing rain, which sends them plunging madly away. In the rush, -women and children are trampled and more than one over-ambitious -sightseer is struck by a falling dab of flaming oil. A police captain, -standing in the middle of the street, is caught by a falling shower and -instantly ignited. An old Polish Jew, watching the scene from the door -of his eight-by-ten shop, is caught on the hand and sent crying within. -Others run madly with burning coats and blazing hats, while over the -roofs and open spaces can be seen more of these birdlike flames of fire -fluttering to their destructive work in the distance. The power of the -fire demon is at its height. - -And now the servants of the water demon, the firemen, dismayed and -excited, fall back a pace, only to return and with the strength of -water at their command assail the power of the fire again. Streams -of water are now spouting from a score of nozzles. A group of eight -firemen, guided by a rotund battalion chief who is speaking through -a trumpet, ascends the steps of a nearby doorway and gropes its way -through the dark halls to apartments where frightened human beings may -be cowering, too crazed by fear to undertake to rescue themselves. -Another group of eight is to be seen working its way with scaling -ladders to the roof of another building. They carry ropes which they -hang over the eaves, thus constructing a means of egress for those who -are willing and hardy enough to lay hold and descend in this fashion. -Still another group of eight is spreading a net into which hovering, -fear-crazed victims calling from windows above are commanded to jump. -Through it all the regular puffing of the engines, the muffled voices -of the captains shouting, and the rattling beat of the water as it -plays upon the walls and batters its way through the windows and doors, -can be heard as a monotone, the chorus of this grand contest in which -man seeks for mastery over an element. - -And yet the fire continues to burn. It catches a dressmaker who has -occupied the rear rooms of the third floor of the building, two doors -away from that of the paint-dealer’s shop, and while she is still -waving frantically for aid she is enveloped with a glorious golden -shroud of fire which hides her completely. It rushes to where a lame -flower-maker, Ziltman, is groping agonizedly before his windows on the -fifth floor of another tenement, and sends into his nostrils a volume -of thick smoke which smothers him entirely. It sends long streamers -of flame licking about doorposts and window frames of still other -buildings, filling stairways and area-landings with great dark clouds -of vapor and bursting forth in lurid, sinister flashes from nooks and -corners where up to now fire has not been suspected. It appears to be -an all-devouring Nemesis, feeding as a hungry lion upon this ruck of -wooden provender and this wealth of human life. The bodies of stricken -human beings are but fuel for it--but small additions to its spirals of -smoke and its tongues of flame. - -And yet these battalions of fighters are not to be discouraged. They -guess this element to be a blind one, indifferent alike to failure or -success. It may rage on and consume the whole city. It may soon be -compelled to slink back to a smoldering heap. It appears to desire -to burn fiercely, and yet they know that it will give way before its -logical foe. Upon it, now, they are heaping a score of streams, beating -at distant windows, tearing out distant doors, knocking the bricks from -their plastered places, of houses not on fire at all and so setting -up a barrier between it and other buildings, destroying in fact the -form and order of years in order to make a common level upon which its -enemy, water, can meet and defeat it. - -But these little ants of beings, how they have scurried before this -battle royal between these two elements! How fallen! How harried and -bereft and tortured they seem! Under these now blackened and charred -timbers and fallen bricks and stones and twisted plates of iron are -not a few of them, dead. And beyond the still tempestuous battlefield, -where flame and water still fight, are thousands more of them, agape -with wonder and fear and pity. They do not know what water is, nor -fire. They only know what they do, how dangerous they are, how really -deadly and how indifferent to their wishes or desires. Forefend! -forefend! is the wisest thought that comes to them, else these twain, -and other strange and terrible things like them, will devour us all. - -But these elements. Here they are and here they continue to battle -until a given quantity of water has been able to overcome a given -amount of fire. Like the fabled battle between the Efrit and the King’s -daughter, they have fought each other over rooftops and in cellars and -in the very air, where flame and water meet, and under twisted piles -of timber and iron and stone. Wherever any of the snaky heads of the -demon fire have shown themselves, the flattened gusts of the demon -water have assailed them. The two have fought in crevices where no -human hand could reach. They have grappled with one another in titanic -writhings above the rooftops, where the eyes of all men could see. They -have followed one another to unexpected depths, fire showing itself -wherever water has neglected to remain, the water returning where the -fire has begun its battling anew. They have chased and twisted and -turned, until at last, out-generaled in this instance, fire has receded -and water conquered all. - -But the petty little creatures who have been the victims of their -contest, the chance occupants of the field upon which they chose to -battle. But look at them now, agape with wonder and terror. And how -they scurried! How jumped from the windows into nets, how clambered -like monkeys down ladders, how gropingly they have staggered through -halls of smoke, thick, rich smoke, as dark and soft and smooth as the -fleece of a ram and as deadly as death. - -And now small men, shocked by all that has befallen, gather and -congratulate themselves on their victory or meditate on and bemoan -their losses. The terror of it all! - -“I say, John,” says the battalion chief of the second division to the -battalion chief of the first, “that was something of a fire, eh?” - -“It was that,” agrees the latter, looking grimly from under the rim of -his wet red helmet. - -“That Dutchman must have had a half-dozen barrels of naphtha or -gasoline down there to cause such a blowup as that. Why, that last -blast, just before I got here, sent the roof off, they tell me.” - -“It did that,” returns the other thoughtfully. “There’ll be a big -rumpus about it in the papers to-morrow. They ought to inspect these -places better.” - -“That’s right. Well, he got his fill. His wife’s down there now, I -think, and his baby. He ain’t been seen since the first explosion.” - -“Too bad. But they oughtn’t to do such things. They know the danger of -it. Still, you never can tell ’em nothin’.” - - - - -THE CAR YARD - - -If I were a painter one of the first things I would paint would be one -or another of the great railroad yards that abound in every city, those -in New York and Chicago being as interesting as any. Only I fear that -my brush would never rest with one portrait. There would be pictures -of it in sunshine and cloud, in rain and snow, in light and dark, and -when heat caused the rails and the cars to bake and shimmer, and the -bitter cold the mixture of smoke and steam to ascend in tall, graceful, -rhythmic plumes that appear to be composed of superimposed circles and -spirals of smoke and mist. - -The variety of the cars. The variety of their contents. The long -distances and differing climates and countries from which they have -come--the Canadian snows, the Mexican uplands, Florida, California, -Texas and Maine. As a boy, in the different cities and towns in which -our family dwelt, I was forever arrested by the spectacle of these -great freight trains, yellow, white, red, blue, green, toiling through -or dissipating themselves in some terminal maze of tracks. I was always -interested to note how certain cars, having reached their destination, -would be sidetracked and left, and then presently the consignee or his -agent or expressman would appear and the car be opened. Ice, potatoes, -beef, furniture, machinery, boxed shipments of all kinds, would be -taken out by some lone worker who, having come with a wagon, would -back it up to the opened door and remove the contents. Most interesting -of all to me were the immense shipments of live stock, the pigs, sheep, -steers, on their last fatal journey and looking so non-understandingly -out upon the strange world in which they found themselves, and baa-ing -or moo-ing or squealing in tones that gave evidence of the uncertainty, -the distress and the wonder that was theirs. - -For a time in Chicago, between my eighteenth and nineteenth years, I -was employed as a car-tracer in one of the great freight terminals of -a railroad entering Chicago, a huge, windy, forsaken realm far out on -the great prairie west of the city and harboring literally a thousand -or more cars. And into it and from it would move such long freight -trains, heavy with snow occasionally, or drenched with rain, and -presenting such a variety of things in cars: coal, iron, cattle, beef, -which would here be separated and entangled with or disentangled from -many others and then moved on again in the form of other long trains. -The clanging engine bells, the puffing stacks, the arresting, colorful -brakemen and trainmen in their caps, short, thick coats, dirty gloves, -and with their indispensable lanterns over their arms. In December and -January, when the days were short and the nights fell early, I found -myself with long lists of car numbers, covering cars in transit and -concerning which or their contents owners or shippers were no doubt -anxious, hurrying here and there, now up and down long tracks, or under -or between the somber cars that lined them, studying by the aid of my -lantern the tags and car numbers, seeing if the original labels or -addresses were still intact, whether the seals had remained unbroken, -on what track the car was, and about where, and checking these various -items on the slip given me, and, all being correct, writing O. K. -across the face of it all. Betimes I would find a consigned car -already in place on some far sidetrack, the consignee having already -been notified, and some lone worker with a wagon busily removing -the contents. Sometimes, being in doubt, I would demand to see the -authorization, and then report. But except for occasional cars, that -however accurately billed never seemed to appear, no other thing went -wrong. - -Subsequent to that time I have always been interested by these great -tangles. Seeing them as in New York facing river banks where ships -await their cargoes, or surrounded by the tall coal pockets and grain -elevators of a crowded commercial section, I have often thought how -typical of the shift and change of life they are, how peculiarly of -this day and no other. Imagine a Roman, a Greek, an Egyptian or an -Assyrian being shown one of these immense freight yards with their -confusing mass of cars, their engines, bells, spirals of smoke and -steam, their interesting variety of color, form and movement. How -impossible to explain to such an one the mechanism if not the meaning -of it all. How impossible it would be for him to identify what he -saw with anything that he knew. The mysterious engines, the tireless -switching, the lights, the bells, the vehicles, the trainmen and -officials. And as far as some future age that yet may be is concerned, -all that one sees here or that relates to this form of transportation -may even in the course of a few hundred years have vanished as -completely as have the old caravanseries of the Orient--rails, cars, -engines, coal and smoke and steam, even the intricate processes by -which present freight exchange is effected. And something entirely -different may have come in its place, transportation by air, for -instance, the very mechanism of flight and carriage directed by -wireless from given centers. - -[Illustration: The Car Yard] - -And yet, as far as life itself is concerned, its strife and change, -how typical of it are these present great yards with their unending -evidences of movement and change. These cars that come and go, how -heavy now with freight, or import; how empty now of anything suggesting -service or use even, standing like idle, unneeded persons upon some -desolate track, while the thunder of life and exchange passes far -to one side. And anon, as in life, each and every one of them finds -itself in the very thick of life, thundering along iron rails from -city to city, themselves, or rather their contents, eagerly awaited -and welcomed and sought after, and again left, as before. And then the -old cars, battered and sway-backed by time and the elements and long -service, standing here and there unused and useless, their chassis bent -and sometimes cracked by undue strain or rust, their sides bulging, -their roofs and doors decayed and warped or broken, quite ready for -that limbo of old cars, the junk yard rather than the repair shop. - -And yet they have been so useful, have seen and done so much, been in -such varied and interesting places--the cities, the towns, the country -stations, the lone sidings where they have waited or rolled in sun -and rain. Here in this particular New York yard over which I am now -brooding, upon a great viaduct which commands it all, is one old car, -recently emptied of its load of grain, about which on this winter’s -day a flock of colorful pigeons are rising and falling, odd companions -for such a lumbering and cumbersome thing, yet so friendly to and -companionable with it, some of them walking peacefully upon its roof, -others picking up remaining grains within its open door, others on the -snowy ground before it picking still other fallen grains, and not at -all disturbed by the puffing engines elsewhere. It might as well be a -great boat accompanied by a cloud of gulls. And that other car there, -that dusty, yellow one, labeled Central of Georgia, yet from which -now a great wagonful of Christmas trees is being taken from Georgia, -or where? Has it been to Maine or Labrador or the Canadian north for -these, and where will it go, from here, and how soon? Leaning upon this -great viaduct that crosses this maze of tracks and commands so many of -them, a great and interesting spectacle, I am curious as to the history -or the lives of these cars, each and every one, the character of the -places and lives among which each and every one of them has passed its -days. They appear so wooden, so lumpish, so inert and cumbersome and -yet the places they have been, the things they have seen! - -I am told by the physicists that each and every atom of all of this -wealth of timber and steel before me is as alive as life; that it -consists, each and every particle, of a central spicule of positive -energy about which revolve at great speed lesser spicules of negative -energy. And so these same continue to revolve until each particular -atom, for some chemic or electronic reason, shall have been dissolved, -when forthwith these spicules re-arrange themselves into new forms, -to revolve as industriously and as unceasingly as before. Springs the -thought then: Is anything inert, lacking in response, perception, mood? -And if not, what may each of these individual cars with their wealth -of experience and observation think of this life, their place in it, -their journeys and their strange and equally restless and unknowing -companion, man? - - - - -THE FLIGHT OF PIGEONS - - -In all the city there is no more beautiful sight than that which is -contributed by the flight of pigeons. You may see them flying in one -place and another, here over the towering stacks of some tall factory, -there over the low roofs of some workaday neighborhood; the yard of a -laborer, the roof of some immense office building, the eaves of a shed -or barn furnishing them shelter and a point of rendezvous from which -they sail. I have seen them at morning, when the sky was like silver, -turning in joyous circles so high that the size of a large flock of -forty was no more than a hand’s breadth. I have seen them again at -evening, wheeling and turning in a light which was amethystine in its -texture, so soft that they seemed swimming in a world of dream. In the -glow of a radiant sunset, against the bosom of lowering storm clouds, -when the turn of a wing made them look like a handful of snowflakes, or -the shafts of the evening sunlight turned their bodies to gold, I have -watched them soaring, soaring, soaring, running like children, laughing -down the bosom of the wind, wheeling, shifting, rising, falling, -the one idyllic note in a world of commonplace--or, perhaps more -truthfully, the key central of what is a heavenly scene of beauty. - -[Illustration: The Flight of Pigeons] - -I do not know what it is that makes pigeons so interesting to me, -unless it is that this flight of theirs into the upper world is to -me the essence of things poetic, the one thing which I should like to -do myself. The sunny sides of the barnyard roofs they occupy, the quiet -beauty of the yards in which they live, their graceful and contented -acceptance of the simple and the commonplace, their cooing ease, the -charm of the landscapes over which they fly and against the outlines of -which they are so often artistically engraved, are to me of the essence -of the beautiful. I can think of nothing better. If I were to have the -privilege of reincarnation I might even choose to be a pigeon. - -And, in connection with this, I have so often asked myself what there -is in pure motion which is so delightful, so enchanting, and before -the mystery of which, as manifested by the flight of pigeons my mind -pauses, for it finds no ready solution. The poetry of music, the poetry -of motion, the arch-significance of a graceful line in flight--these -are of psychic, perhaps of chemic subtlety (who knows?), blending into -some great scheme of universal rhythm, of which singing, dancing, -running, flying, the sinuous curvings of rivers, the rhythmic wavings -of trees, the blowings and restings of the winds, and every other -lovely thing of which the earth is heir, are but integral parts. - -Nature has many secrets all her own. We peer and search. With her -ill moods we quarrel. Over her savageries we weep or rage. In her -amethystine hours of ease and rest we rest also and wonder, moved to -profound and regal melancholy over our own brief hours in her light, to -unreasoned joy and laughter over her beauty in her better moods, their -pensive exaltation. - -As for myself, I only know that whenever I see these birds, their coats -of fused slate and bright metallic colors shielding them so smoothly, -their feet of coral, their eyes of liquid black, smooth-rimmed with -pink, and strutting so soberly at ease on every barn roof or walk -or turning, awing, in some heavenly light against a sky of blue or -storm-black--I only know that once more a fugue of most delicate and -airy mood is being fingered, that the rendition of another song is at -hand. - -To fly so! To be a part of sky, sunlight, air! To be thus so delicately -and gracefully organized as to be able to rest upon the bosom of a -breeze, or run down its curving surface in long flights, to have the -whole world-side for a spectacle, the sunny roof of a barn or a house -for a home! Not to brood over the immensities, perhaps, not to sigh -over the too-well-known end! - -Fold you your hands and gaze.... They speak of joy accomplished. -Fold your hands and gaze. As you look you have that which they -bring--beauty. It is without flaw and without price. - - - - -ON BEING POOR - - -Poverty is so relative. I have lived to be thirty-two now, and am just -beginning to find that out. Hitherto, in no vague way, poverty to me -seemed to be indivisibly united with the lack of money. And this in the -face of a long series of experiences which should have proved to any -sane person that this was only relatively true. Without money, or at -times with so little that an ordinary day laborer would have scoffed at -my supply, I still found myself meditating gloomily and with much show -of reason upon the poverty of others. But what I was really complaining -of, if I had only known, was not poverty of material equipment (many -of those whom I pitied were materially as well if not better supplied -than I was) but poverty of mind, the most dreadful and inhibiting -and destroying of all forms of poverty. There are others, of course: -Poverty of strength, of courage, of skill. And in respect to no one -of these have I been rich, but poverty of mind, of the understanding, -of taste, of imagination--therein lies the true misery, the freezing -degradation of life. - -For I walk through the streets of this great city--so many of them no -better than the one in which I live--and see thousands upon thousands, -materially no worse off than myself, many of them much better placed, -yet with whom I would not change places save under conditions that -could not be met, the principal one being that I be permitted to keep -my own mind, my own point of view. For here comes one whose clothes are -good but tasteless, or dirty; and I would not have his taste or his -dirt. And here is another whose shabby quarters cost him as much as do -mine and more, and yet I would not live in the region which he chooses -for half his rent, nor have his mistaken notion of what is order, -beauty, comfort. Nothing short of force could compel me. And here is -one sufficiently well dressed and housed, as well dressed and housed -as myself, who still consorts with friends from whom I could take no -comfort, creatures of so poor a mentality that it would be torture to -associate with them. - -And yet how truly poor, materially, I really am. For over a year now -the chamber in which I dwell has cost me no more than four dollars a -week. My clothes, with the exception of such minor changes as ties -and linen, are the very same I have had for several years. I am so -poor at this writing that I have not patronized a theater in months. A -tasteful restaurant such as always I would prefer has this long while -been beyond my purse. I have even been beset by a nervous depression -which has all but destroyed my power to write, or to sell that which -I might write. And, as I well know, illness and death might at any -time interfere and cut short the struggle that in my case has thus far -proved materially most profitless; and yet, believe me, I have never -felt poor, or that I have been cheated of much that life might give. -Nor have I felt that sense of poverty that appears to afflict thousands -of those about me. - -[Illustration: Being Poor] - -I cannot go to a theater, for instance, lacking the means. But I can -and do go to many of the many, many museums, exhibits, collections and -arboreta that are open to me for nothing in this great city. And for -greater recreation even, I turn to such books of travel, of discovery, -of scientific and philosophic investigation and speculation as chance -to fit in with my mood at the time and with which a widespread public -beneficence has provided me, and where I find such pleasure, such -relief, such delight as I should hesitate to attempt to express in -words. - -But apart from these, which are after all but reports of and -commentaries upon the other, comes the beauty of life itself. I know -it to be a shifting, lovely, changeful thing ever, and to it, the -spectacle of it as a whole, in my hours of confusion and uncertainty -I invariably return, and find such marvels of charm in color, tone, -movement, arrangement, which, had I the genius to report, would fill -the museums and the libraries of the world to overflowing with its -masterpieces. The furies of snow and rain that speed athwart a hidden -sun. The wracks and wisps of cloud that drape a winter or a summer -moon. A distant, graceful tower from which a flock of pigeons soar. The -tortuous, tideful rivers that twist among great forests of masts and -under many graceful bridges. The crowding, surging ways of seeking men. -These cost me nothing, and I weary of them never. - -And sunsets. And sunrises. And moonsets. And moonrises. These are not -things to which those materially deficient would in the main turn for -solace, but to me they are substances of solace, the major portion of -all my wealth or possible wealth, in exchange for which I would not -take a miser’s hoard. I truly would not. - - - - -SIX O’CLOCK - - -The hours in which the world is working are numerous and always -fascinating. It is not the night-time or the Sabbath or the day of -pleasure that counts, but the day’s work. Whether it be as statesman -or soldier, poet or laborer, the day’s work is the thing. And at the -end of the day’s work, in its commoner forms at least, comes the signal -of its accomplishment, the whistle, the bell, the fading light, the -arresting face of the clock. - -To me, personally, there is no hour which quite equals that which -heralds the close of the day’s toil. I know, too, that others are -important, the getting up and lying down of men, but this of ceasing -after a day’s work, when we lay down the ax or the saw, or the pen -or pencil, stay our machine, take off our apron and quit--that is -wonderful. Others may quit earlier. The lawyer and the merchant and the -banker may cease their labors an hour earlier. The highly valued clerk -or official is not opposed if he leaves at four-thirty or at five, and -at five-thirty skilled labor generally may cease. But at six o’clock -the rank and file are through, “the great unwashed,” as they have been -derisively termed, the real laboring man and laboring woman. It is for -them then that the six o’clock whistle blows; that the six o’clock bell -strikes; it is for them that the evening lamps are lit in millions of -homes; it is for them that the blue smoke of an evening fire curls -upward at nightfall and that the street cars and vehicles of transfer -run thick and black. - -The streets are pouring with them at six o’clock. They are as a -great tide in the gray and dark. They come bearing their baskets and -buckets, their armfuls of garnered wood, their implements of labor and -of accomplishment, and their faces streaked with the dirt of their -toil. While you and I, my dear sir, have been sitting at our ease this -last hour they have been working, and where we began at nine they -began at seven. They have worked all day, not from seven-thirty until -five-thirty or from nine until four, but from seven to six, and they -are weary. - -You can see it in their faces. Some have a lean, pinched appearance -as though they were but poorly nourished or greatly enervated. Some -have a furtive, hurried look, as though the problem of rent and food -and clothing were inexplicable and they were thinking about it all the -time. Some are young yet and unscathed--the most are young (for the -work of the world is done by the youth of the world)--and they do not -see as yet to what their labor tends. Nearly all are still lightened -with a sense of opportunity; for what may the world not hold in store? -Are not its bells still tinkling, its lights twinkling? Are not youth -and health and love the solvents of all our woes? - -[Illustration: Six O’clock] - -These crowds when the whistles blow come as great movements of the sea -come. If you stand in the highways of traffic they are at once full to -overflowing. If you watch the entrance to great mills they pour forth -a living stream, dark, energetic, undulant. To see them melting -away into the highways and byways is like seeing a stream tumble and -sparkle, like listening to the fading echoes of a great bell. They -come, vivid, vibrant, like a deep, full-throated note. They go again as -bell notes finally go. - -If you stand at the entrance of one of our great industrial -institutions you may see for yourself. Its walls are like those of -a prison, tall, dark, many-windowed; its sound like that of a vast -current of water pouring over a precipice. Inside a thousand or -a hundred thousand shuttles may be crashing; I know not. Patient -figures are hurrying to and fro. You may see them through the brightly -lighted windows of a winter’s night. Suddenly the great whistle sounds -somewhere in the thick of the city. Then another and another. In a -moment a score and a hundred siren voices are calling out the hour of -cessation and the rush of the great world of machinery is stilling. The -figures disappear from the machines. The tiny doors at the bottom of -the walls open. Out they come, hurrying, white-faced, black-shawled, -the vast contingent of men and boys, girls and children; into the black -night they hurry, the fresh winds sweeping about their insignificant -figures. This is but one mill and all over the world as the planet -rolls eastward these whistles are blowing, the factories are ceasing, -the figures are pouring forth. - -It is on such as these, O students of economics, that all our fine-spun -fancies of life are based. It is on such as these that our statecraft -is erected. Kings sit in palaces, statesmen confer in noble halls, -because of these and such as these. The science of government--it _is_ -because of these. The art of production--it is by and for these. The -importance of distribution--it concerns these. All our carefully woven -theories of morals, of health, of property--they have these for their -being; without them they are not. - -The world runs with a rushing tide of life these days. It has broken -forth into a veritable storm of creation. Men are born by the millions. -They die in great masses silently. To-day they are here, to-morrow cut -down and put away. But in these crowds of workers we see the flower -of it all, the youth, the enthusiasm, the color. Life is here at its -highest, not death. There are no sick here: they have dropped out. -There are no halt, or very few, no lame. All the weaklings have been -cut down and there remains here, running in a hurrying, sparkling -stream, the energy, the strength, the hope of the world. That they may -not be too hardly used is obvious, for then life itself ceases; that -they may not be too utterly brutalized is sure, for then life itself -becomes too brutal for endurance. That they may only be driven in part -is a material truism. They cannot be driven too far; they must be led -in part. For that the maxim, “Feed my sheep.” - -But in the spectacle of living there is none other like this. It is all -that life may ever be, energetic, hungry, eager. It is the hope of the -world, and the yearning of the world concentrated. Here are passion, -desire, despair, running eagerly away. The great whistles of the world -sound their presence nightly. The sinking of the sun marks their sure -approach. It is six o’clock, and the work of the day is ended--for the -night. - - - - -THE TOILERS OF THE TENEMENTS - - -New York City has one hundred thousand people who, under unfavorable -conditions, work with their fingers for so little money that they are -understood, even by the uninitiated general public, to form a class by -themselves. These are by some called sewing-machine workers, by others -tenement toilers, and by still others sweatshop employees; but, in a -general sense, the term, tenement workers, includes them all. They form -a great section in one place, and in others little patches, ministered -to by storekeepers and trade agents who are as much underpaid and -nearly as hard-working as they themselves. - -Go into any one of these areas and you will encounter a civilization -that is as strange and un-American as if it were not included in this -land at all. Pushcarts and market-stalls are among the most distinctive -features. Little stores and grimy windows are also characteristic of -these sections. There is an atmosphere of crowdedness and poverty -which goes with both. Any one can see that these people are living -energetically. There is something about the hurry and enthusiasm of -their life that reminds you of ants. - -If you stay and turn your attention from the traffic proper, the houses -begin to attract your attention. They are nearly all four-story or -five-story buildings, with here and there one of six, and still another -of seven stories; all without elevators, and all, with the exception of -the last, exceedingly old. There are narrow entrance-ways, dingy and -unlighted, which lead up dark and often rickety stairs. There are other -alley-ways, which lead, like narrow tunnels, to rear tenements and back -shops. Iron fire escapes descend from the roof to the first floor, in -every instance, because the law compels it. Iron stairways sometimes -ascend, where no other means of entrance is to be had. There are old -pipes which lead upward and carry water. No such thing as sanitary -plumbing exists. You will not often see a gas-light in a hall in as -many as two blocks of houses. You will not see one flat in ten with hot -and cold water arrangements. Other districts have refrigerators and -stationary washstands, and bath tubs as a matter of course, but these -people do not know what modern conveniences mean. Steam heat and hot -and cold water tubs and sinks have never been installed in this area. - -The houses are nearly all painted a dull red, and nearly all are -divided in the most unsanitary manner. Originally they were built five -rooms deep, with two flats on a floor, but now the single flats have -been subdivided and two or three, occasionally four or five, families -live and toil in the space which was originally intended for one. -There are families so poor, or so saving and unclean, that they huddle -with other families, seven or eight persons in two rooms. Iron stands -covered by plain boards make a bed which can be enlarged or reduced at -will. When night comes, four, five, six, sometimes seven such people -stretch out on these beds. When morning comes the bedclothes, if such -they may be called, are cleared away and the board basis is used as a -table. One room holds the stove, the cooking utensils, the chairs, and -the sewing machine. The other contains the bed, the bed-clothing, and -various kinds of stored material. Eating, sleeping, and usually some -washing are done there. - -I am giving the extreme instances, unfortunately common to the point -of being numerous. In the better instances three or four people are -housed in two rooms. How many families there are that live less closely -quartered than this would not be very easy to say. On the average, five -people live in two rooms. A peddler or a pushcart man who can get to -where he can occupy two rooms, by having his wife and children work, is -certain that he is doing well. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, -go out to work. If the father cannot get work and the mother can, then -that is the order of procedure. If the daughter cannot get work and the -mother and father can, it is the daughter’s duty to take care of the -house and take in sewing. If any of the boys and girls are too young to -go out and enter the shops, duty compels them to help on the piecework -that is taken into the rooms. Everything is work, in one form or -another, from morning until night. - -As for the people themselves, they are a strange mixture of all races -and all creeds. Day after day you will see express wagons and trucks -leaving the immigration station at the Battery, loaded to crowding with -the latest arrivals, who are being taken as residents to one or another -colony of this crowded section. There are Greeks, Italians, Russians, -Poles, Syrians, Armenians and Hungarians. Jews are so numerous that -they have to be classified with the various nations whose language -they speak. All are poverty-stricken, all venturing into this new world -to make their living. The vast majority have absolutely nothing more -than the ten dollars which the immigration inspectors are compelled to -see that they have when they arrive. These people recruit the territory -in question. - -In the same hundred thousand, and under the same tenement conditions, -are many who are not foreign-born. I know personally of American -fathers who have got down to where it is necessary to work as these -foreigners work. There are home-grown American mothers who have never -been able to lift themselves above the conditions in which they find -themselves to-day. Thousands of children born and reared in New York -City are growing up under conditions which would better become a slum -section of Constantinople. - -I know a chamber in this section where, at a plain wooden bench -or table, sits a middle-aged Hungarian and his wife, with a -fifteen-year-old daughter, sewing. The Hungarian is perhaps not -honestly Gentile, for he looks as if he might have Hebrew blood in -his veins. The mother and the daughter partake of a dark olive tinge, -more characteristic of the Italian than of anything else. It must be -a coincidence, however, for these races rarely mix. Between them and -upon a nearby chair are piled many pairs of trousers, all awaiting -their labor. Two buckles and a button must be sewed on every one. The -rough edges at the bottom must be turned up and basted, and the -inside about the top must be lined with a kind of striped cotton which -is already set loosely in place. It is their duty to sew closely with -their hands what is already basted. No machine worker can do this work, -and so it is sent out to such as these, under the practice of tenement -distribution. Their duty is to finish it. - -[Illustration: Toilers of the Tenements] - -There would be no need to call attention to these people except that in -this instance they have unwittingly violated the law. Tenement workers, -under the new dispensation, cannot do exactly as they please. It is not -sufficient for them to have an innate and necessitous desire to work. -They must work under special conditions. Thus, it is now written that -the floors must be clean and the ceilings whitewashed. There must not -be any dirt on the walls. No room in which they work must have such -a thing as a bed in it, and no three people may ever work together -in one room. Law and order prescribe that one is sufficient. These -others--father and daughter, or mother and daughter, or mother and -father--should go out into the shops, leaving just one here to work. -Such is the law. - -These three people, who have only these two trades, have complied with -scarcely any of these provisions. The room is not exactly as clean as -it should be. The floor is dirty. Overhead is a smoky ceiling, and in -one corner is a bed. The two small windows before which they labor -do not give sufficient ventilation, and so the air in the chamber is -stale. Worst of all, they are working three in a chamber, and have no -license. - -“How now,” asks an inspector, opening the door--for there is very -little civility of manner observed by these agents of the law who -constantly regulate these people--“any pants being finished here?” - -“How?” says the Hungarian, looking purblindly up. It is nothing new to -him to have his privacy thus invaded. Unless he has been forewarned and -has his door locked, police and detectives, to say nothing of health -inspectors and other officials, will frequently stick their heads in -or walk in and inquire after one thing or another. Sometimes they -go leisurely through his belongings and threaten him for concealing -something. There is a general tendency to lord it over and browbeat -him, for what reason he has no conception. Other officials do it in the -old country; perhaps it is the rule here. - -“So,” says the inspector, stepping authoritatively forward, “finishing -pants, eh? All three of you? Got a license?” - -“Vot?” inquires the pale Hungarian, ceasing his labor. - -“Where is your license--your paper? Haven’t you got a paper?” - -The Hungarian, who has not been in this form of work long enough to -know the rules, puts his elbows on the table and gazes nervously into -the newcomer’s face. What is this now that the gentleman wants? His -wife looks her own inquiry and speaks of it to her daughter. - -“What is it he wants?” says the father to the child. - -“It is a paper,” returns the daughter in Hungarian. “He says we must -have a license.” - -“Paper?” repeats the Hungarian, looking up and shaking his head in the -negative. “No.” - -“Oh, so you haven’t got a license then? I thought so. Who are you -working for?” - -The father stares at the child. Seeing that he does not understand, the -inspector goes on: “The boss, the boss! What boss gave you these pants -to finish?” - -“Oh,” returns the little girl, who understands somewhat better than the -rest, “the boss, yes. He wants to know what boss gave us these pants.” -This last in a foreign tongue to her father. - -“Tell him,” says the mother in Hungarian, “that the name is Strakow.” - -“Strakow,” repeats the daughter. - -“Strakow, eh?” says the inspector. “Well, I’ll see Mr. Strakow. You -must not work on these any more. Do you hear? Listen, you,” and he -turns the little girl’s face up to him, “you tell your father that he -can’t do any more of this work until he gets a license. He must go up -to No. 1 Madison Avenue and get a paper. I don’t know whether they’ll -give it to him or not, but he can go and ask. Then he must clean this -floor. The ceiling must be whitewashed--see?” - -The little girl nods her head. - -“You can’t keep this bed in here, either,” he adds. “You must move the -bed out into the other room if you can. You mustn’t work here. Only one -can work here. Two of you must go out into the shop.” - -All the time the careworn parents are leaning forward eagerly, trying -to catch the drift of what they cannot possibly understand. Both -interrupt now and then with a “What is it?” in Hungarian, which the -daughter has no time to heed. She is so busy trying to understand half -of it herself that there is no time for explanation. Finally she says -to her parents: - -“He says we cannot all work here.” - -“Vot?” says the father. “No vork?” - -“No,” replies the daughter. “Three of us can’t work in one room. It’s -against the law. Only one. He says that only one can work in this room.” - -“How!” he exclaims, as the little girl goes on making vaguely apparent -what these orders are. As she proceeds the old fellow’s face changes. -His wife leans forward, her whole attitude expressive of keen, -sympathetic anxiety. - -“No vork?” he repeats. “I do no more vork?” - -“No,” insists the inspector, “not with three in one room.” - -The Hungarian puts out his right leg, and it becomes apparent that an -injury has befallen him. Words he pours upon his daughter, who explains -that he has been a pushcart peddler but has received a severe injury to -his leg and cannot walk. Helping to sew is all that he can do. - -“Well,” says the inspector when he hears of this, “that’s too bad, but -I can’t help it. It’s the law. You’ll have to see the department about -it. I can’t help it.” - -Astonished and distressed, the daughter explains, and then they sit in -silence. Five cents a pair is all they have been able to earn since -the time the father became expert, and all they can do, working from -five in the morning until eleven at night, is two dozen pairs a day--in -other words, to earn seven dollars and twenty cents a week. If they -delay for anything, as they often must, the income drops to six, and -quite often to five, dollars. Two dollars a week is their tax for rent. - -“So!” says the father, his mouth open. He is too deeply stricken and -nonplussed to know what to do. The mother nervously turns her hands. - -“You hear now,” says the inspector, taking out a tag and fastening it -upon the goods--“no more work. Go and see the department.” - -“How?” asks the father, staring at his helpless family after the door -has closed. - -How indeed! - -In the same round the inspector will come a little later to the shop -from which the old Hungarian secured the trousers for finishing. He -is armed with full authority over all of these places. In his pocket -lie the tags, one of which he puts on a lot of clothing just ordered -halted. If that tag is removed it is a penal offense. If it stays -on no one can touch the goods until the contractor explains to the -factory inspector how he has come to be giving garments for finishing -to dwellers in tenements who have not a license. This is a criminal -offense on his part. Now he must not touch the clothes he sent over -there. If the old Hungarian returns them he must not accept them or -pay him any money. This contractor and his clients offer a study in -themselves. - -His shop is on the third floor of a rear building, which was once -used for dwelling purposes but is now given over entirely to clothing -manufactories or sweatshops. A flight of dark, ill-odored, rickety -stairs gives access to it. There is noise and chatter audible, a thick -mixture of sounds from whirring sewing machines and muttering human -beings. When you open the door a gray-haired Hebrew, whose long beard -rests patriarchally upon his bosom, looks over his shoulders at you -from a brick furnace, where he is picking up a reheated iron. Others -glance up from their bent positions over machines and ironing-boards. -It is a shadowy, hot-odored, floor-littered room. - -“Have you a finisher doing work for you by the name of Koslovsky?” -inquires the inspector of a thin, bright-eyed Syrian Jew, who is -evidently the proprietor of this establishment. - -“Koslovsky?” he says after him, in a nervous, fawning, conciliatory -manner. “Koslovsky? What is he? No.” - -“Finisher, I said.” - -“Yes, finisher--finisher, that’s it. He does no work for me--only a -little--a pair of pants now and then.” - -“You knew that he didn’t have a license, didn’t you?” - -“No, no. I did not. No license? Did he not have a license?” - -“You’re supposed to know that. I’ve told you that before. You’ll have -to answer at the office for this. I’ve tagged his goods. Don’t you -receive them now. Do you hear?” - -“Yes,” says the proprietor excitedly. “I would not receive them. He -will get no more work from me. When did you do that?” - -“Just this morning. Your goods will go up to headquarters.” - -“So,” he replied weakly. “That is right. It is just so. Come over here.” - -The inspector follows him to a desk in the corner. - -“Could you not help me out of this?” he asks, using a queer Jewish -accent. “I did not know this once. You are a nice man. Here is a -present for you. It is funny I make this mistake.” - -“No,” returns the inspector, shaking his head. “Keep your money. I -can’t do anything. These goods are tagged. You must learn not to give -out finishing to people without a license.” - -“That is right,” he exclaims. “You are a nice man, anyhow. Keep the -money.” - -“Why should I keep the money? You’ll have to explain anyhow. I can’t do -anything for you.” - -“That is all right,” persists the other. “Keep it, anyhow. Don’t bother -me in the future. There!” - -“No, we can’t do that. Money won’t help you. Just observe the -law--that’s all I want.” - -“The law, the law,” repeats the other curiously. “That is right. I will -observe him.” - -Such is one story--almost the whole story. This employer, so nervous in -his wrongdoings, so anxious to bribe, is but a little better off than -those who work for him. - -In other tenements and rear buildings are other shops and factories, -but they all come under the same general description. Men, women and -children are daily making coats, vests, knee-pants and trousers. -There are side branches of overalls, cloaks, hats, caps, suspenders, -jerseys and blouses. Some make dresses and waists, underwear and -neckwear, waist bands, skirts, shirts and purses; still others, fur, -or fur trimmings, feathers and artificial flowers, umbrellas, and even -collars. It is all a great allied labor of needlework, needlework done -by machine and finishing work done by hand. The hundred thousand that -follow it are only those who are actually employed as supporters. All -those who are supported--the infants, school children, aged parents, -and physically disabled relatives--are left out. You may go throughout -New York and Brooklyn, and wherever you find a neighborhood poor enough -you will find these workers. They occupy the very worst of tumble-down -dwellings. Shrewd Italians, and others called padrones, sometimes lease -whole blocks from such men as William Waldorf Astor, and divide up each -natural apartment into two or three. Then these cubbyholes are leased -to the toilers, and the tenement crowding begins. - -You will see by peculiar evidences that things have been pretty bad -with these tenements in the past. For instance, between every front -and back room you will find a small window, and between every back -room and the hall, another. The construction of these was compelled by -law, because the cutting up of a single apartment into two or three -involved the sealing up of the connecting door and the shutting off of -natural circulation. Hence the state decided that a window opening into -the hall would be some improvement, anyhow, and so this window-cutting -began. It has proved of no value, however. Nearly every such window is -most certainly sealed up by the tenants themselves. - -In regard to some other matters, this cold enforcement of the present -law is, in most cases, a blessing, oppressive as it seems at times. -Men should not crowd and stifle and die in chambers where seven occupy -the natural space of one. Landlords should not compel them to, and -poverty ought to be stopped from driving them. Unless the law says -that the floor must be clean and the ceiling white, the occupants will -never find time to make them so. Unless the beds are removed from -the work-room and only one person allowed to work in one room, the -struggling “sweater” will never have less than five or six suffering -with him. Enforce such a law, and these workers, if they cannot work -unless they comply with these conditions, will comply with them, and -charge more for their labor, of course. Sweatshop manufacturers cannot -get even these to work for nothing, and landlords cannot get tenants -to rent their rooms unless they are clean enough for the law to allow -them to work in them. Hence the burden falls in a small measure on the -landlord, but not always. - -The employer or boss of a little shop, who is so nervous in wrongdoing, -so anxious to bribe, is but a helpless agent in the hands of a greater -boss. He is no foul oppressor of his fellow man. The great clothing -concerns in Broadway and elsewhere are his superiors. What they give, -he pays, barring a small profit to himself. If these people are -compelled by law to work less or under more expensive conditions, they -must receive more or starve, and the great manufactories cannot let -them actually starve. They come as near to it now as ever, but they -will pay what is absolutely essential to keep them alive; hence we see -the value of the law. - -To grow and succeed here, though, is something very different. Working, -as these people do, they have very little time for education. The great -struggle is for bread, and unless the families are closely watched, -children are constantly sent to work before they are twelve. I was -present in one necktie factory once where five of its employees were -ordered out for being without proof that they were fourteen years of -age. I have personally seen shops, up to a dozen, inspected in one -morning, and some struggling little underling ordered out from each. - -“For why you come home?” is the puzzled inquiry of the parents at night. - -“Da police maka me.” - -Down here, and all through this peculiar world, the police are -everything. They regulate the conduct, adjudicate the quarrels, -interfere with the evil-doers. The terror of them keeps many a child -studying in the school-room where otherwise it would be toiling in the -chamber at home or the shop outside. Still the struggle is against -them, and most of them grow up without any of those advantages so -common to others. - -At the same time, there are many institutions established to reach -these people. One sees Hebrew and Legal Aid Societies in large and -imposing buildings. Outdoor recreation leagues, city playgrounds, -schools, and university settlements--all are here; and yet the -percentage of opportunity is not large. Parents have to struggle too -hard. Their ignorant influence upon the lives of the young ones is too -great. - -I know a lawyer, though, of considerable local prestige, who has worked -his way out of these conditions; and Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street -south, to say nothing of many other streets, is lined with the signs -of those who have overcome the money difficulty of lives begun under -these conditions. Unfortunately the money problem, once solved, is not -the only thing in the world. Their lives, although they reach to the -place where they have gold signs, automobiles and considerable private -pleasures, are none the more beautiful. Too often, because of these -early conditions, they remain warped, oppressive, greedy and distorted -in every worthy mental sense by the great fight they have made to get -their money. - -Nearly the only ideal that is set before these strugglers still toiling -in the area, is the one of getting money. A hundred thousand children, -the sons and daughters of working parents whose lives are as difficult -as that of the Hungarian portrayed and whose homes are as unlovely, -are inoculated in infancy with the doctrine that wealth is all,--the -shabbiest and most degrading doctrine that can be impressed upon -anyone. - - - - -THE END OF A VACATION - - -It was the close of summer. The great mountain and lake areas to the -north of New York were pouring down their thousands into the hot, -sun-parched city. Vast throngs were coming back on the steamboats -of the Hudson. Vaster throngs were crowding the hourly trains which -whirled and thundered past the long lane of villages which stretches -between Albany and New York City. The great station at Albany was -packed with a perspiring mass. The several fast expresses running -without stop to New York City were overwhelmed. Particularly was the -Empire State Express full. In the one leaving Albany at eight in the -evening passengers were standing in the aisles. - -It was a little, dark, wolf of a man who fought his way and that of his -wife behind him to the car steps, and out of the scrambling, pushing -throng rescued a car seat. He put his back against those who were -behind and stood still until his wife could crowd in. Then he took his -place beside her and looked grimly around. For her part, she arranged -herself indifferently and looked wearily out of the window. She was -dark, piquant, petite, attractive. - -[Illustration: The Close of Summer] - -Behind these two there came another person, who seemed not so anxious -for a seat. While others were pushing eagerly he stepped to one -side, holding his place close to the little wolf man yet looking -indifferently about him. He was young, ruddy, stalwart, an artist’s -ideal of what a summer youth ought to be. And now and then he looked in -the direction of the wolf man’s wife. But there appeared to be nothing -of common understanding between them. - -The train pulled out with a slow clacking sound. It gained in headway, -and lights of yard engines and those of other cars, as well as street -lamps and houses, flashed into view and out again. Then came the long -darkness of the open country and the river bank, and the people settled -to endure the several hours in such comfort as they could. Some read -newspapers, some books. The majority stared wearily out of the window, -not attempting to talk. They were tired. The joys of their vacations -were behind them. Why talk, with New York and early work ahead? - -In the midst of these stood the young athlete, ruminating. In his seat -before him sat the wolf man, studying a notebook. Beside him, the -young wife, dark, piquant, nervously restless, kept her face to the -window, arranging her back hair now and then with a jeweled hand, and -occasionally turning her face inward to look at the car. It was as if -a vast gulf lay between her and her spouse, as if they were miles and -miles apart, and yet they were obviously married. You could see that by -the curt, gruff questions he addressed to her, by the quick, laconic, -uninterpretative replies. She was weary and so was he. - -The train neared Poughkeepsie. For the twentieth or more time the -jeweled hand had felt the back of her dark piled-up hair. For the -fourth or fifth time the elbow had rested on the back of the seat, -the hand falling lazily toward her cheek. Just once it dropped full -length along the back ridge, safely above and beyond her husband’s -head and toward the hand of the standing athlete, who appeared totally -unconscious of the gesture. Then it was withdrawn. A stir of interest -seemed to go with it, a quick glance. There was something missing. The -athlete was not looking. - -At Yonkers the crowd was already beginning to stir and pull itself -together. At Highbridge it was dragging satchels from the bundle racks -and from beneath the seats. The little wolf man was closing up his -notebook, looking darkly around. For the thirtieth time the jeweled -hand felt of the dark hair, the elbow rested on the seat-top, and -then for the second time the arm slipped out and rested full length, -the hand touching an elbow which was now resting wearily, holding the -shoulder and supporting the chin of the man who was standing. There was -the throb as of an electric contact. The elbow rose ever so slightly -and pressed the fingers. The eyes of the wolf’s wife met the eyes of -her summer ideal, and there stood revealed a whole summer romance, -bright sun-shades, lovely flowers, green grass, trysting-places, -a dark, dangerous romance, with a grim, unsuspecting wolf in the -background. The arm was withdrawn, the hair touched, the window turned -to wearily. All was over. - -And yet you could see how it might continue, could feel that it would. -In the very mood of the two was indicated ways and means. But now -this summer contact was temporarily over. The train rolled into Grand -Central Station. The crowd arose. There was a determined shuffle -forward of the wolf man, with his wife close behind him, and both -were gone. The athlete followed respectfully after. He gave the wolf -man and his wife a wide berth. He followed, however, and looked and -thought--backward into the summer, no doubt, and forward. - - - - -THE TRACK WALKER - - -If you have nothing else to do some day when you are passing through -the vast network of subway or railway tracks of any of the great -railways running northward or westward or eastward out of New York, -give a thought to the man who walks them for you, the man on whom your -safety, in this particular place, so much depends. - -He is a peculiar individual. His work is so very exceptional, so very -different from your own. While you are sitting in your seat placidly -wondering whether you are going to have a pleasant evening at the -theater or whether the business to which you are about to attend will -be as profitable as you desire, he is out on the long track over which -you are speeding, calmly examining the bolts that hold the shining -metals together. Neither rain nor sleet may deter him. The presence -of intense heat or intense cold or dirt or dust is not permitted to -interfere with his work. Day after day, at all hours and in all sorts -of weather, he may be seen quietly plodding these iron highways, his -wrench and sledge crossed over his shoulders, and if it be night, or -in the subway, a lantern over one arm, his eyes riveted on the rails, -carefully watching to see if any bolts are loose or any spikes sprung. -In the subway or the New York Central Tunnel, upward of two hundred -cannon-ball flyers rush by him each day, on what might be called a -four-track or ten-track bowling alley, and yet he dodges them all for -perhaps as little as any laborer is paid. If he were not watchful, if -he did not perform his work carefully and well, if he had a touch of -malice or a feeling of vengefulness, he could wreck your train, mangle -your body and send you praying and screaming to your Maker. There would -be no sure way of detecting him. - -Death lurks on the path he travels--subway or railway. Here, if -anywhere, it may be said to be constantly lurking. What with the noise, -which, in some places, like the subway and the various tunnels, is a -perfect and continuous uproar, the smoke, which hangs like a thick, -gloomy pall over everything, and the weak, ineffective lights which -shine out on your near approach like will-o’-the-wisps, the chances of -hearing and seeing the approach of any particular train are small. Side -arches, or small pockets in the walls, in some places, are provided for -the protection of the men, but these are not always to be reached in -time when a train thunders out of the gloom. If you look sharp you may -sometimes see a figure crouching in one of these as you scurry past. He -is so close to the grinding wheels that the dust and soot of them are -flung over him like a spray. - -And yet for all this, the money that is paid these men is beggarly -small. The work they do is not considered exceptionally valuable. -Thirty to thirty-five cents an hour is all they are paid, and this -for ten to twelve hours’ work every day. That their lives are in -constant danger is not a factor in the matter. They are supposed to -work willingly for this, and they do. Only when one is picked off, -his body mangled by a passing train, is the grimness of the sacrifice -emphasized, and then only for a moment. The space which such accidents -receive in the public prints is scarcely more than a line. - -And now, what would you say of men who would do this work for so -little? What estimate would you put on their mental capacity? Would you -say that they are worth only what they can be made to work for? One of -these men, an intelligent type of laborer, not a drinker nor one who -even smoked, attracted my attention once by the punctuality with which -he crossed a given spot on his beat. He was a middle-aged man, married, -and had three children. Day after day, week after week, he used to -arrive at this particular spot, his eye alert, his step quick, and when -a train approached he seemed to become aware of it as if by instinct. -When finally asked by me why he did not get something better to do, he -said: “I have no trade. Where could I get more?” - -This man was killed by a train. Sure as was his instinct and keen his -eye, he was nevertheless caught one evening, and at the very place -where he deemed himself most sure. His head was completely obliterated, -and he had to be identified by his clothes. When he was removed, -another eager applicant was given his place, and now he is walking the -same tunnel with a half-dozen others. If you question these men they -will all tell you the same story. They do not want to do what they are -doing, but it is better than nothing. - -Rough necessity, a sense of duty, and behold, we are as bricks and -stones, to be put anywhere in the wall, at the bottom of the foundation -in the dark, or at the top in the light. And who chooses for us? - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE REALIZATION OF AN IDEAL - - Any quality to which the heart of man aspires it may attain. - Would you have virtue in the world, establish it yourself. - Would you have tenderness, be tender. It is only by acting - in the name of that which you deem to be an ideal that its - realization is brought to pass. - - -In the crowded section of the lower East Side of New York, where -poverty reigns most distressingly, there stands a church which is -a true representative of the religion of the poor. It is an humble -building, crowded in among the flats and tenements that make the homely -neighborhood homelier, and sends a crude and distorted spire soaring -significantly toward the sky. There is but little light inside, for -that which the crowded flat-buildings about does not shut out is -weakened by the dusty stained-glass windows through which it has to -pass. An arched and dark-angled ceiling lends a sense of dignity to it -and over it all broods the solemn atmosphere of simplicity and faith. - -It is in this church (and no doubt others of a similar character -elsewhere) that is constantly recurring the miracle of earthly faith. -Here it is, hour after hour, that one sees entering out of the welter -and the din of the streets those humble examples of the poor and -ignorant, who come here out of the cares of many other states to -rest a while and pray. - -[Illustration: The Realization of an Ideal] - -Near the door, between two large, gloomy pillars, there is a huge -wooden cross, whereon is hung a life-size figure of the Christ. The -hands and feet are pierced with the customary large forty-penny weight -nails. The side is opened with an appalling gash, the forehead is -crowned with the undying crown of thorns, which is driven down until -the flesh is made to bleed. - -Before this figure you may see kneeling, any day, not one but many -specimens of those by whom the world has dealt very poorly. Their -hands are rough, their faces worn and dull; on the gnarled and weary -bodies are hung clothes of which you and I would be ashamed. Some carry -bags, others huge bundles. With hands extended upward, their faces -bearing the imprint of unquestioning faith, they look into the soft, -pain-exhausted face of the Christ, imploring that aid and protection -which the ordinary organization of society does not and cannot afford. -It is in this church, as it seems to me, that the hour’s great lesson -of tenderness is given. - -I call the world’s attention to this picture with the assurance that -this is the great, the beautiful, and the important lesson. If there -be those who do not see in the body-racked figure of Christ an honest -reiteration of an actual event, who cannot honestly admit that such a -thing could have reasonably occurred, there is still a lesson just as -impressive and just as binding as though it had. These people whom you -see kneeling here and lifting up their hands present an actuality of -faith which cannot be denied. This Christ, if to you and to me a myth, -is to them a reality. And in so far as He is real to them He implies an -ardent desire on the part of the whole human race for tenderness and -mercy which it may be as well not to let go unanswered. For if Christ -did not suffer, if His whole life-story was a fiction and a delusion, -then all the yearning and all the faith of endless millions of men, who -have lived believing and who died adoring, only furnishes proof that -the race really needs such an ideal--that it must have tenderness and -mercy to fly to or it could not exist. - -Man is a hopeful animal. He lives by the belief that some good must -accrue to him or that his life is not worth the living. It is this -faith then, that in disaster or hours of all but unendurable misery -causes him to turn in supplication to a higher power, and unless these -prayers are in some measure answered, that faith can and will be -destroyed, and life will and does become a shambles indeed. Hence, if -one would balance peace against danger and death it becomes necessary -for each to act as though the ideals of the world are in some sense -real and that he in person is sponsor for them. - -These prayers that are put up, and these supplications, if not -addressed to the actual Christ, are nevertheless sent to that sum of -human or eternal wisdom or sympathy as you will of which we are a part. -If you believe that hope is beautiful and that mercy is a virtue, if -you would have the world more lovely and its inhabitants more kind, if -you would have goodness triumph and sorrow laid aside, then you must -be ready to make good to such supplicants and supplications as fall to -you the virtues thus pathetically appealed to. You must act in the name -of tenderness. If you cannot or will not, by so much is the realization -of human ideals, the possibility of living this life at all decently by -any, made less. - - - - -THE PUSHCART MAN - - -One of the most appealing and interesting elements in city life, -particularly that metropolitan city life which characterizes New York, -is the pushcart man. This curious creature of modest intellect and -varying nationality infests all the highways of the great city without -actually dominating any of them except a few streets on the East Side. -He is as hard-working, in the main, as he is ubiquitous. His cart is so -shabby, his stock in trade so small. If he actually earns a reasonable -wage it is by dint of great energy and mere luck, for the officers of -the law in apparently every community find in the presence of this -person an alluring source of profit and he is picked and grafted upon -as is perhaps no other member of the commonplace brotherhood of trade. - -I like to see them trundling their two-wheeled vehicles about the city, -and I like to watch the patience and the care with which they exercise -their barely tolerated profession of selling. You see them everywhere; -vendors of fruit, vegetables, chestnuts on the East Side, selling even -dry goods, hardware, furs and groceries; and elsewhere again the Greeks -selling neckwear, flowers and curios, the latter things at which an -ordinary man would look askance, but which the lower levels of society -somehow find useful. - -I have seen them tramping in long files across Williamsburg Bridge at -one, two and three o’clock in the morning to the Wallabout Market in -Brooklyn. And I have seen them clambering over hucksters’ wagons there -and elsewhere searching for the choicest bits, which they hope to sell -quickly. The market men have small consideration for them and will as -lief strike or kick at them as to reach a bargain with them. - -For one thing, I remember watching an old pushcart vendor one -sweltering afternoon in summer from one o’clock in the afternoon -to seven the same evening, and I was never more impressed with the -qualities which make for success in this world, qualities which are -rare in American life, or in any life, for that matter, for patience -and good nature and sturdy charitable endurance are not common -qualities anywhere. - -He had his stand at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street, New York, -then the center of the shopping life of the city--or I had better -say that he attempted to keep it there, for he was not altogether -successful. He was a dark, gray-headed, grizzle-cheeked “guinea” or -“dago,” as he was scornfully dubbed by the Irish policeman who made his -life a burden. His eye was keen, his motion quick, his general bodily -make-up active, despite the fact that he was much over fifty years of -age. - -“That’s a good one,” the Irish policeman observed to me in passing, -noting that I was looking at him. “He’s a fox. A fine time I have -keeping my eye on him.” - -The old Italian seemed to realize that we were talking about him for -he shifted the position of his cart nervously, moving it forward a -few feet. Finding himself undisturbed, he remained there. Presently, -however, a heavy ice-wagon lumbered up from the west and swung in with -a reckless disregard of the persons, property and privileges of the -vendors who were thus unobtrusively grouped together. At the same time -the young Irish-American driver raised his voice in a mighty bellow: - -“Get out of there! Move on out! What the hell d’ye want to block up the -street for, anyway? Go on!” - -With facile manipulation of his reins he threw his wagon tongue -deliberately among them and did his best to cause some damage in order -to satisfy his own passing irritation. - -All three vendors jumped to the task of extricating their carts, but I -could not help distinguishing the oldest of the three for the dexterity -with which he extricated his and the peaceful manner in which he pushed -it away. The lines of his face remained practically undisturbed. All -his actions denoted a remarkable usedness to difficulty. Not once did -he look back, either to frown or complain. Instead, his only concern -was to discover the whereabouts of the policeman. For him he searched -the great crowd in every direction, even craning his neck a little. -When he had satisfied himself that the coast was clear, he pushed in -close to the sidewalk again and began his wait for customers. - -While he was thus waiting the condition of his cart and the danger of -an unobserved descent on the part of a policeman engaged his entire -attention. Some few peaches had fallen awry, and these he busily -straightened. One pile of those which he was selling “two for five” -had now become low and this he replenished from baskets of hitherto -undisturbed peaches, carefully dusting the fuzz off each one with -a small brush in order to heighten their beauty and add to the -attractiveness of the pile. Incidentally his eye was upon the crowd, -for every once in a while his arm would stretch out in a most dramatic -manner, inviting a possible purchaser with his subtle glance. - -[Illustration: The Push-cart Man] - -“Peaches! Fine! Peaches! Fine! Fine!” - -Whenever a customer came close enough, these words were called to him -in a soft, persuasive tone. He would bend gracefully forward, pick up -a peach as if the mere lifting of it were a sufficient inducement, -take up a paper bag as if the possible transaction were an assured -thing, and look engagingly into the passerby’s eyes. When it was really -settled that a purchase was intended, no word, however brief, could -fail to convey to him the import of the situation and the number of -peaches desired. - -“Five--ten.” The mention of a sum of money. “These,” or your hand held -up, would bring quickly what you desired. - -Grace was the perfect word with which to describe this man’s actions. - -From one until seven o’clock of this sweltering afternoon, every moment -of his time was occupied. The police made it difficult for him to earn -his living, for the simple reason that they were constantly making him -move on. Not only the regular policemen of the beat, but the officers -of the crossing, and the wandering wayfarers from other precincts all -came forward at different times and hurried him away. - -“Get out, now!” ordered one, in a rough and even brutal tone. “Move on. -If I catch you around here any more to-day I’ll lock you up.” - -The old Italian lowered his eyes and hustled his cart out into the sun. - -“And don’t you come back here any more,” the policeman called after -him; then turning to me he exclaimed: “Begob, a man pays a big license -to keep a store, and these dagos come in front of his place and take -all his business. They ought to be locked up--all of them.” - -“Haven’t they a right to stand still for a moment?” I inquired. - -“They have,” he said, “but they haven’t any right to stand in front of -any man’s place when he don’t want them there. They drive me crazy, -keeping them out of here. I’ll shoot some of them yet.” - -I looked about to see what if any business could be injured by their -stopping and selling fruit, but found only immense establishments -dealing in dry goods, drugs, furniture and the like. Some one may have -complained, but it looked much more like an ordinary case of official -bumptiousness or irritation. - -At that time, being interested in such types, I chose to follow this -one, to see what sort of a home life lay behind him. It was not -difficult. By degrees, and much harried by the police, his cart with -only a partially depleted stock was pushed to the lower East Side, -in Elizabeth Street, to be exact. Here he and his family--a wife and -three or four children--occupied two dingy rooms in a typical East Side -tenement. Whether he was at peace with his swarthy, bewrinkled old -helpmate I do not know, but he appeared to be, and with his several -partially grown children. On his return, two of them, a boy and a -girl, greeted him cheerfully, and later, finding me interested and -following him, and assuming that I was an officer of the law, quickly -explained to me what their father did. - -“He’s a peddler,” said the boy. “He peddles fruit.” - -“And where does he get his fruit?” I asked. - -“Over by the Wallabout. He goes over in the morning.” - -I recalled seeing the long procession of vendors beating a devious way -over the mile or more of steel bridge that spans the East River at -Delancey Street, at one and two and three of a winter morning. Could -this old man be one of these tramping over and tramping back before -daylight? - -“Do you mean to say that he goes over every day?” - -“Sure.” - -The old gentleman, by now sitting by a front window waiting for his -dinner and gazing down into the sun-baked street not at all cooled by -the fall of night, looked down and for some reason smiled. I presume he -had seen me earlier in the afternoon. He could not know what we were -talking about, however, but he sensed something. Or perhaps it was -merely a feeling of the need of being pleasant. - -Upon making my way to the living room and kitchen, as I did, knowing -that I could offer a legal pretext, I found the same shabby and dark, -but not dirty. An oil stove burned dolefully in the rear. Mrs. Pushcart -Man was busy about the evening meal. - -The smirks. The genuflections. - -“And how much does your father make a day?” I finally asked, after some -other questions. - -This is a lawless question anywhere. It earned its own reward. The son -inquired of the father in Italian. The latter tactfully shrugged his -shoulders and held out his hands. His wife laughed and shrugged her -shoulders. - -“‘One, two dollars,’ he says,” said the boy. - -There was no going back of that. He might have made more. Why should he -tell anybody--the police or any one else? - -And so I came away. - -But the case of this one seemed to me to be so typical of the lot -of many in our great cities. All of us are so pushed by ambition as -well as necessity. Yet all the feelings and intuitions of the average -American-born citizen are more or less at variance with so shrewd an -acceptance of difficulties. We hurry more, fret and strain more, and -yet on the whole pretend to greater independence. But have we it? I am -sure not. When one looks at the vast army of clerks and underlings, -pushing, scheming, straining at their social leashes so hopelessly -and wearing out their hearts and brains in a fruitless effort to be -what they cannot, one knows that they are really no better off and one -wishes for them a measure of this individual’s enduring patience. - - - - -A VANISHED SEASIDE RESORT - - -At Broadway and Twenty-third Street, where later, on this and some -other ground, the once famed Flatiron Building was placed, there stood -at one time a smaller building, not more than six stories high, the -northward looking blank wall of which was completely covered with a -huge electric sign which read: - - SWEPT BY OCEAN BREEZES - THE GREAT HOTELS - PAIN’S FIREWORKS - SOUSA’S BAND - SEIDL’S GREAT ORCHESTRA - THE RACES - NOW--MANHATTAN BEACH--NOW - -Each line was done in a different color of lights, light green for the -ocean breezes, white for Manhattan Beach and the great hotels, red for -Pain’s fireworks and the races, blue and yellow for the orchestra and -band. As one line was illuminated the others were made dark, until -all had been flashed separately, when they would again be flashed -simultaneously and held thus for a time. Walking up or down Broadway -of a hot summer night, this sign was an inspiration and an invitation. -It made one long to go to Manhattan Beach. I had heard as much or more -about Atlantic City and Coney Island, but this blazing sign lifted -Manhattan Beach into rivalry with fairyland. - -“Where is Manhattan Beach?” I asked of my brother once on my first -coming to New York. “Is it very far from here?” - -“Not more than fifteen miles,” he replied. “That’s the place you ought -to see. I’ll take you there on Sunday if you will stay that long.” - -Since I had been in the city only a day or two, and Sunday was close at -hand, I agreed. When Sunday came we made our way, via horse-cars first -to the East Thirty-fourth Street ferry and then by ferry and train, -eventually reaching the beach about noon. - -Never before, except possibly at the World’s Fair in Chicago, had I -ever seen anything to equal this seaward-moving throng. The day was hot -and bright, and all New York seemed anxious to get away. The crowded -streets and ferries and trains! Indeed, Thirty-fourth Street near the -ferry was packed with people carrying bags and parasols and all but -fighting each other to gain access to the dozen or more ticket windows. -The boat on which we crossed was packed to suffocation, and all such -ferries as led to Manhattan Beach of summer week-ends for years -afterward, or until the automobile arrived, were similarly crowded. -The clerk and his prettiest girl, the actress and her admirer, the -actor and his playmate, brokers, small and exclusive tradesmen, men -of obvious political or commercial position, their wives, daughters, -relatives and friends, all were outbound toward this much above the -average resort. - -It was some such place, I found, as Atlantic City and Asbury Park are -to-day, yet considerably more restricted. There was but one way to get -there, unless one could travel by yacht or sail-boat, and that was -via train service across Long Island. As for carriage roads to this -wonderful place there were none, the intervening distance being in part -occupied by marsh grass and water. The long, hot, red trains leaving -Long Island City threaded a devious way past many pretty Long Island -villages, until at last, leaving possible home sites behind, the road -took to the great meadows on trestles, and traversing miles of bending -marsh grass astir in the wind, and crossing a half hundred winding and -mucky lagoons where lay water as agate in green frames and where were -white cranes, their long legs looking like reeds, standing in the water -or the grass, and the occasional boat of a fisherman hugging some mucky -bank, it arrived finally at the white sands of the sea and this great -scene. White sails of small yachts, the property of those who used -some of these lagoons as a safe harbor, might be seen over the distant -grass, their sails full spread, as one sped outward on these trains. It -was romance, poetry, fairyland. - -And the beach, with its great hotels, held and contained all summer -long all that was best and most leisurely and pleasure-loving in New -York’s great middle class of that day. There were, as I knew all the -time, other and more exclusive or worse beaches, such as those at -Newport and Coney Island, but this was one which served a world which -was plainly between the two, a world of politicians and merchants, -and dramatic and commercial life generally. I never saw so many -prosperous-looking people in one place, more with better and smarter -clothes, even though they were a little showy. The straw hat with -its blue or striped ribbon, the flannel suit with its accompanying -white shoes, light cane, the pearl-gray derby, the check suit, the -diamond and pearl pin in necktie, the silk shirt. What a cool, summery, -airy-fairy realm! - -And the women! I was young and not very experienced at the time, hence -the effect, in part. But as I stepped out of the train at the beach -that day and walked along the boardwalks which paralleled the sea, -looking now at the blue waters and their distant white sails, now at -the great sward of green before the hotels with its formal beds of -flowers and its fountains, and now at the enormous hotels themselves, -the Manhattan and the Oriental, each with its wide veranda packed with -a great company seated at tables or in rockers, eating, drinking, -smoking and looking outward over gardens to the blue sea beyond, I -could scarcely believe my eyes--the airy, colorful, summery costumes of -the women who made it, the gay, ribbony, flowery hats, the brilliant -parasols, the beach swings and chairs and shades and the floating -diving platforms. And the costumes of the women bathing. I had never -seen a seaside bathing scene before. It seemed to me that the fabled -days of the Greeks had returned. These were nymphs, nereids, sirens in -truth. Old Triton might well have raised his head above the blue waves -and sounded his spiral horn. - -And now my brother explained to me that here in these two enormous -hotels were crowded thousands who came here and lived the summer -through. The wealth, as I saw it then, which permitted this! Some few -Western senators and millionaires brought their yachts and private -cars. Senator Platt, the State boss, along with one or more of the -important politicians of the State, made the Oriental, the larger and -more exclusive of the two hotels, his home for the summer. Along the -verandas of these two hotels might be seen of a Saturday afternoon -or of a Sunday almost the entire company of Brooklyn and New York -politicians and bosses, basking in the shade and enjoying the beautiful -view and the breezes. It was no trouble for any one acquainted with the -city to point out nearly all of those most famous on Broadway and in -the commercial and political worlds. They swarmed here. They lolled and -greeted and chatted. The bows and the recognitions were innumerable. By -dusk it seemed as though nearly all had nodded or spoken to each other. - -And the interesting and to me different character of the amusements -offered here! Out over the sea, at one end of the huge Manhattan Hotel, -had been built a circular pavilion of great size, in which by turns -were housed Seidl’s great symphony orchestra and Sousa’s band. Even now -I can hear the music carried by the wind of the sea. As we strolled -along the beach wall or sat upon one or the other of the great verandas -we could hear the strains of either the orchestra or the band. Beyond -the hotels, in a great field surrounded by a board fence, began at -dusk, at which time the distant lighthouses over the bay were beginning -to blink, a brilliant display of fireworks, almost as visible to the -public as to those who paid a dollar to enter the grounds. Earlier in -the afternoon I saw many whose only desire appeared to be to reach the -race track in time for the afternoon races. There were hundreds and -even thousands of others to whom the enclosed beach appeared to be all. -The hundreds of dining-tables along the veranda of the Manhattan facing -the sea seemed to call to still other hundreds. And yet again the walks -among the parked flowers, the wide walk along the sea, and the more -exclusive verandas of the Oriental, which provided no restaurant but -plenty of rocking-chairs, seemed to draw still other hundreds, possibly -thousands. - -But the beauty of it all, the wonder, the airy, insubstantial, almost -transparent quality of it all! Never before had I seen the sea, and -here it was before me, a great, blue, rocking floor, its distant -horizon dotted with white sails and the smoke of but faintly visible -steamers dissolving in the clear air above them. Wide-winged gulls were -flying by. Hardy rowers in red and yellow and green canoes paddled -an uncertain course beyond the breaker line. Flowers most artfully -arranged decorated the parapet of the porch, and about us rose a babel -of laughing and joking voices, while from somewhere came the strains of -a great orchestra, this time within one of the hotels, mingling betimes -with the smash of the waves beyond the seawall. And as dusk came on, -the lights of the lighthouses, and later the glimmer of the stars above -the water, added an impressive and to me melancholy quality to it all. -It was so insubstantial and yet so beautiful. I was so wrought up by it -that I could scarcely eat. Beauty, beauty, beauty--that was the message -and the import of it all, beauty that changes and fades and will -not stay. And the eternal search for beauty. By the hard processes -of trade, profit and loss, and the driving forces of ambition and -necessity and the love of and search for pleasure, this very wonderful -thing had been accomplished. Unimportant to me then, how hard some of -these people looked, how selfish or vain or indifferent! By that which -they sought and bought and paid for had this thing been achieved, and -it was beautiful. How sweet the sea here, how beautiful the flowers -and the music and these parading men and women. I saw women and girls -for the favor of any one of whom, in the first flush of youthful -ebullience and ignorance, I imagined I would have done anything. And -at the very same time I was being seized with a tremendous depression -and dissatisfaction with myself. Who was I? What did I amount to? -What must one do to be worthy of all this? How little of all this had -I known or would ever know! How little of true beauty or fortune or -love! It mattered not that life for me was only then beginning, that I -was seeing much and might yet see much more; my heart was miserable. -I could have invested and beleaguered the world with my unimportant -desires and my capacity. How dare life, with its brutal non-perception -of values, withhold so much from one so worthy as myself and give so -much to others? Why had not the dice of fortune been loaded in my favor -instead of theirs? Why, why, why? I made a very doleful companion for -my very good brother, I am sure. - -And yet, at that very time I was asking myself who was I that I should -complain so, and why was I not content to wait? Those about me, as -I told myself, were better swimmers, that was all. There was nothing -to be done about it. Life cared no whit for anything save strength -and beauty. Let one complain as one would, only beauty or strength -or both would save one. And all about, in sky and sea and sun, was -that relentless force, illimitable oceans of it, which seemed not to -know man, yet one tiny measure of which would make him of the elect -of the earth. In the dark, over the whispering and muttering waters, -and under the bright stars and in eyeshot of the lamps of the sea, I -hung brooding, listening, thinking; only, after a time, to return to -the hot city and the small room that was mine to meditate on what life -could do for one if it would. The flowers it could strew in one’s path! -The beauty it could offer one--without price, as I then imagined--the -pleasures with which it could beset one’s path. - -With what fever and fury it is that the heart seeks in youth. How -intensely the little flame of life burns! And yet where is its true -haven? What is it that will truly satisfy it? Has any one ever -found it? In subsequent years I came by some of the things which my -soul at that time so eagerly craved, the possession of which I then -imagined would satisfy me, but was mine or any other heart ever really -satisfied? No. And again no. - -Each day the sun rises, and with it how few with whom a sense of -contentment dwells! For each how many old dreams unfulfilled, old and -new needs unsatisfied. Onward, onward is the lure; what life may still -do, not what it has done, is the all-important. And to ask of any one -that he count his blessings is but an ungrateful bit of meddling at -best. He will none of it. At twenty, at thirty, at sixty, at eighty, -the lure is still there, however feeble. More and ever more. Only the -wearing of the body, the snapping of the string, the weakening of the -inherent urge, ends the search. And with it comes the sad by-thought -that what is not realized here may never again be anywhere. For if -not here, where is that which could satisfy it as it is here? Of all -pathetic dreams that which pictures a spiritual salvation elsewhere for -one who has failed in his dreams here is the thinnest and palest, a -beggar’s dole indeed. But that youthful day by the sea! - - * * * * * - -Twenty-five years later I chanced to visit a home on the very site -of one of these hotels, a home which was a part of a new real-estate -division. But of that old, sweet, fair, summery life not a trace. Gone -were the great hotels, the wall, the flowers, the parklike nature of -the scene. In twenty-five years the beautiful circular pavilion had -fallen into the sea and a part of the grounds of the great Manhattan -Hotel had been eaten away by winter storms. The Jersey Coast, -Connecticut, Atlantic City, aided by the automobile, had superseded -and effaced all this. Even the great Oriental, hanging on for a few -years and struggling to accommodate itself to new conditions, had at -last been torn down. Only the beach remained, and even that was changed -to meet new conditions. The land about and beyond the hotels had been -filled in, planted to trees, divided by streets and sold to those who -craved the freshness of this seaside isle. - -But of this older place not one of those with whom I visited knew -aught. They had never seen it, had but dimly heard of it. So clouds -gather in the sky, are perchance illuminated by the sun, dissolve, and -are gone. And youth, viewing old realms of grandeur or terror, views -the world as new, untainted, virgin, a realm to be newly and freshly -exploited--as, in truth, it ever is. - -But we who were----! - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE BREAD-LINE - - -It is such an old subject in New York. It has been here so long. For -thirty-five or forty years newspapers and magazines have discussed the -bread-line, and yet there it is, as healthy and vigorous a feature of -the city as though it were something to be desired. And it has grown -from a few applicants to many, from a small line to a large one. And -now it is a sight, an institution, like a cathedral or a monument. - -A curious thing, when you come to think of it. Poverty is not -desirable. Its dramatic aspect may be worth something to those who are -not poor, for prosperous human nature takes considerable satisfaction -in proclaiming: “Lord, I am not as other men,” and having it proved -to itself. But this thing, from any point of view is a pathetic and a -disagreeable thing, something you would feel the city as a corporation -would prefer to avoid. And yet there it is. - -For the benefit of those who have not seen it I will describe it again, -though the task is a wearisome one and I have quite another purpose -than that of description in doing so. The scene is the side door of -a bakery, once located at Ninth Street and Broadway, and now moved -to Tenth and Broadway, the line extending toward the west and Fifth -Avenue, where formerly it was to the east and Fourth Avenue. It is -composed of the usual shabby figures, men of all ages, from fifteen -or younger to seventy. The line is not allowed to form before eleven -o’clock, and at this hour perhaps a single figure will shamble around -the corner and halt on the edge of the sidewalk. Then others, for -though they appear to come slowly, some dubiously, they almost all -arrive one at a time. Haste is seldom manifest in their approach. -Figures appear from every direction, limping slowly, slouching -stupidly, or standing with assumed or real indifference, until the end -of the line is reached, when they take their places and wait. - -A low murmur of conversation begins after a time, but for the most part -the men stand in stupid, unbroken silence. Here and there may be two -or three talkative ones, and if you pass close enough you will hear -every topic of the times discussed or referred to, except those which -are supposed to interest the poor. Wretchedness, poverty, hunger and -distress are seldom mentioned. The possibilities of a match between -prize-ring favorites, the day’s evidence in the latest murder trial, -the chance of war somewhere, the latest improvements in automobiles, a -flying machine, the prosperity or depression of some other portion of -the world, or the mistakes of the government at Washington--these, or -others like them, are the topics of whatever conversation is held. It -is for the most part a rambling, disconnected conversation. - -“Wait until Dreyfus gets out of prison,” said one to his little -black-eyed neighbor one night, years ago, “and you’ll see them guys -fallin’ on his neck.” - -“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t,” the other muttered. “Them -Frenchmen ain’t strong for Jews.” - -The passing of a Broadway car awakens a vague idea of progress, and -some one remarks: “They’ll have them things runnin’ by compressed air -before we know it.” - -“I’ve driv’ mule-cars by here myself,” replies another. - -A few moments before twelve a great box of bread is pushed outside -the door, and exactly on the hour a portly, round-faced German takes -his position by it, and calls: “Ready!” The whole line at once, like -a well-drilled company of regulars, moves quickly, in good marching -time, diagonally across the sidewalk to the inner edge and pushes, with -only the noise of tramping feet, past the box. Each man reaches for a -loaf and, breaking line, wanders off by himself. Most of them do not -even glance at their bread but put it indifferently under their coats -or in their pockets. They betake themselves heaven knows where--to -lodging houses, park benches (if it be summer), hall-bedrooms possibly, -although in most cases it is doubtful if they possess one, or to -charitable missions of the poor. It is a small thing to get, a loaf -of dry bread, but from three hundred to four hundred men will gather -nightly from one year’s end to the other to get it, and so it has its -significance. - -The thing that I protest against is that it endures. It would be so -easy, as it seems to me, in a world of even moderate organization to -do something that would end a spectacle of this kind once and for all, -if it were no more than a law to destroy the inefficient. I say this -not in cruelty but more particularly with the intention of awakening -thought. There is so much to do. In America the nation’s roads have not -even begun to be made. Over vast stretches of the territory of the -world the land is not tilled. There is not a tithe made of what the -rank and file could actually use. Most of us are wanting strenuously -for something. - -A rule that would cause the arrest of a man in this situation would -be merciful. A compulsory labor system that would involve regulation -of hours, medical treatment, restoration of health, restoration of -courage, would soon put an end to the man who is “down and out.” He -would of course be down and out to the extent that he had fallen into -the clutches of this machine, but he would at least be on the wheel -that might bring him back or destroy him utterly. It is of no use -to say that life cannot do anything for the inefficient. It can. It -does. And the haphazard must, and in the main does, give way to the -well-organized. And the injured man need not be allowed to bleed to -death. If a man is hurt accidentally a hospital wagon comes quickly. If -he is broken in spirit, moneyless, afraid, nothing is done. Yet he is -in far greater need of the hospital wagon than the other. The treatment -should be different, that is all. - -[Illustration] - - - - -OUR RED SLAYER - - -If you wish to see an exemplification of the law of life, the survival -of one by the failure and death of another, go some day to any one of -the great abattoirs which to-day on the East River, or in Jersey City, -or elsewhere near the great metropolis receive and slay annually the -thousands and hundreds of thousands of animals that make up a part of -the city’s meat supply. And there be sure and see, also, the individual -who, as your agent and mine, is vicariously responsible for the awful -slaughter. You will find him in a dark, red pit, blood-covered, -standing in a sea of blood, while hour after hour and day after day -there passes before him a line of screaming animals, hung by one leg, -head down, and rolling steadily along a rail, which is slanted to get -the benefit of gravity, while he, knife in hand, jabs unweariedly at -their throats, the task of cutting their throats so that they may die -of bleeding and exhaustion having become a wearisome and commonplace -labor, one which he scarcely notices at all. He is a blood-red slayer, -this individual, a butcher by trade, big, brawny, muscular, but -clothed from head to foot in a tarpaulin coat and cap, which from long -spattering by the blood of animals he has slain, have become this -darksome red. Day after day and month after month