and complex, the most apparent being the immense influx of immigration
from the crowded centres of the old world; the glamor of city life,
which has allured thousands from the country, fascinating them from afar
much as the gaudy colors and tinsel before the footlights dazzle the
vision of a child; the rapid growth of the saloon, rendered well-nigh
impregnable by the wealth of the liquor power; the wonderful
labor-saving inventions, which in the hands of greed and avarice,
instead of mitigating the burdens of the people, have greatly augmented
them, by glutting the market with labor; the opportunities given by the
government through grants, special privileges, and protective measures
for rapid accumulation of wealth by the few; the power which this wealth
has given its possessors over the less fortunate; the spread of that
fevered mental condition which subjects all finer feelings and holier
aspirations to the acquisition of gold and the gratification of carnal
appetites, and which is manifest in such a startling degree in the
gambler's world, which to dignify we call the realm of speculation; the
desire for vulgar ostentation and luxurious indulgence, in a word the
fatal fever for gold which has infested the social atmosphere, and taken
possession of hundreds of thousands of our people, chilling their
hearts, benumbing their conscience, choking all divine impulses and
refined sensibilities; the cowardice and lethargy of the Church, which
has grown rich in gold and poor in the possession of moral energy, which
no longer dares to denounce the money changers, or alarm those who day
by day are anæsthetizing their own souls, while adding to the misery of
the world. The church has become, to a great extent, subsidized by gold,
saying in effect, "I am rich and increased in goods and have need of
nothing," apparently ignorant of the fact that she "is wretched, poor,
blind, and naked," that she has signally failed in her mission of
establishing on earth an ideal brotherhood. Instead of lifting her
children into that lofty spiritual realm where each feels the misery of
his brother, she has so far surrendered to the mammon of unrighteousness
that, without the slightest fear of having their consciences disturbed,
men find comfort in her soft-cushioned pews, who are wringing from ten
to thirty per cent. profit from their fellowmen in the wretched tenement
districts, or who refuse to pay more than twelve cents a pair for the
making of pants, forty-five cents a dozen for flannel shirts,
seventy-five cents a dozen for knee pants, and twenty-five cents a dozen
for neckties. I refer not to the many noble exceptions, but I indict the
great body of wealthy and fashionable churches, whose ministers do not
know and take no steps to find out the misery that is dependent upon the
avarice of their parishioners. Then again back of all this is the
defective education which has developed all save character in man;
education which has trained the brain but shriveled the soul. Last but
by no means least is land speculation which has resulted in keeping
large tracts of land idle which otherwise would have blossomed with
happy homes. To these influences we must add the general ignorance of
the people regarding the nature, extent, and growing proportions of the
misery and want in the New World which is spreading as an Eastern plague
in the filth of an oriental city.
It is not my present purpose to dwell further on the causes which have
produced these conditions. I wish to bring home to the mind and heart of
the reader a true conception of life in the slums, by citing typical
cases illustrating a condition prevalent in every great city of the
Union and increasing in its extent every year. I shall confine myself to
uninvited want as found in civilized Boston, because I am personally
acquainted with the condition of affairs here, and because Boston has
long claimed the proud distinction of being practically free from
poverty.
I shall briefly describe scenes which fell under my personal observation
during an afternoon tour through the slums of the North End, confining
myself to a few typical cases which fairly represent the condition of
numbers of families who are suffering through uninvited poverty, a fact
which I have fully verified by subsequent visits to the wretched homes
of our very poor. I purposely omit in this paper describing any members
of that terrible commonwealth where misery, vice, degradation, and crime
are inseparably interwoven. This class belongs to a lower stratum; they
have graduated downward. Feeling that society's hand is against them,
Ishmael-like they raise their hand against society. They complement the
uninvited poor; both are largely a product of unjust and inequitable
social conditions.
The scenes I am about to describe were witnessed one afternoon in April.
The day was sunless and dreary, strangely in keeping with the
environment of the exiles of society who dwell in the slums. The sobbing
rain, the sad, low murmur of the wind under the eaves and through the
narrow alleys, the cheerless frowning sky above, were in perfect harmony
with the pathetic drama of life I was witnessing. Everything seemed
pitched in a minor key, save now and then there swelled forth splendid
notes of manly heroism and womanly courage, as boldly contrasting with
the dead level of life as do the full rich notes of Wagner's grandest
strains with the plaintive melody of a simple ballad sung by a shepherd
lad. I was accompanied in this instance by the Rev. Walter Swaffield, of
the Bethel Mission, and his assistant, Rev. W. J. English.
