IN PORTLAND
"_To live honestly by one's own toil, what a favor of Heaven!_"--HUGO.
"Dell me, vhere I find me a lawyer?" In broken accents, these words
came to me from a German laborer who stepped up to me out of five
hundred unemployed men who thronged Second Street in the vicinity of
the labor bureaus.
"I am a lawyer," I responded; "what is the trouble?"
With an amused expression, eyeing closely my blue jeans, he said, "You
vas not a lawyer."
"No," I answered, "I am not a lawyer, but tell me your name, and what
is your trouble, and perhaps I can find you one."
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Women's and Children's Dining Room_]
"My name is Steve Goebel. Vell, I dell you, I go there," pointing to
the employment office near at hand, "seven days ago, und I pay two
tollars for a job at lumber camp Rainier, fifty, maybe seventy, mile
avay. I pay my fare out there. I vork six days und six hours for vun
seventy-five a day, ten hour a day, den dey dell me dey no vant me
no more. I work so hard in rain und vet, und I vear mein clothes out,
und I pay five tollars a veek board. Vhen dey dell me dey no vant me no
more dey offer me dhree tollars for my six days und six hours' work. I
owe the commis, vhat you call it, fifteen cents for leedle tobac. Den
dey take from me vun tollar hospital fee und dhree tollar poll tax,
they say, or road tax, und offer me dhree tollar. I not take dot dhree
tollar,--somevun dey rob me. I hafe leedle money. I come back part vay
on boat, as far as my leedle money bring me, den I valk back here. I
dell the office how I get treated und dey says nefer mind, ve get you
anoder job, but I say I valk all night, I am hungry, den dey give me
den cents for breakfast."
I took this man to the office of the City Attorney and left him there
to tell his story. I afterwards repeated the story to one of the
leading newspaper writers of the city. He looked at me very earnestly,
and said, "Do you think there will be a thing done about it?" I looked
at him without reply, and he continued, "There won't be a thing done.
There is no law for the poor man here."
The man had been robbed in as low and cowardly a manner as only a most
depraved degenerate could be guilty of. Portland had helped to make
that man destitute, and now he is forced to beg, steal or starve,
until he finds another job, or perhaps, through desperation takes his
life. Similar experiences in Portland have forced a great many to do
that very thing. Several men have been found dead in a pretty green
square in the heart of Portland's breathing spot, called the Plaza, and
postmortem examinations have revealed nothing in their stomachs. And
these tragedies have taken place almost within a stone's throw of the
Associated Charities.
A great pile of water and pitch-soaked blocks of kindling wood was
piled in front of No. 10 North Second Street, a Jap restaurant. Some of
the blocks were so heavy it was with difficulty they could be carried
even singly. The wood belonged to the Japs. An old man, an American,
some sixty odd years of age, was carrying it in. I asked him if he did
not want a helper. He said, "I would like a helper but there is so
little in it and there is not enough for two. I am carrying this all in
for thirty cents and it will take me, I think, three hours."
This old man had a good, kind face, and his clothes, though worn, were
clean. He continued, "I have been playing in a little hard luck of late
and must get all out of my work possible." I then asked him if he had
breakfasted. He had not. I said, "I have a little money, come and have
some breakfast and carry in the wood afterward." He said, "No, I won't
take your money, I will soon be through here and get my pay."
I was seated in Tragedy Square (the Plaza), near a neat, well-dressed
young man, and while sitting there two young girls about sixteen or
seventeen years of age came out of a door across the street, and passed
through the Square. The young man remarked:
"Do you see those two young women? They have just come out of the
Woman's Department of the Free Labor Office. You can tell from their
appearance they are honest girls, but they would sell all that is dear
to them, even their purity, for something to eat and a place to sleep.
I may be wrong but from their appearance I feel it is true."
Stunned as by a blow, at the words from the lips of this stranger, with
noticeable feeling I said, "That can't be possible. In this city of
wealth, whose citizens boast of their refinement, their reasonableness,
and their kindliness!"
"I know whereof I speak," he answered, "for I have a girl friend whom
I have been helping for over a year. Just recently she confessed to
me why she forgot the teachings of her childhood and mother, why she
forgot her dream of being honorably married and becoming all that her
mother was. She said, it was because she was hungry and had no place to
sleep. She could not ask for charity or beg. 'I didn't know where or
how to beg,' she said, 'but then I met you and you were kind to me.' I
did not know this when I met that girl. I thought she was what she was
from choice and not from necessity."
