IN THE GREAT CITY OF NEW YORK
"_The day-laborer is reckoned as standing at the foot of the social
scale. Yet he is saturated with the laws of the world._"
--EMERSON.
When my investigations on the Pacific coast were over I felt that the
strenuous part of my work,--that is the work of coming down to the
personal level of destitute men,--was over. But from the South came
such an appeal that I was prompted to continue my study at first hand
for another year. So late in the summer of 1910, I found myself, a
penniless man again, drifting along the docks on the west side of New
York, seeking work as a longshoreman.
I was unsuccessful until about 10 A. M. Then a flag was run
up at pier forty-three indicating that a fruit ship from the south was
docked. Just then a young man hurrying along asked, as he passed me,
"Are you looking for work?" I answered in the affirmative.
"Hurry along then and we will get in on the job."
Running breathlessly we reached the dock. There were two hundred ahead
of us. After an hour of jostling, pushing, crowding and clashing with
upraised hands we succeeded in getting near enough to the distributor
to arrest his attention long enough to receive a work-check which
entitled us to work at the wage scale of twenty-five cents an hour.
I noticed among the workers as we continually passed and re-passed one
another, a pale, slim young man. He had a hectic flush on his cheeks
and wore colored eye-glasses. The work was extremely laborious, so much
so that, after working approximately an hour and being unaccustomed
to such work, I began to tremble and to have frequent sensations of
dizziness. I realized that I must desist, so cashed in, receiving
twenty-five cents for my work. Just ahead of me, cashing in also, was
the pale young man, whose whole frame seemed to shake involuntarily,
while the flush on his cheeks had turned purple. It was evident that he
also had no strength left to continue the work. As we left the pier and
strolled down West Street to Battery Park, he told me his story:
"I need money bad, but I couldn't do that work. I am a Swiss, a
watchmaker by trade, but because of my failing eyesight a specialist
declared I must absolutely change my occupation or go blind. What can
I do? I am fitted for nothing but my trade. While struggling for a
comfortable existence for myself and young wife my health failed.
I feel that the only hope of regaining it is an absolute change of
climate. I have a friend in Texas who writes me of the opportunity
offered to the truck gardener there, but it takes money to go and it
takes money to establish yourself when you reach there. You see I have
no money. I believe, even here in New York State, if I could have an
out-door, country life, I would speedily get well. I am living with
my sister in Brooklyn. She is poor, also, but it is a home. I suppose
I might start out and work for enough to eat on my way, and steal my
passage to some health-giving climate. I may eventually be forced to do
this. But even if the railroads had not created State laws making it a
criminal offense in all States to travel that way, I could not go now."
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Male Dormitory_]
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Female Dormitory_]
He showed me a letter from the Johnsbury State Sanitarium for the
Insane he had received that morning, stating that his wife was no
better. She was laboring under an hallucination, demanding continually
that mass be said for her. Her little babe was expected in about a
week, and it was expected of him as soon as possible to send clothing
for it.
I sat and pondered for awhile, looking far out to the Statue of Liberty
Enlightening the World. Passing time had pierced it full of holes,
letting the daylight through. I left the young man, and a little later
was strolling around the docks on the East Side. Finally I came to
Wall Street. Here at the entrance of this street I came upon the
quartermaster's department of the United States Army. Over the door was
the Coat of Arms,--the Eagle for Uncle Sam, the Sword for Defense, the
Key for Security. Walking about half the length of Wall Street, I came
to the great sub-treasury of the United States, and directly across the
street, almost in hand-shaking distance, the powerful banking concern
of J. Pierpont Morgan & Co. Going on, I came to the other end of this
world-renowned street where stands Old Trinity. I was weary beyond
words to express. So I sat down on the steps to rest. Presently, high
up in its tower, the chimes began to ring. A little later, from within
the church rang out an old familiar hymn, one stanza of which seemed
peculiarly appropriate.
"What num'rous crimes increasing rise
Through this apostate isle!
What land so favored of the skies,
And yet, what land so vile!"
