PHILADELPHIA'S "BROTHERLY LOVE"
"_Hast thou Virtue? Acquire also the graces and beauties of Virtue._"
--FRANKLIN.
I had read that Philadelphia's hospitality was her great virtue, and
that it was characteristic of her people to bestow upon the stranger
and the homeless--who are and who come within her gates--a blessing of
care and kindness nowhere else known,--to make them feel that at last
they have found a haven.
The first Philadelphia police officer I met I asked several questions
about the city. His manner toward me was a surprise. He seemed very
willing to talk with an apparently homeless man. We spoke of a number
of things, among them the Philadelphia Coat of Arms which ornamented
his hat, representing the shield of honor and the scales of Justice.
I said, "It is beautiful and stands for a high ideal." He replied
doubtfully, "Yes, if it is carried out."
I then strolled down to the corner of Eleventh and Race Streets, and
seeing another policeman I approached him with the question:
"Where can a fellow get a free bed?"
He looked at me in surprise.
"I don't know. You might go down to the station house on the next
corner. They may give you a bunk."
I walked slowly down to the station house. Was it possible that in
that great city of "Brotherly Love," its police could not direct a
destitute man or woman, boy or girl, to a place of rest, to a home of
shelter,--to be fed and given comfort and good cheer,--except to a jail
and behind iron bars?
I entered the station where there were a number of men around the desk.
I asked the Captain where a penniless man could get a free bed. He
asked,
"Haven't you the price of a bed?"
"No, I have not a penny in my pocket."
"Well, I'll give you a cell," he said, and opened a register to write
my name. I asked,
"Is there not a place in the city where a man can work for his supper,
bed, and breakfast?"
"None that I know of," was the answer. Then an officer said,
"You can go down to the Galilee Mission."
I asked where it was, and they directed me. Just as I turned to go the
policeman nearest to me handed me a dime.
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Men's Shower Baths_]
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Female Showers and Wash Rooms_]
I started as directed, down to Winter and Darian Streets, to the
Galilee Mission. I had proceeded but a short distance when I saw
standing on a corner one of the great army of workers. His appearance
told me plainly what he was,--his hands were calloused, and his
half-worn shoes were covered with a white viscous substance, and a dim
mist of lime dust clouded his entire person. I stepped up to him and
asked where I could get a free bed.
"Don't know of such a place in the city, but you can get a bed at the
Lombard Street woodyard by working three or four hours for it. But
don't go there unless you have to--they won't treat you right."
I thanked him and went on down to the Mission. As I approached it, one
of the followers of the Mission, with a Bible or hymn-book under his
arm, was at the door in an altercation with one of the great army of
unfortunates. The man had an honest face, but the glazed eyes told he
had been drinking. I heard the attendant say,
"Now, you get out of here or I'll fix you! I'll have an officer here in
a minute, and he'll land you in jail in pretty quick time."
The man was at the drinking faucet at the side of the building.
"I haven't done anything. All I'm doing is getting a drink of water."
What the trouble was, I do not know, but what I saw was a seemingly
peaceable man abused, thrown out on the street, with the threat hurled
after him of police and prison.
I stepped around to another one of the attendants at the door, and I
asked if I could get a free bed there. He said in a hard way, "No, you
can't."
"I am willing to work for it."
"Well, I don't know whether there's any left. If there is by half-past
nine or ten you can have one, but you understand you'll have to work
for it."
I said, "I am not very strong. Will the work be hard?"
"If you're sick why don't you go to the hospital?"
"I'm not sick enough for that."
"Well, I'll tell you one thing, if you get a bed here you'll have to
work good and hard for it whether you're sick or well."
"Could I get anything to eat before going to bed?"
"No, you can't," he answered.
I then strolled down to the "Friendly Inn," supposedly a shelter for
destitute men, located on Ninth and Walnut Streets. I asked a pleasant
looking young man behind the desk if I could get a free bed. He told me
they had no free beds nor any work to do to pay for one, but added, "I
have no authority, but if you will wait until half-past ten o'clock,
the Manager will be here and he may give you one."
Remembering my brief encounter with the workingman on the corner,
I did not wait but started for the "Lombard Street woodyard." After
reaching Lombard Street I walked for half a mile, and for the entire
distance the street was crowded with people, but I did not see a white
person until I reached the woodyard. The thrift of the colored people
of Philadelphia was markedly noticeable. Saloons were rare in the
neighborhood. Their homes were comfortable, they were well dressed and
seemingly happy.
I came to a large four-story substantial brick building with a small
iron porch at its entrance. There was an iron balcony out from each
window and over the entrance door, and on the rear a similar row of
balconies, but no fire escape that I could discover. If the building
had not been so large it could have been readily taken for a police
station, there were so many policemen about the place.
