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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..22e3654 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66257 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66257) diff --git a/old/66257-0.txt b/old/66257-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ab8deba..0000000 --- a/old/66257-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6523 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Impressions and experiences, by W. D. -Howells - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Impressions and experiences - -Author: W. D. Howells - -Release Date: September 10, 2021 [eBook #66257] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES *** - -+-------------------------------------------------+ -|Transcriber’s note: | -| | -|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | -| | -+-------------------------------------------------+ - - -IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES - -BY -W. D. HOWELLS - -AUTHOR OF “A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES” -“THE QUALITY OF MERCY” ETC. - -[Illustration: Logo] - -NEW YORK -HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS -1896 - - - - -W. D. HOWELLS’S WORKS. - -_IN CLOTH BINDING._ - - - STOPS OF VARIOUS QUILLS. Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE. $2 50. - - A PARTING AND A MEETING. Illustrated. $1 00. - - THE DAY OF THEIR WEDDING. $1 25. - - MY LITERARY PASSIONS. $1 50. - - A TRAVELER FROM ALTRURIA. $1 50. - - THE COAST OF BOHEMIA. Illustrated. $1 50. - - THE WORLD OF CHANCE. $1 50. - - THE QUALITY OF MERCY. $1 50. - - AN IMPERATIVE DUTY. $1 00. - - THE SHADOW OF A DREAM. $1 00. - - ANNIE KILBURN. $1 50. - - APRIL HOPES. $1 50. - - CRITICISM AND FICTION. With Portrait. $1 00. - - A BOY’S TOWN. Ill’d. $1 25. - - A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES. 2 Vols., $2 00. - - MODERN ITALIAN POETS. With Portraits. $2 00. - - CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY, and Other Stories. Illustrated. $1 25. - - THE MOUSE-TRAP, and Other Farces. Illustrated. $1 00. - - MY YEAR IN A LOG CABIN. Illustrated. 50 cents. - - A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN. Illustrated. 50 cents. - - FARCES: Five O’Clock Tea.--The Mouse-Trap.--A Likely Story.--The - Unexpected Guests.--Evening Dress.--A Letter of Introduction.--The - Albany Depot.--The Garroters. Ill’d. 50 cents each. - - -PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. - - -Copyright, 1896, by W. D. HOWELLS. - -_Electrotyped by J. A. Howells & Co., Jefferson, Ohio._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE -THE COUNTRY PRINTER 1 - -POLICE REPORT 45 - -I TALK OF DREAMS 95 - -AN EAST-SIDE RAMBLE 127 - -TRIBULATIONS OF A CHEERFUL GIVER 150 - -THE CLOSING OF THE HOTEL 189 - -GLIMPSES OF CENTRAL PARK 224 - -NEW YORK STREETS 245 - - - - -IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES. - - - - -THE COUNTRY PRINTER. - - -My earliest memories, or those which I can make sure are not the sort -of early hearsay that we mistake for remembrance later in life, concern -a country newspaper, or, rather, a country printing-office. The office -was in my childish consciousness some years before the paper was; -the compositors rhythmically swaying before their cases of type; the -pressman flinging himself back on the bar that made the impression, -with a swirl of his long hair; the apprentice rolling the forms, and -the foreman bending over the imposing-stone, were familiar to me when I -could not grasp the notion of any effect from their labors. In due time -I came to know all about it, and to understand that these activities -went to the making of the Whig newspaper which my father edited to -the confusion of the Locofocos, and in the especial interest of Henry -Clay; I myself supported this leader so vigorously for the Presidency -in my seventh year that it was long before I could realize that the -election of 1844 had resulted in his defeat. My father had already been -a printer for a good many years, and some time in the early thirties -he had led a literary forlorn hope, in a West Virginian town, with a -monthly magazine, which he printed himself and edited with the help of -his sister. - -As long as he remained in business he remained a country editor and a -country printer; he began to study medicine when he was a young man, -but he abandoned it for the calling of his life without regret, and -though with his speculative and inventive temperament he was tempted to -experiment in other things, I do not think he would ever have lastingly -forsaken his newspaper for them. In fact, the art of printing was in -our blood; it never brought us great honor or profit; and we were -always planning and dreaming to get out of it, or get it out of us; -but we are all in some sort bound up with it still. To me it is now so -endeared by the associations of childhood that I cannot breathe the -familiar odor of types and presses without emotion; and I should not be -surprised if I found myself trying to cast a halo of romance about the -old-fashioned country office in what I shall have to say of it here. - - -I. - -Our first newspaper was published in southwestern Ohio, but after a -series of varying fortunes, which I need not dwell upon, we found -ourselves in possession of an office in the northeastern corner of the -State, where the prevalent political feeling promised a prosperity -to one of my father’s anti-slavery opinions which he had never yet -enjoyed. He had no money, but in those days it was an easy matter to -get an interest in a country paper on credit, and we all went gladly -to work to help him pay for the share that he acquired in one by this -means. An office which gave a fair enough living, as living was then, -could be bought for twelve or fifteen hundred dollars; but this was an -uncommonly good office, and I suppose the half of it which my father -took was worth one sum or the other. Afterward, within a few months, -when it was arranged to remove the paper from the village where it had -always been published to the county-seat, a sort of joint-stock company -was formed, and the value of his moiety increased so much, nominally at -least, that he was nearly ten years paying for it. By this time I was -long out of the story, but at the beginning I was very vividly in it, -and before the world began to call me with that voice which the heart -of youth cannot resist, it was very interesting; I felt its charm -then, and now, as I turn back to it, I feel its charm again, though it -was always a story of steady work, if not hard work. - -The county-seat, where it had been judged best to transfer the paper -lest some other paper of like politics should be established there, was -a village of only six or seven hundred inhabitants. But, as the United -States Senator who was one of its citizens used to say, it was “a place -of great political privileges.” The dauntless man who represented -the district in the House for twenty years, and who had fought the -anti-slavery battle from the first, was his fellow-villager, and more -than compeer in distinction; and besides these, there was nearly always -a State Senator or Representative among us. The county officers, of -course, lived at the county-seat, and the leading lawyers, who were -the leading politicians, made their homes in the shadow of the court -house, where one of them was presently elected to preside as Judge of -the Common Pleas. In politics, the county was already overwhelmingly -Freesoil, as the forerunner of the Republican party was then called; -the Whigs had hardly gathered themselves together since the defeat of -General Scott for the Presidency; the Democrats, though dominant in -state and nation, and faithful to slavery at every election, did not -greatly outnumber among us the zealots called Comeouters, who would -not vote at all under a constitution recognizing the right of men to -own men. Our paper was Freesoil, and its field was large among that -vast majority of the people who believed that slavery would finally -perish if kept out of the territories, and confined to the old Slave -States. With the removal of the press to the county-seat there was a -hope that this field could be widened, till every Freesoil voter became -a subscriber. It did not fall out so; even of those who subscribed -in the ardor of their political sympathies, many never paid; but our -list was nevertheless handsomely increased, and numbered fifteen or -sixteen hundred. I do not know how it may be now, but then most country -papers had a list of four or five hundred subscribers; a few had a -thousand, a very few twelve hundred, and these were fairly decimated -by delinquents. We were so flown with hope that I remember there was -serious talk of risking the loss of the delinquents on our list by -exacting payment in advance; but the measure was thought too bold, -and we compromised by demanding two dollars a year for the paper, and -taking a dollar and a half if paid in advance. Twenty-five years later -my brother, who had followed my father in the business, discovered -that a man who never meant to pay for his paper would as lief owe -two dollars as any less sum, and he at last risked the loss of the -delinquents by requiring advance payment; it was an heroic venture, but -it was perhaps time to make it. - -The people of the county were mostly farmers, and of these nearly all -were dairymen. The few manufactures were on a small scale, except -perhaps the making of oars, which were shipped all over the world from -the heart of the primeval forests densely wooding the vast levels of -the region. The portable steam sawmills dropped down on the borders of -the woods have long since eaten their way through and through them, -and devoured every stick of timber in most places, and drunk up the -watercourses that the woods once kept full; but at that time half the -land was in the shadow of those mighty poplars and hickories, elms and -chestnuts, ashes and hemlocks; and the meadows that pastured the herds -of red cattle were dotted with stumps as thick as harvest stubble. Now -there are not even stumps; the woods are gone, and the watercourses -are torrents in spring and beds of dry clay in summer. The meadows -themselves have vanished, for it has been found that the strong yellow -soil will produce more in grain than in milk. There is more money in -the hands of the farmers there, though there is still so little that -by any city scale it would seem comically little, pathetically little; -but forty years ago there was so much less that fifty dollars seldom -passed through a farmer’s hands in a year. Payment was made in kind -rather than in coin, and every sort of farm produce was legal tender -at the printing-office. Wood was welcome in any quantity, for the huge -box-stove consumed it with inappeasable voracity, and then did not heat -the wide, low room which was at once editorial-room, composing-room, -and press-room. Perhaps this was not so much the fault of the stove as -of the building. In that cold lake-shore country the people dwelt in -wooden structures almost as thin and flimsy as tents; and often in the -first winter of our sojourn the type froze solid with the water which -the compositor put on it when he wished to distribute his case; the -inking rollers had to be thawed before they could be used on the press; -and if the current of the editor’s soul had not been the most genial -that ever flowed in this rough world, it must have been congealed at -its source. The cases of type had to be placed very near the windows -so as to get all the light there was, and they got all the cold there -was, too. From time to time, the compositor’s fingers became so stiff -that blowing on them would not avail; he passed the time in excursions -between his stand and the stove; in very cold weather, he practiced -the device of warming his whole case of types by the fire, and when it -lost heat, warming it again. The man at the press-wheel was then the -enviable man; those who handled the chill damp sheets of paper were no -more fortunate than the compositors. - - -II. - -The first floor of our office-building was used by a sash-and-blind -factory; there was a machine-shop somewhere in it, and a mill for -sawing out shingles; and it was better fitted to the exercise of these -robust industries than to the requirements of our more delicate craft. -Later, we had a more comfortable place, in a new wooden “business -block,” and for several years before I left it the office was domiciled -in an old dwelling-house, which we bought, and which we used without -much change. It could never have been a very luxurious dwelling, and -my associations with it are of a wintry cold, scarcely less polar than -that we were inured to elsewhere. In fact, the climate of that region -is rough and fierce; and the lake winds have a malice sharper than -the saltiest gales of the North Shore of Massachusetts. I know that -there were lovely summers and lovelier autumns in my time there, full -of sunsets of a strange, wild, melancholy splendor, I suppose from -some atmospheric influence of the lake; but I think chiefly of the -winters, so awful to us after the mild seasons of southern Ohio; the -frosts of ten and twenty below; the village streets and the country -roads drowned in snow, the consumptives in the thin houses, and the -“slippin’,” as the sleighing was called, that lasted from December to -April with hardly a break. At first our family was housed on a farm a -little way out, because there was no tenement to be had in the village, -and my father and I used to walk to and from the office together in the -morning and evening. I had taught myself to read Spanish, in my passion -for Don Quixote, and I was then, at the age of fifteen, preparing to -write a life of Cervantes. This scheme occupied me a good deal in those -bleak walks, and perhaps it was because my head was so hot with it that -my feet were always very cold; but my father assured me that they would -get warm as soon as my boots froze. If I have never yet written that -life of Cervantes, on the other hand I have never been quite able to -make it clear to myself why my feet should have got warm when my boots -froze. - - -III. - -It may have been only a theory of his; it may have been a joke. He had -a great many theories and a great many jokes, and together these always -kept life interesting and sunshiny to him. With his serene temperament -and his happy doubt of disaster in any form, he was singularly well -fitted to encounter the hardships of a country editor’s lot. But for -the moment, and for what now seems a long time after the removal -of our paper to the county-seat, these seem to have vanished. The -printing-office was the centre of civic and social interest; it was -frequented by visitors at all times, and on publication day it was -a scene of gayety that looks a little incredible in the retrospect. -The place was as bare and rude as a printing-office seems always to -be: the walls were splotched with ink and the floor littered with -refuse newspapers; but lured by the novelty of the affair, and perhaps -attracted by a natural curiosity to see what manner of strange men the -printers were, the school-girls and young ladies of the village flocked -in, and made it like a scene of comic opera, with their pretty dresses -and faces, their eager chatter, and lively energy in folding the papers -and addressing them to the subscribers, while our fellow-citizens of -the place, like the bassos and barytones and tenors of the chorus, -stood about and looked on with faintly sarcastic faces. It would not do -to think now of what sorrow life and death have since wrought for all -those happy young creatures, but I may recall without too much pathos -the sensation when some citizen volunteer relaxed from his gravity -far enough to relieve the regular mercenary at the crank of our huge -power-press wheel, amid the applause of the whole company. - -We were very vain of that press, which replaced the hand press hitherto -employed in printing the paper. This was of the style and make of the -hand-press which superseded the Ramage press of Franklin’s time; but -it had been decided to signalize our new departure by the purchase of -a power-press of modern contrivance, and of a speed fitted to meet the -demands of a subscription list which might be indefinitely extended. -A deputation of the leading politicians accompanied the editor to -New York, where he went to choose the machine, and where he bought a -second-hand Adams press of the earliest pattern and patent. I do not -know, or at this date I would not undertake to say, just what principle -governed his selection of this superannuated veteran; it seems not -to have been very cheap; but possibly he had a prescience of the -disabilities which were to task his ingenuity to the very last days of -that press. Certainly no man of less gift and skill could have coped -with its infirmities, and I am sure that he thoroughly enjoyed nursing -it into such activity as carried it hysterically through those far-off -publication days. It had obscure functional disorders of various kinds, -so that it would from time to time cease to act, and would have to be -doctored by the hour before it would go on. There was probably some -organic trouble, too, for though it did not really fall to pieces -on our hands, it showed itself incapable of profiting by several -improvements which he invented, and could, no doubt, have successfully -applied to the press if its constitution had not been undermined. It -went with a crank set in a prodigious fly-wheel which revolved at -a great rate, till it came to the moment of making the impression, -when the whole mechanism was seized with such a reluctance as nothing -but an heroic effort at the crank could overcome. It finally made so -great a draught upon our forces that it was decided to substitute -steam for muscle in its operation, and we got a small engine, which -could fully sympathize with the press in having seen better days. I do -not know that there was anything the matter with the engine itself, -but the boiler had some peculiarities which might well mystify the -casual spectator. He could easily have satisfied himself that there -was no danger of its blowing up, when he saw my brother feeding bran -or corn-meal into its safety-valve, in order to fill up certain seams -or fissures in it, which caused it to give out at the moments of the -greatest reluctance in the press. But still, he must have had his -misgivings of latent danger of some other kind, though nothing ever -actually happened of a hurtful character. To this day, I do not know -just where those seams or fissures were, but I think they were in the -boiler-head, and that it was therefore suffering from a kind of chronic -fracture of the skull. What is certain is that, somehow, the engine -and the press did always get us through publication day, and not only -with safety but often with credit; so that not long ago, when I was at -home, and my brother and I were looking over an old file of his paper, -we found it much better printed than either of us expected; as well -printed, in fact, as if it had been done on an old hand-press, instead -of the steam power-press which it vaunted the use of. The wonder was -that, under all the disadvantages, the paper was ever printed on our -steam power-press at all; it was little short of miraculous that it was -legibly printed, and altogether unaccountable that such impressions -as we found in that file could come from it. Of course, they were not -average impressions; they were the very best out of the whole edition, -and were as creditable as the editorial make-up of the sheet. - - -IV. - -On the first page was a poem, which I suppose I must have selected, -and then a story, filling all the rest of the page, which my brother -more probably chose; for he had a decided fancy in fiction, and -had a scrap-book of inexhaustible riches, which he could draw upon -indefinitely for old personal or family favorites. The next page was -filled with selections of various kinds, and with original matter -interesting to farmers. Then came a page of advertisements, and then -the editorial page, where my father had given his opinions of the -political questions which interested him, and which he thought it the -duty of the country press to discuss, with sometimes essays in the -field of religion and morals. There was a letter of two columns from -Washington, contributed every week by the congressman who represented -our district; and there was a letter from New York, written by a young -lady of the county who was studying art under a master of portraiture -then flourishing in the metropolis; if that is not stating it too -largely for the renown of Thomas Hicks, as we see it in a vanishing -perspective. The rest of this page, as well as the greater part of the -next, was filled with general news, clipped from the daily papers, and -partly condensed from them. There was also such local intelligence -as offered itself, and communications on the affairs of village and -county; but the editor did not welcome tidings of new barns and -abnormal vegetation, or flatter hens to lay eggs of unusual size or -with unusual frequency by undue public notice. All that order of minute -neighborhood gossip which now makes the country paper a sort of open -letter was then unknown. He published marriages and deaths, and such -obituary notices as the sorrowing fondness of friends prompted them to -send him; and he introduced the custom of publishing births, after the -English fashion, which the people took to kindly. - -We had an ambition, even so remotely as that day, in the direction of -the illustration which has since so flourished in the newspapers. Till -then we had never gone further in the art than to print a jubilant -raccoon over the news of some Whig victory, or, what was to the same -purpose, an inverted cockerel in mockery of the beaten Democrats; but -now we rose to the notion of illustrated journalism. We published a -story with a woodcut in it, and we watched to see how that cut came out -all through the edition with a pride that was perhaps too exhaustive; -at any rate, we never tried another. - -Of course, much of the political writing in the paper was -controversial, and was carried on with editors of other opinions -elsewhere in the county, for we had no rival in our own village. In -this, which has always been the vice of American journalism, the -country press was then fully as provincial as the great metropolitan -journals are now. These may be more pitilessly personal in the conduct -of their political discussions, and a little more skilled in obloquy -and insult; but the bickering went on in the country papers quite as -idly and foolishly. I fancy nobody really cared for our quarrels, and -that those who followed them were disgusted when they were more than -merely wearied. - -The space given to them might better have been given even to original -poetry. This was sometimes accepted, but was not invited; though -our sixth page commonly began with verse of some kind. Then came -more prose selections, but never at any time accounts of murder or -violent crimes, which the editor abominated in themselves and believed -thoroughly corrupting. Advertisements of various kinds filled out the -sheet, which was simple and quiet in typography, wholly without the -hand-bill display which now renders nearly all newspapers repulsive -to the eye. I am rather proud, in my quality of printer, that this -was the style which I established; and we maintained it against all -advertisers, who then as now wished to out-shriek one another in large -type and ugly woodcuts. - -It was by no means easy to hold a firm hand with the “live business -men” of our village and country, who came out twice a year with -the spring and fall announcements of their fresh stocks of goods, -which they had personally visited New York to lay in; but one of the -moral advantages of an enterprise so modest as ours was that the -counting-room and the editorial-room were united under the same head, -and this head was the editor’s. After all, I think we lost nothing -by the bold stand we made in behalf of good taste, and at any rate -we risked it when we had not the courage to cut off our delinquent -subscribers. - -We had business advertising from all the villages in the county, -for the paper had a large circle of readers in each, and a certain -authority, in virtue of representing the county-seat. But a great deal -of our advertising was of patent medicines, as the advertising still -is in the country papers. It was very profitable, and so was the legal -advertising, when we could get the money for it. The money had to come -by order of court, and about half the time the order of court failed -to include the costs of advertising. Then we did not get it, and we -never got it, though we were always glad to get the legal advertising -on the chance of getting the pay. It was not official, but was made -up of the lawyers’ notices to defendants of the suits brought against -them. If it had all been paid for, I am not sure that we should now be -in a position to complain of the ingratitude of the working-classes, or -prepared to discuss, from a vantage of personal experience, the duty -of vast wealth to the community; but still we should have been better -off for that money, as well as the money we lost by a large and loyal -list of delinquent subscribers. From time to time there were stirring -appeals to these adherents in the editorial columns, which did not -stir them, and again the most flattering offers to take any kind of -produce in payment of subscription. Sometimes my brother boldly tracked -the delinquents to their lairs. In most cases I fancy they escaped -whatever arts he used to take them; many died peacefully in their beds -afterward, and their debts follow them to this day. Still, he must now -and then have got money from them, and I am sure he did get different -kinds of “trade.” Once, I remember, he brought back in the tail of his -wagon a young pig, a pig so very young that my father pronounced it -“merely an organization.” Whether it had been wrought to frenzy or not -by the strange experiences of its journey, I cannot say, but as soon -as it was set down on the ground it began to run madly, and it kept on -running till it fell down and perished miserably. It had been taken for -a year’s subscription, and it was quite as if we had lost a delinquent -subscriber. - - -V. - -Upon the whole, our paper was an attempt at conscientious and -self-respecting journalism; it addressed itself seriously to the minds -of its readers; it sought to form their tastes and opinions. I do not -know how much it influenced them, if it influenced them at all, and -as to any effect beyond the circle of its subscribers, that cannot -be imagined, even in a fond retrospect. But since no good effort is -altogether lost, I am sure that this endeavor must have had some -tacit effect; and I am sure that no one got harm from a sincerity of -conviction that devoted itself to the highest interest of the reader, -that appealed to nothing base, and flattered nothing foolish in him. It -went from our home to the homes of the people in a very literal sense, -for my father usually brought his exchanges from the office at the end -of his day there, and made his selections or wrote his editorials while -the household work went on around him, and his children gathered about -the same lamp, with their books or their jokes; there were apt to be a -good many of both. - -Our county was the most characteristic of that remarkable group of -counties in northern Ohio called the Western Reserve, and forty years -ago the population was almost purely New England in origin, either by -direct settlement from Connecticut, or indirectly after the sojourn -of a generation in New York State. We were ourselves from southern -Ohio, where the life was then strongly tinged by the adjoining life of -Kentucky and Virginia, and we found these transplanted Yankees cold and -blunt in their manners; but we did not undervalue their virtues. They -formed in that day a leaven of right thinking and feeling which was to -leaven the whole lump of the otherwise proslavery or indifferent state; -and I suppose that outside of the antislavery circles of Boston there -was nowhere in the country a population so resolute and so intelligent -in its political opinions. They were very radical in every way, and -hospitable to novelty of all kinds. I imagine that they tested more -new religions and new patents than have been even heard of in less -inquiring communities. When we came among them they had lately been -swept by the fires of spiritualism, which left behind a great deal of -smoke and ashes where the inherited New England orthodoxy had been. A -belief in the saving efficacy of spirit phenomena still exists among -them, but not, I fancy, at all in the former measure, when nearly every -household had its medium, and the tables that tipped outnumbered the -tables that did not tip. The old New York Tribune, which was circulated -in the country almost as widely as our own paper, had deeply schooled -the people in the economics of Horace Greeley, and they were ready -for any sort of millennium, religious or industrial, that should -arrive, while they looked very wisely after the main chance in the -meantime. They were temperate, hard-working, hard-thinking folks, who -dwelt on their scattered farms, and came up to the County Fair once -a year, when they were apt to visit the printing-office and pay for -their papers. In spite of the English superstition to the contrary, -the average American is not very curious, if one may judge from his -reticence in the presence of things strange enough to excite question; -and if our craft surprised these witnesses they rarely confessed it. - -They thought it droll, as people of the simpler occupations are apt to -think all the more complex arts; and one of them once went so far in -expression of his humorous conception as to say, after a long stare at -one of the compositors dodging and pecking at the type in his case, -“Like an old hen pickin’ up millet.” This sort of silence, and this -sort of comment, both exasperated the printers, who took their revenge -as they could. They fed it full, once, when a country subscriber’s -horse, tied before the office, crossed his hind-legs and sat down in -his harness like a tired man, and they proposed to go out and offer him -a chair, to take him a glass of water, and ask him to come inside. But -fate did not often give them such innings; they mostly had to create -their chances of reprisal, but they did not mind that. - -There was always a good deal of talk going on, but although we were -very ardent politicians, the talk was not political. When it was not -mere banter, it was mostly literary; we disputed about authors among -ourselves, and with the village wits who dropped in. There were several -of these who were readers, and they liked to stand with their backs to -our stove and challenge opinion concerning Holmes and Poe, Irving and -Macaulay, Pope and Byron, Dickens and Shakespeare. - -It was Shakespeare who was oftenest on our tongues; indeed, the -printing-office of former days had so much affinity with the theatre -that compositors and comedians were easily convertible; and I have seen -our printers engaged in hand-to-hand combats with column-rules, two up -and two down, quite like the real bouts on the stage. Religion entered -a good deal into our discussions, which my father, the most tolerant -of men, would not suffer to become irreverent, even on the lips of law -students bathing themselves in the fiery spirit of Tom Paine. He was -willing to meet any one in debate of moral, religious, or political -questions, and the wildest-haired Comeouter, the most ruthless -sceptic, the most credulous spiritualist, found him ready to take them -seriously, even when it was hard not to take them in joke. - -It was part of his duty, as publisher of the paper, to bear patiently -with another kind of frequenter: the type of farmer who thought he -wished to discontinue his paper, and really wished to be talked into -continuing it. I think he rather enjoyed letting the subscriber talk -himself out, and carrying him from point to point in his argument, -always consenting that he knew best what he wanted to do, but skilfully -persuading him at last that a home-paper was more suited to his needs -than any city substitute. Once I could have given the heads of his -reasoning, but they are gone from me now. The editor was especially -interested in the farming of the region, and I think it was partly -owing to the attention he called to the question that its character was -so largely changed. It is still a dairy country, but now it exports -grain, and formerly the farmers had to buy their flour. - -He did not neglect any real local interest in his purpose of keeping -his readers alive to matters of more general importance, but he was -fortunate in addressing himself to people who cared for the larger, -if remoter, themes he loved. In fact, as long as slavery remained a -question in our politics, they had a seriousness and dignity which the -present generation can hardly imagine; and men of all callings felt -themselves uplifted by the appeal this question made to their reason -and conscience. My father constantly taught in his paper that if -slavery could be kept out of the territories it would perish, and, as -I have said, this was the belief of the vast majority of his readers. -They were more or less fervid in it, according to their personal -temperaments; some of them were fierce in their convictions, and some -humorous, but they were all in earnest. The editor sympathized more -with those who took the true faith gayly. All were agreed that the -Fugitive Slave Law was to be violated at any risk; it would not have -been possible to take an escaping slave out of that county without -bloodshed, but the people would have enjoyed outwitting his captors -more than destroying them. Even in the great John Brown times, when it -was known that there was a deposit of his impracticable pikes somewhere -in our woods, and he and his followers came and went among us on some -mysterious business of insurrectionary aim, the affair had its droll -aspects which none appreciated more keenly than the Quaker-born editor. -With his cheerful scepticism, he could never have believed that any -harm or danger would come of it all; and I think he would have been -hardly surprised to wake up any morning and find that slavery had died -suddenly during the night, of its own iniquity. - -He was like all country editors then, and I dare say now, in being -a printer as well as an editor, and he took a full share in the -mechanical labors. These were formerly much more burdensome, for -twice or thrice the present type-setting was then done in the country -offices. At the present day the country printer buys of a city agency -his paper already printed on one side, and he gets it for the cost of -the blank paper, the agency finding its account in the advertisements -it puts in. Besides this patent inside, as it is called, the printer -buys stereotyped selections of other agencies, which offer him almost -as wide a range of matter as the exchange newspapers he used to choose -from. The few columns left for local gossip and general news, and for -whatever editorial comment he cares to make on passing events, can -be easily filled up by two compositors. But in my time we had three -journeymen at work and two or three girl-compositors, and commonly a -boy-apprentice besides. The paper was richer in a personal quality, -and the printing-office was unquestionably more of a school. After we -began to take girl-apprentices it became coeducative, as far as they -cared to profit by it; but I think it did not serve to widen their -thoughts or quicken their wits as it did those of the men. They looked -to their craft as a living, not as a life, and they had no pride in -it. They did not learn the whole trade, as the journeymen had done, -and served only such apprenticeship as fitted them to set type. They -were then paid by the thousand ems, and their earnings were usually as -great at the end of a month as at the end of a year. But the boy who -came up from his father’s farm, with the wish to be a printer because -Franklin had been one, and with the intent of making the office his -university, began by sweeping it out, by hewing wood and carrying water -for it. He became a roller-boy, and served long behind the press before -he was promoted to the case, where he learned slowly and painfully to -set type. His wage was forty dollars a year and two suits of clothes, -for three years, when his apprenticeship ended, and his wander-years -(too often literally) began. He was glad of being inky and stained -with the marks of his trade; he wore a four-cornered paper cap, in the -earlier stages of his service, and even an apron. When he became a -journeyman, he clothed himself in black doeskin and broadcloth, and put -on a silk hat and the thinnest-soled fine boots that could be found, -and comported himself as much like a man of the world as he knew how to -do. His work brought him acquainted with a vast variety of interests, -and kept his mind as well as hands employed; he could not help thinking -about them, and he did not fail to talk about them. His comments had -generally a slightly acid flavor, and his constant survey of the -world, in the “map of busy life” always under his eye, bred in him -the contempt of familiarity. He was none the less agreeable for that, -and the jokes that flew about from case to case in our office were -something the editor would have been the last man to interfere with. -He read or wrote on through them all, and now and then turned from his -papers to join in them. - - -VI. - -The journeyman of that time and place was much better than the printer -whom we had known earlier and in a more lax civilization, who was -too apt to be sober only when he had not the means to be otherwise, -and who arrived out of the unknown with nothing in his pocket, and -departed into it with only money enough to carry him to the next -printing-office. If we had no work for him it was the custom to take -up a collection in the office, and he accepted it as a usage of the -craft, without loss of self-respect. It could happen that his often -infirmity would overtake him before he got out of town, but in this -case he did not return for a second collection; I suppose that would -not have been good form. Now and then a printer of this earlier sort -appeared among us for a little time, but the air of the Western Reserve -was somehow unfriendly to him, and he soon left us for the kindlier -clime of the Ohio River, or for the more southerly region which we -were ourselves sometimes so homesick for, and which his soft, rolling -accent so pleasantly reminded us of. Still, there was something about -the business--perhaps the arsenic in the type-metal--which everywhere -affected the morals as it was said sometimes to affect the nerves. - -There was one of our printers who was a capital compositor, a most -engaging companion, and of unimpeachable Western Reserve lineage, who -would work along in apparent perpetuity on the line of duty, and then -suddenly deflect from it. If he wanted a day off, or several days, he -would take the time, without notice, and with a princely indifference -to any exigency we might be in. He came back when he chose, and offered -to go to work again, and I do not remember that he was ever refused. -He was never in drink; his behavior was the effect of some obscure -principle of conduct, unless it was that moral contagion from the -material he wrought in. - -I do not know that he was any more characteristic, though, than another -printer of ours, who was dear to my soul from the quaintness of his -humor and his love of literature. I think he was, upon the whole, the -most original spirit I have known, and it was not the least part of -his originality that he was then aiming to become a professor in some -college, and was diligently training himself for the calling in all the -leisure he could get from his work. The usual thing would have been to -read law and crowd forward in political life, but my friend despised -this common ideal. We were both studying Latin, he quite by himself, as -he studied Greek and German, and I with such help as I could find in -reciting to a kindly old minister, who had forgotten most of his own -Latin, and whom I do not now wish to blame for falling asleep over the -lessons in my presence; I did not know them well enough to keep him up -to the work. My friend and I read the language, he more and I less, and -we tried to speak it together, to give ourselves consequence, and to -have the pleasure of saying before some people’s faces what we should -otherwise have said behind their backs; I should not now undertake to -speak Latin to achieve either of these aims. Besides this, we read a -great deal together, mainly Shakespeare and Cervantes. I had a task of -a certain number of thousand ems a day, and when I had finished that I -was free to do what I liked; he would stop work at the same time, and -then we would take our Don Quixote into some clean, sweet beech-woods -there were near the village, and laugh our hearts out over it. I can -see my friend’s strange face now, very regular, very fine, and smooth -as a girl’s, with quaint blue eyes, shut long, long ago, to this _dolce -lome_; and some day I should like to tell all about him; but this is -not the place. When the war broke out he left the position he had got -by that time in some college or academy farther west and went into -the army. One morning, in Louisiana, he was killed by a guerrilla -who got a shot at him when he was a little way from his company, and -who was probably proud of picking off the Yankee captain. But as yet -such a fate was unimaginable. He was the first friend of my youth; -he was older than I by five or six years; but we met in an equality -of ambition and purpose, though he was rather more inclined to the -severity of the scholar’s ideal, and I hoped to slip through somehow -with a mere literary use of my learning. - - -VII. - -As I have tried to say, the printers of that day had nearly all some -affinity with literature, if not some love of it; it was in a sort -always at their fingers-ends, and they must have got some touch of -it whether they would or not. They thought their trade a poor one, -moneywise, but they were fond of it and they did not often forsake -it. Their hope was somehow to get hold of a country paper and become -editors and publishers; and my friend and I, when he was twenty-four -and I eighteen, once crossed over into Pennsylvania, where we had -heard there was a paper for sale; but we had not the courage to offer -even promises to pay for it. The craft had a repute for insolvency -which it merited, and it was at odds with the community at large by -reason of something not immediately intelligible in it, or at least not -classifiable. I remember that when I began to write a certain story -of mine, I told Mark Twain, who was once a printer, that I was going -to make the hero a printer, and he said, “Better not. People will not -understand him. Printing is something every village has in it, but -it is always a sort of mystery, and the reader does not like to be -perplexed by something that he thinks he knows about.” This seemed -very acute and just, though I made my hero a printer all the same, -and I offer it to the public as a light on the anomalous relation the -country printer bears to his fellow-citizens. They see him following -his strange calling among them, but to neither wealth nor worship, -and they cannot understand why he does not take up something else, -something respectable and remunerative; they feel that there must be -something weak, something wrong in a man who is willing to wear his -life out in a vocation which keeps him poor and dependent on the favor -they grudge him. It is like the relation which all the arts bear to -the world, and which is peculiarly thankless in a purely commercial -civilization like ours; though I cannot pretend that printing is an -art in the highest sense. I have heard old journeymen claim that it -was a profession and ought to rank with the learned professions, but -I am afraid that was from too fond a pride in it. It is in one sort a -handicraft, like any other, like carpentering or stone-cutting; but it -has its artistic delight, as every handicraft has. There is the ideal -in all work; and I have had moments of unsurpassed gladness in feeling -that I had come very near the ideal in what I had done in my trade. -This joy is the right of every worker, and in so far as modern methods -have taken it from him they have wronged him. I can understand Ruskin -in his wish to restore it to some of the handicrafts which have lost it -in the “base mechanical” operations of the great manufactories, where -men spend their lives in making one thing, or a part of a thing, and -cannot follow their work constructively. If that were to be the end, -the operative would forever lose the delight in work which is the best -thing in the world. But I hope this is not to be the end, and that when -people like again to make things for use and not merely for profit, the -workman will have again the reward that is more than wages. - -I know that in the old-fashioned country printing-office we had this, -and we enjoyed our trade as the decorative art it also is. Questions of -taste constantly arose in the arrangement of a title-page, the display -of a placard or a handbill, the use of this type or that. They did -not go far, these questions, but they employed the critical faculty -and the æsthetic instinct, and they allied us, however slightly and -unconsciously, with the creators of the beautiful. - -But now, it must be confessed, printing has shared the fate of all -other handicrafts. Thanks to united labor, it is better paid in each -of its subdivisions than it once was as a whole. In my time, the hire -of a first-rate country printer, who usually worked by the week, was -a dollar a day; but of course this was not so little in 1852 as it -would be in 1892. My childish remembrance is of the journeymen working -two hours after supper, every night, so as to make out a day of twelve -hours; but at the time I write of the day of ten hours was the law and -the rule, and nobody worked longer, except when the President’s Message -was to be put in type, or on some other august occasion. - -The pay is not only increased in proportion to the cost of living, but -it is really greater, and the conditions are all very much better. -But I believe no apprentice now learns the whole trade, and each of -our printers, forty years ago, would have known how to do everything -in the kind of office he hoped to own. He would have had to make a -good many things which the printer now buys, and first among them the -rollers, which are used for inking the type on the press. These were -of a composition of glue and molasses, and were of an india-rubbery -elasticity and consistency, as long as they were in good condition. But -with use and time they became hard, the ink smeared on them, and they -failed to impart it evenly to the type; they had to be thrown away, or -melted over again. This was done on the office stove, in a large bucket -which they were cut up into, with fresh glue and molasses added. It -seems in the retrospect to have been rather a simple affair, and I do -not now see why casting a roller should have involved so much absolute -failure, and rarely have given a satisfactory result. The mould was a -large copper cylinder, and the wooden core of the roller was fixed in -place by an iron cap and foot-piece. The mixture boiled away, as it -now seems to me, for days, and far into the sleepy nights, when as a -child I was proud of sitting up with it very late. Then at some weird -hour, my father or my brother poured it into the mould, and we went -home and left the rest with fate. The next morning the whole office -crowded round to see the roller drawn from the mould, and it usually -came out with such long hollows and gaps in its sides that it had to -be cut up at once and melted over again. At present, all rollers are -bought somewhere in New York or Chicago, I believe, and a printer would -no more think of making a roller than of making any other part of his -press. “And you know,” said my brother, who told me of this change, -“we don’t wet the paper now.” “Good heavens,” said I, “you don’t print -it _dry_!” “Yes, and it doesn’t blur any more than if it were wet.” I -suppose wetting the paper was a usage that antedated the invention of -movable type. It used to be drawn, quire by quire, through a vat of -clear water, and then the night before publication day it was turned -and sprinkled. Now it was printed dry, I felt as if it were time to -class Benjamin Franklin with the sun-myths. - - -VIII. - -Publication day was always a time of great excitement. We were busy -all the morning getting the last editorials and the latest news in -type, and when the paper went to press in the afternoon the entire -force was drafted to the work of helping the engine and the press -through their various disabilities and reluctances. Several hands were -needed to run the press, even when it was in a willing frame; others -folded the papers as they came from it; as many more were called from -their wonted work to address them to the subscribers; for with the -well-known fickleness of their sex, the young ladies of the village -ceased to do this as soon as the novelty of the affair wore off. -Still, the office was always rather a lively scene, for the paper -was not delivered at the village houses, and each subscriber came -and got his copy; the villagers began to come about the hour we went -to press, the neighboring farmers called next day and throughout the -week. Nearly everybody who witnessed the throes of our machinery had -advice or sympathy to offer, and in a place where many people were of a -mechanical turn the spectacular failure of the editor’s additions and -improvements was naturally a source of public entertainment; perhaps -others got as much pleasure out of his inventions as he did. - -Of course, about election time the excitement was intensified; we had -no railroad or telegraphic communication with the outer world, but it -was felt that we somehow had the news, and it was known that we had -the latest papers from Cleveland, and that our sheet would report the -intelligence from them. After all, however, there was nothing very -burning or seething in the eagerness of our subscribers. They could -wait; their knowledge of the event would not change it, or add or -take away one vote either way. I dare say it is not so very different -now, when the railroad and the telegraph have made the little place -simultaneous with New York and London. We people who fret our lives -out in cities do not know how tranquil life in the country still is. -We talk of the whirl and rush, as if it went on everywhere, but if you -will leave the express train anywhere and pass five miles into the -country, away from the great through lines, you will not find the whirl -and rush. People sometimes go mad there from the dulness and ennui, as -in the cities they sometimes go mad from the stress and the struggle; -and the problem of equalizing conditions has no phase more interesting -than that of getting the good of the city and the country out of the -one into the other. The old-fashioned country newspaper formed almost -the sole intellectual experience of the remote and quiet folks who -dwelt in their lonely farmsteads on the borders of the woods, with -few neighbors and infrequent visits to the township centre, where the -church, a store or two, and a tavern constituted a village. They got -it out of the post-office there once a week, and read it in the scanty -leisure left them by their farm-work or their household drudgery, and -I dare say they found it interesting. There were some men in every -neighborhood, tongueyer than the rest, who, when they called on us, -seemed to have got it by heart, and who were ready to defend or combat -its positions with all comers; this sort usually took some other paper, -too, an agricultural paper, or the New York _Trybune_, as they called -it; or a weekly edition of a Cleveland journal. It was generally -believed that Horace Greeley wrote everything in the _Trybune_, and -when a country subscriber unfolded his _Trybune_, he said, with -comfortable expectation, “Well, let’s see what old Horace says _this_ -week.” But by far the greater number of our subscribers took no paper -but our own. I do not know whether there is much more reading done now -on the farms, but I doubt it. In the villages, however, the circulation -of the nearest city dailies is pretty general, and there is a large -sale of the Sunday editions. I am not sure that this is an advantage, -but in the undeniable decay of interest in the local preaching, some -sort of mental relish for the only day of leisure is necessary. It is -not so much a pity that they read the Sunday papers, as that the Sunday -papers are so bad. If they were carefully and conscientiously made up, -they would be of great use; they wait their reformer, and they do not -seem impatient for him. - -In the old time, we printers were rather more in touch with the world -outside on the journalistic lines than most of our fellow-villagers, -but otherwise we were as remote as any of them, and the weekly issue -of the paper had not often anything tumultuously exciting for us. The -greatest event of our year was the publication of the President’s -Message, which was a thrill in my childish life long before I had -any conception of its meaning. I fancy that the patent inside, now -so universally used by the country papers, originated in the custom -which the printers within easy reach of a large city had of supplying -themselves with an edition of the President’s Message, to be folded -into their own sheet, when they did not print their outside on the -back of it. There was always a hot rivalry between the local papers -in getting out the Message, whether it was bought ready printed, or -whether it was set up in the office and printed in the body of the -paper. We had no local rival, but all the same we made haste when it -was a question of the Message. The printers filled their cases with -type, ready for the early copy of the Message, which the editor used -every device to secure; when it was once in hand they worked day and -night till it was all up, and then the paper was put to press at once, -without regard to the usual publication day; and the community was as -nearly electrified as could be with our journalistic enterprise, which -was more important in our eyes than the matters the Message treated of. - -There is no longer the eager popular expectation of the President’s -Message that there once seemed to be; and I think it is something of -a loss, that ebb of the high tide of political feeling which began -with the era of our immense material prosperity. It was a feeling that -formed a solidarity of all the citizens, and if it was not always, or -often, the highest interest which can unite men, it was at least not -that deadly and selfish cult of business which centres each of us in -his own affairs and kills even our curiosity about others. Very likely -people were less bent on the pursuit of wealth in those days, because -there was less chance to grow rich, but the fact remains that they -_were_ less bent in that direction, and that they gave their minds to -other things more than they do now. I think those other things were -larger things, and that our civic type was once nobler than it is. It -was before the period of corruption, when it was not yet fully known -that dollars can do the work of votes, when the votes as yet rather -outnumbered the dollars, and more of us had the one than the other. -The great statesman, not the great millionaire, was then the American -ideal, and all about in the villages and on the farms the people were -eager to know what the President had said to Congress. They are not -eager to know now, and that seems rather a pity. Is it because in -the war which destroyed slavery, the American Democracy died, and by -operation of the same fatal anomaly the American Plutocracy, which -Lincoln foreboded, was born; and the people instinctively feel that -they have no longer the old interest in President or Congress? - -There are those that say so, and, whether they are right or not, it -is certain that into the great centres where money is heaped up the -life of the country is drained, and the country press has suffered -with the other local interests. The railroads penetrate everywhere, -and carry the city papers seven times a week, where the home paper -pays its tardy visit once, with a patent inside imported from the -nearest money-centre, and its few columns of neighborhood gossip, -too inconsiderable to be gathered up by the correspondents of the -invasive dailies. Other causes have worked against the country press. -In counties where there were once two or three papers, there are now -eight or ten, without a material increase of population to draw upon -for support. The county printing, which the paper of the dominant -party could reckon upon, is now shared with other papers of the same -politics, and the amateur printing-offices belonging to ingenious boys -in every neighborhood get much of the small job-work which once came to -the publisher. - -It is useless to quarrel with the course of events, for which no one -is more to blame than another, though human nature loves a scapegoat, -and from time to time we load up some individual with the common -sins, and drive him into a wilderness where he seems rather to enjoy -himself than otherwise. I suppose that even if the conditions had -continued favorable, the country press could never have become the -influence which our editor fondly hoped and earnestly strove to make -it. Like all of us who work at all, the country printer had to work -too hard; and he had little time to think or to tell how to make life -better and truer in any sort. His paper had once perhaps as much -influence as the country pulpit; its support was certainly of the -same scanty and reluctant sort, and it was without consecration by an -avowed self-devotion. He was concerned with the main chance first, and -after that there was often no other chance, or he lost sight of it. I -should not instance him as an exemplary man, and I should be very far -from idealizing him; I should not like even to undertake the task of -idealizing a city journalist; and yet, in the retrospect at least, the -country printer has his pathos for me--the pathos of a man who began -to follow a thankless calling because he loved it, and kept on at it -because he loved it, or else because its service had warped and cramped -him out of form to follow any other. - - - - -POLICE REPORT. - - -One day in summer, when people whom I had been urging to behave in -some degree like human beings persisted in acting rather more like -the poor creatures who pass for men and women in most stage-plays, I -shut my manuscript in a drawer, and the next morning took an early -train into the city. I do not remember just what whim it was that led -me to visit the police court: perhaps I went because it was in the -dead vast and middle of the summer, and the town afforded little other -amusement; perhaps it was because, in my revolt against unreality, I -was in the humor to see life whose reality asserts itself every day in -the newspapers with indisputable force. If this was so, I was fated to -a measure of disappointment, for when the court opened this reality -often appeared no more substantial than the fiction with which I had -lost my patience at home. But I am bound to say that it was much more -entertaining, and that it was, so to speak, much more artistically -treated. It resolved itself into melodrama, or romantic tragedy, -having a prevailing comic interest, with moments of intensity, and -with effects so thrilling that I came away with a sense of the highest -theatrical illusion. - - -I. - -The police court in Boston is an upper room of the temple of justice, -and is a large, square, dismal-complexioned chamber, with the usual -seams and cracks configuring its walls and ceilings; its high, -curtainless windows were long glares of sunless light, crossed with -the fine drizzle of an easterly rain on the morning of my visit. About -one-third of the floor is allotted to spectators, and supplied with -benches of penitential severity; the remaining space is occupied by a -series of curved tables set in a horse-shoe, and by a raised platform, -railed off from the auditorium, as I may call it, and supporting in -successive gradations the clerk’s desk, on a very long, narrow table, -and the judge’s table and easy-chair. At either end of the table on -which the clerk’s desk was placed was a bar, representing in one case -the witness stand, and in the other the prisoner’s box; midway, the -clerk stood within a screen of open iron-work, hemmed in with books of -record and tin boxes full of docketed papers. - -Outside of the railing were the desks of two officers of the court, -whose proper titles my unfamiliarity with the place disables me from -giving. They were both well in flesh, as I remember, and in spite of -their blue flannel suits and the exercise of a wise discretion, by -which one of them had discarded his waistcoat and neckcloth, they -visibly suffered from the moist, close heat which the storm outside had -driven into the court-room. From time to time one of them cried out, -“Silence!” to quell a restive movement in the audience; and once the -cravatless officer left his place, and came down to mine near the door, -and drove out the boys who were sitting round me. “Leave!” he shouted. -“This is no place for boys!” They went out obediently, and some others -just like them came in immediately and took their places. They might -have been the same boys, so far as any difference for the better in -their looks went. They were not pleasant to the eye, nor to any other -sense; and neither were the young men nor old men who for the rest -formed the audience of this free dramatic spectacle. Their coat-collars -came up above their shirt-collars; but, greasy as they were, the -observer could not regret this misfit when chance gave an occasional -glimpse of their linen--or their cotton, to be exact. For the most -part, they wore their hair very short, and exposed necks which I -should, I believe, have preferred to have covered. Under the influence -of the humid heat, and with the wet they brought from the outside, -they sent up a really deplorable smell. I do not know that I have a -right to criticise the appearance of some of their eyes--they seemed -perfectly good eyes to see with, in spite of their sinister or vacant -expression and gloomy accessories; and certain scars and mutilations of -the face and fingers were the affair of their owners rather than mine. -Whenever they fell into talk, an officer of the court marched upon -them and crushed them to silence. “This is no place for conversation,” -he said; and the greater part of them had evidently no disposition or -capacity for that art. I believe they were men and boys whose utmost -mental effort sufficed to let their mouths hang open in the absorption -of the performance, and was by no means equal to comment upon it. -I fancied that they came there, day after day, the year round, and -enjoyed themselves in their poor way, realizing many of the situations -presented by experience of like predicaments, more than by sympathy or -an effort of the imagination. - -I had taken my place among them next the door, so that if my courage -failed me at any time I could go out without disturbing the others. -One need not be a very proud man to object to classing himself with -them, and there were moments when I doubted if I could stand my -fellow-spectators much longer; but these accesses of arrogance passed, -as I watched the preparations for the play with the interest of a -novice. There were already half a dozen policemen seated at the tables -in semicircle, and chatting pleasantly together; and their number was -constantly increased by new arrivals, who, as they came in, put their -round-topped straw hats on one end of the semicircle, and sat down to -fill out certain printed forms, which I suppose related to the arrests -they had made, for they were presently handed to the clerk, who used -them in calling up the cases. A little apart from the policemen was -a group of young men, whom I took to be the gentlemen of the bar; -among them, rather more dapper than the rest, was a colored lawyer, -who afterwards, by an irony of Nemesis, appeared for some desperate -and luckless defendants of the white race and of Irish accent. By and -by two or three desks, placed conveniently for seeing and hearing -everything against the railing on the clerk’s right, were occupied -by reporters, unmistakable with their pencil and paper. Looking from -them I saw that the judge’s chair was now filled by a quiet-looking -gentleman, who seemed, behind his spectacles, to be communing with -himself in a sad and bored anticipation. At times he leaned forward and -spoke with the clerk or one of the gentlemen of the bar, and then fell -back in sober meditation. - -Like all other public exhibitions, the police court failed a little in -point of punctuality. It was advertised to open at nine o’clock, but it -was nearer ten when, after several false alarms, the clerk in a rapid, -inarticulate formula declared it now opened, and invoked the blessing -of God on the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Even then there was a -long wait before we of the audience heard the scuffling of the feet -of the prisoners on what seemed a broad stairway behind the barrier -at the judge’s right, and before any of them came in sight they were -commanded by the attendant policeman to sit down, and apparently did -so, on the top of the stairs. The clerk now turned towards them with a -sheaf of the forms which the policemen had filled out in his hand, and -successively addressed them by name:-- - -“Larry McShane!” - -“Here, sor.” - -“Complained of for being drunk. Guilty or not guilty?” - -“Guilty, sor.” - -“Pay a fine of one dollar and costs, and stand committed to the House -of Industry.” - -He jotted something down on the back of each indictment, and half -turned to toss it on to his desk, and then resumed the catalogue of -these offenders, accusing and dooming them all in the same weary and -passionless monotone. - -I confess that I had at the time the strongest curiosity to see them, -but it has since struck me that it was a finer effect merely to hear -their voices in response, and to leave their figures and faces to -the fancy. Sometimes the voice that answered “Guilty” was youthful, -and sometimes, I grieve to say, it was feminine, though under the -circumstances it had naturally that subdued tone which is thought such -an excellent thing in woman. Usually, however, the voices were old -and raucous, as if they had many times made the same plea in the same -place, and they pronounced sir _sor_. The clerk’s sheaf of accusations -being exhausted, they all apparently scuffled downstairs again. But a -number must have remained, for now, after this sort of overture, the -entertainment began in earnest, the actors on the scene appearing as -they were summoned from the same invisible space behind the railing, -which I think was probably sunk a little lower than the level of the -auditorium, and which might, to humor the theatrical illusion, be -regarded as the green-room. - - -II. - -The first piece was what I may call a little Police Pastoral, -in recognition of the pretty touch of poetry which graced it. A -half-grown, baddish-looking boy was arraigned for assault and battery, -and took his place at one end of that long table on which rested the -clerk’s desk, while a young girl of thirteen or fourteen advanced from -the audience, and placed herself at the other end. She was dressed in a -well-fitting ready-made suit, which somehow suggested itself as having -been “marked down” to come within her means; and she wore a cheap yet -tasteful hat, under which her face, as honest as it was comely, looked -modestly up at the judge when he questioned her. It appeared that she -was passing the apple-stand which the defendant was keeping for his -mother, when he had suddenly abandoned his charge, followed her into a -gate where she had taken refuge, and struck her; her cries attracted -the police, and he was arrested. The officer corroborated her story, -and then the judge made a signal to the prisoner, by which it seemed -that he was privileged to cross-question his accuser. The injured -youth seized the occasion, and in a loud-bullying, yet plaintive tone -proceeded as best he could to damage the case against him. - -_He_: “Didn’t you pass my mother’s stand with them girls the day -before?” - -_She_, frankly: “Yes, I _did_.” - -_He_: “And didn’t you laugh at me, and call me an apple-woman?” - -_She_, as before: “Yes, I _did_.” - -_He_: “And hain’t you hit _me_, sometimes, before this?” - -_She_, evasively: “I’ve never hit you to hurt you.” - -_He_: “Now, that hain’t the question! The question is whether you’ve -ever hit me.” - -_She_: “Yes, I have--when you were trying to hold me. It was the other -girls called you names. I only called you names once.” - -_He_: “I want to know whether I hurt you any when you hollered out that -way?” - -_She_: “Yes, you _did_. And if I hadn’t screamed you _would_ have done -it. I don’t suppose you’d have hurt me a great _deal_, but you have -hurt _some_ of the girls.” - -_The Judge_: “Did he bruise you severely when he struck you?” - -_She_, with a relenting glance, full of soft compassion, at her enemy: -“Well, he didn’t bruise me _very_ much.” - -_The Judge_: “Has he been in the habit of assaulting the other young -girls?” - -_She_: “He never did _me_ before.” Then, with a sudden burst, “And I -think I was every bit as much to blame as he was! I had no business to -tease him.” - -Here the judge, instead of joining the hands of these children, and -sending them forward with his blessing, to dance and sing a little duet -together, as would have happened on any other stage, said that he would -fine the defendant seven dollars. The defendant gave way to a burst -of grief, and the plaintiff, astonished at this untoward conclusion, -threw the judge a pathetic and reproachful look, and left the stand in -painful bewilderment. I felt sorry for her, but I could not share her -pity for the defendant, and my light mind was quickly distracted by the -next piece. - - -III. - -I may say here that the features of the performance followed one -another rapidly, as at a variety theatre, without any disagreeable -waits or the drop of a curtain. If I had anything to complain of it -was the swiftness of their succession. I was not yet habituated to -this, when I found the scene occupied by the two principal actors in -a laughable little interlude of Habitual Drunkenness. A powerfully -built, middle-aged Irishman, with evidences of coal-heaving thick -upon his hands and ground into his face to the roots of his hair, was -standing at one end of that long table, and listening to the tale of -the policeman who, finding him quarrelsomely and noisily drunk, and not -being able to prevail with him to go home, had arrested him. When he -finished, the judge said to the defendant, who had stood rolling his -eyes--conspicuous from the black around them--upon the spectators, as -if at a loss to make out what all this might be about, that he could -ask any questions he liked of the plaintiff. - -“I don’t want to ask him anything, sor,” replied the defendant, like -one surprised at being expected to take an interest in some alien -affair. - -“Have you ever seen the defendant drunk before?” asked the judge. - -“Yes, your honor; I’ve seen him drunk half a dozen times, and I’ve -taken him home to keep him out of harm’s way. He’s an industrious man -when he isn’t in drink.” - -“Is he usually disorderly when drunk?” - -“Well, he and his wife generally fight when he gets home,” the -policeman suggested. - -The judge desisted, and the defendant’s counsel rose, and signified -his intention to cross-question the plaintiff: the counsel was that -attorney of African race whom I have mentioned. - -“Now, we don’t deny that the defendant was drunk at the time of his -arrest; but the question is whether he is an habitual drunkard. How -many times have you seen him drunk the past month?” - -“About half a dozen times.” - -“Seven times?” - -“I can’t say.” - -“Three times?” - -“More than three times.” - -“More than twice you will swear to?” - -“Yes.” - -“Now, I wish you to be very careful, please: can you state, under oath, -that you have seen him drunk four times?” - -“Yes,” said the policeman, “I can swear to that.” - -“Very good,” said the counsel, with the air of having caught the -witness tripping. “That is all.” - -Aside from the satisfaction that one naturally feels in seeing any -policeman bullied, I think it did me good to have my learned colored -brother badger a white man. The thing was so long the other way, in -every walk of life, that for the sake of the bad old times, when the -sight would have been something to destroy the constitution and subvert -social order, I could have wished that he might have succeeded better -in browbeating his witness. But it was really a failure, as far as -concerned his object. - -“The question, your honor,” the lawyer added, turning to the judge, -“is, what _is_ habitual drunkenness? I should like to ask the defendant -a query or two. Now, Mr. O’Ryan, how often do you indulge yourself in a -social glass?” - -“Sor?” - -“How often do you drink?” - -“Whenever I can get it, sor.” - -The audience appreciated this frankness, and were silenced by a -threatening foray of the cravatless officer. - -“You mean,” suggested the attorney, smoothly, “that you take a drink of -beer, now and then, when you are at work.” - -“I mane that, sor. A horse couldn’t do widout it.” - -“Very good. But you deny that you are habitually intoxicated?” - -“Sor?” - -“You are not in the habit of getting drunk?” - -“No, sor!” - -“Very good. You are not in the habit of getting drunk.” - -“I never get dhrunk whin I’m at work sor. I get dhrunk Saturday nights.” - -“Yes; when you have had a hard week’s work. I understand that”-- - -“I have a hard wake’s worruk every wake!” interrupted the defendant. - -“But this is a thing that has grown upon you of late, as I understand. -You were formerly a sober, temperate man, as your habits of industry -imply.” - -“Sor?” - -“You have lately given way to a fondness for liquor, but up to within -six months or a year ago you never drank to excess.” - -“No, sor! I’ve dhrunk ever since I was born, and I’ll dhrink till I -die.” - -The officer could not keep us quiet, now. The counsel looked down at -his table in a futile way, and then took his seat after some rambling -observations, amid smiles of ironical congratulation from the other -gentlemen of the bar. - -The defendant confronted the judge with the calm face of a man who has -established his innocence beyond cavil. - -“What is the reputation of this man in his neighborhood?” inquired the -judge of the policeman. - -“He’s an ugly fellow. And his wife is full as bad. They generally get -drunk together.” - -“Any children?” - -“No, sir.” - -The defendant regarded the judge with heightened satisfaction in this -confirmation of his own declaration. The judge leaned over, and said in -a confidential way to the clerk, “Give him six months in the House of -Correction.” - -A wild lament broke from the audience, and a woman with a face bruised -to a symphony in green, yellow, and black thus identified herself as -the wife of the defendant, who stood vacantly turning his cap round in -his hand while sympathizing friends hurried her from the room. The poor -creature probably knew that if in their late differences she had got -more than she deserved, she had not got more than she had been willing -to give, and was moved by this reflection. Other moralists, who do not -like to treat woman as a reasonable being, may attribute her sorrow -to mere blind tenderness, or hysterical excitement. I could not see -that it touched the spectators in any way; and I suspect that, whatever -was thought of her escape from a like fate, there was a general -acquiescence in the justice of his. He was either stunned by it, or -failed to take it in, for he remained standing at the end of the table -and facing the judge, till the policeman in charge took him by the arm -and stood him aside. - - -IV. - -He sat down, and I saw him no more; but I had no time to regret him, -for his place was instantly occupied by a person who stepped within the -bar from the audience. I had already noticed him coming in and going -out of the court-room, apparently under strong excitement, and hovering -about, now among the gentlemen of the bar, and now among friends in -the audience. He had an excited and eccentric look, and yet he looked -like a gentleman--a gentleman in distress of mind; I had supposed that -he could not be one of the criminal classes, or he would scarcely have -been allowed so much at large. At the same time that he took his place -he was confronted from the other end of the long table by a person whom -I will call a lady, because I observed that every one else did so. -This lady’s person tended to fat; she had a large, red face, and I -learned without surprise that she was a cook. She wore a crimson shawl, -and a bonnet abounding in blossoms and vegetables of striking colors, -and she had one arm, between the wrist and elbow, impressively swathed -in linen; she caressed, as it were, a small water-pitcher, which I -felt, in spite of its ordinary appearance, was somehow historical. In -fact, it came out that this pitcher played an important part in the -assault which the lady accused the gentleman at the other end of the -table of committing upon her. - -It seemed from her story that the gentleman was a boarder in the house -where she was cook, and that he was in the habit of intruding upon her -in the kitchen against her will and express command. A week before (I -understood that she had spent the intervening time in suffering and -disability) she had ordered him out, and he had turned furiously upon -her with an uplifted chair and struck her on the arm with it, and then -had thrown at her head the pitcher which she now held in her hands. -There were other circumstances of outrage, which I cannot now recall, -but they are not important in view of the leading facts. - -Further testimony in behalf of the plaintiff was offered by another -lady, whose countenance expressed second-girl as unmistakably as that -of the plaintiff expressed cook. She was of the dish-faced Irish type, -and whereas the cook was of an Old-World robustness, her witness had -the pallor and flat-chestedness of the women of her race who are born -in America; she preferred several shades of blue in her costume, which -was of ready-made and marked-down effect. This lady with difficulty -comprehended the questions intended to elicit her name and the fact -of her acquaintance with the plaintiff, and I noticed a like density -of understanding in most of the other persons testifying or arraigned -in this court. In fact, I came to wonder if the thick-headedness of -average uneducated people was not much greater than I had hitherto -suspected, in my easy optimism. It was certainly inconceivable why, -with intelligence enough to come in when it rained, the cook should -have summoned this witness. She testified at once that she had not -seen the assault, and did not know that the cook had been hurt; and no -prompting of the plaintiff’s counsel could inspire her with a better -recollection. In the hands of the defendant’s lawyer she developed the -fact that his client was reputed a quiet, inoffensive boarder, and -that she never knew of any displeasures between him and the cook. - -“Did you ever see this lady intoxicated?” inquired the lawyer. - -The witness reflected. “I don’t understand you,” she answered, finally. - -“Have you ever known her to be overcome by drink?” - -The witness considered this point also, and in due time gave it up, and -turned a face of blank appeal upon the judge, who came to her rescue. - -“Does she drink,--drink liquor? Does she get drunk?” - -“_Oh!_ Oh, yes; she’s tipsy sometimes.” - -“Was she tipsy,” asked the lawyer, “on the day of the alleged assault?” - -The witness again turned to the magistrate for help. - -“Was she tipsy on the day when she says this gentleman struck her with -a chair, and threw the pitcher at her head?” - -“Yes, sir,” replied the witness, “she was.” - -“Was she very tipsy?” the lawyer pursued. - -The witness was equal to this question. “Well, yes, sir, she was. Any -way, she hadn’t left anything in the bottle on her bureau.” - -“When did you see the bottle full?” - -“The night before. Or in the evening. She commenced drinking in the -night.” - -“What was in the bottle?” - -“A pint of whiskey.” - -“That will do,” said the lawyer. - -The witness stepped down, and genteelly resumed her place near the -plaintiff. Neither of the ladies changed countenance, or seemed in any -wise aware that the testimony just given had been detrimental to the -plaintiff’s cause. They talked pleasantly together, and were presently -alike interested in the testimony of a witness to the defendant’s good -character. He testified that the defendant was a notoriously peaceable -person, who was in some sort of scientific employment, but where or -what I could not make out; he was a college graduate, and it was quite -unimaginable to the witness that he should be the object of this sort -of charge. - -When the witness stood aside, the defendant was allowed to testify in -his own behalf, which he did with great energy. He provided himself -with a chair, and when he came to the question of the assault he -dramatized the scene with appropriate action. He described with -vividness the relative positions of himself and the cook when, on the -day given, he went into the kitchen to see if the landlady were there, -and was ordered out by her. “She didn’t give me time to go, but caught -up a chair, and came at me, thus!” Here he represented with the chair -in his hand an assault that made the reporters, who sat near him, -quail before the violence of the mere dumb-show. “I caught the rung -of the chair in my hand, thus, and instinctively pushed it, thus. I -suppose,” he added, in diction of memorable elegance, “that the impact -of the chair in falling back against her wrist may have produced the -contusions of which she complains.” - -The judge and the bar smiled; the audience, not understanding, looked -serious. - -“And what,” said the judge, “about throwing the pitcher at her?” - -“I never saw the pitcher, your honor, till I saw it in court. I threw -no pitcher at her, but retreated from the kitchen as quickly as -possible.” - -“That will do,” said the judge. The plaintiff’s counsel did the -best that could be done for no case at all in a brief argument. The -judge heard him patiently, and then quietly remarked, “The charge is -dismissed. The defendant is discharged. Call the next case.” - -The plaintiff had probably imagined that the affair was going in her -favor. She evidently required the explanation of her counsel that it -had gone against her, and all was over; for she looked at the judge in -some surprise, before she turned and walked out of the court-room with -quiet dignity, still caressing her pitcher, and amicably accompanied by -the other lady, her damaging witness. - - -V. - -Before she was well out of the door, a lady-like young woman in black -was on the stand, testifying against a prisoner, who did not confront -her from the other end of the long table, but stood where he seemed -to have been seated on the top of those stairs I have imagined behind -the railing. He looked twenty one or two years of age, and he had -not at all a bad face, but rather refined; he was well dressed, and -was gentleman-like in the same degree that she was lady-like. From -her testimony it appeared to me that his offense was one that might -fitly be condoned, and in my ignorance I was surprised to find that -it was taken seriously by the court. She had seen him, from the top -of some steps in the shop where she was employed, open a drawer -in the book-keeper’s desk, and take out of it a revolver and some -postage-stamps; but on his discovering her he had instantly replaced -them and tried to make his escape. She gave her evidence in a low -voice, and, as I thought, reluctantly; and one could very well imagine -that she might have regretted causing his arrest; but it was to be -considered that her own reputation was probably at stake, and if his -theft had succeeded she might have been accused of it. When she stood -aside, the judge turned to the defendant, who had kept quite still, -nervously twisting something between his fingers, and questioned him. -He did not attempt to deny the facts; he admitted them, but urged that -he had immediately put the stamps and pistol back into the drawer, -from which, indeed, he had hardly lifted them. The judge heard him -patiently, and the young man went on, with something of encouragement, -to explain that he only meant to take the things to spite the owner of -the shop, on account of some grudge between them, and that he had not -realized that it was stealing. He besought the judge, in terms that -were moving, but not abject, to deal mercifully with him; and he stood -twisting that invisible something between his fingers, and keeping his -eyes fixed on those of the magistrate with a miserable smile, while he -promised that he would not offend again. - -The judge passed his hand to and fro over his chin, and now dropped -his eyes, and now glanced at the culprit, who seemed scarcely more -unhappy. - -“Haven’t I seen you here before?” he asked at last. - -“Yes,” I could hardly hear the prisoner assent. - -“How often?” - -“Twice.” - -“What for?” - -“Theft,” gasped the wretched creature. - -The judge moved in his chair with a discomfort that he had not shown -throughout the morning’s business. “If this were the first time, or the -second, I should have been glad to let you off with a slight fine. But -I can’t do that now. I must send you to the House of Correction.” He -nodded to the clerk: “Two months.” - -The prisoner remained, with that nervous twisting of his fingers, eying -the judge with his vague smile, as if he could not realize what had -befallen. He did not sit down till the next culprit rose and stood near -him. Then a sort of fatal change passed over his face. It looked like -despair. I confess that I had not much heart for his successor. I was -sick, thinking how, so far as this world was concerned, this wretch -had been sent to hell; for the House of Correction is not a purgatory -even, out of which one can hopefully undertake to pray periculant -spirits. To be sure, the police court is not a cure of souls; and -doubtless his doom was as light as the law allowed. But I could have -wished that the judge had distrusted his memory, or taken on his -conscience the merciful sin of ignoring it. He seemed very patient, -and I do not question but he acted according to light and knowledge. -This may have been a hopeless thief. But it was nevertheless a terrible -fate. The chances were a thousand against one that he should hereafter -be anything but a thief, if he were not worse. After all, when one -thinks of what the consequences of justice are, one doubts if there -is any justice in it. Perhaps the thing we call mercy is the divine -conception of justice. - - -VI. - -It was a thief again who was on the stage; but not a thief like that -other, who, for all the reality there was in the spectacle, might have -gone behind the scenes and washed the chalk off his white face. This -thief was of the kind whose fortunes the old naturalistic novelists -were fond of following in fictions of autobiographic form, and who -sometimes actually wrote their own histories; a conventional thief, -of those dear to De Foe and the Spanish picaresque romancers, with -a flavor of good literature about him. Nothing could have been more -classic in incident than the story of the plaintiff, an honest-looking -young fellow, who testified that he had met the prisoner on the street, -and, learning that he was out of work and out of money, had taken him -home to his room and shared his bed with him. I do not know in just -what calling this primitive and trustful hospitality is practiced; -the plaintiff looked and was dressed like a workingman. His strange -bedfellow proved an early riser; he stole away without disturbing -his host, and carried with him all the money that was in his host’s -pockets. By an odd turn of luck the two encountered shortly after -breakfast, and the prisoner ran. The plaintiff followed, but the other -eluded him, and was again sauntering about in safety, when the eye of a -third actor in the drama fell upon him. This was a young man who kept -some sort of small shop, and who was called to the witness-stand in -behalf of the prosecution. He was as stupid as he could well be in some -respects, and very simple questions had to be repeated several times to -him. Yet he had the ferret-like instinct of the thief-catcher, and he -instantly saw that his look fluttered the guilty rogue, who straightway -turned and fled. But this time he had a sharper pursuer than his host, -and he was coursed through all his turns and windings, up stairs and -down, in houses and out, and gripped at last. - -“As soon as I saw him start to run,” said the witness, who told his -story with a graphic jauntiness, “I knowed he’d got something.” - -“You _didn’t_ know I’d got anything!” exclaimed the thief. - -“I knowed you’d get ninety days if I caught up with you,” retorted the -witness, wagging his head triumphantly. - -As the officer entered the station-house with his prisoner, the host, -by another odd chance, was coming out, after stating his loss to the -police, and identified his truant guest. - -The money, all but thirty cents, was found upon him; and though he -represented that he had lawfully earned it by haying in Dedham, the -fact that it was in notes of the denominations which the plaintiff -remembered was counted against him, and he got the ninety days which -his captor had prophesied. He, too, sat down, and I saw him no more. - - -VII. - -Now arose literally a cloud of witnesses, who came forward from some -of the back seats, and occupied the benches hitherto held by the -plaintiffs and witnesses in the preceding cases. They were of all -shades of blackness, and of both sexes and divers ages, and they -were there in their solemn best clothes, with their faces full of a -decorous if superficial seriousness. I must except from this sweeping -assertion, however, the lady who was the defendant in the case: she -was a young person, with a great deal of what is called style about -her, and I had seen her going and coming throughout the morning in a -high excitement, which she seemed to enjoy. It is difficult for a lady -whose lips have such a generous breadth and such a fine outward roll -to keep from smiling, perhaps, under any circumstances; and it may -have been light-heartedness rather than light-mindedness that enabled -her to support so gayly a responsibility that weighed down all the -other parties concerned. She wore a tight-skirted black walking-dress, -with a waist of perhaps caricatured smallness; her hat was full of red -and yellow flowers; on her hands, which were in drawing with her lips -rather than her waist, were a pair of white kid gloves. As she advanced -to take her place inside the prisoner’s bar she gave in charge to a -very mournful-looking elder of her race a little girl, two or three -years of age, as fashionably dressed as herself, and tottering upon -little high-heeled boots. The old man lifted the child in his arms, and -funereally took his seat among the witnesses, while the culprit turned -her full-blown smile upon the judge, and confidently pleaded not guilty -to the clerk’s reading of the indictment, in which she was charged with -threatening the person and life of the plaintiff. At the same moment a -sort of pleased expectation lighted up all those dull countenances in -the court-room, which had been growing more and more jaded under the -process of the accusations and condemnations. The soddenest _habitué_ -of the place brightened; the lawyers and policemen eased themselves in -their chairs, and I fancied that the judge himself relaxed. I could -not refuse my sympathy to the general content; I took another respite -from the thought of my poor thief, and I too lent myself to the hope of -enjoyment from this Laughable After-piece. - -The accuser also wore black, but her fashionableness, as compared -with that of the defendant, was as the fashionableness of Boston to -that of New York; she had studied a subdued elegance, and she wore a -crape veil instead of flowers on her hat. She was of a sort of dusky -pallor, and her features had not the Congoish fullness nor her skin the -brilliancy of the defendant’s. Her taste in kid gloves was a decorous -black. - -She testified that she was employed as second-girl in a respectable -family, and that the day before she had received a visit at the door -from the defendant, who had invited her to come down the street to a -certain point, and be beaten within an inch of her life. On her failure -to appear, the defendant came again, and notified her that she should -hold the beating in store for her, and bestow it whenever she caught -her out-of-doors. These visits and threats had terrified the plaintiff, -and annoyed the respectable family with which she lived, and she had -invoked the law. - -During the delivery of her complaint, the defendant had been lifting -and lowering herself by the bar at which she stood, in anticipation of -the judge’s permission to question the plaintiff. At a nod from him she -now flung herself half across it. - -“What’d I say I’d whip you _for_?” - -_The Plaintiff_, thoughtfully: “What’d you say you’d whip me for?” - -_The Defendant_, beating the railing with her hand: “Yes, that’s what I -ast you: what _for_?” - -_The Plaintiff_, with dignity: “I don’t know as you told me what for.” - -_The Defendant_: “Now, now, none o’ that! You just answer my question.” - -_The Judge_: “She has answered it.” - -_The Defendant_, after a moment of surprise: “Well, then, I’ll ast her -another question. Didn’t I tell you if I ever caught you goin’ to a -ball with my husband ag’in I’d”-- - -_The Plaintiff_: “I didn’t go to no ball with your husband!” - -_The Defendant_: “You didn’t go with him! Ah”-- - -_The Plaintiff_: “I went with the crowd. I didn’t know who I went with.” - -_The Defendant_: “Well, I know who paid fifty cents for your ticket! -Why don’t he give me any of his money? Hain’t spent fifty cents on me -or his child, there, since it was born. An’ he goes with you all the -time,--to church, and everywhere.” - -_The Judge_: “That will do.” - -The plaintiff, who had listened “with sick and scornful looks averse,” -stepped from the stand, and a dusky gentlewoman, as she looked, took -her place, and corroborated her testimony. She also wore genteel -black, and she haughtily turned from the defendant’s splendors as -she answered much the same questions that the latter had put to the -plaintiff. She used her with the disdain that a lady who takes care -of bank parlors may show to a social inferior with whom her grandson -has been trapped into a distasteful marriage, and she expressed by a -certain lift of the chin and a fall of the eyelids the absence of all -quality in her granddaughter-in-law, as no words could have done it. I -suppose it will be long before these poor creatures will cease to seem -as if they were playing at our social conditions, or the prejudices -and passions when painted black will seem otherwise than funny. But if -this old lady had been born a duchess, or the daughter of a merchant -one remove from retail trade, she could not have represented the -unrelenting dowager more vividly. She bore witness to the blameless -character of the plaintiff, to whom her grandson had paid only those -attentions permissible from a gentleman unhappy in his marriage, and -living apart from his wife,--a wife, she insinuated, unworthy both -before and since the union which she had used sinister arts in forming -with a family every way above her. She did not overdo the part, and she -descended from the stand with the same hauteur toward the old man who -succeeded her as she had shown his daughter. - -The hapless sire--for this was the character he attempted--came upon -the stand with his forsaken grandchild in his arms, and bore his -testimony to the fact that his daughter was a good girl, and had always -done what was right, and had been brought up to it. He dwelt upon her -fidelity to her virtuous family training, with no apparent sense of -incongruity in the facts--elicited by counsel--to the contrary; and -he was an old man whose perceptions were somewhat blunted as to other -things. He maundered on about his son-in-law’s neglect of his wife -and child, and the expense which he had been put to on their account, -and especially about the wrongs his family had suffered since his -son-in-law “got to going” with the plaintiff. - -“You say,” interpreted the judge, “that the plaintiff tried to seduce -the affections of your daughter’s husband from her?” - -The old man was brought to a long and thoughtful pause, from which he -was startled by a repetition of the judge’s question. “I--I don’ know -as I understand you, judge,” he faltered. - -“Do you mean that the plaintiff--the person whom your daughter -threatened to beat--has been trying to get your daughter’s husband’s -affections away from her?” - -“Why, he hain’t never showed her no affections, judge! He’s just left -_me_ to support her.” - -“Very well, then. Has the plaintiff tried to get your daughter’s -husband away from her?” - -“I guess not, judge. He hain’t never took any notice of my daughter -since he married her.” - -“Well, does your son-in-law go with this person?” - -“With who, judge?” - -“With the plaintiff.” - -“De ol’ woman. No, he don’ go wid de ol’ woman any: _she’s his -gran’mother_.” - -“Well, does he go with the young woman?” - -“Oh, yes! _Yes!