than the other. The “Ghetto” is the most wretched haunt occupied by
human beings in the country. It is easily found. Cross the river at
Harrison street, go west to Jefferson street, turn south. Anybody can
tell you where it is. There is no mistaking the place. A junkman’s
cellar in the front of the house opens widely to the street, and,
peering down, one may see a scene of men and women half buried in dirty
rags and papers which they are gathering up and putting in bales for
the paper mills. This is the general depot to which the rag-picker
brings his odds and ends for sale after he has assorted them. Just
as we emerge from this cellar, a rag-picker, heavily laden, passes up
the stoop, and enters the hall above. Standing here and looking up,
one beholds a sight that cannot be imagined. Rags to the right of him,
rags to the left of him, on all sides nothing but rags. Lines in the
yard draped with them, windows hung with them, every available object
dressed in rags—and such rags! of every possible size, shape and color.
Some of them have been drawn through the wash-tub to get off the worst
dirt, but for the most part they are hung up just as they were taken
from the bags, and left to the rain and snow to cleanse them. The
exterior of the buildings is wretched enough; the interior equally so.
Some of the rooms on a cloudy day are as dark as dungeons, with but
little light coming through the dirty window on the front and the
smaller one on the back. Every inch of the ceiling and walls is black
and dirty. Against this dark background are hung numerous hats,
kettles, pans, joints of raw meat, partly consumed Bologna sausages,
gowns of women, and so on. The beds are almost invariably covered with
old carpets, that still retain some bits of their original color.
None of the chairs have backs, and hardly any of them have four legs.
Seated upon these uncertain supports, or often an empty soap box or
upturned boiler, are the rag-pickers. Every man in the house has his
hat on, including the one in bed napping after the hard work of the
early morning. Not one bare-headed man is seen anywhere. Some of them
are sitting dreamily by the stove, but most of them are sorting rags
or cutting up old coats and pantaloons that are too much used to wear,
and stuffing the bits into the bags for the junk dealer. In one room is
a woman washing bones with her dirty hands, in another place four men
are seated on a big chest, with a bit of Bologna sausage in one hand
and a chunk of black bread in the other, making their noon-day meal.
These same hands have just finished turning over filthy scraps from the
garbage boxes and the gutters. On the ground floor a man, who looks for
all the world like a brigand, is stirring broth over the fire, and the
horrible odor of rottenness that comes from the pot is enough to knock
one down.
Few of the members of the Italian colony speak English, except here and
there one has mastered a few common phrases; but there is one word
that all of them understand, and that is “Beer.” Here, as in other
quarters where the poor are found, sour beer is dealt out at a cent
a glass. I once asked a police officer if there was much drunkenness
there. “Oh, yes, sir,” he replied; “we can go in there any night and
get a cart load of drunken men and women.”
Passing through these quarters of abode of our foreign born brethren
you will often find two or more families occupying a single room.
Sometimes as many as a dozen people are to be found living in a small
room. Often a family of five will take in lodgers at five cents a
night. There are no beds. Chalk marks are made on the floor allotting
a space 2x6 feet to each other. To add to their income they sell
sour beer at 2 cents a quart. The place is filthy beyond belief.
The upper floors are not quite so bad; but they contain sights that
baffle description. The inmates are huddled together in disregard of
cleanliness and decency. The rooms are dirty and the air is foul. The
food is gathered principally from the garbage boxes of the streets or
from the offal of the markets. The cooking is done from time to time
and fills the room with horrible odors. There are no bedsteads. Filthy
looking mattresses on the floor, or on boards placed upon supports. The
inmates never undress, but go to bed with their clothes on, including
their boots and shoes. The children are wan and pinched in appearance,
and frightfully dirty. What wonder that sickness and disease hold high
revel here!