[Illustration: INVALID IN CHAIR (SEE NOTE).]
The first building we entered faced a narrow street. The hallway was as
dark as the air was foul or the walls filthy. Not a ray or shimmer of
light fell through transoms or skylight. The stairs were narrow and
worn. By the aid of matches we were able to grope our way along, and
also to observe more than was pleasant to behold. It was apparent that
the hallways or stairs were seldom surprised by water, while pure, fresh
air was evidently as much a stranger as fresh paint. After ascending
several flights, we entered a room of undreamed-of wretchedness. On the
floor lay a sick man.[2] He was rather fine-looking, with an intelligent
face, bright eyes, and countenance indicative of force of character. No
sign of dissipation, but an expression of sadness, or rather a look of
dumb resignation peered from his expressive eyes. For more than two
years he has been paralyzed in his lower limbs, and also affected with
dropsy. The spectacle of a strong man, with the organs of locomotion
dead, is always pathetic; but when the victim of such misfortune is in
the depths of abject poverty, his case assumes a tragic hue. There for
two years he had lain on a wretched pallet of rags, seeing day by day
and hour by hour his faithful wife tirelessly sewing, and knowing full
well that health, life, and hope were hourly slipping from her. This
poor woman supports the invalid husband, her two children, and herself,
by making pants at twelve cents a pair. No rest, no surcease, a
perpetual grind from early dawn often till far into the night; and what
is more appalling, outraged nature has rebelled; the long months of
semi-starvation and lack of sleep have brought on rheumatism, which has
settled in the joints of her fingers, so that every stitch means a throb
of pain. The afternoon we called, she was completing an enormous pair of
_custom-made_ pants of very fine blue cloth, for one of the largest
clothing houses in Boston. The suit would probably bring sixty or
sixty-five dollars, yet her employer graciously informed his poor white
slave that as the garment was so large, he would give her an _extra
cent_. Thirteen cents for fine custom-made pants, manufactured for a
wealthy firm, which repeatedly asserts that its clothing is not made in
tenement houses! Thus with one of the most painful diseases enthroned in
that part of the body which must move incessantly from dawn till
midnight, with two small dependent children and a husband who is utterly
powerless to help her, this poor woman struggles bravely and
uncomplainingly, confronted ever by a nameless dread of impending
misfortune. Eviction, sickness, starvation,--such are the ever-present
spectres, while every year marks the steady encroachment of disease, and
the lowering of the register of vitality. Moreover, from the window of
her soul falls the light of no star athwart the pathway of life.
[2] NOTE ON PICTURE OF INVALID IN CHAIR. The picture given in
this issue of this apartment represents the poor invalid
placed by some friends on a chair while his bed could be
made. Our artist preferred to take it this way, knowing
that it would bring out the strong face better than if
taken on his pallet on the floor, where for two years he
has lain. Through The Arena Relief Fund, we have been
enabled to greatly relieve the hard lot of this as well as
many other families of unfortunates. Now the invalid is
provided with a comfortable bedstead, with a deep, soft
mattress, and furnished with many other things which
contribute to life's comfort. When the bed, mattress, and
other articles were being brought into this apartment, the
tears of gratitude and joy flowed almost in rivers from the
eyes of the patient wife, who felt that even in their
obscure den some one in the great world yet cared for them.
[Illustration: CONSTANCE AND MAGGIE (SEE NOTE).]