_ He goes with the _young_ woman. Goes with _her_ all -the time. That’s the _one_ he goes with!” - -He seemed to be greatly surprised and delighted to find that this point -was what the judge had been trying to get at, and the audience shared -his pleasure. - -I really forget how the case was decided. Perhaps my train, which -I began to be anxious not to lose, hurried me away before the -_dénoûment_, as often happens with the suburban play-goer. But to -one who cares rather for character than for plot it made little -difference. I came away thinking that if the actors in the little -drama were of another complexion how finely the situation would have -served in a certain sort of intense novel: the patrician dowager, -inappeasably offended by the low match her grandson has made, and -willing to encourage his _penchant_ for the lady of his own rank, whom -some fortuity may yet enable him to marry; the wife, with her vulgar -but strong passions, stung to madness by the neglect and disdain of -her husband’s family,--it is certainly a very pretty intrigue, and I -commend it to my brother (or sister) novelists who like to be praised -by the reviewers for what the reviewers think profundity and power. - - -VIII. - -It was nearly a year later that I paid my second visit to the police -court, on a day, like the first, humid and dull, but very close and -suffocatingly hot. It was a Monday morning, and there was a full -dock, as I have learned that the prisoner’s pen at the right of the -clerk’s desk is called. The clerk was standing with that sheaf of -indictments in his hand, and saying, “John O’Brien!” and John O’Brien -was answering, “Here, sor!” and the clerk was proceeding, “Complained -of for being drunk guilty or not guilty pay a fine of one dollar and -costs stand committed to the House of Industry,” and then writing on -the indictment, and tossing it aside. As I modestly took my stand -at the door, till I should gather courage to cross the room to one -of the vacant seats which I saw among the policemen, one of these -officers of the court approached me and said, “No room for you here -to-day, my friend. Go up on the Common.” In spite of my share of that -purely American vanity which delights in official recognition, I could -not be flattered at this, and it was with relief that I found he was -addressing a fellow-habitué behind me. The court-room was in fact very -full, and there were no seats on the benches ordinarily allotted to -spectators; so I at once crossed to my place, and sat down among the -policemen, to whom I authorized my intrusion by taking my notebook from -my pocket. I have some hopes that the spectators thought me a detective -in plain clothes, and revered me accordingly. There was such a person -near me, with his club sticking out of his back-pocket, whom I am sure -_I_ revered. - -I had not come to report the events of this session of the court, but -to refresh the impressions of my first visit, and I was glad to find -them so just. There was, of course, some little change; but the same -magistrate was there, serene, patient, mercifully inclined of visage; -the colored attorney was there, in charge, as before, of a disastrous -Irish case. The officials who tried to keep order had put off their -flannel coats for coats of seersucker, and each carried a Japanese fan; -neither wore a collar, now, and I fancied them both a little more in -flesh. I think they were even less successful than formerly in quelling -disturbances, though they were even more polished in the terms of -their appeal. “Too much conversation in the court!” they called out to -us collectively. “Conversation _must_ cease,” they added. Then one, -walking up to a benchful of voluble witnesses, would say, “Must cease -that conversation,” and to my fellow-policemen, “Less conversation, -gentlemen;” then again to the room at large, “Stop all conversation in -the court,” and “All conversation must cease entirely.” - -The Irish case, which presently came on, was a question of assault and -battery between Mrs. O’Hara and Mrs. MacMannis; it had finally to be -dismissed, after much testimony to the guilt and peaceable character -of both parties. A dozen or more witnesses, were called, principally -young girls, who had come in their best, and with whom one could fancy -this an occasion of present satisfying excitement and future celebrity. -The witnesses were generally more interesting than the parties to the -suits, I thought, and I could not get tired of my fellow-spectators, -I suppose, if I went a great many times. I liked to consider the -hungry gravity of their countenances, as they listened to the facts -elicited, and to speculate as to the ultimate effect upon their moral -natures--or their immoral natures--of the gross and palpable shocks -daily imparted to them by the details of vice and crime. I have tried -to treat my material lightly and entertainingly, as a true reporter -should, but I would not have my reader suppose that I did not feel -the essential cruelty of an exhibition that tore its poor rags from -all that squalid shame, and its mask from all that lying, cowering -guilt, or did not suspect how it must harden and deprave those whom it -daily entertained. As I dwelt upon the dull visages of the spectators, -certain spectacles vaguely related themselves to what I saw: the women -who sat and knitted at the sessions of the Revolutionary tribunals of -Paris, and overwhelmed with their clamor the judges’ feeble impulses -to mercy; the roaring populace at the Spanish bull-fight and the Roman -arena. Here the same elements were held in absolute silence,--debarred -even from “conversation,”--but it was impossible not to feel that here -in degree were the conditions that trained men to demand blood, to -rave for the guillotine, to turn down the thumb. This procession of -misdeeds, passing under their eyes day after day, must leave a miasm -of moral death behind it which no prison or work-house can hereafter -cure. We all know that the genius of our law is publicity; but it may -be questioned whether criminal trials may not be as profitably kept -private as hangings, the popular attendance on which was once supposed -to be a bulwark of religion and morality. - - -IX. - -Not that there was any avoidable brutality, or even indecorum, in -the conduct of the trials that I saw. A spade was necessarily called -a spade; but it seemed to me that with all the lapse of time and -foreign alloy the old Puritan seriousness was making itself felt -even here, and subduing the tone of the procedure to a grave decency -consonant with the inquiries of justice. For it was really justice -that was administered, so far as I could see; and justice that was by -no means blind, but very open-eyed and keen-sighted. The causes were -decided by one man, from evidence usually extracted out of writhing -reluctance or abysmal stupidity, and the judgment must be formed and -the sentence given where the magistrate sat, amid the confusion of the -crowded room. Yet, except in the case of my poor thief, I did not see -him hesitate; and I did not doubt his wisdom even in that case. His -decisions seemed to me the result of most patient and wonderfully rapid -cogitation, and in dealing with the witnesses he never lost his temper -amid densities of dullness which it is quite impossible to do more than -indicate. If it were necessary, for example, to establish the fact -that a handkerchief was white, it was not to be done without some such -colloquy as this:-- - -“Was it a white handkerchief?” - -“Sor?” - -“Was the handkerchief white?” - -“Was it white, sor?” - -“Yes, was it white?” - -“Was what white, sor?” - -“The handkerchief,--was the handkerchief white?” - -“What handkerchief, sor?” - -“The handkerchief you just mentioned,--the handkerchief that the -defendant dropped.” - -“I didn’t see it, sor.” - -“Didn’t see the handkerchief?” - -“Didn’t see him drop it, sor.” - -“Well, did you see the handkerchief?” - -“The handkerchief, sor? Oh, yes, sor! _I_ saw it,--I saw the -_handkerchief_.” - -“Well, was it _white_?” - -“It was, sor.” - -A boy who complained of another for assaulting him said that he knocked -him down. - -“How did he knock you down?” asked the judge. “Did he knock you down -with his fist or his open hand?” - -“Yes, sor.” - -“Which did he do it with?” - -“Put his arms round me and knocked me down.” - -“Then he didn’t _knock_ you down. He _threw_ you down.” - -“Yes, sor. He didn’t t’row me down. Put his arms round me and knocked -me down.” - -It would be impossible to caricature these things, or to exaggerate the -charitable long-suffering that dealt with such cases. Sometimes, as if -in mere despair, the judge called the parties to him, and questioned -them privately; after which the case seemed to be settled, without -further trial. - - -X. - -I have spoken of the theatrical illusion which the proceedings of the -court produced; but it often seemed to me also like a school where bad -boys and girls were brought up for punishment. They were, indeed, like -children, those poor offenders, and had a sort of innocent simplicity -in their wickedness, as good people have in their goodness. One case -came up on the occasion of my last visit, which I should like to report -verbatim in illustration, but it was of too lurid a sort to be treated -by native realism; we can only bear that sort when imported; and -undoubtedly there is something still to be said in behalf of decency, -at least in the English language. I can only hint that this case was -one which in some form or other has been coming up in the police -courts ever since police courts began. It must have been familiar to -those of Thebes three thousand years ago, and will be so in those of -cities which shall look back on Boston in an antiquity as hoary. A -hard-working old fool with a month’s pay in his pocket and the lost -soul with whom he carouses; the theft; the quarrel between the lost -soul and the yet more fallen spirit who harbored her and traded at -second hand in her perdition as to who stole the fool’s money,--what -stale materials! Yet I was as much interested as if this were the first -case of the kind, and, confronted with the fool and the lost soul and -the yet more fallen spirit, I could not feel that they were--let me -say it in all seriousness and reverence--so very bad. Perhaps it was -because they stood there reduced to the very nakedness of their shame, -and confessedly guilty in what human nature struggles to the last to -deny--stood there, as a premise, far past the hope of lying--that they -seemed rather subjects for pity than abhorrence. The fool and the lost -soul were light and trivial; they even laughed at some of the grosser -facts; but that yet more fallen spirit was ghastly tragical, as bit by -bit the confession of her business was torn from her; it was torture -that seemed hideously out of proportion to any end to be attained; yet -as things are it had to be. If then and there some sort of redemption -might have begun! - -The divine life which is in these poor creatures, as in the best and -purest, seemed to be struggling back to some relation and likeness to -our average sinful humanity, insisting that if socially and publicly -we denied it we should not hold it wholly outcast in our secret -hearts, nor refuse it our sympathy. Seeing that on their hopelessly -sunken level their common humanity kept that symmetry and proportion -which physical deformity shows, one could not doubt that a distorted -kindliness and good-nature remained to them in the midst of their -depravity: the man was like a gray-headed foolish boy; the two women -as simple and cunning as too naughty children. It could be imagined -that they had their friendly moments; that in extremity they might care -for each other; that even such a life as theirs had its reliefs from -perdition, as in disease there is relief from pain, and no suffering, -out of romance, is incessant. They had certainly their decorums, their -criterions. On their plane, everything but the theft and the noisy -quarrel was of custom and for granted; but these were misdemeanors -and disgraceful. Like another hostess of the sort, the fallen spirit -was aggrieved at these. “Do you think I keep thieves in my house?... -The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.... I’ll no -swaggerers.... There comes no swaggering here.... I will bar no honest -man my house, nor no cheater; but I do not love swaggering.” This is -the sum of what she said that she had said in rebuke of the lost soul; -that thieving and that swaggering, they incensed her, and roused in her -all the instincts of a moral and respectable person. Humanity adjusts -itself to all conditions, and doubtless God forsakes it in none, but -still shapes it to some semblance of health in its sickness, of order -in its disorder, of righteousness in its sin. - -I dare say that it was not a wholesome feeling, this leniency that -acquaintance with sinners produces. There is much to be urged on -that side, and I would like to urge it in considering the effect of -daily attendance at the police court upon these spectators whom I have -tried to study for the reader’s advantage. I must own that the trial -at which I have hinted did not affect them seriously, and I doubt -if they psychologized upon it. They craned their necks forward and -gloated on those women with an unmistakably obscene delight. If they -were not beyond being the worse for anything, they were the worse for -that trial. Why were they present? Theoretically, perhaps to see that -justice was done. But if justice had not been done, how could they -have helped it? The public shame seemed purely depraving both to those -who suffered it and to those who saw it; and it ought to have been no -part of the punishment inflicted. It was horrible, and it sometimes -befell those who were accused of nothing, but were merely there to be -tortured as witnesses. The lawyer who forced that wretched hostess -to confess the character of her house used no unfair means, and he -dealt with her as sparingly as he might; yet it was still a shocking -spectacle; for she was, curiously enough, not lost to shame, but most -alive to it, and, standing there before that brutal crowd, gave up -her name to infamy, with atrocious pain and hate; her face was such -a visage as hell-fire might flash into sight among the newly damned, -but such as our familiar and respectable sunlight would do well not to -reveal to any eyes but magistrates’ and priests’. Till one has seen -such a thing it is incredible that it should be, and then incredible -that it should possibly be of daily occurrence. It was as if the -physicians in charge of a public hospital should permit that rabble -to be present at a clinique for some loathsome disease, to see that -there was no malpractice. If the whole trial could have taken place -with closed doors, and with none present but the parties, the lawyers, -and the court, what possible harm could have been done? I think none -whatever, and I am so sure of this that I would not only have all the -police trials secret, but I would never have another police report in -print--after this! Then the decency of mystery, and perhaps something -of its awe, would surround the vulgar shame and terror of the police -court, and a system which does no good would at least do less harm than -at present. - - -XI. - -It will be perceived that, like all reformers, I am going too far. I -begin with demanding secrecy in police trials, and I end by suggesting -that they be abolished altogether. But in fact nothing struck me more -forcibly in the proceedings of the police court than their apparent -futility. It was all a mere suppression of symptoms in the vicious -classes, not a cure. This one or that one would not steal, or assault -and batter, for the given term of his imprisonment, but this was -ludicrously far from touching even the tendency to theft and violence. -These bad boys and girls came up and had their thrashing or their rap -over the knuckles, and were practically bidden by the conditions of our -civilization to go and sin some more. Perhaps there is no cure for vice -and crime. Perhaps there is nothing but prevention, in the application -of which there is always difficulty, obscurity, and uncertainty. - -The other day, as I passed the court-house, that sad vehicle which is -called the Black Maria was driving away from the high portal into which -it backs to receive its dead. (The word came inevitably; it is not so -far wrong, and it may stand.) The Black Maria may still be Maria (the -reason why it should ever have been I do not know), but it is black no -longer. On the contrary, it is painted a not uncheerful salmon color, -with its false sash picked out in drab; and at first glance, among the -rattling express wagons, it looked not unlike an omnibus of the living, -and could have passed through the street without making the casual -observer realize what a dreary hearse it was. I dare say it was on -its way to the House of Industry, or the House of Correction, or Deer -Island, or some of those places where people are put to go from bad to -worse; and it was fulfilling its function with a merciful privacy, for -its load of convicts might have been dragged through the streets on -open hurdles, for the further edification of the populace. Yet I could -not help thinking--or perhaps the thought only occurs to me now--that -for all reasonable hope as to the future of its inmates the Black Maria -might as well have been fitted with one of those ingenious pieces of -mechanism sometimes employed by the Enemies of Society, and driven -out to some wide, open space where the explosion could do no harm to -the vicinity, and so when the horses and driver had removed to a safe -distance-- - -But this is perhaps pessimism. - -It is very hard to say what pessimism really is, and almost any honest -expression concerning the monotonous endeavor and failure of society -to repress the monotonous evolution of the criminal in conditions -that render his evolution inevitable, must seem pessimistic. I do not -suppose that we ought to kill him merely because we cannot hope to cure -him, though society goes to this extreme in certain extreme cases. -Is it right to kill the criminal at one stage of his career, and not -at another? After the first conviction the rest is inevitable, and -each succeeding conviction follows as a matter of course. A bleaker -pessimist than myself might say that all criminal courts seem to be -part of the process in the evolution of the criminal. Still, criminal -courts must be. - - - - -I TALK OF DREAMS. - - -But it is mostly my own dreams I talk of, and that will somewhat excuse -me for talking of dreams at all. Every one knows how delightful the -dreams are that one dreams one’s self, and how insipid the dreams of -others are. I had an illustration of the fact, not many evenings ago, -when a company of us got telling dreams. I had by far the best dreams -of any; to be quite frank, mine were the only dreams worth listening -to; they were richly imaginative, delicately fantastic, exquisitely -whimsical, and humorous in the last degree; and I wondered that when -the rest could have listened to them they were always eager to cut in -with some silly, senseless, tasteless thing, that made me sorry and -ashamed for them. I shall not be going too far if I say that it was on -their part the grossest betrayal of vanity that I ever witnessed. - -But the egotism of some people concerning their dreams is almost -incredible. They will come down to breakfast and bore everybody with -a recital of the nonsense that has passed through their brains in -sleep, as if they were not bad enough when they were awake; they will -not spare the slightest detail; and if, by the mercy of Heaven, they -have forgotten something, they will be sure to recollect it, and go -back and give it all over again with added circumstance. Such people do -not reflect that there is something so purely and intensely personal -in dreams that they can rarely interest any one but the dreamer, -and that to the dearest friend, the closest relation or connection, -they can seldom be otherwise than tedious and impertinent. The habit -husbands and wives have of making one another listen to their dreams -is especially cruel. They have each other quite helpless, and for this -reason they should all the more carefully guard themselves from abusing -their advantage. Parents should not afflict their offspring with the -rehearsal of their mental maunderings in sleep, and children should -learn that one of the first duties a child owes its parents is to spare -them the anguish of hearing what it has dreamed about overnight. A like -forbearance in regard to the community at large should be taught as the -first trait of good manners in the public schools, if we ever come to -teach good manners there. - - -I. - -Certain exceptional dreams, however, are so imperatively significant, -so vitally important, that it would be wrong to withhold them from the -knowledge of those who happened not to dream them, and I feel some such -quality in my own dreams so strongly that I could scarcely forgive -myself if I did not, however briefly, impart them. It was only the -last week, for instance, that I found myself one night in the company -of the Duke of Wellington, the great Duke, the Iron one, in fact; and -after a few moments of agreeable conversation on topics of interest -among gentlemen, his Grace said that now, if I pleased, he would like -a couple of those towels. We had not been speaking of towels, that I -remember, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he -should mention them in the connection, whatever it was, and I went at -once to get them for him. At the place where they gave out towels, and -where I found some very civil people, they told me that what I wanted -was not towels, and they gave me instead two bath-gowns, of rather -scanty measure, butternut in color and Turkish in texture. The garments -made somehow a very strong impression upon me, so that I could draw -them now, if I could draw anything, as they looked when they were -held up to me. At the same moment, for no reason that I can allege, I -passed from a social to a menial relation to the Duke, and foresaw that -when I went back to him with these bath-gowns he would not thank me -as one gentleman would another, but would offer me a tip as if I were -a servant. This gave me no trouble, for I at once dramatized a little -scene between myself and the Duke, in which I should bring him the -bath-gowns, and he should offer me the tip, and I should refuse it with -a low bow, and say that I was an American. What I did not dramatize, -or what seemed to enter into the dialogue quite without my agency, was -the Duke’s reply to my proud speech. It was foreshown me that he would -say, He did not see why that should make any difference. I suppose -it was in the hurt I felt at this wound to our national dignity that -I now instantly invented the society of some ladies, whom I told of -my business with those bath-gowns (I still had them in my hands), -and urged them to go with me and call upon the Duke. They expressed, -somehow, that they would rather not, and then I urged that the Duke was -very handsome. This seemed to end the whole affair, and I passed on to -other visions, which I cannot recall. - -I have not often had a dream of such international import, in -the offence offered through me to the American character, and its -well-known superiority to tips, but I have had others quite as -humiliating to me personally. In fact, I am rather in the habit of -having such dreams, and I think I may not unjustly attribute to them -the disciplined modesty which the reader will hardly fail to detect -in the present essay. It has more than once been my fate to find -myself during sleep in battle, where I behave with so little courage -as to bring discredit upon our flag and shame upon myself. In these -circumstances I am not anxious to make even a showing of courage; my -one thought is to get away as rapidly and safely as possible. It is -said that this is really the wish of all novices under fire, and that -the difference between a hero and a coward is that the hero hides it, -with a duplicity which finally does him honor, and that the coward -frankly runs away. I have never really been in battle, and if it is -anything like a battle in dreams, I would not willingly qualify myself -to speak by the card on this point. Neither have I ever really been -upon the stage, but in dreams I have often been there, and always in -a great trouble of mind at not knowing my part. It seems a little odd -that I should not sometimes be prepared, but I never am, and I feel -that when the curtain rises I shall be disgraced beyond all reprieve. -I dare say it is the suffering from this that awakens me in time, or -changes the current of my dreams so that I have never yet been actually -hooted from the stage. - - -II. - -But I do not so much object to these ordeals as to some social -experiences which I have in dreams. I cannot understand why one should -dream of being slighted or snubbed in society, but this is what I -have done more than once, though never perhaps so signally as in the -instance I am about to give. I found myself in a large room, where -people were sitting at lunch or supper around small tables, as is the -custom, I am told, at parties in the houses of our nobility and gentry. -I was feeling very well; not too proud, I hope, but in harmony with the -time and place. I was very well dressed, for me; and as I stood talking -to some ladies at one of the tables I was saying some rather brilliant -things, for me; I lounged easily on one foot, as I have observed men of -fashion do, and as I talked, I flipped my gloves, which I held in one -hand, across the other; I remember thinking that this was a peculiarly -distinguished action. Upon the whole I comported myself like one in the -habit of such affairs, and I turned to walk away to another table, -very well satisfied with myself and with the effect of my splendor -upon the ladies. But I had got only a few paces off when I perceived -(I could not see with my back turned) one of the ladies lean forward, -and heard her say to the rest in a tone of killing condescension and -patronage, “_I_ don’t see why that person isn’t as well as another.” - -I say that I do not like this sort of dreams, and I never would have -them if I could help. They make me ask myself if I am really such a -snob when I am waking, and this in itself is very unpleasant. If I -am, I cannot help hoping that it will not be found out; and in my -dreams I am always less sorry for the misdeeds I commit than for their -possible discovery. I have done some very bad things in dreams which I -have no concern for whatever, except as they seem to threaten me with -publicity, or bring me within the penalty of the law; and I believe -this is the attitude of most other criminals, remorse being a fiction -of the poets, according to the students of the criminal class. It is -not agreeable to bring this home to one’s self, but the fact is not -without its significance in another direction. It implies that both in -the case of the dream-criminal and the deed-criminal there is perhaps -the same taint of insanity; only in the deed-criminal it is active, -and in the dream-criminal it is passive. In both, the inhibitory clause -that forbids evil is off, but the dreamer is not bidden to do evil as -the maniac is, or as the malefactor often seems to be. The dreamer is -purely unmoral; good and bad are the same to his conscience; he has -no more to do with right and wrong than the animals; he is reduced to -the state of the merely natural man; and perhaps the primitive men -were really like what we all are now in our dreams. Perhaps all life -to them was merely dreaming, and they never had anything like our -waking consciousness, which seems to be the offspring of conscience, -or else the parent of it. Until men passed the first stage of being, -perhaps that which we call the soul, for want of a better name, or a -worse, could hardly have existed, and perhaps in dreams the soul is -mostly absent now. The soul, or the principle that we call the soul, -is the supernal criticism of the deeds done in the body, which goes -perpetually on in the waking mind. While this watches, and warns or -commands, we go right; but when it is off duty we go neither right nor -wrong, but are as the beasts that perish. - -A common theory is that the dreams which we remember are those we -have in the drowse which precedes sleeping and waking; but I do not -altogether accept this theory. In fact, there is very little proof of -it. We often wake from a dream, literally, but there is no proof that -we did not dream in the middle of the night the dream which is quite -as vividly with us in the morning as the one we wake from. I should -think that the dream which has some color of conscience in it was the -drowse-dream, and that the dream which has none is the sleep-dream; and -I believe that the most of our dreams will be found by this test to -be sleep-dreams. It is in these we may know what we would be without -our souls, without their supernal criticism of the mind; for the mind -keeps on working in them, with the lights of waking knowledge, both -experience and observation, but ruthlessly, remorselessly. By them we -may know what the state of the habitual criminal is, what the state of -the lunatic, the animal, the devil is. In them the personal character -ceases; the dreamer is remanded to his type. - - -III. - -It is very strange, in the matter of dreadful dreams, how the body -of the terror is, in the course of often dreaming, reduced to a mere -convention. For a long time I was tormented with a nightmare of -burglars, and at first I used to dramatize the whole affair in detail, -from the time the burglars approached the house, till they mounted the -stairs, and the light of their dark-lanterns shone under the door into -my room. Now I have blue-pencilled all that introductory detail; I have -a light shining in under my door at once; I know that it is my old -burglars; and I have the effect of nightmare without further ceremony. -There are other nightmares that still cost me a great deal of trouble -in their construction, as for instance the nightmare of clinging to the -face of a precipice or the eaves of a lofty building; I have to take -as much pains with the arrangement of these as if I were now dreaming -them for the first time, and were hardly more than an apprentice in the -business. - -Perhaps the most universal dream of all is that disgraceful dream of -appearing in public places, and in society, with very little or nothing -on. This dream spares neither age nor sex, I believe, and I dare say -the innocency of wordless infancy is abused by it, and dotage pursued -to the tomb. I have not the least doubt Adam and Eve had it in Eden; -though up to the moment the fig-leaf came in, it is difficult to -imagine just what plight they found themselves in that seemed improper; -probably there was some plight. The most amusing thing about this -dream is the sort of defensive process that goes on in the mind, in -search of self-justification or explanation. Is there not some peculiar -circumstance or special condition, in whose virtue it is wholly right -and proper for one to come to a fashionable assembly clad simply in a -towel, or to go about the street in nothing but a pair of kid gloves, -or of pyjamas at the most? This, or something like it, the mind of the -dreamer struggles to establish, with a good deal of anxious appeal to -the bystanders and a final sense of the hopelessness of the cause. - -One may easily laugh off this sort of dream in the morning, but there -are other shameful dreams, whose inculpation projects itself far into -the day, and whose infamy often lingers about one till lunch-time. -Every one, nearly, has had them, but it is not the kind of dream that -any one is fond of telling: the gross vanity of the most besotted -dream-teller keeps that sort back. During the forenoon, at least, the -victim goes about with the dim question whether he is not really that -kind of man harassing him, and a sort of remote fear that he may be. I -fancy that as to his nature and as to his mind, he is so, and that but -for the supernal criticism, but for his soul, he might be that kind of -man in very act and deed. - -The dreams we sometimes have about other people are not without a -curious suggestion; and the superstitious (of those superstitious who -like to invent their own superstitions) might very well imagine that -the persons dreamed of had a witting complicity in their facts, as -well as the dreamer. This is a conjecture that must of course not be -forced to any conclusion. One must not go to one of these persons and -ask, however much one would like to ask, “Sir, have you no recollection -of such and such a thing, at such and such a time and place, which -happened to us in my dream?” Any such person would be fully justified -in not answering the question. It would be, of all interviewing, the -most intolerable species. Yet a singular interest, a curiosity not -altogether indefensible, will attach to these persons in the dreamer’s -mind, and he will not be without the sense, ever after, that he and -they have a secret in common. This is dreadful, but the only thing -that I can think to do about it is to urge people to keep out of other -people’s dreams by every means in their power. - - -IV. - -There are things in dreams very awful, which would not be at all so in -waking; quite witless and aimless things, which at the time were of -such baleful effect that it remains forever. I remember dreaming when -I was quite a small boy, not more than ten years old, a dream which -is vivider in my mind now than anything that happened at the time. -I suppose it came remotely from my reading of certain Tales of the -Grotesque and the Arabesque, which had just then fallen into my hands; -and it involved simply an action of the fire-company in the little town -where I lived. They were working the brakes of the old fire-engine, -which would seldom respond to their efforts, and as their hands rose -and fell they set up the heart-shaking and soul-desolating cry of “Arms -Poe, arms Poe, arms Poe!” This and nothing more was the body of my -horror; and if the reader is not moved by it the fault is his and not -mine; for I can assure him that nothing in my experience has been more -dreadful to me. - -I can hardly except the dismaying apparition of a clown, whom I once -saw, somewhat later in life, rise through the air in a sitting posture, -and float lightly over the house-roof, snapping his fingers, and -vaguely smiling, while the antennæ on his forehead, which clowns have -in common with some other insects, nodded elastically. I do not know -why this portent should have been so terrifying, or indeed that it was -a portent at all, for nothing ever came of it; what I know is that it -was to the last degree threatening and awful. I never got anything but -joy out of the circuses where this dream must have originated, but the -pantomime of Don Giovanni, which I saw at the theatre, was as grewsome -to me waking as it was to me dreaming. The statue of the Commendatore, -in getting down from his horse to pursue the wicked hero (I think -that is what he gets down for), set an example by which a long line -of statues afterwards profited in my dreams. For many years, and I do -not know but quite up to the time when I adopted burglars as the theme -of my nightmares, I was almost always chased by a marble statue with -an uplifted arm, and almost always I ran along the verge of a pond to -escape it. I believe that I got this pond out of my remote childhood, -and that it may have been a fish-pond embowered by weeping-willows -which I used to admire in the door-yard of a neighbor. I have somehow -a greater respect for the material of this earlier nightmare than I -have for that of the later ones, and no doubt the reader will agree -with me that it is much more romantic to be pursued by a statue than -to be threatened by burglars. It is but a few hours ago, however, that -I saved myself from these inveterate enemies by waking up just in -time for breakfast. They did not come with that light of dark-lanterns -shining under the door, or I should have known them at once, and not -had so much bother; but they intimated their presence in the catch of -the lock, which would not close securely, and there was some question -at first whether they were not ghosts. I thought of tying the door-knob -on the inside of my room to my bedpost (a bedpost that has not been -in existence for fifty years), but after suffering awhile I decided -to speak to them from an upper window. By this time they had turned -into a trio of harmless, necessary tramps, and at my appeal to them, -absolutely nonsensical as I now believe it to have been, to regard the -peculiar circumstances, whatever they were or were not, they did really -get up from the back porch where they were seated and go quietly away. - -Burglars are not always so easily to be entreated. On one occasion, -when I found a party of them digging at the corner of my house on -Concord Avenue in Cambridge, and opened the window over them to -expostulate, the leader looked up at me in well-affected surprise. He -lifted his hand, with a twenty-dollar note in it, toward me, and said: -“Oh! Can you change me a twenty-dollar bill?” I expressed a polite -regret that I had not so much money about me, and then he said to the -rest, “Go ahead, boys,” and they went on undermining my house. I do not -know what came of it all. - -Of ghosts I have seldom dreamed, so far as I can remember; in fact, -I have never dreamed of the kind of ghosts that we are all more or -less afraid of, though I have dreamed rather often of the spirits of -departed friends. But I once dreamed of dying, and the reader, who has -never died yet, may be interested to know what it is like. According to -this experience of mine, which I do not claim is typical, it is like -a fire kindling in an air-tight stove with paper and shavings; the -gathering smoke and gases suddenly burst into flame, and puff the door -out, and all is over. - -I have not yet been led to execution for the many crimes I have -committed in my dreams, but I was once in the hands of a barber, who -added to the shaving and shampooing business the art of removing his -customers’ heads in treatment for headache. As I took my seat in his -chair I had some lingering doubts as to the effect of a treatment so -drastic, and I ventured to mention the case of a friend of mine, a -gentleman somewhat eminent in the law, who after several weeks was -still going about without his head. The barber did not attempt to -refute my position. He merely said, “Oh, well, he had such a very thick -sort of a head, anyway.” - -This was a sarcasm, but I think it was urged as a reason, though it -may not have been. We rarely bring away from sleep the things that -seem so brilliant to us in our dreams. Verse is especially apt to -fade away, or turn into doggerel in the memory, and the witty sayings -which we contrive to remember will hardly bear the test of daylight. -The most perfect thing of the kind out of my own dreams was something -that I seemed to wake with the very sound of in my ears. It was after -a certain dinner, which had been rather uncommonly gay, with a good -deal of very good talk, which seemed to go on all night, and when I -woke in the morning some one was saying, “Oh, I shouldn’t at all mind -his robbing Peter to pay Paul, if I felt sure that Paul would get the -money.” This I think really humorous, and an extremely neat bit of -characterization; I feel free to praise it, because it was not I who -said it. - - -V. - -Apparently the greater part of dreams have no more mirth than sense -in them. This is perhaps because the man is in dreams reduced to -the brute condition, and is the lawless inferior of the waking man -intellectually, as the lawless in waking are always the inferiors of -the lawful. Some loose thinkers suppose that if we give the rein to -imagination it will do great things, but it will really do little -things, foolish and worthless things, as we witness in dreams, where it -is quite unbridled. It must keep close to truth, and it must be under -the law if it would work strongly and sanely. The man in his dreams is -really lower than the lunatic in his deliriums. These have a logic of -their own; but the dreamer has not even a crazy logic. - - - “Like a dog, he hunts in dreams,” - - -and probably his dreams and the dog’s are not only alike, but are of -the same quality. In his wicked dreams the man is not only animal, he -is devil, so wholly is he let into his evils, as the Swedenborgians -say. The wrong is indifferent to him until the fear of detection and -punishment steals in upon him. Even then he is not sorry for his -misdeed, as I have said before; he is only anxious to escape its -consequences. - -It seems probable that when this fear makes itself felt he is near to -waking; and probably when we dream, as we often do, that the thing is -only a dream, and hope for rescue from it by waking, we are always just -about to wake. This double effect is very strange, but still more -strange is the effect which we are privy to in the minds of others, -when they not merely say things to us which are wholly unexpected, -but think things that we know they are thinking, and that they do not -express in words. A great many years ago, when I was young, I dreamed -that my father, who was in another town, came into the room where I was -really lying asleep, and stood by my bed. He wished to greet me, after -our separation, but he reasoned that if he did so, I should wake, and -he turned and left the room without touching me. This process in his -mind, which I knew as clearly and accurately as if it had apparently -gone on in my own, was apparently confined to his mind as absolutely as -anything could be that was not spoken or in any wise uttered. - -Of course it was of my agency, like any other part of the dream, -and it was something like the operation of the novelist’s intention -through the mind of his characters. But in this there is the author’s -consciousness that he is doing it all himself, while in my dream, -this reasoning in the mind of another was something that I felt -myself mere witness of. In fact there is no analogy, so far as I can -make out, between the process of literary invention and the process -of dreaming. In the invention, the critical faculty is vividly and -constantly alert; in dreaming, it seems altogether absent. It seems -absent, too, in what we call day-dreaming, or that sort of dramatizing -action which perhaps goes on perpetually in the mind, or some minds. -But this day-dreaming is not otherwise any more like night-dreaming -than invention is; for the man is never more actively and consciously a -man, and never has a greater will to be fine and high and grand than in -his day-dreams, while in his night-dreams he is quite willing to be a -miscreant of any worst sort. - -It is very remarkable, in view of this fact, that we have now and -then, though ever so much more rarely, dreams that are as angelic as -those others are demoniac. Is it possible that then the dreamer is let -into his goods (the word is Swedenborg’s again), instead of his evils? -It may be supposed that in sleep the dreamer lies passive, while his -proper soul is away, and other spirits, celestial and infernal, have -free access to his mind, and abuse it to their own ends in the one -case, and use it in his behalf in the other. - -That would be an explanation, but nothing seems quite to hold in regard -to dreams. If it is true, why should the dreamer’s state so much -oftener be imbued with evil than with good? It might be answered that -the evil forces are much more positive and aggressive than the good; -or, that the love of the dreamer, which is his life, being mainly evil, -invites the wicked spirits oftener. But that is a point which I would -rather leave each dreamer to settle for himself. The greater number of -every one’s dreams, like the romantic novel, I fancy, concern incident -rather than character, and I am not sure, after all, that the dream -which convicts the dreamer of an essential baseness is commoner than -the dream that tells in his favor morally. - -I dare say every reader of this paper has had dreams so amusing that he -has wakened himself from them by laughing, and then not found them so -very funny, or perhaps not been able to recall them at all. I have had -at least one of this sort, remarkable for other reasons, which remains -perfect in my mind, though it is now some ten years old. One of the -children had been exposed to a very remote chance of scarlet-fever at -the house of a friend, and had been duly scolded for the risk, which -was then quite forgotten. I dreamed that this friend, however, was -giving a ladies’ lunch, at which I was unaccountably and invisibly -present, and the talk began to run upon the scarlet-fever cases in -her family. She said that after the last she had fumigated the whole -house for seventy-two hours (the period seemed very significant and -important in my dream), and had burned everything she could lay her -hands on. - -“And what did the nurse burn?” asked one of the other ladies. - -The hostess began to laugh: “The nurse didn’t burn a thing!” - -Then all the rest burst out laughing at the joke, and the laughter woke -me, to see the boy sitting up in his bed, and hear him saying, “Oh, I -am so sick!” - -It was the nausea which announces scarlet-fever, and for six weeks -after that we were in quarantine. Very likely the fear of the contagion -had been in my nether mind all the time, but, so far as consciousness -could testify of it, I had wholly forgotten it. - - -VI. - -One rarely loses one’s personality in dreams; it is rather intensified, -with all the proper circumstances and relations of it, but I have had -at least one dream in which I seemed to transcend my own circumstance -and condition with remarkable completeness. Even my epoch, my precious -present, I left behind (or ahead, rather), and in my unity with the -persons of my dream I became strictly mediæval. In fact, I have always -called it my mediæval dream, to such as I could get to listen to it; -and it had for its scene a feudal tower, in some waste place; a tower -open at the top, and with a deep, clear pool of water at the bottom, -so that it instantly became known to me, as if I had always known it, -for the Pool Tower. While I stood looking into it, in a mediæval dress -and a mediæval mood, there came flying in at the open door of the ruin -beside me the duke’s hunchback, and after him, furious and shrieking -maledictions, the swarthy beauty whom I was aware the duke was tired -of. The keeping was now not only ducal, but thoroughly Italian, and -it was suggested somehow to my own subtle Italian perception that the -hunchback had been set on to tease the girl, and provoke her so that -she would turn upon him, and try to wreak her fury on him, and chase -him into the Pool Tower, and up the stone stairs that wound round its -hollow to the top, where the solemn sky showed. The fearful spire of -the steps was unguarded, and when I had lost the pair from sight, -with the dwarf’s mocking laughter and the girl’s angry cries in my -ears, there came fluttering from the height, like a bird wounded and -whirling from a lofty tree, the figure of the girl, while far aloof -the hunchback peered over at her fall. Midway in her descent her head -struck against the edge of the steps, with a _kish_, such as an -egg-shell makes when broken against the edge of a platter, and then -plunged into the dark pool at my feet, where I could presently see her -lying in the clear depths, and the blood curling upward from the wound -in her skull, like a dark smoke. I was not sensible of any great pity; -I accepted the affair, quite mediævally, as something that might very -well have happened, given the girl, the duke and the dwarf, and the -time and place. - -I am rather fond of a mediæval setting for those - - - “Dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,” - - -just closing for an afternoon nap. Then I invite to my vision a wide -landscape, with a cold wintry afternoon light upon it, and over this -plain I have bands and groups of people scurrying, in mediæval hose -of divers colors, and mediæval leathern jerkins, hugging themselves -against the frost, and very miserable. They affect me with a profound -compassion; they represent to me, somehow, the vast mass of humanity, -the mass that does the work, and earns the bread, and goes cold and -hungry through all the ages. I should be at a loss to say why this was -the effect, and I am utterly unable to say why these fore-dreams, which -I partially solicit, should have such a tremendous significance as they -seem to have. They are mostly of the most evanescent and intangible -character, but they have one trait in common. They always involve the -attribution of ethical motive and quality to material things, and -in their passage through my brain they promise me a solution of the -riddle of the painful earth in the very instant when they are gone -forever. They are of innumerable multitude, chasing each other with -the swiftness of light, and never staying to be seized by the memory, -which seems already drugged with sleep before their course begins. One -of these dreams, indeed, I did capture, and I found it to be the figure -8, but lying on its side, and in that posture involving the mystery and -the revelation of the mystery of the universe. I leave the reader to -imagine why. - -As we grow older, I think we are less and less able to remember our -dreams. This is perhaps because the experience of youth is less dense, -and the empty spaces of the young consciousness are more hospitable -to these airy visitants. A few dreams of my later life stand out in -strong relief, but for the most part they blend in an indistinguishable -mass, and pass away with the actualities into a common oblivion. I -should say that they were more frequent with me than they used to be; -it seems to me that now I dream whole nights through, and much more -about the business of my waking life than formerly. As I earn my -living by weaving a certain sort of dreams into literary form, it might -be supposed that I would sometime dream of the personages in these -dreams, but I cannot remember that I have ever done so. The two kinds -of inventing, the voluntary and the involuntary, seem absolutely and -finally distinct. - -Of the prophetic dreams which people sometimes have I have mentioned -the only one of mine which had any dramatic interest, but I have -verified in my own experience the theory of Ribot that approaching -disease sometimes intimates itself in dreams of the disorder impending, -before it is otherwise declared in the organism. In actual sickness I -think that I dream rather less than in health. I had a malarial fever -when I was a boy, and I had a sort of continuous dream in it that -distressed me greatly. It was of gliding down the school-house stairs -without touching my feet to the steps, and this was indescribably -appalling. - -The anguish of mind that one suffers from the imaginary dangers of -dreams is probably of the same quality as that inspired by real peril -in waking. A curious proof of this happened within my knowledge not -many years ago. One of the neighbor’s children was coasting down a long -hill with a railroad at the foot of it, and as he neared the bottom -an express train rushed round the curve. The flag-man ran forward and -shouted to the boy to throw himself off his sled, but he kept on, and -ran into the locomotive, and was so hurt that he died. His injuries, -however, were to the spine, and they were of a kind that rendered -him insensible to pain while he lived. He talked very clearly and -calmly of his accident, and when he was asked why he did not throw -himself off his sled, as the flag-man bade him, he said, “_I thought -it was a dream_.” The reality had, through the mental stress, no doubt -transmuted itself to the very substance of dreams, and he had felt the -same kind and quality of suffering as he would have done if he had been -dreaming. The Norwegian poet and novelist, Björnstjerne Björnson, was -at my house shortly after this happened, and he was greatly struck by -the psychological implications of the incident; it seemed to mean for -him all sorts of possibilities in the obscure realm where it cast a -fitful light. - -But such a glimmer soon fades, and the darkness thickens round us -again. It is not with the blindfold sense of sleep that we shall ever -find out the secret of life, I fancy, either in the dreams which seem -personal to us each one, or those universal dreams which we apparently -share with the whole race. Of the race-dream, as I may call it, there -is one hardly less common than that dream of going about insufficiently -clad, which I have already mentioned, and that is the dream of suddenly -falling from some height, and waking with a start. The experience -before the start is extremely dim, and latterly I have condensed this -dread almost as much as the preliminary passages of my burglar-dream. -I am aware of nothing but an instant of danger, and then comes the jar -or jolt that wakens me. Upon the whole, I find this a great saving of -emotion, and I do not know but there is a tendency, as I grow older, -to shorten up the detail of what may be styled the conventional dream, -the dream which we have so often that it is like a story read before. -Indeed, the plots of dreams are not much more varied than the plots of -romantic novels, which are notoriously stale and hackneyed. It would -be interesting, and possibly important, if some observer would note -the recurrence of this sort of dreams, and classify their varieties. -I think we should all be astonished to find how few and slight the -variations were. - - -VII. - -If I come to speak of dreams concerning the dead, it must be with a -tenderness and awe that all who have had them will share with me. -Nothing is more remarkable in them than the fact that the dead, though -they are dead, yet live, and are, to our commerce with them, quite like -all other living persons. We may recognize, and they may recognize, -that they are no longer in the body, but they are as verily living as -we are. This may be merely an effect from the doctrine of immortality -which we all hold or have held, and yet I would fain believe that it -may be something like proof of it. No one really knows, or can know, -but one may at least hope, without offending science, which indeed no -longer frowns so darkly upon faith. This persistence of life in those -whom we mourn as dead, may not it be a witness of the fact that the -consciousness cannot accept the notion of death at all, and, - - - “Whatever crazy sorrow saith,” - - -that we have never truly felt them lost? Sometimes those who have died -come back in dreams as parts of a common life which seems never to have -been broken; the old circle is restored without a flaw; but whether -they do this, or whether it is acknowledged between them and us that -they have died, and are now disembodied spirits, the effect of life is -the same. Perhaps in those dreams they and we are alike disembodied -spirits, and the soul of the dreamer, which so often seems to abandon -the body to the animal, is then the conscious entity, the thing which -the dreamer feels to be himself, and is mingling with the souls of the -departed on something like the terms which shall hereafter be constant. - -I think very few of those who have lost their beloved have failed to -receive some sign or message from them in dreams, and often it is -of deep and abiding consolation. It may be that this is our anguish -compelling the echo of love out of the darkness where nothing is, but -it may be that there is something there, which answers to our throe -with pity and with longing like our own. Again, no one knows, but in a -matter impossible of definite solution I will not refuse the comfort -which belief can give. Unbelief can be no gain, and belief no loss. But -those dreams are so dear, so sacred, so interwoven with the finest and -tenderest tissues of our being that one cannot speak of them freely, -or indeed more than most vaguely. It is enough to say that one has had -them, and to know that almost every one else has had them too. They -seem to be among the universal dreams, and a strange quality of them -is, that though they deal with a fact of universal doubt, they are, to -my experience at least, not nearly so fantastic or capricious as the -dreams that deal with the facts of every-day life, and with the affairs -of people still in this world. - -I do not know whether it is common to dream of faces or figures strange -to our waking knowledge, but occasionally I have done this. I suppose -it is much the same kind of invention that causes the person we dream -of to say or do a thing unexpected to us. But this is rather common, -and the creation of a novel aspect, the physiognomy of a stranger, in -the person we dream of, is rather rare. In all my dreams I can recall -but one presence of the kind. I have never dreamed of any sort of -monster foreign to my knowledge, or even of any grotesque thing made -up of elements familiar to it; the grotesqueness has always been in -the motive or circumstance of the dream. I have very seldom dreamed of -animals, though once, when I was a boy, for a time after I had passed a -corn-field where there were some bundles of snakes, writhen and knotted -together in the cold of an early spring day, I had dreams infested by -like images of these loathsome reptiles. I suppose that every one has -had dreams of finding his way through unnamable filth, and of feeding -upon hideous carnage; these are clearly the punishment of gluttony, and -are the fumes of a rebellious stomach. - -I have heard people say they have sometimes dreamed of a thing, and -awakened from their dream, and then fallen asleep and dreamed of the -same thing; but I believe that this is all one continuous dream; that -they did not really awaken, but only dreamed that they awakened. I -have never had any such dream, but at one time I had a recurrent -dream, which was so singular that I thought no one else had ever had -a recurrent dream till I proved that it was rather common by starting -the inquiry in the Contributors’ Club in the _Atlantic Monthly_, when -I found that great numbers of people have recurrent dreams. My own -recurrent dreams began to come during the first year of my consulate -at Venice, where I had hoped to find the same kind of poetic dimness -on the phases of American life, which I wished to treat in literature, -as the distance in time would have given. I should not wish any such -dimness now; but those were my romantic days, and I was sorely baffled -by its absence. The disappointment began to haunt my nights as well as -my days, and a dream repeated itself from week to week for a matter -of eight or ten months to one effect. I dreamed that I had gone home -to America, and that people met me and said, “Why, you have given up -your place!” and I always answered: “Certainly not; I haven’t done -at all what I mean to do there, yet. I am only here on my ten days’ -leave.” I meant the ten days which a consul might take each quarter -without applying to the Department of State; and then I would reflect -how impossible it was that I should make the visit in that time. I saw -that I should be found out, and dismissed from my office and publicly -disgraced. Then, suddenly, I was not consul at Venice, and had not -been, but consul at Delhi in India; and the distress I felt would -all end in a splendid Oriental phantasmagory of elephants and native -princes, with their retinues in procession, which I suppose was mostly -out of my reading of De Quincey. This dream, with no variation that -I can recall, persisted till I broke it up by saying, in the morning -after it had recurred, that I had dreamed that dream again; and so -it began to fade away, coming less and less frequently, and at last -ceasing altogether. - -I am rather proud of that dream; it is really my battle-horse among -dreams, and I think I will ride away on it. - - - - -AN EAST-SIDE RAMBLE. - - -The New Yorkers, following the custom of Europe, often fence themselves -about with a great deal of ceremony in social matters, even such small -social matters as making calls. - -Some ladies have days when they receive calls; others have no specified -day, and then you take your chance of being turned from the door -without seeing them, or if you find them, of finding them reluctant and -preoccupied. A friend of mine says he has often felt as if he had been -admitted through the error of the man or the maid who opened the door -to him at such houses, and who returned, after carrying up his name, to -say, with a frightened air, that the lady would be down in a moment. - -But when there are days there is never any misgiving about letting -you in. The door is whisked open before you have had time to ring, -sometimes by a servant who has the effect of not belonging to the -house, but hired for the afternoon. Then you leave your card on a -platter of some sort in the hall to attest the fact of your visit, and -at the simpler houses find your way into the drawing-room unannounced, -though the English custom of shouting your name before you is very -common and is always observed where there is any pretense to fashion. -Certain ladies receive once a week throughout the season; others -receive on some day each week of December or January or February, as -the case may be. When there is this limit to a month, the reception -insensibly takes on the character of an afternoon tea, and, in fact, -it varies from that only in being a little less crowded. There is -tea or chocolate or mild punch and a table spread with pastries and -sweets, which hardly any one touches. A young lady dedicates herself -to the service of each urn and offers you the beverage that flows from -it. There is a great air of gayety, a very excited chatter of female -voices, a constant flutter of greeting and leave-taking and a general -sense of amiable emptiness and bewildered kindness when you come away. -The genius of these little affairs is supposed to be informality, but -at some houses where you enjoy such informalities you find two men in -livery on the steps outside, a third opens the door for you, a fourth -takes your hat and stick, a fifth receives your overcoat and a sixth -catches at your name and miscalls it into the drawing room. - - -I. - -But I must not give too exclusive an impression of ceremony in the -New-Yorkers. I made some calls about Christmas-time last year in a -quarter of the city where the informalities are real and where the -hospitalities, such as they were, I thought as sincere as in the -houses where the informalities are more apparent. The sort of calls -I made were rather fashionable some years ago, but are so no longer. -It was a fad to make them, and the fad, like all really nice fads, -came from England, and perhaps it has now died out here because it has -died out there. At any rate, it seems certain that there is now less -interest, less curiosity, concerning the home life of the poor than -there was then among the comfortable people. I do not say there is less -sympathy--there must be still a good deal of sympathy--but I should -say there was less hope with the well-to-do of bettering the condition -of the ill-to-do; some philosophers even warn us against indulging a -feeling of commiseration, lest it should encourage the poor to attempt -themselves to better their condition. - -Yet there are no signs of rebellion on the part of the poor, whom I -found as tame and peaceful, apparently, when I went the rounds of their -unceremonious at-homes as the most anxious philosopher could desire. -My calls were by no means of the nature of a perquisition, but they -left very little unknown to me, I fancy, of the way the poor live, so -frank and simple is their life. They included some tenements of the -American quarter, near the point of the island, on the West Side, and -a rather greater number on the East Side, in the heart of the district -abandoned chiefly to the Russian Jews, though there are no doubt -other nationalities to be found there. It is said to be more densely -populated than any other area in the world, or at least in Christendom, -for within a square mile there are more than three hundred and fifty -thousand men, women and children. One can imagine from this fact -alone how they are housed and what their chances of the comforts and -decencies of life may be. But I must not hurry to the region of these -homes before I have first tried to show the interiors of that quarter -called American, where I found the Americans represented, as they are -so often, by Irish people. The friend who went with me on my calls led -me across the usual surface tracks, under the usual elevated tracks, -and suddenly dodged before me into an alleyway about two feet wide. -This crept under houses fronting on the squalid street we had left and -gave into a sort of court some ten or twelve feet wide by thirty or -forty feet long. The buildings surrounding it were low and very old. -One of them was a stable, which contributed its stench to the odors -that rose from the reeking pavement and from the closets filling an -end of the court, with a corner left beside them for the hydrant that -supplied the water of the whole inclosure. It is from this court that -the inmates of the tenements have their sole chance of sun and air. -What the place must be in summer I had not the heart to think, and on -the wintry day of my visit I could not feel the fury of the skies which -my guide said would have been evident to me if I had seen it in August. -I could better fancy this when I climbed the rickety stairs within one -of the houses and found myself in a typical New York tenement. Then I -almost choked at the thought of what a hot day, what a hot night, must -be in such a place, with the two small windows inhaling the putrid -breath of the court and transmitting it, twice fouled by the passage -through the living-room, to the black hole in the rear, where the whole -family lay on the heap of rags that passed for a bed. - -We had our choice which door to knock at on the narrow landing, a -yard wide at most, which opened into such tenements to the right and -left, as many stories up as the stairs mounted. We stood at once in -the presence of the hostess; there was no ceremony of sending in our -cards here, or having our names called to her. In one case we found -her over the washtub, with her three weeks’ babe bundled in a chair -beside it. A table, with a half-eaten loaf, that formed her breakfast, -on it, helped, with the cooking-stove, to crowd the place past any -possibility of sitting down, if there had been chairs to sit in; so -we stood, as people do at an afternoon tea. At sight of us the woman -began to cry and complain that her man had been drunk and idle for a -month and did nothing for her; though in these times he might have been -sober and idle and done as little. Some good soul was paying the rent -for her, which was half as great as would have hired a decent flat in a -good part of the town; but how her food came or the coal for her stove -remained a mystery which we did not try to solve. She wiped her tears -at the exhibition of a small coin, which she had perhaps dimly foreseen -through them from the moment they began to flow. It was wrong, perhaps, -to give her money, but it was not very wrong, perhaps, for the money -was not very much, and if it pauperized her it could not have been said -that she was wholly unpauperized before she took it. These are very -difficult cases, but all life is a hopeless tangle, and the right is -something that does not show itself at once, especially in economical -affairs. - -In another tenement we found a family as gay and hopeful as this was -dismal and desperate. An Irish lady with a stylish fringe of red hair -decorating her forehead, welcomed us with excuses for the state of the -apartment, which in the next breath she proved herself very proud of, -for she said that if people were not comfortable in their houses it was -because they were slovenly and untidy. I could not see that she was -neater than her neighbor on the landing below. She had a florid taste -in pictures, and half a dozen large colored prints went far to hide the -walls, which, she said, the landlord had lately had whitewashed, though -to eyes less fond than hers they showed a livid blue. The whitewashing -was the sole repairs which had been put upon her tenement since she -came into it, but she seemed to think it quite enough; and her man, who -sat at leisure near the stove, in the three days’ beard which seems -inseparable from idle poverty, was quite boastful of its advantages. -He said that he had lived in that court for thirty years and there -was no such air anywhere else in this world. I could readily believe -him, being there to smell it and coming away with the taste of it in my -mouth. Like other necessaries of life, it must have been rather scanty -in that happy home, especially at night, when the dark fell outside and -a double dark thickened in the small bin which stood open to our gaze -at the end of the room. The whitewash seemed not to have penetrated to -this lair, where a frowzy mattress showed itself on a rickety bedstead. -The beds in these sleeping-holes were never made up; they were rounded -into a heap and seemed commonly of a coarse brown sacking. They had -always a horrible fascination for me. I fancied them astir with a -certain life which, if there had been a consensus of it to that effect, -might have walked off with them. - -All the tenements here were of this size and shape--a room with windows -opening upon the court and at the rear the small black bin or pen -for the bed. The room was perhaps twelve feet square and the bin was -six, and for such a dwelling the tenant pays six dollars a month. If -he fails to pay it he is evicted, and some thirty thousand evictions -have taken place in the past year. But an eviction is by no means the -dreadful hardship the reader would perhaps imagine it. To be sure, -it means putting the tenant on the sidewalk with his poor household -gear in any weather and at any hour; but if it is very cold or very -wet weather, the evicted family is seldom suffered to pass the night -there. The wretched neighbors gather about and take them in, and their -life begins again on the old terms; or the charities come to their aid, -and they are dispersed into the different refuges until the father or -mother can find another hole for them to crawl into. Still, natural as -it all is, I should think it must surprise an Irishman, who supposed he -had left eviction behind him in his native land, to find it so rife in -the country of his adoption. - - -II. - -My friend asked me if I would like to go into any other tenements, but -I thought that if what I had seen was typical, I had seen enough in -that quarter. The truth is, I had not yet accustomed myself to going in -upon people in that way, though they seemed accustomed to being gone in -upon without any ceremony but the robust “Good-morning!” my companion -gave them by way of accounting for our presence, and I wanted a little -interval to prepare myself for further forays. The people seemed quite -ready to be questioned, and answered us as persons in authority. They -may have taken us for detectives, or agents of benevolent societies, or -journalists in search of copy. In any case, they had nothing to lose -and they might have something to gain; so they received us kindly and -made us as much at home among them as they knew how. It may have been -that in some instances they supposed that we were members of the Board -of Health and were their natural allies against their landlords. - -I had not realized before how much this noble institution can befriend -the poor, so potently sustained as it is in the discharge of its duties -by the popular sentiment in a land where popular sentiment is so often -so weak. It has full power, in the public interest, to order repairs -and betterments necessary for the general health in any domicile, rich -or poor, in the city, and no man’s pleasure or profit may hinder it. -In cases of contagion or infection, it may isolate the neighborhood -or vacate the premises, or, in certain desperate conditions, destroy -them. As there are always pestilences of some sort preying upon the -poor (as if their poverty were not enough), my companion could point -out a typhus quarter, which the Board had shut up and which we must -not approach. Such minor plagues as smallpox, scarlet-fever, and -diphtheria are quickly discovered and made known, and the places that -they have infested are closed till they can be thoroughly purified. -Any tenant believing his premises to be in an unwholesome or dangerous -state may call in the Board, and from its decision the landlord has no -appeal. He must make the changes the Board ordains, and he must make -them at his own cost, though no doubt, when the tenant can pay, he -contrives somehow to make him pay in the end. The landlord, especially -if he battens on the poorer sort of tenants, is always in fear of the -Board, and the tenant is in love with it, for he knows that, in a -community otherwise delivered over to the pursuit of pelf or pleasure, -it stands his ready friend, whose mandate private interest obeys as it -obeys no other. It seems to have more honor than any other institution -among us, and, amid the most frightful corruption of every kind, to -remain incorruptible. Very likely the landlord may sometimes think -that it abuses its power, but the tenant never thinks so, and the -public seems always to agree with the tenant. The press, which is so -keen to scent out paternalism in municipal or national affairs, has -not yet perceived any odor of it in the Board of Health, and stands -its constant friend, though it embodies in the most distinctive form -the principle that, in a civilized community, the collective interest -is supreme. Even if such an extension of its powers were not in the -order of evolution, it would not be so illogical for the Board of -Health to command the abatement of poverty when the diseases that flow -from poverty cannot be otherwise abated. I should not like to prophesy -that it will ever do so, but stranger things have happened through the -necessity that knows no law, not even the law of demand and supply--the -demand of Moloch and the supply of Misery. - - -III. - -I do not know whether the Hebrew quarter, when I began to make my calls -there, seemed any worse than the American quarter or not. But I noticed -presently a curious subjective effect in myself, which I offer for the -reader’s speculation. - -There is something in a very little experience of such places that -blunts the perception, so that they do not seem so dreadful as they -are; and I should feel as if I were exaggerating if I recorded my -first impression of their loathsomeness. I soon came to look upon the -conditions as normal, not for me, indeed, or for the kind of people I -mostly consort with, but for the inmates of the dens and lairs about -me. Perhaps this was partly their fault; they were uncomplaining, if -not patient, in circumstances where I believe a single week’s sojourn, -with no more hope of a better lot than they could have, would make -anarchists of the best people in the city. Perhaps the poor people -themselves are not so thoroughly persuaded that there is anything -very unjust in their fate, as the compassionate think. They at least -do not know the better fortune of others, and they have the habit of -passively enduring their own. I found them usually cheerful in the -Hebrew quarter, and they had so much courage as enabled them to keep -themselves noticeably clean in an environment where I am afraid their -betters would scarcely have had heart to wash their faces and comb -their hair. There was even a decent tidiness in their dress, which -I did not find very ragged, though it often seemed unseasonable and -insufficient. But here again, as in many other phases of life, I was -struck by men’s heroic superiority to their fate, if their fate is -hard; and I felt anew that if prosperous and comfortable people were -as good in proportion to their fortune as these people were they would -be as the angels of light, which, I am afraid they now but faintly -resemble. - -One of the places we visited was a court somewhat like that we had -already seen in the American quarter, but rather smaller and with -more the effect of a pit, since the walls around it were so much -higher. There was the same row of closets at one side and the hydrant -next them, but here the hydrant was bound up in rags to keep it from -freezing, apparently, and the wretched place was by no means so -foul under foot. To be sure, there was no stable to contribute its -filth, but we learned that a suitable stench was not wanting from -a bakery in one of the basements, which a man in good clothes and -a large watch-chain told us rose from it in suffocating fumes at a -certain hour, when the baker was doing some unimaginable thing to -the bread. This man seemed to be the employer of labor in one of the -rooms above, and he said that when the smell began they could hardly -breathe. He caught promptly at the notion of the Board of Health, -and I dare say that the baker will be duly abated. None of the other -people complained, but that was perhaps because they had only their -Yiddish to complain in, and knew that it would be wasted on us. They -seemed neither curious nor suspicious concerning us; they let us go -everywhere, as if they had no thought of hindering us. One of the -tenements we entered had just been vacated; but there was a little -girl of ten there, with some much smaller children, amusing them in the -empty space. Through a public-spirited boy, who had taken charge of us -from the beginning and had a justly humorous sense of the situation, we -learned that this little maid was not the sister but the servant of the -others, for even in these low levels society makes its distinctions. -I dare say that the servant was not suffered to eat with the others -when they had anything to eat, and that when they had nothing her -inferiority was somehow brought home to her. She may have been made -to wait and famish after the others had hungered some time. She was a -cheerful and friendly creature and her small brood were kept tidy like -herself. - -The basement under this vacant tenement we found inhabited, and though -it was a most preposterous place for people to live, it was not as -dirty as one would think. To be sure, it was not very light and all -the dirt may not have been visible. One of the smiling women who were -there made their excuses, “Poor people; cannot keep very nice,” and -laughed as if she had said a good thing. There was nothing in the room -but a table and a few chairs and a stove, without fire, but they were -all contentedly there together in the dark, which hardly let them see -one another’s faces. My companion struck a match and held it to the -cavernous mouth of an inner cellar half as large as the room we were -in, where it winked and paled so soon that I had only a glimpse of the -bed, with the rounded heap of bedding on it; but out of this hole, as -if she had been a rat, scared from it by the light, a young girl came, -rubbing her eyes and vaguely smiling, and vanished up-stairs somewhere. - - -IV. - -I found no shape or size of tenement but this. There was always the -one room, where the inmates lived by day, and the one den, where they -slept by night, apparently all in the same bed, though probably the -children were strewn about the floor. If the tenement were high up the -living-room had more light and air than if it were low down; but the -sleeping-hole never had any light or air of its own. My calls were -made on one of the mild days which fell before last Christmas, and -so I suppose I saw these places at their best; but what they must be -when the summer is seven times heated without, as it often is in New -York, or when the arctic cold has pierced these hapless abodes and the -inmates huddle together for their animal heat, the reader must imagine -for himself. The Irish-Americans had flaming stoves, even on that soft -day, but in the Hebrew tenements I found no fire. They were doubtless -the better for this, and it is one of the comical anomalies of the -whole affair that they are singularly healthy. The death rate among -them is one of the lowest in the city, though whether for their final -advantage it might not better be the highest, is one of the things -one must not ask one’s self. In their presence I should not dare to -ask it, even in my deepest thought. They are then so like other human -beings and really so little different from the best, except in their -environment, that I had to get away from this before I could regard -them as wild beasts. - -I suppose there are and have been worse conditions of life, but if I -stopped short of savage life I found it hard to imagine them. I did not -exaggerate to myself the squalor that I saw, and I do not exaggerate -it to the reader. As I have said, I was so far from sentimentalizing -it that I almost immediately reconciled myself to it, as far as its -victims were concerned. Still, it was squalor of a kind which, it -seemed to me, it could not be possible to outrival anywhere in the life -one commonly calls civilized. It is true that the Indians who formerly -inhabited this island were no more comfortably lodged in their wigwams -of bark and skins than these poor New-Yorkers in their tenements. -But the wild men pay no rent, and if they are crowded together upon -terms that equally forbid decency and comfort in their shelter, they -have the freedom of the forest and the prairie about them; they have -the illimitable sky and the whole light of day and the four winds -to breathe when they issue into the open air. The New York tenement -dwellers, even when they leave their lairs, are still pent in their -high-walled streets, and inhale a thousand stenches of their own and -others’ making. The street, except in snow and rain, is always better -than their horrible houses, and it is doubtless because they pass so -much of their time in the street that the death rate is so low among -them. Perhaps their domiciles can be best likened for darkness and -discomfort to the dugouts or sod huts of the settlers on the great -plains. But these are only temporary shelters, while the tenement -dwellers have no hope of better housing; they have neither the prospect -of a happier fortune through their own energy as the settlers have, -nor any chance from the humane efforts and teachings of missionaries, -like the savages. With the tenement dwellers it is from generation to -generation, if not for the individual, then for the class, since no -one expects that there will not always be tenement dwellers in New York -as long as our present economical conditions endure. - - -V. - -When I first set out on my calls I provided myself with some small -silver, which I thought I might fitly give, at least to the children, -and in some of the first places I did this. But presently I began to -fancy an unseemliness in it, as if it were an indignity added to the -hardship of their lot, and to feel that unless I gave all my worldly -wealth to them I was in a manner mocking their misery. I could not give -everything, for then I should have had to come upon charity myself, and -so I mostly kept my little coins in my pocket; but when we mounted