Bad as is the lot of these people, they at least exist upon the face of
the earth. Those who dwell in the cellars of these wretched quarters
are infinitely worse off. They have but one entrance, and a single
window gives light and ventilation. There is no outlet in the rear and
the filth of the street drains steadily into them. They are occupied by
the poorest of the poor, and the amount, of misery and wretchedness,
dirt and squalor to be witnessed in them passes description. In the
winter a stove heats the place, and renders the air so foul that one
unaccustomed to it cannot breath in the room. Many of these cellars are
lodging houses into which the wretched outcasts who walk the streets
during the day, crowd for shelter at night. They pay from two to five
cents for a night’s lodging, and sometimes as many as from twenty-five
to fifty are packed in these terrible holes.
There are sections of many streets in the business part of the city
that equal in wretchedness and misery those previously described.
They are terrible streets, and even the police venture into them with
caution. Drunken brawls, fights and stabbing affrays are of nightly
occurrence.
John Chinaman is a stranger and a waif in the great city, but he has
managed to establish a distinct quarter in Clark street. In other
portions of the city are Chinese laundries, where the almond-eyed
Celestials conduct their business of washing and ironing; but here are
the headquarters of the Mongolians, their gaming and opium dens. Though
peaceable as a rule, they are sometimes troublesome, and the police
find them hard customers to handle. They are inveterate gamblers, and
one of their chief dissipations consists in stupifying themselves by
smoking opium. The opium dens are simply dirty rooms provided with
wooden bunks, and sometimes beds, in which the smokers may lie and
sleep off the effects of the terrible drug. Many of these places are
patronized by white people, and some number women of the lower class
among their customers. Half nude men and women of all nationalities and
colors are sometimes found lying in heaps in a single room. These cases
are rare, however, as the authorities are watchful for this class of
law-breakers.
The Pawnbrokers
The stranger passing along Clark street is struck with the number of
quiet, dingy looking shops over which are suspended the old sign of the
Lombards—three gilt ball signs; all of the latter more or less dingy,
may be seen in many other quarters of the city, but they are nowhere so
numerous as in the street we have mentioned. These pawnbrokers’ shops,
and, as a rule, the proprietors, are leeches—sucking the life blood of
the poor, and grow rich upon their miseries. Of course, in all large
cities there must of necessity be a great aggregation of poverty and
misery. To the poor, the pawnbroker is a necessity. They must have some
place to which they can repair at once and, by pledging such articles
as they possess, raise the pittance they so sorely need. Municipal
legislators the world over recognize this necessity, and endeavor to
throw such safeguards around the business of pawnbroking that the poor
shall not be entirely at the mercy of the brokers. The great state of
Illinois has in the last few years passed a state pawners law which has
given to thousands of the poor low rates of interest.
In Chicago the law requires that licenses to do business as pawnbrokers
shall be issued to none but persons of known good character. The
Mayor of the city alone has the power of issuing such licenses, and
mayors of all parties have been in the habit of putting a very liberal
construction upon the law. None but those so licensed can do business
in Chicago. Mayors of all cliques and parties, have exercised their
power with apparently little sense of the responsibility which rests
upon them. They have not ordinarily at least, required clear proof
of the integrity of the applicants, but have usually licensed every
applicant possessed of particular or other influence. There is scarcely
an instance where they have revoked a license thus granted, even when
they have been furnished with proofs of the dishonesty of the holders.
Very few, if any pawnbrokers, pay any attention to the law. They
know that the great majority of their customers are ignorant of the
provisions of the statutes and that those who are familiar with it
will not avail themselves of its protection, as they fear to lose the
favor of the pawnbrokers. Consequently they fix their own rate of
interest, which may be said to average five per cent per month, or
any fractional part of a month, or sixty per cent per year. Some of
the more unscrupulous members of the fraternity, where dealings are
exclusively with the poor, charge a much higher rate, extorting as much
as ten per cent a month from those whose needs are very great.
The writer recalls a case where a widow of a few days came into a
pawnshop on Clark street. She was clad in a light calico wrapper with
a small shawl thrown about her head. She was destitute, and had been
ordered from her little three-room flat near by, unless the almost
fabulous sum, to her, of seven dollars and fifty cents, should be
paid over to the landlord at once. Trembling she entered the dingy
“store” and offered her engagement ring in pawn. Being asked the amount
she wanted for the pledge, she was told that she would receive just
one-quarter of that amount.