"Good heavens!" I said to myself, "what ails that old bell ringer? Is
he stone deaf or gone mad? Is there not someone to arrest him?" I knew
how useless it would be to try to find that someone, for those with the
will to do so were in Europe, or in Newport, or up the Hudson, or in
the Adirondacks. As I took my weary way up Broadway, I heard in every
step on the pavement the familiar melody, familiar words:--
"What land so favored of the skies,
And yet, what land so vile!"
Leaving Broadway I turned into a large "scoop joint" (saloon). In the
corner where the free lunch was served a large brindle bull-dog was
chained near a big stack of bread. I realized that I was on the Bowery.
A little further up the street, just as I was passing a door-way, a
man with a bundle came rolling down the stairs. From the sound of a
voice above I knew he had been forcefully thrown out. He was about
fifty years of age, almost helpless from the effects of alcohol or some
other poison. Only slightly bruised, he regained his feet, but was
hopelessly unable to gather his effects. His bundle had burst open and
the contents were scattered about promiscuously. His helpless condition
attracted the attention of the many passers-by and a group soon
gathered to watch his futile efforts to regain his lost possessions.
It was a sight too sad to be amusing. Suddenly a workingman stepped
forward, gathered the belongings together, and fastened them securely.
In the dull dazed face of the abandoned man there was a look of deepest
gratitude. As his new friend had gathered up his belongings a small
book with an inscription in gold letters fell from among them. As he
held up the book I, too, could read the title: _The New Testament_.
That poor unfortunate impressed me as being as great as the greatest
man that ever lived, _for he had tried_.
Through this great human funnel, the Bowery (and it is not the only one
in New York through which pours the sin, the shame, the disease and the
disgrace of this great city), I wandered on. Seeing a crowd gathered
on the pavement in one place, I stopped and saw lying prone upon her
face, a wretched creature whose skirt had fallen from her body. She lay
there nude, defenseless, uncovered to the view of the morbid throng.
The unfortunate, though helpless, was conscious of her shame, and was
making futile efforts to hide her disgrace. Just then there happened
along a good Samaritan, who, stepping through the crowd, took from his
shoulders a blue cotton jumper and covered this wreck of womanhood.
Turning to the gaping bystanders, he angrily heaped upon them so
scathing a rebuke that with flushed faces and hanging heads they stole
away. He asked of some women who stood near by if they would shield the
woman until the arrival of an ambulance. One of them kindly consented
to do so. I turned away sick at heart for I knew the pathetic finish,
that the only open door New York held for this unfortunate one was a
prison door.
As I went along, I saw again Old Trinity with its stained glass
windows, its old burying ground, worth millions, where the dead have
rested for two hundred years, and I thought: "After all, it was the
Bowery that revealed to me to-day '_the golden rule of Christ_,' which
alone can bring '_the golden rule of man_.'"
With the vanishing of the sunshine and shadows which all day long
had been playing in and about Union Square--whose bits of green
lawn, sparkling fountains, and many settees welcome the weary and
heavy laden, for a little time at least, and invite rest,--came the
myriad lights of the great city which follow the active day of toil
and care. At evening I found myself resting there. I had taken a
seat beside a white-haired, soft-spoken, slightly-bent man, clothed
in a discolored suit, badly worn shoes and tattered hat,--a man who
seemingly had received all the blows and hardships our tough old
world can give. Indifferently I drew him casually into conversation.
The information I gained was taken out of the crucible of a pathetic
life, and it revealed a story which may be summed up in a few
words: Youth, hope, health, success, love, happiness, reverses,
crosses, trials, temptations, error, ruin, impaired health, old age,
discouragement,--no, not entirely. He still had left a spark of
courage. _He still believed in himself._ He spoke of the detriment of
his physical weakness, caused by a State institution (I knew it was
a prison) into which he was forced; of the prejudice against the man
a little beyond middle life who was looking for work; of the past
that stood as a barrier between him and an ability to re-establish
himself in society. Yet he hopefully added, "I have a job now at
seven dollars a week and my board. I shall be able to get the decent
clothes so essential in finding better work, with better pay." When
he realized that I was apparently in a worse position than himself,
for I seemed both workless and penniless, we talked of our mutual
vicissitudes. He referred me to the Municipal Lodging House of New
York, declaring he had found it both a refuge and a salvation at a time
when it almost seemed to him that life meant utter abandonment, even to
self-destruction.