into -the court again from that cellar apartment and found an old, old woman -there, wrinkled and yellow, with twinkling eyes and a toothless smile, -waiting to see us, as if she were as curious in her way as we were in -ours, I was tempted. She said in her Yiddish, which the humorous boy -interpreted, that she was eighty years old, and she looked a hundred, -while she babbled unintelligibly but very cheerfully on. I gave her -a piece of twenty-five cents and she burst into a blessing, that I -should not have thought could be bought for money. We did not stay to -hear it out, but the boy did, and he followed to report it to me, with -a gleeful interest in its beneficent exaggerations. If it is fulfilled -I shall live to be a man of many and prosperous years, and I shall die -possessed of wealth that will endow a great many colleges and found a -score of libraries. I do not know whether the boy envied me or not, -but I wish I could have left that benediction to him, for I took a -great liking to him, his shrewd smile, his gay eyes, his promise of a -Hebrew nose, and his whole wise little visage. He said that he went to -school and studied reading, writing, geography and everything. All the -children we spoke to said that they went to school, and they were quick -and intelligent. They could mostly speak English, while most of their -elders knew only Yiddish. - -The sound of this was around us on the street we issued into, and -which seemed from end to end a vast bazaar, where there was a great -deal of selling, whether there was much buying or not. The place is -humorously called the pig-market by the Christians, because everything -in the world but pork is to be found there. To me its activity was a -sorrowfully amusing satire upon the business ideal of our plutocratic -civilization. These people were desperately poor, yet they preyed upon -one another in their commerce, as if they could be enriched by selling -dear or buying cheap. So far as I could see they would only impoverish -each other more and more, but they trafficked as eagerly as if there -were wealth in every bargain. The sidewalks and the roadways were -thronged with peddlers and purchasers, and everywhere I saw splendid -types of that old Hebrew world which had the sense if not the knowledge -of God when all the rest of us lay sunk in heathen darkness. There were -women with oval faces and olive tints, and clear, dark eyes, relucent -as evening pools, and men with long beards of jetty black or silvery -white, and the noble profiles of their race. I said to myself that it -was among such throngs that Christ walked, it was from such people that -he chose his Disciples and his friends; but I looked in vain for him in -Hester street. Probably he was at that moment in Fifth Avenue. - - -VI. - -After all, I was loath to come away. I should have liked to stay and -live awhile with such as they, if the terms of their life had been -possible, for there were phases of it that were very attractive. That -constant meeting and that neighborly intimacy were superficially at -least of a very pleasant effect, and though the whole place seemed -abandoned to mere trade, it may have been a necessity of the case, for -I am told that many of these Hebrews have another ideal, and think -and vote in the hope that the land of their refuge shall yet some day -keep its word to the world, so that men shall be equally free in it -to the pursuit of happiness. I suppose they are mostly fugitives from -the Russian persecution, and that from the cradle their days must have -been full of fear and care, and from the time they could toil that they -must have toiled at whatever their hands found to do. Yet they had not -the look of a degraded people; they were quiet and orderly, and I saw -none of the drunkenness or the truculence of an Irish or low American -neighborhood among them. There were no policemen in sight, and the -quiet behavior that struck me so much seemed not to have been enforced. -Very likely they may have moods different from that I saw, but I only -tell of what I saw, and I am by no means ready yet to preach poverty -as a saving grace. Though they seemed so patient and even cheerful in -some cases, I do not think it is well for human beings to live whole -families together in one room with a kennel out of it, where modesty -may survive, but decency is impossible. Neither do I think they can -be the better men and women for being insufficiently clothed and fed, -though so many of us appear none the better for being housed in palaces -and clad in purple and fine linen and faring sumptuously every day. - -I have tried to report simply and honestly what I saw of the life of -our poorest people that day. One might say it was not so bad as it is -painted, but I think it is quite as bad as it appeared; and I could -not see that in itself or in its conditions it held the promise or the -hope of anything better. If it is tolerable, it must endure; if it is -intolerable, still it must endure. Here and there one will release -himself from it, and doubtless numbers are always doing this, as in the -days of slavery there were always fugitives; but for the great mass the -captivity remains. Upon the present terms of leaving the poor to be -housed by private landlords, whose interest it is to get the greatest -return of money for the money invested, the very poorest must always -be housed as they are now. Nothing but public control in some form or -other can secure them a shelter fit for human beings. - - - - -TRIBULATIONS OF A CHEERFUL GIVER. - - -Some months ago, as I was passing through a down-town street on my way -to the elevated station, I saw a man sitting on the steps of a house. -He seemed to be resting his elbows on his knees, and holding out both -his hands. As I came nearer I perceived that he had no hands, but only -stumps, where the fingers had been cut off close to the palms, and -that it was these stumps he was holding out in the mute appeal which -was his form of begging. Otherwise he did not ask charity. When I -approached him he did not look up, and when I stopped in front of him -he did not speak. I thought this rather fine, in its way; except for -his mutilation, which the man really could not help, there was nothing -to offend the taste; and his immobile silence was certainly impressive. - -I decided at once to give him something; for when I am in the presence -of want, or even the appearance of want, there is something that says -to me, “Give to him that asketh,” and I have to give, or else go away -with a bad conscience--a thing I hate. Of course I do not give much, -for I wish to be a good citizen as well as a good Christian; and as -soon as I obey that voice which I cannot disobey, I hear another voice -reproaching me for encouraging street beggary. I have been taught that -street beggary is wrong, and when I have to unbutton two coats and go -through three or four pockets before I can reach the small coin I mean -to give in compliance with that imperative voice, I certainly feel it -to be wrong. So I compromise, and I am never able to make sure that -either of those voices is satisfied with me. I am not even satisfied -with myself; but I am better satisfied than if I gave nothing. That was -the selfish reason I now had for deciding to yield to my better nature, -and to obey the voice which bade me “Give to him that asketh”; for, as -I said, I hate a bad conscience, and of two bad consciences I always -choose the least, which in a case like this, is the one that incensed -political economy gives me. - - -I. - -I put my hand into my hip-pocket, where I keep my silver, and found -nothing there but half a dollar. This at once changed the whole current -of my feelings; and it was not chill penury that repressed my noble -rage, but chill affluence. It was manifestly wrong to give half a -dollar to a man who had no hands, or to any sort of beggar. I was -willing to commit a small act of incivism, but I had not the courage -to flout political economy to the extent of fifty cents; and I felt -that when I was bidden “Give to him that asketh,” I was never meant to -give so much as a half-dollar, but a cent, or a half-dime, or at the -most a quarter. I wished I had a quarter. I would gladly have given -a quarter, but there was nothing in my pocket but that fatal, that -inexorably indivisible half-dollar, the continent of two quarters, -but not practically a quarter. I would have asked anybody in sight to -change it for me, but there was no one passing; it was a quiet street -of brown-stone dwellings, and not a thronged thoroughfare at any time. -At that hour of the late afternoon it was deserted, except for the -beggar and myself; and I am not sure that he had any business to be -sitting there, on the steps of another man’s house, or that I had the -right to encourage his invasion by giving him anything. For a moment I -did not know quite what to do. To be sure, I was not bound to the man -in any way. He had not asked me for charity, and I had barely paused -before him; I could go on and ignore the incident. I thought of doing -this, but then I thought of the bad conscience I should be certain to -have, and I could not go on. I glanced across the street, and near the -corner I saw a decent-looking restaurant; and “Wait a minute,” I said -to the man, as if he were likely to go away, and I ran across to get my -half-dollar changed at the restaurant. - -I was now quite resolved to give him a quarter, and be done with it; -the thing was getting to be a bore. But when I entered the restaurant -I saw no one there but a young man quite at the end of a long room; -and when he had come all the way forward to find what I wanted, I was -ashamed to ask him to change my half-dollar, and I pretended that I -wanted a package of Sweet Caporal cigarettes, which I did not want, and -which it was a pure waste for me to buy, since I do not smoke, though -doubtless it was better to buy them and encourage commerce than to give -the half-dollar and encourage beggary. At any rate, I instinctively -felt that I had political economy on my side in the transaction, and I -made haste to go back to the man on the steps, and secure myself with -Christian charity too. On the way over to him, however, I decided that -I would not give him a quarter, and I ended by poising fifteen cents on -one of his outstretched stumps. - -He seemed very grateful, and thanked me earnestly, with a little note -of surprise in his voice, as if he were not used to such splendid -charity as that; and in fact, I suppose very few people gave so -handsomely to him. He spoke with a German accent; and when I asked -him how he had lost his hands, he answered, “Frost. Frozen off, here -in the city.” I could not go on and ask him for further particulars, -for I thought it but too likely that he had been drunk when exposed to -weather that would freeze one’s hands off, and that he was now paying -the penalty of his debauchery. I was in no wise so much at peace with -myself as I had expected to be; and I was still less so when a young -girl halted as she came by, and, seeing what I had done, and hearing -what the man said, put a dime on the other stump. She looked poor -herself; her sack was quite shabby about the seams. I did not think she -could afford to give so much to a single beggar, and I was aware of -having tempted her to the excess by my own profusion. If she had seen -me giving the man only a nickel, she would perhaps have given him a -cent, which was probably all she could afford. - - -II. - -I came away feeling indescribably squalid. I perceived now that I -could have taken my stand upon the high ground of discouraging street -beggary, and given nothing; but having once lowered myself to the level -of the early Christians, I ought to have given the half-dollar. It -did not console me to remember the surprise in the man’s gratitude, -and to reflect that I had probably given him at least three times as -much as he usually got from the tenderest-hearted people. I perceived -that I had been the divinely appointed bearer of half a dollar to his -mutilation and his misery, and I had given him fifteen cents out of it, -and wasted ten, and kept the other twenty-five; in other words, I had -embezzled the greater part of the money intrusted to me for him. - -When I got home and told them at dinner just what I had done, they all -agreed that I had done a mighty shabby thing. I do not know whether -the reader will agree with them or not--perhaps I would rather not -know; and on the other hand, I shall not ask him what he would have -done in the like case. Now that it is laid before him in all its -shameless nakedness, I dare say he will pretend that he would have -given the half-dollar. But I doubt if he would; and there is a curious -principle governing this whole matter of giving, which I would like him -to consider with me. Charity is a very simple thing when you look at -it from the standpoint of the good Christian, but it is very complex -when you look at it from the standpoint of the good citizen; and there -seems to be an instinctive effort on our part to reconcile two duties -by a certain proportion which we observe in giving. Whether we say so -to ourselves or not, we behave as if it would be the wildest folly to -give at all in the measure Christ bade; and by an apt psychological -juggle we adjust our succor to the various degrees of need that present -themselves. To the absolutely destitute it is plain that anything will -be better than nothing, and so we give the smallest charity to those -who need charity most. I dare say people will deny this, but it is -true, all the same, as the reader will allow when he thinks about it. -We act upon a kind of logic in the matter, though I do not suppose many -act consciously upon it. Here is a man whispering to you in the dark -that he has not had anything to eat all day, and does not know where to -sleep. Shall you give him a dollar to get a good supper and a decent -lodging? Certainly not: you shall give him a dime, and trust that some -one else will give him another; or if you have some charity tickets -about you, then you give him one of them, and go away feeling that you -have at once befriended and outwitted him; for the supposition is that -he is a fraud, and has been trying to work you. - -This is not a question which affects the excellence of the charities -system. I know how good and kind and just that is; but it is a question -that affects the whole Christian philosophy of giving. A friend, whom -I was talking the matter over with, was inclined to doubt whether -Christ’s doctrine was applicable, in its sweeping simplicity, to our -complex modern conditions; whether it was final, whether it was the -last word, as we say. Of course it does seem a little absurd to give to -him that asketh, when you do not know what he is going to do with the -money, and when you do not know whether he has not come to want by his -own fault, or whether he is really in want. - - -III. - -I must say that his statement of his own case is usually incoherent. -The poor fellows have very little imagination or invention; they might -almost as well be realistic novelists. I find that those who strike me -for a night’s lodging, when they stop me in the street at night, come -as a rule from Pittsburg, and are ironworkers of some sort; the last -one said he was a puddler, “A skilled mechanic,” he explained--“what is -called a skilled mechanic”; and of course he was only watching for some -chance to get back to Pittsburg, though there was no chance of work, -from what he told me, after he got there. On the other hand, I find -that most of those who ask by day for money to get a dinner are from -Philadelphia, or the rural parts of eastern Pennsylvania, though within -six months I have extended hospitality (I think that is the right -phrase) to two architectural draftsmen from Boston. They were both -entirely decent-looking, sober-looking young men, who spoke like men of -education, and they each gratefully accepted a quarter from me. I do -not attempt to account for them, for they made no attempt to account -for themselves; and I think the effect was more artistic so. - -I am rarely approached by any professed New-Yorker, which is perhaps -a proof of the superior industry or prosperity of our city; but now -and then a fellow-citizen who has fallen out asks me for money in the -street, and perhaps goes straight and spends it for drink. Drink, -however, is as necessary in some forms as food itself, and a rich, -generous port wine is often prescribed for invalids. These men, without -exception, look like invalids, and I dare say that they would prefer -to buy a rich, generous port wine if I gave them money enough. I -never do that, though I have a means of making my alms seem greater, -to myself at least, by practising a little cordiality with the poor -fellows. I do not give grudgingly or silently, but I say, if I give -at all, when they ask me, “Why, of course!” or “Yes, certainly”; and -sometimes I invite them to use their feeble powers of invention in my -behalf, and tell how they wish me to think they have come to the sad -pass of beggary. This seems to flatter them, and it makes me feel much -better, which is really my motive for doing it. - -Now and then they will offer me some apology for begging, in a tone -that says, “I know how it is myself”; and once there was one who began -by saying, “I know it’s a shame for a strong man like me to be begging, -but--” They seldom have any devices for working me, beyond the simple -statement of their destitution; though there was a case in which I -helped a poor fellow raise a quarter upon a postal order, which he then -kept as a pledge of my good faith. Their main reliance seems to be -lead-pencils, which they have in all inferior variety. I find that they -will take it kindly if you do not want any change back when you have -given them a coin worth more than they asked for the pencil, and that -they will even let you off without taking the pencil after you have -bought it. In the end you have to use some means to save yourself from -the accumulation of pencils, unless you are willing to burn them for -kindling-wood; and I find the simplest way is not to take them after -you have paid for them. It is amusing how quickly you can establish a -comity with these pencil people; they will not only let you leave your -pencils with them, but they will sometimes excuse you from buying if -you remind them that you have bought of them lately. Then, if they do -not remember you, they at least smile politely and pretend to do so. - - -IV. - -Ought one to give money to a hand-organist, who is manifestly making -himself a nuisance before the door of some one else? I have asked -myself this when I have been tempted, and I am not yet quite clear -about it. At present, therefore, I give only to the inaudible street -minstrels, who earn an honest living, and make no noise about it. I -cannot think that a ballad-singer on Sixth Avenue, who pours forth his -artless lay amid the roar and rattle of the elevated trains, the jangle -and clatter of the horse-cars, the bang of the grocers’ carts, and the -thunder of the express-wagons, is practically molesting anybody; and -I believe that one can reward his innocent efforts without wronging -his neighbors. It is always amusing to have him stop in his most -effective phrase to say, “Thank you, thank you, sir,” and then go on -again. The other day, as I dropped my contribution into the extended -hat, I asked, “How is business?” and the singer interrupted himself to -answer, “Nothing-to-brag-of-sir-thank-you,” and resumed with continuous -tenderness the “ditty of no tone” that he was piping to the inattentive -uproar of the street. - -It may be doubted whether a balladist who is not making himself heard -is earning his money; but, on the other hand, it may be asked if he -is not less regrettable for that reason. A great many good people do -not earn their money, and yet by universal consent they seem to have a -right to it. We cannot oblige the poor to earn their money, any more -than the rich, without attacking the principle on which society is -based, and classing ourselves with its enemies. If people get money -out of other people, we ought not to ask how they get it, whether it -is much or little; and I, at any rate, will not scan too closely the -honesty of the inaudible balladist of the avenue. Neither will I -question the gains of those silentious minstrels who grind small, mute -organs at the corners of the pavement, with a little tin cup beside -them to receive tribute. They are usually old, old women, and I suppose -Italians; but they seem not to be very distinctively anything. How they -can sit upon the cold stone all day long without taking their deaths, -passes me to say; and I am inclined to think that they do really earn -their money, if not as minstrels, then as monuments of human endurance. -The average American grandmother would sneeze in five seconds, under -the same conditions, and be laid up for the rest of the winter. But -these hardy aliens remain unaffected by cold or wet, light or dark. -One night I came upon one sleeping on her curbstone,--such a small, -dull wad of out-worn womanhood!--her gray old head bent upon her knees, -and her withered arms wound in her thin shawl. It was very chill that -night, with a sharp wind sweeping the street that the Street Department -had neglected; but this poor old thing slept on, while I stood by her -trying to imagine her short and simple annals; a dim, far-off childhood -in some peasant hut, a girlhood with its tender dreams, a motherhood -with its cares, a grandmotherhood with its pains--the whole round of -woman’s life, with want through all, wound into this last result of -houseless age at my feet. How much of human life comes to no more--if, -indeed, one ought not to say how little comes to so much! I sighed, as -people of feeling used to do in the eighteenth century, and dropped a -dime into the tin cup. The sound startled the beldame, and I hope that -before she woke and looked up at me she had time to dream riches and -luxury for the rest of her life. “_Bella musica!_” I said, with a fine -irony, and she smiled and shrugged, and began to feel for the handle of -her organ, as if she were willing to begin giving me my money’s worth -on the spot. If we did not see such sights every day how impossible -they would seem! - - -V. - -The whole spectacle of poverty, indeed, is incredible. As soon as you -cease to have it before your eyes,--even when you have it before your -eyes,--you can hardly believe it, and that is perhaps why so many -people deny that it exists, or is much more than a superstition of the -sentimentalist. When I get back into my own comfortable room, among my -papers and books, I remember it as I remember something at the theatre. -It seems to be turned off, as Niagara does, when you come away. The -difficulty here in New York is that the moment you go out again, you -find it turned on, full tide. I used to live in a country supposed to -be peculiarly infested by beggars; but I believe I was not so much -asked for charity in Venice as I am in New York. There are as many -beggars on our streets as in Venice, and as for the organized efforts -to get at one’s compassion, there is no parallel for New York anywhere. -The letters asking aid for air funds, salt and fresh, for homes and -shelters, for reading-rooms and eating-rooms, for hospitals and -refuges, for the lame, halt, and blind, for the old, for the young, for -the anhungered and ashamed, of all imaginable descriptions, storm in -with every mail, so that one hates to open one’s letters nowadays; for -instead of finding a pleasant line from a friend, one finds an appeal, -in print imitating typewriting, from several of the millionaires in the -city for aid of some good object to which they have lent the influence -of their signatures, and inclosing an envelope, directed but not -stamped, for your subscription. You do not escape from the proof of -poverty even by keeping indoors amidst your own luxurious environment; -besides, your digestion becomes impaired, and you have to go out, if -you are to have any appetite for your dinner; and then the trouble -begins on other terms. - -One of my minor difficulties, if I may keep on confessing myself to -the reader, is a very small pattern of newsboys, whom I am tempted to -make keep the change when I get a one-cent paper of them and give them -a five-cent piece. I see men, well dressed, well brushed, with the -air of being exemplary citizens, fathers of families, and pillars of -churches, wait patiently or impatiently, while these little fellows -search one pocket and another for the pennies due, or run to some -comrade Chonnie or Chimmie for them; and I cannot help feeling that I -may be doing something very disorganizing or demoralizing in failing -to demand my change. At first I used to pass on without apparently -noticing that I had given too much, but I perceived that then these -small wretches sometimes winked to their friends, in the belief that -they had cheated me; and now I let them offer to get the change before -I let them keep it. I may be undermining society, and teaching them -to trust in a fickle fortune rather than their own enterprise, by -overpaying them; but at least I will not corrupt them by letting them -think they have taken advantage of my ignorance. If the reader will not -whisper it again, I will own that I have sometimes paid as high as ten -cents for a one-cent paper, which I did not want, when it has been -offered me by a very minute newsboy near midnight; and I have done this -in conscious defiance of the well-known fact that it is a ruse of very -minute newsboys to be out late when they ought to be in bed at home, or -at _the_ Home (which seems different), in order to work the sympathies -of unwary philanthropists. The statistics in regard to these miscreants -are as unquestionable as those relating to street beggars who have -amassed fortunes and died amidst rags and riches of dramatic character. -I am sorry that I cannot say where the statistics are to be found. - - -VI. - -The actual practice of fraud, even when you discover it, must give you -interesting question, unless you are cock-sure of your sociology. I was -once met by a little girl on a cross-street in a respectable quarter -of the town, who burst into tears at sight of me, and asked for money -to buy her sick mother bread. The very next day I was passing through -the same street, and I saw the same little girl burst into tears at -the sight of a benevolent-looking lady, whom undoubtedly she asked -for money for the same good object. The benevolent-looking lady gave -her nothing, and she tried her woes upon several other people, none -of whom gave her anything. I was forced to doubt whether, upon the -whole, her game was worth the candle, or whether she was really making -a provision for her declining years by this means. To be sure, her time -was not worth much, and she could hardly have got any other work, she -was so young; but it seemed hardly a paying industry. By any careful -calculation, I do not believe she would have been found to have amassed -more than ten or fifteen cents a day; and perhaps she really had a sick -mother at home. Many persons are obliged to force their emotions for -money, whom we should not account wholly undeserving; yet I suppose a -really good citizen who found this little girl trying to cultivate the -sympathies of charitable people by that system of irrigation would have -had her suppressed as an impostor. - -In a way she was an impostor, though her sick mother may have been -starving, as she said. It is a nice question. Shall we always give to -him that asketh? Or shall we give to him that asketh only when we know -that he has come by his destitution honestly? In other words, what is -a deserving case of charity--or, rather, what is not? Is a starving or -freezing person to be denied because he or she is drunken or vicious? -What is desert in the poor? What is desert in the rich, I suppose the -reader would answer. If this is so, and if we ought not to succor an -undeserving poor person, then we ought not to succor an undeserving -rich person. It will be said that a rich person, however undeserving -will never be in need of our succor, but this is not so clear. If we -saw a rich person fall in a fit before the horses of a Fifth Avenue -omnibus, ought not we to run and lift him up, although we knew him to -be a man whose life was stained by every vice and excess, and cruel, -wanton, idle, luxurious? I know that I am imagining a quite impossible -rich person; but once imagined, ought not we to save him all the same -as if he were deserving? I do not believe the most virtuous person will -say we ought not; and ought not we, then, to rescue the most worthless -tramp fallen under the wheels of the Juggernaut of want? Is charity the -reward of merit? - - -VII. - -My friend who was not sure that Christ’s doctrine was the last word in -regard to charity, was quite sure that you ought to have a conscience -against dead-beats, whom I suggested for his consideration, especially -the dead-beats who come to your house and try to work you upon one -pretext or another. He said he never gave to them, and I asked what -he answered them when they professed themselves in instant want; and -whether he plumply denied them; and it appeared that he told them he -had other use for his money. I suspect this was a proper answer to -make. It had never occurred to me, but I think I will try it with the -next one who comes, and see what effect it has upon him. Hitherto I -have had no better way than to offer them a compromise: if they ask -twenty, to propose ten; and if they ask ten, to propose five; and so on -down. The first time I did this (it was with an actor, who gave me his -I O U--the first and only I O U that I ever got: I suppose he was used -to giving it on the stage) it seemed to me that I had made ten dollars, -and since then it has seemed to me that I made five dollars on several -occasions; but I now think this was an illusion, and that I only saved -the money: I did not actually add to my store. - -It is usually indigent literature which presents itself with these -imaginative demands, and I think usually fictionists of the romantic -school. I do not know but it would be well for me as a man of principle -to confine my benefactions to destitute realists: I am sure it would -be cheaper. Last winter there came to me a gentleman thrown out of -employment by the completion of an encyclopedia he had been at work -on, and he said that he was in absolute want of food for his family, -who had that morning been set out with all his household stuff on the -sidewalk for default of rent. I relieved his immediate necessity, and -suggested to him that if he would write a simple, unrhetorical account -of his eviction I could probably sell it for him; that this sort of -thing mostly happened to the inarticulate classes; and that he had -the chance of doing a perfectly fresh thing in literature. He caught -at the notion, and said he would begin at once, and I said the sooner -the better. He asked if it would not be well to get the narrative -type-written, and I begged him not to wait for that; but he said that -he knew a person who would typewrite it for him without charge. I -could only urge haste, and he went away in a glow of enterprise. He -left with me the address of a twenty-five cent lodging-house in the -Bowery; for he explained that he had got money enough, by selling his -furniture on the sidewalk to send his family into the country, and -he was living alone and as cheaply as he could. While at work on his -narrative he came for more relief, and then he vanished out of my -knowledge altogether. I had a leisure afternoon, and went down into the -Bowery to his lodging-house, and found that he really lodged there, -but he was then out; and so far as I am concerned he is out still. I am -out myself, in the amount I advanced him, and which he was to repay me -from the money for his eviction article. He never wrote it, apparently; -and perhaps his experience of eviction lacked the vital element of -reality. I am quite sure he was at heart a romanticist, for he was an -Englishman, and the Englishmen are all romanticists. - - -VIII. - -I was at one time worked for a period of years by a German-born veteran -of our war, whom I was called out to see one night from dinner, when I -was full of good cheer, and, of course, quite helpless against a case -of want like his. He represented that he was the victim of an infirmity -brought on by falling from a burning bridge under the rebel fire, -and was liable to be overtaken by it at any moment; and he showed me -all sorts of surgeons’ certificates in proof of the fact, as well as -kindly notes from college professors and clergymen. I had, therefore, a -double motive for befriending him. I had as little wish that he should -be overtaken by his infirmity in my reception-room as that he should -go on sleeping in unfinished houses and basement areas; and so I gave -him some money at once. He was to have his pension money at the end -of the month, and till then he said he could live on what I gave him. -I hurried him out of the house as fast as I could, for I did not feel -safe from his infirmity while he was there. But he kept coming back, -and always, in view of his threatening infirmity, got money from me; -I am not sure that I always pitied him so much. At last he agreed to -seek refuge in a soldiers’ home, upon my urgence, and I lost sight -of him for several years. When he reappeared, one summer, at the -seaside, as destitute as ever, and as threatening as ever in regard to -his infirmity, it seemed that he had passed the time in working his -way from one soldiers’ home to another, in Maine and in New York, in -Virginia and in Ohio, but everywhere, because of some informality in -his papers, the gates were closed against him. I gave him a suit of -clothes and some more money, and I thought I had done with him at last, -for he said that now, as soon as he got his next pension money, he was -going home to Germany, to spend his last years with his brother,--a -surgeon, retired from the German army,--who could take care of him and -his infirmity, and they could live cheaply together, upon their joint -pensions. I applauded so wise a plan, and we parted with expressions -of mutual esteem. Two or three months later, after I had come from -the seaside place, where he visited me, to New York for the winter, he -presented himself again to me. Heaven knows how he had found me out, -but there he was, with his infirmity, and his story was that now he had -money enough to buy his steamer ticket to Hamburg, but that he lacked -his railroad fare from Hamburg to the little village where his brother -lived. His notion seemed to be that I should subscribe with others to -supply the amount; but I had at last a gleam of worldly wisdom. I said -I thought the subscription business had gone on long enough; and he -assented that it had at least gone on a good while. - -“Very well, then,” I added; “you go now with the money you have for -your steamer ticket, and buy it. Come back here with the ticket and I -will not oblige you to wait till you can collect your railroad fare -from different people; I will give you the whole of it myself.” - -Will it be credited that this sufferer did not come back with his -steamer ticket? I have never seen him since, though a few weeks later I -went to call upon him at the ten-cent hotel in the Bowery where he said -he slept. The clerk said he was staying there, but he could not throw -any light upon his intention of going back to Germany, for he had never -heard him say anything about it. He was out at the moment, like my -romanticist Englishman. - -Whilst I lived in Boston I had a visit from another romanticistic -Englishman, who professed to be no other than the cousin of Mr. Walter -Besant, though he gave me reason to think he was mistaken. It seems -that he had arrived that very morning from Central Africa, and, for all -I know, from the mystic presence of She herself. In that strange land, -he wished me to believe, he had been a playwright and a journalist, -but he really looked and spoke and smelled like a groom. He dropped -his aspirates everywhere, and when he picked them up he put them on in -the wrong places. In his parlance I was a bird of night, or several -such, and I cannot rid myself now of the belated conjecture that he had -possibly mistaken me for Mr. ’Aggard. He was a cheery little creature, -however; and when I put it to him, as between man and man, whether he -did not think he was telling me a rather improbable story, he owned so -sweetly he did that I could not help contributing to pay his expenses -’ome to Hengland. He was not quite clear why he should have come round -by way of Boston, but he said he would send me the money back directly -he got ’ome. - -He did not do so, and my experience is that they never do so. They -may forget it, they may never be able to spare the money. Never? I am -wrong. Only last winter I made my usual compromise with a man who asked -ten, and lent him five; and though he was yet another Englishman, and, -for anything I can say, another romanticist, he returned my little loan -with such a manly, honest letter that my heart smote me for not having -made it ten. I looked upon his five-dollar bill as a gift from heaven, -and I made haste to bestow it where I am sure it will never stand the -remotest chance of getting back to me. - - -IX. - -I wish, sometimes, that they would not say they were going to send -the money back; but I wish this rather for their sake than for mine. -I am pretty well inured to the disappointment sure to follow; but I -am afraid that the poor pretense demoralizes them, and, above all, I -do not wish to demoralize them by my connivance. Once, when I was a -visitor for the Associated Charities in Boston, the question came up -in the weekly meeting whether, if one gave money when there was no -hope of getting work, one ought to let the beneficiary suppose that -one expected to get it back. Ought one to say that he was making his -gift a loan? Would it not be better to treat it frankly as a gift? A -man to whose goodness I mentally uncover said he had given that point -some thought, and he believed one ought not to pretend that it was a -loan when it was not; but one might fitly say, “I let you have this -money. If you are ever able to give it back, I shall be glad to have -you do so.” It seems to me that this is the wisest possible word on the -subject. - -Of course the reason why we have such a bad conscience in giving -is that we feel we ought not to pauperize people. Perhaps this is -one reason why we give so little to obvious destitution. I am this -moment just in from the street, where I gave alms to a one-armed -tatterdemalion, with something of this obscure struggle in my mind. -As I came up with him, well fenced against the bitter wind that blew -through his ruins, I foresaw that I should give him something, and -I took from my outside pocket all the change there was in it--three -coppers, a nickel, and a piece of twenty-five. I was ashamed to give -the coppers, and I felt that a good citizen ought not to give a quarter -for fear of pauperizing a man who had already nothing in the world, and -no hopeful appearance of being able to get anything. So I gave him the -nickel, and I am not quite easy in my mind about it. - -Perhaps I was remotely influenced not to give a quarter to this -one-armed man by the behavior of another one-armed man whom I -befriended. I did give him a quarter, not from a good impulse, but -because I had no smaller change, and it was that or nothing. The gift -seemed to astound him. It was in a shoe-store, where I had only one -boot on, in the process of trying a pair, and I was quite helpless -against him when he burst into blessings of Irish picturesqueness, and -asked my name, apparently that he might pray for me without making a -mistake in the address; and when I said, from a natural bashfulness, or -a mean fear that he might find me out at home and come again to beg of -me, that I would take the chance of the answer of his prayers getting -to me, he told me all about the railroad accident that lost him his -arm; and not content with this, he took his poor stump--as if to prove -that it was real--and rubbed it over me, and blessed me and blessed me -again, till I was quite ashamed of getting so much more than my money’s -worth. Shall I own that I began to fear this grateful man was not -entirely sober? - - -X. - -I dare say poverty and the pangs of hunger and cold do not foster -habits of strict temperance. It is a great pity they do not, since they -are so common. If they did, they could do more than anything else to -advance the cause of prohibition. Still, I will not say that all the -poor I give to are in liquor at the moment, or that drunkenness is -peculiarly the vice of one-armed destitution. Neither is gratitude a -very common or articulate emotion in my beneficiaries. They are mostly, -if thankful at all, silently thankful; and I find this in better taste. -I do not believe that as a rule they are very imaginative, or at least -so imaginative as romantic novelists. Yet there was one sufferer came -up the back elevator on a certain evening not long ago, and burst upon -me suddenly, somehow as if he had come up through a trap in the stage, -who seemed to have rather a gift in that way. He was most amusingly -shabby and dirty (though I do not know why shabbiness and dirt should -be amusing), with a cutaway coat worn down to its ultimate gloss, a -frayed neckcloth, and the very foulest collar I can remember seeing. -But he had a brisk and pleasing address, and I must say an excellent -diction. He called me by name, and at once said that friends whom he -had expected to find in New York were most inopportunely in Europe at -this moment of his arrival from a protracted sojourn in the West. But -he was very anxious to get on that night to Hartford, and complete his -journey home from Denver, where he had fallen a prey to the hard times -in the very hour of the most prosperous speculation; and he proposed, -as an inducement to a loan, borrowing only enough money to take him to -New Haven by the boat--he would walk the rest of the way to Hartford. -I no more believed him than I should believe a ghost if it said it -was a ghost. But I believed that he was in want,--his clothes proved -that,--and I gave him the little sum he asked. He said he would send it -back the instant he reached Hartford; and I am left to think that he -has not yet arrived. But I am sure that even that brief moment of his -airy and almost joyous companionship was worth the money. He was of an -order of classic impostors dear to literature, and grown all too few in -these times of hurry and fierce competition. I wish I had seen more of -him, and yet I cannot say that I wish he would come back; it might be -embarrassing for both of us. - -Not long before his visit I had a call from another imaginative -person, whom I was not able to meet so fully in her views. This was -a middle-aged lady who said she had come on that morning from Boston -to see me. She owned we had never met before, and that she was quite -unknown to me; but apparently she did not think this any bar to her -asking me for two hundred and fifty dollars to aid in the education of -her son. I confess that I was bewildered for a moment. My simple device -of offering half the amount demanded would have been too costly: I -really could not have afforded to give her one hundred and twenty-five -dollars, even if she had been willing to compromise, which I was not -sure of. I am afraid the reader will think I shirked. I said that I had -a great many demands upon me, and I ended by refusing to give anything. -I really do not know how I had the courage; perhaps it was only frenzy. -She insisted, with reasons for my giving which she laid before me; but -either they did not convince me, or I had hardened my heart so well -that they could not prevail with me, and she got up and went away. As -she went out of the room, she looked about its appointments, which I -had not thought very luxurious before, and said that she saw I was -able to _live_ very comfortably, at any rate; and left me to the mute -reproach of my carpets and easy-chairs. - -I do not remember whether she alleged any inspiration in coming to see -me for this good object; but a summer or two since a lady came to me, -at my hotel in the mountains, who said that she had been moved to do so -by an impulse which seemed little short of mystical. She said that she -was not ordinarily superstitious, but she had wakened that morning in -Boston with my name the first thing in her thoughts, and it seemed so -directly related to what she had in view that she could not resist the -suggestion it conveyed that she should come at once to lay her scheme -before me. She took a good deal of time to do this; and romantic as it -appeared, I felt sure that she was working with real material. It was -of a nature so complex, however, and on a scale so vast, that I should -despair of getting it intelligibly before the reader, and I will not -attempt it. I listened with the greatest interest; but at the end I was -obliged to say that I thought her mystical impulse was mistaken; I was -sorry it had deceived her; I was quite certain that I had not the means -or the tastes to enter upon the æsthetic enterprise which she proposed. -In return, I suggested a number of millionaires whose notorious -softness of heart, or whose wish to get themselves before the public by -their good deeds, ought to make them more available, and we parted the -best of friends. I am not yet quite able to make up my mind that she -was not the victim of a hypnotic suggestion from the unseen world, and -altogether innocent in her appeal to me. - - -XI. - -In fact, I am not able to think very ill even of impostors. It is a -great pity for them, and even a great shame, to go about deceiving -people of means; but I do not believe they are so numerous as people -of means imagine. As a rule, I do not suppose they succeed for long, -and their lives must be full of cares and anxieties, which of course -one must not sympathize with, but which are real enough, nevertheless. -People of means would do well to consider this, and at least not plume -themselves very much upon not being cheated. If they have means, it is -perhaps part of the curse of money, or of that unfriendliness to riches -which our religion is full of, that money should be got from them by -unworthy persons. They have their little romantic superstitions, too. -One of these is the belief that beggars are generally persons who will -not work, and that they are often persons of secret wealth, which -they constantly increase by preying upon the public. I take leave to -doubt this altogether. Beggary appears to me in its conditions almost -harder than any other trade; and from what I have seen of the amount -it earns, the return it makes is smaller than any other. I should not -myself feel safe in refusing anything to a beggar upon the theory of -a fortune sewn into a mattress, to be discovered after the beggar has -died intestate. I know that a great many good people pin their faith to -such mattresses; but I should be greatly surprised if one such could -be discovered in the whole city of New York. On the other hand, I feel -pretty sure that there are hundreds and even thousands of people who -are insufficiently fed and clad in New York; and if here and there one -of these has the courage of his misery, and asks alms, one must not be -too cocksure it is a sin to give to him. - -Of course one must not pauperize him: that ought by all means to be -avoided; I am always agreeing to that. But if he is already pauperized; -if we know by statistics and personal knowledge that there are hundreds -and even thousands of people who cannot get work, and that they must -suffer if they do not beg, let us not be too hard upon them. Let us -refuse them kindly, and try not to see them; for if we see their -misery, and do not give, that demoralizes us. Come, I say; have not -we some rights, too? No man strikes another man a blow without -becoming in sort and measure a devil; and to see what looks like want, -and to deny its prayer, has an effect upon the heart which is not -less depraving. Perhaps it would be a fair division of the work if -we let the deserving rich give only to the deserving poor, and kept -the undeserving poor for ourselves, who, if we are not rich, are not -deserving, either. - - -XII. - -I should be sorry if anything I have said seemed to cast slight upon -the organized efforts at relieving want, especially such as unite -inquiry into the facts and the provision of work with the relief of -want. All that I contend for is the right--or call it the privilege--of -giving to him that asketh, even when you do not know that he needs, or -deserves to need. Both here and in Boston I have lent myself--sparingly -and grudgingly, I’ll own--to those organized efforts; and I know how -sincere and generous they are, how effective they often are, how -ineffective. They used to let me go mostly to the Italian folk who -applied for aid in Boston, because I could more or less meet them in -their own language; but once they gave me a Russian to manage--I think -because I was known to have a devotion for Tolstoy and for the other -Russian novelists. The Russian in question was not a novelist, but a -washer of bags in a sugar-refinery; and at the time I went to make my -first call upon him he had been “laid off,” as the euphemism is, for -two months; that is, he had been without work, and had been wholly -dependent upon the allowance the charities made him. He had a wife and -a complement of children--I do not know just how many; but they all -seemed to live in one attic room in the North End. I acquainted myself -fully with the case, and went about looking for work in his behalf. -In this, I think, I found my only use: but it was use to me only, -for the people of whom I asked work for him treated me with much the -same ignominy as if I had been seeking it for myself; and it was well -that I should learn just what the exasperated mind of a fellow-being -is when he is asked for work, and has none to give. He regards the -applicant as an oppressor, or at least an aggressor, and he is eager -to get rid of him by bluntness, by coldness, even by rudeness. After -the unavailing activity of a week or two, I myself began to resent -the Russian’s desire for work, and I visited him at longer and longer -intervals to find whether he had got anything to do; for he was looking -after work, too. At last I let a month go by, and when I came he met -me at the street door--or, say, alley door--of the tenement-house -with a smiling face. He was always smiling, poor fellow, but now he -smiled joyously. He had got a job--they always call it a job, and the -Italians pronounce it a _giobbe_. His job was one which testified to -the heterogeneous character of American civilization in even amusing -measure. The Jews had come into a neighboring street so thickly that -they had crowded every one else out; they had bought the Congregational -meeting-house, which they were turning into a synagogue, and they had -given this orthodox Russian the job of knocking the nails out of the -old woodwork. His only complaint was that the Jews would not let him -work on Saturday, and the Christians would not let him work on Sunday, -and so he could earn but five dollars a week. He did not blame me for -my long failure to help him; on the contrary, so far as I could make -out from the limited vocabulary we enjoyed in common, he was grateful. -But I have no doubt he was glad to be rid of me; and Heaven knows how -glad I was to be rid of him. - -I do not believe I ever found work for any one, though I tried -diligently and I think not unwisely. Perhaps the best effect from my -efforts was that they inspired the poor creatures to efforts of their -own, which were sometimes successful. I had on my hands and heart for -nearly a whole winter the most meritorious Italian family I ever knew, -without being able to do anything but sympathize and offer secret alms -in little gifts to the children. Once I got one of the boys a place in -a book-store, but the law would not allow him to take it because he was -not past the age of compulsory schooling. The father had a peripatetic -fruit-stand, which he pushed about on a cart; and his great aim was to -get the privilege of stationing himself at one of the railroad depots. -I found that there were stations which were considered particularly -desirable by the fruiterers, and that the chief of these was in front -of the old United States court-house. A fruiterer out of place, whose -family I visited for the charities, tried even to corrupt me, and -promised me that if I would get him this _stendio_ (they Italianize -“stand” to that effect, just as they translate “bar” into _barra_, and -so on) he would give me something outright. “_E poi, ci sarà sempre la -mancia_” (“And then there will always be the drink-money”). I lost an -occasion to lecture him upon the duties of the citizen; but I am not a -ready speaker. - -The sole success--but it was very signal--of my winter’s work was -getting a young Italian into the hospital. He had got a rheumatic -trouble of the heart from keeping a _stendio_ in a cellarway, and -when I saw him I thought it would be little use to get him into the -hospital. The young doctor who had charge of him, and whom I looked up, -was of the same mind. But I could not help trying for him; and when the -sisters at the hospital (where he got well, in spite of all) said he -could be received, I made favor for an ambulance to carry him to it. It -was a beautiful white spring day when I went to tell him the hour the -ambulance would call; the sky was blue overhead, the canaries sang in -their cages along the street. I left all this behind when I entered the -dark, chill tenement-house, where that dreadful _poverty-smell_ struck -the life out of the spring in my soul at the first breath. The sick -man’s apartment was clean and sweet, through his mother’s care (this -poor woman was as wholly a lady as any I have seen); but when I passed -into his room, he clutched himself up from the bed, and stretched his -arms toward me with gasps of “_Lo spedale, lo spedale!_” The spring, -the coming glory of this world, was nothing to him. It was the hospital -he wanted; and to the poor, to the incurable disease of our conditions, -the hospital is the best we have to give. To be sure, there is also the -grave. - - - - -THE CLOSING OF THE HOTEL. - - -It scarcely began before the last of August, when the guests ebbed -away by floods, in every train. The end of the season was purely -conventional. One day the almanac said it was August, and the hotel -was full; another day the almanac said it was September, and the vast -caravansary was instantly touched with depletion, and within a week it -hung loose upon its inmates like the raiment upon the frame of a man -who has been Banting. There was no change in the weather; that remained -as summerlike as ever, and grew more and more divinely beautiful. The -conditions continued the same, only more agreeable; the service was -still abundant and perfect; the table was of an unimpaired variety; -there was no such sudden revival of business or pleasure in the city -that people should abandon the leisure of the sea-shore; the ocean -smiled as serenely, the breakers crashed as lyrically along the beach; -the country, for those who were to prolong their outing, would be dry -and dusty. But a certain fiction of the calendar had reported itself -in the human consciousness; and as men are the prey of superstition -and emotion, the population of the huge hostelry yielded by a single -impulse to the pressure of the pretence that it was September. - - -I. - -Huge, I have called the hostelry, and I do not know that I can add to -the effect of size which I wish to impart by saying that it is of a -veritably American immensity. It stretches along the sea like the shore -of a continent; and when I walked from one end of its seaward veranda -to the other, I felt as if I were going from Castine in Maine to St. -Augustine in Florida. Really, it is only the fifth of a mile in length, -but I have ordinarily lived in houses so much shorter that my fancy -takes wing when I think of it, and will not brook a briefer flight. In -like manner, when I speak of its thousand dwellers as a population, I -am perhaps giving way to an effect of habitually sharing my roof with -four or five persons. - -They were nearly a thousand when I came, but the place was so spacious -that I had large areas of the piazza to myself whenever I liked, and -I was often a solitary wayfarer up and down the halls that projected -themselves in dimmer and dimmer perspective between the suites of -rooms on the right hand and on the left. It was the dining-room, with -its forest of pine posts, its labyrinth of tables, its army of black -waiters, and its only a little larger army of guests, which gave that -impression of a dense overpeopling, such as one could not feel in -greater degree even in the tenement quarters of the East Side. This was -peculiarly the case on a Sunday, when the guests had guests; and in the -tramp of the black forces, the clash of crockery, and the harsh jangle -of the cutlery, mingled with the dull, subdued sound of the guttling -and guzzling, there was something like the noise of a legion stirring -in its harness, and hailing Cæsar with the warlike devotion inspired by -a munificent donative. - -In the early morning there was a hardly less powerfull impression of -numbers, when the crying children, the half-hushed quarrelling of -some husbands and wives, and the loud and loving adieux of others -parting for the day, burst the frail partitions of their rooms, and -mixed in the corridors with the rush of the porters’ trunk-bearing -trucks, pushed over the long carpeted stretches with the voluble -clatter of so many lawn-mowers, the flight of the call-boys’ feet, the -fierce clangor of the chambermaids’ bells, and the strongly brogued -controversies and gossip of the chambermaids themselves. No doubt all -these effects were exaggerated by the senses just unfolding themselves -in the waking consciousness, and taking angry note of the disturbing -influences without. But the multitude sheltered by a single roof was -nevertheless very great: at the height of the season, the guests and -the servants, the drones and the workers, were some fifteen hundred -together. - - -II. - -All at once, as I say, a great part of the multitude vanished. All at -once, on the verandas, and in the wide office swept with yet cooler -currents from the sweet-breathed sea, I was sensible of a sudden -decimation. I cannot fix the date with precision, but one night at -about half-past eight the great moony electrics which swung in space -high over the floors of the office, the ball-room, and the dining-room -paled their effectual fires, which they never afterward relumed, and -left us to the batlike waverings of the naphtha gas. I remember the -sinking of the heart with which my senses took cognizance of the fact. -No one spoke, or audibly noted it; the talking groups talked on in -fallen tones; the people who were reading books or papers drew them -a little nearer, or put them a little farther; those who were writing -letters at the long tables in the reading-room silently adjusted their -vision to the obscurity. It was like the effect of some august natural -catastrophe; the general disposition was to ignore the fact, as we -shall perhaps try to ignore the fact that the world has begun to burn -up when it begins to burn, and pretend that it is merely a fire over in -Hoboken or Long Island City that the department will soon have under -control. - -It may have been the morning of that day, or the morning of the next, -but it was at least some neighboring morning, that I sauntered down to -one of the forenoon trains and saw a large detachment of our colored -troops departing. They were very gay, as they nearly always are, poor -fellows; and they were exchanging humorous and derisive adieux with -a detachment of those who were to remain, and who pretended on their -part to mock their departing comrades. These helped them off with their -baggage, wheeling the heavy truck-loads of the trunks which the porters -left to them; and, when all was ready, shaking hands again and again, -and telling them to be good to themselves. At the last moment a very -short, stout, little black man appeared with a truck heaped high with -baggage, and rushed it down the long esplanade to the platform beside -the train, amid the wild cheers and wagers of the going and staying -spectators. He had all the cry till the train actually started, when a -young colored brother burst out of the front door of a car from which -it had detached itself, and began to run it down with a heavy grip-sack -flying wildly about and beating his legs and flanks. He had taken his -place in this car unaware of its fate, and had remained in it, exulting -from the open window in his sole possession; and now the secret of -his proprietorship had been revealed to his dismay. But it was a very -kindly train; when his pursuit became known, the locomotive obligingly -slowed to a stand, and he was pulled aboard the rear platform amidst a -jubilation which few real advantages inspire in this world. - - -III. - -An indefinable gloom settled upon me as the train curved out into the -marsh, and the laughing, chattering, cheering, hat-waving remnant came -back to the hotel and dispersed about their work. There were still a -great many of them, and there were still a great many of us, but I felt -that the end had begun. I do not know whether I felt this fact more -keenly or not when the dentist, whose presence I had been tacitly -proud of all through August, abandoned the house which he had helped -to render metropolitan. But I am sure that it was a definite shock to -lose him; and that the tooth which his presence had held in abeyance -asserted itself in a wild throe at his going. Once as I passed the door -of his office his name was on it and his hours; when I returned fifteen -minutes later to ask an appointment with him his name was gone, and -the useless hours alone remained. On his way to take passage in his -cat-boat for the farthermost parts of the Great South Bay, he kindly -stopped and advised about the grumbling tooth. Then he passed out of -the hotel, and left it to ache if it must, with an unrequited longing -for the filling fatally delayed. - -The doctor went a week later, but before this other changes had taken -place, among which the most cataclysmal was the passing of the band, -which vanished as it were in a sudden crash of silence. The whole -month long I had heard it playing in the afternoon midway of the long -veranda, and in the evening on its platform in the ballroom, and with -my imperfect knowledge of music had waited each day and night till -it came to that dissolute, melancholy melody to which the Eastern -girls danced their wicked dance at the World’s Fair; not because I -like dissolute and melancholy things, but because I was then able to -make sure what tune the band was playing. I had in this way become -used to the band, and I missed it poignantly, if one can miss a thing -poignantly; which I doubt. Other people seemed to enjoy it, and I like -to see people enjoying themselves. Besides, its going brought the -dancing to a close, which I enjoyed myself. - -I mean that I enjoyed looking at the dancing. This was for the most -part, even at the height of our gayety, performed by boys and girls, -and very young children, whom I saw led away to bed heart-broken at -nine o’clock. One small couple of these I loved very much. I fancied -them a little brother and sister, and I delighted in their courage -and perseverance in taking the floor for every dance, and through all -changes of tune and figure turning solemnly round and round with their -arms about each other’s waists. One night there came a bad, bad boy, -who posted himself in front of them, and plagued them, jumping up and -down before them and hindering their serious gyration. Another evening -the little brother was cross and would not dance, and the little sister -had to pull him out on the floor and make him. - -Sometimes, however, there were even grown people on the floor. Then -I chose a very pretty young couple, whom I called my couple, and -shared their joy in the waltz without their knowing it. We were by all -odds the best dancers and the best looking. We stayed long enough to -poison the others with jealousy, but we always went away rather early. -When the band left, all this innocent pleasure ended. There was one -delirious evening, indeed, when the floor-manager, in default of other -music, whistled a waltz, and the young ladies, in default of young men, -trod a mad measure with each other to his sibilation. But this was a -dying burst of gayety: it did not and could not happen again. - - -IV. - -I have to accuse myself of giving no just idea of the constant flowing -and dribbling away of the guests, who never ceased departing. The -trains that bore them and their baggage brought no others to replace -them, and the house gradually emptied itself until not more than a poor -three hundred remained. With each defection of a considerable number -of guests there followed a reduction of the helping force, who now no -longer departed laughing, but with a touch of that loneliness falling -upon us all. It must be understood that we were all staying on in our -closing hotel by sufferance. It closed officially on the 10th, but the -landlord was to remain, and such guests as wished might remain too. -This made us eager to linger till the very last moment we were allowed. - -Ever since the elevator had ceased to run, there had been a sense of -doom in the air. One day we noted a fine reluctance in the elevator; -when people crowded it full, it would not go up. Then it began to -waver under a few; it made false starts and stops. A placard presently -said, “Elevator not running.” Then this was removed, and the elevator -ran again for a day or two. At last it ceased to run so finally that -no placard was needed. The elevator boys went away; it was as if the -elevator were extinct. - -I think it was on the same day that the hall clock stopped. The clock -was started again by the head porter, but after that the hotel ran on -borrowed time. Once it borrowed the time of me, whose watch has not -once been right in thirty-three years, a whole generation! - -The temperature of the water ceased to be reported even before the end -of August; the hours of high and low tide were no longer given. Twice -when the reporters came down to see the yacht-race off our beach the -bulletin-board was covered with yellow telegrams from the coast where -it was really seen, boasting the victory and triumphant defeat of the -_Defender_. This quickened our pulses for the moment; and one night the -ladies all put on their best dresses, and assembled for a progressive -euchre party in the vast acreage of the parlor. It was a heroic but -perhaps desperate act of gayety. - - -V. - -One of the most striking natural phenomena of the hotel closing was the -arrival of the gulls on our beach, or rather on the waters beyond the -beach. I had wondered at their absence all August long, but punctually -on the first day of September they came. The weather had not changed -for them any more than it had for the guests who fled the place at the -same date, but perhaps the wild wheeling and screaming things had a -prescience of the autumnal storms, and came with prophetic welcome in -their wings. - -Otherwise the premonitions of change were within the hotel itself, and -they were more impressive whenever they assumed an official character. -It was with a real emotion that one day I missed one of the clerks out -of the number within the office. He was there, and then he was not -there; it was as if he had been lost overboard during his watch. I -had scarcely recovered from his loss when another clerk, upon whose -distribution of the mail we all used to hang impatient for the equal -disappointment of letters or no letters, ceased from his ministrations -as if he had all along been a wraith of mist, and had simply melted -away. The room clerk, who was a more definite personality to us, went -next, with a less supernatural effect; he even said he might come back, -but he did not come back, and the office force was reduced to the -cashier and a young clerk not perceptible earlier in the season. - -At all great hotels the landlord is usually a remote and problematical -personage, and so it was with ours until the office force began to -thin away around him. Then he became more and more visible, tangible, -conversable, and proved a distinctly agreeable addition to our circle, -in which the note of an increasing domesticity was struck. I do not -know of anything that gave so keen a sense of our resolution into a -single family, still large, but insensibly drawn together by the need -of a mutual comfort and encouragement, as the invasion of the hotel -by a multitude of crickets. Whether it was the departure of the human -host which tempted the crickets in-doors, or whether it was some such -instinct as brought the gulls to our seas, they were all at once -all over the place, piercing its deepening silence with their harsh -stridulation. In the chambers they carked so loud and clear that one -could hardly sleep for them, and in the glooming reaches and expanses -of the corridors, parlors, halls, and dining-room they shrilled in -incessant chorus. - - -VI. - -After the first moment, when the association with the home hearth -and the simple fireside evenings of other days had spent itself, the -crickets were rather awful, and personally I would rather have had the -band back. But their weird music prompted a closer union of the guests, -and our chairs were closer together on the veranda and in the office. -We found that we were very charming and interesting people, and I began -to wonder if I had not lost more than I could ever make good by not -seeking the acquaintance of the seven hundred others who were gone. -From day to day, from night to night, our numbers were lessened, but -we never spoke of the departures; we instinctively recognized that it -would have been bad form; we were like the garrison of a beleaguered -city, that lost a few men by famine or foray from time to time, but -kept up a heroic pretense that they were as many as ever. Or, we were -like a shipwrecked crew clinging to a water-logged vessel, and caught -from it now and then by a hungry shark or a hungry wave, or dropping -away into the gulf from mere exhaustion. - -These figures are rather violent, and present only a subjective effect -in the more sensitive spirits. As a matter of fact we lived luxuriously -all the time. The time came when we heard that on a certain day the -_chef_ was going, but we should not have known he was gone by any -difference in the table. It grew rather more attractive; if there were -fewer dishes, they were better cooked; one could fancy a touch of -personal attention in them, which one could not have fancied when we -were seven hundred and fifty at table, and the help who served us were -three hundred and fifty. - - -VII. - -The help had gradually dwindled away till there were not more than -fifty. I had kept my waiter through all; he was a quiet elderly man of -formed habits, whom I associated with the idea of permanency in every -way, so that I could scarcely believe that we were to be parted. But -one morning he was seized by the curious foreboding of departure which -seemed really one of its symptoms among his tribe, and he said he did -not know but he should be going soon. I said, Oh, I hoped not; and he -answered bravely that he hoped not too, but he shook his head, and we -both felt that it was best to let a final half-dollar pass between us -in expression of a provisional farewell. - -That was indeed the last of him, and that day when I came in to lunch -I found that I was appointed another table, in another place, with -another waiter to take my order. It was a little shock, but I was not -unprepared. I had noted the gradual dismantling of the tables until now -they stretched long rows of barren surfaces down the tenth of a mile -which the dining-room covered, and showed their reverberated labyrinth -in the mirrors of the vast sideboards at either end of the hall. The -remaining guests were snugly grouped on the seaward side of the room, -where our tables commanded the marine views that I had long vainly -envied others. - -But after the first transition I was changed to another table with -another waiter, a tall student from Yale, who joined to a scholarly -absence of mind concerning my wants an appreciation of my style of -jokes that went far to console me, though I was not sure that it was -quite decorous for him to laugh at them when they were addressed -to others. I tried to grapple him to me with early and frequent -donatives, and he would have been willing enough to stay; but the -guests kept going and the helpers were cut off, one by one, till the -hour came when we both felt-- - - - “The first slight swerving of the heart - That words are powerless to express, - And leave it still unsaid in part, - Or say it in too great excess.” - - -The next morning he told me he was going; and as I sauntered down -to take the train for a brief flight to New York, I saw him on the -platform in citizen’s dress and smoking a cigarette. He was laughing -and joking with some of the waiters who still lingered, and bidding -them take care of themselves, and promising a like vigilance of his own -welfare. - -After that there was the short interval of a single meal when I was -served by a detached waiter, before I was handed over to the kindly -helper who next had charge of me. I clung to him anxiously, for I did -not know what day or hour I should lose him; I did not know how soon he -might lose me! - -In the passing of the head porter there was something deeply dramatic, -almost tragic for me. We had become acquaintances, friends, even, I -hope, and I had become sensible of the gradual disappearance of his -subordinates until they were reduced to what I may call the tail -porter in contradistinction to the head porter. Then the head porter -said that he had a great mind to be going himself; but when I asked -him why, he could not well say, and he agreed with me that it might be -better for him to stay. We counted up the remaining families together, -and found them twenty, and I convinced him that by the most modest -computation here were twenty dollars in fees before him. I thought -that I had secured his allegiance to the end, but the very morning -before the pensive record of these events I went to look for him in his -accustomed place to get my shoes “shined,” and he was not there. The -barber was there, looking in a vague disoccupation across the marshes -to the northward of the hotel, and I asked him where the porter was. -He closed his eyes that he might open his lips more impressively, and -breathed the word, “Andato.” - -“Gone?” I echoed. - -The barber was a beautifully smiling, richly languaged Sicilian, and -he responded in an elegant sympathy with my dismay: “Sì; andato. Me ne -vado anch’io, fra pochi giorni. M’impazzo quì. Guardi!” (Yes; gone. I -am going, I myself, in a few days. I madden here. Look!) With the last -word he touched my arm lightly to make me turn, and pointed to the -long plank footway, stilted upon the marshes from one to the other side -of the railroad curve, and leading to the boat-house on the bay beyond -their wide levels. Midway of this I saw a solitary figure, whose lank -length and forward droop I could not mistake. The departing porter -looked like the last citizen abandoning the ruins of Persepolis, and -I--I felt like Persepolis! - - -VIII. - -I strive, perhaps in vain, to impart a sense of the slowly creeping -desolation, the gradual paresis, that was seizing upon the late full -and happy life of our hotel; and I have not strictly observed the order -of the successive events. I have not spoken of the swift evanescence -of the bell-boys, the first of whom began so jubilantly with me when I -came, covenanting to deliver a pitcher of ice-water at my door every -morning at ten, and every evening at eight. He was faithful to his -trust, and embarrassed me with a superfluity of ice-water, which ten -men could hardly have drunk, and lived; but when the economic frame -of our hotel began to be shaken, he was early in warning me that he -might go at any moment. He was No. 18, but he promised me that No. 10 -would see that I was daily and nightly deluged with ice-water, and -No. 10 was exemplarily true to me for a day. Then he vanished too, -with a grateful sense, I hope, of my folly in bestowing a preliminary -half-dollar upon him. But he had made interest for me, I found, with -No. 4, and No. 4 deluded me by his fleeting permanency for a week. One -morning he told me he was going, and he took a last half-dollar from me -with a true compassion for my forlorn case. He was so visibly the last -of the bell-boys that he could not assign me to a lower number. For one -night the head porter brought my ice-water. Now the night porter brings -it, and if he should leave before I do-- But I will not anticipate, -as the older romancers used to say. I will not look forward, even in -the case of the chambermaids, of whom there have been already three -changes, with the prospect next week of having in some of the laundry -girls to do up the work. - - -IX. - -The laundry itself was attacked ten days ago by the general paralysis -of the hotel’s functions, so far as the guests’ linen was concerned, -which has since had to be sent far inland by the enterprise of one -of the bathing-pavilion men, and precariously returned on a variable -date. I forget whether the laundry succumbed before or after the -closing of the refreshment-room. The hotel sold no strong drinks, -and the magnificent facilities of the bar were inadequately employed -by a soda fountain, a variety of mineral waters in bottles, a supply -of ginger ale, and lemons for lemonade. On an opposite counter were -Huyler’s candies, and a choice of chewing-gum; the salubrious pepsin, -or the merely innocent peppermint. When the moment for dismantling this -festive place arrived, with the unexpectedness of all the other moments -of our slow dehabilitation, I was present, and saw the presiding genius -packing up his stock of lemons. It gave me a peculiar pang. I had never -bought any of them, or wanted any, but I had personally acquainted -myself with almost every example of the fruit; I knew those lemons -apart, and from often study of them on their shelf, as I stood hardily -sipping my ginger ale before the counter, I was almost as intimate with -them as with the stock of the news-dealer. - -I must say that as to the books his stock was terribly dull. He owned -himself that it was dull, and when I asked him where in the world he -got together such a lot of stupid books, he could only say that they -were such as were appointed to be sold in summer hotels by the news -company. The newspapers were rather better: if they were not livelier, -they were lighter, or at least more ephemeral. I bought freely of -them; the dailies in the mornings, and the weeklies in the afternoons, -with their longer leisure. I bought the magazines, which are now often -as cheap as the papers, and, unlike the books, are seldom dull all -through. Then I formed the intimacy of many illustrated papers which I -did not buy, but studied on the strings where they hung stretched high -over the counter. In one was the picture of a young lady habited in the -mingled colors of Yale and Princeton, with a Cupid throwing a football -at her heart. She was a great resource, and could not be stared out of -countenance. - -Besides, there was on a wire frame over the showcase a platter, of -native decoration, representing the whole of Long Island in a railroad -map. It was a strangely ugly object, like some sort of sad, dissected -fish, but fascinating. The news-dealer and I had often discussed -its price, and I had invariably refused it at $1.25, though it was -originally put upon the market at $2.50. - -After he had packed up his stock, I could hold out no longer. I looked -about for him, and found him playing checkers with the ex-keeper of -the refreshment-room. I asked him if that hideous platter had now -got down to a dollar, and he went and hunted it out of his stock. -Upon inspection he seemed to discover that it was still $1.25. In -a desperation I paid the money; and almost at the same moment the -news-dealer’s place knew him no more, and I remained with my platter -for a memorial of one of the weirdest experiences of a life which has -not been barren of weirdness. - - -X. - -“You ought to have seen an old-time closing of this hotel,” said the -clerk one evening toward the last. He had by this time resumed in his -own person almost as many functions as the ancient mariner of the -Bab Ballad who had eaten the former survivors of the _Nancy_ brig, -and claimed to represent them all by virtue of his superior appetite -and digestion. Our clerk was now cashier, postmaster, room-clerk, -night-clerk, and day-clerk, with moments of bell-boy; he spoke with -authority, and we listened with the respect due to his manifold quality. - -“The guests,” he continued, “would run down toward the end of August -to about two hundred. Then notice would be put up in the office, ‘The -hotel will close to-morrow after breakfast.’ The band would be still -here, and the bell-boys all on duty; and the night before, all the -guests would gather in the office. The band would play, and the talking -and laughing would go on all through the evening, like the height of -the season, and perhaps there would be a little dancing. Everybody -would say good-night, the same as ever, and as soon as breakfast was -over in the morning you would see them streaming away to the train, -till there wasn’t a soul left in the house but clerks and the help. -Then this stair carpet would come down with a run.” He pointed to the -wide stairway. “The rugs would come up all through the halls; the -dining-room would be cleared before you could look, and all the chairs -would be on the tables with their legs in the air. The help would come -to the desk in a steady file, and get their money and go. Before noon -the cleaners would have the whole house to themselves.” - -We owned that it must have been fine, that it was spectacular and -impressive, even dramatic, but in our hearts we felt that there was a -finer poetic quality in our closing, which was like one of the slow -processes of nature, and emulated the pensive close of summer, when the -leaves do not all fall in a night, or the flowers wither or the grass -droop in a single day, but the trees slowly drop their crowns through -many weeks, and the successive frosts lay a chill touch on a blossom -here, and a petal there, and the summer passes in a euthanasy which -suffers you to say at no given moment, “The summer is dead,” till it -has long been dead. - -Several aspects of the elementally simple landscape about us seemed -peculiarly to sympathize with the quiet passing of the life of the -great hotel. There could be no change in the long, irregular, gray sand -dunes before it, which dropped themselves in lumpish masses, like the -stretched and twisted shape of some vast bisected serpent. The stiff -grasses and arid weeds that clothed them thinly, like a growth of -dreadful green hair, kept their rigidity and their color with a sort -of terrestrial immortality, or rather of an imperishable lifelessness; -but over them fluttered a multitude of butterflies, thick as the leaves -of autumn, and of much the same ultimate color, like spirits already -released to their palingenesis. Flights of others, of a gay white and -yellow, like the innocent souls of little ones, haunted the leaf-plant -beds before the hotel, or tried to make friends with the harsh little -evergreens surviving the plantations of a more courageous period of the -enterprise, and stolidly presenting a wood at the borders of the plank -walks. To the landward the mighty marshes stretched their innumerable -acres to the sunrise and the sunset and the northern lights, one wash -of pale yellow-green. Before we left, this began to be splashed as -with flame or blood by the reddening of that certain small weed which -loves the salt of tide-flooded meadows. The hollyhocklike bells of the -marsh-roses drooped and fell, but other and gayer flowers, like ox-eye -daisies of taller stem, came to replace them; and still, with the -rising tide, the larger and the lesser craft that plied upon the many -channels of the meadows blew softly back and forth, and seemed to sail -upon their undulant grasses. - -In all, the large leisure, the serene lapse of nature toward decay, -seemed to express a consciousness of the hotel’s unhurried dissolution, -to wait gently upon it, and to stay in a faithful summer loveliness -till the last light should be quenched, of all those that had made it -flame like a jewel in the forehead of the sea, and that had faded from -veranda and balcony to the glitter of the clustered lamps in the office -and dining-room. - - -XI. - -There came, indeed, about the middle of September, a sudden rude shock -of cold, which seemed to express an impatience with the dying hotel, -hitherto unknown to the gently varying moods of nature. The wind blew -for a day from the northwest, and stiffened its wasted and flaccid -frame until one fancied its teeth chattering, as it were; but even then -the sea did not share the harsh sentiment of the inland weather. It -lay smiling as serenely as ever, and the fleet of fishing sloops and -schooners that began to flock before our beach about the end of August -rocked and tilted, like things in a dream, as they had for the last -fortnight. It was said that one of them dragged her anchor and came -ashore in the night, but this happened in the dark, and we knew of it -only by hearsay, after she had got off and sailed away. A day later -they were all there again, and some flew in close to the beach, and -skimmed back and forth, as fearless of its ever-shifting sands as the -fish-hawks that sailed the deeps of blue air above them. - -The water remained as warm as ever; warmer, they said, who tried it -in a bath. I did not. The next to the last time I bathed I had for -sole companion a literary clergyman, with whom I walked down to the -beach discussing the amusing aspects of the Ninth Crusade, which the -Venetians so cannily turned aside from the conquest of the Holy Land -to the conquest of Constantinople. The New York Dump was unpleasantly -evident in the sea that day; and the last time the Dump had the sea -all to itself. It is not agreeable to bathe among old brooms, bottles, -decayed fruit, trunk lids, vegetable cans, broken boxes, and the other -refuse of the ash-barrel, and I came out almost before the life-guard -could get ready to throw me a life-preserver. - -He was not the gaudy giant of bronze who posed between the life-lines -at the height of the bathing-season, when twoscore spectators on the -benches provided for them watched a half-dozen men and women weltering -in the surf, or popping up and down after the manner of ladies taking -a sea-bath. But I dare say he was quite as efficient, and as I had the -good fortune to make his acquaintance, I liked him better. I specially -liked his pelting about the bathing-pavilion before he went on duty -with me, in his bare legs and feet, and wearing over his bathing-tights -a cut-away coat, with a derby hat, to complete his ceremonial costume. - -He was not so much in keeping with the inlander’s ideal of -bathing-beaches, where summer girls float in the waves or loll upon -the sands in the flirtatious poses familiar to the observer of them in -the illustrated papers. To guard these daring maids from the dangers -of the deep the gaudy bronze giant, with his yachting cap, his black -jerseys, his white shoes, and his brown arms folded upon his breast, -where they half revealed, half hid his label of Life-Guard, was a -far fitter figure. But for the real bathers, I think the guard in -the cut-away, derby, and bare feet was much more to be trusted; he -was simple, substantial, and unpretentious; and surf-bathing, let me -whisper in the innumerable ear of the inland myriads who have never -seen it, is not often the gay frolic they have fancied: rather, it is -sober, serious, sloppy. - - -XII. - -At first the mental frame of us lingerers in the closing hotel was one -of heroic self-applause. We wore a brave and smiling front; we said it -was so much nicer than when the house was full, than when there were -a thousand or even a hundred in it; and we all declared that we were -going to stay as long as the landlord would let us. But from time to -time there were defections; one table after another was dismantled; -face after face vanished; first a white face, then a black face. I do -not think we were so smiling after four of the beach trains were taken -off; secretly, I think each of us wondered, What if we should stay till -the last train was taken off, and we could not get away! What should -we do then? - -We have become rather more serious; we do not talk trivially when we -talk, and we scarcely talk at all; we have traversed each other’s -conversable territory so often that there is no longer the hope of -discovery in it. We have not only become serious; I have reached the -point where I have asked in thought if we are not a little absurd. Why -should we stay? What is keeping us? The waves of autumn will soon reach -the kitchen fires; and then? - -Last night, our waiter said he was going on Monday. This morning the -newsboy passed through the office on his way to serve the cottagers -with the papers. Asked if he were not going to serve the hotel guests, -he went on without answering. It may be because he is an officer of a -railroad, whose officers reluctantly answer questions; but perhaps he -has come to feel a ghostly quality in us, and regards us as so many -simulacra incapable of interest in the affairs of real men. - -The gas was not lighted in the ballroom after dinner yesterday; the -halls gloomed like illimitable caverns late in the gathered dusk. - -Shall I be able to stay till Friday? We shall see. - - -XIII. - -A most resplendent Sunday is passing. The cold wind of last night has -blown the whole world clean of clouds. One has a sense of the globe -swinging in depths of translucent ether, stainless through all the -reaches of space. - -The sea is blue as the sky. It quivers where the sun slants upon it, -and reflects the rays from myriad facets of steel. You cannot look at -it long there, but now you begin to understand what Tennyson meant when -he called it - - - “The million-spangled sapphire marriage-ring of the land.” - - -All day yesterday, which was the great day for the arriving European -steamers, they came hurrying in. We counted ten or twelve, each -blocking the length of an express train out of the rim of the horizon. -To-day there are none: only a few far-off full-sailed ships, and nearer -shore the fleet of fishing sloops and schooners, tilting and swaying, -and now and then flying in so close to the beach that we can see the -men on board, and trailing their small boats through a drift of foamy -sea. - -There are twenty-three guests in the house now--the house that holds -a thousand! Two hunters came down with their guns Friday night, and -re-enforced us. After breakfast a gay group gathered on the great -midmost stairway of the veranda, and one of the men told the ladies -stories and made them laugh. Every one is acquainted now, and speaks -freely to every one else. It is rather weird. Should we be so civil if -we were normally conditioned? - -We have a very good two-o’clock dinner: the cook still remembers it is -Sunday. After dinner two of us go down to the bathing-beach, and from -the spectators’ benches watch a soft-shell crab which has been bathing, -and is now lying in the warm sand where the rising tide has flung him. -We wait to see it reach him again, and draw him back, but it does not. -It seems to me that he is unhappy in the sun, and I take a stick and -tilt him into the sea. I do not know whether he likes that either; but -he cannot help himself. He could not help himself in the sun. - - -XIV. - -It is Monday morning now, and the world is wrapped in cold gray clouds, -which seem to have meant something unpleasant to the fishing craft, for -they have all vanished but two of the bolder sail. It rains a little -and then stops. A wind, heavy with the salt breath of the sea, rises -steadily, and bemoans itself in all the angles and projections of -the house. The lanterns of the veranda, which have not been lighted -for a week, rattle dolefully in the blast. Under them, the long line -of rocking-chairs in which a quarter of a mile of ladies used to sit -and gossip together stretches emptily away. The wind pushes against -the tall backs of the chairs, and they rock softly to and fro, as if -the ghosts of the gossipers invisibly filled them, and still inaudibly -babbled on. Where some of the chairs are grouped facing one another, -the effect is very creepy. Will they keep up their spectral colloquies -all winter? - -I escape from this eery sight to my own room, and in the corridor, -three uptown blocks away, I behold a small chambermaid balancing -herself against a large bucket as she wavers slowly down. It is tragic. - -The wind rises, and by mid-afternoon blows half a gale. The sea -froths and roars and tumbles on the beach, and far out the serried -breakers toss their white-caps against the sky-line, like so many cooks -abandoning the hotel kitchen. - -About three o’clock, the life-guard of the bathing-beach, having cast -his derby and cut-away, appears with three other men in tights, and -pulls in the life-lines and the buoys. Now the Dump will have the ocean -for its own. - -A stranded boat which lies on the beach to the northward came ashore -in the gale last night from some of the fishermen. It is in good -condition, and if the trains should stop running before noon to-morrow -we can be taken off in it. Eighteen of our number went away this -morning; and there are now but four of us left. We could easily get -away in that boat. - - -XV. - -The wind rose till nightfall, and then its passion broke in tears. -A tempestuous night threatened; but the weather changed its mind as -swiftly as a woman, and the day dawned as sweetly and softly this -morning as a day of young June. The sea is again a shining level, -veiled in a tender mist. Out of this the fishing sail come stealing -silently one after another till again a fleet of them is tilting and -swaying in front of the hotel. One large, goblin sail, which remained -throughout the threats of the weather, looks like the picture of the -goblin in the Bab Ballad which tries to frighten the image before the -tobacconist’s shop. - -The gang of Italians who have toiled for three months to hide the -infamies of the Dump, burying them in the sand as fast as the sea cast -them ashore, are taking up the plank walks to the bathing-beach. The -season is over. The barrel, which formed the outermost buoy, swings -monumentally (if monuments can swing) at anchor among the breakers. - -At the station the railroad people have become unnaturally amiable. -They call me by name; they take a personal interest in getting off my -telegrams and express packages. In one of my visits to them, I meet the -life-guard in full citizen’s dress, with even shoes on. He salutes me, -but I have to look twice before I know him. - - -XVI. - -A generous contention has arisen between ourselves and the other -remaining family as to which shall be last to leave the hotel. They go -on the 10.25, and we have outstayed them! We are the last guests in the -house. The landlord’s Italian greyhound seems instinctively to feel our -pathetic distinction. He rushes upon me from far down the veranda, and -fawns upon me. - -The cook and a last helper of some unknown function carry our trunks -to the station. But it has now suddenly become a question whether we -shall go on the 12.20 or wait for the 5.20. It depends finally upon our -getting a last lunch at the restaurant of the bathing-beach. We ask, -limiting our demands to a clam chowder. We are answered that there -are still clams, but the man who knows how to make chowder is gone. -The restaurant family are going to lunch upon a ham bone, which is now -being scraped for them. We refuse to share it with many thanks, and -decide to go on the 12.20. - -I have paid my last bill. - -On the 10th of August a pomp of liveried menials met me as I alighted -from the train, and contended for the honor and profit of carrying my -umbrella into the hotel. - -On the 17th of September I myself carry a heavy satchel in each hand -out through the echoing corridors down the wide veranda stairs to the -train, unattended by a single fee-taker. - -The hotel is closed. - - - - -GLIMPSES OF CENTRAL PARK. - - -This morning, as I sat on a bench in one of the most frequented walks -of Central Park, I could almost have touched the sparrows on the sprays -about me; a squirrel, foraging for nuts, climbed on my knees, as if -to explore my pockets. Of course, there is a policeman at every turn -to see that no wrong is done these pretty creatures, and that no sort -of trespass is committed by any in the domain of all; but I like to -think that the security and immunity of the Park is proof of something -besides the vigilance of its guardians; that it is a hint of a growing -sense in Americans that what is common is the personal charge of every -one in the community. - -As I turn from my page and look out upon it, I see the domes and -spires of its foliage beginning to feel the autumn and taking on the -wonderful sunset tints of the year in its decline; when I stray through -its pleasant paths, I feel the pathos of the tender October air; -but, better than these sensuous delights, in everything of it and in -it, I imagine a prophecy of the truer state which I believe America -is destined yet to see established. It cannot be that the countless -thousands who continually visit it, and share equally in its beauty, -can all come away insensible of the meaning of it; here and there some -one must ask himself, and then ask others, why the whole of life should -not be as generous and as just as this part of it; why he should not -have a country as palpably his own as the Central Park is, where his -ownership excludes the ownership of no other. Some workman out of work, -as he trudges aimlessly through its paths must wonder why the city -cannot minister to his need as well as his pleasure, and not hold aloof -from him till he is thrown a pauper on its fitful charities. If it can -give him this magnificent garden for his forced leisure, why cannot it -give him a shop where he can go in extremity, to earn his bread? - - -I. - -I may be mistaken. His thoughts may never take this turn at all. -The poor are slaves of habit, they bear what they have borne, they -suffer on from generation to generation, and seem to look for nothing -different. But this is what I think for poor people in the Park, not -alone for the workman recently out of work, but for the workman so long -out of it that he has rotted into one of the sodden tramps whom I meet -now and then, looking like some forlorn wild beast, in the light of -the autumnal leaves. That is the great trouble in New York; you cannot -anywhere get away from the misery of life. You would think that the -rich for their own sakes would wish to see conditions bettered, so that -they might not be confronted at every turn by the mere loathliness of -poverty. But they likewise are the slaves of habit, and go the way the -rich have gone since the beginning of time. Sometimes I think that as -Shakespeare says of the living and the dead, the rich and the poor are -“but as pictures” to one another, without vital reality. - -Sometimes I am glad to lose the sense of their reality, and this is why -I would rather walk in the pathways of the Park than in the streets -of the city, for the contrasts there are not so frequent, if they are -glaring still. I do get away from them now and then, for a moment or -two, and give myself wholly up to the delight of the place. It has been -treated with the artistic sense which always finds its best expression -in the service of the community, but I do not think we generally -understand this, the civic spirit is so weak in us yet; and I doubt if -the artists themselves are conscious of it, they are so rarely given -the chance to serve the community. When this chance offers, however, -it finds the right man to profit by it, as in the system of parks at -Chicago, the gardened spaces at Washington, and the Central Park in -New York. Some of the decorative features here are bad, the sculpture -is often foolish or worse, and the architecture is the outgrowth of a -mood, where it is not merely puerile. The footways have been asphalted, -and this is out of keeping with the rustic character of the place, -but the whole design, and much of the detail in the treatment of the -landscape, bears the stamp of a kindly and poetic genius. The Park is -in no wise taken away from nature, but is rendered back to her, when -all has been done to beautify it, an American woodland, breaking into -meadows, here and there, and brightened with pools and ponds lurking -among rude masses of rock, and gleaming between leafy knolls and grassy -levels. It stretches and widens away, mile after mile, in the heart -of the city, a memory of the land as it was before the havoc of the -city began, and giving to the city-prisoned poor an image of what the -free country still is, everywhere. It is all penetrated by well-kept -drives and paths; and it is in these paths that I find my pleasure. -They are very simple woodland paths, but for the asphalt; though here -and there an effect of art is studied with charming felicity; and I -like to mount some steps graded in the rock at one place and come upon -a plinth supporting the bust of a poet, as I might in an old Italian -garden. But there is otherwise very little effect of gardening except -near the large fountain by the principal lake where there is some flare -of flowers on the sloping lawns. There is an excess in the viaduct, -with its sweeping stairways, and carven freestone massiveness; but it -is charming in a way, too, and the basin of the fountain is full of -lotuses and papyrus reeds, so that you do not much notice the bronze -angel atop, who seems to be holding her skirt to one side and picking -her steps, and to be rather afraid of falling into the water. There is, -in fact, only one thoroughly good piece of sculpture in the Park, which -I am glad to find in sympathy with the primeval suggestiveness of the -landscape gardening: an American Indian hunting with his dog, as the -Indians must have hunted through the wilds here before the white men -came. - - -II. - -This group is always a great pleasure to me, from whatever point I come -upon it, or catch a glimpse of it; and I like to go and find the dog’s -prototype in the wolves at the menagerie which the city offers free to -the wonder of the crowds constantly thronging its grounds and houses. -The captive brutes seem to be of that solidarity of good-fellowship -which unites all the frequenters of the Park; the tigers and the -stupidly majestic lions have an air different to me from tigers and -lions shown for profit. Among the milder sorts, I do not care so much -for the wallowing hippopotamuses, and the lumbering elephants, and -the supercilious camels which one sees in menageries everywhere, as -for those types which represent a period as extinct as that of the -American pioneers; I have rather a preference for going and musing -upon the ragged bison pair as they stand with their livid mouths open -at the pale of their paddock, expecting the children’s peanuts, and -unconscious of their importance as survivors of the untold millions -of their kind which a quarter of a century ago blackened the Western -plains for miles and miles. There are now only some forty or fifty -left; for of all the forces of our plutocratic conditions, so few are -conservative that the American buffalo is as rare as the old-fashioned -American mechanic, proud of his independence, and glorying in his -citizenship. - -In some other enclosures are pairs of beautiful deer, which I wish -might be enlarged to the whole extent of the Park. But I can only -imagine them on the great sweeps of grass, which recall the savannahs -and prairies, though there is a very satisfactory flock of sheep which -nibbles the herbage there, when these spaces are not thrown open to the -ball-players who are allowed on certain days of the week. I like to -watch them, and so do great numbers of other frequenters of the Park, -apparently; and when I have walked far up beyond the reservoirs of -city-water, which serve the purpose of natural lakes in the landscape, -I like to come upon that expanse in the heart of the woods where the -tennis-players have stretched their nets over a score of courts, and -the art students have set up their easels on the edges of the lawns, -for what effect of the autumnal foliage they have the luck or the skill -to get. It is all very sweet and friendly, and in keeping with the -purpose of the Park, and its frank and simple treatment throughout. - - -III. - -I think this treatment is best for the greatest number of those who -visit the place, and for whom the aspect of simple nature is the -thing to be desired. Their pleasure in it, as far as the children are -concerned, is visible and audible enough, but I like, as I stroll -along, to note the quiet comfort which the elder people take in this -domain of theirs, as they sit on the benches in the woodland ways, -or under the arching trees of the Mall, unmolested by the company of -some of the worst of all the bad statues in the world. They are mostly -foreigners, I believe, but I find every now and then an American among -them, who has released himself, or has been forced by want of work, -to share their leisure for the time; I fancy he has always a bad -conscience, if he is taking the time off, from the continual pressure -of our duty to add dollar to dollar, and provide for the future as -well as the present need. The foreigner, who has been bred up without -the American’s hope of advancement, has not his anxiety, and is a -happier man, so far as that goes; but the Park imparts something of its -peace to every one, even to some of the people who drive, and form a -spectacle for those who walk. - -For me they all unite to form a spectacle I never cease to marvel at, -with a perpetual hunger of conjecture as to what they really think of -one another. Apparently, they are all, whether they walk or whether -they drive, willing collectively, if not individually, to go on forever -in the economy which perpetuates their inequality, and makes a mock of -the polity which assures them their liberty. The difference which money -creates among men is always preposterous, and whenever I take my eyes -from it the thing ceases to be credible; yet this difference is what -the vast majority of Americans have agreed to accept forever as right -and justice. If I were to go and sit beside some poor man in the Park, -and ask him why a man no better than he was driving before him in a -luxurious carriage, he would say that the other man had the money to -do it; and he would really think he had given me a reason; the man in -the carriage himself could not regard the answer as more full and final -than the man on the bench. They have both been reared in the belief -that it is a sufficient answer, and they would both regard me with the -same misgiving if I ventured to say that it was not a reason; for if -their positions were to be at once reversed, they would both acquiesce -in the moral outlawry of their inequality. The man on foot would think -it had simply come his turn to drive in a carriage, and the man whom -he ousted would think it was rather hard luck, but he would realize -that it was what, at the bottom of his heart, he had always expected. - -Only once have I happened to find any one who questioned the situation -from a standpoint outside of it, and that was a shabbily dressed man -whom I overheard talking to a poor woman in one of those pleasant -arbors which crown certain points of rising ground in the Park. She -had a paper bundle on the seat beside her, and she looked like some -working-woman out of place, with that hapless, wistful air which such -people often have. Her poor little hands, which lay in her lap, were -stiffened and hardened with work, but they were clean, except for -the black of the nails, and she was very decently clad in garments -beginning to fray into rags; she had a good, kind, faithful face, and -she listened without rancor to the man as he unfolded the truth to her -concerning the conditions in which they lived. It was the wisdom of the -poor, hopeless, joyless, as it now and then makes itself heard in the -process of the years and ages, and then sinks again into silence. He -showed her how she had no permanent place in the economy, not because -she had momentarily lost work, but because in the nature of things -as we have them, it could only be a question of time when she must be -thrown out of any place she found. He blamed no one; he only blamed -the conditions. I doubt whether his wisdom made the friendless woman -happier, but I could not have gainsaid it, when he saw me listening, if -he had asked, “Isn’t that the truth?” I left him talking sadly on, and -I never saw him again. He was threadbare, but he too was cleanly and -decent in his dress, and not at all of that type of agitators of whom -we have made an effigy like nothing I have seen, as if merely for the -childish pleasure of reviling it. - - -IV. - -The whole incident was infinitely pathetic to me; and yet we must not -romance the poor, or imagine that they are morally better than the -rich; we must not fancy that a poor man, when he ceases to be a poor -man, would be kinder for having been poor. He would perhaps oftener, -and certainly more logically, be unkinder, for there would be mixed -with his vanity of possession a quality of cruel fear, an apprehension -of loss, which the man who had always been rich would not feel. The -self-made man when he has made himself of money, seems to have been -deformed by his original destitution, and I think that if I were in -need I would rather take my chance of pity from the man who had never -been poor. Of course, this is generalization, and there are instances -to the contrary, which at once occur to me. But what is absolutely true -is that our prosperity, the selfish joy of having, at the necessary -cost of those who cannot have, is blighted by the feeling of insecurity -which every man has in his secret soul, and which the man who has known -want must have in greater measure than the man who has never known want. - -There is, indeed, no security for wealth, which we think the chief -good of life, in the system that warrants it. When a man has gathered -his millions, he cannot be reduced to want, probably; but while he is -amassing them, while he is in the midst of the fight, or the game, as -most men are, there are ninety-five chances out of a hundred that he -will be beaten. Perhaps it is best so, and I should be glad it was -so if I could be sure that the common danger bred a common kindness -between the rich and the poor, but it seems not to do so. As far as I -can see, the rule of chance, which they all live under, does nothing -more than reduce them to a community of anxieties. - -To the eye of the observer they have the monotony of the sea, where -some tenth wave runs a little higher than the rest, but sinks at last, -or breaks upon the rocks or sands, as inevitably as the other nine. -Our inequality is without picturesqueness and without distinction. -The people in the carriages are better dressed than those on foot, -especially the women; but otherwise they do not greatly differ from the -most of these. The spectacle of the driving in the Park has none of -that dignity which characterizes such spectacles in European capitals. -This may be because many people of the finest social quality are -seldom seen there, or it may be because the differences growing out of -money can never have the effect of those growing out of birth; that -a plutocracy can never have the last wicked grace of an aristocracy. -It would be impossible for instance, to weave any romance about the -figures you see in our carriages; they do not even suggest the poetry -of ages of prescriptive wrong; they are of to-day, and there is no -guessing whether they will be of to-morrow or not. - -In Europe, this sort of tragi-comedy is at least well played; but in -America, you always have the feeling that the performance is that of -second-rate amateurs, who, if they would really live out the life -implied by America, would be the superiors of the whole world. I -am moved to laughter by some of the things I see among them, when -perhaps I ought to be awed, as, for instance, by the sight of a little, -lavishly dressed lady, lolling in the corner of a ponderous landau, -with the effect of holding fast lest she should be shaken out of it, -while two powerful horses, in jingling, silver-plated harness, with -due equipment of coachman and footman, seated on their bright-buttoned -overcoats on the box together, get her majestically over the ground at -a slow trot. This is what I sometimes see, with not so much reverence -as I feel for the simple mother pushing her baby-carriage on the -asphalt beside me and doubtless envying the wonderful creature in the -landau. Sometimes it is a fat old man in the landau; or a husband and -wife, not speaking; or a pair of grim old ladies, who look as if they -had lived so long aloof from their unluckier sisters that they could -not be too severe with the mere sight of them. Generally speaking, the -people in the carriages do not seem any happier for being there, though -I have sometimes seen a jolly party of strangers in a public carriage, -drawn by those broken-kneed horses which seem peculiarly devoted to -this service. - -The best place to see the driving is at a point where the different -driveways converge, not far from the Egyptian obelisk which the -Khedive gave us some years ago, and which we have set up here in one -of the finest eminences of the Park. He had of course no moral right -to rob his miserable land of any one of its characteristic monuments, -but I do not know that it is not as well in New York as in Alexandria. -If its heart of aged stone could feel the continuity of conditions, it -must be aware of the essential unity of the civilizations beside the -Nile and beside the Hudson; and if Cleopatra’s needle had really an eye -to see, it must perceive that there is nothing truly civic in either. -As the tide of dissatisfied and weary wealth rolls by its base here, in -the fantastic variety of its equipages, does the needle discern so much -difference between their occupants and the occupants of the chariots -that swept beneath it in the capital of the Ptolemies two thousand -years ago? I can imagine it at times winking such an eye and cocking in -derision the gilded cap with which the New-Yorkers have lately crowned -it. They pass it in all kinds of vehicles, and there are all kinds of -people in them, though there are sometimes no people at all, as when -the servants have been sent out to exercise the horses, for nobody’s -good or pleasure, and in the spirit of that atrocious waste which -runs through our whole life. I have now and then seen a gentleman -driving a four-in-hand, with everything to minister to his vanity in -the exact imitation of a nobleman driving a four-in-hand over English -roads, and with no one to be drawn by his crop-tailed bays or blacks -except himself and the solemn groom on his perch; I have wondered how -much more nearly equal they were in their aspirations and instincts -than either of them imagined. A gentleman driving a pair, abreast or -tandem, with a groom on the rumble, for no purpose except to express -his quality, is a common sight enough; and sometimes you see a lady -illustrating her consequence in like manner. A lady driving, while a -gentleman occupies the seat behind her, is a sight which always affects -me like the sight of a man taking a woman’s arm, in walking, as the man -of an underbred sort is apt to do. - -Horsey-looking women, who are, to ladies at least, what horsey-looking -men are to gentlemen, drive together; often they are really ladies, -and sometimes they are nice young girls, out for an innocent dash and -chat. They are all very much and very unimpressively dressed, whether -they sit in state behind the regulation coachman and footman, or -handle the reins themselves. Now and then you see a lady with a dog -on the seat beside her, for an airing, but not often a child; once -or twice I have seen one with a large spaniel seated comfortably in -front of her, and I have asked myself what would happen if, instead -of the dog, she had taken into her carriage some pale woman or weary -old man, such as I sometimes see gazing patiently after her. But the -thing would be altogether impossible. I should be the first to feel -the want of keeping in it; for, however recent wealth may be here, it -has equipped itself with all the apparatus of long-inherited riches, -which it is as strongly bound to maintain intact as if it were really -old and hereditary--perhaps more strongly. I must say that, mostly, -its owners look very tired of it, or of something, in public, and -that our American plutocrats, if they have not the distinction of an -aristocracy, have at least the ennui. - - -V. - -But these stylish turnouts form only a part of the spectacle in the -Park driveways, though they form, perhaps, the larger part. Bicyclers -weave their dangerous and devious way everywhere through the roads, -and seem to be forbidden the bridle-paths, where from point to point -you catch a glimpse of the riders. There are boys and girls in -village carts, the happiest of all the people you see; and there are -cheap-looking buggies, like those you meet in the country, with each -a young man and young girl in them, as if they had come in from some -remote suburb; turnouts shabbier yet, with poor old horses, poke about -with some elderly pair, like a farmer and his wife. There are family -carryalls, with friendly-looking families, old and young, getting the -good of the Park together in a long, leisurely jog; and open buggies -with yellow wheels and raffish men in them behind their widespread -trotters; or with some sharp-faced young fellow getting all the speed -out of a lively span that the mounted policemen, stationed at intervals -along the driveways, will allow. The finer vehicles are of all types, -patterned like everything else that is fine in America, upon something -fine in Europe; but just now a very high-backed phaeton appears to -be most in favor; and in fact I get a great deal of pleasure out of -these myself, as I do not have to sit stiffly up in them. They make me -think somehow of those eighteenth-century English novels, of the times -when young ladies like Evelina drove out in phaetons, and were the -passionate pursuit of Lord Orvilles and Sir Clement Willoughbys. - -How far do the New Yorkers publicly carry their travesty of the -European aristocratic life? I should say, from what I have seen of -the driving in the Park, it does not err on the side of excess. The -equipages, when they are fine, are rather simple; and the liveries -are such as express a proprietary grandeur in coat-buttons, silver or -gilt, and in a darker or lighter drab of the cloth the servants wear; -they are often in brown or dark green. Now and then you see the tightly -cased legs and top-boots and cockaded hat of a groom, but this is -oftenest on a four-in-hand coach, or the rumble of a tandem cart; the -soul of the free-born republican is rarely bowed before it on the box -of a family carriage. I have seen nothing like an attempt at family -colors in the trappings of the coachman and horses. - -I should say that the imitation was quite within the bounds of good -taste. The bad taste is in the wish to imitate Europe at all; but with -the abundance of money, the imitation is simply inevitable. There -is no American life for wealth; there is no native formula for the -expression of social superiority; because America means equality if it -means anything, in the last analysis. But in all this show on the Park -driveways, you get no effect so vivid as the effect of sterility in -that liberty without equality which seems to satisfy us Americans. A -man may come into the Park with any sort of vehicle, so that it is not -for the carriage of merchandise, and he is free to spoil what might -be a fine effect with the intrusion of whatever squalor of turnout -he will. He has as much right there as any one, but the right to be -shabby in the presence of people who are fine is not one that I should -envy him. I do not think that he can be comfortable in it, for the -superiority around him puts him to shame, as it puts the poor man to -shame at every turn in life, though some people, with an impudence -that is pitiable, will tell you that it does not put him to shame; -that he feels himself as good as any one. We are always talking about -human nature and what it is, and what it is not; but we try in our -blind worship of inequality to refuse the first and simplest knowledge -of human nature, which testifies of itself in every throb of our own -hearts, as we try even to refuse a knowledge of the Divine nature, -and attribute to the Father of all a design in the injustice we have -ourselves created. - -To me the lesson of Central Park is that where it is used in the spirit -of fraternity and equality, the pleasure in it is pure and fine, and -that its frequenters have for the moment a hint of the beauty which -might be perpetually in their lives; but where it is invaded by the -motives of the strife that raves all round it in the city outside, its -joys are fouled with contempt and envy, the worst passions that tear -the human heart. Ninety-nine Americans out of a hundred, have never -seen a man in livery; they have never dreamed of such a display as -this in the Park. Yet with our conditions, I fear that at sight of it -ninety-nine Americans out of every hundred would lust for their turn -of the wheel, their throw of the dice, so that they might succeed to a -place in it, and flaunt their luxury in the face of poverty, and abash -humility with their pride. - - - - -NEW YORK STREETS. - - -If the reader will look at a plan of New York, he will see that Central -Park is really in the centre of the place, if a thing which has length -only, or is so nearly without breadth or thickness, can be said to -have a centre. South of the Park, the whole island is dense with life -and business; it is pretty solidly built up on either side; but to the -northward the blocks of houses are no longer of a compact succession; -they struggle up, at irregular intervals, from open fields, and sink -again, on the streets pushed beyond them into the simple country, where -even a suburban character is lost. It can only be a few years, at -most, before all the empty spaces will be occupied, and the town, such -as it is, and such as it seems to have been ever since the colonial -period, will have anchored itself fast in the rock that underlies the -larger half of it, and imparted its peculiar effect to every street--an -effect of arrogant untidiness, of superficial and formal gentility, of -immediate neglect and overuse. - - -I. - -You will see more of the neglect and overuse in the avenues which -penetrate the city’s mass from north to south, and more of the -superficial and formal gentility in the streets that cross these -avenues from east to west; but the arrogant untidiness you will find -nearly everywhere, except in some of the newest quarters westward -from the Park, and still farther uptown. These are really very clean; -but they have a bare look, as if they were not yet inhabited, and, in -fact, many of the houses are still empty. Lower down, the streets are -often as shabby and as squalid as the avenues that run parallel with -the river-sides; and at least two of the avenues are as decent as the -decentest cross-streets. - -Of late, a good many streets and several avenues have been asphalted, -and the din of wheels on the rough pavement no longer torments the ear -so cruelly; but there is still the sharp clatter of the horses’ shoes -everywhere; and their pulverized manure, which forms so great a part -of the city’s dust, and is constantly taken into people’s stomachs -and lungs, seems to blow more freely about on the asphalt than on -the old-fashioned pavements. A few years ago scraps of paper, straw, -fruit-peel, and all manner of minor waste and rubbish, littered all the -thoroughfares; under a reform administration this has been amended; -but no one knows how long a reform will last in New York. - -When I leave Central Park, where I like best to walk, I usually take -one of the avenues southward, and then turn eastward or westward on -one of the cross-streets whose perspective appeals to my curiosity, -and stroll through it to one of the rivers. The avenues are fifteen -or sixteen in number, and they stretch, some farther than others, -up and down the island, but most of them end in the old town, where -its irregularity begins, at the south, and several are interrupted -by the different parks at the north. Together with the streets that -intersect them between the old town and Central Park, they form one of -the most characteristic parts of modern New York. Like the streets, -they are numbered, rather than named, from a want of imagination, or -from a preference of mere convenience to the poetry and associations -that cluster about a name, and can never cling to a number, or from -a business impatience to be quickly done with the matter. This must -rather defeat itself, however, when a hurried man undertakes to tell -you that he lives at three hundred and seventy-five on One Hundred and -Fifty-seventh street. Toward the rivers the avenues grow shabbier and -shabbier, though this statement must be qualified, like all general -statements. Seventh Avenue, on the west, is pleasanter than Sixth -Avenue; and Second Avenue, on the east, is more agreeable than Third -Avenue. In fact, the other afternoon, as I strayed over to the East -River, I found several blocks of Avenue A, which runs nearest it, -very quiet, built up with comfortable dwellings, and even clean, as -cleanliness is understood in New York. - -But it is Fifth Avenue which divides the city lengthwise nearest the -middle, and it is this avenue which affords the norm of style and -comfort to the other avenues on either hand, and to all the streets -that intersect it. Madison Avenue is its rival, and has suffered less -from the invasion of shops and hotels, but a long stretch of Fifth -Avenue is still the most aristocratic quarter of the city, and is upon -the whole its finest thoroughfare. I do not think any New York street -fine; but, generally, Fifth Avenue and the cross-streets in its better -part have a certain regularity in their mansions of brownstone, which -give something of the pleasure one gets from symmetry. They are at -least not so chaotic as they might be; though they always suggest money -more than taste, I cannot at certain moments, and under the favor of an -evening sky, deny them a sort of unlovely and forbidding beauty. There -are not many of these cross-streets which have remained intact from -the business of the other avenues. They have always a drinking-saloon -or a provision-store or an apothecary’s shop at the corners where -they intersect; the modistes find lodgment in them almost before the -residents are aware. Beyond Sixth Avenue, or Seventh at farthest, on -the west, and Fourth Avenue or Lexington, on the east, they lose their -genteel character; their dwellings degenerate into apartment-houses, -and then into tenement-houses of lower and lower grade till the rude -traffic and the offensive industries of the river shores are reached. - -But once more I must hedge, for sometimes a street is respectable -almost to the water on one side or the other; and there are whole -neighborhoods of pleasant dwellings far down-town, which seem to -have been forgotten by the enterprise of business, or neglected by -its caprice, and to have escaped for a time at least the contagion -of poverty. Business and poverty are everywhere slowly or swiftly -eating their way into the haunts of respectability, and destroying -its pleasant homes. They already have the whole of the old town to -themselves. In large spaces of it no one dwells but the janitors with -their families, who keep the sky-scraping edifices where business frets -the time away; and by night in the streets where myriads throng by -day, no one walks but the outcast and the watch. - -Many of these business streets are the handsomest in the city, with -a good sky line, and an architectural ideal too good for the uses -of commerce. This is often realized in antipathetic iron, but often -there is good honest work in stone, and an effect better than the -best of Fifth Avenue. But this is stupid and wasteful; it is for the -pleasure of no one’s taste or sense; the business men who traffic in -these edifices have no time for their beauty, or no perception of it; -the porters and truckmen and expressmen, who toil and moil in these -thoroughfares, have no use for the grandeur that catches the eye of a -chance passer. - -Other spaces are abandoned to the poverty which festers in the squalid -houses and swarms day and night in the squalid streets; but business -presses closer and harder upon the refuges of its foster-child, not to -say its offspring, and it is only a question of time before it shall -wholly possess them. It is only a question of time before all the -comfortable quarters of the city, northward from the old town to the -Park, shall be invaded, and the people driven to the streets building -up on the west and east of it for a little longer sojourn. Where their -last stay shall be, Heaven knows; perhaps they will be forced into the -country. - -In this sort of invasion, however, it is poverty that seems mostly to -come first, and it is business that follows and holds the conquest, -though this is far from being always the case. Whether it is so or not, -however, poverty is certain at some time to impart its taint; for it -is perpetual here, from generation to generation, like death itself. -In our conditions, poverty is incurable; the very hope of cure is -laughed to scorn by those who cling the closest to these conditions; -it may be better at one time, and worse at another; but it must always -be, somehow, till time shall be no more. It is from everlasting to -everlasting. - - -II. - -When I come home from these walks of mine, I have a vision of the -wretched quarters through which I have passed, as blotches of disease -upon the civic body, as loathsome sores, destined to eat deeper and -deeper into it; and I am haunted by this sense of them, until I -plunge deep into the Park, and wash my consciousness clean of it all -for a while. But when I am actually in these leprous spots, I become -hardened, for the moment, to the deeply underlying fact of human -discomfort. I feel their picturesqueness, with a callous indifference -to that ruin, or that defect, which must so largely constitute the -charm of the picturesque. A street of tenement-houses is always more -picturesque than a street of brownstone residences, which the same -thoroughfare usually is before it slopes to either river. The fronts of -the edifices are decorated with the iron balconies and ladders of the -fire-escapes, and have in the perspective a false air of gayety, which -is travestied in their rear by the lines thickly woven from the windows -to the tall poles set between the backs of the houses, and fluttering -with drying clothes as with banners. - -The sidewalks swarm with children, and the air rings with their -clamor, as they fly back and forth at play; on the thresholds, the -mothers sit nursing their babes, and the old women gossip together; -young girls lean from the casements, alow and aloft, or flirt from the -doorways with the hucksters who leave their carts in the street, while -they come forward with some bargain in fruit or vegetables, and then -resume their leisurely progress and their jarring cries. The place -has all the attraction of close neighborhood, which the poor love, -and which affords them for nothing the spectacle of the human drama, -with themselves for actors. In a picture it would be most pleasingly -effective, for then you could, he in it, and yet have the distance -on it which it needs. But to be in it, and not have the distance, is -to inhale the stenches of the neglected street, and to catch that yet -fouler and dreadfuller poverty-smell which breathes from the open -doorways. It is to see the children quarrelling in their games, and -beating each other in the face, and rolling each other in the gutter, -like the little savage outlaws they are. It is to see the work-worn -look of the mothers, the squalor of the babes, the haggish ugliness of -the old women, the slovenly frowziness of the young girls. All this -makes you hasten your pace down to the river, where the tall buildings -break and dwindle into stables and shanties of wood, and finally end in -the piers, commanding the whole stretch of the mighty waterway with its -shipping, and the wooded heights of its western bank. - -I am supposing you to have walked down a street of tenement-houses to -the North river, as the New-Yorkers call the Hudson; and I wish I could -give some notion of the beauty and majesty of the stream, some sense -of the mean and ignoble effect of the city’s invasion of the hither -shore. The ugliness is, indeed, only worse in degree, but not in kind, -than that of all city water-fronts. Instead of pleasant homes, with -green lawns and orchards sloping to the brink, huge factories and -foundries, lumber yards, breweries, slaughter-houses, and warehouses, -abruptly interspersed with stables and hovels and drinking-saloons, -disfigure the shore, and in the nearest avenue the freight trains come -and go on lines of railroads, in all the middle portion of New York. -South of it, in the business section, the poverty section, the river -region is a mere chaos of industrial and commercial strife and pauper -wretchedness. North of it there are gardened driveways following the -shore; and even at many points between, when you finally reach the -river, there is a kind of peace, or at least a truce to the frantic -activities of business. To be sure, the heavy trucks grind up and down -the long piers, but on either side the docks are full of leisurely -canal-boats, and if you could come with me in the late afternoon, you -would see the smoke curling upward from their cabin roofs, as from -the chimneys of so many rustic cottages, and smell the evening meal -cooking within, while the canal-wives lounged at the gangway hatches -for a breath of the sunset air, and the boatmen smoked on the gunwales -or indolently plied the long sweeps of their pumps. All the hurry and -turmoil of the city is lost among these people, whose clumsy craft -recall the grassy inland levels remote from the metropolis, and the -slow movement of life in the quiet country ways. Some of the mothers -from the tenement-houses stroll down on the piers with their babies in -their arms, and watch their men-kind, of all ages, fishing along the -sides of the dock, or casting their lines far out into the current at -the end. They do not seem to catch many fish, and never large ones, -but they silently enjoy the sport, which they probably find leisure -for in the general want of work in these hard times; if they swear a -little at their luck, now and then, it is, perhaps, no more than their -luck deserves. Some do not even fish, but sit with their legs dangling -over the water, and watch the swift tugs, or the lagging sloops -that pass, with now and then a larger sail, or a towering passenger -steamboat. Far down the stream they can see the forests of masts, -fringing either shore, and following the point of the island round -and up into the great channel called the East River. These vessels -seem as multitudinous as the houses that spread everywhere from them -over the shore farther than the eye can reach. They bring the commerce -of the world to this mighty city, which, with all its riches, is the -parent of such misery, and with all its traffic abounds in idle men who -cannot find work. The ships look happy and free, in the stream, but -they are of the overworked world, too, as well as the houses; and let -them spread their wings ever so widely, they still bear with them the -sorrows of the poor. - - -III. - -The other evening I walked over to the East River through one of the -tenement streets, and I reached the waterside just as the soft night -was beginning to fall in all its autumnal beauty. The afterglow died -from the river, while I hung upon a parapet over a gulf ravined out -of the bank for a street, and experienced that artistic delight which -cultivated people are often proud of feeling, in the aspect of the -long prison island which breaks the expanse of the channel. I knew the -buildings on it were prisons, and that the men and women in them, bad -before, could only come out of them worse than before, and doomed to -a life of outlawry and of crime. I was aware that they were each an -image of that loveless and hopeless perdition which men once imagined -that God had prepared for the souls of the damned, but I could not see -the barred windows of those hells in the waning light. I could only -see the trees along their walks; their dim lawns and gardens, and the -castellated forms of the prisons; and the æsthetic sense, which is -careful to keep itself pure from pity, was tickled with an agreeable -impression of something old and fair. The dusk thickened, and the vast -steamboats which ply between the city and the New England ports on Long -Island Sound, and daily convey whole populations of passengers between -New York and Boston, began to sweep by silently, swiftly, luminous -masses on the black water. Their lights aloft at bow and stern, floated -with them like lambent planets; the lights of lesser craft dipped by, -and came and went in the distance; the lamps of the nearer and farther -shores twinkled into sight, and a peace that ignored all the misery of -it, fell upon the scene. - - -IV. - -The greatest problem of this metropolis is not how best to be in this -place or that, but how fastest to go from one to the other, and the -New-Yorkers have made guesses at the riddle, bad and worse, on each of -the avenues, which, in their character of mere roadways, look as if the -different car-tracks had been in them first, and the buildings, high -and low, had chanced along their sides afterward. This is not the fact, -of course, and it is not so much the effect on Fifth Avenue and Madison -Avenue, and Lexington Avenue, which are streets of dwellings, solidly -built up, like the cross streets. But it is undoubtedly the effect on -all the other avenues, in great part of their extent. They vary but -little in appearance otherwise, from east to west, except so far as -the elevated railroads disfigure them, if thoroughfares so shabby and -repulsive as they mostly are, can be said to be disfigured, and not -beautified by whatever can be done to hide any part of their ugliness. -Where this is left to make its full impression upon the spectators, -there are lines of horse-cars perpetually jingling up and down, except -on Fifth Avenue, where they have stages, as the New-Yorkers call the -unwieldy and unsightly vehicles that ply there, and Lexington Avenue, -where they have the cable cars. But the horse-cars run even under the -elevated tracks, and no experience of noise can enable you to conceive -of the furious din that bursts upon the sense, when at some corner two -cars encounter on the parallel tracks below, while two trains roar -and shriek and hiss on the rails overhead, and a turmoil of rattling -express wagons, heavy drays and trucks, and carts, hacks, carriages, -and huge vans rolls itself between and beneath the prime agents of the -uproar. The noise is not only deafening, it is bewildering; you cannot -know which side the danger threatens most, and you literally take -your life in your hand when you cross in the midst of it. Broadway, -which traverses the district I am thinking of, in a diagonal line till -it loses its distinctive character beyond the Park, is the course of -the cable cars running with a silent speed that is more dangerous even -than the tumultuous rush on the avenues. Now and then the apparatus -for gripping the chain will not release it, and then the car rushes -wildly over the track, running amuck through everything in its way, and -spreading terror on every hand. When under control the long saloons -advance swiftly, from either direction, at intervals of half a minute, -with a monotonous alarum of their gongs, and the foot-passenger has to -look well to his way if he ventures across the track, lest in avoiding -one car another roll him under its wheels. - -Apparently, the danger is guarded as well as it can be, and it has -simply to be taken into the account of life in New York, for it cannot -be abated, and no one is to be blamed for what is the fault of every -one. It is true that there ought not, perhaps, to be any track in such -a thoroughfare, but it would be hard to prove that people could get on -without it, as they did before the theft of the street for the original -horse-car track. Perhaps it was not a theft; but at all events, and -at the best, the street was given away by the city to an adventurer -who wished to lay the tracks in it for his private gain, and none of -the property owners along the line could help themselves. There is -nothing that Americans hold so dear, or count so sacred, as private -property; life and limb are cheap in comparison; but private enterprise -is allowed to violate the rights of private property, from time to time -here, in the most dramatic way. - -The street-car company which took possession of Broadway never paid -the abutters anything, I believe; and the elevated railroad companies -are still resisting payment of damages on the four avenues which -they occupied for their way up and down the city without offering -compensation to the property owners along their route. If the -community had built these roads, it would have indemnified every one, -for the community is always just when it is the expression of the -common honesty; and if it is ever unjust, it is because the uncommon -dishonesty has contrived to corrupt it. - -The elevated roads and the cable road had no right to be, on the terms -that the New-Yorkers have them, but they are by far the best means of -transit in the city, and I must say that, if they were not abuses, they -would offer great comfort and great facility to the public. This is -especially true of the elevated roads, which, when you can put their -moral offense out of your mind, are always delightful in their ease and -airy swiftness. You fly smoothly along between the second and third -story windows of the houses, which are shops below and dwellings above, -on the avenues. The stations, though they have the prevailing effect of -overuse, and look dirty and unkempt, are rather pretty in themselves; -and you reach them, at frequent intervals, by flights of not ungraceful -iron steps. The elevated roads are always picturesque, with here and -there a sweeping curve that might almost be called beautiful. - -They darken the avenues, of course, and fill them with an abominable -uproar. Yet traffic goes on underneath, and life goes on alongside and -overhead, and the city has adjusted itself to them, as a man adjusts -himself to a chronic disease. I do not know whether they add to the -foulness of the streets they pass through or not; I hardly think they -do. The mud lies longer, after a rain, in the interminable tunnels -which they form over the horse-car tracks in the middle of the avenues, -and which you can look through for miles; but the mud does not blow -into your nose and mouth as the dust does, and that is, so far, a -positive advantage. A negative advantage, which I have hinted, is that -they hide so much of the street from sight, and keep you from seeing -all its shabbiness, pitilessly open to the eye in the avenues which -have only horse-car tracks in them. In fact, now that the elevated -railroads are built, and the wrong they have done to persons is mainly -past recall, perhaps the worst that can be said of them is that they -do not serve their purpose. Of course, in our conditions, where ten -men are always doing the work of one man in rivalry with each other, -the passage of people to and from business is enormous: the passage -of men to get money and the passage of women to spend it; and at the -hours of the morning and the afternoon when the volume of travel is the -greatest, the trains of the elevated roads offer a spectacle that is -really incredible. - -Every seat in them is taken, and every foot of space in the aisles -between the seats is held by people standing, and swaying miserably to -and fro by the leather straps dangling from the roofs. Men and women -are indecently crushed together, without regard for that personal -dignity which we seem to know nothing of and care nothing for. The -multitude overflows from the car, at either end, and the passengers are -as tightly wedged on the platform without as they are within. The long -trains follow each other at intervals of two or three minutes, and at -each station they make a stop of but a few seconds, when those who wish -to alight fight their way through the struggling mass. Those who wish -to mount fight their way into the car or on to the platform, where the -guard slams an iron gate against the stomachs and in the faces of those -arriving too late. Sometimes horrible accidents happen; a man clinging -to the outside of the gate has the life crushed out of his body against -the posts of the station as the train pulls out. But in this land, -where people have such a dread of civic collectivism of any kind, lest -individuality should suffer, the individual is practically nothing in -the regard of the corporate collectivities which abound. - - -V. - -It is not only the corporations which outrage personal rights; where -there is a question of interest, there seems to be no question of -rights between individuals. They prey upon one another and seize -advantages by force and by fraud in too many ways for me to hope to -make the whole situation evident. The avenues to the eastward and -westward have not grown up solidly and continuously in obedience to any -law of order, or in pursuance of any meditated design. They have been -pushed along given lines, in fragments, as builders saw their interest -in offering buyers a house or a row of houses, or as they could glut -or trick the greed of land-owners clinging to their land, and counting -upon some need of it, in the hope of extorting an unearned profit from -it. In one place you will see a vast and lofty edifice, of brick or -stone, and on each side of it or in front of it a structure one fourth -as high, or a row of scurvy hovels, left there till a purchaser comes, -not to pay the honest worth of the land for it, but to yield the price -the owner wants. In other places you see long stretches of high board -fence, shutting in vacant lots, often the best lots on the street, -which the landlord holds for the rise destined to accrue to him from -the building all round and beyond his property. In the meantime he -pays a low tax on his land compared with the tax which the improved -property pays, and gets some meager return for the use of his fence -by the Italian fruiterers who build their stalls into it, and by the -bill-posters who cover it with a medley of theatrical announcements, -picturing the scenes of the different plays and the persons of the -players. There are many things which unite to render the avenues -unseemly and unsightly, such as the apparently desperate tastelessness -and the apparently instinctive uncleanliness of the New-Yorkers. But -as I stand at some point commanding a long stretch of one of their -tiresome perspectives, which is architecturally like nothing so much as -a horse’s jawbone, with the teeth broken or dislodged at intervals, I -can blame nothing so much for the hideous effect as the rapacity of the -land-owner holding on for a rise, as it is called. It is he who most -spoils the sky-line, and keeps the street, mean and poor at the best in -design, a defeated purpose, and a chaos come again. - -Even when the owners begin to build, to improve their real estate, as -the phrase is, it is without regard to the rights of their neighbors, -or the feelings or tastes of the public, so far as the public may be -supposed to have any. This is not true of the shabbier avenues alone, -but of the finest, and of all the streets. If you will look, for -instance, at the street facing the southern limit of the Park, you -will get some notion of what I mean, and I hope you will be willing -to suffer by a little study of it. At the western end you will see a -vacant lot, with its high board fence covered with painted signs, then -a tall mass of apartment houses; then a stretch of ordinary New York -dwellings of the old commonplace brownstone sort; then a stable, and -a wooden liquor saloon at the corner. Across the next avenue there -rises far aloof the compact bulk of a series of apartment houses, which -in color and design are the pleasantest in the city, and are so far -worthy of their site. Beyond them to the eastward the buildings decline -and fall, till they sink into another two-story drinking-shop on the -corner of another avenue, where you will see the terminus of one of -the elevated roads. Beyond this avenue is the fence of a large vacant -lot, covered, as usual, with theatrical posters, and then there surges -skyward another series of apartment houses. The highest of these is -nearly fifty feet higher than its nearest neighbors, which sink again, -till you suddenly drop from their nondescript monotony to the gothic -façade of a house of a wholly different color, in its pale sandstone, -from the red of their brick fronts. - -A vacant lot yawns here again, with a flare of theatrical posters on -its fence, and beyond this, on the corner, is a huge hotel, the most -agreeable of the three that tower above the fine square at the gate -of the Park. With our silly American weakness for something foreign, -this square is called the Plaza; I believe it is not at all like a -Spanish plaza, but the name is its least offense. An irregular space -in the centre is planted with trees, in whose shade the broken-kneed -hacks of the public carriages droop their unhappy-heads, without the -spirit to bite the flies that trouble their dreams; and below this you -get a glimpse of the conventional cross-street terminating the Plaza. -At the eastern corner of the avenue is a costly new apartment house -of a modified gothic style, and then you come to the second of the -great hotels which give the Plaza such character as it has. It is of -a light-colored stone, and it towers far above the first, which is of -brick. It is thirteen stories high, and it stops abruptly in a flat -roof. On the next corner north is another hotel, which rises six or -seven stories higher yet, and terminates in a sort of mansard, topping -a romanesque cliff of yellow brick and red sandstone. I seek a term -for the architectural order, but it may not be the right one. There -is no term for the disorder of what succeeds. From the summit of this -enormous acclivity there is a precipitous fall of twelve stories to the -roof of the next edifice, which is a grocery; and then to the florist’s -and photographer’s next is another descent of three stories; on the -corner is a drinking-saloon, one story in height, with a brick front -and a wooden side. I will not ask you to go farther with me; the avenue -continues northward and southward in a delirium of lines and colors, a -savage anarchy of shapes, which I should think the general experience -of the Fair City at Chicago would now render perceptible even to the -dullest sense. - - -VI. - -There are other points on Fifth Avenue nearly as bad as this, but not -quite, and there are long stretches of it, which, if dull, have at -least a handsome uniformity. I have said already that it is still, upon -the whole, the best of the avenues, in the sense of being the abode -of the best--that is the richest--people; we Americans habitually use -best in this sense. Madison Avenue stretches northwest farther than the -eye can reach, an interminable perspective of brownstone dwellings, -as yet little invaded by business. Lexington Avenue is of the same -character, but of a humbler sort. On Second Avenue, down town, there -are large old mansions of the time when Fifth Avenue was still the home -of the parvenus; and at different points on such other avenues as are -spared by the elevated roads there are blocks of decent and comfortable -dwellings; but for the most part they are wholly given up to shops. Of -course, these reiterate with the insane wastefulness of our system the -same business, the same enterprise, a thousand times. - -One hears a good deal about the vast emporiums which are gathering -the retail trade into themselves, and devastating the minor commerce, -but there are perhaps a score of these at most, in New York; and on -the shabbier avenues and cross-streets there are at least a hundred -miles of little shops, where an immense population of little dealers -levy tribute on the public through the profit they live by. Until you -actually see this, you can hardly conceive of such a multitude of -people taken away from productive labor and solely devoted to marketing -the things made by people who are overworked in making them. - -Yet I prefer the smaller shops, where I can enter into some human -relation with the merchant, if it is only for the moment. I have -already tried to give some notion of the multitude of these; and I must -say now that they add much in their infinite number and variety to such -effect of gayety as the city has. They are especially attractive at -night, when their brilliant lamps, with the shadows they cast, unite to -an effect of gayety which the day will not allow. - -The great stores contribute nothing to this, for they all close at six -o’clock in the evening. On the other hand, they do not mar such poor -beauty as the place has with the superfluity of signs that the minor -traffic renders itself so offensive with. One sign, rather simple and -unostentatious, suffices for a large store; a little store will want -half a dozen, and will have them painted and hung all over its façade, -and stood about in front of it as obtrusively as the police will -permit. The effect is bizarre and grotesque beyond expression. If one -thing in the business streets makes New York more hideous than another -it is the signs, with their discordant colors, their infinite variety -of tasteless shapes. If by chance there is any architectural beauty -in a business edifice, it is spoiled, insulted, outraged by these -huckstering appeals; while the prevailing unsightliness is emphasized -and heightened by them. A vast, hulking, bare brick wall, rising six -or seven stories above the neighboring buildings, one would think bad -enough in all conscience: how, then, shall I give any notion of the -horror it becomes when its unlovely space is blocked out in a ground of -white with a sign painted on it in black letters ten feet high? - -The signs that deface the chief of our cities seem trying to shout and -shriek each other down, wherever one turns; they deface the fronts and -sides and tops of the edifices; in all the approaches to the metropolis -they stretch on long extents of fencing in the vacant suburban lands, -and cover the roofs and sides of the barns. The darkness does not -shield you from them, and by night the very sky is starred with the -electric bulbs that spell out, on the roofs of the lofty buildings the -frantic announcement of this or that business enterprise. - -The strangest part of all this is, no one finds it offensive, or at -least no one says that it is offensive. It is, indeed, a necessary -phase of the economic warfare in which our people live, for the most as -unconsciously as people lived in feudal cities, while the nobles fought -out their private quarrels in the midst of them. No one dares relax his -vigilance or his activity in the commercial strife, and in the absence -of any public opinion, or any public sentiment concerning them, it -seems as if the signs might eventually hide the city. That would not be -so bad if something could then be done to hide the signs. - - -VII. - -Nothing seems so characteristic of this city, after its architectural -shapelessness, as the eating and drinking constantly going on in the -restaurants and hotels, of every quality, and the innumerable saloons. -There may not be really more of these in New York, in proportion to -the population, than in other great cities, but apparently there are -more; for in this, as in all her other characteristics, New York is -very open; her virtues and her vices, her luxury and her misery, are in -plain sight; and a famishing man must suffer peculiarly here from the -spectacle of people everywhere at sumptuous tables. Many of the finest -hotels, if not most of them, have their dining-rooms on the level of -the street, and the windows, whether curtained or uncurtained, reveal -the continual riot within. I confess that the effect upon some hungry -passer is always present to my imagination; but the New-Yorkers are so -used to the perpetual encounter of famine and of surfeit that they do -not seem to mind it. - -There is scarcely a block on any of the poorer avenues which has not -its liquor store, and generally there are two; wherever a street -crosses them there is a saloon on at least one of the corners; -sometimes on two, sometimes on three, sometimes even on all four. I had -the curiosity to count the saloons on Sixth Avenue, between the Park, -and the point down town where the avenue properly ends. In a stretch -of some two miles I counted ninety of them, besides the eating houses -where you can buy drink with your meat; and this avenue is probably far -less infested with the traffic than some others. - -You may therefore safely suppose that out of the hundred miles of -shops, there are ten, or fifteen, or twenty miles of saloons. They -have the best places on the avenues, and on the whole they make the -handsomest show. They all have a cheerful and inviting look, and if you -step within, you find them cosy, quiet, and, for New York, clean. There -are commonly tables set about in them, where their frequenters can take -their beer or whiskey at their ease, and eat the free lunch which is -often given in them; in a rear room you see a billiard-table. In fact, -they form the poor man’s club-houses, and if he might resort to them -with his family, and be in the control of the State as to the amount -he should spend and drink there, I could not think them without their -rightful place in an economy which saps the vital forces of the laborer -with over-work, or keeps him in a fever of hope or a fever of despair -as to the chances of getting or not getting work when he has lost it. -If you suggested this to the average American, however, he would be -horror-struck. He would tell you that what you proposed was little -better than anarchy; that in a free country you must always leave -private persons free to debauch men’s souls and bodies with drink, and -make money out of their ruin; that anything else was contrary to human -nature, and an invasion of the sacred rights of the individual. Here -in New York, this valuable principle is so scrupulously respected that -the saloon controls the municipality, and the New-Yorkers think this -is much better than for the municipality to control the saloon. It is -from the saloon that their political bosses rise to power; it is in -the saloon that all the election frauds are planned and fostered; and -it would be infinitely comic, if it were not so pathetic, to read the -solemn homilies on these abuses in the journals which hold by the good -old American doctrine of private trade in drink as one of the bulwarks -of the constitution. - - -VIII. - -Without it, there would be far less poverty than there is, but poverty -is a good old American institution, too; there would inevitably be -less inequality, but inequality is as dear to the American heart as -liberty itself. In New York the inequality has that effect upon the -architecture which I have tried to give some notion of; but in fact it -deforms life at every turn, and in nothing more than in the dress of -the people, high and low. New York is, on the whole, without doubt, -the best-dressed community in America, or at least there is a certain -number of people here, more expensively and scrupulously attired than -you will find anywhere else in the country. The rich copy the fashions -set for them in Paris or in London, and then the less rich, and the -still less rich, down to the poor, follow them as they can, until you -arrive at the very poorest, who wear the cast-off and tattered fashions -of former years, and masquerade in a burlesque of the fortunate that -never fails to shock and grieve me. They must all somehow be clothed; -the climate and the custom require it; but sometimes I think their -nakedness would be less offensive; and when I meet a wretched man, with -his coat out at the elbows, or split up the back, in broken shoes, -battered hat, and frayed trousers, or some old woman or young girl in -a worn-out, second-hand gown and bonnet, tattered and threadbare and -foul, I think that if I were a believer in it, I would uncover my head -to them, and ask their forgiveness for the system that condemns some -one always to such humiliation as theirs. - -We say such people are not humiliated, that they do not mind it, that -they are used to it; but if we ever look these people in the eye, and -see the shrinking, averted glance of their shame and tortured pride, we -must know that what we say is a cruel lie. At any rate, the presence -of these outcasts must spoil the beauty of any dress near them, and -there is always so much more penury than affluence that the sight of -the crowd in the New York streets must give more pain than pleasure. -The other day on Fifth Avenue it did not console me to meet a young and -lovely girl, exquisitely dressed in the last effect of Paris, after I -had just parted from a young fellow who had begged me to give him a -little money to get something to eat, for he had been looking for work -a week and had got nothing. I suppose I ought to have doubted his word, -he was so decently clad, but I had a present vision of him in rags, and -I gave to the frowzy tramp he must soon become. - -Of course, this social contrast was extreme, like some of those -architectural contrasts I have been noting, but it was by no means -exceptional, as those were not. In fact, I do not know but I may say -that it was characteristic of the place, though you might say that the -prevalent American slovenliness was also characteristic of the New -York street crowds; I mean the slovenliness of the men--the women, of -whatever order they are, are always as much dandies as they can be. -But most American men are too busy to look much after their dress, -and when they are very well to do they care very little for it. You -see few men dressed in New York with, the distinction of the better -class of Londoners, and when you do meet them, they have the air of -playing a part, as in fact they are: they are playing the part of men -of leisure in a nation of men whose reality is constant work, whether -they work for bread or whether they work for money, and who, when they -are at work, outdo the world, but sink, when they are at leisure, into -something third rate and fourth rate. The commonness of effect in the -street crowds is not absent from Fifth Avenue or from Madison Avenue -any more than it is from First Avenue or Tenth Avenue; and the tide -of wealth and fashion, that rolls up and down the better avenues in -the splendid carriages, makes the shabbiness of the foot-passenger, -when he is shabby, as he often is, the more apparent. On the far east -side, and on the far west side, the horse-cars, which form the only -means of transit, have got the dirt and grime of the streets and the -dwellings on them and in them, and there is one tone of foulness in the -passengers and the vehicles. I do not wish to speak other than tenderly -of the poor, but it is useless to pretend that they are other than -offensive in aspect, and I have to take my sympathy in both hands when -I try to bestow it upon them. Neither they nor the quarter they live in -has any palliating quaintness; and the soul, starved of beauty, will -seek in vain to feed itself with the husks of picturesqueness in their -aspect. - - -IX. - -As I have said before, the shabby avenues have a picturesqueness of -their own, but it is a repulsive picturesqueness, as I have already -suggested, except at a distance. There are some differences of level, -on the avenues near the rivers, that give them an advantage of the more -central avenues, and there is now and then a break of their line by -the water, which is always good. I have noticed this particularly on -the eastern side of the city, which is also the older part, and which -has been less subject to the changes perpetually going on elsewhere, -so that First Avenue has really a finer sky-line, in many parts, than -most parts of Fifth Avenue. There are certain bits, as the artists say, -in the old quarters of the town once forming Greenwich village, which, -when I think of them, make me almost wish to take back what I have said -of the absence even of quaintness in New York. If I recall the aspect -of Mulberry Bend and Elizabeth street, on a mild afternoon, when their -Italian denizens are all either on the pavement or have their heads -poked out of the windows, I am still more in doubt of my own words. -But I am sure, at least, that there is no kindliness in the quaintness, -such as you are said to find in European cities. It has undergone the -same sort of malign change here that has transformed the Italians from -the friendly folk they are at home to the surly race they mostly show -themselves here: shrewd for their advancement in the material things, -which seem the only good things to the Americanized aliens of all -races, and fierce for their full share of the political pottage. The -Italians have a whole region of the city to themselves, and they might -feel at home in it if the filthiness of their native environment could -repatriate them. - -As you pass through these streets, there is much to appeal to your pity -in the squalid aspect of the people and the place, but nothing to take -your fancy; and perhaps this is best, for I think that there is nothing -more infernal than the juggle that transmutes for the tenderest-hearted -people the misery of their fellows into something comic or poetic. Only -very rarely have I got any relief from the sheer distress which the -prevalent poverty gives; and perhaps the reader will not be able to -understand how I could find this in the sight of some chickens going -to roost on a row of carts drawn up by the street-side, near a little -hovel where some old people lived in a temporary respite from the -building about them; or from a cottage in outlying suburban fields, -with a tar-roofed shanty for a stable, and an old horse cropping the -pasturage of the enclosure, with a brood of turkeys at his heels. - -But in New York you come to be glad of anything that will suggest a -sweeter and a gentler life than that which you mostly see. The life of -the poor here seemed to me symbolized in a waste and ruined field that -I came upon the other day in one of the westward avenues, which had -once been the grounds about a pleasant home. Till I saw this I did not -think any piece of our mother earth could have been made to look so -brutal and desolate amidst the habitations of men. But every spear of -grass had been torn from it; the hardened and barren soil was furrowed -like a haggard face, and it was all strewn with clubs and stones, as -if it had been a savage battleground. A few trees stood aloof from the -borders next the streets, where some courses of an ancient stone wall -rose in places above the pavement. I found the sight of it actually -depraving; it made me feel ruffianly, and I mused upon it in helpless -wonder as to the influence its ugliness must have had amidst the -structural ugliness all about it, if some wretch had turned to it in -hopes of respite. - -But probably none ever does. Probably the people on the shabby streets -and avenues are no more sensible of their hideousness than the people -in the finer streets and avenues are aware of their dulness or their -frantic disproportion. I have never heard a New-Yorker speak of these -things, and I have no doubt that if my words could come to the eyes -of the average New-Yorker he would be honestly surprised that any -one should find his city so ugly as it is. As for that first lesson -of civilization which my words implicate, a civic control of the -private architecture of the place, he would shrink from it with about -as much horror as from civic control of the liquor trade. If he did -not he would still be unable to understand how the individual liberty -that suffers a man to build offensively to his neighbor or to the -public at large is not liberty, but is a barbarous tyranny, which -puts an end instantly to beauty, and extinguishes the common and the -personal rights of every one who lives near the offender or passes by -his edifice. We Americans are yet so far lost in the dark ages as to -suppose that there is freedom where the caprice of one citizen can -interfere with the comfort or pleasure of the rest. - - -THE END. - - - - -HARPER’S AMERICAN ESSAYISTS - - - OTHER TIMES AND OTHER SEASONS. By LAURENCE HUTTON. - - A LITTLE ENGLISH GALLERY. By LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. - - LITERARY AND SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. By HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. - - STUDIES OF THE STAGE. By BRANDER MATTHEWS. - - AMERICANISMS AND BRITICISMS, with Other Essays on Other Isms. By - BRANDER MATTHEWS. - - AS WE GO. By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. With Illustrations. - - AS WE WERE SAYING. By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. With Illustrations. - - FROM THE EASY CHAIR. By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. - - FROM THE EASY CHAIR. _Second Series._ By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. - - FROM THE EASY CHAIR. _Third Series._ By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. - - CRITICISM AND FICTION. By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. - - FROM THE BOOKS OF LAURENCE HUTTON. - - CONCERNING ALL OF US. By THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. - - THE WORK OF JOHN RUSKIN. By CHARLES WALDSTEIN. - - PICTURE AND TEXT. By HENRY JAMES. With Illustrations. - - -16mo, Cloth, $1 00 each. Complete Sets, in White and Gold, $1 25 a -Volume. - - -PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. - -_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or -will be mailed by the publishers, postage prepaid, on receipt of the -price._ - - - - -BY GEORGE DU MAURIER - - - TRILBY. A Novel. Illustrated by the Author. Post 8vo, Cloth, - Ornamental, $1 75; Three-quarter Calf, $3 50; Three-quarter - Crushed Levant, $4 50. - -Certainly, if it were not for its predecessor, we should assign to -“Trilby” a place in fiction absolutely companionless.... It is one of -the most unconventional and charming of novels.--_Saturday Review_, -London. - -It is a charming story told with exquisite grace and tenderness.--_N. -Y. Tribune._ - -Mr. Du Maurier has written his tale with such originality, -unconventionality, and eloquence, such rollicking humor and tender -pathos, and delightful play of every lively fancy, all running so -briskly in exquisite English and with such vivid dramatic picturing, -that it is only comparable ... to the freshness and beauty of a spring -morning at the end of a dragging winter.... It is a thoroughly unique -story.--_N. Y. Sun._ - - - PETER IBBETSON. With an Introduction by his Cousin, Lady * * * * - * (“Madge Plunket”). Edited and Illustrated by GEORGE DU MAURIER. - Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. - -That it is one of the most remarkable books that have appeared for a -long time is, however, indisputable.--_N. Y. Tribune._ - -There are no suggestions of mediocrity. The pathos is true, the irony -delicate, the satire severe when its subject is unworthy, the comedy -sparkling, and the tragedy, as we have said, inevitable. 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D. Howells</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Impressions and experiences</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: W. D. Howells</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 10, 2021 [eBook #66257]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES ***</div> - -<div class="mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber’s Note:<br /><br /> -Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.<br /></p></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/front.jpg" alt="front" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="title page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<h1>IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES</h1> - -<p class="bold space-above">BY</p> - -<p class="bold2">W. D. HOWELLS</p> - -<p class="bold">AUTHOR OF “A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES”<br /> -“THE QUALITY OF MERCY” ETC.</p> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="logo" /></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">NEW YORK<br />HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS<br />1896</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/works.jpg" alt="W. D. HOWELLS WORKS" /></div> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p class="center">Copyright, 1896, by <span class="smcap">W. D. Howells</span>. -<br />———<br /><i>Electrotyped by J. A. Howells & Co., Jefferson, Ohio.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<hr class="smler2" /> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">THE COUNTRY PRINTER</td> - <td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">POLICE REPORT</td> - <td><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">I TALK OF DREAMS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_94">95</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">AN EAST-SIDE RAMBLE</td> - <td><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">TRIBULATIONS OF A CHEERFUL GIVER</td> - <td><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">THE CLOSING OF THE HOTEL</td> - <td><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">GLIMPSES OF CENTRAL PARK</td> - <td><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">NEW YORK STREETS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES.</p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/line.jpg" alt="line" /></div> - -<h2>THE COUNTRY PRINTER.</h2> - -<p>My earliest memories, or those which I can make sure are not the sort -of early hearsay that we mistake for remembrance later in life, concern -a country newspaper, or, rather, a country printing-office. The office -was in my childish consciousness some years before the paper was; -the compositors rhythmically swaying before their cases of type; the -pressman flinging himself back on the bar that made the impression, -with a swirl of his long hair; the apprentice rolling the forms, and -the foreman bending over the imposing-stone, were familiar to me when I -could not grasp the notion of any effect from their labors. In due time -I came to know all about it, and to understand that these activities -went to the making of the Whig newspaper which my father edited to -the confusion of the Locofocos, and in the especial interest of Henry -Clay; I myself supported this leader so vigorously for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> Presidency -in my seventh year that it was long before I could realize that the -election of 1844 had resulted in his defeat. My father had already been -a printer for a good many years, and some time in the early thirties -he had led a literary forlorn hope, in a West Virginian town, with a -monthly magazine, which he printed himself and edited with the help of -his sister.</p> - -<p>As long as he remained in business he remained a country editor and a -country printer; he began to study medicine when he was a young man, -but he abandoned it for the calling of his life without regret, and -though with his speculative and inventive temperament he was tempted to -experiment in other things, I do not think he would ever have lastingly -forsaken his newspaper for them. In fact, the art of printing was in -our blood; it never brought us great honor or profit; and we were -always planning and dreaming to get out of it, or get it out of us; -but we are all in some sort bound up with it still. To me it is now so -endeared by the associations of childhood that I cannot breathe the -familiar odor of types and presses without emotion; and I should not be -surprised if I found myself trying to cast a halo of romance about the -old-fashioned country office in what I shall have to say of it here. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>Our first newspaper was published in southwestern Ohio, but after a -series of varying fortunes, which I need not dwell upon, we found -ourselves in possession of an office in the northeastern corner of the -State, where the prevalent political feeling promised a prosperity -to one of my father’s anti-slavery opinions which he had never yet -enjoyed. He had no money, but in those days it was an easy matter to -get an interest in a country paper on credit, and we all went gladly -to work to help him pay for the share that he acquired in one by this -means. An office which gave a fair enough living, as living was then, -could be bought for twelve or fifteen hundred dollars; but this was an -uncommonly good office, and I suppose the half of it which my father -took was worth one sum or the other. Afterward, within a few months, -when it was arranged to remove the paper from the village where it had -always been published to the county-seat, a sort of joint-stock company -was formed, and the value of his moiety increased so much, nominally at -least, that he was nearly ten years paying for it. By this time I was -long out of the story, but at the beginning I was very vividly in it, -and before the world began to call me with that voice which the heart -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> youth cannot resist, it was very interesting; I felt its charm -then, and now, as I turn back to it, I feel its charm again, though it -was always a story of steady work, if not hard work.</p> - -<p>The county-seat, where it had been judged best to transfer the paper -lest some other paper of like politics should be established there, was -a village of only six or seven hundred inhabitants. But, as the United -States Senator who was one of its citizens used to say, it was “a place -of great political privileges.” The dauntless man who represented -the district in the House for twenty years, and who had fought the -anti-slavery battle from the first, was his fellow-villager, and more -than compeer in distinction; and besides these, there was nearly always -a State Senator or Representative among us. The county officers, of -course, lived at the county-seat, and the leading lawyers, who were -the leading politicians, made their homes in the shadow of the court -house, where one of them was presently elected to preside as Judge of -the Common Pleas. In politics, the county was already overwhelmingly -Freesoil, as the forerunner of the Republican party was then called; -the Whigs had hardly gathered themselves together since the defeat of -General Scott for the Presidency; the Democrats, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> dominant in -state and nation, and faithful to slavery at every election, did not -greatly outnumber among us the zealots called Comeouters, who would -not vote at all under a constitution recognizing the right of men to -own men. Our paper was Freesoil, and its field was large among that -vast majority of the people who believed that slavery would finally -perish if kept out of the territories, and confined to the old Slave -States. With the removal of the press to the county-seat there was a -hope that this field could be widened, till every Freesoil voter became -a subscriber. It did not fall out so; even of those who subscribed -in the ardor of their political sympathies, many never paid; but our -list was nevertheless handsomely increased, and numbered fifteen or -sixteen hundred. I do not know how it may be now, but then most country -papers had a list of four or five hundred subscribers; a few had a -thousand, a very few twelve hundred, and these were fairly decimated -by delinquents. We were so flown with hope that I remember there was -serious talk of risking the loss of the delinquents on our list by -exacting payment in advance; but the measure was thought too bold, -and we compromised by demanding two dollars a year for the paper, and -taking a dollar and a half if paid in advance. Twenty-five years later<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> -my brother, who had followed my father in the business, discovered -that a man who never meant to pay for his paper would as lief owe -two dollars as any less sum, and he at last risked the loss of the -delinquents by requiring advance payment; it was an heroic venture, but -it was perhaps time to make it.