“Oh, sir,” she pleaded, “I must have that amount, my baby is sick
and the doctor said that to remove her now would mean to kill her.
The ring is the last and most precious gift I have of my dear, dead
husband. I will redeem it, if God gives me life and strength to do so.”
The hardened man refused to give more, and taking the ring from his
hand, with tears streaming down her pale cheeks, she started toward the
door.
My sympathies were naturally with the poor, grief-stricken woman, and
advancing toward her asked if I might assist her in any way. She told
me a story of want and deprivation. How she had sold everything of
value she had in order to furnish medicine for her husband who had been
sick for a long time. How, one by one, her most cherished and useful
articles of furniture, bric-a-brac and jewelry had been sold or pawned,
keeping to the last, the ring, the one token that meant so much to her.
Turning to the keeper of the shop I instructed him to give her the
amount she had previously asked for, stating that I would pay him that
amount if the woman in question failed to redeem the ring within sixty
days. I shall never forget the expression of gratitude that seemed to
permeate her whole being, and with profuse thankfulness, and “God
bless you, sir,” she departed.
Another source of profit to the pawnbrokers arises from the sale of
unredeemed articles. Advances are made at so low a rate that the
property pledged is sure to bring more when put up for sale than the
sum loaned upon it.
The majority of the pawnbrokers of Chicago are Polish and Russian
Jews, and are the most rascally of that race. They do not monopolize
the business, however, for there are Englishmen, Irishmen and even
Americans engaged in it. The most honest dealers are found among the
Americans and Englishmen. The pawnbroker is by nature a scoundrel, and
so far as the observation of the writer goes, has not one redeeming
quality. He advances the smallest amount on goods pledged, extorts the
highest rates of interest, and is the most merciless in his dealings
with his customers of any of the fraternity. The Jews are so numerous
in this business, that they have given it its peculiar reputation.
These wretches suck the very life blood from the poor, and having
gotten possession of their property, do not hesitate to sell it for
many times its value, when they see an opportunity for doing so. When
the owner comes for his or her property, the pawnbroker declares,
with well feigned regret, that it cannot be found, and either turns
the owner out of doors, or buys up his pawn ticket at a very heavy
discount. He knows the disinclination to seek redress at law. These
wretches do not hesitate to deck their families out in the clothing,
shawls and jewelry pledged to them. Often the clothes are worn out,
and the return of the pledge is either refused or the articles are
restored in such a damaged condition as to be useless. Sometimes a
spirited depositor will demand full redress for the loss so inflicted
upon him, and will threaten the broker with an appeal to the courts. If
the broker is convinced that the depositor is in earnest, he settles up
promptly; but there is an end to his dealings with that person. He has
no wish to have his transactions brought to the light of Justice. Such
proceeding would bring unpleasant consequences in its train, and he
does not desire such customers.
The majority of the pawnshops are dirty and repulsive in appearance.
Before them hangs the sign of the three balls, and the windows are
filled with unredeemed pledges for sale, and are adorned with signs
stating that money is loaned here on all kinds of property at the most
liberal rates.
Pushing open the dirty door, we enter a dingy apartment. The air is
close and stuffy, and the room smells strongly of garlic or onions. A
man with an unmistakably Jewish face and a villainous expression of
countenance stands behind the narrow counter. We take our stand inside,
invisibly of course, and watch the proceedings.
A young man enters, well-dressed, and rather dissipated in appearance.
The child of Abraham watches him narrowly, and begins to shake his head
and groan, as if in pain. The visitor approaches the counter, and lays
a gold watch upon it. The broker clutches it eagerly, examines it, and
groans louder than ever.
“Vat you want on dis vatch?” he asks mournfully.
“Fifty dollars. It cost me one hundred and fifty,” is the reply.
“Fifty tollar! fifty tollar! Holy Moshish, vat you take me for?”
Then turning, calls wildly, “Abraham! Abraham! you shust koom heir,
quick.”
A second Jew, dirtier and more disreputable looking than the first,
makes his appearance, and the proprietor, passing up his hands, shrieks
out, as if in despair:
“Abraham! he vants fifty tollars on dat vatch. De man is crazy.”