As he got up to leave he said, "I am going to marry her and she shall
be all that God intended her to be. I am going to help her, but there
are many, very many girls who come to Portland, and who, through lack
of life's necessities, are forced to forget."
And this instance could be multiplied a thousand times, and in a
thousand ways, in a thousand cities.
In the afternoon, I began to look for work. I found that no privileges
existed for labor; that the destitute working man, the man who was
"broke," was forced to seek shelter where the homeless dog and rat
seeks shelter. Men here, as in other cities, were forced to the
fermenting refuse thrown from stables because it held warmth! Often
men slept out in the open air behind billboards and in a hundred other
deplorable places, where they could get a little rest unless discovered
by the police and thrown into jail.
In my search for work, I went to the offices of the Portland Light,
Power and Electric Railway Company. I asked the clerk what show there
was to get work as motorman or conductor. He answered, "pretty slim."
Nevertheless, he asked how old I was. When I told him, he said there
was no work for me, that there was a brotherhood of the railway
employees which was an adjunct to the company and one of its rules was
not to hire a man over forty. I said, "It is true, I am fifty, but I
am just as strong and well, able-bodied and competent as I was at
twenty-five." But that made no difference. I then asked, "If I were of
an eligible age and you should give me work, what do you pay?" He said,
"You are expected to work the first ten days for nothing. Then you
receive twenty-four cents an hour for five years, then thirty cents as
long as you live and work." I said, "I am broke, and even though I were
of an age to be chosen, I would be giving my time to you during those
ten days, and a man will starve to death in nine."
A man who looks for work does not lose his worthiness, but the man who
is forced to ask alms, to ask something for nothing, does.
I then took the part of a cringing, disgraced, dependent with nothing
to lose and nothing to gain, except to try and keep God's gift, the
spark of life, until in my own opinion, at least, I could place myself
in a position to be honorable. I knew that I would be looked upon
suspiciously by the police, possibly thrown into jail; that in all of
the places where I would ask for aid, they would look upon me as mean,
base, low,--mental defective perhaps, or a victim of some awful habit.
My poverty would be, of course, all my fault, as "there is no need of
any one's being poor."
I first looked for the Associated Charities. I scanned the papers
closely, not knowing but that they might advertise to give a destitute
man or woman, boy or girl, a lift. Finding no notice, I found the place
at last, after a good deal of difficulty. Reaching there at about
five minutes after five, I saw a sign on the door which told me they
kept the usual "banking" hours, 9 A. M. to 5 P. M. I wondered whether,
possibly, some one might not need a little help between 5 P. M. and
9 A. M.
The Y. M. C. A. here, also, had nothing to give an indigent man, any
more than in the other cities where I had been.
Strolling down Burnside Street I came to an establishment with a sign,
"People's Institute," over the door. I entered and asked for help. They
had nothing to give away but religion. Yes, they had a reading-room,
where a number of men sat reading in profound silence. Here I saw
several other signs: "No Smoking," "Do your reading here, your talking
on the outside, but not at the door."
I inquired where a man was supposed to talk, and was told that it was
"in the park or a block down the street."
I wandered down to the river. Glancing across to the other side I saw
a huge sign, which read: "Salvation Army. Industrial Home." I crossed
the river and on reaching this work-house of faith and worship I saw
that the lower floors were locked and dark. Climbing a stairway leading
to the second story, I found myself in a rambling barrack. Hearing a
noise in one of the rooms I made my way there and found a man preparing
supper. I told him of my hard luck, and that I was willing to work for
it if I could get a lodging for the night and supper and breakfast. He
went right on pealing his onions and potatoes, telling me decidedly
that the meals were for the officers of the Army and he was not allowed
to give anything away. The Industrial part of the "Salvation Army
Industrial Home" seemed to have ceased to be at the finishing of that
great sign. The Captain told me later, however, that if I had asked the
right man I would have been helped, but that I had asked the cook.
For several hours I drifted around. In some of the "beer depots," as
they call the saloons there, I found as many as two and three hundred
men at one time. A policeman, whom I saw fulfilling his duty by driving
a boy whom he suspected of being under age, from one of these resorts,
directed me to two missions,--The Holy Rollers and the Portland
Commons. Should I be denied shelter there, he told me to go to the
jail, but added that I should not go there unless I was obliged to.
The Commons had a name which indicated that it was meant to serve all.