</p> - -<p>The people of the county were mostly farmers, and of these nearly all -were dairymen. The few manufactures were on a small scale, except -perhaps the making of oars, which were shipped all over the world from -the heart of the primeval forests densely wooding the vast levels of -the region. The portable steam sawmills dropped down on the borders of -the woods have long since eaten their way through and through them, -and devoured every stick of timber in most places, and drunk up the -watercourses that the woods once kept full; but at that time half the -land was in the shadow of those mighty poplars and hickories, elms and -chestnuts, ashes and hemlocks; and the meadows that pastured the herds -of red cattle were dotted with stumps as thick as harvest stubble. Now -there are not even stumps; the woods are gone, and the watercourses -are torrents in spring and beds of dry clay in summer. The meadows -themselves have vanished, for it has been found that the strong yellow -soil will produce<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> more in grain than in milk. There is more money in -the hands of the farmers there, though there is still so little that -by any city scale it would seem comically little, pathetically little; -but forty years ago there was so much less that fifty dollars seldom -passed through a farmer’s hands in a year. Payment was made in kind -rather than in coin, and every sort of farm produce was legal tender -at the printing-office. Wood was welcome in any quantity, for the huge -box-stove consumed it with inappeasable voracity, and then did not heat -the wide, low room which was at once editorial-room, composing-room, -and press-room. Perhaps this was not so much the fault of the stove as -of the building. In that cold lake-shore country the people dwelt in -wooden structures almost as thin and flimsy as tents; and often in the -first winter of our sojourn the type froze solid with the water which -the compositor put on it when he wished to distribute his case; the -inking rollers had to be thawed before they could be used on the press; -and if the current of the editor’s soul had not been the most genial -that ever flowed in this rough world, it must have been congealed at -its source. The cases of type had to be placed very near the windows -so as to get all the light there was, and they got all the cold there -was, too. From time to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> time, the compositor’s fingers became so stiff -that blowing on them would not avail; he passed the time in excursions -between his stand and the stove; in very cold weather, he practiced -the device of warming his whole case of types by the fire, and when it -lost heat, warming it again. The man at the press-wheel was then the -enviable man; those who handled the chill damp sheets of paper were no -more fortunate than the compositors.</p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>The first floor of our office-building was used by a sash-and-blind -factory; there was a machine-shop somewhere in it, and a mill for -sawing out shingles; and it was better fitted to the exercise of these -robust industries than to the requirements of our more delicate craft. -Later, we had a more comfortable place, in a new wooden “business -block,” and for several years before I left it the office was domiciled -in an old dwelling-house, which we bought, and which we used without -much change. It could never have been a very luxurious dwelling, and -my associations with it are of a wintry cold, scarcely less polar than -that we were inured to elsewhere. In fact, the climate of that region -is rough and fierce; and the lake winds have a malice sharper than -the saltiest gales of the North<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> Shore of Massachusetts. I know that -there were lovely summers and lovelier autumns in my time there, full -of sunsets of a strange, wild, melancholy splendor, I suppose from -some atmospheric influence of the lake; but I think chiefly of the -winters, so awful to us after the mild seasons of southern Ohio; the -frosts of ten and twenty below; the village streets and the country -roads drowned in snow, the consumptives in the thin houses, and the -“slippin’,” as the sleighing was called, that lasted from December to -April with hardly a break. At first our family was housed on a farm a -little way out, because there was no tenement to be had in the village, -and my father and I used to walk to and from the office together in the -morning and evening. I had taught myself to read Spanish, in my passion -for Don Quixote, and I was then, at the age of fifteen, preparing to -write a life of Cervantes. This scheme occupied me a good deal in those -bleak walks, and perhaps it was because my head was so hot with it that -my feet were always very cold; but my father assured me that they would -get warm as soon as my boots froze. If I have never yet written that -life of Cervantes, on the other hand I have never been quite able to -make it clear to myself why my feet should have got warm when my boots -froze. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>It may have been only a theory of his; it may have been a joke. He had -a great many theories and a great many jokes, and together these always -kept life interesting and sunshiny to him. With his serene temperament -and his happy doubt of disaster in any form, he was singularly well -fitted to encounter the hardships of a country editor’s lot. But for -the moment, and for what now seems a long time after the removal -of our paper to the county-seat, these seem to have vanished. The -printing-office was the centre of civic and social interest; it was -frequented by visitors at all times, and on publication day it was -a scene of gayety that looks a little incredible in the retrospect. -The place was as bare and rude as a printing-office seems always to -be: the walls were splotched with ink and the floor littered with -refuse newspapers; but lured by the novelty of the affair, and perhaps -attracted by a natural curiosity to see what manner of strange men the -printers were, the school-girls and young ladies of the village flocked -in, and made it like a scene of comic opera, with their pretty dresses -and faces, their eager chatter, and lively energy in folding the papers -and addressing them to the subscribers, while our fellow-citizens of -the place, like the bassos<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> and barytones and tenors of the chorus, -stood about and looked on with faintly sarcastic faces. It would not do -to think now of what sorrow life and death have since wrought for all -those happy young creatures, but I may recall without too much pathos -the sensation when some citizen volunteer relaxed from his gravity -far enough to relieve the regular mercenary at the crank of our huge -power-press wheel, amid the applause of the whole company.</p> - -<p>We were very vain of that press, which replaced the hand press hitherto -employed in printing the paper. This was of the style and make of the -hand-press which superseded the Ramage press of Franklin’s time; but -it had been decided to signalize our new departure by the purchase of -a power-press of modern contrivance, and of a speed fitted to meet the -demands of a subscription list which might be indefinitely extended. -A deputation of the leading politicians accompanied the editor to -New York, where he went to choose the machine, and where he bought a -second-hand Adams press of the earliest pattern and patent. I do not -know, or at this date I would not undertake to say, just what principle -governed his selection of this superannuated veteran; it seems not -to have been very cheap; but possibly he had a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>prescience of the -disabilities which were to task his ingenuity to the very last days of -that press. Certainly no man of less gift and skill could have coped -with its infirmities, and I am sure that he thoroughly enjoyed nursing -it into such activity as carried it hysterically through those far-off -publication days. It had obscure functional disorders of various kinds, -so that it would from time to time cease to act, and would have to be -doctored by the hour before it would go on. There was probably some -organic trouble, too, for though it did not really fall to pieces -on our hands, it showed itself incapable of profiting by several -improvements which he invented, and could, no doubt, have successfully -applied to the press if its constitution had not been undermined. It -went with a crank set in a prodigious fly-wheel which revolved at -a great rate, till it came to the moment of making the impression, -when the whole mechanism was seized with such a reluctance as nothing -but an heroic effort at the crank could overcome. It finally made so -great a draught upon our forces that it was decided to substitute -steam for muscle in its operation, and we got a small engine, which -could fully sympathize with the press in having seen better days. I do -not know that there was anything the matter with the engine itself, -but the boiler had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> some peculiarities which might well mystify the -casual spectator. He could easily have satisfied himself that there -was no danger of its blowing up, when he saw my brother feeding bran -or corn-meal into its safety-valve, in order to fill up certain seams -or fissures in it, which caused it to give out at the moments of the -greatest reluctance in the press. But still, he must have had his -misgivings of latent danger of some other kind, though nothing ever -actually happened of a hurtful character. To this day, I do not know -just where those seams or fissures were, but I think they were in the -boiler-head, and that it was therefore suffering from a kind of chronic -fracture of the skull. What is certain is that, somehow, the engine -and the press did always get us through publication day, and not only -with safety but often with credit; so that not long ago, when I was at -home, and my brother and I were looking over an old file of his paper, -we found it much better printed than either of us expected; as well -printed, in fact, as if it had been done on an old hand-press, instead -of the steam power-press which it vaunted the use of. The wonder was -that, under all the disadvantages, the paper was ever printed on our -steam power-press at all; it was little short of miraculous that it was -legibly printed, and altogether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> unaccountable that such impressions -as we found in that file could come from it. Of course, they were not -average impressions; they were the very best out of the whole edition, -and were as creditable as the editorial make-up of the sheet.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>On the first page was a poem, which I suppose I must have selected, -and then a story, filling all the rest of the page, which my brother -more probably chose; for he had a decided fancy in fiction, and -had a scrap-book of inexhaustible riches, which he could draw upon -indefinitely for old personal or family favorites. The next page was -filled with selections of various kinds, and with original matter -interesting to farmers. Then came a page of advertisements, and then -the editorial page, where my father had given his opinions of the -political questions which interested him, and which he thought it the -duty of the country press to discuss, with sometimes essays in the -field of religion and morals. There was a letter of two columns from -Washington, contributed every week by the congressman who represented -our district; and there was a letter from New York, written by a young -lady of the county who was studying art under a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>master of portraiture -then flourishing in the metropolis; if that is not stating it too -largely for the renown of Thomas Hicks, as we see it in a vanishing -perspective. The rest of this page, as well as the greater part of the -next, was filled with general news, clipped from the daily papers, and -partly condensed from them. There was also such local intelligence -as offered itself, and communications on the affairs of village and -county; but the editor did not welcome tidings of new barns and -abnormal vegetation, or flatter hens to lay eggs of unusual size or -with unusual frequency by undue public notice. All that order of minute -neighborhood gossip which now makes the country paper a sort of open -letter was then unknown. He published marriages and deaths, and such -obituary notices as the sorrowing fondness of friends prompted them to -send him; and he introduced the custom of publishing births, after the -English fashion, which the people took to kindly.</p> - -<p>We had an ambition, even so remotely as that day, in the direction of -the illustration which has since so flourished in the newspapers. Till -then we had never gone further in the art than to print a jubilant -raccoon over the news of some Whig victory, or, what was to the same -purpose, an inverted cockerel in mockery of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> the beaten Democrats; but -now we rose to the notion of illustrated journalism. We published a -story with a woodcut in it, and we watched to see how that cut came out -all through the edition with a pride that was perhaps too exhaustive; -at any rate, we never tried another.</p> - -<p>Of course, much of the political writing in the paper was -controversial, and was carried on with editors of other opinions -elsewhere in the county, for we had no rival in our own village. In -this, which has always been the vice of American journalism, the -country press was then fully as provincial as the great metropolitan -journals are now. These may be more pitilessly personal in the conduct -of their political discussions, and a little more skilled in obloquy -and insult; but the bickering went on in the country papers quite as -idly and foolishly. I fancy nobody really cared for our quarrels, and -that those who followed them were disgusted when they were more than -merely wearied.</p> - -<p>The space given to them might better have been given even to original -poetry. This was sometimes accepted, but was not invited; though -our sixth page commonly began with verse of some kind. Then came -more prose selections, but never at any time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> accounts of murder or -violent crimes, which the editor abominated in themselves and believed -thoroughly corrupting. Advertisements of various kinds filled out the -sheet, which was simple and quiet in typography, wholly without the -hand-bill display which now renders nearly all newspapers repulsive -to the eye. I am rather proud, in my quality of printer, that this -was the style which I established; and we maintained it against all -advertisers, who then as now wished to out-shriek one another in large -type and ugly woodcuts.</p> - -<p>It was by no means easy to hold a firm hand with the “live business -men” of our village and country, who came out twice a year with -the spring and fall announcements of their fresh stocks of goods, -which they had personally visited New York to lay in; but one of the -moral advantages of an enterprise so modest as ours was that the -counting-room and the editorial-room were united under the same head, -and this head was the editor’s. After all, I think we lost nothing -by the bold stand we made in behalf of good taste, and at any rate -we risked it when we had not the courage to cut off our delinquent -subscribers.</p> - -<p>We had business advertising from all the villages in the county, -for the paper had a large circle of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>readers in each, and a certain -authority, in virtue of representing the county-seat. But a great deal -of our advertising was of patent medicines, as the advertising still -is in the country papers. It was very profitable, and so was the legal -advertising, when we could get the money for it. The money had to come -by order of court, and about half the time the order of court failed -to include the costs of advertising. Then we did not get it, and we -never got it, though we were always glad to get the legal advertising -on the chance of getting the pay. It was not official, but was made -up of the lawyers’ notices to defendants of the suits brought against -them. If it had all been paid for, I am not sure that we should now be -in a position to complain of the ingratitude of the working-classes, or -prepared to discuss, from a vantage of personal experience, the duty -of vast wealth to the community; but still we should have been better -off for that money, as well as the money we lost by a large and loyal -list of delinquent subscribers. From time to time there were stirring -appeals to these adherents in the editorial columns, which did not -stir them, and again the most flattering offers to take any kind of -produce in payment of subscription. Sometimes my brother boldly tracked -the delinquents to their lairs. In most cases<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> I fancy they escaped -whatever arts he used to take them; many died peacefully in their beds -afterward, and their debts follow them to this day. Still, he must now -and then have got money from them, and I am sure he did get different -kinds of “trade.” Once, I remember, he brought back in the tail of his -wagon a young pig, a pig so very young that my father pronounced it -“merely an organization.” Whether it had been wrought to frenzy or not -by the strange experiences of its journey, I cannot say, but as soon -as it was set down on the ground it began to run madly, and it kept on -running till it fell down and perished miserably. It had been taken for -a year’s subscription, and it was quite as if we had lost a delinquent -subscriber.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>Upon the whole, our paper was an attempt at conscientious and -self-respecting journalism; it addressed itself seriously to the minds -of its readers; it sought to form their tastes and opinions. I do not -know how much it influenced them, if it influenced them at all, and -as to any effect beyond the circle of its subscribers, that cannot -be imagined, even in a fond retrospect. But since no good effort is -altogether lost, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> am sure that this endeavor must have had some -tacit effect; and I am sure that no one got harm from a sincerity of -conviction that devoted itself to the highest interest of the reader, -that appealed to nothing base, and flattered nothing foolish in him. It -went from our home to the homes of the people in a very literal sense, -for my father usually brought his exchanges from the office at the end -of his day there, and made his selections or wrote his editorials while -the household work went on around him, and his children gathered about -the same lamp, with their books or their jokes; there were apt to be a -good many of both.</p> - -<p>Our county was the most characteristic of that remarkable group of -counties in northern Ohio called the Western Reserve, and forty years -ago the population was almost purely New England in origin, either by -direct settlement from Connecticut, or indirectly after the sojourn -of a generation in New York State. We were ourselves from southern -Ohio, where the life was then strongly tinged by the adjoining life of -Kentucky and Virginia, and we found these transplanted Yankees cold and -blunt in their manners; but we did not undervalue their virtues. They -formed in that day a leaven of right thinking and feeling which was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> to -leaven the whole lump of the otherwise proslavery or indifferent state; -and I suppose that outside of the antislavery circles of Boston there -was nowhere in the country a population so resolute and so intelligent -in its political opinions. They were very radical in every way, and -hospitable to novelty of all kinds. I imagine that they tested more -new religions and new patents than have been even heard of in less -inquiring communities. When we came among them they had lately been -swept by the fires of spiritualism, which left behind a great deal of -smoke and ashes where the inherited New England orthodoxy had been. A -belief in the saving efficacy of spirit phenomena still exists among -them, but not, I fancy, at all in the former measure, when nearly every -household had its medium, and the tables that tipped outnumbered the -tables that did not tip. The old New York Tribune, which was circulated -in the country almost as widely as our own paper, had deeply schooled -the people in the economics of Horace Greeley, and they were ready -for any sort of millennium, religious or industrial, that should -arrive, while they looked very wisely after the main chance in the -meantime. They were temperate, hard-working, hard-thinking folks, who -dwelt on their scattered farms, and came up to the County Fair once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> -a year, when they were apt to visit the printing-office and pay for -their papers. In spite of the English superstition to the contrary, -the average American is not very curious, if one may judge from his -reticence in the presence of things strange enough to excite question; -and if our craft surprised these witnesses they rarely confessed it.</p> - -<p>They thought it droll, as people of the simpler occupations are apt to -think all the more complex arts; and one of them once went so far in -expression of his humorous conception as to say, after a long stare at -one of the compositors dodging and pecking at the type in his case, -“Like an old hen pickin’ up millet.” This sort of silence, and this -sort of comment, both exasperated the printers, who took their revenge -as they could. They fed it full, once, when a country subscriber’s -horse, tied before the office, crossed his hind-legs and sat down in -his harness like a tired man, and they proposed to go out and offer him -a chair, to take him a glass of water, and ask him to come inside. But -fate did not often give them such innings; they mostly had to create -their chances of reprisal, but they did not mind that.</p> - -<p>There was always a good deal of talk going on, but although we were -very ardent politicians, the talk was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> not political. When it was not -mere banter, it was mostly literary; we disputed about authors among -ourselves, and with the village wits who dropped in. There were several -of these who were readers, and they liked to stand with their backs to -our stove and challenge opinion concerning Holmes and Poe, Irving and -Macaulay, Pope and Byron, Dickens and Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>It was Shakespeare who was oftenest on our tongues; indeed, the -printing-office of former days had so much affinity with the theatre -that compositors and comedians were easily convertible; and I have seen -our printers engaged in hand-to-hand combats with column-rules, two up -and two down, quite like the real bouts on the stage. Religion entered -a good deal into our discussions, which my father, the most tolerant -of men, would not suffer to become irreverent, even on the lips of law -students bathing themselves in the fiery spirit of Tom Paine. He was -willing to meet any one in debate of moral, religious, or political -questions, and the wildest-haired Comeouter, the most ruthless -sceptic, the most credulous spiritualist, found him ready to take them -seriously, even when it was hard not to take them in joke.</p> - -<p>It was part of his duty, as publisher of the paper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> to bear patiently -with another kind of frequenter: the type of farmer who thought he -wished to discontinue his paper, and really wished to be talked into -continuing it. I think he rather enjoyed letting the subscriber talk -himself out, and carrying him from point to point in his argument, -always consenting that he knew best what he wanted to do, but skilfully -persuading him at last that a home-paper was more suited to his needs -than any city substitute. Once I could have given the heads of his -reasoning, but they are gone from me now. The editor was especially -interested in the farming of the region, and I think it was partly -owing to the attention he called to the question that its character was -so largely changed. It is still a dairy country, but now it exports -grain, and formerly the farmers had to buy their flour.</p> - -<p>He did not neglect any real local interest in his purpose of keeping -his readers alive to matters of more general importance, but he was -fortunate in addressing himself to people who cared for the larger, -if remoter, themes he loved. In fact, as long as slavery remained a -question in our politics, they had a seriousness and dignity which the -present generation can hardly imagine; and men of all callings felt -themselves uplifted by the appeal this question made to their <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>reason -and conscience. My father constantly taught in his paper that if -slavery could be kept out of the territories it would perish, and, as -I have said, this was the belief of the vast majority of his readers. -They were more or less fervid in it, according to their personal -temperaments; some of them were fierce in their convictions, and some -humorous, but they were all in earnest. The editor sympathized more -with those who took the true faith gayly. All were agreed that the -Fugitive Slave Law was to be violated at any risk; it would not have -been possible to take an escaping slave out of that county without -bloodshed, but the people would have enjoyed outwitting his captors -more than destroying them. Even in the great John Brown times, when it -was known that there was a deposit of his impracticable pikes somewhere -in our woods, and he and his followers came and went among us on some -mysterious business of insurrectionary aim, the affair had its droll -aspects which none appreciated more keenly than the Quaker-born editor. -With his cheerful scepticism, he could never have believed that any -harm or danger would come of it all; and I think he would have been -hardly surprised to wake up any morning and find that slavery had died -suddenly during the night, of its own iniquity. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> - -<p>He was like all country editors then, and I dare say now, in being -a printer as well as an editor, and he took a full share in the -mechanical labors. These were formerly much more burdensome, for -twice or thrice the present type-setting was then done in the country -offices. At the present day the country printer buys of a city agency -his paper already printed on one side, and he gets it for the cost of -the blank paper, the agency finding its account in the advertisements -it puts in. Besides this patent inside, as it is called, the printer -buys stereotyped selections of other agencies, which offer him almost -as wide a range of matter as the exchange newspapers he used to choose -from. The few columns left for local gossip and general news, and for -whatever editorial comment he cares to make on passing events, can -be easily filled up by two compositors. But in my time we had three -journeymen at work and two or three girl-compositors, and commonly a -boy-apprentice besides. The paper was richer in a personal quality, -and the printing-office was unquestionably more of a school. After we -began to take girl-apprentices it became coeducative, as far as they -cared to profit by it; but I think it did not serve to widen their -thoughts or quicken their wits as it did those of the men. They looked -to their craft as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> living, not as a life, and they had no pride in -it. They did not learn the whole trade, as the journeymen had done, -and served only such apprenticeship as fitted them to set type. They -were then paid by the thousand ems, and their earnings were usually as -great at the end of a month as at the end of a year. But the boy who -came up from his father’s farm, with the wish to be a printer because -Franklin had been one, and with the intent of making the office his -university, began by sweeping it out, by hewing wood and carrying water -for it. He became a roller-boy, and served long behind the press before -he was promoted to the case, where he learned slowly and painfully to -set type. His wage was forty dollars a year and two suits of clothes, -for three years, when his apprenticeship ended, and his wander-years -(too often literally) began. He was glad of being inky and stained -with the marks of his trade; he wore a four-cornered paper cap, in the -earlier stages of his service, and even an apron. When he became a -journeyman, he clothed himself in black doeskin and broadcloth, and put -on a silk hat and the thinnest-soled fine boots that could be found, -and comported himself as much like a man of the world as he knew how to -do. His work brought him acquainted with a vast variety of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>interests, -and kept his mind as well as hands employed; he could not help thinking -about them, and he did not fail to talk about them. His comments had -generally a slightly acid flavor, and his constant survey of the -world, in the “map of busy life” always under his eye, bred in him -the contempt of familiarity. He was none the less agreeable for that, -and the jokes that flew about from case to case in our office were -something the editor would have been the last man to interfere with. -He read or wrote on through them all, and now and then turned from his -papers to join in them.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>The journeyman of that time and place was much better than the printer -whom we had known earlier and in a more lax civilization, who was -too apt to be sober only when he had not the means to be otherwise, -and who arrived out of the unknown with nothing in his pocket, and -departed into it with only money enough to carry him to the next -printing-office. If we had no work for him it was the custom to take -up a collection in the office, and he accepted it as a usage of the -craft, without loss of self-respect. It could happen that his often -infirmity would overtake him before he got out of town, but in this -case he did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> not return for a second collection; I suppose that would -not have been good form. Now and then a printer of this earlier sort -appeared among us for a little time, but the air of the Western Reserve -was somehow unfriendly to him, and he soon left us for the kindlier -clime of the Ohio River, or for the more southerly region which we -were ourselves sometimes so homesick for, and which his soft, rolling -accent so pleasantly reminded us of. Still, there was something about -the business—perhaps the arsenic in the type-metal—which everywhere -affected the morals as it was said sometimes to affect the nerves.</p> - -<p>There was one of our printers who was a capital compositor, a most -engaging companion, and of unimpeachable Western Reserve lineage, who -would work along in apparent perpetuity on the line of duty, and then -suddenly deflect from it. If he wanted a day off, or several days, he -would take the time, without notice, and with a princely indifference -to any exigency we might be in. He came back when he chose, and offered -to go to work again, and I do not remember that he was ever refused. -He was never in drink; his behavior was the effect of some obscure -principle of conduct, unless it was that moral contagion from the -material he wrought in. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> - -<p>I do not know that he was any more characteristic, though, than another -printer of ours, who was dear to my soul from the quaintness of his -humor and his love of literature. I think he was, upon the whole, the -most original spirit I have known, and it was not the least part of -his originality that he was then aiming to become a professor in some -college, and was diligently training himself for the calling in all the -leisure he could get from his work. The usual thing would have been to -read law and crowd forward in political life, but my friend despised -this common ideal. We were both studying Latin, he quite by himself, as -he studied Greek and German, and I with such help as I could find in -reciting to a kindly old minister, who had forgotten most of his own -Latin, and whom I do not now wish to blame for falling asleep over the -lessons in my presence; I did not know them well enough to keep him up -to the work. My friend and I read the language, he more and I less, and -we tried to speak it together, to give ourselves consequence, and to -have the pleasure of saying before some people’s faces what we should -otherwise have said behind their backs; I should not now undertake to -speak Latin to achieve either of these aims. Besides this, we read a -great deal together, mainly Shakespeare and Cervantes. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> had a task of -a certain number of thousand ems a day, and when I had finished that I -was free to do what I liked; he would stop work at the same time, and -then we would take our Don Quixote into some clean, sweet beech-woods -there were near the village, and laugh our hearts out over it. I can -see my friend’s strange face now, very regular, very fine, and smooth -as a girl’s, with quaint blue eyes, shut long, long ago, to this <i>dolce -lome</i>; and some day I should like to tell all about him; but this is -not the place. When the war broke out he left the position he had got -by that time in some college or academy farther west and went into -the army. One morning, in Louisiana, he was killed by a guerrilla -who got a shot at him when he was a little way from his company, and -who was probably proud of picking off the Yankee captain. But as yet -such a fate was unimaginable. He was the first friend of my youth; -he was older than I by five or six years; but we met in an equality -of ambition and purpose, though he was rather more inclined to the -severity of the scholar’s ideal, and I hoped to slip through somehow -with a mere literary use of my learning. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>As I have tried to say, the printers of that day had nearly all some -affinity with literature, if not some love of it; it was in a sort -always at their fingers-ends, and they must have got some touch of -it whether they would or not. They thought their trade a poor one, -moneywise, but they were fond of it and they did not often forsake -it. Their hope was somehow to get hold of a country paper and become -editors and publishers; and my friend and I, when he was twenty-four -and I eighteen, once crossed over into Pennsylvania, where we had -heard there was a paper for sale; but we had not the courage to offer -even promises to pay for it. The craft had a repute for insolvency -which it merited, and it was at odds with the community at large by -reason of something not immediately intelligible in it, or at least not -classifiable. I remember that when I began to write a certain story -of mine, I told Mark Twain, who was once a printer, that I was going -to make the hero a printer, and he said, “Better not. People will not -understand him. Printing is something every village has in it, but -it is always a sort of mystery, and the reader does not like to be -perplexed by something that he thinks he knows about.” This seemed -very acute and just, though I made my hero<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> a printer all the same, -and I offer it to the public as a light on the anomalous relation the -country printer bears to his fellow-citizens. They see him following -his strange calling among them, but to neither wealth nor worship, -and they cannot understand why he does not take up something else, -something respectable and remunerative; they feel that there must be -something weak, something wrong in a man who is willing to wear his -life out in a vocation which keeps him poor and dependent on the favor -they grudge him. It is like the relation which all the arts bear to -the world, and which is peculiarly thankless in a purely commercial -civilization like ours; though I cannot pretend that printing is an -art in the highest sense. I have heard old journeymen claim that it -was a profession and ought to rank with the learned professions, but -I am afraid that was from too fond a pride in it. It is in one sort a -handicraft, like any other, like carpentering or stone-cutting; but it -has its artistic delight, as every handicraft has. There is the ideal -in all work; and I have had moments of unsurpassed gladness in feeling -that I had come very near the ideal in what I had done in my trade. -This joy is the right of every worker, and in so far as modern methods -have taken it from him they have wronged him. I can <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>understand Ruskin -in his wish to restore it to some of the handicrafts which have lost it -in the “base mechanical” operations of the great manufactories, where -men spend their lives in making one thing, or a part of a thing, and -cannot follow their work constructively. If that were to be the end, -the operative would forever lose the delight in work which is the best -thing in the world. But I hope this is not to be the end, and that when -people like again to make things for use and not merely for profit, the -workman will have again the reward that is more than wages.</p> - -<p>I know that in the old-fashioned country printing-office we had this, -and we enjoyed our trade as the decorative art it also is. Questions of -taste constantly arose in the arrangement of a title-page, the display -of a placard or a handbill, the use of this type or that. They did -not go far, these questions, but they employed the critical faculty -and the æsthetic instinct, and they allied us, however slightly and -unconsciously, with the creators of the beautiful.</p> - -<p>But now, it must be confessed, printing has shared the fate of all -other handicrafts. Thanks to united labor, it is better paid in each -of its subdivisions than it once was as a whole. In my time, the hire -of a first-rate country printer, who usually worked by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> week, was -a dollar a day; but of course this was not so little in 1852 as it -would be in 1892. My childish remembrance is of the journeymen working -two hours after supper, every night, so as to make out a day of twelve -hours; but at the time I write of the day of ten hours was the law and -the rule, and nobody worked longer, except when the President’s Message -was to be put in type, or on some other august occasion.</p> - -<p>The pay is not only increased in proportion to the cost of living, but -it is really greater, and the conditions are all very much better. -But I believe no apprentice now learns the whole trade, and each of -our printers, forty years ago, would have known how to do everything -in the kind of office he hoped to own. He would have had to make a -good many things which the printer now buys, and first among them the -rollers, which are used for inking the type on the press. These were -of a composition of glue and molasses, and were of an india-rubbery -elasticity and consistency, as long as they were in good condition. But -with use and time they became hard, the ink smeared on them, and they -failed to impart it evenly to the type; they had to be thrown away, or -melted over again. This was done on the office stove, in a large bucket -which they were cut up into, with fresh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> glue and molasses added. It -seems in the retrospect to have been rather a simple affair, and I do -not now see why casting a roller should have involved so much absolute -failure, and rarely have given a satisfactory result. The mould was a -large copper cylinder, and the wooden core of the roller was fixed in -place by an iron cap and foot-piece. The mixture boiled away, as it -now seems to me, for days, and far into the sleepy nights, when as a -child I was proud of sitting up with it very late. Then at some weird -hour, my father or my brother poured it into the mould, and we went -home and left the rest with fate. The next morning the whole office -crowded round to see the roller drawn from the mould, and it usually -came out with such long hollows and gaps in its sides that it had to -be cut up at once and melted over again. At present, all rollers are -bought somewhere in New York or Chicago, I believe, and a printer would -no more think of making a roller than of making any other part of his -press. “And you know,” said my brother, who told me of this change, -“we don’t wet the paper now.” “Good heavens,” said I, “you don’t print -it <i>dry</i>!” “Yes, and it doesn’t blur any more than if it were wet.” I -suppose wetting the paper was a usage that antedated the invention of -movable type. It used to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> be drawn, quire by quire, through a vat of -clear water, and then the night before publication day it was turned -and sprinkled. Now it was printed dry, I felt as if it were time to -class Benjamin Franklin with the sun-myths.</p> - -<h3>VIII.</h3> - -<p>Publication day was always a time of great excitement. We were busy -all the morning getting the last editorials and the latest news in -type, and when the paper went to press in the afternoon the entire -force was drafted to the work of helping the engine and the press -through their various disabilities and reluctances. Several hands were -needed to run the press, even when it was in a willing frame; others -folded the papers as they came from it; as many more were called from -their wonted work to address them to the subscribers; for with the -well-known fickleness of their sex, the young ladies of the village -ceased to do this as soon as the novelty of the affair wore off. -Still, the office was always rather a lively scene, for the paper -was not delivered at the village houses, and each subscriber came -and got his copy; the villagers began to come about the hour we went -to press, the neighboring farmers called next day and throughout the -week. Nearly everybody who witnessed the throes of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> our machinery had -advice or sympathy to offer, and in a place where many people were of a -mechanical turn the spectacular failure of the editor’s additions and -improvements was naturally a source of public entertainment; perhaps -others got as much pleasure out of his inventions as he did.</p> - -<p>Of course, about election time the excitement was intensified; we had -no railroad or telegraphic communication with the outer world, but it -was felt that we somehow had the news, and it was known that we had -the latest papers from Cleveland, and that our sheet would report the -intelligence from them. After all, however, there was nothing very -burning or seething in the eagerness of our subscribers. They could -wait; their knowledge of the event would not change it, or add or -take away one vote either way. I dare say it is not so very different -now, when the railroad and the telegraph have made the little place -simultaneous with New York and London. We people who fret our lives -out in cities do not know how tranquil life in the country still is. -We talk of the whirl and rush, as if it went on everywhere, but if you -will leave the express train anywhere and pass five miles into the -country, away from the great through lines, you will not find the whirl -and rush. People sometimes go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> mad there from the dulness and ennui, as -in the cities they sometimes go mad from the stress and the struggle; -and the problem of equalizing conditions has no phase more interesting -than that of getting the good of the city and the country out of the -one into the other. The old-fashioned country newspaper formed almost -the sole intellectual experience of the remote and quiet folks who -dwelt in their lonely farmsteads on the borders of the woods, with -few neighbors and infrequent visits to the township centre, where the -church, a store or two, and a tavern constituted a village. They got -it out of the post-office there once a week, and read it in the scanty -leisure left them by their farm-work or their household drudgery, and -I dare say they found it interesting. There were some men in every -neighborhood, tongueyer than the rest, who, when they called on us, -seemed to have got it by heart, and who were ready to defend or combat -its positions with all comers; this sort usually took some other paper, -too, an agricultural paper, or the New York <i>Trybune</i>, as they called -it; or a weekly edition of a Cleveland journal. It was generally -believed that Horace Greeley wrote everything in the <i>Trybune</i>, and -when a country subscriber unfolded his <i>Trybune</i>, he said, with -comfortable expectation, “Well, let’s see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> what old Horace says <i>this</i> -week.” But by far the greater number of our subscribers took no paper -but our own. I do not know whether there is much more reading done now -on the farms, but I doubt it. In the villages, however, the circulation -of the nearest city dailies is pretty general, and there is a large -sale of the Sunday editions. I am not sure that this is an advantage, -but in the undeniable decay of interest in the local preaching, some -sort of mental relish for the only day of leisure is necessary. It is -not so much a pity that they read the Sunday papers, as that the Sunday -papers are so bad. If they were carefully and conscientiously made up, -they would be of great use; they wait their reformer, and they do not -seem impatient for him.</p> - -<p>In the old time, we printers were rather more in touch with the world -outside on the journalistic lines than most of our fellow-villagers, -but otherwise we were as remote as any of them, and the weekly issue -of the paper had not often anything tumultuously exciting for us. The -greatest event of our year was the publication of the President’s -Message, which was a thrill in my childish life long before I had -any conception of its meaning. I fancy that the patent inside, now -so universally used by the country papers, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>originated in the custom -which the printers within easy reach of a large city had of supplying -themselves with an edition of the President’s Message, to be folded -into their own sheet, when they did not print their outside on the -back of it. There was always a hot rivalry between the local papers -in getting out the Message, whether it was bought ready printed, or -whether it was set up in the office and printed in the body of the -paper. We had no local rival, but all the same we made haste when it -was a question of the Message. The printers filled their cases with -type, ready for the early copy of the Message, which the editor used -every device to secure; when it was once in hand they worked day and -night till it was all up, and then the paper was put to press at once, -without regard to the usual publication day; and the community was as -nearly electrified as could be with our journalistic enterprise, which -was more important in our eyes than the matters the Message treated of.</p> - -<p>There is no longer the eager popular expectation of the President’s -Message that there once seemed to be; and I think it is something of -a loss, that ebb of the high tide of political feeling which began -with the era of our immense material prosperity. It was a feeling that -formed a solidarity of all the citizens, and if it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> was not always, or -often, the highest interest which can unite men, it was at least not -that deadly and selfish cult of business which centres each of us in -his own affairs and kills even our curiosity about others. Very likely -people were less bent on the pursuit of wealth in those days, because -there was less chance to grow rich, but the fact remains that they -<i>were</i> less bent in that direction, and that they gave their minds to -other things more than they do now. I think those other things were -larger things, and that our civic type was once nobler than it is. It -was before the period of corruption, when it was not yet fully known -that dollars can do the work of votes, when the votes as yet rather -outnumbered the dollars, and more of us had the one than the other. -The great statesman, not the great millionaire, was then the American -ideal, and all about in the villages and on the farms the people were -eager to know what the President had said to Congress. They are not -eager to know now, and that seems rather a pity. Is it because in -the war which destroyed slavery, the American Democracy died, and by -operation of the same fatal anomaly the American Plutocracy, which -Lincoln foreboded, was born; and the people instinctively feel that -they have no longer the old interest in President or Congress? </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> - -<p>There are those that say so, and, whether they are right or not, it -is certain that into the great centres where money is heaped up the -life of the country is drained, and the country press has suffered -with the other local interests. The railroads penetrate everywhere, -and carry the city papers seven times a week, where the home paper -pays its tardy visit once, with a patent inside imported from the -nearest money-centre, and its few columns of neighborhood gossip, -too inconsiderable to be gathered up by the correspondents of the -invasive dailies. Other causes have worked against the country press. -In counties where there were once two or three papers, there are now -eight or ten, without a material increase of population to draw upon -for support. The county printing, which the paper of the dominant -party could reckon upon, is now shared with other papers of the same -politics, and the amateur printing-offices belonging to ingenious boys -in every neighborhood get much of the small job-work which once came to -the publisher.</p> - -<p>It is useless to quarrel with the course of events, for which no one -is more to blame than another, though human nature loves a scapegoat, -and from time to time we load up some individual with the common -sins, and drive him into a wilderness where he seems rather to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> enjoy -himself than otherwise. I suppose that even if the conditions had -continued favorable, the country press could never have become the -influence which our editor fondly hoped and earnestly strove to make -it. Like all of us who work at all, the country printer had to work -too hard; and he had little time to think or to tell how to make life -better and truer in any sort. His paper had once perhaps as much -influence as the country pulpit; its support was certainly of the -same scanty and reluctant sort, and it was without consecration by an -avowed self-devotion. He was concerned with the main chance first, and -after that there was often no other chance, or he lost sight of it. I -should not instance him as an exemplary man, and I should be very far -from idealizing him; I should not like even to undertake the task of -idealizing a city journalist; and yet, in the retrospect at least, the -country printer has his pathos for me—the pathos of a man who began -to follow a thankless calling because he loved it, and kept on at it -because he loved it, or else because its service had warped and cramped -him out of form to follow any other.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> - -<h2>POLICE REPORT.</h2> - -<p>One day in summer, when people whom I had been urging to behave in -some degree like human beings persisted in acting rather more like -the poor creatures who pass for men and women in most stage-plays, I -shut my manuscript in a drawer, and the next morning took an early -train into the city. I do not remember just what whim it was that led -me to visit the police court: perhaps I went because it was in the -dead vast and middle of the summer, and the town afforded little other -amusement; perhaps it was because, in my revolt against unreality, I -was in the humor to see life whose reality asserts itself every day in -the newspapers with indisputable force. If this was so, I was fated to -a measure of disappointment, for when the court opened this reality -often appeared no more substantial than the fiction with which I had -lost my patience at home. But I am bound to say that it was much more -entertaining, and that it was, so to speak, much more artistically -treated. It resolved itself into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> melodrama, or romantic tragedy, -having a prevailing comic interest, with moments of intensity, and -with effects so thrilling that I came away with a sense of the highest -theatrical illusion.</p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>The police court in Boston is an upper room of the temple of justice, -and is a large, square, dismal-complexioned chamber, with the usual -seams and cracks configuring its walls and ceilings; its high, -curtainless windows were long glares of sunless light, crossed with -the fine drizzle of an easterly rain on the morning of my visit. About -one-third of the floor is allotted to spectators, and supplied with -benches of penitential severity; the remaining space is occupied by a -series of curved tables set in a horse-shoe, and by a raised platform, -railed off from the auditorium, as I may call it, and supporting in -successive gradations the clerk’s desk, on a very long, narrow table, -and the judge’s table and easy-chair. At either end of the table on -which the clerk’s desk was placed was a bar, representing in one case -the witness stand, and in the other the prisoner’s box; midway, the -clerk stood within a screen of open iron-work, hemmed in with books of -record and tin boxes full of docketed papers. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> - -<p>Outside of the railing were the desks of two officers of the court, -whose proper titles my unfamiliarity with the place disables me from -giving. They were both well in flesh, as I remember, and in spite of -their blue flannel suits and the exercise of a wise discretion, by -which one of them had discarded his waistcoat and neckcloth, they -visibly suffered from the moist, close heat which the storm outside had -driven into the court-room. From time to time one of them cried out, -“Silence!” to quell a restive movement in the audience; and once the -cravatless officer left his place, and came down to mine near the door, -and drove out the boys who were sitting round me. “Leave!” he shouted. -“This is no place for boys!” They went out obediently, and some others -just like them came in immediately and took their places. They might -have been the same boys, so far as any difference for the better in -their looks went. They were not pleasant to the eye, nor to any other -sense; and neither were the young men nor old men who for the rest -formed the audience of this free dramatic spectacle. Their coat-collars -came up above their shirt-collars; but, greasy as they were, the -observer could not regret this misfit when chance gave an occasional -glimpse of their linen—or their cotton, to be exact. For the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> most -part, they wore their hair very short, and exposed necks which I -should, I believe, have preferred to have covered. Under the influence -of the humid heat, and with the wet they brought from the outside, -they sent up a really deplorable smell. I do not know that I have a -right to criticise the appearance of some of their eyes—they seemed -perfectly good eyes to see with, in spite of their sinister or vacant -expression and gloomy accessories; and certain scars and mutilations of -the face and fingers were the affair of their owners rather than mine. -Whenever they fell into talk, an officer of the court marched upon -them and crushed them to silence. “This is no place for conversation,” -he said; and the greater part of them had evidently no disposition or -capacity for that art. I believe they were men and boys whose utmost -mental effort sufficed to let their mouths hang open in the absorption -of the performance, and was by no means equal to comment upon it. -I fancied that they came there, day after day, the year round, and -enjoyed themselves in their poor way, realizing many of the situations -presented by experience of like predicaments, more than by sympathy or -an effort of the imagination.</p> - -<p>I had taken my place among them next the door, so that if my courage -failed me at any time I could go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> out without disturbing the others. -One need not be a very proud man to object to classing himself with -them, and there were moments when I doubted if I could stand my -fellow-spectators much longer; but these accesses of arrogance passed, -as I watched the preparations for the play with the interest of a -novice. There were already half a dozen policemen seated at the tables -in semicircle, and chatting pleasantly together; and their number was -constantly increased by new arrivals, who, as they came in, put their -round-topped straw hats on one end of the semicircle, and sat down to -fill out certain printed forms, which I suppose related to the arrests -they had made, for they were presently handed to the clerk, who used -them in calling up the cases. A little apart from the policemen was -a group of young men, whom I took to be the gentlemen of the bar; -among them, rather more dapper than the rest, was a colored lawyer, -who afterwards, by an irony of Nemesis, appeared for some desperate -and luckless defendants of the white race and of Irish accent. By and -by two or three desks, placed conveniently for seeing and hearing -everything against the railing on the clerk’s right, were occupied -by reporters, unmistakable with their pencil and paper. Looking from -them I saw that the judge’s chair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> was now filled by a quiet-looking -gentleman, who seemed, behind his spectacles, to be communing with -himself in a sad and bored anticipation. At times he leaned forward and -spoke with the clerk or one of the gentlemen of the bar, and then fell -back in sober meditation.</p> - -<p>Like all other public exhibitions, the police court failed a little in -point of punctuality. It was advertised to open at nine o’clock, but it -was nearer ten when, after several false alarms, the clerk in a rapid, -inarticulate formula declared it now opened, and invoked the blessing -of God on the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Even then there was a -long wait before we of the audience heard the scuffling of the feet -of the prisoners on what seemed a broad stairway behind the barrier -at the judge’s right, and before any of them came in sight they were -commanded by the attendant policeman to sit down, and apparently did -so, on the top of the stairs. The clerk now turned towards them with a -sheaf of the forms which the policemen had filled out in his hand, and -successively addressed them by name:—</p> - -<p>“Larry McShane!”</p> - -<p>“Here, sor.”</p> - -<p>“Complained of for being drunk. Guilty or not guilty?” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Guilty, sor.”</p> - -<p>“Pay a fine of one dollar and costs, and stand committed to the House -of Industry.”</p> - -<p>He jotted something down on the back of each indictment, and half -turned to toss it on to his desk, and then resumed the catalogue of -these offenders, accusing and dooming them all in the same weary and -passionless monotone.</p> - -<p>I confess that I had at the time the strongest curiosity to see them, -but it has since struck me that it was a finer effect merely to hear -their voices in response, and to leave their figures and faces to -the fancy. Sometimes the voice that answered “Guilty” was youthful, -and sometimes, I grieve to say, it was feminine, though under the -circumstances it had naturally that subdued tone which is thought such -an excellent thing in woman. Usually, however, the voices were old -and raucous, as if they had many times made the same plea in the same -place, and they pronounced sir <i>sor</i>. The clerk’s sheaf of accusations -being exhausted, they all apparently scuffled downstairs again. But a -number must have remained, for now, after this sort of overture, the -entertainment began in earnest, the actors on the scene appearing as -they were summoned from the same invisible space<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> behind the railing, -which I think was probably sunk a little lower than the level of the -auditorium, and which might, to humor the theatrical illusion, be -regarded as the green-room.</p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>The first piece was what I may call a little Police Pastoral, -in recognition of the pretty touch of poetry which graced it. A -half-grown, baddish-looking boy was arraigned for assault and battery, -and took his place at one end of that long table on which rested the -clerk’s desk, while a young girl of thirteen or fourteen advanced from -the audience, and placed herself at the other end. She was dressed in a -well-fitting ready-made suit, which somehow suggested itself as having -been “marked down” to come within her means; and she wore a cheap yet -tasteful hat, under which her face, as honest as it was comely, looked -modestly up at the judge when he questioned her. It appeared that she -was passing the apple-stand which the defendant was keeping for his -mother, when he had suddenly abandoned his charge, followed her into a -gate where she had taken refuge, and struck her; her cries attracted -the police, and he was arrested. The officer corroborated her story, -and then the judge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> made a signal to the prisoner, by which it seemed -that he was privileged to cross-question his accuser. The injured -youth seized the occasion, and in a loud-bullying, yet plaintive tone -proceeded as best he could to damage the case against him.</p> - -<p><i>He</i>: “Didn’t you pass my mother’s stand with them girls the day -before?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>, frankly: “Yes, I <i>did</i>.”</p> - -<p><i>He</i>: “And didn’t you laugh at me, and call me an apple-woman?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>, as before: “Yes, I <i>did</i>.”</p> - -<p><i>He</i>: “And hain’t you hit <i>me</i>, sometimes, before this?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>, evasively: “I’ve never hit you to hurt you.”</p> - -<p><i>He</i>: “Now, that hain’t the question! The question is whether you’ve -ever hit me.”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>: “Yes, I have—when you were trying to hold me. It was the other -girls called you names. I only called you names once.”</p> - -<p><i>He</i>: “I want to know whether I hurt you any when you hollered out that -way?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>: “Yes, you <i>did</i>. And if I hadn’t screamed you <i>would</i> have done -it. I don’t suppose you’d have hurt me a great <i>deal</i>, but you have -hurt <i>some</i> of the girls.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>The Judge</i>: “Did he bruise you severely when he struck you?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>, with a relenting glance, full of soft compassion, at her enemy: -“Well, he didn’t bruise me <i>very</i> much.”</p> - -<p><i>The Judge</i>: “Has he been in the habit of assaulting the other young -girls?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i>: “He never did <i>me</i> before.” Then, with a sudden burst, “And I -think I was every bit as much to blame as he was! I had no business to -tease him.”</p> - -<p>Here the judge, instead of joining the hands of these children, and -sending them forward with his blessing, to dance and sing a little duet -together, as would have happened on any other stage, said that he would -fine the defendant seven dollars. The defendant gave way to a burst -of grief, and the plaintiff, astonished at this untoward conclusion, -threw the judge a pathetic and reproachful look, and left the stand in -painful bewilderment. I felt sorry for her, but I could not share her -pity for the defendant, and my light mind was quickly distracted by the -next piece.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>I may say here that the features of the performance followed one -another rapidly, as at a variety theatre, without any disagreeable -waits or the drop of a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>curtain. If I had anything to complain of it -was the swiftness of their succession. I was not yet habituated to -this, when I found the scene occupied by the two principal actors in -a laughable little interlude of Habitual Drunkenness. A powerfully -built, middle-aged Irishman, with evidences of coal-heaving thick -upon his hands and ground into his face to the roots of his hair, was -standing at one end of that long table, and listening to the tale of -the policeman who, finding him quarrelsomely and noisily drunk, and not -being able to prevail with him to go home, had arrested him. When he -finished, the judge said to the defendant, who had stood rolling his -eyes—conspicuous from the black around them—upon the spectators, as -if at a loss to make out what all this might be about, that he could -ask any questions he liked of the plaintiff.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to ask him anything, sor,” replied the defendant, like -one surprised at being expected to take an interest in some alien -affair.</p> - -<p>“Have you ever seen the defendant drunk before?” asked the judge.</p> - -<p>“Yes, your honor; I’ve seen him drunk half a dozen times, and I’ve -taken him home to keep him out of harm’s way. He’s an industrious man -when he isn’t in drink.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Is he usually disorderly when drunk?”</p> - -<p>“Well, he and his wife generally fight when he gets home,” the -policeman suggested.</p> - -<p>The judge desisted, and the defendant’s counsel rose, and signified -his intention to cross-question the plaintiff: the counsel was that -attorney of African race whom I have mentioned.</p> - -<p>“Now, we don’t deny that the defendant was drunk at the time of his -arrest; but the question is whether he is an habitual drunkard. How -many times have you seen him drunk the past month?”</p> - -<p>“About half a dozen times.”</p> - -<p>“Seven times?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t say.”</p> - -<p>“Three times?”</p> - -<p>“More than three times.”</p> - -<p>“More than twice you will swear to?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Now, I wish you to be very careful, please: can you state, under oath, -that you have seen him drunk four times?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the policeman, “I can swear to that.”</p> - -<p>“Very good,” said the counsel, with the air of having caught the -witness tripping. “That is all.”</p> - -<p>Aside from the satisfaction that one naturally feels<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> in seeing any -policeman bullied, I think it did me good to have my learned colored -brother badger a white man. The thing was so long the other way, in -every walk of life, that for the sake of the bad old times, when the -sight would have been something to destroy the constitution and subvert -social order, I could have wished that he might have succeeded better -in browbeating his witness. But it was really a failure, as far as -concerned his object.</p> - -<p>“The question, your honor,” the lawyer added, turning to the judge, -“is, what <i>is</i> habitual drunkenness? I should like to ask the defendant -a query or two. Now, Mr. O’Ryan, how often do you indulge yourself in a -social glass?”</p> - -<p>“Sor?”</p> - -<p>“How often do you drink?”</p> - -<p>“Whenever I can get it, sor.”</p> - -<p>The audience appreciated this frankness, and were silenced by a -threatening foray of the cravatless officer.</p> - -<p>“You mean,” suggested the attorney, smoothly, “that you take a drink of -beer, now and then, when you are at work.”</p> - -<p>“I mane that, sor. A horse couldn’t do widout it.”</p> - -<p>“Very good. But you deny that you are habitually intoxicated?” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Sor?”</p> - -<p>“You are not in the habit of getting drunk?”</p> - -<p>“No, sor!”</p> - -<p>“Very good. You are not in the habit of getting drunk.”</p> - -<p>“I never get dhrunk whin I’m at work sor. I get dhrunk Saturday nights.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; when you have had a hard week’s work. I understand that”—</p> - -<p>“I have a hard wake’s worruk every wake!” interrupted the defendant.</p> - -<p>“But this is a thing that has grown upon you of late, as I understand. -You were formerly a sober, temperate man, as your habits of industry -imply.”</p> - -<p>“Sor?”</p> - -<p>“You have lately given way to a fondness for liquor, but up to within -six months or a year ago you never drank to excess.”</p> - -<p>“No, sor! I’ve dhrunk ever since I was born, and I’ll dhrink till I -die.”</p> - -<p>The officer could not keep us quiet, now. The counsel looked down at -his table in a futile way, and then took his seat after some rambling -observations, amid smiles of ironical congratulation from the other -gentlemen of the bar. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>The defendant confronted the judge with the calm face of a man who has -established his innocence beyond cavil.</p> - -<p>“What is the reputation of this man in his neighborhood?” inquired the -judge of the policeman.</p> - -<p>“He’s an ugly fellow. And his wife is full as bad. They generally get -drunk together.”</p> - -<p>“Any children?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>The defendant regarded the judge with heightened satisfaction in this -confirmation of his own declaration. The judge leaned over, and said in -a confidential way to the clerk, “Give him six months in the House of -Correction.”</p> - -<p>A wild lament broke from the audience, and a woman with a face bruised -to a symphony in green, yellow, and black thus identified herself as -the wife of the defendant, who stood vacantly turning his cap round in -his hand while sympathizing friends hurried her from the room. The poor -creature probably knew that if in their late differences she had got -more than she deserved, she had not got more than she had been willing -to give, and was moved by this reflection. Other moralists, who do not -like to treat woman as a reasonable being, may attribute her sorrow -to mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> blind tenderness, or hysterical excitement. I could not see -that it touched the spectators in any way; and I suspect that, whatever -was thought of her escape from a like fate, there was a general -acquiescence in the justice of his. He was either stunned by it, or -failed to take it in, for he remained standing at the end of the table -and facing the judge, till the policeman in charge took him by the arm -and stood him aside.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>He sat down, and I saw him no more; but I had no time to regret him, -for his place was instantly occupied by a person who stepped within the -bar from the audience. I had already noticed him coming in and going -out of the court-room, apparently under strong excitement, and hovering -about, now among the gentlemen of the bar, and now among friends in -the audience. He had an excited and eccentric look, and yet he looked -like a gentleman—a gentleman in distress of mind; I had supposed that -he could not be one of the criminal classes, or he would scarcely have -been allowed so much at large. At the same time that he took his place -he was confronted from the other end of the long table by a person whom -I will call a lady, because I observed that every one else did so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> -This lady’s person tended to fat; she had a large, red face, and I -learned without surprise that she was a cook. She wore a crimson shawl, -and a bonnet abounding in blossoms and vegetables of striking colors, -and she had one arm, between the wrist and elbow, impressively swathed -in linen; she caressed, as it were, a small water-pitcher, which I -felt, in spite of its ordinary appearance, was somehow historical. In -fact, it came out that this pitcher played an important part in the -assault which the lady accused the gentleman at the other end of the -table of committing upon her.</p> - -<p>It seemed from her story that the gentleman was a boarder in the house -where she was cook, and that he was in the habit of intruding upon her -in the kitchen against her will and express command. A week before (I -understood that she had spent the intervening time in suffering and -disability) she had ordered him out, and he had turned furiously upon -her with an uplifted chair and struck her on the arm with it, and then -had thrown at her head the pitcher which she now held in her hands. -There were other circumstances of outrage, which I cannot now recall, -but they are not important in view of the leading facts. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> - -<p>Further testimony in behalf of the plaintiff was offered by another -lady, whose countenance expressed second-girl as unmistakably as that -of the plaintiff expressed cook. She was of the dish-faced Irish type, -and whereas the cook was of an Old-World robustness, her witness had -the pallor and flat-chestedness of the women of her race who are born -in America; she preferred several shades of blue in her costume, which -was of ready-made and marked-down effect. This lady with difficulty -comprehended the questions intended to elicit her name and the fact -of her acquaintance with the plaintiff, and I noticed a like density -of understanding in most of the other persons testifying or arraigned -in this court. In fact, I came to wonder if the thick-headedness of -average uneducated people was not much greater than I had hitherto -suspected, in my easy optimism. It was certainly inconceivable why, -with intelligence enough to come in when it rained, the cook should -have summoned this witness. She testified at once that she had not -seen the assault, and did not know that the cook had been hurt; and no -prompting of the plaintiff’s counsel could inspire her with a better -recollection. In the hands of the defendant’s lawyer she developed the -fact that his client was reputed a quiet, inoffensive boarder, and -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> she never knew of any displeasures between him and the cook.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever see this lady intoxicated?” inquired the lawyer.</p> - -<p>The witness reflected. “I don’t understand you,” she answered, finally.</p> - -<p>“Have you ever known her to be overcome by drink?”</p> - -<p>The witness considered this point also, and in due time gave it up, and -turned a face of blank appeal upon the judge, who came to her rescue.</p> - -<p>“Does she drink,—drink liquor? Does she get drunk?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Oh!</i> Oh, yes; she’s tipsy sometimes.”</p> - -<p>“Was she tipsy,” asked the lawyer, “on the day of the alleged assault?”</p> - -<p>The witness again turned to the magistrate for help.</p> - -<p>“Was she tipsy on the day when she says this gentleman struck her with -a chair, and threw the pitcher at her head?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” replied the witness, “she was.”</p> - -<p>“Was she very tipsy?” the lawyer pursued.</p> - -<p>The witness was equal to this question. “Well, yes, sir, she was. Any -way, she hadn’t left anything in the bottle on her bureau.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> - -<p>“When did you see the bottle full?”</p> - -<p>“The night before. Or in the evening. She commenced drinking in the -night.”</p> - -<p>“What was in the bottle?”</p> - -<p>“A pint of whiskey.”</p> - -<p>“That will do,” said the lawyer.</p> - -<p>The witness stepped down, and genteelly resumed her place near the -plaintiff. Neither of the ladies changed countenance, or seemed in any -wise aware that the testimony just given had been detrimental to the -plaintiff’s cause. They talked pleasantly together, and were presently -alike interested in the testimony of a witness to the defendant’s good -character. He testified that the defendant was a notoriously peaceable -person, who was in some sort of scientific employment, but where or -what I could not make out; he was a college graduate, and it was quite -unimaginable to the witness that he should be the object of this sort -of charge.</p> - -<p>When the witness stood aside, the defendant was allowed to testify in -his own behalf, which he did with great energy. He provided himself -with a chair, and when he came to the question of the assault he -dramatized the scene with appropriate action. He described with -vividness the relative positions of himself and the cook when, on the -day given, he went into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> the kitchen to see if the landlady were there, -and was ordered out by her. “She didn’t give me time to go, but caught -up a chair, and came at me, thus!” Here he represented with the chair -in his hand an assault that made the reporters, who sat near him, -quail before the violence of the mere dumb-show. “I caught the rung -of the chair in my hand, thus, and instinctively pushed it, thus. I -suppose,” he added, in diction of memorable elegance, “that the impact -of the chair in falling back against her wrist may have produced the -contusions of which she complains.”</p> - -<p>The judge and the bar smiled; the audience, not understanding, looked -serious.</p> - -<p>“And what,” said the judge, “about throwing the pitcher at her?”</p> - -<p>“I never saw the pitcher, your honor, till I saw it in court. I threw -no pitcher at her, but retreated from the kitchen as quickly as -possible.”</p> - -<p>“That will do,” said the judge. The plaintiff’s counsel did the -best that could be done for no case at all in a brief argument. The -judge heard him patiently, and then quietly remarked, “The charge is -dismissed. The defendant is discharged. Call the next case.”</p> - -<p>The plaintiff had probably imagined that the affair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> was going in her -favor. She evidently required the explanation of her counsel that it -had gone against her, and all was over; for she looked at the judge in -some surprise, before she turned and walked out of the court-room with -quiet dignity, still caressing her pitcher, and amicably accompanied by -the other lady, her damaging witness.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>Before she was well out of the door, a lady-like young woman in black -was on the stand, testifying against a prisoner, who did not confront -her from the other end of the long table, but stood where he seemed -to have been seated on the top of those stairs I have imagined behind -the railing. He looked twenty one or two years of age, and he had -not at all a bad face, but rather refined; he was well dressed, and -was gentleman-like in the same degree that she was lady-like. From -her testimony it appeared to me that his offense was one that might -fitly be condoned, and in my ignorance I was surprised to find that -it was taken seriously by the court. She had seen him, from the top -of some steps in the shop where she was employed, open a drawer -in the book-keeper’s desk, and take out of it a revolver and some -postage-stamps; but on his discovering her he had instantly replaced -them and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> tried to make his escape. She gave her evidence in a low -voice, and, as I thought, reluctantly; and one could very well imagine -that she might have regretted causing his arrest; but it was to be -considered that her own reputation was probably at stake, and if his -theft had succeeded she might have been accused of it. When she stood -aside, the judge turned to the defendant, who had kept quite still, -nervously twisting something between his fingers, and questioned him. -He did not attempt to deny the facts; he admitted them, but urged that -he had immediately put the stamps and pistol back into the drawer, -from which, indeed, he had hardly lifted them. The judge heard him -patiently, and the young man went on, with something of encouragement, -to explain that he only meant to take the things to spite the owner of -the shop, on account of some grudge between them, and that he had not -realized that it was stealing. He besought the judge, in terms that -were moving, but not abject, to deal mercifully with him; and he stood -twisting that invisible something between his fingers, and keeping his -eyes fixed on those of the magistrate with a miserable smile, while he -promised that he would not offend again.</p> - -<p>The judge passed his hand to and fro over his chin,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> and now dropped -his eyes, and now glanced at the culprit, who seemed scarcely more -unhappy.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t I seen you here before?” he asked at last.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I could hardly hear the prisoner assent.</p> - -<p>“How often?”</p> - -<p>“Twice.”</p> - -<p>“What for?”</p> - -<p>“Theft,” gasped the wretched creature.</p> - -<p>The judge moved in his chair with a discomfort that he had not shown -throughout the morning’s business. “If this were the first time, or the -second, I should have been glad to let you off with a slight fine. But -I can’t do that now. I must send you to the House of Correction.” He -nodded to the clerk: “Two months.”</p> - -<p>The prisoner remained, with that nervous twisting of his fingers, eying -the judge with his vague smile, as if he could not realize what had -befallen. He did not sit down till the next culprit rose and stood near -him. Then a sort of fatal change passed over his face. It looked like -despair. I confess that I had not much heart for his successor. I was -sick, thinking how, so far as this world was concerned, this wretch -had been sent to hell; for the House of Correction is not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> purgatory -even, out of which one can hopefully undertake to pray periculant -spirits. To be sure, the police court is not a cure of souls; and -doubtless his doom was as light as the law allowed. But I could have -wished that the judge had distrusted his memory, or taken on his -conscience the merciful sin of ignoring it. He seemed very patient, -and I do not question but he acted according to light and knowledge. -This may have been a hopeless thief. But it was nevertheless a terrible -fate. The chances were a thousand against one that he should hereafter -be anything but a thief, if he were not worse. After all, when one -thinks of what the consequences of justice are, one doubts if there -is any justice in it. Perhaps the thing we call mercy is the divine -conception of justice.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>It was a thief again who was on the stage; but not a thief like that -other, who, for all the reality there was in the spectacle, might have -gone behind the scenes and washed the chalk off his white face. This -thief was of the kind whose fortunes the old naturalistic novelists -were fond of following in fictions of autobiographic form, and who -sometimes actually wrote their own histories; a conventional thief, -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> those dear to De Foe and the Spanish picaresque romancers, with -a flavor of good literature about him. Nothing could have been more -classic in incident than the story of the plaintiff, an honest-looking -young fellow, who testified that he had met the prisoner on the street, -and, learning that he was out of work and out of money, had taken him -home to his room and shared his bed with him. I do not know in just -what calling this primitive and trustful hospitality is practiced; -the plaintiff looked and was dressed like a workingman. His strange -bedfellow proved an early riser; he stole away without disturbing -his host, and carried with him all the money that was in his host’s -pockets. By an odd turn of luck the two encountered shortly after -breakfast, and the prisoner ran. The plaintiff followed, but the other -eluded him, and was again sauntering about in safety, when the eye of a -third actor in the drama fell upon him. This was a young man who kept -some sort of small shop, and who was called to the witness-stand in -behalf of the prosecution. He was as stupid as he could well be in some -respects, and very simple questions had to be repeated several times to -him. Yet he had the ferret-like instinct of the thief-catcher, and he -instantly saw that his look fluttered the guilty rogue, who straightway -turned and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> fled. But this time he had a sharper pursuer than his host, -and he was coursed through all his turns and windings, up stairs and -down, in houses and out, and gripped at last.</p> - -<p>“As soon as I saw him start to run,” said the witness, who told his -story with a graphic jauntiness, “I knowed he’d got something.”</p> - -<p>“You <i>didn’t</i> know I’d got anything!” exclaimed the thief.</p> - -<p>“I knowed you’d get ninety days if I caught up with you,” retorted the -witness, wagging his head triumphantly.</p> - -<p>As the officer entered the station-house with his prisoner, the host, -by another odd chance, was coming out, after stating his loss to the -police, and identified his truant guest.</p> - -<p>The money, all but thirty cents, was found upon him; and though he -represented that he had lawfully earned it by haying in Dedham, the -fact that it was in notes of the denominations which the plaintiff -remembered was counted against him, and he got the ninety days which -his captor had prophesied. He, too, sat down, and I saw him no more. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>Now arose literally a cloud of witnesses, who came forward from some -of the back seats, and occupied the benches hitherto held by the -plaintiffs and witnesses in the preceding cases. They were of all -shades of blackness, and of both sexes and divers ages, and they -were there in their solemn best clothes, with their faces full of a -decorous if superficial seriousness. I must except from this sweeping -assertion, however, the lady who was the defendant in the case: she -was a young person, with a great deal of what is called style about -her, and I had seen her going and coming throughout the morning in a -high excitement, which she seemed to enjoy. It is difficult for a lady -whose lips have such a generous breadth and such a fine outward roll -to keep from smiling, perhaps, under any circumstances; and it may -have been light-heartedness rather than light-mindedness that enabled -her to support so gayly a responsibility that weighed down all the -other parties concerned. She wore a tight-skirted black walking-dress, -with a waist of perhaps caricatured smallness; her hat was full of red -and yellow flowers; on her hands, which were in drawing with her lips -rather than her waist, were a pair of white kid gloves. As she advanced -to take her place inside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> the prisoner’s bar she gave in charge to a -very mournful-looking elder of her race a little girl, two or three -years of age, as fashionably dressed as herself, and tottering upon -little high-heeled boots. The old man lifted the child in his arms, and -funereally took his seat among the witnesses, while the culprit turned -her full-blown smile upon the judge, and confidently pleaded not guilty -to the clerk’s reading of the indictment, in which she was charged with -threatening the person and life of the plaintiff. At the same moment a -sort of pleased expectation lighted up all those dull countenances in -the court-room, which had been growing more and more jaded under the -process of the accusations and condemnations. The soddenest <i>habitué</i> -of the place brightened; the lawyers and policemen eased themselves in -their chairs, and I fancied that the judge himself relaxed. I could -not refuse my sympathy to the general content; I took another respite -from the thought of my poor thief, and I too lent myself to the hope of -enjoyment from this Laughable After-piece.</p> - -<p>The accuser also wore black, but her fashionableness, as compared -with that of the defendant, was as the fashionableness of Boston to -that of New York; she had studied a subdued elegance, and she wore a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> -crape veil instead of flowers on her hat. She was of a sort of dusky -pallor, and her features had not the Congoish fullness nor her skin the -brilliancy of the defendant’s. Her taste in kid gloves was a decorous -black.</p> - -<p>She testified that she was employed as second-girl in a respectable -family, and that the day before she had received a visit at the door -from the defendant, who had invited her to come down the street to a -certain point, and be beaten within an inch of her life. On her failure -to appear, the defendant came again, and notified her that she should -hold the beating in store for her, and bestow it whenever she caught -her out-of-doors. These visits and threats had terrified the plaintiff, -and annoyed the respectable family with which she lived, and she had -invoked the law.</p> - -<p>During the delivery of her complaint, the defendant had been lifting -and lowering herself by the bar at which she stood, in anticipation of -the judge’s permission to question the plaintiff. At a nod from him she -now flung herself half across it.</p> - -<p>“What’d I say I’d whip you <i>for</i>?”</p> - -<p><i>The Plaintiff</i>, thoughtfully: “What’d you say you’d whip me for?”</p> - -<p><i>The Defendant</i>, beating the railing with her hand: “Yes, that’s what I -ast you: what <i>for</i>?” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>The Plaintiff</i>, with dignity: “I don’t know as you told me what for.”</p> - -<p><i>The Defendant</i>: “Now, now, none o’ that! You just answer my question.”</p> - -<p><i>The Judge</i>: “She has answered it.”</p> - -<p><i>The Defendant</i>, after a moment of surprise: “Well, then, I’ll ast her -another question. Didn’t I tell you if I ever caught you goin’ to a -ball with my husband ag’in I’d”—</p> - -<p><i>The Plaintiff</i>: “I didn’t go to no ball with your husband!”</p> - -<p><i>The Defendant</i>: “You didn’t go with him! Ah”—</p> - -<p><i>The Plaintiff</i>: “I went with the crowd. I didn’t know who I went with.”</p> - -<p><i>The Defendant</i>: “Well, I know who paid fifty cents for your ticket! -Why don’t he give me any of his money? Hain’t spent fifty cents on me -or his child, there, since it was born. An’ he goes with you all the -time,—to church, and everywhere.”</p> - -<p><i>The Judge</i>: “That will do.”</p> - -<p>The plaintiff, who had listened “with sick and scornful looks averse,” -stepped from the stand, and a dusky gentlewoman, as she looked, took -her place, and corroborated her testimony. She also wore genteel -black, and she haughtily turned from the defendant’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> splendors as -she answered much the same questions that the latter had put to the -plaintiff. She used her with the disdain that a lady who takes care -of bank parlors may show to a social inferior with whom her grandson -has been trapped into a distasteful marriage, and she expressed by a -certain lift of the chin and a fall of the eyelids the absence of all -quality in her granddaughter-in-law, as no words could have done it. I -suppose it will be long before these poor creatures will cease to seem -as if they were playing at our social conditions, or the prejudices -and passions when painted black will seem otherwise than funny. But if -this old lady had been born a duchess, or the daughter of a merchant -one remove from retail trade, she could not have represented the -unrelenting dowager more vividly. She bore witness to the blameless -character of the plaintiff, to whom her grandson had paid only those -attentions permissible from a gentleman unhappy in his marriage, and -living apart from his wife,—a wife, she insinuated, unworthy both -before and since the union which she had used sinister arts in forming -with a family every way above her. She did not overdo the part, and she -descended from the stand with the same hauteur toward the old man who -succeeded her as she had shown his daughter. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> - -<p>The hapless sire—for this was the character he attempted—came upon -the stand with his forsaken grandchild in his arms, and bore his -testimony to the fact that his daughter was a good girl, and had always -done what was right, and had been brought up to it. He dwelt upon her -fidelity to her virtuous family training, with no apparent sense of -incongruity in the facts—elicited by counsel—to the contrary; and -he was an old man whose perceptions were somewhat blunted as to other -things. He maundered on about his son-in-law’s neglect of his wife -and child, and the expense which he had been put to on their account, -and especially about the wrongs his family had suffered since his -son-in-law “got to going” with the plaintiff.</p> - -<p>“You say,” interpreted the judge, “that the plaintiff tried to seduce -the affections of your daughter’s husband from her?”</p> - -<p>The old man was brought to a long and thoughtful pause, from which he -was startled by a repetition of the judge’s question. “I—I don’ know -as I understand you, judge,” he faltered.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that the plaintiff—the person whom your daughter -threatened to beat—has been trying to get your daughter’s husband’s -affections away from her?” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Why, he hain’t never showed her no affections, judge! He’s just left -<i>me</i> to support her.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, then. Has the plaintiff tried to get your daughter’s -husband away from her?”</p> - -<p>“I guess not, judge. He hain’t never took any notice of my daughter -since he married her.”</p> - -<p>“Well, does your son-in-law go with this person?”</p> - -<p>“With who, judge?”</p> - -<p>“With the plaintiff.”</p> - -<p>“De ol’ woman. No, he don’ go wid de ol’ woman any: <i>she’s his -gran’mother</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Well, does he go with the young woman?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! <i>Yes!</i> He goes with the <i>young</i> woman. Goes with <i>her</i> all -the time. That’s the <i>one</i> he goes with!”</p> - -<p>He seemed to be greatly surprised and delighted to find that this point -was what the judge had been trying to get at, and the audience shared -his pleasure.</p> - -<p>I really forget how the case was decided. Perhaps my train, which -I began to be anxious not to lose, hurried me away before the -<i>dénoûment</i>, as often happens with the suburban play-goer. But to -one who cares rather for character than for plot it made little -difference. I came away thinking that if the actors in the little -drama were of another complexion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> how finely the situation would have -served in a certain sort of intense novel: the patrician dowager, -inappeasably offended by the low match her grandson has made, and -willing to encourage his <i>penchant</i> for the lady of his own rank, whom -some fortuity may yet enable him to marry; the wife, with her vulgar -but strong passions, stung to madness by the neglect and disdain of -her husband’s family,—it is certainly a very pretty intrigue, and I -commend it to my brother (or sister) novelists who like to be praised -by the reviewers for what the reviewers think profundity and power.</p> - -<h3>VIII.</h3> - -<p>It was nearly a year later that I paid my second visit to the police -court, on a day, like the first, humid and dull, but very close and -suffocatingly hot. It was a Monday morning, and there was a full -dock, as I have learned that the prisoner’s pen at the right of the -clerk’s desk is called. The clerk was standing with that sheaf of -indictments in his hand, and saying, “John O’Brien!” and John O’Brien -was answering, “Here, sor!” and the clerk was proceeding, “Complained -of for being drunk guilty or not guilty pay a fine of one dollar and -costs stand committed to the House of Industry,” and then writing on -the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>indictment, and tossing it aside. As I modestly took my stand -at the door, till I should gather courage to cross the room to one -of the vacant seats which I saw among the policemen, one of these -officers of the court approached me and said, “No room for you here -to-day, my friend. Go up on the Common.” In spite of my share of that -purely American vanity which delights in official recognition, I could -not be flattered at this, and it was with relief that I found he was -addressing a fellow-habitué behind me. The court-room was in fact very -full, and there were no seats on the benches ordinarily allotted to -spectators; so I at once crossed to my place, and sat down among the -policemen, to whom I authorized my intrusion by taking my notebook from -my pocket. I have some hopes that the spectators thought me a detective -in plain clothes, and revered me accordingly. There was such a person -near me, with his club sticking out of his back-pocket, whom I am sure -<i>I</i> revered.</p> - -<p>I had not come to report the events of this session of the court, but -to refresh the impressions of my first visit, and I was glad to find -them so just. There was, of course, some little change; but the same -magistrate was there, serene, patient, mercifully inclined of visage; -the colored attorney was there, in charge, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> before, of a disastrous -Irish case. The officials who tried to keep order had put off their -flannel coats for coats of seersucker, and each carried a Japanese fan; -neither wore a collar, now, and I fancied them both a little more in -flesh. I think they were even less successful than formerly in quelling -disturbances, though they were even more polished in the terms of -their appeal. “Too much conversation in the court!” they called out to -us collectively. “Conversation <i>must</i> cease,” they added. Then one, -walking up to a benchful of voluble witnesses, would say, “Must cease -that conversation,” and to my fellow-policemen, “Less conversation, -gentlemen;” then again to the room at large, “Stop all conversation in -the court,” and “All conversation must cease entirely.”</p> - -<p>The Irish case, which presently came on, was a question of assault and -battery between Mrs. O’Hara and Mrs. MacMannis; it had finally to be -dismissed, after much testimony to the guilt and peaceable character -of both parties. A dozen or more witnesses, were called, principally -young girls, who had come in their best, and with whom one could fancy -this an occasion of present satisfying excitement and future celebrity. -The witnesses were generally more interesting than the parties to the -suits, I thought, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> could not get tired of my fellow-spectators, -I suppose, if I went a great many times. I liked to consider the -hungry gravity of their countenances, as they listened to the facts -elicited, and to speculate as to the ultimate effect upon their moral -natures—or their immoral natures—of the gross and palpable shocks -daily imparted to them by the details of vice and crime. I have tried -to treat my material lightly and entertainingly, as a true reporter -should, but I would not have my reader suppose that I did not feel -the essential cruelty of an exhibition that tore its poor rags from -all that squalid shame, and its mask from all that lying, cowering -guilt, or did not suspect how it must harden and deprave those whom it -daily entertained. As I dwelt upon the dull visages of the spectators, -certain spectacles vaguely related themselves to what I saw: the women -who sat and knitted at the sessions of the Revolutionary tribunals of -Paris, and overwhelmed with their clamor the judges’ feeble impulses -to mercy; the roaring populace at the Spanish bull-fight and the Roman -arena. Here the same elements were held in absolute silence,—debarred -even from “conversation,”—but it was impossible not to feel that here -in degree were the conditions that trained men to demand blood, to -rave for the guillotine, to turn down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> the thumb. This procession of -misdeeds, passing under their eyes day after day, must leave a miasm -of moral death behind it which no prison or work-house can hereafter -cure. We all know that the genius of our law is publicity; but it may -be questioned whether criminal trials may not be as profitably kept -private as hangings, the popular attendance on which was once supposed -to be a bulwark of religion and morality.</p> - -<h3>IX.</h3> - -<p>Not that there was any avoidable brutality, or even indecorum, in -the conduct of the trials that I saw. A spade was necessarily called -a spade; but it seemed to me that with all the lapse of time and -foreign alloy the old Puritan seriousness was making itself felt -even here, and subduing the tone of the procedure to a grave decency -consonant with the inquiries of justice. For it was really justice -that was administered, so far as I could see; and justice that was by -no means blind, but very open-eyed and keen-sighted. The causes were -decided by one man, from evidence usually extracted out of writhing -reluctance or abysmal stupidity, and the judgment must be formed and -the sentence given where the magistrate sat, amid the confusion of the -crowded room. Yet, except in the case<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> of my poor thief, I did not see -him hesitate; and I did not doubt his wisdom even in that case. His -decisions seemed to me the result of most patient and wonderfully rapid -cogitation, and in dealing with the witnesses he never lost his temper -amid densities of dullness which it is quite impossible to do more than -indicate. If it were necessary, for example, to establish the fact -that a handkerchief was white, it was not to be done without some such -colloquy as this:—</p> - -<p>“Was it a white handkerchief?”</p> - -<p>“Sor?”</p> - -<p>“Was the handkerchief white?”</p> - -<p>“Was it white, sor?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, was it white?”</p> - -<p>“Was what white, sor?”</p> - -<p>“The handkerchief,—was the handkerchief white?”</p> - -<p>“What handkerchief, sor?”</p> - -<p>“The handkerchief you just mentioned,—the handkerchief that the -defendant dropped.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t see it, sor.”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t see the handkerchief?”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t see him drop it, sor.”</p> - -<p>“Well, did you see the handkerchief?”</p> - -<p>“The handkerchief, sor? Oh, yes, sor! <i>I</i> saw it,—I saw the -<i>handkerchief</i>.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, was it <i>white</i>?”</p> - -<p>“It was, sor.”</p> - -<p>A boy who complained of another for assaulting him said that he knocked -him down.</p> - -<p>“How did he knock you down?” asked the judge. “Did he knock you down -with his fist or his open hand?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sor.”</p> - -<p>“Which did he do it with?”</p> - -<p>“Put his arms round me and knocked me down.”</p> - -<p>“Then he didn’t <i>knock</i> you down. He <i>threw</i> you down.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sor. He didn’t t’row me down. Put his arms round me and knocked -me down.”</p> - -<p>It would be impossible to caricature these things, or to exaggerate the -charitable long-suffering that dealt with such cases. Sometimes, as if -in mere despair, the judge called the parties to him, and questioned -them privately; after which the case seemed to be settled, without -further trial.</p> - -<h3>X.</h3> - -<p>I have spoken of the theatrical illusion which the proceedings of the -court produced; but it often seemed to me also like a school where bad -boys and girls were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> brought up for punishment. They were, indeed, like -children, those poor offenders, and had a sort of innocent simplicity -in their wickedness, as good people have in their goodness. One case -came up on the occasion of my last visit, which I should like to report -verbatim in illustration, but it was of too lurid a sort to be treated -by native realism; we can only bear that sort when imported; and -undoubtedly there is something still to be said in behalf of decency, -at least in the English language. I can only hint that this case was -one which in some form or other has been coming up in the police -courts ever since police courts began. It must have been familiar to -those of Thebes three thousand years ago, and will be so in those of -cities which shall look back on Boston in an antiquity as hoary. A -hard-working old fool with a month’s pay in his pocket and the lost -soul with whom he carouses; the theft; the quarrel between the lost -soul and the yet more fallen spirit who harbored her and traded at -second hand in her perdition as to who stole the fool’s money,—what -stale materials! Yet I was as much interested as if this were the first -case of the kind, and, confronted with the fool and the lost soul and -the yet more fallen spirit, I could not feel that they were—let me -say it in all seriousness and reverence—so <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>very bad. Perhaps it was -because they stood there reduced to the very nakedness of their shame, -and confessedly guilty in what human nature struggles to the last to -deny—stood there, as a premise, far past the hope of lying—that they -seemed rather subjects for pity than abhorrence. The fool and the lost -soul were light and trivial; they even laughed at some of the grosser -facts; but that yet more fallen spirit was ghastly tragical, as bit by -bit the confession of her business was torn from her; it was torture -that seemed hideously out of proportion to any end to be attained; yet -as things are it had to be. If then and there some sort of redemption -might have begun!</p> - -<p>The divine life which is in these poor creatures, as in the best and -purest, seemed to be struggling back to some relation and likeness to -our average sinful humanity, insisting that if socially and publicly -we denied it we should not hold it wholly outcast in our secret -hearts, nor refuse it our sympathy. Seeing that on their hopelessly -sunken level their common humanity kept that symmetry and proportion -which physical deformity shows, one could not doubt that a distorted -kindliness and good-nature remained to them in the midst of their -depravity: the man was like a gray-headed foolish boy; the two women -as simple and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> cunning as too naughty children. It could be imagined -that they had their friendly moments; that in extremity they might care -for each other; that even such a life as theirs had its reliefs from -perdition, as in disease there is relief from pain, and no suffering, -out of romance, is incessant. They had certainly their decorums, their -criterions. On their plane, everything but the theft and the noisy -quarrel was of custom and for granted; but these were misdemeanors -and disgraceful. Like another hostess of the sort, the fallen spirit -was aggrieved at these. “Do you think I keep thieves in my house?... -The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.... I’ll no -swaggerers.... There comes no swaggering here.... I will bar no honest -man my house, nor no cheater; but I do not love swaggering.” This is -the sum of what she said that she had said in rebuke of the lost soul; -that thieving and that swaggering, they incensed her, and roused in her -all the instincts of a moral and respectable person. Humanity adjusts -itself to all conditions, and doubtless God forsakes it in none, but -still shapes it to some semblance of health in its sickness, of order -in its disorder, of righteousness in its sin.</p> - -<p>I dare say that it was not a wholesome feeling, this leniency that -acquaintance with sinners produces.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> There is much to be urged on -that side, and I would like to urge it in considering the effect of -daily attendance at the police court upon these spectators whom I have -tried to study for the reader’s advantage. I must own that the trial -at which I have hinted did not affect them seriously, and I doubt -if they psychologized upon it. They craned their necks forward and -gloated on those women with an unmistakably obscene delight. If they -were not beyond being the worse for anything, they were the worse for -that trial. Why were they present? Theoretically, perhaps to see that -justice was done. But if justice had not been done, how could they -have helped it? The public shame seemed purely depraving both to those -who suffered it and to those who saw it; and it ought to have been no -part of the punishment inflicted. It was horrible, and it sometimes -befell those who were accused of nothing, but were merely there to be -tortured as witnesses. The lawyer who forced that wretched hostess -to confess the character of her house used no unfair means, and he -dealt with her as sparingly as he might; yet it was still a shocking -spectacle; for she was, curiously enough, not lost to shame, but most -alive to it, and, standing there before that brutal crowd, gave up -her name to infamy, with atrocious pain and hate; her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> face was such -a visage as hell-fire might flash into sight among the newly damned, -but such as our familiar and respectable sunlight would do well not to -reveal to any eyes but magistrates’ and priests’. Till one has seen -such a thing it is incredible that it should be, and then incredible -that it should possibly be of daily occurrence. It was as if the -physicians in charge of a public hospital should permit that rabble -to be present at a clinique for some loathsome disease, to see that -there was no malpractice. If the whole trial could have taken place -with closed doors, and with none present but the parties, the lawyers, -and the court, what possible harm could have been done? I think none -whatever, and I am so sure of this that I would not only have all the -police trials secret, but I would never have another police report in -print—after this! Then the decency of mystery, and perhaps something -of its awe, would surround the vulgar shame and terror of the police -court, and a system which does no good would at least do less harm than -at present.</p> - -<h3>XI.</h3> - -<p>It will be perceived that, like all reformers, I am going too far. I -begin with demanding secrecy in police trials, and I end by suggesting -that they be abolished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> altogether. But in fact nothing struck me more -forcibly in the proceedings of the police court than their apparent -futility. It was all a mere suppression of symptoms in the vicious -classes, not a cure. This one or that one would not steal, or assault -and batter, for the given term of his imprisonment, but this was -ludicrously far from touching even the tendency to theft and violence. -These bad boys and girls came up and had their thrashing or their rap -over the knuckles, and were practically bidden by the conditions of our -civilization to go and sin some more. Perhaps there is no cure for vice -and crime. Perhaps there is nothing but prevention, in the application -of which there is always difficulty, obscurity, and uncertainty.</p> - -<p>The other day, as I passed the court-house, that sad vehicle which is -called the Black Maria was driving away from the high portal into which -it backs to receive its dead. (The word came inevitably; it is not so -far wrong, and it may stand.) The Black Maria may still be Maria (the -reason why it should ever have been I do not know), but it is black no -longer. On the contrary, it is painted a not uncheerful salmon color, -with its false sash picked out in drab; and at first glance, among the -rattling express wagons, it looked not unlike an omnibus of the living, -and could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> have passed through the street without making the casual -observer realize what a dreary hearse it was. I dare say it was on -its way to the House of Industry, or the House of Correction, or Deer -Island, or some of those places where people are put to go from bad to -worse; and it was fulfilling its function with a merciful privacy, for -its load of convicts might have been dragged through the streets on -open hurdles, for the further edification of the populace. Yet I could -not help thinking—or perhaps the thought only occurs to me now—that -for all reasonable hope as to the future of its inmates the Black Maria -might as well have been fitted with one of those ingenious pieces of -mechanism sometimes employed by the Enemies of Society, and driven -out to some wide, open space where the explosion could do no harm to -the vicinity, and so when the horses and driver had removed to a safe -distance—</p> - -<p>But this is perhaps pessimism.</p> - -<p>It is very hard to say what pessimism really is, and almost any honest -expression concerning the monotonous endeavor and failure of society -to repress the monotonous evolution of the criminal in conditions -that render his evolution inevitable, must seem pessimistic. I do not -suppose that we ought to kill him merely because we cannot hope to cure -him, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> society goes to this extreme in certain extreme cases. -Is it right to kill the criminal at one stage of his career, and not -at another? After the first conviction the rest is inevitable, and -each succeeding conviction follows as a matter of course. A bleaker -pessimist than myself might say that all criminal courts seem to be -part of the process in the evolution of the criminal. Still, criminal -courts must be.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - -<h2>I TALK OF DREAMS.</h2> - -<p>But it is mostly my own dreams I talk of, and that will somewhat excuse -me for talking of dreams at all. Every one knows how delightful the -dreams are that one dreams one’s self, and how insipid the dreams of -others are. I had an illustration of the fact, not many evenings ago, -when a company of us got telling dreams. I had by far the best dreams -of any; to be quite frank, mine were the only dreams worth listening -to; they were richly imaginative, delicately fantastic, exquisitely -whimsical, and humorous in the last degree; and I wondered that when -the rest could have listened to them they were always eager to cut in -with some silly, senseless, tasteless thing, that made me sorry and -ashamed for them. I shall not be going too far if I say that it was on -their part the grossest betrayal of vanity that I ever witnessed.</p> - -<p>But the egotism of some people concerning their dreams is almost -incredible. They will come down to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> breakfast and bore everybody with -a recital of the nonsense that has passed through their brains in -sleep, as if they were not bad enough when they were awake; they will -not spare the slightest detail; and if, by the mercy of Heaven, they -have forgotten something, they will be sure to recollect it, and go -back and give it all over again with added circumstance. Such people do -not reflect that there is something so purely and intensely personal -in dreams that they can rarely interest any one but the dreamer, -and that to the dearest friend, the closest relation or connection, -they can seldom be otherwise than tedious and impertinent. The habit -husbands and wives have of making one another listen to their dreams -is especially cruel. They have each other quite helpless, and for this -reason they should all the more carefully guard themselves from abusing -their advantage. Parents should not afflict their offspring with the -rehearsal of their mental maunderings in sleep, and children should -learn that one of the first duties a child owes its parents is to spare -them the anguish of hearing what it has dreamed about overnight. A like -forbearance in regard to the community at large should be taught as the -first trait of good manners in the public schools, if we ever come to -teach good manners there. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>Certain exceptional dreams, however, are so imperatively significant, -so vitally important, that it would be wrong to withhold them from the -knowledge of those who happened not to dream them, and I feel some such -quality in my own dreams so strongly that I could scarcely forgive -myself if I did not, however briefly, impart them. It was only the -last week, for instance, that I found myself one night in the company -of the Duke of Wellington, the great Duke, the Iron one, in fact; and -after a few moments of agreeable conversation on topics of interest -among gentlemen, his Grace said that now, if I pleased, he would like -a couple of those towels. We had not been speaking of towels, that I -remember, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he -should mention them in the connection, whatever it was, and I went at -once to get them for him. At the place where they gave out towels, and -where I found some very civil people, they told me that what I wanted -was not towels, and they gave me instead two bath-gowns, of rather -scanty measure, butternut in color and Turkish in texture. The garments -made somehow a very strong impression upon me, so that I could draw -them now, if I could draw anything, as they looked when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> they were -held up to me. At the same moment, for no reason that I can allege, I -passed from a social to a menial relation to the Duke, and foresaw that -when I went back to him with these bath-gowns he would not thank me -as one gentleman would another, but would offer me a tip as if I were -a servant. This gave me no trouble, for I at once dramatized a little -scene between myself and the Duke, in which I should bring him the -bath-gowns, and he should offer me the tip, and I should refuse it with -a low bow, and say that I was an American. What I did not dramatize, -or what seemed to enter into the dialogue quite without my agency, was -the Duke’s reply to my proud speech. It was foreshown me that he would -say, He did not see why that should make any difference. I suppose -it was in the hurt I felt at this wound to our national dignity that -I now instantly invented the society of some ladies, whom I told of -my business with those bath-gowns (I still had them in my hands), -and urged them to go with me and call upon the Duke. They expressed, -somehow, that they would rather not, and then I urged that the Duke was -very handsome. This seemed to end the whole affair, and I passed on to -other visions, which I cannot recall.</p> - -<p>I have not often had a dream of such international<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> import, in -the offence offered through me to the American character, and its -well-known superiority to tips, but I have had others quite as -humiliating to me personally. In fact, I am rather in the habit of -having such dreams, and I think I may not unjustly attribute to them -the disciplined modesty which the reader will hardly fail to detect -in the present essay. It has more than once been my fate to find -myself during sleep in battle, where I behave with so little courage -as to bring discredit upon our flag and shame upon myself. In these -circumstances I am not anxious to make even a showing of courage; my -one thought is to get away as rapidly and safely as possible. It is -said that this is really the wish of all novices under fire, and that -the difference between a hero and a coward is that the hero hides it, -with a duplicity which finally does him honor, and that the coward -frankly runs away. I have never really been in battle, and if it is -anything like a battle in dreams, I would not willingly qualify myself -to speak by the card on this point. Neither have I ever really been -upon the stage, but in dreams I have often been there, and always in -a great trouble of mind at not knowing my part. It seems a little odd -that I should not sometimes be prepared, but I never am, and I feel -that when the curtain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> rises I shall be disgraced beyond all reprieve. -I dare say it is the suffering from this that awakens me in time, or -changes the current of my dreams so that I have never yet been actually -hooted from the stage.</p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>But I do not so much object to these ordeals as to some social -experiences which I have in dreams. I cannot understand why one should -dream of being slighted or snubbed in society, but this is what I -have done more than once, though never perhaps so signally as in the -instance I am about to give. I found myself in a large room, where -people were sitting at lunch or supper around small tables, as is the -custom, I am told, at parties in the houses of our nobility and gentry. -I was feeling very well; not too proud, I hope, but in harmony with the -time and place. I was very well dressed, for me; and as I stood talking -to some ladies at one of the tables I was saying some rather brilliant -things, for me; I lounged easily on one foot, as I have observed men of -fashion do, and as I talked, I flipped my gloves, which I held in one -hand, across the other; I remember thinking that this was a peculiarly -distinguished action. Upon the whole I comported myself like one in the -habit of such affairs, and I turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> to walk away to another table, -very well satisfied with myself and with the effect of my splendor -upon the ladies. But I had got only a few paces off when I perceived -(I could not see with my back turned) one of the ladies lean forward, -and heard her say to the rest in a tone of killing condescension and -patronage, “<i>I</i> don’t see why that person isn’t as well as another.”</p> - -<p>I say that I do not like this sort of dreams, and I never would have -them if I could help. They make me ask myself if I am really such a -snob when I am waking, and this in itself is very unpleasant. If I -am, I cannot help hoping that it will not be found out; and in my -dreams I am always less sorry for the misdeeds I commit than for their -possible discovery. I have done some very bad things in dreams which I -have no concern for whatever, except as they seem to threaten me with -publicity, or bring me within the penalty of the law; and I believe -this is the attitude of most other criminals, remorse being a fiction -of the poets, according to the students of the criminal class. It is -not agreeable to bring this home to one’s self, but the fact is not -without its significance in another direction. It implies that both in -the case of the dream-criminal and the deed-criminal there is perhaps -the same taint of insanity; only in the deed-criminal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> it is active, -and in the dream-criminal it is passive. In both, the inhibitory clause -that forbids evil is off, but the dreamer is not bidden to do evil as -the maniac is, or as the malefactor often seems to be. The dreamer is -purely unmoral; good and bad are the same to his conscience; he has -no more to do with right and wrong than the animals; he is reduced to -the state of the merely natural man; and perhaps the primitive men -were really like what we all are now in our dreams. Perhaps all life -to them was merely dreaming, and they never had anything like our -waking consciousness, which seems to be the offspring of conscience, -or else the parent of it. Until men passed the first stage of being, -perhaps that which we call the soul, for want of a better name, or a -worse, could hardly have existed, and perhaps in dreams the soul is -mostly absent now. The soul, or the principle that we call the soul, -is the supernal criticism of the deeds done in the body, which goes -perpetually on in the waking mind. While this watches, and warns or -commands, we go right; but when it is off duty we go neither right nor -wrong, but are as the beasts that perish.</p> - -<p>A common theory is that the dreams which we remember are those we -have in the drowse which <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>precedes sleeping and waking; but I do not -altogether accept this theory. In fact, there is very little proof of -it. We often wake from a dream, literally, but there is no proof that -we did not dream in the middle of the night the dream which is quite -as vividly with us in the morning as the one we wake from. I should -think that the dream which has some color of conscience in it was the -drowse-dream, and that the dream which has none is the sleep-dream; and -I believe that the most of our dreams will be found by this test to -be sleep-dreams. It is in these we may know what we would be without -our souls, without their supernal criticism of the mind; for the mind -keeps on working in them, with the lights of waking knowledge, both -experience and observation, but ruthlessly, remorselessly. By them we -may know what the state of the habitual criminal is, what the state of -the lunatic, the animal, the devil is. In them the personal character -ceases; the dreamer is remanded to his type.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>It is very strange, in the matter of dreadful dreams, how the body -of the terror is, in the course of often dreaming, reduced to a mere -convention. For a long time I was tormented with a nightmare of -burglars,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> and at first I used to dramatize the whole affair in detail, -from the time the burglars approached the house, till they mounted the -stairs, and the light of their dark-lanterns shone under the door into -my room. Now I have blue-pencilled all that introductory detail; I have -a light shining in under my door at once; I know that it is my old -burglars; and I have the effect of nightmare without further ceremony. -There are other nightmares that still cost me a great deal of trouble -in their construction, as for instance the nightmare of clinging to the -face of a precipice or the eaves of a lofty building; I have to take -as much pains with the arrangement of these as if I were now dreaming -them for the first time, and were hardly more than an apprentice in the -business.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the most universal dream of all is that disgraceful dream of -appearing in public places, and in society, with very little or nothing -on. This dream spares neither age nor sex, I believe, and I dare say -the innocency of wordless infancy is abused by it, and dotage pursued -to the tomb. I have not the least doubt Adam and Eve had it in Eden; -though up to the moment the fig-leaf came in, it is difficult to -imagine just what plight they found themselves in that seemed improper; -probably there was some plight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> The most amusing thing about this -dream is the sort of defensive process that goes on in the mind, in -search of self-justification or explanation. Is there not some peculiar -circumstance or special condition, in whose virtue it is wholly right -and proper for one to come to a fashionable assembly clad simply in a -towel, or to go about the street in nothing but a pair of kid gloves, -or of pyjamas at the most? This, or something like it, the mind of the -dreamer struggles to establish, with a good deal of anxious appeal to -the bystanders and a final sense of the hopelessness of the cause.</p> - -<p>One may easily laugh off this sort of dream in the morning, but there -are other shameful dreams, whose inculpation projects itself far into -the day, and whose infamy often lingers about one till lunch-time. -Every one, nearly, has had them, but it is not the kind of dream that -any one is fond of telling: the gross vanity of the most besotted -dream-teller keeps that sort back. During the forenoon, at least, the -victim goes about with the dim question whether he is not really that -kind of man harassing him, and a sort of remote fear that he may be. I -fancy that as to his nature and as to his mind, he is so, and that but -for the supernal criticism, but for his soul, he might be that kind of -man in very act and deed. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> - -<p>The dreams we sometimes have about other people are not without a -curious suggestion; and the superstitious (of those superstitious who -like to invent their own superstitions) might very well imagine that -the persons dreamed of had a witting complicity in their facts, as -well as the dreamer. This is a conjecture that must of course not be -forced to any conclusion. One must not go to one of these persons and -ask, however much one would like to ask, “Sir, have you no recollection -of such and such a thing, at such and such a time and place, which -happened to us in my dream?” Any such person would be fully justified -in not answering the question. It would be, of all interviewing, the -most intolerable species. Yet a singular interest, a curiosity not -altogether indefensible, will attach to these persons in the dreamer’s -mind, and he will not be without the sense, ever after, that he and -they have a secret in common. This is dreadful, but the only thing -that I can think to do about it is to urge people to keep out of other -people’s dreams by every means in their power.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>There are things in dreams very awful, which would not be at all so in -waking; quite witless and aimless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> things, which at the time were of -such baleful effect that it remains forever. I remember dreaming when -I was quite a small boy, not more than ten years old, a dream which -is vivider in my mind now than anything that happened at the time. -I suppose it came remotely from my reading of certain Tales of the -Grotesque and the Arabesque, which had just then fallen into my hands; -and it involved simply an action of the fire-company in the little town -where I lived. They were working the brakes of the old fire-engine, -which would seldom respond to their efforts, and as their hands rose -and fell they set up the heart-shaking and soul-desolating cry of “Arms -Poe, arms Poe, arms Poe!” This and nothing more was the body of my -horror; and if the reader is not moved by it the fault is his and not -mine; for I can assure him that nothing in my experience has been more -dreadful to me.</p> - -<p>I can hardly except the dismaying apparition of a clown, whom I once -saw, somewhat later in life, rise through the air in a sitting posture, -and float lightly over the house-roof, snapping his fingers, and -vaguely smiling, while the antennæ on his forehead, which clowns have -in common with some other insects, nodded elastically. I do not know -why this portent should have been so terrifying, or indeed that it was -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> portent at all, for nothing ever came of it; what I know is that it -was to the last degree threatening and awful. I never got anything but -joy out of the circuses where this dream must have originated, but the -pantomime of Don Giovanni, which I saw at the theatre, was as grewsome -to me waking as it was to me dreaming. The statue of the Commendatore, -in getting down from his horse to pursue the wicked hero (I think -that is what he gets down for), set an example by which a long line -of statues afterwards profited in my dreams. For many years, and I do -not know but quite up to the time when I adopted burglars as the theme -of my nightmares, I was almost always chased by a marble statue with -an uplifted arm, and almost always I ran along the verge of a pond to -escape it. I believe that I got this pond out of my remote childhood, -and that it may have been a fish-pond embowered by weeping-willows -which I used to admire in the door-yard of a neighbor. I have somehow -a greater respect for the material of this earlier nightmare than I -have for that of the later ones, and no doubt the reader will agree -with me that it is much more romantic to be pursued by a statue than -to be threatened by burglars. It is but a few hours ago, however, that -I saved myself from these inveterate enemies by waking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> up just in -time for breakfast. They did not come with that light of dark-lanterns -shining under the door, or I should have known them at once, and not -had so much bother; but they intimated their presence in the catch of -the lock, which would not close securely, and there was some question -at first whether they were not ghosts. I thought of tying the door-knob -on the inside of my room to my bedpost (a bedpost that has not been -in existence for fifty years), but after suffering awhile I decided -to speak to them from an upper window. By this time they had turned -into a trio of harmless, necessary tramps, and at my appeal to them, -absolutely nonsensical as I now believe it to have been, to regard the -peculiar circumstances, whatever they were or were not, they did really -get up from the back porch where they were seated and go quietly away.</p> - -<p>Burglars are not always so easily to be entreated. On one occasion, -when I found a party of them digging at the corner of my house on -Concord Avenue in Cambridge, and opened the window over them to -expostulate, the leader looked up at me in well-affected surprise. He -lifted his hand, with a twenty-dollar note in it, toward me, and said: -“Oh! Can you change me a twenty-dollar bill?” I expressed a polite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> -regret that I had not so much money about me, and then he said to the -rest, “Go ahead, boys,” and they went on undermining my house. I do not -know what came of it all.</p> - -<p>Of ghosts I have seldom dreamed, so far as I can remember; in fact, -I have never dreamed of the kind of ghosts that we are all more or -less afraid of, though I have dreamed rather often of the spirits of -departed friends. But I once dreamed of dying, and the reader, who has -never died yet, may be interested to know what it is like. According to -this experience of mine, which I do not claim is typical, it is like -a fire kindling in an air-tight stove with paper and shavings; the -gathering smoke and gases suddenly burst into flame, and puff the door -out, and all is over.</p> - -<p>I have not yet been led to execution for the many crimes I have -committed in my dreams, but I was once in the hands of a barber, who -added to the shaving and shampooing business the art of removing his -customers’ heads in treatment for headache. As I took my seat in his -chair I had some lingering doubts as to the effect of a treatment so -drastic, and I ventured to mention the case of a friend of mine, a -gentleman somewhat eminent in the law, who after several weeks was -still going about without his head. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> barber did not attempt to -refute my position. He merely said, “Oh, well, he had such a very thick -sort of a head, anyway.”</p> - -<p>This was a sarcasm, but I think it was urged as a reason, though it -may not have been. We rarely bring away from sleep the things that -seem so brilliant to us in our dreams. Verse is especially apt to -fade away, or turn into doggerel in the memory, and the witty sayings -which we contrive to remember will hardly bear the test of daylight. -The most perfect thing of the kind out of my own dreams was something -that I seemed to wake with the very sound of in my ears. It was after -a certain dinner, which had been rather uncommonly gay, with a good -deal of very good talk, which seemed to go on all night, and when I -woke in the morning some one was saying, “Oh, I shouldn’t at all mind -his robbing Peter to pay Paul, if I felt sure that Paul would get the -money.” This I think really humorous, and an extremely neat bit of -characterization; I feel free to praise it, because it was not I who -said it.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>Apparently the greater part of dreams have no more mirth than sense -in them. This is perhaps because the man is in dreams reduced to -the brute <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>condition, and is the lawless inferior of the waking man -intellectually, as the lawless in waking are always the inferiors of -the lawful. Some loose thinkers suppose that if we give the rein to -imagination it will do great things, but it will really do little -things, foolish and worthless things, as we witness in dreams, where it -is quite unbridled. It must keep close to truth, and it must be under -the law if it would work strongly and sanely. The man in his dreams is -really lower than the lunatic in his deliriums. These have a logic of -their own; but the dreamer has not even a crazy logic.</p> - -<p class="center">“Like a dog, he hunts in dreams,”</p> - -<p>and probably his dreams and the dog’s are not only alike, but are of -the same quality. In his wicked dreams the man is not only animal, he -is devil, so wholly is he let into his evils, as the Swedenborgians -say. The wrong is indifferent to him until the fear of detection and -punishment steals in upon him. Even then he is not sorry for his -misdeed, as I have said before; he is only anxious to escape its -consequences.</p> - -<p>It seems probable that when this fear makes itself felt he is near to -waking; and probably when we dream, as we often do, that the thing is -only a dream, and hope for rescue from it by waking, we are always just -about to wake. This double effect is very strange,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> but still more -strange is the effect which we are privy to in the minds of others, -when they not merely say things to us which are wholly unexpected, -but think things that we know they are thinking, and that they do not -express in words. A great many years ago, when I was young, I dreamed -that my father, who was in another town, came into the room where I was -really lying asleep, and stood by my bed. He wished to greet me, after -our separation, but he reasoned that if he did so, I should wake, and -he turned and left the room without touching me. This process in his -mind, which I knew as clearly and accurately as if it had apparently -gone on in my own, was apparently confined to his mind as absolutely as -anything could be that was not spoken or in any wise uttered.</p> - -<p>Of course it was of my agency, like any other part of the dream, -and it was something like the operation of the novelist’s intention -through the mind of his characters. But in this there is the author’s -consciousness that he is doing it all himself, while in my dream, -this reasoning in the mind of another was something that I felt -myself mere witness of. In fact there is no analogy, so far as I can -make out, between the process of literary invention and the process -of dreaming. In the invention, the critical faculty is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> vividly and -constantly alert; in dreaming, it seems altogether absent. It seems -absent, too, in what we call day-dreaming, or that sort of dramatizing -action which perhaps goes on perpetually in the mind, or some minds. -But this day-dreaming is not otherwise any more like night-dreaming -than invention is; for the man is never more actively and consciously a -man, and never has a greater will to be fine and high and grand than in -his day-dreams, while in his night-dreams he is quite willing to be a -miscreant of any worst sort.</p> - -<p>It is very remarkable, in view of this fact, that we have now and -then, though ever so much more rarely, dreams that are as angelic as -those others are demoniac. Is it possible that then the dreamer is let -into his goods (the word is Swedenborg’s again), instead of his evils? -It may be supposed that in sleep the dreamer lies passive, while his -proper soul is away, and other spirits, celestial and infernal, have -free access to his mind, and abuse it to their own ends in the one -case, and use it in his behalf in the other.</p> - -<p>That would be an explanation, but nothing seems quite to hold in regard -to dreams. If it is true, why should the dreamer’s state so much -oftener be imbued with evil than with good? It might be answered that -the evil forces are much more positive and aggressive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> than the good; -or, that the love of the dreamer, which is his life, being mainly evil, -invites the wicked spirits oftener. But that is a point which I would -rather leave each dreamer to settle for himself. The greater number of -every one’s dreams, like the romantic novel, I fancy, concern incident -rather than character, and I am not sure, after all, that the dream -which convicts the dreamer of an essential baseness is commoner than -the dream that tells in his favor morally.</p> - -<p>I dare say every reader of this paper has had dreams so amusing that he -has wakened himself from them by laughing, and then not found them so -very funny, or perhaps not been able to recall them at all. I have had -at least one of this sort, remarkable for other reasons, which remains -perfect in my mind, though it is now some ten years old. One of the -children had been exposed to a very remote chance of scarlet-fever at -the house of a friend, and had been duly scolded for the risk, which -was then quite forgotten. I dreamed that this friend, however, was -giving a ladies’ lunch, at which I was unaccountably and invisibly -present, and the talk began to run upon the scarlet-fever cases in -her family. She said that after the last she had fumigated the whole -house for seventy-two hours (the period seemed very significant and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>important in my dream), and had burned everything she could lay her -hands on.</p> - -<p>“And what did the nurse burn?” asked one of the other ladies.</p> - -<p>The hostess began to laugh: “The nurse didn’t burn a thing!”</p> - -<p>Then all the rest burst out laughing at the joke, and the laughter woke -me, to see the boy sitting up in his bed, and hear him saying, “Oh, I -am so sick!”</p> - -<p>It was the nausea which announces scarlet-fever, and for six weeks -after that we were in quarantine. Very likely the fear of the contagion -had been in my nether mind all the time, but, so far as consciousness -could testify of it, I had wholly forgotten it.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>One rarely loses one’s personality in dreams; it is rather intensified, -with all the proper circumstances and relations of it, but I have had -at least one dream in which I seemed to transcend my own circumstance -and condition with remarkable completeness. Even my epoch, my precious -present, I left behind (or ahead, rather), and in my unity with the -persons of my dream I became strictly mediæval. In fact, I have always -called it my mediæval dream, to such as I could get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> to listen to it; -and it had for its scene a feudal tower, in some waste place; a tower -open at the top, and with a deep, clear pool of water at the bottom, -so that it instantly became known to me, as if I had always known it, -for the Pool Tower. While I stood looking into it, in a mediæval dress -and a mediæval mood, there came flying in at the open door of the ruin -beside me the duke’s hunchback, and after him, furious and shrieking -maledictions, the swarthy beauty whom I was aware the duke was tired -of. The keeping was now not only ducal, but thoroughly Italian, and -it was suggested somehow to my own subtle Italian perception that the -hunchback had been set on to tease the girl, and provoke her so that -she would turn upon him, and try to wreak her fury on him, and chase -him into the Pool Tower, and up the stone stairs that wound round its -hollow to the top, where the solemn sky showed. The fearful spire of -the steps was unguarded, and when I had lost the pair from sight, -with the dwarf’s mocking laughter and the girl’s angry cries in my -ears, there came fluttering from the height, like a bird wounded and -whirling from a lofty tree, the figure of the girl, while far aloof -the hunchback peered over at her fall. Midway in her descent her head -struck against the edge of the steps, with a <i>kish</i>, such as an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> -egg-shell makes when broken against the edge of a platter, and then -plunged into the dark pool at my feet, where I could presently see her -lying in the clear depths, and the blood curling upward from the wound -in her skull, like a dark smoke. I was not sensible of any great pity; -I accepted the affair, quite mediævally, as something that might very -well have happened, given the girl, the duke and the dwarf, and the -time and place.</p> - -<p>I am rather fond of a mediæval setting for those</p> - -<p class="center">“Dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,”</p> - -<p>just closing for an afternoon nap. Then I invite to my vision a wide -landscape, with a cold wintry afternoon light upon it, and over this -plain I have bands and groups of people scurrying, in mediæval hose -of divers colors, and mediæval leathern jerkins, hugging themselves -against the frost, and very miserable. They affect me with a profound -compassion; they represent to me, somehow, the vast mass of humanity, -the mass that does the work, and earns the bread, and goes cold and -hungry through all the ages. I should be at a loss to say why this was -the effect, and I am utterly unable to say why these fore-dreams, which -I partially solicit, should have such a tremendous significance as they -seem to have. They are mostly of the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> evanescent and intangible -character, but they have one trait in common. They always involve the -attribution of ethical motive and quality to material things, and -in their passage through my brain they promise me a solution of the -riddle of the painful earth in the very instant when they are gone -forever. They are of innumerable multitude, chasing each other with -the swiftness of light, and never staying to be seized by the memory, -which seems already drugged with sleep before their course begins. One -of these dreams, indeed, I did capture, and I found it to be the figure -8, but lying on its side, and in that posture involving the mystery and -the revelation of the mystery of the universe. I leave the reader to -imagine why.</p> - -<p>As we grow older, I think we are less and less able to remember our -dreams. This is perhaps because the experience of youth is less dense, -and the empty spaces of the young consciousness are more hospitable -to these airy visitants. A few dreams of my later life stand out in -strong relief, but for the most part they blend in an indistinguishable -mass, and pass away with the actualities into a common oblivion. I -should say that they were more frequent with me than they used to be; -it seems to me that now I dream whole nights through, and much more -about the business of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> my waking life than formerly. As I earn my -living by weaving a certain sort of dreams into literary form, it might -be supposed that I would sometime dream of the personages in these -dreams, but I cannot remember that I have ever done so. The two kinds -of inventing, the voluntary and the involuntary, seem absolutely and -finally distinct.</p> - -<p>Of the prophetic dreams which people sometimes have I have mentioned -the only one of mine which had any dramatic interest, but I have -verified in my own experience the theory of Ribot that approaching -disease sometimes intimates itself in dreams of the disorder impending, -before it is otherwise declared in the organism. In actual sickness I -think that I dream rather less than in health. I had a malarial fever -when I was a boy, and I had a sort of continuous dream in it that -distressed me greatly. It was of gliding down the school-house stairs -without touching my feet to the steps, and this was indescribably -appalling.</p> - -<p>The anguish of mind that one suffers from the imaginary dangers of -dreams is probably of the same quality as that inspired by real peril -in waking. A curious proof of this happened within my knowledge not -many years ago. One of the neighbor’s children was coasting down a long -hill with a railroad at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> foot of it, and as he neared the bottom -an express train rushed round the curve. The flag-man ran forward and -shouted to the boy to throw himself off his sled, but he kept on, and -ran into the locomotive, and was so hurt that he died. His injuries, -however, were to the spine, and they were of a kind that rendered -him insensible to pain while he lived. He talked very clearly and -calmly of his accident, and when he was asked why he did not throw -himself off his sled, as the flag-man bade him, he said, “<i>I thought -it was a dream</i>.” The reality had, through the mental stress, no doubt -transmuted itself to the very substance of dreams, and he had felt the -same kind and quality of suffering as he would have done if he had been -dreaming. The Norwegian poet and novelist, Björnstjerne Björnson, was -at my house shortly after this happened, and he was greatly struck by -the psychological implications of the incident; it seemed to mean for -him all sorts of possibilities in the obscure realm where it cast a -fitful light.</p> - -<p>But such a glimmer soon fades, and the darkness thickens round us -again. It is not with the blindfold sense of sleep that we shall ever -find out the secret of life, I fancy, either in the dreams which seem -personal to us each one, or those universal dreams which we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> apparently -share with the whole race. Of the race-dream, as I may call it, there -is one hardly less common than that dream of going about insufficiently -clad, which I have already mentioned, and that is the dream of suddenly -falling from some height, and waking with a start. The experience -before the start is extremely dim, and latterly I have condensed this -dread almost as much as the preliminary passages of my burglar-dream. -I am aware of nothing but an instant of danger, and then comes the jar -or jolt that wakens me. Upon the whole, I find this a great saving of -emotion, and I do not know but there is a tendency, as I grow older, -to shorten up the detail of what may be styled the conventional dream, -the dream which we have so often that it is like a story read before. -Indeed, the plots of dreams are not much more varied than the plots of -romantic novels, which are notoriously stale and hackneyed. It would -be interesting, and possibly important, if some observer would note -the recurrence of this sort of dreams, and classify their varieties. -I think we should all be astonished to find how few and slight the -variations were. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>If I come to speak of dreams concerning the dead, it must be with a -tenderness and awe that all who have had them will share with me. -Nothing is more remarkable in them than the fact that the dead, though -they are dead, yet live, and are, to our commerce with them, quite like -all other living persons. We may recognize, and they may recognize, -that they are no longer in the body, but they are as verily living as -we are. This may be merely an effect from the doctrine of immortality -which we all hold or have held, and yet I would fain believe that it -may be something like proof of it. No one really knows, or can know, -but one may at least hope, without offending science, which indeed no -longer frowns so darkly upon faith. This persistence of life in those -whom we mourn as dead, may not it be a witness of the fact that the -consciousness cannot accept the notion of death at all, and,</p> - -<p class="center">“Whatever crazy sorrow saith,”</p> - -<p>that we have never truly felt them lost? Sometimes those who have died -come back in dreams as parts of a common life which seems never to have -been broken; the old circle is restored without a flaw; but whether -they do this, or whether it is acknowledged between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> them and us that -they have died, and are now disembodied spirits, the effect of life is -the same. Perhaps in those dreams they and we are alike disembodied -spirits, and the soul of the dreamer, which so often seems to abandon -the body to the animal, is then the conscious entity, the thing which -the dreamer feels to be himself, and is mingling with the souls of the -departed on something like the terms which shall hereafter be constant.</p> - -<p>I think very few of those who have lost their beloved have failed to -receive some sign or message from them in dreams, and often it is -of deep and abiding consolation. It may be that this is our anguish -compelling the echo of love out of the darkness where nothing is, but -it may be that there is something there, which answers to our throe -with pity and with longing like our own. Again, no one knows, but in a -matter impossible of definite solution I will not refuse the comfort -which belief can give. Unbelief can be no gain, and belief no loss. But -those dreams are so dear, so sacred, so interwoven with the finest and -tenderest tissues of our being that one cannot speak of them freely, -or indeed more than most vaguely. It is enough to say that one has had -them, and to know that almost every one else has had them too. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> -seem to be among the universal dreams, and a strange quality of them -is, that though they deal with a fact of universal doubt, they are, to -my experience at least, not nearly so fantastic or capricious as the -dreams that deal with the facts of every-day life, and with the affairs -of people still in this world.</p> - -<p>I do not know whether it is common to dream of faces or figures strange -to our waking knowledge, but occasionally I have done this. I suppose -it is much the same kind of invention that causes the person we dream -of to say or do a thing unexpected to us. But this is rather common, -and the creation of a novel aspect, the physiognomy of a stranger, in -the person we dream of, is rather rare. In all my dreams I can recall -but one presence of the kind. I have never dreamed of any sort of -monster foreign to my knowledge, or even of any grotesque thing made -up of elements familiar to it; the grotesqueness has always been in -the motive or circumstance of the dream. I have very seldom dreamed of -animals, though once, when I was a boy, for a time after I had passed a -corn-field where there were some bundles of snakes, writhen and knotted -together in the cold of an early spring day, I had dreams infested by -like images of these loathsome reptiles. I suppose that every one has -had dreams of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> finding his way through unnamable filth, and of feeding -upon hideous carnage; these are clearly the punishment of gluttony, and -are the fumes of a rebellious stomach.</p> - -<p>I have heard people say they have sometimes dreamed of a thing, and -awakened from their dream, and then fallen asleep and dreamed of the -same thing; but I believe that this is all one continuous dream; that -they did not really awaken, but only dreamed that they awakened. I -have never had any such dream, but at one time I had a recurrent -dream, which was so singular that I thought no one else had ever had -a recurrent dream till I proved that it was rather common by starting -the inquiry in the Contributors’ Club in the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, when -I found that great numbers of people have recurrent dreams. My own -recurrent dreams began to come during the first year of my consulate -at Venice, where I had hoped to find the same kind of poetic dimness -on the phases of American life, which I wished to treat in literature, -as the distance in time would have given. I should not wish any such -dimness now; but those were my romantic days, and I was sorely baffled -by its absence. The disappointment began to haunt my nights as well as -my days, and a dream repeated itself from week to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> week for a matter -of eight or ten months to one effect. I dreamed that I had gone home -to America, and that people met me and said, “Why, you have given up -your place!” and I always answered: “Certainly not; I haven’t done -at all what I mean to do there, yet. I am only here on my ten days’ -leave.” I meant the ten days which a consul might take each quarter -without applying to the Department of State; and then I would reflect -how impossible it was that I should make the visit in that time. I saw -that I should be found out, and dismissed from my office and publicly -disgraced. Then, suddenly, I was not consul at Venice, and had not -been, but consul at Delhi in India; and the distress I felt would -all end in a splendid Oriental phantasmagory of elephants and native -princes, with their retinues in procession, which I suppose was mostly -out of my reading of De Quincey. This dream, with no variation that -I can recall, persisted till I broke it up by saying, in the morning -after it had recurred, that I had dreamed that dream again; and so -it began to fade away, coming less and less frequently, and at last -ceasing altogether.</p> - -<p>I am rather proud of that dream; it is really my battle-horse among -dreams, and I think I will ride away on it.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<h2>AN EAST-SIDE RAMBLE.</h2> - -<p>The New Yorkers, following the custom of Europe, often fence themselves -about with a great deal of ceremony in social matters, even such small -social matters as making calls.</p> - -<p>Some ladies have days when they receive calls; others have no specified -day, and then you take your chance of being turned from the door -without seeing them, or if you find them, of finding them reluctant and -preoccupied. A friend of mine says he has often felt as if he had been -admitted through the error of the man or the maid who opened the door -to him at such houses, and who returned, after carrying up his name, to -say, with a frightened air, that the lady would be down in a moment.</p> - -<p>But when there are days there is never any misgiving about letting -you in. The door is whisked open before you have had time to ring, -sometimes by a servant who has the effect of not belonging to the -house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> but hired for the afternoon. Then you leave your card on a -platter of some sort in the hall to attest the fact of your visit, and -at the simpler houses find your way into the drawing-room unannounced, -though the English custom of shouting your name before you is very -common and is always observed where there is any pretense to fashion. -Certain ladies receive once a week throughout the season; others -receive on some day each week of December or January or February, as -the case may be. When there is this limit to a month, the reception -insensibly takes on the character of an afternoon tea, and, in fact, -it varies from that only in being a little less crowded. There is -tea or chocolate or mild punch and a table spread with pastries and -sweets, which hardly any one touches. A young lady dedicates herself -to the service of each urn and offers you the beverage that flows from -it. There is a great air of gayety, a very excited chatter of female -voices, a constant flutter of greeting and leave-taking and a general -sense of amiable emptiness and bewildered kindness when you come away. -The genius of these little affairs is supposed to be informality, but -at some houses where you enjoy such informalities you find two men in -livery on the steps outside, a third opens the door for you, a fourth -takes your hat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> and stick, a fifth receives your overcoat and a sixth -catches at your name and miscalls it into the drawing room.</p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>But I must not give too exclusive an impression of ceremony in the -New-Yorkers. I made some calls about Christmas-time last year in a -quarter of the city where the informalities are real and where the -hospitalities, such as they were, I thought as sincere as in the -houses where the informalities are more apparent. The sort of calls -I made were rather fashionable some years ago, but are so no longer. -It was a fad to make them, and the fad, like all really nice fads, -came from England, and perhaps it has now died out here because it has -died out there. At any rate, it seems certain that there is now less -interest, less curiosity, concerning the home life of the poor than -there was then among the comfortable people. I do not say there is less -sympathy—there must be still a good deal of sympathy—but I should -say there was less hope with the well-to-do of bettering the condition -of the ill-to-do; some philosophers even warn us against indulging a -feeling of commiseration, lest it should encourage the poor to attempt -themselves to better their condition. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> - -<p>Yet there are no signs of rebellion on the part of the poor, whom I -found as tame and peaceful, apparently, when I went the rounds of their -unceremonious at-homes as the most anxious philosopher could desire. -My calls were by no means of the nature of a perquisition, but they -left very little unknown to me, I fancy, of the way the poor live, so -frank and simple is their life. They included some tenements of the -American quarter, near the point of the island, on the West Side, and -a rather greater number on the East Side, in the heart of the district -abandoned chiefly to the Russian Jews, though there are no doubt -other nationalities to be found there. It is said to be more densely -populated than any other area in the world, or at least in Christendom, -for within a square mile there are more than three hundred and fifty -thousand men, women and children. One can imagine from this fact -alone how they are housed and what their chances of the comforts and -decencies of life may be. But I must not hurry to the region of these -homes before I have first tried to show the interiors of that quarter -called American, where I found the Americans represented, as they are -so often, by Irish people. The friend who went with me on my calls led -me across the usual surface tracks, under the usual elevated tracks, -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> suddenly dodged before me into an alleyway about two feet wide. -This crept under houses fronting on the squalid street we had left and -gave into a sort of court some ten or twelve feet wide by thirty or -forty feet long. The buildings surrounding it were low and very old. -One of them was a stable, which contributed its stench to the odors -that rose from the reeking pavement and from the closets filling an -end of the court, with a corner left beside them for the hydrant that -supplied the water of the whole inclosure. It is from this court that -the inmates of the tenements have their sole chance of sun and air. -What the place must be in summer I had not the heart to think, and on -the wintry day of my visit I could not feel the fury of the skies which -my guide said would have been evident to me if I had seen it in August. -I could better fancy this when I climbed the rickety stairs within one -of the houses and found myself in a typical New York tenement. Then I -almost choked at the thought of what a hot day, what a hot night, must -be in such a place, with the two small windows inhaling the putrid -breath of the court and transmitting it, twice fouled by the passage -through the living-room, to the black hole in the rear, where the whole -family lay on the heap of rags that passed for a bed. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p> - -<p>We had our choice which door to knock at on the narrow landing, a -yard wide at most, which opened into such tenements to the right and -left, as many stories up as the stairs mounted. We stood at once in -the presence of the hostess; there was no ceremony of sending in our -cards here, or having our names called to her. In one case we found -her over the washtub, with her three weeks’ babe bundled in a chair -beside it. A table, with a half-eaten loaf, that formed her breakfast, -on it, helped, with the cooking-stove, to crowd the place past any -possibility of sitting down, if there had been chairs to sit in; so -we stood, as people do at an afternoon tea. At sight of us the woman -began to cry and complain that her man had been drunk and idle for a -month and did nothing for her; though in these times he might have been -sober and idle and done as little. Some good soul was paying the rent -for her, which was half as great as would have hired a decent flat in a -good part of the town; but how her food came or the coal for her stove -remained a mystery which we did not try to solve. She wiped her tears -at the exhibition of a small coin, which she had perhaps dimly foreseen -through them from the moment they began to flow. It was wrong, perhaps, -to give her money, but it was not very wrong,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> perhaps, for the money -was not very much, and if it pauperized her it could not have been said -that she was wholly unpauperized before she took it. These are very -difficult cases, but all life is a hopeless tangle, and the right is -something that does not show itself at once, especially in economical -affairs.</p> - -<p>In another tenement we found a family as gay and hopeful as this was -dismal and desperate. An Irish lady with a stylish fringe of red hair -decorating her forehead, welcomed us with excuses for the state of the -apartment, which in the next breath she proved herself very proud of, -for she said that if people were not comfortable in their houses it was -because they were slovenly and untidy. I could not see that she was -neater than her neighbor on the landing below. She had a florid taste -in pictures, and half a dozen large colored prints went far to hide the -walls, which, she said, the landlord had lately had whitewashed, though -to eyes less fond than hers they showed a livid blue. The whitewashing -was the sole repairs which had been put upon her tenement since she -came into it, but she seemed to think it quite enough; and her man, who -sat at leisure near the stove, in the three days’ beard which seems -inseparable from idle poverty, was quite boastful of its advantages. -He said that he had lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> in that court for thirty years and there -was no such air anywhere else in this world. I could readily believe -him, being there to smell it and coming away with the taste of it in my -mouth. Like other necessaries of life, it must have been rather scanty -in that happy home, especially at night, when the dark fell outside and -a double dark thickened in the small bin which stood open to our gaze -at the end of the room. The whitewash seemed not to have penetrated to -this lair, where a frowzy mattress showed itself on a rickety bedstead. -The beds in these sleeping-holes were never made up; they were rounded -into a heap and seemed commonly of a coarse brown sacking. They had -always a horrible fascination for me. I fancied them astir with a -certain life which, if there had been a consensus of it to that effect, -might have walked off with them.</p> - -<p>All the tenements here were of this size and shape—a room with windows -opening upon the court and at the rear the small black bin or pen -for the bed. The room was perhaps twelve feet square and the bin was -six, and for such a dwelling the tenant pays six dollars a month. If -he fails to pay it he is evicted, and some thirty thousand evictions -have taken place in the past year. But an eviction is by no means the -dreadful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> hardship the reader would perhaps imagine it. To be sure, -it means putting the tenant on the sidewalk with his poor household -gear in any weather and at any hour; but if it is very cold or very -wet weather, the evicted family is seldom suffered to pass the night -there. The wretched neighbors gather about and take them in, and their -life begins again on the old terms; or the charities come to their aid, -and they are dispersed into the different refuges until the father or -mother can find another hole for them to crawl into. Still, natural as -it all is, I should think it must surprise an Irishman, who supposed he -had left eviction behind him in his native land, to find it so rife in -the country of his adoption.</p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>My friend asked me if I would like to go into any other tenements, but -I thought that if what I had seen was typical, I had seen enough in -that quarter. The truth is, I had not yet accustomed myself to going in -upon people in that way, though they seemed accustomed to being gone in -upon without any ceremony but the robust “Good-morning!” my companion -gave them by way of accounting for our presence, and I wanted a little -interval to prepare myself for further forays. The people seemed quite -ready to be <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>questioned, and answered us as persons in authority. They -may have taken us for detectives, or agents of benevolent societies, or -journalists in search of copy. In any case, they had nothing to lose -and they might have something to gain; so they received us kindly and -made us as much at home among them as they knew how. It may have been -that in some instances they supposed that we were members of the Board -of Health and were their natural allies against their landlords.</p> - -<p>I had not realized before how much this noble institution can befriend -the poor, so potently sustained as it is in the discharge of its duties -by the popular sentiment in a land where popular sentiment is so often -so weak. It has full power, in the public interest, to order repairs -and betterments necessary for the general health in any domicile, rich -or poor, in the city, and no man’s pleasure or profit may hinder it. -In cases of contagion or infection, it may isolate the neighborhood -or vacate the premises, or, in certain desperate conditions, destroy -them. As there are always pestilences of some sort preying upon the -poor (as if their poverty were not enough), my companion could point -out a typhus quarter, which the Board had shut up and which we must -not approach. Such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> minor plagues as smallpox, scarlet-fever, and -diphtheria are quickly discovered and made known, and the places that -they have infested are closed till they can be thoroughly purified. -Any tenant believing his premises to be in an unwholesome or dangerous -state may call in the Board, and from its decision the landlord has no -appeal. He must make the changes the Board ordains, and he must make -them at his own cost, though no doubt, when the tenant can pay, he -contrives somehow to make him pay in the end. The landlord, especially -if he battens on the poorer sort of tenants, is always in fear of the -Board, and the tenant is in love with it, for he knows that, in a -community otherwise delivered over to the pursuit of pelf or pleasure, -it stands his ready friend, whose mandate private interest obeys as it -obeys no other. It seems to have more honor than any other institution -among us, and, amid the most frightful corruption of every kind, to -remain incorruptible. Very likely the landlord may sometimes think -that it abuses its power, but the tenant never thinks so, and the -public seems always to agree with the tenant. The press, which is so -keen to scent out paternalism in municipal or national affairs, has -not yet perceived any odor of it in the Board of Health, and stands -its constant friend,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> though it embodies in the most distinctive form -the principle that, in a civilized community, the collective interest -is supreme. Even if such an extension of its powers were not in the -order of evolution, it would not be so illogical for the Board of -Health to command the abatement of poverty when the diseases that flow -from poverty cannot be otherwise abated. I should not like to prophesy -that it will ever do so, but stranger things have happened through the -necessity that knows no law, not even the law of demand and supply—the -demand of Moloch and the supply of Misery.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>I do not know whether the Hebrew quarter, when I began to make my calls -there, seemed any worse than the American quarter or not. But I noticed -presently a curious subjective effect in myself, which I offer for the -reader’s speculation.</p> - -<p>There is something in a very little experience of such places that -blunts the perception, so that they do not seem so dreadful as they -are; and I should feel as if I were exaggerating if I recorded my -first impression of their loathsomeness. I soon came to look upon the -conditions as normal, not for me, indeed, or for the kind of people I -mostly consort with, but for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> the inmates of the dens and lairs about -me. Perhaps this was partly their fault; they were uncomplaining, if -not patient, in circumstances where I believe a single week’s sojourn, -with no more hope of a better lot than they could have, would make -anarchists of the best people in the city. Perhaps the poor people -themselves are not so thoroughly persuaded that there is anything -very unjust in their fate, as the compassionate think. They at least -do not know the better fortune of others, and they have the habit of -passively enduring their own. I found them usually cheerful in the -Hebrew quarter, and they had so much courage as enabled them to keep -themselves noticeably clean in an environment where I am afraid their -betters would scarcely have had heart to wash their faces and comb -their hair. There was even a decent tidiness in their dress, which -I did not find very ragged, though it often seemed unseasonable and -insufficient. But here again, as in many other phases of life, I was -struck by men’s heroic superiority to their fate, if their fate is -hard; and I felt anew that if prosperous and comfortable people were -as good in proportion to their fortune as these people were they would -be as the angels of light, which, I am afraid they now but faintly -resemble. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p> - -<p>One of the places we visited was a court somewhat like that we had -already seen in the American quarter, but rather smaller and with -more the effect of a pit, since the walls around it were so much -higher. There was the same row of closets at one side and the hydrant -next them, but here the hydrant was bound up in rags to keep it from -freezing, apparently, and the wretched place was by no means so -foul under foot. To be sure, there was no stable to contribute its -filth, but we learned that a suitable stench was not wanting from -a bakery in one of the basements, which a man in good clothes and -a large watch-chain told us rose from it in suffocating fumes at a -certain hour, when the baker was doing some unimaginable thing to -the bread. This man seemed to be the employer of labor in one of the -rooms above, and he said that when the smell began they could hardly -breathe. He caught promptly at the notion of the Board of Health, -and I dare say that the baker will be duly abated. None of the other -people complained, but that was perhaps because they had only their -Yiddish to complain in, and knew that it would be wasted on us. They -seemed neither curious nor suspicious concerning us; they let us go -everywhere, as if they had no thought of hindering us. One of the -tenements we entered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> had just been vacated; but there was a little -girl of ten there, with some much smaller children, amusing them in the -empty space. Through a public-spirited boy, who had taken charge of us -from the beginning and had a justly humorous sense of the situation, we -learned that this little maid was not the sister but the servant of the -others, for even in these low levels society makes its distinctions. -I dare say that the servant was not suffered to eat with the others -when they had anything to eat, and that when they had nothing her -inferiority was somehow brought home to her. She may have been made -to wait and famish after the others had hungered some time. She was a -cheerful and friendly creature and her small brood were kept tidy like -herself.</p> - -<p>The basement under this vacant tenement we found inhabited, and though -it was a most preposterous place for people to live, it was not as -dirty as one would think. To be sure, it was not very light and all -the dirt may not have been visible. One of the smiling women who were -there made their excuses, “Poor people; cannot keep very nice,” and -laughed as if she had said a good thing. There was nothing in the room -but a table and a few chairs and a stove, without fire, but they were -all contentedly there together<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> in the dark, which hardly let them see -one another’s faces. My companion struck a match and held it to the -cavernous mouth of an inner cellar half as large as the room we were -in, where it winked and paled so soon that I had only a glimpse of the -bed, with the rounded heap of bedding on it; but out of this hole, as -if she had been a rat, scared from it by the light, a young girl came, -rubbing her eyes and vaguely smiling, and vanished up-stairs somewhere.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>I found no shape or size of tenement but this. There was always the -one room, where the inmates lived by day, and the one den, where they -slept by night, apparently all in the same bed, though probably the -children were strewn about the floor. If the tenement were high up the -living-room had more light and air than if it were low down; but the -sleeping-hole never had any light or air of its own. My calls were -made on one of the mild days which fell before last Christmas, and -so I suppose I saw these places at their best; but what they must be -when the summer is seven times heated without, as it often is in New -York, or when the arctic cold has pierced these hapless abodes and the -inmates huddle together for their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> animal heat, the reader must imagine -for himself. The Irish-Americans had flaming stoves, even on that soft -day, but in the Hebrew tenements I found no fire. They were doubtless -the better for this, and it is one of the comical anomalies of the -whole affair that they are singularly healthy. The death rate among -them is one of the lowest in the city, though whether for their final -advantage it might not better be the highest, is one of the things -one must not ask one’s self. In their presence I should not dare to -ask it, even in my deepest thought. They are then so like other human -beings and really so little different from the best, except in their -environment, that I had to get away from this before I could regard -them as wild beasts.