here you may see -him--your agent and mine--the great world wagging its way, the task of -destroying life never becoming less arduous, the line of animals never -becoming less thin. - -A peculiar life to lead, is it not? One would think a man of any -sensibility would become heartsick, or at the least, revolted and -disgusted; but this man does not seem to be. Rather, he takes it as a -matter of course, a thing which has no significance, any more than the -eating of his food or the washing of his hands. Since it is a matter -of business or of living, and seeing that others live by his labor, he -does not care. - -But it has significance. These creatures we see thus automatically and -hopelessly trundling down a rail of death are really not so far removed -from us in the scale of existence. You will find them but a little way -down the ladder of mind, climbing slowly and patiently towards those -heights to which we think we have permanently attained. There is a -force back of them, a law which wills their existence, and they do not -part with it readily. There is a terror of death for them as there is -for us, and you will see it here exemplified, the horror that makes -them run cold with the knowledge of their situation. - -You will hear them squeal, the hogs; you will hear them baa, the sheep; -you will hear the grinding clank of the chains and see the victims -dropping: hogs, half-alive, into the vats of boiling water; the sheep -into the range of butchers and carvers who flay them half-alive; -while our red representative--yours and mine--stands there, stabbing, -stabbing, stabbing, that we who are not sheep or hogs and who pay him -for his labor may live and be merry and not die. Strange, isn’t it? - -A gruesome labor. A gruesome picture. We have been flattering ourselves -these many centuries that our civilization had somehow got away from -this old-time law of life living on death, but here amid all the gauds -and refinements of our metropolitan life we find ourselves confronted -by it, and here stands our salaried red man who murders our victims for -us, while we look on indifferently, or stranger yet, remain blissfully -unconscious that the bloody labor is in existence. - -We live in cities such as this; crowd ourselves in ornamented chambers -as much as possible; walk paths from which all painful indications of -death have been eliminated, and think ourselves clean and kind and free -of the old struggle, and yet behold our salaried agent ever at work; -and ever the cry of the destroyed is rising to what heaven we know not, -nor to what gods. We dream dreams of universal brotherhood and prate of -the era of coming peace, but this slaughter is a stumbling-block over -which we may not readily vault. It augurs something besides peace and -love in this world. It forms a great commentary on the arrangement of -the universe. - -And yet this revolting picture is not without its relieving feature, -though alas! the little softness visible points no way by which the -victims may be spared. The very butcher is a human being, a father with -little children. One day, after a discouraging hour of this terrible -panorama, I walked out into the afternoon sunlight only to brood over -the tragedy and terror of it all. This man struck me as a demon, a -chill, phlegmatic, animal creature whose horrible eyes would contain no -light save that of non-understanding and indifference. Moved by some -curious impulse, I made my way to his home--to the sty where I expected -to find him groveling--and found instead a little cottage, set about -with grass and flowers, and under a large tree a bench. Here was my -murderer sitting, here taking his evening’s rest. - -The sun was going down, the shadows beginning to fall. In the cool of -the evening he was taking his ease, a rough, horny-handed man, large -and uncouth, but on his knee a child. And such a child--young, not over -two years, soft and delicate, with the bloom of babyhood on its cheek -and the light of innocence in its eye; and here was this great murderer -stroking it gently, the red man touching it softly with his hand. - -I stood and looked at this picture, the thought of the blood-red pit -coming back to me, the gouts of blood, the knife, the cries of his -victims, the death throes; and then at this green grass and this tree -and the father and his child. - -Heaven forefend against the mysteries of life and its dangers. We know -in part, we believe in part, but these things surpass the understanding -of man and make our humble consciousness reel with the inexplicable -riddle of existence. To live, to die, to be generous, to be brutal! How -in the scheme of things are the conditions and feelings inextricably -jumbled, and how we grope and stumble through our days to our graves! - -[Illustration] - - - - -WHENCE THE SONG - - -Along Broadway in the height of the theatrical season, but more -particularly in that laggard time from June to September, when the -great city is given over to those who may not travel, and to actors -seeking engagements, there is ever to be seen a certain representative -figure, now one individual and now another, of a world so singular that -it might well engage the pen of a Balzac or that of a Cervantes. I have -in mind an individual whose high hat and smooth Prince Albert coat are -still a delicious presence. In his coat lapel is a ruddy boutonnière, -in his hand a novel walking-stick. His vest is of a gorgeous and -affluent pattern, his shoes shiny-new and topped with pearl-gray spats. -With dignity he carries his body and his chin. He is the cynosure of -many eyes, the envy of all men, and he knows it. He is the successful -author of the latest popular song. - -Along Broadway, from Union to Greeley Squares, any fair day during -the period of his artistic elevation, he is to be seen. Past the rich -shops and splendid theaters he betakes himself with leisurely grace. In -Thirtieth Street he may turn for a few moments, but it is only to say -good-morning to his publishers. In Twenty-eighth Street, where range -the host of those who rival his successful house, he stops to talk with -lounging actors and ballad singers. Well-known variety stars nod to -him familiarly. Women whose sole claim to distinction lies in their -knack of singing a song, smile in greeting as he passes. Occasionally -there comes a figure of a needy ballad-monger, trudging from publisher -to publisher with an unavailable manuscript, who turns upon him, in -passing, the glint of an envious glance. To these he is an important -figure, satisfied as much with their envy as with their praise, for is -not this also his due, the reward of all who have triumphed? - -I have in mind another figure, equally singular: a rouged and powdered -little maiden, rich in feathers and ornaments of the latest vogue; -gloved in blue and shod in yellow; pretty, self-assured, daring, and -even bold. There has gone here all the traditional maidenly reserve you -would expect to find in one so young and pleasing, and yet she is not -evil. The daughter of a Chicago butcher, you knew her when she first -came to the city--a shabby, wondering little thing, clerk to a music -publisher transferring his business east, and all eyes for the marvels -of city life. - -Gradually the scenes and superlatives of elegance, those showy men and -women coming daily to secure or sell songs, have aroused her longings -and ambitions. Why may not she sing, why not she be a theatrical -celebrity? She will. The world shall not keep her down. That elusive -and almost imaginary company known as _they_, whose hands are ever -against the young, shall not hold her back. - -Behold, for a time, then, she has gone; and now, elegant, jingling with -silver ornaments, hale and merry from good living, she has returned. -To-day she is playing at one of the foremost vaudeville houses. -To-morrow she leaves for Pittsburgh. Her one object is still a salary -of five hundred or a thousand a week and a three-sheet litho of herself -in every window and upon every billboard. - -“I’m all right now,” she will tell you gleefully. “I’m way ahead of the -knockers. They can’t keep me down. You ought to have seen the reception -I got in Pittsburgh. Say, it was the biggest yet.” - -Blessed be Pittsburgh, which has honored one who has struggled so hard, -and you say so. - -“Are you here for long?” - -“Only this week. Come up and see my turn. Hey, cabbie!” - -A passing cabman turns in close to the walk with considerable alacrity. - -“Take me to Keith’s. So long. Come up and see my turn to-night.” - -This is the woman singer, the complement of the male of the same art, -the couple who make for the acceptance and spread of the popular song -as well as the fame of its author. They sing them in every part of the -country, and here in New York, returned from a long season on the road, -they form a very important portion of this song-writing, song-singing -world. They and the authors and the successful publishers--but we may -simplify by yet another picture. - -In Twenty-seventh or Twenty-eighth Street, or anywhere along Broadway -from Madison to Greeley Squares, are the parlors of a score of -publishers, gentlemen who coördinate this divided world for song -publishing purposes. There is an office and a reception-room; a -music-chamber, where songs are tried, and a stock room. Perhaps, in -the case of the larger publishers, the music-rooms are two or three, -but the air of each is much the same. Rugs, divans, imitation palms -make this publishing house more bower than office. Three or four -pianos give to each chamber a parlor-like appearance. The walls are -hung with the photos of celebrities, neatly framed, celebrities of the -kind described. In the private music-rooms, rocking-chairs. A boy or -two waits to bring _professional copies_ at a word. A salaried pianist -or two wait to run over pieces which the singer may desire to hear. -Arrangers wait to make orchestrations or take down newly schemed out -melodies which the popular composer himself cannot play. He has evolved -the melody by a process of whistling and must have its fleeting beauty -registered before it escapes him forever. Hence the salaried arranger. - -Into these parlors then, come the mixed company of this distinctive -world: authors who have or have not succeeded, variety artists who -have some word from touring fellows or know the firm, masters of small -bands throughout the city or the country, of which the name is legion, -orchestra-leaders of Bowery theaters and uptown variety halls, and -singers. - -“You haven’t got a song that will do for a tenor, have you?” - -The inquirer is a little, stout, ruddy-faced Irish boy from the -gas-house district. His common clothes are not out of the ordinary -here, but they mark him as possibly a non-professional seeking free -copies. - -“Sure, let me see. For what do you want it?” - -“Well, I’m from the Arcadia Pleasure Club. We’re going to give a -little entertainment next Wednesday and we want some songs.” - -“I think I’ve got just the thing you want. Wait till I call the boy. -Harry! Bring me some professional copies of ballads.” - -The youth is probably a representative of one of the many Tammany -pleasure organizations, the members of which are known for their -propensity to gather about east and west side corners at night and -sing. One or two famous songs are known to have secured their start -by the airing given them in this fashion on the street corners of the -great city. - -Upon his heels treads a lady whose ruffled sedateness marks her as one -unfamiliar with this half-musical, half-theatrical atmosphere. - -“I have a song I would like to have you try over, if you care to.” - -The attending publisher hesitates before even extending a form of -reception. - -“What sort of a song is it?” - -“Well, I don’t exactly know. I guess you’d call it a sentimental -ballad. If you’d hear it I think you might----” - -“We are so over-stocked with songs now, Madam, that I don’t believe -there’s much use in our hearing it. Could you come in next Friday? -We’ll have more leisure then and can give you more attention.” - -The lady looks the failure she has scored, but retreats, leaving the -ground clear for the chance arrival of the real author, the individual -whose position is attested by one hit or mayhap many. His due is that -deference which all publishers, if not the public, feel called upon -to render, even if at the time he may have no reigning success. - -[Illustration: Whence the Song] - -“Hello, Frank, how are you? What’s new?” - -The author, cane in hand, may know of nothing in particular. - -“Sit down. How are things with you, anyhow?” - -“Oh, so-so.” - -“That new song of yours will be out Friday. We have a rush order on it.” - -“Is that so?” - -“Yes, and I’ve got good news for you. Windom is going to sing it next -year with the minstrels. He was in here the other day and thought it -was great.” - -“Well, that’s good.” - -“That song’s going to go, all right. You haven’t got any others, have -you?” - -“No, but I’ve got a tune. Would you mind having one of the boys take it -down for me?” - -“Surest thing you know. Here, Harry! Call Hatcher.” - -Now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and jotting down of -the new melody in a private room. The favored author may have piano and -pianist for an indefinite period any time. Lunch with the publishers -awaits him if he remains until noon. His song, when ready, is heard -with attention. The details which make for its publication are rushed. -His royalties are paid with that rare smile which accompanies the -payment of anything to one who earns money for another. He is to be -petted, conciliated, handled with gloves. - -At his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful, maybe, but -almost intolerable because of certain marked eccentricities of life and -clothing. He is a negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but able to -write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad. - -“Say, where’s that gem o’ mine?” - -“What?” - -“That effusion.” - -“What are you talking about?” - -“That audience-killer--that there thing that’s goin’ to sweep the -country like wildfire--that there song.” - -Much laughter and apology. - -“It will be here Friday, Gussie.” - -“Thought it was to be here last Monday?” - -“So it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. You know how those -things are, Gussie.” - -“I know. Gimme twenty-five dollars.” - -“Sure. But what are you going to do with it?” - -“Never you mind. Gimme twenty-five bones. To-morrow’s rent day up my -way.” - -Twenty-five is given as if it were all a splendid joke. Gussie is a -bad negro, one day radiant in bombastic clothing, the next wretched -from dissipation and neglect. He has no royalty coming to him, really. -That is, he never accepts royalty. All his songs are sold outright. But -these have earned the house so much that if he were to demand royalties -the sum to be paid would beggar anything he has ever troubled to ask -for. - -“I wouldn’t take no royalty,” he announces at one time, with a -bombastic and yet mellow negro emphasis, which is always amusing. “Doan -want it. Too much trouble. All I want is money when I needs it and -wants it.” - -Seeing that nearly every song that he writes is successful, this is a -most equitable arrangement. He could have several thousand instead of a -few hundred, but being shiftless he does not care. Ready money is the -thing with him, twenty-five or fifty when he needs it. - -And then those “peerless singers of popular ballads,” as their programs -announce them, men and women whose pictures you will see upon every -song-sheet, their physiognomy underscored with their own “Yours -Sincerely” in their own handwriting. Every day they are here, arriving -and departing, carrying the latest songs to all parts of the land. -These are the individuals who in their own estimation “make” the songs -the successes they are. In all justice, they have some claim to the -distinction. One such, raising his or her voice nightly in a melodic -interpretation of a new ballad, may, if the music be sufficiently -catchy, bring it so thoroughly to the public ear as to cause it to -begin to sell. These individuals are not unaware of their services in -the matter, nor slow to voice their claims. In flocks and droves they -come, whenever good fortune brings “the company” to New York or the end -of the season causes them to return, to tell of their success and pick -new songs for the ensuing season. Also to collect certain pre-arranged -bonuses. Also to gather news and dispense it. Then, indeed, is the day -of the publisher’s volubility and grace. These gentlemen and ladies -must be attended to with that deference which is the right of the -successful. The ladies must be praised and cajoled. - -“Did you hear about the hit I made with ‘Sweet Kitty Leary’ in Kansas -City? I knocked ’em cold. Say, it was the biggest thing on the bill.” - -The publisher may not have heard of it. The song, for all the -uproarious success depicted, may not have sold an extra copy, and yet -this is not for him to say. Has the lady a good voice? Is she with a -good company? He may so ingratiate himself that she will yet sing one -of his newer and as yet unheard of compositions into popularity. - -“Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear it. You have the voice for that sort of -a song, you know, Marie. I’ve got something new, though, that will just -suit you--oh, a dandy. It’s by Harry Welch.” - -For all this flood of geniality the singer may only smile -indifferently. Secretly her hand is against all publishers. They are -out for themselves. Successful singers must mind their P’s and Q’s. -Payment is the word, some arrangement by which she shall receive a -stated sum per week for singing a song. The honeyed phrases are well -enough for beginners, but we who have succeeded need something more. - -“Let me show you something new. I’ve got a song here that is fine. Come -right into the music-room. Charlie, get a copy of ‘She May Have Seen -Better Days.’ I want you to play it over for Miss Yaeger.” - -The boy departs and returns. In the exclusive music-room sits the -singer, critically listening while the song is played. - -“Isn’t that a pretty chorus?” - -“Well, yes, I rather like that.” - -“That will suit your voice exactly. Don’t ever doubt it. I think that’s -one of the best songs we have published in years.” - -“Have you the orchestration?” - -“Sure; I’ll get you that.” - -Somehow, however, the effect has not been satisfactory. The singer has -not enthused. He must try other songs and give her the orchestrations -of many. Perhaps, out of all, she will sing one. That is the chance of -the work. - -As for her point of view, she may object to the quality of anything -except for that which she is paid. It is for the publisher to see -whether she is worth subsidizing or not. If not, perhaps another house -will see her merits in a different light. Yet she takes the songs -and orchestrations along. And the publisher turning, as she goes, -announces, “Gee, there’s a cold proposition for you. Get her to sing -anything for you for nothing?--Nix. Not her. Cash or no song.” And he -thumbs his fingers after the fashion of one who pays out money. - -Your male singer is often a bird of the same fine feather. If you -wish to see the ideal of dressiness as exemplified by the gentlemen -of the road, see these individuals arrive at the offices of the -publishers. The radiance of half-hose and neckties is not outdone by -the sprightliness of the suit pattern or the glint of the stone in -the shirt-front. Fresh from Chicago or Buffalo they arrive, rich in -self-opinion fostered by rural praise, perhaps possessed of a new droll -story, always loaded with the details of the hit they made. - -“Well, well! You should have seen how that song went in Baltimore. I -never saw anything like it. Why, it’s the hit of the season!” - -New songs are forthcoming, a new batch delivered for his service next -year. - -Is he absolutely sure of the estimation in which the house holds his -services? You will hear a sequel to this, not this day perhaps but a -week or a month later, during his idle summer in New York. - -“You haven’t twenty-five handy you could let me have, have you, Pat? -I’m a little short to-day.” - -Into the publisher’s eye steals the light of wisdom and decision. Is -this individual worth it? Will he do the songs of the house twenty-five -dollars’ worth of good next season? Blessed be fate if there is a -partner to consult. He will have time to reflect. - -“Well, George, I haven’t it right here in the drawer, but I can get it -for you. I always like to consult my partner about these things, you -know. Can you wait until this afternoon?” - -Of course the applicant can wait, and between whiles are conferences -and decisions. All things considered, it may be advisable to do it. - -“We will get twenty-five out of him, any way. He’s got a fine tenor -voice. You never can tell what he might do.” - -So a pleasant smile and the money may be waiting when he returns. Or, -he may be put off, with excuses and apologies. It all depends. - -There are cases, however, where not even so much delay can be risked, -where a hearty “sure” _must_ be given. This is to that lord of the -stage whose fame as a singer is announced by every minstrel billboard -as “the renowned baritone, Mr. Calvin Johnson,” or some such. For him -the glad hand and the ready check, and he is to be petted, flattered, -taken to lunch, dinner, a box theater party--anything--everything, -really. And then, there is that less important one who has -over-measured his importance. For him the solemn countenance and the -suave excuse, at an hour when his need is greatest. Lastly, there is -the sub-strata applicant in tawdry, make-believe clothes, whose want -peeps out of every seam and pocket. His day has never been as yet, -or mayhap was, and is over. He has a pinched face, a livid hunger, a -forlorn appearance. Shall he be given anything? Never. He is not worth -it. He is a “dead one.” Is it not enough if the publisher looks after -those of whose ability he is absolutely sure. Certainly. Therefore this -one must slop the streets in old shoes and thin clothing, waiting. And -he may never obtain a dime from any publisher. - -Out of such grim situations, however, occasionally springs a success. -These “down and out” individuals do not always understand why fate -should be against them, why they should be down, and are not willing to -cease trying. - -“I’ll write a song yet, you bet,” is the dogged, grim decision. “I’ll -get up, you bet.” - -Once in a while the threat is made good, some mood allowing. Strolling -along the by-streets, ignored and self-commiserating, the mood seizes -them. Words bubble up and a melody, some crude commentary on the -contrasts, the losses or the hopes of life, rhyming, swinging as -they come, straight from the heart. Now it is for pencil and paper, -quick. Any old scrap will do--the edge of a newspaper, the back of -an envelope, the edge of a cuff. Written so, the words are safe and -the melody can be whistled until some one will take it down. And -so, occasionally, is born--has been often--the great success, the -land-sweeping melody, selling by the hundreds of thousands and netting -the author a thousand a month for a year or more. - -Then, for him, the glory of the one who is at last successful. Was he -commonplace, hungry, envious, wretchedly clothed before? Well, now, -see! And do not talk to him of other authors who once struck it, had -their little day and went down again, never to rise. He is not of -them--not like them. For him, now, the sunlight and the bright places. -No clothing too showy or too expensive, no jewelry too rare. Broadway -is the place for him, the fine cafés and rich hotel lobbies. What about -those other people who looked down on him once? Ha! they scorned him, -did they? They sneered, eh? Would not give him a cent, eh? Let them -come and look now! Let them stare in envy. Let them make way. He is a -great man at last and the whole world knows it. The whole country is -making acclaim over that which he has done. - -For the time being, then, this little center of song-writing and -publishing is for him the all-inclusive of life’s importance. From -the street organs at every corner is being ground the _one_ melody, -so expressive of his personality, into the ears of all men. In the -vaudeville houses and cheaper concert halls men and women are singing -it nightly to uproarious applause. Parodies are made and catch-phrases -coined, all speaking of his work. Newsboys whistle and older men pipe -its peculiar notes. Out of open windows falls the distinguished melody, -accompanied by voices both new and strange. All men seem to recognize -that which he has done, and for the time being compliment his presence -and his personality. - -Then the wane. - -Of all the tragedies, this is perhaps the bitterest, because of the -long-drawn memory of the thing. Organs continue to play it, but the -sale ceases. Quarter after quarter, the royalties are less, until at -last a few dollars per month will measure them completely. Meanwhile -his publishers ask for other songs. One he writes, and then another, -and yet another, vainly endeavoring to duplicate that original note -which made for his splendid success the year before. But it will not -come. And, in the meanwhile, other song-writers displace him for the -time being in the public eye. His publishers have a new hit, but it -is not his. A new author is being bowed to and taken out to dinner. -But he is not that author. A new tile-crowned celebrity is strolling -up his favorite Broadway path. At last, after a dozen attempts and -failures, there is no hurry to publish his songs. If the period of -failure is too long extended he may even be neglected. More and more, -celebrities crowd in between him and that delightful period when he was -greatest. At last, chagrined by the contrast of things, he changes -his publishers, changes his haunts and, bitterest of all, his style -of living. Soon it is the old grind again, and then, if thoughtless -spending has been his failing, shabby clothing and want. You may see -the doubles of these in any publisher’s sanctum at any time, the -sarcastically referred-to _has been_. - -Here, also, the disengaged ballad singer, “peerless tenor” of some -last year’s company, suffering a period of misfortune. He is down on -his luck in everything but appearances, last year’s gorgeousness still -surviving in a modified and sedate form. He is a singer of songs, -now, for the publishers, by toleration. His one lounging-place in all -New York where he is welcome and not looked at askance is the chair -they may allow him. Once a day he makes the rounds of the theatrical -agencies; once, or if fortune favors, twice a day he visits some cheap -eating-house. At night, after a lone stroll through that fairyland -of theaters and gaudy palaces to which, as he sees it, he properly -belongs--Broadway, he returns to his bed, the carpeted floor of a room -in some tolerant publisher’s office, where he sleeps by permission, -perhaps, and not even there, too often. - -Oh, the glory of success in this little world in his eye at this -time--how now, in want, it looms large and essential! Outside, as he -stretches himself, may even now be heard the murmur of that shiny, -joyous rout of which he was so recently a part. The lights, the -laughter; the songs, the mirth--all are for others. Only he, only he -must linger in shadows, alone. - -To-morrow it will come out in words, if you talk with him. It is in -the publisher’s office, perhaps, where gaudy ladies are trying songs, -or on the street, where others, passing, notice him not but go their -way in elegance. - -“I had it once, all right,” he will tell you. “I had my handful. You -bet I’ll get it next year.” - -Is it of money he is thinking? - -An automobile swings past and some fine lady, looking out, wakes to -bitterness his sense of need. - -“New York’s tough without the coin, isn’t it? You never get a glance -when you’re out of the game. I spend too easy, that’s what’s the matter -with me. But I’ll get back, you bet. Next time I’ll know enough to -save. I’ll get up again, and next time I’ll stay up, see?” - -Next year his hopes may be realized again, his dreams come true. If so, -be present and witness the glories of radiance after shadow. - -“Ah, me boy, back again, you see!” - -“So I see. Quite a change since last season.” - -“Well, I should smile. I was down on my luck then. That won’t happen -any more. They won’t catch me. I’ve learned a lesson. Say, we had a -great season.” - -Rings and pins attest it. A cravat of marvelous radiance speaks for -itself in no uncertain tones. Striped clothes, yellow shoes, a new hat -and cane. Ah, the glory, the glory! He is not to be caught any more, -“you bet,” and yet here is half of his subsistence blooming upon his -merry body. - -_They_ will catch him, though, him and all in the length of time. -One by one they come, old, angular misfortune grabbing them all by -the coat-tails. The rich, the proud, the great among them sinking, -sinking, staggering backward until they are where he was and deeper, -far deeper. I wish I could quote those little notices so common in all -our metropolitan dailies, those little perfunctory records which appear -from time to time in theatrical and sporting and “song” papers, telling -volumes in a line. One day one such singer’s voice is failing; another -day he has been snatched by disease; one day one radiant author arrives -at that white beneficence which is the hospital bed and stretches -himself to a final period of suffering; one day a black boat steaming -northward along the East River to a barren island and a field of weeds -carries the last of all that was so gay, so unthinking, so, after all, -childlike of him who was greatest in his world. Weeds and a headboard, -salt winds and the cry of seagulls, lone blowings and moanings, and all -that light and mirth is buried here. - -Here and there in the world are those who are still singing melodies -created by those who have gone this unfortunate way, singers of “Two -Little Girls in Blue” and “White Wings,” “Little Annie Rooney” and “The -Picture and the Ring,” the authors of “In the Baggage Coach Ahead” and -“Trinity Chimes,” of “Sweet Marie” and “Eileen”--all are here. There -might be recited the successes of a score of years, quaint, pleasing -melodies which were sung the land over, which even to-day find an -occasional voice and a responsive chord, but of the authors not one but -could be found in some field for the outcasts, forgotten. Somehow the -world forgets, the peculiar world in which they moved, and the larger -one which knew them only by their songs. - -It seems strange, really, that so many of them should have come to -this. And yet it is true--authors, singers, publishers, even--and -yet not more strange is it than that their little feeling, worked -into a melody and a set of words, should reach far out over land and -water, touching the hearts of the nation. In mansion and hovel, by -some blazing furnace of a steel mill, or through the open window of -a farmland cottage, is trolled the simple story, written in halting -phraseology, tuned as only a popular melody is tuned. All have seen the -theater uproarious with those noisy recalls which bring back the sunny -singer, harping his one indifferent lay. All have heard the street -bands and the organs, the street boys and the street loungers, all -expressing a brief melody, snatched from the unknown by some process of -the heart. Yes, here it is, wandering the land over like a sweet breath -of summer, making for matings and partings, for happiness and pain. -That it may not endure is also meet, going back into the soil, as it -does, with those who hear it and those who create. - -Yet only those who venture here in merry Broadway shall witness the -contrast, however. Only they who meet these radiant presences in the -flesh will ever know the marvel of the common song. - - - - -CHARACTERS - - -The glory of the city is its variety. The drama of it lies in its -extremes. I have been thinking to-day of all the interesting characters -that have passed before me in times past on the streets of this -city: generals, statesmen, artists, politicians, a most interesting -company, and then of another company by no means so distinguished or -so comfortable--the creatures at the other end of the ladder who, far -from having brains, or executive ability, or wealth, or fame, have -nothing save a weird astonishing individuality which would serve to -give pause to almost the dullest. Many times I have been compelled by -sheer astonishment to stop in the midst of duties that hurried me to -contemplate some weird creature, drawn up from heaven knows what depths -of this very strange and intricate city into the clear, brilliant -daylight of a great, clean thoroughfare, and to wonder how, in all -conscience, life had come to produce such a thing. The eyes of them! -The bodies! The hats, the coats, the shoes, the motions! How often -have I followed amazedly for blocks, for miles even, attempting to -pigeonhole in my own mind the astonishing characteristics of a figure -before me, attempting to say to myself what I really thought of it -all, what misfortune or accident or condition of birth or of mind had -worked out the sad or grim spectacle of a human being so distorted, a -veritable caricature of womanhood or manhood. On the streets of New -York I have seen slipping here and there truly marvelous creatures, and -have realized instantly that I was looking at something most different, -peculiar, that here again life had accomplished an actual _chef -d’œuvre_ of the bizarre or the grotesque or the mad, had made something -as strange and unaccountable as a great genius or a great master of -men. Only it had worked at the other extreme from public efficiency -or smug, conventional public interest, and had produced a singular -variation, inefficient, unsocial, eccentric or evil, as you choose, -qualities which worked to exclude the subject of the variation from any -participation in what we are pleased to call a normal life. - -I am thinking, for instance, of a long, lean faced, unkempt and -bedraggled woman, not exceptionally old, but roughened and hardened -by what circumstances I know not into a kind of horse, whom once of -an early winter’s morning I encountered at Broadway and Fourteenth -Street pushing a great rattletrap of a cart in which was piled old -rags, sacks, a chair, a box and what else I know not, and all this with -long, lean strides and a kind of determined titan energy toward the -North River. Her body was clad in a mere semblance of clothing, rags -which hung limp and dirty and close to her form and seemingly wholly -insufficient for the bitter weather prevailing at the time. Her hair -was coarse and iron-gray, done in a shapeless knot and surmounted by -something in the shape of a small hat which might have been rescued -from an ashheap. Her eyes were fixed, glassy almost, and seemingly -unseeing. Here she came, vigorous, stern, pushing this tatterdemalion -cart, and going God knows where. I followed to see and saw her enter, -finally, a wretched, degraded west side slum, in a rear yard of -which, in a wretched tumble-down tenement, which occupied a part of -it, she appeared to have a room or floor. But what days and years of -chaffering, think you, were back of this eventual result, what years -of shabby dodging amid the giant legs of circumstances? To grow out -of childhood--once really soft, innocent childhood--into a thing like -this, an alley-scraping horse--good God! - -And then the men. What a curious company they are, just those few who -stand out in my memory, whom, from a mere passing opportunity to look -upon, I have never been able to forget. - -Thus, when I first came to New York and was on _The World_ there came -into the reportorial room one cold winter’s night a messenger-boy, -looking for a certain reporter, for whom he had a message, a youth who -positively was the most awkward and misshapen vehicle for the task in -hand that I have ever seen. I should say here that whatever the rate -of pay now, there are many who will recall how little they were paid -and how poorly they were equipped--a tall youth, for instance, with a -uniform and cap for one two-thirds his size; a short one with trousers -six inches too long and gathered in plenteous folds above his shoes, -and a cap that wobbled loosely over his ears; or a fat boy with a tight -suit, or a lean boy with a loose one. Parsimony and indifference were -the outstanding characteristics of the two most plethoric organizations -serving the public in that field. - -But this one. He was eighteen or nineteen (as contrasted with others -of this same craft who were in the room at this very time, and who -were not more than twelve or thirteen; that was before the child-labor -laws), and his face was too large, and misshapen, a grotesquerie of the -worst invention, a natural joke. His ears were too big and red, his -mouth too large and twisted, his nose too humped and protruding, and -his square jaw stood out too far, and yet by no means forcefully or -aggressively. In addition, his hair needed cutting and stuck out from -underneath his small, ill-fitting cap, which sat far up on the crown of -his head. At the same time, his pants and coat being small, revealed -extra lengths of naked red wrist and hands and made his feet seem even -larger than they were. - -In those days, as at present, it was almost a universal practice to kid -the messenger-boy, large or small, whoever and wherever he was--unless, -as at times he proved to be, too old or weary or down on his luck; and -even then he was not always spared. In this instance it chanced that -the reporter for whom this youth was looking was seated at a desk with -myself and some others. We were chatting and laughing, when suddenly -this apparition appeared. - -“Why, hello Johnnie!” called the one addressed, turning and taking -the message yet finding time to turn on the moss-covered line of -messenger-boy humor. “Just in from the snow, are you? The best thing -is never to get a hair-cut in winter. Positively, the neck should be -protected from these inclement breezes.” - -“A little short on the pants there, James,” chipped in a second, “but I -presume the company figures that the less the baggage or equipment the -greater the speed, eh?” - -“In the matter of these suits,” went on a third, “style and fit are -necessarily secondary to sterling spiritual worth.” - -“Aw, cut it!” retorted the youth defiantly. - -Being new to New York and rather hard-pressed myself, I was throughout -this scene studying this amazing figure and wondering how any -corporation could be so parsimonious as to dress a starveling employee -in so shabby a way, and from what wretched circumstances such a youth, -who would endure such treatment and such work, must spring. Suddenly, -seeing me looking at him and wondering, and just as the recipient of -the message was handing him back his book signed, his face became -painfully and, as it seemed to me, involuntarily contorted with such -a grimace of misery and inward spiritual dissatisfaction as I had not -seen anywhere before. It was a miserable and moving grimace, followed -by a struggle not to show what he felt. But suddenly he turned and -drawing a big red cold wrist and hand across his face and eyes and -starting for the door, he blurted out: “I never did have no home, God -damn it! I never did have no father or mother, like you people, nor no -chance either. I was raised in an orphan asylum--” and he was gone. - -“Sometimes,” observed the youth who had started this line of jesting, -getting up and looking apologetically at the rest of us, “this dam’ -persiflage can be sprung in the wrong place and at the wrong time. I -apologize. I’m ashamed of myself, and sorry too.” - -[Illustration: A Character] - -“I’m sorry too,” said another, a gentlemanly Southerner, whom later I -came to know better and to like. - -But that boy! - - * * * * * - -For years, when I was a youth and was reading daily at the old Astor -Library, there used to appear on the streets of New York an old man, -the spindling counterpart, so far as height, weight and form were -concerned, of William Cullen Bryant, who for shabbiness of attire, -sameness of appearance, persistence of industry and yet futility in -so far as any worth while work was concerned could hardly have been -outclassed. A lodger at the Mills Hotel, in Bleecker Street, that -hopeless wayplace of the unfortunate, he was also a frequenter of the -Astor Library, where, as I came to know through watching him over -months and years even, he would burrow by the hour among musty volumes -from which he made copious notes jotted on paper with a pencil, both -borrowed from the library authorities. Year after year for a period of -ten years I encountered him from time to time wearing the same short, -gray wool coat, the same thin black baggy trousers, the same cheap -brownish-black Fedora hat, and the same long uncut hair and beard, -the former curly and hanging about his shoulders. His body, even in -the bitterest weather, never supported an overcoat. His hands were -always bare and the wrists more or less exposed. He came invariably -with a quick, energetic step toward the library or the Mills Hotel -and turned a clear, blue, birdlike eye upon whomsoever surveyed him. -But of ability--nothing, in so far as any one ever knew. The library -authorities knew nothing of anything he had ever achieved. Those who -managed the hotel of course knew nothing at all; they were not even -interested, though he had lived there for years. In short, he lived and -moved and had his being in want and thinness, and finally died--leaving -what? His effects, as I was informed afterwards by the attendants of -the “hotel” which had housed him for years, consisted of a small parcel -of clothes, worthless to any save himself, and a box of scribbled -notes, relating to what no one ever knew. They were disjointed and -meaningless scraps of information, I was told, and dumped out with the -ashes after his demise. What, think you, could have been his import to -the world, his message? - - * * * * * - -And then Samuel Clampitt--or so a hand-lettered scrawl over his gate -read--who maintained a junk-yard near the Harlem River and One Hundred -and Thirty-eighth Street. He was a little man, very dark, very hunched -at the shoulders, with iron-gray hair, heavy, bushy, black eyebrows, -a very dark and seamy skin, and hands that were quite like claws. He -bought and sold--or pretended to--old bottles, tin, iron, rags, and -the like. His place was a small yard or space of ground lying next to -a coal-yard and adjoining the river, and about this he had built, or -had found there, a high board fence. And within, whenever the gates -were opened and one was permitted to look in, were collections of junk -about as above tabulated, with, in addition, some bits of iron fencing, -old window-frames, part of stair railings, gasoliers and the like. He -himself was rarely to be seen; I saw him no more than four or five -times during a period of three years in which I passed his yard daily. -But, having occasion once to dispose of a collection of waste rags -and clothing, I eventually sought him out and found him, after trying -his gate on an average of once every two days during a period of two -weeks and more. The thing that interested me from the first was that my -tentative knockings at his gate, which was always closed and very high, -were greeted by savage roars from several Great Danes that were far -within and that pawed the high gate whenever I touched it or knocked. -Yet eventually I did find him, the gate being open and the dogs chained -and he inside. He was sitting in a dark corner of his little hut inside -the yard, no window or door giving onto the street, and eating from -a discolored tin pan on his lap which held a little bread, a tomato -and some sausage. The thing that interested me most (apart from the -fact that he appeared to me more of a gnome than a man) was these -same dogs, now chained to a post a score of feet from me and most -savagely snarling and charging as I talked. They were so savage and -showed such great, white, glistening teeth that I was eager to retreat -without waiting to complete my errand. However, I managed to explain my -purpose--but to no result. He was not interested in my collection of -junk, saying that he only bought material that was brought to him. - -But the voice, so cracked and wheezy. And the eyes, shining like -sparks of light under his heavy brows. And the thin, parchment-like, -claw-like hands. He rasped irritatingly with his throat whenever he -talked, before and after each word or sentence--“eck--eck--eck--I -don’t go out to buy stuff--eck--eck--eck. I only buy what’s brought -here--eck--eck--eck. I don’t want any old rags--eck--eck--eck--I have -more than I can sell now--eck--eck--eck.” Then he fell to munching -again. - -“Those look like savage dogs,” I ventured, hoping to lure him into a -conversation. - -It was not to be. - -“Eck--eck--eck--they need to be--eck--eck--eck.” That was all. He fell -silent and would say no more. - -I went out, curious as to what sort of a business this was, anyhow, and -leaving him to himself. - -But one morning, months later, turning a corner near there, a region -of empty lots and some old sealed and untenanted storehouses, I -found a crowd of boys following and stoning an old man who, on my -coming near and then running to his rescue, I found to be this old -dealer. He was attempting to hide behind a signboard which adjoined -one of the storehouses. His face and hands were already cut by -stones and bleeding. He was breathless and very much exhausted and -frightened, but still angry and savage. “They stoned me, the little -devils--eck--eck--eck. They hit me with rocks--eck--eck--eck. I’ll -have the law on ’em, I will--eck--eck--eck. I’ll get the police after -’em--eck--eck--eck. They’re always trying to break into my place and I -won’t let ’em--eck--eck--eck.” - -I wondered who could break into that place with those dogs loose, who -would attempt it. - -But that, as I found out later in conversation with boys of the -vicinity, was just the trouble. At various times they had sought to -enter to recover a tossed ball, possibly to steal something, and he had -set the dogs (which were always unchained in his absence) on them; or, -they had been attacked by the dogs and in turn had attempted to work -him and them some injury. - -Yet for a period of three years after this, to my knowledge, he -continued to live there in that solitary place, harassed no doubt in -this way. If he ever did any business I did not see it. The gates were -nearly always closed, himself rarely to be seen. - -Then one day a really terrible thing happened. Some children--not these -same wicked boys but others less familiar with the neighborhood, I -believe--were playing ball in an open space adjoining, and a fly being -struck, the ball fell into the junk-yard. Three of the more courageous -ones, as the papers stated afterwards, mounted the fence to see if they -could get the ball, and one of them, more courageous than the others, -actually leaped into the yard and was literally torn to bits by these -same dogs, all but eaten alive. And there was no one to save him before -he was dead. Old Clampitt was not there. - -The horror was of course immediately reported to the police, who -came and killed the dogs and then arrested Clampitt. A newspaper -and police investigation of his life revealed nothing save that he -was assumed to be an old junk-dealer who was eccentric, a solitary, -without relatives or friends. He claimed to have kept the dogs for -protection, also that he had been set upon by youths of the vicinity -and stoned, which was true. Even so, he was held for weeks in jail -pending this investigation of his connections. No past crimes being -found, apparently he was released. But so terrified was he then by the -furore his savage dogs had aroused that he disappeared from this region -and was heard of no more. His old rag yard was abandoned. But I often -wondered about him afterwards, the years he spent there alone. - - * * * * * - -And then _Old Ragpicker_, whom I have described in _Plays of the -Natural and the Supernatural_, and who was as described. - -And Hurstwood. - - * * * * * - -As interesting a type as I ever knew was an old hunchback who, as I -understood, had had a small music business in the Bowery, years and -years ago when that street was still a vaudeville center, a sort -of theatrical Broadway. Through experience he had come by a little -knowledge of popular songs and songbooks and had engaged in the -manufacture and sale of these things. But times changed and public -taste varied and he was not able to keep up with it all. From little -business to no business was an easy step, and then he failed and took -lodgings in one of the side streets off the Bowery, below Fourth -Street, eking out a precarious existence, heaven only knows how. -Age had hounded him even more than ill success. His naturally dark -skin darkened still further and his black eyes retreated into gloomy -sockets. I used to see him at odd times, at a period when I lived in -a vicinity near the Bowery, wending a lonely way through the crowded -streets there, but never until he accosted me one night in the dark -did I realize that he had become a beggar. A mumbled apology about -hunger, a deprecating, shamefaced cough, and he was off again, the -richer for a dime. In this case, time, to say nothing of life, had -worked one of those disturbing grotesqueries which arrest one. He -was so very somber, furtive, misshapen and lean, a veritable masque -of a man whose very glance indicated inconsolable disappointment and -whose presence, to many, would most certainly have come as an omen of -failure. A hall-bedroom, a lodging-house cot, an occasional meal, some -hidden corner in which to be at peace, in which to brood, and then a -few years later he was found dead, alone, seated before a small table, -his head leaning upon his arms in the shabby little room in which he -dwelt. I know this to be true, for from time to time I made effort to -hear of him. What, think you, would he have to say to his Creator if he -might? - - * * * * * - -And yet another character. One day I was walking in Brooklyn in a very -conservative neighborhood, when I saw what I fancied I never should -see, in America, a woman furtively picking a piece of bread out of a -garbage can. I had read of such things in Balzac, Hugo, Dickens--but -where else? And she was not absolutely wretchedly dressed, though her -appearance was far from satisfactory, and she had a tense expression -about her face which betokened stress of some kind. My astonishment -was such that I walked deliberately up to her and asked: “What is the -matter with you--are you hungry?” - -She had hidden the bread under her shawl as I approached and may have -dropped it as we walked, for I did not see it again though her hands -appeared. Yet she refused to indulge in any conversation which would -explain. - -“I’m all right,” she replied. - -“But I saw you taking a piece of bread out of that can?” - -“No.” - -“Don’t you want any money?” - -“No.” - -She appeared to be confused and walked away from me, edging toward the -lines of fences to avoid contact. I put my hand in my pocket to offer -a coin, but she hurried on. There was nothing to do but let her go her -way--a thing which seemed intensely cruel, though there was apparently -nothing else to do. I have often thought of this one, dark, tense, -dreary, and half wondered whether it was all a dream or whether I -really saw it. - - * * * * * - -But the city for me, in my time, has been flecked with these shadows of -disaster in the guise of decayed mortals who stared at me out of hollow -eyes in the midst of the utmost gayety. You turn a corner laughing amid -scenes of enthusiasm and activity, perhaps, and here comes despair -along, hooded and hollow-eyed, accusing you of undue levity. You dine -at your table, serene in your moderate prosperity, and in looks want, -thin-lipped, and pale, asking how can you eat when she is as she is. -You feel the health and vigor of your body, warmly clad, and lo, here -comes illness or weakness, thin and pining, and with cough or sigh -or halting step, cries: “See how I suffer--and you--you have health!” -Weakness confronts strength, poverty wealth, health sickness, courage -cowardice, fortune the very depths of misfortune, and they know each -other not--or defy each other. Of a truth, they either despise or fear, -the one the other. - - - - -THE BEAUTY OF LIFE - - -The beauty of life is involved very largely with the outline of its -scenery. There are many other things which make up the joy of our world -for us, but this is one of the most salient of its charms. The stretch -of a level valley, the graceful rise of a hill, water running, a clump -or a forest of trees--these add to the majesty of our being and show us -how great a thing our world really is. - -The significance of scenes in general which hold and bind our lives -for us, making them sweet or grim according to the sharpness of our -perceptions, is a wonderful thing. We are passing among them every -moment. A new arrangement is had with every move we make. If we but -lift our eyes we see a variation which is forever interesting and -forever new. - -The fact significant is that every scene possesses that vital -instability which is the charm of existence. It is forever changing. -The waters are running, the winds blowing, the light waxing and waning, -and in the very ground such currents are at work as produce and modify -all the visible life and color that we know. Great forces are at work, -strong ones, and our own little lives are but a shadow of something -that wills activity and enjoys it, that wills beauty and is beauty. The -scenes that we see are purely representative of that. - -[Illustration: The Beauty of Life] - -But how, in the picturing of itself to itself, is the spirit of -the universe revealed to us? Here are forces which at bottom might be -supposed to be anything--grim, deadly, terrible--but on the surface -how fair is their face. The trees are beautiful--you would not -suppose there was anything deadly at work to create them. The water -is mellifluent, sweet--you could hardly assume that it was grim in -purpose or design. Every aspect of the scene reveals something pleasing -which could scarcely have been the result of a cruel tendency, and yet -we know that cruelty exists, or if not cruelty at least a tendency -to contention--one thing striving with another and wearing it away, -feeding upon it, destroying it which is productive of pain. And this -element of contention represents all the cruelty there is. And this is -not what is generally revealed in any scene. - -Before such a picture of combined beauty and contentiousness--however -graceful--life living upon life, in order to produce at least a part of -this beauty--the mind pauses, wondering. It is so useless to quarrel -with an order which is compulsory and produces all that we know of -either joy or pain. This scene, as we look at it, is one of the joys, -one of the compensations, of our existence which we must take whether -we will or no, and which satisfies us whether or not we are aware -of the contentiousness beneath. Even the contentiousness cannot be -wholly sneered at or regretted, for at worst it produces the change -which produces the other scenes and variations of which our world is -full, and at worst it gives our life the edge of drama and tragedy, -to say nothing of those phases of our moods which make our world seem -beautiful. - -Pity the mind for whom the immediate scene, involved as it is with -change and decay and contentiousness, has no direct appeal, for whom -the clouds hanging in the heavens, the wind stirring in the trees, the -genial face of the earth, spread before the eye, has no meaning. Here -are the birds daily circling in the air; here are the waters running -in a thousand varied forms; here are the houses, the churches, the -factories, and all their curious array of lines, angles, circles, -cones, or towers, shafts and pinnacles which form ever new and pleasing -combinations to which the mind, confused by other phases of life, -can still turn for both solace and delight. For one not so mentally -equipped a world of imagery is closed, with all that that implies: -poetry, art, literature--one might almost say religion, for upon so -much that is beautiful in nature does religion depend. To be dull to -the finer beauties of line and curve that are forever beating upon -the heart and mind--in earth, in air, in water, in sky or space--how -deadly! The dark places of the world are full of that. Its slums and -depths reek with the misery that knows no response to the physical -beauty of nature, the wonder of its forms. To perceive these, to see -the physical face of life as beautiful, to respond in feeling to the -magnificent panoramas from which the eye cannot escape, is to be at -once strong and wise mentally and physically, to have in the very blood -and brain the beauty, glory and power of all that ever was or will be -here on this earth. - - - - -A WAYPLACE OF THE FALLEN - - -In the center of what was once a fashionable section of New York, but -is now a badly deteriorated tenement region, stands a hotel which to -me is one of the curiosities of New York. It is really not a hotel at -all, in one sense, and yet in another it is, a hybrid or cross between -a hotel and a charity, one of those odd philanthropies of the early -years following nineteen hundred, which were supposed to bridge with -some form of relief the immense gap that existed between the rich and -the poor; a gap that was not supposed to exist in a republic devoted to -human brotherhood and the equality of man. - -Let that be as it will. Exteriorly at least it is really a handsome -affair, nine stories in height, with walls of cream-colored brick and -gray stone trimmings, and a large, overhanging roof of dark-red curved -tiles which suggests Florence and the South. Set apart in an open -space it would be admirable. It is not, however, as its appearance -would indicate, a hotel of any distinction of clientele, for it was -built for an entirely different purpose. And, despite the aim and the -dreams of those who sought to reach those who might be only temporarily -embarrassed, rather than whose who were permanently so, and who might -use this as a wayplace on their progress upward rather than on their -way downward, still it is more the latter who frequent it most. It is -really a rendezvous for those who are “down and out.” - -About the time that it was built, or a little after, I myself was -in a bad way. It was not exactly that I was financially helpless or -that I could not have come by relief in one and another form, if my -pride would have let me, as that my pride and a certain psyche which, -like a fever or a passion, must take its course, would not permit -me to do successfully any of the things that normally I could and -would have done. I was nervous, really very sick mentally, and very -depressed. Life to me wore a somber and at most times a forbidding air, -as though, indeed, there were furies between me and the way I would -go. Yet, return I would not. And courage not lacking, a certain grim -stubbornness that would not permit me to retreat nor yet to ask for -help, at last for a brief period I took refuge here, as might one beset -by a raging gale at sea take refuge in some seemingly quiet harbor, any -port indeed, in order to forfend against utter annihilation. - -[Illustration: A Wayplace of the Fallen] - -And a strange, sad harbor I found it to be indeed, a nondescript and -fantastic affair, sheltering a nondescript and quite fantastic throng. -The thin-bodied and gray-bearded old men loitering out their last -days here, and yet with a certain something about them that suggested -courage or defiance, or at least a vague and errant will to live. The -lean and down-at-heels and erratic-looking young men, with queer, -restless, nervous eyes, and queer, restless, deceptive and nervous -manners. And the chronic ne’er-do-wells, and bums even, pan-handlers, -street fiddle and horn players, street singers, street cripples and -beggars of one kind and another. Some of them I had even encountered -in the streets in my more prosperous hours and had given them -dimes, and here I encountered them again. They were all so poor, if -not physically or materially at least spiritually, or so nearly all, -as to make contact with them disconcerting, if not offensive. For they -walked, the most of them, with an air of rundown, hopeless inadequacy -that was really disturbing to look upon. All of them were garbed in -clothing which was not good and yet which at all times could not be -said to be absolutely ragged. Rather, in many cases it was more of -an intermediate character, such as you might expect to find on a -person who was out of a job but who was still struggling to keep up -appearances. - -You would find, for instance, those whose suits were in a fair state -of preservation but whose shoes were worn or torn. Again, there were -those whose hats and shoes were good but whose trousers were worn and -frayed. Still others would show a good pair of trousers or a moderately -satisfactory coat, but such a gleam of wretched linen or so poor and -faded a tie, that one was compelled to notice it. And the mere sight -of it, as they themselves seemed to realize by their furtive efforts -at concealment, was sufficient to convict them of want or worse. -Between these grades and conditions there were so many other little -gradations, such as the inadvertently revealed edge of a cotton shirt -under a somewhat superior suit, the exposed end of a rag being used for -a handkerchief, the shifting edge of a false shirt front, etc., so that -by degrees one was moved to either sympathy or laughter, or both. - -And the nature of the life here. It was such as to preclude any -reasonable classification from the point of view, say, of happiness or -comfort. For all its exterior pretentiousness and inner spaciousness, -it offered nothing really except two immense lounging-rooms or courts -about which the various tiers or floors of rooms were built and which -rose, uninterrupted, to the immense glass roofs or coverings nine -stories above. There were several other large rooms--a reading-room, -a smoking-room--equipped with chairs and tables, but which could only -be occupied between 9 a.m. and 10 p.m., and which were watched over by -as surly and disagreeable a type of orderly or guard as one would find -anywhere--such orderlies or guards, for instance, as a prison or an -institution of charity might employ. In fact, I never encountered an -institution in which a charge was made for service which seemed to me -more barren of courtesy, consideration or welcome. - -We were all, as I soon found, here on sufferance. During a long day -that began between 9 a.m., at which hour the room you occupied had to -be vacated for the day, and 5 p.m., when it might be reoccupied once -more, and not before, there was nothing to do but walk the streets if -one was out of work, as most of these were, or sit in one or another -of these same rooms filled with these same nondescripts, who looked -and emanated the depression they felt and who were too taciturn or -too evasive or shy or despondent to wish to talk to anybody. And in -addition, neither these nor yourself were really welcome here. For, if -you remained within these lobbies during the hours of nine and five -daylight, these underlings surveyed you, if at all, with looks of -indifference or contempt, as who should say, “Haven’t you anything at -all to do?” and most of those with whom you were in contact could not -help but feel this. It was too obvious to be mistaken. - -But to return to the type of person who came here to lodge. Where -did they all come from? one was compelled to ask oneself. How did it -happen that they were so varied as to age, vigor or the lack of it -and the like? For not all were old or sick or poorly dressed. Some -quite the contrary. And yet how did some of them manage to subsist, -even with the aid of such a place as this? What was before them? These -thoughts, somehow, would intrude themselves whether one would or no. -For some of them were so utterly hopeless looking. And others (I told -myself) were the natural idlers of the world, or what was left of them, -men too feeble, too vagrom in thought, or too indifferent to make an -earnest effort in any direction. At least there was the possibility -of many such being here. Again, there were those of better mood and -substance, like myself, say, who were here because of stress, and who -were temporarily driven to this form of economy, wretched as it was. -Others were obviously criminals or drug fiends, or those suffering from -some incurable or wasting disease, who probably had little money and no -strength, or very little, and who were seeking to hide themselves away -here, to rest and content themselves as obscurely and as cheaply as -possible. (The maximum charges for a room and a free bath in the public -bathroom, the same including towels and soap, ranged from twenty-five -to forty cents a day. A meal in the hotel dining-room, such as it was, -was fifteen cents. I ate several there.) Pick-pockets and thugs from -other cities drifted in here, and it was not difficult to pick out an -occasional detective studying those who chose to stay here. For the -rest, they were of the flotsam and jetsam of all metropolitan life--the -old, the young, the middle-aged, the former and the latter having in -the main passed the period of success without achieving anything, -the others waiting and drifting, perhaps until they should come upon -something better. Some of them looked to me to be men who had put up a -good fight, but in vain. Life had worsted them. Others looked as though -they had not put up any fight at all. - -And, again, the nature of the rooms here offered (one of which I was -compelled to accept), the air or illusion of cells in an institution or -prison that characterized them! They were really not rooms at all, as -I found, but cells partitioned or arranged in such a way as to provide -the largest amount of renting space and personal supervision and -espionage to the founder and manager but only a bare bed to the guest. -As I have said, they were all arranged either about an inner court or -the exterior walls, so as to have the advantage of interior or exterior -lighting, quite as all hotels and prisons are arranged. But the size of -them and the amazingly small windows through which one looked, either -into one or other of these courts or onto the streets outside! They -were not more than five feet in width by eight in length, and contained -each a small iron bed, a single chair, and a very small closet or -wardrobe where some clothing might be installed, but so little that it -could hardly be called a convenience. - -And, again, the walls were really not walls at all, but marble -partitions set upon iron legs or jacks two feet from the floor and -reaching to within three feet of the ceiling, which permitted the -observation of one’s neighbor’s legs from below, if you wished to -observe those conveniences, or of studying his entire chamber if you -chose to climb upon your bed and look over the top. These open spaces -were of course protected by iron screens, which prevented any one -entering save through the door. - -It is obvious that any such arrangement would preclude any sense of -privacy. When you were in your cell there came to you from all parts of -the building the sounds of a general activity--the shuffling of feet, -the clearing of throats, the rattling of dominoes in the reading-room -below, voices in complaint or conversation, walkings to and fro, the -slamming of doors here, there and everywhere, and what not. Coupled -with this was the fact that the atmosphere of the whole building was -permeated with tobacco smoke, and tainted or permeated with breaths -in all degrees of strength from that of the drunkard to that of the -drug fiend or consumptive. It was as though one were living in a weird -dream. You were presumed to be alone, and yet you were not, and yet -you were, only there was no sense of privacy, only a sense of being -separated and then neglected and irritated. - -And the way these noises and this atmosphere continued into the small -hours of the morning was maddening. There is something, to begin with, -about poverty and squalor that is as depressing and destructive as -a gas or a chemic ferment. Poverty has color and odor and radiation -as strong as any gas or ferment. It speaks. It mourns, and these -radiations are destructive. Hence the instinctive impulse to flee not -only disease but poverty. - -At ten o’clock all lights in the lobbies and halls were supposed to be -put out, and they were put out. There being none in the rooms, all was -dark. Before this you would hear the shuffling of this throng bedward, -and the piling of chairs on tables in the lobbies for the night in -order that the orderlies of the hotel might sweep afterwards. There -followed a general opening and shutting of doors and the sound made by -individuals here and there stirring among their effects in the dark or -straightening their beds. Finally, during the small hours of the night, -when peace was supposed to reign, you would hear, whether you wished to -or not, your neighbor and your neighbor’s neighbor, even to the extent -of aisles and floors distant, snoring and coughing or complaining. -There were raucous demands from the irritated to “cut it out” or “turn -over,” and from others return remarks as “go to hell. Who do you think -you are!”--retorts, sometimes brutal, sometimes merely irritable, -which, however, kept the night vocal and one awake. - -When, however, all these little difficulties had been finally ironed -out and the last man had either quit grumbling or decided to dispose of -his thoughts in a less audible way, there came an hour in which nature -seemed truly able, even here, to “knit up the raveled sleeve of care.” -The noisy had now become silent, the nervous peaceful. Throughout the -whole establishment an audible, rhythmic, synchronic breathing was now -apparent. You felt as though some great chemic or psychic force were at -work in the world, as though by some strange hocus-pocus of chemistry -or physics, life was still capable of solving its difficulties, even -though you were not, and as though these misfits of soul and body were -still breathing in unison with something, as though silence and shadow -were parts of some shrewd, huge plan to soothe the minds of the weary -and to bring final order out of chaos. - -In the morning, however, one awoke once more (at least I did) to a -still more painful realization of what it means to be very poor. There -were no conveniences, as I found, at least none which were private. -Your bath was a public one, a shower only, one; of a series of spouting -discs in the basement, where you were compelled to foregather with -others, taking your clothes with you--for unless you arose early you -could not return to your room. The towels, fortunately, were separate, -except for some roll-towels that served at washstands. The general -toilet was either a long trough or a series of exposed closets, -doorless segments extending along one wall. The shaving-room consisted -of the mirrors above the washstands, nothing separate. Over all were -the guards loitering to see that nothing was misused. - -There is no question as to the necessity of such rigid, almost -prison-like control, perhaps, but the general effect of it on one--or -on me, let me say--was coarse and bitter. - -“Blime me” (the attendants were for some curious reason mostly -English), “you’d think there was no other time but nine for ’im to come -start shaving. I say, you can’t do that. We’re closing ’ere now. Cut it -out.” - -This to a shabby soul with a three days’ growth of beard who has -evidently not reached the stage where he understands the regulations of -the institution. - -“You’ll ’ave to quit splattering water ’ereabouts, I’m telling you. -This ain’t no bawth. If you want to do that, go in the basement.” - -This to one who was not as careful about his shaving as he might be. - -“You’ll ’ave to be moving out o’ ’ere now.” - -This to one who had fixed himself comfortably in the lobby and who -might be in the way of some orderly who wanted to sweep or sprinkle a -little sawdust. On every hand, at every time, as I noticed, it was the -orderly or the hired servant, not the guest, who was the important and -superior person. And it seemed to me, after a three days’ study of it, -that they were really looking for flaws and slight mistakes on the part -of guests in order that they might show their authority and proclaim to -the world their strength. It was discouraging. - -The saddest part of it was that this place, with all its drawbacks, -was still beyond the purse of many. Some, as anyone could see, only -came here between the hours of ten in the morning and ten at night, -the hours when lounging in these lobbies was permitted, to loaf and -keep warm. They could not afford one of these palatial rooms but must -only loaf here by day. It was at least warm and bright, and so, up to -ten o’clock at night, not unsatisfactory. But having no room to go -to at ten at night, they must make their way out. And this necessity, -exposing them for what they were, bench-warmers, soon made them known -to the guards or orderlies, who could be seen eyeing them, sometimes -speaking to them, suggesting that they come no more, that they “cut -it out.” They were bums, benchers, really below the level of those -who could afford to stop here, and so beneath that level of contempt -which was regularly meted out to those who could stop here. I myself -have seen them sidling or slipping out at 9:30 or 9:45, and with what -an air--like that of a dog that is in danger of a booting. I have also -seen a man at closing time count the remaining money in his possession, -calculate a moment, and then rise and slip out into the night. Men -such as these are not absolutely worthless, but they have reached the -lowest rung of the ladder, are going down, not up, and beyond them is -the Bowery, the hospital, and the river--the last, I think, the most -merciful of all. - - - - -HELL’S KITCHEN - - -N. B. When I first came to New York, and for years afterward, it was -a whim of the New York newspapers to dub that region on the West Side -which lies between Thirty-sixth and Forty-first Streets and Ninth -Avenue and the Hudson River as _Hell’s Kitchen_. There was assumed -to be operative there, shooting and killing at will, a gang of young -roughs that for savagery and brutality was not to be outrivaled by -any of the various savage groups of the city. Disturbances, murders, -riots, were assumed to be common; the residents of this area at once -sullen and tempestuous. Interested by the stark pictures of a slum life -so often painted, I finally went to reside there for a period. What -follows is from notes or brief pictures made at the time. - - * * * * * - -It is nine o’clock of a summer’s evening. Approaching my place at this -hour, suddenly I encounter a rabble issuing out of Thirty-ninth Street -into Tenth Avenue. It is noisy, tempestuous, swirling. A frowsy-headed -man of about thirty-eight, whose face is badly lacerated and bleeding -and whose coat is torn and covered with dust, as though he had been -rolling upon the ground, leads the procession. He is walking with -that reckless abandon which characterizes the movements of the angry. -A slatternly woman of doughy complexion follows at his heels. About -them sways a crowd of uncombed and stribbly-haired men and women and -children. In the middle of the street, directly on a line with the man -whom the crowd surrounds, but, to one side and nearer the sidewalk -walks another man, undersized, thickset and energetic, who seems to -take a great interest in the crowd. Though he keeps straight ahead, -like the others, he keeps turning and looking, as though he expected -a demonstration of some sort. No word is spoken by either the man or -the woman, and as the curious company passes along under the variable -glows of the store-lamps, shop-keepers and store-dealers come out and -make humorous comments, but seem to think it not worth while to follow. -I join the procession, since this now relates to my interests, and -finally shake an impish, black-haired, ten-year-old girl by the arm -until she looks up at me. - -“What’s the matter?” - -“Aw, he hit him with a banister.” - -“Who hit him?” - -“Why, that man out there in the street.” - -“What did he hit him for?” - -“I dunno,” she replies irritably. “He wouldn’t get out of the room. -They got to fightin’ in the hall.” - -She moves away from me and I ply others fruitlessly, until, turning -into Thirty-seventh Street, the green lights of the police station -come into view. The object of this pilgrimage becomes apparent. I fall -silent, following. - -Reaching the station door, the injured man and his woman attendant -enter, while the thickset individual who walked to one side, and the -curious crowd remain without. - -“Well?” says the sergeant within, glaring intolerantly at the twain as -they push before him. The appearance of the injured man naturally takes -his attention most. - -“Lookit me eye,” begins the wounded man, with that curious tone of -injured dignity which the drunk and disorderly so frequently assume. -“That--” and he interpolates a string of oaths descriptive of the man -who has assaulted him “--hit me with a banister leg.” - -“Who hit you? Where is he? What did he hit you for?” This from the -sergeant in a breath. The man begins again. The woman beside him -interrupts with a description of her own. - -“Shut up!” yells the sergeant savagely, showing his teeth. “I’ll ram me -fist down your throat if you don’t. Let him tell what’s the matter with -him. You keep still.” - -The woman, overawed by the threat, stops her tirade. The man resumes. - -“He hit me with a banister leg.” - -“What for?” - -“It was this way, Captain. I went to call on this here lady and that ----- came in and wanted me to get out of the room. I----” - -“What relation is this man to you?” inquires the sergeant, addressing -the woman. - -“Nothin’,” she replies blandly. - -“Isn’t the other man your husband?” - -[Illustration: Hell’s Kitchen] - -“No, he ain’t, the blank-blank-blank-blank ----” and you have a -sweet string of oaths. “He’s a ----,” and she begins again to ardently -describe the assailant. The man assists her as best he can. - -“I thought so,” exclaims the officer vigorously. “Now, you two get the -hell out of here, and stay out, before I club you both. Get on out! -Beat it!” - -“Ain’t you goin’ to lock him up?” demands the victim. - -“I lock nothing,” vouchsafes the sergeant intolerantly. “Clear out of -here, both of you. If I catch you coming around here any more I’ll give -you both six months.” - -He calls an officer from the rear room and the two complainants, -together with others who have ventured in, myself included, beat a -sullen retreat, the crowd welcoming us on the outside. A buzz of -conversation follows. War is promised. When the victim is safely down -the steps he exclaims: - -“All right! I ast him to arrest him. Now let ’em look out. I’ll go back -there, I will. Yes, I will. I’ll kill the bastard, that’s what I’ll -do. I’ll show him whether he’ll hit me with a banister leg, the ----,” -and as he goes now, rather straight and yet rhythmically forward, his -assailant, who has been opposite him all the while but in the middle of -the street, keeps an equal and amusing pace. - -The crowd follows and turns into Thirty-ninth Street, a half-block east -of Tenth Avenue. It stops in front of an old, stale, four-story red -brick tenement. Some of its windows are glowing softly in the night. On -the third floor some one is playing a flute. Quiet and peace seem to -reign, and yet this---- - -“I’ll show him whether he’ll hit me,” insists the injured man, entering -the house. The woman follows, and then the short, thickset man from -the street. One after another they disappear up the narrow stairs -which begin at the back of the hall. Some of the crowd follows, myself -included. - -Presently, after a great deal of scuffling and hustling on the fourth -floor, all return helter-skelter. They are followed by a large, -comfortably-built, healthy, white-shirted Irish-American, who lives -up there and who has strength and courage. Before him, pathetically -small in size and strength, the others move, the mutilated and still -protesting victim among them. Apparently he has been ejected from the -room in which he had been before. - -“I’ll show him,” he is still boasting. “I’ll see whether he’ll hit me -with a banister leg, the ----.” - -“That’s all right,” says the large Irishman with a brogue, pushing him -gently onto the sidewalk as he does so. “Go on now.” - -“I’ll get even with him yet,” insists the victim. - -“That’s all right. I don’t care what you do to-morrow. Go on now.” - -The victim turns and looks up at this new authority fixedly, as though -he knew him well, scratches his head and then turns and solemnly walks -away. The other man does likewise. You wonder why. - -“It’s over now,” says the new authority to the crowd, and he smiles -as blandly as if he had been taking part in an entertainment of some -kind. The crowd begins to dissolve. The man who drew the banister leg -or stick and who was to have been punished has also disappeared. - -“But how is this?” I ask of some one. “How can he do that?” - -“Him?” replies an Irish longshoreman who seems to wish to satisfy my -curiosity. “Don’t you know who that is? It’s Patsy Finnerty. He used -to be a champeen prize-fighter. He won all the fights around here ten -years ago. Everybody knows him. He’s in charge over at the steamship -dock now, but they won’t fight with him. If they did he wouldn’t give -’em no more work. They both work for him once in a while.” - -I see it all in a blinding flash and go to my own room. How much more -powerful is self-interest as typified by Patsy than the police! - - * * * * * - -It is raining one night and I hear a voice in the room above mine, -singing. It is a good voice, sweet and clear, but a little weak and -faint down here. - - “Tyro-al, Tyro-al! Tyro-al, Tyro-al! - Ich hab dich veeder, O mine Tyro-al!” - -I know who lives up there by now: Mr. and Mrs. Schmick and a -little Schmick girl, about ten or eleven. Being courageous in this -vicinity because of the simplicity of these people, the awe they -have for one who holds himself rather aloof and dresses better than -they, and lonely, too, I go up. In response to my knock a little -fair-complexioned, heavily constructed German woman with gray hair and -blue eyes comes to the door. - -“I heard some one singing,” I say, “and I thought I would come up and -ask you if I might not come in and listen. I live in the room below.” - -“Certainly. Why, of course.” This with an upward lift of the voice. -“Come right in.” And although flustered and red because of what to her -seems an embarrassing situation, she introduces me to her black-haired, -heavy-faced husband, who is sitting at the center table with a zither -before him. - -“Papa, here is a gentleman who wants to hear the music.” - -I smile, and the old German arises, smiles and extends me a -welcoming hand. He is sitting in the center of this combination -sitting-room, parlor, kitchen and dining-room, his zither, inlaid with -mother-of-pearl, on the table before him. - -“I don’t know your name,” I say. - -“Schmick,” he replies. - -I apologize for intruding but they both seem rather pleased. Also the -little daughter, who is sitting in one corner. - -“Were you singing?” I ask her. - -“No. Mamma,” she replies. - -I look at the gray-haired little mother and she shows me even, white -teeth in smiling at my astonishment. - -“I sing but very little,” she insists, blushing red. “My woice is not -so strong any more.” - -“Won’t you sing what you were singing just before I came in?” I ask. - -Without any of that diffidence which characterizes so many of all -classes she rises and putting one hand on the shoulder of her heavy, -solemn-looking husband, asks him to strike the appropriate chord, and -then breaks forth into one of those plaintive folksongs of the Tyrol -which describes the longing of the singer for his native land. - -“I have such a poor woice now,” she insists when she concludes. “When I -was younger it was different.” - -“Poor!” I exclaim. “It’s very clear and beautiful. How old are you?” - -“I will be fifty next August,” she answers. - -This woman is possessed of a sympathetic and altogether lovely -disposition. How can she exist in Hell’s Kitchen, amid grime and -apparent hardness, and remain so sweet and sympathetic? In my youth and -ignorance I wonder. - - * * * * * - -I am returning one day from a serious inspection of the small stores -and shops of the neighborhood. As I near my door I am preceded up the -street by three grimy coal-heavers, evidently returning from work in an -immense coalyard in Eleventh Avenue. - -“Come on in and have a pint,” invites one great hulking fellow, with -hands like small coal-shovels. He was, as it chanced, directly in front -of my doorway. - -One of his two companions needs no second invitation, but the other, a -small, feeble-witted-looking individual, seems uncertain as to whether -to go on or stay. - -“Come on! Come on back and have a pint!” shouts the first coal-heaver. -“What the hell--ain’t you no good at all? Come on!” - -“Sure I am,” returns the other diffidently. “But I ought to be home by -half-past.” - -“Aw, home be damned! It won’t take long to drink a pint. Come on.” - -“All right,” returns the other, grinning sheepishly. - -They go over the way to a saloon, and I pause in my own door. Presently -a little girl comes down, carrying a tin pail. - -“Whose little girl are you?” I inquire, not recognizing her. - -“Mamma ain’t home to-day,” she returns quickly. - -“Mamma?” I reply. “Why do you say that? I don’t want your mamma. I live -here.” - -“Oh, I thought you was the insurance man,” she adds, grinning. “You -look just like him.” - -“Aren’t you the coal man’s little girl?