I climbed the stairs to an office. The only man available about the
place told me if I had been there and attended the service they might
have done something for me. When I asked him if I could receive supper,
bath, bed and breakfast by doing some service in return, he stared at
me and asked me what kind of a place I thought they were running!
This is a simple statement of what a homeless man meets in Portland.
If I had seen Staff Captain Bradley of the Salvation Army he would
probably have given me a bed; or, had I come in contact with Mr. W.
G. MacLaren of the Portland Commons, I would have been taken care of.
I did not meet Captain Bradley after my investigation, but I did meet
W. G. MacLaren, and found him a sincere Christian gentleman, doing a
great deal to help those in need. I discovered, for the first time in
my experience, a life-line running from the city jail to a mission,
and the mission was Portland Commons. The night captain of the jail,
Captain Slover, who ought to be chief of police of that city, was at
one end of the line and W. G. MacLaren at the other.
Many discouraged, unfortunate workers have, through the efforts of
these two men, become honored citizens. Both Captain Slover and Mr.
MacLaren know that private and individual effort is a failure; that
it is as one trying to dip the ocean dry; that under our national,
municipal, social and political systems, their work is useless. These
men believe in municipal ownership as far as taking care of those in
need is concerned. They are strong advocates of a Municipal Emergency
Home.
In Portland I found a boy who had been dragged at two o'clock in the
morning from a delivery wagon where he was trying to sleep, and put
in jail. Captain Slover sent him to the mission. On the street I saw
another boy whom I had met in San Francisco a month before and who
now was on his way to Tacoma, to which place his brother had written
him to come, as he had a steady job for him with good pay. He had
been pulled out of a freight car at three o'clock that morning and
taken to jail. He told his story and they believed him. Afterward,
while visiting that jail (the only Portland Municipal Lodging House) I
found it such a filthy, disease- and crime-breeding institution that I
wondered that the police themselves did not succumb. I found Russians
thrown in there who were never in jail until they came to America. I
saw the "drunk tanks" into which unfortunates were crowded and where, I
was told, they were often found dead from suffocation.
On Sunday morning I attended the First Congregational Church. It was
not the regular service but a sort of joint meeting with the Foreign
Missionary Commission. The minister preached thirty minutes about how
much he pitied the poor little dwarfed soul. I heard not a single
word about trying to save the soul (and the body) of the hundreds of
shelterless and hungry men in the city of Portland who were searching
for the possibility of carving out an existence for themselves and
those dependent upon them. In its neglect to care for these, the church
seemed an accessory to death rather than to the uplift of unfortunate
men and women.
During my entire work, I have been honored only once by being called
upon by a minister and asked to speak in his church. "The Every
Day Church," it is called, situated far out, almost in the suburbs,
on the east side of Portland. Its pastor, Rev. James Diamond Corby,
will surely be heard from in the near future. He is one of the men
of the hour in that city. The _Oregonian_, the leading newspaper of
Portland, which has been the bell sheep of Oregon for a great many
years, and which thinks the jails and prisons of our country are too
attractive and should be made less so, did advocate the establishment
of a Municipal Emergency Home when I first went to Portland. On Easter
Sunday morning, however, they crucified my idea and cartooned the
Municipal Emergency Home, as the hairy hand of socialism tearing down
the American flag!
Shortly after leaving Portland I received the following letter which
speaks for itself. Do not fail to read the postscript.
"PORTL Ore Jan 24 1910.
