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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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