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, he just went into the saloon over there.” - -“Huh-uh. Mine’s upstairs, drunk. He must be Mr. Kelly,” and she goes -quickly on with her bucket. - - * * * * * - -I am sitting in my room one night, listening to the sounds that float -vaguely about this curious little unit of metropolitan life, when a -dénouement in the social complications of this same coal-heaver’s life -is reached. I already know him now to be a rough man, for once or twice -I heard him damning his children very loudly. But I did not suspect -that there were likely to be complications over and above the world of -the purely material. - -“Die frau hat sich selbst umgebracht!” (“The woman has taken her -life!”) I hear some one crying out in the hall, and then there is such -a running and shuffling in the general hubbub. A score of tenants from -the different floors are talking and gesticulating, and in the rear of -the hall the door opening into the coal-heaver’s dining-room is open. -My landlady, Mrs. Witty, is on the scene, and even while we gaze a -dapper little physician of the region, in a high hat and frockcoat, -comes running up the steps and enters the open door in the rear. - -“The doctor! The doctor!” The word passes from one to another. - -“What is it?” I ask, questioning a little girl whom I had often seen -playing tag on the sidewalk below. - -“She took poison,” she answers. - -“Who?” - -“That woman in there.” - -“The wife of the coal man?” - -“Sure.” - -“What did she take it for?” - -“I dunno. Here comes another doctor--look!” - -Another young doctor is hurrying up the steps. - -While we are still gaping at the opening and closing door, Mrs. -Schmick, the little German woman who sang for me, comes out. She has -evidently been laboring in the sick room and seems very much excited. - -“Is she dead?” ask a half-dozen people as she hurries upstairs for -something. - -“No-oh,” she answers, puckering up her mouth in her peculiar way. “She -is very low, though. I must get some things,” and she hurries away. - -The crowd waits, and finally some light on the difficulty begins to -break. - -“She wouldn’t live with him if he didn’t stop going with her,” my own -landlady is saying. “I heard her say it.” - -“Who? Who?” inquires another. - -“Why, that woman in Fortieth Street. You know her.” - -“No.” - -“Yes, you do. She lives next door to the blacksmith’s shop, upstairs -there, the woman with the two little girls.” - -“Her? Is that why she did it?” - -“Sure.” - -“You don’t say!” - -They clatter on in this way and gradually it comes out in good order. -This coal-heaver knows a widow in the next block. He is either in -love with her or she is in love with him, and sometimes she comes -here into Thirty-ninth Street to catch a glimpse of him. He has been -seen with her a number of times and had been in the habit of driving -his coal-wagon through Fortieth Street in order to catch a glimpse of -her. His wife has frequently complained, of course, and there have -been rows, bitter nocturnal wrangles, in which he has not come off -triumphant. He has sworn and raved and struck his wife but he has -been made to promise not to drive through Fortieth Street just the -same. This day, however, he failed to keep this injunction. She was in -Fortieth Street and had seen him, then had come home and in a fit of -jealous rage and affectionate distemper had drunk a bottle of camphor. -The husband is not home yet. - -While we are still patiently awaiting him he arrives, dark, heavy, -unprepared for the difficulty awaiting him, and very much astonished at -the company gathered about his door. - -“My wife!” he exclaims when told. - -“Yes, your wife.” This from several members of the company. - -He hurries in, very shaken and frightened. - -“What is this?” he demands as he passes the door and is confronted by -serious-looking physicians. More we could not hear. - -But after a time out he comes for something at the drugstore, then in -again. He is in and out two or three times, and finally, before the -assembled company and in explanation, wrings his hands. - -“I never done nothin’ to make her do this. I never done nothin’.” He -pauses, awaiting a denial, possibly, from some one, then adds: “The -disgrace! I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t for the disgrace!” - -I meet Mrs. Schmick the next day in the hall. She has been -indefatigable in her labors. - -“Will she die?” - -“No, she gets better now.” - -“Is he going to behave himself?” - -She shrugs her shoulders, lifts up her hands dubiously. - -“Mrs. Schmick,” I ask, interestedly, her philosophy of life arresting -me, “why do you work so hard? You didn’t even know her, did you?” - -“Ach, no. But she is sick now. She is in trouble. I would do as much -for anybody.” - -And this is Hell’s Kitchen, I recall. - - * * * * * - -Looking out of my front window I can see a great deal of all that goes -on here, in connection with this house, I mean. Through the single -narrow door under my window issue and return all those who have in -any way anything to do with it. The mailman comes very seldom. There -is a weekly life-insurance man who comes regularly, bangs on doors -and complains that some people are in but won’t answer. Ditto the gas -man. Ditto the milkman. Ditto the collector for a rug and clock house. -Many duns of many kinds who come to collect bills of all kinds and -never can “get in.” Of a morning only a half-dozen men and some six or -eight girls seem to creep wearily and unwillingly forth to work. At -night they and others, who have apparently other methods than that of -regular toil for occupying their time, return with quite a different -air. Truckmen and coalmen and Mr. Schmick arrive about the same time, -half-past five. The son of a morose malster’s clerk, who occupies the -second floor rear, back of me, arrives at six. Beer-can carrying is the -chief employment of the city cart-driver’s wife, who lives on the third -floor, the unemployed iron-worker, whose front room I rent, and the -ill-tempered woman with the three children on the fourth floor. The six -or eight girls who go out evenings after their day’s labor frequently -do not begin to drift back until after eleven, several of them not -before three or four. I have met them coming in. Queer figures slip in -and out at all times, men and women who cannot be placed by me in any -regular detail of the doings of this house. Some of them visit one or -another of several “apartments” too frequently to make their comings -and goings explicable on conventional grounds. It is a peculiar region -and house, this, with marked streaks of gayety at times, and some -very evident and frequently long-continued periods of depression and -dissatisfaction and misery. - -I am hanging out of my window one evening as usual when the keenest -of all these local tragedies, in so far as this house and a home -are concerned, is enacted directly below me. One of the daughters -above-mentioned is followed down four flights of stairs and pushed out -upon the sidewalk by her irate father and a bundle of wearing apparel -thrown after her. - -He is very angry and shouts: “You get out now. You can’t come back into -my house any more. Get out!” - -He waves his arms dramatically. A crowd gathers. Men and women hang out -of windows or gather closely about him and the girl, while the latter, -quite young yet, perhaps fifteen, cries, and the onlookers eagerly -demand to know what the trouble is. - -“She’s a street-walker, that’s what she is,” he screams. “She comes to -my house after running around all night with loafers. Let her get out -now.” - -“Aw, what do you want to turn her off for?” demands a sympathetic -bystander who is evidently moved by the girl’s tears. Others voice the -same sentiment. - -“You! You!” exclaims the old locksmith, who is her father, in -uncontrollable rage. “You mind your own business. She is a -street-walker, that’s what she is. She shall not come into my house any -more.” - -There is wrangling and more exclamations, and finally into the thick of -the crowd comes a policeman, who tries to gather up all the phases of -the story. - -“You won’t take her back, eh?” he asks of the father, after using all -sorts of arguments to prevent a family rupture. “All right, then, -come along,” he says to the girl, and leads her around to the police -station. “We’ll find some place for you, maybe, to-night anyhow.” - -I heard that she did not stay at the station, after all, but what the -conclusion of her career was, outside of the fact that the matter was -reported to the Gerry Society, I never learned. But the reasons for -her predicament struck me as obvious. Here was too much toil, too much -gloom, too much solemnity for her, the non-appreciation which the -youthful heart so much abhors. Elsewhere, perhaps, was light, warmth, -merriment, beauty--or so she thought. - -She went, she and so many others, fluttering eastward like a moth, into -the heart of the great city which lay mostly to the east. When she -returned, and with singed wings, she was no longer welcome. - - * * * * * - -But why they saw fit to dub it Hell’s Kitchen, however, I could never -discover. It seemed to me a very ordinary slum neighborhood, poor and -commonplace, and sharply edged by poverty, but just life and very, very -human life at that. - - - - -A CERTAIN OIL REFINERY - - -There is a section of land very near New York, lying at the extreme -southern point of the peninsula known as Bayonne, which is given up to -a peculiar business. The peninsula is a long neck of land lying between -those two large bays which extend a goodly distance on either hand, one -toward the city of Newark, the other toward the vast and restless ocean -beyond Brooklyn. Stormy winds sweep over it at many periods of the -year. The seagull and the tern fly high over its darksome roof-tops. -Tall stacks and bare, red buildings and scores of rounded tanks spread -helter-skelter over its surface, give it a dreary, unkempt and yet -not wholly inartistic appearance which appeals, much as a grotesque -deformity appeals or a masque intended to represent pain. - -This section is the seat of a most prosperous manufacturing -establishment, a single limb of a many-branched tree, and its business -is the manufacturing, or rather refining, of oil. Of an ordinary -business day you would not want a more inspiring picture of that which -is known as manufacture. Great ships, inbound and outbound, from all -ports of the world, lie anchored at its docks. Long trains of oil cars -are backed in on many spurs of tracks, which branch from main-line -arteries and stand like caravans of steel, waiting to carry new burdens -of oil to the uttermost parts of the land. There are many buildings and -outhouses of all shapes and dimensions which are continually belching -forth smoke in a solid mass, and if you stand and look in any direction -on a gloomy day you may see red fires which burn and gleam in a steady -way, giving a touch of somber richness to a scene which is otherwise -only a mass of black and gray. - -This region is remarkable for the art, as for the toil of it, if -nothing more. A painter could here find a thousand contrasts in black -and gray and red and blue, which would give him ample labor for his pen -or brush. These stacks are so tall, the building from which they spring -so low. Spread out over a marshy ground which was once all seaweed and -which now shows patches of water stained with iridescent oil, broken -here and there with other patches of black earth to match the blacker -buildings which abound upon it, you have a combination in shades and -tones of one color which no artist could resist. A Whistler could make -wonderful blacks and whites of this. A Vierge or a Shinn could show -us what it means to catch the exact image of darkness at its best. A -casual visitor, if he is of a sensitive turn, shudders or turns away -with a sense of depression haunting him. It is a great world of gloom, -done in lines of splendid activity, but full of the pathos of faint -contrasts in gray and black. - -At that, it is not so much the art of it that is impressive as the -solemn life situation which it represents. These people who work in -it--and there are thousands of them--are of an order which you would -call commonplace. They are not very bright intellectually, of course, -or they would not work here. They are not very attractive physically, -for nature suits body to mind in most instances, and these bodies as -a rule reflect the heaviness of the intelligence which guides them. -They are poor Swedes and Poles, Hungarians and Lithuanians, people who -in many instances do not speak our tongue as yet, and who are used to -conditions so rough and bare that those who are used to conditions of -even moderate comfort shudder at the thought of them. They live in -tumbledown shacks next to “the works” and they arrange their domestic -economies heaven only knows how. Wages are not high (a dollar or a -dollar and a half a day is good pay in most instances), and many of -them have families to support, large families, for children in all the -poorer sections are always numerous. There are dark, minute stores, -and as dark and meaner saloons, where many of them (the men) drink. -Looking at the homes and the saloons hereabout, it would seem to you -as though any grade of intelligence ought to do better than this, as -if an all-wise, directing intelligence, which we once assumed nature -to possess, could not allow such homely, claptrap things to come into -being. And yet here they are. - -Taken as a mass, however, and in extreme heat or cold, under rain -or snow, when the elements are beating about them, they achieve a -swart solemnity, rise or fall to a somber dignity or misery for which -nature might well be praised. They look so grim, so bare, so hopeless. -Artists ought to make pictures of them. Writers ought to write of -them. Musicians should get their inspiration for what is antiphonal -and contra-puntal from such things. They are of the darker moods of -nature, its meanest inspiration. - -However, it is not of these houses alone that this picture is to be -made, but of the work within the plant, its nature, its grayness, -its intricacy, its rancidity, its commonplaceness, its mental -insufficiency; for it is a routine, a process, lacking from one year’s -end to another any trace of anything creative--the filling of one vat -and another, for instance, and letting the same settle; introducing -into one vat and another a given measure of chemicals which are known -to bring about separation and purifications or, in other words, the -process called refining; opening gates in tubes and funnels which drain -the partially refined oils into other vats and finally into barrels and -tanks, which are placed on cars or ships. You may find the how of it in -any encyclopedia. But the interesting thing to me is that men work and -toil here in a sickening atmosphere of blackness and shadow, of vile -odors, of vile substances, of vile surroundings. You could not enter -this yard, nor glance into one of these buildings, nor look at these -men tramping by, without feeling that they were working in shadow and -amid foul odors and gases, which decidedly are not conducive to either -health or the highest order of intelligence. - -Refuse tar, oil and acids greet the nostrils and sight everywhere. The -great chimneys on either hand are either belching huge columns of black -or blue smoke, or vapory blue gases, which come in at the windows. The -ground under your feet is discolored by oil, and all the wagons, cars, -implements, machinery, buildings, and the men, of course, are splotched -and spotted with it. There seems to be no escape. The very air is full -of smoke and oil. - -It is in this atmosphere that thousands of men are working. You may see -them trudging in in the morning, their buckets or baskets over their -arms, a consistent pallor overspreading their faces, an irritating -cough in some instances indicating their contact with the smoke and -fumes; and you may see them trudging out again at night, marked with -the same pallor, coughing with the same cough; a day of peculiar duties -followed by a night in the somber, gray places which they call home. -Another line of men is always coming in as they go out. It is a line of -men which straggles over all of two miles and is coming or going during -an hour, either of the morning or the night. There is no gayety in it, -no enthusiasm. You may see depicted on these faces only the mental -attitude which ensues where one is compelled to work at some thing in -which there is nothing creative. It is really, when all is said and -done, not a pleasant picture. - -I will not say, however, that it is an unrelieved hardship for men -to work so. “The Lord tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb” is an -old proverb and unquestionably a true one. Indubitably these men do -not feel as keenly about these things as some of the more exalted -intellectual types in life, and it is entirely possible that a -conception of what we know as “atmosphere” may never have found -lodgment in their brains. Nevertheless, it is true that their physical -health is affected to a certain extent, and it is also true that the -home life to which they return is what it is, whether this be due to -low intelligence or low wages, or both. The one complements the -other, of course. If any attempt were made to better their condition -physically or mentally, it might well be looked upon by them as -meddling. At the same time it is true that up to this time nothing has -been done to improve their condition. Doing anything more for them than -paying them wages is not thought of. - -[Illustration: An Oil Refinery] - -A long trough, for instance, a single low wooden tub, in a small -boarded-off space, in the boss teamsters’ shanty, with neither soap -nor towels and only the light that comes from a low door, is all -the provision made for the host of “still-cleaners,” the men who -are engaged in the removal of the filthy refuse--tar, acids, and -vile residuums from the stills and agitators. In connection with the -boiler-room, where over three hundred men congregate at noontime and -at night, there is to be found nothing better. You may see rows of -grimy men congregate at noontime and at night, to eat their lunch or -dinner, there is to be found nothing better. You may see rows of grimy -men in various departments attempting to clean themselves under such -circumstances, and still others walking away without any attempt at -cleaning themselves before leaving. It takes too long. The idea of -furnishing a clean dining-room in which to eat or a place to hang coats -has never occurred to any one. They bring their food in buckets. - -However, that vast problem, the ethics of employment, is not up for -discussion in this instance: only the picture which this industry -presents. On a gray day or a stormy one, if you have a taste for the -somber, you have here all the elements of a gloomy labor picture which -may not long endure, so steadily is the world changing. On the one -hand, masters of great force and wealth, penurious to a degree, on the -other the victims of this same penuriousness and indifference, dumbly -accepting it, and over all this smoke and gas and these foul odors -about all these miserable chambers. Truly, I doubt if one could wish a -better hell for one’s enemies than some of the wretched chambers here, -where men rove about like troubled spirits in a purgatory of man’s -devising; nor any mental state worse than that in which most of these -victims of Mother Nature find themselves. At the bottom nothing but -darkness and thickness of wit, and dullness of feeling, let us say, and -at the top the great brilliant blooms known to the world as the palaces -and the office buildings and the private cars and the art collections -of the principal owners of the stock of this concern. For those at the -top, the brilliancy of the mansions of Fifth Avenue, the gorgeousness -of the resorts of Newport and Palm Beach, the delights of intelligence -and freedom; for those beneath, the dark chamber, the hanging smoke, -pallor, foul odors, wretched homes. Yet who shall say that this is not -the foreordained order of life? Can it be changed? Will it ever be, -permanently? Who is to say? - - - - -THE BOWERY MISSION - - -In the lower stretches of the Bowery, in New York, that street -once famous for a tawdry sprightliness but now run to humdrum and -commonplace, stands the Bowery Mission. It is really a pretentious -affair of its kind, the most showy and successful of any religious -effort directed toward reclaiming the bum, the sot, the crook and the -failure. As a matter of fact, the three former, and not always the -latter, are not easily reclaimed by religion or anything else. It is -only when the three former degenerate into the latter that the thought -of religion seems at all enticing, and then only on the side that -leans toward help for themselves. The Bowery Mission as an institution -gathers its full quota of these failures, and its double row of stately -old English benches, paid for by earnest Christians who have heard of -it through much newspaper heralding of its services, are nightly filled -and overflowing. - -The spirit of this organization is peculiar. It really does not ask -anything of its adherents or attendants, or whatever they might be -called, except that they come in. No dues are collected, no services -exacted. There is even a free lunchroom and an employment bureau run -in connection with it, where the hungry can get a cup of coffee and a -roll at midnight and the jobless can sometimes hear of something to -their advantage during the day. The whole spirit of the place is one of -helpfulness, though the task is of necessity dispiriting and in some -of its aspects gruesome. - -For these individuals who frequent this place of worship are surely, of -all the flotsam of the city, the most helpless and woebegone. There is -something about the type of soul which turns to religion _in extremis_ -which is not pleasing. It appears to turn to religion about as a -drowning man turns to a raft. There is the taint of personal advantage -about it and not a little of the cant and whine of one who would curry -favor with life or the Lord. Granting this, yet here they are, and here -they come, out of the Bowery and the side streets of the Bowery, that -wonderful ganglia of lodging houses; and in this place, and I presume -others of its stripe, listen to presumably inspiring sermons. In all -fairness, the speakers seem to realize that they have a difficult -task to perform in awakening these men to a consciousness of their -condition. They know that there is, if not cant, at least mental and -physical lethargy to overcome. These bodies are poisoned by their own -inactivity and sense of defeat. When one looks at them collectively the -idea instinctively forces itself forward: “What is there to save?” - -And yet, shabby and depressing as are these facts, there is a -collective, coherent charm and color about the effort itself which to -one who views it entirely disinterestedly is not to be scoffed at. -The hall itself, a long deep store turned to a semblance of Gothic -beauty by a series of colored windows set in the store-front facing -the Bowery, and by a gallery of high-backed benches of Gothic design -at the back, and by mottoes and traceries in dark blue and gold which -harmonize fittingly with the walnut stain of the woodwork, is inviting. -Even the shabby greenish-brown and dusty gray coats of the audience -blend well with the woodwork, and even the pale colorless faces of gray -or ivory hue somehow add to what is unquestionably an artistic and -ornamental effect. - -The gospel of God the All-Forgiving is the only doctrine here -thoroughly insisted upon. It is, in a way, a doctrine of inspiration. -That it is really never too late to change, to come back and begin all -over, is the basic idea. God, once appealed to, can do anything to -restore the contrite heart to power and efficiency. Believe in God, -believe that He really loves you, believe that He desires to make you -all you should be, and you will be. Your fortunes will change. You will -come into peace and decency and be respected once more. God will help -you. - -It is interesting to watch the effect of this inspirational doctrine, -driven home as it is by imaginative address, oratorical fire, and -sometimes physical vehemence. The speakers, the ordinary religionists -of an inspirational and moral turn, not infrequently possess real -magnetism, the power to attract and sway their hearers. These dismal -wanderers, living largely in doubt and despair, can actually be seen -to take on a pseudo-courage as they listen. You can see them stir and -shift, the idea that possibly something can be done for them if only -they can get this belief into their minds, actually influencing their -bodies. And now and then some one who has got a soft job, a place, -through the ministrations of the mission workers, or who has been -pulled out of a state of absolute despair--or at least claims to have -been--will arise and testify that such has been the case. His long -wanderings in the dark will actually fascinate him by contrast and -he will expatiate with shabby eloquence upon his present decency and -comfort as contrasted with what he was. I remember one night hearing -an old man tell what a curse he had been to a kind-hearted sister, -and how he wanted but one thing, now that he was coming out of his -dream of evil, and that was to let her see some day that he had really -reformed. It was a pathetic wish, so little to hope for, but the wish -was seemingly sincere and the speaker fairly recovered. - -And they claim to recover a percentage, small though it is, to actual -service and usefulness. The service may not be great, the usefulness -not very important, but such as it is, there it is. And if one could -but believe them, so dubious is all so-called reformation of this -sort, there is something pleasing in the thought that out of the muck -and waste of the slough of despond some of these might actually be -brought to health and decency, a worthwhile living, say. Yet are they? -Dirty, grimy, like flies immersed in glue, can they be--have they ever -been--dragged to safety and set on their feet again, clean, hopeful, or -even weakly so? - -I remember listening one night to the story of the son of the man who -founded the mission. It appears that the father was rich and the boy -indulgently fostered, until at last he turned out to be a drunkard, -rake and what not--all the nouns usually applied to those who do evil. -His father had tried to retain a responsible position for him among -his affairs but was finally compelled to cut him off. He ordered him -out of his house, his business, had his will remade, cutting him off -without a dollar, and declared vehemently and determinedly that he -would never look upon him again. - -[Illustration: The Bowery Mission] - -The boy disappeared. Some five years later a thin, shabby, down-hearted -wastrel strolled into the mission and sat down, contenting himself with -occupying a far corner and listening wearily to what was being said. -After the services were over he came to the director in charge and -confessed that he was the son of the man who had founded the mission, -that he was actually at the end of his rope, hungry, and with no place -to sleep--your prodigal son. The director, of course, at once took him -in charge, gave him a meal and a bed, and set about considering whether -anything could be done for him. - -It appears that the youth, like his prototype of the parable, had -actually had his fill of the husks, but in addition he was sick and -dispirited and willing to die. The director encouraged him to hope. He -was young yet. There was still a chance for him. He first gave him odd -jobs about the mission, then secured him a place as waiter in a small -restaurant, and finally, figuring out a notable idea, took him to the -foreman of the father’s own printing establishment and asked a place -for him as a printer’s devil. The character of the mission director was -sufficient guarantee and the place was given, though no one knew who -the rundown assistant really was. Finally, after over eleven months -of service, the director went to the owner of the business and said: -“Would you like to know where your boy is?” - -“No,” the father replied sharply, “I would not.” - -“If you knew he had reformed and had been working for at least a year -and a half steadily in one place--wouldn’t that make any difference?” - -“Well,” he replied, looking at him quizzically, “it might. Where is he?” - -“Right here in your own establishment.” - -The old man got up. “What’s he doing? Let me look at him.” - -The two traversed the halls of a great business establishment and -finally came to the department where the youth was working. The -father, eager but cautious, scanned the room and saw his son, himself -unnoticed. He was sticking type, a green shade over his eyes. - -For a moment the parent hesitated, then went over. - -“Harry,” he called. - -The boy jumped. - -“Father!” he cried. - -It was described as a moment of intense emotion. The boy broke down and -wept and the father shed tears over him. Finally he sobered himself and -said: “Now you come with me. I guess you’re all right enough to be my -son again. You can set more type to-morrow.” And he led him away. - -Truth? Or Romance? I do not know. - -The final answer to this form of service, however, is in the mission -itself. Nightly you may see them rise and hear them testify. One night -the speaker, pouring forth a fiery description of God’s power, stopped -in the midst of his address and said: “Is that you, Tommy Wilson, up -there in the gallery?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Tommy, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you get up and sing ‘My Lord and I’? -I know there isn’t any one here who wouldn’t rather hear you sing than -me preach any time. Will you?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -Up in the gallery, three rows back, there arose a shabby little man, -his dusty suit showing the well-worn marks of age. He was clean and -docile, however, and seemed to be some one whom the mission had -reclaimed in times past. In fact, the speaker made it clear that Tommy -was a great card, for out of the gutter he had come to contribute a -beautiful voice to the mission, a voice that was now missing because he -had a job in a faraway part of the city. - -Tommy sang. He put his hands in his coat pockets, stood perfectly -erect, and with his head thrown back gave vent to such a sweet, clear -melody that it moved every heart. It was not a strong voice, not showy, -but pure and lovely, like a limpid stream. The song he sang was this: - - I have a Friend so precious, - So very dear to me; - He loves me with such tender love, - He loves me faithfully. - I could not live apart from Him, - I love to feel Him nigh; - And so we dwell together, - My Lord and I. - - Sometimes I’m faint and weary, - He knows that I am weak, - And as He bids me lean on Him - His help I gladly seek; - He leads me in the paths of light, - Beneath a sunny sky; - And so we walk together, - My Lord and I. - - I tell Him all my sorrows, - I tell Him all my joys, - I tell Him all that pleases me, - I tell Him what annoys; - He tells me what I ought to do, - He tells me how to try; - And so we walk together, - My Lord and I. - - He knows how I’m longing - Some weary soul to win, - And so He bids me go and speak - The loving word for Him; - He bids me tell His wondrous love, - And why He came to die; - And so we work together - My Lord and I. - -As he sang I could not help thinking of this imaginatively personified -Lord of the Universe in all His power and wisdom taking note of this -singing, shabby ant--of the faith that it required to believe that He -would. Then I thought of the vast forces that shift and turn in their -mighty inscrutability. I thought of suns and planets that die, not -knowing why they are born. Of the vast machinery, the vast chemistry, -of things dark, ruthless, brutal, and then of love, and mercy and -tenderness that is somehow present along with cruelty and savagery. -And then I thought of this little, shabby reclaimed water-rat, this -scraping of the mud crawled to the bank, who yet could stand there -in his shabby coat and sing! What if, after all, as the Christian -Scientists believe, the Lord was not distant from things but here, now, -everywhere, divine goodness speaking in and through matter and man. -What if evil and weakness and failure were dreams only, evil dreams, -from which we wake to something different, better--Omnipotence, to -essential unity with life and love? For a moment, so mysterious a thing -is emotion and romance, the thought carried me with the singer, and I -sang with him: - - “And so we walk together, - My Lord and I.” - -But outside in the cold, hard street, with its trucks and cars, I -knew the informing spirit is not quite like that, neither so kind nor -helpful--at least not to all. - - - - -THE WONDER OF THE WATER - - -I cross, each morning, a bridge that spans a river of running water. It -is not a wide river, but one populous with boats and teeming with all -the mercantile life of a great city. Its current is swift, its bottom -deep; it carries on its glassy bosom the freight of a thousand--of -ten thousand merchants. Only the conception of something supernally -wonderful haunts me as I cross it, and I gaze at the picture of its -boats and barges, its spars and sails, spellbound by their beauty. - -The boats on this little river--the Harlem--traverse the seven seas. -You may stand and see them go by: vessels loaded with brick and stone, -with lumber and cement, with coal, iron, lime, oil--a great gamut of -serviceable things which the world needs and which is here forever -being delivered or carried away. These boats come from the Hudson -and the Chesapeake, from Maine, Florida, the Gulf of Mexico, Europe, -Asia, Africa and the rest of the world. They tie up to these small -docks in friendly rows and nose the banks in silence, while human -beings, honored only by being allowed to guide and direct their stately -proportions, clamber over them. - -[Illustration: The Wonder of the Water] - -It is not so much these boats, however, as it is the water which curls -under them, which sips and eddies about the docks and posts, and -circles away in spinning rings, which takes my fancy. This water, which -flows here so swiftly, comes from so far. It has been washing about -the world, lo, these many centuries--for how long the imagination of -man cannot conceive. And here it is running pleasantly at my feet, the -light of the morning sun warming it with amethystine beams and giving -it a luster which the deeps of the sea cannot have. - -This water, as it comes before me now, gives me the impression of -having been a hundred and a thousand things, maybe--the torrent -from the height, bounding ecstatically downward into the depths of -some cavern, rolling in gloom under the immensity of the volume of -the sea, or a tiny cloudlet hanging like a little red island in the -sky, a dark thundercloud pouring its fury and wrath upon a luckless -multitude. It may have been a cup of water, a glass of wine, a tear, -a gush of blood--anything in the whole gamut of human experience, or -out of it--and yet here for this hour at least it lies darkling and -purling, murmuring cheerfully about these docks and piers. When you -think of the steam that is made of it by heat, floating over our whole -civilization like plumes; the frost of the windowpanes spread in such -tropical luxury of a winter morning; the snow, in its forms of stars -and flowers; the rich rains of summer, falling with such rhythmic -persistence; and then the ice, the fog, the very atmosphere we breathe, -infiltrated by this wonderful medium and were ourselves almost entirely -composed of it, you see how almost mystic it becomes. We owe all our -forms to it; the beauty of the flowers, the stateliness of the trees, -the shape and grandeur of the mountains, all, in fact--our minds and -bodies, so much water and so little substance. - -And here it is under our bridge, hurrying away. It may be that it has -mind, that in its fluid depths lie all the religions and philosophies -of the world. Sweep us away, and out of it might rise new shapes and -forms, more glorious, more radiant. We may not even guess the alpha of -its powers. - -I do not know what this green fluid is that runs between green banks -and past docks and factories and the habitations of men. It has a life -quality, and mayhap a soul quality, which I cannot fathom, but with -each turn of its ripples and each gurgle of its tide the heart of me -leaps like a voice in song. I can reason no more. It is too colorful, -too rhythmic, too silent, not to call forth that which is deemed -exaltation by the world, and I stand spellbound, longing for I know not -what, nor why. - - - - -THE MAN ON THE BENCH - - -It is nine o’clock of a summer’s night. The great city all about is -still astir, active, interested, apparently comfortable. Lights gleam -out from stores lazily. The cars go rumbling by only partially filled, -as is usual at this time of night. People stroll in parks in a score of -places throughout the city, enjoying the cool of the night, such as it -is. - -In any one of these, as the evening wanes, may be witnessed one of the -characteristic spectacles of the town: the gathering of the “benchers.” -Here, while one strolls about for an hour’s amusement or sits on a -bench, may be seen the man whom the city has beaten, seeking a place to -sleep. - -What a motley company! What a port of missing men! This young one who -slips by me in shabby, clay-colored clothes and a worn, dirty straw -hat, is only temporarily down on his luck, for he has youth. It may be -a puling youth, half-witted, with ill-conceived understanding of things -as they are, but it is youth, with some muscle and some activity, and -as such it is salable. Some one will buy it for something for a little -while. - -But this other thing that comes shambling toward me, dirty, dust in its -ears, dust in its eyes, dust in its hair, a meager recollection of a -hat, dull, hopeless, doglike eyes--what has it to offer life? Nothing? -Practically so. An appetite which life will not satisfy, a racked and -thin-blooded body which life cannot use, a rusty, cracked and battered -piece of machinery which is fit only for the scrap-heap. And yet it -lingers on, clings on, hoping for what? And this third thing--a woman, -if you please, in rags and tatters, a gray cape for a shawl, a queer, -flat, shapeless thing which she wears on her head for a hat, shoes that -are not shoes but cracked strips of leather, a skirt that is a bag -only, hands, face, skin wrinkled and dirty, yet who seeks to rest or -sleep here the night through. And now she is stuffing old newspapers -between her dress and her breast to keep warm. And enveloping her hands -in her rag of a shawl! - -Yet she and those others make but three of many, so grim, so strange, -so shabby a company. What, in God’s name, has life done to them that -they are so cracked and bruised and worthless? - -No heart, or not a good one perhaps, in any of these bodies; no -stomach, or a mere bundle of distorted viscera; no liver or kidneys -worthy the name, but only botched or ill-working organs of these names -in their place; eyes poor; hearing possibly defective; hair fading; -skin clammy. Merciful God! is it to this condition that we come, you -and I, if life be not merciful? - -I am not morbid. I know that men must make good. I know that to be -useful to the world they must have a spark of divine fire. But who -is to provide the fire? Who did, in the first place? Where is it -now? What blew it out? The individual himself? Not always. Man is -not really responsible for his actions. Society? Society is not -really responsible for itself or for its individuals. Nature? God? -Very likely, although there is room for much discussion and much -illumination here. - -[Illustration: The Man on the Bench] - -But before we point the finger of scorn or shrug the shoulder of -indifference, one word: Life does provide the divine fire, and that -free and unasked, to many. It does provide a fine constitution, and -that free and unasked, to many. It does provide beauty--aye it pours -it into the lap of some. Life works in the clay of its interests, -fashioning, fashioning. With some handfuls it fashions lovingly, -joyously, radiantly. It gives one girl, for instance, a passion for -art, an ear for music, a throat for singing, a joy in humor and -beauty, which grows and becomes marvelous and is irresistible. Into -the seed of a boy it puts strength, suppleness, facility of thought, -facility of expression, desire. It not infrequently puts a wild surging -determination to do and be in his brain which carries him like powder a -bullet, straight to the mark. - -But what or who provided the charge of powder behind that bullet? Who -fashioned the chorded throat? Who worked over this face of flowerlike -expression, until men burn with wild passion and lay kingdoms and -hierarchies and powers at its feet? We palaver so much of personal -effort. We say of this one and that: He did not try. I ask you this: -had he tried, what of it? How far would his little impulse have carried -him? What would it have overcome? Would it have placed him above the -level of a coal-stoker or a sand-hog? Would it have fitted him to -contend with even these? Would it have matched his ideas, or his ideas -have matched it? Who? What? How? Dark thoughts! - -“Ah!” but I hear you say, “that is not the question. Effort is the -question, not where his effort will carry him.” True. Who gave him his -fitness for effort, or his unfitness? Who took away his courage? Why -could it be taken? Dark thought, and still more dark the deeps behind -it. - -Here they are, though, pale anæmic weeds or broken flowers, slipping -about looking for a bench to sleep on in our park. They are wondering -where the next meal is coming from, the next job, the next bed. They -are wondering whither they are going to go, what they are going to -do, who is going to say something to them. Or maybe they are past -wondering, past dreaming, past thinking over lost battles and lost -life. Oh, nature! where now in your laboratory of dark forces, you plan -and weave, be merciful. For these, after all, are of you, your clay; -they need not be destroyed. - -Yet meantime the city sings of its happiness, the lights burn, the -autos honk; there are great restaurants agleam with lights and -merriment. See, that is where strength is! - -I like this fact of the man on the bench, as sad as it is. It is the -evidence of the grimness of life, its subtlety, its indifference. Men -pass them by. The world is elsewhere. And yet I know that below all -this awaits after all the unescapable chemistry of things. They are -not out of nature. They cannot escape it really. They are of it--an -integral part of the great mystery and beauty--even they. They fare ill -here, now, perhaps--very. Yet it is entirely possible that they need -only wait, and life will eventually come round to them. They cannot -escape it; it must use them. The potter has but so much clay. He cannot -but mold it again and again. And as for the fire, He cannot ultimately -prevent it. It goes, somewhat wild or mild, into all He does. - - - - -THE MEN IN THE DARK - - -It is not really dark in the accepted sense of the word, for a great, -yellow, electric lamp sputtering overhead casts a wide circle of gold, -but it is one-fifteen of a cold January morning, and this light is -all the immediate light there is. The offices of the great newspaper -center, the sidewalk in front of one of which constitutes the stage of -this scene, are dark and silent. The great presses in every newspaper -building hereabouts are getting ready to whir mightily, and if only -the passers-by would cease their shuffling you could hear the noises -of preparation. A little later, when they are actually in motion, you -can hear them, a sound of rushing, dim and muffled, but audible--the -cataract of news which the world waits for, its daily mental stimulus, -not unlike the bread that is left at your door for your body. - -But who are these peculiar individuals who seem to be gathering here -at this time in the morning? You did not notice any one a few minutes -ago, but now there are three or four over there discussing the reasons -for the present hard times, and here in the shadow of this great arch -of a door are three or four more. And now you look about you and they -are coming from all directions, slipping in out of the shadow toward -this light, where sits a fat old Irish woman beside an empty news-stand -waiting to tend it, for as yet there is nothing on it. They all seem -at first to be men of one type, small and underweight and gaunt. But a -little later you realize that they are not so much alike in height and -weight as you first thought, and of differing nationalities. But they -are all cold, though, that is certain, and a little impatient. They are -constantly shifting and turning and looking at the City Hall clock, -where its yellow face shows the hour, or looking down the street, and -sometimes murmuring, but not much. There is very little said. - -“What is all the trouble?” you ask of some available bystander, who -ought to be fairly _en rapport_ with the situation, since he has been -standing here for some time. - -“Nothin’,” he retorts. “They’re waitin’ for the mornin’ papers. They’re -lookin’ to see which can git to a job first.” - -“Oh!” you exclaim, a great light breaking. “So they’re here to get a -good start. They wait all night, eh? That’s pretty tough, isn’t it?” - -“Oh, I don’t know. They’re mostly Swedes and Germans.” This last as -though these two nationalities, and no doubt some others, were beyond -the need of human consideration. “They’re waiters and cooks and order -men and dishwashers. There’s some other kinds, too, but they’re mostly -waiters.” - -“Would you say that that old man over there--that fellow with a white -beard--was a waiter?” - -“Aw, naw! He ain’t no waiter. I don’t know what he is--pan-handler, -maybe. They wouldn’t have the likes of him. It’s these other fellows -that are waiters, these young ones.” - -You look, and they are young in a way, lean, with thin lips and narrow -chests and sallow faces, a little shabby, all of them, and each has a -roll of something wrapped up in a newspaper or a brown paper and tucked -under his arm--an apron, maybe. - -You begin speculating for yourself, and, with the aid of your friend -to supply occasional points, you piece the whole thing together. This -is really a very great, hard, cold city, and these men are creatures -at the bottom of the ladder, temporarily, anyhow. And these columns -of ads in the successful morning papers attract them as a chance. And -they come here thus early in the cold in order to get a good start on a -given job before any one else can get ahead of them. First come, first -served. - -And while you are waiting, speculating, another creature edges near -you. He is not quite so prosperous looking as the last one you talked -to; he seems thinner, more emaciated. - -“Take a look at that, boss,” he says, opening his palm and shoving -something bright toward you. It looks like gold. - -“No,” you answer nervously. (You have been held up before.) “No, I -don’t want to look at it.” - -“Take a look at it,” he insists. - -“No,” you retort irritably, but you do it in a half-hearted, objecting -way and see that it is a gold ring with an initial carved in the seal -plate. - -[Illustration: The Men in the Dark] - -He closes his thin hand and puts it back in his pocket. He is -inclined to go away, and then another idea strikes him. - -“Are you lookin’ fer a job?” he asks. - -“No.” - -“Ain’t you a cook?” - -“No.” - -“Gee! I thought you was some swell chef--they come here now and then.” - -It is a doubtful compliment but better than nothing. You soften a -little. - -“I’m a waiter,” he confides, now that he has your momentary interest. -“I am, I mean, when I’m in good health. I’m run down some now. The best -I can get is dishwashing now. But I am a waiter, and I’ve been an order -clerk. There’s nothin’ much to say of this bunch, though. They all work -for the cheap joints. Saturday nights they gits drunk mostly, and if -they’re not there on the dot Sunday they’re gone. The boss gits a new -one. Then they come here Sunday night or Monday.” - -You are inclined to agree that this description fits in pretty well -with your observation of a number of them, but what of these others who -look like family men, who look worried and harried? - -“Sure, there’s lots others,” prompts your adviser. “There’s three -columns every day callin’ for painters. There’s a column most every day -of printers. People paints houses all the year round. There’s general -help wanted. There’s carpenters. It gits some. Cooks and waiters and -dishwashers in the big pull, though.” - -You have been wondering if this is really true, but it sounds -plausible enough. These men are obviously, in a great many cases, cooks -and waiters. Their search calls for an early start, for the restaurants -and hotels usually keep open all night. It may be. - -And all the time you have been wondering why the papers do not come. -It seems a shame that these men should have to stand here so long. -There’s a great crowd now, between two and three hundred. A policeman -is tramping up and down, keeping an open passageway. He is not in any -friendly mood. - -“Stand back,” he orders angrily. “I’m tellin’ ye fer the last time, -now!” - -A great passageway opens. - -Now of a sudden comes a boy running with a great bundle of the most -successful morning paper, a most staggering load. Actually the crowd -looks as though it would seize him and tear his bundle away from him, -but instead it only closes in quickly behind. When he reaches the Irish -woman’s stand there is a great struggling, grabbing circle formed. “The -----,” is the cry. “Gimme a ----,” and for the space of a half-dozen -minutes a thriving, exciting business is done in morning papers. Then -these men run with their papers like dogs run with a bone. They hurry, -each to some neighboring light, and glance up and down the columns. -Sometimes they mark something, and then you see them hurry on again. -They have picked their prospect. - -It is a pitiful spectacle from one point of view, a decidedly grim -one from another. Your dishwasher (or ex-waiter) confides that most -of these positions, apart from tips, pay only five dollars a week and -board. And he admits that the board is vile. While you are talking you -recognize some gentlemanly newspaper man, well-salaried, taking his -belated way home. What a contrast! What a far cry! - -“And say,” says your dishwasher friend, “I thought I’d git a job -to-night. I thought somebody’d buy this ring. It’ll bring $1.75 in the -pawnshop in the mornin’. I ain’t got carfare or I wouldn’t mention it. -I usually soaks it early in the week and gits it out Saturday. I’ll -soak it to-morrow, and git another chance to-morrow night.” - -What a story! What a predicament! - -You go down in your pocket and produce a quarter. You buy him a paper. -“On your way,” you say cheerily--but the misery! The depths! To think -that any one of us should come to this! - -As he goes you watch the others going, and then the silence settles -down and the night. There is no sense of traffic here now, no great -need of light. The old Irish woman sinks to the dismal task of waiting, -for morning, I presume. Now and then some passing pedestrian will buy a -paper, but not often. But these others--they have gone in the direction -of the four winds of heaven; they are applying at the shabby doors of -restaurants, in Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx, Hoboken, Staten Island; -they are sitting on stoops, holding their own at shop doors. They -have the right to ask first, the right to be first, because they are -first--noble privilege. - -And you and I--well, we turn in our dreams and rest. The great world -wags on. Our allotted portion is not this. We are not of these men in -the dark. - - - - -THE MEN IN THE STORM - - -It is a winter evening. Already, at four o’clock, the somber hues of -night are over all. A heavy snow is falling, a fine, picking, whipping -snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The street is -bedded with it, six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned brown by the -crush of teams and the feet of men. Along the Bowery men slouch through -it with collars up and hats pulled over their ears. - -Before a dirty, four-story building gathers a crowd of men. It begins -with the approach of two or three, who hang about the closed wooden -door and beat their feet to keep them warm. They make no effort to go -in, but shift ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets -and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. There are old men -with grizzled beards and sunken eyes; men who are comparatively young -but shrunken by disease; men who are middle-aged. - -With the growth of the crowd about the door comes a murmur. It is not -conversation, but a running comment directed at any one. It contains -oaths and slang phrases. - -“I wisht they’d hurry up.” - -“Look at the cop watchin’.” - -“Maybe it ain’t winter, nuther.” - -“I wisht I was with Peary.” - -[Illustration: The Men in the Storm] - -Now a sharper lash of wind cuts down, and they huddle closer. -There is no anger, no threatening words. It is all sullen endurance, -unlightened by either wit or good fellowship. - -An automobile goes jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of -the members nearest the door sees it. - -“Look at the bloke ridin’!” - -“He ain’t so cold.” - -“Eh! eh! eh!” yells another, the automobile having long since passed -out of hearing. - -Little by little the night creeps on. Along the walk a crowd hurries on -its way home. Still the men hang around the door, unwavering. - -“Ain’t they ever goin’ to open up?” queries a hoarse voice suggestively. - -This seems to renew general interest in the closed door, and many gaze -in that direction. They look at it as dumb brutes look, as dogs paw and -whine and study the knob. They shift and blink and mutter, now a curse, -now a comment. Still they wait, and still the snow whirls and cuts them. - -A glimmer appears through the transom overhead, where some one is -lighting the light. It sends a thrill of possibility through the -watchers. On the old hats and peaked shoulders snow is piling. It -gathers in little heaps and curves, and no one brushes it off. In the -center of the crowd the warmth and steam melt it and water trickles off -hat-rims and down noses, which the owners cannot reach to scratch. On -the outer rim the piles remain unmelted. Those who cannot get in the -center, lower their heads to the weather and bend their forms. - -At last the bars grate inside, and the crowd pricks up its ears. There -is some one who calls: “Slow up there, now!” and then the door opens. -It is push and jam for a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove -its quality, and then the crowd lessens. It melts inward, like logs -floating, and disappears. There are wet hats and shoulders, a cold, -shrunken, disgruntled mass pouring in between bleak walls. It is just -six o’clock, and there is supper in every hurrying pedestrian’s face. - -“Do you sell anything to eat here?” one questions of the grizzled old -carpet-slippers who opens the door. - -“No, nuthin but beds.” - -The waiting throng had been housed for the night. - - - - -THE MEN IN THE SNOW - - -Winter days in a great city bring some peculiar sights. If it snows, -the streets are at once a slushy mess, and the transaction of -business is, to a certain extent, a hardship. In its first flakes it -is picturesque; the air is filled with flying feathers and the sky -lowery with somber clouds. Later comes the slush and dirt, and not -infrequently bitter cold. The city rings with the grind and squeak of -cold-bitten vehicles, and men and women, the vast tide of humanity -which fills its streets, hurry to and fro so as to be through with the -work or need that keeps them out of doors. - -In certain sections of the city at a period like this may be found -groups of men who are constituted by nature and conditions to be an -integral part of every storm. They are like the gulls that follow -the schools of fish at sea. Poverty is the bond which makes them kin -and gives them, after a fashion, a class distinction. They are not -only always poor in body, but poor in mind also, and as for earthly -belongings, of course they have not any. - -These men, like the gulls and their fish, pick a little something -from the storm. They follow the fortunes of the contractors who make -arrangements with the city for the removal of the snow, and about the -wagon-barns where the implements of snow removal are kept, and where -daily cards of employment are issued they may be seen waiting by -hundreds, and not at such hours and under such conditions as are at all -pleasant to contemplate, either. In the early hours of the morning, -when the work of the day is first being doled out, they may be seen, -cold, overcoatless, often with bare hands and necks, no collar, or, if -so, only a rag of a thing, and hats too battered and timeworn to be -honestly dignified by the name of hat at all. - -The city usually pays at the rate of two dollars a day for what -shoveling these men can do. They are not wanted even at that rate by -the contractors, for stray, healthy laborers are usually preferred; -but the pressure under which the contractors are put by the city and -the public makes a showing necessary. So thousands are admitted to -temporary labor who would not otherwise be considered, and these are -they. - -So in this cold, raw, strenuous weather they stand like so many sheep -waiting at the entrance to a fold. There is no particular zeal in this -effort which they are making to live. Hunger for life they have, but -it is a rundown hunger, dispirited by lack of encouragement. They have -been kicked and pushed about the world in an effort to live until, as -a rule, they are comparatively heartbroken and courage-broken. This -storm, which spells comfort and indoor seclusion and amusement for -many, spells a rough opportunity for them--a gutter crust, to be sure, -but a crust. - -[Illustration: The Men in the Snow] - -And so they are here early in the morning, in the dark. They stand in -a long file outside the contractors’ stable door, waiting for that -consideration which his present need may show. A man at a little glass -window cut in a door receives them. He is a hearty, material, -practical soul who has very little to suggest in the way of mentality -but much in the spirit of acquisitiveness. He is not interested in the -condition of the individuals before him. It does not concern him that -in most cases this is a last despairing grasp at a straw. Will this -fellow work? Will he be satisfied to take $1.75 in place of the $2.00 -which the city pays? He does not ask them that so clearly; it is done -in another way. - -“Got a shovel?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Well, it’ll cost you a quarter to get one.” - -“I ain’t got no quarter.” - -“Well, that’s all right. We’ll take it out o’ your pay.” - -Not for to-day only, mind you, but for every day in which work is done, -the quarter comes out for the shovel. It is suggested in some sections -that the shovel is sometimes stolen, but there are gang foremen, and no -money is paid without a foreman’s O. K., and he is responsible for the -shovels.... Hence---- - -But these men are a bit of dramatic color in the city’s life, whatever -their sufferings. To see them following in droves through the -bitter winter streets the great wagons which haul the snow away is -fascinating, at times pitiful. I have seen old men with white beards -and uncut snowy hair shoveling snow into a truck. I have seen lean, -unfed strips of boys without overcoats and with long, lean, red hands -protruding from undersized coat sleeves, doing the same thing. I have -seen anæmic benchers and consumptives following along illy clad but -shoveling weakly in the snow and cold. - -It is a sad mix-up at best, this business of living. Fortune deals so -haphazardly at birth and at death that it is hard to criticize. It so -indifferently smashes the dreams of kings and beggars, dealing the -golden sequins to the sleeping man, taking from the earnest plodder the -little which he has gained, that one becomes, at last, confused. It -is easy for many to criticize, for one reason and another, and justly -mayhap, but at the same time it is so easy to see how it all may have -come about. Wit has not always been present, but sickness, a perverted -moral point of view, an error in honesty, and the climbing of years is -over; the struggling toad has fallen back into the well. There is now -nothing but struggle and crumb-picking at the bottom. And these are -they. - -And so these storms, like the bread-line, like the Bowery Lodging, -offer them something; not much. A few days, and the snow will be over. -A few days, and the sun of a warm day will end all opportunity for -work. They will go back again into the gloomy adventuring whence they -emerged. Only now they are visible collectively, here in the cold and -the snow, shoveling. - -I like to think of them best and worst, though, as I have seen them -time and time again waiting outside the wagon barns at night, the -labor of the day over. It is something even to be a “down-and-out” and -stand waiting for a pittance which one has really earned. You can see -something of the satisfaction of this even in this gloomy line. In the -early dark of a winter evening, the street’s lamps lighted, these men -are shuffling their feet to keep warm. They are waiting to be paid, as -they are at the end of each work day, but in their hearts is a faint -response to the thought of gain--one dollar and seventy-five cents for -the long day in the cold. The quarter is yielded gladly. The contractor -finds a fat profit in the many quarters he can so easily garner. But -these? To them it is a satisfaction to get the wherewithal to face -another day. It is something to have the money wherewith to obtain -a lodging and a meal for a night. That one-seventy-five--how really -large it must look, like fifty or a hundred or a thousand to some. -Satisfactions and joys are all so relative. But they have really earned -one dollar and seventy-five cents and can hurry away to that marvelous -table of satisfaction which one dollar and seventy-five cents will -provide. - - - - -THE FRESHNESS OF THE UNIVERSE - - -The freshness of the world’s original forces is one of the wonders -which binds me in perpetual fascination. My own strength is a little -thing. I am sometimes sick and sometimes well; some days I am bounding -with enthusiastic life, at other times I am drooping with weariness and -ill feeling. But these things, the great currents of original power -which make the world, are fresh and forever renewing themselves. - -Every morning I rise from my sleep restored and go out of doors, and -there they are. At the foot of my garden is a river which has been -running all night long, a swift and never-resting stream. It has been -running so every day and every night for centuries and centuries--and -thousands of centuries, for all I know--and yet here it runs. People -have come and gone; nations have risen and fallen; all sorts of puny -strengths have had their day and have perished; but this thing has -never weakened nor modified itself nor changed,--at least not very -much. Its life is so long and so strong. - -[Illustration: The Freshness of the Universe] - -And another thing that strikes me is the force and persistency of the -winds. How sweet they are, how refreshing to the wearied body! I rise -with sluggishness, and a sense of disgust with the world, mayhap, and -yet here are the winds, fresh as in the beginning, to run me through -and cool my face and hands and fill my breast with pure air and make me -think the world is good again. I step out of my doorway, and here -they are, blowing across the garden, shaking the leaves of the trees, -rustling in the grass, fluttering at my coat-sleeves and my hair; and -I am no whit the wiser as to what they are. Only I know that they are -old, old, and yet as strong and invigorating as they ever were, and -will be when my little strength is wasted and I am no more. - -And here is the sun, bright, golden thing of the sky, which I may not -even look at directly but which makes my day just the same. It is so -invigorating, so healing, so beautiful. I know it is a commonplace, -the thing that must have been before I could be, and yet it is so -novel and fresh and new, even now. I rise, and this old sunlight is -the newest thing in the world. Beside this day, which it makes, all -things are old--my little house, which after all has stood only a few -years; my possessions, dusty with standing a little while, and fading; -myself, who am less young and strong by a day, getting older. And yet -here it is, new after a million years--and a billion years, for aught -I know--pouring this golden flood into my garden and making it what I -wish it to be, new. The wonder of this force is appealing to me. It -touches the innermost strangeness of my being. - -And then there is the earth upon which I stand, strange chemic dust, -here covered with grass but elsewhere covered with trees and flowers -and hard habitations of men, yielding its perennial toll of beauty. -We cannot understand the ground, but its newness, the perennial force -with which it produces our food and beauty, this is so patent to all. -I look at the ground beneath my feet, and lo, the agedness of it does -not occur to me, only its freshness. The good ground! The new earth! -This thing which is old, old--old as Time itself--must always have been -and must always be. Where was it before it was here? What stars did it -make, and moons? What ancient lives have trod this earth, this ground -beneath my feet, and now make it? And yet how comes it that I who am -so young find it so new to me and myself old as compared with its -tremendous age! That is the wonder of this original force to me. - -And in my yard are trees and little things such as vines and stone -walls, which, for all their newness and briefness, have so much more -enduring power than have I. This tree near my door is fully a hundred -years old, and yet it will be young, comparatively speaking, and -strong, when I am no longer in existence. Its trunk is straight, its -head is high, and here am I who, looking upon it now as old, will soon -be older in spirit, unable to bear the too-heavy burden of a short -existence and tottering wearily about when it will still be strong and -straight, good for another life the length of mine--a strange contrast -of forces. That is but one of the wonders of the forces of life: their -persistence. - -Yet it is this morning waking that impresses the marvel of their -greatness upon me. It is this new day, this new-old river, this new-old -tree, the new earth, so old and yet so new, which point the frailty of -my physical and mental existence and make me wonder what the riddle of -the universe may be. - -[Illustration: The Cradle of Tears] - - - - -THE CRADLE OF TEARS - - -There is a cradle within the door of one of the great institutions of -New York before which a constant recurring tragedy is being enacted. It -is a plain cradle, quite simply draped in white, but with such a look -of cozy comfort about it that one would scarcely suspect it to be a -cradle of sorrow. - -A little white bed, with a neatly turned-back coverlet, is made up -within it. A long strip of white muslin, tied in a tasteful bow at -the top, drapes its rounded sides. About it, but within the precincts -of warmth and comfort of which it is a part, spreads a chamber of -silence--a quiet, small, plainly furnished room, the appearance of -which emphasizes the peculiarity of the cradle itself. - -If the mind were not familiar with the details with which it is so -startlingly associated, the question would naturally arise as to -what it was doing there, why it should be standing there alone. No -one seems to be watching it. It has not the slightest appearance of -usefulness. And yet there it stands day after day, and year after year, -a ready-prepared cradle, and no infant to live in it. - -And yet this cradle is the most useful, and, in a way, the most -inhabited cradle in the world. Day after day and year after year it is -a recipient of more small wayfaring souls than any other cradle in the -world. In it the real children of sorrow are placed, and over it more -tears are shed than if it were an open grave. - -It is a place where annually twelve hundred foundlings are placed, many -of them by mothers who are too helpless or too unfortunately environed -to be further able to care for their children; and the misery which -compels it makes of the little open crib a cradle of tears. - -The interest of this cradle is that it has been the silent witness -of more truly heartbreaking scenes than any other cradle since the -world began. For nearly sixty years it has stood where it does to-day, -ready-draped, open, while almost as many thousand mothers have stolen -shamefacedly in and after looking hopelessly about have laid their -helpless offspring within its depths. - -For sixty years, winter and summer, in the bitterest cold and the -most stifling heat, it has seen them come, the poor, the rich, the -humble, the proud, the beautiful, the homely; and one by one they have -laid their children down and brooded over them, wondering if it were -possible for human love to make so great a sacrifice and yet not die. - -And then, when the child has been actually sacrificed, when by the -simple act of releasing their hold upon it and turning away, they have -allowed it to pass out from their loving tenderness into the world -unknown, this silent cradle has seen them smite their hands in anguish -and yield to such voiceless tempests of grief as only those know who -have loved much and lost all. - -The circumstances under which this peculiar charity comes to be a part -of the life of the great metropolis need not be rehearsed here. The -heartlessness of men, the frailty of women, the brutality of all those -who sit in judgment in spite of the fact that they do not wish to be -judged themselves, is so old and so commonplace that its repetition is -almost wearisome. - -Still, the tragedy repeats itself, and year after year and day after -day the unlocked door is opened and dethroned virtue enters--the victim -of ignorance and passion and affection--and a child is robbed of a home. - -I think there is a significant though concealed thought here, for -nature in thus repeating a fact day after day and year after year -raises a significant question. We are so dull. Sometimes it requires -ten thousand or ten million repetitions to make us understand. “Here is -a condition. What will you do about it? Here is a condition. What will -you do about it? Here is a condition. What will you do about it?” That -is the question each tragedy propounds, and finally we wake and listen. -Then slowly some better way is discovered, some theory developed. We -find often that there is an answer to some questions, at least if we -have to remake ourselves, society, the face of the world, to get it. - - - - -WHEN THE SAILS ARE FURLED - - -The waters of the open sea as they rush past Sandy Hook strike upon the -northeasterly shore of Staten Island, a low-lying beach overshadowed by -abruptly terminating cliffs. Northeastward, separated by this channel -known as The Narrows, lies Long Island. As the waters flow onward, -following the trend of the shoreline of Staten Island, they become less -and less exposed to the winds of the sea, and soon, as they pass the -northernmost end of the island, they make a sharp bend to the west, -passing between it and Liberty Statue, where the tranquil Kill von Kull -separates the island from New Jersey. - -Long ere they reach this region the sea winds have spent their force, -and the billows, which in clear weather are still visible far out, have -sunk to ripples so diminutive that the water is not even disturbed. -And here, in Staten Island, facing the Kill von Kull, still stands in -almost rural quiet and beauty Sailors’ Snug Harbor. Long ago this was -truly a harbor, snug and undisturbed, a place where the storm-harried -mariner, escaping the moods and dangers of the seven seas, found a -still and safe retreat. To-day they come here, weary from a long -life voyage, to find a quiet home. And truly it is restful in its -arrangements. The grounds are kempt and green, the buildings pleasingly -solemn, and the view altogether lovely, a mixture of land and sea. - -In the early days this pleasantly quiet harbor was a long distance -from New York proper. Staten Island was but thinly settled, and the -Kill von Kull a passageway seldom used. To-day craft speed in endless -procession like glorious birds over the great expanse of water. On a -clear day the long narrow skyline of New York is visible, and when fogs -make the way of the pilot uncertain the harbor resounds with endless -monotony of fog-horns, of vessels feeling an indefinite way. - -Though the surroundings are pastoral, the appearance of the inmates -of this retreat, as well as their conversation, is of the sea, salty. -Housed though they are for the remainder of their days on land, they -are still sailors, vain of their service upon the great waters of -the world and but little tolerant of landlubbers in general. To the -passer-by without the walls they are visible lounging under the trees, -their loose-fitting blue suits fluttering light with every breeze -and their slouch hats pulled rakishly over their eyes, an abandon -characteristic of men whose lives have been spent more or less in -direct contact with wind and rain. You may see them in fair weather -pacing about the paths of the grounds, or standing in groups under the -trees. Upon a long bench, immediately in front of the buildings, others -are sitting side by side, smoking and chatting. Many were captains, not -a few common sailors. But all are now so aged that they can scarcely -totter about, and hair of white is more often seen than that of any -other shade. - -For a period of nearly a year--a spring, summer and fall--I lived in -the immediate vicinity of this retreat and was always interested by -the types of men finally islanded here. They came, so I was told, from -nearly all lands, France, Germany, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Iceland, -Spain, Austria, Russia, and elsewhere, though the majority chanced -to be of English and American extraction. Also, I was told and can -well believe they are, a restless if not exactly a troublesome lot, -and take their final exile from the sea, due to increasing years and -in most instances poverty, with no very great equanimity. Yet the -surroundings and the provision made for them by the founder of this -institution, who, though not a sea-faring man himself, acquired his -fortune through the sea over a century ago, are charming and ample; but -the curse, or at least the burden of age and the ending of their vigor -and activities, rests heavily upon them, I am sure. I have watched them -about the very few saloons of the region as well as the coffee-houses, -the small lunch counters and the moving picture theaters, and have -noted a kind of preferred solitude and spiritual irritability which -spells all too plainly intense dissatisfaction at times with their -state. Among the quondam rovers are rovers still, men who pine to be -out and away and who chafe at old age and the few necessary restraints -put upon them. They would rather travel, would rather have the money -it costs to maintain them annually as a pension, outside, than be in -the institution. Not many but feel a sort of weariness with days and -with each other, and I am quite convinced that they would be happier if -pensioned modestly and set free. Yet this is a great institution and -indeed a splendid benefaction, but it insists upon what is the bane -and destruction of heart and mind: conformity to routine, a monotonous -system which wears as the drifting of water and eats as a worm at the -heart. - -And yet I doubt if a better conducted institution than this could -be found, or one more suited to the needs and crotchets of so many -men. They have ample liberty, excellent food, clothing and shelter, -charming scenery, and all the leisure there is. They are not called -upon to do any labor of any kind other than that of looking after their -rooms and clothes. The grounds are so ample and the buildings so large -that the attention of every one is instantly taken. As you enter at -the north, where is the main entrance, there is a monument to Robert -Richard Randall, the founder of the institution. This marks his final -resting-place; the remains of the philanthropist were brought here from -St. Mark’s Church in New York, where they had lain since 1825. - -The facts concerning the founding of this institution have always -interested me. It seems that the father of “Captain” Robert Randall, -the founder of the Harbor, was a Scotchman, who came to America in -1776 and settled in New Orleans. The Spanish Governor and Intendant of -that city, Don Bernardo de Galvez, having declared the port open for -the sale of prizes of Yankee privateers, Mr. Randall took an active -interest in that great fleet of private-armed vessels whose exploits -on the high seas, and even upon the coast of Great Britain itself, did -much to contradict the modest assertion of the “British Naval Register” -that: - - “The winds and the seas are Britain’s wide domain, - And not a sail but by permission spreads.” - -At his death his son Robert inherited the estate. Accustomed to come -north to pass the summer months, Robert made, on one of his trips to -New York, the acquaintance of a Mr. Farquhar, a man possessed of means -but broken down by ill health. The mild climate of Louisiana agreed -with the invalid, and a proposition to exchange estates was considered. -After a bonus of five hundred guineas had been sent to Farquhar, this -was effected. Mr. Randall then became a suburban resident of what was -then the little city of New York. His property consisted of real estate -fronting both sides of Broadway and adjacent streets, and extending -from Eighth to Tenth Streets. At a distance of one-half mile to the -westward, namely, near the site of the old Presbyterian Church on -what is now Fifth Avenue, stood the dwelling of the Captain. Upon the -piazza of this house, it is recorded, shaded by a luxuriant growth of -ivy and clematis, the old gentleman was wont to sit in fine weather, -with his dog by his side. Before the door were three rows of gladioli, -which he carefully nurtured. He was a bachelor, and on the first day -of June, 1801, being very ill and feeble but of “sound, disposing mind -and memory,” made his will. Alexander Hamilton and Daniel D. Tompkins -drew up the papers. In this document he directed that his just debts be -paid; that an annuity of forty pounds a year be given to each of the -children of his half-brother until they were fifteen years old; a sum -of one thousand pounds to each of his nephews upon their twenty-first -birthday, and a like sum to his nieces on their marriage. He bequeathed -to his housekeeper his sleeve-buttons and forty pounds, and to another -servant his shoe and knee buckles and twenty pounds. When this had been -recorded he looked up with an expression of anxiety. - -“I am thinking,” he said, “how I can dispose of the remainder of my -property most wisely. What do you think, General?” turning to Hamilton. - -“How did you accumulate the fortune you possess?” - -“It was made for me by my father, and at his death became his sole -heir.” - -“How did he acquire it?” asked Hamilton. - -“By honest privateering,” responded Randall. - -“Then it might appropriately be left for the benefit of unfortunate -and disabled seamen,” volunteered Hamilton, and thereupon it was so -bequeathed. - -The early history of Snug Harbor is clouded with legal contests which -covered a period of thirty years. Though at the time of the bequest -Randall’s property was of little value, being mostly farming land, -situated on the outskirts of the populated parts of the city, the -heirs foresaw something of its future value. In the National and State -Courts they long waged a vigorous war to test the validity of the will. -Their surmises as to the future value of the property were correct. -For, although the income of the bequest was not more than a thousand a -year at first, as the population of the city increased the rental rose -by degrees, until in the present year it has reached a sum bordering -$1,500,000, and the rise, even yet, is continuous. - -However, the suits were eventually decided against the heirs, the court -holding the will valid. As an institution the Harbor was incorporated -in 1806, and the first building erected in 1831 and dedicated in 1833. -So thirty years passed before the desire of a very plain-speaking -document was carried into effect. - -In the beginning there were but three buildings, which are to-day the -central ones in a main group of nine. In toto, however, there are over -sixty, situated in a park. - -In a line, in the center of an eighteen hundred-foot lawn, stand the -five main buildings, truly substantial and artistic. The view to -the right and left is superb, tall trees shading walks and dividing -stretches of lawn, with rows of benches scattered here and there. A -statue by St. Gaudens beautifies the grounds between the main building -and the governor’s residence, while in another direction a fountain -fills to the brim a flower-lined marble basin. Everywhere about the -grounds and buildings are seen nautical signs and many interesting -reminders of the man who willed the refuge. - -The first little chapel that was built has long since been succeeded -by an imposing edifice, rich in marbles and windows of stained glass. -A music hall of stately dimensions, seating over a thousand people, -graces a once vacant lawn. A hospital with beds for three hundred is -but another addition, and still others are residences for the governor -of the institution, the chaplain, physician, engineer, matron, steward, -farmer, baker, and the buildings for each branch of labor required in -the management of what is now a small city. In short, it has risen to -the dignity of an immense institution, where a thousand old sailors are -quietly anchored for the remainder of their days. - -[Illustration: Sailor’s Snug Harbor] - -Some idea of the lavishness of the architecture can be had by -entering the comparatively new church, where marble and stained glass -are harmoniously combined. The outer walls are pure white marble, the -interior a soothing sanctuary of many colors. Underfoot is a rich brown -marble from the shores of Lake Champlain. The wainscoting is of green -rep and red Numidian marble. Eight immense pillars supporting the dome -are in two shades of yellow Etrurian marble, delicate and unmarked. -The altar is of the same shade, but exquisitely veined with a darker -coloring. Both chancel and choir floors are richly mosaiced, the -chancel steps being of the same delightful coloring as the piers. To -the left of the chancel is the pulpit, an octagonal structure of Alps -green, with bands and cornices of Etrurian and Sienna marble supported -on eight columns of alternate Alps green and red Numidian, finished -with a brass railing and Etrurian marble steps. The magnificent organ, -with its two thousand three hundred or more pipes, is entirely worthy -its charming setting. Over all falls the rich, warm-tinted light from -numerous memorial windows, each a gem in design and coloring. On one of -these the worshiper is admonished to “Be of good cheer, for there shall -be no loss of life among ye, but only of the ship.” - -Admonish as one may, however, the majority of the old seamen are -but little moved by such graven beauty; being hardened in simple, -unorthodox ways. Not a few of them are given to swearing loudly, -drinking frequently, snoring heavily on Sundays and otherwise -disporting themselves in droll and unsanctified ways. To many of them -this institution appears to be even a wasteful affair, intended more -to irritate than to aid them. Not a few of them, as you may guess, -resent routine, duty, and the very necessary officials, and each other. -Although they possess comfortable and even superior living apartments, -wholesome and abundant food, good clothing, abundant clean linen, a -library of eight thousand volumes, newspapers, periodicals, time and -opportunity for the pursuit of any fad or fancy, and no restrictions at -which a reasonable man could demur, still they are not entirely happy. -Life itself is passing, and that is the great sorrow. - -And so occasionally there is to be found in that portion of the -basement room from which the light is debarred, looking out from behind -an iron door upon a company of blind mariners who occupy this section, -working and telling stories, a mariner or two in jail. And if you -venture to inquire, his mates will volunteer the information that he -is neither ill nor demented but troubled with that complaint which is -common to landsmen and sailors, “pure cussedness.” In some the symptom -of this, I am told, will take the form of an unconquerable desire to -go from room to room in the early morning and pull aged and irate -mariners from their comfortable beds. In others it has broken out as a -spell of silence, no word for any one, old or young, official or fellow -resident. In another drunkenness is the refuge, a protracted spell, -resulting in dismissal, with an occasional reinstatement. Another will -fight with his roommate or his neighbor, sometimes drawing a chalk line -between the two halves of a double room and defying the other to cross -it at peril of his life. There have been many public quarrels and -fights. Yet, all things considered, and age and temperament being taken -into consideration, they do well enough. And not a few have sufficient -acumen and industry to enter upon profitable employments. For there are -many visitors, to whom useful or ornamental things can be sold. And a -few of these salts will even buy from or trade with each other. - -In consequence one meets with an odd type of merchant here and there. -There is one old seaman, for instance, a relic of Federal service in -“’61,” whose chamber is ornamented to the degree of confusion with -things nautical, most of which are for sale. To enter upon him one must -pass through a whole fleet of small craft, barks, brigs, schooners and -sloops--the result of his jacknife leisure--arranged upon chests of -drawers. Still another, at the time I visited the place, delighted in -painting marine views on shells, and a third was fair at photography, -having acquired his skill after arriving at the Harbor. He photographed -and sold pictures of other inmates and some local scenes. Many can and -do weave rugs and mats, others cane chairs or hammocks or fish-nets. -Still others have a turn for executing small ornaments which they -produce in great numbers and sell for their own profit. No one is -compelled to work, and the result is that nearly all desire to. The -perversity of human nature expresses itself there. In the long, light -basement corridors, where it is warm and cozy, there are to be found -hundreds of old sailors, all hard at work defying monotony with rapid -and skilful finger movements. - -All of these are not friendly, however, and many are vastly -argumentative. No subject is too small nor any too large for their -discussion in this sunlit forum. Especially are they inclined to -belittle each other’s experiences when comparing them with their own -important past, and so many a word is passed in wrath. - -“I hain’t a-goin’ to hear sich rubbish,” remarked one seaman, who had -taken offense at another’s detailed account of his terrible experience -in some sea fight of the Civil War. “Sich things ain’t a-happenin’ to -common seamen.” - -“Yuh don’t need to, yuh know,” sarcastically replied the other. “This -here’s a free country, I guess, ’cept for criminals,--and they hain’t -all locked up, as they should be.” - -“So I thought when I first seed yuh,” came the sneering reply, and then -followed a hoarse chuckle which was only silenced by the stamping away -of an irate salt with cheeks puffed out in rage. - -Nearly all are irritatingly independent, resenting the least suggestion -of superiority with stubborn sarcasm or indifference. Thus one, who -owned his own ship once and had carefully refrained from whistling in -deference to the superstitious line: “If you whistle aloud you’ll call -up a blow; if noisy you’ll bring on a calm,” met another strolling -about the grounds exuberantly indulging a long-restrained propensity to -“pipe the merry lay.” - -“I’ll bet you wouldn’t whistle aboard my ship,” said he insinuatingly. - -“Yeh! But I ain’t aboard yer ship, thankee--I’m on my own deck.” And -“Haul in the bow lines; Jenny, you’re my darling!” triumphantly swelled -out on the evening breeze. - -Down on the unplaned planks of the Snug Harbor wharf a score of old -salts, regardless of slivers, sit the livelong day and watch the -white-winged craft passing up and down. Being “square-riggers”--that -is, having served all their lives aboard ship, barks and brigs--they -look with silent contempt upon the fore and aft vessels of the harbor -as they sail by. Presently comes, “Hello, Jim! Goin’ to launch her?” -from one who is contemplating with a quizzical eye a little weazened -old man who comes clambering down the side of the dock with a miniature -ship under his arm and a broad smile of satisfaction on his face. - -“Ay, that’s it,” answers the newcomer. He has spent many weeks in -building the little ship and now will be decided whether or not his -skill has been wasted on a bad model. At once the critical faculty of -the tars on the dock is engaged, and he of the boat becomes the subject -of a brisk discussion. Sapient admonitions, along with long squirts of -tobacco juice, are vouchsafed, the latter most accurately aimed at some -neighboring target. Sarcasm is not wanting, the ability of the builder -as well as the merit of his craft coming in for comment. The launching -of such a craft has even engendered bitter hatreds and not a few fights. - -We will say, however, that the craft is successfully launched and with -sails full spread runs proudly before a light wind. In such a case -invariably all the old sailors will look on with a keen squint and a -certain tremor of satisfaction at seeing her behave so gallantly. Such -being the case, the builder is at liberty to make a few sententious -remarks anent the art of shipbuilding--not otherwise. And he may then -retire after a time, proud in his knowledge and his very certain -triumph over those who would have scoffed had they had the slightest -opportunity. - -I troubled to ask a number of these worthies from time to time whether, -assuming they were young again, they would choose a sea-faring life. -“Indeed I would, my boy,” one answered me one morning. And another: -“Not I. If I were to sail four thousand times I’d be as seasick the -last trip as on the first day out. Every blessed trip I made for the -first five years I nearly died of seasickness.” - -“Why did you keep it up, then?” I asked. - -“Well, when I’d get into port everybody would ask: ‘Well, how did you -like it? Are you going again?’ ‘Of course I am,’ I would answer, and -went from pure shamefacedness and not to be outdone. After a while I -didn’t mind it so much, and finally kept to it ’cause I couldn’t do -anything else.” - -One of the old basket makers at the Harbor had occupied a rolling chair -in the hospital and made baskets for nearly thirty-nine years. There -was still another, ninety-three years of age, who would have been -there forty years the summer I was there. And withal he was a most -ingenious basket maker. One of the old salts kept an eating-stand where -appetizing lunches were served, and he bore the distinction of having -rounded the Horn forty-nine times in a sailing vessel. He was one of -the few who possessed his soul in patience, resting content with his -lot and turning to fate a gentle and smiling face. - -“Will you tell me of an adventure at sea?” I once asked him. - -“I could,” he answered, “but I would rather tell you of thirteen -peaceful years here. I came here when I was seventy, though at sixty, -when I was weathering a terrible storm around the Cape with little hope -of ever seeing the rising sun, I promised myself that if ever I reached -home again I would stay there. But I didn’t know myself even then. My -destiny was to remain on the sea for ten years more, with this Harbor -for my few remaining years. At that, if I were young I would go to sea -again, I believe. It’s the only life for me.” - -Back of all this company of a thousand or more, playing their last -parts upon this little Harbor stage, is an interesting mechanism, -the system with which the institution is run. There is a clothing -department, where the sailors get their new outfits twice a year. I -warrant that the quizzical old salt who keeps it knows every rent and -tear in every garment of the Harbor. There is a laundry and sewing -department, of which the matron has charge. There is a great kitchen, -absolutely clean, where is space enough to set up a score of little -kitchens. At four p.m. there are visible only two dignitaries in this -savory realm. At that time one slices tomatoes and the other “puts on -tea” for a thousand, the number who regularly dine here. The labor of -cutting great stacks of bread is done by a machine. Broiling steaks or -frying fish for a thousand creates neither excitement nor hurry. The -entire kitchen staff numbers thirty all told, and the thousand sailors -are served with less noise and confusion than an ordinary housewife -makes in cooking for a small family. - -There are separate buildings devoted to baking, vegetable storing and -so forth, and the steward, farmer, baker and engineer, that important -quartette, has each his private residence upon the grounds. The -hospital, too, is a well-kept building, carefully arranged and bright -and cleanly as such institutions can be made. - -Passing this place, I have often thought what a really interesting and -unique and beautiful charity it is, the orderly and palatial buildings, -the beautiful lawns and flowers, and then the thousand and one -characters who after so many earthly vicissitudes have found their way -here and who, if left to their own devices, would certainly find the -world outside a stormy and desperate affair. So old and so crotchety, -most of them are. Where would they go? Who would endure them? Wherewith -would they be clothed and fed? And again, after having sailed so many -seas and seen so much and been so independent and done heaven only -knows what, how odd to find them here, berthed into so peaceful a -realm and making out after any fashion at all. How quaint, how naïve -and unbelievable, almost. The blue waters of the bay before them, -the smooth even lawn in which the great buildings rest, the flowers, -the calm, the order, the security. And yet I know, too, that to the -hearts of all of these, as to the hearts of each and every one of us, -come such terrific storms of restlessness, such lightnings of anger -or temper, such torturing hours of ennui, beside which the windless -lifelessness of Sargasso is as activity. How fierce their resentment -of that onward shift and push of life that eventually loosens each and -every barque from its moorings and sets it adrift, rudderless, upon the -great, uncharted sea, their eyes and their mood all too plainly show. -And yet here they are, and here they will remain until their barque is -at last adrift, the last stay worn to a frazzle, the last chain rusted -to dust. And betimes they wait, the sirenic call of older and better -days ever in their ears--those days that can never, never, never be -again. - -Who would not be ill at ease at times? Who not crotchety, weary, -contemptuous, however much he might choose to possess himself in -serenity? There is this material Snug Harbor for their bodies, to be -sure. But where is the peaceful haven of the heart--on what shore, by -what sea--a Snug Harbor for the soul? - - - - -THE SANDWICH MAN - - -I would not feel myself justified mentally if at some time or other I -had not paused in thought over the picture of the sandwich man. These -shabby figures of decayed or broken manhood, how they have always -appealed to me. I know what they stand for. I have felt with them. I -am sure I have felt beyond them, over and over again, the misery and -pathos of their state. - -And yet, what a bit of color they add to the life of any city, what -a foil to its prosperity, its ease--what a fillip to the imagination -of those who have any! Against carriages and autos and showy bursts -of enthusiastic life, if there be such, they stand out at times with -a vividness which makes the antithesis of their state seem many times -more important than it really is. In the face of sickness, health is -wonderful. In the face of cold, warmth is immensely significant. In -the face of poverty, wealth is truly grandeur and may well strut and -stride. And who is so obviously, so notoriously poor as this creature -of the two signs, this perambulating pack-horse of an advertisement, -this hopeless, decayed creature who, if he have but life enough to -walk, will do very well as an invitation to buy. - -He is such a biting commentary on life, in one sense, such a coarse, -shabby jest in another, that we cannot help but think on him and the -conditions which produce him. To send forth an anæmic, hollow-eyed, -gaunt-bodied man carrying an announcement of a good dinner, for -instance. Imagine. Or a cure-all. Or a beauty powder. Or a good suit -of clothes. Or a sound pair of shoes. And these with their toes or -their naked bodies all but exposed to the world. An overcoatless man -advertising a warm overcoat in winter. One from whom all and even the -possibility of joy had fled, displaying a notice of joy in the shape -of a sign for a dance-hall, a theater, a moving picture even. The -thick-witted thoughtlessness of the trade-vulgarian who could permit -this! - -But the eyes of them! The cold, red, and often wet hands! The torn hats -with snow on them, the thin shoes that are soppy with snow or water. -Is it not a biting commentary on the importance of the individual, _as -such_, that in life he may be used in such a way as this, in a single -short life, as a post upon which to hang things! And that in the face -of all the wealth of the world--over-production! And that in the face -of all the blather and pother anent the poor, and Christ, and mercy, -and I know not what else! - -I once protested to an artist friend who chanced to be sketching a line -of these, carrying signs, that it was a pity from the individual’s -point of view, as well as from that of society itself, that such things -must be. But he did not agree with me. “Not at all,” he replied. -“They are mentally and physically pointless, anyhow, aren’t they? -They have no imagination, no strength any more, or they wouldn’t be -carrying signs. Don’t you think that you are applying your noble -emotions to their state? Why shouldn’t they be used? They haven’t -your emotions--they haven’t any emotions, as a matter of fact, or very -rudimentary ones, and such as they have they are applying to simpler, -cheaper things than you do yours. Mostly they’re dirty and indifferent, -believe me.” - -I could not say that I wholly disagreed with him. At the same time, I -could not say that I violently agreed with him. It is true that life -does queer tricks with our emotions and quondam passions at times. -The ones that are so very powerful this year, where are they next? -At one time we are racked and torn and flayed and blown by emotions -that at another find us quite dead, incapable of any response. All the -nervous ambitions, as well as the circumstances by which fine emotions -and moods are at one time generated, at another have been entirely -dissipated. Betimes there is nothing left save a disjointed and weary -frame or a wornout brain or nervous system incapable of emotions and -disturbing moods. - -Yet, granting the truth of this, what a way to use the image of the -human race, I thought, the image of our old-time selves! Why degrade -the likeness of the thing we once were and by which once we set so -much store and then expect to raise man’s estimate of man? It is -written: “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, in -vain.” Why take the body of man in so shabby, so degrading a fashion? -Why make a mockery of the body and mind of the human race, and then -expect something superior of life? We talk of elevating the human -race. Can we use ourselves as signs and then do that? It is entirely -probable, of course, that the human race cannot be elevated. Very -good. But if we dream of any such thing, what must such a sight do -to the imagination of the world? What conception of the beauty and -sweetness and dignity of life does it not aid to destroy? What lessons -of hardness and self-preservation and indifference does it not teach? -Does it not glorify health and strength and prosperity at the expense -of every other quality? I think so. To be strong, to be well, to be -prosperous in the face of the sandwich man--is there anywhere more of -an anachronism? - -I sometimes think that in our general life-classifications we neglect -the individual, the exceptional individual, who is always sure to be -everywhere, as readily at the bottom of society as at the top, as -readily sandwiched between two glaring signs as anywhere else. It is -quite all right to admit, for argument’s sake or our own peace of mind, -that most of these men are dirty and worn and indifferent, and hence -negligible; though it always seems silly to me to assume that a man -is indifferent or negligible when he will pack a sign in the cold and -snow in order to preserve himself. It is so easy for those of us who -are comfortable to assume that the other man does not care, does not -feel. Here he comes, though, carrying a sign. Why? To be carrying it -because it makes no difference to him? Because he has no emotions? I -don’t believe it. I could not believe it. And all the evidence I have -personally taken has been to the contrary, decidedly so. - -I remember seeing once, in the rush of the Christmas trade in New -York City a few years ago, a score of these decidedly shabby and -broken brethren carrying signs for the edification, allurement and -information of the Christmas trade. They were strung out along Sixth -Avenue from Twenty-third to Fourteenth Streets, and the messages which -their billboards carried were various. I noticed that in the budding -gayety of the time these men alone were practically hopeless, dull and -gray. The air was fairly crackling with the suggestion of interest -and happiness for some. People were hurrying hither and thither, -eager about their purchases. There were great van-loads of toys and -fineries constantly being moved and transferred. Life seemed to say: -“This is the season of gifts and affection,” but it obviously meant -nothing to these men. I took a five-dollar bill and had it changed -into half-dollars. I stopped before the first old wizened loiterer -I met, his sign hanging like a cross from his gaunt shoulder, and -before his unsuspecting eyes lifted the half-dollar. Who could be -offering him a half-dollar? his eyes seemed indifferently to ask at -first. Then a perfect eagle’s gleam flashed into them, old and dull -as they were, and a claw-like hand reached for it. No thanks, no -acknowledgment, no polite recognition--just grim realization that -money, a whole half-dollar, was being given, and a physical, wholly -animal determination to get it. What possibilities that half-dollar -seemed to hold to that indifferent, unimaginative mind at that moment! -What it suggested, apparently, of possible comfort! Why? Because there -was no imagination there? because life meant nothing? Not in that -case, surely. A whole epic of failure and desire was written in that -gleam--and we speak of them as emotionless. - -[Illustration: The Sandwich Man] - -I went further with my half-dollars. I learned what a half-dollar means -to a man in a sandwich sign in the cold in winter. There was no case in -which the eagerness, the surprise, the astonishment was not interesting -if not pathetic. They were not expecting the Christmas holidays to -offer them any suggestion of remembrance. It did not seem real that any -one should stop and give them anything. Yet here was I, and apparently -their wildest anticipations were outreached. - -I cannot help thinking, as I close, of an old gray-haired Irish -gentleman--for that he was, by every mark of refinement of feature and -intelligence of eye--who had come so low as to be the perambulating -representative of a restaurant, with a double sign strapped over -his shoulders. His hair was thin, his face pale, his body obviously -undernourished, but he carried himself with dignity and undisturbed -resignation, though he must have been deeply conscious of his state. -I saw him for a number of days during the winter season, walking up -and down the west side of Sixth Avenue, and then I saw him no more. -But during that time a sense of what it means to accept the slings and -arrows of fortune with fortitude and equanimity burned itself deeply -into my mind. He was so much better than that which he was compelled -to do. He walked so patiently to and fro, his eyes sometimes closed, -his lips repeating something. I wondered, what? Whether in the depths -of this slough of his despond this man had not risen superior to his -state, his mind on those high cold verities which after all are above -the pointless little existence that we lead here, this existence with -its petty gauds and its pretty and petty vanities. I hope so. But I do -know that a stinging sense of the slings and arrows of fortune overcame -me, never to be eradicated, and I quoted to myself that arresting, -forceful inquiry of one William Shakespeare: - - “For who would bear the whip and scorns of time, - The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, - The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, - The insolence of office, and the spurns - That patient merit of the unworthy takes. - Who would fardels bear, - To grunt and sweat under a weary life?” - -Not you, you think? Boast not. For after all, who shall say what a day -or a year or a lifetime may not bring forth? And with Whatley cannot -we all say: “There, but for the grace of God, go I”--a beggar, an -outcast of fortune, a sandwich man, no less, to whom the meaning of -life is that he shall be a foil to comfort, a contrast to prosperity, a -commentary on health. - -To be the antithesis of what life would prefer to be--what could be -more degraded than that? - - - - -THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITTLE ITALY - - -One of the things that has always interested me about the several -Italian sections of New York City is their love feuds. Every day and -every hour, in all these sections, is being enacted those peculiarly -temperamental and emotional things which we attribute more to -dispositions that sensate rather than think. How often have I myself -been an eye-witness to some climacteric conclusion, to some dreadful -blood feud or opposition or contention--a swarthy Italian stabbing a -lone woman in a dark street at night, a seemingly placid diner in some -purely Italian restaurant rising to an amazing state of rage because -of a look, a fancied insult, some old forgotten grudge, maybe, renewed -by the sight of another. At one time, when I had personal charge of -the Butterick publications, I was an immediate and personal witness -to stabbings and shootings that took place under my very eye, some -bleeding and fleeing adversary brushing me as he ran, to fall exhausted -a little farther on. And mobs of Americans, not understanding these -peculiarly deep-seated and emotional feuds, and resenting always the -use of the knife or the stiletto, seeking to wreak summary vengeance -upon those who, beyond peradventure, are in nowise governed by our -theories or our conventions, but hark by other and more devious paths -back into the Italy of the Middle Ages, and even beyond that. - -The warmth of passion and tenderness that lies wrapped up in these -wonderful southern quarters of our colder northern clime. The -peculiarly romantic and marvelously involved series of dramatic -episodes, feuds or fancies, loves or hates, politics or passion, such -as would do honor to a mediæval love tale--the kind of episodes that -have made the history of Italy as intricate as any in the world! - -The section that has always interested me most is the one that lies -between Ninety-sixth Street and One Hundred and Sixteenth on the East -Side of Manhattan Island, and incloses all the territory that lies -between Second Avenue and the East River. It is a wonderful section. -Here, regardless of the presence of the modern tenement building and -the New York policeman, you may see such a picture of Italian life and -manners as only a visit to Naples and the vine-clad hills of southern -Italy would otherwise afford. - -Vigorous and often attractive maidens in orange and green skirts, -with a wealth of black hair fluffed back from their foreheads, and -yellow shawls and coral necklaces fastened about their necks; dark, -somber-faced Italian men, a world of moods and passions sleeping in -their shadowy eyes, decked out in bright Garibaldian shirts and soft -slouch hats, their tight-fitting corduroy trousers drawn closely about -their waists with a leather belt; quaint, cameo-like old men with -earrings in their ears and hands like claws and faces seamed with the -strongest and most sinister lines, and yet with eyes that flash with -feeling or beam with tenderness; and old women, in all forms of color -and clothing, who chatter and gesticulate and make the pavements -resound with the excitement of their everyday bargaining. - -This, truly, in so far as New York is concerned, is the region of -the love feud and the balcony. If you will stand at any of the -cross-streets that lead east from Second Avenue you will obtain -a splendid panorama of the latter feature, window after window -ornamented with a red or green or orange iron balcony and hung, in the -summertime, with an array of green vines and bright flower-pots that -invariably suggests the love scene of Shakespeare’s famous play and -the romantic love feeling of the south. Dark, poetic-looking Italians -lean against doorjambs and open gateways and survey the surrounding -neighborhood with an indolent and romantic eye. Plump Italian mothers -gaze comfortably out of open windows, before which they sit and sew -and watch their chubby little children romp and play in the streets. -Fat, soft-voiced merchants, and active, graceful, song-singing Italian -street venders ply their various vocations, the latter turning a -wistful eye to every window, the former lolling contentedly in wooden -chairs, the blessings of warmth and a little trade now and again being -all that they require. - -And from out these windows and within these doors hang or lounge those -same maidens, over whom many a bloody feud has been waged and for whom -(for a glance of the eyes or the shrug of the shoulder) many of these -moody-faced, somber-eyed, love-brooding Romeos have whipped out their -glistening steel and buried it in the heart of a hated rival. Girls -have been stabbed here, been followed and shot (I have seen it myself); -petty love-conversations upon a street corner or in the adjacent -park between two ardent lovers have been interrupted by the sudden -appearance of a love frenzied Othello, who could see nothing for it but -to end the misery of his unrequited affection by plunging his knife -into the heart of his rival and into that of his fair but unresponsive -sweetheart. They love and hate; and death is the solution of their -difficulties--death and the silence of the grave. - -“She will not love me! Then she must die!” - -The wonder of the colony is the frankness and freedom with which its -members take to this solution. Actually, it would seem as if this to -them were the only or normal way out of a love tangle. And if you can -ever contrive an intelligent conversation with any of them you will -find it so. Lounge in their theaters, the _teatro marionette_, their -cafés, about the open doorways and the street corners, and hear the -frankness with which they discuss the latest difficulty. Then you will -see for yourself how simple it all seems to them. - -Vincenzo is enamored of his Elvina. So is Nicola. They give each other -black looks, and when Elvina is seen by Vincenzo to walk openly with -Nicola he broods in silence, meditating his revenge. - -One night, when the moon is high and the noisy thoroughfare is -pulsating with that suppressed enthusiasm which is a part of youth and -passion and all the fervid freshness of a warm July night, Vincenzo -meets them at the street corner. He is despondent, desperate. Out comes -his knife--click!--and the thing is done. On the pavement lies Nicola -bleeding. Elvina may be seen running and screaming. She too is wounded, -mayhap to the death. Vincenzo runs and throws his hands dramatically -over his head as he falls, mayhap shot or stabbed--by himself or -another. Or Elvina kneels in the open street beside her lover and -cries. Or Vincenzo, white-faced and calm, surrenders himself into the -hands of the rough, loud swearing American policeman--and there you -have it. - -[Illustration: A Love Affair in Little Italy] - -But ask of the natives, and see what it is they think. They will not -have it that Vincenzo should not have done so, nor Elvina, nor Nicola. -Love is love! Youth is youth! What would you? May not a man settle the -affairs of his heart in his own way? _Perdi!