I did not go to that beautiful home that night, but I stood instead
in the "Bread Line" on the northwest corner of Broadway and Twelfth
Street. It was ten o'clock, and although the bread was not to be given
out to the starving poor of the city until midnight, a crowd had
already begun to collect in front of Old Grace Church, the wealth of
which is said to be almost fabulous. Extending up this street, long
before the hour of distribution began, was a line in which I counted
five hundred men. There were no women among them. There was no jest
or laughter. They seemed as mute as "dumb driven cattle." Just at
midnight, after the line had been standing several hours, two men
appeared with the bread. There was a sudden rush across the street
to be the first in line. A police rule seemed to be in force to the
effect that no one was allowed to stand on that side of the street
until the hour arrived for giving the bread away. After this long wait,
my share of this left-over bread was a piece weighing just four ounces.
When I remembered that during the throes of that long and bitter winter
this one bread line (New York has several) grew from five hundred to
two thousand men, the blazing cross which I could see from the high
church tower became "the handwriting on the wall."
Should you ask me why these men do not seek shelter in New York's
Municipal Home, I could tell you in a few words. Notwithstanding the
generous and hospitable character of the institution, it is usually
crowded to overflowing.
* * * * *
While studying the character and the aspirations of the honest
unemployed in all parts of the country, I found in most of them the
desire, the longing for country life. Even the hardened frequenter
of saloons and other vicious places seemed anxious to change his
environment. They all recognized this to be of great benefit in
starting life anew, and in trying to become useful members of society.
I found many had gone to the country. Many more desired to go up the
Hudson River to work on the farms, in the fruit orchards and the open
fields. I determined to follow them and see what it all meant.
So the following day found me again one of that army to whom society
is inclined, in fact is fond of referring to, as "men who won't
work,"--seeking an existence. I met a great many who, like myself, were
looking for work. But, unlike me (for I had money) some were starving,
some were ill. Many were crippled from much walking, several showed
me blisters on their ankles and feet as large as a twenty-five cent
piece. I found work for one of my English tongue exceedingly difficult
to obtain. At Tarrytown, I asked for work at an enormous estate with
a national reputation. At this time they were employing three hundred
men, all Italians. There was no work for me. They had all the help
they needed. When I asked for the privilege of working for my dinner,
the foreman looked austerely at me and answered, indirectly, "You
understand if you did work here you would receive your pay but once a
month."
"What is the pay?" I asked.
"A dollar and seventy-five cents a day, and you board yourself."
Those Italian workmen were walking several miles a day to and from work
for that wage. I heard among them numerous complaints. I wondered why.
In the land of the Comorra, on the drive from Sorrento to Pompeii, I
had seen these same men in harness, hitched to wagons, hauling loads of
stone like beasts of burden.
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Fumigating Chambers--Loading up_]
[Illustration: _Municipal Lodging House, New York City
Fumigating Chambers--Sealed up_]
Someone told me if I wanted farm work I must travel further back in
the country, which I did. I was not successful in finding it until the
morning of the second day. Just over a stone wall I saw five men
at work picking cucumbers for pickles. A little way off stood a very
large, beautiful farm house. I was right when I drew the conclusion
that the owner was a wealthy old farmer. He was holding his farm at a
fabulous sum, believing he would receive it from a certain land owner
who would eventually buy at any price. Leaping the wall I confronted
the farmer, who needed me exceedingly at one dollar a day and board,--I
supposed for not more than ten hours' work, but asked no questions.