The next place we visited was in the attic of a tenement building even
more wretched than the one just described. The general aspects of these
houses, however, are all much the same, the chief difference being in
degrees of filth and squalor present. Here in an attic lives a poor
widow with three children, a little boy and two little girls, Constance
and Maggie.[3] They live by making pants at twelve cents a pair. Since
the youngest child was two and a half years old she has been daily
engaged in overcasting the long seams of the garments made by her
mother. When we first called she had just passed her fourth birthday,
and now overcasts from three to four pairs of pants every day. There
seated on a little stool she sat, her fingers moving as rapidly and in
as unerring manner as an old experienced needlewoman. These three
children are fine looking, as are most of the little Portuguese I
visited. Their large heads and brilliant eyes seem to indicate capacity
to enjoy in an unusual degree the matchless delight springing from
intellectual and spiritual development. Yet the wretched walls of their
little apartment practically mark the limit of their world; the needle
their inseparable companion; their moral and mental natures hopelessly
dwarfed; a world of wonderful possibilities denied them by an inexorable
fate over which they have no control and for which they are in no way
responsible. We often hear it said that these children of the slums are
perfectly happy; that not knowing what they miss life is as enjoyable to
them as the young in more favorable quarters. I am satisfied, however,
that this is true only in a limited sense. The little children I have
just described are already practically machines; day by day they engage
in the same work with much the monotony of an automatic instrument
propelled by a blind force. When given oranges and cakes, a momentary
smile illumined their countenances, a liquid brightness shot from their
eyes, only to be replaced by the solemn, almost stolid, expression which
has become habitual even on faces so young. This conclusion was still
more impressively emphasized by the following touching remark of a child
of twelve years in another apartment, who was with her mother busily
sewing. "I am forty-three years old to-day," remarked the mother, and
said Mr. English, "I shall be forty-two next week." "_Oh, dear_," broke
in the child, "_I should think people would grow SO TIRED of living so
MANY YEARS._" Was utterance ever more pathetic? She spoke in tones of
mingled sadness and weariness, revealing in one breath all the pent-up
bitterness of a young life condemned to a slavery intolerable to any
refined or sensitive nature. Is it strange that people here take to
drink? To me it is far more surprising that so many are sober. I am
convinced that, in the slums, far more drunkenness is caused by abject
poverty and inability to obtain work, than want is produced by drink.
Here the physical system, half starved and often chilled, calls for
stimulants. Here the horrors of nightmare, which we sometimes suffer
during our sleep, are present during every waking hour. An oppressive
fear weighs forever on the mind. Drink offers a temporary relief and
satisfies the craving of the system, besides the environment invites
dissipation and human nature at best is frail. I marvel that there is
not more drunkenness exhibited in the poverty spots of our cities.
[3] NOTE ON PICTURE OF CONSTANCE AND MAGGIE. When Mr. Swaffield
first visited this little family he found them in the most
abject want; a pot of boiling water, in which the mother
was stirring a handful of meal, constituting their only
food. Their clothing was thin and worn almost to shreds;
their apartment but slightly heated; half of all they could
earn, even when all were well and work good, had to go for
their rent, leaving only one dollar and twenty-five cents a
week to feed and clothe four persons. The day we first
called they were poorly clothed, with sorry apologies for
dresses and shoes laughing at the toes. In the picture we
reproduce, they are neatly dressed and well shod from money
contributed by liberal-hearted friends to The Arena Relief
Fund.
[Illustration: CELLARWAY LEADING TO UNDER-GROUND APARTMENTS (SEE NOTE).]
[Illustration: SICK MAN IN UNDER-GROUND APARTMENT (SEE NOTE).]
[Illustration: PORTUGUESE WIDOW AND THREE CHILDREN (SEE NOTE).]
[Illustration: WIDOW AND TWO CHILDREN IN UNDER-GROUND TENEMENT (SEE NOTE).]
[Illustration: EXTERIOR OF A NORTH END TENEMENT HOUSE (SEE NOTE).]
Among the places we visited were a number of cellars or burrows. We
descended several steps into dark, narrow passage-ways,[4] leading to
cold, damp rooms, in many of which no direct ray of sunshine ever
creeps. We entered a room filled with a bed, cooking stove, rack of
dirty clothes and numerous chairs, of which the most one could say was
that their backs were still sound and which probably had been donated by
persons who could no longer use them. On the bed lay a man who has been
ill for three months with rheumatism. This family consists of father,
mother, and a large daughter, all of whom are compelled to occupy one
bed. They eat, cook, live, and sleep in this wretched cellar and pay
over fifty dollars a year rent. This is a typical illustration of life
in this underground world.
[4] NOTE ON ILLUSTRATION OF CELLARWAY LEADING INTO PARTIALLY
UNDERGROUND APARTMENT. This passage-way is several steps
down from the court or alley-way, and leads to the
apartment seen in accompanying picture. There are many of
these dark cellarways leading to underground tenements.
NOTE ON PICTURE OF A SICK MAN IN UNDERGROUND TENEMENT.