_ - -And these crimes (as the law considers them), so common are they -that it would be quite impossible to give more than a brief mention -to any of a hundred or more that have occurred within as many as ten -or fifteen years. Sometimes, as in the case of Tomasso Ceralli and -Vincenzo Matti, it is a question of a married woman and an illegal -passion. Sometimes, as in the case of Biegio Refino and Alessandro -Scia, it is some poor cigarette-factory girl who, being used as a tool -by one or more, has fallen into others’ hands and so incensed all and -brought into being a feud. Sometimes, as in the case of Mollinero and -Pagnani, it is a bold, bad Carmen who is not sorry to see her lovers -fight. - -But these stories are truly legion and in some instances the police -would never have been the wiser save for a man or a woman whom the -neighbors could not get out of the way in time. Once caught, however, -they come bustling into the nearest station house, these strange groups -of wild, fantastic, disheveled men and women, and behind them, or -before, the brawny officers of our colder clime, with their clubs and -oaths and hoarse comments on the folly and the murderous indecency -of it all--and all in an effort to inspire awe and a preventive fear -that, somehow, can never be inspired. “These damned dagos, with their -stilettos! These crazy wops!” But the melancholy Italian does not care -for these commands or our laws. They are not for him. Let the cold, -chilly American threaten; he will carry his stiletto anyhow. It is -reserved as a last resource in the face of injustice or cruelty or the -too great indifference of this world and of fate. - -One of the most interesting of these love affairs that ever came to -my personal attention was that of Vincenzo Cordi, street musician -and, in a way, a ne’er-do-well, who became unduly enraged because -Antonio Fellicitti, vegetable merchant, paid too marked attention to -his sweetheart. These men, typical Italians of the quarter, knew each -other, but there was no feeling until the affections of both were -aroused by the charms of Maria Maresco, the pretty daughter of one of -the laborers of the street. - -According to the best information that could be obtained at the time, -Cordi had been first in the affections of the girl, but Fellicitti -arrived on the scene and won her away from him. Idling about the -vicinity of her house in One Hundred and Fourteenth Street he had seen -her and had fallen desperately in love. - -Then there was trouble, for Cordi soon became aware of the defection -which Fellicitti had caused, and told him so. “You keep away,” was his -threat. “Go, and come near her no more. If you do, I will kill you.” - -You can imagine the feeling which this conversation engendered. You -can see the gallant Antonio, eyeing his jealous rival through the -long, thin slits of his shadowy, southern eyes. He keep away? Ha! Ha! -Vincenzo keep him away? Ha! Ha! If Maria but loved him, let Vincenzo -rage. When the time came he would answer. - -And of course the time came. It was of a Sunday evening in March, the -first day on which the long cold winter broke and the sun came out and -made the city summer-like. Thousands in this section filled the little -park, with its array of green benches, to overflowing. Thousands more -lounged in the streets and sunned themselves, or swarmed the cafés -where was music and red wine and lights and conversation. Still other -thousands sat by open windows or on the steps in front of open doors -and gossiped with their neighbors--a true forerunner of the glorious -summer to follow. - -Then came the night, that glorious time of affection and good humor, -when every Italian of this neighborhood is at his best. The moon was on -high, a new moon, shining with all the thin delicacy of a pearl. Soft -airs were blowing, clear voices singing; from every window streamed -lamplight and laughter. It seemed as if all the beauty of spring had -been crowded into a single hour. - -On this occasion the fair Maria was lounging in front of her own -doorstep when the lovesick Antonio came along. He was dressed in his -best. A new red handkerchief was fastened about his neck, a soft crush -hat set jauntily upon his forehead. Upon his hand was a ring, in -the handkerchief a bright pin, and he was in his most cavalier mood. -Together they talked, and as they observed the beauty of the night they -decided to stroll to the little park a block away. - -Somewhere in this thoroughfare, however, stood the jealous Vincenzo -brooding. It was evident that he must have been concealed somewhere, -watching, for when the two strolled toward the corner he was seen -to appear and follow. At the corner, where the evening crowd was -the thickest and the merriest--summer pleasure at its height, as it -were--he suddenly confronted Antonio and drew his revolver. - -“Ha!” - -The astonished Antonio had no time to defend himself. He drew his -knife, of course, but before he could act Vincenzo had fired a bullet -into his breast and sent him reeling on his last journey. - -Maria screamed. The crowd gathered. Friends of Antonio and Vincenzo -drew knives and revolvers, and for a few moments it looked as if a feud -were on. Then came the police, and with them the prosaic ambulance and -patrol wagon--and another tragedy was recorded. Antonio was dead and -Vincenzo severely cut and bruised. - -And so it goes. They love desperately. They quarrel dramatically, -and in the end they often fight and die, as we have seen. The brief, -practical accounts of the newspapers give no least suggestion of the -color, the emotion, the sorrow, the rage--in a way, the dramatic -beauty--that attends them, nearly all. - - - - -CHRISTMAS IN THE TENEMENTS - - -They are infatuated with the rush and roar of a great metropolis. They -are fascinated by the illusion of pleasure. Broadway, Fifth Avenue, the -mansions, the lights, the beauty. A fever of living is in their blood. -An unnatural hunger and thirst for excitement is burning them up. For -this they labor. For this they endure a hard, unnatural existence. For -this they crowd themselves in stifling, inhuman quarters, and for this -they die. - -The joys of the Christmas tide are no illusion with most of us, the -strange exhibition of fancy, of which it is the name, no mockery -of our dreams. Far over the wide land the waves of expectation and -sympathetic appreciation constantly oscillate one with the other in -the human breast, and in the closing season of the year are at last -given definite expression. Rings and pins, the art of the jeweler -and the skill of the dress-maker, pictures, books, ornaments and -knickknacks--these with one great purpose are consecrated, and in the -material lavishness of the season is seen the dreams of the world come -true. - -There is one region, however, where, in the terrific drag of the -struggle for existence, the softer phases of this halcyon mood are -at first glance obscure. It is a region of tall tenements and narrow -streets where, crowded into an area of a few square miles, live and -labor a million and a half of people. It is the old-time tenement area, -leading almost unbrokenly north from Franklin Square to Fourteenth -Street. Here, during these late December evenings, the holiday -atmosphere is beginning to make itself felt. It is a region of narrow -streets with tall five-story, even seven-story, tenements lining either -side of the way and running thick as a river with a busy and toilsome -throng. - -The ways are already lined with carts of special Christmas goods, such -as toys, candies, Christmas tree ornaments, feathers, ribbons, jewelry, -purses, fruit, and in a few wagons small Christmas greens such as holly -and hemlock wreaths, crosses of fir, balsam, tamarack pine and sprigs -of mistletoe. Work has not stopped in the factories or stores, and yet -these streets are literally packed with people, of all ages, sizes and -nationalities, and the buying is lively. One man, who looks as though -he might be a Bowery tough rather than a denizen of this particular -neighborhood, is offering little three-, five- and ten-inch dolls which -he announces as “genuine American beauties here. Three, five and ten.” -Another, a pale, full-bearded Jew, is selling little Christmas tree -ornaments of paste or glass for a penny each, and in the glare of the -newly-turned-on electric lights, it is not difficult to perceive that -they are the broken or imperfect lots of the toy manufacturers who are -having them hawked about during the eleventh hour before Christmas as -the best way of getting rid of them. Other dusty, grim and raucous -denizens are offering candy, mixed nuts, and other forms of special -confections, at ten cents a pound, a price at which those who are used -to the more expensive brands may instructively ponder. - -Meats are selling in some of the cheaper butcher shops for ten, fifteen -and twenty cents a pound, picked chickens in barrels at fifteen and -twenty. A whole section of Elizabeth Street is given up to the sale of -stale fish at ten and fifteen cents a pound, and the crowd of Italians, -Jews and Bohemians who are taking advantage of these modest prices is -swarming over the sidewalk and into the gutters. A four- or five-pound -fish at fifteen cents a pound will make an excellent Christmas dinner -for four, five or six. A thin, ice-packed and chemically-preserved -chicken at fifteen or twenty cents a pound will do as much for another -family. Onions, garlic, old cast-off preserves, pickles and condiments -that the wholesale houses uptown have seen grow stale and musty on -their shelves, can be had here for five, ten and fifteen cents a -bottle, and although the combination is unwholesome it will be worked -over as Christmas dinners for the morrow. Cheap, unsalable, stale, -adulterated--these are the words that should be stamped on every -bottle, basket and barrel that is here being scrambled over. And yet -the purchasers would not be benefited any thereby. They must buy what -they can afford. What they can afford is this. - -The street, with its mass of life, lingers in this condition until six -o’clock, when the great shops and factories turn loose their horde -of workers. Then into the glare of these electric-lighted streets -the army of shop girls and boys begins to pour. Here is a spectacle -interesting and provocative of thought at all seasons, but trebly so -on this particular evening. It is a shabby throng at best, commonplace -in garb and physical appearance, but rich in the qualities of youth and -enthusiasm, than which the world holds nothing more valuable. - -Youth in all the glory of its illusions and its ambitions. Youth, in -whom the cold insistence of life’s physical limitations and the law -have not as yet worked any permanent depression. Thousands are hurrying -in every direction. The street cars which ply this area are packed as -only the New York street car companies can pack their patrons, and that -in cold, old, dirty and even vile cars. There are girls with black -hair, and girls with brown. Some have even, white teeth, some shapely -figures, some a touch of that persuasive charm which is indicated by -the flash of an eye. There are poor dresses, poor taste, and poor -manners mingled with good dresses, good taste and good manners. In the -glow of the many lights and shadows of the evening they are hurrying -away, with that lightness of spirit and movement which is the evidence -of a long strain of labor suddenly relaxed. - -“Do you think Santa Claus will have enough to fill that?” asks an -officer, who is standing in the glare of a balsam- and pine-trimmed -cigar store window, to a smartly dressed political heeler or detective -who is looking on with him at the mass of shop-girls hurrying past. A -shop-girl had gone by with her skirt cut to an inch or two below her -knee, revealing a trim little calf and ankle. - -“Eee yo! I hope so! Isn’t she the candy?” - -[Illustration: Christmas in the Tenements] - -“Don’t get fresh,” comes quickly from the hurrying figure as she -disappears in the throng with a toss of her head. She has enjoyed the -comment well enough, and the rebuke is more mischievous than angry. - -“A goldfish! A goldfish! Only one cent!” cries a pushcart vendor, who -is one of a thousand lining the pavements to-night, and at his behest -another shop-girl, equally budding and youthful, stops to extract a -penny from her small purse and carries away a thin, transparent prize -of golden paste, for a younger brother, probably. - -Others like her are being pushed and jostled the whole length of this -crowded section. They are being nudged and admired as well as sought -and schemed for. Whatever affections or attachments they have will -be manifesting themselves to-night, as may be seen by the little -expenditures they themselves are making. A goldfish of transparent -paste or a half pound of candy, a cheap gold-plated stickpin, brooch or -ring, or a handkerchief, collar or necktie bought of one of the many -pushcart men, tell the story plainly enough. Sympathy, love, affection -and passion are running their errant ways among this vast unspoken -horde no less than among the more pretentious and well-remembered of -the world. - -And the homes to which they are hurrying, the places which are -dignified by that title, but which here should have another name! -Thousands upon thousands of them are turning into entry ways, the gloom -or dirtiness or poverty of which should bar them from the steps of any -human being. Up the dark stairways they are pouring into tier upon tier -of human hives, in some instances not less than seven stories high -and, of course, without an elevator, and by grimy landings they are -sorted out and at last distributed each into his own cranny. Small, -dark one-, two- and three-room apartments, where yet on this Christmas -evening, one, and sometimes three, four and five are still at work -sewing pants, making flowers, curling feathers, or doing any other of -a hundred tenement tasks to help out the income supplied by the one or -two who work out. Miserable one- and two-room spaces where ignorance -and poverty and sickness, rather than greed or immorality, have made -veritable pens out of what would ordinarily be bad enough. Many -hundreds or thousands of others there are where thrift and shrewdness -are making the best of very unfortunate conditions, and a hundred or -two where actual abundance prevails. These are the homes. Let us enter. - -Zorg is a Bohemian, and has a little two-room apartment. The windows -of the only one which has windows looks into Elizabeth Street. It is a -dingy apartment, unswept and unwhitewashed at present, where on this -hearty Christmas Eve, himself, his wife, his wife’s mother, and his -little twelve-year-old son are laboring at a fair-sized deal table -curling feathers. The latter is a simple task, once you understand -it, dull, tedious, unprofitable. It consists in taking a feather in -one hand, a knife in the other, and drawing the fronds quickly over -the knife’s edge. This gives them a very sprightly curl and can be -administered, if the worker be an expert, by a single movement of the -hand. It is paid for by the dozen, as such work is usually paid for -in this region, and the ability to earn much more than sixty cents a -day is not within the range of human possibility. Forty cents would -be a much more probable average, and this is approximately the wages -which these several individuals earn. Rent uses up three of the twelve -dollars weekly income; food, dress, coal and light six more. Three -dollars, when work is steady, is the sum laid aside for all other -purposes and pleasures, and this sum, if no amusements were indulged -in and no sickness or slackness of work befell, might annually grow to -the tidy sum of one hundred and fifty-six dollars; but it has never -done so. Illness invariably takes one part, lack of work a greater part -still. In the long drag of weary labor the pleasure-loving instincts of -man cannot be wholly restrained, and so it comes about that the present -Christmas season finds the funds of the family treasury low. - -It is in such a family as this that the merry Christmas time comes with -a peculiar emphasis, and although the conditions may be discouraging, -the efforts to meet it are almost always commensurate with the means. - -However, on this Christmas Eve it has been deemed a duty to have some -diversion, and so, although the round of weary labor may not be thus -easily relaxed, the wife has been deputed to do the Christmas shopping -and has gone forth into the crowded East Side street, from which -she has returned with a meat bone, a cut from a butcher’s at twelve -cents a pound, green pickles, three turnips, a carrot, a half-dozen -small candles, and two or three toys, which, together with a small -three-foot branch of hemlock, purchased earlier in the day, completes -the Christmas preparation for the morrow. Arba, the youngest, although -like the others she will work until ten this Christmas Eve, is to have -a pair of new shoes; Zicka, the next older, a belt for her dress. Mrs. -Zorg, although she may not suspect, will receive a new market basket -with a lid on it. Zorg--grim, silent, weary of soul and body--is to -have a new fifteen-cent tie. There will be a tree, a small sprig of -a tree, upon which will hang colored glass or paste balls of red and -blue and green, with threads of popcorn and sprays of flitter-gold, all -saved from the years before. In the light of early dawn to-morrow the -youngest of the children will dance about these, and the richness of -their beauty will be enjoyed as if they had not been so presented for -the seventh and eighth time. - -Thus it runs, mostly, throughout the entire region on this joyous -occasion, a wealth of feeling and desire expressing itself through -the thinnest and most meager material forms. About the shops and -stores where the windows are filled with cheap displays of all -that is considered luxury, are hosts of other children scarcely -so satisfactorily supplied, peering earnestly into the world of -make-believe and illusion, the wonder of it not yet eradicated from -their unsophisticated hearts. Joy, joy--not a tithe of all that is -represented by the expenditures of the wealthy, but only such as may be -encompassed in a paper puff-ball or a tinsel fish, is here sought for -and dreamed over, an earnest, child-heart-longing which may never again -be gratified if not now. Horses, wagons, fire engines, dolls--these are -what the thousands upon thousands of children whose faces are pressed -closely against the commonplace window panes are dreaming about, and -the longing that is thereby expressed is the strongest evidence of the -indissoluble link which binds these weakest and most wretched elements -of society to the best and most successful. - - - - -THE RIVERS OF THE NAMELESS DEAD - -The body of a man was found yesterday in the North River at -Twenty-fifth Street. A brass check, No. 21,600, of the New York -Registry Company, was found on the body.--N. Y. Daily Paper. - - -There is an island surrounded by rivers, and about it the tide scurries -fast and deep. It is a beautiful island, long, narrow, magnificently -populated, and with such a wealth of life and interest as no island in -the whole world before has ever possessed. Long lines of vessels of -every description nose its banks. Enormous buildings and many splendid -mansions line its streets. - -It is filled with a vast population, millions coming and going, and is -the scene of so much life and enthusiasm and ambition that its fame is, -as the sound of a bell, heard afar. - -And the interest which this island has for the world is that it is -seemingly a place of opportunity and happiness. If you were to listen -to the tales of its glory carried the land over and see the picture -which it presents to the incoming eye, you would assume that it was -all that it seemed. Glory for those who enter its walls seeking glory. -Happiness for those who come seeking happiness. A world of comfort and -satisfaction for all who take up their abode within it--an island of -beauty and delight. - -The sad part of it is, however, that the island and its beauty are, to -a certain extent, a snare. Its seeming loveliness, which promises so -much to the innocent eye, is not always easy of realization. Thousands -come, it is true; thousands venture to reconnoiter its mysterious -shores. From the villages and hamlets of the land is streaming a -constant procession of pilgrims who feel that here is the place where -their dreams are to be realized; here is the spot where they are to be -at peace. That their hopes are not, in so many cases, to be realized, -is the thing which gives a poignant tang to their coming. The beautiful -island is not compact of happiness for all. - -And the exceptional tragedy of it is that the waters which surround the -beautiful island are forever giving evidence of the futility of the -dreams of so many. If you were to stand upon any of its shores, where -the tide scurries past in its never-ending hurry, or were to idle for a -time upon its many docks and piers, which reach far out into the water -and give lovely views of the sky and the gulls and the boats, you might -see drifting past upon the bosom of the current some member of all -the ambitious throng who, in time past, set his face toward the city, -and who entered only to find that there was more of sorrow than of -joy. Sad, white-faced maidens; grim, bearded, time-worn men; strange, -strife-worn, grief-stricken women; and, saddest of all, children--soft, -wan, tender children--floating in the waters which wash the shores of -the island city. - -And such waters! How green they look, how graceful, how mysterious! -From far seas they come--strange, errant, peculiar waters--prying -along the shores of the magnificent island; sucking and sipping at the -rocks which form its walls; whispering and gurgling about the docks and -piers, and flowing, flowing, flowing. Such waters seem to be kind, and -yet they are not so. They seem to be cruel, and yet they are not so; -merely indifferent these waters are--dark, strong, deep, indifferent. - -And curiously the children of men who come to seek the joys of the city -realize the indifference and the impartiality of the waters. When the -vast and beautiful island has been reconnoitered, when its palaces have -been viewed, its streets disentangled, its joys and its difficulties -discovered, then the waters, which are neither for nor against, seem -inviting. Here, when the great struggle has been ended, when the years -have slipped by and the hopes of youth have not been realized; when -the dreams of fortune, the delights of tenderness, the bliss of love -and the hopes of peace have all been abandoned--the weary heart may -come and find surcease. Peace in the waters, rest in the depths and the -silence of the hurrying tide; surcease and an end in the chalice of the -waters which wash the shores of the beautiful island. - -And they do come, these defeated ones? Not one, nor a dozen, nor a -score every year, but hundreds and hundreds. Scarcely a day passes but -one, and sometimes many, go down from the light and the show and the -merriment of the island to the shores of the waters where peace may -be found. They stop on its banks; they reflect, perhaps, on the joys -which they somehow have missed; they give a last, despairing glance at -the wonderful scene which once seemed so joyous and full of promise, -and then yield themselves unresistingly to the unswerving strength of -the powerful current and are borne away. Out past the docks and the -piers of the wonderful city. Out past its streets, its palaces, its -great institutions. Out past its lights, its colors, the sound of its -merriment and its seeking, and then the sea has them and they are no -more. They have accomplished their journey, the island its tragedy. -They have come down to the rivers of the nameless dead. They have -yielded themselves as a sacrifice to the variety of life. They have -proved the uncharitableness of the island of beauty. - -[Illustration] - - -THE END - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they -were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation -marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left -unbalanced. - -Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs. In -versions of this eBook that support hyperlinks, the page references in -the List of Illustrations lead to the corresponding illustrations. - -Transcriber removed duplicate book title on page before first chapter. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Color of a Great City, by Theodore Dreiser - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY *** - -***** This file should be named 61043-0.txt or 61043-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/0/4/61043/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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- } - - .covernote {visibility: visible; display: block; text-align: center;} -} - </style> - </head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Color of a Great City, by Theodore Dreiser - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Color of a Great City - -Author: Theodore Dreiser - -Illustrator: Charles Buckles Falls - -Release Date: December 29, 2019 [EBook #61043] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="transnote covernote"> -<p class="center larger">Transcriber’s Note</p> - -<p class="center">Cover created by Transcriber, using an illustration from the -original book, and placed in the Public Domain.</p> -</div> - -<h1>THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY</h1> - -<div class="newpage p4 center"><div class="ad bd"> -<h2><a id="Books_by_Theodore_Dreiser"></a><span class="smcap">Books by</span><br /> - -<span class="large wspace vspace">THEODORE DREISER</span></h2> - -<hr /> - -<p class="in0 in2"> -SISTER CARRIE<br /> -JENNIE GERHARDT<br /> -THE FINANCIER<br /> -THE TITAN<br /> -THE GENIUS<br /> -A TRAVELER AT FORTY<br /> -A HOOSIER HOLIDAY<br /> -PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL<br /> -THE HAND OF THE POTTER<br /> -FREE AND OTHER STORIES<br /> -TWELVE MEN<br /> -HEY RUB-A-DUB-DUB<br /> -A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF<br /> -THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY -</p> -</div></div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="i_frontis" class="newpage figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;"> - <img src="images/i_001.jpg" width="555" height="648" alt="" /> - <div class="captionl">The City of My Dreams</div></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="newpage p4 center vspace wspace"> -<div class="tp bthin"><div class="bmid"> -<p class="xxlarge bold center"> -THE COLOR OF<br /> -A GREAT CITY</p> - -<p class="p2 larger center">THEODORE DREISER</p> - -<p class="p2 center"><i class="smaller">Illustrations by</i><br /> - -C. B. FALLS</p> - -<div id="if_i_002" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 7em;"> - <img src="images/i_002.jpg" width="97" height="124" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="p2 large center">BONI AND LIVERIGHT<br /> -<span class="smcap small">Publishers</span> <span class="in1">::</span> <span class="in2">::</span> <span class="in2 smcap">New York</span> -</p> -</div></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="newpage p4 center smaller"> -<p class="vspace"><i>Copyright, 1923, by</i><br /> -<span class="smcap">Boni and Liveright, Inc.</span></p> -<hr class="narrow" /> -<p class="p1">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> - -<p class="p2">First Printing, December, 1923<br /> -Second Printing, May, 1924 -</p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">v</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="FOREWORD">FOREWORD</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">My</span> only excuse for offering these very brief pictures -of the City of New York as it was between 1900 and -1914 or ’15, or thereabout, is that they are of the very -substance of the city I knew in my early adventurings -in it. Also, and more particularly, they represent -in part, at least, certain phases which at that time most -arrested and appealed to me, and which now are fast -vanishing or are no more. I refer more particularly to -such studies as <i>The Bread-line</i>, <i>The Push-cart Man</i>, <i>The -Toilers of the Tenements</i>, <i>Christmas in the Tenements</i>, -<i>Whence the Song</i>, and <i>The Love Affairs of Little Italy</i>.</p> - -<p>For, to begin with, the city, as I see it, was more varied -and arresting and, after its fashion, poetic and even -idealistic then than it is now. It offered, if I may venture -the opinion, greater social and financial contrasts -than it does now: the splendor of the purely social Fifth -Avenue of the last decade of the last century and the -first decade of this, for instance, as opposed to the purely -commercial area that now bears that name; the sparklingly -personality-dotted Wall Street of 1890–1910 as -contrasted with the commonplace and almost bread and -butter world that it is to-day. (There were argonauts -then.) The astounding areas of poverty and of beggary -even,—I refer to the east side and the Bowery of that -period—unrelieved as they were by civic betterment and -social service ventures of all kinds, as contrasted with the -beschooled and beserviced east side of to-day. Who recalls<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">vi</span> -Steve Brodies, McGurks, Doyers Street and -“Chuck” Connors?</p> - -<p>The city is larger. It has, if you will, more amazing -architectural features. But has it as vivid and moving -social contrasts,—as hectic and poignant and disturbing -mental and social aspirations as it had then? I cannot -see that it has. Rather, as it seems to me, it is duller because -less differentiated. There are millions and millions -but what do they do? Tramp aimlessly, for the -most part, here and there in shoals, to see a ball game, -a football game, a parade, a prize-fight, a civic betterment -or automobile exhibition or to dance or dine in a -hall that holds a thousand. But of that old zest that -seemed to find something secret and thrilling in a thousand -nooks and corners of the old city, its Bowery, its -waterfront, its rialto, its outlying resorts, not a trace. -One cannot even persuade the younger generation, that -never even knew the old city, to admit that they feel a -tang of living equivalent to what they imagined once -was. The truth is that it is not here. It has vanished—along -with the generation that felt it.</p> - -<p>The pictures that I offer here, however, are not, I am -compelled to admit, of that more distinguished and -vibrant crust, which my introduction so far would imply. -Indeed they are the very antithesis, I think, of all that -glitter and glister that made the social life of that day -so superior. Its shadow, if you will, its reverse face. -For being very much alone at the time, and having of -necessity, as the situation stood, ample hours in which -to wander here and there, without, however, sufficient -financial means to divert myself in any other way, I was -given for the most part to rambling in what to me were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">vii</span> -the strangest and most peculiar and most interesting -areas I could find as contrasted with those of great -wealth and to speculating at length upon the phases and -the forces of life I then found so lavishly spread before -me. The splendor of the, to me, new dynamic, new-world -metropolis! Its romance, its enthusiasm, its illusions, -its difficulties! The immense crowds everywhere—upon -Manhattan Island, at least. The beautiful rivers -and the bay with its world of shipping that washed its -shores. Indeed, I was never weary of walking and contemplating -the great streets, not only Fifth Avenue and -Broadway, but the meaner ones also, such as the Bowery, -Third Avenue, Second Avenue, Elizabeth Street in the -lower Italian section and East Broadway. And at that -time even (1894) that very different and most radically -foreign plexus, known as the East Side, already stretched -from Chatham Square and even farther south—Brooklyn -Bridge—north to Fourteenth Street. For want of -bridges and subways the city was not, as yet, so far-flung -but for that reason more concentrated and almost -as congested.</p> - -<p>Yet before I was fifteen years in the city, all of the -additional bridges, other than Brooklyn Bridge which -was here when I came and which so completely served -to change New York from the thing it was then to what -it is now, were already in place—Manhattan, Williamsburg, -Queens Borough Bridges. And the subways had -been built, at least in part. But before then, if anything, -the great island, as I have said, was even more compact -of varied and foreign groups, and one had only to wander -casually and not at any great length to come upon -the Irish in the lower East and West Sides; the Syrians<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">viii</span> -in Washington Street—a great mass of them; the Greeks -around 26th, 27th and 28th Streets on the West Side; the -Italians around Mulberry Bend; the Bohemians in East -67th Street, and the Sicilians in East 116th Street and -thereabouts. The Jews were still chiefly on the East Side.</p> - -<p>Being fascinated by these varying nationalities, and -their neighborhoods, I was given for the first year or two -of my stay here to wandering among them, as well as -along and through the various parks, the waterfronts -and the Bowery, and thinking, thinking, thinking on this -welter of life and the difficulties and the strangeness of -it. The veritable tides of people that were forever moving -here—so different to the Middle-West cities I had -known. And the odd, or at least different, devices and -trades by which they made their way—the small shops, -trades, tricks even. For one thing, I was often given to -wondering how so many people could manage to subsist -in New York by grinding hand organs alone, or shining -shoes or selling newspapers or peanuts, or fruits or vegetables -from a small stand or cart.</p> - -<p>And the veritable shoals and worlds, even, of beggars -and bums and idlers and crooks in the Bowery and elsewhere. -Indeed I was more or less dumbfounded by the -numerical force of these and the far cry it was from -them to the mansions in Fifth Avenue, the great shops -in Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street, the world -famous banking houses and personalities in Wall Street, -the comfortable cliff-dwellers who occupied the hotels and -apartment houses of the upper West Side and along -Broadway. For being young and inexperienced and -penniless, these economic differences had more significance -for me then than they have since been able to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">ix</span> -maintain. Yet always and primarily fascinated by the -problem of life itself, the riddle of its origin, the difficulties -seemingly attending its maintenance everywhere, -such a polyglot city as this was, was not only an economic -problem, but a strange and mysterious picture, -and I was never weary of spying out how the other fellow -lived and how he made his way. And yet how many -years it was, really, after I arrived here, quite all of -ten, before it ever occurred to me that apart from the -novel or short story, these particular scenes and my own -cogitations in connection might possess merit as pictures.</p> - -<p>And so it was that not before 1904—ten years later, -really—that I was so much as troubled to sketch a single -impression of all that I had seen and then only at the -request of a Sunday editor of a New York newspaper -who was short of “small local stuff” to fill in between -his more lurid features. And even at that, not more -than seven or eight of all that are here assembled were at -that time even roughly sketched,—<i>The Bowery Mission</i>, -<i>The Waterfront</i>, <i>The Cradle of Tears</i>, <i>The Track Walker</i>, -<i>The Realization of an Ideal</i>, <i>The Log of a Harbor Pilot</i>. -Later, however, in 1908 and ’09, finding space in a magazine -of my own—<i>The Bohemian</i>—as well as one conducted -by Senator Watson of Georgia, and bethinking -me of all I had seen and how truly wonderful and colorful -it really was, I began to try to do more of them, and -at that time wrote at least seven or eight more—<i>The -Flight of Pigeons</i>, <i>Six O’clock</i>, <i>The Wonder of Water</i>, -<i>The Men in the Storm</i>, and <i>The Men in the Dark</i>. The -exact titles of all, apart from these, I have forgotten.</p> - -<p>Still later, after the opening of the World War, and -because I was noting how swiftly and steadily the city -was changing and old landmarks and conditions were -being done away with, I thought it worth while to bring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">x</span> -together, not only all the scenes I had previously published -or sketched, but to add some others which from -time to time I had begun but never finished. Among -these at that time were <i>The Fire</i>, <i>Hell’s Kitchen</i>, <i>A Wayplace -of the Fallen</i>, <i>The Man on the Bench</i>. And then, -several years ago, having in the meanwhile once more -laid aside the material to the advantage of other -matters, I decided that it was still worth while. And -getting them all out and casting aside those I no longer -cared for, and rewriting others of which I approved, -together with new pictures of old things I had seen, -i.e., <i>Bums</i>, <i>The Michael J. Powers Association</i>, <i>A Vanished -Summer Resort</i>, <i>The Push-cart Man</i>, <i>The Sandwich -Man</i>, <i>Characters</i>, <i>The Men in the Snow</i>, <i>The City -Awakes</i>—I finally evolved the present volume. But -throughout all these latest additions I sought only to -recapture the flavor and the color of that older day—nothing -more. If they are anything, they are mere representations -of the moods that governed me at the time -that I had observed this material at first hand—not as I -know the city to be now.</p> - -<p>In certain of these pictures, as will be seen, reference -is made to wages, hours and working and living conditions -not now holding, or at least not to the same -severe degree. This is especially true of such presentations -as <i>The Men in the Dark</i>, <i>The Men in the Storm</i>, -<i>The Men in the Snow</i>, <i>Six O’clock</i>, <i>The Bread-line</i>, -(long since abolished), <i>The Toilers of the Tenements</i>, -and <i>Christmas in the Tenements</i>. Yet since they were -decidedly true of that particular period, I prefer to -leave them as originally written. They bear, I believe, -the stamp of their hour.</p> - -<p class="sigright"><span class="smcap">Theodore Dreiser.</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">xi</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> - <tr class="small"> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Foreword</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#FOREWORD">ix</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The City of My Dreams</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_1">1</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The City Awakes</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_2">5</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Waterfront</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_3">9</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Log of a Harbor Pilot</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_4">14</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Bums</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_5">34</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Michael J. Powers Association</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_6">44</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Fire</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_7">56</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Car Yard</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_8">68</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Flight of Pigeons</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_9">74</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On Being Poor</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_10">77</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Six O’clock</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_11">81</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Toilers of the Tenements</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_12">85</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The End of a Vacation</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_13">100</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Track Walker</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_14">104</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Realization of an Ideal</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_15">108</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Pushcart Man</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_16">112</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Vanished Seaside Resort</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_17">119</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Bread-Line</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_18">129</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Our Red Slayer</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_19">133</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Whence the Song</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_20">138</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Characters</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_21">156</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Beauty of Life</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_22">170</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Wayplace of the Fallen</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_23">173</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">xii</span></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Hell’s Kitchen</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_24">184</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Certain Oil Refinery</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_25">200</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Bowery Mission</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_26">207</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Wonder of the Water</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_27">216</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Man on the Bench</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_28">219</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Men in the Dark</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_29">224</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Men in the Storm</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_30">230</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Men in the Snow</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_31">233</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Freshness of the Universe</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_32">238</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Cradle of Tears</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_33">241</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">When the Sails Are Furled</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_34">244</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Sandwich Man</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_35">260</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Love Affairs of Little Italy</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_36">267</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Christmas in the Tenements</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_37">275</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Rivers of the Nameless Dead</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ch_38">284</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">xiii</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="loi" summary="Illustrations"> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The City of My Dreams</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#i_frontis"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> - <tr class="small"> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">FACING<br />PAGE </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The City Awakes</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_7">6</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Waterfront</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_12">12</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Michael J. Powers Association</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_48">48</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Fire</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_58">58</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Car Yard</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_71">70</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Flight of Pigeons</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_74">74</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Being Poor</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_79">78</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Six O’clock</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_82">82</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Toilers of the Tenements</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_89">88</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Close of Summer</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_100">100</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Realization of an Ideal</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_109">108</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Pushcart Man</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_115">114</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Whence the Song</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_143">142</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">A Character</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_160">160</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Beauty of Life</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_170">170</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">A Wayplace of the Fallen</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_174">174</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Hell’s Kitchen</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_186">186</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">An Oil Refinery</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_205">204</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Bowery Mission</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_211">210</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Wonder of the Water</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_216">216</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Man on the Bench</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_221">220</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Men in the Dark</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_226">226</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiv">xiv</span></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Men in the Storm</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_230">230</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Men in the Snow</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_234">234</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Freshness of the Universe</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_238">238</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Cradle of Tears</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_240">241</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Sailors’ Snug Harbor</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_250">250</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">The Sandwich Man</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_264">264</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">A Love Affair in Little Italy</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_271">270</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">Christmas in the Tenements</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_278">278</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span></p> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="THE_COLOR_OF_A_GREAT_CITY"><span class="larger wspace bold">THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY</span></h2> -</div> - -<h2 id="ch_1" class="nobreak">THE CITY OF MY DREAMS</h2> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> was silent, the city of my dreams, marble and serene, -due perhaps to the fact that in reality I knew nothing -of crowds, poverty, the winds and storms of the inadequate -that blow like dust along the paths of life. It -was an amazing city, so far-flung, so beautiful, so dead. -There were tracks of iron stalking through the air, and -streets that were as cañons, and stairways that mounted -in vast flights to noble plazas, and steps that led down -into deep places where were, strangely enough, underworld -silences. And there were parks and flowers and -rivers. And then, after twenty years, here it stood, as -amazing almost as my dream, save that in the waking -the flush of life was over it. It possessed the tang -of contests and dreams and enthusiasms and delights -and terrors and despairs. Through its ways and cañons -and open spaces and underground passages were running, -seething, sparkling, darkling, a mass of beings -such as my dream-city never knew.</p> - -<p>The thing that interested me then as now about New -York—as indeed about any great city, but more definitely -New York because it was and is so preponderantly large—was -the sharp, and at the same time immense, contrast -it showed between the dull and the shrewd, the strong<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span> -and the weak, the rich and the poor, the wise and the -ignorant. This, perhaps, was more by reason of numbers -and opportunity than anything else, for of course -humanity is much the same everywhere. But the number -from which to choose was so great here that the -strong, or those who ultimately dominated, were so very -strong, and the weak so very, very weak—and so very, -very many.</p> - -<p>I once knew a poor, half-demented, and very much -shriveled little seamstress who occupied a tiny hall-bedroom -in a side-street rooming-house, cooked her meals -on a small alcohol stove set on a bureau, and who had -about space enough outside of this to take three good -steps either way.</p> - -<p>“I would rather live in my hall-bedroom in New York -than in any fifteen-room house in the country that I -ever saw,” she commented once, and her poor little -colorless eyes held more of sparkle and snap in them -than I ever saw there, before or after. She was wont -to add to her sewing income by reading fortunes in -cards and tea-leaves and coffee-grounds, telling of love -and prosperity to scores as lowly as herself, who would -never see either. The color and noise and splendor of -the city as a spectacle was sufficient to pay her for all -her ills.</p> - -<p>And have I not felt the glamour of it myself? And do -I not still? Broadway, at Forty-second Street, on those -selfsame spring evenings when the city is crowded with -an idle, sightseeing cloud of Westerners; when the doors -of all shops are open, the windows of nearly all restaurants -wide to the gaze of the idlest passer-by. Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span> -is the great city, and it is lush and dreamy. A May -or June moon will be hanging like a burnished silver -disc between the high walls aloft. A hundred, a thousand -electric signs will blink and wink. And the floods -of citizens and visitors in summer clothes and with gay -hats; the street cars jouncing their endless carloads on -indifferent errands; the taxis and private cars fluttering -about like jeweled flies. The very gasoline contributes -a distinct perfume. Life bubbles, sparkles; -chatters gay, incoherent stuff. Such is Broadway.</p> - -<p>And then Fifth Avenue, that singing, crystal street, -on a shopping afternoon, winter, summer, spring or -fall. What tells you as sharply of spring when, its windows -crowded with delicate effronteries of silks and gay -nothings of all description, it greets you in January, -February and March? And how as early as November -again, it sings of Palm Beach and Newport and the lesser -or greater joys of the tropics and the warmer seas. And -in September, how the haughty display of furs and rugs, -in this same avenue, and costumes de luxe for ball and -dinner, cry out of snows and blizzards, when you are -scarcely ten days back from mountain or seaside. One -might think, from the picture presented and the residences -which line the upper section, that all the world -was inordinately prosperous and exclusive and happy. -And yet, if you but knew the tawdry underbrush of -society, the tangle and mat of futile growth between the -tall trees of success, the shabby chambers crowded with -aspirants and climbers, the immense mansions barren -of a single social affair, perfect and silent!</p> - -<p>I often think of the vast mass of underlings, boys and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span> -girls, who, with nothing but their youth and their ambitions -to commend them, are daily and hourly setting -their faces New Yorkward, reconnoitering the city for -what it may hold in the shape of wealth or fame, or, -if not that, position and comfort in the future; and -what, if anything, they will reap. Ah, their young eyes -drinking in its promise! And then, again, I think of -all the powerful or semi-powerful men and women -throughout the world, toiling at one task or another—a -store, a mine, a bank, a profession—somewhere outside -of New York, whose one ambition is to reach the place -where their wealth will permit them to enter and remain -in New York, dominant above the mass, luxuriating in -what they consider luxury.</p> - -<p>The illusion of it, the hypnosis deep and moving that -it is! How the strong and the weak, the wise and the -fools, the greedy of heart and of eye, seek the nepenthe, -the Lethe, of its something hugeness. I always marvel -at those who are willing, seemingly, to pay any price—<em>the</em> -price, whatever it may be—for one sip of this poison -cup. What a stinging, quivering zest they display. -How beauty is willing to sell its bloom, virtue its last -rag, strength an almost usurious portion of that which -it controls, youth its very best years, its hope or dream -of fame, fame and power their dignity and presence, age -its weary hours, to secure but a minor part of all this, -a taste of its vibrating presence and the picture that -it makes. Can you not hear them almost, singing its -praises?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_2">THE CITY AWAKES</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Have</span> you ever arisen at dawn or earlier in New -York and watched the outpouring in the meaner side-streets -or avenues? It is a wondrous thing. It seems -to have so little to do with the later, showier, brisker -life of the day, and yet it has so very much. It -is in the main so drab or shabby-smart at best, poor -copies of what you see done more efficiently later in -the day. Typewriter girls in almost stage or society -costumes entering shabby offices; boys and men made -up to look like actors and millionaires turning into the -humblest institutions, where they are clerks or managers. -These might be called the machinery of the city, after -the elevators and street cars and wagons are excluded, -the implements by which things are made to go.</p> - -<p>Take your place on Williamsburg Bridge some -morning, for instance, at say three or four o’clock, -and watch the long, the quite unbroken line of Jews -trundling pushcarts eastward to the great Wallabout -Market over the bridge. A procession out of Assyria -or Egypt or Chaldea, you might suppose, Biblical in -quality; or, better yet, a huge chorus in some operatic -dawn scene laid in Paris or Petrograd or here. A -vast, silent mass it is, marching to the music of necessity. -They are so grimy, so mechanistic, so elemental in their -movements and needs. And later on you will find<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span> -them seated or standing, with their little charcoal -buckets or braziers to warm their hands and feet, in -those gusty, icy streets of the East Side in winter, or -coatless and almost shirtless in hot weather, open-mouthed -for want of air. And they are New York, too—Bucharest -and Lemberg and Odessa come to the Bowery, -and adding rich, dark, colorful threads to the rug -or tapestry which is New York.</p> - -<p>Since these are but a portion, think of those other -masses that come from the surrounding territory, north, -south, east and west. The ferries—have you ever observed -them in the morning? Or the bridges, railway -terminals, and every elevated and subway exit?</p> - -<p>Already at six and six-thirty in the morning they -have begun to trickle small streams of human beings -Manhattan or cityward, and by seven and seven-fifteen -these streams have become sizable affairs. By seven-thirty -and eight they have changed into heavy, turbulent -rivers, and by eight-fifteen and eight-thirty and nine -they are raging torrents, no less. They overflow all -the streets and avenues and every available means of -conveyance. They are pouring into all available doorways, -shops, factories, office-buildings—those huge affairs -towering so significantly above them. Here they -stay all day long, causing those great hives and their -adjacent streets to flush with a softness of color not -indigenous to them, and then at night, between five -and six, they are going again, pouring forth over the -bridges and through the subways and across the ferries -and out on the trains, until the last drop of them appears<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span> -to have been exuded, and they are pocketed in some -outlying side-street or village or metropolitan hall-room—and -the great, turbulent night of the city is on once -more.</p> - -<div id="ip_7" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;"> - <img src="images/i_006.jpg" width="479" height="607" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The City Awakes</div></div> - -<p>And yet they continue to stream cityward,—this cityward. -From all parts of the world they are pouring -into New York: Greeks from Athens and the realms of -Sparta and Macedonia, living six, seven, eight, nine, ten, -eleven, twelve, in one room, sleeping on the floors and -dressing and eating and entertaining themselves God -knows how; Jews from Russia, Poland, Hungary, the -Balkans, crowding the East Side and the inlying sections -of Brooklyn, and huddling together in thick, gummy -streets, singing in street crowds around ballad-mongers -of the woes of their native land, seeking with a kind -of divine, poetic flare a modicum of that material comfort -which their natures so greatly crave, which their -previous condition for at least fifteen hundred years -has scarcely warranted; Italians from Sicily and the -warmer vales of the South, crowding into great sections -of their own, all hungry for a taste of New York; Germans, -Hungarians, French, Polish, Swedish, Armenians, -all with sections of their own and all alive to the joys -of the city, and how eager to live—great gold and scarlet -streets throbbing with the thoughts of them!</p> - -<p>And last but not least, the illusioned American from -the Middle West and the South and the Northwest and -the Far West, crowding in and eyeing it all so eagerly, -so yearningly, like the others. Ah, the little, shabby, -blue-light restaurants! The boarding houses in silent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span> -streets! The moral, hungry “homes”—how full they -are of them and how hopeless! How the city sings and -sings for them, and in spite of them, flaunting ever -afresh its lures and beauties—a city as wonderful and -fateful and ironic as life itself.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_3">THE WATERFRONT</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Were</span> I asked to choose a subject which would most -gratify my own fancy I believe I would choose the -docks and piers of New York. Nowhere may you find -a more pleasingly encouraging picture-life going on -at a leisurely gait, but going, nor one withal set in a -lovelier framework. And, personally, I have always foolishly -imagined that the laborers and men of affairs connected -with them must be the happier for that connection. -It is more than probable that that is not true, but -what can be more interesting than long, heavily-laden -piers jutting out into the ever-flowing waters of a river? -And those tall masts adjoining, how they rock and -swing! Whistler had a fancy for scenes like these; they -appealed to his sense of line and background and romance. -You can look at his etchings of collections of -boats along the Thames at London and see how keenly -he must have felt the beauty of what he saw. Networks -of ropes and spars; stout, stodgy figures of half-idle -laborers; delicious, comforting, homey suggestions of -houses and spires behind; and then the water.</p> - -<p>How the water sips and gurgles about these stanchions -and spiles and hulls! You stand on the shore or on -the hard-cobbled streets of the waterfront, crowded -with trucks and cars, and you realize that the too, too -solid substance of which they are composed is to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span> -here for years. But this water at your feet, this dark, -silent current sipping about the boats and rocking them, -the big boats and the little boats, is running away. Here -comes a chip, there goes a wisp of straw. A tomato -box comes leisurely bobbing upon the surface of the -stream, and now a tug heaves into view, puffing and -blowing, and then a great “liner” being towed to her -dock. And then these nearer boats fastened here—how -they rest and swing in the summer sunshine! No -rush, no hurry. Only slow movement. Yet all are -surely and gradually slipping away. In an hour your -ship will be a mile or two farther down stream. In -a day or two or three your liner will be once more upon -the bosom of the broad Atlantic or, later even, the -Pacific. The tug you saw towing it will be pulling at -something else, or you will find it shoving its queer -stubby nose into some quaint angle of the waterside, -hardly earning its skipper’s salt. Is it not a delicious, -lovely, romantic picture? And yet with the tang of -change and decay in it too, the gradual passing of all -things—yourself—myself—all.</p> - -<p>As for the vast piers on the shores of the Hudson, -the East River, the Jersey side and Brooklyn and Staten -Island, where the liners house themselves, I cannot fancy -anything more colorful. They come from all ports of the -world, these big ships. They bring tremendous cargoes, -not only of people but of goods, and they carry large -forces of men, to say nothing of those who assist them -to load and unload. If you watch any of the waterfronts -to and from which they make their entry and departure -you will find that you can easily tell when they are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span> -loading and unloading. The broad, expansive street-fronts -before these piers are crowded with idling men -waiting for the opportunity to work, the call of duty -or of necessity. And it is an interesting crowd of men -always, this, imposingly large on occasion. Individually -these men are crude but appealing, the kind of man that -is usually and truly dubbed a workingman. They have -in the main, rough, quaint, ambling figures, and rougher, -ruder hands and faces. Some of them are black from -having shoveled in the holds of vessels or passed coal -(coal-passers is their official title), and some are dusky -and strawy from having juggled boxes and bales, but -they are men who with a small capacity for mental -analysis are taking things exactly as they find them. -They are not even possessed of a trade, unless you would -call the art of piling boxes and bales under the direction -of a foreman a trade. Apparently they have no sense of -the sociologic or economic arrangement of life, no comprehension -of the position which they occupy in the -affairs of the world. They know they are laborers and as -such subject to every whim and fancy of their masters. -They stand or sit like sheep in droves awaiting the call -of opportunity. You see them in sun or rain, on hot days -and cold ones, waiting here. Sometimes they jest, sometimes -they talk, sometimes they sit and wait. But the -water with which they are so intimately connected, from -which they draw their subsistence, flows on. I have seen -a vain, self-conscious foreman come out from one of these -great pier buildings and with a Cæsar-like wave of his -hand beckon to this man and that. At his sign a dozen, -a score of men would rise and look inquiringly in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span> -direction, dumb and patient like cattle. And then he -would pick this one and that, wavering subtly over his -choice, pushing aside this one, who was not quite strong -enough, perhaps, or agile enough, laying a hand favoringly -on that, and then turning eventually and leaving -the remaining members of the group dumb but a little -disappointed. Invariably they seemed to me to be a -bit bereaved and neglected, sorry that they could not -help themselves, but still willing to wait. I have sometimes -thought that cattle are better provided for, or at -least as well.</p> - -<p>But from an artistic and natural point of view the -scene has always fascinated me. Is it morning? The -sun sparkles on the waters, the wind blows free, gulls -wheel and turn and squeal, white flecks above the -water, swarms of vehicles gather with their loads, life -seems to move at a smart clip. Is it noon? A large -group of men is to be seen idling in the sun, blue-jacketed, -swarthy-faced, colorful against the dark background of -the piers. Is it night? The lanterns swing and rock. -There is darkness overhead and the stars.</p> - -<div id="ip_12" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_012.jpg" width="485" height="487" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Waterfront</div></div> - -<p>I sometimes think no human being ever lived who -caught more significantly, more sweetly, the beauty of -the waterfront than the great Englishman, Turner. -When one looks at his canvases, rich in their gold of sunshine, -their blue of sky, their haze of moisture, one feels -all that the sea really presents. This man understood, as -did Whistler, only he translated his mood in regard -to it all into richer colors, those gorgeous golds, reds, -pinks, greens, blues. And he had a greater tenderness for -atmosphere than did Whistler. In Whistler one misses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span> -more than the bare facts, albeit deliciously, artistically, -perfectly presented. In Turner one finds the facts presented -as by nature in her balmiest mood, and idealized -by the love and affection of the artist. You have seen -“The Fighting Téméraire,” of course. It is here in -New York harbor any sunny afternoon. The wind dies -down, the sun pours in a golden flood upon the east -bank from the west, the tall elevator stacks and towering -chimneys of factories on the west shore give a beauty of -line which no artist could resist. Up the splashing bosom -of the river, trembling silver and gold in the evening -light, comes a great vessel. Her sides stand out blackly. -Her masts and funnels, tinged with an evening glow of -gold, burn and shimmer. Against a magnificent, a radiant -sky, where red and gold clouds hang in broken -patches, she floats, exquisitely penciled and colored—“The -Fighting Téméraire.” You would know her. -Only it is now the Hudson and not the Thames.</p> - -<p>The skyline, the ship masts, the sun, the water, all -these are alike. The very ship is the same, apparently, -and the sun drops down as it did that other day when -his picture was painted. The stars come out, the masts -rock, swinging their little lamps, the water runs sipping -and sucking at the docks and piers. The winds blow -cool, and there is silence until the morning. Then the -waterfront assumes its quaint, delicious, easy atmosphere -once more. It is once more fresh and free. So runs -its tide, so runs its life, so runs our very world away.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_4">THE LOG OF A HARBOR PILOT</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">An</span> ocean pilot-boat lay off Tompkinsville of an early -spring afternoon, in the stillest water. The sun was -bright, and only the lightest wind was stirring. When -we reached the end of the old cotton dock, an illustrator -and myself, commissioned by a then but now no more -popular magazine, there she was, a small, two-masted -schooner of about fifty tons burden, rocking gently upon -the water. We accepted the services of a hawking urchin, -who had a canoe to rent, and who had followed us down -the main street in the hope of earning a half-dollar. He -led the way through a hole in a fence that enclosed the -street at the water end and down a long, stilted plank -walk to a mess of craft and rigging, where we found his -little tub, and pushed out. In a few minutes we had -crossed the quiet stretch of water and were alongside.</p> - -<div id="ip_14" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;"> - <img src="images/i_014.jpg" width="518" height="250" alt="" /></div> - -<p>Like all pilot-boats, the <i>Hermann Oelrichs</i> was built -low in the water, so that it was easy to jump aboard.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span> -Her sails were furled and, from the quiet prevailing, -one might have supposed that the crew had gone into -the village. No sound issued until we reached the -companionway. Then below we could see the cook -scraping cold ashes out of a fireless stove. He was cleaning -the cabin and putting things to rights before the -pilots arrived. He accepted our intrusion with a friendly -glance.</p> - -<p>“Captain Rierson told us to come aboard,” we said.</p> - -<p>“All right, sir. Stow your things in any one of them -bunks.”</p> - -<p>We went about this while the ashes were taken out -and tossed overboard. When the cook returned it was -with a bucket and brush, and he attacked the oilcloth on -the floor industriously.</p> - -<p>“Cozy little cabin, this, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, she’s a comfortable little boat,” replied the -cook. “These pilots take things purty comfortable. -She’s not as fast as some of the boats, but she’s all right -in rough weather.”</p> - -<p>“Do you encounter much rough weather?”</p> - -<p>“Well, now and again,” answered the cook, with the -vaguest suggestion of a twinkle in his eye. “It’s purty -rough sometimes in winter.”</p> - -<p>“How long do you stay out?”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes three, sometimes five days, sometimes -we get rid of all seven pilots the first day—there’s no -telling. It’s all ’cording to how the steamers come in.”</p> - -<p>“So we may be out a week?”</p> - -<p>“About that. Maybe ten days.”</p> - -<p>We went on deck. It was warm and bright. Some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span> -sailors from the fore-hatch were scrubbing down the -deck, which dried white and warm as fast as they -swabbed off the water. Wide-winged gulls were circling -high and low among the ships of the harbor. On Staten -Island many a little curl of smoke rose from the chimneys -of white cottages.</p> - -<p>That evening the crew of five men kept quietly to -their quarters and slept. The moon shone clear until -ten, when the barometer suddenly fell and clouds came -out of the east. By cock-crow it was raining, and by -morning it was drizzling and cold.</p> - -<p>The pilots appeared one after another. They came -out to the edge of the cotton wharf through the mist -and rain, and waved a handkerchief as a signal that a -boat should be sent ashore for them. One or two, failing -to attract the immediate attention of the crew, resorted -to the expedient of calling out: “Schooner, Ahoy!” in -voices which partook of some of the stoutness of the sea.</p> - -<p>“Come ashore, will you?” they shouted, when a head -appeared above deck.</p> - -<p>No sooner were they recognized than the yawl was -launched and sent ashore. They came aboard and -descended quickly out of the rain into the only room -(or cabin) at the foot of the companionway. This was -at once their sitting-room, dining-room, bedroom, and -every other chamber for the voyage. Here they stowed -their satchels and papers in lockers beneath their individual -sleeping berths. Each one sought out a stout -canvas clothes bag, which all pilots use in lieu of a -trunk, and began to unpack his ship’s clothes. All took -off their land apparel and dressed themselves in ancient<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span> -seat-patched and knee-worn garments, which were far -more comfortable than graceful, and every one produced -the sailor’s essential, a pipe and tobacco.</p> - -<p>Dreary as was the day overhead, the atmosphere of -the cabin changed with their arrival. Not only was it -soon thick with the fumes of many pipes, but it was -bright with genial temper. Not one of the company of -seven pilots seemed moody.</p> - -<p>“Whose watch is it?” asked one.</p> - -<p>“Rierson’s, I think,” was the answer.</p> - -<p>“He ain’t here yet.”</p> - -<p>“Here he comes now.”</p> - -<p>At this a hale Norwegian, clean and hard as a pine -knot, came down the companionway.</p> - -<p>“My turn to-day, eh? Are we all here?”</p> - -<p>“Ay!” cried one.</p> - -<p>“Then we might as well go, hey?”</p> - -<p>“Ay! Ay!” came the chorus.</p> - -<p>“Steward!” he called. “Tell the men to hoist sail!”</p> - -<p>“Ay! Ay! sir!” answered the steward.</p> - -<p>Then were rattlings and clatterings overhead. While -the little company in the cabin were chatting, the work -on deck was resulting in a gradual change, and when, -after a half-hour, Rierson put his head out into -the wind and rain above the companionway, the cotton -docks were far in the rear, all but lost in the mist and -drizzle. All sails were up and a stiff breeze was driving -the little craft through the Narrows. McLaughlin, the -boatman and master of the crew, under Rierson, was -at the wheel. Already we were being rocked and tossed -like a child in a cradle.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span> -“Who controls the vessel,” I asked of him, “while -the pilots are on board?”</p> - -<p>“The pilots themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Not all of them?”</p> - -<p>“No, not all at one time. The pilot who has the -watch has full control for his hours, then the next -pilot after him, and so on. No pilot is interfered with -during his service.”</p> - -<p>“And where do we head now?”</p> - -<p>“For Sandy Hook and the sea east of that. We are -going to meet inbound European steamers.”</p> - -<p>The man at the wheel, McLaughlin, was a clean athletic -young chap, with a straight, full nose and a clear, steady -eye. In his yellow raincoat, rubber boots and “sou’wester” -he looked to be your true sea-faring man. -With the little craft plunging ahead in a storm of wind -and rain and over ever-increasing billows, he gazed out -steadily and whistled an airy tune.</p> - -<p>“You seem to like it,” I remarked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered. “It’s not a bad life. Rather -cold in winter, but summer makes up for it. Then -we’re in port every fifth or sixth day on an average. -Sometimes we get a night off.”</p> - -<p>“The pilots have it better than that?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; they get back quicker. The man who has -the first watch may get back to-day, if we meet a -steamer. They might all get back if we meet enough -steamers.”</p> - -<p>“You put a man aboard each one?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know when a steamer wants a pilot?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span> -“Well, we are in the track of incoming steamers. -There is no other pilot-boat sailing back and forth on -this particular track at this time. If a steamer comes -along she may show a signal for a pilot or she may turn -a little in our direction. Either way, we know she wants -one. Then we lay to and wait until she comes up. You’ll -see, though. One is likely to come along at any time -now.”</p> - -<p>The interior of the little craft presented a peculiar -contrast to storm and sea without. In the fore compartment -stood the cook at his stove preparing the -midday meal. Sailors, when no orders were called from -above, lay in their bunks, which curved toward the -prow. The pots and pans of the stove moved restlessly -about with the swell. The cook whistled, timbers creaked, -the salt spray swished above the hatch, and mingled -odors of meats and vegetables combined and thickened -the air.</p> - -<p>In the after half of the boat were the pilots, making -the best of idle time. No steamer was sighted, and so -they lounged and smoked. Two or three told of difficulties -on past voyages. Two of the stoutest and jolliest -were met in permanent conflict over a game of pinochle. -One read, the others took down pillows from the bunks, -and spreading them out on the wide seat that lined two -sides of the room, snored profoundly. Nearly all took -turns, before or after games, or naps, at smoking. -Sometimes all smoked. It was observable that no -“listener” was necessary for conversation. Some talked -loudly, without a single person heeding. At times all -talked at once in those large imperious voices which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span> -seem common to the sea. The two old pilots at cards -never halted. Storms might come and storms might -go; they paused only to renew their pipes.</p> - -<p>At the wheel, in tarpaulin and sou’wester, McLaughlin -kept watch. Sea spray kept his cheeks dripping. His -coat was glassy with water. Another pilot put his -head above deck.</p> - -<p>“How are we heading?”</p> - -<p>“East by no’.”</p> - -<p>“See anything?”</p> - -<p>“A steamer, outbound.”</p> - -<p>“Which one?”</p> - -<p>“The <i>Tauric</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Wish she was coming in!” concluded the inquirer, -as he went below.</p> - -<p>We kept before the wind in this driving way. All -the morning and all the afternoon the rain fell. The -cook served a wholesome meal of meats and vegetables, -and afterwards all pipes were set smoking more industriously -than ever. The two old pilots renewed their -cards. Every one turned to trifling diversions, with -the feeling that he must get comfort out of them. It -was a little drowsy, a little uncomfortable, a little apt -to make one long for shore. In the midst of the lull -the voice of the man at the wheel sounded at the -companionway.</p> - -<p>“Steamer on the port bow! Pilot-boat Number Nine! -She’s hailing us.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what does she want?”</p> - -<p>“Can’t make out yet.”</p> - -<p>One and all hastened on deck. On our left, in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span> -fog and rain, tossed a little steamer which was recognized -as the steam pilot-boat stationed at Sandy Hook. -She was starboarding to come nearer and several of -her pilots and crew were at her rail hailing us. As -she approached, keener ears made out that she wanted -to put two men aboard us.</p> - -<p>“We don’t want any more men aboard here,” said -one. “We’ve got seven now.”</p> - -<p>“No!” said several in chorus. “Tell ’em we can’t -take ’em.”</p> - -<p>“We can’t take any more,” shouted the helmsman, -in long-drawn sounds. “We’ve got seven aboard now.”</p> - -<p>“Orders to put two men aboard ye,” came back over -the tumbling waters. “We’ve a sick man.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t let ’em put any more men aboard here. Where -they goin’ to sleep?” argued another. “One man’s got -to bunk it as it is, unless we lose one pretty soon.”</p> - -<p>“How you goin’ to help it? They’re puttin’ their -men out.”</p> - -<p>“Head away! Head away! They can’t come aboard -if you head away!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well; it’s too late now.”</p> - -<p>It was really too late, for the steamer had already -cast a yawl and the two men, together with the crew, -were in it and heading over the churning water. All -watched them as they came alongside and clambered on.</p> - -<p>They were Jersey pilots who had been displaced on -the other boat because one of their number had been -taken sick and more room was needed to make him -comfortable. He was thought to be dying, and must be -taken back to New York at once, and his condition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span> -formed the topic of conversation for the rest of the day.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile our schooner headed outward, with nothing -to reward her search. At five o’clock there was some -talk of not finding anything before morning. Several -advised running toward Princess Bay on Staten Island -and into stiller water, and as the minutes passed the -feeling crystallized. In a few minutes all were urging a -tack toward port, and soon it was done. Sails were -shifted, the prow headed shoreward, and gradually, as -the track of the great vessels was abandoned, the waters -became less and less rough, then more and more quiet, -until finally, when we came within distant sight of -Princess Bay and the Staten Island shore, the little vessel -only rocked from side to side; the pitching and churning -were over.</p> - -<p>It was windy and cold on deck, however, and after the -crew had dropped anchor they remained below. There -was nothing to do save idle the time. The few oil lamps, -the stove-fire and the clearing away of dishes after -supper, gave the cabin of the fore-and-aft a very home-like -appearance.</p> - -<p>Forward, most of the sailors stretched in their bunks -to digest their meal. There were a few magazines and -papers on the table, a few decks of cards and a set of -checkers. It was interesting to note the genial mood of -the men. One might fancy oneself anywhere but at sea, -save for the rocking of the boat. It was more like a -farmhouse kitchen. One little old sailor, grizzled and -lean, had only recently escaped from a Hongkong -trader, where he had been sadly abused. Another was -a mere boy, who belonged to Staten Island. He had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span> -been working in a canning factory all winter, he said, -but had decided to go to sea for a change. It was not -his first experience; this alternating was a regular thing -with him. The summer previous he had worked as -cook’s scullion on one of the other pilot-boats; this -summer he was a sailor.</p> - -<p>The Staten Islander had the watch on deck from -ten to twelve that night. By that time the rain had ceased -and the lights on the distant shore were visible, glimmering -faintly, it seemed good to be on deck. The wind blew -slightly chill and the waters sipped and sucked at the -prow and sides. Coming above I chatted with the young -sailor.</p> - -<p>“Do you like sea life?” I asked him.</p> - -<p>“There ain’t much to it.”</p> - -<p>“Would you rather be on shore?”</p> - -<p>“Well, if I didn’t have to work so hard.”</p> - -<p>“You like one, then, as well as the other?”</p> - -<p>“Well, on shore the hours are longer, but you get -your evenings and Sundays. Out here there ain’t any -hour your own, but there’s plenty days when there’s -nothin’ doin’. Some days there ain’t no wind. Sometimes -we cruise right ahead without touchin’ the sails. -Still, it’s hard, ’cause you can’t see nobody.”</p> - -<p>“What would you do if you were on shore?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, go to the show.”</p> - -<p>It developed that his heart yearned for “nights off.” -The little, bright-windowed main street in New Brighton -was to his vision a kind of earthly heaven. To be there -of an evening when people were passing, to loaf on the -corner and see the bright-eyed girls go by, to be in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -the village hubbub, was to him the epitome of living. -The great, silent, suggestive sea meant nothing to him.</p> - -<p>After a while he went below and tumbled in and -McLaughlin, the boatman, took the turn. In the cabin -most of the pilots had gone to bed. Yet the two old -salts were still at pinochle, browbeating each other, -but in a subdued tone. All pipes were out. Snores were -numerous and long.</p> - -<p>At dawn the pilot whose turn it was to guide the -next steamer into New York took the wheel. We sailed -out into the east and the morning, looking for prey. -It came soon, in the shape of a steamer.</p> - -<p>“Steamer!” called the pilot, and all the other pilots -turned out and came on deck. The sea to the eastward, -whither they were looking, was utterly bare of -craft. Not a sail, not a wisp of smoke! Yet they saw -something and tacked ship so as to swing round and sail -toward it. Not even the telescope revealed it to my untrained -eyes until five minutes had gone by, when afar off -a speck appeared above the waters. It came on larger -and larger, until it assumed the proportions of a toy.</p> - -<p>With the first announcement of a steamer the pilot who -was to take this one in gave the wheel to the pilot who -was to have the next one. He seemed pleased at getting -back to New York so soon. While the ship was coming -forward he went below and changed his clothes. In a -few minutes he was on deck, dressed in a neat business -suit and white linen. His old clothes had all been -packed in a grain sack. He had a bundle of New York -papers and a light overcoat over his arm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span> -“How did you know that steamer wanted a pilot?” -I asked him.</p> - -<p>“I could tell by the way she was heading.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think she saw you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Can you always tell when a steamer so far off -wants a pilot?”</p> - -<p>“Nearly always. If we can’t judge by her course -we can see through the telescope whether she has a -signal for a pilot flying.”</p> - -<p>“And when you go aboard her what will you do?”</p> - -<p>“Go to the bridge and direct her course.”</p> - -<p>“Do you take the wheel or do any work?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all.”</p> - -<p>“What about your breakfast?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll take that with the officers of the deck.”</p> - -<p>“Do you always carry a bundle of papers?”</p> - -<p>“Sure. The officers and passengers like to get early -news of New York. Sometimes the papers are pretty -old before we hand them out, but they’re better than -nothing.”</p> - -<p>He studied the approaching steamer closely through -the glass.</p> - -<p>“The <i>Ems</i>,” he said laconically. “Get the yawl -ready, boys.”</p> - -<p>Four sailors went to the lee side and righted the boat -there. The great vessel was plowing toward us at -a fine rate. Every minute she grew larger, until at half -a mile she seemed quite natural.</p> - -<p>“Heave the yawl,” called the man at the wheel.</p> - -<p>Over went the boat with a splash, and two men after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span> -and into it. They held it close to the side of the -schooner until the departing pilot could jump in.</p> - -<p>“Cast loose!” said the man at the wheel to the men -holding the rope.</p> - -<p>“Ay! Ay! sir!” they replied.</p> - -<p>“Good-by, Billie,” called the pilots.</p> - -<p>“So long, boys,” he cried back.</p> - -<p>Our schooner was moving swiftly away before the -wind. The man in the yawl pulled out toward where -the steamer must pass. Already her engines had stopped, -and the foam at her prow was dying away. One could -see that a pilot was expected. Quite a crowd of people, -even at that early hour, was gathered at the rail. A -ladder of rope was hanging over the side, almost at -the water’s edge.</p> - -<p>The little yawl bearing the pilot pulled square across -the steamer’s course. When the vessel drifted slowly up, -the yawl nosed the great black side and drifted back by -the ladder. One of the steamer’s crew threw down a -rope, which the oarsman of the yawl caught. This held -the yawl still, close to the ladder, and the pilot, jumping -for a good hold, began slowly to climb upward. No -sooner had he seized the rope ladder than the engines -started and the steamer moved off. The little yawl, left -alone like a cork on a thrashing sea, headed toward us. -The schooner tacked and came round in a half circle to -pick it up, which was done with safety.</p> - -<p>This was a busy morning. Before breakfast another -ship had appeared, a tramp steamer, and a pilot was -dressing to board her. Down the fore hatch could be -seen the cook, frying potatoes and meat, and boiling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span> -coffee. The change in weather was pleasing to him, too, -for he was singing as he clattered the dishes and set the -table. In the cabin the pipes of the pilots were on, and -the two old salts were at pinochle harder than ever.</p> - -<p>Another pilot left before breakfast, and after he was -gone another steamer appeared, this time the <i>Paris</i>. -It looked as though we would soon lose all our pilots and -have to return to New York. After the pilot had gone -aboard the <i>Paris</i>, however, the wind died down and we -sailed no more. Gradually the sea grew smoother, and -we experienced a day of perfect idleness. Hour after -hour the boat rocked like a cradle. Seagulls gathered -around and dipped their wings in charming circles. -Flocks of ducks passed northward in orderly flight, honking -as they went. A little land-bird, a poor, bedraggled -sparrow, evidently blown to sea by adverse winds, found -rest and salvation in our rigging. Now it was perched -upon the main boom, and now upon the guy of the gaff-topsail, -but ever and anon, on this and the following day -it could be seen, sometimes attempting to fly shoreward, -but always returning after a fruitless quest for land. -No vessel appeared, however. We merely rocked and -waited.</p> - -<p>The sailors in the forecastle told stories. The pilots -in the rear talked New York politics and criminal mysteries. -The cook brewed and baked. Night fell upon -one of the fairest skies that it is given us earthlings to -behold. Stars came out and blinked. The lightship at -Sandy Hook cast a far beacon, but no steamer took another -pilot that day.</p> - -<p>Once during the watch that night it seemed that a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span> -steamer far off to the southeastward was burning a blue -light, the signal for a pilot. The man at the wheel -scanned the point closely, then took a lighted torch -made of cotton and alcohol and circled it slowly three -times in the air. No answering blue light rewarded him. -Another time there grew upon the stillness the far-off -muffled sound of a steamer’s engine. You could hear -it distinctly, a faint “Pump, pump, pump, pump, -pump.” But no light could be seen. The signal torch -was again waved, but without result. The distinct throb -grew less and less, and finally died away. Some of the -pilots commented as to this but could not explain it. -They could not say why a vessel should travel without -lights at night.</p> - -<p>At midnight a little breeze sprang up and the schooner -cruised about. In one direction appeared a faint glimmer, -which when approached, proved to be the riding -light of a freight steamer at anchor. All was still and -dark aboard her, save for two or three red and yellow -lights, which gleamed like sleepless eyes out of the black -hulk. The man at the wheel called a sailor.</p> - -<p>“Go forward, Johnnie,” he said, “and hail her. See -if she wants a pilot.”</p> - -<p>The man went to the prow and stood until the -schooner drew quite near.</p> - -<p>“Steamer, ahoy!” he bellowed.</p> - -<p>No answer.</p> - -<p>“Steamer, ahoy!” he called again. A light moved in -the cabin of the other vessel. Finally a voice answered.</p> - -<p>“Want a pilot?” asked our sailor.</p> - -<p>“We have one,” said the dim figure, and disappeared.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span> -“Is it one of the pilots of your association that they -have?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes; they couldn’t have any other. They probably -picked him up from one of our far-out boats. Every -incoming steamer must take a pilot, you know. That’s -the law. All pilots belong to this one association. It’s -merely a question of our being around to supply them.”</p> - -<p>It turned out from his explanation that the desire of -the pilots to get a steamer was merely to obtain their -days off. When a pilot brings in a steamer it is not -likely that he will be sent out again for three days. Each -one puts in about the same number of days a month, -and all get the same amount of pay. There is no -rivalry for boats, and no loss of money by missing a -steamer. If one boat misses her, another is sure to -catch her farther in. If she refuses to take a pilot the -Government compels her owners to pay a fine of fifty -dollars, the price of a pilot to take her in.</p> - -<p>On the third day now breaking we were destined to -lose another pilot. It was one of the two inveterate -pinochlers.</p> - -<p>That night we anchored off Babylon, Long Island, in -the stillest of waters. The crew spent the evening -lounging in their bunks and reading, while the remaining -pilots amused themselves as usual. Two of them -engaged for a time in a half-hearted game of cards. -One told stories, but with the departure of so many the -spirits of the company drooped. There was no breeze. -The flap-flap of the sails went on monotonously. Breakfast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span> -came, and then nine o’clock, and still we rocked -in one spot. Then a steamer appeared. As usual, it -was announced long before my untrained eyes could discern -it. But, with the first word, the remaining valiant -pinochler went below to pack. He was back in a few -minutes, very much improved in spirits and appearance.</p> - -<p>“Does she starboard any?” he asked the man at the -wheel.</p> - -<p>The latter used the telescope and then said:</p> - -<p>“Don’t seem to, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Think she sees us?”</p> - -<p>“Can’t tell, sir,” said the boatman gravely.</p> - -<p>“Spec’ we’d better fire the gun, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“You strip the gun. I’ll take the wheel.”</p> - -<p>So a little gun—a tiny cannon, no less—was made -ready and while it was being put in place at the lee rail, -Germond, the oldest of the pilots, came on deck and took -the wheel.</p> - -<p>“Going to fire the gun, eh?” he observed, in deep -bass tones.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the pinochler.</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s right. Blaze away.”</p> - -<p>The boatman, who had superintended the charging -of the gun, now pulled a wire attached to a cap and -the little cannon spat out a flame with a roar that shook -the boat.</p> - -<p>“Do they do this often?” I asked the footman.</p> - -<p>“Not very. When fogs are on and boats can’t find<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span> -us it comes in handy. There’s hardly any use in this -case. I guess she sees us.”</p> - -<p>Germond, at the wheel, seemed to enjoy playing warship, -for he called out: “Fire again, Johnnie!”</p> - -<p>“Won’t she turn?” asked the restless pinochler.</p> - -<p>“Don’t seem to.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said he, and cast a droll look of derision -upon the midget cannon and the immense steamer, -“sink her!”</p> - -<p>With the third shot, however, we could see the steamer -begin to turn, and in a little while she was headed toward -us. We could not move and so we waited, while the -anxious pinochler walked the deck. Long before she -was near he ordered the yawl ready, and when she was -yet three-quarters of a mile off, cast over and jumped -aboard. He seemed somewhat afraid the yawl would -not be seen, and so took along with him a pilot flag, which -was a square of blue cloth fastened to a long bamboo -pole. This he held aloft as the men rowed, and away -they went far over the green sea.</p> - -<p>The cook served coffee at three, and was preparing -supper when another steamer was sighted. She came -up rapidly, a great liner from Gibraltar, with a large -company of Italians looking over the rail.</p> - -<p>“No supper for you,” said Germond. “You’ll have -to eat with the Dagos.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mind,” returned the other, smiling. “I -want to get back to New York.”</p> - -<p>Just before supper, and when the sun was crimsoning -the water in the west, a “catspaw” came up and filled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -our sails. The boat moved slowly off. At supper Germond -announced:</p> - -<p>“Well, I go now.”</p> - -<p>“Is there a steamer?”</p> - -<p>“No, but I go on the other pilot-boat. I see her over -there. The last man always leaves his boat and goes on -one with more men. That allows this boat to go back for -another crew.”</p> - -<p>“Do you get the first steamer in, on the other boat?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have the first turn.” I understood now why -our crew, at the outset, objected to any pilots being taken -on our boat. It delayed the return of those on board to -New York. “Steward!” called Germond, finally, “tell -one of the men back there to run up a signal for the -other boat.”</p> - -<p>“Ay! Ay! sir!” called back the steward.</p> - -<p>At half after six the other pilot-boat drew near and -Germond packed his sea clothes and came up on deck.</p> - -<p>“Well, here she is, boys,” he said. “Now I leave -you.”</p> - -<p>They put out the yawl and he jumped in. When he -had gone we watched him climbing aboard the other -schooner.</p> - -<p>“Now for New York!” exclaimed McLaughlin, the -boatswain, and master of the crew in the absence of any -pilot.</p> - -<p>“Do we sail all night?”</p> - -<p>“To get there by morning we’ll have to.”</p> - -<p>All sails were then hoisted, and we bore away slowly. -Darkness fell. The stars came out. Far away the -revolving light of the Highlands of Navesink was our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span> -guide. Far behind, the little pilot-boat which had -received Germond was burning a beacon for some steamer -which had signaled a blue light. Gradually this grew -more and more dim, and the gloom enveloped all.</p> - -<p>We sat with subdued spirits at the prow, discussing -the dangers of the sea. McLaughlin, who had been five -years in the service, told of accidents and disappearances -in the past. Once, out of the night had rushed a steamer, -cutting a boat such as ours in two. One pilot-boat that -had gone out two years ago had never returned. Not a -stick or scrap was found to indicate what had become -of her fifteen men. He told how the sounding of the -fog-horns had chilled his heart the first year of his -service, and how the mournful lapping of the waters -had filled him with dread. And as we looked and saw -nothing but blackness, and listened and heard nothing -but the sipping of the still waters, it did seem as though -the relentless sea merely waited its time. Some day -it might have them all, sailor and cook, and where now -were rooms and lockers would be green water and -strange fishes.</p> - -<p>That night we slept soundly. A fine wind sprang up, -and when morning came we were scurrying home over -a thrashing sea. We raced past Sandy Hook and put -up the bay. By eight o’clock we were at the Narrows, -with the Battery in sight. The harbor looked like a -city of masts. After the lonely sea it seemed alive with -a multitude of craft. Tugs went puffing by. Scows -and steamers mingled. Amid so much life the sea -seemed safe.