“Ve shall be ruined,” echoes Abraham, hoarsely. “Ve couldn’t do it.
Tish too much.”
The proprietor waves his arms wildly, takes the watch from Abraham, and
eyeing the owner sharply for a moment, says:
“I tell you vat I do. I gif you fifteen tollars. How long you vant de
monish?”
“Only for a month,” replies the young man, evidently struggling between
disgust and despair.
“I let you haf fifteen tollars for de month,” says the pawnbroker,
seizing a ticket and commencing to make it out. “You pay me one tollar
for de loan, and pay me fifty cents to put de vatch in de safe, you
know it might get stole if I leaf it out hier. Dat shuit you, mine
young frient?”
The young man has “been there” before, and knows that remonstrance is
useless. He nods a silent affirmation, and the pawnbroker makes out a
ticket for fifteen dollars, and hands him thirteen dollars and fifty
cents, having deducted the interest and the charge for storage. The
young man receives the money and ticket, and goes out in silence.
“Dat ish peesness,” says Abraham, admiringly, as the proprietor puts
the watch away.
“Yesh,” mutters the pawnbroker, with a satisfied air, “de vatch ish
vort a hundred tollar. If he don’t take it up, it will bring us dat.”
The next customer is a poor woman, who comes to pledge some article
of household use. She is ground down to the lowest cent, and charged
the highest interest; and so the proceedings go on until we become
heartsick, and leave the place as invisibly as we can.
The principal dealings of the pawnbrokers are, as we have said, with
the poor. Life is hard in Chicago, and those who dwell under the shadow
are obliged to make great sacrifices of comfort to keep body and soul
together. Everything that will bring money finds its way to the pawn
shop and the miserable pittance received for it goes to provide food.
Too often articles of household use or clothing are pawned to raise
money for drink, and the possessions of the family are one by one
sacrificed for this wretched purpose, until nothing is left.
The pawnbrokers find a very profitable class of customers in the
respectable working people of the city; many of these regularly pawn
articles, sometimes of value, at the first of the week, and redeem
them when they receive their wages on Saturday. It is to the broker’s
interest to be obliging to these people, since they are regular
customers, and he reaps a rich harvest from them in the exhorbitant
interest they pay him.
It is a common belief that the pawnbrokers are also receivers of stolen
goods. Some of the more unscrupulous may make ventures of this kind,
but as a rule the brokers have nothing to do with thieves; the risk of
detection is too great, so they confine themselves to what they term
their “legitimate business,” and leave dealings in stolen property to
the “fences,” who constitute a distinct class.
Pacific Garden Mission
In one of the vilest sections of the city is a modest looking brick
building, known as Pacific Garden Mission. Over the door hangs a
lantern bearing the inscription, “Strangers Welcome.” When the shades
of night come on, and the rays of the lantern shine out, revealing the
legend inscribed upon it, they illuminate a region full of vice, crime
and suffering. In earlier days the street was lined with long rows
of rum-shops, ratpits, low-down dens, and thieves’ dens of the worst
description. Here and there are dance houses, brilliantly lighted, and
ornamented with gaudy transparencies. Strains of music floated out into
the night air, and about the doors and along the sidewalks stand groups
of hideous women, waiting to entice the stranger into these hells where
they are made drunk with drugged liquors, robbed of their money and
valuables and turned helpless into the streets. Groups of drunken and
foul-mouthed men and boys lounge about the street, bandying vile jests
with the women, and often insulting respectable passers by. High over
all this sea of wretchedness and sin, the Pacific Garden lantern shines
out like a beacon light, the only sign of cheer and hope to be seen. If
you listen you will hear sounds of music in this building also, but the
strains are of praise and thanksgiving—strange sounds to hear in such a
neighborhood.