</p> - -<p>I suppose there are and have been worse conditions of life, but if I -stopped short of savage life I found it hard to imagine them. I did not -exaggerate to myself the squalor that I saw, and I do not exaggerate -it to the reader. As I have said, I was so far from sentimentalizing -it that I almost immediately reconciled myself to it, as far as its -victims were concerned. Still, it was squalor of a kind which, it -seemed to me, it could not be possible to outrival anywhere in the life -one commonly calls civilized. It is true that the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>Indians who formerly -inhabited this island were no more comfortably lodged in their wigwams -of bark and skins than these poor New-Yorkers in their tenements. -But the wild men pay no rent, and if they are crowded together upon -terms that equally forbid decency and comfort in their shelter, they -have the freedom of the forest and the prairie about them; they have -the illimitable sky and the whole light of day and the four winds -to breathe when they issue into the open air. The New York tenement -dwellers, even when they leave their lairs, are still pent in their -high-walled streets, and inhale a thousand stenches of their own and -others’ making. The street, except in snow and rain, is always better -than their horrible houses, and it is doubtless because they pass so -much of their time in the street that the death rate is so low among -them. Perhaps their domiciles can be best likened for darkness and -discomfort to the dugouts or sod huts of the settlers on the great -plains. But these are only temporary shelters, while the tenement -dwellers have no hope of better housing; they have neither the prospect -of a happier fortune through their own energy as the settlers have, -nor any chance from the humane efforts and teachings of missionaries, -like the savages. With the tenement dwellers it is from generation to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>generation, if not for the individual, then for the class, since no -one expects that there will not always be tenement dwellers in New York -as long as our present economical conditions endure.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>When I first set out on my calls I provided myself with some small -silver, which I thought I might fitly give, at least to the children, -and in some of the first places I did this. But presently I began to -fancy an unseemliness in it, as if it were an indignity added to the -hardship of their lot, and to feel that unless I gave all my worldly -wealth to them I was in a manner mocking their misery. I could not give -everything, for then I should have had to come upon charity myself, and -so I mostly kept my little coins in my pocket; but when we mounted into -the court again from that cellar apartment and found an old, old woman -there, wrinkled and yellow, with twinkling eyes and a toothless smile, -waiting to see us, as if she were as curious in her way as we were in -ours, I was tempted. She said in her Yiddish, which the humorous boy -interpreted, that she was eighty years old, and she looked a hundred, -while she babbled unintelligibly but very cheerfully on. I gave her -a piece of twenty-five cents<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> and she burst into a blessing, that I -should not have thought could be bought for money. We did not stay to -hear it out, but the boy did, and he followed to report it to me, with -a gleeful interest in its beneficent exaggerations. If it is fulfilled -I shall live to be a man of many and prosperous years, and I shall die -possessed of wealth that will endow a great many colleges and found a -score of libraries. I do not know whether the boy envied me or not, -but I wish I could have left that benediction to him, for I took a -great liking to him, his shrewd smile, his gay eyes, his promise of a -Hebrew nose, and his whole wise little visage. He said that he went to -school and studied reading, writing, geography and everything. All the -children we spoke to said that they went to school, and they were quick -and intelligent. They could mostly speak English, while most of their -elders knew only Yiddish.</p> - -<p>The sound of this was around us on the street we issued into, and -which seemed from end to end a vast bazaar, where there was a great -deal of selling, whether there was much buying or not. The place is -humorously called the pig-market by the Christians, because everything -in the world but pork is to be found there. To me its activity was a -sorrowfully amusing satire upon the business ideal of our plutocratic -civilization.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> These people were desperately poor, yet they preyed upon -one another in their commerce, as if they could be enriched by selling -dear or buying cheap. So far as I could see they would only impoverish -each other more and more, but they trafficked as eagerly as if there -were wealth in every bargain. The sidewalks and the roadways were -thronged with peddlers and purchasers, and everywhere I saw splendid -types of that old Hebrew world which had the sense if not the knowledge -of God when all the rest of us lay sunk in heathen darkness. There were -women with oval faces and olive tints, and clear, dark eyes, relucent -as evening pools, and men with long beards of jetty black or silvery -white, and the noble profiles of their race. I said to myself that it -was among such throngs that Christ walked, it was from such people that -he chose his Disciples and his friends; but I looked in vain for him in -Hester street. Probably he was at that moment in Fifth Avenue.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>After all, I was loath to come away. I should have liked to stay and -live awhile with such as they, if the terms of their life had been -possible, for there were phases of it that were very attractive. That -constant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> meeting and that neighborly intimacy were superficially at -least of a very pleasant effect, and though the whole place seemed -abandoned to mere trade, it may have been a necessity of the case, for -I am told that many of these Hebrews have another ideal, and think -and vote in the hope that the land of their refuge shall yet some day -keep its word to the world, so that men shall be equally free in it -to the pursuit of happiness. I suppose they are mostly fugitives from -the Russian persecution, and that from the cradle their days must have -been full of fear and care, and from the time they could toil that they -must have toiled at whatever their hands found to do. Yet they had not -the look of a degraded people; they were quiet and orderly, and I saw -none of the drunkenness or the truculence of an Irish or low American -neighborhood among them. There were no policemen in sight, and the -quiet behavior that struck me so much seemed not to have been enforced. -Very likely they may have moods different from that I saw, but I only -tell of what I saw, and I am by no means ready yet to preach poverty -as a saving grace. Though they seemed so patient and even cheerful in -some cases, I do not think it is well for human beings to live whole -families together in one room with a kennel out of it, where modesty -may <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>survive, but decency is impossible. Neither do I think they can -be the better men and women for being insufficiently clothed and fed, -though so many of us appear none the better for being housed in palaces -and clad in purple and fine linen and faring sumptuously every day.</p> - -<p>I have tried to report simply and honestly what I saw of the life of -our poorest people that day. One might say it was not so bad as it is -painted, but I think it is quite as bad as it appeared; and I could -not see that in itself or in its conditions it held the promise or the -hope of anything better. If it is tolerable, it must endure; if it is -intolerable, still it must endure. Here and there one will release -himself from it, and doubtless numbers are always doing this, as in the -days of slavery there were always fugitives; but for the great mass the -captivity remains. Upon the present terms of leaving the poor to be -housed by private landlords, whose interest it is to get the greatest -return of money for the money invested, the very poorest must always -be housed as they are now. Nothing but public control in some form or -other can secure them a shelter fit for human beings.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> - -<h2>TRIBULATIONS OF A CHEERFUL GIVER.</h2> - -<p>Some months ago, as I was passing through a down-town street on my way -to the elevated station, I saw a man sitting on the steps of a house. -He seemed to be resting his elbows on his knees, and holding out both -his hands. As I came nearer I perceived that he had no hands, but only -stumps, where the fingers had been cut off close to the palms, and -that it was these stumps he was holding out in the mute appeal which -was his form of begging. Otherwise he did not ask charity. When I -approached him he did not look up, and when I stopped in front of him -he did not speak. I thought this rather fine, in its way; except for -his mutilation, which the man really could not help, there was nothing -to offend the taste; and his immobile silence was certainly impressive.</p> - -<p>I decided at once to give him something; for when I am in the presence -of want, or even the appearance of want, there is something that says -to me, “Give to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> him that asketh,” and I have to give, or else go away -with a bad conscience—a thing I hate. Of course I do not give much, -for I wish to be a good citizen as well as a good Christian; and as -soon as I obey that voice which I cannot disobey, I hear another voice -reproaching me for encouraging street beggary. I have been taught that -street beggary is wrong, and when I have to unbutton two coats and go -through three or four pockets before I can reach the small coin I mean -to give in compliance with that imperative voice, I certainly feel it -to be wrong. So I compromise, and I am never able to make sure that -either of those voices is satisfied with me. I am not even satisfied -with myself; but I am better satisfied than if I gave nothing. That was -the selfish reason I now had for deciding to yield to my better nature, -and to obey the voice which bade me “Give to him that asketh”; for, as -I said, I hate a bad conscience, and of two bad consciences I always -choose the least, which in a case like this, is the one that incensed -political economy gives me.</p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>I put my hand into my hip-pocket, where I keep my silver, and found -nothing there but half a dollar. This at once changed the whole current -of my <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>feelings; and it was not chill penury that repressed my noble -rage, but chill affluence. It was manifestly wrong to give half a -dollar to a man who had no hands, or to any sort of beggar. I was -willing to commit a small act of incivism, but I had not the courage -to flout political economy to the extent of fifty cents; and I felt -that when I was bidden “Give to him that asketh,” I was never meant to -give so much as a half-dollar, but a cent, or a half-dime, or at the -most a quarter. I wished I had a quarter. I would gladly have given -a quarter, but there was nothing in my pocket but that fatal, that -inexorably indivisible half-dollar, the continent of two quarters, -but not practically a quarter. I would have asked anybody in sight to -change it for me, but there was no one passing; it was a quiet street -of brown-stone dwellings, and not a thronged thoroughfare at any time. -At that hour of the late afternoon it was deserted, except for the -beggar and myself; and I am not sure that he had any business to be -sitting there, on the steps of another man’s house, or that I had the -right to encourage his invasion by giving him anything. For a moment I -did not know quite what to do. To be sure, I was not bound to the man -in any way. He had not asked me for charity, and I had barely paused -before him; I could go on and ignore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> the incident. I thought of doing -this, but then I thought of the bad conscience I should be certain to -have, and I could not go on. I glanced across the street, and near the -corner I saw a decent-looking restaurant; and “Wait a minute,” I said -to the man, as if he were likely to go away, and I ran across to get my -half-dollar changed at the restaurant.</p> - -<p>I was now quite resolved to give him a quarter, and be done with it; -the thing was getting to be a bore. But when I entered the restaurant -I saw no one there but a young man quite at the end of a long room; -and when he had come all the way forward to find what I wanted, I was -ashamed to ask him to change my half-dollar, and I pretended that I -wanted a package of Sweet Caporal cigarettes, which I did not want, and -which it was a pure waste for me to buy, since I do not smoke, though -doubtless it was better to buy them and encourage commerce than to give -the half-dollar and encourage beggary. At any rate, I instinctively -felt that I had political economy on my side in the transaction, and I -made haste to go back to the man on the steps, and secure myself with -Christian charity too. On the way over to him, however, I decided that -I would not give him a quarter, and I ended by poising fifteen cents on -one of his outstretched stumps. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p> - -<p>He seemed very grateful, and thanked me earnestly, with a little note -of surprise in his voice, as if he were not used to such splendid -charity as that; and in fact, I suppose very few people gave so -handsomely to him. He spoke with a German accent; and when I asked -him how he had lost his hands, he answered, “Frost. Frozen off, here -in the city.” I could not go on and ask him for further particulars, -for I thought it but too likely that he had been drunk when exposed to -weather that would freeze one’s hands off, and that he was now paying -the penalty of his debauchery. I was in no wise so much at peace with -myself as I had expected to be; and I was still less so when a young -girl halted as she came by, and, seeing what I had done, and hearing -what the man said, put a dime on the other stump. She looked poor -herself; her sack was quite shabby about the seams. I did not think she -could afford to give so much to a single beggar, and I was aware of -having tempted her to the excess by my own profusion. If she had seen -me giving the man only a nickel, she would perhaps have given him a -cent, which was probably all she could afford. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>I came away feeling indescribably squalid. I perceived now that I -could have taken my stand upon the high ground of discouraging street -beggary, and given nothing; but having once lowered myself to the level -of the early Christians, I ought to have given the half-dollar. It -did not console me to remember the surprise in the man’s gratitude, -and to reflect that I had probably given him at least three times as -much as he usually got from the tenderest-hearted people. I perceived -that I had been the divinely appointed bearer of half a dollar to his -mutilation and his misery, and I had given him fifteen cents out of it, -and wasted ten, and kept the other twenty-five; in other words, I had -embezzled the greater part of the money intrusted to me for him.</p> - -<p>When I got home and told them at dinner just what I had done, they all -agreed that I had done a mighty shabby thing. I do not know whether -the reader will agree with them or not—perhaps I would rather not -know; and on the other hand, I shall not ask him what he would have -done in the like case. Now that it is laid before him in all its -shameless nakedness, I dare say he will pretend that he would have -given the half-dollar. But I doubt if he would; and there is a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>curious -principle governing this whole matter of giving, which I would like him -to consider with me. Charity is a very simple thing when you look at -it from the standpoint of the good Christian, but it is very complex -when you look at it from the standpoint of the good citizen; and there -seems to be an instinctive effort on our part to reconcile two duties -by a certain proportion which we observe in giving. Whether we say so -to ourselves or not, we behave as if it would be the wildest folly to -give at all in the measure Christ bade; and by an apt psychological -juggle we adjust our succor to the various degrees of need that present -themselves. To the absolutely destitute it is plain that anything will -be better than nothing, and so we give the smallest charity to those -who need charity most. I dare say people will deny this, but it is -true, all the same, as the reader will allow when he thinks about it. -We act upon a kind of logic in the matter, though I do not suppose many -act consciously upon it. Here is a man whispering to you in the dark -that he has not had anything to eat all day, and does not know where to -sleep. Shall you give him a dollar to get a good supper and a decent -lodging? Certainly not: you shall give him a dime, and trust that some -one else will give him another; or if you have some charity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> tickets -about you, then you give him one of them, and go away feeling that you -have at once befriended and outwitted him; for the supposition is that -he is a fraud, and has been trying to work you.</p> - -<p>This is not a question which affects the excellence of the charities -system. I know how good and kind and just that is; but it is a question -that affects the whole Christian philosophy of giving. A friend, whom -I was talking the matter over with, was inclined to doubt whether -Christ’s doctrine was applicable, in its sweeping simplicity, to our -complex modern conditions; whether it was final, whether it was the -last word, as we say. Of course it does seem a little absurd to give to -him that asketh, when you do not know what he is going to do with the -money, and when you do not know whether he has not come to want by his -own fault, or whether he is really in want.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>I must say that his statement of his own case is usually incoherent. -The poor fellows have very little imagination or invention; they might -almost as well be realistic novelists. I find that those who strike me -for a night’s lodging, when they stop me in the street at night, come -as a rule from Pittsburg, and are ironworkers <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>of some sort; the last -one said he was a puddler, “A skilled mechanic,” he explained—“what is -called a skilled mechanic”; and of course he was only watching for some -chance to get back to Pittsburg, though there was no chance of work, -from what he told me, after he got there. On the other hand, I find -that most of those who ask by day for money to get a dinner are from -Philadelphia, or the rural parts of eastern Pennsylvania, though within -six months I have extended hospitality (I think that is the right -phrase) to two architectural draftsmen from Boston. They were both -entirely decent-looking, sober-looking young men, who spoke like men of -education, and they each gratefully accepted a quarter from me. I do -not attempt to account for them, for they made no attempt to account -for themselves; and I think the effect was more artistic so.</p> - -<p>I am rarely approached by any professed New-Yorker, which is perhaps -a proof of the superior industry or prosperity of our city; but now -and then a fellow-citizen who has fallen out asks me for money in the -street, and perhaps goes straight and spends it for drink. Drink, -however, is as necessary in some forms as food itself, and a rich, -generous port wine is often prescribed for invalids. These men, without -exception,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> look like invalids, and I dare say that they would prefer -to buy a rich, generous port wine if I gave them money enough. I -never do that, though I have a means of making my alms seem greater, -to myself at least, by practising a little cordiality with the poor -fellows. I do not give grudgingly or silently, but I say, if I give -at all, when they ask me, “Why, of course!” or “Yes, certainly”; and -sometimes I invite them to use their feeble powers of invention in my -behalf, and tell how they wish me to think they have come to the sad -pass of beggary. This seems to flatter them, and it makes me feel much -better, which is really my motive for doing it.</p> - -<p>Now and then they will offer me some apology for begging, in a tone -that says, “I know how it is myself”; and once there was one who began -by saying, “I know it’s a shame for a strong man like me to be begging, -but—” They seldom have any devices for working me, beyond the simple -statement of their destitution; though there was a case in which I -helped a poor fellow raise a quarter upon a postal order, which he then -kept as a pledge of my good faith. Their main reliance seems to be -lead-pencils, which they have in all inferior variety. I find that they -will take it kindly if you do not want any change back when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> you have -given them a coin worth more than they asked for the pencil, and that -they will even let you off without taking the pencil after you have -bought it. In the end you have to use some means to save yourself from -the accumulation of pencils, unless you are willing to burn them for -kindling-wood; and I find the simplest way is not to take them after -you have paid for them. It is amusing how quickly you can establish a -comity with these pencil people; they will not only let you leave your -pencils with them, but they will sometimes excuse you from buying if -you remind them that you have bought of them lately. Then, if they do -not remember you, they at least smile politely and pretend to do so.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>Ought one to give money to a hand-organist, who is manifestly making -himself a nuisance before the door of some one else? I have asked -myself this when I have been tempted, and I am not yet quite clear -about it. At present, therefore, I give only to the inaudible street -minstrels, who earn an honest living, and make no noise about it. I -cannot think that a ballad-singer on Sixth Avenue, who pours forth his -artless lay amid the roar and rattle of the elevated trains, the jangle -and clatter of the horse-cars, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> bang of the grocers’ carts, and the -thunder of the express-wagons, is practically molesting anybody; and -I believe that one can reward his innocent efforts without wronging -his neighbors. It is always amusing to have him stop in his most -effective phrase to say, “Thank you, thank you, sir,” and then go on -again. The other day, as I dropped my contribution into the extended -hat, I asked, “How is business?” and the singer interrupted himself to -answer, “Nothing-to-brag-of-sir-thank-you,” and resumed with continuous -tenderness the “ditty of no tone” that he was piping to the inattentive -uproar of the street.</p> - -<p>It may be doubted whether a balladist who is not making himself heard -is earning his money; but, on the other hand, it may be asked if he -is not less regrettable for that reason. A great many good people do -not earn their money, and yet by universal consent they seem to have a -right to it. We cannot oblige the poor to earn their money, any more -than the rich, without attacking the principle on which society is -based, and classing ourselves with its enemies. If people get money -out of other people, we ought not to ask how they get it, whether it -is much or little; and I, at any rate, will not scan too closely the -honesty of the inaudible balladist of the avenue. Neither will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> I -question the gains of those silentious minstrels who grind small, mute -organs at the corners of the pavement, with a little tin cup beside -them to receive tribute. They are usually old, old women, and I suppose -Italians; but they seem not to be very distinctively anything. How they -can sit upon the cold stone all day long without taking their deaths, -passes me to say; and I am inclined to think that they do really earn -their money, if not as minstrels, then as monuments of human endurance. -The average American grandmother would sneeze in five seconds, under -the same conditions, and be laid up for the rest of the winter. But -these hardy aliens remain unaffected by cold or wet, light or dark. -One night I came upon one sleeping on her curbstone,—such a small, -dull wad of out-worn womanhood!—her gray old head bent upon her knees, -and her withered arms wound in her thin shawl. It was very chill that -night, with a sharp wind sweeping the street that the Street Department -had neglected; but this poor old thing slept on, while I stood by her -trying to imagine her short and simple annals; a dim, far-off childhood -in some peasant hut, a girlhood with its tender dreams, a motherhood -with its cares, a grandmotherhood with its pains—the whole round of -woman’s life, with want through all, wound into this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> last result of -houseless age at my feet. How much of human life comes to no more—if, -indeed, one ought not to say how little comes to so much! I sighed, as -people of feeling used to do in the eighteenth century, and dropped a -dime into the tin cup. The sound startled the beldame, and I hope that -before she woke and looked up at me she had time to dream riches and -luxury for the rest of her life. “<i>Bella musica!</i>” I said, with a fine -irony, and she smiled and shrugged, and began to feel for the handle of -her organ, as if she were willing to begin giving me my money’s worth -on the spot. If we did not see such sights every day how impossible -they would seem!</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>The whole spectacle of poverty, indeed, is incredible. As soon as you -cease to have it before your eyes,—even when you have it before your -eyes,—you can hardly believe it, and that is perhaps why so many -people deny that it exists, or is much more than a superstition of the -sentimentalist. When I get back into my own comfortable room, among my -papers and books, I remember it as I remember something at the theatre. -It seems to be turned off, as Niagara does, when you come away. The -difficulty here in New<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> York is that the moment you go out again, you -find it turned on, full tide. I used to live in a country supposed to -be peculiarly infested by beggars; but I believe I was not so much -asked for charity in Venice as I am in New York. There are as many -beggars on our streets as in Venice, and as for the organized efforts -to get at one’s compassion, there is no parallel for New York anywhere. -The letters asking aid for air funds, salt and fresh, for homes and -shelters, for reading-rooms and eating-rooms, for hospitals and -refuges, for the lame, halt, and blind, for the old, for the young, for -the anhungered and ashamed, of all imaginable descriptions, storm in -with every mail, so that one hates to open one’s letters nowadays; for -instead of finding a pleasant line from a friend, one finds an appeal, -in print imitating typewriting, from several of the millionaires in the -city for aid of some good object to which they have lent the influence -of their signatures, and inclosing an envelope, directed but not -stamped, for your subscription. You do not escape from the proof of -poverty even by keeping indoors amidst your own luxurious environment; -besides, your digestion becomes impaired, and you have to go out, if -you are to have any appetite for your dinner; and then the trouble -begins on other terms. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> - -<p>One of my minor difficulties, if I may keep on confessing myself to -the reader, is a very small pattern of newsboys, whom I am tempted to -make keep the change when I get a one-cent paper of them and give them -a five-cent piece. I see men, well dressed, well brushed, with the -air of being exemplary citizens, fathers of families, and pillars of -churches, wait patiently or impatiently, while these little fellows -search one pocket and another for the pennies due, or run to some -comrade Chonnie or Chimmie for them; and I cannot help feeling that I -may be doing something very disorganizing or demoralizing in failing -to demand my change. At first I used to pass on without apparently -noticing that I had given too much, but I perceived that then these -small wretches sometimes winked to their friends, in the belief that -they had cheated me; and now I let them offer to get the change before -I let them keep it. I may be undermining society, and teaching them -to trust in a fickle fortune rather than their own enterprise, by -overpaying them; but at least I will not corrupt them by letting them -think they have taken advantage of my ignorance. If the reader will not -whisper it again, I will own that I have sometimes paid as high as ten -cents for a one-cent paper, which I did not want, when it has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> -offered me by a very minute newsboy near midnight; and I have done this -in conscious defiance of the well-known fact that it is a ruse of very -minute newsboys to be out late when they ought to be in bed at home, or -at <i>the</i> Home (which seems different), in order to work the sympathies -of unwary philanthropists. The statistics in regard to these miscreants -are as unquestionable as those relating to street beggars who have -amassed fortunes and died amidst rags and riches of dramatic character. -I am sorry that I cannot say where the statistics are to be found.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>The actual practice of fraud, even when you discover it, must give you -interesting question, unless you are cock-sure of your sociology. I was -once met by a little girl on a cross-street in a respectable quarter -of the town, who burst into tears at sight of me, and asked for money -to buy her sick mother bread. The very next day I was passing through -the same street, and I saw the same little girl burst into tears at -the sight of a benevolent-looking lady, whom undoubtedly she asked -for money for the same good object. The benevolent-looking lady gave -her nothing, and she tried her woes upon several other people, none -of whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> gave her anything. I was forced to doubt whether, upon the -whole, her game was worth the candle, or whether she was really making -a provision for her declining years by this means. To be sure, her time -was not worth much, and she could hardly have got any other work, she -was so young; but it seemed hardly a paying industry. By any careful -calculation, I do not believe she would have been found to have amassed -more than ten or fifteen cents a day; and perhaps she really had a sick -mother at home. Many persons are obliged to force their emotions for -money, whom we should not account wholly undeserving; yet I suppose a -really good citizen who found this little girl trying to cultivate the -sympathies of charitable people by that system of irrigation would have -had her suppressed as an impostor.</p> - -<p>In a way she was an impostor, though her sick mother may have been -starving, as she said. It is a nice question. Shall we always give to -him that asketh? Or shall we give to him that asketh only when we know -that he has come by his destitution honestly? In other words, what is -a deserving case of charity—or, rather, what is not? Is a starving or -freezing person to be denied because he or she is drunken or vicious? -What is desert in the poor? What is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>desert in the rich, I suppose the -reader would answer. If this is so, and if we ought not to succor an -undeserving poor person, then we ought not to succor an undeserving -rich person. It will be said that a rich person, however undeserving -will never be in need of our succor, but this is not so clear. If we -saw a rich person fall in a fit before the horses of a Fifth Avenue -omnibus, ought not we to run and lift him up, although we knew him to -be a man whose life was stained by every vice and excess, and cruel, -wanton, idle, luxurious? I know that I am imagining a quite impossible -rich person; but once imagined, ought not we to save him all the same -as if he were deserving? I do not believe the most virtuous person will -say we ought not; and ought not we, then, to rescue the most worthless -tramp fallen under the wheels of the Juggernaut of want? Is charity the -reward of merit?</p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>My friend who was not sure that Christ’s doctrine was the last word in -regard to charity, was quite sure that you ought to have a conscience -against dead-beats, whom I suggested for his consideration, especially -the dead-beats who come to your house and try to work you upon one -pretext or another. He said he never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> gave to them, and I asked what -he answered them when they professed themselves in instant want; and -whether he plumply denied them; and it appeared that he told them he -had other use for his money. I suspect this was a proper answer to -make. It had never occurred to me, but I think I will try it with the -next one who comes, and see what effect it has upon him. Hitherto I -have had no better way than to offer them a compromise: if they ask -twenty, to propose ten; and if they ask ten, to propose five; and so on -down. The first time I did this (it was with an actor, who gave me his -I O U—the first and only I O U that I ever got: I suppose he was used -to giving it on the stage) it seemed to me that I had made ten dollars, -and since then it has seemed to me that I made five dollars on several -occasions; but I now think this was an illusion, and that I only saved -the money: I did not actually add to my store.</p> - -<p>It is usually indigent literature which presents itself with these -imaginative demands, and I think usually fictionists of the romantic -school. I do not know but it would be well for me as a man of principle -to confine my benefactions to destitute realists: I am sure it would -be cheaper. Last winter there came to me a gentleman thrown out of -employment by the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>completion of an encyclopedia he had been at work -on, and he said that he was in absolute want of food for his family, -who had that morning been set out with all his household stuff on the -sidewalk for default of rent. I relieved his immediate necessity, and -suggested to him that if he would write a simple, unrhetorical account -of his eviction I could probably sell it for him; that this sort of -thing mostly happened to the inarticulate classes; and that he had -the chance of doing a perfectly fresh thing in literature. He caught -at the notion, and said he would begin at once, and I said the sooner -the better. He asked if it would not be well to get the narrative -type-written, and I begged him not to wait for that; but he said that -he knew a person who would typewrite it for him without charge. I -could only urge haste, and he went away in a glow of enterprise. He -left with me the address of a twenty-five cent lodging-house in the -Bowery; for he explained that he had got money enough, by selling his -furniture on the sidewalk to send his family into the country, and -he was living alone and as cheaply as he could. While at work on his -narrative he came for more relief, and then he vanished out of my -knowledge altogether. I had a leisure afternoon, and went down into the -Bowery to his lodging-house, and found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> that he really lodged there, -but he was then out; and so far as I am concerned he is out still. I am -out myself, in the amount I advanced him, and which he was to repay me -from the money for his eviction article. He never wrote it, apparently; -and perhaps his experience of eviction lacked the vital element of -reality. I am quite sure he was at heart a romanticist, for he was an -Englishman, and the Englishmen are all romanticists.</p> - -<h3>VIII.</h3> - -<p>I was at one time worked for a period of years by a German-born veteran -of our war, whom I was called out to see one night from dinner, when I -was full of good cheer, and, of course, quite helpless against a case -of want like his. He represented that he was the victim of an infirmity -brought on by falling from a burning bridge under the rebel fire, -and was liable to be overtaken by it at any moment; and he showed me -all sorts of surgeons’ certificates in proof of the fact, as well as -kindly notes from college professors and clergymen. I had, therefore, a -double motive for befriending him. I had as little wish that he should -be overtaken by his infirmity in my reception-room as that he should -go on sleeping in unfinished houses and basement areas; and so I gave -him some money<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> at once. He was to have his pension money at the end -of the month, and till then he said he could live on what I gave him. -I hurried him out of the house as fast as I could, for I did not feel -safe from his infirmity while he was there. But he kept coming back, -and always, in view of his threatening infirmity, got money from me; -I am not sure that I always pitied him so much. At last he agreed to -seek refuge in a soldiers’ home, upon my urgence, and I lost sight -of him for several years. When he reappeared, one summer, at the -seaside, as destitute as ever, and as threatening as ever in regard to -his infirmity, it seemed that he had passed the time in working his -way from one soldiers’ home to another, in Maine and in New York, in -Virginia and in Ohio, but everywhere, because of some informality in -his papers, the gates were closed against him. I gave him a suit of -clothes and some more money, and I thought I had done with him at last, -for he said that now, as soon as he got his next pension money, he was -going home to Germany, to spend his last years with his brother,—a -surgeon, retired from the German army,—who could take care of him and -his infirmity, and they could live cheaply together, upon their joint -pensions. I applauded so wise a plan, and we parted with expressions -of mutual esteem.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> Two or three months later, after I had come from -the seaside place, where he visited me, to New York for the winter, he -presented himself again to me. Heaven knows how he had found me out, -but there he was, with his infirmity, and his story was that now he had -money enough to buy his steamer ticket to Hamburg, but that he lacked -his railroad fare from Hamburg to the little village where his brother -lived. His notion seemed to be that I should subscribe with others to -supply the amount; but I had at last a gleam of worldly wisdom. I said -I thought the subscription business had gone on long enough; and he -assented that it had at least gone on a good while.</p> - -<p>“Very well, then,” I added; “you go now with the money you have for -your steamer ticket, and buy it. Come back here with the ticket and I -will not oblige you to wait till you can collect your railroad fare -from different people; I will give you the whole of it myself.”</p> - -<p>Will it be credited that this sufferer did not come back with his -steamer ticket? I have never seen him since, though a few weeks later I -went to call upon him at the ten-cent hotel in the Bowery where he said -he slept. The clerk said he was staying there, but he could not throw -any light upon his intention of going back to Germany, for he had never -heard him say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> anything about it. He was out at the moment, like my -romanticist Englishman.</p> - -<p>Whilst I lived in Boston I had a visit from another romanticistic -Englishman, who professed to be no other than the cousin of Mr. Walter -Besant, though he gave me reason to think he was mistaken. It seems -that he had arrived that very morning from Central Africa, and, for all -I know, from the mystic presence of She herself. In that strange land, -he wished me to believe, he had been a playwright and a journalist, -but he really looked and spoke and smelled like a groom. He dropped -his aspirates everywhere, and when he picked them up he put them on in -the wrong places. In his parlance I was a bird of night, or several -such, and I cannot rid myself now of the belated conjecture that he had -possibly mistaken me for Mr. ’Aggard. He was a cheery little creature, -however; and when I put it to him, as between man and man, whether he -did not think he was telling me a rather improbable story, he owned so -sweetly he did that I could not help contributing to pay his expenses -’ome to Hengland. He was not quite clear why he should have come round -by way of Boston, but he said he would send me the money back directly -he got ’ome.</p> - -<p>He did not do so, and my experience is that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> never do so. They -may forget it, they may never be able to spare the money. Never? I am -wrong. Only last winter I made my usual compromise with a man who asked -ten, and lent him five; and though he was yet another Englishman, and, -for anything I can say, another romanticist, he returned my little loan -with such a manly, honest letter that my heart smote me for not having -made it ten. I looked upon his five-dollar bill as a gift from heaven, -and I made haste to bestow it where I am sure it will never stand the -remotest chance of getting back to me.</p> - -<h3>IX.</h3> - -<p>I wish, sometimes, that they would not say they were going to send -the money back; but I wish this rather for their sake than for mine. -I am pretty well inured to the disappointment sure to follow; but I -am afraid that the poor pretense demoralizes them, and, above all, I -do not wish to demoralize them by my connivance. Once, when I was a -visitor for the Associated Charities in Boston, the question came up -in the weekly meeting whether, if one gave money when there was no -hope of getting work, one ought to let the beneficiary suppose that -one expected to get it back. Ought one to say that he was making his -gift<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> a loan? Would it not be better to treat it frankly as a gift? A -man to whose goodness I mentally uncover said he had given that point -some thought, and he believed one ought not to pretend that it was a -loan when it was not; but one might fitly say, “I let you have this -money. If you are ever able to give it back, I shall be glad to have -you do so.” It seems to me that this is the wisest possible word on the -subject.</p> - -<p>Of course the reason why we have such a bad conscience in giving -is that we feel we ought not to pauperize people. Perhaps this is -one reason why we give so little to obvious destitution. I am this -moment just in from the street, where I gave alms to a one-armed -tatterdemalion, with something of this obscure struggle in my mind. -As I came up with him, well fenced against the bitter wind that blew -through his ruins, I foresaw that I should give him something, and -I took from my outside pocket all the change there was in it—three -coppers, a nickel, and a piece of twenty-five. I was ashamed to give -the coppers, and I felt that a good citizen ought not to give a quarter -for fear of pauperizing a man who had already nothing in the world, and -no hopeful appearance of being able to get anything. So I gave him the -nickel, and I am not quite easy in my mind about it. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> - -<p>Perhaps I was remotely influenced not to give a quarter to this -one-armed man by the behavior of another one-armed man whom I -befriended. I did give him a quarter, not from a good impulse, but -because I had no smaller change, and it was that or nothing. The gift -seemed to astound him. It was in a shoe-store, where I had only one -boot on, in the process of trying a pair, and I was quite helpless -against him when he burst into blessings of Irish picturesqueness, and -asked my name, apparently that he might pray for me without making a -mistake in the address; and when I said, from a natural bashfulness, or -a mean fear that he might find me out at home and come again to beg of -me, that I would take the chance of the answer of his prayers getting -to me, he told me all about the railroad accident that lost him his -arm; and not content with this, he took his poor stump—as if to prove -that it was real—and rubbed it over me, and blessed me and blessed me -again, till I was quite ashamed of getting so much more than my money’s -worth. Shall I own that I began to fear this grateful man was not -entirely sober? </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> - -<h3>X.</h3> - -<p>I dare say poverty and the pangs of hunger and cold do not foster -habits of strict temperance. It is a great pity they do not, since they -are so common. If they did, they could do more than anything else to -advance the cause of prohibition. Still, I will not say that all the -poor I give to are in liquor at the moment, or that drunkenness is -peculiarly the vice of one-armed destitution. Neither is gratitude a -very common or articulate emotion in my beneficiaries. They are mostly, -if thankful at all, silently thankful; and I find this in better taste. -I do not believe that as a rule they are very imaginative, or at least -so imaginative as romantic novelists. Yet there was one sufferer came -up the back elevator on a certain evening not long ago, and burst upon -me suddenly, somehow as if he had come up through a trap in the stage, -who seemed to have rather a gift in that way. He was most amusingly -shabby and dirty (though I do not know why shabbiness and dirt should -be amusing), with a cutaway coat worn down to its ultimate gloss, a -frayed neckcloth, and the very foulest collar I can remember seeing. -But he had a brisk and pleasing address, and I must say an excellent -diction. He called me by name, and at once said that friends whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> he -had expected to find in New York were most inopportunely in Europe at -this moment of his arrival from a protracted sojourn in the West. But -he was very anxious to get on that night to Hartford, and complete his -journey home from Denver, where he had fallen a prey to the hard times -in the very hour of the most prosperous speculation; and he proposed, -as an inducement to a loan, borrowing only enough money to take him to -New Haven by the boat—he would walk the rest of the way to Hartford. -I no more believed him than I should believe a ghost if it said it -was a ghost. But I believed that he was in want,—his clothes proved -that,—and I gave him the little sum he asked. He said he would send it -back the instant he reached Hartford; and I am left to think that he -has not yet arrived. But I am sure that even that brief moment of his -airy and almost joyous companionship was worth the money. He was of an -order of classic impostors dear to literature, and grown all too few in -these times of hurry and fierce competition. I wish I had seen more of -him, and yet I cannot say that I wish he would come back; it might be -embarrassing for both of us.</p> - -<p>Not long before his visit I had a call from another imaginative -person, whom I was not able to meet so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> fully in her views. This was -a middle-aged lady who said she had come on that morning from Boston -to see me. She owned we had never met before, and that she was quite -unknown to me; but apparently she did not think this any bar to her -asking me for two hundred and fifty dollars to aid in the education of -her son. I confess that I was bewildered for a moment. My simple device -of offering half the amount demanded would have been too costly: I -really could not have afforded to give her one hundred and twenty-five -dollars, even if she had been willing to compromise, which I was not -sure of. I am afraid the reader will think I shirked. I said that I had -a great many demands upon me, and I ended by refusing to give anything. -I really do not know how I had the courage; perhaps it was only frenzy. -She insisted, with reasons for my giving which she laid before me; but -either they did not convince me, or I had hardened my heart so well -that they could not prevail with me, and she got up and went away. As -she went out of the room, she looked about its appointments, which I -had not thought very luxurious before, and said that she saw I was -able to <i>live</i> very comfortably, at any rate; and left me to the mute -reproach of my carpets and easy-chairs. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> - -<p>I do not remember whether she alleged any inspiration in coming to see -me for this good object; but a summer or two since a lady came to me, -at my hotel in the mountains, who said that she had been moved to do so -by an impulse which seemed little short of mystical. She said that she -was not ordinarily superstitious, but she had wakened that morning in -Boston with my name the first thing in her thoughts, and it seemed so -directly related to what she had in view that she could not resist the -suggestion it conveyed that she should come at once to lay her scheme -before me. She took a good deal of time to do this; and romantic as it -appeared, I felt sure that she was working with real material. It was -of a nature so complex, however, and on a scale so vast, that I should -despair of getting it intelligibly before the reader, and I will not -attempt it. I listened with the greatest interest; but at the end I was -obliged to say that I thought her mystical impulse was mistaken; I was -sorry it had deceived her; I was quite certain that I had not the means -or the tastes to enter upon the æsthetic enterprise which she proposed. -In return, I suggested a number of millionaires whose notorious -softness of heart, or whose wish to get themselves before the public by -their good deeds, ought to make them more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> available, and we parted the -best of friends. I am not yet quite able to make up my mind that she -was not the victim of a hypnotic suggestion from the unseen world, and -altogether innocent in her appeal to me.</p> - -<h3>XI.</h3> - -<p>In fact, I am not able to think very ill even of impostors. It is a -great pity for them, and even a great shame, to go about deceiving -people of means; but I do not believe they are so numerous as people -of means imagine. As a rule, I do not suppose they succeed for long, -and their lives must be full of cares and anxieties, which of course -one must not sympathize with, but which are real enough, nevertheless. -People of means would do well to consider this, and at least not plume -themselves very much upon not being cheated. If they have means, it is -perhaps part of the curse of money, or of that unfriendliness to riches -which our religion is full of, that money should be got from them by -unworthy persons. They have their little romantic superstitions, too. -One of these is the belief that beggars are generally persons who will -not work, and that they are often persons of secret wealth, which -they constantly increase by preying upon the public. I take leave to -doubt this altogether.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> Beggary appears to me in its conditions almost -harder than any other trade; and from what I have seen of the amount -it earns, the return it makes is smaller than any other. I should not -myself feel safe in refusing anything to a beggar upon the theory of -a fortune sewn into a mattress, to be discovered after the beggar has -died intestate. I know that a great many good people pin their faith to -such mattresses; but I should be greatly surprised if one such could -be discovered in the whole city of New York. On the other hand, I feel -pretty sure that there are hundreds and even thousands of people who -are insufficiently fed and clad in New York; and if here and there one -of these has the courage of his misery, and asks alms, one must not be -too cocksure it is a sin to give to him.</p> - -<p>Of course one must not pauperize him: that ought by all means to be -avoided; I am always agreeing to that. But if he is already pauperized; -if we know by statistics and personal knowledge that there are hundreds -and even thousands of people who cannot get work, and that they must -suffer if they do not beg, let us not be too hard upon them. Let us -refuse them kindly, and try not to see them; for if we see their -misery, and do not give, that demoralizes us. Come, I say; have not -we some rights, too? No man strikes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> another man a blow without -becoming in sort and measure a devil; and to see what looks like want, -and to deny its prayer, has an effect upon the heart which is not -less depraving. Perhaps it would be a fair division of the work if -we let the deserving rich give only to the deserving poor, and kept -the undeserving poor for ourselves, who, if we are not rich, are not -deserving, either.</p> - -<h3>XII.</h3> - -<p>I should be sorry if anything I have said seemed to cast slight upon -the organized efforts at relieving want, especially such as unite -inquiry into the facts and the provision of work with the relief of -want. All that I contend for is the right—or call it the privilege—of -giving to him that asketh, even when you do not know that he needs, or -deserves to need. Both here and in Boston I have lent myself—sparingly -and grudgingly, I’ll own—to those organized efforts; and I know how -sincere and generous they are, how effective they often are, how -ineffective. They used to let me go mostly to the Italian folk who -applied for aid in Boston, because I could more or less meet them in -their own language; but once they gave me a Russian to manage—I think -because I was known to have a devotion for Tolstoy and for the other -Russian <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>novelists. The Russian in question was not a novelist, but a -washer of bags in a sugar-refinery; and at the time I went to make my -first call upon him he had been “laid off,” as the euphemism is, for -two months; that is, he had been without work, and had been wholly -dependent upon the allowance the charities made him. He had a wife and -a complement of children—I do not know just how many; but they all -seemed to live in one attic room in the North End. I acquainted myself -fully with the case, and went about looking for work in his behalf. -In this, I think, I found my only use: but it was use to me only, -for the people of whom I asked work for him treated me with much the -same ignominy as if I had been seeking it for myself; and it was well -that I should learn just what the exasperated mind of a fellow-being -is when he is asked for work, and has none to give. He regards the -applicant as an oppressor, or at least an aggressor, and he is eager -to get rid of him by bluntness, by coldness, even by rudeness. After -the unavailing activity of a week or two, I myself began to resent -the Russian’s desire for work, and I visited him at longer and longer -intervals to find whether he had got anything to do; for he was looking -after work, too. At last I let a month go by, and when I came he met -me at the street<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> door—or, say, alley door—of the tenement-house -with a smiling face. He was always smiling, poor fellow, but now he -smiled joyously. He had got a job—they always call it a job, and the -Italians pronounce it a <i>giobbe</i>. His job was one which testified to -the heterogeneous character of American civilization in even amusing -measure. The Jews had come into a neighboring street so thickly that -they had crowded every one else out; they had bought the Congregational -meeting-house, which they were turning into a synagogue, and they had -given this orthodox Russian the job of knocking the nails out of the -old woodwork. His only complaint was that the Jews would not let him -work on Saturday, and the Christians would not let him work on Sunday, -and so he could earn but five dollars a week. He did not blame me for -my long failure to help him; on the contrary, so far as I could make -out from the limited vocabulary we enjoyed in common, he was grateful. -But I have no doubt he was glad to be rid of me; and Heaven knows how -glad I was to be rid of him.</p> - -<p>I do not believe I ever found work for any one, though I tried -diligently and I think not unwisely. Perhaps the best effect from my -efforts was that they inspired the poor creatures to efforts of their -own,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> which were sometimes successful. I had on my hands and heart for -nearly a whole winter the most meritorious Italian family I ever knew, -without being able to do anything but sympathize and offer secret alms -in little gifts to the children. Once I got one of the boys a place in -a book-store, but the law would not allow him to take it because he was -not past the age of compulsory schooling. The father had a peripatetic -fruit-stand, which he pushed about on a cart; and his great aim was to -get the privilege of stationing himself at one of the railroad depots. -I found that there were stations which were considered particularly -desirable by the fruiterers, and that the chief of these was in front -of the old United States court-house. A fruiterer out of place, whose -family I visited for the charities, tried even to corrupt me, and -promised me that if I would get him this <i>stendio</i> (they Italianize -“stand” to that effect, just as they translate “bar” into <i>barra</i>, and -so on) he would give me something outright. “<i>E poi, ci sarà sempre la -mancia</i>” (“And then there will always be the drink-money”). I lost an -occasion to lecture him upon the duties of the citizen; but I am not a -ready speaker.</p> - -<p>The sole success—but it was very signal—of my winter’s work was -getting a young Italian into the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>hospital. He had got a rheumatic -trouble of the heart from keeping a <i>stendio</i> in a cellarway, and -when I saw him I thought it would be little use to get him into the -hospital. The young doctor who had charge of him, and whom I looked up, -was of the same mind. But I could not help trying for him; and when the -sisters at the hospital (where he got well, in spite of all) said he -could be received, I made favor for an ambulance to carry him to it. It -was a beautiful white spring day when I went to tell him the hour the -ambulance would call; the sky was blue overhead, the canaries sang in -their cages along the street. I left all this behind when I entered the -dark, chill tenement-house, where that dreadful <i>poverty-smell</i> struck -the life out of the spring in my soul at the first breath. The sick -man’s apartment was clean and sweet, through his mother’s care (this -poor woman was as wholly a lady as any I have seen); but when I passed -into his room, he clutched himself up from the bed, and stretched his -arms toward me with gasps of “<i>Lo spedale, lo spedale!</i>” The spring, -the coming glory of this world, was nothing to him. It was the hospital -he wanted; and to the poor, to the incurable disease of our conditions, -the hospital is the best we have to give. To be sure, there is also the -grave.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> - -<h2>THE CLOSING OF THE HOTEL.</h2> - -<p>It scarcely began before the last of August, when the guests ebbed -away by floods, in every train. The end of the season was purely -conventional. One day the almanac said it was August, and the hotel -was full; another day the almanac said it was September, and the vast -caravansary was instantly touched with depletion, and within a week it -hung loose upon its inmates like the raiment upon the frame of a man -who has been Banting. There was no change in the weather; that remained -as summerlike as ever, and grew more and more divinely beautiful. The -conditions continued the same, only more agreeable; the service was -still abundant and perfect; the table was of an unimpaired variety; -there was no such sudden revival of business or pleasure in the city -that people should abandon the leisure of the sea-shore; the ocean -smiled as serenely, the breakers crashed as lyrically along the beach; -the country, for those who were to prolong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> their outing, would be dry -and dusty. But a certain fiction of the calendar had reported itself -in the human consciousness; and as men are the prey of superstition -and emotion, the population of the huge hostelry yielded by a single -impulse to the pressure of the pretence that it was September.</p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>Huge, I have called the hostelry, and I do not know that I can add to -the effect of size which I wish to impart by saying that it is of a -veritably American immensity. It stretches along the sea like the shore -of a continent; and when I walked from one end of its seaward veranda -to the other, I felt as if I were going from Castine in Maine to St. -Augustine in Florida. Really, it is only the fifth of a mile in length, -but I have ordinarily lived in houses so much shorter that my fancy -takes wing when I think of it, and will not brook a briefer flight. In -like manner, when I speak of its thousand dwellers as a population, I -am perhaps giving way to an effect of habitually sharing my roof with -four or five persons.</p> - -<p>They were nearly a thousand when I came, but the place was so spacious -that I had large areas of the piazza to myself whenever I liked, and -I was often a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> solitary wayfarer up and down the halls that projected -themselves in dimmer and dimmer perspective between the suites of -rooms on the right hand and on the left. It was the dining-room, with -its forest of pine posts, its labyrinth of tables, its army of black -waiters, and its only a little larger army of guests, which gave that -impression of a dense overpeopling, such as one could not feel in -greater degree even in the tenement quarters of the East Side. This was -peculiarly the case on a Sunday, when the guests had guests; and in the -tramp of the black forces, the clash of crockery, and the harsh jangle -of the cutlery, mingled with the dull, subdued sound of the guttling -and guzzling, there was something like the noise of a legion stirring -in its harness, and hailing Cæsar with the warlike devotion inspired by -a munificent donative.</p> - -<p>In the early morning there was a hardly less powerfull impression of -numbers, when the crying children, the half-hushed quarrelling of -some husbands and wives, and the loud and loving adieux of others -parting for the day, burst the frail partitions of their rooms, and -mixed in the corridors with the rush of the porters’ trunk-bearing -trucks, pushed over the long carpeted stretches with the voluble -clatter of so many lawn-mowers, the flight of the call-boys’ feet, the -fierce<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> clangor of the chambermaids’ bells, and the strongly brogued -controversies and gossip of the chambermaids themselves. No doubt all -these effects were exaggerated by the senses just unfolding themselves -in the waking consciousness, and taking angry note of the disturbing -influences without. But the multitude sheltered by a single roof was -nevertheless very great: at the height of the season, the guests and -the servants, the drones and the workers, were some fifteen hundred -together.</p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>All at once, as I say, a great part of the multitude vanished. All at -once, on the verandas, and in the wide office swept with yet cooler -currents from the sweet-breathed sea, I was sensible of a sudden -decimation. I cannot fix the date with precision, but one night at -about half-past eight the great moony electrics which swung in space -high over the floors of the office, the ball-room, and the dining-room -paled their effectual fires, which they never afterward relumed, and -left us to the batlike waverings of the naphtha gas. I remember the -sinking of the heart with which my senses took cognizance of the fact. -No one spoke, or audibly noted it; the talking groups talked on in -fallen tones; the people who were reading books or papers drew<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> them -a little nearer, or put them a little farther; those who were writing -letters at the long tables in the reading-room silently adjusted their -vision to the obscurity. It was like the effect of some august natural -catastrophe; the general disposition was to ignore the fact, as we -shall perhaps try to ignore the fact that the world has begun to burn -up when it begins to burn, and pretend that it is merely a fire over in -Hoboken or Long Island City that the department will soon have under -control.</p> - -<p>It may have been the morning of that day, or the morning of the next, -but it was at least some neighboring morning, that I sauntered down to -one of the forenoon trains and saw a large detachment of our colored -troops departing. They were very gay, as they nearly always are, poor -fellows; and they were exchanging humorous and derisive adieux with -a detachment of those who were to remain, and who pretended on their -part to mock their departing comrades. These helped them off with their -baggage, wheeling the heavy truck-loads of the trunks which the porters -left to them; and, when all was ready, shaking hands again and again, -and telling them to be good to themselves. At the last moment a very -short, stout, little black man appeared with a truck heaped high with -baggage, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> rushed it down the long esplanade to the platform beside -the train, amid the wild cheers and wagers of the going and staying -spectators. He had all the cry till the train actually started, when a -young colored brother burst out of the front door of a car from which -it had detached itself, and began to run it down with a heavy grip-sack -flying wildly about and beating his legs and flanks. He had taken his -place in this car unaware of its fate, and had remained in it, exulting -from the open window in his sole possession; and now the secret of -his proprietorship had been revealed to his dismay. But it was a very -kindly train; when his pursuit became known, the locomotive obligingly -slowed to a stand, and he was pulled aboard the rear platform amidst a -jubilation which few real advantages inspire in this world.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>An indefinable gloom settled upon me as the train curved out into the -marsh, and the laughing, chattering, cheering, hat-waving remnant came -back to the hotel and dispersed about their work. There were still a -great many of them, and there were still a great many of us, but I felt -that the end had begun. I do not know whether I felt this fact more -keenly or not when the dentist, whose presence I had been tacitly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> -proud of all through August, abandoned the house which he had helped -to render metropolitan. But I am sure that it was a definite shock to -lose him; and that the tooth which his presence had held in abeyance -asserted itself in a wild throe at his going. Once as I passed the door -of his office his name was on it and his hours; when I returned fifteen -minutes later to ask an appointment with him his name was gone, and -the useless hours alone remained. On his way to take passage in his -cat-boat for the farthermost parts of the Great South Bay, he kindly -stopped and advised about the grumbling tooth. Then he passed out of -the hotel, and left it to ache if it must, with an unrequited longing -for the filling fatally delayed.</p> - -<p>The doctor went a week later, but before this other changes had taken -place, among which the most cataclysmal was the passing of the band, -which vanished as it were in a sudden crash of silence. The whole -month long I had heard it playing in the afternoon midway of the long -veranda, and in the evening on its platform in the ballroom, and with -my imperfect knowledge of music had waited each day and night till -it came to that dissolute, melancholy melody to which the Eastern -girls danced their wicked dance at the World’s Fair; not because I -like dissolute and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> melancholy things, but because I was then able to -make sure what tune the band was playing. I had in this way become -used to the band, and I missed it poignantly, if one can miss a thing -poignantly; which I doubt. Other people seemed to enjoy it, and I like -to see people enjoying themselves. Besides, its going brought the -dancing to a close, which I enjoyed myself.</p> - -<p>I mean that I enjoyed looking at the dancing. This was for the most -part, even at the height of our gayety, performed by boys and girls, -and very young children, whom I saw led away to bed heart-broken at -nine o’clock. One small couple of these I loved very much. I fancied -them a little brother and sister, and I delighted in their courage -and perseverance in taking the floor for every dance, and through all -changes of tune and figure turning solemnly round and round with their -arms about each other’s waists. One night there came a bad, bad boy, -who posted himself in front of them, and plagued them, jumping up and -down before them and hindering their serious gyration. Another evening -the little brother was cross and would not dance, and the little sister -had to pull him out on the floor and make him.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, however, there were even grown people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> on the floor. Then -I chose a very pretty young couple, whom I called my couple, and -shared their joy in the waltz without their knowing it. We were by all -odds the best dancers and the best looking. We stayed long enough to -poison the others with jealousy, but we always went away rather early. -When the band left, all this innocent pleasure ended. There was one -delirious evening, indeed, when the floor-manager, in default of other -music, whistled a waltz, and the young ladies, in default of young men, -trod a mad measure with each other to his sibilation. But this was a -dying burst of gayety: it did not and could not happen again.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>I have to accuse myself of giving no just idea of the constant flowing -and dribbling away of the guests, who never ceased departing. The -trains that bore them and their baggage brought no others to replace -them, and the house gradually emptied itself until not more than a poor -three hundred remained. With each defection of a considerable number -of guests there followed a reduction of the helping force, who now no -longer departed laughing, but with a touch of that loneliness falling -upon us all. It must be <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>understood that we were all staying on in our -closing hotel by sufferance. It closed officially on the 10th, but the -landlord was to remain, and such guests as wished might remain too. -This made us eager to linger till the very last moment we were allowed.</p> - -<p>Ever since the elevator had ceased to run, there had been a sense of -doom in the air. One day we noted a fine reluctance in the elevator; -when people crowded it full, it would not go up. Then it began to -waver under a few; it made false starts and stops. A placard presently -said, “Elevator not running.” Then this was removed, and the elevator -ran again for a day or two. At last it ceased to run so finally that -no placard was needed. The elevator boys went away; it was as if the -elevator were extinct.</p> - -<p>I think it was on the same day that the hall clock stopped. The clock -was started again by the head porter, but after that the hotel ran on -borrowed time. Once it borrowed the time of me, whose watch has not -once been right in thirty-three years, a whole generation!</p> - -<p>The temperature of the water ceased to be reported even before the end -of August; the hours of high and low tide were no longer given. Twice -when the reporters came down to see the yacht-race off our beach<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> the -bulletin-board was covered with yellow telegrams from the coast where -it was really seen, boasting the victory and triumphant defeat of the -<i>Defender</i>. This quickened our pulses for the moment; and one night the -ladies all put on their best dresses, and assembled for a progressive -euchre party in the vast acreage of the parlor. It was a heroic but -perhaps desperate act of gayety.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>One of the most striking natural phenomena of the hotel closing was the -arrival of the gulls on our beach, or rather on the waters beyond the -beach. I had wondered at their absence all August long, but punctually -on the first day of September they came. The weather had not changed -for them any more than it had for the guests who fled the place at the -same date, but perhaps the wild wheeling and screaming things had a -prescience of the autumnal storms, and came with prophetic welcome in -their wings.</p> - -<p>Otherwise the premonitions of change were within the hotel itself, and -they were more impressive whenever they assumed an official character. -It was with a real emotion that one day I missed one of the clerks out -of the number within the office. He was there, and then he was not -there; it was as if he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> lost overboard during his watch. I -had scarcely recovered from his loss when another clerk, upon whose -distribution of the mail we all used to hang impatient for the equal -disappointment of letters or no letters, ceased from his ministrations -as if he had all along been a wraith of mist, and had simply melted -away. The room clerk, who was a more definite personality to us, went -next, with a less supernatural effect; he even said he might come back, -but he did not come back, and the office force was reduced to the -cashier and a young clerk not perceptible earlier in the season.</p> - -<p>At all great hotels the landlord is usually a remote and problematical -personage, and so it was with ours until the office force began to -thin away around him. Then he became more and more visible, tangible, -conversable, and proved a distinctly agreeable addition to our circle, -in which the note of an increasing domesticity was struck. I do not -know of anything that gave so keen a sense of our resolution into a -single family, still large, but insensibly drawn together by the need -of a mutual comfort and encouragement, as the invasion of the hotel -by a multitude of crickets. Whether it was the departure of the human -host which tempted the crickets in-doors, or whether it was some such -instinct as brought the gulls to our seas, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> were all at once -all over the place, piercing its deepening silence with their harsh -stridulation. In the chambers they carked so loud and clear that one -could hardly sleep for them, and in the glooming reaches and expanses -of the corridors, parlors, halls, and dining-room they shrilled in -incessant chorus.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>After the first moment, when the association with the home hearth -and the simple fireside evenings of other days had spent itself, the -crickets were rather awful, and personally I would rather have had the -band back. But their weird music prompted a closer union of the guests, -and our chairs were closer together on the veranda and in the office. -We found that we were very charming and interesting people, and I began -to wonder if I had not lost more than I could ever make good by not -seeking the acquaintance of the seven hundred others who were gone. -From day to day, from night to night, our numbers were lessened, but -we never spoke of the departures; we instinctively recognized that it -would have been bad form; we were like the garrison of a beleaguered -city, that lost a few men by famine or foray from time to time, but -kept up a heroic pretense that they were as many as ever. Or,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> we were -like a shipwrecked crew clinging to a water-logged vessel, and caught -from it now and then by a hungry shark or a hungry wave, or dropping -away into the gulf from mere exhaustion.</p> - -<p>These figures are rather violent, and present only a subjective effect -in the more sensitive spirits. As a matter of fact we lived luxuriously -all the time. The time came when we heard that on a certain day the -<i>chef</i> was going, but we should not have known he was gone by any -difference in the table. It grew rather more attractive; if there were -fewer dishes, they were better cooked; one could fancy a touch of -personal attention in them, which one could not have fancied when we -were seven hundred and fifty at table, and the help who served us were -three hundred and fifty.</p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>The help had gradually dwindled away till there were not more than -fifty. I had kept my waiter through all; he was a quiet elderly man of -formed habits, whom I associated with the idea of permanency in every -way, so that I could scarcely believe that we were to be parted. But -one morning he was seized by the curious foreboding of departure which -seemed really one of its symptoms among his tribe, and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> said he did -not know but he should be going soon. I said, Oh, I hoped not; and he -answered bravely that he hoped not too, but he shook his head, and we -both felt that it was best to let a final half-dollar pass between us -in expression of a provisional farewell.</p> - -<p>That was indeed the last of him, and that day when I came in to lunch -I found that I was appointed another table, in another place, with -another waiter to take my order. It was a little shock, but I was not -unprepared. I had noted the gradual dismantling of the tables until now -they stretched long rows of barren surfaces down the tenth of a mile -which the dining-room covered, and showed their reverberated labyrinth -in the mirrors of the vast sideboards at either end of the hall. The -remaining guests were snugly grouped on the seaward side of the room, -where our tables commanded the marine views that I had long vainly -envied others.</p> - -<p>But after the first transition I was changed to another table with -another waiter, a tall student from Yale, who joined to a scholarly -absence of mind concerning my wants an appreciation of my style of -jokes that went far to console me, though I was not sure that it was -quite decorous for him to laugh at them when they were addressed -to others. I tried to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> grapple him to me with early and frequent -donatives, and he would have been willing enough to stay; but the -guests kept going and the helpers were cut off, one by one, till the -hour came when we both felt—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“The first slight swerving of the heart</div> -<div class="i1">That words are powerless to express,</div> -<div>And leave it still unsaid in part,</div> -<div class="i1">Or say it in too great excess.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The next morning he told me he was going; and as I sauntered down -to take the train for a brief flight to New York, I saw him on the -platform in citizen’s dress and smoking a cigarette. He was laughing -and joking with some of the waiters who still lingered, and bidding -them take care of themselves, and promising a like vigilance of his own -welfare.</p> - -<p>After that there was the short interval of a single meal when I was -served by a detached waiter, before I was handed over to the kindly -helper who next had charge of me. I clung to him anxiously, for I did -not know what day or hour I should lose him; I did not know how soon he -might lose me!</p> - -<p>In the passing of the head porter there was something deeply dramatic, -almost tragic for me. We had become acquaintances, friends, even, I -hope, and I had become sensible of the gradual disappearance of his -subordinates until they were reduced to what I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> may call the tail -porter in contradistinction to the head porter. Then the head porter -said that he had a great mind to be going himself; but when I asked -him why, he could not well say, and he agreed with me that it might be -better for him to stay. We counted up the remaining families together, -and found them twenty, and I convinced him that by the most modest -computation here were twenty dollars in fees before him. I thought -that I had secured his allegiance to the end, but the very morning -before the pensive record of these events I went to look for him in his -accustomed place to get my shoes “shined,” and he was not there. The -barber was there, looking in a vague disoccupation across the marshes -to the northward of the hotel, and I asked him where the porter was. -He closed his eyes that he might open his lips more impressively, and -breathed the word, “Andato.”</p> - -<p>“Gone?” I echoed.</p> - -<p>The barber was a beautifully smiling, richly languaged Sicilian, and -he responded in an elegant sympathy with my dismay: “Sì; andato. Me ne -vado anch’io, fra pochi giorni. M’impazzo quì. Guardi!” (Yes; gone. I -am going, I myself, in a few days. I madden here. Look!) With the last -word he touched my arm lightly to make me turn, and pointed to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> -long plank footway, stilted upon the marshes from one to the other side -of the railroad curve, and leading to the boat-house on the bay beyond -their wide levels. Midway of this I saw a solitary figure, whose lank -length and forward droop I could not mistake. The departing porter -looked like the last citizen abandoning the ruins of Persepolis, and -I—I felt like Persepolis!</p> - -<h3>VIII.</h3> - -<p>I strive, perhaps in vain, to impart a sense of the slowly creeping -desolation, the gradual paresis, that was seizing upon the late full -and happy life of our hotel; and I have not strictly observed the order -of the successive events. I have not spoken of the swift evanescence -of the bell-boys, the first of whom began so jubilantly with me when I -came, covenanting to deliver a pitcher of ice-water at my door every -morning at ten, and every evening at eight. He was faithful to his -trust, and embarrassed me with a superfluity of ice-water, which ten -men could hardly have drunk, and lived; but when the economic frame -of our hotel began to be shaken, he was early in warning me that he -might go at any moment. He was No. 18, but he promised me that No. 10 -would see that I was daily and nightly deluged with ice-water, and -No. 10 was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> exemplarily true to me for a day. Then he vanished too, -with a grateful sense, I hope, of my folly in bestowing a preliminary -half-dollar upon him. But he had made interest for me, I found, with -No. 4, and No. 4 deluded me by his fleeting permanency for a week. One -morning he told me he was going, and he took a last half-dollar from me -with a true compassion for my forlorn case. He was so visibly the last -of the bell-boys that he could not assign me to a lower number. For one -night the head porter brought my ice-water. Now the night porter brings -it, and if he should leave before I do— But I will not anticipate, -as the older romancers used to say. I will not look forward, even in -the case of the chambermaids, of whom there have been already three -changes, with the prospect next week of having in some of the laundry -girls to do up the work.</p> - -<h3>IX.</h3> - -<p>The laundry itself was attacked ten days ago by the general paralysis -of the hotel’s functions, so far as the guests’ linen was concerned, -which has since had to be sent far inland by the enterprise of one -of the bathing-pavilion men, and precariously returned on a variable -date. I forget whether the laundry succumbed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> before or after the -closing of the refreshment-room. The hotel sold no strong drinks, -and the magnificent facilities of the bar were inadequately employed -by a soda fountain, a variety of mineral waters in bottles, a supply -of ginger ale, and lemons for lemonade. On an opposite counter were -Huyler’s candies, and a choice of chewing-gum; the salubrious pepsin, -or the merely innocent peppermint. When the moment for dismantling this -festive place arrived, with the unexpectedness of all the other moments -of our slow dehabilitation, I was present, and saw the presiding genius -packing up his stock of lemons. It gave me a peculiar pang. I had never -bought any of them, or wanted any, but I had personally acquainted -myself with almost every example of the fruit; I knew those lemons -apart, and from often study of them on their shelf, as I stood hardily -sipping my ginger ale before the counter, I was almost as intimate with -them as with the stock of the news-dealer.</p> - -<p>I must say that as to the books his stock was terribly dull. He owned -himself that it was dull, and when I asked him where in the world he -got together such a lot of stupid books, he could only say that they -were such as were appointed to be sold in summer hotels by the news -company. The newspapers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> were rather better: if they were not livelier, -they were lighter, or at least more ephemeral. I bought freely of -them; the dailies in the mornings, and the weeklies in the afternoons, -with their longer leisure. I bought the magazines, which are now often -as cheap as the papers, and, unlike the books, are seldom dull all -through. Then I formed the intimacy of many illustrated papers which I -did not buy, but studied on the strings where they hung stretched high -over the counter. In one was the picture of a young lady habited in the -mingled colors of Yale and Princeton, with a Cupid throwing a football -at her heart. She was a great resource, and could not be stared out of -countenance.</p> - -<p>Besides, there was on a wire frame over the showcase a platter, of -native decoration, representing the whole of Long Island in a railroad -map. It was a strangely ugly object, like some sort of sad, dissected -fish, but fascinating. The news-dealer and I had often discussed -its price, and I had invariably refused it at $1.25, though it was -originally put upon the market at $2.50.</p> - -<p>After he had packed up his stock, I could hold out no longer. I looked -about for him, and found him playing checkers with the ex-keeper of -the refreshment-room. I asked him if that hideous platter had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> now -got down to a dollar, and he went and hunted it out of his stock. -Upon inspection he seemed to discover that it was still $1.25. In -a desperation I paid the money; and almost at the same moment the -news-dealer’s place knew him no more, and I remained with my platter -for a memorial of one of the weirdest experiences of a life which has -not been barren of weirdness.</p> - -<h3>X.</h3> - -<p>“You ought to have seen an old-time closing of this hotel,” said the -clerk one evening toward the last. He had by this time resumed in his -own person almost as many functions as the ancient mariner of the -Bab Ballad who had eaten the former survivors of the <i>Nancy</i> brig, -and claimed to represent them all by virtue of his superior appetite -and digestion. Our clerk was now cashier, postmaster, room-clerk, -night-clerk, and day-clerk, with moments of bell-boy; he spoke with -authority, and we listened with the respect due to his manifold quality.</p> - -<p>“The guests,” he continued, “would run down toward the end of August -to about two hundred. Then notice would be put up in the office, ‘The -hotel will close to-morrow after breakfast.’ The band would be still -here, and the bell-boys all on duty; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> night before, all the -guests would gather in the office. The band would play, and the talking -and laughing would go on all through the evening, like the height of -the season, and perhaps there would be a little dancing. Everybody -would say good-night, the same as ever, and as soon as breakfast was -over in the morning you would see them streaming away to the train, -till there wasn’t a soul left in the house but clerks and the help. -Then this stair carpet would come down with a run.” He pointed to the -wide stairway. “The rugs would come up all through the halls; the -dining-room would be cleared before you could look, and all the chairs -would be on the tables with their legs in the air. The help would come -to the desk in a steady file, and get their money and go. Before noon -the cleaners would have the whole house to themselves.”</p> - -<p>We owned that it must have been fine, that it was spectacular and -impressive, even dramatic, but in our hearts we felt that there was a -finer poetic quality in our closing, which was like one of the slow -processes of nature, and emulated the pensive close of summer, when the -leaves do not all fall in a night, or the flowers wither or the grass -droop in a single day, but the trees slowly drop their crowns through -many weeks,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> and the successive frosts lay a chill touch on a blossom -here, and a petal there, and the summer passes in a euthanasy which -suffers you to say at no given moment, “The summer is dead,” till it -has long been dead.</p> - -<p>Several aspects of the elementally simple landscape about us seemed -peculiarly to sympathize with the quiet passing of the life of the -great hotel. There could be no change in the long, irregular, gray sand -dunes before it, which dropped themselves in lumpish masses, like the -stretched and twisted shape of some vast bisected serpent. The stiff -grasses and arid weeds that clothed them thinly, like a growth of -dreadful green hair, kept their rigidity and their color with a sort -of terrestrial immortality, or rather of an imperishable lifelessness; -but over them fluttered a multitude of butterflies, thick as the leaves -of autumn, and of much the same ultimate color, like spirits already -released to their palingenesis. Flights of others, of a gay white and -yellow, like the innocent souls of little ones, haunted the leaf-plant -beds before the hotel, or tried to make friends with the harsh little -evergreens surviving the plantations of a more courageous period of the -enterprise, and stolidly presenting a wood at the borders of the plank -walks. To the landward the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> mighty marshes stretched their innumerable -acres to the sunrise and the sunset and the northern lights, one wash -of pale yellow-green. Before we left, this began to be splashed as -with flame or blood by the reddening of that certain small weed which -loves the salt of tide-flooded meadows. The hollyhocklike bells of the -marsh-roses drooped and fell, but other and gayer flowers, like ox-eye -daisies of taller stem, came to replace them; and still, with the -rising tide, the larger and the lesser craft that plied upon the many -channels of the meadows blew softly back and forth, and seemed to sail -upon their undulant grasses.