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_5">BUMS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Whenever</span> I think of them I think of the spectacle -that genius of the burlesque world of my day, Nat Wills, -used to present when, in fluttering rags and tatters, his -vestless shirt open at the breast, revealing no underwear, -his shoes three times too big, and torn and cracked, -a small battered straw hat, from a hole in which his -hair protruded, his trousers upheld by a string, and -that indefinable smirk of satisfaction of which he was -capable flickering over his dirty and unshaven face he -was wont to strike an attitude worthy of a flight of -oratory, and exclaim: “Fifteen years ago to-day I was -a poor, dispirited, broken-down tramp sitting on a bench -in a park, not a shirt to my back. Not a decent pair of -shoes on my feet. A hat with a hole in it. No money -to get a shave or a bath or a place to sleep. No place -to eat. Not a friend in the world to turn to. My torn -and frayed trousers held up by a string. Yet” (striking -his chest dramatically) “look at me now!” And then -he would lift one hand dramatically, as much as to -say, “Could any change be greater?”</p> - -<p>The humor was not only in the contrast which his -words implied and his appearance belied, but in a certain -definite and not unkindly characterization of the -bum as such, that smug and even defiant disregard of -the conventions and amenities which characterizes so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span> -many of them and sets them apart as a species quite -distinct from the body social—for that they truly are. -And for that very reason they have always had a -peculiar interest for me, even a kind of fascination, such -as an arrestingly different animal might have for others. -And here in the great city, from time to time I have -encountered so many of them, suggesting not poverty or -want but a kind of devil-may-care indifference and even -contempt for all that society as we know it prizes so -highly—order, cleanliness, a job, a good suit of clothes, -marriage, children, respected membership in various -orders, religion, politics—anything and everything that -you will. And yet, by reason of their antithesis and -seeming antipathy to all this, interesting.</p> - -<p>For, say what you will, it does take something that -is not social, and most certainly independent, either in -the form of thought or temperament, to permit one to -thus brazenly brave the notions and the moods, to say -nothing of the intellectual convictions, of those who -look upon the things above described as essential and -permanent. These astonishingly strange men, with their -matted hair over their eyes, their dirty skins, their -dirty clothes, their large feet encased in torn shoes, their -hats with holes in them and their hair actually protruding—just -as though there were rules or conventions -governing them in the matter of dress. Along railroad -tracks and roads outside the large cities of the country -I have seen them (curiously enough, I have never -seen a woman tramp), singly or in groups, before a fire, -the accredited tin can at hand for water, a degenerate -pail brought from somewhere in which something is being<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span> -cooked over a fire. And on occasion, as a boy, I have -found them asleep in the woods, under a tree, or in -some improvised hole in a hay or straw stack, snoring -loudly or resting as only the just and the pure in heart -should rest.</p> - -<p>But here in the great city I have always thought -them a little strange and out of place. They consort -so poorly with the pushing, eager, seeking throngs. And -arrayed as they are, and as unkempt and unwashed, not -even the low-priced lodging houses of the Bowery would -receive them, and most certainly they would not pay -the price of fifteen or twenty cents which would be -required to house them, even if they had it. They are -not of that kidney. And as for applying to a police -station at any time, it were better that they did not. In -bitter weather an ordinary citizen might do so with -safety and be taken care of, but these, never. They -would be driven out or sent to the Island, as the work-house -here is called. Their principal lodging resource -in times of wintry stress appears to be some grating -covering a shaft leading to an engine room of some plant -operative the night through, from which warm air pours; -or some hallway in a public building, or the ultra-liberal -and charitable lodging house of some religious -mission. Quite often on an icy night I have seen not -a few of them lying over the gratings of the subway at -Fourteenth Street and at other less conspicuous points, -where, along with better men than themselves, they -were trusting to the semi-dry warm air that poured -up through to prevent death from freezing. But the -freeze being over, they would go their ways, I am sure,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span> -and never mend them from any fear of a like experience.</p> - -<p>And it is exactly that about them which has always -interested me. For, by and large, I have never been -able to feel that they either craved or deserved the need -of that sympathy that we so freely extend to others of -a less sturdy and different character. In truth, they -are never as poor physically and nervously as many of -those who, though socially fallen, yet appear to be better -placed in the matter of clothes, food and mood. They -are, in the main, neither lean nor dispirited, and -they take life with too jaunty an air to permit one to -be distressed about them. They remind me more of -gulls or moles, or some different and unsocial animal -that still finds in man his rightful prey or source of -supply. And I am positive that theirs is a disposition, -either inherited or made so by circumstances, which has -not too much chemic opposition to their lackadaisical -state, that prefers it even to some other forms of existence. -Summer or winter I have seen them here and there, -in the great city, but never in those poorer neighborhoods, -frequented by those who are really in need, and -always with the air of physical if not material comfort -hovering about them, and that in the face of garments -that would better become an ashcan than a man. The -rags. The dirt. And yet how often of a summer’s evening -have I not seen them on the stones of doorways -and the planks of docks and lumber yards, warm and -therefore comfortable, resting most lazily and snoring -loudly, as though their troubles or irritations, whatever -they were, were far from them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span> -And in these same easier seasons have I not seen -them making their way defiantly or speculatively among -the enormous crowds on the principal streets of the -city, gazing interestedly and alertly into the splendid -shopwindows, and thinking what thoughts and contemplating -what prospects! It is not from these that -the burglars are recruited or the pickpockets, as the -police will tell you. And the great cities do not ordinarily -attract them; though they come, occasionally, -drawn, I suppose, by the hope of novelty, and interested, -quite as is Dives in Egypt or India, by what they see. -Now and then you will behold one, as have I, being -“ragged” by one of those idle mischievous gangs of the -city into whose heartless clutches he has chanced to fall. -His hat will be seized and pulled or crushed down over -his eyes, his matted hair or beard pulled, straws or rags -or paper shoved between his back and his coat and himself -made into a veritable push-ball or punching-bag to -be shoved here and there, before he is allowed to depart. -And for no offense other than that he is as he is. Yet -whether they are spiritually outraged or depressed by -this I would not be able to say. To me they have ever -appeared to be immune to what would spiritually degrade -and hence torture and depress another.</p> - -<p>Their approach to life, if anything, appears to be -one of hoyden contempt for conventional processes of -all kinds, a kind of parasitic indifference to anything -save their own comfort, joined with a not unadmirable -love for the out-of-doors and for change. So often, as -I have said, I have seen them about the great city,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span> -asleep in the cool recesses of not-much-frequented doors -and passageways, and in lumberyards and odd corners, -anywhere where they were not likely to be observed. -And my observation of them has led me to conclude that -they do not feel and hence do not suffer as do other and -more sensitive men. They are not interested in material -prosperity as such, and they will not work. If any one -has ever seen one with that haunted look which at times -characterizes the eye of those who take life and society -so desperately and seriously, and that betokens one -whom life is able to torture, I have yet to hear of it.</p> - -<p>But what an interesting and amazing spectacle they -present, and what amusing things are to be related of -them! I personally have seen a group of such rowdies, -such as characterize some New York street corners even -to this day pouring wood-alcohol on one of these fellows -whom they chanced to find asleep, and then setting fire -to it in order to observe what would be the effect of the -discovery by the victim of himself in flames. And subsequently -pursuing him down the street with shouts and -ribald laughter. On another occasion, in Hudson Street, -the quondam home of the Hudson Dusters, I have seen six -or eight of such youths pushing another one such about, -carrying him here and there by the legs and arms and -tossing him into the air above an old discarded mattress, -until an irate citizen, not to be overawed himself, -and of most respectable and God-fearing mien, -chose to interfere and bring about a release. And in -another part of this same good city, that part of the -waterfront which lies east of South Ferry and south<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -of Fulton Street, I have seen one such most persistently -and thoroughly doused by as many as ten playful wags, -all in line, yet at different doors, and each discharging -a can or a bucket of water upon the fleeing victim, who -sought to elude them by running. But, following this -individual to see what his mood might be, I could not -see that he had taken the matter so very much to heart. -Once free of his pursuers, he made his way to a dock, -where, seated behind some boxes in the sun, he made -shift to dry himself and rest without appearing to fret -over what had occurred.</p> - -<p>On one occasion I remember standing on the forward -end of a ferry boat that once plied between New York -and Jersey City, the terminal of one of the great railways -entering the city, when one of these peculiar creatures -took occasion to make his very individual point -of view clear. It was late afternoon, and the forerunners -of the homeward evening rush of commuters -were already beginning to appear. He was dirty and -unkempt and materially degraded as may be, but not at -all cast down or distrait. On the contrary. Having -been ushered to the dock by a stalwart New York policeman -and put on board and told never to return on pain -of arrest, he was still in an excellent mood in regard to -it all. Heigh-ho! The world was not nearly so bad as -many made out. His toes sticking out, the ragged ends -of his coat flapping about him, a wretched excuse for a -hat on his head, he still trotted here and there, a genial -and knowing gleam in his eye, to say nothing of a Mona -Liza-like leer about his mouth. He surveyed us all,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span> -kempt and worthy exemplars of the proprieties, with the -air of one who says: “Well, well! Such decent and -such silly people. All sheep who know only the conventional -ways and limitations of the city and nothing else, -creatures who look on me as a wastrel, a failure and a -ne’er-do-well. Nevertheless, I am not as hopeless or as -hapless as they think, the sillies.” And to make this -clear he strode defiantly to and fro, smirking now on one -and now on another, and coming near to one and again to -another, thereby causing each and every one to retreat -for the very simple reason that the odor of him was as -unconventional as himself.</p> - -<p>Finding himself thus evaded and rather scorned for -this procedure, he retired to the forward part of the deck -for a time and communed with himself; but not for -long. For, deciding after all, I presume, that this was -a form of defeat and that he was allowing himself to -be unduly put upon or outplaced, at least, by conventionalists, -for whom he had absolutely no respect, he -whirled, and surveying the assembled company of commuters -who had by now gathered in a circle about him, -like sheep surveying some unwonted spectacle, he waved -one hand dramatically and announced: “I’m a dirty, -drunken, blue-nosed bum, and I don’t give a damn! -See? See? I don’t give a damn!” and with that he -caroled a little tune, whistled, twiddled his fingers at -all of us, did a light gay step here and there, and then, -lifting his torn coat-tails, shook them defiantly and contemptuously -in the face of all of us.</p> - -<p>There were of course a few terrified squeaks from a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span> -few horrified and sanctified maidens, old and young, -who retreated to the protection of the saloon behind. -There were also dark and reproving frowns from a -number of solid and substantial citizens, very well-dressed -indeed, who pretended not to notice or who -even frowned on others for noticing. Incidentally, there -were a few delighted and yet repressed squeals from -various youths and commonplace nobodies, like myself, -and eke a number of heavy guffaws from more substantial -citizens of uncertain origin and who should have, -presumably, known better.</p> - -<p>Yet, after all, as I told myself, afterward, there was -considerable to be said for the point of view of this man, -or object. It was at least individual, characterful and -forceful. He was, decidedly, out of step with all those -about him, but still in step, plainly, with certain fancies, -moods, conditions more suited to his temperament. Decidedly, -his point of view was that of the box-car, the -railroad track, the hay-pile and the roadside. But what -of it? Must one quarrel with a crow for being a crow, -or with a sheep for being a sheep? Not I.</p> - -<p>And in addition, to prove that he really did not care -a damn, and that his world was his own, once the gates -were lifted he went dancing off the boat and up the -dock, a jaunty, devil-may-care air and step characterizing -him, and was soon lost in the world farther on. -But about it all, as it seemed to me, there was something -that said to those of us who were left in the way, that -he and his kind were neither to be pitied nor blamed. -They were as they were, unsocial, unconventional, indifferent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span> -to the saving, grasping, scheming plans of men, -and in accord with moods if not plans of their own. They -will not, and I suspect cannot, run with the herd, even if -they would. And no doubt they taste a form of pleasure -and satisfaction that is as grateful to them as are all -the moods and emotions which characterize those who -are so unlike them and who see them as beings so utterly -to be pitied or foresworn. At least I imagine so.</p> - -<div id="ip_43" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;"> - <img src="images/i_043.jpg" width="470" height="429" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_6">THE MICHAEL J. POWERS ASSOCIATION</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">In</span> an area of territory including something like forty -thousand residents of the crowded East Side of New -York there dwells and rules an individual whose political -significance might well be a lesson to the world.</p> - -<p>Stout, heavy-headed and comfortably constituted, except -in the matter of agility, he walks; and where he -is not a personal arbiter he is at least a familiar figure. -Not a saloon-keeper (and there is one to every half-block) -but knows him perfectly and would be glad -to take off his hat to him if it were expected, and would -bring him into higher favor. Not a street cleaner or -street division superintendent, policeman or fireman -but recognizes him and goes out of his way to greet -him respectfully. Store-keepers and school children, -the basement barber and the Italian coal-dealer all -know who is meant when one incidentally mentions -“the boss.” His progress, if one might so term his -daily meanderings, is one of continual triumph. It is -not coupled with huzzahs, it is true, but there is a far -deeper and more vital sentiment aroused, a feeling of -reverence due a master.</p> - -<p>I have in mind a common tenement residence in a -crowded and sometimes stifling street in this vicinity, -where at evening the hand-organs play and the children -run the thoroughfare by thousands. Poor, compact; -rich only in those quickly withering flowers of flesh and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -blood, the boys and girls of the city. It is a section -from which most men would flee when in search of -rest and quiet. The carts and wagons are numerous, -the people are hard-working and poor. Stale odors -emanate from many hallways and open windows.</p> - -<p>Yet here, winter and summer, when evening falls and -the cares of his contracting business are over for the -day, this individual may be seen perched upon the front -stoop of his particular tenement building or making a -slow, conversational progress to the clubhouse, a half-dozen -doors to the west. So peculiar is the political -life of the great metropolis that his path for this short -distance is blockaded by dozens who seek the awesome -confessional of his ear.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Powers, if you don’t mind, when you’re through -I would like a word with you.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Powers, if you’re not too busy, I want to ask -you a question.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Powers—” how often is this simple form of -request made into his ear. Three hours’ walking, less -than three hundred feet—this tells the story of the -endless number that seek to buttonhole him. “Rubbing -something offen him,” is the way the politicians interpret -these conversations.</p> - -<p>Being a big man with a very “big” influence, he is -inclined to be autocratic, an attitude of mind which endless -whispered pleas are little calculated to modify. Always -he carries himself with a reserved and secret air. -There is something uncompromising about the wide -mouth, with its long upper lip, the thin line of the lips -set like the edge of an oyster shell, the square, heavily-weighted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span> -jaw beneath, which is cold and hard. Yet his -mouth is continually wrinkling at the corners with the -semblance of a smile, and those nearest as well as those -farthest from him will tell you that he has a good heart. -You may take that with a grain of salt, or not, as you -choose.</p> - -<p>I had not been in the district very long before I -saw in the windows of nearly every kind of store a -cheaply-printed placard announcing that the annual -outing of the Michael J. Powers Association would take -place on Tuesday, August 2d, at Wetzel’s Grove, College -Point. The steamer <i>Cygnus</i>, leaving Pier 30, East -River, would convey them. Games, luncheon and dinner -were to be the entertainment. Tickets five dollars.</p> - -<p>Any one who has ever taken even a casual glance at -the East Side would be struck by the exorbitance of -such a charge as five dollars. No one would believe for -an instant that these saving Germans, Jews and other -types of hard-working nationalities would willingly invest -anything over fifty cents in any such outing. Times -are always hard here, the size of a dollar exceedingly -large. Yet there was considerable stir over the prospective -pleasure of the day in this district.</p> - -<p>“Toosday is a great day,” remarked my German -barber banteringly, when I called on the Saturday -previous to get shaved.</p> - -<p>“What about Tuesday?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Powers holds his picnic. Der will be some beer -drunk, you bet.”</p> - -<p>“What do you know about it? Do you belong to -the association?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span> -“Yes. I was now six years a member alretty. It -is a fine association.”</p> - -<p>“What makes them charge five dollars? There can’t -be very many around here who can afford to pay that -much.”</p> - -<p>“Der will be t’ree t’ousand, anyway,” he answered, -“maybe more. Efferybody goes. Mr. Powers say ‘Go,’ -den dey go.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Powers makes you go, does he?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied conservatively. “It is a nice picnic. -We haf music, a cubble of bands. Der is racing, -schwimming, all de beer you want for nodding, breakfast -und dinner, a nice boat ride. Oh, we haf a good -time.”</p> - -<p>“Do you belong to Tammany?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Hold any office under Mr. Powers?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Well, why do you go, then? There must be some -reason.”</p> - -<p>“I haf de polling place in my back room,” he finally -admitted.</p> - -<p>“How much do you get for that?”</p> - -<p>“Sixty-five dollars a year.”</p> - -<p>“And you give five of that back for a ticket?”</p> - -<p>He smiled, but made no reply.</p> - -<p>It was on Monday that the German grocer signified -his intention of going.</p> - -<p>“Do all of you people have to attend?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied, “we don’t have to. There will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span> -somebody there from most of the stores around here, -though.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“Ask Mr. Powers. There’ll be somebody there from -every saloon, barbershop, restaurant and grocery in the -district.”</p> - -<p>“But why?”</p> - -<p>“Ho,” he returned, “it’s a good picnic. Mr. Powers -looks mighty fine marching at the head. They say he -is next after Croker now.”</p> - -<p>Among the petty dealers of the neighborhood generally -could be found the same genial acceptance of -the situation.</p> - -<p>“Dat is a great parade,” said a milk dealer to me. -“You will see somet’ing doing if you are in de distric’ -dat night. Senators walk around just de same as street -cleaners; police captains, too.”</p> - -<p>I thought of the condescension of these high-and-mighties -deigning to walk with the common street cleaners, -coerced into line.</p> - -<p>“Are you going?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Want to go?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s good enough.”</p> - -<p>“What do you think of Powers?”</p> - -<p>“He is a great man. Stands next to Croker. Wait -till you see de procession dat goes by here.”</p> - -<div id="ip_48" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_048.jpg" width="490" height="486" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Michael J. Powers Association</div></div> - -<p>This was the point, the procession. Any such rich -material evidence of power was a sufficient reason for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span> -loyalty in the minds of these people. They worship -power. None know it better than these particular individuals -who lead them. The significance of forcing so -many to march, coming thus rapidly home to me, I -dropped around to the district Tammany club on the -afternoon and evening preceding this eventful day. -The palatial chambers of the district leader in the club -are his arena, and on this particular evening these same -were the center of much political activity. Signs of the -power of which I had heard and seen other evidences -were here renewed before my eyes. Arranged in a -great meeting-chamber, the political hall of the club, -were tables and counters, behind which were standing -men who, as I learned immediately afterward, were of -high standing in the district and city organization. -Deputy commissioners of the water department, the -department of highways, of sewers; ex-State senators, -ex-assemblymen, police sergeants, detective sergeants, -aldermen, were all present and all doing yeoman service.</p> - -<p>Upon the tables were immense sheets, yards in -diameter, with lists of names. Back of the tables were -immense piles of caps, badges and canes. As fast as -the owners of the names on the list appeared their -names were checked and their invitation cards, which -they threw down cheerily upon the table in company -with a five-dollar bill, were marked paid and passed -back for further use. At the other tables these cards -were then good for a cap, a cane, and two badges, all -of which the members were expected to wear.</p> - -<p>Energetic as were the half-dozen deputy commissioners,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span> -police sergeants, detective sergeants, ex-assemblymen -and the like, who labored at this clerical task -without coats or vests, they were no match for the -throng of energetic Tammanyites who filed in and out, -carrying their hats and canes away with them. Hundreds -of clerks, precinct captains, wardmen, street-cleaners, -two-thousand-dollar-a-year clerks, swarmed the -spacious lobby and greeted one another in that perfunctory -way so common to most political organizations. -The “Hellos,” “Well, old mans,” “Well, how are -things?” and “There goes” were as thick and all-pervading -as the tobacco smoke which filled the rooms. -Tammanyites in comfortable positions of all degrees -moved about in new clothes and squeaky shoes. Distinct -racial types illustrated how common is the trait -of self-interest and how quick are the young Germans, -Irish and Jews to espouse some cause or profession -where self-interest and the simultaneous advancement -of the power of some particular individual or organization -are not incompatible. Smilingly they greeted one -another, with that assumption of abandon and good -fellowship which was as evidently assumed for the occasion -as could be. In the case of many it was all too -plain that it was an effort to be as bright and genial as -they appeared to be. However, they had mastered the -externals and could keep a straight face. How hard -those straight mouths could become, how defiant those -narrow protruding jaws, only time and a little failure on -some one’s part would tell.</p> - -<p>While the enthusiasm of this labor was at its highest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span> -Mr. Powers put in an appearance. He was as pictured. -On this occasion, his clothes were plain black, his necktie -black, his face a bright red, partially due to a recent, and -very close shave. He moved about with catlike precision -and grace, and everywhere politicians buttonholed or -bowed to him, the while he smiled upon every one in the -same colorless, silent and decidedly secret way.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Powers, we’re going to run out of caps before -long,” one official hurried forward to say.</p> - -<p>“Dugan has that in charge,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“I guess we’ll have a full attendance,” whispered another -of those high in his favor.</p> - -<p>“That’s good.”</p> - -<p>While he was sitting in his rosewood-finished office -at one side of the great room dozens of those who had -come from other districts to pay their respects and buy -a ticket looked in upon him.</p> - -<p>“I’ll be with you in the morning, Michael,” said a -jolly official from another district.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, George,” he replied smiling. “We’ll -have a fine day, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” said the other.</p> - -<p>Sitting about in their chairs, some of the older officials -who had come to the club on this very special -occasion fell into a reflective mood and dug up the -conditions of the past.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember Mike as an alderman, Jerry?”</p> - -<p>“I do. There was none better.”</p> - -<p>“Remember his quarrel with Murtha?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -“Aye! He was for taking no odds from anybody -those days.”</p> - -<p>“Brave as a lion, he was.”</p> - -<p>“He was.”</p> - -<p>“There’s no question of his nerve to-day.”</p> - -<p>“None at all.”</p> - -<p>“He’s a good leader.”</p> - -<p>“He is.”</p> - -<p>“How did Powers ever come to get his grip upon -the district?” I inquired of an old office-holder who -was silently watching the buzzing throng in the rooms -before him.</p> - -<p>“He was always popular with the boys,” he answered. -“Long before the fortieth was ever divided he was -popular with the boys of one section of it. Creamer -was leader at that time.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but how did he get up?”</p> - -<p>“How does anybody get up?” he returned. “He -worked up. When he was assistant mechanic in the -Fire Department, getting a hundred and twenty a -month, he gave half of it away. Anybody could get -money off him; that was the trouble. I’ve known him -as a lad to give seventy-seven dollars away in one -month.”</p> - -<p>“Who was he, that he should distribute money so -freely?”</p> - -<p>“Captain of two hundred, of course. He wasn’t -called upon to spend his own money, though.”</p> - -<p>“And that started him?”</p> - -<p>“He was always a smart fellow,” returned the -speaker. “Creamer liked him. Creamer was a fighter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span> -himself. Mike was as brave as a lion. When they -divided the district he got John Kelly to give Powers -the other half. He did it, of course, because he could -trust Powers to stand with him. But he did it, just -the same.”</p> - -<p>“Kelly was head of Tammany Hall then?”</p> - -<p>“He was.”</p> - -<p>While we were talking a cart-driver or street-cleaner -made his way through the broad street-door towards -the private office where so many others were, taking off -his hat as he did so and waiting respectfully to one side. -Dozens of young politicians were trifling about. The -deputy commissioner of highways, the assistant deputy -tax commissioner, the assistant deputy of the department -of sewers, and others were lounging comfortably -in the chief’s room. Three or four black-suited, priestly-looking -assistants from the office of the chief of police -were conferring in that wise, subtle and whispering way -which characterizes all the conversation of those -numerous aspirants for higher political preferment.</p> - -<p>Some one stalked over to the waiting newcomer and -said: “Well?”</p> - -<p>“Is Mr. Powers here this evening?”</p> - -<p>At the sound of his name the leader, who was lounging -in his Russia-leather chair within, raised his head, and -seeing the figure in the reception area, exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“Put on your hat, old man! No one is expected to -put off his hat here. Come right in!”</p> - -<p>He paused, and as the street-sweeper approached he -turned lightly to his satellites. “Get the hell out of -here, now, and let this man have a chance,” he said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> -quickly, the desire to be genial with all being apparent. -The deputies came out of the room smiling and the old -man was ushered in.</p> - -<p>“Now, Mr. Cassidy,” I heard him begin, but slowly -he moved around to the door and closed it. The conversation -was terminated so far as we listeners from -without were concerned. Only the profuse bowing of -the old man as he came out, the “Thank ye, Mr. Powers, -thank ye,” repeated and repeated, gave any indication -as to what the nature of the transaction might have -been.</p> - -<p>While such incidents were passing the evening for -some, the great crowd of ticket-purchasers continued. -Hundreds upon hundreds filed in and out, some receiving -a nod, some a mere glance of recognition, some only -a scrutiny of a very peculiar sort.</p> - -<p>“Are these all members of the club?” I asked of a -friend, an ex-assemblyman and now precinct captain in -the block in which I voted.</p> - -<p>“They’re nearly all members of the district organization,” -he replied.</p> - -<p>“How many votes do you claim to control?”</p> - -<p>“About five thousand.”</p> - -<p>“How many votes are there in the district?”</p> - -<p>“Ten thousand.”</p> - -<p>“Then you have fully half the votes assured before -election-time rolls around?”</p> - -<p>“We’ve got to have,” he replied significantly. -“There’s no going into a fight under Powers, unless he -knows where the votes are. He won’t stand for it.”</p> - -<p>While sitting thus watching the proceedings, the hours<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -passed and the procession thinned down to a mere handful. -By midnight it looked as if all were over, and -the leader came forth and quietly took his leave.</p> - -<p>“Anything more, Eddie?” he asked of a peaked-face -young Irishman outside his office door.</p> - -<p>“Nothing that I can think of.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll see to the building?” he asked the deputy -commissioner of taxes.</p> - -<p>“It’ll look like a May party in the morning, Chief.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_7">THE FIRE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> is two o’clock of a sultry summer afternoon in -one of those amazingly crowded blocks on the East Side -south of Fourteenth Street, which is drowsing out its -commonplace existence through the long and wearisome -summer. The men of the community, for it may as -well be called a community since it involves all that -makes a community, and that in a very small space, are -away at work or in their small stores, which take up all -of the ground floors everywhere. The housewives are -doing their shopping in these same stores—groceries, -bakeries, meat and fish markets. From the streets -which bound this region people are pouring through, -a busy host, coming from what sections of the city and -the world and going to what sections of the city and -the world no one may divine. Wagons rattle, trucks -rumble by with great, creaking loads, a slot conduit -trolley puts a clattering car past every fifteen or twenty -seconds. The riffraff of life fills it as full as though it -were the center of the world. Children, since there is -no school now, are playing here. The streets are fairly -alive with a noisy company of urchins who play at -London Bridge and My Love’s Lover, and are constantly -getting in the way of one another and of every -one else who chances to pass this way.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, in the midst of an almost wearisome peace,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> -comes the cry of fire. It comes from the cleanly depths -of Number 358, in the middle of this block, where one -Frederick Halsmann, paint-dealer and purveyor of useful -oils to the inhabitants of this neighborhood, has -apparently been busy measuring out a gallon of gasoline. -He has been doing a fairly thriving business here for -years, the rejuvenation of a certain apartment district -nearby having brought him quite a demand for explosive -and combustible oils, such as naphtha, gasoline and benzine, -to say nothing of turpentine and some other less -dangerous products, all of which he has stored in his -basement. There is a law against keeping more than -twenty gallons of any kind of explosive oil in a store -or the basement of a store, but this law, like so many -others of the great city, enjoys its evasions. What is -the law between friends?</p> - -<p>All the same, and at last, a fire has broken out—no -one ever knows quite how. A passing stranger notes -smoke issuing from a grating in front of the store. He -calls the attention of Mr. Halsmann to it, but even before -that the latter has seen it. He starts to descend an -outside stairway leading to his particular basement but -is halted by a terrific explosion which knocks him and -some strangers down, shatters the windows in his own -and other stores four or five numbers away, and tears -a hole in the floor of his store through which his paints, a -counter, a cash register and some other things begin to -tumble. He is too astounded to quite grasp it all but -recovering his feet he begins to shout: “Maria! Maria! -Come quick! And the children! Come out! Come -down!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span> -But his cries come too late. He has scarcely got the -words out of his mouth when a second explosion, far -more violent than the first, tears up the floor and the -stairs leading to his home and throws the lurid fire -into the rooms above. It smashes the glass in the front -windows of stores across the street and blows a perfect -hurricane of fire in the same direction. People run, yelling -and screaming, a hundred voices raising the cry of -“Fire!”</p> - -<p>“My God! My God!” cries an old Jewish butcher -over the way. He is standing in front of his store -wringing his hands. “It is Halsmann’s store! Run -quick!” This to a child near him. Then he also runs. -An idle policeman breaks for the nearest fire alarm box, -and the crowds of the neighboring thoroughfares surge -in here until the walks and the paving stones are black -with people. A hundred heads pop out of neighboring -windows. A thousand voices take up the cry of “Fire!”</p> - -<p>From the houses adjoining, and even in this one, for -the upper floors have not yet been completely shattered, -people are hurrying. A woman with a child on the -third floor is screaming and waving her free hand frantically. -A score of families in the adjoining buildings -are gathering their tawdry valuables together and -hastening into the street. Some policemen from neighboring -beats, several from the back rooms of saloons, -come running, and the fight to obtain a little order in -anticipation of the fire engines begins.</p> - -<div id="ip_58" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_058.jpg" width="483" height="522" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Fire</div></div> - -<p>“Get back there!” commands Officer Casey, whose -one idea of natural law in a very unspiritual world is -that all policemen should always be in front where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span> -they can see best. He begins pushing hard at the vitals -of a slender citizen whose curiosity is out of all proportion -to his strength. “Get back, I say! Ye’d think -ye owned the earth, the way ye’re shovin’ in here. Get -back!”</p> - -<p>“Give ’em a crack over the sconce,” advises Officer -Rooney, who can see no use in wasting time bandying -words. “Back with ye! I’ll not be tellin’ ye twice. -Back!” And he places a brawny shoulder so as to do -the utmost damage in the matter of crushing bones. It is -rather good fun for a policeman who only a moment -before was wondering what to do with his time.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile the flames are sweeping upward. In -the basement, where gasoline sat by kerosene, and -naphtha by that, the urge of the flames is irresistible. -Already one small barrel and a five-gallon measure of -gasoline have gone, sacrificing to its concentrated force -the lives of Halsmann’s wife and child. Now, a large -half-barrel having been reached, the floors to the third -level are ripped out by a terrifying crash that shatters -the panes of glass in the windows in the next block and -Plumber Davidson, on the third floor of the house next -door, running to get his pocketbook out of a kitchen -drawer and a kit of tools he had laid down before putting -his head out of the front window, is seen to be caught and -pinioned, and slaughtered where he stands. Street-sweeper -Donnelson’s wife, a stout slattern of a woman, -who had run with many agonized exclamations to a -cradle to pick up her little round-headed Johnnie and -then to the mantel to grab a new clock, is later found in -the basement of the same building, caught midway between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> -the iron railing of a stair and a timber. Mrs. -Steinmetz, the Jewish peddler’s wife, of the fourth floor, -is blown to the ceiling from her kitchen floor, and then, -tumbling down, left unconscious on a stretch of planking, -from which later she is rescued.</p> - -<p>Outside, on the ground below, the people are gazing in -terror and intense satisfaction. Here is a spectacle for -you, if you please, here the end of a dull routine of many -days. The fire-god has broken loose. The demon flame -is trying his skill against the children of men and the -demon water. He has caught them unawares. He has -seized upon the place where the best of their ammunition -is stored. From his fortress in the cellar he is hurling -huge forks of flame and great gusts of heat. Before -him now men and women stand helpless. White-faced -onlookers gaze upward with expressions of mingled -joy and pain.</p> - -<p>Clang! Clang! Clang!</p> - -<p>And the wail of a siren.</p> - -<p>And yet another.</p> - -<p>And yet another.</p> - -<p>They announce the men of the Fortieth Hook and -Ladder Company, of the Twenty-seventh Hook and Ladder -and Fire Patrol, of the Thirty-third Engine and -Hook and Ladder Company, and the Fifty-first Engine -and Hose Company, down through a long list of stations -covering an area of a half-dozen square miles.</p> - -<p>In the midst of the uproar about the burning building, -the metallic cry of this rescuing host is becoming more -and more apparent. From every section they come, the -glistening surfaces of their polished vehicles and implements<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span> -shining in the sun, the stacks of their engines -issuing volumes of smoke. Fire boxes drop fiery sparks -as they speed past neighboring corners, the firemen -stoking as they come. Groups of hook-and-ladder -handlers are unhooking and making ready their ladders. -Others, standing upright on their careening vehicles, are -adjusting rubber coats and making ready to invade -the precincts of danger at once. The art of balancing -on one foot while tugging at great coils of hose that -are being uncoiled from speeding vehicles is being deftly -illustrated. These men like this sort of thing. It is -something to do. They are trained men, ready to fight -the fire demon at a moment’s notice, and they are going -about their work with the ease and grace of those who -feel the show as well as the importance of that which -they do. Once more, after days of humdrum, they are -the center of a tragedy, the cynosure of many eyes. It -is exhilarating thus to be gazed at, as any one can see. -They swing down from their machines in front of this -holocaust with the nonchalance of men going to a -dinner.</p> - -<p>And the police reserves, they are here now too. This -indifferent block, so recently the very heart of humdrum, -is now the center of a great company of policemen. -The regular width of the street from side to side and -corner to corner has been cleared and is now really -parked off by policemen pushing back the gaping and -surging throng. There are cries of astonishment as -the onrushing flames leap now from building to building, -shouts of “Stay where you are!” to helpless women -and children standing in open windows from which the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span> -smoke is threatening to drive them; there are great, -wave-like pushings forward and recedings, as the officers, -irritated by the eagerness of the crowd, endeavor to -hold it in check.</p> - -<p>“McGinnity and six men to the roof of 354!” comes -the bellowing cry of a megaphone in the hands of a -battalion chief.</p> - -<p>“Hennessy and Company H, spread out the life net!”</p> - -<p>“Williams! Williams! You and Dubo scale the -walls quick! Get that woman above there! Turn your -hose on there, Horton, turn your hose on! Where is -Company B? Can’t you people get in line for the -work here?”</p> - -<p>The assurance of the firemen, so used to the petty -blazes that could be extinguished in half an hour by -the application of a stream or two of water, has been -slightly shaken by the evidence of the explosive nature -of the material stored in the basement of this building. -The sight of people hurrying from doorways with their -few little valuables gathered up in trembling arms, or -screaming in windows from which the flames and smoke -have fairly shut off rescue, is, after all, disconcerting -to the bravest. While the last explosion is shooting -upward and outward and flames from the previously -ignited ones are bursting through the side walls of -adjoining structures and cutting off escape for a score, -the firemen are loosing ladders and hose from a dozen -still rolling vehicles and setting about the task of rescuing -the victims. Suddenly a cask of kerosene, heated -to the boiling point in the seething cauldron of the -cellar, explodes, throwing a shower of blazing oil aloft<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span> -which descends as a rain of fire. Over the crowd it -pours, a licking, death-dealing rain, which sends them -plunging madly away. In the rush, women and children -are trampled and more than one over-ambitious sightseer -is struck by a falling dab of flaming oil. A police -captain, standing in the middle of the street, is caught -by a falling shower and instantly ignited. An old -Polish Jew, watching the scene from the door of his -eight-by-ten shop, is caught on the hand and sent crying -within. Others run madly with burning coats and -blazing hats, while over the roofs and open spaces can -be seen more of these birdlike flames of fire fluttering -to their destructive work in the distance. The power -of the fire demon is at its height.</p> - -<p>And now the servants of the water demon, the firemen, -dismayed and excited, fall back a pace, only to return -and with the strength of water at their command assail -the power of the fire again. Streams of water are now -spouting from a score of nozzles. A group of eight -firemen, guided by a rotund battalion chief who is -speaking through a trumpet, ascends the steps of a -nearby doorway and gropes its way through the dark -halls to apartments where frightened human beings may -be cowering, too crazed by fear to undertake to rescue -themselves. Another group of eight is to be seen working -its way with scaling ladders to the roof of another building. -They carry ropes which they hang over the -eaves, thus constructing a means of egress for those -who are willing and hardy enough to lay hold and -descend in this fashion. Still another group of eight -is spreading a net into which hovering, fear-crazed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span> -victims calling from windows above are commanded to -jump. Through it all the regular puffing of the engines, -the muffled voices of the captains shouting, and the -rattling beat of the water as it plays upon the walls and -batters its way through the windows and doors, can be -heard as a monotone, the chorus of this grand contest -in which man seeks for mastery over an element.</p> - -<p>And yet the fire continues to burn. It catches a -dressmaker who has occupied the rear rooms of the -third floor of the building, two doors away from that of -the paint-dealer’s shop, and while she is still waving -frantically for aid she is enveloped with a glorious golden -shroud of fire which hides her completely. It rushes -to where a lame flower-maker, Ziltman, is groping agonizedly -before his windows on the fifth floor of another -tenement, and sends into his nostrils a volume of thick -smoke which smothers him entirely. It sends long -streamers of flame licking about doorposts and window -frames of still other buildings, filling stairways and area-landings -with great dark clouds of vapor and bursting -forth in lurid, sinister flashes from nooks and corners -where up to now fire has not been suspected. It appears -to be an all-devouring Nemesis, feeding as a hungry lion -upon this ruck of wooden provender and this wealth of -human life. The bodies of stricken human beings are -but fuel for it—but small additions to its spirals of -smoke and its tongues of flame.</p> - -<p>And yet these battalions of fighters are not to be -discouraged. They guess this element to be a blind one, -indifferent alike to failure or success. It may rage on -and consume the whole city. It may soon be compelled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span> -to slink back to a smoldering heap. It appears to -desire to burn fiercely, and yet they know that it will -give way before its logical foe. Upon it, now, they are -heaping a score of streams, beating at distant windows, -tearing out distant doors, knocking the bricks from their -plastered places, of houses not on fire at all and so -setting up a barrier between it and other buildings, -destroying in fact the form and order of years in order -to make a common level upon which its enemy, water, -can meet and defeat it.</p> - -<p>But these little ants of beings, how they have scurried -before this battle royal between these two elements! -How fallen! How harried and bereft and tortured they -seem! Under these now blackened and charred timbers -and fallen bricks and stones and twisted plates of iron -are not a few of them, dead. And beyond the still -tempestuous battlefield, where flame and water still -fight, are thousands more of them, agape with wonder -and fear and pity. They do not know what water is, -nor fire. They only know what they do, how dangerous -they are, how really deadly and how indifferent to their -wishes or desires. Forefend! forefend! is the wisest -thought that comes to them, else these twain, and other -strange and terrible things like them, will devour us all.</p> - -<p>But these elements. Here they are and here they -continue to battle until a given quantity of water has -been able to overcome a given amount of fire. Like the -fabled battle between the Efrit and the King’s daughter, -they have fought each other over rooftops and in cellars -and in the very air, where flame and water meet, and -under twisted piles of timber and iron and stone.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span> -Wherever any of the snaky heads of the demon fire have -shown themselves, the flattened gusts of the demon -water have assailed them. The two have fought in -crevices where no human hand could reach. They have -grappled with one another in titanic writhings above -the rooftops, where the eyes of all men could see. They -have followed one another to unexpected depths, fire -showing itself wherever water has neglected to remain, -the water returning where the fire has begun its battling -anew. They have chased and twisted and turned, until -at last, out-generaled in this instance, fire has receded -and water conquered all.</p> - -<p>But the petty little creatures who have been the -victims of their contest, the chance occupants of the -field upon which they chose to battle. But look at them -now, agape with wonder and terror. And how they -scurried! How jumped from the windows into nets, -how clambered like monkeys down ladders, how gropingly -they have staggered through halls of smoke, thick, -rich smoke, as dark and soft and smooth as the fleece -of a ram and as deadly as death.</p> - -<p>And now small men, shocked by all that has befallen, -gather and congratulate themselves on their victory or -meditate on and bemoan their losses. The terror of -it all!</p> - -<p>“I say, John,” says the battalion chief of the second -division to the battalion chief of the first, “that was -something of a fire, eh?”</p> - -<p>“It was that,” agrees the latter, looking grimly from -under the rim of his wet red helmet.</p> - -<p>“That Dutchman must have had a half-dozen barrels<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span> -of naphtha or gasoline down there to cause such a blowup -as that. Why, that last blast, just before I got here, -sent the roof off, they tell me.”</p> - -<p>“It did that,” returns the other thoughtfully. -“There’ll be a big rumpus about it in the papers to-morrow. -They ought to inspect these places better.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right. Well, he got his fill. His wife’s down -there now, I think, and his baby. He ain’t been seen -since the first explosion.”</p> - -<p>“Too bad. But they oughtn’t to do such things. -They know the danger of it. Still, you never can tell -’em nothin’.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_8">THE CAR YARD</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">If</span> I were a painter one of the first things I would -paint would be one or another of the great railroad yards -that abound in every city, those in New York and -Chicago being as interesting as any. Only I fear that -my brush would never rest with one portrait. There -would be pictures of it in sunshine and cloud, in rain -and snow, in light and dark, and when heat caused the -rails and the cars to bake and shimmer, and the bitter -cold the mixture of smoke and steam to ascend in tall, -graceful, rhythmic plumes that appear to be composed -of superimposed circles and spirals of smoke and mist.</p> - -<p>The variety of the cars. The variety of their contents. -The long distances and differing climates and -countries from which they have come—the Canadian -snows, the Mexican uplands, Florida, California, Texas -and Maine. As a boy, in the different cities and towns -in which our family dwelt, I was forever arrested by -the spectacle of these great freight trains, yellow, white, -red, blue, green, toiling through or dissipating themselves -in some terminal maze of tracks. I was always interested -to note how certain cars, having reached their -destination, would be sidetracked and left, and then -presently the consignee or his agent or expressman -would appear and the car be opened. Ice, potatoes, -beef, furniture, machinery, boxed shipments of all kinds, -would be taken out by some lone worker who, having<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span> -come with a wagon, would back it up to the opened door -and remove the contents. Most interesting of all to -me were the immense shipments of live stock, the pigs, -sheep, steers, on their last fatal journey and looking so -non-understandingly out upon the strange world in -which they found themselves, and baa-ing or moo-ing or -squealing in tones that gave evidence of the uncertainty, -the distress and the wonder that was theirs.</p> - -<p>For a time in Chicago, between my eighteenth and -nineteenth years, I was employed as a car-tracer in one -of the great freight terminals of a railroad entering -Chicago, a huge, windy, forsaken realm far out on -the great prairie west of the city and harboring literally -a thousand or more cars. And into it and from it would -move such long freight trains, heavy with snow occasionally, -or drenched with rain, and presenting such a -variety of things in cars: coal, iron, cattle, beef, which -would here be separated and entangled with or disentangled -from many others and then moved on again in -the form of other long trains. The clanging engine -bells, the puffing stacks, the arresting, colorful brakemen -and trainmen in their caps, short, thick coats, -dirty gloves, and with their indispensable lanterns over -their arms. In December and January, when the days -were short and the nights fell early, I found myself with -long lists of car numbers, covering cars in transit and -concerning which or their contents owners or shippers -were no doubt anxious, hurrying here and there, now -up and down long tracks, or under or between the -somber cars that lined them, studying by the aid of my -lantern the tags and car numbers, seeing if the original<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span> -labels or addresses were still intact, whether the seals -had remained unbroken, on what track the car was, and -about where, and checking these various items on the -slip given me, and, all being correct, writing O. K. across -the face of it all. Betimes I would find a consigned car -already in place on some far sidetrack, the consignee -having already been notified, and some lone worker with -a wagon busily removing the contents. Sometimes, being -in doubt, I would demand to see the authorization, and -then report. But except for occasional cars, that however -accurately billed never seemed to appear, no other -thing went wrong.</p> - -<p>Subsequent to that time I have always been interested -by these great tangles. Seeing them as in New York -facing river banks where ships await their cargoes, or -surrounded by the tall coal pockets and grain elevators -of a crowded commercial section, I have often thought -how typical of the shift and change of life they are, how -peculiarly of this day and no other. Imagine a Roman, a -Greek, an Egyptian or an Assyrian being shown one of -these immense freight yards with their confusing mass of -cars, their engines, bells, spirals of smoke and steam, their -interesting variety of color, form and movement. How -impossible to explain to such an one the mechanism if -not the meaning of it all. How impossible it would be -for him to identify what he saw with anything that he -knew. The mysterious engines, the tireless switching, -the lights, the bells, the vehicles, the trainmen and -officials. And as far as some future age that yet may -be is concerned, all that one sees here or that relates to -this form of transportation may even in the course of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span> -few hundred years have vanished as completely as have -the old caravanseries of the Orient—rails, cars, engines, -coal and smoke and steam, even the intricate processes by -which present freight exchange is effected. And something -entirely different may have come in its place, -transportation by air, for instance, the very mechanism -of flight and carriage directed by wireless from given -centers.</p> - -<div id="ip_71" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;"> - <img src="images/i_070.jpg" width="526" height="446" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Car Yard</div></div> - -<p>And yet, as far as life itself is concerned, its strife -and change, how typical of it are these present great -yards with their unending evidences of movement and -change. These cars that come and go, how heavy now -with freight, or import; how empty now of anything -suggesting service or use even, standing like idle, unneeded -persons upon some desolate track, while the -thunder of life and exchange passes far to one side. And -anon, as in life, each and every one of them finds itself in -the very thick of life, thundering along iron rails from -city to city, themselves, or rather their contents, eagerly -awaited and welcomed and sought after, and again left, -as before. And then the old cars, battered and sway-backed -by time and the elements and long service, standing -here and there unused and useless, their chassis bent -and sometimes cracked by undue strain or rust, their -sides bulging, their roofs and doors decayed and warped -or broken, quite ready for that limbo of old cars, the -junk yard rather than the repair shop.</p> - -<p>And yet they have been so useful, have seen and -done so much, been in such varied and interesting places—the -cities, the towns, the country stations, the lone -sidings where they have waited or rolled in sun and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span> -rain. Here in this particular New York yard over -which I am now brooding, upon a great viaduct which -commands it all, is one old car, recently emptied of its -load of grain, about which on this winter’s day a flock -of colorful pigeons are rising and falling, odd companions -for such a lumbering and cumbersome thing, -yet so friendly to and companionable with it, some of -them walking peacefully upon its roof, others picking -up remaining grains within its open door, others on -the snowy ground before it picking still other fallen -grains, and not at all disturbed by the puffing engines -elsewhere. It might as well be a great boat accompanied -by a cloud of gulls. And that other car there, -that dusty, yellow one, labeled Central of Georgia, yet -from which now a great wagonful of Christmas trees -is being taken from Georgia, or where? Has it been to -Maine or Labrador or the Canadian north for these, -and where will it go, from here, and how soon? Leaning -upon this great viaduct that crosses this maze of tracks -and commands so many of them, a great and interesting -spectacle, I am curious as to the history or the lives -of these cars, each and every one, the character of the -places and lives among which each and every one of them -has passed its days. They appear so wooden, so lumpish, -so inert and cumbersome and yet the places they have -been, the things they have seen!</p> - -<p>I am told by the physicists that each and every atom -of all of this wealth of timber and steel before me is -as alive as life; that it consists, each and every particle, -of a central spicule of positive energy about which revolve -at great speed lesser spicules of negative energy.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span> -And so these same continue to revolve until each particular -atom, for some chemic or electronic reason, shall -have been dissolved, when forthwith these spicules re-arrange -themselves into new forms, to revolve as industriously -and as unceasingly as before. Springs the -thought then: Is anything inert, lacking in response, -perception, mood? And if not, what may each of these -individual cars with their wealth of experience and -observation think of this life, their place in it, their -journeys and their strange and equally restless and -unknowing companion, man?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_9">THE FLIGHT OF PIGEONS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">In</span> all the city there is no more beautiful sight than -that which is contributed by the flight of pigeons. You -may see them flying in one place and another, here over -the towering stacks of some tall factory, there over the -low roofs of some workaday neighborhood; the yard -of a laborer, the roof of some immense office building, -the eaves of a shed or barn furnishing them shelter -and a point of rendezvous from which they sail. I -have seen them at morning, when the sky was like -silver, turning in joyous circles so high that the size of -a large flock of forty was no more than a hand’s -breadth. I have seen them again at evening, wheeling -and turning in a light which was amethystine in its -texture, so soft that they seemed swimming in a world -of dream. In the glow of a radiant sunset, against the -bosom of lowering storm clouds, when the turn of a -wing made them look like a handful of snowflakes, or -the shafts of the evening sunlight turned their bodies -to gold, I have watched them soaring, soaring, soaring, -running like children, laughing down the bosom of the -wind, wheeling, shifting, rising, falling, the one idyllic -note in a world of commonplace—or, perhaps more -truthfully, the key central of what is a heavenly scene -of beauty.</p> - -<div id="ip_74" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_074.jpg" width="481" height="650" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Flight of Pigeons</div></div> - -<p>I do not know what it is that makes pigeons so interesting -to me, unless it is that this flight of theirs into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span> -the upper world is to me the essence of things poetic, -the one thing which I should like to do myself. The -sunny sides of the barnyard roofs they occupy, the -quiet beauty of the yards in which they live, their -graceful and contented acceptance of the simple and -the commonplace, their cooing ease, the charm of the -landscapes over which they fly and against the outlines -of which they are so often artistically engraved, are to -me of the essence of the beautiful. I can think of -nothing better. If I were to have the privilege of reincarnation -I might even choose to be a pigeon.</p> - -<p>And, in connection with this, I have so often asked -myself what there is in pure motion which is so delightful, -so enchanting, and before the mystery of which, as -manifested by the flight of pigeons my mind pauses, for it -finds no ready solution. The poetry of music, the poetry -of motion, the arch-significance of a graceful line in -flight—these are of psychic, perhaps of chemic subtlety -(who knows?), blending into some great scheme of universal -rhythm, of which singing, dancing, running, flying, -the sinuous curvings of rivers, the rhythmic wavings -of trees, the blowings and restings of the winds, and -every other lovely thing of which the earth is heir, are -but integral parts.</p> - -<p>Nature has many secrets all her own. We peer and -search. With her ill moods we quarrel. Over her -savageries we weep or rage. In her amethystine hours -of ease and rest we rest also and wonder, moved to -profound and regal melancholy over our own brief hours -in her light, to unreasoned joy and laughter over her -beauty in her better moods, their pensive exaltation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -As for myself, I only know that whenever I see these -birds, their coats of fused slate and bright metallic -colors shielding them so smoothly, their feet of coral, -their eyes of liquid black, smooth-rimmed with pink, and -strutting so soberly at ease on every barn roof or walk -or turning, awing, in some heavenly light against a sky -of blue or storm-black—I only know that once more a -fugue of most delicate and airy mood is being fingered, -that the rendition of another song is at hand.</p> - -<p>To fly so! To be a part of sky, sunlight, air! To -be thus so delicately and gracefully organized as to be -able to rest upon the bosom of a breeze, or run down -its curving surface in long flights, to have the whole -world-side for a spectacle, the sunny roof of a barn or a -house for a home! Not to brood over the immensities, -perhaps, not to sigh over the too-well-known end!</p> - -<p>Fold you your hands and gaze.... They speak of -joy accomplished. Fold your hands and gaze. As you -look you have that which they bring—beauty. It is -without flaw and without price.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_10">ON BEING POOR</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Poverty</span> is so relative. I have lived to be thirty-two -now, and am just beginning to find that out. Hitherto, -in no vague way, poverty to me seemed to be indivisibly -united with the lack of money. And this in the face -of a long series of experiences which should have proved -to any sane person that this was only relatively true. -Without money, or at times with so little that an ordinary -day laborer would have scoffed at my supply, I -still found myself meditating gloomily and with much -show of reason upon the poverty of others. But what -I was really complaining of, if I had only known, was -not poverty of material equipment (many of those -whom I pitied were materially as well if not better -supplied than I was) but poverty of mind, the most -dreadful and inhibiting and destroying of all forms -of poverty. There are others, of course: Poverty of -strength, of courage, of skill. And in respect to no -one of these have I been rich, but poverty of mind, of -the understanding, of taste, of imagination—therein -lies the true misery, the freezing degradation of life.</p> - -<p>For I walk through the streets of this great city—so -many of them no better than the one in which I live—and -see thousands upon thousands, materially no worse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> -off than myself, many of them much better placed, yet -with whom I would not change places save under conditions -that could not be met, the principal one being that -I be permitted to keep my own mind, my own point of -view. For here comes one whose clothes are good but -tasteless, or dirty; and I would not have his taste or his -dirt. And here is another whose shabby quarters cost him -as much as do mine and more, and yet I would not live in -the region which he chooses for half his rent, nor have -his mistaken notion of what is order, beauty, comfort. -Nothing short of force could compel me. And here is one -sufficiently well dressed and housed, as well dressed and -housed as myself, who still consorts with friends from -whom I could take no comfort, creatures of so poor a -mentality that it would be torture to associate with them.</p> - -<p>And yet how truly poor, materially, I really am. -For over a year now the chamber in which I dwell has -cost me no more than four dollars a week. My clothes, -with the exception of such minor changes as ties and -linen, are the very same I have had for several years. I -am so poor at this writing that I have not patronized a -theater in months. A tasteful restaurant such as always -I would prefer has this long while been beyond my -purse. I have even been beset by a nervous depression -which has all but destroyed my power to write, or to -sell that which I might write. And, as I well know, -illness and death might at any time interfere and cut -short the struggle that in my case has thus far proved -materially most profitless; and yet, believe me, I have -never felt poor, or that I have been cheated of much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span> -that life might give. Nor have I felt that sense of -poverty that appears to afflict thousands of those -about me.</p> - -<div id="ip_79" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28em;"> - <img src="images/i_078.jpg" width="441" height="615" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Being Poor</div></div> - -<p>I cannot go to a theater, for instance, lacking the -means. But I can and do go to many of the many, -many museums, exhibits, collections and arboreta that -are open to me for nothing in this great city. And for -greater recreation even, I turn to such books of travel, -of discovery, of scientific and philosophic investigation -and speculation as chance to fit in with my mood at -the time and with which a widespread public beneficence -has provided me, and where I find such pleasure, such -relief, such delight as I should hesitate to attempt to -express in words.</p> - -<p>But apart from these, which are after all but reports -of and commentaries upon the other, comes the beauty -of life itself. I know it to be a shifting, lovely, changeful -thing ever, and to it, the spectacle of it as a whole, -in my hours of confusion and uncertainty I invariably -return, and find such marvels of charm in color, tone, -movement, arrangement, which, had I the genius to -report, would fill the museums and the libraries of -the world to overflowing with its masterpieces. The -furies of snow and rain that speed athwart a hidden -sun. The wracks and wisps of cloud that drape a winter -or a summer moon. A distant, graceful tower from -which a flock of pigeons soar. The tortuous, tideful -rivers that twist among great forests of masts and under -many graceful bridges. The crowding, surging ways -of seeking men. These cost me nothing, and I weary of -them never.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span> -And sunsets. And sunrises. And moonsets. And -moonrises. These are not things to which those materially -deficient would in the main turn for solace, -but to me they are substances of solace, the major portion -of all my wealth or possible wealth, in exchange for -which I would not take a miser’s hoard. I truly -would not.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_11">SIX O’CLOCK</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">The</span> hours in which the world is working are numerous -and always fascinating. It is not the night-time or -the Sabbath or the day of pleasure that counts, but -the day’s work. Whether it be as statesman or soldier, -poet or laborer, the day’s work is the thing. And at -the end of the day’s work, in its commoner forms at -least, comes the signal of its accomplishment, the -whistle, the bell, the fading light, the arresting face of -the clock.</p> - -<p>To me, personally, there is no hour which quite equals -that which heralds the close of the day’s toil. I know, -too, that others are important, the getting up and lying -down of men, but this of ceasing after a day’s work, -when we lay down the ax or the saw, or the pen or pencil, -stay our machine, take off our apron and quit—that is -wonderful. Others may quit earlier. The lawyer and -the merchant and the banker may cease their labors an -hour earlier. The highly valued clerk or official is not -opposed if he leaves at four-thirty or at five, and at five-thirty -skilled labor generally may cease. But at six -o’clock the rank and file are through, “the great unwashed,” -as they have been derisively termed, the real -laboring man and laboring woman. It is for them then -that the six o’clock whistle blows; that the six o’clock bell -strikes; it is for them that the evening lamps are lit in -millions of homes; it is for them that the blue smoke of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span> -an evening fire curls upward at nightfall and that the -street cars and vehicles of transfer run thick and black.</p> - -<p>The streets are pouring with them at six o’clock. -They are as a great tide in the gray and dark. They -come bearing their baskets and buckets, their armfuls -of garnered wood, their implements of labor and of -accomplishment, and their faces streaked with the dirt -of their toil. While you and I, my dear sir, have been -sitting at our ease this last hour they have been working, -and where we began at nine they began at seven. They -have worked all day, not from seven-thirty until five-thirty -or from nine until four, but from seven to six, -and they are weary.</p> - -<p>You can see it in their faces. Some have a lean, -pinched appearance as though they were but poorly -nourished or greatly enervated. Some have a furtive, -hurried look, as though the problem of rent and food -and clothing were inexplicable and they were thinking -about it all the time. Some are young yet and unscathed—the -most are young (for the work of the world is -done by the youth of the world)—and they do not see -as yet to what their labor tends. Nearly all are still -lightened with a sense of opportunity; for what may -the world not hold in store? Are not its bells still -tinkling, its lights twinkling? Are not youth and -health and love the solvents of all our woes?</p> - -<div id="ip_82" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_082.jpg" width="487" height="580" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Six O’clock</div></div> - -<p>These crowds when the whistles blow come as great -movements of the sea come. If you stand in the highways -of traffic they are at once full to overflowing. If -you watch the entrance to great mills they pour forth -a living stream, dark, energetic, undulant. To see them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span> -melting away into the highways and byways is like -seeing a stream tumble and sparkle, like listening to the -fading echoes of a great bell. They come, vivid, vibrant, -like a deep, full-throated note. They go again as bell -notes finally go.</p> - -<p>If you stand at the entrance of one of our great -industrial institutions you may see for yourself. Its -walls are like those of a prison, tall, dark, many-windowed; -its sound like that of a vast current of water -pouring over a precipice. Inside a thousand or a -hundred thousand shuttles may be crashing; I know -not. Patient figures are hurrying to and fro. You may -see them through the brightly lighted windows of a -winter’s night. Suddenly the great whistle sounds somewhere -in the thick of the city. Then another and -another. In a moment a score and a hundred siren voices -are calling out the hour of cessation and the rush of -the great world of machinery is stilling. The figures -disappear from the machines. The tiny doors at the -bottom of the walls open. Out they come, hurrying, -white-faced, black-shawled, the vast contingent of men -and boys, girls and children; into the black night they -hurry, the fresh winds sweeping about their insignificant -figures. This is but one mill and all over the world as -the planet rolls eastward these whistles are blowing, the -factories are ceasing, the figures are pouring forth.</p> - -<p>It is on such as these, O students of economics, -that all our fine-spun fancies of life are based. It is -on such as these that our statecraft is erected. Kings -sit in palaces, statesmen confer in noble halls, because -of these and such as these. The science of government—it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span> -<em>is</em> because of these. The art of production—it is -by and for these. The importance of distribution—it -concerns these. All our carefully woven theories of -morals, of health, of property—they have these for -their being; without them they are not.</p> - -<p>The world runs with a rushing tide of life these -days. It has broken forth into a veritable storm of -creation. Men are born by the millions. They die in -great masses silently. To-day they are here, to-morrow -cut down and put away. But in these crowds of workers -we see the flower of it all, the youth, the enthusiasm, -the color. Life is here at its highest, not death. There -are no sick here: they have dropped out. There are -no halt, or very few, no lame. All the weaklings have -been cut down and there remains here, running in a -hurrying, sparkling stream, the energy, the strength, the -hope of the world. That they may not be too hardly -used is obvious, for then life itself ceases; that they may -not be too utterly brutalized is sure, for then life itself -becomes too brutal for endurance. That they may only -be driven in part is a material truism. They cannot be -driven too far; they must be led in part. For that the -maxim, “Feed my sheep.”</p> - -<p>But in the spectacle of living there is none other like -this. It is all that life may ever be, energetic, hungry, -eager. It is the hope of the world, and the yearning -of the world concentrated. Here are passion, desire, -despair, running eagerly away. The great whistles of -the world sound their presence nightly. The sinking -of the sun marks their sure approach. It is six o’clock, -and the work of the day is ended—for the night.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_12">THE TOILERS OF THE TENEMENTS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">New York City</span> has one hundred thousand people who, -under unfavorable conditions, work with their fingers for -so little money that they are understood, even by the uninitiated -general public, to form a class by themselves. -These are by some called sewing-machine workers, by -others tenement toilers, and by still others sweatshop employees; -but, in a general sense, the term, tenement -workers, includes them all. They form a great section in -one place, and in others little patches, ministered to by -storekeepers and trade agents who are as much underpaid -and nearly as hard-working as they themselves.</p> - -<p>Go into any one of these areas and you will encounter -a civilization that is as strange and un-American as if -it were not included in this land at all. Pushcarts and -market-stalls are among the most distinctive features. -Little stores and grimy windows are also characteristic -of these sections. There is an atmosphere of crowdedness -and poverty which goes with both. Any one can -see that these people are living energetically. There is -something about the hurry and enthusiasm of their life -that reminds you of ants.</p> - -<p>If you stay and turn your attention from the traffic -proper, the houses begin to attract your attention. They -are nearly all four-story or five-story buildings, with here -and there one of six, and still another of seven stories; all -without elevators, and all, with the exception of the last,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span> -exceedingly old. There are narrow entrance-ways, dingy -and unlighted, which lead up dark and often rickety -stairs. There are other alley-ways, which lead, like narrow -tunnels, to rear tenements and back shops. Iron fire -escapes descend from the roof to the first floor, in every -instance, because the law compels it. Iron stairways -sometimes ascend, where no other means of entrance is to -be had. There are old pipes which lead upward and -carry water. No such thing as sanitary plumbing exists. -You will not often see a gas-light in a hall in as many as -two blocks of houses. You will not see one flat in ten -with hot and cold water arrangements. Other districts -have refrigerators and stationary washstands, and bath -tubs as a matter of course, but these people do not know -what modern conveniences mean. Steam heat and hot -and cold water tubs and sinks have never been installed -in this area.</p> - -<p>The houses are nearly all painted a dull red, and nearly -all are divided in the most unsanitary manner. Originally -they were built five rooms deep, with two flats on a -floor, but now the single flats have been subdivided and -two or three, occasionally four or five, families live and -toil in the space which was originally intended for one. -There are families so poor, or so saving and unclean, that -they huddle with other families, seven or eight persons -in two rooms. Iron stands covered by plain boards -make a bed which can be enlarged or reduced at will. -When night comes, four, five, six, sometimes seven such -people stretch out on these beds. When morning comes -the bedclothes, if such they may be called, are cleared -away and the board basis is used as a table. One room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -holds the stove, the cooking utensils, the chairs, and the -sewing machine. The other contains the bed, the bed-clothing, -and various kinds of stored material. Eating, -sleeping, and usually some washing are done there.</p> - -<p>I am giving the extreme instances, unfortunately common -to the point of being numerous. In the better instances -three or four people are housed in two rooms. -How many families there are that live less closely -quartered than this would not be very easy to say. On -the average, five people live in two rooms. A peddler -or a pushcart man who can get to where he can occupy -two rooms, by having his wife and children work, is certain -that he is doing well. Fathers and mothers, sons and -daughters, go out to work. If the father cannot get work -and the mother can, then that is the order of procedure. -If the daughter cannot get work and the mother and -father can, it is the daughter’s duty to take care of the -house and take in sewing. If any of the boys and girls -are too young to go out and enter the shops, duty compels -them to help on the piecework that is taken into the -rooms. Everything is work, in one form or another, from -morning until night.</p> - -<p>As for the people themselves, they are a strange mixture -of all races and all creeds. Day after day you will -see express wagons and trucks leaving the immigration -station at the Battery, loaded to crowding with the latest -arrivals, who are being taken as residents to one or another -colony of this crowded section. There are Greeks, -Italians, Russians, Poles, Syrians, Armenians and Hungarians. -Jews are so numerous that they have to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span> -classified with the various nations whose language -they speak. All are poverty-stricken, all venturing into -this new world to make their living. The vast majority -have absolutely nothing more than the ten dollars which -the immigration inspectors are compelled to see that they -have when they arrive. These people recruit the territory -in question.</p> - -<p>In the same hundred thousand, and under the same -tenement conditions, are many who are not foreign-born. -I know personally of American fathers who have got -down to where it is necessary to work as these foreigners -work. There are home-grown American mothers who -have never been able to lift themselves above the conditions -in which they find themselves to-day. Thousands -of children born and reared in New York City are growing -up under conditions which would better become a -slum section of Constantinople.</p> - -<p>I know a chamber in this section where, at a plain -wooden bench or table, sits a middle-aged Hungarian -and his wife, with a fifteen-year-old daughter, sewing. -The Hungarian is perhaps not honestly Gentile, for he -looks as if he might have Hebrew blood in his veins. The -mother and the daughter partake of a dark olive tinge, -more characteristic of the Italian than of anything else. -It must be a coincidence, however, for these races rarely -mix. Between them and upon a nearby chair are piled -many pairs of trousers, all awaiting their labor. Two -buckles and a button must be sewed on every one. The -rough edges at the bottom must be turned up and basted,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span> -and the inside about the top must be lined with a kind -of striped cotton which is already set loosely in place. -It is their duty to sew closely with their hands what is -already basted. No machine worker can do this work, -and so it is sent out to such as these, under the practice -of tenement distribution. Their duty is to finish it.</p> - -<div id="ip_89" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_088.jpg" width="482" height="609" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Toilers of the Tenements</div></div> - -<p>There would be no need to call attention to these -people except that in this instance they have unwittingly -violated the law. Tenement workers, under the new -dispensation, cannot do exactly as they please. It is -not sufficient for them to have an innate and necessitous -desire to work. They must work under special conditions. -Thus, it is now written that the floors must be -clean and the ceilings whitewashed. There must not be -any dirt on the walls. No room in which they work must -have such a thing as a bed in it, and no three people may -ever work together in one room. Law and order prescribe -that one is sufficient. These others—father and -daughter, or mother and daughter, or mother and father—should -go out into the shops, leaving just one here to -work. Such is the law.</p> - -<p>These three people, who have only these two trades, -have complied with scarcely any of these provisions. The -room is not exactly as clean as it should be. The floor -is dirty. Overhead is a smoky ceiling, and in one corner -is a bed. The two small windows before which they labor -do not give sufficient ventilation, and so the air in the -chamber is stale. Worst of all, they are working three -in a chamber, and have no license.</p> - -<p>“How now,” asks an inspector, opening the door—for -there is very little civility of manner observed by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -these agents of the law who constantly regulate these -people—“any pants being finished here?”</p> - -<p>“How?” says the Hungarian, looking purblindly up. -It is nothing new to him to have his privacy thus invaded. -Unless he has been forewarned and has his door locked, -police and detectives, to say nothing of health inspectors -and other officials, will frequently stick their heads in or -walk in and inquire after one thing or another. Sometimes -they go leisurely through his belongings and -threaten him for concealing something. There is a -general tendency to lord it over and browbeat him, for -what reason he has no conception. Other officials do it -in the old country; perhaps it is the rule here.</p> - -<p>“So,” says the inspector, stepping authoritatively forward, -“finishing pants, eh? All three of you? Got a -license?”</p> - -<p>“Vot?” inquires the pale Hungarian, ceasing his -labor.</p> - -<p>“Where is your license—your paper? Haven’t you -got a paper?”</p> - -<p>The Hungarian, who has not been in this form of work -long enough to know the rules, puts his elbows on the -table and gazes nervously into the newcomer’s face. -What is this now that the gentleman wants? His wife -looks her own inquiry and speaks of it to her daughter.</p> - -<p>“What is it he wants?” says the father to the child.</p> - -<p>“It is a paper,” returns the daughter in Hungarian. -“He says we must have a license.”</p> - -<p>“Paper?” repeats the Hungarian, looking up and -shaking his head in the negative. “No.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span> -“Oh, so you haven’t got a license then? I thought -so. Who are you working for?”</p> - -<p>The father stares at the child. Seeing that he does not -understand, the inspector goes on: “The boss, the boss! -What boss gave you these pants to finish?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” returns the little girl, who understands somewhat -better than the rest, “the boss, yes. He wants to -know what boss gave us these pants.” This last in a -foreign tongue to her father.</p> - -<p>“Tell him,” says the mother in Hungarian, “that the -name is Strakow.”</p> - -<p>“Strakow,” repeats the daughter.</p> - -<p>“Strakow, eh?” says the inspector. “Well, I’ll see -Mr. Strakow. You must not work on these any more. -Do you hear? Listen, you,” and he turns the little girl’s -face up to him, “you tell your father that he can’t do -any more of this work until he gets a license. He must -go up to No. 1 Madison Avenue and get a paper. I don’t -know whether they’ll give it to him or not, but he can -go and ask. Then he must clean this floor. The ceiling -must be whitewashed—see?”</p> - -<p>The little girl nods her head.</p> - -<p>“You can’t keep this bed in here, either,” he adds. -“You must move the bed out into the other room if you -can. You mustn’t work here. Only one can work here. -Two of you must go out into the shop.”</p> - -<p>All the time the careworn parents are leaning forward -eagerly, trying to catch the drift of what they cannot -possibly understand. Both interrupt now and then with -a “What is it?” in Hungarian, which the daughter has -no time to heed. She is so busy trying to understand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span> -half of it herself that there is no time for explanation. -Finally she says to her parents:</p> - -<p>“He says we cannot all work here.”</p> - -<p>“Vot?” says the father. “No vork?”</p> - -<p>“No,” replies the daughter. “Three of us can’t work -in one room. It’s against the law. Only one. He says -that only one can work in this room.”</p> - -<p>“How!” he exclaims, as the little girl goes on making -vaguely apparent what these orders are. As she proceeds -the old fellow’s face changes. His wife leans forward, -her whole attitude expressive of keen, sympathetic -anxiety.</p> - -<p>“No vork?” he repeats. “I do no more vork?”</p> - -<p>“No,” insists the inspector, “not with three in one -room.”</p> - -<p>The Hungarian puts out his right leg, and it becomes -apparent that an injury has befallen him. Words he -pours upon his daughter, who explains that he has been -a pushcart peddler but has received a severe injury to -his leg and cannot walk. Helping to sew is all that he -can do.</p> - -<p>“Well,” says the inspector when he hears of this, -“that’s too bad, but I can’t help it. It’s the law. You’ll -have to see the department about it. I can’t help it.”</p> - -<p>Astonished and distressed, the daughter explains, and -then they sit in silence. Five cents a pair is all they -have been able to earn since the time the father became -expert, and all they can do, working from five in the -morning until eleven at night, is two dozen pairs a day—in -other words, to earn seven dollars and twenty cents -a week. If they delay for anything, as they often must,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -the income drops to six, and quite often to five, dollars. -Two dollars a week is their tax for rent.</p> - -<p>“So!” says the father, his mouth open. He is too -deeply stricken and nonplussed to know what to do. The -mother nervously turns her hands.</p> - -<p>“You hear now,” says the inspector, taking out a tag -and fastening it upon the goods—“no more work. Go -and see the department.”</p> - -<p>“How?” asks the father, staring at his helpless family -after the door has closed.</p> - -<p>How indeed!</p> - -<p>In the same round the inspector will come a little later -to the shop from which the old Hungarian secured the -trousers for finishing. He is armed with full authority -over all of these places. In his pocket lie the tags, one -of which he puts on a lot of clothing just ordered halted. -If that tag is removed it is a penal offense. If it stays -on no one can touch the goods until the contractor explains -to the factory inspector how he has come to be -giving garments for finishing to dwellers in tenements -who have not a license. This is a criminal offense on his -part. Now he must not touch the clothes he sent over -there. If the old Hungarian returns them he must not -accept them or pay him any money. This contractor and -his clients offer a study in themselves.</p> - -<p>His shop is on the third floor of a rear building, which -was once used for dwelling purposes but is now given -over entirely to clothing manufactories or sweatshops. -A flight of dark, ill-odored, rickety stairs gives access -to it. There is noise and chatter audible, a thick mixture<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span> -of sounds from whirring sewing machines and muttering -human beings. When you open the door a gray-haired -Hebrew, whose long beard rests patriarchally upon his -bosom, looks over his shoulders at you from a brick furnace, -where he is picking up a reheated iron. Others -glance up from their bent positions over machines and -ironing-boards. It is a shadowy, hot-odored, floor-littered -room.</p> - -<p>“Have you a finisher doing work for you by the name -of Koslovsky?” inquires the inspector of a thin, bright-eyed -Syrian Jew, who is evidently the proprietor of this -establishment.</p> - -<p>“Koslovsky?” he says after him, in a nervous, fawning, -conciliatory manner. “Koslovsky? What is he? -No.”</p> - -<p>“Finisher, I said.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, finisher—finisher, that’s it. He does no work -for me—only a little—a pair of pants now and then.”</p> - -<p>“You knew that he didn’t have a license, didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“No, no. I did not. No license? Did he not have -a license?”</p> - -<p>“You’re supposed to know that. I’ve told you that -before. You’ll have to answer at the office for this. -I’ve tagged his goods. Don’t you receive them now. -Do you hear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” says the proprietor excitedly. “I would not -receive them. He will get no more work from me. When -did you do that?”</p> - -<p>“Just this morning. Your goods will go up to headquarters.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span> -“So,” he replied weakly. “That is right. It is just -so. Come over here.”</p> - -<p>The inspector follows him to a desk in the corner.</p> - -<p>“Could you not help me out of this?” he asks, using -a queer Jewish accent. “I did not know this once. -You are a nice man. Here is a present for you. It -is funny I make this mistake.”</p> - -<p>“No,” returns the inspector, shaking his head. -“Keep your money. I can’t do anything. These -goods are tagged. You must learn not to give out finishing -to people without a license.”</p> - -<p>“That is right,” he exclaims. “You are a nice man, -anyhow. Keep the money.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I keep the money? You’ll have to -explain anyhow. I can’t do anything for you.”</p> - -<p>“That is all right,” persists the other. “Keep it, -anyhow. Don’t bother me in the future. There!”</p> - -<p>“No, we can’t do that. Money won’t help you. Just -observe the law—that’s all I want.”</p> - -<p>“The law, the law,” repeats the other curiously. -“That is right. I will observe him.”</p> - -<p>Such is one story—almost the whole story. This employer, -so nervous in his wrongdoings, so anxious to -bribe, is but a little better off than those who work for -him.</p> - -<p>In other tenements and rear buildings are other shops -and factories, but they all come under the same general -description. Men, women and children are daily -making coats, vests, knee-pants and trousers. There are -side branches of overalls, cloaks, hats, caps, suspenders, -jerseys and blouses. Some make dresses and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span> -waists, underwear and neckwear, waist bands, skirts, -shirts and purses; still others, fur, or fur trimmings, -feathers and artificial flowers, umbrellas, and even collars. -It is all a great allied labor of needlework, needlework -done by machine and finishing work done by hand. -The hundred thousand that follow it are only those who -are actually employed as supporters. All those who are -supported—the infants, school children, aged parents, -and physically disabled relatives—are left out. You -may go throughout New York and Brooklyn, and wherever -you find a neighborhood poor enough you will find -these workers. They occupy the very worst of tumble-down -dwellings. Shrewd Italians, and others called -padrones, sometimes lease whole blocks from such men -as William Waldorf Astor, and divide up each natural -apartment into two or three. Then these cubbyholes -are leased to the toilers, and the tenement crowding -begins.</p> - -<p>You will see by peculiar evidences that things have -been pretty bad with these tenements in the past. For -instance, between every front and back room you will -find a small window, and between every back room and -the hall, another. The construction of these was compelled -by law, because the cutting up of a single apartment -into two or three involved the sealing up of the -connecting door and the shutting off of natural circulation. -Hence the state decided that a window opening -into the hall would be some improvement, anyhow, and -so this window-cutting began. It has proved of no -value, however. Nearly every such window is most certainly -sealed up by the tenants themselves.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span> -In regard to some other matters, this cold enforcement -of the present law is, in most cases, a blessing, oppressive -as it seems at times. Men should not crowd and stifle -and die in chambers where seven occupy the natural -space of one. Landlords should not compel them to, -and poverty ought to be stopped from driving them. -Unless the law says that the floor must be clean and the -ceiling white, the occupants will never find time to make -them so. Unless the beds are removed from the work-room -and only one person allowed to work in one room, -the struggling “sweater” will never have less than five -or six suffering with him. Enforce such a law, and these -workers, if they cannot work unless they comply with -these conditions, will comply with them, and charge more -for their labor, of course. Sweatshop manufacturers -cannot get even these to work for nothing, and landlords -cannot get tenants to rent their rooms unless they are -clean enough for the law to allow them to work in them. -Hence the burden falls in a small measure on the landlord, -but not always.</p> - -<p>The employer or boss of a little shop, who is so nervous -in wrongdoing, so anxious to bribe, is but a helpless -agent in the hands of a greater boss. He is no foul -oppressor of his fellow man. The great clothing concerns -in Broadway and elsewhere are his superiors. -What they give, he pays, barring a small profit to himself. -If these people are compelled by law to work less -or under more expensive conditions, they must receive -more or starve, and the great manufactories cannot let -them actually starve. They come as near to it now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span> -as ever, but they will pay what is absolutely essential to -keep them alive; hence we see the value of the law.