I entered and found myself in the presence, except for the policemen,
of the first white man I had seen on Lombard Street. A kindly appearing
gentleman asked me a number of questions, and among them if I was sick.
My answer apparently satisfactory, he said,
"You will have to work for your lodging here."
I asked, "How long?"
He replied, "Three or four hours."
I was then ordered to take a bath, which was compulsory, and was
perfectly right and a good thing. Water, however, does not cost
much. After the bath I was shown into a large dormitory, thoroughly
ventilated and immaculately clean (made and kept so by homeless
workers) containing fifty beds, of which thirty were occupied that
night. The beds were very clean and comfortable, except the pillows,
which were pretty thin and hard. I judged they were stuffed with
cotton, and cotton gets into a lump sometimes. Some of the men coughed
all night. At four o'clock, for some reason, one-half of the men were
called, and why they were called at that hour I could not learn.
At five o'clock the rest of us were called. I had slept in a clean
ten-cent bed for six hours, and was then driven out. For the spirit
to drive is also evident there. When we went into breakfast there was
some bread and spoons on the table. We had no need of a knife and fork,
as we had nothing to use them for. We were then given a plate of bean
soup and a cup of stuff called coffee. The soup had a nasty taste,
like rancid lard or strong butter, and the material called coffee was
luke-warm, and nauseating. It had not the slightest flavor, taste, or
strength, and we were not given sugar or milk. This was our breakfast.
I could not eat or drink a mouthful, and I was not the only one, for
there were others of the half-starved boys and men at that table who
ate nothing, and those who did eat forced it down, and made faces while
doing so.
Now, this was not because I was used to Bellevue-Stratford fare, for I
have roughed it throughout the West in mining and cow camps, and know
good coarse food from nasty coarse food.
We then went down in the reading-room, a sort of chapel, where there
was a rostrum with an organ and a pulpit on which was a carved cross.
The room was filled with chairs. At one end was a large table covered
with old magazines and papers. Did you ever notice how charity people
think old magazines are good enough for a poor man no matter how bright
mentally he may be, or how much he loves to keep up with the times?
We were told we would have to wait until half-past six before going to
work. I almost fainted from hunger, and was suffering terribly with a
headache. I went down to the door and asked if I could go out, saying
I would return. I was told, no, I could not. In this chapel I was
virtually imprisoned, to be kept there and turned loose at the will
of its superintendent. There were two big well-fed policemen sleeping
on the chairs, and I fell to wondering what they were there for, and
what they had had for breakfast. I wondered if they were there to watch
us, and I said to one boy in a tentative way, "What's the matter of us
making a sneak?"
He replied, "No, I won't, for I promised I would work, and if they
catch you trying to make a sneak, they'll throw you in jail."
Then I wondered what the large kindly man at the desk, who did not have
to wash or scrub floors or saw wood, had had for breakfast, and what
the other big good-natured attendant had had, whose only business was
to boss the "under dog." I also wondered what the other members of the
society of organized charities had had for breakfast, and if they were
driven out of bed at four or five o'clock in the morning to eat it.
At six-thirty we were put to work. A number of us were sent to the
woodyard and several of us were put to washing, cleaning, and scrubbing
the floors and stairs.
I was set to washing, and I asked the "boss" attendant, "How long
will I have to work?" He replied, "three or four hours," the same as
the attendant had told me at the door when I entered. However, after
working from half-past six until twenty-five minutes to nine--kept
in there just at the time when I ought to have been out looking for
work--I was allowed to go.
As I was leaving I said to a boy about fifteen years of age, "Are
you going now?" He said, referring to the attendant, "He's not told
me that I could go. These people treat a boy mighty mean here. They
worked me from half-past six yesterday morning until four-thirty in the
afternoon."
"Why didn't you leave after you had worked for your bed and breakfast?"
"Well, it was so near dinner time, and I won't beg or steal, so I
waited for the cheap dinner, and they worked me, as I told you, until
four-thirty in the afternoon, but I am going to try to get a job
to-day, if possible."
Does Philadelphia need a Municipal Emergency Home? Philadelphians, you,
too, send your delegation to New York and inspect their new Municipal
Emergency Home, that you, too, may have one even surpassing that New
York Home, or at least turn the one you have into a humane one, for
you cannot afford to have New York surpass you in its humanitarian
activities. Keep the great reputation you have of "Brotherly Love" and
"Hospitality," and if you do, your lives and your city will continue
resplendent, and this new refuge will speak in wonderful language the
praise of "The City of Homes."