</p> - -<p>In all, the large leisure, the serene lapse of nature toward decay, -seemed to express a consciousness of the hotel’s unhurried dissolution, -to wait gently upon it, and to stay in a faithful summer loveliness -till the last light should be quenched, of all those that had made it -flame like a jewel in the forehead of the sea, and that had faded from -veranda and balcony to the glitter of the clustered lamps in the office -and dining-room.</p> - -<h3>XI.</h3> - -<p>There came, indeed, about the middle of September, a sudden rude shock -of cold, which seemed to express an impatience with the dying hotel, -hitherto unknown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> to the gently varying moods of nature. The wind blew -for a day from the northwest, and stiffened its wasted and flaccid -frame until one fancied its teeth chattering, as it were; but even then -the sea did not share the harsh sentiment of the inland weather. It -lay smiling as serenely as ever, and the fleet of fishing sloops and -schooners that began to flock before our beach about the end of August -rocked and tilted, like things in a dream, as they had for the last -fortnight. It was said that one of them dragged her anchor and came -ashore in the night, but this happened in the dark, and we knew of it -only by hearsay, after she had got off and sailed away. A day later -they were all there again, and some flew in close to the beach, and -skimmed back and forth, as fearless of its ever-shifting sands as the -fish-hawks that sailed the deeps of blue air above them.</p> - -<p>The water remained as warm as ever; warmer, they said, who tried it -in a bath. I did not. The next to the last time I bathed I had for -sole companion a literary clergyman, with whom I walked down to the -beach discussing the amusing aspects of the Ninth Crusade, which the -Venetians so cannily turned aside from the conquest of the Holy Land -to the conquest of Constantinople. The New York Dump was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>unpleasantly -evident in the sea that day; and the last time the Dump had the sea -all to itself. It is not agreeable to bathe among old brooms, bottles, -decayed fruit, trunk lids, vegetable cans, broken boxes, and the other -refuse of the ash-barrel, and I came out almost before the life-guard -could get ready to throw me a life-preserver.</p> - -<p>He was not the gaudy giant of bronze who posed between the life-lines -at the height of the bathing-season, when twoscore spectators on the -benches provided for them watched a half-dozen men and women weltering -in the surf, or popping up and down after the manner of ladies taking -a sea-bath. But I dare say he was quite as efficient, and as I had the -good fortune to make his acquaintance, I liked him better. I specially -liked his pelting about the bathing-pavilion before he went on duty -with me, in his bare legs and feet, and wearing over his bathing-tights -a cut-away coat, with a derby hat, to complete his ceremonial costume.</p> - -<p>He was not so much in keeping with the inlander’s ideal of -bathing-beaches, where summer girls float in the waves or loll upon -the sands in the flirtatious poses familiar to the observer of them in -the illustrated papers. To guard these daring maids from the dangers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> -of the deep the gaudy bronze giant, with his yachting cap, his black -jerseys, his white shoes, and his brown arms folded upon his breast, -where they half revealed, half hid his label of Life-Guard, was a -far fitter figure. But for the real bathers, I think the guard in -the cut-away, derby, and bare feet was much more to be trusted; he -was simple, substantial, and unpretentious; and surf-bathing, let me -whisper in the innumerable ear of the inland myriads who have never -seen it, is not often the gay frolic they have fancied: rather, it is -sober, serious, sloppy.</p> - -<h3>XII.</h3> - -<p>At first the mental frame of us lingerers in the closing hotel was one -of heroic self-applause. We wore a brave and smiling front; we said it -was so much nicer than when the house was full, than when there were -a thousand or even a hundred in it; and we all declared that we were -going to stay as long as the landlord would let us. But from time to -time there were defections; one table after another was dismantled; -face after face vanished; first a white face, then a black face. I do -not think we were so smiling after four of the beach trains were taken -off; secretly, I think each of us wondered, What if we should stay till -the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> train was taken off, and we could not get away! What should -we do then?</p> - -<p>We have become rather more serious; we do not talk trivially when we -talk, and we scarcely talk at all; we have traversed each other’s -conversable territory so often that there is no longer the hope of -discovery in it. We have not only become serious; I have reached the -point where I have asked in thought if we are not a little absurd. Why -should we stay? What is keeping us? The waves of autumn will soon reach -the kitchen fires; and then?</p> - -<p>Last night, our waiter said he was going on Monday. This morning the -newsboy passed through the office on his way to serve the cottagers -with the papers. Asked if he were not going to serve the hotel guests, -he went on without answering. It may be because he is an officer of a -railroad, whose officers reluctantly answer questions; but perhaps he -has come to feel a ghostly quality in us, and regards us as so many -simulacra incapable of interest in the affairs of real men.</p> - -<p>The gas was not lighted in the ballroom after dinner yesterday; the -halls gloomed like illimitable caverns late in the gathered dusk.</p> - -<p>Shall I be able to stay till Friday? We shall see. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> - -<h3>XIII.</h3> - -<p>A most resplendent Sunday is passing. The cold wind of last night has -blown the whole world clean of clouds. One has a sense of the globe -swinging in depths of translucent ether, stainless through all the -reaches of space.</p> - -<p>The sea is blue as the sky. It quivers where the sun slants upon it, -and reflects the rays from myriad facets of steel. You cannot look at -it long there, but now you begin to understand what Tennyson meant when -he called it</p> - -<p class="center">“The million-spangled sapphire marriage-ring of the land.”</p> - -<p>All day yesterday, which was the great day for the arriving European -steamers, they came hurrying in. We counted ten or twelve, each -blocking the length of an express train out of the rim of the horizon. -To-day there are none: only a few far-off full-sailed ships, and nearer -shore the fleet of fishing sloops and schooners, tilting and swaying, -and now and then flying in so close to the beach that we can see the -men on board, and trailing their small boats through a drift of foamy -sea.</p> - -<p>There are twenty-three guests in the house now—the house that holds -a thousand! Two hunters came down with their guns Friday night, and -re-enforced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> us. After breakfast a gay group gathered on the great -midmost stairway of the veranda, and one of the men told the ladies -stories and made them laugh. Every one is acquainted now, and speaks -freely to every one else. It is rather weird. Should we be so civil if -we were normally conditioned?</p> - -<p>We have a very good two-o’clock dinner: the cook still remembers it is -Sunday. After dinner two of us go down to the bathing-beach, and from -the spectators’ benches watch a soft-shell crab which has been bathing, -and is now lying in the warm sand where the rising tide has flung him. -We wait to see it reach him again, and draw him back, but it does not. -It seems to me that he is unhappy in the sun, and I take a stick and -tilt him into the sea. I do not know whether he likes that either; but -he cannot help himself. He could not help himself in the sun.</p> - -<h3>XIV.</h3> - -<p>It is Monday morning now, and the world is wrapped in cold gray clouds, -which seem to have meant something unpleasant to the fishing craft, for -they have all vanished but two of the bolder sail. It rains a little -and then stops. A wind, heavy with the salt breath of the sea, rises -steadily, and bemoans itself in all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> angles and projections of -the house. The lanterns of the veranda, which have not been lighted -for a week, rattle dolefully in the blast. Under them, the long line -of rocking-chairs in which a quarter of a mile of ladies used to sit -and gossip together stretches emptily away. The wind pushes against -the tall backs of the chairs, and they rock softly to and fro, as if -the ghosts of the gossipers invisibly filled them, and still inaudibly -babbled on. Where some of the chairs are grouped facing one another, -the effect is very creepy. Will they keep up their spectral colloquies -all winter?</p> - -<p>I escape from this eery sight to my own room, and in the corridor, -three uptown blocks away, I behold a small chambermaid balancing -herself against a large bucket as she wavers slowly down. It is tragic.</p> - -<p>The wind rises, and by mid-afternoon blows half a gale. The sea -froths and roars and tumbles on the beach, and far out the serried -breakers toss their white-caps against the sky-line, like so many cooks -abandoning the hotel kitchen.</p> - -<p>About three o’clock, the life-guard of the bathing-beach, having cast -his derby and cut-away, appears with three other men in tights, and -pulls in the life-lines and the buoys. Now the Dump will have the ocean -for its own. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> - -<p>A stranded boat which lies on the beach to the northward came ashore -in the gale last night from some of the fishermen. It is in good -condition, and if the trains should stop running before noon to-morrow -we can be taken off in it. Eighteen of our number went away this -morning; and there are now but four of us left. We could easily get -away in that boat.</p> - -<h3>XV.</h3> - -<p>The wind rose till nightfall, and then its passion broke in tears. -A tempestuous night threatened; but the weather changed its mind as -swiftly as a woman, and the day dawned as sweetly and softly this -morning as a day of young June. The sea is again a shining level, -veiled in a tender mist. Out of this the fishing sail come stealing -silently one after another till again a fleet of them is tilting and -swaying in front of the hotel. One large, goblin sail, which remained -throughout the threats of the weather, looks like the picture of the -goblin in the Bab Ballad which tries to frighten the image before the -tobacconist’s shop.</p> - -<p>The gang of Italians who have toiled for three months to hide the -infamies of the Dump, burying them in the sand as fast as the sea cast -them ashore, are taking up the plank walks to the bathing-beach.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> The -season is over. The barrel, which formed the outermost buoy, swings -monumentally (if monuments can swing) at anchor among the breakers.</p> - -<p>At the station the railroad people have become unnaturally amiable. -They call me by name; they take a personal interest in getting off my -telegrams and express packages. In one of my visits to them, I meet the -life-guard in full citizen’s dress, with even shoes on. He salutes me, -but I have to look twice before I know him.</p> - -<h3>XVI.</h3> - -<p>A generous contention has arisen between ourselves and the other -remaining family as to which shall be last to leave the hotel. They go -on the 10.25, and we have outstayed them! We are the last guests in the -house. The landlord’s Italian greyhound seems instinctively to feel our -pathetic distinction. He rushes upon me from far down the veranda, and -fawns upon me.</p> - -<p>The cook and a last helper of some unknown function carry our trunks -to the station. But it has now suddenly become a question whether we -shall go on the 12.20 or wait for the 5.20. It depends finally upon our -getting a last lunch at the restaurant of the bathing-beach. We ask, -limiting our demands to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> clam chowder. We are answered that there -are still clams, but the man who knows how to make chowder is gone. -The restaurant family are going to lunch upon a ham bone, which is now -being scraped for them. We refuse to share it with many thanks, and -decide to go on the 12.20.</p> - -<p>I have paid my last bill.</p> - -<p>On the 10th of August a pomp of liveried menials met me as I alighted -from the train, and contended for the honor and profit of carrying my -umbrella into the hotel.</p> - -<p>On the 17th of September I myself carry a heavy satchel in each hand -out through the echoing corridors down the wide veranda stairs to the -train, unattended by a single fee-taker.</p> - -<p>The hotel is closed.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> - -<h2>GLIMPSES OF CENTRAL PARK.</h2> - -<p>This morning, as I sat on a bench in one of the most -frequented walks of Central Park, I could almost have touched the -sparrows on the sprays about me; a squirrel, foraging for nuts, -climbed on my knees, as if to explore my pockets. Of course, there is -a policeman at every turn to see that no wrong is done these pretty -creatures, and that no sort of trespass is committed by any in the -domain of all; but I like to think that the security and immunity of -the Park is proof of something besides the vigilance of its guardians; -that it is a hint of a growing sense in Americans that what is common -is the personal charge of every one in the community.</p> - -<p>As I turn from my page and look out upon it, I see the domes and -spires of its foliage beginning to feel the autumn and taking on the -wonderful sunset tints of the year in its decline; when I stray through -its pleasant paths, I feel the pathos of the tender October<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> air; -but, better than these sensuous delights, in everything of it and in -it, I imagine a prophecy of the truer state which I believe America -is destined yet to see established. It cannot be that the countless -thousands who continually visit it, and share equally in its beauty, -can all come away insensible of the meaning of it; here and there some -one must ask himself, and then ask others, why the whole of life should -not be as generous and as just as this part of it; why he should not -have a country as palpably his own as the Central Park is, where his -ownership excludes the ownership of no other. Some workman out of work, -as he trudges aimlessly through its paths must wonder why the city -cannot minister to his need as well as his pleasure, and not hold aloof -from him till he is thrown a pauper on its fitful charities. If it can -give him this magnificent garden for his forced leisure, why cannot it -give him a shop where he can go in extremity, to earn his bread?</p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>I may be mistaken. His thoughts may never take this turn at all. -The poor are slaves of habit, they bear what they have borne, they -suffer on from generation to generation, and seem to look for nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> -different. But this is what I think for poor people in the Park, not -alone for the workman recently out of work, but for the workman so long -out of it that he has rotted into one of the sodden tramps whom I meet -now and then, looking like some forlorn wild beast, in the light of -the autumnal leaves. That is the great trouble in New York; you cannot -anywhere get away from the misery of life. You would think that the -rich for their own sakes would wish to see conditions bettered, so that -they might not be confronted at every turn by the mere loathliness of -poverty. But they likewise are the slaves of habit, and go the way the -rich have gone since the beginning of time. Sometimes I think that as -Shakespeare says of the living and the dead, the rich and the poor are -“but as pictures” to one another, without vital reality.</p> - -<p>Sometimes I am glad to lose the sense of their reality, and this is why -I would rather walk in the pathways of the Park than in the streets -of the city, for the contrasts there are not so frequent, if they are -glaring still. I do get away from them now and then, for a moment or -two, and give myself wholly up to the delight of the place. It has been -treated with the artistic sense which always finds its best expression -in the service of the community, but I do not think we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> generally -understand this, the civic spirit is so weak in us yet; and I doubt if -the artists themselves are conscious of it, they are so rarely given -the chance to serve the community. When this chance offers, however, -it finds the right man to profit by it, as in the system of parks at -Chicago, the gardened spaces at Washington, and the Central Park in -New York. Some of the decorative features here are bad, the sculpture -is often foolish or worse, and the architecture is the outgrowth of a -mood, where it is not merely puerile. The footways have been asphalted, -and this is out of keeping with the rustic character of the place, -but the whole design, and much of the detail in the treatment of the -landscape, bears the stamp of a kindly and poetic genius. The Park is -in no wise taken away from nature, but is rendered back to her, when -all has been done to beautify it, an American woodland, breaking into -meadows, here and there, and brightened with pools and ponds lurking -among rude masses of rock, and gleaming between leafy knolls and grassy -levels. It stretches and widens away, mile after mile, in the heart -of the city, a memory of the land as it was before the havoc of the -city began, and giving to the city-prisoned poor an image of what the -free country still is, everywhere. It is all penetrated by well-kept -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>drives and paths; and it is in these paths that I find my pleasure. -They are very simple woodland paths, but for the asphalt; though here -and there an effect of art is studied with charming felicity; and I -like to mount some steps graded in the rock at one place and come upon -a plinth supporting the bust of a poet, as I might in an old Italian -garden. But there is otherwise very little effect of gardening except -near the large fountain by the principal lake where there is some flare -of flowers on the sloping lawns. There is an excess in the viaduct, -with its sweeping stairways, and carven freestone massiveness; but it -is charming in a way, too, and the basin of the fountain is full of -lotuses and papyrus reeds, so that you do not much notice the bronze -angel atop, who seems to be holding her skirt to one side and picking -her steps, and to be rather afraid of falling into the water. There is, -in fact, only one thoroughly good piece of sculpture in the Park, which -I am glad to find in sympathy with the primeval suggestiveness of the -landscape gardening: an American Indian hunting with his dog, as the -Indians must have hunted through the wilds here before the white men -came. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>This group is always a great pleasure to me, from whatever point I come -upon it, or catch a glimpse of it; and I like to go and find the dog’s -prototype in the wolves at the menagerie which the city offers free to -the wonder of the crowds constantly thronging its grounds and houses. -The captive brutes seem to be of that solidarity of good-fellowship -which unites all the frequenters of the Park; the tigers and the -stupidly majestic lions have an air different to me from tigers and -lions shown for profit. Among the milder sorts, I do not care so much -for the wallowing hippopotamuses, and the lumbering elephants, and -the supercilious camels which one sees in menageries everywhere, as -for those types which represent a period as extinct as that of the -American pioneers; I have rather a preference for going and musing -upon the ragged bison pair as they stand with their livid mouths open -at the pale of their paddock, expecting the children’s peanuts, and -unconscious of their importance as survivors of the untold millions -of their kind which a quarter of a century ago blackened the Western -plains for miles and miles. There are now only some forty or fifty -left; for of all the forces of our plutocratic conditions, so few are -conservative that the American<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> buffalo is as rare as the old-fashioned -American mechanic, proud of his independence, and glorying in his -citizenship.</p> - -<p>In some other enclosures are pairs of beautiful deer, which I wish -might be enlarged to the whole extent of the Park. But I can only -imagine them on the great sweeps of grass, which recall the savannahs -and prairies, though there is a very satisfactory flock of sheep which -nibbles the herbage there, when these spaces are not thrown open to the -ball-players who are allowed on certain days of the week. I like to -watch them, and so do great numbers of other frequenters of the Park, -apparently; and when I have walked far up beyond the reservoirs of -city-water, which serve the purpose of natural lakes in the landscape, -I like to come upon that expanse in the heart of the woods where the -tennis-players have stretched their nets over a score of courts, and -the art students have set up their easels on the edges of the lawns, -for what effect of the autumnal foliage they have the luck or the skill -to get. It is all very sweet and friendly, and in keeping with the -purpose of the Park, and its frank and simple treatment throughout. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>I think this treatment is best for the greatest number of those who -visit the place, and for whom the aspect of simple nature is the -thing to be desired. Their pleasure in it, as far as the children are -concerned, is visible and audible enough, but I like, as I stroll -along, to note the quiet comfort which the elder people take in this -domain of theirs, as they sit on the benches in the woodland ways, -or under the arching trees of the Mall, unmolested by the company of -some of the worst of all the bad statues in the world. They are mostly -foreigners, I believe, but I find every now and then an American among -them, who has released himself, or has been forced by want of work, -to share their leisure for the time; I fancy he has always a bad -conscience, if he is taking the time off, from the continual pressure -of our duty to add dollar to dollar, and provide for the future as -well as the present need. The foreigner, who has been bred up without -the American’s hope of advancement, has not his anxiety, and is a -happier man, so far as that goes; but the Park imparts something of its -peace to every one, even to some of the people who drive, and form a -spectacle for those who walk.</p> - -<p>For me they all unite to form a spectacle I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> cease to marvel at, -with a perpetual hunger of conjecture as to what they really think of -one another. Apparently, they are all, whether they walk or whether -they drive, willing collectively, if not individually, to go on forever -in the economy which perpetuates their inequality, and makes a mock of -the polity which assures them their liberty. The difference which money -creates among men is always preposterous, and whenever I take my eyes -from it the thing ceases to be credible; yet this difference is what -the vast majority of Americans have agreed to accept forever as right -and justice. If I were to go and sit beside some poor man in the Park, -and ask him why a man no better than he was driving before him in a -luxurious carriage, he would say that the other man had the money to -do it; and he would really think he had given me a reason; the man in -the carriage himself could not regard the answer as more full and final -than the man on the bench. They have both been reared in the belief -that it is a sufficient answer, and they would both regard me with the -same misgiving if I ventured to say that it was not a reason; for if -their positions were to be at once reversed, they would both acquiesce -in the moral outlawry of their inequality. The man on foot would think -it had simply come his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> turn to drive in a carriage, and the man whom -he ousted would think it was rather hard luck, but he would realize -that it was what, at the bottom of his heart, he had always expected.</p> - -<p>Only once have I happened to find any one who questioned the situation -from a standpoint outside of it, and that was a shabbily dressed man -whom I overheard talking to a poor woman in one of those pleasant -arbors which crown certain points of rising ground in the Park. She -had a paper bundle on the seat beside her, and she looked like some -working-woman out of place, with that hapless, wistful air which such -people often have. Her poor little hands, which lay in her lap, were -stiffened and hardened with work, but they were clean, except for -the black of the nails, and she was very decently clad in garments -beginning to fray into rags; she had a good, kind, faithful face, and -she listened without rancor to the man as he unfolded the truth to her -concerning the conditions in which they lived. It was the wisdom of the -poor, hopeless, joyless, as it now and then makes itself heard in the -process of the years and ages, and then sinks again into silence. He -showed her how she had no permanent place in the economy, not because -she had momentarily lost work, but because in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> the nature of things -as we have them, it could only be a question of time when she must be -thrown out of any place she found. He blamed no one; he only blamed -the conditions. I doubt whether his wisdom made the friendless woman -happier, but I could not have gainsaid it, when he saw me listening, if -he had asked, “Isn’t that the truth?” I left him talking sadly on, and -I never saw him again. He was threadbare, but he too was cleanly and -decent in his dress, and not at all of that type of agitators of whom -we have made an effigy like nothing I have seen, as if merely for the -childish pleasure of reviling it.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>The whole incident was infinitely pathetic to me; and yet we must not -romance the poor, or imagine that they are morally better than the -rich; we must not fancy that a poor man, when he ceases to be a poor -man, would be kinder for having been poor. He would perhaps oftener, -and certainly more logically, be unkinder, for there would be mixed -with his vanity of possession a quality of cruel fear, an apprehension -of loss, which the man who had always been rich would not feel. The -self-made man when he has made himself of money, seems to have been -deformed by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> his original destitution, and I think that if I were in -need I would rather take my chance of pity from the man who had never -been poor. Of course, this is generalization, and there are instances -to the contrary, which at once occur to me. But what is absolutely true -is that our prosperity, the selfish joy of having, at the necessary -cost of those who cannot have, is blighted by the feeling of insecurity -which every man has in his secret soul, and which the man who has known -want must have in greater measure than the man who has never known want.</p> - -<p>There is, indeed, no security for wealth, which we think the chief -good of life, in the system that warrants it. When a man has gathered -his millions, he cannot be reduced to want, probably; but while he is -amassing them, while he is in the midst of the fight, or the game, as -most men are, there are ninety-five chances out of a hundred that he -will be beaten. Perhaps it is best so, and I should be glad it was -so if I could be sure that the common danger bred a common kindness -between the rich and the poor, but it seems not to do so. As far as I -can see, the rule of chance, which they all live under, does nothing -more than reduce them to a community of anxieties.</p> - -<p>To the eye of the observer they have the monotony<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> of the sea, where -some tenth wave runs a little higher than the rest, but sinks at last, -or breaks upon the rocks or sands, as inevitably as the other nine. -Our inequality is without picturesqueness and without distinction. -The people in the carriages are better dressed than those on foot, -especially the women; but otherwise they do not greatly differ from the -most of these. The spectacle of the driving in the Park has none of -that dignity which characterizes such spectacles in European capitals. -This may be because many people of the finest social quality are -seldom seen there, or it may be because the differences growing out of -money can never have the effect of those growing out of birth; that -a plutocracy can never have the last wicked grace of an aristocracy. -It would be impossible for instance, to weave any romance about the -figures you see in our carriages; they do not even suggest the poetry -of ages of prescriptive wrong; they are of to-day, and there is no -guessing whether they will be of to-morrow or not.</p> - -<p>In Europe, this sort of tragi-comedy is at least well played; but in -America, you always have the feeling that the performance is that of -second-rate amateurs, who, if they would really live out the life -implied by America, would be the superiors of the whole world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> I -am moved to laughter by some of the things I see among them, when -perhaps I ought to be awed, as, for instance, by the sight of a little, -lavishly dressed lady, lolling in the corner of a ponderous landau, -with the effect of holding fast lest she should be shaken out of it, -while two powerful horses, in jingling, silver-plated harness, with -due equipment of coachman and footman, seated on their bright-buttoned -overcoats on the box together, get her majestically over the ground at -a slow trot. This is what I sometimes see, with not so much reverence -as I feel for the simple mother pushing her baby-carriage on the -asphalt beside me and doubtless envying the wonderful creature in the -landau. Sometimes it is a fat old man in the landau; or a husband and -wife, not speaking; or a pair of grim old ladies, who look as if they -had lived so long aloof from their unluckier sisters that they could -not be too severe with the mere sight of them. Generally speaking, the -people in the carriages do not seem any happier for being there, though -I have sometimes seen a jolly party of strangers in a public carriage, -drawn by those broken-kneed horses which seem peculiarly devoted to -this service.</p> - -<p>The best place to see the driving is at a point where the different -driveways converge, not far from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> Egyptian obelisk which the -Khedive gave us some years ago, and which we have set up here in one -of the finest eminences of the Park. He had of course no moral right -to rob his miserable land of any one of its characteristic monuments, -but I do not know that it is not as well in New York as in Alexandria. -If its heart of aged stone could feel the continuity of conditions, it -must be aware of the essential unity of the civilizations beside the -Nile and beside the Hudson; and if Cleopatra’s needle had really an eye -to see, it must perceive that there is nothing truly civic in either. -As the tide of dissatisfied and weary wealth rolls by its base here, in -the fantastic variety of its equipages, does the needle discern so much -difference between their occupants and the occupants of the chariots -that swept beneath it in the capital of the Ptolemies two thousand -years ago? I can imagine it at times winking such an eye and cocking in -derision the gilded cap with which the New-Yorkers have lately crowned -it. They pass it in all kinds of vehicles, and there are all kinds of -people in them, though there are sometimes no people at all, as when -the servants have been sent out to exercise the horses, for nobody’s -good or pleasure, and in the spirit of that atrocious waste which -runs through our whole life. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> have now and then seen a gentleman -driving a four-in-hand, with everything to minister to his vanity in -the exact imitation of a nobleman driving a four-in-hand over English -roads, and with no one to be drawn by his crop-tailed bays or blacks -except himself and the solemn groom on his perch; I have wondered how -much more nearly equal they were in their aspirations and instincts -than either of them imagined. A gentleman driving a pair, abreast or -tandem, with a groom on the rumble, for no purpose except to express -his quality, is a common sight enough; and sometimes you see a lady -illustrating her consequence in like manner. A lady driving, while a -gentleman occupies the seat behind her, is a sight which always affects -me like the sight of a man taking a woman’s arm, in walking, as the man -of an underbred sort is apt to do.</p> - -<p>Horsey-looking women, who are, to ladies at least, what horsey-looking -men are to gentlemen, drive together; often they are really ladies, -and sometimes they are nice young girls, out for an innocent dash and -chat. They are all very much and very unimpressively dressed, whether -they sit in state behind the regulation coachman and footman, or -handle the reins themselves. Now and then you see a lady with a dog -on the seat beside her, for an airing, but not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> often a child; once -or twice I have seen one with a large spaniel seated comfortably in -front of her, and I have asked myself what would happen if, instead -of the dog, she had taken into her carriage some pale woman or weary -old man, such as I sometimes see gazing patiently after her. But the -thing would be altogether impossible. I should be the first to feel -the want of keeping in it; for, however recent wealth may be here, it -has equipped itself with all the apparatus of long-inherited riches, -which it is as strongly bound to maintain intact as if it were really -old and hereditary—perhaps more strongly. I must say that, mostly, -its owners look very tired of it, or of something, in public, and -that our American plutocrats, if they have not the distinction of an -aristocracy, have at least the ennui.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>But these stylish turnouts form only a part of the spectacle in the -Park driveways, though they form, perhaps, the larger part. Bicyclers -weave their dangerous and devious way everywhere through the roads, -and seem to be forbidden the bridle-paths, where from point to point -you catch a glimpse of the riders. There are boys and girls in -village carts, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> happiest of all the people you see; and there are -cheap-looking buggies, like those you meet in the country, with each -a young man and young girl in them, as if they had come in from some -remote suburb; turnouts shabbier yet, with poor old horses, poke about -with some elderly pair, like a farmer and his wife. There are family -carryalls, with friendly-looking families, old and young, getting the -good of the Park together in a long, leisurely jog; and open buggies -with yellow wheels and raffish men in them behind their widespread -trotters; or with some sharp-faced young fellow getting all the speed -out of a lively span that the mounted policemen, stationed at intervals -along the driveways, will allow. The finer vehicles are of all types, -patterned like everything else that is fine in America, upon something -fine in Europe; but just now a very high-backed phaeton appears to -be most in favor; and in fact I get a great deal of pleasure out of -these myself, as I do not have to sit stiffly up in them. They make me -think somehow of those eighteenth-century English novels, of the times -when young ladies like Evelina drove out in phaetons, and were the -passionate pursuit of Lord Orvilles and Sir Clement Willoughbys.</p> - -<p>How far do the New Yorkers publicly carry their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> travesty of the -European aristocratic life? I should say, from what I have seen of -the driving in the Park, it does not err on the side of excess. The -equipages, when they are fine, are rather simple; and the liveries -are such as express a proprietary grandeur in coat-buttons, silver or -gilt, and in a darker or lighter drab of the cloth the servants wear; -they are often in brown or dark green. Now and then you see the tightly -cased legs and top-boots and cockaded hat of a groom, but this is -oftenest on a four-in-hand coach, or the rumble of a tandem cart; the -soul of the free-born republican is rarely bowed before it on the box -of a family carriage. I have seen nothing like an attempt at family -colors in the trappings of the coachman and horses.</p> - -<p>I should say that the imitation was quite within the bounds of good -taste. The bad taste is in the wish to imitate Europe at all; but with -the abundance of money, the imitation is simply inevitable. There -is no American life for wealth; there is no native formula for the -expression of social superiority; because America means equality if it -means anything, in the last analysis. But in all this show on the Park -driveways, you get no effect so vivid as the effect of sterility in -that liberty without equality which seems<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> to satisfy us Americans. A -man may come into the Park with any sort of vehicle, so that it is not -for the carriage of merchandise, and he is free to spoil what might -be a fine effect with the intrusion of whatever squalor of turnout -he will. He has as much right there as any one, but the right to be -shabby in the presence of people who are fine is not one that I should -envy him. I do not think that he can be comfortable in it, for the -superiority around him puts him to shame, as it puts the poor man to -shame at every turn in life, though some people, with an impudence -that is pitiable, will tell you that it does not put him to shame; -that he feels himself as good as any one. We are always talking about -human nature and what it is, and what it is not; but we try in our -blind worship of inequality to refuse the first and simplest knowledge -of human nature, which testifies of itself in every throb of our own -hearts, as we try even to refuse a knowledge of the Divine nature, -and attribute to the Father of all a design in the injustice we have -ourselves created.</p> - -<p>To me the lesson of Central Park is that where it is used in the spirit -of fraternity and equality, the pleasure in it is pure and fine, and -that its frequenters have for the moment a hint of the beauty which -might be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> perpetually in their lives; but where it is invaded by the -motives of the strife that raves all round it in the city outside, its -joys are fouled with contempt and envy, the worst passions that tear -the human heart. Ninety-nine Americans out of a hundred, have never -seen a man in livery; they have never dreamed of such a display as -this in the Park. Yet with our conditions, I fear that at sight of it -ninety-nine Americans out of every hundred would lust for their turn -of the wheel, their throw of the dice, so that they might succeed to a -place in it, and flaunt their luxury in the face of poverty, and abash -humility with their pride.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> - -<h2>NEW YORK STREETS.</h2> - -<p>If the reader will look at a plan of New York, he will see that Central -Park is really in the centre of the place, if a thing which has length -only, or is so nearly without breadth or thickness, can be said to -have a centre. South of the Park, the whole island is dense with life -and business; it is pretty solidly built up on either side; but to the -northward the blocks of houses are no longer of a compact succession; -they struggle up, at irregular intervals, from open fields, and sink -again, on the streets pushed beyond them into the simple country, where -even a suburban character is lost. It can only be a few years, at -most, before all the empty spaces will be occupied, and the town, such -as it is, and such as it seems to have been ever since the colonial -period, will have anchored itself fast in the rock that underlies the -larger half of it, and imparted its peculiar effect to every street—an -effect of arrogant untidiness, of superficial and formal gentility, of -immediate neglect and overuse. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>You will see more of the neglect and overuse in the avenues which -penetrate the city’s mass from north to south, and more of the -superficial and formal gentility in the streets that cross these -avenues from east to west; but the arrogant untidiness you will find -nearly everywhere, except in some of the newest quarters westward -from the Park, and still farther uptown. These are really very clean; -but they have a bare look, as if they were not yet inhabited, and, in -fact, many of the houses are still empty. Lower down, the streets are -often as shabby and as squalid as the avenues that run parallel with -the river-sides; and at least two of the avenues are as decent as the -decentest cross-streets.</p> - -<p>Of late, a good many streets and several avenues have been asphalted, -and the din of wheels on the rough pavement no longer torments the ear -so cruelly; but there is still the sharp clatter of the horses’ shoes -everywhere; and their pulverized manure, which forms so great a part -of the city’s dust, and is constantly taken into people’s stomachs -and lungs, seems to blow more freely about on the asphalt than on -the old-fashioned pavements. A few years ago scraps of paper, straw, -fruit-peel, and all manner of minor waste and rubbish, littered all the -thoroughfares; under a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> reform administration this has been amended; -but no one knows how long a reform will last in New York.</p> - -<p>When I leave Central Park, where I like best to walk, I usually take -one of the avenues southward, and then turn eastward or westward on -one of the cross-streets whose perspective appeals to my curiosity, -and stroll through it to one of the rivers. The avenues are fifteen -or sixteen in number, and they stretch, some farther than others, -up and down the island, but most of them end in the old town, where -its irregularity begins, at the south, and several are interrupted -by the different parks at the north. Together with the streets that -intersect them between the old town and Central Park, they form one of -the most characteristic parts of modern New York. Like the streets, -they are numbered, rather than named, from a want of imagination, or -from a preference of mere convenience to the poetry and associations -that cluster about a name, and can never cling to a number, or from -a business impatience to be quickly done with the matter. This must -rather defeat itself, however, when a hurried man undertakes to tell -you that he lives at three hundred and seventy-five on One Hundred and -Fifty-seventh street. Toward the rivers the avenues grow shabbier and -shabbier, though this statement must be qualified, like all <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>general -statements. Seventh Avenue, on the west, is pleasanter than Sixth -Avenue; and Second Avenue, on the east, is more agreeable than Third -Avenue. In fact, the other afternoon, as I strayed over to the East -River, I found several blocks of Avenue A, which runs nearest it, -very quiet, built up with comfortable dwellings, and even clean, as -cleanliness is understood in New York.</p> - -<p>But it is Fifth Avenue which divides the city lengthwise nearest the -middle, and it is this avenue which affords the norm of style and -comfort to the other avenues on either hand, and to all the streets -that intersect it. Madison Avenue is its rival, and has suffered less -from the invasion of shops and hotels, but a long stretch of Fifth -Avenue is still the most aristocratic quarter of the city, and is upon -the whole its finest thoroughfare. I do not think any New York street -fine; but, generally, Fifth Avenue and the cross-streets in its better -part have a certain regularity in their mansions of brownstone, which -give something of the pleasure one gets from symmetry. They are at -least not so chaotic as they might be; though they always suggest money -more than taste, I cannot at certain moments, and under the favor of an -evening sky, deny them a sort of unlovely and forbidding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> beauty. There -are not many of these cross-streets which have remained intact from -the business of the other avenues. They have always a drinking-saloon -or a provision-store or an apothecary’s shop at the corners where -they intersect; the modistes find lodgment in them almost before the -residents are aware. Beyond Sixth Avenue, or Seventh at farthest, on -the west, and Fourth Avenue or Lexington, on the east, they lose their -genteel character; their dwellings degenerate into apartment-houses, -and then into tenement-houses of lower and lower grade till the rude -traffic and the offensive industries of the river shores are reached.</p> - -<p>But once more I must hedge, for sometimes a street is respectable -almost to the water on one side or the other; and there are whole -neighborhoods of pleasant dwellings far down-town, which seem to -have been forgotten by the enterprise of business, or neglected by -its caprice, and to have escaped for a time at least the contagion -of poverty. Business and poverty are everywhere slowly or swiftly -eating their way into the haunts of respectability, and destroying -its pleasant homes. They already have the whole of the old town to -themselves. In large spaces of it no one dwells but the janitors with -their families, who keep the sky-scraping edifices where business frets -the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> away; and by night in the streets where myriads throng by -day, no one walks but the outcast and the watch.</p> - -<p>Many of these business streets are the handsomest in the city, with -a good sky line, and an architectural ideal too good for the uses -of commerce. This is often realized in antipathetic iron, but often -there is good honest work in stone, and an effect better than the -best of Fifth Avenue. But this is stupid and wasteful; it is for the -pleasure of no one’s taste or sense; the business men who traffic in -these edifices have no time for their beauty, or no perception of it; -the porters and truckmen and expressmen, who toil and moil in these -thoroughfares, have no use for the grandeur that catches the eye of a -chance passer.</p> - -<p>Other spaces are abandoned to the poverty which festers in the squalid -houses and swarms day and night in the squalid streets; but business -presses closer and harder upon the refuges of its foster-child, not to -say its offspring, and it is only a question of time before it shall -wholly possess them. It is only a question of time before all the -comfortable quarters of the city, northward from the old town to the -Park, shall be invaded, and the people driven to the streets building -up on the west and east of it for a little longer sojourn. Where their -last stay shall be, Heaven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> knows; perhaps they will be forced into the -country.</p> - -<p>In this sort of invasion, however, it is poverty that seems mostly to -come first, and it is business that follows and holds the conquest, -though this is far from being always the case. Whether it is so or not, -however, poverty is certain at some time to impart its taint; for it -is perpetual here, from generation to generation, like death itself. -In our conditions, poverty is incurable; the very hope of cure is -laughed to scorn by those who cling the closest to these conditions; -it may be better at one time, and worse at another; but it must always -be, somehow, till time shall be no more. It is from everlasting to -everlasting.</p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>When I come home from these walks of mine, I have a vision of the -wretched quarters through which I have passed, as blotches of disease -upon the civic body, as loathsome sores, destined to eat deeper and -deeper into it; and I am haunted by this sense of them, until I -plunge deep into the Park, and wash my consciousness clean of it all -for a while. But when I am actually in these leprous spots, I become -hardened, for the moment, to the deeply underlying fact of human -discomfort. I feel their picturesqueness, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> callous indifference -to that ruin, or that defect, which must so largely constitute the -charm of the picturesque. A street of tenement-houses is always more -picturesque than a street of brownstone residences, which the same -thoroughfare usually is before it slopes to either river. The fronts of -the edifices are decorated with the iron balconies and ladders of the -fire-escapes, and have in the perspective a false air of gayety, which -is travestied in their rear by the lines thickly woven from the windows -to the tall poles set between the backs of the houses, and fluttering -with drying clothes as with banners.</p> - -<p>The sidewalks swarm with children, and the air rings with their -clamor, as they fly back and forth at play; on the thresholds, the -mothers sit nursing their babes, and the old women gossip together; -young girls lean from the casements, alow and aloft, or flirt from the -doorways with the hucksters who leave their carts in the street, while -they come forward with some bargain in fruit or vegetables, and then -resume their leisurely progress and their jarring cries. The place -has all the attraction of close neighborhood, which the poor love, -and which affords them for nothing the spectacle of the human drama, -with themselves for actors. In a picture it would be most pleasingly -effective,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> for then you could, he in it, and yet have the distance -on it which it needs. But to be in it, and not have the distance, is -to inhale the stenches of the neglected street, and to catch that yet -fouler and dreadfuller poverty-smell which breathes from the open -doorways. It is to see the children quarrelling in their games, and -beating each other in the face, and rolling each other in the gutter, -like the little savage outlaws they are. It is to see the work-worn -look of the mothers, the squalor of the babes, the haggish ugliness of -the old women, the slovenly frowziness of the young girls. All this -makes you hasten your pace down to the river, where the tall buildings -break and dwindle into stables and shanties of wood, and finally end in -the piers, commanding the whole stretch of the mighty waterway with its -shipping, and the wooded heights of its western bank.</p> - -<p>I am supposing you to have walked down a street of tenement-houses to -the North river, as the New-Yorkers call the Hudson; and I wish I could -give some notion of the beauty and majesty of the stream, some sense -of the mean and ignoble effect of the city’s invasion of the hither -shore. The ugliness is, indeed, only worse in degree, but not in kind, -than that of all city water-fronts. Instead of pleasant homes, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> -green lawns and orchards sloping to the brink, huge factories and -foundries, lumber yards, breweries, slaughter-houses, and warehouses, -abruptly interspersed with stables and hovels and drinking-saloons, -disfigure the shore, and in the nearest avenue the freight trains come -and go on lines of railroads, in all the middle portion of New York. -South of it, in the business section, the poverty section, the river -region is a mere chaos of industrial and commercial strife and pauper -wretchedness. North of it there are gardened driveways following the -shore; and even at many points between, when you finally reach the -river, there is a kind of peace, or at least a truce to the frantic -activities of business. To be sure, the heavy trucks grind up and down -the long piers, but on either side the docks are full of leisurely -canal-boats, and if you could come with me in the late afternoon, you -would see the smoke curling upward from their cabin roofs, as from -the chimneys of so many rustic cottages, and smell the evening meal -cooking within, while the canal-wives lounged at the gangway hatches -for a breath of the sunset air, and the boatmen smoked on the gunwales -or indolently plied the long sweeps of their pumps. All the hurry and -turmoil of the city is lost among these people, whose clumsy craft -recall the grassy <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>inland levels remote from the metropolis, and the -slow movement of life in the quiet country ways. Some of the mothers -from the tenement-houses stroll down on the piers with their babies in -their arms, and watch their men-kind, of all ages, fishing along the -sides of the dock, or casting their lines far out into the current at -the end. They do not seem to catch many fish, and never large ones, -but they silently enjoy the sport, which they probably find leisure -for in the general want of work in these hard times; if they swear a -little at their luck, now and then, it is, perhaps, no more than their -luck deserves. Some do not even fish, but sit with their legs dangling -over the water, and watch the swift tugs, or the lagging sloops -that pass, with now and then a larger sail, or a towering passenger -steamboat. Far down the stream they can see the forests of masts, -fringing either shore, and following the point of the island round -and up into the great channel called the East River. These vessels -seem as multitudinous as the houses that spread everywhere from them -over the shore farther than the eye can reach. They bring the commerce -of the world to this mighty city, which, with all its riches, is the -parent of such misery, and with all its traffic abounds in idle men who -cannot find work. The ships look happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> and free, in the stream, but -they are of the overworked world, too, as well as the houses; and let -them spread their wings ever so widely, they still bear with them the -sorrows of the poor.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>The other evening I walked over to the East River through one of the -tenement streets, and I reached the waterside just as the soft night -was beginning to fall in all its autumnal beauty. The afterglow died -from the river, while I hung upon a parapet over a gulf ravined out -of the bank for a street, and experienced that artistic delight which -cultivated people are often proud of feeling, in the aspect of the -long prison island which breaks the expanse of the channel. I knew the -buildings on it were prisons, and that the men and women in them, bad -before, could only come out of them worse than before, and doomed to -a life of outlawry and of crime. I was aware that they were each an -image of that loveless and hopeless perdition which men once imagined -that God had prepared for the souls of the damned, but I could not see -the barred windows of those hells in the waning light. I could only -see the trees along their walks; their dim lawns and gardens, and the -castellated forms of the prisons;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> and the æsthetic sense, which is -careful to keep itself pure from pity, was tickled with an agreeable -impression of something old and fair. The dusk thickened, and the vast -steamboats which ply between the city and the New England ports on Long -Island Sound, and daily convey whole populations of passengers between -New York and Boston, began to sweep by silently, swiftly, luminous -masses on the black water. Their lights aloft at bow and stern, floated -with them like lambent planets; the lights of lesser craft dipped by, -and came and went in the distance; the lamps of the nearer and farther -shores twinkled into sight, and a peace that ignored all the misery of -it, fell upon the scene.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>The greatest problem of this metropolis is not how best to be in this -place or that, but how fastest to go from one to the other, and the -New-Yorkers have made guesses at the riddle, bad and worse, on each of -the avenues, which, in their character of mere roadways, look as if the -different car-tracks had been in them first, and the buildings, high -and low, had chanced along their sides afterward. This is not the fact, -of course, and it is not so much the effect on Fifth Avenue and Madison -Avenue, and Lexington<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> Avenue, which are streets of dwellings, solidly -built up, like the cross streets. But it is undoubtedly the effect on -all the other avenues, in great part of their extent. They vary but -little in appearance otherwise, from east to west, except so far as -the elevated railroads disfigure them, if thoroughfares so shabby and -repulsive as they mostly are, can be said to be disfigured, and not -beautified by whatever can be done to hide any part of their ugliness. -Where this is left to make its full impression upon the spectators, -there are lines of horse-cars perpetually jingling up and down, except -on Fifth Avenue, where they have stages, as the New-Yorkers call the -unwieldy and unsightly vehicles that ply there, and Lexington Avenue, -where they have the cable cars. But the horse-cars run even under the -elevated tracks, and no experience of noise can enable you to conceive -of the furious din that bursts upon the sense, when at some corner two -cars encounter on the parallel tracks below, while two trains roar -and shriek and hiss on the rails overhead, and a turmoil of rattling -express wagons, heavy drays and trucks, and carts, hacks, carriages, -and huge vans rolls itself between and beneath the prime agents of the -uproar. The noise is not only deafening, it is bewildering; you cannot -know which side the danger threatens most,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> and you literally take -your life in your hand when you cross in the midst of it. Broadway, -which traverses the district I am thinking of, in a diagonal line till -it loses its distinctive character beyond the Park, is the course of -the cable cars running with a silent speed that is more dangerous even -than the tumultuous rush on the avenues. Now and then the apparatus -for gripping the chain will not release it, and then the car rushes -wildly over the track, running amuck through everything in its way, and -spreading terror on every hand. When under control the long saloons -advance swiftly, from either direction, at intervals of half a minute, -with a monotonous alarum of their gongs, and the foot-passenger has to -look well to his way if he ventures across the track, lest in avoiding -one car another roll him under its wheels.</p> - -<p>Apparently, the danger is guarded as well as it can be, and it has -simply to be taken into the account of life in New York, for it cannot -be abated, and no one is to be blamed for what is the fault of every -one. It is true that there ought not, perhaps, to be any track in such -a thoroughfare, but it would be hard to prove that people could get on -without it, as they did before the theft of the street for the original -horse-car track. Perhaps it was not a theft; but at all events, and -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> the best, the street was given away by the city to an adventurer -who wished to lay the tracks in it for his private gain, and none of -the property owners along the line could help themselves. There is -nothing that Americans hold so dear, or count so sacred, as private -property; life and limb are cheap in comparison; but private enterprise -is allowed to violate the rights of private property, from time to time -here, in the most dramatic way.</p> - -<p>The street-car company which took possession of Broadway never paid -the abutters anything, I believe; and the elevated railroad companies -are still resisting payment of damages on the four avenues which -they occupied for their way up and down the city without offering -compensation to the property owners along their route. If the -community had built these roads, it would have indemnified every one, -for the community is always just when it is the expression of the -common honesty; and if it is ever unjust, it is because the uncommon -dishonesty has contrived to corrupt it.</p> - -<p>The elevated roads and the cable road had no right to be, on the terms -that the New-Yorkers have them, but they are by far the best means of -transit in the city, and I must say that, if they were not abuses, they -would offer great comfort and great facility to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> public. This is -especially true of the elevated roads, which, when you can put their -moral offense out of your mind, are always delightful in their ease and -airy swiftness. You fly smoothly along between the second and third -story windows of the houses, which are shops below and dwellings above, -on the avenues. The stations, though they have the prevailing effect of -overuse, and look dirty and unkempt, are rather pretty in themselves; -and you reach them, at frequent intervals, by flights of not ungraceful -iron steps. The elevated roads are always picturesque, with here and -there a sweeping curve that might almost be called beautiful.</p> - -<p>They darken the avenues, of course, and fill them with an abominable -uproar. Yet traffic goes on underneath, and life goes on alongside and -overhead, and the city has adjusted itself to them, as a man adjusts -himself to a chronic disease. I do not know whether they add to the -foulness of the streets they pass through or not; I hardly think they -do. The mud lies longer, after a rain, in the interminable tunnels -which they form over the horse-car tracks in the middle of the avenues, -and which you can look through for miles; but the mud does not blow -into your nose and mouth as the dust does, and that is, so far, a -positive advantage. A negative advantage, which I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> have hinted, is that -they hide so much of the street from sight, and keep you from seeing -all its shabbiness, pitilessly open to the eye in the avenues which -have only horse-car tracks in them. In fact, now that the elevated -railroads are built, and the wrong they have done to persons is mainly -past recall, perhaps the worst that can be said of them is that they -do not serve their purpose. Of course, in our conditions, where ten -men are always doing the work of one man in rivalry with each other, -the passage of people to and from business is enormous: the passage -of men to get money and the passage of women to spend it; and at the -hours of the morning and the afternoon when the volume of travel is the -greatest, the trains of the elevated roads offer a spectacle that is -really incredible.</p> - -<p>Every seat in them is taken, and every foot of space in the aisles -between the seats is held by people standing, and swaying miserably to -and fro by the leather straps dangling from the roofs. Men and women -are indecently crushed together, without regard for that personal -dignity which we seem to know nothing of and care nothing for. The -multitude overflows from the car, at either end, and the passengers are -as tightly wedged on the platform without as they are within. The long -trains follow each other at intervals of two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> or three minutes, and at -each station they make a stop of but a few seconds, when those who wish -to alight fight their way through the struggling mass. Those who wish -to mount fight their way into the car or on to the platform, where the -guard slams an iron gate against the stomachs and in the faces of those -arriving too late. Sometimes horrible accidents happen; a man clinging -to the outside of the gate has the life crushed out of his body against -the posts of the station as the train pulls out. But in this land, -where people have such a dread of civic collectivism of any kind, lest -individuality should suffer, the individual is practically nothing in -the regard of the corporate collectivities which abound.</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>It is not only the corporations which outrage personal rights; where -there is a question of interest, there seems to be no question of -rights between individuals. They prey upon one another and seize -advantages by force and by fraud in too many ways for me to hope to -make the whole situation evident. The avenues to the eastward and -westward have not grown up solidly and continuously in obedience to any -law of order, or in pursuance of any meditated design.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> They have been -pushed along given lines, in fragments, as builders saw their interest -in offering buyers a house or a row of houses, or as they could glut -or trick the greed of land-owners clinging to their land, and counting -upon some need of it, in the hope of extorting an unearned profit from -it. In one place you will see a vast and lofty edifice, of brick or -stone, and on each side of it or in front of it a structure one fourth -as high, or a row of scurvy hovels, left there till a purchaser comes, -not to pay the honest worth of the land for it, but to yield the price -the owner wants. In other places you see long stretches of high board -fence, shutting in vacant lots, often the best lots on the street, -which the landlord holds for the rise destined to accrue to him from -the building all round and beyond his property. In the meantime he -pays a low tax on his land compared with the tax which the improved -property pays, and gets some meager return for the use of his fence -by the Italian fruiterers who build their stalls into it, and by the -bill-posters who cover it with a medley of theatrical announcements, -picturing the scenes of the different plays and the persons of the -players. There are many things which unite to render the avenues -unseemly and unsightly, such as the apparently desperate tastelessness -and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> apparently instinctive uncleanliness of the New-Yorkers. But -as I stand at some point commanding a long stretch of one of their -tiresome perspectives, which is architecturally like nothing so much as -a horse’s jawbone, with the teeth broken or dislodged at intervals, I -can blame nothing so much for the hideous effect as the rapacity of the -land-owner holding on for a rise, as it is called. It is he who most -spoils the sky-line, and keeps the street, mean and poor at the best in -design, a defeated purpose, and a chaos come again.</p> - -<p>Even when the owners begin to build, to improve their real estate, as -the phrase is, it is without regard to the rights of their neighbors, -or the feelings or tastes of the public, so far as the public may be -supposed to have any. This is not true of the shabbier avenues alone, -but of the finest, and of all the streets. If you will look, for -instance, at the street facing the southern limit of the Park, you -will get some notion of what I mean, and I hope you will be willing -to suffer by a little study of it. At the western end you will see a -vacant lot, with its high board fence covered with painted signs, then -a tall mass of apartment houses; then a stretch of ordinary New York -dwellings of the old commonplace brownstone sort; then a stable, and -a wooden liquor saloon at the corner. Across<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> the next avenue there -rises far aloof the compact bulk of a series of apartment houses, which -in color and design are the pleasantest in the city, and are so far -worthy of their site. Beyond them to the eastward the buildings decline -and fall, till they sink into another two-story drinking-shop on the -corner of another avenue, where you will see the terminus of one of -the elevated roads. Beyond this avenue is the fence of a large vacant -lot, covered, as usual, with theatrical posters, and then there surges -skyward another series of apartment houses. The highest of these is -nearly fifty feet higher than its nearest neighbors, which sink again, -till you suddenly drop from their nondescript monotony to the gothic -façade of a house of a wholly different color, in its pale sandstone, -from the red of their brick fronts.</p> - -<p>A vacant lot yawns here again, with a flare of theatrical posters on -its fence, and beyond this, on the corner, is a huge hotel, the most -agreeable of the three that tower above the fine square at the gate -of the Park. With our silly American weakness for something foreign, -this square is called the Plaza; I believe it is not at all like a -Spanish plaza, but the name is its least offense. An irregular space -in the centre is planted with trees, in whose shade the broken-kneed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> -hacks of the public carriages droop their unhappy-heads, without the -spirit to bite the flies that trouble their dreams; and below this you -get a glimpse of the conventional cross-street terminating the Plaza. -At the eastern corner of the avenue is a costly new apartment house -of a modified gothic style, and then you come to the second of the -great hotels which give the Plaza such character as it has. It is of -a light-colored stone, and it towers far above the first, which is of -brick. It is thirteen stories high, and it stops abruptly in a flat -roof. On the next corner north is another hotel, which rises six or -seven stories higher yet, and terminates in a sort of mansard, topping -a romanesque cliff of yellow brick and red sandstone. I seek a term -for the architectural order, but it may not be the right one. There -is no term for the disorder of what succeeds. From the summit of this -enormous acclivity there is a precipitous fall of twelve stories to the -roof of the next edifice, which is a grocery; and then to the florist’s -and photographer’s next is another descent of three stories; on the -corner is a drinking-saloon, one story in height, with a brick front -and a wooden side. I will not ask you to go farther with me; the avenue -continues northward and southward in a delirium of lines and colors, a -savage anarchy of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> shapes, which I should think the general experience -of the Fair City at Chicago would now render perceptible even to the -dullest sense.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>There are other points on Fifth Avenue nearly as bad as this, but not -quite, and there are long stretches of it, which, if dull, have at -least a handsome uniformity. I have said already that it is still, upon -the whole, the best of the avenues, in the sense of being the abode -of the best—that is the richest—people; we Americans habitually use -best in this sense. Madison Avenue stretches northwest farther than the -eye can reach, an interminable perspective of brownstone dwellings, -as yet little invaded by business. Lexington Avenue is of the same -character, but of a humbler sort. On Second Avenue, down town, there -are large old mansions of the time when Fifth Avenue was still the home -of the parvenus; and at different points on such other avenues as are -spared by the elevated roads there are blocks of decent and comfortable -dwellings; but for the most part they are wholly given up to shops. Of -course, these reiterate with the insane wastefulness of our system the -same business, the same enterprise, a thousand times. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> - -<p>One hears a good deal about the vast emporiums which are gathering -the retail trade into themselves, and devastating the minor commerce, -but there are perhaps a score of these at most, in New York; and on -the shabbier avenues and cross-streets there are at least a hundred -miles of little shops, where an immense population of little dealers -levy tribute on the public through the profit they live by. Until you -actually see this, you can hardly conceive of such a multitude of -people taken away from productive labor and solely devoted to marketing -the things made by people who are overworked in making them.</p> - -<p>Yet I prefer the smaller shops, where I can enter into some human -relation with the merchant, if it is only for the moment. I have -already tried to give some notion of the multitude of these; and I must -say now that they add much in their infinite number and variety to such -effect of gayety as the city has. They are especially attractive at -night, when their brilliant lamps, with the shadows they cast, unite to -an effect of gayety which the day will not allow.</p> - -<p>The great stores contribute nothing to this, for they all close at six -o’clock in the evening. On the other hand, they do not mar such poor -beauty as the place has with the superfluity of signs that the minor -traffic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> renders itself so offensive with. One sign, rather simple and -unostentatious, suffices for a large store; a little store will want -half a dozen, and will have them painted and hung all over its façade, -and stood about in front of it as obtrusively as the police will -permit. The effect is bizarre and grotesque beyond expression. If one -thing in the business streets makes New York more hideous than another -it is the signs, with their discordant colors, their infinite variety -of tasteless shapes. If by chance there is any architectural beauty -in a business edifice, it is spoiled, insulted, outraged by these -huckstering appeals; while the prevailing unsightliness is emphasized -and heightened by them. A vast, hulking, bare brick wall, rising six -or seven stories above the neighboring buildings, one would think bad -enough in all conscience: how, then, shall I give any notion of the -horror it becomes when its unlovely space is blocked out in a ground of -white with a sign painted on it in black letters ten feet high?</p> - -<p>The signs that deface the chief of our cities seem trying to shout and -shriek each other down, wherever one turns; they deface the fronts and -sides and tops of the edifices; in all the approaches to the metropolis -they stretch on long extents of fencing in the vacant suburban lands, -and cover the roofs and sides of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> barns. The darkness does not -shield you from them, and by night the very sky is starred with the -electric bulbs that spell out, on the roofs of the lofty buildings the -frantic announcement of this or that business enterprise.</p> - -<p>The strangest part of all this is, no one finds it offensive, or at -least no one says that it is offensive. It is, indeed, a necessary -phase of the economic warfare in which our people live, for the most as -unconsciously as people lived in feudal cities, while the nobles fought -out their private quarrels in the midst of them. No one dares relax his -vigilance or his activity in the commercial strife, and in the absence -of any public opinion, or any public sentiment concerning them, it -seems as if the signs might eventually hide the city. That would not be -so bad if something could then be done to hide the signs.</p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>Nothing seems so characteristic of this city, after its architectural -shapelessness, as the eating and drinking constantly going on in the -restaurants and hotels, of every quality, and the innumerable saloons. -There may not be really more of these in New York, in proportion to -the population, than in other great cities,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> but apparently there are -more; for in this, as in all her other characteristics, New York is -very open; her virtues and her vices, her luxury and her misery, are in -plain sight; and a famishing man must suffer peculiarly here from the -spectacle of people everywhere at sumptuous tables. Many of the finest -hotels, if not most of them, have their dining-rooms on the level of -the street, and the windows, whether curtained or uncurtained, reveal -the continual riot within. I confess that the effect upon some hungry -passer is always present to my imagination; but the New-Yorkers are so -used to the perpetual encounter of famine and of surfeit that they do -not seem to mind it.</p> - -<p>There is scarcely a block on any of the poorer avenues which has not -its liquor store, and generally there are two; wherever a street -crosses them there is a saloon on at least one of the corners; -sometimes on two, sometimes on three, sometimes even on all four. I had -the curiosity to count the saloons on Sixth Avenue, between the Park, -and the point down town where the avenue properly ends. In a stretch -of some two miles I counted ninety of them, besides the eating houses -where you can buy drink with your meat; and this avenue is probably far -less infested with the traffic than some others. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> - -<p>You may therefore safely suppose that out of the hundred miles of -shops, there are ten, or fifteen, or twenty miles of saloons. They -have the best places on the avenues, and on the whole they make the -handsomest show. They all have a cheerful and inviting look, and if you -step within, you find them cosy, quiet, and, for New York, clean. There -are commonly tables set about in them, where their frequenters can take -their beer or whiskey at their ease, and eat the free lunch which is -often given in them; in a rear room you see a billiard-table. In fact, -they form the poor man’s club-houses, and if he might resort to them -with his family, and be in the control of the State as to the amount -he should spend and drink there, I could not think them without their -rightful place in an economy which saps the vital forces of the laborer -with over-work, or keeps him in a fever of hope or a fever of despair -as to the chances of getting or not getting work when he has lost it. -If you suggested this to the average American, however, he would be -horror-struck. He would tell you that what you proposed was little -better than anarchy; that in a free country you must always leave -private persons free to debauch men’s souls and bodies with drink, and -make money out of their ruin; that anything else was contrary to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> human -nature, and an invasion of the sacred rights of the individual. Here -in New York, this valuable principle is so scrupulously respected that -the saloon controls the municipality, and the New-Yorkers think this -is much better than for the municipality to control the saloon. It is -from the saloon that their political bosses rise to power; it is in -the saloon that all the election frauds are planned and fostered; and -it would be infinitely comic, if it were not so pathetic, to read the -solemn homilies on these abuses in the journals which hold by the good -old American doctrine of private trade in drink as one of the bulwarks -of the constitution.</p> - -<h3>VIII.</h3> - -<p>Without it, there would be far less poverty than there is, but poverty -is a good old American institution, too; there would inevitably be -less inequality, but inequality is as dear to the American heart as -liberty itself. In New York the inequality has that effect upon the -architecture which I have tried to give some notion of; but in fact it -deforms life at every turn, and in nothing more than in the dress of -the people, high and low. New York is, on the whole, without doubt, -the best-dressed community in America, or at least there is a certain -number of people here, more <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>expensively and scrupulously attired than -you will find anywhere else in the country. The rich copy the fashions -set for them in Paris or in London, and then the less rich, and the -still less rich, down to the poor, follow them as they can, until you -arrive at the very poorest, who wear the cast-off and tattered fashions -of former years, and masquerade in a burlesque of the fortunate that -never fails to shock and grieve me. They must all somehow be clothed; -the climate and the custom require it; but sometimes I think their -nakedness would be less offensive; and when I meet a wretched man, with -his coat out at the elbows, or split up the back, in broken shoes, -battered hat, and frayed trousers, or some old woman or young girl in -a worn-out, second-hand gown and bonnet, tattered and threadbare and -foul, I think that if I were a believer in it, I would uncover my head -to them, and ask their forgiveness for the system that condemns some -one always to such humiliation as theirs.</p> - -<p>We say such people are not humiliated, that they do not mind it, that -they are used to it; but if we ever look these people in the eye, and -see the shrinking, averted glance of their shame and tortured pride, we -must know that what we say is a cruel lie. At any rate, the presence -of these outcasts must spoil the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> beauty of any dress near them, and -there is always so much more penury than affluence that the sight of -the crowd in the New York streets must give more pain than pleasure. -The other day on Fifth Avenue it did not console me to meet a young and -lovely girl, exquisitely dressed in the last effect of Paris, after I -had just parted from a young fellow who had begged me to give him a -little money to get something to eat, for he had been looking for work -a week and had got nothing. I suppose I ought to have doubted his word, -he was so decently clad, but I had a present vision of him in rags, and -I gave to the frowzy tramp he must soon become.</p> - -<p>Of course, this social contrast was extreme, like some of those -architectural contrasts I have been noting, but it was by no means -exceptional, as those were not. In fact, I do not know but I may say -that it was characteristic of the place, though you might say that the -prevalent American slovenliness was also characteristic of the New -York street crowds; I mean the slovenliness of the men—the women, of -whatever order they are, are always as much dandies as they can be. -But most American men are too busy to look much after their dress, -and when they are very well to do they care very little for it. You -see few men dressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> in New York with, the distinction of the better -class of Londoners, and when you do meet them, they have the air of -playing a part, as in fact they are: they are playing the part of men -of leisure in a nation of men whose reality is constant work, whether -they work for bread or whether they work for money, and who, when they -are at work, outdo the world, but sink, when they are at leisure, into -something third rate and fourth rate. The commonness of effect in the -street crowds is not absent from Fifth Avenue or from Madison Avenue -any more than it is from First Avenue or Tenth Avenue; and the tide -of wealth and fashion, that rolls up and down the better avenues in -the splendid carriages, makes the shabbiness of the foot-passenger, -when he is shabby, as he often is, the more apparent. On the far east -side, and on the far west side, the horse-cars, which form the only -means of transit, have got the dirt and grime of the streets and the -dwellings on them and in them, and there is one tone of foulness in the -passengers and the vehicles. I do not wish to speak other than tenderly -of the poor, but it is useless to pretend that they are other than -offensive in aspect, and I have to take my sympathy in both hands when -I try to bestow it upon them. Neither they nor the quarter they live in -has any palliating quaintness; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> the soul, starved of beauty, will -seek in vain to feed itself with the husks of picturesqueness in their -aspect.</p> - -<h3>IX.</h3> - -<p>As I have said before, the shabby avenues have a picturesqueness of -their own, but it is a repulsive picturesqueness, as I have already -suggested, except at a distance. There are some differences of level, -on the avenues near the rivers, that give them an advantage of the more -central avenues, and there is now and then a break of their line by -the water, which is always good. I have noticed this particularly on -the eastern side of the city, which is also the older part, and which -has been less subject to the changes perpetually going on elsewhere, -so that First Avenue has really a finer sky-line, in many parts, than -most parts of Fifth Avenue. There are certain bits, as the artists say, -in the old quarters of the town once forming Greenwich village, which, -when I think of them, make me almost wish to take back what I have said -of the absence even of quaintness in New York. If I recall the aspect -of Mulberry Bend and Elizabeth street, on a mild afternoon, when their -Italian denizens are all either on the pavement or have their heads -poked out of the windows, I am still more in doubt of my own words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> -But I am sure, at least, that there is no kindliness in the quaintness, -such as you are said to find in European cities. It has undergone the -same sort of malign change here that has transformed the Italians from -the friendly folk they are at home to the surly race they mostly show -themselves here: shrewd for their advancement in the material things, -which seem the only good things to the Americanized aliens of all -races, and fierce for their full share of the political pottage. The -Italians have a whole region of the city to themselves, and they might -feel at home in it if the filthiness of their native environment could -repatriate them.</p> - -<p>As you pass through these streets, there is much to appeal to your pity -in the squalid aspect of the people and the place, but nothing to take -your fancy; and perhaps this is best, for I think that there is nothing -more infernal than the juggle that transmutes for the tenderest-hearted -people the misery of their fellows into something comic or poetic. Only -very rarely have I got any relief from the sheer distress which the -prevalent poverty gives; and perhaps the reader will not be able to -understand how I could find this in the sight of some chickens going -to roost on a row of carts drawn up by the street-side, near a little -hovel where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> some old people lived in a temporary respite from the -building about them; or from a cottage in outlying suburban fields, -with a tar-roofed shanty for a stable, and an old horse cropping the -pasturage of the enclosure, with a brood of turkeys at his heels.</p> - -<p>But in New York you come to be glad of anything that will suggest a -sweeter and a gentler life than that which you mostly see. The life of -the poor here seemed to me symbolized in a waste and ruined field that -I came upon the other day in one of the westward avenues, which had -once been the grounds about a pleasant home. Till I saw this I did not -think any piece of our mother earth could have been made to look so -brutal and desolate amidst the habitations of men. But every spear of -grass had been torn from it; the hardened and barren soil was furrowed -like a haggard face, and it was all strewn with clubs and stones, as -if it had been a savage battleground. A few trees stood aloof from the -borders next the streets, where some courses of an ancient stone wall -rose in places above the pavement. I found the sight of it actually -depraving; it made me feel ruffianly, and I mused upon it in helpless -wonder as to the influence its ugliness must have had amidst the -structural ugliness all about it, if some wretch had turned to it in -hopes of respite. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> - -<p>But probably none ever does. Probably the people on the shabby streets -and avenues are no more sensible of their hideousness than the people -in the finer streets and avenues are aware of their dulness or their -frantic disproportion. I have never heard a New-Yorker speak of these -things, and I have no doubt that if my words could come to the eyes -of the average New-Yorker he would be honestly surprised that any -one should find his city so ugly as it is. As for that first lesson -of civilization which my words implicate, a civic control of the -private architecture of the place, he would shrink from it with about -as much horror as from civic control of the liquor trade. If he did -not he would still be unable to understand how the individual liberty -that suffers a man to build offensively to his neighbor or to the -public at large is not liberty, but is a barbarous tyranny, which -puts an end instantly to beauty, and extinguishes the common and the -personal rights of every one who lives near the offender or passes by -his edifice. We Americans are yet so far lost in the dark ages as to -suppose that there is freedom where the caprice of one citizen can -interfere with the comfort or pleasure of the rest.</p> - -<p class="center space-above">THE END.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/ad1.jpg" alt="AMERICAN ESSAYISTS" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/ad2.jpg" alt="GEORGE DU MAURIER" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/backcover.jpg" alt="back cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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