Leading off the cellar-way shown above, is a tenement shown
in this illustration. It consists of one room, over the bed
the ceiling slants toward the street, and above the ceiling
are the steps leading to the tenements above. In this one
room lives the sick man, who for a long time, has been
confined to his bed with rheumatism; his wife and a
daughter are compelled to occupy the one bed with him,
while the small sunless room is their only kitchen,
laundry, living room, parlor, and bedroom.
NOTE ON PORTUGUESE FAMILY, WIDOW, TWO DAUGHTERS, AND LITTLE
BOY. This illustration is a fair type of a number of
lodgings. The photograph does not begin to reveal the
extent of the wretchedness of the tenement. A little
cubby-hole leads off from this room, large enough for a
three quarters bed, in which the entire family of four
sleep. The girls are remarkably bright and lady-like in
their behavior, carrying with them an air of refinement one
would not expect to find in such a place. They make their
living by sewing; their rent is two dollars a week.
NOTE ON WIDOW AND TWO CHILDREN IN UNDERGROUND TENEMENT.
This picture of a squalid underground apartment is typical
of numbers of tenements in this part of the city. The widow
sews and does any other kind of work she can to meet rent
and living expenses; the children sew on pants.
NOTE ON PICTURE OF EXTERIOR OF TENEMENT HOUSE. This picture
is from a photograph of one of the many tenements in the
North End which front upon blind alleys. The illustration
gives the front of the house and the only entrance to it.
In this building dwell twenty families. The interior is
even more dilapidated and horrible than the entrance. Here
children are born, and here characters are moulded; here
the fate of future members of the Commonwealth is stamped.
Taxes on such a building are relatively low under our
present system so the landlord realizes a princely revenue,
and while such a condition remains, it is not probable that
he will tear down the wretched old and erect a commodious
new building, on which he would be compelled to pay double
or triple the present taxes, merely for the comfort and
moral and physical health of his tenants.
[Illustration: UNDER-GROUND TENEMENT WITH TWO BEDS (SEE NOTE).]
In another similar cellar or burrow[5] we found a mother and seven boys
and girls, some of them quite large, all sleeping in two medium-sized
beds in one room; this room is also their kitchen. The other room is a
storehouse for kindling wood the children gather and sell, a little
store and living room combined. Their rent is two dollars a week. The
cellar was damp and cold; the air stifling. Nothing can be imagined more
favorable to contagion both physical and moral than such dens as these.
Ethical exaltation or spiritual growth is impossible with such
environment. It is not strange that the slums breed criminals, which
require vast sums yearly to punish after evil has been accomplished; but
to me it is an ever-increasing source of wonder that society should be
so short-sighted and neglectful of the condition of its exiles, when an
outlay of a much smaller sum would ensure a prevention of a large
proportion of the crime that emenates from the slums; while at the same
time it would mean a new world of life, happiness, and measureless
possibilities for the thousands who now exist in hopeless gloom.
[5] NOTE ON ILLUSTRATION OF UNDERGROUND TENEMENT WITH TWO BEDS.
These miserable quarters are four steps down from the
street. There are two small rooms, one a shop in which
kindling wood is stowed, which is gathered up by the
children, split and tied in bundles. The mother also sells
peanuts and candy. The back room contains a range and two
beds which take almost the entire area of the room. In
these two rooms several people sleep. One can readily see
how unfortunate such a life is from an ethical, no less
than social point of view.
[Illustration: OUT OF WORK (SEE NOTE).]
In a small room fronting an interior court we found a man[6] whose face
bore the stamp of that "hope long deferred which maketh the heart sick."
He is, I am informed, a strictly temperate, honest, and industrious
workman. Up to the time of his wife's illness and death, which occurred
last summer, the family lived in a reasonably comfortable manner, as the
husband found no difficulty in securing work on the sea. When the wife
died, however, circumstances changed. She left six little children, one
almost an infant. The father could not go to sea, leaving his little
flock without a protector, to fall the victims of starvation, and since
then he has worked whenever he could get employment loading vessels, or
at anything he could find. For the past six weeks he has been
practically without work, and the numerous family of little ones have
suffered for life's necessities. His rent is two dollars and a quarter a
week.