</p> - -<p>To grow and succeed here, though, is something very -different. Working, as these people do, they have very -little time for education. The great struggle is for bread, -and unless the families are closely watched, children are -constantly sent to work before they are twelve. I was -present in one necktie factory once where five of its -employees were ordered out for being without proof that -they were fourteen years of age. I have personally seen -shops, up to a dozen, inspected in one morning, and some -struggling little underling ordered out from each.</p> - -<p>“For why you come home?” is the puzzled inquiry -of the parents at night.</p> - -<p>“Da police maka me.”</p> - -<p>Down here, and all through this peculiar world, the -police are everything. They regulate the conduct, adjudicate -the quarrels, interfere with the evil-doers. The -terror of them keeps many a child studying in the school-room -where otherwise it would be toiling in the chamber -at home or the shop outside. Still the struggle is against -them, and most of them grow up without any of those -advantages so common to others.</p> - -<p>At the same time, there are many institutions established -to reach these people. One sees Hebrew and -Legal Aid Societies in large and imposing buildings. -Outdoor recreation leagues, city playgrounds, schools, -and university settlements—all are here; and yet the -percentage of opportunity is not large. Parents have to -struggle too hard. Their ignorant influence upon the -lives of the young ones is too great.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span> -I know a lawyer, though, of considerable local prestige, -who has worked his way out of these conditions; and -Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street south, to say nothing -of many other streets, is lined with the signs of those -who have overcome the money difficulty of lives begun -under these conditions. Unfortunately the money problem, -once solved, is not the only thing in the world. -Their lives, although they reach to the place where they -have gold signs, automobiles and considerable private -pleasures, are none the more beautiful. Too often, because -of these early conditions, they remain warped, -oppressive, greedy and distorted in every worthy mental -sense by the great fight they have made to get their -money.</p> - -<p>Nearly the only ideal that is set before these strugglers -still toiling in the area, is the one of getting -money. A hundred thousand children, the sons and -daughters of working parents whose lives are as difficult -as that of the Hungarian portrayed and whose homes are -as unlovely, are inoculated in infancy with the doctrine -that wealth is all,—the shabbiest and most degrading -doctrine that can be impressed upon anyone.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_13">THE END OF A VACATION</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> was the close of summer. The great mountain and -lake areas to the north of New York were pouring down -their thousands into the hot, sun-parched city. Vast -throngs were coming back on the steamboats of the -Hudson. Vaster throngs were crowding the hourly -trains which whirled and thundered past the long lane -of villages which stretches between Albany and New -York City. The great station at Albany was packed -with a perspiring mass. The several fast expresses running -without stop to New York City were overwhelmed. -Particularly was the Empire State Express full. In the -one leaving Albany at eight in the evening passengers -were standing in the aisles.</p> - -<p>It was a little, dark, wolf of a man who fought his -way and that of his wife behind him to the car steps, -and out of the scrambling, pushing throng rescued a car -seat. He put his back against those who were behind -and stood still until his wife could crowd in. Then -he took his place beside her and looked grimly around. -For her part, she arranged herself indifferently and -looked wearily out of the window. She was dark, -piquant, petite, attractive.</p> - -<div id="ip_100" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;"> - <img src="images/i_100.jpg" width="468" height="476" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Close of Summer</div></div> - -<p>Behind these two there came another person, who -seemed not so anxious for a seat. While others were -pushing eagerly he stepped to one side, holding his place -close to the little wolf man yet looking indifferently<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -about him. He was young, ruddy, stalwart, an artist’s -ideal of what a summer youth ought to be. And now -and then he looked in the direction of the wolf man’s -wife. But there appeared to be nothing of common -understanding between them.</p> - -<p>The train pulled out with a slow clacking sound. It -gained in headway, and lights of yard engines and those -of other cars, as well as street lamps and houses, flashed -into view and out again. Then came the long darkness -of the open country and the river bank, and the people -settled to endure the several hours in such comfort as -they could. Some read newspapers, some books. The -majority stared wearily out of the window, not attempting -to talk. They were tired. The joys of their vacations -were behind them. Why talk, with New York and -early work ahead?</p> - -<p>In the midst of these stood the young athlete, ruminating. -In his seat before him sat the wolf man, studying -a notebook. Beside him, the young wife, dark, -piquant, nervously restless, kept her face to the window, -arranging her back hair now and then with a jeweled -hand, and occasionally turning her face inward to look -at the car. It was as if a vast gulf lay between her -and her spouse, as if they were miles and miles apart, -and yet they were obviously married. You could see -that by the curt, gruff questions he addressed to her, -by the quick, laconic, uninterpretative replies. She was -weary and so was he.</p> - -<p>The train neared Poughkeepsie. For the twentieth -or more time the jeweled hand had felt the back of her -dark piled-up hair. For the fourth or fifth time the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> -elbow had rested on the back of the seat, the hand falling -lazily toward her cheek. Just once it dropped full -length along the back ridge, safely above and beyond -her husband’s head and toward the hand of the standing -athlete, who appeared totally unconscious of the gesture. -Then it was withdrawn. A stir of interest seemed to go -with it, a quick glance. There was something missing. -The athlete was not looking.</p> - -<p>At Yonkers the crowd was already beginning to stir -and pull itself together. At Highbridge it was dragging -satchels from the bundle racks and from beneath the -seats. The little wolf man was closing up his notebook, -looking darkly around. For the thirtieth time the jeweled -hand felt of the dark hair, the elbow rested on the seat-top, -and then for the second time the arm slipped out -and rested full length, the hand touching an elbow which -was now resting wearily, holding the shoulder and supporting -the chin of the man who was standing. There -was the throb as of an electric contact. The elbow rose -ever so slightly and pressed the fingers. The eyes of the -wolf’s wife met the eyes of her summer ideal, and there -stood revealed a whole summer romance, bright sun-shades, -lovely flowers, green grass, trysting-places, a -dark, dangerous romance, with a grim, unsuspecting wolf -in the background. The arm was withdrawn, the hair -touched, the window turned to wearily. All was over.</p> - -<p>And yet you could see how it might continue, could -feel that it would. In the very mood of the two was -indicated ways and means. But now this summer contact -was temporarily over. The train rolled into Grand Central<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span> -Station. The crowd arose. There was a determined -shuffle forward of the wolf man, with his wife close -behind him, and both were gone. The athlete followed -respectfully after. He gave the wolf man and his wife a -wide berth. He followed, however, and looked and -thought—backward into the summer, no doubt, and -forward.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_14">THE TRACK WALKER</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">If</span> you have nothing else to do some day when you -are passing through the vast network of subway or railway -tracks of any of the great railways running northward -or westward or eastward out of New York, give a -thought to the man who walks them for you, the man on -whom your safety, in this particular place, so much -depends.</p> - -<p>He is a peculiar individual. His work is so very -exceptional, so very different from your own. While -you are sitting in your seat placidly wondering -whether you are going to have a pleasant evening at -the theater or whether the business to which you are -about to attend will be as profitable as you desire, he -is out on the long track over which you are speeding, -calmly examining the bolts that hold the shining metals -together. Neither rain nor sleet may deter him. The -presence of intense heat or intense cold or dirt or dust is -not permitted to interfere with his work. Day after day, -at all hours and in all sorts of weather, he may be seen -quietly plodding these iron highways, his wrench and -sledge crossed over his shoulders, and if it be night, or in -the subway, a lantern over one arm, his eyes riveted on -the rails, carefully watching to see if any bolts are loose -or any spikes sprung. In the subway or the New York<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span> -Central Tunnel, upward of two hundred cannon-ball -flyers rush by him each day, on what might be called -a four-track or ten-track bowling alley, and yet he dodges -them all for perhaps as little as any laborer is paid. If -he were not watchful, if he did not perform his work -carefully and well, if he had a touch of malice or a feeling -of vengefulness, he could wreck your train, mangle -your body and send you praying and screaming to your -Maker. There would be no sure way of detecting him.</p> - -<p>Death lurks on the path he travels—subway or railway. -Here, if anywhere, it may be said to be constantly -lurking. What with the noise, which, in some places, -like the subway and the various tunnels, is a perfect and -continuous uproar, the smoke, which hangs like a thick, -gloomy pall over everything, and the weak, ineffective -lights which shine out on your near approach like -will-o’-the-wisps, the chances of hearing and seeing the -approach of any particular train are small. Side arches, -or small pockets in the walls, in some places, are provided -for the protection of the men, but these are not always -to be reached in time when a train thunders out of the -gloom. If you look sharp you may sometimes see a figure -crouching in one of these as you scurry past. He is so -close to the grinding wheels that the dust and soot of -them are flung over him like a spray.</p> - -<p>And yet for all this, the money that is paid these -men is beggarly small. The work they do is not considered -exceptionally valuable. Thirty to thirty-five cents -an hour is all they are paid, and this for ten to twelve -hours’ work every day. That their lives are in constant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> -danger is not a factor in the matter. They are supposed -to work willingly for this, and they do. Only when one -is picked off, his body mangled by a passing train, is -the grimness of the sacrifice emphasized, and then only -for a moment. The space which such accidents receive -in the public prints is scarcely more than a line.</p> - -<p>And now, what would you say of men who would -do this work for so little? What estimate would you -put on their mental capacity? Would you say that -they are worth only what they can be made to work -for? One of these men, an intelligent type of laborer, -not a drinker nor one who even smoked, attracted -my attention once by the punctuality with which he -crossed a given spot on his beat. He was a middle-aged -man, married, and had three children. Day after -day, week after week, he used to arrive at this particular -spot, his eye alert, his step quick, and when a train -approached he seemed to become aware of it as if by -instinct. When finally asked by me why he did not get -something better to do, he said: “I have no trade. -Where could I get more?”</p> - -<p>This man was killed by a train. Sure as was his -instinct and keen his eye, he was nevertheless caught -one evening, and at the very place where he deemed -himself most sure. His head was completely obliterated, -and he had to be identified by his clothes. When he -was removed, another eager applicant was given his -place, and now he is walking the same tunnel with a -half-dozen others. If you question these men they will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span> -all tell you the same story. They do not want to do -what they are doing, but it is better than nothing.</p> - -<p>Rough necessity, a sense of duty, and behold, we are -as bricks and stones, to be put anywhere in the wall, at -the bottom of the foundation in the dark, or at the top -in the light. And who chooses for us?</p> - -<div id="ip_107" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 40em;"> - <img src="images/i_107.jpg" width="634" height="190" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_15">THE REALIZATION OF AN IDEAL</h2> -</div> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Any quality to which the heart of man aspires -it may attain. Would you have virtue in the -world, establish it yourself. Would you have -tenderness, be tender. It is only by acting in -the name of that which you deem to be an ideal -that its realization is brought to pass.</p></blockquote> - -<p>In the crowded section of the lower East Side of -New York, where poverty reigns most distressingly, there -stands a church which is a true representative of the -religion of the poor. It is an humble building, crowded -in among the flats and tenements that make the homely -neighborhood homelier, and sends a crude and distorted -spire soaring significantly toward the sky. There is -but little light inside, for that which the crowded flat-buildings -about does not shut out is weakened by the -dusty stained-glass windows through which it has to -pass. An arched and dark-angled ceiling lends a sense -of dignity to it and over it all broods the solemn atmosphere -of simplicity and faith.</p> - -<p>It is in this church (and no doubt others of a similar -character elsewhere) that is constantly recurring the -miracle of earthly faith. Here it is, hour after hour, -that one sees entering out of the welter and the din of -the streets those humble examples of the poor and ignorant,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span> -who come here out of the cares of many other -states to rest a while and pray.</p> - -<div id="ip_109" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29em;"> - <img src="images/i_108.jpg" width="463" height="625" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Realization of an Ideal</div></div> - -<p>Near the door, between two large, gloomy pillars, -there is a huge wooden cross, whereon is hung a life-size -figure of the Christ. The hands and feet are pierced -with the customary large forty-penny weight nails. The -side is opened with an appalling gash, the forehead is -crowned with the undying crown of thorns, which is -driven down until the flesh is made to bleed.</p> - -<p>Before this figure you may see kneeling, any day, not -one but many specimens of those by whom the world -has dealt very poorly. Their hands are rough, their -faces worn and dull; on the gnarled and weary bodies -are hung clothes of which you and I would be ashamed. -Some carry bags, others huge bundles. With hands -extended upward, their faces bearing the imprint of -unquestioning faith, they look into the soft, pain-exhausted -face of the Christ, imploring that aid and -protection which the ordinary organization of society -does not and cannot afford. It is in this church, as it -seems to me, that the hour’s great lesson of tenderness -is given.</p> - -<p>I call the world’s attention to this picture with the -assurance that this is the great, the beautiful, and the -important lesson. If there be those who do not see -in the body-racked figure of Christ an honest reiteration -of an actual event, who cannot honestly admit that such -a thing could have reasonably occurred, there is still -a lesson just as impressive and just as binding as though -it had. These people whom you see kneeling here and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span> -lifting up their hands present an actuality of faith -which cannot be denied. This Christ, if to you and to -me a myth, is to them a reality. And in so far as He is -real to them He implies an ardent desire on the part of -the whole human race for tenderness and mercy which it -may be as well not to let go unanswered. For if Christ -did not suffer, if His whole life-story was a fiction and -a delusion, then all the yearning and all the faith of -endless millions of men, who have lived believing and -who died adoring, only furnishes proof that the race -really needs such an ideal—that it must have tenderness -and mercy to fly to or it could not exist.</p> - -<p>Man is a hopeful animal. He lives by the belief that -some good must accrue to him or that his life is not -worth the living. It is this faith then, that in disaster -or hours of all but unendurable misery causes him to -turn in supplication to a higher power, and unless these -prayers are in some measure answered, that faith can -and will be destroyed, and life will and does become a -shambles indeed. Hence, if one would balance peace -against danger and death it becomes necessary for each -to act as though the ideals of the world are in some sense -real and that he in person is sponsor for them.</p> - -<p>These prayers that are put up, and these supplications, -if not addressed to the actual Christ, are nevertheless -sent to that sum of human or eternal wisdom or -sympathy as you will of which we are a part. If you -believe that hope is beautiful and that mercy is a virtue, -if you would have the world more lovely and its inhabitants -more kind, if you would have goodness triumph<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span> -and sorrow laid aside, then you must be ready to -make good to such supplicants and supplications as fall -to you the virtues thus pathetically appealed to. You -must act in the name of tenderness. If you cannot or -will not, by so much is the realization of human ideals, -the possibility of living this life at all decently by any, -made less.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_16">THE PUSHCART MAN</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">One</span> of the most appealing and interesting elements -in city life, particularly that metropolitan city life which -characterizes New York, is the pushcart man. This -curious creature of modest intellect and varying nationality -infests all the highways of the great city without -actually dominating any of them except a few streets -on the East Side. He is as hard-working, in the main, as -he is ubiquitous. His cart is so shabby, his stock in trade -so small. If he actually earns a reasonable wage it is -by dint of great energy and mere luck, for the officers -of the law in apparently every community find in the -presence of this person an alluring source of profit and -he is picked and grafted upon as is perhaps no other -member of the commonplace brotherhood of trade.</p> - -<p>I like to see them trundling their two-wheeled vehicles -about the city, and I like to watch the patience and -the care with which they exercise their barely tolerated -profession of selling. You see them everywhere; vendors -of fruit, vegetables, chestnuts on the East Side, -selling even dry goods, hardware, furs and groceries; and -elsewhere again the Greeks selling neckwear, flowers -and curios, the latter things at which an ordinary man -would look askance, but which the lower levels of society -somehow find useful.</p> - -<p>I have seen them tramping in long files across Williamsburg -Bridge at one, two and three o’clock in the -morning to the Wallabout Market in Brooklyn. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span> -I have seen them clambering over hucksters’ wagons -there and elsewhere searching for the choicest bits, -which they hope to sell quickly. The market men have -small consideration for them and will as lief strike or -kick at them as to reach a bargain with them.</p> - -<p>For one thing, I remember watching an old pushcart -vendor one sweltering afternoon in summer from one -o’clock in the afternoon to seven the same evening, and -I was never more impressed with the qualities which -make for success in this world, qualities which are rare -in American life, or in any life, for that matter, for -patience and good nature and sturdy charitable endurance -are not common qualities anywhere.</p> - -<p>He had his stand at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third -Street, New York, then the center of the shopping life -of the city—or I had better say that he attempted to -keep it there, for he was not altogether successful. He -was a dark, gray-headed, grizzle-cheeked “guinea” or -“dago,” as he was scornfully dubbed by the Irish policeman -who made his life a burden. His eye was keen, -his motion quick, his general bodily make-up active, -despite the fact that he was much over fifty years of age.</p> - -<p>“That’s a good one,” the Irish policeman observed to -me in passing, noting that I was looking at him. “He’s -a fox. A fine time I have keeping my eye on him.”</p> - -<p>The old Italian seemed to realize that we were talking -about him for he shifted the position of his cart -nervously, moving it forward a few feet. Finding himself -undisturbed, he remained there. Presently, however, -a heavy ice-wagon lumbered up from the west and -swung in with a reckless disregard of the persons,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span> -property and privileges of the vendors who were thus -unobtrusively grouped together. At the same time the -young Irish-American driver raised his voice in a mighty -bellow:</p> - -<p>“Get out of there! Move on out! What the hell -d’ye want to block up the street for, anyway? Go on!”</p> - -<p>With facile manipulation of his reins he threw his -wagon tongue deliberately among them and did his -best to cause some damage in order to satisfy his own -passing irritation.</p> - -<p>All three vendors jumped to the task of extricating -their carts, but I could not help distinguishing the oldest -of the three for the dexterity with which he extricated -his and the peaceful manner in which he pushed it -away. The lines of his face remained practically undisturbed. -All his actions denoted a remarkable usedness -to difficulty. Not once did he look back, either to -frown or complain. Instead, his only concern was to -discover the whereabouts of the policeman. For him he -searched the great crowd in every direction, even craning -his neck a little. When he had satisfied himself that the -coast was clear, he pushed in close to the sidewalk again -and began his wait for customers.</p> - -<p>While he was thus waiting the condition of his cart -and the danger of an unobserved descent on the part -of a policeman engaged his entire attention. Some few -peaches had fallen awry, and these he busily straightened. -One pile of those which he was selling “two for -five” had now become low and this he replenished from -baskets of hitherto undisturbed peaches, carefully dusting -the fuzz off each one with a small brush in order to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> -heighten their beauty and add to the attractiveness -of the pile. Incidentally his eye was upon the crowd, -for every once in a while his arm would stretch out -in a most dramatic manner, inviting a possible purchaser -with his subtle glance.</p> - -<div id="ip_115" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_114.jpg" width="492" height="480" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Push-cart Man</div></div> - -<p>“Peaches! Fine! Peaches! Fine! Fine!”</p> - -<p>Whenever a customer came close enough, these words -were called to him in a soft, persuasive tone. He would -bend gracefully forward, pick up a peach as if the mere -lifting of it were a sufficient inducement, take up a paper -bag as if the possible transaction were an assured thing, -and look engagingly into the passerby’s eyes. When it -was really settled that a purchase was intended, no word, -however brief, could fail to convey to him the import of -the situation and the number of peaches desired.</p> - -<p>“Five—ten.” The mention of a sum of money. -“These,” or your hand held up, would bring quickly -what you desired.</p> - -<p>Grace was the perfect word with which to describe -this man’s actions.</p> - -<p>From one until seven o’clock of this sweltering afternoon, -every moment of his time was occupied. The -police made it difficult for him to earn his living, for -the simple reason that they were constantly making -him move on. Not only the regular policemen of the -beat, but the officers of the crossing, and the wandering -wayfarers from other precincts all came forward at -different times and hurried him away.</p> - -<p>“Get out, now!” ordered one, in a rough and even -brutal tone. “Move on. If I catch you around here any -more to-day I’ll lock you up.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span> -The old Italian lowered his eyes and hustled his cart -out into the sun.</p> - -<p>“And don’t you come back here any more,” the -policeman called after him; then turning to me he -exclaimed: “Begob, a man pays a big license to keep -a store, and these dagos come in front of his place -and take all his business. They ought to be locked up—all -of them.”</p> - -<p>“Haven’t they a right to stand still for a moment?” -I inquired.</p> - -<p>“They have,” he said, “but they haven’t any right -to stand in front of any man’s place when he don’t -want them there. They drive me crazy, keeping them -out of here. I’ll shoot some of them yet.”</p> - -<p>I looked about to see what if any business could be -injured by their stopping and selling fruit, but found -only immense establishments dealing in dry goods, drugs, -furniture and the like. Some one may have complained, -but it looked much more like an ordinary case of official -bumptiousness or irritation.</p> - -<p>At that time, being interested in such types, I chose -to follow this one, to see what sort of a home life lay -behind him. It was not difficult. By degrees, and much -harried by the police, his cart with only a partially depleted -stock was pushed to the lower East Side, in Elizabeth -Street, to be exact. Here he and his family—a wife -and three or four children—occupied two dingy rooms -in a typical East Side tenement. Whether he was at -peace with his swarthy, bewrinkled old helpmate I do -not know, but he appeared to be, and with his several -partially grown children. On his return, two of them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span> -a boy and a girl, greeted him cheerfully, and later, -finding me interested and following him, and assuming -that I was an officer of the law, quickly explained to -me what their father did.</p> - -<p>“He’s a peddler,” said the boy. “He peddles fruit.”</p> - -<p>“And where does he get his fruit?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Over by the Wallabout. He goes over in the morning.”</p> - -<p>I recalled seeing the long procession of vendors beating -a devious way over the mile or more of steel bridge -that spans the East River at Delancey Street, at one -and two and three of a winter morning. Could this old -man be one of these tramping over and tramping back -before daylight?</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that he goes over every day?”</p> - -<p>“Sure.”</p> - -<p>The old gentleman, by now sitting by a front window -waiting for his dinner and gazing down into the sun-baked -street not at all cooled by the fall of night, looked -down and for some reason smiled. I presume he had -seen me earlier in the afternoon. He could not know -what we were talking about, however, but he sensed -something. Or perhaps it was merely a feeling of the -need of being pleasant.</p> - -<p>Upon making my way to the living room and kitchen, -as I did, knowing that I could offer a legal pretext, I -found the same shabby and dark, but not dirty. An oil -stove burned dolefully in the rear. Mrs. Pushcart Man -was busy about the evening meal.</p> - -<p>The smirks. The genuflections.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span> -“And how much does your father make a day?” I -finally asked, after some other questions.</p> - -<p>This is a lawless question anywhere. It earned its -own reward. The son inquired of the father in Italian. -The latter tactfully shrugged his shoulders and held -out his hands. His wife laughed and shrugged her -shoulders.</p> - -<p>“‘One, two dollars,’ he says,” said the boy.</p> - -<p>There was no going back of that. He might have made -more. Why should he tell anybody—the police or any -one else?</p> - -<p>And so I came away.</p> - -<p>But the case of this one seemed to me to be so typical -of the lot of many in our great cities. All of us are so -pushed by ambition as well as necessity. Yet all the feelings -and intuitions of the average American-born citizen -are more or less at variance with so shrewd an acceptance -of difficulties. We hurry more, fret and strain more, and -yet on the whole pretend to greater independence. But -have we it? I am sure not. When one looks at the -vast army of clerks and underlings, pushing, scheming, -straining at their social leashes so hopelessly and wearing -out their hearts and brains in a fruitless effort to -be what they cannot, one knows that they are really -no better off and one wishes for them a measure of this -individual’s enduring patience.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_17">A VANISHED SEASIDE RESORT</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">At</span> Broadway and Twenty-third Street, where later, -on this and some other ground, the once famed Flatiron -Building was placed, there stood at one time a smaller -building, not more than six stories high, the northward -looking blank wall of which was completely covered with -a huge electric sign which read:</p> - -<p class="p2 b2 center larger intact"> -SWEPT BY OCEAN BREEZES<br /> -THE GREAT HOTELS<br /> -PAIN’S FIREWORKS<br /> -SOUSA’S BAND<br /> -SEIDL’S GREAT ORCHESTRA<br /> -THE RACES<br /> -NOW—MANHATTAN BEACH—NOW -</p> - -<p>Each line was done in a different color of lights, light -green for the ocean breezes, white for Manhattan Beach -and the great hotels, red for Pain’s fireworks and the -races, blue and yellow for the orchestra and band. As -one line was illuminated the others were made dark, until -all had been flashed separately, when they would again be -flashed simultaneously and held thus for a time. Walking -up or down Broadway of a hot summer night, this -sign was an inspiration and an invitation. It made one -long to go to Manhattan Beach. I had heard as much -or more about Atlantic City and Coney Island, but this -blazing sign lifted Manhattan Beach into rivalry with -fairyland.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span> -“Where is Manhattan Beach?” I asked of my brother -once on my first coming to New York. “Is it very far -from here?”</p> - -<p>“Not more than fifteen miles,” he replied. “That’s -the place you ought to see. I’ll take you there on Sunday -if you will stay that long.”</p> - -<p>Since I had been in the city only a day or two, and -Sunday was close at hand, I agreed. When Sunday -came we made our way, via horse-cars first to the East -Thirty-fourth Street ferry and then by ferry and train, -eventually reaching the beach about noon.</p> - -<p>Never before, except possibly at the World’s Fair -in Chicago, had I ever seen anything to equal this -seaward-moving throng. The day was hot and bright, -and all New York seemed anxious to get away. The -crowded streets and ferries and trains! Indeed, Thirty-fourth -Street near the ferry was packed with people -carrying bags and parasols and all but fighting each -other to gain access to the dozen or more ticket windows. -The boat on which we crossed was packed to suffocation, -and all such ferries as led to Manhattan Beach of summer -week-ends for years afterward, or until the automobile -arrived, were similarly crowded. The clerk and -his prettiest girl, the actress and her admirer, the actor -and his playmate, brokers, small and exclusive tradesmen, -men of obvious political or commercial position, -their wives, daughters, relatives and friends, all were -outbound toward this much above the average resort.</p> - -<p>It was some such place, I found, as Atlantic City and -Asbury Park are to-day, yet considerably more restricted. -There was but one way to get there, unless one could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span> -travel by yacht or sail-boat, and that was via train service -across Long Island. As for carriage roads to this -wonderful place there were none, the intervening distance -being in part occupied by marsh grass and water. -The long, hot, red trains leaving Long Island City -threaded a devious way past many pretty Long Island -villages, until at last, leaving possible home sites behind, -the road took to the great meadows on trestles, and -traversing miles of bending marsh grass astir in the -wind, and crossing a half hundred winding and mucky -lagoons where lay water as agate in green frames and -where were white cranes, their long legs looking like -reeds, standing in the water or the grass, and the occasional -boat of a fisherman hugging some mucky bank, -it arrived finally at the white sands of the sea and this -great scene. White sails of small yachts, the property -of those who used some of these lagoons as a safe harbor, -might be seen over the distant grass, their sails -full spread, as one sped outward on these trains. It -was romance, poetry, fairyland.</p> - -<p>And the beach, with its great hotels, held and contained -all summer long all that was best and most -leisurely and pleasure-loving in New York’s great middle -class of that day. There were, as I knew all the time, -other and more exclusive or worse beaches, such as -those at Newport and Coney Island, but this was one -which served a world which was plainly between the two, -a world of politicians and merchants, and dramatic and -commercial life generally. I never saw so many prosperous-looking -people in one place, more with better and -smarter clothes, even though they were a little showy.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span> -The straw hat with its blue or striped ribbon, the flannel -suit with its accompanying white shoes, light cane, the -pearl-gray derby, the check suit, the diamond and pearl -pin in necktie, the silk shirt. What a cool, summery, -airy-fairy realm!</p> - -<p>And the women! I was young and not very experienced -at the time, hence the effect, in part. But as I -stepped out of the train at the beach that day and -walked along the boardwalks which paralleled the sea, -looking now at the blue waters and their distant white -sails, now at the great sward of green before the hotels -with its formal beds of flowers and its fountains, and -now at the enormous hotels themselves, the Manhattan -and the Oriental, each with its wide veranda packed -with a great company seated at tables or in rockers, -eating, drinking, smoking and looking outward over -gardens to the blue sea beyond, I could scarcely believe -my eyes—the airy, colorful, summery costumes of the -women who made it, the gay, ribbony, flowery hats, the -brilliant parasols, the beach swings and chairs and -shades and the floating diving platforms. And the -costumes of the women bathing. I had never seen a -seaside bathing scene before. It seemed to me that the -fabled days of the Greeks had returned. These were -nymphs, nereids, sirens in truth. Old Triton might -well have raised his head above the blue waves and -sounded his spiral horn.</p> - -<p>And now my brother explained to me that here in -these two enormous hotels were crowded thousands who -came here and lived the summer through. The wealth, -as I saw it then, which permitted this! Some few Western<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span> -senators and millionaires brought their yachts and -private cars. Senator Platt, the State boss, along with -one or more of the important politicians of the State, -made the Oriental, the larger and more exclusive of the -two hotels, his home for the summer. Along the verandas -of these two hotels might be seen of a Saturday -afternoon or of a Sunday almost the entire company -of Brooklyn and New York politicians and bosses, basking -in the shade and enjoying the beautiful view and -the breezes. It was no trouble for any one acquainted -with the city to point out nearly all of those most famous -on Broadway and in the commercial and political worlds. -They swarmed here. They lolled and greeted and -chatted. The bows and the recognitions were innumerable. -By dusk it seemed as though nearly all had nodded -or spoken to each other.</p> - -<p>And the interesting and to me different character of -the amusements offered here! Out over the sea, at one -end of the huge Manhattan Hotel, had been built a circular -pavilion of great size, in which by turns were -housed Seidl’s great symphony orchestra and Sousa’s -band. Even now I can hear the music carried by the -wind of the sea. As we strolled along the beach wall or -sat upon one or the other of the great verandas we could -hear the strains of either the orchestra or the band. -Beyond the hotels, in a great field surrounded by a board -fence, began at dusk, at which time the distant lighthouses -over the bay were beginning to blink, a brilliant -display of fireworks, almost as visible to the public as -to those who paid a dollar to enter the grounds. Earlier -in the afternoon I saw many whose only desire appeared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span> -to be to reach the race track in time for the afternoon -races. There were hundreds and even thousands of -others to whom the enclosed beach appeared to be all. -The hundreds of dining-tables along the veranda of -the Manhattan facing the sea seemed to call to still -other hundreds. And yet again the walks among the -parked flowers, the wide walk along the sea, and the more -exclusive verandas of the Oriental, which provided no -restaurant but plenty of rocking-chairs, seemed to draw -still other hundreds, possibly thousands.</p> - -<p>But the beauty of it all, the wonder, the airy, insubstantial, -almost transparent quality of it all! Never -before had I seen the sea, and here it was before me, -a great, blue, rocking floor, its distant horizon dotted -with white sails and the smoke of but faintly visible -steamers dissolving in the clear air above them. Wide-winged -gulls were flying by. Hardy rowers in red and -yellow and green canoes paddled an uncertain course -beyond the breaker line. Flowers most artfully arranged -decorated the parapet of the porch, and about -us rose a babel of laughing and joking voices, while -from somewhere came the strains of a great orchestra, -this time within one of the hotels, mingling betimes with -the smash of the waves beyond the seawall. And as -dusk came on, the lights of the lighthouses, and later -the glimmer of the stars above the water, added an -impressive and to me melancholy quality to it all. It was -so insubstantial and yet so beautiful. I was so wrought -up by it that I could scarcely eat. Beauty, beauty, -beauty—that was the message and the import of it all, -beauty that changes and fades and will not stay. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span> -the eternal search for beauty. By the hard processes -of trade, profit and loss, and the driving forces of -ambition and necessity and the love of and search for -pleasure, this very wonderful thing had been accomplished. -Unimportant to me then, how hard some of -these people looked, how selfish or vain or indifferent! -By that which they sought and bought and paid for -had this thing been achieved, and it was beautiful. How -sweet the sea here, how beautiful the flowers and the -music and these parading men and women. I saw women -and girls for the favor of any one of whom, in the first -flush of youthful ebullience and ignorance, I imagined -I would have done anything. And at the very same time -I was being seized with a tremendous depression and -dissatisfaction with myself. Who was I? What did I -amount to? What must one do to be worthy of all -this? How little of all this had I known or would -ever know! How little of true beauty or fortune or -love! It mattered not that life for me was only then -beginning, that I was seeing much and might yet see -much more; my heart was miserable. I could have -invested and beleaguered the world with my unimportant -desires and my capacity. How dare life, with its brutal -non-perception of values, withhold so much from one so -worthy as myself and give so much to others? Why -had not the dice of fortune been loaded in my favor -instead of theirs? Why, why, why? I made a very -doleful companion for my very good brother, I am -sure.</p> - -<p>And yet, at that very time I was asking myself who -was I that I should complain so, and why was I not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span> -content to wait? Those about me, as I told myself, were -better swimmers, that was all. There was nothing to -be done about it. Life cared no whit for anything -save strength and beauty. Let one complain as one -would, only beauty or strength or both would save one. -And all about, in sky and sea and sun, was that relentless -force, illimitable oceans of it, which seemed not to -know man, yet one tiny measure of which would make -him of the elect of the earth. In the dark, over the -whispering and muttering waters, and under the bright -stars and in eyeshot of the lamps of the sea, I hung -brooding, listening, thinking; only, after a time, to -return to the hot city and the small room that was -mine to meditate on what life could do for one if it -would. The flowers it could strew in one’s path! The -beauty it could offer one—without price, as I then -imagined—the pleasures with which it could beset one’s -path.</p> - -<p>With what fever and fury it is that the heart seeks in -youth. How intensely the little flame of life burns! -And yet where is its true haven? What is it that will -truly satisfy it? Has any one ever found it? In subsequent -years I came by some of the things which my -soul at that time so eagerly craved, the possession of -which I then imagined would satisfy me, but was mine or -any other heart ever really satisfied? No. And again -no.</p> - -<p>Each day the sun rises, and with it how few with whom -a sense of contentment dwells! For each how many old -dreams unfulfilled, old and new needs unsatisfied. -Onward, onward is the lure; what life may still do, not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span> -what it has done, is the all-important. And to ask of -any one that he count his blessings is but an ungrateful -bit of meddling at best. He will none of it. At twenty, -at thirty, at sixty, at eighty, the lure is still there, -however feeble. More and ever more. Only the wearing -of the body, the snapping of the string, the weakening -of the inherent urge, ends the search. And with -it comes the sad by-thought that what is not realized -here may never again be anywhere. For if not here, -where is that which could satisfy it as it is here? Of -all pathetic dreams that which pictures a spiritual -salvation elsewhere for one who has failed in his dreams -here is the thinnest and palest, a beggar’s dole indeed. -But that youthful day by the sea!</p> - -<div class="tb larger">* * * * *</div> - -<p>Twenty-five years later I chanced to visit a home on -the very site of one of these hotels, a home which was a -part of a new real-estate division. But of that old, sweet, -fair, summery life not a trace. Gone were the great -hotels, the wall, the flowers, the parklike nature of the -scene. In twenty-five years the beautiful circular pavilion -had fallen into the sea and a part of the grounds of -the great Manhattan Hotel had been eaten away by winter -storms. The Jersey Coast, Connecticut, Atlantic -City, aided by the automobile, had superseded and effaced -all this. Even the great Oriental, hanging on for a -few years and struggling to accommodate itself to new -conditions, had at last been torn down. Only the beach -remained, and even that was changed to meet new conditions. -The land about and beyond the hotels had -been filled in, planted to trees, divided by streets and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span> -sold to those who craved the freshness of this seaside -isle.</p> - -<p>But of this older place not one of those with whom -I visited knew aught. They had never seen it, had but -dimly heard of it. So clouds gather in the sky, are -perchance illuminated by the sun, dissolve, and are -gone. And youth, viewing old realms of grandeur or -terror, views the world as new, untainted, virgin, a -realm to be newly and freshly exploited—as, in truth, -it ever is.</p> - -<p>But we who were——!</p> - -<div id="ip_128" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;"> - <img src="images/i_128.jpg" width="474" height="416" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_18">THE BREAD-LINE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> is such an old subject in New York. It has been -here so long. For thirty-five or forty years newspapers -and magazines have discussed the bread-line, and yet -there it is, as healthy and vigorous a feature of the -city as though it were something to be desired. And -it has grown from a few applicants to many, from a -small line to a large one. And now it is a sight, an institution, -like a cathedral or a monument.</p> - -<p>A curious thing, when you come to think of it. Poverty -is not desirable. Its dramatic aspect may be worth -something to those who are not poor, for prosperous -human nature takes considerable satisfaction in proclaiming: -“Lord, I am not as other men,” and having -it proved to itself. But this thing, from any point of -view is a pathetic and a disagreeable thing, something -you would feel the city as a corporation would prefer -to avoid. And yet there it is.</p> - -<p>For the benefit of those who have not seen it I will -describe it again, though the task is a wearisome one -and I have quite another purpose than that of description -in doing so. The scene is the side door of a bakery, -once located at Ninth Street and Broadway, and now -moved to Tenth and Broadway, the line extending toward -the west and Fifth Avenue, where formerly it was -to the east and Fourth Avenue. It is composed of the -usual shabby figures, men of all ages, from fifteen or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> -younger to seventy. The line is not allowed to form -before eleven o’clock, and at this hour perhaps a single -figure will shamble around the corner and halt on the -edge of the sidewalk. Then others, for though they appear -to come slowly, some dubiously, they almost all -arrive one at a time. Haste is seldom manifest in their -approach. Figures appear from every direction, limping -slowly, slouching stupidly, or standing with assumed -or real indifference, until the end of the line is reached, -when they take their places and wait.</p> - -<p>A low murmur of conversation begins after a time, -but for the most part the men stand in stupid, unbroken -silence. Here and there may be two or three talkative -ones, and if you pass close enough you will hear every -topic of the times discussed or referred to, except those -which are supposed to interest the poor. Wretchedness, -poverty, hunger and distress are seldom mentioned. -The possibilities of a match between prize-ring favorites, -the day’s evidence in the latest murder trial, the chance -of war somewhere, the latest improvements in automobiles, -a flying machine, the prosperity or depression -of some other portion of the world, or the mistakes of -the government at Washington—these, or others like -them, are the topics of whatever conversation is held. -It is for the most part a rambling, disconnected conversation.</p> - -<p>“Wait until Dreyfus gets out of prison,” said one to -his little black-eyed neighbor one night, years ago, “and -you’ll see them guys fallin’ on his neck.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t,” the other -muttered. “Them Frenchmen ain’t strong for Jews.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span> -The passing of a Broadway car awakens a vague idea -of progress, and some one remarks: “They’ll have them -things runnin’ by compressed air before we know it.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve driv’ mule-cars by here myself,” replies another.</p> - -<p>A few moments before twelve a great box of bread is -pushed outside the door, and exactly on the hour a -portly, round-faced German takes his position by it, -and calls: “Ready!” The whole line at once, like a -well-drilled company of regulars, moves quickly, in good -marching time, diagonally across the sidewalk to the -inner edge and pushes, with only the noise of tramping -feet, past the box. Each man reaches for a loaf and, -breaking line, wanders off by himself. Most of them do -not even glance at their bread but put it indifferently -under their coats or in their pockets. They betake themselves -heaven knows where—to lodging houses, park -benches (if it be summer), hall-bedrooms possibly, although -in most cases it is doubtful if they possess one, or -to charitable missions of the poor. It is a small thing to -get, a loaf of dry bread, but from three hundred to four -hundred men will gather nightly from one year’s end to -the other to get it, and so it has its significance.</p> - -<p>The thing that I protest against is that it endures. -It would be so easy, as it seems to me, in a world of even -moderate organization to do something that would end a -spectacle of this kind once and for all, if it were no more -than a law to destroy the inefficient. I say this not in -cruelty but more particularly with the intention of awakening -thought. There is so much to do. In America the -nation’s roads have not even begun to be made. Over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span> -vast stretches of the territory of the world the land is -not tilled. There is not a tithe made of what the rank -and file could actually use. Most of us are wanting -strenuously for something.</p> - -<p>A rule that would cause the arrest of a man in this -situation would be merciful. A compulsory labor system -that would involve regulation of hours, medical -treatment, restoration of health, restoration of courage, -would soon put an end to the man who is “down and -out.” He would of course be down and out to the -extent that he had fallen into the clutches of this -machine, but he would at least be on the wheel that might -bring him back or destroy him utterly. It is of no use to -say that life cannot do anything for the inefficient. It -can. It does. And the haphazard must, and in the main -does, give way to the well-organized. And the injured -man need not be allowed to bleed to death. If a man -is hurt accidentally a hospital wagon comes quickly. If -he is broken in spirit, moneyless, afraid, nothing is done. -Yet he is in far greater need of the hospital wagon than -the other. The treatment should be different, that is all.</p> - -<div id="ip_132" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;"> - <img src="images/i_132.jpg" width="552" height="344" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_19">OUR RED SLAYER</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">If</span> you wish to see an exemplification of the law of -life, the survival of one by the failure and death of -another, go some day to any one of the great abattoirs -which to-day on the East River, or in Jersey City, or elsewhere -near the great metropolis receive and slay annually -the thousands and hundreds of thousands of -animals that make up a part of the city’s meat supply. -And there be sure and see, also, the individual who, as -your agent and mine, is vicariously responsible for the -awful slaughter. You will find him in a dark, red -pit, blood-covered, standing in a sea of blood, while -hour after hour and day after day there passes before -him a line of screaming animals, hung by one leg, head -down, and rolling steadily along a rail, which is slanted -to get the benefit of gravity, while he, knife in hand, -jabs unweariedly at their throats, the task of cutting -their throats so that they may die of bleeding and -exhaustion having become a wearisome and commonplace -labor, one which he scarcely notices at all. He is a -blood-red slayer, this individual, a butcher by trade, big, -brawny, muscular, but clothed from head to foot in a tarpaulin -coat and cap, which from long spattering by the -blood of animals he has slain, have become this darksome<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span> -red. Day after day and month after month here you -may see him—your agent and mine—the great world -wagging its way, the task of destroying life never becoming -less arduous, the line of animals never becoming less -thin.</p> - -<p>A peculiar life to lead, is it not? One would think -a man of any sensibility would become heartsick, or at -the least, revolted and disgusted; but this man does not -seem to be. Rather, he takes it as a matter of course, -a thing which has no significance, any more than the -eating of his food or the washing of his hands. Since -it is a matter of business or of living, and seeing that -others live by his labor, he does not care.</p> - -<p>But it has significance. These creatures we see thus -automatically and hopelessly trundling down a rail of -death are really not so far removed from us in the scale -of existence. You will find them but a little way down -the ladder of mind, climbing slowly and patiently towards -those heights to which we think we have permanently -attained. There is a force back of them, a law -which wills their existence, and they do not part with it -readily. There is a terror of death for them as there is -for us, and you will see it here exemplified, the horror -that makes them run cold with the knowledge of their -situation.</p> - -<p>You will hear them squeal, the hogs; you will hear -them baa, the sheep; you will hear the grinding clank of -the chains and see the victims dropping: hogs, half-alive,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span> -into the vats of boiling water; the sheep into the -range of butchers and carvers who flay them half-alive; -while our red representative—yours and mine—stands -there, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, that we who are not -sheep or hogs and who pay him for his labor may live -and be merry and not die. Strange, isn’t it?</p> - -<p>A gruesome labor. A gruesome picture. We have -been flattering ourselves these many centuries that our -civilization had somehow got away from this old-time law -of life living on death, but here amid all the gauds and -refinements of our metropolitan life we find ourselves -confronted by it, and here stands our salaried red man -who murders our victims for us, while we look on indifferently, -or stranger yet, remain blissfully unconscious -that the bloody labor is in existence.</p> - -<p>We live in cities such as this; crowd ourselves in ornamented -chambers as much as possible; walk paths from -which all painful indications of death have been eliminated, -and think ourselves clean and kind and free of -the old struggle, and yet behold our salaried agent -ever at work; and ever the cry of the destroyed is -rising to what heaven we know not, nor to what gods. -We dream dreams of universal brotherhood and prate -of the era of coming peace, but this slaughter is a -stumbling-block over which we may not readily vault. -It augurs something besides peace and love in this world. -It forms a great commentary on the arrangement of -the universe.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> -And yet this revolting picture is not without its relieving -feature, though alas! the little softness visible -points no way by which the victims may be spared. -The very butcher is a human being, a father with little -children. One day, after a discouraging hour of this -terrible panorama, I walked out into the afternoon sunlight -only to brood over the tragedy and terror of it all. -This man struck me as a demon, a chill, phlegmatic, -animal creature whose horrible eyes would contain no -light save that of non-understanding and indifference. -Moved by some curious impulse, I made my way to his -home—to the sty where I expected to find him groveling—and -found instead a little cottage, set about with grass -and flowers, and under a large tree a bench. Here was -my murderer sitting, here taking his evening’s rest.</p> - -<p>The sun was going down, the shadows beginning to -fall. In the cool of the evening he was taking his ease, -a rough, horny-handed man, large and uncouth, but on -his knee a child. And such a child—young, not over -two years, soft and delicate, with the bloom of babyhood -on its cheek and the light of innocence in its eye; -and here was this great murderer stroking it gently, -the red man touching it softly with his hand.</p> - -<p>I stood and looked at this picture, the thought of the -blood-red pit coming back to me, the gouts of blood, -the knife, the cries of his victims, the death throes; and -then at this green grass and this tree and the father and -his child.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span> -Heaven forefend against the mysteries of life and -its dangers. We know in part, we believe in part, but -these things surpass the understanding of man and -make our humble consciousness reel with the inexplicable -riddle of existence. To live, to die, to be generous, to -be brutal! How in the scheme of things are the conditions -and feelings inextricably jumbled, and how we -grope and stumble through our days to our graves!</p> - -<div id="ip_137" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 14em;"> - <img src="images/i_137.jpg" width="224" height="215" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_20">WHENCE THE SONG</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Along</span> Broadway in the height of the theatrical season, -but more particularly in that laggard time from -June to September, when the great city is given over -to those who may not travel, and to actors seeking -engagements, there is ever to be seen a certain representative -figure, now one individual and now another, -of a world so singular that it might well engage the pen -of a Balzac or that of a Cervantes. I have in mind an -individual whose high hat and smooth Prince Albert -coat are still a delicious presence. In his coat lapel is -a ruddy boutonnière, in his hand a novel walking-stick. -His vest is of a gorgeous and affluent pattern, his shoes -shiny-new and topped with pearl-gray spats. With -dignity he carries his body and his chin. He is the -cynosure of many eyes, the envy of all men, and he -knows it. He is the successful author of the latest -popular song.</p> - -<p>Along Broadway, from Union to Greeley Squares, any -fair day during the period of his artistic elevation, he -is to be seen. Past the rich shops and splendid theaters -he betakes himself with leisurely grace. In Thirtieth -Street he may turn for a few moments, but it is only -to say good-morning to his publishers. In Twenty-eighth -Street, where range the host of those who rival his -successful house, he stops to talk with lounging actors -and ballad singers. Well-known variety stars nod to -him familiarly. Women whose sole claim to distinction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span> -lies in their knack of singing a song, smile in greeting -as he passes. Occasionally there comes a figure of a -needy ballad-monger, trudging from publisher to publisher -with an unavailable manuscript, who turns upon -him, in passing, the glint of an envious glance. To these -he is an important figure, satisfied as much with their -envy as with their praise, for is not this also his due, -the reward of all who have triumphed?</p> - -<p>I have in mind another figure, equally singular: a -rouged and powdered little maiden, rich in feathers -and ornaments of the latest vogue; gloved in blue and -shod in yellow; pretty, self-assured, daring, and even -bold. There has gone here all the traditional maidenly -reserve you would expect to find in one so young and -pleasing, and yet she is not evil. The daughter of a -Chicago butcher, you knew her when she first came to -the city—a shabby, wondering little thing, clerk to a -music publisher transferring his business east, and all -eyes for the marvels of city life.</p> - -<p>Gradually the scenes and superlatives of elegance, -those showy men and women coming daily to secure or -sell songs, have aroused her longings and ambitions. -Why may not she sing, why not she be a theatrical -celebrity? She will. The world shall not keep her -down. That elusive and almost imaginary company -known as <em>they</em>, whose hands are ever against the young, -shall not hold her back.</p> - -<p>Behold, for a time, then, she has gone; and now, -elegant, jingling with silver ornaments, hale and merry -from good living, she has returned. To-day she is playing -at one of the foremost vaudeville houses. To-morrow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span> -she leaves for Pittsburgh. Her one object is still a salary -of five hundred or a thousand a week and a three-sheet -litho of herself in every window and upon every billboard.</p> - -<p>“I’m all right now,” she will tell you gleefully. “I’m -way ahead of the knockers. They can’t keep me down. -You ought to have seen the reception I got in Pittsburgh. -Say, it was the biggest yet.”</p> - -<p>Blessed be Pittsburgh, which has honored one who -has struggled so hard, and you say so.</p> - -<p>“Are you here for long?”</p> - -<p>“Only this week. Come up and see my turn. Hey, -cabbie!”</p> - -<p>A passing cabman turns in close to the walk with -considerable alacrity.</p> - -<p>“Take me to Keith’s. So long. Come up and see -my turn to-night.”</p> - -<p>This is the woman singer, the complement of the -male of the same art, the couple who make for the -acceptance and spread of the popular song as well as the -fame of its author. They sing them in every part of -the country, and here in New York, returned from a -long season on the road, they form a very important portion -of this song-writing, song-singing world. They and -the authors and the successful publishers—but we may -simplify by yet another picture.</p> - -<p>In Twenty-seventh or Twenty-eighth Street, or anywhere -along Broadway from Madison to Greeley -Squares, are the parlors of a score of publishers, gentlemen -who coördinate this divided world for song publishing -purposes. There is an office and a reception-room; -a music-chamber, where songs are tried, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> -stock room. Perhaps, in the case of the larger publishers, -the music-rooms are two or three, but the air -of each is much the same. Rugs, divans, imitation palms -make this publishing house more bower than office. -Three or four pianos give to each chamber a parlor-like -appearance. The walls are hung with the photos -of celebrities, neatly framed, celebrities of the kind -described. In the private music-rooms, rocking-chairs. -A boy or two waits to bring <em>professional copies</em> at a word. -A salaried pianist or two wait to run over pieces which -the singer may desire to hear. Arrangers wait to make -orchestrations or take down newly schemed out melodies -which the popular composer himself cannot play. He -has evolved the melody by a process of whistling and -must have its fleeting beauty registered before it escapes -him forever. Hence the salaried arranger.</p> - -<p>Into these parlors then, come the mixed company of -this distinctive world: authors who have or have not succeeded, -variety artists who have some word from touring -fellows or know the firm, masters of small bands -throughout the city or the country, of which the name -is legion, orchestra-leaders of Bowery theaters and uptown -variety halls, and singers.</p> - -<p>“You haven’t got a song that will do for a tenor, -have you?”</p> - -<p>The inquirer is a little, stout, ruddy-faced Irish boy -from the gas-house district. His common clothes are -not out of the ordinary here, but they mark him as -possibly a non-professional seeking free copies.</p> - -<p>“Sure, let me see. For what do you want it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m from the Arcadia Pleasure Club. We’re<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span> -going to give a little entertainment next Wednesday and -we want some songs.”</p> - -<p>“I think I’ve got just the thing you want. Wait till I -call the boy. Harry! Bring me some professional copies -of ballads.”</p> - -<p>The youth is probably a representative of one of the -many Tammany pleasure organizations, the members -of which are known for their propensity to gather about -east and west side corners at night and sing. One or -two famous songs are known to have secured their -start by the airing given them in this fashion on the -street corners of the great city.</p> - -<p>Upon his heels treads a lady whose ruffled sedateness -marks her as one unfamiliar with this half-musical, half-theatrical -atmosphere.</p> - -<p>“I have a song I would like to have you try over, if -you care to.”</p> - -<p>The attending publisher hesitates before even extending -a form of reception.</p> - -<p>“What sort of a song is it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t exactly know. I guess you’d call it a -sentimental ballad. If you’d hear it I think you -might——”</p> - -<p>“We are so over-stocked with songs now, Madam, that -I don’t believe there’s much use in our hearing it. Could -you come in next Friday? We’ll have more leisure then -and can give you more attention.”</p> - -<p>The lady looks the failure she has scored, but retreats, -leaving the ground clear for the chance arrival of the -real author, the individual whose position is attested -by one hit or mayhap many. His due is that deference<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> -which all publishers, if not the public, feel called upon -to render, even if at the time he may have no reigning -success.</p> - -<div id="ip_143" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29em;"> - <img src="images/i_142.jpg" width="456" height="511" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Whence the Song</div></div> - -<p>“Hello, Frank, how are you? What’s new?”</p> - -<p>The author, cane in hand, may know of nothing in -particular.</p> - -<p>“Sit down. How are things with you, anyhow?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, so-so.”</p> - -<p>“That new song of yours will be out Friday. We have -a rush order on it.”</p> - -<p>“Is that so?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and I’ve got good news for you. Windom is -going to sing it next year with the minstrels. He was -in here the other day and thought it was great.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s good.”</p> - -<p>“That song’s going to go, all right. You haven’t got -any others, have you?”</p> - -<p>“No, but I’ve got a tune. Would you mind having -one of the boys take it down for me?”</p> - -<p>“Surest thing you know. Here, Harry! Call Hatcher.”</p> - -<p>Now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and -jotting down of the new melody in a private room. The -favored author may have piano and pianist for an indefinite -period any time. Lunch with the publishers awaits -him if he remains until noon. His song, when ready, is -heard with attention. The details which make for its -publication are rushed. His royalties are paid with -that rare smile which accompanies the payment of anything -to one who earns money for another. He is to be -petted, conciliated, handled with gloves.</p> - -<p>At his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> -maybe, but almost intolerable because of certain -marked eccentricities of life and clothing. He is a -negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but able to -write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad.</p> - -<p>“Say, where’s that gem o’ mine?”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“That effusion.”</p> - -<p>“What are you talking about?”</p> - -<p>“That audience-killer—that there thing that’s goin’ -to sweep the country like wildfire—that there song.”</p> - -<p>Much laughter and apology.</p> - -<p>“It will be here Friday, Gussie.”</p> - -<p>“Thought it was to be here last Monday?”</p> - -<p>“So it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. You -know how those things are, Gussie.”</p> - -<p>“I know. Gimme twenty-five dollars.”</p> - -<p>“Sure. But what are you going to do with it?”</p> - -<p>“Never you mind. Gimme twenty-five bones. To-morrow’s -rent day up my way.”</p> - -<p>Twenty-five is given as if it were all a splendid joke. -Gussie is a bad negro, one day radiant in bombastic -clothing, the next wretched from dissipation and neglect. -He has no royalty coming to him, really. That is, he -never accepts royalty. All his songs are sold outright. -But these have earned the house so much that if he were -to demand royalties the sum to be paid would beggar -anything he has ever troubled to ask for.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t take no royalty,” he announces at one -time, with a bombastic and yet mellow negro emphasis, -which is always amusing. “Doan want it. Too much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span> -trouble. All I want is money when I needs it and wants -it.”</p> - -<p>Seeing that nearly every song that he writes is successful, -this is a most equitable arrangement. He could -have several thousand instead of a few hundred, but -being shiftless he does not care. Ready money is the -thing with him, twenty-five or fifty when he needs it.</p> - -<p>And then those “peerless singers of popular ballads,” -as their programs announce them, men and women -whose pictures you will see upon every song-sheet, their -physiognomy underscored with their own “Yours Sincerely” -in their own handwriting. Every day they are -here, arriving and departing, carrying the latest songs -to all parts of the land. These are the individuals who -in their own estimation “make” the songs the successes -they are. In all justice, they have some claim to the -distinction. One such, raising his or her voice nightly -in a melodic interpretation of a new ballad, may, if the -music be sufficiently catchy, bring it so thoroughly to -the public ear as to cause it to begin to sell. These -individuals are not unaware of their services in the -matter, nor slow to voice their claims. In flocks and -droves they come, whenever good fortune brings “the -company” to New York or the end of the season causes -them to return, to tell of their success and pick new -songs for the ensuing season. Also to collect certain -pre-arranged bonuses. Also to gather news and dispense -it. Then, indeed, is the day of the publisher’s -volubility and grace. These gentlemen and ladies must -be attended to with that deference which is the right<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span> -of the successful. The ladies must be praised and -cajoled.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear about the hit I made with ‘Sweet -Kitty Leary’ in Kansas City? I knocked ’em cold. Say, -it was the biggest thing on the bill.”</p> - -<p>The publisher may not have heard of it. The song, -for all the uproarious success depicted, may not have -sold an extra copy, and yet this is not for him to say. -Has the lady a good voice? Is she with a good company? -He may so ingratiate himself that she will yet -sing one of his newer and as yet unheard of compositions -into popularity.</p> - -<p>“Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear it. You have the -voice for that sort of a song, you know, Marie. I’ve got -something new, though, that will just suit you—oh, a -dandy. It’s by Harry Welch.”</p> - -<p>For all this flood of geniality the singer may only smile -indifferently. Secretly her hand is against all publishers. -They are out for themselves. Successful singers must -mind their P’s and Q’s. Payment is the word, some -arrangement by which she shall receive a stated sum -per week for singing a song. The honeyed phrases are -well enough for beginners, but we who have succeeded -need something more.</p> - -<p>“Let me show you something new. I’ve got a song -here that is fine. Come right into the music-room. -Charlie, get a copy of ‘She May Have Seen Better Days.’ -I want you to play it over for Miss Yaeger.”</p> - -<p>The boy departs and returns. In the exclusive music-room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span> -sits the singer, critically listening while the song -is played.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that a pretty chorus?”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes, I rather like that.”</p> - -<p>“That will suit your voice exactly. Don’t ever doubt -it. I think that’s one of the best songs we have published -in years.”</p> - -<p>“Have you the orchestration?”</p> - -<p>“Sure; I’ll get you that.”</p> - -<p>Somehow, however, the effect has not been satisfactory. -The singer has not enthused. He must try other -songs and give her the orchestrations of many. Perhaps, -out of all, she will sing one. That is the chance of the -work.</p> - -<p>As for her point of view, she may object to the quality -of anything except for that which she is paid. It is for -the publisher to see whether she is worth subsidizing -or not. If not, perhaps another house will see her -merits in a different light. Yet she takes the songs and -orchestrations along. And the publisher turning, as she -goes, announces, “Gee, there’s a cold proposition for you. -Get her to sing anything for you for nothing?—Nix. -Not her. Cash or no song.” And he thumbs his fingers -after the fashion of one who pays out money.</p> - -<p>Your male singer is often a bird of the same fine feather. -If you wish to see the ideal of dressiness as exemplified -by the gentlemen of the road, see these individuals arrive -at the offices of the publishers. The radiance of half-hose -and neckties is not outdone by the sprightliness of -the suit pattern or the glint of the stone in the shirt-front. -Fresh from Chicago or Buffalo they arrive, rich<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span> -in self-opinion fostered by rural praise, perhaps possessed -of a new droll story, always loaded with the details -of the hit they made.</p> - -<p>“Well, well! You should have seen how that song -went in Baltimore. I never saw anything like it. Why, -it’s the hit of the season!”</p> - -<p>New songs are forthcoming, a new batch delivered -for his service next year.</p> - -<p>Is he absolutely sure of the estimation in which the -house holds his services? You will hear a sequel to this, -not this day perhaps but a week or a month later, during -his idle summer in New York.</p> - -<p>“You haven’t twenty-five handy you could let me -have, have you, Pat? I’m a little short to-day.”</p> - -<p>Into the publisher’s eye steals the light of wisdom and -decision. Is this individual worth it? Will he do the -songs of the house twenty-five dollars’ worth of good -next season? Blessed be fate if there is a partner to -consult. He will have time to reflect.</p> - -<p>“Well, George, I haven’t it right here in the drawer, -but I can get it for you. I always like to consult my -partner about these things, you know. Can you wait -until this afternoon?”</p> - -<p>Of course the applicant can wait, and between whiles -are conferences and decisions. All things considered, -it may be advisable to do it.</p> - -<p>“We will get twenty-five out of him, any way. He’s -got a fine tenor voice. You never can tell what he -might do.”</p> - -<p>So a pleasant smile and the money may be waiting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span> -when he returns. Or, he may be put off, with excuses and -apologies. It all depends.</p> - -<p>There are cases, however, where not even so much -delay can be risked, where a hearty “sure” <em>must</em> be -given. This is to that lord of the stage whose fame as a -singer is announced by every minstrel billboard as “the -renowned baritone, Mr. Calvin Johnson,” or some such. -For him the glad hand and the ready check, and he is to -be petted, flattered, taken to lunch, dinner, a box theater -party—anything—everything, really. And then, there -is that less important one who has over-measured his -importance. For him the solemn countenance and the -suave excuse, at an hour when his need is greatest. -Lastly, there is the sub-strata applicant in tawdry, make-believe -clothes, whose want peeps out of every seam and -pocket. His day has never been as yet, or mayhap was, -and is over. He has a pinched face, a livid hunger, a -forlorn appearance. Shall he be given anything? Never. -He is not worth it. He is a “dead one.” Is it not enough -if the publisher looks after those of whose ability he is -absolutely sure. Certainly. Therefore this one must -slop the streets in old shoes and thin clothing, waiting. -And he may never obtain a dime from any publisher.</p> - -<p>Out of such grim situations, however, occasionally -springs a success. These “down and out” individuals -do not always understand why fate should be against -them, why they should be down, and are not willing to -cease trying.</p> - -<p>“I’ll write a song yet, you bet,” is the dogged, grim -decision. “I’ll get up, you bet.”</p> - -<p>Once in a while the threat is made good, some mood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span> -allowing. Strolling along the by-streets, ignored and -self-commiserating, the mood seizes them. Words bubble -up and a melody, some crude commentary on the contrasts, -the losses or the hopes of life, rhyming, swinging -as they come, straight from the heart. Now it is for -pencil and paper, quick. Any old scrap will do—the -edge of a newspaper, the back of an envelope, the edge -of a cuff. Written so, the words are safe and the melody -can be whistled until some one will take it down. -And so, occasionally, is born—has been often—the great -success, the land-sweeping melody, selling by the hundreds -of thousands and netting the author a thousand a -month for a year or more.</p> - -<p>Then, for him, the glory of the one who is at last successful. -Was he commonplace, hungry, envious, wretchedly -clothed before? Well, now, see! And do not talk -to him of other authors who once struck it, had their -little day and went down again, never to rise. He is not -of them—not like them. For him, now, the sunlight and -the bright places. No clothing too showy or too expensive, -no jewelry too rare. Broadway is the place for him, -the fine cafés and rich hotel lobbies. What about those -other people who looked down on him once? Ha! they -scorned him, did they? They sneered, eh? Would not -give him a cent, eh? Let them come and look now! -Let them stare in envy. Let them make way. He is a -great man at last and the whole world knows it. The -whole country is making acclaim over that which he -has done.</p> - -<p>For the time being, then, this little center of song-writing -and publishing is for him the all-inclusive of life’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span> -importance. From the street organs at every corner -is being ground the <em>one</em> melody, so expressive of his -personality, into the ears of all men. In the vaudeville -houses and cheaper concert halls men and women are -singing it nightly to uproarious applause. Parodies are -made and catch-phrases coined, all speaking of his work. -Newsboys whistle and older men pipe its peculiar notes. -Out of open windows falls the distinguished melody, -accompanied by voices both new and strange. All men -seem to recognize that which he has done, and for the -time being compliment his presence and his personality.</p> - -<p>Then the wane.</p> - -<p>Of all the tragedies, this is perhaps the bitterest, -because of the long-drawn memory of the thing. Organs -continue to play it, but the sale ceases. Quarter after -quarter, the royalties are less, until at last a few dollars -per month will measure them completely. Meanwhile -his publishers ask for other songs. One he writes, and -then another, and yet another, vainly endeavoring to -duplicate that original note which made for his splendid -success the year before. But it will not come. And, in -the meanwhile, other song-writers displace him for the -time being in the public eye. His publishers have a new -hit, but it is not his. A new author is being bowed to and -taken out to dinner. But he is not that author. A new -tile-crowned celebrity is strolling up his favorite Broadway -path. At last, after a dozen attempts and failures, -there is no hurry to publish his songs. If the period of -failure is too long extended he may even be neglected. -More and more, celebrities crowd in between him and -that delightful period when he was greatest. At last,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span> -chagrined by the contrast of things, he changes his publishers, -changes his haunts and, bitterest of all, his style -of living. Soon it is the old grind again, and then, if -thoughtless spending has been his failing, shabby clothing -and want. You may see the doubles of these in any -publisher’s sanctum at any time, the sarcastically referred-to -<em>has been</em>.</p> - -<p>Here, also, the disengaged ballad singer, “peerless -tenor” of some last year’s company, suffering a period -of misfortune. He is down on his luck in everything but -appearances, last year’s gorgeousness still surviving in -a modified and sedate form. He is a singer of songs, -now, for the publishers, by toleration. His one lounging-place -in all New York where he is welcome and not -looked at askance is the chair they may allow him. Once -a day he makes the rounds of the theatrical agencies; -once, or if fortune favors, twice a day he visits some -cheap eating-house. At night, after a lone stroll through -that fairyland of theaters and gaudy palaces to which, -as he sees it, he properly belongs—Broadway, he returns -to his bed, the carpeted floor of a room in some tolerant -publisher’s office, where he sleeps by permission, perhaps, -and not even there, too often.</p> - -<p>Oh, the glory of success in this little world in his -eye at this time—how now, in want, it looms large and -essential! Outside, as he stretches himself, may even -now be heard the murmur of that shiny, joyous rout -of which he was so recently a part. The lights, the -laughter; the songs, the mirth—all are for others. Only -he, only he must linger in shadows, alone.</p> - -<p>To-morrow it will come out in words, if you talk with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span> -him. It is in the publisher’s office, perhaps, where gaudy -ladies are trying songs, or on the street, where others, -passing, notice him not but go their way in elegance.</p> - -<p>“I had it once, all right,” he will tell you. “I had -my handful. You bet I’ll get it next year.”</p> - -<p>Is it of money he is thinking?</p> - -<p>An automobile swings past and some fine lady, looking -out, wakes to bitterness his sense of need.</p> - -<p>“New York’s tough without the coin, isn’t it? You -never get a glance when you’re out of the game. I -spend too easy, that’s what’s the matter with me. But -I’ll get back, you bet. Next time I’ll know enough to -save. I’ll get up again, and next time I’ll stay up, see?”</p> - -<p>Next year his hopes may be realized again, his dreams -come true. If so, be present and witness the glories of -radiance after shadow.</p> - -<p>“Ah, me boy, back again, you see!”</p> - -<p>“So I see. Quite a change since last season.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I should smile. I was down on my luck then. -That won’t happen any more. They won’t catch me. -I’ve learned a lesson. Say, we had a great season.”</p> - -<p>Rings and pins attest it. A cravat of marvelous -radiance speaks for itself in no uncertain tones. Striped -clothes, yellow shoes, a new hat and cane. Ah, the glory, -the glory! He is not to be caught any more, “you bet,” -and yet here is half of his subsistence blooming upon his -merry body.</p> - -<p><em>They</em> will catch him, though, him and all in the -length of time. One by one they come, old, angular -misfortune grabbing them all by the coat-tails. The -rich, the proud, the great among them sinking, sinking,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span> -staggering backward until they are where he was and -deeper, far deeper. I wish I could quote those little -notices so common in all our metropolitan dailies, those -little perfunctory records which appear from time to -time in theatrical and sporting and “song” papers, telling -volumes in a line. One day one such singer’s voice -is failing; another day he has been snatched by disease; -one day one radiant author arrives at that white -beneficence which is the hospital bed and stretches himself -to a final period of suffering; one day a black boat -steaming northward along the East River to a barren -island and a field of weeds carries the last of all that -was so gay, so unthinking, so, after all, childlike of -him who was greatest in his world. Weeds and a -headboard, salt winds and the cry of seagulls, lone -blowings and moanings, and all that light and mirth is -buried here.</p> - -<p>Here and there in the world are those who are still -singing melodies created by those who have gone this -unfortunate way, singers of “Two Little Girls in Blue” -and “White Wings,” “Little Annie Rooney” and “The -Picture and the Ring,” the authors of “In the Baggage -Coach Ahead” and “Trinity Chimes,” of “Sweet -Marie” and “Eileen”—all are here. There might be -recited the successes of a score of years, quaint, pleasing -melodies which were sung the land over, which even -to-day find an occasional voice and a responsive chord, -but of the authors not one but could be found in some -field for the outcasts, forgotten. Somehow the world -forgets, the peculiar world in which they moved, and -the larger one which knew them only by their songs.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span> -It seems strange, really, that so many of them should -have come to this. And yet it is true—authors, singers, -publishers, even—and yet not more strange is it than -that their little feeling, worked into a melody and a set -of words, should reach far out over land and water, -touching the hearts of the nation. In mansion and -hovel, by some blazing furnace of a steel mill, or through -the open window of a farmland cottage, is trolled the -simple story, written in halting phraseology, tuned as -only a popular melody is tuned. All have seen the -theater uproarious with those noisy recalls which bring -back the sunny singer, harping his one indifferent lay. -All have heard the street bands and the organs, the -street boys and the street loungers, all expressing a brief -melody, snatched from the unknown by some process -of the heart. Yes, here it is, wandering the land over -like a sweet breath of summer, making for matings and -partings, for happiness and pain. That it may not -endure is also meet, going back into the soil, as it does, -with those who hear it and those who create.</p> - -<p>Yet only those who venture here in merry Broadway -shall witness the contrast, however. Only they who meet -these radiant presences in the flesh will ever know the -marvel of the common song.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_21">CHARACTERS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">The</span> glory of the city is its variety. The drama of it -lies in its extremes. I have been thinking to-day of all -the interesting characters that have passed before me -in times past on the streets of this city: generals, statesmen, -artists, politicians, a most interesting company, -and then of another company by no means so distinguished -or so comfortable—the creatures at the other -end of the ladder who, far from having brains, or executive -ability, or wealth, or fame, have nothing save a -weird astonishing individuality which would serve to -give pause to almost the dullest. Many times I have -been compelled by sheer astonishment to stop in the -midst of duties that hurried me to contemplate some -weird creature, drawn up from heaven knows what -depths of this very strange and intricate city into the -clear, brilliant daylight of a great, clean thoroughfare, -and to wonder how, in all conscience, life had come to -produce such a thing. The eyes of them! The bodies! -The hats, the coats, the shoes, the motions! How often -have I followed amazedly for blocks, for miles even, attempting -to pigeonhole in my own mind the astonishing -characteristics of a figure before me, attempting to say to -myself what I really thought of it all, what misfortune or -accident or condition of birth or of mind had worked out -the sad or grim spectacle of a human being so distorted, -a veritable caricature of womanhood or manhood. On<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span> -the streets of New York I have seen slipping here and -there truly marvelous creatures, and have realized instantly -that I was looking at something most different, -peculiar, that here again life had accomplished an -actual <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">chef d’œuvre</i> of the bizarre or the grotesque or -the mad, had made something as strange and unaccountable -as a great genius or a great master of men. Only -it had worked at the other extreme from public efficiency -or smug, conventional public interest, and had -produced a singular variation, inefficient, unsocial, eccentric -or evil, as you choose, qualities which worked to -exclude the subject of the variation from any participation -in what we are pleased to call a normal life.</p> - -<p>I am thinking, for instance, of a long, lean faced, -unkempt and bedraggled woman, not exceptionally old, -but roughened and hardened by what circumstances I -know not into a kind of horse, whom once of an early -winter’s morning I encountered at Broadway and Fourteenth -Street pushing a great rattletrap of a cart in -which was piled old rags, sacks, a chair, a box and what -else I know not, and all this with long, lean strides and -a kind of determined titan energy toward the North -River. Her body was clad in a mere semblance of clothing, -rags which hung limp and dirty and close to her -form and seemingly wholly insufficient for the bitter -weather prevailing at the time. Her hair was coarse -and iron-gray, done in a shapeless knot and surmounted -by something in the shape of a small hat which might -have been rescued from an ashheap. Her eyes were fixed, -glassy almost, and seemingly unseeing. Here she came, -vigorous, stern, pushing this tatterdemalion cart, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span> -going God knows where. I followed to see and saw her -enter, finally, a wretched, degraded west side slum, in a -rear yard of which, in a wretched tumble-down tenement, -which occupied a part of it, she appeared to have a -room or floor. But what days and years of chaffering, -think you, were back of this eventual result, what years -of shabby dodging amid the giant legs of circumstances? -To grow out of childhood—once really soft, innocent -childhood—into a thing like this, an alley-scraping horse—good -God!</p> - -<p>And then the men. What a curious company they -are, just those few who stand out in my memory, whom, -from a mere passing opportunity to look upon, I have -never been able to forget.</p> - -<p>Thus, when I first came to New York and was on <i>The -World</i> there came into the reportorial room one cold -winter’s night a messenger-boy, looking for a certain -reporter, for whom he had a message, a youth who positively -was the most awkward and misshapen vehicle for -the task in hand that I have ever seen. I should say -here that whatever the rate of pay now, there are many -who will recall how little they were paid and how poorly -they were equipped—a tall youth, for instance, with a -uniform and cap for one two-thirds his size; a short one -with trousers six inches too long and gathered in plenteous -folds above his shoes, and a cap that wobbled -loosely over his ears; or a fat boy with a tight suit, or a -lean boy with a loose one. Parsimony and indifference -were the outstanding characteristics of the two most -plethoric organizations serving the public in that field.</p> - -<p>But this one. He was eighteen or nineteen (as contrasted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span> -with others of this same craft who were in the -room at this very time, and who were not more than -twelve or thirteen; that was before the child-labor -laws), and his face was too large, and misshapen, a grotesquerie -of the worst invention, a natural joke. His -ears were too big and red, his mouth too large and -twisted, his nose too humped and protruding, and his -square jaw stood out too far, and yet by no means forcefully -or aggressively. In addition, his hair needed cutting -and stuck out from underneath his small, ill-fitting -cap, which sat far up on the crown of his head. At the -same time, his pants and coat being small, revealed -extra lengths of naked red wrist and hands and made -his feet seem even larger than they were.</p> - -<p>In those days, as at present, it was almost a universal -practice to kid the messenger-boy, large or small, -whoever and wherever he was—unless, as at times he -proved to be, too old or weary or down on his luck; -and even then he was not always spared. In this instance -it chanced that the reporter for whom this youth -was looking was seated at a desk with myself and some -others. We were chatting and laughing, when suddenly -this apparition appeared.</p> - -<p>“Why, hello Johnnie!” called the one addressed, turning -and taking the message yet finding time to turn -on the moss-covered line of messenger-boy humor. “Just -in from the snow, are you? The best thing is never -to get a hair-cut in winter. Positively, the neck should -be protected from these inclement breezes.”</p> - -<p>“A little short on the pants there, James,” chipped -in a second, “but I presume the company figures that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span> -the less the baggage or equipment the greater the -speed, eh?”</p> - -<p>“In the matter of these suits,” went on a third, -“style and fit are necessarily secondary to sterling spiritual -worth.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, cut it!” retorted the youth defiantly.</p> - -<p>Being new to New York and rather hard-pressed -myself, I was throughout this scene studying this amazing -figure and wondering how any corporation could -be so parsimonious as to dress a starveling employee in -so shabby a way, and from what wretched circumstances -such a youth, who would endure such treatment and -such work, must spring. Suddenly, seeing me looking -at him and wondering, and just as the recipient of -the message was handing him back his book signed, -his face became painfully and, as it seemed to me, involuntarily -contorted with such a grimace of misery -and inward spiritual dissatisfaction as I had not seen -anywhere before. It was a miserable and moving -grimace, followed by a struggle not to show what he -felt. But suddenly he turned and drawing a big red -cold wrist and hand across his face and eyes and starting -for the door, he blurted out: “I never did have no home, -God damn it! I never did have no father or mother, -like you people, nor no chance either. I was raised -in an orphan asylum—” and he was gone.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” observed the youth who had started -this line of jesting, getting up and looking apologetically -at the rest of us, “this dam’ persiflage can be sprung -in the wrong place and at the wrong time. I apologize. -I’m ashamed of myself, and sorry too.”</p> - -<div id="ip_160" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_160.jpg" width="487" height="438" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">A Character</div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span> -“I’m sorry too,” said another, a gentlemanly Southerner, -whom later I came to know better and to like.</p> - -<p>But that boy!</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p>For years, when I was a youth and was reading daily -at the old Astor Library, there used to appear on the -streets of New York an old man, the spindling counterpart, -so far as height, weight and form were concerned, -of William Cullen Bryant, who for shabbiness of attire, -sameness of appearance, persistence of industry and yet -futility in so far as any worth while work was concerned -could hardly have been outclassed. A lodger at the Mills -Hotel, in Bleecker Street, that hopeless wayplace of -the unfortunate, he was also a frequenter of the Astor -Library, where, as I came to know through watching him -over months and years even, he would burrow by the -hour among musty volumes from which he made copious -notes jotted on paper with a pencil, both borrowed from -the library authorities. Year after year for a period -of ten years I encountered him from time to time wearing -the same short, gray wool coat, the same thin black -baggy trousers, the same cheap brownish-black Fedora -hat, and the same long uncut hair and beard, the former -curly and hanging about his shoulders. His body, even -in the bitterest weather, never supported an overcoat. -His hands were always bare and the wrists more or -less exposed. He came invariably with a quick, energetic -step toward the library or the Mills Hotel and -turned a clear, blue, birdlike eye upon whomsoever surveyed -him. But of ability—nothing, in so far as any one -ever knew. The library authorities knew nothing of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span> -anything he had ever achieved. Those who managed -the hotel of course knew nothing at all; they were not -even interested, though he had lived there for years. -In short, he lived and moved and had his being in want -and thinness, and finally died—leaving what? His -effects, as I was informed afterwards by the attendants -of the “hotel” which had housed him for years, consisted -of a small parcel of clothes, worthless to any save -himself, and a box of scribbled notes, relating to what -no one ever knew. They were disjointed and meaningless -scraps of information, I was told, and dumped -out with the ashes after his demise. What, think you, -could have been his import to the world, his message?