"Mr. Brown I read a artical of yours in the Sunday Oregonian on the
Down and outs, belonging to that club I thought it might interest you
to read this and therein you might solve the question, (what makes a
tramp). I was born in Creston, Lancashire, Eng on the 27 of Nov 1876
my mother & father both died before I was four years old, and I was
brought up with a family who we boarded with, my new mother was an
angel, but her husband was a brute to me, but he was all right to his
own children, but anytime I done wrong there was always that old song
we ought to have sent you to the workhouse instead of trying to raise
you to be a man. Notice what chance I had. At 10 years old I was put
to work in one of those dreaded cotton mills, a half a day to school
and a half a day in hell to work till I was 13 years old and then I
went in on full time. 3 more years of this slaving and I got a chance
to come too U. S. and I jumped at the chance, a cousin of mine paying
my fare too Woonsocket where some more of those hell holes of cotton
mills are, and so again in too the cotton mills I went, but a little
over a year of such wrongs, I seeked new fields. I run away and went
to boston, mass, where one night finding myself stranded I went to the
Municipal lodgins, and get a poor bed and some soup. God only knows
what it was made of and the next morning I was out and hustling and
having a natural love for a horse, around the sales stables I went and
I found out a man could always pick up a piece of change runing horses
up and down the streets and taking them down to depot, and geting
warmed up one day and having no other clothes I caught cold which
turned into pneumonia and I went to the city hospital. the treatment
there was fine and I never will forget the face of my nurse. when I
came out I was weak and scaled about 90. having no money that night I
had to go to the Municipal loding, and I told the officer in charge
about coming out of the hospital that morning and he asked me to show
him my discharge papers and I handed them out to him and he looked at
them and tore them up right in front of my face, and said you -- -- --
-- your working the hospitals are you, and then he kicked me all the
way down to the bath room and said he see that I sawed enough of wood
in the morning, and he was there and after working a while I fell from
weakness and the brute kicked me while I lay helpless and one lodger
said something to him and he was promptly hustled inside and the patrol
came down and took him away but I noticed he did not send me to see the
judge. No, instead he told me to get out and never show my face again,
which I never have. A few days after I got picked up on the street one
night kind of late and took a front of the judge the next morning, the
first time I was ever in a court room and charged with being Idle and
Disorderly and was sent to the Reformatory at Concord and was for the
next 13 months known as 9510. having no friends on the outside and
having to have a position before they let you out some skeeming had to
be done. but anyway I got out in 13 months and I was just as bad off
as I went in but I was supplied with a lot of the knowledge of crooks.
With the $5 they gave me I started for New York. I got stranded in a
town called Portchester and the next day me and another Down and out
started to walk to white plains and it was there I begged my first meal
and it cost me 6 months in jail. White plains is a wealthy town and
that night I asked to sleep in the police station and in the morning
they had the man of the house where I asked for something to eat in the
office and they brought me out to have him identify me and then the
judge says 6 months, never give me a chance to say a word. why, because
it was Graft, they shipped me through 2 other counties to the Kings
County, Pen. and them having a Jail of their own in there County. I
then thought it was as cheap to steal because I was just as poor when
I come out, and so I started in on a life of crime. I committed a few
small acts around new York and raised a little money on the proceed,
and so I started back toward Boston but I fell in New London, and had
to wait 3 months for trial and then on account of my youth and me
pleading guilty (which they could never have proved if I have been an
Old timer) they let me off with a year in Gail. When I come out they
gave me 3 dollars and says start a new life, well I went to boston
again and I got work around horses at the race track and in the fall
I lost my position through the horses being sent home and so again
I started to ramble this time towards the west, but I got as far as
Buffalo and being broke one evning I made a raid on a wholesale grocey
and got about 15$ and a wheel. I spent the 15$ around the Tenderloin
in about as many hours and then I tried to sell the wheel but the jew
would only give me 2 Dollars and I wanted 5$ and a policeman happened
to come along and he settled the proceedings by taking me to the
station, and after waiting about 2 months for a trial the judge says
9 months, the reason I got such a small sentence was because I turned
the trick off right in front of station No. 1 in Broad-day-light. Why
as I got through the window after breaking it I looked out into the
street and saw a half Dozen big policemen sitting on the steps right
across the street and it made me laugh every once in a while. While
in the Buffalo pen I swore I would quit stealing for a living and to
this day I kept that promise which is about 8 years ago because it aint
right and jails made me a thief. I come west working on stock ranches,
race tracks, rail-road camps, logging camps and all kinds of general
work. But there is one question I would like to ask you before I end
this letter. Every once in a while I find myself broke and out of a
job and forced to beg on the streets to get the necessitys of life,
and so I must conclude by cutting this letter short as I have no more
writing paper and of course no money. but I am going out on the street
and see cant I dig up a few old rusty dimes and now Good-bye--hoping
you succeed in your undertaking of trying to get Municipal lodings such
as new york as got because I have been there and no it is allright but
the main point is to have decent officers in those places an not Brutes
like Boston got. But the question (Why does a tramp keep tramping)
P. S. I have just come down from the free Employment office and there
is a big sign on the window Dont loafe in front of this building come
inside, and when you get inside there is another sign entilted Dont
loaf in this office.
Nobody in this part of the country knows my right name because I have
about a dozen or maybe more but if you care to write you can address
John Murphy in care of Peoples institute corner of 4 and Burnside sts.
Portl Ore"