I soon discovered that beside the old man, my field companions were
the old man's son and their hired men. No one spoke. Noiselessly and
silently we worked, carrying the pickles in baskets on our shoulders,
as fast as we gathered them, into a shed, where we emptied them into
barrels. It rained at intervals all day, but that made no difference.
We worked on. The mud and wet ground soaked our shoes. The rough
basket, in constant contact with my shoulder, wore a hole through my
jumper, which was a serious consideration when I reflected on my day's
pay.
At noon we were called to dinner. After standing what seemed an
interminable time to a hungry man who for half a day had picked
cucumbers out on the wet ground, beneath dripping trees, we were
allowed to go in to dinner. In a rough outer room there was portioned
out to each of the four hired men a bowl of tea, a tin plate containing
vegetables and a small piece of meat. We were fed, about as the
dog was fed, except that we sat at a table. Not one of my three
fellow-workers had yet spoken to me. Turning to the one on my right I
smiled and made some off-hand remark about the tough meat, which just
at that moment he seemed to be struggling with. He smiled back but
made no reply. I looked across the table at the slim, black eyed, busy
fellow opposite me and made some non-consequential remark. He grinned
with a little more accent than my right hand man. I then spoke to the
man on my left, who was an old man of three score years and ten. He had
his face very close to his plate and did not raise his head. I then
discovered that one of the men was a Hun, the other a Pole. Neither
could speak or understand my language, and the old man, a Dutchman,
was stone deaf. This was about the most convivial dinner party I had
ever attended. The afternoon was about as jovial as the dinner, and was
augmented by more showers and a big lot of pickles. Did you ever pick
pickles? If not, don't do it, at least not for one dollar a day, unless
you must. How your back aches from continual stooping! Your fingers,
black, bruised, and sore from the tiny, prickly cucumber points, drive
a fellow to saying things he would not dare to say before his dad.
At four o'clock the farmer left, to haul the pickles to the pickle
factory. At five o'clock the Dutchman and the Pole went in to milk.
These men were working by the month, each receiving fifteen dollars a
month. On this farm many cows were milked. At six o'clock the son quit,
which made little difference, as he spent most of his time in the shed.
As he was leaving I said, "Is it time to quit?" He answered decidedly,
"No, I'll tell you when to quit." And so the Austrian and I worked on.
The son had mounted his motorcycle and flashed by us like a spark from
a trolley. The Hun followed him with an intense look which seemed to
say: "When I get my American farm I, too, shall have one."
It was getting dark, and still no call to stop work. If I had known
only two words of Slavic it would have been a relief. But I did not.
So I did the next best thing. I expressed my feelings by throwing my
basket as far as I could send it across the field and started toward
the house. The Hun looked amazed. As I drew near, far up in the house
somewhere, to the accompaniment of a tinkling piano, one of the old
farmer's daughters was singing in a voice absolutely devoid of tune,
"I want to go to Heaven right away." I hoped she would. Just then the
son rode up on his spinning wheel and asked, "What did you quit for?" I
replied, "I came up for a lantern."
He then called the Hun. Our _carte du jour_ for supper was a duplicate
of the dinner, only it was stone cold. We plebs slept in an oppressive
attic room. We were called at three A. M. to get up and go to
milking. Not being a regular man, I supposed I was not included in the
call, although I noticed the Hun responded. After my fellow-workers
left I turned over for a much-needed, final rest, but just as I was
dozing into sleep I heard the old farmer puffing up the stairs.
"Hey, you fellow," he called, "get up there and get out and help those
fellers milk."
"All right," I responded. I did get up and out, but it was to the
woodshed where my bundle lay, and while I was putting it together the
old man passed hurriedly by the window again, headed for the garret
stairs with the look of Cain on his face, to see why I still lingered.
I heard the heavy tread on the stairs, as I was passing out across
the lawn toward the nearest town. Yes, there was one dollar due me,
but I sent word back to one of these, my proletaire brothers, that
he could have it, and I suggested that it might be well spent toward
buying a talking machine to be used while they dined at that bountiful,
hilarious table, at the pickle farm.