</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p>And then Samuel Clampitt—or so a hand-lettered -scrawl over his gate read—who maintained a junk-yard -near the Harlem River and One Hundred and Thirty-eighth -Street. He was a little man, very dark, very -hunched at the shoulders, with iron-gray hair, heavy, -bushy, black eyebrows, a very dark and seamy skin, and -hands that were quite like claws. He bought and sold—or -pretended to—old bottles, tin, iron, rags, and the -like. His place was a small yard or space of ground -lying next to a coal-yard and adjoining the river, and -about this he had built, or had found there, a high -board fence. And within, whenever the gates were -opened and one was permitted to look in, were collections -of junk about as above tabulated, with, in addition, -some bits of iron fencing, old window-frames, part of -stair railings, gasoliers and the like. He himself was -rarely to be seen; I saw him no more than four or five<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span> -times during a period of three years in which I passed -his yard daily. But, having occasion once to dispose of a -collection of waste rags and clothing, I eventually sought -him out and found him, after trying his gate on an -average of once every two days during a period of two -weeks and more. The thing that interested me from -the first was that my tentative knockings at his gate, -which was always closed and very high, were greeted -by savage roars from several Great Danes that were -far within and that pawed the high gate whenever I -touched it or knocked. Yet eventually I did find him, -the gate being open and the dogs chained and he inside. -He was sitting in a dark corner of his little hut inside -the yard, no window or door giving onto the street, -and eating from a discolored tin pan on his lap which -held a little bread, a tomato and some sausage. The -thing that interested me most (apart from the fact -that he appeared to me more of a gnome than a man) -was these same dogs, now chained to a post a score -of feet from me and most savagely snarling and charging -as I talked. They were so savage and showed such -great, white, glistening teeth that I was eager to retreat -without waiting to complete my errand. However, -I managed to explain my purpose—but to no result. -He was not interested in my collection of junk, saying -that he only bought material that was brought to him.</p> - -<p>But the voice, so cracked and wheezy. And the eyes, -shining like sparks of light under his heavy brows. And -the thin, parchment-like, claw-like hands. He rasped -irritatingly with his throat whenever he talked, before -and after each word or sentence—“eck—eck—eck—I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span> -don’t go out to buy stuff—eck—eck—eck. I only buy -what’s brought here—eck—eck—eck. I don’t want any -old rags—eck—eck—eck—I have more than I can sell -now—eck—eck—eck.” Then he fell to munching -again.</p> - -<p>“Those look like savage dogs,” I ventured, hoping to -lure him into a conversation.</p> - -<p>It was not to be.</p> - -<p>“Eck—eck—eck—they need to be—eck—eck—eck.” -That was all. He fell silent and would say no more.</p> - -<p>I went out, curious as to what sort of a business this -was, anyhow, and leaving him to himself.</p> - -<p>But one morning, months later, turning a corner near -there, a region of empty lots and some old sealed and -untenanted storehouses, I found a crowd of boys following -and stoning an old man who, on my coming near -and then running to his rescue, I found to be this old -dealer. He was attempting to hide behind a signboard -which adjoined one of the storehouses. His face and -hands were already cut by stones and bleeding. He -was breathless and very much exhausted and frightened, -but still angry and savage. “They stoned me, the little -devils—eck—eck—eck. They hit me with rocks—eck—eck—eck. -I’ll have the law on ’em, I will—eck—eck—eck. -I’ll get the police after ’em—eck—eck—eck. -They’re always trying to break into my place and I -won’t let ’em—eck—eck—eck.”</p> - -<p>I wondered who could break into that place with -those dogs loose, who would attempt it.</p> - -<p>But that, as I found out later in conversation with -boys of the vicinity, was just the trouble. At various<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span> -times they had sought to enter to recover a tossed ball, -possibly to steal something, and he had set the dogs -(which were always unchained in his absence) on them; -or, they had been attacked by the dogs and in turn had -attempted to work him and them some injury.</p> - -<p>Yet for a period of three years after this, to my -knowledge, he continued to live there in that solitary -place, harassed no doubt in this way. If he ever did -any business I did not see it. The gates were nearly -always closed, himself rarely to be seen.</p> - -<p>Then one day a really terrible thing happened. Some -children—not these same wicked boys but others less -familiar with the neighborhood, I believe—were playing -ball in an open space adjoining, and a fly being struck, -the ball fell into the junk-yard. Three of the more -courageous ones, as the papers stated afterwards, -mounted the fence to see if they could get the ball, and -one of them, more courageous than the others, actually -leaped into the yard and was literally torn to bits -by these same dogs, all but eaten alive. And there was -no one to save him before he was dead. Old Clampitt -was not there.</p> - -<p>The horror was of course immediately reported to -the police, who came and killed the dogs and then -arrested Clampitt. A newspaper and police investigation -of his life revealed nothing save that he was -assumed to be an old junk-dealer who was eccentric, a -solitary, without relatives or friends. He claimed to -have kept the dogs for protection, also that he had -been set upon by youths of the vicinity and stoned, -which was true. Even so, he was held for weeks in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span> -jail pending this investigation of his connections. No -past crimes being found, apparently he was released. -But so terrified was he then by the furore his savage -dogs had aroused that he disappeared from this region -and was heard of no more. His old rag yard was -abandoned. But I often wondered about him afterwards, -the years he spent there alone.</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p>And then <i>Old Ragpicker</i>, whom I have described in -<i>Plays of the Natural and the Supernatural</i>, and who -was as described.</p> - -<p>And Hurstwood.</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p>As interesting a type as I ever knew was an old -hunchback who, as I understood, had had a small music -business in the Bowery, years and years ago when that -street was still a vaudeville center, a sort of theatrical -Broadway. Through experience he had come by a -little knowledge of popular songs and songbooks and -had engaged in the manufacture and sale of these -things. But times changed and public taste varied and -he was not able to keep up with it all. From little business -to no business was an easy step, and then he failed -and took lodgings in one of the side streets off the -Bowery, below Fourth Street, eking out a precarious -existence, heaven only knows how. Age had hounded -him even more than ill success. His naturally dark skin -darkened still further and his black eyes retreated into -gloomy sockets. I used to see him at odd times, at a -period when I lived in a vicinity near the Bowery, wending -a lonely way through the crowded streets there, but -never until he accosted me one night in the dark did<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> -I realize that he had become a beggar. A mumbled -apology about hunger, a deprecating, shamefaced cough, -and he was off again, the richer for a dime. In this -case, time, to say nothing of life, had worked one of -those disturbing grotesqueries which arrest one. He was -so very somber, furtive, misshapen and lean, a veritable -masque of a man whose very glance indicated inconsolable -disappointment and whose presence, to many, -would most certainly have come as an omen of failure. -A hall-bedroom, a lodging-house cot, an occasional meal, -some hidden corner in which to be at peace, in which to -brood, and then a few years later he was found dead, -alone, seated before a small table, his head leaning upon -his arms in the shabby little room in which he dwelt. I -know this to be true, for from time to time I made effort -to hear of him. What, think you, would he have to say -to his Creator if he might?</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p>And yet another character. One day I was walking -in Brooklyn in a very conservative neighborhood, when -I saw what I fancied I never should see, in America, a -woman furtively picking a piece of bread out of a garbage -can. I had read of such things in Balzac, Hugo, -Dickens—but where else? And she was not absolutely -wretchedly dressed, though her appearance was far from -satisfactory, and she had a tense expression about her -face which betokened stress of some kind. My astonishment -was such that I walked deliberately up to her and -asked: “What is the matter with you—are you hungry?”</p> - -<p>She had hidden the bread under her shawl as I -approached and may have dropped it as we walked, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span> -I did not see it again though her hands appeared. Yet -she refused to indulge in any conversation which would -explain.</p> - -<p>“I’m all right,” she replied.</p> - -<p>“But I saw you taking a piece of bread out of that -can?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want any money?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>She appeared to be confused and walked away from -me, edging toward the lines of fences to avoid -contact. I put my hand in my pocket to offer a coin, -but she hurried on. There was nothing to do but let -her go her way—a thing which seemed intensely cruel, -though there was apparently nothing else to do. I have -often thought of this one, dark, tense, dreary, and half -wondered whether it was all a dream or whether I -really saw it.</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p>But the city for me, in my time, has been flecked with -these shadows of disaster in the guise of decayed mortals -who stared at me out of hollow eyes in the midst of the -utmost gayety. You turn a corner laughing amid scenes -of enthusiasm and activity, perhaps, and here comes despair -along, hooded and hollow-eyed, accusing you of -undue levity. You dine at your table, serene in your -moderate prosperity, and in looks want, thin-lipped, and -pale, asking how can you eat when she is as she is. You -feel the health and vigor of your body, warmly clad, and -lo, here comes illness or weakness, thin and pining, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span> -with cough or sigh or halting step, cries: “See how I -suffer—and you—you have health!” Weakness confronts -strength, poverty wealth, health sickness, courage -cowardice, fortune the very depths of misfortune, -and they know each other not—or defy each other. Of -a truth, they either despise or fear, the one the other.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_22">THE BEAUTY OF LIFE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">The</span> beauty of life is involved very largely with the -outline of its scenery. There are many other things -which make up the joy of our world for us, but this -is one of the most salient of its charms. The stretch -of a level valley, the graceful rise of a hill, water running, -a clump or a forest of trees—these add to the -majesty of our being and show us how great a thing -our world really is.</p> - -<p>The significance of scenes in general which hold and -bind our lives for us, making them sweet or grim according -to the sharpness of our perceptions, is a wonderful -thing. We are passing among them every moment. A -new arrangement is had with every move we make. If -we but lift our eyes we see a variation which is forever -interesting and forever new.</p> - -<p>The fact significant is that every scene possesses that -vital instability which is the charm of existence. It is -forever changing. The waters are running, the winds -blowing, the light waxing and waning, and in the very -ground such currents are at work as produce and -modify all the visible life and color that we know. -Great forces are at work, strong ones, and our own -little lives are but a shadow of something that wills -activity and enjoys it, that wills beauty and is beauty. -The scenes that we see are purely representative of that.</p> - -<div id="ip_170" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_170.jpg" width="488" height="681" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Beauty of Life</div></div> - -<p>But how, in the picturing of itself to itself, is the spirit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> -of the universe revealed to us? Here are forces which at -bottom might be supposed to be anything—grim, deadly, -terrible—but on the surface how fair is their face. The -trees are beautiful—you would not suppose there was -anything deadly at work to create them. The water -is mellifluent, sweet—you could hardly assume that it -was grim in purpose or design. Every aspect of the -scene reveals something pleasing which could scarcely -have been the result of a cruel tendency, and yet we -know that cruelty exists, or if not cruelty at least a tendency -to contention—one thing striving with another and -wearing it away, feeding upon it, destroying it which is -productive of pain. And this element of contention -represents all the cruelty there is. And this is not what -is generally revealed in any scene.</p> - -<p>Before such a picture of combined beauty and contentiousness—however -graceful—life living upon life, in -order to produce at least a part of this beauty—the mind -pauses, wondering. It is so useless to quarrel with an -order which is compulsory and produces all that we know -of either joy or pain. This scene, as we look at it, is one -of the joys, one of the compensations, of our existence -which we must take whether we will or no, and which -satisfies us whether or not we are aware of the contentiousness -beneath. Even the contentiousness cannot be -wholly sneered at or regretted, for at worst it produces -the change which produces the other scenes and variations -of which our world is full, and at worst it gives our -life the edge of drama and tragedy, to say nothing of -those phases of our moods which make our world seem -beautiful.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span> -Pity the mind for whom the immediate scene, involved -as it is with change and decay and contentiousness, has -no direct appeal, for whom the clouds hanging in the -heavens, the wind stirring in the trees, the genial face -of the earth, spread before the eye, has no meaning. -Here are the birds daily circling in the air; here are -the waters running in a thousand varied forms; here -are the houses, the churches, the factories, and all their -curious array of lines, angles, circles, cones, or towers, -shafts and pinnacles which form ever new and pleasing -combinations to which the mind, confused by other -phases of life, can still turn for both solace and delight. -For one not so mentally equipped a world of imagery -is closed, with all that that implies: poetry, art, literature—one -might almost say religion, for upon so much -that is beautiful in nature does religion depend. To -be dull to the finer beauties of line and curve that -are forever beating upon the heart and mind—in earth, -in air, in water, in sky or space—how deadly! The dark -places of the world are full of that. Its slums and depths -reek with the misery that knows no response to the -physical beauty of nature, the wonder of its forms. To -perceive these, to see the physical face of life as beautiful, -to respond in feeling to the magnificent panoramas from -which the eye cannot escape, is to be at once strong -and wise mentally and physically, to have in the very -blood and brain the beauty, glory and power of all -that ever was or will be here on this earth.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_23">A WAYPLACE OF THE FALLEN</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">In</span> the center of what was once a fashionable section -of New York, but is now a badly deteriorated tenement -region, stands a hotel which to me is one of the curiosities -of New York. It is really not a hotel at all, in -one sense, and yet in another it is, a hybrid or cross -between a hotel and a charity, one of those odd philanthropies -of the early years following nineteen hundred, -which were supposed to bridge with some form of relief -the immense gap that existed between the rich and the -poor; a gap that was not supposed to exist in a republic -devoted to human brotherhood and the equality of man.</p> - -<p>Let that be as it will. Exteriorly at least it is really -a handsome affair, nine stories in height, with walls of -cream-colored brick and gray stone trimmings, and a -large, overhanging roof of dark-red curved tiles which -suggests Florence and the South. Set apart in an -open space it would be admirable. It is not, however, -as its appearance would indicate, a hotel of any distinction -of clientele, for it was built for an entirely different -purpose. And, despite the aim and the dreams of those -who sought to reach those who might be only temporarily -embarrassed, rather than whose who were permanently -so, and who might use this as a wayplace on their -progress upward rather than on their way downward, -still it is more the latter who frequent it most. It is -really a rendezvous for those who are “down and out.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span> -About the time that it was built, or a little after, I -myself was in a bad way. It was not exactly that I was -financially helpless or that I could not have come by -relief in one and another form, if my pride would have -let me, as that my pride and a certain psyche which, -like a fever or a passion, must take its course, would not -permit me to do successfully any of the things that -normally I could and would have done. I was nervous, -really very sick mentally, and very depressed. Life -to me wore a somber and at most times a forbidding air, -as though, indeed, there were furies between me and -the way I would go. Yet, return I would not. And -courage not lacking, a certain grim stubbornness that -would not permit me to retreat nor yet to ask for help, -at last for a brief period I took refuge here, as might -one beset by a raging gale at sea take refuge in some -seemingly quiet harbor, any port indeed, in order to -forfend against utter annihilation.</p> - -<div id="ip_174" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;"> - <img src="images/i_174.jpg" width="465" height="493" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">A Wayplace of the Fallen</div></div> - -<p>And a strange, sad harbor I found it to be indeed, a -nondescript and fantastic affair, sheltering a nondescript -and quite fantastic throng. The thin-bodied and -gray-bearded old men loitering out their last days here, -and yet with a certain something about them that suggested -courage or defiance, or at least a vague and -errant will to live. The lean and down-at-heels and -erratic-looking young men, with queer, restless, nervous -eyes, and queer, restless, deceptive and nervous manners. -And the chronic ne’er-do-wells, and bums even, pan-handlers, -street fiddle and horn players, street singers, -street cripples and beggars of one kind and another. -Some of them I had even encountered in the streets in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span> -my more prosperous hours and had given them dimes, -and here I encountered them again. They were all so -poor, if not physically or materially at least spiritually, -or so nearly all, as to make contact with them disconcerting, -if not offensive. For they walked, the most of -them, with an air of rundown, hopeless inadequacy that -was really disturbing to look upon. All of them were -garbed in clothing which was not good and yet which -at all times could not be said to be absolutely ragged. -Rather, in many cases it was more of an intermediate -character, such as you might expect to find on a person -who was out of a job but who was still struggling to -keep up appearances.</p> - -<p>You would find, for instance, those whose suits were -in a fair state of preservation but whose shoes were -worn or torn. Again, there were those whose hats and -shoes were good but whose trousers were worn and -frayed. Still others would show a good pair of trousers -or a moderately satisfactory coat, but such a gleam of -wretched linen or so poor and faded a tie, that one was -compelled to notice it. And the mere sight of it, as -they themselves seemed to realize by their furtive efforts -at concealment, was sufficient to convict them of want -or worse. Between these grades and conditions there -were so many other little gradations, such as the inadvertently -revealed edge of a cotton shirt under a somewhat -superior suit, the exposed end of a rag being used -for a handkerchief, the shifting edge of a false shirt -front, etc., so that by degrees one was moved to either -sympathy or laughter, or both.</p> - -<p>And the nature of the life here. It was such as to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span> -preclude any reasonable classification from the point of -view, say, of happiness or comfort. For all its exterior -pretentiousness and inner spaciousness, it offered nothing -really except two immense lounging-rooms or courts -about which the various tiers or floors of rooms were -built and which rose, uninterrupted, to the immense -glass roofs or coverings nine stories above. There were -several other large rooms—a reading-room, a smoking-room—equipped -with chairs and tables, but which could -only be occupied between 9 a.m. and 10 p.m., and which -were watched over by as surly and disagreeable a type of -orderly or guard as one would find anywhere—such -orderlies or guards, for instance, as a prison or an institution -of charity might employ. In fact, I never -encountered an institution in which a charge was made -for service which seemed to me more barren of courtesy, -consideration or welcome.</p> - -<p>We were all, as I soon found, here on sufferance. -During a long day that began between 9 a.m., at which -hour the room you occupied had to be vacated for the -day, and 5 p.m., when it might be reoccupied once more, -and not before, there was nothing to do but walk the -streets if one was out of work, as most of these were, or -sit in one or another of these same rooms filled with -these same nondescripts, who looked and emanated the -depression they felt and who were too taciturn or too -evasive or shy or despondent to wish to talk to anybody. -And in addition, neither these nor yourself were really -welcome here. For, if you remained within these lobbies -during the hours of nine and five daylight, these underlings -surveyed you, if at all, with looks of indifference or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> -contempt, as who should say, “Haven’t you anything at -all to do?” and most of those with whom you were in -contact could not help but feel this. It was too obvious -to be mistaken.</p> - -<p>But to return to the type of person who came here -to lodge. Where did they all come from? one was -compelled to ask oneself. How did it happen that they -were so varied as to age, vigor or the lack of it and the -like? For not all were old or sick or poorly dressed. -Some quite the contrary. And yet how did some of them -manage to subsist, even with the aid of such a place as -this? What was before them? These thoughts, somehow, -would intrude themselves whether one would or no. For -some of them were so utterly hopeless looking. And -others (I told myself) were the natural idlers of the -world, or what was left of them, men too feeble, too -vagrom in thought, or too indifferent to make an earnest -effort in any direction. At least there was the possibility -of many such being here. Again, there were -those of better mood and substance, like myself, say, -who were here because of stress, and who were temporarily -driven to this form of economy, wretched as -it was. Others were obviously criminals or drug fiends, -or those suffering from some incurable or wasting disease, -who probably had little money and no strength, or -very little, and who were seeking to hide themselves -away here, to rest and content themselves as obscurely -and as cheaply as possible. (The maximum charges for -a room and a free bath in the public bathroom, the same -including towels and soap, ranged from twenty-five to -forty cents a day. A meal in the hotel dining-room, such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span> -as it was, was fifteen cents. I ate several there.) Pick-pockets -and thugs from other cities drifted in here, and -it was not difficult to pick out an occasional detective -studying those who chose to stay here. For the rest, -they were of the flotsam and jetsam of all metropolitan -life—the old, the young, the middle-aged, the former -and the latter having in the main passed the period of -success without achieving anything, the others waiting -and drifting, perhaps until they should come upon something -better. Some of them looked to me to be men -who had put up a good fight, but in vain. Life had -worsted them. Others looked as though they had not -put up any fight at all.</p> - -<p>And, again, the nature of the rooms here offered (one -of which I was compelled to accept), the air or illusion -of cells in an institution or prison that characterized -them! They were really not rooms at all, as I found, -but cells partitioned or arranged in such a way as -to provide the largest amount of renting space and -personal supervision and espionage to the founder and -manager but only a bare bed to the guest. As I have -said, they were all arranged either about an inner court -or the exterior walls, so as to have the advantage of -interior or exterior lighting, quite as all hotels and -prisons are arranged. But the size of them and the -amazingly small windows through which one looked, -either into one or other of these courts or onto the -streets outside! They were not more than five feet in -width by eight in length, and contained each a small -iron bed, a single chair, and a very small closet or wardrobe -where some clothing might be installed, but so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> -little that it could hardly be called a convenience.</p> - -<p>And, again, the walls were really not walls at all, -but marble partitions set upon iron legs or jacks two -feet from the floor and reaching to within three feet -of the ceiling, which permitted the observation of one’s -neighbor’s legs from below, if you wished to observe -those conveniences, or of studying his entire chamber if -you chose to climb upon your bed and look over the top. -These open spaces were of course protected by iron -screens, which prevented any one entering save through -the door.</p> - -<p>It is obvious that any such arrangement would preclude -any sense of privacy. When you were in your cell -there came to you from all parts of the building the -sounds of a general activity—the shuffling of feet, the -clearing of throats, the rattling of dominoes in the -reading-room below, voices in complaint or conversation, -walkings to and fro, the slamming of doors here, -there and everywhere, and what not. Coupled with -this was the fact that the atmosphere of the whole building -was permeated with tobacco smoke, and tainted or -permeated with breaths in all degrees of strength from -that of the drunkard to that of the drug fiend or consumptive. -It was as though one were living in a weird -dream. You were presumed to be alone, and yet you -were not, and yet you were, only there was no sense of -privacy, only a sense of being separated and then -neglected and irritated.</p> - -<p>And the way these noises and this atmosphere continued -into the small hours of the morning was maddening. -There is something, to begin with, about poverty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span> -and squalor that is as depressing and destructive as a -gas or a chemic ferment. Poverty has color and odor -and radiation as strong as any gas or ferment. It -speaks. It mourns, and these radiations are destructive. -Hence the instinctive impulse to flee not only disease -but poverty.</p> - -<p>At ten o’clock all lights in the lobbies and halls were -supposed to be put out, and they were put out. There -being none in the rooms, all was dark. Before this you -would hear the shuffling of this throng bedward, and -the piling of chairs on tables in the lobbies for the -night in order that the orderlies of the hotel might -sweep afterwards. There followed a general opening -and shutting of doors and the sound made by individuals -here and there stirring among their effects in the dark -or straightening their beds. Finally, during the small -hours of the night, when peace was supposed to reign, -you would hear, whether you wished to or not, your -neighbor and your neighbor’s neighbor, even to the -extent of aisles and floors distant, snoring and coughing -or complaining. There were raucous demands from the -irritated to “cut it out” or “turn over,” and from others -return remarks as “go to hell. Who do you think you -are!”—retorts, sometimes brutal, sometimes merely irritable, -which, however, kept the night vocal and one -awake.</p> - -<p>When, however, all these little difficulties had been -finally ironed out and the last man had either quit -grumbling or decided to dispose of his thoughts in a less -audible way, there came an hour in which nature seemed -truly able, even here, to “knit up the raveled sleeve of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span> -care.” The noisy had now become silent, the nervous -peaceful. Throughout the whole establishment an -audible, rhythmic, synchronic breathing was now apparent. -You felt as though some great chemic or psychic -force were at work in the world, as though by some -strange hocus-pocus of chemistry or physics, life was still -capable of solving its difficulties, even though you were -not, and as though these misfits of soul and body were -still breathing in unison with something, as though -silence and shadow were parts of some shrewd, huge plan -to soothe the minds of the weary and to bring final order -out of chaos.</p> - -<p>In the morning, however, one awoke once more (at -least I did) to a still more painful realization of what it -means to be very poor. There were no conveniences, as I -found, at least none which were private. Your bath was -a public one, a shower only, one; of a series of spouting -discs in the basement, where you were compelled to foregather -with others, taking your clothes with you—for -unless you arose early you could not return to your -room. The towels, fortunately, were separate, except -for some roll-towels that served at washstands. The -general toilet was either a long trough or a series of -exposed closets, doorless segments extending along one -wall. The shaving-room consisted of the mirrors above -the washstands, nothing separate. Over all were the -guards loitering to see that nothing was misused.</p> - -<p>There is no question as to the necessity of such rigid, -almost prison-like control, perhaps, but the general effect -of it on one—or on me, let me say—was coarse and -bitter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span> -“Blime me” (the attendants were for some curious -reason mostly English), “you’d think there was no -other time but nine for ’im to come start shaving. I say, -you can’t do that. We’re closing ’ere now. Cut it out.”</p> - -<p>This to a shabby soul with a three days’ growth of -beard who has evidently not reached the stage where he -understands the regulations of the institution.</p> - -<p>“You’ll ’ave to quit splattering water ’ereabouts, I’m -telling you. This ain’t no bawth. If you want to do -that, go in the basement.”</p> - -<p>This to one who was not as careful about his shaving -as he might be.</p> - -<p>“You’ll ’ave to be moving out o’ ’ere now.”</p> - -<p>This to one who had fixed himself comfortably in the -lobby and who might be in the way of some orderly -who wanted to sweep or sprinkle a little sawdust. On -every hand, at every time, as I noticed, it was the orderly -or the hired servant, not the guest, who was the important -and superior person. And it seemed to me, after a -three days’ study of it, that they were really looking -for flaws and slight mistakes on the part of guests in -order that they might show their authority and proclaim -to the world their strength. It was discouraging.</p> - -<p>The saddest part of it was that this place, with all its -drawbacks, was still beyond the purse of many. Some, -as anyone could see, only came here between the hours -of ten in the morning and ten at night, the hours when -lounging in these lobbies was permitted, to loaf and -keep warm. They could not afford one of these palatial -rooms but must only loaf here by day. It was at least -warm and bright, and so, up to ten o’clock at night, not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span> -unsatisfactory. But having no room to go to at ten -at night, they must make their way out. And this -necessity, exposing them for what they were, bench-warmers, -soon made them known to the guards or orderlies, -who could be seen eyeing them, sometimes speaking -to them, suggesting that they come no more, that they -“cut it out.” They were bums, benchers, really below -the level of those who could afford to stop here, and so -beneath that level of contempt which was regularly -meted out to those who could stop here. I myself have -seen them sidling or slipping out at 9:30 or 9:45, and -with what an air—like that of a dog that is in danger of -a booting. I have also seen a man at closing time count -the remaining money in his possession, calculate a moment, -and then rise and slip out into the night. Men -such as these are not absolutely worthless, but they have -reached the lowest rung of the ladder, are going down, -not up, and beyond them is the Bowery, the hospital, and -the river—the last, I think, the most merciful of all.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_24">HELL’S KITCHEN</h2> -</div> - -<p>N. B. <span class="in1 firstword">When</span> I first came to New York, and for years -afterward, it was a whim of the New York newspapers -to dub that region on the West Side which lies between -Thirty-sixth and Forty-first Streets and Ninth Avenue -and the Hudson River as <i>Hell’s Kitchen</i>. There was -assumed to be operative there, shooting and killing -at will, a gang of young roughs that for savagery and -brutality was not to be outrivaled by any of the various -savage groups of the city. Disturbances, murders, riots, -were assumed to be common; the residents of this area -at once sullen and tempestuous. Interested by the stark -pictures of a slum life so often painted, I finally went -to reside there for a period. What follows is from -notes or brief pictures made at the time.</p> - -<div class="p1 b1 tb">* * * * *</div> - -<p class="p2">It is nine o’clock of a summer’s evening. Approaching -my place at this hour, suddenly I encounter a rabble -issuing out of Thirty-ninth Street into Tenth Avenue. -It is noisy, tempestuous, swirling. A frowsy-headed -man of about thirty-eight, whose face is badly lacerated -and bleeding and whose coat is torn and covered -with dust, as though he had been rolling upon the -ground, leads the procession. He is walking with -that reckless abandon which characterizes the movements -of the angry. A slatternly woman of doughy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span> -complexion follows at his heels. About them sways a -crowd of uncombed and stribbly-haired men and women -and children. In the middle of the street, directly on -a line with the man whom the crowd surrounds, but, to -one side and nearer the sidewalk walks another man, -undersized, thickset and energetic, who seems to take a -great interest in the crowd. Though he keeps straight -ahead, like the others, he keeps turning and looking, -as though he expected a demonstration of some sort. -No word is spoken by either the man or the woman, and -as the curious company passes along under the variable -glows of the store-lamps, shop-keepers and store-dealers -come out and make humorous comments, but seem to -think it not worth while to follow. I join the procession, -since this now relates to my interests, and finally shake -an impish, black-haired, ten-year-old girl by the arm -until she looks up at me.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>“Aw, he hit him with a banister.”</p> - -<p>“Who hit him?”</p> - -<p>“Why, that man out there in the street.”</p> - -<p>“What did he hit him for?”</p> - -<p>“I dunno,” she replies irritably. “He wouldn’t get -out of the room. They got to fightin’ in the hall.”</p> - -<p>She moves away from me and I ply others fruitlessly, -until, turning into Thirty-seventh Street, the -green lights of the police station come into view. The -object of this pilgrimage becomes apparent. I fall -silent, following.</p> - -<p>Reaching the station door, the injured man and his -woman attendant enter, while the thickset individual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> -who walked to one side, and the curious crowd remain -without.</p> - -<p>“Well?” says the sergeant within, glaring intolerantly -at the twain as they push before him. The appearance -of the injured man naturally takes his attention -most.</p> - -<p>“Lookit me eye,” begins the wounded man, with that -curious tone of injured dignity which the drunk and -disorderly so frequently assume. “That—” and he -interpolates a string of oaths descriptive of the man -who has assaulted him “—hit me with a banister leg.”</p> - -<p>“Who hit you? Where is he? What did he hit -you for?” This from the sergeant in a breath. The -man begins again. The woman beside him interrupts -with a description of her own.</p> - -<p>“Shut up!” yells the sergeant savagely, showing his -teeth. “I’ll ram me fist down your throat if you don’t. -Let him tell what’s the matter with him. You keep -still.”</p> - -<p>The woman, overawed by the threat, stops her tirade. -The man resumes.</p> - -<p>“He hit me with a banister leg.”</p> - -<p>“What for?”</p> - -<p>“It was this way, Captain. I went to call on this -here lady and that —— came in and wanted me to get -out of the room. I——”</p> - -<p>“What relation is this man to you?” inquires the -sergeant, addressing the woman.</p> - -<p>“Nothin’,” she replies blandly.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t the other man your husband?”</p> - -<div id="ip_186" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_186.jpg" width="486" height="503" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Hell’s Kitchen</div></div> - -<p>“No, he ain’t, the blank-blank-blank-blank ——”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span> -and you have a sweet string of oaths. “He’s a ——,” -and she begins again to ardently describe the assailant. -The man assists her as best he can.</p> - -<p>“I thought so,” exclaims the officer vigorously. “Now, -you two get the hell out of here, and stay out, before I -club you both. Get on out! Beat it!”</p> - -<p>“Ain’t you goin’ to lock him up?” demands the -victim.</p> - -<p>“I lock nothing,” vouchsafes the sergeant intolerantly. -“Clear out of here, both of you. If I catch you -coming around here any more I’ll give you both six -months.”</p> - -<p>He calls an officer from the rear room and the two -complainants, together with others who have ventured -in, myself included, beat a sullen retreat, the crowd -welcoming us on the outside. A buzz of conversation -follows. War is promised. When the victim is safely -down the steps he exclaims:</p> - -<p>“All right! I ast him to arrest him. Now let ’em -look out. I’ll go back there, I will. Yes, I will. I’ll -kill the bastard, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll show him -whether he’ll hit me with a banister leg, the ——,” -and as he goes now, rather straight and yet rhythmically -forward, his assailant, who has been opposite him all -the while but in the middle of the street, keeps an equal -and amusing pace.</p> - -<p>The crowd follows and turns into Thirty-ninth Street, -a half-block east of Tenth Avenue. It stops in front -of an old, stale, four-story red brick tenement. Some -of its windows are glowing softly in the night. On the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span> -third floor some one is playing a flute. Quiet and peace -seem to reign, and yet <span class="locked">this——</span></p> - -<p>“I’ll show him whether he’ll hit me,” insists the -injured man, entering the house. The woman follows, -and then the short, thickset man from the street. One -after another they disappear up the narrow stairs -which begin at the back of the hall. Some of the crowd -follows, myself included.</p> - -<p>Presently, after a great deal of scuffling and hustling -on the fourth floor, all return helter-skelter. They are -followed by a large, comfortably-built, healthy, white-shirted -Irish-American, who lives up there and who -has strength and courage. Before him, pathetically -small in size and strength, the others move, the mutilated -and still protesting victim among them. Apparently -he has been ejected from the room in which he had -been before.</p> - -<p>“I’ll show him,” he is still boasting. “I’ll see whether -he’ll hit me with a banister leg, the ——.”</p> - -<p>“That’s all right,” says the large Irishman with a -brogue, pushing him gently onto the sidewalk as he does -so. “Go on now.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll get even with him yet,” insists the victim.</p> - -<p>“That’s all right. I don’t care what you do to-morrow. -Go on now.”</p> - -<p>The victim turns and looks up at this new authority -fixedly, as though he knew him well, scratches his head -and then turns and solemnly walks away. The other -man does likewise. You wonder why.</p> - -<p>“It’s over now,” says the new authority to the -crowd, and he smiles as blandly as if he had been taking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> -part in an entertainment of some kind. The crowd -begins to dissolve. The man who drew the banister -leg or stick and who was to have been punished has also -disappeared.</p> - -<p>“But how is this?” I ask of some one. “How can he -do that?”</p> - -<p>“Him?” replies an Irish longshoreman who seems to -wish to satisfy my curiosity. “Don’t you know who -that is? It’s Patsy Finnerty. He used to be a champeen -prize-fighter. He won all the fights around here ten -years ago. Everybody knows him. He’s in charge -over at the steamship dock now, but they won’t fight -with him. If they did he wouldn’t give ’em no more -work. They both work for him once in a while.”</p> - -<p>I see it all in a blinding flash and go to my own room. -How much more powerful is self-interest as typified by -Patsy than the police!</p> - -<div class="tb larger">* * * * *</div> - -<p>It is raining one night and I hear a voice in the room -above mine, singing. It is a good voice, sweet and clear, -but a little weak and faint down here.</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem w20"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Tyro-al, Tyro-al! Tyro-al, Tyro-al!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ich hab dich veeder, O mine Tyro-al!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I know who lives up there by now: Mr. and Mrs. -Schmick and a little Schmick girl, about ten or eleven. -Being courageous in this vicinity because of the simplicity -of these people, the awe they have for one who -holds himself rather aloof and dresses better than they, -and lonely, too, I go up. In response to my knock a -little fair-complexioned, heavily constructed German<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span> -woman with gray hair and blue eyes comes to the -door.</p> - -<p>“I heard some one singing,” I say, “and I thought -I would come up and ask you if I might not come in -and listen. I live in the room below.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. Why, of course.” This with an upward -lift of the voice. “Come right in.” And although -flustered and red because of what to her seems an -embarrassing situation, she introduces me to her black-haired, -heavy-faced husband, who is sitting at the center -table with a zither before him.</p> - -<p>“Papa, here is a gentleman who wants to hear the -music.”</p> - -<p>I smile, and the old German arises, smiles and extends -me a welcoming hand. He is sitting in the center of -this combination sitting-room, parlor, kitchen and dining-room, -his zither, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on the table -before him.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know your name,” I say.</p> - -<p>“Schmick,” he replies.</p> - -<p>I apologize for intruding but they both seem rather -pleased. Also the little daughter, who is sitting in one -corner.</p> - -<p>“Were you singing?” I ask her.</p> - -<p>“No. Mamma,” she replies.</p> - -<p>I look at the gray-haired little mother and she shows -me even, white teeth in smiling at my astonishment.</p> - -<p>“I sing but very little,” she insists, blushing red. -“My woice is not so strong any more.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t you sing what you were singing just before -I came in?” I ask.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> -Without any of that diffidence which characterizes -so many of all classes she rises and putting one hand -on the shoulder of her heavy, solemn-looking husband, -asks him to strike the appropriate chord, and then -breaks forth into one of those plaintive folksongs of -the Tyrol which describes the longing of the singer -for his native land.</p> - -<p>“I have such a poor woice now,” she insists when she -concludes. “When I was younger it was different.”</p> - -<p>“Poor!” I exclaim. “It’s very clear and beautiful. -How old are you?”</p> - -<p>“I will be fifty next August,” she answers.</p> - -<p>This woman is possessed of a sympathetic and altogether -lovely disposition. How can she exist in Hell’s -Kitchen, amid grime and apparent hardness, and remain -so sweet and sympathetic? In my youth and ignorance -I wonder.</p> - -<div class="tb larger">* * * * *</div> - -<p>I am returning one day from a serious inspection -of the small stores and shops of the neighborhood. As -I near my door I am preceded up the street by three -grimy coal-heavers, evidently returning from work -in an immense coalyard in Eleventh Avenue.</p> - -<p>“Come on in and have a pint,” invites one great -hulking fellow, with hands like small coal-shovels. He -was, as it chanced, directly in front of my doorway.</p> - -<p>One of his two companions needs no second invitation, -but the other, a small, feeble-witted-looking individual, -seems uncertain as to whether to go on or stay.</p> - -<p>“Come on! Come on back and have a pint!” shouts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span> -the first coal-heaver. “What the hell—ain’t you no -good at all? Come on!”</p> - -<p>“Sure I am,” returns the other diffidently. “But I -ought to be home by half-past.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, home be damned! It won’t take long to drink -a pint. Come on.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” returns the other, grinning sheepishly.</p> - -<p>They go over the way to a saloon, and I pause in my -own door. Presently a little girl comes down, carrying -a tin pail.</p> - -<p>“Whose little girl are you?” I inquire, not recognizing -her.</p> - -<p>“Mamma ain’t home to-day,” she returns quickly.</p> - -<p>“Mamma?” I reply. “Why do you say that? I -don’t want your mamma. I live here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I thought you was the insurance man,” she -adds, grinning. “You look just like him.”</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you the coal man’s little girl?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Well, he just went into the saloon over there.”</p> - -<p>“Huh-uh. Mine’s upstairs, drunk. He must be Mr. -Kelly,” and she goes quickly on with her bucket.</p> - -<div class="tb larger">* * * * *</div> - -<p>I am sitting in my room one night, listening to the -sounds that float vaguely about this curious little unit -of metropolitan life, when a dénouement in the social -complications of this same coal-heaver’s life is reached. -I already know him now to be a rough man, for once or -twice I heard him damning his children very loudly. -But I did not suspect that there were likely to be complications<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span> -over and above the world of the purely -material.</p> - -<p>“Die frau hat sich selbst umgebracht!” (“The -woman has taken her life!”) I hear some one crying out -in the hall, and then there is such a running and shuffling -in the general hubbub. A score of tenants from the different -floors are talking and gesticulating, and in the -rear of the hall the door opening into the coal-heaver’s -dining-room is open. My landlady, Mrs. Witty, is on -the scene, and even while we gaze a dapper little -physician of the region, in a high hat and frockcoat, -comes running up the steps and enters the open door -in the rear.</p> - -<p>“The doctor! The doctor!” The word passes from -one to another.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” I ask, questioning a little girl whom -I had often seen playing tag on the sidewalk below.</p> - -<p>“She took poison,” she answers.</p> - -<p>“Who?”</p> - -<p>“That woman in there.”</p> - -<p>“The wife of the coal man?”</p> - -<p>“Sure.”</p> - -<p>“What did she take it for?”</p> - -<p>“I dunno. Here comes another doctor—look!”</p> - -<p>Another young doctor is hurrying up the steps.</p> - -<p>While we are still gaping at the opening and closing -door, Mrs. Schmick, the little German woman who sang -for me, comes out. She has evidently been laboring -in the sick room and seems very much excited.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span> -“Is she dead?” ask a half-dozen people as she hurries -upstairs for something.</p> - -<p>“No-oh,” she answers, puckering up her mouth in -her peculiar way. “She is very low, though. I must -get some things,” and she hurries away.</p> - -<p>The crowd waits, and finally some light on the difficulty -begins to break.</p> - -<p>“She wouldn’t live with him if he didn’t stop going -with her,” my own landlady is saying. “I heard her -say it.”</p> - -<p>“Who? Who?” inquires another.</p> - -<p>“Why, that woman in Fortieth Street. You know -her.”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you do. She lives next door to the blacksmith’s -shop, upstairs there, the woman with the two little -girls.”</p> - -<p>“Her? Is that why she did it?”</p> - -<p>“Sure.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t say!”</p> - -<p>They clatter on in this way and gradually it comes -out in good order. This coal-heaver knows a widow -in the next block. He is either in love with her or -she is in love with him, and sometimes she comes here -into Thirty-ninth Street to catch a glimpse of him. He -has been seen with her a number of times and had been -in the habit of driving his coal-wagon through Fortieth -Street in order to catch a glimpse of her. His wife -has frequently complained, of course, and there have -been rows, bitter nocturnal wrangles, in which he has -not come off triumphant. He has sworn and raved and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span> -struck his wife but he has been made to promise not -to drive through Fortieth Street just the same. This -day, however, he failed to keep this injunction. She -was in Fortieth Street and had seen him, then had -come home and in a fit of jealous rage and affectionate -distemper had drunk a bottle of camphor. The husband -is not home yet.</p> - -<p>While we are still patiently awaiting him he arrives, -dark, heavy, unprepared for the difficulty awaiting him, -and very much astonished at the company gathered about -his door.</p> - -<p>“My wife!” he exclaims when told.</p> - -<p>“Yes, your wife.” This from several members of -the company.</p> - -<p>He hurries in, very shaken and frightened.</p> - -<p>“What is this?” he demands as he passes the door and -is confronted by serious-looking physicians. More we -could not hear.</p> - -<p>But after a time out he comes for something at the -drugstore, then in again. He is in and out two or -three times, and finally, before the assembled company -and in explanation, wrings his hands.</p> - -<p>“I never done nothin’ to make her do this. I never -done nothin’.” He pauses, awaiting a denial, possibly, -from some one, then adds: “The disgrace! I wouldn’t -mind if it wasn’t for the disgrace!”</p> - -<p>I meet Mrs. Schmick the next day in the hall. She -has been indefatigable in her labors.</p> - -<p>“Will she die?”</p> - -<p>“No, she gets better now.”</p> - -<p>“Is he going to behave himself?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span> -She shrugs her shoulders, lifts up her hands dubiously.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Schmick,” I ask, interestedly, her philosophy -of life arresting me, “why do you work so hard? You -didn’t even know her, did you?”</p> - -<p>“Ach, no. But she is sick now. She is in trouble. -I would do as much for anybody.”</p> - -<p>And this is Hell’s Kitchen, I recall.</p> - -<div class="tb larger">* * * * *</div> - -<p>Looking out of my front window I can see a great -deal of all that goes on here, in connection with this -house, I mean. Through the single narrow door under -my window issue and return all those who have in -any way anything to do with it. The mailman comes -very seldom. There is a weekly life-insurance man -who comes regularly, bangs on doors and complains that -some people are in but won’t answer. Ditto the gas -man. Ditto the milkman. Ditto the collector for a -rug and clock house. Many duns of many kinds who -come to collect bills of all kinds and never can “get in.” -Of a morning only a half-dozen men and some six or -eight girls seem to creep wearily and unwillingly forth -to work. At night they and others, who have apparently -other methods than that of regular toil for occupying -their time, return with quite a different air. Truckmen -and coalmen and Mr. Schmick arrive about the same -time, half-past five. The son of a morose malster’s -clerk, who occupies the second floor rear, back of me, -arrives at six. Beer-can carrying is the chief employment -of the city cart-driver’s wife, who lives on the third -floor, the unemployed iron-worker, whose front room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span> -I rent, and the ill-tempered woman with the three children -on the fourth floor. The six or eight girls who -go out evenings after their day’s labor frequently do not -begin to drift back until after eleven, several of them -not before three or four. I have met them coming -in. Queer figures slip in and out at all times, men -and women who cannot be placed by me in any regular -detail of the doings of this house. Some of them -visit one or another of several “apartments” too frequently -to make their comings and goings explicable -on conventional grounds. It is a peculiar region and -house, this, with marked streaks of gayety at times, -and some very evident and frequently long-continued -periods of depression and dissatisfaction and misery.</p> - -<p>I am hanging out of my window one evening as -usual when the keenest of all these local tragedies, in -so far as this house and a home are concerned, is enacted -directly below me. One of the daughters above-mentioned -is followed down four flights of stairs and pushed -out upon the sidewalk by her irate father and a bundle -of wearing apparel thrown after her.</p> - -<p>He is very angry and shouts: “You get out now. -You can’t come back into my house any more. Get -out!”</p> - -<p>He waves his arms dramatically. A crowd gathers. -Men and women hang out of windows or gather closely -about him and the girl, while the latter, quite young -yet, perhaps fifteen, cries, and the onlookers eagerly -demand to know what the trouble is.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span> -“She’s a street-walker, that’s what she is,” he screams. -“She comes to my house after running around all night -with loafers. Let her get out now.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, what do you want to turn her off for?” demands -a sympathetic bystander who is evidently moved by the -girl’s tears. Others voice the same sentiment.</p> - -<p>“You! You!” exclaims the old locksmith, who is her -father, in uncontrollable rage. “You mind your own -business. She is a street-walker, that’s what she is. -She shall not come into my house any more.”</p> - -<p>There is wrangling and more exclamations, and finally -into the thick of the crowd comes a policeman, who -tries to gather up all the phases of the story.</p> - -<p>“You won’t take her back, eh?” he asks of the father, -after using all sorts of arguments to prevent a family -rupture. “All right, then, come along,” he says to -the girl, and leads her around to the police station. -“We’ll find some place for you, maybe, to-night anyhow.”</p> - -<p>I heard that she did not stay at the station, after -all, but what the conclusion of her career was, outside -of the fact that the matter was reported to the Gerry -Society, I never learned. But the reasons for her -predicament struck me as obvious. Here was too much -toil, too much gloom, too much solemnity for her, the -non-appreciation which the youthful heart so much -abhors. Elsewhere, perhaps, was light, warmth, merriment, -beauty—or so she thought.</p> - -<p>She went, she and so many others, fluttering eastward -like a moth, into the heart of the great city which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span> -lay mostly to the east. When she returned, and with -singed wings, she was no longer welcome.</p> - -<div class="tb larger">* * * * *</div> - -<p>But why they saw fit to dub it Hell’s Kitchen, however, -I could never discover. It seemed to me a very -ordinary slum neighborhood, poor and commonplace, and -sharply edged by poverty, but just life and very, very -human life at that.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_25">A CERTAIN OIL REFINERY</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">There</span> is a section of land very near New York, lying -at the extreme southern point of the peninsula known as -Bayonne, which is given up to a peculiar business. The -peninsula is a long neck of land lying between those two -large bays which extend a goodly distance on either hand, -one toward the city of Newark, the other toward the vast -and restless ocean beyond Brooklyn. Stormy winds sweep -over it at many periods of the year. The seagull and the -tern fly high over its darksome roof-tops. Tall stacks and -bare, red buildings and scores of rounded tanks spread -helter-skelter over its surface, give it a dreary, unkempt -and yet not wholly inartistic appearance which appeals, -much as a grotesque deformity appeals or a masque intended -to represent pain.</p> - -<p>This section is the seat of a most prosperous manufacturing -establishment, a single limb of a many-branched -tree, and its business is the manufacturing, or -rather refining, of oil. Of an ordinary business day you -would not want a more inspiring picture of that which -is known as manufacture. Great ships, inbound and -outbound, from all ports of the world, lie anchored at -its docks. Long trains of oil cars are backed in on many -spurs of tracks, which branch from main-line arteries -and stand like caravans of steel, waiting to carry new -burdens of oil to the uttermost parts of the land. There -are many buildings and outhouses of all shapes and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span> -dimensions which are continually belching forth smoke -in a solid mass, and if you stand and look in any direction -on a gloomy day you may see red fires which burn -and gleam in a steady way, giving a touch of somber -richness to a scene which is otherwise only a mass of -black and gray.</p> - -<p>This region is remarkable for the art, as for the toil -of it, if nothing more. A painter could here find a thousand -contrasts in black and gray and red and blue, -which would give him ample labor for his pen or -brush. These stacks are so tall, the building from which -they spring so low. Spread out over a marshy ground -which was once all seaweed and which now shows patches -of water stained with iridescent oil, broken here and -there with other patches of black earth to match the -blacker buildings which abound upon it, you have a -combination in shades and tones of one color which no -artist could resist. A Whistler could make wonderful -blacks and whites of this. A Vierge or a Shinn could -show us what it means to catch the exact image of darkness -at its best. A casual visitor, if he is of a sensitive -turn, shudders or turns away with a sense of depression -haunting him. It is a great world of gloom, done in -lines of splendid activity, but full of the pathos of faint -contrasts in gray and black.</p> - -<p>At that, it is not so much the art of it that is impressive -as the solemn life situation which it represents. These -people who work in it—and there are thousands of -them—are of an order which you would call commonplace. -They are not very bright intellectually, of course, -or they would not work here. They are not very attractive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span> -physically, for nature suits body to mind in most -instances, and these bodies as a rule reflect the heaviness -of the intelligence which guides them. They are poor -Swedes and Poles, Hungarians and Lithuanians, people -who in many instances do not speak our tongue as yet, -and who are used to conditions so rough and bare that -those who are used to conditions of even moderate comfort -shudder at the thought of them. They live in -tumbledown shacks next to “the works” and they arrange -their domestic economies heaven only knows how. -Wages are not high (a dollar or a dollar and a half a -day is good pay in most instances), and many of them -have families to support, large families, for children in -all the poorer sections are always numerous. There -are dark, minute stores, and as dark and meaner saloons, -where many of them (the men) drink. Looking at -the homes and the saloons hereabout, it would seem to -you as though any grade of intelligence ought to do better -than this, as if an all-wise, directing intelligence, which -we once assumed nature to possess, could not allow such -homely, claptrap things to come into being. And yet -here they are.</p> - -<p>Taken as a mass, however, and in extreme heat or -cold, under rain or snow, when the elements are beating -about them, they achieve a swart solemnity, rise or fall -to a somber dignity or misery for which nature might -well be praised. They look so grim, so bare, so hopeless. -Artists ought to make pictures of them. Writers ought -to write of them. Musicians should get their inspiration -for what is antiphonal and contra-puntal from such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span> -things. They are of the darker moods of nature, its -meanest inspiration.</p> - -<p>However, it is not of these houses alone that this -picture is to be made, but of the work within the plant, -its nature, its grayness, its intricacy, its rancidity, its -commonplaceness, its mental insufficiency; for it is a -routine, a process, lacking from one year’s end to another -any trace of anything creative—the filling of one -vat and another, for instance, and letting the same settle; -introducing into one vat and another a given measure of -chemicals which are known to bring about separation and -purifications or, in other words, the process called refining; -opening gates in tubes and funnels which drain -the partially refined oils into other vats and finally into -barrels and tanks, which are placed on cars or ships. -You may find the how of it in any encyclopedia. But -the interesting thing to me is that men work and toil here -in a sickening atmosphere of blackness and shadow, of -vile odors, of vile substances, of vile surroundings. You -could not enter this yard, nor glance into one of these -buildings, nor look at these men tramping by, without -feeling that they were working in shadow and amid foul -odors and gases, which decidedly are not conducive to -either health or the highest order of intelligence.</p> - -<p>Refuse tar, oil and acids greet the nostrils and sight -everywhere. The great chimneys on either hand are either -belching huge columns of black or blue smoke, or vapory -blue gases, which come in at the windows. The ground -under your feet is discolored by oil, and all the wagons, -cars, implements, machinery, buildings, and the men, of -course, are splotched and spotted with it. There seems<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span> -to be no escape. The very air is full of smoke and oil.</p> - -<p>It is in this atmosphere that thousands of men are -working. You may see them trudging in in the morning, -their buckets or baskets over their arms, a consistent -pallor overspreading their faces, an irritating -cough in some instances indicating their contact with -the smoke and fumes; and you may see them trudging -out again at night, marked with the same pallor, -coughing with the same cough; a day of peculiar duties -followed by a night in the somber, gray places which -they call home. Another line of men is always coming -in as they go out. It is a line of men which straggles -over all of two miles and is coming or going during an -hour, either of the morning or the night. There is no -gayety in it, no enthusiasm. You may see depicted on -these faces only the mental attitude which ensues where -one is compelled to work at some thing in which there is -nothing creative. It is really, when all is said and done, -not a pleasant picture.</p> - -<p>I will not say, however, that it is an unrelieved hardship -for men to work so. “The Lord tempereth the -wind to the shorn lamb” is an old proverb and unquestionably -a true one. Indubitably these men do not -feel as keenly about these things as some of the more -exalted intellectual types in life, and it is entirely possible -that a conception of what we know as “atmosphere” -may never have found lodgment in their brains. -Nevertheless, it is true that their physical health is -affected to a certain extent, and it is also true that the -home life to which they return is what it is, whether this -be due to low intelligence or low wages, or both. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span> -one complements the other, of course. If any attempt -were made to better their condition physically or mentally, -it might well be looked upon by them as meddling. -At the same time it is true that up to this time nothing -has been done to improve their condition. Doing anything -more for them than paying them wages is not -thought of.</p> - -<div id="ip_205" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29em;"> - <img src="images/i_204.jpg" width="452" height="556" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">An Oil Refinery</div></div> - -<p>A long trough, for instance, a single low wooden tub, -in a small boarded-off space, in the boss teamsters’ -shanty, with neither soap nor towels and only the light -that comes from a low door, is all the provision made -for the host of “still-cleaners,” the men who are engaged -in the removal of the filthy refuse—tar, acids, and -vile residuums from the stills and agitators. In connection -with the boiler-room, where over three hundred -men congregate at noontime and at night, there is to -be found nothing better. You may see rows of grimy -men congregate at noontime and at night, to eat their -lunch or dinner, there is to be found nothing better. -You may see rows of grimy men in various departments -attempting to clean themselves under such circumstances, -and still others walking away without any attempt at -cleaning themselves before leaving. It takes too long. -The idea of furnishing a clean dining-room in which to -eat or a place to hang coats has never occurred to any -one. They bring their food in buckets.</p> - -<p>However, that vast problem, the ethics of employment, -is not up for discussion in this instance: only -the picture which this industry presents. On a gray day -or a stormy one, if you have a taste for the somber, -you have here all the elements of a gloomy labor picture<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span> -which may not long endure, so steadily is the world -changing. On the one hand, masters of great force and -wealth, penurious to a degree, on the other the victims -of this same penuriousness and indifference, dumbly -accepting it, and over all this smoke and gas and these -foul odors about all these miserable chambers. Truly, I -doubt if one could wish a better hell for one’s enemies -than some of the wretched chambers here, where men -rove about like troubled spirits in a purgatory of man’s -devising; nor any mental state worse than that in which -most of these victims of Mother Nature find themselves. -At the bottom nothing but darkness and thickness of -wit, and dullness of feeling, let us say, and at the top -the great brilliant blooms known to the world as the -palaces and the office buildings and the private cars -and the art collections of the principal owners of the -stock of this concern. For those at the top, the brilliancy -of the mansions of Fifth Avenue, the gorgeousness of -the resorts of Newport and Palm Beach, the delights -of intelligence and freedom; for those beneath, the dark -chamber, the hanging smoke, pallor, foul odors, wretched -homes. Yet who shall say that this is not the foreordained -order of life? Can it be changed? Will it -ever be, permanently? Who is to say?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_26">THE BOWERY MISSION</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">In</span> the lower stretches of the Bowery, in New York, -that street once famous for a tawdry sprightliness but -now run to humdrum and commonplace, stands the -Bowery Mission. It is really a pretentious affair of its -kind, the most showy and successful of any religious -effort directed toward reclaiming the bum, the sot, the -crook and the failure. As a matter of fact, the three -former, and not always the latter, are not easily reclaimed -by religion or anything else. It is only when the three -former degenerate into the latter that the thought of -religion seems at all enticing, and then only on the -side that leans toward help for themselves. The -Bowery Mission as an institution gathers its full quota -of these failures, and its double row of stately old English -benches, paid for by earnest Christians who have -heard of it through much newspaper heralding of its -services, are nightly filled and overflowing.</p> - -<p>The spirit of this organization is peculiar. It really -does not ask anything of its adherents or attendants, or -whatever they might be called, except that they come -in. No dues are collected, no services exacted. There -is even a free lunchroom and an employment bureau run -in connection with it, where the hungry can get a cup -of coffee and a roll at midnight and the jobless can -sometimes hear of something to their advantage during -the day. The whole spirit of the place is one of helpfulness,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span> -though the task is of necessity dispiriting and -in some of its aspects gruesome.</p> - -<p>For these individuals who frequent this place of -worship are surely, of all the flotsam of the city, the -most helpless and woebegone. There is something about -the type of soul which turns to religion <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">in extremis</i> which -is not pleasing. It appears to turn to religion about as -a drowning man turns to a raft. There is the taint of -personal advantage about it and not a little of the cant -and whine of one who would curry favor with life or the -Lord. Granting this, yet here they are, and here they -come, out of the Bowery and the side streets of the -Bowery, that wonderful ganglia of lodging houses; and -in this place, and I presume others of its stripe, listen -to presumably inspiring sermons. In all fairness, the -speakers seem to realize that they have a difficult -task to perform in awakening these men to a consciousness -of their condition. They know that there is, if not -cant, at least mental and physical lethargy to overcome. -These bodies are poisoned by their own inactivity and -sense of defeat. When one looks at them collectively -the idea instinctively forces itself forward: “What is -there to save?”</p> - -<p>And yet, shabby and depressing as are these facts, -there is a collective, coherent charm and color about the -effort itself which to one who views it entirely disinterestedly -is not to be scoffed at. The hall itself, a long -deep store turned to a semblance of Gothic beauty by a -series of colored windows set in the store-front facing the -Bowery, and by a gallery of high-backed benches of -Gothic design at the back, and by mottoes and traceries<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span> -in dark blue and gold which harmonize fittingly with -the walnut stain of the woodwork, is inviting. Even the -shabby greenish-brown and dusty gray coats of the -audience blend well with the woodwork, and even the -pale colorless faces of gray or ivory hue somehow add -to what is unquestionably an artistic and ornamental -effect.</p> - -<p>The gospel of God the All-Forgiving is the only doctrine -here thoroughly insisted upon. It is, in a way, a -doctrine of inspiration. That it is really never too late -to change, to come back and begin all over, is the basic -idea. God, once appealed to, can do anything to restore -the contrite heart to power and efficiency. Believe in -God, believe that He really loves you, believe that He -desires to make you all you should be, and you will be. -Your fortunes will change. You will come into peace -and decency and be respected once more. God will -help you.</p> - -<p>It is interesting to watch the effect of this inspirational -doctrine, driven home as it is by imaginative address, -oratorical fire, and sometimes physical vehemence. The -speakers, the ordinary religionists of an inspirational -and moral turn, not infrequently possess real magnetism, -the power to attract and sway their hearers. These -dismal wanderers, living largely in doubt and despair, -can actually be seen to take on a pseudo-courage as they -listen. You can see them stir and shift, the idea that -possibly something can be done for them if only they -can get this belief into their minds, actually influencing -their bodies. And now and then some one who has got a -soft job, a place, through the ministrations of the mission<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span> -workers, or who has been pulled out of a state of absolute -despair—or at least claims to have been—will arise -and testify that such has been the case. His long wanderings -in the dark will actually fascinate him by contrast -and he will expatiate with shabby eloquence upon -his present decency and comfort as contrasted with what -he was. I remember one night hearing an old man tell -what a curse he had been to a kind-hearted sister, and -how he wanted but one thing, now that he was coming -out of his dream of evil, and that was to let her see some -day that he had really reformed. It was a pathetic -wish, so little to hope for, but the wish was seemingly -sincere and the speaker fairly recovered.</p> - -<p>And they claim to recover a percentage, small though -it is, to actual service and usefulness. The service may -not be great, the usefulness not very important, but -such as it is, there it is. And if one could but believe -them, so dubious is all so-called reformation of this sort, -there is something pleasing in the thought that out of -the muck and waste of the slough of despond some of -these might actually be brought to health and decency, -a worthwhile living, say. Yet are they? Dirty, grimy, -like flies immersed in glue, can they be—have they ever -been—dragged to safety and set on their feet again, -clean, hopeful, or even weakly so?</p> - -<p>I remember listening one night to the story of the -son of the man who founded the mission. It appears -that the father was rich and the boy indulgently fostered, -until at last he turned out to be a drunkard, rake -and what not—all the nouns usually applied to those -who do evil. His father had tried to retain a responsible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span> -position for him among his affairs but was finally compelled -to cut him off. He ordered him out of his house, -his business, had his will remade, cutting him off without -a dollar, and declared vehemently and determinedly -that he would never look upon him again.</p> - -<div id="ip_211" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_210.jpg" width="484" height="607" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Bowery Mission</div></div> - -<p>The boy disappeared. Some five years later a thin, -shabby, down-hearted wastrel strolled into the mission -and sat down, contenting himself with occupying a far -corner and listening wearily to what was being said. -After the services were over he came to the director in -charge and confessed that he was the son of the man who -had founded the mission, that he was actually at the end -of his rope, hungry, and with no place to sleep—your -prodigal son. The director, of course, at once took him -in charge, gave him a meal and a bed, and set about -considering whether anything could be done for him.</p> - -<p>It appears that the youth, like his prototype of the -parable, had actually had his fill of the husks, but in -addition he was sick and dispirited and willing to die. -The director encouraged him to hope. He was young -yet. There was still a chance for him. He first gave -him odd jobs about the mission, then secured him a -place as waiter in a small restaurant, and finally, figuring -out a notable idea, took him to the foreman of the -father’s own printing establishment and asked a place -for him as a printer’s devil. The character of the -mission director was sufficient guarantee and the place -was given, though no one knew who the rundown assistant -really was. Finally, after over eleven months of -service, the director went to the owner of the business<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span> -and said: “Would you like to know where your -boy is?”</p> - -<p>“No,” the father replied sharply, “I would not.”</p> - -<p>“If you knew he had reformed and had been working -for at least a year and a half steadily in one place—wouldn’t -that make any difference?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” he replied, looking at him quizzically, “it -might. Where is he?”</p> - -<p>“Right here in your own establishment.”</p> - -<p>The old man got up. “What’s he doing? Let me -look at him.”</p> - -<p>The two traversed the halls of a great business establishment -and finally came to the department where the -youth was working. The father, eager but cautious, -scanned the room and saw his son, himself unnoticed. -He was sticking type, a green shade over his eyes.</p> - -<p>For a moment the parent hesitated, then went over.</p> - -<p>“Harry,” he called.</p> - -<p>The boy jumped.</p> - -<p>“Father!” he cried.</p> - -<p>It was described as a moment of intense emotion. The -boy broke down and wept and the father shed tears -over him. Finally he sobered himself and said: “Now -you come with me. I guess you’re all right enough to be -my son again. You can set more type to-morrow.” And -he led him away.</p> - -<p>Truth? Or Romance? I do not know.</p> - -<p>The final answer to this form of service, however, is -in the mission itself. Nightly you may see them rise -and hear them testify. One night the speaker, pouring -forth a fiery description of God’s power, stopped in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span> -midst of his address and said: “Is that you, Tommy -Wilson, up there in the gallery?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Tommy, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you get up and -sing ‘My Lord and I’? I know there isn’t any one here -who wouldn’t rather hear you sing than me preach any -time. Will you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>Up in the gallery, three rows back, there arose a -shabby little man, his dusty suit showing the well-worn -marks of age. He was clean and docile, however, and -seemed to be some one whom the mission had reclaimed -in times past. In fact, the speaker made it clear that -Tommy was a great card, for out of the gutter he had -come to contribute a beautiful voice to the mission, a -voice that was now missing because he had a job in a -faraway part of the city.</p> - -<p>Tommy sang. He put his hands in his coat pockets, -stood perfectly erect, and with his head thrown back -gave vent to such a sweet, clear melody that it moved -every heart. It was not a strong voice, not showy, but -pure and lovely, like a limpid stream. The song he -sang was this:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span></p><div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem w15"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have a Friend so precious,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So very dear to me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He loves me with such tender love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He loves me faithfully.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I could not live apart from Him,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I love to feel Him nigh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so we dwell together,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Lord and I.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sometimes I’m faint and weary,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He knows that I am weak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as He bids me lean on Him<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His help I gladly seek;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He leads me in the paths of light,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath a sunny sky;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so we walk together,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Lord and I.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I tell Him all my sorrows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I tell Him all my joys,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I tell Him all that pleases me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I tell Him what annoys;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He tells me what I ought to do,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He tells me how to try;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so we walk together,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Lord and I.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He knows how I’m longing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Some weary soul to win,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so He bids me go and speak<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The loving word for Him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He bids me tell His wondrous love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And why He came to die;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so we work together<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Lord and I.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>As he sang I could not help thinking of this imaginatively -personified Lord of the Universe in all His -power and wisdom taking note of this singing, shabby -ant—of the faith that it required to believe that He -would. Then I thought of the vast forces that shift and -turn in their mighty inscrutability. I thought of suns -and planets that die, not knowing why they are born. -Of the vast machinery, the vast chemistry, of things -dark, ruthless, brutal, and then of love, and mercy and -tenderness that is somehow present along with cruelty -and savagery. And then I thought of this little, shabby<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span> -reclaimed water-rat, this scraping of the mud crawled -to the bank, who yet could stand there in his shabby -coat and sing! What if, after all, as the Christian Scientists -believe, the Lord was not distant from things but -here, now, everywhere, divine goodness speaking in and -through matter and man. What if evil and weakness -and failure were dreams only, evil dreams, from which -we wake to something different, better—Omnipotence, to -essential unity with life and love? For a moment, so -mysterious a thing is emotion and romance, the thought -carried me with the singer, and I sang with him:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem w15"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And so we walk together,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Lord and I.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>But outside in the cold, hard street, with its trucks -and cars, I knew the informing spirit is not quite like -that, neither so kind nor helpful—at least not to all.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_27">THE WONDER OF THE WATER</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">I cross,</span> each morning, a bridge that spans a river -of running water. It is not a wide river, but one populous -with boats and teeming with all the mercantile -life of a great city. Its current is swift, its bottom -deep; it carries on its glassy bosom the freight of a -thousand—of ten thousand merchants. Only the conception -of something supernally wonderful haunts me as I -cross it, and I gaze at the picture of its boats and -barges, its spars and sails, spellbound by their beauty.</p> - -<p>The boats on this little river—the Harlem—traverse -the seven seas. You may stand and see them go by: -vessels loaded with brick and stone, with lumber and -cement, with coal, iron, lime, oil—a great gamut of -serviceable things which the world needs and which -is here forever being delivered or carried away. -These boats come from the Hudson and the Chesapeake, -from Maine, Florida, the Gulf of Mexico, Europe, Asia, -Africa and the rest of the world. They tie up to these -small docks in friendly rows and nose the banks in -silence, while human beings, honored only by being -allowed to guide and direct their stately proportions, -clamber over them.</p> - -<div id="ip_216" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_216.jpg" width="488" height="477" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Wonder of the Water</div></div> - -<p>It is not so much these boats, however, as it is the -water which curls under them, which sips and eddies -about the docks and posts, and circles away in spinning -rings, which takes my fancy. This water, which flows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span> -here so swiftly, comes from so far. It has been washing -about the world, lo, these many centuries—for how -long the imagination of man cannot conceive. And -here it is running pleasantly at my feet, the light of -the morning sun warming it with amethystine beams -and giving it a luster which the deeps of the sea cannot -have.</p> - -<p>This water, as it comes before me now, gives me the -impression of having been a hundred and a thousand -things, maybe—the torrent from the height, bounding -ecstatically downward into the depths of some cavern, -rolling in gloom under the immensity of the volume -of the sea, or a tiny cloudlet hanging like a little red -island in the sky, a dark thundercloud pouring its -fury and wrath upon a luckless multitude. It may have -been a cup of water, a glass of wine, a tear, a gush of -blood—anything in the whole gamut of human experience, -or out of it—and yet here for this hour at least it -lies darkling and purling, murmuring cheerfully about -these docks and piers. When you think of the steam that -is made of it by heat, floating over our whole civilization -like plumes; the frost of the windowpanes spread in such -tropical luxury of a winter morning; the snow, in its -forms of stars and flowers; the rich rains of summer, -falling with such rhythmic persistence; and then the ice, -the fog, the very atmosphere we breathe, infiltrated by -this wonderful medium and were ourselves almost entirely -composed of it, you see how almost mystic it -becomes. We owe all our forms to it; the beauty of the -flowers, the stateliness of the trees, the shape and grandeur<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span> -of the mountains, all, in fact—our minds and bodies, -so much water and so little substance.</p> - -<p>And here it is under our bridge, hurrying away. It -may be that it has mind, that in its fluid depths lie all -the religions and philosophies of the world. Sweep us -away, and out of it might rise new shapes and forms, -more glorious, more radiant. We may not even guess -the alpha of its powers.</p> - -<p>I do not know what this green fluid is that runs between -green banks and past docks and factories and the -habitations of men. It has a life quality, and mayhap -a soul quality, which I cannot fathom, but with each -turn of its ripples and each gurgle of its tide the heart -of me leaps like a voice in song. I can reason no more. -It is too colorful, too rhythmic, too silent, not to call -forth that which is deemed exaltation by the world, -and I stand spellbound, longing for I know not what, -nor why.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_28">THE MAN ON THE BENCH</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> is nine o’clock of a summer’s night. The great -city all about is still astir, active, interested, apparently -comfortable. Lights gleam out from stores lazily. The -cars go rumbling by only partially filled, as is usual -at this time of night. People stroll in parks in a score -of places throughout the city, enjoying the cool of the -night, such as it is.</p> - -<p>In any one of these, as the evening wanes, may be -witnessed one of the characteristic spectacles of the -town: the gathering of the “benchers.” Here, while -one strolls about for an hour’s amusement or sits on a -bench, may be seen the man whom the city has beaten, -seeking a place to sleep.</p> - -<p>What a motley company! What a port of missing -men! This young one who slips by me in shabby, -clay-colored clothes and a worn, dirty straw hat, is -only temporarily down on his luck, for he has youth. -It may be a puling youth, half-witted, with ill-conceived -understanding of things as they are, but it is youth, -with some muscle and some activity, and as such it is salable. -Some one will buy it for something for a little -while.</p> - -<p>But this other thing that comes shambling toward -me, dirty, dust in its ears, dust in its eyes, dust in -its hair, a meager recollection of a hat, dull, hopeless, -doglike eyes—what has it to offer life? Nothing?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span> -Practically so. An appetite which life will not satisfy, -a racked and thin-blooded body which life cannot use, -a rusty, cracked and battered piece of machinery which -is fit only for the scrap-heap. And yet it lingers on, -clings on, hoping for what? And this third thing—a -woman, if you please, in rags and tatters, a gray cape -for a shawl, a queer, flat, shapeless thing which she wears -on her head for a hat, shoes that are not shoes but -cracked strips of leather, a skirt that is a bag only, -hands, face, skin wrinkled and dirty, yet who seeks to rest -or sleep here the night through. And now she is stuffing -old newspapers between her dress and her breast to keep -warm. And enveloping her hands in her rag of a shawl!</p> - -<p>Yet she and those others make but three of many, so -grim, so strange, so shabby a company. What, in God’s -name, has life done to them that they are so cracked and -bruised and worthless?</p> - -<p>No heart, or not a good one perhaps, in any of these -bodies; no stomach, or a mere bundle of distorted -viscera; no liver or kidneys worthy the name, but only -botched or ill-working organs of these names in their -place; eyes poor; hearing possibly defective; hair fading; -skin clammy. Merciful God! is it to this condition that -we come, you and I, if life be not merciful?</p> - -<p>I am not morbid. I know that men must make good. -I know that to be useful to the world they must have -a spark of divine fire. But who is to provide the fire? -Who did, in the first place? Where is it now? What -blew it out? The individual himself? Not always. -Man is not really responsible for his actions. Society?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span> -Society is not really responsible for itself or for its -individuals. Nature? God? Very likely, although -there is room for much discussion and much illumination -here.</p> - -<div id="ip_221" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;"> - <img src="images/i_220.jpg" width="526" height="420" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Man on the Bench</div></div> - -<p>But before we point the finger of scorn or shrug the -shoulder of indifference, one word: Life does provide -the divine fire, and that free and unasked, to many. -It does provide a fine constitution, and that free and -unasked, to many. It does provide beauty—aye it pours -it into the lap of some. Life works in the clay of its -interests, fashioning, fashioning. With some handfuls it -fashions lovingly, joyously, radiantly. It gives one girl, -for instance, a passion for art, an ear for music, a throat -for singing, a joy in humor and beauty, which grows and -becomes marvelous and is irresistible. Into the seed of a -boy it puts strength, suppleness, facility of thought, -facility of expression, desire. It not infrequently puts a -wild surging determination to do and be in his brain -which carries him like powder a bullet, straight to the -mark.</p> - -<p>But what or who provided the charge of powder -behind that bullet? Who fashioned the chorded throat? -Who worked over this face of flowerlike expression, until -men burn with wild passion and lay kingdoms and -hierarchies and powers at its feet? We palaver so -much of personal effort. We say of this one and that: -He did not try. I ask you this: had he tried, what of it? -How far would his little impulse have carried him? -What would it have overcome? Would it have placed -him above the level of a coal-stoker or a sand-hog? -Would it have fitted him to contend with even these?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span> -Would it have matched his ideas, or his ideas have -matched it? Who? What? How? Dark thoughts!</p> - -<p>“Ah!” but I hear you say, “that is not the question. -Effort is the question, not where his effort will carry -him.” True. Who gave him his fitness for effort, or -his unfitness? Who took away his courage? Why -could it be taken? Dark thought, and still more dark -the deeps behind it.</p> - -<p>Here they are, though, pale anæmic weeds or broken -flowers, slipping about looking for a bench to sleep on -in our park. They are wondering where the next meal -is coming from, the next job, the next bed. They are -wondering whither they are going to go, what they -are going to do, who is going to say something to them. -Or maybe they are past wondering, past dreaming, past -thinking over lost battles and lost life. Oh, nature! -where now in your laboratory of dark forces, you plan -and weave, be merciful. For these, after all, are of you, -your clay; they need not be destroyed.</p> - -<p>Yet meantime the city sings of its happiness, the -lights burn, the autos honk; there are great restaurants -agleam with lights and merriment. See, that is where -strength is!</p> - -<p>I like this fact of the man on the bench, as sad as it is. -It is the evidence of the grimness of life, its subtlety, its -indifference. Men pass them by. The world is elsewhere. -And yet I know that below all this awaits after all the -unescapable chemistry of things. They are not out of -nature. They cannot escape it really. They are of it—an -integral part of the great mystery and beauty—even -they. They fare ill here, now, perhaps—very. Yet it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span> -entirely possible that they need only wait, and life will -eventually come round to them. They cannot escape it; -it must use them. The potter has but so much clay. -He cannot but mold it again and again. And as for -the fire, He cannot ultimately prevent it. It goes, somewhat -wild or mild, into all He does.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_29">THE MEN IN THE DARK</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> is not really dark in the accepted sense of the -word, for a great, yellow, electric lamp sputtering overhead -casts a wide circle of gold, but it is one-fifteen of a -cold January morning, and this light is all the immediate -light there is. The offices of the great newspaper center, -the sidewalk in front of one of which constitutes the -stage of this scene, are dark and silent. The great -presses in every newspaper building hereabouts are -getting ready to whir mightily, and if only the passers-by -would cease their shuffling you could hear the noises of -preparation. A little later, when they are actually in -motion, you can hear them, a sound of rushing, dim -and muffled, but audible—the cataract of news which -the world waits for, its daily mental stimulus, not unlike -the bread that is left at your door for your body.</p> - -<p>But who are these peculiar individuals who seem to -be gathering here at this time in the morning? You -did not notice any one a few minutes ago, but now there -are three or four over there discussing the reasons for the -present hard times, and here in the shadow of this great -arch of a door are three or four more. And now you -look about you and they are coming from all directions, -slipping in out of the shadow toward this light, where -sits a fat old Irish woman beside an empty news-stand -waiting to tend it, for as yet there is nothing on it. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span> -all seem at first to be men of one type, small and underweight -and gaunt. But a little later you realize that -they are not so much alike in height and weight as you -first thought, and of differing nationalities. But they -are all cold, though, that is certain, and a little impatient. -They are constantly shifting and turning and -looking at the City Hall clock, where its yellow face -shows the hour, or looking down the street, and sometimes -murmuring, but not much. There is very little -said.</p> - -<p>“What is all the trouble?” you ask of some available -bystander, who ought to be fairly <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">en rapport</i> with the -situation, since he has been standing here for some time.</p> - -<p>“Nothin’,” he retorts. “They’re waitin’ for the -mornin’ papers. They’re lookin’ to see which can git -to a job first.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” you exclaim, a great light breaking. “So -they’re here to get a good start. They wait all night, -eh? That’s pretty tough, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know. They’re mostly Swedes and -Germans.” This last as though these two nationalities, -and no doubt some others, were beyond the need of -human consideration. “They’re waiters and cooks and -order men and dishwashers. There’s some other kinds, -too, but they’re mostly waiters.”</p> - -<p>“Would you say that that old man over there—that -fellow with a white beard—was a waiter?”</p> - -<p>“Aw, naw! He ain’t no waiter. I don’t know what -he is—pan-handler, maybe. They wouldn’t have the -likes of him. It’s these other fellows that are waiters, -these young ones.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span> -You look, and they are young in a way, lean, with -thin lips and narrow chests and sallow faces, a little -shabby, all of them, and each has a roll of something -wrapped up in a newspaper or a brown paper and -tucked under his arm—an apron, maybe.</p> - -<p>You begin speculating for yourself, and, with the aid -of your friend to supply occasional points, you piece -the whole thing together. This is really a very great, -hard, cold city, and these men are creatures at the -bottom of the ladder, temporarily, anyhow. And these -columns of ads in the successful morning papers attract -them as a chance. And they come here thus -early in the cold in order to get a good start on a given -job before any one else can get ahead of them. First -come, first served.