[6] NOTE ON ILLUSTRATION OUT OF WORK. The young man
photographed in his dismal lodging is a widower with six
small children; he is strictly sober, an American by birth,
but parents were Scotch and Irish. Until the illness and
death of the wife last summer, everything went reasonably
well. The husband and father followed the sea and managed
to provide for his family, even saving a little. The wife's
sickness and burial expenses ate up all and more than he
had saved, while being left with so many little children
and no one to look after them, he found it impossible to
engage in sea voyages; he was compelled to seek work which
would enable him to be home at night. This winter, work has
been very slack; for six weeks he has only been able to
obtain employment for a few days; meantime his rent, which
is two dollars and a quarter a week, has eaten up almost
all the man could earn. Through the aid of the Baptist
Bethel Mission and The Arena Relief Fund, this family has
been provided with food and clothes.
[Illustration: PORTUGUESE WIDOW IN ATTIC (SEE NOTE).]
In the attic in another tenement we found a widow[7] weeping and working
by the side of a little cradle where lay a sick child, whose large
luminous eyes shone with almost phosphorescent brilliancy from great
cavernous sockets, as they wandered from one to another, with a wistful,
soul-querying gaze. Its forehead was large and prominent, so much so
that looking at the upper part of the head one would little imagine how
terrible the emaciation of the body, which was little more than skin and
bones, speaking more eloquently than words of the ravages of slow
starvation and wasting disease. The immediate cause of the poor woman's
tears was explained to us in broken English, substantially as follows:
She had just returned from the dispensary where she had been
unsuccessful in her effort to have a physician visit her child, owing to
her inability to pay the quarter of a dollar demanded for the visit.
After describing as best she could the condition of the invalid, the
doctor had given her two bottles of medicine and a prescription blank on
which he had written directions for her to get a truss that would cost
her two dollars and a half at the drug store. She had explained to the
physician that owing to the illness of her child she had fallen a week
and a half in arrears in rent; that the agent for the tenement had
notified her that if one week's rent was not paid on Saturday she would
be evicted, which meant death to her child, so she could not buy the
truss. To which the doctor replied, "You must get the truss and put it
on before giving anything from either bottle, or the medicine will kill
your child." "If I give the medicine," she repeated showing us the
bottles, "before I put the truss on, he says it will kill my child," and
the tears ran swiftly down her sad but intelligent face. The child was
so emaciated that the support would inevitably have produced terrible
sores in a short time. I am satisfied that had the physician seen its
condition, he would not have had a heart to order it.
[7] NOTE ON ILLUSTRATION OF PORTUGUESE WIDOW IN ATTIC. In an
attic with slanting roof and skylight window lives a poor
widow with her little family of four, a full description of
which is given elsewhere. The long-continued sickness of
the little child has made the struggle for rent and bread
very terrible, and had it not been for assistance rendered
at intervals, eviction or starvation, or both, must have
resulted. This woman and her children are sober,
industrious, and intelligent. Cases like this are by no
means rare in this city which claims to be practically free
from poverty.
I thought as I studied the anxious and sorrowful countenance of that
mother, how hard, indeed, is the lot of the very poor. They have to buy
coal by the basketful and pay almost double price, likewise food and all
life's necessities. They are compelled to live in frightful
disease-fostering quarters, and pay exorbitant rents for the
accommodations they receive. When sick they are not always free from
imposition, even when they receive aid in the name of charity, and
sometimes theology under the cloak of religion oppresses them. This last
thought had been suggested by seeing in our rounds some half-starved
women dropping pennies into the hands of Sisters of Charity, who were
even here in the midst of terrible want, exacting from the starving
money for a church whose coffers groan with wealth. O religion,
ineffably radiant and exalting in thy pure influence, how thou art often
debased by thy professed followers! How much injustice is meted out to
the very poor, and how many crimes are still committed under thy cloak
and in thy holy name! Even this poor widow had bitterly suffered through
priests who belong to a great communion, claiming to follow Him who
cried, "Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will
give you rest," as will be seen by the following, related to me by Rev.
Walter Swaffield, who was personally cognizant of the facts. The husband
of this widow was out of work for a time; being too ill to engage in
steady work, he found it impossible to pay the required ten cents for
seats in the church to which he belonged, and was consequently excluded
from his sitting. Shortly after he fell sick, his wife sought the
priest, imploring him to administer the sacrament, and later extreme
unction, which he positively refused, leaving the poor man to die
without the consolation of the Church he had from infancy been taught to
love and revere.