Some years ago a wretched building, that had long been used for vile
purposes and known as one of the toughest places which Chicago then
supported, was secured by George R. Clarke and his wife, and was opened
as a Christian mission, and devoted to saving the drunken and sinful
dwellers in this section of the city. The work was slow at first,
but it prospered and at length assumed such proportions that the old
building was found inadequate to the purpose of the mission and the
German Methodist Church building at 100 Van Buren street was secured
and has been continuously occupied by the Mission for over twenty-five
years.
The surprise of this quarter of the city at seeing George R. Clarke and
his wife in its midst in the guise of missionaries was not unnatural.
Ministering to, caring for, and saving the drunkard and the harlot is
the work planned for the corps of workers.
Colonel Clarke, as he was familiarly known, died some years ago. It was
while he was engaged as a western miner that he became imbued with the
spirit to save souls. Returning to Chicago, he married, and the two
began the work of saving the lost and friendless. Their meetings were
well attended; many came to see and hear and others to make fun; but
the earnestness of the devoted pair had its effects and the curious and
scoffers became converts in their turn. Little by little assistance
began to be held out to the Mission, and at length a strong body of
Christian men and women came to its aid with money, and the Mission
placed upon a sound and safe basis.
They have gone among the outcasts and the wretched, the sinful and the
degraded, and have rescued them from their vile ways, brought them to
the saving knowledge of God and His religion, and have started them in
a new and better course of life. Their efforts often failed; many of
their converts lapsed into their old ways, but the number of those who
are actually reforming is surprisingly large, and the lasting results
achieved are great and glorious. No one, however wretched, however far
gone in sin, is ever turned away; a helping hand is extended to all,
and the vilest outcast is made to feel welcome and confident that there
is still a chance for salvation left him.
There is no more interesting sight in the city than one of Pacific
Garden Mission Gospel meetings. The audience is made up of men and
women of various classes, including many who avoid other Christian
agencies, who have never been in a place of prayer or heard the Bible
read except by the prison Chaplain; the poor and friendless who have
drifted into Chicago from all parts of the world; drunkards, thieves,
roughs and discharged convicts, sailors, and many prodigal sons who
have wandered away from Christian mothers and have fallen into crime
and beggary.
The meetings are held in a pleasant, well-lighted and ventilated
room on the first floor. Near the entrance hangs a sign, inscribed
as follows: “Strangers and the Poor Always Welcome.” Over the inside
walls is the favorite scriptural verse of Colonel Clarke, which reads:
“Christ came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am Chief.”
The room is neatly furnished, and is provided with a cabinet organ.
The genius of the place is Harry Munroe, the assistant superintendent
of the mission. He is a powerful messenger of the Gospel to the lost
ones of the great city. He is a man with sharp eyes and quick, decisive
manner. He is thoroughly in earnest in his work, and understands the
character and habits of the class to whom he appeals. Being intense in
his purposes and animated by a desire to win sinners to the Saviour, he
is able to speak with effectual power to these rough men, who listen
respectfully to his words, and are attracted to him by those personal
peculiarities that fit him for his work—a work that is unique, and has
become one of the most important in the great city.
As the clock points to the hour for song and testimony, Harry opens his
hymn-book, and calls out in a strong, cheery voice, “sixty-nine,” and
thereupon the singing begins, accompanied by the cabinet organ, and the
singers whose voices were once raised only in blasphemy. If the singing
is a little faint, Harry spurs up his audience by calling out, “Don’t
be afraid of your voices, boys; sing out with your whole soul,” and
generally the volume of praise grows stronger and fuller.
The testimonies roll in as the meeting progresses, strange and
startling many of them, some so quaintly worded that they would provoke
a smile in a more “respectable” prayer-meeting, but all given with
an earnestness and pathos that is wonderful. Sometimes a drunken man
will endeavor to interrupt the meeting. One night a man of this kind
staggered to his feet, and hiccoughed, “Jesus saves me, too.”
“That ain’t so,” replied Harry, emphatically; “Jesus don’t save any man
that is full of rum.” And down sits the man, utterly abashed by the
quick retort.
Harry acts as his own policeman, and meets all attempts at disturbances
on the ground. The offenders are seized in his powerful grasp, and led
to the door, and put into the street, first being entreated to be quiet
and lead better lives.