</p> - -<p>And while you are waiting, speculating, another -creature edges near you. He is not quite so prosperous -looking as the last one you talked to; he seems thinner, -more emaciated.</p> - -<p>“Take a look at that, boss,” he says, opening his -palm and shoving something bright toward you. It -looks like gold.</p> - -<p>“No,” you answer nervously. (You have been held -up before.) “No, I don’t want to look at it.”</p> - -<p>“Take a look at it,” he insists.</p> - -<p>“No,” you retort irritably, but you do it in a half-hearted, -objecting way and see that it is a gold ring -with an initial carved in the seal plate.</p> - -<div id="ip_226" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;"> - <img src="images/i_226.jpg" width="521" height="469" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Men in the Dark</div></div> - -<p>He closes his thin hand and puts it back in his pocket.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span> -He is inclined to go away, and then another idea strikes -him.</p> - -<p>“Are you lookin’ fer a job?” he asks.</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Ain’t you a cook?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Gee! I thought you was some swell chef—they -come here now and then.”</p> - -<p>It is a doubtful compliment but better than nothing. -You soften a little.</p> - -<p>“I’m a waiter,” he confides, now that he has your -momentary interest. “I am, I mean, when I’m in good -health. I’m run down some now. The best I can -get is dishwashing now. But I am a waiter, and I’ve -been an order clerk. There’s nothin’ much to say -of this bunch, though. They all work for the cheap -joints. Saturday nights they gits drunk mostly, and -if they’re not there on the dot Sunday they’re gone. -The boss gits a new one. Then they come here Sunday -night or Monday.”</p> - -<p>You are inclined to agree that this description fits -in pretty well with your observation of a number of -them, but what of these others who look like family -men, who look worried and harried?</p> - -<p>“Sure, there’s lots others,” prompts your adviser. -“There’s three columns every day callin’ for painters. -There’s a column most every day of printers. People -paints houses all the year round. There’s general help -wanted. There’s carpenters. It gits some. Cooks and -waiters and dishwashers in the big pull, though.”</p> - -<p>You have been wondering if this is really true, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span> -it sounds plausible enough. These men are obviously, -in a great many cases, cooks and waiters. Their search -calls for an early start, for the restaurants and hotels -usually keep open all night. It may be.</p> - -<p>And all the time you have been wondering why the -papers do not come. It seems a shame that these men -should have to stand here so long. There’s a great -crowd now, between two and three hundred. A policeman -is tramping up and down, keeping an open passageway. -He is not in any friendly mood.</p> - -<p>“Stand back,” he orders angrily. “I’m tellin’ ye -fer the last time, now!”</p> - -<p>A great passageway opens.</p> - -<p>Now of a sudden comes a boy running with a great -bundle of the most successful morning paper, a most -staggering load. Actually the crowd looks as though -it would seize him and tear his bundle away from him, -but instead it only closes in quickly behind. When he -reaches the Irish woman’s stand there is a great struggling, -grabbing circle formed. “The ——,” is the cry. -“Gimme a ——,” and for the space of a half-dozen -minutes a thriving, exciting business is done in morning -papers. Then these men run with their papers -like dogs run with a bone. They hurry, each to some -neighboring light, and glance up and down the columns. -Sometimes they mark something, and then you see them -hurry on again. They have picked their prospect.</p> - -<p>It is a pitiful spectacle from one point of view, a decidedly -grim one from another. Your dishwasher (or -ex-waiter) confides that most of these positions, apart -from tips, pay only five dollars a week and board. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span> -he admits that the board is vile. While you are talking -you recognize some gentlemanly newspaper man, well-salaried, -taking his belated way home. What a contrast! -What a far cry!</p> - -<p>“And say,” says your dishwasher friend, “I thought -I’d git a job to-night. I thought somebody’d buy this -ring. It’ll bring $1.75 in the pawnshop in the mornin’. -I ain’t got carfare or I wouldn’t mention it. I usually -soaks it early in the week and gits it out Saturday. I’ll -soak it to-morrow, and git another chance to-morrow -night.”</p> - -<p>What a story! What a predicament!</p> - -<p>You go down in your pocket and produce a quarter. -You buy him a paper. “On your way,” you say cheerily—but -the misery! The depths! To think that any -one of us should come to this!</p> - -<p>As he goes you watch the others going, and then the -silence settles down and the night. There is no sense -of traffic here now, no great need of light. The old Irish -woman sinks to the dismal task of waiting, for morning, -I presume. Now and then some passing pedestrian will -buy a paper, but not often. But these others—they have -gone in the direction of the four winds of heaven; they -are applying at the shabby doors of restaurants, in -Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx, Hoboken, Staten -Island; they are sitting on stoops, holding their own at -shop doors. They have the right to ask first, the right -to be first, because they are first—noble privilege.</p> - -<p>And you and I—well, we turn in our dreams and -rest. The great world wags on. Our allotted portion -is not this. We are not of these men in the dark.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_30">THE MEN IN THE STORM</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">It</span> is a winter evening. Already, at four o’clock, the -somber hues of night are over all. A heavy snow is -falling, a fine, picking, whipping snow, borne forward -by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The street is bedded -with it, six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned brown by -the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along the -Bowery men slouch through it with collars up and hats -pulled over their ears.</p> - -<p>Before a dirty, four-story building gathers a crowd of -men. It begins with the approach of two or three, who -hang about the closed wooden door and beat their feet -to keep them warm. They make no effort to go in, but -shift ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their -pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing -lamps. There are old men with grizzled beards and -sunken eyes; men who are comparatively young but -shrunken by disease; men who are middle-aged.</p> - -<p>With the growth of the crowd about the door comes -a murmur. It is not conversation, but a running comment -directed at any one. It contains oaths and slang -phrases.</p> - -<p>“I wisht they’d hurry up.”</p> - -<p>“Look at the cop watchin’.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe it ain’t winter, nuther.”</p> - -<p>“I wisht I was with Peary.”</p> - -<div id="ip_230" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_230.jpg" width="490" height="610" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Men in the Storm</div></div> - -<p>Now a sharper lash of wind cuts down, and they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span> -huddle closer. There is no anger, no threatening words. -It is all sullen endurance, unlightened by either wit -or good fellowship.</p> - -<p>An automobile goes jingling by with some reclining -figure in it. One of the members nearest the door sees -it.</p> - -<p>“Look at the bloke ridin’!”</p> - -<p>“He ain’t so cold.”</p> - -<p>“Eh! eh! eh!” yells another, the automobile having -long since passed out of hearing.</p> - -<p>Little by little the night creeps on. Along the walk -a crowd hurries on its way home. Still the men hang -around the door, unwavering.</p> - -<p>“Ain’t they ever goin’ to open up?” queries a hoarse -voice suggestively.</p> - -<p>This seems to renew general interest in the closed -door, and many gaze in that direction. They look at it -as dumb brutes look, as dogs paw and whine and study -the knob. They shift and blink and mutter, now a curse, -now a comment. Still they wait, and still the snow -whirls and cuts them.</p> - -<p>A glimmer appears through the transom overhead, -where some one is lighting the light. It sends a thrill of -possibility through the watchers. On the old hats and -peaked shoulders snow is piling. It gathers in little -heaps and curves, and no one brushes it off. In the -center of the crowd the warmth and steam melt it and -water trickles off hat-rims and down noses, which the -owners cannot reach to scratch. On the outer rim the -piles remain unmelted. Those who cannot get in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span> -center, lower their heads to the weather and bend their -forms.</p> - -<p>At last the bars grate inside, and the crowd pricks up -its ears. There is some one who calls: “Slow up there, -now!” and then the door opens. It is push and jam for -a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, -and then the crowd lessens. It melts inward, like logs -floating, and disappears. There are wet hats and -shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass pouring in -between bleak walls. It is just six o’clock, and there is -supper in every hurrying pedestrian’s face.</p> - -<p>“Do you sell anything to eat here?” one questions -of the grizzled old carpet-slippers who opens the door.</p> - -<p>“No, nuthin but beds.”</p> - -<p>The waiting throng had been housed for the night.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_31">THE MEN IN THE SNOW</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Winter</span> days in a great city bring some peculiar sights. -If it snows, the streets are at once a slushy mess, and the -transaction of business is, to a certain extent, a hardship. -In its first flakes it is picturesque; the air is filled with -flying feathers and the sky lowery with somber clouds. -Later comes the slush and dirt, and not infrequently -bitter cold. The city rings with the grind and squeak of -cold-bitten vehicles, and men and women, the vast tide -of humanity which fills its streets, hurry to and fro so -as to be through with the work or need that keeps them -out of doors.</p> - -<p>In certain sections of the city at a period like this -may be found groups of men who are constituted by -nature and conditions to be an integral part of every -storm. They are like the gulls that follow the schools of -fish at sea. Poverty is the bond which makes them kin -and gives them, after a fashion, a class distinction. They -are not only always poor in body, but poor in mind -also, and as for earthly belongings, of course they have -not any.</p> - -<p>These men, like the gulls and their fish, pick a little -something from the storm. They follow the fortunes of -the contractors who make arrangements with the city -for the removal of the snow, and about the wagon-barns -where the implements of snow removal are kept, and -where daily cards of employment are issued they may<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span> -be seen waiting by hundreds, and not at such hours and -under such conditions as are at all pleasant to contemplate, -either. In the early hours of the morning, when -the work of the day is first being doled out, they may be -seen, cold, overcoatless, often with bare hands and necks, -no collar, or, if so, only a rag of a thing, and hats too -battered and timeworn to be honestly dignified by the -name of hat at all.</p> - -<p>The city usually pays at the rate of two dollars a day -for what shoveling these men can do. They are not -wanted even at that rate by the contractors, for stray, -healthy laborers are usually preferred; but the pressure -under which the contractors are put by the city and the -public makes a showing necessary. So thousands are -admitted to temporary labor who would not otherwise -be considered, and these are they.</p> - -<p>So in this cold, raw, strenuous weather they stand like -so many sheep waiting at the entrance to a fold. There -is no particular zeal in this effort which they are making -to live. Hunger for life they have, but it is a rundown -hunger, dispirited by lack of encouragement. They have -been kicked and pushed about the world in an effort to -live until, as a rule, they are comparatively heartbroken -and courage-broken. This storm, which spells comfort -and indoor seclusion and amusement for many, spells a -rough opportunity for them—a gutter crust, to be sure, -but a crust.</p> - -<div id="ip_234" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 20em;"> - <img src="images/i_234.jpg" width="318" height="269" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Men in the Snow</div></div> - -<p>And so they are here early in the morning, in the -dark. They stand in a long file outside the contractors’ -stable door, waiting for that consideration which his -present need may show. A man at a little glass window<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span> -cut in a door receives them. He is a hearty, material, -practical soul who has very little to suggest in the way -of mentality but much in the spirit of acquisitiveness. -He is not interested in the condition of the individuals -before him. It does not concern him that in most cases -this is a last despairing grasp at a straw. Will this -fellow work? Will he be satisfied to take $1.75 in place -of the $2.00 which the city pays? He does not ask them -that so clearly; it is done in another way.</p> - -<p>“Got a shovel?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Well, it’ll cost you a quarter to get one.”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t got no quarter.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s all right. We’ll take it out o’ your -pay.”</p> - -<p>Not for to-day only, mind you, but for every day -in which work is done, the quarter comes out for the -shovel. It is suggested in some sections that the shovel -is sometimes stolen, but there are gang foremen, and no -money is paid without a foreman’s O. K., and he is -responsible for the shovels.... <span class="locked">Hence——</span></p> - -<p>But these men are a bit of dramatic color in the city’s -life, whatever their sufferings. To see them following -in droves through the bitter winter streets the great -wagons which haul the snow away is fascinating, at times -pitiful. I have seen old men with white beards and -uncut snowy hair shoveling snow into a truck. I have -seen lean, unfed strips of boys without overcoats and -with long, lean, red hands protruding from undersized -coat sleeves, doing the same thing. I have seen anæmic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span> -benchers and consumptives following along illy clad -but shoveling weakly in the snow and cold.</p> - -<p>It is a sad mix-up at best, this business of living. -Fortune deals so haphazardly at birth and at death -that it is hard to criticize. It so indifferently smashes -the dreams of kings and beggars, dealing the golden -sequins to the sleeping man, taking from the earnest -plodder the little which he has gained, that one becomes, -at last, confused. It is easy for many to criticize, for -one reason and another, and justly mayhap, but at the -same time it is so easy to see how it all may have come -about. Wit has not always been present, but sickness, -a perverted moral point of view, an error in honesty, and -the climbing of years is over; the struggling toad has -fallen back into the well. There is now nothing but -struggle and crumb-picking at the bottom. And these -are they.</p> - -<p>And so these storms, like the bread-line, like the -Bowery Lodging, offer them something; not much. A -few days, and the snow will be over. A few days, and -the sun of a warm day will end all opportunity for work. -They will go back again into the gloomy adventuring -whence they emerged. Only now they are visible collectively, -here in the cold and the snow, shoveling.</p> - -<p>I like to think of them best and worst, though, as I -have seen them time and time again waiting outside -the wagon barns at night, the labor of the day over. -It is something even to be a “down-and-out” and stand -waiting for a pittance which one has really earned. You -can see something of the satisfaction of this even in this -gloomy line. In the early dark of a winter evening,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span> -the street’s lamps lighted, these men are shuffling their -feet to keep warm. They are waiting to be paid, as -they are at the end of each work day, but in their hearts -is a faint response to the thought of gain—one dollar -and seventy-five cents for the long day in the cold. The -quarter is yielded gladly. The contractor finds a fat -profit in the many quarters he can so easily garner. But -these? To them it is a satisfaction to get the wherewithal -to face another day. It is something to have the -money wherewith to obtain a lodging and a meal for a -night. That one-seventy-five—how really large it must -look, like fifty or a hundred or a thousand to some. Satisfactions -and joys are all so relative. But they have really -earned one dollar and seventy-five cents and can hurry -away to that marvelous table of satisfaction which one -dollar and seventy-five cents will provide.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_32">THE FRESHNESS OF THE UNIVERSE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">The</span> freshness of the world’s original forces is one of -the wonders which binds me in perpetual fascination. -My own strength is a little thing. I am sometimes sick -and sometimes well; some days I am bounding with enthusiastic -life, at other times I am drooping with weariness -and ill feeling. But these things, the great currents -of original power which make the world, are fresh -and forever renewing themselves.</p> - -<p>Every morning I rise from my sleep restored and -go out of doors, and there they are. At the foot -of my garden is a river which has been running all night -long, a swift and never-resting stream. It has been running -so every day and every night for centuries and -centuries—and thousands of centuries, for all I know—and -yet here it runs. People have come and gone; -nations have risen and fallen; all sorts of puny strengths -have had their day and have perished; but this thing -has never weakened nor modified itself nor changed,—at -least not very much. Its life is so long and so strong.</p> - -<div id="ip_238" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;"> - <img src="images/i_238.jpg" width="465" height="571" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Freshness of the Universe</div></div> - -<p>And another thing that strikes me is the force and -persistency of the winds. How sweet they are, how -refreshing to the wearied body! I rise with sluggishness, -and a sense of disgust with the world, mayhap, and yet -here are the winds, fresh as in the beginning, to run me -through and cool my face and hands and fill my breast -with pure air and make me think the world is good again.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span> -I step out of my doorway, and here they are, blowing -across the garden, shaking the leaves of the trees, rustling -in the grass, fluttering at my coat-sleeves and my hair; -and I am no whit the wiser as to what they are. Only -I know that they are old, old, and yet as strong and -invigorating as they ever were, and will be when my -little strength is wasted and I am no more.</p> - -<p>And here is the sun, bright, golden thing of the sky, -which I may not even look at directly but which makes -my day just the same. It is so invigorating, so healing, -so beautiful. I know it is a commonplace, the thing that -must have been before I could be, and yet it is so novel -and fresh and new, even now. I rise, and this old sunlight -is the newest thing in the world. Beside this day, -which it makes, all things are old—my little house, which -after all has stood only a few years; my possessions, -dusty with standing a little while, and fading; myself, -who am less young and strong by a day, getting older. -And yet here it is, new after a million years—and a billion -years, for aught I know—pouring this golden flood -into my garden and making it what I wish it to be, new. -The wonder of this force is appealing to me. It touches -the innermost strangeness of my being.</p> - -<p>And then there is the earth upon which I stand, -strange chemic dust, here covered with grass but elsewhere -covered with trees and flowers and hard habitations -of men, yielding its perennial toll of beauty. We -cannot understand the ground, but its newness, the -perennial force with which it produces our food and -beauty, this is so patent to all. I look at the ground -beneath my feet, and lo, the agedness of it does not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span> -occur to me, only its freshness. The good ground! -The new earth! This thing which is old, old—old as -Time itself—must always have been and must always -be. Where was it before it was here? What stars did -it make, and moons? What ancient lives have trod -this earth, this ground beneath my feet, and now make -it? And yet how comes it that I who am so young find -it so new to me and myself old as compared with its -tremendous age! That is the wonder of this original -force to me.</p> - -<p>And in my yard are trees and little things such as -vines and stone walls, which, for all their newness and -briefness, have so much more enduring power than have -I. This tree near my door is fully a hundred years -old, and yet it will be young, comparatively speaking, -and strong, when I am no longer in existence. Its -trunk is straight, its head is high, and here am I who, -looking upon it now as old, will soon be older in spirit, -unable to bear the too-heavy burden of a short existence -and tottering wearily about when it will still be strong -and straight, good for another life the length of mine—a -strange contrast of forces. That is but one of the -wonders of the forces of life: their persistence.</p> - -<p>Yet it is this morning waking that impresses the -marvel of their greatness upon me. It is this new day, -this new-old river, this new-old tree, the new earth, so -old and yet so new, which point the frailty of my physical -and mental existence and make me wonder what the -riddle of the universe may be.</p> - -<div id="ip_240" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;"> - <img src="images/i_240.jpg" width="556" height="575" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Cradle of Tears</div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_33">THE CRADLE OF TEARS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">There</span> is a cradle within the door of one of the great -institutions of New York before which a constant recurring -tragedy is being enacted. It is a plain cradle, -quite simply draped in white, but with such a look of -cozy comfort about it that one would scarcely suspect -it to be a cradle of sorrow.</p> - -<p>A little white bed, with a neatly turned-back coverlet, -is made up within it. A long strip of white muslin, -tied in a tasteful bow at the top, drapes its rounded sides. -About it, but within the precincts of warmth and comfort -of which it is a part, spreads a chamber of silence—a -quiet, small, plainly furnished room, the appearance of -which emphasizes the peculiarity of the cradle itself.</p> - -<p>If the mind were not familiar with the details with -which it is so startlingly associated, the question would -naturally arise as to what it was doing there, why it -should be standing there alone. No one seems to be -watching it. It has not the slightest appearance of usefulness. -And yet there it stands day after day, and -year after year, a ready-prepared cradle, and no infant -to live in it.</p> - -<p>And yet this cradle is the most useful, and, in a way, -the most inhabited cradle in the world. Day after day -and year after year it is a recipient of more small wayfaring -souls than any other cradle in the world. In it -the real children of sorrow are placed, and over it more -tears are shed than if it were an open grave.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span> -It is a place where annually twelve hundred foundlings -are placed, many of them by mothers who are too -helpless or too unfortunately environed to be further -able to care for their children; and the misery which -compels it makes of the little open crib a cradle of tears.</p> - -<p>The interest of this cradle is that it has been the -silent witness of more truly heartbreaking scenes than -any other cradle since the world began. For nearly -sixty years it has stood where it does to-day, ready-draped, -open, while almost as many thousand mothers -have stolen shamefacedly in and after looking hopelessly -about have laid their helpless offspring within its depths.</p> - -<p>For sixty years, winter and summer, in the bitterest -cold and the most stifling heat, it has seen them come, -the poor, the rich, the humble, the proud, the beautiful, -the homely; and one by one they have laid their children -down and brooded over them, wondering if it were -possible for human love to make so great a sacrifice -and yet not die.</p> - -<p>And then, when the child has been actually sacrificed, -when by the simple act of releasing their hold upon it -and turning away, they have allowed it to pass out -from their loving tenderness into the world unknown, -this silent cradle has seen them smite their hands in -anguish and yield to such voiceless tempests of grief -as only those know who have loved much and lost all.</p> - -<p>The circumstances under which this peculiar charity -comes to be a part of the life of the great metropolis -need not be rehearsed here. The heartlessness of men, -the frailty of women, the brutality of all those who sit -in judgment in spite of the fact that they do not wish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span> -to be judged themselves, is so old and so commonplace -that its repetition is almost wearisome.</p> - -<p>Still, the tragedy repeats itself, and year after year -and day after day the unlocked door is opened and dethroned -virtue enters—the victim of ignorance and passion -and affection—and a child is robbed of a home.</p> - -<p>I think there is a significant though concealed thought -here, for nature in thus repeating a fact day after day -and year after year raises a significant question. We -are so dull. Sometimes it requires ten thousand or ten -million repetitions to make us understand. “Here is -a condition. What will you do about it? Here is a -condition. What will you do about it? Here is a condition. -What will you do about it?” That is the -question each tragedy propounds, and finally we wake -and listen. Then slowly some better way is discovered, -some theory developed. We find often that there is an -answer to some questions, at least if we have to remake -ourselves, society, the face of the world, to get it.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_34">WHEN THE SAILS ARE FURLED</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">The</span> waters of the open sea as they rush past Sandy -Hook strike upon the northeasterly shore of Staten -Island, a low-lying beach overshadowed by abruptly -terminating cliffs. Northeastward, separated by this -channel known as The Narrows, lies Long Island. As -the waters flow onward, following the trend of the shoreline -of Staten Island, they become less and less exposed -to the winds of the sea, and soon, as they pass the -northernmost end of the island, they make a sharp -bend to the west, passing between it and Liberty Statue, -where the tranquil Kill von Kull separates the island -from New Jersey.</p> - -<p>Long ere they reach this region the sea winds have -spent their force, and the billows, which in clear weather -are still visible far out, have sunk to ripples so diminutive -that the water is not even disturbed. And here, in -Staten Island, facing the Kill von Kull, still stands in -almost rural quiet and beauty Sailors’ Snug Harbor. -Long ago this was truly a harbor, snug and undisturbed, -a place where the storm-harried mariner, escaping the -moods and dangers of the seven seas, found a still and -safe retreat. To-day they come here, weary from a -long life voyage, to find a quiet home. And truly it is -restful in its arrangements. The grounds are kempt -and green, the buildings pleasingly solemn, and the view -altogether lovely, a mixture of land and sea.</p> - -<p>In the early days this pleasantly quiet harbor was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span> -long distance from New York proper. Staten Island -was but thinly settled, and the Kill von Kull a passageway -seldom used. To-day craft speed in endless procession -like glorious birds over the great expanse of water. -On a clear day the long narrow skyline of New York is -visible, and when fogs make the way of the pilot uncertain -the harbor resounds with endless monotony of fog-horns, -of vessels feeling an indefinite way.</p> - -<p>Though the surroundings are pastoral, the appearance -of the inmates of this retreat, as well as their conversation, -is of the sea, salty. Housed though they are for -the remainder of their days on land, they are still sailors, -vain of their service upon the great waters of the -world and but little tolerant of landlubbers in general. -To the passer-by without the walls they are visible lounging -under the trees, their loose-fitting blue suits fluttering -light with every breeze and their slouch hats -pulled rakishly over their eyes, an abandon characteristic -of men whose lives have been spent more or less in -direct contact with wind and rain. You may see them -in fair weather pacing about the paths of the grounds, -or standing in groups under the trees. Upon a long -bench, immediately in front of the buildings, others are -sitting side by side, smoking and chatting. Many were -captains, not a few common sailors. But all are now so -aged that they can scarcely totter about, and hair of -white is more often seen than that of any other shade.</p> - -<p>For a period of nearly a year—a spring, summer and -fall—I lived in the immediate vicinity of this retreat -and was always interested by the types of men finally -islanded here. They came, so I was told, from nearly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span> -all lands, France, Germany, Sweden, Norway, Finland, -Iceland, Spain, Austria, Russia, and elsewhere, though -the majority chanced to be of English and American -extraction. Also, I was told and can well believe they -are, a restless if not exactly a troublesome lot, and -take their final exile from the sea, due to increasing -years and in most instances poverty, with no very great -equanimity. Yet the surroundings and the provision -made for them by the founder of this institution, who, -though not a sea-faring man himself, acquired his fortune -through the sea over a century ago, are charming -and ample; but the curse, or at least the burden of -age and the ending of their vigor and activities, rests -heavily upon them, I am sure. I have watched them -about the very few saloons of the region as well as the -coffee-houses, the small lunch counters and the moving -picture theaters, and have noted a kind of preferred -solitude and spiritual irritability which spells all too -plainly intense dissatisfaction at times with their state. -Among the quondam rovers are rovers still, men who -pine to be out and away and who chafe at old age and -the few necessary restraints put upon them. They would -rather travel, would rather have the money it costs to -maintain them annually as a pension, outside, than be -in the institution. Not many but feel a sort of weariness -with days and with each other, and I am quite -convinced that they would be happier if pensioned -modestly and set free. Yet this is a great institution and -indeed a splendid benefaction, but it insists upon what -is the bane and destruction of heart and mind: conformity -to routine, a monotonous system which wears<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> -as the drifting of water and eats as a worm at the heart.</p> - -<p>And yet I doubt if a better conducted institution -than this could be found, or one more suited to the needs -and crotchets of so many men. They have ample liberty, -excellent food, clothing and shelter, charming scenery, -and all the leisure there is. They are not called upon -to do any labor of any kind other than that of looking -after their rooms and clothes. The grounds are so -ample and the buildings so large that the attention -of every one is instantly taken. As you enter at the -north, where is the main entrance, there is a monument -to Robert Richard Randall, the founder of the -institution. This marks his final resting-place; the -remains of the philanthropist were brought here from -St. Mark’s Church in New York, where they had lain -since 1825.</p> - -<p>The facts concerning the founding of this institution -have always interested me. It seems that the father of -“Captain” Robert Randall, the founder of the Harbor, -was a Scotchman, who came to America in 1776 and -settled in New Orleans. The Spanish Governor and -Intendant of that city, Don Bernardo de Galvez, having -declared the port open for the sale of prizes of Yankee -privateers, Mr. Randall took an active interest in that -great fleet of private-armed vessels whose exploits on -the high seas, and even upon the coast of Great Britain -itself, did much to contradict the modest assertion of -the “British Naval Register” that:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem w25"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“The winds and the seas are Britain’s wide domain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And not a sail but by permission spreads.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span> -At his death his son Robert inherited the estate. Accustomed -to come north to pass the summer months, -Robert made, on one of his trips to New York, the acquaintance -of a Mr. Farquhar, a man possessed of -means but broken down by ill health. The mild climate -of Louisiana agreed with the invalid, and a proposition -to exchange estates was considered. After a bonus of -five hundred guineas had been sent to Farquhar, this -was effected. Mr. Randall then became a suburban resident -of what was then the little city of New York. -His property consisted of real estate fronting both sides -of Broadway and adjacent streets, and extending from -Eighth to Tenth Streets. At a distance of one-half -mile to the westward, namely, near the site of the old -Presbyterian Church on what is now Fifth Avenue, stood -the dwelling of the Captain. Upon the piazza of this -house, it is recorded, shaded by a luxuriant growth of -ivy and clematis, the old gentleman was wont to sit -in fine weather, with his dog by his side. Before the -door were three rows of gladioli, which he carefully -nurtured. He was a bachelor, and on the first day -of June, 1801, being very ill and feeble but of “sound, -disposing mind and memory,” made his will. Alexander -Hamilton and Daniel D. Tompkins drew up the papers. -In this document he directed that his just debts be paid; -that an annuity of forty pounds a year be given to each -of the children of his half-brother until they were -fifteen years old; a sum of one thousand pounds to -each of his nephews upon their twenty-first birthday, -and a like sum to his nieces on their marriage. He bequeathed -to his housekeeper his sleeve-buttons and forty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span> -pounds, and to another servant his shoe and knee -buckles and twenty pounds. When this had been recorded -he looked up with an expression of anxiety.</p> - -<p>“I am thinking,” he said, “how I can dispose of the -remainder of my property most wisely. What do you -think, General?” turning to Hamilton.</p> - -<p>“How did you accumulate the fortune you possess?”</p> - -<p>“It was made for me by my father, and at his death -became his sole heir.”</p> - -<p>“How did he acquire it?” asked Hamilton.</p> - -<p>“By honest privateering,” responded Randall.</p> - -<p>“Then it might appropriately be left for the benefit -of unfortunate and disabled seamen,” volunteered -Hamilton, and thereupon it was so bequeathed.</p> - -<p>The early history of Snug Harbor is clouded with -legal contests which covered a period of thirty years. -Though at the time of the bequest Randall’s property -was of little value, being mostly farming land, situated -on the outskirts of the populated parts of the city, the -heirs foresaw something of its future value. In the -National and State Courts they long waged a vigorous -war to test the validity of the will. Their surmises as -to the future value of the property were correct. For, -although the income of the bequest was not more than a -thousand a year at first, as the population of the city -increased the rental rose by degrees, until in the present -year it has reached a sum bordering $1,500,000, and the -rise, even yet, is continuous.</p> - -<p>However, the suits were eventually decided against -the heirs, the court holding the will valid. As an institution -the Harbor was incorporated in 1806, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span> -first building erected in 1831 and dedicated in 1833. So -thirty years passed before the desire of a very plain-speaking -document was carried into effect.</p> - -<p>In the beginning there were but three buildings, which -are to-day the central ones in a main group of nine. In -toto, however, there are over sixty, situated in a park.</p> - -<p>In a line, in the center of an eighteen hundred-foot -lawn, stand the five main buildings, truly substantial -and artistic. The view to the right and left is superb, -tall trees shading walks and dividing stretches of lawn, -with rows of benches scattered here and there. A statue -by St. Gaudens beautifies the grounds between the main -building and the governor’s residence, while in another -direction a fountain fills to the brim a flower-lined -marble basin. Everywhere about the grounds and buildings -are seen nautical signs and many interesting reminders -of the man who willed the refuge.</p> - -<p>The first little chapel that was built has long since been -succeeded by an imposing edifice, rich in marbles and -windows of stained glass. A music hall of stately dimensions, -seating over a thousand people, graces a once -vacant lawn. A hospital with beds for three hundred is -but another addition, and still others are residences for -the governor of the institution, the chaplain, physician, -engineer, matron, steward, farmer, baker, and the buildings -for each branch of labor required in the management -of what is now a small city. In short, it has risen -to the dignity of an immense institution, where a thousand -old sailors are quietly anchored for the remainder -of their days.</p> - -<div id="ip_250" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;"> - <img src="images/i_250.jpg" width="525" height="536" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Sailor’s Snug Harbor</div></div> - -<p>Some idea of the lavishness of the architecture can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span> -be had by entering the comparatively new church, where -marble and stained glass are harmoniously combined. -The outer walls are pure white marble, the interior a -soothing sanctuary of many colors. Underfoot is a -rich brown marble from the shores of Lake Champlain. -The wainscoting is of green rep and red Numidian -marble. Eight immense pillars supporting the dome are -in two shades of yellow Etrurian marble, delicate and -unmarked. The altar is of the same shade, but exquisitely -veined with a darker coloring. Both chancel and -choir floors are richly mosaiced, the chancel steps being -of the same delightful coloring as the piers. To the left -of the chancel is the pulpit, an octagonal structure of -Alps green, with bands and cornices of Etrurian and -Sienna marble supported on eight columns of alternate -Alps green and red Numidian, finished with a brass -railing and Etrurian marble steps. The magnificent -organ, with its two thousand three hundred or more -pipes, is entirely worthy its charming setting. Over -all falls the rich, warm-tinted light from numerous -memorial windows, each a gem in design and coloring. -On one of these the worshiper is admonished to “Be -of good cheer, for there shall be no loss of life among -ye, but only of the ship.”</p> - -<p>Admonish as one may, however, the majority of the -old seamen are but little moved by such graven beauty; -being hardened in simple, unorthodox ways. Not a few -of them are given to swearing loudly, drinking frequently, -snoring heavily on Sundays and otherwise disporting -themselves in droll and unsanctified ways. To -many of them this institution appears to be even a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span> -wasteful affair, intended more to irritate than to aid -them. Not a few of them, as you may guess, resent -routine, duty, and the very necessary officials, and each -other. Although they possess comfortable and even -superior living apartments, wholesome and abundant -food, good clothing, abundant clean linen, a library of -eight thousand volumes, newspapers, periodicals, time -and opportunity for the pursuit of any fad or fancy, and -no restrictions at which a reasonable man could demur, -still they are not entirely happy. Life itself is passing, -and that is the great sorrow.</p> - -<p>And so occasionally there is to be found in that portion -of the basement room from which the light is -debarred, looking out from behind an iron door upon -a company of blind mariners who occupy this section, -working and telling stories, a mariner or two in jail. -And if you venture to inquire, his mates will volunteer -the information that he is neither ill nor demented but -troubled with that complaint which is common to landsmen -and sailors, “pure cussedness.” In some the symptom -of this, I am told, will take the form of an unconquerable -desire to go from room to room in the early -morning and pull aged and irate mariners from their -comfortable beds. In others it has broken out as a -spell of silence, no word for any one, old or young, -official or fellow resident. In another drunkenness is -the refuge, a protracted spell, resulting in dismissal, -with an occasional reinstatement. Another will fight -with his roommate or his neighbor, sometimes drawing -a chalk line between the two halves of a double room and -defying the other to cross it at peril of his life. There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span> -have been many public quarrels and fights. Yet, all -things considered, and age and temperament being taken -into consideration, they do well enough. And not a few -have sufficient acumen and industry to enter upon -profitable employments. For there are many visitors, -to whom useful or ornamental things can be sold. And -a few of these salts will even buy from or trade with -each other.</p> - -<p>In consequence one meets with an odd type of merchant -here and there. There is one old seaman, for -instance, a relic of Federal service in “’61,” whose -chamber is ornamented to the degree of confusion with -things nautical, most of which are for sale. To enter -upon him one must pass through a whole fleet of small -craft, barks, brigs, schooners and sloops—the result of -his jacknife leisure—arranged upon chests of drawers. -Still another, at the time I visited the place, delighted -in painting marine views on shells, and a third was -fair at photography, having acquired his skill after -arriving at the Harbor. He photographed and sold -pictures of other inmates and some local scenes. Many -can and do weave rugs and mats, others cane chairs or -hammocks or fish-nets. Still others have a turn for -executing small ornaments which they produce in great -numbers and sell for their own profit. No one is compelled -to work, and the result is that nearly all desire -to. The perversity of human nature expresses itself -there. In the long, light basement corridors, where it -is warm and cozy, there are to be found hundreds of -old sailors, all hard at work defying monotony with -rapid and skilful finger movements.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span> -All of these are not friendly, however, and many are -vastly argumentative. No subject is too small nor any -too large for their discussion in this sunlit forum. Especially -are they inclined to belittle each other’s experiences -when comparing them with their own important -past, and so many a word is passed in wrath.</p> - -<p>“I hain’t a-goin’ to hear sich rubbish,” remarked -one seaman, who had taken offense at another’s detailed -account of his terrible experience in some sea fight of -the Civil War. “Sich things ain’t a-happenin’ to -common seamen.”</p> - -<p>“Yuh don’t need to, yuh know,” sarcastically replied -the other. “This here’s a free country, I guess, ’cept -for criminals,—and they hain’t all locked up, as they -should be.”</p> - -<p>“So I thought when I first seed yuh,” came the -sneering reply, and then followed a hoarse chuckle -which was only silenced by the stamping away of an -irate salt with cheeks puffed out in rage.</p> - -<p>Nearly all are irritatingly independent, resenting the -least suggestion of superiority with stubborn sarcasm -or indifference. Thus one, who owned his own ship -once and had carefully refrained from whistling in -deference to the superstitious line: “If you whistle -aloud you’ll call up a blow; if noisy you’ll bring on a -calm,” met another strolling about the grounds exuberantly -indulging a long-restrained propensity to “pipe -the merry lay.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll bet you wouldn’t whistle aboard my ship,” said -he insinuatingly.</p> - -<p>“Yeh! But I ain’t aboard yer ship, thankee—I’m<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span> -on my own deck.” And “Haul in the bow lines; Jenny, -you’re my darling!” triumphantly swelled out on the -evening breeze.</p> - -<p>Down on the unplaned planks of the Snug Harbor -wharf a score of old salts, regardless of slivers, sit the -livelong day and watch the white-winged craft passing -up and down. Being “square-riggers”—that is, having -served all their lives aboard ship, barks and brigs—they -look with silent contempt upon the fore and aft -vessels of the harbor as they sail by. Presently comes, -“Hello, Jim! Goin’ to launch her?” from one who -is contemplating with a quizzical eye a little weazened -old man who comes clambering down the side of the -dock with a miniature ship under his arm and a broad -smile of satisfaction on his face.</p> - -<p>“Ay, that’s it,” answers the newcomer. He has spent -many weeks in building the little ship and now will be -decided whether or not his skill has been wasted on a -bad model. At once the critical faculty of the tars on -the dock is engaged, and he of the boat becomes the -subject of a brisk discussion. Sapient admonitions, -along with long squirts of tobacco juice, are vouchsafed, -the latter most accurately aimed at some neighboring -target. Sarcasm is not wanting, the ability of -the builder as well as the merit of his craft coming in -for comment. The launching of such a craft has even -engendered bitter hatreds and not a few fights.</p> - -<p>We will say, however, that the craft is successfully -launched and with sails full spread runs proudly before -a light wind. In such a case invariably all the old -sailors will look on with a keen squint and a certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span> -tremor of satisfaction at seeing her behave so gallantly. -Such being the case, the builder is at liberty to make a -few sententious remarks anent the art of shipbuilding—not -otherwise. And he may then retire after a time, -proud in his knowledge and his very certain triumph -over those who would have scoffed had they had the -slightest opportunity.</p> - -<p>I troubled to ask a number of these worthies from -time to time whether, assuming they were young again, -they would choose a sea-faring life. “Indeed I would, -my boy,” one answered me one morning. And another: -“Not I. If I were to sail four thousand times I’d -be as seasick the last trip as on the first day out. -Every blessed trip I made for the first five years I -nearly died of seasickness.”</p> - -<p>“Why did you keep it up, then?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, when I’d get into port everybody would ask: -‘Well, how did you like it? Are you going again?’ -‘Of course I am,’ I would answer, and went from pure -shamefacedness and not to be outdone. After a while -I didn’t mind it so much, and finally kept to it ’cause -I couldn’t do anything else.”</p> - -<p>One of the old basket makers at the Harbor had occupied -a rolling chair in the hospital and made baskets -for nearly thirty-nine years. There was still another, -ninety-three years of age, who would have been there -forty years the summer I was there. And withal he was -a most ingenious basket maker. One of the old salts kept -an eating-stand where appetizing lunches were served, -and he bore the distinction of having rounded the Horn -forty-nine times in a sailing vessel. He was one of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span> -few who possessed his soul in patience, resting content -with his lot and turning to fate a gentle and smiling face.</p> - -<p>“Will you tell me of an adventure at sea?” I once -asked him.</p> - -<p>“I could,” he answered, “but I would rather tell -you of thirteen peaceful years here. I came here when -I was seventy, though at sixty, when I was weathering -a terrible storm around the Cape with little hope of -ever seeing the rising sun, I promised myself that if -ever I reached home again I would stay there. But I -didn’t know myself even then. My destiny was to -remain on the sea for ten years more, with this Harbor -for my few remaining years. At that, if I were young -I would go to sea again, I believe. It’s the only life -for me.”</p> - -<p>Back of all this company of a thousand or more, -playing their last parts upon this little Harbor stage, -is an interesting mechanism, the system with which the -institution is run. There is a clothing department, where -the sailors get their new outfits twice a year. I warrant -that the quizzical old salt who keeps it knows every rent -and tear in every garment of the Harbor. There is a -laundry and sewing department, of which the matron -has charge. There is a great kitchen, absolutely clean, -where is space enough to set up a score of little kitchens. -At four p.m. there are visible only two dignitaries in -this savory realm. At that time one slices tomatoes and -the other “puts on tea” for a thousand, the number -who regularly dine here. The labor of cutting great -stacks of bread is done by a machine. Broiling steaks or -frying fish for a thousand creates neither excitement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span> -nor hurry. The entire kitchen staff numbers thirty all -told, and the thousand sailors are served with less noise -and confusion than an ordinary housewife makes in -cooking for a small family.</p> - -<p>There are separate buildings devoted to baking, vegetable -storing and so forth, and the steward, farmer, -baker and engineer, that important quartette, has each -his private residence upon the grounds. The hospital, -too, is a well-kept building, carefully arranged and -bright and cleanly as such institutions can be made.</p> - -<p>Passing this place, I have often thought what a really -interesting and unique and beautiful charity it is, the -orderly and palatial buildings, the beautiful lawns and -flowers, and then the thousand and one characters who -after so many earthly vicissitudes have found their -way here and who, if left to their own devices, would -certainly find the world outside a stormy and desperate -affair. So old and so crotchety, most of them are. Where -would they go? Who would endure them? Wherewith -would they be clothed and fed? And again, after having -sailed so many seas and seen so much and been so independent -and done heaven only knows what, how odd to -find them here, berthed into so peaceful a realm and -making out after any fashion at all. How quaint, how -naïve and unbelievable, almost. The blue waters of the -bay before them, the smooth even lawn in which the -great buildings rest, the flowers, the calm, the order, the -security. And yet I know, too, that to the hearts of all -of these, as to the hearts of each and every one of us, -come such terrific storms of restlessness, such lightnings -of anger or temper, such torturing hours of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span> -ennui, beside which the windless lifelessness of Sargasso -is as activity. How fierce their resentment of that -onward shift and push of life that eventually loosens -each and every barque from its moorings and sets it -adrift, rudderless, upon the great, uncharted sea, their -eyes and their mood all too plainly show. And yet here -they are, and here they will remain until their barque -is at last adrift, the last stay worn to a frazzle, the -last chain rusted to dust. And betimes they wait, the -sirenic call of older and better days ever in their ears—those -days that can never, never, never be again.</p> - -<p>Who would not be ill at ease at times? Who not -crotchety, weary, contemptuous, however much he might -choose to possess himself in serenity? There is this -material Snug Harbor for their bodies, to be sure. But -where is the peaceful haven of the heart—on what shore, -by what sea—a Snug Harbor for the soul?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_35">THE SANDWICH MAN</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">I would</span> not feel myself justified mentally if at some -time or other I had not paused in thought over the picture -of the sandwich man. These shabby figures of -decayed or broken manhood, how they have always -appealed to me. I know what they stand for. I have -felt with them. I am sure I have felt beyond them, over -and over again, the misery and pathos of their state.</p> - -<p>And yet, what a bit of color they add to the life of -any city, what a foil to its prosperity, its ease—what -a fillip to the imagination of those who have any! Against -carriages and autos and showy bursts of enthusiastic -life, if there be such, they stand out at times with a -vividness which makes the antithesis of their state seem -many times more important than it really is. In the -face of sickness, health is wonderful. In the face of cold, -warmth is immensely significant. In the face of poverty, -wealth is truly grandeur and may well strut and stride. -And who is so obviously, so notoriously poor as this -creature of the two signs, this perambulating pack-horse -of an advertisement, this hopeless, decayed creature -who, if he have but life enough to walk, will do very -well as an invitation to buy.</p> - -<p>He is such a biting commentary on life, in one sense, -such a coarse, shabby jest in another, that we cannot -help but think on him and the conditions which produce -him. To send forth an anæmic, hollow-eyed, gaunt-bodied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span> -man carrying an announcement of a good dinner, -for instance. Imagine. Or a cure-all. Or a -beauty powder. Or a good suit of clothes. Or a sound -pair of shoes. And these with their toes or their naked -bodies all but exposed to the world. An overcoatless -man advertising a warm overcoat in winter. One from -whom all and even the possibility of joy had fled, displaying -a notice of joy in the shape of a sign for a -dance-hall, a theater, a moving picture even. The thick-witted -thoughtlessness of the trade-vulgarian who could -permit this!</p> - -<p>But the eyes of them! The cold, red, and often wet -hands! The torn hats with snow on them, the thin -shoes that are soppy with snow or water. Is it not a -biting commentary on the importance of the individual, -<em>as such</em>, that in life he may be used in such a way as -this, in a single short life, as a post upon which to hang -things! And that in the face of all the wealth of the -world—over-production! And that in the face of all the -blather and pother anent the poor, and Christ, and -mercy, and I know not what else!</p> - -<p>I once protested to an artist friend who chanced to be -sketching a line of these, carrying signs, that it was a -pity from the individual’s point of view, as well as from -that of society itself, that such things must be. But he -did not agree with me. “Not at all,” he replied. “They -are mentally and physically pointless, anyhow, aren’t -they? They have no imagination, no strength any -more, or they wouldn’t be carrying signs. Don’t you -think that you are applying your noble emotions to -their state? Why shouldn’t they be used? They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span> -haven’t your emotions—they haven’t any emotions, as -a matter of fact, or very rudimentary ones, and such -as they have they are applying to simpler, cheaper -things than you do yours. Mostly they’re dirty and -indifferent, believe me.”</p> - -<p>I could not say that I wholly disagreed with him. At -the same time, I could not say that I violently agreed -with him. It is true that life does queer tricks with our -emotions and quondam passions at times. The ones that -are so very powerful this year, where are they next? At -one time we are racked and torn and flayed and blown -by emotions that at another find us quite dead, incapable -of any response. All the nervous ambitions, as well as -the circumstances by which fine emotions and moods are -at one time generated, at another have been entirely -dissipated. Betimes there is nothing left save a disjointed -and weary frame or a wornout brain or nervous system -incapable of emotions and disturbing moods.</p> - -<p>Yet, granting the truth of this, what a way to use the -image of the human race, I thought, the image of our old-time -selves! Why degrade the likeness of the thing we -once were and by which once we set so much store and -then expect to raise man’s estimate of man? It is written: -“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, -in vain.” Why take the body of man in so shabby, so -degrading a fashion? Why make a mockery of the -body and mind of the human race, and then expect -something superior of life? We talk of elevating the -human race. Can we use ourselves as signs and then -do that? It is entirely probable, of course, that the -human race cannot be elevated. Very good. But if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span> -we dream of any such thing, what must such a sight -do to the imagination of the world? What conception -of the beauty and sweetness and dignity of life does -it not aid to destroy? What lessons of hardness and -self-preservation and indifference does it not teach? -Does it not glorify health and strength and prosperity -at the expense of every other quality? I think so. To -be strong, to be well, to be prosperous in the face of the -sandwich man—is there anywhere more of an anachronism?</p> - -<p>I sometimes think that in our general life-classifications -we neglect the individual, the exceptional individual, -who is always sure to be everywhere, as readily -at the bottom of society as at the top, as readily sandwiched -between two glaring signs as anywhere else. -It is quite all right to admit, for argument’s sake or our -own peace of mind, that most of these men are dirty and -worn and indifferent, and hence negligible; though it -always seems silly to me to assume that a man is indifferent -or negligible when he will pack a sign in the -cold and snow in order to preserve himself. It is so -easy for those of us who are comfortable to assume -that the other man does not care, does not feel. Here -he comes, though, carrying a sign. Why? To be carrying -it because it makes no difference to him? Because -he has no emotions? I don’t believe it. I could not -believe it. And all the evidence I have personally taken -has been to the contrary, decidedly so.</p> - -<p>I remember seeing once, in the rush of the Christmas -trade in New York City a few years ago, a score of these -decidedly shabby and broken brethren carrying signs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span> -for the edification, allurement and information of the -Christmas trade. They were strung out along Sixth -Avenue from Twenty-third to Fourteenth Streets, and -the messages which their billboards carried were various. -I noticed that in the budding gayety of the time these -men alone were practically hopeless, dull and gray. The -air was fairly crackling with the suggestion of interest -and happiness for some. People were hurrying hither -and thither, eager about their purchases. There were -great van-loads of toys and fineries constantly being -moved and transferred. Life seemed to say: “This is -the season of gifts and affection,” but it obviously meant -nothing to these men. I took a five-dollar bill and had -it changed into half-dollars. I stopped before the first -old wizened loiterer I met, his sign hanging like a cross -from his gaunt shoulder, and before his unsuspecting -eyes lifted the half-dollar. Who could be offering him -a half-dollar? his eyes seemed indifferently to ask at -first. Then a perfect eagle’s gleam flashed into them, -old and dull as they were, and a claw-like hand reached -for it. No thanks, no acknowledgment, no polite recognition—just -grim realization that money, a whole -half-dollar, was being given, and a physical, wholly -animal determination to get it. What possibilities that -half-dollar seemed to hold to that indifferent, unimaginative -mind at that moment! What it suggested, apparently, -of possible comfort! Why? Because there was -no imagination there? because life meant nothing? Not -in that case, surely. A whole epic of failure and desire -was written in that gleam—and we speak of them as -emotionless.</p> - -<div id="ip_264" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;"> - <img src="images/i_264.jpg" width="485" height="503" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">The Sandwich Man</div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span> -I went further with my half-dollars. I learned what -a half-dollar means to a man in a sandwich sign in the -cold in winter. There was no case in which the eagerness, -the surprise, the astonishment was not interesting -if not pathetic. They were not expecting the Christmas -holidays to offer them any suggestion of remembrance. -It did not seem real that any one should stop and give -them anything. Yet here was I, and apparently their -wildest anticipations were outreached.</p> - -<p>I cannot help thinking, as I close, of an old gray-haired -Irish gentleman—for that he was, by every mark -of refinement of feature and intelligence of eye—who -had come so low as to be the perambulating representative -of a restaurant, with a double sign strapped -over his shoulders. His hair was thin, his face pale, -his body obviously undernourished, but he carried himself -with dignity and undisturbed resignation, though he -must have been deeply conscious of his state. I saw -him for a number of days during the winter season, -walking up and down the west side of Sixth Avenue, -and then I saw him no more. But during that time a -sense of what it means to accept the slings and arrows -of fortune with fortitude and equanimity burned itself -deeply into my mind. He was so much better than that -which he was compelled to do. He walked so patiently -to and fro, his eyes sometimes closed, his lips repeating -something. I wondered, what? Whether in the depths -of this slough of his despond this man had not risen -superior to his state, his mind on those high cold -verities which after all are above the pointless little -existence that we lead here, this existence with its petty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span> -gauds and its pretty and petty vanities. I hope so. -But I do know that a stinging sense of the slings and -arrows of fortune overcame me, never to be eradicated, -and I quoted to myself that arresting, forceful inquiry -of one William Shakespeare:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem w25"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“For who would bear the whip and scorns of time,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The insolence of office, and the spurns<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That patient merit of the unworthy takes.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Who would fardels bear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To grunt and sweat under a weary life?”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Not you, you think? Boast not. For after all, who -shall say what a day or a year or a lifetime may not -bring forth? And with Whatley cannot we all say: -“There, but for the grace of God, go I”—a beggar, an -outcast of fortune, a sandwich man, no less, to whom the -meaning of life is that he shall be a foil to comfort, a -contrast to prosperity, a commentary on health.</p> - -<p>To be the antithesis of what life would prefer to be—what -could be more degraded than that?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_36">THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITTLE ITALY</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">One</span> of the things that has always interested me about -the several Italian sections of New York City is their -love feuds. Every day and every hour, in all these sections, -is being enacted those peculiarly temperamental -and emotional things which we attribute more to dispositions -that sensate rather than think. How often have -I myself been an eye-witness to some climacteric conclusion, -to some dreadful blood feud or opposition or -contention—a swarthy Italian stabbing a lone woman -in a dark street at night, a seemingly placid diner in -some purely Italian restaurant rising to an amazing -state of rage because of a look, a fancied insult, some -old forgotten grudge, maybe, renewed by the sight of -another. At one time, when I had personal charge -of the Butterick publications, I was an immediate and -personal witness to stabbings and shootings that took -place under my very eye, some bleeding and fleeing -adversary brushing me as he ran, to fall exhausted a -little farther on. And mobs of Americans, not understanding -these peculiarly deep-seated and emotional -feuds, and resenting always the use of the knife or the -stiletto, seeking to wreak summary vengeance upon those -who, beyond peradventure, are in nowise governed by -our theories or our conventions, but hark by other and -more devious paths back into the Italy of the Middle -Ages, and even beyond that.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span> -The warmth of passion and tenderness that lies -wrapped up in these wonderful southern quarters of our -colder northern clime. The peculiarly romantic and -marvelously involved series of dramatic episodes, feuds -or fancies, loves or hates, politics or passion, such as -would do honor to a mediæval love tale—the kind of -episodes that have made the history of Italy as intricate -as any in the world!</p> - -<p>The section that has always interested me most is -the one that lies between Ninety-sixth Street and One -Hundred and Sixteenth on the East Side of Manhattan -Island, and incloses all the territory that lies between -Second Avenue and the East River. It is a wonderful -section. Here, regardless of the presence of the modern -tenement building and the New York policeman, you -may see such a picture of Italian life and manners as -only a visit to Naples and the vine-clad hills of southern -Italy would otherwise afford.</p> - -<p>Vigorous and often attractive maidens in orange and -green skirts, with a wealth of black hair fluffed back from -their foreheads, and yellow shawls and coral necklaces -fastened about their necks; dark, somber-faced Italian -men, a world of moods and passions sleeping in their -shadowy eyes, decked out in bright Garibaldian shirts -and soft slouch hats, their tight-fitting corduroy trousers -drawn closely about their waists with a leather belt; -quaint, cameo-like old men with earrings in their ears -and hands like claws and faces seamed with the strongest -and most sinister lines, and yet with eyes that flash with -feeling or beam with tenderness; and old women, in all -forms of color and clothing, who chatter and gesticulate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span> -and make the pavements resound with the excitement of -their everyday bargaining.</p> - -<p>This, truly, in so far as New York is concerned, is the -region of the love feud and the balcony. If you will -stand at any of the cross-streets that lead east from -Second Avenue you will obtain a splendid panorama of -the latter feature, window after window ornamented -with a red or green or orange iron balcony and hung, -in the summertime, with an array of green vines and -bright flower-pots that invariably suggests the love scene -of Shakespeare’s famous play and the romantic love feeling -of the south. Dark, poetic-looking Italians lean -against doorjambs and open gateways and survey the -surrounding neighborhood with an indolent and romantic -eye. Plump Italian mothers gaze comfortably out of -open windows, before which they sit and sew and watch -their chubby little children romp and play in the streets. -Fat, soft-voiced merchants, and active, graceful, song-singing -Italian street venders ply their various vocations, -the latter turning a wistful eye to every window, the -former lolling contentedly in wooden chairs, the blessings -of warmth and a little trade now and again being all that -they require.</p> - -<p>And from out these windows and within these doors -hang or lounge those same maidens, over whom many a -bloody feud has been waged and for whom (for a glance -of the eyes or the shrug of the shoulder) many of these -moody-faced, somber-eyed, love-brooding Romeos have -whipped out their glistening steel and buried it in the -heart of a hated rival. Girls have been stabbed here, been -followed and shot (I have seen it myself); petty love-conversations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span> -upon a street corner or in the adjacent -park between two ardent lovers have been interrupted by -the sudden appearance of a love frenzied Othello, who -could see nothing for it but to end the misery of his unrequited -affection by plunging his knife into the heart of -his rival and into that of his fair but unresponsive sweetheart. -They love and hate; and death is the solution -of their difficulties—death and the silence of the grave.</p> - -<p>“She will not love me! Then she must die!”</p> - -<p>The wonder of the colony is the frankness and freedom -with which its members take to this solution. Actually, -it would seem as if this to them were the only -or normal way out of a love tangle. And if you can -ever contrive an intelligent conversation with any of -them you will find it so. Lounge in their theaters, the -<i xml:lang="it" lang="it">teatro marionette</i>, their cafés, about the open doorways -and the street corners, and hear the frankness with which -they discuss the latest difficulty. Then you will see -for yourself how simple it all seems to them.</p> - -<p>Vincenzo is enamored of his Elvina. So is Nicola. -They give each other black looks, and when Elvina is -seen by Vincenzo to walk openly with Nicola he broods -in silence, meditating his revenge.</p> - -<p>One night, when the moon is high and the noisy thoroughfare -is pulsating with that suppressed enthusiasm -which is a part of youth and passion and all the fervid -freshness of a warm July night, Vincenzo meets them -at the street corner. He is despondent, desperate. Out -comes his knife—click!—and the thing is done. On -the pavement lies Nicola bleeding. Elvina may be seen -running and screaming. She too is wounded, mayhap<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span> -to the death. Vincenzo runs and throws his hands -dramatically over his head as he falls, mayhap shot or -stabbed—by himself or another. Or Elvina kneels in -the open street beside her lover and cries. Or Vincenzo, -white-faced and calm, surrenders himself into the hands -of the rough, loud swearing American policeman—and -there you have it.</p> - -<div id="ip_271" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 36em;"> - <img src="images/i_270.jpg" width="566" height="330" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">A Love Affair in Little Italy</div></div> - -<p>But ask of the natives, and see what it is they think. -They will not have it that Vincenzo should not have -done so, nor Elvina, nor Nicola. Love is love! Youth -is youth! What would you? May not a man settle -the affairs of his heart in his own way? <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">Perdi!</i></p> - -<p>And these crimes (as the law considers them), so -common are they that it would be quite impossible -to give more than a brief mention to any of a hundred -or more that have occurred within as many as ten or -fifteen years. Sometimes, as in the case of Tomasso -Ceralli and Vincenzo Matti, it is a question of a married -woman and an illegal passion. Sometimes, as in the -case of Biegio Refino and Alessandro Scia, it is some -poor cigarette-factory girl who, being used as a tool by -one or more, has fallen into others’ hands and so incensed -all and brought into being a feud. Sometimes, as in the -case of Mollinero and Pagnani, it is a bold, bad Carmen -who is not sorry to see her lovers fight.</p> - -<p>But these stories are truly legion and in some instances -the police would never have been the wiser -save for a man or a woman whom the neighbors could -not get out of the way in time. Once caught, however, -they come bustling into the nearest station house, these -strange groups of wild, fantastic, disheveled men and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span> -women, and behind them, or before, the brawny officers -of our colder clime, with their clubs and oaths and hoarse -comments on the folly and the murderous indecency -of it all—and all in an effort to inspire awe and a -preventive fear that, somehow, can never be inspired. -“These damned dagos, with their stilettos! These -crazy wops!” But the melancholy Italian does not -care for these commands or our laws. They are not -for him. Let the cold, chilly American threaten; he -will carry his stiletto anyhow. It is reserved as a -last resource in the face of injustice or cruelty or the -too great indifference of this world and of fate.</p> - -<p>One of the most interesting of these love affairs that -ever came to my personal attention was that of Vincenzo -Cordi, street musician and, in a way, a ne’er-do-well, who -became unduly enraged because Antonio Fellicitti, vegetable -merchant, paid too marked attention to his sweetheart. -These men, typical Italians of the quarter, knew -each other, but there was no feeling until the affections -of both were aroused by the charms of Maria Maresco, -the pretty daughter of one of the laborers of the street.</p> - -<p>According to the best information that could be -obtained at the time, Cordi had been first in the affections -of the girl, but Fellicitti arrived on the scene and -won her away from him. Idling about the vicinity of -her house in One Hundred and Fourteenth Street he -had seen her and had fallen desperately in love.</p> - -<p>Then there was trouble, for Cordi soon became aware -of the defection which Fellicitti had caused, and told -him so. “You keep away,” was his threat. “Go, and -come near her no more. If you do, I will kill you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">273</span> -You can imagine the feeling which this conversation -engendered. You can see the gallant Antonio, eyeing -his jealous rival through the long, thin slits of his -shadowy, southern eyes. He keep away? Ha! Ha! -Vincenzo keep him away? Ha! Ha! If Maria but -loved him, let Vincenzo rage. When the time came -he would answer.</p> - -<p>And of course the time came. It was of a Sunday -evening in March, the first day on which the long cold -winter broke and the sun came out and made the city -summer-like. Thousands in this section filled the little -park, with its array of green benches, to overflowing. -Thousands more lounged in the streets and sunned -themselves, or swarmed the cafés where was music and -red wine and lights and conversation. Still other thousands -sat by open windows or on the steps in front of -open doors and gossiped with their neighbors—a true -forerunner of the glorious summer to follow.</p> - -<p>Then came the night, that glorious time of affection -and good humor, when every Italian of this neighborhood -is at his best. The moon was on high, a new -moon, shining with all the thin delicacy of a pearl. Soft -airs were blowing, clear voices singing; from every -window streamed lamplight and laughter. It seemed -as if all the beauty of spring had been crowded into -a single hour.</p> - -<p>On this occasion the fair Maria was lounging in front -of her own doorstep when the lovesick Antonio came -along. He was dressed in his best. A new red handkerchief -was fastened about his neck, a soft crush hat -set jauntily upon his forehead. Upon his hand was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">274</span> -ring, in the handkerchief a bright pin, and he was in -his most cavalier mood. Together they talked, and as -they observed the beauty of the night they decided to -stroll to the little park a block away.</p> - -<p>Somewhere in this thoroughfare, however, stood the -jealous Vincenzo brooding. It was evident that he must -have been concealed somewhere, watching, for when the -two strolled toward the corner he was seen to appear and -follow. At the corner, where the evening crowd was -the thickest and the merriest—summer pleasure at its -height, as it were—he suddenly confronted Antonio -and drew his revolver.</p> - -<p>“Ha!”</p> - -<p>The astonished Antonio had no time to defend himself. -He drew his knife, of course, but before he could -act Vincenzo had fired a bullet into his breast and sent -him reeling on his last journey.</p> - -<p>Maria screamed. The crowd gathered. Friends of -Antonio and Vincenzo drew knives and revolvers, and -for a few moments it looked as if a feud were on. Then -came the police, and with them the prosaic ambulance -and patrol wagon—and another tragedy was recorded. -Antonio was dead and Vincenzo severely cut and bruised.</p> - -<p>And so it goes. They love desperately. They quarrel -dramatically, and in the end they often fight and die, -as we have seen. The brief, practical accounts of the -newspapers give no least suggestion of the color, the -emotion, the sorrow, the rage—in a way, the dramatic -beauty—that attends them, nearly all.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">275</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_37">CHRISTMAS IN THE TENEMENTS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">They</span> are infatuated with the rush and roar of a -great metropolis. They are fascinated by the illusion -of pleasure. Broadway, Fifth Avenue, the mansions, -the lights, the beauty. A fever of living is in their -blood. An unnatural hunger and thirst for excitement -is burning them up. For this they labor. For this -they endure a hard, unnatural existence. For this they -crowd themselves in stifling, inhuman quarters, and for -this they die.</p> - -<p>The joys of the Christmas tide are no illusion with -most of us, the strange exhibition of fancy, of which it -is the name, no mockery of our dreams. Far over the -wide land the waves of expectation and sympathetic -appreciation constantly oscillate one with the other in -the human breast, and in the closing season of the -year are at last given definite expression. Rings and -pins, the art of the jeweler and the skill of the dress-maker, -pictures, books, ornaments and knickknacks—these -with one great purpose are consecrated, and in -the material lavishness of the season is seen the dreams -of the world come true.</p> - -<p>There is one region, however, where, in the terrific -drag of the struggle for existence, the softer phases of -this halcyon mood are at first glance obscure. It is a -region of tall tenements and narrow streets where, -crowded into an area of a few square miles, live and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">276</span> -labor a million and a half of people. It is the old-time -tenement area, leading almost unbrokenly north from -Franklin Square to Fourteenth Street. Here, during -these late December evenings, the holiday atmosphere -is beginning to make itself felt. It is a region of narrow -streets with tall five-story, even seven-story, tenements -lining either side of the way and running thick as a -river with a busy and toilsome throng.</p> - -<p>The ways are already lined with carts of special -Christmas goods, such as toys, candies, Christmas tree -ornaments, feathers, ribbons, jewelry, purses, fruit, and -in a few wagons small Christmas greens such as holly -and hemlock wreaths, crosses of fir, balsam, tamarack -pine and sprigs of mistletoe. Work has not stopped in -the factories or stores, and yet these streets are literally -packed with people, of all ages, sizes and nationalities, -and the buying is lively. One man, who looks as though -he might be a Bowery tough rather than a denizen of -this particular neighborhood, is offering little three-, five- -and ten-inch dolls which he announces as “genuine -American beauties here. Three, five and ten.” Another, -a pale, full-bearded Jew, is selling little Christmas tree -ornaments of paste or glass for a penny each, and in -the glare of the newly-turned-on electric lights, it is not -difficult to perceive that they are the broken or imperfect -lots of the toy manufacturers who are having them -hawked about during the eleventh hour before Christmas -as the best way of getting rid of them. Other dusty, -grim and raucous denizens are offering candy, mixed -nuts, and other forms of special confections, at ten cents<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">277</span> -a pound, a price at which those who are used to the more -expensive brands may instructively ponder.</p> - -<p>Meats are selling in some of the cheaper butcher shops -for ten, fifteen and twenty cents a pound, picked chickens -in barrels at fifteen and twenty. A whole section of -Elizabeth Street is given up to the sale of stale fish -at ten and fifteen cents a pound, and the crowd of -Italians, Jews and Bohemians who are taking advantage -of these modest prices is swarming over the sidewalk -and into the gutters. A four- or five-pound fish at fifteen -cents a pound will make an excellent Christmas dinner -for four, five or six. A thin, ice-packed and chemically-preserved -chicken at fifteen or twenty cents a pound -will do as much for another family. Onions, garlic, old -cast-off preserves, pickles and condiments that the -wholesale houses uptown have seen grow stale and musty -on their shelves, can be had here for five, ten and fifteen -cents a bottle, and although the combination is unwholesome -it will be worked over as Christmas dinners for -the morrow. Cheap, unsalable, stale, adulterated—these -are the words that should be stamped on every -bottle, basket and barrel that is here being scrambled -over. And yet the purchasers would not be benefited -any thereby. They must buy what they can afford. -What they can afford is this.</p> - -<p>The street, with its mass of life, lingers in this condition -until six o’clock, when the great shops and factories -turn loose their horde of workers. Then into the glare -of these electric-lighted streets the army of shop girls -and boys begins to pour. Here is a spectacle interesting -and provocative of thought at all seasons, but trebly so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">278</span> -on this particular evening. It is a shabby throng at best, -commonplace in garb and physical appearance, but -rich in the qualities of youth and enthusiasm, than -which the world holds nothing more valuable.</p> - -<p>Youth in all the glory of its illusions and its ambitions. -Youth, in whom the cold insistence of life’s -physical limitations and the law have not as yet worked -any permanent depression. Thousands are hurrying in -every direction. The street cars which ply this area -are packed as only the New York street car companies -can pack their patrons, and that in cold, old, dirty and -even vile cars. There are girls with black hair, and girls -with brown. Some have even, white teeth, some shapely -figures, some a touch of that persuasive charm which -is indicated by the flash of an eye. There are poor -dresses, poor taste, and poor manners mingled with good -dresses, good taste and good manners. In the glow of -the many lights and shadows of the evening they are -hurrying away, with that lightness of spirit and movement -which is the evidence of a long strain of labor -suddenly relaxed.</p> - -<p>“Do you think Santa Claus will have enough to fill -that?” asks an officer, who is standing in the glare of -a balsam- and pine-trimmed cigar store window, to a -smartly dressed political heeler or detective who is looking -on with him at the mass of shop-girls hurrying past. -A shop-girl had gone by with her skirt cut to an inch -or two below her knee, revealing a trim little calf and -ankle.</p> - -<p>“Eee yo! I hope so! Isn’t she the candy?”</p> - -<div id="ip_278" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32em;"> - <img src="images/i_278.jpg" width="500" height="531" alt="" /> - <div class="caption">Christmas in the Tenements</div></div> - -<p>“Don’t get fresh,” comes quickly from the hurrying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">279</span> -figure as she disappears in the throng with a toss of -her head. She has enjoyed the comment well enough, -and the rebuke is more mischievous than angry.</p> - -<p>“A goldfish! A goldfish! Only one cent!” cries a -pushcart vendor, who is one of a thousand lining the -pavements to-night, and at his behest another shop-girl, -equally budding and youthful, stops to extract a penny -from her small purse and carries away a thin, transparent -prize of golden paste, for a younger brother, -probably.</p> - -<p>Others like her are being pushed and jostled the -whole length of this crowded section. They are being -nudged and admired as well as sought and schemed for. -Whatever affections or attachments they have will be -manifesting themselves to-night, as may be seen by -the little expenditures they themselves are making. A -goldfish of transparent paste or a half pound of candy, -a cheap gold-plated stickpin, brooch or ring, or a handkerchief, -collar or necktie bought of one of the many -pushcart men, tell the story plainly enough. Sympathy, -love, affection and passion are running their errant ways -among this vast unspoken horde no less than among the -more pretentious and well-remembered of the world.</p> - -<p>And the homes to which they are hurrying, the places -which are dignified by that title, but which here should -have another name! Thousands upon thousands of them -are turning into entry ways, the gloom or dirtiness or -poverty of which should bar them from the steps of -any human being. Up the dark stairways they are -pouring into tier upon tier of human hives, in some -instances not less than seven stories high and, of course,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">280</span> -without an elevator, and by grimy landings they are -sorted out and at last distributed each into his own -cranny. Small, dark one-, two- and three-room apartments, -where yet on this Christmas evening, one, and -sometimes three, four and five are still at work sewing -pants, making flowers, curling feathers, or doing any -other of a hundred tenement tasks to help out the income -supplied by the one or two who work out. Miserable one- -and two-room spaces where ignorance and poverty and -sickness, rather than greed or immorality, have made -veritable pens out of what would ordinarily be bad -enough. Many hundreds or thousands of others there -are where thrift and shrewdness are making the best -of very unfortunate conditions, and a hundred or two -where actual abundance prevails. These are the homes. -Let us enter.</p> - -<p>Zorg is a Bohemian, and has a little two-room apartment. -The windows of the only one which has windows -looks into Elizabeth Street. It is a dingy apartment, -unswept and unwhitewashed at present, where on this -hearty Christmas Eve, himself, his wife, his wife’s -mother, and his little twelve-year-old son are laboring -at a fair-sized deal table curling feathers. The latter -is a simple task, once you understand it, dull, tedious, -unprofitable. It consists in taking a feather in one -hand, a knife in the other, and drawing the fronds -quickly over the knife’s edge. This gives them a very -sprightly curl and can be administered, if the worker -be an expert, by a single movement of the hand. It is -paid for by the dozen, as such work is usually paid for -in this region, and the ability to earn much more than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">281</span> -sixty cents a day is not within the range of human possibility. -Forty cents would be a much more probable average, -and this is approximately the wages which these -several individuals earn. Rent uses up three of the -twelve dollars weekly income; food, dress, coal and light -six more. Three dollars, when work is steady, is the sum -laid aside for all other purposes and pleasures, and this -sum, if no amusements were indulged in and no sickness -or slackness of work befell, might annually grow to the -tidy sum of one hundred and fifty-six dollars; but it has -never done so. Illness invariably takes one part, lack -of work a greater part still. In the long drag of weary -labor the pleasure-loving instincts of man cannot be -wholly restrained, and so it comes about that the present -Christmas season finds the funds of the family treasury -low.</p> - -<p>It is in such a family as this that the merry Christmas -time comes with a peculiar emphasis, and although the -conditions may be discouraging, the efforts to meet it -are almost always commensurate with the means.</p> - -<p>However, on this Christmas Eve it has been deemed -a duty to have some diversion, and so, although the -round of weary labor may not be thus easily relaxed, the -wife has been deputed to do the Christmas shopping and -has gone forth into the crowded East Side street, from -which she has returned with a meat bone, a cut from a -butcher’s at twelve cents a pound, green pickles, three -turnips, a carrot, a half-dozen small candles, and two or -three toys, which, together with a small three-foot branch -of hemlock, purchased earlier in the day, completes the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">282</span> -Christmas preparation for the morrow. Arba, the -youngest, although like the others she will work until -ten this Christmas Eve, is to have a pair of new shoes; -Zicka, the next older, a belt for her dress. Mrs. Zorg, -although she may not suspect, will receive a new market -basket with a lid on it. Zorg—grim, silent, weary of -soul and body—is to have a new fifteen-cent tie. There -will be a tree, a small sprig of a tree, upon which will -hang colored glass or paste balls of red and blue and -green, with threads of popcorn and sprays of flitter-gold, -all saved from the years before. In the light of -early dawn to-morrow the youngest of the children will -dance about these, and the richness of their beauty will -be enjoyed as if they had not been so presented for the -seventh and eighth time.</p> - -<p>Thus it runs, mostly, throughout the entire region on -this joyous occasion, a wealth of feeling and desire -expressing itself through the thinnest and most meager -material forms. About the shops and stores where the -windows are filled with cheap displays of all that is -considered luxury, are hosts of other children scarcely -so satisfactorily supplied, peering earnestly into the -world of make-believe and illusion, the wonder of it -not yet eradicated from their unsophisticated hearts. -Joy, joy—not a tithe of all that is represented by the -expenditures of the wealthy, but only such as may be -encompassed in a paper puff-ball or a tinsel fish, is here -sought for and dreamed over, an earnest, child-heart-longing -which may never again be gratified if not now. -Horses, wagons, fire engines, dolls—these are what the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">283</span> -thousands upon thousands of children whose faces are -pressed closely against the commonplace window panes -are dreaming about, and the longing that is thereby -expressed is the strongest evidence of the indissoluble -link which binds these weakest and most wretched elements -of society to the best and most successful.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">284</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="ch_38">THE RIVERS OF THE NAMELESS DEAD</h2> -</div> - -<blockquote> -<p class="in0">The body of a man was found yesterday -in the North River at Twenty-fifth Street. A -brass check, No. 21,600, of the New York Registry -Company, was found on the body.—N. Y. -Daily Paper.</p> -</blockquote> - -<p><span class="firstword">There</span> is an island surrounded by rivers, and about -it the tide scurries fast and deep. It is a beautiful -island, long, narrow, magnificently populated, and with -such a wealth of life and interest as no island in the -whole world before has ever possessed. Long lines of -vessels of every description nose its banks. Enormous -buildings and many splendid mansions line its streets.</p> - -<p>It is filled with a vast population, millions coming and -going, and is the scene of so much life and enthusiasm -and ambition that its fame is, as the sound of a bell, -heard afar.</p> - -<p>And the interest which this island has for the world -is that it is seemingly a place of opportunity and happiness. -If you were to listen to the tales of its glory -carried the land over and see the picture which it -presents to the incoming eye, you would assume that -it was all that it seemed. Glory for those who enter its -walls seeking glory. Happiness for those who come -seeking happiness. A world of comfort and satisfaction -for all who take up their abode within it—an island -of beauty and delight.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">285</span> -The sad part of it is, however, that the island and its -beauty are, to a certain extent, a snare. Its seeming -loveliness, which promises so much to the innocent eye, -is not always easy of realization. Thousands come, it -is true; thousands venture to reconnoiter its mysterious -shores. From the villages and hamlets of the land is -streaming a constant procession of pilgrims who feel -that here is the place where their dreams are to be -realized; here is the spot where they are to be at peace. -That their hopes are not, in so many cases, to be realized, -is the thing which gives a poignant tang to their -coming. The beautiful island is not compact of happiness -for all.</p> - -<p>And the exceptional tragedy of it is that the waters -which surround the beautiful island are forever giving -evidence of the futility of the dreams of so many. If -you were to stand upon any of its shores, where the tide -scurries past in its never-ending hurry, or were to idle -for a time upon its many docks and piers, which reach -far out into the water and give lovely views of the -sky and the gulls and the boats, you might see drifting -past upon the bosom of the current some member of -all the ambitious throng who, in time past, set his -face toward the city, and who entered only to find that -there was more of sorrow than of joy. Sad, white-faced -maidens; grim, bearded, time-worn men; strange, strife-worn, -grief-stricken women; and, saddest of all, children—soft, -wan, tender children—floating in the waters -which wash the shores of the island city.</p> - -<p>And such waters! How green they look, how graceful, -how mysterious! From far seas they come—strange,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">286</span> -errant, peculiar waters—prying along the shores of the -magnificent island; sucking and sipping at the rocks -which form its walls; whispering and gurgling about -the docks and piers, and flowing, flowing, flowing. Such -waters seem to be kind, and yet they are not so. They -seem to be cruel, and yet they are not so; merely indifferent -these waters are—dark, strong, deep, indifferent.</p> - -<p>And curiously the children of men who come to seek -the joys of the city realize the indifference and the -impartiality of the waters. When the vast and beautiful -island has been reconnoitered, when its palaces have -been viewed, its streets disentangled, its joys and its -difficulties discovered, then the waters, which are neither -for nor against, seem inviting. Here, when the great -struggle has been ended, when the years have slipped -by and the hopes of youth have not been realized; when -the dreams of fortune, the delights of tenderness, the -bliss of love and the hopes of peace have all been abandoned—the -weary heart may come and find surcease. -Peace in the waters, rest in the depths and the silence -of the hurrying tide; surcease and an end in the chalice -of the waters which wash the shores of the beautiful -island.</p> - -<p>And they do come, these defeated ones? Not one, -nor a dozen, nor a score every year, but hundreds and -hundreds. Scarcely a day passes but one, and sometimes -many, go down from the light and the show and the merriment -of the island to the shores of the waters where -peace may be found. They stop on its banks; they reflect, -perhaps, on the joys which they somehow have missed; -they give a last, despairing glance at the wonderful scene<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">287</span> -which once seemed so joyous and full of promise, and -then yield themselves unresistingly to the unswerving -strength of the powerful current and are borne away. -Out past the docks and the piers of the wonderful city. -Out past its streets, its palaces, its great institutions. -Out past its lights, its colors, the sound of its merriment -and its seeking, and then the sea has them and -they are no more. They have accomplished their journey, -the island its tragedy. They have come down to -the rivers of the nameless dead. They have yielded -themselves as a sacrifice to the variety of life. They -have proved the uncharitableness of the island of beauty.</p> - -<div id="ip_287" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22em;"> - <img src="images/i_287.jpg" width="343" height="303" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="p2 center wspace">THE END</p> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak p1" id="Transcribers_Notes"><span class="larger">Transcriber’s Notes</span></h2> - -<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made -consistent when a predominant preference was found -in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced -quotation marks were remedied when the change was -obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.</p> - -<p>Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned -between paragraphs. In versions -of this eBook that support hyperlinks, the page -references in the List of Illustrations lead to the -corresponding illustrations.</p> - -<p>Transcriber removed duplicate book title on page before first chapter.</p> -</div></div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Color of a Great City, by Theodore Dreiser - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY *** - -***** This file should be named 61043-h.htm or 61043-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/0/4/61043/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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